Telepathy and the Subliminal Self

CHAPTER VII.

During an exciting conversation, or the absorbing consideration of some important subject or problem, the act of walking is performed without will or consciousness; the pianoforte player runs his scales and roulades with marvellous rapidity and precision while reading a book or carrying on an animated conversation. Such actions are performed automatically.

When we come to examine a large number of actions performed in this automatic manner, we observe that they exhibit great diversity in the kind and degree of automatism displayed in their performance. In the cases above mentioned the mind is simply altogether engaged in doing one thing, and at the same time the muscles go on without any conscious direction or supervision, doing altogether another thing, but generally something which they had before been accustomed to do. This is often called absent-mindedness; it is also one of the most common and simple forms of automatism. We set the machine to work, and it goes itself.

Another kind of automatism is that which often appears in connection with peculiar gifts or talents, and is especially associated with genius. It is seen, for example, in the poet and the orator, and in those capable of improvisation, especially in music or in verse. The pianist or organist seats himself at the instrument without the remotest idea of what he is to perform—he simply commences. The theme he is to present, the various melodies, harmonies, changes, and modulations which come at his touch are often as much a surprise and delight to himself as to the most interested listener. Something within him furnishes and formulates the ideas, and causes him to express them artistically upon the instrument of his choice without any effort, or even supervision of his own—he is simply conscious of what is produced—but if he should undertake consciously to guide or in any way interfere with the production, the extraordinary beauty and excellence of the performance would at once cease.

Still another kind of automatism is illustrated in somnambulism. The somnambulist arises from his bed in his sleep, and proceeds to prepare a meal or work out a mathematical problem or write a thesis or a letter, or sometimes to describe distant scenes and events transpiring far away. Here the actions, both physical and mental, are performed, not only without the exercise of the actor’s own choice or control, but he has no knowledge of them whatever. They are altogether outside the domain of his consciousness, and have their origin in some centre of intelligence quite apart from his own ordinary consciousness, and they only appear or find expression through his physical organization. Let us examine a little more closely into these different forms of automatism.

Twenty-five years ago a curious little piece of mechanism—apparently half toy and half an instrument for amateur conjuring—made its appearance in the windows of the toyshops and bookstores of the United States. It was a little heart-shaped piece of mahogany, or other hard wood, about seven inches by five in dimensions, with two casters serving for feet at the base of the heart, while a closely-fitting pencil passed through a hole at the point or apex.

Thus a tripod was formed, moving with perfect ease and freedom in any direction, while the pencil, which formed the third foot, left its plain and continuous tracing wherever the instrument was moved.

This little toy was called Planchette, and wonderful tales were told of its strange performances when rightly used. Evenly adjusted upon a plain wood table, if a properly-constituted person placed his or her finger-tips lightly upon its surface, it soon began to move about, without any muscular effort or any wish or will on the part of the operator; a broad, smooth sheet of paper being placed beneath it upon the table, figures, words, and sentences were plainly traced by the pencil, all in the style of a veritable oracle, and greatly to the delight of the curious, the wonder of the superstitious, and the mystification of people generally.

Not every one, however, could command the services of the modern oracle; only to the touch of a certain few was it responsive; to the many it was still and silent as a sphinx. One in ten, perhaps, could obtain a scrawl; one in twenty, intelligible sentences, and one in a hundred could produce remarkable results. Few persons witnessing its performances under favorable circumstances failed to be interested, but different people looked at it from quite different standpoints. The habitual doubter saw in it only a well-managed trick, which, however, he failed to detect; the spiritualist saw undoubted evidence of spiritual manifestations, while the great majority of common-sense people saw writing done, evidently without will or effort on the part of the writer, producing messages of every grade, from the most commonplace twaddle, foolishness, and even falsehood, to the exhibition of intelligence of a high order, a sparkling wit, and a perception of events, past, present, and sometimes even of those still in the future, most acute and unusual. What was the cause of these involuntary movements, or whence came the messages written, they did not know, and few even cared to speculate.

That was twenty-five years ago, and the two theories already alluded to were about the only ones adduced to account for the phenomena. Dr. Carpenter’s theory of “unconscious cerebration” and “unconscious muscular action” did not cover the ground; there was altogether too much cerebration not to have a consciousness connected with it in some way. The theory did not cover the facts. Twenty-five years have failed to detect the long-talked-of trick of the skeptic; they have also failed to substantiate the claim of spiritualists, and Planchette-writing is almost as much a mystery as ever.

Fairly studied, then, what does Planchette really do? From a physical standpoint its performances are simply automatic writing or drawing. To deny the automatic character of the movements of Planchette at this day is simply absurd. That writing can be produced with it voluntarily, no one doubts, but that it generally is produced automatically, that is, without the choice or control of the writers, and without their knowledge of what is being written, it would be waste of time here to attempt to prove; the theory of fraud is untenable, and the real question at issue is the psychical one, namely, whence come the messages which it brings?

These messages may be divided into three general classes: (1) Those which are trivial or irrelevant. (2) Those which show intelligence and have some unmistakable relation to the subject of which they purport to give information, but all of which is known either to the writers or some person present. (3) Those which bring, or profess to bring, information unknown in any way, either to the writer or any person present.

The first of these divisions need not detain us, though it contains a very large share of all the messages received, as it simply illustrates the fact of automatism, which is equally well illustrated in the other classes of messages, which are of a more interesting character. The second class, namely, messages which show intelligence and have an unmistakable relation to the subject concerning which information is asked, and yet contain nothing beyond the knowledge of the writers or of persons present, is also very large.

The following is a sketch of my own first experience with Planchette. I may remark that subsequent trials brought out the fact that for myself alone Planchette will do nothing; it will not even move a hair’s-breadth; but when, as is often the case, two persons are needed for success, I am often selected by Planchette to assist when it is consulted in the matter. On one occasion, I was calling at a friend’s house, in the spring of 1868. Planchette was then much in vogue, and one stood on a side-table in the room. A young daughter of my friend—a school-girl fifteen or sixteen years of age—remarked that Planchette would move and sometimes even write for her, and she asked me to join her in a trial. I consented, and, to our surprise, the moment our fingers were placed lightly upon the instrument it moved off with great energy. Questions were then asked, and the answers were written with promptness and intelligence, greatly to the amusement of the company. Desiring to know who our mysterious correspondent might be, we politely said, “Planchette, will you kindly inform us who it is that writes these answers?” to which it replied, “Peter Stuyvesant.”

