There is No Death

by Florence Marryat

SPIRITUALISM IN AMERICA.

I. Mrs. M. A. Williams.

I went to America on a professional engagement in October, 1884. Some months beforehand a very liberal offer had been made me by the Spiritualists of Great Britain to write my experiences for the English press, but I declined to do so until I could add my American notes to them. I had corresponded (as I have shown) with the Banner of Light in New York; and what I had heard of Spiritualism in America had made me curious to witness it. But I was determined to test it on a strictly private plan. I said to myself: "I have seen and heard pretty nearly all there is to be seen and heard on the subject in England, but, with one or two exceptions, I have never sat at any séance where I was not known. Now I am going to visit a strange country where, in a matter like Spiritualism, I can conceal my identity, so as to afford the media no clue to my surroundings or the names of my deceased friends." I sailed for America quite determined to pursue a strictly secret investigation, and with that end in view I never mentioned the subject to anyone.

I had a few days holiday in New York before proceeding to Boston, where my work opened, and I stayed at one of the largest hotels in the city. I landed on Sunday morning, and on Monday evening I resolved to make my first venture. Had I been a visitor in London, I should have had to search out the right sort of people, and make a dozen inquiries before I heard where the media were hiding themselves from dread of the law; but they order such things better on the other side of the Atlantic. People are allowed to hold their private opinions and their private religion there without being swooped down upon and clapped into prison for rogues and vagabonds. Whatever the views of the majority may be, upon this subject or any other (and Heaven knows I would have each man strong enough to cling to his opinion, and brave enough to acknowledge it before the world), I think it is a discredit to a civilized country to allow old laws, that were made when we were little better than savages, to remain in force at the present day. We are far too much over-ridden by a paternal Government, which has grown so blind and senile that it swallows camels while it is straining after a gnat.

There was no obstacle to my wish, however, in New York. I had but to glance down the advertisement columns of the newspapers to learn where the media lived, and on what days they held their public séances. It so happened that Mrs. M. A. Williams was the only one who held open house on Monday evenings for Materialization; and thither I determined to go. There is no such privacy as in a large hôtel, where no one has the opportunity to see what his neighbor is doing. As soon, therefore, as my dinner was concluded, I put on a dark cloak, hat and veil, and walking out into the open, got into one of the cars that ran past the street where Mrs. Williams resided. Arrived at the house, I knocked at the door, and was about to inquire if there was to be any séance there, that evening, when the attendant saved me the trouble by saying, "Upstairs, if you please, madam," and nothing more passed between us. When I had mounted the stairs, I found myself in a large room, the floor of which was covered with a thick carpet, nailed all round the wainscotting. On one side were some thirty or forty cane-bottomed chairs, and directly facing them was the cabinet. This consisted of four uprights nailed over the carpet, with iron rods connecting them at the top. There was no roof to it, but curtains of a dark maroon color were usually drawn around, but when I entered, they were flung back over the iron rods, so as to disclose the interior. There was a stuffed armchair for the use of the medium, and in front of the cabinet a narrow table with papers and pencils on it, the use of which I did not at first discover. At the third side of the room was a harmonium, so placed that the performer sat with his back both to the cabinet and the sitters. A large gas lamp, almost like a limelight, made in a square form like a lantern, was fixed against the wall, so as to throw the light upon the cabinet, but it was fitted with a sliding shade of red silk, with which it could be darkened if necessary. I was early, and only a few visitors were occupying the chairs. I asked a lady if I might sit where I chose, and on her answering "Yes," I took the chair in the front row, exactly opposite the cabinet, not forgetting that I was there in the cause of Spiritualism as well as for my own interests. The seats filled rapidly and there must have been thirty-five or forty people present, when Mrs. Williams entered the room, and nodding to those she knew, went into the cabinet. Mrs. Williams is a stout woman of middle age, with dark hair and eyes, and a fresh complexion. She was dressed in a tight-fitting gown of pale blue, with a good deal of lace about the neck and sleeves. She was accompanied by a gentleman, and I then discovered for the first time that it is usual in America to have, what they call, a "conductor" of the séance. The conductor sits close to the cabinet curtains, and, if any spirit is too weak to shew itself outside, or to speak audibly, he conveys the message it may wish to send to its friends; and when I knew how very few precautions the Americans take to prevent such outrages as have occurred in England, and how many more materializations take place in an evening there than here, I saw the necessity of a conductor to protect the medium, and to regulate the order of the séance.

Mrs. Williams' conductor opened the proceedings with a very neat little speech. He said, "I see several strange faces here this evening, and I am very pleased to see them, and I hope they may derive both pleasure and profit from our meeting. We have only one rule for the conduct of our séances, that you shall behave like ladies and gentlemen. You may not credit all you see, but remember this is our religion, and the religion of many present, and as you would behave yourselves reverently and decorously, if you were in a church of another persuasion to your own, so I beg of you to behave yourselves here. And if any spirits should come for you whom you do not immediately recognize, don't wound them by denying their identity. They may have been longing for this moment to meet you again, and doing their very utmost to assume once more the likeness they wore on earth; yet some fail. Don't make their failure harder to bear by roughly repudiating all knowledge of them. The strangers who are present to-night may mistake the reason of this little table being placed in front of the cabinet, and think it is intended to keep them from too close an inspection of the spirits. No such thing! On the contrary, all will be invited in turn to come up and recognize their friends. But we make it a rule at these séances that no materialized spirit, who is strong enough to come beyond that table, shall be permitted to return to the cabinet. They must dematerialize in sight of the sitters, that no possible suspicion may rest upon the medium. These pencils and papers are placed here in case any spirit who is unable to speak may be impressed to write instead. And now we will begin the evening with a song."

The accompanist then played "Footsteps of Angels," the audience sung it with a will, and the curtains having been drawn round Mrs. Williams, the shade was drawn across the gaslight, and the séance began.

I don't think it could have been more than a minute or two before we heard a voice whispering, "Father," and three girls, dressed in white clinging garments, appeared at the opening in the curtains. An old man with white hair left his seat and walked up to the cabinet, when they all three came out at once and hung about his neck and kissed him, and whispered to him. I almost forgot where I was. They looked so perfectly human, so joyous and girl-like, somewhere between seventeen and twenty, and they all spoke at once, so like what girls on earth would do, that it was most mystifying. The old man came back to his seat, wiping his eyes. "Are those your daughters, sir?" asked one of the sitters. "Yes! my three girls," he replied. "I lost them all before ten years old, but you see I've got them back again here."

Several other forms appeared after this—one, a little child of about three years old, who fluttered in and out of the cabinet like a butterfly, and ran laughing away from the sitters who tried to catch her. Some of the meetings that took place for the first time were very affecting. One young man of about seventeen or eighteen, who was called up to see his mother's spirit, sobbed so bitterly, it broke my heart to hear him. There was not the least doubt if he recognized her or no. He was so overcome, he hardly raised his eyes for the rest of the evening. One lady brought her spirit-son up to me, that I might see how perfectly he had materialized. She spoke of it as proudly as she might have done if he had passed some difficult examination. The young man was dressed in a suit of evening clothes, and he shook hands with me at his mother's bidding, with the firm grasp of a mortal. Naturally, I had seen too much in England for all this to surprise me. Still I had never assisted at a séance where everything appeared to be so strangely human—so little mystical, except indeed the rule of dematerializing before the sitters, which I had only seen "Katie King" do before. But here, each form, after having been warned by the conductor that its time was up, sunk down right through the carpet as though it were the most ordinary mode of egression. Some, and more especially the men, did not advance beyond the curtains; then their friends were invited to go up and speak to them, and several went inside the cabinet. There were necessarily a good many forms, familiar to the rest, of whom I knew nothing; one was an old minister under whom they had all sat, another a gentleman who had been a constant attendant at Mrs. Williams' séances.

