Part 17
III. Experiments when agent and percipient were either thirty feet apart in different rooms, with a closed door between, under which circumstances it is incredible that involuntary whispering could have been heard, or thirty miles apart, in which case it is unquestionably impossible that involuntary whispering could have carried. Theory: _Chance coincidence_. This is the only theory left for such experiments, unless conspiracy is charged, and that at different times would have to include not only Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, but Mr. Irwin, Mrs. Irwin, the Sinclairs’ secretary and Professor McDougall. Refutation of the theory: _The experiments in this class were of such number and had such success both in number and quality as to challenge the production of any such success by guessing though hundreds of series each of an equal number of experiments should be gone through with_.
It is credible that the large percentage of Successes and Partial Successes in the first 14 experiments and 24 among the latest ones should have been obtained by one method, that (aside from these) during the earlier months another and quite different method should have been employed, and that (still aside from these) later a third and quite different method should have been resorted to, and yet the whole mass of results be homogeneous? It would certainly be expected that the inauguration of any new method would in some way be reflected in the nature of the results. But the lot produced with intervening distances too great to admit of the involuntary whispering theory melts imperceptibly into the lot produced with the agent and percipient together so that the involuntary whispering process is conceivable, and this in turn melts imperceptibly into the lot where all precautions are discarded, and this again into long-distance experiments and out, without it being possible to detect any changes in the character of the results at the points of junction. Throughout there is homogeneity, some successes being correct literally, some incompletely and partially, some results only suggestive and some entire failures. Throughout we find some corresponding in both shape and meaning, some in idea but not shape, and some in shape only and misinterpreted by the percipient; in fact, all the peculiarities of Mrs. Sinclair’s work are to be found in about equal proportions in all stages. There is perceptible a gradual though irregular tendency to decline in the ratio of success achieved, but in such a manner that the decline cannot be chronologically connected with any of the changes of method.
The “peeking” theory cannot be applied to the experiments of Class I. The “involuntary whispering” theory cannot be applied to the experiments of Class II. Neither the “peeking” nor the “involuntary whispering” theory can be applied to experiments of Class III.
Only the theory of chance coincidence can be applied as a single explanation of the experiments of all three classes. Let this be done and there is simply massed a greater amount of material for the demolition of the chance coincidence theory by anyone who will undertake a large series of precisely parallel experiments in Guessing.
For myself, I am willing to say, perhaps for the fourth time, that I am willing to rest the whole case on those experiments to which no one, presumably, will have the hardihood to apply either the theory of “involuntary whispering” or that of “peeking,” that is to say, those experiments in which agent and percipient were either in separate rooms or many miles apart.
An Interpretation of Mrs. Sinclair’s Directions
Mrs. Sinclair, on pages 116–128 of _Mental Radio_, outlines on the basis of her own experience the method which she thinks best calculated to develop an ability to attain at will a mental state which will enable some of her readers to receive and record telepathic impressions to an evidential degree. I propose, at the same time recommending that prospective experimenters shall obtain the book and read the full directions, to attempt a condensation of them. To some extent I shall interpret them; that is, state them in other terms, which it is hoped will not be the less lucid. As a matter of psychological fact, you cannot “make your mind a blank,” though you can more or less acquire the art of doing at will what you sometimes involuntarily do—you can practice narrowing the field of consciousness, so that instead of being aware of many things external and of various bodily sensations, your attention is fixed almost exclusively for a time on one mental object. Some persons at times become so absorbed in a train of thought that with eyes open and with conversation around them they are hardly conscious of anything seen or heard. But it is best to assist the attainment of such a state as Mrs. Sinclair does, by closing the eyes, and it is best that silence should prevail. When one remembers how in revery he has become oblivious to all around him, or how when witnessing an entrancing passage in a play everything in the theatre except the actors and their immediate environment has faded out of consciousness, he will have no difficulty in understanding what Mrs. Sinclair really means by saying that “it is possible to be unconscious and conscious at the same time,” although taken literally that is not a correct statement.
But, according to her, in order to be in the state best fitted for telepathic reception, it is not enough to narrow the field of consciousness until, approximately, only one train of thought on a mentally conceived subject occupies it. There must be cultivated also, in as high a degree as possible, an ability to shut out memories and imaginations, and to wait for and to receive impressions, particularly those of mental imagery, which seem to come of themselves, and to expend the mental energy upon watching, selecting from and determining these.
We are told that it is important to relax—“to ‘let go’ of every tense muscle, every tense spot, in the body,” and that auto-suggestion, mentally telling oneself to relax, will help. Along with this there should be a letting-go, or progressive quietening, of consciousness.
