PATIENCE WORTH
A PSYCHIC MYSTERY

By

CASPER S. YOST

NEW YORK

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

1916

Copyright, 1916

BY

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

Published February, 1916

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.

CONTENTS

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.”

[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:

Know ye; in my heart’s mansion

There be apart a place

Wherein I treasure my God’s gifts.

Think ye to peer therein? Nay.

And should thee by a chance

To catch a stolen glimpse,

Thee’dst laugh amerry, for hord (hoard)

Would show but dross to thee:

A friend’s regard, ashrunked and turned

To naught—but one bright memory is there;

A hope—now dead, but showeth gold hid there;

A host o’ nothings—dreams, hopes, fears;

Love throbs afluttered hence

Since first touch o’ baby hands

Caressed my heart’s store ahidden.

Returning to the femininity of Patience, it is also shown in her frequent references to dress. Upon an evening when the publication of her poems had been under discussion, when next the board was taken up she let them know that she had heard, in this manner:

“My pettieskirt hath a scallop,” she said. “Mayhap that will help thy history.”

“Oh,” cried Mrs. Curran, “we are discovered!”

“Yea,” laughed Patience—she must have laughed, “and tell thou of my buckled boots and add a cap-string.”

Further illustrative of her feminine characteristics and of her interest in dress, as well as of a certain fun-loving spirit which now and then seems to sway her, is this record of a sitting upon an evening when Mr. Curran and Mr. Hutchings had gone to the theater, and the ladies were alone:

Patience.—“Go ye to the lighted hall to search for learning? Nay, ’tis a piddle, not a stream, ye search. Mayhap thou sendest thy men for barleycorn. ’Twould then surprise thee should the asses eat it.”

Mrs. H.—“What is she driving at?”

Mrs. P.—“The men and the theater, I suppose.”

Mrs. H.—“Patience, what are they seeing up there?”

Patience.—“Ne’er a timid wench, I vum.”

Mrs. C.—“You don’t approve of their going, do you, Patience?”

Patience.—“Thee’lt find a hearth more profit. Better they cast the bit of paper.”

Mrs. C.—“What does she mean by paper? Their programmes?”

Patience.—“Painted parchment squares.”

Mrs. P.—“Oh, she means they’d better stay at home and play cards.”

Mrs. H.—“Are they likely to get their morals corrupted at that show?”

Patience.—“He who tickleth the ass to start a braying, fain would carol with his brother.”

Mrs. C.—“If the singing is as bad as it usually is at that place, I don’t wonder at her disapproval. But what about the girls, Patience?”

Patience.—“My pettieskirt ye may borrow for the brazens.”

Mrs. P.—“Now, what is a pettieskirt? Is it really a skirt or is it that ruff they used to wear around the neck?”

Patience.—“Nay, my bib covereth the neckband.”

Mrs. H.—“Then, where do you wear your pettieskirt?”

Patience.—“’Neath my kirtle.”

Mrs. C.—“Is that the same as girdle? Let’s look it up.”

Patience.—“Art fashioning thy new frock?”

Mrs. H.—“I predict that Patience will found a new style—Puritan.”

Patience.—“’Twere a virtue, egad!”

Mrs. H.—“You evidently don’t think much of our present style. In your day women dressed more modestly, didn’t they?”

Patience.—“Many’s the wench who pulled her points to pop. But ah, the locks were combed to satin! He who bent above might see himself reflected.”

Mrs. C.—“What were the young girls of your day like, Patience?”

Patience.—“A silly lot, as these of thine. Wait!”

There was no movement of the board for about three minutes, and then:

“’Tis a sorry lot, not harming but boresome!”

Mrs. H.—“Oh, Patience, have you been to the theater?”

Patience.—“A peep in good cause could surely ne’er harm the godly.”

Mrs. C.—“How do you think we ought to look after those men?”

Patience.—“Thine ale is drunk at the hearth. Surely he who stops to sip may bless the firelog belonging to thee.”

When the men returned home they agreed with the verdict of Patience before they had heard it, that it was a “tame” show, “not harming, but boresome.”

The exclamation of Mrs. Curran, “Let’s look it up,” in the extract just quoted from the record, has been a frequent one in this circle since Patience came. So many of her words are obsolete that her friends are often compelled to search through the dictionaries and glossaries for their meaning. Her reference to articles of dress—wimple, kirtle, pettieskirt, points and so on, had all to be “looked up.” Once Patience began an evening with this remark:

“The cockshut finds ye still peering to find the other land.”

“What is cock’s hut?” asked Mrs. H.

“Nay,” said Patience, “Cock-shut. Thee needeth light, but cockshut bringeth dark.”

“Cockshut must mean shutting up the cock at night,” suggested a visitor.

“Aye, and geese, too, then could be put to quiet,” Patience exclaimed. “Wouldst thou wish for cockshut?”

