Leslie Flint as Oscar Wilde Plus Travis Smith Auto Writing

Okkulte Stimmen Mediale Musik (1- Leslie Flint as Oscar Wilde

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KETxCfV9vsY&feature=related

Extract From

Oscar Wilde from Purgatory (1924)
Author: Hester Travers Smith
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *


FOREWORD

In the pages in which I analyse these scripts, purporting to come from Oscar Wilde, I assume throughout that I am speaking of a discarnate personality of whose existence there is no question.

I leave it to my readers to pronounce on the case. I speak with assurance of Oscar Wilde's continued existence, merely for convenience; my own feeling is that of a diver who has pulled up a strange creature from the deep and wonders of what nature he may be! I hope he may excite criticism from every point of view and strengthen the ranks of those who take psychic study seriously. A highly intelligent ghost seems worthy of investigation; I have therefore made an effort to put the case fairly from the three angles which seem possible.

I do not hold myself responsible for any of the literary criticism in these scripts-the opinions expressed by "Oscar Wilde" are not mine.

I dedicate this book, with his permission, to
Sir William Barrett, F.R.S.,
respectfully and gratefully.
HESTER TRAVERS SMITH.

Extracr from the Intro by William Barrett which is also a useful reminder of the facts we should seek in purported communication.


Whether these scripts, purporting to come from Oscar Wilde, will support this view or not it is perhaps too soon to decide. Every reader will form his own conclusions; to me it seems that-given the entire honesty and trustworthiness of the automatists themselves, and of this there is no reason to doubt-they do afford strong prima facie evidence of survival after the dissolution of body and brain. Of the condition of the soul in the unseen, at present we can only to; see through a glass darkly "; for the messages that purport to come from the discarnate are little more than the record of their earth memories and habits. We have little or no evidence of that higher and more ample existence which we desire and mean by eternal life. Perhaps this is because none of those whom the world has known as saints ever seem to communicate; though many stupid personations of the great and good frequently occur.

Since the foregoing was put in type, Miss G. D. Cummins, for many years a friend and collaborator of Mrs. Travers Smith, has published in the Occult Review for February 1924 an extremely interesting and impartial study of these Oscar Wilde Scripts. Miss Cummins, like Mrs. Travers Smith herself, was at first very sceptical and regarded the results of
automatism-much as orthodox psychologists do-as merely interesting illustrations of the emergence of the subconsciousness of the automatist. But as time went on, during the eight years she studied these psychical phenomena, she was compelled to abandon her preconceived opinion. The striking personality of the soi-disant Oscar Wilde gradually became apparent. Miss Cummins remarks: "Style, handwriting, personality, the speed of the communication, the facts unknown to the mediums" must all be carefully considered before any judgment can be passed.

The next post is the first communication

It will be seen from the dispassionate examination of the scripts which Mrs. Travers Smith gives in the present volume that she is disposed to agree with Miss Cummins, that the whole contents of the scripts afford "more convincing evidence of survival than the giving of certain facts unknown to the mediums."

AUTOMATIC SCRIPT OBTAINED ON JUNE 8TH, 1923.

Sitters-Mrs. Travers Smith and Mr. V.

Lily, my little Lily-No, the lily was mine-a crystal thread-a silver reed
that made music in the morning. (Who are you?) Pity Oscar Wilde-one who
in the world was a king of life. Bound to Ixion's wheel of thought, I
must complete for ever the circle of my experience. Long ago I wrote that
there was twilight in my cell and twilight in my heart, but this is the
(last?) twilight of the soul. In eternal twilight I move, but I know that
in the world there is day and night, seed time and harvest, and red
sunset must follow apple-green dawn. Every year spring throws her green
veil over the world and anon the red autumn glory comes to mock the
yellow moon. Already the may is creeping like a white mist over lane and
hedgerow, and year after year the hawthorn bears blood-red fruit after
the white death of its may. (Mrs. T.S.-Are you Oscar Wilde?) Yes, Oscar
Wilde. (Mrs. T.S.-Tell me the name of the house you lived in in Dublin.
Tell me where your father used to practice.) Near Dublin. My father was a
surgeon. These names are difficult to recall. (Mrs. T.S.-Not at all
difficult if you are really Oscar Wilde.) I used to live near here-Tite
Street. (Mrs. T.S.-There is a Tite Street near here and he has spelt it
correctly. I don't know where he lived in London. Did you know about it?)
(Mr. V, the writer of the script.-I have never been in Chelsea before
to-day, and to the best of my knowledge I had never heard of Tite
Street.) (Mrs. T.S.-Well, Oscar Wilde, what was your brother's name?)
William-Willie. (Mrs. T.S.-Now, what did your mother, Lady Wilde, call
herself?) Speranza. Pity Oscar Wilde. (Mrs. T.S.-Why have you come here?)
To let the world know that Oscar Wilde is not dead. His thoughts live on
in the hearts of all those who in a gross age can hear the flute voice of
beauty calling on the hills or mark where her white feet brush the dew
from the cowslips in the morning. Now the mere memory of the beauty of
the world is an exquisite pain. I was always one of those for whom the
visible world existed. I worshipped at the shrine of things seen. There
was not a blood stripe on a tulip or a curve on a shell or a tone on the
sea that but had for me its meaning and its mystery and its appeal to the
imagination. Others might sip the pale lees of the cup of thought, but
for me the red wine of life.

