Part 2

To his faith the message of the Spirit is sent everywhere and its

“... tongues of fire On dusty tribes and twilight centuries sit.”

Mrs. Spofford in a delightful sketch of the poet tells how in the stirring events of the early days of the seventeenth century, in the midst of the bitter strife between the red man and the white, the Whittiers lived in the calm and safety of their own peaceful Quaker faith. They were as was William Penn to the red man. Indian attacks, Indian massacres, white women and children fleeing to the fort for their lives, white men with the rifles mowing down red savages--as the red savages whenever they could find or make opportunity tomahawked and scalped in hate the white intruders--the Whittier household had no part in these horrors; these were crimes they neither perpetrated nor suffered from. Their door was always on the latch; no gun was ever behind it, or in the hands of its men. The Indians entered and departed at will, always to meet with kindness and never to return this by injury, quick to distinguish between friend and foe, and ready to return kindness with confidence. For that household there were no wild terrors, no midnight massacres.

This fact, while it gives to the character the courage and faith in God and man shown by the Whittier ancestry as Friends, also, it should be remembered, speaks significantly for the appreciation of these traits by the “noble red man.” Many times the Indian has shown that he was capable of response to confidence in him and the appeal to his sense of honor.

* * * * *

At one time the poet was applied to for a fitting name for a house recently built in the region of Kenoza Lake on the outskirts of Haverhill. He answered the friends who forwarded the request:

“I have looked over Roger Williams’ ‘Key to the Indian Language,’ and find nothing that seems quite to answer Mr. S----’s purpose.

‘Yokomish--I lodge here.

Nowekin--I dwell here.

Wotomuck--At Home.

Washowanan--Hawk or Hawk’s Place.

Wussokat--Walnut Trees.’

Most of the names are very long and hard to pronounce. How would the name of the great Sachem, or Chief, on the Merrimac River and whose father owned the whole valley, do for the place? It is a pleasant, well-sounding name and wouldn’t be inappropriate; for the Sachem who bore it doubtless had wandered through the woods and fished in the lakes between which the house stands--Wolanset. He was the son of Passaconaway, the mightiest Indian chief in the Northern section of New England and who always made his home on the banks of the Merrimac. Both were friends of the whites and all the associations of their names are pleasant.”

IV

To Whittier, a Friend, a man of peace, the Civil War with its sufferings, its horrors, its changing fortunes, and for those days its vast sacrifice of life was a continual torture. Yet he realized its significance. From the firing of the first gun at Sumter he perceived that the war was destined to sweep from the land the crime of slavery. His inspired poem, “Laus Deo,” declares what that meant to him.

* * * * *

Being a Quaker, the poet was, of course, never present at war meetings.

But when during the war contributions were sent from Amesbury, as from other towns, to the front, Whittier was always greatly interested. He knew when boxes went to the soldiers, and he was often well posted as to the contents of these boxes.

And upon one occasion, at least, he was memorably on hand--to some regretfully so--when the townspeople were raising subscriptions for the Sanitary Commission and for the soldiers. Patriotism was at a low ebb that day, for the subscriptions lagged persistently, so that when it came time for the meeting to break up, the needed amount had not been raised, and things looked as if it would not be forthcoming.

Then the authority which the poet as a man of affairs never failed to put forth at need came to the front.

Whittier rose.

He wasted no strength in appeal to a patriotism overswept by avarice; but made his demands upon that avarice itself.

“If this sum needed,” he said, naming it, “is not raised by this meeting, I shall write to Salmon Chase [Secretary of the Treasury] to have your exemption money on the next draft of men put up to seven hundred dollars instead of three hundred, as it is now.”

That was all.

But it was enough. His audience looked at the speaker’s tall, erect figure, his flashing eyes, his resolute mouth--and decided not to take the risk. The required amount was immediately forthcoming.

* * * * *

All the world knows how in the poet’s early days he put aside the ambitions of youth and genius--ambitions which the early call of the world to him proved would have been richly fulfilled--and fought the hard battle for the slave, and endured its contumely.

