On the hard ways his purpose went;
Small play of fancy lightened toil;
He spake alone the thing he meant."
As an illustration of his own way of speaking the thing he did _not_
mean, just for fun, take the following: More than thirty years ago, a
Division of the Sons of Temperance was organized in Amesbury, and his
niece, one of his household, joined it. Her turn came to edit a paper
for the Division, and she asked her uncle to contribute something. He
had often complained in a laughing way in regard to the late hours of
the club, and had threatened to lock her out. This accounts for the
tone of the following remarkable contribution to temperance literature
from one of the oldest friends of the cause:--
THE DIVISION
"Dogs take it! Still the girls are out,"
Said Muggins, bedward groping,
"'T is twelve o'clock, or thereabout,
And all the doors are open!
I'll lock the doors another night,
And give to none admission;
Better to be abed and tight
Than sober at Division!"
Next night at ten o'clock, or more
Or less, by Muggins's guessing,
He went to bolt the outside door,
And lo! the key was missing.
He muttered, scratched his head, and quick
He came to this decision:
"Here 's something new in 'rithmetic,
Subtraction by Division!
"And then," said he, "it puzzles me,
I cannot get the right on 't,
Why temperance talk and whiskey spree
Alike should make a night on 't.
D 'ye give it up?" In Muggins's voice
Was something like derision--
"It 's just because between the boys
And girls there 's no Division!"
[Illustration: BEARCAMP HOUSE, WEST OSSIPEE, N. H.]
Whittier's favorite way of enjoying his annual vacation among the
mountains was to go with a party of his relatives and neighbors, and
take possession of a little inn at West Ossipee, known as the "Bearcamp
House." Sturtevant's, at Centre Harbor, was another of his resorts. At
these places his party filled nearly every room. It was made up largely
of young people, full of frolic and love of adventure. The aged poet
could not climb with them to the tops of the mountains; but he watched
their going and coming with lively interest, and of an evening listened
to their reports and laughed over the effervescence of their
enthusiasm. Two young farmers of West Ossipee, brothers named Knox,
acted as guides to Chocorua. They had some success as bear hunters, and
supplied the inn with bear steaks. One day in September, 1876, the
Knox brothers took a party of seven of Whittier's friends to the top of
Chocorua, where they camped for the night among the traps that had been
set for the bears. They heard the growling of the bears in the night,
so the young ladies reported, with other blood-curdling incidents. Soon
after the Knox brothers gave a husking at their barn,[7] and the whole
Bearcamp party was invited. Whittier wrote a poem for the occasion, and
induced Lucy Larcom to read it for him as from an unknown author,
although he sat among the huskers. It was entitled:--
HOW THEY CLIMBED CHOCORUA
Unto gallant deeds belong
Poet's rhyme and singer's song;
Nor for lack of pen or tongue
Should their praises be unsung,
Who climbed Chocorua!
O full long shall they remember
That wild nightfall of September,
When aweary of their tramp
They set up their canvas camp
In the hemlocks of Chocorua.
There the mountain winds were howling,
There the mountain bears were prowling,
And through rain showers falling drizzly
Glared upon them, grim and grisly,
The ghost of old Chocorua!
On the rocks with night mist wetted,
Keen his scalping knife he whetted,
For the ruddy firelight dancing
On the brown locks of Miss Lansing,
Tempted old Chocorua.
But he swore--(if ghosts can swear)--
"No, I cannot lift the hair
Of that pale face, tall and fair,
And for _her_ sake, I will spare
The sleepers on Chocorua."
Up they rose at blush of dawning,
Off they marched in gray of morning,
Following where the brothers Knox
Went like wild goats up the rocks
Of vast Chocorua.
Where the mountain shadow bald fell,
Merry faced went Addie Caldwell;
And Miss Ford, as gay of manner,
As if thrumming her piano,
Sang along Chocorua.
Light of foot, of kirtle scant,
Tripped brave Miss Sturtevant;
While as free as Sherman's bummer,
In the rations foraged Plummer,
On thy slope, Chocorua!
Panting, straining up the rock ridge,
How they followed Tip and Stockbridge,
Till at last, all sore with bruises,
Up they stood like the nine Muses,
On thy crown, Chocorua!
At their shout, so wild and rousing,
Every dun deer stopped his browsing,
And the black bear's small eyes glistened,
As with watery mouth he listened
To the climbers on Chocorua.
All the heavens were close above them,
But below were friends who loved them,--
And at thought of Bearcamp's worry,
Down they clambered in a hurry,--
Scurry down Chocorua.
