Seven 
 Great American Poets 
 
 by 
 
 BEATRICE HART, Pd. D. 
 
 Formerly First Grammar Grade Teacher, Public School No. 3, 
 
 Head of Department, Public School No. 7.1, Borough 
 
 of Brooklyn. New York City. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 SILVER, BURDETT & COMPANY 
 NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO 
 
 
THE LIBRARY OF 
 CONGRESS, 
 
 Two CoptE8 Received 
 
 MAY. 16 1901 
 
 Copyright entry 
 Of*.?,'?*' 
 
 CLASS <X> XXc. N». 
 
 6 73 3 
 
 COPY 8. 
 
 
 Copyright, 1901, 
 By SILVER, BUKDETT & COMPANY 
 
PEEFAOE 
 
 There is a well-founded conviction among educa- 
 tors that students should be acquainted not only with 
 the best American literature but with the lives of its 
 authors, to the end that they may realize that the great 
 writers experienced joys and suffered hardships in com- 
 mon with their fellowmen ; in short, that we should aim 
 to sound a more human note in the study of literature. 
 Unfortunately this work is postponed until the stu- 
 dent reaches the more advanced grades, usually the 
 High School. Since but a small proportion of pupils 
 attend the High School, it would seem advisable to 
 begin the work much earlier in the school course. 
 
 Biography and autobiography are being generally 
 recognized as the form of literature that is the most 
 interesting and stimulating in the education of youth. 
 If " an autobiography is what a biograph}^ ought to be," 
 then no biography is of value that is not largely auto- 
 biographical. It should not only tell the life story as 
 others knew it, but it should tell, also, as much as may 
 be, what the author himself thought of that life. It 
 should be both objective and subjective. This, then, is 
 the plan adopted in these biographical sketches : to tell 
 briefly and simply the life story of each author, with the 
 hope that an interest will be awakened in his works 
 through the interest in his life. The selections chosen 
 from those parts of his works which are autobiographi- 
 
 iii 
 
IV PKEFACE 
 
 cal, reminiscent, personal or subjective, form an impor- 
 tant part of the narrative, and serve to awaken a per- 
 sonal interest, while at the same time they furnish 
 examples of his writings which may be used apart from 
 the context, in the study of literature. As there are no 
 compilations simple enough to be so used, this book has 
 been prepared with the hope that it will meet the re- 
 quirements of those teachers who are endeavoring to 
 carry forward this work. 
 
 As poetry is the highest form of literary expression, 
 and as children are attracted by the music of rhyme 
 and rhythm, these sketches have been devoted to the 
 lives of poets. " The works of other men live, but 
 their personality dies out of their labors ; the poet who 
 reproduces himself in his creation, as no other artist 
 does or can, goes down to posterity with all of his per- 
 sonality blended with whatever is imperishable in his 
 song. ... A single lyric is enough, if one can only find 
 in his soul and finish in his intellect one of those jewels 
 fit to sparkle on the stretched forefinger of all time." 
 
 Sincere thanks are due to Mr. Charles Eliot Norton, 
 Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman, Mr. Parke Godwin, 
 Professor George Edward Woodberry, and Messrs. 
 Harper & Brothers, Stone & Kimball, and D. Appleton 
 & Co., for the use of copyrighted material controlled 
 by them. By special arrangement, permission has been 
 obtained from Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. for the 
 use of their copyrighted material. 
 
 BEATRICE H. SLAIGHT. 
 Brooklyn, N.Y., 1900. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 William Cullen Bryant 5 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson . 51 
 
 -LdGAR ALLAX POE 91 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 151 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 193 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes 243 
 
 James Russell Lowell 279 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 William Cullen Bryant 4 
 
 The Bryant Homestead, Cummington . 9 
 
 Goodrich and Hopkins Halls, Williams College ... 17 
 
 Green River 27 
 
 Cedarmere, Roslyn, Long Island, N.Y 37 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson 50 
 
 The Old Manse 69 
 
 Emerson's Concord Home , 75 
 
 Concord Bridge 83 
 
 Emerson's Grave 85 
 
 Edgar Allan Foe 90 
 
 University of Virginia: "The Lawn" 106 
 
 The Coliseum 115 
 
 The Poe Cottage at Fordham, New York 136 
 
 Henry Wadswohth Longfellow 150 
 
 Longfellow's Birthplace 153 
 
 Deering's Woods 157 
 
 Wadsworth House, Portland, Maine 163 
 
 Craigie House, Cambridge, Massachusetts 177 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier 192 
 
 Whittier's Birthplace 197 
 
 Snow-Bound 203 
 
 Oak Knoll, Danvers, Massachusetts ... .... 217 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes 242 
 
 Holmes's Birthplace 245 
 
 Home of Dorothy Q., Quincy, Massachusetts 249 
 
 "Old Ironsides" 259 
 
 James Russell Lowell 278 
 
 Elmwood, Lowell's Home - . . 282 
 
 Lowell's Study, Elmwood • , 293 
 
 Memorial Hall, Harvard College 305 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 1794-1878 
 
So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
 The innumerable caravan, which moves 
 To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
 Thou go not, like the quarry -slave at night, 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
 
 Thanatopsis. 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 So shalt thou frame a lay 
 
 That haply may endure from age to age, 
 And they who read shall say : 
 
 " What witchery hangs upon this poet's page ! 
 What art is his the written spells to find 
 That sway from mood to mood the willing mind." 
 
 The Poet. 
 His youth was innocent ; his riper age 
 
 Marked with some act of goodness every day ; 
 And watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage, 
 
 Faded his late declining years away. 
 Meekly he gave his being up, and went 
 To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. 
 
 The Old Man's Funeral. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant is justly called " the 
 father of our song." His greatest poem, Thanatopsis, 
 which established his reputation, was written twenty- 
 eight years before the appearance of Longfellow's first 
 volume of poetry. Bryant was a poet of nature, inter- 
 preting her in simple and most musical verse. Though 
 he was a patriot in the best sense of the word, a nota- 
 ble journalist for half a century, and a part of the 
 national life of the American republic, it is as poet that 
 he will be best remembered and best loved. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant was born November 3, 1794, 
 at Cummington, Hampshire county, Massachusetts. 
 
 5 
 
6 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 The log cabin which was his birthplace was removed 
 during his childhood, and the Bryant Homestead, owned 
 by the poet until his death, was really his childhood's 
 home. In 1872, Bryant wrote to a friend of his boy- 
 hood, — 
 
 "A hundred years since, this broad highland region lying 
 between the Housatonic and the Connecticut was principally 
 forest, and bore the name of Pontoosuc. In a few places, set- 
 tlers had cleared away woodlands, and cultivated the cleared 
 spots. Bears, catamounts and deer were not uncommon here. 
 Wolves were sometimes seen, and the woods were dense and 
 dark, without any natural openings or meadows. My grand- 
 father on the mother's side came up from Plymouth county, in 
 Massachusetts, when a young man, in the year 1773, and chose 
 a farm on a commanding site overlooking an extensive prospect, 
 cut down the trees on a part of it, and built a house of square 
 logs, with a chimney as large as some kitchens, within which I 
 remember to have sat on a bench in my childhood. About 
 ten years afterwards he purchased, of an original settler, the 
 contiguous farm, now called the Bryant Homestead, and hav- 
 ing built beside a little brook, not very far from a spring 
 from which water was to be drawn in pipes, the house which is 
 now mine, he removed to it with his family. The soil of this 
 region was then exceedingly fertile ; all the settlers prospered, 
 and my grandfather among the rest. My father, a physician 
 and surgeon, married his daughter, and after awhile came to 
 live with him on the homestead. He made some enlargements 
 of the house, in one part of which he had his office, and in this, 
 during my boyhood, were generally two or three students of 
 medicine, who sometimes accompanied my father in his visits to 
 his patients, always on horseback, which was the mode of 
 traveling at that time. To this place my father brought me in 
 my early childhood, and I have scarce any early recollection 
 which does not relate to it. 
 
 "On the farm beside the little brook, and at a short distance 
 
EAELY HOME 7 
 
 from the house, stood the district schoolhouse, of which nothing 
 now remains but a little hollow where was once a cellar. Here 
 I received my earliest lessons in learning, except such as were 
 given me by my mother, and here, when ten years old, I de- 
 claimed a copy of verses composed by me as a description of a 
 district school. The little brook which runs by the house, on 
 the site of the old district schoolhouse, was in after years made 
 the subject of a little poem, entitled 'The Rivulet. 1 To the 
 south of the house is a wood of tall trees, clothing a declivity, 
 and touching with its outermost boughs the grass of a moist 
 meadow at the foot of the hill, which suggested the poem en- 
 titled < An Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood.' 
 
 " In the year 1835 the place passed out of the family ; and at 
 the end of thirty years I purchased it, and made various repairs 
 of the house and additions to its size. A part of the building 
 which my father had added, and which contained his office, had, 
 in the meantime, been detached from it, and moved off down a 
 steep hill to the side of the Westfield river. I supplied its place 
 with a new wing, with the same external form, though of less 
 size, in which is now my library. 
 
 " The site of the house is uncommonly beautiful. Before it, to 
 the east, the ground descends, first gradually, and then rapidly, 
 to the Westfield river, flowing in a deep and narrow valley, 
 from which is heard, after a copious rain, the roar of its swollen 
 current, itself unseen. In the springtime, when the frost-bound 
 waters are loosened by a warm rain, the roar and crash are re- 
 markably loud, as the icy crust of the stream is broken, and the 
 masses of ice are swept along by the flood over the stones with 
 which the bed of the river is paved. Beyond the narrow valley 
 of the Westfield, the surface of the country rises again gradually, 
 carrying the eye over a region of vast extent, interspersed with 
 farmhouses, pasture lands, and wooded heights, where, on a 
 showery day, you sometimes see two or three different showers, 
 each watering its separate district; and in winter time, two 
 or three different snowstorms moving dimly from place to 
 place." 
 
8 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 The house is a spacious and rambling mansion of 
 two stories and a half, with a curb roof, antique dormer 
 windows and broad porches. Bryant's boyhood home, 
 of which the foregoing is a delightful description, was 
 in the beautiful hill country of western Massachusetts. 
 It is a farming and grazing district. The slopes of the 
 hills are dotted with weil-tilled farms, and the waters 
 of the mountain streams are used to turn the mills of 
 various industries, } r et much of the country is as nature 
 made it, and as the boy early learned to love it. The 
 hills are still covered with thick woods, and the moun- 
 tain streams still rush down to the beautiful valleys 
 between the hills. In later life, when worn out with 
 his professional cares, Bryant would revisit the home" 
 of his childhood, taking great pleasure in it, as the fol- 
 lowing lines show, — 
 
 I stand upon my native hills again, 
 
 Broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky, 
 With garniture of waving grass and grain, 
 
 Orchards, and beeehen forests, basking lie, 
 While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, 
 Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen. 
 
 Here, have I 'scaped the city's stifling heat, 
 
 Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air, 
 And, where the season's milder fervor beat, 
 
 And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear 
 . The song of bird and sound of running stream, 
 Am come awhile to wander and to dream. 
 
 Line* on Revisiting the Country. 
 
 It was here that the boy's mind was fed, and his 
 heart filled with that deep love for nature that is 
 
10 WILLIAM CULLEN BEYANT 
 
 shown in all his poems. He loved the outdoor life af- 
 forded him by the wild and beautiful country surround- 
 ing his early home, and its freedom was doubtless one 
 reason for the physical strength and mental vigor that 
 he displayed until his death. That he enjoyed such free- 
 dom, and learned to love the hills and dales, the woods 
 and streams, the birds and flowers, of his Hampshire 
 home, is shown in the many allusions to the scenes of 
 his childhood in his poems. The Rivulet, one of his 
 first poems, is a charming picture of his early life at 
 Cummington. 
 
 This little rill, that from the springs 
 Of yonder grove its current brings, 
 Plays on the slope awhile, and then 
 Goes prattling into groves again, 
 Oft to its warbling waters drew 
 My little feet, when life was new. 
 When woods in early green were dressed, 
 And from the chambers of the west 
 The warmer breezes, traveling out, 
 Breathed the new scent of* flowers about, 
 My truant steps from home would stray, 
 Upon its grassy side to. play, 
 List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn, 
 And crop the violet on its brim, 
 With blooming cheek and open brow, 
 As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou. 
 
 And when the days of boyhood came, 
 And I had grown in love with fame, 
 Duly I sought thy banks, and tried 
 My first rude numbers by thy side. 
 Words cannot tell how bright and gay 
 The scenes of life before me lay. 
 Then glorious hopes, that now to sj)eak 
 Would bring the blood into my cheek, 
 
ANCESTORS .11 
 
 Passed o'er me ; and I wrote, on high, 
 A name I deemed should never die. 
 
 Years change thee not. Upon yon hill 
 The tall old maples, verdant still, 
 Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, 
 How swift the years have passed away, 
 Since first, a child, and half afraid, 
 I wandered in the forest shade. 
 Thou, ever-joyous rivulet, 
 Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet; 
 And sporting with the sands that pave 
 The windings of thy silver wave, 
 And dancing to thy own wild chime, 
 Thou laughest at the lapse of time. 
 The same sweet sounds are in my ear 
 My early childhood loved to hear ; 
 As pure thy limpid waters run ; 
 As bright they sparkle to the sun ; 
 As fresh and thick the bending ranks 
 Of herbs that line thy oozy banks ; 
 The violet there, in soft May dew, 
 Comes up, as modest and as blue ; 
 As green amid thy current's stress, 
 Floats the scarce-rooted water cress ; 
 And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen, 
 Still chirps as merrily as then. 
 
 The Rivulet. 
 
 The first of the poet's ancestors of his name that 
 came to this country was Stephen Bryant. He came 
 from England about twelve years after the arrival of 
 the Mayflower, and settled at Plymouth, Massachusetts. 
 He married Abigail Shaw in 1650, and their eldest son, 
 Philip, studied medicine. Dr. Philip Bryant settled at 
 North Bridgewater, marrying the daughter of the phy- 
 
12 WILLIAM CULLEN JJEVANT 
 
 sician, Dr. Abiel Howard, with whom he studied medi- 
 cine. Of their nine children, their son, Peter, father of 
 the poet, studied his father's profession and succeeded 
 to his practice. 
 
 In Bridgewater, there was a stern and austere veteran 
 of the Revolution, Ebenezer Snell, whom all the small 
 boys in the town feared. He had a very pretty daugh- 
 ter, Sarah, with whom Peter Bryant fell in love. When 
 Mr. Snell moved to Cummington, Dr. Bryant followed, 
 establishing himself there as physician and surgeon; and 
 in 1792, Dr. Bryant and Sarah Snell were married. 
 
 Sarah Snell was a direct descendant of John Alden 
 and Priscilla Mullins, whose story has been made fa- 
 miliar to all by Longfellow's poem, The Courtship of 
 Miles Standish. She was a woman of great force of 
 character. Her dignity, firmness, honesty and energy, 
 showed the stock from which she had come. 
 
 Her son says of her : " She was a person of quick 
 and sensitive moral judgment, and had no patience with 
 any form of deceit or duplicity," and he adds, " if, in 
 the discussion of public questions, I have in my riper 
 age endeavored to keep in view the great rule of right 
 without much regard to persons, it has been owing in 
 great degree to the force of her example, which taught 
 me never to. countenance a wrong because others did." 
 
 Her school education was slight, including only the 
 ordinary English branches, but she was a great reader, 
 by which means she supplied the lack of her early edu- 
 cation. 
 
 Dr. Bryant was an unusually well-educated man, his 
 literary and scientific knowledge 'being extensive. ' As 
 
BOYHOOD 13 
 
 a member of the Massachusetts Legislature, and an at- 
 tendant at the meetings of a Medical Society which met 
 in Boston, he had frequent occasion to go to the city. 
 In this way, his manners and costume became those of 
 an accomplished city-bred gentleman rather than of a 
 farmer or country physician. Though he enjoyed 
 society, he was a man of very reserved nature. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant was the second son in a fam- 
 ily of seven children, — five sons and two daughters. 
 He was named William Cullen, after a prominent physi- 
 cian, Dr. Cullen, whom his father greatly admired. 
 Dr. Bryant was one of the third generation to practice 
 medicine, and as he was very proud of his profession, 
 his ambition was that William should become a physi- 
 cian. Neither William nor any of the boys, however, 
 were so inclined. 
 
 Mrs. Bryant taught her little son Watis's hymns when 
 he was scarcely three years old, and in his poem, A Life- 
 time, Bryant tells of standing by his mother's knee 
 reading the Scriptures. At four years of age he read 
 well, and was an almost faultless speller. 
 
 hi The Boys of My Boyhood, Bryant has told the 
 story of his childhood, his pleasures and amusements, 
 his early education, the severe discipline of his home 
 life, and the great fear he had of his grandfather, with 
 whom the Bryants lived. 
 
 " The boys of the generation to which I belonged — that is to 
 say, who were born in the last years of the last century or the 
 earliest of this — were brought up under a system of discipline 
 which put a far greater distance between parents and their chil- 
 dren than now exists. The parents seemed to think this neces- 
 
14 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 sary, in order to secure obedience. They were believers in the old 
 maxim that familiarity breeds contempt. My own parents lived 
 in the house with my grandfather and grandmother on the 
 mother's side. My grandfather was a disciplinarian of the 
 stricter sort, and I can hardly find words to express the awe in 
 which I stood of him — an awe so great as almost to prevent any- 
 thing like affection on my part, although he was in the main 
 kind, and.certainly never thought of being severe, beyond what 
 was necessary to maintain a proper degree of order in the 
 family. 
 
 " The other boys in that part of the country, my schoolmates 
 and playfellows, were educated on the same system. Yet there 
 were at this time some indications that this very severe discipline 
 was beginning to relax. With my father and mother I was on 
 much easier terms than with my grandfather. If a favor was 
 to be asked of my grandfather it was asked with fear and trem- 
 bling ; the request was postponed to the last moment, and then 
 made with hesitation and blushes and a confused utterance. 
 
 " One of the means of keeping the boys of that generation in 
 order was. a little bundle of birchen rods, bound together by a 
 small cord, and generally suspended on a nail against the wall 
 in the kitchen. This was esteemed as much a part of the neces- 
 sary furniture as the crane that hung in the kitchen fireplace, or 
 the shovel and tongs. It sometimes happened that the boy suf- 
 fered a fate similar to that of the eagle in the fable, wounded by 
 an arrow Hedged with feathers from his ow n wing ; in other 
 words, the boy was made to gather the twigs intended for his 
 own castigation." — The Boys of My Boyhood. 
 
 Bryant early showed a liking for reading and stndy. 
 His father, who was much interested in the education 
 of his children, guided his son in his study, and directed 
 his reading to the poets he himself liked, — Pope, Gray 
 and Goldsmith. Not merely in his study but in his 
 rambles over fields and country roads, Bryant's thoughts 
 were directed by his father, whose knowledge of botany 
 
FIRST POEMS 15 
 
 was extensive. He gave his son his first instruction in 
 the study that afterward developed into that wide 
 knowledge of the whole field of nature. Early recog- 
 nizing the poetic ability of his son, Dr. Bryant wisely 
 aided in its development, correcting but encouraging 
 the boy's first attempts at verse. In his poem, Hymn 
 to Death, he alludes to this early training by his father. 
 
 Alas ! I little thought that the stern power, 
 Whose fearful praise I sang, would try me thus 
 Before the strain was ended. It must cease — 
 For he is in his grave who taught my youth 
 The art of verse, and in the bud of life 
 Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off 
 Untimely ! when thy reason in its strength, 
 Ripened by years of toil and studious research, 
 And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught 
 Thy hand to practice best the lenient art 
 To which thou gavest thy laborious days, 
 And, last, thy life. 
 
 Hymn to Death. 
 
 When he was eight years old, Bryant wrote poems. 
 One of his first efforts was putting into verse the first 
 chapter of Job, and another, a poetical address before 
 the school. His first publication was a school exercise 
 in verse that was printed in The Hampshire Gazette of 
 Northampton. In his thirteenth year, he wrote a polit- 
 ical poem of over five hundred lines, entitled The Em- 
 bargo ; or, Sketches of the Times. A Satire. By a Youth 
 of Thirteen. The poem attracted general attention, 
 and was praised for its literary worth even by those 
 who opposed the political opinions expressed in it. A 
 second edition of the poem was published in 1809, and 
 
1(3 WILLIAM CULLEN BKYANT 
 
 as some doubts were expressed as to its authorship, the 
 printer offered to give the names of those who would 
 vouch that the poem was written by a boy of thirteen. 
 In this second edition appeared several other of his 
 poems. 
 
 Before he was sixteen Bryant had written more than 
 forty pieces, in the forms of translations, odes, songs, 
 elegies or satires. - Though these early efforts were to 
 some extent echoes of book learning, or his father's 
 opinions, and though they gave no indications of his 
 love for nature, which so marked his later verse, still 
 there was nothing forced or immature about his lines. 
 For years the boy continued to study and write. Oc- 
 casionally, to test his progress, he would send poems to 
 papers or magazines, without signature, or under names 
 not likely to betray him. 
 
 When fourteen years old, he began the study of Latin 
 with his uncle, the Rev. Dr. Thomas Sneli, living with 
 him for a year. At fifteen, he studied Greek with the 
 Rev. Moses Hallock, who prepared him for college ; and 
 it is said that in two months' study he knew the Greek 
 Testament as well as if it had been in English. 
 
 Bryant is described as being, at this time, a small, 
 delicate, handsome boy, shy and reserved. He was a 
 great reader, and a natural scholar like his father. At 
 fifteen, he was not only well advanced in all his studies, 
 but was remarkably well informed in every way. 
 Though a student, he enjoyed outdoor sports. He was 
 an excellent runner, and on his visits home would take 
 part in various games with the other boys. 
 
 In October, 1810, when in his sixteenth year, he 
 
18 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 entered the sophomore class of Williams College. He 
 remained here only seven months, as Dr. Bryant had 
 not the means to pay for his further education. The 
 hope had been that, in due time, he would be able to 
 send his son back to Williams, or to Yale, but it did 
 not become possible. During his short stay in college, 
 Bryant made an excellent record, his associates and 
 professors becoming greatly attached to him. The 
 seven months at Williams College ended his college 
 education, but the college in 1819 conferred upon him 
 the degree of Master of Arts, and, later, made him a 
 member of the Alumni. 
 
 Bryant so disliked the publicity of class duties that 
 he was very glad to renew his studies alone. For a 
 year after he left college, he studied the classics and 
 mathematics, hoping to enter Yale. During that time 
 he did not neglect his poetry, for he continued to write 
 patriotic poems. It was during this period that he was 
 planning or thinking about his wonderful poem -on 
 death. Thanatopsis, the first great and lasting poem 
 in American literature, shows a power and grandeur 
 that none of his previous efforts indicated. Bryant 
 says that this poem was written either during his 
 eighteenth or nineteenth year, he is not quite sure 
 which, but it was after he left college, and before he 
 began his law studies in 1813. For some reason, he 
 did not send this poem to The Hampshire Gazette, as 
 he had his other verses. He put it away, probably 
 with the purpose of re-writing it, and seems to have 
 forgotten it. This first rough draft was written in 
 about a week. 
 
THANATOPSIS 19 
 
 One day, after Bryant had left home to study law, 
 his father, in turning over a drawer full of old manu- 
 scripts of his son's, came upon Thanatopsis. He was 
 so impressed with its power and beauty, that, unknown 
 to his son, he sent it with two other poems to The 
 North American Revietv. It was published in Septem- 
 ber, 1817. The poem was then in the form that it is 
 now, Bryant adding the introductory and closing lines 
 in 1821, and making a slight change in the part allud- 
 ing to the ocean. In its first publication, through a 
 blunder, four verses on death, which were quite inferior 
 in quality, were prefixed as an introduction to the 
 poem. Of the poem, George William Curtis says : 
 
 ' ' It was the first adequate poetic voice of the solemn New 
 England spirit ; and in the grandeur of the hills, in the heroic 
 Puritan tradition of sacrifice and endurance, in the daily life, 
 saddened by imperious and awful theologic dogma, in the hard 
 circumstances of the pioneer household, the contest with the 
 wilderness, the grim legends of Indians and the war — have we 
 not some outward clue to the strain of ' Thanatopsis ' — the 
 depthless and entrancing sadness, as of inexorable fate, that 
 murmurs, like the autumn wind through the forest, in the mel- 
 ancholy cadences of this hymn to Death ? Moreover, it was 
 without a harbinger in our literature, and without a trace of the 
 English masters of the hour." 
 
 THANATOPSIS 
 To him who in the love of Nature holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
 A various language ; for his gayer hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 And eloquence di beauty, and she glides 
 Into his darker musings, with a mild 
 And healing sympathy, that steals away 
 
20 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 
 Over thy spirit, and sad images 
 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
 
 And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ; — 
 
 Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
 
 To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
 
 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
 
 Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee 
 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 
 In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
 
 Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 
 
 Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
 
 Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
 
 Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 
 
 And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou o-o 
 
 To mix for ever with the elements, 
 
 To be a brother to the insensible rock 
 
 And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
 
 Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 
 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
 Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
 W T ith patriarchs .of the infant world — with kings, 
 The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
 Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 
 Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
 The venerable woods — rivers that move 
 In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
 That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, 
 Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
 
THANATOPSLS 21 
 
 Are but the solemn decorations all 
 
 Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
 
 The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
 
 Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
 
 Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
 
 The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
 
 That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wino-s 
 
 Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 
 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
 
 Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 
 
 Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there : 
 
 And millions in those solitudes, since first 
 
 The flight of years began, have laid them down 
 
 In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
 
 So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 
 
 In silence from the living, and no friend 
 
 Take note of thy departure ?. All that breathe 
 
 Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
 
 When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
 
 Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
 
 His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
 
 Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
 
 And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
 
 Of ages glides away, the sons of men, 
 
 The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
 
 In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 
 
 The speechless babe, and the graj'-headed man — 
 
 Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 
 
 By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 
 
 So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
 The innumerable caravan, which moves 
 To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed . 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
 
22 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
 
 With Thanatopsis, Dr. Bryant also sent Inscription 
 for the Entrance to a Wood, written in 1813, and pub- 
 lished at the same time with Thanatopsis. South of the 
 old homestead at Cummington, beyond a meadow, is 
 the wood for which the poet wrote the inscription. 
 
 These shades 
 Are still the abodes of gladness ; the thick roof 
 Of green and stirring branches is alive 
 And musical with birds, that sing and sport 
 In wantonness of spirit ; while below 
 The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect, 
 Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade 
 Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam 
 That waked them into life. Even the green trees 
 Partake the deep contentment ; as they bend 
 To the soft winds, the sun from the blue &ky 
 Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. 
 Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy 
 Existence, than the winged plunderer 
 That sucks its- sweets. The mossy rocks themselves, 
 And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees 
 That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude, 
 Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, 
 With all their earth upon them, twisting high, 
 Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet 
 Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed 
 Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, 
 Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice 
 In its own being. Softly tread the marge, 
 Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren 
 That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, 
 That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, 
 
TO A WATERFOWL 23 
 
 Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass 
 Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace. 
 
 Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood. 
 
 In 1813, Bryant began the study of law with Judge 
 Samuel Howe of Worthington, near Cummington. He 
 remained here for nearly two years. He completed his 
 law studies with the Hon. William Baylies of Bridge- 
 water, and in 1815, at the age of twenty-one, he was 
 admitted to the bar at Plymouth. 
 
 In 1815, during his residence at Cummington, he 
 wrote his exquisite poem, To a Waterfowl. It shows a 
 keen observation of nature and a deep trust in God's 
 loving care. It is expressed in a manner that suggests 
 a sweet and simple melody. The poem was prompted by 
 the flight of a wild duck, which he saw while on his way 
 to Plainfield. His son-in-law, Parke Godwin, gives the 
 following account of the writing of the poem: 
 
 44 He says in a letter that he felt, as he walked up the hills, 
 very forlorn and desolate indeed, not knowing what was to be- 
 come of him in the big world, which grew bigger as he ascended, 
 and yet darker with the coming on of night. The sun had 
 already set, leaving behind it one of those brilliant seas of 
 chrysolite and opal which often flood the New England skies ; 
 and, while he. was looking upon the rosy splendor with wrapt 
 admiration, a solitary bird made wing along the illuminated 
 horizon, lie watched the lone wanderer until it was lost in the 
 distance, asking himself whither it had come and to what far 
 home it was flying. When he went to the house where he was 
 to stop for the night, his mind was still full of what he had seen 
 and felt, and he wrote those lines, as imperishable as our lan- 
 guage, The Waterfowl r 
 
 The poem was published six months after Thanatopsis. 
 
