AUTOMATIC WRITING, DRAWING AND PAINTING.
The subject of Automatism has thus far been illustrated by reference to
Planchette-writing alone. It was selected because it is the kind most
frequently seen and most easily proved by experiment. The little
instrument Planchette, however, is not essential; it is used because,
being placed on casters, it is more easily moved.
The Chinese, long ago, used for the same purpose a little basket, with
style attached, placed upon two even chopsticks.
The same results also occur with some persons when the pencil is simply
held in the usual manner for writing. The hand then being allowed to
remain perfectly passive, automatic movements first take place--the hand
moving round and round or across the paper, and then follows writing or
drawing, as the case may be. Some persons produce written messages in
_mirror writing_--that is, reversed--or so written that it can only be
easily read by causing it to be reflected in a mirror. This kind of
writing is sometimes produced on the first attempt of the experimenter,
and even by young children without any experience or knowledge of the
subject.
As previously shown, different strata of consciousness may, and in some
well observed cases, most certainly do, exist in the same individual. In
these well observed cases, each separate consciousness had its own
distinct chain of memories and its own characteristics and peculiarities;
and these distinct chains of memories and well defined characteristics
constitute, so far as we can judge, distinct personalities. At all events,
they are centres of intelligence and mental activity which are altogether
independent of the ordinary, everyday consciousness or personality, and
often altogether superior to it. Accordingly this other centre of
intelligence and mental activity has been named the _second personality or
subliminal self_; that is, a consciousness or self or personality beneath
the threshold, so to speak, of the ordinary or primary self.
Ansel Bourne and A. J. Brown were separate and distinct personalities,
having entirely distinct, and apparently unrelated, chains of memory,
distinct characteristics, opinions, and peculiarities, acting at
different times through the same body.
Ansel Bourne was the usual or primary personality; A. J. Brown was a
second personality, a separate focus of intelligence and mental activity,
a subliminal self. What the exact relationship existing between these two
personalities may be we do not attempt at present to explain; but that
they exist and act independent of each other we know. In other instances,
as, for example, that of Madame B., the hypnotic subject of Prof. Janet of
Havre, and also that of Alma Z., we have been able to observe these
separate centres of intelligence, these distinct personalities, both in
action at the same time, upon altogether separate and unrelated subjects.
Sometimes the subliminal self takes full control, making itself the active
ruling personality to the entire exclusion of the primary self; and
sometimes it only sends messages to the primary or ordinary self, by
suggestion, mental pictures, or vivid impressions made upon the organs of
sense and producing the sensation of seeing, hearing, or touch.
To illustrate these different methods of communication between the
ordinary and subliminal self, suppose an individual, whom we will
designate as X., manifests this peculiar condition of double
consciousness. As we have seen, the subliminal self often takes cognizance
of things concerning which the ordinary self is entirely ignorant, but it
may not always have the power to impress the primary self with this
knowledge, nor to take full possession, so as to be able to impart it to
others by speaking or writing. This is the usual condition of most
persons; with some peculiarly constituted persons, however, the
possibility of being so impressed surely exists, and with them these
impressions are direct and vivid.
Our individual, X., is one in whom this ability to receive impressions in
this manner exists.
To illustrate: Suppose first that X. is asleep, is taking his after-dinner
nap, and that children playing in his grounds have set fire to some straw
in close proximity to buildings near by. No one notices the danger. X. is
asleep, but his subliminal self is on the alert--like the second self of
the somnambulist or subject in the hypnotic trance--it sees that unless
checked there will be a destructive conflagration. It impresses upon X. a
dream of fire so vivid that he wakes in alarm, discovers the mischief and
averts the danger. Or suppose X. to be awake and sitting in his office in
a distant part of the house, quite unconscious of anything unusual. All at
once he becomes restless, unable to pursue his work; he is impelled to
leave his desk, to go out, to walk in the direction of the fire, and thus
become aware of the danger. Or again, that X. is an automatic writer--that
paper and pencil are at hand and he receives a sudden impulse to write. He
has no knowledge of what he is writing, but upon examination he finds it a
warning to look after the threatening fire; or still again, that he hears
a voice distinctly saying, "Look out for fire;" or sees a distinct picture
of the place and circumstances of the fire; all these are possible methods
by which the subliminal self might communicate to X., the ordinary
personality, the danger which was threatening.