Sore we miss the steaks and bear roast--
But withal for friends we care most;--
Give the brothers Knox three cheers,
Who to bring us back our _dears_,
Left bears on old Chocorua!
[Illustration: GROUP AT STURTEVANT'S, CENTRE HARBOR
Gertrude Cartland at Whittier's left, Mrs. Wade and Joseph Cartland at
his right. Mrs. Caldwell, wife of Whittier's nephew, at his left
shoulder.]
The next day after the husking, Lucy Larcom and some others of the
party prepared a burlesque literary exercise for the evening at the
inn. She wrote a frolicsome poem, and others devised telegrams, etc.,
all of which were to surprise Whittier, who was to know nothing of the
affair until it came off. When the evening came, the venerable poet
took his usual place next the tongs, and the rest of the party formed a
semicircle around the great fireplace. On such occasions Whittier
always insisted on taking charge of the fire, as he did in his own
home. He even took upon himself the duty of filling the wood-box. No
one in his presence dared to touch the tongs. By and by telegrams began
to be brought in by the landlord from ridiculous people in ridiculous
situations. Some purported to come from an old poet who had the
misfortune to be caught by his coat-tails in one of the Knox bear-traps
on Chocorua. It was suggested that he might be the author of the poem
read at the husking. Lucy Larcom, who, by the way, was another of the
writers popularly supposed to be very serious minded, but who really
was known among her friends as full of fun, read a poem addressed to
the man in the bear-trap, entitled:--
TO THE UNKNOWN AND ABSENT AUTHOR OF "HOW THEY CLIMBED CHOCORUA"
O man in the trap, O thou poet-man!
What on airth are you doin'?--
We haste to the husking as fast as we can,
--But where 's Mr. Bruin?
We listen, we wait for his sweet howl in vain,
Like the far storm resounding.
Brothers Knox ne'er will see Mr. Bruin again,
Through the dim moonlight bounding.
For, thou man in the trap, O thou poet-y-man,
Scared to flight by thy singing,
Away through the mountainous forest he ran,
Like a hurricane winging.
Aye, the bear fled away, and his traps left behind,
For the use of the poet;
If an echo unearthly is borne on the wind--
'T is the man's--you may know it
By its tones of dismay, melancholy and loss,
O'er his coat-tails' sad ruin;
There 's a moan in the pine, and a howl o'er the moss--
But it 's he--'t is n't Bruin!
And the fire you see on the cliff in the air[8]
Is his eye-balls a-glarin'!
And the form that you call old Chocorua there
Is the poet up-rarin'!
And whenever the trees on the mountain-tops thrill
And the fierce winds they blow 'em,
In most awful pause every bear shall stand still--
He 's writing a poem!
Whittier evidently enjoyed the fun, and after the rest had had their
say, he remarked, "That old fellow in the bear-trap must be _in
extremis_. He ought to make his will. Suppose we help him out!" He
asked one of us to get pencil and paper and jot down the items of the
will, each to make suggestions. It ended, of course, in his making the
whole will himself, and doing it in verse. It is perhaps the only poem
of his which he never wrote with his own hand. It came as rapidly as
the scribe could take it. Every one at that fireside was remembered in
this queer will--even the "boots" of the inn, the stage-driver, and
others who were looking upon the sport from the doorway.
THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF THE MAN IN THE BEAR-TRAP
Here I am at last a goner,
Held in hungry jaws like Jonah;
What the trap has left of me
Eaten by the bears will be.
So I make, on duty bent,
My last will and testament,
Giving to my Bearcamp friends
All my traps and odds and ends.
First, on Mr. Whittier,
That old bedstead I confer,
Whereupon, to vex his life,
Adam dreamed himself a wife.
I give Miss Ford the copyright
Of these verses I indite,
To be sung, when I am gone,
To the tune the cow died on.
On Miss Lansing I bestow
Tall Diana's hunting bow;
Where it is I cannot tell--
But if found 't will suit her well.
I bequeath to Mary Bailey
Yarn to knit a stocking daily.[9]
To Lizzie Pickard from my hat
A ribbon for her yellow cat.
And I give to Mr. Pickard
That old tallow dip that flickered,
Flowed and sputtered more or less
Over Franklin's printing press.
I give Belle Hume a wing
Of the bird that wouldn't sing;[10]
To Jettie for her dancing nights
Slippers dropped from Northern Lights.
And I give my very best
Beaver stove-pipe to Celeste--
Solely for her husband's wear,
On the day they're made a pair.