“Old Governor Stuyvesant?” we asked.

“Yes,” was the reply.

Now it so happened that a short time previous to our séance the old pear tree, known as the Stuyvesant pear tree, which had stood for more than two hundred years at the corner of Thirteenth Street and Third Avenue, having become decayed and tottering, was thrown down by a blow from a passing truck and had been ruthlessly chopped to pieces by workmen; and the event had been generally noticed and commented upon. Accordingly we replied,

“We are very glad to hear from you, Governor. How about the old pear tree?”

To this a reply was promptly written, but neither of us had the slightest idea what it might be. The young lady took up the paper and commenced to read, but was shocked and greatly confused to find, clearly written, in a hand quite foreign to us both, “It’s a —— —— shame!” the blanks here being filled by the most emphatic expletives, and without the slightest abbreviation.

Another excellent Planchette-writer was Miss V., a friend of the family, who was spending a few days at my house in March, 1889. She was a young German lady of unusual intelligence, vivacity, and good sound sense. She knew of spiritualism only by passing remarks which she might have heard, and had never either seen or heard of Planchette. She was herself a somnambulist, or, rather, a somniloquist, for she never walked in her sleep, but talked with the greatest ease, carrying on long conversations without the slightest memory afterwards of what had been said. She was also an excellent hypnotic subject, and the suggested effects of medicines were much more prompt and certain than the effect of the medicines themselves, when used in the ordinary way.

For experiment one evening I proposed that we should try Planchette. As soon as our fingers were placed upon the instrument, it moved off across the table with the greatest promptness, and at once it replied to questions with unusual appropriateness and intelligence. The astonishment of Miss V. was altogether too profound and too apparent to admit of any suspicion of collusion on her part, and she had seen that the board would not move for me alone, yet she could not be persuaded that when we wrote together there was not some trick, and that I did not move the board voluntarily to produce the writing.

At length a message came concerning one of her own relatives, of whom she was sure that I could have no knowledge whatever, and she was convinced that at all events that message could not have originated with me. Accordingly she became a most valuable and interested partner in the experiments, and the chief medium through whom Planchette gave its communications.

Our sittings continued four or five consecutive evenings, and hundreds of communications and answers to questions were given by different intelligences or personalities, with entirely different modes of expression and different kinds of writing; some were religious, some philosophical, some were anxious to give advice, and some were profane; this last-mentioned phase appearing especially if we were persistent in inquiring too closely into the identity and former condition of the communicating personality.

On one occasion a message was written which was so strange in its appearance that none of us could at first make it out. At length we discovered some familiar negro phrase, and applying this key, we found we had a message of regular plantation negro talk, bearing a very strong resemblance to Uncle Remus’s talk to the little boy, which some of us had just been reading. On asking who the “intelligence” was, it wrote, “Oh, I’se a good ole coon.”

Neither Miss V. nor myself had ever heard such a dialect spoken, nor knew that any sort of person of the negro race was ever called a “coon.”

On another occasion, Miss V. was anxious to know and asked Planchette if a relative of hers, whom she named, was staying in town that night. The answer came, “Yes.” “Where is he stopping?” Answer: “At the H. House.” “What is he doing now?” Answer: “He has just finished his dinner, settled his bill at the cashier’s desk, and is now walking up Broadway with his cousin.” She afterward learned that this information was correct in every particular.

On the last evening of our experiments the force displayed in the writing was something surprising. Miss V. always experienced a certain amount of pain in her arms while writing, as if she were holding the electrodes of a battery through which a mild current was passing. On this occasion the pain was almost unbearable, so that she frequently cried out, and was obliged to remove her hands from the board for relief.

The writing was so violent that it could be heard in the next room, and at times it seemed as though the board would surely be broken. Seeing so much force exhibited, I allowed my fingers merely to touch the surface of the board, but so lightly that my hands did not move with it at all, but simply retained contact, the board sliding along beneath them. The writing continued with just the same violence. I then called the attention of Miss V. to what I was doing, and requested her to adjust her hands in a similar manner. She did so, and the instrument continued to write several words, with gradually diminishing force, moving under our hands, while our hands did not follow at all the movements of the instrument, until at length it gradually stopped, like a machine when the power is turned off.

Miss V. does not reside in the city, but while I was writing this chapter she was in town, and spent a few hours at my house. We were both anxious to try Planchette again. When we placed our fingers upon the board, the writing commenced at once, and intelligent answers were given to about twenty questions, some of the answers, especially those relating to distant friends, being quite contrary to our impressions and our hopes, but they were afterward found to be true.

We remembered the experiment just related, which was made more than four years ago. The force on this occasion was not at all to be compared with what it was then, but we said, “Now, Planchette, we want to ask a favor of you; will you repeat the experiment of four years ago, and move under our hands, while our hands remain stationary?” It replied, “Since you are so polite, I will try; perhaps I can move it a little.”

We then planted our elbows firmly upon the table, curved our wrists, so as to allow the tips of our fingers to rest in the lightest possible manner upon the surface of the board. Four of us were watching with great interest for the result. After a moment’s hesitation, slowly the board moved nearly an inch and stopped, but the movement was so obvious and decided, and without any movement of our hands, that a simultaneous shout went up from us all, and “Well done, Planchette!” The experiment was successfully repeated several times, the tracing of the pencil in each case showing a movement of from one to two inches.

A most valuable series of experiments in Planchette-writing was recently carried on by the late Rev. Mr. Newnham, vicar of Maker, Davenport, England, a member of the Society for Psychical Research, together with his wife. They were fully reported to Mr. F. W. H. Myers, secretary of the society.

The experiments extended over a period of eight months, and more than three hundred questions and answers were recorded. Mrs. Newnham alone was the operator, and the important peculiarity in these experiments was, that although quite in her normal condition, yet in no instance here related did she see the question written to which she wrote the answer, nor did she hear it asked, nor did she have any conscious knowledge, either of question or answer, until the answer was written and read. She sat upon a low chair at a low table some eight or ten feet from her husband, while he sat at a rather high table, with his back to her. In this position he silently wrote out the questions, it being impossible for her to see either the paper, the motion of his hand, or the expression of his face, and their good faith, as well as that of many intelligent witnesses, is pledged to the truth of this statement.

