The Caldwell tribune. [volume] (Caldwell, Idaho Territory [Idaho]) 1883-1928, 1884-12-19
Where Whittier Lives.


shrubs about it, while within, one
room opens into another, till you reach
the study, that should be haunted by
the echo of all sweet sounds, for here
have been written the most OF those
verses full of the fitful music,
OF winds that out of dreamland blow.
Here, in the proper season, the
flames of a cheerful fire dance upon
the brass andirons of the open hearth,
in the center of wall lined with
books; water-colors by Harry Fem
and Lucy Larcom and Celia Thaxter,
together with interesting prints, hang
on the other wall, rivalled, it may be,
by the window that looks down
sunny little orchard, and by the glass
topped door through which you see
the green dome of Powow hill. What
worthless have been entertained ia this
enticing place Garrison and Phil
lips and Higginson and WATSON and
Emerson and Fields and Bayard Tay-
lor and Alice and Phoebe Cary and
Gail Hamilton and Anna Dickinson
are only few of the names that one
first remembers; to say nothing of
countless sweet souls, unknown to
any other roll of fame than heavens,
who have found The atmosphere there
kindred to their own.
The people of Amesbury and of the
adjoining villages and towns feel a
peculiar ownership of their poet: there
is scarcely a legend of all the region
round which he has not woven into
his song, and the neighborhood feel
not only as if Whittier were their poet,
but in some way the guardian spirit,
the genius of the place. Perhaps in
his stern and sweet life he has been so,
even as much as in his song.
There is no charge to Mr.. Whit
tier" once said shopman of whom
he had made small purchase, and
there is no doubt that the example
would have been contagious if the in
dependent spirit of the poet would
ever have allowed it.
These Indian-summer days of the
poets life are spent not all in the
places that know him of old. The
greater part of the winters passed in
Boston; a share of the summer always
goes to the White hills, of which he is
passionately fond, and the remainder
of the time finds him at the house of
his cousins at Oak Knoll, in Danvers,
still in his native county of Essex.
There is mansion, with its porcbes
and porticoes, and surrounding lawns,
and groves, which seems meet for
poets home. 1t stands in spacious
and secluded grounds, Swallowed by
mighty oaks, and with that woodland
character which birds and squirrels
and rabbits darting in the checkered
sunshine must always give. 1t is the
home of culture and refinement, too,
and as full of beauty within as without
Here many of the latter poems have
been sent forth, and here fledglings
have the unwarrantable impertinence
to intrude with their callow manu-
scripts, and here those pests of proml-
hence, the autograph-seekers send
their requests by the thousands. But
in the early fall the poet steals quietly
back to Amesbury and there awaits
election day, a period in which he re-
ligiously believes that no man has a
right to avoid his duty, and of which
he still thinks as when he saw
Along the street
The shadows meet
OF destiny whose hands conceal
The molds of fate
That shape the state
And make or mar the common veal.
What life he has to look back upon
as he sits with his fame about him
what storms and what delights, what
struggle and what victory, With all
the deep and wonderful humility of
spirit that be bears before God and
man, yet it is doubtful if he could find
one day in it that he would change, so
far as his own acts are concerned. 1t
is certain that no one else could find it.
In appearance Mr.. Whittier is as up
right in bearing as ever. His eye is
as black and burns with rs keen fire
as when it flashed over the Concord
mob, and sees beauty everywhere as
freshly as when he cried with the
Voices of Freedom and sang the
"Songs of Labor:" and his smile is the
same smile that has won the worship
of men, and of women, too, for sixty
years or over. Now. it is with sort
of tenderness that people speak and
think of him, whose walk will, per-
haps, go but little further than their
own; not that they deem such vital
ity, and power, and spirit, can ever
cease. but that they are warned of
its apotheosis, rs it were, into loftier
regions, where his earthly songs
shall be turned to the music of the
morning stars rs they sing together.
Harriet Prescott Spo6ord. IN The
Critic.