* * * * *
She wisely says that if in spite of you the selected mentally-visualized rose or violet rouses memories by suggesting a lost sweetheart, a vanished happy garden, or what not, you should substitute thinking of another flower which has no personal connotations for you. It must be some “peace-inspiring object,” even a spoon might suggest medicine. The reader will understand that we are now discussing the means for cultivating ability to fall at will into the state for telepathic reception; we are not talking about experiments with that end in view.
After considerable practice of this kind one will tend to fall asleep. It seems that it is right to nearly come to that point, but one must stop a little this side of the sleeping stage.
When one feels that some success has attended the practice described above, he may proceed to actual experiments. The amateur experimenter is advised at first to experiment in the dark, or at least in a dimly-lit room, as light stimulates the eyes.
* * * * *
She goes on to say what means that you should induce mental relaxation and passivity, narrow the field of consciousness. But at this point I must depart from Mrs. Sinclair’s precepts and recommend her own best practice. Her very first seven formal experiments were with her brother-in-law making his drawings some thirty miles away. The results were so remarkable that they deserve to arrest the attention of every psychologist. The next seven experiments were made with agent and percipient in different rooms, shut off from each other by solid walls; and their results also were very impressive. Therefore I see no reason why amateurs experimenting according to the light that they get from Mrs. Sinclair should not make their very first attempts in another room from the agent. Let the latter do as we find in the book was done; make his drawing, call out “All right” when he is done, and gaze steadfastly at the drawing until the percipient has made hers and signalized the fact by calling out “All right,” then proceed to make another and repeat the process. At least part of the time, let there be another person with the agent keeping watch upon his lips and throat muscles, lest the desperate theory should be advanced that at the distance of, say, thirty feet and through solid walls “involuntary whispering” on the part of the agent reached the ears of the percipient.
But how shall the percipient further conduct herself (we are here supposing the percipient is a woman) as the means of getting telepathic impressions? Adapting the directions given in the book, we should say that, lying on the couch with eyes dosed, and having sunk into that state of mental abstraction which she is supposed now to be capable of attaining, she is to order her subconscious mind, very calmly but positively, to bring the agent’s drawing to her mind.
And now we quote literally from the book, even to the expressions about making the mind a blank. Although not technically correct, it may be that to many not versed in psychology the expressions will be actually the best to suggest to them what they are to do.
* * * * *
Mrs. Sinclair warns that “the details of this technique are not to be taken as trifles,” and that to develop and make it serviceable “takes time, and patience, and training in the art of concentration.” There are special difficulties, at least in her case. In undertaking a new experiment what she last saw before closing her eyes again, particularly the electric light bulb which she lighted in order to make her drawing or drawings, appeared in her mind, and also the memory of the last picture. “It often takes quite a while to banish these memory ghosts. And sometimes it is a mistake to banish them,” a fact which we have noted several times in the account of her work. Another difficulty is to restrain one’s tendency when a part or what may be a part of the original appears, to guess what the rest may be, and to keep the imagination bridled.
* * * * *
It is quite probable—and this Mrs. Sinclair recognizes—that the procedure, now fairly clearly outlined, may not in all its details be suited to all minds capable of telepathic reception. Mr. Rawson, as we shall see in Part II, when successful, was nearly always so almost instantly. On the other hand, the percipients in the Schmoll and Mabire series were often as long as fifteen minutes making their choice. But it would be wise to begin along the lines of the instructions, and make modifications of method, if any, in the light of what personal experience suggests.
It is hoped that there will be readers of this Bulletin disposed to school themselves and to experiment in conformity with the above instructions, patiently and persistently, and that, successful or not, they will make careful records and report to the Research Officer.
APPENDIX I
Why Are We Like This?
(_Parts of a Hitherto Unpublished Manuscript by Mrs. Sinclair_)
There comes a time in the life of each of us when we begin to wonder what it is all about—this life. I mean, to want, with all one’s bewildered and troubled heart, to _know_. What is life, what is the purpose of it, above all, what is the reason for the preponderance of the pain of it? This brief earthly existence, with its series of cares and sorrows and bafflements—what is the purpose of it? It seemed so full of purpose in our youth—full, rather of purposes, for youth has no one purpose. Youth’s purpose is to fulfill what seems to be the little purposes of each day, such as evading unpleasant things and pursuing the pleasant ones. But as we pass on through the days of our youth, toward early middle-age, we realize that these eagerly, zestfully pursued purposes of youth were thwarted, one by one. If achieved, they brought some penalty, or disappointment.
