Readers of Whittier, the now venerable and famous American poet, will remember fond allusions to his favourite sister Elizabeth, who during her life was a bright and stimulating member of the poet's earlier and later home. The day has not yet come when we can learn much of her happy influence upon him. She was pre-eminently her brother's sister, and of her character as such we cannot now know much. She was also herself a poet, and several of her pieces have been published. A few particulars of her life cannot be uninteresting.

She was born on December 7, 1815, the younger sister of the poet, being the fourth and last child of their father, John Whittier. Elizabeth derived her second name from the family of her mother, whose maiden name was Abigail Hussey, and who was of English descent. The Whittiers had for some generations lived in a house built by one of the ancestors of the family at Haverill, and had been prominent members of the Society of Friends.

The young Whittiers were happy in their parenthood, as well as in their early surroundings. Their father was an honest, upright, sturdy yeoman, to whom a mean and cowardly action was unknown, while their mother was gifted with the natural refinement of thought and manner distinguishing the possession of a gentle heart.

Passages in Whittier's "Snowbound" are pleasantly descriptive of his early home and its members. Of his mother he writes:—

Of his sister Mary he says:—

And thus of Elizabeth:—

When Elizabeth was born, John, the future poet, was just eight years old, and attending his first school. Years wore on, and the boy's occupation alternated between school, household duties, and work on his father's farm. Meanwhile his little sister was, from the exemplary household gathered under her father's roof, and the sweet influences of a happy home, receiving the impressions and learning the precious lessons which can only be gathered during the earliest years, and through which the little human child becomes the sweetest thing in life.

Whilst Elizabeth was still a child a leading incident in the boy's life took place. His old schoolmaster, on paying a visit to his father's house, brought a copy of the poems of Burns, from which he recited certain pieces, greatly to the delight of John, who borrowed the book. He adds:—"This was about the first poetry I had ever read (with the exception of that of the Bible, of which I had been a close student), and it had a lasting influence upon me. I began to make rhymes myself, and to imagine stories and adventures." So we find the boy of fourteen beginning to write his first poems, which, under the encouragement of his elder sister Mary, he continued to do for some years, when he began to send anonymous contributions from his pen to the local newspaper. He was only a country youth, working in his father's fields; but by thoughtful sympathy Nature had become glorified for him, and life was soon to be sanctified. Notice was taken of his poetical productions, he was stimulated to greater exertion, and through his own industry obtained the means of attending the Haverhill Academy for a short period when in his twentieth year. The next few years of the future poet's life were spent between his own schooling, teaching others, helping on the farm, and editing and contributing to country newspapers.

But if it were the elder sister who encouraged Whittier in his earliest poetic efforts, it was Elizabeth who became more and more, with her growing years, his "heart's companion," his imitator, his alter ego. We learn from one of his letters during a visit which he paid to his home in 1831, that Elizabeth, then a girl of fifteen summers, had herself begun to write verses. The following are the opening lines of a description by her of "Autumn Sunset":—

During this visit to his home Whittier's father died. This circumstance probably influenced him in his decision to resign his position as editor of The New England Weekly Review, that he might return to his mother and sisters.

One pleasing glimpse we catch of Elizabeth in her twentieth year. Sharing her brother's anti-slavery sympathies, she was occasionally called to share the dangers which at that time beset those who had the courage to espouse the cause of the oppressed. In 1835, when Whittier was the corresponding secretary of the Anti-slavery Society of Haverhill, a lecture on slavery having been announced was interfered with by the mob, who terrified the audience by a disgraceful attack upon the building where the lecture was being delivered. The meeting was broken up in confusion, and it was in part owing to the bravery of Miss Whittier that the lecturer escaped in safety, she, along with another young lady, undertaking to escort the lecturer, pushing their way through the threatening mob. On another occasion, when attending a meeting of the Female Anti-slavery Society at Boston, Elizabeth was herself in considerable danger of rough usage at the hands of her infuriated opponents. She did not by any means lead a public life, but was, on the contrary, of a retiring and gentle nature, and it was only the cruel wrongs of the oppressed that roused her sympathies and led her to active endeavours on their behalf.

In the year 1840 the farm at Haverhill passed out of the family, and they removed to Amesbury. It then consisted of four members only—the poet and his mother, aunt, and sister Elizabeth.

Thenceforth, until her death, she was her brother's close companion. The playmate of his childhood became the adviser of his riper years, the sharer of his sympathies, hopes, and aims. Happy lives are generally uneventful, except, indeed, in what constitutes their best portion—the pleasant intercourse, the loving ministries which go to make life so truly worth living.

With such inmates we are sure that the poet's home at Amesbury was supremely blessed—that the years passed gently and time touched kindly. But the happy circle gradually thinned. A few years after settling at Amesbury the cherished aunt died; some years later—in 1857—the mother. From thenceforth until her own death in 1864, Elizabeth seems to have been her brother's sole companion.

When Whittier's sister died her memory lived. The empty home seems to have carried back his mind to his earlier home in the quiet valley where his sister shared his woodland rambles, and where the icy grasp of winter imprisoned the complete family round the glowing hearth. It was in the year following his sister's death Whittier wrote the poem before referred to, "Snowbound," which is at once fondly reminiscent of bygone days and touched with a tender memory of his latest loss. He says:—

But Miss Whittier's influence did not cease with her death. How much her brother missed her no one will ever know. He had been accustomed to consult her, and to value her opinion. In his next published poem, "The Tent on the Beach," he refers regretfully to the

But the sister's influence was felt not only in the sweet sadness which such a memory casts over a life. As a poet Whittier was enabled to proceed to still greater heights. Her loss did not check his zeal or stay his pen, but only softened and toned his utterance by the mellowing and purifying influence of tender recollection.

In 1875, when Whittier published his "Hazel Blossoms," he was induced to include in the volume several of the poems of his sister. The poems are "The Dream of Argyle," "Dr. Kane in Cuba," "The Wedding Veil," "The Meeting Waters," "Charity," "Lines written on the Departure of Joseph Sturge after his Visit to the Abolitionists of the United States," and "Lady Franklin." In a note Whittier says: "I have ventured, in compliance with the desire of dear friends of my beloved sister Elizabeth H. Whittier, to add to this little volume the few poetical pieces which she left behind her. As she was very distrustful of her powers, and altogether without ambition for literary distinction, she shunned everything like publicity, and found far greater happiness in generous appreciation of the gifts of her friends than in the gratification of her own. Yet it has always seemed to me that had her health, sense of duty and fitness, and her extreme self-distrust permitted, she might have taken high place among lyrical singers. These poems, with perhaps two or three exceptions, afford but slight indications of the life of the writer, who had an almost morbid dread of spiritual and literary egotism, or of her tenderness of sympathy, chastened mirthfulness, and pleasant play of thought and fancy, when her shy, beautiful soul opened like the flower in the warmth of social communion. In the lines on Dr. Kane her friends will see something of her fine individuality—the rare mingling of delicacy and intensity of feeling which made her dear to them. This little poem reached Cuba while the great explorer lay on his death-bed, and we are told that he listened with grateful tears while it was read to him by his mother.

As this little poem, "Dr. Kane in Cuba," is rendered doubly interesting by the above-mentioned pathetic incident, it is given along with the one which follows in illustration of Miss Whittier's writing:—

Dr. Kane in Cuba.

The following is of especial interest:—

The Wedding Veil.

The following poem to his sister was sent to her by Whittier, with a copy of his book, "The Supernaturalism of New England," which consisted of poems relating to the superstition and folk-lore prevalent in New England. It was written in 1847, and is full of early memories and tender thoughts:—