As one who held herself a part
Of all she saw, and let her heart
Against the household bosom lean,
Upon the motley braided mat
Our youngest and our dearest sat,
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes.
When Elizabeth was born, John, the future poet, was just eight years
old, and attending his first school. Years wore on, and the boy's
occupation alternated between school, household duties, and work on
his father's farm. Meanwhile his little sister was, from the exemplary
household gathered under her father's roof, and the sweet influences
of a happy home, receiving the impressions and learning the precious
lessons which can only be gathered during the earliest years, and
through which the little human child becomes the sweetest thing in
life.
Whilst Elizabeth was still a child a leading incident in the boy's
life took place. His old schoolmaster, on paying a visit to his
father's house, brought a copy of the poems of Burns, from which he
recited certain pieces, greatly to the delight of John, who borrowed
the book. He adds:--"This was about the first poetry I had ever read
(with the exception of that of the Bible, of which I had been a close
student), and it had a lasting influence upon me. I began to make
rhymes myself, and to imagine stories and adventures." So we find the
boy of fourteen beginning to write his first poems, which, under the
encouragement of his elder sister Mary, he continued to do for some
years, when he began to send anonymous contributions from his pen to
the local newspaper. He was only a country youth, working in his
father's fields; but by thoughtful sympathy Nature had become
glorified for him, and life was soon to be sanctified. Notice was
taken of his poetical productions, he was stimulated to greater
exertion, and through his own industry obtained the means of attending
the Haverhill Academy for a short period when in his twentieth year.
The next few years of the future poet's life were spent between his
own schooling, teaching others, helping on the farm, and editing and
contributing to country newspapers.
But if it were the elder sister who encouraged Whittier in his
earliest poetic efforts, it was Elizabeth who became more and more,
with her growing years, his "heart's companion," his imitator, his
_alter ego_. We learn from one of his letters during a visit which he
paid to his home in 1831, that Elizabeth, then a girl of fifteen
summers, had herself begun to write verses. The following are the
opening lines of a description by her of "Autumn Sunset":--
O, there is beauty in the sky--a widening of gold
Upon each light and breezy cloud, and on each vapoury fold!
The Autumn wind has died away, and the air has not a sound,
Save the sighing of the withered leaves as they fall upon
the ground.
During this visit to his home Whittier's father died. This
circumstance probably influenced him in his decision to resign his
position as editor of _The New England Weekly Review_, that he might
return to his mother and sisters.
One pleasing glimpse we catch of Elizabeth in her twentieth year.
Sharing her brother's anti-slavery sympathies, she was occasionally
called to share the dangers which at that time beset those who had the
courage to espouse the cause of the oppressed. In 1835, when Whittier
was the corresponding secretary of the Anti-slavery Society of
Haverhill, a lecture on slavery having been announced was interfered
with by the mob, who terrified the audience by a disgraceful attack
upon the building where the lecture was being delivered. The meeting
was broken up in confusion, and it was in part owing to the bravery of
Miss Whittier that the lecturer escaped in safety, she, along with
another young lady, undertaking to escort the lecturer, pushing their
way through the threatening mob. On another occasion, when attending a
meeting of the Female Anti-slavery Society at Boston, Elizabeth was
herself in considerable danger of rough usage at the hands of her
infuriated opponents. She did not by any means lead a public life, but
was, on the contrary, of a retiring and gentle nature, and it was only
the cruel wrongs of the oppressed that roused her sympathies and led
her to active endeavours on their behalf.
In the year 1840 the farm at Haverhill passed out of the family, and
they removed to Amesbury. It then consisted of four members only--the
poet and his mother, aunt, and sister Elizabeth.
Thenceforth, until her death, she was her brother's close companion.
The playmate of his childhood became the adviser of his riper years,
the sharer of his sympathies, hopes, and aims. Happy lives are
generally uneventful, except, indeed, in what constitutes their best
portion--the pleasant intercourse, the loving ministries which go to
make life so truly worth living.
With such inmates we are sure that the poet's home at Amesbury was
supremely blessed--that the years passed gently and time touched
kindly. But the happy circle gradually thinned. A few years after
settling at Amesbury the cherished aunt died; some years later--in
1857--the mother. From thenceforth until her own death in 1864,
Elizabeth seems to have been her brother's sole companion.
