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10/4/18
For any regulars, I wanted to mention that late yesterday, I added a strong piece of evidence that Mathew was the real author of the "Quails" series in the 1849-52 Boston "Weekly Museum," rather than Ossian Dodge, as claimed by Dodge, the editor, and historians. Yesterday, I shared a rare piece which Mathew signed with his own name. I have also asserted that Mathew would re-use some of his best ideas, some years later. In fact, Mathew re-used this idea, but not under his own name--rather, he re-used it for the "Museum," signing as "Quails." Here is the report in question, from the Dec. 22, 1849 edition. Logically, taking this evidence in isolation, you might theorize that Ossian Dodge is imitating Mathew's earlier piece; or you might invoke coincidence. The latter theory is very weak--the author even uses a similar device within the narrative, as regards the voices of the participants. He will use that bit one more time, in the 1856 Portland "Transcript." Shall I string them together, in date order?

Portland "Transcript," Nov. 1, 1845, signed as "M.F. Whittier":

No sooner had this vindictive “Son of Thunder” ceased, than he was succeeded by a pretty miss of “sweet sixteen,” or thereabouts, who, commencing in a very low, soft voice, gradually rose to the most piercing treble, as she descanted upon a sort of vision she had had the night before, in which she had seen the awful scenes of the judgment enacted. She was rather pretty and had a very benevolent and mild cast of countenance, which contrasted strangely with the fiendish exultation with which she described the coming agonies of her unbelieving friends and acquaintances.

Boston "Weekly Museum," Dec. 22, 1849, signing as "Quails":

At the close of his address, we were favored with one of their wild, unearthly, intoxicating chants or wails, in which every voice took a leading part, and most nobly was it sustained; for at the close of each strain, as all of the voices came down on the tonic, the large and spacious hall was fairly made to ring again. One voice in particular, that of a female, was bound not to be outdone, and as her matchless and almost unearthly screech came out a quarter of a beat ahead, and half a note below the rest, our hair fairly straightened out and vibrated with terror.

Portland "Transcript," May 24, 1856, signing as a "star" or single asterisk:

Oh the explosive P's and the frog-trilled R's! Oh, the drawling and the quavering! Oh, the ranting and the air-thumping--and oh, the volume of the voice which that pretty little Indian poured forth! The first explosion frightened us so that we jumped as though electrified, thereby seriously alarming a nervous lady next us, to whom we were obliged to apologize by ascribing the jump to a sudden pain. She looked incredulous, and we have ever since feared that to her our pain was a very transparent one--but we never shall know.

"What a roar!" exclaimed our friend, startled quite out of his usual gallantry by the stentorian burst which had caused him to achieve a spring like the blade of a new jack-knife. "Does she think to charm us Portlanders in that way? We are accustomed to prettier voices, from lips so pretty as hers.--She has made a mistake in choosing this as a scene for her exhibitions. In the name of all that's ear-splitting, who sent her?"

"Who?" we queried--in bewilderment--and a bright thought came to our relief--"why, Annie sent her, of course!"

This rare signature, "M.F. Whittier," which was probably a printer's error of some kind, thus sets up a link between two of Mathew's pseudonyms. This may not seem like much, at first glance. But there is a great deal of information contained in the pieces which Mathew wrote under these two pseudonyms. Once they are positively identified as his, we have all kinds of fascinating information--regarding both Mathew, and the reincarnation case. Remember that this is information which I could have had no normal way of accessing, before I recorded my past-life impressions. Even had I secretly penetrated these old literary newspapers, without admitting it to anyone, I wouldn't have known I was seeing Mathew Franklin Whittier's work.

This is good research. If your mind shuts off because it is too implausible--because it doesn't fit--then that is your own internal mechanisms, which I can't be responsible for. That is, in short your own lookout. My responsibility is to be rigorous and honest in my investigations, and to connect one dot logically to the next.

This is hardly the only evidence I have for Mathew being the author signing with these two pseudonyms. But just this, alone, is strong enough that you don't need much else. The implications are legion. I haven't tallied how many pieces Mathew signed with his "star," but I would guess they are well over 100, and possibly more than 200. He began using it in 1832, and the last instance I found was in 1874. It's the only pseudonym he returned to throughout his life, not counting his "Ethan Spike" letters which were from that particular character. Mathew used his "asterisk" for just about anything, as it struck his fancy; but often, I think, it was used in tribute to his first wife, Abby, who had certain beliefs about stars and souls, and who saw their souls as being twin stars in heaven.

