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  THERE IS NO DEATH

  Works by Florence Marryat

  PUBLISHED IN THE INTERNATIONAL SERIES.


     NO.                                 CTS.

     85. Blindfold,                       50

    135. Brave Heart and True,            50

     42. Mount Eden,                      30

     13. On Circumstantial Evidence,      30

    148. Risen Dead, The,                 50

     77. Scarlet Sin, A,                  50

    159. There Is No Death,               50




   THERE IS NO DEATH

   BY
   FLORENCE MARRYAT

   AUTHOR OF
   "LOVE'S CONFLICT," "VERONIQUE," ETC., ETC.

     "There is no Death--what seems so is transition.
     This life of mortal breath
     Is but a suburb of the Life Elysian
     Whose portal we call----Death."--Longfellow.


   NEW YORK
   NATIONAL BOOK COMPANY
   3, 4, 5 AND 6 MISSION PLACE


   Copyright, 1891,
   by
   United States Book Company




THERE IS NO DEATH.




CHAPTER I.

FAMILY GHOSTS.


It has been strongly impressed upon me for some years past to write an
account of the wonderful experiences I have passed through in my
investigation of the science of Spiritualism. In doing so I intend to
confine myself to recording facts. I will describe the scenes I have
witnessed with my own eyes, and repeat the words I have heard with my
own ears, leaving the deduction to be drawn from them wholly to my
readers. I have no ambition to start a theory nor to promulgate a
doctrine; above all things I have no desire to provoke an argument. I
have had more than enough of arguments, philosophical, scientific,
religious, and purely aggressive, to last a lifetime; and were I called
upon for my definition of the rest promised to the weary, I should
reply--a place where every man may hold his own opinion, and no one is
permitted to dispute it.

But though I am about to record a great many incidents that are so
marvellous as to be almost incredible, I do not expect to be
disbelieved, except by such as are capable of deception themselves.
They--conscious of their own infirmity--invariably believe that other
people must be telling lies. Byron wrote, "He is a fool who denies that
which he cannot disprove;" and though Carlyle gives us the comforting
assurance that the population of Great Britain consists "chiefly of
fools," I pin my faith upon receiving credence from the few who are not
so.

Why should I be disbelieved? When the late Lady Brassey published the
"Cruise of the _Sunbeam_," and Sir Samuel and Lady Baker related their
experiences in Central Africa, and Livingstone wrote his account of the
wonders he met with whilst engaged in the investigation of the source of
the Nile, and Henry Stanley followed up the story and added thereto, did
they anticipate the public turning up its nose at their narrations, and
declaring it did not believe a word they had written? Yet their readers
had to accept the facts they offered for credence, on their authority
alone. Very few of them had even _heard_ of the places described before;
scarcely one in a thousand could, either from personal experience or
acquired knowledge, attest the truth of the description. What was
there--for the benefit of the general public--to _prove_ that the
_Sunbeam_ had sailed round the world, or that Sir Samuel Baker had met
with the rare beasts, birds, and flowers he wrote of, or that
Livingstone and Stanley met and spoke with those curious, unknown tribes
that never saw white men till they set eyes on them? Yet had any one of
those writers affirmed that in his wanderings he had encountered a gold
field of undoubted excellence, thousands of fortune-seekers would have
left their native land on his word alone, and rushed to secure some of
the glittering treasure.

Why? Because the authors of those books were persons well known in
society, who had a reputation for veracity to maintain, and who would
have been quickly found out had they dared to deceive. I claim the same
grounds for obtaining belief. I have a well-known name and a public
reputation, a tolerable brain, and two sharp eyes. What I have
witnessed, others, with equal assiduity and perseverance, may witness
for themselves. It would demand a voyage round the world to see all that
the owners of the _Sunbeam_ saw. It would demand time and trouble and
money to see what I have seen, and to some people, perhaps, it would not
be worth the outlay. But if I have journeyed into the Debateable Land
(which so few really believe in, and most are terribly afraid of), and
come forward now to tell what I have seen there, the world has no more
right to disbelieve me than it had to disbelieve Lady Brassey. Because
the general public has not penetrated Central Africa, is no reason that
Livingstone did not do so; because the general public has not seen (and
does not care to see) what I have seen, is no argument against the truth
of what I write. To those who _do_ believe in the possibility of
communion with disembodied spirits, my story will be interesting
perhaps, on account of its dealing throughout in a remarkable degree
with the vexed question of identity and recognition. To the
materialistic portion of creation who may credit me with not being a
bigger fool than the remainder of the thirty-eight millions of Great
Britain, it may prove a new source of speculation and research. And for
those of my fellow-creatures who possess no curiosity, nor imagination,
nor desire to prove for themselves what they cannot accept on the
testimony of others, I never had, and never shall have, anything in
common. They are the sort of people who ask you with a pleasing smile if
Irving wrote "The Charge of the Light Brigade," and say they like
Byron's "Sardanapalus" very well, but it is not so funny as "Our Boys."

Now, before going to work in right earnest, I do not think it is
generally known that my father, the late Captain Marryat, was not only a
believer in ghosts, but himself a ghost-seer. I am delighted to be able
to record this fact as an introduction to my own experiences. Perhaps
the ease with which such manifestations have come to me is a gift which
I inherit from him, anyway I am glad he shared the belief and the power
of spiritual sight with me. If there were no other reason to make me
bold to repeat what I have witnessed, the circumstance would give me
courage. My father was not like his intimate friends, Charles Dickens,
Lord Lytton, and many other men of genius, highly strung, nervous, and
imaginative. I do not believe my father had any "nerves," and I think he
had very little imagination. Almost all his works are founded on his
personal experiences. His _forte_ lay in a humorous description of what
he had seen. He possessed a marvellous power of putting his
recollections into graphic and forcible language, and the very reason
that his books are almost as popular to-day as when they were written,
is because they are true histories of their time. There is scarcely a
line of fiction in them. His body was as powerful and muscular as his
brain. His courage was indomitable--his moral courage as well as his
physical (as many people remember to their cost to this day), and his
hardness of belief on many subjects is no secret. What I am about to
relate therefore did not happen to some excitable, nervous, sickly
sentimentalist, and I repeat that I am proud to have inherited his
constitutional tendencies, and quite willing to stand judgment after
him.

I have heard that my father had a number of stories to relate of
supernatural (as they are usually termed) incidents that had occurred to
him, but I will content myself with relating such as were proved to be
(at the least) very remarkable coincidences. In my work, "The Life and
Letters of Captain Marryat," I relate an anecdote of him that was
entered in his private "log," and found amongst his papers. He had a
younger brother, Samuel, to whom he was very much attached, and who died
unexpectedly in England whilst my father, in command of H. M. S.
_Larne_, was engaged in the first Burmese war. His men broke out with
scurvy and he was ordered to take his vessel over to Pulu Pinang for a
few weeks in order to get the sailors fresh fruit and vegetables. As my
father was lying in his berth one night, anchored off the island, with
the brilliant tropical moonlight making everything as bright as day, he
saw the door of his cabin open, and his brother Samuel entered and
walked quietly up to his side. He looked just the same as when they had
parted, and uttered in a perfectly distinct voice, "Fred! I have come to
tell you that I am dead!" When the figure entered the cabin my father
jumped up in his berth, thinking it was some one coming to rob him, and
when he saw who it was and heard it speak, he leaped out of bed with the
intention of detaining it, but it was gone. So vivid was the impression
made upon him by the apparition that he drew out his log at once and
wrote down all particulars concerning it, with the hour and day of its
appearance. On reaching England after the war was over, the first
dispatches put into his hand were to announce the death of his brother,
who had passed away at the very hour when he had seen him in the cabin.

But the story that interests me most is one of an incident which
occurred to my father during my lifetime, and which we have always
called "The Brown Lady of Rainham." I am aware that this narrative has
reached the public through other sources, and I have made it the
foundation of a Christmas story myself. But it is too well authenticated
to be omitted here. The last fifteen years of my father's life were
passed on his own estate of Langham, in Norfolk, and amongst his county
friends were Sir Charles and Lady Townshend of Rainham Hall. At the time
I speak of, the title and property had lately changed hands, and the new
baronet had re-papered, painted, and furnished the Hall throughout, and
come down with his wife and a large party of friends to take possession.
But to their annoyance, soon after their arrival, rumors arose that the
house was haunted, and their guests began, one and all (like those in
the parable), to make excuses to go home again. Sir Charles and Lady
Townshend might have sung, "Friend after friend departs," with due
effect, but it would have had none on the general exodus that took place
from Rainham. And it was all on account of a Brown Lady, whose portrait
hung in one of the bedrooms, and in which she was represented as wearing
a brown satin dress with yellow trimmings, and a ruff around her
throat--a very harmless, innocent-looking young woman. But they all
declared they had seen her walking about the house--some in the
corridor, some in their bedrooms, others in the lower premises, and
neither guests nor servants would remain in the Hall. The baronet was
naturally very much annoyed about it, and confided his trouble to my
father, and my father was indignant at the trick he believed had been
played upon him. There was a great deal of smuggling and poaching in
Norfolk at that period, as he knew well, being a magistrate of the
county, and he felt sure that some of these depredators were trying to
frighten the Townshends away from the Hall again. The last baronet had
been a solitary sort of being, and lead a retired life, and my father
imagined some of the tenantry had their own reasons for not liking the
introduction of revelries and "high jinks" at Rainham. So he asked his
friends to let him stay with them and sleep in the haunted chamber, and
he felt sure he could rid them of the nuisance. They accepted his offer,
and he took possession of the room in which the portrait of the
apparition hung, and in which she had been often seen, and slept each
night with a loaded revolver under his pillow. For two days, however, he
saw nothing, and the third was to be the limit of his stay. On the
third night, however, two young men (nephews of the baronet) knocked at
his door as he was undressing to go to bed, and asked him to step over
to their room (which was at the other end of the corridor), and give
them his opinion on a new gun just arrived from London. My father was in
his shirt and trousers, but as the hour was late, and everybody had
retired to rest except themselves, he prepared to accompany them as he
was. As they were leaving the room, he caught up his revolver, "in case
we meet the Brown Lady," he said, laughing. When the inspection of the
gun was over, the young men in the same spirit declared they would
accompany my father back again, "in case you meet the Brown Lady," they
repeated, laughing also. The three gentlemen therefore returned in
company.

The corridor was long and dark, for the lights had been extinguished,
but as they reached the middle of it, they saw the glimmer of a lamp
coming towards them from the other end. "One of the ladies going to
visit the nurseries," whispered the young Townshends to my father. Now
the bedroom doors in that corridor faced each other, and each room had a
double door with a space between, as is the case in many old-fashioned
country houses. My father (as I have said) was in a shirt and trousers
only, and his native modesty made him feel uncomfortable, so he slipped
within one of the _outer_ doors (his friends following his example), in
order to conceal himself until the lady should have passed by. I have
heard him describe how he watched her approaching nearer and nearer,
through the chink of the door, until, as she was close enough for him to
distinguish the colors and style of her costume, he recognized the
figure as the facsimile of the portrait of "The Brown Lady." He had his
finger on the trigger of his revolver, and was about to demand it to
stop and give the reason for its presence there, when the figure halted
of its own accord before the door behind which he stood, and holding the
lighted lamp she carried to her features, grinned in a malicious and
diabolical manner at him. This act so infuriated my father, who was
anything but lamb-like in disposition, that he sprang into the corridor
with a bound, and discharged the revolver right in her face. The figure
instantly disappeared--the figure at which for the space of several
minutes _three_ men had been looking together--and the bullet passed
through the outer door of the room on the opposite side of the corridor,
and lodged in the panel of the inner one. My father never attempted
again to interfere with "The Brown Lady of Rainham," and I have heard
that she haunts the premises to this day. That she did so at that time,
however, there is no shadow of doubt.

But Captain Marryat not only held these views and believed in them from
personal experience--he promulgated them in his writings. There are many
passages in his works which, read by the light of my assertion, prove
that he had faith in the possibility of the departed returning to visit
this earth, and in the theory of re-incarnation or living more than one
life upon it, but nowhere does he speak more plainly than in the
following extract from the "Phantom Ship":--

"Think you, Philip," (says Amine to her husband), "that this world is
solely peopled by such dross as we are?--things of clay, perishable and
corruptible, lords over beasts and ourselves, but little better? Have
you not, from your own sacred writings, repeated acknowledgments and
proofs of higher intelligences, mixing up with mankind, and acting here
below? Why should what was _then_ not be _now_, and what more harm is
there to apply for their aid now than a few thousand years ago? Why
should you suppose that they were permitted on the earth then and not
permitted now? What has become of them? Have they perished? Have they
been ordered back? to where?--to heaven? If to heaven, the world and
mankind have been left to the mercy of the devil and his agents. Do you
suppose that we poor mortals have been thus abandoned? I tell you
plainly, I think not. We no longer have the communication with those
intelligences that we once had, because as we become more enlightened we
become more proud and seek them not, but that they still exist a host of
good against a host of evil, invisibly opposing each other, is my
conviction."

One testimony to such a belief, from the lips of my father, is
sufficient. He would not have written it unless he had been prepared to
maintain it. He was not one of those wretched literary cowards who we
meet but too often now-a-days, who are too much afraid of the world to
confess with their mouths the opinions they hold in their hearts. Had he
lived to this time I believe he would have been one of the most
energetic and outspoken believers in Spiritualism that we possess. So
much, however, for his testimony to the possibility of spirits, good and
evil, revisiting this earth. I think few will be found to gainsay the
assertion that where _he_ trod, his daughter need not be ashamed to
follow.

Before the question of Spiritualism, however, arose in modern times, I
had had my own little private experiences on the subject. From an early
age I was accustomed to see, and to be very much alarmed at seeing,
certain forms that appeared to me at night. One in particular, I
remember, was that of a very short or deformed old woman, who was very
constant to me. She used to stand on tiptoe to look at me as I lay in
bed, and however dark the room might be, I could always see every
article in it, as if illuminated, whilst she remained there.

I was in the habit of communicating these visions to my mother and
sisters (my father had passed from us by that time), and always got well
ridiculed for my pains. "Another of Flo's optical illusions," they would
cry, until I really came to think that the appearances I saw were due to
some defect in my eye-sight. I have heard my first husband say, that
when he married me he thought he should never rest for an entire night
in his bed, so often did I wake him with the description of some man or
woman I had seen in the room. I recall these figures distinctly. They
were always dressed in white, from which circumstance I imagined that
they were natives who had stolen in to rob us, until, from repeated
observation, I discovered they only formed part of another and more
enlarged series of my "optical illusions." All this time I was very much
afraid of seeing what I termed "ghosts." No love of occult science led
me to investigate the cause of my alarm. I only wished never to see the
"illusions" again, and was too frightened to remain by myself lest they
should appear to me.

When I had been married for about two years, the head-quarters of my
husband's regiment, the 12th Madras Native Infantry, was ordered to
Rangoon, whilst the left wing, commanded by a Major Cooper, was sent to
assist in the bombardment of Canton. Major Cooper had only been married
a short time, and by rights his wife had no claim to sail with the
head-quarters for Burmah, but as she had no friends in Madras, and was
moreover expecting her confinement, our colonel permitted her to do so,
and she accompanied us to Rangoon, settling herself in a house not far
from our own. One morning, early in July, I was startled by receiving a
hurried scrawl from her, containing only these words, "Come! come!
come!" I set off at once, thinking she had been taken ill, but on my
arrival I found Mrs. Cooper sitting up in bed with only her usual
servants about her. "What is the matter?" I exclaimed. "Mark is dead,"
she answered me; "he sat in that chair" (pointing to one by the bedside)
"all last night. I noticed every detail of his face and figure. He was
in undress, and he never raised his eyes, but sat with the peak of his
forage cap pulled down over his face. But I could see the back of his
head and his hair, and I know it was he. I spoke to him but he did not
answer me, and I am _sure_ he is dead."

Naturally, I imagined this vision to have been dictated solely by fear
and the state of her health. I laughed at her for a simpleton, and told
her it was nothing but fancy, and reminded her that by the last accounts
received from the seat of war, Major Cooper was perfectly well and
anticipating a speedy reunion with her. Laugh as I would, however, I
could not laugh her out of her belief, and seeing how low-spirited she
was, I offered to pass the night with her. It was a very nice night
indeed. As soon as ever we had retired to bed, although a lamp burned in
the room, Mrs. Cooper declared that her husband was sitting in the same
chair as the night before, and accused me of deception when I declared
that I saw nothing at all. I sat up in bed and strained my eyes, but I
could discern nothing but an empty arm-chair, and told her so. She
persisted that Major Cooper sat there, and described his personal
appearance and actions. I got out of bed and sat in the chair, when she
cried out, "Don't, don't! _You are sitting right on him!_" It was
evident that the apparition was as real to her as if it had been flesh
and blood. I jumped up again fast enough, not feeling very comfortable
myself, and lay by her side for the remainder of the night, listening to
her asseverations that Major Cooper was either dying or dead. She would
not part with me, and on the third night I had to endure the same ordeal
as on the second. After the third night the apparition ceased to appear
to her, and I was permitted to return home. But before I did so, Mrs.
Cooper showed me her pocket-book, in which she had written down against
the 8th, 9th, and 10th of July this sentence: "Mark sat by my bedside
all night."

The time passed on, and no bad news arrived from China, but the mails
had been intercepted and postal communication suspended. Occasionally,
however, we received letters by a sailing vessel. At last came
September, and on the third of that month Mrs. Cooper's baby was born
and died. She was naturally in great distress about it, and I was doubly
horrified when I was called from her bedside to receive the news of her
husband's death, which had taken place from a sudden attack of fever at
Macao. We did not intend to let Mrs. Cooper hear of this until she was
convalescent, but as soon as I re-entered her room she broached the
subject.

"Are there any letters from China?" she asked. (Now this question was
remarkable in itself, because the mails having been cut off, there was
no particular date when letters might be expected to arrive from the
seat of war.) Fearing she would insist upon hearing the news, I
temporized and answered her, "We have received none." "But there is a
letter for me," she continued: "a letter with the intelligence of Mark's
death. It is useless denying it. I know he is dead. He died on the 10th
of July." And on reference to the official memorandum, this was found to
be true. Major Cooper had been taken ill on the first day he had
appeared to his wife, and died on the third. And this incident was the
more remarkable, because they were neither of them young nor sentimental
people, neither had they lived long enough together to form any very
strong sympathy or accord between them. But as I have related it, so it
occurred.




CHAPTER II.

MY FIRST SÉANCE.


I had returned from India and spent several years in England before the
subject of Modern Spiritualism was brought under my immediate notice.
Cursorily I had heard it mentioned by some people as a dreadfully wicked
thing, diabolical to the last degree, by others as a most amusing
pastime for evening parties, or when one wanted to get some "fun out of
the table." But neither description charmed me, nor tempted me to pursue
the occupation. I had already lost too many friends. Spiritualism (so it
seemed to me) must either be humbug or a very solemn thing, and I
neither wished to trifle with it or to be trifled with by it. And after
twenty years' continued experience I hold the same opinion. I have
proved Spiritualism _not_ to be humbug, therefore I regard it in a
sacred light. For, _from whatever cause_ it may proceed, it opens a vast
area for thought to any speculative mind, and it is a matter of constant
surprise to me to see the indifference with which the world regards it.
That it _exists_ is an undeniable fact. Men of science have acknowledged
it, and the churches cannot deny it. The only question appears to be,
"_What_ is it, and _whence_ does the power proceed?" If (as many clever
people assert) from ourselves, then must these bodies and minds of ours
possess faculties hitherto undreamed of, and which we have allowed to
lie culpably fallow. If our bodies contain magnetic forces sufficient to
raise substantial and apparently living forms from the bare earth, which
our eyes are clairvoyant enough to see, and which can articulate words
which our ears are clairaudient enough to hear--if, in addition to this,
our minds can read each other's inmost thoughts, can see what is passing
at a distance, and foretell what will happen in the future, then are our
human powers greater than we have ever imagined, and we ought to do a
great deal more with them than we do. And even regarding Spiritualism
from _that_ point of view, I cannot understand the lack of interest
displayed in the discovery, to turn these marvellous powers of the human
mind to greater account.

To discuss it, however, from the usual meaning given to the word,
namely, as a means of communication with the departed, leaves me as
puzzled as before. All Christians acknowledge they have spirits
independent of their bodies, and that when their bodies die, their
spirits will continue to live on. Wherein, then, lies the terror of the
idea that these liberated spirits will have the privilege of roaming the
universe as they will? And if they argue the _impossibility_ of their
return, they deny the records which form the only basis of their
religion. No greater proof can be brought forward of the truth of
Spiritualism than the truth of the Bible, which teems and bristles with
accounts of it from beginning to end. From the period when the Lord God
walked with Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, and the angels came to
Abram's tent, and pulled Lot out of the doomed city; when the witch of
Endor raised up Samuel, and Balaam's ass spoke, and Ezekiel wrote that
the hair of his head stood up because "a spirit" passed before him, to
the presence of Satan with Jesus in the desert, and the reappearance of
Moses and Elias, the resurrection of Christ Himself, and His talking and
eating with His disciples, and the final account of John being caught up
to Heaven to receive the Revelations--_all is Spiritualism, and nothing
else_. The Protestant Church that pins its faith upon the Bible, and
nothing but the Bible, cannot deny that the spirits of mortal men have
reappeared and been recognized upon this earth, as when the graves
opened at the time of the Christ's crucifixion, and "many bodies of
those that were dead arose and went into the city, and were seen of
many." The Catholic Church does not attempt to deny it. All her legends
and miracles (which are disbelieved and ridiculed by the Protestants
aforesaid) are founded on the same truth--the miraculous or supernatural
return (as it is styled) of those who are gone, though I hope to make my
readers believe, as I do, that there is nothing miraculous in it, and
far from being _super_natural it is only a continuation of Nature.
Putting the churches and the Bible, however, on one side, the History of
Nations proves it to be possible. There is not a people on the face of
the globe that has not its (so-called) superstitions, nor a family
hardly, which has not experienced some proofs of spiritual communion
with earth. Where learning and science have thrust all belief out of
sight, it is only natural that the man who does not believe in a God nor
a Hereafter should not credit the existence of spirits, nor the
possibility of communicating with them. But the lower we go in the scale
of society, the more simple and childlike the mind, the more readily
does such a faith gain credence, and the more stories you will hear to
justify belief. It is just the same with religion, which is hid from the
wise and prudent, and revealed to babes.

If I am met here with the objection that the term "Spiritualism" has
been at times mixed up with so much that is evil as to become an
offence, I have no better answer to make than by turning to the
irrefragable testimony of the Past and Present to prove that in all
ages, and of all religions, there have been corrupt and demoralized
exponents whose vices have threatened to pull down the fabric they lived
to raise. Christianity itself would have been overthrown before now, had
we been unable to separate its doctrine from its practice.

I held these views in the month of February, 1873, when I made one of a
party of friends assembled at the house of Miss Elizabeth Philip, in
Gloucester Crescent, and was introduced to Mr. Henry Dunphy of the
_Morning Post_, both of them since gone to join the great majority. Mr.
Dunphy soon got astride of his favorite hobby of Spiritualism, and gave
me an interesting account of some of the _séances_ he had attended. I
had heard so many clever men and women discuss the subject before, that
I had begun to believe on their authority that there must be "something
in it," but I held the opinion that sittings in the dark must afford so
much liberty for deception, that I would engage in none where I was not
permitted the use of my eyesight.

I expressed myself somewhat after this fashion to Mr. Dunphy. He
replied, "Then the time has arrived for you to investigate Spiritualism,
for I can introduce you to a medium who will show you the faces of the
dead." This proposal exactly met my wishes, and I gladly accepted it.
Annie Thomas (Mrs. Pender Cudlip,) the novelist, who is an intimate
friend of mine, was staying with me at the time and became as eager as I
was to investigate the phenomena. We took the address Mr. Dunphy gave us
of Mrs. Holmes, the American medium, then visiting London, and lodging
in Old Quebec Street, Portman Square, but we refused his introduction,
preferring to go _incognito_. Accordingly, the next evening, when she
held a public _séance_, we presented ourselves at Mrs. Holmes' door; and
having first removed our wedding-rings, and tried to look as virginal as
possible, sent up our names as Miss Taylor and Miss Turner. I am
perfectly aware that this medium was said afterwards to be
untrustworthy. So may a servant who was perfectly honest, whilst in my
service, leave me for a situation where she is detected in theft. That
does not alter the fact that she stole nothing from me. I do not think I
know _a single medium_ of whom I have not (at some time or other) heard
the same thing, and I do not think I know a single woman whom I have not
also, at some time or other, heard scandalized by her own sex, however
pure and chaste she may imagine the world holds her. The question
affects me in neither case. I value my acquaintances for what they are
_to me_, not for what they may be to others; and I have placed trust in
my media from what I individually have seen and heard, and proved to be
genuine in their presence, and not from what others may imagine they
have found out about them. It is no detriment to my witness that the
media I sat with cheated somebody else, either before or after. My
business was only to take care that _I_ was not cheated, and I have
never, in Spiritualism, accepted anything at the hands of others that I
could not prove for myself.

Mrs. Holmes did not receive us very graciously on the present occasion.
We were strangers to her--probably sceptics, and she eyed us rather
coldly. It was a bitter night, and the snow lay so thick upon the ground
that we had some difficulty in procuring a hansom to take us from
Bayswater to Old Quebec Street. No other visitors arrived, and after a
little while Mrs. Holmes offered to return our money (ten shillings), as
she said if she did sit with us, there would probably be no
manifestations on account of the inclemency of the weather. (Often since
then I have proved her assertion to be true, and found that any extreme
of heat or cold is liable to make a _séance_ a dead failure).

But Annie Thomas had to return to her home in Torquay on the following
day, and so we begged the medium to try at least to show us something,
as we were very curious on the subject. I am not quite sure what I
expected or hoped for on this occasion. I was full of curiosity and
anticipation, but I am sure that I never thought I should see any face
which I could recognize as having been on earth. We waited till nine
o'clock in hopes that a circle would be formed, but as no one else came,
Mrs. Holmes consented to sit with us alone, warning us, however, several
times to prepare for a disappointment. The lights were therefore
extinguished, and we sat for the usual preliminary dark _séance_, which
was good, perhaps, but has nothing to do with a narrative of facts,
proved to be so. When it concluded, the gas was re-lit and we sat for
"Spirit Faces."

There were two small rooms connected by folding doors. Annie Thomas and
I, were asked to go into the back room--to lock the door communicating
with the landings, and secure it with our own seal, stamped upon a piece
of tape stretched across the opening--to examine the window and bar the
shutter inside--to search the room thoroughly, in fact, to see that no
one was concealed in it--and we did all this as a matter of business.
When we had satisfied ourselves that no one could enter from the back,
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Annie Thomas, and I were seated on four chairs in
the front room, arranged in a row before the folding doors, which were
opened, and a square of black calico fastened across the aperture from
one wall to the other. In this piece of calico was cut a square hole
about the size of an ordinary window, at which we were told the spirit
faces (if any) would appear. There was no singing, nor noise of any sort
made to drown the sounds of preparation, and we could have heard even a
rustle in the next room. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes talked to us of their
various experiences, until, we were almost tired of waiting, when
something white and indistinct like a cloud of tobacco smoke, or a
bundle of gossamer, appeared and disappeared again.

"They are coming! I _am_ glad!" said Mrs. Holmes. "I didn't think we
should get anything to-night,"--and my friend and I were immediately on
the tiptoe of expectation. The white mass advanced and retreated several
times, and finally settled before the aperture and opened in the
middle, when a female face was distinctly to be seen above the black
calico. What was our amazement to recognize the features of Mrs. Thomas,
Annie Thomas' mother. Here I should tell my readers that Annie's father,
who was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy and captain of the coastguard at
Morston in Norfolk, had been a near neighbor and great friend of my
father, Captain Marryat, and their children had associated like brothers
and sisters. I had therefore known Mrs. Thomas well, and recognized her
at once, as, of course, did her daughter. The witness of two people is
considered sufficient in law. It ought to be accepted by society. Poor
Annie was very much affected, and talked to her mother in the most
incoherent manner. The spirit did not appear able to answer in words,
but she bowed her head or shook it, according as she wished to say "yes"
or "no." I could not help feeling awed at the appearance of the dear old
lady, but the only thing that puzzled me was the cap she wore, which was
made of white net, quilled closely round her face, and unlike any I had
ever seen her wear in life. I whispered this to Annie, and she replied
at once, "It is the cap she was buried in," which settled the question.
Mrs. Thomas had possessed a very pleasant but very uncommon looking
face, with bright black eyes, and a complexion of pink and white like
that of a child. It was some time before Annie could be persuaded to let
her mother go, but the next face that presented itself astonished her
quite as much, for she recognized it as that of Captain Gordon, a
gentleman whom she had known intimately and for a length of time. I had
never seen Captain Gordon in the flesh, but I had heard of him, and knew
he had died from a sudden accident. All I saw was the head of a
good-looking, fair, young man, and not feeling any personal interest in
his appearance, I occupied the time during which my friend conversed
with him about olden days, by minutely examining the working of the
muscles of his throat, which undeniably stretched when his head moved.
As I was doing so, he leaned forward, and I saw a dark stain, which
looked like a clot of blood, on his fair hair, on the left side of the
forehead.

"Annie! what did Captain Gordon die of?" I asked. "He fell from a
railway carriage," she replied, "and struck his head upon the line." I
then pointed out to her the blood upon his hair. Several other faces
appeared, which we could not recognize. At last came one of a gentleman,
apparently moulded like a bust in plaster of Paris. He had a kind of
smoking cap upon the head, curly hair, and a beard, but from being
perfectly colorless, he looked so unlike nature, that I could not trace
a resemblance to any friend of mine, though he kept on bowing in my
direction, to indicate that I knew, or had known him. I examined this
face again and again in vain. Nothing in it struck me as familiar, until
the mouth broke into a grave, amused smile at my perplexity. In a moment
I recognized it as that of my dear old friend, John Powles, whose
history I shall relate _in extenso_ further on. I exclaimed "Powles,"
and sprang towards it, but with my hasty action the figure disappeared.
I was terribly vexed at my imprudence, for this was the friend of all
others I desired to see, and sat there, hoping and praying the spirit
would return, but it did not. Annie Thomas' mother and friend both came
back several times; indeed, Annie recalled Captain Gordon so often, that
on his last appearance the power was so exhausted, his face looked like
a faded sketch in water-colors, but "Powles" had vanished altogether.
The last face we saw that night was that of a little girl, and only her
eyes and nose were visible, the rest of her head and face being
enveloped in some white flimsy material like muslin. Mrs. Holmes asked
her for whom she came, and she intimated that it was for me. I said she
must be mistaken, and that I had known no one in life like her. The
medium questioned her very closely, and tried to put her "out of court,"
as it were. Still, the child persisted that she came for me. Mrs. Holmes
said to me, "Cannot you remember _anyone_ of that age connected with you
in the spirit world? No cousin, nor niece, nor sister, nor the child of
a friend?" I tried to remember, but I could not, and answered, "No! no
child of that age." She then addressed the little spirit. "You have made
a mistake. There is no one here who knows you. You had better move on."
So the child did move on, but very slowly and reluctantly. I could read
her disappointment in her eyes, and after she had disappeared, she
peeped round the corner again and looked at me, longingly. This was
"Florence," my dear _lost_ child (as I then called her), who had left me
as a little infant of ten days old, and whom I could not at first
recognize as a young girl of ten years. Her identity, however, has been
proved to me since, beyond all doubt, as will be seen in the chapter
which relates my reunion with her, and is headed "My Spirit Child." Thus
ended the first _séance_ at which I ever assisted, and it made a
powerful impression upon my mind. Mrs. Holmes, in bidding us good-night,
said, "You two ladies must be very powerful mediums. I never held so
successful a _séance_ with strangers in my life before." This news
elated us--we were eager to pursue our investigations, and were
enchanted to think we could have _séances_ at home, and as soon as Annie
Thomas took up her residence in London, we agreed to hold regular
meetings for the purpose. This was the _séance_ that made me a student
of the psychological phenomena, which the men of the nineteenth century
term Spiritualism. Had it turned out a failure, I might now have been as
most men are. _Quien sabe?_ As it was, it incited me to go on and on,
until I have seen and heard things which at that moment would have
seemed utterly impossible to me. And I would not have missed the
experience I have passed through for all the good this world could offer
me.




CHAPTER III.

CURIOUS COINCIDENCES.


Before I proceed to write down the results of my private and
premeditated investigations, I am reminded to say a word respecting the
permission I received for the pursuit of Spiritualism. As soon as I
expressed my curiosity on the subject, I was met on all sides with the
objection that, as I am a Catholic, I could not possibly have anything
to do with the matter, and it is a fact that the Church strictly forbids
all meddling with necromancy, or communion with the departed. Necromancy
is a terrible word, is it not? especially to such people as do not
understand its meaning, and only associate it with the dead of night and
charmed circles, and seething caldrons, and the arch fiend, in _propria
persona_, with two horns and a tail. Yet it seems strange to me that the
Catholic Church, whose very doctrine is overlaid with Spiritualism, and
who makes it a matter of belief that the Saints hear and help us in our
prayers and the daily actions of our lives, and recommends our kissing
the ground every morning at the feet of our guardian angel, should
consider it unlawful for us to communicate with our departed relatives.
I cannot see the difference in iniquity between speaking to John Powles,
who was and is a dear and trusted friend of mine, and Saint Peter of
Alcantara, who is an old man whom I never saw in this life. They were
both men, both mortal, and are both spirits. Again, surely my mother who
was a pious woman all her life, and is now in the other world, would be
just as likely to take an interest in my welfare, and to try and promote
the prospect of our future meeting, as Saint Veronica Guiliani, who is
my patron. Yet were I to spend half my time in prayer before Saint
Veronica's altar, asking her help and guidance, I should be doing right
(according to the Church), but if I did the same thing at my mother's
grave, or spoke to her at a _séance_, I should be doing wrong. These
distinctions without a difference were hard nuts to crack, and I was
bound to settle the matter with my conscience before I went on with my
investigations.

It is a fact that I have met quite as many Catholics as Protestants
(especially of the higher classes) amongst the investigators of
Spiritualism, and I have not been surprised at it, for who could better
understand and appreciate the beauty of communications from the spirit
world than members of that Church which instructs us to believe in the
communion of saints, as an ever-present, though invisible mystery.
Whether my Catholic acquaintances had received permission to attend
_séances_ or not, was no concern of mine, but I took good care to
procure it for myself, and I record it here, because rumors have
constantly reached me of people having said behind my back that I can be
"no Catholic" because I am a spiritualist.

My director at that time was Father Dalgairn, of the Oratory at
Brompton, and it was to him I took my difficulty. I was a very constant
press writer and reviewer, and to be unable to attend and report on
spiritualistic meetings would have seriously militated against my
professional interests. I represented this to the Father, and (although
under protest) I received his permission to pursue the research in the
cause of science. He did more than ease my conscience. He became
interested in what I had to tell him on the subject, and we had many
conversations concerning it. He also lent me from his own library the
lives of such saints as had heard voices and seen visions, of those in
fact who (like myself) had been the victims of "Optical Illusions."
Amongst these I found the case of Saint Anne-Catherine of Emmerich, so
like my own, that I began to think that I too might turn out to be a
saint in disguise. It has not come to pass yet, but there is no knowing
what may happen.

She used to see the spirits floating beside her as she walked to mass,
and heard them asking her to pray for them as they pointed to "les
taches sur leurs robes." The musical instruments used to play without
hands in her presence, and voices from invisible throats sound in her
ears, as they have done in mine. I have only inserted this clause,
however, for the satisfaction of those Catholic acquaintances with whom
I have sat at _séances_, and who will probably be the first to exclaim
against the publication of _our_ joint experiences. I trust they will
acknowledge, after reading it, that I am not worse than themselves,
though I may be a little bolder in avowing my opinions.

Before I began this chapter, I had an argument with that friend of mine
called Self (who has but too often worsted me in the Battle of Life), as
to whether I should say anything about table-rapping or tilting. The
very fact of so common an article of furniture as a table, as an agent
of communication with the unseen world, has excited so much ridicule and
opens so wide a field for chicanery, that I thought it would be wiser to
drop the subject, and confine myself to those phases of the science or
art, or religion, or whatever the reader may like to call it, that can
be explained or described on paper. The philosophers of the nineteenth
century have invented so many names for the cause that makes a table
turn round--tilt--or rap--that I feel quite unable (not being a
philosopher) to cope with them. It is "magnetic force" or "psychic
force,"--it is "unconscious cerebration" or "brain-reading"--and it is
exceedingly difficult to tell the outside world of the private reasons
that convince individuals that the answers they receive are _not_
emanations from their own brains. I shall not attempt to refute their
reasonings from their own standpoint. I see the difficulties in the way,
so much so that I have persistently refused for many years past to sit
at the table with strangers, for it is only a lengthened study of the
matter that can possibly convince a person of its truth. I cannot,
however, see the extreme folly myself of holding communication (under
the circumstances) through the raps or tilts of a table, or any other
object. These tiny indications of an influence ulterior to our own are
not necessarily confined to a table. I have received them through a
cardboard box, a gentleman's hat, a footstool, the strings of a guitar,
and on the back of my chair, even on the pillow of my bed. And which,
amongst the philosophers I have alluded to, could suggest a simpler mode
of communication?

I have put the question to clever men thus: "Suppose yourself, after
having been able to write and talk to me, suddenly deprived of the
powers of speech and touch, and made invisible, so that we could not
understand each other by signs, what better means than by taps or tilts
on any article, when the right word or letter is named, could you think
of by which to communicate with me?"

And my clever men have never been able to propose an easier or more
sensible plan, and if anybody can suggest one, I should very much like
to hear of it. The following incidents all took place through the
much-ridiculed tipping of the table, but managed to knock some sense out
of it nevertheless. On looking over the note book which I faithfully
kept when we first held _séances_ at home, I find many tests of identity
which took place through my own mediumship, and which could not possibly
have been the effects of thought-reading. I devote this chapter to their
relation. I hope it will be observed with what admirable caution I have
headed it. I have a few drops of Scotch blood in me by the mother's
side, and I think they must have aided me here. "Curious coincidences."
Why, not the most captious and unbelieving critic of them all can find
fault with so modest and unpretending a title. Everyone believes in the
occasional possibility of "curious coincidences."

It was not until the month of June, 1873, that we formed a home circle,
and commenced regularly to sit together. We became so interested in the
pursuit, that we used to sit every evening, and sometimes till three and
four o'clock in the morning, greatly to our detriment, both mental and
physical. We seldom sat alone, being generally joined by two or three
friends from outside, and the results were sometimes very startling, as
we were a strong circle. The memoranda of these sittings, sometimes with
one party and sometimes with another, extend over a period of years, but
I shall restrict myself to relating a few incidents that were verified
by subsequent events.

The means by which we communicated with the influences around us was the
usual one. We sat round the table and laid our hands upon it, and I (or
anyone who might be selected for the purpose) spelled over the alphabet,
and raps or tilts occurred when the desired letter was reached. This in
reality is not so tedious a process as it may appear, and once used to
it, one may get through a vast amount of conversation in an hour by this
means. A medium is soon able to guess the word intended to be spelt, for
there are not so many after all in use in general conversation.

Some one had come to our table on several occasions, giving the name of
"Valerie," but refusing to say any more, so we thought she was an idle
or frivolous spirit, and had been in the habit of driving her away. One
evening, on the 1st of July, however, our circle was augmented by Mr.
Henry Stacke, when "Valerie" was immediately spelled out, and the
following conversation ensued. Mr. Stacke said to me, "Who is this?" and
I replied carelessly, "O! she's a little devil! She never has anything
to say." The table rocked violently at this, and the taps spelled out.

"Je ne suis pas diable."

"Hullo! Valerie, so you can talk now! For whom do you come?"

"Monsieur Stacke."

"Where did you meet him?"

"On the Continent."

"Whereabouts?"

"Between Dijon and Macon."

"How did you meet him?"

"In a railway carriage."

"What where you doing there?"

Here she relapsed into French, and said,

"Ce m'est impossible de dire."

At this juncture Mr. Stacke observed that he had never been in a train
between Dijon and Macon but once in his life, and if the spirit was with
him then, she must remember what was the matter with their
fellow-passenger.

"Mais oui, oui--il etait fou," she replied, which proved to be perfectly
correct. Mr. Stacke also remembered that two ladies in the same carriage
had been terribly frightened, and he had assisted them to get into
another. "Valerie" continued, "Priez pour moi."

"Pourquoi, Valerie?"

"Parce que j'ai beaucoup péché."

There was an influence who frequented our society at that time and
called himself "Charlie."

He stated that his full name had been "Stephen Charles Bernard
Abbot,"--that he had been a monk of great literary attainments--that he
had embraced the monastic life in the reign of Queen Mary, and
apostatized for political reasons in that of Elizabeth, and been "earth
bound" in consequence ever since.

"Charlie" asked us to sing one night, and we struck up the very vulgar
refrain of "Champagne Charlie," to which he greatly objected, asking for
something more serious.

I began, "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon."

"Why, that's as bad as the other," said Charlie. "It was a ribald and
obscene song in the reign of Elizabeth. The drunken roysterers used to
sing it in the street as they rolled home at night."

"You must be mistaken, Charlie! It's a well-known Scotch air."

"It's no more Scotch than I am," he replied. "The Scotch say they
invented everything. It's a tune of the time of Elizabeth. Ask Brinley
Richards."

Having the pleasure of the acquaintance of that gentleman, who was the
great authority on the origin of National Ballads, I applied to him for
the information, and received an answer to say that "Charlie" was right,
but that Mr. Richards had not been aware of the fact himself until he
had searched some old MSS. in the British Museum for the purpose of
ascertaining the truth.

I was giving a sitting once to an officer from Aldershot, a cousin of my
own, who was quite prepared to ridicule every thing that took place.
After having teased me into giving him a _séance_, he began by cheating
himself, and then accused me of cheating him, and altogether tired out
my patience. At last I proposed a test, though with little hope of
success.

"Let us ask John Powles to go down to Aldershot," I said, "and bring us
word what your brother officers are doing."

"O, yes! by Jove! Capital idea! Here! you fellow Powles, cut off to the
camp, will you, and go to the barracks of the 84th, and let us know what
Major R---- is doing." The message came back in about three minutes.
"Major R---- has just come in from duty," spelt out Powles. "He is
sitting on the side of his bed, changing his uniform trousers for a pair
of grey tweed."

"I'm sure that's wrong," said my cousin, "because the men are never
called out at this time of the day."

It was then four o'clock, as we had been careful to ascertain. My cousin
returned to camp the same evening, and the next day I received a note
from him to say, "That fellow Powles is a brick. It was quite right.
R---- was unexpectedly ordered to turn out his company yesterday
afternoon, and he returned to barracks and changed his things for the
grey tweed suit exactly at four o'clock."

But I have always found my friend Powles (when he _will_ condescend to
do anything for strangers, which is seldom) remarkably correct in
detailing the thoughts and actions of absentees, sometimes on the other
side of the globe.

I went one afternoon to pay an ordinary social call on a lady named Mrs.
W----, and found her engaged in an earnest conversation on Spiritualism
with a stout woman and a commonplace man--two as material looking
individuals as ever I saw, and who appeared all the more so under a
sultry August sun. As soon as Mrs. W---- saw me, she exclaimed, "O! here
is Mrs. Ross-Church. She will tell you all about the spirits. Do, Mrs.
Ross-Church, sit down at the table and let us have a _séance_."

A _séance_ on a burning, blazing afternoon in August, with two stolid
and uninteresting, and worse still, _uninterested_ looking strangers,
who appeared to think Mrs. W---- had a "bee in her bonnet." I
protested--I reasoned--I pleaded--all in vain. My hostess continued to
urge, and society places the guest at the mercy of her hostess. So, in
an evil temper, I pulled off my gloves, and placed my hands
indifferently on the table. The following words were at once rapped
out--

"I am Edward G----. Did you ever pay Johnson the seventeen pounds twelve
you received for my saddlery?"

The gentleman opposite to me turned all sorts of colors, and began to
stammer out a reply, whilst his wife looked very confused. I asked the
influence, "Who are you?" It replied, "_He_ knows! His late colonel! Why
hasn't Johnson received that money?" This is what I call an "awkward"
coincidence, and I have had many such occur through me--some that have
driven acquaintances away from the table, vowing vengeance against me,
and racking their brains to discover _who_ had told me of their secret
peccadilloes. The gentleman in question (whose name even I do not
remember) confessed that the identity and main points of the message
were true, but he did _not_ confide to us whether Johnson had ever
received that seventeen pounds twelve.

I had a beautiful English greyhound, called "Clytie," a gift from Annie
Thomas to me, and this dog was given to straying from my house in
Colville Road, Bayswater, which runs parallel to Portobello Road, a
rather objectionable quarter, composed of inferior shops, one of which,
a fried fish shop, was an intolerable nuisance, and used to fill the
air around with its rich perfume. On one occasion "Clytie" stayed away
from home so much longer than usual, that I was afraid she was lost in
good earnest, and posted bills offering a reward for her. "Charlie" came
to the table that evening and said, "Don't offer a reward for the dog.
Send for her."

"Where am I to send?" I asked.

"She is tied up at the fried fish shop in Portobello Road. Send the cook
to see."

I told the servant in question that I had heard the greyhound was
detained at the fish shop, and sent her to inquire. She returned with
"Clytie." Her account was, that on making inquiries, the man in the shop
had been very insolent to her, and she had raised her voice in reply;
that she had then heard and recognized the sharp, peculiar bark of the
greyhound from an upper storey, and, running up before the man could
prevent her, she had found "Clytie" tied up to a bedstead with a piece
of rope, and had called in a policeman to enable her to take the dog
away. I have often heard the assertion that Spiritualism is of no
practical good, and, doubtless, it was never intended to be so, but this
incident was, at least, an exception to the rule.

When abroad, on one occasion, I was asked by a Catholic Abbé to sit with
him. He had never seen any manifestations before, and he did not believe
in them, but he was curious on the subject. I knew nothing of him
further than that he was a priest, and a Jesuit, and a great friend of
my sister's, at whose house I was staying. He spoke English, and the
conversation was carried on in that language. He had told me beforehand
that if he could receive a perfectly private test, that he should never
doubt the truth of the manifestations again. I left him, therefore, to
conduct the investigation entirely by himself, I acting only as the
medium between him and the influence. As soon as the table moved he put
his question direct, without asking who was there to answer it.

"Where is my chasuble?"

Now a priest's chasuble, _I_ should have said, must be either hanging in
the sacristy or packed away at home, or been sent away to be altered or
mended. But the answer was wide of all my speculations.

"At the bottom of the Red Sea."

The priest started, but continued--

"Who put it there?"

"Elias Dodo."

"What was his object in doing so?"

"He found the parcel a burthen, and did not expect any reward for
delivering it."

The Abbé really looked as if he had encountered the devil. He wiped the
perspiration from his forehead, and put one more question.

"Of what was my chasuble made?"

"Your sister's wedding dress."

The priest then explained to me that his sister had made him a chasuble
out of her wedding dress--one of the forms of returning thanks in the
Church, but that after a while it became old fashioned, and the Bishop,
going his rounds, ordered him to get another. He did not like to throw
away his sister's gift, so he decided to send the old chasuble to a
priest in India, where they are very poor, and not so particular as to
fashion. He confided the packet to a man called Elias Dodo, a
sufficiently singular name, but neither he nor the priest he sent it to
had ever heard anything more of the chasuble, or the man who promised to
deliver it.

A young artist of the name of Courtney was a visitor at my house. He
asked me to sit with him alone, when the table began rapping out a
number of consonants--a farrago of nonsense, it appeared to me, and I
stopped and said so. But Mr. Courtney, who appeared much interested,
begged me to proceed. When the communication was finished, he said to
me, "This is the most wonderful thing I have ever heard. My father has
been at the table talking to me in Welsh. He has told me our family
motto, and all about my birth-place and relations in Wales." I said, "I
never heard you were a Welshman." "Yes! I am," he replied, "my real name
is Powell. I have only adopted the name of Courtney for professional
purposes."

This was all news to me, but had it not been, _I cannot speak Welsh_.

I could multiply such cases by the dozen, but that I fear to tire my
readers, added to which the majority of them were of so strictly private
a nature that it would be impossible to put them into print. This is
perhaps the greatest drawback that one encounters in trying to prove
the truth of Spiritualism. The best tests we receive are when the very
secrets of our hearts, which we have not confided to our nearest
friends, are revealed to us. I could relate (had I the permission of the
persons most interested) the particulars of a well-known law suit, in
which the requisite evidence, and names and addresses of witnesses, were
all given though my mediumship, and were the cause of the case being
gained by the side that came to me for "information." Some of the
coincidences I have related in this chapter might, however, be ascribed
by the sceptical to the mysterious and unknown power of brain reading,
whatever that may be, and however it may come, apart from mediumship,
but how is one to account for the facts I shall tell you in my next
chapter.




CHAPTER IV.

EMBODIED SPIRITS.


I was having a sitting one day in my own house with a lady friend, named
Miss Clark, when a female spirit came to the table and spelt out the
name "Tiny."

"Who are you?" I asked, "and for whom do you come?"

"I am a friend of Major M----" (mentioning the full name), "and I want
your help."

"Are you any relation to Major M----?"

"I am the mother of his child."

"What do you wish me to do for you?"

"Tell him he must go down to Portsmouth and look after my daughter. He
has not seen her for years. The old woman is dead, and the man is a
drunkard. She is falling into evil courses. He must save her from them."

"What is your real name?"

"I will not give it. There is no need. He always called me 'Tiny.'"

"How old is your daughter."

"Nineteen! Her name is Emily! I want her to be married. Tell him to
promise her a wedding trousseau. It may induce her to marry."

The influence divulged a great deal more on the subject which I cannot
write down here. It was an account of one of those cruel acts of
seduction by which a young girl had been led into trouble in order to
gratify a man's selfish lust, and astonished both Miss Clark and myself,
who had never heard of such a person as "Tiny" before. It was too
delicate a matter for me to broach to Major M---- (who was a married
man, and an intimate friend of mine), but the spirit came so many times
and implored me so earnestly to save her daughter, that at last I
ventured to repeat the communication to him. He was rather taken aback,
but confessed it was true, and that the child, being left to his care,
had been given over to the charge of some common people at Portsmouth,
and he had not enquired after it for some time past. Neither had he ever
heard of the death of the mother, who had subsequently married, and had
a family. He instituted inquiries, however, at once, and found the
statement to be quite true, and that the girl Emily, being left with no
better protection than that of the drunken old man, had actually gone
astray, and not long after she was had up at the police court for
stabbing a soldier in a public-house--a fit ending for the unfortunate
offspring of a man's selfish passions. But the strangest part of the
story to the uninitiated will lie in the fact that the woman whose
spirit thus manifested itself to two utter strangers, who knew neither
her history nor her name, was at the time _alive_, and living with her
husband and family, as Major M---- took pains to ascertain.

And now I have something to say on the subject of communicating with the
spirits of persons still in the flesh. This will doubtless appear the
most incomprehensible and fanatical assertion of all, that we wear our
earthly garb so loosely, that the spirits of people still living in this
world can leave the body and manifest themselves either visibly or
orally to others in their normal condition. And yet it is a fact that
spirits have so visited myself (as in the case I have just recorded),
and given me information of which I had not the slightest previous idea.
The matter has been explained to me after this fashion--that it is not
really the spirit of the living person who communicates, but the spirit,
or "control," that is nearest to him: in effect what the Church calls
his "guardian angel," and that this guardian angel, who knows his inmost
thoughts and desires better even than he knows them himself, is equally
capable of speaking in his name. This idea of the matter may shift the
marvel from one pair of shoulders to another, but it does not do away
with it. If I can receive information of events before they occur (as I
will prove that I have), I present a nut for the consideration of the
public jaw, which even the scientists will find difficult to crack. It
was at one time my annual custom to take my children to the sea-side,
and one summer, being anxious to ascertain how far the table could be
made to act without the aid of "unconscious cerebration," I arranged
with my friends, Mr. Helmore and Mrs. Colnaghi, who had been in the
habit of sitting with us at home, that _we_ should continue to sit at
the sea-side on Tuesday evenings as theretofore, and _they_ should sit
in London on the Thursdays, when I would try to send them messages
through "Charlie," the spirit I have already mentioned as being
constantly with us.

The first Tuesday my message was, "Ask them how they are getting on
without us," which was faithfully delivered at their table on the
following Thursday. The return message from them which "Charlie" spelled
out for us on the second Tuesday, was: "Tell her London is a desert
without her," to which I emphatically, if not elegantly, answered,
"Fiddle-de-dee!" A few days afterwards I received a letter from Mr.
Helmore, in which he said, "I am afraid 'Charlie' is already tired of
playing at postman, for to all our questions about you last Thursday, he
would only rap out, 'Fiddle-de-dee.'"

The circumstance to which this little episode is but an introduction
happened a few days later. Mr. Colnaghi and Mr. Helmore, sitting
together as usual on Thursday evening, were discussing the possibility
of summoning the spirits of _living persons_ to the table, when
"Charlie" rapped three times to intimate they could.

"Will you fetch some one for us, Charlie?"

"Yes."

"Whom will you bring?"

"Mrs. Ross-Church."

"How long will it take you to do so?"

"Fifteen minutes."

It was in the middle of the night when I must have been fast asleep, and
the two young men told me afterwards that they waited the results of
their experiment with much trepidation, wondering (I suppose) if I
should be conveyed bodily into their presence and box their ears well
for their impertinence. Exactly fifteen minutes afterwards, however, the
table was violently shaken and the words were spelt out. "I am Mrs.
Ross-Church. How _dared_ you send for me?" They were very penitent (or
they said they were), but they described my manner as most arbitrary,
and said I went on repeating, "Let me go back! Let me go back! There is
a great danger hanging over my children! I must go back to my children!"
(And here I would remark _par parenthèse_, and in contradiction of the
guardian angel theory, that I have always found that whilst the spirits
of the departed come and go as they feel inclined, the spirits of the
living invariably _beg_ to be sent back again or permitted to go, as if
they were chained by the will of the medium.) On this occasion I was so
positive that I made a great impression on my two friends, and the next
day Mr. Helmore sent me a cautiously worded letter to find out if all
was well with us at Charmouth, but without disclosing the reason for his
curiosity.

The _facts_ are, that on the morning of _Friday_, the day _after_ the
_séance_ in London, my seven children and two nurses were all sitting in
a small lodging-house room, when my brother-in-law, Dr. Henry Norris,
came in from ball practice with the volunteers, and whilst exhibiting
his rifle to my son, accidentally discharged it in the midst of them,
the ball passing through the wall within two inches of my eldest
daughter's head. When I wrote the account of this to Mr. Helmore, he
told me of my visit to London and the words I had spelt out on the
occasion. But how did I know of the occurrence the _night before_ it
took place? And if I--being asleep and unconscious--did _not_ know of
it, "Charlie" must have done so.

My ærial visits to my friends, however, whilst my body was in quite
another place, have been made still more palpable than this. Once, when
living in the Regent's Park, I passed a very terrible and painful night.
Grief and fear kept me awake most of the time, and the morning found me
exhausted with the emotion I had gone through. About eleven o'clock
there walked in, to my surprise, Mrs. Fitzgerald (better known as a
medium under her maiden name of Bessie Williams), who lived in the
Goldhawk Road, Shepherd's Bush. "I couldn't help coming to you," she
commenced, "for I shall not be easy until I know how you are after the
terrible scene you have passed through." I stared at her. "Whom have you
seen?" I asked. "Who has told you of it?" "Yourself," she replied. "I
was waked up this morning between two and three o'clock by the sound of
sobbing and crying in the front garden. I got out of bed and opened the
window, and then I saw you standing on the grass plat in your
night-dress and crying bitterly. I asked you what was the matter, and
you told me so and so, and so and so." And here followed a detailed
account of all that had happened in my own house on the other side of
London, with the _very words_ that had been used, and every action that
had happened. I had seen no one and spoken to no one between the
occurrence and the time Mrs. Fitzgerald called upon me. If her story was
untrue, _who_ had so minutely informed her of a circumstance which it
was to the interest of all concerned to keep to themselves?

When I first joined Mr. d'Oyley Carte's "Patience" Company in the
provinces, to play the part of "Lady Jane," I understood I was to have
four days' rehearsal. However, the lady whom I succeeded, hearing I had
arrived, took herself off, and the manager requested I would appear the
same night of my arrival. This was rather an ordeal to an artist who had
never sung on the operatic stage before, and who was not note perfect.
However, as a matter of obligation, I consented to do my best, but I was
very nervous. At the end of the second act, during the balloting scene,
Lady Jane has to appear suddenly on the stage, with the word "Away!" I
forget at this distance of time whether I made a mistake in pitching the
note a third higher or lower. I know it was not out of harmony, but it
was sufficiently wrong to send the chorus astray, and bring my heart up
into my mouth. It never occurred after the first night, but I never
stood at the wings again waiting for that particular entrance but I
"girded my loins together," as it were, with a kind of dread lest I
should repeat the error. After a while I perceived a good deal of
whispering about me in the company, and I asked poor Federici (who
played the colonel) the reason of it, particularly as he had previously
asked me to stand as far from him as I could upon the stage, as I
magnetized him so strongly that he couldn't sing if I was near him.
"Well! do you know," he said to me in answer, "that a very strange thing
occurs occasionally with reference to you, Miss Marryat. While you are
standing on the stage sometimes, you appear seated in the stalls.
Several people have seen it beside myself. I assure you it is true."

"But _when_ do you see me?" I enquired with amazement.

"It's always at the same time," he answered, "just before you run on at
the end of the second act. Of course it's only an appearance, but it's
very queer." I told him then of the strange feelings of distrust of
myself I experienced each night at that very moment, when my spirit
seems to have preceded myself upon the stage.

