AUTOMATISM--PLANCHETTE.
Our ordinary actions, both physical and mental, are, for the most part,
subject to our own voluntary guidance and choice. Of this, at least, we
feel sure. We work, walk, talk, play upon an instrument, read a book, or
write a letter, because we choose to do these things; and ordinarily they
are done under the full guidance of our will and intelligence. Sometimes,
however, actions are performed by us without our choice or guidance, and
even without our consciousness, and such actions are called automatic. The
thrifty housewife, perhaps also being of a literary turn of mind, may
become deeply absorbed in an exciting novel, while at the same time her
busy fingers, without thought or effort on her part, skilfully ply the
knitting needles, or her well accustomed foot, with gentle motion, rocks
the cradle.
During an exciting conversation, or the absorbing consideration of some
important subject or problem, the act of walking is performed without will
or consciousness; the pianoforte player runs his scales and roulades with
marvellous rapidity and precision while reading a book or carrying on an
animated conversation. Such actions are performed automatically.
When we come to examine a large number of actions performed in this
automatic manner, we observe that they exhibit great diversity in the kind
and degree of automatism displayed in their performance. In the cases
above mentioned the mind is simply altogether engaged in doing one thing,
and at the same time the muscles go on without any conscious direction or
supervision, doing altogether another thing, but generally something which
they had before been accustomed to do. This is often called
absent-mindedness; it is also one of the most common and simple forms of
automatism. We set the machine to work, and it goes itself.
Another kind of automatism is that which often appears in connection with
peculiar gifts or talents, and is especially associated with genius. It is
seen, for example, in the poet and the orator, and in those capable of
improvisation, especially in music or in verse. The pianist or organist
seats himself at the instrument without the remotest idea of what he is to
perform--he simply commences. The theme he is to present, the various
melodies, harmonies, changes, and modulations which come at his touch are
often as much a surprise and delight to himself as to the most interested
listener. Something within him furnishes and formulates the ideas, and
causes him to express them artistically upon the instrument of his choice
without any effort, or even supervision of his own--he is simply conscious
of what is produced--but if he should undertake consciously to guide or in
any way interfere with the production, the extraordinary beauty and
excellence of the performance would at once cease.
Still another kind of automatism is illustrated in somnambulism. The
somnambulist arises from his bed in his sleep, and proceeds to prepare a
meal or work out a mathematical problem or write a thesis or a letter, or
sometimes to describe distant scenes and events transpiring far away. Here
the actions, both physical and mental, are performed, not only without the
exercise of the actor's own choice or control, but he has no knowledge of
them whatever. They are altogether outside the domain of his
consciousness, and have their origin in some centre of intelligence quite
apart from his own ordinary consciousness, and they only appear or find
expression through his physical organization. Let us examine a little more
closely into these different forms of automatism.
Twenty-five years ago a curious little piece of mechanism--apparently half
toy and half an instrument for amateur conjuring--made its appearance in
the windows of the toyshops and bookstores of the United States. It was a
little heart-shaped piece of mahogany, or other hard wood, about seven
inches by five in dimensions, with two casters serving for feet at the
base of the heart, while a closely-fitting pencil passed through a hole at
the point or apex.
Thus a tripod was formed, moving with perfect ease and freedom in any
direction, while the pencil, which formed the third foot, left its plain
and continuous tracing wherever the instrument was moved.
This little toy was called Planchette, and wonderful tales were told of
its strange performances when rightly used. Evenly adjusted upon a plain
wood table, if a properly-constituted person placed his or her finger-tips
lightly upon its surface, it soon began to move about, without any
muscular effort or any wish or will on the part of the operator; a broad,
smooth sheet of paper being placed beneath it upon the table, figures,
words, and sentences were plainly traced by the pencil, all in the style
of a veritable oracle, and greatly to the delight of the curious, the
wonder of the superstitious, and the mystification of people generally.
