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This Spiritualism is the nepenthe which the ancient philosophers sought, to prolong life for ever; you cast off your bodies like an old garment. The pathway of this new science is as clear to the spirit as the names of the constellations are to the astronomer. In the great realm of the spirit there is no room for death to abide ; he has gone out with the ignorance, and blindness, and prejudice of the past, and life, only life, remains as your inheritance. Mrs. Tappan then paused. After a moment’s silence she delivered the following inspirational poem:— O beautiful white mother Death, Thou silent and shadowy soul, Thou mystical, magical soul, How soothing and cooling thy breath! Ere the morning stars sang in their spheres, Thou didst dwell in the spirit of things, Brooding there with thy wonderful wings, Incubating the germs of the years. Coeval with Time and with Space, Thy sisters are Silence and Sleep ; Three sisters—Death, Silence, and Sleep, How strange and how still is thy face! In the marriage of matter to soul,” Thou wert wedded to young fiery Time, The now weary and hoary-haired Time, With him thou hast shared earth’s control. O beautiful spirit of Death, Thy brothers are Winter and Night; Stern Winter and shadowy Night, They bear thy still image and breath. Summer buds fall asleep in thy arms, ’Neath the fleecy and soft-footed snow, The silent, pure, beautiful snow; And the earth their new life-being warms. All the world is endowed with thy breath, Summer splendours and purple of wine Flow out of this magic of thine, O beautiful angel of Death What wonders in silence we see The lily grows pale in thy sight; The rose thro’ the long summer night Sighs its life out in fragrance to thee. O beautiful angel of Death, The beloved are thine, all are thine ! They have drunk the nepenthe divine, They have felt the full flow of thy breath. Out into thy realm they are gone, Like the incense that greeteth the morn, On the wings of thy might they’re up-borne, As bright birds to thy Paradise flown. They are folded and safe in thy sight, Thro’ thy portals they pass from earth’s prison; From the cold clod of clay they have risen, To dwell in thy temple of light. O beautiful Angel of Life, Germs feel thee and burst into bloom, Souls see thee and rise from the tomb, With beauty and loveliness rife. On earth thou art named cold Death, Dim, dark, dismal, dire, dreadful Death, In heaven thou art “Angel of Life.” We are one with thy spirit, O Death ; We spring to thy arms unafraid, One with thee are our glad spirits made. We are born when we drink thy cold breath,— Oh, Angel of Life, lovely Death. The concluding hymn was then sung, after which Mrs. Tappan uttered the following benediction—“ May the peace of the loving spirit of the Heavenly Father and His angels abide with you, and the life that knows no death bear you on to the immortal world.” The Spiritualist, Oct. 15, 1873 Poem by Cora L.V. Richmond The lily grows pale in thy sight; the rose, through the long summer night, sighs its life out in fragrance to thee.
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The Rev. Joseph Glanvil, chaplain in ordinary to Charles II., was a writer of great erudition and ability. In his “Sadducismus Triumphatus,” written to show that the phenomena of witchcraft were genuine occurrences, he gives an account of Mr. Mompesson’s haunted house at Tedworth, where it was observed that, on beating or calling for any tune, it would be exactly answered by drumming. When asked by some one to give three knocks, if it were a certain spirit, it gave three knocks and no more. Other questions were put, and answered by knocks exactly. Glanvil himself says, that, being told it would imitate noises, he scratched, on the sheet of the bed, five, then seven, then ten times ; and it returned exactly the number of scratches each time. Melanethon relates that at Oppenheim, in Germany, in 1620, the same experiment of rapping, and having the raps exactly answered by the spirit which haunted a house, was successfully tried ; and he tells us that Luther was visited by a spirit who announced his coming by “a rapping at his door.” In the famous Wesley case, the haunting of the house of John Wesley’s father, the Parsonage at Epworth, Lincolnshire, in 1716, for a period of two months, the supposed spirit used to imitate Mr. Wesley’s knock at the gate. It responded to the Amen at prayers. Emily, one of the daughters, knocked ; and it answered her. Mr. Wesley knocked a stick on the joists of the kitchen ; and it knocked again, in number of strokes and in loudness exactly replying. When Mrs. Wesley stamped, it knocked in reply. It is not surprising that John Wesley was a Spiritualist. “With my last breath,” he writes, “will I bear my testimony against giving up to infidels one great proof of the invisible world ; I mean that of witchcraft, confirmed by the testimony of all ages.” Planchette, or The Despair of Science : being a full account of modern spiritualism, its phenomena, and the various theories regarding it : with a survey of French Spiritism, Epes Sargent Green balsam, bay leaf, fossilized amber, blackened vetiver, and clove bud cloaked in oud.