I had a friend many years ago in India, who (like many other friends)
had permitted time and separation to come between us, and alienate us
from each other. I had not seen him nor heard from him for eleven years,
and to all appearance our friendship was at an end. One evening the
medium I have alluded to above, Mrs. Fitzgerald, who was a personal
friend of mine, was at my house, and after dinner she put her feet up on
the sofa--a very unusual thing for her--and closed her eyes. She and I
were quite alone in the drawing-room, and after a little while I
whispered softly, "Bessie, are you asleep?" The answer came from her
control "Dewdrop," a wonderfully sharp Red Indian girl. "No! she's in a
trance. There's somebody coming to speak to you! I don't want him to
come. He'll make the medium ill. But it's no use. I see him creeping
round the corner now."

"But why should it make her ill?" I argued, believing we were about to
hold an ordinary _séance_.

"Because he's a _live_ one, he hasn't passed over yet," replied Dewdrop,
"and live ones always make my medium feel sick. But it's no use. I can't
keep him out. He may as well come. But don't let him stay long."

"Who is he, Dewdrop?" I demanded curiously.

"_I_ don't know! Guess _you_ will! He's an old friend of yours, and his
name is George." Whereupon Bessie Fitzgerald laid back on the sofa
cushions, and Dewdrop ceased to speak. It was some time before there was
any result. The medium tossed and turned, and wiped the perspiration
from her forehead, and pushed back her hair, and beat up the cushions
and threw herself back upon them with a sigh, and went through all the
pantomime of a man trying to court sleep in a hot climate. Presently she
opened her eyes and glanced languidly around her. Her unmistakable
actions and the name "George" (which was that of my friend, then
resident in India) had naturally aroused my suspicions as to the
identity of the influence, and when Bessie opened her eyes, I asked
softly, "George, is that you?" At the sound of my voice the medium
started violently and sprung into a sitting posture, and then, looking
all round the room in a scared manner, she exclaimed, "Where am I? Who
brought me here?" Then catching sight of me, she continued, "Mrs.
Ross-Church!--Florence! Is this _your_ room? O! let me go! _Do_ let me
go!"

This was not complimentary, to say the least of it, from a friend whom I
had not met for eleven years, but now that I had got him I had no
intention of letting him go, until I was convinced of his identity. But
the terror of the spirit at finding himself in a strange place seemed so
real and uncontrollable that I had the greatest difficulty in persuading
him to stay, even for a few minutes. He kept on reiterating, "Who
brought me here? I did not wish to come. Do let me go back. I am so very
cold" (shivering convulsively), "so very, _very_ cold."

"Answer me a few questions," I said, "and then you shall go. Do you know
who I am?"

"Yes, yes, you are Florence."

"And what is your name?" He gave it at full length. "And do you care for
me still?"

"Very much. But let me go."

"In a minute. Why do you never write to me?"

"There are reasons. I am not a free agent. It is better as it is."

"I don't think so. I miss your letters very much. Shall I ever hear from
you again?"

"Yes!"

"And see you?"

"Yes; but not yet. Let me go now. I don't wish to stay. You are making
me very unhappy."

If I could describe the fearful manner in which, during this
conversation, he glanced every moment at the door, like a man who is
afraid of being discovered in a guilty action, it would carry with it to
my readers, as it did to me, the most convincing proof that the medium's
body was animated by a totally different influence from her own. I kept
the spirit under control until I had fully convinced myself that he knew
everything about our former friendship and his own present surroundings;
and then I let him fly back to India, and wondered if he would wake up
the next morning and imagine he had been laboring under nightmare.

These experiences with the spirits of the living are certainly amongst
the most curious I have obtained. On more than one occasion, when I
have been unable to extract the truth of a matter from my acquaintances
I have sat down alone, as soon as I believed them to be asleep, and
summoned their spirits to the table and compelled them to speak out.
Little have they imagined sometimes how I came to know things which they
had scrupulously tried to hide from me. I have heard that the power to
summons the spirits of the living is not given to all media, but I have
always possessed it. I can do so when they are awake as well as when
they are asleep, though it is not so easy. A gentleman once _dared_ me
to do this with him, and I only conceal his name because I made him look
ridiculous. I waited till I knew he was engaged at a dinner-party, and
then about nine o'clock in the evening I sat down and summoned him to
come to me. It was some little time before he obeyed, and when he did
come, he was eminently sulky. I got a piece of paper and pencil, and
from his dictation I wrote down the number and names of the guests at
the dinner-table, also the dishes of which he had partaken, and then in
pity for his earnest entreaties I let him go again. "You are making me
ridiculous," he said, "everyone is laughing at me."

"But why? What are you doing?" I urged.

"I am standing by the mantel-piece, and I have fallen fast asleep," he
answered. The next morning he came pell-mell into my presence.

"What did you do to me last night?" he demanded. "I was at the Watts
Philips, and after dinner I went fast asleep with my head upon my hand,
standing by the mantel-piece, and they were all trying to wake me and
couldn't. Have you been playing any of your tricks upon me?"

"I only made you do what you declared I couldn't," I replied. "How did
you like the white soup and the turbot, and the sweetbreads, etc., etc."

He opened his eyes at my nefariously obtained knowledge, and still more
when I produced the paper written from his dictation. This is not a
usual custom of mine--it would not be interesting enough to pursue as a
custom--but I am a dangerous person to _dare_ to do anything.

The old friend whose spirit visited me through Mrs. Fitzgerald had lost
a sister to whom he was very tenderly attached before he made my
acquaintance, and I knew little of her beyond her name. One evening,
not many months after the interview with him which I have recorded, a
spirit came to me, giving the name of my friend's sister, with this
message, "My brother has returned to England, and would like to know
your address. Write to him to the Club, Leamington, and tell him where
to find you." I replied, "Your brother has not written to me, nor
inquired after me for the last eleven years. He has lost all interest in
me, and I cannot be the first to write to him, unless I am sure that he
wishes it."

"He has _not_ lost all interest in you," said the spirit; "he thinks of
you constantly, and I hear him pray for you. He wishes to hear from
you."

"That may be true," I replied, "but I cannot accept it on your
authority. If your brother really wishes to renew our acquaintance, let
him write and tell me so."

"He does not know your address, and I cannot get near enough to him to
influence him."

"Then things must remain as they are," I replied somewhat testily. "I am
a public person. He can find out my address, if he chooses to do so."

The spirit seemed to reflect for a moment; then she rapped out, "Wait,
and I will fetch my brother. He shall come here himself and tell you
what he thinks about it." In a short time there was a different movement
of the table, and the name of my old friend was given. After we had
exchanged a few words, and I had told him I required a test of his
identity, he asked me to get a pencil and paper, and write from his
dictation. I did as he requested, and he dictated the following
sentence, "Long time, indeed, has passed since the days you call to
mind, but time, however long, does not efface the past. It has never
made me cease to think of and pray for you as I felt you, too, did think
of and pray for me. Write to the address my sister gave you. I want to
hear from you."

Notwithstanding the perspicuity and apparent genuineness of this
message, it was some time before I could make up my mind to follow the
directions it gave me. My pride stood in the way to prevent it. _Ten
days afterwards_, however, having received several more visits from the
sister, I did as she desired me, and sent a note to her brother to the
Leamington Club. The answer came by return of post, and contained
(amongst others) _the identical words_ he had told me to write down.
Will Mr. Stuart Cumberland, or any other clever man, explain to me
_what_ or _who_ it was that had visited me ten days beforehand, and
dictated words which could hardly have been in my correspondent's brain
before he received my letter? I am ready to accept any reasonable
explanation of the matter from the scientists, philosophers, chemists,
or arguists of the world, and I am open to conviction, when my sense
convinces me, that their reasoning is true. But my present belief is,
that not a single man or woman will be found able to account on any
ordinary grounds for such an extraordinary instance of "unconscious
cerebration."

Being subject to "optical illusions," I naturally had several with
regard to my spirit child, "Florence," and she always came to me clothed
in a white dress. One night, however, when I was living alone in the
Regent's Park, I saw "Florence" (as I imagined) standing in the centre
of the room, dressed in a green riding habit slashed with orange color,
with a cavalier hat of grey felt on her head, ornamented with a long
green feather and a gold buckle. She stood with her back to me, but I
could see her profile as she looked over her shoulder, with the skirt of
her habit in her hand. This being a most extraordinary attire in which
to see "Florence," I felt curious on the subject, and the next day I
questioned her about it.

"Florence!" I said, "why did you come to me last night in a green riding
habit?"

"I did not come to you last night, mother! It was my sister Eva."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, "is anything wrong with her?"

"No! she is quite well."

"How could she come to me then?"

"She did not come in reality, but her thoughts were much with you, and
so you saw her spirit clairvoyantly."

My daughter Eva, who was on the stage, was at that time fulfilling a
stock engagement in Glasgow, and very much employed. I had not heard
from her for a fortnight, which was a most unusual occurrence, and I had
begun to feel uneasy. This vision made me more so, and I wrote at once
to ask her if all was as it should be. Her answer was to this effect: "I
am so sorry I have had no time to write to you this week, but I have
been so awfully busy. We play 'The Colleen Bawn' here next week, and I
have had to get my dress ready for 'Anne Chute.' It's so effective. I
wish you could see it. _A green habit slashed with orange, and a grey
felt hat with a long green feather and a big gold buckle._ I tried it on
the other night, and it looked so nice, etc., etc."

Well, my darling girl had had her wish, and I _had_ seen it.




CHAPTER V.

OPTICAL ILLUSIONS.


As I have alluded to what my family termed my "optical illusions," I
think it as well to describe a few of them, which appeared by the
context to be something more than a mere temporary disturbance of my
visual organs. I will pass over such as might be traced, truly or
otherwise, to physical causes, and confine myself to those which were
subsequently proved to be the reflection of something that, unknown to
me, had gone before. In 1875 I was much engaged in giving dramatic
readings in different parts of the country, and I visited Dublin for the
first time in my life, for that purpose, and put up at the largest and
best-frequented hotel there. Through the hospitality of the residents
and the duties of my professional business, I was engaged both day and
night, and when I _did_ get to bed, I had every disposition to sleep, as
the saying is, like a "top." But there was something in the hotel that
would not let me do so. I had a charming bedroom, cheerful, bright and
pretty, and replete with every comfort, and I would retire to rest "dead
beat," and fall off to sleep at once, to be waked perhaps half-a-dozen
times a night by that inexplicable something (or nothing) that rouses me
whenever I am about to enjoy an "optical illusion," and to see figures,
sometimes one, sometimes two or three, sometimes a whole group standing
by my bedside and gazing at me with looks of the greatest astonishment,
as much as to ask what right I had to be there. But the most remarkable
part of the matter to me was, that all the figures were those of men,
and military men, to whom I was too well accustomed to be able to
mistake. Some were officers and others soldiers, some were in uniform,
others in undress, but they all belonged to the army, and they all
seemed to labor under the same feeling of intense surprise at seeing
_me_ in the hotel. These apparitions were so life-like and appeared so
frequently, that I grew quite uncomfortable about them, for however
much one may be used to see "optical illusions," it is not pleasant to
fancy there are about twenty strangers gazing at one every night as one
lies asleep. Spiritualism is, or was, a tabooed subject in Dublin, and I
had been expressly cautioned not to mention it before my new
acquaintances. However, I could not keep entire silence on this subject,
and dining _en famille_ one day, with a hospitable family of the name of
Robinson, I related to them my nightly experiences at the hotel. Father,
mother, and son exclaimed simultaneously. "Good gracious," they said,
"don't you know that that hotel was built on the site of the old
barracks? The house immediately behind it, which formed part of the old
building, was vacated by its last tenants on account of its being
haunted. Every evening at the hour the soldiers used to be marched up to
bed, they heard the tramp, tramp, tramp of the feet ascending the
staircase."

"That may be," I replied, "but they _knew_ their house stood on the site
of the barracks, and _I didn't_."

My eldest daughter was spending a holiday with me once after my second
marriage, and during the month of August. She had been very much
overworked, and I made her lie in bed till noon. One morning I had been
to her room at that hour to wake her, and on turning to leave it (in the
broad daylight, remember), I encountered a man on the landing outside
her door. He was dressed in a white shirt with black studs down the
front, and a pair of black cloth trousers. He had dark hair and eyes,
and small features; altogether, he struck me as having rather a sinister
and unpleasant appearance. I stood still, with the open door in my hand,
and gazed at him. He looked at me also for a minute, and then turned and
walked upstairs to an upper storey where the nursery was situated,
beckoning me, with a jerk of his hand, to follow him. My daughter
(remarking a peculiar expression in my eyes, which I am told they assume
on such occasions) said, "Mother! what do you see?"

"Only a spirit," I answered, "and he has gone upstairs."

"Now, what _is_ the good of seeing them in that way," said Eva, rather
impatiently (for this dear child always disliked and avoided
Spiritualism), and I was fain to confess that I really did _not_ know
the especial good of encountering a sinister-looking gentleman in shirt
and trousers, on a blazing noon in August. After which the circumstance
passed from my mind, until recalled again.

A few months later I had occasion to change the children's nurse, and
the woman who took her place was an Icelandic girl named Margaret
Thommassen, who had only been in England for three weeks. I found that
she had been educated far above the average run of domestic servants,
and was well acquainted with the writings of Swedenborg and other
authors. One day as I walked up the nursery stairs to visit the children
in bed, I encountered the same man I had seen outside my daughter's
room, standing on the upper landing, as though waiting my approach. He
was dressed as before, but this time his arms were folded across his
breast and his face downcast, as though he were unhappy about something.
He disappeared as I reached the landing, and I mentioned the
circumstance to no one. A few days later, Margaret Thommassen asked me
timidly if I believed in the possibility of the spirits of the departed
returning to this earth. When I replied that I did, she appeared
overjoyed, and said she had never hoped to find anyone in England to
whom she could speak about it. She then gave me a mass of evidence on
the subject which forms a large part of the religion of the Icelanders.
She told me that she felt uneasy about her eldest brother, to whom she
was strongly attached. He had left Iceland a year before to become a
waiter in Germany, and had promised faithfully that so long as he lived
she should hear from him every month, and when he failed to write she
must conclude he was dead. Margaret told me she had heard nothing from
him now for three months, and each night when the nursery light was put
out, someone came and sat at the foot of her bed and sighed. She then
produced his photograph, and to my astonishment I recognized at once the
man who had appeared to me some months before I knew that such a woman
as Margaret Thommassen existed. He was taken in a shirt and trousers,
just as I had seen him, and wore the same repulsive (to me) and sinister
expression. I then told his sister that I had already seen him twice in
that house, and she grew very excited and anxious to learn the truth. In
consequence I sat with her in hopes of obtaining some news of her
brother, who immediately came to the table, and told her that he was
dead, with the circumstances under which he had died, and the address
where she was to write to obtain particulars. And on Margaret Thommassen
writing as she was directed, she obtained the practical proofs of her
brother's death, without which this story would be worthless.

My sister Cecil lives with her family in Somerset, and many years ago I
went down there to visit her for the first time since she had moved into
a new house which I had never seen before. She put me to sleep in the
guest chamber, a large, handsome room, just newly furnished by Oetzmann.
But I could not sleep in it. The very first night some one walked up and
down the room, groaning and sighing close to my ears, and he, she, or it
especially annoyed me by continually touching the new stiff counterpane
with a "scrooping" sound that set my teeth on edge, and sent my heart up
into my mouth. I kept on saying, "Go away! Don't come near me!" for its
proximity inspired me with a horror and repugnance which I have seldom
felt under similar circumstances. I did not say anything at first to my
sister, who is rather nervous on the subject of "bogies," but on the
third night I could stand it no longer, and told her plainly the room
was haunted, and I wished she would put me in her dressing-room, or with
her servants, sooner than let me remain there, as I could get no rest.
Then the truth came out, and she confessed that the last owner of the
house had committed suicide in that very room, and showed me the place
on the boards, underneath the carpet, where the stain of his blood still
remained. A lively sort of room to sleep all alone in.

Another sister of mine, Blanche, used to live in a haunted house in
Bruges, of which a description will be found in the chapter headed, "The
Story of the Monk." Long, however, before the monk was heard of, I could
not sleep in her house on account of the disturbances in my room, for
which my sister used to laugh at me. But even when my husband, Colonel
Lean, and I stayed there together, it was much the same. One night I
waked him to see the figure of a woman, who had often visited me,
standing at the foot of the bed. She was quaintly attired in a sort of
leathern boddice or jerkin, laced up the front over a woollen petticoat
of some dark color. She wore a cap of Mechlin lace, with the large flaps
at the side, adopted by Flemish women to this day; her hair was combed
tightly off her forehead, and she wore a profusion of gold ornaments.

My husband could describe her as vividly as I did, which proves how
plainly the apparition must have shown itself. I waked on several
occasions to see this woman busy (apparently) with the contents of an
old carved oak armoir which stood in a corner of the room, and which, I
suppose, must have had something to do with herself. My eldest son
joined me at Bruges on this occasion. He was a young fellow of twenty,
who had never practised, nor even enquired into Spiritualism--fresh from
sea, and about as free from fear or superstitious fancies as a mortal
could be. He was put to sleep in a room on the other side of the house,
and I saw from the first that he was grave about it, but I did not ask
him the reason, though I felt sure, from personal experience, that he
would hear or see something before long. In a few days he came to me and
said--

"Mother! I'm going to take my mattress into the colonel's dressing-room
to-night and sleep there." I asked him why. He replied, "It's impossible
to stay in that room any longer. I wouldn't mind if they'd let me sleep,
but they won't. There's something walks about half the night, whispering
and muttering, and touching the bed-clothes, and though I don't believe
in any of your rubbishy spirits, I'll be 'jiggered' if I sleep there any
longer." So he was not "jiggered" (whatever that may be), as he refused
to enter the room again.

I cannot end this chapter more appropriately than by relating a very
remarkable case of "optical illusion" which was seen by myself alone. It
was in the month of July, 1880, and I had gone down alone to Brighton
for a week's quiet. I had some important literary work to finish, and
the exigencies of the London season made too many demands upon my time.
So I packed up my writing materials, and took a lodging all to myself,
and set hard to work. I used to write all day and walk in the evening.
It was light then till eight or nine o'clock, and the Esplanade used to
be crowded till a late hour. I was pushing my way, on the evening of the
9th of July, through the crowd, thinking of my work more than anything
else, when I saw, as I fully thought, my step-son, Francis Lean, leaning
with his back against the palings at the edge of the cliff and smiling
at me. He was a handsome lad of eighteen who was supposed to have sailed
in his ship for the Brazils five months before. But he had been a wild
young fellow, causing his father much trouble and anxiety, and my first
impression was one of great annoyance, thinking naturally that, since I
saw him there, he had never sailed at all, but run away from his ship at
the last moment. I hastened up to him, therefore, but as I reached his
side, he turned round quite methodically, and walked quickly down a
flight of steps that led to the beach. I followed him, and found myself
amongst a group of ordinary seamen mending their nets, but I could see
Francis nowhere. I did not know what to make of the occurrence, but it
never struck me that it was not either the lad himself or some one
remarkably like him. The same night, however, after I had retired to bed
in a room that was unpleasantly brilliant with the moonlight streaming
in at the window, I was roused from my sleep by someone turning the
handle of my door, and there stood Francis in his naval uniform, with
the peaked cap on his head, smiling at me as he had done upon the cliff.
I started up in bed intending to speak to him, when he laid his finger
on his lips and faded away. This second vision made me think something
must have happened to the boy, but I determined not to say anything to
my husband about it until it was verified. Shortly after my return to
London, we were going, in company with my own son (also a sailor), to
see his ship which was lying in the docks, when, as we were driving
through Poplar, I again saw my stepson Francis standing on the pavement,
and smiling at me. That time I spoke. I said to Colonel Lean, "I am sure
I saw Francis standing there. Do you think it is possible he may not
have sailed after all?" But Colonel Lean laughed at the idea. He
believed it to be a chance likeness I had seen. Only the lad was too
good-looking to have many duplicates in this world. We visited the
seaside after that, and in September, whilst we were staying at
Folkestone, Colonel Lean received a letter to say that his son Francis
had been drowned by the upsetting of a boat in the surf of the Bay of
Callao, in the Brazils, _on the 9th of July_--the day I had seen him
twice in Brighton, two months before we heard that he was gone.




CHAPTER VI.

ON SCEPTICISM.


There are two classes of people who have done more harm to the cause of
Spiritualism than the testimony of all the scientists has done good, and
those are the enthusiasts and the sceptics. The first believe everything
they see or hear. Without giving themselves the trouble to obtain proofs
of the genuineness of the manifestations, they rush impetuously from one
acquaintance to the other, detailing their experience with so much
exaggeration and such unbounded faith, that they make the absurdity of
it patent to all. They are generally people of low intellect, credulous
dispositions, and weak nerves. They bow down before the influences as if
they were so many little gods descended from heaven, instead of being,
as in the majority of instances, spirits a shade less holy than our own,
who, for their very shortcomings, are unable to rise above the
atmosphere that surrounds this gross and material world. These are the
sort of spiritualists whom _Punch_ and other comic papers have very
justly ridiculed. Who does not remember the picture of the afflicted
widow, for whom the medium has just called up the departed Jones?

"Jones," she falters, "are you happy?"

"Much happier than I was down here," growls Jones.

"O! then you _must_ be in heaven!"

"On the contrary, quite the reverse," is the reply.

Who also has not sat a _séance_ where such people have not made
themselves so ridiculous as to bring the cause they profess to adore
into contempt and ignominy. Yet to allow the words and deeds of fools to
affect one's inward and private conviction of a matter would be
tantamount to giving up the pursuit of everything in which one's fellow
creatures can take a part.

The second class to which I alluded--the sceptics--have not done so much
injury to Spiritualism as the enthusiasts, because they are as a rule,
so intensely bigoted and hard-headed, and narrow-minded, that they
overdo their protestations, and render them harmless. The sceptic
refuses to believe _anything_, because he has found out _one_ thing to
be a fraud. If one medium deceives, all the mediums must deceive. If one
_séance_ is a failure, none can be successful. If he gains no
satisfactory test of the presence of the spirits of the departed, no one
has ever gained such a test. Now, such reason is neither just nor
logical. Again, a sceptic fully expects _his_ testimony to be accepted
and believed, yet he will never believe any truth on the testimony of
another person. And if he is told that, given certain conditions, he can
see this or hear the other, he says, "No! I will see it and hear it
without any conditions, or else I will proclaim it all a fraud." In like
manner, we might say to a savage, on showing him a watch, "If you will
keep your eye on those hands, you will see them move round to tell the
hours and minutes," and he should reply, "I must put the watch into
boiling water--those are my conditions--and if it won't go then, I will
not believe it can go at all."

I don't mind a man being a sceptic in Spiritualism. I don't see how he
can help (considering the belief in which we are reared) being a
sceptic, until he has proved so strange a matter for himself. But I _do_
object to a man or a woman taking part in a _séance_ with the sole
intention of detecting deceit, not _when_ it has happened, but before it
has happened--of bringing an argumentative, disputatious mind, full of
the idea that it is going to be tricked and humbugged into (perhaps) a
private circle who are sitting (like Rosa Dartle) "simply for
information," and scattering all the harmony and good-will about him
broadcast. He couldn't do it to a human assembly without breaking up the
party. Why should he expect to be more kindly welcomed by a spiritual
one? I have seen an immense deal of courtesy shown under such
circumstances to men whom I should have liked to see kicked downstairs.
I have seen them enter a lady's private drawing-room, by invitation, to
witness manifestations which were never, under any circumstances, made a
means of gain, and have heard them argue, and doubt, and contradict,
until they have given their hostess and her friends the lie to their
faces. And the world in general would be quite ready to side with these
(so-called) gentlemen, not because their word or their wisdom was
better worth than that of their fellow guests, but because they
protested against the truth of a thing which it had made up its mind to
be impossible. I don't mind a sceptic myself, as I said before, but he
must be unbiassed, which few sceptics are. As a rule, they have decided
the question at issue for themselves before they commence to investigate
it.

I find that few people outside the pale of Spiritualism have heard of
the Dialectical Society, which was a scientific society assembled a few
years ago for the sole purpose of enquiring into the truth of the
matter. It was composed of forty members,--ten lawyers, ten scientists,
ten clergymen, and ten chemists (I think that was the arrangement), and
they held forty _séances_, and the published report at the close of them
was, that not one of these men of learning and repute could find any
natural cause for the wonders he had witnessed. I know that there are a
thousand obstacles in the way of belief. The extraordinarily
contradictory manner in which Protestants are brought up, to believe in
one and the same breath that spirits were common visitants to earth at
the periods of which the Bible treats, but that it is impossible they
can return to it now, although the Lord is the same yesterday, to-day,
and for ever. The conditions of darkness for the creation of
materialized spirits, and the resemblance they sometimes bear to the
medium, are two fearful stumbling-blocks. Yet one must know that _all_
things are created in the dark, and that even a seed cannot sprout if
you let the light in upon it, while as for the resemblance between the
spirit and the medium, from whom it takes the material being that
enables it to appear, if investigators would only persevere with their
enquiries, they would find, as I have, that that is a disappointment
which has its remedy in Time. When people call on me to explain such
things, I can only say that I know no more how they come than they do,
or that I know how _I_ came, a living, sentient creature, into the
world. Besides (as I have said before), I write these pages to tell only
_what I have seen_, and not to argue how it came to pass that I saw it.

I have a little story to tell here which powerfully illustrates the
foregoing remarks. The lines,

    "A woman convinced against her will
    Is of the same opinion still,"

might have been penned with as much truth of sceptics. Men who are
sceptical, _i.e._, so thoroughly wrapt up in conceit of their powers of
judgment and determination that it becomes impossible for them to
believe themselves mistaken, will deny the evidence of all their senses
sooner than confess they may be in the wrong. Such an one may be a
clever scientist or a shrewd man of business, but he can never be a
genius. For genius is invariably humble of its own powers, and,
therefore, open to conviction. But the lesser minds, who are only equal
to grasping such details as may have been drummed into them by sheer
force of study, appear to have no capability of stretching beyond a
certain limit. They are hedged in and cramped by the opinions in which
they have been reared, or that they have built up for themselves out of
the petty material their brain affords them, and have lost their powers
of elasticity. "Thus far shalt thou go and no further," seems to be the
fiat pronounced on too many men's reasoning faculties. Instead of
believing the power of God and the resources of nature to be
illimitable, they want to keep them within the little circle that
encompasses their own brains. "I can't see it, and therefore it cannot
be." There was a time when I used to take the trouble to try and
convince such men, but I have long ceased to do so. It is quite
indifferent to me what they believe or don't believe. And with such
minds, even if they _were_ convinced of its possibility, they would
probably make no good use of spiritual intercourse. For there is no
doubt it can be turned to evil uses as well as to good.

Some years ago I was on friendly terms with a man of this sort. He was a
doctor, accounted clever in his profession, and I knew him to be an able
arguist, and thought he had common sense enough not to eat his own
words, but the sequel proved that I was mistaken. We had several
conversations together on Spiritualism, and as Dr. H---- was a complete
disbeliever in the existence of a God and a future life, I was naturally
not surprised to find that he did not place any credence in the account
I gave him of my spiritualistic experiences. Many medical men attribute
such experiences entirely to a diseased condition of mind or body.

But when I asked Dr. H---- what he should think if he saw them with his
own eyes, I confess I was startled to hear him answer that he should
say his eyes deceived him. "But if you heard them speak?" I continued.

"I should disbelieve my ears."

"And if you touched and handled them?"

"I should mistrust my sense of feeling."

"Then by what means," I argued, "do you know that I am Florence Marryat?
You can only see me and hear me and touch me! What is there to prevent
your senses misleading you at the present moment?"

But to this argument Dr. H---- only returned a pitying smile, professing
to think me, on this point at least, too feeble-minded to be worthy of
reply, but in reality not knowing what on earth to say. He often,
however, recurred to the subject of Spiritualism, and on several
occasions told me that if I could procure him the opportunity of
submitting a test which he might himself suggest, he should be very much
obliged to me. It was about this time that a young medium named William
Haxby, now passed away, went to live with Mr. and Mrs. Olive in Ainger
Terrace, and we were invited to attend a _séance_ given by him. Mrs.
Olive, when giving the invitation, informed me that Mr. Haxby had been
very successful in procuring direct writing in sealed boxes, and she
asked me, if I wished to try the experiment, to take a secured box, with
writing materials in it, to the _séance_, and see what would happen to
it.

Here was, I thought, an excellent opportunity for Dr. H----'s test, and
I sent for him and told him what had been proposed. I urged him to
prepare the test entirely by himself, and to accompany me to the
_séance_ and see what occurred,--to all of which he readily consented.
Indeed, he became quite excited on the subject, being certain it would
prove a failure; and in my presence he made the following
preparations:--

I. Half a sheet of ordinary cream-laid note-paper and half a cedar-wood
black lead pencil were placed in a jeweller's cardwood box.

II. The lid of the box was carefully glued down all round to the bottom
part.

III. The box was wrapt in white writing paper, which was gummed over it.

IV. It was tied eight times with a peculiar kind of silk made for tying
up arteries, and the eight knots were knots known to (as Dr. H----
informed me) medical men only.

V. Each of the eight knots was sealed with sealing-wax, and impressed
with Dr. H----'s crest seal, which he always wore on his watch-chain.

VI. The packet was again folded in brown paper, and sealed and tied to
preserve the inside from injury.

When Dr. H---- had finished it, he said to me, "If the spirits (or
anybody) can write on that paper without cutting the silk, _I will
believe whatever you wish_." I asked, "Are you _quite_ sure that the
packet could not be undone without your detecting it?" His answer
was--"That silk is not to be procured except from a medical man; it is
manufactured expressly for the tying of arteries; and the knots I have
made are known only to medical men. They are the knots we use in tying
arteries. The seal is my own crest, which never leaves my watch-chain,
and I defy anyone to undo those knots without cutting them, or to tie
them again, if cut. I repeat--if your friends can make, or cause to be
made, the smallest mark on that paper, and return me the box in the
condition it now is, _I will believe anything you choose_." And I
confess I was very dubious of the result myself, and almost sorry that I
had subjected the doctor's incredulity to so severe a test.

On the evening appointed we attended the _séance_, Dr. H---- taking the
prepared packet with him. He was directed to place it under his chair,
but he tied a string to it and put it under his foot, retaining the
other end of the string in his hand. The meeting was not one for
favorably impressing an unbeliever in Spiritualism. There were too many
people present, and too many strangers. The ordinary manifestations, to
my mind, are worse than useless, unless they have been preceded by
extraordinary ones; so that the doctor returned home more sceptical than
before, and I repented that I had taken him there. One thing had
occurred, however, that he could not account for. The packet which he
had kept, as he thought, under his foot the whole time, was found, at
the close of the meeting, to have disappeared. Another gentleman had
brought a sealed box, with paper and pencil in it, to the _séance_; and
at the close it was opened in the presence of all assembled, and found
to contain a closely written letter from his deceased wife. But the
doctor's box had evaporated, and was nowhere to be found. The door of
the room had been locked all the time, and we searched the room
thoroughly, but without success. Dr. H---- was naturally triumphant.

"They couldn't undo _my_ knots and _my_ seals," he said, exulting over
me, "and so they wisely did not return the packet. Both packets were of
course taken from the room during the sitting by some confederate of the
medium. The other one was easily managed, and put back again--_mine_
proved unmanageable, and so they have retained it. I _knew_ it would be
so!"

And he twinkled his eyes at me as much as to say, "I have shut _you_ up.
You will not venture to describe any of the marvels you have seen to me
after this." Of course the failure did not discompose me, nor shake my
belief. I never believed spiritual beings to be omnipotent, omnipresent,
nor omniscient. They had failed before, and doubtless they would fail
again. But if an acrobatic performer fails to turn a double somersault
on to another man's head two or three times, it does not falsify the
fact that he succeeds on the fourth occasion. I was sorry that the test
had been a failure, for Dr. H----'s sake, but I did not despair of
seeing the box again. And at the end of a fortnight it was left at my
house by Mr. Olive, with a note to say that it had been found that
morning on the mantel-piece in Mr. Haxby's bedroom, and he lost no time
in returning it to me. It was wrapt in the brown paper, tied and sealed,
apparently just as we had carried it to the _séance_ in Ainger Terrace;
and I wrote at once to Dr. H---- announcing its return, and asking him
to come over and open it in my presence. He came, took the packet in his
hand, and having stripped off the outer wrapper, examined it carefully.
There were four tests, it may be remembered, applied to the packet.

I. The arterial silk, procurable only from a medical man.

II. The knots to be tied only by medical men.

III. Dr. H----'s own crest, always kept on his watch chain, as a seal.

IV. The lid of the cardboard box, glued all round to the bottom part.

As the doctor scrutinized the silk, the knots, and the seals, I watched
him narrowly.

"Are you _quite sure_," I asked, "that it is the same paper in which you
wrapt it?"

"I am _quite sure_."

"And the same silk?"

"Quite sure."

"Your knots have not been untied?"

"I am positive that they have not."

"Nor your seal been tampered with?"

"Certainly not! It is just as I sealed it."

"Be careful, Dr. H----," I continued. "Remember I shall write down all
you say."

"I am willing to swear to it in a court of justice," he replied.

"Then will you open the packet?"

Dr. H---- took the scissors and cut the silk at each seal and knot, then
tore off the gummed white writing paper (which was as fresh as when he
had put it on), and tried to pull open the card-board box. But as he
could not do this in consequence of the lid being glued down, he took
out his penknife and cut it all round. As he did so, he looked at me and
said, "Mark my words. There will be nothing written on the paper. It is
impossible!"

He lifted the lid, and behold _the box was empty_! The half sheet of
notepaper and the half cedar wood pencil had both _entirely
disappeared_. Not a crumb of lead, nor a shred of paper remained behind.
I looked at the doctor, and the doctor looked completely bewildered.

"_Well!_" I said, interrogatively.

He shifted about--grew red--and began to bluster.

"What do you make of it?" I asked. "How do you account for it?"

"In the easiest way in the world," he replied, trying to brave it out.
"It's the most transparent deception I ever saw. They've kept the thing
a fortnight and had time to do anything with it. A child could see
through this. Surely your bright wits can want no help to an
explanation."

"I am not so bright as you give me credit for," I answered. "Will you
explain your meaning to me?"

"With pleasure. They have evidently made an invisible slit in the
joining of the box cover, and with a pair of fine forceps drawn the
paper through it, bit by bit. For the pencil, they drew that by the same
means to the slit and then pared it, little by little, with a lancet,
till they could shake out the fragments."

"That must have required very careful manipulation," I observed.

"Naturally. But they've taken a fortnight to do it in."

"But how about the arterial silk?" I said.

"They must have procured some from a surgeon."

"And your famous knots?"

"They got some surgeon to tie them!"

"But your crest and seal?"

"Oh! they must have taken a facsimile of that in order to reproduce it.
It is very cleverly done, but quite explicable!"

"But you told me before you opened the packet that you would take your
oath in a court of justice it had not been tampered with."

"I was evidently deceived."

"And you really believe, then, that an uneducated lad like Mr. Haxby
would take the trouble to take impressions of seals and to procure
arterial silk and the services of a surgeon, in order, not to mystify or
convert _you_, but to gratify _me_, whose box he believes it to be."

"I am sure he has done so!"

"But just now you were equally sure he had _not_ done so. Why should you
trust your senses in one case more than in the other? And if Mr. Haxby
has played a trick on me, as you suppose, why did you not discover the
slit when you examined the box, before opening?"

"Because my eyes misled me!"

"Then after all," I concluded, "the best thing you can say of yourself
is that you--a man of reputed science, skill, and sense, and with a
strong belief in your own powers--are unable to devise a test in which
you shall not be outwitted by a person so inferior to yourself in age,
intellect and education as young Haxby. But I will give you another
chance. Make up another packet in any way you like. Apply to it the
severest tests which your ingenuity can devise, or other men of genius
can suggest to you, and let me give it to Haxby and see if the contents
can be extracted, or tampered with a second time."

"It would be useless," said Dr. H----. "If they were extracted through
the iron panels of a fireproof safe, I would not believe it was done by
any but natural means."

"Because you do not _wish_ to believe," I argued.

"You are right," he confessed, "I do _not_ wish to believe. If you
convinced me of the truth of Spiritualism, you would upset all the
theories I have held for the best part of my life. I don't believe in a
God, nor a soul, nor a future existence, and I would rather not believe
in them. We have quite enough trouble, in my opinion, in this life,
without looking forward to another, and I would rather cling to my
belief that when we die we have done with it once and for ever."

So there ended my attempt to convince Dr. H----, and I have often
thought since that he was but a type of the genus sceptic. In this
world, we mostly believe what we want to believe, and the thought of a
future troubles us in proportion to the lives we lead here. It must
often strike spiritualists (who mostly look forward to the day of their
departure for another world, as a schoolboy looks forward to the
commencement of the holidays) as a very strange thing, that people, as a
rule, evince so little curiosity on the subject of Spiritualism. The
idea of the spirits of the departed returning to this world to hold
communication with their friends may be a new and startling one to them,
but the very wonder of it would make one expect to see them evince a
little interest in a matter which concerns us all. Yet the generality of
Carlyle's British millions either pooh-pooh the notion as too utterly
ridiculous for their exalted minds to entertain, or inform you, with
superior wisdom, that if Spiritualism is true, they cannot see the use
of it, and have no craving for any further knowledge. If these same
people expected to go to Canada or Australia in a few months' time, how
eagerly they would ask questions concerning their future home, and
procure the best information on what to do, whilst they remained in
England, in order to fit themselves for the journey and the change.

But a journey to the other world--to the many worlds which perhaps await
us--a certain proof that we shall live again (or rather, that we shall
never die but need only time and patience and well-living here to
reunite us to the dear one gone before)--_that_ is a subject not worthy
of our trying to believe--of not sufficient importance for us to take
the trouble of ascertaining. I pity from my soul the men and women who
have no dead darling buried in their hearts whom they _know_ they shall
meet in a home of God's own choosing when this life ends.

The old, cold faiths have melted away beneath the sun of Progress. We
can no longer be made to believe, like little children, in a shadowy
indefinite Heaven where the saints sit on damp clouds with harps in
their hands forever singing psalms and hymns and heavenly songs. That
sort of existence could be a Heaven to none, and to most it would be a
Hell. We do not accept it now, any more than we do the other place, with
its typical fire and brimstone, and pitch-forking devils with horns and
tails. But what has Religion given us instead? Those whose common-sense
will not permit them to believe in the parson's Heaven and Hell
generally believe (like Dr. H----) in nothing at all. But Spiritualism,
earnestly and faithfully followed, leaves us in no doubt. Spiritualists
know where they are going to. The spheres are almost as familiar to them
as this earth--it is not too much to say that many live in them as much
as they do here, and often they seem the more real, as they are the more
lasting of the two. Spiritualists are in no manner of doubt _who_ their
eyes will see when opening on another phase of life. _They_ do not
expect to be carried straight up into Abraham's bosom, and lie snugly
there, whilst revengeful demons are torturing those who were, perhaps,
nearest and dearest to them down below. They have a better and more
substantial religion than that--a revelation that teaches them that the
works we do in the flesh must bear their fruit in the spirit, and that
no tardy deathbed repentance, no crying out for mercy because Justice is
upon us, like an unruly child howling as soon as the stick is produced
for chastisement--will avail to wipe off the sins we have indulged in
upon earth. They know their expiation will be a bitter one, yet not
without Hope, and that they will be helped, as well as help others, in
the upward path that leads to ultimate perfection. The teaching of
Spiritualism is such as largely to increase belief in our Divine
Father's love, our Saviour's pity, and the angels' ministering help. But
it does more than this, more than any religion has done before. It
affords the _proof_--the only proof we have ever received, and our
finite natures can accept--of a future existence. The majority of
Christians _hope_ and _trust_, and say they _believe_. It is the
Spiritualist only that _knows_.

I think that the marvellous indifference displayed by the crowd to
ascertain these truths for themselves must be due, in a large number of
instances, to the unnatural but universal fear which is entertained of
Death and all things connected with it. The same people who loudly
declaim again the possibility of seeing a "ghost," shudder at the idea
of doing so. The creature whom they have adored and waited on with
tenderest devotion passes away, and they are afraid to enter the room
where his body lies. That which they clung to and wept over yesterday,
they fear to look at or touch to-day, and the idea that he would return
and speak to them would inspire them with horror. But why afraid of an
impossibility? Their very fears should teach them that there is a cause.
From numerous notes made on the subject I have invariably found that
those who have had the opportunity of testing the reality of
Spiritualism, and either rejected or denied it, have been selfish,
worldly, and cold-hearted people who neither care, nor are cared for, by
those who have passed on to another sphere. Plenty of love is sure to
bring you plenty of proof. The mourners, who have lost sight of what is
dearest to them, and would give all they possess for one more look at
the face they loved so much, or one more tone of the voice that was
music to their ears, are only too eager and grateful to hear of a way by
which their longings may be gratified, and would take any trouble and go
to any expense to accomplish what they desire.

It is this intense yearning to speak again with those that have left us,
on the part of the bereaved, that has led to chicanery on the part of
media in order to gratify it. Wherever money is to be made,
unfortunately cheating will step in; but because some tradesmen will
sell you brass for gold is no reason to vote all jewellers thieves. The
account of the raising of Samuel by the witch of Endor is an instance
that my argument is correct. The witch was evidently an impostor, for
she had no expectation of seeing Samuel, and was frightened by the
apparition she had evoked; but Spiritualism must be a truth, because it
was Samuel himself who appeared and rebuked Saul for calling him back to
this earth. What becomes, in the face of this story, of the impassable
gulf between the earthly and spiritual spheres? That atheists who
believe in nothing should not believe in Spiritualism is credible,
natural, and consistent. But that Christians should reject the theory is
tantamount to acknowledging that they found their hopes of salvation
upon a lie. There is no way of getting out of it. If it be _impossible_
that the spirits of the departed can communicate with men, the Bible
must be simply a collection of fabulous statements; if it be _wrong_ to
speak with spirits, all the men whose histories are therein related were
sinners, and the Almighty helped them to sin; and if all the spirits who
have been heard and seen and touched in modern times are devils sent on
earth to lure us to our destruction, how are we to distinguish between
them and the Greatest Spirit of all, who walked with mortal Adam and Eve
in the garden of Eden. "O! yes!" I think I hear somebody cry, "but that
was in the Bible;" as if the Bible were a period or a place. And did it
ever strike you that there is something else recorded in the Bible? "And
He did not many miracles there because of their _unbelief_." And yet
Christ came to call "not the righteous but the sinners to repentance."
Surely, then, the unbelieving required the conviction of the miracles
more than those who knew Him to be God. Yet there He did them not,
_because_ of their unbelief, because their _scepticism_ produced a
condition in which miracles could not be wrought. And yet the nineteenth
century is surprised because a sceptic, whose jarring element upsets all
union and harmony, is not an acceptable addition to a spiritual meeting,
and that the miracles of the present--gross and feeble, compared to
those of the past, because worked by grosser material though grosser
agents--ceased to be manifested when his unbelief intrudes itself upon
them.




CHAPTER VII.

THE STORY OF JOHN POWLES.


On the 4th of April, 1860, there died in India a young officer in the
12th Regiment M.N.I., of the name of John Powles. He was an intimate
friend of my first husband for several years before his death, and had
consequently become intimate with me; indeed, on several occasions he
shared our house and lived with us on the terms of a brother. I was very
young at that time and susceptible to influence of all sorts--extremely
nervous, moreover, on the subject of "ghosts," and yet burning with
curiosity to learn something of the other world--a topic which it is
most difficult to induce anybody to discuss with you. People will talk
of dress, or dinner, or their friend's private affairs--of anything, in
fact, sooner than Death and Immortality and the world to come which we
must all inevitably enter. Even parsons--the legalized exponents of what
lies beyond the grave--are no exceptions to the rule. When the bereaved
sufferer goes to them for comfort, they shake their heads and "hope" and
"trust," and say "God's mercy has no limits," but they cannot give him
one reasonable proof to rest upon that Death is but a name. John Powles,
however, though a careless and irreligious man, liked to discuss the
Unseen. We talked continually on the subject, even when he was
apparently in perfect health, and he often ended our conversation by
assuring me that should he die first (and he always prophesied truly
that he should not reach the age of thirty) he would (were such a thing
possible) come back to me. I used to laugh at the absurdity of the idea,
and remind him how many friends had made the same promise to each other
and never fulfilled it. For though I firmly believed that such things
_had_ been, I could not realize that they would ever happen to me, or
that I should survive the shock if they did. John Powles' death at the
last was very sudden, although the disease he died of was of long
standing. He had been under the doctor's hands for a few days when he
took an unexpected turn for the worse, and my husband and myself, with
other friends, were summoned to his bedside to say good-bye to him. When
I entered the room he said to me, "So you see it has come at last. Don't
forget what I said to you about it." They were his last intelligible
words to me, though for several hours he grasped my dress with his hand
to prevent my leaving him, and became violent and unmanageable if I
attempted to quit his side. During this time, in the intervals of his
delirium, he kept on entreating me to sing a certain old ballad, which
had always been a great favorite with him, entitled "Thou art gone from
my gaze." I am sure if I sung that song once during that miserable day,
I must have sung it a dozen times. At last our poor friend fell into
convulsions which recurred with little intermission until his death,
which took place the same evening.

His death and the manner of it caused me a great shock. He had been a
true friend to my husband and myself for years, and we both mourned his
loss very sincerely. That, and other troubles combined, had a serious
effect upon my health, and the doctors advised my immediate return to
England. When an officer dies in India, it is the custom to sell all his
minor effects by auction. Before this took place, my husband asked me if
there was anything belonging to John Powles that I should like to keep
in remembrance of him. The choice I made was a curious one. He had
possessed a dark green silk necktie, which was a favorite of his, and
when it became soiled I offered to turn it for him, when it looked as
good as new. Whereupon he had worn it so long that it was twice as dirty
as before, so I turned it for him the second time, much to the amusement
of the regiment. When I was asked to choose a keepsake of him, I said,
"Give me the green tie," and I brought it to England with me.

The voyage home was a terrible affair. I was suffering mentally and
physically, to such a degree that I cannot think of the time without a
shudder. John Powles' death, of course, added to my distress, and during
the many months that occupied a voyage "by long sea," I hoped and
expected that his spirit would appear to me. With the very strong belief
in the possibility of the return to earth of the departed--or rather, I
should say, with my strong belief _in_ my belief--I lay awake night
after night, thinking to see my lost friend, who had so often promised
to come back to me. I even cried aloud to him to appear and tell me
where he was, or what he was doing, but I never heard or saw a single
thing. There was silence on every side of me. Ten days only after I
landed in England I was delivered of a daughter, and when I had somewhat
recovered my health and spirits--when I had lost the physical weakness
and nervous excitability, to which most medical men would have
attributed any mysterious sights or sounds I might have experienced
before--then I commenced to _know_ and to _feel_ that John Powles was
with me again. I did not see him, but I felt his presence. I used to lie
awake at night, trembling under the consciousness that he was sitting at
my bedside, and I had no means of penetrating the silence between us.
Often I entreated him to speak, but when a low, hissing sound came close
to my ear, I would scream with terror and rush from my room. All my
desire to see or communicate with my lost friend had deserted me. The
very idea was a terror. I was horror-struck to think he had returned,
and I would neither sleep alone nor remain alone. I was advised to try a
livelier place than Winchester (where I then resided), and a house was
taken for me at Sydenham. But there, the sense of the presence of John
Powles was as keen as before, and so, at intervals, I continued to feel
it for the space of several years--until, indeed, I became an inquirer
into Spiritualism as a science.

I have related in the chapter that contains an account of my first
_séance_, that the only face I recognized as belonging to me was that of
my friend John Powles, and how excited I became on seeing it. It was
that recognition that brought back all my old longing and curiosity to
communicate with the inhabitants of the Unseen World. As soon as I
commenced investigations in my home circle, John Powles was the very
first spirit who spoke to me through the table, and from that time until
the present I have never ceased to hold communion with him. He is very
shy, however, (as he was, whilst with us) of conversing before
strangers, and seldom intimates his presence except I am alone. At such
times, however, he will talk by the hour of all such topics as
interested him during his earth life.

Soon after it became generally known that I was attending _séances_, I
was introduced to Miss Showers, the daughter of General Showers of the
Bombay Army. This young lady, besides being little more than a child--I
think she was about sixteen when we met--was not a professional medium.
The _séances_ to which her friends were invited to witness the
extraordinary manifestations that took place in her presence were
strictly private. They offered therefore an enormous advantage to
investigators, as the occurrences were all above suspicion, whilst Miss
Showers was good enough to allow herself to be tested in every possible
way. I shall have occasion to refer more particularly to Miss Showers'
mediumship further on--at present, therefore, I will confine myself to
those occasions which afforded proofs of John Powles' presence.

Mrs. and Miss Showers were living in apartments when I visited them, and
there was no means nor opportunity of deceiving their friends, even had
they had any object in doing so. I must add also, that they knew nothing
of my Indian life nor experiences, which were things of the past long
before I met them. At the first sitting Miss Showers gave me for "spirit
faces," she merely sat on a chair behind the window curtains, which were
pinned together half-way up, so as to leave a V-shaped opening at the
top. The voice of "Peter" (Miss Showers' principal control) kept talking
to us and the medium from behind the curtains all the time, and making
remarks on the faces as they appeared at the opening. Presently he said
to me, "Mrs. Ross-Church, here's a fellow says his name is Powles, and
he wants to speak to you, only he doesn't like to show himself because
he's not a bit like what he used to be." "Tell him not to mind that," I
answered, "I shall know him under any circumstances." "Well! if he was
anything like that, he was a beauty," exclaimed Peter; and presently a
face appeared which I could not, by any stretch of imagination, decide
to resemble in the slightest degree my old friend. It was hard, stiff
and unlifelike. After it had disappeared, Peter said, "Powles says if
you'll come and sit with Rosie (Miss Showers) often, he'll look quite
like himself by-and-by," and of course I was only too anxious to accept
the invitation.

As I was setting out another evening to sit with Miss Showers, the
thought suddenly occurred to me to put the green necktie in my pocket.
My two daughters accompanied me on that occasion, but I said nothing to
them about the necktie. As soon as we had commenced, however, Peter
called out, "Now, Mrs. Ross-Church, hand over that necktie. Powles is
coming." "What necktie?" I asked, and he answered, "Why Powles' necktie,
of course, that you've got in your pocket. He wants you to put it round
his neck." The assembled party looked at me inquisitively as I produced
the tie. The face of John Powles appeared, very different from the time
before, as he had his own features and complexion, but his hair and
beard (which were auburn during life) appeared phosphoric, as though
made of living fire. I mounted on a chair and tied the necktie round his
throat, and asked him if he would kiss me. He shook his head. Peter
called out, "Give him your hand." I did so, and as he kissed it, his
moustaches _burned_ me. I cannot account for it. I can only relate the
fact. After which he disappeared with the necktie, which I have never
seen since, though we searched the little room for it thoroughly.

The next thing I have to relate about John Powles is so startling that I
dread the criticism it will evoke; but if I had not startling stories to
tell, I should not consider them worth writing down. I left my house in
Bayswater one Sunday evening to dine with Mr. and Mrs. George Neville in
Regent's Park Terrace, to have a _séance_ afterwards with Miss Showers.
There was a large company present, and I was placed next to Miss Showers
at table. During dinner she told me complainingly that her mother had
gone to Norwood to spend the night, and she (Rosie) was afraid of
sleeping alone, as the spirits worried her so. In a moment it flashed
across me to ask her to return to Bayswater and sleep with me, for I was
most desirous of testing her powers when we were alone together. Miss
Showers accepted my invitation, and we arranged that she should go home
with me. After dinner, the guests sat for a _séance_, but to everybody's
surprise and disappointment, nothing occurred. It was one o'clock in the
morning when Miss Showers and I entered a cab to return to Bayswater. We
had hardly started when we were greeted with a loud peal of laughter
close to our ears. "What's the matter, Peter?" demanded Miss Showers.
"I can't help laughing," he replied, "to think of their faces when no
one appeared! Did you suppose I was going to let you waste all your
power with them, when I knew I was going home with you and Mrs.
Ross-Church? I mean to show you what a real good _séance_ is to-night."

When we reached home I let myself in with a latchkey. The house was
full, for I had seven children, four servants, and a married sister
staying with me; but they were all in bed and asleep. It was cold
weather, and when I took Miss Showers into my bedroom a fire was burning
in the grate. My sister was occupying a room which opened into mine; but
I locked her door and my own, and put the keys under my pillow. Miss
Showers and I then undressed and got into bed. When we had extinguished
the gas, we found the room was, comparatively speaking, light, for I had
stirred the fire into a blaze, and a street lamp just opposite the
window threw bars of light through the venetian blinds, right across the
ceiling. As soon as Miss Showers had settled herself in bed, she said,
"I wonder what Peter is going to do," and I replied, "I hope he won't
strip off the bed-clothes." We were lying under four blankets, a
counterpane, and an eider-down _duvet_, and as I spoke, the whole mass
rose in the air, and fell over the end of the bed, leaving us quite
unprotected. We got up, lit a candle, and made the bed again, tucking
the clothes well in all round, but the minute we laid down the same
thing was repeated. We were rather cross the second time, and abused
Peter for being so disagreeable, upon which the voice declared he
wouldn't do it any more, but we shouldn't have provoked him to try. I
said, "You had much better shew yourself to us, Peter. That is what I
want you to do." He replied, "Here I am, my dear, close to you!" I
turned my head, and there stood a dark figure beside the bed, whilst
another could be plainly distinguished walking about the room. I said,
"I can't see your face," and he replied, "I'll come nearer to you!" Upon
this the figure rose in the air until it hung suspended, face downward,
over the bed. In this position it looked like a huge bat with outspread
wings. It was still indistinct, except as to substance, but Peter said
we had exhausted all the phosphorus in our bodies by the long evening we
had spent, and left him nothing to light himself up with. After a while
he lowered himself on to the bed, and lay between Miss Showers and
myself on the outside of the _duvet_. To this we greatly objected, as he
was very heavy and took up a great deal of room; but it was some time
before he would go away.

During this manifestation, the other spirit, whom Peter called the
"Pope," kept walking about and touching everything in the room, which
was full of ornaments; and Peter called out several times, "Take care,
Pope! take care! Don't break Mrs. Ross-Church's things." The two made so
much noise that they waked my sister in the adjoining room, and she
knocked at the door, asking in an alarmed voice, "Florence! _whom_ have
you there? You will wake the whole house." When I replied, "Never mind,
it's only spirits," she gave one fell shriek and dived under her
bed-clothes. She maintains to this day that she fully believed the steps
and voices to be human. At last the manifestations became so rapid, as
many as eight and ten hands touching us at once, that I asked Miss
Showers if she would mind my tying hers together. She was very amiable
and consented willingly. I therefore got out of bed again, and having
securely fastened her hands in the sleeves of the nightdress she wore, I
sewed them with needle and thread to the mattress. Miss Showers then
said she felt sleepy, and with her back to me--a position she was
obliged to maintain on account of her hands being sewn down--she
apparently dropt off to sleep, though I knew subsequently she was in a
trance.

For some time afterwards nothing occurred, the figures had disappeared,
the voices ceased, and I thought the _séance_ was over. Presently,
however, I felt a hand laid on my head and the fingers began to gently
stroke and pull the short curls upon my forehead. I whispered, "Who is
this?" and the answer came back, "Don't you know me? I am Powles! At
last--at last--after a silence of ten years I see you and speak with you
again, face to face." "How can I tell this is _your_ hand?" I said.
"Peter might be materializing a hand in order to deceive me." The hand
immediately left my head and the _back_ of it passed over my mouth, when
I felt it was covered with short hair. I then remembered how hairy John
Powles' hands had become from exposure to the Indian sun whilst
shooting, and how I had nicknamed him "Esau" in consequence. I
recollected also that he had dislocated the left wrist with a cricket
ball. "Let me feel your wrist," I said, and my hand was at once placed
on the enlarged bone. "I want to trace your hand to where it springs
from," I next suggested; and on receiving permission I felt from the
fingers and wrist to the elbow and shoulder, where it terminated _in the
middle of Miss Showers' back_. Still I was not quite satisfied, for I
used to find it very hard to believe in the identity of a person I had
cared for. I was so terribly afraid of being deceived. "I want to see
your face," I continued. "I cannot show you my face to-night," the voice
replied, "but you shall feel it;" and the face, with beard and
moustaches, was laid for a moment against my own. Then the hand was
replaced on my hair, and whilst it kept on pulling and stroking my
curls, John Powles' own voice spoke to me of everything that had
occurred of importance when he and I were friends on earth. Fancy, two
people who were intimately associated for years, meeting alone after a
long and painful separation, think of all the private things they would
talk about together, and you will understand why I cannot write down the
conversation that took place between us that night here. In order to
convince me of his identity, John Powles spoke of all the troubles I had
passed through and was then enduring--he mentioned scenes, both sad and
merry, which we had witnessed together; he recalled incidents which had
slipped my memory, and named places and people known only to ourselves.
Had I been a disbeliever in Spiritualism, that night must have made a
convert of me. Whilst the voice, in the well-remembered tones of my old
friend, was speaking, and his hand wandered through my hair, Miss
Showers continued to sleep, or to appear to sleep, with her back towards
me, and her hands sewn into her nightdress sleeves, and the sleeves sewn
down to the bed. But had she been wide awake and with both hands free,
she could not have spoken to me in John Powles' unforgotten voice of
things that had occurred when she was an infant and thousands of miles
away. And I affirm that the voice spoke to me of things that no one but
John Powles could possibly have known. He did not fail to remind me of
the promise he had made, and the many times he had tried to fulfil it
before, and he assured me he should be constantly with me from that
time. It was daylight before the voice ceased speaking, and then both
Miss Showers and I were so exhausted, we could hardly raise our heads
from the pillows. I must not forget to add that when we _did_ open our
eyes again upon this work-a-day world, we found there was hardly an
article in the room that had not changed places. The pictures were all
turned with their faces to the wall--the crockery from the washstand was
piled in the fender--the ornaments from the mantel-piece were on the
dressing-table--in fact, the whole room was topsy-turvy.

