What Spiritualism Is Doing—Who Consult Mediums.
By James White
I cut the following out of the “New York Letter” of an Indiana paper. It gives a very good idea of the progress that is being made by spiritualism, and who are its followers. Those who are not personally observant of it, know but little of its gathering strength and influence. J. H. W. NEW YORK, March 30, 1872. One’s rambles in the metropolis are sometimes pointed by queer episodes. The other day, for instance, a friend wanted me to visit that mysterious being yclept, a medium, and, not being at all averse to the taking of a few mental photographs in the spiritual sphere, I went. We found the ante-room thronged by persons in waiting, and each “interview” or seance occupying from twenty minutes to half an hour. All of these individuals, without exception, evidently belonged to the better classes, and I subsequently learned that the place was frequented by some of the most distinguished ministers, bankers, editors, merchants, and politicians, of the city and country. In fact, the fame of the medium has excusably excited the curiosity of the intelligent, and the wonderful manner in which he unravels the mysteries of the past, and lifts the veil of the future—brings you face to face, as it were, with friends and relatives long dead, describes the minutest details of personal appearance, and converses with them as if they were in the flesh—is well calculated to make the skeptic exclaim, like Stephen Blackpool, “It’s all a muddle—all a muddle.” The room in which the seances are held is an ordinary parlor, furnished with some elegance, but in the usual style, with piano, book case, sofas, and a large center-table. There is certainly no machinery, and none appears necessary. The medium is a large, handsome looking man, say six-and-thirty years of age, black-haired, brown-eyed, gentle-voiced, and with manners that are the perfection of good breeding. As my friend and myself were ushered in, he arose and remarked, “You must excuse me, gentlemen, if I confess that I feel the influence leaving me, but the truth is, I am almost physically exhausted, having sat here nearly ten hours; still, I am impressed that we shall have some manifestations.” Sure enough, we had scarcely drawn up to the table, when raps were audible on the floor, on the chairs, on the walls, on the piano and elsewhere. “Your spirit friends seem glad to meet you,” observed the medium, who by this time had lighted a cigar and was leaning back in his easy chair. “Write the names of those with whom you would like to communicate on these small bits of paper, and then fold them tightly.” My friend then did so, and they were thoroughly mixed. One by one the medium took them, laid each in turn against his forehead, and called out the persons designated: “That’s your grandfather; that’s Julia, your first wife; that’s your friend Robert, who died in St. Petersburg,” and so on. “By the way” added the spiritualist, “there is a message for you from St. Petersburg.” The rapping was vehement, and the medium went into some astonishing details about an old railroad contract that remained unsettled. “I should like to ask a few questions mentally,” said my companion. “All right, sir; write them on a paper, and fold them so that I cannot see them.” It was done repeatedly, and in each instance the answers were prompt, correct, and in detail. As a test, several of the questions were written in the Russian language, and one or two in short hand, but it seemed to make not the slightest difference in the responses. Suddenly, the medium observed, “Your Russian friend desires to give you further proof of his presence with you, by writing his name on my arm.” The sleeve was drawn up, and we both distinctly saw, in red letters, between the medium’s elbow and wrist, a signature that was at once recognized. I threw a peculiar seal upon the table, and asked, “What can you tell me about that?” “Nothing now,” was the reply, “yet I should like to have a copy of the seal, for sometimes the most mysterious information comes to me in an unexpected way.” He placed the seal in his pocket-book, but in five minutes threw it out, with the remark, “I don’t want it, after all; for the spirits have impressed it on the sides of my porte-monnaie,” and he showed me as perfect a fac simile as if it had been taken in wax. The interview lasted three-quarters of an hour, and it would require two or three columns to describe all that was said and done. Let it suffice, therefore, that I saw enough to satisfy anybody who believes his senses, of the existence of some power, either sublunary or supernatural173, which is calculated to upset the best regulated philosophy and religion, when it permits a perfect stranger to tell you secrets that belong only to the dead, and to penetrate apparently at will, the very sanctum sanctorum of your heart. Five dollars is the usual fee paid for the gratification of this species of curiosity, and there seems to be no end to the people who are anxious to make the investigation.