Once the conductor spoke to me. "I am not aware of your name," he said (and I thought, "No! my friend, and you won't be aware of it just yet either!"), "but a spirit here wishes you would come up to the cabinet." I advanced, expecting to see some friend, and there stood a Catholic priest with his hand extended in blessing. I knelt down, and he gave me the usual benediction and then closed the curtains. "Did you know the spirit?" the conductor asked me. I shook my head; and he continued, "He was Father Hayes, a well-known priest in this city. I suppose you are a Catholic?" I told him "Yes," and went back to my seat. The conductor addressed me again. "I think Father Hayes must have come to pave the way for some of your friends," he said. "Here is a spirit who says she has come for a lady named 'Florence,' who has just crossed the sea. Do you answer to the description?" I was about to say "Yes," when the curtains parted again and my daughter "Florence" ran across the room and fell into my arms. "Mother!" she exclaimed, "I said I would come with you and look after you—didn't I?"

I looked at her. She was exactly the same in appearance as when she had come to me in England—the same luxuriant brown hair and features and figure, as I had seen under the different mediumships of Florence Cook, Arthur Colman, Charles Williams and William Eglinton; the same form which in England had been declared to be half-a-dozen different media dressed up to represent my daughter stood before me there in New York, thousands of miles across the sea, and by the power of a person who did not even know who I was. If I had not been convinced before, how could I have helped being convinced then?

"Florence" appeared as delighted as I was, and kept on kissing me and talking of what had happened to me on board ship coming over, and was evidently quite au fait of all my proceedings. Presently she said, "There's another friend of yours here, mother! We came over together. I'll go and fetch him." She was going back to the cabinet when the conductor stopped her. "You must not return this way, please. Any other you like," and she immediately made a kind of court curtsey and went down through the carpet. I was standing where "Florence" had left me, wondering what would happen next, when she came up again a few feet off from me, head first, and smiling as if she had discovered a new game. She was allowed to enter the cabinet this time, but a moment afterwards she popped her head out again, and said, "Here's your friend, mother!" and by her side was standing William Eglinton's control, "Joey," clad in his white suit, with a white cap drawn over his head. "'Florence' and I have come over to make new lines for you here," he said: "at least, I've come over to put her in the way of doing it, but I can't stay long, you know, because I have to go back to 'Willy.'"

I really didn't care if he stayed long or not. I seemed to have procured the last proof I needed of the truth of the doctrine I had held so long, that there is no such thing as Death, as we understand it in this world. Here were the two spiritual beings (for believing in the identity of whom I had called myself a credulous fool fifty times over, only to believe in them more deeply still) in prôpria personæ in New York, claiming me in a land of strangers, who had not yet found out who I was. I was more deeply affected than I had ever been under such circumstances before, and more deeply thankful. "Florence" made great friends with our American cousins even on her first appearance. Mrs. Williams' conductor told me he thought he had never heard anything more beautiful than the idea of the spirit-child crossing the ocean to guard its mother in a strange country, and particularly, as he could feel by her influence, what a pure and beautiful spirit she was. When I told him she had left this world at ten days old, he said that accounted for it, but he could see there was nothing earthly about her.

I was delighted with this séance, and hoped to sit with Mrs. Williams many times more, but fate decreed that I should leave New York sooner than I had anticipated. The perfect freedom with which it was conducted charmed me, and the spirits seemed so familiar with the sitters. There was no "Sweet Spirit, hear my prayer," business about it. No fear of being detained or handled among the spirits, and no awe, only intense tenderness on the part of their relations. It was to this cause I chiefly attributed the large number of materializations I witnessed—forty having taken place that evening. They spoke far more distinctly and audibly too than those I had seen in England, but I believe the dry atmosphere of the United States is far more favorable to the process of materialization. I perceived another difference. Although the female spirits were mostly clad in white, they wore dresses and not simply drapery, whilst the men were invariably attired in the clothes (or semblances of the clothes) they would have worn had they been still on earth. I left Mrs. Williams' rooms, determined to see as much as I possibly could of mediumship whilst I was in the United States.

[CHAPTER XXV.]

II. Mrs. Eva Hatch.

I was so disappointed at being hurried off to Boston before I had seen any more of the New York media, that I took the earliest opportunity of attending a séance there. A few words I had heard dropped about Eva Hatch made me resolve to visit her first. She was one of the Shaker sect, and I heard her spoken of as a remarkably pure and honest woman, and most reliable medium. Her first appearance quite gave me that impression. She had a fair, placid countenance, full of sweetness and serenity, and a plump matronly figure. I went incognita, as I had done to Mrs. Williams, and mingled unnoticed with the crowd. Mrs. Hatch's cabinet was quite different from Mrs. Williams'. It was built of planks like a little cottage, and the roof was pierced with numerous round holes for ventilation, like a pepper-box. There was a door in the centre, with a window on either side, all three of which were shaded by dark curtains. The windows, I was told, were for the accommodation of those spirits who had not the power to materialize more than a face, or head and bust. Mrs. Hatch's conductor was a woman, who sat near the cabinet, as in the other case.

Mrs. Eva Hatch had not entered the cabinet five minutes before she came out again, under trance, with a very old lady with silver hair clinging to her arm, and walked round the circle. As they did so, the old lady extended her withered hand, and blessed the sitters. She came quite close to each one and was distinctly visible to all. I was told that this was the spirit of Mrs. Hatch's mother, and that it was her regular custom to come first and give her blessing to the séance. I had never seen the spirit of an aged person before, and it was a beautiful sight. She was the sweetest old lady too, very small and fragile looking, and half reclining on her daughter's bosom, but smiling serenely upon every one there. When they had made the tour of the room, Mrs. Hatch re-entered the cabinet, and did not leave it again until the sitting was concluded.

There were a great many sitters present, most of whom were old patrons of Mrs. Hatch, and so, naturally, their friends came for them first. It is surprising though, when once familiarized with materialization, how little one grows to care to see the spirits who come for one's next door neighbor. They are like a lot of prisoners let out, one by one, to see their friends and relations. The few moments they have to spare are entirely devoted to home matters of no possible interest to the bystander. The first wonder and possible shock at seeing the supposed dead return in their old likeness to greet those they left on earth over, one listens with languid indifference, and perhaps a little impatience for one's own turn to come, to the whispered utterances of strangers. Mrs. Hatch's "cabinet spirits" or "controls," however, were very interesting. One, who called herself the "Spirit of Prayer," came and knelt down in the middle of the circle, and prayed with us. She had asked for the gas to be extinguished first, and as she prayed she became illuminated with flashes of light, in the shape of stars and crosses, until she was visible from head to foot, and we could see her features and dress as if she had been surrounded by electricity.

Two more cabinet spirits were a negro and negress, who appeared together, chanting some of their native hymns and melodies. When I saw these apparitions, I thought to myself: "Here is a good opportunity to discover trickery, if trickery there is." The pair were undoubtedly of the negro race. There was no mistaking their thick lips and noses and yellow-white eyes, nor their polished brown skins, which no charcoal can properly imitate. They were negroes without doubt; but how about the negro bouquet? Everyone who has mixed with colored people in the East or the West knows what that is, though it is very difficult to describe, being something like warm rancid oil mingled with the fumes of charcoal, with a little worse thrown in. "Now," I thought, "if these forms are human, there will be some odor attached to them, and that I am determined to find out." I caught, therefore, at the dress of the young woman as she passed, and asked her if she would kiss me. She left her companion directly, and put her arms (which were bare) round my neck, and embraced me several times; and I can declare, on my oath, that she was as completely free from anything like the smell of a colored woman as it was possible for her to be. She felt as fresh and sweet and pure as a little child.

