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Contents |
THE SEVEN PURPOSES
Part I
"That is the eternal battle, between the purposes of
progress and building, and the purposes of disintegration.
It goes on in your life, and it goes on less bitterly in ours.
Help me build as we began, toward the great unity."
"This is the battle to which we can you and all who are
for progress."
Chapter I
My first serious attempt to establish com-
munication through planchette with a
person or persons in a life beyond ours was
made Sunday morning, March 3, 1918. Not so
very serious an attempt, either, for I antici-
pated no success, and was not without a hu-
morous appreciation of my position, sitting
with my hand on a toy, inviting communication
with celestial powers. I remember laughing a
little, as I pictured the sardonic glee with which
certain of my friends would be likely to regard
such a proceeding.
Perhaps this is as good a time as any to say
that I was seeking a stranger. I never saw
Frederick. When our friendship with his par-
ents began they lived in one city, we in another,
and he in a third and more distant one, where
he was first a reporter and later a political and
editorial writer on the staff of a leading news-
paper. I knew that he was young, successful,
a bachelor, and singularly devoted to his family, [4]
as they to him. But his habits of thought and
speech had never been described to me, at first
because it was expected that we would meet,
and in the much closer intimacy of our later
acquaintance, because the pain of his loss was
so poignant that no member of the family could
speak of him with composure. I had never seen
a photograph of him, even.
After perhaps twenty minutes, during which
planchette did not move, I left the paper—a
roll of blank wall-paper, called lining-paper,
which I found years ago to offer the most con-
tinuous and satisfactory surface for use with
planchette—spread over the table, and went
into another room, intending to return later.
But I forgot it, and only when I was putting
things in order for the night did I re-enter that
room and remember my promise to Mrs. Gay-
lord. I decided to make one more attempt,
that I might be able to tell her positively that
I had been unsuccessful. All other members
of the household were away—Cass at Atlantic
City, recuperating from an illness—and I was
entirely alone in the apartment.
For some minutes planchette was motionless,
but almost immediately I felt the curious sense
of vitality, very difficult to describe, that pre-
cedes movement. It is like touching some-
thing alive and feeling its latent power. Pres- [5]
ently it began to move. Unfortunately no
exact record of those first messages was kept,
and this report of them is taken from my
letters to Cass, written immediately after
each interview, and from the typewritten record
begun a week or ten days afterward, in which
was included what I could remember of details
not written to him. At first there was little
capitalization, but within a few days capitals
were used freely. The punctuation throughout
has been added, except in cases noted.
From a letter dated Monday morning, March 4th:
. . . Instead of doing the usual loop sort of
thing, it made straight runs across the table. I
asked, "Are you ready to write ?" " Yes." Then,
as nearly as I can remember, it went like this:
"Are you Frederick?" "No."
"Are you Mary Kendal?" "No."
"Are you Anne Lowe?"* "No."
"Did I know you in life here?" "Yes."
"Recently?" "No."
"Are you my father?" At this it ran
sharply toward me, point first, but for some
time did not reply, perhaps because I so hoped
it would write "yes." Eventually, however,
*These names occurred to me, because these three persons left us
within a twelvemonth, about three years ago, and all were either
friends or closely identified with friends of ours.
it wrote a very clear and uncompromising [6]
"No."
"Can you tell me who you are?" "Yes. Mary."
"Mary?" "No."
"Which Mary? What Mary ?" "Mary . . ."
followed by a character that might have been
either K or H, but looked more like K.
"Mary Kendal?" "No."
"Tell me again." "Mary K."
"Mary K.?" Yes." Planchette was down
at the lower right-hand corner of the table
when I asked the last question, and it swung
to the center, writing that "yes" very quickly
and firmly.
"My Mary K.?" "Yes . . . yes . . . yes."
Her name was Mary Katherine M____, but
I always called her Mary K. She has been
dead sixteen years or more. Over and over she
insisted that she was Mary K. Sometimes, in
pauses, with the casters hardly moving at all,
the thing would write "Mary," in tiny script,
but round and clear.
I asked if there were any message, and it
wrote, "Mon. . . ," trailing off into a series of
waves, a good many times. I guessed Mon-
day . . . money . . . Mons. . . , but always the
answer was, "No." Finally it wrote "man"
very clearly. I could not get more for quite
a while. Finally came, "Many thanks."
"Thanks for what?" "For knowing." [7]
I asked if Frederick or Anne were there.
"No."
"Any message?" "Yes."
"For whom?" "Broth . . .," trailing off
again. This several times. "Brother ?"
"Yes."
"Where?" "Albany."
"His name?" "James."
"James M____?" "No." This was con-
fusing.
"Where?" Beginning apparently with U,
the writing trailed off. Finally made out
"United . . .," but no more. Then I remem-
bered that Mary K.'s only brother was killed
in an accident, years before she went over
herself. I said so, and the thing began making
loops. That used to be planchette's way of
laughing at me.
