Nearly a score of years before the Civil War a dozen men and women
at the invitation of that hospitable pair, Mr. and Mrs. Ashby of
Newburyport, abolitionists, friends of William Lloyd Garrison,
Whittier, and other abolitionists, drove one day in June to a beautiful
spot on the Newbury shore of the Merrimac River.
There, among the laurels in bloom, they inaugurated an outing which
from that time for twenty-one years became annual. All the early
members of this small party were abolitionists, despised and in a sense
ostracized. They sought a day’s recreation by woods and water where
earth and sky welcomed them. There, forgetful of hardships past and to
come, they gathered at will the mountain laurel, the blooming of which
they had assembled to celebrate. Little did they imagine how soon the
laurels of a noble fame were to crown their labors for the slave.
With the years, however, the original dozen of the first “Laurel Party”
expanded into hundreds of guests, and the once unnoted recreation
of the politically despised few became a social function to which
invitation was eagerly sought. Whittier’s presence and his poem, when
he wrote for the occasion, were no small part of the day’s enjoyment.
Among these poems were “Our River,” “The Laurels,” and “Revisited.”
* * * * *
It was in 1865, at one of these later crowded Laurel parties, that the
poet gave evidence of how--even in small things--he held his faith
higher than men’s criticisms of his acts.
A day in June. The heavens were full of soft clouds which in their
brief shadowings seemed but to intensify the brilliance of the summer
sunshine. Looming against the sky stood the high bluffs with their dark
coronal of giant pines, their feet caressed by the murmuring kisses of
New England’s most beautiful river.
Under these pines was gathered a crowd of people through whose purpose
of pleasure in the day and the scene ran the expectation of a deeper
pleasure through the listening ear and the quick response of thought to
thought.
For they knew that Whittier had brought a poem. Many persons of
reputation in the world of letters were there; many who ranked high in
social life and some known to the world of politics. It was a gathering
before which a man would desire to be at his best. Before it stood the
poet who had well proved himself the inspired voice of the trees and
the birds, the river and the sky. But all knew that at that time he had
uttered a paean for the victory of Freedom and Union.
Every eye was lifted to Whittier as he stood erect as the pines above
him, lithe in his motions as the watching birds and with somewhat of
their unexpectedness in movement. In his hand he held his poem. Would
he read it himself? At first it appeared so to those who did not know
him well. For he stood for a little time still holding it in his hand.
And in that moment--to the writer at least--was enacted a by-play, in
itself slight enough, but, if understood, giving the key to the whole
complex character of Whittier.
For the Quaker poet stood with his hat on. Even in passing his poem to
another to be read, he would be obliged to answer by a few words the
demand made upon him. To do this he must take off his hat, as other men
would do. His hand was lifted toward it.
Midway, however, it paused--Quakers spoke with their hats on.
Yet the distinguished gathering before him was chiefly not of his own
sect. A proper consideration for the customs of society--yes, even
courtesy--demanded this removal; and to social impressions the poet was
very sensitive. Yet, to one other monitor was he still more sensitive.
That unbending principle which governed his whole life asserted itself.
Even in so slight a matter he would be true to his faith.
His hand dropped by his side. It was with his hat on that he spoke the
few apt words with which he gave his poem to be read.
Small wonder that “Revisited” was a paean to Him who in the return of
peace had given, not to the anti-slavery party alone, but to the whole
country,
“... beauty for ashes
And the oil of joy for mourning long.”
And it was small wonder that to the river the poet sang:
“Sing soft, sing low, our lowland river,
Under thy banks of laurel bloom;
Softly and sweet as the hour beseemeth,
Sing us the songs of peace and home.
“Type of the Northland’s strength and glory,
Pride and hope of our home and race,--
Freedom lending to rugged labor
Tints of beauty and lines of grace.
“For though by the Master’s feet untrodden,
Though never His word has stilled thy waves,
Well for us may thy shores be holy,
With Christian altars and saintly graves.”
The whole poem is full of noble thought and rhythmic beauty:
“Sing on! bring down, O lowland river,
The joy of the hills to the waiting sea;
The wealth of the vales, the pomp of mountains,
The breath of the woodlands, bear with thee.”