ON the morning of 3 March I had a sitting in Mrs. Kennedy's house with a Mrs. Clegg, a fairly elderly dame whose peculiarity is that she allows direct control by the communicator more readily than most mediums do.
Mrs. Kennedy has had Mrs. Clegg two or three times to her house, and Paul has learnt how to control her pretty easily, and is able to make very affectionate demonstrations and to talk through the organs of the medium, though in rather a jerky and broken way. She accordingly kindly arranged an anonymous sitting for me.
The sitting began with sudden clairvoyance, which was unexpected. It was a genuine though not a specially successful sitting, and it is worth partially reporting because of the reference to it which came afterwards through another medium, on the evening of the same day; making a simple but exceptionally clear and natural cross-correspondence:—
At 11.15 a.m. on Friday, 3 March 1916, I arrived at Mrs. Kennedy's, went up and talked to her in the drawing-room till nearly 11.30, when Mrs. Clegg arrived.
She came into the room while I was seeing to the fire, spoke to Mrs. Kennedy, and said, "Oh, is this the gentleman that I am to sit with?" She was then given a seat in front of the fire, being asked to get quiet after her omnibus journey. But she had hardly seated herself before she said:—
"Oh, this room is so full of people; oh, some one so eager to come! I hear some one say 'Sir Oliver Lodge.' Do you know anyone of that name?"
I said, yes, I know him.
Mrs. Kennedy got up to darken the room slightly, and Mrs. Clegg ejaculated:—
"Who is Raymond, Raymond, Raymond? He is standing close to me."
She was evidently going off into a trance, so we moved her chair back farther from the fire, and without more preparation she went off.
For some time, however, nothing further happened, except contortions, struggling to get speech, rubbings of the back as if in some pain or discomfort there, and a certain amount of gasping for breath.
Mrs. Kennedy came to try and help, and to give power. She knelt by her side and soothed her. I sat and waited.
Presently the utterance was distinguished as, "Help me, where's the doctor?"
After a time, with K. K.'s help, the control seemed to get a little clearer, and the words, "So glad; father; love to mother; so glad," frequently repeated in an indistinct and muffled tone of voice, were heard, followed by, "Love to all of them."
Nothing was put down at the time, for there seemed nothing to record—it seemed only preliminary effort; and in so far as anything was said, it consisted merely of simple messages of affection, and indications of joy at being able to come through, and of disappointment at not being able to do better. The medium, however, went through a good deal of pantomime, embracing me, stroking my arm, patting my knees, and sometimes stroking my head, sometimes also throwing her arms round me and giving the impression of being overjoyed, but unable to speak plainly.
Then other dumb show was begun. He seemed to be thinking of the things in his kit, or things which had been in his possession, and trying to enumerate them. He indicated that his revolver had not come back, and that in his diary the last page was not written up. I promised to complete it.
After a time, utterance being so difficult, I gave the medium a pad and pencil, and asked for writing. The writing was large and sprawly, single words: 'Captain' among them.
While Raymond was speaking, and at intervals, the medium kept flopping over to one side or the other, hanging on the arm of her chair with head down, or else drooping forward, or with head thrown back—assuming various limp and wounded attitudes. Though every now and then she seemed to make an effort to hold herself up, and once or twice crossed knees and sat up firm, with arms more or less folded. But the greater part of the time she was flopping about.
Presently Raymond said 'Good-bye,' and a Captain was supposed to control. She now spoke in a vigorous martial voice, as if ordering things, but saying nothing of any moment.
Then he too went away, and 'Hope' appeared, who, I am told, is Mrs. Clegg's normal control. Hope was able to talk reasonably well, and what she said I recorded for what it might be worth, but I omit the record, because though it contained references to people and things outside the knowledge of the medium or Mrs. Kennedy, and was therefore evidential as regards the genuineness and honesty of the medium, it was not otherwise worth reporting, unless much else of what was said on the same subjects by other mediums were reported too.
On the evening of this same 3rd of March—i.e. later in the same day that I had sat with Mrs. Clegg—I went alone to Mrs. Leonard's house and had rather a remarkable sitting, at which full knowledge of the Clegg performance was shown. It is worthy therefore of some careful attention.