Not every one, however, could command the services of the modern oracle;
only to the touch of a certain few was it responsive; to the many it was
still and silent as a sphinx. One in ten, perhaps, could obtain a scrawl;
one in twenty, intelligible sentences, and one in a hundred could produce
remarkable results. Few persons witnessing its performances under
favorable circumstances failed to be interested, but different people
looked at it from quite different standpoints. The habitual doubter saw in
it only a well-managed trick, which, however, he failed to detect; the
spiritualist saw undoubted evidence of spiritual manifestations, while the
great majority of common-sense people saw writing done, evidently without
will or effort on the part of the writer, producing messages of every
grade, from the most commonplace twaddle, foolishness, and even falsehood,
to the exhibition of intelligence of a high order, a sparkling wit, and a
perception of events, past, present, and sometimes even of those still in
the future, most acute and unusual. What was the cause of these
involuntary movements, or whence came the messages written, they did not
know, and few even cared to speculate.
That was twenty-five years ago, and the two theories already alluded to
were about the only ones adduced to account for the phenomena. Dr.
Carpenter's theory of "unconscious cerebration" and "unconscious muscular
action" did not cover the ground; there was altogether too much
cerebration not to have a consciousness connected with it in some way. The
theory did not cover the facts. Twenty-five years have failed to detect
the long-talked-of trick of the skeptic; they have also failed to
substantiate the claim of spiritualists, and Planchette-writing is almost
as much a mystery as ever.
Fairly studied, then, what does Planchette really do? From a physical
standpoint its performances are simply automatic writing or drawing. To
deny the automatic character of the movements of Planchette at this day is
simply absurd. That writing can be produced with it voluntarily, no one
doubts, but that it generally is produced automatically, that is, without
the choice or control of the writers, and without their knowledge of what
is being written, it would be waste of time here to attempt to prove; the
theory of fraud is untenable, and the real question at issue is the
psychical one, namely, whence come the messages which it brings?
These messages may be divided into three general classes: (1) Those which
are trivial or irrelevant. (2) Those which show intelligence and have some
unmistakable relation to the subject of which they purport to give
information, but all of which is known either to the writers or some
person present. (3) Those which bring, or profess to bring, information
unknown in any way, either to the writer or any person present.
The first of these divisions need not detain us, though it contains a very
large share of all the messages received, as it simply illustrates the
fact of automatism, which is equally well illustrated in the other classes
of messages, which are of a more interesting character. The second class,
namely, messages which show intelligence and have an unmistakable relation
to the subject concerning which information is asked, and yet contain
nothing beyond the knowledge of the writers or of persons present, is also
very large.
The following is a sketch of my own first experience with Planchette. I
may remark that subsequent trials brought out the fact that for myself
alone Planchette will do nothing; it will not even move a hair's-breadth;
but when, as is often the case, two persons are needed for success, I am
often selected by Planchette to assist when it is consulted in the matter.
On one occasion, I was calling at a friend's house, in the spring of 1868.
Planchette was then much in vogue, and one stood on a side-table in the
room. A young daughter of my friend--a school-girl fifteen or sixteen
years of age--remarked that Planchette would move and sometimes even write
for her, and she asked me to join her in a trial. I consented, and, to our
surprise, the moment our fingers were placed lightly upon the instrument
it moved off with great energy. Questions were then asked, and the answers
were written with promptness and intelligence, greatly to the amusement of
the company. Desiring to know who our mysterious correspondent might be,
we politely said, "Planchette, will you kindly inform us who it is that
writes these answers?" to which it replied, "Peter Stuyvesant."
"Old Governor Stuyvesant?" we asked.
"Yes," was the reply.
Now it so happened that a short time previous to our seance the old pear
tree, known as the Stuyvesant pear tree, which had stood for more than two
hundred years at the corner of Thirteenth Street and Third Avenue, having
become decayed and tottering, was thrown down by a blow from a passing
truck and had been ruthlessly chopped to pieces by workmen; and the event
had been generally noticed and commented upon. Accordingly we replied,
"We are very glad to hear from you, Governor. How about the old pear
tree?"
To this a reply was promptly written, but neither of us had the slightest
idea what it might be. The young lady took up the paper and commenced to
read, but was shocked and greatly confused to find, clearly written, in a
hand quite foreign to us both, "It's a ---- ---- shame!" the blanks here
being filled by the most emphatic expletives, and without the slightest
abbreviation.