When Whittier's sister died her memory lived. The empty home seems to
have carried back his mind to his earlier home in the quiet valley
where his sister shared his woodland rambles, and where the icy grasp
of winter imprisoned the complete family round the glowing hearth. It
was in the year following his sister's death Whittier wrote the poem
before referred to, "Snowbound," which is at once fondly reminiscent
of bygone days and touched with a tender memory of his latest loss. He
says:--
As one who held herself a part
Of what she saw, and let her heart
Against the household bosom lean,
Upon the motley-braided mat
Our youngest and our dearest sat,
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes,
Now bathed within the fadeless green
And holy peace, of Paradise.
Oh, looking from some heavenly hill,
Or from the shade of saintly palms,
Or silver reach of river calms,
Do those large eyes behold me still?
With me one little year ago--
The chill weight of the winter snow
For months upon her grave has lain:
And now, when summer south winds blow
And brier and harebell bloom again,
I tread the pleasant paths we trod,
I see the violet-sprinkled sod
Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak
The hillside flowers she loved to seek,
Yet following me where'er I went
With dark eyes full of love's content.
The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills
The air with sweetness; all the hills
Stretch green to June's unclouded sky;
But still I wait with ear and eye
For something gone which should be nigh,
A loss in all familiar things,
In flower that blooms, and bird that sings.
And yet, dear heart, remembering thee,
Am I not richer than of old?
Safe in thy immortality,
What change can reach the wealth I hold?
What chance can mar the pearl and gold
Thy love hath left in trust for me?
And while in life's late afternoon,
Where cool and long the shadows grow,
I walk to meet the night that soon
Shall shape and shadow overflow,
I cannot feel that thou art far,
Since near at need the angels are;
And when the sunset gates unbar,
Shall I not see thee waiting stand,
And, white against the evening star,
The welcome of thy beckoning hand?
But Miss Whittier's influence did not cease with her death. How much
her brother missed her no one will ever know. He had been accustomed
to consult her, and to value her opinion. In his next published poem,
"The Tent on the Beach," he refers regretfully to the
Memory of one who might have tuned my song
To sweeter music by her delicate ear.
But the sister's influence was felt not only in the sweet sadness
which such a memory casts over a life. As a poet Whittier was enabled
to proceed to still greater heights. Her loss did not check his zeal
or stay his pen, but only softened and toned his utterance by the
mellowing and purifying influence of tender recollection.
In 1875, when Whittier published his "Hazel Blossoms," he was induced
to include in the volume several of the poems of his sister. The poems
are "The Dream of Argyle," "Dr. Kane in Cuba," "The Wedding Veil,"
"The Meeting Waters," "Charity," "Lines written on the Departure of
Joseph Sturge after his Visit to the Abolitionists of the United
States," and "Lady Franklin." In a note Whittier says: "I have
ventured, in compliance with the desire of dear friends of my beloved
sister Elizabeth H. Whittier, to add to this little volume the few
poetical pieces which she left behind her. As she was very distrustful
of her powers, and altogether without ambition for literary
distinction, she shunned everything like publicity, and found far
greater happiness in generous appreciation of the gifts of her friends
than in the gratification of her own. Yet it has always seemed to me
that had her health, sense of duty and fitness, and her extreme
self-distrust permitted, she might have taken high place among lyrical
singers. These poems, with perhaps two or three exceptions, afford but
slight indications of the life of the writer, who had an almost morbid
dread of spiritual and literary egotism, or of her tenderness of
sympathy, chastened mirthfulness, and pleasant play of thought and
fancy, when her shy, beautiful soul opened like the flower in the
warmth of social communion. In the lines on Dr. Kane her friends
will see something of her fine individuality--the rare mingling
of delicacy and intensity of feeling which made her dear to them.
This little poem reached Cuba while the great explorer lay on his
death-bed, and we are told that he listened with grateful tears while
it was read to him by his mother.
"I am tempted to say more, but I write as under the eye of her
who, while with us, shrank with painful deprecation from the
praise or mention of performances which seemed so far below her
ideal of excellence."
As this little poem, "Dr. Kane in Cuba," is rendered doubly
interesting by the above-mentioned pathetic incident, it is given
along with the one which follows in illustration of Miss Whittier's
writing:--