Patience Worth: A Psychic Mystery

by Casper S. Yost

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!”