Mr. Newnham remarks that Planchette commenced to move immediately upon the first trial, and often the answer to questions prepared as just described was commenced before the question was fully written out.

At their first sitting, finding that the instrument would write, he proposed, silently, in writing, six questions, three the answers to which might be known to Mrs. Newnham, and three relating to his own private affairs, and of which the answers could not have been known to her. All six were immediately answered in a manner denoting complete intelligence, both of the question and the proper answer. He then wrote: “Write down the lowest temperature here this winter.” Answer: “8.” The actual lowest temperature had been 7.6 degrees, so 8 was the nearest whole degree, but Mrs. Newnham remarked at once that had she been asked the question she should have written 7, and not 8, because she did not remember the fraction, but did remember that the figure was 7 something.

Again it was asked, “Is it the operator’s brain, or an immaterial spirit that moves Planchette? Answer ‘brain’ or ‘force.’”

“Will.”

“Is it the will of a living person or of an immaterial spirit? Answer ‘force’ or ‘spirit.’”

“Wife.”

“Give, first, the wife’s Christian name, and then my favorite name for her.” This was accurately done.

“What is your own name?”

“Only wife.”

“We are not quite sure of the meaning of your answer. Explain.”

“Wife.”

“Who are you that writes?”

“Wife.”

“Does no one tell wife what to write? If so, who?”

“Spirit.”

“Whose spirit?”

“Wife’s brain.”

“But how does wife’s brain know certain secrets?”

“Wife’s spirit unconsciously guides.”

“Can you foresee the future?”

“No.”

On another occasion it was asked: “Write out the prayer used at the advancement of a Mark Master Mason.”

“Answer: Almighty Ruler of the Universe and Architect of all Worlds, we beseech Thee to accept this, our brother, whom we have this day received into our most honorable company of Mark Master Masons. Grant him to be a worthy member of our brotherhood, and may he be in his own person a perfect mirror of all Masonic virtues. Grant that all our doings may be to Thy honor and glory and to the welfare of all mankind.”

Mr. Newnham adds: “This prayer was written off instantaneously and very rapidly. I must say that no prayer in the slightest degree resembling it is made use of in the ritual of any Masonic degree, and yet it contains more than one strictly accurate technicality connected with the degree of Mark Master Mason. My wife has never seen any Masonic prayers, whether in ‘Carlile,’ or any other real or spurious ritual of the Masonic Order.”

The whole report shows the same instantaneous appreciation of the written questions, by the intelligence and appropriateness with which the answer was framed, though Mrs. Newnham never had any idea what the question was until after the answer was written and read, and the answers very often were entirely contrary to the prejudices and expectations of both the persons engaged in the experiments.

The following case may fairly be placed in the third class of messages, namely, those conveying intelligence which seems to be beyond the possible knowledge of the writer or of any person present. It is a well authenticated and interesting example of Planchette-writing, reported to Mr. Myers, the reporter being Mr. Hensleigh Wedgwood, a cousin and brother-in-law of Charles Darwin, and himself a savant of no small reputation. Two ladies, sisters, whom he designates as Mrs. R. and Mrs. V., were for many years intimate and valued friends of Mr. Wedgwood, and it was in co-operation with one or the other of these ladies that the results to be noted, along with much other interesting matter, were obtained.

Sitting alone, neither of the ladies nor Mr. Wedgwood was able to obtain any results at all with Planchette; the board remained absolutely motionless. The two ladies together could obtain no writing, but only wavy lines, made rapidly, like a person writing at full speed, but with Mr. Wedgwood co-operating with either of the ladies the writing was intelligible, but was much stronger and more vivacious with Mrs. V. than with Mrs. R. The following extracts are from Mrs. R.’s journal of a sitting, June 26, 1889:

“With Mr. W. and Mrs. R. at the board, Planchette writes: ‘A spirit is here who thinks he will be able to write, through the medium. Hold very steady, and he will try first to draw.’ We turned the page, and a sketch was made, rudely enough, of course, but with much apparent care. Planchette then wrote:

“‘Very sorry can’t do better; was meant for test; must write for you instead. (Signed) J. G.’

“We did not fully understand this drawing; and Mr. W. asked, ‘Will J. G. try again?’ which it did. Below the drawing it wrote: ‘Now look.’ We did, and this time clearly comprehended the arm and sword. Mr. W. asked, ‘What does the drawing represent?’

“‘Something given to me.’

“Mrs. R. asked, ‘Are you a man or a woman?’

“‘A man—John G.’

“Mr. W. asked, ‘How was it given to you?’

“‘On paper and other things.’

“Mr. W. ‘We don’t know J. G. Have you anything to do with us?’

“‘No connection.’

“Mr. W. said he knew of a J. Gifford, and wondered if that was the name.

“‘Not Gifford; Gurwood.’

“Mr. W. suggested that he had been killed in storming some fort.

“‘I wish I had died fighting.’

“‘Were you a soldier?’

“‘I was in the army.’

“‘Can you say what rank?’

“‘No; it was the pen did for me, not the sword.’

“We suggested that he was an author who had failed or been maligned.

“‘I did not fail. I was not slandered. Too much for me after—the pen was too much for me after my wound.’

“Asked to repeat, it wrote: ‘I was wounded in the Peninsula. It will be forty-four years next Christmas Day since I killed myself—I killed myself. John Gurwood.’”

Leaving Mrs. R.’s diary, the following is the account Mr. Wedgwood wrote of the séance at the time:—

“June 26, 1889.—Had a sitting at Planchette with Mrs. R. this morning. Planchette said there was a spirit there who thought it could draw if we wished it. We said we should be glad if he would try. Accordingly Planchette made a rude attempt at a hand and arm proceeding from an embattled wall and holding a sword. A second attempt made the subject clearer. Planchette said it was meant for a test. The spirit signed it ‘J. G.’ No connection of ours, he said. We gradually elicited that his name was John Gurwood, who was wounded in the Peninsula in 1810, and killed himself on Christmas Day, 1845. It was not the wound but the pen that did it.

“July 5, 1889.—I made the foregoing memorandum the same day, having very little expectation that there would be any verification.

“H. Wedgwood.”