After reading this part, the above very abbreviated
record of the Clegg sitting, held some hours before in
another house and other conditions, should again be read.
I wish to call attention to the following 3rd of March
sitting as one of the best; other members of the family
have probably had equally good ones, but my notes are
fuller. I hope it is fully understood that the mannerisms
are Feda's throughout.
(O. J. L. alone.)
No preliminaries to report. Feda came through quickly, jerked in the chair, and seemed very pleased to find me.
(I asked if she had seen Raymond lately.)
Oh yes, Raymond's here.
He came to help Feda with the lady and gentleman—on Monday, Feda thinks it was. Not quite sure when. But there was a lady and gentleman, and he came to help; and Feda said, "Go away, Raymond!" He said, "No, I've come to stay." He wouldn't go away, and he did help them through with their boy.
[The reference here is to a sitting which a colleague of mine, Professor and Mrs. Sonnenschein, had had, unknown to me, with Mrs. Leonard. I learnt afterwards that the arrangements had been made by them in a carefully anonymous manner, the correspondence being conducted via a friend in Darlington; so that they were only known to Mrs. Leonard as "a lady and gentleman from Darlington." They had reported to me that their son Christopher had sent good and evidential messages, and that Raymond had turned up to help. It was quite appropriate for Raymond to take an interest in them and bring their son, since Christopher Sonnenschein had been an engineering fellow-student with Raymond at Birmingham. But there was no earthly reason, so far as Mrs. Leonard's knowledge was concerned, for him to put in an appearance; and indeed Feda at first told him to 'Go away,' until he explained that he had come to help. Hence the mention of Raymond, under the circumstances, was evidential.]
He's only been once to help beside this, and then he said, Don't tell the lady he was helping. [See below.]
He's been with Paulie to-day, to Paulie's mother's. He says he's been at Paulie's house, but not with Mrs. Kathie, with another lady, a medie, Feda thinks. She was older than this one; a new one to him.[27] He wanted to speak through her, but he found it was difficult. Paul manages it all right, he says, but he finds it difficult. He says he started to get through, and then he didn't feel like himself. It's awful strange when one tries to control anybody. He wanted to very bad; he almost had them. (Sotto voce.—What you mean, Yaymond?) He says he thought he almost had them. He means he nearly got through. Oh, he says, he's not given it up; he's going to try again. What worries him is that he doesn't feel like himself. You know, father, I might be anybody. He says, Do you believe that in that way, practice makes perfect?
O. J. L.—Yes, I'm sure it gets easier with practice.
Oh, then he'll practise dozens of times, if he thinks it will be any good.
O. J. L.—Did he like the old woman?
Oh, yes; she's a very good sort.
O. J. L.—Who was there sitting?
[This question itself indicates, what was the fact, that I had so far given no recognition to the statement that Raymond had been trying to control a medium on the morning of that same day. I wanted to take what came through, without any assistance.]
He's not sure, because he didn't seem to get all properly into the conditions; it was like being in a kind of mist, in a fog. He felt he was getting hold of the lady, but he didn't quite know where he was. He'd got something ready to say, and he started to try and say it, and it seemed as if he didn't know where he was.
[Feda reports sometimes in the third person, sometimes in the first.]
What does she flop about for, father? I don't want to do that; it bothered me rather, I didn't know if I was making her ill or something. Paulie said she thought it was the correct thing to do! But I wish she wouldn't. If she would only keep quiet, and let me come calmly, it would be much easier. Mrs. Kathie [Feda's name for Mrs. Katherine Kennedy] tries to help all she can, but it makes such a muddled condition. I might not be able to get a test through, even when I controlled better; I should have to get quite at home there, before I could give tests through her. He and Paulie used to joke about the old lady, but they don't now. Paul manages to control; he used to see Paulie doing it. I will try again, he says, and I will try again. It's worth trying a few times, then I can get my bearings, and I feel that what I wanted to say beforehand I will be able to get through.
