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Tuscan (Mississippi, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
at with us at the supper-table; and, when we were all gathered round the hearth that cold autumnal 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 sunny clime; edified my mother with a recipe for making bread of chestnuts; and in the morning, when after breakfast his dark sullen face lighted up, and his fierce eyes moistened with grateful emotion as in his own silvery Tuscan accent he poured out his thanks, we marvelled at the fears which had so nearly closed our doors against him; and, as he departed, we all felt that he had left with us the blessing of the poor. But what was the boy himself who was nurtured by that fireside? Whittier tells us this also, in his other poem, The Barefoot boy. Blessings on thee, little man Barefoot boy with cheek of tan, With thy turned — up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by s
Canada (Canada) (search for this): chapter 2
e, pointed out to him as that on which the witches were hung, and seeing on another drive the bridge where the drawtender had died in accordance with a previous ghostly warning. Or else he followed by the fireside his Aunt Mercy's mystic tales, when she narrated the appearance of her lover's spectre, riding on horseback, but moving away without sound of hoofs, and afterward proving to have died at the very day and hour of her vision. Or his father told tales of early trading expeditions to Canada, through the Indian-haunted woods. Our father rode again his ride On Memphremagog's wooded side; Sat down again to moose and samp In trapper's hut and Indian camp; Lived o'er the old idyllic ease Beneath St. Francois' hemlock trees; Again for him the moonlight shone On Norman cap and bodiced zone; Again he heard the violin play Which led the village dance away, And mingled in its merry whirl The grandam and the laughing girl. Or, nearer home, our steps he led Where Salisbury's level mars
Orange, Ma. (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
No church-bell lent its Christian tone To the savage air; no social smoke Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. In a prose paper by him, moreover, The Fish I Didn't catch, published originally in the Little Pilgrim, in Philadelphia, in 1843, there is a sketch of the home of his youth, as suggestive of a rustic boyhood as if it had been made in Scotland. It opens as follows:-- Our old homestead (the house was very old for a new country, having been built about the time that the Prince of Orange drove out James the Second) nestled under a long range of hills which stretched off to the west. It was surrounded by woods in all directions save to the southeast, where a break in the leafy wall revealed a vista of low, green meadows, picturesque with wooded islands and jutting capes of upland. Through these, a small brook, noisy enough as it foamed, rippled, and laughed down its rocky falls by our garden-side, wound, silently and scarcely visible, to a still larger stream, known as the
Amesbury (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
oks back with pride, if he can. Of Huguenot descent, but English training, he sailed from Southampton in 1638, and settled in what was then Salisbury, but is now Amesbury, on Powow River — the poet's swift Powow --a tributary of the Merrimac. He was then eighteen, and was a youth weighing three hundred pounds and of correspondingis last household companions, his mother and his sister. It must be remembered that, in the poet's childhood, the yearly meetings of the Society of Friends at Amesbury were relatively large, and the name of that kindly denomination was well fulfilled by the habit of receiving friends from a distance. They came in their own conveyances to Amesbury or its adjoining settlement, Haverhill, and remained for days in succession, the Whittier home entertaining sometimes as many as ten or fifteen. In such a household Whittier grew up, listening not without occasional criticism to his father's first-day readings from the Scriptures; visiting with his parents th
Salem (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
ge, and the name of that kindly denomination was well fulfilled by the habit of receiving friends from a distance. They came in their own conveyances to Amesbury or its adjoining settlement, Haverhill, and remained for days in succession, the Whittier home entertaining sometimes as many as ten or fifteen. In such a household Whittier grew up, listening not without occasional criticism to his father's first-day readings from the Scriptures; visiting with his parents the Quarterly Meeting in Salem, passing a leafless tree, pointed out to him as that on which the witches were hung, and seeing on another drive the bridge where the drawtender had died in accordance with a previous ghostly warning. Or else he followed by the fireside his Aunt Mercy's mystic tales, when she narrated the appearance of her lover's spectre, riding on horseback, but moving away without sound of hoofs, and afterward proving to have died at the very day and hour of her vision. Or his father told tales of early
New England (United States) (search for this): chapter 2
rica supplied such a function. Not in vain had he studied the essential dignity of the early New England aristocracy, as he traced the lineage of his heroine, Amy Wentworth, and paced with her the sn the soldier's sword, And that the judge's gown. All this type of life he had studied in New England history,--none better,--but what real awe did it impose on him who had learned at his mother'ireplace is eight between the jambs. The latest houses built by wealth in the rural parts of New England are essentially modelled as to their large rooms from these old colonial houses. The enormoulothing; it was before that period had arrived when, in Miss Catherine Sedgwick's phrase, the New England Goddess of Health held out flannel underclothing to everybody. The barn, as Whittier himself of George Burroughs and Henry Tufts were the Gil Bias and even the Guzman d'alfarache of the New England readers of a hundred years ago; the former having gone through many editions, while the latte
Scotland (United Kingdom) (search for this): chapter 2
as reared is to this day so sheltered from the world that no neighbour's roof has ever been in sight from it; and Whittier says of it in Snow-bound No church-bell lent its Christian tone To the savage air; no social smoke Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. In a prose paper by him, moreover, The Fish I Didn't catch, published originally in the Little Pilgrim, in Philadelphia, in 1843, there is a sketch of the home of his youth, as suggestive of a rustic boyhood as if it had been made in Scotland. It opens as follows:-- Our old homestead (the house was very old for a new country, having been built about the time that the Prince of Orange drove out James the Second) nestled under a long range of hills which stretched off to the west. It was surrounded by woods in all directions save to the southeast, where a break in the leafy wall revealed a vista of low, green meadows, picturesque with wooded islands and jutting capes of upland. Through these, a small brook, noisy enough as
Puritan (Ohio, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
ace, of woman suffrage, of organised labour. In such outworks of reform he had an attitude, a training, and a sympathy which his literary friends had not. He was, in the English phrase, a poet of the people, and proved by experience that even America supplied such a function. Not in vain had he studied the essential dignity of the early New England aristocracy, as he traced the lineage of his heroine, Amy Wentworth, and paced with her the streets of Portsmouth, N. H., a region less wholly Puritan than Massachusetts:--Her home is brave in Jaffrey Street, With stately stairways worn With feet of old Colonial knights And ladies gentle-born. And on her, from the wainscot old, Ancestral faces frown,-- And this has worn the soldier's sword, And that the judge's gown. All this type of life he had studied in New England history,--none better,--but what real awe did it impose on him who had learned at his mother's knee to seek the wilderness with William Penn or to ride through the howl
Newbury, Mass. (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 2
ood, and it helps us to comprehend the breadth and toleration of Whittier's nature, and especially the sense of humour which relieved it, when he gives a characterisation of Burroughs and Tufts that shows him to have read their memoirs. For other books he borrowed what he could find, especially books of tragedy, of which he was always fond; and some were read to him by one of his teachers, Joshua Coffin, afterward a familiar figure for many years to the people of the neighbouring town of Newbury, whose town clerk and historian he wasa man of substantial figure, large head, cordial manners, and one of Garrison's twelve first abolitionists; a man whom I well remember in later years as being all that Whittier describes in him. The place where he is celebrated is in that delightful poem, To my old schoolmaster beginning Old friend, kind friend! lightly down Drop time's snowflakes on thy crown! Never be thy shadow less, Never fail thy cheerfulness! Whittier's Works, IV. 73. Co
China (China) (search for this): chapter 2
oney-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight, Through the day and through the night Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine on bending orchard trees Apples of Hesperides! Still as my horizon grew Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy. O for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frog's orchestra; And to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy. Out of doors the boy too
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