In the Land of Mystery—Planchette and Ouija—Necromancers
and Hypnotists and Fortune Tellers—Adventures
in the Occult—A Spirit
Medium—Mental Telepathy—Fortune
Telling by Tea Cups and Cards—Living
in a Haunted House.
Whether one believes in the supernatural or not is of no consequence in
the reading or writing of these experiences. Some strange things have
occurred—and there may or may not be a plausible explanation of them.
All I have to do is to say that there is full corroboration for any
assertion made.
First, about the mystic boards—Planchette and Ouija. The only
difference between them is that Planchette has two legs and the third
support is a lead pencil which writes on a sheet of paper spread out on
the table; and Ouija has three legs and the board itself has “yes,”
“no,” the alphabet and the numerals up to ten.
The first time I used Planchette was in the early ’70’s when I brought
one home from Toronto, and with it an unopened bundle of several
newspaper exchanges from the post office. Without looking at it I took
up an unopened paper, and held it behind my back and asked a casual
visitor, Mrs. Kent, and my sister (who acted as the “mediums”) the name
of the paper. Planchette wrote _Expositor_ and, on opening it, I found
the paper was the Seaforth _Expositor_. That gave me more confidence in
it than I can honestly say I have in Ouija, who is decidedly off color
in many of her answers. She has told me different versions of matters
asked, and is as unreliable as a star witness in a divorce case. And I
am a pretty good medium too, can work it alone, and even with one hand,
while I have seen people who couldn’t make it move at all.
I have tried to interview several dead and living people through Ouija,
and if I only recorded what he, she or it recorded I would be sent
either to jail or to the lunatic asylum. Ouija merely records what your
sub-conscious mind impels your hands, unconsciously on your part, to
move. The board itself means nothing. It merely tells you what you don’t
know you were thinking about.
Then there are the necromancers and the hypnotists and the Anna Eva
Fays; also the Georgia Wonders and such like. McKeown, a nephew of the
Scotch wizard, Anderson, did remarkable feats which I can’t explain;
Malina, who never appeared in public, but received $100 a night at
private houses, was a mystery, which he claimed he wasn’t. The Georgia
Wonders increased in numbers as the subject of points and angles became
known. Charlie Kelly, the well-known Winnipeg singer, travelled with one
troupe and at Halifax was astounded when the manager of the show told
him he would have to get another “Wonder” as the one he had was getting
too fat and wouldn’t “draw.” So he advertised for one—of course
discreetly—and after Charlie had witnessed a couple of rehearsals, he
resigned in disgust.
Anna Eva Fay performed remarkable feats. One day while visiting Winnipeg
I met Billy Seach, manager of the Princess Opera House, and while
enjoying an evening stroll he told me of the successes and failures of
the previous season. Anna Eva Fay had made the greatest hit and packed
the house every night. He then went on to tell me that Miss Fay had
scouts out at every place she performed. I knew that, for my next door
neighbor in Montreal, Billy Cameron, was one of them.
Well, one morning, Anna’s scout happened to drop into Archibald &
Howell’s law office to see a clerk of his acquaintance. There was a
minister in the waiting room, and one of the members of the firm came
out and greeted him. He was from a little town not far from Winnipeg, in
which city he was well known. This reverend gentleman remarked that
things were not going well with him, that his little boy had broken his
arm, but was getting better, and that he had lost a drove of pigs, but
thought he would find them in a slough near a red barn a couple of miles
away.
That night, the minister attended Anna Eva Fay’s performance and
standing up handed in some written questions. He was directly spotted by
the scout, who conveyed the intelligence Miss Fay desired. She answered
the questions quite satisfactorily, and the wonder-stricken reverend
gentleman freely communicated to those near him the accuracy of the
answers. Shortly after Miss Fay predicted that Hugh John Macdonald would
beat Joe Martin by 1,435 majority and Peter Rutherford, a staunch Grit
and a firm believer in Miss Fay’s prophecies, rushed out of the show and
ran down to the Liberal committee rooms and shouted for them to close
the place as they were licked already. Hugh John was elected all right,
but not by the majority she said he would have.
Adventures in the Occult.
In Los Angeles, I met Miss Dolly Chevrier, daughter of the late Senator
Chevrier of Winnipeg, who was an old friend. She asked me to accompany
her to the residence of an Irish lady acquaintance, who is the wife of
one of the city officials of Los Angeles, and who had the gift of second
sight. We had a very pleasant evening and, always incidentally, she
brought up some subject or other that demonstrated she had some occult
gift. She asked me what person wished to accompany me home, and
mentioned the name of one, whom I afterwards discovered had entertained
the desire. She told me about my sister, of whose existence she
ordinarily could have no knowledge, and informed me of several
occurrences in my life which astonished me. In leaving she told me that
if I believed in the occult, I should call upon a Madame Lenz, who was a
professional fortune teller, which I did.
Just at this time I received a letter from the son-in-law of Mrs.
