CURIOUS COINCIDENCES.
Before I proceed to write down the results of my private and
premeditated investigations, I am reminded to say a word respecting the
permission I received for the pursuit of Spiritualism. As soon as I
expressed my curiosity on the subject, I was met on all sides with the
objection that, as I am a Catholic, I could not possibly have anything
to do with the matter, and it is a fact that the Church strictly forbids
all meddling with necromancy, or communion with the departed. Necromancy
is a terrible word, is it not? especially to such people as do not
understand its meaning, and only associate it with the dead of night and
charmed circles, and seething caldrons, and the arch fiend, in _propria
persona_, with two horns and a tail. Yet it seems strange to me that the
Catholic Church, whose very doctrine is overlaid with Spiritualism, and
who makes it a matter of belief that the Saints hear and help us in our
prayers and the daily actions of our lives, and recommends our kissing
the ground every morning at the feet of our guardian angel, should
consider it unlawful for us to communicate with our departed relatives.
I cannot see the difference in iniquity between speaking to John Powles,
who was and is a dear and trusted friend of mine, and Saint Peter of
Alcantara, who is an old man whom I never saw in this life. They were
both men, both mortal, and are both spirits. Again, surely my mother who
was a pious woman all her life, and is now in the other world, would be
just as likely to take an interest in my welfare, and to try and promote
the prospect of our future meeting, as Saint Veronica Guiliani, who is
my patron. Yet were I to spend half my time in prayer before Saint
Veronica's altar, asking her help and guidance, I should be doing right
(according to the Church), but if I did the same thing at my mother's
grave, or spoke to her at a _seance_, I should be doing wrong. These
distinctions without a difference were hard nuts to crack, and I was
bound to settle the matter with my conscience before I went on with my
investigations.
It is a fact that I have met quite as many Catholics as Protestants
(especially of the higher classes) amongst the investigators of
Spiritualism, and I have not been surprised at it, for who could better
understand and appreciate the beauty of communications from the spirit
world than members of that Church which instructs us to believe in the
communion of saints, as an ever-present, though invisible mystery.
Whether my Catholic acquaintances had received permission to attend
_seances_ or not, was no concern of mine, but I took good care to
procure it for myself, and I record it here, because rumors have
constantly reached me of people having said behind my back that I can be
"no Catholic" because I am a spiritualist.
My director at that time was Father Dalgairn, of the Oratory at
Brompton, and it was to him I took my difficulty. I was a very constant
press writer and reviewer, and to be unable to attend and report on
spiritualistic meetings would have seriously militated against my
professional interests. I represented this to the Father, and (although
under protest) I received his permission to pursue the research in the
cause of science. He did more than ease my conscience. He became
interested in what I had to tell him on the subject, and we had many
conversations concerning it. He also lent me from his own library the
lives of such saints as had heard voices and seen visions, of those in
fact who (like myself) had been the victims of "Optical Illusions."
Amongst these I found the case of Saint Anne-Catherine of Emmerich, so
like my own, that I began to think that I too might turn out to be a
saint in disguise. It has not come to pass yet, but there is no knowing
what may happen.
She used to see the spirits floating beside her as she walked to mass,
and heard them asking her to pray for them as they pointed to "les
taches sur leurs robes." The musical instruments used to play without
hands in her presence, and voices from invisible throats sound in her
ears, as they have done in mine. I have only inserted this clause,
however, for the satisfaction of those Catholic acquaintances with whom
I have sat at _seances_, and who will probably be the first to exclaim
against the publication of _our_ joint experiences. I trust they will
acknowledge, after reading it, that I am not worse than themselves,
though I may be a little bolder in avowing my opinions.