Many other forms appeared and were recognized by the circle, notably a very handsome one who called herself the Empress Josephine; but as they could not add a grain's weight to my testimony I pass them over. I had begun to think that "Florence" was not going to visit me that evening, when the conductor of the séance asked if there was anybody in the room who answered to the name of "Bluebell." I must indulge in a little retrospect here, and tell my readers that ten years previous to the time I am writing of, I had lost my brother-in-law, Edward Church, under very painful circumstances. He had been left an orphan and in control of his fortune at a very early age, and had lived with my husband, Colonel Ross-Church, and myself. But poor "Ted" had been his own worst enemy. He had possessed a most generous heart and affectionate disposition, but these had led him into extravagances that swallowed up his fortune, and then he had taken to drinking and killed himself by it. I and my children had loved him dearly, but all our prayers and entreaties had had no avail, and in the end he had become so bad that the doctors had insisted upon our separation. Poor "Ted" had consequently died in exile, and this had been a further aggravation of our grief. For ten years I had been trying to procure communication with him in vain, and I had quite given up expecting to see him again. Only once had I heard "Bluebell" (his pet name for me) gasped out by an entranced clairvoyant, but nothing further had come of it. Now, as I heard it for the second time, from a stranger's lips in a foreign country, it naturally roused my expectations, but I thought it might be only a message for me from "Ted."

"Is there anyone here who recognizes the name of 'Bluebell'?" repeated the conductor. "I was once called so by a friend," I said. "Someone is asking for that name. You had better come up to the cabinet," she replied. I rose at once and did as she told me, but when I reached the curtain I encountered "Florence." "My darling child," I said, as I embraced her, "why did you ask for 'Bluebell'?" She did not answer me, except by shaking her head, placing her finger on her lips, and pointing downwards to the carpet. I did not know what to make of it. I had never known her unable to articulate before. "What is the matter, dear?" I said; "can't you speak to me to-night?" Still she shook her head, and tapped my arm with her hand, to attract my attention to the fact that she was pointing vigorously downwards. I looked down, too, when, to my astonishment, I saw rise through the carpet what looked to me like the bald head of a baby or an old man, and a little figure, not more than three feet in height, with Edward Church's features, but no hair on its head, came gradually into view, and looked up in my face with a pitiful, deprecating expression, as if he were afraid I should strike him. The face, however, was so unmistakably Ted's, though the figure was so ludicrously insignificant, that I could not fail to recognize him. "Why, Ted!" I exclaimed, "have you come back to see me at last?" and held out my hand. The little figure seized it, tried to convey it to his lips, burst into tears, and sank down through the carpet much more rapidly than he had come up.

I began to cry too. It was so pitiful. With her uncle's disappearance "Florence" found her tongue. "Don't cry, mother," she said; "poor Uncle Ted is overcome at seeing you. That's why he couldn't materialize better. He was in such a terrible hurry. He'll look more like himself next time. I was trying so hard to help him, I didn't dare to use up any of the power by speaking. He'll be so much better, now he's seen you. You'll come here again, won't you?" I told her I certainly would, if I could; and, indeed, I was all anxiety to see my poor brother-in-law again. To prove how difficult it would have been to deceive me on this subject, I should like to say a little about Edward Church's personal appearance. He was a very remarkable looking man—indeed, I have never seen anyone a bit like him before or after. He was very small; not short only, but small altogether, with tiny hands and feet, and a little head. His hair and eyes were of the deepest black—the former parted in the middle, with a curl on either side, and was naturally waved. His complexion was very dark, his features delicate, and he wore a small pointed moustache. As a child he had suffered from an attack of confluent small-pox, which had deeply pitted his face, and almost eaten away the tip of his nose. Such a man was not to be easily imitated, even if anyone in Boston had ever heard of his inconsequential existence. To me, though, he had been a dear friend and brother, before the curse of Drink had seemed to change his nature, and I had always been anxious to hear how he fared in that strange country whither he had been forced to journey, like all of us, alone. I was very pleased then to find that business would not interfere with my second visit to Mrs. Eva Hatch, which took place two nights afterward. On this occasion "Florence" was one of the first to appear, and "Ted" came with her, rather weak and trembling on his second introduction to this mundane sphere, but no longer bald-headed nor under-sized. He was his full height now, about five feet seven; his head was covered with his black crisp hair, parted just as he used to wear it while on earth; in every particular he resembled what he used to be, even down to his clothes. I could have sworn I had seen that very suit of clothes; the little cut-away coat he always wore, with the natty tie and collar, and a dark blue velvet smoking cap upon his head, exactly like one I remembered being in his possession. "Florence" still seemed to be acting as his interpreter and guide. When I said to him, "Why! Ted, you look quite like your old self to-day," she answered, "He can't talk to you, mamma, he is weak still, and he is so thankful to meet you again. He wants me to tell you that he has been trying to communicate with you often, but he never could manage it in England. He will be so glad when he can talk freely to you." Whilst she was speaking, "Ted" kept on looking from her to me like a deaf and dumb animal trying to understand what was going on in a manner that was truly pitiful. I stooped down and kissed his forehead. The touch seemed to break the spell that hung over him. "Forgive," he uttered in a choked voice. "There is nothing to forgive, dear," I replied, "except as we all have need to forgive each other. You know how we all loved you, Ted, and we loved you to the last and grieved for you deeply. You remember the children, and how fond you were of them and they of you. They often speak to this day of their poor Uncle Ted." "Eva—Ethel," he gasped out, naming my two elder children. At this juncture he seemed suddenly to fail, and became so weak that "Florence" took him back into the cabinet again. No more spirits came for me that evening, but towards the close of the séance "Florence" and "Ted" appeared again together and embraced me fondly. "Florence" said, "He's so happy now, mother; he says he shall rest in peace now that he knows that you have forgiven him. And he won't come without his hair again," she added, laughing. "I hope he won't," I answered, "for he frightened me." And then they both kissed me "good-night," and retreated to the cabinet, and I looked after them longingly and wished I could go there too.

[CHAPTER XXVI.]

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 séance, 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 séances, 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 séances, though he never showed himself. I found the séance 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 séances 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 séance 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 séance 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—

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 séance 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 séance," 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 début 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 séances 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 séance 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 séance 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 séance, 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 séance 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 séance 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 "Aimée" (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 séance 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 séance 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 séance. 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 séance, 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 séance, 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 séance 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.

[CHAPTER XXVII.]

IV. The Doctor.

I wonder if it has struck any of my readers as strange that, during all these manifestations in England and America, I had never seen the form, nor heard the voice, of my late father, Captain Marryat. Surely if these various media lived by trickery and falsehood, and wished successfully to deceive me, some of them would have thought of trying to represent a man so well known, and whose appearance was so familiar. Other celebrated men and women have come back and been recognized from their portraits only, but, though I have sat at numbers of séances given for me alone, and at which I have been the principal person, my father has never reappeared at any. Especially, if these manifestations are all fraud, might this have been expected in America. Captain Marryat's name is still "a household word" amongst the Americans, and his works largely read and appreciated, and wherever I appeared amongst them I was cordially welcomed on that account. When once I had acknowledged my identity and my views on Spiritualism, every medium in Boston and New York had ample time to get up an imitation of my father for my benefit had they desired to do so. But never has he appeared to me; never have I been told that he was present. Twice only in the whole course of my experience have I received the slightest sign from him, and on those occasions he sent me a message—once through Mr. Fletcher (as I have related), and once through his grandson and my son, Frank Marryat. That time he told me he should never appear to me and I need never expect him. But since the American media knew nothing of this strictly private communication, and I had seen, before I parted with them, seventeen of my friends and relations, none of whom (except "Florence," "Powles," and "Emily,") I had ever seen in England, it is at the least strange, considering his popularity (and granted their chicanery) that Captain Marryat was not amongst them.

