PART THIRD.
CHAPTER XX.
JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE.—HIS EXPERIENCES IN THE SPIRIT WORLD.
The chapters that follow contain a recital of the spiritual experiences of John Critchley Prince, the poetical control of the medium, which first appeared in the columns of the Voice of Angels, and elicited warm expressions of commendation and approval from the pens of a number of writers. The name of Prince is well-known in England, for his poems have long held a place in the affections of his countrymen; but as he speaks of his earthly life and labors in the first portion of his narrative of experiences, we will not anticipate what is there stated.
It may be well to mention how spirit Prince happened to become attracted to Miss Shelhamer, and to find in her organism elements that so assimilated with certain ones of his own as to render her a fitting instrument for the transmission of his thought to mortals, and we will give the explanation in his own words, as published in the Voice of Nov. 1, 1878:—
“I feel that I owe it to the public to explain my presence here, and how I first happened to control this medium. In early life, comparatively speaking, I met with the present chairman of the Voice of Angels circle,—an old friend, Mr. Robert Anderson, of Morpeth, England,—himself somewhat of a poet, and one possessed of a mind competent to criticise, admire, or condemn the productions of poetical souls.
“He became somewhat interested in me in those early days, at Ashton under-Lyne, England, and we formed a spiritual affinity that has survived physical separation, and even death itself. We lost sight of each other; but after my first experiences in spirit life I determined to visit America. By the law of spiritual affinity I was attracted to a “circle” held by this medium, then a girl in her teens. My old-time friend, Robert Anderson, who had long been a resident of Boston, and had become interested in the revealments of Spiritualism, discovering mediumistic qualities in his own being, that enabled him to perceive and to converse with spirits, was present at that circle. The links of sympathy formerly binding us together immediately revealed themselves, and I gave him spirit-greeting. Since that time, some six years ago, I have been a frequent visitor to this home, meeting my old friend and holding social converse with him. I do not always need to control the medium for that purpose, for he is both clairvoyant and clairaudient, and it sometimes pleases me to enter the sphere of his spiritual aura and converse with him in the Lancashire dialect, which seems to recall old associations to our minds.”
Mr. Prince refers above to the spirit-greeting he gave his friend Mr. Anderson, who had for many years held a devoted friendship for the parents of Miss Shelhamer, the medium, and who was ever a welcome visitor in their home, upon his first appearance from the higher life. This greeting was expressed in verse, and appears below. The recipient of this poetical tribute was highly gratified as well as astonished at the production, for he recognized in its composition the well-remembered style of his old friend Prince, as well as quotations from a poem written by the spirit author in England many years before he passed from the body, and which had never appeared in print in this country. The poem thus delivered is entitled
I COME TO THEE.
5. The poem was given in mid-winter.
6. Quotation from one of his early poems.
A few weeks after the production of the above the spirit author presented his friend with the following poetic effusion:—
HEART TREASURES.
The spirit, John Critchley Prince, has inspired his medium with a great number of poems, many of which have been published in the Banner of Light, Voice of Angels, and other spiritual and secular journals, and he proposes to have them gathered into book-form, to be published as a volume of poetic gems some time in the future. The following, selected from this mass of poems, are given as specimens of the poetical work this spirit has accomplished in connection with his medium:—
“AND HE WILL MAKE IT PLAIN.”
DOWN BY THE SEA.
COMING HOME.
Spirit Prince found that on certain occasions he could inspire his old friend Anderson with the poetic fire that thrilled and characterized his own being. The following poem is one that this intelligence delivered through the mediumship of that gentleman, and is introduced here to show the evident kinship of the production with some of those delivered through the mediumship of Miss Shelhamer:—
A FRIEND’S ADVICE.
Shortly after the physical decease of that grand man, Wm. Lloyd Garrison, John Critchley Prince wrote the following sketch,—through the instrumentality of his regular medium,—which was published in the Voice of Angels, June 15, 1879, and afterward copied into Mind and Matter:—
THE WELCOME ANGELS GIVE.
I have recently had the good fortune to witness a scene, the impressiveness and grandeur of which only those who are unencumbered by the corporeal body, and who are all spirit, all sense, all perception, can fully realize. This scene was the spirit reception, the angelic welcome given to one of life’s noblest heroes, one of the whitest, grandest souls that has ever trod the pathway of mortal existence; and though I cannot hope to convey to earth other than a faint portrayal of the scene, yet I will attempt in this instance to give my readers some idea of the welcome angels give.
After more than the three-score years and ten of earthly existence and experience, William Lloyd Garrison, the friend of the oppressed, the defender of right, the champion of freedom, calmly, quietly, and peacefully laid down the burden of mortality, and rising, grand, majestic, free, a spirit filled with power, passed into the realms of eternal light.