Before I began this chapter, I had an argument with that friend of mine
called Self (who has but too often worsted me in the Battle of Life), as
to whether I should say anything about table-rapping or tilting. The
very fact of so common an article of furniture as a table, as an agent
of communication with the unseen world, has excited so much ridicule and
opens so wide a field for chicanery, that I thought it would be wiser to
drop the subject, and confine myself to those phases of the science or
art, or religion, or whatever the reader may like to call it, that can
be explained or described on paper. The philosophers of the nineteenth
century have invented so many names for the cause that makes a table
turn round--tilt--or rap--that I feel quite unable (not being a
philosopher) to cope with them. It is "magnetic force" or "psychic
force,"--it is "unconscious cerebration" or "brain-reading"--and it is
exceedingly difficult to tell the outside world of the private reasons
that convince individuals that the answers they receive are _not_
emanations from their own brains. I shall not attempt to refute their
reasonings from their own standpoint. I see the difficulties in the way,
so much so that I have persistently refused for many years past to sit
at the table with strangers, for it is only a lengthened study of the
matter that can possibly convince a person of its truth. I cannot,
however, see the extreme folly myself of holding communication (under
the circumstances) through the raps or tilts of a table, or any other
object. These tiny indications of an influence ulterior to our own are
not necessarily confined to a table. I have received them through a
cardboard box, a gentleman's hat, a footstool, the strings of a guitar,
and on the back of my chair, even on the pillow of my bed. And which,
amongst the philosophers I have alluded to, could suggest a simpler mode
of communication?
I have put the question to clever men thus: "Suppose yourself, after
having been able to write and talk to me, suddenly deprived of the
powers of speech and touch, and made invisible, so that we could not
understand each other by signs, what better means than by taps or tilts
on any article, when the right word or letter is named, could you think
of by which to communicate with me?"
And my clever men have never been able to propose an easier or more
sensible plan, and if anybody can suggest one, I should very much like
to hear of it. The following incidents all took place through the
much-ridiculed tipping of the table, but managed to knock some sense out
of it nevertheless. On looking over the note book which I faithfully
kept when we first held _seances_ at home, I find many tests of identity
which took place through my own mediumship, and which could not possibly
have been the effects of thought-reading. I devote this chapter to their
relation. I hope it will be observed with what admirable caution I have
headed it. I have a few drops of Scotch blood in me by the mother's
side, and I think they must have aided me here. "Curious coincidences."
Why, not the most captious and unbelieving critic of them all can find
fault with so modest and unpretending a title. Everyone believes in the
occasional possibility of "curious coincidences."
It was not until the month of June, 1873, that we formed a home circle,
and commenced regularly to sit together. We became so interested in the
pursuit, that we used to sit every evening, and sometimes till three and
four o'clock in the morning, greatly to our detriment, both mental and
physical. We seldom sat alone, being generally joined by two or three
friends from outside, and the results were sometimes very startling, as
we were a strong circle. The memoranda of these sittings, sometimes with
one party and sometimes with another, extend over a period of years, but
I shall restrict myself to relating a few incidents that were verified
by subsequent events.
The means by which we communicated with the influences around us was the
usual one. We sat round the table and laid our hands upon it, and I (or
anyone who might be selected for the purpose) spelled over the alphabet,
and raps or tilts occurred when the desired letter was reached. This in
reality is not so tedious a process as it may appear, and once used to
it, one may get through a vast amount of conversation in an hour by this
means. A medium is soon able to guess the word intended to be spelt, for
there are not so many after all in use in general conversation.
Some one had come to our table on several occasions, giving the name of
"Valerie," but refusing to say any more, so we thought she was an idle
or frivolous spirit, and had been in the habit of driving her away. One
evening, on the 1st of July, however, our circle was augmented by Mr.
Henry Stacke, when "Valerie" was immediately spelled out, and the
following conversation ensued. Mr. Stacke said to me, "Who is this?" and
I replied carelessly, "O! she's a little devil! She never has anything
to say." The table rocked violently at this, and the taps spelled out.
"Je ne suis pas diable."
"Hullo! Valerie, so you can talk now! For whom do you come?"
"Monsieur Stacke."
"Where did you meet him?"
"On the Continent."
"Whereabouts?"
"Between Dijon and Macon."
"How did you meet him?"
"In a railway carriage."
"What where you doing there?"
Here she relapsed into French, and said,
"Ce m'est impossible de dire."
At this juncture Mr. Stacke observed that he had never been in a train
between Dijon and Macon but once in his life, and if the spirit was with
him then, she must remember what was the matter with their
fellow-passenger.
"Mais oui, oui--il etait fou," she replied, which proved to be perfectly
correct. Mr. Stacke also remembered that two ladies in the same carriage
had been terribly frightened, and he had assisted them to get into
another. "Valerie" continued, "Priez pour moi."
"Pourquoi, Valerie?"
"Parce que j'ai beaucoup peche."
There was an influence who frequented our society at that time and
called himself "Charlie."