As soon as I became known at the Berry's séances several people introduced themselves to me, and amongst others Mrs. Isabella Beecher Hooker, the sister of Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe and Henry Ward Beecher. She was delighted to find me so interested in Spiritualism, and anxious I should sit with a friend of hers, a great medium whose name became so rubbed out in my pencil notes, that I am not sure if it was Doctor Carter, or Carteret, and therefore I shall speak of him here as simply "the doctor." The doctor was bound to start for Washington the following afternoon, so Mrs. Hooker asked me to breakfast with her the next morning, by which time she would have found out if he could spare us an hour before he set out on his journey. When I arrived at her house I heard that he had very obligingly offered to give me a complimentary séance at eleven o'clock, so, as soon as we had finished breakfast, we set out for his abode. I found the doctor was quite a young man, and professed himself perfectly ignorant on the subject of Spiritualism. He said to me, "I don't know and I don't profess to know what or who it is that appears to my sitters whilst I am asleep. I know nothing of what goes on, except from hearsay. I don't know whether the forms that appear are spirits, or transformations, or materializations. You must judge of that for yourself. There is one peculiarity in my séances. They take place in utter darkness. When the apparitions (or whatever you choose to call them) appear, they must bring their own lights or you won't see them, I have no conductor to my séances. If whatever comes can't announce itself it must remain unknown. But I think you will find that, as a rule, they can shift for themselves. This is my séance room."

As he spoke he led us into an unfurnished bedroom, I say bedroom, because it was provided with the dressing closet fitted with pegs, usual to all bedrooms in America. This closet the doctor used as his cabinet. The door was left open, and there was no curtain hung before it. The darkness he sat in rendered that unnecessary. The bedroom was darkened by two frames, covered with black American cloth, which fitted into the windows. The doctor, having locked the bedroom door, delivered the key to me. He then requested us to go and sit for a few minutes in the cabinet to throw our influence about it. As we did so we naturally examined it. It was only a large cupboard. It had no window and no door, except that which led into the room, and no furniture except a cane-bottomed chair. When we returned to the séance room, the doctor saw us comfortably established on two armchairs before he put up the black frames to exclude the light. The room was then pitch dark, and the doctor had to grope his way to his cabinet. Mrs. Hooker and I sat for some minutes in silent expectation. Then we heard the voice of a negress, singing "darkey" songs, and my friend told me it was that of "Rosa," the doctor's control. Presently "Rosa" was heard to be expostulating with, or encouraging some one, and faint lights, like sparks from a fire, could be seen flitting about the open door of the cabinet. Then the lights seemed to congregate together, and cluster about a tall form, draped in some misty material, standing just outside the cabinet. "Can't you tell us who you are?" asked Mrs. Hooker. "You must tell your name, you know," interposed "Rosa," whereupon a low voice said, "I am Janet E. Powles."

Now this was an extraordinary coincidence. I had seen Mrs. Powles, the mother of my friend "John Powles," only once—when she travelled from Liverpool to London to meet me on my return from India, and hear all the particulars of her son's death. But she had continued to correspond with me, and show me kindness till the day of her own death, and as she had a daughter of the same name, she always signed herself "Janet E. Powles." Even had I expected to see the old lady, and published the fact in the Boston papers, that initial E would have settled the question of her identity in my mind.

"Mrs. Powles," I exclaimed, "how good of you to come and see me." "Johnny has helped me to come," she replied. "He is so happy at having met you again. He has been longing for it for so many years, and I have come to thank you for making him happy." (Here was another coincidence. "John Powles" was never called anything but "Powles" by my husband and myself. But his mother had retained the childish name of "Johnny," and I could remember how it used to vex him when she used it in her letters to him. He would say to me, "If she would only call me 'John' or 'Jack,' or anything but 'Johnny.'") I replied, "I may not leave my seat to go to you. Will you not come to me?" For the doctor had requested us not to leave our seats, but to insist on the spirits approaching us. "Mrs. Powles" said, "I cannot come out further into the room to-day. I am too weak. But you shall see me." The lights then appeared to travel about her face and dress till they became stationary, and she was completely revealed to view under the semblance of her earthly likeness. She smiled and said, "We were all at the Opera House on Thursday night, and rejoiced at your success. 'Johnny' was so proud of you. Many of your friends were there beside ourselves."

I then saw that, unlike the spirits at Miss Berry's, the form of "Mrs. Powles" was draped in a kind of filmy white, over a dark dress. All the spirits that appeared with the doctor were so clothed, and I wondered if the filmy substance had anything to do with the lights, which looked like electricity. An incident which occurred further on seemed to confirm my idea. When "Mrs. Powles" had gone, which we guessed by the extinguishing of the lights, the handsome face and form of "Harry Montagu" appeared. I had known him well in England, before he took his fatal journey to America, and could never be mistaken in his sweet smile and fascinating manner. He did not come further than the door, either, but he was standing within twelve or fourteen feet of us for all that. He only said, "Good-luck to you. We can't lose an interest in the old profession, you know, any more than in the old people." "I wish you'd come and help me, Harry," I answered. "Oh, I do!" he said, brightly; "several of us do. We are all links of the same chain. Half the inspiration in the world comes from those who have gone before. But I must go! I'm getting crowded out. Here's Ada waiting to see you. Good-bye!" And as his light went out, the sweet face of Adelaide Neilson appeared in his stead. She said, "You wept when you heard of my death; and yet you never knew me. How was that?" "Did I weep?" I answered, half forgetting; "if so, it must have been because I thought it so sad that a woman so young, and beautiful, and gifted as you were, should leave the world so soon." "Oh no! not sad," she answered, brightly; "glorious! glorious! I would not be back again for worlds." "Have you ever seen your grave?" I asked her. She shook her head. "What are graves to us? Only cupboards, where you keep our cast-off clothes." "You don't ask me what the world says about you, now," I said to her. "And I don't care," she answered. "Don't you forget me! Good-bye!"

She was succeeded by a spirit who called herself "Charlotte Cushman," and who spoke to me kindly about my professional life. Mrs. Hooker told me that, to the best of her knowledge, none of these three spirits had ever appeared under the doctor's mediumship before. But now came out "Florence," dancing into the room—literally dancing, holding out in both hands the skirt of a dress, which looked as if it were made of the finest muslin or lace, and up and down which fireflys were darting with marvellous rapidity. She looked as if clothed in electricity, and infinitely well pleased with herself. "Look!" she exclaimed; "look at my dress! isn't it lovely? Look at the fire! The more I shake it, the more fire comes! Oh, mother! if you could only have a dress like this for the stage, what a sensation you would make!" And she shook her skirts about, till the fire seemed to set a light to every part of her drapery, and she looked as if she were in flames. I observed, "I never knew you to take so much interest in your dress before, darling." "Oh, it isn't the dress," she replied; "it's the fire!" And she really appeared as charmed with the novel experience as a child with a new toy.

As she left us, a dark figure advanced into the room, and ejaculated, "Ma! ma!" I recognized at once the peculiar intonation and mode of address of my stepson, Francis Lean, with whom, since he had announced his own death to me, I had had no communication, except through trance mediumship. "Is that you, my poor boy," I said, "come closer to me. You are not afraid of me, are you?" "O, no! Ma! of course not, only I was at the Opera House, you know, with the others, and that piece you recited, Ma—you know the one—it's all true, Ma—and I don't want you to go back to England. Stay here, Ma—stay here!" I knew perfectly well to what the lad alluded, but I would not enter upon it before a stranger. So I only said, "You forget my children, Francis—what would they say if I never went home again." This seemed to puzzle him, but after a while he answered, "Then go to them, Ma; go to them." All this time he had been talking in the dark, and I only knew him by the sound of his voice. I said, "Are you not going to show yourself to me, Francis. It is such a long time since we met." "Never since you saw me at the docks. That was me, Ma, and at Brighton, too, only you didn't half believe it till you heard I was gone." "Tell me the truth of the accident, Francis," I asked him. "Was there foul play?" "No," he replied, "but we got quarrelling about her you know, and fighting, and that's how the boat upset. It was my fault, Ma, as much as anybody else's."

