blow from a pile-driver,--and I would not like to have it repeated." The
hole which the lightning made in the side of the house, could scarcely
be distinguished from that of a large rifle bullet. A few days
afterwards I saw a small house set on fire by the lightning, and it was
consumed in a very few minutes, so one may infer how narrowly the
Whittier family escaped a double danger.
He was a tall, and rather slender man, measuring almost exactly six
feet, with sloping shoulders, and he stood so straight, as almost to be
the personification of uprightness. No soldier was ever more erect, and
this without the least stiffness or conventionality. His head was not
large at the base, but high-crowned and finely arched. His eyes were
magnificent, and can only be compared to Hawthorne's eyes, though not so
clear. Marshal von Moltke had eyes like two brilliant lights; even the
Emperor dared not look into them. Whittier's were not like this, but
seemed to be lighted by hidden fires; very large, dark, and powerful. He
had a sensitive and refined mouth, which was closed, as if by an effort
of the will. In general appearance he resembled men of the Revolutionary
period, as if a cotemporary of Washington had luckily been dropped out
of the eighteenth century. He looked like Copley's portrait of Samuel
Adams, but with a more intellectual, and less stubborn expression. From
boyhood he was always fragile and ailing, could not sleep well at night,
and would repeat poetry to himself (for he knew any quantity of it,
without making an effort to memorize it) until he fell asleep again: yet
to what an age he lived, and how much work he accomplished!
I am tempted here to quote from an essay by David A. Wasson, written
nearly thirty years ago:--
"God gave Whittier a deep, hot, simple, strenuous and yet ripe and
spherical, nature, whose twin necessities were, first that it
_must_ lay an intense grasp upon the elements of its experience,
and, secondly, that it _must_ work these up into some form of
melodious completeness. History and the world gave him Quakerism,
America, and Rural Solitude; and through this solitude went winding the
sweet, old Merrimac Stream, the river that we would not wish to forget,
even by the waters of the river of life! And it is into these elements
that his genius, with its peculiar vital simplicity and intensity,
strikes root. Historic reality, the great _facts_ of his time, are
the soil in which he grows, as they are with all natures of depth and
energy." "We did not wish," said Goethe, "to learn, but to live."
The anti-slavery movement originated with the Quakers. It seems to have
been their mission in America. Benjamin Lundy was a Quaker: Garrison and
his friends were non-resistants, which is political Quakerism. Whittier
was one of the first to join them, and none of them afterwards, except
Wendell Phillips, had such influence with the public. Neither was he
content with writing poetry for the cause, controversial lyrics and
war-songs of freedom, but he took a lively interest in the affairs of
the New England Society, went to its meetings and served on committees.
Phillips said that once, when the socialistic element in the movement
was threatening to come to open rupture with the more moderate
Garrisonian party, Whittier by his tact and good sense, and a few timely
remarks, did more than any other to harmonize matters, and prevent a
dissolution. When Emerson was informed of this, he remarked, "I have
always held Mr. Whittier in great respect; but this is the finest flower
in the poet's wreath."
It is astonishing enough now to reflect what the early abolitionists
attempted to do, and the manner in which they expected to do it. The
empire of Christianity, and of true civilization, was to be established
here in America for the first time and finally; the slaves were to be
emancipated, intemperance prevented, and all warfare ended. This was to
happen in a world where the Malthusian theory of population is a
dominant reality, where millions are fighting every day for the bread of
life, and thousands are dying from the lack of proper food, raiment and
shelter. One of their number whose name will not appear in history,
published a book, entitled "True Civilization an Immediate Necessity."
Surely enough true civilization is and always has been an immediate
necessity: a necessity like the feast of Tantalus: but how is it to be
realized? The purest saints and noblest statesmen have struggled and
died in despair in the attempt to elevate humanity a single inch above
the condition in which they found it.