Quoting again from Mrs. R.’s journal: “Friday, Sept. 27.—Mr. Wedgwood came, and we had two sittings—in the afternoon and evening. I think the same spirit wrote throughout, beginning without signature, but when asked the name, writing John Gurwood. The effort, at first incoherent, developed afterward into the following sentences: ‘Sword—when I broke in, on the table with plan of fortress—belonged to my prisoner—I will tell you his name to-night. It was on the table when I broke in. He did not expect me. I took him unawares. He was in his room, looking at a plan, and the sword was on the table. Will try and let you know how I took the sword to-night.’

“In the evening, after dinner: ‘I fought my way in. His name was Banier—Banier—Banier. The sword was lying on a table by a written scheme of defence. Oh, my head! Banier had a plan written out for defence of the fortress. It was lying on the table, and his sword was by it.... Look! I have tried to tell you what you can verify.’”

Mr. Wedgwood reports his verification as follows:—

“When I came to verify the messages of Planchette, I speedily found that Col. Gurwood, the editor of the duke’s dispatches, led the forlorn hope at the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo in 1812 (note Planchette’s error in date), and received a wound in his skull from a musket-ball, ‘which affected him for the remainder of his life,’ (Annual Register, 1845). In recognition of the bravery shown on that occasion, he received a grant of arms in 1812, registered in the College of Arms as having been passed ‘upon the narrative that he (Capt. G.) had led the forlorn hope at Ciudad Rodrigo, and that after the storming of the fortress the Duke of Wellington presented him with the sword of the governor who had been taken prisoner by Capt. Gurwood.’”

The services thus specified were symbolized in the crest, described in the “Book of Family Crests”: “Out of a mural coronet, a castle ruined in the centre, and therefrom an arm in armor embowed, holding a cimeter.”

It was evidently this crest that Planchette was trying to sketch. The Annual Register of 1845 also confirms Planchette’s assertion that Col. Gurwood killed himself on Christmas Day of that year, and adds: “It is thought that this laborious undertaking (editing the dispatches) produced a relaxation of the nervous system and consequent depression of spirits. In a fit of despondency the unfortunate gentleman terminated his life.” Compare Planchette: “Pen was too much for me after the wound.”

Here are described four instances of automatic writing by means of Planchette. Two of these cases were reported to Mr. Myers, who has thoroughly canvassed them as regards their authenticity, as well as the ability and good faith of the persons concerned, both in the writing and reporting; and he has made use of them in his own able argument upon the same subject.

In the other cases the messages were written under my own observation, my own hands also being upon the board. In the case of Mr. and Mrs. Newnham the intelligence which furnished the messages disclaimed altogether the aid of any spirit except “wife’s spirit,” which did “unconsciously guide.” In the case reported by Mr. Wedgwood and Mrs. R., the intelligence distinctly claimed to be from Col. John Gurwood, who had died nearly fifty years before. In my own cases, in that written with the co-operation of my friend’s school-girl daughter, the intelligence claimed to be that of Peter Stuyvesant, while in those written with Miss V., various names were given, none of which was recognized as belonging to a person of whom we had ever had any knowledge, and all bore abundant evidence of being fictitious. One, indeed, professed to be “Beecher,” and declined to give an opinion on the prospective trotting qualities of a colt, on the ground that he was “no horseman”; and in our later experiments, when closely questioned, it distinctly stated that the intelligence came from the mind of Miss V. herself.

Let us analyze these messages a little further. Those written by Mr. and Mrs. Newnham were remarkable, not only because Mrs. Newnham was writing without any conscious knowledge of what was being written, but neither had she any conscious knowledge of the questions to which she was writing the answers. Evidently, then, her own ordinary consciousness was not acting at all in the matter regarding either the questions or answers, for she was fully awake, in her normal condition, and perfectly competent to judge of her own mental state and actions. Nevertheless, there was some intelligence acting reasonably and consciously, and making use of her hand to register its thoughts.

In a former chapter I have described and illustrated a somewhat unusual mental phenomenon, to which the name thought-transference, or telepathy, has been given; and in another I have endeavored to demonstrate the existence of a secondary or subliminal self or personality.

If I mistake not, it is here, in these two comparatively little known and, until recently, little studied, psychical conditions, that we shall find the key to message-bearing automatism, as well as other manifestations of intelligence which have heretofore been considered mysterious and occult. Applying this key to the Newnham Planchette-writing, the secondary personality or subliminal self of Mrs. Newnham took immediate cognizance of the questions silently and secretly written out by her husband, although they were utterly unknown to her ordinary or primary self, and made use of her hands to communicate the answer.

The answer, also, was of course unknown to her primary self, but her subliminal self, in addition to its own private and constant stock of knowledge and opinions, had the advantage of more subtle means of securing other knowledge necessary for a proper answer, and so sought it in her husband’s mind, or wherever it could be obtained. The sources of information accessible to the subliminal self, through means analogous to those which have been named—thought-transference and telepathy—are certainly various, and their limit is not yet known. We may mention, however, in this connection, besides the mind of the automatic writer—the mind of the questioner, and also the minds of other persons present, in any or all of which may be stored up knowledge or impressions of which the ordinary consciousness or memory retains no trace; it may be a scene witnessed in childhood; a newspaper paragraph read many years ago; a casual remark overheard, but not even noticed—all these and many more are sources of information upon which the subliminal self may draw for answers, which, when written out by the automatist, seem absolutely marvellous, not to say miraculous or supernatural.

Thus, the prayer at the ceremony of the advancement of a Mark Master Mason, although language entirely unfamiliar to Mrs. Newnham, was perfectly familiar to her husband, who was himself a Mason, and, I believe, a chaplain in the order; and while the form was not one actually used, it contained strictly accurate technicalities, and would have been perfectly appropriate to such an occasion.

The messages written by Mr. Wedgwood and Mrs. R. profess to come directly from the spirit of Colonel Gurwood; but without absolutely discarding that theory, having the key to which I have referred, let us see if such a supposition is necessary to explain the facts.

It may be conceded at once that neither Mr. Wedgwood nor either of the ladies with whom he wrote had any conscious knowledge of Col. Gurwood—his military career, or his sad taking off; but they were all intelligent people. John Gurwood, as it turned out, was a noted man; he was an officer in the Peninsular War, under the Duke of Wellington, performed an act of special bravery and daring, in the performance of which he was severely wounded, and for which he was afterward granted a coat of arms. He was also afterward chosen to edit the duke’s dispatches. All this was recorded in the Annual Register for 1845, soon after Gurwood’s death, together with a description in the language of heraldry of the crest or coat of arms which had been granted him many years before.

