JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE.—HIS EXPERIENCES IN THE SPIRIT WORLD.
The chapters that follow contain a recital of the spiritual experiences
of John Critchley Prince, the poetical control of the medium, which
first appeared in the columns of the _Voice of Angels_, and elicited
warm expressions of commendation and approval from the pens of a number
of writers. The name of Prince is well-known in England, for his poems
have long held a place in the affections of his countrymen; but as he
speaks of his earthly life and labors in the first portion of his
narrative of experiences, we will not anticipate what is there stated.
It may be well to mention how spirit Prince happened to become attracted
to Miss Shelhamer, and to find in her organism elements that so
assimilated with certain ones of his own as to render her a fitting
instrument for the transmission of his thought to mortals, and we will
give the explanation in his own words, as published in the _Voice_ of
Nov. 1, 1878:—
“I feel that I owe it to the public to explain my presence here, and how
I first happened to control this medium. In early life, comparatively
speaking, I met with the present chairman of the _Voice of Angels_
circle,—an old friend, Mr. Robert Anderson, of Morpeth, England,—himself
somewhat of a poet, and one possessed of a mind competent to criticise,
admire, or condemn the productions of poetical souls.
“He became somewhat interested in me in those early days, at Ashton
under-Lyne, England, and we formed a spiritual affinity that has
survived physical separation, and even death itself. We lost sight of
each other; but after my first experiences in spirit life I determined
to visit America. By the law of spiritual affinity I was attracted to a
“circle” held by this medium, then a girl in her teens. My old-time
friend, Robert Anderson, who had long been a resident of Boston, and had
become interested in the revealments of Spiritualism, discovering
mediumistic qualities in his own being, that enabled him to perceive and
to converse with spirits, was present at that circle. The links of
sympathy formerly binding us together immediately revealed themselves,
and I gave him spirit-greeting. Since that time, some six years ago, I
have been a frequent visitor to this home, meeting my old friend and
holding social converse with him. I do not always need to control the
medium for that purpose, for he is both clairvoyant and clairaudient,
and it sometimes pleases me to enter the sphere of his spiritual aura
and converse with him in the Lancashire dialect, which seems to recall
old associations to our minds.”
Mr. Prince refers above to the spirit-greeting he gave his friend Mr.
Anderson, who had for many years held a devoted friendship for the
parents of Miss Shelhamer, the medium, and who was ever a welcome
visitor in their home, upon his first appearance from the higher life.
This greeting was expressed in verse, and appears below. The recipient
of this poetical tribute was highly gratified as well as astonished at
the production, for he recognized in its composition the well-remembered
style of his old friend Prince, as well as quotations from a poem
written by the spirit author in England many years before he passed from
the body, and which had never appeared in print in this country. The
poem thus delivered is entitled
I COME TO THEE.
When evening shadows lightly fall,
And earth is wrapped in holy peace,
When over cottage roof and wall
The sounds of toil and revel cease,
I come to thee.
When in the fair and cloudless skies
The golden stars their vigils keep,
Like countless hosts of angel eyes
That guard the world while hushed in sleep,
I come to thee.
Not when the roses climb the wall,
And sweetly scent the balmy breeze,
Not when the joyous songs of birds
Make music through the leafy trees,
I come to thee;
When the earth is nobly ruled[5]
By winter’s weird, majestic reign,
“When moonlit snow is on the roof,
And pictured frost is on the pane,”[6]
I come to thee.
Not when earth’s fair and sunny morn
Hath bathed thee in its mellow glow,
But when upon thy honored head
Descends life’s winter’s driven snow,
I come to thee.
From fairy lands, whose silvery gleams
Stream oft across thy earthly way,
Where life more fair than pictured dreams
Glows with the light of perfect day,
I come to thee.
To speak of that eternal shore
Where gently beat the waves of time,
Where zephyrs chant their sweet refrain,
And life is evermore sublime,
I come to thee.
To strew before thy weary feet
The roses of eternal love;
To plant the lily bud of peace,
Transplanted from the world above,
I come to thee.
From fairy lands beyond the tomb,
Where flowers of truth forever bloom,
To guide thy soul through realms of love
To fairer, sunnier climes above,
I come to thee.
And when thy pilgrim feet have trod
The starry road that leads to God,
When thou hast reached the shining strand
And angels clasp thee by the hand,
I’ll come to thee.
To greet thee once again with joy,
Unmixed with sorrow’s dark alloy,
To sing the songs of sweet accord,
To teach thee of the Living Word,
I’ll come to thee.
