Whittier at close range

by Frances C. Sparhawk

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 words of 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 for sight—I feel that faith is 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 they come when 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.