get from him, but is a legend of the neighborhood. One of their nearest
neighbors, a Miss Chase, had a cherry-tree she guarded with the utmost
jealousy. No bird could alight on it in cherry time, and no boy
approach it, without bringing her to the rescue with a promptness that
frightened them. One day she saw a boy in the branches of this precious
tree, and issued upon the scene with dire threats. She caught sight of
the culprit's face, and instantly changed her tone: "Oh, is it you,
Greenleaf? Take all the cherries you want!"
The old homestead was an object of interest as far back as 1842, as is
shown by a letter before me, written by Elizabeth Nicholson of
Philadelphia, who asks her friend, Elizabeth Whittier, for a picture of
it: "When thee come to Philadelphia if thee will bring ever so rough a
sketch of the house where Greenleaf was born, for Elizabeth Lloyd to
copy for my book, why--we'll be glad to see thee! I hope for the sake
of the picturesque it is a ruin--indeed it must be, for Griswold says
it has been in the family a hundred years!" It had then been in the
family for over one hundred and fifty years. The book referred to by
Miss Nicholson was a manuscript collection of all the verses, published
and unpublished, that Whittier had written at that time--a notable
collection, now in existence. She had obtained from the poet a preface
in verse for this album, which as it has autobiographical material,
refers to the scenery of his birthplace, and was never in print, is
here given in a version he prepared for another similar album. For
this version I am indebted to the collection made by Mary Pillsbury of
Newbury, which contains other original poems of Whittier never
published:--
A RETROSPECT
O visions of my boyhood! shades of rhymes!
Vain dreams and longings of my early times!
The work of intervals, a ploughboy's lore,
Oft conned by hearthlight when day's toil was o'er;
Or when through roof-cracks could at night behold
Bright stars in circle with pattens of gold;
Or stretched at noon while oaken branches cast
A restful shade, where rippling waters passed;
The ox unconscious panted at my side,
The good dog fondly his young master eyed,
And on the boughs above the forest bird
Alone rude snatches of the measure heard;
The measure that had sounded to me long,
And vain I sought to weave it in a song,
Or trace it, when the world's enchantment first
To longing eye, as kindling dawn's light, burst.
Then flattery's voice, in woman's gentlest tone,
Woke thoughts and feelings heretofore unknown,
And homes of wealth and beauty, wit and mirth,
By taste refined, by eloquence and worth,
Taught and diffused the intellect's high joy,
And gladly welcomed e'en a rustic boy;
Or when ambition's lip of flame and fear
Burned like the tempter's to my listening ear,
And a proud spirit, hidden deep and long,
Rose up for strife, stern, resolute, and strong,
Eager for toil, and proudly looking up
To higher levels for the world, with hope.
In these lines Whittier has told in brief the whole story of his life,
from his early dreaming by this brookside and at this hearthstone, to
the waking of his political ambitions, and later to his earnest strife
to bring up the world "to higher levels."
It happened that the day on which Whittier visited his birthplace for
the last time was toward the close of a spirited political campaign in
which Whittier took much interest, as General Butler was a candidate he
was opposing. Speaking of Butler reminded him of the pet ox of his
boyhood, which had the odd name of "Old Butler," between whose horns he
would sit as the animal chewed his cud under the hillside oaks. This
was the same ox that, in rushing down one of these steep hills for
salt, could not stop because of his momentum, but saved his young
master's life by leaping over his head. No doubt this ox was in mind
when he wrote the line just quoted, "The ox unconscious panted at my
side." One story reminded him of another, and he said this ox was named
for another that had its day in a former generation on a neighboring
farm.
This is the story he told of the original "Old Butler:" A family named
Morse lived not far from here, and included several boys fond of
practical joking. The older brothers one day bound the youngest upon
the back of the ox, Butler. Frightened by the unusual burden, the
animal dashed away to the woods on Job's Hill. The lad was fearfully
bruised before he was rescued. Indignant at the treatment he had
received, he left home the next morning, and was not heard from until
in his old age he returned to the Haverhill farm, and found his
brothers still living. They killed for him the fatted calf, and after
the supper, as they sat before the great wood fire, they talked over
the events of their boyhood. One of the brothers referred to the
subject all had hitherto avoided, and said, "Don't you remember your
ride upon Old Butler?" "Yes, I _do_ remember it," was the answer, "and
I don't thank you for bringing it up at this time." The next morning he
left the place, and was never again heard from. Mr. Whittier told this
story to explain the odd name he had given his ox.
