WHITTIER AT CLOSE RANGEI
WHITTIER AT CLOSE RANGE
[Illustration]
In the garden room, worthy synonym of a poet’s study where blossom flowers of thought and beauty, a young neighbor of the poet awaited his coming.
His easy chair stood with bookshelves on the right hand, whence he could gather from them as he pleased—although books were scattered everywhere over the house—and at its left was the table between the windows looking into the garden, while opposite it stood the door from the little hall, so that the chair faced all who entered the room. She looked across the room at a painting of a California sunset—Starr King’s gift to the poet. Near the painting was the engraving of an Arctic scene sent to the poet and his sister Elizabeth by Dr. Kane on his return from his Arctic explorations. She remembered how for a long time the picture had failed to appear, and how when a duplicate had been sent and hung, this first picture had at last arrived, and had been given by Miss Whittier to one of her Amesbury friends.
The poet had banished from the garden room a fine oil painting of himself in his youth, astriking portrait, full of individuality, yet bearing a suggestion of Burns. But it was not strange that one poet should recall the other, since there was in some respects a marked resemblance in the moods and ideals of the two; while in character and life they were as far asunder as the poles.
When Whittier’s poem on “Burns,” written “On Receiving a Sprig of Heather in Blossom,” was published, his sister Elizabeth wrote to the doctor’s wife, “This song of Burns was written partly before, but thy gift of heather bells has given it all its beauty. Nobody knows how much I love the old romance of Scotland, and the name ofheatherormoorlandalways has a charm.” Later, the poet himself told the giver—a Scotswoman—of his early falling in with the poems of Burns, and how the Scottish poet had opened his eyes to the beauty of the simplicities of life and our rich possession in these, and how, taught by Burns, Whittier had
“Matched with Scotland’s heathery hillsThe sweetbrier and the clover.”
“Matched with Scotland’s heathery hillsThe sweetbrier and the clover.”
“Matched with Scotland’s heathery hillsThe sweetbrier and the clover.”
“Matched with Scotland’s heathery hills
The sweetbrier and the clover.”
All his life Whittier saw and taught
“The unsung beauty hid life’s common things below.”
“The unsung beauty hid life’s common things below.”
“The unsung beauty hid life’s common things below.”
“The unsung beauty hid life’s common things below.”
What compensation to him for the limitations which his life work for the slave and his own delicate health imposed upon him! In proclaiming the slave his brother, Whittier came to perceive his own brotherhood with all men bound in whatever slavery of mind and soul, to see that simplicity and reality were the great forces of life and inspiration in poetry as in all other things. His own early instructions prepared him for Burns’ assertion,
“A man’s a man for a’that.”
“A man’s a man for a’that.”
“A man’s a man for a’that.”
“A man’s a man for a’that.”
And from Burns’ most beautiful song Whittier sings,
“With clearer eyes I saw the worthOf life among the lowly;The Bible at his cotter’s hearthHas made my own more holy.”
“With clearer eyes I saw the worthOf life among the lowly;The Bible at his cotter’s hearthHas made my own more holy.”
“With clearer eyes I saw the worthOf life among the lowly;The Bible at his cotter’s hearthHas made my own more holy.”
“With clearer eyes I saw the worth
Of life among the lowly;
The Bible at his cotter’s hearth
Has made my own more holy.”
These dreams and perceptions made him the poet of New England idyls, as did his spiritual inspiration of her ideals. He looked with anointed eyes upon her woods and fields, her hills and streams and her rocky coast. It was first through Burns and then through his own life that he sang:
“Yet on life’s current, he who driftsIs one with him who rows or sails;And he who wanders widest liftsNo more of beauty’s jealous veilsThan he who from his doorway seesThe miracle of flowers and trees,Feels the warm Orient in the noonday airAnd from cloud minaret hears the sunset call to prayer!”
“Yet on life’s current, he who driftsIs one with him who rows or sails;And he who wanders widest liftsNo more of beauty’s jealous veilsThan he who from his doorway seesThe miracle of flowers and trees,Feels the warm Orient in the noonday airAnd from cloud minaret hears the sunset call to prayer!”
“Yet on life’s current, he who driftsIs one with him who rows or sails;And he who wanders widest liftsNo more of beauty’s jealous veilsThan he who from his doorway seesThe miracle of flowers and trees,Feels the warm Orient in the noonday airAnd from cloud minaret hears the sunset call to prayer!”
“Yet on life’s current, he who drifts
Is one with him who rows or sails;
And he who wanders widest lifts
No more of beauty’s jealous veils
Than he who from his doorway sees
The miracle of flowers and trees,
Feels the warm Orient in the noonday air
And from cloud minaret hears the sunset call to prayer!”
He sings the beauty in brooks and fields, the oneness that pervades all nature, and how to the opened eyes,
“From his lone sweetbrier Persian Hafiz smiles,And Rome’s cathedral awe is in his woodland aisles.”
“From his lone sweetbrier Persian Hafiz smiles,And Rome’s cathedral awe is in his woodland aisles.”
“From his lone sweetbrier Persian Hafiz smiles,And Rome’s cathedral awe is in his woodland aisles.”
“From his lone sweetbrier Persian Hafiz smiles,
And Rome’s cathedral awe is in his woodland aisles.”
This world of beauty in everyday life Whittier has revealed to those who do not travel; he has opened their eyes to perceive how great are their possessions, not in the far-away, nor in the future, but here and now. Other poets may arouse longings for the unattainable; but Whittier has shown us how the manna of life lies at our own doors waiting for us to gather. Burns with inspired lyre sings of the daisy and the mouse, of the Doon and the Ayr, of men and of his “Highland Mary.” Whittier sings of flower and tree and field, of mountain and river, ofmen and women. But over all his pictures arches the depth of the sky giving them perspective and illumination. When he sings of the sea,
“The ocean looketh up to GodAs ’twere a living thing;The homage of its waves is givenIn ceaseless worshipping.”