In company with a band of kindred spirits, among whom I may mention my friend Robert Burns, Felicia Hemans, and Elizabeth B. Browning,—noble souls all, who had wept tears of sadness over the oppressed, even while tuning their harps to sweeter melody for freedom’s sake,—I was privileged to witness a spirit reception given to this ascended hero; not the greeting given by the nearest and dearest of the heart, that was too sacred for even the eyes of sympathizing spirit friends, who had no claim upon his love, but the meeting of kindred souls, who had trod the same paths of truth, waded the same seas of opposition and danger, and borne the same battle-flag of freedom on to victory.
Not alone was the spirit of William Lloyd Garrison surrounded by departed friends of his own country; not alone were his hands pressed by such moral heroes as Washington, Adams, Lincoln, Andrew, Sumner, and many more noble souls, men and women of his own country; but there were Lafayette, Lamartine, Wilberforce, Wilcoxson, George Thompson, Harriet Martineau, and countless others, assembled to give their brother greeting. Indeed, all the great reformers of every age and clime, whose souls now watch from the battlements of heaven the advancement of liberty and truth on earth, and who still have a hand in shaping the events of interest to humanity, were gathered to give our friend and the friend of every man—though the foe to all tyranny, persecution, and slavery—a perfect ovation, expressed through love, sympathy, and blessings. But the most beautiful was the sight of John Brown, brave old Ossawottamie, whose soul continues to march on, and Charles Sumner, whose spirit still toils for a recognition of the equality of all before the law, seated at the feet of Mr. Garrison, and looking up to him as to some beloved teacher and guide.
Confined by no limits, unrestrained by the confines of walls and barriers; out in the clear and pleasant sunshine, fanned by the balmy breeze, refreshed through every avenue of sense by the perfume of flowers, the gleam of waters, and the songs of birds, the very poetry of expression, the nectar of loving sympathy gushed from the fountain of each soul, and formed a sea of light which glorified the soul of him who felt its genial, life-imparting flow. You who are in sympathy with great minds, in harmony with all souls earnest for the emancipation of humanity from whatever enthralls and keeps it down, can conceive faintly at best of the grandeur, the beauty, and the joy of such a meeting; countless numbers of gifted, noble souls assembled to give welcome, and to pay tribute to one beloved apostle of truth. No pen, no tongue can do the subject justice.
Outside of the circle of light formed by this celestial company, awed by its brilliancy, surprised by its glory, debarred from enjoying its feast of soul communion because of the remorseless memories within them, I observed a number of faces, faces stamped with the signet of genius as well as intellect, but bearing the impress of infidelity to truth; faces belonging to gifted but ignoble spirits who, when upon earth, stood in high places and publicly denounced the spirits of liberty, of toleration and justice. Today they are repenting for the life spent in ambitious desires.
But this is not all. Coming up from every direction, together and in great numbers, I observed spirits approaching, from the tiny, tottling child to the aged grandsire, singing songs of welcome as they came, the celestial melody of which echoed and re-echoed throughout the spheres, producing a perfect flood of heavenly sweetness that thrilled the soul with ecstasy.
It was a song of gratitude, a mighty pæan of praise, a universal strain of blessing for deliverance; and as it gathered power and rolled on in musical splendor, the sweetness of its tones, the beauty of its expressions, the grandeur of its inspiration clustered and fell in a cascade of divine harmony over and around the soul of him enthroned in our midst, the object of our gathering, the central glory of our galaxy, Wm. Lloyd Garrison.
On, on they came, bearing branches of green and waving palms; garlands of beautiful and odorous blossoms, a profusion of snowy-white lilies, and clusters of royal roses, to strew before his spirit feet.
But sweeter than all other gifts, and dearer far to him who beheld and received them, were the smiles of affection, the tears of gratitude, the whispered blessings showered upon him by these new-comers, the vanguard of this hero; they who were once poor and depressed, scorned, uneducated, and despised, the slaves of tyranny, and used as beasts of burden, but who are now cultured, honored, free!—toilers for the redemption of souls from bondage.
First kneeling before their benefactor came the poor, despised negroes, with hands uplifted in blessing, lips mute from the excess of emotion, eyes eloquent with joy and gratitude. Not only those who had become free before the law while yet on earth, but also those who had died in chains and beneath the lash, came with benedictions for this man who had done so much for their race, and to receive a blessing from his soul, knowing it would impart to them strength, inspiration, and courage.
Following these came hosts of others, men, women, and children, of every race and color, those who had felt the hand of tyranny, injustice, and oppression in some one or more of its many shapes. Red and white, the North American Indian and the Russian serf, delicate women, who had suffered in homes made unhappy by intemperance or by the cruelty of tyrannical brutality,—all came to bless this good man as their benefactor and friend; and their presence brought a joy to his spirit no mortal can understand.
