"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--

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