The Newtown bee., 1891-03-06
NEwTowN. MARCH 9, 1891.
THE POET WHITTIER.

heard the English speaking tongue, New
England has not yet produced one around
whose name cluster more precious mem
cries of the present as well as of the past
than around the name of John G. Whit
tier. When, December II, 1890, the
grand old man entered upon his S4th
year, letters of congratulation came to
him from all parts of the civilized globe
and presents, rare and beautiful, were
showered upon him by multitudes, who
were eager to rise up and call him bless
ed. Loving and beloved, he has rounded
out more than four-score years and is
now patiently waiting for the golden
sands to run out, as with child-like trust
he leans upon the Fathers arm. His
out-of-doors boyhood life was no more
eventful than that of other boys of his
day and time. The Summer sports and
Winter pleasures, we may well believe,
were entered into by the boy with that
zest that eharacterizes the bright, active
boy of every period. The birthplace and
early home of Whittier was farm house,
distant three miles from Haverhill Mass.
In the valley of the Merrimack, surround
ed by the blue hills, he lived the simple,
quiet life of farmer boy, loving his
mother, his sister, his Quaker sect, free
dom and his home. One mile distant
from the old farm house lies sweet Ke-
noza lake, whose shores he trod bare
foot boy and in whose sparkling waters
he used to fish. That he has had a strong
attachment for the lake during his life is
of his poems:
"Kenozal Ger no sweeter lake
Shall morning break or noon cloud sail;
No fairer face than thine shall take
The sunsets golden vail"
In Il green sunken pocket of the inland
hills still stands the old homestead
whose appearance has been so we'll pic
tured by recent visitor that no descript-
ion can give us clearer impression and
from it we quote:
Between the front door and the road rises
grassy wooded bank at the foot of which
runs u little amber-c olored brook. Across the
road is the barn. The house Is plain and not
very large. Entering the front door, you are
in n small entry, with a steep, quaint little
staircase. On the right is the parlor, where
Whittier wrote. In the tiny low studded room
on the left, he was born and, in the same room
his father died. The room has a fireplace and
three windows All the windows in the house
have small panes nine in the upper and six
in the lower sash. The building is supposed
TO be 22O years old. The kitchen is the great
attraction. Although diminished in size by n
dividing partition, it is otherwise almost I'M
cbnppal 10 q oil wi no fro
place, and huge breadth of chimney, with in
set cupboards and oven and mantlepiece
Above the mantle is the nail where hung the
old bull's-eye watch. Set into one side OF the
kitchen Is the cupboard, where the pewter
plates and platters were ranged and here
upon the wall is the circle worn by the old
brass warming pan, which formerly shone
like setting moon against the wall of the
kitchen.
John Whittier, the father of the poet,
is described by citizens of Haverhll as a
rough, sturdy, decisive, kind-hearted and
deeply religious man. There was no
Friends church in Haverhill and, on
'First-days," Quaker Whittier could be
seen vending his way toward the old
brown meeting house in Amesbury, six
miles away. Of his mother, it is said
that ''hers was deeply emotional and
religious nature, pure, chastened, sweet,
lovable and kind hearted to fault. An
incident told by the poet in his prose
works, yankee Gipsies," affords an in
dication of her kind hearteduess:
"On one occasion, when a boy on my return
from the field at evening, I was told that a
foreigner had asked for lodgings during the
night, but that, influenced by his dark, repul-
sive appearance, my mother had very reluc-
family refused his request. found her by no
means satisfied with her decision. What If a
son OF mine was in q strange land?' she in
CURED, self reproachfully. Greatly to her re-
liet volunteered to go in pursuit of the wan
derer and, taking cross path over the fields,
soon overlook him. He had just been reject.
ed at the house of our nearest neighbor and
was standing in n state OF dubious perplexity
In the street. His looks quite justified my
mothers suspicious. He was an olive com
plexioned, black bearded Italian, with an eye
like live coal, such face as perchance looks
out on the traveller in the passes OF the Alb.
ruzzi; one of those bandit-visages which Sal
vator has painted. With some difficulty,
gave him to understand my errand, when he
overwhelmed me with thanks and joyfully
followed me back. He took his seat with us
mt the supper table and, when we were all
gathered around the hearth that cold autumn
nal evening, he told us, partly by words and
partly by gestures, the story OF his life and
misfortunes, amused us with descriptions OF
the grape gatherings and festivals of his sun.
ny cline, edited my mother with recipe tor
making bread of chestnuts and, in the morn
ing, when, after breakfast, his dark, sullen
face lighted up and his fierce eye ffioistened
with grateful emotion, as in his own silvery
Tuscan accent he poured out his thanks, we
marvelled at the tears which had so nearly
closed our doors against him; and, as he de.
parted, we all felt that he had LETT with us the
blessing of the poor. 1t was not often that, as
In the above instance, my mothers prudence
got the better OF her charity. The regular
old stragglers' regarded her as an unfailing
friend and the sight of her plain cap was to
them an assurance of forthcoming creature
comforts"
Four children were given to this wor-
thy couple, two sons and two daughters,
the poet, John c., being the second child.
Born of snch sturdy stock, his surround
ings the quiet, country farm house, his
lessons drawn from Natures open book,
supplemented by the district school, rul-
ed over by the sturdy yeomanry of the
early times, what wonder that he became
in after years the poet of the hearth and
home, always living on the human level,
with heart Overlooking with sympathy
and touched by all the woes and wants
of man. At the age of 10, he leaves the
farm and devotes himself to study. His
extreme shyness and distrust Of himself
led him to deprecate the idea that he had
any special power as great writer, and
no one could have been more surprised
than he, when the editorship of promi-
nent Boston paper was offered him. His
n lat kan Al ~