Miss Caroline Pawley is a lady who advertises her willingness to obtain messages for others from the spirit world, but is forbidden by her guides to take presents or money. I thought at first this must be a "ruse." "Surely," I said to a friend who knew Miss Pawley, "I ought to take books, or flowers, or some little offering in my hand." "If you do she will return them," was the reply. "All that is necessary is to write and make an appointment, as her time is very much taken up." Accordingly I did write, and Miss Pawley kindly named an early date for my visit. It was but a few months after I had lost my beloved daughter, and I longed for news of her. I arrived at Miss Pawley's residence, a neat little house in the suburbs, and was received by my hostess, a sweet, placid-faced woman, who looked the embodiment of peace and calm happiness. After we had exchanged greetings she said to me, "You have lost a daughter." "I lost one about twenty years ago—a baby of ten days old," I replied. "I don't mean her," said Miss Pawley, "I mean a young woman. I will tell you how I came to know of it. I took out my memoranda yesterday and was looking it through to see what engagements I had made for to-day, and I read the names aloud to myself. As I came to the entry, 'Mrs. Lean, 3 o'clock,' I heard a low voice say behind me, 'That is my dear, dear mother!' and when I turned round, I saw standing at my elbow a young woman about the middle height, with blue eyes and very long brown hair, and she told me that it is she whom you are grieving for at present." I made no answer to this speech, for my wound was too fresh to permit me to talk of her; and Miss Pawley proceeded. "Come!" she said cheerfully, "let us get paper and pencil and see what the dear child has to say to us." She did not go under trance, but wrote rapidly for a few moments and then handed me a letter written in the following manner. I repeat (what I have said before) that I do not test the genuineness of such a manifestation by the act itself. Anyone might have written the letter, but no one but myself could recognize the familiar expressions and handwriting, nor detect the apparent inconsistencies that made it so convincing. It was written in two different hands on alternate lines, the first line being written by "Eva," and the next by "Florence," and so on. Now, my earthly children from their earliest days have never called me anything but "Mother," whilst "Florence," who left me before she could speak, constantly calls me "Mamma." This fact alone could never have been known to Miss Pawley. Added to which the portion written by my eldest daughter was in her own clear decided hand, whilst "Florence's" contribution was in rather a childish, or "young ladylike" scribble.
The lines ran thus. The italics are Florence's:—
"My own beloved mother.
My dear, dear, dearest Mamma.
You must not grieve so terribly for me.
And knowing all we have taught you, you should not grieve.
Believe me, I am not unhappy.
Of course not, and she will be very happy soon.
But I suffer pain in seeing you suffer.
Dear Mamma, do try to see that it is for the best.
Florence is right. It is best! dear Mother.
And we shall all meet so soon, you know.
God bless you for all your love for me.
Good-bye, dear, dearest Mamma.Your own girl.
Your loving little Florence."
I cannot comment on this letter. I only make it public in a cause that is sacred to me.
To instance another case of mediumship which is exercised for neither remuneration nor applause. I am obliged in this example to withhold the name, because to betray their identity would be to ill requite a favor which was courteously accorded me. I had heard of a family of the name of D—— who held private sittings once a week, at which the mother and brothers and sisters gone before materialized and joined the circle; and having expressed my desire, through a mutual acquaintance, to assist at their séances, Mr. D—— kindly sent me an invitation to one. I found he was a high-class tradesman, living in a good house in the suburbs, and that strangers were very seldom (if ever) admitted to their circle. Mr. D—— explained to me before the séance commenced, that they regarded Spiritualism as a most sacred thing, that they sat only to have communication with their own relations, his wife and children, and that his wife never manifested except when they were alone. His earth family consisted of a young married daughter and her husband, and four or five children of different ages. He had lost, I think he told me, a grown-up son, and two little ones. William Haxby, the medium, whom I wrote of in my chapter "On Sceptics," and who had passed over since then, had been intimate with their family, and often came back to them. These explanations over, the séance began. The back and front parlors were divided by lace curtains only. In the back, where the young married daughter took up her position on a sofa, were a piano and an American organ. In the front parlor, which was lighted by an oil lamp, we sat about on chairs and sofas, but without any holding of hands. In a very short time the lace curtains parted and a young man's face appeared. This was the grown-up brother. "Hullo! Tom," they all exclaimed, and the younger ones went up and kissed him. He spoke a while to his father, telling what they proposed to do that evening, but saying his mother would not be able to materialize. As he was speaking, a little boy stood by his side. "Here's Harry," cried the children, and they brought their spirit brother out into the room between them. He seemed to be about five years old. His father told him to come and speak to me, and he obeyed, just like a little human child, and stood before me with his hand resting on my knee. Then a little girl joined the party, and the two children walked about the room, talking to everybody in turn. As we were occupied with them, we heard the notes of the American organ. "Here's Haxby," said Mr. D——. "Now we shall have a treat." (I must say here that Mr. Haxby was an accomplished organist on earth.) As he heard his name, he, too, came to the curtains, and showed his face with its ungainly features, and intimated that he and "Tom" would play a duet. Accordingly the two instruments pealed forth together, and the spirits really played gloriously—a third influence joining in with some stringed instrument. This séance was so much less wonderful than many I have written of, that I should not have included a description of it, except to prove that all media do not ply their profession in order to prey upon their fellow-creatures. The D—— family are only anxious to avoid observation. There could be no fun or benefit in deceiving each other, and yet they devote one evening in each week to holding communion with those they loved whilst on earth and feel are only hidden from them for a little while, and by a very flimsy veil. Their séances truly carry out the great poet's belief.
"Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The belovéd, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more.
With a slow and noiseless footstep