Saint Paul weekly Minnesotian., 1858-12-11
,spondence of the Boston Journal.
John G.. Whittier at Home.

i first met Whittier in shoemaker
shop, when he was engaged in conversation
with one of the workmen He minges most
freely with all classes, takes deep interest
in the various concerns of the villagers, wheth-
er it be town library, debating club, a
horticultural society, or lyceum, and he is
beloved by all He needs no mutual admir-
alton society to proclaim either him or his
works His works praise him.
As he walked with me to his residence,
perceived that he was clad in the dress of his
sect, though not extreme in the Friends fash
iOn He is slim and TALL and his whole ap-
pearance indicates one who does not ENJOY
vigorous health-one whose brain and finely
strung nervous system overworll the body
He led me into plain, neat cottage, the door
of which was ornamental with a little trelis,
over which honey y-sucklc twined and inter
laced ITSELF
The little parlOr was simply arranged, and
here and there was an engraving of men O1
kindred spirit to John Quincy Adams. On
the mantel-piece were two card holders, each
in the form of bending slave, who was i'm
ploring aid from above. There is picture
that now occupies the wall above that mantel
Hhich was not there last November. 1t is the
portrait of that dear mother and remarkable
woman to whom the poet so often in verse re-
fers with such filial affection. Since the last
autumnal winds, the lovely Christian mother
has gone to the bright spirit world. There
are few lines of Whittier's which have a
depth of meaning and philosophy in them
which do not believe is surpassed by any
that Coleridge or Jean Paul Richter ever
wrote. 1t is called Trust, and is written in
10 - r.
the poet in regard to the reason of the great
mysteries in us and around us. There is
something positively awful yet true about
those intrOspective eyes. Of the mysteries
he says:
"--I cannot learn
Their great and solemn meaning, nor discern,
The awful secrets of the eyes which turn
EvermOre upon us through the day and night
With silent challenge and dumb demand,
Profcring the riddles OF the dread unknown,
Like the calm SphinXes with their eyes of stone
Questioning the centuries from their wells of sand
have answer for myself or thee,
Save that learned beside my mothers knee:
"All is of God that is, and is to be:
And God is good' Let this suffice us, still
Resting in child-like trust upon His will,
Who moves to his great ends unthwarted by the ILL.,
Dr. Peabody, in his very able literary dis
course before one of the societies of Brown
University, designated Whittier, that Ameri-
can poet whose writings were destined to
live because he based all that he wrote on i'm
mutable moral distinctions. He feels what
he writes, and his feeling is right, because he
has based all that he wrote on immutable NOR
al distinctions. He feels what he writes, and
his feeling is right, because he has the highest
motives to please God and bless his fellow
men.
Many time since that first autumnal visit
it has been my pleasure to call at that little
cottage. There is ever the same air of COM
fort, ever the same cheerfulness and unaffect-
ed kindness in it's inmates. Once, in the month
of May, when the lily of the valley was spring
ing from amidst the tender grass in the door
yard, and the apple blossoms were shOwered
around, was l invited to the poets house,
1t was on the occasion of the Friends Quar-
terly Meeting. 1t gave me the opportunity of
seeing him surrounded by his fellows, and Of
being near him in the house Of God. He
was still the same. There was 10 aflecta-
ton of sanctity, there was no cessation OF
the kind, hospitable, cordial flow of feeling.
1t has been surmised from some Of mis- po-
ems that Whittier has also experienced an
other sentiment than that Of religion, and yet
one closely allied to it, SO far as this poor
earth is concerned. Some have imagined that
no man could paint so exquisitely and pathet-
ically the feelings Of poor Maud Muller and
the Judge without having himself had some
deep and cherished affection which never rip
ed into reality. For who has not been touch
ed in his inmost heart after persuing the lot of
the poor maiden and the Judge? TO read
these fearful lines is like listening to the most
saddening melody:
"God pity them both. and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams Of youth recall.
For all sad words of tongue pen,
The saddest are these: 1t might have been!
All, we'll! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;
And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away"
Long may the poet who loves his fellow
man and his God be spared to incite us to
good deeds, and to arouse in us noble emo