XIX
Nearly a score of years before the Civil War a dozen men and women at the invitation of that hospitable pair, Mr. and Mrs. Ashby of Newburyport, abolitionists, friends of William Lloyd Garrison, Whittier, and other abolitionists, drove one day in June to a beautiful spot on the Newbury shore of the Merrimac River.
There, among the laurels in bloom, they inaugurated an outing which from that time for twenty-one years became annual. All the early members of this small party were abolitionists, despised and in a sense ostracized. They sought a day’s recreation by woods and water where earth and sky welcomed them. There, forgetful of hardships past and to come, they gathered at will the mountain laurel, the blooming of which they had assembled to celebrate. Little did they imagine how soon the laurels of a noble fame were to crown their labors for the slave.
With the years, however, the original dozen of the first “Laurel Party” expanded into hundreds of guests, and the once unnoted recreation of the politically despised few became a social function to which invitation was eagerly sought. Whittier’s presence and hispoem, when he wrote for the occasion, were no small part of the day’s enjoyment.
Among these poems were “Our River,” “The Laurels,” and “Revisited.”
It was in 1865, at one of these later crowded Laurel parties, that the poet gave evidence of how—even in small things—he held his faith higher than men’s criticisms of his acts.
A day in June. The heavens were full of soft clouds which in their brief shadowings seemed but to intensify the brilliance of the summer sunshine. Looming against the sky stood the high bluffs with their dark coronal of giant pines, their feet caressed by the murmuring kisses of New England’s most beautiful river.
Under these pines was gathered a crowd of people through whose purpose of pleasure in the day and the scene ran the expectation of a deeper pleasure through the listening ear and the quick response of thought to thought.
For they knew that Whittier had brought a poem. Many persons of reputation in the world of letters were there; many who ranked high in social life and some known to the world of politics. It was a gathering before which a man would desire to be at his best. Before it stood the poet who had well provedhimself the inspired voice of the trees and the birds, the river and the sky. But all knew that at that time he had uttered a paean for the victory of Freedom and Union.
Every eye was lifted to Whittier as he stood erect as the pines above him, lithe in his motions as the watching birds and with somewhat of their unexpectedness in movement. In his hand he held his poem. Would he read it himself? At first it appeared so to those who did not know him well. For he stood for a little time still holding it in his hand. And in that moment—to the writer at least—was enacted a by-play, in itself slight enough, but, if understood, giving the key to the whole complex character of Whittier.
For the Quaker poet stood with his hat on. Even in passing his poem to another to be read, he would be obliged to answer by a few words the demand made upon him. To do this he must take off his hat, as other men would do. His hand was lifted toward it.
Midway, however, it paused—Quakers spoke with their hats on.
Yet the distinguished gathering before him was chiefly not of his own sect. A proper consideration for the customs of society—yes, even courtesy—demanded this removal; and to social impressions the poet was verysensitive. Yet, to one other monitor was he still more sensitive. That unbending principle which governed his whole life asserted itself. Even in so slight a matter he would be true to his faith.
His hand dropped by his side. It was with his hat on that he spoke the few apt words with which he gave his poem to be read.
Small wonder that “Revisited” was a paean to Him who in the return of peace had given, not to the anti-slavery party alone, but to the whole country,
“... beauty for ashesAnd the oil of joy for mourning long.”
“... beauty for ashesAnd the oil of joy for mourning long.”
“... beauty for ashesAnd the oil of joy for mourning long.”
“... beauty for ashes
And the oil of joy for mourning long.”
And it was small wonder that to the river the poet sang:
“Sing soft, sing low, our lowland river,Under thy banks of laurel bloom;Softly and sweet as the hour beseemeth,Sing us the songs of peace and home.“Type of the Northland’s strength and glory,Pride and hope of our home and race,—Freedom lending to rugged laborTints of beauty and lines of grace.“For though by the Master’s feet untrodden,Though never His word has stilled thy waves,Well for us may thy shores be holy,With Christian altars and saintly graves.”
“Sing soft, sing low, our lowland river,Under thy banks of laurel bloom;Softly and sweet as the hour beseemeth,Sing us the songs of peace and home.“Type of the Northland’s strength and glory,Pride and hope of our home and race,—Freedom lending to rugged laborTints of beauty and lines of grace.“For though by the Master’s feet untrodden,Though never His word has stilled thy waves,Well for us may thy shores be holy,With Christian altars and saintly graves.”
“Sing soft, sing low, our lowland river,Under thy banks of laurel bloom;Softly and sweet as the hour beseemeth,Sing us the songs of peace and home.
“Sing soft, sing low, our lowland river,
Under thy banks of laurel bloom;
Softly and sweet as the hour beseemeth,
Sing us the songs of peace and home.
“Type of the Northland’s strength and glory,Pride and hope of our home and race,—Freedom lending to rugged laborTints of beauty and lines of grace.
“Type of the Northland’s strength and glory,
Pride and hope of our home and race,—
Freedom lending to rugged labor
Tints of beauty and lines of grace.
“For though by the Master’s feet untrodden,Though never His word has stilled thy waves,Well for us may thy shores be holy,With Christian altars and saintly graves.”
“For though by the Master’s feet untrodden,
Though never His word has stilled thy waves,
Well for us may thy shores be holy,
With Christian altars and saintly graves.”
The whole poem is full of noble thought and rhythmic beauty:
“Sing on! bring down, O lowland river,The joy of the hills to the waiting sea;The wealth of the vales, the pomp of mountains,The breath of the woodlands, bear with thee.”
“Sing on! bring down, O lowland river,The joy of the hills to the waiting sea;The wealth of the vales, the pomp of mountains,The breath of the woodlands, bear with thee.”
“Sing on! bring down, O lowland river,The joy of the hills to the waiting sea;The wealth of the vales, the pomp of mountains,The breath of the woodlands, bear with thee.”
“Sing on! bring down, O lowland river,
The joy of the hills to the waiting sea;
The wealth of the vales, the pomp of mountains,
The breath of the woodlands, bear with thee.”