Yet everything which held a possibility of throwing 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 with the 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.