When Mr. William Fletcher gave his first lecture in England, in the
Steinway Hall, my husband, Colonel Lean, and I, went to hear him. We had
never seen Mr. Fletcher before, nor any of his family, nor did he know
we were amongst the audience. Our first view of him was when he stepped
upon the platform, and we were seated quite in the body of the hall,
which was full. It was Mr. Fletcher's custom, after his lecture was
concluded, to describe such visions as were presented to him, and he
only asked in return that if the people and places were recognized,
those who recognized them would be brave enough to say so, for the sake
of the audience and himself. I can understand that strangers who went
there and heard nothing that concerned themselves would be very apt to
imagine it was all humbug, and that those who claimed a knowledge of the
visions were simply confederates of Mr. Fletcher. But there is nothing
more true than that circumstances alter cases. I entered Steinway Hall
as a perfect stranger, and as a press-writer, quite prepared to expose
trickery if I detected it. And this is what I heard. After Mr. Fletcher
had described several persons and scenes unknown to me, he took out a
handkerchief and began to wipe his face, as though he were very warm.

"I am no longer in England, now," he said. "The scene has quite changed,
and I am taken over the sea, thousands of miles away, and I am in a
chamber with all the doors and windows open. Oh! how hot it is! I think
I am somewhere in the tropics. O! I see why I have been brought here! It
is to see a young man die! This is a death chamber. He is lying on a
bed. He looks very pale, and he is very near death, but he has only been
ill a short time. His hair is a kind of golden chestnut color, and he
has blue eyes. He is an Englishman, and I can see the letter 'P' above
his head. He has not been happy on earth, and he is quite content to
die. He pushes all the influences that are round his bed away from him.
Now I see a lady come and sit down beside him. He holds her hand, and
appears to ask her to do something, and I hear a strain of sweet music.
It is a song he has heard in happier times, and on the breath of it his
spirit passes away. It is to this lady he seems to come now. She is
sitting on my left about half way down the hall. A little girl, with her
hands full of blue flowers, points her out to me. The little girl holds
up the flowers, and I see they are woven into a resemblance of the
letter F. She tells me that is the initial letter of her mother's name
and her own. And I see this message written.

"'To my dearest friend, for such you ever were to me from the beginning.
I have been with you through all your time of trial and sorrow, and I am
rejoiced to see that a happier era is beginning for you. I am always
near you. The darkness is fast rolling away, and happiness will succeed
it. Pray for me, and I shall be near you in your prayers. I pray God to
bless you and to bless me, and to bring us together again in the summer
land.'

"And I see the spirit pointing with his hand far away, as though to
intimate that the happiness he speaks of is only the beginning of some
that will extend to a long distance of time. I see this scene more
plainly than any I have ever seen before."

These words were written down at the time they were spoken. Colonel Lean
and I were sitting in the very spot indicated by Mr. Fletcher, and the
little girl with the blue flowers was my spirit child, "Florence," whose
history I shall give in the next chapter. But my communications with
John Powles, though very extraordinary, were not satisfactory to me. I
am the "Thomas, surnamed Didymus," of the spiritualistic world, who
wants to see and touch and handle before I can altogether believe. I
wanted to meet John Powles and talk with him face to face, and it seemed
such an impossibility for him to materialize in the light that, after
his two failures with Miss Showers, he refused to try. I was always
worrying him to tell me if we should meet in the body before I left this
world, and his answer was always, "Yes! but not just yet!" I had no idea
then that I should have to cross the Atlantic before I saw my dear old
friend again.




CHAPTER VIII.

MY SPIRIT CHILD.


The same year that John Powles died, 1860, I passed through the greatest
trouble of my life. It is quite unnecessary to my narrative to relate
what that trouble was, nor how it affected me, but I suffered terribly
both in mind and body, and it was chiefly for this reason that the
medical men advised my return to England, which I reached on the 14th of
December, and on the 30th of the same month a daughter was born to me,
who survived her birth for only ten days. The child was born with a most
peculiar blemish, which it is necessary for the purpose of my argument
to describe. On the left side of the upper lip was a mark as though a
semi-circular piece of flesh had been cut out by a bullet-mould, which
exposed part of the gum. The swallow also had been submerged in the
gullet, so that she had for the short period of her earthly existence to
be fed by artificial means, and the jaw itself had been so twisted that
could she have lived to cut her teeth, the double ones would have been
in front. This blemish was considered to be of so remarkable a type that
Dr. Frederick Butler of Winchester, who attended me, invited several
other medical men, from Southampton and other places, to examine the
infant with him, and they all agreed that _a similar case had never come
under their notice before_. This is a very important factor in my
narrative. I was closely catechized as to whether I had suffered any
physical or mental shock, that should account for the injury to my
child, and it was decided that the trouble I had experienced was
sufficient to produce it. The case, under feigned names, was fully
reported in the _Lancet_ as something quite out of the common way. My
little child, who was baptized by the name of "Florence," lingered until
the 10th of January, 1861, and then passed quietly away, and when my
first natural disappointment was over I ceased to think of her except as
of something which "might have been," but never would be again. In this
world of misery, the loss of an infant is soon swallowed up in more
active trouble. Still I never quite forgot my poor baby, perhaps because
at that time she was happily the "one dead lamb" of my little flock. In
recounting the events of my first _séance_ with Mrs. Holmes, I have
mentioned how a young girl much muffled up about the mouth and chin
appeared, and intimated that she came for me, although I could not
recognize her. I was so ignorant of the life beyond the grave at that
period, that it never struck me that the baby who had left me at ten
days old had been growing since our separation, until she had reached
the age of ten years. I could not interpret Longfellow (whom I consider
one of the sublimest spiritualists of the age) as I can now.

    "Day after day we think what she is doing,
      In those bright realms of air:
    Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
      Behold her grown more fair.

               . . . . .

    "Not as a child shall we again behold her:
      For when, with rapture wild,
    In our embraces we again enfold her,
      She will not be a child;
    But a fair maiden in her father's mansion,
      Clothed with celestial grace.
    And beautiful with all the soul's expansion,
      Shall we behold her face!"

           *       *       *       *       *

The first _séance_ made such an impression on my mind that two nights
afterwards I again presented myself (this time alone) at Mrs. Holmes'
rooms to attend another. It was a very different circle on the second
occasion. There were about thirty people present, all strangers to each
other, and the manifestations were proportionately ordinary. Another
professional medium, a Mrs. Davenport, was present, as one of her
controls, whom she called "Bell," had promised, if possible, to show her
face to her. As soon, therefore, as the first spirit face appeared
(which was that of the same little girl that I had seen before), Mrs.
Davenport exclaimed, "There's 'Bell,'" "Why!" I said, "that's the little
nun we saw on Monday." "O! no! that's my 'Bell,'" persisted Mrs.
Davenport. But Mrs. Holmes took my side, and was positive the spirit
came for me. She told me she had been trying to communicate with her
since the previous _séance_. "I know she is nearly connected with you,"
she said. "Have you never lost a relation of her age?" "_Never!_" I
replied; and at that declaration the little spirit moved away,
sorrowfully as before.

A few weeks after I received an invitation from Mr. Henry Dunphy (the
gentleman who had introduced me to Mrs. Holmes) to attend a private
_séance_, given at his own house in Upper Gloucester Place, by the
well-known medium Florence Cook. The double drawing-rooms were divided
by velvet curtains, behind which Miss Cook was seated in an arm-chair,
the curtains being pinned together half-way up, leaving a large aperture
in the shape of a V. Being a complete stranger to Miss Cook, I was
surprised to hear the voice of her control direct that _I_ should stand
by the curtains and hold the lower parts together whilst the forms
appeared above, lest the pins should give way, and necessarily from my
position I could hear every word that passed between Miss Cook and her
guide. The first face that showed itself was that of a man unknown to
me; then ensued a kind of frightened colloquy between the medium and her
control. "Take it away. Go away! I don't like you. Don't touch me--you
frighten me! Go away!" I heard Miss Cook exclaim, and then her guide's
voice interposed itself, "Don't be silly, Florrie. Don't be unkind. It
won't hurt you," etc., and immediately afterwards the same little girl I
had seen at Mrs. Holmes' rose to view at the aperture of the curtains,
muffled up as before, but smiling with her eyes at me. I directed the
attention of the company to her, calling her again my "little nun." I
was surprised, however, at the evident distaste Miss Cook had displayed
towards the spirit, and when the _séance_ was concluded and she had
regained her normal condition, I asked her if she could recall the faces
she saw under trance. "Sometimes," she replied. I told her of the
"little nun," and demanded the reason of her apparent dread of her. "I
can hardly tell you," said Miss Cook; "I don't know anything about her.
She is quite a stranger to me, but her face is not fully developed, I
think. There is _something wrong about her mouth_. She frightens me."

This remark, though made with the utmost carelessness, set me thinking,
and after I had returned home, I wrote to Miss Cook, asking her to
inquire of her guides _who_ the little spirit was.

She replied as follows:

"Dear Mrs. Ross-Church, I have asked 'Katie King,' but she cannot tell
me anything further about the spirit that came through me the other
evening than that she is a young girl closely connected with yourself."

I was not, however, yet convinced of the spirit's identity, although
"John Powles" constantly assured me that it _was_ my child. I tried hard
to communicate with her at home, but without success. I find in the
memoranda I kept of our private _séances_ at that period several
messages from "Powles" referring to "Florence." In one he says, "Your
child's want of power to communicate with you is not because she is too
pure, but because she is too weak. She will speak to you some day. She
is _not_ in heaven." This last assertion, knowing so little as I did of
a future state, both puzzled and grieved me. I could not believe that an
innocent infant was not in the Beatific Presence--yet I could not
understand what motive my friend could have in leading me astray. I had
yet to learn that once received into Heaven no spirit could return to
earth, and that a spirit may have a training to undergo, even though it
has never committed a mortal sin. A further proof, however, that my dead
child had never died was to reach me from a quarter where I least
expected it. I was editor of the magazine _London Society_ at that time,
and amongst my contributors was Dr. Keningale Cook, who had married
Mabel Collins, the now well-known writer of spiritualistic novels. One
day Dr. Cook brought me an invitation from his wife (whom I had never
met) to spend Saturday to Monday with them in their cottage at Redhill,
and I accepted it, knowing nothing of the proclivities of either of
them, and they knowing as little of my private history as I did of
theirs. And I must take this opportunity to observe that, at this
period, I had never made my lost child the subject of conversation even
with my most intimate friends. The memory of her life and death, and the
troubles that caused it, was not a happy one, and of no interest to any
but myself. So little, therefore, had it been discussed amongst us that
until "Florence" reappeared to revive the topic, my _elder children were
ignorant_ that their sister had been marked in any way differently from
themselves. It may, therefore, be supposed how unlikely it was that
utter strangers and public media should have gained any inkling of the
matter. I went down to Redhill, and as I was sitting with the Keningale
Cooks after dinner, the subject of Spiritualism came on the _tapis_, and
I was informed that the wife was a powerful trance medium, which much
interested me, as I had not, at that period, had any experience of her
particular class of mediumship. In the evening we "sat" together, and
Mrs. Cook having become entranced, her husband took shorthand notes of
her utterances. Several old friends of their family spoke through her,
and I was listening to them in the listless manner in which we hear the
conversation of strangers, when my attention was aroused by the medium
suddenly leaving her seat, and falling on her knees before me, kissing
my hands and face, and sobbing violently the while. I waited in
expectation of hearing who this might be, when the manifestations as
suddenly ceased, the medium returned to her seat, and the voice of one
of her guides said that the spirit was unable to speak through excess of
emotion, but would try again later in the evening. I had almost
forgotten the circumstance in listening to other communications, when I
was startled by hearing the word "_Mother!_" sighed rather than spoken.
I was about to make some excited reply, when the medium raised her hand
to enjoin silence, and the following communication was taken down by Mr.
Cook as she pronounced the words. The sentences in parentheses are my
replies to her.

"Mother! I am 'Florence.' I must be very quiet. I want to feel I have a
mother still. I am so lonely. Why should I be so? I cannot speak well. I
want to be like one of you. I want to feel I have a mother and sisters.
I am so far away from you all now."

("But I always think of you, my dear dead baby.")

"That's just it--your _baby_. But I'm not a baby now. I shall get
nearer. They tell me I shall. I do not know if I can come when you are
alone. It's all so dark. I know you are there, but _so dimly_. I've
grown _all by myself_. I'm not really unhappy, but I want to get nearer
you. I know you think of me, but you think of me as a baby. You don't
know me as I _am_. You've seen me, because in my love I have forced
myself upon you. I've not been amongst the flowers yet, but I shall be,
very soon now; but I want _my mother_ to take me there. All has been
given me that can be given me, but I cannot receive it, except in so
far----"

Here she seemed unable to express herself.

("Did the trouble I had before your birth affect your spirit,
Florence?")

"Only as things cause each other. I was with you, mother, all through
that trouble. I should be nearer to you, _than any child you have_, if I
could only get close to you."

("I can't bear to hear you speak so sadly, dear. I have always believed
that _you_, at least, were happy in Heaven.")

"I am _not_ in Heaven! But there will come a day, mother--I can laugh
when I say it--when we shall go to heaven _together_ and pick blue
flowers--_blue flowers_. They are so good to me here, but if your eye
cannot bear the daylight you cannot see the buttercups and daisies."

I did not learn till afterwards that in the spiritual language blue
flowers are typical of happiness. The next question I asked her was if
she thought she could write through me.

"I don't seem able to write through you, but why, I know not."

("Do you know your sisters, Eva and Ethel?")

"No! no!" in a weary voice. "The link of sisterhood is only through the
mother. That kind of sisterhood does not last, because there is a
higher."

("Do you ever see your father?")

"No! he is far, far away. I went once, not more. Mother, dear, he'll
love me when he comes here. They've told me so, and they always tell
truth here! I am but a child, yet not so very little. I seem composed of
two things--a child in ignorance and a woman in years. Why can't I speak
at other places? I have wished and tried! I've come very near, but it
seems so easy to speak now. This medium seems so different."

("I wish you could come to me when I am alone, Florence.")

"You _shall_ know me! I _will_ come, mother, dear. I shall always be
able to come here. I _do_ come to you, but not in the same way."

She spoke in such a plaintive, melancholy voice that Mrs. Cook, thinking
she would depress my spirits, said, "Don't make your state out to be
sadder than it really is." Her reply was very remarkable.

"_I am, as I am!_ Friend! when you come here, if you find that sadness
_is_, you will not be able to alter it by plunging into material
pleasures. _Our sadness makes the world we live in._ It is not deeds
that make us wrong. It is the state in which _we were born_. Mother! you
say I died sinless. That is nothing. I was born _in a state_. Had I
lived, I should have caused you more pain than you can know. I am better
here. I was not fit to battle with the world, and they took me from it.
Mother! you won't let this make you sad. You must not."

("What can I do to bring you nearer to me?")

"I don't know what will bring me nearer, but I'm helped already by just
talking to you. There's a ladder of brightness--every step. I believe
I've gained just one step now. O! the Divine teachings are so
mysterious. Mother! does it seem strange to you to hear your 'baby' say
things as if she knew them? I'm going now. Good-bye!"

And so "Florence" went. The next voice that spoke was that of a guide of
the medium, and I asked her for a personal description of my daughter as
she then appeared. She replied, "Her face is downcast. We have tried to
cheer her, but she is very sad. It is the _state in which she was born_.
Every physical deformity is the mark of a condition. A weak body is not
necessarily the mark of a weak spirit, but the _prison_ of it, because
the spirit might be too passionate otherwise. You cannot judge in what
way the mind is deformed because the body is deformed. It does not
follow that a canker in the body is a canker in the mind. But the mind
may be too exuberant--may need a canker to restrain it."

I have copied this conversation, word for word, from the shorthand notes
taken at the time of utterance; and when it is remembered that neither
Mrs. Keningale Cook nor her husband knew that I had lost a child--that
they had never been in my house nor associated with any of my
friends--it will at least be acknowledged, even by the most sceptical,
that it was a very remarkable coincidence that I should receive such a
communication from the lips of a perfect stranger. Only once after this
did "Florence" communicate with me through the same source. She found
congenial media nearer home, and naturally availed herself of them. But
the second occasion was almost more convincing than the first. I went
one afternoon to consult my solicitor in the strictest confidence as to
how I should act under some very painful circumstances, and he gave me
his advice. The next morning as I sat at breakfast, Mrs. Cook, who was
still living at Redhill, ran into my room with an apology for the
unceremoniousness of her visit, on the score that she had received a
message for me the night before which "Florence" had begged her to
deliver without delay. The message was to this effect: "Tell my mother
that I was with her this afternoon at the lawyer's, and she is _not_ to
follow the advice given her, as it will do harm instead of good." Mrs.
Cook added, "I don't know to what 'Florence' alludes, of course, but I
thought it best, as I was coming to town, to let you know at once."

The force of this anecdote does not lie in the context. The mystery is
contained in the fact of a secret interview having been overheard and
commented upon. But the truth is, that having greater confidence in the
counsel of my visible guide than in that of my invisible one, I abided
by the former, and regretted it ever afterwards.

The first conversation I held with "Florence" had a great effect upon
me. I knew before that my uncontrolled grief had been the cause of the
untimely death of her body, but it had never struck me that her spirit
would carry the effects of it into the unseen world. It was a warning to
me (as it should be to all mothers) not to take the solemn
responsibility of maternity upon themselves without being prepared to
sacrifice their own feelings for the sake of their children. "Florence"
assured me, however, that communion with myself in my improved condition
of happiness would soon lift her spirit from its state of depression,
and consequently I seized every opportunity of seeing and speaking with
her. During the succeeding twelve months I attended numerous _séances_
with various media, and my spirit child (as she called herself) never
failed to manifest through the influence of any one of them, though, of
course, in different ways. Through some she touched me only, and always
with an infant's hand, that I might recognize it as hers, or laid her
mouth against mine that I might feel the scar upon her lip; through
others she spoke, or wrote, or showed her face, but I never attended a
_séance_ at which she omitted to notify her presence. Once at a dark
circle, held with Mr. Charles Williams, after having had my dress and
that of my next neighbor, Lady Archibald Campbell, pulled several times
as if to attract our attention, the darkness opened before us, and there
stood my child, smiling at us like a happy dream, her fair hair waving
about her temples, and her blue eyes fixed on me. She was clothed in
white, but we saw no more than her head and bust, about which her hands
held her drapery. Lady Archibald Campbell saw her as plainly as I did.
On another occasion Mr. William Eglinton proposed to me to try and
procure the spirit-writing on his arm. He directed me to go into another
room and write the name of the friend I loved best in the spirit world
upon a scrap of paper, which I was to twist up tightly and take back to
him. I did so, writing the name of "John Powles." When I returned to Mr.
Eglinton, he bared his arm, and holding the paper to the candle till it
was reduced to tinder, rubbed his flesh with the ashes. I knew what was
expected to ensue. The name written on the paper was to reappear in red
or white letters on the medium's arm. The sceptic would say it was a
trick of thought-reading, and that, the medium knowing what I had
written, had prepared the writing during my absence. But to his surprise
and mine, when at last he shook the ashes from his arm, we read, written
in a bold, clear hand, the words--"Florence is the dearest," as though
my spirit child had given me a gentle rebuke for writing any name but
her own. It seems curious to me now to look back and remember how
melancholy she used to be when she first came back to me, for as soon as
she had established an unbroken communication between us, she developed
into the merriest little spirit I have ever known, and though her
childhood has now passed away, and she is more dignified and thoughtful
and womanly, she always appears joyous and happy. She has manifested
largely to me through the mediumship of Mr. Arthur Colman. I had known
her, during a dark _séance_ with a very small private circle (the medium
being securely held and fastened the while) run about the room, like the
child she was, and speak to and kiss each sitter in turn, pulling off
the sofa and chair covers and piling them up in the middle of the table,
and changing the ornaments of everyone present--placing the gentlemen's
neckties round the throats of the ladies, and hanging the ladies'
earrings in the buttonholes of the gentlemen's coats--just as she might
have done had she been still with us, a happy, petted child, on earth. I
have known her come in the dark and sit on my lap and kiss my face and
hands, and let me feel the defect in her mouth with my own. One bright
evening on the 9th of July--my birthday--Arthur Colman walked in quite
unexpectedly to pay me a visit, and as I had some friends with me, we
agreed to have a _séance_. It was impossible to make the room dark, as
the windows were only shaded by venetian blinds, but we lowered them,
and sat in the twilight. The first thing we heard was the voice of
"Florence" whispering--"A present for dear mother's birthday," when
something was put into my hand. Then she crossed to the side of a lady
present and dropped something into her hand, saying, "And a present for
dear mother's friend!" I knew at once by the feel of it that what
"Florence" had given me was a chaplet of beads, and knowing how often,
under similar circumstances, articles are merely carried about a room, I
concluded it was one which lay upon my drawing-room mantel-piece, and
said as much. I was answered by the voice of "Aimée," the medium's
nearest control.

"You are mistaken," she said, "'Florence' has given you a chaplet you
have never seen before. She was exceedingly anxious to give you a
present on your birthday, so I gave her the beads which were buried with
me. They came from my coffin. I held them in my hand. All I ask is, that
you will not shew them to Arthur until I give you leave. He is not well
at present, and the sight of them will upset him."

I was greatly astonished, but, of course, I followed her instructions,
and when I had an opportunity to examine the beads, I found that they
really were strangers to me, and had not been in the house before. The
present my lady friend had received was a large, unset topaz. The
chaplet was made of carved wood and steel. It was not till months had
elapsed that I was given permission to show it to Arthur Colman. He
immediately recognized it as the one he had himself placed in the hands
of "Aimée" as she lay in her coffin, and when I saw how the sight
affected him, I regretted I had told him anything about it. I offered to
give the beads up to him, but he refused to receive them, and they
remain in my possession to this day.

But the great climax that was to prove beyond all question the personal
identity of the spirit who communicated with me, with the body I had
brought into the world, was yet to come. Mr. William Harrison, the
editor of the _Spiritualist_ (who, after seventeen years' patient
research into the science of Spiritualism, had never received a personal
proof of the return of his own friends, or relations) wrote me word that
he had received a message from his lately deceased friend, Mrs. Stewart,
to the effect that if he would sit with the medium, Florence Cook, and
one or two harmonious companions, she would do her best to appear to him
in her earthly likeness and afford him the test he had so long sought
after. Mr. Harrison asked me, therefore, if I would join him and Miss
Kidlingbury--the secretary to the British National Association of
Spiritualists--in holding a _séance_ with Miss Cook, to which I agreed,
and we met in one of the rooms of the Association for that purpose. It
was a very small room, about 8 feet by 16 feet, was uncarpeted and
contained no furniture, so we carried in three cane-bottomed chairs for
our accommodation. Across one corner of the room, about four feet from
the floor, we nailed an old black shawl, and placed a cushion behind it
for Miss Cook to lean her head against. Miss Florence Cook, who is a
brunette, of a small, slight figure, with dark eyes and hair which she
wore in a profusion of curls, was dressed in a high grey merino,
ornamented with crimson ribbons. She informed me previous to sitting,
that she had become restless during her trances lately, and in the habit
of walking out amongst the circle, and she asked me as a friend (for
such we had by that time become) to scold her well should such a thing
occur, and order her to go back into the cabinet as if she were "a child
or a dog;" and I promised her I would do so. After Florence Cook had sat
down on the floor, behind the black shawl (which left her grey merino
skirt exposed), and laid her head against the cushion, we lowered the
gas a little, and took our seats on the three cane chairs. The medium
appeared very uneasy at first, and we heard her remonstrating with the
influences for using her so roughly. In a few minutes, however, there
was a tremulous movement of the black shawl, and a large white hand was
several times thrust into view and withdrawn again. I had never seen
Mrs. Stewart (for whom we were expressly sitting) in this life, and
could not, therefore, recognize the hand; but we all remarked how large
and white it was. In another minute the shawl was lifted up, and a
female figure crawled on its hands and knees from behind it, and then
stood up and regarded us. It was impossible, in the dim light and at the
distance she stood from us, to identify the features, so Mr. Harrison
asked if she were Mrs. Stewart. The figure shook its head. I had lost a
sister a few months previously, and the thought flashed across me that
it might be her. "Is it you, Emily?" I asked; but the head was still
shaken to express a negative, and a similar question on the part of Miss
Kidlingbury, with respect to a friend of her own, met with the same
response. "Who _can_ it be?" I remarked curiously to Mr. Harrison.

"Mother! don't you know me?" sounded in "Florence's" whispering voice. I
started up to approach her, exclaiming, "O! my darling child! I never
thought I should meet you here!" But she said, "Go back to your chair,
and I will come to you!" I reseated myself, and "Florence" crossed the
room and sat down _on my lap_. She was more unclothed on that occasion
than any materialized spirit I have ever seen. She wore nothing on her
head, only her hair, of which she appears to have an immense quantity,
fell down her back and covered her shoulders. Her arms were bare and her
feet and part of her legs, and the dress she wore had no shape or style,
but seemed like so many yards of soft thick muslin, wound round her body
from the bosom to below the knees. She was a heavy weight--perhaps ten
stone--and had well-covered limbs. In fact, she was then, and has
appeared for several years past, to be, in point of size and shape, so
like her eldest sister Eva, that I always observe the resemblance
between them. This _séance_ took place at a period when "Florence" must
have been about seventeen years old.

"Florence, my darling," I said, "is this _really_ you?" "Turn up the
gas," she answered, "and look at my mouth." Mr. Harrison did as she
desired, and we all saw distinctly _that peculiar defect on the lip_
with which she was born--a defect, be it remembered, which some of the
most experienced members of the profession had affirmed to be "_so rare
as never to have fallen under their notice before_." She also opened her
mouth that we might see she had no gullet. I promised at the
commencement of my book to confine myself to facts, and leave the
deduction to be drawn from them to my readers, so I will not interrupt
my narrative to make any remarks upon this incontrovertible proof of
identity. I know it struck me dumb, and melted me into tears. At this
juncture Miss Cook, who had been moaning and moving about a good deal
behind the black shawl, suddenly exclaimed, "I can't stand this any
longer," and walked out into the room. There she stood in her grey dress
and crimson ribbons whilst "Florence" sat on my lap in white drapery.
But only for a moment, for directly the medium was fully in view, the
spirit sprung up and darted behind the curtain. Recalling Miss Cook's
injunctions to me, I scolded her heartily for leaving her seat, until
she crept back, whimpering, to her former position. The shawl had
scarcely closed behind her before "Florence" reappeared and clung to me,
saying, "Don't let her do that again. She frightens me so." She was
actually trembling all over. "Why, Florence," I replied. "Do you mean to
tell me you are frightened of your medium? In this world it is we poor
mortals who are frightened of the spirits." "I am afraid she will send
me away, mother," she whispered. However, Miss Cook did not disturb us
again, and "Florence" stayed with us for some time longer. She clasped
her arms round my neck, and laid her head upon my bosom, and kissed me
dozens of times. She took my hand and spread it out, and said she felt
sure I should recognize her hand when she thrust it outside the curtain,
because it was so much like my own. I was suffering much trouble at that
time, and "Florence" told me the reason God had permitted her to show
herself to me in her earthly deformity was so that I might be sure that
she was herself, and that Spiritualism was a truth to comfort me.
"Sometimes you doubt, mother," she said, "and think your eyes and ears
have misled you; but after this you must never doubt again. Don't fancy
I am like this in the spirit land. The blemish left me long ago. But I
put it on to-night to make you certain. Don't fret, dear mother.
Remember _I_ am always near you. No one can take _me_ away. Your earthly
children may grow up and go out into the world and leave you, but you
will always have your spirit child close to you." I did not, and cannot,
calculate for how long "Florence" remained visible on that occasion.
Mr. Harrison told me afterwards that she had remained for nearly twenty
minutes. But her undoubted presence was such a stupendous fact to me,
that I could only think that _she was there_--that I actually held in my
arms the tiny infant I had laid with my own hands in her coffin--that
she was no more dead than I was myself, but had grown to be a woman. So
I sat, with my arms tight round her, and my heart beating against hers,
until the power decreased, and "Florence" was compelled to give me a
last kiss and leave me stupefied and bewildered by what had so
unexpectedly occurred. Two other spirits materialized and appeared after
she had left us, but as neither of them was Mrs. Stewart, the _séance_,
as far as Mr. Harrison was concerned, was a failure. I have seen and
heard "Florence" on numerous occasions since the one I have narrated,
but not with the mark upon her mouth, which she assures me will never
trouble either of us again. I could fill pages with accounts of her
pretty, caressing ways and her affectionate and sometimes solemn
messages; but I have told as much of her story as will interest the
general reader. It has been wonderful to me to mark how her ways and
mode of communication have changed with the passing years. It was a
simple child who did not know how to express itself that appeared to me
in 1873. It is a woman full of counsel and tender warning that comes to
me in 1890. But yet she is only nineteen. When she reached that age,
"Florence" told me she should never grow any older in years or
appearance, and that she had reached the climax of womanly perfection in
the spirit world. Only to-night--the night before Christmas Day--as I
write her story, she comes to me and says, "Mother! you must not give
way to sad thoughts. The Past is past. Let it be buried in the blessings
that remain to you."

And amongst the greatest of those blessings I reckon my belief in the
existence of my spirit-child.




CHAPTER IX.

THE STORY OF EMILY.


My sister Emily was the third daughter of my late father, and several
years older than myself. She was a handsome woman--strictly speaking,
perhaps, the handsomest of the family, and quite unlike the others. She
had black hair and eyes, a pale complexion, a well-shaped nose, and
small, narrow hands and feet. But her beauty had slight detractions--so
slight, indeed, as to be imperceptible to strangers, but well known to
her intimate friends. Her mouth was a little on one side, one shoulder
was half an inch higher than the other, her fingers were not quite
straight, nor her toes, and her hips corresponded with her shoulders.
She was clever, with a versatile, all-round talent, and of a very happy
and contented disposition. She married Dr. Henry Norris of Charmouth, in
Dorset, and lived there many years before her death. She was an
excellent wife and mother, a good friend, and a sincere Christian;
indeed, I do not believe that a more earnest, self-denying, better woman
ever lived in this world. But she had strong feelings, and in some
things she was very bigoted. One was Spiritualism. She vehemently
opposed even the mention of it, declared it to be diabolical, and never
failed to blame me for pursuing such a wicked and unholy occupation. She
was therefore about the last person whom I should have expected to take
advantage of it to communicate with her friends.

My sister Emily died on the 20th of April, 1875. Her death resulted from
a sudden attack of pleurisy, and was most unexpected. I was sitting at
an early dinner with my children on the same day when I received a
telegram from my brother-in-law to say, "Emily very ill; will telegraph
when change occurs," and I had just despatched an answer to ask if I
should go down to Charmouth, or could be of any use, when a second
message arrived, "All is over. She died quietly at two o'clock." Those
who have received similar shocks will understand what I felt. I was
quite stunned, and could not realize that my sister had passed away from
us, so completely unanticipated had been the news. I made the necessary
arrangements for going down to her funeral, but my head was filled with
nothing but thoughts of Emily the while, and conjectures of _how_ she
had died and of _what_ she had died (for that was, as yet, unknown to
me), and what she had thought and said; above all, what she was thinking
and feeling at that moment. I retired to rest with my brain in a whirl,
and lay half the night wide awake, staring into the darkness, and
wondering where my sister was. _Now_ was the time (if any) for my
cerebral organs to play me a trick, and conjure up a vision of the
person I was thinking of. But I saw nothing; no sound broke the
stillness; my eyes rested only on the darkness. I was quite
disappointed, and in the morning I told my children so. I loved my
sister Emily dearly, and I hoped she would have come to wish me
good-bye. On the following night I was exhausted by want of sleep and
the emotion I had passed through, and when I went to bed I was very
sleepy. I had not been long asleep, however, before I was waked up--I
can hardly say by what--and there at my bedside stood Emily, smiling at
me. When I lost my little "Florence," Emily had been unmarried, and she
had taken a great interest in my poor baby, and nursed her during her
short lifetime, and, I believe, really mourned her loss, for (although
she had children of her own) she always wore a little likeness of
"Florence" in a locket on her watch-chain. When Emily died I had of
course been for some time in communication with my spirit-child, and
when my sister appeared to me that night, "Florence" was in her arms,
with her head resting on her shoulder. I recognized them both at once,
and the only thing which looked strange to me was that Emily's long
black hair was combed right back in the Chinese fashion, giving her
forehead an unnaturally high appearance. This circumstance made the
greater impression on me, because we all have such high foreheads with
the hair growing off the temples that we have never been able to wear it
in the style I speak of. With this exception my sister looked beautiful
and most happy, and my little girl clung to her lovingly. Emily did not
speak aloud, but she kept on looking down at "Florence," and up at me,
whilst her lips formed the words, "Little Baby," which was the name by
which she had always mentioned my spirit-child. In the morning I
mentioned what I had seen to my elder girls, adding, "I hardly knew dear
Aunt Emily, with her hair scratched back in that fashion."

This apparition happened on the Wednesday night, and on the Friday
following I travelled down to Charmouth to be present at the funeral,
which was fixed for Saturday. I found my sister Cecil there before me.
As soon as we were alone, she said to me, "I am so glad you came to-day.
I want you to arrange dear Emily nicely in her coffin. The servants had
laid her out before my arrival, and she doesn't look a bit like herself.
But I haven't the nerve to touch her." It was late at night, but I took
a candle at once and accompanied Cecil to the death-chamber. Our sister
was lying, pale and calm, with a smile upon her lips, much as she had
appeared to me, and with _all her black hair combed back from her
forehead_. The servants had arranged it so, thinking it looked neater.
It was impossible to make any alteration till the morning, but when our
dear sister was carried to her grave, her hair framed her dead face in
the wavy curls in which it always fell when loose; a wreath of flowering
syringa was round her head, a cross of violets on her breast, and in her
waxen, beautifully-moulded hands, she held three tall, white lilies. I
mention this because she has come to me since with the semblance of
these very flowers to ensure her recognition. After the funeral, my
brother-in-law gave me the details of her last illness. He told me that
on the Monday afternoon, when her illness first took a serious turn and
she became (as he said) delirious, she talked continually to her father,
Captain Marryat (to whom she had been most reverentially attached), and
who, she affirmed, was sitting by the side of the bed. Her conversation
was perfectly rational, and only disjointed when she waited for a reply
to her own remarks. She spoke to him of Langham and all that had
happened there, and particularly expressed her surprise at his having _a
beard_, saying, "Does hair grow up there, father?" I was the more
impressed by this account, because Dr. Norris, like most medical men,
attributed the circumstance entirely to the distorted imagination of a
wandering brain. And yet my father (whom I have never seen since his
death) has been described to me by various clairvoyants, and always as
_wearing a beard_, a thing he never did during his lifetime, as it was
the fashion then for naval officers to wear only side whiskers. In all
his pictures he is represented as clean shorn, and as he was so well
known a man, one would think that (were they dissembling) the
clairvoyants, in describing his personal characteristics, would follow
the clue given by his portraits.

For some time after my sister Emily's death I heard nothing more of her,
and for the reasons I have given, I never expected to see her again
until we met in the spirit-world. About two years after her death,
however, my husband, Colonel Lean, bought two tickets for a series of
_séances_ to be held in the rooms of the British National Association of
Spiritualists under the mediumship of Mr. William Eglinton. This was
the first time we had ever seen or sat with Mr. Eglinton, but we had
heard a great deal of his powers, and were curious to test them. On the
first night, which was a Saturday, we assembled with a party of twelve,
all complete strangers, in the rooms I have mentioned, which were
comfortably lighted with gas. Mr. Eglinton, who is a young man inclined
to stoutness, went into the cabinet, which was placed in the centre of
us, with spectators all round it. The cabinet was like a large cupboard,
made of wood and divided into two parts, the partition being of
wire-work, so that the medium might be padlocked into it, and a curtain
drawn in front of both sides. After a while, a voice called out to us
not to be frightened, as the medium was coming out to get more power,
and Mr. Eglinton, in a state of trance and dressed in a suit of evening
clothes, walked out of the cabinet and commenced a tour of the circle.
He touched every one in turn, but did not stop until he reached Colonel
Lean, before whom he remained for some time, making magnetic passes down
his face and figure. He then turned to re-enter the cabinet, but as he
did so, some one moved the curtain from inside and Mr. Eglinton
_actually held the curtain to one side to permit the materialized form
to pass out_ before he went into the cabinet himself. The figure that
appeared was that of a woman clothed in loose white garments that fell
to her feet. Her eyes were black and her long black hair fell over her
shoulders. I suspected at the time who she was, but each one in the
circle was so certain she came for him or for her, that I said nothing,
and only mentally asked if it were my sister that I might receive a
proof of her identity. On the following evening (Sunday) Colonel Lean
and I were "sitting" together, when Emily came to the table to assure us
that it was she whom we had seen, and that she would appear again on
Monday and show herself more clearly. I asked her to think of some means
by which she could prove her identity with the spirit that then spoke to
us, and she said, "I will hold up my right hand." Colonel Lean cautioned
me not to mention this promise to any one, that we might be certain of
the correctness of the test. Accordingly, on the Monday evening we
assembled for our second _séance_ with Mr. Eglinton, and the same form
appeared, and walking out much closer to us, _held up the right hand_.
Colonel Lean, anxious not to be deceived by his own senses, asked the
company what the spirit was doing. "Cannot you see?" was the answer.
"She is holding up her hand." On this occasion Emily came with all her
old characteristics about her, and there would have been no possibility
of mistaking her (at least on my part) without the proof she had
promised to give us.

The next startling assurance we received of her proximity happened in a
much more unexpected manner. We were staying, in the autumn of the
following year, at a boarding-house in the Rue de Vienne at Brussels,
with a large party of English visitors, none of whom we had ever seen
till we entered the house. Amongst them were several girls, who had
never heard of Spiritualism before, and were much interested in
listening to the relation of our experiences on the subject. One evening
when I was not well, and keeping my own room, some of these young ladies
got hold of Colonel Lean and said, "Oh! do come and sit in the dark with
us and tell us ghost stories." Now sitting in the dark and telling ghost
stories to five or six nice looking girls is an occupation few men would
object to, and they were all soon ensconced in the dark and deserted
_salle-à-manger_. Amongst them was a young girl of sixteen, Miss Helen
Hill, who had never shown more interest than the rest in such matters.
After they had been seated in the dark for some minutes, she said to
Colonel Lean, "Do you know, I can see a lady on the opposite side of the
table quite distinctly, and she is nodding and smiling at you." The
colonel asked what the lady was like. "She is very nice looking,"
replied the girl, "with dark eyes and hair, but she seems to want me to
notice her ring. She wears a ring with a large blue stone in it, of such
a funny shape, and she keeps on twisting it round and round her finger,
and pointing to it. Oh! now she has got up and is walking round the
room. Only fancy! she is holding up her feet for me to see. They are
bare and very white, but her toes are crooked!" Then Miss Hill became
frightened and asked them to get a light. She declared that the figure
had come up, close to her, and torn the lace off her wrists. And when
the light was procured and her dress examined, a frill of lace that had
been tacked into her sleeve that morning had totally disappeared. The
young ladies grew nervous and left the room, and Colonel Lean, thinking
the description Helen Hill had given of the spirit tallied with that of
my sister Emily, came straight up to me and surprised me by an abrupt
question as to whether she had been in the habit of wearing any
particular ring (for he had not seen her for several years before her
death). I told him that her favorite ring was an uncut turquoise--so
large and uneven that she used to call it her "potato." "Had she any
peculiarity about her feet?" he went on, eagerly. "Why do you wish to
know?" I said. "She had crooked toes, that is all." "Good heavens!" he
exclaimed, "then she has been with us in the _salle-à-manger_." I have
never met Miss Hill since, and I am not in a position to say if she has
evinced any further possession of clairvoyant power; but she certainly
displayed it on that occasion to a remarkable degree; for she had never
even heard of the existence of my sister Emily, and was very much
disturbed and annoyed when told that the apparition she had described
was reality and not imagination.




CHAPTER X.

THE STORY OF THE GREEN LADY.


The story I have to tell now happened a very short time ago, and every
detail is as fresh in my mind as if I had heard and seen it yesterday.
Mrs. Guppy-Volckman has been long known to the spiritualistic world as a
very powerful medium, also as taking a great private interest in
Spiritualism, which all media do not. Her means justify her, too, in
gratifying her whims; and hearing that a certain house in Broadstairs
was haunted, she became eager to ascertain the truth. The house being
empty, she procured the keys from the landlord, and proceeded on a
voyage of discovery alone. She had barely recovered, at the time, from a
most dangerous illness, which had left a partial paralysis of the lower
limbs behind it; it was therefore with considerable difficulty that she
gained the drawing-room of the house, which was on the first floor, and
when there she abandoned her crutches, and sat down on the floor to
recover herself. Mrs. Volckman was now perfectly alone. She had closed
the front door after her, and she was moreover almost helpless, as it
was with great difficulty that she could rise without assistance. It was
on a summer's evening towards the dusky hour, and she sat on the bare
floor of the empty house waiting to see what might happen. After some
time (I tell this part of the story as I received it from her lips) she
heard a rustling or sweeping sound, as of a long silk train coming down
the uncarpeted stairs from the upper storey. The room in which she sat
communicated with another, which led out upon the passage, and it was
not long before the door between these two apartments opened and the
figure of a woman appeared. She entered the room in which Mrs. Volckman
sat, very cautiously, and commenced to walk round it, feeling her way
along the walls as though she were blind or tipsy. She was dressed in a
green satin robe that swept behind her--round the upper part of her body
was a kind of scarf of glistening white material, like silk gauze--and
on her head was a black velvet cap, or coif, from underneath which her
long black hair fell down her back. Mrs. Volckman, although used all her
life to manifestations and apparitions of all sorts, told me she had
never felt so frightened at the sight of one before. She attempted to
rise, but feeling her incapability of doing so quickly, she screamed
with fear. As soon as she did so, the woman turned round and ran out of
the room, apparently as frightened as herself. Mrs. Volckman got hold of
her crutches, scrambled to her feet, found her way downstairs, and
reached the outside of the house in safety. Most people would never have
entered it again. She, on the contrary, had an interview with the
landlord, and actually, then and there, purchased a lease of the house
and entered upon possession, and as soon as it was furnished and ready
for occupation, she invited a party of friends to go down and stay with
her at Broadstairs, and make the acquaintance of the "Green Lady," as we
had christened her. Colonel Lean and I were amongst the visitors, the
others consisting of Lady Archibald Campbell, Miss Shaw, Mrs. Olive,
Mrs. Bellew, Colonel Greck, Mr. Charles Williams, and Mr. and Mrs. Henry
Volckman, which, with our host and hostess, made up a circle of twelve.
We assembled there on a bright day in July, and the house, with its
large rooms and windows facing the sea, looked cheerful enough. The room
in which Mrs. Volckman had seen the apparition was furnished as a
drawing-room, and the room adjoining it, which was divided by a
_portière_ only from the larger apartment, she had converted for
convenience sake into her bedroom. The first evening we sat it was about
seven o'clock, and so light that we let down all the venetians, which,
however, did little to remedy the evil. We had no cabinet, nor curtains,
nor darkness, for it was full moon at the time, and the dancing,
sparkling waves were quite visible through the interstices of the
venetians. We simply sat round the table, holding hands in an unbroken
circle and laughing and chatting with each other. In a few minutes Mrs.
Volckman said something was rising beside her from the carpet, and in a
few more the "Green Lady" was visible to us all standing between the
medium and Mr. Williams. She was just as she had been described to us,
both in dress and appearance, but her face was as white and as cold as
that of a corpse, and her eyes were closed. She leaned over the table
and brought her face close to each of us in turn, but she seemed to have
no power of speech. After staying with us about ten minutes, she sunk as
she had risen, through the carpet, and disappeared. The next evening,
under precisely similar circumstances, she came again. This time she had
evidently gained more vitality in a materialized condition, for when I
urged her to tell me her name, she whispered, though with much
difficulty, "Julia!" and when Lady Archibald observed that she thought
she had no hands, the spirit suddenly thrust out a little hand, and
grasped the curls on her forehead with a violence that gave her pain.
Unfortunately, Mr. Williams' professional engagements compelled him to
leave us on the following day, and Mrs. Volckman had been too recently
ill to permit her to sit alone, so that we were not able to hold another
_séance_ for the "Green Lady" during our visit. But we had not seen the
last of her. One evening Mrs. Bellew and I were sitting in the bay
window of the drawing-room, just "between the lights," and discussing a
very private matter indeed, when I saw (as I thought) my hostess maid
raise the _portière_ that hung between the apartments and stand there in
a listening attitude. I immediately gave Mrs. Volckman the hint. "Let us
talk of something else," I said, in a low voice. "Jane is in your
bedroom." "O! no! she's not," was the reply. "But I saw her lift the
_portière_," I persisted; "she has only just dropped it." "You are
mistaken," replied my hostess, "for Jane has gone on the beach with the
child." I felt sure I had _not_ been mistaken, but I held my tongue and
said no more. The conversation was resumed, and as we were deep in the
delicate matter, the woman appeared for the second time.

"Mrs. Volckman," I whispered, "Jane is really there. She has just looked
in again."

My friend rose from her seat. "Come with me," she said, "and I will
convince you that you are wrong."

I followed her into the bedroom, where she showed me that the door
communicating with the passage was locked _inside_.

"Now, do you see," she continued, "that no one but the 'Green Lady'
could enter this room but through the one we are sitting in."

"Then it must have been the 'Green Lady,'" I replied, "for I assuredly
saw a woman standing in the doorway."

"That is likely enough," said Mrs. Volckman; "but if she comes again she
shall have the trouble of drawing back the curtains."

And thereupon she unhooped the _portière_, which consisted of two
curtains, and drew them right across the door. We had hardly regained
our seats in the bay window before the two curtains were sharply drawn
aside, making the brass rings rattle on the rod, and the "Green Lady"
stood in the opening we had just passed through. Mrs. Volckman told her
not to be afraid, but to come out and speak to us; but she was
apparently not equal to doing so, and only stood there for a few minutes
gazing at us. I imprudently left my seat and approached her, with a view
to making overtures of friendship, when she dropped the curtains over
her figure. I passed through them immediately to the other side, and
found the bedroom empty and the door locked inside, as before.




CHAPTER XI.

THE STORY OF THE MONK.


A lady named Uniacke, a resident in Bruges, whilst on a visit to my
house in London, met and had a _séance_ with William Eglinton, with
which she was so delighted that she immediately invited him to go and
stay with her abroad, and as my husband and I were about to cross over
to Bruges to see my sister, who also resided there, we travelled in
company--Mr. Eglinton living at Mrs. Uniacke's home, whilst we stayed
with our own relations. Mrs. Uniacke was a medium herself, and had
already experienced some very noisy and violent demonstrations in her
own house. She was, therefore, quite prepared for her visitor, and had
fitted up a spare room with a cabinet and blinds to the windows, and
everything that was necessary. But, somewhat to her chagrin, we were
informed at the first sitting by Mr. Eglinton's control, "Joey," that
all future _séances_ were to take place at my sister's house instead. We
were given no reason for the change; we were simply told to obey it. My
sister's house was rather a peculiar one, and I have already alluded to
it, and some of the sights and sounds by which it was haunted, in the
chapter headed "Optical Illusions." The building is so ancient that the
original date has been completely lost. A stone set into one of the
walls bore an inscription to the effect that it was restored in the year
1616. And an obsolete plan of the city shows it to have stood in its
present condition in 1562. Prior to that period, however, probably about
the thirteenth century, it is supposed, with three houses on either side
of it, to have formed a convent, but no printed record remains of the
fact. Beneath it are subterraneous passages, choked with rubbish, which
lead, no one knows whither. I had stayed in this house several times
before, and always felt unpleasant influences from it, as I have
related, especially in a large room on the lower floor, then used as a
drawing-room, but which is said to have formed, originally, the chapel
to the convent. Others had felt the influence beside myself, though we
never had had reason to suppose that there was any particular cause for
it. When we expressed curiosity, however, to learn why "Joey" desired us
to hold our _séance_ in my sister's house, he told us that the medium
had not been brought over to Bruges for _our_ pleasure or edification,
but that there was a great work to be done there, and Mrs. Uniacke had
been expressly influenced to invite him over, that the purposes of a
higher power than his own should be accomplished. Consequently, on the
following evening Mrs. Uniacke brought Mr. Eglinton over to my sister's
house, and "Joey" having been asked to choose a room for the sitting,
selected an _entresol_ on the upper floor, which led by two short
passages to the bedrooms. The bedroom doors being locked a dark curtain
was hung at the entrance of one of these passages, and "Joey" declared
it was a first-rate cabinet. We then assembled in the drawing-room, for
the purposes of music and conversation, for we intended to hold the
_séance_ later in the evening. The party consisted only of the medium,
Mrs. Uniacke, my sister, my husband, and myself. After I had sung a song
or two, Mr. Eglinton became restless and moved away from the piano,
saying the influence was too strong for him. He began walking up and
down the room, and staring fixedly at the door, before which hung a
_portière_. Several times he exclaimed with knitted brows, "What is the
matter with that door? There is something very peculiar about it." Once
he approached it quickly, but "Joey's" voice was heard from behind the
_portière_, saying, "Don't come too near." Mr. Eglinton then retreated
to a sofa, and appeared to be fighting violently with some unpleasant
influence. He made the sign of the cross, then extended his fingers
towards the door, as though to exorcise it: finally he burst into a
mocking, scornful peal of laughter that lasted for some minutes. As it
concluded, a diabolical expression came over his face. He clenched his
hands, gnashed his teeth, and commenced to grope in a crouching position
towards the door. We concluded he wished to get up to the room where the
cabinet was, and let him have his way. He crawled, rather than walked,
up the steep turret stairs, but on reaching the top, came to himself
suddenly and fell back several steps. My husband, fortunately, was just
behind him and saved him from a fall. He complained greatly of the
influence and of a pain in his head, and we sat at the table to receive
directions. In a few seconds the same spirit had taken possession of
him. He left the table and groped his way towards the bedrooms,
listening apparently to every sound, and with his hand holding an
imaginary knife which was raised every now and then as if to strike. The
expression on Mr. Eglinton's face during this possession is too horrible
to describe. The worst passions were written as legibly there as though
they had been labelled. There was a short flight of stairs leading from
the _entresol_ to the corridor, closed at the head by a padded door,
which we had locked for fear of accident. When, apparently in pursuit of
his object, the spirit led the medium up to this door and he found it
fastened, his moans were terrible. Half-a-dozen times he made his weary
round of the room, striving to get downstairs to accomplish some end,
and to return to us moaning and baffled. At this juncture, he was so
exhausted that one of his controls, "Daisy," took possession of him and
talked with us for some time. We asked "Daisy" what the spirit was like
that had controlled Mr. Eglinton last, and she said she did not like
him--he had a bad face, no hair on the top of his head, and a long black
frock. From this we concluded he had been a monk or a priest. When
"Daisy" had finished speaking to us "Joey" desired Mr. Eglinton to go
into the cabinet; but as soon as he rose, the same spirit got possession
again and led him grovelling as before towards the bedrooms. His
"guides" therefore carried him into the cabinet before our eyes. He was
elevated far above our heads, his feet touching each of us in turn; he
was then carried past the unshaded window, which enabled us to judge of
the height he was from the ground, and finally over a large table, into
the cabinet.

Nothing, however, of consequence occurred, and "Joey" advised us to take
the medium downstairs to the supper room.

Accordingly we adjourned there, and during supper Mr. Eglinton appeared
to be quite himself, and laughed with us over what had taken place. As
soon as the meal was over, however, the old restlessness returned on
him, and he began pacing up and down the room, walking out every now and
then into the corridor. In a few minutes we perceived that the uneasy
spirit again controlled him, and we all followed. He went steadily
towards the drawing-room, but, on finding himself pursued, turned back,
and three times pronounced emphatically the word "Go." He then entered
the drawing-room, which was in darkness, and closed the door behind him,
whilst we waited outside. In a little while he reopened it, and speaking
in quite a different voice, said "Bring a light! I have something to say
to you." When we reassembled with a lamp we found the medium controlled
by a new spirit, whom "Joey" afterwards told us was one of his highest
guides. Motioning us to be seated, he stood before us and said, "I have
been selected from amongst the controls of this medium to tell you the
history of the unhappy being who has so disturbed you this evening. He
is present now, and the confession of his crime through my lips will
help him to throw off the earthbound condition to which it has condemned
him. Many years ago, the house in which we now stand was a convent, and
underneath it were four subterraneous passages running north, south,
east, and west, which communicated with all parts of the town. (I must
here state that Mr. Eglinton had not previously been informed of any
particulars relating to the former history of my sister's home, neither
were Mrs. Uniacke or myself acquainted with it.)

"In this convent there lived a most beautiful woman--a nun, and in one
of the neighboring monasteries a priest who, against the strict law of
his Church, had conceived and nourished a passion for her. He was an
Italian who had been obliged to leave his own country, for reasons best
known to himself, and nightly he would steal his way to this house, by
means of one of the subterraneous passages, and attempt to overcome the
nun's scruples, and make her listen to his tale of love; but she, strong
in the faith, resisted him. At last, maddened one day by her repeated
refusals, and his own guilty passion, he hid himself in one of the
northern rooms in the upper story of this house, and watched there in
the dark for her to pass him on her way from her devotions in the
chapel; but she did not come. Then he crept downstairs stealthily, with
a dagger hid beneath his robes, and met her in the hall. He conjured her
again to yield to him, but again she resisted, and he stabbed her within
the door on the very spot where the medium first perceived him. Her
pure soul sought immediate consolation in the spirit spheres, but his
has been chained down ever since to the scene of his awful crime. He
dragged her body down the secret stairs (which are still existent) to
the vaults beneath, and hid it in the subterraneous passage.

"After a few days he sought it again, and buried it. He lived many years
after, and committed many other crimes, though none so foul as this. It
is his unhappy spirit that asks your prayers to help it to progress. It
is for this purpose that we were brought to this city, that we might aid
in releasing the miserable soul that cannot rest."

I asked, "By what name shall we pray for him?"

"Pray for 'the distressed Being.' Call him by no other name."

"What is your own name?"

"I prefer to be unknown. May God bless you all and keep you in the way
of prayer and truth and from all evil courses, and bring you to
everlasting life. Amen."

The medium then walked up to the spot he had indicated as the scene of
the murder, and knelt there for some minutes in prayer.

Thus concluded the first _séance_ at which the monk was introduced to
us. But the next day as I sat at the table with my sister only, the name
of "Hortense Dupont" was given us, and the following conversation was
rapped out.

"Who are you?"

"I am the nun. I did love him. I couldn't help it. It is such a relief
to think that he will be prayed for."

"When did he murder you?"

"In 1498."

"What was his name?"

"I cannot tell you."

"His age."

"Thirty-five!"

"And yours."

"Twenty-three."

"Are you coming to see us to-morrow?"

"I am not sure."

On that evening, by "Joey's" orders, we assembled at seven. Mr. Eglinton
did not feel the influence in the drawing-room that day, but directly he
entered the _séance_ room, he was possessed by the same spirit. His
actions were still more graphic than on the first occasion. He watched
from the window for the coming of his victim through the courtyard, and
then recommenced his crawling stealthy pursuit, coming back each time
from the locked door that barred his egress with such heart-rending
moans that no one could have listened to him unmoved. At last, his agony
was so great, as he strove again and again, like some dumb animal, to
pass through the walls that divided him from the spot he wished to
visit, whilst the perspiration streamed down the medium's face with the
struggle, that we attempted to make him speak to us. We implored him in
French to tell us his trouble, and believe us to be his friends; but he
only pushed us away. At last we were impressed to pray for him, and
kneeling down, we repeated all the well-known Catholic prayers. As we
commenced the "De Profundis" the medium fell prostrate on the earth, and
seemed to wrestle with his agony. At the "Salve Regina" and "Ave Maria"
he lifted his eyes to heaven and clasped his hands, and in the "Pater
Noster" he appeared to join. But directly we ceased praying the evil
passions returned, and his face became distorted in the thirst for
blood. It was an experience that no one who had seen could ever forget.
At last my sister fetched a crucifix, which we placed upon his breast.
It had not been there many seconds before a different expression came
over his face. He seized it in both hands, straining it to his eyes,
lips, and heart, holding it from him at arm's length, then passionately
kissing it, as we repeated the "Anima Christi." Finally, he held the
crucifix out for each of us to kiss; a beautiful smile broke out on the
medium's face, and the spirit passed out of him.

Mr. Eglinton awoke on that occasion terribly exhausted. His face was as
white as a sheet, and he trembled violently. His first words were: "They
are doing something to my forehead. Burn a piece of paper, and give me
the ashes." He rubbed them between his eyes, when the sign of the cross
became distinctly visible, drawn in deep red lines upon his forehead.
The controls then said, exhausted as Mr. Eglinton was, we were to place
him in the cabinet, as their work was not yet done. He was accordingly
led in trance to the arm-chair behind the curtain, whilst we formed a
circle in front of him. In a few seconds the cabinet was illuminated,
and a cross of fire appeared outside of it. This manifestation having
been seen twice, the head and shoulders of a nun appeared floating
outside the curtain. Her white coif and "chin-piece" were pinned just as
the "_religieuses_" are in the habit of pinning them, and she seemed
very anxious to show herself, coming close to each of us in turn, and
re-appearing several times. Her face was that of a young and pretty
woman. "Joey" said, "That's the nun, but you'll understand that this is
only a preliminary trial, preparatory to a more perfect
materialization." I asked the apparition if she were the "Hortense
Dupont" that had communicated through me, and she nodded her head
several times in acquiescence. Thus ended our second _séance_ with the
Monk of Bruges.