Three years ago, being ill and not happy,[30] reached the crisis of questioning. I wanted to know how to get well, and I wanted to know why I wanted to get well. And so, I began to ask, where is the path toward knowledge? In which little store-house will I find a clue to the answer? I went to see the medical men who have access to one little store-house. I went to the psychological healers who have access to another little store-house. And I went to the only religious group in the world today which seemed to have any real, or living religion.[31] From all three of these sources, one clue, one hint, stood out as a real clue. From the mass of purported knowledge it appeared to me to be the most significant. It seemed to be the thing which produced results in all these three domains, though the priests and priestesses of but one of them seemed aware of the great significance of this hint.
It had to do with man’s mind, to begin with, but it seemed to lead into the very heart of all the universe—into our “material bodies,” as well as into our mental hopes and longings and joys and despairs. So I set to work to experiment first with telepathy and clairvoyance. If clairvoyance is real, I said, then we may have access to all knowledge. We may really be fountains, or outlets of one vast mind. To have access to _all knowledge_.
If telepathy is real, I said, then my mind is not my own. I’m just a radio receiving set, which picks up the thoughts of all the other creatures of this universe. I and the universe of men are _one_. I had long known, of course, that my body was not my own—that it picked up sun-rays, and cold-waves, and sound-vibrations, which shook the atoms of my being into new forms; that I picked up iron and sulphur, and phosphorus, and vitamines, and what not, when I ate the plants and animals of my universe; in short, that I had to pick up the constituents of a new body in the form of “fresh air” and “water” and “food” every day of my life in order to maintain the hold I had on the thing I called _my_ body. But somehow, in the vague way in which we think of the mind, I had felt that mine was entirely my own. Surely it was not dependent on, nor at the mercy of, outside forces—except in the one horrible, inexorable way of its dependence on my own body. It was free, of course, to accept ideas from other minds, if it wished; but it did not have to, unless it wanted to. So I had believed. Now, with my new clue, I began to wonder if all my life I had not been in error in my thinking, if I had not got the scheme of things turned upside down. Had I been looking at an image in a mirror, a reversal of the truth? Was my body dependent on my mind when I had thought my mind was dependent on my body? Was it sick when my mind was, and did it die when my mind died—of discouragement? And was my mind my own, or did it receive and accept thoughts constantly from all the other creatures of the universe without my being able to prevent it, without my even knowing it? * * *
What is myself, anyway—body or mind, or both, or one and the same thing, or—what? I must find out! Is my mind a hodge-podge of its own thoughts and the silent, ever-changing thoughts of all other creatures, just as my body is a hodge-podge of the elements of the plants and animals and light-rays it is fed on and made of?
Here were a lot of questions which had become terribly important, and I couldn’t answer them, I couldn’t really answer any of them. But I had a clue—a new clue which might lead—anywhere—to heaven or to hell. * * *
Some of the best scientific minds of the world have experimented with telepathy and believe that it is a proven fact. I have read much of this evidence, and I have watched a “medium” demonstrate telepathy. But perhaps he was deceiving himself—perhaps he used some trick without realizing it, such as listening to the breathing of the sender of the thoughts he received. I do not see how this could be, but it is possible, so I am told by experienced investigators of psychic phenomena. However, there is this mass of evidence, in books, written by men of the highest scientific training who have made experiments in telepathy and who are convinced that it is a fact. * * *
But despite all this evidence, I seem to be uncertain. And this is too serious a matter to leave to uncertainty. So I set to work to make my own experiments. I have experimented already with a “medium,” but I have been warned about the mediumistic temperament. These psychically sensitive persons are, thanks to the very quality of mind which causes them to be sensitive, overly prone to unconscious thinking which is supposed to take a form of conscious instability. So I must find a hard-boiled materialistic-thinking person to experiment with—one who is prone to object thinking, who can maintain a wide-awake consciousness with which to watch his own thoughts to prevent any self-deception, while I, by a trustworthy mechanical device, _i.e._, a writing pad and pencil, protect my mind from deceiving itself. I find such a hard-boiled object mind in the person of my brother-in-law, who is a most capable, practical business man, and whose philosophy of life does not include any “mysticism,” or unconscious knowledge. Being ill, however, and with no better way to pass the time, he consents to act as sender of telepathic messages to me. He is domiciled thirty miles away from me, and so we cannot look over each other’s shoulders at drawings, nor listen to each other’s breathing.
