This experience of sitting with Leslie Flint, in the early years of his mediumship, was written by Charles Seymour
One day, looking through my notes, I was reminded that so far I had not experienced the “independent direct voice.” Independent means without a ‘trumpet’ i.e. a light metal, usually aluminium, cone or amplifier.
Where a trumpet is used, it moves about the room, and I have been at séances for physical phenomena when it whizzed to and fro in the dark at a tremendous speed, often within a quarter-inch of one’s nose; but I have never known a sitter to be hit, only very gently tapped when his attention was sought.
I had a medium earmarked — his name having been obtained from Press reports. This was Mr Leslie Flint, whose centre, at the date of this writing, is at Hendon. I wrote, as usual under an assumed name, asking for an appointment, and one was fixed for a few days ahead.
On the day, arriving a little before time in order to get the lie of the land in advance, I found already assembled eight persons, five women and three men. One of the latter, a young man, was, it transpired, the medium; another was the regular chargé d’affaires. With the third I had a little chat and learned that he was a Doctor of Philosophy, that this was his second visit here, and that, as I gathered, he, like myself; was an investigator.
We went to the séance chamber, which I found to be an ordinary sitting-room with chairs and a gramophone and with one corner curtained off. The medium seated himself in the recess, the curtains only partly drawn, and the sitters were ranged round the room.
I had been led by accounts in the spiritualist paper to expect a “Mickey,” who was declared to be this medium’s regular control, a little Cockney boy who, it was stated, had been knocked down and killed in the street some years previously. He had been described as a ‘veritable character’, a merry, sharp-witted youngster who seemed thoroughly to enjoy the task to which, on the other side, he had been assigned.
We were advised to sit comfortably, the light was extinguished, a record played, a hymn sung.
In perhaps ten minutes, a voice “crackled” out - that seems to be the only word to describe the timbre - a shrillish, lively boy’s voice, and wished us all a good evening.
We returned the greeting. Mickey at once began to live up to his reputation. He laughed and joked and quickly proved himself to be that “veritable character,” humorous, cheeky, quick on the uptake. He stayed on no ceremony with anyone, and among the first greeted the Doctor of Philosophy as ‘mate’, saying he was glad to see him again.
“So you remember me, Mickey “- from the Ph.D.
“Of course I do!” - indignantly.
Mickey continued for some minutes, and was a one-boy entertainment all by himself.
But presently he cut the fun, explained that he had come in first to ‘get the vibrations up’, and announced that he was now making way for a number of spirits, some of whom would be talking for the first time.
During the interval I took the opportunity to size things up so far. I noted these three points:
(1) The sitters were so grouped, and my own position was such, that I judged it would be impossible for anyone to enter or leave the room by the one door (which I almost faced) without my being aware of it.
(2) Practically simultaneously with the Mickey voice I had on several occasions heard the medium’s voice also. The medium had himself spoken with Mickey, and remark and counter-remark had followed one another instantly.
(3) My hearing being acute, and, I believe, my sense of direction good, I can vouch that the medium’s voice came from the recess where I had seen him take his place, and that Mickey’s voice was located from five to six feet away from him -at a spot, as near as I could judge, about a foot from the ceiling.
I may add that I had not been put off my guard by Mickey’s quips: ‘with one ear’ I had listened carefully for sounds of any suspicious move or rustle suggesting changing of seats, but had heard nothing. (I knew that neither of my immediate neighbours, right and left, had moved, as the circle was fairly closely packed, and my knees touched theirs.
As I was inwardly marking off these points, a quite different voice, a man’s, husky and apparently rather strained, sounded from the same spot overhead.
It said: “Charles.”
No one answering, the voice repeated: “Charles, I want Charles.”
Still no acknowledgment.
I was there under an assumed name. This was, if anyone would like to know it, ‘David Brevior’. The name had been chosen, as are all my pseudonyms, at random. I had just been reading about an old-time author named Shorter, who had used the Latinized form “Brevior” for his pen-name, and I signed that when writing for the interview.
Therefore, I remained silent.
“The spirit wants a Charles,” said the gentleman in charge (his voice reached me from the place—on the medium’s right—where I had seen him take his seat before lights out: throughout, all the ‘spirit voices’ came from the spot I have indicated, which was on the medium’s left).
“You want a Charles, friend. Charles who?”
“Charles Seymour.”
The name was uttered with difficulty, but it was distinct, the surname being delivered almost in a shout, as though fresh power had been acquired.
