In the early movements of the Republican party he was acknowledged to be the power behind the throne. Sumner, wise and learned, could trust to the advice of Whittier. His correspondence with such men as Giddings, Chase, Sumner, Wilson, John P. Hale, Upham and other celebrities, upon national topics, is known to a few of his friends. They contain sentiments which prove him as wise in statesmanship as he is eloquent in verse.
How well and faithfully he labored is best expressed in his words:
"I am not insensible to literary reputation; I love, perhaps too well, the love and praise of my fellow-men; but I set a higher value on my name as appended to the Anti-Slavery Declaration of 1833, than on the t.i.tle page of any book."
On the subject of the abolishment of capital punishment, Whittier"s vote is found recorded in the affirmative, as might have been expected. He has said that one of the pleasantest years of his life was that pa.s.sed during the session of the Legislature in 1835.
One of the chief reasons why Whittier went seven miles from his Amesbury home last summer was to "escape pilgrims" (as he called them). One Sunday after meeting at Amesbury he said to his life-long friend, Miss Gove, "Abby, has thee a spare room up at thy house?" She responded in the affirmative, and he went to her home in Hampton Falls for the latter part of the summer. It was here he penned his last poem--the verses "To Oliver Wendell Holmes:"
"The gift is thine the weary world to make More cheerful for thy sake, Soothing the ears its Miserere pains With the old h.e.l.lenic strains."
In a letter to one of the editors of the _Critic_ (August 29, 1892), Dr.
Holmes wrote, concerning his birthday:
"I have received two poems in advance, and our dear friend Whittier, whose heart is a cornucopia of blessings for his fellow-creatures, has remembered me in the pages of the _Atlantic_, where we have found ourselves side by side for so many years. Long may the sands of his life keep running, for they come from the bed of Pactolus."
The news of his friend"s death was received by Dr. Holmes in Beverly, just as he was coming in from a drive along the sh.o.r.e. It was a heavy blow, coming as it did just upon the death of Lowell, Thomas Parsons, and George William Curtis. He remarked that his acquaintance with Whittier dated from the year of the founding of the _Atlantic Monthly_.
He had frequently visited him at Oak Knoll. He was there last year, and the two old fellows walked and talked among the trees and had a good time together. When the Doctor was leaving, his friend loaded him down with fruit. It was on one of these recent visits that Dr. Holmes with characteristic keenness of perception, discovered the beautiful symmetry of the grand Norway spruce in front of the mansion on the wide sweep of lawn, and he laughingly named it "The Poet"s PaG.o.da," and this name it has kept ever since.
To return to "Elmfield," as the old Gove mansion is called. The old-fashioned house, with its upper balconies, heavy chimneys, and rich collection of historical relics, stands on a hill not far from the falls which gave the name to the village--Hampton Falls. The sight from Whittier"s window commanded a little balcony, with a view of the distant blue sea. One day after another pa.s.sed quietly away, he rising at seven, going across through a pine grove to the adjoining tavern for his breakfast, getting the mail at the little post-office, reading the papers, looking at the distant sails on the sea through a gla.s.s, conversing with friends or walking in the neighboring orchard, with its paths and rustic seats. The region is that where his Bachiler and Hussey ancestors both lived, as Mr. F. B. Sanborn tells us (Boston _Advertiser_, September 8, 1892). Daniel Webster"s Bachiler ancestors also lived on a farm, a mile and a half from the Gove mansion; namely, where now stands the villa of Warren Brown. As Mr. Sanborn truthfully says, Whittier has been the local poet of this whole region of Ess.e.x and adjoining counties. "No poet of New England," he continues, "has lived so close to the actual habits of the people, in the present and the past centuries, as did Whittier; and his poems of locality will become as much a feature of New England literature as are those of Burns and Scott in their native country. This fidelity to homely fact and profound sentiment have made Whittier more than any other the patrial and religious poet of New Hampshire and Eastern Ma.s.sachusetts. He has done in verse what Hawthorne did in prose. It was only the accident or accomplishment of verse which separated these two poets, and made one of them our most graceful and romantic prose-writer, while the other became our most spiritual and literal poet."