"How was it your body was never found?" "It got dragged down in an undercurrent, Ma. It was out at Cape Horn before they offered a reward for it." Then he began to light up, and as soon as the figure was illuminated I saw that the boy was dressed in "jumpers" and "jersey" of dark woollen material, such as they wear in the merchant service in hot climates, but over it all—his head and shoulders included—was wound a quantity of flimsy white material I have before mentioned. "I can't bear this stuff. It makes me look like a girl," said "Francis," and with his hands he tore it off. Simultaneously the illumination ceased, and he was gone. I called him by name several times, but no sound came out of the darkness. It seemed as though the veiling which he disliked preserved his materialization, and that, with its protection removed, he had dissolved again.

When another dark figure came out of the cabinet, and approaching me, knelt at my feet, I supposed it to be "Francis" come back again, and laying my hand on the bent head, I asked, "Is this you again, dear?" A strange voice answered, with the words, "Forgive! forgive!" "Forgive!" I repeated, "What have I to forgive?" "The attempt to murder your husband in 1856. Arthur Yelverton Brooking has forgiven. He is here with me now. Will you forgive too?" "Certainly," I replied, "I have forgiven long ago. You expiated your sin upon the gallows. You could do no more."

The figure sprung into a standing position, and lit up from head to foot, when I saw the two men standing together, Arthur Yelverton Brooking and the Madras sepoy who had murdered him. I never saw anything more brilliant than the appearance of the sepoy. He was dressed completely in white, in the native costume, with a white "puggree" or turban on his head. But his "puggree" was flashing with jewels—strings of them were hung round his neck—and his sash held a magnificent jewelled dagger. You must please to remember that I was not alone, but that this sight was beheld by Mrs. Hooker as well as myself (to whom it was as unexpected as to her), and that I know she would testify to it to-day. And now to explain the reason of these unlooked-for apparitions.

In 1856 my husband, then Lieutenant Ross-Church, was Adjutant of the 12th Madras Native Infantry, and Arthur Yelverton Brooking, who had for some time done duty with the 12th, was adjutant of another native corps, both of which were stationed at Madras. Lieutenant Church was not a favorite with his men, by whom he was considered a martinet, and one day when there had been a review on the island at Madras, and the two adjutants were riding home together, a sepoy of the 12th fired at Lieutenant Church's back with the intent to kill him, but unfortunately the bullet struck Lieutenant Brooking instead, who, after lingering for twelve hours, died, leaving a young wife and a baby behind him. For this offence the sepoy was tried and hung, and on his trial the whole truth of course came out. This then was the reason that the spirits of the murdered and the murderer came like friends, because the injury had never been really intended for Brooking.

When I said that I had forgiven, the sepoy became (as I have told) a blaze of light, and then knelt again and kissed the hem of my dress. As he knelt there he became covered, or heaped over, with a mass of the same filmy drapery as enveloped "Francis," and when he rose again he was standing in a cloud. He gathered an end of it, and laying it on my head he wound me and himself round and round with it, until we were bound up in a kind of cocoon. Mrs. Hooker, who watched the whole proceeding, told me afterwards that she had never seen anything like it before—that she could distinctly see the dark face and the white face close together all the time beneath the drapery, and that I was as brightly illuminated as the spirit. Of this I was not aware myself, but his brightness almost dazzled me.

Let me observe also that I have been in the East Indies, and within a few yards' length of sepoys, and that I am sure I could never have been wrapt in the same cloth with a mortal one without having been made painfully aware of it in more ways than one. The spirit did not unwind me again, although the winding process had taken him some time. He whisked off the wrapping with one pull, and I stood alone once more. I asked him by what name I should call him, and he said, "The Spirit of Light." He then expressed a wish to magnetize something I wore, so as to be the better able to approach me. I gave him a brooch containing "John Powles'" hair, which his mother had given me after his death, and he carried it back into the cabinet with him. It was a valuable brooch of onyx and pearls, and I was hoping my eastern friend would not carry it too far, when I found it had been replaced and fastened at my throat without my being aware of the circumstance. "Arthur Yelverton Brooking" had disappeared before this, and neither of them came back again. These were not all the spirits that came under the doctor's mediumship during that séance, but only those whom I had known and recognized. Several of Mrs. Hooker's friends appeared and some of the doctor's controls, but as I have said before, they could not help my narrative, and so I omit to describe them. The séance lasted altogether two hours, and I was very grateful to the doctor for giving me the opportunity to study an entirely new phase of the science to me.

[CHAPTER XXVIII.]

V. Mrs. Fay.

There was a young woman called "Annie Eva Fay," who came over from America to London some years ago, and appeared at the Hanover Square Rooms, in an exhibition after the manner of the Davenport Brothers and Messrs. Maskelyne and Cook. She must not be confounded with the Mrs. Fay who forms the subject of this chapter, because they had nothing to do with one another. Some one in Boston advised me not to go and sit at one of this Mrs. Fay's public séances. They were described to me as being too physical and unrefined; that the influences were of a low order, and the audiences matched them. However, when I am studying a matter, I like to see everything I can and hear everything I can concerning it, and to form my own opinion independent of that of anybody else. So I walked off by myself one night to Mrs. Fay's address, and sat down in a quiet corner, watching everything that occurred. The circle certainly numbered some members of a humble class, but I conclude we should see that everywhere if the fees were lower. Media, like other professional people, fix their charges according to the quarter of the city in which they live. But every member was silent and respectful, and evidently a believer.

One young man, in deep mourning, with a little girl also in black, of about five or six years old, attracted my attention at once, from his sorrowful and abstracted manner. He had evidently come there, I thought, in the hope of seeing some one whom he had lost. Mrs. Fay (as she passed through the room to her cabinet) appeared a very quiet, simple-looking little woman to me, without any loudness or vulgarity about her. Her cabinet was composed of two curtains only, made of some white material, and hung on uprights at one angle, in a corner of the room, the most transparent contrivance possible. Anything like a bustle or confusion inside it, such as would be occasioned by dressing or "making up," would have been apparent at once to the audience outside, who were sitting by the light of an ordinary gas-burner and globe. Yet Mrs. Fay had not been seated there above a few minutes, when there ran out into the séance room two of the most extraordinary materializations I had ever seen, and both of them about as opposite to Mrs. Fay in appearance as any creatures could be.

One was an Irish charwoman or apple-woman (she might have been either) with a brown, wrinkled face, a broken nose, tangled grey hair, a crushed bonnet, general dirt and disorder, and a tongue that could talk broad Irish, and call "a spade a spade" at one and the same time. "Biddy," as she was named, was accompanied by a street newspaper boy—one of those urchins who run after carriages and turn Catherine-wheels in the mud, and who talked "gutter-slang" in a style that was utterly unintelligible to the decent portion of the sitters. These two went on in a manner that was undoubtedly funny, but not at all edifying and calculated to drive any enquirer into Spiritualism out of the room, under the impression that they were evil spirits bent on our destruction. That either of them was represented by Mrs. Fay was out of the question. In the first place, she would, in that instance, have been so clever an actress and mimic, that she would have made her fortune on the stage—added to which the boy "Teddy" was much too small for her, and "Biddy" was much too large. Besides, no actress, however experienced, could have "made up" in the time. I was quite satisfied, therefore, that neither of them was the medium, even if I could not have seen her figure the while, through the thin curtains, sitting in her chair. Why such low, physical manifestations are permitted I am unable to say. It was no wonder they had shocked the sensibility of my friend. I felt half inclined myself when they appeared to get up and run away. However, I was very glad afterwards that I did not. They disappeared after a while, and were succeeded by a much pleasanter person, a cabinet spirit called "Gipsy," who looked as if she might have belonged to one of the gipsy tribes when on earth, she was so brown and arch and lively. Presently the young man in black was called up, and I saw him talking to a female spirit very earnestly. After a while he took her hand and led her outside the curtain, and called the little girl whom he had left on his seat by her name. The child looked up, screamed "Mamma! mamma!" and flew into the arms of the spirit, who knelt down and kissed her, and we could hear the child sobbing and saying, "Oh! mamma, why did you go away?—why did you go away?" It was a very affecting scene—at least it seemed so to me. The instant recognition by the little girl, and her perfect unconsciousness but that her mother had returned in propria persona, would have been more convincing proof of the genuineness of Spiritualism to a sceptic, than fifty miracles of greater importance. When the spirit mother had to leave again the child's agony at parting was very apparent. "Take me with you," she kept on saying, and her father had actually to carry her back to her seat. When they got there they both wept in unison. Afterwards he said to me in an apologetic sort of way—he was sitting next to me—"It is the first time, you see, that Mary has seen her poor mother, but I wanted to have her testimony to her identity, and I think she gave it pretty plainly, poor child! She'll never be content to let me come alone now." I said, "I think it is a pity you brought her so young," and so I did.