Feda has an idea that what he had saved up to say was only just the usual messages. He had got them ready in his head; he had learnt it up—just a few words. Paulie told him he had better do that, and then (oh, you had better not tell Mrs. Kathie this, for it isn't polite!)—and then Paulie told him to spit it out. And that's what he tried to do—just to say the few words that he had learnt up. He just wanted to say how pleased he was to see you. He wanted also to speak about his mother, and to bring in, if he could, about having talked to you through Feda. Just simple things like that. He had to think of simple things, because Paulie had told him that it was no good trying to think of anything in-tri-cate.
[Feda always pronounces what she no doubt considers long words in a careful and drawnout manner.]
He didn't see clearly, but he felt. He had a good idea that you were there, and that Mrs. Kathie was there, but he wasn't sure; he was all muddled up. Poor Mrs. Kathie was doing her best. He says, Don't change the conditions, if you try it again. He never quite knows whether he is going to have good conditions or not. He wanted to speak about all this. That's all about that.
[This is a completely accurate reference to what had happened with Mrs. Clegg in the morning of the same day. Everything is properly and accurately represented. It is the best thing about the sitting perhaps, though there are many good things in it.]
[The next incident concerns other people—and I usually omit these—but I propose to include this one.]
About the lady he tried to help—the one that he didn't want Feda to tell who he was (p. 241).
He was helping through a man who had got drowned. This lady had had no belief nor nothing in spiritual things before. The guides brought her to Feda, that she might speak with a dear friend of hers. I helped him, he says, and got both of his initials through to her—E. A.
O. J. L.—Do I know these people?
Yes, you write a lot to the lady.
[I remembered afterwards that I had had some correspondence with a lady who was told at a sitting, apparently by Raymond, that I knew a Dr. A. She was and is a stranger, but for this curious introduction.]
O. J. L.—Is A the surname?
Yes, the spirit's, not the lady's. The lady doesn't know that he [Raymond] is telling you this. And she doesn't know that he helped her. He says, It's for your own use, father. It's given her a new outlook on life.
O. J. L.—I have no idea who she is. Can you get her name?
Oh yes, she's a lady called Mrs. D. [Full name given easily, but no doubt got from the sitter in ordinary course.] And before, you see, she was living a worldly life. She was interested in a way, but not much. She never tried to come into it. When she came, she thought she would have her fortune told. Raymond was waiting for her to come, and brought up the right conditions at once. The man was a nice man, he liked him, and he wanted to bring her into it. The man was fond of her. Raymond has been helping him a lot. He says, I can only help in a small way, but if you could go round and see the people just on the verge of learning something! I can't help them in a big way, but still, it's something important even what I can do. For every one I bring in like that lady, there will be a dozen coming from that.
O. J. L. (still remembering nothing about these people.)—Did the man drown himself?
Oh no, he wented down in a boat; they nearly all wented down together.
The lady wasn't expecting him—she nearly flopped over when he came.
O. J. L.—Was he related to the lady?
No, but he had been the biggest thing in her life. He says it seemed as though she must have felt something, to make her write to you.
O. J. L.—However did Raymond know that she had written to me?
Feda doesn't know. (Sotto voce.—Tell Feda, Yaymond.)
Do you believe me, father, I really can't tell you how I know some things. It's not through inquiry, but sometimes I get it just like a Marconi apparatus receives a message from somewhere, and doesn't know where it comes from at first. Sometimes I try to find out things, and I can't.
[I perceived gradually that this episode related to some one named E. A. (unknown to me), about whom I had been told at a Feda sitting on Friday, 28 January 1916, Raymond seeming to want me to speak to E. A.'s father about him. And in a note to that sitting it is explained how I received a letter shortly afterwards from a stranger, a Mrs. D., who consulted me about informing Dr. A. of the appearance of his son. The whole episode is an excellent one, but it concerns other people, and if narrated at all must be narrated more fully and in another place. Suffice it to say that the son had been lost in tragic circumstances, and that the father is impressed by the singular nature of the evidence that has now been given through the lady—a special visit to Scotland having been made by her for that express purpose. She had not known the father before, but she found him and his house as described; and he admits the details as surprisingly accurate.]
Here is the extract from my sitting of 28 January 1916 relating to this affair:—
He has met somebody called E., Raymond has. He doesn't know who it is, but wonders if you do.
