SEEING IS BELIEVING.
There is a prevalent impression that Spiritualism is on the decline, but proof to the contrary exists in the fact that no class of books commands such rapid and extensive sales as those which narrate Spiritualistic experiences and discuss Spiritualistic phenomena. Mr. Howell's last novel is one of the many instances of such popularity. To any one who can remember back about thirty years The Undiscovered Country revives vanished impressions, renews old problems and brings up portraits of fervid enthusiasts of every age, all bent on getting an answer to the unanswerable. That was the time when all over the country a favorite social amusement was for a company to sit about a table of light weight in a dusky room, each with his or her fingers lightly pressed upon the board and just sufficiently touching their neighbor to form a connecting link. In this position the "spirits" were patiently waited for: known as they were to be inconsistent, capricious and elusive, their eccentricities were regarded as sacred. The least sound which disturbed the stillness was interpreted as a message from the other world: any inclination to rock on the part of the table gave evidence that the company was surrounded by invisible but powerful spiritual forces. Sometimes everybody waited in vain: the spirits might be invoked from their vasty depths, but would not come. Again, the faithful believers in the group were the victims of an outrageous hoax on the part of some one of the circle who could creak joints or tip tables. But there would come times when patient waiting and intense belief were rewarded—when tables walked, when floor, ceiling and furniture all resounded to startling raps. Then came the opportunity to leap the gulf from time into eternity—to measure distance and compare finite with infinite knowledge.
"Mr. A——," the medium would observe, "there is a spirit who wishes to communicate with you."
Mr. A—— would be thrilled with a sort of ghastly gladness. The angelic visitant was anxious to define his personality by the aid of the Spiritual alphabet, and turned out to be Mr. A——'s father. In life he had signed his name William C. A——, but after suffering the great change the middle initial had been altered into H. But what matter? Such trifling inaccuracies were not counted.
"Miss S——," the medium would say, "I see a spiritual form standing by you."
"Is it my mother?" miss would cry, the tears gushing to her eyes.
"I think it is. She is dressed in gray silk, with lace about her throat. Her hair is dark, and she wears some sort of ornament among the braids."
"Are you sure the hair is dark?" cries Miss S——, almost in hysterics. "My dear mother's hair was quite light, a beautiful golden."
"I see more clearly now," the medium would reply: "the hair is golden."
"A little gray on top?"
"Yes, a little."
"Oh, my mother!" Miss S—— would shriek, gazing beyond vision to find her.
There was much to disappoint—much, in our experience at least, even to disgust—the seeker after truth in these séances. Still, in spite of a general easy method of pronouncing it all humbug, there were things which could not be explained. A light table might be tipped by visible hands if two people agreed, but how could a dining-table, so heavy that a servant could not move it alone, contrive to rise a foot from the floor, and then, when pressed downward with all the strength of which three stout men were capable, remain there, poised in air?
But the strangest manifestations were cheapened by the gross impositions of some of the professional mediums. I distinctly remember the advent of a noted Spiritualist from Hartford who was to conduct a séance in a house where I was staying. He looked about the parlor with a critical air.
"I don't see the right kind of a table here," he said to his host.
"I supposed any table would do."
"Far from it," was the reply. "The spirits require to be absolutely suited in all minor details before they will appear."
In order to suit these fastidious visitants from the other world all the light tables in the house were produced.
"This will do," said the medium, choosing one; and, sitting down and placing his hands upon it, he rocked it violently to and fro. "This will do," he said. He did not find it necessary to explain why he needed a table which his lightest touch could control. I distinctly recall the séance which followed. There was a small, rather pretty, lady present, with long curls on each side of her pale face. She averred that she was always accompanied by at least three spirits: they were in the habit of clustering like stars over her head. She also confided to us the grisly fact that when she retired to rest at night the headboard of her bed actually resounded with knockings. Sometimes she was even prevented from going to sleep, and was forced to expostulate with her visitors, who, when implored to be quiet, would come to her pillow, press it gently, and then subside.