"Florence" did not appear (she told me afterwards the atmosphere was so "rough" that she could not), and I began to think that no one would come for me, when a common seaman, dressed in ordinary sailor's clothes, ran out of the cabinet and began dancing a hornpipe in front of me. He danced it capitally too, and with any amount of vigorous snapping his fingers to mark the time, and when he had finished he "made a leg," as sailors call it, and stood before me. "Have you come for me, my friend?" I enquired. "Not exactly," he answered, "but I came with the Cap'en. I came to pave the way for him. The Cap'en will be here directly. We was in the Avenger together." (Now all the world knows that my eldest brother, Frederick Marryat, was drowned in the wreck of the Avenger in 1847; but as I was a little child at the time, and had no remembrance of him, I had never dreamt of seeing him again. He was a first lieutenant when he died, so I do not know why the seaman gave him brevet rank, but I repeat his words as he said them.) After a minute or two I was called up to the cabinet, and saw my brother Frederick (whom I recognized from his likeness) standing there dressed in naval uniform, but looking very stiff and unnatural. He smiled when he saw me, but did not attempt to kiss me. I said, "Why! Fred! is it really you? I thought you would have forgotten all about me." He replied, "Forgotten little Flo? Why should I? Do you think I have never seen you since that time, nor heard anything about you? I know everything—everything!" "You must know, then, that I have not spent a very happy life," I said. "Never mind," he answered, "you needed it. It has done you good!" But all he said was without any life in it, as if he spoke mechanically—perhaps because it was the first time he had materialized.

I had said "Good-bye" to him, and dropped the curtain, when I heard my name called twice, "Flo! Flo!" and turned to receive my sister "Emily" in my arms. She looked like herself exactly, but she had only time to kiss me and gasp out, "So glad, so happy to meet again," when she appeared to faint. Her eyes closed, her head fell back on my shoulder, and before I had time to realize what was going to happen, she had passed through the arm that supported her, and sunk down through the floor. The sensation of her weight was still making my arm tingle, but "Emily" was gone—clean gone. I was very much disappointed. I had longed to see this sister again, and speak to her confidentially; but whether it was something antagonistic in the influence of this séance room ("Florence" said afterwards that it was), or there was some other cause for it, I know not, but most certainly my friends did not seem to flourish there.

I had another horrible disappointment before I left. A voice from inside the cabinet called out, "Here are two babies who want the lady sitting under the picture." Now, there was only one picture hanging in the room, and I was sitting under it. I looked eagerly towards the cabinet, and saw issue from it the "Princess Gertie" leading a little toddler with a flaxen poll and bare feet, and no clothing but a kind of white chemise. This was "Joan," the "Yonnie" I had so often asked to see, and I rose in the greatest expectation to receive the little pair. Just as they gained the centre of the room, however, taking very short and careful steps, like babies first set on their feet, the cabinet spirit "Gipsy" bounced out of the curtains, and saying decidedly, "Here! we don't want any children about," she placed her hand on the heads of my little ones, and pressed them down through the floor. They seemed to crumble to pieces before my eyes, and their place knew them no more. I couldn't help feeling angry. I exclaimed, "O! what did you do that for? Those were my babies, and I have been longing to see them so." "I can't help it," replied "Gipsy," "but this isn't a séance for children." I was so vexed that I took no more interest in the proceedings. A great number of forms appeared, thirty or forty in all, but by the time I returned to my hotel and began to jot down my notes, I could hardly remember what they were. I had been dreaming all the time of how much I should have liked to hold that little flaxen-haired "Yonnie" in my arms.

[CHAPTER XXIX.]

VI. Virginia Roberts.

When I returned to New York, it was under exceptional circumstances. I had taken cold whilst travelling in the Western States, had had a severe attack of bronchitis and pneumonia at Chicago, was compelled to relinquish my business, and as soon as I was well enough to travel, was ordered back to New York to recuperate my health. Here I took up my abode in the Victoria Hotel, where a lady, whose acquaintance I had made on my former visit to the city, was living. As I have no permission to publish this lady's name, I must call her Mrs. S——. She had been a Spiritualist for some time before I knew her, and she much interested me by showing me an entry in her diary, made four years previous to my arrival in America. It was an account of the utterances of a Mrs. Philips, a clairvoyant then resident in New York, during which she had prophesied my arrival in the city, described my personal appearance, profession, and general surroundings perfectly, and foretold my acquaintanceship with Mrs. S——. The prophecy ended with words to the effect that our meeting would be followed by certain effects that would influence her future life, and that on the 17th of March, 1885, would commence a new era in her existence. It was at the beginning of March that we first lived under the same roof. As soon as Mrs. S—— found that I was likely to have some weeks of leisure, she became very anxious that we should visit the New York media together; for although she had so long been a believer in Spiritualism, she had not (owing to family opposition) met with much sympathy on the subject, or had the opportunity of much investigation. So we determined, as soon as I was well enough to go out in the evening, that we would attend some séances. As it happened, when that time came, we found the medium most accessible to be Miss Virginia Roberts, of whom neither of us knew anything but what we had learned from the public papers. However, it was necessary that I should be exposed as little as possible to the night air, and so we fixed, by chance as it were, to visit Miss Roberts first. We found her living with her mother and brother in a small house in one of the back streets of the city. She was a young girl of sixteen, very reserved and rather timid-looking, who had to be drawn out before she could be made to talk. She had only commenced sitting a few months before, and that because her brother (who was also a medium) had had an illness and been obliged to give up his séances for a while. The séance room was very small, the manifestations taking place almost in the midst of the circle, and the cabinet (so-called) was the flimsiest contrivance I had ever seen. Four uprights of iron, not thicker than the rod of a muslin blind, with cross-bars of the same, on which were hung thin curtains of lilac print, formed the construction of this cabinet, which shook and swayed about each time a form left or entered it. A harmonium for accompanying the voices, and a few chairs for the audience, was all the furniture the room contained. The first evening we went to see Miss Roberts there were only two or three sitters beside ourselves. The medium seemed to be pretty nearly unknown, and I resolved, as I usually do in such cases, not to expect anything, for fear I should be disappointed.