Search revealed that cockshut was a term anciently applied to a net used for catching woodcock, and it was spread at nightfall, hence cockshut acquired also the meaning of early evening. Shakespeare uses the term once, in Richard III., in the phrase, “Much about cockshut time,” but it is a very rare word in literature, and probably has not been used, even colloquially, for centuries.

There are many such words used by Patience—relics of an age long past. The writer was present at a sitting when part of a romantic story-play of medieval days was being received on the board. One of the characters in the story spoke of herself as “playing the jane-o’-apes.” No one present had ever heard or seen the word. Patience was asked if it had been correctly received, and she repeated it. Upon investigation it was found that it is a feminine form of the familiar jackanapes, meaning a silly girl. Massinger used it in one of his plays in the seventeenth century, but that appears to be the only instance of its use in literature.

These words may be not unknown to many people, but the point is that they were totally strange to those at the board, including Mrs. Curran—words that could not possibly have come out of the consciousness or subconsciousness of any one of them. The frequent use of such words helps to give verity to the archaic tongue in which she expresses her thoughts, and the consistent and unerring use of this obsolete form of speech is, next to the character of her literary production, the strongest evidence of her genuineness. It will be noticed, too, that the language she uses in conversation is quite different from that in her literary compositions, although there are definite similarities which seem to prove that they come from the same source. In this also she is wholly consistent: for it is unquestionably true that no poet ever talked as he wrote. Every writer uses colloquial words and idioms in conversation that he would never employ in literature. No matter what his skill or genius as a writer may be, he talks “just like other people.” Patience Worth in this, as in other things, is true to her character.

It may be repeated that in all this matter—and it is but a skimming of the mass—one may readily discern a distinct and striking personality; not a wraith-like, formless, evanescent shadow, but a personality that can be clearly visualized. One can easily imagine Patience Worth to be a woman of the Puritan period, with, however, none of the severe and gloomy beliefs of the Puritan—a woman of a past age stepped out of an old picture and leaving behind her the material artificialities of paint and canvas. From her speech and her writings one may conceive her to be a woman of Northern England, possibly: for she uses a number of ancient words that are found to have been peculiar to the Scottish border; a country woman, perhaps, for in all of her communications there are only two or three references to the city, although her knowledge and love of the drama may be a point against this assumption; a woman who had read much in an age when books were scarce, and women who could read rarer still: for although she frequently expresses disdain of book learning, she betrays a large accumulation of such learning, and a copious vocabulary, as well as a degree of skill in its use, that could only have been acquired from much study of books. “I have bought beads from a pack,” she says, “but ne’er yet have I found a peddler of words.”

And then, after we have mentally materialized this woman, and given her a habitation and a time, Patience speaks again, and all has vanished. “Not so,” she said to one who questioned her, “I be abirthed awhither and abide me where.” And again she likened herself to the wind. “I be like the wind,” she said, “who leaveth not track, but ever ’bout, and yet like to the rain who groweth grain for thee to reap.” At other times she has indicated that she has never had a physical existence. I have quoted her saying: “I do plod a twist o’ a path and it hath run from then till now.” At a later time she was asked what she meant by that. She answered:

“Didst e’er to crack a stone, and lo, a worm aharded? (a fossil). ’Tis so, for list ye, I speak like ye since time began.”

It is thus she reveals herself clearly to the mind, but when one attempts to approach too closely, to lay a hand upon her, as it were, she invariably recedes into the unfathomable deeps of mysticism.

THE POETRY

Am I a broken lyre,

Who, at the Master’s touch,

Respondeth with a tinkle and a whir?

Or am I strung in full

And at His touch give forth the full chord?

—Patience Worth.

As the reader will have observed, the poetry of Patience Worth is not confined to a single theme, nor to a group of related themes. It covers a range that extends from inanimate things through all the gradations of material life and on into the life of spiritual realms as yet uncharted. It includes poems of sentiment, poems of nature, poems of humanity; but the larger number deal with man in relation to the mysteries of the beyond. All of them evince intellectual power, knowledge of nature and human nature, and skill in construction. With the exception of one or two little jingles, the poems are rhymeless. Patience may not wholly agree with Milton that rhyme “is the invention of a barbarous age to set off wretched matter and lame metre,” but she seldom uses it, finding in blank verse a medium that suits all her moods, making it at will as light and ethereal as a summer cloud or as solemn and stately as a Wagnerian march. She molds it to every purpose, and puts it to new and strange uses. Who, for example, ever saw a lullaby in blank verse? It is, I believe, quite without precedent in literature, and yet it would not be easy to find a lullaby more daintily beautiful than the one which will be presented later on.