The truth of these statements comes home to me with force since I made a week"s itinerary through this Whittier ballad land a year ago, and saw how every mile of coast land was celebrated in storied verse by Whittier.
On Wednesday, August 31, Mr. Whittier was taken ill. The malady was acute diarrhea, which by the Sat.u.r.day following developed a new and alarming symptom, a remarkable irregularity of the heart"s action, accompanied by partial paralysis of the left side, arms, and vocal organs. He remained conscious until Tuesday at three P. M., when the symptoms became markedly worse. He was surrounded by ministering relatives and friends, who gave him every loving attention, but all were powerless to stay the hand of death.
When urged to take the nourishment prescribed by his physicians, he said: "I want water from Abby"s (Miss Gove) nice well," and as it was given, remarked with a bright smile, "That"s good--nothing better." Soon after, as his forehead was being bathed, he said, "That is all that can be done." To his attending physicians, Drs. Dougla.s.s and Howe, and nurse, he said: "I am worn out--thee have done what thee could--I thank thee." And as the end drew near the dying poet recognized his niece from Portland, and remarked in faltering words, "Love--to--the--world." These were his last words. He died at four-thirty on the morning of the seventh. At seven o"clock on Friday evening the silent form of the poet was brought to Amesbury, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. S. T. Pickard, and Mr. and Mrs. Cartland.
On Sat.u.r.day morning business was entirely suspended in Amesbury. The selectmen issued the following proclamation:--
"To the Citizens of Amesbury:--Our town has been saddened by the death of its great poet and one of its n.o.blest and best-loved citizens. We feel that our country at large, and the civilized world, mourns with us the death of the poet and liberty-loving philanthropist, John G. Whittier.
"Sharing the sadness which must come to the wise and good everywhere, we, the people of Amesbury, mourn the loss of a friend and neighbor endeared to us by his lovable qualities and the purity of his daily life in our midst.
"We revered him for his greatness, and loved him for himself.
Always identified with every good work in Amesbury, sustaining the right and defending the oppressed, his life for more than half a century has been to us a daily sermon.
"If it be true that
"The heart speaketh most when the life move,"
we can only add that such a life, with its fullness of years and its crown of blessings, is a rich legacy to the community."
[Ill.u.s.tration: THE GOVE HOUSE, HAMPTON FALLS, N. H., IN WHICH WHITTIER DIED.]
At ten o"clock the public was admitted to the house, pa.s.sing in a continuous line (as at the funeral of dear old Walt Whitman, his brother poet of Democracy, a few months before in Camden) through the humble little parlor of the Amesbury home. It was originally intended to hold the services in the Friends" meeting-house near by; but the dense fog clearing up and the bright sun coming out--as one beautifully said, "the mystery of death typified by the shifting and elusive shadows of the fog, and the glory and hopefulness of the resurrection by the bright rays of the sun"--it was decided to let the body rest in the house, and hold memorial services in the quiet garden in the rear of the house.
The funeral arrangements were in charge of William Lloyd Garrison, Jr., S. T. Pickard and Judge G. W. Cate, the tenant of the house. The atmosphere was one of peace and restfulness, and the simplicity of the life of the Friends was seen in all the arrangements. In the quaint parlor of the homestead lay all that was mortal of the poet, on whose face was an expression of supreme peace; his form was encircled by a delicate fringe of trailing fern. A most beautiful wreath from Dr.
Oliver Wendell Holmes--eighty-four white roses, fringed with carnations and maidenhair ferns, one for each year of the poet"s life,--was laid around the name-plate on the coffin. It was a touching tribute by the last one of that remarkable galaxy of poets that marked such a distinguished era in our American literature. Two crossed palms, with the j.a.pan lilies Whittier loved so well, encircled by a broad white satin ribbon, were from Mrs. Daniel Lothrop. The fronds of the long palms encircled the face of the dead poet as it looked out from the large engraving between the windows of the parlor. Upon the end of the ribbon was delicately painted six lines from Whittier"s "Andrew Rykman"s Prayer:"
"Some sweet morning yet in G.o.d"s Dim aeonian periods, Joyful I shall wake to see Those I love who rest in Thee, And to them in Thee allied Shall my soul be satisfied."