Footnote 5:
The poem was given in mid-winter.
Footnote 6:
Quotation from one of his early poems.
A few weeks after the production of the above the spirit author
presented his friend with the following poetic effusion:—
HEART TREASURES.
Earth may yield her sordid treasures,—
Purest silver, gold, and gems,—
Fit to crown a kingly forehead
With their royal diadems.
Man may point to forms of beauty,
Rarest works of skillful art,
But he cannot find the equal
Of the treasures of the heart.
Oh, the human heart is glowing
With the gems of truth and love,
Flashing in the radiant splendor
Of their coronal above;
Flashing in their wondrous glory
Through the clouds of doubts and fears,
Gems whose lights shall never tarnish
In the mists of future years.
See the gold of pure affection,
Twice refined and purified!
Gaze on sympathy’s white silver,
Linked together, side by side!
Mark the shrine of honest Friendship,
Rarest work of heavenly art,
And compare thy earthly treasures
With the treasures of the heart!
Oh, the human heart holds truly
Mines of beauty,—wealth untold,—
Richer than earth’s fairest jewels,
Brighter than earth’s shining gold;
Glorious forms of smiling beauty
Fill each recess of the heart,
Fairer than the sculptor’s model
That begems the world of art.
Oh, the heart itself’s a jewel
Hid within these forms of clay,
Flashing in its radiant splendor
With the light of perfect day;
Through the crust of human weakness,
Through the slough of human shame,
Burning with the light eternal
Of affection’s sacred flame.
Here this wondrous, precious jewel
I this evening bring to you,
Shining with unfading luster
Burning steadfast, calm, and true;
Set within the crown of glory
Of infinitude above,
Whose eternal anthems ringing
Tell of Friendship, Truth, and Love.
The spirit, John Critchley Prince, has inspired his medium with a great
number of poems, many of which have been published in the _Banner of
Light, Voice of Angels_, and other spiritual and secular journals, and
he proposes to have them gathered into book-form, to be published as a
volume of poetic gems some time in the future. The following, selected
from this mass of poems, are given as specimens of the poetical work
this spirit has accomplished in connection with his medium:—
“AND HE WILL MAKE IT PLAIN.”
The path of life seems dark and drear
To mortals toiling on
Through heavy clouds of doubt and fear,
And mists of sin and wrong;
For through the shadows of despair
We often seek in vain
For light to pierce the tangled maze,
And make its meaning plain.
Dear souls are groping in the dark,
And longing for the day,
Who cannot see the lines of truth
Along life’s beaten way;
And spirits, hopeless and forlorn,
Whose tear-drops fall like rain,
Wait anxiously the coming time
When He will make it plain.
We cannot find the tangled end,
So blindly do we seek;
We stumble o’er the rugged path,
With steps grown faint and weak;
We cannot make the crooked straight,
Nor light the darkened road,
Nor can we ease our aching hearts
Of all their weary load;
And so we totter on our way,
And cannot comprehend
The meaning of Life’s mysteries,
And how each one shall end:
Why hearts should ache and spirits bleed,
And faint beneath the rod,
Till, in their agony of need,
They cry to Thee, O God!
Above the clouds that darkly lower
The sun is shining bright.
And through the spirit’s saddest hour
The soul gains strength and might.
We may not find the comforter
For all our woe or pain,
Yet God is the interpreter,
“And he will make it plain.”
Oh, saddened hearts! oh, stricken souls!
Who long for peace and rest,
The Father’s love about you rolls,
And that will make you blest!
Infinitude can never err;
Its mysteries he’ll explain—
“God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.”
Dear teachers of the “Living Word,”
Whose souls are bathed in light,
With every impulse nobly stirred
To battle for the right,
To you belief can never err,
Nor “scan his works in vain,”
For God is your interpreter,
And He hath made it plain.
O Father, God! to thee we pray
For strength to do Thy will,
And as we journey on our way,
Fulfill Thy purpose still;
And through all weakness may we join
The angels’ sweet refrain—
“God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.”
DOWN BY THE SEA.
Down by the sea, the gleaming sands
Forever beckon to the waves,
The seagull flits along the shore
Or nestles in its rocky caves;
The billows chant their sweet refrain
Of life forever grand and free,
And deep-toned harmonies repeat
Their mystic rhythms to the sea.
Down by the sea the morning breaks,
And all the eastern sky is bright
With shining radiance that wakes
The world in rapture to the sight;
And riding on to burning noon
The golden sun in splendor beams
Upon the dimpling, glistening waves,
Half wrapt in soft, delicious dreams.
