PATIENCE WORTH
A PSYCHIC MYSTERY
By
CASPER S. YOST
[Illustration: colophon]
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1916
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
_Published February, 1916_
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PREFACE
The compiler of this book is not a spiritualist, nor a psychologist, nor
a member of the Society for Psychical Research; nor has he ever had
anything more than a transitory and skeptical interest in psychic
phenomena of any character. He is a newspaper man whose privilege and
pleasure it is to present the facts in relation to some phenomena which
he does not attempt to classify nor to explain, but which are virtually
without precedent in the record of occult manifestations. The mystery of
Patience Worth is one which every reader may endeavor to solve for
himself. The sole purpose of this narrative is to give the visible
truth, the physical evidence, so to speak, the things that can be seen
and that are therefore susceptible of proof by ocular demonstration. In
this category are the instruments of communication and the
communications themselves, which are described, explained and, in some
cases, interpreted, where an effort at interpretation seems to be
desirable.
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CONTENTS
PAGE
THE COMING OF PATIENCE WORTH 1
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS 9
PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE 37
THE POETRY 63
THE PROSE 107
CONVERSATIONS 173
RELIGION 223
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 247
INDEX 287
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THE COMING OF PATIENCE WORTH
Upon a July evening in 1913 two women of St. Louis sat with a ouija
board upon their knees. Some time before this a friend had aroused their
interest in this unfathomable toy, and they had since whiled away many
an hour with the inscrutable meanderings of the heart-shaped pointer;
but, like thousands of others who had played with the instrument, they
had found it, up to this date, but little more than a source of amused
wonder. The messages which they had laboriously spelled out were only
such as might have come from the subconsciousness of either one or the
other, or, at least, were no more strange than innumerable
communications which have been received through the reading of the ouija
board.
But upon this night they received a visitor. The pointer suddenly became
endowed with an unusual agility, and with great rapidity presented this
introduction:
“Many moons ago I lived. Again I come. Patience Worth my name.”
The women gazed, round-eyed, at each other, and the board continued:
“Wait. I would speak with thee. If thou shalt live, then so shall I. I
make my bread by thy hearth. Good friends, let us be merrie. The time
for work is past. Let the tabbie drowse and blink her wisdom to the
firelog.”
“How quaint that is!” one of the women exclaimed.
“Good Mother Wisdom is too harsh for thee,” said the board, “and thou
shouldst love her only as a foster mother.”
Thus began an intimate association with “Patience Worth” that still
continues, and a series of communications that in intellectual vigor and
literary quality are virtually without precedent in the scant
imaginative literature quoted in the chronicles of psychic phenomena.
The personality of Patience Worth—if personality it may be called—so
impressed itself upon these women, at the first visit, that they got
pencil and paper and put down not only all that she transmitted through
the board, but all the questions and comment that elicited her remarks;
and at every meeting since then, a verbatim record has been made of the
conversation and the communications.
These records have accumulated until they have filled several volumes of
typewritten pages, and upon them, and upon the writer’s personal
observations of the workings of the phenomena, this narrative is based.
They include conversations, maxims, epigrams, allegories, tales, dramas,
poems, all the way from sportive to religious, and even prayers, most of
them of no little beauty and of a character that may reasonably be
considered unique in literature.
* * * * *
The women referred to are Mrs. John H. Curran, wife of the former
Immigration Commissioner of Missouri, and Mrs. Emily Grant Hutchings,
wife of the Secretary of the Tower Grove Park Board in St. Louis, both
ladies of culture and refinement. Mrs. Curran is a young woman of
nervous temperament, bright, vivacious, ready of speech. She has a taste
for literature, but is not a writer, and has never attempted to write
anything more ambitious than a personal letter. Mrs. Hutchings, on the
other hand, is a professional writer of skill, and it was to her quick
appreciation of the quality of the communications that the starting of
the record is due. It was soon apparent, however, that it was Mrs.
Curran who was the sole agent of transmission; for the communications
came only when she was at the board, and it mattered not who else sat
with her. During the first months only Mrs. Curran and Mrs. Hutchings
sat, but gradually the circle widened, and others assisted Mrs. Curran.