24 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 TO A WATERFOWL 
 
 Whither, midst falling dew, 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
 Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
 
 Thy solitary way ? 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
 As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 
 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean-side? 
 
 There is a Power whose care 
 Teaches thy w T ay along that pathless coast — 
 The desert and illimitable air — 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 All day thy wings have fanned, 
 At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
 Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
 
 Though the dark night is near. 
 
 And soon that toil shall end ; 
 Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
 And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 
 
 Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest, 
 
 Thou 1 rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
 Math swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast, given, 
 
 And shall not soon depart. 
 
 lie who, from zone to zone, 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight. 
 In the long way that I must tread alone, 
 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
RESIDENCE IN GREAT BARRINGTON 25 
 
 Bryant began the practice of law at Plainfield, but 
 he removed the following year to Great Barrington. 
 He remained there for nine years, writing during this 
 period some of his most popular poems. 
 
 Great Barrington and Williamstown, the seat of 
 Williams College, are situated in the beautiful moun- 
 tain region of the Berkshires. The valley formed by 
 the mountains is irregularly circular in shape, broad, 
 deep and fertile, with other valleys opening into it, and 
 traversed by the Housatonic$ with its tributary, the Green 
 river. Bryant had early formed the habit of taking 
 long, solitary rambles over the fields and through the 
 woods, a habit he always continued as a release from 
 study or work. Of this love of solitude, he says, in an 
 unfinished poem written in his old age, 
 
 " Ever apart from the resorts of men 
 He roamed the pathless woods, and hearkened long 
 To winds that brought into their silent depths 
 The murmurs of the mountain waterfalls." 
 
 The Berkshire region afforded him ample opportunity 
 to get away from the haunts of men, and to enjoy the 
 full beauty of waterfall, river, mountain, plain or 
 woods. It is quite certain that during his nine years 
 at Great Barrington, his happiest hours were spent in 
 the study of nature and in voicing her beauties in his 
 poems, for the practice of law from the first was 
 decidedly uncongenial to him. 
 
 Of the many poets that Bryant studied, Wordsworth 
 made the deepest and most lasting impression. In 1810, 
 he came upon a volume of his Lyrical Ballads. Of it 
 he said that " upon opening the book a thousand springs 
 
26 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 seemed to gush up at once in his heart, and the face of 
 nature, of a sudden, to change into a strange freshness 
 and life." Under the influence of this poet, he seemed 
 to get closer still to the truth, beauty and goodness of 
 universal nature, from which he drew the inspiration 
 of his best poems. 
 
 In 1817, while at Great Barrington, Bryant wrote 
 G-reen River. In addition to its being a beautifully 
 descriptive poem, it expresses his dissatisfaction with 
 his profession and his longing to be wholly free. 
 
 GREEN RIVER 
 
 When breezes are soft and skies are fair, 
 I steal an hour from study and care, 
 And hie me away to the woodland scene, 
 Where wanders the stream with waters of green, 
 As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink 
 Had given their stain to the wave they drink ; 
 And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, 
 Have named the stream from its own fair hue. 
 
 Yet pure its waters — its shallows are bright 
 With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, 
 And clear the depths where its eddies play, 
 And dimples deepen and whirl away, 
 And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot 
 The swifter current that mines its root, 
 Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, 
 The quivering glimmer of sun and rill 
 With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, 
 Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone. 
 Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, 
 With blossoms, and birds, and wild-bees 1 hum; 
 The flowers of summer are fairest there, 
 And freshest the breath of the summer air ; 
 
28 WILLIAM CULLEN BKYANT 
 
 And sweetest the golden autumn day 
 In silenee and sunshine glides away. 
 
 Yet, fair as thou art, thou slimmest to glide, 
 Beautiful stream ! by the village side ; 
 But windest away from haunts of men, 
 To quiet valley and shaded glen ; 
 And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, 
 Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still, 
 Lonely — save when, by thy rippling tides, 
 From thieket to thicket the angler glides ; 
 Or the simpler comes, with basket and book, 
 For herbs of power on thy banks to look ; 
 Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me, 
 To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee, 
 Still — save the chirp of birds that feed 
 On the river cherry and seedy reed, 
 And thy own wild music gushing out 
 With mellow murmur of fairy shout, 
 From dawn to the blush of another day, 
 Like traveler singing along his way. 
 
 That fairy music I never hear, 
 Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, 
 And mark them winding away from sight, 
 Darkened with shade or flashing with light, 
 While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings, 
 And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, 
 But I wish that fate had left me free 
 To wander these quiet haunts with thee, 
 Till the eating cares of earth should depart, 
 And the peace of the scene pass into my heart; 
 And I envy thy stream, as it glides along 
 Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. 
 
 Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, 
 And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, 
 
THE AGES 29 
 
 And mingle among the jostling crowd, 
 
 Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud, 
 
 I often come to this quiet place, 
 
 To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, 
 
 And gaze upon thee in silent dream, 
 
 For in thy lonely and lovely stream 
 
 An image of that calm life appears 
 
 That won my heart in my greener years. 
 
 At Great Barrington, Bryant met Miss Frances Fair- 
 child, whom he married in January, 1821. Song and 
 Oh Fairest of the Rural Maids are two poems in which 
 he expresses his love for her. Mrs. Bryant was a 
 woman of a gentle, sympathetic and deeply religious 
 nature. She was her husband's only intimate friend, 
 and when she died he had no other. Bryant's domestic 
 life, covering a period of forty-six years, was unusually 
 happy. Many of the poet's verses show his devotion 
 and reverence for her sweet and pure character. 
 
 In the same year, the summer of 1821, he was in- 
 vited by the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard, to 
 write a poem for them. In response to this invitation, 
 he wrote The Ages, his longest and most elaborate poem. 
 It is a thoughtful .presentation of the history of man- 
 kind from the earliest period. It is considered the best 
 college poem ever written. 
 
 Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth 
 In her fair page ; see, every season brings 
 New change, to her, of everlasting youth ; 
 Still the green soil, with joyous living things, 
 Swarms, the wide air is full of joyous wings, 
 And myriads, still, are happy in the sleep 
 Of ocean's azure gulfs, and where he flings 
 
30 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 The restless surge. Eternal Love doth keep, 
 In his complacent arms, the earth, the air, the deep. 
 
 Late, from this Western shore, that morning chased 
 The deep and ancient night, which threw its shroud 
 O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste, 
 Nurse of full streams, and lifter-up of proud 
 Sky-mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud. 
 Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear, 
 Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were loud 
 Amid the forest ; and the bounding deer 
 Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yelled near. 
 
 But thou, my country, thou shalt never fall 
 Save with thy children — thy maternal care, 
 Thy. lavish love, thy blessings showered on all — 
 These are thy fetters — seas and stormy air 
 Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where, 
 Among thy gallant sons who guard thee well, 
 Thou laugh'st at enemies ; who shall then declare 
 The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell 
 How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell ? 
 
 The Ages. 
 
 During this year, upon the urgent advice of friends, 
 Bryant was induced to publish his first volume of 
 poems, a little book of about forty pages. It con- 
 tained The Ages, To a Waterfowl, Translation of a 
 Fragment of Simonides, Inscription for the Entrance to 
 a Wood, The Yellow Violet, Gcreen River, Song and 
 Thanatopsis. The book was everywhere well received, 
 and it firmly established his reputation as a poet. 
 Shortly after appeared his Hymn to Death, in which is 
 his tender tribute to his father. 
 
CAREER AS EDITOR 31 
 
 During the next four years, Bryant wrote about thirty 
 poems. Some of the most familiar of these poems are 
 The Rivulet, Monument Mountain, Autumn Woods, Hymn 
 to the North Star, The Forest Hymn and The Old Man's 
 Funeral. These are among his finest poems. Monu- 
 ment Mountain is a pathetic and tragic love story of 
 an Indian girl of the Stockbridge tribe. The poem 
 is named after Monument Mountain, near Great Bar- 
 rington. 
 
 In 1824, Bryant visited New York for the first time, 
 meeting, while there, the best literary men of the city. 
 The practice of law having always been uncongenial to 
 him, when his friends in New York wrote, in the win- 
 ter of 1824-1825, that an editorship had been obtained 
 for him, he joyfully gave up law and left Great Bar- 
 rington for New York early in 1825. One of the last 
 of the Berkshire poems was June, published the year 
 after he left Great Barring ton. 
 
 Bryant began his journalistic career as co-editor 
 of TheNeiv York Review and Athencemn in 1825. This 
 position gave little promise of success, so in the follow- 
 ing year he became the assistant editor of The Evening 
 Post, and, three years later, in 1829, the editor-in- 
 chief. He was associated with this paper for the 
 remainder of his life. His best energies were now 
 devoted to a daily paper, and poetry, of necessity, 
 became the occupation of his leisure hours and not his 
 life work. 
 
 Among the poems contributed to The New York Re- 
 view was The Death of the Flowers, in which he speaks 
 most tenderly of his sister's death : 
 
32 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 The melancholy clays are come, the saddest of the year, 
 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and 
 
 sere. 
 Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves He dead ; 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 
 The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, 
 And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang 
 
 and stood 
 In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? 
 Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers 
 Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. 
 The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain 
 Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 
 
 And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, 
 The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side . 
 In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, 
 And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief : 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, 
 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 
 
 The Death of the Flowers. 
 
 As assistant editor, Bryant gained an insight into the 
 requirements of a newspaper, and, seeing the many 
 faults of the journals of the day, he determined to cor- 
 rect them, and to raise the moral and literary tone of 
 journalism. He felt that such was his mission, and 
 the history of his career as editor of The Evening Post 
 shows how well he fulfilled it. Looking upon a news- 
 paper as a moral force that could mold and elevate 
 public opinion, he used it as such during the fifty years 
 devoted to the work. 
 
 As a newspaper editor, he was thorough, industrious 
 and successful. During a period of fierce political 
 struggle and bitter personal enmities, Bryant showed 
 
POLITICAL PRINCIPLES 3-3 
 
 how wrongs might be righted and the right maintained 
 without intruding upon the private life of the wrong- 
 doer. He neither criticised nor condemned any person ; 
 it was the wrong act, not the person, that brought forth 
 his censure. The keynote of his newspaper career is 
 best expressed in his famous lines : 
 
 " Truth crushed to earth shall rise again; 
 The eternal years of God are hers ; 
 But Error, wounded, writhes with j3ain 
 And dies among his worshippers. 1 ' 
 
 Bryant was not a close follower of any political 
 party. He remained with a party as long as it repre- 
 sented principles in which he believed. He has, there- 
 fore, been called Federalist, Democrat and Republican, 
 whereas he was, in fact, each and all of them in so far 
 as they served the cause for which the Republic stood, 
 — freedom and humanity. During his editorship, he 
 had opportunity to criticise the administrations of Presi- 
 dents Jackson, Van Buren, Harrison, T}der, Polk, Tay- 
 lor, Fillmore, Prerce, Buchanan, Lincoln, Grant and 
 Hayes. 
 
 During the great slavery contest from 1820 to 1861, 
 Bryant stood for the freedom of the slave, a course 
 prompted by his conscience, and his love of justice and 
 liberty. He had hoped for freedom without bloodshed, 
 but when the storm burst, his poem, Our Country's Call, 
 was a patriotic appeal that aroused thousands to arms. 
 
 Lay down the ax ; fling by the spade ; 
 
 Leave in its track the toiling plow ; 
 The rifle and the bayonet-blade 
 
 For arms like yours were fitter now ; 
 
M WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 And let the hands that ply the pen 
 
 Quit the light task, and learn to wield 
 
 The horseman's crooked brand, and rein 
 The charger on the battlefield. 
 
 Few, few are those whose swords of old 
 
 Won the fair land in which we dwell ; 
 But we are many, we who hold 
 
 The grim resolve to guard it well. 
 Strike, for that broad and goodly land, 
 
 Blow after blow, till men shall see 
 That Might and Right move hand in hand, 
 
 And glorious must their triumph be ! 
 
 Our Country' 's Call. 
 
 In 1865, appeared his beautiful poem, 
 
 THE DEATH OF LINCOLN. 
 
 Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, 
 
 Gentle and merciful and just ! 
 Who, in the fear of God, didst bear 
 
 The sword of power, a nation's trust ! 
 
 In sorrow by thy bier we stand, 
 
 Amid the awe that hushes all, 
 And speak the anguish of a land 
 
 That shook with horror at thy fall. - 
 
 Thy task is done ; the bond are free ; 
 
 We bear thee to an honored grave, 
 Whose proudest monument shall be 
 
 The broken fetters of the slave. 
 
 Pure was thy life ; its bloody close 
 
 Hath placed thee with the sons of light, 
 
 Among the noble host of those 
 
 Who perished in the cause of Right. 
 
STUDIES AND TRAVELS 35 
 
 When slavery was finally abolished, he wrote a re- 
 markably fine poem of triumph, entitled The Death of 
 Slavery. 
 
 Bryant's prose was in every way as excellent as his 
 verse, and doubtless he would have gained a reputa- 
 tion for that alone had not the music of his poems 
 already charmed the public ear. 
 
 In 1832, Bryant collected all his poems written pre- 
 vious to that date, and published them in book form. 
 Through the influence of Washington Irving, who was 
 then Secretary of the American Legation at London, 
 an edition was published in England. The poems were 
 everywhere well received, and his reputation became as 
 well established in Europe as in America. 
 
 He was a student not only of English literature, but 
 he also translated poems from the Greek, Latin, Span- 
 ish, German and Portuguese. He was over seventy 
 years old when he undertook the difficult task of trans- 
 lating Homer. He occupied his leisure hours with it, 
 completing the Iliad in three years, and the Odyssey in 
 two years. The Iliad was published in 1870, and the 
 Odyssey in 1871. His work compares most favorably 
 with the translations of other eminent scholars. 
 
 Bryant became a great traveler, visiting Europe six 
 times, and traveling extensively in the United States 
 His first trip abroad was in 1834. He remained two 
 years. His last visit was in 1867. The result of 
 these extensive travels was his Letters of a Traveler 
 and Letters from the East. During his second trip 
 abroad, he seemed much impressed by the parks of 
 London. A letter written to the Post about them and 
 
36 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 the necessity of having one in New York, was the means 
 of establishing Central Park. 
 
 In 1842, appeared the volume entitled The Fountain 
 and other Poems. It contained the poems written dur- 
 ing the previous seventeen years, among them being The 
 Woods, The Gireen Mountain Boys, The Death of Schil- 
 ler, Life, A Presentiment, The Future Life and An 
 Eveyiing Reverie. The Future Life was written to his 
 wife about twenty years after their marriage, and is a 
 charming expression of their mutual love. 
 
 How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps 
 
 The disembodied spirits of the dead, 
 When all of thee that time could wither sleeps 
 
 And perishes among the dust we tread ? 
 
 For I shall feel the sting- of ceaseless pain 
 If there I meet thy gentle presence not ; 
 Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again 
 . In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. 
 
 Will not thy own meek heart demand me there ? 
 
 That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given — 
 My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, 
 
 And must thou never utter it in heaven ? 
 
 Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, 
 Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, 
 
 The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, 
 Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same ? 
 
 Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, 
 The wisdom that I learned so ill in this — 
 
 The wisdom which is love — till I become 
 Thy tit companion in that land of bliss i 3 
 
 The Future Life. 
 
38 WILLIAM CULLEN BUY ANT 
 
 The White-footed Deer and other Poems was published 
 in 1844. In 1845, Bryant purchased an estate near 
 Roslyn, Long Island, New York, which he named Cedar- 
 mere. The house was built in 1787. It was situated 
 on the top of the hills, surrounded by trees, green fields 
 and streams, and commanded a fine view of the bay. 
 He had the old house repaired and improved, and the 
 grounds made ideally beautiful. He devoted much of 
 his time to tree planting and pruning. The rooms 
 were filled with many beautiful and curious objects that 
 he had collected on his various travels. His excellent 
 library of several thousand volumes he kept at Cedar- 
 mere. Here also he wrote his later poems. 
 
 While in Europe in 1858, Mrs. Bryant became dan- 
 gerously ill. Upon her recovery, her husband wrote 
 the joyous poem, The Life that Is. 
 
 After Bryant's return from his second trip to Europe, 
 Edgar Allan Poe wrote the following description of 
 him: 
 
 " He is now fifty -two years of age. In height he is, perhaps, 
 five feet nine. Bis frame is rather robust. His features are 
 large, but thin. His countenance is sallow, nearly bloodless. 
 His eyes are piercing gray, deep set, with large projecting eye- 
 brows. His mouth is wide and massive; the expression of the 
 smile hard, cold, even sardonic. The forehead is broad, with 
 prominent organs of ideality ; a good deal bald ; the hair thin 
 and grayish; as are also the whiskers, which he wears in a 
 simple style. His bearing is quite distinguished, full of the 
 aristocracy of intellect. In general, he looks in better health 
 than before his last visit to England. He seems active — physi- 
 cally and morally energetic. His dress is plain to the extreme 
 of simplicity, although of late there is a certain degree of 
 Anglicism about it. 
 
DEATH OF MRS. BRYANT 39 
 
 " In character no man stands more lofty than Bryant. The 
 peculiar melancholy expression of his countenance has caused 
 him to be accused of harshness, or coldness of heart. Never 
 was there a greater mistake. His soul is charity itself , in all 
 respects generous and noble. His manners are undoubtedly 
 reserved. 1 ' 
 
 In 1861, The Third of November was published, a 
 poem in which he speaks of himself and his great love 
 for nature. 
 
 A volume entitled Thirty Poems, which were then 
 his latest, appeared in 1863. 
 
 On July 27, 1866, Mrs. Bryant died. She was 
 buried in the Roslyn cemetery, which is about half a 
 mile from Cedarmere. Her death was the one great 
 sorrow of Bryant's life. He has made sacred her mem- 
 ory in many of his poems. Oh Fairest of the Mural 
 Maids, Song, The Future Life, The Life that Ls, A 
 Lifetime, May Evening, and the exquisite poem, The 
 May Sun Sheds an Amber Light, all contain allusions 
 to her. 
 
 Upon the woodland's morning airs 
 
 The small birds' mingled notes are flung; 
 But she, whose voice, more sweet than theirs 
 Once bade me listen while they sung, 
 Is in her grave, 
 Low in her grave. 
 
 That music of the early year 
 
 Brings tears of anguish to my eyes ; 
 My heart aches when the flowers appear ; 
 . For then I think of her who lies 
 
 Within her grave, 
 Low in her grave. 
 The May Sun Sheds an Amber Light. 
 
40 WILLIAM CULLEN BKYANT 
 
 Iii 1874, the citizens of New York, the press and 
 the friends and admirers of Bryant, met to devise some 
 way in which to honor his eightieth birthday. The re- 
 sult was the decision that a silver vase, representing in 
 its design the life and writings of the poet, be pre- 
 sented to him, but placed eventually in the Metropoli- 
 tan Museum of Art. Nearly two years elapsed before 
 the vase was finished. The presentation took place at 
 Chickering Hall, New York, June 20, 1876. The vase 
 was exhibited at the Centennial Exhibition at Phila- 
 delphia in 1876. It is now at the Metropolitan Museum. 
 It cost five thousand dollars, and is most exquisite in 
 design and workmanship. Encircling the neck, in the 
 form of an ornamental border, is his famous line, " Truth 
 crushed to earth shall rise again." 
 
 An illustrated edition of Bryant's poems, containing 
 all that he thought worth preserving, was published in 
 1876. Among his later poems that became great favor- 
 ites are Planting the Apple Tree, Among the Trees, The 
 Song of the Sower, The Wind and the Stream, To the 
 Fringed Gentian, The Path, Pag Preams, The Land of 
 Preams, and the two fairy pieces, Sella and The Little 
 People of the Snow. The last poem is the story of a 
 little girl, Eva, who is enticed away by a fairy. She 
 travels far over the glistening snow, and reaches a 
 frost palace, through the ice windows of which she may 
 look and watch the revels of the fairies, but into whose 
 palace she may not enter, because she is a mortal child. 
 
 And in that hall a joyous multitude 
 Of these by whom its glistening walls were reared, 
 Whirled in a merry dance to silvery sounds, 
 
SUMMER WIND 41 
 
 That rang from cymbals of transparent ice, 
 And ice-cups, quivering to the skillful touch 
 Of little lingers. Round and round they flew, 
 As when, in spring, about a chimney-top, 
 A cloud of twittering swallows, just returned, 
 Wheel round and round, and turn and wheel a<rain, 
 Unwinding their swift track. So rapidly 
 Flowed the meandering stream of that fair dance 
 Beneath that dome of light. Bright eyes that looked 
 From lily- brows, and gauzy scarfs 
 Sparkling like snow-wreaths in the early sun, 
 Shot by the window in their mazy whirl. 
 
 The Little People of the Snow. 
 
 Bryant gives in A Winter Piece, Summer Wind, 
 Innocent Child and Snoiv-ivhite Floiver and To the 
 Fringed Grentian exquisite pictures of nature. 
 
 SUMMER WIND 
 
 It is a sultry day ; the sun has drunk 
 The dew that lay upon the morning grass ; 
 There is no rustling in the lofty elm 
 That canopies my dwelling, and its shade 
 Scarce cools me. . All is silent, save the faint 
 And interrupted murmur of the bee, 
 Settling on the sick flowers, and then again 
 Instantly on the wing. The plants around 
 Feel the too potent fervors : the tall maize 
 Rolls up its long green leaves ; the clover droops 
 Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. 
 But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, 
 W T ith all their growth of woods, silent and stern, 
 As if the scorching heat and dazzling light 
 Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, 
 Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven — 
 Their bases on the mountains — their white tops 
 
42 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 Shining in the far ether — fire the air 
 
 With a reflected radiance, and make turn 
 
 The gazer's eyes away. For me, I lie 
 
 Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, 
 
 Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, 
 
 Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind 
 
 That still delays his coming. Why so slow, 
 
 Gentle and voluble spirit of the air? 
 
 Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth 
 
 Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves 
 
 He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge, 
 
 The pine is bending his proud top, and now 
 
 Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak 
 
 Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes ; 
 
 Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves ! 
 
 The deep distressful silence of the scene 
 
 Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds 
 
 And universal motion. He is come, 
 
 Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, 
 
 And bearing on their fragrance ; and he brings 
 
 Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs, 
 
 And sound of swaying branches, and the voice 
 
 Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs 
 
 Are stirring in his breath ; a thousand flowers, 
 
 By the road-side and the borders of the brook, 
 
 Nod gayly to each other ; glossy leaves 
 
 Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew 
 
 Were on them yet, and silver waters break 
 
 Into small waves and sparkle as he comes. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln is a poem full of bird music. It is 
 the best example of Bryant's humor. 
 
 ROBERT OF LINCOLN 
 
 Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 
 Near to the nest of his little dame, 
 
ROBERT OF LINCOLN 43 
 
 Over the moimtain-side or mead, 
 
 Robert of Lincoln is telling his name : 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 
 Hidden among the summer flowers. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, 
 
 Wearing a bright black wedding-coat ; 
 White are his shoulders and white his crest, 
 Hear him call in his merry note : 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 Look, what a nice new coat is mine, 
 Sure there was never a bird so line. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, 
 
 Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
 Passing at home a patient life, 
 
 Broods in the grass while her husband sings : 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink; 
 Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear 
 Thieves and robbers while I am here. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Modest and shy as a nun is she ; 
 
 One weak chirp is her only note. 
 Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 
 Pouring boasts from his little throat : 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 Never was I afraid of man ; 
 Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can I 
 Chee, chee, chee ? 
 
44 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 
 
 Fleeked with purple, a pretty sight ! 
 There as the mother sits all day, 
 
 Robert is singing with all his might : 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o 1 -link, 
 Spink, spank, spink; 
 Nice good wife, that never goes out, 
 Keeping house while I frolic about. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Soon as the little ones chip the shell, 
 
 Six little mouths are open for food ; 
 Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, 
 Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-oMink, 
 Spink, spank, spink; 
 This new life is likely to be 
 Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln at length is made 
 
 Sober with work, and silent with care ; 
 Off is his holiday garment laid, 
 Half forgotten that merry air : 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 Nobody knows but my mate and I 
 Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; 
 
 Fun and frolic no more he knows ; 
 Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; 
 Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : 
 Bob-oUink, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
 Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
DEATH 45 
 
 The Flood of Years was the last long poem that Bry- 
 ant wrote. It is religious in tone, and in nature is sug- 
 gestive of Thanatopsis, The Ages, Hymn to Death, and 
 Among the Trees. The closing lines of this poem are an 
 expression of the poet's religious faith. 
 
 Bryant was frequently called upon to deliver ora- 
 tions and addresses upon any occasion of public note 
 or importance. While performing this office, May 29, 
 1878, at the unveiling of the Mazzini bust at Central 
 Park, he was overcome by the heat. He did not ap- 
 parently feel the effects of the exposure to the sun 
 until after the exercises were over and he had reached 
 the house of a friend, where he fell unconscious. He 
 rallied sufficiently to be taken to his own home, but 
 paralysis set in, and after an illness of thirteen days, he 
 died June 12, 1878. He was placed in his last resting- 
 place at Roslyn, during, as he had once expressed his 
 wish, the month of June, while overhead the birds 
 sweetly sang and the breezes swept softly through the 
 tree-tops. 
 
 I gazed upon the glorious sky 
 
 And the green mountains round, 
 And thought that when I came to lie 
 
 At rest within the ground, 
 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June, 
 When brooks send up a cheerful tune, 
 
 And groves a joyous sound, 
 The sexton's hand, my grave to make, 
 The rich, green mountain turf should break. 
 
 There through the long, long summer hours, 
 The o-olden light should lie, 
 
46 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 And thick young herbs and groups of flowers 
 
 Stand in their beauty by. 
 The oriole should build and tell 
 His love-tale close beside my cell ; 
 
 The idle butterfly 
 Should rest him there, and there be heard 
 The housewife bee and humming-bird. 
 
 June. 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 1803-1882 
 
And such I knew, a forest seer, 
 
 A minstrel of the natural year, 
 
 Foreteller of the vernal ides, 
 
 Wise harbinger of spheres and tides, 
 
 A lover true, who knew by heart 
 
 Each joy the mountain dales impart ; 
 
 It seemed that Nature could not raise 
 
 A plant in any secret place, 
 
 In quaking bog, on snowy hill, 
 
 Beneath the grass that shades the rill, 
 
 Under the snow, between the rocks, 
 
 In damp fields known to bird and fox, 
 
 But he would come in the very hour 
 
 It opened in its virgin bower, 
 
 As if a sunbeam showed the place, 
 
 And tell its long-descended race. 
 
 It seemed as if the breezes brought him ; 
 
 It seemed as if the sparrows taught him ; 
 
 As if by some secret sight he knew 
 
 Where, in far fields, the orchis grew. 
 
 Many haps fall in the field 
 
 Seldom seen by wistful eyes ; 
 
 But all her shows did Nature yield, 
 
 To please and win this pilgrim wise. 
 
 He saw the partridge drum in the woods ; 
 
 He heard the woodcock's evening hymn ; 
 
 He found the tawny thrushes' broods ; 
 
 And the shy hawk did wait for him ; 
 
 What others did at distance hear, 
 
 And guessed within the thicket's gloom, 
 
 Was shown to this philosopher, 
 
 And at his bidding seemed to come. 
 
 Woodnotes, 
 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 Hast thou named all the birds without a gun ? 
 
 Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk? 
 
 At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse? 
 
 Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust ? 
 
 And loved so well a high behavior, 
 
 In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, 
 
 Nobility more nobly to repay ? 
 
 O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine! 
 
 Forbearance. 
 
 The position that Emerson holds in American litera- 
 ture, as a writer of prose and poetry, is singularly dif- 
 ferent from that of all the writers that preceded him, 
 and even of those of his own period. A close study of 
 his ancestors and of the surroundings of his early life 
 is necessary in order fully to understand the influences 
 that shaped his life and molded his genius. The dis- 
 tinctive quality of his writings is the spirit that breathes 
 through them. It is patient, hopeful and serene, show- 
 ing a firm belief in happiness, and seeing the virtue of it. 
 He has great faith in the individual, and inspires one 
 with hope, courage, self-reliance. All his lines ring with 
 the truth of what he says. His style of writing is 
 often abrupt, with sudden changes, but the sentences are 
 freighted with thought. One must think in order to 
 grasp and understand his message. The new thought, 
 
 51 
 
52 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 the inspiration to right living, which one often gets, is 
 well worth the effort required. 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson, son of William Emerson, 
 minister to the First Church of Boston, was born in 
 Boston, May 25, 1803. He was the fourth child and 
 third son. 
 
