PRIVATE MEDIA.
People who wish to argue against Spiritualism are quite sure, as a rule,
that media will descend to any trickery and cheating for the sake of
gain. If you reply, as in my own case, that the _seances_ have been
given as a free-will offering, they say that they expected introductions
or popularity or advertisement in exchange. But what can be adduced
against the medium who lends his or her powers to a person whom he has
never seen, and probably never will see, and for no reason, excepting
that his controls urge him to the deed? Such a man is Mr. George Plummer
of Massachusetts, America. In December, 1887, when my mind was very
unsettled, my friend Miss Schonberg advised me to write to this medium
and ask his advice. She told me I must not expect an immediate reply, as
Mr. Plummer kept a box into which he threw all the letters he received
from strangers on spiritualistic subjects, and when he felt impressed to
do so, he went and took out one, haphazard, and wrote the answer that
was dictated to him. All I had to do was to enclose an addressed
envelope, not a _stamped_ one, in my letter, to convey the answer back
again. Accordingly, I prepared a diplomatic epistle to this effect.
"Dear sir,--Hearing that you are good enough to sit for strangers, I
shall be much obliged if you will let me know what you see for
me.--Yours truly, F. Lane." It will be seen that I transposed the
letters of my name "Lean." I addressed the return envelope in the same
manner to the house in Regent's Park, which I then occupied, and I wrote
it all in a feigned hand to conceal my identity as much as possible. The
time went on and I heard nothing from Mr. Plummer. I was touring in the
provinces for the whole of 1888, and at the end of the year I came back
to London and settled down in a new house in a different quarter of the
town. By this time I had almost forgotten Mr. Plummer and my letter to
him, and when in _December_, 1889, two years after I had sent it, my
own envelope in my own handwriting, forwarded by the postal authorities
from Regent's Park, was brought to me, I did not at first recognize it.
I kept twisting it about, and thinking how like it was to my own
writing, when the truth suddenly flashed on me. I opened it and read as
follows:
"Georgetown, November 28th, 1889.
"Mrs. Lane,--Dear Madam,--Please pardon me for seeming neglect in
answering your request. At the time of receiving your letter I
could not write, and it got mislaid. Coming across it now, even at
the eleventh hour, I place myself in condition to answer. I see a
lady with dark blue eyes before me, of a very nervous
life--warm-hearted--impulsive--tropical in her nature. A woman of
intense feeling--a woman whose life has been one of constant
disappointment. To-day the current of life flows on smoothly but
monotonous. I sense from the sphere of this lady, a weariness of
life--should think she felt like Alexander, because there are no
more worlds for her to conquer. She is her own worst enemy.
Naturally generous, she radiates her refined magnetic sphere to
others, and does not get back that which she can utilize. I see a
bright-complexioned gentleman in earth life--brave, generous, and
kind--but does not comprehend your interior life. And yet thinks
the world of you to-day. I feel from you talent of a marked order.
And yet life is a disappointment. Not but what you have been
successful in a refined, worldly sense, but your spiritual nature
has been repressed. The society you move in is one of intellectual
culture; that is not of the soul. And it is soul food that you are
hungering for to-day. You are an inspired woman. Thought seems to
you, all prepared, so to speak. But it does not seem to free the
tiny little messengers of your soul life. Somehow I don't feel that
confidence in myself in writing to you. The best kind of a reading
is usually obtained in reading to a person direct. But if I don't
meet your case we will call it a failure and let it go. The year of
1890 is going to be more favorable to you than for the last ten
years. I think in some way you are to meet with more reciprocity of
soul. As the divining rod points to the stream of water in the
earth, so I find my intuitive eye takes cognizance of your interior
life. You will in a degree catch my meaning through this, and it
will come clearer, more through your intuition than through your
intellect. I should say to you, follow your instincts and
intuitions always through life. If this throws any light over your
path I am glad.--I remain, most respectfully yours,
George Plummer."
Now there are two noticeable things in this letter. First, Mr. Plummer's
estimate of my interior life almost coincides with Mr. Fletcher's given
in 1879, ten years before. Next, although he read it through the medium
of a letter written in 1887, he draws a picture of my position and
surroundings in 1889. Both these things appeared to me very curious as
coming from a stranger across the Atlantic, and I answered his letter at
once, still preserving my slight incognita, and telling him that as he
had read so much of my life from my handwriting of so long ago, I wished
he would try to read more from words which went fresh from me to him. I
also enclosed a piece of the handwriting of a friend. Mr. Plummer did
not keep me waiting this time. His next letter was dated February 8th,
1890.
