flame and lo, thy bush be naught!”
(_Franco_) “Aye, ’tis so, but there be ahid a place thou ne’er hast
seen. Therein I put what be mine own—the love for them. Thou art a
butterfly, Telka, abeating o’ thy wing upon a thistle-leaf. Do hover
’bout the blooms thou knowest best and leave dream-bush and
thistle-leaf.”
It is a remarkable story. Many lines are gems of wit or wisdom or
beauty, and it contains some exquisite poetry. There are many characters
in it, all of them lovable but Telka, and she becomes so ere the end.
A curious and interesting fact in this connection is that after
beginning this story Patience used its peculiar form of speech in her
conversation and in her poems. Previously, as I have pointed out, there
was a natural and consistent difference between her speech and her
writings, and it would seem that in this change she would show that she
is not subject to any rules, nor limited to the dialect of any period or
any locality. Scattered through this present volume are poems, prose
pieces and bits of her conversation, in which the curious and frequent
use of the prefix a-, the abbreviation of the word “of” and the strange
twists of phrase of the Telka story are noticeable. All of these were
received after this story was begun.
* * * * *
But there is another form of prose composition that Patience has given
to us. While she is writing a story she does not confine herself to that
work, but precedes or follows it with a bit of gossip, a personal
message, a poem or something else. Sometimes she stops in the midst of
her story to deliver something entirely foreign to it that comes into
her mind. During one week, while “Telka” was being received, she
presented three parables, all in the peculiar language of that story. I
reproduce them here and leave it to the reader to ponder o’er their
meaning.
“Long, yea, long agone, aside a wall atilt who joined unto a
brother-wall and made atween a gap apoint abacked, there did upon
the every day, across-leged, sit a bartmaker, amid his sacks
aheaped. And ne’er a buy did tribesmen make. Nay, but ’twere the
babes who sought the bartman, and lo, he shutteth both his eyes and
babes do pilfer from the sacks and feed thereon, till sacks asink.
And still at crosslegs doth he sit.
“Yea, and days do follow days till Winter setteleth ’pon his locks
its snow. Aye, and lo, at rise o’ sun ’pon such an day as had
followed day since first he sat, they did see that he had ashrunked
and they did wag that ’twere the wasting o’ his days at sitting at
crossleg.
“And yet the babes did fetch for feast and wert fed. Till last a day
did dawn and gap ashowed it empty and no man woed; but babes did
sorry ’bout the spot ’till tribesmen marveled and fetched alongside
and coaxed with sweets their word. But no man found answer in their
prate. And they did ope remaining sacks and lo, there be anaught
save dry fruit, and babes did reach forth for it and wert fed, and
more, it did nurture them, and they went forth alater to the fields
o’ earth astrengthened and fed ’pon—what, Brother? List ye. ’Pon
truth.”
* * * * *
“There be aside the market’s place a merchant and a brother
merchant. Aye, and one did put price ahigh, and gold aclinketh and
copper groweth mold atween where he did store. And his brother
giveth measure full and more, for the pence o’ him who offereth but
pence, at measure that runneth o’er to full o’ gold’s price.
“And lo, they do each to buy o’ herds, and he who hath full price
buyeth but the shrunk o’ herd, and he who hath little, buyeth the
full o’ herd. And time maketh full the sacks o’ him who hoardeth
gold, and layeth at aflat the sacks o’ him who maketh poor price.
And lo, he who hath plenty hoardeth more, and he who had little
buyed o’ seed and sowed and reaped therefrom. And famine crept it
nearer and fringed ’pon the land and smote the land o’ him who
asacketh o’ gold and crept it ’pon the land o’ him o’ pence.
“And herds did low o’ hunger and he who hath but gold hath naught to
feed thereon. For sacks achoked ’pon gold. And he who had but pence
did sack but grain and grass and fed the herd. And lo, they fattened
and did fill the emptied sacks with gold, while he who hath naught
but gold did sick, and famine wasted o’ his herd and famine’s sun
did rise to shine ’pon him astricken ’pon gold asacked.”
