" This interview made a deep
impression, naturally, upon Whittier's mind, he, who was no traveler
himself, having thus sung:--
"He who wanders widest, lifts
No more of beauty's jealous veil
Than he who from his doorway sees
The miracle of flowers and trees."
The memory of a visit to Amesbury, made once in September, vividly
remains with me. It was early in the month, when the lingering heat of
summer seems sometimes to gather fresh intensity from the fact that we
are so soon to hear the winds of autumn. Amesbury had greatly altered
of late years; large enough to be a city," our friend declared; "but I
am not fat enough to be an alderman." To us it was still a small
village, though somewhat dustier and less attractive than when we
first knew it.
As we approached the house, we saw him from a distance
characteristically gazing down the road for us, from his front yard,
and then at the first glimpse suddenly disappearing, to come forth
again to meet us, quite fresh and quiet, from his front door. It had
been a very hot, dry summer, and everything about that place, as about
every other, was parched and covered with dust. There had been no rain
for weeks, and the village street was then quite innocent of watering
carts. The fruit hung heavily from the nearly leafless trees, and the
soft thud of the pears and apples as they fell to the ground could be
heard on every side in the quiet house-yards. The sun struggled feebly
through the mists during the noontide hours, when a still heat
pervaded rather than struck the earth; and then in the early
afternoon, and late into the next morning, a stirless cloud seemed to
cover the face of the world.
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