Part 2

All silver-laced with web and crystal-studded, hangs A golden lily cup, as airy as a dancing sprite. The moon hath caught a fleeting cloud, and rests in her embrace. The bumblefly still hovers o’er the clover flower, And mimics all the zephyr’s song. White butterflies, Whose wings bespeak late wooing of the buttercup, Wend home their way, the gold still clinging to their snowy gossamer. E’en the toad, who old and moss-grown seems, Is wabbled on a lilypad, and watches for the moon To bid the cloud adieu and light him to his hunt For fickle marsh flies who tease him through the day. Why, every rose has loosed her petals, And sends a pleading perfume to the moss That creeps upon the maple’s stalk, to tempt it hence To bear a cooling draught. Round yonder trunk The ivy clings and loves it into green. The pansy dreams of coaxing goldenrod To change her station, lest her modest flower Be ever doomed to blossom ’neath the shadow of the wall. And was not He who touched the pansy With His regal robes and left their color there, All-wise to leave her modesty as her greatest charm? Here snowdrops blossom ’neath a fringe of tuft, And fatty grubs find rest amid the mold. All love, and Love himself, is here, For every garden is fashioned by his hand. Are then the garden’s treasures more of worth Than ugly toad or mold? Not so, for Love May tint the zincy blue-gray murk Of curdling fall to crimson, light-flashed summertide. Ah, why then question Love, I prithee, friend?

This is poetry, but there is something more than liquid sweetness in its lines. There is a truth. Deeper wisdom and a lore more profound and more mystical are revealed or delicately concealed in some of the others.

I searched among the hills to find His love, And found but waving trees, and stones Where lizards flaunt their green and slip to cool Adown the moss. I searched within the field To find His treasure-trove, and found but tasseled stalk And baby grain, encradled in a silky nest. I searched deep in the rose’s heart to find His pledge to me, and steeped in honey, it was there. Lo, while I wait, a vagabond with goss’mer wing Hath stripped her of her loot and borne it all to me. I searched along the shore to find His heart, Ahope the lazy waves would bear it me; And watched them creep to rest upon the sands, Who sent them back again, asearch for me. I sought amid a tempest for His strength, And found it in its shrieking glee; And saw man’s paltry blocks come crashing down, And heard the wailing of the trees who grew Afeared, and, moaning, caused the flowers to quake And tremble lest the sun forget them at the dawn; While bolts shot clouds asunder, and e’en the sea Was panting with the spending of his might. I searched within a wayside cot for His white soul, And found a dimple next the lips of one who slept, And watched the curtained wonder of her eyes, Aflutter o’er the iris-colored pools that held His smile: And touched the warm and shrinking lips, so mute, And yet so wise. For canst thou doubt whose kiss Still lingers on their bloom? Amid a muck of curse, and lie, And sensuous lust, and damning leers, I searched for Good and Light, And found it there, aye, even there; For broken reeds may house a lark’s pure nest. I stopped me at a pool to rest, And toyed along the brink to pluck The cress who would so guard her lips: And flung a stone straight to her heart, And, lo, but silver laughter mocketh me! And as I stoop to catch the plash, Pale sunbeams pierce the bower, And ah, the shade and laughter melt And leave me, empty, there. But wait! I search and find, Reflected in the pool, myself, the searcher. And, on the silver surface traced, My answer to it all. For, heart of mine, who on this journey Sought with me, I knew thee not, But searched for prayer and love amid the rocks Whilst thou but now declare thyself to me. Ah, could I deem thee strong and fitting As the tempest to depict His strength; Or yet as gentle as the smile of baby lips, Or sweet as honeyed rose or pure as mountain pool? And yet thou art, and thou art mine— A gift and answer from my God.

It is not my purpose to attempt an extended interpretation of the metaphysics of these poems. This one will repay real study. No doubt there will be varied views of its meaning.