In all of her verse, the iambic measure is dominant, but it is not maintained with monotonous regularity. She appreciates the value of an occasional break in the rhythm, and she understands the uses of the pause. But she declines to be bound by any rules of line measurement. Many of her lines are in accord with the decasyllabic standard of heroic verse, but in no instance is that standard rigidly adhered to: some of the lines contain as many as sixteen syllables, others drop to eight or even six.

It should be explained, however, that the poetry as it comes from the ouija board is not in verse form. There is nothing in the dictation to indicate where a line should begin or where end, nor, of course, is there any punctuation, there being no way by which the marks of punctuation could be denoted. There is usually, however, a perceptible pause at the end of a sentence. The words are taken down as they are spelled on the board, without any attempt, at the time, at versification or punctuation. After the sitting, the matter is punctuated and lined as nearly in accord with the principles of blank verse construction as the abilities of the editor will permit. It is not claimed that the line arrangement of the verses as they are here presented is perfect; but that is a detail of minor importance, and for whatever technical imperfections there may be in this particular, Patience Worth is not responsible. The important thing is that every word is given exactly as it came from the board, without the alteration of a syllable, and without changing the position or even the spelling of a single one.

As a rule, Patience spells the words in accordance with the standards of today, but there are frequent departures from those standards, and many times she has spelled a word two or three different ways in the same composition. For example, she will spell “spin” with one n or two n’s indifferently: she will spell “friend” correctly, and a little later will add an e to it; she will write “boughs” and “bows” in the same composition. On the other hand she invariably spells tongue “tung,” and positively refuses to change it, and this is true also of the word bosom, which she spells “busom.”

There are indications that the poems and the stories are in course of composition at the time they are being produced on the ouija board. Indeed, one can almost imagine the author dictating to an amanuensis in the manner that was necessary before stenography was invented, when every word had to be spelled out in longhand. At times the little table will move with such rapidity that it is very difficult to follow its point with the eye and catch the letter indicated. Then there will be a pause, and the pointer will circle around the board, as if the composer were trying to decide upon a word or a phrase. Occasionally four or five words of a sentence will be given, then suddenly the planchette will dart up to the word “No,” and begin the sentence again with different and, it is to be presumed, more satisfactory words.

Sometimes, though rarely, Patience will begin a composition and suddenly abandon it with an exclamation of displeasure, or else take up a new and entirely different subject. Once she began a prose composition thus:

“I waste my substance on the weaving of web and the storing of pebbles. When shall I build mine house, and when fill the purse? Oh, that my fancy weaved not but web, and desire pricketh not but pebble!”

There was an impatient dash across the board, and then she exclaimed:

“Bah, ’tis bally reasoning! I plucked a gosling for a goose, and found down enough to pad the parson’s saddle skirts!”

At another time she began:

“Rain, art thou the tears wept a thousand years agone, and soaked into the granite walls of dumb and feelingless races? Now——”

There was a long pause and then came this lullaby:

Oh, baby, soft upon my breast press thou,

And let my fluttering throat spell song to thee,

A song that floweth so, my sleeping dear:

Oh, buttercups of eve,

Oh, willynilly,

My song shall flutter on,

Oh, willynilly.

I climb a web to reach a star,

And stub my toe against a moonbeam

Stretched to bar my way,

Oh, willynilly.

A love-puff vine shall shelter us,

Oh, baby mine;

And then across the sky we’ll float

And puff the stars away.

Oh, willynilly, on we’ll go,

Willynilly floating.

“Thee art o’erfed on pudding,” she added to Mrs. Curran. “This sauce is but a butter-whip.”

And now, having briefly referred to the technique of the poems, and explained the manner in which they are transmitted we will make a more systematic presentation of them. For a beginning, nothing better could be offered than the Spinning Wheel lullaby heretofore referred to.

In it we can see the mother of, perhaps, the Puritan days, seated at the spinning wheel while she sings to the child which is supposed to lie in the cradle by her side. One can view through the open door the old-fashioned flower garden bathed in sunlight, can hear the song of the bird and the hum of the bee, and through it all the sound of the wheel. But!—it is the song of a childless woman to an imaginary babe: Patience has declared herself a spinster.

Strumm, strumm!

Ah, wee one,

Croon unto the tendrill tipped with sungilt,

Nodding thee from o’er the doorsill there.

Strumm, strumm!

My wheel shall sing to thee.

I pull the flax as golden as thy curl,

And sing me of the blossoms blue,

Their promise, like thine eyes to me.

Strumm, strumm!

’Tis such a merry tale I spinn.

Ah, wee one, croon unto the honey bee

Who diggeth at the rose’s heart.

Strumm, strumm!

My wheel shall sing to thee,

Heart-blossom mine. The sunny morn

Doth hum with lovelilt, dear.

I fain would leave my spinning

To the spider climbing there,

And bruise thee, blossom, to my breast.