Sometimes as many as five or six would sit with her in the course of an
evening. Mr. Curran has acted as amanuensis, and recorded the
communications at most of the sittings, Mrs. Curran’s mother, Mrs. Mary
E. Pollard, occasionally taking his place.
* * * * *
The ouija board is a rectangular piece of wood about 16 inches wide by
24 inches in length and half an inch thick. Upon it the letters of the
alphabet are arranged in two concentric arcs, with the ten numerals
below, and the words “Yes” and “No” at the upper corners. The
planchette, or pointer, is a thin, heart-shaped piece of wood provided
with three legs, upon which it moves about upon the board, its point
indicating the letters of the words it is spelling. Two persons are
necessary for its operation. They place the tips of their fingers
lightly upon the pointer and wait. Perhaps it moves; perhaps it does
not. Sometimes it moves aimlessly about the board, spelling nothing;
sometimes it spells words, but is unable to form a sentence; but often
it responds readily enough to the impulses which control it, and even
answers questions intelligibly, occasionally in a way that excites the
wonder and even the awe of those about it. Its powers have been
attributed by some to supernatural influence, by others to
subconsciousness, but science has looked upon it with disdain, as, until
recent years, science has looked upon nearly all unprecedented
phenomena.
Mr. W. T. Carrington, an eminent English investigator of psychical
phenomena, in an exhaustive work upon the subject, has this to say of
the ouija board: “Granting for the sake of argument that the board is
moved by the sitter, either consciously or unconsciously, the great and
vital question still remains: What is the intelligence behind the board,
that directs the phenomena? Whoever sets out to give a final and
decisive answer to this question in the present state of our knowledge
will have his task cut out for him, and I wish him happiness in the
undertaking. Personally I am attempting nothing of the kind.”
The ouija board has been in use for many years. There is no element of
novelty in the mere fact that curious and puzzling messages are received
by means of it. I emphasize this fact because I wish to place the board
in its proper relation to the communications from the intelligence
calling herself Patience Worth. Aside from the psychical problem
involved—and which, so far as the board is concerned, is the same in
this case as in many others—the ouija board has no more significance
than a pen or a pencil in the hand. It is merely an instrument for the
transmission of thought in words. In comparison with the personality and
the literature which it reveals in this instance, it is a factor of
little significance. It is proper to say, however, at this point, that
every word attributed to Patience Worth in this volume was received by
Mrs. Curran through this instrument.
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS
“He who buildeth with peg and cudgel but buildeth a toy for
an age who will but cast aside the bauble as naught; but he
who buildeth with word, a quill and a fluid, buildeth
well.”—PATIENCE WORTH.
There are a number of things that distinguish Patience Worth from all
other “intelligences” that have been credited with communications
pretending to come from a spiritual source. First is her intellect. One
of the strongest arguments against the genuineness of such
communications has been the lack of intelligence often displayed in
them. They have largely been, though with many exceptions, crude
emanations of weak mentalities, and few of the exceptions have shown
greater intellect or greater knowledge than is possessed by the average
human being.
In a work entitled, “Is Death the End?” Dr. John H. Holmes, an eminent
New York divine, gives considerable space to the psychic evidence of
immortality. In the course of his discussion of this phase of his
subject he concisely describes the characteristic features of psychic
communications. “Nobody,” he says, “can study the evidence gathered in
this particular field without noticing, first of all, the triviality,
almost the inanity, of the communications received. Here we come, eager
for the evidence of future life and information as to what it means to
die and pass into the great beyond. And what do we get? First of all—and
naturally enough, perhaps—frantic efforts on the part of the alleged
spirits to prove their identity by the citation of intricate and
unimportant details of where they were and what they did at different
times when they were here among men. Sometimes there is a recounting of
an event which is taking place in a part of the world far removed from
the locality in which the medium and the recipient are sitting. Again
and again there is a descent to obscurity and feeble chattering.”
I quote this passage, not merely because it so clearly states the
experience and conclusions of many who have investigated these
phenomena, but because it serves to show by its marked contrast the
wonder of the communications from Patience Worth. There are no efforts
on her part to prove her identity. On the contrary, she can rarely be
induced to speak of herself, and the personal information she has
reluctantly given is disappointingly meager. “About me,” she says, “thou
wouldst know much. Yesterday is dead. Let thy mind rest as to the past.”
She never speaks of her own acts as a physical being; she never refers
to any event taking place in the world now or that has taken place in
the past. But far more important than these, she reveals an intellect
that is worthy of any man’s respect. It is at once keen, swift, subtle
and profound. There is not once but always a “sustained level of clear
thought and fine feeling.” There is obscurity at times, but it is
usually the obscurity of profundity, and intelligent study generally
reveals a meaning that is worth the effort. There is never a “focusing
of attention upon the affairs of this world,” except for the purpose of
displaying its beauties and its wonders, and to assist in explaining the
world that she claims is to come. For that other world she seems to try
to explain as far as some apparent limitations permit, speaks as few
have spoken before, and her words often bring delight to the mind and
consolation to the soul.