These poems do not all move with the murmuring ripple of running brooks. Some of them, appalling in the rugged strength of their figures of speech, are like the storm waves smashing their sides against the cliffs. In my opinion there are not very many in literature that grip the mind with greater force than the first two lines of the brief one which follows, and there are few things more beautiful than its conclusion:

Ah, God, I have drunk unto the dregs, And flung the cup at Thee! The dust of crumbled righteousness Hath dried and soaked unto itself E’en the drop I spilled to Bacchus, Whilst Thou, all-patient, Sendest purple vintage for a later harvest.

The poems sometimes contain irony, gentle as a summer zephyr or crushing as a mailed fist. For instance this challenge to the vainglorious:

Strike ye the sword or dip ye in an inken well; Smear ye a gaudy color or daub ye the clay? Aye, beat upon thy busom then and cry, “’Tis mine, this world-love and vainglory!” Ah, master-hand, who guided thee? Stay! Dost know that through the ages, Yea, through the very ages, One grain of hero dust, blown from afar, Hath lodged, and moveth thee? Wait. Wreathe thyself and wait. The green shall deepen to an ashen brown And crumble then and fall into thy sightless eyes, While thy moldering flesh droppeth awry. Wait, and catch thy dust. Mayhap thou canst build it back!

She touches all the strings of human emotion, and frequently thrums the note of sorrow, usually, however, as an overture to a pæan of joy. The somber tones in her pictures, to use another metaphor, are used mainly to strengthen the high lights. But now and then there comes a verse of sadness such as this one, which yet is not wholly sad:

Ah, wake me not! For should my dreaming work a spell to soothe My troubled soul, wouldst thou deny me dreams? Ah, wake me not! If ’mong the leaves wherein the shadows lurk I fancy conjured faces of my loved, long lost; And if the clouds to me are sorrow’s shroud; And if I trick my sorrow, then, to hide Beneath a smile; or build of wasted words A key to wisdom’s door—wouldst thou deny me? Ah, let me dream! The day may bring fresh sorrows, But the night will bring new dreams.

When this was spelled upon the board, its pathos affected Mrs. Curran to tears, and, to comfort her, Patience quickly applied an antidote in the following jingle, which illustrates not only her versatility, but her sense of humor:

Patter, patter, briney drops, On my kerchief drying: Spatter, spatter, salty stream, Down my poor cheeks flying. Brine enough to ’merse a ham, Salt enough to build a dam! Trickle, trickle, all ye can And wet my dry heart’s aching. Sop and sop, ’tis better so, For in dry soil flowers ne’er grow.

This little jingle answered its purpose. Mrs. Curran’s tears continued to fall, but they were tears of laughter, and all of the little party about the board were put in good spirits. Then Patience dryly remarked:

“Two singers there be; he who should sing like a troubadour and brayeth like an ass, and he who should bray that singeth.”

* * * * *

These examples will serve to illustrate the nature of the communications, and as an introduction to the numerous compositions that will be presented in the course of this narrative.

The question now arises, or, more likely, it has been in the reader’s mind since the book was opened: What evidence is there of their genuineness? Does Mrs. Curran, consciously or subconsciously, produce this matter? It is hardly credible that anyone able to write such poems would bother with a ouija board to do it.

It will probably be quite evident to a reader of the whole matter that whoever or whatever it is that writes this poetry and prose, possesses, as already intimated, not only an unusual mind, but an unusual knowledge of archaic forms of English, a close acquaintance with nature as it is found in England, and a familiarity with the manners and customs of English life of an older time. Many of the words used in the later compositions, particularly those of a dramatic nature, are obscure dialectal forms not to be found in any work of literature. All of the birds and flowers and trees referred to in the communications are native to England, with the few exceptions that indicate some knowledge of New England. No one not growing up with the language used could have acquired facility in it without years of patient study. No one could become so familiar with English nature without long residence in England: for the knowledge revealed is not of the character that can be obtained from books. Mrs. Curran has had none of these experiences. She has never been in England. Her studies since leaving school have been confined to music, to which art she is passionately attached, and in which she is adept. She has never been a student of literature, ancient or modern, and has never attempted any form of literary work. She has had no particular interest in English history, English literature or English life.

