WE were nearly six weeks in the Havana, being detained by Lord Durham’s
illness. I provided myself with a capital Spanish master, and made the
most of him. This, as it turned out, proved very useful to me in the
course of my future travels. About the middle of March we left for
Charlestown in the steamer _Isabel_, and thence on to New York. On the
passage to Charlestown, we were amused one evening by the tricks of a
conjuror. I had seen the man and his wife perform at the Egyptian Hall,
Piccadilly. She was called the ‘Mysterious Lady.’ The papers were full
of speculations as to the nature of the mystery. It was the town talk
and excitement of the season.
This was the trick. The lady sat in the corner of a large room, facing
the wall, with her eyes bandaged. The company were seated as far as
possible from her. Anyone was invited to write a few words on a slip of
paper, and hand it to the man, who walked amongst the spectators. He
would simply say to the woman ‘What has the gentleman (or lady) written
upon this paper?’ Without hesitation she would reply correctly. The man
was always the medium. One person requested her, through the man, to
read the number on his watch, the figures being, as they always are, very
minute. The man repeated the question: ‘What is the number on this
watch?’ The woman, without hesitation, gave it correctly. A friend at
my side, a young Guardsman, took a cameo ring from his finger, and asked
for a description of the figures in relief. There was a pause. The
woman was evidently perplexed. She confessed at last that she was unable
to answer. The spectators murmured. My friend began to laugh. The
conjuror’s bread was at stake, but he was equal to the occasion. He at
once explained to the company that the cameo represented ‘Leeder and the
Swan in a hambigious position, which the lady didn’t profess to know
nothing about.’ This apology, needless to say, completely re-established
the lady’s character.
Well, recognising my friend of the Egyptian Hall, I reminded him of the
incident. He remembered it perfectly; and we fell to chatting about the
wonderful success of the ‘mystery,’ and about his and the lady’s
professional career. He had begun life when a boy as a street acrobat,
had become a street conjuror, had married the ‘mysterious lady’ out of
the ‘saw-dust,’ as he expressed it—meaning out of a travelling circus.
After that, ‘things had gone ’ard’ with them. They had exhausted their
resources in every sense. One night, lying awake, and straining their
brains to devise some means of subsistence, his wife suddenly exclaimed,
‘How would it be if we were to try so and so?’ explaining the trick just
described. His answer was: ‘Oh! that’s too silly. They’d see through it
directly.’ This was all I could get out of him: this, and the fact that
the trick, first and last, had made them fairly comfortable for the rest
of their days.
Now mark what follows, for it is the gist and moral of my little story
about this conjuror, and about two other miracle workers whom I have to
speak of presently.
Once upon a time, I was discussing with an acquaintance the not
unfamiliar question of Immortality. I professed Agnosticism—strongly
impregnated with incredulity. My friend had no misgivings, no doubts on
the subject whatever. Absolute certainty is the prerogative of the
orthodox. He had taken University honours, and was a man of high
position at the Bar. I was curious to learn upon what grounds such an
one based his belief. His answer was: ‘Upon the phenomena of
electro-biology, and the psychic phenomena of mesmerism.’ His ‘first
convictions were established by the manifestations of the soul as
displayed through a woman called “The Mysterious Lady,” who, &c., &c.’
When we have done with our thaumaturgist on board the _Isabel_, I will
give another instance, precisely similar to this, of the simple origin of
religious beliefs.
The steamer was pretty full; and the conjuror begged me to obtain the
patronage of my noble friend and the rest of our party for an
entertainment he proposed to give that evening. This was easily secured,
and a goodly sum was raised by dollar tickets. The sleight-of-hand was
excellent. But the special performance of the evening deserves
description in full. It was that of a whist-playing dog. Three
passengers—one of us taking a hand—played as in dummy whist, dummy’s hand
being spread in a long row upon the deck of the saloon cabin. The
conjuror, as did the other passengers, walked about behind the players,
and saw all the players’ hands, but not a word was spoken. The dog
played dummy’s hand. When it came to his turn he trotted backwards and
forwards, smelling each card that had been dealt to him. He sometimes
hesitated, then comically shaking his head, would leave it to smell
another. The conjuror stood behind the dog’s partner, and never went
near the animal. There was no table—the cards were thrown on the deck.
