Spiritualists have divided the statements of spooks into “evidential” matter and “non-evidential” matter. Evidential matter is that which is capable of proof in the light of knowledge acquired by the sitters (or their friends) either prior to or subsequent to the séance. In every case its basic hypothesis is ignorance on the part of the medium. Provided the medium has no apparent means of knowing a thing, or no apparent grounds for formulating a guess, he or she is presumed to be ignorant. Thus, in Sir Oliver Lodge’s book, Raymond, the evidential value of the photograph incident rests on the adequacy of the proof that the medium had no knowledge of the photograph described. My own experiences as a medium incline me to the belief that whereas it may be possible to prove that a given person has had no given opportunity of acquiring a given piece of knowledge, it is never possible to prove that he has not had some opportunity or, in the alternative, that he is not guessing. That is to say, when a statement is correct, knowledge can sometimes be proved. Ignorance, or guesswork, can never be proved. In Yozgad the Spook described a “tank” with very fair accuracy, told of the fall of Kut, the capture of Baghdad, the great German offensive in North Italy, and many more things which were subsequently proved to be correct. It named officers, and gave details of past experiences known only to themselves. A lot of good fellows—Peacocke, Matthews, Edmonds, Mundey, Price, “Tony,” and many others were victimized in turn.
Our news was of two kinds—general and personal. The general news dealt chiefly with the war. A little of it I obtained from home. Any “exclusive” item of news I got in my letters I published through the spook-board, and left it to Father Time and the Turkish post to bring corroboration. When corroboration arrived, the Spook’s statement became evidential. But this was only a small portion of the information given. The rest was guesswork, and the items which turned out to be correct were remembered afterwards, as further “evidential matter.” The rest was set aside as “not proven,” and forgotten.
The personal news was also largely guesswork. The medium’s usual method was to throw out a cap and watch who tried it on, as in the case of Louise and Tony. He then proceeded to try to make it fit. If he failed, no harm was done, for no special impression was made. The “fishing” references were simply not understood, and forgotten. If he succeeded, it was another piece of evidential matter. These were bows drawn at a venture.
But we also took the gifts the gods sent. One of the most amusing and successful coups in the personal news branch was made by the repetition of a long story told in extreme confidence by the sitter himself to the medium months before. In vino veritas!—sometimes. Nightingale banked everything on its truth and on the fact that the confidential stage of winey-ness has a very short memory, and he won. The sitter—hitherto a sceptic—was afflicted with exceeding great alarm and despondency. He approached the two enthusiasts (Edmonds and Mundey), who kept the records of the séances for the future benefit of the Psychical Research Society, and got the séance wiped off the slate! Then he departed—a True Believer! Of course, the gift of a complete story like this was a rarity. But it was a common trick, both with the Hospital House spook and our own, to store up some trivial experience, the name of a person or a place, casually mentioned in conversation—and then spring it on its author some weeks or months later when a suitable opportunity occurred. The medium simply waited for the victim to enter the room and then the glass wrote: “Hello, Tom (or Dick or Harry). Here you are. I haven’t seen you since we met at the Galle Face,” or the Swanee River, or whatever place Tom happened to have mentioned. Whereupon, for a sovereign, the surprised Tom would ejaculate: “Heavens above! That must be old Jack Smith!” The Spook then saved up old Jack Smith for a future use. And so the story grew. Next time it would be: “Hello, Tom. I’m Jack Smith. Remember the Galle Face, old chap?”
The “non-evidential” matter also turned out a howling success. We got in some very fancy work in our descriptions of “spheres.” Nearly a year later (1918) Sir Oliver Lodge’s book Raymond reached the camp, and in it was found corroboration for many of our flights of imagination. It was known that none of us had been “spookists” before. So in a sense, and for our camp, even the non-evidential matter became evidential. The resemblances between the utterances of our spooks and the trivialities in Raymond were so manifest that the genuineness of our performances was considered proved. Who said two blacks never make a white? Indeed, we were considered to have advanced human knowledge further than Lodge. For not only had we got into touch with the 4th, 5th, 6th, and nth spheres, but also with one unknown to other spiritualists—the minus one sphere, where dwell the souls of the future generations who have not yet entered this Vale of Tears. There were plenty of “literary” men in the camp. Nobody recognized Maeterlinck’s Blue Bird in a new setting!