If you combine the material written under the "star," with the travel letters and humorous sketches written under "Quails," you can extract a very deep understanding of Mathew's inner world. It so happens, that it is precisely as mine is, today--which, again, I would have had no way to know before I identified these pseudonyms as his. The few differences are areas of life wherein I have learned and progressed. But the mind (not necessarily the physical personality), the emotions, the inclinations, values, sensitivies, and in most cases, the beliefs, are all the same.

It's really a fascinating study, and while there are past-life cases which are proven as strongly, I don't personally know of any which go into such psychological depth. Never mind Mathew's forgotten accomplishments, which I'm sure make people incredulous. This study deserves to take its rightful place among the pioneering efforts in this new field. If it dies with me, then all the digital information I have so carefully collected, catalogued and archived will simply be erased or taken out with the trash. The antiquarian volumes will show up on Ebay, and be scattered to the highest bidders. And the entire work will go back to the ether, disappearing once again from the physical world.

I, personally, am not in a position to prevent this from happening. I have, at most, another 20 years or so of life, being now almost 65. I have to achieve enough social prominence, and sell enough copies of my books, to insure that this work survives me. It's as simple as that. And I am going to need help doing this. What kind of help, and where it will come from, we don't know. I do know that it must be ethical help; and it must come with no strings attached. I'm not asking for money--all I could do with money is to hire an agent, and then tie his hands by refusing to permit him to use any commercial techniques, or "hype." That's what those people do. It would be like hiring a lawyer and prohibiting him from using any legal maneuvers.

No, it must be natural, organic, and entirely honest. And this, in a society which isn't ready for the material. How do you preserve material which is too far ahead of its time, beyond your death, to a time when society will be ready for it--like a time capsule? And that, being poor and obscure?

The only way I see is for this project to have its day, in the public, so that there are quite a number of my e-books scattered around out there, which survive me. And somehow, it will have to become popular enough that donations are forthcoming, such that a small museum is built to house the physical volumes and other materials. Either that, or it would have to be donated to an existing institution; but the work will have to become famous, for such an institution to want to bother with it (and, to prevent them from selling it off when they need cash and/or space).

I watched a video yesterday of Meherwan Jessawala, a direct disciple of my Guru, Meher Baba. He told a fascinating story of how they came to find an ideal house (a queen's palace, actually) where Baba later hosted mass "darshans," or meetings. The important part of it, for our purposes here, is that while inquiring around Poona, India for rental places, and being desperate to obey his Guru's orders to find one on short notice, he jumped the wall surrounding the compound of this palace, and was severely taken to task by the caretaker. But another disciple had a wealthy friend, and through that friend had made a formal request to the "rani" (queen), herself. The request was granted, and so the party arrived in a car. Meherwan--who had been just recently threatened with arrest by the caretaker--was among the party. He says the caretaker didn't say anything, and neither did he; but of course he was now treated with respect!

There is something similar about my study. Right now it is either dismissed, or even ridiculed. But it only takes the turning of a key, for it to gain legitimacy. I don't know whether it will take a "rani" of some kind, or not. But if society got the stamp of approval to take it seriously, suddenly we have a totally different situation. Now, I really did co-author "A Christmas Carol" and write "The Raven" in the 19th century. Now, I really did prove a past life, and delve into the psychology of it to a depth rarely, if ever, achieved before. Suddenly, it is worth building a little museum to house the physical artifacts; and there will be enough e-books, scattered amongst the population, to insure that when the world as a whole is ready, it will be available.

This "turning" is, I think, in wiser spiritual hands than mine. Who exactly, will make that decision, and how it will be implemented, I don't know. I have seen Abby, my astral partner, arrange some very interesting things. I provide the evidence for this in my sequel. But she tells me of a sort of council of elders up there, whom she reports to. When they give the okay, Abby does her thing, and suddenly some opportunity shows up.