I also remember a noted medium of that day, a Mr. B——, who went from place to place accompanied by his daughter Virginia, a girl of nineteen, and, as I recall her, possessing remarkable beauty. Unlike Mr. Howell's hero, Mr. B—— was something of a charlatan. He boasted of his powers as a magnetizer, and would not admit defeat even in the face of failure. His daughter was his favorite subject, but, unlike Egeria, had no distinct powers of her own. I have frequently heard Mr. B—— say that he could call his daughter from no matter what distance. At such times he merely uttered her name and half closed his eyes. As soon as she could traverse the distance between her and her father Virginia was certain to enter, already in a magnetic sleep. Almost every one having first or last witnessed the phenomenon of magnetism, it is not worth while to dwell upon it.
I had a friend by the name of Abbey whose condition during the five years before his death interested even while it repelled me. He had even as a boy been excessively delicate in health, and in manhood he broke down under the pressure of excessive mental labor. Could a medium or magnetizer have got hold of him his hallucinations or clairvoyant powers might have been made a source of considerable profit. He was calling in my study one day when one of his trances came on. He had been exceedingly anxious to get out of town by the three-o'clock train, and this necessity pursued him even into his unconscious state. He lay on my lounge facing a bookcase and a window whose shade was pulled down. At his back, and quite at the other end of the room, was a small clock on the mantel, with a face so indistinct that I was obliged to get up and peer directly into it in order to find out what time it was.
While I was sitting by the poor fellow he began to moan and mutter. "I must get away," said he, "or I cannot take the three-o'clock train. It is already twenty minutes past twelve."
I took my watch from my pocket. It was twenty minutes past twelve. But how did he know it? He had been lying before me with his eyes closed and his ears apparently impervious to sound for about two hours. Twenty-five minutes later he remarked, "It is a quarter to one." He kept along with the time, and when three o'clock came was in a state of wild delirium over his loss of the train. Had he looked at his watch every other moment for the past three hours he could not have kept a more accurate account of the time.
I saw him frequently in these trances, which sometimes lasted two days. I have held before his closed eyes a succession of photographic portraits, each of which he has recognized without seeing, uttering the name of the person. Once I laid down the pile beside him, and his hands, which always had a trick of feebly wandering, sought the pictures. I waited to see what he would do. He was at the time deeply infatuated with a young lady whose carte-de-visite I had shown him. By some inscrutable instinct he contrived to select it from the others. His face lighted up when he held it, and as long as I permitted his hand to close upon it he wore an expression of rapture. When I took it away he seemed to suffer a violent shock.
I could now and then, when he was in this state, arouse his mind and persuade him to take an imaginary walk. At such times he frequently startled me, used as I had become to his phenomenal powers of vision, by seeing something which was actually taking place half a mile away. Once he said, "There is the water: I see six sails. What is it they are doing on the tower of Mr. B——'s house? Oh! oh! oh!"—here he became violently agitated—"the scaffolding is giving way! There is a man falling!" At that very moment the scaffolding on the tower of Mr. B——'s house did give way and a man did fall—without injury, however.
Abbey was ardently attached to his mother, and during her final illness was in terrible distress of mind. Toward the last, worn out with anxiety and watching, he lay down on a couch in the sick room, and at once went into one of his trances. This was at nine o'clock in the evening. The rest of the family, whispering together, declared that the sick woman, although unconscious, was better.
"She will die," muttered Abbey, who was apparently far out of hearing, "at twenty-five minutes to four."
His mother did die at twenty-five minutes to four the next morning.
A thousand curious circumstances connected with poor Abbey are fresh in my memory, but I refrain from giving more. Although he was under the care of several of our best physicians, he was never long free from his malady. Strange to say, it never affected his general health. He died finally, not from any disease, but quite by accident.
A. T.