year the veteran orator was invited to deliver an address before the
graduates of his own college, from whose festivities he had been
excluded since the time of his Lovejoy speech, warmed with the
recollections of his youth, his genius blazed forth with all its former
brilliancy. With customary hardihood he selected for his subject "The
Danger from the Educated Classes"; that is, the tendency of intellectual
culture to exclusiveness and separation from the less fortunate portion
of mankind. It is not to be supposed that the Harvard Alumni were well
pleased with this topic, but he presented it with so much skill, and
even eloquence, as to win applause from some of his most inveterate
opponents. This sympathy for the unfortunate had been the key-note and
true explanation of his course in life. It came to him there in the days
of his youthful gayety like a dream, and now after fifty years he had
returned to celebrate his last triumph in the same place where this
vision of Heavenly mercy had appeared to him.
He looked like Cicero, and there is a bust of Cicero on the Pincian hill
at Rome, which if placed in Boston would certainly be mistaken for him.
His figure, however, was better than Cicero's, who is reported to have
had a long neck and rather slender legs. He resembled Cicero in his
refined tastes, his admiration for great writers his command of
language, his tact, fluency, fiery invective, and in the anti-climax of
his career. If he had prepared his speeches for a body of men like the
Roman senate, he might have been more nearly Cicero's equal. He used to
wear a high-crowned soft felt hat, which was remarkably suited to the
Roman-like contour of his face. He was skillful in all things, and might
have been equally celebrated as a writer, an actor, or possibly as an
artist, if his interest and inclination had led him in either of these
directions. What we feel the lack of in him is contemplative depth: he
was more Gallic than Germanic. He possessed a deep nature, but his
character was not equal to it. He was too refined, too much of an artist
perhaps, for the rough work fortune gave him to do. He had the heart of
a lion, but the mind of a woman.
Yet as we view his life from a distance it has grand outlines. When the
western continent was discovered, it seemed as if it were a paradise
which had been kept in reserve for the most civilized races; but this
had no sooner happened, than a curse was fastened upon it,--the curse of
slavery, which had already been abolished in Europe in its mildest type.
This may have been necessary at first in the tropical portions of
America, where it is impossible for a white man to labor in the sun; but
it was contrary to the spirit of Christianity and inimical to true
civilization. To eradicate this wide-spread, deep-rooted evil was a
tremendous undertaking, one of the most gigantic in history; and among
those who contributed to this, none, except perhaps John Brown and
Charles Sumner, accomplished more--and few have done so much as Wendell
Phillips. The right aspect then in which to regard his career, is as a
sacrifice to this great cause. Let it be said of him that he loved
mankind not wisely, but too well.
APPLEDORE AND THE LAIGHTONS.
The Isles of Shoals are seven: Duck, Appledore, Cedar, Haley's, Star,
Londoner's, and White. Besides these there are Square Rock, Mingo Rock,
and a number of other out-lying rocks and reefs. Appledore, Haley's,
Cedar, Star, and Londoner's form almost a semi-circle, or horse-shoe,
nearly a mile in width with the tips turned toward the west. Duck Island
lies a mile-and-a-half to the north of this group, and White Island with
it's light-house about the same distance to the south-east.
They are mostly bare rocks, like mountain tops rising above the water.
They are not however submerged mountains, for as their name indicates
the sea is nowhere very deep about them. If the points of the horse-shoe
had been turned toward the east instead of the west they would not have
been habitable and the place would have been known to navigators as the
Devil's Reef, the Devil's Horse-shoe or by some other term ominous of
shipwrecks. The group of islands now form a cosy though not very safe
harbor where every evening in the mackerel season a small fleet of
fishing-vessels sail in there to anchor for the night.
As might be expected the fauna and flora of the Shoals is neither rare
nor extensive. Gulls are to be seen of course at all times,--especially
the large burgomaster gull, one of the finest of birds in size and
ferocity, and in power of sight nearly equal to an eagle. In spring and
fall flocks of coot and the more fishy sort of ducks are to be found
there together with a good many loons. Snowy owls are not uncommon in
cold weather, and during winter almost any kind of Arctic bird may
arrive there. A flock of eider ducks once took refuge and were shot
under the same overhanging rock where the terrified servant-girl
concealed herself when pursued by the murderer Wagner. There are
probably more green snakes on Appledore than anywhere else in America.
