III. _The Misses Berry._
No one introduced me to the Misses Berry. I saw their advertisement in
the public papers and went incognita to their _seance_, as I had done to
those of others. The first thing that struck me about them was the
superior class of patrons whom they drew. In the ladies' cloak room,
where they left their heavy wraps and umbrellas, the conversation that
took place made this sufficiently evident. Helen and Gertrude Berry were
pretty, unaffected, lady-like girls; and their conductor, Mr. Abrow, one
of the most courteous gentlemen I have ever met. The sisters, both
highly mediumistic, never sat together, but on alternate nights, but the
one who did _not_ sit always took a place in the audience, in order to
prevent suspicion attaching to her absence. Gertrude Berry had been
lately married to a Mr. Thompson, and on account of her health gave up
her _seances_, soon after I made her acquaintance She was a tall,
finely-formed young woman, with golden hair and a beautiful complexion.
Her sister Helen was smaller, paler and more slightly built. She had
been engaged to be married to a gentleman who died shortly before the
time fixed for their wedding, and his spirit, whom she called "Charley,"
was the principal control at her _seances_, though he never showed
himself. I found the _seance_ room, which was not very large, crammed
with chairs which had all been engaged beforehand, so Mr. Abrow fetched
one from downstairs and placed it next his own for me, which was the
very position I should have chosen. I asked him afterwards how he dared
admit a stranger to such close proximity, and he replied that he was a
medium himself and knew who he could and who he could _not_ trust at a
glance. As my professional duties took me backwards and forwards to
Boston, which was my central starting-point, sometimes giving me only a
day's rest there, I was in the habit afterwards, when I found I should
have "a night off," of wiring to Mr. Abrow to keep me a seat, so
difficult was it to secure one unless it were bespoken. Altogether I sat
five or six times with the Berry sisters, and wished I could have sat
fifty or sixty times instead, for I never enjoyed any _seances_ so
_much_ in my life before. The cabinet was formed of an inner room with a
separate door, which had to undergo the process of being sealed up by a
committee of strangers every evening. Strips of gummed paper were
provided for them, on which they wrote their names before affixing them
across the inside opening of the door. On the first night I inspected
the cabinet also as a matter of principle, and gummed my paper with
"Mrs. Richardson" written on it across the door. The cabinet contained
only a sofa for Miss Helen Berry to recline upon. The floor was covered
with a nailed-down carpet. The door which led into the cabinet was
shaded by two dark curtains hung with rings upon a brass rod. The door
of the _seance_ room was situated at a right angle with that of the
cabinet, both opening upon a square landing, and, to make "assurance
doubly sure," the door of the _seance_ room was left open, so that the
eyes of the sitters at that end commanded a view, during the entire
sitting, of the outside of the locked and gummed-over cabinet door. To
make this fully understood, I append a diagram of the two rooms--
[Illustration]
By the position of these doors, it will be seen how impossible it would
have been for anybody to leave or enter the cabinet without being
detected by the sitters, who had their faces turned towards the _seance_
room door. The first materialization that appeared that evening was a
bride, dressed in her bridal costume; and a gentleman, who was occupying
a chair in the front row, and holding a white flower in his hand,
immediately rose, went up to her, embraced her, and whispered a few
words, then gave her the white flower, which she fastened in the bosom
of her dress, after which he bowed slightly to the company, and, instead
of resuming his seat, left the room. Mr. Abrow then said to me, "If you
like, madam, you can take that seat now," and as the scene had excited
my curiosity I accepted his offer, hoping to find some one to tell me
the meaning of it. I found myself next to a very sweet-looking lady,
whom I afterwards knew personally as Mrs. Seymour. "Can you tell me why
that gentleman left so suddenly?" I asked her in a whisper. "He seldom
stays through a _seance_," she replied; "he is a business man, and has
no time to spare, but he is here every night. The lady you saw him speak
to is his wife. She died on her wedding day, eleven years ago, and he
has never failed to meet her on every opportunity since. He brings her a
white flower every time he comes. She appears always first, in order
that he may be able to return to his work." This story struck me as very
interesting, and I always watched for this gentleman afterwards, and
never failed to see him waiting for his bride, with the white flower in
his hand. "Do you expect to see any friends to-night?" I said to my new
acquaintance. "O! yes!" she replied. "I have come to see my daughter
'Bell.' She died some years ago, and I am bringing up the two little
children she left behind her. I never do anything for them without
consulting their mother. Just now I have to change their nurse, and I
have received several excellent characters of others, and I have brought
them here this evening that 'Bell' may tell me which to write for. I
have the pattern for the children's winter frocks, too," she continued,
producing some squares of woolen cloths, "and I always like to let
'Bell' choose which she likes best." This will give my readers some idea
of how much more the American spiritualists regard their departed
friends as still forming part of the home circle, and interested in
their domestic affairs. "Bell" soon after made her appearance, and Mrs.
