Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1877-11-27

y
tier gave up newspaper writing and other
public work, and retired from pnblc OBJ
serVation, almost entirely, TO plain,
white, old fashioned house, which his
limited means enabled him 10 purchase,
on the outskirts of Ames bury, manu-
featuring village in northeastern Massa-
chusetts. Here he has lived ever since
devoting himself entirely to literature,
having for his only companion until 1864
when she died-his last surviving sis
ter, Elizabeth. His study is a coy room
of medium dimensions; CHEEKY, open
fire place, with the old-iashioned brass
androns, is prominent feature OF it,
indeed, all the poets seem TO look upon
stoves as intoerable innovations and
pledged enemies to poesy; near a win
dow is his writing table, which Is neatly
strewn with manuscripts and writing
materials, very rarely including books OF
reference OF any kind; there are a lew
chairs, some simple pictures OF anti
slavery acquaintances on the walls, with
here and there 3 photograph OF some lit
erary or personal friend. His book cases
are roomy and we'll filed, and The num-
ber OF autograph books sent him by
authors is very large.
Usually it is not long after he conceives
s poelicsl idea before no has it reduced TO
writing He writes only when the mood
soizes him, and then he writes as il fired
with inspiration, losing all consciousness
of time and things, going out OF himself
as it were, and becoming part and parcel
ot his subject. His FIRST dralt suffers lite
subsequent alteration, and the various
editions OF his works represent little or
no time spent in revision. y thought
seizes him: he does not mature 1t by slow
processes and an infinite number OF in
cidental thoughts and mental finishing
touches; he deliberately seats himself at
his plain little wriing-tabe, and at once
puts il upon paper. May be it is poem
OF four or five short stauzas he will write;
he does not strain after his ideas or ex-
pressions; they TRANQUILITY come to him as
fast as he needs them. and he writes
them down lie may scratch half line
here and there, and begin again he may
substitute one word for another that does
not mean enough; but there is no srug-
gle, no nervous tidgeting about with the
legs; no biting the top OF his pen-handle
in mental agony; no waiting Tor the slug
gish current OF thought to bear along on
its surface the right idea.
In stature Mr.. Whittier is like his an
cestors, tall. l.-measuriug six feet or
more,-ol slender build, but straight as
an arrow; tiue-looking, oldish man,
with high forehead, fine face, quiet
smile, dark, piercing eyes, and hair once
black, but now thinned and gray. He
dresses in a sui: of black, cut in Quaker
fashion, and mis- speech is characterized
to a slight extent by the peculiarities OF
the people whose form oil service and
creed he prefers to any other; although,
il is well understood the latter is hardly
broad enough 10 cover ell his opinions
and convictions. He walks about the
country in the neighborhood OF his home
considerably, is pleasant aud companion
able with his neighbOrs, bat never drives
in a carriage, and cannot be coaxed or
compelled to attend gathering OF littera-
teurs or ex-anti-slavery people, !yceum
lecture, or any secular assembly what
ever. He occasionally, not o'ten,-
visits Boston, and usually spends there a
portion OF the winter at the house OF his
friend, Ex-Governor William Clatiin; ne
has never been abroad, and Washington,
which he visited ON one occasion, IS the
extreme limit of his journoying in this
country.
Speaking OF Whittier, n recent writer
has remarked distinguished as will be
his place in the annals OF literature, Justly
famed as he is TOR his exquisite and soul
stirring poetry, to us, Whittier, in his
own pure, sweet, beautiful life, is lar
grander than in his writings. His life Is
his best poem The man is far nobler
than tho poet" and Mr. Charles ii.
Brainard truly says, "Mr. Whittier's lille
has been more beautiful and true than
anv poem that ever flowed from his in
spired pen, and fully justifies the warm
eu!ogium contained in the closing lines
of beautiful triblte to his life and char
acter from the pen of his devoted friend,
the late Phoebe Cary
But not thy strains with courage rife,
Nor holiest hymns, shall rank above
The rhythmic beauty OF thy life.
Itself canticle Of love-"
Six years ago. at the age OF sixty-four,
Whittier wrote the following poem which
appeared in the October number OF the
Atlantic Monthly of 1871. which it will
be timely to read again in view OF his
7Olh birthday next December.
MY BIRTHDAY.
Beneath the moonlight and the snow
Lies dead my latest year;
The winter winds are wallng low
Its dirges in my ear.
Igrieve not with the moaning wind
AS if q loss beicll;
Before me, even Us behind,
God is, and all ia well