"Dear Madam,--I received yours of January 3rd, and would have
answered before, but the spirit did not move. I have been tied to a
sick room going on three months, with its cares and anxieties. Not
the best condition for writing. The best condition to reflect your
life, to give your soul strength, is to be at rest and have all
earth conditions nullified. But that cannot be to-day. So I will
try to penetrate the mystery of your life as best I can, and
radiate to you at least some strength. The relation of soul is the
difficulty of your life, and you are so perfectly inspirational
that it makes the condition worse. Grand types of Manhood and
Womanhood come to you from the higher life, and your spirit and
soul catch the reflection, and are disappointed because they cannot
live that life. But you are getting a development out of all this
friction. Now if you would come in contact with that nature that
could radiate to you just what you could give to it, you would be
happy. Love is absolute, you well know. Often in the exchange of
thought we give each other strength. And then every letter we
write, every time we shake hands, we give some of our own
personality out. You are too sensitive to the spheres of people.
You have such a strong personality of life that the power that
inspires you could not make the perfect junction until you get so,
you had rather die than live. That was a condition of negation. Now
you have been running on a dead level of nothingness for two years
and a half." (This was exactly the time since my daughter had been
taken from me). "_I mean it seems so to you._ Such a sameness of
things. I get from the writing of the gentleman. A good
sphere--warm hearted--true to his understanding of things. He seems
to be a sort of a half-way house to you. That is, you roam in the
sea of Ideality, down deep, you know. And he rather holds on to
matter-of-fact--sort of ballast for you. You need it. For you are,
in fact, ripe for the other life, though it is not time to go yet.
Although a writer, yet you are a disappointed one. No mortal but
yourself knows this. You have winged your way in flights, grand and
lofty, and cannot _pen it_, is what is the matter. Now, in time you
will, more perfectly than to-day, by the touch of your pen, portray
your soul and its flights. Then I see you happy. This gentleman is
an auxiliary power, whether the power in full of your life I do not
to-day get. You are emphatically a woman of Destiny, and should
follow your _impressions_, for through that intuitive law you will
be saved. I mean by 'saved,' leap, as it were, across difficulties
instead of going round. For your soul is more positive and awake to
its necessities to-day than ever before in your life, particularly
in the last six months. Body marriages are good under the physical
law--bring certain unfoldments. But when mortal man and woman reach
a certain condition of development, they become dissatisfied, and
yearn for the full fruition of love. And there is no limitation of
this law. Women usually bow to the heart-love law, that sometimes
brings great joy and misery. The time is ripe for rulers. There
will be put into the field men, and more specifically women, who
have exemplified love divine. They will teach the law so plainly
that they who run can read. And it can only be taught by those who
have embodied it. Some years ago, in this country, there was a
stir-up. It did its work in fermentation. The next must be
humanization. The material world must come under the spiritual.
Women will come to the front as inspired powers. This is what comes
to me to write to you to-day. If it brings strength, or one ray of
sun-shine to you, I am glad.--I remain, most respectfully yours,
George Plummer."
Mr. Plummer is not occupying a high position in the world, nor is he a
rich man. He gains no popularity by his letters--he hears no
applause--he reaps no personal benefit, nor will he take any money. It
would be difficult, with any degree of reason, to charge him with
cheating the public for the sake of emptying their pockets. I fail to
see, therefore, how he can obtain his insight to one's interior life by
mortal means, nor, unless compelled by a power superior to his own, why
he should take the trouble to obtain it.
Another medium, whose health paid the sacrifice demanded of her for the
exhibition of a power over which, at one time, she had no control, and
which never brought her in anything but the thanks of her friends, is
Mrs. Keningale Cook (Mabel Collins), whom I have mentioned in the "Story
of my Spirit Child." There was a photographer in London, named Hudson,
who had been very successful in developing spirit photographs. He would
prepare to take an ordinary photograph, and on developing the plate, one
or more spirit forms would be found standing by the sitter, in which
forms were recognized the faces of deceased friends. Of course, the
generality of people said that the plates were prepared beforehand with
vague misty figures, and the imagination of the sitter did the rest. I
had been for some time anxious to test Mr. Hudson's powers for myself,
and one morning very early, between nine and ten o'clock, I asked Mrs.
