Whittier was but twenty-three years old when he was thunderstruck by a
request to take the place of Mr. George D. Prentice, in editing _The
New England Weekly Review_ for a time; of which request he has said
that he could not have been more astonished had he been told he was
appointed Prime Minister to the Khan of Tartary. In 1835 and in 1836
he was elected to the State Legislature of Massachusetts, and he was
engaged, during all this period, in active politics in a manner that
seems totally at variance with the possibilities of the singer of sweet
songs as we know him to-day. He declined reëlection to the Legislature,
upon being appointed Secretary to the American Anti-Slavery Society,
removing to Philadelphia, and remaining there two years, at the end of
which time the office of _The Pennsylvania Freeman_, which he edited,
was sacked and burned by a mob.
Few men in the world had a closer acquaintance with this same
many-headed monster than our gentle poet, for he has been followed by
mobs, hustled by them, assailed by them, carrying himself with defiant
courage through them all; and it is a tremendous range of experience
that a man finds, as Mr. Whittier was able to do, between being
assaulted by a midnight mob and being chosen the Presidential Elector
for a sovereign State.
After the suppression of his paper--this was at a time when the
Legislature of Georgia had offered a reward of five thousand dollars
for the arrest of the editor of _The Liberator_,--Mr. Whittier sold the
old Haverhill homestead and removed to Amesbury, a lovely town, the
descendant of Queen Guinevere’s Almbresbury, neighbor of Stonehenge
and old Sarum, which seems a proper spot for him as for a new Sir
Galahad; and from this time he began to send out those periodical
volumes of verses which have won him the heart of the world. Here his
lovely sister Elizabeth, herself a poet, with his mother, and his Aunt
Mercy--the three loved of all “Snowbound’s” lovers,--brightened the
home for years, one by one withdrawing from it at last for their long
home, and leaving him alone, but for the subsequent sweet companionship
of his nieces, who themselves went away in their turn for homes of
their own.
The poet’s dwelling in Amesbury was exceedingly simple and exquisitely
neat, the exterior of a pale cream color, with many trees and shrubs
about it, while, within, one room opens into another till you reach
the study that should be haunted by the echoes of all sweet sounds,
for here have been written the most of those verses full of the fitful
music,
Of winds that out of dreamland blew.
Here, in the proper season, the flames of a cheerful fire dance upon
the brass andirons of the open hearth, in the centre of a wall lined
with books; water-colors by Harry Fenn and Lucy Larcom and Celia
Thaxter, together with interesting prints, hang on the other walls,
rivaled, it may be, by the window that looks down a sunny little
orchard, and by the glass-topped door through which you see the green
dome of Powow Hill. What worthies have been entertained in this
enticing place! Garrison, and Phillips, and Higginson, and Wasson, and
Emerson, and Fields, and Bayard Taylor, and Alice and Phœbe Cary, and
Gail Hamilton, and Anna Dickinson, are only a few of the names that
one first remembers, to say nothing of countless sweet souls, unknown
to any other roll of fame than heaven’s, who have found the atmosphere
there kindred to their own.
The people of Amesbury, and of the adjoining villages and towns, felt
a peculiar ownership of their poet; there is scarcely a legend of
all the region round which he has not woven into his song, and the
neighborhood feel not only as if Whittier were their poet, but in some
way the guardian spirit, the genius of the place. Perhaps in his stern
and sweet life he has been so, even as much as in his song. “There is
no charge to Mr. Whittier,” once said a shopman of whom he had made a
small purchase; and there is no doubt that the example would have been
contagious if the independent spirit of the poet would have allowed it.