His own words tell the story. In his poem, “Lines Written in the Book of a Friend,” he sings of himself:

“Founts gushed beside my pilgrim way, Cool shadows on the greensward lay, Flowers swung upon the bending spray.

“In vain!--nor dream, nor rest, nor pause Remain for him who round him draws The battered mail of Freedom’s cause.

“With soul and strength, with heart and hand, I turned to Freedom’s struggling band,-- To the sad Helots of our land.”

Here was that self-denial, that experience of longings unfulfilled--through the fulfillment of higher longings--which gave him his depth and power of sympathy in every loss and suffering of others, and courage in the sufferings of his own life, and which ripened and sweetened his nature.

Whittier’s prominence in the anti-slavery conflict is, of course, matter of history. His influence in politics was great; for he had the keenness of insight, the broad vision of the statesman, and the politician’s skill in manipulation which never deteriorated into political trickery in a heart that loved his fellowmen and a soul that abhorred self-seeking. One day in a package of books that went from his home to the doctor’s house, there was slipped in by accident a bit of paper on which were the two following lines in the poet’s handwriting, but unsigned:

“That lowest form of worship known Which incense burns to self alone.”

The identical lines are not found in any of his poems and were probably altered. But their spirit is ever with him. Mrs. Claflin in her interesting sketch of the poet says:

“Mr. Whittier was a keen observer of all public affairs and the trusted adviser of many of the most eminent men of the Old Bay State. He seemed to have prophetic vision and was one of the most sagacious counselors in the State then famous for its able men.”

V

In the January of 1864 Whittier wrote to M---- C----, a dear Amesbury friend, who was spending a few weeks at Norfolk under the protection of the Union army and doing some work for the soldiers there.

“Thy letter from Norfolk,” he says, “has just reached us, and we [his sister Elizabeth and himself] enjoyed its graphic description of your present locality and prospects.... The weather here is cold again.... Elizabeth is much as usual, unable to write much, so I hold the pen for her. We had a pleasant visit from Bayard Taylor last week. Night before last he sent us a picture he painted in 1857 on the shore of the Arctic Ocean. It is a view of the little church of Vadso, the northernmost Russian settlement.... Who knows but that thee may enter Richmond with the victorious army! Stranger things have happened.”

A penciled line from Elizabeth on the same sheet says:

“M---- dear, a thousand thanks for thy pictures of ‘Virginia life’--I look from thy window on the sunken masts of the poor brave Cumberland. I am so glad you are there. We all are. Tell Colonel F---- [a young Prussian who at the beginning of the war had enlisted] the doctor and his wife quite forgive his not coming to Amesbury; the doctor hopes--the fatigue of going well over--the Colonel will grow stronger; he seems to feel he had worked too hard.... It was delightful to see our dear old friend Bayard. He will bring his beautiful German wife here before long.... How I wish I could unroof that Norfolk house and see you all; the graceful young adjutant pleases me. Tell Col. F---- I never wondered he could not find time to write. I only wonder he is alive.... It is so good to hear from thee. Keep well--and come home soon.”

To the Col. F---- (afterward General) then at the front the poet wrote:

“We watch with ever wakeful interest the progress of the war. Sometimes we feel discouraged; but the good God sees and knows all and His time is best.... My sister [Elizabeth], Miss B---- [who, later Col. F---- married], and Dr. S---- and family desire to be kindly remembered to thee.”

The mention of Bayard Taylor in these letters recalls Whittier’s poem, “Bayard Taylor,” in which the poet refers to this visit:

“‘And where now, Bayard, will thy footsteps tend?’ My sister asked our guest one winter’s day. Smiling, he answered in the Friends’ sweet way Common to both: ‘Wherever thou shalt send.’

“‘What wouldst thou have me see for thee?’ She laughed, Her dark eyes dancing in the wood-fire’s glow; ‘Loffoden isles, the Kilpis, and the low Unsetting sun on Finmark’s fishing craft.’”

