Maurice Leonard - People from the Other Side: A History of Spiritualism

First published 2008

The History Press
The Mill, Brimscombe Port
Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL 5 2 QG
www.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2011

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Maurice Leonard, 2008, 2011

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EPUB ISBN 978 0 7524 7238 6
MOBI ISBN 978 0 7524 7237 9

Original typesetting by The History Press

Thanks are due to many sources and people; without co-operation no biographical work would ever get written. Research, of course, started with the Fox sisters themselves who, between them, wrote quite a bit about their lives and opinions. Since I began this book, two other biographies have been published: Talking to the Dead by Barbara Weisberg, which concentrates on Kate and Maggie, and The Reluctant Spiritualist, a life of Maggie by Nancy Rubin Stuart.

I have tried to acknowledge help I received in the relevant pages, but among those due special thanks are: Nellie and Tony Liddell; Christina Hatt; Kevin Hubbard; Alan Woodhouse; Sarah Warre; Richard Wiseman, Professor of the Public Understanding of Psychology at the University of Hertfordshire; Peter Katin; John Lill; Earle E. Spamer of the American Philosophical Society; The Leslie Flint Educational Trust; The Theosophical Society; websites of the Elisha Kent Kane Historical Society; the Literary Network website; survivalafterdeath.org; all those colourful mediums who so enriched my youth; and, most particularly, the willing and able help of the magnificent British Library: so many exotic secrets buried in its archives.

My early childhood was spent propped up on cushions, on a chair, sitting round a table in a room full of women, each of whom had one finger on an upturned glass frantically trying to hold on to it as it whizzed around, spelling out messages from letters cut out of newspapers, or else handwritten, which had been placed around the edge of the table.

The sound of the Cossor radio, buzzing away in the background, was often drowned by the noise of the glass, as it skidded over the wood before jerking to rest in front of whatever letter it wanted. Someone had a pencil and paper and would jot down the letter, then the glass would whiz off again until a message was written.

This was a normal evening during those blitz-ridden nights in Londons war-scarred Tooting Broadway.

There was not much else to do. All places of entertainment were closed, due to the fear of air raids. Not that there were many places of entertainment to close, apart from the cinema.

As with Mrs Gaskells Cranford, Tooting Broadway was a society in possession of the Amazons; that is, there were no men about, just kids and old-timers. All able-bodied men were away defending us against the Nazis.

We could make our homes cosy, but outside it was pretty unwelcoming. Unless there was a moon, it was Stygian gloom; there were no streetlights, or lights from windows, due to black-out restrictions, and there was virtually no traffic. It was not a neighbourhood where many possessed cars, and with the majority of drivers being men, they were all away anyway.

What few cars did venture into the neighbourhood, and I seem to remember a battered Austin Seven with a discoloured windscreen that caused great excitement, had to crawl along with dim pin-point lights so as not to be visible to enemy planes overhead.

If people were walking at night visiting relatives usually, as there was nowhere else to go and bumped into each other (literally, as they couldnt see), they linked arms to avoid smashing into lamp posts my grandmother suffered a bleeding nose through this or twisting ankles by stumbling down kerbs. If the moon came out that was a bonus. God was on our side.

There was a great deal of laughter, and sometimes wed sing songs as we blundered about in the dark, unable to see street names.

Enemy planes used to liven the place up as, when they approached, there would be dog-fights as they were repelled by our fighters, the sky lacerated with searchlights which appeared by magic. Spotlit, the two planes would fight to the death, the battle heralded by the ululating sirens. If a Nazi plane was shot down, plunging to the earth in a ball of fire, we cheered. If a British plane caught it, that was a terrible sadness; another brave man gone, another barrier less between Nazi domination and us.

People were killed all the time. Those at home never knew if their loved ones, who were at war, were dead or alive. We never knew if wed survive the night. Only the spirits knew these things, but they would tell us.

Its not surprising that sances were popular. They were as routine as being woken up, under the protection of the cage-like, indoor Morrison shelter, by the crash of the plywood which had been nailed to the window frames in lieu of glass, as it was smashed against the wall opposite by bomb blasts. The glass had gone ages ago and there was none on sale to replace it, not that anyone would have bought it if there had been. That would have been a waste of time and, worse, a waste of money.

Spirits were a part of our lives, invariably friends, and we contacted them daily. We were warned by them that dark forces existed, that there were possessions out there, lost souls killed in the mayhem who didnt know they were dead, and that there were also evil and frightened entities waiting to pounce on the unprotected (us) and live vicariously through us. But, providing we said prayers before the sances and ensured our guides were guarding us, then we would be safe. And for those who werent safe, all was not lost, for there were rescue mediums about, those who specialised in releasing possessions and putting them on the path to redemption. These rescue circles could be pretty scary, with mediums threshing about and moaning before their guides achieved control of the possession. Only the strongest sitters joined forces with the possession mediums, to help them in their Godly work.

My mother heard voices. Not all the time and not often, but when they came they were always accurate, although not always welcome. Once, my Aunt Ethel brought round for us to see a stray puppy shed adopted. Homes were bombed all the time so there were plenty of lost, traumatised pets roaming the sites. You could hear the dogs whimpering at night, but seldom cats they were too self-sufficient for that. Everyone in Tooting seemed to love animals and no matter how mean the rations, or short the money, there was always enough to scrape together some scraps to feed a dog and cat.