* * * * *
“There wert a man and his brother and they wrought them unalike.
Yea, and one did fashion from wood, and ply till wonderwork astood,
a temple o’ wood. And his brother fashioneth o’ reeds and worketh
wonder baskets. And he who wrought o’ wood scoffeth. And the
tribesmen make buy o’ baskets and wag that ’tis a-sorry wrought the
temple, and spake them that the Lord would smite, and lay it low.
For he who wrought did think him o’ naught save the high and wide o’
it, and looked not at its strength or yet its stand ’pon earth. And
they did turn the baskets ’bout and put to strain, and lo, they did
hold. And it were the tribesmen, who shook their heads and murmured,
‘Yea, yea, they be a goodly.’
“So ’tis; he who doth fashion from wood o’ size doth prosper not,
and he who doth fashion o’ reed and small, doth thrive verily.”
These are all somewhat cryptic, although their interpretation is not
difficult, but that which follows on the magic of a laugh needs no
explanation. “I do fashion out a tale for babes,” said Patience, when
she presented this parable of the fairy’s wand, and in it she gives
expression to another one of her characteristics, one that is intensely
human, the love of laughter, which she seems to like to hear and often
to provoke.
“Lo, at a time thou knowest not, aye, I, thy handmaid, knowest not,
there wert born unto the earth a babe. And lo, the dame o’ this babe
wert but a field’s woman. And lo, days and days did pass until the
fullness of the babe’s days, and it stood in beauty past word o’me.
“Yea, and there wert a noble, and he did pass, and lo, his brow was
darked, and smile had forsook his lips. And he came unto the cot and
there stood the babe, who wert now a maid o’ lovely. And he spaked
unto her and said:
“‘Come thou, and unto the lands of me shall we make way. Thou art
not o’ the fields, but for the nobles.’
“And she spake not unto his word. And lo, the mother of the babe
came forth and this man told unto her of this thing, that her babe
wert not of the field but for the nobled. And, at the bidding of the
noble, she spake, yea, the maid should go unto his lands.
“And time and time after the going, lo, no word came unto the
mother. And within the lands of the noble the maid lived, and lo,
the days wert sorry, and the paths held but shadows, and nay smiles
shed gold unto the hours. And she smiled that this noble did offer
unto her much of royal stores. Yea, gems, and gold, and all a maid
might wish, and she looked in pity unto the noble and spake:
“‘What hast thou? Lo, thou hast brought forth of thy store and given
unto me, and what doth it buy? Thy lips are ever sorry and thy hours
dark. Then take thou these gifts and keep within such an day as
thine, for, hark ye, my dame, the field’s woman, hath given unto me
that which setteth at a naught thy gifts; for hark ye: mid thy dark
o’ sorry I shall spill a laugh, and it be a fairies’ wand, and
turneth dust to gold.’
“And she fled unto the sun’s paths of the fields.
“Verily do I to say unto thee, this, the power of the fairies’ wand,
is thine, thy gift of thy field-mother, Earth. Then cast out that
which earth-lands do offer unto thee and flee with thy gift.”
It is somewhat difficult to select an ending for this chapter on the
prose of Patience: the material for it is so abundant and so varied, but
this “Parable of the Cloak” may perhaps form a fitting finish:
“There wert a man, and lo, he did to seek and quest o’ sage, that
which he did mouth o’ermuch. And lo, he did to weave o’ such an
robe, and did to clothe himself therein. And lo, ’twer sun ashut
away, and cool and heat and bright and shade.
“And lo, still did he to draw ’bout him the cloak, and ’twer o’ the
mouthings o’ the sage. And lo, at a day ’twer sent abroad that Truth
should stalk ’pon Earth, and man, were he to look him close,
shouldst see.
“And lo, the man did draw ’bout him the cloak, and did to wag him
‘Nay’ and ‘Nay, ’twer truth the sages did to mouth and I did weave
athin the cloak o’ me.’
