July 1, 2017


Do you want me to be topical, and write an essay on Independence Day? My Independence Day was when I died, letting myself go in grand Victorian style--but it quickly turned into "Oops Day," or, "What have I done?" Day.

Now, in what we are about to do, Steve will necessarily have to write from his own understanding, including those things he has figured out--because we are delving into history, our personal history and recorded history. But first a few comments. I am "strong" with Steve lately--it has to do with the veil being thinner, for us, personally. I can't explain. But he has felt my presence distinctly for the last several days, and he is enjoying it! So communication across the Divide will be easier, accordingly.

I was aware that I was an odd-ball. I was small for my age, and skinny, and kind of other-worldly, and not what the men of that era were looking for in a wife--and I certainly didn't want them to be looking at me for any other reason! As I've told you, my sisters, who loved me dearly, despaired of me finding a man. When I got my heart set on Mathew--who was tall, and handsome, and charming, and a hayseed with the heart of a king--they clucked over me. "Of all the men to pick!" one said. But I was adamant, and they knew it (as I was quite stubborn, invoking the principle of destiny, and such). So then they huddled, and queried amongst themselves, "How can we bring this off?" They contrived to arrange for us to spend as much time together as possible. Knowing that I was thinking of becoming a life-long teacher (since it wasn't expected I would land a man and marry, and since I was academically-inclined), and knowing, through the grapevine, that Mathew deeply desired an education, and was being denied one by his father--they stepped in and arranged for me to tutor Mathew. I was only 14, and he was 18! But he was an eager student.

So we won't go into that, and here is the part that Steve has "put together" from dozens of clues. It seems that I took a writing class in a nearby town; and it seems that I often had writing assignments, especially to write a few verses of poetry on various themes. The theme would be given, and I would write two stanzas, or three or four stanzas. Never a full-sized poem, just exercises. I had been tutored by my mother--Steve doesn't know whether or not other tutors came to the house. He has seen that someone called my mother brilliant in one of the old books. Steve is just feeling my admiration for her, now--he could put his own words to it, but we will leave you just with the feeling. Intense admiration, the feeling that she could do anything, and excel in anything.

I was schooled in all the classics, and I passed this knowledge on to Mathew, over the next few winters when we would have our tutoring sessions. But the first year, 1830, was the year his father died. Suddenly, he was free to pursue his dreams of becoming a merchant, and leaving behind the farming life. He loved rural Massachussetts, but he felt he was destined to be more than a farmer. Unfortunately, that meant leaving our small town--this is an old story, which many have experienced--and I felt deep down that my destiny was with him!

I had fallen quite in love with him, you see. I won't enumerate his qualities--you who have read my journal for some time, have a sense of them. He was like a rustic prince, who was "cleaning up" very well, indeed, under my tutelage--but now he wanted go to to New York City to pursue his career, and he would also do journalism on the side, as a way of supporting himself. That much, Steve understands. And I was furious.

Have you seen Star Wars, where Luke Skywalker cannot be convinced by Yoda not to leave yet, because he hasn't completed his training?

But underneath that was the terrible fear. He wasn't even mine (exept in my eyes)--he would be led astray in the city. My conception of the city was that it was a den of sin and depravity--and I wasn't too far off. I despaired of it--I was losing him, and he would be lost, both to me and to God.

I should have had more faith in him. He impacted the morals of New York City, rather than the other-way around; meaning, through his writing. Now Steve feels my admiration for him, as Mathew--but we will leave that, as well.

Meanwhile, my unscrupulous teacher--who later became infamous in many peoples' eyes--was going through my class workbook and copying the best poems--the personal ones as well as the class assignments--and submitting them to newspapers across the country!! Can you imagine?? He actually made a name for himself doing this, briefly, and later claimed that for some inexplicable reason, he wrote well during that period but never was able to do it, since. (Wonder why?)

So we are now at the tail end of 1830. I had started tutoring Mathew, and I was attending this writing class, myself; and he announces that he is leaving. I was very upset, and very angry at him. But I turned to God, which in my religion at this time, meant, turning my attentions toward heaven. I had God and heaven confused, as many people do. So I would turn my attention to spiritually elevated music, as my mother had taught me to play, on both harp and piano; and I would turn my thoughts toward heaven, and its heavenly dwellers.