Another excellent Planchette-writer was Miss V., a friend of the family,
who was spending a few days at my house in March, 1889. She was a young
German lady of unusual intelligence, vivacity, and good sound sense. She
knew of spiritualism only by passing remarks which she might have heard,
and had never either seen or heard of Planchette. She was herself a
somnambulist, or, rather, a somniloquist, for she never walked in her
sleep, but talked with the greatest ease, carrying on long conversations
without the slightest memory afterwards of what had been said. She was
also an excellent hypnotic subject, and the suggested effects of medicines
were much more prompt and certain than the effect of the medicines
themselves, when used in the ordinary way.
For experiment one evening I proposed that we should try Planchette. As
soon as our fingers were placed upon the instrument, it moved off across
the table with the greatest promptness, and at once it replied to
questions with unusual appropriateness and intelligence. The astonishment
of Miss V. was altogether too profound and too apparent to admit of any
suspicion of collusion on her part, and she had seen that the board would
not move for me alone, yet she could not be persuaded that when we wrote
together there was not some trick, and that I did not move the board
voluntarily to produce the writing.
At length a message came concerning one of her own relatives, of whom she
was sure that I could have no knowledge whatever, and she was convinced
that at all events that message could not have originated with me.
Accordingly she became a most valuable and interested partner in the
experiments, and the chief medium through whom Planchette gave its
communications.
Our sittings continued four or five consecutive evenings, and hundreds of
communications and answers to questions were given by different
intelligences or personalities, with entirely different modes of
expression and different kinds of writing; some were religious, some
philosophical, some were anxious to give advice, and some were profane;
this last-mentioned phase appearing especially if we were persistent in
inquiring too closely into the identity and former condition of the
communicating personality.
On one occasion a message was written which was so strange in its
appearance that none of us could at first make it out. At length we
discovered some familiar negro phrase, and applying this key, we found we
had a message of regular plantation negro talk, bearing a very strong
resemblance to Uncle Remus's talk to the little boy, which some of us had
just been reading. On asking who the "intelligence" was, it wrote, "Oh,
I'se a good ole coon."
Neither Miss V. nor myself had ever heard such a dialect spoken, nor knew
that any sort of person of the negro race was ever called a "coon."
On another occasion, Miss V. was anxious to know and asked Planchette if a
relative of hers, whom she named, was staying in town that night. The
answer came, "Yes." "Where is he stopping?" Answer: "At the H. House."
"What is he doing now?" Answer: "He has just finished his dinner, settled
his bill at the cashier's desk, and is now walking up Broadway with his
cousin." She afterward learned that this information was correct in every
particular.
On the last evening of our experiments the force displayed in the writing
was something surprising. Miss V. always experienced a certain amount of
pain in her arms while writing, as if she were holding the electrodes of a
battery through which a mild current was passing. On this occasion the
pain was almost unbearable, so that she frequently cried out, and was
obliged to remove her hands from the board for relief.
The writing was so violent that it could be heard in the next room, and at
times it seemed as though the board would surely be broken. Seeing so much
force exhibited, I allowed my fingers merely to touch the surface of the
board, but so lightly that my hands did not move with it at all, but
simply retained contact, the board sliding along beneath them. The
writing continued with just the same violence. I then called the attention
of Miss V. to what I was doing, and requested her to adjust her hands in a
similar manner. She did so, and the instrument continued to write several
words, with gradually diminishing force, moving under our hands, while our
hands did not follow at all the movements of the instrument, until at
length it gradually stopped, like a machine when the power is turned off.
Miss V. does not reside in the city, but while I was writing this chapter
she was in town, and spent a few hours at my house. We were both anxious
to try Planchette again. When we placed our fingers upon the board, the
writing commenced at once, and intelligent answers were given to about
twenty questions, some of the answers, especially those relating to
distant friends, being quite contrary to our impressions and our hopes,
but they were afterward found to be true.
We remembered the experiment just related, which was made more than four
years ago. The force on this occasion was not at all to be compared with
what it was then, but we said, "Now, Planchette, we want to ask a favor of
you; will you repeat the experiment of four years ago, and move under our
hands, while our hands remain stationary?" It replied, "Since you are so
polite, I will try; perhaps I can move it a little."