Turning earthward, we perceived great billows of golden light, waves of roseate beauty, clouds of azure and snowy brightness ascending, until they enveloped our guest with their fragrant splendor, irradiating his whole being with a new brilliancy, a new loveliness of expression. Each wave of light that thus arose expressed to us from its peculiar hue and its own delicate aroma the emotion which it represented; the golden hue symbolized truth and earnestness, the roseate love and sympathy, the azure fidelity and gratitude, and the white purity and peace. We perceived these auras mingling and blending together into beautiful harmony, and flowing out from hearts encased in mortal, who, though saddened at the decease of Mr. Garrison, yet sent out after his ascended spirit love, sympathy and blessings.
From the colored people assembled to pay their tribute of love and respect to his memory; from the hearts of earnest women, who speak in solemn sweetness of his helpfulness and cheer; from the souls of good men and women everywhere, who loved and honored him; from the soul of that silver-tongued friend[7] and orator who dares to stand forth and pay honest, just, and loving tribute as a fitting eulogy to his departed friend; from the pure and loving heart of that peaceful poet soul[8] who sings in rhymed sweetness the honor of his friend;—from all these ascended those emanations of light and beauty and fragrance. Musical with the silvery sweetness borne from the souls of friends on earth, they bathed his spirit in a fount of eternal joy and blessing.
7. Wendel Phillips.
8. John G. Whittier.
What need of golden harps and streets of pearl? He treads the flowery paths of spirit life, not idle, not basking in dreamless rest. The energy of power, the moving force of aspiration, the impulse of desire are all his, and already his soul is marching on in the ranks of those lofty ones whose mission is to toil on until man becomes uplifted into the sphere of universal Love; until all wrong shall flee, tyranny die, and liberty and knowledge dwell in the homes of all people.
Press on, noble soul! The victor’s palm is thine, for thou hast witnessed the triumph of justice and right; the crown of glory is thine, for thy soul is crowned with the diadem of perfect Love.
Press on, white-robed soul! for the bright fruition that awaits thee!
The following chapters are devoted to a recital of the experiences of J. C. Prince, as narrated by himself, and published in the Voice of Angels. We have alluded to letters of approval and of interest concerning these experiences received by the editor of that paper from various quarters. The following extract from a published letter of one of these correspondents is here given, for the reason that it was penned by one intimately acquainted with Mr. Prince in earthly life, and familiar with the general style of his compositions:—
Dear Brother,—I have felt like writing to you since you began to publish the spirit experiences of John Critchley Prince, for I have been deeply interested in reading his statements as they appear in your paper. I am from the same part of England where Mr. Prince dwelt when in the body, and was in 1850 a power-loom weaver in the West Mills at Ashton-under-Lyne, where he then resided. I always admired his poems, and, next to Byron, esteemed his poetry the grandest and best I had then read. * * * * * I recognize the mind of John Critchley Prince, the Lancashire poet, in every line of his account of his earth life in your paper; my wife also recognizes it, she having attended select parties where he recited some of his best poems, in Duckenfield and Ashton-under-Lyne, and we read in surprise and astonishment his first contribution to the Voice, not expecting anything of the kind; it was to us most interesting and agreeable. We congratulate you upon the acquisition of so noble a soul to your staff of contributors, and hope he will often give us his rich effusions through your paper.
CHAPTER XXI.
MY LIFE AND EXPERIENCES ON EARTH.
My Friends,—Bearing the fraternal greetings of not only myself but hosts of higher spirits, whose pleasure and duty it is to mingle with you here, and who strive to teach you wisdom and knowledge concerning the highest, grandest phase of human existence, that of the immortal soul, I come laden with the experiences of a modicum of time passed in the super-mundane spheres, and crave an opportunity of unfolding them before you,—not with a desire for earthly recognition or adulation,—but with the hope that I may be enabled to show humanity the reality of those conditions that we aggregate to ourselves while in mortal, and their practical effects on the soul, trusting that I may enlighten you somewhat as to real life, and its mode of manifestation in the upper spheres; for it is time that mortals should understand more of the life to which they are going.
It is now[9] a period of seventy years since I, John Critchley Prince, was born upon the earthly plane, at Wigan, Lancashire, England, of poor, hard-working, honest parents. My only schooling was given me at a Baptist Sunday school, where I received a slight knowledge of reading and writing. But as I read with avidity all sorts of books that happened to fall in my way, I acquired a certain command of language, and knowledge of composition, that served in after years as a noble substitute for the education I was unable to procure, and which I always craved. At the early age of nine years I was obliged to labor for my living as a reed-maker for weavers, at which I was kept busy for sixteen hours per day, and my only opportunity for indulging in the luxury of reading was stolen from sleep.