 The old parish house, which was his birthplace, was 
 a gambrel-roofed, wooden building, standing in the 
 middle of grounds about three acres in extent, at the 
 corner of Summer and Chauncy streets. During his 
 childhood, this wooden house was replaced by a brick 
 one. It set well back from the street, having a larger 
 orchard and a garden. 
 
 The southern part of Boston, where the house and 
 church stood, was then quite rural. Where the busy 
 thoroughfares and great warehouses of the city now 
 are, in the days of Emerson's childhood were green 
 fields and pastures, and line estates with orchards and 
 gardens. The neighborhood was just the right place 
 for boys, as there were plenty of open grounds with 
 sheds, woodhouses, and an occasional deserted barn. 
 Near at hand was a pond where in winter the boys 
 learned to skate. Not far distant was the salt water 
 with long wharves extending into it, from which the 
 boys indulged in fishing. There was also the Common, 
 then a playground from end to end. . 
 
 William Emerson, father of Ralph Waldo, was de- 
 scended from a long line of preachers, dating back to 
 the earliest days of the colonies. One ancestor, the 
 Rev. Peter Bulkeley, left England in 1634, and, with 
 others, settled Concord, Massachusetts, spending most 
 
ANCESTORS 53 
 
 of his fortune in pioneer work. His granddaughter 
 married the Rev. Joseph Emerson, the pioneer minister 
 of Menden. When this village was destroyed by the 
 Indians, the Emersons went to Concord. Their son 
 Edward married Rebecca Waldo, whence came the name 
 of Waldo into the family. The son of this couple, a 
 second Rev. Joseph Emerson, married Mary Moody, 
 whose father was also a minister. He was a very earn- 
 est, almost fanatical student. He kept his son William, 
 the grandfather of Ralph Waldo, constantly at his 
 books. The only change or rest from study was farm 
 work, and even the little time given to this he grudged. 
 This William Emerson was the patriot minister of Con- 
 cord. He married Phoebe Bliss, daughter of another 
 minister. He built the parsonage at Concord, cele- 
 brated by Hawthorne in his Mosses from an Old 
 Manse. At the breaking out of the Revolution, he 
 preached to the minute-men of Concord. In 1776, he 
 became chaplain of the army at Ticonderoga, dying in 
 a few months from camp fever, at the early age of 
 thirty-three years. 
 
 William Emerson left a widow and four children, 
 one son and three daughters. His widow married again, 
 and another set of children growing up, his son Wil- 
 liam was left dependent upon his own efforts. He and 
 his sister, Mary Moody, inherited from their father a 
 deep love for learning, and a keen enjoyment of literary 
 society. William's education was frequently inter- 
 rupted by school teaching, by which means he would 
 acquire money for still more schooling. Eventually, he 
 was graduated from the Cambridge divinity school. 
 
 
54 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 When twenty-three years old, William Emerson be- 
 came the minister in the town of Harvard. In 1796, 
 he married Ruth Haskins. They were very poor, the 
 calling at Harvard bringing but a small income ; but 
 Mr. Emerson had a very buoyant, cheerful disposi- 
 tion, and he and his wife struggled bravely on. Mr. 
 Emerson taught school, took boarders and worked on 
 the farm. At last something in the form of a release 
 from such poverty came in 1799, when he was called to 
 preach in the First Church of Boston. Although the 
 salary attached to this position was not large, still it 
 was much better than that received at Harvard. 
 
 The Rev. Charles Lowell, father of the poet, speaks 
 of William Emerson as being a handsome man, tall and 
 fair, easy and graceful in movement, with gracious 
 manners. He was a social man, enjoying society very 
 much, and entertaining considerably for those days. 
 He was interested in literature and literary societies. 
 He also established several libraries, one at Harvard, 
 one at the Boston Athenaeum, and a theological library 
 connected with his church. William Emerson died in 
 1811, leaving his widow six children to support. 
 
 Mrs. Emerson, the mother of Ralph Waldo, was 
 spoken of in the highest terms by all who knew her. 
 She displayed under all circumstances a remarkable 
 firmness and dignity of character, and a very sweet, 
 patient, serene temper. Her manners were gentle and 
 graceful, and her speech both kindly and sensible. 
 
 The burden that fell upon Mrs. Emerson at the death 
 of her husband was a heavy one. She had no means of 
 support for herself and six children. The First Church 
 
EARLY LIFE 35 
 
 did all they could for her. They continued her hus- 
 band's salary for six months, gave her an allowance of 
 five hundred dollars for seven years, and the use of the 
 parish house for a year and a half. She remained there, 
 however, for three years. 
 
 A less expensive place to live in than Boston would 
 have been preferred, but Mrs. Emerson wished the 
 children to be well educated. With that end in view, 
 she kept within reach of the Latin School and Harvard 
 College. In order to carry out her plans for her chil- 
 dren's education, they all had to make many sacri- 
 fices and endure many privations. 
 
 Mrs. Emerson took boarders, and the boys did much 
 of the housework. Ralph and Edward had but one 
 overcoat between them, and they took turns in wearing 
 it. Many of the school children used to annoy and 
 torment them by calling out, " Whose turn is it to 
 wear the coat to-day ? " The children had little oppor- 
 tunity for play. What spare time they had was devoted 
 to study or to reading good literature. 
 
 In Domestic Life, Emerson speaks of the pleasures of 
 those early days, which were very unlike those of most 
 boys. The eager boys would hasten through their 
 chores, and hurry into the sitting room to prepare the 
 next day's lessons. Often they would steal time to 
 read a chapter from some novel they had smuggled 
 into the room, though they knew the punishment for 
 this forbidden pleasure would surely be extra pages of 
 translations or more pages to memorize. Frequently 
 they would meet in the school yard, or at some old 
 barn or shed, and entertain each other with songs, bits 
 
56 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 of poetry and orations, or with imitations of some ora- 
 tor. There would also be the criticism of the previous 
 Sunday's sermon. Another pleasure was the school 
 recitation of pieces, learned faithfully at home, and re- 
 hearsed again and again, sometimes to the entertain- 
 ment, more often to the weariness, of the household. 
 There were also the joy and the pride of the first 
 literary efforts, the completed translation or composi- 
 tion. Theater-going was one of the forbidden pleasures 
 in those days, but it was with ke,en delight that the ad- 
 vertisements of the arrival of the great actors, Macready, 
 Booth or Kemble, were studied and compared. Then, 
 too, there was the happiness of reunion after their sepa- 
 ration for school or business. Each arrival was a new 
 delight, and the boys found great pleasure in relating 
 and comparing their various experiences and their bits 
 of newly acquired knowledge. 
 
 The tie that held these boys so closely together was, 
 Emerson says, " the iron band of poverty, of necessity, 
 of austerity," which " directed their activity in safe 
 and right channels, and made them, despite themselves, 
 reverers of the grand, the beautiful, and the good." 
 The angels that dwelt with them were " Toil and Want, 
 and Truth and Mutual Faith." 
 
 Emerson w T as a serious-minded child, not at all inter- 
 ested in boyish amusements. Though the neighborhood 
 in which he lived afforded many opportunities for all 
 sorts of outdoor sports, he had little time or inclination 
 for play. He never owned a sled, and would have been 
 too timid to use one, as his mother had often warned 
 him against the rough boys that came to play in the 
 
MARY MOODY EMERSON 57 
 
 neighborhood. He was different from other boys of his 
 own age, and when very young was quite literary in 
 his tastes and enjoyments. This seriousness and a 
 naturally haughty way of carrying his head — a family 
 trait — separated him from his youthful companions, 
 many of whom disliked him. His elders thought highly 
 of him, and those who knew him best considered him a 
 spiritual- looking boy, with a sweet, lovable disposition. 
 
 Beside Mrs. Emerson and the six children, there was 
 in the home circle, their aunt, Mary Moody Emerson. 
 Emerson always felt for this aunt the deepest reverence 
 which he shows in his sketch of her life and character. 
 His poem, The Nun's Aspiration, refers to her. She was 
 a woman of very singular character, which had a strong 
 influence upon the boys, and placed a still greater strain 
 upon their already over-taxed minds and bodies. 
 
 Mary Moody Emerson was born shortly before the 
 Revolution. Her father, just before the Concord fight, 
 carried her to his mother at Maiden. Miss Emerson 
 remained with her grandparents, living a very lonely 
 life, performing many tasks that were beyond her 
 strength, having no young companions, and rarely see- 
 ing her brother and sister from Concord. While still 
 a girl, her burden was increased by the care of an 
 insane aunt. She inherited from her father a keen 
 appetite for learning, but had little opportunity in the 
 early days to gratify it. She was a quick, irritable, 
 keen-witted woman, using her wit to sting rather than 
 to amuse. Her peculiarities drove from her many 
 whose love she would have treasured. All these traits 
 were the result of her sad and lonely life, and of a 
 
58 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 morbidly religious character which she inherited from 
 her ancestors. She accepted, as God's will, the position 
 in which her strange character placed her. 
 
 As a young woman, she was frequently called upon, 
 in times of sickness and need, by her brothers and 
 sisters, in whose families she became much interested. 
 She was passionately attached to some of her nephews 
 and nieces. 
 
 When her brother William died, she made her home 
 with his widow, ready to render what aid she could. 
 Emerson highly valued the virtues of this aunt, her 
 lofty principles and high aspirations. He felt that to 
 have lived within the reach of her influence during his 
 childhood was an education that could not be too highly 
 valued, and that her peculiar and often irritable dispo- 
 sition was far outshone by the high character she re- 
 vealed. This aunt was one of the strongest influences 
 that helped to shape Emerson's mind and character. 
 
 The austerity of those early days, the absence of all 
 play, of association with companions of his own age, 
 drove the boy and, later, the man to himself, and made 
 it most difficult for him at any time to meet others in 
 the ordinary, familiar way. Only the interchange of 
 high thoughts and spiritual ideals appealed to him. 
 
 It was not a gloomy household, however, for the 
 boys inherited buoyant dispositions and keen wit. The 
 natural joyousness of youth too often verged, their 
 aunt Mary thought, upon silliness and folly. A cousin 
 speaks of the home as being very hospitable and cheer- 
 ful, and the boys as bright, intelligent, good talkers, and 
 most gracious in their manners. 
 
EARLY EDUCATION 59 
 
 Emerson went to school when he was three years old, 
 which was not nnusnal at that time. What was ex- 
 pected of children may be somewhat understood, when, 
 two months after he went to school, his father writes 
 that Ralph " does not read very well yet " ! This 
 school was on Summer street, near the parsonage. 
 Later he went to a school kept by a Mr. Lawson Lyon, 
 a severe teacher who believed in the free use of both 
 rule and cowhide. 
 
 In 1813, Emerson entered the Latin School. As the 
 school-house was being rebuilt at the time, the school 
 wandered from place to place. At one time, it was held 
 at the Mill Pond, then stretches of flat lands. At 
 another time, it was held in an attic on Pemberton Hill. 
 The head master, Mr. Benjamin Apthorp Gould, was 
 considered an excellent teacher, and was held in high 
 esteem by his pupils. 
 
 Emerson was looked upon as a studious but not an 
 especially brilliant pupil. His compositions were always 
 correct, and he early began to be critical in expression. 
 He was liked by his companions for his fairness and 
 sweet temper, but he was never a favorite, for he rarely 
 took part in the athletic sports or boyish fun. 
 
 At about this time, Emerson began to write verses. 
 The naval victories of the War of 1812 awakened his 
 admiration, and were often the subjects of his verse. 
 One long poem, called Fortus, illustrated by his school 
 fellow, W. H. Furness, is still in existence. During 
 the last year at school, he was often called upon to 
 recite " original poems " on exhibition days. His 
 brothers were rather proud of this ability to make 
 
60 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 verses or rhymes, and his letters to them often con- 
 tained some poem or bit of verse. 
 
 In 1814, the cost of living in Boston became so ex- 
 pensive that the Emersons were forced to leave the 
 city. They went to Concord, where they remained for 
 a year. Emerson's fondness for rhyming was soon dis- 
 covered by his associates at the school in Concord, and 
 when he was about to leave they put him on a barrel, 
 and made him recite a farewell ode. He took great 
 delight, years after, in recalling bits of this ode for the 
 amusement of his children. The lines referring to his 
 younger brother, Charles, who was attending the same 
 school, greatly disgusted that young gentleman, to the 
 intense amusement of the poet and orator of the 
 occasion. 
 
 On their return to Boston, they occupied a house on 
 Beacon street, near the present site of the Boston 
 Athenaeum. In the back yard they kept a cow which 
 they had brought from Concord, and which Emerson 
 used to drive around the Common to some pasture land 
 belonging to his mother. He describes this new home 
 in some amusing verses to his brother, Edward, who 
 was at boarding-school. 
 
 In August, 1817, Emerson entered Harvard College. 
 It was thought at first that he would have to defer his 
 college education, as his family had not then the means 
 to meet the expense, but through Mr. Gould, his former 
 teacher, he received the appointment of President's 
 freshman, which gave him, without charge, lodgings in 
 the President's house. He was also made waiter at 
 Commons, which relieved him of three fourths of the 
 
COLLEGE LIFE 61 
 
 expense of his board. He received money from one 
 of the scholarship funds, and from a fund for needy- 
 scholars connected with the First Church. In this way, 
 his expenses were met. During the first year in col- 
 lege, he did some private teaching, thus making a little 
 more money. 
 
 The college studies never received from Emerson the 
 attention which he should have given them, and which 
 the college authorities expected. He was industrious, 
 but in his own way. He read a great deal, and his 
 note books were filled with quotations, favorite expres- 
 sions, and copies of parts of his aunt Mary's letters, 
 whose style he greatly admired and closely imitated. 
 His interest in literature increased, and he worked 
 earnestly on composition. During his junior year, he 
 won three prizes, two for composition, and one for 
 declamation. This last prize was thirty dollars, which 
 he took home with expectations of great happiness, 
 hoping it would buy his mother a much needed shawl. 
 He was keenly disappointed when he learned that it 
 was used to pay the baker's bill. 
 
 Aside from his literary efforts, Emerson passed 
 through the college course without distinction, stand- 
 ing at the close at about the middle in a class of fifty- 
 nine. He was made poet on Class Day, and received 
 one of the twenty-nine commencement parts. He was 
 graduated in 1821. 
 
 Emerson is described as being, at that time, a deli- 
 cate, slender youth, younger than most of his class- 
 mates, with a sensitive, retiring nature. Although his 
 brother William was in the senior class, and introduced 
 
62 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 him to his associates and to college life, and though his 
 duties as President's freshman brought him in contact 
 with almost every member of the college, still he became 
 acquainted very slowly. The noisy ways of his com- 
 panions were distasteful to him, and equally so to them 
 was the nearness of his room to the President's. Gradu- 
 ally the more thoughtful boys sought him, rinding that 
 if he knew less than they about college text-books, he 
 knew more about general literature. Moreover, he 
 could write poetry, and he was frequently called upon 
 to do so for the various college occasions. Although 
 his quiet nature kept him from joining the college 
 societies, still he was genial and mirthful, though never 
 boisterous, and was fond of telling and hearing a good 
 story. He was well liked by classmates and professors. 
 
 The class of 1821 held its annual reunions at Cam- 
 bridge for fifty years. As Emerson always lived near, 
 he regularly attended these meetings. He looked after 
 the more unfortunate members of the class, helping 
 them when he could, or getting others to assist them. 
 
 Emerson's plan was to teach school after leaving 
 college, and to study for the ministry at the same time, 
 though his real ambition was to be a college professor 
 of rhetoric and oratory. No such position was ever 
 offered to him. He so disliked the school teaching 
 that it became a source of great unhappiness to him. 
 He was doing what his father and grandfather had 
 done before him, but in a very different spirit. He 
 took so dismal a view of his work, that it crushed all 
 his hope. The different periods of his teaching were 
 the gloomiest ones of his life. 
 
TEACHING 63 
 
 Emerson did some teaching while in college. After 
 graduation, he renewed this much disliked occupation, 
 but under more favorable circumstances. His brother 
 William had established a school for young ladies in 
 his mother's house in Boston, and he became William's 
 assistant for two years, and for one year had full 
 charge, his brother going abroad to study for the min- 
 istry. The income derived from his teaching during 
 these three years was a very good one for those days. 
 By means of it, he was enabled to aid his mother and 
 brothers, and to urge William to prolong his stay in 
 Europe. 
 
 Emerson's other teaching was taking one or two 
 pupils in his home, teaching a public school for a few 
 months, and taking charge of his brother Edward's 
 school, he having been compelled by ill health to give 
 up his law studies, and to take a sea voyage. He also 
 had a school of his own in Boston for a short time. 
 This last ended his distasteful work. 
 
 Though teaching was so uncongenial to him, yet 
 Emerson's pupils and their parents were well satisfied. 
 His sweet nature attracted his pupils, he had a strong 
 moral influence upon them, and he took a great interest 
 in them and their lives aside from their school work. 
 
 As a man, Emerson was as retiring and exclusive as 
 when a boy. He shunned society, finding his greatest 
 happiness in companionship with his brothers, especially 
 Edward and Charles. He also enjoyed corresponding 
 with his classmates. 
 
 The tie between the five brothers was very close. 
 Their hard struggle with poverty during childhood and 
 
64 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 youth, their noble ambitions and their brave efforts to 
 realize them, brought them into such close sympathy 
 that no one else could possibly take their place in one 
 another's life. Unfortunately, their physical strength 
 was not equal to the tasks they laid upon it. An in- 
 herited luug disease showed itself in Waldo, Edward 
 and Charles when each was about thirty years old, from 
 which Edward and Charles died. Their only sister, 
 Mary, had died in 1814. Bulkeley* whose mind had 
 never developed, though he was a boy of fine character, 
 left the home circle in 1825, being placed in the care 
 of others. Edward was a more brilliant man than 
 Waldo. He was remarkably handsome, eloquent and 
 talented, and was a great favorite in society. His am- 
 bitions and his hard work to gratify them, were too 
 much for his strength, and his health completely broke 
 in 1828. He was forced to give up all study, and to 
 make his home in Porto Rico, where he died in 1834. 
 Of his death Emerson wrote : " I am bereaved of a 
 part of myself." 
 
 Charles seems to have been the closest friend, the 
 most dearly loved of all the much loved brothers. He 
 died in 1836. His death left a void in Emerson's life 
 that none other could fill. In Peter's Field and the 
 Dirge, he writes most tenderly of them all. 
 
 Five rosy boys with morning light 
 
 Had leaped from one fair mother's arms, 
 
 Fronted the sun with hope as bright, 
 
 And greeted God with childhood's psalms. 
 
STUDYING FOR THE MINISTRY 65 
 
 But the j are gone, — the holy ones 
 Who trod with me this lovely vale ; 
 
 The strong, star-bright companions 
 Are silent, low and pale. 
 
 My good, my noble, in their prime, 
 Who made this world the feast it was, 
 
 Who learned with me the lore of time, 
 Who loved this dwelling-place ! 
 
 Dirge. 
 
 Emerson dearly loved the country because it brought 
 him so near to nature. He enjoyed any sojourn, how- 
 ever short, away from the city. In 1823, the Emer- 
 sons lived for awhile just out of the city of Boston, 
 in a woodland district of rocks, hills and woods, 
 much to Emerson's delight. Here he wrote his poem 
 Gcood-Bye. In it he bids farewell to the world, and 
 promises to go home to nature, to the hills and the 
 rocks and the pines, to the blackbird's song, to a 
 close communion with self and God. In Woodnotes 
 and in My Garden, he expresses most delightfully his 
 love for nature, and the knowledge and help he obtains 
 in his close study of her. In this woodland retreat 
 they remained until February, 1825. Emerson then 
 went to Cambridge, entering the Divinity School. 
 
 He began his preparation for the ministry in a very 
 earnest spirit, seeking advice and aid from those whose 
 opinion he valued, and whose position and experience 
 seemed to fit them to give the help needed. He was 
 not troubled by doubts about his religious belief, but 
 his desire was, if he were to teach others, to be able 
 to give them reasons that justified his faith. 
 
66 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 His health began to fail him about this time, and his 
 studying, and afterward his preaching, were often inter- 
 rupted by illness. In October, 1826, he was quali- 
 fied to preach, and a few days after, he preached his 
 first sermon at Waltham. His ill health, however, 
 forced him to take a trip South, from which he returned 
 in June, 1827, joining his mother who was staying at 
 the Concord Manse. Later he again established him- 
 self at Divinity Hall, Cambridge. 
 
 While on his trip South, Emerson did some preaching 
 in the Unitarian churches in the different cities he 
 visited. On his return, he frequently acted as a sub- 
 stitute, but his health did not permit regular work. 
 Since he' was not equal to preaching every Sunday, he 
 thought of giving up the ministry, and returning to 
 teaching. Not having the courage to do this, he decided 
 to remain in Cambridge, do what he could in the way of 
 preaching and attending lectures, and wait for better 
 health and better days. He remained there a year, 
 gaining in health slowly, and gradually doing more con- 
 tinuous work. 
 
 In March, 1829, Emerson was ordained minister of 
 the Second (Unitarian) Church of Boston. As a min- 
 ister, he won many admirers, especially among the 
 young. His great charm was the simple style of his 
 sermons, and his ability to make his hearers feel that^ 
 religion was something very real and a part of their 
 every day life. 
 
 Only two of Emerson's sermons are published, one 
 being the sermon on the Lord's Supper, which he deliv- 
 ered when he resigned his charge of the Second Church 
 
HIS FIRST WIFE 67 
 
 in the summer of 1832. The resignation was due to a 
 difference of opinion between himself and the church, 
 concerning the rites of the Lord's Supper. The church 
 was anxious to retain him, but he felt that he could 
 not administer a form of worship in which he had no 
 faith. This ended his regular work as a minister, 
 though he continued to preach at various times for 
 many years after. 
 
 Emerson's sermons were frequently criticised by those 
 not accustomed to such startling and broad applications 
 of divine truths, as having a tendency to unsettle the 
 Christian faith. Nothing was farther from his thoughts. 
 His faith in the Christian religion was absolute. He 
 simply made a broader, more generous application of its 
 truths, feeling that they did not belong to any partic- 
 ular sect or creed. 
 
 While preaching at Concord, New Hampshire, in 
 1827, Emerson met Miss Ellen Tucker, who afterward 
 became his wife. Miss Tucker was very frail, but her 
 brave and cheerful disposition easily misled others, 
 even those who knew her best, concerning her health. 
 She was considered by all to be a very attractive char- 
 acter. To Ellen is a dainty poem, in which the spring 
 at the North bids her return from the South. 
 
 The green grass is bowing, 
 
 The morning wind is in it ; 
 T is a time worth thy knowing, 
 
 Though it change every minute. 
 
 Hark to the winning somid ! 
 They summon thee, dearest, 
 
68 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 Saying, 'We have dressed for thee the ground, 
 Nor yet thou appearest. 
 
 < O come, then, quickly come ! 
 
 We are budding, we are blowing; 
 And the wind that we perfume 
 
 Sings a tune that's worth the knowing.' 
 
 To Ellen. 
 
 The death of his wife early in 1831, was a sorrow 
 from which he could not seem to rally. His health 
 broke down under the strain, and, at the suggestion of 
 his friends, he sailed for Europe, December 25, 1832, 
 hoping the sea voyage would restore his health. 
 
 While abroad, he met General Lafayette, and visited 
 the poets Coleridge and Wordsworth. He also went to 
 Scotland to see Carlyle, between whom and himself was 
 formed a life-long friendship. During this year spent 
 abroad, his health steadily improved. A brief account 
 of this visit is given in English Traits, published in 
 1856. The general topics are Land, Race, Ability, Man- 
 ners. His thoughts are fresh and original, and show 
 keen observation. He is full of admiration for the Eng- 
 lish, but is not blind to their faults or shortcomings. 
 
 Upon his return from Europe, Emerson lived for 
 about a year with his mother at Newton, indulging 
 again in long, solitary rambles in the woods. They 
 left Newton in 1831, again visiting the old Manse at 
 Concord. Here Emerson's wanderings came to an end, 
 for, becoming engaged to Miss Lydia Jackson of Plym- 
 outh, in the winter of 1835, he determined to make 
 Concord his home. 
 
70 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 Concord was peculiarly attractive to Emerson. Here 
 his forefathers had their home, and here, during child- 
 hood, he and his brothers had often visited the Manse, 
 and taken long tramps through the Waiden woods, over 
 Dr. Ripley's hill and Peter's field. His poem, Peter s 
 Field, describes the memories and associations which a 
 walk over this field by the Concord river recalls. 
 
 The old Manse, made famous by Hawthorne, is an 
 old-fashioned gambrel-roofed house, standing close to the 
 scene of the Concord fight, near the river. In one of 
 the rooms, Emerson wrote his book on Nature, and in 
 the same room some years later, Hawthorne wrote 
 Mosses from an Old Manse, in which is an excellent de- 
 scription of this old parsonage of the Emerson family. 
 
 Concord is a beautiful New England town. In the 
 neighborhood are fine woods, beautiful ponds, and 
 through the meadows flow quiet streams, which later 
 join the Merrimac. At a distance can be seen the sum- 
 mits of Monadnock and Wachusett. Woodnotes, Mo- 
 nadnock, Musketaquid (the latter the Indian name of 
 one of the streams), My Garden and Waiden, all voice 
 the pleasure and inspiration Emerson drew from the 
 beauties of nature which surrounded his Concord home. 
 
 Because of his contemplated marriage, Emerson de- 
 termined to leave the Manse and build a home of his 
 own. Instead, he purchased the Coolidge house, a 
 plain, square, wooden building, large and hospitable- 
 looking. A long hall divides it in the middle. On the 
 right was Emerson's library, a large, square room, 
 plainly furnished, but made pleasant by pictures and 
 sunshine. His study was a room up stairs. The house 
 
MY GARDEN 71 
 
 is on the outskirts of the village, with plenty of open 
 ground sloping to the meadow through which a brook 
 flowed. There is also a distant view of the Lincoln 
 hills. He owned a wood lot on the west shores of 
 Walden Pond. These woods were a source of great 
 pleasure to Emerson, and are the subject of both Wal- 
 den and My Garden. 
 
 If I could put my woods in song 
 And tell what 's there enjoyed, 
 AH men would to my gardens throng, 
 And leave the cities void. 
 
 In my plot no tulips blow, — 
 Snow-loving pines and oaks instead ; 
 And rank the savage maples grow 
 From Spring's faint blush to Autumn red. 
 
 My garden is a forest ledge 
 
 Which older forests bound ; 
 
 The banks slope down to the blue lake-edge, 
 
 Then plunge to depths profound. 
 
 Keen ears can catch a syllable, 
 
 As if one spake to another, 
 
 In the hemlocks tall, untamable, 
 
 And what the whispering grasses smother. 
 
 Canst thou copy in verse one chime 
 Of the wood-beirs peal and cry, 
 Write in a book the morning's prime, 
 Or match with words that tender sky ? 
 
 Wandering voices in the air 
 And murmurs in the wold 
 Speak what I cannot declare, 
 Yet cannot all withhold. 
 
 My .Garden. 
 
72 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 In September, 1835, Emerson married Miss Lydia 
 Jackson, and brought her to his Concord home. Here 
 he lived an orderly, methodical life, using his mornings 
 for his writing, taking long walks in the afternoons, 
 and devoting himself to his family in the evenings. 
 
 In the autumn of 1836, his first child, a beautiful 
 boy, was born. Waldo became his father's constant 
 companion, staying for hours in the study, playing with 
 some little toy and never interrupting his father's work. 
 He died when he was five years old. In Threnody, Em- 
 erson expresses but in part his love for this child, and 
 his great grief over his loss. 
 
 I see my empty house, 
 
 I see my trees repair their boughs ; 
 
 And he, the wondrous child, 
 
 Whose silver warble wild 
 
 Outvalued every pulsing sound 
 
 Within the air's cerulean round, — 
 
 The hyacinthine boy, for whom 
 
 Morn might well break and April bloom, — 
 
 The gracious boy, who did adorn 
 
 The world whereinto he was born, 
 
 And by his countenance repay 
 
 The favor of the loving Day, — 
 
 Has disappeared from the Day's eye ; 
 
 Far and wide she cannot find him ; 
 
 My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him. 
 