Of course such a chimera as that of the abolitionists could only be
entertained by young, inexperienced and slightly educated men. Their
effort was a noble one, a blunder in the right direction; but they had
no conception of the explosive material which was contained in the
doctrine of non-resistance. Instead of moral persuasion and an era of
peace, there followed a desolating war in itself worse than fifty years
of African Slavery. The abolitionists were blamed for that calamity very
much as the Protestants have been blamed for the Massacre of St.
Bartholomew; and yet without doubt they were responsible for a portion
of it. Gunpowder cannot be made of sulphur and carbon alone, but
saltpetre also must be added.
Those who remain in this immature condition of fixed ideas throughout
life, purchase their experience at too high a rate. Whittier's poetic
art saved him from this and separated him finally from his Garrisonian
allies. With Garrison himself he always remained the best of friends;
but after the Kansas troubles began he did not continue to look upon him
as a leader, and in 1872 they were in political antagonism, Whittier
endorsing Sumner, and Garrison supporting Grant.
Perhaps the writing of "Ichabod" and Webster's subsequent death gave an
indication to Whittier of deeper life currents than he had known before;
for about that time, it seems to have dawned on him that didactic poetry
was not after all the best kind of poetry, and a work of art to be pure
and holy, must exist for its own sake, and be justified by its own
excellence. He refers to this intellectual change, not only in the lines
already quoted, but in a sort of confession, written at an earlier
period. He says--
"Art's perfect forms no moral need,
And beauty is its own excuse,"
and regrets that the highest reward of merit will never come to him on
this account. He realizes now that he belongs to a party and has been
looking at the world from the stand-point of party interest. In devoting
himself more closely to his vocation as a poet he acquired that moral
repose and better mental balance with which alone it is possible to see
things as they are. From this time forward the quality of his verses
shows a steady improvement.
The man possessed a deep nature and true breadth of character in spite
of the limitations of his environment; yet there were certain prejudices
and antipathies that adhered to him still. His unwillingness to listen
to music, is rather to be attributed to the old quaker, puritanical
notion that all sensuous enjoyment is sinful, than to the well known
indifference of poets, for that sister art to which they owe so much. He
once went so far as to take an interest in some musical glasses, and
seemed to be pleased with the simple tunes that were played on them; but
pianos and violins he had no liking for.
He enjoyed looking at portraits of distinguished men, but did not
approve of religious pictures. Bayard Taylor presented him with a copy
of his translation of "Faust," and he read it, for the sake of old
acquaintance, but he did not like it and wondered especially what
explanation "Goethe's apologists could make for the strange, and
extraordinary characters in the second part." When some one asked him
why he did not make a trip to Europe he said: "Travelling does not seem
to agree with me; but beside that, I do not think I should find pleasure
in it. Their great cathedrals which people go to see, would not be of
any account to me; and I am afraid I should not enjoy the works of art.
I should like to see Switzerland; but there are also fine mountains over
there"--pointing to New Hampshire.
His prohibitory friends alleged that he was a good deal disturbed by the
five kinds of wine provided for the seventieth birth-day dinner, with
which his Boston publishers honored him. He endeavored to escape from
this dinner, and Messrs. Osgood and Company were obliged to send for him
three times, and most urgently, before he could be persuaded to come. It
is doubtful however if he objected to people's drinking wine in their
own homes. [Footnote: To a friend, who sent him on his seventy-fifth
birth-day a bottle of rare old Andalusian "Olovosa" with a bouquet of
flowers, he wrote:--
"I hasten to thank thee, dear Mrs. ----, for thy kind note, and
accompanying flowers, wreathing like Hafiz on Omar Khayyam's roses, the
wine--not of Shiraz, but of storied Andalusia.
"I am not accustomed to tarry long at the wine--in this case I shall
remember Paul's advice to Timothy.
"I am gratefully thy old friend,
"JOHN G. WHITTIER.
"Boston, Dec. 17, 1892."]