9. The above was written in the spring of 1878.
In 1821 I accompanied my father to Manchester, where we both obtained employment as machinists. There, for the first time, I came across a copy of Byron’s works, which I devoured with astonishing rapidity, drinking in and retaining all the glory, fire, and beauty of those exquisite lines, and their delicate imagery, that made Byron, despite his faults, one of nature’s poets. What a world of delight, what a scene of enchantment was for the first time opened before me. I seemed to breathe a new atmosphere, one that thrilled my being to its very center; and while reveling in the new fields of splendor I had found, I forgot my poverty and toil; my soul stood forth erect in its conscious dignity and pride, feeling itself to be no longer a poor, toiling slave, but a creature of the universe, with powers and capabilities of expansion and growth. It was then I determined that some day I would sing my songs, and give them forth to the world.
But my life went on in the old routine, still toiling in the shop, and dreaming my dreams all unknown to others, until my father again changed his abode to Hyde, taking me with him. There, in the early flush of awakening manhood, ere nineteen summers had passed over my head, came to my waiting soul that most exquisite of all life’s experiences, “Love’s young dream.” It came upon me like the first sweet dewy blush of early morn, bathing my spirit in a flood-tide of ineffable glory, and thrilling my heart with that ecstatic bliss that I think none but a poetic soul, attuned in harmony with nature and her works, and thus enabled to find happiness in spite of toil or sorrow, can fully realize. And here let me say that to this day, returning as I do from the immortal shore, I thank God for that experience of true, heartfelt emotion. It accompanied me through all my life like the melody of a happy song, and thrilled my despairing soul with its sweetness. It ran through my evil days of wrong-doing like a golden thread, and with its sparkling light revealed to me the glory and honor, the sweetness and purity, of life that might have been mine.
It is useless for me to attempt to depict the image of my charmer to you. To others, she was only a neighbor’s lassie, good enough and pretty in her way, but nothing uncommon. To me she was all that was fair and canny, and as beautiful and good as Eve appeared to her Adam, in all her innocent purity of expression on that first awakening which we are told of in the beautiful allegory of old.
In 1827 I was united to my dear one, and we commenced life anew, as happy as two birds; and, though from my poetic fancy and ardent temperament, I was led to look for more happiness in a life of conjugal felicity than it is possible for mortals to attain, yet, upon the whole, my domestic life was a blessing to my inner self, and in its bowers I wove some of the sweetest garlands that graced my name.
Poverty and toil, with their train of evils, still attended me, and in 1830, work being slack at home, I went to Picardy, leaving my family of wife and three children. The revolution had paralyzed trade in France, and it was impossible to procure employment there; consequently, after experiencing much suffering, I returned home only to find my family in a workhouse, from whence I removed them to a Manchester garret, where we would have starved had it not been for the labors of my wife at power-loom weaving. That was a time of misery. At length I obtained temporary employment, and our prospects began to brighten a little, but through all my life a scarcity of remunerative work seemed to attend me like a fatality.
During my residence at Manchester I began to contribute short poetic pieces to the local papers and periodicals, which, by the kindness of friends, and those powerful in government affairs, whose attention was first called to me by the perusal of my literary productions, were issued in volumes from time to time. The first of these, “Hours with the Muses,” was brought out in 1840, and reached its third edition in two years. The subsequent volumes were: “Dreams and Realities in Verse,” 1847; the “Poetic Rosary,” 1856; “Miscellaneous Poems,” 1861, and one more containing all my principal poems, published the year of my death, 1866. I have been accused of imitating the style of others, but while I may have done so to some extent, I think none of my critics will deny that the ideas expressed, and the thoughts embodied, together with the arrangement of language in my productions, were entirely my own. At the same time I was never satisfied with my efforts; none of them reached my standard of excellence, and they sometimes bore marks of my disappointment and dissatisfaction.
From the disappointments I had encountered in early manhood, I was all too easily induced to hie away from my squalid attic home to the public-house, where, in the company of men who pretended to admire my “genius,” and to court my society, I would spend hours, aye, days, away from home, indulging in sin, thereby seeking to drown the memory of disappointed ambition and blighted hopes. And to this habit, together with a certain unsteadiness of purpose that kept me from holding on to any employment for any length of time, I am indebted for many of my early experiences in spirit life, some account of which I hope to unfold before you, that you may learn how a soul is plunged in darkness from the effects of deeds done in the body, and also how it may progress through degradation and woe to scenes of happiness and peace, if it only desires to do so.
I have been thus prolix concerning my mortal life that you may better understand my experiences in the spirit, and though I may have seemed too personal, it was unavoidable, and I crave your kind indulgence. It is impossible for me to convey to you any adequate conception of the ecstatic bliss I experienced in spirit when lifted above material bonds, and basking in the realm of poetic fancy; of the toil and sorrow of my physical existence, or of my feeling of utter degradation and self-contempt when recovering from a debauch, all of which I was compelled to outlive in spirit.