“The ocean looketh up to GodAs ’twere a living thing;The homage of its waves is givenIn ceaseless worshipping.”
“The ocean looketh up to GodAs ’twere a living thing;The homage of its waves is givenIn ceaseless worshipping.”
“The ocean looketh up to God
As ’twere a living thing;
The homage of its waves is given
In ceaseless worshipping.”
And of life’s trials,
“... darkness in the pathway of man’s lifeIs but the shadow of God’s providenceBy the great Sun of Wisdom cast thereon.”
“... darkness in the pathway of man’s lifeIs but the shadow of God’s providenceBy the great Sun of Wisdom cast thereon.”
“... darkness in the pathway of man’s lifeIs but the shadow of God’s providenceBy the great Sun of Wisdom cast thereon.”
“... darkness in the pathway of man’s life
Is but the shadow of God’s providence
By the great Sun of Wisdom cast thereon.”
To his ears is attuned the music heard through the silences, how
“The harp at Nature’s advent strungHas never ceased to play;The songs the stars of morning sungHas never died away.”
“The harp at Nature’s advent strungHas never ceased to play;The songs the stars of morning sungHas never died away.”
“The harp at Nature’s advent strungHas never ceased to play;The songs the stars of morning sungHas never died away.”
“The harp at Nature’s advent strung
Has never ceased to play;
The songs the stars of morning sung
Has never died away.”
Before his eyes,
“The green earth sends her incense up;”
“The green earth sends her incense up;”
“The green earth sends her incense up;”
“The green earth sends her incense up;”
and to his vision,
“The mists above the morning rillsRise white as wings of prayer;”
“The mists above the morning rillsRise white as wings of prayer;”
“The mists above the morning rillsRise white as wings of prayer;”
“The mists above the morning rills
Rise white as wings of prayer;”
to him
“The blue sky is the temple’s arch.”
“The blue sky is the temple’s arch.”
“The blue sky is the temple’s arch.”
“The blue sky is the temple’s arch.”
What poet paints nature with a truer touch than he? To him the universe is one thought of God; to him all Nature is informed, not as by the many gods of Polytheism; but by a reverent Monotheism, by the touch of the All-Father and the response of a sentient world.
“So Nature keeps the reverent frameWith which her years began,And all her signs and voices shameThe prayerless heart of man.”
“So Nature keeps the reverent frameWith which her years began,And all her signs and voices shameThe prayerless heart of man.”
“So Nature keeps the reverent frameWith which her years began,And all her signs and voices shameThe prayerless heart of man.”
“So Nature keeps the reverent frame
With which her years began,
And all her signs and voices shame
The prayerless heart of man.”
What artist ever drew with brush a more perfect picture of midsummer heat than Whittier in his prelude to the poem, “Among the Hills”:
“The sky is hot and hazy, and the windWing-weary with its long flight from the south, Unfelt.”
“The sky is hot and hazy, and the windWing-weary with its long flight from the south, Unfelt.”
“The sky is hot and hazy, and the windWing-weary with its long flight from the south, Unfelt.”
“The sky is hot and hazy, and the wind
Wing-weary with its long flight from the south, Unfelt.”
Then the sharp call of the locust stabbing “the noon-silence;” the driver asleep on his haycart; the sheep huddled against the shade of the stone-wall; and
“Through the open doorA drowsy smell of flowers—grey heliotropeAnd white sweet clover, and shy mignonette—Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lendsTo the pervading symphony of peace.”
“Through the open doorA drowsy smell of flowers—grey heliotropeAnd white sweet clover, and shy mignonette—Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lendsTo the pervading symphony of peace.”
“Through the open doorA drowsy smell of flowers—grey heliotropeAnd white sweet clover, and shy mignonette—Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lendsTo the pervading symphony of peace.”
“Through the open door
A drowsy smell of flowers—grey heliotrope
And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette—
Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lends
To the pervading symphony of peace.”
The eyes of the visitor in the garden room fell upon the couch standing under the sunset view, and she recalled how many famous persons had sat upon it—Emerson, “his Puritanic face with more than Eastern wisdom lit;” and Bayard Taylor; for she knew of his long and intimate friendship with the poet and his sister, a friendship terminating only with death—if, indeed, Whittier’s friendships have ever terminated; for he seemed to reflect the eternity of Heaven in a heart that never forgot to love. And Sumner had been there—Sumner who with every gift that men prize had turned aside from them all to fight the battle of the slave—“has he not graced my home with beauty all his own?” sang the poet. And many more than these. “What loved ones enter and depart,” recorded Whittier.
The books at hand; the desk beside the long window looking out upon the veranda were evidences of Whittier’s life work and preparation to meet scholar and statesman upon their own grounds.
Near the desk stood the hospitable-throated Franklin stove. What wit and wisdom glowed in the light of its winter fires! And what wonderful closet was that in the garden room. Here the poet kept his wood—and much else besides! For, from it would he come forth armed with his logs and with the wizard-like power to read the thoughts of his companion! And this skill he proved as he sat before the fire and talked in fun or in earnest, often alternating in mood, but always illuminating the subjects he talked upon.
And in the summer days what a background the blackness of the open stove made for the flower treasures which the poet brought from his walks! Then, suddenly, the visitor wondered why there were no flowers upon the hearth that August day?
But even with the thought, the poet came into the room with his arms filled with flowers.