"Why did you say that?" "Joke." This
was not at all like Mary K. She had a fine
mind and was not given to buffoonery. I
have since thought that she might have been
trying to get over a message to some other
person's brother.*
". . . Can you get word from Frederick Gay-
lord?" "Yes."**
* I now believe that this was Annie Manning's first interruption.
** I had asked whether she knew any of the three persons pre-
viously mentioned, and each time she had replied in the negative.
"Will you come again?" "Yes." [8]
"Have you been trying all these years to
get into touch with me?" "No."
"Will you help me make a bridge between
those on your side and those here?" "No."
Then immediately it went back and wrote,
"Yes," over the "No." Very curious.
After a long pause, I said I would go to bed,
if there were nothing more, and it wrote,
quickly, "Go." I said, "Good night." " Good
night. God bless you." I asked again if this
were Mary K., and got the same quick "Yes."
Then I put planchette away and came out to
my room. It was one o'clock. Three before
I went to sleep. Can you imagine anything more
weird than my sitting here alone in the middle
of the night, with that thing fairly racing under
my fingers part of the time, insisting it was
nobody I expected? Claiming to be a very
dear old friend, but the last I should expect
under the circumstances. It was certainly
queer, but I am very sure something outside of
myself was doing it. I shall try again to-night.
From a letter dated Monday evening, March 4th:
I have just had another amazing try at
planchette, This time it was Mary Kendal,
writing one word at a time. "Let . . . Manse*
* Her husband, Mansfield Kendal.
. . . know . . . I . . . am . . . here. . . ." She gave [9]
me several intimate messages for him, and when
I finally said I would write and ask him to
come, so she could tea him herself, She wrote,
"Yes . . . yes . . . yes," very quickly.
What do you make of this? Isn't it the
queerest thing you ever heard of? In the
midst of her talk, another hand took hold, very
brisk and energetic.
"Not Mary?" "No."
"Perhaps Frederick?" " Yes."
"Message?" "Yes. Mother."
"Anything more?" "Happy."
"More yet?" "Only love."
Then he was gone, and Mary came again,
writing "Miss A____, messenger," many times.
Later, Frederick interrupted to write one word,
"family."* Then another hand began writ-
ing "Annie Manning," over and over, and,
"tell Manning." I said that I knew no
Manning. How find him? Answer, "Ques-
tion." I did not know what that meant. . . .
There was a lot more, but I am too tired to
write it to-night.
B____ Gaylord telephoned to-night. She is
either coming to New York Thursday or going
to Atlantic City, if I am there. . . . This is the
* I have since learned that this was characteristic of him. His
letters home frequently began: "Dear Family."
most amazing thing that ever happened to me! [10]
To-night it was as if several were trying to
talk at once. I am almost afraid to have
B. G. come, yet it was for her sake that I be-
gan this. It seems too indefinite and unsatis-
factory. But at least she can be sure I am not
faking it. Something outside of me does it.
That same evening I wrote to Mansfield
Kendal, though what his attitude toward this
situation would be I could not even guess.
We had known him well for several years, but
our numerous discussions had never touched
questions of religious faith and a future life. A
man of extensive reading and of wide interests,
supplemented by long residence abroad, he has
been engaged for years in the executive conduct
of large engineering and agricultural enterprises.
I knew him to be intellectually open-minded.
But I also knew him to be a devoted adherent
of the orthodox Church, giving much time and
thought to its support, and I was afraid that
an assumption on my part of ability to com-
municate with the departed might offend some
deep and reverent sense in him. Therefore,
while I wrote him fully of my surprising ex-
perience, giving him Mary's messages, I prom-
ised at the same time never to force the sub-
ject in conversation, should he prefer not to
discuss it. Subsequently, impelled by Mary's [11]
continued insistence, I wrote several other letters
to him, which, like the first, were sent to his club
in New York City, as I knew him to be travel-
ing in the Middle West and thought they would
reach him more quickly in this way than if sent
to his business headquarters in the South.
Thus, curiously, I found myself vicariously
engaged in a double search for a mother on this
plane seeking her son on the next, and for a
wife on the next plane seeking her husband here,
and it is significant that, of the two, Mary
Kendal was the more insistent. As she said,
later, "We know how much it means."
From a letter to Cass, dated Tuesday morning, March 5th:
Another evening with Mary! H. dined with
me. I told her something about planchette,
and she wanted to see it work. . . . This time
it wrote, "Mary Kendal," at once, and, "Tell
Manse I love him. . . . Tell him Miss A____ is
messenger from some one he knows. . . .
Mentally beautiful people are fearless. . . .
Faith is fearlessness. . . . Mannerisms are essen-
tial to recognition." Some of these took a long
time to work out.
H. asked, "Do you mind my being here?"
"Excellent portent."
I asked why. "Intellectual interest."
H. said, "You mean that you are glad to [12]
have intelligent people interested?" "Yes."
When we were talking about H.'s interest, it
wrote, "Tell others." This was repeated several
times. "I am a missionary," came as clearly as
I have written it here. We asked if she meant a
missionary from that life to this. " Yes." At the
end she again urged H. to tell others. I laughed,
saying, "Tell as many others as you like about
the experience, but don't tell too many that it
came through me." "Sorry ."