Mrs. S——, on the contrary, was all expectation and excitement. If she had ever sat for materializations, it had been long before, and the idea was like a new one to her. After two or three forms had appeared, of no interest to us, a gentleman in full evening dress walked suddenly out of the cabinet, and said, "Kate," which was the name of Mrs. S——. He was a stout, well-formed man, of an imposing presence, with dark hair and eyes, and he wore a solitaire of diamonds of unusual brilliancy in his shirt front. I had no idea who he was; but Mrs. S—— recognized him at once as an old lover who had died whilst under a misunderstanding with her, and she was powerfully affected—more, she was terribly frightened. It seems that she wore at her throat a brooch which he had given her; but every time he approached her with the view of touching it, she shrieked so loudly, and threw herself into such a state of nervous agitation, that I thought she would have to return home again. However, on her being accommodated with a chair in the last row so that she might have the other sitters between her and the materialized spirits, she managed to calm herself. The only friend who appeared for me that evening was "John Powles;" and, to my surprise and pleasure, he appeared in the old uniform of the 12th Madras Native Infantry. This corps wore facings of fawn, with buttons bearing the word "Ava," encircled by a wreath of laurel. The mess jackets were lined with wadded fawn silk, and the waistcoats were trimmed with three lines of narrow gold braid. Their "karkee," or undress uniform, established in 1859, consisted of a tunic and trousers of a sad green cloth, with the regimental buttons and a crimson silk sash. The marching dress of all officers in the Indian service is made of white drill, with a cap cover of the same material. Their forage cloak is of dark blue cloth, and hangs to their heels. Their forage cap has a broad square peak to shelter the face and eyes. I mention these details for the benefit of those who are not acquainted with the general dress of the Indian army, and to show how difficult it would have been for Virginia Roberts, or any other medium, to have procured them, even had she known the private wish expressed by me to "John Powles" in Boston, that he would try and come to me in uniform. On this first occasion of his appearing so, he wore the usual everyday coat, buttoned up to his chin, and he made me examine the buttons to see that they bore the crest and motto of the regiment. And I may say here, that before I left New York he appeared to me in every one of the various dresses I have described above, and became quite a marked figure in the city.

When it was made known through the papers that an old friend of Florence Marryat had appeared through the mediumship of Virginia Roberts, in a uniform of thirty years before, I received numbers of private letters inquiring if it were true, and dozens of people visited Miss Roberts' séances for the sole purpose of seeing him. He took a great liking for Mrs. S——, and when she had conquered her first fear she became quite friendly with him, and I heard, after leaving New York, that he continued to appear for her as long as she attended those séances.

There was one difference in the female spirits that came through Virginia Roberts from those of other media. Those that were strong enough to leave the cabinet invariably disappeared by floating upwards through the ceiling. Their mode of doing this was most graceful. They would first clasp their hands behind their heads and lean backward; then their feet were lifted off the ground, and they were borne upward in a recumbent position. When I related this to my friend, Dr. George Lefferts (under whom I was for throat treatment to recover my voice), he declared there must be some machinery connected with the uprights that supported the cabinet, by which the forms were elevated. He had got it all so "pat" that he was able to take a pencil and demonstrate to me on paper exactly how the machinery worked, and how easy it would be to swing full-sized human bodies up to the ceiling with it. How they managed to disappear when they got there he was not quite prepared to say; but if he once saw the trick done, he would explain the whole matter to me, and expose it into the bargain. I told Dr. Lefferts, as I have told many other clever men, that I shall be the first person open to conviction when they can convince me, and I bore him off to a private séance with Virginia Roberts for that purpose only. He was all that was charming on the occasion. He gave me a most delightful dinner at Delmonico's first (for which I tender him in print my grateful recollection), and he tested all Miss Roberts' manifestations in the most delicate and gentlemanly manner (sceptics as a rule are neither delicate nor gentlemanly), but he could neither open my eyes to chicanery nor detect it himself. He handled and shook the frail supports of the cabinet, and confessed they were much too weak to bear any such weight as he had imagined. He searched the carpeted floor and the adjoining room for hidden machinery without finding the slightest thing to rouse his suspicions, and yet he saw the female forms float upwards through the whitewashed ceiling, and came away from the séance room as wise as when he had entered it.

But this occurred some weeks after. I must relate first what happened after our first séance with Miss Roberts. Mrs. S—— and I were well enough pleased with the result to desire to test her capabilities further, and with that intent we invited her to visit us at our hotel. Spiritualism is as much tabooed by one section of the American public as it is encouraged by the other, and so we resolved to breathe nothing of our intentions, but invite the girl to dine and spend the evening in our rooms with us just as if she were an ordinary visitor. Consequently, we dined together at the table d'hôte before we took our way upstairs. Mrs. S—— and I had a private sitting-room, the windows of which were draped with white lace curtains only, and we had no other means to shut out the light. Consequently, when we wished to sit, all we could do was to place a chair for Virginia Roberts in the window recess, behind one of these pairs of curtains, and pin them together in front of her, which formed the airiest cabinet imaginable. We then locked the door, lowered the gas, and sat down on a sofa before the curtains.

In the space of five minutes, without the lace curtains having been in the slightest degree disturbed, Francis Lean, my stepson, walked through them, and came up to my side. He was dressed in his ordinary costume of jersey and "jumpers," and had a little worsted cap upon his head. He displayed all the peculiarities of speech and manner I have noticed before; but he was much less timid, and stood by me for a long time talking of my domestic affairs, which were rather complicated, and giving me a detailed account of the accident which caused his death, and which had been always somewhat of a mystery. In doing this, he mentioned names of people hitherto unknown to me, but which I found on after inquiry to be true. He seemed quite delighted to be able to manifest so indisputably like himself, and remarked more than once, "I'm not much like a girl now, am I, Ma?"

Next, Mrs. S——'s old lover came, of whom she was still considerably alarmed, and her father, who had been a great politician and a well-known man. "Florence," too, of course, though never so lively through Miss Roberts as through other media, but still happy though pensive, and full of advice how I was to act when I reached England again. Presently a soft voice said, "Aunt Flo, don't you know me?" And I saw standing in front of me my niece and godchild, Lilian Thomas, who had died as a nun in the Convent of the "Dames Anglaises" at Bruges. She was clothed in her nun's habit, which was rather peculiar, the face being surrounded by a white cap, with a crimped border that hid all the hair, and surmounted by a white veil of some heavy woollen material which covered the head and the black serge dress. "Lilian" had died of consumption, and the death-like, waxy complexion which she had had for some time before was exactly reproduced. She had not much to say for herself; indeed, we had been completely separated since she had entered the convent, but she was undoubtedly there. She was succeeded by my sister "Emily," whom I have already so often described. And these apparitions, six in number, and all recognizable, were produced in the private room of Mrs. S—— and myself, and with no other person but Virginia Roberts, sixteen years old.

It was about this time that we received an invitation to attend a private séance in a large house in the city, occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Newman, who had Maud Lord staying with them as a visitor. Maud Lord's mediumship is a peculiar one. She places her sitters in a circle, holding hands. She then seats herself on a chair in the centre, and keeps on clapping her hands, to intimate that she has not changed her position. The séance is held in darkness, and the manifestations consist of "direct voices," i.e. voices that every one can hear, and by what they say to you, you must judge of their identity and truthfulness. I had only witnessed powers of this kind once before—through Mrs. Bassett, who is now Mrs. Herne—but as no one spoke to me through her whom I recognized, I have omitted to give any account of it.

As soon as Maud Lord's sitting was fully established, I heard her addressing various members of the company, telling them who stood beside them, and I heard them putting questions to, or holding conversations with, creature who were invisible to me. The time went on, and I believed I was going to be left out of it, when I heard a voice close to my ear whisper, "Arthur." At the same moment Maud Lord's voice sounded in my direction, saying that the lady in the brown velvet hat had a gentleman standing near her, named "Arthur," who wished to be recognized. I was the only lady present in a brown velvet hat, yet I could not recall any deceased friend of the name of "Arthur" who might wish to communicate with me. (It is a constant occurrence at a séance that the mind refuses to remember a name, or a circumstance, and on returning home, perhaps the whole situation makes itself clear, and one wonders how one could have been so dull as not to perceive it.) So I said that I knew no one in the spirit-world of that name, and Maud Lord replied, "Well, he knows you, at all events." A few more minutes elapsed, when I felt a touch on the third finger of my left hand, and the voice spoke again and said, "Arthur! 'Arthur's ring.' Have you quite forgotten?" This action brought the person to my memory, and I exclaimed, "Oh! Johnny Cope, is it you?"

