poetical, never missed the hearts to which they addressed themselves, and which they touched and moved with pity and terror. What Whittier was slow in learning was that he was a natural balladist; but that fact, once learned, was never forgotten by him, though he was influenced by it at longer intervals than his readers wished. Running through the list of his narrative and legendary poems, we dwell upon those which we remember best, and which in most cases are ballads pure and simple, such, for instance, following their chronological arrangements, as 'Maud Muller,' 'The Garrison of Cape Ann,' 'Skipper Ireson's Ride,' 'The Swan Song of Parson Avery,' 'Cobbler Keezar's Vision,' 'John Underhill,' and 'Barbara Frietchie.' Closely related to these, in that their spirit is essentially that of balladry, are certain of his longer and more romantic poems, such as, to mention only a few, 'The Countess,' 'Among the Hills,'' Marguerite,' 'The King's Missive,' 'The Bay of Seven Islands,' and 'How the Women went from Dover.""

So writes Stoddard, noting the human element as stronger in Whittier than in any of his contemporaries. In the words of another critic, he has "done perhaps as much as all other poets put together to preserve the legends and immortalise the localities of the New England and Pennsylvanian portions of our country." And "in his treatment of legends his Quaker truthfulness comes in, and he produces his poetic effects while keeping close to history." He is true to the story as given to him, though the circumstances attached to the action of "Barbara Frietchie" are disputed; and though "poor

old Floyd Ireson" bore really another name and was not so bad as the poet believed him to be. True to his country's past, shall we not also admire not only the true words, but the truthful life which sought to inspire his contemporaries and make them more worthy of poetic honour? Is he less a poet for drawing his inspiration from the present as well as the past? Would our greatest Shakespeare be less esteemed and reverenced if somewhere in his pages we found reference to the nobles and heroes of his own day?

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CHAPTER XV.

O early as 1864, in the pages of the Atlantic Monthly, Mr. David A. Wasson wrote a long, thoughtful study of Whittier, too long to be here given entire, but worth recalling in parts. Even for a lengthy quotation no apology need be offered, as it will help to complete our estimate of the New England poet.

"It was some ten years ago," writes Mr. Wasson, "that we first met John Greenleaf Whittier, the poet of the moral sentiment and of the heart and faith of the people of America. It chanced that we had then been making notes, with much interest, upon the genius of the Semitic nations. That peculiar simplicity, centrality, and intensity which caused them to originate Monotheism from two independent centres, the only systems of pure Monotheism which have had power in history— while the same characteristics made their poetry always lyrical, never epic or dramatic, and their most vigorous thought a perpetual sacrifice on the altars of the willthis had strongly impressed us; and we seemed to find in it a striking contrast to the characteristic genius of the Aryan or Indo-Germanic nations, with their imaginative

interpretations of the religious sentiment, with their epic and dramatic expansions, and their taste for breadth and variety. Somewhat warm with these notions we came to a meeting with our poet, and the first thought on seeing him was 'The head of a Hebrew prophet!' It is not Hebrew-Saracen rather-the Jewish type is heavier, more material; but it corresponded strikingly to the conceptions we had formed of the Southern Semitic crania, and the whole make of the man was of the same character. The high cranium, so lofty especially in the dome-the slight and symmetrical backward slope of the whole head-the powerful level brows, and beneath these the dark, deep eyes, so full of shadowed fire-the Arabian complexion-the sharp-cut, intense lines of the face-the light, tall, erect stature—the quick axial poise of the movement all these answered with singular accuracy to the picture of those preacher-races which had been shaping itself in our imagination. Indeed the impression was so strong as to induce some little feeling of embarrassment. It seemed slightly awkward and insipid to be meeting a prophet here in a parlour and in a spruce masquerade of modern costume, shaking hands, and saying 'Happy to meet you!' after the fashion of our feeble civilities.

"All this came vividly to remembrance on taking up, the other day, Whittier's last book of poems-'In Wartime' a volume that has been welcomed all over the land with enthusiastic delight. Had it been no more, however, than a mere personal reminiscence, it should, at present, have remained private. But have we not here a key to Whittier's genius? Is not this Semitic

centrality and simplicity, this prophetic depth, reality, and vigour, without great lateral and intellectual range, its especial characteristic? He has not the liberated, light-winged Greek imagination-imagination not involved and included in the religious sentiment, but playing in epic freedom and with various interpretation between religion and intellect he has not the flowing, Protean, imaginative sympathy, the power of instant self-identification, with all forms of character and life which culminated in Shakespeare; but that imaginative vitality which lurks in faith and conscience, producing what we may call ideal force of heart. This he has eminently; and it is this central, invisible, Semitic heat which makes him a poet.

Imagination exists in him, not as a separable faculty, but as a pure vital suffusion. Hence he is an inevitable poet. There is no drop of his blood, there is no fibre of his brain, which does not crave poetical expression. Mr. Carlyle desires to postpone poetry; but, as Providence did not postpone Whittier, his wishes can hardly be gratified. Ours is indeed one of the plainest of poets. He is intelligible and acceptable to those who have little either of poetic culture or of fancy and imagination. Whoever has common sense and a sound heart has the powers by which he may be appreciated. And yet he is not only a real poet, but he is all poet. The Muses have not merely sprinkled his brow; he was baptised by immersion. His notes are not many; but in them Nature herself sings. He is a sparrow that half sings, half chirps, on a bush, not a lark that floods with orient hilarity the skies of the morning; but the bush