But, it may be urged, this matter might be produced subconsciously, from Mrs. Curran’s mind or from the mind of some person associated with her. The phenomena of subconsciousness are many and varied, and the word is used to indicate, but does not explain, numerous mysteries of the mind which seem wholly baffling despite this verbal hitching post. But I have no desire to enter into an argument. My sole purpose is so to present the facts that the reader may intelligently form his own opinion. Here are the facts that relate to this phase of the subject:

Mrs. Curran does not go into a trance when the communications are received. On the contrary, her mind is absolutely normal, and she may talk to others while the board is in operation under her hands. It is unaffected by conversation in the room. There is no _effort_ at mental concentration. Aside from Mrs. Curran, it does not matter who is present, or who sits at the board with her; there are seldom the same persons at any two successive sittings. Yet the personality of Patience is constant and unvarying. As to subconscious action on the part of Mrs. Curran, it would seem to be sufficient to say that no one can impart knowledge subconsciously, unless it has been first acquired through the media of consciousness; that is to say, through the senses. No one, for example, who had never seen or heard a word of Chinese, could speak the language subconsciously. One may unconsciously acquire information, but it must be through the senses.

It remains but to add that the reputation and social position of the Currans puts them above the suspicion of fraud, if fraud were at all possible in such a matter as this; that Mrs. Curran does not give public exhibitions, nor private exhibitions for pay; that the compositions have been received in the presence of their friends, or of friends of their friends, all specially invited guests. There seems nothing abnormal about her. She is an intelligent, conscientious woman, a member of the Episcopalian church, but not especially zealous in affairs of religion, a talented musician, a clever and witty conversationalist, and a charming hostess. These facts are stated not as gratuitous compliments, but as evidences of character and temperament which have a bearing upon the question.

PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE

“Yea, I be me.”

Patience, as I have said, has given very little information about herself, and every effort to pin her to a definite time or locality has been without avail. When she first introduced herself to Mrs. Curran, she was asked where she came from, and she replied, “Across the sea.” Asked when she lived, the pointer groped among the figures as if struggling with memory, and finally, with much hesitation upon each digit, gave the date 1649. This seemed to be so in accord with her language, and the articles of dress and household use to which she referred, that it was accepted as a date that had some relation to her material existence. But Patience has since made it quite plain that she is not to be tied to any period.

“I be like to the wind,” she says, “and yea, like to it do blow me ever, yea, since time. Do ye to tether me unto today I blow me then tomorrow, and do ye to tether me unto tomorrow I blow me then today.”

Indeed, she at times seems to take a mischievous delight in baffling the seeker after personal information; and at other times, when she has a composition in hand, she expresses sharp displeasure at such inquiries. As this is not a speculative work, but a narrative, the attempt to fix a time and place for her will be left to those who may find interest in the task. All that can be said with definiteness is that she brings the speech and the atmosphere, as it were, of an age or ages long past; that she is thoroughly English, and that while she can and does project herself back into the mists of time, and speak of early medieval scenes as familiarly as of the English renaissance, she does not make use of any knowledge she may possess of modern developments or modern conditions. And yet, archaic in word and form as her compositions are, there is something very modern in her way of thought and in her attitude toward nature. An eminent philologist asked her how it was that she used the language of so many different periods, and she replied: “I do plod a twist of a path and it hath run from then till now.” And when he said that in her poetry there seemed to be echoes or intangible suggestions of comparatively recent poets, and asked her to explain, she said: “There be aneath the every stone a hidden voice. I but loose the stone and lo, the voice!”