 Returned this day, the south wind searches, 
 
 And finds young pines and budding birches ; 
 
 But finds not the budding man ; 
 
 Nature, who lost, cannot remake him ; 
 
 Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him ; 
 
 Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain. 
 
HIS CHILDREN 73 
 
 Ah, vainly do these eyes recall 
 The school-march, each day's festival, 
 When every morn my bosom glowed 
 To watch the convoy on the road ; 
 The babe in willow wagon closed, 
 With rolling eyes and face composed; 
 With children forward and behind, 
 Like Cupids studiously inclined ; 
 And he, the chieftain, paced beside, 
 The center of the troop allied, 
 With sunny face of sweet repose, 
 To guard the babe from fancied foes. 
 
 Now Love and Pride, alas ! in vain, 
 
 Up and down their glances strain. 
 
 The painted sled stands where it stood ; 
 
 The kennel by the corded wood ; 
 
 His gathered sticks to stanch the wall 
 
 Of the snow-tower, when snow should fall ; 
 
 The ominous hole he dug in the sand, 
 
 And childhood's castles built or planned ; 
 
 His daily haunts I well discern, — 
 
 The poultry -yard, the shed, the barn, — 
 
 And every inch of garden ground 
 
 Paced by the blessed feet around, 
 
 From the roadside to the brook 
 
 Whereinto he loved to look. 
 
 Step the meek fowls where erst they ranged ; 
 
 The wintry garden lies unchanged ; 
 
 The brook into the stream runs on ; 
 
 But the deep -eyed boy is gone. 
 
 Threnody. 
 
 Emerson devoted much of his time to his children, 
 from their earliest infancy. He showed a deep interest 
 in their pleasures and their sorrows, in their school life 
 
74 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 and their associates, and they, in turn, treated him with 
 the same frankness as if he were one of their own age. 
 He early taught them to be self-reliant. On Sun- 
 day afternoons, he would take them on long tramps, 
 showing them pretty places, or flowers, or revealing to 
 them some secret of the woods that he had discovered 
 in his rambles during the week. His ways with chil- 
 dren were very sweet and winning. 
 
 Shortly after his return from Europe, during the 
 winter of 1833-1834, Emerson began to lecture. His 
 first lectures were upon subjects connected with natu- 
 ral science, and upon his trip to Europe. During the 
 next winter, he delivered in Boston ten lectures upon 
 English literature. He at once became a favorite. As 
 Emerson became accustomed to lecturing, he chose sub- 
 jects more to his tastes and habit of thought. His first 
 lectures were not published. 
 
 It is as lecturer and essayist that Emerson first 
 attracted general attention, and is best known and 
 remembered. His subjects are always treated in his 
 original manner, and, however old, presented in a new 
 light, with added beauty and strength. What w T as 
 purest, noblest, best in human nature interested and 
 occupied his thoughts. Truth and beauty and virtue 
 were one to him, and nature was the expression and 
 indication of it. He was like his Humble-Bee, 
 
 " Seeing only what is fair, 
 Sipping only what is sweet, 
 Thon dost mock at fate and care, 
 Leave the chaff, and take the wheat." 
 
76 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 What Emerson said of another, " He was not a citi- 
 zen of any country, he belonged to the human race," 
 may well be said of him. His purpose was to raise the 
 idea of man, and he inspired others, making life purer, 
 sweeter, nobler and brighter. His deep and sweet 
 humanity won him love everywhere. 
 
 In giving up the ministry for a doubt, Emerson sac- 
 rificed a life of comparative ease, his position, and his 
 intimates, and began a life of hard, trying work, with 
 always uncertain and poor pay. For forty years he 
 lectured and published lectures. He spoke in great 
 cities and gathered about him the most cultivated audi- 
 ences. He spoke in small towns and villages, and 
 though his hearers lacked much in the way of educa- 
 tion, he made himself understood. Wherever he ap- 
 peared, he fascinated the people with his charm of 
 voice and manner. He early won the admiration of 
 the ablest thinkers and scholars of Europe. 
 
 Emerson's lectures later developed into essays, unfor- 
 tunately retaining many of the faults of form due to 
 the demands of a lecture room. When the best of 
 one's thoughts is to be crowded into an hour's talk, and 
 presented in a vivid, attractive manner, short sen- 
 tences, abrupt changes, and unfinished thoughts will 
 appear. His choice of subjects was very large, reach- 
 ing from the highest spiritual truths down to the most 
 ordinary affairs of life. 
 
 Nature, a book of about one hundred pages, which 
 was published in 1836, was the first real indication of 
 Emerson's genius. The book did not obtain many 
 readers, for it took twelve years to sell five hundred 
 
ESSAYS 77 
 
 copies. It is a very beautiful essay, in which Emerson 
 expresses, for the first time, the feelings which the vari- 
 ous aspects of nature awakened in him. It is noble 
 and inspiring, full of elevated thought, and showing 
 both spiritual and poetic beauty. 
 
 The American Scholar is another remarkable essay, 
 which was delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, 
 iii Cambridge, August, 1837. This oration was listened 
 to with the deepest interest. In it are expressed all of 
 Emerson's leading ideas. In fact, in these two dis- 
 courses will be found all the principles of his moral 
 teachings. He believed in culture, in self-reliance, in 
 the divine in man and nature, and in the need of high 
 ideals. 
 
 Emerson's first volume of collected essays appeared 
 in 1841, and his second collection in 1844. 
 
 Having been invited to lecture in England, Emerson 
 made his second visit to Europe in October, 1847. A 
 number of these lectures were published in 1850, under 
 the title of Representative Men. Conduct of Life ap- 
 peared in 1860, and Society and Solitude in 1870. 
 
 Emerson was from the beginning in sympathy with 
 the anti-slavery movement. As early as 1837, he deliv- 
 ered an address upon slavery, in which he advocated 
 free speech in church and lecture room. He found 
 great difficulty in getting a place to deliver this lecture, 
 but finally the Second Church in Boston permitted him 
 to use the vestry room. In 1850, he gave lectures for 
 the anti-slavery parties of both Boston and New York. 
 He was never in the front rank of the anti-slavery 
 party, for at the beginning of the movement, his idea 
 
78 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 of freeing the slave was quite different from that of the 
 abolitionist. His address upon the Emancipation Proc- 
 lamation, delivered in 1862, is noble and inspiring. In 
 the volume of Miscellanies, there are several essays 
 upon war and slavery. Though never indulging in 
 personal criticism, his censure of Webster's false leader- 
 ship was most severe. His address delivered in Con- 
 cord, April, 1865, in memory of Abraham Lincoln, is a 
 noble tribute to, and a remarkably fine portrait of, the 
 President. The Boston Hymn and Voluntaries, both 
 published in 1863, rank among the best poems on the 
 subject of slavery. 
 
 Much of Emerson's prose is poetical in thought and 
 spirit, and in his poems we frequently find, in merely 
 the poetic form, the same feeling or thought that we 
 have already enjoyed in his prose. Emerson had no ear 
 for music, and though a born poet, he was not a born 
 singer, for his verses show a lack of the nice harmonies 
 of words and the music of rhyme and rhythm. His best 
 lines flow with a careless ease, but with the strength 
 and rush at times of a mountain torrent. 
 
 Emerson wrote his poems solely for the pleasure it 
 afforded him, and many were not published until sev- 
 eral years after they were written. He wrote in a let- 
 ter to a friend, that, judging from his old manuscripts, 
 he had an annual desire to write poetry. The Humble- 
 Bee was published in 1838, The Rhodora and Good-Bye 
 in 1839. The latter was written sixteen years before. 
 
 Each and All, The Snow- Storm and The Humble-Bee 
 are among his first poems, and are exquisite outbursts 
 of song. 
 
EARLIER POEMS 79 
 
 Burly, dozing humble-bee, 
 Where thou art is clime for me. 
 Let them sail for Porto Bique, 
 Far-off heats through seas to seek; 
 I will follow thee alone, 
 Thou animated torrid zone ! 
 Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, 
 Let me chase thy waving lines ; 
 Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
 Singing over shrubs and vines. 
 
 Hot midsummer's petted crone, 
 Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
 Tells of countless sunny hours, 
 Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; 
 Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
 In Indian wildernesses found. 
 
 Wiser far than human seer, 
 Yellow-breeched philosopher ! 
 Seeing only what is fair, 
 Sipping only what is sweet, 
 Thou dost mock at fate and care, 
 Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. 
 
 The Humble-Bee. 
 
 Many of Emerson's earlier poems appeared in The 
 Dial, a magazine established in 1840, of which he was 
 for a time the editor. Among these were The Prob- 
 lem and Woodnotes, two of his best and most familiar 
 poems. 
 
 When the pine tosses its cones 
 To the song of its waterfall tones, 
 Who speeds to the woodland walks ? 
 To the birds and trees who talks ? 
 
80 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 Ccesar of his leafy Rome, 
 There the poet is at home. 
 He goes to the river-side, — 
 Not hook nor line hath he ; 
 He stands in the meadows wide, — 
 Nor gun nor scythe to see. 
 Sure some god his eye enchants : 
 What he knows nobody wants. 
 In the wood he travels glad, 
 Without better fortune had, 
 Melancholy without bad. 
 Knowledge this man prizes best 
 Seems fantastic to the rest : 
 Pondering shadows, colors, clouds, 
 Grass-buds and caterpillar-shrouds, 
 Boughs on which the wild bees settle, 
 Tints that spot the violet's petal, 
 Why Nature loves the number five, 
 And why the star-form she repeats : 
 Lover of all things alive, 
 Wonderer at all he meets, 
 Wonderer chiefly at himself, 
 Who can tell him what he is ? 
 Or how meet in human elf 
 Coming and past eternities? 
 
 Come learn with me the fatal song 
 Which knits the world in music strong, 
 Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes, 
 Of things with things, of times with times, 
 Primal chimes of sun and shade, 
 Of sound and echo, man and maid, 
 The land reflected in the flood, 
 Body with shadow still pursued. 
 For Nature beats in perfect tune, 
 And rounds with rhyme her every rune, 
 
THE PROBLEM 81 
 
 Whether she work in land or sea, 
 
 Or hide underground her alchemy. 
 
 Thou canst not wave thy staff in air, 
 
 Or dip thy paddle in the lake, 
 
 But it carves the bow of beauty there, 
 
 And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake. 
 
 The wood is wiser far than thou ; 
 
 The wood and wave each other know 
 
 Not unrelated, unaffied, 
 
 But to each thought and thing allied, 
 
 Is perfect Nature's every part, 
 
 Rooted in the mighty Heart. 
 
 Woodnoies. 
 
 I like a church ; I like a cowl ; 
 
 I love a prophet of the soul ; 
 
 And on my heart monastic aisles 
 
 Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles : 
 
 Yet not for all his faith can see 
 
 Would I that cowled churchman be. 
 
 Why should the vest on him allure, 
 
 Which I could not on me endure ? 
 
 Not from a vain or shallow thought 
 
 His awful Jove young Phidias brought ; 
 
 Never from lips of cunning fell 
 
 The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 
 
 Out from the heart of nature rolled 
 
 The burdens of the Bible old ; 
 
 The litanies of nations came, 
 
 Like the volcano's tongue of flame, 
 
 Up from the burning core below, — 
 
 The canticles of love and woe : 
 
 The hand that rounded Peter's dome 
 
 And groined the aisles of Christian Rome 
 
 Wrought in a sad sincerity ; 
 
82 RALPH AVALDO EMERSON 
 
 Himself from God lie eould not free ; 
 He builded better than he knew ; — 
 The conscious stone to beauty grew. 
 
 Know^st thou what wove yon woodbinVs nest 
 Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? 
 Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, 
 Painting with morn each annual cell ? 
 Or how the sacred pine tree adds 
 To her old leaves new myriads ? 
 Such and so grew these holy piles, 
 Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 
 
 The Problem. 
 
 A number of Emerson's poems were published in The 
 Atlantic Monthly. In 1846, appeared his first volume of 
 poems, several of which had been published long before. 
 They were merely collected and put in book form. 
 A second volume was published in 1867, under the 
 title of May-Day and Other Poems. 
 
 Many of Emerson's poems are remarkable for the 
 beauty of their descriptive portions. The Concord 
 Hymn, written in 1836-, and sung at the unveiling of 
 the Concord monument, erected in honor of the minute- 
 men of the Revolution, is a poem that is almost fault- 
 less. It is compact, expressive, solemn, musical. 
 Threnody, written in memory of his first boy, compares 
 well with the finest memorial poems in our language. 
 
 Terminus, published in 1867, was the first sign Em- 
 erson gave that he felt he was growing old. 
 
 Parnassus was published in 1874. It was a collec- 
 tion of poems by British and American authors. This 
 work was the result of a life habit of copying into a 
 
■ 
 
84 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 note-book any poem that pleased him. Many of them 
 had been used to illustrate his lectures. 
 
 Emerson has written, " The great poets are judged 
 by the frame of mind they induce." If this be the test, 
 then he is one of the great poets, for his poems lift the 
 reader into a higher region of thought and feeling. 
 " The greatest poet is not he who has done the best; it 
 is he who suggests the most; he, not all of whose 
 meaning is at first obvious, and who leaves you much 
 to desire, to explain, to study ; much to complete in 
 your turn." 
 
 In July, 1872, the upper portion of Emerson's house 
 and many valuable papers were destroyed by tire. The 
 shock hastened the loss of his memory, which had 
 already begun to fail him. After the fire, he again 
 worked for awhile in the old Manse. 
 
 In October, Emerson made a third trip to Europe, 
 taking with him his daughter Ellen. While he was 
 absent, his loving friends in Concord rebuilt his house. 
 When the Ernersons returned in May, 1873, his friends 
 met him and drove him to his restored home, much to 
 his surprise and grateful pleasure. 
 
 The decline of Emerson's faculties was gradual and 
 gentle. It was " the twilight of a long bright day." 
 The end of his working life was really in 1867, for after 
 that much of his work was the collecting and arranging 
 of manuscripts, and preparing them for publication. 
 His daughter Ellen was his ever faithful and watchful 
 companion. She assisted him in his work with his 
 manuscripts, and aided the failing memory, supplying 
 the word almost before its need was felt, beino- often 
 
DEATH 
 
 85 
 
 " the echo before the voice." With her help and sup- 
 port, Emerson was able, in these last years, to occasion- 
 ally read a paper before a small audience. 
 
 emerson's grave 
 
 In April, 1882, Emerson took a severe cold, which 
 developed into pneumonia. After a few days' illness, 
 he died, April 27, 1882. He lies at rest in the Sleepy 
 Hollow Cemetery in Concord. A great pine stands at 
 the head of the grave, and a huge, unhewn block of 
 pink granite is his monument. Not far away lies Haw- 
 thorne, and near him, Thoreau. 
 
86 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 As sunbeams stream through liberal space 
 And nothing jostle or displace, 
 So waved the pine tree through my thought 
 And fanned the dreams it never brought. 
 
 . . . Nature ever faithful is 
 
 To such as trust her faithfulness. 
 
 When the forest shall mislead me, 
 
 When the night and morning lie, 
 
 When sea and land refuse to feed me, 
 
 'T will be time enough to die; 
 
 Then will yet my mother yield 
 
 A pillow in her greenest field, 
 
 Nor the June flowers scorn to cover 
 
 The clay of their departed lover. 
 
 Wbodnoles. 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 1809-1849 
 
From childhood's hour I have not been 
 As others were — I have not seen 
 As others saw — I could not bring 
 My passions from a common spring — 
 From the same source I have not taken 
 My sorrow — I could not awaken 
 My heart to joy at the same tone — 
 And all I loved — I loved alone. 
 
 Alone. 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Know thou the secret of a spirit 
 Bowed from its wild pride into shame. 
 
 yearning heart ! I did inherit 
 Thy withering portion with the fame, 
 
 The searing glory which hath shone 
 
 Amid the Jewels of my throne, 
 
 O craving heart, for the lost flowers 
 And sunshine of my summer hours ! 
 The undying voice of that dead time, 
 With its interminable chime, 
 Rings, in the spirit of a spell, 
 Upon thy emptiness — a knell. 
 
 Tamerlane. 
 
 Most of our great poets have pictured, in the lan- 
 guage of verse, the beautiful scenes of nature, the 
 charming visions of the imagination, and have ex- 
 pressed the ennobling thoughts of the mind, the inspira- 
 tion of love and hope. No matter how hard their lot 
 I had been, how bitter their experience, they were able 
 to look beyond their daily suffering and see the beau- 
 ties of life through the eyes of hope ; or, looking back- 
 ward, draw from the memory of happier days and write 
 the poems which have lightened the burdens of so 
 many fellow sufferers — the poems so full of hope, of 
 love, of faith. Little of this, however, is to be found 
 in the works of Poe. True, hardly one of our other 
 
 91 
 
92 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 poets experienced such bitter and such constant unhap- 
 piness as he did. A nature so sensitive that the 
 slightest touch of sorrow or reverse caused him to 
 shrink like the sensitive plant, was bound to be bruised 
 and buffeted almost beyond bearing when brought in 
 contact with the roughness of life. A proud spirit, 
 driven by poverty to the seclusion of his own thoughts 
 and feelings, he had no intimate friends, and loved 
 only two people in the world, his child-wife, Virginia, 
 and her mother, Mrs. Clemm. All his works, both 
 prose and poetry, with but few exceptions, are filled 
 with the bitterness of his own life, made doubly un- 
 happy by his morbid imagination which, under happier 
 circumstances, might have shown him brighter things. 
 His poems are fraught with melancholy and despair, 
 and his stories are filled with the gloom and horror of 
 his distorted imagination. 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, January 19, 
 1809. At the time his parents were members of a the- 
 atrical company playing at the Federal Street Theatre. 
 His grandfather, General David Poe, was born in Ireland, 
 and was a descendant of an ancient and highly-con- 
 nected family. He was brought to America at a very 
 early age, and afterwards distinguished himself in the 
 Revolution as a patriotic American. His son, David, 
 the father of the poet, studied law with his uncle 
 in Georgia, where he had gone for this purpose, but 
 seems to have been more interested in the theater, to 
 which he devoted much of the time that should have 
 been given to study. 
 
 In 1802, in consequence of his frequent visits to the 
 
PARENTS 93 
 
 theater, he met and fell in love with Elizabeth Arnold, 
 a yonthful member of a company then playing in Bal- 
 timore. The love, however, does not appear to have 
 been mutual, at least at this time, for Miss Arnold was 
 married, shortly afterward, to another member of the 
 company, C. D. Hopkins, a very popular comedian. 
 Elizabeth Arnold was the daughter of an English 
 actress of considerable popularity, who first came to 
 America in 1796 with her daughter, then a girl of 
 about sixteen. 
 
 In the fall of 1804, David Poe abandoned altogether 
 his half-hearted efforts to become a lawyer and joined 
 the same company to which Miss Arnold (or, as she 
 was in private life, Mrs. Hopkins) belonged. He 
 never became a popular actor, his love for the stage 
 being greater than his ability. In October, 1805, Mr. 
 Hopkins died, and in January of the following year, his 
 widow and David Poe, still a member of the company, 
 were married. They remained in Virginia until May, 
 and during the next few months gradually journeyed 
 northward, playing in various cities on the way, and 
 arrived in Boston in October. 
 
 Here they remained for three years, filling their pro- 
 fessional engagements. From newspaper criticisms, the 
 only existing record of the Poes' professional career, 
 it would appear that Mrs. Poe was by far the more tal- 
 ented of the two. She was small and rather pretty, a 
 conscientious worker and a singer of considerable abil- 
 ity. Her husband, on the contrary, never reached any 
 eminence in his profession. Their first child, William 
 Henry Leonard, was born in 1807. In 1809, their 
 
94 EDGAR ALLAK POE 
 
 second child, Edgar, was born in Boston. On the back 
 of a picture of "Boston Harbour: Morning, 1808," 
 painted by his mother, are the words, " For my little 
 son Edgar, who should ever love Boston, the place of 
 his birth, and where his mother found her best and 
 most sympathetic friends.'" The third child, Rosalie, 
 was born in Richmond, Virginia, in 1811, some months 
 after the death of David Poe from consumption. 
 
 The family, which for some time had been in more or 
 less straitened circumstances, was now in a destitute 
 condition. Mrs. Poe's own health was failing fast, and 
 on Sunday, December 8, 1811, she died, leaving her 
 fatherless children alone in the world. William, the 
 eldest, was cared for by his father's friends in Balti- 
 more. Edgar was adopted by Mrs. Allan of Richmond, 
 a young woman of twenty-five who had no children of 
 her own. Rosalie was adopted by a Scotch woman, 
 Mrs. McKenzie, a friend of the Allans. 
 
 Edgar Poe was now, for some years, to be known as 
 Edgar Allan. It was with some reluctance that Mr. 
 Allan admitted the orphan son of the poor actors to his 
 home, and then only to please his wife. But the natu- 
 rally affectionate nature of the little Edgar, and his 
 unusual brightness soon made him the pet of the house- 
 hold, and an object of pride, if not of very deep love, 
 on the part of his foster father. 
 
 Mr. Allan was a native of Ayrshire, Scotland, and 
 had emigrated to the United States, and settled in 
 Virginia, where he made considerable money by the 
 purchase and export of tobacco. His adopted son en- 
 joyed all the luxuries that wealth could buy, and all 
 
CHILDHOOD 95 
 
 the love a childless wife could bestow. At the age of 
 six, he could read, draw and dance, and could recite 
 many fine passages of English poetry in a pleasing 
 manner, an accomplishment very naturally inherited 
 from his mother and father. He was allowed to have 
 his own way in almost everything, and to this indul- 
 gence was undoubtedly due much of his future unhap- 
 piness. He wrote in later years, " I am the descendant 
 of a race whose imaginative and easily excitable tem- 
 perament has at all times rendered them remarkable ; 
 and in my earliest infancy I gave evidence of having 
 fully inherited the family character. As I advanced in 
 years it was more strongly developed, becoming, for 
 many reasons, a cause of serious disquietude to my 
 friends, and of positive injury to myself. . . . My 
 voice was a household law, and at an age when few 
 children have abandoned their leading-strings, I was left 
 to the guidance of my own will, and became, in all but 
 name, the master of my own actions." 
 
 Poe received his early education at a private school 
 in Richmond. He spent the three summers following 
 his mother's death with the Allans at the White Sul- 
 phur Springs, then the fashionable southern resort. 
 Here he rode his pony or romped with his dogs. He 
 was a handsome boy, prettily dressed, who was indulged 
 in public as a general favorite and petted at home as 
 an only child. 
 
 In June, 1815, Mr. Allan sailed for England, accom- 
 panied by his wife, her sister and Edgar, then six years 
 old. Shortly after their arrival he was placed in the 
 Manor House School at Stoke-Newington, a suburb of 
 
96 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 London. Sometimes he would go to the Allan's house 
 in London on Friday and stay till Monday morning, 
 when he would return to school. Here, during the 
 five years of his stay, he was instructed in the rudi- 
 mentary branches of education, and studied French and 
 Latin, and became " far better acquainted with history 
 and literature than many boys of a more advanced age, 
 who had had greater advantages than he had." 
 
 His life at Stoke-Ne wing ton made a very deep im- 
 pression on his young mind. Not only the loneliness 
 and gloom of the house itself, but the many historic 
 associations of the neighborhood, left a lasting image on 
 his over-sensitive imagination. In his story of William 
 Wilson, written in later } T ears, which is largely autobio- 
 graphic, he describes his surroundings and companions 
 during these five years at school. 
 
 The house was old and irregular. " The grounds were ex- 
 tensive, and a high and solid brick wall, topped with a bed of 
 mortar and broken glass, encompassed the whole. This prison- 
 like rampart formed the limit of our domain ; be} T ond it we saw 
 but thrice a week — once every Saturday afternoon, when, 
 attended by two ushers, we were permitted to take brief walks 
 in a body through some of the neighboring fields — and twice 
 during Sunday, when we were paraded in the same formal man- 
 ner to the morning and evening service in the one church of the 
 village. Of this church the principal of our school was pastor. 
 With how deep a spirit of wonder and perplexity was I wont to 
 regard him from our remote pew in the gallery, as, with step 
 solemn and slow, he ascended the pulpit! This reverend man, 
 with countenance so demurely benign, with robes so glossy and 
 so clerically flowing, with wig so minutely powdered, so rigid 
 and so vast, — could this be lie who, of late, with sour visage, 
 and in snuffy habiliments, administered, ferule in hand, the 
 
STOKE-NEW1NGTON 97 
 
 Draconian laws of the academy? Oh, gigantic paradox, too 
 utterly monstrous for solution ! 
 
 " At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a more ponder- 
 ous gate. It was riveted and studded with iron bolts, and sur- 
 mounted with jagged iron spikes. What impressions of deep 
 awe did it inspire ! It was never opened save for the three peri- 
 odical egressions and ingressions already mentioned ; then, in 
 every creak of its mighty hinges, we found a plentitude of mys- 
 tery — a world of matter for solemn remark, or for more solemn 
 meditation. 
 
 "The extensive enclosure was irregular in form, having 
 many capacious recesses. Of these, three or four of the largest 
 constituted the playground. It was level, and covered with line 
 hard gravel. I well remember it had no trees, nor benches, 
 nor anything similar within it. Of course it was in the rear of 
 the house. In front lay a small parterre, planted with box and 
 other shrubs ; but through this sacred division we passed only 
 upon rare occasions indeed — such as a first advent to school or 
 final departure thence; or perhaps, when a parent or friend 
 having called for us, we joyfully took our way home for Christ- 
 mas or Midsummer holidays. 
 
 "But the house! — how quaint an old building was this! — 
 to me how veritably a palace of enchantment ! There was 
 really no end to its windings — to its incomprehensible subdi- 
 visions. It was difficult, at any given time, to say with certainty 
 upon which of its two stories one happened to be. From each 
 room to every other there were sure to be found three or four 
 steps either in ascent or descent. Then the lateral branches 
 were innumerable — inconceivable — and so returning in upon 
 themselves, that onr most exact ideas in regard to the whole 
 mansion were not very far different from those with which we 
 pondered upon infinity. During the five years of my residence 
 here, I was never able to ascertain, with precision, in what 
 remote locality lay the little sleeping apartment assigned to 
 myself and some eighteen or twenty other scholars. 
 
 " The schoolroom was the largest in the house — I could not 
 help thinking, in the world. It was very long, narrow, and 
 
98 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 dismally low, with pointed Gothic windows and a ceiling of oak. 
 In a remote and terror-inspiring angle was a square enclosure 
 of eight or ten feet, comprising the sanctum, 'during hours,' 
 of our principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby. It was a solid 
 structure, with massy door, sooner than open which, in the 
 absence of the ' Dominie, 1 we would all have willingly per- 
 ished by the peine forte et dure. In other angles were two 
 other similar boxes, far less reverenced, indeed, but still greatly 
 matters of awe. One of these was the pulpit of the ' classical 1 
 usher, one of the 'English and mathematical. 1 Interspersed 
 about the room, crossing and recrossing in endless irregularity, 
 were innumerable benches and desks, black, ancient, and time- 
 worn, piled desperately with much-be-thumbed books, and so 
 beseamed with initial letters, names at full length, grotesque 
 figures, and other multiplied efforts of the knife, as to have 
 entirely lost what little of original form might have been their 
 portion in days long departed. A huge bucket with water stood 
 at one extremity of the room, and a clock of stupendous dimen- 
 sions at the other. 11 
 
 At this period of his life when, more than at any 
 other time perhaps, he should have been under the in- 
 fluence of a mother's love and a genial home life, Poe 
 was left very largely to himself. This undoubtedly in- 
 creased his natural reserve which helped to isolate him 
 from his fellow-men in after years. 
 
 In June, 1820, he left the old school at Stoke-New- 
 ington, and returned with the Allans to America, where 
 they arrived on the second of August. The next few 
 months were spent in what he terms " mere idleness," 
 but during this time he wrote many verses and planned 
 for future poems. In fact, much of the contents of his 
 first published volume was written during this period, 
 while he was not yet fifteen years old. 
 