Seymour brought her up to me. She was a young woman of about three or
four and twenty, and looked very happy and smiling. She perused the
servants' characters as practically as her mother might have done, but
said she would have none of them, and Mrs. Seymour was to wait till she
received some more. The right one had not come yet. She also looked at
the patterns, and indicated the one she liked best. Then, as she was
about to retire, she whispered to her mother, and Mrs. Seymour said, to
my surprise (for it must be remembered I had not disclosed my name to
her), "Bell tells me she knows a daughter of yours in the spirit life,
called 'Florence.' Is that the case?" I answered I had a daughter of
that name; and Mrs. Seymour added "'Bell' says she will be here this
evening, that she is a very pure and very elevated spirit, and they are
great friends." Very shortly after this, Mr. Abrow remarked, "There is a
young girl in the cabinet now, who says that if her mother's name is
'Mrs. Richardson,' she must have married for the third time since she
saw her last, for she was 'Mrs. Lean' then." At this remark I laughed;
and Mr. Abrow said, "Is she come for you, madam? Does the cap fit?" I
was obliged to acknowledge then that I _had_ given a false name in order
to avoid recognition. But the mention of my married name attracted no
attention to me, and was only a proof that it had not been given from
any previous knowledge of Mr. Abrow's concerning myself. I was known in
the United States as "Florence Marryat" only, and to this day they
believe me to be still "Mrs. Ross-Church," that being the name under
which my first novels were written. So I recognized "Florence" at once
in the trick that had been played me, and had risen to approach the
curtain, when she came _bounding_ out and ran into my arms. I don't
think I had ever seen her look so charming and girlish before. She
looked like an embodiment of sunshine. She was dressed in a low frock
which seemed manufactured of lace and muslin, her hair fell loose down
her back to her knees, and her hands were full of damask roses. This was
in December, when hot-house roses were selling for a dollar a piece in
Boston, and she held, perhaps, twenty. Their scent was delicious, and
she kept thrusting them under my nose, saying, "Smell my roses, mother.
Don't you wish you had my garden? We have _fields_ of them in the Summer
Land! O! how I wish you were there." "Shan't I come soon, darling?" I
said. "No! not yet," replied "Florence." "You have a lot of work to do
still. But when you come, it will be all flowers for you and me." I
asked her if she knew "Bell," and she said, "O! yes! We came together
this evening." Then I asked her to come and speak to "Bell's" mother,
and her manner changed at once. She became shy and timid, like a young
girl, unused to strangers, and quite hung on my arm, as I took her up to
Mrs. Seymour's side. When she had spoken a few words to her in a very
low voice, she turned to me and said, "I must go now, because we have a
great surprise for you this evening--a _very_ great surprise." I told
her I liked great surprises, when they were pleasant ones, and
"Florence" laughed, and went away. I found that her _debut_ had created
such a sensation amongst the sitters--it being so unusual for a
materialized spirit to appear so strong and perfect on the first
occasion of using a medium--that I felt compelled to give them a little
explanation on the subject. And when I told them how I had lost her as a
tiny infant of ten days old--how she had returned to me through various
media in England, and given such unmistakable proofs of her
_identity_--and how I, being a stranger in their country, and only
landed there a few weeks, had already met her through Mrs. Williams,
Mrs. Hatch and Miss Berry--they said it was one of the most wonderful
and perfect instances of materialization they had ever heard of. And
when one considers how perfect the chain is, from the time when
"Florence" first came back to me as a child, too weak to speak, or even
to understand where she was, to the years through which she had grown
and became strong almost beneath my eyes, till she could "_bound_" (as I
have narrated) into my arms like a human being, and talk as distinctly
as (and far more sensible than) I did myself, I think my readers will
acknowledge also, that hers is no common story, and that I have some
reason to believe in Spiritualism.
