His dear ones were ever the undercurrent of his thoughts. In 1881 he wrote from Amesbury, “I am here to be at the election on the sixth. I like to visit Amesbury.... I think sadly of the loss of so many dear friends.”
“And yet, dear heart, remembering thee,”
he wrote of Elizabeth in “Snow Bound.” That memory, beautiful, Heavenly, never faded with the years. In his submission to God’s will, and in his faith, the grief of time grew into the hope of eternity; but the thought was always there. In 1887 he said in a letter to the writer who also had lived in Amesbury: “I often think of the old days when thy father was alive and sister Lizzie and we were all together.” Two years later—only three years before his own death, he wrote again, “I have not forgotten the old days in Amesbury.” To those who had known these he was glad to speak of them.
The Mrs. C—— across the way from his home, whose long years of friendship with the Whittier family have been spoken of, told the writer how after the death of his mother and sister, Whittier’s first act on coming home from an absence was to go into the room in which hung the portraits of these two, and to stand before them, not only as if greeting them on his home coming, but as if also receiving their welcome to a house in which to him their presence always lingered and made it home as was no other place on earth.
From the day of his sister’s death through all the greater ease of life which came from his success and his fame, and—far dearer to him than either—the honor and love which flowed in to him from all sides, he yet never failed to feel this loss of home.
So strong was this sense of loss that there was a time, a few years after the passing of Elizabeth, when it seemed as if such memories would prove too much for him.
In the winter of his early sixties he was stricken with an illness in which his life hung in the balance. It was no acute disease, but the vital force in him seemed to have run so low and his recuperative power to be so little, that for weeks the doctor, who watched over him with increasing concern, was very anxious as to the outcome.
For it was not medicine or even regimen which was especially needed. It was most of all lovingness, tenderness, home care that Whittier required. At that time a touch of home meant life itself to the home-loving poet who was actually dying of the loneliness of his hearthstone. That winter his niece, his housekeeper when at home with him, was at the South teaching the freedmen.
At this crisis his nephew’s wife came from her home in New York and was with him for months. A trained nurse could not have been more watchful or more judicious, and no daughter could have been more kind and tender in her ministrations. The doctor took heart. This brooding over the poet, this constant, tactful interest in him, this cheerful face and graceful carriage always in his home—of his own family by marriage if not by birth—was, as the doctor had foreseen, the one necessity without which no other help could have availed, but with which all skill could readily co-operate. Whittier himself never undervalued his niece’s ministrations, but always said that under Heaven he owed his life largely to her care.