Automatism, therefore, does not necessarily take the form of written
messages, but may take any form by which the subliminal self can best
transmit its message to the primary self--or in the same way from one
person to another, whether by words written or spoken automatically--by
voices heard, by action influenced, as when X. is influenced to leave his
office and walk, or the mischievous Leontine unties the apron of Leonie,
or by vision or vivid mental picture, as when Peter sees a "sheet let
down by the four corners," from which he learns an important lesson.
The messages received automatically may not all be true; they may be
trivial and even false; on the other hand, they may not only be true and
important but they may convey information quite out of the power of the
primary self to acquire by any ordinary use of the senses. Nor need we be
greatly surprised at this; it is a normal function of the subliminal self;
with some persons that function is active, with others it is dormant, but
in all, at some moment in life, circumstances may arise which shall awaken
that function into activity.
A remarkable example of messages received by automatic writing is that
furnished by Mr. W. T. Stead, occurring in his own experience. Mr. Stead
is a well-known author, journalist, and the editor of the London edition
of the _Review of Reviews_, in which magazine his experiences have, on
various occasions, been published.
As he regards the matter, there is an _invisible intelligence_ which
controls his hand, but the persons with whom he is in communication are
alive and visible--for instance his own son on various occasions, also
persons in his employ, writers upon his magazine, casual acquaintances,
and even strangers.
None of these persons participate in any active or conscious way in the
communications. Mr. F. W. H. Myers has often conversed with Mr. Stead and
with several of his involuntary correspondents in relation to the
phenomena, and the facts are so simple and open, and the persons connected
with them so intelligent and evidently sincere and truthful, that no doubt
can be entertained as to the reality of the incidents, however they may be
interpreted.
One of the most remarkable of these involuntary correspondents is known as
Miss A., a lady employed by him in literary work of an important
character. She testifies in regard to the matter: "I, the subject of Mr.
Stead's automatic writing, known as 'A.,' testify to the correctness of
the statements made in this report. I would like to add what I think more
wonderful than many things Mr. Stead has cited, namely, the correctness
with which, on several occasions, he has given the names of persons whom
he has never seen nor heard of before. I remember on one occasion a person
calling upon me with a very uncommon name. The next day I saw Mr. Stead
and he read to me what his hand had written of the visit of that person,
giving the name absolutely correctly. Mr. Stead has never seen that
person, and until then had no knowledge of his existence."
The following is a description of a journey made by Miss A., automatically
written by Mr. Stead, he at the time not having the slightest knowledge
where she was, what she was doing, or that she intended making any such
journey. The slight inaccuracies are noted:--
"I went to the Waterloo station by the twelve o'clock train, and got to
Hampton Court about one. When we got out we went to a hotel and had
dinner. It cost nearly three shillings. After dinner I went to the
picture-galleries. I was very much pleased with the paintings of many of
the ceilings. I was interested in most of the portraits of Lely. After
seeing the galleries I went into the grounds. How beautiful they are! I
saw a great vine, that lovely English garden, the avenue of elms, the
canal, the great water sheet, the three views, the fountain, the gold
fishes, and then lost myself in the maze. I got home about nine o'clock.
It cost me altogether about six shillings." On communicating this to Miss
A. she found that everything was correct with two exceptions. She went
down by the two o'clock train instead of the twelve, and got to Hampton
Court about three. The dinner cost her two and elevenpence, which was
nearly three shillings, and the total was six and threepence. The places
were visited in the order mentioned.