Down by the sea the western sky
Is all aglow with rosy light,
The fiery monarch sinks to rest
Enwrapped in fleecy garments bright;
And out upon the crystal waves
The sunset’s rainbowed, tinted dyes
Reflect their glories to the soul,
And charm it with a glad surprise.
Down by the sea—the glorious sea—
We watch the white-sailed vessels glide,
Bearing their messages of cheer
Far out upon the silvery tide;
The shining waves caress the sand,
And softly lie upon its breast,
While all the happy peaceful sea
Bespeaks the calm of holy rest.
Down by the sea there sometimes comes
A mighty current strong and deep
That sweeps along the rolling tide,
And wakes the waters from their sleep;
The great green waves with snowy crests
Come grandly rushing wild and free,
Revealing depths of untold power,
Down by the rolling, matchless sea.
Down by the sea the love of God
We feel in every breath we draw,
We listen to His mighty tones
In silent, reverential awe;
The air is all alive with thoughts
Of Him who rules both sea and land,
And holds the deeply-flowing tides
Within the hollow of His hand.
COMING HOME.
Drawing nearer to the portals
Of the angels’ happy home,
Lonely-hearted sighing mortals
In their strength or weakness come
Now their white sails in the distance,
Gleaming on Life’s open sea,
Catch a breath from heavenly breezes
Richly scented, warm and free.
Heavy clouds have gathered o’er them,
Storms and tempests sometimes fell,
Driving every sail before them,
Through the water’s angry swell,
Till again the morning’s splendor
Bursts in triumph o’er each deck,
Lighting up with touches tender
Every trace of storm and wreck.
Seamed and patched, and wearing traces
Of temptation’s cruel power,
Are the weary, pallid faces
Of the voyagers this hour;
But a gleam of tender sweetness
Falls upon them as they glide
Nearer to the full completeness
Of their home beyond the tide;
On and on in stormy weather,
Or when summer sunbeams fall,
Till they enter port together
At the quiet boatman’s call.
Raise the strain, oh, souls immortal,
In one chorus sweet and grand,
As ye gain the heavenly portal
Of fair Eden’s Morning Land!
Spirit Prince found that on certain occasions he could inspire his old
friend Anderson with the poetic fire that thrilled and characterized his
own being. The following poem is one that this intelligence delivered
through the mediumship of that gentleman, and is introduced here to show
the evident kinship of the production with some of those delivered
through the mediumship of Miss Shelhamer:—
A FRIEND’S ADVICE.
Allow me, my friend, a friend’s privilege
To drop a few words in your ear:
You have lived a long time in the mortal,
And wrought foolish things, I much fear;
But the summer of life is not ended,
And its fruits may be gathered, you know,
By all who will act on this maxim:
Water and weed as you go.
The field of this life is a broad one,
And much precious seed has been sown;
Some of it’s crushed by the wild weeds,
And some of it’s covered with stone;
It needs all the care and attention
That mortals can give it, I know,
So take my advice, and be careful
To water and weed as you go.
The frost and the snow of the winter
The sun’s rays are melting away,
Bringing a sight of the wildwood,
And the beautiful flowers of May;
Teaching us all the importance
To look to the seed that we sow,
And mind well the lesson I’ve told you:
Water and weed as you go.
The spring will be here with its promise,
And speak from the green-covered sod,
In flowers that show by their splendor
The manifold wisdom of God.
Oh, man, heed the lesson they teach thee,—
That life from the Father doth flow;
So make it as pure as the flowers,
And water and weed as you go.
The fruitage will come in its season,
A reward for your toil and your care;
Then see that those in the shadow
A part of your harvest shall share.
This is the voice of the spirit
To brothers and sisters below:
“Be sure, while you dwell in the mortal,
To water and weed as you go.”
Shortly after the physical decease of that grand man, Wm. Lloyd
Garrison, John Critchley Prince wrote the following sketch,—through the
instrumentality of his regular medium,—which was published in the _Voice
of Angels_, June 15, 1879, and afterward copied into _Mind and Matter_:—
THE WELCOME ANGELS GIVE.
I have recently had the good fortune to witness a scene, the
impressiveness and grandeur of which only those who are unencumbered by
the corporeal body, and who are _all_ spirit, _all_ sense, _all_
perception, can fully realize. This scene was the spirit reception, the
angelic welcome given to one of life’s noblest heroes, one of the
whitest, grandest souls that has ever trod the pathway of mortal
existence; and though I cannot hope to convey to earth other than a
faint portrayal of the scene, yet I will attempt in this instance to
give my readers some idea of the welcome angels give.