Wild roses and morning-glories are the only flowers large enough to
attract the notice of a passing tourist, but Celia Thaxter has also
written a pretty poem on the pimpernel. There are no trees to speak of.
Their geological structure is more interesting. It is generally supposed
that the soil of New England rests on a foundation of primeval granite,
but it is not exactly that. There is very little true granite in New
England, what is taken for it commonly being syenite, a rock indeed that
differs from granite only in the substitution of hornblend for mica. The
so-called Quincy granite is a finer sort of syenite, and the White
Mountains are composed of syenite capped with granite. The Isles of
Shoals are also mostly syenite, but there are large boulders of coarse
granite lying about, and in some places the syenite changes suddenly to
granite as if the two had been welded together. Then there are dykes of
dark brown trap or ancient lava, from four to ten feet wide running
across the islands from south-west to north-east, and others again at
right-angles to these. This would seem to indicate that the elevation
above the surrounding plateau was due to volcanic action. The structure
of White Island is very different from the others, a large portion of
the rock being studded with innumerable small garnets, while veins of
some grayish white minerals run through it in which there are still
smaller garnets.
How did these bare, bleak and barren rocks come to be inhabited?
Originally it was from love of gold. Men will go wherever there is money
to be made, and wherever men go women are pretty sure to follow. In 1879
a city suddenly arose in the most desolate and uncomfortable part of the
Rocky Mountains; and in the middle of the last century there was a large
settlement on the Isles of Shoals, with a young ladies' boarding-school
at Appledore, and a fort on Star Island for protection against pirates
and Indians. Fish merchants carried on a flourishing trade with France
and Spain. In course of time however cod and haddock became largely
fished out and the settlement on Appledore disappeared with them,
boarding-school and all. So it is predicted that some day Leadville will
again become a silent wilderness. In 1850 the population of the Shoals
had dwindled to about a dozen families of poor fishermen when a fresh
impulse was given to the activity of the place from a direction that
nobody could ever have imagined.
The Laightons were residents of Portsmouth. The father of Thomas B.
Laighton was a spar-maker and did a considerable business when
shipbuilding was thriving in those times. Thomas B. in his youth was
afflicted with a fever which confined him to his room for many months
and from the effects of which he never recovered. He married Miss Eliza
Rymes, a woman of remarkable good-sense and strong physique. He
preferred journalism to spar-making, and his connection with the New
Hampshire Gazette soon led him into politics. He was an ardent supporter
of "old Hickory" and rewarded for it finally with the position of
postmaster for his native city. Whether he surrendered this position for
the forlorn and less lucrative one of White Island lighthouse on account
of ill-health or from a different motive, is uncertain. There was
formerly a story in circulation that he was defeated as a candidate for
some political office and retired in disgust from the haunts and ways of
men. This however is not likely. Thomas Laighton was a man of a blunt
and rugged sincerity, tenacious and determined; such as would not be
likely to lose his mental balance at the first unfavorable turn of
fortune.
[Illustration: TWILIGHT AT THE ISLES OF SHOALS.]
He went to White Island in 1838, was removed by Harrison the First and
reappointed by Tyler. His life there must have been a rough one. Of all
the Isles of Shoals, White Island is the most difficult of access. It is
not easy to land there in good summer weather, and during winter
communication with the outer world is as rare as cold days in July. From
December till May the breakers thunder on the cliff beneath the
light-house like the roar of artillery. One would like to know what his
reflections may have been during this Alexander Selkirk kind of
life,--how he and his wife managed to entertain themselves. Rev. John
Weiss and a friend going to Portsmouth in the summer of '46 visited the
lighthouse and made friends with the family there. They found old
Laighton a pretty rough customer, but good humored enough, and his wife
uncommonly glad to see them. Their daughter Celia was a very bright
looking, rosy faced girl, and the two boys Oscar and Cedric had their
hair cut straight across their foreheads to keep it out of their eyes.
Mr. Weiss thought that when they were in the water they must have looked
a good deal like seals.
