Ministries

  Lookout Mountain, via Chattanooga, Tenn., August 24—The scene is within a stone’s throw of the Natural Bridge.  The accessories are the unrivaled natural environments of Lookout, an octagonal pavilion, a small building yclept “The Cottage,” the Natural Bridge hotel, and several dormitories.  The drama is the meeting of the Southern Association of Spiritualists.  The actors and actresses will reveal themselves as the drama progresses.

    I arrived at the Natural Bridge hotel early Sunday morning.  Approaching the foot of the mountain in a street car, I was for the first time made aware that I had hovering about me the inhabitants of the spirit world.  Mr. A. C. Ladd of Atlanta, suddenly turned to me, pointed the index finger of his right hand over my shoulder, and said:

    “I see a friend of yours behind you.”

    I turned hastily to speak to the friend so unexpectedly present, but Mr. Ladd interrupted me.

    “Your friend,” he said, “is not in the flesh, but in the spirit.”

    He then proceeded to describe, with astonishing accuracy, a friend whom it was impossible that he ever could have known.

    “Your description is correct,” I said, “but my friend is not yet dead.”

    “Did I say that your friend was dead?” he asked.  “It is the spirit of the living that I see.”

    A young man with dark hair and pale face interrupted.

    “[. . .],” he said, gazing fixedly toward the rear of the car.  “Ah, yes!  Thank you!  Yes, I got the [. . .].  Shall I see you soon again?”

    “What’s the matter?” I asked, beginning to feel a clammy sensation creeping down my spinal cord.

    “It’s only a little friend of mine,” the young man said, “now in the spirit world.”

On the Way

up the mountain, no other subject save that of spiritualism was discussed.  When I got out of the carriage at the hotel, I felt myself [. . .] the world of flesh and blood people, and was prepared to find a spirit lurking behind every boulder.

    The stains of travel removed, I joined a group of gentlemen who sat in the shade in [. . .].  One of them was abusing a [. . .] who had been present at a séance.

    “[. . .],” he said, “the fellow wrote the biggest [. . .] that ever appeared in print.  He’s been a spiritualist thirty years.  [. . .] communion with ten thousand spirits [. . .] yet I never knew any that were better [. . .] than those that appeared at [. . .].  That reporter wrote that they [. . .] be d----.

    [. . .] a sad-eyed gentleman, cutting [. . .] speaker’s flow of words.  “I’ve been a spiritualist since the day I [. . .] home from the war.  I have an aunt.  She’s a medium.  She’s been a medium ever since she was born.  All during the war she kept my mother informed about me and a friend of mine.  She’d tell my mother the result of every battle we were in, long before the newspapers told it.  She’d say to my mother: “Don’t worry; you son will return home unharmed, but his friend will be killed.”  It happened just as she said.  I returned to my home unharmed; my friend was killed and now sleeps in the valley of Virginia.  When I heard how my aunt had been with me in spirit all during the war, and how she had told my mother all about me, I became a spiritualist.”

    [. . .] learned subsequently that the gentleman was a Mr. Ro[. . .], of Mississippi.

    [. . .] to conversation such as I have described [. . .]ed me considerably under the [. . .] and prepared me for any number of [. . .].”

[. . .] On the Pavilion

was [. . .] at half past ten o’clock.  Thirty [. . .] later I formed one of the audience that had assembled to witness the morning services.  At one side of the pavilion there was a [. . .]y arranged platform.  It was provided with chairs, a table and an organ.  Above the [. . .] was suspended a beautiful triangle, upon which appeared the words, “Wisdom, Justice, Mercy.”  The platform and the posts that supported the roof of the pavilion were prettily decorated with evergreens.

    Mr. [. . .] Albert, of Chattanooga, the present of the association, was not very well, and so Mr. [. . .], who is the vice president, presided.

    A hymn was sung [. . .]  Miss Lizzie Bailey, a medium, of Louisville, Ky., delivered an invocation in which a good deal was said of nature and her works.  Mr. Ladd announced that a lecture would be delivered by Miss Zaida Brown, of Atlanta.  This young lady is considered one of the most promising trance mediums among southern spiritualists.  Mr. Ladd requested some one in the audience, not a spiritualist, to suggest a subject to Miss Brown.  Nobody responding, he requested me to suggest one.  I said [. . .] we let her lecture on “Immortality.”