If a tear for me is shed,
And Miss Larcom's eyes are red--
Give her for her prompt relief
My last pocket-handkerchief![11]
My cottage at the Shoals I give
To all who at the Bearcamp live--
Provided that a steamer plays
Down that river in dog-days--
Linking daily heated highlands
With the cool sea-scented islands--
With Tip her engineer, her skipper
Peter Hines, the old stage-whipper.[12]
To Addie Caldwell, who has mended
My torn coat, and trousers rended,
I bequeath, in lack of payment,
All that 's left me of my raiment.
Having naught beside to spare,
To my good friend, Mrs. Ayer,
And to Mrs. Sturtevant,
My last lock of hair I grant.
I make Mr. Currier[13]
Of this will executor;
And I leave the debts to be
Reckoned as his legal fee.
This is all of the will that was written that evening; but the next
morning, at breakfast, I found under my plate a note-sheet, with some
penciling on it. As I opened it, Mr. Whittier, with a quizzical look,
said, "Thee will notice that the bear-trap man has added a codicil to
his will." This is the codicil:--
And this pencil of a sick bard
I bequeath to Mr. Pickard;
Pledging him to write a very
Long and full obituary--
Showing by my sad example,
Useful life and virtues ample,
Wit and wisdom only tend
To bear-traps at one's latter end!
I had to go back to my editorial desk in Portland that day, and
immediately received there this note from Mr. Whittier:--
"DEAR MR. P.,--Don't print in thy paper my foolish verses, which thee
copied. They are hardly consistent with my years and 'eminent gravity,'
and would make 'the heathen rage, and the people imagine vain things.'"
I had no thought at the time of giving to the public this jolly side of
Whittier's character, but do it now with little misgiving, as it is
realized by every one that "a little nonsense now and then is relished
by the wisest men." Whittier's capacity for serious work is well known,
and his love of play never interfered with it. An earnest man without a
sense of humor is a machine without a lubricant, worn out before its
work is done. There can be no doubt that Whittier owed his length of
days to his happy temperament.
Here is a story of Whittier told by Alice Freeman Palmer: One evening
they sat in Governor Claflin's library, in Boston, and he was taking
his rest telling ghost stories. Mrs. Claflin had given strict orders
that no visitor be allowed to intrude on Mr. Whittier when he was
resting. Suddenly, at the crisis of a particularly interesting story,
there was a commotion in the hall, and the rest of that story was not
told. A lady had called to see the poet, and would not be denied. The
domestic could not stop her, and she came straight into the library.
She walked up to Whittier and seized both his hands, saying, "Mr.
Whittier, this is the supreme moment of my life!" The poor man in his
distress blushed like a school-girl, and shifted from one foot to the
other; he managed to get his hands free, and put them behind him for
further security. And what do you think he said? All he said was, "Is
it?" Miss Freeman thought a third party in the way, and slipped out. As
she was going upstairs, she heard a quick step behind her, and Whittier
took her by the shoulder and shook her, saying as if angry, "Alice
Freeman, I believe thee has been laughing at me!" She could not deny
it. "What would thee do, Alice Freeman, if a man thee never saw should
come up in that way to thee, take both hands, and tell thee it was the
supreme moment of his life?"
Probably the most seriously dangerous position in which he was ever
placed was on the occasion of the looting and burning of Pennsylvania
Hall, in the spring of 1838. His editorial office was in the building,
and for two or three days the mob had been threatening its destruction
before they accomplished it. It was not safe for him to go into the
street except in disguise. And yet it was at this very time that he
wrote the following humorous skit, never before in print. Theodore D.
Weld had the year before made a contract of perpetual bachelorhood with
Whittier, and yet he chose this troublous time to marry the eloquent
South Carolina Quakeress, Angelina Grimke, who had freed her slaves and
come North to rouse the people, and was creating a sensation on the
lecture platform. Her burning words in Pennsylvania Hall had helped to
make the mob furious. Whittier's humorous arraignment of his friend for
breaking his promise of celibacy was written at this critical time, and
he was obliged to disguise himself when he carried his epithalamium on
the wedding night to the door of the bridegroom. He had been invited to
assist at the wedding service, but as the bride was marrying "out of
society," Whittier's orthodoxy compelled him to decline the invitation.
"Alack and alas! that a brother of mine,
A bachelor sworn on celibacy's altar,
Should leave me to watch by the desolate shrine,
And stoop his own neck to the enemy's halter!
Oh the treason of Benedict Arnold was better
Than the scoffing at Love, and then _sub rosa_ wooing;
This mocking at Beauty, yet wearing her fetter--
Alack and alas for such bachelor doing!