Now, I do want to call your attention to a card that is being sold on Ebay, which Steve noticed. This young woman is gazing up at heaven, thinking of her little sister, who has passed on. But she--the girl on earth--looks quite a bit like me. And this, you might say, is me, after Mathew left me for New York, except instead of a little cherub, you see, there is Mathew, or Mathew's guardian angel, whom I implored to keep him safe (and to keep him out of the clutches of designing women!!!). Steve will capture the image for us, here:

Now, I want to share with you three poems that Steve found in a Philadelphia paper. His interpretation, based on all the evidence (including evidence I am not trying to explain to you, here), is that my teacher submitted all three of these poems to the paper, without my knowledge or permission. You can see that no-one in their right mind would have submitted all three of them, if they had written them, themselves. Why? Because one is an ecstatic love poem; one is a hateful poem of anger and vengeance; and one is the attempt to turn to heaven to forget. No-one sends in their love poem and their "jilted" poem in the same envelope--not unless they are crazy, and very short of cash--and I was neither!

This first poem, Steve believes, must be us together, "sitting up" outside my parents' house, looking at the moon over the nearby Merrimack River in Rocks Village, Mass. There is a line mentioning the ocean, which threw Steve for a loop, and it is signed with my initials from Newburyport. Newburyport is where the class was held. My teacher's initials were the same as mine (which he used as an excuse to steal my work, telling himself he was just submitting my work for me, but then pocketing the cash--and taking the credit!). At first, Steve thought the line about the ocean must have originally been something about the river's wide expanse, rather than the ocean. You see, he began to be jealous that the poem told of me sitting up with some other boy in Newburyport, at night, at 14 years of age! If you look closely, the line means that you can see where the ocean would be, in the distance, and the fog that is rising above it. My house was about four miles from the ocean--could the shore be seen that far away, at dusk? Or could I have been viewing this scene in Newburyport, after my class, with Mathew? Did he take the class with me? Steve honestly doesn't know what this means, and in his emotional turmoil, I can't tell him. We will leave it be, for the moment.

After a few moments quite, he feels I am telling him, "On a clear night, you can see the horizon four miles away, from an elevated vantage-point. You could see the mist over the ocean, even if you couldn't see the ocean, itself, and you might catch a ship's sail in the distance." The problem was that Steve originally took "the bounding of the sea" to mean the motion of the sea--whereas it means the boundary of the sea.

I ached for him, and thrilled for him, seated so close to me, and he didn't know it. Sigh... Later, he "caught the love malady" from me, and felt the same, but I didn't know it--and I was inadvertently rubbing salt in the wound, trying all the tricks I could think of at age 16, after I had already officially "come out," and they were working on him far better than I had any idea. Once we both realized we were "on the same page," watch out! But that's another story...

So without further ado, here are my three poems. Steve says, can you imagine that I could write this well at age 14? How can I say this--I was geared toward this, actually, bred for it. My bloodline predisposed me to this kind of oddball excellence. But Mathew was the only one who knew it. He knew I was a "dauphine." I loved him for that. How delicious is it, when the whole world mocks you, but your chosen beloved "gets" you?

I wanted to say this, also. I had a terrible self-image. You know, I saw all the flaws. I couldn't imagine that such a handsome, popular boy would ever go for me, even if I came from an upper-class family with privileges. That never helped me be popular--it just made me resented all the more, by the locals. But Mathew saw this "dauphine" in me, something exceptional. Well, we had a tussle, once we really entered a mutual relationship. Because when I was just his secret admirer, I could keep my lack of self-confidence to myself, and it reinforced the idea that I would probably never have him, anyway. But once I did, amazingly, have him, then all the insecurities came out!!! He then systematically healed them, as I have described once before.

But can you believe that I still have them, as residue? They are in abeyance, pretty-much, here in the astral world, but when I enter in to a relationship with Steve on earth, it is as though I am partly incarnate again, myself, and these things come out. So he may look at my picture, and he may see an "adorable" young lady, but I see a funny-looking girl, with freckles I know are there (despite not showing in the picture), and huge eyes that are large for my head, and such things that I torture myself with. He thinks I am beautiful; I think I am funny-looking. He thinks I am "magical"--I think I am an oddball. Like that. So the point is, when his mind is very closely tied to mine, sometimes these thoughts bleed through, and it seems almost as though he is having them, about me! No. It is me feeling unworthy of the worship he practically gives me, you see. But, well, when someone loves you to the point of worshipping you, and they don't get disillusioned, then, I suppose, why not? Maybe their way of seeing things is the right one, after all. So long as his bubble doesn't pop and he doesn't see me the way I see me...I suppose I may see myself as he sees me. So long as he doesn't leave me; and I know he won't, so all these things will sort themselves out.