William Stitt, asking if I knew of any property that her husband, who
had just died, owned in the West. Madame Lenz’s methods were simple. You
wrote five questions and placed them in a sealed envelope; she would
then twist the envelope in her hands and return it to you. She first
told me that I had recently lost a friend, and that he was buried in
Mon-Mon-Mon—she appeared to be in doubt—but finally said Montana. I
corrected her and said it was Montreal. She admitted her haziness, but
said he was interred on top of a mountain, which was true. She said he
had some property in the West, but it was worthless, as it proved to be.
As I was leaving she remarked that September 10th was her birthday, and
that, on the anniversary of her birth, I would receive a good sum of
money. I wasn’t down at the office next September 10th with an express
wagon to carry away any gold that might come, and when the clock struck
twelve at midnight, I charitably thought that Madame had had another
attack of haziness. A few years went by, and after a peculiar
coincidence of circumstances one fine September 10th the prediction was
realized, and I was $4,400 the richer. Madame Lenz asked me the
whereabouts of a number of my friends, amongst those she mentioned being
Mr. A. A. Polhamus; I told her he was sitting out in the auto waiting
for me.
Amongst my acquaintances was Saint Nihil Singh, a young Hindoo who came
with a letter of introduction from Eddie Coyle, then the C.P.R.
representative at Vancouver. He was a bright young fellow and soon made
a name for himself in his writings in the Canadian and American press.
Taking me by the hand, he read it, and said I was a human fish—sucker,
I suppose—and preferred liquids to solids—that is soups and stews to
roasts—which was true. I asked him if he had ever seen any of those
miraculous feats that the Hindoo fakir (not fakir but fakeer) had done,
instancing a boy climbing a rope which had been thrown up into the air
and disappearing into space. He had. And how was it done? And he
replied, how did I think it was done? I said by hypnotism, and he
smilingly agreed with me.
Then came another Singh—I forget his other name—but he was an Indian
doctor, and he, too, had seen these wonderful feats, but he explained
that they were only done by a certain cult whose forefathers for
thousands of years had practised the black art, and had developed an
additional sense which enabled them to do the seemingly impossible. So
“you pays your money, and takes your choice.”
”Getting the Dope” on the “Prof.”
In the earlier days of Winnipeg Prof. Cecil appeared and gave an
exhibition of spectacular table moving and other things. Jim McGregor
and I were induced to go on the platform and he and I faced each other
at the table while the Professor and his assistant sat on the other
sides. The table moved all right enough, and so did my left hand, for I
grabbed the Professor by the arm to find that he had attached to his
wrists two strong steel bars which, with his hands on the table and the
bars under the leaf, acted as levers and the whole thing was done.
He wasn’t exposed of course. It would have spoilt the show.
But he “got it in the neck” a little later. He released himself from
handcuffs—which is easily done by slipping the mainspring of a watch
into the ratchets and off they come. He, unfortunately, challenged
everybody to produce any sort of manacle and he would open it. Dick
Power, then chief of the provincial police, came forward with a brand
new shackle. It had never been used before. It was locked on Dick’s leg,
a handkerchief thrown over it, and the Professor tried in vain to open
it. He couldn’t get the mainspring into the ratchet, and was finally
compelled to admit his inability to do so.
Telepathy and Fortune Telling.
All this is different from telepathy and spirits. One night not so very
long ago I was awakened by hearing Reggie Graves’ voice just outside my
bedroom door, saying, “George Ham, George Ham, George H. Ham of the
C.P.R.” This continued for some time, and I also recognized Brent
MacNab’s voice. It was absurd to imagine that they were in the hallway
of my house at that unearthly hour, two o’clock in the morning. When I
turned on the light, the voices ceased; when I turned it off Reggie
recommenced calling my name. I pinched myself to see if I was awake or
dreaming, but after half an hour or so the calling ceased for good and I
fell asleep.
The next night at two o’clock I was again awakened by Reggie’s voice
calling upon me as it had the night previous. The calling continued
while the light was off and ceased when it was turned on. After a while
I lighted a cigarette, smoked part of it, and, extinguishing the fire,
placed it on a small stand at my bedside. If it was there in the
morning, this telepathy calling was no dream. True enough in the morning
the cigarette was just where I had put it. Three or four evenings later,
Reggie and Brent dropped in to see me, and I related what I have just
written.
“It’s true,” exclaimed Reggie, “it’s true—I was in great distress and
bodily pain and you were my only sheet anchor and I called you both
nights.”
Reggie was at his home at Ste. Rose seventeen miles away.
Another night I was awakened by women’s voices at 4 a.m. and, while I
could not hear what they said, could easily distinguish the voice of one
of the ladies. Just for fun I ’phoned her next day, and told her she had
not gone to bed until four o’clock and she related how a neighbor had
been ill and she had gone in to see her and stayed with her until that
late hour. The sick woman’s house was nearly a mile away from my
residence.
Then there is fortune-telling—by cards and by tea cup. A clever reader
of the remaining tea leaves can make up a mighty good story, from one’s
imaginative powers and the knowledge of the person whose tea-cup is
being read. Cards are different, and apparently are read by the
proximity of one card dealt out of the pack to the others that follow.