BOYHOOD 99 
 
 The second year after his return from England, Poe 
 was sent to a preparatory academy in Richmond, Vir- 
 ginia, kept by John Clarke, a fiery, pompous Irishman 
 from Trinity College, Dublin. At this academy Poe, 
 who had now resumed his own name, and was known 
 as Edgar Allan Poe, continued the studies begun in 
 England. In many of these he stood first, although as a 
 scholar he was more brilliant than studious. Much of 
 his learning was superficial, but his genius supplied any 
 shortcomings of an education which was never very 
 profound. A good deal of his time, both in and out of 
 school, was devoted to writing verses, some of which 
 were afterward published either in their original form 
 or rewritten. 
 
 In athletic sports, he easily took the lead. The fact, 
 however, that his parents had been actors prevented the 
 ready acceptance by his aristocratic schoolmates of his 
 leadership, which, under other circumstances, would 
 have been willingly granted. His companions, sons of 
 prominent Southern families, were inclined to look 
 down upon an adopted son, dependent upon the gener- 
 osity of a foster father. This attitude of his school- 
 mates was the cause of most bitter, though proudly 
 silent, resentment on the part of Poe, who was then 
 and always one whose 
 
 "Soul . . . will still 
 Find pride the ruler of its will. 1 ' 
 
 Some reminiscences of his fellow students will be in- 
 teresting as showing the impression he made on those 
 about him at this time : 
 
 LofC. 
 
100 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 " In the simple school athletics of those days, when a gymna- 
 sium had not been heard of, he was facile princeps (easily first) . 
 He was a swift runner, a wonderful leaper, and what was more 
 rare, a boxer, with some slight training. I remember, too, that 
 he would allow the strongest boy in the school to strike him with 
 full force in the chest. He taught me the secret, and I imitated 
 him, after my measure. It was to innate the lungs to the utter- 
 most, and at the moment of receiving the blow to exhale the air. 
 It looked surprising, and was, indeed, a little rough ; but with a 
 good breast bone, and some resolution, it was not difficult to 
 stand it. For swimming he was noted, being in many of his 
 athletic proclivities surprisingly like Byron in his youth. There 
 was no one among the schoolboys who would so dare in the 
 midst of the rapids of the James River.' 1 . . . 
 
 " Poe, as I recall my impressions now, was self-willed, ca- 
 pricious, inclined to be imperious, and though of generous im- 
 pulses, not steadily kind, or even amiable; and so what he would 
 exact was refused to him. I add another thing which had its 
 influence, I am sure. 
 
 " At the time of which I speak, Richmond was one of the most 
 aristocratic cities on this side the Atlantic. I hasten to say that 
 this is not so now. Aristocracy has fallen into desuetude : times 
 having changed, other things pay better. Richmond was cer- 
 tainly then very English, and very aristocratic. A school is, of its 
 nature, democratic ; but still boys will unconsciously bear about 
 them the odor of their fathers' notions, good or bad. Of Edgar 
 Poe it was known that his parents had been players, and that he 
 was dependent upon the bounty that is bestowed upon an adopted 
 son. All this had the effect of making the boys decline his lead- 
 ership ; and on looking back on it since, I fancy it gave him a 
 fierceness he would otherwise not have had. . . . ,1 
 
 The great English poet, Byron, was in his clay quite 
 an athlete and swimmer. He swam the Hellespont, an 
 exploit which became famous. Poe, like Byron, was a 
 great swimmer. Speaking of one of his own most fa- 
 mous feats he says, 
 
ATHLETIC TASTES 101 
 
 " Any * swimmer in the falls ' in my days would have swum 
 the Hellespont, and thought nothing of the matter. I swam 
 from Ludlam's Wharf to Warwick (six miles), in a hot June 
 sun, against, one of the strongest tides ever known in the river. 
 It would have been a feat comparatively easy to swim twenty 
 miles in still water." 
 
 According to one of the eye witnesses, « Poe did not 
 seem at all fatigued, and walked back to Richmond im- 
 mediately after the feat," although his face, neck and 
 back were considerably blistered. 
 
 Another daring, if foolhardy, deed was performed in 
 midwinter. Poe and a companion entered the almost 
 frozen waters of the James river, and succeeded in 
 reaching the piles upon which a bridge was built. 
 Nearly exhausted, they were anxious to climb up to 
 the bridge above, and thus gain the shore, but upon 
 reaching the flooring of the bridge, they found to their 
 dismay that it extended so far beyond the foundation 
 that it was impossible to climb further. Nothing re- 
 mained for them to do but to descend, and again enter 
 the icy water and return as they had come. This they 
 did, Poe reaching the shore in an exhausted condition. 
 His companion, about to succumb, was rescued by 
 friends in a boat. Both boys were ill for several weeks. 
 One of his school fellows writes, 
 
 " At that time Poe was slight in person and figure, but well 
 made, active, sinewy and graceful. In athletic exercises he 
 was foremost. Especially, he was the . best, the most daring, 
 and most enduring swimmer that I ever saw in the water. . . . 
 His disposition was amiable, and his manners pleasant and 
 courteous.'" 
 
102 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 During this period of his life, Poe's boyish heart hun- 
 gered for affection, a hunger which does not appear to 
 have been satisfied at home. Mr. Allan never seems to 
 have had any very deep affection for his adopted son, 
 and, while Mrs. Allan was undoubtedly devoted to him, 
 he could not, in consequence of his studies, spend much 
 time at home. In the absence of human love, Poe often 
 lavished his affection upon dumb animals. Describ- 
 ing a character in one of his later stories, The Black 
 Cat, in words which are decidedly autobiographic, he 
 writes, 
 
 " From my infancy, I was noted for the docility and human- 
 ity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so 
 conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was 
 especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents 
 with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my 
 time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing 
 them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and 
 in my manhood I derived from it one of my principal sources of 
 pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faith- 
 ful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of ex- 
 plaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus 
 derivable. There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrifi- 
 cing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who 
 has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossa- 
 mer fidelity of mere man." 
 
 To those, however, who appealed to his sensitive 
 nature through his affections, he gave a love almost 
 idolatrous. While at the Academy in Richmond, one 
 of his schoolmates invited Poe to his home, where he 
 met his young friend's mother, Mrs. Stannard. This 
 lady, lovely, gentle and gracious, spoke to the lonely 
 
TO HELEN 103 
 
 boy with some unusual tenderness which kindled within 
 him, as he says " the first purely ideal love of his soul." 
 The tone, more than the words, affected him deeply, 
 almost depriving him of the power of speech. He re- 
 turned home as one in a dream, his one desire being 
 to hear her voice again. This lady became the friend 
 and confidant of his youth, and it was one of the 
 many misfortunes that " followed fast and followed 
 faster" in the unhappy life of the poet, that she died 
 at the age of thirty-one, April 28, 1824. For a long- 
 while he haunted her grave by night, inconsolable for 
 the loss of this friend and counselor. The influence 
 of her character was felt by him for many years after 
 her death. The beautiful poem, To Helen, written in 
 manhood, was addressed to her. 
 
 And thou 
 
 Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. 
 They would not go — they never yet have gone. 
 Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, 
 They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. 
 They follow me — they lead me through the years. 
 They are my ministers — yet I their slave. 
 Their office is to illumine and enkindle — 
 My duty, to be saved by their bright light, 
 And purified in their electric fire, 
 And sanctified in their elysian fire. 
 They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope), 
 And are far up in Heaven — the stars I kneel to 
 In the sad, silent watches of my night; 
 While even iu the meridian glare of day 
 I see them still — two sweetly scintillant 
 Venuses, unextinguished by the sun ! 
 
 To Helen. 
 
104 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 A Pcean, written shortly after her death, was also 
 doubtless inspired by this sad event. This poem was 
 afterwards rewritten and greatly improved, and repub- 
 lished under the name Lenore. 
 
 How shall the burial rite be read ? 
 
 The solemn song be sung ? 
 The requiem for the loveliest dead, 
 
 That ever died so young ? 
 
 Her friends are gazing on her, 
 
 And on her gaudy bier, 
 And weep ! — oh ! to dishonor 
 
 Dead beauty with a tear ! 
 
 Thou diedst in thy life's June — 
 
 But thou didst not die too fair : 
 Thou didst not die too soon, 
 
 Nor with too calm an air. 
 
 From more than friends on earth, 
 
 Thy life and love are riven, 
 To join the untainted mirth 
 
 Of more than thrones in heaven. — 
 
 Therefore, to thee this night 
 
 I will no requiem raise, 
 But waft thee on thy flight, 
 
 With a Paean of old days. 
 
 A Fee an. 
 
 Poe remained at the Academy in Richmond about 
 three years, leaving in March, 1825. The master had 
 changed during his attendance, William Burke taking 
 charge of the Academy in the fall of 1823. 
 
COLLEGE LIFE 105 
 
 During the following year, Poe prepared for college 
 with the aid of private instruction, and on February 14, 
 1826, entered the University of Virginia, which was 
 founded by President Jefferson. Poe was now seven- 
 teen years of age, rather short and thick set, with the 
 rapid, jerky gait of an English boy. His natural shy- 
 ness had become a fixed reserve, and his face, framed 
 by dark curly hair, was grave and melancholy, the re- 
 sult of reverie, rather than actual sadness. He writes 
 in A Dream within a Dream, 
 
 You are not wrong, who deem 
 That my life has been a dream. 
 
 All that we see or seem 
 Is a dream within a dream. 
 
 His life at the University differed little in daily de- 
 tail from that of his comrades, who divided their time 
 between the recitation room, the punch bowl, the card 
 table, athletic sports and walking. He was a member 
 pi the classes in Latin and Greek, French, Spanish and 
 Italian, but never acquired a thorough critical knowledge 
 of these languages. Judged by the standards of the 
 time and place, Poe's habits gave occasion for no unfa- 
 vorable remarks. If he drank and gambled, he was not 
 alone, for it was the almost universal practice. During 
 the term, Mr. Allan went to Charlottesville to inquire 
 personally into the state of his son's affairs. He paid 
 all of his debts that he considered just, but refused to 
 honor his losses at cards, amounting to about twenty- 
 five hundred dollars. At the close of the session, 
 
FIRST VOLUME OF POEMS 107 
 
 December 15, 1826, Poe came home with the highest 
 honors in Latin and French. Mr. Allan, however, did 
 not allow him to return to the University, but placed 
 him in his own counting-room. The drudgery of busi- 
 ness life, however, Poe could not tolerate. He left Mr. 
 Allan's home to seek his fortune in the world. 
 
 He made his way to Boston, taking with him the 
 manuscripts of his early poems. He persuaded a young 
 Boston printer, just starting in business, to publish his 
 first volume of verses, which appeared in the spring of 
 1827. On the title page was the following inscription : 
 
 TAMERLANE, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY A BOSTONIAN. 
 
 " Young heads are giddy, and young hearts are warm, 
 And make mistakes for manhood to reform." — Cowper. 
 
 BOSTON : CALVIN S. THOMAS. 
 
 1827. 
 
 The greater part of these first poems, as Poe writes 
 in the preface to the volume, " were written in the year 
 1821-22, when the author had not completed his four- 
 teenth year." But it is probable that they were much 
 improved, and some of them rewritten, between this date 
 and their final publication, five years later. Tamerlane, 
 the longest poem in the volume, contained many fine 
 passages, and among the nine shorter poems that fol- 
 lowed were some which, while by no means equal to 
 Poe's later work, show promise of his budding genius, 
 and have been retained in the later editions of his 
 
108 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 works. Tamerlane was afterward entirely rewritten, 
 and it is in this altered form that it now appears. The 
 following passage, referring to the hero of the poem, 
 may well apply to Poe's own feelings and hopes at that 
 time: 
 
 I was ambitious. Have you known 
 The passion, father? You have not? 
 
 A cottager, I mark'd a throne 
 
 Of half the world as all my own, 
 And murmured at such lowly lot. 
 
 The sale of this first volume was very small, and 
 added nothing to Poe's income and little to his fame. 
 In a few months he found himself without resources, 
 friends or means of support. He could not expect 
 assistance from his foster father with whom he had 
 quarreled, even if his pride would allow him to ask for 
 it. In this extremity, he enlisted, May 26, 1827, in 
 the United States Army as a private, under the name 
 of Edgar A. Perry. 
 
 He was assigned to Battery H, of the First Artillery, 
 then stationed at Fort Independence, Boston Harbor. 
 On October 31, the battery was ordered, to Charleston, 
 South Carolina, and one year later transferred to Fort- 
 ress Monroe, Virginia. 
 
 Poe performed his duties, as company clerk and 
 assistant in the commissariat department, to the satis- 
 faction of his superior officers. On January 1, 1829, 
 he was appointed Sergeant-Major, a promotion never 
 made except for merit. 
 
 For two years after leaving Richmond, Poe did not 
 communicate with the Allans, and it was not until 
 
A WEST POINT CADET 109 
 
 some time after reaching Fortress Monroe that he made 
 his situation known to Mr. Allan, his purpose being to 
 secure an appointment as caclet at West Point. It is 
 probable that this was the result of the advice of his 
 officers, who had become acquainted with his ability 
 and education, and who knew that the only way to fur- 
 ther advancement in the army was through West Point. 
 It was not, however, until after his wife's death, that 
 Mr. Allan took any steps in the matter. Mrs. Allan 
 died February 28, 1829, and it is likely that it was in 
 consequence of a dying request that Poe was sent for 
 by Mr. Allan. He arrived in Richmond a few days 
 later, too late, however, to see his foster mother. 
 
 I reached my home — my home no more ; 
 
 For all had flown who made it so. 
 I pass'd from out its mossy door, 
 
 And, though my tread was soft and low, 
 A voice came from the threshold stone 
 Of one whom I had earlier known. . . . 
 
 Tamerlane. 
 
 Mr. Allan secured Poe's discharge from the army 
 April 15, 1829, by procuring a substitute, and began 
 immediately to get a cadetship for Poe at West Point. 
 Armed with various letters of recommendation from 
 his former officers in the army and from friends of Mr. 
 Allan, Poe journeyed to Washington to present, in 
 person, his credentials to the Secretary of War. It 
 was not, however, until one year later, that Poe finally 
 secured his appointment. 
 
 In the meantime, his pen had not been idle, neither 
 had he entirely given up verse writing while in the 
 
110 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 army. As a result, lie had enough new material with 
 which, in addition to some of the poems published in 
 his first volume, to make another volume of verse. 
 He succeeded in rinding a publisher for this second 
 volume of poems which appeared in the latter part of 
 1829. The longest of the new poems was Al Aaraaf, 
 a tale of another world, Tamerlane, which had appeared 
 in his first volume, and several short poems, some new 
 and some which had been published in 1827. In a 
 letter relating to this volume published in a literary 
 gazette previous to the appearance, Poe says, " I am 
 young — not yet twenty — am a poet — if deep wor- 
 ship of all beauty can make me one — and wish to be 
 so in the more common meaning of the word. I would 
 give the world to embody one half the ideas afloat in 
 my imagination." 
 
 He was now becoming uneasy about his appointment 
 to West Point, since he had reached and passed the age 
 of twenty-one, the legal limit within which he could be 
 appointed. But it was as easy to become two years 
 younger as it had been to become two years older when 
 he enlisted. Mr. Allan, who was preparing to marry 
 again, seems also to have been anxious to settle his 
 adopted son, as he hoped, for life, and therefore re- 
 newed efforts were made to secure him the cadetship. 
 This was accomplished March 31, 1830, and Poe entered 
 the Military Academy July 1. His age is recorded as 
 nineteen years and five months, although he was really 
 over twenty-one, and to the other cadets seemed even 
 older. It was jokingly reported among them that " he 
 had procured a cadet's appointment for his son, and the 
 
LIFE AT WEST POINT 111 
 
 boy having died, the father had substituted himself in 
 his place." One of his classmates records that he 
 was, — 
 
 . . . "of kindly spirit and simple style. He was very shy 
 and reserved in his intercourse with his fellow cadets — his asso- 
 ciates being confined almost exclusively to Virginians. He was 
 an accomplished French scholar, and had a wonderful aptitude 
 for mathematics, so that he had no difficulty in preparing his 
 recitations in his class, and in obtaining the highest marks in 
 these departments. He was a devourer of books, but his great 
 fault was his neglect of, and apparent contempt for, military 
 duties. His wayward and capricious temper made him at times 
 utterly oblivious or indifferent to the ordinary routine of roll 
 call, drills and guard duties. These habits subjected him often 
 to arrest and punishment, and effectually prevented his learning 
 or discharging the duties of a soldier. 1 ' 
 
 Military routine became unbearably tiresome to Poe's 
 poetic and dreamy temperament, and doubtless seemed 
 worse by the previous year of freedom. At the end of 
 six months, he determined to leave the Academy, and 
 endeavored to secure the consent of Mr. Allan, his legal 
 guardian, to his resignation. This was necessary before 
 his resignation could be considered. Mr. Allan refused, 
 as he desired that Poe should remain at the Academy 
 and prepare for a future occupation into which he could 
 enter without further assistance from him. Poe, hav- 
 ing abandoned all hope of being Mr. Allan's heir, had 
 his own views as to what his future should be. He 
 therefore took other means of securing his release from 
 West Point. 
 
 On January 5, 1831, a court martial was held at West 
 Point to try offenders against discipline. After a short 
 
112 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 sitting, it was adjourned until January 28. In the 
 meantime, Poe neglected practically all his duties as a 
 cadet, and was consequently named to appear before the 
 court martial. Here he pleaded guilty to all charges 
 against him save one which could easily be proved, and 
 in this way, closed the door against himself to all offi- 
 cial mercy. The result was that in the report of the 
 proceedings appears the following : 
 
 " Cadet Edgar A. Poe will be dismissed from the service of 
 the United States, and cease to be considered a member of the 
 Military Academy after the 6th March, 1831." 
 
 Poe was again free, but penniless, once more his own 
 master, but the slave of poverty. 
 
 He had secured a number of subscriptions from his 
 fellow cadets to a volume of poems, which he proposed 
 to have published in New York, whither he went. 
 Because of these subscriptions, he was enabled to get a 
 publisher for this volume. The book was published a 
 few months later, and caused considerable disappoint- 
 ment among the subscribers, who had expected it would 
 contain many of the squibs and satires, which had made 
 Poe famous at the Academy. Instead of these, it con- 
 tained much that had been published in 1829, with 
 some new poems added. 
 
 From New York, Poe went to Baltimore, where he 
 determined to settle. He tried to secure a position on 
 a paper. Failing to get this, he offered himself as 
 assistant teacher in a school recently opened by an ac- 
 quaintance. Here, again, he was disappointed, and 
 was obliged to turn once more to literature for a liveli- 
 
EARLY STRUGGLES 113 
 
 hood. For eighteen months he struggled on, and, he- 
 side other work, wrote six short stories. But he could 
 find no publisher for them. In the summer of 1833, 
 the Baltimore Saturday Visitor, a newly established 
 weekly literary paper, offered two prizes : one of one 
 hundred dollars for the best prose tale, and the other 
 of fifty dollars for the best short poem. 
 
 Poe immediately sent in the six stories which he had 
 ready, and some fifty lines of blank verse from a drama 
 he was writing. The judges in this contest, when they 
 reached Poe's tales, found them so interesting, that 
 they read them all with great pleasure and pronounced 
 them better than any others submitted. They immedi- 
 ately awarded the first prize of one hundred dollars to 
 their author, and selected one, A Ms. Found in a Bottle, 
 as the prize story. They also decided that Poe's poem, 
 which he had called The Coliseum, was the best sent in 
 for competition, but, since he had won the other prize, 
 the prize for the best poem went to another competitor. 
 
 Poe's condition at this time was deplorable, although, 
 unfortunately, not an uncommon one during his life. 
 He was in absolute want, and a letter to Mr. Kennedy, 
 one of the three literary judges, who ever afterward be- 
 came one of Poe's best friends, will give some idea of 
 his condition. 
 
 " Your invitation to dinner has wounded me to the quick, I 
 cannot come for reasons of the most humiliating nature — my 
 personal appearance. You may imagine my mortification in 
 making this disclosure to you, but it is necessary. 1 ' 
 
 The prize-money was consequently most welcome to 
 him, and the encouragement hardly less so. The judges 
 
114 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 highly praised all six tales as characterized by " singular 
 force and beauty " and " distinguished by a wild, vigor- 
 ous, and poetical imagination, a rich style, a fertile 
 invention, and varied and curious learning." 
 
 THE COLISEUM 
 
 Type of the antique Rome ! Rich reliquary 
 
 Of lofty contemplation left to Time 
 
 By buried centuries of pomp and power ! 
 
 At length — at length — after so many days 
 
 Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, 
 
 (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) 
 
 I kneel, an altered and an humble man, 
 
 Amid thy shadows, and so drink within 
 
 My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory ! 
 
 Vastness ! and Age ! and Memories of Eld ! 
 Silence ! and Desolation ! and dim Night ! 
 I feel ye now — I feel ye in your strength — 
 O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king 
 Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane ! 
 
 © © 
 
 O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee 
 Ever drew down from out the quiet stars ! 
 
 Here, where a hero fell, a column falls ! 
 
 Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, 
 
 © © © ' 
 
 A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat ! 
 
 Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair 
 
 Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle ! 
 
 Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, 
 
 Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, 
 
 Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, 
 
 The swift and silent lizard of the stones ! 
 
116 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 But stay ! these walls — these ivy-clad arcades — 
 
 These mouldering plinths — these sad and blackened shafts — 
 
 These vague entablatures — this crumbling frieze — 
 
 These shattered cornices — this wreck — this ruin — 
 
 These stones — alas ! these gray stones — are they all — 
 
 All of the famed, and the colossal left 
 
 By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me ? 
 
 " Not all " — the Echoes answer me — " Not all ! 
 
 Prophetic sounds and loud, arise for ever 
 
 From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, 
 
 As melody from Memnon to the Sun. 
 
 We rule the hearts of mightiest men — we rule 
 
 With a despotic sway all giant minds. 
 
 We are not impotent — we pallid stones. 
 
 Not all our power is gone — not all our fame — 
 
 Not all the magic of our high renown — 
 
 Not all the wonder that encircles us — 
 
 Not all the mysteries that in us lie — 
 
 Not all the memories that hang upon 
 
 And cling around about us as a garment, 
 
 Clothing us in a robe of more than glory." 
 
 Poe was able to get along for the next six months by 
 contributing to the Saturday Visitor, and by doing 
 other literary work secured for him by Mr. Kennedy. 
 It was during this summer that he went to live with 
 his father's widowed sister, Mrs. Maria Clemm and her 
 daughter Virginia, a girl of eleven, these three remain- 
 ing together in Baltimore. 
 
 On March 27, 1834, Mr. Allan died. In his will 
 Poe was not mentioned. He, who had been educated 
 to look upon this man as his father, and led to consider 
 himself his heir, at least until the first Mrs. Allan's 
 
BETROTHAL TO VIRGINIA CLEMM 117 
 
 death, was now left to depend absolutely upon his own 
 resources. He continued his literary work and, in the 
 early part of 1835, on Mr. Kennedy's recommendation, 
 sent some stories to the Southern Literary Messenger, 
 recently started in Richmond. He became a constant 
 contributor to this paper, and began writing literary 
 criticisms, a line of work in which he later became 
 famous. In June, the editor, Mr. White, offered Poe a 
 position on the paper. This was an opening such as 
 Poe had been hoping for, and, although the pay was 
 small, he was glad of the opportunity. This made it 
 necessary for him to go to Richmond, and he looked 
 with keen regret upon the parting from Mrs. Clemm 
 and Virginia. 
 
 Mrs. Clemm, during the two years Poe had lived 
 with her, had given him more motherly love and care 
 than he had ever before known, and he and Virginia, 
 now a girl of thirteen, had become greatly attached 
 to each other. To give up these two meant a return 
 to his former despondent solitude, and as Mrs. Clemm 
 had become more or less dependent upon her nephew 
 for support, Poe proposed that he and Virginia should 
 marry. Mrs. Clemm gave her consent and with this 
 understanding, Poe went to Richmond in midsummer. 
 He at once entered upon his duties as assistant editor 
 at a salary of ten dollars a week, which was a welcome 
 opening. 
 
 In September, the news of the engagement between 
 Poe and his cousin having come to the ears of their 
 relatives, objections were immediately advanced on the 
 score of Virginia's youth, she being but thirteen years 
 
118 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 of age. They attempted to persuade Mrs. Clemm to 
 withdraw her consent until her daughter should have 
 reached the age of eighteen. The effect of this news 
 upon Poe was to almost prostrate him, for Virginia 
 and her mother were the only two beings in the world 
 for whom he cared. He wrote an earnest appeal to 
 Mrs. Clemm, and on September 22, arrived at Balti- 
 more in person to plead his cause. The result was that 
 with Mrs. Clemm's consent, he and his cousin were 
 privately married, and Poe returned to Richmond and 
 resumed his duties. Within a few weeks, Mrs. Clemm 
 and Virginia also removed to Richmond. 
 
 Poe's devotion to his girl-wife, in fact their mutual 
 love, was most complete and beautiful. In one of his 
 later poems, Annabel Lee, he writes, 
 
 And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
 Than to love and be loved by me. 
 
 I was a child and she was a child, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea : 
 But we loved Math a love that was more than love — 
 
 I and my Annabel Lee ; 
 With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 
 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
 Of those who were older than we — 
 Of many far wiser than we — 
 
 And neither the angels in heaven above, 
 
 Nor the demons down under the sea. 
 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 
 
criticism: 119 
 
 Poe worked with great earnestness on the magazine 
 and soon took entire charge of it. Beside the many 
 duties involved in mere editorial work, he contributed 
 tales, poems, reviews and many general articles. The 
 stories and poems thus contributed are the first impor- 
 tant fruits of Poe's ripening genius. It was as a critic 
 that he made his most marked success and placed this 
 new magazine with which he was connected on an 
 equal footing with many long established and foremost 
 publications. The circulation increased from seven 
 hundred to nearly five thousand during the first six 
 months of his editorship. 
 
 While his criticisms were severe, they were, in the 
 main, just, but they made him many enemies among 
 writers and publishers. It may be said that Poe's fear- 
 less reviews were one of the chief obstacles to his suc- 
 cess in literary life because of the enemies they made 
 him. 
 
 On May 16, 1836, Poe and his wife were publicly 
 married to avoid comment, since the first ceremony had 
 been so private. Everything was now most hopeful 
 for a happy and successful future. His salary had 
 been raised to fifteen dollars and after November was 
 to be twenty dollars. During the winter, however, he 
 became restless. He had worked very hard to establish 
 the paper on a profitable basis, and he succeeded be- 
 cause of his wonderful stories, beautiful poems and 
 brilliant criticisms. He, therefore, felt that what he 
 was receiving was out of all proportion to what he 
 had accomplished. In January, 1837, therefore, he re- 
 signed his post as editor of the Southern Literary 
 
120 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Messenger, though friendly relations continued to exist 
 between him and the proprietor. 
 
 In a short time, he removed to New York, accom- 
 panied by his wife and Mrs. Clemm, who attempted to 
 establish a boarding-house but was not altogether suc- 
 cessful. Poe could secure no regular literary work, and 
 the condition of the little family grew worse and worse. 
 One who lived with them at this time, a wealthy old 
 Scotch gentleman, writing some years later, says of Poe : 
 
 "I must say that I never saw him the least affected with 
 liquor, nor even descend to any known vice, while he was one 
 of the most courteous, gentlemanly, and intelligent companions 
 I have met with during my journeyings and haltings through 
 divers divisions of the globe ; besides, he had an extra induce- 
 ment to be a good man as well as a good husband, for he had 
 a wife of matchless beauty and loveliness ; with a temper and 
 disposition of surpassing sweetness; besides, she seemed as 
 much devoted to him and his every interest as a young mother 
 is to her first-born. 11 
 
 Mrs. Clemm, the guardian angel of these two, writing 
 of this period in after years, says : 
 
 " Eddie was domestic in all his habits, seldom leaving home 
 for an hour unless his darling Virginia, or myself, were with 
 him. He was truly an affectionate, kind husband, and a de- 
 voted son to me. He was impulsive, generous, affectionate 
 and noble. His tastes were very simple, and his admiration for 
 all that was good and beautiful, very great. . . . We three 
 lived only for each other. 11 
 
 During the winter Poe worked principally on the 
 Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, a tale of adventure, 
 
EDITORIAL WORK 121 
 
 • 
 
 horror, shipwreck and mutiny on an expedition to the 
 South Pole. This work was announced by the Harpers 
 in May, 1838, and published in July, but it had little 
 success. In the summer, seeing no hope of better 
 things, they moved to Philadelphia, where some en- 
 couragement had been offered to Poe. He contributed 
 to several magazines, and, during the following winter, 
 prepared a school textbook on shells, The ConchologisC '$ 
 First Text-Book. This was nothing more than a con- 
 densation of a more extensive work published by the 
 Harpers. The author of this work, who sanctioned 
 Poe's compilation, said that his work proved too ex- 
 pensive for the public, and as the Harpers refused to 
 bring it out in a cheaper form, it was decided to pub- 
 lish a new book which would be sufficiently different 
 from the former to escape any suit for the infringement 
 of copyright. This book was published in April, 1839. 
 Previous to its appearance, Poe had established other 
 literary connections, and was a contributor to several 
 publications. 
 