Strumm, strumm!

What fancies I do weave!

Thy dimpled hand doth flutter, dear,

Like a petal cast adrift

Upon the breeze.

Strumm, strumm!

’Tis faulty spinning, dear.

A cradle built of thornwood,

A nest for thee, my bird.

I hear thy crooning, wee one,

And ah, this fluttering heart.

Strumm, strumm!

How ruthlessly I spinn!

My wheel doth wirr an empty song, my dear,

For tendrill nodding yonder

Doth nod in vain, my sweet;

And honey bee would tarry not

For thee; and thornwood cradle swayeth

Only to the loving of the wind!

Strumm, strumm!

My wheel still sings to thee,

Thou birdling of my fancy’s realm!

Strumm, strumm!

An empty dream, my dear!

The sun doth shine, my bird;

Or should he fail, he shineth here

Within my heart for thee!

Strumm, strumm!

My wheel still sings to thee.

Who would say that rhyme or measured lines would add anything to this unique song? It is filled with the images which are the essentials of true poetry, and it has the rhythm which sets the imagery to music and gives it vitality. “The tendrill tipped with sungilt,” “the sunny morn doth hum with lovelilt,” “thy dimpled hand doth flutter like a petal cast adrift upon the breeze”—these are figures that a Shelley would not wish to disown. There is a lightness and delicacy, too, that would seem to be contrary to our notions of the adaptiveness of blank verse. But these are technical features. It is the pathos of the song, the expression of the mother-yearning instinctive in every woman, which gives it value to the heart.

And yet there is a pleasure expressed in this song, the pleasure of imagination, which makes the mind’s pictures living realities. In the poem which follows Patience expresses the feelings of the dreamer who is rudely awakened from this delightful pastime by the realist who sees but what his eyes behold:

Athin the even’s hour,

When shadow purpleth the garden wall,

Then sit thee there adream,

And cunger thee from out the pack o’ me.

Yea, speak thou, and tell to me

What ’tis thou hearest here.

A rustling? Yea, aright!

A murmuring? Yea, aright!

Ah, then, thou sayest, ’tis the leaves

That love one ’pon the other.

Yea, and the murmuring, thou sayest,

Is but the streamlet’s hum.

Nay, nay! For wait thee.

Ayonder o’er the wall doth rise

The white faced Sister o’ the Sky.

And lo, she beareth thee a fairies’ wand,

And showeth thee the ghosts o’ dreams.

Look thou! Ah, look! A one

Doth step adown the path! The rustle?

‘Tis the silken whisper o’ her robe.

The hum? The love-note o’ her maiden dream.

See thee, ah, see! She bendeth there,

And branch o’ bloom doth nod and dance.

Hark, the note! A robin’s cheer?

Ah, Brother, nay.

’Tis the whistle o’ her lover’s pipe.

See, see, the path e’en now

Doth show him, tall and dark, aside the gate.

What! What! Thou sayest

’Tis but the rustle o’ the leaves,

And brooklet’s humming o’er its stony path!

Then hush! Yea, hush thee!

Hush and leave me here!

The fairy wand hath broke, and leaves

Stand still, and note hath ceased,

And maiden vanished with thy word.

Thou, thou hast broke the spell,

And dream hath heard thy word and fled.

Yea, sunk, sunk upon the path,

They o’ my dreams—slain, slain,

And dead with but thy word.

Ah, leave me here and go,

For Earth doth hold not

E’en my dreaming’s wraith.

In previous chapters I have spoken of the wit and humor of Patience Worth. In only one instance has she put humor into verse, and that I have already quoted; but at times her poetry has an airy playfulness of form that gives the effect of humor, even though the theme and the intent may be serious. Here is an example:

Whiff, sayeth the wind,

And whiffing on its way, doth blow a merry tale.

Where, in the fields all furrowed and rough with corn,

Late harvested, close-nestled to a fibrous root,

And warmed by the sun that hid from night there-neath,

A wee, small, furry nest of root mice lay.

Whiff, sayeth the wind.

Whiff, sayeth the wind.

I found this morrow, on a slender stem,

A glory of the morn, who sheltered in her wine-red throat

A tiny spinning worm that wove the livelong day,—

Long after the glory had put her flag to mast—

And spun the thread I followed to the dell,

Where, in a gnarled old oak, I found a grub,

Who waited for the spinner’s strand

To draw him to the light.

Whiff, sayeth the wind.

Whiff, sayeth the wind!

I blew a beggar’s rags, and loving

Was the flapping of the cloth. And singing on

I went to blow a king’s mantle ’bout his limbs,

And cut me on the crusted gilt.

And tainted did I stain the rose until she turned

A snuffy brown and rested her poor head

Upon the rail along the path.

Whiff, sayeth the wind.

Whiff, sayeth the wind.