The story has been often told of Garrison's coming out to East
Haverhill to find a contributor who had interested him; and it has
been stated that the Quaker lad was called in from work in the field to
see the dapper young editor and his lady friend. He once told me that
the situation was a bit more awkward for him. It happened that on this
eventful morning the young poet had discovered that a hen had stolen
her nest under the barn, and he was crawling on his hands and knees,
digging his dusty way towards the hen, when his sister Mary came out to
summon him to receive city visitors. It was only by her urgent
persuasion that he was induced to give up burrowing for the eggs. By
making a wide detour, he entered the house without being seen, and in
haste effected a change of raiment. In telling the story, he said he
put on in his haste a pair of trousers that came scarcely to his
ankles, and he must have been a laughable spectacle. He would have felt
much more at ease if he had come in just as he was when he emerged from
under the barn. Garrison, with the social tact that ever distinguished
him, put the shy boy at his ease at once.
After the death of their father, Greenleaf and his brother Franklin for
a time worked the farm together, and when in later life they indulged
in reminiscences of this agricultural experience, this is a story with
which the poet liked to tease his brother: Franklin was sent to swap
cows with a venerable Quaker living at considerable distance from their
homestead. He came back with a beautiful animal, warranted as he
supposed to be a good cow, and he depended upon a verbal warrant from a
member of a Society which was justly proud of its reliability in all
business transactions. It was soon found that she was worthless as a
milker, and Franklin took her back, demanding a cancellation of the
bargain because the cow was not as represented. But the old Quaker was
ready for him: "What did I tell thee? Did I say she was a _good_ cow?
No, I told thee she was a _harnsome_ cow--and thee cannot deny she _is_
harnsome!"
One of Whittier's ancestors was fined for cutting oaks on the common.
When this fact was discovered, he was asked if he would wish this
circumstance to be omitted in his biography. "By no means," he said,
"tell the whole story. It shows we had some enterprising ancestors,
even if a bit unscrupulous."
When Whittier last visited his birthplace, ten years before his death,
he was saddened by many evidences he saw that the estate was not being
thriftily managed, and expressed the wish to buy and restore the place
to something like its condition when it remained in his family. Not one
of his near relatives was then so situated as to be able to take charge
of it, and his idea of again making it Whittier homestead was
reluctantly given up. When he learned, towards the close of his life,
that Mr. Ordway, Mayor Burnham, and other public-spirited citizens of
Haverhill, proposed to buy and care for the place, already become a
shrine for many visitors, he asked permission to pay whatever might be
needed for its purchase. He died before negotiations could be
completed, and Hon. James H. Carleton generously bought the homestead,
and transferred the proprietorship to a self-perpetuating board of nine
trustees, viz.: Alfred A. Ordway, George C. How, Charles Butters,
Dudley Porter, Thomas E. Burnham, Clarence E. Kelley, Susan B. Sanders,
Sarah M. F. Duncan, and Annie W. Frankle. In the deed of gift the
trustees were enjoined "to preserve as nearly as may be the natural
features of the landscape; preserve and restore the buildings thereon
as nearly as may be in the same condition as when occupied by Whittier;
and to afford all persons, at such suitable times and under such proper
restrictions as said trustees may prescribe, the right and privilege of
access to the same, that thereby the memory and love for the poet and
the man may be cherished and perpetuated." Mr. Ordway was made
president of the board, and in his hands the office has been no
sinecure. His unflagging zeal and his unerring good taste have resulted
not only in putting the ancient house into the perfect order of the
olden time, but in fertilizing the wornout fields, and preserving for
future ages one of the finest specimens in the country of the colonial
farmhouse of New England. Mr. Whittier's niece, to whom he left his
house in Amesbury, returned to the birthplace many of the household
treasures that were carried from there in 1836. The articles in the
house purporting to be Whittier heirlooms may be depended on as
genuine.