“And then ’twer that Truth did seek o’ Earth, and she wert clad o’
naught, and seeked the man, and begged that he would cast the cloak
and clothe o’ her therein. And lo, he did to draw him close the
cloak, and hid his face therein, and wag him ’Nay,’ he did to know
her not.
“And lo, she did to fetch her unto him athrice, and then did he to
wag him still a ‘Nay! Nay! Nay!’ And lo, she toucheth o’ the cloth
o’ sage’s mouths and it doth fall atattered and leave him clothed o’
naught, and at a wishing. And he did seek o’ Truth, aye, ever, and
when he did to find, lo, she wagged him nay, and nay, and nay.”
CONVERSATIONS
“This be bread. If man knoweth not the grain from which ’twer fashioned,
what then? ’Tis bread. Let man deny me this.”—PATIENCE WORTH.
But after all, perhaps the truest conception of the character and
versatility of Patience can be acquired from her “conversations.” The
word “conversation” I here loosely apply to all that comes from her in
the course of an evening, excepting the work on her stories. The poems
and parables are usually woven into her remarks with a sequence that
suggests extemporaneous production for the particular occasion, although
as a rule they are of general application. Almost invariably they are
brought out by something she or someone else has said, or as a tribute,
a lesson or a comfort to some person who is present. Her songs, as she
calls her poems, are freely given, apparently without a thought or a
care as to what may become of them. They seem to come spontaneously,
without effort, with no pause for thought, no groping for the right
word, and to fall into their places as part of the spoken rather than
the written speech. So it is that the term “conversation” in this
connection is made to include much that ordinarily would not fall within
that designation.
One of the pleasures of an evening with Patience is the uncertainty of
the form of the entertainment. Never are two evenings alike in the
general nature of the communications. She adapts herself to
circumstances and to the company present, serious if they are bent on
serious subjects, merry if they are so; but seldom will the serious
escape without a little of the merry, or the merry without a little of
the serious. Sometimes her own feelings seem to have an influence.
Always, however, she is permitted to take her own course, except in the
case of a formal examination, to which she readily responds if conducted
with respect. She may devote the evening largely to poetry, possibly
varying the themes, as on one evening when she gave a nature poem, one
of a religious character, a lullaby, a humorous verse and a prayer,
interspersed with discussion. She may talk didactically with little or
no interruption. She may submit to a catechism upon religion,
philosophy, philology, or any subject that may arise. She may devote an
evening to a series of little personal talks to a succession of sitters,
or she may elect just to gossip. “I be dame,” she says, and therefore
not averse to gossip. But rarely will she neglect to write something on
whatever story she may have in hand. She speaks of such writing as
“weaving.” “Put ye to weave,” she will say, and that means that
conversation is to stop for a time until a little real work is
accomplished.
The conversations which follow are selected to illustrate the variety of
form referred to, as well as to introduce a number of interesting
statements that throw light on the character of the phenomena.
Upon a certain evening the Currans had two visitors, Dr. and Mrs. W.
With Dr. W. and Mrs. C. at the board and Mrs. W. leaning over it,
Patience began:
“Ah, hark! Here abe athree; yea, love, faith and more o’ love! Thee
hast for to hark unto word I do put o’ them, not ye.”
And then she told this tale of the Mite and the Seeds:
“Hark! Aneath the earth fell a seed, and lay aside a Mite, a winged
mite, who hid from cold. Yea, and the Mite knew o’ the day o’er the
Earth’s crust, and spake unto the Seed, and said:
“‘The hours o’ day show sun and cloud, aye, and the Earth’s crust
holdeth grass and tree. Aye, and men walk ’pon the Earth.’
“Aye, and the Seed did say unto the Mite:
“‘Nay, there be a naught save Earth and dark, for mine eye hath not
beheld what thou tellest of.’
“Yea, and the Mite spake it so:
“‘’Tis dark and cold o’er the crust o’ Earth, and thou and me awarm
and close ahere.’