* * * * *
Before considering these communications in detail, it would be well for
the reader to become a little better acquainted with the alleged
Patience herself. I speak of her as a person, for whatever she, or it,
may be, the impression of a distinct personality is clear and definite;
and it is, besides, more convenient so to designate her. Patience as a
rule speaks an archaic tongue that is in general the English language of
about the time of the Stuarts, but which contains elements of a usage
still more ancient, and, not rarely, word and phrase forms that seem
never to have been used in English or in any English dialect. Almost all
of her words, however, whether in conversation or in literary
composition, are of pure Anglo-Saxon-Norman origin. There is seldom a
word of direct Latin or Greek parentage. Virtually all of the objects
she refers to are things that existed in the seventeenth century or
earlier. In all of the great mass of manuscript that has come from her
we have not noticed a single reference to an object of modern creation
or development; nor have more than a dozen words been found in her
writings that may be of later origin than the seventeenth century, and
some of these words are debatable. She has shown, in what would seem to
be a genuinely feminine spirit of perversity, that she can use a modern
word if she chooses to do so. And if she is living now, no matter when
she was on earth, why should she not? (She has twice used the word
“shack,” meaning a roughly constructed cabin, a word which is in that
sense so new and so local that it has but recently found a place in the
dictionaries.) But the fact remains that the number of such words is so
small as to be negligible.
Only one who has tried to write in archaic English without committing
anachronisms can realize its tremendous difficulty. We are so saturated
with words and idioms of modern origin that it is almost impossible
wholly to discard them, even when given every advantage of time and
reflection. How much more difficult must it be then to use and maintain
such language without an error in ordinary impromptu conversation,
answering questions that could not have been expected, and flashing
repartee that is entirely dependent upon the situation or remarks of the
moment. Yet Patience does this with marvelous facility. So she can
hardly be Mrs. Curran.
All of her knowledge of material things seems to be drawn from English
associations. She is surprisingly familiar with the trees and flowers,
the birds and beasts of England. She knows the manners and customs of
its people as they were two or three centuries ago, the people of the
fields or the people of the palace. Her speech is filled with references
to the furniture, utensils and mechanical contrivances of the household
of that time, and to its articles of dress, musical instruments, and
tools of agriculture and the mechanical arts. There are also a few
indications of a knowledge of New England life. Yet she has never
admitted a residence in England or New England, has never spoken of a
birthplace or an abiding place anywhere, has never, in fact, used a
single geographical proper name in relation to herself.
* * * * *
The communications of Patience Worth come in a variety of forms:
Conversation that is strewn with wit and wisdom, epigrams and maxims;
poems by the hundred; parables and allegories; stories of a
semi-dramatic character, and dramas.
Here is an example of her conversation from one of the early records—an
evening when a skeptical friend, a young physician, somewhat disposed to
the use of slang, was present with his wife.
As the ladies took the board, the doctor remarked:
“I hope Patience Worth will come. I’d like to find out what her game
is.”
Patience was there and instantly responded:
“Dost, then, desire the plucking of another goose?”
_Doctor._—“By George, she’s right there with the grease, isn’t she?”
_Patience._—“Enough to baste the last upon the spit.”
_Doctor._—“Well, that’s quick wit for you. Pretty hard to catch her.”
_Patience._—“The salt of today will not serve to catch the bird of
tomorrow.”
_Doctor._—“She’d better call herself the bird of yesterday. I wonder
what kind of a mind she had, anyway.”
_Patience._—“Dost crave to taste the sauce?”
_Doctor._—“She holds to her simile of the goose. I wish you’d ask her
how she makes that little table move under your hands to spell the
words.”
_Patience._—“A wise cook telleth not the brew.”
_Doctor._—“Turn that board over and let me see what’s under it.”
This was done, and after his inspection it was reversed.
_Patience._—“Thee’lt bump thy nose to look within the hopper.”
_Doctor._—“Whew! She doesn’t mind handing you one, does she?”
_Mrs. Pollard._—“That’s Patience’s way. She doesn’t think we count for
anything.”
_Patience._—“The bell-cow doth deem the good folk go to Sabboth house
from the ringing of her bell.”
_Doctor._—“She evidently thinks we are a conceited lot. Well, I believe
she’ll agree with me that you can’t get far in this world without a fair
opinion of yourself.”