I do not think that Whittier was ever aware that Harriet Livermore, the
"not unfeared, half-welcome guest," of whom he gave such a vivid
portrait in "Snow-Bound," returned to America from her travels in the
Holy Land at about the time that poem was published, and died the next
year, 1867. I have from good authority this curious story of her first
reading of those lines which meant so much in a peculiar way to the
immortality of her name. She was ill, and called with a prescription at
a drugstore in Burlington, N. J. It happened that the druggist was a
personal friend of Whittier's--Mr. Allinson, father of the lad for whom
the poem "My Namesake" was written. This was in March, 1866, and
Whittier had just sent his friend an early copy of his now famous poem.
He had not had time to open the book when the prescription was handed
him. As it would take considerable time to compound the medicine, he
asked the aged lady to take a seat, and handed her the book he had just
received to read while waiting. When he gave her the medicine and she
returned the book, he noticed she was much perturbed, and was mystified
by her exclamation: "This book tells a pack of lies about me!" He
naturally supposed she was crazy, both from her remark and from her
appearance. It was not until some time later that he learned that his
customer was Harriet Livermore herself!
In another New Jersey town was living at the same time another of the
"Snow-Bound" characters,--the teacher of the district school, whose
name even the poet had forgotten when this sketch of him was written.
In the last year of his life Whittier recalled that his name was
Haskell, but could tell me no more, except that he was from Maine, and
was a Dartmouth student. His story is told in "Life and Letters," and
is now referred to only to note the curious fact that although he lived
until 1876, and was a cultivated man who no doubt was familiar with
Whittier's work, yet he was never aware that he had the poet for a
pupil, and died without knowing that his own portrait had been drawn by
the East Haverhill lad with whom he had played in this old kitchen. I
have this from my friend, John Townsend Trowbridge, who was personally
acquainted with Haskell in the last years of his life.
It was in 1698, ten years after this house was built, that the Indians
in a foray upon Haverhill burned many houses and killed or captured
forty persons, including the heroic Hannah Dustin, in whom they caught
a veritable tartar. Her statue with uplifted tomahawk stands in front
of the City Hall. It is possible that on her return to Haverhill she
brought her ten Indian scalps into this kitchen.
Whittier used to tell many amusing stories of his boyhood days. Here is
one he heard in the old kitchen of the Whittier homestead at Haverhill,
as told by the aged pastor of the Congregational church in the
neighborhood, who used to call upon the Quaker family as if they
belonged to his parish. These extra-official visits were much prized,
especially by the boys, for he told them many a tale of his own boyhood
in Revolutionary times. This story of "the power of figures" I can give
almost in Whittier's words, as I made notes while he was telling it:
The old clergyman sat by the kitchen fire with his mug of cider and
told of his college life. He was a poor student, and when he went home
at vacation time, he tramped the long journey on foot, stopping at
hospitable farmhouses on the way for refreshment. One evening an old
farmer invited him in, and as they sat by the fire, after a good
supper, they talked of the things the student was learning at college.
At length the farmer suggested:--
"No doubt you know the power of figures?"
The student modestly allowed he had learned something of algebra and
some branches of the higher mathematics.
[Illustration: HARRIET LIVERMORE[2]]
"I know it! I know it! You are just the man I want to see. You know the
power of figures! I have lost a cow; now use your power of figures and
find her for me."
The student disclaimed such power, but it was of no use. The farmer
insisted that one who knew the power of figures must be able to locate
his cow. Else, of what use to go to college; why not stay at home and
find the cows after the manner of the unlearned? So the student decided
to quiz a little. He took a piece of chalk and drew crazy diagrams on
the floor. The farmer thought he recognized in the lines the roads and
fences of the vicinity, rubbed his hands, and exclaimed:--
"You are coming to it! Don't tell me you don't know the power of
figures!"
At last, when the poor student had exhausted the power of his
invention, he threw down the chalk, and pointing to the spot where it
fell, said:--
"Your cow is there!"
He had a good bed, but could not rest easy on it for the thought of how
he was to get out of the scrape in the morning, when it would be surely
known that his figures had lied. He decided that he would steal off
before any of the family had arisen. In the early dawn he was
congratulating himself upon having got out of the house unobserved,
when he was met at the gate by the old farmer himself, who was leading
the cow home in triumph. He had found her exactly where the figures had
foretold. Of course the mathematician must go back to breakfast--what
was he running off for, after doing such a service by his learning?