O. J. L.—Is she an old lady?
It's a man, he says. He was drownded. I have helped him a bit, at least I tried, he says. He passed on before Raymond did.
O. J. L.—Did he drown himself?
Raymond doesn't say that. His name was E. He was from Scotland. You will know his father.
Raymond says, I have got a motive in this, father; I don't want to say too much, and I don't want to say too little. You have met E.'s father, and you will meet him again; he comes from Scotland. Raymond is not quite certain, but he thinks he is in Scotland now. His father's name begins with an A, so the other man is E. A. He was fighting his ship. Raymond thinks they was all drownded. He's older than Raymond. Raymond says he's a pretty dark chap. You know his father best, I don't know whether you knew the other chap at all. You have known his father for some years, but you don't often get a chance of meeting. I have got an idea that you will be hearing from him soon. Then you will be able to unload this onto him. They are trying to bring it about, that meeting with the father of E.
O. J. L.—I could make a guess at the surname, but perhaps I had better not.
No, don't. You know I'm not always sure of my facts. I know pretty well how things are, and I think I am pretty safe in saying that it is Scotland. He gives D. also. That's not a person, it's a place. Some place not far from it, called D., he says. It's near, not the place, where he lives. 'Flanked,' he calls it, 'flanked' on the other side by L. They never knew how E. passed on really. They know he was drowned, but not how it happened.
On receiving this message I felt that the case was a genuine one, and that I did know a Dr. A. precisely as described. And I also gradually remembered that he had lost a son at sea, though I did not know the son. But I felt that I must wait for further particulars before broaching what might be an unpalatable subject to Dr. A.
(End of extract from 28 January 1916.)
Ultimately I did receive further particulars as narrated above, and so a month later I did go to call on the old Doctor, after the ice had been broken by Mrs. D.,—who in some trepidation had made a special journey for the purpose, and then nearly came away without opening the subject,—and I verified the trance description of his house which Mrs. D. had received and sent me. Indeed, all the facts stated turned out to be true.
The sitting of 3 March, now being reported, and interrupted by this quotation from a previous sitting, went on thus:—
He took his mother some red roses, and he wants you to tell her. He took them to her from the spirit world, they won't materialise, but I gathered some and took them to her. This isn't a test, father.
O. J. L.—No. Very well, you just want her to know. I will tell her.
(A little talk omitted.)
O. J. L.—Do you want to say anything about the other two people that you helped—last Monday, I think it was? [The Sonnenscheins; still only known to Mrs. Leonard as a lady and gentleman from Darlington.]
No, there's nothing much to tell you about that, or about them. But he brought a son to them.
He stood on one side so as not to take any of the power. He just came at first to show Feda it was all right, and he just came in at the end to send his love.
O. J. L.—Why did he help those particular people?
[I knew why, but I thought proper to ask, since from the medium's point of view there was no reason at all.]
He says he had to. They have been worrying about whether their son had suffered much pain before he passed on. There seems to have been some uncertainty about as to whether he had or not. His body wasn't recovered as soon as it ought to have been. But he didn't suffer much. He was numbed, and didn't as a matter of fact feel much. He throwed up his arms, and rolled down a bank place.
[Christopher Sonnenschein was killed by falling down a snow mountain, and his body was not recovered for five days.]
O. J. L.—Did you know these people before?
Yes. He says, yes. But he won't tell Feda who they is.
O. J. L.—Does he want to send them any message?
He says nothing further has come out, except that he is getting on very well, and that he was pleased. You might tell them that he is happier now. Yes, he is, since he seed them.
[The sitting referred to here, as having been held by a lady and gentleman last Monday, refers to my colleague and his wife and their deceased son Christopher. Their identity had been completely masked by the arrangements they had made, without my knowledge. The letters making arrangements were sent round by Darlington to be posted, in order to cover up tracks and remove all chance of a discoverable connexion with me. (See p. 240.) Hence it is interesting that Raymond turned up to help, for in their normal life the two youths had known each other.]
He has been trying to help you since he saw you here last time. He thought that you knew that he was. He did try hard. He says, I helped you in such a funny way. I got near you and felt such a desire to help you and prevent you from getting tired. He was concentrating on the back of your head, and sort of saying to himself, and impressing the thought towards you: "It's coming easy, you shan't get tired, the brain is going to be very receptive, everything is going to flow through it easily in order." I feel myself saying it all the time, and I get so close I nearly lean on you. To my great delight, I saw you sit up once, and you said: "Ah, that's good." It was some little time back.