It is scarcely possible that such an event would not have been noticed in the newspapers at the time of Gurwood’s death, and nothing is more probable than that some of these intelligent persons had read these accounts, or as children heard them read or referred to, though they may now have been entirely absent from their ordinary consciousness and memory. At all events, the subliminal self or secondary consciousness of Mrs. R., whom Planchette designates as “the medium,” or of Mr. Wedgwood, may have come into relationship with the sources of information necessary to furnish the messages which it communicated, and these sources may have been the knowledge or impressions unconsciously received many years before by some of those present, the generally diffused knowledge of these facts which doubtless prevailed in the community at the time of Gurwood’s death, and the full printed accounts of these events, many copies of which were extant.

From the description of Gurwood’s coat of arms the idea could easily have been obtained which Planchette rudely represented in drawing, constituting what is called a test, and also the other knowledge concerning his military career and death which appeared in the various messages.

Regarding cases coming under my own observation, the incident relating to Peter Stuyvesant’s pear tree was well known to us both, and had only recently been a matter of general conversation, and all of those present had a more or less distinct idea of Peter Stuyvesant himself, derived from Irving’s “Knickerbocker’s History of New York.”

Of the cases observed with Miss V., as before stated, nearly all the names given of “authorities,” as we called them, were evidently fictitious, scarcely one being recognized, and none were of persons with whom we had any connection, and some did not claim any other origin than our subliminal consciousness, as was also the case with messages written by Mrs. Newnham.

If, then, some of the messages are surely the work of the subliminal self of the writer, aided by its more acute and more far-reaching perceptions, and if nearly all may be accounted for in the same way, the probability that all such messages have the same origin is greatly increased, and in the same degree the necessity for the spiritualistic theory is diminished, since it is evident that of two theories for explaining a new fact we should accept that one which better harmonizes with facts already established.

CHAPTER VIII.

The same results also occur with some persons when the pencil is simply held in the usual manner for writing. The hand then being allowed to remain perfectly passive, automatic movements first take place—the hand moving round and round or across the paper, and then follows writing or drawing, as the case may be. Some persons produce written messages in mirror writing—that is, reversed—or so written that it can only be easily read by causing it to be reflected in a mirror. This kind of writing is sometimes produced on the first attempt of the experimenter, and even by young children without any experience or knowledge of the subject.

As previously shown, different strata of consciousness may, and in some well observed cases, most certainly do, exist in the same individual. In these well observed cases, each separate consciousness had its own distinct chain of memories and its own characteristics and peculiarities; and these distinct chains of memories and well defined characteristics constitute, so far as we can judge, distinct personalities. At all events, they are centres of intelligence and mental activity which are altogether independent of the ordinary, everyday consciousness or personality, and often altogether superior to it. Accordingly this other centre of intelligence and mental activity has been named the second personality or subliminal self; that is, a consciousness or self or personality beneath the threshold, so to speak, of the ordinary or primary self.

Ansel Bourne and A. J. Brown were separate and distinct personalities, having entirely distinct, and apparently unrelated, chains of memory, distinct characteristics, opinions, and peculiarities, acting at different times through the same body.

Ansel Bourne was the usual or primary personality; A. J. Brown was a second personality, a separate focus of intelligence and mental activity, a subliminal self. What the exact relationship existing between these two personalities may be we do not attempt at present to explain; but that they exist and act independent of each other we know. In other instances, as, for example, that of Madame B., the hypnotic subject of Prof. Janet of Havre, and also that of Alma Z., we have been able to observe these separate centres of intelligence, these distinct personalities, both in action at the same time, upon altogether separate and unrelated subjects. Sometimes the subliminal self takes full control, making itself the active ruling personality to the entire exclusion of the primary self; and sometimes it only sends messages to the primary or ordinary self, by suggestion, mental pictures, or vivid impressions made upon the organs of sense and producing the sensation of seeing, hearing, or touch.

To illustrate these different methods of communication between the ordinary and subliminal self, suppose an individual, whom we will designate as X., manifests this peculiar condition of double consciousness. As we have seen, the subliminal self often takes cognizance of things concerning which the ordinary self is entirely ignorant, but it may not always have the power to impress the primary self with this knowledge, nor to take full possession, so as to be able to impart it to others by speaking or writing. This is the usual condition of most persons; with some peculiarly constituted persons, however, the possibility of being so impressed surely exists, and with them these impressions are direct and vivid.

Our individual, X., is one in whom this ability to receive impressions in this manner exists.

To illustrate: Suppose first that X. is asleep, is taking his after-dinner nap, and that children playing in his grounds have set fire to some straw in close proximity to buildings near by. No one notices the danger. X. is asleep, but his subliminal self is on the alert—like the second self of the somnambulist or subject in the hypnotic trance—it sees that unless checked there will be a destructive conflagration. It impresses upon X. a dream of fire so vivid that he wakes in alarm, discovers the mischief and averts the danger. Or suppose X. to be awake and sitting in his office in a distant part of the house, quite unconscious of anything unusual. All at once he becomes restless, unable to pursue his work; he is impelled to leave his desk, to go out, to walk in the direction of the fire, and thus become aware of the danger. Or again, that X. is an automatic writer—that paper and pencil are at hand and he receives a sudden impulse to write. He has no knowledge of what he is writing, but upon examination he finds it a warning to look after the threatening fire; or still again, that he hears a voice distinctly saying, “Look out for fire;” or sees a distinct picture of the place and circumstances of the fire; all these are possible methods by which the subliminal self might communicate to X., the ordinary personality, the danger which was threatening.

Automatism, therefore, does not necessarily take the form of written messages, but may take any form by which the subliminal self can best transmit its message to the primary self—or in the same way from one person to another, whether by words written or spoken automatically—by voices heard, by action influenced, as when X. is influenced to leave his office and walk, or the mischievous Léontine unties the apron of Léonie, or by vision or vivid mental picture, as when Peter sees a “sheet let down by the four corners,” from which he learns an important lesson.

The messages received automatically may not all be true; they may be trivial and even false; on the other hand, they may not only be true and important but they may convey information quite out of the power of the primary self to acquire by any ordinary use of the senses. Nor need we be greatly surprised at this; it is a normal function of the subliminal self; with some persons that function is active, with others it is dormant, but in all, at some moment in life, circumstances may arise which shall awaken that function into activity.