I blow me ’long the coast,

And steal from out the waves their roar;

And yet from out the riffles do I steal

The rustle of the leaves, who borrow of the riffle’s song

From me at summer-tide. And then

I pipe unto the sands, who dance and creep

Before me in the path. I blow the dead

And lifeless earth to dancing, tingling life,

And slap thee to awake at morn.

Whiff, sayeth the wind.

There is a vivacity in this odd conceit that in itself brings a smile, which is likely to broaden at the irony in the suggestion of the wind cutting itself on the crusted gilt of a king’s mantle. Equally spirited in movement, but vastly different in character, is the one which follows:

Hi-ho, alack-a-day, whither going?

Art dawdling time away adown the primrose path

And wishing golden dust to fancied value?

Ah, catch the milch-dewed air, breathe deep

The clover-scented breath across the field,

And feed upon sweet-rooted grasses

Thou hast idly plucked.

Come, Brother, then let’s on together.

Hi-ho, alack-a-day, whither going?

Is here thy path adown the hard-flagged pave,

Where, bowed, the workers blindly shuffle on;

And dumbly stand in gullies bound,

The worn, bedogged, silent-suffering beast,

Far driven past his due?

And thou, beloved, hast thy burden worn thee weary?

Come, Brother, then let’s on together.

Hi-ho, alack-a-day, whither going?

Hast thou begun the tottering of age,

And doth the day seem over-long to thee?

Art fretting for release, and dost thou lack

The power to weave anew life’s tangled skein?

Come, Brother, then let’s on together.

The second line of this will at once recall Shakespeare’s “primrose path of dalliance,” and it is one of the rare instances in which Patience may be said to have borrowed a metaphor; but in the line which follows, “and wishing golden dust to fancied value,” she puts the figure to better use than he in whom it originated. Beyond this line there is nothing specially remarkable in this poem, and it is given mainly to show the versatility of the composer, and as another example of her ability to present vivid and striking pictures.

Reference has been made to the love of nature and the knowledge of nature betrayed in these poems. Even in those of the most spiritual character nature is drawn upon for illustrations and symbols, and the lines are lavishly strewn with material metaphor and similes that open up the gates of understanding. This picture of winter, for example, brings out the landscape it describes with the vividness and reality of a stereoscope, and yet it is something more than a picture:

Snow tweaketh ’neath thy feet,

And like a wandering painter stalketh Frost,

Daubing leaf and lichen. Where flowed a cataract

And mist-fogged stream, lies silvered sheen,

Stark, dead and motionless. I hearken

But to hear the she-e-e-e of warning wind,

Fearful lest I waken Nature’s sleeping.

Await ye! Like a falcon loosed

Cometh the awakening. Then returneth Spring

To nestle in the curving breast of yonder hill,

And sets to rest like the falcon seeketh

His lady’s outstretched arm.

And here is another picture of winter, painted with a larger brush and heavier pigment, but expressing the same thought, that life doth ever follow death:

Dead, all dead!

The earth, the fields, lie stretched in sleep

Like weary toilers overdone.

The valleys gape like toothless age,

Besnaggled by dead trees.

The hills, like boney jaws whose flesh hath dropped,

Stand grinning at the deathy day.

The lily, too, hath cast her shroud

And clothed her as a brown-robed nun.

The moon doth, at the even’s creep,

Reach forth her whitened hands and sooth

The wrinkled brow of earth to sleep.

Ah, whither flown the fleecy summer clouds,

To bank, and fall to earth in billowed light,

And paint the winter’s brown to spangled white?

Where, too, have flown the happy songs,

Long died away with sighing

On the shore-wave’s crest?

Will they take Echo as their Guide,

And bound from hill to hill at this,

The sleepy time of earth,

And waken forest song ’mid naked waste?

Ah, slumber, slumber, slumber on.

’Tis with a loving hand He scattereth the snow,

To nestle young spring’s offering,

That dying Earth shall live anew.

How different this from Thomson’s pessimistic,

Dread winter spreads his latest glooms

And reigns tremendous o’er the conquered year.

This poem seemed to present unusual difficulties to Patience. The words came slowly and haltingly, and the indications of composition were more marked than in any other of her poems. The third line was first dictated “Like weary workmen overdone,” and then changed to “weary toilers,” and the eighteenth line was given: “On the shore-wavelet’s breast,” and afterwards altered to read “the shorewave’s crest.”

Possibly it was because the poet has not the same zest in painting pictures of winter that she has in depicting scenes of kindlier seasons, in which she is in accord with nearly all poets, and, for that matter, with nearly all people. Her pen, if one may use the word, is speediest and surest when she presents the beautiful, whether it be the material or the spiritual. She expresses this feeling herself with beauty of phrase and rhythm in this verse, which may be entitled “The Voice of Spring.”