Cook, as a medium, to accompany me to his studio. He was not personally
acquainted with either of us, and we went so early that we found him
rather unwilling to set to work. Indeed, at first he declined. We
disturbed him at breakfast and in his shirt sleeves, and he told us his
studio had been freshly painted, and it was quite impossible to use it
until dry. But we pressed him to take our photographs until he
consented, and we ascended to the studio. It was certainly very
difficult to avoid painting ourselves, and the screen placed behind was
perfectly wet. We had not mentioned a word to Mr. Hudson about spirit
photographs, and the first plate he took out and held up to the light,
we saw him draw his coat sleeve across. When we asked him what he was
doing, he turned to us and said, "Are you ladies Spiritualists?" When we
answered in the affirmative, he continued, "I rubbed out the plate
because I thought there was something on it, and most sitters would
object. I often have to destroy three or four negatives before I get a
clear picture." We begged him not to rub out any more as we were curious
to see the results. He, consequently, developed three photographs of us,
sitting side by side. The first was too indistinct to be of any use. It
represented us, with a third form, merely a patch of white, lying on the
ground, whilst a mass of hair was over my knee. "Florence" afterwards
informed me that this was an attempt to depict herself. The second
picture showed Mrs. Cook and myself as before, with "Charlie" standing
behind me. I have spoken of "Charlie" (Stephen Charles Bernard Abbott)
in "Curious Coincidences," and how much he was attached to me and mine.
In the photograph he is represented in his cowl and monk's frock--with
ropes round his waist, and his face looking down. In the third picture,
an old lady in a net cap and white shawl was standing with her two hands
on Mrs. Cook's shoulders. This was her grandmother, and the profile was
so distinctly delineated, that her father, Mr. Mortimer Collins,
recognized it at once as the portrait of his mother. The old lady had
been a member of the Plymouth Brethren sect, and wore the identical
shawl of white silk with an embroidered border which she used to wear
during her last years on earth. I have seen many other spirit
photographs taken by Mr. Hudson, but I adhere to my resolution to speak
only of that which I have proved by the exercise of my own senses. I
have the two photographs I mention to this day, and have often wished
that Mr. Hudson's removal from town had not prevented my sitting again
to him in order to procure the likenesses of other friends.
Miss Caroline Pawley is a lady who advertises her willingness to obtain
messages for others from the spirit world, but is forbidden by her
guides to take presents or money. I thought at first this must be a
"_ruse_." "Surely," I said to a friend who knew Miss Pawley, "I ought to
take books, or flowers, or some little offering in my hand." "If you do
she will return them," was the reply. "All that is necessary is to write
and make an appointment, as her time is very much taken up." Accordingly
I did write, and Miss Pawley kindly named an early date for my visit. It
was but a few months after I had lost my beloved daughter, and I longed
for news of her. I arrived at Miss Pawley's residence, a neat little
house in the suburbs, and was received by my hostess, a sweet,
placid-faced woman, who looked the embodiment of peace and calm
happiness. After we had exchanged greetings she said to me, "You have
lost a daughter." "I lost one about twenty years ago--a baby of ten days
old," I replied. "I don't mean her," said Miss Pawley, "I mean a young
woman. I will tell you how I came to know of it. I took out my memoranda
yesterday and was looking it through to see what engagements I had made
for to-day, and I read the names aloud to myself. As I came to the
entry, 'Mrs. Lean, 3 o'clock,' I heard a low voice say behind me, 'That
is my dear, _dear_ mother!' and when I turned round, I saw standing at
my elbow a young woman about the middle height, with blue eyes and very
long brown hair, and she told me that it is _she_ whom you are grieving
for at present." I made no answer to this speech, for my wound was too
fresh to permit me to talk of her; and Miss Pawley proceeded. "Come!"
she said cheerfully, "let us get paper and pencil and see what the dear
child has to say to us." She did not go under trance, but wrote rapidly
for a few moments and then handed me a letter written in the following
manner. I repeat (what I have said before) that I do not test the
genuineness of such a manifestation by the act itself. _Anyone_ might
have written the letter, but no one but myself could recognize the
familiar expressions and handwriting, nor detect the apparent
inconsistencies that made it so convincing. It was written in two
different hands on alternate lines, the first line being written by
"Eva," and the next by "Florence," and so on. Now, my earthly children
from their earliest days have never called me anything but "Mother,"
whilst "Florence," who left me before she could speak, constantly calls
me "Mamma." This fact alone could never have been known to Miss Pawley.