A remarkable example of messages received by automatic writing is that furnished by Mr. W. T. Stead, occurring in his own experience. Mr. Stead is a well-known author, journalist, and the editor of the London edition of the Review of Reviews, in which magazine his experiences have, on various occasions, been published.

As he regards the matter, there is an invisible intelligence which controls his hand, but the persons with whom he is in communication are alive and visible—for instance his own son on various occasions, also persons in his employ, writers upon his magazine, casual acquaintances, and even strangers.

None of these persons participate in any active or conscious way in the communications. Mr. F. W. H. Myers has often conversed with Mr. Stead and with several of his involuntary correspondents in relation to the phenomena, and the facts are so simple and open, and the persons connected with them so intelligent and evidently sincere and truthful, that no doubt can be entertained as to the reality of the incidents, however they may be interpreted.

One of the most remarkable of these involuntary correspondents is known as Miss A., a lady employed by him in literary work of an important character. She testifies in regard to the matter: “I, the subject of Mr. Stead’s automatic writing, known as ‘A.,’ testify to the correctness of the statements made in this report. I would like to add what I think more wonderful than many things Mr. Stead has cited, namely, the correctness with which, on several occasions, he has given the names of persons whom he has never seen nor heard of before. I remember on one occasion a person calling upon me with a very uncommon name. The next day I saw Mr. Stead and he read to me what his hand had written of the visit of that person, giving the name absolutely correctly. Mr. Stead has never seen that person, and until then had no knowledge of his existence.”

The following is a description of a journey made by Miss A., automatically written by Mr. Stead, he at the time not having the slightest knowledge where she was, what she was doing, or that she intended making any such journey. The slight inaccuracies are noted:—

“I went to the Waterloo station by the twelve o’clock train, and got to Hampton Court about one. When we got out we went to a hotel and had dinner. It cost nearly three shillings. After dinner I went to the picture-galleries. I was very much pleased with the paintings of many of the ceilings. I was interested in most of the portraits of Lely. After seeing the galleries I went into the grounds. How beautiful they are! I saw a great vine, that lovely English garden, the avenue of elms, the canal, the great water sheet, the three views, the fountain, the gold fishes, and then lost myself in the maze. I got home about nine o’clock. It cost me altogether about six shillings.” On communicating this to Miss A. she found that everything was correct with two exceptions. She went down by the two o’clock train instead of the twelve, and got to Hampton Court about three. The dinner cost her two and elevenpence, which was nearly three shillings, and the total was six and threepence. The places were visited in the order mentioned.

A second instance was where the needs of a comparative stranger were written out by Mr. Stead’s hand. Mr. Stead goes on to say: “Last February I met a correspondent in a railway carriage with whom I had a very casual acquaintance. Knowing that he was in considerable distress, our conversation fell into a more or less confidential train in which I divined that his difficulty was chiefly financial. I said I did not know whether I could be of any help to him, but asked him to let me know exactly how things stood—what were his debts, his expectations, and so forth. He said he really could not tell me, and I refrained from pressing him.

“That night I received a letter from him apologizing for not having given the information, but saying he really could not. I received that letter about ten o’clock, and about two o’clock next morning, before going to sleep, I sat down in my bedroom and said: ‘You did not like to tell me your exact financial condition face to face, but now you can do so through my hand. Just write and tell me exactly how things stand. How much money do you owe?’ My hand wrote, ‘My debts are £90.’ In answer to a further inquiry whether the figures were accurately stated, ‘ninety pounds’ was then written in full. ‘Is that all?’ I asked. My hand wrote ‘Yes, and how I am to pay I do not know.’ ‘Well,’ I said; ‘how much do you want for that piece of property you wish to sell?’ My hand wrote, ‘What I hope is, say, £100 for that. It seems a great deal, but I must get money somehow. Oh, if I could get anything to do—I would gladly do anything!’ ‘What does it cost you to live?’ I asked. My hand wrote, ‘I do not think I could possibly live under £200 a year. If I were alone I could live on £50 per annum.’

“The next day I made a point of seeking my friend. He said: ‘I hope you were not offended at my refusing to tell you my circumstances, but really I do not think it would be right to trouble you with them.’ I said: ‘I am not offended in the least, and I hope you will not be offended when I tell you what I have done.’ I then explained this automatic, telepathic method of communication. I said: ‘I do not know whether there is a word of truth in what my hand has written. I hesitate at telling you, for I confess I think the sum which was written as the amount of your debts cannot be correctly stated; it seems to me much too small, considering the distress in which you seemed to be; therefore I will read you that first, and if that is right I will read you the rest; but if it is wrong I will consider it is rubbish and that your mind in no way influenced my hand.’ He was interested but incredulous. But, I said, ‘Before I read you anything will you form a definite idea in your mind as to how much your debts amount to; secondly, as to the amount of money you hope to get for that property; thirdly, what it costs you to keep up your establishment with your relatives; and fourthly, what you could live upon if you were by yourself?’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I have thought of all those things.’ I then read out. ‘The amount of your debts is about £90.’ He started. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is right.’ Then I said: ‘As that is right I will read the rest. You hope to get £100 for your property.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that was the figure that was in my mind, though I hesitated to mention it for it seems too much.’ ‘You say you cannot live upon less than £200 a year with your present establishment.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is exactly right.’ ‘But if you were by yourself you could live on £50 a year.’ ‘Well,’ said he, ‘a pound a week was what I had fixed in my mind.’ Therefore there had been a perfectly accurate transcription of the thoughts in the mind of a comparative stranger written out with my own hand at a time when we were at a distance of some miles apart, within a few hours of the time when he had written apologizing for not having given me the information for which I had asked.”

In the following case the correspondent is a foreign lady, doing some work for the Review, but whom Mr. Stead had only met once in his life. On the occasion now referred to be was to meet her at Redcar Station at about three o’clock in the afternoon. He was stopping at a house ten minutes’ walk from the station, and it occurred to him that “about three o’clock,” as mentioned in her letter, might mean before three; and it was now only twenty minutes of three. No timetable was at hand: he simply asked her to use his hand to tell him what time the train was due. This was done without ever having had any communication with her upon the subject of automatic writing. She (by Mr. Stead’s hand) immediately wrote her name, and said the train was due at Redcar Station at ten minutes of three. Accordingly he had to leave at once—but before starting he said, “Where are you at this moment?” The answer came, “I am in the train at Middlesborough railway station, on my way from Hartpool to Redcar.”