“But the Seed spake out: ‘Nay, this be the time I seek me o’er the
Earth’s crust and see the Day thou tellest of.’
“And lo, he sent out leaf, and reached high. And lo, when the leaf
had pushed up from ’neath the crust, there were snow’s cut and cold,
and it died, and knew not the Day o’ the Mite: for the time was not
riped that he should seek unto new days.
“And lo, the Stalk that had sent forth the Seed, sent forth amore,
and lo, again a one did sink aside the Mite. And he spake to it of
the Day o’ Earth and said: ‘Thy brother sought the Day, and it wert
not time, and lo, he is no more.’
“And he told of the days of Earth unto the seed, and it spaked unto
him and said: ‘This day o’ thee meaneth naught to me. Lo, I shall
spring not a root, nor shall I to seek me the days o’ Earth. Nay, I
shall lay me close and warm.’
“And e’en though the Mite spake unto the Seed at the time when it
wert ripe that it should seek, lo, it lay, and Summer’s tide found
it a naught, for it feeded ’pon itself, and lo, wert not.
“And at a later tide did a seed to fall, and it harked unto the Mite
and waited the time, and when it wert riped, lo, it upped and sought
the day. And it wert so as the Mite had spaked. And the Seed grew
into a bush.
“And lo, the winged Mite flew out: for it had brought a brother out
o’ the dark and unto the Day, and the task wert o’er.
“These abe like unto them who seek o’ the words o’ me.
“Now aweave thou.”
Patience then wrote about two hundred words of a story, after which Mrs.
W. inquired of Mr. C:
“Don’t you ever try to write on the board?” To which he replied
facetiously, “No, I’m too dignified.”
_Patience._—“Yea, he smirketh unto swine and kicketh the nobles.”
Then seeming to feel that the visitors were wanting something more
personal than the “Tale” she said:
“Alawk, they be ahungered, and did weave a bit. Then hark. Here be.
“What think ye, man? They do pucker much o’er the word o’ me, and
spat forth that thou dost eat and smack o’ liking. Yea, but hark!
Who shed drop for Him but one o’ His, yea, the Son o’ Him? Think ye
this abe the pack o’ me? Nay, and thou and thou and thou shalt shed
drops in loving for the pack, for it be o’ Him. Now shall I to sing:
How doth the Mise-man greed,
And lay unto his store,
And seek him out the pence of Earth,
Wherein the hearts do rust?
How doth the Muse-man greed,
And seek him o’ the Day,
And word that setteth up a wag—
While hearts o’ Earth are filthed?
How doth the See-man greed?
Yea, and how he opeth up his eye,
And seeth naught and telleth much—
While hearts of earth are hurt.
How doth the Good-man greed,
Who dealeth o’ the Word?
He eateth o’ its flesh and casts but bone,
While hearts o’ Earth are woed.
How doth the Man-man greed?
He eateth o’ the store, yet holdeth ope
His hands and scattereth o’ bread
And hearts o’ Earth are fed.
This then abe, and yet will be
Since time and time, and beeth ever.”
As soon as this was read, she followed with another song:
Drink ye unto me.
Drink ye deep, to me.
Yea, and seek ye o’ the Brew ye quaff,
For this do I to beg.
Seek not the wine o’ Summer’s sun,
That hid ’mid purpled vine,
And showeth there amid the Brew
Thou suppest as the Wine.
Seek not the drops o’ pool,
Awarmed aneath the sun,
And idly lapping at the brink
Of mosses’ lips, to sup.
Seek not o’ vintage Earth doth hold.
Nay, unto thee this plea shall wake
The Wine that thou shouldst quaff.
For at the loving o’ this heart
The Wine o’ Love shall flow.
Then drink ye deep, ah, drink ye deep,
And drink ye deep o’ Love.
“Yea, thine unto me, and mine to thee.”
After which she explained:
“I did to fashion out a brew for her ayonder and him ahere. And they
did eat o’ it. Yea, for they know o’ Him and know o’ the workings o’
Him and drinked o’ the love o’ me as the love o’ Him. Yea, and hark,
there abe much athin this pack for thee.”