"Sorry that I am unwilling to be over-
whelmed by a flood of curiosity and hysteria?"
"Sorrow." I said I would be glad to help
people in sorrow. "Sorrowful people suffer."
Isn't that like Mary Kendal?
When H. was leaving, it wrote: "Good
night. Tell others."
After she had gone I went back, and got
another movement entirely. "Frederick?"
"Yes." He seems to have more difficulty in
writing than she does. Is very clear at first,
but becomes illegible sooner.
"Do you know that your mother is coming?"
"Yes. . . . Wish to make her at peace." I said
I wished to make her at peace, too, and would
do all I could, and he wrote, "Thank you."
As has been said, Cass had been ill, and his
improvement after going to Atlantic City had [13]
not been as rapid as we had hoped it might
be. A letter received from him on Tuesday
reported a slight relapse, and promised a tele-
gram on Wednesday. It had been arranged
that I should join him if he needed me.
From a letter dated Wednesday evening, March 8th:
Your letter and wire both came after four,
though the letters usually arrive with the first
mail in the morning. I was getting a little
anxious. Went to planchette and asked Mary
Kendal whether she knew anything about you.
She said you were better to-day and that a
letter was coming, but that I must go to
Atlantic City.*
Frederick also came, seeming very anxious
lest the meeting with his mother fail. Wrote
"message" several times, and by dint of some
questioning I found it was not a message he
wished to send, but one he wished me to send
to her about coming at once. Wrote of her
"mental anguish," an expression I never
should have used myself, and wanted her to
join me at Atlantic City. Knew nothing about
you, but was keen to meet her.
Later, he seemed to go, and Mary Kendal
*Several hours later I read Cass's letter and telegram to his
physician. who advised me to go at once to Atlantic City.
wrote a. little. Then came something very [14]
hard to get. Over and over we tried. "Com
. . . come . . . comf . . . comp. . . ." I suggested
various words. Always the answer was "No."
Finally, very clearly and slowly, "Comfort
dear Mother." After the M of the last word
I expected Manse, as I thought Mary was still
writing. When it proved to be "Mother," I
said, "Is this Frederick?" " Yes." I prom-
ised again to do all I could. He wrote,
"Thank you," and went.
It is an amazing experience! . . . To sit all
alone here and have that foolish toy move
firmly and definitely under my hands, write
things I have to puzzle out, sign names of
persons who are what we call "dead," and
beg me to send messages to those they love—
all this is startling and deeply impressive.
Deeply moving.
The next day I joined Cass at Atlantic City.
He had never seen a planchette used, and
was much interested in the whole matter. In
the evening we experimented, and "Mary
Kendal" was written at once.
He exclaimed, "God bless you, Mary Ken-
dal !"
"God bless you, too. Tell Manse I love
him. Don't fail to tell him that." During
all the preceding days this had been her constant [15]
plea. Repeatedly I assured her that I had told
him, and as often she urged, "Tell him again."
Then came a strong, brisk movement, to and
fro, for a space of about five inches. I asked
if this were Frederick, and received an affirma-
tive answer, after which planchette ran about,
as if in uncontrollable excitement, presently
pausing to write:
"You are a trump!" We laughed, and he
added, "You bet!"
As we had never known Frederick, and were
unaware at that time of the continuance of
what some one familiar with this experience
has defined as "the subtleties of personality,"
this enthusiastic use of slang was startling.
When I asked if he had thought I would
fail him, he replied, "No, but I was afraid
Mother would not come."
[The next day Mrs. Gaylord told me that
when Frederick begged me, on Wednesday,
to send her a message about coming at once,
she had almost decided to postpone her visit
until after our return to New York.]
More running about followed, during which
Cass said that it was a pity to obliterate the
earlier messages in that way. Planchette then
swung back to a clear space and wrote clearly,
"Mother is coming!" Beneath this, the bow-
knot flourish we have since learned to associate [16]
with Frederick.
"You are a brick!" was a later comment.
When Cass said he had thought the last word
would be friend, Frederick concluded: "Friend,
too. Thank you a million times."
An interesting, but rather confusing, feature
of these earlier communications was the con-
stant interruption by Annie Manning. On all
occasions, frequently even breaking into mes-
sages from some other person, she wrote her
name and her one request, "Tell Manning." Dur-
ing this period, also, I repeatedly asked Frederick
to give me a message for his father, and was
unable to account for his invariable refusal.
Once, I asked Mary Kendal if she had no
message for me, personally, and she returned,
"Yes, believe," which seemed, at the mo-
ment, somewhat cryptic, through the relation
of my faith to the full development of this
intercourse was afterward explained.
Thursday night, at the end of the fifth day,
I was fairly certain that I had established
communication with three definite and recog-
nizable personalities on the next plane, but
I dreaded Mrs. Gaylord's arrival the following
day, lest these fragmentary messages fail either
to convince or to comfort her.
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