Patience Worth: A Psychic Mystery. Casper S. Yost
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