We proceed as follows: Each day at one o’clock, an hour which suits the convenience of both of us, he sits at a table in his home and makes a drawing of some simple object, such as a table-fork, or an ink-bottle, a duck, or a basket of fruit.[32] Then he gazes steadily at his drawing while he concentrates his mind intently on “visualizing” the object before him. In other words, he does not let his mind wander one instant from the picture of the fork, or the ink-bottle, or whatever he has drawn. He may gaze at the original object instead of at his drawing, but he must not think of anything else but how it looks. The purpose of the drawing is for proof to me that this was actually what he thought of at the appointed hour. If his mind wanders off to thoughts of something else, which he has no drawing of, I may get these wandering thoughts. Then he will forget these wandering, unrecorded thoughts, and I will have nothing to prove that he ever thought them.
When he has finished the fifteen minutes of steady concentration on one object, he dates his drawing and puts it away, until the time when we are to meet and compare our records. At my end of the “wireless,” I have done a different mental stunt. I have reclined on a couch, with body completely relaxed and my mind in a dreamy, almost unconscious state, alternating with a state of gazing, with closed eyes, into grey space, looking on this grey background for whatever picture, or thought-form may appear there. When a form appears, I record it at once. I reach for my pad and pencil and write down what I have seen, and make a drawing of it, and then I relax again and look dreamily into space again to see if another vision will appear, or if this same one will return to assure me that it is the right one. At the end of fifteen minutes, the period of time we arbitrarily agreed upon for each day’s experiment, I date my drawing and file it until the day comes to compare notes with my brother-in-law.
Each day thereafter, for several days, my brother-in-law goes through this same performance, varying it only by his choice of a different object to draw and concentrate upon each time. Every three or four days we meet and compare notes.
One day, while I lay passively waiting for a “vision,” a chair of a certain design floated before my mind. It was so vivid that I felt absolutely certain that this was the object my brother-in-law, thirty miles away, was visualizing for me. Other objects on other occasions had been vivid, but this one was not merely vivid; in some mysterious way, it carried absolute conviction with it. I knew positively that my mind was not deceiving me. I was so sure that this chair had come “on the air” from my brother-in-law’s mind to mine, that I jumped up and went to the telephone and rang him up. His wife was in the room with him and my husband was in the room with me, and we called on them as witnesses—for we had set out on the experiment determined that there was to be no deception, of each other, nor of ourselves. I wanted the truth about this matter—I was at life’s crisis, at the place where my whole soul cried out, “What is the meaning of it all, anyway?” And my brother-in-law knew my mood, and a painful, lingering illness was rapidly bringing him to share it. My vision of the chair, and my drawing of it, were entirely correct. This was our first thrilling success. Others followed it, and in the meantime, my husband and I had made together some similar experiments, with success. Before the summer was over, four persons—my husband, my brother-in-law, his wife, and I—had become convinced of the reality of telepathy. Then, having read a book by an English physicist (_An Experiment With Time_, by J. W. Dunne), I began keeping records of my dreams according to Mr. Dunne’s method, in order to see if, as he thought, they would render evidence of foreknowledge of future events. Clairvoyance is the usual term for this form of psychic phenomena, but Mr. Dunne, being a physicist, is averse to mixing it with psychic things to the extent of using the regular language, so he calls it “an experiment with time” and writes a book about it in the language of physics. Not being a physicist, I’m quite willing to stick to the well-known word, clairvoyance, even at the risk of repelling those ignorant persons who think that all psychic phenomena is trickery. There are hordes of charlatans who call themselves mediums, just as there are hordes of physicians who are charlatans, and of Christians who are cheats, and of bankers who are dishonest. So, having read Mr. Dunne’s useful book, I set out to record my dreams and to watch for their “coming true.” Some of them did. Some which could not be accounted for by coincidence. Some others came true which were clearly due to telepathy between my husband’s mind and my own. I dreamed that I was doing things which it turned out he was actually doing, at a distance from me, and at the time at which I was having the dream. Also, during these months, I made some experiments on a young hypnotist I knew. I had no intention of letting him hypnotize me, but I asked him to try to. I knew he would never consent to the telepathy experiment if he suspected it; he would not want me reading his secret thoughts. But he had played some tricks on me, so I felt justified. And so, when he concentrated on the task of putting me into a hypnotic sleep, I concentrated on “seeing” his thoughts. Again and again I succeeded in this experiment. I discovered his sorrows, his sins, his hopes, his daily adventures. And I recorded them and faced him with them and became his “Mother Confessor,”—and most generously rewarded his unintentional confidence. I am sure he will agree that I made a full return to him for the knowledge he inadvertently enabled me to obtain—the knowledge of the interaction of minds. * * *
APPENDIX II
Classified complete list of drawings made by Mr. Upton Sinclair in his experiments with Mrs. Sinclair, plus those by his secretary, mostly diagrams, and the seven by her brother-in-law, from July 8, 1928, to March 16, 1929, inclusive, being the period covered by his book.
Diagrams, Etc.