Here is a
New England interior glorified with something of that inward light which
is apt to be rather warmer in the poet than the Quaker, but which,
blending the qualities of both in Mr. Whittier, produces that kind of
spiritual picturesqueness which gives so peculiar a charm to his verse.
There is in this poem a warmth of affectionate memory and religious
faith as touching as it is uncommon, and which would be altogether
delightful if it did not remind us that the poet was growing old. Not
that there is any other mark of senescence than the ripened sweetness of
a life both publicly and privately well spent. There is fire enough, but
it glows more equably and shines on sweeter scenes than in the poet's
earlier verse. It is as if a brand from the camp-fire had kindled these
logs on the old homestead's hearth, whose flickering benediction touches
tremulously those dear heads of long ago that are now transfigured with
a holier light. The father, the mother, the uncle, the schoolmaster, the
uncanny guest, are all painted in warm and natural colors, with perfect
truth of detail and yet with all the tenderness of memory. Of the family
group the poet is the last on earth, and there is something deeply
touching in the pathetic sincerity of the affection which has outlived
them all, looking back to before the parting, and forward to the assured
reunion.
Pages:
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144