XVIII
“Hail to the coming singers!Hail to the brave light-bringers!Forward I reach and shareAll that they sing and dare.”
“Hail to the coming singers!Hail to the brave light-bringers!Forward I reach and shareAll that they sing and dare.”
“Hail to the coming singers!Hail to the brave light-bringers!Forward I reach and shareAll that they sing and dare.”
“Hail to the coming singers!
Hail to the brave light-bringers!
Forward I reach and share
All that they sing and dare.”
Whittier delighted in the achievements of others. It was no idle word of his:
“Thy neighbor’s wrong is thy present hell,His bliss thy Heaven.”
“Thy neighbor’s wrong is thy present hell,His bliss thy Heaven.”
“Thy neighbor’s wrong is thy present hell,His bliss thy Heaven.”
“Thy neighbor’s wrong is thy present hell,
His bliss thy Heaven.”
To crowd out anyone from any good whatever to make room for himself would have been impossible to Whittier. He had no rivals; to him all who strove to help in the world were coadjutors. Yet, as he said one day in speaking of his own work and of literary work in general, “In order to succeed one must have ambition.”
His judgment of his fellow-poets and writers was without a shadow of that perhaps unconscious detraction which would have warped some natures in seeing these others so plentifully reaping the harvest of their toils, while his own garners were at that time comparatively empty; for, as the world knows, it was only later in life that these were filled to overflowing.But he was always so much in love with what was high and true that he had a share in the joy of its reward with whomever this was found. It is easy to appreciate the energy with which he said, “Emerson is the one American who will live a thousand years.”
In commenting upon a severe criticism upon Mrs. Stowe, touching her lack of oversight and discipline in her own household and its results, occasionally disastrous, he indulged in a little quiet amusement at scenes reported, and then remarked earnestly that a great many persons could keep house, but how few could give the world what Mrs. Stowe had given and was still giving it. Under all circumstances, her mission was to keep on writing.
“Does thee see pictures when thee is writing?” he questioned a young author. And he listened with attention to her answer that she always saw them, often vividly, and that the persons in her stories moved and spoke and acted before her as if she were looking upon real people. It was so with himself, he returned; he saw the places and persons and the scenes he wrote about enacted before him. He said that he always had to think with a pen in his hand. He said also that it made him ill to write.
“So, victory has perched upon thy bannersand thee have stormed and taken the Patent Office! I am heartily glad of it,” wrote the poet to one of his young friends concerning an invention just patented. But he made no reference to the fact that a word from himself had helped to bring to an end some tedious delays in the path of that victory.
He once told an amusing story of the result of one of his recommendations. A young man of his acquaintance was in negotiation for a school in the wilds of New Jersey, and asked the poet for a reference. This the applicant readily obtained, and confidently handed to the school committee who were interviewing him. “The members passed the letter along from one to another and looked wise,” said Whittier, adding with his inimitable silent laughter, “Not a man of them could read. But the letter answered the purpose; W—— got his school!”
One evening as he sat talking in the garden room, gazing into his open fire, it furnished him an apt illustration of the uselessness of giving people advice contrary to the trend of their own inclinations. He asserted that one’s own experience is of no use as a warning to others. He declared that should one tryto warn another against the danger of being burned, the other would question:
“You said you put your hand into the fire?”
“Yes,” the adviser would respond.
“And you got it burned?”
“Yes, I did,” the first would answer, still more decidedly.
“Very well,” the adventurer would retort. “Now I want to put my hand in and see how it feels.”
Through all the changing years Whittier was the same dear lover of a jest. In his age he one day handed his photograph to the writer with the comment: “There’s the old rascal!”
In the July of 1887 in a letter from Centre Harbor to the writer, whom he had known from her childhood, he wrote:
“It is too bad that you [her mother and herself] are in Amesbury and I in Centre Harbor. It is like the case of John Gilpin whose wife dined in Eglinton and he in Ware. I came up here quite ill, but I think I am feeling somewhat better, though I have not found the Fountain of Youth in these rocky hills, and probably should not if I went to Florida, like Ponce de Leon.”
While he was one day walking in Boston with a gentleman, he met two of his youngfriends. He not only stopped to speak to them, as of course, but with care he introduced his companion to them. In the roar of the traffic, however, the name of this stranger was lost to them. But concluding from his associate and his own appearance that he was a person of distinction, they scrutinized him as closely as courtesy permitted.
And they were right. For, later, at their home, the poet said of his companion in the city, “That was Canon Kingsley.” He knew the pleasure it would be to them to learn that they had exchanged even a word with the great English author; and he had not allowed the noise of the street and his own dislike of talking in it to stand in the way.
The poet dubbed as “specimen bricks” those innumerable manuscripts which from all parts were sent to him for commendation and criticism—some even to be placed. With his spirit of helpfulness he was much distressed by these, both because they were often “impossible,” and also because in any case, he had not time or strength to attend to them.
But where a special claim held him, it was wonderful with what persistency of kind effort he would follow the career of some writer in whose ability he believed.
His sympathy, once aroused, never failed. To a person whose literary struggle he had watched with untiring interest, frequently praising work accomplished, he sent the following message of encouragement.
A mutual friend had come to see him. Having ushered her into the garden room, he sat down with her and soon began to question her concerning this writer’s financial success. Finally, he said to the friend:
“Thee tell F—— that I never made any money until I wrote ‘Snow Bound.’”