Whittier sometimes received suggestions for his poems from stories
told him directly, possibly, for the purpose, as was the case with the
episode of “Barbara Frietchie.” But, no doubt, persons often gave him
suggestions for poems without suspecting that they were doing so.
“I should think the old captain would come out of his grave, Mr.
Whittier,” cried indignantly, Mrs. M----, a neighbor and friend, as
she sat one evening in the garden room making complaint of a use,
or, rather, of a disuse of something over which the members of the
Improvement Society of the town--she being one--who were busy looking
up its many antiquities, were very wrathful. “Yes, I should think he
would come out of his grave,” she repeated, “to see that old well of
his which he dug himself for the free use of the public all covered
over with rubbish in this way. It ought to be opened up.”
She went on to free her mind still more concerning public rights and
the neglect of these, as illustrated in the case of the old well dug
by Valentine Bagley for the wayfarer, so that none who passed by might
have to endure a tithe of the agony of thirst that he himself had
known when at one time lost in the desert. Then in his distress he had
vowed that should he ever return to his home, he would dig a well as a
thank-offering. This was the well.
But what had been intended for a boon had become useless from
neglect--a disfigurement.
The poet was deeply interested. “Yes,” he answered her, “it ought to be
opened.” And in a moment he added, “We will have it opened.”
And in his own beautiful way Whittier told the true story of Valentine
Bagley, an old-time worthy of Amesbury, of his shipwreck, his desert
wanderings, his final rescue, and the carrying out of his resolve to
save others from, at least, one of his many sufferings--thirst. The
poem tells how by the side of the road running from what was then the
village to the old ferry crossing the Merrimac, the returned wanderer
dug this well for the benefit of all who were thirsting as they passed
by it.
But it had been choked up by neglect and abuse.
Whittier’s poem, however, rescued it from this neglect and lifted it
into fame.
This is how “The Captain’s Well” came to be written. And the thousand
dollars which the poet received for it from the “New York Ledger”
served also some other benevolence.
Of this poem he wrote to his sister’s dear friend and his own:
“I enclose a copy of ‘The Captain’s Well,’ though perhaps thee have
seen it. There were some mistakes in it. Hundreds of copies of it have
been sold in Amesbury and as many in Newburyport. I don’t think much of
it myself. When will you [herself and party] return?” [from Bermuda],
he adds. “We miss thee very much and shall be glad to see thee back
again.”
* * * * *
Among the relics kept in the Whittier Home in Amesbury, the house now
owned and opened to the public by the “Whittier Home Association” of
that town, is an old cradle that belonged to Valentine Bagley, the hero
of “The Captain’s Well.” And in the Amesbury burying ground, not far
from the poet’s own grave, is the grave of this Valentine Bagley, with
an epitaph in the style of many others of that time. It reads:
“His languishing head is at rest,
Its thinking and aching is o’er,
His quiet, unmovable breast
Is moved by affliction no more.”
In a letter to the writer, to whom Whittier spoke frequently of his own
work, he said of a song of his, “My poem in the ‘Atlantic’ is not a
very nice one--matter of fact and not poetical; but it tells a sorry
story of the old time.” This is an illustration of how his world-wide
fame never convinced him that he had reached the highest upon his own
lines; he always looked beyond for it--happily for himself and for the
world.
* * * * *
In a letter written December, 1881, he says:
“I have passed a quiet birthday on the seventeenth. It is always a
serious matter--passing these milestones of life. At my age I cannot
look forward to many more. I send thee a copy of what is called my
‘Birthday Book.’ It does not amount to much--mere shreds and patches,
but it is pretty so far as the publishers are concerned. I go to
Amesbury some day the last of this week, if the weather is right and
I feel able. Sometime when I am there I should be glad to see thee. I
hope to be in Boston in February, and Lizzie also hopes to be there. If
so, we will be glad to see thee, and will let thee know.”
* * * * *
In a letter written from Oak Knoll in the March of 1886, he speaks of
what might have been his niece’s fatal accident in an elevator.
“I should have written thee before,” he says, “but my strength was not
equal to my wish and writing has been almost out of the question with
me this winter. I think of my old friends, however, always. I went to
Boston for the first time for more than a year, to meet Lizzie; but my
lameness and sleeplessness drove me back soon. Lizzie’s accident upset
me a good deal, but I am so thankful it was no worse. It was a great
escape....
Of course I shall send thee the very small volume of poems [‘Saint
Gregory’s Guest’] as soon as it is printed.” And he adds with that
self-distrust so wonderful in one of his genius and world-wide fame:
“It is a poor affair, I fear, but if it was a mistake, it is not likely
to be repeated. I only wanted to speak to my old friends once more. Thy
old and loving friend.”
* * * * *
Now on one hand, now on the other, the poet gathered the material for
his poems; sometimes, as we know, these came from incidents told him by
those among whom he lived, or by strangers. But often legend furnished
the subject; or, best of all, the inspiration of the Spirit which
taught him high and holy thoughts.
To one who asked him if his poem “Among the Hills,” was taken from
life, he answered that it was as this ought to be, and went on to speak
of the hopeless drudgery of the farmer’s life as he had seen it in his
youth, and of the poverty of ideals in that life, sometimes its actual
squalor. In his own home, however, the ideal had always existed; and
life there, however simple, was never destitute of attractions, or of
that intercourse with a wider outlook which enlarged its own horizon.
Is it to be supposed that he knows nothing today of how the farmer’s
horizon has widened, how distance has become lessened, if not
annihilated, and how the news of the world is left at his doorstone?
It has been wisely said that poets are the true prophets; they have
visions of the blessings to come upon the world.
Sings the poet:
“The airs of heaven blow o’er me;
A glory shines before me
Of what mankind shall be,--
Pure, generous, brave, and free.
“A dream of man and woman,
Diviner, but still human,
Solving the riddle old,
Shaping the Age of Gold!
“The love of God and neighbor;
An equal-handed labour;
The richer life, where beauty
Walks hand in hand with duty.”