O. J. L.—I speak to your photograph sometimes.
Yes. I can speak to you without a photograph! I am often with you, very often.
He's taking Feda into a room with a desk in it; too big for a desk, it must be a table. A sort of a desk, a pretty big one. A chair is in front of it, not a chair like that, a high up chair, more wooden, not woolly stuff; and the light is falling on to the desk; and you are sitting there with a pen or pencil in your hand; you aren't writing much, but you are looking through writing, and making bits of writing on it; you are not doing all the writing yourself, but only bits on it. Raymond is standing at the back of you; he isn't looking at what you are doing. [The description is correct.]
He thought you were tired out last time you came here. He knows you are sometimes. He's been wanting to say to you, "Leave some of it."
O. J. L.—But there's so much to be done.
Yes, he knows it isn't easy to leave it. But it would be better in the end if you can leave a bit, father. You are doing too much.
You know that I am longing and dying for the day when you come over to me. It will be a splendid day for me. But I mustn't be selfish. I have got to work to keep you away from us, and that's not easy for me.
He says that lots over here talk, and say that you will be doing the most wonderful work of your life through the war. People are ready to listen now. They had too many things before to let them think about them; but now it's the great thing to think about the after-life.
I want you to know that when first I came over here, I thought it a bit unfair that such a lot of fellows were coming over in the prime of life, coming over here. But now he sees that for every one that came over, dozens of people open their eyes, and want to know where he has gone to. Directly they want to know, they begin to learn something. Some of them never stopped to think seriously before. "He must be somewhere," they say, "he was so full of life; can we find out?" Then I see that through this, people are going to find out, and find out not only for themselves, but will pass it on to many others, and so it will grow.
He wants to tell you that Mr. Myers says that in ten years from now the world will be a different place. He says that about fifty per cent. of the civilised portion of the globe will be either spiritualists, or coming into it.
O. J. L.—Fifteen per cent.?
Fifty, he said.
Raymond says, I am no judge of that, but he isn't the only one that thinks it. He says, I've got a kind of theory, in a crude sort of way, that man has made the earth plane into such a hotbed of materialism and selfishness, that man again has to atone by sacrifices of mankind in the prime of their physical life. So that by that prime self-effacement, they will bring more spiritual conditions on to the earth, which will crush the spirit of materialism. He says that isn't how I meant to put it, but I've forgotten how I meant to say it.
O. J. L.—Well now, Raymond, Mr. Myers sent me a message to say that you had got some tests ready to get through, and that I was to give you an opportunity of giving them.
Oh yes, he says. But I can't get anything through about the Argonauts: that seems worst of anything.
He's showing Feda a thing that looks like a canvas house. Yes, it must be a canvas house. And it looks to Feda as though it's on a place that seems to be open—a wide place. Yes, no, there's not much green showing where Feda can see. There's a kind of a door in it, like that. (Feda made some sign I didn't catch.) The canvas is sort of grey, quite a light colour, but not quite white. Oh yes, Feda feels the sound of water not far from it—ripple, ripple. Feda sees a boy—not Raymond—half lying, half sitting at the door of the tent place, and he hasn't got a proper coat on; he's got a shirt thing on here, and he's like spreaded out. It's a browny-coloured earth, not nice green, but sandy-coloured ground. As Feda looks at the land, the ground rises sharp at the back. Must have been made to rise, it sticks up in the air. He's showing it as though it should be in some photograph or picture. Feda got wondering about it, what it was for. It's a funny-shaped tent, not round, sort of lop-sided. The door isn't a proper door, it flops. You ought to be able to see a picture of this. [See photographs opposite.]
O. J. L.—Has it got to do with the Argonauts?
No.
O. J. L.—Oh, it's not Coniston then?
No.
O. J. L.—Is it by the sea?
Near the water, he says; he doesn't say the sea. No, he won't say that; he says, near water. It looks hot there.
O. J. L.—Will the boys know?
You will know soon about it, he says.