Upon the accompanying card was this: "In memory of my husband"s dear friend. This verse of "Andrew Rykman"s Prayer" was consolation in the hour of death to both him who wrote it, and to him who loved it.--Mrs.
Daniel Lothrop."
Another exquisite floral offering came with these lines:
"I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care."
On the back of the card were the words "Oak Knoll."
The alcove behind the casket was filled with floral tributes. Here was a large St. Andrew"s cross of exquisite white roses upon a bed of ivy, from a very near and dear friend of Mr. Whittier"s at Lexington, whose name is withheld. There was a ladder of hydrangeas, gladioli, carnations and snow-b.a.l.l.s from Mrs. Albert Clarke of Amesbury, an ivy wreath from Sarah Orne Jewett, a sheaf of wheat from Mrs. Lizzie Cheney and the Misses Coffin of Lynn, a broken shaft of white carnations from Mr. and Mrs. J. Henry Hall of Amesbury. A ma.s.sive wreath of Whittier"s own much-loved pine ta.s.sels was hung above the portrait of his sister Elizabeth, the tribute of Mrs. Joseph A. Purington; the heavy green was relieved by a spray of bright, contrasting goldenrod. Mrs. Samuel Rowell, Jr., sent a basket of white roses and maidenhair. There was a beautiful spray of the pa.s.sion flower from L. Kelcher, Hotel Winthrop, Boston, and an hour-gla.s.s of white carnations from Mr. J. R. Fogg. Many touching little cl.u.s.ters of flowers came from the children; and his neighbors sent a beautiful wreath of fringed gentian--Whittier"s favorite flower. This came from the far Pacific Slope: "Lay one flower for me upon the bier of the beloved friend who rests. No purer soul ever pa.s.sed from earth to Heaven, or bore with it greater love and blessing than does his.--Ina D. Coolbrith, Oakland, Cal."
In the garden, and overlooked by the windows of the study where Mr.
Whittier wrote and thought for so many years, was gathered to pay the last tributes of love and reverence to the dead poet, a large and notable a.s.semblage: Gen. O. O. Howard, E. C. Stedman, Mrs. Alice Freeman Palmer, Mrs. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps-Ward, Gail Hamilton, Lucy Larcom, Edna Dean Proctor, Horace E. Scudder, T. W. Higginson, ex-Governor Claflin, Parker Pillsbury, Francis H. Underwood, Edward L. Pierce, Robert S. Rantoul, Mrs. C. A. Dall, "Margaret Sidney," Harriet Prescott Spofford, Mrs. Endicott, Wm. Lloyd Garrison, Jr., Frank J. Garrison, etc.
And the sight was one never to be forgotten. Under the soft September sky, blue and cloudless, in the shade of pear and apple trees which Whittier himself had planted and tended and loved, were his relatives, friends, neighbors and men and women whose names are known wherever the English language is spoken.
It scarcely seemed like a funeral, so unaffectedly natural and sincere was every spoken word and every act. And the entire absence of formality and stiffness deprived the occasion of that artificial gloom which is so often characteristic of funerals.
Perhaps, too, the subtle influence of the balmy air and the beauties of the place helped to lift the pall that must have hung over many a heart.
It was as if the friends of some dearly beloved man, who was going on a journey, had gathered to bid him G.o.d-speed--not as if they had come to bid him farewell.
A hollow square was formed around a low platform, and near by was a table with a Bible upon it. Gentians, one of Whittier"s favorite flowers, and goldenrod formed the only floral ornaments. Back of the seats stood a dense crowd that must have numbered thousands, almost filling the garden. Children climbed the trees and looked with open-eyed wonder on the scene. On an apple bough, his naked legs dangling in the air almost over the head of Edmund Clarence Stedman, was an urchin who might have inspired the "Barefoot Boy;" faces peered from many a tree, from the vine-clad arbor and from the window of a neighboring barn, down upon the crowd.
The poet"s relatives, and members of the Society of Friends from various places, occupied the seats forming the hollow square, an easy-chair being reserved for Oliver Wendell Holmes, but he was unable to be present.
The Friends gave the exercises their peculiar complexion; first one and then another rising to eulogize their friend as the "Spirit moved them."