With abounding faith in the ultimate triumph of right, the poet yet had all the dread of disaster incident to so sensitive an organization. At the defeat at Bull Run he was prostrated.

It is in the major and the minor of his sufferings and his trust that his songs, “In War Time,” were sung. “Luther’s Hymn,” the sombreness of “The Watchers,” the depth of prayer in “Thy Will Be Done”--all show the struggle and sorrow of his spirit. But hope speaks in “The Battle Autumn of 1862,” where he sings:

“Oh, give to us in times like these, The vision of her eyes; And make her fields and fruited trees Our golden prophecies!

“Oh, give to us her finer ear! Above this stormy din, We, too, would hear the bells of cheer Ring peace and freedom in.”

His “Port Royal” is a burst of joy and triumph, with the song of the freedmen in the minor key, so far are they yet from the reality of the freedom which they have in name. In “Barbara Frietchie” we have not only an inspiring ballad which has flown the wide world over; but we have also a touch of the nobler nature of the South epitomized in the order of Stonewall Jackson; and the poem, in trend if not in speech, is a prophecy of returning loyalty, a prophecy of the day when--not by force, but through love of them--the stars and stripes were to float over North and South alike.

One day during the Civil War, when the poet was at her house, the doctor’s wife said to him:

“Mr. Whittier, what did you mean when you wrote that poem, ‘What of the Day’? You wrote it in 1857, four years before the war. It’s a perfect prophecy of the present time. You remember, it begins:

‘A sound of tumult troubles all the air.’

What did you mean by it?” she repeated.

“I don’t know myself what I meant by it,” he answered her as earnestly as she had spoken; and his look finished what more he would have added--that the poem was, indeed, an inspiration, a real prophecy.

Thus, to the poet who sang a “higher wisdom,” who lived a holier life than words alone of any creed can enjoin, to him in the world’s imperative need of holiness to endure and of inspiration to conquer in the stress and strain of the life of today we turn for glimpses of his inspiration.

VI

Whittier was born into love of right and freedom and the atmosphere of his home fostered this.

Even in speaking the words, “My mother,” his very tone changed to loving reverence. No doubt he owed much to her in the help and inspiration which great men so often owe to their mothers. Yet it was for what she embodied in herself, even more than what she was to him, that he reverenced her. She was a strong, high-souled woman, thoughtful and full of the ability and resources which the training of the Friends develops so remarkably in their woman. None of the broad questions which interested her son were too great for her. On the contrary, the life of devotion to the freedom of the slave which Whittier and his sister Elizabeth lived, had been born with them and preached into their ears and laid upon their hearts from their childhood. It was not Mrs. Whittier who followed their lead for companionship with them; it was they who took up the service to which she desired and prayed to have them consecrated.

“I shall not live to see the slaves made free,” said the poet’s mother one day to a friend. Then she added confidently, “But my children will.”

Was this prophecy the result of her faith in the inevitable triumph of righteousness and a guess so shrewd as to seem intuition concerning the causes at work to bring about this consummation speedily? Or did this devout Quaker speak the promptings of the Spirit when she uttered a prediction which at the time seemed so little likely to be fulfilled?

Yet it was fulfilled. Mrs. Whittier died in 1857. Her oldest daughter also died before the prophecy came to pass. But her two sons lived to rejoice in it; and Elizabeth, described in “Snow Bound” as “our youngest and our dearest,” her brother’s close comrade in intellectual and loving fellowship, died in the September of 1864, so that she lived beyond the day of the Emancipation Proclamation and saw its fulfillment in the triumph of the Union armies.

* * * * *

On the death of her mother, Elizabeth wrote of her to M---- C----, an intimate Amesbury friend absent at the time:

* * * * *

“Our dear mother was so unselfish and good, so pitiful and forbearing, so ready and hopeful.... I was not half thankful enough for such a mother. She was growing more and more beautiful in her life each day. Very dear and lovely is her memory. We cannot doubt she has found the peace and rest that hath an everlasting continuance. I long for faith. I do indeed believe and try to look up for help in my unbelief. But for such a life and close as hers how dare I ever hope? I desire to trust in the sweet, childlike way I remember in her.”

