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Updated: May 29, 2025
We were reminded of William Blake's verse: "I give you the end of a golden string, Only wind it into a ball, It will lead you in at Heaven's gate, Built in Jerusalem wall." Here it was that Whittier could be heard at his best, sympathetic, stimulating, uplifting, as he alone could be, and yet as he, with his Quaker training to silence, was so seldom moved to prove himself.
She was to see the collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society, and if possible certain points of ancient colonial interest which he named; but at any rate she was somehow to catch sight of the author of the "Biglow Papers," of Senator Sumner, of Mr. Whittier, of Dr. Howe, of Colonel Higginson, and of Mr. Garrison. These people were all Bostonians to the idealizing remoteness of Dr.
Will you tell all these dear friends, especially Mr. and Mrs. W , how deeply I feel their affectionate sympathy, and thank Mr. Whittier and Professor Longfellow over and over again for their kind condolence? Tell Mr. Whittier how much I shall prize his book.
At length he decided to put it all aside, discovering that a power lay in him for more congenial labors. From the moment of the publication of his second volume of poems, Whittier felt himself fairly launched upon a new career, and seemed to stand with a responsive audience before him.
The group of literary lights, Bryant, Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier, Holmes, and their compeers, won Southern dislike by their hostility to slavery.
Somehow, word was sent across the river to the Whittier boys, as the good Younkins soon learned to call the Boy Settlers, and they went gladly over to Younkins's and got the precious letters and papers from home.
He said he had not thought very much about it, but said that there was one that he especially remembered: "I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air, I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care." I then asked him, "Mr. Whittier, how could you write all those war songs which sent us young men to war, and you a peaceful Quaker? I cannot understand it."
Besides, it did not seem so simple as it had seemed in Ohio, to go and see a young lady simply because I was infatuated with her literature; even as the envoy of all the infatuated young people of Columbus, I could not quite do this; and when I got home, I had to account for my failure as best I could. Another failure of mine was the sight of Whittier, which I then very much longed to have.
The obscurity was fast increasing as we neared the high stone wall, and the scenery around me made the verses of Whittier resound in my ears in which he described the "Evening by the Lake Side" so beautifully with the words: "Yon mountain's side is black with night, While broad-orbed, o'er its gleaming crown The moon, slow rounding into sight, On the hushed inland-sea looks down."
When it was transplanted to New England, the same characteristic was prominent, the same apparent contradiction between sentiment and stern, unrelenting devotion to duty. In Snow Bound, the New England poet, Whittier, paints this portrait of a New England maiden, still Anglo-Saxon to the core:
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