He stated that his full name had been "Stephen Charles Bernard
Abbot,"--that he had been a monk of great literary attainments--that he
had embraced the monastic life in the reign of Queen Mary, and
apostatized for political reasons in that of Elizabeth, and been "earth
bound" in consequence ever since.
"Charlie" asked us to sing one night, and we struck up the very vulgar
refrain of "Champagne Charlie," to which he greatly objected, asking for
something more serious.
I began, "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon."
"Why, that's as bad as the other," said Charlie. "It was a ribald and
obscene song in the reign of Elizabeth. The drunken roysterers used to
sing it in the street as they rolled home at night."
"You must be mistaken, Charlie! It's a well-known Scotch air."
"It's no more Scotch than I am," he replied. "The Scotch say they
invented everything. It's a tune of the time of Elizabeth. Ask Brinley
Richards."
Having the pleasure of the acquaintance of that gentleman, who was the
great authority on the origin of National Ballads, I applied to him for
the information, and received an answer to say that "Charlie" was right,
but that Mr. Richards had not been aware of the fact himself until he
had searched some old MSS. in the British Museum for the purpose of
ascertaining the truth.
I was giving a sitting once to an officer from Aldershot, a cousin of my
own, who was quite prepared to ridicule every thing that took place.
After having teased me into giving him a _seance_, he began by cheating
himself, and then accused me of cheating him, and altogether tired out
my patience. At last I proposed a test, though with little hope of
success.
"Let us ask John Powles to go down to Aldershot," I said, "and bring us
word what your brother officers are doing."
"O, yes! by Jove! Capital idea! Here! you fellow Powles, cut off to the
camp, will you, and go to the barracks of the 84th, and let us know what
Major R---- is doing." The message came back in about three minutes.
"Major R---- has just come in from duty," spelt out Powles. "He is
sitting on the side of his bed, changing his uniform trousers for a pair
of grey tweed."
"I'm sure that's wrong," said my cousin, "because the men are never
called out at this time of the day."
It was then four o'clock, as we had been careful to ascertain. My cousin
returned to camp the same evening, and the next day I received a note
from him to say, "That fellow Powles is a brick. It was quite right.
R---- was unexpectedly ordered to turn out his company yesterday
afternoon, and he returned to barracks and changed his things for the
grey tweed suit exactly at four o'clock."
But I have always found my friend Powles (when he _will_ condescend to
do anything for strangers, which is seldom) remarkably correct in
detailing the thoughts and actions of absentees, sometimes on the other
side of the globe.
I went one afternoon to pay an ordinary social call on a lady named Mrs.
W----, and found her engaged in an earnest conversation on Spiritualism
with a stout woman and a commonplace man--two as material looking
individuals as ever I saw, and who appeared all the more so under a
sultry August sun. As soon as Mrs. W---- saw me, she exclaimed, "O! here
is Mrs. Ross-Church. She will tell you all about the spirits. Do, Mrs.
Ross-Church, sit down at the table and let us have a _seance_."
A _seance_ on a burning, blazing afternoon in August, with two stolid
and uninteresting, and worse still, _uninterested_ looking strangers,
who appeared to think Mrs. W---- had a "bee in her bonnet." I
protested--I reasoned--I pleaded--all in vain. My hostess continued to
urge, and society places the guest at the mercy of her hostess. So, in
an evil temper, I pulled off my gloves, and placed my hands
indifferently on the table. The following words were at once rapped
out--
"I am Edward G----. Did you ever pay Johnson the seventeen pounds twelve
you received for my saddlery?"
The gentleman opposite to me turned all sorts of colors, and began to
stammer out a reply, whilst his wife looked very confused. I asked the
influence, "Who are you?" It replied, "_He_ knows! His late colonel! Why
hasn't Johnson received that money?" This is what I call an "awkward"
coincidence, and I have had many such occur through me--some that have
driven acquaintances away from the table, vowing vengeance against me,
and racking their brains to discover _who_ had told me of their secret
peccadilloes. The gentleman in question (whose name even I do not
remember) confessed that the identity and main points of the message
were true, but he did _not_ confide to us whether Johnson had ever
received that seventeen pounds twelve.