* * * * *

At the time of Mrs. Whittier’s death, she with the poet and his sister Elizabeth was in the Amesbury home which had been bought after the sale of the farm and homestead in Haverhill, the birthplace of all her children. This Amesbury home was a small dwelling on Friend Street, named from the fact that it led past the Friends’ meeting-house not far from this new home. Whittier’s biographer tells how the poet planned the new meeting-house which stands further up the street and faces a small common, with a by-road winding down on its other side behind the village, as it then was, and leading on to the old burying-ground where the poet now lies.

In such simplicity of life and holiness of purpose must be invigorating power. No home of luxury and self-indulgence could have produced a Whittier.

VII

Whittier’s biography mentions the encouragement given to his earliest attempts at literature and the prospect thus held out to him of fame and competence in comparative youth; of his congenial work in Boston and his opportunities there for study and research.

But in the garden room by his own fireside the poet one day told the writer of an early experience given later in his biography. To his astonishment he had been called upon by George D. Prentice, then editor of the “New England Review,” to take charge of this magazine during Prentice’s temporary absence. Whittier’s secret tremors had not caused him an instant’s hesitation in accepting the position; and as the phrase goes, he soon “caught on.”

But before long there came a malignant attack upon one of his editorials, an anti-slavery article called forth by some incident of the day; and no doubt Whittier had struck out from the shoulder, as was his habit in fighting against wrong. The poet in his youth and inexperience was overwhelmed by the virulence of the attack and wondered at first if he should not take the writer’s scornful advice and “go back to the farm.” But he did no such thing; he braced himself and “made good.” Telling the story that day in the garden room with the world singing his praises, he added that he did not know what had become of that critic. But this remark was far from wishing to emphasize his own eminent position; there was not an iota of boast in Whittier; it was made as a significant encouragement to his youthful companion who, as he knew, had felt the sting of literary rebuffs.

* * * * *

It was not in literature alone, however, that the spirit moved him to say and do the kind thing. A short time after the Civil War his friend, Dr. S----, who had been long trying to secure a pension for a soldier’s widow, very poor, at last appealed to the poet to help him. Whittier sent the following letter:

“Amesbury, 26, 10th mo., 1867 (or 69)

“Dear General:

Our excellent friend General F---- goes to Boston today with reference to the pension of Mrs. D---- of this town whose husband lost his life in the service of his country. It is a very urgent case and there has been some difficulty in obtaining the needed papers; but I hope if it is in thy power, thee will aid him in his object.

Very truly thy friend, John G. Whittier.”

The pension was secured.

* * * * *

The world knows well many of the poet’s rare and gracious qualities. But the life that Whittier lived in his own family and among his neighbors, the traits that came out in this daily life--these are not known to the world, and never can be, except by lightest sketches. Yet of all his poems the most beautiful was his life.

It was in 1869 that he wrote the following characteristic note to Dr. S----, the “doctor” of these pages:

“Dear Doctor:

There is to be what they call a surprise party at Mrs. C----’s this evening--the anniversary of her marriage forty years ago. They would like to see thee and Mrs. S----, I am sure. It was got up by some of her friends and relatives.”

The poet does not mention that he himself was one of the “friends” most active in this endeavor to help a neighbor to tide over one of those hard places plentifully scattered throughout her life. Her home was across the little side street from Mr. Whittier’s. She had always been a friend and many times a nurse to his sister Elizabeth. For in those days when trained nurses were rare in the country, she often went into families to nurse in illness. She had been much in the poet’s home in his anxiety, his sorrow, and his own times of straitened means.

