Chapter John Greenleaf Whittier of Index by Simonds History of American Literature

he loved to sojourn for a few weeks in the heat of summer; and the artistic home of Celia Thaxter at the Isles of Shoals was also a favorite retreat.

Personal Traits.

Whittier was the only one of this group of New England writers who never went abroad. Indeed, after the poet settled in the home at Amesbury, he seldom ventured far from his own fireside. The society of his kindred and of a few intimate friends he dearly loved; but he was too diffident to enjoy large companies, and he shrank from all publicity. The farmer of East Haverhill was most at home with common folks, understanding them perfectly and talking with them in a language they could understand. He used the pronoun "thee," the Quaker form of address, and always remained heartily loyal to the simple manners of the Friends. The militant spirit of his antislavery poems wholly disappeared with the war, and only gentleness, universal good-will, and a beautiful simplicity of religious faith characterized his later verse.

The popularity of Whittier increased among all classes of readers. His birthday, like that of Longfellow, was observed with noteworthy tributes of esteem. Upon his eightieth anniversary, the Governor of Massachusetts with other distinguished citizens visited the poet at Oak Knoll to present the congratulations of his native state. Upon one of these anniversary occasions, Whittier was deeply touched by a telegram sent by the Southern Forestry Congress assembled in Florida:--

"In remembrance of your birthday, we have planted a liveoak tree to your memory, which, like the leaves of the tree, will be forever green."

Together with his gentle dignity of bearing and his modest shyness of manner, Whittier possessed a keen sense of humor and had a homely wit that flashed out in conversation with his friends. Among these there were a number of distinguished women: Mrs. Stowe, Lucy Larcom, Alice and Phoebe Cary, Sarah Orne Jewett, Celia Thaxter, and Mrs. James T. Fields. With Longfellow, Emerson, and Holmes, Whittier had a pleasant but not an intimate acquaintance. In personal appearance the poet was tall and spare; his eyes were unusually brilliant, large, and dark; his smile was wonderfully benignant. Although he suffered much from ill health, he was patient, cheerful, and sweettempered. His final illness was brief. He died at Hampton, September 7, 1892. Almost his last words were, "Love -- love to all the world." The funeral services were held in the little garden of the home at Amesbury, and the poet was buried in the village cemetery in the family lot.

Whittier's Place in Literature.

In comparison with our other American poets, Whittier must be recognized as essentially provincial. Aside from the fact that a large body of his verse, the anti-slavery poems, was necessarily of temporary value, we must remember also that the best portion of his work belongs wholly to New England. It is nevertheless true that while this circumstance places a limitation upon its scope, it does not detract from the strength and value of his poetry. While the poet has never received, like Longfellow and Poe, the recognition of other peoples than our own, this restriction of his field, with the fidelity and vividness of his interpretation, is precisely what gives to Whittier his chief distinction here at home. Nor was he in the larger sense a great poet. No one recognized the technical faults of his verse more frankly than Whittier himself. "I should be hung for my bad rhymes anywhere south of Mason and Dixon's line," he wrote to Mr. Fields. That he did not hold a place with the men of profound insight, the "seers," he knew equally well. His own modest estimate of his poetic gifts he has expressed in stanzas of unusual beauty, which to some extent are themselves a contradiction of the statement:

   "The rigor of a frozen clime,
The harshness of an untaught ear,
   The jarring words of one whose rhyme
   Beat often Labor's hurried time,
Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here.

   "Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace,
No rounded art the lack supplies;
   Unskilled the subtle lines to trace,
   Or softer shades of Nature's face,
I view her common forms with unanointed eyes.

   "Nor mine the seer-like power to show
The secrets of the heart and mind;
   To drop the plummet-line below
   Our common world of joy and woe,
A more intense despair or brighter hope to find."¹