The Indian summer days of the poet’s life were spent not all in the
places that knew him of old. The greater part of the winter was passed
in Boston; a share of the summer always went to the White Hills, of
which he was passionately fond, and the remainder of the time found
him in the house of his cousins at Oak Knoll, in Danvers, still in
his native county of Essex. This is a mansion, with its porches and
porticoes and surrounding lawns and groves, which seems meet for a
poet’s home; it stands in spacious and secluded grounds, shadowed by
mighty oaks, and with that woodland character which birds and squirrels
and rabbits, darting in the checkered sunshine, must always give. It is
the home of culture and refinement, too, and as full of beauty within
as without. Here many of the later poems were sent forth, and here
fledglings had the unwarrantable impertinence to intrude with their
callow manuscripts, and here those pests of prominence, the autograph
seekers, sent their requests by the thousands. But in the early fall
the poet stole quietly back to Amesbury, and there awaited Election
Day, a day on which he religiously believed that no man has a right to
avoid his duty, and of which he always thought as when he saw
Along the street
The shadows meet
Of Destiny, whose hand conceals
The moulds of fate
That shape the State,
And make or mar the common weal.
What a life he had to look back upon, as he sat with his fame about
him--what storms and what delights, what struggle and what victory!
With all the deep and wonderful humility of spirit that he bore before
God and man, yet it is doubtful if he could have found one day in it
that he would have changed, so far as his own acts were concerned. It
is certain that no one else could find it.
In appearance, Mr. Whittier was to the last as upright in bearing as
ever; his eye was as black and burned with as keen a fire as when it
flashed over the Concord mob, and saw beauty everywhere as freshly as
when he cried out with the “Voices of Freedom” and sang the “Songs of
Labor”; and his smile was the same smile that won the worship of men,
and of women, too, for sixty years and over. Now it is with a sort of
tenderness that people speak and think of him whose walk in life ended
September 7, 1892. It seemed impossible to think that such vitality and
power and spirit could ever cease. And indeed, it has not ceased, for
it has been transferred into loftier regions, where his earthly songs
are set to the music of the morning-stars as they sing together.
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
MRS. MARGARET DELAND
MRS. MARGARET DELAND
MT. VERNON STREET, BOSTON, AND KENNEBUNKPORT, MAINE
Very few houses suggest in a more marked degree the tastes of those who
occupy them, than the one in which Margaret Deland may be found during
the winter months, and until the chilly New England spring deigns to
set forth a tempting array of blossoms. At this signal, followed by
a general exodus in favor of suburban residences, Mrs. Deland--being
a Bostonian only by adoption, and therefore to be pardoned for
seeking recreation at a greater distance from home--closes the town
house, leaving it guarded by flowers, to re-establish herself and her
household in an attractive cottage at Kennebunkport, Maine, where her
summers are habitually passed.
If we are to go in search of the more representative of the two
dwellings, we must turn our steps in the direction of Beacon Hill,
for the Delands yielded a number of years ago to the indefinable
charm of this time-honored quarter of the town, and have come to be
considered--like Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Mrs. Henry Whitman, and
others--as permanent members of the little colony in possession.
On turning into Mt. Vernon Street at the foot of the hill, a view that
is essentially picturesque opens up, and its separate features--the
steep road, large elm-trees, old-fashioned residences, and narrow
sidewalks--have hardly had time to assert themselves, when the
objective point of one’s walk comes in sight. No. 76 is the second of
two houses on Mt. Vernon Street that have in turn afforded Mr. Deland
an excuse to indulge his predilection for reconstruction, the present
habitation being practically a larger edition of one lower down the
street--in which “John Ward, Preacher,” was written.
A glance at the façade proves the felicity of a friend’s description,
“It is all windows and flowers.” The chronicler of “Old Garden” fancies
and none other is to be associated with the masses of jonquils,
hyacinths, and pansies, whose notes of color define the unusual width
of the main windows, and are equally in evidence against a background
of soft white muslin, used as drapery for the curious little bay
window on the second story. A few steps lead from the narrow sidewalk
to the front door, and a moment later the visitor finds himself in a
drawing-room of ample dimensions, reached by way of a tiny vestibule,
and covering every inch of space on the north or Mt. Vernon Street
side of the house. The maid servant in attendance disappears in
search of her mistress, passing up the curved white staircase with
crimson carpeting, placed to the left, and treated with due regard for
decorative effect. A happy blending of comfort and luxury immediately
makes itself felt, while a huge fire-place with a cord log blazing on
its hearth easily dominates all other attractions, and finds its way to
the heart of many an unacclimated stranger.