He is the only American poet who may be fairly said to have earned his
living by his poems, though Longfellow might have done so, if it had
been his fortune to reside in a country town. Whittier may have assisted
sometimes in editing the local newspaper, and he once published a volume
of rather tame prose-studies of the Shakers and other strange people who
are found in the southern counties of New Hampshire. I never met with
but one copy of it, and it could not have had a large circulation. He
was not so much an observer of life and manners, as an imaginative
thinker,--one whose reflections took the shape of ideal pictures. This,
as Shakespeare would have called it, is the right complexion of the
lyric poet.
His exchequer suffered however in the earlier part of his career on
account of his principles. All the anti-slavery people suffered for
their convictions in one way or another--just as the slave-holders
suffered for theirs, in the end. Garrison was mobbed: Phillips, who
might have amassed wealth, like Phocian, died in poverty: Sumner was
murderously assaulted: John Brown, lost his life; and George L. Stearns,
died of unresting toil during the war, and wrecked his fortune: but
Whittier represented the heart of the American people, and after the
publication of "Barbara Frietchie" the tide turned in his favor.
"Snow-bound" had an extensive sale, and brought him in nearly
ten-thousand dollars. "The Tent on the Beach" paid almost as well; and
his collection of English and American poetry was a fortunate hit, on
the part of his publishers, which Whittier's modest nature would not
otherwise have thought of; so that he was well provided for, in old age,
and could even have made a journey around the world like General Grant,
if he had been so disposed.
[Illustration: WHITTIER IN HIS SEVENTY-SECOND YEAR. FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY
THOMPSON.]
His popularity soon attracted the attention of politicians who hoped to
make use of it for the good of the country. He was too influential a
member of the community to be overlooked. Senator Wilson, Speaker
Colfax, Governor Claflin and others called upon him, congratulated him
on the fortunate turn of affairs, and hoped they might be of service to
him. Quakers have always had a good reputation for shrewdness, and
Whittier was not lacking in that quality. He understood perfectly well
what they wanted of him, and was a good deal amused by it, but he liked
to converse with vigorous and experienced men, and could obtain from
them a better understanding of affairs than was to be found in the
newspaper. His letters on politics were always able and interesting; and
he sometimes adopted exactly the opposite view from what his advisors
would have liked to have him. It is true he formerly dedicated a poem to
Colfax as an ideal statesman, but perhaps Whittier was more nearly right
in this than public opinion has been, since that time.
He disliked being lionized and was rarely seen in public. The adoration
of young women was of all things the most disagreeable to him. He
created quite a sensation by appearing at one of Emerson's noon-day
lectures in May, 1866, and as soon as the discourse was over he became
the centre of a small circle of celebrities. Yet he seemed even more
glad to meet his humbler and more familiar friends. He said, "If I come
again, it will be to hear that man," referring to Wendell Phillips, who
stood a little at one side watching Emerson and Whittier with the air of
an art critic.
He said of the Boston Radical Club (which nevertheless contained the
best intellectual life of its time) that he feared the saints went there
not only to worship but to be worshipped:--a large part of the audience
consisting of pretty young women. Yet he finally went there himself, for
the sake of an interview with the most distinguished of his admirers,
the Emperor of Brazil. This magnificent monarch, who may even be called
the Marcus Aurelius of modern times, openly declared that there was
nothing in North America that he wished so much to see as the poet
Whittier. A meeting was accordingly arranged, and no sooner had Dom
Pedro caught sight of Whittier (whom he recognized from the pictures he
possessed) than he hastened to embrace him, and would certainly have
kissed the astonished Quaker, after the fashion that prevails among the
Latin races, if Whittier had permitted him the least opportunity. After
paying his compliments in a handsome manner to the assembled company the
Emperor took his leave again, and insisted on carrying off the poet with
him. One might like to know what sort of a conversation two such
different and almost antipodal friends had together for that one hour in
a lifetime.