_Patience._—“So the donkey loveth his bray!”
_The Doctor’s Wife._—“You can draw her on all you please. I’m going to
keep perfectly still.”
_Patience._—“Oh, e’en the mouse will have a nibble.”
_Mrs. Curran._—“There! She isn’t going to let you off without a little
roast. I wonder what she has to say to you.”
_Patience._—“Did’st ever see the brood hen puff up with self-esteem when
all her chicks go for a swim?”
_Doctor._—“Let’s analyze that and see if there’s anything in it.”
_Patience._—“Strain the potion. Mayhap thou wilt find a fly.”
* * * * *
This will be sufficient to illustrate Patience’s form of speech and her
ready wit. It also shows something of the character of the people to
whom and through whom she has usually spoken. They are not solemn
investigators nor “pussy-footed” charlatans. There is no ceremony about
the sitting, no dimmed lights, no compelled silences, no mummeries of
any sort. The _assistance_ is of the ordinary, fun-loving, somewhat
irreverent American type. The board is brought into the living-room
under the full glare of the electric lamps. The men perhaps smoke their
cigars. If Patience seems to be in the humor for conversation, all may
take part, and she hurls her javelins impartially. A visitor is at once
brought within the umbra of her wit.
Her conversation, as already indicated, is filled with epigrams and
maxims. A book could be made from these alone. They are, of course, not
always original. What maxims are? But they are given on the instant,
without possibility of previous thought, and are always to the point.
Here are a few of these prompt aphorisms:
“A lollypop is but a breeder of pain.”
“An old goose gobbles the grain like a gosling.”
“Dead resolves are sorry fare.”
“The goose knoweth where the bin leaketh.”
“Quills of sages were plucked from geese.”
“Puddings fit for lords would sour the belly of the swineboy.”
“To clap the cover on a steaming pot of herbs will but modify[1] the
stench.”
Footnote 1:
A word of this degree of latinity is very rare with her.
“She who quacketh loudest deems the gander not the lead at waddling
time.”
“Climb not the stars to find a pebble.”
“He who hath a house, a hearth and a friend hath a lucky lot.”
She is often caustic and incisive.
“A man loveth his wife, but, ah, the buckles on his knee breeks!”
“Should I present thee with a pumpkin, wouldst thou desire to count
the seeds?”
“A drink of asses’ milk would nurture the swine, but wouldst thou
then expect his song to change from Want, Want, Want?”
“Some folk, like the bell without a clapper, go clanging on in good
faith, believing the good folk can hear them.”
“Were I to tell thee the pudding string were a spinet’s string, thou
wouldst make ready for the dance.”
“Thee’lt tie thy God within thy kerchief, else have none of Him, and
like unto a bat, hang thyself topsy-turvy to better view His
handiwork.”
“’Twould pleg thee sore should thy shadow wear cap and bells.”
“From constant wishing the moon may tip for thee.”
“Wouldst thou have a daisy blossom upon a thistle?”
“Ye who carry pigskins to the well and lace not the hole are a
tiresome lot.”
“He who eateth a bannock well made flattereth himself should his
belly not sour.”
Aside from the dramatic compositions, some of which are of great length,
most of the communications received from Patience have been in verse.
There is rarely a rhyme, practically all being iambic blank verse in
lines of irregular length. The rhythm is almost uniformly smooth. At
some sittings the poetry begins to come as soon as the hands are placed
upon the planchette, and the evening is given over to the production of
verse. At others, verses are mingled with repartee and epigram, but
seldom is an evening spent without at least one poem coming. This was
not the case in the earlier months, when many sittings were given up
wholly to conversation. The poetry has gradually increased in volume, as
if the earlier efforts of the influence had been tentative, while the
responsiveness of the intermediary was being tested. So, too, the
earlier verses were fragments.
A blighted bud may hold
A sweeter message than the loveliest flower.
For God hath kissed her wounded heart
And left a promise there.
A cloak of lies may clothe a golden truth.
The sunlight’s warmth may fade its glossy black
To whitening green and prove the fault
Of weak and shoddy dye.
Oh, why let sorrow steel thy heart?
Thy busom is but its foster mother,
The world its cradle, and the loving home
Its grave.
Weave sorrow on the loom of love
And warp the loom with faith.
Such fragments, however, were but steps leading to larger things. A
little later on this came:
So thou hast trod among the tansey tuft
And murr and thyme, and gathered all the garden’s store,
And glutted on the lillie’s sensuous sweet,
And let thy shade to mar the sunny path,
And only paused to strike the slender humming bird,
Whose molten-tinted wing but spoke the song
Of fluttering joy, and in thy very hand
Turned to motley gray. Then thinkest thou
To build the garden back by trickery?