 In July, 1839, he became associate editor of Burton's 
 Gentleman '« Magazine, in which was published, among 
 other contributions of his, The Fall of the House of 
 Usher, one of the greatest achievements of his peculiar 
 genius for describing terror and fear. Among the 
 poems contributed by him was The Haunted Palace, 
 which had previously appeared in The Museum. Apart 
 from its poetic beauty, this poem caused considerable 
 controversy, as Poe claimed that Longfellow's The 
 Beleaguered City, which was not published until Novem- 
 ber, was a copy of his idea. This was hardly a just 
 
122 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 accusation ; in fact, both poems are very similar in idea 
 to Tennyson's The Deserted House, published in 1830. 
 
 THE HAUNTED PALACE 
 
 In the greenest of our valleys 
 
 By good angels tenanted, 
 Once a fair and stately palace — 
 
 Radiant palace — reared its head. 
 In the monarch Thought's dominion — 
 
 It stood there ! 
 Never seraph spread a pinion 
 
 Over fabric half so fair! 
 
 Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 
 
 On its roof did float and flow, 
 (This — all this — was in the olden 
 
 Time long ago,) 
 And every gentle air that dallied, 
 
 In that sweet day, 
 Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 
 
 A winged odor went away. 
 
 Wanderers in that happy valley, 
 
 Through two luminous windows, saw 
 Spirits moving musically, 
 
 To a lute's well-tuned law, 
 Round about a throne where, sitting 
 
 (Porphyrogene !) 
 In state iiis glory well befitting, 
 
 The ruler of the realm was seen. 
 
 And all with pearl and ruby glowing 
 
 Was the fair palace door, 
 Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing 
 
 And sparkling evermore, 
 
LITERARY CAREER 123 
 
 A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 
 
 Was but to sing, 
 In voices of surpassing beauty, 
 
 The wit and wisdom of their king. 
 
 But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 
 Assailed the monarch's high estate. 
 
 (Ah, let us mourn ! — for never morrow 
 Shall dawn upon him desolate !) 
 
 And round about his home the glory 
 That blushed and bloomed, 
 
 Is but a dim-remembered story 
 Of the old time entombed. 
 
 And travelers, now, within that valley, 
 
 Through the red-litten Avindows see 
 Vast forms, that move fantastically 
 
 To a discordant melody, 
 While, like a ghastly rapid river, 
 
 Through the pale door 
 A hideous throng rush out forever 
 
 And laugh — but smile no more. 
 
 In December, an edition of Poe's stories in two vol- 
 umes was published in Philadelphia under the title 
 Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque. This included 
 most of the stories he had written up to this time. 
 These were widely and favorably noticed by the press, 
 but their sale was not large. Until June, 1840, Poe 
 continued to edit The Gentleman's Magazine, and then 
 his engagement suddenly terminated. 
 
 He accused Mr. Burton, the proprietor, of offering 
 prizes for contributions, which he never intended to 
 pay. Mr. Burton, on the other hand, asserted that 
 
124 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Poe's irregular habits made it necessary for him to dis- 
 pense with his services. Touching these charges, Poe 
 wrote in April, 1841, to a friend: 
 
 " . . . . In fine, I pledge yon, before God, the solemn 
 word of a gentleman, that I am temperate even to rigor. From 
 the hour in which I first saw this basest of calumniators " 
 (Burton) " to the hour in which I retired from his office in 
 uncontrollable disgust at his chicanery, arrogance, ignorance 
 and brutality, nothing stronger than water ever passed my 
 lips. 
 
 " It is, however, due to candor that I inform you upon what 
 foundation he has erected his slanders. At no period of my life 
 was I what men call intemperate. I never was in the habit of 
 intoxication. I never drunk drams, etc. But, for a brief period, 
 while I resided in Richmond, and edited the Messenger, I cer- 
 tainly did give way, at long intervals, to the temptations held 
 out on all sides by the spirit of Southern conviviality. My sensi- 
 tive temperament could not stand an excitement which was an 
 every day matter to my companions. In short, it sometimes 
 happened that I was completely intoxicated. For some days 
 after each excess I was invariably confined to bed. But it is 
 now quite four years since I have abandoned every kind of alco- 
 holic drink — four years with the exception of a single deviation 
 which occurred shortly after my leaving Burton, and when I was 
 induced to resort to the occasional use of cider, with the hope of 
 relieving a nervous attack.'" 
 
 One great ambition of Poe's life was to publish a 
 magazine of his own, and within two weeks of his break 
 with Burton, he announced The Penn Magazine to 
 appear January 1, 1811. Lack of money and subscrib- 
 ers, however, compelled him to abandon this plan of a 
 magazine of his own for some time to come. 
 
 In the meantime, The G entlemari s Magazine had been 
 
Graham's magazine 125 
 
 sold to George R. Graham, editor of a not very success- 
 ful periodical, The Casket. This gentleman combined 
 the two publications under the name, soon to become 
 famous, of G-raham's Magazine. In February, 1841, 
 Poe accepted the post of editor, and during the eighteen 
 months of his connection with this magazine, he con- 
 tributed many of his most famous stories and brilliant 
 criticisms. Among the stories of this period may be 
 mentioned The Murders of the Rue Morgue, and The 
 Descent into the Maelstrom. 
 
 Another subject to w T hich Poe devoted considerable 
 time, time which we cannot but regret was not given to 
 more serious literary work, was the study of cryptog- 
 raphy or ciphers and secret writings. In his story of 
 The G-old Bug, he had written : 
 
 " Circumstances, and a certain bias of mind, have led me to 
 take interest in such riddles, and it may well be doubted whether 
 human ingenuity can construct an enigma of the kind which 
 human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve." 
 
 In G-raliams Magazine he publicly offered to solve 
 any cryptogram sent him. As a result, he received hun- 
 dreds of ciphers in English, French, German, Spanish, 
 Italian, Latin and Greek, all of which he deciphered 
 with the exception of one which he proved an impos- 
 ture. His was a mind peculiarly adapted to solve 
 such puzzles, being capable of the keenest and most 
 minute analysis. His ability to reconstruct the whole 
 from a part was marvelous. The first few chapters only 
 of Dickens's Barnaby Budge had been published, and in 
 a review of them, Poe told, with mathematical exact- 
 
12(3 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 ness, what should be the plot of the yet unwritten 
 story. The correctness of his solution drew from 
 Dickens a letter of admiring praise, in which he jok- 
 ingly inquired if Poe had dealings with Satan. 
 
 Poe's connection with Graham's Magazine was the 
 brightest period of his life. From five thousand sub- 
 scribers, the number had increased to fifty- two thousand, 
 and this success was mainly due to his own fascinating 
 stories and fearless criticisms. His fame as a writer 
 was national and growing greater every day, and his 
 home life was a dream of perfect domestic happi- 
 ness. 
 
 But " unmerciful disaster " still dogged his footsteps. 
 During the fall of 1841, his idolized wife ruptured a 
 blood vessel in singing. Her life was despaired of, and 
 Poe suffered all the agonies of her death as only such 
 a loving, sensitive nature could. She, however, partly 
 recovered, although lier health, never robust, was 
 henceforth more delicate than ever. Poe never 
 fully recovered from the shock. Mr. Graham, in writ- 
 ing of Poe in later years, says, 
 
 " His love for his wife was a sort of rapturous worship of the 
 spirit of beauty, which he felt was fading before his eyes. I 
 have seen him hovering around her when she was ill, with all 
 the fond fear and tender anxiety of a mother for her first-born 
 — her slightest cough causing in him a shudder, a heart chill, 
 that was visible. I rode out one summer evening with them, 
 and the remembrance of his watchful eyes, eagerly bent upon 
 the slightest change of hue in that loved face, haunts me yet as 
 the memory of a sad strain. It was this hourly anticipation of 
 her loss, that made him a sad and thoughtful man, and lent a 
 mournful melody to his undying song. 1 ' 
 
THE GOLD BUG 127 
 
 Poe, always of a restless disposition, became dissatis- 
 fied in his position. He felt that what he had accom- 
 plished for Graham's should have been more liberally 
 rewarded, as indeed it should. He still dreamed of a 
 magazine of his own, and also endeavored to secure a 
 government appointment at Washington, but without 
 success. All these reasons, with the possible irregular- 
 ities of his life and his wife's health, may explain 
 the severance of his connection with Graham's in the 
 spring of 1842. The exact truth will probably never 
 be known. 
 
 His life from this time onward was one of almost 
 uninterrupted discouragement and disappointment. 
 During the year after his leaving Graham's, he again 
 attempted to establish a magazine to be called The 
 Stylus. In the fall, his principal source of income was 
 from one of the less prominent magazines, Snowden's 
 Lady's Companion., to which among other pieces, he 
 contributed The Mystery of Marie Roget. 
 
 The first letters of a correspondence with James 
 Russell Lowell were also written at this time, which re- 
 sulted in Poe's contributing several articles to The 
 Pioneer, a magazine which Lowell was then editing. 
 This publication lasted, however, only a few months. 
 
 In June, 1843, Poe's story, The Gold Bug, now one 
 of his best known and most popular tales, won a prize 
 of one hundred dollars offered by The Dollar News- 
 paper. Of this incident, Poe wrote to a friend : " ' The 
 Gold Bug' was originally sent to Graham ; but he not 
 liking it, I got him to take some critical papers instead, 
 and sent it to 'The Dollar Newspaper,' which had 
 
128 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 offered one hundred dollars for the best story. It ob- 
 tained frie premium, and made a great noise." The 
 fearful tale of The Black Cat was published in August. 
 A visitor to the poet's home at this time says : 
 
 "When once lie sent for me to visit him, during a period of 
 illness, caused by protracted and anxious watching at the bedside 
 of his sick wife, I was impressed by the singular neatness and 
 the air of refinement in his home. It was in a small house, in 
 one of the pleasant and silent neighborhoods far from the center 
 of the town, and, though slightly and cheaply furnished, every- 
 thing in it was so tasteful and so fitly disposed that it seemed 
 altogether suitable for a man of genius. For this and for most 
 of the comforts he enjoyed, in his brightest as in his darkest 
 years, he was chiefly indebted to his mother-in-law, who loved 
 him with more than maternal devotion and constancy." 
 
 May ne Reid speaks of Mrs. Clemm as 
 
 " the guardian of the home, watching it against the silent but 
 continuous sap of necessity, that appeared every day to be ap- 
 proaching closer and nearer. She was the sole servant, keep- 
 ing everything clean ; the sole messenger, doing the errands, 
 making pilgrimages between the poet and his publishers, fre- 
 quently bringing back such chilling responses as ' The article 
 not accepted, ' or ' The check not to be given until such and such 
 a day,' — often too late for his necessities. And she was also 
 the messenger to the market ; from it bringing back not ' the 
 delicacies of the season,' but only such commodities as were 
 called for by the dire exigencies of hunger." 
 
 During the winter, Poe seems again to have assisted 
 Graham in the publication of his magazine, but not as 
 acknowledged editor. The following April, 1844, he 
 determined to leave Philadelphia and seek to better his 
 fortunes, which indeed were desperate, in New York. 
 
BALLOON HOAX 129 
 
 His first appearance in print after reaching this city 
 was in the New York Sun, which published his notorious 
 Balloon Hoax. Under the following startling head- 
 lines was given a detailed account of an imaginary 
 passage of a balloon from England to America in three 
 days. 
 
 Astounding News by Express, via Norfolk ! 
 
 The Atlantic Crossed in Three Days ! ! 
 
 Signal Triumph of Mr. Monck Mason's Flying Machine ! ! ! 
 
 "Arrival at Sullivan's Island, near Charleston, S. C, of Mr. 
 Mason, Mr. Robert Holland, Mr. Henson, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, 
 and four others, in the Steering Balloon, 'Victoria,' after a passage 
 of seventy -five hours from Land to Land! Full Particulars of the 
 Voyage ! " 
 
 So realistic and minute was the description of this 
 journey, that many persons were deceived and believed 
 it an actual occurrence. 
 
 During the same month, A Tale of the Magged Moun- 
 tains was published in Grodey's Lady's Book. Writ- 
 ing to Lowell a little later, he says : 
 
 ". . . . My life has been whim — impulse — passion — 
 a longing for solitude — a scorn of all things present, in an 
 earnest desire for the future. 
 
 "lam profoundly excited by music, and by some poems — 
 those of Tennyson especially — whom, with Keats, Shelley, 
 Coleridge (occasionally), and a few others of like thought and 
 expression, I regard as the sole poets. Music is the perfection 
 of the soul, or idea, of poetry. The vagueness of exaltation 
 aroused by a sweet air (which should be strictly indefinite and 
 never too strongly suggestive) is precisely what we should aim 
 at in poetry. Affectation, within bounds, is thus no blemish. 11 
 And further on : "I think my best poems ' The Sleeper, 1 < The 
 Conqueror Worm, 1 <■ The Haunted Palace, 1 ' Lenore, 1 ' Dream- 
 land, 1 and 'The Coliseum, 1 — but all have been hurried and 
 
130 EDGAE ALLAN POE 
 
 unconsidered. 11 (This letter is dated July 2, 1844:, which was 
 before The Haven was written.) " My best tales are ' Ligeia,' 
 the ' Gold Buji', 1 the ' Murders in the Rue Morgue , 1 ' The Fall of 
 the House of Usher, 1 the ' Tell-Tale Heart, 1 the 'Black Cat, 1 
 ' William AVilson, 1 and ' The Descent into the Maelstrom. 1 ' The 
 Purloined Letter, 1 forthcoming in the ' Gift, 1 is perhaps -the best 
 of my tales of ratiocination. I have lately written for Godey 
 ' The Oblong Box, 1 and < Thou Art the Man, 1 — as } r et unpub- 
 lished. 11 
 
 Soon after settling in New York, lie became a sub- 
 editor on The Evening Mirror, a daily paper with a 
 weekly issue in addition. Here his work was very 
 limited. " It was rather a step downward, after being 
 the chief editor of several monthlies, as Poe had been, 
 to come into the office of a daily journal as a mechani- 
 cal paragraph is t." It assured, however, a steady, though 
 meagre, income. In this paper, January 29, 1845, was 
 first published The Raven, the best known of all Poe's 
 writings. 
 
 THE RAVEN" 
 
 Once upon a midnight drear}^ while I ptondered, weak and. 
 
 weary, 
 Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore — 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 
 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
 " 'Tis some visitor, 11 I muttered, "tapping at my chamber 
 
 door — 
 
 Only this and nothing more. 11 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 
 And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the 
 floor. 
 
THE KAVEN 131 
 
 Eagerly I wished the morrow ; — vainly I had sought to borrow 
 From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost 
 
 Lenore — 
 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, 
 
 Nameless here forevermore. 
 
 And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
 Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; 
 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, 
 ' ' 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — 
 Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; 
 
 This it is and nothing more." 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, 
 " Sir," said I, " or Madame, truly your forgiveness I implore ; 
 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 
 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 
 That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I opened wide the 
 door — 
 
 Darkness there and nothing more. 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, 
 
 fearing, 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream 
 
 before ; 
 But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 
 And the only word there spoken was the whispered word 
 
 " Lenore ! " 
 This T whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 
 
 " Lenore ! " — 
 
 Merely this and nothing more. 
 
 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 
 Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. 
 "Surely, 11 said I, "surely that is something at my window 
 lattice ; 
 
132 EDGAR ALLAN POE • 
 
 Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore — 
 Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ; — 
 
 'Tis the wind and nothing more." 
 
 Open here I flung- the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 
 In there stepped a stately Raven ot the saintly days of yore. 
 Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or 
 
 stayed he, 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber 
 
 door — 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — 
 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 
 
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 
 
 " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure 
 
 no craven. 
 Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly 
 
 shore — 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian 
 
 shore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
 Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; 
 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
 Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door — 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door — 
 
 With such name as " Nevermore." 
 
 But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only 
 That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 
 Notliing further then he uttered; not a feather then he flut- 
 tered — 
 Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends have flown 
 
 before — 
 On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown 
 • before." 
 
 Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 
 
THE RAVEN 133 
 
 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
 " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store, 
 Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 
 Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden 
 
 bore — 
 Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 
 
 Of ' Never — nevermore. 1 " 
 
 But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 
 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and 
 
 door ; 
 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of 
 
 yore 
 
 Meant in croaking " Nevermore. 11 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; 
 This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
 On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, 
 But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er 
 
 She shall press, ah, nevermore! 
 
 Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an un- 
 seen censer 
 
 Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 
 
 " Wretch, 11 I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by these angels 
 he hath sent thee 
 
 Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! 
 
 Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore. 11 
 
 '^Prophet! 11 said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or 
 
 devil ! — 
 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here 
 
 ashore, 
 
134 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 
 On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — 
 Is there — is there balm inGilead? — tell me — tell me, I im- 
 plore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 "Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or 
 
 devil ! — 
 By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we bolh 
 
 adore — 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend! " I shrieked, 
 
 upstarting — 
 "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore ! 
 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath 
 
 spoken ! 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door ! 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off 
 
 my door ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 
 And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the 
 
 floor; 
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 
 
 Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 
 
 The success of this poem was instantaneous. It 
 fascinated every reader by its vague terror and the 
 music of its rhythm. It is truly a work of art and 
 genius. For this masterpiece, Poe received ten dollars. 
 
PROPRIETOR OF "THE BROADWAY JOURNAL" 135 
 
 In March, he became associate-editor of The Broad- 
 way Journal, a weekly which had been started the 
 previous January, and to which he had contributed. 
 He was now to receive one third of the profits. He 
 wrote some original matter for it, but reprinted a great 
 many of his earlier stories with slight revision or change 
 of titles. During the summer, there was a disagree- 
 ment among the three interested parties, and Poe be- 
 came sole editor but still with one third interest. On 
 October 21, he became sole proprietor of The Broad- 
 ivay Journal, and one dream of his life was realized, 
 only to be shortly afterwards shattered. The Journal 
 showed vigorous management; its advertisements had 
 been largely increased and its circulation doubled. Poe 
 had not, however, sufficient capital to successfully carry 
 on the publication. After a brave, but bitter struggle, 
 he was obliged to give up the magazine, December, 
 1845. 
 
 An amusing incident is told by Horace Greeley, who 
 indorsed a promissory note of Poe's for fifty dollars, 
 to help him carry on the Journal. This note Greeley 
 himself had to pay. In referring to it in later years, 
 he says : 
 
 " A gushing youth once wrote me to this effect : 
 
 ' Dear Sir, — Among your literary treasures, you have doubt- 
 less preserved several autographs of our country's late lamented 
 poet, Edgar A. Poe. If so, and you can spare one, please en- 
 close it to me, and receive the thanks of yours truly. 1 
 
 " I promptly responded as follows : — 
 
 'Dear Sir : — Among my literary treasures, there happens to 
 be exactly one autograph of our country's late lamented poet, 
 
DEATH OF HIS WIFE 137 
 
 Edgar A. Poe. It is his note of hand for fifty dollars, with my 
 indorsement across the back. It cost me exactly fifty dollars and 
 seventy-five cents (including- protest), and you may have it for 
 half that amount. Yours respectfully.' 
 
 " That autograph, I regret to say, remains on my hands, and 
 is still for sale at first cost, despite the lapse of time and the 
 depreciation of our currency.'" 
 
 From this time onward, the unfortunate condition of 
 the little family grew worse and worse. Poe's own 
 health began to fail and his wife was slowly but surely 
 dying. He was in no condition, either of mind or 
 body, to accomplish any work that would count. In 
 the spring, they moved to a little cottage in Fordham, 
 above what is now the upper part of New York city. 
 The surrounding country was very beautiful, but the 
 cottage, standing on King's Bridge Road at the top of 
 Fordham Hill, was very small and plain. Here, during 
 the summer and following winter they struggled on, 
 often without the necessities of life. 
 
 On January 30, 1847, his idolized wife, Virginia, 
 died. Poe's love for his young and lovely girl-wife 
 was the most beautiful thing in his life. It was a kind 
 of adoration. When she died, the last hope, the one 
 object that made life worth living for him, passed 
 away. His beautiful poem, Annabel Lee, gives some 
 slight idea of the depth of his love. 
 
 ANNABEL LEE 
 
 It was many and many a year ago, 
 
 In a kingdom by the sea, 
 That a maiden there lived whom you may know 
 
 By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
 
138 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
 Than to love and be loved by me. 
 
 /was a child and she was a child, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea : 
 But we loved with a love that was more than love — 
 
 I and my Annabel Lee ; 
 With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 
 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 And this was the reason that, long ago, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea, 
 A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 So that her high-born kinsmen came 
 
 And bore her away from me, 
 To shut her up in a sepulcher 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
 The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
 
 Went envying her and me — 
 Yes ! — that was the reason (as all men know, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea) 
 That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
 
 Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
 
 Of those who were older than we — 
 
 Of many far wiser than we — 
 And neither the angels in heaven above, 
 
 Nor the demons down under the sea, 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 
 
 For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 
DEATH OF HIS WIFE 139 
 
 And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
 
 Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 
 
 In the sepulcher there by the sea, 
 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 
 The passage, 
 
 " So that her high-born kinsmen came 
 And bore her away from me, 
 To shut her up in a sepulcher 
 In this kingdom by the sea," 
 
 is a very beautiful expression of his feeling that his 
 child-wife was kin to the angels who bore her away 
 from him. 
 
 After this sad event, Poe was dangerously ill, so ill, 
 indeed, that his life was despaired of. He recovered, 
 however, but was never the same man afterwards. He 
 yielded more and more to the habit of drink. On one 
 of his sensitive temperament, one glass of wine had the 
 same effect as several glasses on an ordinary man. In 
 a letter to a friend written a year after his wife's death, 
 he writes : 
 
 " You say, « Can you hint to me what was the " terrible evil " 
 which caused the "irregularities 1 ' so profoundly lamented?' 1 
 Yes, I can do more than hint. This « evil ' was the greatest 
 which can befall a man. Six years ago, a wife, whom I loved 
 as no man ever loved before, ruptured a blood-vessel in singing. 
 Her life was despaired of. I took leave of her forever, and 
 underwent all the agonies of her death. She recovered partially, 
 and I again hoped. At the end of a year, the vessel broke again. 
 I went through precisely the same scene. . . . Then again — 
 again — and even once again, at varying intervals. Each time 
 I felt all the agonies of her death — and at each accession of the 
 disorder I loved her more dearly and clung to her life with more 
 
140 EDGAK ALLAN POE 
 
 desperate pertinacity. But I am constitutionally sensitive — • 
 nervous in a very unusual degree. I became insane, with long 
 intervals of horrible sanity. During these fits of absolute un- 
 consciousness, I drank — God only knows how often or how 
 much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred the insanity 
 to the drink, rather than the drink to the insanity. I had, indeed, 
 nearly abandoned all hojje of a permanent cure, when I found 
 one in the death of my wife. This I can and do endure as be- 
 comes a man. It was the horrible never-ending oscillation 
 between hope and despair which I could not longer have endured, 
 without total loss of reason. In the death of what was my life, 
 then, I receive a new, but — Oh God! — how melancholy an 
 existence.'" 
 
 During the three years following his wife's death, he 
 lived almost as one in a dream. Mrs. Clemm was de- 
 voted to him to the last. His poem To My Mother, is 
 a touching expression of his love for her and his appre- 
 ciation of her love and devotion for him. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER 
 
 Because I feel that, in the Heavens above, 
 
 The angels, whispering to one another, 
 Can find, among their burning terms of love, 
 
 None so devotional as that of " Mother," 
 Therefore by that clear name I long have called you — 
 
 You who are more than mother unto me, 
 And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you, 
 
 In setting my Virginia's spirit free. 
 My mother — my own mother, who died early, 
 
 Was but the mother of myself ; but you 
 Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, 
 
 And thus are dearer, than the mother I knew 
 By that infinity with which my wife 
 
 Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. 
 
THE BELLS 141 
 
 Poe wrote more or less for the magazines, but nothing 
 of great importance. His best work had been clone. 
 He also lectured several times on poetry with some 
 success, for he had a good presence, a strong and sweet 
 voice, and recited the poems that he used as illustra- 
 tions in an impressive and most effective manner. 
 
 An interesting story is connected with the writing of 
 The Bells, which was composed during this period. It 
 was early in the summer that he called one day on a 
 friend, Mrs. Shew, and complained that he had to write 
 a poem, but felt no inspiration. She persuaded him to 
 drink some tea in a conservatory whose open windows 
 admitted the sound of church bells, and gave him some 
 paper, which he declined, saying, " I so dislike the noise 
 of bells to-night, I cannot write. I have no subject — 
 I am exhausted." Mrs. Shew then wrote, "The Bells, 
 by E. A. Poe," and added, " The Bells, the little silver 
 bells." On the poet's finishing the stanza thus sug- 
 gested, she again wrote, " The heavy iron bells," and 
 this idea also Poe elaborated, and then copying off the 
 two stanzas, headed it, " By Mrs. M. L. Shew," and called 
 it her poem. This original draft of the poem was after- 
 wards much lengthened and revised. 
 
 THE BELLS 
 
 Hea.r the sledges with the bells — 
 Silver bells ! 
 What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 In the icy air of night ! 
 
142 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 While the stars that oversprinkle 
 All. the heavens, seem to twinkle 
 With a crystalline delight ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the tintinnabnlation that so musically wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
 
 ii. 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
 Golden bells ! 
 What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 How they ring out their delight ! 
 From the molten-golden notes, 
 And all in tune, 
 What a liquid ditty floats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
 On the moon ! 
 Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
 What a gusli of euphony voluminously wells ! 
 How it swells ! 
 How it dwells 
 On the Future ! how it tells 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 
 
 in. 
 Hear the loud alarum bells — 
 , Brazen bells ! 
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
 
THE BELLS 143 
 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their affright I 
 Too much horrified to speak, 
 They can only shriek, shriek, 
 Out of tune, 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
 With a desperate desire, 
 And a resolute endeavor 
 Now — now to sit or never, 
 By the side of the pale-faced mcon. 
 Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 Of Despair ! 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
 What a horror they outpour 
 On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
 
 Yet the ear it fully knows, 
 By the twanging, 
 And the clanging, 
 How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
 In the jangling, 
 And the wrangling, 
 How the danger sinks and swells, 
 By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — 
 Of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells — 
 Iron bells ! 
 What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 
 
144 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 In the silence of the night, 
 How we shiver with affright 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
 For every sound that floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 And the people — ah, the people — 
 They that dwell up in the steeple, 
 
 All alone. 
 And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 
 
 In that muffled monotone, 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone — 
 They are neither man nor woman — 
 They are neither brute nor human — 
 They are Ghouls : 
 And their king it is who tolls ; 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 Rolls 
 A pa3an from the bells ! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 With the paean of the bells ! 
 And he dances, and he yells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the pasan of the bells — 
 Of the bells : 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells - 
 Of the bells, bells, bells — 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells, 
 In a happy Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the rolling of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells — 
 
DEATH 145 
 
 To the tolling of the bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, Dells, bells — 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 
 
 In 1848, he became engaged to be married, but this 
 engagement was broken off. In 1849, he again be- 
 came engaged, and the wedding was to have taken 
 place in October. His prospects were brightening and 
 he had gone South to deliver a lecture. On his way 
 back to New York, whence he proposed to take Mrs. 
 Clemm to Richmond, where he meant to live after his 
 marriage, he stopped in Baltimore to visit friends. 
 
 The true facts of the last few days will probably 
 never be known. The most generally accepted belief 
 is that he was captured and drugged by politicians, who 
 kept him in a stupefied condition, and made him vote 
 at several places during election day. In the afternoon 
 of that day, he was found in one of the voting places 
 almost unconscious. One of his friends was notified 
 and he was taken to the hospital, where he lingered 
 a few days, passing away on Sunday, October 7, 1849. 
 