On the third day we were all sitting at supper in my sister's house at
about ten o'clock at night, when loud raps were heard about the room,
and on giving the alphabet, "Joey" desired us to go upstairs and sit,
and to have the door at the head of the staircase (which we had hitherto
locked for fear of accidents) left open; which we accordingly did. As
soon as we were seated at the table, the medium became entranced, and
the same pantomime which I have related was gone through. He watched
from the window that looked into the courtyard, and silently groped his
way round the room, until he had crawled on his stomach up the stairs
that led to the padded door. When he found, however, that the obstacle
that had hitherto stood in his way was removed (by its being open) he
drew a long breath and started away for the winding turret staircase,
listening at the doors he passed to find out if he were overheard. When
he came to the stairs, in descending which we had been so afraid he
might hurt himself, he was carried down them in the most wonderful
manner, only placing his hand on the balustrades, and swooping to the
bottom in one flight. We had placed a lamp in the hall, so that as we
followed him we could observe all his actions. When he reached the
bottom of the staircase he crawled on his stomach to the door of the
drawing-room (originally the chapel) and there waited and listened,
darting back into the shadow every time he fancied he heard a sound.
Imagine our little party of four in that sombre old house, the only
ones waking at that time of night, watching by the ghastly light of a
turned-down lamp the acting of that terrible tragedy. We held our breath
as the murderer crouched by the chapel door, opening it noiselessly to
peep within, and then, retreating with his imaginary dagger in his hand,
ready to strike as soon as his victim appeared. At last she seemed to
come. In an instant he had sprung to meet her, stabbing her first in a
half-stooping attitude, and then, apparently, finding her not dead, he
rose to his full height and stabbed her twice, straight downwards. For a
moment he seemed paralyzed at what he had done, starting back with both
hands clasped to his forehead. Then he flung himself prostrate on the
supposed body, kissing the ground frantically in all directions.
Presently he woke to the fear of detection, and raised the corpse
suddenly in his arms. He fell once beneath the supposed weight, but
staggering to his feet again, seized and dragged it, slipping on the
stone floor as he went, to the head of the staircase that led to the
cellars below, where the mouth of one of the subterraneous passages was
still to be seen. The door at the head of this flight was modern, and he
could not undo the lock, so, prevented from dragging the body down the
steps, he cast himself again upon it, kissing the stone floor of the
hall and moaning. At last he dragged himself on his knees to the spot of
the murder, and began to pray. We knelt with him, and as he heard our
voices he turned on his knees towards us with outstretched hands. I
suggested that he wanted the crucifix again, and went upstairs to fetch
it, when the medium followed me. When I had found what I sought, he
seized it from me eagerly, and carrying it to the window, whence he had
so often watched, fell down again upon his knees. After praying for some
time he tried to speak to us. His lips moved and his tongue protruded,
but he was unable to articulate. Suddenly he seized each of our hands in
turn in both of his own, and wrung them violently. He tried to bless us,
but the words would not come. The same beautiful smile we had seen the
night before broke out over his countenance, the crucifix dropped from
his hands, and he fell prostrate on the floor. The next moment Mr.
Eglinton was asking us where he was and what on earth had happened to
him, as he felt so queer. He declared himself fearfully exhausted, but
said he felt that a great calm and peace had come over him
notwithstanding the weakness, and he believed some great good had been
accomplished. He was not again entranced, but "Joey" ordered the light
to be put out, and spoke to us in the direct voice as follows:--

"I've just come to tell you what I know you will be very glad to hear,
that through the medium's power, and our power, and the great power of
God, the unhappy spirit who has been confessing his crime to you is
freed to-night from the heaviest part of his burden--the being
earth-chained to the spot. I don't mean to say that he will go away at
once to the spheres, because he's got a lot to do still to alter the
conditions under which he labors, but the worst is over. This was the
special work Mr. Eglinton was brought to Bruges to do, and Ernest and I
can truly say that, during the whole course of our control of him, we
have never had to put forth our own powers, nor to ask so earnestly for
the help of God, as in the last three days. You have all helped in a
good work,--to free a poor soul from earth, and to set him on the right
road, and _we_ are grateful to you and to the medium, as well as he. He
will be able to progress rapidly now until he reaches his proper sphere,
and hereafter the spirits of himself and the woman he murdered will work
together to undo for others the harm they brought upon themselves. She
is rejoicing in her high sphere at the work we have done for him, and
will be the first to help and welcome him upward. There are many more
earth-bound spirits in this house and the surrounding houses who are
suffering as he was, though not to the same extent, nor for the same
reason. But they all ask for and need your help and your prayers, and
this is the greatest and noblest end of Spiritualism--to aid poor,
unhappy spirits to free themselves from earth and progress upwards.
After a while when this spirit can control the medium with calmness, he
will come himself and tell you, through him, all his history and how he
came to fall. Meanwhile, we thank you very much for allowing us to draw
so much strength from you and helping us with your sympathy, and I hope
you will believe me always to remain, your loving friend, Joey."

       *       *       *       *       *

This account, with very little alteration, was published in the
_Spiritualist_ newspaper, August 29th, 1879, when the _séances_ had
just occurred. There is a sequel to the story, however, which is almost
as remarkable as itself, and which has not appeared in print till now.
From Bruges on this occasion my husband and I went to Brussels, where we
diverted ourselves by means very dissimilar to anything so grave as
Spiritualism. There were many sales going on in Brussels at that moment,
and one of our amusements was to make a tour of the salerooms and
inspect the articles put up for competition. During one of these visits
I was much taken by a large oil pointing, in a massive frame, measuring
some six or seven feet square. It represented a man in the dress of a
Franciscan monk--_i.e._, a brown serge robe, knotted with cords about
the waist--kneeling in prayer with outstretched hands upon a mass of
burning embers. It was labelled in the catalogue as the picture of a
Spanish monk of the order of Saint Francis Xavier, and was evidently a
painting of some value. I was drawn to go and look at it several days in
succession before the sale, and I told my husband that I coveted its
possession. He laughed at me and said it would fetch a great deal more
money than we could afford to give for it, in which opinion I
acquiesced. The day of the sale, however, found us in our places to
watch the proceedings, and when the picture of the monk was put up I bid
a small sum for it. Col. Lean looked at me in astonishment, but I
whispered to him that I was only in fun, and I should stop at a hundred
francs. The bidding was very languid, however, and to my utter
amazement, the picture was knocked down to me for _seventy-two francs_.
I could hardly believe that it was true. Directly the sale was
concluded, the brokers crowded round me to ask what I would take for the
painting, and they told me they had not thought of bidding until it
should have reached a few hundred francs. But I told them I had got my
bargain, and I meant to stick by it. When we returned next day to make
arrangements for its being sent to us, the auctioneer informed us that
the frame alone in which it had been sent for sale had cost three
hundred francs, so that I was well satisfied with my purchase. This
occurrence took place a short time before we returned to England, where
we arrived long before the painting, which, with many others, was left
to follow us by a cheaper and slower route.

The Sunday after we reached home (having seen no friends in the
meanwhile), we walked into Steinway Hall to hear Mr. Fletcher's
lecture. At its conclusion he passed as usual into a state of trance,
and described what he saw before him. In the midst of mentioning people,
places, and incidents unknown to us, he suddenly exclaimed: "Now I see a
very strange thing, totally unlike anything I have ever seen before, and
I hardly know how to describe it. A man comes before me--a
foreigner--and in a dress belonging to some monastic order, a brown robe
of coarse cloth or flannel, with a rope round his waist and beads
hanging, and bare feet and a shaved head. He is dragging a picture on to
the platform, a very large painting in a frame, and it looks to me like
a portrait of himself, kneeling on a carpet of burning wood. No! I am
wrong. The man tells me the picture is _not_ a portrait of himself, but
of the founder of his Order, and it is in the possession of some people
in this hall to-night. The man tells me to tell these people that it was
_his_ spirit that influenced them to buy this painting at some place
over the water, and he did so in order that they might keep it in
remembrance of what they have done for him. And he desires that they
shall hang that picture in some room where they may see it every day,
that they may never forget the help which spirits on this earth may
render by their prayers to spirits that have passed away. And he offers
them through me his heartfelt thanks for the assistance given him, and
he says the day is not far off when he shall pray for himself and for
them, that their kindness may return into their own bosoms."

       *       *       *       *       *

The oil painting reached England in safety some weeks afterwards, and
was hung over the mantel-piece in our dining-room, where it remained, a
familiar object to all our personal acquaintances.




CHAPTER XII.

THE MEDIUMSHIP OF MISS SHOWERS.


Some time before I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Showers, I heard,
through friends living in the west of England, of the mysterious and
marvellous powers possessed by a young lady of their acquaintance, who
was followed by voices in the air, which held conversations with her,
and the owners of which were said to have made themselves visible. I
listened with curiosity, the more so, as my informants utterly
disbelieved in Spiritualism, and thought the phenomena were due to
trickery. At the same time I conceived a great desire to see the girl of
sixteen, who, for no gain or apparent object of her own, was so clever
as to mystify everyone around her; and when she and her mother came to
London, I was amongst the first to beg for an introduction, and I shall
never forget the experiences I had with her. She was the first _private_
medium through whom my personal friends returned to converse with me;
and no one but a Spiritualist can appreciate the blessing of spiritual
communications through a source that is above the breath of suspicion. I
have already written at length about Miss Showers in "The story of John
Powles." She was a child, compared to myself, whose life had hardly
commenced when mine was virtually over, and neither she, nor any member
of her family, had ever had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with
even the names of my former friends. Yet (as I have related) John Powles
made Miss Showers his especial mouthpiece, and my daughter "Florence"
(then a little child) also appeared through her, though at long
intervals, and rather timidly. Her own controls, however, or cabinet
spirits (as they call them in America)--_i.e._, such spirits as are
always about the medium, and help the strangers to appear--"Peter,"
"Florence," "Lenore," and "Sally," were very familiar with me, and
afforded me such facilities of testing their medium as do not often fall
to the lot of inquirers. Indeed, at one time, they always requested
that I should be present at their _séances_, so that I considered myself
to be highly favored. And I may mention here that Miss Showers and I
were so much _en rapport_ that her manifestations were always much
stronger in my presence. We could not sit next each other at an ordinary
tea or supper table, when we had no thought of, or desire to hold a
_séance_, without manifestations occurring in the full light. A hand,
that did not belong to either of us, would make itself apparent under
the table-cloth between us--a hand with power to grasp ours--or our feet
would be squeezed or kicked beneath the table, or fingers would suddenly
appear, and whisk the food off our plates. Some of their jests were
inconvenient. I have had the whole contents of a tumbler, which I was
raising to my lips, emptied over my dress. It was generally known that
our powers were sympathetic, and at last "Peter" gave me leave, or,
rather, ordered me to sit in the cabinet with "Rosie," whilst the
manifestations went on outside. He used to say he didn't care for me any
more than if I had been "a spirit myself." One evening "Peter" called me
into the cabinet (which was simply a large box cupboard at one end of
the dining-room) before the _séance_ began, and told me to sit down at
the medium's feet and "be a good girl and keep quiet." Miss Showers was
in a low chair, and I sat with my arms resting on her lap. She did not
become entranced, and we talked the whole time together. Presently,
without any warning, two figures stood beside us. I could not have said
where they came from. I neither saw them rise from the floor nor descend
from the ceiling. There was no beginning to their appearance. In a
moment they were simply _there_--"Peter" and "Florence" (not my child,
but Miss Showers' control of the same names).

"Peter" sent "Florence" out to the audience, where we heard her speaking
to them and their remarks upon her (there being only a thin curtain hung
before the entrance of the cabinet), but he stayed with us himself. We
could not see him distinctly in the dim light, but we could distinctly
hear and feel him. He changed our ornaments and ribbons, and pulled the
hair-pins out of our hair, and made comments on what was going on
outside. After a while "Florence" returned to get more power, and both
spirits spoke to and touched us at the same time. During the whole of
this _séance_ my arms rested on Miss Showers' lap, and she was awake and
talking to me about the spirits.

One evening, at a sitting at Mr. Luxmore's house in Hyde Park Square,
the spirit "Florence" had been walking amongst the audience in the
lighted front drawing-room for a considerable time--even sitting at the
piano and accompanying herself whilst she sung us a song in what she
called "the planetary language." She greatly resembled her medium on
that occasion, and several persons present remarked that she did so. I
suppose the inferred doubt annoyed her, for before she finally left us
she asked for a light, and a small oil lamp was brought to her which she
placed in my hand, telling me to follow her and look at her medium,
which I accordingly did. "Florence" led the way into the back
drawing-room, where I found Miss Showers reposing in an arm-chair. The
first sight of her terrified me. For the purpose of making any change in
her dress as difficult as possible, she wore a high, tight-fitting black
velvet frock, fastened at the back, and high Hessian boots, with
innumerable buttons. But she now appeared to be shrunk to half her usual
size, and the dress hung loosely on her figure. Her arms had
disappeared, but putting my hands up the dress sleeves, I found them
diminished to the size of those of a little child--the fingers reaching
only to where the elbows had been. The same miracle had happened to her
feet, which only occupied half her boots. She looked in fact like the
mummy of a girl of four or six years old. The spirit told me to feel her
face. The forehead was dry, rough, and burning hot, but from the chin
water was dropping freely on to the bosom of her dress. "Florence" said
to me, "I wanted _you_ to see her, because I know you are brave enough
to tell people what you have seen."

There was a marked difference in the personality of the two influences
"Florence" and "Lenore," although both at times resembled Miss Showers,
and sometimes more than others. "Florence" was taller than her medium,
and a very beautiful woman. "Lenore" was much shorter and smaller, and
not so pretty, but more vivacious and pert. By the invitation of Mrs.
Macdougal Gregory, I attended several _séances_ with Miss Showers at her
residence in Green Street, when these spirits appeared. "Lenore" was
fond of saying that she wouldn't or couldn't come out unless _I_ held
her hand, or put my arm round her waist. To tell the truth, I didn't
care for the distinction, for this influence was very peculiar in some
things, and to me she always appeared "uncanny," and to leave an
unpleasant feeling behind her. She was seldom completely formed, and
would hold up a foot which felt like wet clay, and had no toes to it, or
not the proper quantity. On occasions, too, there was a charnel-house
smell about her, as if she had been buried a few weeks and dug up again,
an odor which I have never smelt from any materialized spirit before or
after. One evening at Mrs. Gregory's, when "Lenore" had insisted upon
walking round the circle supported by my arm, I nearly fainted from the
smell. It resembled nothing but that of a putrid corpse, and when she
returned to the cabinet, I was compelled to leave the room and retch
from the nausea it had caused me. It was on this occasion that the
sitters called "Lenore" so many times back into the circle, that all the
power was gone, and she was in danger of melting away before their eyes.
Still they entreated her to remain with them a little longer. At last
she grew impatient, and complained to me of their unreasonableness. She
was then raised from the floor--actually floating just outside the
curtain--and she asked me to put my hands up her skirts and convince
myself that she was half-dematerialized. I did as she told me, and felt
that she had _no legs_, although she had been walking round the room a
few minutes before. I could feel nothing but the trunk of a body, which
was completely lifted off the ground. Her voice, too, had grown faint
and her face indistinct, and in another moment she had totally
disappeared.

One evening at Mrs. Gregory's, after the _séance_ was concluded,
"Florence" looked round the curtain and called to me to come inside of
it. I did so and found myself in total darkness. I said, "What's the
good of my coming here? I can't see anything." "Florence" took me by one
hand, and answered, "I will lead you! Don't be afraid." Then some one
else grasped my other hand, and "Peter's" voice said, "We've got you
safe. We want you to feel the medium." The two figures led me between
them to the sofa on which Miss Showers was lying. They passed my hand
all over her head and body. I felt, as before, her hands and feet
shrunk to half their usual size, but her heart appeared to have become
proportionately increased. When my hand was placed upon it, it was
leaping up and down violently, and felt like a rabbit or some other live
animal bounding in her bosom. Her brain was burning as before, but her
extremities were icy cold. There was no doubt at all of the abnormal
condition into which the medium had been thrown, in order to produce
these strong physical manifestations which were borrowed, for the time
being, from her life, and could never (so they informed me) put the
_whole_ of what they borrowed back again. This seems to account for the
invariable deterioration of health and strength that follows physical
manifestations in both sexes. These were the grounds alone on which they
explained to me the fact that, on several occasions, when the
materialized spirit has been violently seized and held apart from the
medium, it has been found to have become, or been changed into the
medium, and always with injury to the latter--as in the case of Florence
Cook being seized by Mr. Volckman and Sir George Sitwell. Mr. Volckman
concluded because when he seized the spirit "Katie King," he found he
was holding Florence Cook, that the latter must have impersonated the
former; yet I shall tell you in its proper place how I have sat in the
same room with "Katie King," whilst Miss Cook lay in a trance between
us. The medium nearly lost her life on the occasion alluded to, from the
sudden disturbance of the mysterious link that bound her to the spirit.
I have had it from the lips of the Countess of Caithness, who was one of
the sitters, and stayed with Miss Cook till she was better, that she was
in convulsions the whole night after, and that it was some time before
they believed she would recover. If a medium could simulate a
materialized spirit, it is hardly likely that she would (or could)
simulate convulsions with a medical man standing by her bedside. "You
see," said Miss Showers' "Florence," whilst pointing out to me the
decreased size of her medium under trance, "that 'Rosie' is half her
usual size and weight. _I_ have borrowed the other half from her, which,
combined with contributions from the sitters, goes to make up the body
in which I shew myself to you. If you seize and hold me tight, you _are_
holding her, _i.e._, half of her, and you increase the action of the
vital half to such a degree that, if the two halves did not reunite, you
would kill her. You see that I can detach certain particles from her
organism for my own use, and when I dematerialize, I restore these
particles to her, and she becomes once more her normal size. You only
hurry the reunion by violently detaining me, so as to injure her. But
you might drive her mad, or kill her in the attempt, because the
particles of brain, or body, might become injured by such a violent
collision. If you believe I can take them from her (as you see I do) in
order to render my invisible body visible to you, why can't you believe
I can make them fly together again on the approach of danger. And
granted the one power, I see no difficulty in acknowledging the other."

One day Mrs. Showers invited me to assist at a _séance_ to be given
expressly for friends living at a distance. When I reached the house,
however, I found the friends were unable to be present, and the meeting
was adjourned. Mrs. Showers apologized for the alteration of plan, but I
was glad of it. I had often sat with "Rosie" in company with others, and
I wanted to sit with her quite alone, or rather to sit with her in a
room quite alone, and see what would spontaneously occur, without any
solicitation on our parts. We accordingly annexed the drawing-room for
our sole use--locked the door, extinguished the lights, and sat down on
a sofa side by side, with our arms round each other. The manifestations
that followed were not all nice ones. They formed an experience to be
passed through once, but not willingly repeated, and I should not relate
them here, excepting that they afford so strong a proof that they were
produced by a power outside and entirely distinct from our own--a power,
which having once called into action, we had no means of repressing. We
had sat in the dark for some minutes, without hearing or seeing
anything, when I thoughtlessly called out, "Now, Peter, do your worst,"
and extending my arms, singing, "Come! for my arms are empty." In a
moment a large, heavy figure fell with such force into my outstretched
arms as to bruise my shoulder--it seemed like a form made of wood or
iron, rather than flesh and blood--and the rough treatment that ensued
for both of us is almost beyond description. It seemed as if the room
were filled with materialized creatures, who were determined to let us
know they were not to be trifled with. Our faces and hands were slapped,
our hair pulled down, and our clothes nearly torn off our backs. My silk
skirt being separate from the bodice was torn off at the waistband, and
the trimming ripped from it, and Miss Showers' muslin dress was also
much damaged. We were both thoroughly frightened, but no expostulations
or entreaties had any effect with our tormentors. At the same time we
heard the sound as of a multitude of large birds or bats swooping about
the room. The fluttering of wings was incessant, and we could hear them
"scrooping" up and down the walls. In the midst of the confusion,
"Rosie" was whisked out of my arms (for fright had made us cling tighter
than ever together) and planted on the top of a table at some distance
from me, at which she was so frightened she began to cry, and I called
out, "Powles, where are you? Can't you stop them?" My appeal was heard.
Peter's voice exclaimed, "Hullo! here's Powles coming!" and all the
noise ceased. We heard the advent of my friend, and in another moment he
was smoothing down the ruffled hair and arranging the disordered dresses
and telling me to light the gas and not be frightened. As soon as I
could I obeyed his directions and found Rosie sitting doubled up in the
centre of the table, but the rest of the room and furniture in its usual
condition. "Peter" and his noisy crowd had vanished--so had "Powles,"
and there was nothing but our torn skirts and untidy appearance to prove
that we had not been having an unholy dream. "Peter" is not a wicked
spirit--far from it--but he is a very earthly and frivolous one. But
when we consider that nine-tenths of the spirits freed from the flesh
are both earthly and frivolous (if not worse), I know not what right we
have to expect to receive back angels in their stead.

At one time when my sister Blanche (who was very sceptical as to the
possibility of the occurrences I related having taken place before me)
was staying in my house at Bayswater, I asked Miss Showers if she would
give us a _séance_ in my own home, to which she kindly assented. This
was an unusual concession on her part, because, in consequence of
several accidents and scandals that had occurred from media being
forcibly detained (as I have just alluded to), her mother was naturally
averse to her sitting anywhere but in their own circle. However, on my
promising to invite no strangers, Mrs. Showers herself brought her
daughter to my house. We had made no preparation for the _séance_ except
by opening part of the folding doors between the dining-room and study,
and hanging a curtain over the aperture. But I had carefully locked the
door of the study, so that there should be no egress from it excepting
through the dining-room, and had placed against the locked door a heavy
writing-table laden with books and ornaments to make "assurance doubly
sure." We sat first in the drawing-room above, where there was a piano.
The lights were extinguished, and Miss Showers sat down to the
instrument and played the accompaniment to a very simple melody, "Under
the willow she's sleeping." Four voices, sometimes alone and sometimes
_all together_, accompanied her own. One was a baritone, supposed to
proceed from "Peter," the second, a soprano, from "Lenore." The third
was a rumbling bass, from an influence who called himself "The Vicar of
Croydon," and sung in a fat, unctuous, and conceited voice; and the
fourth was a cracked and quavering treble, from another spirit called
"The Abbess." These were the voices, Mrs. Showers told me, that first
followed her daughter about the house in Devonshire, and gained her such
an unenviable notoriety there. The four voices were perfectly distinct
from one another, and sometimes blended most ludicrously and tripped
each other up in a way which made the song a medley--upon which each one
would declare it was the fault of the other. "The Vicar of Croydon"
always required a great deal of solicitation before he could be induced
to exhibit his powers, but having once commenced, it was difficult to
make him leave off again, whereas "The Abbess" was always complaining
that they would not allow her to sing the solos. An infant's voice also
sung some baby songs in a sweet childish treble, but she was also very
shy and seldom was heard, in comparison with the rest. "All
ventriloquism!" I hear some reader cry. If so, Miss Showers ought to
have made a fortune in exhibiting her talent in public. I have heard the
best ventriloquists in the world, but I never heard one who could
produce _four_ voices at the same time.

After the musical portion of the _séance_ was over, we descended to the
dining-room, where the gas was burning, and the medium passed through
it to the secured study, where a mattress was laid upon the floor for
her accommodation. "Florence" was the first to appear, tall and
beautiful in appearance, and with upraised eyes like a nun. She measured
her height against the wall with me, and we found she was the taller of
the two by a couple of inches,--my height being five feet six, the
medium's five feet, and the spirit's five feet eight, an abnormal height
for a woman. "Lenore" came next, very short indeed, looking like a child
of four or six, but she grew before our eyes, until her head was on a
level with mine. She begged us all to observe that she had _not_ got on
"Rosie's" petticoat body. She said she had borrowed it on one occasion,
and Mrs. Showers had recognized it, and slipped upstairs in the middle
of the _séance_ and found it missing from her daughter's chest of
drawers, and that she had been so angry in consequence (fearing Rosie's
honor might be impeached) that she said if "Lenore" did not promise
never to do so again, she should not be allowed to assist at the
_séances_ at all. So Miss "Lenore," in rather a pert and defiant mood,
begged Mrs. Showers to see that what she wore was her own property, and
not that of the medium. She was succeeded on that occasion by a strange
being, totally different from the other two, who called herself "Sally,"
and said she had been a cook. She was one of those extraordinary
influences for whose return to earth one can hardly account; quick, and
clever, and amusing as she could be, but with an unrefined wit and
manner, and to all appearance, more earthly-minded than ourselves. But
do we not often ask the same question with respect to those still
existent here below? What were they born for? What good do they do? Why
were they ever permitted to come? God, without whose permission nothing
happens, alone can answer it.

We had often to tease "Peter" to materialize and show himself, but he
invariably refused, or postponed the work to another occasion. His
excuse was that the medium being so small, he could not obtain
sufficient power from her to make himself appear as a big man, and he
didn't like to come, "looking like a girl in a billycock hat." "I came
once to Mrs. Showers," he said, "and she declared I was 'Rosie' dressed
up, and so I have resolved never to show myself again." At the close of
that _séance_, however, "Peter" asked me to go into the study and see
him wake the medium. When I entered it and made my way up to the
mattress, I found Miss Showers extended on it in a deep sleep, whilst
"Peter," materialized, sat at her feet. He made me sit down next to him
and take his hand and feel his features with my own hand. Then he
proceeded to rouse "Rosie" by shaking her and calling her by name,
holding me by one hand, as he did so. As Miss Showers yawned and woke up
from her trance, the hand slipped from mine, and "Peter" evaporated.
When she sat up I said to her gently, "I am here! Peter brought me in
and was sitting on the mattress by my side till just this moment." "Ha,
ha!" laughed his voice close to my ear, "and I'm here still, my dears,
though you can't see me."

Who can account for such things? I have witnessed them over and over
again, yet I am unable, even to this day, to do more than believe and
wonder.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE MEDIUMSHIP OF WILLIAM EGLINTON.


In the stones I have related of "Emily" and "The Monk" I have alluded
freely to the wonderful powers exhibited by William Eglinton, but the
marvels there spoken of were by no means the only ones I have witnessed
through his mediumship. At the _séance_ which produced the apparition of
my sister Emily, Mr. Eglinton's control "Joey" made himself very
familiar. "Joey" is a remarkably small man--perhaps two-thirds lighter
in weight than the medium--and looks more like a little jockey than
anything else, though he says he was a clown whilst in this world, and
claims to be the spirit of the immortal Joe Grimaldi. He has always
appeared to us clothed in a tight-fitting white dress like a woven
jersey suit, which makes him look still smaller than he is. He usually
keeps up a continuous chatter, whether visible or invisible, and is one
of the cleverest and kindest controls I know. He is also very
devotional, for which the public will perhaps give him as little credit
now as they did whilst he was on earth. On the first occasion of our
meeting in the Russell Street Rooms he did not show himself until quite
the last, but he talked incessantly of and for the other spirits that
appeared. My sister was, as I have said, the first to show herself--then
came an extraordinary apparition. On the floor, about three feet from
the cabinet, appeared a head--only the head and throat of a dark man,
with black beard and moustaches, surmounted by the white turban usually
worn by natives. It did not speak, but the eyes rolled and the lips
moved, as if it tried to articulate, but without success. "Joey" said
the spirit came for Colonel Lean, and was that of a foreigner who had
been decapitated. Colonel Lean could not recognize the features; but,
strange to say, he had been present at the beheading of two natives in
Japan who had been found guilty of murdering some English officers, and
we concluded from "Joey's" description that this must be the head of
one of them. I knelt down on the floor and put my face on a level with
that of the spirit, that I might assure myself there was no body
attached to it and concealed by the curtain of the cabinet, and I can
affirm that it was _a head only_, resting on the neck--that its eyes
moved and its features worked, but that there was nothing further on the
floor. I questioned it, and it evidently tried hard to speak in return.
The mouth opened and the tongue was thrust out, and made a sort of dumb
sound, but was unable to form any words, and after a while the head sunk
through the floor and disappeared. If this was not one of the
pleasantest apparitions I have seen, it was one of the most remarkable.
There was no possibility of trickery or deception. The decapitated head
rested in full sight of the audience, and had all the peculiarities of
the native appearance and expression. After this the figures of two or
three Englishmen came, friends of others of the audience--then "Joey"
said he would teach us how to "make muslin." He walked right outside the
cabinet, a quaint little figure, not much bigger than a boy of twelve or
thirteen, with a young, old face, and dressed in the white suit I have
described. He sat down by me and commenced to toss his hands in the air,
as though he were juggling with balls, saying the while, "This is the
way we make ladies' dresses." As he did so, a small quantity of muslin
appeared in his hands, which he kept on moving in the same manner,
whilst the flimsy fabric increased and increased before our eyes, until
it rose in billows of muslin above "Joey's" head and fell over his body
to his feet, and enveloped him until he was completely hidden from view.
He kept on chattering till the last moment from under the heap of snowy
muslin, telling us to be sure and "remember how he made ladies'
dresses"--when, all of a sudden, in the twinkling of an eye, the heap of
muslin rose into the air, and before us stood the tall figure of
"Abdullah," Mr. Eglinton's Eastern guide. There had been no darkness, no
pause to effect this change. The muslin had remained on the spot where
it was fabricated until "Joey" evaporated, and "Abdullah" rose up from
beneath it. Now "Abdullah" is not a spirit to be concealed easily. He is
six foot two--a great height for a native--and his high turban adds to
his stature. He is a very handsome man, with an aquiline nose and
bright black eyes--a Persian, I believe, by birth, and naturally dark
in complexion. He does not speak English, but "salaams" continually, and
will approach the sitters when requested, and let them examine the
jewels, of which he wears a large quantity in his turban and ears and
round his throat, or to show them and let them feel that he has lost one
arm, the stump being plainly discernible through his thin clothing.
"Abdullah" possesses all the characteristics of the Eastern nation,
which are unmistakable to one who, like myself, has been familiar with
them in the flesh. His features are without doubt those of a Persian; so
is his complexion. His figure is long and lithe and supple, as that of a
cat, and he can bend to the ground and rise again with the utmost ease
and grace. Anybody who could pretend for a moment to suppose that Mr.
Eglinton by "making up" could personate "Abdullah" must be a fool. It
would be an impossibility, even were he given unlimited time and
assistance, to dress for the character. There is a peculiar boneless
elasticity in the movements of a native which those who have lived in
the East know that no Englishmen can imitate successfully. "Abdullah's"
hand and feet also possess all the characteristics of his nationality,
being narrow, long and nerveless, although I have heard that he can give
rather too good a grip with his one hand when he chooses to exert his
power or to show his dislike to any particular sitter. He has always,
however, shown the utmost urbanity towards us, but he is not a
particularly friendly or familiar spirit. When "Abdullah" had retired on
this occasion, "Joey" drew back the curtain that shaded the cabinet, and
showed us his medium and himself. There sat Mr. Eglinton attired in
evening dress, with the front of his shirt as smooth and spotless as
when it left the laundress' hands, lying back in his chair in a deep
sleep, whilst little Joey sat astride his knee, his white suit
contrasting strangely with his medium's black trousers. Whilst in this
position he kissed Mr. Eglinton several times, telling him to wake up,
and not look so sulky; then, having asked if we all saw him distinctly,
and were satisfied he was not the medium, he bade God bless us, and the
curtains closed once more upon this incomprehensible scene. Mr. Eglinton
subsequently became an intimate friend of ours, and we often had the
pleasure of sitting with him, but we never saw anything more wonderful
(to my mind) than we did on our first acquaintance. When he accompanied
us to Bruges (as told in the history of the "Monk"), "Joey" took great
trouble to prove to us incontrovertibly that he is not an "emanation,"
or double, of his medium, but a creature completely separate and wholly
distinct. My sister's house being built on a very old-fashioned
principle, had all the bedrooms communicating with each other. The
entresol in which we usually assembled formed the connecting link to a
series of six chambers, all of which opened into each other, and the
entrance to the first and last of which was from the entresol.

We put Mr. Eglinton into No. 1, locking the connecting door with No. 2,
so that he had no exit except into our circle as we sat round the
curtain, behind which we placed his chair. "Joey" having shown himself
outside the curtain, informed us he was going through the locked door at
the back into our bedrooms, Nos. 2, 3 and 4, and would bring us
something from each room.

Accordingly, in another minute we heard his voice in No. 2, commenting
on all he saw there; then he passed into No. 3, and so on, making a tour
of the rooms, until he appeared at the communicating door of No. 5, and
threw an article taken from each room into the entresol. He then told us
to lift the curtain and inspect the medium, which we did, finding him
fast asleep in his chair, with the door behind him locked. "Joey" then
returned by the way he had gone, and presented himself once more outside
the cabinet, the key of the locked door being all the time in our
possession.

"Ernest" is another well-known control of Mr. Eglinton's, though he
seldom appears, except to give some marvellous test or advice. He is a
very earnest, deep-feeling spirit, like his name, and his symbol is a
cross of light; sometimes large and sometimes small, but always bright
and luminous. "Ernest" seldom shows his whole body. It is generally only
his face that is apparent in the midst of the circle, a more convincing
manifestation for the sceptic or inquirer than any number of bodies
which are generally attributed to the chicanery of the medium. "Ernest"
always speaks in the direct voice in a gentle, bass tone, entirely
distinct from "Joey's" treble, and his appearance is usually indicative
of a harmonious and successful meeting. "Daisy," a North American
Indian girl, is another control of William Eglinton's, but I have only
heard her speak in trance. I do not know which of these spirits it is
who conducts the manifestations of writing on the arm, with which Mr.
Eglinton is very successful; sometimes it seems to be one, and sometimes
the other. As he was sitting with our family at supper one evening, I
mentally asked "Joey" to write something on some part of his body where
his hand could not reach. This was in order to prove that the writing
had not been prepared by chemical means beforehand, as some people are
apt to assert. In a short time Mr. Eglinton was observed to stop eating,
and grow very fidgety and look uncomfortable, and on being questioned as
to the cause, he blushed and stammered, and could give no answer. After
a while he rose from table, and asked leave to retire to his room. The
next morning he told us that he had been so uneasy at supper, it had
become impossible for him to sit it out; that on reaching his room he
had found that his back, which irritated him as though covered with a
rash, _had a sentence written across it_, of which he could only make
out a few words by looking at it backwards in a glass; and as there were
only ladies in the house beside himself, he could not call in an
interpreter to his assistance. One day, without consulting him, I placed
a small card and a tiny piece of black lead between the leaves of a
volume of the _Leisure Hour_, and asked him to hold the book with me on
the dining table. I never let the book out of my hand, and it was so
thick that I had difficulty afterwards in finding my card (from the
corner of which I had torn a piece) again. Mr. Eglinton sat with me in
the daylight with the family about, and all he did was to place his hand
on mine, which rested on the book. The perspiration ran down his face
whilst he did so, but there was no other sign of power, and, honestly, I
did not expect to find any writing on my card. When I had shaken it out
of the leaves of the book, however, I found a letter closely written on
it from my daughter "Florence" to this effect:--

     "Dear Mama,--I am so glad to be able to communicate with you again,
     and to demonstrate by actual fact that I am really present. Of
     course, you quite understand that I do not write this myself.
     'Charlie' is present with me, and so are many more, and we all
     unite in sending you our love.
                                   "Your daughter, Florence."

Mr. Eglinton's mediumship embraces various phases of phenomena, as may
be gathered from his own relations of them, and the testimony of his
friends. A narrative of his spiritual work, under the title of "'Twixt
two Worlds," has been written and published by Mr. John T. Farmer, and
contains some exhaustive descriptions of, and testimonies to, his
undoubtedly wonderful gifts. In it appear several accounts written by
myself, and which, for the benefit of such of my readers as have not
seen the book in question, I will repeat here. The first is that of the
"Monk," given _in extenso_, as I have given it in the eleventh chapter
of this book. The second is of a _séance_ held on the 5th September,
1884. The circle consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, Colonel and Mrs.
Wynch, Mr. and Mrs. Russell-Davies, Mr. Morgan, and Colonel Lean and
myself, and was held in Mr. Eglinton's private chambers in Quebec
Street. We sat in the front drawing-room, with one gas-burner alight,
and the door having been properly secured, Mr. Eglinton went into the
back room, which was divided by curtains from the front. He had not left
us a couple of minutes before a man stepped out through the _portière_,
and walked right into the midst of us. He was a large, stout man, and
very dark, and most of the sitters remarked that he had a very peculiar
smell. No one recognized him, and after appearing two or three times he
left, and was _immediately_ succeeded by a woman, very much like him,
who also had to leave us without any recognition. These two spirits,
before taking a final leave, came out _together_, and seemed to examine
the circle curiously. After a short interval a much smaller and slighter
man came forward, and darted in a peculiar slouching attitude round the
circle. Colonel Lean asked him to shake hands. He replied by seizing his
hand, and nearly dragging him off his seat. He then darted across the
room, and gave a similar proof of his muscular power to Mr. Stewart. But
when I asked him to notice _me_, he took my hand and squeezed it firmly
between his own. He had scarcely disappeared before "Abdullah," with his
one arm and his six feet two of height, stood before us, and salaamed
all round. Then came my daughter Florence, a girl of nineteen by that
time, very slight and feminine in appearance. She advanced two or three
times, near enough to touch me with her hand, but seemed fearful to
approach nearer. But the next moment she returned, dragging Mr.
Eglinton after her. He was in deep trance, breathing with difficulty,
but "Florence" held him by the hand and brought him up to my side, when
he detached my hands from those of the sitters either side of me, and
making me stand up, he placed my daughter in my arms. As she stood
folded in my embrace, she whispered a few words to me relative to a
subject _known to no one but myself_, and she placed my hand upon her
heart, that I might feel she was a living woman. Colonel Lean asked her
to go to him. She tried and failed, but having retreated behind the
curtain to gather strength, she appeared the second time _with Mr.
Eglinton_, and calling Colonel Lean to her, embraced him. This is one of
the most perfect instances on record of a spirit form being seen
distinctly by ten witnesses with the medium under gas. The next
materialization that appeared was for Mr. Stewart. This gentleman was
newly arrived from Australia, and a stranger to Mr. Eglinton. As soon as
he saw the female form, who beckoned him to the _portière_ to speak to
her, he exclaimed, "My God! Pauline," with such genuine surprise and
conviction as were unmistakable. The spirit then whispered to him, and
putting her arms round his neck, affectionately kissed him. He turned
after a while, and addressing his wife, told her that the spirit bore
the very form and features of their niece Pauline, whom they had lost
the year before. Mr. Stewart expressed himself entirely satisfied with
the identity of his niece, and said she looked just as she had done
before she was taken ill. I must not omit to say that the medium also
appeared with this figure, making the third time of showing himself in
one evening with the spirit form.

The next apparition, being the seventh that appeared, was that of a
little child apparently about two years old, who supported itself in
walking by holding on to a chair. I stooped down, and tried to talk to
this baby, but it only cried in a fretful manner, as though frightened
at finding itself with strangers, and turned away. The attention of the
circle was diverted from this sight by seeing "Abdullah" dart between
the curtains, and stand with the child in our view, whilst Mr. Eglinton
appeared at the same moment between the two forms, making a _tria juncta
in uno_.

Thus ended the _séance_. The second one of which I wrote took place on
the 27th of the same month, and under very similar circumstances. The
circle this time consisted of Mrs. Wheeler, Mr. Woods, Mr. Gordon, The
Honorable Gordon Sandeman, my daughter Eva, my son Frank, Colonel Lean,
and myself. Mr. Eglinton appeared on this occasion to find some
difficulty in passing under control, and he came out so frequently into
the circle to gather power, that I guessed we were going to have
uncommonly good manifestations. The voice of "Joey," too, begged us
under _no circumstances whatever_, to lose hands, as they were going to
try something very difficult, and we might defeat their efforts at the
very moment of victory. When the medium was at last under control in the
back drawing room, a tall man, with an uncovered head of dark hair, and
a large beard, appeared and walked up to a lady in the company. She was
very much affected by the recognition of the spirit, which she affirmed
to be that of her brother. She called him by name and kissed him, and
informed us, that he was just as he had been in earth life. Her emotion
was so great, we thought she would have fainted, but after a while she
became calm again. We next heard the notes of a clarionet. I had been
told that Mr. Woods (a stranger just arrived from the Antipodes) had
lost a brother under peculiarly distressing circumstances, and that he
hoped (though hardly expected) to see his brother that evening. It was
the first time I had ever seen Mr. Woods; yet so remarkable was the
likeness between the brothers, that when a spirit appeared with a
clarionet in his hand, I could not help knowing who it was, and
exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Woods, there is your brother!" The figure walked up
to Mr. Woods and grasped his hand. As they appeared thus with their
faces turned to one another, they were _strikingly_ alike both in
feature and expression. This spirit's head was also bare, an unusual
occurrence, and covered with thick, crisp hair. He appeared twice, and
said distinctly, "God bless you!" each time to his brother. Mrs.
Wheeler, who had known the spirit in earth life, was startled by the
tone of the voice, which she recognized at once; and Mr. Morgan, who had
been an intimate friend of his in Australia, confirmed the recognition.
We asked Mr. Woods the meaning of the clarionet, which was a black one,
handsomely inlaid with silver. He told us his brother had been an
excellent musician, and had won a similar instrument as a prize at some
musical competition. "But," he added wonderingly, "his clarionet is
locked up in my house in Australia." My daughter "Florence" came out
next, but only a little way, at which I was disappointed, but "Joey"
said they were reserving the strength for a manifestation further on. He
then said, "Here comes a friend for Mr. Sandeman," and a man, wearing
the masonic badge and scarf, appeared, and made the tour of the circle,
giving the masonic grip to those of the craft present. He was a good
looking young man, and said he had met some of those present in
Australia, but no one seemed to recognize him. He was succeeded by a
male figure, who had materialized on the previous occasion. As he passed
through the curtain, a female figure appeared beside him, bearing a very
bright light, as though to show him the way. She did not come beyond the
_portière_, but every one in the room saw her distinctly. On account of
the dress and complexion of the male figure, we had wrongly christened
him "The Bedouin;" but my son, Frank Marryat, who is a sailor, now found
out he was an East Indian by addressing him in Hindustani, to which he
responded in a low voice. Some one asked him to take a seat amongst us,
upon which he seized a heavy chair in one hand and flourished it above
his head. He then squatted, native fashion, on his haunches on the floor
and left us, as before, by vanishing suddenly.

"Joey" now announced that they were going to try the experiment of
"_showing us how the spirits were made from the medium_." This was the
crowning triumph of the evening. Mr. Eglinton appeared in the very midst
of us in trance. He entered the room backwards, and as if fighting with
the power that pushed him in, his eyes were shut, and his breath was
drawn with difficulty. As he stood thus, holding on to a chair for
support, an airy mass like a cloud of tobacco smoke was seen on his left
hip, his legs became illuminated by lights travelling up and down them,
and a white film settled about his head and shoulders. The mass
increased, and he breathed harder and harder, whilst invisible hands
_pulled the filmy drapery out of his hip_ in long strips, that
amalgamated as soon as formed, and fell to the ground to be succeeded by
others. The cloud continued to grow thicker, and we were eagerly
watching the process, when, in the twinkling of an eye, the mass had
evaporated, and a spirit, full formed, stood beside him. No one could
say _how_ it had been raised in the very midst of us, nor whence it
came, but _it was there_. Mr. Eglinton then retired with the new-born
spirit behind the curtains, but in another moment he came (or he was
thrown out) amongst us again, and fell upon the floor. The curtains
opened again, and the full figure of "Ernest" appeared and raised the
medium by the hand. As he saw him, Mr. Eglinton fell on his knees, and
"Ernest" drew him out of sight. Thus ended the second of these two
wonderful _séances_. Thus published reports of them were signed with the
full names and addresses of those who witnessed them.

William Eglinton's powers embrace various phases of phenomena, amongst
which levitation is a common occurrence; indeed, I do not think I have
ever sat with him at a _séance_ during which he has _not_ been
levitated. I have seen him on several occasions rise, or be carried,
into the air, so that his head touched the ceiling, and his feet were
above the sitters' heads. On one occasion whilst sitting with him a
perfectly new manifestation was developed. As each spirit came the name
was announced, written on the air in letters of fire, which moved round
the circle in front of the sitters. As the names were those of friends
of the audience and not of friends of Mr. Eglinton, and the phenomenon
ended with a letter written to me in the same manner on private affairs,
it could not be attributed to a previously arranged trick. I have
accompanied Mr. Eglinton, in the capacity of interpreter, to a
professional _séance_ in Paris consisting of some forty persons, not one
of whom could speak a word of English whilst he was equally ignorant of
foreign languages. And I have heard French and German spirits return
through him to converse with their friends, who were radiant with joy at
communicating with them again, whilst their medium could not (had he
been conscious) have understood or pronounced a single word of all the
news he was so glibly repeating. I will conclude this testimony to his
powers by the account of a sitting with him for slate writing--that much
abused and most maligned manifestation. Because a few ignorant
pig-headed people who have never properly investigated the science of
Spiritualism decide that a thing cannot be, "because it can't," men of
honor and truth are voted charlatans and tricksters, and those who
believe in them fools and blind. The day will dawn yet when it will be
seen which of the two classes best deserve the name.

Some years ago, when I first became connected in business with Mr. Edgar
Lee of the _St. Stephen's Review_, I found him much interested in the
subject of Spiritualism, though he had never had an opportunity of
investigating it, and through my introduction I procured him a test
_séance_ with William Eglinton. We met one afternoon at the medium's
house in Nottingham Place for that purpose, and sat at an ordinary table
in the back dining-room for slate-writing. The slate used on the
occasion (as Mr. Lee had neglected to bring his own slate as requested)
was one which was presented to Mr. Eglinton by Mr. Gladstone. It
consisted of two slates of medium size, set in mahogany frames, with box
hinges, and which, when shut, were fastened with a Bramah lock and key.
On the table cloth was a collection of tiny pieces of different colored
chalk. In the front room, which was divided from us by folding doors,
were some bookcases. Mr. Eglinton commenced by asking Mr. Lee to go into
the front room by himself, and select, in his mind's eye, any book he
chose as the one from which extracts should be given. Mr. Lee having
done as he was told, returned to his former place beside us, without
giving a hint as to which book he had selected. Mr. Gladstone's slate
was then delivered over to him to clean with sponge and water; that
done, he was directed to choose four pieces of chalk and place them
between the slates, to lock them and retain the key. The slates were
left on the table in the sight of all; Mr. Lee's hand remained on them
all the time. All that Mr. Eglinton did was to place _his_ hand above
Mr. Lee's.

"You chose, I think," he commenced, "four morsels of chalk--white, blue,
yellow and red. Please say which word, on which line, on which page of
the book you selected just now, the white chalk shall transcribe."

Mr. Lee answered (I forget the exact numbers) somewhat in this wise,
"The 3rd word on the 15th line of the 102nd page," he having, it must be
remembered, no knowledge of the contents of the volume, which he had not
even touched with his hand. Immediately he had spoken, a scratching
noise was heard between the two slates. When it ceased, Mr. Eglinton put
the same question with regard to the blue, yellow and red chalks, which
was similarly responded to. He then asked Mr. Lee to unlock the slates,
read the words, and then fetch the book he had selected, and compare
notes, and in each instance the word had been given correctly. Several
other experiments were then made, equally curious, the number of Mr.
Lee's watch, which he had not taken from his pocket, and which he said
he did not know himself, being amongst them. Then Mr. Eglinton said to
Mr. Lee, "Have you any friend in the spirit-world from whom you would
like to hear? If so, and you will mentally recall the name, we will try
and procure some writing from him or her." (I must say here that these
two were utter strangers to each other, and had met for the first time
that afternoon, and indeed [as will be seen by the context] _I_ had a
very slight knowledge of Mr. Edgar Lee myself at that time.) Mr. Lee
thought for a moment, and then replied that there was a dead friend of
his from whom he should like to hear. The cleaning and locking process
was gone through again, and the scratching re-commenced, and when it
concluded, Mr. Lee unlocked the slates and read a letter to this
effect:--

     "My Dear Will,--I am quite satisfied with your decision respecting
     Bob. By all means, send him to the school you are thinking of. He
     will get on better there. His education requires more pushing than
     it gets at present. Thanks for all you have done for him. God bless
     you.--Your affectionate cousin,                        R. Tasker."

I do not pretend to give the exact words of this letter; for though they
were afterwards published, I have not a copy by me. But the gist of the
experiment does not lie in the exactitude of the words. When I saw the
slate, I looked at Mr. Lee in astonishment.

"Who is it for?" I asked.

"It is all right," he replied; "it is for me. It is from my cousin, who
left his boy in my charge. _My real name is William Tasker._"

Now, I had never heard it hinted before that Edgar Lee was only a _nom
de plume_, and the announcement came on me as a genuine surprise. So
satisfied was Mr. William Tasker Edgar Lee with his experimental
_séance_, that he had the slate photographed and reproduced in the _St.
Stephen's Review_, with an account of the whole proceedings, which were
sufficient to make any one stop for a moment in the midst of the world's
harassing duties and think.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE MEDIUMSHIP OF ARTHUR COLMAN.


Arthur Colman was so intimate a friend of Mr. Eglinton's, and so much
associated with him in my thoughts in the days when I first knew them
both, that it seems only natural that I should write of him next. His
powers were more confined to materialization than Eglinton's, but in
that he excelled. He is the most wonderful materializing medium I ever
met in England; but of late years, owing to the injury it did him in his
profession, he has been compelled, in justice to himself, to give up
sitting for physical manifestations, and, indeed, sitting at all, except
to oblige his friends. I cannot but consider this decision on his part
as a great public loss; but until the public takes more interest in the
next world than they do in this, it will not make it worth the while of
such as Mr. Colman to devote their lives, health and strength to their
enlightenment. For to be a good physical medium means literally to part,
little by little, with one's own life, and no man can be expected to do
so much for the love of a set of unbelievers and sceptics, who will use
up all his powers, and then go home to call him a rogue and a cheat and
a trickster. If, as I am persuaded, each one of us is surrounded by the
influences we gather of our own free-will about us--the loving and
noble-hearted by angels, the selfish and unbelieving by devils--and we
consider how the latter preponderate over the former in this world, is
it to be wondered at that most _séances_ are conducted by an assemblage
of evil spirits brought there by the sitters themselves? Sceptical,
blasphemous and sensual men and women collect together to try and find
out the falsehood, _not the truth_, of Spiritualism, and are tricked by
the very influences that attend their footsteps and direct their daily
lives; and therein lies the danger of Spiritualism as a pursuit, taken
up out of curiosity rather than a desire to learn. It gives increased
power to the evil that surrounds ourselves, and the devil that goes out
of us returns with seven other devils worse than himself. The drunkard,
who, by giving rein to a weakness which he knows he should resist, has
attracted to him the spirits of drunkards gone before, joins a _séance_,
and by the collaboration of forces, as it were, bestows increased power
on the guides he has chosen for himself to lead him into greater evil.
This dissertation, however, called forth by the never-ceasing wonder I
feel at the indifference of the world towards such sights as I have
seen, has led me further than I intended from the subject of my chapter.

Arthur Colman is a young man of delicate constitution and appearance,
who was at one time almost brought down to death's door by the demands
made by physical phenomena upon his strength; but since he has given up
sitting, he has regained his health, and looks quite a different person.
This fact proves of itself what a tax is laid upon the unfortunate
medium for such manifestations. Since he has resolved, however, never to
sit again, I am all the more anxious to record what I have seen through
him, probably for the last time. When I first knew my husband Colonel
Lean, he had seen nothing of Spiritualism, and was proportionately
curious, and naturally a little sceptical on the subject, or, rather let
me say, incredulous. He was hardly prepared to receive all the marvels I
told him of without proof; and Mr. Colman's guide, "Aimée," was very
anxious to convince him of their truth. She arranged, therefore, a
_séance_ at which he was to be present, and which was to be held at the
house of Mr. and Mrs. George Neville. The party dined there together
previously, and consisted only of Mr. and Mrs. Neville, Arthur Colman,
Colonel Lean, and myself. As we were in the drawing-room, however, after
dinner, and before we had commenced the _séance_, an American lady, who
was but slightly known to any of us, was announced. We had particularly
wished to have no strangers present, and her advent proportionately
annoyed us, but we did not know on what excuse to get rid of her. She
was a pushing sort of person; and when Mrs. Neville told her we were
going to hold a _séance_, as a sort of hint that she might take her
leave, it only made her resolve to stay; indeed, she declared she had
had a premonition of the fact. She said that whilst in her own room that
morning, a figure had appeared standing by her bed, dressed in blue and
white, like the pictures of the Virgin Mary, and that all day she had
had an impression that she must spend the evening with the Nevilles, and
she should hear something more about it. We could not get rid of the
lady, so we were obliged to ask her to remain and assist at the
_séance_, which she had already made up her mind to do, so we commenced
our preparations. The two drawing-rooms communicated by folding doors,
which were opened, and a _portière_ drawn across the opening. In the
back room we placed Mr. Colman's chair. He was dressed in a light grey
suit, which we secured in the following manner:--His hands were first
sewn inside the sleeves of the coat, then his arms were placed behind
his back, and the coat sleeves sewn together to the elbow. We then sewed
his trouser legs together in the same way. We then tied him round the
throat, waist and legs with _white cotton_, which the least movement on
his part would break, and the ends of each ligament were sealed to the
wall of the room with wax and stamped with my seal with "_Florence
Marryat_" on it. Considering him thus secure, without any _possibility_
of escape unless we discovered it, we left him in the back room, and
arranged ourselves on a row of five chairs before the _portière_ in the
front one, which was lighted by a single gas-burner. I sat at the head
of the row, then the American lady, Mrs. Neville, Colonel Lean and Mr.
Neville. I am not sure how long we waited for the manifestations; but I
do not think it was many minutes before a female figure glided from the
side of the curtain and took a vacant chair by my side. I said, "_Who is
this?_" and she whispered, "_Florence_," and laid her head down on my
shoulder, and kissed my neck. I was turning towards her to distinguish
her features more fully, when I became aware that a second figure was
standing in front of me, and "Florence" said "Mother, there is Powles;"
and at the same time, as he bent down to speak to me, his beard touched
my face. I had not had time to draw the attention of my friends to the
spirits that stood by me, when I was startled by hearing one exclamation
after another from the various sitters. The American lady called out,
"There's the woman that came to me this morning." Mr. Neville said,
"That is my father," and Colonel Lean was asking some one if he would
not give his name, I looked down the line of sitters. Before Colonel
Lean there stood an old man with a long, white beard; a somewhat similar
figure was in front of Mr. Neville. Before the dark curtain appeared a
woman dressed in blue and white, like a nun; and meanwhile, "Florence"
and "Powles" still maintained their station by my side. As if this were
not enough of itself to turn a mortal's brain, the _portière_ was at the
same moment drawn aside, and there stood Arthur Colman in his grey suit,
freed from all his bonds, but under the control of "Aimée," who called
out joyously to my husband, "_Now, Frank, will you believe?_" She
dropped the curtain, the apparitions glided or faded away, and we passed
into the back drawing-room, to find Mr. Colman still in trance, just as
we had left him, and _with all the seals and stitches_ intact. Not a
thread of them all was broken. This is the largest number of spirits I
have ever seen at one time with one medium. I have seen two materialized
spirits at a time, and even three, from Mr. Williams and Miss Showers
and Katie Cook; but on this occasion there were five apparent with the
medium, all standing together before us. And this is the sort of thing
that the majority of people do not consider it worth their while to take
a little trouble to see. I have already related how successfully
"Florence" used to materialize through this medium, and numerous
friends, utterly unknown to him, have revisited us through his means.
His trance mediumship is as wonderful as his physical phenomena; some
people might think more so. Amongst others, two spirits have come back
to us through Mr. Colman, neither of whom he knew in this life, and both
of whom are, in their way, too characteristic to be mistaken. One is
Phillis Glover the actress; the other my stepson, Francis Lean, who was
drowned by an accident at sea. Phillis Glover was a woman who led a very
eventful life, chiefly in America, and was a versatile genius in
conversation, as in everything else. She was peculiar also, and had a
half-Yankee way of talking, and a store of familiar sayings and
anecdotes, which she constantly introduced into her conversation. She
was by no means an ordinary person whilst in this life, and in order to
imitate her manner and speech successfully, one would need to be as
clever a person as herself. And, without wishing to derogate from the
powers of Mr. Colman's mind, he knows, and I know, that Phillis Glover
was cleverer than either of us. When her influence or spirit therefore
returns through him, it is quite unmistakable. It is not only that she
retains all her little tricks of voice and feature and manner (which Mr.
Colman has never seen), but she alludes to circumstances that took place
in this life and people she was associated with here that he has never
heard of. More, she will relate her old stories and anecdotes, and sing
her old songs, and give the most incontrovertible tests of her identity,
even to recalling facts and incidents that have entirely passed from our
minds. When she appears through him, it is Phillis Glover we are sitting
with again and talking with, as familiarly as we did in the days gone
by. "Francis," in his way too, is quite as remarkable. The circumstances
of his death and the events leading to it were unknown to us, till he
related them through Mr. Colman; and he speaks to us of the contents of
private letters, and repeats conversations and alludes to circumstances
and names that are known only to him and ourselves. He had a peculiar
manner also--quick and nervous--and a way of cutting his words short,
which his spirit preserves to the smallest particular, and which furnish
the strongest proofs possible of his identity to those who knew him here
below. But these are but a very few amongst the innumerable tests
furnished by Arthur Colman's occult powers of the assured possibility of
communicating with the spirits of those gone before us.




CHAPTER XV.

THE MEDIUMSHIP OF MRS. GUPPY VOLCKMAN.