There is plenty of precedent for this. Ask any grieving person, who is awake to and aware of the possibility of spirit signs, whether their loved one has given him or her a sign. It's the same phenomenon, only, this same method can be used to further a cause, if that cause is just, and where there is permission from the Council. Abby has helped me in my research, in this way--but she has not, so far, helped with distribution. That remains completely stymied. Logically, if she can help with the research phase, she can just as well help with the distribution phase.

I had in mind to talk about how learning of Mathew Franklin Whittier's life-patterns, and personal tendencies, has helped me to understand myself better. But I don't, actually, want to encourage people to do what I've done. I'm a pretty psychologically stable person (whatever you might think), and I have a master's in counseling. Even so, it has been difficult, at times, integrating Mathew's emotions, which bleed through when I study his life intensively. In my case, it helped to recognize that all my life, I'd been unconsciously looking for Abby. I am no longer subject to that dangerous temptation, of throwing all the unconscious weight of my feelings for her at some unworthy substitute. I would be embarrassed to say how many times I derailed my life, and my career, in that way over the past 40 years. Other people, however, might recognize a person from a past life who is not legitimately theirs, in this life, to partner with, and wreak havoc by pressing their past-life claim. This isn't something to toy around with.

So now I have called to your attention some very good evidence that it was Mathew Franklin Whittier writing as both the single asterisk (star), and as "Quails"--but then I have followed that up by breaching your boggle threshold so severely, that you are likely to dismiss the whole thing. This is the problem I have--if I share openly and honestly, the material is so advanced that I offend almost everyone. I don't know how to share just the portion that people can accept (especially, when addressing an unknown, general audience). This would probably happen if I got in front of an audience, and began the Q&A. Someone would ask a penetrating question, I would take it and run with it, and I'd lose everybody who was on the verge of accepting the "milktoast" version I'd just presented in my talk.

I did, by the way, shoot a message to a couple of fairly prominent radio hosts. It's been three or four days, now, and I haven't received a reply from either of them. I see no purpose in trying to get on these tiny Blogtalk radio shows, which probably each have a handful of listeners. I suppose it would be like an aspiring musician playing at bars. How can you hope to play Carnegie Hall, if you don't play 5,000 bars, first? And yet, something makes me shrink from the prospect. I would rather blog my heart out, here, and trust that someone will be guided to it, and that this one will tell that one--when the time is right.

Will you do a little exercise with me? I want you to watch your own thought-processes in real time, as I present you with the following information. Watch you intuitive reaction; watch your skeptical mind, with its a priori assumptions, leap almost instantly to defend your world view. Just watch it happen--like a lightning flash, that fast. Normally, you never see it--you think you did it, of your own free will, that it was your decision. But it was a micro-program. I want you to see it in action.

You know, because you have been taught it in school, and everybody says so, that Ralph Waldo Emerson was a great man. Correct? You know that he was a profound philosopher, and that he was quite sane.

I have no argument with this--I'm not going to undermine his character, or anything like that. Just, are we agreed, so far?

Now, one of Emerson's major influences, in college, was a mentor named Prof. Levi Frisbie. A brief biographical statement on Frisbie reads as follows:

Professor Frisbie was the son of a clergyman of Ipswich, Mass. He was educated at Harvard, and did much to defray his own expenses, by teaching. After finishing his course, he was successively Latin tutor, Professor of Latin, and Professor of Moral Philosophy. A volume containing some of his philosophical writings and a few poems has been published.

Again, another sketch tells us:

Levi Frisbie was born at Ipswich, Massachusetts, in 1784. He was the son of a clergyman of that place. He was graduated at Cambridge in 1802, and began the study of law, but was obliged to desist by a disorder of his eyes. in 1805, he was appointed Latin Tutor in Harvard University. In 1811, he became a professor of Latin, and in 1817, Professor of Moral Philosophy. This last office he retained till his death, July 9th, 1822. He never recovered his sight, and in the latter part of his life, wrote by means of a machine. A collection of his miscellaneous works, with a biographical sketch by Professor Norton, was published in Boston the year after his death. It contains a few pieces in verse.

That book is available online from Archive.org, but here we have an excerpt from an article entitled "Ralph Waldo Emerson's Mentor at Harvard: Professor Levi Frisbie, Jr.," by Gerald F. Vaughn:

A day after the death of Harvard professor Levi Frisbie, Ralph Waldo Emerson, the great essayist, poet, and philosopher who studied under Frisbie at Harvard, was writing in his daily journal of men with "minds of republican strength and elegant accomplishments. Such a one died yesterday, Professor Frisbie will hardly be supplied by any man in the community."

