His whole heart was stirred, and he poured himself out towards us as
if he longed, like the prophet of old, to breathe a new life into us.
I could see that he reproached himself for not having spoken out in
this way before, but his enfranchised spirit took only a stronger
flight for the delay.
I have never heard of Whittier's speaking in the meeting-house,
although he was doubtless often "moved" to do so; but to us who heard
him on that day he became more than ever a light unto our feet. It was
not an easy thing to do to stem the accustomed current of life in this
way, and it is a deed only possible to those who, in the Bible phrase,
"walk with God."
Such an unusual effort was not without its consequences. It was
followed by a severe headache, and he was hardly seen abroad again
during his stay.
We heard from him again, shortly after, under the shadow of the great
hills where he always passed a part of every year. He loved them, and
wrote eloquently of the loveliness of nature at Ossipee: "the Bearcamp
winding down," the long green valley close by the door, the long
Sandwich and Waterville ranges, and Chocorua filling up the horizon
from west to northeast.
The frequent loneliness of his life often found expression. Once he
says:--
"I wish I could feel that I deserved a tithe even of the kind things
said of me by my personal friends. If one could but _be_ as
easily as preach! The confession of poor Burns might, I fear, be made
of the best of us:--
"'God knows I'm no the thing I would be,
Nor am I even the thing I could be.
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