The climate of the Isles of Shoals exactly suited Whittier's dreamy
nature. He would wander from the piazza into the billiard-room, and back
again to the piazza, and then look at the sea for an hour or more
without speaking a word to any one. Indeed he talked very little even
with those who knew him best, and strangers had no chance at all with
him. There was something respectful in the hush of conversation whenever
he approached a group of people who were talking loudly or laughing. I
never met him walking over the rocks, or knew of his going out on the
water either for sailing or fishing. One foggy evening when some of us
were playing a game of writing verses in the hotel parlor, one of the
ladies seeing Whittier alone, in a corner of the room, boldly invited
him to join us, which he did with a very pleasant alacrity. It was
noticed however that his compositions were not any better or even so
good as those of the others, and we suspected that he took pains not to
excel the rest of the company.
Yet he could talk in a vigorous manner when the right occasion presented
itself. There was a certain Colonel Greene who frequented Appledore in
those years: a high-minded socialistic thinker, who had resigned a
commission in the United States Army, during the war with the Florida
Indians, on account of the government's breach of faith with Osceola. He
was a born controversialist and always ready to discuss any subject in
politics, religion or philosophy. John Weiss was not far behind him in
this line, and delighted to set him going for the benefit of those who
liked to hear. No sea air was sufficiently narcotic to dull the edge of
Colonel Greene's argument. When these two were once discussing a book on
pantheism, which had lately been published by Rev. J. W. Manning of the
Old South Church, Whittier, who had been walking to and fro on the
piazza just within reach of their voices, finally, came up and said: "I
told Manning that the one kind of pantheist he had omitted from his
book, was the orthodox pantheist. For that matter, I believe there are
pantheists in every religious sect. They start like Professor Parsons
the Swedenborgian, with the proposition that as even God could not make
the universe out of nothing, he must have made it out of Himself; and
you cannot argue them away from it. At the same time, they will insist
that they are perfectly good Christians." He then cited several
instances of this which had come under his own observation: and Colonel
Greene also remembered some cases; but this was the only time we knew
Whittier to speak on a religious question.
Longfellow, Tennyson and Whittier were the three most popular poets of
the latter part of the present century, and it is difficult to determine
which of them may be considered the best. While neither of them rises to
the very highest rank, each has excellences peculiarly his own. Whittier
does not equal the others in their graceful diction and rare metrical
skill, but he surpasses them in earnestness and intensity. He paints in
deeper colors, and with a firmer touch. The longer and more ambitious
poems of Tennyson and Longfellow are interesting, but they lack the
strength, vigor and greatness of design which are inseparable from all
the noblest works of art.
They are written to please, rather than to educate the human race. Their
shorter pieces are the best ones. Whittier's chief excellence is to be
found in his ballads; in the "Wreck at Rivermouth," "Skipper Ireson,"
"The Relief of Lucknow," "Barbara Frietchie" and others. Nothing is more
rare than a fine ballad. Coleridge's ballad of the "Ancient Mariner" is
probably the greatest English poem written since Milton's time, and
there are many old English ballads which are nearly equal to it. The
ballad of "Mary Garvin," simply as a work of art, takes the first place
among Longfellow's poems. Tennyson and Whittier both tried their hands
on the siege of Lucknow, and Whittier carried off the prize.
His verses are always sensible, healthy and elevating. Complaint has
been made that they are too much haunted by the spectre of his
schoolmate; but without saying this, we could wish that such an immature
affection had been replaced afterwards by a deeper and more manly
attachment. He was assisted in the arrangement of his collection of
poetry (which Lowell and other good critics considered the best we have)
by his poetical friend Miss Lucy Larcom, and this was chiefly no doubt
that she might receive a share of the profits from its publication. The
sonnets from Shakespeare and many others, were of her selection. The art
of poetry came so naturally to Whittier, that he said he could not
understand why every one did not write it as well as or better than he
could.