The streamlet under fernbanked brink

Doth laugh to feel the tickle of the waving mass;

And silver-rippled echo soundeth

Under over-hanging cliff.

The robin heareth it at morn

And steals its chatter for his song.

And oft at quiet-sleeping

Of the Spring’s bright day,

I wander me to dream along the brooklet’s bank,

And hark me to a song of her dead voice,

That lieth where the snowflakes vanish

On the molten silver of the brooklet’s breast;

And watch the stream,

Who, over-fearful lest she lose the right

To ripple to the chord of Spring’s full harmony,

Doth harden at her heart

And catch the song a prisoner to herself;

To loosen only at the wooing kiss

Of youthful Winter’s sun,

And fill the barren waste with phantom spring.

Or, passing on to autumn, consider this apostrophe to a fallen leaf:

Ah, paled and faded leaf of spring agone,

Whither goest thou? Art speeding

To another land upon the brooklet’s breast?

Or art thou sailing to the sea, to lodge

Amid a reef, and, kissed by wind and wave,

Die of too much love?

Thou’lt find a resting place amid the moss,

And, ah, who knows! The royal gem

May be thine own love’s offering.

Or wilt thou flutter as a time-yellowed page,

And mould among thy sisters, ere the sun

May peep within the pack?

Or will the robin nest with thee

At Spring’s awakening? The romping brook

Will never chide thee, but ever coax thee on.

And shouldst thou be impaled

Upon a thorny branch, what then?

Try not a flight. Thy sisters call thee.

Could crocus spring from frost,

And wilt thou let the violet shrink and die?

Nay, speed not, for God hath not

A mast for thee provided.

Autumn, too, is the theme of this:

She-e-e! She-e-e! She-e-e-e!

The soughing wind doth breathe.

The white-crest cloud hath drabbed

At season’s late. The trees drip leaf-waste

Unto the o’erloved blades aneath,

Who burned o’ love, to die.

’Tis the parting o’ the season.

Yea, and earth doth weep. The mellow moon

Stands high o’er golded grain. The cot-smoke

Curleth like to a loving arm

That reacheth up unto the sky.

The grain ears ope, to grin unto the day.

The stream hath laden with a pack o’ leaves

To bear unto the dell, where bloom

Doth hide in waiting for her pack.

The stars do glitter cold, and dance to warm them

There upon the sky’s blue carpet o’er the earth.

’Tis season’s parting.

Yea, and earth doth weep. The Winter cometh,

And he bears her jewels for the decking

Of his bride. A glittered crown

Shall fall ’pon earth, and sparkled drop

Shall stand like gem that flasheth

’Pon a nobled brow. Yea, the tears

Of earth shall freeze and drop

As pearls, the necklace o’ the earth.

’Tis season’s parting. Yea,

And earth doth weep.

’Tis Fall.

She does not confine herself to the Seasons in her tributes to the divisions of time. There are many poems which have the day for their subject, all expressive of delight in every aspect of the changing hours. There is a pæan to the day in this:

The Morn awoke from off her couch of fleece,

And cast her youth-dampt breath to sweet the Earth.

The birds sent carol up to climb the vasts.

The sleep-stopped Earth awaked in murmuring.

The dark-winged Night flew past the Day

Who trod his gleaming upward way.

The fields folk musicked at the sun’s warm ray.

Web-strewn, the sod, hung o’er o’ rainbow gleam.

The brook, untiring, ever singeth on.

The Day hath broke, and busy Earth

Hath set upon the path o’ hours.

Mute Night hath spread her darksome wing

And loosed the brood of dreams,

And Day hath set the downy mites to flight.

Fling forth thy dreaming hours! Awake from dark!

And hark! And hark! The Earth doth ring in song!

’Tis Day! ’Tis Day! ’Tis Day!

The close observer will notice in all of these poems that there is nothing hackneyed. The themes, the thoughts, the images, the phrasing, are almost if not altogether unique. The verse which follows is, I am inclined to believe, absolutely so:

Go to the builder of all dreams

And beg thy timbers to cast thee one.

Ah, Builder, let me wander in this land

Of softened shapes to choose. My hand doth reach

To catch the mantle cast by lilies whom the sun

Hath loved too well. And at this morrow

Saw I not a purple wing of night

To fold itself and bask in morning light?

I watched her steal straight to the sun’s

Bedazzled heart. I claim her purpled gold.

And watched I not, at twi-hours creep,

A heron’s blue wing skim across the pond,

Where gulf clouds fleeted in a fleecy herd,

Reflected fair? I claim the blue and let

My heart to gambol with the sky-herd there.

At midday did I not then find

A rod of gold, and sun’s flowers,

Bounded in by wheat’s betasseled stalks?

I claim the gold as mine, to cast my dream.

