Thinking the matter over beforehand, I concluded that when the questioner, of either sex, was young, love would very probably be the topic; the flesh, not the spirit, would be the predominant interest. Being an ingenuous young man of the average sort, and desperately in love with Susan, let us say, I should naturally assist the supernatural being, if at a loss, to understand that the one thing wanted was information about Susan. I therefore mentally asked the question: ‘Who is the most lovely angel without wings, and with the means of sitting down?’ and proceeded to pass the pencil over the letters, pausing nowhere. I now and then got a doubtful rap on or under the table,—how delivered I know not—but signifying nothing. It was clear the spirits needed a cue. I put the pencil on the letter S, and kept it there. I got a tentative rap. I passed at once to U. I got a more confident rap. Then to S. Rap, rap, without hesitation. A and N were assented to almost before I touched them. Susan was an angel—the angel. What more logical proof could I have of the immortality of the soul?
Mrs. — asked me whether I was satisfied. I said it was miraculous; so much so indeed, that I could hardly believe the miracle, until corroborated by another. Would the spirits be kind enough to suspend this pencil in the air? ‘Oh! that was nonsense. The spirits never lent themselves to mere frivolity.’ ‘I beg the spirits’ pardon, I am sure,’ said I. ‘I have heard that they often move heavy tables. I thought perhaps the pencil would save them trouble. Will they move this round table up to this little one?’ I had, be it observed, when alone, moved and changed the relative positions of both tables; and had determined to make this my crucial test. To my astonishment, Mrs. — replied that she could not say whether they would or not. She would ask them. She did so, and the spirits rapped ‘Yes.’
I drew my chair aside. The woman remained seated in the corner. I watched everything. Nothing happened. After a while, I took out my watch, and said: ‘I fear the spirits do not intend to keep their word. I have an appointment twenty minutes hence, and can only give them ten minutes more.’ She calmly replied she had nothing to do with it. I had heard what the spirits said. I had better wait a little longer. Scarcely were the words out of her mouth, when the table gave a distinct crack, as if about to start. The medium instantly called my attention to it. I jumped out of my seat, passed between the two tables, when of a sudden the large table moved in the direction of the smaller one, and did not stop till it had pushed the little one over. I make no comments. No explanation to me is conceivable. I simply narrate what happened as accurately as I am able.
One other case deserves to be added to the above. I have connected both of the foregoing with religious persuasions. The séance I am about to speak of was for the express purpose of bringing a brokenhearted and widowed mother into communication with the soul of her only son—a young artist of genius whom I had known, and who had died about a year before. The occasion was, of course, a solemn one. The interest of it was enhanced by the presence of the great apostle of Spiritualism—Sir William Crookes. The medium was Miss Kate Fox, again an American. The séance took place in the house of a very old friend of mine, the late Dr. George Bird. He had spiritualistic tendencies, but was supremely honest and single-minded; utterly incapable of connivance with deception of any kind. As far as I know, the medium had never been in the room before. The company present were Dr. Bird’s intimate friend Sir William Crookes—future President of the Royal Society—Miss Bird, Dr. Bird’s daughter, and her husband—Mr. Ionides—and Mrs. —, the mother of the young artist. The room, a large one, was darkened; the last light being extinguished after we had taken our places round the dining-table. We were strenuously enjoined to hold one another’s hands. Unless we did so the séance would fail.
Before entering the room, I secretly arranged with Mr. Ionides, who shared my scepticism, that we should sit side by side; and so each have one hand free. It is not necessary to relate what passed between the unhappy mother and the medium, suffice it to say that she put questions to her son; and the medium interpreted the rappings which came in reply. These, I believe, were all the poor lady could wish for. To the rest of us, the astounding events of the séance were the dim lights, accompanied by faint sounds of an accordion, which floated about the room over our heads. And now comes, to me, the strangest part of the whole performance. All the while I kept my right arm extended under the table, moving my hand to and fro. Presently it touched something. I make a grab, and caught, but could not hold for an instant, another hand. It was on the side away from Mr. Ionides. I said nothing, except to him, and the séance was immediately broken up.
It may be thought by some that this narration is a biassed one. But those acquainted with the charlatanry in these days of what is called ‘Christian Science,’ and know the extent to which crass ignorance and predisposed credulity can be duped by childish delusions, may have some ‘idea how acute was the spirit-rapping epidemic some forty or fifty years ago. ‘At this moment,’ writes Froude, in ‘Fraser’s Magazine,’ 1863, ‘we are beset with reports of conversations with spirits, of tables miraculously lifted, of hands projecting out of the world of shadows into this mortal life. An unusually able, accomplished person, accustomed to deal with common-sense facts, a celebrated political economist, and notorious for business-like habits, assured this writer that a certain mesmerist, who was my informer’s intimate friend, had raised a dead girl to life.’ Can we wonder that miracles are still believed in? Ah! no. The need, the dire need, of them remains, and will remain with us for ever.
CHAPTER XX
We must move on; we have a long and rough journey before us. Durham had old friends in New York, Fred Calthorpe had letters to Colonel Fremont, who was then a candidate for the Presidency, and who had discovered the South Pass; and Mr. Ellice had given me a letter to John Jacob Astor—the American millionaire of that day. We were thus well provided with introductions; and nothing could exceed the kindness and hospitality of our American friends.
But time was precious. It was already mid May, and we had everything to get—wagons, horses, men, mules, and provisions. So that we were anxious not to waste a day, but hurry on to St. Louis as fast as we could. Durham was too ill to go with us. Phoca had never intended to do so. Fred, Samson, and I, took leave of our companions, and travelling via the Hudson to Albany, Buffalo, down Lake Erie, and across to Chicago, we reached St. Louis in about eight days. As a single illustration of what this meant before railroads, Samson and I, having to stop a day at Chicago, hired a buggy and drove into the neighbouring woods, or wilderness, to hunt for wild turkeys.
Our outfit, the whole of which we got at St. Louis, consisted of two heavy wagons, nine mules, and eight horses. We hired eight men, on the nominal understanding that they were to go with us as far as the Rocky Mountains on a hunting expedition. In reality all seven of them, before joining us, had separately decided to go to California.