Added to which the portion written by my eldest daughter was in her own
clear decided hand, whilst "Florence's" contribution was in rather a
childish, or "young ladylike" scribble.
The lines ran thus. The italics are Florence's:--
"My own beloved mother.
_My dear, dear, dearest Mamma._
You must not grieve so terribly for me.
_And knowing all we have taught you, you should not grieve._
Believe me, I am not unhappy.
_Of course not, and she will be very happy soon._
But I suffer pain in seeing you suffer.
_Dear Mamma, do try to see that it is for the best._
Florence is right. It is best! dear Mother.
_And we shall all meet so soon, you know._
God bless you for all your love for me.
_Good-bye, dear, dearest Mamma._
Your own girl.
_Your loving little Florence._"
I cannot comment on this letter. I only make it public in a cause that
is sacred to me.
To instance another case of mediumship which is exercised for neither
remuneration nor applause. I am obliged in this example to withhold the
name, because to betray their identity would be to ill requite a favor
which was courteously accorded me. I had heard of a family of the name
of D---- who held private sittings once a week, at which the mother and
brothers and sisters gone before materialized and joined the circle; and
having expressed my desire, through a mutual acquaintance, to assist at
their _seances_, Mr. D---- kindly sent me an invitation to one. I found
he was a high-class tradesman, living in a good house in the suburbs,
and that strangers were very seldom (if ever) admitted to their circle.
Mr. D---- explained to me before the _seance_ commenced, that they
regarded Spiritualism as a most sacred thing, that they sat only to have
communication with their own relations, his wife and children, and that
his wife never manifested except when they were alone. His earth family
consisted of a young married daughter and her husband, and four or five
children of different ages. He had lost, I think he told me, a grown-up
son, and two little ones. William Haxby, the medium, whom I wrote of in
my chapter "On Sceptics," and who had passed over since then, had been
intimate with their family, and often came back to them. These
explanations over, the _seance_ began. The back and front parlors were
divided by lace curtains only. In the back, where the young married
daughter took up her position on a sofa, were a piano and an American
organ. In the front parlor, which was lighted by an oil lamp, we sat
about on chairs and sofas, but without any holding of hands. In a very
short time the lace curtains parted and a young man's face appeared.
This was the grown-up brother. "Hullo! Tom," they all exclaimed, and the
younger ones went up and kissed him. He spoke a while to his father,
telling what they proposed to do that evening, but saying his mother
would not be able to materialize. As he was speaking, a little boy stood
by his side. "Here's Harry," cried the children, and they brought their
spirit brother out into the room between them. He seemed to be about
five years old. His father told him to come and speak to me, and he
obeyed, just like a little human child, and stood before me with his
hand resting on my knee. Then a little girl joined the party, and the
two children walked about the room, talking to everybody in turn. As we
were occupied with them, we heard the notes of the American organ.
"Here's Haxby," said Mr. D----. "Now we shall have a treat." (I must say
here that Mr. Haxby was an accomplished organist on earth.) As he heard
his name, he, too, came to the curtains, and showed his face with its
ungainly features, and intimated that he and "Tom" would play a duet.
Accordingly the two instruments pealed forth together, and the spirits
really played gloriously--a third influence joining in with some
stringed instrument. This _seance_ was so much less wonderful than many
I have written of, that I should not have included a description of it,
except to prove that all media do not ply their profession in order to
prey upon their fellow-creatures. The D---- family are only anxious to
avoid observation. There could be no fun or benefit in deceiving each
other, and yet they devote one evening in each week to holding communion
with those they loved whilst on earth and feel are only hidden from them
for a little while, and by a very flimsy veil. Their _seances_ truly
carry out the great poet's belief.
"Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more.
* * * * *
With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
* * * * *
Uttered not, yet, comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer.
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air."
In the house of the lady I have mentioned in "The Story of the Monk,"
Mrs. Uniacke of Bruges, I have witnessed marvellous phenomena. They were
not pleasant manifestations, very far from it, but there was no doubt
that they were genuine. Whether they proceeded from the agency of Mrs.