Scarcely able to believe my own ears, I gaped in the dark for a few seconds, and then I surrendered. What else?
“I am Charles Seymour.”
“This—is—William.”
William? I have a brother William, who, however, happily, is still in the flesh.
My mind was running back to some half-forgotten acquaintances when the voice came again, “Uncle William.”
This was almost as amazing, for it was true, I had had an Uncle William, who had died some twenty years earlier. But I had forgotten him, as when he lived he had been little more than a name to me. An Army man, he had been for many years stationed in India and South Africa, and I can recollect only two or three occasions when he visited our house, each time for a few hours. I did not know he took any interest in me.
‘William’ proceeded to give me a message.
This was quite as remarkable in content as the fact of my real name being spoken, but I will not here disclose its nature, as it fits more appropriately into the next chapter. Suffice it to say that ‘Uncle William’ and I conversed for several minutes, and he showed a close knowledge of my affairs and circumstances. He spoke, too, of his own state (which I gathered was not entirely a happy one. “We have our problems, too, you know”, he said, “but they are largely of our own making.”
Next a woman’s voice, “It is mother, my dear.”
I am unable to record the ensuing conversation, as it refers to private and personal details which have no place in this book. But from the evidential standpoint it is necessary to mention that my mother met her death by being knocked down by a car, and that this spirit voice disclosed knowledge of the fact that I was fetched to view her body in the mortuary. One point needs to be emphasized, because of something that will appear in the next chapter. I did not at this séance, neither did the voice, make any reference to the cause of my mother’s death. The mortuary was mentioned but so far as anyone at the séance could have known, death might have been due to natural causes.
Then Mickey again.
“What a lot of people there are for you, Charlie. You are one of the lucky ones.”
A different voice sounded: “Cousin Harry speaking.’
I had a cousin Harry - the only one of that name - who was reported missing, believed killed, in the war of 1914-18.
Mickey interposed with: “Did you know Portsmouth, Charlie?”
I said I did. In fact, I was stationed there for some time during the (1914-18) war.
“There’s a lot of buddies who knew you at Portsmouth,” and he proceeded to give a string of names.
I reflected, but had to answer that I was very sorry, but could not recall a single one of them.
“That’s all right, Charlie, don’t get downhearted. Cheer up. But you have got a bad memory, ain’t you?”
“No, Mickey, I’ve got a good memory.”
“That’s what you say. . . Wait a minute. There's one bloke here says they all remember you all right, and you’d know them if you was able to see ‘em as I do, but very likely you wouldn’t remember their names.”
(Note: In the Army I had a particular job at which I was a fixture for some considerable time. Hundreds of R.G.A. and R.E. men passed through on courses of training before being drafted overseas. I never knew the names of more than a fraction of them, but certainly many would have known me, as part of the landscape of the place, at that time.)
There’s Parsons here, who says he hurt his hand, and you ought to remember him by that.”
"On one of the guns?"
I knew that several men had so hurt themselves, but could recollect no Parsons.
“No, it wasn’t on the guns. Try to remember, Charlie.”
“I am trying, but it seems no good, Mickey. But thanks to everybody for looking me up—though I’m afraid there’s not much ‘look’ in it, in this dark.”
“We can see you all right, though, if you can’t see us. But that’s what it is, Charlie, they’ve just come to show you that they’re all alive and haven’t forgotten you.”
This ended my innings, and my notes show that thirteen other voices spoke, and all were acknowledged by various sitters.
Conversation with the voices went on for perhaps three-quarters of an hour longer, and some of it I found extremely interesting, particularly a duologue between a spirit and one lady who was scolded about
something, in what was evidently to her a surprising and unacceptable way.
During an interval I spoke with my nearest neighbour, mentioning that although my name had been correctly given as Seymour I had come there as Brevior.
Scarcely had I finished when Mickey shouted, “You shouldn’t come here under a fictitious name, Charlie.” He was clearly very proud of the “fictitious,” enunciating it with gusto.
The sitting closed with my arguing that point with him.
But Mickey had shown himself to be a determined person who when he makes up his mind makes it up, and I did not appear to have convinced him!
NOTE by Zerdini: When I sat with Leslie he was thirty years older and had moved to new premises. He no longer sat in a recess but with the sitters, usually about eight in number, and had no assistants in the room. We all had our own tape recorders until he bought a swish tape recorder with which he recorded every seance