Miss Berry's cabinet spirits were quite different from the common type.
One was, or rather had been, a dancing girl--not European, but rather
more, I fancy, of the Asiatic or Egyptian type. Anyway she used to come
out of the cabinet--a lithe lissom creature like a panther or a
snake--and execute such twists and bounds and pirouettes, as would have
made her fortune on the stage. Indeed I used to think (being always on
the lookout for chicanery) that no _human_ creature who could dance
as she did would ever waste her talents, especially in a smart country
like America, on an audience of spiritualists, whose only motive for
meeting was to see their friends, and who would not pay an extra cent to
look at a "cabinet spirit." Another one was an Indian whom they called
"The Brave." He was also a lithe, active creature, without an ounce of
superfluous flesh upon his body, but plenty of muscle. He appeared to
like the ladies of the company very much, but evidently distrusted the
men. One stout, big man who was, I fancy, a bit of a sceptic, wished to
test the "Brave's" muscular power by feeling his biceps, and was invited
to step in front of the circle for that purpose. He had no sooner
approached him than the Indian seized him up in his arms and threw him
_right over his head_. He did not hurt him, but as the gentleman got up
again, he said, "Well! I weigh 200 pounds, and I didn't think any man in
the room could have done that." The ladies in the circle mostly wore
flowers in their bosom--bouquets, after the custom of American
ladies--and they began, one and all, to detach flowers from their
bouquets and give them to the "Brave," "to give to his squaw." He nodded
and gabbled some unintelligible Sioux or Cherokee in reply, and went all
round the circle on his knees. The stout man had surmised that he was
painted, and his long, straight, black hair was a wig. When he came to
me I said, "Brave! may I try if your hair is a wig?" He nodded and said,
"Pull--pull!" which I did, and found that it undoubtedly grew on his
head. Then he took my finger and drew it across his face several times
to show he was not painted. I had no flowers to present him with, so I
said, "Come here, Brave, and I'll give you something for your squaw,"
and when he approached near enough I kissed him. He chuckled, and his
eyes sparkled with mischief as he ran chatting in his native dialect
behind the curtains. In another minute he dashed out again, and coming
up to me ejaculated, "No--give--squaw!" and rushed back. Mr. Abrow
laughed heartily at this incident, and so did all the sitters, the
former declaring I had entirely captivated the "Brave." Presently the
cabinet curtains were shaken, and after a pause they parted slowly, and
the figure of an Indian squaw crept out. Anything more malignant and
vicious than her look I have seldom seen. Mr. Abrow asked her _who_ she
wanted and _what_ she wanted, but she would not speak. She stood there
silent, but scowling at me from beneath the tangles of her long black
hair. At last Mr. Abrow said to her, "If you don't want to speak to
anyone in the circle you must go away, as you are only preventing other
spirits from coming." The squaw backed behind the curtains again rather
sulkily, but the next time the "Brave" appeared she came with him, and
_never_ did he come again in my presence but what his "squaw" stood at
the curtains and watched his actions. Mrs. Abrow told me that the
"Brave" had been in the habit of manifesting at their _seances_ for
years, but that they had never seen the "squaw" until that evening.
Indeed, I don't think they were very grateful to me for having by my
rashness eliminated this new feature in their evening's entertainment,
for the "squaw" proved to be a very earthly and undeveloped spirit, and
subsequently gave them some trouble, as they could not drive her away
when they wanted to do so. Towards the close of the evening Mr. Abrow
said, "There is a spirit here now who is very anxious to show himself,
but it is the first time he has ever attempted to fully materialize, and
he is not at all certain of success. He tells me there is a lady in the
circle who has newly arrived in America, and that this lady years ago
sang a song by his dying bed in India. If she will step up to the
cabinet now and sing that song again he will try and shew himself to
her."