Uniacke, my sister Blanche, or a young lady called Miss Robinson, who
sat with them, or from the power of all three combined, I cannot say,
but they had experienced them on several occasions before I joined them,
and were eager that I should be a witness of them. We sat in Mrs.
Uniacke's house, in a back drawing-room, containing a piano and several
book-cases, full of books--some of them very heavy. We sat round a table
in complete darkness, only we four women, with locked doors and bolted
windows. Accustomed as I was to all sorts of manifestations and
mediumship, I was really frightened by what occurred. The table was most
violent in its movements, our chairs were dragged from under us, and
heavy articles were thrown about the room. The more Mrs. Uniacke
expostulated and Miss Robinson laughed, the worse the tumult became. The
books were taken from the shelves and hurled at our heads, several of
the blows seriously hurting us; the keys of the piano at the further end
of the room were thumped and crashed upon, as if they would be broken;
and in the midst of it all Miss Robinson fell prone upon the floor, and
commenced talking in Flemish, a language of which she had no knowledge.
My sister understands it, and held a conversation with the girl; and she
told us afterwards that Miss Robinson had announced herself by the name
of a Fleming lately deceased in the town, and detailed many events of
his life, and messages which he wished to be delivered to his
family--all of which were conveyed in good and intelligible Flemish.
When the young lady had recovered she resumed her place at the table, as
my sister was anxious I should see another table, which they called
"Mademoiselle" dance, whilst unseen hands thumped the piano. The
manifestation not occurring, however, they thought it must be my
presence, and ordered me away from the table. I went and stood up close
against the folding doors that led into the front room, keeping my hand,
with a purpose, on the handle. The noise and confusion palpably
increased when the three ladies were left alone. "Mademoiselle," who
stood in a corner of the room, commenced to dance about, and the notes
of the piano crashed forcibly. There was something strange to me about
the manifestation of the piano. It sounded as if it were played with
feet instead of hands. When the tumult was at its height, I suddenly,
and without warning, threw open the folding door and let the light in
upon the scene, and I saw _the music-stool mounted on the keyboard_ and
hammering the notes down. As the light was admitted, both "Mademoiselle"
and the music-stool fell with a crash to the floor, and the _seance_ was
over. The ladies were seated at the table, and the floor and articles of
furniture were strewn with the books which had been thrown down--the
bookshelves being nearly emptied--and pots of flowers. I was never at
such a pandemonium before or after.
The late Sir Percy Shelley and his wife Lady Shelley, having no children
of their own, adopted a little girl, who, when about four or five years,
was seriously burned about the chest and shoulders, and confined for
some months to her bed. The child's cot stood in Lady Shelley's bedroom,
and when her adopted mother was about to say her prayers, she was
accustomed to give the little girl a pencil and piece of paper to keep
her quiet. One day the child asked for pen and ink instead of a pencil,
and on being refused began to cry, and said, "The _man_ said she must
have pen and ink." As it was particularly enjoined that she must not cry
for fear of reopening her wounds, Lady Shelley provided her with the
desired articles, and proceeded to her devotions. When she rose from
them, she saw to her surprise that the child had drawn an outline of a
group of figures in the Flaxman style, representing mourners kneeling
round a couch with a sick man laid upon it. She did not understand the
meaning of the picture, but she was struck with amazement at the
execution of it, as was everybody who saw it. From that day she gave the
little girl a sheet of card-board each morning, with pen and ink, and
obtained a different design, the child always talking glibly of "the
man" who helped her to draw. This went on until the drawings numbered
thirty or forty, when a "glossary of symbols" was written out by this
baby, who could neither write nor spell, which explained the whole
matter. It was then discovered that the series of drawings represented
the life of the soul on leaving the body, until it was lost "in the
Infinity of God"--a likely subject to be chosen, or understood, by a
child of five. I heard this story from Lady Shelley's lips, and I have
seen (and well examined) the original designs. They were at one time to
be published by subscription, but I believe it never came to pass. I
have also seen the girl who drew them, most undoubtedly under control.
She was then a young married woman and completely ignorant of anything
relating to Spiritualism. I asked her if she remembered the
circumstances under which she drew the outlines, and she laughed and
said no. She knew she had drawn them, but she had no idea how. All she
could tell me was that she had never done anything wonderful since, and
she had no interest in Spiritualism whatever.