I had a beautiful English greyhound, called "Clytie," a gift from Annie
Thomas to me, and this dog was given to straying from my house in
Colville Road, Bayswater, which runs parallel to Portobello Road, a
rather objectionable quarter, composed of inferior shops, one of which,
a fried fish shop, was an intolerable nuisance, and used to fill the
air around with its rich perfume. On one occasion "Clytie" stayed away
from home so much longer than usual, that I was afraid she was lost in
good earnest, and posted bills offering a reward for her. "Charlie" came
to the table that evening and said, "Don't offer a reward for the dog.
Send for her."
"Where am I to send?" I asked.
"She is tied up at the fried fish shop in Portobello Road. Send the cook
to see."
I told the servant in question that I had heard the greyhound was
detained at the fish shop, and sent her to inquire. She returned with
"Clytie." Her account was, that on making inquiries, the man in the shop
had been very insolent to her, and she had raised her voice in reply;
that she had then heard and recognized the sharp, peculiar bark of the
greyhound from an upper storey, and, running up before the man could
prevent her, she had found "Clytie" tied up to a bedstead with a piece
of rope, and had called in a policeman to enable her to take the dog
away. I have often heard the assertion that Spiritualism is of no
practical good, and, doubtless, it was never intended to be so, but this
incident was, at least, an exception to the rule.
When abroad, on one occasion, I was asked by a Catholic Abbe to sit with
him. He had never seen any manifestations before, and he did not believe
in them, but he was curious on the subject. I knew nothing of him
further than that he was a priest, and a Jesuit, and a great friend of
my sister's, at whose house I was staying. He spoke English, and the
conversation was carried on in that language. He had told me beforehand
that if he could receive a perfectly private test, that he should never
doubt the truth of the manifestations again. I left him, therefore, to
conduct the investigation entirely by himself, I acting only as the
medium between him and the influence. As soon as the table moved he put
his question direct, without asking who was there to answer it.
"Where is my chasuble?"
Now a priest's chasuble, _I_ should have said, must be either hanging in
the sacristy or packed away at home, or been sent away to be altered or
mended. But the answer was wide of all my speculations.
"At the bottom of the Red Sea."
The priest started, but continued--
"Who put it there?"
"Elias Dodo."
"What was his object in doing so?"
"He found the parcel a burthen, and did not expect any reward for
delivering it."
The Abbe really looked as if he had encountered the devil. He wiped the
perspiration from his forehead, and put one more question.
"Of what was my chasuble made?"
"Your sister's wedding dress."
The priest then explained to me that his sister had made him a chasuble
out of her wedding dress--one of the forms of returning thanks in the
Church, but that after a while it became old fashioned, and the Bishop,
going his rounds, ordered him to get another. He did not like to throw
away his sister's gift, so he decided to send the old chasuble to a
priest in India, where they are very poor, and not so particular as to
fashion. He confided the packet to a man called Elias Dodo, a
sufficiently singular name, but neither he nor the priest he sent it to
had ever heard anything more of the chasuble, or the man who promised to
deliver it.
A young artist of the name of Courtney was a visitor at my house. He
asked me to sit with him alone, when the table began rapping out a
number of consonants--a farrago of nonsense, it appeared to me, and I
stopped and said so. But Mr. Courtney, who appeared much interested,
begged me to proceed. When the communication was finished, he said to
me, "This is the most wonderful thing I have ever heard. My father has
been at the table talking to me in Welsh. He has told me our family
motto, and all about my birth-place and relations in Wales." I said, "I
never heard you were a Welshman." "Yes! I am," he replied, "my real name
is Powell. I have only adopted the name of Courtney for professional
purposes."
This was all news to me, but had it not been, _I cannot speak Welsh_.
I could multiply such cases by the dozen, but that I fear to tire my
readers, added to which the majority of them were of so strictly private
a nature that it would be impossible to put them into print. This is
perhaps the greatest drawback that one encounters in trying to prove
the truth of Spiritualism. The best tests we receive are when the very
secrets of our hearts, which we have not confided to our nearest
friends, are revealed to us. I could relate (had I the permission of the
persons most interested) the particulars of a well-known law suit, in
which the requisite evidence, and names and addresses of witnesses, were
all given though my mediumship, and were the cause of the case being
gained by the side that came to me for "information." Some of the
coincidences I have related in this chapter might, however, be ascribed
by the sceptical to the mysterious and unknown power of brain reading,
whatever that may be, and however it may come, apart from mediumship,
but how is one to account for the facts I shall tell you in my next
chapter.