We then planted our elbows firmly upon the table, curved our wrists, so as
to allow the tips of our fingers to rest in the lightest possible manner
upon the surface of the board. Four of us were watching with great
interest for the result. After a moment's hesitation, slowly the board
moved nearly an inch and stopped, but the movement was so obvious and
decided, and without any movement of our hands, that a simultaneous shout
went up from us all, and "Well done, Planchette!" The experiment was
successfully repeated several times, the tracing of the pencil in each
case showing a movement of from one to two inches.
A most valuable series of experiments in Planchette-writing was recently
carried on by the late Rev. Mr. Newnham, vicar of Maker, Davenport,
England, a member of the Society for Psychical Research, together with his
wife. They were fully reported to Mr. F. W. H. Myers, secretary of the
society.
The experiments extended over a period of eight months, and more than
three hundred questions and answers were recorded. Mrs. Newnham alone was
the operator, and the important peculiarity in these experiments was,
that although quite in her normal condition, yet in no instance here
related did she see the question written to which she wrote the answer,
nor did she hear it asked, nor did she have any conscious knowledge,
either of question or answer, until the answer was written and read. She
sat upon a low chair at a low table some eight or ten feet from her
husband, while he sat at a rather high table, with his back to her. In
this position he silently wrote out the questions, it being impossible for
her to see either the paper, the motion of his hand, or the expression of
his face, and their good faith, as well as that of many intelligent
witnesses, is pledged to the truth of this statement.
Mr. Newnham remarks that Planchette commenced to move immediately upon the
first trial, and often the answer to questions prepared as just described
was commenced before the question was fully written out.
At their first sitting, finding that the instrument would write, he
proposed, silently, in writing, six questions, three the answers to which
might be known to Mrs. Newnham, and three relating to his own private
affairs, and of which the answers could not have been known to her. All
six were immediately answered in a manner denoting complete intelligence,
both of the question and the proper answer. He then wrote: "Write down the
lowest temperature here this winter." Answer: "8." The actual lowest
temperature had been 7.6 degrees, so 8 was the nearest whole degree, but
Mrs. Newnham remarked at once that had she been asked the question she
should have written 7, and not 8, because she did not remember the
fraction, but did remember that the figure was 7 something.
Again it was asked, "Is it the operator's brain, or an immaterial spirit
that moves Planchette? Answer 'brain' or 'force.'"
"Will."
"Is it the will of a living person or of an immaterial spirit? Answer
'force' or 'spirit.'"
"Wife."
"Give, first, the wife's Christian name, and then my favorite name for
her." This was accurately done.
"What is your own name?"
"Only wife."
"We are not quite sure of the meaning of your answer. Explain."
"Wife."
"Who are you that writes?"
"Wife."
"Does no one tell wife what to write? If so, who?"
"Spirit."
"Whose spirit?"
"Wife's brain."
"But how does wife's brain know certain secrets?"
"Wife's spirit unconsciously guides."
"Can you foresee the future?"
"No."
On another occasion it was asked: "Write out the prayer used at the
advancement of a Mark Master Mason."
"Answer: Almighty Ruler of the Universe and Architect of all Worlds, we
beseech Thee to accept this, our brother, whom we have this day received
into our most honorable company of Mark Master Masons. Grant him to be a
worthy member of our brotherhood, and may he be in his own person a
perfect mirror of all Masonic virtues. Grant that all our doings may be to
Thy honor and glory and to the welfare of all mankind."
Mr. Newnham adds: "This prayer was written off instantaneously and very
rapidly. I must say that no prayer in the slightest degree resembling it
is made use of in the ritual of any Masonic degree, and yet it contains
more than one strictly accurate technicality connected with the degree of
Mark Master Mason. My wife has never seen any Masonic prayers, whether in
'Carlile,' or any other real or spurious ritual of the Masonic Order."
The whole report shows the same instantaneous appreciation of the written
questions, by the intelligence and appropriateness with which the answer
was framed, though Mrs. Newnham never had any idea what the question was
until after the answer was written and read, and the answers very often
were entirely contrary to the prejudices and expectations of both the
persons engaged in the experiments.