The mediumship of this lady is so well known, and has been so
universally attested, that nothing I can write of could possibly add to
her fame; and as I made her acquaintance but a short time before she
relinquished sitting for manifestations, I have had but little
experience of her powers, but such as I enjoyed were very remarkable. I
have alluded to them in the story of "The Green Lady," whose apparition
was due solely to Mrs. Guppy Volckman's presence, and on that occasion
she gave us another wonderful proof of her mediumship. A sheet was
procured and held up at either end by Mr. Charles Williams and herself.
It was held in the light, in the centre of the room, forming a white
wall of about five feet high, _i.e._, as high as their arms could
conveniently reach. _Both_ the hands of Mrs. Volckman and Mr. Williams
were placed _outside_ the sheet, so that no trickery might be suspected
through their being concealed. In a short time the head of a woman
appeared above the sheet, followed by that of a man, and various pairs
of hands, both large and small, which bobbed up and down, and seized the
hands of the spectators, whilst the faces went close to the media, as if
with the intention of kissing them. This frightened Mrs. Volckman, so
that she frequently screamed and dropped her end of the sheet, which,
had there been any deception, must inevitably have exposed it. It seemed
to make no difference to the spirits, however, who reappeared directly
they had the opportunity, and made her at last so nervous that she threw
the sheet down and refused to hold it any more. The faces were
life-size, and could move their eyes and lips; the hands were some as
large as a man's, and covered with hair, and others like those of a
woman or child. They had all the capability of working the fingers and
grasping objects presented to them; whilst the four hands belonging to
the media were kept in sight of the audience, and could not have worked
machinery even if they could have concealed it.

The first time I was introduced to Mrs. Volckman (then Mrs. Guppy) was
at a _séance_ at her own house in Victoria Road, where she had assembled
a large party of guests, including several names well known in art and
literature. We sat in a well-lighted drawing-room, and the party was so
large that the circle round the table was three deep. Mrs. Mary Hardy,
the American medium (since dead), was present, and the honors of the
manifestations may be therefore, I conclude, divided between the two
ladies. The table, a common deal one, made for such occasions, with a
round hole of about twenty inches in diameter in the middle of it, was
covered with a cloth that hung down, and was nailed to the ground,
leaving only the aperture free. (I must premise that this cloth had been
nailed down by a committee of the gentlemen visitors, in order that
there might be no suspicion of a confederate hidden underneath it.) We
then sat round the table, but without placing our hands on it. In a
short time hands began to appear through the open space in the table,
all sorts of hands, from the woman's taper fingers and the baby's
dimpled fist, to the hands of old and young men, wrinkled or muscular.
Some of the hands had rings on the fingers, by which the sitters
recognized them, some stretched themselves out to be grasped; and some
appeared in pairs, clasped together or separate. One hand took a glove
from a sitter and put it on the other, showing the muscular force it
possessed by the way in which it pressed down each finger and then
buttoned the glove. Another pair of hands talked through the dumb
alphabet to us, and a third played on a musical instrument. I was
leaning forward, before I had witnessed the above, peering inquisitively
down the hole, and saying, "I wonder if they would have strength to take
anything down with them," when a large hand suddenly appeared and very
nearly took _me_ down, by seizing my nose as if it never meant to let go
again. At all events, it took me a peg or two down, for I remember it
brought the tears into my eyes with the force it exhibited. After the
hands had ceased to appear, the table was moved away, and we sat in a
circle in the light. Mrs. Guppy did not wish to take a part in the
_séance_, except as a spectator, so she retired to the back
drawing-room with the Baroness Adelma Vay and other visitors, and left
Mrs. Hardy with the circle in the front. Suddenly, however, she was
levitated and carried in the sight of us all into the midst of our
circle. As she felt herself rising in the air, she called out, "Don't
let go hands for Heaven's sake." We were standing in a ring, and I had
hold of the hand of Prince Albert of Solms. As Mrs. Guppy came sailing
over our heads, her feet caught his neck and mine, and in our anxiety to
do as she had told us, we gripped tight hold of each other, and were
thrown forward on our knees by the force with which she was carried past
us into the centre. This was a pretty strong proof to us, whatever it
may be to others, that our senses did not deceive us when we thought we
saw Mrs. Guppy over our heads in the air. The influence that levitated
her, moreover, placed her on a chair with such a bump that it broke the
two front legs off. As soon as Mrs. Guppy had rejoined us, the order was
given to put out the light and to wish for something. We unanimously
asked for flowers, it being the middle of December, and a hard frost.
Simultaneously we smelt the smell of fresh earth, and were told to light
the gas again, when the following extraordinary sight met our view. In
the middle of the sitters, still holding hands, was piled up _on the
carpet_ an immense quantity of mould, which had been torn up apparently
with the roots that accompanied it. There were laurestinus, and laurels,
and holly, and several others, just as they had been pulled out of the
earth and thrown down in the midst of us. Mrs. Guppy looked anything but
pleased at the state of her carpet, and begged the spirits would bring
something cleaner next time. They then told us to extinguish the lights
again, and each sitter was to wish _mentally_ for something for himself.
I wished for a yellow butterfly, knowing it was December, and as I
thought of it, a little cardboard box was put into my hand. Prince
Albert whispered to me, "Have you got anything?" "Yes," I said; "but not
what I asked for. I expect they have given me a piece of jewellery."
When the gas was re-lit, I opened the box, and there lay _two yellow
butterflies_; dead, of course, but none the less extraordinary for that.
I wore at that _séance_ a tight-fitting, high white muslin dress, over a
tight petticoat body. The dress had no pocket, and I carried my
handkerchief, a fine cambric one, in my hand. When the _séance_ was
over, I found this handkerchief had disappeared, at which I was vexed,
as it had been embroidered for me by my sister Emily, then dead. I
inquired of every sitter if they had seen it, even making them turn out
their pockets in case they had taken it in mistake for their own, but it
was not to be found, and I returned home, as I thought, without it. What
was my surprise on removing my dress and petticoat bodice to find the
handkerchief, neatly folded into a square of about four inches,
_between_ my stays and the garment beneath them; placed, moreover, over
the smallest part of my waist, where no fingers could have penetrated
even had my dress been loose. My woman readers may be able better than
the men to appreciate the difficulty of such a manoeuvre by mortal
means; indeed it would have been quite impossible for myself or anybody
else to place the handkerchief in such a position without removing the
stays. And it was folded so neatly also, and placed so smoothly, that
there was not a crumple in the cambric.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE MEDIUMSHIP OF FLORENCE COOK.


In writing of my own mediumship, or the mediumship of any other person,
I wish it particularly to be understood that I do not intend my
narrative to be, by any means, an account of _all séances_ held under
that control (for were I to include everything that I have seen and
heard during my researches into Spiritualism, this volume would swell to
unconscionable dimensions), but only of certain events which I believe
to be remarkable, and not enjoyed by every one in like measure. Most
people have read of the ordinary phenomena that take place at such
meetings. My readers, therefore, will find no description here of
marvels which--whether true or false--can be accounted for upon natural
grounds. Miss Florence Cook, now Mrs. Elgie Corner, is one of the media
who have been most talked of and written about. Mr. Alfred Crookes took
an immense interest in her, and published a long account of his
investigation of Spiritualism under her mediumship. Mr. Henry Dunphy, of
the _Morning Post_, wrote a series of papers for _London Society_ (of
which magazine I was then the editor), describing her powers, and the
proof she gave of them. The first time I ever met Florence Cook was in
his private house, when my little daughter appeared through her (_vide_
"The Story of my Spirit Child"). On that occasion, as we were sitting at
supper after the _séance_--a party of perhaps thirty people--the whole
dinner-table, with everything upon it, rose bodily in the air to a level
with our knees, and the dishes and glasses swayed about in a perilous
manner, without, however, coming to any permanent harm. I was so much
astonished at, and interested by, what I saw that evening, that I became
most anxious to make the personal acquaintance of Miss Cook. She was the
medium for the celebrated spirit, "Katie King," of whom so much has been
believed and disbelieved, and the _séances_ she gave at her parents'
house in Hackney for the purpose of seeing this figure alone used to be
crowded by the cleverest and most scientific men of the day, Sergeants
Cox and Ballantyne, Mr. S. C. Hall, Mr. Alfred Crookes, and many others,
being on terms of the greatest intimacy with her. Mr. William Harrison,
of the _Spiritualist_ paper, was the one to procure me an introduction
to the family and an entrance to the _séances_, for which I shall always
feel grateful to him.

For the benefit of the uninitiated, let me begin by telling _who_ "Katie
King" was supposed to be. Her account of herself was that her name was
"Annie Owens Morgan;" that she was the daughter of Sir Henry Morgan, a
famous buccaneer who lived about the time of the Commonwealth, and
suffered death upon the high seas, being, in fact, a pirate; that she
herself was about twelve years old when Charles the First was beheaded;
that she married and had two little children; that she committed more
crimes than we should like to hear of, having murdered men with her own
hands, but yet died quite young, at about two or three and twenty. To
all questions concerning the reason of her reappearance on earth, she
returned but one answer, That it was part of the work given her to do to
convince the world of the truth of Spiritualism. This was the
information I received from her own lips. She had appeared to the Cooks
some years before I saw her, and had become so much one of the family as
to walk about the house at all times without alarming the inmates. She
often materialized and got into bed with her medium at night, much to
Florrie's annoyance; and after Miss Cook's marriage to Captain Corner,
he told me himself that he used to feel at first as if he had married
two women, and was not quite sure which was his wife of the two.

The order of these _séances_ was always the same. Miss Cook retired to a
back room, divided from the audience by a thin damask curtain, and
presently the form of "Katie King" would appear dressed in white, and
walk out amongst the sitters in gaslight, and talk like one of
themselves. Florence Cook (as I mentioned before) is a very small,
slight brunette, with dark eyes and dark curly hair and a delicate
aquiline nose. Sometimes "Katie" resembled her exactly; at others, she
was totally different. Sometimes, too, she measured the same height as
her medium; at others, she was much taller. I have a large photograph
of "Katie" taken under limelight. In it she appears as the double of
Florrie Cook, yet Florrie was looking on whilst the picture was taken. I
have sat for her several times with Mr. Crookes, and seen the tests
applied which are mentioned in his book on the subject. I have seen
Florrie's dark curls _nailed down to the floor_, outside the curtain, in
view of the audience, whilst "Katie" walked about and talked with us. I
have seen Florrie placed on the scale of a weighing machine constructed
by Mr. Crookes for the purpose, behind the curtain, whilst the balance
remained in sight. I have seen under these circumstances that the medium
weighed eight stone in a normal condition, and that as soon as the
materialized form was fully developed, the balance ran up to four stone.
Moreover, I have seen both Florrie and "Katie" together on several
occasions, so I can have no doubt on the subject that they were two
separate creatures. Still, I can quite understand how difficult it must
have been for strangers to compare the strong likeness that existed
between the medium and the spirit, without suspecting they were one and
the same person. One evening "Katie" walked out and perched herself upon
my knee. I could feel she was a much plumper and heavier woman than Miss
Cook, but she wonderfully resembled her in features, and I told her so.
"Katie" did not seem to consider it a compliment. She shrugged her
shoulders, made a grimace, and said, "I know I am; I can't help it, but
I was much prettier than that in earth life. You shall see, some
day--you shall see." After she had finally retired that evening, she put
her head out at the curtain again and said, with the strong lisp she
always had, "I want Mrs. Ross-Church." I rose and went to her, when she
pulled me inside the curtain, when I found it was so thin that the gas
shining through it from the outer room made everything in the inner
quite visible. "Katie" pulled my dress impatiently and said, "Sit down
on the ground," which I did. She then seated herself in my lap, saying,
"And now, dear, we'll have a good 'confab,' like women do on earth."
Florence Cook, meanwhile, was lying on a mattress on the ground close to
us, wrapped in a deep trance. "Katie" seemed very anxious I should
ascertain beyond doubt that it was Florrie. "Touch her," she said, "take
her hand, pull her curls. Do you see that it is Florrie lying there?"
When I assured her I was quite satisfied there was no doubt of it, the
spirit said, "Then look round this way, and see what I was like in earth
life." I turned to the form in my arms, and what was my amazement to see
a woman fair as the day, with large grey or blue eyes, a white skin, and
a profusion of golden red hair. "Katie" enjoyed my surprise, and asked
me, "Ain't I prettier than Florrie now?" She then rose and procured a
pair of scissors from the table, and cut off a lock of her own hair and
a lock of the medium's, and gave them to me. I have them safe to this
day. One is almost black, soft and silky; the other a coarse golden red.
After she had made me this present, "Katie" said, "Go back now, but
don't tell the others to-night, or they'll all want to see me." On
another very warm evening she sat on my lap amongst the audience, and I
felt perspiration on her arm. This surprised me; and I asked her if, for
the time being, she had the veins, nerves, and secretions of a human
being; if blood ran through her body, and she had a heart and lungs. Her
answer was, "I have everything that Florrie has." On that occasion also
she called me after her into the back room, and, dropping her white
garment, stood perfectly naked before me. "Now," she said "you can see
that I am a woman." Which indeed she was, and a most beautifully-made
woman too; and I examined her well, whilst Miss Cook lay beside us on
the floor. Instead of dismissing me this time, "Katie" told me to sit
down by the medium, and, having brought me a candle and matches, said I
was to strike a light as soon as she gave three knocks, as Florrie would
be hysterical on awaking, and need my assistance. She then knelt down
and kissed me, and I saw she was still naked. "Where is your dress,
Katie?" I asked. "Oh that's gone," she said; "I've sent it on before
me." As she spoke thus, kneeling beside me, she rapped three times on
the floor. I struck the match almost simultaneously with the signal; but
as it flared up, "Katie King" was gone like a flash of lightning, and
Miss Cook, as she had predicted, awoke with a burst of frightened tears,
and had to be soothed into tranquillity again. On another occasion
"Katie King" was asked at the beginning of the _séance_, by one of the
company, to say _why_ she could not appear in the light of more than one
gasburner. The question seemed to irritate her, and she replied, "I have
told you all, several times before, that I can't stay under a searching
light. I don't know _why_; but I can't, and if you want to prove the
truth of what I say, turn up all the gas and see what will happen to me.
Only remember, it you do there will be no _séance_ to-night, because I
shan't be able to come back again, and you must take your choice."

Upon this assertion it was put to the vote if the trial should be made
or not, and all present (Mr. S. C. Hall was one of the party) decided we
would prefer to witness the effect of a full glare of gas upon the
materialized form than to have the usual sitting, as it would settle the
vexed question of the necessity of gloom (if not darkness) for a
materializing _séance_ for ever. We accordingly told "Katie" of our
choice, and she consented to stand the test, though she said afterwards
we had put her to much pain. She took up her station against the
drawing-room wall, with her arms extended as if she were crucified. Then
three gas-burners were turned on to their full extent in a room about
sixteen feet square. The effect upon "Katie King" was marvellous. She
looked like herself for the space of a second only, then she began
gradually to melt away. I can compare the dematerialization of her form
to nothing but a wax doll melting before a hot fire. First, the features
became blurred and indistinct; they seemed to run into each other. The
eyes sunk in the sockets, the nose disappeared, the frontal bone fell
in. Next the limbs appeared to give way under her, and she sank lower
and lower on the carpet like a crumbling edifice. At last there was
_nothing but her head_ left above the ground--then a heap of white
drapery only, which disappeared with a whisk, as if a hand had pulled it
after her--and we were left staring by the light of three gas-burners at
the spot on which "Katie King" had stood.

She was always attired in white drapery, but it varied in quality.
Sometimes it looked like long cloth; at others like mull muslin or
jaconet; oftenest it was a species of thick cotton net. The sitters were
much given to asking "Katie" for a piece of her dress to keep as a
souvenir of their visit; and when they received it, would seal it up
carefully in an envelope and convey it home; and were much surprised on
examining their treasure to find it had totally disappeared.

"Katie" used to say that nothing material about her could be made to
last without taking away some of the medium's vitality, and weakening
her in consequence. One evening, when she was cutting off pieces of her
dress rather lavishly, I remarked that it would require a great deal of
mending. She answered, "I'll show you how we mend dresses in the Spirit
World." She then doubled up the front breadth of her garment a dozen
times, and cut two or three round holes in it. I am sure when she let it
fall again there must have been thirty or forty holes, and "Katie" said,
"Isn't that a nice cullender?"

She then commenced, whilst we stood close to her, to shake her skirt
gently about, and in a minute it was as perfect as before, without a
hole to be seen. When we expressed our astonishment, she told me to take
the scissors and cut off her hair. She had a profusion of ringlets
falling to her waist that night. I obeyed religiously, hacking the hair
wherever I could, whilst she kept on saying, "Cut more! cut more! not
for yourself, you know, because you can't take it away."

So I cut off curl after curl, and as fast as they fell to the ground,
_the hair grew again upon her head_. When I had finished, "Katie" asked
me to examine her hair, to see if I could detect any place where I had
used the scissors, and I did so without any effect. Neither was the
severed hair to be found. It had vanished out of sight. "Katie" was
photographed many times, by limelight, by Mr. Alfred Crookes, but her
portraits are all too much like her medium to be of any value in
establishing her claim to a separate identity. She had always stated she
should not appear on this earth after the month of May, 1874; and
accordingly, on the 21st, she assembled her friends to say "Good-bye" to
them, and I was one of the number. "Katie" had asked Miss Cook to
provide her with a large basket of flowers and ribbons, and she sat on
the floor and made up a bouquet for each of her friends to keep in
remembrance of her.

Mine, which consists of lilies of the valley and pink geranium, looks
almost as fresh to-day, nearly seventeen years after, as it did when she
gave it to me. It was accompanied by the following words, which "Katie"
wrote on a sheet of paper in my presence:--

     "From Annie Owen de Morgan (_alias_ 'Katie') to her friend Florence
     Marryat Ross-Church. With love. _Pensez à moi._
     "_May 21st, 1874._"

The farewell scene was as pathetic as if we had been parting with a dear
companion by death. "Katie" herself did not seem to know how to go. She
returned again and again to have a last look, especially at Mr. Alfred
Crookes, who was as attached to her as she was to him. Her prediction
has been fulfilled, and from that day, Florence Cook never saw her again
nor heard anything about her. Her place was shortly filled by another
influence, who called herself "Marie," and who danced and sung in a
truly professional style, and certainly as Miss Cook never either danced
or sung. I should not have mentioned the appearance of this spirit, whom
I only saw once or twice, excepting for the following reason. On one
occasion Miss Cook (then Mrs. Corner) was giving a public _séance_ at
the rooms of the National British Association of Spiritualists, at which
a certain Sir George Sitwell, a very young man, was present, and at
which he declared that the medium cheated, and that the spirit "Marie"
was herself, dressed up to deceive the audience. Letters appeared in the
newspapers about it, and the whole press came down upon Spiritualists,
and declared them all to be either knaves or fools. These notices were
published on the morning of a day on which Miss Cook was engaged to give
another public _séance_, at which I was present. She was naturally very
much cut up about them. Her reputation was at stake; her honor had been
called into question, and being a proud girl, she resented it bitterly.
Her present audience was chiefly composed of friends; but, before
commencing, she put it to us whether, whilst under such a stigma, she
had better not sit at all. We, who had all tested her and believed in
her, were unanimous in repudiating the vile charges brought against her,
and in begging the _séance_ should proceed. Florrie refused, however, to
sit unless some one remained in the cabinet with her, and she chose me
for the purpose. I was therefore tied to her securely with a stout rope,
and we remained thus fastened together for the whole of the evening.
Under which conditions "Marie" appeared, and sung and danced outside the
cabinet, just as she had done to Sir George Sitwell whilst her medium
remained tied to me. So much for men who decide a matter before they
have sifted it to the bottom. Mrs. Elgie Corner has long since given up
mediumship either private or public, and lives deep down in the heart
of Wales, where the babble and scandal of the city affect her no longer.
But she told me, only last year, that she would not pass through the
suffering she had endured on account of Spiritualism again for all the
good this world could give her.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE MEDIUMSHIP OF KATIE COOK.


In the matter of producing physical phenomena the Cooks are a most
remarkable family, all three daughters being powerful media, and that
without any solicitation on their part. The second one, Katie, is by no
means the least powerful of the three, although she has sat more
privately than her sister Florence, and not had the same scientific
tests (I believe) applied to her. The first time I had an opportunity of
testing Katie's mediumship was at the private rooms of Signor Rondi, in
a circle of nine or ten friends. The apartment was small and sparsely
furnished, being an artist's studio. The gas was kept burning, and
before the sitting commenced the door was locked and strips of paper
pasted over the opening inside. The cabinet was formed of a window
curtain nailed across one corner of the room, behind which a chair was
placed for the medium, who is a remarkably small and slight girl--much
slighter than her sister Florence--with a thin face and delicate
features. She was dressed, on this occasion, in a tight-fitting black
gown and Hessian boots that buttoned half-way to her knee, and which,
she informed me, she always wore when sitting (just as Miss Showers
did), because they had each eighteen buttons, which took a long time to
fasten and unfasten. The party sat in a semicircle, close outside the
curtain, and the light was lowered, but not extinguished. There was no
darkness, and no holding of hands. I mention these facts to show how
very simple the preparations were. In a few minutes the curtain was
lifted, and a form, clothed in white, who called herself "Lily," was
presented to our view. She answered several questions relative to
herself and the medium; and perceiving some doubt on the part of some of
the sitters, she seated herself on my knee, I being nearest the curtain,
and asked me to feel her body, and tell the others how differently she
was made from the medium. I had already realized that she was much
heavier than Katie Cook, as she felt like a heavy girl of nine or ten
stone. I then passed my hand up and down her figure. She had full
breasts and plump arms and legs, and could not have been mistaken by the
most casual observers for Miss Cook. Whilst she sat on my knee, however,
she desired my husband and Signor Rondi to go inside the curtain and
feel that the medium was seated in her chair. When they did so, they
found Katie was only half entranced. She thrust her feet out to view,
and said, "I am not 'Lily;' feel my boots." My husband had, at the same
moment, one hand on Miss Cook's knee, and the other stretched out to
feel the figure seated on my lap. There remained no doubt in _his_ mind
of there being two bodies there at the same time. Presently "Lily"
passed her hand over my dress, and remarked how nice and warm it was,
and how she wished she had one on too. I asked her, "Are you cold?" and
she said, "Wouldn't you be cold if you had nothing but this white thing
on?" Half-jestingly, I took my fur cloak, which was on a sofa close by,
and put it round her shoulders, and told her to wear it. "Lily" seemed
delighted. She exclaimed, "Oh, how warm it is! May I take it away with
me?" I said, "Yes, if you will bring it back before I go home. I have
nothing else to wear, remember." She promised she would, and left my
side. In another moment she called out, "Turn up the gas!" We did so.
"Lily" was gone, and so was my large fur cloak! We searched the little
room round for it. It had entirely disappeared. There was a locked
cupboard in which Signor Rondi kept drawing materials. I insisted on its
being opened, although he declared it had not been unlocked for weeks,
and we found it full of dust and drawing blocks, but nothing else, so
the light was again lowered, and the _séance_ resumed. In a short time
the heavy cloak was flung, apparently from the ceiling, evidently from
somewhere higher than my head, and fell right over it.

I laid it again on the sofa, and thought no more about it until I
returned home. I then found, to my astonishment, and considerably to my
annoyance, that the fur of my cloak (which was a new one) was all coming
out. My dress was covered with it, and from that day I was never able to
wear the cloak again. "Lily" said she had _de_-materialized it, to take
it away. Of the truth of that assertion I had no proof, but I am quite
sure that she did not put it together again when she brought it back. An
army of moths encamped in it could not have damaged it more, and I can
vouch that until that evening the fur had been as perfect as when I
purchased it.

I think my next sitting with Katie Cook was at a _séance_ held in Museum
Street, and on the invitation of Mr. Chas. Blackburn, who is one of the
most earnest friends of Spiritualism, and has expended a large amount of
money in its research. The only other guests were my husband, and
General and Mrs. Maclean. We sat round a small uncovered table with the
gas burning and _without a cabinet_, Miss Katie Cook had a seat between
General Maclean and myself, and we made sure of her proximity to us
during the whole _séance_. In fact, I never let go of her hand, and even
when she wished to use her pocket-handkerchief, she had to do it with my
hand clinging to her own. Neither did she go into a trance. We spoke to
her occasionally during the sitting, and she answered us, though in a
very subdued voice, as she complained of being sick and faint. In about
twenty minutes, during which the usual manifestations occurred, the
materialized form of "Lily" appeared _in the middle of the table_, and
spoke to us and kissed us all in turn. Her face was very small, and she
was _only formed to the waist_, but her flesh was quite firm and warm.
Whilst "Lily" occupied the table in the full sight of all the sitters,
and I had my hand upon Miss Cook's figure (for I kept passing my hand up
and down from her face to her knees, to make sure it was not only a hand
I held), some one grasped my chair from behind and shook it, and when I
turned my head and spoke, in a moment one arm was round my neck and one
round the neck of my husband, who sat next to me, whilst the voice of my
daughter "Florence" spoke to us both, and her long hair and her soft
white dress swept over our faces and hands. Her hair was so abundant and
long, that she shook it out over my lap, that I might feel its length
and texture. I asked "Florence" for a piece of her hair and dress, and
scissors not being forthcoming, "Lily" materialized more fully, and
walked round from the other side of the table and cut off a piece of
"Florence's" dress herself with my husband's penknife, but said they
could not give me the hair that time. The two spirits remained with us
for, perhaps, half an hour or more, whilst General Maclean and I
continued to hold Miss Cook a prisoner. The power then failing, they
disappeared, but every one present was ready to take his oath that two
presences had been with us that never entered at the door. The room was
small and unfurnished, the gas was burning, the medium sat for the whole
time in our sight. Mrs. Maclean and I were the only other women present,
yet two girls bent over and kissed us, spoke to us, and placed their
bare arms on our necks at one and the same time. There was again also a
marked difference between the medium and the materializations. I have
already described her appearance. Both of these spirits had plump faces
and figures, my daughter "Florence's" hands especially being large and
firm, and her loose hair nearly down to her knees.

I had the pleasure of holding another _séance_ with Katie Cook in the
same rooms, when a new manifestation occurred. She is (as I have said) a
very small woman, with very short arms. I am, on the contrary, a very
large woman, with very long arms, yet the arm of the hand I held was
elongated to such an extent that it reached the sitters on the other
side of the table, where it would have been impossible for mine to
follow it. I should think the limb must have been stretched to thrice
its natural length, and that in the sight of everybody. I sat again with
Katie Cook in her own house, where, if trickery is employed, she had
every opportunity of tricking us, but the manifestations were much the
same, and certainly not more marvellous than those she had exhibited in
the houses of strangers. "Lily" and "Florence" both appeared at the same
time, under circumstances that admitted of no possibility of fraud. My
husband and I were accompanied on that occasion by our friends, Captain
and Mrs. Kendal, and the order of sitting round the table was as
follows:--Myself, Katie, Captain K., Florence Cook, my husband, Mrs.
Cook, Mrs. Kendal. Each member of the family, it will be observed, was
held between two detectives, and their hands were not once set free. I
must say also that the _séance_ was a free one, courteously accorded us
on the invitation of Mrs. Cook; and if deception had been intended, we
and our friends might just as well have been left to sit with Katie
alone, whilst the other members of the family superintended the
manifestation of the "ghosts" outside. Miss Florence Cook, indeed (Mrs.
Corner), objected at first to sitting with us, on the score that her
mediumship usually neutralized that of her sister, but her mother
insisted on her joining the circle, lest any suspicion should be excited
by her absence. The Cooks, indeed, are, all of them, rather averse to
sitting than not, and cordially agree in disliking the powers that have
been thrust upon them against their own will.

These influences take possession of them, unfitting them for more
practical work, and they must live. This is, I believe, the sole reason
that they have never tried to make money by the exercise of their
mediumship. But I, for one, fully believe them when they tell me that
they consider the fact of their being media as the greatest misfortune
that has ever happened to them. On the occasion of this last _séance_,
cherries and rosebuds were showered in profusion on the table during the
evening. These may easily be believed to have been secreted in the room
before the commencement of the sitting, and produced at the proper
opportunity, although the hands of everybody interested in their
production were fast held by strangers. But it is less easy to believe
that a lady of limited income, like Mrs. Cook, should go to such an
expense for an unpaid _séance_, for the purpose of making converts of
people who were strangers to her. Mediumship pays very badly as it is. I
am afraid it would pay still worse if the poor media had to purchase the
means for producing the phenomena, especially when, in a town like
London, they run (as in this instance) to hothouse fruit and flowers.

One more example of Katie Cook's powers and I have done. We were
assembled one evening by the invitation of Mr. Charles Blackburn at his
house, Elgin Crescent. We sat in a small breakfast room on the basement
floor, so small, indeed, for the size of the party, that as we encircled
a large round table, the sitters' backs touched the wall on either side,
thus entirely preventing any one crossing the room whilst we were
established there. The only piece of furniture of any consequence in the
room, beside the chairs and table, was a trichord cabinet piano,
belonging to Mrs. Cook (who was keeping house at the time for Mr.
Blackburn), and which she much valued.

Katie Cook sat amongst us as usual. In the middle of the _séance_ her
control "Lily," who was materialized, called out, "Keep hands fast.
Don't let go, whatever you do!" And at the same time, without seeing
anything (for we were sitting in complete darkness), we became conscious
that something large and heavy was passing or being carried over our
heads. One of the ladies of the party became nervous, and dropped her
neighbor's hand with a cry of alarm, and, at the same moment, a weighty
body fell with a fearful crash on the other side of the room. "Lily"
exclaimed, "Some one has let go hands," and Mrs. Cook called out; "Oh!
it's my piano." Lights were struck, when we found the cabinet piano had
actually been carried from its original position right over our heads to
the opposite side of the room, where it had fallen on the floor and been
seriously damaged. The two carved legs were broken off, and the sounding
board smashed in. Any one who had heard poor Mrs. Cook's lamentations
over the ruin of her favorite instrument, and the expense it would
entail to get it restored, would have felt little doubt as to whether
_she_ had been a willing victim to this unwelcome proof of her
daughter's physical mediumship.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE MEDIUMSHIP OF BESSIE FITZGERALD.


One evening I went to have a cup of tea with my friend Miss Schonberg at
Shepherd's Bush, when she proposed that we should go and have a _séance_
with Mrs. Henry Jencken (Kate Fox), who lived close by. I hailed the
idea, as I had heard such great things of the medium in question, and
never had an opportunity of testing them. Consequently, I was
proportionately disappointed when, on sending round to her house to ask
if she could receive us that evening, we received a message to say that
Mr. Jencken, her husband, had died that morning, and she could see no
one. Miss Schonberg and I immediately cast about in our minds to see
what we should do with our time, and she suggested we should call on
Mrs. Fitzgerald. "Who is Mrs. Fitzgerald?" I queried. "A wonderful
medium," replied my friend, "whom I met at Mrs. Wilson's last week, and
who gave me leave to call on her. Let us go together." And accordingly
we set forth for Mrs. Fitzgerald's residence in the Goldhawk Road. I
only mention these circumstances to show how utterly unpremeditated was
my first visit to her. We arrived at her house, and were ushered into a
sitting-room, Miss Schonberg only sending up her name. In a few minutes
the door opened, and a small, fair woman, dressed in black velvet,
entered the room. Miss Schonberg saluted her, and was about to tender
some explanation regarding _my_ presence there, when Mrs. Fitzgerald
walked straight up to me and took my hand. Her eyes seemed to dilate and
contract, like the opening and shutting off of a light, in a manner
which I have often seen since, and she uttered rapidly, "You have been
married once; you have been married twice; and you will be married a
third time." I answered, "If you know anything, Mrs. Fitzgerald, you
must know that I am very much attached to my husband, and that your
information can give me no pleasure to hear." "No!" she said, "no! I
suppose not, but you cannot alter Fate." She then proceeded to speak of
things in my past life which had had the greatest influence over the
whole of it, occurrences of so private and important a nature that it
becomes impossible to write them down here, and for that very reason
doubly convincing to the person whom they concern. Presently Mrs.
Fitzgerald wandered to her piano, and commenced to play the air of the
ballad so firmly connected in my mind with John Powles, "Thou art gone
from my gaze," whilst she turned and nodded at me saying, "_He's_ here!"
In fact, after a couple of hours' conversation with her, I felt that
this stranger in the black velvet dress had turned out every secret of
my life, and laid it naked and bare before me. I was wonderfully
attracted to her. Her personality pleased me; her lonely life, living
with her two babies in the Goldhawk Road, made me anxious to give her
society and pleasure, and her wonderful gifts of clairvoyance and trance
mediumship, all combined to make me desire her friendship, and I gave
her a cordial invitation to my house in the Regent's Park, where for
some years she was a constant visitor, and always sure of a hearty
welcome. It was due to her kindness that I first had the opportunity to
study trance mediumship at my leisure, and in a short time we became so
familiar with her most constant control, "Dewdrop," a Red Indian girl,
and so accustomed to speak through Mrs. Fitzgerald with our own friends
gone before, that we welcomed her advent to our house as the signal for
holding a spiritual party. For the sake of the uninitiated and curious,
I think I had better here describe what is meant by trance mediumship. A
person thus gifted has the power of giving him or herself up to the
control of the influences in command, who send him or her off to sleep,
a sleep so deep and so like death that the spirit is actually parted
_pro tem_ from the body, which other spirits, sometimes living, but far
oftener dead, enter and use as if it were their own. I have mentioned in
my chapter on "Embodied Spirits" how my living friend in India conversed
with me through Bessie Fitzgerald in this way, also how "Florence" spoke
to me through the unconscious lips of Mabel Keningale Cook.

Of course, I am aware that it would be so easy for a medium simply to
close her eyes, and, professing to be entranced, talk a lot of
commonplaces, which open-mouthed fools might accept as a new gospel,
that it becomes imperative to test this class of media strictly by _what
they utter_, and to place no faith in them until you are convinced that
the matters they speak of cannot possibly have been known to any one
except the friend whose mouthpiece they profess to be. All this I fully
proved for myself from repeated trials and researches; but the
unfortunate part of it is, that the more forcible and convincing the
private proof, the more difficult it is to place it before the public. I
must content myself, therefore, with saying that some of my dead friends
(so called) came back to me so frequently through Bessie Fitzgerald, and
familiarized themselves so completely with my present life, that I
forgot sometimes that they had left this world, and flew to them (or
rather to Bessie) to seek their advice or ask their sympathy as
naturally as if she were their earthly form. Of these my daughter
"Florence" was necessarily the most often with me, and she and "Dewdrop"
generally divided the time which Mrs. Fitzgerald spent with us between
them. I never saw a control so completely identified with its medium as
"Dewdrop" was with Bessie. It was difficult at times to know which was
which, and one could never be certain until she spoke whether the spirit
or the medium had entered the house. When she _did_ speak, however,
there was no mistaking them. Their characters were so different. Bessie
Fitzgerald, a quiet, soft spoken little woman, devoted to her children,
and generally unobtrusive; "Dewdrop," a Sioux Indian girl, wary and deep
as her tribe and cute and saucy as a Yankee, with an amount of devilry
in her that must at times have proved very inconvenient. She used to
play Mrs. Fitzgerald tricks in those days that might have brought her
into serious trouble, such as controlling her whilst travelling in an
omnibus, and talking her Yankee Indian to the passengers until she had
made their hair stand on end, with the suspicion that they had a lunatic
for a companion. One evening we had a large and rather "swell" evening
party, chiefly composed of ladies and gentlemen of the theatrical
profession, and entirely of non-spiritualists, excepting ourselves. Mrs.
Fitzgerald had been invited to this party, and declined, because it was
out of her line. We were therefore rather astonished, when all the
guests were assembled, to hear her name announced and see her enter the
room in a morning dress. Directly I cast eyes upon her, however, I saw
that it was not herself, but "Dewdrop." The stride with which she
walked, the waggish way she rolled from side to side, the devilry in her
eye, all betokened the Indian control. To make matters worse, she went
straight up to Colonel Lean, and, throwing herself on the ground at his
feet, affectionately laid her head upon his knee, and said, "I'se come
to the party." Imagine the astonishment of our guests! I was obliged at
once, in defence of my friend, to explain to them how matters stood; and
though they looked rather incredulous, they were immensely interested,
and "Dewdrop's" visit proved to be _the_ event of the evening. She
talked to each one separately, telling them home truths, and prophesying
their future in a way that made their cheeks go pale with fright, or red
with conscious shame, and there was quite a contest between the men as
to who should take "Dewdrop" down to the supper table. When there, she
made herself particularly lively, making personal remarks aloud that
were, in some instances, rather trying to listen to, and which Bessie
Fitzgerald would have cut out her tongue sooner than utter. She ate,
too, of dishes which would have made Bessie ill for a week. This was
another strange peculiarity of "Dewdrop's" control. She not only ousted
the spirit; she regulated the internal machinery of her medium's body.
Bessie in her normal condition was a very delicate woman with a weak
heart and lungs, and obliged to be most careful in her diet. She ate
like a sparrow, and of the simplest things. "Dewdrop," on the other
hand, liked indigestible food, and devoured it freely; yet Bessie has
told me that she never felt any inconvenience from the food amalgamated
with her system whilst under "Dewdrop's" control. One day when Mrs.
Fitzgerald was dining with us, we had some apples at dessert, which she
would have liked to partake of, but was too much afraid of the after
consequences. "I _dare_ not," she said; "if I were to eat a raw apple, I
should have indigestion for a week." She took some preserved ginger
instead; and we were proceeding with our dessert, when I saw her hand
steal out and grasp an apple. I looked in her face. "Dewdrop" had taken
her place. "Dewdrop," I said, authoritatively, "you must not eat that.
You will hurt Bessie. Put it down directly."

"I shan't," replied "Dewdrop," drawing the dish towards her; "I like
apples. I'm always wanting 'Medy' to eat them, and she won't, so she
must go away till I've had as many as I want." And in effect she ate
three or four of them, and Bessie would never have been cognizant of the
fact unless I had informed her. On the occasion of the party to which
she came uninvited, "Dewdrop" remained with us to the very last, and
went home in a cab, and landed Mrs. Fitzgerald at her house without her
being aware that she had ever left it. At that time we were constantly
at each other's houses, and many an evening have I spent alone with
Bessie in the Goldhawk Road, her servant out marketing and her little
children asleep in the room overhead. Her baby was then a great fat
fellow of about fifteen months old, who was given to waking and crying
for his mother. If "Dewdrop" were present, she was always very impatient
with these interruptions. "Bother dat George," she would say; "I must go
up and quiet him." Then she would disappear for a few minutes, while
Bessie woke and talked to me, and then, in the twinkling of an eye,
"Dewdrop" would be back again. One day, apparently, "George" would not
be comforted, for on "Dewdrop's" return she said to me, "It's no good;
I've had to bring him down. He's on the mat outside the door;" and
there, sure enough, we found the poor baby wailing in his nightshirt.
Not being able to walk, how he had been spirited from the top storey to
the bottom I leave my readers to determine. Bessie's little girl Mabel
promised to be as wonderful a medium as her mother. She would come in
from the garden flushed from her play with the "spirit-children," of
whom she talked as familiarly as of her little neighbors next door. I
have watched her playing at ball with an invisible child, and have seen
the ball thrown, arrested half-way in the air, and then tossed back
again just as if a living child had been Mab's opponent. I had lost
several infants from premature birth during my second marriage, and the
eldest of these, a girl, appeared to be a constant companion of Mabel's.
She was always talking of what "Mrs. Lean's girl" (as she called her)
had done and said; and one day she had a violent fit of weeping because
her mother would not promise to buy her a frock like the one "Mrs.
Lean's girl" wore.

_Apropos_ of these still-born children, I had a curious experience with
Mrs. Fitzgerald. I had had no idea until then that children so born
possessed any souls, or lived again, but "Florence" undeceived me when
she told me she had charge of her little brothers and sisters. She even
professed to know the names by which they were known in the spirit
world. When a still-born baby is launched upon the other side, she said
it is delivered over to the nearest relative of its parent, to be called
by what name he may choose. Thus my first girl was christened by Colonel
Lean's mother "Gertrude," after a bosom friend of hers, and my second my
father named "Joan," as he said it was his favorite female name. Upon
subsequent inquiry, we found that Mrs. Lean _had_ a friend called
"Gertrude," and that "Joan" was distinctly Captain Marryat's _beau
ideal_ of a woman's name. However, that signified but little. I became
very curious to see or speak with these unknown babies of mine, and used
to worry "Florence" to bring them to me. She would expostulate with me
after this fashion: "Dear mother, be reasonable. Remember what babies
they are, and that this world is quite strange to them. When your
earthly children were small you never allowed them to be brought down
before strangers, for fear they should cry. 'Gertie' and 'Yonnie' would
behave just the same if I brought them back to you now." However, I went
on teasing her till she made the attempt, and "Gertie" returned through
Mrs. Fitzgerald. It was a long time before we could coax her to remain
with us, and when she overcame her first shyness, it was like talking to
a little savage. "Gertie" didn't know the meaning of anything, or the
names of anything. Her incessant questions of "What's a father?" "What a
mother?" "What's a dog?" were very difficult to answer; but she would
chatter about the spirit-world, and what she did there, as glibly as
possible. She told us that she knew her brother Francis (the lad who was
drowned at sea) very well, and she "ran races, and Francis 'chivied'
her; and when he caught her, he held her under the fountain, and the
spray wetted her frock, and made it look like silver." The word
"_chivied_" sounding to me very much of a mundane character, I asked
"Gertie" where she learned it; and she said, "Francis says 'chivy,' so
_I_ may," and it was indeed a common expression with him. "Gertie" took,
after a while, such a keen interest in my ornaments and china, rather to
their endangerment, that I bought a doll to see if she would play with
it. At first she was vastly delighted with the "little spirit," as she
called it, and nursed it just as a mortal child would have done. But
when she began to question me as to the reason the doll did not look at
her, or answer her, or move about, and I said it was because it was not
alive, she was dreadfully disappointed. "_Not alive!_" she echoed;
"didn't God make it?" and when I replied in the negative, she threw it
to the other end of the room, and would never look at it again.

"Gertie" was about five years old at this period, and seemed to have a
great idea of her own importance. She always announced herself as "The
Princess Gertie," and was very dignified in her behavior. One day, when
a lady friend was present when "Gertie" came and asked her to kiss her,
she extended her hand instead of her face, saying, "You may kiss my
hand."

"Yonnie" (as "Joan" called herself) was but eighteen months old, and
used to manifest herself, _roaring_ like a child forcibly dragged before
strangers, and the only word we could ever extract from her was
"Sugar-plums." Accordingly, I invested in some for her benefit, with
which she filled her mouth so full as nearly to choke the medium, and
"Florence" rebuked me seriously for my carelessness, and threatened
never to bring "Yonnie" down to this earth again. There had been three
other children--boys--whom I was equally anxious to see again, but, for
some inexplicable reason, "Florence" said it was impossible that they
could manifest. The little girls, however, came until we were quite
familiar with them. I am aware that all this must sound very childish,
but had it not borne a remarkable context, I should not have related it.
All the wonder of it will be found later on.

Mrs. Fitzgerald suffered very much at this time from insomnia, which she
always declared was benefitted after a visit to me. I proposed one
night, therefore, when she had stayed with us later than usual, that she
should remain and share my bed, and return home in the morning. She
consented, and at the usual hour we retired to rest together, I taking
care to lock the bedroom door and keep the gas burning; indeed, Bessie
was so nervous of what she might see that she would not have remained in
the dark for any consideration. The bed we occupied was what is called a
half tester, with a canopy and curtains on either side. As soon as ever
Bessie got into it, she burrowed under the clothes like a dormouse, and
went fast asleep. I was too curious to see what might happen to follow
her example, so my head remained on the pillow, and my eyes wide open,
and turning in every direction. Presently I saw the curtains on the
opposite side of the bed gently shaken, next a white hand and arm
appeared round them, and was passed up and down the ridge that
represented Bessie Fitzgerald's body; finally, after several times
stepping forward and retreating again, a female figure emerged and
walked to the foot of the bedstead and stood there regarding me. She
was, to all appearance, as solidly formed as any human creature could
be, and she was as perfectly distinct as though seen by daylight. Her
head and bust reminded me at once of the celebrated "Clytie," they were
so classically and beautifully formed. Her hair and skin were fair, her
eyes luminously liquid and gentle, her whole attitude one of modest
dignity. She was clothed in some creamy white material, thick and soft,
and intermixed with dull gold. She wore no ornaments, but in her right
hand she carried a long branch of palm, or olive, or myrtle, something
tall and tapering, and of dark green. She scarcely could be said to
smile at me, but there was an indescribable appearance of peace and
tranquillity about her. When I described this apparition to Bessie in
the morning, she recognized it at once as that of her control,
"Goodness," whom she had seen clairvoyantly, but she affirmed that I was
the only person who had ever given her a correct description of this
influence, which was the best and purest about her. After "Goodness" had
remained in the same position for a few minutes, she walked back again
behind the curtain, which served as a cabinet, and "Florence" came out
and had a whispered conversation with me. Next a dark face, but only a
face, said to be that of "Dewdrop," peeped out four or five times, and
disappeared again; then a voice said, "No more! good-night," and I
turned round to where Bessie lay sleeping beside me, and went to sleep
myself. After that, she often came, when suffering worse than usual from
insomnia, to pass the night with me, as she said my magnetism caused her
to sleep, and similar manifestations always occurred when we were alone
and together.

Mrs. Fitzgerald's mediumship was by no means used, however, for the sole
purpose of gratifying curiosity or foretelling the future. She was a
wonderful medical diagnoser, and sat for a long time in the service of a
well-known medical man. She would be ensconced in a corner of his
waiting-room and tell him the exact disease of each patient that
entered. She told me she could see the inside of everybody as perfectly
as though they were made of glass. This gift, however, induced her to
take on a reflection (as it were) of the disease she diagnosed, and
after a while her failing strength compelled her to give it up. Her
control "Dewdrop" was what she called herself, "a metal spirit," _i.e._,
her advice was very trustworthy with regard to all speculations and
monetary transactions. Many stockbrokers and city men used regularly to
consult Bessie before they engaged in any speculation, and she received
many valuable presents in return for her assistance in "making a pile."
One gentleman, indeed, settled a large sum of money when he died on her
little son in gratitude for the fortune "Dewdrop" had helped him to
accumulate. Persons who sneer at Spiritualism and declare it to be
useless, little know how much advantage is taken of spiritual
forethought and prevision by those who believe in it. I have never been
sorry but when I have neglected to follow the advice of a medium whom I
had proved to be trustworthy.

In the autumn of 1883 I introduced my own entertainment of "Love
Letters" to the provincial British public, and it had an immediate and
undeniable success. My engagements poured in rapidly, and I had already
booked dates for the whole spring of 1884, when Mr. Edgar Bruce offered
me an engagement at the Prince of Wales' (then the Prince's) Theatre,
about to be opened in Piccadilly. I had been anxiously waiting to obtain
an engagement on the London boards, and was eager to accept it; still, I
did not know if I would be wise in relinquishing my provincial
engagements. I wrote to Bessie to ask "Dewdrop" what I should do; the
answer was, "Don't accept, only a flash in the pan." Thereupon I sent to
Mr. Bruce to ask how long the engagement was likely to last, and his
answer was that he expected "The Palace of Truth" to run a year at
least, and at any rate I was to consider myself one of a "stock
company." Thereupon I cancelled all my entertainment engagements,
returned to London, appeared at the Prince's Theatre for just _eleven_
_weeks_, and got into four law suits with my disappointed patrons for my
trouble.

It is one of the commonest remarks made by stupid people, "If the
spirits know anything, let them tell me the name of the winner of the
Derby, and then I will believe them," etc. I was speaking of this once
to "Dewdrop," and she said, "We _could_ tell if we choose, but we are
not allowed to do so. If Spiritualism was generally used for such
things, all the world would rush to it in order to cheat one another.
But if you will promise me not to open it until after the Derby is run,
I will give you the name of the winner now in a sealed envelope, to
prove that what I say is the truth." We gave her the requisite
materials, and she made a few pencil marks on a piece of paper, and
sealed it up. It was the year that "Shotover" won the Derby. The day
after the race, we opened the envelope and found the drawing of a man
with a gun in his hand, a hedge, and a bird flying away on the other
side; very sketchy, but perfectly intelligible to one who could read
between the lines.

I was at the theatre one night with Bessie in a box, when I found out
that "Dewdrop" had taken her place. "Dewdrop" was very fond of going to
the play, and her remarks were so funny and so naïve as to keep one
constantly amused. Presently, between the acts, she said to me, "Do you
see that man in the front row of the stalls with a bald head, sitting
next to the old lady with a fat neck?" I replied I did. "Now you watch,"
said "Dewdrop;" "I'm going down there to have some fun. First I'll
tickle the old man's head, and then I'll scratch the old woman's neck.
Now, you and 'Medie' watch." The next moment Bessie spoke to me in her
own voice, and I told her what "Dewdrop" proposed to do. "Oh, poor
things!" she said, compassionately, "how she will torment them!" To
watch what followed was a perfect farce. First, the old man put his hand
up to his bald head, and then he took out his handkerchief and flicked
it, then he rubbed it, and finally _scrubbed_ it to alleviate the
increasing irritation. Then the old lady began the same business with
her neck, and finding it of no avail, glared at the old man as if she
thought _he_ had done it; in fact, they were both in such evident
torture that there was no doubt "Dewdrop" had kept her promise. When she
returned to me she said, "There! didn't you see me walking along the
front row of stalls, in my moccasins and beads and feathers, and all my
war-paint on, tickling the old fellow's head?" "I didn't _see_ you,
'Dewdrop,'" I answered, "but I'm sure you were there." "Ah! but the old
fellow _felt_ me, and so did the old girl," she replied.

Bessie Fitzgerald is now Mrs. Russell Davies, and carries on her
_séances_ in Upper Norwood. No one who attends them can fail to feel
interested in the various phenomena he will meet with there.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE MEDIUMSHIP OF LOTTIE FOWLER.


As I was introduced to Lottie Fowler many years before I met Bessie
Fitzgerald, I suppose the account of her mediumship should have come
first; but I am writing this veracious narrative on no fixed or
artificial plan, but just as it occurs to me, though not from memory,
because notes were taken of every particular at the time of occurrence.
In 1874 I was largely employed on the London Press, and constantly sent
to report on anything novel or curious, and likely to afford matter for
an interesting article. It was for such a purpose that I received an
order from one of the principal newspapers in town to go and have a
complimentary _séance_ with an American clairvoyant newly arrived in
England, Miss Lottie Fowler. Until I received my directions I had never
heard the medium's name, and I knew very little of clairvoyance. She was
lodging in Conduit Street, and I reached her house one morning as early
as ten o'clock, and sent in a card with the name of the paper only
written on it. I was readily admitted. Miss Fowler was naturally anxious
to be noticed by the press and introduced to London society. I found her
a stylish-looking, well-dressed woman of about thirty, with a pleasant,
intelligent face. Those of my readers who have only met her since
sickness and misfortune made inroads on her appearance may smile at my
description, but I repeat that seventeen years ago Lottie Fowler was
prosperous and energetic-looking. She received me very cordially, and
asked me into a little back parlor, of which, as it was summer weather,
both the windows and doors were left open. Here, in the sunshine, she
sat down and took my hand in hers, and began chatting of what she wished
and hoped to do in London. Suddenly her eyes closed and her head fell
back. She breathed hard for a few minutes, and then sat up, still with
her eyes closed, and began to talk in a high key, and in broken English.
This was her well-known control, "Annie," without doubt one of the best
clairvoyants living. She began by explaining to me that she had been a
German girl in earth life, and couldn't speak English properly, but I
should understand her better when I was more familiar with her. She then
commenced with my birth by the sea, described my father's personality
and occupation, spoke of my mother, my brothers and sisters, my
illnesses, my marriage, and my domestic life. Then she said, "Wait! now
I'll go to your house, and tell you what I see there." She then repeated
the names of all my children, giving a sketch of the character of each
one, down to the "baby with the flower name," as she called my little
Daisy. After she had really exhausted the subject of my past and
present, she said, "You'll say I've read all this out of your mind, so
now I'll tell you what I see in the future. You'll be married a second
time." Now, at this period I was editing a fashionable magazine, and
drew a large number of literary men around me. I kept open house on
Tuesday evenings, and had innumerable friends, and I _may_ (I don't say
I _had_), but I may have sometimes speculated what my fate might be in
the event of my becoming free. The _séance_ I speak of took place on a
Wednesday morning; and when "Annie" told me I should be married a second
time, my thoughts involuntarily took to themselves wings, I suppose, for
she immediately followed up her assertion by saying, "No! not to the man
who broke the tumbler at your house last night. You will marry another
soldier." "No, thank-you," I exclaimed; "no more army men for me. I've
had enough of soldiers to last me a lifetime." "Annie" looked very
grave. "You _will_ marry another soldier," she reiterated; "I can see
him now, walking up a terrace. He is very tall and big, and has brown
hair cut quite short, but so soft and shiny. At the back of his head he
looks as sleek as a mole. He has a broad face, a pleasant, smiling face,
and when he laughs he shows very white teeth. I see him knocking at your
door. He says, 'Is Mrs. Ross-Church at home?' 'Yes, sir.' Then he goes
into a room full of books. 'Florence, my wife is dead. Will you be my
wife?' And you say 'Yes.'" "Annie" spoke so naturally, and I was so
astonished at her knowledge of my affairs, that it never struck me till
I returned home that she had called me by my name, which had been kept
carefully from her. I asked her, "When will my husband die?" "I don't
see his death anywhere," she answered. "But how can I marry again unless
he dies?" I said. "I don't know, but I can't tell you what I don't see.
I see a house all in confusion, papers are thrown about, and everything
is topsy-turvy, and two people are going different ways; and, oh, there
is so much trouble and so many tears! But I don't see any death
anywhere."

I returned home, very much astonished at all Miss Fowler had said
regarding my past and present, but very incredulous with respect to her
prophecies for the future. Yet, three years afterwards, when much of
what she told me had come to pass, I was travelling from Charing Cross
to Fareham with Mr. Grossmith, to give our entertainment of "_Entre
Nous_," when the train stopped as usual to water at Chatham. On the
platform stood Colonel Lean, in uniform, talking to some friends. I had
never set eyes on him till that moment; but I said at once to Mr.
Grossmith, "Do you see that officer in the undress uniform? That is the
man Lottie Fowler told me I should marry." Her description had been so
exact that I recognized him at once. Of course, I got well laughed at,
and was ready after a while to laugh at myself. Two months afterwards,
however, I was engaged to recite at the Literary Institute at Chatham,
where I had never set foot in my life before. Colonel Lean came to the
Recital, and introduced himself to me. He became a visitor at my house
in London (which, by the by, had been changed for one in a _terrace_),
and two years afterwards, in, June 1879, we were married. I have so far
overcome a natural scruple to make my private affairs public, in justice
to Lottie Fowler. It is useless narrating anything to do with the
supernatural (although I have been taught that this is a wrong term, and
that nothing that exists is _above_ nature, but only a continuation of
it), unless one is prepared to prove that it was true. Lottie Fowler did
not make a long stay in England on that occasion. She returned to
America for some time, and I was Mrs. Lean before I met her again. The
second visit was a remarkable one. I had been to another medium, who had
made me very unhappy by some prophecies with regard to my husband's
health; indeed, she had said he would not live a couple of years, and I
was so excited about it that my friend Miss Schonberg advised our going
then and there to see Lottie Fowler, who had just arrived in England,
and was staying in Vernon Place, Bloomsbury; and though it was late at
night, we set off at once. The answer to our request to see Miss Fowler
was that she was too tired to receive any more visitors that day. "Do
ask her to see me," I urged. "I won't detain her a moment; I only want
to ask her one question." Upon this, we were admitted, and found Lottie
nearly asleep. "Miss Fowler," I began, "you told me five years ago that
I should be married a second time. Well, I _am_ married, and now they
tell me I shall loose my husband." And then I told her how ill he was,
and what the doctors said, and what the medium said. "You told me the
truth before," I continued; "tell it me now. Will he die?" Lottie took a
locket containing his hair in her hand for a minute, and then replied
confidently, "They know nothing about it. He will not die--that is not
yet--not for a long while." "But _when_?" I said, despairingly. "Leave
that to God, child," she answered, "and be happy now." And in effect
Colonel Lean recovered from his illness, and became strong and hearty
again. But whence did Miss Fowler gain the confidence to assert that a
man whom she had never seen, nor even heard of, should recover from a
disease which the doctors pronounced to be mortal? From that time Lottie
and I became fast friends, and continue so to this day. It is a
remarkable thing that she would never take a sixpence from me in payment
for her services, though I have sat with her scores of times, nor would
she accept a present, and that when she has been sorely in need of
funds. She said she had been told she should never prosper if she
touched my money. She has one of the most grateful and affectionate and
generous natures possible, and has half-starved herself for the sake of
others who lived upon her. I have seen her under sickness, and poverty,
and trouble, and I think she is one of the kindest-hearted and best
women living, and I am glad of even this slight opportunity to bear
testimony to her disposition. At one time she had a large and
fashionable _clientèle_ of sitters, who used to pay her handsomely for a
_séance_, but of late years her clients have fallen off, and her
fortunes have proportionately decreased. She has now returned to the
Southern States of America, and says she has seen the last of England.
All I can say is, that I consider her a great personal loss as a referee
in all business matters as well as a prophet for the future. She also,
like Bessie Fitzgerald, is a great medical diagnoser. She was largely
consulted by physicians about the Court at the time of the Prince of
Wales' dangerous illness, and predicted his recovery from the
commencement. It was through her mediumship that the body of the late
Lord Lindesay of Balcarres, which was stolen from the family vault, was
eventually recovered; and the present Lord Lindesay gave her a beautiful
little watch, enamelled and set in diamonds, in commemoration of the
event. She predicted the riot that took place in London some years ago,
and the Tay Bridge disaster; but who is so silly as to believe the
prophecies of media now-a-days? There has hardly been an event in my
life, since I have known Lottie Fowler, that she has not prepared me for
beforehand, but the majority of them are too insignificant to interest
the reader. One, however, the saddest I have ever been called upon to
encounter, was wonderfully foretold. In February, 1886, Lottie (or
rather, "Annie") said to me, "There is a great trouble in store for you,
Florris" (she always called me "Florris"); "you are passing under black
clouds, and there is a coffin hanging over you. It will leave your
house." This made me very uneasy. No one lived in my house but my
husband and myself. I asked, "Is it my own coffin?" "No!" "Is it my
husband's?" "No; it is that of a much younger person."

