VIII
It was not Whittier’s habit to say in word or manner,
“Vex not the poet’s mindWith thy shallow wit.”
“Vex not the poet’s mindWith thy shallow wit.”
“Vex not the poet’s mindWith thy shallow wit.”
“Vex not the poet’s mind
With thy shallow wit.”
On the contrary, if the wit were shallow this poet was likely to gather amusement from its exhibition, and so reimburse himself for any small outlay of patience. Nor was this all, nor even half. For if the best in persons was small, it was his joy to bring out this best. So he found interest in persons in whom others could see none and sometimes developed in them unexpected possibilities. For more than anything except faith in God, he had faith in men; speaking reverently, he read them Godward—as they were meant to be.
Yet his often silent laugh at men’s foibles was hearty; and nothing so amused him as the bewildered expression of one lost in the mazes of a joke. And not seldom he tried his hand at bringing such an expression; for he had an immense enjoyment of credulity.
Two friends of the poet had been invited to his house to tea.
In the garden room with the flashings of the open fire pointing and illustrating his words, Whittier sat entertaining his guests with a fish story—a whale story in which the originator had striven to outdo Jonah. The poet’s countenance was as grave as a judge’s; his eyes were now dropped as if recalling the points of the story—which lost nothing in their narration—and now fastened upon the faces of his listeners. He found one hearer’s eyes dilated and her lips parted in absolute absorption and faith. With unshaken gravity the poet continued, until the voice of his other listener broke in upon the tale with the suggestion that this was really a most remarkable yarn. Like a flash he turned upon her in mock anger. “Thee doubts that, Lucy?” he cried. “Why, a Quaker told me that story.” But the spell being broken, he laughed as heartily as the others.
A former resident of Amesbury brought up most strictly, and rigid in adherence to her tenets, was taken out of these grooves and put into an entirely different life in New York City, a life much more liberal in creed and practice. The unwonted freedom delighted her and she came home to visit, full of enthusiasm for her new surroundings. She was welcomed by the poet who liked her well. Withsecret note of the new vivacity in look and manner, he asked her with much interest, “And how does thee like New York?”
At the question her enthusiasm burst forth, and she declared with unction that she liked it very, very much.
A sparkle of mischief kindled in the poet’s eye. “Thee likes it because it is so wicked,” he commented demurely.
But although the poet could laugh at others, never did he put himself in a position to be laughed at. So great was his sensitiveness, that his friends have often heard him say how keenly he felt mistakes of his which he alone had perceived—or perhaps imagined; for he was so resourceful and quick at retort that nobody could succeed in cornering him in an argument or a situation.
When in the days of his later fame he had that well-known meeting with the Emperor of Brazil, where Dom Pedro in the fashion of his country had embraced the poet, the company present after the Emperor’s departure began to rally the poet upon this form of greeting. But Whittier turned to his hostess with that gleam of fun in his eyes which his friends knew so well, and retorted, “That was meant for thee!”
Unlike many persons, themselves apt, he enjoyed other people’s wit. It was worth a thousand miles’ journey to hear him say, “Capital! Capital!” accompanying the words and his laugh with that light blow of his hand upon his knee which was an exclamation point in pantomime. Such a gesture must have come into play when he learned Harriet Livermore’s reception of his description of herself in the “not unfeared, half welcome guest” of “Snow Bound.” She is said to have retorted, “He always was a saucy boy!”
There never came to him an episode more rich in the humor in which his soul delighted than came through an invitation which he once received.
Sitting on the sofa in the garden room where so many in distinguished walks of life had paid honor to the poet, a young man from a neighboring town, a self-made man—so far as his creation had progressed, and, as the saying is, proud of his maker—discoursed with insistence concerning a Republican Convention to be held in the West, and urged the poet to accompany him there. In vain Whittier opposed his want of strength to meet such a strain, and gave other reasons also. As if the poet had not spoken, the other reiteratedhis arguments, and wound up with this climax:
“I know, Mr. Whittier,” urged this self-making young person to the man who as one of the founders of the Republican party was held by its leaders in especial honor, “that you are a very shy man and shrink from meeting strangers. But I shall be there to introduce you.”
As the poet told of this episode, his eyes shone with fun and his tone had an unction which he would not allow his words to express.
Whittier’s delight in fun was to him the sunshine of his many dreary winter days. It is told of him that, in his thirties, he one day walked into the old Rocky Hill school house at Salisbury Point while the school was in session, and to the astonishment of the children and the amusement of the teacher who afterward explained to them that this was John Greenleaf Whittier, he sat himself down on the little low seat in front—the dunce’s seat, or the rogue’s seat as it was then called—a bench which in his boyhood he could never have occupied.
Who knows that the poem, “In School Days,” which he wrote so long afterward did not come into his heart at that time?