The Mallaburn
Circle by Maurice Barbanell
Now the scene changes to a small village near Newcastle-upon-Tyne, to another
home circle and to a seance, one which lasted five hours. During that time
seven spirit forms, three male and four female, materialised. There were also
eight spirit communications in the direct voice, six from males and two from
females, each different and with individual characteristics.
The medium was Mrs. Gladys Mallaburn, of whom I had heard such splendid
testimonies that I sought an invitation to one of her seances. The results
exceeded my expectations. They would defy materialistic explanations by any
honest sceptic.
The dexterity with which the illuminated trumpet used for voice communications
zoomed at great speed around the room without fumbling or hitting anybody was
evidence of unerring accuracy by the spirit operators. Yet frequently it was
suspended in mid-air when communicators spoke through it.
The only sound that came from the medium was at the beginning. We heard her
stertorous breathing, a preliminary presumably to her going into trance.
One of the first to materialise was John, the medium's husband. He had become a
regular spirit visitor since his passing, a few months earlier, when he
appeared at one of his wife's seances before his body had been located. John, a
chief officer, met his earthly end when he tried to rescue an engineer who was
drowning.
At this seance he went to his teenage daughter, Rosemary, and expressed regret
for the act of abortive rescue that led to his premature passing. "If only I
hadn't taken that risk," he said. Once again I was impressed with the
naturalness with which Rosemary accepted her father's spirit return.
At this seance there was profuse evidence of identity from communicators. One
of the first to speak was a man who said, "Death is the greatest adventure of
my life!" He gave his name as Flight-Sergeant Navigator Leslie Hodgson. This
war victim 'killed' in combat, addressed his mother, then living in the same
village. He described how his spirit body left the airplane before it crashed
to the ground.
As proof of his nearness, he told his mother details of happenings with which
she was involved during the past few days, all of which she confirmed.
What I wish to stress is that Hodgson's was clearly a masculine voice.
The medium's spirit controls proved they were 'old hands' by the expert way
they manipulated the trumpet, speaking through it and later materialising.
They also showed a splendid understanding of seance conditions when they 'raised the vibrations' with humour and repartee to enable the best psychic
results to be obtained.
This was especially noticeable with Violet, a young Negro girl, whose features
were clearly visible when later she materialized - all three feet of her! She
had the score of sitters in laughter with her delightful 'scrambled' English
and her childish but nevertheless evidential observations. She demonstrated
supernormal powers by accurately describing my London home in detail though, of
course, the medium had never visited it. This was the first time that Gladys
Mallaburn and I had met.
One spirit communicator was Billy Curran, the son of two well-known Yorkshire
Spiritualists who frequently attended the circle. What struck me was the
seeming normality of the conversation between the 'dead' boy and his parents. Here, once again, was a demonstration of the simple but vital fact that love
can be stronger than death.
I was pleasantly surprised when the trumpet moved towards me and I was welcomed
by the spirit voice of a communicator giving his name as Tom Best.
I had known him as an outstanding Spiritualist personality in the North of
England. Like some of the best evidence, which cannot be printed, he furnished
information concerning domestic details which were known to me.
Tom was in splendid form, especially with one comment, 'Elliott gave me a good
funeral!' This referred to the Spiritualist minister who had conducted his
funeral service. Best quipped, "I didn't know I was half as good!"
Then it was the turn of another spirit control, a former local miner, who spoke
in the 'Geordie' dialect and whose idiom would be appreciated only by natives.
I noticed at this stage how the temperature suddenly dropped, a familiar
happening at this type of seance, as if a heater had been switched off.
Another curious phenomenon was the occasional scent of perfume. Violet said
that she was responsible for producing it. There was no doubt about its
reality, for she smothered all the sitters with the perfume. One drop got into
my eye and made it smart.
Among the figures to materialise was my old friend, Helen Duncan, who greeted
me enthusiastically. She had been a famous materialisation medium whose seances
I attended at least thirty times. When she spoke her voice was characteristic.
Once again I have to state that her message to me, though evidential, was of a
private nature and cannot be printed.
Then came the climax, the materialisation of the Arabian guide who is in charge
of all the phenomena. Using an illuminated plaque, on which there was his
portrait, he showed himself in turn to each sitter. His dark-skinned features
were clearly visible. His undoubtedly male voice came in loud tones, but with a
foreign accent. He went to the improvised cabinet, a curtained-off recess, and brought
the entranced medium in front of it so that we could clearly see the two of
them side by side.
I had evidence of the 'solidity' of one materialisation, a woman, who firmly
gripped my chin. Her hand was warm, solid and normally constructed. I noticed
her delicate fingers. There was nothing ghostly about them.
I observed that the materializations - one was a former archdeacon - varied in
height, build and size. Violet showed herself in party dress because of the
approach of Christmas. Her ectoplasmic robing was clearly discernible, as was
that of the Arabian guide.