However that may be, I know of several instances where the
fortune-teller’s predictions came absolutely true. One happened while
crossing the Atlantic on board the old Champlain, when a lady
acquaintance one lazy afternoon offered to tell my fortune. The cards
told her, and she told me, that I would hear very bad news on my arrival
at St. John, and would learn of the death of a very close friend. True
enough, I was handed a letter from Mell Duff before I left the ship
informing me of the death of my very intimate friend, Bob Morris,
general baggage agent of the C.P.R., of Montreal. The other instance
occurred in Shediac, N.B., when one rainy afternoon on going to Weldon’s
Hotel, I found my wife packing her trunk. She told me that a lady had
told her fortune an hour or so before, and the cards predicted that she
was to leave the place immediately. Of course, I laughed over her
unseemly haste, but a few minutes later received a rush telegram from
Mr. McNicoll instructing me to report at once at headquarters. We left
for Montreal next morning, and I have been stationed there ever since.
Besides these, there is palmistry. That is an old art, and anyone who
studies a book on palmistry can correctly read the lines of anybody’s
hand.
Story of the Haunted House.
While I am on this subject I might as well tell you that I once lived in
a haunted house for a couple of years. Here’s the story, which in every
particular can be corroborated by Major George II. Young, formerly of
the Customs office, Winnipeg, the owner and previously the occupant of
the house, and by Charlie Bell, for many years secretary of the Winnipeg
Board of Trade, who also lived in the place, and by others.
It was on St. Patrick’s Day, 1877, that my wife and I took possession of
the little house just south of old Grace Church on Main Street,
Winnipeg, our landlord being Mr. Geo. H. Young. Tradition said it was
built on an old Indian burial ground. The house was not fully furnished
the first day and we fixed up a bed in what was to be the parlor. During
the night queer noises were heard. The stove in the adjoining room
rattled like mad, and investigation proved nothing. There was no wind or
anything else visible that should cause a commotion. A door would slam
and on going to it, it was found wide open. One night there was a loud
noise as if some tinware hanging up on the wall in the kitchen had
fallen. Saying: “There goes the boiler lid,” my mother, who had come
from Whitby on a visit, ran downstairs and returned with the assertion
that nothing had fallen on the floor to make such a noise. And so it
went on.
I spoke to George Young about it, and he laughingly said: “You’re
hearing those noises too; well, I won’t raise the rent anyway on that
account.” And he didn’t—but that’s not the custom nowadays.
One time the cellar was filled with water, coming from where, goodness
only knows, though it was said that there was a slough through that
property years ago. Anyway the cellar was full of water, and it had to
be baled out. I said, “Leave it to me. Let George do it.” My motto is
“Do it now”—“now” being an indefinite time.
After a few days, despairing of any decisive action on my part, my wife
engaged the Laurie boys, (who came from Whitby) to empty the cellar.
They came one fine morning with pails and ropes and everything was ready
to put the cellar in its normal condition. But lo and behold, when the
trap door was opened, there wasn’t a blamed drop of water in the
blooming cellar. It was dry as a tin horn. Of course I triumphantly
boasted, “There, didn’t I tell you. Always leave things to me.” The
Laurie boys were puzzled, for they had seen the cellar full the previous
day. And I gloated. We never ascertained whence came the water or where
it went, but by this time I had got accustomed to the prances and pranks
of the house and didn’t care a continental.
After a couple of years’ occupancy of the house, which in the meantime
had been purchased by the late George McVicar, we sought a new residence
on Logan Street, next to Ald. More’s; and the Main Street house was
leased to a Mr. Conlisk, a cigar manufacturer, who hitherto had boarded
at John Pointz’s hotel, diagonally opposite. We were to move out on a
Saturday morning, but the rain came down in torrents and the muddy
streets were almost impassable. Besides our new house wasn’t ready.
I went to Mr. Conlisk and asked him if he would let us stay for a couple
of days longer and I would pay his rent and his board at the hotel. But
he wouldn’t. He had leased the house and he was going into it Saturday
afternoon. And he did. I don’t like to think of unpleasant things, so
I’ll skip telling about how we—and our furniture—fared. In less than a
week, Jimmy Bennett, a well known citizen who had a room with the
Conlisks, left for other—and doubtless quieter—quarters, and before
the month was up Conlisk paid another month’s rent in advance, and gave
the landlord notice that he was quitting. George McVicar came to me and
angrily wanted to know why I was spreading reports that his house was
haunted. I told him I had not done anything of the kind, but that it was
the spooks who had spoken. The building was removed to the north end,
and some years after, on recognizing it, I called to see if the noises
still continued. But they wouldn’t let me in.
I don’t pretend to be able to explain the queer noises, nor could George
Young, nor Charlie Bell, and Jimmy Bennett would not even speak of them.
Whether they were the spirits of the past and gone Indian braves showing
their displeasure at our intrusion in their domain, or were caused by
some peculiarity in the construction of the house and its environments,
I can not offer an opinion. But, as we got accustomed to them, they
didn’t disturb us at all, and we got rather proud of our ghostly guests
whose board and lodging cost us nothing.