They stood again by the cabalistic diagram on the floor of the kitchen.
"You needn't tell me you don't know the power of figures," exclaimed
the good man, "for the cow was just there!"
For once, the clergyman said, Satan had done him a good turn.
[Illustration: SCENE ON COUNTRY BROOK]
Nearly all the early letters and poems of Whittier, written before he
gave up every selfish ambition and devoted his life to philanthropic
work, show how great was the change that came over his spirit when
about twenty-five years of age. Before that time he imagined that the
world was treating him harshly, and he was bracing himself for a
contest with it, with a feeling that he was surrounded by enemies. His
tone was almost invariably pessimistic. After the change referred to,
he habitually saw friends on every side, gave up selfish ambitions, and
a cheerful optimism pervaded his outlook upon life. The following
extract from a letter written in April, 1831, while editing the "New
England Review," to a literary lady in New Haven, is in the prevailing
tone of what he wrote in the earlier period. This letter has only
lately come into my possession, and is now first quoted:--
"Disappointment in a thousand ways has gone over my heart,
and left it dust. Yet I still look forward with high
anticipations. I have placed the goal of my ambitions
high--but with the blessing of God it shall be reached. The
world has at last breathed into my bosom a portion of its
own bitterness, and I now feel as if I would wrestle
manfully in the strife of men. If my life is spared, the
world shall know me in a loftier capacity than _as a writer
of rhymes_. [The italics are his own.] There--is not that
boasting?--But I have said it with a strong pulse and a
swelling heart, and I shall strive to realize it."
In another letter, written at about the same time to the same
correspondent, he says: "As for tears, I have not shed anything of the
kind since my last flogging under the birchen despotism of the Nadir
Shah of our village school. I have sometimes wished I _could_ shed
tears--especially when angry with myself or with the world. There is an
iron fixedness about my heart on such occasions which I would gladly
melt away."
From the birthplace to the Amesbury home is a distance of nine miles,
traversed by electric cars in less than an hour. Midway is the thriving
village of Merrimac, formerly known as West Amesbury. It was at Birchy
Meadow in this vicinity that Whittier taught his first and only term of
district school, in the winter of 1827-28. The road is at considerable
distance from the Merrimac River, and at several points it surmounts
hills which afford remarkably fine views of the wide and fertile river
valley, with occasional glimpses of the river itself. At Pond Hills,
near the village of Amesbury, the landscape presented to view is one of
the widest and loveliest in all this region. It is a panorama of the
beautifully rounded hills peculiar to this section, with a tidal river
winding among them with many a graceful curve. The electric road we
have taken is about two miles from the left bank of the river, across
which we look to the Newbury hills, cultivated to their tops, with here
and there a church spire indicating the location of the distant
villages. Every part of this lovely valley has been commemorated in
Whittier's writings, prose and verse.
[Illustration: THE SYCAMORES]
If, instead of the trolley, we take the carriage road from Haverhill
along the bank of the river, we soon come to what are left of "the
sycamores," planted in 1739 by Hugh Tallant, in front of the
Saltonstall mansion. This mansion is now occupied by the Haverhill
Historical Society, and most of the famous row of "Occidental
plane-trees" were cut down many years ago, a sacrifice to street
improvement. Three of the ancient trees still stand, and will probably
round out the second century of their existence. They are about eighty
feet in height, and measure nearly twenty feet around their trunks.
Under these trees Washington "drew rein," and Whittier repeats the
legend that he said:--
"I have seen no prospect fairer
In this goodly Eastern land."
About a mile below on the northeasterly side of Millvale, a hill
picturesquely crowned with pines attracts attention. This is the Ramoth
Hill immortalized in the lovely poem "My Playmate:"--
"The pines were dark on Ramoth Hill,
Their song was soft and low.
. . . . .
"And still the pines of Ramoth wood
Are moaning like the sea,--
The moaning of the sea of change
Between myself and thee!"