Mrs. Deland lives all over her house, the different rooms on the first
and second floors being in constant use, and equally familiar to her
friends. If she has installed herself in the sunny library overhead, or
in the salon opening off of it, you will as likely as not be summoned
to join her in one or the other of these pleasant rooms, and will find
the same simple yet luxurious appointments--the cheery open fires, the
profusion of flowers, the tasteful and harmonious decorations--evenly
distributed throughout the entire house. Books are stored away in every
conceivable receptacle, Mr. Deland’s taste in this matter, as indeed in
most others, being as fully represented as that of his wife. One even
runs across a set of book-shelves fitted into the wall at the head of
the staircase, where the old-fashioned niche once held its place. But
although they are found to exist in such quantities, neither books nor
periodicals are allowed to become an annoyance by being left about
to crowd out other things and to collect dust. The exquisite neatness
and order that prevail speak volumes for the refinement and managerial
capacity of the mistress of the house. An authoress is supposedly the
least practical of persons; and yet in this one instance an exception
must be noted, for there are countless signs that the hand at the helm
is both experienced and sure.
Mrs. Deland is of Scottish ancestry on her father’s side of the family,
and, as a lineal descendant of John of Gaunt, may be said to have
sprung from the house of Lancaster. There is about her something of the
freedom and indomitable strength of the Highlands--a look in the clear
blue eye, a warmth of coloring, a cut of features, and, above all,
a certain unruly assertiveness of stray locks of hair--that awakens
memories of the heather and of the wind upon the hills, coming heavily
laden with the odor of peat and fresh from its contact with some
neighboring loch. And, again, there are moments when other and quite
different pictures suggest themselves, as the outcome of a still more
subtle relation to the fragrant treasures of her garden--the delicate
mignonette, the open-hearted June rose--with just a touch of passion
in its veins to make it kin with all the world--and the sensitive
convolvulus, lifting its face heavenward to greet the light, but
robbed of aspirations when the shadows settle into gloom.
The strong love of flowers finds its expression in a number of ways,
and it seems extraordinary that a success which is seldom achieved by
those who live in town should crown the efforts of one who apparently
has but to touch a plant to make it live. A little fig-tree--the most
notable of her triumphs, for it, too, was planted and raised within
doors--lifts its branches and bears fruit as the central attraction
of a group of tropical plants that flourish near the casement of
the dining-room window. An India-rubber plant that is fast assuming
proportions which threaten its banishment, spreads its glossy leaves
in the middle of the library, and, overladen as it is, one cannot fail
to observe that the broad ledge of the window in the rear was arranged
with a special view to the well-being of the various blooms seen
thereon, and thus given the full benefit of the sunshine.
At the close of the winter Mrs. Deland has a sale of flowers in aid
of some good cause, and also for the purpose of demonstrating that
the cultivation of such plants as are raised under her roof, with no
other care than that given from out of her own busy life, might be made
to serve many a gentlewoman of reduced circumstances as a means of
support. During the weeks that precede the sale, the house is ablaze
with daffodils, and one leaves the snow and ice without, to enter on a
scene more suggestive of Florida than of Massachusetts.
A wide diversity of interests draws very different kinds of people
under this roof, for the sympathies of those who live under it are of
extensive range, and their hospitality is without limit. There are
the purely social functions, placing in touch representative members
of the world of fashion and those whose gifts or strong individuality
have lifted them out of the more conventional lines of thought and
action. Mr. Deland, as an authority on football and the inventor of
strategic moves which have materially strengthened Harvard’s game, also
gathers about him serious amateurs in outdoor sports, and is ever ready
to prolong the pleasures of the post-prandial cigar by enthusiastic
discussion of moot points.