While the direct voice part of the seance was held in darkness, for the
materialisations a shaded red light was used. Though, throughout the seance,
Violet had joked, she ended on a serious note. 'The sweetest song in all the
world,' she said, 'is that THERE
IS NO DEATH.' This was a refrain that I have heard countless
times.
I managed to persuade Mrs. Mallaburn to come to London and give a seance for a
group specially invited by me. As many were well-known Spiritualists, it was
not surprising that the communicators included two former mediums and four
people who had been keen exponents of psychic truths. Some of these communicators, seemingly because they knew the ropes, introduced subtle
references as evidence of identity.
Originally I had intended this to be a small circle, but the number grew until
there were more than a score present. An improvised cabinet was arranged and an
attempt made to black out light from the windows and door, but even so there were faint streaks visible during the whole
seance.
The conditions were not ideal for the type of psychic phenomena produced by
this medium because it was a day of unexpected sunshine, though late in
September. Frequently during the proceedings the medium's chief guide explained
that the ectoplasm was almost melting. Yet such was the efficacy of the spirit
operators that the seance lasted four hours, with one of the most spectacular
results coming right at the end.
Mostly the communications came through a trumpet, but several spoke in the
independent direct voice. The variety of these voices was outstanding. The
movements of the trumpet were fascinating to watch and were in themselves
evidence of supernormal activity. Never once did it fumble or bump into any
sitter as we watched its gyrations, made visible by the coating of luminous
paint.
Each communicator revealed individual characteristics. The first to speak was
the medium's chief guide who welcomed us from within the cabinet. He was an
individual of dignified mien, obviously a highly evolved entity who was doing
his utmost to demonstrate the reality of the spirit world in which he now lived. I thought that his parable on life here and hereafter was very
impressive.
Violet, the young Negro girl, was in complete contrast with her pert humour,
her mispronunciations and her sallies.
Next, through the trumpet, we heard a male voice giving the name 'Hitchcock,
Percy'. The seance was being held in a room of the headquarters of the Spiritualist
Association of Great Britain, an organisation of which he had been its
president. With a short message urging his hearers to continue the work to
which he had dedicated his earthly life for so many years, he seized the chance
of addressing some of his colleagues in the room.
Now we heard the words: 'Austin - Herald - reporter.' I knew who it was at
once, for I had heard him communicate before. This was many years earlier at an
Estelle Roberts voice seance when Air Chief Marshal Lord Dowding was present.
A. B. Austin was a Daily Herald war correspondent who was killed in
Italy. When he communicated, Dowding immediately recalled him, saying, 'He was
on my staff at Fighter Command and he was a fine officer.'
This time I thought Austin returned because I had invited to be present a
journalist who worked in the same building as he had and who was attached to a
companion publication. Austin mentioned, 'I have Cat's Eye with me'. This was
another reference to an Estelle Roberts voice seance at which 'Cat's-Eye' Stevens, one of the famous Battle of Britain fighter pilots, had returned and
spoken to his wife.
Plaintively I heard Austin ask, 'Oh, God, why do they always have to kill?' There was silence and then followed: 'I'm still alive and kicking. They can't
keep a good man down, and Iâm still reporting.' He sent greetings to Lord
Dowding, his old Chief, and to Lady Dowding. His final words were, 'The pen is
mightier than the sword'.
He was followed by a woman whose voice was clearly audible through the trumpet
which moved to Sydney Richardson, a splendid spiritual healer. "My husband
Syd," she said. Then clearly I heard the sound of a kiss coming through the
trumpet.
Her next words showed that no sex jealousy continues beyond the grave, for she
sent "my love to Ursula". This is Sydney's second wife, Ursula Roberts. "She
is so good," said the spirit speaker to her husband, "and you have much to be
thankful for." There was a cryptic message, "The wheels do go round," which
Sydney understood. Then came: "It is so nice to hear your voice. Thank you for
all the happiness we had. Tell Ursula I have brought her mother."
Helen Duncan communicated again to me. I knew it was she the moment I heard the
voice say, 'Nellie', followed by a mention of her husband's nickname. Hers was
a long, sustained, fluent communication. She referred feelingly to her last seance, broken up by police, followed by her
passing a few weeks later. "I was black and blue all over," she said.
There was a reference to the unjust sentence she served in prison when she was
convicted during the war, under the now repealed Witchcraft Act, a scandal
which so enraged Spiritualists that it led to our campaign which brought us legal
and religious freedom. "Those mailbags!" she said, referring to her prison
work.
Nellie spoke sympathetically of the companion who, because she had accompanied
her, had also been sent to prison as an accessory, and the dreadful time this
woman had in gaol. "I was one of the lucky ones," said Nellie. "They feared I
was dying, so they put me into hospital."