Terence Martin writes:

Deeply influential as a teacher, Levi Frisbie was the first Alford Professor of Natural Religion, Moral Philosophy, and Civil Polity at Harvard (1817-182). His Inaugural Address (1817) indicates his regard for the ideas of Common Sense philosophy, Indeed [sic capital], Scottish realism, adapted to circumstances as it could be, fit very well with provisions of the John Alford estate for establishing a chair of philosophy: It could encourage religious and civic responsibility by reminding man of his duties as a human being and by showing 'the coincidence between the doctrines of relevation and the dictates of reason,' never losing sight of 'the absolute necessity and vast utility of a divine revelation.'

Stop, and examine your thoughts. Society tells you this is an august personality, whose opinion one would be inclined to respect. Correct? And that he must have had a sound, logical mind. Not only is he a Harvard professor, but he was mentor to one of the most celebrated philosophers and literary figures of the 19th century.

Now, I will share with you two of Prof. Frisbie's poems. And once again, I want you to watch your own thoughts. It would seem that Prof. Frisbie, being single, was deeply lonely. His private thoughts were turning in the direction one finds, for example, in Cat Stevens' song, "How Can I Tell You." He was dreaming of the ideal mate, in effect, his soul-mate. This much, most of us can relate to, and it would hardly change our opinion of the man. This is such a heartfelt, exquisitely beautiful poem, that I must share it in full. Presumably, he titled it himself, which suggests he is questioning his own idealistic yearnings:

A Castle in the Air.

I'll tell you, friend, what sort of wife,
Whene'er I scan this scene of life,
 Inspires my waking schemes,
And when I sleep, with form so light,
Dances before my ravished sight,
 In sweet aerial dreams.

The rose its blushes need not lend,
Nor yet the lily with them blend,
 To captivate my eyes.
Give me a cheek the heart obeys,
And, sweetly mutable, displays
 Its feelings as they rise;

Features, where pensive, more than gay,
Save when a rising smile doth play,
 The sober thought you see;
Eyes that all soft and tender seem
And kind affections round them beam,
 But most of all on me;

A form, though not of finest mould,
Where yet something you behold
 Unconsciously doth please;
Manners all graceful, without art,
That to each look and word impart
 A modesty and ease.

But still her air, her face, each charm,
Must speak a heart with feeling warm,
 And mind inform the whole;
With her mind her mantling cheek must glow,
Her voice, her beaming eye, must show
 An all-inspiring soul.

Ah! could I such a being find,
And were her fate to mine but joined
 By Hymen's silken tie,
To her myself, my all, I'd give,
For her alone delighted live,
For her alone delighted live,
 For her consent to die.

Whene'er by anxious care oppressed,
On the soft pillow of her breast
 My aching head I'd lay;
At her sweet smile each care should cease,
Her kiss infuse a balmy peace,
 And drive my griefs away.

In turn, I'd soften all her care,
Each thought, each wish, each feeling, share;
 Should sickness e'er invade,
My voice should soothe each rising sigh,
My hand the cordial should supply;
 I'd watch beside her bed.

Should gathering clouds our sky deform,
My arms should shield her from the storm;
 And, were its fury hurled,
My bosom to its bolts I'd bare,
In her defence undounted dare
 Defy the opposing world.

Together should our prayers ascend;
Together would we humbly bend
 To praise the Almighty name;
And when I saw her kindling eye
Beam upwards in her native sky,
 My soul should catch the flame.

Thus nothing should our hearts divide,
But on our years serenely glide,
 And all to love be given;
And, when life's little scene was o'er,
We'd part to meet and part no more,
 But live and love in heaven.

Okay, we're not quite done, but let's stop and take an inward look. If you are cynical about either love, or about God, you will have recoiled from this poem. Look that cynicism square in the face--look deep into the core of it. Where does it originate; or perhaps more to the point, when did it originate? Do you see yourself having to explain this away--instead of embracing the poem, did you find yourself in your head, fighting it? I'm not passing judgment--I just want to know what your opinion of Prof. Frisbie is, now.

