(To THE EDITOR. or THE " SPECTATOR."] Sia,—This subject is
interesting to many, and possibly some of your readers might be able to comment on certain experiences I have had myself. I am not a spiritualist. I have never attended a séance in my life. But I have been told by those who professed to know that I am a very strong " medium." The late Dr. Russell Wallace (whom I once met casually) was one of these people. He asked me to act as a "sensitive" for him, but I did not do so. Now, Sir, among many odd experiences, I would like to give you three. The first was a curious case of dreams. In my early married days I would, at any time, in answer to a question from my husband, tell him what I was dreaming about. I was always sound asleep, and never had any recollection of the dream myself. He told me I nearly always dreamt of flowers, of which I am very fond. During this period of my life a favourite sister once came to stay with us. The morning after her arrival she told me she " had had such a strange dream " during the night—she had dreamt she was sitting on the shore of the sea, and, as the waves -rolled in, the white foam turned into arum lilies, and the green part into their leaves. When she told me this it seemed vaguely familiar, and all day it was as if my memory were being stirred. In the evening we were all sitting together, and my sister told my husband her dream. He turned to me, and said, " Why, you told me that very dream in your sleep some time ago, but I forgot to tell you about it in the morning." There was absolute independent evidence, then, of some form of " sleep-telepathy" between my sister and myself. We could trace it to neither poem, book, nor picture that we both knew.
The second experience was with a sort of home-made planchette. This time I was working it (for fun, chiefly) with a friend. He was extremely fond of legend, and so am I. Very rapidly our little machine spelt out the following :- " DAYLIGHT UPON THE ROOFS OF ASGARD.
BY JOSEPH OF ARIMATHEA.
Yonder by night and yonder, Stars and the winds and sun, Rocks and the sea flowing under, Body and spirit are one.
Yonder by day and yonder, Morn and the chill winds weep, Mary and Jesus ponder Over the children asleep.
Mary, the mother of children, Singing a dream of pain, Jesus, the Brother of children, Shedding His. Blood in vain.
Cover His wounds with roses! Lilies are Mary's tears!
Dead little son of Joses Flower that the maiden bears.
Gather the stars of heaven, Bind them about His Brow, Build Him a cradle of seven, Rock Him to sleep in The Plough."
This is such a strange medley of tradition - and legend, of Bible history and Norwegian myth, that it seems to me it could only have come from the combined subconsciousness of my friend and myself. Most assuredly it did not come from Joseph of Arimathea. The writing was quite automatic, and came so rapidly it had to be taken down by a bystander. The late Mr. Andrew Lang was very much interested in this experience.
The third experience is still unexplained. It it could be proved it would, to my mind, be genuine evidence in favour of a direct message from the dead. It happened during the latter Pert of the war--some time in 1917 or quite late in the year of 1916. It was in that winter, anyway. I was trying my hand at solitary automatic writing—a thing with which I have never had any success at all. Suddenly a new impulse came to my pencil. Very quickly it wrote a message from ." Smethurst, Gunner," told me he had been wounded at Loos, had died in a train, and asked me to "let Lennox know." The message added that I could find his name "on a monument at Snow Hill, Liverpool," and that Lennox lived in "New " Street. or " a new " street in that city. Also that the war would be over in " October or November " (no year given), and that "the sword of Germany would be broken." I was amazed and perplexed, but did my best by writing to a vague person called Lennox, in a " New " Street, Liverpool. The letter came back through the dead letter office. I have not been in Liverpool for years, and do not know if any monument has been set up on Snow Hill, or, perhaps, a memorial tablet at the station there. If such a thing exists, with the name " Smethurst 's on it, it would appear to be a definite proof of communication. If not, it would, I think, be a proof that many apparent " messages " are really inexplicable activities of the sub- conscious mind—a form of " dream-working." I may add that I have no personal acquaintance with anyone called " Smethurst" or " Lennox," and that I was not reading the casualty lists at the time, as I had no near relatives of military age. I gave the whole message, in a sealed envelope, to a friend, but we have since opened it. Here, then, is a definite possibility of settling one message, at least, as no doubt some of your readers are within easy reach of Snow Hill, Liverpool. I am myself in the same state of ignorance as I was when the apparent " message" was delivered to me.—I am, Sir, &c.,
B. W.
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