Verses of Whittier were recited by "that lovely Quaker lady," Mrs.
Gertrude Cartland, and by Mrs. James H. Chace. Mr. E. C. Stedman was the last speaker.
He spoke of the personal loss he felt in the poet"s death. "To know him was a consecration, to have his sympathy a benediction. His pa.s.sing away was not so much a death as a translation. He is gone, and has not left his mantle! How could he? Why should he? No one can overestimate his artless art, his power, vigor and effect in his polemic efforts. No one put so much heart or so much religion into his writings. He was one of the great trio of New England poets, of whom there is only one now left. They are the vanishers of whom he spoke. He was a believer in the inward life, as a poet should be. He will be his own successor, and belongs to our time as well as to that earlier time to which he is linked by his work. We may say of him that the chariot swung low and he was translated, dividing the waters of truth, beauty, and religion, with his mantle. The last time I spoke at a memorial service was at Bayard Taylor"s funeral. Taylor was Whittier"s friend, and like Whittier he had a firm belief in immortality."
It is to Mr. Stedman that Whittier dedicated in a few choice lines his latest volume of verse, "At Sundown," which the poet, as if prescient of his coming death, had had privately printed and circulated among a few friends a year before his fatal illness.
The most picturesque and striking figure at Whittier"s funeral was that of the venerable John W. Hutchinson, whose long gray hair fell over a broad white Rembrandt collar. He and his sister, Abby Hutchinson Patton, were life-long friends of Whittier, and their voices in the song they sang--"Close his eyes, his work is done"--were, "like the echoes of sweet bells from the far-away time of their youth, when they and Whittier were one in endeavor."
And then the long procession was formed. In the family lot, in the Friends" section of the Union Cemetery, where are buried his father, mother, sisters and brother, John Greenleaf Whittier was laid to rest.
The Boston _Journal_, in writing of Whittier"s obsequies, gathered up this tender reminiscence:--
"We recall the incident of some ten years since, when Mr. Daniel Lothrop, the late publisher, while visiting in California, used Whittier"s poem, "Andrew Rykman"s Prayer" to comfort the bereaved.
Mr. Lothrop had, as it were, been brought up on Mr. Whittier"s poems, there being in many ways a great similarity of tastes and characteristics between them. Of late years there was a strong friendship. The clergyman of a prominent Oakland church had died suddenly in the pulpit some few weeks before, and at the large memorial meeting Mr. Lothrop was asked without warning by the chairman to recite this poem, as he had heard him repeat a few lines from it during a consecration meeting. Mr. Lothrop ascended the platform and gave the poem entire. There was a profound hush throughout the vast a.s.sembly, like that following the instant when the beloved pastor had suddenly fallen before their eyes. Many were in tears, all agreeing that Whittier"s strong, uplifting words comforted them more than anything else that had been said. Rev. Dr.
Gordon, in the address at Mr. Lothrop"s funeral in the Old South Church, appropriately recited this poem for the late publisher, who on his death-bed used this poem, as he had in health and strength."
James G. Blaine telegraphed that he had "long regarded Whittier with affectionate veneration," and over the wire came from Frederick Douglas the words, "Emanc.i.p.ated millions will hold his memory sacred." Speaking of Mr. Blaine, a writer, "S. F. M.," in the Boston _Journal_, December 18, 1891, tells of Mr. Blaine"s presenting his, "S. F. M."s," brother with a morocco-bound copy of the beautiful Mussey edition, and of Mr.
Blaine"s reading and re-reading aloud, one Sunday at their house in Charlestown, Ma.s.s., the poem "Among the Hills," which had then just been issued.
Memorial services on the afternoon of the funeral were held in Danvers, Haverhill, Salem, Ma.s.s., and Va.s.salboro, Maine. The old Whittier grange at the cross roads in Haverhill was draped in mourning. The present owner of the birthplace is Mr. George E. Elliott, a retired wealthy gentleman of Haverhill; and it is hoped that at no distant day he may be induced to sell it to the town of Haverhill, who would sacredly keep this cherished spot marking the nativity of her distinguished son, so that all lovers of John G. Whittier"s poetry may have an opportunity to see his early home.