XXIII
Whittier sometimes received suggestions for his poems from stories told him directly, possibly, for the purpose, as was the case with the episode of “Barbara Frietchie.” But, no doubt, persons often gave him suggestions for poems without suspecting that they were doing so.
“I should think the old captain would come out of his grave, Mr. Whittier,” cried indignantly, Mrs. M——, a neighbor and friend, as she sat one evening in the garden room making complaint of a use, or, rather, of a disuse of something over which the members of the Improvement Society of the town—she being one—who were busy looking up its many antiquities, were very wrathful. “Yes, I should think he would come out of his grave,” she repeated, “to see that old well of his which he dug himself for the free use of the public all covered over with rubbish in this way. It ought to be opened up.”
She went on to free her mind still more concerning public rights and the neglect of these, as illustrated in the case of the old well dug by Valentine Bagley for the wayfarer, so that none who passed by might have to endure atithe of the agony of thirst that he himself had known when at one time lost in the desert. Then in his distress he had vowed that should he ever return to his home, he would dig a well as a thank-offering. This was the well.
But what had been intended for a boon had become useless from neglect—a disfigurement.
The poet was deeply interested. “Yes,” he answered her, “it ought to be opened.” And in a moment he added, “We will have it opened.”
And in his own beautiful way Whittier told the true story of Valentine Bagley, an old-time worthy of Amesbury, of his shipwreck, his desert wanderings, his final rescue, and the carrying out of his resolve to save others from, at least, one of his many sufferings—thirst. The poem tells how by the side of the road running from what was then the village to the old ferry crossing the Merrimac, the returned wanderer dug this well for the benefit of all who were thirsting as they passed by it.
But it had been choked up by neglect and abuse.
Whittier’s poem, however, rescued it from this neglect and lifted it into fame.
This is how “The Captain’s Well” came to be written. And the thousand dollars which the poet received for it from the “New York Ledger” served also some other benevolence.
Of this poem he wrote to his sister’s dear friend and his own:
“I enclose a copy of ‘The Captain’s Well,’ though perhaps thee have seen it. There were some mistakes in it. Hundreds of copies of it have been sold in Amesbury and as many in Newburyport. I don’t think much of it myself. When will you [herself and party] return?” [from Bermuda], he adds. “We miss thee very much and shall be glad to see thee back again.”
Among the relics kept in the Whittier Home in Amesbury, the house now owned and opened to the public by the “Whittier Home Association” of that town, is an old cradle that belonged to Valentine Bagley, the hero of “The Captain’s Well.” And in the Amesbury burying ground, not far from the poet’s own grave, is the grave of this Valentine Bagley, with an epitaph in the style of many others of that time. It reads:
“His languishing head is at rest,Its thinking and aching is o’er,His quiet, unmovable breastIs moved by affliction no more.”
“His languishing head is at rest,Its thinking and aching is o’er,His quiet, unmovable breastIs moved by affliction no more.”
“His languishing head is at rest,Its thinking and aching is o’er,His quiet, unmovable breastIs moved by affliction no more.”
“His languishing head is at rest,
Its thinking and aching is o’er,
His quiet, unmovable breast
Is moved by affliction no more.”
In a letter to the writer, to whom Whittier spoke frequently of his own work, he said of a song of his, “My poem in the ‘Atlantic’ is not avery nice one—matter of fact and not poetical; but it tells a sorry story of the old time.” This is an illustration of how his world-wide fame never convinced him that he had reached the highest upon his own lines; he always looked beyond for it—happily for himself and for the world.
In a letter written December, 1881, he says:
“I have passed a quiet birthday on the seventeenth. It is always a serious matter—passing these milestones of life. At my age I cannot look forward to many more. I send thee a copy of what is called my ‘Birthday Book.’ It does not amount to much—mere shreds and patches, but it is pretty so far as the publishers are concerned. I go to Amesbury some day the last of this week, if the weather is right and I feel able. Sometime when I am there I should be glad to see thee. I hope to be in Boston in February, and Lizzie also hopes to be there. If so, we will be glad to see thee, and will let thee know.”
In a letter written from Oak Knoll in the March of 1886, he speaks of what might have been his niece’s fatal accident in an elevator.
“I should have written thee before,” he says, “but my strength was not equal to my wish and writing has been almost out of the questionwith me this winter. I think of my old friends, however, always. I went to Boston for the first time for more than a year, to meet Lizzie; but my lameness and sleeplessness drove me back soon. Lizzie’s accident upset me a good deal, but I am so thankful it was no worse. It was a great escape....
Of course I shall send thee the very small volume of poems [‘Saint Gregory’s Guest’] as soon as it is printed.” And he adds with that self-distrust so wonderful in one of his genius and world-wide fame: “It is a poor affair, I fear, but if it was a mistake, it is not likely to be repeated. I only wanted to speak to my old friends once more. Thy old and loving friend.”
Now on one hand, now on the other, the poet gathered the material for his poems; sometimes, as we know, these came from incidents told him by those among whom he lived, or by strangers. But often legend furnished the subject; or, best of all, the inspiration of the Spirit which taught him high and holy thoughts.
To one who asked him if his poem “Among the Hills,” was taken from life, he answered that it was as this ought to be, and went on to speak of the hopeless drudgery of the farmer’slife as he had seen it in his youth, and of the poverty of ideals in that life, sometimes its actual squalor. In his own home, however, the ideal had always existed; and life there, however simple, was never destitute of attractions, or of that intercourse with a wider outlook which enlarged its own horizon.
Is it to be supposed that he knows nothing today of how the farmer’s horizon has widened, how distance has become lessened, if not annihilated, and how the news of the world is left at his doorstone? It has been wisely said that poets are the true prophets; they have visions of the blessings to come upon the world.
Sings the poet:
“The airs of heaven blow o’er me;A glory shines before meOf what mankind shall be,—Pure, generous, brave, and free.“A dream of man and woman,Diviner, but still human,Solving the riddle old,Shaping the Age of Gold!“The love of God and neighbor;An equal-handed labour;The richer life, where beautyWalks hand in hand with duty.”
“The airs of heaven blow o’er me;A glory shines before meOf what mankind shall be,—Pure, generous, brave, and free.“A dream of man and woman,Diviner, but still human,Solving the riddle old,Shaping the Age of Gold!“The love of God and neighbor;An equal-handed labour;The richer life, where beautyWalks hand in hand with duty.”
“The airs of heaven blow o’er me;A glory shines before meOf what mankind shall be,—Pure, generous, brave, and free.
“The airs of heaven blow o’er me;
A glory shines before me
Of what mankind shall be,—
Pure, generous, brave, and free.
“A dream of man and woman,Diviner, but still human,Solving the riddle old,Shaping the Age of Gold!
“A dream of man and woman,
Diviner, but still human,
Solving the riddle old,
Shaping the Age of Gold!
“The love of God and neighbor;An equal-handed labour;The richer life, where beautyWalks hand in hand with duty.”
“The love of God and neighbor;
An equal-handed labour;
The richer life, where beauty
Walks hand in hand with duty.”