The Salt Lake herald. [volume] (Salt Lake City [Utah]) 1870-1909, 1896-06-14

nothing could stir the roots which he
had grown into the soil of his native
pines. . aiss
10 a friend who placed an empty cot
tage in Florida. at his disposal one
winter, he replied:
L thank thee for thy kind offer of
the Florida cottage; but l must live If
l can. and die if I must, IN Yankee
lard"
Whittier suffered from physical disa-
bilities-only those who knew him well
ever suspected how much: or how
seriously these affected the exercise of
his great powers. He was but
wretcfled sleeper; usually, his biog-
rapher tells us, awake before dawn,
and accustomed to sleep with his cur
tain raised that he might watch the
movement of the sunrise. 1t will be
remembered how touchingly his old
habit wrought upon him, on the day
when he fell into his last sleep; when
the nurse would have drawn the shade
to darken the room. and he feebly
waved his hand to order 1T raised
again, that he might not lose the final
sunrise of his life.
His love of nature was always some
thing exquisite and as fresh as lads
to his last hour. 1 find his letters to
me full of such touches as these:
These November days of Indian
summer make me happy that. have
lived to see them.
Il am glad to be permitted once more
to see the miracle of spring"
Again | find the page sprinkled with
magnolia buds, hepaticas. and sviolets,
and when the golden dandelion comes,
it will be really spring. I would rather
see the flowers in the world beyond
than the golden streets we are told
Of"
But / am borrowing even these few
extracts from a previous publication
Of his letters, which / have no right to
reproduce in amy fullness here.
1 have often heard him say that he
called five hours sleep a fine night S
rest; and that for weeks at a time he
would be unable to write more than a
few stanzas, or a few lines. He worked
under severer physical limitations than
any other of the great writers of our
country: yet how wholesome, how
genial, how brave his work!
He gave the people of his best
His worst he kept, his best he gave"
Like other solitary lives of the higher
caste, his chief happiness was in his
friendships. Of these he had many
among the elect spirits; and he sus-
tanned them with remarkable fidelity.
l sometimes used to think that he
found it almost too hard to criticize
any of MS friends, or TO give US friend
! ly blame; but if so, he atoned for that
by the stimulating, nortllwe sterly cour-
age which he was sure to have in store
/ for US; always giving us faith in our
| selves, and in our own work.
! And, indeed, he could snlite like the
angel of exile when he would Of this
/ " need ut witt t51DT !, 70
nous poem on Daniel Webster, -Icha-
bod" Though it is but just to say that
| heard him during the Lass years of
! his life lament, if he did not quite re-
! pent, that poem.
Il am afraid l was too severe" he
would say; do thee think l wasp
In memorable contrast to that of our
great hermit ran the life of the Beacon
street poet, Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Yet the two were friends in the gen.
uine sense of the word. Whittier's Sc
I clusion held many of his friendships off
/. by q scepter as delicate, but as definite
as the frosted fronds of one of his own
pine bougals. But in the case of Doc
! tor Holmes, / know that the mutual
attraction was affectionate and real.
We are more than literary friends, -
Whittier once said to me of the auto
GRAFT We love each other
remember one winter day Iunch1n2
with Whittier at Doctor Holmes table
no other guests being present; and ]
think-for met was the dumbest
lunch at which 1 ever sat. 1 found il
impossible to talk, for my speech
seemed a pi'ece of intrusion on the So
ciety of larger planets, or a higher race
than ours. To listen to those two was
one Of the privileges of lifetime
They interchanged their souIs-noN
like boys-and not like poets; merrily
or gravely; Whittier shining at his
happiest. and Holmes scintdllating
steadily.