The following case may fairly be placed in the third class of messages,
namely, those conveying intelligence which seems to be beyond the possible
knowledge of the writer or of any person present. It is a well
authenticated and interesting example of Planchette-writing, reported to
Mr. Myers, the reporter being Mr. Hensleigh Wedgwood, a cousin and
brother-in-law of Charles Darwin, and himself a savant of no small
reputation. Two ladies, sisters, whom he designates as Mrs. R. and Mrs.
V., were for many years intimate and valued friends of Mr. Wedgwood, and
it was in co-operation with one or the other of these ladies that the
results to be noted, along with much other interesting matter, were
obtained.
Sitting alone, neither of the ladies nor Mr. Wedgwood was able to obtain
any results at all with Planchette; the board remained absolutely
motionless. The two ladies together could obtain no writing, but only wavy
lines, made rapidly, like a person writing at full speed, but with Mr.
Wedgwood co-operating with either of the ladies the writing was
intelligible, but was much stronger and more vivacious with Mrs. V. than
with Mrs. R. The following extracts are from Mrs. R.'s journal of a
sitting, June 26, 1889:
"With Mr. W. and Mrs. R. at the board, Planchette writes: 'A spirit is
here who thinks he will be able to write, through the medium. Hold very
steady, and he will try first to draw.' We turned the page, and a sketch
was made, rudely enough, of course, but with much apparent care.
Planchette then wrote:
"'Very sorry can't do better; was meant for test; must write for you
instead. (Signed) J. G.'
"We did not fully understand this drawing; and Mr. W. asked, 'Will J. G.
try again?' which it did. Below the drawing it wrote: 'Now look.' We did,
and this time clearly comprehended the arm and sword. Mr. W. asked, 'What
does the drawing represent?'
"'Something given to me.'
"Mrs. R. asked, 'Are you a man or a woman?'
"'A man--John G.'
"Mr. W. asked, 'How was it given to you?'
"'On paper and other things.'
"Mr. W. 'We don't know J. G. Have you anything to do with us?'
"'No connection.'
"Mr. W. said he knew of a J. Gifford, and wondered if that was the name.
"'Not Gifford; Gurwood.'
"Mr. W. suggested that he had been killed in storming some fort.
"'I wish I had died fighting.'
"'Were you a soldier?'
"'I was in the army.'
"'Can you say what rank?'
"'No; it was the pen did for me, not the sword.'
"We suggested that he was an author who had failed or been maligned.
"'I did not fail. I was not slandered. Too much for me after--the pen was
too much for me after my wound.'
"Asked to repeat, it wrote: 'I was wounded in the Peninsula. It will be
forty-four years next Christmas Day since I killed myself--I killed
myself. John Gurwood.'"
[Illustration]
Leaving Mrs. R.'s diary, the following is the account Mr. Wedgwood wrote
of the seance at the time:--
"JUNE 26, 1889.--Had a sitting at Planchette with Mrs. R. this morning.
Planchette said there was a spirit there who thought it could draw if we
wished it. We said we should be glad if he would try. Accordingly
Planchette made a rude attempt at a hand and arm proceeding from an
embattled wall and holding a sword. A second attempt made the subject
clearer. Planchette said it was meant for a test. The spirit signed it 'J.
G.' No connection of ours, he said. We gradually elicited that his name
was John Gurwood, who was wounded in the Peninsula in 1810, and killed
himself on Christmas Day, 1845. It was not the wound but the pen that did
it.
"JULY 5, 1889.--I made the foregoing memorandum the same day, having very
little expectation that there would be any verification.
"H. WEDGWOOD."
Quoting again from Mrs. R.'s journal: "Friday, Sept. 27.--Mr. Wedgwood
came, and we had two sittings--in the afternoon and evening. I think the
same spirit wrote throughout, beginning without signature, but when asked
the name, writing John Gurwood. The effort, at first incoherent, developed
afterward into the following sentences: 'Sword--when I broke in, on the
table with plan of fortress--belonged to my prisoner--I will tell you his
name to-night. It was on the table when I broke in. He did not expect me.