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Vanillekipferl plunked in a pile of pine needles.
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Sugar-dusted and overflowing with Luxardo maraschino cherries and a hint of blackberry.
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A twinkling rosy rosé garnished with a curly sliver of clove-studded orange peel.
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About two miles from the village of Canton, Me., is a cosey, old-fashioned farm-house which is located directly opposite a graveyard, with no other house in sight. From the window of this little house nothing can be seen except the graveyard with its gleaming stones, and the hills and mountains round about. The family that has been occupying the house moved out not long ago, declaring that they could not stand it any longer, that they were wellnight distracted by the demonstrations. When they told their story a former resident, who now lives in Hartford, announced that he had known for years that the place was haunted. He had not told any one for fear of the ridicule of his neighbors. The demonstrations were not only in the house, but in the barn and around the premises. Regularly every night at 12 o’clock a team of horses rushes from the direction of the village, rumbles over the little bridge at a slashing gait, and then disappears. It never reaches the house. Instead, ghostly voices address the members of the family who have the temerity to live there, the voices coming from all parts of the house, but never so clearly that they can be located. On one memorable night a member of the family went to the barn just at dusk without a lantern. A figure stood at the corner of the building, and he ran to learn what the straggler wanted about the place. The figure silently and mysteriously melted into the shadows and was gone. The Buffalo News, April 20, 1904 A spectral cacophony of shimmering, translucent dun sandalwood, grey amber, and wraith-chilled chestnut galloping through the mist-cloaked shadows of time, a clattering of clove and black pepper, and a crack of phantom leather.
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Cascades of balsa filigree lace, white kid gloves displayed on cherrywood mannequin hands, and a frilly sachet of dried tea rose.
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Runnels of darkly translucent purple syrup sinking into a dome of creamy-fine snow scrapings.
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We won’t go until we get some! Dense and chewy, lively with spices and sticky with figs boiled in wine, decorated with pomegranate seeds and dried lavender petals.
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A sturdy but soft lavender cotton twill, lightly flour- and sugar-dusted, with deep pockets full of kitchen mysteries.
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O transient voyager of heaven! O silent sign of winter skies! What adverse wind thy sail has driven To dungeons where a prisoner lies? Methinks the hands that shut the sun So sternly from this mourning brow Might still their rebel task have done And checked a thing so frail as thou They would have done it had they known The talisman that dwelt in thee, For all the suns that ever shone Have never been so kind to me! For many a week, and many a day My heart was weighed with sinking gloom When morning rose in mourning grey And faintly lit my prison room But angel like, when I awoke, Thy silvery form so soft and fair Shining through darkness, sweetly spoke Of cloudy skies and mountains bare The dearest to a mountaineer Who, all life long has loved the snow That crowned her native summits drear, Better, than greenest plains below – And voiceless, soulless messenger Thy presence waked a thrilling tone That comforts me while thou art here And will sustain when thou art gone – Emily Brontë Morning rising in mourning grey: tobacco flower, white oud, lavender bud, and ambergris accord.
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Red musk, red pepper, and honeycomb.
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Pomegranate, Carnation, and Peonies.
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Perk up and relax at the same time! A steamy shot of espresso spiked with hazelnut syrup and crowned with pale purple foam.
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A hard candy for hard times: bright, sticky berry with an extra crystalline sparkle and just a pinch of grit.