    A handsome young lady, decidedly stout, robed in white, arose from her seat at the rear of the platform, and, with eyes tightly shut, [. . .] to the table.  She paused halfway there, then turned slightly to the right, and with a sweep of the right arm in[. . .] flung her fan back against the w[. . .] wall.  Then, with astonishing [. . .], began to address the audience, who she called “friends of earth.”  She spoke for [. . .] minutes, not once opening her eyes.  As far as [. . .] English of it was concerned what she said was absolutely without flaw.  I mention this because it is claimed that

[. . .]tion.

    [. . .] sense in what she said, and [. . .].  Briefly, her lecture, [. . .] viewed, was remarkable [. . .], she stood silent a moment, [. . .] eyes, and walked back to her [. . .]

    [. . .], a lecture by Miss Bailey— [. . .] and that the services were conducted by Mr. Ladd [. . .] presenting to the association [. . .] already mentioned.  This he [. . .] well-chosen words.

    [. . .] in the audience dis[. . .] w[. . .]gered, I among the number.  I addressed Miss Brown and complimented her [. . .] her lecture.  She was polite, but [. . .] no special pleasure on account of [. . .].

    [. . .] knowledge of any[. . .] she remained.  “I was in a deep trance [. . .] I said was prompted by my [. . .].”

    [. . .]

    “Not at all.”

    “How long have you been a spiritualist?”

    “[. . .] years.  I was formerly a member of the Methodist church.”

    “How was it that you became a spiritualist?”

    “[. . .] know it was in my family we are all spiritualists.”

    It had been said that Miss Brown was a psychometric reader.  I said to her:

    “I understand that you can describe people’s characteristics, tell what influences are at work upon them, and reveal, in a word, [. . .] innermost secrets of their souls.”

    [. . .] she replied, “I am a psychometric reader.”

    “Try your art on me,” I suggested.

    She readily consented, but as a condition, required me to place in her hand some article which I was in the habit of carrying about with me.  I gave her my pocket knife.  She at once began the reading.  I may as well confess that, with a single exception she hit it off poorly.  She did not deal entirely in generalities, but now and then,

She Gave Details

which, to say the least, were puzzling.  She described to me the friend Mr. Ladd had described on the street car.  She described a dog of which I am the happy possessor.  She mentioned aspirations I harbor.  She described physical infirmities to which I am subject.  With it all, she declared that she had never heard of me until I arrived at the hotel.  I don’t believe that she ever had, but—well, I am not one of the faithful.

    While others were seeking the dining room at the hotel, I was seeking interviews with certain distinguished inhabitants of the spirit world.  I approached a gentleman and said to him:

    “I am anxious to hold communion with the spirits.  Can you assist me?”

    “I think I can,” he replied, “but, you know, it is generally believed that none but women can be mediums.  If you will agree not to mention my name, so that I shall not be subjected to ridicule, I will try to assist you.”

    I agreed to his condition, and we went to my room, where the séance was held.

    In what took place the gentleman acted as the mouthpiece of the spirits.  What they communicated to him in reply to my questions he told to me in words.  As a preliminary step, he placed his hands upon a small table, and required me to sing a hymn.  I sang a few verses of “Hark, from the Tomb.”  The result was astonishing.  It seemed to me that the table would fall to pieces under the continuous rapping of the spirits.

    “They are here in great numbers,” said the gentleman.  “I have never before felt the influence so strongly.”

    “Is Samuel J. Tilden among them?” I asked.

    “Yes, he is here.”

    “Ask him what his condition is

In the Spirit World.”

     “He says he is comfortable.”

    “Ask him if the weather is hot.”

    A storm of raps greeted the question.

    “Try him on something else,” said the gentleman.

    “Ask him,” I said, “what he thinks of President Cleveland’s policy.”

    Another storm of raps, but no other reply, was the result.

    “Ask him, then,” I said, “what he thinks of the proposed contest over his will.”

    The statesman spirit was evidently disgusted with the questions, because he could not be induced to communicate again anything but raps.

    I requested the gentleman to ask if Jim Moore, the man lynched in Macon, was present.  There was no reply, not even a rap.

    “Socrates is here,” said the gentleman, “and wishes to communicate with you.”

    “All right,” I said, “what has he to say?”

    “He says that you will never be happy until you become a spiritualist.”

    “Ask him,” I suggested, “if it is pleasant to die by the poison of hemlock.”

    “He says that there is no such thing as death.”

    Here there was a tremendous rapping.  When it subsided, I said to the gentleman:

     “Ask if James a Garfield is here.”

    The question was asked and the answer was an affirmative one; but the gentleman appeared unable to understand Garfield’s replies to the questions I suggested.

    “The influence is becoming weak,” he explained, “and we must end the séance.”

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