CHAPTER XI

SOME OF WHITTIER’S FAMOUS POEMS

It is not necessary to tell all the events of those years of struggle and hardship and poverty. Whittier wrote a great many poems on slavery. A volume containing one hundred of them was published without his knowledge in 1837 by Isaac Knapp, publisher of the _Liberator_ in Boston. It was entitled “Poems Written during the Progress of the Abolition Question in the United States, between the years 1830 and 1838. By John G. Whittier.” He was in New York when it came out. It was the first edition of his poems ever published. The next year he edited a volume of antislavery poems entitled “The North Star,” only a few of which he contributed. In 1839 the financial agent of the antislavery society, Joseph Healy, published a volume of poems by Whittier. There were 180 pages in the book, half of which was devoted to poems on slavery, the remainder to miscellaneous poems.

So the years passed by, and Whittier and his friends kept up the great fight against slavery. The poet wrote hundreds of pieces, poetry and prose, which were published in all sorts of papers all over the country. Now he was at Haverhill in politics, always working for the cause of the slave, now in Philadelphia or somewhere else editing a paper; and again at his home in Amesbury recovering his health.

In the meantime the great cause to which he devoted himself moved steadily on until the Civil War came and all the negroes were set free. Whittier did not believe in war; but when it came he urged the Quakers, who were opposed to fighting, to become nurses, like the nuns and sisters of the Catholic church, and minister to the sick and wounded.

In 1857 the _Atlantic Monthly_ was started in Boston. All the great writers of the day were to have a hand in it—Longfellow, Lowell, Emerson, Holmes, and others. Whittier was also invited to take part, and an edition of his collected poems was published. The _Atlantic Monthly_ paid more for contributions than most other periodicals in those days. Whittier got fifty dollars for each poem, and had a poem published nearly every month. He was in very delicate health at this time, and was so poor that this small amount was a godsend to him. He did not attend the monthly dinners in Boston, to which all the other literary men went, for he was a Quaker and did not approve of wine and luxuries; and besides he was not well enough to go. He sent his poems, however, with modest little notes, asking Lowell if he thought they would do, and telling him not to hesitate in rejecting them if he thought them silly. He seemed always to be afraid lest his beautiful simple poems would be so simple that some people would consider them foolish.

In 1858 his mother died, and now he lived alone with his sister. She, too, died in 1864, the last year of the war, and the next year he wrote “Snow-Bound” as a sort of tribute to her memory. It was published in Boston in 1866 and at once proved very popular. Whittier made $10,000 out of the royalties on it. His great regret was that his mother and sister had not lived to enjoy the benefit of his good fortune.

Two famous poems deserve mention. One is “Barbara Frietchie.” A lady friend of Whittier heard the story in Washington, and at once said, “That is a beautiful subject for a ballad by Whittier. It is almost like a scrap of paper lying around with his signature on it.” So she wrote it out and sent it to him. Not long after that he wrote the poem, following the original story almost exactly. Some people afterward declared that it was not true; but there was certainly an old German woman who kept the Union flag waving over the rebel troops.

The other poem is “The Barefoot Boy.” Whittier wrote it in memory of his own boyhood. “For,” says he, “I was once a barefoot boy.” It pleased him very much, and he sent it up to Mr. Fields, who was then editing the _Atlantic_, and asked “if he thought it would do.” Mr. Fields thought it very fine, and said it must go into the edition of Whittier’s works which he was then publishing.

Whittier was now sixty years old. The struggles of war and politics were over. The dear ones he loved were dead. To amuse and relieve himself he wrote those simple, beautiful ballads, which every person has read and admired. They were among the finest things he ever did. Among them were “Maud Muller,” “Skipper Ireson’s Ride,” and others equally familiar. They were cheerful and happy, and some were about the days of his childhood. There was occasionally a tinge of sadness in them, but sadness mingled with hope.

Of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: “It might have been!”

Ah, well! 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!

Whittier’s life _might have been_ much easier and much happier. But he had helped much in the accomplishment of a great work, and he was not one to regret all his hardships and sufferings.