Feda gets a feeling that there are two or three moving about inside that tent.
O. J. L.—Is it all one chamber in the tent?
He didn't say that. He was going to say, no, and then he stopped to think. No, I don't think it was, it was divided off.
[See photographs of two forms of this tent.]
Now he is showing something right on top of that. Now he is showing Feda a yacht, a boat with white sails. Now he is going back to the tent again. The raised up land is at the back of the tent, well set back. It doesn't give an even sticking up, but it goes right along, with bits up and bits lower down.
[The description could not be completely taken down, but it gave the impression of a raised bank of varying height, behind an open space, and a tent in front of it. It quite suggested that sort of picture.]
[See photograph facing p. 252.]
Maps, what's that? Maps, maps, he says. He's saying something about maps. This is something that the boys will know. Poring, he says. Not pouring anything out, but poring over maps. Ask the boys. [See note after further reference to maps later in the sitting.]
O. J. L.—What about that yacht with sails; did it run on the water?
No. (Feda, sotto voce.—Oh, Raymond, don't be silly!) He says, no. (Feda.—It must have done!) He's showing Feda like a thing on land, yes, a land thing. It's standing up, like edgeways. A narrow thing. No it isn't water, but it has got nice white sails.
O. J. L.—Did it go along?
He says it DIDN'T! He's laughing! When he said 'didn't' he shouted it. Feda should have said, 'He laid peculiar emphasis on it.' This is for the boys.
O. J. L.—Had they got to do with that thing?
Yes, they will know, they will understand. Yes, he keeps on showing like a boat—a yacht, he calls it, a yacht.
[See note below and photographs.]
Now he is showing Feda some figures. Something flat, like a wall. Rods and things, long rods. Some have got little round things shaking on them, like that. And he's got strings, some have got strings. 'Strings' isn't the right word, but it will do. Smooth, strong, string-like. In the corner, where it's a little bit dark, some one is standing up and leaning against something, and a piece of stuff is flapping round them.
Now he is saying again something about maps. He's going to the maps again. It isn't a little map, but it's one you can unfold and fold up small. And they used to go with their fingers along it, like that—not he only, but the boys. And it wasn't at home, but when they were going somewhere—some distance from home. And Feda gets the impression as though they must be looking at the map when it was moving. They seem to be moving smoothly along, like in one of those horrible trains. Feda has never been in a train.
[The mention of folded-up maps cannot be considered important, but it is appropriate, because many of the boys' common reminiscences group round long motor drives in Devonshire and Cornwall, when they must frequently have been consulting the kind of map described.]
[Note by O. J. L. on Tent and Boat.—All this about the tent and boat is excellent, though not outside my knowledge. The description of the scenery showed plainly that it was Woolacombe sands that was meant—whither the family had gone in the summer for several years—a wide open stretch of sand, with ground rising at the back, as described, and with tents along under the bank, one of which—a big one—had been made by the boys. It was on wheels, it had two chambers with a double door, and was used for bathing by both the boys and girls. Quite a large affair, oblong in shape, like a small cottage. One night a gale carried it up to the top of the sand-hills and wrecked it. We saw it from the windows in the morning.
The boys pulled it to pieces, and made a smaller tent of the remains, this time with only one chamber, and its shape was now a bit lop-sided. I felt in listening to the description that there was some hesitation in Raymond's mind as to whether he was speaking of the first or the second stage of this tent.
As for the sand-boat, it was a thing they likewise made at Mariemont, and carted down to Woolacombe. A kind of long narrow platform or plank on wheels, with a rudder and sails. At first, when it had small sails, it only went with a light passenger and a strong wind behind. But in a second season they were more ambitious, and made bigger sails to it, and that season I believe it went along the sands very fast occasionally; but it still wouldn't sail at right angles to the wind as they wanted. They finally smashed the mast by sailing in a gale with three passengers. There had been ingenuity in making it, and Raymond had been particularly active over it, as he was over all constructions. On the whole it was regarded as a failure, the wheels were too small; and Raymond's 'DIDN'T' is quite accepted.
References to these things were evidently some of the tests (p. 249) which he had got together for transmission to me. [See photographs.]