In building up the reputation of our spooks there was one type of séance we did not encourage. We threw aside the strongest weapon in the medium’s armoury. The emotional fog which blinds the critical faculty of the sitter is most valuable to the medium, and is quite easy to create. A “Darling Boy” from a dead Mother, or a “My son” from a dead Father does it. But there were limits to which we could not go. We created our fog, and built up our Spook’s reputation without the introduction of what are called “harrowing spiritual experiences.” Our spooks were all impersonal to the audience (Sally, Silas P. Warner, Beth, George, Millicent, and so on); nobody’s dear dead was allowed to appear on the scene. Louise was no exception; she was still alive, and “on this side.” The rule was only once broken, so far as I am aware, and then only partially so. Under extreme pressure a private séance was granted to a most persistent sitter. He wanted his father to speak to him. One of our usual spooks appeared. But we never reached the stage of direct communication. The emotional strain on all concerned was so obvious that I cut short the séance. Nor was it ever repeated. Indeed, to the best of my recollection it was the last séance conducted by me in the camp. It showed me one thing clearly—given the necessary emotional strain, the sitter is completely at the mercy of the medium.
I know well that conversations with the dear dead are the every-day stock-in-trade of the average medium. It makes mediumship so much easier. Besides, for all I know, the medium may be genuine. And far be it from me to decry the efforts of eminent scientists to forge their links with the world beyond by any means they choose. They want to “break through the partition.” In their effort they have perhaps every right to circularize the widows and mothers of those whose names adorn the Roll of Honour. To the scientist, a widow or a mother is only a unit for the purpose of experiment and percentage. To the professional medium she represents so much bread and butter. Assuredly these bereaved ladies should be invited to attempt to communicate with their dead husbands and their dead sons! The more the merrier, and there is no time like the present. We have a million souls just “gone over” in the full flush of manhood. The fodder of last year’s cannon is splendid manure for the psychic harvests of the years to come. Carry on! Spread the glad tidings! Our glorious dead are all waiting to move tables and push glasses, and scrawl with planchettes, and speak through trumpets, and throw mediums into ugly trances—at a guinea a time. There they are, “on the other side,” long ranks of them, fresh from the supreme sacrifice. They are waiting to do these things for us before they “go on” further, into the utter unknown. Hurry up! Walk up, ye widows, a guinea is little to pay for a last word from your dead husbands, Many of you would give your immortal souls for it! Walk up, before it is too late. You may find, to begin with, they are “a little confused by the passing over,” a “little unskilled” at the handling of these uncouth instruments of expression—the table, the glass, the trance. But be patient. They only need practice and will improve with time. Go often enough to the mediums, preferably to the same medium, and your dead will learn to communicate. And, above all, “have faith.” It is the faithful believer who gets the most gratifying results.
Ah, yes. We know that “faithful believer.” He is apt to be stirred by his emotions, and a little careless in the framing of his questions.
I have seen men die from bullets, and shell, and poison; from starvation, from thirst, from exhaustion, and from many diseases. God knows, I have feared Death. Yet Death has ever had for me one strong consolation—it brings the “peace that passeth all understanding.” Like me, perhaps, you have watched it come to your friends and lay its quiet fingers on their grey faces. You have seen the relaxation from suffering, the gentle passing away and then the ineffable Peace. And is my Peace, when it comes, to be marred by this task of shifting tables, and chairs, and glasses, Sir Oliver? Am I to be at the beck and call of some hysterical, guinea-grabbing medium—a sort of telephone boy in Heaven or Hell? I hope not, Sir. I trust there is nobler work beyond the bar for us poor mortals.