Meetings in the interests of charitable organizations, civic matters,
and all stirring questions of the day, make their demands on the time
of a hostess whose tact and responsiveness are unfailing. When some
interest of an exclusively feminine nature remains to be dealt with, or
that bugbear of the male mind, a ladies’ luncheon-party is in order,
the genial host escapes to some such favorite haunt as the St. Botolph
or the Tavern Club, leaving an almost startling substitute in the
shape of a life-size portrait by the well-known Boston artist, Miss
S. G. Putnam, to smile a welcome in his stead. The portrait and the
little bay-window first seen from the outside are the most conspicuous
features of the upper salon. It is from this window that a view of the
sunset and of the distant river may be enjoyed; and in looking up and
down the street one cannot fail to observe the fine old mansions on the
opposite side of the way, set back a considerable distance from the
street, and with enough ground round about them to include in their
surroundings old-fashioned grass-plots and flowering shrubs belonging
to the past century. In presiding at her table Mrs. Deland does the
honors with cordial interest in those grouped about her, and while
taking full part in the conversation, always contrives to draw out
others, rather than to permit her individual views to be drawn upon.
As one of the first to introduce the use of the chafing-dish, her
experiments in this direction must be quoted as unique, not only
because of their most excellent results, but in view of the fact
that everything that has to be done is so daintily and gracefully
accomplished. It is simply astonishing how she continues to hold her
place in the general conversation, while quietly mixing and adding
the ingredients out of which some particularly delicious _plat_ is
to evolve. Everything has been measured out in advance and stands
in readiness. This bit of Venetian glass, whose soft colors are
intensified by the sunlight playing about it, holds just the proper
quantity of cream; that small jug--an infinitesimal specimen of
yellow pottery--contains but a spoonful of some dark liquid, as to
whose mission the uninitiated may not guess. It is the very poetry of
cooking, and it was hardly in the nature of a surprise when a guest
whose travels had extended through the East gravely assured Mrs.
Deland, on partaking of a preparation which had served as the _pièce
de resistance_ of the occasion, that its name as translated from the
Persian could only be explained by the significant phrase,--“The Sultan
faints with delight”!
As an author Mrs. Deland fully recognizes the importance of
systematizing her work, therefore she has long made it a custom to deny
herself to every one during the morning hours in order to devote them
exclusively to writing. The library, whose attraction has already been
referred to, makes an ideal workshop, and as such deserves to rank as
far and away the most interesting room in the house. It is usually
flooded with sunshine, and is always light, the open fire contributing
further brightness, and bringing into requisition a quaint pair of
andirons, shaped in the form of two revolutionary soldiers standing on
guard.
The window, framing a sheet of glass that might well prove problematic
to a less capable housekeeper, gives on the rear of several Chestnut
Street houses whose old roofs and old chimneys reach nearly to its
level and are directly outside. A faint twittering tells of the
presence of those _gamins_ among birds, the sparrows, and a closer
search for the little fellows reveals their bright eyes and ruffled
feathers, as seen emerging from the crevices into which they have
contrived to squeeze themselves in their search for shelter and warmth.
There is space beyond, with only the shifting clouds to gaze upon,
and the stillness and repose of the spot speak well for the writer’s
chances in regard to the maintenance of moods and consecutive thought.
The ill-starred fortunes of “Philip and His Wife” were followed from
amid these same peaceful surroundings, and the commodious desk near the
window doubtless held manuscript sheets of that tale, as well as of
others more recently written. A cast of Mr. Deland’s hand is suspended
from one side of the desk, and his share in the possession of the room
is indicated by a central writing-table with telephone attachment. If
he chances to look up while transacting such business as invades the
home, he will meet with the gentle face of one of Lucca della Robia’s
angels, or his eyes may wander from this relief, and the mantelpiece
against which it is placed, to a large photograph of Boston, and a
number of well-selected pictures covering the walls.