In 1848 he resigned his position and removed to Appledore; then as
always on the charts of the coast-survey known as Hog Island. It would
seem to be the last stretch of a fisherman's imagination to call every
long sloping island by that name. There he and his brother Joseph, who
had thus far been a grocer in Portsmouth, built cottages for themselves
and went into the fishing business, purchasing boats, seines, and hiring
a large number of men. This lasted for some years and finally came to an
end through the death of Joseph and the invalidism of Thomas, who was
always lame and unable to give the work his personal supervision.
Meanwhile their friends came over from the mainland to visit them, and
admired the climate so much and remained so long that the brothers
concluded to build a small hotel where these and others could pay for
their entertainment. It was a three-story building, almost square, the
parent stem of that great banyan-tree which has since spread over a
large portion of the island. The accomodations at first were primitive.
A visitor in '51 was obliged to wait an hour for a room and an
opportunity to wash his hands, though he was at the time the only guest
in the house. An empty flour-barrel turned upside down served for a
wash-stand. However, the sailing and fishing were good, as also were
Mrs. Laighton's doughnuts, of which there was always an unfailing
supply, so that numbers of people came there.
Among them was a recent graduate of Harvard, from the vicinity of
Boston, named Levi Thaxter. He was a young man of refined tastes and
rare intellectual endowment; afterwards widely known as the apostle of
Browning's poetry in America. He was not one of those college graduates
who seemed to have been run in a mould like bullets, but already
possessed character and a mind of his own. He was by nature rather an
admirer of art than an artist; in fact he was a critic, and with a right
opportunity he might have become a Froude, a Taine, or a Ruskin. A wise
father might have done much for him, but his father belonged to that
class of men who are only acquainted with a small circle of their own
affairs; he had not the least conception of what was needed for his
brilliant son. So the best years of young Thaxter's life were consumed
in fruitless efforts to harmonize his lofty aspirations with the
stubborn facts about him. It was like a fruit-tree planted in a stone
quarry. Too late he learned from experience the wisdom that should have
come to him from his ancestors. He might have succeeded better if he had
been less unwilling to compromise his sincerity,--to duck his head to
the golden calf. But he would not do that, he intended to remain Levi
Thaxter or die in the attempt: and once he came very near doing so. He
was a romance character, and if his biography could be written it would
be more interesting than that of some of our most celebrated men.
Socially he was delightful; and a hundred friends could bear witness to
his integrity, his fidelity, his kindly nature, his wit, humor, and keen
appreciation. William Hunt the painter and Doctor Henry I. Bowditch were
his two most intimate friends.
He studied dramatic reading, and nearly made a profession of it. Actors
sometimes studied with him to learn a good pronunciation and dramatic
effect. His partiality for Browning's poetry is quite generally known.
He first read it to his friends; then in private companies; and finally
in public halls. When in 1882 he went to Philadelphia to read Browning
there he created such enthusiasm for the subject that the libraries and
bookstores were quickly exhausted and fresh copies of Browning had to be
sent for from other cities to supply the demand. He considered Browning,
Aeschylus and Shakespeare the three most dramatic writers. All the
Browning clubs that have nourished so extensively for many years past
might be considered Levi Thaxter's lineal descendants.
His conversation on art and literature was often so interesting that it
is a pity his occasional bursts of eloquence could not have been
preserved. But the important matter at this moment is that he fell in
love with Celia Laighton, married her and carried her off to the
environs of Boston, where she made valuable friends and met with larger
opportunities for intellectual development.
Hawthorne came to the Shoals on the thirtieth of August, 1852, and has
given a full account of his visit in his usual minute and pictorial
manner. He left Franklin Pierce, who was then candidate for the
presidency, in Concord, New Hampshire, and embarked at Portsmouth in a
small schooner which was then the only mode of conveyance,---and often a
very dilatory one. On the way two of his fellow passengers became
sea-sick, and another "sat in the stern looking very white." On arriving
at Appledore he was met in the doorway by Mr. Laighton of whom he gives
rather a realistic description; adding, however, "He addressed me in a
hearty, hospitable tone, and judging that it must be my landlord, I
delivered a letter of introduction from Pierce, which of course gave me
the best the house afforded."