Until recently there has been much doubt as to the location of Ramoth
Hill, Whittier himself giving no definite answer when asked in regard
to it. Indeed, the poem as originally written had the title "Eleanor,"
and the hill was given the name of Menahga. But Mr. J. T. Fields, to
whom the manuscript was submitted, did not like this name, and Whittier
changed it to Ramoth, which suited his editor's taste. Mr. Alfred A.
Ordway, the best authority on all matters pertaining to Whittier's
allusions to places in this region, has discovered that the name
Menahga was given to this particular hill in Haverhill by Mrs. Mary S.
West of Elmwood, one of a family all the members of which were dear to
Whittier from his boyhood to the close of his life. A letter of
Whittier's to Mrs. West has come to light, written about the time this
poem was composed, in which he commends the selection of the name of
this hill, and intimates that he shall use it in a poem.
On the Country Bridge road, leading from the birthplace to Rocks
Village, is an ancient edifice, known as the "Old Garrison House,"
which is of interest to Whittier-Land pilgrims because it was the home
of Whittier's great-grandmother, Mary Peaslee, who brought Quakerism
into the Whittier family. Thomas Whittier, the pioneer, did not belong
to the Society of Friends, though favorably disposed toward the sect.
His youngest son, Joseph, brought the young Quakeress into the family,
and their descendants for several generations, down to the time of the
poet, belonged to the sect founded by her father's friend, George Fox.
Joseph Peaslee built this house with bricks brought from England before
1675. As it was one of the largest and strongest houses in the town, in
the time of King Philip's war it was set apart by the town authorities
as a house of refuge for the families of the neighborhood, and as a
rallying point for the troops kept on the scout. There are many
port-holes through its thick walls.
[Illustration: OLD GARRISON HOUSE (PEASLEE HOUSE)]
A little farther on we come to Rocks Village, pictured so perfectly by
Whittier in his poem "The Countess," that it will be at once
recognized:--
"Over the wooded northern ridge,
Between its houses brown,
To the dark tunnel of the bridge
The street comes straggling down."
The bridge across the Merrimac at this point was a covered and gloomy
structure at the time this poem was written. It has since been
partially remodeled, and many of the houses of the "stranded village,"
then brown and paintless, have received modern improvements. But there
is enough of antiquity still clinging to the place to make it
recognizable from Whittier's lines. This was the market to which the
Whittiers brought much of the produce of their farm to barter for
household supplies. This was the home of Dr. Elias Weld, the "wise old
doctor" of "Snow-Bound," and it was to him "The Countess" was
inscribed--the poem which every year brings many visitors hither, for
the grave of the Countess is near.
[Illustration: ROCKS VILLAGE AND BRIDGE
Home of the Countess was at further end of the bridge, in house now
standing, afterward occupied by Whittier's benefactor, Dr. Weld.]
Whittier was still in his teens when this eccentric physician left
Rocks Village and removed to Hallowell, Maine, and almost half a
century had intervened before he wrote that remarkable tribute to the
friend and benefactor of his youth, which is found in the prelude to
"The Countess." The good old man died at Hudson, Ohio, a few months
after the publication of the lines that meant so much to his fame, and
it is pleasant to know that they consoled the last hours of his long
life. Whittier did not know whether or not the benefactor of his
boyhood was living in 1863, when he wrote the poem, as is shown in the
lines:--
"I know not, Time and Space so intervene,
Whether, still waiting with a trust serene,
Thou bearest up thy fourscore years and ten,
Or, called at last, art now Heaven's citizen."
[Illustration: RIVER VALLEY, NEAR GRAVE OF COUNTESS
"For, from us, ere the day was done
The wooded hills shut out the sun.
But on the river's further side
We saw the hill-tops glorified."
THE RIVER PATH]
[Illustration: DR. ELIAS WELD, AT THE AGE OF NINETY]
And yet they were in correspondence in the previous year, as is shown
by the fact that I find in an old album of Whittier's a photograph
labeled by him "Dr. Weld," and this photograph, I am assured by Mrs.
Tracy, a grandniece of Weld, was taken when he was ninety years of age.
I think it probable that the sending of this photograph by the aged
physician put Whittier in mind to write his Rocks Village poem, with
the tribute of remembrance and affection contained in its prelude. As
to the ancient sulky which--
"Down the village lanes
Dragged, like a war-car, captive ills and pains,"