Such of my readers as have perused "The story of John Powles" will
recognize at once who this was. I did, of course, and I confess that as
I rose to approach the cabinet I trembled like an aspen leaf. I had
tried so often, and failed so often to see this dear old friend of mine,
that to think of meeting him now was like a veritable resurrection from
the dead. Think of it! We had parted in 1860, and this was
1884--twenty-four years afterwards. I had been a girl when we said
"Good-bye," and he went forth on that journey which seemed then so
mysterious an one to me. I was a middle-aged woman now, who had passed
through so much from which _he_ had been saved, that I felt more like
his mother than his friend. Of all my experiences this was to me really
the most solemn and interesting. I hardly expected to see more than his
face, but I walked up to the cabinet and commenced to sing in a very
shaky voice the first stanza of the old song he was so fond of:--
"Thou art gone from my gaze like a beautiful dream,
And I seek thee in vain by the meadow and stream;
Oft I breathe thy dear name to the winds passing by,
But thy sweet voice is mute to my bosom's lone sigh.
In the stillness of night when the stars mildly shine,
O! then oft my heart holds communion with thine,
For I feel thou art near, and where'er I may be,
That the Spirit of Love keeps a watch over me."
I had scarcely reached the finish of these lines when both the curtains
of the cabinet were drawn apart so sharply that the brass rings rattled
on the rod, and John Powles stood before me. Not a face, nor a
half-formed figure, nor an apparition that was afraid to pass into the
light--but _John Powles himself_, stalwart and living, who stepped out
briskly and took me in his arms and kissed me four or five times, as a
long-parted brother might have done; and strange to say, I didn't feel
the least surprised at it, but clung to him like a sister. For John
Powles had never once kissed me during his lifetime. Although we had
lived for four years in the closest intimacy, often under the same roof,
we had never indulged in any familiarities. I think men and women were
not so lax in their manners then as they are now; at anyrate, the only
time I had ever kissed him was when he lay dead, and my husband had told
me to do so. And yet it seemed quite natural on meeting him again to
kiss him and cry over him. At last I ventured to say, "O, Powles! is
this really you?" "Look at me and see for yourself," he answered. I
looked up. It was indeed himself. He had possessed _very_ blue eyes in
earth life, good features, a florid complexion, auburn hair, and quite a
golden beard and moustache. The eyes and hair and features were just the
same, only his complexion was paler, and he wore no beard. "O!" I
exclaimed, "where is your beard?" "Don't you remember I cut it off just
before I left this world?" he said; and then I recalled the fact that he
had done so owing to a Government order on the subject.
And bearing on this question I may mention what seems a curious
thing--that spirits almost invariably return to earth the first time
_just as they left it_, as though their thoughts at the moment of
parting clothed them on their return. This, however, was not John
Powles' first _attempt_ at materialization, although it was his first
success, for it may be remembered he tried to show himself through Miss
Showers, and then he _had_ a beard. However, when I saw him through Miss
Berry, he had none, nor did he resume it during my stay in America. When
we had got over the excitement of meeting, he began to speak to me of my
children, especially of the three who were born before his death, and of
whom he had been very fond. He spoke of them all by name, and seemed
quite interested in their prospects and affairs. But when I began to
speak of other things he stopped me. "I know it all," he said, "I have
been with you in spirit through all your trials, and I can never feel
the slightest interest in, or affection for, those who caused them. My
poor friend, you have indeed had your purgatory upon earth." "But tell
me of yourself, dear Powles! Are you quite happy?" I asked him. He
paused a moment and then replied, "Quite happy, waiting for you."
"Surely you are not suffering still?" I said, "after all these years?"
"My dear Florence," he answered, "it takes more than a few years to
expiate a life of sin. But I am happier than I was, and every year the
burden is lighter, and coming back to you will help me so much."