At the time of Hawthorne's last visit to the Isles of Shoals in company
with his friend the ex-President, there was also a party of business men
from Concord, New Hampshire, who tried to make his acquaintance, but
without much success. Afterwards we went to Portsmouth with the same
party and were becalmed on the way for nearly four hours, so that we had
an excellent chance to become acquainted with our fellow passengers. One
of them said:--"Nathaniel Hawthorne was a very reserved man. There's
Franklin Pierce: he has been President of the United States, and yet
anyone can go up and speak to him; but we found Hawthorne very
different." Of course we had to tell this on our return, and Whittier
laughed heartily. Mrs. Thaxter said, "Reserved was no word for it;" and
Whittier added, "Hawthorne was a strange puzzle. I never felt quite sure
whether I knew him or not. He never seemed to be doing anything, and yet
he did not like to be disturbed at it." He disliked to hear people say
that Hawthorne wrote the life of General Pierce for the sake of a
government office. They were old college friends, and without doubt he
would have obtained the office whether he wrote it or not. If he wished
to live in Italy Buchanan should have given him the consulship of
Leghorn or Venice. He looked on "Septimus Felton" as a failure, and
thought that probably Hawthorne considered it so himself. He thought it
not unlikely that Hawthorne would outlive every other writer of his
time.
At another time he came to me and said, "What deep problems of
government are you thinking over there all by yourself?" I laughed and
told him that I was thinking of Rome; and how much that little patch of
water looked like the piece of sea in Guido's Aurora; but I was glad to
have him speak of politics, for the present condition of affairs was
such as to give every serious man anxiety for the moral welfare of the
country.
"Indeed it is," he replied. "What we read in the newspapers is bad
enough; but I have information from private sources which represents
matters as being even worse than is generally supposed." [Footnote: This
was in 1875.]
"Perhaps," I said, "it is one of those evils which will cure itself
after a certain time."
"It will, no doubt," he answered, "bring about a strong reaction against
the Republican party; but even that is a thing to be deplored. Meanwhile
what an example we present to the monarchical governments of Europe!"
[Illustration: THE MERRIMAC RIVER, NEAR AMESBURY, BY MOONLIGHT.]
"I suppose," said I, "that it is one of the consequences of our civil
war."
"Yes," said he, "I am ready to agree to that,--a long and protracted war
must have a hardening and brutalizing influence on the community even
when it is fought for a good cause."
"Did not Hawthorne," I said, "predict something like this in an article
in the 'Atlantic Monthly'?"
"Yes," he replied, "I remember that article,--it was just a year before
his death,--and there was a good deal of wisdom in it. Some of my
friends are inclined to think that woman suffrage would improve the
present condition of politics, but I do not feel sure that it would."
"I have no doubt it would do good if only the sensible women were
permitted to vote," I said. "My faith is that what we need to purify
politics in America is not an extension, but a restriction of the
suffrage. It is easy to see, for instance, how favorably that would work
in the city of New York, which with its custom-house is now the heaviest
burden we have to bear."
What Whittier thought of this idea I never knew; he seemed to be
reflecting on it when the ladies of his party came in sight and we both
rose to meet them.
Though he was not fond of travelling, he liked to read books of travel;
and once, according to his doctor's advice, spent a winter at Amesbury
reading everything of the kind that he could hear of and obtain. He
spoke of Wilson's book on the Himalaya Mountains as the most interesting
of them. "It seems as if there was nothing that a cultivated Englishman
could not and would not go through with," he said. I mentioned Humboldt.
"Yes," he replied, "Humboldt certainly accomplished wonderful things,
but the Germans are generally more cautious and prudent. A cultivated
Englishman seems to be equal to anything." Among modern travellers
however, Vambery, the Hungarian, takes the highest rank.
At a later period, I was journeying through the White Mountains and
reached West Ossipee one afternoon tired with travelling and weary from
a sleepless night. I hastened to my room and threw myself upon the bed,
but had scarcely closed my eyes when there was a knock at the door and
there stood Mr. Whittier,--the pleasantest of all apparitions for some
years. The next few days were like dwelling in the islands of the blest,
compared with the ordinary current of human life. It was a holiday
within a holiday. He was surrounded by charming ladies, among them his
niece Mrs. Caldwell, and as it was late in the season we had the Bear
Camp House--a place that now ought to be historic--almost to ourselves.