This, it will be observed, is rather a discourse than a conversation,
and it is often so, Patience filling the evening with her own words; not
as exclusively so, however, as this would indicate: for there is always
more or less conversation among the party, which it would profit nothing
to reproduce.
* * * * *
The next sitting is somewhat more varied. There were present Dr. X., a
teacher of anatomy, Mrs. X., Mrs. W. and Miss B. Dr. X. sat at the board
with Mrs. Curran:
_Patience._—“Eh, gad! Here be a one who taketh Truth unto him and
setteth the good dame apace that she knoweth not the name o’ her. I
tell thee ’tis he who knoweth her as a sister, and telleth much o’
her, and naught he speaketh oft holdeth her, and much he speaketh
holdeth little o’ her, and yet ever he holdeth her unto him. He
taketh me as truth, yea, he knoweth he taketh naught and buildeth
much, and much and buildeth little o’ it. I track me unto the door
o’ him and knock and he heareth me.”
This, of course, referred to Dr. X. and his work, and it aroused some
discussion, after which Patience asked, “Would ye I sing?” The answer
being in the affirmative, she gave this little verse, also directed to
Dr. X.:
Out ’pon the sea o’ learning,
Floateth the barque o’ one aseek.
Out ’pon troubled waters floateth the craft,
Abuilded staunch o’ beams o’ truth.
And though the waves do beat them high
And wash o’er and o’er the prow,
Fear thee not, for Truth saileth on.
Set thy beacon, then, to crafts not thine,
For thou hast a light for man.
“There, thou knowest me. I tell thee I speak unto him who hath truth
for his very own. Set thee aweave.”
The sitters complied and received about six hundred words of the story,
after which Mrs. X. took the board, remarking as she did so that she was
afraid, which elicited this observation from Patience:
“She setteth aside the stream and seeth the craft afloat and be at
wishing for to sail, and yet she would to see her who steereth.”
Mrs. X. gave up her place to Miss B., a teacher of botany, to whom
Patience presented this tribute:
“The eye o’ her seeth but beauties and shutteth up that which
showeth darked, that that not o’ beautie setteth not within the see
o’ her. Yea, more; she knoweth how ’tis the dark and what showeth
not o’ beauty, at His touching showeth lovely for the see o’ her.
“Such an heart! Ah, thou shouldst feast hereon. I tell thee she
giveth unto multitudes the heart o’ her; and such as she dealeth
unto earth, earth has need for much. She feasteth her ’pon dusts and
knoweth dust shall spring forth bloom. Hurt hath set the heart o’
her, and she hath packed up the hurt with petals.”
Patience then turned her attentions again to Dr. X. “He yonder,” she
said, “hath much aneath his skull’s-cap that he wordeth not.”
Thus urged, Dr. X. inquired:
“Does Patience prepare the manuscript she gives in advance? It rather
seems that she reads the material to Mrs. Curran.”
“See ye,” cried Patience, “he hath spoke a thing that set aneath his
skull’s-cap!” And then, in answer to his question:
“She who afashioneth loaf doth shake well the grain-dust that husks
show not. Then doth she for to brew and stir and mix, else the loaf
be not afit for eat.”
By grain-dust she means flour or meal, and she uses the word brew in its
obsolete sense of preparation for cooking. The answer may be interpreted
that she arranges the story in her mind before its dictation, and as to
her formal work she has said many things to indicate that such is her
method. Dr. X. then asked:
“Are these stories real happenings?”
To which Patience replied:
“Within the land o’ here [her land] be packed the days o’ Earth, and
thy day hath its sister day ahere, and thy neighbor’s day and thy
neighbor’s neighbor’s day. And I tell thee, didst thou afashion tale
thou couldst ne’er afashion lie, for all thou hast athin thy day
that thy put might show from the see o’ thee hath been; at not thy
time, yea, but it hath been.”