 The skies they were ashen and sober ; 
 
 The leaves they were crisped and sere — 
 The leaves they were withering and sere ; 
 
 It was night in the lonesome October 
 Of my most immemorial year. 
 
 Eulalume. 
 
 George E. Woodbury thus speaks of the poet : 
 
 ' ' On the roll of our literature Poe's name is inscribed with 
 the few foremost, and in the world at large his genius is estab- 
 lished as valid among all men. An artist primarily, whose 
 
146 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 skill, helped by the finest sensitive and perceptive powers in 
 himself, was developed by thought, patience, and endless self- 
 correction into a subtle deftness of hand unsurpassed in its own 
 work, he belonged to the men of culture instead of those of origi- 
 nally perfect power. Now and then gleams of light and stretches 
 of lovely landscape shine out, but for the most part his mastery 
 was over dismal, superstitious, and waste places. In imagina- 
 tion, as in action, his was an evil genius; and in its realms of 
 revery he dwelt alone. Except the wife who idolized him, and 
 the mother who cared for him, no one touched his heart in the 
 years of his manhood, and at no time was love so strong in him 
 as to rule his life." 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 1807-1882 
 
He the sweetest of all singers. 
 Beautiful and childlike was he, 
 Brave as man is, soft as woman, 
 Pliant as a wand of willow, 
 Stately as a deer with antlers. 
 
 All the many sounds of nature 
 Borrowed sweetness from his singing ; 
 All the hearts of men were softened 
 By the pathos of his music ; 
 For he sang of peace and freedom, 
 Sang of beauty, love, and longing ; 
 Sang of death, and life undying 
 In the land of the Hereafter. 
 For his gentleness they loved him 
 And the magic of his singing. 
 
 The Song of Hiawatha. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 Come, read to me some poem, 
 
 Some simple and heartfelt lay, 
 That shall soothe this restless feeling-, 
 
 And banish the thoughts of day. 
 
 Not from the grand old masters, 
 
 Not from the bards sublime, 
 Whose distant footsteps echo 
 
 Through the corridors of time. 
 
 Read from some humbler poet, 
 Whose songs gush from his heart, 
 
 As showers from the clouds of summer, 
 Or tears from the eyelids start. 
 
 The Day Is Done. 
 
 Henky Wadsworth Longfellow was born in Port- 
 land, Maine, February 27, 1807, in "a great, square house 
 by the sea." From his father's side, he was a descend- 
 ant of a New England family whose founder, William 
 Longfellow, came from England in the latter part of 
 the seventeenth century, and settled at Newbury, Massa- 
 chusetts. His mother, Zilpah Wadsworth, was a 
 daughter of General Wadsworth of Revolutionary fame, 
 whose ancestors dated back to the landing of the May- 
 flower. From both sides, therefore, Longfellow was 
 
 151 
 
152 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 a descendant from New England families whose his- 
 tories show that they were sturdy, upright, refined and 
 intelligent, and that they lost no opportunity to show 
 their patriotism. His father, Stephen Longfellow, was 
 a well-educated man of genial disposition and attractive 
 social manners. He was a graduate of Harvard Col- 
 lege, establishing there a good record as a scholar. 
 After leaving college, he studied law and eventually 
 became a very successful lawyer. He was a trustee of 
 Bowdoin College from 1817 to 1836. He received 
 from Bowdoin the degree of Doctor of Laws. From his 
 mother, Longfellow must have inherited the imagina- 
 tive and poetic side of his character, for she was a great 
 lover of nature and was fond of poetry and music. 
 
 The " great, square house by the sea," where Henry 
 Wadsworth Longfellow was born, belonged to his uncle, 
 Captain Samuel Stephenson, the husband of Abigail 
 Longfellow. As Mr. Stephenson was away from home 
 on account of business, the Longfellows spent the win- 
 ter of 1806-7 with Mrs. Stephenson. The house is a 
 wooden building, on Front and Hancock Streets, front- 
 ing the beach, and at that time, commanding a view of 
 Casco Bay with its many islands, which were the Hes- 
 perides of Longfellow's boyish dreams. In the early 
 spring of 1808, when Henry was little more than a 
 year old, the Longfellows moved into the Wadsworth 
 house, now called the Longfellow mansion, on Congress 
 street. It was built by General Wadsworth, Long- 
 fellow's grandfather, during the years 1784-6. It was 
 an unusual -looking house for that period, differing 
 from the rest of the houses in the town in its architec- 
 
, 1 
 
154 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 ture, and in being made entirely of brick. " The 
 Wadsworth house when originally finished had a high 
 pitched roof of two equal sides, and four chimneys. 
 The store adjoined the house at the southeast, with an 
 entrance door from the house, and was of two stories. 
 Here the General sold all kinds of goods needed in the 
 town and country trade." When General Wads worth 
 left Portland, and the' Longfellows moved into the 
 Wads worth house, the store was removed and a brick 
 vestibule built in its stead. A third story was after- 
 ward added to the house, and as thus altered, it now 
 stands. 
 
 Longfellow was named after his uncle, Henry Wads- 
 worth, who was a lieutenant in the American navy. 
 He died in his country's service when a young man of 
 nineteen. Preferring death to slavery, he perished in 
 the fire-ship Intrepid, which was blown up before Trip- 
 oli, to save it from falling into the enemy's hands, 
 September, 1804. 
 
 In My Lost Youth Longfellow describes the town of 
 Portland as it was in the days of his childhood. 
 
 MY LOST YOUTH 
 
 Often I think of the beautiful town 
 
 That is seated by the sea ; 
 Often in thought go up and down 
 The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 
 And my youth conies back to me. 
 And a verse of a Lapland song 
 Is haunting my memory still : 
 " A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 
 
MY LOST YOUTH 155 
 
 I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, 
 
 And catch, in sudden gleams, 
 The sheen of the far- surrounding seas, 
 And islands that were the Ilesperides 
 Of all my boyish dreams. 
 
 And the burden of that old song, 
 It murmurs and whispers still : 
 " A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. 11 
 
 I remember the black wharves and the slips, 
 
 And the sea tides tossing free ; 
 And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
 And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 
 And the magic of the sea. 
 
 And the voice of that wayward song- 
 Is singing and saying still : 
 " A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. 11 
 
 I remember the bulwarks by the shore, 
 
 And the fort upon the hill ; 
 The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, 
 The drumbeat repeated o'er and o'er, 
 And the bugle wild and shrill. 
 
 And the music of that old song 
 Throbs in ray memory still : 
 " A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 
 
 I remember the sea-fight far away, 
 
 How it thundered o'er the tide ! 
 And the dead captains, as they lay 
 In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, 
 Where they in battle died. 
 
 And the sound of that mournful song 
 Goes through me with a thrill : 
 " A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 
 
156 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 I can see the breezy dome of groves, 
 
 The shadows of Deering's Woods ; 
 And the friendships old and the early loves 
 Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves, 
 In quiet neighborhoods. 
 
 And the verse of that sweet old song, 
 It nutters and murmurs still : 
 " A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. 11 
 
 I remember the gleams and glooms that dart 
 
 Across the schoolboy's brain ; 
 The song and the silence in the heart, 
 That in part are prophecies, and in part 
 Are longings wild and vain. 
 
 And the voice of that fitful song 
 Sings on, and is never still : 
 " A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. 11 
 
 There are things of which I may not speak; 
 
 There are dreams that cannot die ; 
 There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, 
 And bring a pallor into the cheek, 
 And a mist before the eye. 
 
 And the words of that fatal song 
 Come over me like a chill : 
 " A boy's will is the wind 1 s will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. 11 
 
 Strange to me now are the forms I meet 
 
 When I visit the dear old town ; 
 But the native air is pure and sweet, 
 And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, 
 As they balance up and down, 
 
 Are singing the beautiful song, 
 Are sighing and whispering still : 
 " A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. 11 
 
158 HENIIY WADSWOKTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, 
 
 And with joy that is almost pain 
 My heart goes back to wander there, 
 And among the dreams of the days that were, 
 I find my lost youth again. 
 
 And the strange and beautiful song, 
 The groves are repeating it still : 
 " A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 
 
 The Spanish sailors, the bulwarks, the fort, the sun 
 rise gun and the dead captains, all refer to the war 
 of 1812, the incidents of which seem to have made a 
 lasting impression on the boy's mind. The pottery and 
 the rope walks also keenly interested him, as the fol- 
 lowing poems show : 
 
 Turn, turn, my wheel! Turn round and. round 
 Without a pause, without a sound : 
 
 So spins the flying world away ! 
 This clay, well mixed with marl and sand, 
 Follows the motion of my hand ; 
 For some must follow, and some command, 
 
 Though all are made of clay ! 
 
 Thus sang the Potter at his task 
 
 Beneath the blossoming haw thorn -tree, 
 
 While o'er his features, like a mask, 
 
 The quilted sunshine and leaf -shade 
 
 Moved, as the boughs above him swayed, 
 
 And clothed him, till he seemed to be 
 
 A figure woven in tapestry, 
 
 So sumptuously was he arrayed 
 
 In that magnificent attire 
 
 Of sable tissue flaked with fire. 
 
 Like a magician he appeared, 
 
KEKAMOS 159 
 
 A conjurer without book or beard ; 
 And while he plied his magic art — 
 For it was magical to me — 
 I stood in silence and apart, 
 And wondered more and more to see 
 That shapeless, lifeless mass of clay 
 Rise up to meet the master's hand, 
 And now contract and now expand, 
 And even his slightest touch obey ;. 
 While ever in a thoughtful mood 
 He sang his ditty, and at times 
 Whistled a tune between the rhymes, 
 As a melodious interlude. 
 
 Turn, turn, my wheel! All things must change 
 To something new, to something strange ; 
 
 Nothing that is can pause or stay ; 
 The moon will wax, the moon will wane, 
 The mist and cloud will turn to rain, 
 The rain to mist and cloud again, 
 
 To-morrow be to-day. 
 
 What land is this ? Yon pretty town 
 Is Delft, with all its wares displayed ; 
 The pride, the market-place, the crown 
 And center of the Potter's trade. 
 See ! every house and room is bright 
 With glimmers of reflected light 
 From plates that on the dresser shine ; 
 Flagons to foam with Flemish beer, 
 Or sparkle with the Rhenish wine, 
 And pilgrim flasks' with fleurs-de-lis, 
 And ships upon a rolling sea, 
 And tankards pewter topped, and queer 
 With comic mask and musketeer ! 
 
 Keramos. 
 
160 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 THE ROPEWALK 
 
 In that building, long and low, 
 With its windows all a-rovv, 
 
 Like the portholes of a hulk, 
 Human spiders spin and spin, 
 Backward down their threads so thin 
 
 Dropping, each a hempen bulk. 
 
 At the end, an open door ; 
 Squares of sunshine on the floor 
 
 Light the long and dusky lane ; 
 And the whirring of a wheel, 
 Dull and drowsy, makes me feel 
 
 All its spokes are in my brain. 
 
 As the spinners to the end 
 Downward go and reascend, 
 
 Gleam the long threads in the sun ; 
 While within this brain of mine 
 Cobwebs brighter and more fine 
 
 By the busy wheel are spun. 
 
 Two fair maidens in a swing, 
 Like white doves upon the wing, 
 
 First before my vision pass ; 
 Laughing, as their gentle hands 
 Closely clasp the twisted strands, 
 
 At their shadow on the grass. 
 
 Then a booth of mountebanks, 
 With its smell of tan and planks, 
 
 And a girl poised high in air 
 On a cord, in spangled dress, 
 With a faded loveliness, 
 
 And a weary look of care. 
 
THE ROPE WALK 161 
 
 Then a homestead among- farms, 
 And a woman with bare arms 
 
 Drawing water from a well ; 
 As the bucket mounts apace, 
 With it mounts her own fair face, 
 
 As at some magician's spell. 
 
 Then an old man in a tower, 
 Ringing loud the noontide hour, 
 
 While the rope coils round and round 
 Like a serpent at his feet, 
 And again, in swift retreat, 
 
 Nearly lifts him from the ground. 
 
 Then within a prison-yard, 
 Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, 
 
 Laughter and indecent mirth ; 
 Ah ! it is the gallows tree ! 
 Breath of Christian charity, 
 
 Blow, and sw r eep it from the earth ! 
 
 Then a schoolboy, with his kite 
 Gleaming in a sky of light, 
 
 And an eager, upward look ; 
 Steeds pursued through lane and field ; 
 Fowlers with their snares concealed ; 
 
 And an angler by a brook. 
 
 Ships rejoicing in the breeze, 
 Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, 
 
 Anchors dragged through faithless sand ; 
 Sea fog drifting overhead, 
 And, with lessening line and lead, 
 
 Sailors feeling for the land. 
 
 All these scenes do I behold, 
 These, and many left untold, 
 
162 HENKY WADSWOB-TH LONGFELLOW 
 
 In that building long and low ; 
 While the wheel goes round and round, 
 AVith a drowsy, dreamy sound, 
 
 And the spinners backward go. 
 
 Longfellow had every opportunity to become well 
 educated. In his home there was an excellent library 
 to which he had access from his earliest childhood. 
 Beside this home library, there were the Portland 
 Library and a Mr. Johnson's bookstore, places which he 
 frequently visited. He made good use of his oppor- 
 tunities, for he was always a studious child. Of this 
 early reading, in his remarks upon Washington Irving, 
 he says, 
 
 " Every reader has his first book; I mean to say, one book 
 among all others which in early youth first fascinates his ima- 
 gination, and at once excites and satisfies the desires of his 
 mind. To me, this first book was the Sketch Book of Washing- 
 ton Irving. I was a schoolboy when it was published, and read 
 
 each succeeding number with ever increasing wonder and de- 
 cs o 
 
 light, spellbound by its pleasant humor, its melancholy tender- 
 ness, its atmosphere of revery, — nay, even by its gray-bound 
 covers, the shaded letters of its titles, and the fair, clear type, 
 which seemed an outward symbol of its style. How many 
 delightful books the same author has given us. . . . Yet still 
 the charm of the Sketch Book remains unbroken ; the old fascina- 
 tion remains about it ; and whenever I open its pages, I open 
 also that mysterious door which leads back into the haunted 
 chambers of youth.'" 
 
 Of his childish impressions, he wrote in later years : 
 
 " Out of my childhood rises in my memory the recollection of 
 many things rather as poetic impressions than as prosaic facts. 
 Such are the damp mornings of early spring, with the loud 
 
164 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 crowing of cocks and cooing of pigeons on roofs of barns. Very 
 
 distinct in connection with these are the indefinite lono;ino;s Inci- 
 te O 
 
 dent to childhood ; feelings of wonder and loneliness which I 
 could not interpret and scarcely took cognizance of. But they 
 have remained in my mind. 1 ' 
 
 When about three years old, Longfellow went to a 
 Mrs. Fellow's school. " My recollection of my first 
 teacher," said the poet, many years after, " are not 
 vivid : but I recall that she was bent on giving me a 
 right start in life ; that she thought that even very 
 young children should be made to know the difference 
 between right and wrong ; and that severity of manner 
 was more practical than gentleness of persuasion. She 
 inspired me with one trait, — that is, a genuine respect 
 for my elders." Longfellow remained at this school 
 only a short time. He then went to the town school, 
 which he attended only two weeks. After leaving the 
 town school, he went to a private school in charge of 
 Nathaniel H. Carter. When Mr. Carter became a 
 teacher in the Portland Academy, many of his pupils 
 went with him, and among them was Longfellow. 
 Here he was prepared for college. In later years, he 
 relates the following incident about one of his teachers : 
 " I remember the schoolmaster at the Academy, and 
 the mingled odor that hovered about him of tobacco, 
 India rubber and lead pencil. A nervous, excitable 
 man. When we left school, I went with a schoolmate to 
 take leave of him and thank him for his patience with 
 us. He thought we were in jest ; and gave me a stern 
 lecture on good behavior and the trials of a teacher's 
 life." 
 
THE BATTLE OF LOVELL'S POND 165 
 
 During his vacations from school, Longfellow occa- 
 sionally would visit his grandfather Wadsworth's home 
 at Hiram. Not far from Hiram was a small lake called 
 Lovewell's or Lovell's Pond. This spot was made 
 famous by an event in New England history called 
 " Lovewell's Fight " with the Indians. The scene and 
 incident must have made a deep impression upon his 
 boyish mind, for it was the subject of his first poem, 
 written when he was thirteen years old. It was printed 
 in The Portland Gazette in November, 1820. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LOVELL'S POND 
 
 Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast 
 
 That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast, 
 
 As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear, 
 
 Sighs a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier. 
 
 The war whoop is stilled, and the savage's yell 
 
 Has sunk into silence along the wild dell ; 
 
 The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er 
 
 And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more. 
 
 The warriors that fought for their country and bled, 
 Have sunk to their rest ; the damjo earth is their bed ; 
 No stone tells the jzdace where their ashes repose, 
 Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes. 
 
 They died in their glory, surrounded by fame, 
 And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim ; 
 They are dead ; but they live in each patriot's breast, 
 And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest. 
 
 Henry. 
 
 With many misgivings, the boy dropped his manu- 
 script into the letter box of The Portland Gfazette. 
 
166 HENKY WADSWOJRTH LOKGFELLOW 
 
 The evening before the issue of the paper, which was a 
 semi-weekly, he went again to the office and stood 
 shivering in the November air, looking in, but not 
 having the courage to enter. The next morning, most 
 eagerly he and his sister, the only sharer of his secret, 
 waited for the paper. Impatiently they watched the j 
 damp sheet as it was unfolded, dried, and read by their 
 father. When at last they had it in their hands, the 
 youthful poet saw his verses in print, and read and re- 
 read them with increasing satisfaction. In the evening, 
 he visited the home of Judge Mellen, his father's friend. 
 The conversation turned upon poetry, and the Judge J 
 remarked: "Did you see the piece in to-day's paper? 
 Very stiff, remarkably stiff ; moreover, it is all borrowed, 
 every word of it." This was his first, though not his 
 last, encounter with the critic. 
 
 Longfellow entered Bowdoin College in September, 
 1821. His sunny and genial disposition won the love 
 and esteem of his classmates and his professors. Ac- 
 cording to the opinion of many of his associates, he was 
 quiet, retiring, well-bred, and was a model to all in char- 
 acter and manners. His rank in class was high, though 
 he had to compete with those who, afterward, became 
 as brilliant and prominent as he in their various profes- 
 sions. Among this group of men was Nathaniel Haw- 
 thorne, who became a very close friend of his in later 
 years. Both of them while in college were noted for] 
 their excellence of composition. Longfellow gave an 
 earnest and sincere attention to all departments oflj 
 study, but his compositions, translations, and contribu-ij 
 tions to the press, early indicated his literary ability. 
 
EARLY POEMS 167 
 
 Longfellow was graduated from Bowdoin College in 
 1825. He had the first claim to class poet, but as his 
 rank in class was so high, it was deemed best to give 
 him an oration as the highest mark of honor. Chatter- 
 ton, the boy poet of England, had made so deep an 
 impression upon his mind that he chose his life and 
 writings as his subject, but at his father's suggestion 
 changed his plans and took in its stead Native Writers. 
 
 During his four years in college, Longfellow wrote 
 several prose sketches and quite a number of poems, 
 seventeen of which were published in The United 
 States Literary Gazette. Some of these are his most 
 attractive poems. Of them he says, 
 
 "These poems were written, for the most part, during my 
 college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some 
 have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful : 
 others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners 
 of newspapers, or have changed their names, and run away to 
 seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of 
 Avranches on a similar occasion, ' I cannot be displeased to see 
 these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost ex- 
 posed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and 
 safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a 
 more decorous garb. ,,, 
 
 In the authorized editions of his works, only a few 
 of the early poems have been retained. These ■ are 
 found under the heading of Earlier Poems. The two 
 following poems, The Indian Hunter and The Sea-Diver, 
 are among those that have been retained. They are 
 considered the best of the earlier poems, and give some 
 indication of the nature and quality of his later verse. 
 
168 HENRY AY ADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 THE INDIAN HUNTER 
 
 When the summer harvest was gathered in, 
 
 And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin, 
 
 And the plowshare was in its furrow left, 
 
 Where the stubble land had been lately cleft, 
 
 An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow, 
 
 Looked down where the valley lay stretched below. 
 
 He was a stranger there, and all that clay 
 Had been out on the hills, a perilous way : 
 But the foot of the deer was far and fleet, 
 And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter's feet ; 
 And bitter feelings passed o'er him then, 
 As he stood by the populous haunts of men. 
 
 The winds of autumn came over the woods, 
 As the sun stole out from their solitudes ; 
 The moss was white on the maple's trunk, 
 And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk ; 
 And ripened the mellow fruit hung, and red 
 Where the tree's withered leaves around it shed. 
 
 The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn, 
 And the sickle cut down the yellow corn ; 
 The mower sung loud by the meadow-side, 
 Where the mists of evening were spreading wide ; 
 And the voice of the herdsman came up the lea, 
 And the dance went round by the greenwood tree. 
 
 Then the hunter turned away from that scene, 
 AVhere the home of his fathers once had been, 
 And heard, by the distant and measured stroke, 
 That the woodman hewed down the giant oak ; 
 And burning thoughts flashed over his mind 
 Of the white man's faith, and love unkind. 
 
THE SEA DIVER 169 
 
 The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, 
 As her golden horn pierced the cloud of white : 
 A footstep was heard in the rustling brake, 
 Where the beach overshadowed the misty lake, 
 And a mourning voice, and a plunge from shore, 
 And the hunter was seen on the hills no more. 
 
 When years had passed on, by that still lakeside, 
 
 The fisher looked through the silver tide : 
 
 And there, on the smooth yellow sand displayed, 
 
 A skeleton wasted and white was laid ; 
 
 And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow, 
 
 That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow. 
 
 THE SEA-DIVER 
 
 My way is on the bright blue sea, 
 
 My sleep upon its rocking tide ; 
 And many an eye has followed me 
 
 Where billows clasp the worn seaside. 
 
 My plumage bears the crimson blush, 
 
 When ocean by the sea is kissed, 
 When fades the evening's purple flush, 
 
 My dark wing cleaves the silver mist. 
 
 Full many a fathom down beneath 
 The bright arch of the splendid deep, 
 
 My ear lias heard the sea-shell breathe 
 O'er living myriads in their sleep. 
 
 They rested by the coral throne, 
 
 And by the pearly diadem ; 
 Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown 
 
 The glorious dwellings made by them. 
 
 At night, upon my storm-drenched wing, 
 
 I poised above a helmless bark ; 
 And soon I saw the shattered thing 
 
 Had passed away, and left no mark. 
 
170 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 And, when the wind and storm were done, 
 
 A ship, that had rode out the gale, 
 Sunk down — without a signal-gun ; 
 
 And none was left to tell the tale. 
 
 I saw the pomp of day depart, 
 
 The cloud resign its golden crown, 
 
 When to the ocean's beating heart 
 The sailor's wasted corse went down. 
 
 Peace be to those whose graves are made 
 
 Beneath the bright and silver sea ! 
 Peace — that their relics there were laid 
 
 With no vain pride and pageantry. 
 
 That the nature of his future profession was a matter 
 which caused him some anxious thought while he was 
 still in college, is shown by the following extracts from 
 letters to his father during his last years there : 
 
 " I feel very glad that I am not to be a physician, — that there 
 are quite enough in the world without me. And now, as some- 
 how or other this subject has been introduced, I am curious to 
 know what you do intend to make of me, — whether I am to study 
 a profession or not; and if so, what profession. I hope your 
 ideas upon this subject will agree with mine, for I have a par- 
 ticular and strong prejudice for one course of life, to which you, 
 I fear, will not agree. It will not be worth while for me to 
 mention what this is, until I become more acquainted with your 
 own wishes. 1 ' 
 
 " I take this early opportunity to write to you, because I wish 
 to know fully your inclination in regard to the profession I am 
 to pursue when I leave college. 
 
 " For my part, I have already hinted to you what would best 
 please me. I want to spend one year at Cambridge for the pur- 
 pose of reading history, and of becoming familiar with the best 
 
LITERARY AMBITION 171 
 
 authors in polite literature ; whilst at the same time I. can be 
 acquiring a knowledge of the Italian language, without an ac- 
 quaintance with which I shall be shut out from one of the most 
 beautiful departments of letters. The French I mean to under- 
 stand pretty thoroughly before I leave college. After leaving 
 Cambridge, I would attach myself to some literary periodical 
 publication, by which I could maintain myself and still enjoy 
 the advantages of reading. Now, I do not think that there is 
 anything visionary or chimerical in my plan thus far. The fact 
 is — and I will not disguise it in the least, for I think I ought 
 not — the fact is, I most eagerly aspire after future eminence in 
 literature ; my whole soul burns most ardently for it, and every 
 earthly thought centers in it. There may be something visionary 
 in this, but I natter myself that I have prudence enough to keep 
 my enthusiasm from defeating its own object by too great haste. 
 Surely, there never was a better opportunity offered for the 
 exertion of literary talent in our own country than is now offered. 
 To be sure, most of our literary men thus far have not been pro- 
 fessedly so, until they have studied and entered the practice of 
 Theology, Law or Medicine. But this is evidently lost time. 
 I do believe that we ought to pay more attention to the opinion 
 of philosophers, that ' nothing but Nature can qualify a man for 
 knowledge. 1 
 
 4 ' Whether Nature has given me any capacity for knowledge 
 or not, she has at any rate given me a very strong predilection 
 for literary pursuits, and I am almost confident in believing, 
 that, if I can ever rise in the world, it must be by the exercise 
 of my talent in the wide field of literature. With such a belief, 
 I must say that I am unwilling to engage in the study of law. 
 
 4t Here, then, seems to be the starting point; and I think it 
 best for me to float out into the world upon that tide and in that 
 channel which will the soonest bring me to my destined port, 
 and not to struggle against both wind and tide, and by attempt- 
 ing what is impossible lose everything.'" 
 
 ' ' From the general tenor of your last letter it seems to be 
 your fixed desire that I should choose the profession ol law for 
 
172 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 the business of my life. I am very much rejoiced that you accede 
 so readily to my proposition of studying general literature for 
 one year at Cambridge. My grand object in doing this will be 
 to gain as perfect a knowledge of the French and Italian lan- 
 guages as can be gained without traveling in France and Italy, — 
 though, to tell the truth, I intend to visit both before I die. . . . 
 ' ' But you must acknowledge the usefulness of aiming high, — 
 at something which it is impossible to overshoot — perhaps to 
 reach. The fact is, I have a most voracious appetite for knowl- 
 edge. To its acquisition I will sacrifice everything. . . . 
 Nothing delights me more than reading and writing. And 
 nothing could induce me to relinquish the pleasures of literature, 
 little as I have yet tasted them. Of the three professions I 
 should much prefer the law. I am far from being a fluent 
 speaker, but practice must serve as a talisman where talent is 
 wanting. I can be a lawyer. This will support my real exist- 
 ence, literature an ideal one.' 11 
 
 It will be seen from these letters that Longfellow's 
 plans were to spend a year at Harvard College, Cam- 
 bridge. His hope was that it would open the way to 
 the pursuit of a literary career, but if not, then the study 
 and practice of law would be followed. However, his 
 future profession was finally settled for him in 1825 by 
 the appointment as professor of modern languages and 
 literature at Bowdoin College. He was then but nine- 
 teen years old, and had been out of college only six 
 months. It is said that his appointment was the direct 
 result of his very fine translation, while in college, of 
 one of Horace's odes. When the chair was established 
 and they were considering a fit candidate, the transla- 
 tion was recalled by Mr. Benjamin Orr, a prominent 
 lawyer of Maine, who was a lover of Horace. This 
 gentleman was a member of the board of trustees, and 
 
PROFESSOR AT BOWDOIN 173 
 
 nominated Longfellow. The appointment was received 
 with great delight by Longfellow, for it settled the 
 question. of his future profession. 
 
 Before entering upon his duties, Longfellow spent 
 three years in preparatory study in Europe, visiting 
 France, Italy, Spain and Germany, making himself 
 thoroughly familiar with the language of each country. 
 Outre Mer, which was not published, however, until 
 1835, is a very interesting account of his travels 
 through these countries. 
 
