Under these pines was gathered a crowd of people through whose purpose of pleasure in the day and the scene ran the expectation of a deeper pleasure through the listening ear and the quick response of thought to thought.
For they knew that Whittier had brought a poem. Many persons of reputation in the world of letters were there; many who ranked high in social life and some known to the world of politics. It was a gathering before which a man would desire to be at his best. Before it stood the poet who had well proved himself the inspired voice of the trees and the birds, the river and the sky. But all knew that at that time he had uttered a paean for the victory of Freedom and Union.
Every eye was lifted to Whittier as he stood erect as the pines above him, lithe in his motions as the watching birds and with somewhat of their unexpectedness in movement. In his hand he held his poem. Would he read it himself? At first it appeared so to those who did not know him well. For he stood for a little time still holding it in his hand. And in that moment—to the writer at least—was enacted a by-play, in itself slight enough, but, if understood, giving the key to the whole complex character of Whittier.
For the Quaker poet stood with his hat on. Even in passing his poem to another to be read, he would be obliged to answer by a few words the demand made upon him. To do this he must take off his hat, as other men would do. His hand was lifted toward it.
Midway, however, it paused—Quakers spoke with their hats on.
Yet the distinguished gathering before him was chiefly not of his own sect. A proper consideration for the customs of society—yes, even courtesy—demanded this removal; and to social impressions the poet was very sensitive. Yet, to one other monitor was he still more sensitive. That unbending principle which governed his whole life asserted itself. Even in so slight a matter he would be true to his faith.
His hand dropped by his side. It was with his hat on that he spoke the few apt words with which he gave his poem to be read.
Small wonder that “Revisited” was a paean to Him who in the return of peace had given, not to the anti-slavery party alone, but to the whole country,
“... beauty for ashes
And the oil of joy for mourning long.”