On arriving at the station he consulted the timetable and found the train was due at 2:52. The train, however, was late. At three o’clock it had not arrived; at five minutes past three, getting uneasy at the delay, he took paper and pencil in his hand and asked where she was.

Her name was at once written and there was added: “I am in the train rounding the curve before you come to Redcar Station—I will be with you in a minute.”

“Why the mischief have you been so late?” he mentally asked. His hand wrote, “We were detained at Middlesborough so long—I don’t know why.”

He put the paper in his pocket and walked to the end of the platform just as the train came in.

He immediately went to his friend and exclaimed:—“How late you are! What on earth has been the matter?” To which she replied: “I do not know; the train stopped so long at Middlesborough—it seemed as if it never would start.”

This narrative was fully corroborated by the lady who was the passenger referred to.

In all these cases it should be noticed the so-called correspondent took no active part in the experiment, was not conscious of communicating anything, nor of trying to do so; nor is there any evidence of a third party or any intervening intelligence or personality; but the subliminal self of the writer went forth and acquired the needed information and transferred it automatically to the primary self, as was the case in the Planchette-writing of Mrs. Newnham and the Wedgwood cases.

During the years 1874 and 1875 I had under my care Mrs. Juliette T. Burton, the wife of a physician who came to New York from the South at the close of the war. She was a woman of refinement, education, and excellent literary ability. She wrote with unusual facility, and her articles were accepted by newspapers and magazines, and brought her a considerable income. I knew her well, and her honesty, good faith, and strong common-sense were conspicuous. She died of phthisis in 1875. It is to her varied automatic powers as illustrating our subject that I would call attention.

Many of her best articles were prepared without conscious effort of her own, either physical or mental; she simply prepared pencils and paper, became passive, and her hand wrote. Sometimes she had a plan to write up a certain subject, and sometimes the subject as well as the matter came automatically.

She knew that she was writing, but of what was written she had no knowledge until she read her own manuscript.

She had no talent for drawing nor for painting; she could not, in her ordinary condition, draw a face, nor even a leaf, which could be recognized. Soon after coming to New York she began to see faces and other pictures before her on the blank paper and to sketch them with marvellous rapidity and exactness, all in the same automatic manner as that in which she did her writing. These drawings were not crude, but were strongly characteristic and were delicately done with ordinary lead pencils, several of which were prepared beforehand with sharp delicate points. I remember one drawing in particular—a man’s head about half life-size, with full flowing beard. At first glance there was nothing peculiar about the picture, except that one would say that it was a strong and characteristic face; but on close examination in a strong light, and especially through a reading-glass, the beard was seen to be made up entirely of exceedingly minute faces of sheep; every face was perfectly formed and characteristic, and there were thousands of them. It was done with the same wonderful rapidity which characterized all her automatic work.

Later she was impelled to procure colors, brushes, and all the materials for painting in oil; and although she had never even seen that kind of work done, and had not the slightest idea how to mix the colors to produce desired tints, nor how to apply them to produce desired effects, yet at a single sitting in a darkened room she produced a head of singular strength and character and possessing at least some artistic merit. Certainly no one could imagine it to be the first attempt of a person entirely without natural talent for either drawing or painting. It was done on common brown cardboard, and it has been in my possession for the past twenty-two years. The reproduction which appears as frontispiece to the present volume gives some idea of its character.

The impression received by the painter was that it was the portrait of an Englishman named Nathan Early.[1] No date was assigned.

As a further illustration of her automatic power, it may be mentioned that another uncultivated faculty developed itself, namely, the power of referring to past events in the lives of those who were in her presence. The knowledge of past events so conveyed was frequently most remarkable and was circumstantially correct, even rivalling in this respect the reports which we have of Jung-Stilling and Zschokke.

CHAPTER IX.

The motor messages spelt out by raps and table-tipping, and the performances of trance-speakers and spiritualistic mediums need not detain us at present; so far as the messages themselves are concerned they offer no new elements for consideration. The utterances of trance-speakers as a rule are not rich in verifiable facts, though some of their performances are truly remarkable as presenting a phase of improvisation automatically given; and the same may be said of mediumistic utterances generally; they have the same value as automatic writing, whether produced by Planchette, or passively holding the pencil in the hand; and so far as they are honest they probably have the same origin, namely, the secondary consciousness or subliminal self of the medium. As regards the force which makes the raps or tips the table, it is altogether a different subject and its consideration here would be unnecessary and out of place.

I hasten to present cases of automatism where the messages brought are given by other means than writing, speaking, or any movement or activity of the body, but which belong to the sensory class, and are received by impressions made upon the senses. Of these the most common are those made upon the sense of sight.

To this class belong visions, dreams, distinct mental pictures presented under widely varying circumstances and conditions, in trance, in the hypnotic condition, in sleep, or directly conveyed to the primary conscious self. To simply think how a person, a building, or a landscape looks is one thing, but to have a full mental picture, possessing dimensions, and a stability which admits of being closely examined in detail, is quite another thing.

A little girl of my acquaintance, on returning from the country after several weeks of absence from her father, said to him,—“Why, papa, I could have you with me whenever I liked, this summer, though it was only your head and shoulders that I could see; but I could place you where I liked and could look at you a long time before you went away.” Without knowing it the child exactly described a true vision—her thought of her father was visualized, externalized, given a form which had definiteness, which could be placed and examined in detail, and was more or less permanent.

Various artificial expedients have been resorted to in order to assist in this process of distinct visualization; and of these artificial means one of the most important and effective is known as crystal-gazing.

It is a fact not often commented upon—indeed not often alluded to in general literature—that the crystal has from the earliest times been made use of for the purpose of producing visions, and for divination and prophecy. Not only has the crystal been used for this purpose, but also the mirror, a cup or glass of water or wine, or even some dark and glistening substance like treacle or ink poured into the palm of the hand, have all been used in a similar manner. The same practice is still observed amongst the people of India as well as the Arabs in northern Africa and other localities. An instance or two at the outset will illustrate the method and uses of the procedure.

Mr. E. W. Lane, in his “Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians,” published in 1836, gives this example:—

Mr. Salt, the English consul-general to that country, had greatly interested Mr. Lane by some experiences which he related, and had thus excited his curiosity to witness some of these experiments himself. Mr. Salt had suspected some of his servants of theft, but could not decide which one was guilty; so it was arranged to test the powers of some of the native seers. Accordingly a magician was sent for; a boy was also necessary to act as seer, or as we would say crystal-gazer, and for this purpose Mr. Salt selected one himself.