It seems strange that Hawthorne, who understood human nature better than
any other American writer, should have so rarely penetrated into the
character of the people whom he mentions in his note-books. Old Laighton
was a solid rock of sense and grit, and the chief impression he made
upon strangers was of a man whom it was best to keep on the right side
of. The detonations of his frankness sometimes cleared the air in a
truly remarkable manner, and would scatter all light spirits to a
prudent distance. He reminded one of Longfellow's description of Simon
Danz:
"Restless at times with heavy strides
He paces his parlor to and fro;
He is like a ship that at anchor rides,
And swings with the rising and falling tides,
And tugs at her anchor-tow."
Hawthorne seems to have found a kindred spirit in Mr. Thaxter, who
invited him to their cottage to meet the ladies and drink apple-jack.
There he also found John Weiss, a man of wit and genius little inferior
to his own. Neither did Celia Thaxter impress him, except in a rather
external way. He says, "We found Mrs. Thaxter sitting in a neat little
parlor, very simply furnished, but in good taste. She is not now, I
believe, more than eighteen years old, very pretty, and with the manners
of a lady,--not prim and precise, but with enough of freedom and ease."
The ideality in her face, which probably attracted her husband and is
visible in her earliest pictures, was not observed by the idealist
himself. He spent the next two weeks in company with Mr. Thaxter,
roaming about on the water, visiting different islands, and conversing
with the inhabitants. It must have been a rare occasion for young
Thaxter, and Hawthorne for once found a companion who could either be
silent or talk in an interesting manner. Hawthorne's account of it would
suffice as a guide-book for the Shoals. He tells the story of Betty
Moody, who was said to have concealed herself with her baby in a sort of
cave on Star Island in order to escape from the Indians who had made a
raid on the place while her husband was fishing out at sea. Unhappily
the child screamed, and the wretched mother is said to have murdered it
to prevent discovery. How the other wives and mothers on the island
saved themselves at this juncture is not reported; and the myth no doubt
originated from a dark red lichen growing on the rocks there which
resembles blood-stains and has a scientific name to that effect.
Much more probable is the tradition that a large heap of stones formed
like an Esquimaux hut on the highest point of Appledore, was built there
by Captain John Smith and his men as a memorial of their discovery of
the islands. This heap of stones is a veritable cairn, such as climbers
of the Alps build on the summits of those peaks which they have ascended
for the first time. It is customary in such cases to insert a champagne
bottle among the stones, containing the card of the fortunate explorer;
but perhaps Captain Smith was not provided with these articles while
cruising off the coast of North America. It is at least more interesting
and more in keeping with the rugged aspect of the place than the
delicate triangular plinth that has been erected to his memory on Star
Island. Another poetic subject is the Spaniards' graves on Smutty Nose:
hapless mariners, wrecked where no friendly or kindred eye will look on
the cold stones which mark their interment!
Eleven years elapsed before Hawthorne visited the Shoals again, and for
the last time in his life. Meanwhile much had changed there. The hotel
had grown by the addition of a large dormitory; and the boys, Oscar and
Cedric, had grown up with it to be vigorous and very healthy looking
young men. The Hon. Thomas P. Laighton had become a confirmed invalid;
nor did he live very long after this time. The management of the
property was wholly in the hands of his sons. Mrs. Thaxter had grown to
a bright, self-possessed woman with three small boys to look after, and
with her reputation as a poet now well assured to her both by critics
and the general public. Her face, figure and manner all gave evidence of
a concentrated personality. Her husband, a handsome and full-bearded
man, was now in the prime of life and intellectual vigor. Rev. John
Weiss, their never-failing friend and a constant habitue of the place,
had written the life of Theodore Parker, and received due recognition as
a gifted man and elegant speaker. And there was another, more
distinguished than them all,--a tall figure, more erect than a soldier,
pacing across the long piazza, or watching a game in the billiard-room,
or seated in a retired corner of Mrs. Thaxter's parlor, whose face had
long since been known to Hawthorne as that of John G. Whittier.
Social life at the Shoals has had its incipient childhood, its period of
youthful strength and gaiety, its bright noontide of maturity, and seems
now to be lapsing into a serene and comfortable old age. Many, at least,
of the brilliant men and women who made it what it was, are gone, and
others do not appear to take their places. The Isles of Shoals are
changing as all things change except the rocks and sea. The
south-easterly parlor in Mrs. Thaxter's cottage is historic ground.