I took him unawares. He was in his room, looking at a plan, and the sword
was on the table. Will try and let you know how I took the sword
to-night.'
"In the evening, after dinner: 'I fought my way in. His name was
Banier--Banier--Banier. The sword was lying on a table by a written scheme
of defence. Oh, my head! Banier had a plan written out for defence of the
fortress. It was lying on the table, and his sword was by it.... Look! I
have tried to tell you what you can verify.'"
Mr. Wedgwood reports his verification as follows:--
"When I came to verify the messages of Planchette, I speedily found that
Col. Gurwood, the editor of the duke's dispatches, led the forlorn hope at
the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo in 1812 (note Planchette's error in date),
and received a wound in his skull from a musket-ball, 'which affected him
for the remainder of his life,' (_Annual Register_, 1845). In recognition
of the bravery shown on that occasion, he received a grant of arms in
1812, registered in the College of Arms as having been passed 'upon the
narrative that he (Capt. G.) had led the forlorn hope at Ciudad Rodrigo,
and that after the storming of the fortress the Duke of Wellington
presented him with the sword of the governor who had been taken prisoner
by Capt. Gurwood.'"
The services thus specified were symbolized in the crest, described in the
"Book of Family Crests": "Out of a mural coronet, a castle ruined in the
centre, and therefrom an arm in armor embowed, holding a cimeter."
It was evidently this crest that Planchette was trying to sketch. The
_Annual Register_ of 1845 also confirms Planchette's assertion that Col.
Gurwood killed himself on Christmas Day of that year, and adds: "It is
thought that this laborious undertaking (editing the dispatches) produced
a relaxation of the nervous system and consequent depression of spirits.
In a fit of despondency the unfortunate gentleman terminated his life."
Compare Planchette: "Pen was too much for me after the wound."
Here are described four instances of automatic writing by means of
Planchette. Two of these cases were reported to Mr. Myers, who has
thoroughly canvassed them as regards their authenticity, as well as the
ability and good faith of the persons concerned, both in the writing and
reporting; and he has made use of them in his own able argument upon the
same subject.
In the other cases the messages were written under my own observation, my
own hands also being upon the board. In the case of Mr. and Mrs. Newnham
the intelligence which furnished the messages disclaimed altogether the
aid of any spirit except "wife's spirit," which did "unconsciously guide."
In the case reported by Mr. Wedgwood and Mrs. R., the intelligence
distinctly claimed to be from Col. John Gurwood, who had died nearly fifty
years before. In my own cases, in that written with the co-operation of
my friend's school-girl daughter, the intelligence claimed to be that of
Peter Stuyvesant, while in those written with Miss V., various names were
given, none of which was recognized as belonging to a person of whom we
had ever had any knowledge, and all bore abundant evidence of being
fictitious. One, indeed, professed to be "Beecher," and declined to give
an opinion on the prospective trotting qualities of a colt, on the ground
that he was "no horseman"; and in our later experiments, when closely
questioned, it distinctly stated that the intelligence came from the mind
of Miss V. herself.
Let us analyze these messages a little further. Those written by Mr. and
Mrs. Newnham were remarkable, not only because Mrs. Newnham was writing
without any conscious knowledge of what was being written, but neither had
she any conscious knowledge of the questions to which she was writing the
answers. Evidently, then, her own ordinary consciousness was not acting at
all in the matter regarding either the questions or answers, for she was
fully awake, in her normal condition, and perfectly competent to judge of
her own mental state and actions. Nevertheless, there was some
intelligence acting reasonably and consciously, and making use of her
hand to register its thoughts.
In a former chapter I have described and illustrated a somewhat unusual
mental phenomenon, to which the name thought-transference, or telepathy,
has been given; and in another I have endeavored to demonstrate the
existence of a secondary or subliminal self or personality.
If I mistake not, it is here, in these two comparatively little known and,
until recently, little studied, psychical conditions, that we shall find
the key to message-bearing automatism, as well as other manifestations of
intelligence which have heretofore been considered mysterious and occult.
Applying this key to the Newnham Planchette-writing, the secondary
personality or subliminal self of Mrs. Newnham took immediate cognizance
of the questions silently and secretly written out by her husband,
although they were utterly unknown to her ordinary or primary self, and
made use of her hands to communicate the answer.
