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