As he was speaking to me the curtain opened again, and there stood my
brother-in-law, Edward Church, not looking down-spirited and miserable,
as he had done at Mrs. Eva Hatch's, but bright and smiling, and dressed
in evening clothes, as also I perceived, when I had time to think of it,
was John Powles. I didn't know which to talk to first, but kept turning
from one to the other in a dazed manner. John Powles was telling me that
_he_ was preparing my house for me in the Summer Land, and would come to
take me over to it when I died, when "Ted" interrupted him. "That ought
to have been _my_ work, Bluebell," he said, "only Powles had anticipated
me." "I wish I could go back with you both at once, I am sick of this
world," I replied. "Ted" threw his arms round me and strained me to his
breast. "O! it is so hard to part again. How I wish I could carry you
away in my arms to the Summer Land! I should have nothing left to wish
for then." "You don't want to come back then, Ted?" I asked him. "_Want
to come back_," he said with a shudder; "not for anything! Why,
Bluebell, death is like an operation which you must inevitably undergo,
but which you fear because you know so little about it. Well, with me
_the operation's over_. I know the worst, and every day makes the term
of punishment shorter. I am _thankful_ I left the earth so soon." "You
look just like your old self, Ted," I said; "the same little curls and
scrubby little moustache." "Pull them," he answered gaily. "Don't go
away, Bluebell, and say they were false and I was Miss Berry dressed up.
Feel my biceps," he continued, throwing up his arm as men do, "and feel
my heart," placing my hand above it, "feel how it is beating for my
sister Bluebell."
I said to John Powles, "I hardly know you in evening costume. I never
saw you in it before" (which was true, as all our acquaintance had taken
place in India, where the officers are never allowed to appear in
anything but uniform, especially in the evenings). "I wish," I
continued, "that you would come next time in uniform." "I will try," he
replied, and then their time was up for that occasion, and they were
obliged to go.
A comical thing occurred on my second visit to the Berrys. Of course I
was all eagerness to see my brother-in-law and "Powles" again, and when
I was called up to the cabinet and saw a slim, dark, young man standing
there, I took him at once for "Ted," and, without looking at him, was
just about to kiss him, when he drew backwards and said, "I am not
'Edward!' I am his friend 'Joseph,' to whom he has given permission to
make your acquaintance." I then perceived that "Joseph" was very
different from "Ted," taller and better looking, with a Jewish cast of
countenance. I stammered and apologized, and felt as awkward as if I had
nearly kissed a mortal man by mistake. "Joseph" smiled as if it were of
very little consequence. He said he had never met "Ted" on earth, but
they were close friends in the spirit world, and "Ted" had talked so
much to him of me, that he had become very anxious to see me, and speak
to me. He was a very elegant looking young man, but he did not seem to
have very much to say for himself, and he gave me the impression that he
had been a "masher" whilst here below, and had not quite shaken off the
remembrance in the spirit world.
There was one spirit who often made her appearance at these sittings and
greatly interested me. This was a mother with her infant of a few weeks
old. The lady was sweet and gentle looking, but it was the baby that so
impressed me--a baby that never whined nor squalled, nor turned red in
the face, and yet was made of neither wax nor wood, but was palpably
living and breathing. I used always to go up to the cabinet when this
spirit came, and ask her to let me feel the little baby. It was a tiny
creature, with a waxen-looking face, and she always carried it enveloped
in a full net veil, yet when I touched its hand, the little fingers
tightened round mine in baby fashion, as it tried to convey them to its
mouth. I had seen several spirit children materialized before, but never
such a young infant as this. The mother told me she had passed away in
child-birth, and the baby had gone with her. She had been a friend of
the Misses Berry, and came to them for that reason.