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Softly, softly, hear the rustle Of the Spirits airy wings; They are coming down to mingle Once again with earthly things, With their rapping, and their tapping Rap-tap-tap to wake our napping, In the restless dream of error: Hear the weird the Spirit brings – Rap-tap-tap lost friends are near you; Rap-tap-tap they see and hear you; In their mystic converse rappy They declare good Spirits happy. Gently, gently, they are timid If a medium is not there; They may leave you in delusion, And dissolve again to air. Tis no fable – beings able – Rap-tap-tap upon a table; And their language is translated, While the watch with guardian care Rap-tap-tap lost friends are near you; Rap-tap-tap they see and hear you; In their mystic converse rappy They declare good Spirits happy Spirit Rappings, lyrics by T.E. Garrett, music by W.W. Rossington A joyful undeath: candied orange and pink peppercorn, sugared freesia petals, vanilla bean, and white honey.
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A toasted slice from the middle of a springy, oaty loaf blessed with a rich green schmear and sprinkled with lemon juice and lavender sea salt.
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A gently floral twist on the famous Swedish saffron buns baked for the feast day of St. Lucia, their curly S-shapes baked golden.
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Lavender cotton candy fur and vanilla popcorn balls, sent skittering out of the kitchen with a good-natured wave of our polished wood rolling pin.
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The Day of Kings, the Celebration of the Magi. In Mexico, on January 6th, children place their shoes by their windows. If they have been good during the previous year, the Wise Men tuck gifts into their shoes during the night. Hot cocoa with cinnamon, coffee, and brown sugar.
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Because it’s almost Hanukkah and we still haven’t taken down our Halloween decorations. Sorry, neighbors!
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A little nod to my Filipino-Ashkenazi heritage!
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Among the most intelligent inquirers with whom I converse at Brighton was a lady of title. She told me that she was one of those present at the Davenport séance, held at the residence of Sir Hesketh Fleetwood. She was seated in the dark séance by the side of a gentleman whose previous scepticism, he confessed to her, was fast disappearing in the face of the facts they were witnessing, when a light was suddenly struck, and both of them distinctly saw the form of Ira Davenport glide close past them. This incident very much disturbed the confidence of Lady L—, and entirely satisfied the sceptic that imposition was practiced, and he left the room a confirmed unbeliever. I told Lady L—that, on his return to London, Mr. Ferguson spoke to me of this very fact, as one of the most curious that had yet occurred at any of the séances. He was holding, he said, the box of matches, as he usually does, when the box was snatched from his hand, and a light was struck by the invisible operator, and during the momentary ignition of the match he plainly saw a form, apparently of a human figure. He said nothing at the moment, but whispering the fact to Mr. Fay, he confirmed it, and afterwards several of those present admitted that that, too, had seen it. Mr. Ferguson, however, was not aware that anyone present supposed it to be the actual person of Ira Davenport, as no observation to that effect was made, and as Ira Davenport was seen instantly afterwards when the light was restored, fast bound to his chair, it was simply impossible that the suspicions of Lady L—or her friend could have been well founded. But, admitting that two competent witnesses did actually see the form of Ira Davenport on that occasion, it is corroborative of a very important and interesting fact, and distinct phase of these puzzling mysteries of spiritual appearances – viz., the duplication of individual form. Mr. Ferguson, who did not on that occasion recognize the resemblance to Ira Davenport, nevertheless has, as he solemnly asserts, seen at other times, when alone with them, the entire duplicated form of Ira Davenport, and a part of Mr. Fay ; and in my first conversation with the Davenport Brothers they told me, among other curious facts of their extraordinary history, that persons had said they had met one or other of them in places where they had not been. On one occasion their father went to a neighbouring shop to order some fruit, when he was told by the shopkeeper that his son Ira had just been there, and had ordered the fruit. It was, however, satisfactorily proved that Ira had not left the house, and that the man must have seen his “wraith,” or “double.” The Spiritualist, December 19, 1873 The uncanny echo of your second self: a shadow-blackened fougere steeped in an uncanny, discomfiting lavender tar.
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Who doesn’t want a hot, buttery snake? Spiced buttered rum splooshed into Snake Oil with a bit of molasses and cream.