Let's proceed.

The following poem, also by Frisbie, is, enigmatically, entitled "Dream. To ***." The skeptic will say that he has merely had a high-toned wet dream--but then, why did he seemingly name his vision? Mathew seems to have sent this in to a newspaper, because it trued with what he, himself, was experiencing with his late wife, Abby--but he omitted the first stanza. At first, I thought it was Mathew's own poem, because he had written one quite similar. Only by doing an internet search on the interior lines, did I find that it was Prof. Frisbie's. Now, watch your mind's reactions as you read this:

Dream. To ***.

Stay, stay, sweet vision, do not leave me--
 Soft sleep, still o'er my senses reign;
Stay, loveliest phantom, still deceive me;
 Ah! let me dream that dream again.

Thy head was on my shoulder leaning;
 Thy hand in mind was gently prest;
Thine eyes so soft and full of meaning,
 Were bent on me and I was blest.

No word was spoken, all was feeling,
 The silent transport of the heart;
The tear that o'er my cheek was stealing;
 Told what words could ne'er impart.

And could this be but mere illusion?
 Could fancy all so real seem?
Here fancy's scenes are wild confusion--
 And can it be I did but dream.

I'm sure I felt thy forehead pressing,
 Thy very breath stole o'er my cheek,
I'm sure I saw those eyes confessing
 What the tongue could never speak.

Ah! no, 't is gone, 't is gone, and never
 Mine such waking bliss can be;
Oh I would sleep, would sleep for ever,
 Could I thus but dream of thee.

Looking at your own mind, what have you done with your intitial assessment of the great Prof. Frisbie?

Is your mind rapidly spinning theories to explain him away, to dismiss him--the same man that five minutes ago, you felt admiration for? And what mental bag of tricks are you reaching into, to find those explanations?

I'll tell you some I can think of:

1) Prof. Frisbie was a closet nutcase, whose mind was secretly cracking due to sexual deprivation.

2) Prof. Frisbie was lonely, and because he eschewed sex for its own sake, and perhaps didn't masturbate, his imagination eventually produced a vivid dream to relieve his pent-up feelings.

But there is a problem with this theory. Prof. Frisbie was a respected philosopher and professor at Harvard. He was probably smarter than you are, and he clearly was at least as skeptical as you are. And yet, he writes this poem, presumably, to the woman in his dream, for whom he has a name. Moreover, he makes the logical argument that while imagination is chaotic in both waking consciousness and in normal dreams, this was quite different--absolutely realistic and internally consistent. "Here fancy's scenes are wild confusion--And can it be I did but dream."

Ask yourself this--who, actually, has more authority to make this determination--yourself (whatever your walk of life), or a celebrated Harvard professor, a mentor to one of the most famous American philosophers of the 19th century?

I know that if you are skeptical, meaning, if you are insulating yourself with cynicism, I won't get through to you. But if you were to follow logic, instead of going into irrational denial, you would see that Prof. Frisbie pulls rank on you. And he, himself, questioned whether it could be illusory, because logically that theory doesn't work.

Not only is there logical negative evidence, in the sense that the experience didn't match the characteristics of a normal dream, or normal imagination; there is positive evidence, inasmuch as these are precisely the known hallmarks of a visitation dream--some of which come with veridical elements. Mine did--and the evidence is in my book, "Mathew Franklin Whittier in his own words."* Note, incidentally, that this has nothing to do with Christian beliefs, because there is no place that I know of in Christianty for a soul-mate, in the astral realm, to respond to one's articulate, intense longing via a visitation dream--which is what I, personally, think has happened, here.

Reductionism be damned.

Best regards,

Stephen Sakellarios, M.S.

*Before I had found a historical portrait of Abby, she came to me in a vivid, realistic visitation dream. Immediately upon waking up from the dream, I Googled "woman, portrait," and downloaded 13 portraits of young women (two of them duplicates, in photograph and drawing), who looked like the woman I had seen in the dream, i.e., in one respect or another. In my book, I present several of them, and then present Abby's portrait. The similarity, in my opinion, is striking--far beyond chance. There are no historical descriptions of Abby's appearance (not counting Mathew's writing, which I had not yet accessed), other than that she was attractive.

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