On Christmas Eve I happened to be in Boston, and disengaged, and as I
found it was a custom of the American Spiritualists to hold meetings on
that anniversary for the purpose of seeing their spirit friends, I
engaged a seat for the occasion. I arrived some time before the _seance_
commenced, and next to me was seated a gentleman, rather roughly
dressed, who was eyeing everything about him with the greatest
attention. Presently he turned to me and said, rather sheepishly, "Do
you believe in this sort of thing?" "I do," I replied, "and I have
believed in it for the last fifteen years." "Have you ever seen anybody
whom you recognized?" he continued. "Plenty," I said. Then he edged a
little nearer to me, and lowered his voice. "Do you know," he commenced,
"that I have ridden on horseback forty miles through the snow to-day to
be present at this meeting, because my old mother sent me a message that
she would meet me here! I don't believe in it, you know. I've never been
at a _seance_ before, and I feel as if I was making a great fool of
myself now, but I couldn't neglect my poor old mother's message,
whatever came of it." "Of course not," I answered, "and I hope your
trouble will be rewarded." I had not much faith in my own words, though,
because I had seen people disappointed again and again over their first
_seance_, from either the spirits of their friends being too weak to
materialize, or from too many trying to draw power at once, and so
neutralizing the effect on all. My bridegroom friend was all ready on
that occasion with his white flowers in his hand and I ventured to
address him and tell him how very beautiful I considered his wife's
fidelity and his own. He seemed pleased at my notice, and began to talk
quite freely about her. He told me she had returned to him before her
body was buried, and had been with him ever since. "She is so really and
truly _my wife_," he said, "as I received her at the altar, that I could
no more marry again than I could if she were living in my house." When
the _seance_ commenced she appeared first as usual, and her husband
brought her up to my side. "This is Miss Florence Marryat, dear," he
said (for by this time I had laid aside my _incognita_ with the Berrys).
"You know her name, don't you?" "O! yes," she answered, as she gave me
her hand, "I know you quite well. I used to read your books." Her face
was covered with her bridal veil, and her husband turned it back that I
might see her. She was a very pretty girl of perhaps twenty--quite a
gipsy, with large dark eyes and dark curling hair, and a brown
complexion. "She has not altered one bit since the day we were married,"
said her husband, looking fondly at her, "whilst I have grown into an
old man." She put up her hand and stroked his cheek. "We shall be young
together some day," she said. Then he asked her if she was not going to
kiss me, and she held up her face to mine like a child, and he dropped
the veil over her again and led her away. The very next spirit that
appeared was my rough friend's mother, and his astonishment and emotion
at seeing her were very unmistakeable. When first he went up to the
cabinet and saw her his head drooped, and his shoulders shook with the
sobs he could not repress. After a while he became calmer, and talked to
her, and then I saw him also bringing her up to me. "I must bring my
mother to you," he said, "that you may see she has really come back to
me." I rose, and the old lady shook hands with me. She must have been,
at the least, seventy years old, and was a most perfect specimen of old
age. Her face was like wax, and her hair like silver; but every wrinkle
was distinct, and her hands were lined with blue veins. She had lost her
teeth, and mumbled somewhat in speaking, and her son said, "She is
afraid you will not understand what she says; but she wants you to know
that she will be quite happy if her return will make me believe in a
future existence." "And will it?" I asked. He looked at his mother. "I
don't understand it," he replied. "It seems too marvellous to be true;
but how _can_ I disbelieve it, when _here she is_?" And his words were
so much the echo of my own grounds for belief, that I quite sympathized
with them. "John Powles," and "Ted," and "Florence," all came to see me
that evening; and when I bid "Florence" "good-bye" she said, "Oh, it
isn't 'good-bye' yet, mother! I'm coming again, before you go."
Presently something that was the very farthest thing from my mind--that
had, indeed, never entered it--happened to me. I was told that a young
lady wanted to speak to me, and on going up to the cabinet I recognized
a girl whom _I knew by sight, but had never spoken to_--one of a large
family of children, living in the same terrace in London as myself, and
who had died of malignant scarlet fever about a year before. "Mrs.
