Along the street
The shadows meet
Of Destiny, whose hand conceals
The moulds of fate
That shape the State,
And make or mar the common weal.
What a life he had to look back upon, as he sat with his fame about him—what storms and what delights, what struggle and what victory! With all the deep and wonderful humility of spirit that he bore before God and man, yet it is doubtful if he could have found one day in it that he would have changed, so far as his own acts were concerned. It is certain that no one else could find it.
In appearance, Mr. Whittier was to the last as upright in bearing as ever; his eye was as black and burned with as keen a fire as when it flashed over the Concord mob, and saw beauty everywhere as freshly as when he cried out with the “Voices of Freedom” and sang the “Songs of Labor”; and his smile was the same smile that won the worship of men, and of women, too, for sixty years and over. Now it is with a sort of tenderness that people speak and think of him whose walk in life ended September 7, 1892. It seemed impossible to think that such vitality and power and spirit could ever cease. And indeed, it has not ceased, for it has been transferred into loftier regions, where his earthly songs are set to the music of the morning-stars as they sing together.
Harriet Prescott Spofford.
MRS. MARGARET DELAND
MRS. MARGARET DELAND
MT. VERNON STREET, BOSTON, AND KENNEBUNKPORT, MAINE
Very few houses suggest in a more marked degree the tastes of those who occupy them, than the one in which Margaret Deland may be found during the winter months, and until the chilly New England spring deigns to set forth a tempting array of blossoms. At this signal, followed by a general exodus in favor of suburban residences, Mrs. Deland—being a Bostonian only by adoption, and therefore to be pardoned for seeking recreation at a greater distance from home—closes the town house, leaving it guarded by flowers, to re-establish herself and her household in an attractive cottage at Kennebunkport, Maine, where her summers are habitually passed.
If we are to go in search of the more representative of the two dwellings, we must turn our steps in the direction of Beacon Hill, for the Delands yielded a number of years ago to the indefinable charm of this time-honored quarter of the town, and have come to be considered—like Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Mrs. Henry Whitman, and others—as permanent members of the little colony in possession.
On turning into Mt. Vernon Street at the foot of the hill, a view that is essentially picturesque opens up, and its separate features—the steep road, large elm-trees, old-fashioned residences, and narrow sidewalks—have hardly had time to assert themselves, when the objective point of one’s walk comes in sight. No. 76 is the second of two houses on Mt. Vernon Street that have in turn afforded Mr. Deland an excuse to indulge his predilection for reconstruction, the present habitation being practically a larger edition of one lower down the street—in which “John Ward, Preacher,” was written.
A glance at the façade proves the felicity of a friend’s description, “It is all windows and flowers.” The chronicler of “Old Garden” fancies and none other is to be associated with the masses of jonquils, hyacinths, and pansies, whose notes of color define the unusual width of the main windows, and are equally in evidence against a background of soft white muslin, used as drapery for the curious little bay window on the second story. A few steps lead from the narrow sidewalk to the front door, and a moment later the visitor finds himself in a drawing-room of ample dimensions, reached by way of a tiny vestibule, and covering every inch of space on the north or Mt. Vernon Street side of the house. The maid servant in attendance disappears in search of her mistress, passing up the curved white staircase with crimson carpeting, placed to the left, and treated with due regard for decorative effect. A happy blending of comfort and luxury immediately makes itself felt, while a huge fire-place with a cord log blazing on its hearth easily dominates all other attractions, and finds its way to the heart of many an unacclimated stranger.