XXVI. AMERICAN POETS. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER-FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. I DID a great injustice the other day when I said that the Americans had at last a great poet. I should have remembered that poets, like sorrows, "Come not single spies But in battalions." There is commonly a flight of those singing-birds, as we had ourselves at the beginning of the present century; and besides Professor Longfellow, Bryant, Willis, Lowell and Poe do the highest honor to America. The person, however, whom I should have most injured myself in forgetting, for my injustice could not damage a reputation such as his, was John G. Whittier, the most intensely national of American bards. Himself member of the Society of Friends, the two most remarkable of his productions are on subjects in which that active although peaceful sect take a lively interest: the anti-slavery cause, in the present day; and the persecution of the Quakers, which casts such deep disgrace on the memory of the Pilgrim Fathers and their immediate successors in the early history of New England. Strange it seems to us in this milder age, that these men, themselves flying from the intolerance of the Old Country, should, the moment they attained to any thing like power, nay, even while disputing with the native Indians, not the possession of the soil, but the mere privilege of dwelling peaceably therein, at once stiffen themselves into a bigotry and a persecution not excelled by the horrors of the Star Chamber! should, as soon as they attained the requisite physical force, chase and scourge, and burn and sell their fellow-creatures into slavery, for that very exercise of private judgment on religious subjects, that very determination to interpret freely the Book of Life, which had driven themselves into exile! Oh! many are the causes of thankfulness which we owe to the Providence that cast us upon a more enlightened age; but for nothing ought we more devoutly to render thanks to God than that in our days the deeds recited in Mr. Whittier's splendid ballad of "Cassandra Southcote" would be impossible. His poem itself can scarcely be overrated. The march of the verse has something that reminds us of the rhythm of Mr. Macaulay's fine classical ballads, something which is resemblance, not imitation; while in the tone of mind of the author, his earnestness, his eloquence, his pathos, there is much that resembles the constant force and occasional beauty of Ebenezer Elliot. While equally earnest, however, and equally eloquent, there is in Mr. Whittier, not only a more sustained, but a higher tone than that of the Corn-law Rhymer. It would indeed be difficult to tell the story of a terrible oppression and a merciful deliverance, a deliverance springing from the justice, the sympathy, the piety of our countrymen, the English captains, with more striking effect. I transcribe the prose introduction, which is really necessary to render such an outrage credible, although one feels intuitively that the story must have been true, precisely because it was too strangely wicked for fiction. "This ballad has its foundation upon a somewhat remarkable event in the history of Puritan intolerance. Two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence Southwick, of Salem, who had himself been imprisoned and deprived of all his property for having entertained two Quakers at his house, were fined ten pounds each for non-attendance at church, which they were unable to pay. The case being represented to the General Court at Boston, that body issued an order which may still be seen on the court records, bearing the signature of Edward Rawson, Secretary, by which the Treasurer of the County was fully empowered to sell the said persons to any of the English nation at Virginia or Barbadoes to answer said fines.' An attempt was made to carry this barbarous order into execution, but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to the West Indies. Vide Sewall's History,' pp. 225-6, G. Bishop." To the God of all true mercies let my blessing rise to-day, Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bars, Alone in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by ; All night I sate unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow Oh the weakness of the flesh was there, the shrinking and the shame, And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me came : "Why sitst thou thus forlornly?" the wicked murmur said, Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed? "Where be the smiling faces and voices soft and sweet Why sitst thou here, Cassandra? Bethink thee with what mirth "Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind words are spoken; Not for thee the nuts of Wenham Woods by laughing boys are broken; No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid, For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful rustics braid. "O weak, deluded maiden! by crazy fancies led, With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread; To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and sound, And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and sackcloth bound. "Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things divine, "And what a fate awaits thee! a sadly toiling slave, Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to the grave! Oh!-ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble nature's fears I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, * * * Slow broke the gray cold morning, again the sunshine fell At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open cast, * * * * * We paused at length where at my feet the sunlit waters broke And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped and grave and cold, * * * * * But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the while the sheriff read That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made, Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood bring No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff turning said: You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or Moor." Р Grim and silent stood the captains; and when again he cried Speak out, my worthy seamen !" no voice or sign replied: But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my ear ;"God bless thee and preserve thee, my gentle girl and dear!" A weight seemed lifted off my heart-a pitying friend was nigh, And when again the sheriff spake, that voice so kind to me "Pile my ship with bars of silver-pack with coins of Spanish gold "Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their cruel laws!" Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver sold ?" I looked on haughty Endicott; with weapon half-way drawn, Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul, Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his parchment roli ; "Good friends," he said, "since both have fled, the ruler and the priest, Judge ye if from their further work I be not well released." Loud was the cheer, which, full and clear, swept round the silent bag, Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye, Thanksgiving to the Lord of life! to Him all praises be, I add the opening stanzas of an equally powerful and eloquent poem, with the few lines of explanation prefixed by the author. |