And then at stormtide did I catch the sun,

Becrimsoned in his anger; and from his height

Did he not bathe the treetops in his gore?

The red is mine. I weave my dream and find

The rainbow, and the rainbow’s end—a nothingness.

Almost equally weird is this “Birth of a Song”:

I builded me a harp,

And set asearch for strings.

Ah, and Folly set me ’pon a track

That set the music at a wail;

For I did string the harp

With silvered moon-threads;

Aye, and dead the notes did sound.

And I did string it then

With golden sun’s-threads,

And Passion killed the song.

Then did I to string it o’er—

And ’twer a jeweled string—

A chain o’ stars, and lo,

They laughed, and sorry wert the song.

And I did strip the harp and cast

The stars to merry o’er the Night;

And string anew, and set athrob a string

Abuilded of a lover’s note, and lo,

The song did sick and die,

And crumbled to a sweeted dust,

And blew unto the day.

Anew did I to string,

Astring with wail o’ babe,

And Earth loved not the song.

I felled asorrowed at the task,

And still the Harp wert mute.

So did I to pluck out my heart,

And lo, it throbbed and sung,

And at the hurt o’ loosing o’ the heart

A song wert born.

That, however, is but a pretty play of fancy upon things within our ken, however shadowy and evanescent she may make them by her touch. But in the poem which follows she touches on the border of a land we know not:

I’d greet thee, loves of yester’s day.

I’d call thee out from There.

I’d sup the joys of yonder realm.

I’d list unto the songs of them

Who days of me know not.

I’d call unto this hour

The lost of joys and woes.

I’d seek me out the sorries

That traced the seaming of thy cheek,

O thou of yester’s day!

I’d read the hearts astopped,

That Earth might know the price

They paid as toll.

I’d love their loves, I’d hate their hates,

I’d sup the cups of them;

Yea, I’d bathe me in the sweetness

Shed by youth of yester’s day.

Yea, of these I’d weave the Earth a cloak—

But ah, He wove afirst!

They cling like petal mold, and sweet the Earth.

Yea, the Earth lies wrapped

Within the holy of its ghost.

“’Tis but a drip o’ loving,” she said when she had finished this.

Nearly every English poet has a tribute to the Skylark, but I doubt if there are many more exquisite than this:

I tuned my song to love and hate and pain

And scorn, and wrung from passion’s heat the flame,

And found the song a wailing waste of voice.

My song but reached the earth and echoed o’er its plains.

I sought for one who sang a wordless lay,

And up from ’mong the rushes soared a lark.

Hark to his song!

From sunlight came his gladdening note.

And ah, his trill—the raindrops’ patter!

And think ye that the thief would steal

The rustle of the leaves, or yet

The chilling chatter of the brooklet’s song?

Not claiming as his own the carol of my heart,

Or listening to my plaint, he sings amid the clouds;

And through the downward cadence I but hear

The murmurings of the day.

One naturally thinks of Shelley’s “Skylark” when reading this, and there are some passages in that celebrated poem that show a similarity of metaphor, such as this:

Sounds of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass;

Rain-awakened flowers;

All that ever was

Joyous and clear and fresh

Thy music doth surpass.

And there is something of the same thought in the lines of Edmund Burke:

Teach me, O lark! with thee to greatly rise,

T’ exalt my soul and lift it to the skies;

To make each worldly joy as mean appear,

Unworthy care when heavenly joys are near.

But Patience nowhere belittles earthly joys that are not evil in themselves; nor does she teach that all earthly passions are inherently wrong: for earthly love is the theme of many of her verses.

Her expressions of scorn are sometimes powerful in their vehemence. This, on “War,” for example:

Ah, thinkest thou to trick?

I fain would peep beneath the visor.

A god of war, indeed! Thou liest!

A masquerading fiend,

The harlot of the universe—

War, whose lips, becrimsoned in her lover’s blood,

Smile only to his death-damped eyes!

I challenge thee to throw thy coat of mail!

Ah, God! Look thou beneath!

Behold, those arms outstretched!

That raiment over-spangled with a leaden rain!

O, Lover, trust her not!

She biddeth thee in siren song,

And clotheth in a silken rag her treachery,

To mock thee and to wreak

Her vengeance at thy hearth.

Cast up the visor’s skirt!

Thou’lt see the snakey strands.

A god of war, indeed! I brand ye as a lie!

Such outbreaks as this are rare in her poetry, but in her conversation she occasionally gives expression to anger or scorn or contempt, though, as stated, she seldom dignifies such emotions in verse. Love, as I have said, is her favorite theme in numbers, the love of God first and far foremost, and after that brother love and mother love. To the love of man for woman, or woman for man, there is seldom a reference in her poems, although it is the theme of some of her dramatic works. There is an exquisite expression of mother love in the spinning wheel lullaby already given, but for rapturous glorification of infancy, it would be difficult to surpass this, which does not reveal its purport until the last line:

Ah, greet the day, which, like a golden butterfly,

Hovereth ’twixt the night and morn;

And welcome her fullness—the hours

’Mid shadow and those the rose shall grace.