“Then,” asked Dr. X., “should you have transmitted through one who spoke
another language you would have used their tongue?”
Patience answered:
“I pettiskirt me so that ye know the me of me. Yea, and I do to take me
o’ the store o’ her that I make me word for thee.”
“Pettiskirt” is a common expression of hers to mean dress, in either a
literal or a figurative sense. The answer does not mean that she is
limited by Mrs. Curran’s vocabulary, but is an affirmative response to
the question.
The word “put” in the preceding answer is one that requires some
explanation, for it is frequently used by her, and makes some of her
sayings difficult to understand. She makes it convey a number of
meanings now obsolete, but it usually refers to her writings, her words,
her sayings. She makes a noun of it, it will be noticed, as well as a
verb. In the foregoing instance it means “tale,” and it has a relation
to the primary meaning of the verb, which is to place. The words that
are put down become a “put,” and the writer becomes a “putter.” To a
lady who told her that she had heard a sound like a bell in her ear, and
asked if it was Patience trying to communicate with her, she answered
dryly: “Think ye I be a tinkler o’ brass? Nay. I be a putter o’ words.”
Further to illustrate this use of the word, and also to throw an
interesting light upon her method of communication and the reason for
it, I present here a part of a conversation in which a Dr. Z. was the
interrogator.
_Dr. Z._—“Why isn’t there some other means you could use more easy
to manipulate than the ouija board?”
_Patience._—“The hand o’ her (Mrs. Curran) do I to put (write) be
the hand o’ her, and ’tis ascribe (the act of writing) that setteth
the one awhither by eyes-fulls she taketh in.”
By this she seems to mean that if Mrs. Curran tried to write for
Patience with a pen or pencil, the act, being always associated with
conscious thought, would set her consciousness to work, and put Patience
“awhither.”
_Dr. Z._—“How did you know this avenue was open?”
_Patience._—“I did to seek at crannies for to put; aye, and ’twer
the her o’ her who tireth past the her o’ her, and slippeth to a
naught o’ putting; and ’twer the me o’ me at seek, aye, and find.
Aye, and ’twer so.”
At the time Patience first presented herself to Mrs. Curran, she (Mrs.
Curran) was very tired, and was sitting at the board with Mrs.
Hutchings, with her head, as she expresses it, absolutely empty.
_Dr. Z._—“Did you go forth to seek, or were you sent?”
_Patience._—“There be nay tracker o’ path ne’er put thereon by
sender.”
_Dr. Z._—“Did you know of the ouija board and its use before?”
_Patience._—“Nay, ’tis not the put o’ me, the word hereon. ’Tis the
put o’ me at see o’ her.
“I put athin the see o’ her, aye and ’tis the see o’ ye that be
afulled o’ the put o’ me, and yet a put thou knowest not.
“That which ye know not o’ thy day hath slipped it unto her, and
thence unto thee. And thee knowest ’tis not the put o’ her; aye, and
thee knowest ’tis ne’er a putter o’ thy day there be at such an put.
Aye, and did he to put, ’twould be o’ thy day and not the day o’ me.
And yet ye prate o’ why and whence and where. I tell thee ’tis thee
that knowest that which ye own not.”
_Dr. Z._—“Why don’t we own it, Patience?”
_Patience._—“’Tis at fear o’ gab.”
It is no easy task to untangle that putting of puts, but, briefly, it
seems to mean that Patience does not put her words on the board direct,
with the hands of Mrs. Curran, but transmits her words through the mind
or inner vision of Mrs. Curran, and yet it is the word of Patience and
not of Mrs. Curran that is recorded. This accords with Mrs. Curran’s
impressions. And thou knowest, Patience farther says, that it is not the
language of her, and no writer of thy day would or could write in such a
language as I make use of.
* * * * *
Returning to Dr. X. and his party. They were present again a few days
after the interview just given, having with them a Miss J., a newspaper
writer from an Ohio city. Dr. X. in the meantime had thought much upon
the phenomena, and Patience immediately directed her guns upon the
anatomist, in this manner: