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Tracks of a Rolling Stone-Part20_Henry J.Coke(1827-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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She did so, and the spirits rapped 'Yes.'

I drew my chair aside. The woman remained seated in the



corner. I watched everything. Nothing happened. After a

while, I took out my watch, and said: 'I fear the spirits do



not intend to keep their word. I have an appointment twenty

minutes hence, and can only give them ten minutes more.' She



calmly replied she had nothing to do with it. I had heard

what the spirits said. I had better wait a little longer.



Scarcely were the words out of her mouth, when the table gave

a distinct crack, as if about to start. The mediuminstantly



called my attention to it. I jumped out of my seat, passed

between the two tables, when of a sudden the large table



moved in the direction of the smaller one, and did not stop

till it had pushed the little one over. I make no comments.



No explanation to me is conceivable. I simply narrate what

happened as accurately as I am able.



One other case deserves to be added to the above. I have

connected both of the foregoing with religious persuasions.



The SEANCE I am about to speak of was for the express purpose

of bringing a brokenhearted and widowed mother into



communication with the soul of her only son - a young artist

of genius whom I had known, and who had died about a year



before. The occasion was, of course, a solemn one. The

interest of it was enhanced by the presence of the great



apostle of Spiritualism - Sir William Crookes. The medium

was Miss Kate Fox, again an American. The SEANCE took place



in the house of a very old friend of mine, the late Dr.

George Bird. He had spiritualistic tendencies, but was



supremely honest and single-minded; utterly incapable of

connivance with deception of any kind. As far as I know, the



medium had never been in the room before. The company

present were Dr. Bird's intimate friend Sir William Crookes -



future President of the Royal Society - Miss Bird, Dr. Bird's

daughter, and her husband - Mr. Ionides - and Mrs. -, the



mother of the young artist. The room, a large one, was

darkened; the last light being extinguished after we had



taken our places round the dining-table. We were strenuously

enjoined to hold one another's hands. Unless we did so the



SEANCE would fail.

Before entering the room, I secretly arranged with Mr.



Ionides, who shared my scepticism, that we should sit side by

side; and so each have one hand free. It is not necessary to



relate what passed between the unhappy mother and the medium,

suffice it to say that she put questions to her son; and the



medium interpreted the rappings which came in reply. These,

I believe, were all the poor lady could wish for. To the



rest of us, the astounding events of the SEANCE were the dim

lights, accompanied by faint sounds of an accordion, which



floated about the room over our heads. And now comes, to me,

the strangest part of the whole performance. All the while I



kept my right arm extended under the table, moving my hand to

and fro. Presently it touched something. I make a grab, and



caught, but could not hold for an instant, another hand. It

was on the side away from Mr. Ionides. I said nothing,



except to him, and the SEANCE was immediately broken up.

It may be thought by some that this narration is a biassed



one. But those acquainted with the charlatanry in these days

of what is called 'Christian Science,' and know the extent to



which crass ignorance and predisposed credulity can be duped

by childish delusions, may have some 'idea how acute was the



spirit-rapping epidemic some forty or fifty years ago. 'At

this moment,' writes Froude, in 'Fraser's Magazine,' 1863,



'we are beset with reports of conversations with spirits, of

tables miraculously lifted, of hands projecting out of the



world of shadows into this mortal life. An unusually able,

accomplished person, accustomed to deal with common-sense



facts, a celebrated political economist, and notorious for

business-like habits, assured this writer that a certain



mesmerist, who was my informer's intimate friend, had raised

a dead girl to life.' Can we wonder that miracles are still



believed in? Ah! no. The need, the dire need, of them




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