And then, some six months after her first visit, came the poem which
follows, and which may be considered the real beginning of her larger
works:
Long lines of leaden cloud; a purple sea;
White gulls skimming across the spray.
Oh dissonant cry! Art thou
The death cry of desire?
Ah, wail, ye winds,
And search ye for my dearest wish
Along the rugged coast, and down
Where purling waters whisper
To the rosy coral reef.
Ah, search! Ah, search!
And when ye return, bring ye the answering.
Do I stand and call unto the sea for answer?
Ah, wisdom, where art thou?
A gull but shows thee to the Southland,
And leaden sky but warneth thee of storm.
And wind, thou art but a changeling.
So, shall I call to thee? Not so.
I build not upon the spray,
And seek not within the smaller world,
For God dwelleth not abroad, but deep within.
There is spiritual significance, more or less profound, in nearly all of
the poems. Some of the lines are obscure, but study reveals a meaning,
and the more I, at least, study them, the more I have been impressed
with the intellectual power behind them. It is this that makes these
communications seem to stand alone among the numerous messages that are
alleged to have come from “that undiscovered country.”
An intense love of nature is expressed in most of the communications,
whether in prose or verse, and also a wide knowledge of nature—not the
knowledge of the scientist, but that of the poet.
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!”
And yet again: “Fields hath she trod arugged, aye, and weed agrown. Aye,
and e’en now, where she hath set abloom the blossoms o’ her very soul,
weed aspringeth. And lo, she standeth head ahigh and eye to sky and
faith astrong. And foot abruised still troddeth rugged field. But I do
promise ye ’tis such an faith that layeth low the weed and putteth ’pon
the rugged path asmoothe, and yet but bloom shalt show, and ever shalt
she stand, head ahigh and eye unto the sky.”
Upon an evening after she had showered such compliments upon the ladies
present she exclaimed:
“I be a wag atruth, and lo, my posey-wreath be stripped!”
* * * * *
She seldom favors the men in this way. She has referred to herself
several times as a spinster, and this may account for a certain
reluctance to saying complimentary things of the other sex. “A prosy
spinster may but plash in love’s pool,” she remarked once, and at
another time she said: “A wife shall brush her goodman’s blacks and
polish o’ his buckles, but a maid may not dare e’en to blow the trifling
dust from his knickerbockers.” With a few notable exceptions, her
attitude toward men has been expressed in sarcasm, none the less cutting
to those for whom she has an affection manifested in other ways. To one
such she said:
“Thee’lt peg thy shoes, lad, to best their wearing, and eat too freely
of the fowl. Thy belly needeth pegging sore, I wot.”
“Patience doesn’t mean that for me,” he protested.
“Nay,” she said, “the jackass ne’er can know his reflection in the pool.
He deemeth the thrush hath stolen of his song. Buy thee a pushcart.
’Twill speak for thee.”
And of this same rotund friend she remarked, when he laughed at
something she had said:
“He shaketh like a pot o’ goose jell!”
“I back up, Patience,” he cried.
“And thee’lt find the cart,” she said.
Of a visitor, a physician, she had this to say:
“He bindeth and asmears and looketh at a merry, and his eye doth lie.
How doth he smite and stitch like to a wench, and brew o’er steam! Yea,
’tis atwist he be. He runneth whither, and, at a beconing, (beckoning)
yon, and ever thus; but ’tis a blunder-mucker he he. His head like to a
steel, yea, and heart a summer’s cloud athin (within), enough to show
athrough the clear o’ blue.”
* * * * *
But it is upon the infant that Patience bestows her tenderest words. Her
love of childhood is shown in many lines of rare and touching beauty.
“Ye seek to level unto her,” she said of a baby girl who was present one
evening, “but thou art awry at reasoning. For he who putteth him to
babe’s path doth track him high, and lo, the path leadeth unto the Door.
Yea, and doth she knock, it doth ope.
“Cast ye wide thy soul’s doors and set within such love. For, brother, I
do tell thee that though the soul o’ ye be torn, aye, and scarred, ’tis
such an love that doth heal. The love o’ babe be the balm o’ earth.
“See ye! The sun tarrieth ’bout the lips o’ her; aye, and though the
hand be but thy finger’s span, ’tis o’ a weight to tear away thy heart.”
And upon another occasion she revealed something of herself in these
words: