some poetry, for once

A few months ago I stumbled away from one of my favorite secondhand bookshops with an illustrated edition of poetry by John G. Whittier. The edition isn’t dated but was printed by a publisher (John W. Lovell) who only existed between 1882 to 1891. A little research on the web shows me that the publisher moved to the address listed in my edition in 1891.  

The publisher’s story is kind of interesting on its own. Apparently, John W. Lovell pirated books, publishing anyone he chose and not paying much attention to copyright or author remuneration. In this way, he established himself by publishing 7 million cheap books a year and managed to get them classified as second class mailings (same as newspapers). He quickly became known as Book-a-day Lovell. This scheme didn’t exactly work for him, however, because he went bankrupt in the early 1890’s (just after the introduction of new International Copyright laws) and was never heard of in publishing again.  

The book I found in Lausanne isn’t a paperback. It’s an extremely gaudy hardbound with gilted pages and illustrations. Kitsch is more the right word for it. So perhaps Lovell also tried to establish a gentlemen’s library with his pirated editions. 

John G. Whittier was an American Quaker poet and prominent member of the anti-slavery movement. His poems reflect his political commitment and strong religious fervor. Just take a look at some of these titles: Song of the Free; The Hunters of Men; The Slave Ships; Hymn, written for the meeting of the Anti-Slavery Society; The Farewell of a Virginia Slave-mother to her Daughters, sold into Southern bondage 

I took the book out last night because it was cold and blustery outside and I wanted to read something soothing. I don’t read a lot of poetry and until I opened the book I could not have told you a thing about John G. Whittier. It was quite a delight to read over some of his poems, both the political ones but also those dedicated to an observation of some natural phenomenon. Here is the first stanza from a poem entitled, Lines, Written on visiting a singular cave in Chester, N.H., known in the vicinity by the name of “The Devil’s Den.” 

The moon is bright on the rocky hill / But its dwarfish pines rise gloomily still, / Fix’d, motionless forms in the silent air, / the moonlight is on them, but darkness is there. / The drowsy flap of the owlet’s wing, / And the stream’s low gush from its hidden spring, / And the passing breeze, in its flight betray’d  / By the timid shiver of leaf and blade / half like a sigh and half a moan / the ear of the listener catches alone. 

This type of old-fashioned poetry is not usually for me, but something about these lines struck me as quite lovely last night. So melancholy, really. The poem goes on to make the cave a place of quiet, dark beauty instead of a “Devil’s Den”. It’s lovingly done, with delicately painted details of the wildlife and night sounds. Then it ends with a depiction of the cave as an otherworldly site, of myth and fairytale. A haunted place.  

His anti-slavery poems are not quite so soothing or beautiful, but I suspect they weren’t meant to be. They are passionate and angry. For a Quaker he seems to have a violent temper! The one that will stay with me is The Farewell. It’s a long poem, so this is just a part: 

Gone, gone – sold and gone / to the rice-swamp dank and lone, / Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, / where the noisesome insect stings, / where the Fever Demon strews / Poison with the falling dews, / where the sickly sunbeams glare / through the hot and misty air, / Gone, gone – sold and gone, / to the rice-swamp dank and lone, / From Virginia’s hills and waters, / Woe is me, my stolen daughters. 

A lot of his poems were actually hymns and I think you can see in this one his dedication to rhythm and cadence. It could easily be sung, mournfully. Like a spiritual.  Gutenberg has a wonderful collection of his work here which includes poems, essays and speeches. Worth browsing through!