"Oh the weapons of Saul are the Philistine's prey!
Who shall stand when the heart of the champion fails him;
Who strive when the mighty his shield casts away,
And yields up his post when a woman assails him?
Alone and despairing thy brother remains
At the desolate shrine where we stood up together,
Half tempted to envy thy self-imposed chains,
And stoop his own neck for the noose of the tether!
"So firm and yet false! Thou mind'st me in sooth
Of St. Anthony's fall when the spirit of evil[14]
. . . . .
Filled the cell of his rest with imp, dragon and devil;
But the Saint never lifted his eyes from the Book
Till the tempter appeared in the guise of a woman;
And her voice was so sweet that he ventured one look,
And the devil rejoiced that the Saint had proved human!"
In 1874, Gail Hamilton's niece was married at her house in Hamilton,
and she sent a grotesque invitation to Whittier, asking him to come to
her wedding, and prescribing a ridiculous costume he might wear. As a
postscript she mentioned that it was her niece who was to be married.
Whittier sent this reply, pretending not to have noticed the
postscript, but finally waking up to the fact that she was not herself
to be the bride:--
AMESBURY, 12th mo. 29th, 1874.
GAIL HAMILTON'S WEDDING
"Come to my wedding," the missive runs,
"Come hither and list to the holy vows;
If you miss this chance you will wait full long
To see another at Gail-a House!"
_Her_ wedding! What can the woman expect?
Does she think her friends can be jolly and glad?
Is it only the child who sighs and grieves
For the loss of something he never had?
Yet I say to myself, Is it strange that she
Should choose the way that we know is good
What right have we to grumble and whine
In a pitiful dog-in-the-manger mood?
What boots it to maunder with "if" and "perhaps,"
And "it might have been" when we know it could n't,
If she had been willing (a vain surmise),
It 's ten to one that Barkis would n't.
'T was pleasant to think (if it _was_ a dream)
That our loving homage her need supplied,
Humbler and sadder, if wiser, we walk
To feel her life from our own lives glide.
Let her go, God bless her! I fling for luck
My old shoe after her. Stay, what 's this?
Is it all a mistake? The letter reads,
"My _niece_, you must know, is the happy miss."
All 's right! To grind out a song of cheer
I set to the crank my ancient muse.
Will somebody kiss that bride for me?
I fling with my blessing, both boots and shoes!
To the lucky bridegroom I cry all hail!
He is sure of having, let come what may,
The sage advice of the wisest aunt
That ever her fair charge gave away.
The Hamilton bell, if bell there be,
Methinks is ringing its merriest peal;
And, shades of John Calvin! I seem to see
The hostess treading the wedding reel!
The years are many, the years are long,
My dreams are over, my songs are sung,
But, out of a heart that has not grown cold,
I bid God-speed to the fair and young.
All joy go with them from year to year;
Never by me shall their pledge be blamed
Of the perfect love that has cast out fear,
And the beautiful hope that is not ashamed!
An aged Quaker friend from England, himself a bachelor, was once
visiting Mr. Whittier, and was shown to his room by the poet, when the
hour for retiring came. Soon after, he was heard calling to his host in
an excited tone, "Thee has made a mistake, friend Whittier; there are
female garments in my room!" Whittier replied soothingly, "Thee had
better go to bed, Josiah; the female garments won't hurt thee."
[Illustration: JOSIAH BARTLETT STATUE, HUNTINGTON SQUARE, AMESBURY]
Here is a specimen of his frolicsome verse written after he was eighty
years of age. It deals largely in personalities, was meant solely for
the perusal of a few friends whom it pleasantly satirized, and was
never before in print. When the bronze statue of Josiah Bartlett was to
be erected in Amesbury, Whittier of course was called upon for the
dedicatory ode, and he wrote "One of the Signers" for the occasion. The
unveiling of the statue occurred on the Fourth of July, 1888, and as
might have been anticipated, the poet could not be prevailed upon to be
present. The day before the Fourth he went to Oak Knoll, "so as to keep
in the quiet," he said. But his thoughts were on the celebration going
on at Amesbury, and they took the form of drollery. He imagined himself
occupying the seat on the platform which had been reserved for him, and
these amusing verses were composed, the satirical allusions in which
would be appreciated by his townspeople. The president of the day was
Hon. E. Moody Boynton, a descendant of the signer, and the well-known
inventor of the bicycle railway, the "lightning saw," etc. He has the
reputation of having the limberest tongue in New England, as well as a
brain most fertile in invention. The orator of the day was Hon. Robert
T. Davis, then member of Congress, a former resident of Amesbury, and
like Bartlett a physician. Jacob R. Huntington, to whose liberality
the village is indebted for the statue, is a successful pioneer in the
carriage-building industry of the place. It was cannily decided to give
the statue to the State of Massachusetts, so as to have an inducement
for the Governor to attend the dedication. Whittier's play on this fact
is in the best vein of his drollery. The statue is of dark bronze, and
this gave a chance for his amusing reference to the Kingston
Democrats, whom he imagined as coming across the state line to attend
the celebration. Dr. Bartlett was buried in their town. Professor J. W.