How different this is from what you are led to believe we feel like, in the mediums' readings you see on YouTube and television! When you let yourself fall back in love; when you let yourself be open and vulnerable; when you meld your heart with one who is on earth, and become one--then you have set aside all your protection, all your "magic powers." Does that make sense? You have become human, in the heart; and you are vulnerable, again. I can't put it better than that. Because how else could it be, if you want to have a real relationship? A relationship where one partner is emotionally invulnerable, is no relationship. (Steve says, "Trust me, I've tried it.")

So now, here are my poems. I am 14 years old, a prodigy, no-doubt, but very deeply in love with a boy I don't dare express my real feelings to, who thinks he is just my older friend, and student, and is going off to seek his fortune, leaving our little town for the big city. And I am heartsick. The first is us, together, with me secretly feeling things and thinking things I might not even wish to share with you, today!--the second is me, feeling betrayed (for no good reason, really, if we were merely friends, as I must now say we are); and the third is me trying to adjust by appealing to heaven (which doesn't work so well as one might hope it would). Just, remember that I was 14, and 14-year-olds can be somewhat dramatic, however gifted they might be.


Look on the broad, still-breasted Merrimac.
 The stars are sleeping in its silent blue,
The Moon has wandered down, and now looks back
With fearful eye upon her former track,
  A sky-throned ghost. Look, love, the moonlight through!
And lo! Above the bounding of the sea,
 A bright mist wavers, of a beauteous hue 
Like pearl sublimed to vapour; and above,
 A white sail sleeps. Look yet again with me,
Where farther up the river hides away,
 With curving banks; and there, like pale-eyed love,
The moonlight sits upon the eddies’ top
 With tremulous motion, as thine eye doth play 
Which of its dear delight doth never stop.

Newburyport, Ms.   A.P.



Go on thy way, I have no hand for such as thee to take—
The time has gone, when leaving thee might cause a tear to break;
Set forth, with thy swift going ship, over the leaping sea—
And may that ship and sea prove false to thee, as thou to me.
Hast thou forgot thy plighted faith—thou false, poor, fleeting friend?
When midnight skies and northern fires their holy arch did bend,
As witness to thine unsought oath, that never from thy heart,
In sin or shame, in life or death, my image should depart.
Thou swer’st that even should God himself bow from the burning sky,
And say that I was false, that thou would’st think it but a lie!
Would’st thou excuse thyself to me?—Go, I am weary, go!

Go! I am poor, and cannot leave my slavery like thee,
Forsake me as thou dist before, I’ll struggle to be free—
And fear not I hsall tell the world how cowardly thou art—
For it might hurt thy purse to show the meanness of thy heart!
Set forth—may steel be at thy breast and murder at thy back—
May whirlwinds plunge thee from the deck to surges deep and black;
And may there be no friend to save the false heart from a fearful grave.

May’st thou be wreck’d on savage shores and unproductive sands,
And fight with bloody, ravenous beasts, with weak and unarm’d hands;
When love grows cold and riches pass, and thou art sad and low—
And so false friends must be at last, though vengeance cometh slow;
then may’st thou have no friend to be thy helper in extremity.
Go forth! The time will come at length, when thou wilt think of me—
Till then I leave thee to thyself—that fate is misery.

Newburyport, Ms.   A.P.



 Sweep the joyous string!
  Its deity invoke,
 Let its lofty breathings bring
  Sweeter strains than ever broke
  Beneath the master minstrel’s stroke,
Or flowed, mellifluous, from Castalia’s spring.

 For happy hours gone by,
  The notes of wo prolong;
  Peal loud the wailings of the song,
 ‘Till on Echo’s breast they die.
 Hark! The empyrean spheres
   With Music’s voice are ringing,
 As o’er the grave of buried years
  The seraph choir are singing.

 Slowly and sad, see yonder solemn train
  With measured step pursue their way,
  Their looks denoting them a prey
 To dark despire and mind-corroding pain.
  Their brows with cypress bound,
  They cast a timid glance around,
 Or view with high disdain
The sportive crowd, with myrtle garlands crowned.

 Above the peaceful earth,
  The sylphs of music floating,
   On gossamer wings,
  To joy are devoting
 ensp; The hour as it springs,
And far and wide is borne the choral voices of mirth.

Love to each and all,