Then her mood altered as she laughingly exclaimed, "Fancy, I'm an angel now!" Again came a change of mood as she earnestly exhorted us to guard mediums, our
most priceless possessions, and promised to help Gladys Mallaburn in her
labours.
Once again the trumpet moved from the ground and was suspended in mid-air as a
voice declaimed: "When I go down to the grave, I can say like many others, "I
have finished my day's work"; but I cannot say, "I have finished my life." My
day's work will begin again the next morning. The tomb is not a blind alley; it
is a thoroughfare. It closes on the twilight; it opens on the dawn."
"That is a quotation from Victor Hugo," I said. "It was frequently recited by an
old friend of mine." The voice replied, giving the name of this old friend, "Walter Oaten". Deliberately he had mentioned only his second Christian name,
one that I had never heard this editorial predecessor of mine use in my
presence. So that there should be no doubt of his identity, he added, 'Ernest.'
After revealing by his words an intimate knowledge of matters in the Two
Worlds office, he said, "Amy is all right." This I was glad to learn, for it was some time since I had heard from
his wife. "I'm sorry I had to leave her in the eventide of life," he said. "I'll make it up to her when we meet."
"This is true," he said, adding, "I haven't my stick now." His old friends will
recall the stick he used because of his limp. Ernest ended his communication
with the plea, 'Don't overwork your mediums.'
Violet provided a welcome relief from the heat by drenching sitters with
perfume which smelled like the flower of her name. She announced that she was
going to bring some flowers. Soon we were strewn with flowers which later
proved to be chrysanthemums.
A deep masculine voice announced itself: "John Mallaburn, late of " naming
his house and the village where it stood. This, of course, was the medium's
husband, who was by now a regular communicator. John sent his love to "my
favourite blonde", his 13-year-old daughter, who always sits in the home
circle.
There was a homely touch as he asked his entranced wife to be told later that,
though their dog was fretting at home, he was keeping an eye on their beloved
animal.
He announced that he was bringing some apports, a score of sea-shells later
taken away by sitters as souvenirs. Through other mediums I have had many
apports. This word, derived from the French apporter ('to bring'),
refers to gifts brought supernormally at seances.
A completely different voice came next, one which spoke in soft, modulated
accents, and said its owner had served in the R.A.F. He made a beeline for my
wife, who was close to the cabinet, allowing her to feel his materialised hand,
covered with ectoplasm, which frequently billowed from the cabinet over her.
His contribution was the recitation, seemingly impromptu, of a long poem on
Survival.
He was responsible for an ingenious communication. "The Hawk is here," he said,
which Ralph Rossiter, the Spiritualist Association's secretary, understood, even before the communicator
added, "Black Hawk. . . his name is Powell. .. . This is my beloved son..."
Ralph, of course, will never forget old Evan Powell, that wonderful physical
medium, whose guide, Black Hawk, was responsible for virtually saving his life
when it seemed that he was condemned to suffer from tuberculosis. The phrase, "My beloved son," was one that Evan always used in referring to him. I could not follow, until Ralph explained it later to me, Powell's statement, "I have
met Holmes." Evan was a great friend of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
After one of their many sittings, Doyle announced he was killing off Sherlock
Holmes - public clamour later prevented this slaying - to devote the rest of
his days to espousing Spiritualism. Jokingly Powell often said, "I was
responsible for murdering Holmes."
Once again I heard the spirit control with his 'Geordie' dialect that you could
have almost cut with a knife. I had to ask some of the regular circle members -
six of them were present - to interpret what he said. His voice was
high-pitched and he was always in character.
Another regular visitor followed, May, a Cockney flower seller, so proud of her
hair that she went all round the circle trailing it over the sitters.
Finally the chief guide said he would try the experiment of an infra-red
photograph being taken, but he could not promise success because of the heat.
Some of us were asked to leave our seats, unlink hands and to stand or kneel in
front of the cabinet. We could hear his deep voice urging the medium to stand
up. Icy cold breezes came from the cabinet, with constant billowing of
ectoplasm He gave the signal for the photograph to be taken. Alas, it was not a
success, for all it revealed was a large rectangle of ectoplasm above which is
part of a draped face.
Nevertheless this guide provided a striking demonstration by coming out of the
cabinet. There he stood, dressed from head to foot in snow-white ectoplasm, illumined by
a soft light which flickered, he said, in tune with the medium's heart-beat.
This, he explained, was his 'soul light'. He did not venture far from the
cabinet, but some of those closest to him were able to make out his dusky
features.
Even this did not conclude the seance, as some thought, for Violet made a final
appearance, saying we could not close until we sang her favourite song, in
which she joined. I found it an impressive seance, interspersed as it was with
evidence of a private nature.
Gladys Mallaburn at the end of four hours was a limp figure.
The next day, however, she was as right as rain.
Published
By Zerdini on: http://www.spiritualistchatroom.forumotion.com