After more than the three-score years and ten of earthly existence and
experience, William Lloyd Garrison, the friend of the oppressed, the
defender of right, the champion of freedom, calmly, quietly, and
peacefully laid down the burden of mortality, and rising, grand,
majestic, free, a spirit filled with power, passed into the realms of
eternal light.
In company with a band of kindred spirits, among whom I may mention my
friend Robert Burns, Felicia Hemans, and Elizabeth B. Browning,—noble
souls all, who had wept tears of sadness over the oppressed, even while
tuning their harps to sweeter melody for freedom’s sake,—I was
privileged to witness a spirit reception given to this ascended hero;
not the greeting given by the nearest and dearest of the heart, that was
too sacred for even the eyes of sympathizing spirit friends, who had no
claim upon his love, but the meeting of kindred souls, who had trod the
same paths of truth, waded the same seas of opposition and danger, and
borne the same battle-flag of freedom on to victory.
Not alone was the spirit of William Lloyd Garrison surrounded by
departed friends of his own country; not alone were his hands pressed by
such moral heroes as Washington, Adams, Lincoln, Andrew, Sumner, and
many more noble souls, men and women of his own country; but there were
Lafayette, Lamartine, Wilberforce, Wilcoxson, George Thompson, Harriet
Martineau, and countless others, assembled to give their brother
greeting. Indeed, all the great reformers of every age and clime, whose
souls now watch from the battlements of heaven the advancement of
liberty and truth on earth, and who still have a hand in shaping the
events of interest to humanity, were gathered to give our friend and the
friend of every man—though the foe to all tyranny, persecution, and
slavery—a perfect ovation, expressed through love, sympathy, and
blessings. But the most beautiful was the sight of John Brown, brave old
Ossawottamie, whose soul continues to march on, and Charles Sumner,
whose spirit still toils for a recognition of the equality of all before
the law, seated at the feet of Mr. Garrison, and looking up to him as to
some beloved teacher and guide.
Confined by no limits, unrestrained by the confines of walls and
barriers; out in the clear and pleasant sunshine, fanned by the balmy
breeze, refreshed through every avenue of sense by the perfume of
flowers, the gleam of waters, and the songs of birds, the very poetry of
expression, the nectar of loving sympathy gushed from the fountain of
each soul, and formed a sea of light which glorified the soul of him who
felt its genial, life-imparting flow. You who are in sympathy with great
minds, in harmony with all souls earnest for the emancipation of
humanity from whatever enthralls and keeps it down, can conceive faintly
at best of the grandeur, the beauty, and the joy of such a meeting;
countless numbers of gifted, noble souls assembled to give welcome, and
to pay tribute to one beloved apostle of truth. No pen, no tongue can do
the subject justice.
Outside of the circle of light formed by this celestial company, awed by
its brilliancy, surprised by its glory, debarred from enjoying its feast
of soul communion because of the remorseless memories within them, I
observed a number of faces, faces stamped with the signet of genius as
well as intellect, but bearing the impress of infidelity to truth; faces
belonging to gifted but ignoble spirits who, when upon earth, stood in
high places and publicly denounced the spirits of liberty, of toleration
and justice. Today they are repenting for the life spent in ambitious
desires.
But this is not all. Coming up from every direction, together and in
great numbers, I observed spirits approaching, from the tiny, tottling
child to the aged grandsire, singing songs of welcome as they came, the
celestial melody of which echoed and re-echoed throughout the spheres,
producing a perfect flood of heavenly sweetness that thrilled the soul
with ecstasy.
It was a song of gratitude, a mighty pæan of praise, a universal strain
of blessing for deliverance; and as it gathered power and rolled on in
musical splendor, the sweetness of its tones, the beauty of its
expressions, the grandeur of its inspiration clustered and fell in a
cascade of divine harmony over and around the soul of him enthroned in
our midst, the object of our gathering, the central glory of our galaxy,
Wm. Lloyd Garrison.
On, on they came, bearing branches of green and waving palms; garlands
of beautiful and odorous blossoms, a profusion of snowy-white lilies,
and clusters of royal roses, to strew before his spirit feet.
But sweeter than all other gifts, and dearer far to him who beheld and
received them, were the smiles of affection, the tears of gratitude, the
whispered blessings showered upon him by these new-comers, the vanguard
of this hero; they who were once poor and depressed, scorned,
uneducated, and despised, the slaves of tyranny, and used as beasts of
burden, but who are now cultured, honored, free!—toilers for the
redemption of souls from bondage.