"There have been fine people here," she said one day in September, about
ten years ago, as the house was closing for the season, "but the summer
is gone, and they have gone with it." Nowhere else since Margaret
Fuller's time have so many wits, geniuses and brilliant women been
gathered together. Whittier and Hawthorne are enough to have consecrated
it, but there have been many others. Hunt, the painter, came there, and
Professor Paine, the composer, as well as other fine artists and
musicians. Even Ole Bull, that Norwegian waif and celebrated violinist,
wandered in there of a forenoon, and entertained the company with
accounts of sea-serpents standing on their tails in front of
water-falls, and other marvels only visible in Norway:--supposing, I
presume, that his hearers would believe anything that he told them.
Mrs. Thaxter's poetry, like all genuine poetry, is indigenous,--native
to the soil. She has taken her subjects from the life and incidents
about her: the little sand-piper, the burgomaster gull, the pimpernel,
and the wreck on White Island--where a vessel was once wrecked in a
dense fog right under the light-house. [Footnote: In the winter of 1876,
centennial year, a schooner laden with salt somehow ran on to the
southerly reef of White Island and lost its rudder. The vessel
consequently became unmanageable, and was finally thrown up on
Londoner's, where the island is so low that at high tide the sea nearly
divides it in two. The crew tried to escape by jumping on to the rocks.
Only three succeeded in doing this, the captain, the cabin-boy and one
sailor, A tremendous wave washed over them, and when it had subsided the
sailor found himself alone. Fortunately he knew where he was, and by
clinging flat to the rocks, like a starfish, and watching his chances,
he succeeded after a time in reaching a point of safety. But no sooner
was he fairly out of the water than his clothes became a mass of ice.
There is a rude, unplastered house on Londoner's. The door was fastened,
but he broke through it with a blow of his foot, then wiping his hands
as well as he could on the rough boards, he felt along the first
transverse beam-joist until, to his great delight, he came upon some
matches. These saved his life, for there can be no doubt that otherwise
he would have been frozen to death before morning. There was a stove in
the house, and even a few sticks of wood. For kindling-wood he tore off
splinters from the edges of the boards. He could see nothing within the
house, and it is said that after his fire was lighted, he had only one
match left. Next morning people on Haley's Island saw the wreck and the
smoke from his fire, and went to his rescue.
Mrs. Rymes is authority for the statement that White Island was not
called so from its color, but from a family of Whites who lived on it
before the light-house was built, and that the miser White who was
murdered by Crowninshield in Salem was born on that island.]
[Illustration: CELIA THAXTER. FROM A PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN IN 1890.]
[Illustration: DAVID A. WASSON. FROM A PORTRAIT BY HIS SON GEORGE,
TAKEN IN 1878.]
She made the best use of her material, which after all is much the same
as Emerson's, with the difference between a barren island and a
well-wooded country town taken into account. Another difference is that
she looks at her subject objectively, and then treats it subjectively;
whereas Emerson does exactly the reverse. It is like the difference
between Schiller and Goethe, or Longfellow and Browning; and is the
manner in which a poet always must write in order to be popular. Her
verses are graceful, refined, and--as they should be--feminine. Yet
there is a good deal of strength in it also: or if the phrase is
permissible, a good deal of back-bone.
Her style reminds one of Whittier, but is sufficiently original.
Sometimes she escapes from concrete things into abstract subjects; and
her short poem on "Heroism" seems to me the best she ever wrote. There
was formerly a strong prejudice against this kind of poetry, but it
seems to be disappearing. Those of her poems which Whittier included in
his collection of English and American poetry are also fine, and may be
said to deserve their place. Her criticism was better than is usually
the case with poets; and her conversation about authors and literature
always interesting. It was not didactic at all, but frank, spontaneous
and open to correction. She liked the most diverse writers; Tennyson,
and Dickens, and Browning. In early years I remember her speaking of
Hawthorne in a tone of veneration; but later in life she preferred
Emerson, even to Whittier. There was formerly a portrait of Goethe in
her parlor with Emerson's lines about him underneath it, copied in her
own picturesque hand-writing.