But while the archaic form of her speech and writings is an evidence of her genuineness, and she so considers it, she does not approve of its analysis as a philological amusement. “I brew and fashion feasts,” she says, “and lo, do ye to tear asunder, thee wouldst have but grain dust and unfit to eat. I put not meaning to the tale, but source thereof.” That is to say, she does not wish to be measured by the form of her words, but by the thoughts they convey and the source from which they come. And she has put this admonition into strong and striking phrases.

“Put ye a value ’pon word? And weigh ye the line to measure, then, the gift o’ Him ’pon rod afashioned out by man?

“I tell thee, He hath spoke from out the lowliest, and man did put to measure, and lo, the lips astop!

“And He doth speak anew; yea, and He hath spoke from out the mighty, and man doth whine o’ track ashow ’pon path he knoweth not—and lo, the mighty be astopped!

“Yea, and He ashoweth wonders, and man findeth him a rule, and lo, the wonder shrinketh, and but the rule remaineth!

“Yea, the days do rock with word o’ Him, and man doth look but to the rod, and lo, the word o’ Him asinketh to a whispering, to die.

“And yet, in patience, He seeketh new days to speak to thee. And thou ne’er shalt see His working. Nay!

“Look ye unto the seed o’ the olive tree, aplanted. Doth the master, at its first burst athrough the sod, set up a rule and murmur him, ‘’Tis ne’er an olive tree! It hath but a pulp stem and winged leaves?’ Nay, he letteth it to grow, and nurtureth it thro’ days, and lo, at finish, there astandeth the olive tree!

“Ye’d uproot the very seed in quest o’ root! I bid thee nurture o’ its day astead.

“I tell thee more: He speaketh not by line or word; Nay, by love and giving.

“Do ye also this, in His name.”

* * * * *

But, aside from the meagerness of her history, there is no indefiniteness in her personality, and this clear-cut and unmistakable individuality, quite different from that of Mrs. Curran, is as strong an evidence of her genuineness as is the uniqueness of her literary productions. To speak of something which cannot be seen nor heard nor felt as a personality, would seem to be a misuse of the word, and yet personality is much more a matter of mental than of physical characteristics. The tongue and the eyes are merely instruments by means of which personality is revealed. The personality of Patience Worth is manifested through the instrumentality of a ouija board, and her striking individuality is thereby as vividly expressed as if she were present in the flesh. Indeed, it requires no effort of the imagination to visualize her. Whatever she may be, she is at hand. Nor does she have to be solicited. The moment the fingers are on the board she takes command. She seems fairly to jump at the opportunity to express herself.

And she is essentially feminine. There are indubitable evidences of feminine tastes, emotions, habits of thought, and knowledge. She is, for example, profoundly versed in the methods of housekeeping of two centuries or more ago. She is familiar with all the domestic machinery and utensils of that olden time—the operation of the loom and the spinning wheel, the art of cooking at an open hearth, the sanding of floors; and this homely knowledge is the essence of many of her proverbs and epigrams.

“A good wife,” she says, “keepeth the floor well sanded and rushes in plenty to burn. The pewter should reflect the fire’s bright glow; but in thy day housewifery is a sorry trade.”

At another time she opened the evening thus:

“I have brought me some barley corn and a porridge pot. May I then sup?”

And the same evening she said to Mrs. Pollard:

“Thee’lt ever stuff the pot and wash the dishcloth in thine own way. Alackaday! Go brush thy hearth. Set pot aboiling. Thee’lt cook into the brew a stuff that tasteth full well unto thy guest.”

A collection of maxims for housekeepers might be made from the flashes of Patience’s conversation. For example:

“Too much sweet may spoil the short bread.”

“Weak yarn is not worth the knitting.”

“A pound for pound loaf was never known to fail.”

“A basting but toughens an old goose.”