First kneeling before their benefactor came the poor, despised negroes,
with hands uplifted in blessing, lips mute from the excess of emotion,
eyes eloquent with joy and gratitude. Not only those who had become free
before the law while yet on earth, but also those who had died in chains
and beneath the lash, came with benedictions for this man who had done
so much for their race, and to receive a blessing from his soul, knowing
it would impart to them strength, inspiration, and courage.
Following these came hosts of others, men, women, and children, of every
race and color, those who had felt the hand of tyranny, injustice, and
oppression in some one or more of its many shapes. Red and white, the
North American Indian and the Russian serf, delicate women, who had
suffered in homes made unhappy by intemperance or by the cruelty of
tyrannical brutality,—all came to bless this good man as their
benefactor and friend; and their presence brought a joy to his spirit no
mortal can understand.
Turning earthward, we perceived great billows of golden light, waves of
roseate beauty, clouds of azure and snowy brightness ascending, until
they enveloped our guest with their fragrant splendor, irradiating his
whole being with a new brilliancy, a new loveliness of expression. Each
wave of light that thus arose expressed to us from its peculiar hue and
its own delicate aroma the emotion which it represented; the golden hue
symbolized truth and earnestness, the roseate love and sympathy, the
azure fidelity and gratitude, and the white purity and peace. We
perceived these auras mingling and blending together into beautiful
harmony, and flowing out from hearts encased in mortal, who, though
saddened at the decease of Mr. Garrison, yet sent out after his ascended
spirit love, sympathy and blessings.
From the colored people assembled to pay their tribute of love and
respect to his memory; from the hearts of earnest women, who speak in
solemn sweetness of his helpfulness and cheer; from the souls of good
men and women everywhere, who loved and honored him; from the soul of
that silver-tongued friend[7] and orator who dares to stand forth and
pay honest, just, and loving tribute as a fitting eulogy to his departed
friend; from the pure and loving heart of that peaceful poet soul[8] who
sings in rhymed sweetness the honor of his friend;—from all these
ascended those emanations of light and beauty and fragrance. Musical
with the silvery sweetness borne from the souls of friends on earth,
they bathed his spirit in a fount of eternal joy and blessing.
Footnote 7:
Wendel Phillips.
Footnote 8:
John G. Whittier.
What need of golden harps and streets of pearl? He treads the flowery
paths of spirit life, not idle, not basking in dreamless rest. The
energy of power, the moving force of aspiration, the impulse of desire
are all his, and already his soul is marching on in the ranks of those
lofty ones whose mission is to toil on until man becomes uplifted into
the sphere of universal Love; until all wrong shall flee, tyranny die,
and liberty and knowledge dwell in the homes of all people.
Press on, noble soul! The victor’s palm is thine, for thou hast
witnessed the triumph of justice and right; the crown of glory is thine,
for thy soul is crowned with the diadem of perfect Love.
Press on, white-robed soul! for the bright fruition that awaits thee!
The following chapters are devoted to a recital of the experiences of J.
C. Prince, as narrated by himself, and published in the _Voice of
Angels_. We have alluded to letters of approval and of interest
concerning these experiences received by the editor of that paper from
various quarters. The following extract from a published letter of one
of these correspondents is here given, for the reason that it was penned
by one intimately acquainted with Mr. Prince in earthly life, and
familiar with the general style of his compositions:—
“NEPHI, UTAH, Sept. 6, 1878.
To the Editor of the _Voice of Angels_:
Dear Brother,—I have felt like writing to you since you began to
publish the spirit experiences of John Critchley Prince, for I have
been deeply interested in reading his statements as they appear in
your paper. I am from the same part of England where Mr. Prince dwelt
when in the body, and was in 1850 a power-loom weaver in the West
Mills at Ashton-under-Lyne, where he then resided. I always admired
his poems, and, next to Byron, esteemed his poetry the grandest and
best I had then read. * * * * * I recognize the mind of John Critchley
Prince, the Lancashire poet, in every line of his account of his earth
life in your paper; my wife also recognizes it, she having attended
select parties where he recited some of his best poems, in Duckenfield
and Ashton-under-Lyne, and we read in surprise and astonishment his
first contribution to the _Voice_, not expecting anything of the kind;
it was to us most interesting and agreeable. We congratulate you upon
the acquisition of so noble a soul to your staff of contributors, and
hope he will often give us his rich effusions through your paper.
Your brother and well-wisher,
THOMAS J. SCHOFIELD.”