Lean," she said, hurriedly, noting my surprise, "don't you know me? I am
May ----." "Yes, I do recognize you, my dear child," I replied; "but
what makes you come to me?" "Minnie and Katie are so unhappy about me,"
she said. "They do not understand. They think I have gone away. They do
not know what death is--that it is only like going into the next room,
and shutting the door." "And what can I do, May?" I asked her. "Tell
them you have seen me, Mrs. Lean. Say I am alive--more alive than they
are; that if they sit for me, I will come to them and tell them so much
they know nothing of now." "But where are your sisters?" I said. She
looked puzzled. "I don't know. I can't say the place; but you will meet
them soon, and you will tell them." "If I meet them, I certainly will
tell them," I said; but I had not the least idea at that moment where
the other girls might be. Four months later, however, when I was staying
in London, Ontario, they burst unexpectedly into my hotel room, having
driven over (I forget how many miles) to see me play. Naturally I kept
my promise; but though they cried when "May" was alluded to, they
evidently could not believe my story of having seen her, and so, I
suppose, the poor little girl's wish remains ungratified. I think the
worst purgatory in the next world must be to find how comfortably our
friends get on without us in this. As a rule, I did not take much
interest in the spirits that did not come for me; but there was one who
appeared several times with the Berrys, and seemed quite like an old
friend to me. This was "John Brown," not her Majesty's "John Brown," but
the hero of the song--
"Hang John Brown on a sour apple tree,
But his soul goes touting around.
Glory! glory! Halleluia!
For his soul goes touting around."
When I used to hear this song sung with much shouting and some profanity
in England, I imagined (and I fancy most people did) that it was a comic
song in America. But it was no such thing. It was a patriotic song, and
the motive is (however comically put) to give glory to God, that,
_although_ they may hang "John Brown" on a sour apple tree, his soul
will yet "go touting around." So, rightly or wrongly, it was explained
to me. "John Brown" is a patriotic hero in America, and when he
appeared, the whole room crowded round to see him. He was a short man,
with a _singularly_ benevolent countenance, iron grey hair, mutton-chop
whiskers, and deep china blue eyes. A kind of man, as he appeared to me,
made for deeds of love rather than heroism, but from all accounts he was
both kind and heroic. A gentleman present on Christmas eve pushed
forward eagerly to see the materialization, and called out, "Aye! that's
him--that's my old friend--that's 'John Brown'--the best man that ever
trod this earth." Before this evening's _seance_ was concluded Mr. Abrow
said, "There is a little lady in the cabinet at present who announces
herself as a very high personage. She says she is the 'Princess
Gertrude.'" "_What_ did you say, Mr. Abrow?" I exclaimed, unable to
believe my own ears. "'The Princess Gertie,' mother," said "Florence,"
popping her head out of the curtains. "You've met her before in England,
you know." I went up to the cabinet, the curtains divided, there stood
my daughter "Florence" as usual, but holding in front of her a little
child of about seven years old. I knelt down before this spirit of my
own creation. She was a fragile-looking little creature, very fair and
pale, with large grey eyes and brown hair lying over her forehead. She
looked like a lily with her little white hands folded meekly in front of
her. "Are you my little Gertie, darling?" I said. "I am the 'Princess
Gertie,'" she replied, "and 'Florence' says you are my mother." "And are
you glad to see me, Gertie?" I asked. She looked up at her sister, who
immediately prompted her. "Say, 'yes, mother,' Gertie." "Yes! mother,"
repeated the little one, like a parrot. "Will you come to me, darling?"
I said. "May I take you in my arms?" "Not this evening, mother,"
whispered 'Florence,' "you couldn't. She is attached to me. We are tied
together. You couldn't separate us. Next time, perhaps, the 'Princess'
will be stronger, and able to talk more. I will take her back now." "But
where is 'Yonnie'?" I asked, and "Florence" laughed. "Couldn't manage
two of them at once," she said. "'Yonnie' shall come another day," and I
returned to my seat, more mystified than usual.
I alluded to the "Princess Gertie" in my account of the mediumship of
Bessie Fitzgerald, and said that my allusion would find its
signification further on. At that time I had hardly believed it could be
true that the infants who had been born prematurely and never breathed
in this world should be living, sentient spirits to meet me in the next,
and half thought some grown spirit must be tricking me for its own
pleasure. But here, in this strange land, where my blighted babies had
never been mentioned or thought of, to meet the "Princess Gertie" here,
calling herself by her own name, and brought by her sister "Florence,"
set the matter beyond a doubt. It recalled to my mind how once, long
before, when "Aimee" (Mr. Arthur Colman's guide), on being questioned as
to her occupation in the spirit spheres, had said she was "a little
nurse maid," and that "Florence" was one too, my daughter had added,
"Yes! I'm mamma's nurse maid. I have enough to do to look after her
babies. She just looked at me, and 'tossed' me back into the spirit
world, and she's been 'tossing' babies after me ever since."