The answer, also, was of course unknown to her primary self, but her
subliminal self, in addition to its own private and constant stock of
knowledge and opinions, had the advantage of more subtle means of securing
other knowledge necessary for a proper answer, and so sought it in her
husband's mind, or wherever it could be obtained. The sources of
information accessible to the subliminal self, through means analogous to
those which have been named--thought-transference and telepathy--are
certainly various, and their limit is not yet known. We may mention,
however, in this connection, besides the mind of the automatic writer--the
mind of the questioner, and also the minds of other persons present, in
any or all of which may be stored up knowledge or impressions of which the
ordinary consciousness or memory retains no trace; it may be a scene
witnessed in childhood; a newspaper paragraph read many years ago; a
casual remark overheard, but not even noticed--all these and many more are
sources of information upon which the subliminal self may draw for
answers, which, when written out by the automatist, seem absolutely
marvellous, not to say miraculous or supernatural.
Thus, the prayer at the ceremony of the advancement of a Mark Master
Mason, although language entirely unfamiliar to Mrs. Newnham, was
perfectly familiar to her husband, who was himself a Mason, and, I
believe, a chaplain in the order; and while the form was not one actually
used, it contained strictly accurate technicalities, and would have been
perfectly appropriate to such an occasion.
The messages written by Mr. Wedgwood and Mrs. R. profess to come directly
from the spirit of Colonel Gurwood; but without absolutely discarding that
theory, having the key to which I have referred, let us see if such a
supposition is necessary to explain the facts.
It may be conceded at once that neither Mr. Wedgwood nor either of the
ladies with whom he wrote had any conscious knowledge of Col. Gurwood--his
military career, or his sad taking off; but they were all intelligent
people. John Gurwood, as it turned out, was a noted man; he was an officer
in the Peninsular War, under the Duke of Wellington, performed an act of
special bravery and daring, in the performance of which he was severely
wounded, and for which he was afterward granted a coat of arms. He was
also afterward chosen to edit the duke's dispatches. All this was recorded
in the _Annual Register_ for 1845, soon after Gurwood's death, together
with a description in the language of heraldry of the crest or coat of
arms which had been granted him many years before.
It is scarcely possible that such an event would not have been noticed in
the newspapers at the time of Gurwood's death, and nothing is more
probable than that some of these intelligent persons had read these
accounts, or as children heard them read or referred to, though they may
now have been entirely absent from their ordinary consciousness and
memory. At all events, the subliminal self or secondary consciousness of
Mrs. R., whom Planchette designates as "the medium," or of Mr. Wedgwood,
may have come into relationship with the sources of information necessary
to furnish the messages which it communicated, and these sources may have
been the knowledge or impressions unconsciously received many years before
by some of those present, the generally diffused knowledge of these facts
which doubtless prevailed in the community at the time of Gurwood's death,
and the full printed accounts of these events, many copies of which were
extant.
From the description of Gurwood's coat of arms the idea could easily have
been obtained which Planchette rudely represented in drawing, constituting
what is called a test, and also the other knowledge concerning his
military career and death which appeared in the various messages.
Regarding cases coming under my own observation, the incident relating to
Peter Stuyvesant's pear tree was well known to us both, and had only
recently been a matter of general conversation, and all of those present
had a more or less distinct idea of Peter Stuyvesant himself, derived from
Irving's "Knickerbocker's History of New York."
Of the cases observed with Miss V., as before stated, nearly all the names
given of "authorities," as we called them, were evidently fictitious,
scarcely one being recognized, and none were of persons with whom we had
any connection, and some did not claim any other origin than our
subliminal consciousness, as was also the case with messages written by
Mrs. Newnham.
If, then, some of the messages are surely the work of the subliminal self
of the writer, aided by its more acute and more far-reaching perceptions,
and if nearly all may be accounted for in the same way, the probability
that all such messages have the same origin is greatly increased, and in
the same degree the necessity for the spiritualistic theory is diminished,
since it is evident that of two theories for explaining a new fact we
should accept that one which better harmonizes with facts already
established.