Mrs. Deland’s first productions were in verse, and an idea as to their
spontaneity may be gathered from the fact that several of the poems
which appeared under the title of “In An Old Garden” were originally
jotted down upon the leaves of a market-book, to be left in the hands
of a friend whose sympathy and belief awakened the first sense of
power, and to whom the volume was dedicated. One of these prosaic bits
of ruled paper is still in existence. It bears the penciled words of
“The Clover,” and, by way of illustration, a graceful spray of the
flower, suggestively traced over all, as if thrown upon the page.
When the Delands first went to Kennebunkport, it was a little fishing
village of the most primitive kind, and life there, in the summer time,
was refreshingly simple and unconstrained. A cottage was selected
within a stone’s throw of the river, and Mr. Deland’s yacht, with
its picturesque Venetian-red sails, became a feature of the scene.
A disused barn, in a nook among the hills, was found to possess a
charming outlook, and was immediately turned into a study. In this
retreat “Sidney” was written. The glory of the garden proved a thing
to be remembered, and its mistress was never happier than when delving
among her treasures. Kennebunkport has grown into a popular summer
resort, with its hordes of transient visitors, its countless hotels
and boarding-houses; but the Delands pass their days in much the
same fashion as when the pleasures of the river and the charm of the
surrounding country seemed to belong to them alone.
That our authoress still counts her garden the most fascinating spot
on earth, may be gathered from her own words:--“I am rather fond of
rising at five o’clock in the morning, and of going out to weed when
every blade of grass and every leaf is beaded with dew; and if the tide
is high, and the sun comes shining over the hills on the wide blue
river--weeding is an enchanting occupation.”
LUCIA PURDY.
[Illustration]
F. MARION CRAWFORD
F. MARION CRAWFORD
AT SORRENTO
To most people who have travelled in the south of Italy the name of
Sorrento recalls one of the loveliest places in the world, which has
been so often and so well described that it forms part of the mental
picture-gallery even of those who have never been there. We all seem
to know the cheerful little town, perched high above the glorious bay,
and crowded with tourists during more than half the year. On any bright
morning, especially in early spring, the tiny shops in the principal
street fairly swarm with strangers, to whom polite and polyglot dealers
sell ornaments of tortoise-shell and lava, silk sashes which will look
like impressionist rainbows under sober English skies, and endless
boxes and book-shelves of inlaid woods, destined to fall to pieces
under the fiery breath of the American furnace. In contrast to these
frivolous travellers one may also see the conscientious Germans, whose
long-saved pence are thriftily expended, seeking out every possible
and impossible haunt of Tasso’s ghost, with the aid of Baedeker, the
apostle of modern travel.
Comparatively few of this constantly changing company ever think of
taking the side street which runs between the high-road to Castellamare
and the sea, and it is possible to spend some time at Sorrento without
having seen the home of Marion Crawford at all. Follow this side
street, called the “rota,” because it curves like the rim of a wheel,
and you will find yourself presently going back toward Naples, shut in
on either hand by the high walls of villas and gardens, over which the
orange and lemon and olive trees look down into the dusty lane. Just
across the boundary line between Sorrento and the village of Sant’
Agnello, named after a martial abbot who is said to have fought the
Turks, as many a churchman did in his time, there stands a sedate old
inn, the Cocumella, or Little Gourd, which is a complete contrast to
the two great hotels in the larger town. It was once the property of
the Jesuits, and the King Ferdinand of Naples who was Nelson’s friend,
nobly generous with the belongings of others, after the manner of
kings, gave it, with the adjoining church, to the forefather of its
present owner. The house has been an inn ever since, but the title to
the church has never been settled, and the building is kept in repair
by the landlord as a sort of courtesy to Heaven. To this old-fashioned
inn many Italians and quiet English families come for the season, and
it was in a cave or grotto at the foot of its garden, which slopes
toward the cliff, whence there is a steep descent through the rocks to
the sea, that Mr. Crawford wrote “To Leeward” and “Saracinesca,” before
he married and bought his present house.