I had struck up a pleasant acquaintanceship with Mrs. Seymour, "Bell's"
mother, by that time, and when I went back to my seat and told her what
had occurred, she said to me, "I wish you would share the expenses of a
private _seance_ with me here. We can have one all to ourselves for ten
dollars (two pounds), and it would be so charming to have an afternoon
quite alone with our children and friends." I agreed readily, and we
made arrangements with Mr. Abrow before we left that evening, to have a
private sitting on the afternoon following Christmas Day, when no one
was to be admitted except our two selves. When we met there the _seance_
room was lighted with gas as for the evening, but we preferred to close
the door. Helen Berry was the medium, and Mr. Abrow only sat with us.
The rows of chairs looked very empty without any sitters, but we
established ourselves on those which faced the cabinet in the front row.
The first thing which happened was the advent of the "Squaw," looking as
malignant and vicious as ever, who crept in in her dirty blanket, with
her black hair hanging over her face, and deliberately took a seat at
the further end of the room. Mr. Abrow was unmistakably annoyed at the
occurrence. He particularly disliked the influence of this spirit, which
he considered had a bad effect on the _seance_. He first asked her why
she had come, and told her her "Brave" was not coming, and to go back to
him. Then he tried severity, and ordered her to leave the _seance_, but
it was all in vain. She kept her seat with persistent obstinacy, and
showed no signs of "budging." I thought I would try what kindness would
do for her, and approached her with that intention, but she looked so
fierce and threatening, that Mr. Abrow begged me not to go near her, for
fear she should do me some harm. So I left her alone, and she kept her
seat through the whole of the _seance_, evidently with an eye upon me,
and distrusting my behavior when removed from the criticism of the
public. Her presence, however, seemed to make no difference to our
spirit friends. They trooped out of the cabinet one after another, until
we had Mrs. Seymour's brother and her daughter "Bell," who brought
little "Jimmie" (a little son who had gone home before herself) with
her, and "Florence," "Ted," and "John Powles," all so happy and strong
and talkative, that I told Mrs. Seymour we only wanted a tea-table to
think we were holding an "At Home." Last, but not least (at all events
in her own estimation) came the "Princess Gertie." Mr. Abrow tried to
make friends with her, but she repulsed his advances vehemently. "I
don't like you, Mr. Mans," she kept on saying, "you's nasty. I don't
like any mans. They's _all_ nasty." When I told her she was very rude,
and Mr. Abrow was a very kind gentleman and loved little children, she
still persisted she wouldn't speak "to no mans." She came quite alone
on this occasion, and I took her in my arms and carried her across to
Mrs. Seymour. She was a feather weight. I felt as if I had nothing in my
arms. I said to Mrs. Seymour, "Please tell me what this child is like. I
am so afraid of my senses deceiving me that I cannot trust myself." Mrs.
Seymour looked at her and answered, "She has a broad forehead, with dark
brown hair cut across it, and falling straight to her shoulders on
either side. Her eyes are a greyish blue, large and heavy lidded, her
nose is short, and her mouth decided for such a child."
This testimony, given by a stranger, of the apparition of a child that
had never lived, was an exact description (of course in embryo) of her
father, Colonel Lean, who had never set foot in America. Perhaps this is
as good a proof of identity as I have given yet. Our private _seance_
lasted for two hours, and although the different spirits kept on
entering the cabinet at intervals to gain more power, they were all with
us on and off during the entire time. The last pleasant thing I saw was
my dear "Florence" making the "Princess" kiss her hand in farewell to
me, and the only unpleasant one, the sight of the sulky "Squaw" creeping
in after them with the evident conviction that her afternoon had been
wasted.