I questioned her very closely, but she would not tell me any more, and I
tried to dismiss the idea from my mind. Still it would constantly recur,
for I knew, from experience, how true her predictions were. At last I
felt as if I could bear the suspense no longer, and I went to her and
said, "You _must_ tell me that the coffin you spoke of is not for one of
my children, or the uncertainty will drive me mad." "Annie" thought a
minute, and then said slowly, "No; it is not for one of your children."
"Then I can bear anything else," I replied. The time went on, and in
April an uncle of mine died. I rushed again to Lottie Fowler. "Is _this_
the death you prophesied?" I asked her. "No," she replied; "the coffin
must leave your house. But this death will be followed by another in the
family," which it was within the week. The following February my
next-door neighbors lost their only son. I had known the boy for years,
and I was very sorry for them. As I was watching the funeral
preparations from my bedroom window, I saw the coffin carried out of the
hall door, which adjoined mine with only a railing between. Knowing that
many prophetical media _see_ the future in a series of pictures, it
struck me that Lottie must have seen this coffin leaving, and mistaken
the house for mine. I went to her again. This proves how the prediction
had weighed all this time upon my mind. "Has not the death you spoke of
taken place _now_?" I asked her. "Has not the coffin left my house?"
"No," she answered; "it will be a relative, one of the family. It is
much nearer now than it was." I felt uncomfortable, but I would not
allow it to make me unhappy. "Annie" had said it was not one of my own
children, and so long as they were spared I felt strong enough for
anything.

In the July following my eldest daughter came to me in much distress.
She had heard of the death of a friend, one who had been associated with
her in her professional life, and the news had shocked her greatly. She
had always been opposed to Spiritualism. She didn't see the good of it,
and thought I believed in it a great deal more than was necessary. I had
often asked her to accompany me to _séances_, or to see trance media,
and she had refused. She used to say she had no one on the other side
she cared to speak to. But when her young friend died, she begged me to
take her to a medium to hear some news of him, and we went together to
Lottie Fowler. "Annie" did not wait for any prompting, but opened the
ball at once. "You've come here to ask me how you can see your friend
who has just passed over," she said. "Well, he's all right. He's in this
room now, and he says you will see him very soon." "To which medium
shall I go?" said my daughter. "Don't go to any medium. Wait a little
while, and you will see him with your own eyes." My daughter was a
physical medium herself, though I had prevented her sitting for fear it
should injure her health; and I believed, with her, that "Annie" meant
that her friend would manifest through her own power. She turned to me
and said, "Oh, mother, I shall be awfully frightened if he appears to me
at night;" and "Annie" answered, "No, you won't be frightened when you
see him. You will be very pleased. Your meeting will be a source of
great pleasure on both sides." My daughter had just signed a lucrative
engagement, and was about to start on a provincial tour. Her next
request was, "Tell me what you see for me in the future." "Annie"
replied, "I cannot see it clearly. Another day I may be able to tell you
more, but to-day it is all dim. Every time I try to see it a wall seems
to rise behind your head and shut it out." Then she turned to me and
said, "Florris, that coffin is very near you now. It hangs right over
your head!" I answered carelessly, "I wish it would come and have done
with it. It is eighteen months now, Annie, since you uttered that dismal
prophecy!" Little did I really believe that it was to be so quickly and
so terribly fulfilled. Three weeks after that _séance_, my beloved child
(who was staying with me) was carried out of my house in her coffin to
Kensal Green. I was so stunned by the blow, that it was not for some
time after that I remembered "Annie's" prediction. When I asked her
_why_ she had tortured me with the suspense of coming evil for eighteen
months, she said she had been told to do so by my guardian spirits, or
my brain would have been injured by the suddenness of the shock. When I
asked why she had denied it would be one of my children, she still
maintained that she had obeyed a higher order, because to tell the truth
so long beforehand would have half-killed me as indeed it would. "Annie"
said she had no idea, even during that last interview, that the death
she predicted was that of the girl before her. She saw her future was
misty, and that the coffin was over my head, but she did not connect the
two facts together. In like manner I have heard almost every event of my
future through Lottie Fowler's lips, and she has never yet proved to be
wrong, except in one instance of _time_. She predicted an event for a
certain year and it did not take place till afterwards; and it has made
"Annie" so wary, that she steadfastly refuses now to give any dates. I
always warn inquirers not to place faith in any given dates. The spirits
have told me they have _no time_ in the spheres, but judge of it simply
as the reflection of the future appears nearer, or further, from the
sitter's face. Thus, something that will happen years hence appears
cloudy and far off, whilst the events of next week or next month seem
bright and distinct, and quite near. This is a method of judging which
can only be gained by practice, and must at all times be uncertain and
misleading.

I have often acted as amanuensis for Lottie Fowler, for letters are
constantly arriving for her from every part of the world which can only
be answered under trance, and she has asked me to take down the replies
as "Annie" dictated them. I have answered by this means the most
searching questions from over the seas relating to health and money and
lost articles whilst Lottie was fast asleep and "Annie" dictated the
letters, and have received many answers thanking me for acting
go-between, and saying how wonderfully correct and valuable the
information "Annie" had sent them had proved to be. Of course, it would
be impossible, in this paper, to tell of the constant intercourse I have
had with Lottie Fowler during the last ten or twelve years, and the
manner in which she has mapped out my future for me, preventing my
cherishing false hopes that would never be realized, making bad bargains
that would prove monetary losses, and believing in apparent friendship
that was only a cloak for selfishness and treachery. I have learned many
bitter lessons from her lips. I have also made a good deal of money
through her means. She has told me what will happen to me between this
time and the time of my death, and I feel prepared for the evil and
content with the good. Lottie Fowler had very bad health for some time
before she left England, and it had become quite necessary that she
should go; but I think if the British public had known what a wonderful
woman was in their midst, they would have made it better worth her while
to stay amongst them.




CHAPTER XX.

THE MEDIUMSHIP OF WILLIAM FLETCHER.


It may be remembered in the "Story of John Powles" that when, as a
perfect stranger to Mr. Fletcher, I walked one evening into the Steinway
Hall, I heard him describe the circumstances of my old friend's death in
a very startling manner. It made such an impression on me that I became
anxious to hear what more Mr. Fletcher might have to say to me in
private, and for that purpose I wrote and made an appointment with him
at his private residence in Gordon Square. I did not conceal my name,
and I knew my name must be familiar to him; for although he had only
just arrived from America, I am better known as an author in that
country perhaps than in this. But I had no intention of gauging his
powers by what he told me of my exterior life; and by what followed, his
guide "Winona" evidently guessed my ideas upon the subject. After the
_séance_ I wrote thus concerning it to the _Banner of Light_, a New York
Spiritualistic paper:--

"I had seen many clairvoyants before, both in public and private, and
had witnessed wonderful feats of skill on their part in naming and
describing concealed objects, and reading print or writing when held far
beyond their reach of sight; but I knew the trick of all that. If Mr.
Fletcher is going to treat me to any mental legerdemain, I thought, as I
took my way to Gordon Square, I shall have wasted both my time and
trouble upon him; and, I confess, as I approached the house, that I felt
doubtful whether I might not be deceived against my senses by the clever
lecturer, whose eloquence had charmed me into desiring a more intimate
acquaintance with him. Even the private life of a professional person
soon becomes public property in London; and had Mr. Fletcher wished to
find out my faults and failings, he had but to apply to ----, say, my
dearest friend, or the one upon whom I had bestowed most benefits, to
learn the worst aspect of the worst side of my character. But the neat
little page-boy answered my summons so promptly that I had no time to
think of turning back again; and I was ushered through a carpeted hall,
and up a staircase into a double drawing-room, strewn with evidence that
my clairvoyant friend possessed not only artistic taste, but the means
to indulge it. The back room into which I was shown was hung with
paintings and fitted with a luxurious _causeuse_, covered with art
needlework, and drawn against the open window, through which might be
seen some fine old trees in the garden below, and Mr. Fletcher's dogs
enjoying themselves beneath their shade. Nothing could be further
removed from one's ideas of a haunt of mystery or magic, or the abode of
a man who was forced to descend to trickery for a livelihood. In a few
minutes Mr. Fletcher entered the room and saluted me with the air of a
gentleman. We did not proceed to business, however, until he had taken
me round his rooms, and shown me his favorite pictures, including a
portrait of Sara Bernhardt, etched by herself, in the character of Mrs.
Clarkson in _L'Etrangère_. After which we returned to the back
drawing-room, and without darkening the windows or adopting any
precautions, we took our seats upon the _causeuse_ facing each other,
whilst Mr. Fletcher laid his left hand lightly upon mine. In the course
of a minute I observed several convulsive shivers pass through his
frame, his eyes closed, and his head sunk back upon the cushions,
apparently in sleep. I sat perfectly still and silent with my hand in
his. Presently he reopened his eyes quite naturally, and sitting
upright, began to speak to me in a very soft, thin, feminine voice. He
(or rather his guide "Winona") began by saying that she would not waste
my time on facts that she might have gathered from the world, but would
confine herself to speaking of my inner life. Thereupon, with the most
astonishing astuteness, she told me of my thoughts and feelings, reading
them off like a book. She repeated to me words and actions that had been
said and done in privacy hundred of miles away. She detailed the
characters of my acquaintance, showing who were true and who were false,
giving me their names and places of residence. She told me the motives I
had had for certain actions, and what was more strange, revealed truths
concerning myself which I had not recognized until they were presented
to me through the medium of a perfect stranger. Every question I put to
her was accurately answered, and I was repeatedly invited to draw
further revelations from her. The fact being that I was struck almost
dumb by what I had heard, and rendered incapable of doing anything but
marvel at the wonderful gift that enabled a man, not only to read each
thought that passed through my brain, but to see, as in a mirror, scenes
that were being enacted miles away with the actors concerned in them and
the motives that animated them. "Winona" read the future for me as well
as the past, and the first distinct prophecy she uttered has already
most unexpectedly come to pass. When I announced that I was satisfied,
the clairvoyant laid his head back again upon the cushions, the same
convulsive shudders passed through his frame, and in another minute he
was smiling in my face, and hoping I had a good _séance_."

This is part of the letter I wrote concerning Mr. Fletcher to the
_Banner of Light_. But a description of words, however strongly put, can
never carry the same weight as the words themselves. So anxious am I to
make this statement as trustworthy as possible, however, that I will now
go further, and give the exact words as "Winona" spoke them to me on
that occasion, and as I took them down from her lips. _Some_ parts I
_must_ omit, not for my own sake, but because of the treachery they
justly ascribed to persons still living in this world. But enough will,
I trust, remain to prove how intimately the spirit must have penetrated
to my inner life. This is, then, the greater part of what "Winona" said
to me on the 27th of June, 1879:

"You are a Child of Destiny, who never was a child. Your life is fuller
of tragedies than any life I ever read yet. I will not tell you of the
past _facts_, because they are known to the world, and I might have
heard them from others. But I will speak of yourself. I have to leave
the earth-world when I come in contact with you, and enter a planetary
sphere in which you dwell (and ever must dwell) _alone_. It is as if you
were in a room shut off from the rest of mankind. You are one of the
world's magnets. You have nothing really in common with the rest. You
draw people to you, and live upon their life; and when they have no more
to give, nor you to demand, the liking fades on both sides. It must be
so, because the spirit requires food the same as the body; and when the
store is exhausted, the affection is starved out, and the persons pass
out of your life. You have often wondered to yourself why an
acquaintance who seemed necessary to you to-day you can live perfectly
well without to-morrow. This is the reason. More than that, if you
continue to cling to those whose spiritual system you have exhausted,
they would poison you, instead of nourishing you. You may not like it,
but those you value most you should oftenest part with. Separation will
not decrease your influence over them; it will increase it. Constant
intercourse may be fatal to your dearest affections. You draw so much on
others, you _empty_ them, and they have nothing more to give you. You
have often wondered, too, why, after you have lived in a place a little
while, you become sad, weary, and ill--not physically ill, but mentally
so--and you feel as if you _must_ leave it, and go to another place.
When you settle in this fresh place, you think at first that it is the
very place where you will be content to live and die; but after a little
while the same weariness and faintness comes back again, and you think
you cannot breathe till you leave it, as you did the other. This is not
fancy. It is because your nature has exhausted all it can draw from its
surroundings, and change becomes a necessity to life. You will never be
able to live long in any place without change, and let me warn you never
to settle yourself down anywhere with the idea of living there entirely.
Were you forced to do so, you would soon die. You would be starved to
death spiritually. All people are not born under a fate, but you were,
and you can do very little to change it. England is the country of your
fate. You will never prosper in health, mind, or money in a foreign
country. It is good to go abroad for change, but never try to live
there. You are thinking of going abroad now, but you will not remain
there nearly so long as you anticipate. Something will arise to make you
alter your plans--not a real trouble--but an uneasiness. The plan you
think of will not answer." (This prediction was fulfilled to the
letter.) "This year completes an era in your professional career--not of
ill-luck, so much as of stagnation. Your work has been rather duller of
late years. The Christmas of 1879 will bring you brighter fortune. Some
one who has appeared to drop you will come forward again, and take up
your cause, and bring you in much money." (This also came to pass.)
"You have not nearly reached the zenith of your success. It is yet to
come. It is only beginning. You will have another child, certainly
_one_, but I am not sure if it will live in this world. I do not see its
earth-life, but I see you in that condition.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Your nervous system was for many years strung up to its highest
tension--now it is relaxed, and your physical powers are at their lowest
ebb. You could not bear a child in your present condition. You must
become much lighter-hearted, more contented and at ease before that
comes to pass. You must have ceased to wish for a child, or even to
expect it. You have never had a heart really at ease yet. All your
happiness has been feverish.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I see your evil genius. She is out of your life at present, but she
crossed your path last year, and caused you much heart-burning, and not
without reason. It seems to me that some sudden shock or accident put an
end to the acquaintance; but she will cross your path again, and cause
you more misery, perhaps, than anything else has done. She is not young,
but stout, and not handsome, as it seems to me. She is addicted to
drinking. I see her rolling about now under the influence of liquor. She
has been married more than once. I see the name ---- ---- written in the
air. She would go any lengths to take that you value from you, even to
compassing your death. She is madly in love with what is yours. She
would do anything to compass her ends--not only immoral things, but
filth--filth. I have no hesitation in saying this. Whenever she crosses
your path, in public or private, flee from her as from a pestilence."
(This information was correct in every detail. The name was given at
full length. I repeat it as a specimen of the succinctness of
intelligence given through trance mediumship.) "1883 will be a most
unfortunate year for you. You will have a severe illness, your friends
will not know if you are going to live or die, and during this illness
you will endure great mental agony, caused through a woman, one of whose
names begins with ----. You will meet her some time before, and she
will profess to be your dearest friend. I see her bending over you, and
telling you she is your best friend, and you are disposed to believe it.
She is as tall as you are, but does not look so tall from a habit she
has of carrying herself. She is not handsome, strictly speaking, but
dark and very fascinating. She has a trick of keeping her eyes down when
she speaks. She is possibly French, or of French extraction, but speaks
English. She will get a hold upon ----'s mind that will nearly separate
you." (At this juncture I asked, "How can I prevent it?") "If I told
you, that if you went by the 3 o'clock train from Gower Street, you
would be smashed, you would not take that train. When you meet a woman
answering this description, stop and ask yourself whether she is the one
I have warned you against, before you admit her across the threshold of
your house.

       *       *       *       *       *

"----'s character is positive for good, and negative for evil. If what
is even for his good were urged upon him, he would refuse to comply; but
present evil to him as a possible good, and he will stop to consider
whether it is not so. If he is to be guided aright, it must be by making
him believe it would be impossible for him to go wrong. Elevate his
nature by elevating his standard of right. Make it impossible for him to
lower himself, by convincing him that he _would_ be lowered. He is very
conceited. Admiration is the breath of his life. He is always thinking
what people will say of him or his actions. He is very weak under
temptation, especially the temptation of flattery. He is much too fond
of women. You have a difficult task before you, and you have done much
harm already through your own fault. He believes too little in the evil
of others--much too little. If he were unfaithful to those who trust
him, he would be quite surprised to find he had broken their hearts.
Your work is but beginning. Hitherto all has been excitement, and there
has been but little danger. Now comes monotony and the fear of satiety.
Your fault through life has been in not asserting the positive side of
your character. You were born to rule, and you have sat down a slave.
Either through indolence or despair of success, you have presented a
negative side to the insults offered you, and in the end you have been
beaten. You make a great mistake in letting your female friends read all
your joys and sorrows. Men would sympathize and pity. Women will only
take advantage of them. Assert your dignity as mistress in your own
house, and don't let those visitors invite themselves who do not come
for you. You are, as it were, the open door for more than one false
friend. I warn you especially against two unmarried women--at least, if
they are married, I don't see their husbands anywhere. They are both too
fond of ----; one _very much_ too fond of him, and you laugh at it, and
give your leave for caresses and endearments, which should never be
permitted. If I were to tell them that they visit at your house for
----, and not for you, they would be very indignant. They give you
presents, and really like you; but ---- is the attraction, and with one
of them it only needs time, place and opportunity to cause the ruin of
---- and yourself. She has an impediment in walking. I need say no more.
She wants to become still more familiar, and live under the same roof
with you. You must prevent it. The other is doing more harm to herself
than to anyone else. She is silly and romantic, and must dream of some
one. It is a pity it should be encouraged by familiarity. ---- has no
feeling for them beyond pity and friendship, but it is not necessary he
should love a woman to make her dangerous to him. As far as I can see
your lives extend, ---- will love you, and you will retain your
influence over him if you _choose_ to do so. But it is in your own hands
what you make of him. You must not judge his nature by your own. You are
shutting yourself up too much. You should be surrounded by a circle of
men, so that you might not draw influence from ---- alone. You should go
out more, and associate with clever men, and hear what they have to say
to you. You must not keep so entirely with ----. It is bad for both of
you. You are making too great a demand upon his spiritual powers, and
you will exhaust them too soon. A woman cannot draw spiritual life from
women only. She must take it from men. There is another acquaintance I
must warn you against ----; a widow, fair hair, light eyes, not clever,
but cunning. She has but one purpose in visiting you. She would like to
stand in your shoes. She would not hesitate to usurp your rights. Be
civil to her if you will, but do not encourage her visits. It were best
if she passed out of your lives altogether. She can never bring you any
good luck. She may be the cause of much annoyance yet. ---- should have
work, active and constant, or his health will fail, living in idleness,
spiritually and bodily. You tell him too often that you love him. Let
him feel there is always a higher height to gain, a lower depth to fall
to, in your esteem. He is not the only man in the world. Why should you
deceive him by saying so? You are much to blame." (Considering that Mr.
Fletcher had never seen, or, as far as I knew, heard of the persons he
mentioned in this tirade, it becomes a matter of speculation where or
from whom he gathered this keen insight to their character and
personalities, every word of which I can vouch for as being strictly
true.)

"Many spirits are round you. Some wish to speak.... A grand and noble
spirit stands behind you, with his hands spread in blessing over your
head. He is your father. He sends this message: 'My dear child, there
were so many influences antagonistic to my own in your late married
life, that I found it very difficult to get near you. Now they are
removed. The present conditions are much more favorable to me, and I
hope to be with you often, and to help you through the life that lies
before you.' There is the face of a glorified spirit, just above
your head, and I see the name 'Powles.' This spirit is nearer you, and
more attached to you than any other in Spirit Land. He comes only to
you, and one other creature through you--your second child. He says you
will know him by the token, the song; you sung to him upon his
death-bed. His love for you is the best and purest, and he is always by
you, though lower influences sometimes forbid his manifesting himself.
Your child comes floating down, and joins hands with him. She is a very
pure and beautiful spirit. She intimates that her name on earth was the
same as yours, but she is called by another name in the spheres--a name
that has something to do with flowers. She brings me a bunch of pure
white lilies, tinged with blue, with blue petals, tied with a piece of
blue ribbon, and she intimates to me by gesture that her spirit-name has
something to do with them. I think I must go now, but I hope you will
come and sit with me again. I shall be able to tell you more next time.
My name is 'Winona,' and when you ask for me I will come. Good-bye...."

This was the end of my first _séance_ with Mr. Fletcher, and I think
even sceptics will allow that it was sufficiently startling for the
first interview with an entire stranger. The following year I wrote
again to the _Banner of Light_ concerning Mr. Fletcher, but will only
give an extract from my letter. "I told you in my letter of last year
that I had held a _séance_ with Mr. Fletcher of so private a nature that
it was impossible to make it public. During that interview 'Winona' made
several startling prophecies concerning the future, which, it may
interest your readers to know, have already been fulfilled. Wishing to
procure some further proofs of Mr. Fletcher's power before I wrote this
letter to you, I prepared a different sort of test for him last week.
From a drawer full of old letters I selected, _with my eyes shut_, four
folded sheets of paper, which I slipped into four blank envelopes, ready
prepared for them--still without looking--and closed them in the usual
manner with the adhesive gum, after which I sealed them with sealing
wax. I carried these envelopes to Mr. Fletcher, and requested "Winona"
to tell me the characters of the persons by whom their contents had been
written. She placed them consecutively to the medium's forehead, and as
she returned them to me, one by one, I wrote her comments on each on the
side of the cover. On breaking the seals, the character of each writer
was found to be most accurately defined, although the letters had all
been written years before--(a fact which "Winona" had immediately
discovered). She also told me which of my correspondents were dead, and
which living. Here, you will observe, there could have been no reaction
of my own brain upon that of the sensitive, as I was perfectly ignorant,
until I reopened the envelopes, by whom the letters had been sent to me.
Two months ago I was invited to join in a speculation, of the
advisability of which I felt uncertain. I went therefore to Mr.
Fletcher, and asked for an interview with "Winona," intending to consult
her in the matter. But before I had time to mention the subject, she
broached it to me, and went on to speak of the speculation itself, of
the people concerned in it, and the money it was expected to produce;
and, finally, she explained to me how it would collapse, with the means
that would bring it to an end, putting her decided veto on my having
anything to do with it. I followed "Winona's" advice, and have been
thankful since that I did so, as everything has turned out just as she
predicted."

       *       *       *       *       *

I think those people who desire to gain the utmost good they can out of
clairvoyance should be more ready to listen and learn, and less to cavil
and to question. Many who have heard me relate the results of my
experience have rushed off pell-mell to the same medium, perhaps, and
came away woefully disappointed. Were they to review the interview they
would probably find they had done all the talking, and supplied all the
information, leaving the clairvoyant no work to do whatever. To such I
always say, whether their aim is to obtain advice in their business, or
news of a lost friend, _Be perfectly passive_, until the medium has said
all he or she may have to say. Give them time to become _en rapport_
with you, and quietude, that he may commune with the spirits you bring
with you; for it is _they_, and not _his_ controls, that furnish him
with the history of your life, or point out the dangers that are
threatening. When he has finished speaking, he will probably ask if you
have any questions to put to him, and _then_ is your turn for talking,
and for gaining any particular information you may wish to acquire. If
these directions are carried out, you are likely to have a much more
satisfactory _séance_ than otherwise.




CHAPTER XXI.

PRIVATE MEDIA.


People who wish to argue against Spiritualism are quite sure, as a rule,
that media will descend to any trickery and cheating for the sake of
gain. If you reply, as in my own case, that the _séances_ have been
given as a free-will offering, they say that they expected introductions
or popularity or advertisement in exchange. But what can be adduced
against the medium who lends his or her powers to a person whom he has
never seen, and probably never will see, and for no reason, excepting
that his controls urge him to the deed? Such a man is Mr. George Plummer
of Massachusetts, America. In December, 1887, when my mind was very
unsettled, my friend Miss Schonberg advised me to write to this medium
and ask his advice. She told me I must not expect an immediate reply, as
Mr. Plummer kept a box into which he threw all the letters he received
from strangers on spiritualistic subjects, and when he felt impressed to
do so, he went and took out one, haphazard, and wrote the answer that
was dictated to him. All I had to do was to enclose an addressed
envelope, not a _stamped_ one, in my letter, to convey the answer back
again. Accordingly, I prepared a diplomatic epistle to this effect.
"Dear sir,--Hearing that you are good enough to sit for strangers, I
shall be much obliged if you will let me know what you see for
me.--Yours truly, F. Lane." It will be seen that I transposed the
letters of my name "Lean." I addressed the return envelope in the same
manner to the house in Regent's Park, which I then occupied, and I wrote
it all in a feigned hand to conceal my identity as much as possible. The
time went on and I heard nothing from Mr. Plummer. I was touring in the
provinces for the whole of 1888, and at the end of the year I came back
to London and settled down in a new house in a different quarter of the
town. By this time I had almost forgotten Mr. Plummer and my letter to
him, and when in _December_, 1889, two years after I had sent it, my
own envelope in my own handwriting, forwarded by the postal authorities
from Regent's Park, was brought to me, I did not at first recognize it.
I kept twisting it about, and thinking how like it was to my own
writing, when the truth suddenly flashed on me. I opened it and read as
follows:

    "Georgetown, November 28th, 1889.

     "Mrs. Lane,--Dear Madam,--Please pardon me for seeming neglect in
     answering your request. At the time of receiving your letter I
     could not write, and it got mislaid. Coming across it now, even at
     the eleventh hour, I place myself in condition to answer. I see a
     lady with dark blue eyes before me, of a very nervous
     life--warm-hearted--impulsive--tropical in her nature. A woman of
     intense feeling--a woman whose life has been one of constant
     disappointment. To-day the current of life flows on smoothly but
     monotonous. I sense from the sphere of this lady, a weariness of
     life--should think she felt like Alexander, because there are no
     more worlds for her to conquer. She is her own worst enemy.
     Naturally generous, she radiates her refined magnetic sphere to
     others, and does not get back that which she can utilize. I see a
     bright-complexioned gentleman in earth life--brave, generous, and
     kind--but does not comprehend your interior life. And yet thinks
     the world of you to-day. I feel from you talent of a marked order.
     And yet life is a disappointment. Not but what you have been
     successful in a refined, worldly sense, but your spiritual nature
     has been repressed. The society you move in is one of intellectual
     culture; that is not of the soul. And it is soul food that you are
     hungering for to-day. You are an inspired woman. Thought seems to
     you, all prepared, so to speak. But it does not seem to free the
     tiny little messengers of your soul life. Somehow I don't feel that
     confidence in myself in writing to you. The best kind of a reading
     is usually obtained in reading to a person direct. But if I don't
     meet your case we will call it a failure and let it go. The year of
     1890 is going to be more favorable to you than for the last ten
     years. I think in some way you are to meet with more reciprocity of
     soul. As the divining rod points to the stream of water in the
     earth, so I find my intuitive eye takes cognizance of your interior
     life. You will in a degree catch my meaning through this, and it
     will come clearer, more through your intuition than through your
     intellect. I should say to you, follow your instincts and
     intuitions always through life. If this throws any light over your
     path I am glad.--I remain, most respectfully yours,
                                                      George Plummer."

Now there are two noticeable things in this letter. First, Mr. Plummer's
estimate of my interior life almost coincides with Mr. Fletcher's given
in 1879, ten years before. Next, although he read it through the medium
of a letter written in 1887, he draws a picture of my position and
surroundings in 1889. Both these things appeared to me very curious as
coming from a stranger across the Atlantic, and I answered his letter at
once, still preserving my slight incognita, and telling him that as he
had read so much of my life from my handwriting of so long ago, I wished
he would try to read more from words which went fresh from me to him. I
also enclosed a piece of the handwriting of a friend. Mr. Plummer did
not keep me waiting this time. His next letter was dated February 8th,
1890.

     "Dear Madam,--I received yours of January 3rd, and would have
     answered before, but the spirit did not move. I have been tied to a
     sick room going on three months, with its cares and anxieties. Not
     the best condition for writing. The best condition to reflect your
     life, to give your soul strength, is to be at rest and have all
     earth conditions nullified. But that cannot be to-day. So I will
     try to penetrate the mystery of your life as best I can, and
     radiate to you at least some strength. The relation of soul is the
     difficulty of your life, and you are so perfectly inspirational
     that it makes the condition worse. Grand types of Manhood and
     Womanhood come to you from the higher life, and your spirit and
     soul catch the reflection, and are disappointed because they cannot
     live that life. But you are getting a development out of all this
     friction. Now if you would come in contact with that nature that
     could radiate to you just what you could give to it, you would be
     happy. Love is absolute, you well know. Often in the exchange of
     thought we give each other strength. And then every letter we
     write, every time we shake hands, we give some of our own
     personality out. You are too sensitive to the spheres of people.
     You have such a strong personality of life that the power that
     inspires you could not make the perfect junction until you get so,
     you had rather die than live. That was a condition of negation. Now
     you have been running on a dead level of nothingness for two years
     and a half." (This was exactly the time since my daughter had been
     taken from me). "_I mean it seems so to you._ Such a sameness of
     things. I get from the writing of the gentleman. A good
     sphere--warm hearted--true to his understanding of things. He seems
     to be a sort of a half-way house to you. That is, you roam in the
     sea of Ideality, down deep, you know. And he rather holds on to
     matter-of-fact--sort of ballast for you. You need it. For you are,
     in fact, ripe for the other life, though it is not time to go yet.
     Although a writer, yet you are a disappointed one. No mortal but
     yourself knows this. You have winged your way in flights, grand and
     lofty, and cannot _pen it_, is what is the matter. Now, in time you
     will, more perfectly than to-day, by the touch of your pen, portray
     your soul and its flights. Then I see you happy. This gentleman is
     an auxiliary power, whether the power in full of your life I do not
     to-day get. You are emphatically a woman of Destiny, and should
     follow your _impressions_, for through that intuitive law you will
     be saved. I mean by 'saved,' leap, as it were, across difficulties
     instead of going round. For your soul is more positive and awake to
     its necessities to-day than ever before in your life, particularly
     in the last six months. Body marriages are good under the physical
     law--bring certain unfoldments. But when mortal man and woman reach
     a certain condition of development, they become dissatisfied, and
     yearn for the full fruition of love. And there is no limitation of
     this law. Women usually bow to the heart-love law, that sometimes
     brings great joy and misery. The time is ripe for rulers. There
     will be put into the field men, and more specifically women, who
     have exemplified love divine. They will teach the law so plainly
     that they who run can read. And it can only be taught by those who
     have embodied it. Some years ago, in this country, there was a
     stir-up. It did its work in fermentation. The next must be
     humanization. The material world must come under the spiritual.
     Women will come to the front as inspired powers. This is what comes
     to me to write to you to-day. If it brings strength, or one ray of
     sun-shine to you, I am glad.--I remain, most respectfully yours,
                                                   George Plummer."

Mr. Plummer is not occupying a high position in the world, nor is he a
rich man. He gains no popularity by his letters--he hears no
applause--he reaps no personal benefit, nor will he take any money. It
would be difficult, with any degree of reason, to charge him with
cheating the public for the sake of emptying their pockets. I fail to
see, therefore, how he can obtain his insight to one's interior life by
mortal means, nor, unless compelled by a power superior to his own, why
he should take the trouble to obtain it.

Another medium, whose health paid the sacrifice demanded of her for the
exhibition of a power over which, at one time, she had no control, and
which never brought her in anything but the thanks of her friends, is
Mrs. Keningale Cook (Mabel Collins), whom I have mentioned in the "Story
of my Spirit Child." There was a photographer in London, named Hudson,
who had been very successful in developing spirit photographs. He would
prepare to take an ordinary photograph, and on developing the plate, one
or more spirit forms would be found standing by the sitter, in which
forms were recognized the faces of deceased friends. Of course, the
generality of people said that the plates were prepared beforehand with
vague misty figures, and the imagination of the sitter did the rest. I
had been for some time anxious to test Mr. Hudson's powers for myself,
and one morning very early, between nine and ten o'clock, I asked Mrs.
Cook, as a medium, to accompany me to his studio. He was not personally
acquainted with either of us, and we went so early that we found him
rather unwilling to set to work. Indeed, at first he declined. We
disturbed him at breakfast and in his shirt sleeves, and he told us his
studio had been freshly painted, and it was quite impossible to use it
until dry. But we pressed him to take our photographs until he
consented, and we ascended to the studio. It was certainly very
difficult to avoid painting ourselves, and the screen placed behind was
perfectly wet. We had not mentioned a word to Mr. Hudson about spirit
photographs, and the first plate he took out and held up to the light,
we saw him draw his coat sleeve across. When we asked him what he was
doing, he turned to us and said, "Are you ladies Spiritualists?" When we
answered in the affirmative, he continued, "I rubbed out the plate
because I thought there was something on it, and most sitters would
object. I often have to destroy three or four negatives before I get a
clear picture." We begged him not to rub out any more as we were curious
to see the results. He, consequently, developed three photographs of us,
sitting side by side. The first was too indistinct to be of any use. It
represented us, with a third form, merely a patch of white, lying on the
ground, whilst a mass of hair was over my knee. "Florence" afterwards
informed me that this was an attempt to depict herself. The second
picture showed Mrs. Cook and myself as before, with "Charlie" standing
behind me. I have spoken of "Charlie" (Stephen Charles Bernard Abbott)
in "Curious Coincidences," and how much he was attached to me and mine.
In the photograph he is represented in his cowl and monk's frock--with
ropes round his waist, and his face looking down. In the third picture,
an old lady in a net cap and white shawl was standing with her two hands
on Mrs. Cook's shoulders. This was her grandmother, and the profile was
so distinctly delineated, that her father, Mr. Mortimer Collins,
recognized it at once as the portrait of his mother. The old lady had
been a member of the Plymouth Brethren sect, and wore the identical
shawl of white silk with an embroidered border which she used to wear
during her last years on earth. I have seen many other spirit
photographs taken by Mr. Hudson, but I adhere to my resolution to speak
only of that which I have proved by the exercise of my own senses. I
have the two photographs I mention to this day, and have often wished
that Mr. Hudson's removal from town had not prevented my sitting again
to him in order to procure the likenesses of other friends.

Miss Caroline Pawley is a lady who advertises her willingness to obtain
messages for others from the spirit world, but is forbidden by her
guides to take presents or money. I thought at first this must be a
"_ruse_." "Surely," I said to a friend who knew Miss Pawley, "I ought to
take books, or flowers, or some little offering in my hand." "If you do
she will return them," was the reply. "All that is necessary is to write
and make an appointment, as her time is very much taken up." Accordingly
I did write, and Miss Pawley kindly named an early date for my visit. It
was but a few months after I had lost my beloved daughter, and I longed
for news of her. I arrived at Miss Pawley's residence, a neat little
house in the suburbs, and was received by my hostess, a sweet,
placid-faced woman, who looked the embodiment of peace and calm
happiness. After we had exchanged greetings she said to me, "You have
lost a daughter." "I lost one about twenty years ago--a baby of ten days
old," I replied. "I don't mean her," said Miss Pawley, "I mean a young
woman. I will tell you how I came to know of it. I took out my memoranda
yesterday and was looking it through to see what engagements I had made
for to-day, and I read the names aloud to myself. As I came to the
entry, 'Mrs. Lean, 3 o'clock,' I heard a low voice say behind me, 'That
is my dear, _dear_ mother!' and when I turned round, I saw standing at
my elbow a young woman about the middle height, with blue eyes and very
long brown hair, and she told me that it is _she_ whom you are grieving
for at present." I made no answer to this speech, for my wound was too
fresh to permit me to talk of her; and Miss Pawley proceeded. "Come!"
she said cheerfully, "let us get paper and pencil and see what the dear
child has to say to us." She did not go under trance, but wrote rapidly
for a few moments and then handed me a letter written in the following
manner. I repeat (what I have said before) that I do not test the
genuineness of such a manifestation by the act itself. _Anyone_ might
have written the letter, but no one but myself could recognize the
familiar expressions and handwriting, nor detect the apparent
inconsistencies that made it so convincing. It was written in two
different hands on alternate lines, the first line being written by
"Eva," and the next by "Florence," and so on. Now, my earthly children
from their earliest days have never called me anything but "Mother,"
whilst "Florence," who left me before she could speak, constantly calls
me "Mamma." This fact alone could never have been known to Miss Pawley.
Added to which the portion written by my eldest daughter was in her own
clear decided hand, whilst "Florence's" contribution was in rather a
childish, or "young ladylike" scribble.

The lines ran thus. The italics are Florence's:--

    "My own beloved mother.
    _My dear, dear, dearest Mamma._
    You must not grieve so terribly for me.
    _And knowing all we have taught you, you should not grieve._
    Believe me, I am not unhappy.
    _Of course not, and she will be very happy soon._
    But I suffer pain in seeing you suffer.
    _Dear Mamma, do try to see that it is for the best._
    Florence is right. It is best! dear Mother.
    _And we shall all meet so soon, you know._
    God bless you for all your love for me.
    _Good-bye, dear, dearest Mamma._
                 Your own girl.
                 _Your loving little Florence._"

I cannot comment on this letter. I only make it public in a cause that
is sacred to me.

To instance another case of mediumship which is exercised for neither
remuneration nor applause. I am obliged in this example to withhold the
name, because to betray their identity would be to ill requite a favor
which was courteously accorded me. I had heard of a family of the name
of D---- who held private sittings once a week, at which the mother and
brothers and sisters gone before materialized and joined the circle; and
having expressed my desire, through a mutual acquaintance, to assist at
their _séances_, Mr. D---- kindly sent me an invitation to one. I found
he was a high-class tradesman, living in a good house in the suburbs,
and that strangers were very seldom (if ever) admitted to their circle.
Mr. D---- explained to me before the _séance_ commenced, that they
regarded Spiritualism as a most sacred thing, that they sat only to have
communication with their own relations, his wife and children, and that
his wife never manifested except when they were alone. His earth family
consisted of a young married daughter and her husband, and four or five
children of different ages. He had lost, I think he told me, a grown-up
son, and two little ones. William Haxby, the medium, whom I wrote of in
my chapter "On Sceptics," and who had passed over since then, had been
intimate with their family, and often came back to them. These
explanations over, the _séance_ began. The back and front parlors were
divided by lace curtains only. In the back, where the young married
daughter took up her position on a sofa, were a piano and an American
organ. In the front parlor, which was lighted by an oil lamp, we sat
about on chairs and sofas, but without any holding of hands. In a very
short time the lace curtains parted and a young man's face appeared.
This was the grown-up brother. "Hullo! Tom," they all exclaimed, and the
younger ones went up and kissed him. He spoke a while to his father,
telling what they proposed to do that evening, but saying his mother
would not be able to materialize. As he was speaking, a little boy stood
by his side. "Here's Harry," cried the children, and they brought their
spirit brother out into the room between them. He seemed to be about
five years old. His father told him to come and speak to me, and he
obeyed, just like a little human child, and stood before me with his
hand resting on my knee. Then a little girl joined the party, and the
two children walked about the room, talking to everybody in turn. As we
were occupied with them, we heard the notes of the American organ.
"Here's Haxby," said Mr. D----. "Now we shall have a treat." (I must say
here that Mr. Haxby was an accomplished organist on earth.) As he heard
his name, he, too, came to the curtains, and showed his face with its
ungainly features, and intimated that he and "Tom" would play a duet.
Accordingly the two instruments pealed forth together, and the spirits
really played gloriously--a third influence joining in with some
stringed instrument. This _séance_ was so much less wonderful than many
I have written of, that I should not have included a description of it,
except to prove that all media do not ply their profession in order to
prey upon their fellow-creatures. The D---- family are only anxious to
avoid observation. There could be no fun or benefit in deceiving each
other, and yet they devote one evening in each week to holding communion
with those they loved whilst on earth and feel are only hidden from them
for a little while, and by a very flimsy veil. Their _séances_ truly
carry out the great poet's belief.

    "Then the forms of the departed
      Enter at the open door;
    The belovéd, the true-hearted,
      Come to visit me once more.

           *       *       *       *       *

    With a slow and noiseless footstep
      Comes that messenger divine,
    Takes the vacant chair beside me,
      Lays her gentle hand in mine.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Uttered not, yet, comprehended,
      Is the spirit's voiceless prayer.
    Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
      Breathing from her lips of air."

In the house of the lady I have mentioned in "The Story of the Monk,"
Mrs. Uniacke of Bruges, I have witnessed marvellous phenomena. They were
not pleasant manifestations, very far from it, but there was no doubt
that they were genuine. Whether they proceeded from the agency of Mrs.
Uniacke, my sister Blanche, or a young lady called Miss Robinson, who
sat with them, or from the power of all three combined, I cannot say,
but they had experienced them on several occasions before I joined them,
and were eager that I should be a witness of them. We sat in Mrs.
Uniacke's house, in a back drawing-room, containing a piano and several
book-cases, full of books--some of them very heavy. We sat round a table
in complete darkness, only we four women, with locked doors and bolted
windows. Accustomed as I was to all sorts of manifestations and
mediumship, I was really frightened by what occurred. The table was most
violent in its movements, our chairs were dragged from under us, and
heavy articles were thrown about the room. The more Mrs. Uniacke
expostulated and Miss Robinson laughed, the worse the tumult became. The
books were taken from the shelves and hurled at our heads, several of
the blows seriously hurting us; the keys of the piano at the further end
of the room were thumped and crashed upon, as if they would be broken;
and in the midst of it all Miss Robinson fell prone upon the floor, and
commenced talking in Flemish, a language of which she had no knowledge.
My sister understands it, and held a conversation with the girl; and she
told us afterwards that Miss Robinson had announced herself by the name
of a Fleming lately deceased in the town, and detailed many events of
his life, and messages which he wished to be delivered to his
family--all of which were conveyed in good and intelligible Flemish.
When the young lady had recovered she resumed her place at the table, as
my sister was anxious I should see another table, which they called
"Mademoiselle" dance, whilst unseen hands thumped the piano. The
manifestation not occurring, however, they thought it must be my
presence, and ordered me away from the table. I went and stood up close
against the folding doors that led into the front room, keeping my hand,
with a purpose, on the handle. The noise and confusion palpably
increased when the three ladies were left alone. "Mademoiselle," who
stood in a corner of the room, commenced to dance about, and the notes
of the piano crashed forcibly. There was something strange to me about
the manifestation of the piano. It sounded as if it were played with
feet instead of hands. When the tumult was at its height, I suddenly,
and without warning, threw open the folding door and let the light in
upon the scene, and I saw _the music-stool mounted on the keyboard_ and
hammering the notes down. As the light was admitted, both "Mademoiselle"
and the music-stool fell with a crash to the floor, and the _séance_ was
over. The ladies were seated at the table, and the floor and articles of
furniture were strewn with the books which had been thrown down--the
bookshelves being nearly emptied--and pots of flowers. I was never at
such a pandemonium before or after.

The late Sir Percy Shelley and his wife Lady Shelley, having no children
of their own, adopted a little girl, who, when about four or five years,
was seriously burned about the chest and shoulders, and confined for
some months to her bed. The child's cot stood in Lady Shelley's bedroom,
and when her adopted mother was about to say her prayers, she was
accustomed to give the little girl a pencil and piece of paper to keep
her quiet. One day the child asked for pen and ink instead of a pencil,
and on being refused began to cry, and said, "The _man_ said she must
have pen and ink." As it was particularly enjoined that she must not cry
for fear of reopening her wounds, Lady Shelley provided her with the
desired articles, and proceeded to her devotions. When she rose from
them, she saw to her surprise that the child had drawn an outline of a
group of figures in the Flaxman style, representing mourners kneeling
round a couch with a sick man laid upon it. She did not understand the
meaning of the picture, but she was struck with amazement at the
execution of it, as was everybody who saw it. From that day she gave the
little girl a sheet of card-board each morning, with pen and ink, and
obtained a different design, the child always talking glibly of "the
man" who helped her to draw. This went on until the drawings numbered
thirty or forty, when a "glossary of symbols" was written out by this
baby, who could neither write nor spell, which explained the whole
matter. It was then discovered that the series of drawings represented
the life of the soul on leaving the body, until it was lost "in the
Infinity of God"--a likely subject to be chosen, or understood, by a
child of five. I heard this story from Lady Shelley's lips, and I have
seen (and well examined) the original designs. They were at one time to
be published by subscription, but I believe it never came to pass. I
have also seen the girl who drew them, most undoubtedly under control.
She was then a young married woman and completely ignorant of anything
relating to Spiritualism. I asked her if she remembered the
circumstances under which she drew the outlines, and she laughed and
said no. She knew she had drawn them, but she had no idea how. All she
could tell me was that she had never done anything wonderful since, and
she had no interest in Spiritualism whatever.




CHAPTER XXII.

VARIOUS MEDIA.


A very strong and remarkable clairvoyant is Mr. Towns, of Portobello
Road. As a business adviser or foreteller of the Future, I don't think
he is excelled. The inquirer after prophecy will not find a grand
mansion to receive him in Portobello Road. On the contrary, this
soothsayer keeps a small shop in the oil trade, and is himself only an
honest, and occasionally rather rough spoken, tradesman. He will see
clients privately on any day when he is at home, though it is better to
make an appointment, but he holds a circle on his premises each Tuesday
evening, to which everybody is admitted, and where the contribution is
anything you may be disposed to give, from coppers to gold. These
meetings, which are very well attended, are always opened by Mr. Towns
with prayer, after which a hymn is sung, and the _séance_ commences.
There is full gas on all the time, and Mr. Towns sits in the midst of
the circle. He does not go under trance, but rubs his forehead for a few
minutes and then turns round suddenly and addresses members of his
audience, as it may seem, promiscuously, but it is just as he is
impressed. He talks, as a rule, in metaphor, or allegorically, but his
meaning is perfectly plain to the person he addresses. It is not only
silly women, or curious inquirers, who attend Mr. Towns' circles. You
may see plenty of grave, and often anxious, business men around him,
waiting to hear if they shall sell out their shares, or hold on till the
market rises; where they are to search for lost certificates or papers
of value; or on whom they are to fix the blame of money or articles of
value that have disappeared. Once in my presence a serious-looking man
had kept his eye fixed on him for some time, evidently anxious to speak.
Mr. Towns turned suddenly to him. "You want to know, sir," he commenced,
without any preface, "where that baptismal certificate is to be found."
"I do, indeed," replied the man; "it is a case of a loss of thousands
if it is not forthcoming." "Let me see," said Mr. Towns, with his finger
to his forehead. "Have you tried a church with a square tower without
any steeple, an ugly, clumsy building, white-washed inside, standing in
a village. Stop! I can see the registrar books--the village's name is
----. The entry is at page 200. The name is ----. The mother's name is
----. Is that the certificate you want?" "It is, indeed," said the man;
"and it is in the church at ----?" "Didn't I say it was in the church at
----?" replied Mr. Towns, who does not like to be doubted or
contradicted. "Go and you will find it there." And the man _did_ go and
did find it there. To listen to the conversations that go on between him
and his clients at these meetings, Mr. Towns is apparently not less
successful with love affairs than with business affairs, and it is an
interesting experience to attend them, if only for the sake of
curiosity. But naturally, to visit him privately is to command much more
of his attention. He will not, however, sit for everybody, and it is of
no use attempting to deceive him. He is exceedingly keen-sighted into
character, and if he takes a dislike to a man he will tell him so
without the slightest hesitation. No society lies are manufactured in
the little oil shop. A relative of mine, who was not the most faithful
husband in the world, and who, in consequence, judged of his wife's
probity by his own, went, during her temporary absence, to Mr. Towns to
ask him a delicate question. The lady was well known to the medium, but
the husband he had never seen before, and had no notion who his sitter
was, until he pulled out a letter from his pocket, thrust it across the
table, and said, "There! look at that letter and tell me if the writer
is faithful to me." Mr. Towns told me that as he took the envelope in
his hand, he saw the lady's face photographed upon it, and at the same
moment, all the blackness of the husband's own life. He rose up like an
avenging deity and pointed to the door. "This letter," he said, "was
written by Mrs. ----. Go! man, and wash your own hands clean, and _then_
come and ask me questions about your wife." And so the "heavy swell" had
to slink downstairs again. I have often gone myself to Mr. Towns before
engaging in any new business, and always received the best advice, and
been told exactly what would occur during its progress. When I was about
to start on the "Golden Goblin" tour in management with my son--I went
to him to ask if it would be successful. He not only told me what money
it would bring in, but where the weak points would occur. The drama was
then completed, and in course of rehearsal, and had been highly
commended by all who had heard and seen it. Mr. Towns, however, who had
neither seen nor heard it, insisted it would have to be altered before
it was a complete success. This annoyed me, and I knew it would annoy my
son, the author; besides, I believed it was a mistake, so I said nothing
about it. Before it had run a month, however, the alterations were
admitted on all sides to be necessary, and were consequently made.
Everything that Mr. Towns prognosticated on that occasion came to pass,
even to the strangers I should encounter on tour, and how their
acquaintance would affect my future life; also how long the tour would
last, and in which towns it would achieve the greatest success. I can
assure some of my professional friends, that if they would take the
trouble to consult a trustworthy clairvoyant about their engagements
before booking them, they would not find themselves so often in the
hands of the bogus manager as they do now. A short time ago I received a
summons to the county court, and although I _knew_ I was in the right,
yet law has so many loopholes that I felt nervous. The case was called
for eleven o'clock on a certain Wednesday, and the evening before I
joined Mr. Towns' circle. When it came to my turn to question him, I
said, "Do you see where I shall be to-morrow morning?" He replied, "I
can see you are called to appear in a court-house, but the case will be
put off." "_Put off_," I repeated, "but it is fixed for eleven. It can't
be put off." "Cases are sometimes relegated to another court," said Mr.
Towns. Then I thought he had quite got out of his depth, and replied,
"You are making a mistake. This is quite an ordinary business. It can't
go to a higher court. But shall I gain it?" "In the afternoon," said the
medium. His answers so disappointed me that I placed no confidence in
them, and went to the county court on the following morning in a nervous
condition. But he was perfectly correct. The case was called for eleven,
but as the defendant was not forthcoming, it was passed over, and the
succeeding hearings occupied so much time, that the magistrate thought
mine would never come off, so he _relegated it at two o'clock to
another court_ to be heard before the registrar, who decided it at once
in my favor, so that I _gained it in the afternoon_.

       *       *       *       *       *

One afternoon in my "green sallet" days of Spiritualism, when every
fresh experience almost made my breath stop, I turned into the
Progressive Library in Southampton Row, to ask if there were any new
media come to town. Mr. Burns did not know of any, but asked me if I had
ever attended one of Mrs. Olive's _séances_, a series of which were
being held weekly in the Library Rooms. I had not, and I bought a
half-crown ticket for admission, and returned there the same evening.
When I entered the _séance_ room, the medium had not arrived, and I had
time to take stock of the audience. It seemed a very sad and serious
one. There was no whispering nor giggling going on, and it struck me
they looked more like patients waiting the advent of the doctor, than
people bound on an evening's amusement. And that, to my surprise, was
what I afterwards found they actually were. Mrs. Olive did not keep us
long waiting, and when she came in, dressed in a lilac muslin dress,
with her golden hair parted plainly on her forehead, her _very_ blue
eyes, and a sweet, womanly smile for her circle, she looked as unlike
the popular idea of a professional medium as anyone could possibly do.
She sat down on a chair in the middle of the circle, and, having closed
her eyes, went off to sleep. Presently she sat up, and, still with her
eyes closed, said in a very pleasant, but decidedly _manly_, voice: "And
now, my friends, what can I do for you?"

A lady in the circle began to ask advice about her daughter. The medium
held up her hand. "Stop!" she exclaimed, "you are doing _my_ work.
Friend, your daughter is ill, you say. Then it is _my_ business to see
what is the matter with her. Will you come here, young lady, and let me
feel your pulse." Having done which, the medium proceeded to detail
exactly the contents of the girl's stomach, and to advise her what to
eat and drink for the future. Another lady then advanced with a written
prescription. The medium examined her, made an alteration or two in the
prescription, and told her to go on with it till further orders. My
curiosity was aroused, and I whispered to my next neighbor to tell me
who the control was. "Sir John Forbes, a celebrated physician," she
replied. "He has almost as large a connection now as he had when alive."
I was not exactly ill at the time, but I was not strong, and nothing
that my family doctor prescribed for me seemed to do me any good. So
wishing to test the abilities of "Sir John Forbes," I went up to the
medium and knelt down by her side. "What is the matter with me, Sir
John?" I began. "Don't call me by that name, little friend," he
answered; "we have no titles on this side the world." "What shall I call
you, then?" I said. "Doctor, plain Doctor," was the reply, but in such a
kind voice. "Then tell me what is the matter with me, Doctor." "Come
nearer, and I'll whisper it in your ear." He then gave me a detailed
account of the manner in which I suffered, and asked what I had been
taking. When I told him, "All wrong, all wrong," he said, shaking his
head. "Here! give me a pencil and paper." I had a notebook in my pocket,
with a metallic pencil, which I handed over to him, and he wrote a
prescription in it. "Take that, and you'll be all the better, little
friend," he said, as he gave it to me back again. When I had time to
examine what he had written, I found to my surprise that the
prescription was in abbreviated Latin, with the amount of each
ingredient given in the regular medical shorthand. Mrs. Olive, a simple
though intelligent looking woman, seemed a very unlikely person to me to
be educated up to this degree. However, I determined to obtain a better
opinion than my own, so the next time my family doctor called to see me,
I said: "I have had a prescription given me, Doctor, which I am anxious,
with your permission, to try. I wish you would glance your eye over it
and see if you approve of my taking it." At the same time I handed him
the note-book, and I saw him grow very red as he looked at the
prescription. "Anything wrong?" I inquired. "O! dear no!" he replied in
an offended tone; "you can try your remedy, and welcome, for aught I
care--only, next time you wish to consult a new doctor, I advise you to
dismiss the old one first." "But this prescription was not written by a
doctor," I argued. At this he looked still more offended. "It's no use
trying to deceive me, Mrs. Ross-Church! That prescription was written by
no one but a medical man." It was a long time before I could make him
really believe _who_ had transcribed it, and under what circumstances.
When he was convinced of the truth of my statement, he was very much
astonished, and laid all his professional pique aside. He did more. He
not only urged me to have the prescription made up, but he confessed
that his first chagrin was due to the fact that he felt he should have
thought of it himself. "_That_," he said, pointing to one ingredient,
"is the very thing to suit your case, and it makes me feel such a fool
to think that a _woman_ should think of what _I_ passed over."

Nothing would make this doctor believe in Spiritualism, though he
continued to aver that only a medical man could have prescribed the
medicine; but as I saw dozens of other cases treated at the time by Mrs.
Olive, and have seen dozens since, I know that she does it by a power
not her own. For several years after that "Sir John Forbes" used to give
me advice about my health, and when his medium married Colonel Greck and
went to live in Russia, he was so sorry to leave his numerous patients,
and they to lose him, that he wanted to control _me_ in order that I
might carry on his practice, but after several attempts he gave it up as
hopeless. He said my brain was too active for any spirit to magnetize;
and he is not the first, nor last, who has made the same attempt, and
failed. "Sir John Forbes" was not Mrs. Olive's only control. She had a
charming spirit called "Sunshine," who used to come for clairvoyance and
prophecy; and a very comical negro named "Hambo," who was as humorous
and full of native wit and repartee, as negroes generally are, and as
Mrs. Olive, who is a very gentle, quiet woman, decidedly was _not_.
"Hambo" was the business adviser and director, and sometimes
materialized, which the others did not. These three influences were just
as opposite from one another, and from Mrs. Olive, as any creatures
could possibly be. "Sir John Forbes," so dignified, courteous, and truly
benevolent--such a thorough old _gentleman_; "Sunshine," a sweet,
sympathetic Indian girl, full of gentle reproof for wrong and
exhortations to lead a higher life; and "Hambo," humorous and witty,
calling a spade a spade, and occasionally descending to coarseness, but
never unkind or wicked. I knew them all over a space of years until I
regarded them as old friends. Mrs. Greck is now a widow, and residing in
England, and, I hear, sitting again for her friends. If so, a great
benefit in the person of "Sir John Forbes" has returned for a portion of
mankind.

I have kept a well-known physical medium to the last, not because I do
not consider his powers to be completely genuine, but because they are
of a nature that will not appeal to such as have not witnessed them. I
allude to Mr. Charles Williams, with whom I have sat many times alone,
and also with Mrs. Guppy Volckman. The manifestations that take place at
his _séances_ are always material. The much written of "John King" is
his principal control, and invariably appears under his mediumship; and
"Ernest" is the name of another. I have seen Charles Williams leave the
cabinet under trance and wander in an aimless manner about the room,
whilst both "John King" and "Ernest" were with the circle, and have
heard them reprove him for rashness. I have also seen him under the same
circumstances, during an afternoon _séance_, mistake the window curtains
for the curtains of the cabinet, and draw them suddenly aside, letting
the full light of day in upon the scene, and showing vacancy where a
moment before two figures had been standing and talking.

Once when "John King" asked Colonel Lean what he should bring him, he
was told _mentally_ to fetch the half-hoop diamond ring from my finger
and place it on that of my husband.