Her early opportunities of education had been small, and yet the terms on which she lived with the Whittier family were in themselves an education. Whittier appreciated her love of books, and it is to her advice that the world owes a beautiful poem. One day when she was in the house he came out of the garden room with a volume of “Mrs. Jamieson” in his hand, and reading this neighbor in whose literary judgment he believed, that writer’s account of the origin of the stars and stripes, he remarked that it would be a good subject for a poem.

“Indeed, it would; and you are just the one to write it,” retorted his listener with spirit. “Why don’t you do it?”

The poet returned to his room. And we have “The Mantle of St. John de Matha.”

Years afterward when poverty and illness had become intimates of hers, from her bed of pain which was henceforth to know only respite and not cure, she epitomized in a sentence the poet’s character. Looking up into the face of the writer who standing beside her had been speaking of him, she exclaimed:

“Oh--Mr. Whittier!” Her voice choked, her face lighted, her eyes filled with tears. She saw the past with its many trials and sufferings, and to relieve these whenever possible, that blessed presence whose visits to her in her need had not been in one respect as is wrongly said of the angels--“few and far between.” In a moment she added brokenly, “When you need _him_, you never have to say, ‘Come!’ he’s always there!”

He was “always there” for any need of any one that he could meet, and he could meet many and diverse needs. For his was his Master’s definition of his neighbor. There was nothing in the range of human experience to which he did not accord open-hearted sympathy--except meanness of motive and falsity of any kind. Yet mixed with hatred of the sin was always compassion for the sinner; for no empty words to him were these:

“And hope for all the language is, That He remembereth we are dust.”

VIII

It was not Whittier’s habit to say in word or manner,

“Vex not the poet’s mind With thy shallow wit.”

On the contrary, if the wit were shallow this poet was likely to gather amusement from its exhibition, and so reimburse himself for any small outlay of patience. Nor was this all, nor even half. For if the best in persons was small, it was his joy to bring out this best. So he found interest in persons in whom others could see none and sometimes developed in them unexpected possibilities. For more than anything except faith in God, he had faith in men; speaking reverently, he read them Godward--as they were meant to be.

Yet his often silent laugh at men’s foibles was hearty; and nothing so amused him as the bewildered expression of one lost in the mazes of a joke. And not seldom he tried his hand at bringing such an expression; for he had an immense enjoyment of credulity.

Two friends of the poet had been invited to his house to tea.

In the garden room with the flashings of the open fire pointing and illustrating his words, Whittier sat entertaining his guests with a fish story--a whale story in which the originator had striven to outdo Jonah. The poet’s countenance was as grave as a judge’s; his eyes were now dropped as if recalling the points of the story--which lost nothing in their narration--and now fastened upon the faces of his listeners. He found one hearer’s eyes dilated and her lips parted in absolute absorption and faith. With unshaken gravity the poet continued, until the voice of his other listener broke in upon the tale with the suggestion that this was really a most remarkable yarn. Like a flash he turned upon her in mock anger. “Thee doubts that, Lucy?” he cried. “Why, a Quaker told me that story.” But the spell being broken, he laughed as heartily as the others.

* * * * *

A former resident of Amesbury brought up most strictly, and rigid in adherence to her tenets, was taken out of these grooves and put into an entirely different life in New York City, a life much more liberal in creed and practice. The unwonted freedom delighted her and she came home to visit, full of enthusiasm for her new surroundings. She was welcomed by the poet who liked her well. With secret note of the new vivacity in look and manner, he asked her with much interest, “And how does thee like New York?”

At the question her enthusiasm burst forth, and she declared with unction that she liked it very, very much.

A sparkle of mischief kindled in the poet’s eye. “Thee likes it because it is so wicked,” he commented demurely.

* * * * *

But although the poet could laugh at others, never did he put himself in a position to be laughed at. So great was his sensitiveness, that his friends have often heard him say how keenly he felt mistakes of his which he alone had perceived--or perhaps imagined; for he was so resourceful and quick at retort that nobody could succeed in cornering him in an argument or a situation.