To explain this, I must tell my readers that when I went out to India in 1854, Arthur Cope of the Lancers was a passenger by the same steamer; and when we landed in Madras, he made me a present of a diamond ring, which I wore at that séance as a guard. But he was never called by anything but his nickname of "Johnny," so that his real appellation had quite slipped my memory. The poor fellow died in 1856 or 1857, and I had been ungrateful enough to forget all about him, and should never have remembered his name had it not been coupled with the ring. It would have been still more remarkable, though, if Maud Lord, who had never seen me till that evening, had discovered an incident which happened thirty years before, and which I had completely forgotten.

Before I had been many days in New York, I fell ill again from exposing myself to the weather, this time with a bad throat. Mrs. S—— and I slept in the same room, and our sitting-room opened into the bedroom. She was indefatigable in her attentions and kindness to me during my illness, and kept running backwards and forwards from the bedroom to the sitting-room, both by night and day, to get me fresh poultices, which she kept hot on the steam stove.

One evening about eleven o'clock she got out of bed in her nightdress, and went into the next room for this purpose. Almost directly after she entered it, I heard a heavy fall. I called her by name, and receiving no answer, became frightened, jumped out of bed, and followed her. To my consternation, I found her stretched out, at full length, on a white bearskin rug, and quite insensible. She was a delicate woman, and I thought at first that she had fainted from fatigue; but when she showed no signs of returning consciousness, I became alarmed. I was very weak myself from my illness, and hardly able to stand, but I managed to put on a dressing-gown and summon the assistance of a lady who occupied the room next to us, and whose acquaintance we had already made. She was strong and capable, and helped me to place Mrs. S—— upon the sofa, where she lay in the same condition. After we had done all we could think of to bring her to herself without effect, the next-door lady became frightened. She said to me, "I don't like this. I think we ought to call in a doctor. Supposing she were to die without regaining consciousness." I replied, "I should say the same, excepting I begin to believe she has not fainted at all, but is in a trance; and in that case, any violent attempts to bring her to herself might injure her. Just see how quietly she breathes, and how very young she looks."

When her attention was called to this fact, the next-door lady was astonished. Mrs. S——, who was a woman past forty, looked like a girl of sixteen. She was a very pretty woman, but with a dash of temper in her expression which spoiled it. Now with all the passions and lines smoothed out of it, she looked perfectly lovely. So she might have looked in death. But she was not dead. She was breathing. So I felt sure that the spirit had escaped for a while and left her free. I covered her up warmly on the sofa, and determined to leave her there till the trance had passed. After a while I persuaded the next-door lady to think as I did, and to go back to her own bed. As soon as she had gone, I administered my own poultice, and sat down to watch beside my friend. The time went on until seven in the morning—seven hours she had lain, without moving a limb, upon the sofa—when, without any warning, she sat up and gazed about her. I called her by name, and asked her what she wanted; but I could see at once, by her expression, that she did not know me. Presently she asked me, "Who are you?" I told her. "Are you Kate's friend?" she said. I answered, "Yes." "Do you know who I am?" was the next question, which, of course, I answered in the negative. Mrs. S—— thereupon gave me the name of a German gentleman which I had never heard before. An extraordinary scene then followed. Influenced by the spirit that possessed her, Mrs. S—— rose and unlocked a cabinet of her own, which stood in the room, and taking thence a bundle of old letters, she selected several and read portions of them aloud to me. She then told me a history of herself and the gentleman whose spirit was speaking through her, and gave me several messages to deliver to herself the following day. It will be sufficient for me to say that this history was of so private a nature, that it was most unlikely she would have confided it to me or any one, particularly as she was a woman of a most secretive nature; but names, addresses, and even words of conversations were given, in a manner which would have left no room for doubt of their truthfulness, even if Mrs. S—— had not confirmed them to be facts afterwards. This went on for a long time, the spirit expressing the greatest animosity against Mrs. S—— all the while, and then the power seemed suddenly to be spent, and she went off to sleep again upon the sofa, waking up naturally about an hour afterwards, and very much surprised to hear what had happened to her meanwhile. When we came to consider the matter, we found that this unexpected seizure had taken place upon the 17th of March, the day predicted by Mrs. Philips four years previously as one on which a new era would commence for Mrs. S——. From that time she continually went into trances, and used to predict the future for herself and others; but whether she has kept it up to this day I am unable to say, as I have heard nothing from her since I left America.

That event took place on the 13th of June, 1885. We had been in the habit of spending our Sunday evenings in Miss Roberts' séance room, and she begged me not to miss the last opportunity. When we arrived there, we found that the accompanist who usually played the harmonium for them was unable to be present, and Miss Roberts asked if I would be his substitute. I said I would, on condition that they moved the instrument on a line with the cabinet, so that I might not lose a sight of what was going on. This was accordingly done, and I commenced to play "Thou art gone from my gaze." Almost immediately "John Powles" stepped out, dressed in uniform, and stood by the harmonium with his hand upon my shoulder. "I never was much of a singer, you know, Flo," he said to me; "but if you will sing that song with me, I'll try and go through it." And he actually did sing (after a fashion) the entire two verses of the ballad, keeping his hand on my shoulder the whole time. When we came to the line, "I seek thee in vain by the meadow and stream," he stooped down and whispered in my ear, "Not quite in vain, Flo, has it been?" I do not know if my English Spiritualistic friends can "cap" this story, but in America they told me it was quite a unique performance, particularly at a public séance, where the jarring of so many diverse influences often hinders instead of helping the manifestations.

"Powles" appeared to be especially strong on that occasion. Towards the middle of the evening a kind of whining was heard to proceed from the cabinet; and Miss Roberts, who was not entranced, said, "There's a baby coming out for Miss Marryat." At the same time the face of little "Yonnie" appeared at the opening of the curtains, but nearly level with the ground, as she was crawling out on all fours. Before she had had time to advance beyond them, "Powles" stepped over her and came amongst us. "Oh, Powles!" I exclaimed, "you used to love my little babies. Do pick up that one for me that I may see it properly." He immediately returned, took up "Yonnie," and brought her out into the circle on his arm. The contrast of the baby's white kind of nightgown with his scarlet uniform was very striking. He carried the child to each sitter that it might be thoroughly examined; and when he had returned "Yonnie" to the cabinet, he came out again on his own account. That evening I was summoned into the cabinet myself by the medium's guide, a little Italian girl, who had materialized several times for our benefit. When I entered it, I stumbled up against Miss Roberts' chair. There was barely room for me to stand beside it. She said to me, "Is that you, Miss Marryat?" and I replied, "Yes; didn't you send for me?" She said "No; I didn't send, I know nothing about it!" A voice behind me said, "I sent for you!" and at the same moment two strong arms were clasped round my waist, and a man's face kissed me over my shoulder. I asked, "Who are you?" and he replied, "Walk out of the cabinet and you shall see." I turned round, two hands were placed upon my shoulders, and I walked back into the circle with a tall man walking behind me in that position. When I could look at him in the gaslight, I recognized my brother, Frank Marryat, who died in 1855, and whom I had never seen since. Of course, the other spirits who were familiar with Mrs. S—— and myself came to wish me a pleasant voyage across the Atlantic, but I have mentioned them all so often that I fear I must already have tired out the patience of my readers. But in order to be impressive it is so necessary to be explicit. All I can bring forward in excuse is, that every word I have written is the honest and unbiassed truth. Here, therefore, ends the account of my experience in Spiritualism up to the present moment—not, by any means, the half, nor yet the quarter of it, but all I consider likely to interest the general public. And those who have been interested in it may see their own friends as I have done, if they will only take the same trouble that I have done.

[CHAPTER XXX.]