They were dealt by the players; the conjuror never touched them. When
the dog’s mind was made up, he took his card in his mouth and laid it on
the others. His play was infallible. He and his partner won the rubber
with ease.
Now, to those ignorant of the solution, this must, I think, seem
inexplicable. How was collusion managed between the animal and its
master? One of the conditions insisted upon by the master himself was
silence. He certainly never broke it. I bought the trick—must I confess
it? for twenty dollars. How transparent most things are when—seen
through! When the dog smelt at the right card, the conjuror, who saw all
four hands, and had his own in his pocket, clicked his thumb-nail against
a finger-nail. The dog alone could hear it, and played the card
accordingly.
The other story: A few years after my return to England, a great friend
called upon me, and, in an excited state, described a _séance_ he had had
with a woman who possessed the power of ‘invoking’ spirits. These
spirits had correctly replied to questions, the answers to which were
only known to himself. The woman was an American. I am sorry to say I
have forgotten her name, but I think she was the first of her tribe to
visit this country. As in the case spoken of, my friend was much
affected by the results of the _séance_. He was a well-educated and
intelligent man. Born to wealth, he had led a somewhat wildish life in
his youth. Henceforth he became more serious, and eventually turned
Roman Catholic. He entreated me to see the woman, which I did.
I wrote to ask for an appointment. She lived in Charlotte Street,
Fitzroy Square; but on the day after the morrow she was to change her
lodgings to Queen Anne Street, where she would receive me at 11 A.M. I
was punctual to a minute, and was shown into an ordinary furnished room.
The maid informed me that Mrs. — had not yet arrived from Charlotte
Street, but she was sure to come before long, as she had an engagement
(so she said) with a gentleman.
Nothing could have suited me better. I immediately set to work to
examine the room and the furniture with the greatest care. I looked
under and moved the sofa, tables, and armchairs. I looked behind the
curtains, under the rug, and up the chimney. I could discover nothing.
There was not the vestige of a spirit anywhere. At last the medium
entered—a plain, middle-aged matron with nothing the least spiritual
about her. She seated herself opposite to me at the round table in the
centre of the room, and demurely asked what I wanted. ‘To communicate
with the spirits,’ I replied. She did not know whether that was
possible. It depended upon the person who sought them. She would ask
the spirits whether they would confer with me. Whereupon she put the
question: ‘Will the spirits converse with this gentleman?’ At all
events, thought I, the term ‘gentleman’ applies to the next world, which
is a comfort. She listened for the answer. Presently three distinct
raps on the table signified assent. She then took from her reticule a
card whereon were printed the alphabet, and numerals up to 10. The
letters were separated by transverse lines. She gave me a pencil with
these instructions: I was to think, not utter, my question, and then put
the pencil on each of the letters in succession. When the letters were
touched which spelt the answer, the spirits would rap, and the words
could be written down.
My friend had told me this much, so I came prepared. I began by politely
begging the lady to move away from the table at which we were seated, and
take a chair in the furthest corner of the room. She indignantly
complied, asking if I suspected her. I replied that ‘all ladies were
dangerous, when they were charming,’ which put us on the best of terms.
I placed my hat so as to intercept her view of my operations, and thus
pursued them.
Thinking the matter over beforehand, I concluded that when the
questioner, of either sex, was young, love would very probably be the
topic; the flesh, not the spirit, would be the predominant interest.
Being an ingenuous young man of the average sort, and desperately in love
with Susan, let us say, I should naturally assist the supernatural being,
if at a loss, to understand that the one thing wanted was information
about Susan. I therefore mentally asked the question: ‘Who is the most
lovely angel without wings, and with the means of sitting down?’ and
proceeded to pass the pencil over the letters, pausing nowhere. I now
and then got a doubtful rap on or under the table,—how delivered I know
not—but signifying nothing. It was clear the spirits needed a cue. I
put the pencil on the letter S, and kept it there. I got a tentative
rap. I passed at once to U. I got a more confident rap. Then to S.
Rap, rap, without hesitation. A and N were assented to almost before I
touched them. Susan was an angel—the angel. What more logical proof
could I have of the immortality of the soul?
