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John Greenleaf Whittier (search for this): chapter 1
Note The thanks of the author are due to various friends and correspondents who have aided him with information or criticism; and especially to his friend Samuel T. Pickard, Esq., the authorized biographer of Whittier, whose invaluable work must always hold the leading place among all books relating to the poet's personal history, and who has also been most generous in the way of private counsel. T. W. H. Cambridge, Mass.
Samuel T. Pickard (search for this): chapter 1
Note The thanks of the author are due to various friends and correspondents who have aided him with information or criticism; and especially to his friend Samuel T. Pickard, Esq., the authorized biographer of Whittier, whose invaluable work must always hold the leading place among all books relating to the poet's personal history, and who has also been most generous in the way of private counsel. T. W. H. Cambridge, Mass.
Cambridge (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 1
Note The thanks of the author are due to various friends and correspondents who have aided him with information or criticism; and especially to his friend Samuel T. Pickard, Esq., the authorized biographer of Whittier, whose invaluable work must always hold the leading place among all books relating to the poet's personal history, and who has also been most generous in the way of private counsel. T. W. H. Cambridge, Mass.
1843 AD (search for this): chapter 2
onspicuous among his posterity, John Greenleaf Whittier and Daniel Webster. The homestead in which Whittier was reared is to this day so sheltered from the world that no neighbour's roof has ever been in sight from it; and Whittier says of it in Snow-bound No church-bell lent its Christian tone To the savage air; no social smoke Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. In a prose paper by him, moreover, The Fish I Didn't catch, published originally in the Little Pilgrim, in Philadelphia, in 1843, there is a sketch of the home of his youth, as suggestive of a rustic boyhood as if it had been made in Scotland. It opens as follows:-- Our old homestead (the house was very old for a new country, having been built about the time that the Prince of Orange drove out James the Second) nestled under a long range of hills which stretched off to the west. It was surrounded by woods in all directions save to the southeast, where a break in the leafy wall revealed a vista of low, green mead
1652 AD (search for this): chapter 2
ier never suffered, though he was one of the town committee to provide fortified houses for places of refuge in case of danger. That he never even bolted his own doors at night is the tradition of the family. This tradition suggests the ways and purposes of the Society of Friends, but it does not appear that Thomas Whittier actually belonged to that body, though he risked name and standing to secure fair treatment for those who led it. Mr. Pickard, the poet's biographer, tells us that in 1652 he joined in petitioning the legislature, then called general court, for the pardon of Robert Pike, who had been heavily fined for speaking against the order prohibiting certain Quakers from exhorting on the Lord's Day, even in their own houses. Not only was this petition not granted, but the petitioners were threatened with loss of rights as freemen unless they withdrew their names. Sixteen refused to withdraw them, of whom two, Thomas Whittier and Christopher Hussey, were ancestors of the
November (search for this): chapter 2
At the gray wizard's conjuring book, The fame whereof went far and wide Through all the simple country side; We heard the hawks at twilight play, The boat-horn on Piscataqua, The loon's weird laughter far away; We fished her little trout-brook, knew What flowers in wood and meadow grew, What sunny hillsides autumn-brown She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down; Saw where in sheltered cove and bay The ducks' black squadron anchored lay, And heard the wild geese calling loud Beneath the gray November cloud. Then, haply with a look more grave And soberer tone, some tale she gave From painful Sewell's ancient tome, Beloved in every Quaker home, Of faith fire-winged by martyrdom, Or Chalkley's Journal, old and quaint,-- Gentlest of skippers, rare sea-saint!-- Or his uncle told of the lore of fields and brooks. Himself to Nature's heart so near That all her voices in his ear Of beast or bird had meanings clear, Like Apollonius of old, Who knew the tales the sparrows told, Or Hermes who i
October (search for this): chapter 2
tropic heat; And ever, when a louder blast Shook beam and rafter as it passed, The merrier up its roaring draught The great throat of the chimney laughed; The house-dog on his paws outspread Laid to the fire his drowsy head, The cat's dark silhouette on the wall A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; And, for the winter fireside meet, Between the andirons' straggling feet, The mug of cider simmered slow, The apples sputtered in a row, And, close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood. Here we have, absolutely photographed, the Puritan Colonial interior, as it existed till within the very memory of old men still living. No other book, no other picture preserves it to us; all other books, all other pictures combined, leave us still ignorant of the atmosphere which this one page re-creates for us; it is more imperishable than any interior painted by Gerard Douw. And this picture we owe to a lonely invalid, who painted it in memory of his last household compani
June (search for this): chapter 2
the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans!-- For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy; Blessings on the barefoot boy! O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw Me, their master, waited for! I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight, Through the day and through the night Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mi
Franklin (search for this): chapter 2
orderly households. One of his first attempts in verse was a rhymed catalogue of the books in the family library — a list which begins as follows: The Bible towering o'er all the rest, Of all other books the best. William Penn's laborious writing And a book 'gainst Christians fighting. A book concerning John's Baptism, Elias Smith's Universalism. How Captain Riley and his crew Were on Sahara's desert threw. How Rollins, to obtain the cash, Wrote a dull history of trash. The lives of Franklin and of Penn, Of Fox and Scott, all worthy men. The life of Burroughs, too, I've read, As big a rogue as e'er was made. And Tufts, too, though I will be civil, Worse than an incarnate devil. Now the lives of George Burroughs and Henry Tufts were the Gil Bias and even the Guzman d'alfarache of the New England readers of a hundred years ago; the former having gone through many editions, while the latter — by far the wittier and wickeder of the two--was suppressed by the Tufts family, and
James (search for this): chapter 2
ent its Christian tone To the savage air; no social smoke Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. In a prose paper by him, moreover, The Fish I Didn't catch, published originally in the Little Pilgrim, in Philadelphia, in 1843, there is a sketch of the home of his youth, as suggestive of a rustic boyhood as if it had been made in Scotland. It opens as follows:-- Our old homestead (the house was very old for a new country, having been built about the time that the Prince of Orange drove out James the Second) nestled under a long range of hills which stretched off to the west. It was surrounded by woods in all directions save to the southeast, where a break in the leafy wall revealed a vista of low, green meadows, picturesque with wooded islands and jutting capes of upland. Through these, a small brook, noisy enough as it foamed, rippled, and laughed down its rocky falls by our garden-side, wound, silently and scarcely visible, to a still larger stream, known as the Country Brook.
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