These and many others like them were used by her in a figurative sense, but they reveal an intimate knowledge of the household arts and appliances of a forgotten time. If she knows anything of stoves or ranges, of fireless cookers, of refrigerators, of any of the thousand and one utensils which are familiar to the modern housewife, she has never once let slip a word to betray such knowledge.

At one time, after she had delivered a poem, the circle fell into a discussion of its meaning, and after a bit Patience declared they were “like treacle dripping,” and added, “thee’lt find the dishcloth may make a savory stew.”

“She’s roasting us,” cried Mrs. Hutchings.

“Nay,” said Patience, “boiling the pot.”

“You don’t understand our slang, Patience,” Mrs. Hutchings explained. “Roasting means criticising or rebuking.”

“Yea, basting,” said Patience.

Mrs. Pollard remarked: “I’ve heard my mother say, ‘He got a basting!’”

“An up-and-down turn to the hourglass does to a turn,” Patience observed dryly.

“I suppose she means,” said Mrs. Hutchings, “that two hours of basting or roasting would make us understand.”

“Would she be likely to know about hourglasses?” Mrs. Curran asked.

Patience answered the question.

“A dial beam on a sorry day would make a muck o’ basting.” Meaning that a sundial was of no use on a cloudy day.

* * * * *

But Patience is not usually as patient with lack of understanding as this bit of conversation would indicate.

“I dress and baste thy fowl,” she said once, “and thee wouldst have me eat for thee. If thou wouldst build the comb, then search thee for the honey.”

“Oh, we know we are stupid,” said one. “We admit it.”

“Saw drip would build thy head and fill thy crannies,” Patience went on, “yet ye feel smug in wisdom.”

And again: “I card and weave, and ye look a painful lot should I pass ye a bobbin to wind.”

A request to repeat a doubtful line drew forth this exclamation: “Bother! I fain would sew thy seam, not do thy patching.”

At another time she protested against a discussion that interrupted the delivery of a poem: “Who then doth hold the distaff from whence the thread doth wind? Thou art shuttling ’twixt the woof and warp but to mar the weaving.”

And once she exclaimed, “I sneeze on rust o’ wits!”

* * * * *

But it must not be understood that Patience is bad-tempered. These outbreaks are quoted to show one side of her personality, and they usually indicate impatience rather than anger: for, a moment after such caustic exclamations, she is likely to be talking quite genially or dictating the tenderest of poetry. She quite often, too, expresses affection for the family with which she has associated herself. At one time she said to Mrs. Curran, who had expressed impatience at some cryptic utterance of the board:

“Ah, weary, weary me, from trudging and tracking o’er the long road to thy heart! Wilt thou, then, not let me rest awhile therein?”

And again: “Should thee let thy fire to ember I fain would cast fresh faggots.”

And at another time she said of Mrs. Curran: “She doth boil and seethe, and brew and taste, but I have a loving for the wench.”

But she seems to think that those with whom she is associated should take her love for granted, as home folks usually do, and she showers her most beautiful compliments upon the casual visitor who happens to win her favor. To one such she said:

“The heart o’ her hath suffered thorn, but bloomed a garland o’er the wounds.”

To a lady who is somewhat deaf she paid this charming tribute:

“She hath an ear upon her every finger’s tip, and ’pon her eye a thousand flecks o’ color for to spread upon a dreary tale and paint a leaden sky aflash. What need she o’ ears?”

And to another who, after a time at the board, said she did not want to weary Patience:

“Weary then at loving of a friend? Would I then had the garlanded bloom o’ love she hath woven and lighted, I do swear, with smiling washed brighter with her tears.”

And again: “I be weaving of a garland. Do leave me then a bit to tie its ends. I plucked but buds, and woe! they did spell but infant’s love. I cast ye, then, a blown bloom, wide petaled and rich o’ scent. Take thou and press atween thy heart throbs—my gift.”

Of still another she said: “She be a star-bloom blue that nestleth to the soft grasses of the spring, but ah, the brightness cast to him who seeketh field aweary!”