These mists were much increased by the
burning of peat and brush, and, alas! of the very woods themselves in
every direction. Altogether, as Whittier said, quaintly, "it was very
encouraging weather for the Millerites."
His niece, who bears the name of his beloved sister, was then the
mistress of his house, and we were soon made heartily welcome.
Everything was plain and neat as became a Friend's household; but as
the village had grown to be a stirring place, and the house stood
close upon the dusty road, such charming neatness must sometimes have
been a difficult achievement. The noonday meal was soon served and
soon ended, and then we sat down behind the half-closed blinds,
looking out upon the garden, the faded vines, and almost leafless
trees. It was a cosy room, with its Franklin stove, at this season
surmounted by a bouquet, and a table between the windows, where was a
larger bouquet, which Whittier himself had gathered that morning in
anticipation of our arrival. He seemed brighter and better than we had
dared to hope, and was in excellent mood for talking. Referring again
to the Millerites, who had been so reanimated by the forest fires, he
said he had been deeply impressed lately with their deplorable
doctrines. "Continually disappointed because we don't all burn up on a
sudden, they forget to be thankful for their preservation from the
dire fate they predict with so much complacency."
He had just received a proof of his poem "Miriam," with the
introduction, and he could not be content until they had both been
read aloud to him.
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