The magician wrote several charms, consisting of Arabic words, on pieces of paper, which were burnt in a brazier with a charcoal fire along with incense and perfumes. He then drew a diagram in the palm of the boy’s right hand, and into the middle of this diagram he poured some ink. He then asked the boy to look intently at the ink in the palm of his hand. The boy soon began to see figures of persons in the ink, and presently described the thief so minutely that he was at once recognized by Mr. Salt, and on being arrested and accused of the crime he immediately confessed his guilt.

Further investigation by Mr. Lane and Mr. Salt furnished other interesting results. A boy eight or nine years of age was usually chosen at random from those who happened to be passing by. Invocations were written upon paper by the magician, calling upon his familiar spirit, and also a verse from the Koran “to open the boy’s eyes in a supernatural manner so as to make his sight pierce into what is to us the invisible world.” These were thrown into a brazier with live charcoal and burned with aromatic seeds and drugs. The magic square, that is a square within a square, was drawn in the boy’s palm, and certain Arabic characters were written in the spaces between the squares; ink was then poured into the centre, and upon that the boy was to gaze intently. In this way visions were produced and various persons and scenes were described. Finally, Mr. Lane desired that Lord Nelson should be called for. The boy described a man in European clothes of dark blue, who had lost his left arm; but looking closer he added—“No, it is placed to his breast.”

Lord Nelson had lost his right arm and it was his custom to carry the empty sleeve attached to his breast. Mr. Lane adds, “Without saying that I suspected the boy had made a mistake I asked the magician whether objects appeared in the ink as if actually before the boy’s eyes, or as if in a glass, which made the right side appear the left? He replied, ‘They appear as in a mirror,’ This rendered the boy’s description faultless.”

It is remarkable to notice how prevalent this mode of divination or second-sight has been in all ages. Traces of the same procedure have been found in Egypt, Persia, China, India, Greece, and Rome, and notably in Europe generally, from the tenth to the sixteenth centuries. A lady who withholds her name from the public, but who is perfectly well known to Mr. Myers, of the Society for Psychical Research, and who chooses to be known as Miss X., has been at great pains to collect curious information upon this subject and has added her own very interesting experience in crystal-gazing. She writes, “It is interesting to observe the close resemblance in the various methods of employing the mirror, and in the mystic symbolism which surrounds it, not only in different ages, but in different countries. From the time of the Assyrian monarch represented on the walls of the northwest palace of Nimrod down to the seventeenth century, when Dr. Dee placed his ‘Shew Stone’ on a cushioned table in the goodly little chapel next his chamber in the college of which he was warden at Manchester, the seer has surrounded himself with the ceremonials of worship, whether to propitiate Pan or Osiris, or to disconcert Ahriman or the Prince of Darkness.”

The early Jewish Scriptures abound in indications of the same practice. When the patriarch Joseph put his silver cup in the mouth of his young brother Benjamin’s sack, in order that he might have a pretext for recalling his brethren after he had sent them away, his steward, in accusing them of theft, uses this language: “Is not this the cup in which my lord drinketh, and whereby indeed he divineth?” Showing the same use of the cup for purposes of divination as that indicated on the walls of the Assyrian Palace.

The Urim and Thummim, as their names indicate, were doubtless stones of unusual splendor set in the high-priest’s “breast-plate of judgment,” and they were made use of to “inquire of the Lord.”

When Joshua was to be set apart as a leader of the people, he was brought to Eleazar the priest, who should lay his hands on him and “ask counsel for him after the judgment of Urim before the Lord.” In the last days of Saul’s career as King of Israel he desired to “inquire of the Lord” regarding his future fortunes, but “the Lord answered him not, neither by dreams, nor by Urim, nor by prophets;” and it is not uninteresting to note that Saul in his strait directly sought the Witch of Endor, from whom he obtained what proved to be true information regarding the disasters which were to overwhelm him.

In a Persian romance it is noted that “if a mirror be covered with ink and placed in front of any one it will indicate whatever he wishes to know.”

The Greeks had a variety of methods of divination by crystal-gazing. Sometimes it was by the mirror placed so as to reflect light upon the surface of a fountain of clear water, sometimes by mirrors alone; sometimes they made use of glass vessels filled with water and surrounded with torches, sometimes of natural crystals, and sometimes even of a child’s “nails covered with oil and soot,” so as to reflect the rays of the sun.

The Romans made special use of crystals and mirrors, and children were particularly employed for mirror-reading when consulting regarding important events; thus in a manner taking the place of the early oracles. From Jewish and Pagan practices as a means of divination, clairvoyance and prophecy, the art of the crystal seer seems to have passed to early Christian times without material change except in ceremonials. These seers are mentioned in the counsels of the Church as specularii, children often acting as the seers, and although in some quarters they were looked upon with suspicion as heretics, and were under the ban of the Church, yet they had an extensive following.

Thomas Aquinas, speaking of the peculiar power of seeing visions possessed by children, says it is not to be ascribed to any virtue or innocence of theirs, nor any power of nature, but that it is the work of the devil.

In Wagner’s beautiful opera of Parsifal, based upon the legend of the Holy Grail, reference to the same custom is more than once evident. The second act opens with a scene representing the enchanted castle of Klingsor; the magician himself is seen gazing into a bright metallic mirror, in which he sees Parsifal approaching and recognizes and fears him as the promised guiltless one—the true king and guardian of the Grail—an office to which he himself had once aspired. In fact the Grail itself, in its earliest mythical and traditional form, as well as in its later development as a distinctly Christian symbol, was an instrument of divination and prophecy. The Druids had their basin, sometimes filled with aromatic herbs, sometimes with the blood of the sacrificed victim; but in either case it was potent for securing the proper psychic condition in the officiating priest or soothsayer; and while Arabic and Indian myths present the same idea, sometimes as a cup of divination, and sometimes as a brilliant stone, the British Islands were the main source of the traditions which eventually culminated in the legends of the Holy Grail, with its full store of beautiful and touching incidents, prophecies, and forms of worship. In each the special guardians and knights of the Grail appear, with Parsifal, the simple-minded, pure and pitiful knight as its restorer and king when lost or in unworthy hands.