Mrs. — asked me whether I was satisfied. I said it was miraculous; so
much so indeed, that I could hardly believe the miracle, until
corroborated by another. Would the spirits be kind enough to suspend
this pencil in the air? ‘Oh! that was nonsense. The spirits never lent
themselves to mere frivolity.’ ‘I beg the spirits’ pardon, I am sure,’
said I. ‘I have heard that they often move heavy tables. I thought
perhaps the pencil would save them trouble. Will they move this round
table up to this little one?’ I had, be it observed, when alone, moved
and changed the relative positions of both tables; and had determined to
make this my crucial test. To my astonishment, Mrs. — replied that she
could not say whether they would or not. She would ask them. She did
so, and the spirits rapped ‘Yes.’
I drew my chair aside. The woman remained seated in the corner. I
watched everything. Nothing happened. After a while, I took out my
watch, and said: ‘I fear the spirits do not intend to keep their word. I
have an appointment twenty minutes hence, and can only give them ten
minutes more.’ She calmly replied she had nothing to do with it. I had
heard what the spirits said. I had better wait a little longer.
Scarcely were the words out of her mouth, when the table gave a distinct
crack, as if about to start. The medium instantly called my attention to
it. I jumped out of my seat, passed between the two tables, when of a
sudden the large table moved in the direction of the smaller one, and did
not stop till it had pushed the little one over. I make no comments. No
explanation to me is conceivable. I simply narrate what happened as
accurately as I am able.
One other case deserves to be added to the above. I have connected both
of the foregoing with religious persuasions. The _séance_ I am about to
speak of was for the express purpose of bringing a brokenhearted and
widowed mother into communication with the soul of her only son—a young
artist of genius whom I had known, and who had died about a year before.
The occasion was, of course, a solemn one. The interest of it was
enhanced by the presence of the great apostle of Spiritualism—Sir William
Crookes. The medium was Miss Kate Fox, again an American. The _séance_
took place in the house of a very old friend of mine, the late Dr. George
Bird. He had spiritualistic tendencies, but was supremely honest and
single-minded; utterly incapable of connivance with deception of any
kind. As far as I know, the medium had never been in the room before.
The company present were Dr. Bird’s intimate friend Sir William
Crookes—future President of the Royal Society—Miss Bird, Dr. Bird’s
daughter, and her husband—Mr. Ionides—and Mrs. —, the mother of the young
artist. The room, a large one, was darkened; the last light being
extinguished after we had taken our places round the dining-table. We
were strenuously enjoined to hold one another’s hands. Unless we did so
the _séance_ would fail.
Before entering the room, I secretly arranged with Mr. Ionides, who
shared my scepticism, that we should sit side by side; and so each have
one hand free. It is not necessary to relate what passed between the
unhappy mother and the medium, suffice it to say that she put questions
to her son; and the medium interpreted the rappings which came in reply.
These, I believe, were all the poor lady could wish for. To the rest of
us, the astounding events of the _séance_ were the dim lights,
accompanied by faint sounds of an accordion, which floated about the room
over our heads. And now comes, to me, the strangest part of the whole
performance. All the while I kept my right arm extended under the table,
moving my hand to and fro. Presently it touched something. I make a
grab, and caught, but could not hold for an instant, another hand. It
was on the side away from Mr. Ionides. I said nothing, except to him,
and the _séance_ was immediately broken up.
It may be thought by some that this narration is a biassed one. But
those acquainted with the charlatanry in these days of what is called
‘Christian Science,’ and know the extent to which crass ignorance and
predisposed credulity can be duped by childish delusions, may have some
‘idea how acute was the spirit-rapping epidemic some forty or fifty years
ago. ‘At this moment,’ writes Froude, in ‘Fraser’s Magazine,’ 1863, ‘we
are beset with reports of conversations with spirits, of tables
miraculously lifted, of hands projecting out of the world of shadows into
this mortal life. An unusually able, accomplished person, accustomed to
deal with common-sense facts, a celebrated political economist, and
notorious for business-like habits, assured this writer that a certain
mesmerist, who was my informer’s intimate friend, had raised a dead girl
to life.’ Can we wonder that miracles are still believed in? Ah! no.
The need, the dire need, of them remains, and will remain with us for
ever.