A second instance was where the needs of a comparative stranger were
written out by Mr. Stead's hand. Mr. Stead goes on to say: "Last February
I met a correspondent in a railway carriage with whom I had a very casual
acquaintance. Knowing that he was in considerable distress, our
conversation fell into a more or less confidential train in which I
divined that his difficulty was chiefly financial. I said I did not know
whether I could be of any help to him, but asked him to let me know
exactly how things stood--what were his debts, his expectations, and so
forth. He said he really could not tell me, and I refrained from pressing
him.
"That night I received a letter from him apologizing for not having given
the information, but saying he really could not. I received that letter
about ten o'clock, and about two o'clock next morning, before going to
sleep, I sat down in my bedroom and said: 'You did not like to tell me
your exact financial condition face to face, but now you can do so through
my hand. Just write and tell me exactly how things stand. How much money
do you owe?' My hand wrote, 'My debts are L90.' In answer to a further
inquiry whether the figures were accurately stated, 'ninety pounds' was
then written in full. 'Is that all?' I asked. My hand wrote 'Yes, and how
I am to pay I do not know.' 'Well,' I said; 'how much do you want for that
piece of property you wish to sell?' My hand wrote, 'What I hope is, say,
L100 for that. It seems a great deal, but I must get money somehow. Oh, if
I could get anything to do--I would gladly do anything!' 'What does it
cost you to live?' I asked. My hand wrote, 'I do not think I could
possibly live under L200 a year. If I were alone I could live on L50 per
annum.'
"The next day I made a point of seeking my friend. He said: 'I hope you
were not offended at my refusing to tell you my circumstances, but really
I do not think it would be right to trouble you with them.' I said: 'I am
not offended in the least, and I hope you will not be offended when I tell
you what I have done.' I then explained this automatic, telepathic method
of communication. I said: 'I do not know whether there is a word of truth
in what my hand has written. I hesitate at telling you, for I confess I
think the sum which was written as the amount of your debts cannot be
correctly stated; it seems to me much too small, considering the distress
in which you seemed to be; therefore I will read you that first, and if
that is right I will read you the rest; but if it is wrong I will consider
it is rubbish and that your mind in no way influenced my hand.' He was
interested but incredulous. But, I said, 'Before I read you anything will
you form a definite idea in your mind as to how much your debts amount to;
secondly, as to the amount of money you hope to get for that property;
thirdly, what it costs you to keep up your establishment with your
relatives; and fourthly, what you could live upon if you were by
yourself?' 'Yes,' he said, 'I have thought of all those things.' I then
read out. 'The amount of your debts is about L90.' He started. 'Yes,' he
said, 'that is right.' Then I said: 'As that is right I will read the
rest. You hope to get L100 for your property.' 'Yes,' he said, 'that was
the figure that was in my mind, though I hesitated to mention it for it
seems too much.' 'You say you cannot live upon less than L200 a year with
your present establishment.' 'Yes,' he said, 'that is exactly right.' 'But
if you were by yourself you could live on L50 a year.' 'Well,' said he, 'a
pound a week was what I had fixed in my mind.' Therefore there had been a
perfectly accurate transcription of the thoughts in the mind of a
comparative stranger written out with my own hand at a time when we were
at a distance of some miles apart, within a few hours of the time when he
had written apologizing for not having given me the information for which
I had asked."
In the following case the correspondent is a foreign lady, doing some work
for the _Review_, but whom Mr. Stead had only met once in his life. On the
occasion now referred to be was to meet her at Redcar Station at about
three o'clock in the afternoon. He was stopping at a house ten minutes'
walk from the station, and it occurred to him that "about three o'clock,"
as mentioned in her letter, might mean _before_ three; and it was now only
twenty minutes of three. No timetable was at hand: he simply asked her to
use his hand to tell him what time the train was due. This was done
without ever having had any communication with her upon the subject of
automatic writing. She (by Mr. Stead's hand) immediately wrote her name,
and said the train was due at Redcar Station at ten minutes of three.
Accordingly he had to leave at once--but before starting he said, "Where
are you at this moment?" The answer came, "I am in the train at
Middlesborough railway station, on my way from Hartpool to Redcar."
