800 



WHITMAN, WALT. 



WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. 



of money, with which he erected a handsome 

 tomb at Harleigh Cemetery in the outskirts of 

 Camden. It was designed by himself, and some 

 of the granite blocks weigh seven tons or over. 

 His remains were placed there with impressive 

 ceremonies. Additional books and editions to 

 those already named are "November Boughs" 

 (1888) and " Good Bye My Fancy" (1891), con- 

 taining his latest work in prose and verse ; 

 "Complete Poems and Prose " (1889), compris- 

 ing " Leaves of Grass," " Specimen Days," and 

 "November Boughs" in one quarto volume; 

 " Leaves of Grass " (1892), the final complete edi- 

 tion; and a complete volume of his prose works, 



WHITMAN'S HOME IN CAMDEN. 



also issued in 1892. "Selected Poems" (1892) 

 and " Autobiographia " (1892) were edited by 

 the writer of this sketch. Mr. Whitman shortly 

 before his death for the first time consented to 

 the publication of the above-named American 

 eclectic edition of his poems. Many such edi- 

 tions had appeared in England, where a full edi- 

 tion was not published until 1880. 



The accompanying fac-sirnile is from a sketch 

 that Mr. Whitman wrote in 1876, when asked to 

 furnish the facts of his life for the " American 

 Cyclopaedia." The original is on the back of a 

 blue letter-sheet on which some one had written 

 to ask him for his autograph. 



WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLE1F, an 



American poet, born in Haverhill, Mass., Dec. 7, 

 1807 ; died in Hampton Falls, N. H., Sept. 7, 

 1892. The first ancestor of the name came to 

 this country in 1638, was a member of the Bay 

 Colony, and was of the Puritan faith. In the 

 second generation from him, at a time of the 

 most violent persecution of that body, the head 

 of the family embraced the doctrines of the 

 Friends or Quakers, as they are called by those 

 outside the sect. The homestead in which 

 Whittier was born was built in 1688. It was a 

 typical New England farmhouse, standing 

 alone, with low walls, great oaken beams, small 

 windows, doors hung on mighty hinges, and a 

 huge central chimney. The family were poor, in 

 the same sense in which most of the farmers 

 of that day were ; they had nothing for the 

 luxuries of which they had no thought or care, 

 but the result of cheerful labor gave them suffi- 

 cient for all needs. Thrifty and strong, the 

 Whittiers asked no odds 'of fortune, although 

 the basket and store never overflowed. In the 

 prelude to his volume entitled "Among the 

 Hills," he says : 



A farmer's son, 



Proud of field-lore and harvest craft, and feeling 

 All their fine possibilities, how rich 

 And restful even poverty and toil 

 Become when beauty, harmony, and love 

 Sit at their humble hearth as angels sat 

 At evening in the patriarch's tent, when man 

 Makes labor noble, and his farmer's frock 

 The symbol of a Christian chivalry 

 Tender and just and generous to her 

 Who clothes with grace all duty ; still, I know 

 Too well the picture has another side, 

 How wearily the grind of toil goes on 

 Where love is wanting, how the eye and ear 

 And heart are starved amidst the plenitude 

 Of nature, and how hard and colorless 

 Is life without an atmosphere. 



When seven years of age, Whittier began to 

 attend the neighborhood school, of which there 

 were two sessions a year, of three months each. 

 Here, until he was sixteen, he continued to gain 

 the rudiments of an education, under constantly 

 changing teachers. Sixty years afterward his 

 memory furnished him with an incident of this 

 time, which he embodied in his poem entitled 

 "In School-Days : " 



Still sits the school-house by the road, 



A ragged beggar sunning ; 

 Around it stilf the sumachs grow, 



And blackberry vines are running. 



Within, the master's desk is seen, 



Deep scarred by raps official ; 

 The warping floor, the battered seats, 



The jack-knife's carved initial ; 



The charcoal frescos on its wall ; 



Its door's worn sill, betraying 

 The feet that, creeping slow to school, 



Went storming out to playing ! 



Long years ago a winter sun 



Shone over it at setting ; 

 Lit up its western window-panes, 



And low eaves' icy fretting. 



It touched the tangled golden curls, 

 And brown eyes full of grieving, 



Of one who still her steps delayed 

 When all the school wer6 leaving. 