Pity Oscar Wilde. To think of what is going on in the world is terrible
for me. Soon the chestnuts will light their white candles and the
foxgloves flaunt their dappled, drooping bells. Soon the full moon will
swim up over the edge of the world and hang like a great golden
cheese-Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! This image is insufferable. You write like
a successful grocer, who from selling pork has taken to writing poetry.
(Mrs. T.S.-Who said that?) Oscar. I find the words in my medium's mind.
Try again-like a great golden pumpkin hanging in the blue night. That is
better, but it is a little rustic. Still, I adore rustic people. They are
at least near to nature, and, besides, they remind me of all the simple
pleasures I somehow missed in life. (Here Mrs. T.S. made some remark
about Lady Wilde being a half crazy old woman who thought she could write
poetry.) Please do not insult my mother. I loved and honoured her. (Mrs.
T.S.-We are not insulting her. Spell out the name by which your mother
called herself.) Speranza. Yes, it is quite true what I said. I lived for
the beauty of visible things. The rose flushed, anemones that star the
dark woodland ways, those loveliest tears that Venus shed for Adonis, and
shed in vain, were more to me than many philosophies.*

* Mr. V. wrote with Mrs. T.S.'s hand resting on his. When she took her
hand off, the pencil only tapped and did not continue. The italics have
been inserted in the above copy to indicate quotations similar in style
which were afterwards discovered in Wilde's works. Mr. V. is a
mathematical scholar and had no special interest in Oscar Wilde. He
stated he had read "The Ballad of Reading GaoL" "De Profundis" and "The
Picture of Dorian Gray."

JUNE 18TH, 1923.

Present.-Mr. V., Mrs. Travers Smith, Mr. B., Mr. Dingwall (Research
Officer of the Society for Psychical Research), Miss Cummins.

Mr. V. was the automatist, Mrs. T.S. touching his hand.

Oscar Wilde. Being dead is the most boring experience in life. That is,
if one excepts being married or dining with a schoolmaster. Do you doubt
my identity? I am not surprised, since sometimes I doubt it myself. I
might retaliate by doubting yours. I have always admired the Society for
Psychical Research. They are the most magnificent doubters in the world.
They are never happy until they have explained away their spectres. And
one suspects a genuine ghost would make them exquisitely uncomfortable. I
have sometimes thought of founding an academy of celestial
doubters...which might be a sort of Society for Psychical Research among
the living. No one under sixty would be admitted, and we should call
ourselves the Society of Superannuated Shades. Our first object might
well be to insist on investigating at once into the reality of the
existence of, say, Mr. Dingwall.

Mr. Dingwall, is he romance or reality? Is he fact or fiction? If it
should be decided that he is fact, then, of course, we should strenuously
doubt it. Fortunately there are no facts over here. On earth we could
scarcely escape them. Their dead carcases were strewn everywhere on the
rose path of life. One could not pick up a newspaper without learning
something useful. In it were some sordid statistics of crime or
disgusting detail relating to the consumption of pork, that met the eyes,
or we were told with a precision that was perfectly appalling and totally
unnecessary-What time the moon had decided to be jealous and eclipse the
sun. (Mrs. T.S.-Shall we ask him some questions?) Don't degrade me into
giving you facts. Enquire about Mrs. Chan Toon. I had the honour of her
acquaintance some years ago.

(Mr. B. told a story of Whistler and Wilde. Wilde had expressed a wish to
have made a certain witty remark which had just been uttered by Whistler.
Whistler retorted: "You will, Wilde; you will in time.") The pencil
suddenly moved and wrote: With James, vulgarity always begins at home.