On arriving at the station he consulted the timetable and found the train
was due at 2:52. The train, however, was late. At three o'clock it had not
arrived; at five minutes past three, getting uneasy at the delay, he took
paper and pencil in his hand and asked where she was.
Her name was at once written and there was added: "I am in the train
rounding the curve before you come to Redcar Station--I will be with you
in a minute."
"Why the mischief have you been so late?" he mentally asked. His hand
wrote, "We were detained at Middlesborough so long--I don't know why."
He put the paper in his pocket and walked to the end of the platform just
as the train came in.
He immediately went to his friend and exclaimed:--"How late you are! What
on earth has been the matter?" To which she replied: "I do not know; the
train stopped so long at Middlesborough--it seemed as if it never would
start."
This narrative was fully corroborated by the lady who was the passenger
referred to.
In all these cases it should be noticed the so-called correspondent took
no active part in the experiment, was not conscious of communicating
anything, nor of trying to do so; nor is there any evidence of a third
party or any intervening intelligence or personality; but the subliminal
self of the writer went forth and acquired the needed information and
transferred it automatically to the primary self, as was the case in the
Planchette-writing of Mrs. Newnham and the Wedgwood cases.
During the years 1874 and 1875 I had under my care Mrs. Juliette T.
Burton, the wife of a physician who came to New York from the South at the
close of the war. She was a woman of refinement, education, and excellent
literary ability. She wrote with unusual facility, and her articles were
accepted by newspapers and magazines, and brought her a considerable
income. I knew her well, and her honesty, good faith, and strong
common-sense were conspicuous. She died of phthisis in 1875. It is to her
varied automatic powers as illustrating our subject that I would call
attention.
Many of her best articles were prepared without conscious effort of her
own, either physical or mental; she simply prepared pencils and paper,
became passive, and her hand wrote. Sometimes she had a plan to write up a
certain subject, and sometimes the subject as well as the matter came
automatically.
She knew that she was writing, but of what was written she had no
knowledge until she read her own manuscript.
She had no talent for drawing nor for painting; she could not, in her
ordinary condition, draw a face, nor even a leaf, which could be
recognized. Soon after coming to New York she began to see faces and other
pictures before her on the blank paper and to sketch them with marvellous
rapidity and exactness, all in the same automatic manner as that in which
she did her writing. These drawings were not crude, but were strongly
characteristic and were delicately done with ordinary lead pencils,
several of which were prepared beforehand with sharp delicate points. I
remember one drawing in particular--a man's head about half life-size,
with full flowing beard. At first glance there was nothing peculiar about
the picture, except that one would say that it was a strong and
characteristic face; but on close examination in a strong light, and
especially through a reading-glass, the beard was seen to be made up
entirely of exceedingly minute faces of sheep; every face was perfectly
formed and characteristic, and there were thousands of them. It was done
with the same wonderful rapidity which characterized all her automatic
work.
Later she was impelled to procure colors, brushes, and all the materials
for painting in oil; and although she had never even seen that kind of
work done, and had not the slightest idea how to mix the colors to produce
desired tints, nor how to apply them to produce desired effects, yet at a
single sitting in a darkened room she produced a head of singular strength
and character and possessing at least some artistic merit. Certainly no
one could imagine it to be the first attempt of a person entirely without
natural talent for either drawing or painting. It was done on common brown
cardboard, and it has been in my possession for the past twenty-two years.
The reproduction which appears as frontispiece to the present volume gives
some idea of its character.
The impression received by the painter was that it was the portrait of an
Englishman named Nathan Early.[1] No date was assigned.
[1] See Frontispiece.
As a further illustration of her automatic power, it may be mentioned that
another uncultivated faculty developed itself, namely, the power of
referring to past events in the lives of those who were in her presence.
The knowledge of past events so conveyed was frequently most remarkable
and was circumstantially correct, even rivalling in this respect the
reports which we have of Jung-Stilling and Zschokke.