“More than clouds of purple trail
In the gold of setting day;
More than gleams of wing or sail
Beckon from the sea-mist gray.
“Glimpses of immortal youth,
Gleams and glories seen and flown,
Far-heard voices sweet with truth,
Airs from viewless Eden blown,--
“Gentle eyes we closed below,
Tender voices heard once more,
Smile and call us as they go
On and onward still before.”
So sings Whittier in “The Vanishers.”
Yet while most spiritual, his judgment of spiritualism in its accepted
meaning is given in a letter which after the death of his mother he
wrote to the dear friend of his sister and himself. She was an ardent
spiritualist and, evidently, had been endeavoring to console the poet
and his sister through this faith.
“Thy sympathy and tender solicitude have been fully appreciated by us,”
he wrote of himself and Elizabeth. “But at this time our sorrow can
find little alleviation even in the words of affection and friendship.
It must wait for time and trust and Christian faith to do their offices
for it.
“Nor do we derive anything of substantial consolation from the
spiritual philosophy. For myself I do not feel the need of it to assure
me of the continuity of life--that my mother still lives and loves us.
All I now ask for is the serene and beautiful child-like trust which
has made holy and pleasant the passage of our dear mother. I no longer
ask for _sight_--I feel that _faith_ is better. But I can only speak
for myself. Others may find solace and comfort in what appears to them
to be a communication direct and certain with the loved ones who have
entered into the new life....
“Our neighbors have been very kind and considerate. We miss thee very
much,” he goes on to say, “especially these long winter evenings when
it is very hard for us to sit alone with our thoughts. Elizabeth seems
quite overworn and exhausted; but I hope is slowly gaining--and for
myself I have been little better than sick for the last six weeks. But
I am very thankful I was able to be with my mother to the last. I find
no real consolation in anything short of a prayerful submission to the
Divine Providence.... Elizabeth sends thee her love and hopes soon to
write thee herself.”
Shortly after the death of his sister Elizabeth, this same friend was
most desirous to give the poet direct evidence that it was possible to
communicate with spirits from another world. Such proof was difficult
to her sincere nature unable to avail itself of shadowy methods,
therefore lacking mediumistic powers.
But one day in the garden room she was making the experiment, the poet
listening with the deepest interest. He was of the mind of Mortimer
in “Henry the Fourth,” who when Glendower boasted to him, “I can call
spirits from the vast deep,” retorted, “Why, so can I; and so can any
man. But will they _come_ when you do call for them?” The spiritualist,
however, was full of hope, and was beginning to believe that some
revelation was to be vouch-safed to her--when, suddenly, she ceased all
effort and became her natural self.
“I can do nothing,” she announced. “The spirits will not come. An
unbeliever is near.”
Whittier was not amazed at the reticence of the spirits. All that he
wondered at as he told the story was how his companion had devined
the approaching footsteps to be--as they proved--those of a strong
disbeliever in spiritualism, although a firm believer in spirituality.
* * * * *
Yet everything which held a possibility of throwing light upon the
unknown world had the greatest interest for Whittier.
One evening going to the doctor’s house, he found the elders of the
family out of town. The poet seated himself for a few moments--possibly
not to disappoint the young people who welcomed his coming.
“If you’ll stay, Mr. Whittier,” said one of them, “we’ll have
‘planchette’.” For that magic and impish toy, as it was then
considered, was at the time at the zenith of its fame. Today it bears
the name of “ouija.”
Up sprang the poet and whipped off his overcoat. A table was cleared.
Paper, of which planchette required a lavish supply, was brought. And
the poet and the only member of the family capable of coaxing anything
out of planchette sat down to the witchy little instrument which then
as today aroused wondering questions.
It was upon its good behavior that evening and poured forth voluble
answers. While in general most unreliable, at times it did seem to
have a power of divination. All the autumn of that year a “fire-bug,”
still at large and undiscovered, had been doing great damage in the
neighboring city of Newburyport. That evening planchette, after many
aliases, did actually give a name which, later, proved to be that
of the criminal. Whittier was vastly entertained with the whole
performance; and--most unusual with him--it was approaching the large
hours of the night when he went home.
But as he rose from the table, he revealed the extent of his faith in
the powers of the tricksy little toy. Turning to his coadjutor, he said
to her:
“If thee can write planchette as well as that, thee can write a book.”
But she never did.
The next instant Whittier had gone--after the manner of his flittings.
* * * * *
But he met in a different vein something which seemed to its narrator
a hint from the spirit world--a dream which had come to her after the
death of her father. In this dream she had seen him standing, a vision
of health and beauty, beside the double of himself lying in last agony.
He had looked down upon the suffering form as if he himself were no
longer one with it; and to emphasize this had thrown a covering over
the dead face. This dream had been twice repeated with only slight
variations.
Whittier listened with eager interest; and then turning to the
narrator, he said impressively:
“That was a good dream. I think that was sent to comfort thee.”
The poet would sometimes talk of the relations of those gone to
another world to their dear ones still here; and would wonder if the
departed knew of sorrow or loss to them--or, still worse, of sin in
the earth-bound ones whom they watched. Yet, if this were so, he said,
their outlook into the future must be larger than ours, or their faith
much greater; and so, they would perceive, or believe, that all would
yet be well.