The rod and rings and strings, mentioned after the 'boat,' I don't at present understand. So far as I have ascertained, the boys don't understand, either, at present.]
I don't know whether I have got anything more that I can really call a test. You will have to take, he says (he's laughing now)—take the information about the old lady as a test.
O. J. L.—You mean what he began with? [i.e. about Mrs. Clegg.]
Yes.
O. J. L.—Well, it's a very good one.
He's been trying to find somebody whose name begins with K. But it isn't Mrs. Kathie, it's a gentleman. He's been trying to find him.
O. J. L.—What for?
He thought his mother would be interested. There's something funny about this. One is in the spirit world, but one they believe is still on the earth plane. He hasn't come over yet. [One of the two referred to is certainly dead; the other may possibly, but very improbably, be a prisoner.] There's a good deal of mystery about this, but I'm sure he isn't actually come over yet. Some people think that because we are here, we have only to go anywhere we choose, and find out anything we like. But that's Tommy-rot. They are limited, but they send messages to each other, and what he sincerely believes is, that that man has not passed on.
O. J. L.—Mother thinks he has, and so do his people.
Yes, yes. I don't know whether it would be advisable to tell them anything, but I have a feeling that he isn't here. I have been looking for him everywhere.
He keeps on building up a J. He doesn't answer when Feda asks what that is. He says there will be a few surprises for people later on.
O. J. L.—Well, I take it that he wants me to understand that J. K. is on our side?
Yes, he keeps nodding his head. Yes, in the body. Mind, he says, I've got a feeling—I can only call it a feeling—that he has been hurt, practically unconscious. Anyway, time will prove if I am right.
O. J. L.—I hope he will continue to live, and come back.
I hope so too. Except for the possible doubt about it, I would say tell them at once. But after all they are happier in thinking that he has gone over, than that he's in some place undergoing terrible privations.
Now he's saying something carefully to Feda. He says they should not go by finding a stick. He wants you to put that down—they ought not to go by finding a stick.
O. J. L.—Oh, they found a stick, did they?
Yes, that's how, yes.
[I clearly understood that this statement referred to a certain Colonel, about whom there was uncertainty for months. But a funeral service has now been held—an impressive one, which M. F. A. L. attended. On inquiry from her, I find (what I didn't know at the time of the sitting) that the evidence of his death is a riding-whip, which they found in the hands of an unrecognisable corpse. From some initials on this riding-whip, they thought it belonged to him; and on this evidence have concluded him dead. So far as I know, they entertain no doubt about it. At any rate, we have heard none expressed, either publicly or privately. Hence, the information now given may possibly turn out of interest, though there is always the possibility that, if he is a prisoner in Germany, he may not survive the treatment. He was leading an attack on the Hohenzollern Redoubt when he fell; he was seen to fall, wounded; there was great slaughter, and when at night his man returned to try and find him, he could not be found. This is my recollection of the details, but of course they can be more accurately given. At what period the whip was found, I don't know, but can ascertain.] (See also p. 266.)
[No further news yet—September 1916. But
I must confess that I think the information extremely unlikely.
—O. J. L.]
O. J. L.—Does he remember William, our gardener?
Yes.
Feda doesn't know what he means, but he says something about coming over. (Feda, sotto voce.—Tell Feda what you mean.)
He doesn't give it very clearly. Feda gets an idea that he means coming over there. Yes, he does mean into the spirit world. Feda asks him, did he mean soon; but he shakes his head.
O. J. L.—Does he mean that he has come already?
He doesn't get that very clearly. He keeps saying, coming over, coming over, and when Feda asked 'Soon?' he shook his head, as if getting cross.
O. J. L.—If he sees him, perhaps he will help him.
Of course he will. He hasn't seen him yet. No, he hasn't seen him.
[I may here record that William, the gardener, died within a week before the sitting, and that Raymond here clearly indicates a knowledge, either of his death or of its imminence.]
It's difficult when people approach you, and say they knew your father or your mother; you don't quite know what to say to them!
O. J. L.—Yes, it must be a bother. Do you remember a bird in our garden?
(Feda, sotto voce.—Yes, hopping about?)
O. J. L.—No, Feda, a big bird.