Churchill, of Andover, one of the "heretics" of the Seminary, was to
read the poem. The other persons named were eccentric characters well
known in Amesbury:--
MY DOUBLE
I 'm in Amesbury, not at Oak Knoll;
'T is my double here you see:
_I 'm_ sitting on the platform,
Where the programme places me--
Where the women nudge each other,
And point me out and say:
"That 's the man who makes the verses--
My! how old he is and gray!"
I hear the crackers popping,
I hear the bass drums throb;
I sit at Boynton's right hand,
And help him boss the job.
And like the great stone giant
Dug out of Cardiff mire,
We lift our man of metal,
And resurrect Josiah!
Around, the Hampshire Democrats
Stand looking glum and grim,--
"_That thing_ the Kingston doctor!
Do you call _that critter_ him?
"The pesky Black Republicans
Have gone and changed his figure;
We buried him a white man--
They've dug him up a nigger!"
I hear the wild winds rushing
From Boynton's limber jaws,
Swift as his railroad bicycle,
And buzzing like his saws!
But Hiram the wise is explaining
It 's only an old oration
Of Ginger-Pop Emmons, come down
By way of undulation!
Then Jacob, the vehicle-maker,
Comes forward to inquire
If Governor Ames will relieve the town
Of the care of old Josiah.
And the Governor says: "If Amesbury can't
Take care of its own town charge,
The State, I suppose, must do it,
And keep him from runnin' at large!"
Then rises the orator Robert,
Recounting with grave precision
The tale of the great Declaration,
And the claims of his brother physician.
Both doctors, and both Congressmen,
Tall and straight, you 'd scarce know which is
The live man, and which is the image,
Except by their trousers and breeches!
Then when the Andover "heretic"
Reads the rhymes I dared not utter,
I fancy Josiah is scowling,
And his bronze lips seem to mutter:
"Dry up! and stop your nonsense!
The Lord who in His mercies
Once saved me from the Tories,
Preserve me now from verses!"
Bad taste in the old Continental!
Whose knowledge of verse was at best
John Rogers' farewell to his wife and
Nine children and one at the breast!
He 's treating me worse than the Hessians
He shot in the Bennington scrimmage--
Have I outlived the newspaper critic,
To be scalped by a graven image!
Perhaps, after all, I deserve it,
Since I, who was born a Quaker,
Sit here an image worshiper,
Instead of an image breaker!
In giving this picture of a poet at play, I have presented a side of
Whittier's character heretofore overlooked, although to his intimate
friends it was ever in evidence. I think there are few of the lovers of
his verse who, if they are surprised by these revelations, will not
also be pleased to become acquainted with one of his methods of
recreation.
* * * * *
When Edmund Gosse visited this country in 1884, he called upon Mr.
Whittier, and this is the impression he received of his personality:
"The peculiarity of his face rested in the extraordinarily large and
luminous black eyes, set in black eyebrows, and fringed with thick
black eyelashes curiously curved inward. This bar of vivid black across
the countenance was startlingly contrasted with the bushy snow-white
beard and hair, offering a sort of contradiction which was surprising
and presently pleasing. He struck me as very gay and cheerful, in spite
of his occasional references to the passage of time and the vanishing
of beloved faces. He even laughed frequently and with a childlike
suddenness, but without a sound. His face had none of the immobility so
frequent with very aged persons; on the contrary, waves of mood were
always sparkling across his features, and leaving nothing stationary
there except the narrow, high, and strangely receding forehead. His
language, very fluent and easy, had an agreeable touch of the soil, an
occasional rustic note in its elegant colloquialism, that seemed very
pleasant and appropriate, as if it linked him naturally with the long
line of sturdy ancestors of whom he was the final blossoming. In
connection with his poetry, I think it would be difficult to form in
the imagination a figure more appropriate to Whittier's writings than
Whittier himself proved to be in the flesh."
WHITTIER'S UNCOLLECTED POEMS
IV
WHITTIER'S UNCOLLECTED POEMS