Hast thou among her hours thy heart’s

Desire and dearest? Name thou then of all

His beauteous gifts thy greatest treasure.

The morning, cool and damp, dark-shadowed

By the frowning sun—is this thy chosen?

The midday, flaming as a sword,

Deep-stained by noon’s becrimsoned light—

Is this thy chosen? Or misty startide,

Woven like a spinner’s web and jeweled

By the climbing moon—is this thy chosen?

Doth forest shade, or shimmering stream,

Or wild bird song, or cooing of the nesting dove,

Bespeak thy chosen? He who sendeth light

Sendeth all to thee, pledges of a bonded love.

And ye who know Him not, look ye!

From all His gifts He pilfered that which made it His

To add His fullest offering of love.

From out the morning, at the earliest tide,

He plucked two lingering stars, who tarried

Lest the dark should sorrow. And when the day was born,

The glow of sun-flush, veiled by gossamer cloud

And tinted soft by lingering night;

And rose petals, scattered by a loving breeze;

The lily’s satin cheek, and dove cooes,

And wild bird song, and Death himself

Is called to offer of himself;

And soft as willow buds may be,

He claimeth but the down to fashion this, thy gift,

The essence of His love, thine own first-born.

In brief, the babe concentrates within itself all the beauties and all the wonders of nature. Its eyes, “two lingering stars who tarried lest the dark should sorrow,” and in its face “the glow of sun flush veiled by gossamer cloud,” “rose petals” and the “lily’s satin cheek”; its voice the dove’s coo. “From all His gifts He pilfered that which made it His”—the divine essence—“to add His fullest offering of love.” This is the idealism of true poetry, and what mother looking at her own firstborn will say that it is overdrawn?

So much for mother-love. Of her lines on brotherhood I have already given example. In only a few verses, as I have said, does Patience speak of love between man and woman. The poem which follows is perhaps the most eloquent of these:

’Tis mine, this gift, ah, mine alone,

To paint the leaden sky to lilac-rose,

Or coax the sullen sun to flash,

Or carve from granite gray a flaming knight,

Or weave the twilight hours with garlands gay,

Or wake the morning with my soul’s glad song,

Or at my bitterest drink a sweetness cast,

Or gather from my loneliness the flower—

A dream amid a mist of tears.

Ah, treasure mine, this do I pledge to thee,

That none may peer within thy land; and only

When the moon shines white shall I disclose thee;

Lest, straying, thou should’st fade; and in the blackness

Of the midnight shall I fondle thee,

Afraid to show thee to the day.

When I shall give to Him, the giver,

All my treasure’s stores, and darkness creeps upon me,

Then will I for this return a thank,

And show thee to the world.

Blind are they to thee, but ah, the darkness

Is illumined; and lo! thy name is burned

Like flaming torch to light me on my way.

Then from thy wrapping of love I pluck

My dearest gift, the memory of my dearest love.

Ah, memory, thou painter,

Who from cloud canst fashion her dear form,

Or from a stone canst turn her smile,

Or fill my loneliness with her dear voice,

Or weave a loving garland for her hair—

Thou art my gift of God, to be my comrade here.

Next to such love as this comes friendship, and she has put an estimate of the value of a friend in these words:

Of Earth there be this store of joys and woes.

Yea, and they do make the days o’ me.

I sit me here adream that did I hold

From out the whole, but one, my dearest gift,

What then would it to be? Doth days and nights

Of bright and dark make this my store?

Nay. Do happy hours and woes-tide, then,

Beset this day of me and make the thing I’d keep?

Nay. Doth metal store and jewelled string

Then be aworth to me? Nay. I set me here,

And dreaming, fall to reasoning for this,

That I would keep, if but one gift wert mine

Must hold the store o’ all. Yea, must hold

The dark for light, yea, and hold the light for dark,

Aye, and hold the sweet for sours, aye, and hold

The love for Hate. Yea, then, where may I to turn?

And lo, as I adreaming sat

A voice spaked out to me: What ho! What ho!

And lo, the voice of one, a friend!

This, then, shall be my treasure,

And the Earth part I shall hold

From out all gifts of Him.

Love of God, and God’s love for us, and the certainty of life after death as a consequence of that love, are the themes of Patience’s finest poetry, consideration of which is reserved for succeeding chapters. Yet a taste of this devotional poetry will not be amiss at this point in the presentation of her works, as an indication of the character of that which is to come.

Lo, ’pon a day there bloomed a bud,

And swayed it at adance ’pon sweeted airs.