This half-hoop ring was worn between my wedding ring and a heavy gold
snake ring, and I was holding the hand of my neighbor all the time, and
yet the ring was abstracted from between the other two and transferred
to Colonel Lean's finger without my being aware of the circumstance.
These and various other marvels, I have seen under Mr. Williams'
mediumship; but as I can adduce no proof that they were genuine, except
my own conviction, it would be useless to write them down here. Only I
could not close the list of the media with whom I have familiarly sat in
London, and from whom I have received both kindness and courtesy,
without including his name. It is the same with several others--with Mr.
Frank Herne (now deceased) and his wife Mrs. Herne, whom I first knew as
Mrs. Bassett, a famous medium for the direct spirit voice; with Mrs.
Wilkinson, a clairvoyant who has a large _clientèle_ of wealthy and
aristocratic patrons; with Mrs. Wilkins and Mr. Vango, both reliable,
though, as yet, less well known to the spiritualistic public; and with
Dr. Wilson, the astrologer, who will tell you all you have ever done,
and all you are ever going to do, if you will only give him the
opportunity of casting your horoscope. To all and each I tender my
thanks for having afforded me increased opportunities of searching into
the truth of a science that possesses the utmost interest for me, and
that has given me the greatest pleasure.




CHAPTER XXIII.

ON LAYING THE CARDS.


At the risk of being laughed at, I cannot refrain, in the course of this
narrative of my spiritualistic experiences, from saying a few words
about what is called "laying the cards." "Imagine!" I fancy I hear some
dear creature with nose "tip-tilted like a flower" exclaim, "any
sensible woman believing in cards." And yet Napoleon believed in them,
and regulated the fate of nations by them; and the only times he
neglected their admonitions were followed by the retreat from Moscow and
the defeat at Waterloo. Still I did not believe in card-telling till the
belief was forced upon me. I always thought it rather cruel to give
imprisonment and hard labor to old women who laid the cards for servant
girls. Who can tell whether or no it is obtaining money upon false
pretences; and if it is, why not inflict the same penalty on every
cheating tradesman who sells inferior articles or gives short weight?
Women would be told they should look after their own interests in the
one case--so why not in the other? But all the difference lies in _who_
lays the cards. Very few people can do it successfully, and my belief is
that it must be done by a person with mediumistic power, which, in some
mysterious manner, influences the disposition of the pack. I have seen
cards shuffled and cut twenty times in the hope of getting rid of some
number antagonistic to the inquirer's good fortune, and yet each time
the same card would turn up in the juxtaposition least to be desired.
However, to narrate my own experience. When I was living in Brussels,
years before I heard of modern Spiritualism, I made the acquaintance of
an Irish lady called Mrs. Thorpe, a widow who was engaged as a
_châperon_ for some young Belgian ladies of high birth, who had lost
their mother. We lived near each other, and she often came in to have a
chat with me. After a while I heard through some other friends that Mrs.
Thorpe was a famous hand at "laying the cards;" and one day, when we
were alone, I asked her to tell me my fortune. I didn't in the least
believe in it, but I wanted to be amused. Mrs. Thorpe begged to be
excused at once. She told me her predictions had proved so true, she was
afraid to look into futurity any more. She had seen a son and heir for a
couple who had been married twenty years without having any children,
and death for a girl just about to become a bride--and both had come
true; and, in fact, her employer, the Baron, had strictly forbidden her
doing it any more whilst in his house. However, this only fired my
curiosity, and I teased her until, on my promising to preserve the
strictest secrecy, she complied with my request. She predicted several
things in which I had little faith, but which I religiously wrote down
in case they came true--the three most important being that my husband,
Colonel Ross-Church (who was then most seriously ill in India), would
not die, but that his brother, Edward Church, would; that I should have
one more child by my first marriage--a daughter with exceedingly fair
skin and hair, who would prove to be the cleverest of all my children,
and that after her birth I should never live with my husband again. All
these events were most unlikely to come to pass at that time, and,
indeed, did not come to pass for years afterwards, yet each one was
fulfilled, and the daughter who, unlike all her brothers and sisters, is
fair as a lily, will be by no means the last in the race for talent. Yet
these cards were laid four years before her birth. Mrs. Thorpe told me
she had learnt the art from a pupil of the identical Italian countess
who used to lay the cards for the Emperor Napoleon. But it is not an
art, and it is not to be learnt. It is inspiration.

Many years after this, when I had just begun to study Spiritualism, my
sister told me of a wonderful old lady, a neighbor of hers, who had
gained quite an evil reputation in the village by her prophetical powers
with the cards. Like Mrs. Thorpe, she had become afraid of herself, and
professed to have given up the practice. The last time she had laid
them, a girl acquaintance had walked over joyously from an adjacent
village to introduce her affianced husband to her, and to beg her to
tell them what would happen in their married life. The old lady had laid
the cards, and saw the death card turn up three times with the marriage
ring, and told the young people, much to their chagrin, that they must
prepare for a disappointment, as their marriage would certainly be
postponed from some obstacle arising in the way. She told me afterwards
that she dared not tell them more than this. They left her somewhat
sobered, but still full of hope, and started on their way home. Before
they reached it the young man staggered and fell down dead. No one had
expected such a catastrophe. He had been apparently in the best of
health and spirits. _What_ was it that had made this old lady foresee
what no one else had seen?

These are no trumped-up tales after the prediction had been fulfilled.
Everyone knew it to be true, and became frightened to look into the
future for themselves. I was an exception to the general rule, however,
and persuaded Mrs. Simmonds to lay the cards for me. I had just
completed a two months' sojourn at the seaside, was in robust health,
and anticipating my return home for the sake of meeting again with a
friend who was very dear to me. I shuffled and cut the cards according
to directions. The old lady looked rather grave. "I don't like your
cards," she said, "there is a good deal of trouble before you--trouble
and sickness. You will not return home so soon as you anticipate. You
will be detained by illness, and when you do return, you will find a
letter on the table that will cut you to the heart. I am sorry you have
stayed away so long. There has been treachery in your absence, and a
woman just your opposite, with dark eyes and hair, has got the better of
you. However, it will be a sharp trouble, but not a lengthy one. You
will see the wisdom of it before long, and be thankful it has happened."
I accepted my destiny with complacency, never supposing (notwithstanding
all that I had heard) that it would come true. I was within a few days
of starting for home, and had received affectionate letters from my
friend all the time I had been away. However, as Fate and the cards
would have it, I was taken ill the very day after they were laid for me,
and confined for three weeks with a kind of low fever to my bed; and
when weakened and depressed I returned to my home I found _the letter on
my table_ that Mrs. Simmonds had predicted for me, to say that my
friendship with my (supposed) friend _was over and done with for ever_.
After this I began to have more respect for cards, or rather for the
persons who successfully laid them. In 1888, when I was touring with my
company with the "Golden Goblin," I stayed for the first time in my life
in Accrington. Our sojourn there was to be only for a week, and, as may
be supposed, the accommodation in the way of lodgings was very poor.
When we had been there a few days a lady of the company said to me,
"There is such a funny old woman at my lodgings, Miss Marryat! I wish
you'd come and see her. She can tell fortunes with the cards, and I know
you believe in such things. She has told my husband and me all about
ourselves in the most wonderful manner; but you mustn't come when the
old man is at home, because he says it's devilry, and he has forbidden
her doing it." "I _am_ very much interested in that sort of thing," I
replied, "and I will certainly pay her a visit, if you will tell me when
I may come." A time was accordingly fixed for my going to the lady's
rooms, and on my arrival there I was introduced to a greasy, snuffy old
landlady, who didn't look as if she had a soul above a bottle of gin.
However, I sat down at a table with her, and the cards were cut. She
told me nothing that my friends might have told her concerning me, but
dived at once into the future. My domestic affairs were in a very
complicated state at that period, and I had no idea myself how they
would end. She saw the whole situation at a glance--described the actors
in the scene, the places they lived in, the people by whom they were
surrounded, and exactly how the whole business would end, and _did_ end.
She foretold the running of the tour, how long it would last, and which
of the company would leave before it concluded. She told me that a woman
in the company, whom I believed at that time to be attached to me, would
prove to be one of my greatest enemies, and be the cause of estrangement
between me and one of my nearest relations, and she opened my eyes to
that woman's character in a way which forced me afterwards to find out
that to which I might have been blind forever. And this information
emanated from a dirty, ignorant, old lodging keeper, who had probably
never heard of my name until it was thrust before her, and yet told me
things that my most intimate and cleverest friends had no power to tell
me. After the woman at Accrington I never looked at a card for the
purpose of divination until my attention was directed last year to a
woman in London who is very clever at the same thing, and a friend
asked me to go with her and see what she could tell us. This woman, who
is quite of the lower class, and professedly a dressmaker, received us
in a bedroom, the door of which was carefully locked. She was an elderly
woman and rather intelligent and well educated for her position, but she
could adduce no reason whatever for her facility in reading the cards.
She told me "it _came_ to her," she didn't know why or how.

It "came to her" with a vengeance for me. She rattled off my past,
present and future as if she had been reading from an open book, and she
mentioned the description of a person (which I completely recognized) so
constantly with reference to my future, that I thought I would try her
by a question. "Stop a minute," I said, "this person whom you have
alluded to so often--have I ever met him?" "Of course you have met him,"
she replied, "you know him intimately." "I don't recognize the
description," I returned, fallaciously. The woman turned round and
looked me full in the face. "_You don't recognize him?_" she repeated in
an incredulous tone, "then you must be very dull. Well! I'll tell you
how to recognize him. Next time you meet a gentleman out walking who
raises his hat, and before he shakes hands with you, draws a written or
printed paper from his pocket and presents it to you, you can remember
my words. _That_ is the man I mean."

I laughed at the quaintness of the idea and returned home. As I was
walking from the station to my own house I met the person she had
described. As he neared me he raised his hat, and then putting his hand
in his pocket he said, "Good afternoon! I have something for you! I met
Burrows this morning. He was going on to you, but as he was in a great
hurry he asked me if I was likely to see you to-day to give you this."
And he presented me with a printed paper of regulations which I had
asked the man he mentioned to procure for me.

Now, here was no stereotyped utterance of the cards--no stock
phrase--but a deliberate prophecy of an unfulfilled event. It is upon
such things that I base my opinion that, given certain persons and
certain circumstances, the cards are a very fertile source of
information. It is absurd in cases like those I have related to lay it
all down to chance, to clever guessing, or to trickery. If my readers
believe so, let me ask them to try it for themselves. If it is all
folly, and any stupid, ignorant old woman can do it, of course _they_
must be able to master the trick. Let them get a pack of cards and lay
them according to the usual directions--there are any number of books
published that will tell them how to do it--and then see if they can
foretell a single event of importance correctly. They will probably find
(as _I_ do) that the cards are a sealed book to them. I would give a
great deal to be able to lay the cards with any degree of success for
myself or my friends. But nothing "comes to me." The cards remain
painted pieces of cardboard, and nothing more. And yet an ignorant
creature who has no brains of her own can dive deep into the mysteries
of my mind, and turn my inmost thoughts and wishes inside out,--more,
can pierce futurity and tell me what _shall_ be. However, if my hearers
continue to doubt my story, I can only repeat my admonition to try it
for themselves. If they once succeed, they will not give it up again.




CHAPTER XXIV.

SPIRITUALISM IN AMERICA.

I. _Mrs. M. A. Williams._


I went to America on a professional engagement in October, 1884. Some
months beforehand a very liberal offer had been made me by the
Spiritualists of Great Britain to write my experiences for the English
press, but I declined to do so until I could add my American notes to
them. I had corresponded (as I have shown) with the _Banner of Light_ in
New York; and what I had heard of Spiritualism in America had made me
curious to witness it. But I was determined to test it on a strictly
private plan. I said to myself: "I have seen and heard pretty nearly all
there is to be seen and heard on the subject in England, but, with one
or two exceptions, I have never sat at any _séance_ where I was not
known. Now I am going to visit a strange country where, in a matter like
Spiritualism, I can conceal my identity, so as to afford the media no
clue to my surroundings or the names of my deceased friends." I sailed
for America quite determined to pursue a strictly secret investigation,
and with that end in view I never mentioned the subject to anyone.

I had a few days holiday in New York before proceeding to Boston, where
my work opened, and I stayed at one of the largest hotels in the city. I
landed on Sunday morning, and on Monday evening I resolved to make my
first venture. Had I been a visitor in London, I should have had to
search out the right sort of people, and make a dozen inquiries before I
heard where the media were hiding themselves from dread of the law; but
they order such things better on the other side of the Atlantic. People
are allowed to hold their private opinions and their private religion
there without being swooped down upon and clapped into prison for rogues
and vagabonds. Whatever the views of the majority may be, upon this
subject or any other (and Heaven knows I would have each man strong
enough to cling to his opinion, and brave enough to acknowledge it
before the world), I think it is a discredit to a civilized country to
allow old laws, that were made when we were little better than savages,
to remain in force at the present day. We are far too much over-ridden
by a paternal Government, which has grown so blind and senile that it
swallows camels while it is straining after a gnat.

There was no obstacle to my wish, however, in New York. I had but to
glance down the advertisement columns of the newspapers to learn where
the media lived, and on what days they held their public _séances_. It
so happened that Mrs. M. A. Williams was the only one who held open
house on Monday evenings for Materialization; and thither I determined
to go. There is no such privacy as in a large _hôtel_, where no one has
the opportunity to see what his neighbor is doing. As soon, therefore,
as my dinner was concluded, I put on a dark cloak, hat and veil, and
walking out into the open, got into one of the cars that ran past the
street where Mrs. Williams resided. Arrived at the house, I knocked at
the door, and was about to inquire if there was to be any _séance_
there, that evening, when the attendant saved me the trouble by saying,
"Upstairs, if you please, madam," and nothing more passed between us.
When I had mounted the stairs, I found myself in a large room, the floor
of which was covered with a thick carpet, nailed all round the
wainscotting. On one side were some thirty or forty cane-bottomed
chairs, and directly facing them was the cabinet. This consisted of four
uprights nailed over the carpet, with iron rods connecting them at the
top. There was no roof to it, but curtains of a dark maroon color were
usually drawn around, but when I entered, they were flung back over the
iron rods, so as to disclose the interior. There was a stuffed armchair
for the use of the medium, and in front of the cabinet a narrow table
with papers and pencils on it, the use of which I did not at first
discover. At the third side of the room was a harmonium, so placed that
the performer sat with his back both to the cabinet and the sitters. A
large gas lamp, almost like a limelight, made in a square form like a
lantern, was fixed against the wall, so as to throw the light upon the
cabinet, but it was fitted with a sliding shade of red silk, with which
it could be darkened if necessary. I was early, and only a few visitors
were occupying the chairs. I asked a lady if I might sit where I chose,
and on her answering "Yes," I took the chair in the front row, exactly
opposite the cabinet, not forgetting that I was there in the cause of
Spiritualism as well as for my own interests. The seats filled rapidly
and there must have been thirty-five or forty people present, when Mrs.
Williams entered the room, and nodding to those she knew, went into the
cabinet. Mrs. Williams is a stout woman of middle age, with dark hair
and eyes, and a fresh complexion. She was dressed in a tight-fitting
gown of pale blue, with a good deal of lace about the neck and sleeves.
She was accompanied by a gentleman, and I then discovered for the first
time that it is usual in America to have, what they call, a "conductor"
of the _séance_. The conductor sits close to the cabinet curtains, and,
if any spirit is too weak to shew itself outside, or to speak audibly,
he conveys the message it may wish to send to its friends; and when I
knew how very few precautions the Americans take to prevent such
outrages as have occurred in England, and how many more materializations
take place in an evening there than here, I saw the necessity of a
conductor to protect the medium, and to regulate the order of the
_séance_.

Mrs. Williams' conductor opened the proceedings with a very neat little
speech. He said, "I see several strange faces here this evening, and I
am very pleased to see them, and I hope they may derive both pleasure
and profit from our meeting. We have only one rule for the conduct of
our _séances_, that you shall behave like ladies and gentlemen. You may
not credit all you see, but remember this is our religion, and the
religion of many present, and as you would behave yourselves reverently
and decorously, if you were in a church of another persuasion to your
own, so I beg of you to behave yourselves here. And if any spirits
should come for you whom you do not immediately recognize, don't wound
them by denying their identity. They may have been longing for this
moment to meet you again, and doing their very utmost to assume once
more the likeness they wore on earth; yet some fail. Don't make their
failure harder to bear by roughly repudiating all knowledge of them. The
strangers who are present to-night may mistake the reason of this little
table being placed in front of the cabinet, and think it is intended to
keep them from too close an inspection of the spirits. No such thing! On
the contrary, all will be invited in turn to come up and recognize their
friends. But we make it a rule at these _séances_ that no materialized
spirit, who is strong enough to come beyond that table, shall be
permitted to return to the cabinet. They must dematerialize in sight of
the sitters, that no possible suspicion may rest upon the medium. These
pencils and papers are placed here in case any spirit who is unable to
speak may be impressed to write instead. And now we will begin the
evening with a song."

The accompanist then played "Footsteps of Angels," the audience sung it
with a will, and the curtains having been drawn round Mrs. Williams, the
shade was drawn across the gaslight, and the _séance_ began.

I don't think it could have been more than a minute or two before we
heard a voice whispering, "Father," and _three girls_, dressed in white
clinging garments, appeared at the opening in the curtains. An old man
with white hair left his seat and walked up to the cabinet, when they
all three came out at once and hung about his neck and kissed him, and
whispered to him. I almost forgot where I was. They looked so perfectly
human, so joyous and girl-like, somewhere between seventeen and twenty,
and they all spoke at once, so like what girls on earth would do, that
it was most mystifying. The old man came back to his seat, wiping his
eyes. "Are those your daughters, sir?" asked one of the sitters. "Yes!
my three girls," he replied. "I lost them all before ten years old, but
you see I've got them back again here."

Several other forms appeared after this--one, a little child of about
three years old, who fluttered in and out of the cabinet like a
butterfly, and ran laughing away from the sitters who tried to catch
her. Some of the meetings that took place for the first time were very
affecting. One young man of about seventeen or eighteen, who was called
up to see his mother's spirit, sobbed so bitterly, it broke my heart to
hear him. There was not the least doubt if _he_ recognized her or no. He
was so overcome, he hardly raised his eyes for the rest of the evening.
One lady brought her spirit-son up to me, that I might see how perfectly
he had materialized. She spoke of it as proudly as she might have done
if he had passed some difficult examination. The young man was dressed
in a suit of evening clothes, and he shook hands with me at his mother's
bidding, with the firm grasp of a mortal. Naturally, I had seen too much
in England for all this to surprise me. Still I had never assisted at a
_séance_ where everything appeared to be so strangely human--so little
mystical, except indeed the rule of dematerializing before the sitters,
which I had only seen "Katie King" do before. But here, each form, after
having been warned by the conductor that its time was up, sunk down
right through the carpet as though it were the most ordinary mode of
egression. Some, and more especially the men, did not advance beyond the
curtains; then their friends were invited to go up and speak to them,
and several went inside the cabinet. There were necessarily a good many
forms, familiar to the rest, of whom I knew nothing; one was an old
minister under whom they had all sat, another a gentleman who had been a
constant attendant at Mrs. Williams' _séances_.

Once the conductor spoke to me. "I am not aware of your name," he said
(and I thought, "No! my friend, and you won't be aware of it just yet
either!"), "but a spirit here wishes you would come up to the cabinet."
I advanced, expecting to see some friend, and there stood a Catholic
priest with his hand extended in blessing. I knelt down, and he gave me
the usual benediction and then closed the curtains. "Did you know the
spirit?" the conductor asked me. I shook my head; and he continued, "He
was Father Hayes, a well-known priest in this city. I suppose you are a
Catholic?" I told him "Yes," and went back to my seat. The conductor
addressed me again. "I think Father Hayes must have come to pave the way
for some of your friends," he said. "Here is a spirit who says she has
come for a lady named 'Florence,' who has just crossed the sea. Do you
answer to the description?" I was about to say "Yes," when the curtains
parted again and my daughter "Florence" ran across the room and fell
into my arms. "Mother!" she exclaimed, "I said I would come with you and
look after you--didn't I?"

I looked at her. She was exactly the same in appearance as when she had
come to me in England--the same luxuriant brown hair and features and
figure, as I had seen under the different mediumships of Florence Cook,
Arthur Colman, Charles Williams and William Eglinton; the same form
which in England had been declared to be half-a-dozen different media
dressed up to represent my daughter stood before me there in New York,
thousands of miles across the sea, and by the power of a person who did
not even know who I was. If I had not been convinced before, how could I
have helped being convinced then?

"Florence" appeared as delighted as I was, and kept on kissing me and
talking of what had happened to me on board ship coming over, and was
evidently quite _au fait_ of all my proceedings. Presently she said,
"There's another friend of yours here, mother! We came over together.
I'll go and fetch him." She was going back to the cabinet when the
conductor stopped her. "You must not return this way, please. Any other
you like," and she immediately made a kind of court curtsey and went
down through the carpet. I was standing where "Florence" had left me,
wondering what would happen next, when she came _up again_ a few feet
off from me, head first, and smiling as if she had discovered a new
game. She was allowed to enter the cabinet this time, but a moment
afterwards she popped her head out again, and said, "Here's your friend,
mother!" and by her side was standing William Eglinton's control,
"Joey," clad in his white suit, with a white cap drawn over his head.
"'Florence' and I have come over to make new lines for you here," he
said: "at least, I've come over to put her in the way of doing it, but I
can't stay long, you know, because I have to go back to 'Willy.'"

I really didn't care if he stayed long or not. I seemed to have procured
the last proof I needed of the truth of the doctrine I had held so long,
that there is no such thing as Death, as we understand it in this world.
Here were the two spiritual beings (for believing in the identity of
whom I had called myself a credulous fool fifty times over, only to
believe in them more deeply still) in _prôpria personæ_ in New York,
claiming me in a land of strangers, who had not yet found out who I was.
I was more deeply affected than I had ever been under such circumstances
before, and more deeply thankful. "Florence" made great friends with our
American cousins even on her first appearance. Mrs. Williams' conductor
told me he thought he had never heard anything more beautiful than the
idea of the spirit-child crossing the ocean to guard its mother in a
strange country, and particularly, as he could feel by her influence,
what a pure and beautiful spirit she was. When I told him she had left
this world at ten days old, he said that accounted for it, but he could
see there was nothing earthly about her.

I was delighted with this _séance_, and hoped to sit with Mrs. Williams
many times more, but fate decreed that I should leave New York sooner
than I had anticipated. The perfect freedom with which it was conducted
charmed me, and the spirits seemed so familiar with the sitters. There
was no "Sweet Spirit, hear my prayer," business about it. No fear of
being detained or handled among the spirits, and no awe, only intense
tenderness on the part of their relations. It was to this cause I
chiefly attributed the large number of materializations I
witnessed--_forty_ having taken place that evening. They spoke far more
distinctly and audibly too than those I had seen in England, but I
believe the dry atmosphere of the United States is far more favorable to
the process of materialization. I perceived another difference. Although
the female spirits were mostly clad in white, they wore dresses and not
simply drapery, whilst the men were invariably attired in the clothes
(or semblances of the clothes) they would have worn had they been still
on earth. I left Mrs. Williams' rooms, determined to see as much as I
possibly could of mediumship whilst I was in the United States.




CHAPTER XXV.

II. _Mrs. Eva Hatch._


I was so disappointed at being hurried off to Boston before I had seen
any more of the New York media, that I took the earliest opportunity of
attending a _séance_ there. A few words I had heard dropped about Eva
Hatch made me resolve to visit her first. She was one of the Shaker
sect, and I heard her spoken of as a remarkably pure and honest woman,
and most reliable medium. Her first appearance quite gave me that
impression. She had a fair, placid countenance, full of sweetness and
serenity, and a plump matronly figure. I went incognita, as I had done
to Mrs. Williams, and mingled unnoticed with the crowd. Mrs. Hatch's
cabinet was quite different from Mrs. Williams'. It was built of planks
like a little cottage, and the roof was pierced with numerous round
holes for ventilation, like a pepper-box. There was a door in the
centre, with a window on either side, all three of which were shaded by
dark curtains. The windows, I was told, were for the accommodation of
those spirits who had not the power to materialize more than a face, or
head and bust. Mrs. Hatch's conductor was a woman, who sat near the
cabinet, as in the other case.

Mrs. Eva Hatch had not entered the cabinet five minutes before she came
out again, under trance, with a very old lady with silver hair clinging
to her arm, and walked round the circle. As they did so, the old lady
extended her withered hand, and blessed the sitters. She came quite
close to each one and was distinctly visible to all. I was told that
this was the spirit of Mrs. Hatch's mother, and that it was her regular
custom to come first and give her blessing to the _séance_. I had never
seen the spirit of an aged person before, and it was a beautiful sight.
She was the sweetest old lady too, very small and fragile looking, and
half reclining on her daughter's bosom, but smiling serenely upon every
one there. When they had made the tour of the room, Mrs. Hatch
re-entered the cabinet, and did not leave it again until the sitting was
concluded.

There were a great many sitters present, most of whom were old patrons
of Mrs. Hatch, and so, naturally, their friends came for them first. It
is surprising though, when once familiarized with materialization, how
little one grows to care to see the spirits who come for one's next door
neighbor. They are like a lot of prisoners let out, one by one, to see
their friends and relations. The few moments they have to spare are
entirely devoted to home matters of no possible interest to the
bystander. The first wonder and possible shock at seeing the supposed
dead return in their old likeness to greet those they left on earth
over, one listens with languid indifference, and perhaps a little
impatience for one's own turn to come, to the whispered utterances of
strangers. Mrs. Hatch's "cabinet spirits" or "controls," however, were
very interesting. One, who called herself the "Spirit of Prayer," came
and knelt down in the middle of the circle, and prayed with us. She had
asked for the gas to be extinguished first, and as she prayed she became
illuminated with flashes of light, in the shape of stars and crosses,
until she was visible from head to foot, and we could see her features
and dress as if she had been surrounded by electricity.

Two more cabinet spirits were a negro and negress, who appeared
together, chanting some of their native hymns and melodies. When I saw
these apparitions, I thought to myself: "Here is a good opportunity to
discover trickery, if trickery there is." The pair were undoubtedly of
the negro race. There was no mistaking their thick lips and noses and
yellow-white eyes, nor their polished brown skins, which no charcoal can
properly imitate. They were negroes without doubt; but how about the
negro bouquet? Everyone who has mixed with colored people in the East or
the West knows what that is, though it is very difficult to describe,
being something like warm rancid oil mingled with the fumes of charcoal,
with a little worse thrown in. "Now," I thought, "if these forms are
human, there will be some odor attached to them, and that I am
determined to find out." I caught, therefore, at the dress of the young
woman as she passed, and asked her if she would kiss me. She left her
companion directly, and put her arms (which were bare) round my neck,
and embraced me several times; and I can declare, on my oath, that she
was as completely free from anything like the smell of a colored woman
as it was possible for her to be. She felt as fresh and sweet and pure
as a little child.

Many other forms appeared and were recognized by the circle, notably a
very handsome one who called herself the Empress Josephine; but as they
could not add a grain's weight to my testimony I pass them over. I had
begun to think that "Florence" was not going to visit me that evening,
when the conductor of the _séance_ asked if there was anybody in the
room who answered to the name of "Bluebell." I must indulge in a little
retrospect here, and tell my readers that ten years previous to the time
I am writing of, I had lost my brother-in-law, Edward Church, under very
painful circumstances. He had been left an orphan and in control of his
fortune at a very early age, and had lived with my husband, Colonel
Ross-Church, and myself. But poor "Ted" had been his own worst enemy. He
had possessed a most generous heart and affectionate disposition, but
these had led him into extravagances that swallowed up his fortune, and
then he had taken to drinking and killed himself by it. I and my
children had loved him dearly, but all our prayers and entreaties had
had no avail, and in the end he had become so bad that the doctors had
insisted upon our separation. Poor "Ted" had consequently died in exile,
and this had been a further aggravation of our grief. For ten years I
had been trying to procure communication with him in vain, and I had
quite given up expecting to see him again. Only once had I heard
"Bluebell" (his pet name for me) gasped out by an entranced clairvoyant,
but nothing further had come of it. Now, as I heard it for the second
time, from a stranger's lips in a foreign country, it naturally roused
my expectations, but I thought it might be only a message for me from
"Ted."

"Is there anyone here who recognizes the name of 'Bluebell'?" repeated
the conductor. "I was once called so by a friend," I said. "Someone is
asking for that name. You had better come up to the cabinet," she
replied. I rose at once and did as she told me, but when I reached the
curtain I encountered "Florence." "My darling child," I said, as I
embraced her, "why did you ask for 'Bluebell'?" She did not answer me,
except by shaking her head, placing her finger on her lips, and
pointing downwards to the carpet. I did not know what to make of it. I
had never known her unable to articulate before. "What is the matter,
dear?" I said; "can't you speak to me to-night?" Still she shook her
head, and tapped my arm with her hand, to attract my attention to the
fact that she was pointing vigorously downwards. I looked down, too,
when, to my astonishment, I saw rise through the carpet what looked to
me like the bald head of a baby or an old man, and a little figure, _not
more than three feet in height_, with Edward Church's features, but no
hair on its head, came gradually into view, and looked up in my face
with a pitiful, deprecating expression, as if he were afraid I should
strike him. The face, however, was so unmistakably Ted's, though the
figure was so ludicrously insignificant, that I could not fail to
recognize him. "Why, Ted!" I exclaimed, "have you come back to see me at
last?" and held out my hand. The little figure seized it, tried to
convey it to his lips, burst into tears, and sank down through the
carpet much more rapidly than he had come up.

I began to cry too. It was so pitiful. With her uncle's disappearance
"Florence" found her tongue. "Don't cry, mother," she said; "poor Uncle
Ted is overcome at seeing you. That's why he couldn't materialize
better. He was in such a terrible hurry. He'll look more like himself
next time. I was trying so hard to help him, I didn't dare to use up any
of the power by speaking. He'll be so much better, now he's seen you.
You'll come here again, won't you?" I told her I certainly would, if I
could; and, indeed, I was all anxiety to see my poor brother-in-law
again. To prove how difficult it would have been to deceive me on this
subject, I should like to say a little about Edward Church's personal
appearance. He was a very remarkable looking man--indeed, I have never
seen anyone a bit like him before or after. He was very small; not short
only, but small altogether, with tiny hands and feet, and a little head.
His hair and eyes were of the deepest black--the former parted in the
middle, with a curl on either side, and was naturally waved. His
complexion was very dark, his features delicate, and he wore a small
pointed moustache. As a child he had suffered from an attack of
confluent small-pox, which had deeply pitted his face, and almost eaten
away the tip of his nose. Such a man was not to be easily imitated, even
if anyone in Boston had ever heard of his inconsequential existence. To
me, though, he had been a dear friend and brother, before the curse of
Drink had seemed to change his nature, and I had always been anxious to
hear how he fared in that strange country whither he had been forced to
journey, like all of us, _alone_. I was very pleased then to find that
business would not interfere with my second visit to Mrs. Eva Hatch,
which took place two nights afterward. On this occasion "Florence" was
one of the first to appear, and "Ted" came with her, rather weak and
trembling on his second introduction to this mundane sphere, but no
longer bald-headed nor under-sized. He was his full height now, about
five feet seven; his head was covered with his black crisp hair, parted
just as he used to wear it while on earth; in every particular he
resembled what he used to be, even down to his clothes. I could have
sworn I had seen that very suit of clothes; the little cut-away coat he
always wore, with the natty tie and collar, and a dark blue velvet
smoking cap upon his head, exactly like one I remembered being in his
possession. "Florence" still seemed to be acting as his interpreter and
guide. When I said to him, "Why! Ted, you look quite like your old self
to-day," she answered, "He can't talk to you, mamma, he is weak still,
and he is so thankful to meet you again. He wants me to tell you that he
has been trying to communicate with you often, but he never could manage
it in England. He will be so glad when he can talk freely to you."
Whilst she was speaking, "Ted" kept on looking from her to me like a
deaf and dumb animal trying to understand what was going on in a manner
that was truly pitiful. I stooped down and kissed his forehead. The
touch seemed to break the spell that hung over him. "_Forgive_," he
uttered in a choked voice. "There is nothing to forgive, dear," I
replied, "except as we all have need to forgive each other. You know how
we all loved you, Ted, and we loved you to the last and grieved for you
deeply. You remember the children, and how fond you were of them and
they of you. They often speak to this day of their poor Uncle Ted."
"Eva--Ethel," he gasped out, naming my two elder children. At this
juncture he seemed suddenly to fail, and became so weak that "Florence"
took him back into the cabinet again. No more spirits came for me that
evening, but towards the close of the _séance_ "Florence" and "Ted"
appeared again together and embraced me fondly. "Florence" said, "He's
so happy now, mother; he says he shall rest in peace now that he knows
that you have forgiven him. And he won't come without his hair again,"
she added, laughing. "I hope he won't," I answered, "for he frightened
me." And then they both kissed me "good-night," and retreated to the
cabinet, and I looked after them longingly and wished I could go there
too.




CHAPTER XXVI.

III. _The Misses Berry._


No one introduced me to the Misses Berry. I saw their advertisement in
the public papers and went incognita to their _séance_, as I had done to
those of others. The first thing that struck me about them was the
superior class of patrons whom they drew. In the ladies' cloak room,
where they left their heavy wraps and umbrellas, the conversation that
took place made this sufficiently evident. Helen and Gertrude Berry were
pretty, unaffected, lady-like girls; and their conductor, Mr. Abrow, one
of the most courteous gentlemen I have ever met. The sisters, both
highly mediumistic, never sat together, but on alternate nights, but the
one who did _not_ sit always took a place in the audience, in order to
prevent suspicion attaching to her absence. Gertrude Berry had been
lately married to a Mr. Thompson, and on account of her health gave up
her _séances_, soon after I made her acquaintance She was a tall,
finely-formed young woman, with golden hair and a beautiful complexion.
Her sister Helen was smaller, paler and more slightly built. She had
been engaged to be married to a gentleman who died shortly before the
time fixed for their wedding, and his spirit, whom she called "Charley,"
was the principal control at her _séances_, though he never showed
himself. I found the _séance_ room, which was not very large, crammed
with chairs which had all been engaged beforehand, so Mr. Abrow fetched
one from downstairs and placed it next his own for me, which was the
very position I should have chosen. I asked him afterwards how he dared
admit a stranger to such close proximity, and he replied that he was a
medium himself and knew who he could and who he could _not_ trust at a
glance. As my professional duties took me backwards and forwards to
Boston, which was my central starting-point, sometimes giving me only a
day's rest there, I was in the habit afterwards, when I found I should
have "a night off," of wiring to Mr. Abrow to keep me a seat, so
difficult was it to secure one unless it were bespoken. Altogether I sat
five or six times with the Berry sisters, and wished I could have sat
fifty or sixty times instead, for I never enjoyed any _séances_ so
_much_ in my life before. The cabinet was formed of an inner room with a
separate door, which had to undergo the process of being sealed up by a
committee of strangers every evening. Strips of gummed paper were
provided for them, on which they wrote their names before affixing them
across the inside opening of the door. On the first night I inspected
the cabinet also as a matter of principle, and gummed my paper with
"Mrs. Richardson" written on it across the door. The cabinet contained
only a sofa for Miss Helen Berry to recline upon. The floor was covered
with a nailed-down carpet. The door which led into the cabinet was
shaded by two dark curtains hung with rings upon a brass rod. The door
of the _séance_ room was situated at a right angle with that of the
cabinet, both opening upon a square landing, and, to make "assurance
doubly sure," the door of the _séance_ room was left open, so that the
eyes of the sitters at that end commanded a view, during the entire
sitting, of the outside of the locked and gummed-over cabinet door. To
make this fully understood, I append a diagram of the two rooms--

[Illustration]

By the position of these doors, it will be seen how impossible it would
have been for anybody to leave or enter the cabinet without being
detected by the sitters, who had their faces turned towards the _séance_
room door. The first materialization that appeared that evening was a
bride, dressed in her bridal costume; and a gentleman, who was occupying
a chair in the front row, and holding a white flower in his hand,
immediately rose, went up to her, embraced her, and whispered a few
words, then gave her the white flower, which she fastened in the bosom
of her dress, after which he bowed slightly to the company, and, instead
of resuming his seat, left the room. Mr. Abrow then said to me, "If you
like, madam, you can take that seat now," and as the scene had excited
my curiosity I accepted his offer, hoping to find some one to tell me
the meaning of it. I found myself next to a very sweet-looking lady,
whom I afterwards knew personally as Mrs. Seymour. "Can you tell me why
that gentleman left so suddenly?" I asked her in a whisper. "He seldom
stays through a _séance_," she replied; "he is a business man, and has
no time to spare, but he is here every night. The lady you saw him speak
to is his wife. She died on her wedding day, eleven years ago, and he
has never failed to meet her on every opportunity since. He brings her a
white flower every time he comes. She appears always first, in order
that he may be able to return to his work." This story struck me as very
interesting, and I always watched for this gentleman afterwards, and
never failed to see him waiting for his bride, with the white flower in
his hand. "Do you expect to see any friends to-night?" I said to my new
acquaintance. "O! yes!" she replied. "I have come to see my daughter
'Bell.' She died some years ago, and I am bringing up the two little
children she left behind her. I never do anything for them without
consulting their mother. Just now I have to change their nurse, and I
have received several excellent characters of others, and I have brought
them here this evening that 'Bell' may tell me which to write for. I
have the pattern for the children's winter frocks, too," she continued,
producing some squares of woolen cloths, "and I always like to let
'Bell' choose which she likes best." This will give my readers some idea
of how much more the American spiritualists regard their departed
friends as still forming part of the home circle, and interested in
their domestic affairs. "Bell" soon after made her appearance, and Mrs.
Seymour brought her up to me. She was a young woman of about three or
four and twenty, and looked very happy and smiling. She perused the
servants' characters as practically as her mother might have done, but
said she would have none of them, and Mrs. Seymour was to wait till she
received some more. The right one had not come yet. She also looked at
the patterns, and indicated the one she liked best. Then, as she was
about to retire, she whispered to her mother, and Mrs. Seymour said, to
my surprise (for it must be remembered I had not disclosed my name to
her), "Bell tells me she knows a daughter of yours in the spirit life,
called 'Florence.' Is that the case?" I answered I had a daughter of
that name; and Mrs. Seymour added "'Bell' says she will be here this
evening, that she is a very pure and very elevated spirit, and they are
great friends." Very shortly after this, Mr. Abrow remarked, "There is a
young girl in the cabinet now, who says that if her mother's name is
'Mrs. Richardson,' she must have married for the third time since she
saw her last, for she was 'Mrs. Lean' then." At this remark I laughed;
and Mr. Abrow said, "Is she come for you, madam? Does the cap fit?" I
was obliged to acknowledge then that I _had_ given a false name in order
to avoid recognition. But the mention of my married name attracted no
attention to me, and was only a proof that it had not been given from
any previous knowledge of Mr. Abrow's concerning myself. I was known in
the United States as "Florence Marryat" only, and to this day they
believe me to be still "Mrs. Ross-Church," that being the name under
which my first novels were written. So I recognized "Florence" at once
in the trick that had been played me, and had risen to approach the
curtain, when she came _bounding_ out and ran into my arms. I don't
think I had ever seen her look so charming and girlish before. She
looked like an embodiment of sunshine. She was dressed in a low frock
which seemed manufactured of lace and muslin, her hair fell loose down
her back to her knees, and her hands were full of damask roses. This was
in December, when hot-house roses were selling for a dollar a piece in
Boston, and she held, perhaps, twenty. Their scent was delicious, and
she kept thrusting them under my nose, saying, "Smell my roses, mother.
Don't you wish you had my garden? We have _fields_ of them in the Summer
Land! O! how I wish you were there." "Shan't I come soon, darling?" I
said. "No! not yet," replied "Florence." "You have a lot of work to do
still. But when you come, it will be all flowers for you and me." I
asked her if she knew "Bell," and she said, "O! yes! We came together
this evening." Then I asked her to come and speak to "Bell's" mother,
and her manner changed at once. She became shy and timid, like a young
girl, unused to strangers, and quite hung on my arm, as I took her up to
Mrs. Seymour's side. When she had spoken a few words to her in a very
low voice, she turned to me and said, "I must go now, because we have a
great surprise for you this evening--a _very_ great surprise." I told
her I liked great surprises, when they were pleasant ones, and
"Florence" laughed, and went away. I found that her _début_ had created
such a sensation amongst the sitters--it being so unusual for a
materialized spirit to appear so strong and perfect on the first
occasion of using a medium--that I felt compelled to give them a little
explanation on the subject. And when I told them how I had lost her as a
tiny infant of ten days old--how she had returned to me through various
media in England, and given such unmistakable proofs of her
_identity_--and how I, being a stranger in their country, and only
landed there a few weeks, had already met her through Mrs. Williams,
Mrs. Hatch and Miss Berry--they said it was one of the most wonderful
and perfect instances of materialization they had ever heard of. And
when one considers how perfect the chain is, from the time when
"Florence" first came back to me as a child, too weak to speak, or even
to understand where she was, to the years through which she had grown
and became strong almost beneath my eyes, till she could "_bound_" (as I
have narrated) into my arms like a human being, and talk as distinctly
as (and far more sensible than) I did myself, I think my readers will
acknowledge also, that hers is no common story, and that I have some
reason to believe in Spiritualism.

Miss Berry's cabinet spirits were quite different from the common type.
One was, or rather had been, a dancing girl--not European, but rather
more, I fancy, of the Asiatic or Egyptian type. Anyway she used to come
out of the cabinet--a lithe lissom creature like a panther or a
snake--and execute such twists and bounds and pirouettes, as would have
made her fortune on the stage. Indeed I used to think (being always on
the lookout for chicanery) that no _human_ creature who could dance
as she did would ever waste her talents, especially in a smart country
like America, on an audience of spiritualists, whose only motive for
meeting was to see their friends, and who would not pay an extra cent to
look at a "cabinet spirit." Another one was an Indian whom they called
"The Brave." He was also a lithe, active creature, without an ounce of
superfluous flesh upon his body, but plenty of muscle. He appeared to
like the ladies of the company very much, but evidently distrusted the
men. One stout, big man who was, I fancy, a bit of a sceptic, wished to
test the "Brave's" muscular power by feeling his biceps, and was invited
to step in front of the circle for that purpose. He had no sooner
approached him than the Indian seized him up in his arms and threw him
_right over his head_. He did not hurt him, but as the gentleman got up
again, he said, "Well! I weigh 200 pounds, and I didn't think any man in
the room could have done that." The ladies in the circle mostly wore
flowers in their bosom--bouquets, after the custom of American
ladies--and they began, one and all, to detach flowers from their
bouquets and give them to the "Brave," "to give to his squaw." He nodded
and gabbled some unintelligible Sioux or Cherokee in reply, and went all
round the circle on his knees. The stout man had surmised that he was
painted, and his long, straight, black hair was a wig. When he came to
me I said, "Brave! may I try if your hair is a wig?" He nodded and said,
"Pull--pull!" which I did, and found that it undoubtedly grew on his
head. Then he took my finger and drew it across his face several times
to show he was not painted. I had no flowers to present him with, so I
said, "Come here, Brave, and I'll give you something for your squaw,"
and when he approached near enough I kissed him. He chuckled, and his
eyes sparkled with mischief as he ran chatting in his native dialect
behind the curtains. In another minute he dashed out again, and coming
up to me ejaculated, "No--give--squaw!" and rushed back. Mr. Abrow
laughed heartily at this incident, and so did all the sitters, the
former declaring I had entirely captivated the "Brave." Presently the
cabinet curtains were shaken, and after a pause they parted slowly, and
the figure of an Indian squaw crept out. Anything more malignant and
vicious than her look I have seldom seen. Mr. Abrow asked her _who_ she
wanted and _what_ she wanted, but she would not speak. She stood there
silent, but scowling at me from beneath the tangles of her long black
hair. At last Mr. Abrow said to her, "If you don't want to speak to
anyone in the circle you must go away, as you are only preventing other
spirits from coming." The squaw backed behind the curtains again rather
sulkily, but the next time the "Brave" appeared she came with him, and
_never_ did he come again in my presence but what his "squaw" stood at
the curtains and watched his actions. Mrs. Abrow told me that the
"Brave" had been in the habit of manifesting at their _séances_ for
years, but that they had never seen the "squaw" until that evening.
Indeed, I don't think they were very grateful to me for having by my
rashness eliminated this new feature in their evening's entertainment,
for the "squaw" proved to be a very earthly and undeveloped spirit, and
subsequently gave them some trouble, as they could not drive her away
when they wanted to do so. Towards the close of the evening Mr. Abrow
said, "There is a spirit here now who is very anxious to show himself,
but it is the first time he has ever attempted to fully materialize, and
he is not at all certain of success. He tells me there is a lady in the
circle who has newly arrived in America, and that this lady years ago
sang a song by his dying bed in India. If she will step up to the
cabinet now and sing that song again he will try and shew himself to
her."

Such of my readers as have perused "The story of John Powles" will
recognize at once who this was. I did, of course, and I confess that as
I rose to approach the cabinet I trembled like an aspen leaf. I had
tried so often, and failed so often to see this dear old friend of mine,
that to think of meeting him now was like a veritable resurrection from
the dead. Think of it! We had parted in 1860, and this was
1884--twenty-four years afterwards. I had been a girl when we said
"Good-bye," and he went forth on that journey which seemed then so
mysterious an one to me. I was a middle-aged woman now, who had passed
through so much from which _he_ had been saved, that I felt more like
his mother than his friend. Of all my experiences this was to me really
the most solemn and interesting. I hardly expected to see more than his
face, but I walked up to the cabinet and commenced to sing in a very
shaky voice the first stanza of the old song he was so fond of:--

    "Thou art gone from my gaze like a beautiful dream,
    And I seek thee in vain by the meadow and stream;
    Oft I breathe thy dear name to the winds passing by,
    But thy sweet voice is mute to my bosom's lone sigh.
    In the stillness of night when the stars mildly shine,
    O! then oft my heart holds communion with thine,
    For I feel thou art near, and where'er I may be,
    That the Spirit of Love keeps a watch over me."

I had scarcely reached the finish of these lines when both the curtains
of the cabinet were drawn apart so sharply that the brass rings rattled
on the rod, and John Powles stood before me. Not a face, nor a
half-formed figure, nor an apparition that was afraid to pass into the
light--but _John Powles himself_, stalwart and living, who stepped out
briskly and took me in his arms and kissed me four or five times, as a
long-parted brother might have done; and strange to say, I didn't feel
the least surprised at it, but clung to him like a sister. For John
Powles had never once kissed me during his lifetime. Although we had
lived for four years in the closest intimacy, often under the same roof,
we had never indulged in any familiarities. I think men and women were
not so lax in their manners then as they are now; at anyrate, the only
time I had ever kissed him was when he lay dead, and my husband had told
me to do so. And yet it seemed quite natural on meeting him again to
kiss him and cry over him. At last I ventured to say, "O, Powles! is
this really you?" "Look at me and see for yourself," he answered. I
looked up. It was indeed himself. He had possessed _very_ blue eyes in
earth life, good features, a florid complexion, auburn hair, and quite a
golden beard and moustache. The eyes and hair and features were just the
same, only his complexion was paler, and he wore no beard. "O!" I
exclaimed, "where is your beard?" "Don't you remember I cut it off just
before I left this world?" he said; and then I recalled the fact that he
had done so owing to a Government order on the subject.

And bearing on this question I may mention what seems a curious
thing--that spirits almost invariably return to earth the first time
_just as they left it_, as though their thoughts at the moment of
parting clothed them on their return. This, however, was not John
Powles' first _attempt_ at materialization, although it was his first
success, for it may be remembered he tried to show himself through Miss
Showers, and then he _had_ a beard. However, when I saw him through Miss
Berry, he had none, nor did he resume it during my stay in America. When
we had got over the excitement of meeting, he began to speak to me of my
children, especially of the three who were born before his death, and of
whom he had been very fond. He spoke of them all by name, and seemed
quite interested in their prospects and affairs. But when I began to
speak of other things he stopped me. "I know it all," he said, "I have
been with you in spirit through all your trials, and I can never feel
the slightest interest in, or affection for, those who caused them. My
poor friend, you have indeed had your purgatory upon earth." "But tell
me of yourself, dear Powles! Are you quite happy?" I asked him. He
paused a moment and then replied, "Quite happy, waiting for you."
"Surely you are not suffering still?" I said, "after all these years?"
"My dear Florence," he answered, "it takes more than a few years to
expiate a life of sin. But I am happier than I was, and every year the
burden is lighter, and coming back to you will help me so much."

As he was speaking to me the curtain opened again, and there stood my
brother-in-law, Edward Church, not looking down-spirited and miserable,
as he had done at Mrs. Eva Hatch's, but bright and smiling, and dressed
in evening clothes, as also I perceived, when I had time to think of it,
was John Powles. I didn't know which to talk to first, but kept turning
from one to the other in a dazed manner. John Powles was telling me that
_he_ was preparing my house for me in the Summer Land, and would come to
take me over to it when I died, when "Ted" interrupted him. "That ought
to have been _my_ work, Bluebell," he said, "only Powles had anticipated
me." "I wish I could go back with you both at once, I am sick of this
world," I replied. "Ted" threw his arms round me and strained me to his
breast. "O! it is so hard to part again. How I wish I could carry you
away in my arms to the Summer Land! I should have nothing left to wish
for then." "You don't want to come back then, Ted?" I asked him. "_Want
to come back_," he said with a shudder; "not for anything! Why,
Bluebell, death is like an operation which you must inevitably undergo,
but which you fear because you know so little about it. Well, with me
_the operation's over_. I know the worst, and every day makes the term
of punishment shorter. I am _thankful_ I left the earth so soon." "You
look just like your old self, Ted," I said; "the same little curls and
scrubby little moustache." "Pull them," he answered gaily. "Don't go
away, Bluebell, and say they were false and I was Miss Berry dressed up.
Feel my biceps," he continued, throwing up his arm as men do, "and feel
my heart," placing my hand above it, "feel how it is beating for my
sister Bluebell."

I said to John Powles, "I hardly know you in evening costume. I never
saw you in it before" (which was true, as all our acquaintance had taken
place in India, where the officers are never allowed to appear in
anything but uniform, especially in the evenings). "I wish," I
continued, "that you would come next time in uniform." "I will try," he
replied, and then their time was up for that occasion, and they were
obliged to go.

A comical thing occurred on my second visit to the Berrys. Of course I
was all eagerness to see my brother-in-law and "Powles" again, and when
I was called up to the cabinet and saw a slim, dark, young man standing
there, I took him at once for "Ted," and, without looking at him, was
just about to kiss him, when he drew backwards and said, "I am not
'Edward!' I am his friend 'Joseph,' to whom he has given permission to
make your acquaintance." I then perceived that "Joseph" was very
different from "Ted," taller and better looking, with a Jewish cast of
countenance. I stammered and apologized, and felt as awkward as if I had
nearly kissed a mortal man by mistake. "Joseph" smiled as if it were of
very little consequence. He said he had never met "Ted" on earth, but
they were close friends in the spirit world, and "Ted" had talked so
much to him of me, that he had become very anxious to see me, and speak
to me. He was a very elegant looking young man, but he did not seem to
have very much to say for himself, and he gave me the impression that he
had been a "masher" whilst here below, and had not quite shaken off the
remembrance in the spirit world.

There was one spirit who often made her appearance at these sittings and
greatly interested me. This was a mother with her infant of a few weeks
old. The lady was sweet and gentle looking, but it was the baby that so
impressed me--a baby that never whined nor squalled, nor turned red in
the face, and yet was made of neither wax nor wood, but was palpably
living and breathing. I used always to go up to the cabinet when this
spirit came, and ask her to let me feel the little baby. It was a tiny
creature, with a waxen-looking face, and she always carried it enveloped
in a full net veil, yet when I touched its hand, the little fingers
tightened round mine in baby fashion, as it tried to convey them to its
mouth. I had seen several spirit children materialized before, but never
such a young infant as this. The mother told me she had passed away in
child-birth, and the baby had gone with her. She had been a friend of
the Misses Berry, and came to them for that reason.

On Christmas Eve I happened to be in Boston, and disengaged, and as I
found it was a custom of the American Spiritualists to hold meetings on
that anniversary for the purpose of seeing their spirit friends, I
engaged a seat for the occasion. I arrived some time before the _séance_
commenced, and next to me was seated a gentleman, rather roughly
dressed, who was eyeing everything about him with the greatest
attention. Presently he turned to me and said, rather sheepishly, "Do
you believe in this sort of thing?" "I do," I replied, "and I have
believed in it for the last fifteen years." "Have you ever seen anybody
whom you recognized?" he continued. "Plenty," I said. Then he edged a
little nearer to me, and lowered his voice. "Do you know," he commenced,
"that I have ridden on horseback forty miles through the snow to-day to
be present at this meeting, because my old mother sent me a message that
she would meet me here! I don't believe in it, you know. I've never been
at a _séance_ before, and I feel as if I was making a great fool of
myself now, but I couldn't neglect my poor old mother's message,
whatever came of it." "Of course not," I answered, "and I hope your
trouble will be rewarded." I had not much faith in my own words, though,
because I had seen people disappointed again and again over their first
_séance_, from either the spirits of their friends being too weak to
materialize, or from too many trying to draw power at once, and so
neutralizing the effect on all. My bridegroom friend was all ready on
that occasion with his white flowers in his hand and I ventured to
address him and tell him how very beautiful I considered his wife's
fidelity and his own. He seemed pleased at my notice, and began to talk
quite freely about her. He told me she had returned to him before her
body was buried, and had been with him ever since. "She is so really and
truly _my wife_," he said, "as I received her at the altar, that I could
no more marry again than I could if she were living in my house." When
the _séance_ commenced she appeared first as usual, and her husband
brought her up to my side. "This is Miss Florence Marryat, dear," he
said (for by this time I had laid aside my _incognita_ with the Berrys).
"You know her name, don't you?" "O! yes," she answered, as she gave me
her hand, "I know you quite well. I used to read your books." Her face
was covered with her bridal veil, and her husband turned it back that I
might see her. She was a very pretty girl of perhaps twenty--quite a
gipsy, with large dark eyes and dark curling hair, and a brown
complexion. "She has not altered one bit since the day we were married,"
said her husband, looking fondly at her, "whilst I have grown into an
old man." She put up her hand and stroked his cheek. "We shall be young
together some day," she said. Then he asked her if she was not going to
kiss me, and she held up her face to mine like a child, and he dropped
the veil over her again and led her away. The very next spirit that
appeared was my rough friend's mother, and his astonishment and emotion
at seeing her were very unmistakeable. When first he went up to the
cabinet and saw her his head drooped, and his shoulders shook with the
sobs he could not repress. After a while he became calmer, and talked to
her, and then I saw him also bringing her up to me. "I must bring my
mother to you," he said, "that you may see she has really come back to
me." I rose, and the old lady shook hands with me. She must have been,
at the least, seventy years old, and was a most perfect specimen of old
age. Her face was like wax, and her hair like silver; but every wrinkle
was distinct, and her hands were lined with blue veins. She had lost her
teeth, and mumbled somewhat in speaking, and her son said, "She is
afraid you will not understand what she says; but she wants you to know
that she will be quite happy if her return will make me believe in a
future existence." "And will it?" I asked. He looked at his mother. "I
don't understand it," he replied. "It seems too marvellous to be true;
but how _can_ I disbelieve it, when _here she is_?" And his words were
so much the echo of my own grounds for belief, that I quite sympathized
with them. "John Powles," and "Ted," and "Florence," all came to see me
that evening; and when I bid "Florence" "good-bye" she said, "Oh, it
isn't 'good-bye' yet, mother! I'm coming again, before you go."
Presently something that was the very farthest thing from my mind--that
had, indeed, never entered it--happened to me. I was told that a young
lady wanted to speak to me, and on going up to the cabinet I recognized
a girl whom _I knew by sight, but had never spoken to_--one of a large
family of children, living in the same terrace in London as myself, and
who had died of malignant scarlet fever about a year before. "Mrs.
Lean," she said, hurriedly, noting my surprise, "don't you know me? I am
May ----." "Yes, I do recognize you, my dear child," I replied; "but
what makes you come to me?" "Minnie and Katie are so unhappy about me,"
she said. "They do not understand. They think I have gone away. They do
not know what death is--that it is only like going into the next room,
and shutting the door." "And what can I do, May?" I asked her. "Tell
them you have seen me, Mrs. Lean. Say I am alive--more alive than they
are; that if they sit for me, I will come to them and tell them so much
they know nothing of now." "But where are your sisters?" I said. She
looked puzzled. "I don't know. I can't say the place; but you will meet
them soon, and you will tell them." "If I meet them, I certainly will
tell them," I said; but I had not the least idea at that moment where
the other girls might be. Four months later, however, when I was staying
in London, Ontario, they burst unexpectedly into my hotel room, having
driven over (I forget how many miles) to see me play. Naturally I kept
my promise; but though they cried when "May" was alluded to, they
evidently could not believe my story of having seen her, and so, I
suppose, the poor little girl's wish remains ungratified. I think the
worst purgatory in the next world must be to find how comfortably our
friends get on without us in this. As a rule, I did not take much
interest in the spirits that did not come for me; but there was one who
appeared several times with the Berrys, and seemed quite like an old
friend to me. This was "John Brown," not her Majesty's "John Brown," but
the hero of the song--

    "Hang John Brown on a sour apple tree,
    But his soul goes touting around.
    Glory! glory! Halleluia!
    For his soul goes touting around."

