On another occasion he says: "In the intervals of visitation on that
day my thoughts were with dear friends who have passed from us; among
whom, I need not say, was thy dearest friend. How vividly the
beautiful mornings with you were recalled! Then I wondered at my age,
and if it was possible that I was the little boy on the old Haverhill
farm, unknown, and knowing nobody beyond my home horizon. I could not
quite make the connection of the white-haired man with the black-
locked boy. I could not help a feeling of loneliness, thinking of
having outlived many of my life-companions; but I was still grateful
to God that I had not outlived my love for them and for those still
living. Among the many tokens of good will from all parts of the
country and beyond the sea, there were some curious and amazing
missives. One Southern woman took the occasion to include me in her
curse of the 'mean, hateful Yankees.' To offset this, I had a telegram
from the Southern Forestry Congress assembled in Florida, signed by
president and secretary, informing me that 'In remembrance of your
birthday, we have planted a live-oak tree to your memory, which, like
the leaves of the tree, will be forever green.'"
Birthdays, on the whole, in the face of much sadness, brought him also
much that was agreeable and delightful in remembrance. One old friend
always gave him great pleasure by sending a huge basket of gilded
wicker, in which were placed fruits of every variety from all quarters
of the globe, and covered with rare flowers and ferns. In this way he
visited the gardens of the Orient, and could see in his imagination
the valleys of Napa and of Shiraz. On the occasion of a dinner given
him at the Brunswick Hotel, on his seventieth birthday, he wrote: "I
missed my friend. In the midst of so much congratulation, I do not
forget his earlier appreciation and encouragement, and every kind word
which assured and cheered me when the great public failed to recognize
me. I dare not tell thee, for fear of seeming to exaggerate, how much
his words have been to me."
Thus the long years and the long days passed on with scarcely
perceptible diminution of interest in the affairs of this world. "I am
sorry to find that the hard winter has destroyed some handsome spruces
I planted eight years ago," he wrote one May day; "they had grown to
be fine trees. Though rather late for me, I shall plant others in
their places; for I remember the advice of the old Laird of
Dumbiedikes to his son Jock: 'When ye hae naething better to do, ye
can be aye sticking in a tree; it'll aye be growin' when ye are
sleeping.' There is an ash-tree growing here that my mother planted
with her own hands at threescore and ten. What agnostic folly to think
that tree has outlived her who planted it!"
The lines of Whittier's life stretched "between heaven and home"
during the long period of eighty-four years. A host of friends,
friends of the spirit, were, as we have seen, forever clustering
around him; and what a glorious company it was! Follen, Shipley,
Chalkley, Lucy Hooper, Joseph Sturge, Channing, Lydia Maria Child, his
sister Elizabeth--a shining cloud too numerous to mention; the
inciters of his poems and the companions of his fireside. In the
silence of his country home their memories clustered about him and
filled his heart with joy.
"He loved the good and wise, but found
His human heart to all akin
Who met him on the common ground
Of suffering and of sin."
His "Home Ballads" grew out of this very power of clinging to the same
places and the old loves, and what an incomparable group they make!
"Telling the Bees," "Skipper Ireson's Ride," "My Playmate," "In School
Days," are sufficient in themselves to set the seal to his great fame.
As a traveler, too, he is unrivaled, giving us, without leaving his
own garden, the fine fruit of foreign lands. In reading his poems of
the East, it is difficult to believe that he never saw Palestine, nor
Ceylon, nor India; and the wonder is no less when he writes of our own
wide country. Indeed, the vividness of his poems about the slaves at
St. Helena's Island and elsewhere make them among the finest of all
his local poems. One called "The Pass of the Sierra" may easily bear
the palm among much descriptive writing.
He watched over his last remaining brother during a long illness and
death, during the autumn and winter of 1882 and 1883 in Boston. The
family all left Oak Knoll and came to be with him at a hotel, whence
he could make frequent visits to his brother's bedside; but the
unwonted experience of passing several months in town, and the wearing
mission which brought him there, told seriously upon his health, and
caused well-grounded anxiety as to the result. The day after the last
services had been performed he wrote to a friend: "Indeed, it was a
great comfort to sit beside you and to feel that if another beloved
one had passed into the new life beyond sight and hearing, the warm
hearts of loved friends were beating close to my own. You do not know
how grateful it was to me. Dr. Clarke's presence and words were full
of comfort. My brother did not approve of a display of flowers, but he
loved violets, and your simple flowers were laid in his hand.... Give
my love to S., and kiss the dear child for me."
It was not, however, until 1890 that we could really feel he had left
the years of active service and of intellectual achievement as things
of the past. He was shut out from much that gave him pleasure, but the
spirit which animated the still breathing frame, though waiting and at
times longing for larger opportunity, seemed to us like a loving
sentinel, covering his dear ones as with a shield, and watching over
the needs of humanity. The advance of the colored people, the claims
of the Indians and their wrongs, opportunities for women, statesmen,
and politicians, the private joys and sorrows of those dear to him,
were all present and kept alive, though in the silence of his breast.
The end came, the door opened, while he was staying with the daughter
of an old friend at Hampton Falls, in New Hampshire--that saintly
woman whom we associate with one of the most spiritual and beautiful
of his poems, "A Friend's Burial." After a serious illness in the
winter of 1892 he was almost too frail for any summer journeying; but
with his usual wisdom and instinctive turning of the heart towards old
familiar places, he thought of this hospitable house where he seemed
to gain strength, and where he found much happiness and the quietness
that he loved. His last illness was brief; he was ministered to by
those who stood nearest him. And thus the waves of time passed over
him and swept him from our sight.
It is a pleasure now to recall many a beautiful scene in summer
afternoons, under the trees at Danvers, when his spirit animated the
air and made the landscape shine with a radiance not its own. Such
memories serve to keep the whole world beautiful wherein he moved, and
add to his poetry a sense of presence and a living light.
Old age appears in comparison to every other stage of human existence
as a most undesirable state. We look upon its approaches and its
ravages with alarm. Death itself is far less dreadful, and "the low
door," if it will only open quickly, brings little fear to the
thoughtful mind. But the mystery of decadence, the long sunsetting,
the loss of power--what do they mean? The Latin word _saga_, from
which the French get _la sagesse_, and we "the sage," gives us a
hint of what we do not always understand--the spiritual beauty and the
significance even of loss in age.
Whittier, wearing his silver crown, brought the antique word into use
again, and filled it with fresh meaning for modern men.