When I used to hear this song sung with much shouting and some profanity
in England, I imagined (and I fancy most people did) that it was a comic
song in America. But it was no such thing. It was a patriotic song, and
the motive is (however comically put) to give glory to God, that,
_although_ they may hang "John Brown" on a sour apple tree, his soul
will yet "go touting around." So, rightly or wrongly, it was explained
to me. "John Brown" is a patriotic hero in America, and when he
appeared, the whole room crowded round to see him. He was a short man,
with a _singularly_ benevolent countenance, iron grey hair, mutton-chop
whiskers, and deep china blue eyes. A kind of man, as he appeared to me,
made for deeds of love rather than heroism, but from all accounts he was
both kind and heroic. A gentleman present on Christmas eve pushed
forward eagerly to see the materialization, and called out, "Aye! that's
him--that's my old friend--that's 'John Brown'--the best man that ever
trod this earth." Before this evening's _séance_ was concluded Mr. Abrow
said, "There is a little lady in the cabinet at present who announces
herself as a very high personage. She says she is the 'Princess
Gertrude.'" "_What_ did you say, Mr. Abrow?" I exclaimed, unable to
believe my own ears. "'The Princess Gertie,' mother," said "Florence,"
popping her head out of the curtains. "You've met her before in England,
you know." I went up to the cabinet, the curtains divided, there stood
my daughter "Florence" as usual, but holding in front of her a little
child of about seven years old. I knelt down before this spirit of my
own creation. She was a fragile-looking little creature, very fair and
pale, with large grey eyes and brown hair lying over her forehead. She
looked like a lily with her little white hands folded meekly in front of
her. "Are you my little Gertie, darling?" I said. "I am the 'Princess
Gertie,'" she replied, "and 'Florence' says you are my mother." "And are
you glad to see me, Gertie?" I asked. She looked up at her sister, who
immediately prompted her. "Say, 'yes, mother,' Gertie." "Yes! mother,"
repeated the little one, like a parrot. "Will you come to me, darling?"
I said. "May I take you in my arms?" "Not this evening, mother,"
whispered 'Florence,' "you couldn't. She is attached to me. We are tied
together. You couldn't separate us. Next time, perhaps, the 'Princess'
will be stronger, and able to talk more. I will take her back now." "But
where is 'Yonnie'?" I asked, and "Florence" laughed. "Couldn't manage
two of them at once," she said. "'Yonnie' shall come another day," and I
returned to my seat, more mystified than usual.

I alluded to the "Princess Gertie" in my account of the mediumship of
Bessie Fitzgerald, and said that my allusion would find its
signification further on. At that time I had hardly believed it could be
true that the infants who had been born prematurely and never breathed
in this world should be living, sentient spirits to meet me in the next,
and half thought some grown spirit must be tricking me for its own
pleasure. But here, in this strange land, where my blighted babies had
never been mentioned or thought of, to meet the "Princess Gertie" here,
calling herself by her own name, and brought by her sister "Florence,"
set the matter beyond a doubt. It recalled to my mind how once, long
before, when "Aimée" (Mr. Arthur Colman's guide), on being questioned as
to her occupation in the spirit spheres, had said she was "a little
nurse maid," and that "Florence" was one too, my daughter had added,
"Yes! I'm mamma's nurse maid. I have enough to do to look after her
babies. She just looked at me, and 'tossed' me back into the spirit
world, and she's been 'tossing' babies after me ever since."

I had struck up a pleasant acquaintanceship with Mrs. Seymour, "Bell's"
mother, by that time, and when I went back to my seat and told her what
had occurred, she said to me, "I wish you would share the expenses of a
private _séance_ with me here. We can have one all to ourselves for ten
dollars (two pounds), and it would be so charming to have an afternoon
quite alone with our children and friends." I agreed readily, and we
made arrangements with Mr. Abrow before we left that evening, to have a
private sitting on the afternoon following Christmas Day, when no one
was to be admitted except our two selves. When we met there the _séance_
room was lighted with gas as for the evening, but we preferred to close
the door. Helen Berry was the medium, and Mr. Abrow only sat with us.
The rows of chairs looked very empty without any sitters, but we
established ourselves on those which faced the cabinet in the front row.
The first thing which happened was the advent of the "Squaw," looking as
malignant and vicious as ever, who crept in in her dirty blanket, with
her black hair hanging over her face, and deliberately took a seat at
the further end of the room. Mr. Abrow was unmistakably annoyed at the
occurrence. He particularly disliked the influence of this spirit, which
he considered had a bad effect on the _séance_. He first asked her why
she had come, and told her her "Brave" was not coming, and to go back to
him. Then he tried severity, and ordered her to leave the _séance_, but
it was all in vain. She kept her seat with persistent obstinacy, and
showed no signs of "budging." I thought I would try what kindness would
do for her, and approached her with that intention, but she looked so
fierce and threatening, that Mr. Abrow begged me not to go near her, for
fear she should do me some harm. So I left her alone, and she kept her
seat through the whole of the _séance_, evidently with an eye upon me,
and distrusting my behavior when removed from the criticism of the
public. Her presence, however, seemed to make no difference to our
spirit friends. They trooped out of the cabinet one after another, until
we had Mrs. Seymour's brother and her daughter "Bell," who brought
little "Jimmie" (a little son who had gone home before herself) with
her, and "Florence," "Ted," and "John Powles," all so happy and strong
and talkative, that I told Mrs. Seymour we only wanted a tea-table to
think we were holding an "At Home." Last, but not least (at all events
in her own estimation) came the "Princess Gertie." Mr. Abrow tried to
make friends with her, but she repulsed his advances vehemently. "I
don't like you, Mr. Mans," she kept on saying, "you's nasty. I don't
like any mans. They's _all_ nasty." When I told her she was very rude,
and Mr. Abrow was a very kind gentleman and loved little children, she
still persisted she wouldn't speak "to no mans." She came quite alone
on this occasion, and I took her in my arms and carried her across to
Mrs. Seymour. She was a feather weight. I felt as if I had nothing in my
arms. I said to Mrs. Seymour, "Please tell me what this child is like. I
am so afraid of my senses deceiving me that I cannot trust myself." Mrs.
Seymour looked at her and answered, "She has a broad forehead, with dark
brown hair cut across it, and falling straight to her shoulders on
either side. Her eyes are a greyish blue, large and heavy lidded, her
nose is short, and her mouth decided for such a child."

This testimony, given by a stranger, of the apparition of a child that
had never lived, was an exact description (of course in embryo) of her
father, Colonel Lean, who had never set foot in America. Perhaps this is
as good a proof of identity as I have given yet. Our private _séance_
lasted for two hours, and although the different spirits kept on
entering the cabinet at intervals to gain more power, they were all with
us on and off during the entire time. The last pleasant thing I saw was
my dear "Florence" making the "Princess" kiss her hand in farewell to
me, and the only unpleasant one, the sight of the sulky "Squaw" creeping
in after them with the evident conviction that her afternoon had been
wasted.




CHAPTER XXVII.

IV. _The Doctor._


I wonder if it has struck any of my readers as strange that, during all
these manifestations in England and America, I had never seen the form,
nor heard the voice, of my late father, Captain Marryat. Surely if these
various media lived by trickery and falsehood, and wished successfully
to deceive me, _some_ of them would have thought of trying to represent
a man so well known, and whose appearance was so familiar. Other
celebrated men and women have come back and been recognized from their
portraits only, but, though I have sat at numbers of _séances_ given
_for me_ alone, and at which I have been the principal person, my father
has never reappeared at any. Especially, if these manifestations are all
fraud, might this have been expected in America. Captain Marryat's name
is still "a household word" amongst the Americans, and his works largely
read and appreciated, and wherever I appeared amongst them I was
cordially welcomed on that account. When once I had acknowledged my
identity and my views on Spiritualism, every medium in Boston and New
York had ample time to get up an imitation of my father for my benefit
had they desired to do so. But never has he appeared to me; never have I
been told that he was present. Twice only in the whole course of my
experience have I received the slightest sign from him, and on those
occasions he sent me a message--once through Mr. Fletcher (as I have
related), and once through his grandson and my son, Frank Marryat. That
time he told me he should never appear to me and I need never expect
him. But since the American media knew nothing of this strictly private
communication, and I had seen, before I parted with them, _seventeen_ of
my friends and relations, none of whom (except "Florence," "Powles," and
"Emily,") I had ever seen in England, it is at the least strange,
considering his popularity (and granted their chicanery) that Captain
Marryat was not amongst them.

As soon as I became known at the Berry's _séances_ several people
introduced themselves to me, and amongst others Mrs. Isabella Beecher
Hooker, the sister of Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe and Henry Ward Beecher.
She was delighted to find me so interested in Spiritualism, and anxious
I should sit with a friend of hers, a great medium whose name became so
rubbed out in my pencil notes, that I am not sure if it was Doctor
Carter, or Carteret, and therefore I shall speak of him here as simply
"the doctor." The doctor was bound to start for Washington the following
afternoon, so Mrs. Hooker asked me to breakfast with her the next
morning, by which time she would have found out if he could spare us an
hour before he set out on his journey. When I arrived at her house I
heard that he had very obligingly offered to give me a complimentary
_séance_ at eleven o'clock, so, as soon as we had finished breakfast, we
set out for his abode. I found the doctor was quite a young man, and
professed himself perfectly ignorant on the subject of Spiritualism. He
said to me, "I don't know and I don't profess to know _what_ or _who_ it
is that appears to my sitters whilst I am asleep. I know nothing of what
goes on, except from hearsay. I don't know whether the forms that appear
are spirits, or transformations, or materializations. You must judge of
that for yourself. There is one peculiarity in my _séances_. They take
place in utter darkness. When the apparitions (or whatever you choose to
call them) appear, they must bring their own lights or you won't see
them, I have no conductor to my _séances_. If whatever comes can't
announce itself it must remain unknown. But I think you will find that,
as a rule, they can shift for themselves. This is my _séance_ room."

As he spoke he led us into an unfurnished bedroom, I say bedroom,
because it was provided with the dressing closet fitted with pegs, usual
to all bedrooms in America. This closet the doctor used as his cabinet.
The door was left open, and there was no curtain hung before it. The
darkness he sat in rendered that unnecessary. The bedroom was darkened
by two frames, covered with black American cloth, which fitted into the
windows. The doctor, having locked the bedroom door, delivered the key
to me. He then requested us to go and sit for a few minutes in the
cabinet to throw our influence about it. As we did so we naturally
examined it. It was only a large cupboard. It had no window and no door,
except that which led into the room, and no furniture except a
cane-bottomed chair. When we returned to the _séance_ room, the doctor
saw us comfortably established on two armchairs before he put up the
black frames to exclude the light. The room was then pitch dark, and the
doctor had to grope his way to his cabinet. Mrs. Hooker and I sat for
some minutes in silent expectation. Then we heard the voice of a
negress, singing "darkey" songs, and my friend told me it was that of
"Rosa," the doctor's control. Presently "Rosa" was heard to be
expostulating with, or encouraging some one, and faint lights, like
sparks from a fire, could be seen flitting about the open door of the
cabinet. Then the lights seemed to congregate together, and cluster
about a tall form, draped in some misty material, standing just outside
the cabinet. "Can't you tell us who you are?" asked Mrs. Hooker. "You
must tell your name, you know," interposed "Rosa," whereupon a low voice
said, "I am Janet E. Powles."

Now this was an extraordinary coincidence. I had seen Mrs. Powles, the
mother of my friend "John Powles," only once--when she travelled from
Liverpool to London to meet me on my return from India, and hear all the
particulars of her son's death. But she had continued to correspond with
me, and show me kindness till the day of her own death, and as she had a
daughter of the same name, she always signed herself "Janet _E._
Powles." Even had I expected to see the old lady, and published the fact
in the Boston papers, that initial _E_ would have settled the question
of her identity in my mind.

"Mrs. Powles," I exclaimed, "how good of you to come and see me."
"Johnny has helped me to come," she replied. "He is so happy at having
met you again. He has been longing for it for so many years, and I have
come to thank you for making him happy." (Here was another coincidence.
"John Powles" was never called anything but "Powles" by my husband and
myself. But his mother had retained the childish name of "Johnny," and I
could remember how it used to vex him when she used it in her letters to
him. He would say to me, "If she would only call me 'John' or 'Jack,' or
anything but 'Johnny.'") I replied, "I may not leave my seat to go to
you. Will you not come to me?" For the doctor had requested us not to
leave our seats, but to insist on the spirits approaching us. "Mrs.
Powles" said, "I cannot come out further into the room to-day. I am too
weak. But you shall see me." The lights then appeared to travel about
her face and dress till they became stationary, and she was completely
revealed to view under the semblance of her earthly likeness. She smiled
and said, "We were all at the Opera House on Thursday night, and
rejoiced at your success. 'Johnny' was so proud of you. Many of your
friends were there beside ourselves."

I then saw that, unlike the spirits at Miss Berry's, the form of "Mrs.
Powles" was draped in a kind of filmy white, _over_ a dark dress. All
the spirits that appeared with the doctor were so clothed, and I
wondered if the filmy substance had anything to do with the lights,
which looked like electricity. An incident which occurred further on
seemed to confirm my idea. When "Mrs. Powles" had gone, which we guessed
by the extinguishing of the lights, the handsome face and form of "Harry
Montagu" appeared. I had known him well in England, before he took his
fatal journey to America, and could never be mistaken in his sweet smile
and fascinating manner. He did not come further than the door, either,
but he was standing within twelve or fourteen feet of us for all that.
He only said, "Good-luck to you. We can't lose an interest in the old
profession, you know, any more than in the old people." "I wish you'd
come and help me, Harry," I answered. "Oh, I do!" he said, brightly;
"several of us do. We are all links of the same chain. Half the
inspiration in the world comes from those who have gone before. But I
must go! I'm getting crowded out. Here's Ada waiting to see you.
Good-bye!" And as his light went out, the sweet face of Adelaide Neilson
appeared in his stead. She said, "You wept when you heard of my death;
and yet you never knew me. How was that?" "Did I weep?" I answered, half
forgetting; "if so, it must have been because I thought it so sad that a
woman so young, and beautiful, and gifted as you were, should leave the
world so soon." "Oh no! not sad," she answered, brightly; "glorious!
glorious! I would not be back again for worlds." "Have you ever seen
your grave?" I asked her. She shook her head. "What are _graves_ to us?
Only cupboards, where you keep our cast-off clothes." "You don't ask me
what the world says about you, now," I said to her. "And I don't care,"
she answered. "Don't _you_ forget me! Good-bye!"

She was succeeded by a spirit who called herself "Charlotte Cushman,"
and who spoke to me kindly about my professional life. Mrs. Hooker told
me that, to the best of her knowledge, none of these three spirits had
ever appeared under the doctor's mediumship before. But now came out
"Florence," dancing into the room--_literally dancing_, holding out in
both hands the skirt of a dress, which looked as if it were made of the
finest muslin or lace, and up and down which fireflys were darting with
marvellous rapidity. She looked as if clothed in electricity, and
infinitely well pleased with herself. "Look!" she exclaimed; "look at my
dress! isn't it lovely? Look at the fire! The more I shake it, the more
fire comes! Oh, mother! if you could only have a dress like this for the
stage, what a _sensation_ you would make!" And she shook her skirts
about, till the fire seemed to set a light to every part of her drapery,
and she looked as if she were in flames. I observed, "I never knew you
to take so much interest in your dress before, darling." "Oh, it isn't
the dress," she replied; "it's the _fire_!" And she really appeared as
charmed with the novel experience as a child with a new toy.

As she left us, a dark figure advanced into the room, and ejaculated,
"Ma! ma!" I recognized at once the peculiar intonation and mode of
address of my stepson, Francis Lean, with whom, since he had announced
his own death to me, I had had no communication, except through trance
mediumship. "Is that you, my poor boy," I said, "come closer to me. You
are not afraid of me, are you?" "O, no! Ma! of course not, only I was at
the Opera House, you know, with the others, and that piece you recited,
Ma--you know the one--it's all true, Ma--and I don't want you to go back
to England. Stay here, Ma--stay here!" I knew perfectly well to what the
lad alluded, but I would not enter upon it before a stranger. So I only
said, "You forget my children, Francis--what would they say if I never
went home again." This seemed to puzzle him, but after a while he
answered, "Then go to _them_, Ma; go to _them_." All this time he had
been talking in the dark, and I only knew him by the sound of his voice.
I said, "Are you not going to show yourself to me, Francis. It is such a
long time since we met." "Never since you saw me at the docks. That was
_me_, Ma, and at Brighton, too, only you didn't half believe it till you
heard I was gone." "Tell me the truth of the accident, Francis," I asked
him. "Was there foul play?" "No," he replied, "but we got quarrelling
about _her_ you know, and fighting, and that's how the boat upset. It
was _my_ fault, Ma, as much as anybody else's."

"How was it your body was never found?" "It got dragged down in an
undercurrent, Ma. It was out at Cape Horn before they offered a reward
for it." Then he began to light up, and as soon as the figure was
illuminated I saw that the boy was dressed in "jumpers" and "jersey" of
dark woollen material, such as they wear in the merchant service in hot
climates, but over it all--his head and shoulders included--was wound a
quantity of flimsy white material I have before mentioned. "I can't bear
this stuff. It makes me look like a girl," said "Francis," and with his
hands he tore it off. Simultaneously the illumination ceased, and he was
gone. I called him by name several times, but no sound came out of the
darkness. It seemed as though the veiling which he disliked preserved
his materialization, and that, with its protection removed, he had
dissolved again.

When another dark figure came out of the cabinet, and approaching me,
knelt at my feet, I supposed it to be "Francis" come back again, and
laying my hand on the bent head, I asked, "Is this you again, dear?" A
strange voice answered, with the words, "Forgive! forgive!" "_Forgive!_"
I repeated, "What have I to forgive?" "The attempt to murder your
husband in 1856. Arthur Yelverton Brooking has forgiven. He is here with
me now. Will you forgive too?" "Certainly," I replied, "I have forgiven
long ago. You expiated your sin upon the gallows. You could do no more."

The figure sprung into a standing position, and lit up from head to
foot, when I saw the two men standing together, Arthur Yelverton
Brooking and the Madras sepoy who had murdered him. I never saw anything
more brilliant than the appearance of the sepoy. He was dressed
completely in white, in the native costume, with a white "puggree" or
turban on his head. But his "puggree" was flashing with jewels--strings
of them were hung round his neck--and his sash held a magnificent
jewelled dagger. You must please to remember that I was not alone, but
that this sight was beheld by Mrs. Hooker as well as myself (to whom it
was as unexpected as to her), and that I know she would testify to it
to-day. And now to explain the reason of these unlooked-for apparitions.

In 1856 my husband, then Lieutenant Ross-Church, was Adjutant of the
12th Madras Native Infantry, and Arthur Yelverton Brooking, who had for
some time done duty with the 12th, was adjutant of another native corps,
both of which were stationed at Madras. Lieutenant Church was not a
favorite with his men, by whom he was considered a martinet, and one day
when there had been a review on the island at Madras, and the two
adjutants were riding home together, a sepoy of the 12th fired at
Lieutenant Church's back with the intent to kill him, but unfortunately
the bullet struck Lieutenant Brooking instead, who, after lingering for
twelve hours, died, leaving a young wife and a baby behind him. For this
offence the sepoy was tried and hung, and on his trial the whole truth
of course came out. This then was the reason that the spirits of the
murdered and the murderer came like friends, because the injury had
never been really intended for Brooking.

When I said that I had forgiven, the sepoy became (as I have told) a
blaze of light, and then knelt again and kissed the hem of my dress. As
he knelt there he became covered, or heaped over, with a mass of the
same filmy drapery as enveloped "Francis," and when he rose again he was
standing in a cloud. He gathered an end of it, and laying it on my head
he wound me and himself round and round with it, until we were bound up
in a kind of cocoon. Mrs. Hooker, who watched the whole proceeding, told
me afterwards that she had never seen anything like it before--that she
could distinctly see the dark face and the white face close together all
the time beneath the drapery, and that I was as brightly illuminated as
the spirit. Of this I was not aware myself, but _his_ brightness almost
dazzled me.

Let me observe also that I have been in the East Indies, and within a
few yards' length of sepoys, and that I am sure I could never have been
wrapt in the same cloth with a mortal one without having been made
painfully aware of it in more ways than one. The spirit did not _unwind_
me again, although the winding process had taken him some time. He
whisked off the wrapping with one pull, and I stood alone once more. I
asked him by what name I should call him, and he said, "The Spirit of
Light." He then expressed a wish to magnetize something I wore, so as to
be the better able to approach me. I gave him a brooch containing "John
Powles'" hair, which his mother had given me after his death, and he
carried it back into the cabinet with him. It was a valuable brooch of
onyx and pearls, and I was hoping my eastern friend would not carry it
_too_ far, when I found it had been replaced and fastened at my throat
without my being aware of the circumstance. "Arthur Yelverton Brooking"
had disappeared before this, and neither of them came back again. These
were not all the spirits that came under the doctor's mediumship during
that _séance_, but only those whom I had known and recognized. Several
of Mrs. Hooker's friends appeared and some of the doctor's controls, but
as I have said before, they could not help my narrative, and so I omit
to describe them. The _séance_ lasted altogether two hours, and I was
very grateful to the doctor for giving me the opportunity to study an
entirely new phase of the science to me.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

V. _Mrs. Fay._


There was a young woman called "Annie Eva Fay," who came over from
America to London some years ago, and appeared at the Hanover Square
Rooms, in an exhibition after the manner of the Davenport Brothers and
Messrs. Maskelyne and Cook. She must not be confounded with the Mrs. Fay
who forms the subject of this chapter, because they had nothing to do
with one another. Some one in Boston advised me _not_ to go and sit at
one of this Mrs. Fay's public _séances_. They were described to me as
being too physical and unrefined; that the influences were of a low
order, and the audiences matched them. However, when I am studying a
matter, I like to see everything I can and hear everything I can
concerning it, and to form my own opinion independent of that of anybody
else. So I walked off by myself one night to Mrs. Fay's address, and sat
down in a quiet corner, watching everything that occurred. The circle
certainly numbered some members of a humble class, but I conclude we
should see that everywhere if the fees were lower. Media, like other
professional people, fix their charges according to the quarter of the
city in which they live. But every member was silent and respectful, and
evidently a believer.

One young man, in deep mourning, with a little girl also in black, of
about five or six years old, attracted my attention at once, from his
sorrowful and abstracted manner. He had evidently come there, I thought,
in the hope of seeing some one whom he had lost. Mrs. Fay (as she passed
through the room to her cabinet) appeared a very quiet, simple-looking
little woman to me, without any loudness or vulgarity about her. Her
cabinet was composed of two curtains only, made of some white material,
and hung on uprights at one angle, in a corner of the room, the most
transparent contrivance possible. Anything like a bustle or confusion
inside it, such as would be occasioned by dressing or "making up,"
would have been apparent at once to the audience outside, who were
sitting by the light of an ordinary gas-burner and globe. Yet Mrs. Fay
had not been seated there above a few minutes, when there ran out into
the _séance_ room two of the most extraordinary materializations I had
ever seen, and both of them about as opposite to Mrs. Fay in appearance
as any creatures could be.

One was an Irish charwoman or apple-woman (she might have been either)
with a brown, wrinkled face, a broken nose, tangled grey hair, a crushed
bonnet, general dirt and disorder, and a tongue that could talk broad
Irish, and call "a spade a spade" at one and the same time. "Biddy," as
she was named, was accompanied by a street newspaper boy--one of those
urchins who run after carriages and turn Catherine-wheels in the mud,
and who talked "gutter-slang" in a style that was utterly unintelligible
to the decent portion of the sitters. These two went on in a manner that
was undoubtedly funny, but not at all edifying and calculated to drive
any enquirer into Spiritualism out of the room, under the impression
that they were evil spirits bent on our destruction. That either of them
was represented by Mrs. Fay was out of the question. In the first place,
she would, in that instance, have been so clever an actress and mimic,
that she would have made her fortune on the stage--added to which the
boy "Teddy" was much too small for her, and "Biddy" was much too large.
Besides, no actress, however experienced, could have "made up" in the
time. I was quite satisfied, therefore, that neither of them was the
medium, even if I could not have seen her figure the while, through the
thin curtains, sitting in her chair. _Why_ such low, physical
manifestations are permitted I am unable to say. It was no wonder they
had shocked the sensibility of my friend. I felt half inclined myself
when they appeared to get up and run away. However, I was very glad
afterwards that I did not. They disappeared after a while, and were
succeeded by a much pleasanter person, a cabinet spirit called "Gipsy,"
who looked as if she might have belonged to one of the gipsy tribes when
on earth, she was so brown and arch and lively. Presently the young man
in black was called up, and I saw him talking to a female spirit very
earnestly. After a while he took her hand and led her outside the
curtain, and called the little girl whom he had left on his seat by her
name. The child looked up, screamed "Mamma! mamma!" and flew into the
arms of the spirit, who knelt down and kissed her, and we could hear the
child sobbing and saying, "Oh! mamma, why did you go away?--why did you
go away?" It was a very affecting scene--at least it seemed so to me.
The instant recognition by the little girl, and her perfect
unconsciousness but that her mother had returned _in propria persona_,
would have been more convincing proof of the genuineness of Spiritualism
to a sceptic, than fifty miracles of greater importance. When the spirit
mother had to leave again the child's agony at parting was very
apparent. "Take me with you," she kept on saying, and her father had
actually to carry her back to her seat. When they got there they both
wept in unison. Afterwards he said to me in an apologetic sort of
way--he was sitting next to me--"It is the first time, you see, that
Mary has seen her poor mother, but I wanted to have her testimony to her
identity, and I think she gave it pretty plainly, poor child! She'll
never be content to let me come alone now." I said, "I think it is a
pity you brought her so young," and so I did.

"Florence" did not appear (she told me afterwards the atmosphere was so
"rough" that she could not), and I began to think that no one would come
for me, when a common seaman, dressed in ordinary sailor's clothes, ran
out of the cabinet and began dancing a hornpipe in front of me. He
danced it capitally too, and with any amount of vigorous snapping his
fingers to mark the time, and when he had finished he "made a leg," as
sailors call it, and stood before me. "Have you come for me, my friend?"
I enquired. "Not exactly," he answered, "but I came with the Cap'en. I
came to pave the way for him. The Cap'en will be here directly. We was
in the _Avenger_ together." (Now all the world knows that my eldest
brother, Frederick Marryat, was drowned in the wreck of the _Avenger_ in
1847; but as I was a little child at the time, and had no remembrance of
him, I had never dreamt of seeing him again. He was a first lieutenant
when he died, so I do not know why the seaman gave him brevet rank, but
I repeat his words as he said them.) After a minute or two I was called
up to the cabinet, and saw my brother Frederick (whom I recognized from
his likeness) standing there dressed in naval uniform, but looking very
stiff and unnatural. He smiled when he saw me, but did not attempt to
kiss me. I said, "Why! Fred! is it really you? I thought you would have
forgotten all about me." He replied, "Forgotten little Flo? Why should
I? Do you think I have never seen you since that time, nor heard
anything about you? I know everything--everything!" "You must know,
then, that I have not spent a very happy life," I said. "Never mind," he
answered, "you needed it. It has done you good!" But all he said was
without any life in it, as if he spoke mechanically--perhaps because it
was the first time he had materialized.

I had said "Good-bye" to him, and dropped the curtain, when I heard my
name called twice, "Flo! Flo!" and turned to receive my sister "Emily"
in my arms. She looked like herself exactly, but she had only time to
kiss me and gasp out, "So glad, so happy to meet again," when she
appeared to faint. Her eyes closed, her head fell back on my shoulder,
and before I had time to realize what was going to happen, she had
passed _through_ the arm that supported her, and sunk down _through_ the
floor. The sensation of her weight was still making my arm tingle, but
"Emily" was gone--_clean gone_. I was very much disappointed. I had
longed to see this sister again, and speak to her confidentially; but
whether it was something antagonistic in the influence of this _séance_
room ("Florence" said afterwards that it _was_), or there was some other
cause for it, I know not, but most certainly my friends did not seem to
flourish there.

I had another horrible disappointment before I left. A voice from inside
the cabinet called out, "Here are two babies who want the lady sitting
under the picture." Now, there was only one picture hanging in the room,
and I was sitting under it. I looked eagerly towards the cabinet, and
saw issue from it the "Princess Gertie" leading a little toddler with a
flaxen poll and bare feet, and no clothing but a kind of white chemise.
This was "Joan," the "Yonnie" I had so often asked to see, and I rose in
the greatest expectation to receive the little pair. Just as they gained
the centre of the room, however, taking very short and careful steps,
like babies first set on their feet, the cabinet spirit "Gipsy"
_bounced_ out of the curtains, and saying decidedly, "Here! we don't
want any children about," she placed her hand on the heads of my little
ones, and _pressed them down_ through the floor. They seemed to crumble
to pieces before my eyes, and their place knew them no more. I couldn't
help feeling angry. I exclaimed, "O! what did you do that for? Those
were my babies, and I have been longing to see them so." "I can't help
it," replied "Gipsy," "but this isn't a _séance_ for children." I was so
vexed that I took no more interest in the proceedings. A great number of
forms appeared, thirty or forty in all, but by the time I returned to my
hotel and began to jot down my notes, I could hardly remember what they
were. I had been dreaming all the time of how much I should have liked
to hold that little flaxen-haired "Yonnie" in my arms.




CHAPTER XXIX.

VI. _Virginia Roberts._


When I returned to New York, it was under exceptional circumstances. I
had taken cold whilst travelling in the Western States, had had a severe
attack of bronchitis and pneumonia at Chicago, was compelled to
relinquish my business, and as soon as I was well enough to travel, was
ordered back to New York to recuperate my health. Here I took up my
abode in the Victoria Hotel, where a lady, whose acquaintance I had made
on my former visit to the city, was living. As I have no permission to
publish this lady's name, I must call her Mrs. S----. She had been a
Spiritualist for some time before I knew her, and she much interested me
by showing me an entry in her diary, made _four years_ previous to my
arrival in America. It was an account of the utterances of a Mrs.
Philips, a clairvoyant then resident in New York, during which she had
prophesied my arrival in the city, described my personal appearance,
profession, and general surroundings perfectly, and foretold my
acquaintanceship with Mrs. S----. The prophecy ended with words to the
effect that our meeting would be followed by certain effects that would
influence her future life, and that on the 17th of March, 1885, would
commence a new era in her existence. It was at the beginning of March
that we first lived under the same roof. As soon as Mrs. S---- found
that I was likely to have some weeks of leisure, she became very anxious
that we should visit the New York media together; for although she had
so long been a believer in Spiritualism, she had not (owing to family
opposition) met with much sympathy on the subject, or had the
opportunity of much investigation. So we determined, as soon as I was
well enough to go out in the evening, that we would attend some
_séances_. As it happened, when that time came, we found the medium most
accessible to be Miss Virginia Roberts, of whom neither of us knew
anything but what we had learned from the public papers. However, it
was necessary that I should be exposed as little as possible to the
night air, and so we fixed, by chance as it were, to visit Miss Roberts
first. We found her living with her mother and brother in a small house
in one of the back streets of the city. She was a young girl of sixteen,
very reserved and rather timid-looking, who had to be drawn out before
she could be made to talk. She had only commenced sitting a few months
before, and that because her brother (who was also a medium) had had an
illness and been obliged to give up his _séances_ for a while. The
_séance_ room was very small, the manifestations taking place almost in
the midst of the circle, and the cabinet (so-called) was the flimsiest
contrivance I had ever seen. Four uprights of iron, not thicker than the
rod of a muslin blind, with cross-bars of the same, on which were hung
thin curtains of lilac print, formed the construction of this cabinet,
which shook and swayed about each time a form left or entered it. A
harmonium for accompanying the voices, and a few chairs for the
audience, was all the furniture the room contained. The first evening we
went to see Miss Roberts there were only two or three sitters beside
ourselves. The medium seemed to be pretty nearly unknown, and I
resolved, as I usually do in such cases, not to expect anything, for
fear I should be disappointed.

Mrs. S----, on the contrary, was all expectation and excitement. If she
had ever sat for materializations, it had been long before, and the idea
was like a new one to her. After two or three forms had appeared, of no
interest to us, a gentleman in full evening dress walked suddenly out of
the cabinet, and said, "Kate," which was the name of Mrs. S----. He was
a stout, well-formed man, of an imposing presence, with dark hair and
eyes, and he wore a solitaire of diamonds of unusual brilliancy in his
shirt front. I had no idea who he was; but Mrs. S---- recognized him at
once as an old lover who had died whilst under a misunderstanding with
her, and she was powerfully affected--more, she was terribly frightened.
It seems that she wore at her throat a brooch which he had given her;
but every time he approached her with the view of touching it, she
shrieked so loudly, and threw herself into such a state of nervous
agitation, that I thought she would have to return home again. However,
on her being accommodated with a chair in the last row so that she
might have the other sitters between her and the materialized spirits,
she managed to calm herself. The only friend who appeared for me that
evening was "John Powles;" and, to my surprise and pleasure, he appeared
in the old uniform of the 12th Madras Native Infantry. This corps wore
facings of fawn, with buttons bearing the word "Ava," encircled by a
wreath of laurel. The mess jackets were lined with wadded fawn silk, and
the waistcoats were trimmed with three lines of narrow gold braid. Their
"karkee," or undress uniform, established in 1859, consisted of a tunic
and trousers of a sad green cloth, with the regimental buttons and a
crimson silk sash. The marching dress of all officers in the Indian
service is made of white drill, with a cap cover of the same material.
Their forage cloak is of dark blue cloth, and hangs to their heels.
Their forage cap has a broad square peak to shelter the face and eyes. I
mention these details for the benefit of those who are not acquainted
with the general dress of the Indian army, and to show how difficult it
would have been for Virginia Roberts, or any other medium, to have
procured them, even had she known the private wish expressed by me to
"John Powles" in Boston, that he would try and come to me in uniform. On
this first occasion of his appearing so, he wore the usual everyday
coat, buttoned up to his chin, and he made me examine the buttons to see
that they bore the crest and motto of the regiment. And I may say here,
that before I left New York he appeared to me in every one of the
various dresses I have described above, and became quite a marked figure
in the city.

When it was made known through the papers that an old friend of Florence
Marryat had appeared through the mediumship of Virginia Roberts, in a
uniform of thirty years before, I received numbers of private letters
inquiring if it were true, and dozens of people visited Miss Roberts'
_séances_ for the sole purpose of seeing him. He took a great liking for
Mrs. S----, and when she had conquered her first fear she became quite
friendly with him, and I heard, after leaving New York, that he
continued to appear for her as long as she attended those _séances_.

There was one difference in the female spirits that came through
Virginia Roberts from those of other media. Those that were strong
enough to leave the cabinet invariably disappeared by floating upwards
through the ceiling. Their mode of doing this was most graceful. They
would first clasp their hands behind their heads and lean backward; then
their feet were lifted off the ground, and they were borne upward in a
recumbent position. When I related this to my friend, Dr. George
Lefferts (under whom I was for throat treatment to recover my voice), he
declared there must be some machinery connected with the uprights that
supported the cabinet, by which the forms were elevated. He had got it
all so "pat" that he was able to take a pencil and demonstrate to me on
paper exactly how the machinery worked, and how easy it would be to
swing full-sized human bodies up to the ceiling with it. How they
managed to disappear when they got there he was not quite prepared to
say; but if he once saw the trick done, he would explain the whole
matter to me, and expose it into the bargain. I told Dr. Lefferts, as I
have told many other clever men, that I shall be the first person open
to conviction when they can convince me, and I bore him off to a private
_séance_ with Virginia Roberts for that purpose only. He was all that
was charming on the occasion. He gave me a most delightful dinner at
Delmonico's first (for which I tender him in print my grateful
recollection), and he tested all Miss Roberts' manifestations in the
most delicate and gentlemanly manner (sceptics as a rule are neither
delicate nor gentlemanly), but he could neither open my eyes to
chicanery nor detect it himself. He handled and shook the frail supports
of the cabinet, and confessed they were much too weak to bear any such
weight as he had imagined. He searched the carpeted floor and the
adjoining room for hidden machinery without finding the slightest thing
to rouse his suspicions, and yet he saw the female forms float upwards
through the whitewashed ceiling, and came away from the _séance_ room as
wise as when he had entered it.

But this occurred some weeks after. I must relate first what happened
after our first _séance_ with Miss Roberts. Mrs. S---- and I were well
enough pleased with the result to desire to test her capabilities
further, and with that intent we invited her to visit us at our hotel.
Spiritualism is as much tabooed by one section of the American public as
it is encouraged by the other, and so we resolved to breathe nothing of
our intentions, but invite the girl to dine and spend the evening in
our rooms with us just as if she were an ordinary visitor. Consequently,
we dined together at the _table d'hôte_ before we took our way upstairs.
Mrs. S---- and I had a private sitting-room, the windows of which were
draped with white lace curtains only, and we had no other means to shut
out the light. Consequently, when we wished to sit, all we could do was
to place a chair for Virginia Roberts in the window recess, behind one
of these pairs of curtains, and pin them together in front of her, which
formed the airiest cabinet imaginable. We then locked the door, lowered
the gas, and sat down on a sofa before the curtains.

In the space of five minutes, without the lace curtains having been in
the slightest degree disturbed, Francis Lean, my stepson, walked
_through_ them, and came up to my side. He was dressed in his ordinary
costume of jersey and "jumpers," and had a little worsted cap upon his
head. He displayed all the peculiarities of speech and manner I have
noticed before; but he was much less timid, and stood by me for a long
time talking of my domestic affairs, which were rather complicated, and
giving me a detailed account of the accident which caused his death, and
which had been always somewhat of a mystery. In doing this, he mentioned
names of people hitherto unknown to me, but which I found on after
inquiry to be true. He seemed quite delighted to be able to manifest so
indisputably like himself, and remarked more than once, "I'm not much
like a girl now, am I, Ma?"

Next, Mrs. S----'s old lover came, of whom she was still considerably
alarmed, and her father, who had been a great politician and a
well-known man. "Florence," too, of course, though never so lively
through Miss Roberts as through other media, but still happy though
pensive, and full of advice how I was to act when I reached England
again. Presently a soft voice said, "Aunt Flo, don't you know me?" And I
saw standing in front of me my niece and godchild, Lilian Thomas, who
had died as a nun in the Convent of the "Dames Anglaises" at Bruges. She
was clothed in her nun's habit, which was rather peculiar, the face
being surrounded by a white cap, with a crimped border that hid all the
hair, and surmounted by a white veil of some heavy woollen material
which covered the head and the black serge dress. "Lilian" had died of
consumption, and the death-like, waxy complexion which she had had for
some time before was exactly reproduced. She had not much to say for
herself; indeed, we had been completely separated since she had entered
the convent, but she was undoubtedly _there_. She was succeeded by my
sister "Emily," whom I have already so often described. And these
apparitions, six in number, and all recognizable, were produced in the
private room of Mrs. S---- and myself, and with no other person but
Virginia Roberts, sixteen years old.

It was about this time that we received an invitation to attend a
private _séance_ in a large house in the city, occupied by Mr. and Mrs.
Newman, who had Maud Lord staying with them as a visitor. Maud Lord's
mediumship is a peculiar one. She places her sitters in a circle,
holding hands. She then seats herself on a chair in the centre, and
keeps on clapping her hands, to intimate that she has not changed her
position. The _séance_ is held in darkness, and the manifestations
consist of "direct voices," _i.e._ voices that every one can hear, and
by what they say to you, you must judge of their identity and
truthfulness. I had only witnessed powers of this kind once
before--through Mrs. Bassett, who is now Mrs. Herne--but as no one spoke
to me through her whom I recognized, I have omitted to give any account
of it.

As soon as Maud Lord's sitting was fully established, I heard her
addressing various members of the company, telling them who stood beside
them, and I heard them putting questions to, or holding conversations
with, creature who were invisible to me. The time went on, and I
believed I was going to be left out of it, when I heard a voice close to
my ear whisper, "Arthur." At the same moment Maud Lord's voice sounded
in my direction, saying that the lady in the brown velvet hat had a
gentleman standing near her, named "Arthur," who wished to be
recognized. I was the only lady present in a brown velvet hat, yet I
could not recall any deceased friend of the name of "Arthur" who might
wish to communicate with me. (It is a constant occurrence at a _séance_
that the mind refuses to remember a name, or a circumstance, and on
returning home, perhaps the whole situation makes itself clear, and one
wonders how one could have been so dull as not to perceive it.) So I
said that I knew no one in the spirit-world of that name, and Maud Lord
replied, "Well, _he_ knows _you_, at all events." A few more minutes
elapsed, when I felt a touch on the third finger of my left hand, and
the voice spoke again and said, "Arthur! 'Arthur's ring.' Have you quite
forgotten?" This action brought the person to my memory, and I
exclaimed, "Oh! Johnny Cope, is it you?"

To explain this, I must tell my readers that when I went out to India in
1854, Arthur Cope of the Lancers was a passenger by the same steamer;
and when we landed in Madras, he made me a present of a diamond ring,
which I wore at that _séance_ as a guard. But he was never called by
anything but his nickname of "Johnny," so that his real appellation had
quite slipped my memory. The poor fellow died in 1856 or 1857, and I had
been ungrateful enough to forget all about him, and should never have
remembered his name had it not been coupled with the ring. It would have
been still more remarkable, though, if Maud Lord, who had never seen me
till that evening, had discovered an incident which happened thirty
years before, and which I had completely forgotten.

Before I had been many days in New York, I fell ill again from exposing
myself to the weather, this time with a bad throat. Mrs. S---- and I
slept in the same room, and our sitting-room opened into the bedroom.
She was indefatigable in her attentions and kindness to me during my
illness, and kept running backwards and forwards from the bedroom to the
sitting-room, both by night and day, to get me fresh poultices, which
she kept hot on the steam stove.

One evening about eleven o'clock she got out of bed in her nightdress,
and went into the next room for this purpose. Almost directly after she
entered it, I heard a heavy fall. I called her by name, and receiving no
answer, became frightened, jumped out of bed, and followed her. To my
consternation, I found her stretched out, at full length, on a white
bearskin rug, and quite insensible. She was a delicate woman, and I
thought at first that she had fainted from fatigue; but when she showed
no signs of returning consciousness, I became alarmed. I was very weak
myself from my illness, and hardly able to stand, but I managed to put
on a dressing-gown and summon the assistance of a lady who occupied the
room next to us, and whose acquaintance we had already made. She was
strong and capable, and helped me to place Mrs. S---- upon the sofa,
where she lay in the same condition. After we had done all we could
think of to bring her to herself without effect, the next-door lady
became frightened. She said to me, "I don't like this. I think we ought
to call in a doctor. Supposing she were to die without regaining
consciousness." I replied, "I should say the same, excepting I begin to
believe she has not fainted at all, but is in a trance; and in that
case, any violent attempts to bring her to herself might injure her.
Just see how quietly she breathes, and how very young she looks."

When her attention was called to this fact, the next-door lady was
astonished. Mrs. S----, who was a woman past forty, looked like a girl
of sixteen. She was a very pretty woman, but with a dash of temper in
her expression which spoiled it. Now with all the passions and lines
smoothed out of it, she looked perfectly lovely. So she might have
looked in death. But she was not dead. She was breathing. So I felt sure
that the spirit had escaped for a while and left her free. I covered her
up warmly on the sofa, and determined to leave her there till the trance
had passed. After a while I persuaded the next-door lady to think as I
did, and to go back to her own bed. As soon as she had gone, I
administered my own poultice, and sat down to watch beside my friend.
The time went on until seven in the morning--seven hours she had lain,
without moving a limb, upon the sofa--when, without any warning, she sat
up and gazed about her. I called her by name, and asked her what she
wanted; but I could see at once, by her expression, that she did not
know me. Presently she asked me, "Who are you?" I told her. "Are you
Kate's friend?" she said. I answered, "Yes." "Do you know who _I_ am?"
was the next question, which, of course, I answered in the negative.
Mrs. S---- thereupon gave me the name of a German gentleman which I had
never heard before. An extraordinary scene then followed. Influenced by
the spirit that possessed her, Mrs. S---- rose and unlocked a cabinet of
her own, which stood in the room, and taking thence a bundle of old
letters, she selected several and read portions of them aloud to me. She
then told me a history of herself and the gentleman whose spirit was
speaking through her, and gave me several messages to deliver to
herself the following day. It will be sufficient for me to say that this
history was of so private a nature, that it was most unlikely she would
have confided it to me or any one, particularly as she was a woman of a
most secretive nature; but names, addresses, and even words of
conversations were given, in a manner which would have left no room for
doubt of their truthfulness, even if Mrs. S---- had not confirmed them
to be facts afterwards. This went on for a long time, the spirit
expressing the greatest animosity against Mrs. S---- all the while, and
then the power seemed suddenly to be spent, and she went off to sleep
again upon the sofa, waking up naturally about an hour afterwards, and
very much surprised to hear what had happened to her meanwhile. When we
came to consider the matter, we found that this unexpected seizure had
taken place upon _the 17th of March_, the day predicted by Mrs. Philips
four years previously as one on which a new era would commence for Mrs.
S----. From that time she continually went into trances, and used to
predict the future for herself and others; but whether she has kept it
up to this day I am unable to say, as I have heard nothing from her
since I left America.

That event took place on the 13th of June, 1885. We had been in the
habit of spending our Sunday evenings in Miss Roberts' _séance_ room,
and she begged me not to miss the last opportunity. When we arrived
there, we found that the accompanist who usually played the harmonium
for them was unable to be present, and Miss Roberts asked if I would be
his substitute. I said I would, on condition that they moved the
instrument on a line with the cabinet, so that I might not lose a sight
of what was going on. This was accordingly done, and I commenced to play
"Thou art gone from my gaze." Almost immediately "John Powles" stepped
out, dressed in uniform, and stood by the harmonium with his hand upon
my shoulder. "I never was much of a singer, you know, Flo," he said to
me; "but if you will sing that song with me, I'll try and go through
it." And he actually did sing (after a fashion) the entire two verses of
the ballad, keeping his hand on my shoulder the whole time. When we came
to the line, "I seek thee in vain by the meadow and stream," he stooped
down and whispered in my ear, "Not _quite_ in vain, Flo, has it been?"
I do not know if my English Spiritualistic friends can "cap" this story,
but in America they told me it was quite a unique performance,
particularly at a public _séance_, where the jarring of so many diverse
influences often hinders instead of helping the manifestations.

"Powles" appeared to be especially strong on that occasion. Towards the
middle of the evening a kind of whining was heard to proceed from the
cabinet; and Miss Roberts, who was not entranced, said, "There's a baby
coming out for Miss Marryat." At the same time the face of little
"Yonnie" appeared at the opening of the curtains, but nearly level with
the ground, as she was crawling out on all fours. Before she had had
time to advance beyond them, "Powles" stepped over her and came amongst
us. "Oh, Powles!" I exclaimed, "you used to love my little babies. Do
pick up that one for me that I may see it properly." He immediately
returned, took up "Yonnie," and brought her out into the circle on his
arm. The contrast of the baby's white kind of nightgown with his scarlet
uniform was very striking. He carried the child to each sitter that it
might be thoroughly examined; and when he had returned "Yonnie" to the
cabinet, he came out again on his own account. That evening I was
summoned into the cabinet myself by the medium's guide, a little Italian
girl, who had materialized several times for our benefit. When I entered
it, I stumbled up against Miss Roberts' chair. There was barely room for
me to stand beside it. She said to me, "Is that _you_, Miss Marryat?"
and I replied, "Yes; didn't you send for me?" She said "No; I didn't
send, I know nothing about it!" A voice behind me said, "_I_ sent for
you!" and at the same moment two strong arms were clasped round my
waist, and a man's face kissed me over my shoulder. I asked, "Who are
you?" and he replied, "Walk out of the cabinet and you shall see." I
turned round, two hands were placed upon my shoulders, and I walked back
into the circle with a tall man walking behind me in that position. When
I could look at him in the gaslight, I recognized my brother, Frank
Marryat, who died in 1855, and whom I had never seen since. Of course,
the other spirits who were familiar with Mrs. S---- and myself came to
wish me a pleasant voyage across the Atlantic, but I have mentioned them
all so often that I fear I must already have tired out the patience of
my readers. But in order to be impressive it is so necessary to be
explicit. All I can bring forward in excuse is, that every word I have
written is the honest and unbiassed truth. Here, therefore, ends the
account of my experience in Spiritualism up to the present moment--not,
by any means, the half, nor yet _the quarter of it_, but all I consider
likely to interest the general public. And those who have been
interested in it may see their own friends as I have done, if they will
only take the same trouble that I have done.




CHAPTER XXX.

"QUI BONO?"


My friends have so often asked me this question, that I think, before I
close this book, I am justified in answering it, at all events, as far
as I myself am concerned. How often have I sat, surrounded by an
interested audience, who knew me too well to think me either a lunatic
or a liar; and after I have told them some of the most marvellous and
thrilling of my experiences, they have assailed me with these questions,
"But what _is_ it? And what _good_ does it do? _What is it?_" There, my
friends, I confess you stagger me! I can no more tell you what it is
than I can tell you what _you_ are or what _I_ am. We know that, like
Topsy, we "grew." We know that, given certain conditions and favorable
accessories, a child comes into this world, and a seed sprouts through
the dark earth and becomes a flower; but though we know the cause and
see the effect, the greatest man of science, or the greatest botanist,
cannot tell you how the child is made, nor how the plant grows. Neither
can I (or any one) tell you _what_ the power is that enables a spirit to
make itself apparent. I can only say that it can do so, and refer you to
the Creator of you and me and the entire universe. The commonest things
the earth produces are all miracles, from the growing of a mustard seed
to the expansion of a human brain. What is more wonderful than the
hatching of an egg? You see it done every day. It has become so common
that you regard it as an event of no consequence. You know the exact
number of days the bird must sit to produce a live chicken with all its
functions ready for nature's use, but you see nothing wonderful in it.
All birds can do the same, and you would not waste your time in
speculating on the wondrous effect of heat upon a liquid substance which
turns to bone and blood and flesh and feathers.

If you were as familiar with the reappearance of those who have gone
before as you are with chickens, you would see nothing supernatural in
their manifesting themselves to you, and nothing more miraculous than in
the birth of a child or the hatching of an egg. Why should it be? Who
has fixed the abode of the spirit after death? Who can say where it
dwells, or that it is not permitted to return to this world, perhaps to
live in it altogether? Still, however the Almighty sends them, the fact
remains that they come, and that thousands can testify to the fact. As
to the theory advanced by some people that they are devils, sent to lure
us to our destruction, that is an insult to the wisdom or mercy of an
Omnipotent Creator. They cannot come except by His permission, just as
He sends children to some people and withholds them from others. And the
conversation of most of those that I have talked with is all on the side
of religion, prayer, and self-sacrifice. _My_ friends, at all events,
have never denied the existence of a God or a Saviour. They have, on the
contrary (and especially "Florence"), been very quick to rebuke me for
anything I may have done that was wrong, for neglect of prayer and
church-going, for speaking evil of my neighbors, or any other fault.
They have continually inculcated the doctrine that religion consists in
unselfish love to our fellow-creatures, and in devotion to God. I do not
deny that there are frivolous and occasionally wicked spirits about us.
Is it to be wondered at? For one spirit that leaves this world
calculated to do good to his fellow-creatures, a hundred leave it who
will do him harm. That is really the reason that the Church discourages
Spiritualism. She does not disbelieve in it. She knows it to be true;
but she also knows it to be dangerous. Since like attracts like, the
numbers of thoughtless spirits who still dwell on earth would naturally
attract the numbers of thoughtless spirits who have left it, and their
influence is best dispensed with. Talk of devils. I have known many more
devils in the flesh than out of it, and could name a number of
acquaintances who, when once passed out of this world, I should
steadfastly refuse to have any communication with. I have no doubt
myself whatever as to _what_ it is, or that I have seen my dear friends
and children as I knew them upon earth. But _how_ they come or _where_
they go, I must wait until I join them to ascertain, even if I shall do
it then.

The second question, however, I can more easily deal with, _What good is
it?_ The only wonder to me is that people who are not stone-blind to
what is going on in this world can put such a question. What good is it
to have one's faith in Immortality and another life confirmed in an age
of freethought, scepticism and utter callousness? When I look around me
and see the young men nowadays--ay, and the young women too--who believe
in no hereafter, who lie down and die, like the dumb animals who cannot
be made to understand the love of the dear God who created them although
they feel it, I cannot think of anything calculated to do them more good
than the return of a father or a mother or a friend, who could convince
them by ocular demonstration that there is a future life and happiness
and misery, according to the one we have led here below.

"Oh, but," I seem to hear some readers exclaim, "we _do_ believe in all
that you say. We have been taught so from our youth up, and the Bible
points to it in every line." You may _think_ you believe it, my friends,
and in a theoretical way you may; but you do not _realize_ it, and the
whole of your lives proves it. Death, instead of being the blessed
portal to the Life Elysian, the gate of which may swing open for you any
day, and admit you to eternal and unfading happiness, is a far-off misty
phantom, whose approach you dread, and the sight of which in others you
run away from. The majority of people avoid the very mention of death.
They would not look at a corpse for anything; the sight of a coffin or a
funeral or a graveyard fills them with horror; the idea of it for
themselves makes them turn pale with fright. Is _this_ belief in the
existence of a tender Father and a blessed home waiting to receive them
on the other side? Even professed Christians experience what they term a
"natural" horror at the thought of death! I have known persons of fixed
religious principles who had passed their lives (apparently) in prayer,
and expressed their firm belief in Heaven waiting for them, fight
against death with all their mortal energies, and try their utmost to
baffle the disease that was sent to carry them to everlasting happiness.
Is this logical? It is tantamount in my idea to the pauper in the
workhouse who knows that directly the gate is open to let him through,
he will pass from skilly, oakum, and solitary confinement to the King's
Palace to enjoy youth, health, and prosperity evermore; and who, when he
sees the gates beginning to unclose, puts his back and all his
neighbors' backs against them to keep them shut as long as possible.

Death should not be a "horror" to any one; and if we knew more about it,
it would cease to be so. It is the _mystery_ that appals us. We see our
friends die, and no word or sign comes back to tell us that there _is_
no death, so we picture them to ourselves mouldering in the damp earth
till we nearly go mad with grief and dismay. Some people think me
heartless because I never go near the graves of those whom I love best.
Why should I? I might with more reason go and sit beside a pile of their
cast-off garments. I could _see_ them, and they would actually retain
more of their identity and influence than the corpse which I could _not_
see. I mourn their loss just the same, but I mourn it as I should do if
they had settled for life in a far distant land, from which I could only
enjoy occasional glimpses of their happiness.

And I may say emphatically that the greatest good Spiritualism does is
to remove the fear of one's own death. One can never be quite certain of
the changes that circumstances may bring about, nor do I like to boast
overmuch. Disease and weakness may destroy the nerve I flatter myself on
possessing; but I think I may say that as matters stand at present _I
have no fear of death whatever_, and the only trouble I can foresee in
passing through it will be to witness the distress of my friends. But
when I remember all those who have gathered on the other side, and whom
I firmly believe will be present to help me in my passage there, I can
feel nothing but a great curiosity to pierce the mysteries as yet
unrevealed to me, and a great longing for the time to come when I shall
join those whom I loved so much on earth. Not to be happy at once by any
manner of means. I am too sinful a mortal for that, but "to work out my
salvation" in the way God sees best for me, to make my own heaven or
hell according as I have loved and succoured my fellow-creatures here
below. Yet however much I may be destined to suffer, never without hope
and assistance from those whom I have loved, and never without feeling
that through the goodness of God each struggle or reparation brings me
near to the fruition of eternal happiness. _This_ is my belief, _this_
is the good that the certain knowledge that we can never die has done
for me, and the worst I wish for anybody is that they may share it with
me.

    "Oh! though oft depressed and lonely,
      All my fears are laid aside,
    If I but remember only
      Such as these have lived and died."

THE END.




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=_13. On Circumstantial Evidence_=--By Florence Marryat

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=_14. Miss Kate, or the Confessions of a Caretaker_=--By Rita

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=_39. Sylvia Arden_=--By Oswald Crawfurd

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=_42. Mount Eden_=--By Florence Marryat

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_=85. Blindfold=_--By Florence Marryat

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Transcriber's Notes:

Text that was written in bold is marked =like this=.

Page 4, "MARRYATT" changed to "MARRYAT" (Normalising spelling of
author's name)

Page 18, "nor" changed to "not" (a single medium of whom I have not)

Page 47, "bood" changed to "blood" (where the stain of his blood still
remained)

Page 49, "briliant" changed to "brilliant" (a room that was unpleasantly
brilliant)

Page 58, "tempered" changed to "tampered" (it had not been tampered
with)

Page 61, "seing" changed to "seeing" (the possibility of seeing a
"ghost,")

Page 127, "foreigh" changed to "foreign" (he was equally ignorant of
foreign languages)

Page 134, "succssefully" changed to "successfully" (in order to imitate
her manner and speech successfully)

Page 137, "Gupyy" changed to "Guppy" (As Mrs. Guppy came sailing over
our heads)

Page 138, "it" changed to "if" (I inquired of every sitter if they had
seen)

Page 155, "eartly" changed to "earthly" (as naturally as if she were
their earthly form)

Page 156, "Fitzgarald" changed to "Fitzgerald" (Mrs. Fitzgerald was
dining with us)

Page 158, "Fitzgereld" changed to "Fitzgerald" (returned through Mrs.
Fitzgerald)

Page 176, "don" changed to "done" (perhaps, than anything else has done)

Page 180, Added missing end single quote in probable correct place
(through the life that lies before you.')

Page 182, "forgetten" changed to "forgotten" (I had almost forgotten Mr.
Plummer)

Page 185, "mamed" changed to "named" (a photographer in London, named
Hudson)

Page 189, "instrument" changed to "instruments" (the two instruments
pealed forth)

Page 198, "ocsion" changed to "occasion" (Mr. Towns prognosticated on
that occasion)

Page 201, "conducter" changed to "conductor" ("Did you know the spirit?"
the conductor asked)

Page 220, "aquaintance" changed to "acquaintance" (soon after I made her
acquaintance)

Page 255, "creature" changed to "creatures" (creatures who were
invisible to me)

Page 256, "Mr" changed to "Mrs" (Mrs. S---- and I slept in the same
room)

Page 264, "Christian" changed to "Christians" (Even professed Christians
experience what they term)

End catalogue, No. 13, "Circumstatial" changed to "Circumstantial" (On
Circumstantial Evidence)

End catalogue, No. 39, "successfu" changed to "successful" (He has been
successful in nothing)

N.B. 1. Some punctuation corrections have not been noted here.
2. Two non-matching instances of latin word: "prôpria" and "propria".
Left as-is.