 Longfellow began his duties at Bowcloin College in 
 September, 1829, remaining there for five years. As a 
 professor, he was much loved by his pupils and highly 
 esteemed by his associate professors. A member of the 
 class of 1830 writes, 
 
 "His manner was invariably full of that charming courtesy 
 which it never lacked throughout his whole life. At the same 
 time he never forgot his position. He was always on the alert," 
 quick to hear, ready to respond. AVe were fond of him from 
 the start ; his speech charmed us ; his earnest and dignified 
 demeanor inspired us. A better teacher, a more sympathetic 
 friend, never addressed a class of young men. 1 ' 
 
 Longfellow entered upon his professional duties with 
 so much earnestness and enthusiasm that during this 
 period he wrote comparatively very little. His princi- 
 pal work was a translation of a book upon the French 
 language. This translation was used as a text-book, 
 not only in Bowdoin, but in many other colleges and 
 schools. It was used for fully twenty years after its 
 first publication. He also contributed several essays to 
 
174 HENHY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 The North American Review, principally upon the lan- 
 guages and literature of foreign countries. In July, 
 1831, the first installment of The Schoolmaster appeared 
 in The New England Magazine. This work appeared 
 m a series of sketches at irregular intervals until 1833. 
 The subject matter of these sketches was embodied in 
 Outre Mer. 
 
 In September, 1831, Longfellow married Miss Mary 
 Storrer Potter of Portland. She was gentle, refined 
 and highly educated, being a charming woman in man- 
 ner and character. The first few years of their married 
 life were spent in Brunswick, in a house which still 
 stands amidst its elms on Federal Street. The room 
 on the right of the entrance was fitted up as a study. 
 Longfellow has given us a pretty picture of it : 
 
 " June 23. I can almost fancy myself in Spain, the morning 
 is so soft and beautiful. The tesselated shadow of the honey- 
 suckle lies motionless upon my study floor, as if it were a figure 
 in the carpet ; and through the open window comes the fragrance 
 of the wild brier and the mock orange. The birds are caroling 
 in the trees, and their shadows flit across the window as they 
 dart to. and fro in the sunshine ; while the murmur of the bee, 
 the cooino- of the doves from the eves, and the whirring- of a 
 little humming bird that has its nest in the honeysuckle, send up 
 a sound of joy to meet the rising sun. 1 ' 
 
 Longfellow received an invitation in December, 1834, 
 to become professor of modern languages and literature 
 at Harvard College, Cambridge, permission being given 
 him at the same time to spend a year. or more abroad, 
 if he thought it necessary. The choice was suggested 
 by Professor Ticknor, who wished to retire from the 
 
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS 175 
 
 position. The invitation was a great surprise to Long- 
 fellow. He gladly accepted it, as it gave hirn a larger 
 field of work. 
 
 Accompanied by his wife, he departed for Europe in 
 the spring of 1835. His purpose, as before, was to 
 thoroughly prepare himself for his new position. He 
 visited England and the countries of northern Europe. 
 During their stay at Amsterdam in October, 1835, Mrs. 
 Longfellow became seriously ill. She recovered suffi- 
 ciently to travel to Rotterdam, but again became ill in 
 that city, where she died, November 29, 1835. He has 
 immortalized her memory in Footstejjs of Angels. 
 
 When the hours of Day are numbered, 
 
 And the voices of the Night 
 Wake the better soul that slumbered, 
 
 To a holy, calm delight ; 
 
 Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
 And, like phantoms grim and tall, 
 
 Shadows from the fitful firelight 
 Dance upon the parlor wall ; 
 
 Then the forms of the departed 
 
 Enter at the open door ; 
 The beloved, the true-hearted, 
 
 Come to visit me once more ; 
 
 And with them the Being Beauteous, 
 Who unto my youth was given, 
 
 More than all things else to love me, 
 And is now a saint in heaven. 
 
176 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 With a slow and noiseless footstep 
 
 Comes that messenger divine, 
 Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
 
 Lays her gentle hand in mine. 
 
 And she sits and gazes at me 
 
 With those deep and tender eyes, 
 Like the stars, so still and saintlike, 
 
 Looking downward from the skies. 
 
 Footsteps of Angels. 
 
 In November, 1836, Longfellow was formally ap- 
 pointed " Smith professor of French and Spanish lan- 
 guages and literature, and professor of belles-lettres " at 
 Harvard College. He began his duties in December, 
 holding the professorship until 1854. He performed 
 his tasks here, and they were many and trying, with 
 the same faithful earnestness as at Bowdoin. His pu- 
 pils and associates respected and loved him. His man- 
 ner was gentle and dignified, and entirely devoid of any 
 display of authority or knowledge. His work proved 
 of great advantage to the college, and it also benefited 
 him, for it brought him in contact with the literary 
 men of the day. 
 
 Among the many happy incidents of Longfellow's 
 residence in Cambridge, was the renewal of acquaint- 
 ance with his classmate, Nathaniel Hawthorne. A deep 
 and sincere friendship was formed between them, and 
 each became an enthusiastic admirer of the other's 
 works. 
 
 In the summer of 1837, Longfellow made his home 
 with Mrs. Craigie, at the famous Craigie House. This 
 house was built by Colonel John Vassal in 1759. As 
 
LONGFELLOW'S HOME 
 
 177 
 
 Colonel Vassal remained loyal to England during the 
 Revolution, the house and grounds were confiscated to 
 the State. It afterward passed into other hands, having 
 several owners before it became the property of Long- 
 fellow. The history of the house is interesting and 
 remarkable because of the number of noted persons 
 who have resided there, or have been guests for longer 
 
 ■:,,-• 
 
 CRAIGIE HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS 
 
 or shorter periods. General Washington used it for a 
 time as his headquarters during the Revolution. In 
 1793, Doctor Andrew Craigie purchased the mansion. 
 Two of his notable guests were Talleyrand, the great 
 French statesman, and the Duke of Kent, the father of 
 Queen Victoria. Doctor Craigie lived very extrava- 
 gantly, and, before his death, was forced to part with 
 
178 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 all but eight acres of the originally large estate. After 
 his death, Mrs. Craigie rented the rooms of the house 
 to students and professors of Harvard as a means of 
 supporting herself. When Longfellow applied to Mrs. 
 Craigie for a room, she assigned to him the southeast 
 corner room on the second story, which was the one 
 that had been occupied by General Washington. The 
 room was in the front of the house, and commanded a 
 view over the meadows to the Charles river. In the 
 pages of Hyperion, he writes thus of his pleasant sur- 
 roundings : 
 
 "I sit here at my pleasant chamber-window, and enjoy the 
 balmy air of a bright summer morning, and watch the motions 
 of the golden robin that sits on its swinging nest on the outer- 
 most pendulous branch of yonder elm. The broad meadows 
 and the steel-blue river remind me of the meadows of Unterseen 
 and the river Aar, and beyond them rise magnificent snow-white 
 clouds piled up like Alps. Thus the shades of Washington and 
 William Tell seem to walk together in these Elysian Fields ; for 
 it was here, that, in days long gone, our great patriot dwelt; 
 and yonder clouds so much resemble the snowy Alps that they 
 remind. me irresistibly of the Swiss, noble example of a high pur- 
 pose and a fixed w r ill. 
 
 " Nothing can be more lovely than these summer mornings, 
 nor the southern window at which I sit and write, in this old 
 mansion which is like an Italian villa; but oh, this lassitude, 
 this weariness, when all around me is so bright ! I have this 
 morning- a, singular longing for flowers, — a wish to stroll among; 
 the roses and carnations, and inhale their breath as if it would 
 revive me. I wish I knew the man who called the flowers ' the 
 fugitive poetry of Nature. 1 From this distance, from these 
 scholastic shades, from this leafy, blossoming and beautiful 
 Cambridge, I stretch forth my hand to grasp his, as the hand of 
 
TO THE llIvEB CHARLES 179 
 
 a poet. Yes : this morning I would rather stroll with him 
 among the gay flowers than sit here and write. 1 ' 
 
 His poem, To the River Charles, has immortalized 
 the river for all time. 
 
 River ! that in silence windest 
 
 Through the meadows, bright and free, 
 
 Till at length thy rest thou findest 
 In the bosom of the sea ! 
 
 Four long years of mingled feeling, 
 
 Half in rest, and half in strife, 
 1 have seen thy waters stealing 
 
 Onward, like the stream of life. 
 
 Thou hast taught me, Silent River! 
 
 Many a lesson, deep and strong; 
 Thou hast been a generous giver ; 
 
 I can give thee but a song. 
 
 Oft in sadness and in illness, 
 
 I have watched thy current glide, 
 
 Till the beauty of its stillness 
 Overflowed me, like a tide. 
 
 And in better hours and brighter, 
 
 When I saw thy waters gleam, 
 I have felt my heart beat lighter, 
 
 And leap onward with thy stream. 
 
 To the Biver Charles. 
 
 In 1839, Longfellow published Hyperion, A Romance. 
 It really is an account of his second trip to Europe, 
 
180 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 dwelling especially on his journeying along the Rhine 
 in southern Germany. The inscription on the eastern 
 wall of the little chapel of St. Gilgen suggested the 
 romance to him, and in fact became the motto of his 
 life. It reads, 
 
 ' ' Look not mournfully into the past. It comes 
 Not back again. Wisely improve the present. 
 It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy 
 Future without fear, and with a manly heart." 
 
 Hyperion became very popular, and by 1857, about 
 fifteen thousand copies had been sold in America. It 
 did a great deal toward attracting the attention of 
 American readers to the wealth and beauty of German 
 literature. 
 
 In the autumn of 1839, Longfellow published his 
 first volume of poems, entitled Voices of the Night. It 
 included five of his earlier pieces which had appeared 
 in The United States Literary Grazette, twenty-three 
 translations, some of which had appeared in The Knick- 
 erbocker, or in The North American Review, and eight 
 other poems, six of which had appeared in The Knicker- 
 bocker ; also a poetic prelude. Among the poems in this 
 volume is the famous Psalm of Life. It first appeared 
 in The Knickerbocker in 1838. It is doubtful if any 
 other poem has appealed to so many persons of all ages 
 and all nationalities as the Psalm of Life. Several inter- 
 esting incidents are told of the helpfulness, the comfort, 
 the hope and the inspiration that it has been to many. 
 The poet says of it, " It was written in my chamber, as 
 I sat looking out at the morning sun, admiring the 
 
LONGER POEMS 181 
 
 beauty of God's creations and the excellence of his 
 plan. The poem was not printed until some months 
 later, and even then with reluctance." 
 
 In the autumn of 1841, appeared another volume of 
 poems called Ballads and Other Poems. This volume 
 was considered the best collection of poems that Long- 
 fellow ever gave to the public. 
 
 The poet again sailed for Europe in 1812. This 
 time it was in search of health. He visited France, 
 England and Germany and returned in the autumn. 
 On his return voyage, he wrote eight poems against 
 slavery. These were published under the title of 
 Poems on Slavery. 
 
 On July 13, 1843, Longfellow married Miss Frances 
 Elizabeth Appleton. He had first made her acquaint- 
 ance while traveling in Europe in 1836. She was the 
 Mary Ashburton of his Hyperion. The following year 
 Mr. Appleton purchased the Craigie estate and pre- 
 sented it to his daughter, to be the future home of 
 herself and husband. 
 
 Of Longfellow's longer poems, published during the 
 years of 1843-58, those that attracted almost universal 
 attention, and became general favorites, are The Spanish 
 Student, Evangeline, A Tale of Acadie, The Sony of 
 Hiawatha, The Courtship of Miles Standish, and The 
 Building of the Ship, which appeared in the volume of 
 poems called The Seaside and the Fireside. 
 
 His drama, The Spanish Student, was published 
 shortly after his return from Europe. The Serenade 
 in it is very beautiful, and has been set to music by 
 several great composers. It begins : 
 
182 HENKY AVALVS WORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 " Stars of the summer night! 
 
 Far in yon azure deeps, 
 Hide, hide your golden light! 
 
 She sleeps ! 
 My lady sleeps ! 
 
 Sleeps! 1 ' 
 
 Evangeline is a beautiful and pathetic story based 
 upon the historical facts of the expulsion of the Aca- 
 dians from Nova Scotia. In A Fable for Critics, Lowell 
 says of it: 
 
 "... That rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral Evangeline, 
 That's not aneient nor modern, its place is apart 
 Where time has no sway, in the realm of pure Art, 
 'Tis a shrine of retreat from Earth's hubbub and strife 
 As quiet and chaste as the authors own life." 
 
 The Building of the Ship is, perhaps, the most power- 
 ful and eloquent of all of Longfellow's poems. It 
 appeared at a most critical period in the political history 
 of our country. Without doubt the eloquent patriotism 
 of the following lines appealed to all : 
 
 " Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 
 Sail on, O UNION, strong and great ! 
 Humanity with all its fears, 
 With all the hopes of future years, 
 Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
 We know what Master laid thy keel, 
 What "Workman wrought thy ribs of steel, 
 Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
 What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
 In what a forge, and what a heat 
 Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 
 Fear not each sudden sound and shock. 
 
DEATH OF MRS. LONGFELLOW 183 
 
 'T is of the wave and not the rock : 
 
 'T is but the flapping of the sail, 
 
 And not a rent made by the gale ! 
 
 In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 
 
 In spite of false lights on the shore, 
 
 Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 
 
 Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 
 
 Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 
 
 Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 
 
 Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! " 
 
 The Building of the Ship. 
 
 The popularity of The Song of Hiawatha was re- 
 markable both here and in Europe. Its unusual subject, 
 the peculiar meter in which it is written, and the charm 
 of the whole poem attracted universal attention. 
 
 The Courtship of Miles Standish, a story of the early 
 Puritan days, became another general favorite. 
 
 At Commencement in 185-1, Longfellow resigned his 
 position as professor at Harvard College, much to the 
 regret of his pupils and the members of the faculty. 
 He did not leave, however, Avithout providing a suc- 
 cessor. At his suggestion, James Russell Lowell was 
 appointed. After his resignation from Harvard, Long- 
 fellow devoted all his time to literature. 
 
 On Tuesday, July 9, 1861, Mrs. Longfellow, while 
 making seals for the amusement of her youngest chil- 
 dren, was fatally burned, her dress catching fire from a 
 piece of burning wax. Though her husband hastened 
 to her rescue, and the best medical aid was summoned, 
 she died the following day. The poet was too severely 
 injured in trying to subdue the flames to be able to 
 attend the funeral. 
 
184 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 Longfellow never recovered from the shock of this 
 great sorrow. He became rapidly old, though he bore 
 his grief with manly reticence, never speaking of it 
 even to his intimate friends. This second marriage, 
 lasting for nearly twenty years, had been a period of 
 complete happiness. During it, five children had been 
 born to him, two sons and three daughters. 
 
 Longfellow devoted twenty-five years to the transla- 
 tion of the Divina Commedia by Dante, translating it 
 line by line. For many years, a few moments only in 
 the early, morning, while he was standing at his desk 
 waiting for his coffee to boil, was all the time he gave 
 to it. After the tragic death of his wife, he turned 
 to the work for solace. When it was published in 
 1867, it was pronounced by all scholars at home and 
 abroad as the best translation of the poem. 
 
 In May, 1868, Longfellow made his fourth visit to 
 Europe, remaining a little more than a year. On June 
 16, 1868, the university of Cambridge conferred upon 
 him the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws, amidst 
 great enthusiasm from students and guests. In Juty, 
 1869, the university of Oxford honored him with the 
 degree of Doctor of Civil Law. While in England in* 
 the summer of 1868, he visited Windsor Castle and 
 had an interview with Queen Victoria. After he left, 
 the queen paid the poet the following tribute : 
 
 "The American poet, Longfellow, has been here. T noticed 
 an unusual interest among the attendants and servants. I could 
 scarcely credit that they so generally understood who he was. 
 When he took leave, they concealed themselves in places from 
 which they could get a good look at him as lie passed. I have 
 
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 185 
 
 since inquired among them, and am surprised and pleased to 
 find that many of his poems are familiar to them. No other 
 distinguished person has come here that has excited so peculiar 
 an interest. Such poets wear a crown that is imperisllable. ,, 
 
 In Ballads and other Poems, The Village Blacksmith 
 appeared. It begins, 
 
 ' < Under a spreading chestnut tree 
 
 The village smithy stands ; 
 The smith, a mighty man is he, 
 
 With large and sinewy hands ; 
 And the muscles of his brawny arms 
 
 Are strong as iron bands. 1 ' 
 
 This " village smithy " under the " spreading chest- 
 nut tree " stood many years ago on Brattle street, 
 Cambridge. The tree was eventually cut down and 
 a dwelling house erected upon its site. From it was 
 made the armchair which was given to Longfellow on 
 his seventy-second birthday, February 27, 1879, by the 
 children of Cambridge. Around the seat in raised 
 German text are the lines : 
 
 " And children coming home from school 
 
 Look in at the open door ; 
 They love to see the flaming forge, 
 
 And hear the bellows roar, 
 And catch the burning sparks .that fly 
 
 Like chaff from a threshing-floor.'" 
 
 The beautiful poem, From My Armchair, was the 
 poet's response to the gift. The last verses are, 
 
 And thus, dear children, have ye made for me 
 This day a jubilee, 
 
 And to my more than threescore years and ten 
 Brought back my youth again. 
 
186 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 The heart hath its own memory, like the mind, 
 And in it are enshrined 
 
 The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought 
 The giver's loving thought. 
 
 Only your love and your remembrance could 
 Give life to this dead wood, 
 And make these branches, leafless now so long, 
 Blossom again in song.'" 
 
 The poet's last volume of poems was Ultima Thule, 
 published in 1880. His last public appearance occurred 
 in December of that year, at the celebration of the two 
 hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the founding of 
 Cambridge. A thousand grammar school children were 
 among the audience, and the poet gave his autograph 
 to every one of them who wished it. 
 
 In the summer of 1881, it became apparent to all 
 that Longfellow's health was failing. During the fol- 
 lowing year he was frequently ill. On March 18, 1882, 
 he received his last visitors, two Boston boys, who had 
 come to visit the poet and to see the Craigie House. 
 After his young guests had gone, he became seriously 
 ill. He died March 24, 1882, and he was buried in 
 Mount Auburn Cemetery. England has honored his 
 memory by placing a bust in the Poets' Corner in West- 
 minster Abbey. 
 
 An evidence of the popularity of Longfellow's poems 
 is the fact that they have been translated, wholly or in 
 part, into German, Dutch, Swedish, Norwegian, Danish, 
 Italian, Portuguese, Spanish, Polish, Russian, Hebrew, 
 Chinese, Japanese and Sanskrit. 
 
 In order to appreciate the literary services which Long- 
 
THE POET'S SERVICE TO LITERATURE 187 
 
 fellow rendered to this country, we must consider the 
 condition of American literature in 1825. The fact is 
 that a national literature hardly existed at that period. 
 Washington Irving was the only American writer who 
 had won any reputation at home and abroad. Cooper 
 was just gaining a little attention, William Cullen Bry- 
 ant was known to only a few, and Whittier, Holmes, 
 Emerson, Hawthorne and Poe were still unknown. 
 There were but few literary magazines, and their exis- 
 tence was uncertain and short-lived. The publishing 
 houses were few and small, and published principally 
 reprints of English works. " It will thus be seen that 
 American life was strangely prosaic ; and before it 
 could feel the glow of its own poetry it must know 
 something of the poetry of the past. This was Long- 
 | fellow's first service to his countrymen. ' He was a 
 1 mediator between the old and the new ; he translated 
 I the romance of the past into the language of universal 
 j life. Out of the closed volumes he gathered flowers 
 that lay pressed and dead and odorless ; he breathed into 
 them the breath of life, and they bloomed and were 
 fragrant again. He came to the past as the south winds 
 come to the woods in the spring ; and the trees put on 
 their leaves, and the earth its mosses, and the dell its 
 wild-flowers to greet him.' " 
 
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 1807-1892 
 
He loved his friends, forgave his foes ; 
 
 And, if his words were harsh at times. 
 He spared his f ellowmen, — his blows 
 
 Fell only on their crimes. 
 
 He loved the good and wise, but found 
 
 His human heart to all akin 
 Who met him on the common ground 
 
 Of suffering and of sin. 
 
 His eye was beauty's powerless slave, 
 And his the ear which discord pains ; 
 
 Few guessed beneath his aspect grave 
 What passions strove in chains. 
 
 He worshiped as his fathers did, 
 And kept the faith of childish days, 
 
 And, howsoe'er he strayed or slid, 
 He loved the good old ways. 
 
 But still his heart was full of awe 
 And reverence for all sacred things ; 
 
 And, brooding over form and law, 
 He saw the Spirit's wings. 
 
 My Namesake. 
 
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 I know not what the future hath 
 
 Of marvel or surprise, 
 Assured alone that life and death 
 
 His mercy underlies. 
 
 And if my heart and flesh are weak 
 
 To bear an untried pain, 
 The bruised reed he will not break, 
 
 But strengthen and sustain. 
 
 The Eternal Goodness. 
 
 Does it not seem strange that a farmer's son, living 
 in a lonely valley, shnt in from the onter world of cul- 
 ture and learning, with only the hills, the trees and the 
 sky for his teachers, should become one of our great 
 poets? Yet such was the case with John Greenleaf 
 Whittier. Brought up on a farm in the lonely country, 
 near no center of culture, having no advantages of edu- 
 cation, in an austere household where denial of pleasure 
 and obedience to duty was the law of his boyhood, with 
 only the Bible for his reading for many years, yet he 
 became the poet of New England and a foremost leader 
 in the great cause of humanity, the freeing of the 
 slaves. He not only sang of the beauty of the trees, 
 the hills and the lakeside, of the goodness and the wis- 
 dom of God, but his voice was raised in behalf of the 
 
 193 
 
194 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 slaves, and his manhood devoted to their emancipation. 
 Surely, he well deserves all his titles, — the Quaker 
 Poet, the poet of New England, the prophet bard, the 
 bard of a great historic time ! 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier was born December 17, 
 1807, in a lonely farmhouse in the valley of the Merri- 
 mac, about three miles northeast of Haverhill, Massa- 
 chusetts. This little town was settled in 1640, by 
 twelve men from Newbury and Ipswich. In a poem 
 written in 1890 for its two hundred and fiftieth anni- 
 versary, 1640-1890, Whittier gives its history in a 
 very interesting manner. 
 
 Gone steepled town and cultured plain, 
 
 The wilderness returns again, 
 
 The drear, untrodden solitude. 
 
 The gloom and mystery of the wood ! 
 
 Once more the bear and panther prowl, 
 The wolf repeats his hungry howl, 
 And, peering through his leafy screen 
 The Indian's copper face is seen. 
 
 We see, their rude-built huts beside, 
 Grave men and women anxious-eyed, 
 And wistful youth remembering still 
 Dear homes in Ens-land's Haverhill. 
 
 Slow from the plow the woods withdrew, 
 Slowly each year the corn-lands grew ; 
 Nor fire, nor frost, nor foe could kill 
 The Saxon energy of will. 
 
 And never in the hamlet's bound 
 Was lack of sturdy manhood found, 
 
HAVERHILL 195 
 
 And never failed the kindred good 
 Of brave and helpful womanhood. 
 
 That hamlet now a city is, 
 Its log-built huts are palaces ; 
 The wood-path of the settler's cow 
 Is Traffic's crowded highway now. 
 
 And far and wide it stretches still, 
 Along its southward sloping hill, 
 And overlooks on either hand 
 A rich and many-watered land. 
 
 And, gladdening all the landscape, fair 
 
 As Pison was to Eden's pair, 
 
 Our river to its valley brings 
 
 The blessings of its mountain springs. 
 
 Her sunsets on Kenoza fall, 
 Her autumn leaves by Saltonstall ; 
 No lavished gold can richer make 
 Her opulence of hill and lake. 
 
 Wise was the choice which led our sires 
 To kindle here their household fires, 
 And share the large content of all 
 Whose lines in pleasant places fall. 
 
 More dear, as years and years advance, 
 We prize the old inheritance, 
 And feel, as far and wide we roam, 
 That all we seek we leave at home. 
 
 Haverhill. 
 
 The first Whittier to come to this country was 
 Thomas " Whitier," the great-great-grandfather of our 
 poet. He came to America in 1638, and settled at 
 
196 JOHN GREENLEAF WH1TTIER 
 
 Salisbury, Massachusetts. He afterwards removed to 
 Newbury, and later to Haverhill. He was of Puritan 
 stock, but his sympathies were with the Quakers. His 
 youngest son, Joseph, married the daughter of the 
 well-known Quaker, John Peasley. As Whittier is 
 descended in a direct line from this branch of the fam- 
 ily, we see the reason for his being a Quaker, though 
 the Whittiers were originally Puritans. Whittier's 
 grandfather married Sarah Greenleaf after whom the 
 poet was named. He writes of her in a little poem 
 called The Home Coming of the Bride. 
 
 Sarah Greenleaf, of eighteen years, 
 
 Stepped lightly her bridegroom's boat within, 
 Waving mid-river, through smiles and tears, 
 
 A farewell back to her kith and kin. 
 With her sweet blue eyes and her new gold gown, 
 
 She sat by her stalwart lover's side — 
 Oh, never was brought to Haverhill town 
 
 By land or water so fair a bride. 
 Glad as the glad autumnal weather, 
 
 The Indian summer so soft and warm, 
 They walked through the golden woods together, 
 
 His arm the girdle about her form. 
 
 The Home Coming of the Bride. 
 
 Whittier's father married Abigail Hussey. The 
 Husseys were English. So much of the history of his 
 ancestors is necessary to show the stock from which he 
 was descended, for he was one of those who resisted 
 oppression and wrong, and fought heroically for truth. 
 The Quaker influence is shown in his sincerity, self- 
 abnegation and spiritual-mindedness.* 
 
198 JOHN G KEEN LEAF WHITTIEE 
 
 The house in which our poet was born was built 
 about 1688, by his great-great-grandfather, and remains 
 about the same as when built. It is more open to view 
 from the main road than it was when Whittier was 
 born, the woods about it having been extensively 
 cleared. The house, which is small and plain, was 
 formerly two stories in front, and sloped down to one 
 story in the back. This latter portion was raised and 
 the dwelling otherwise improved by the poet's father 
 in 1801. Since then, there has been some repairing 
 done which gives the old house a modern look, but 
 much of the original carpentry may be seen in the iron 
 door handles, latches and hinges, made more than two 
 centuries ago. The front door opens into a small entry, 
 from which a steep, narrow staircase leads to the rooms 
 above. On the left is the room where Whittier was 
 born, and on the right, the parlor where he wrote. The 
 small room above is the one he occupied when a boy. 
 A flight of stairs leads up to it from the kitchen. It is 
 this room he refers to in Snow-Bound, in the lines, 
 
 Within our beds awhile we heard 
 The wind that round the gables roared, 
 With now and then a ruder shock, 
 Which made our very bedsteads rock. 
 We heard the loosened clapboards tost, 
 The board-nails snapping in the frost; 
 And on us, through the unplastered wall, 
 Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall. 
 
 Snow-Bound. 
 
 Back of the house is the old orchard, and near it was! 
 the barn. Near the orchard rises a clump of oaks- 
 
 il 
 
 I 
 1 
 
THE OLD HOMESTEAD 199 
 
 where the Whittiers for many generations were buried. 
 The modern barn and other farm buildings are across 
 the road, opposite the house. A short distance along 
 the road is the Whittier elm. This elm is centuries 
 old. It is eighteen feet in diameter at the smallest 
 point, and casts a shadow at noon of one hundred feet 
 in diameter. Beyond that is the old Garrison house, 
 a place of refuge from the Indians, which the poet 
 describes in The Boy Captives. 
 
 The house faces the south, and between it and the 
 road rises a grassy knoll at the foot of which flows the 
 little brook mentioned in Snoiv-Bound and also in The 
 Barefoot Boy. 
 
 Laughed the brook for my delight 
 Through the day and through the night, 
 Whispering at the garden wall, 
 Talked with me from fall to fall. 
 
 The Barefoot Boy. 
 
 We minded that the sharpest ear 
 The buried brooklet could not hear, 
 The -music of whose liquid lip 
 Had' been to us companionship, 
 And, in our lonely life, had grown 
 To have an almost human tone. 
 
 Snow-Bound. 
 
 One of the pleasures of his boyhood was to go fishing 
 in this little brook with his brother and uncle Moses. 
 On this grassy slope was once a garden, and to the left 
 a tall well-sweep. It is now replaced by a pump. We 
 get a glimpse of all this in his Telling the Bees. 
 
200 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 Job's Hill, a knoll about three hundred feet high, is 
 not far distant from the farm. It was a favorite resort 
 of the boys and the cattle on the hot summer afternoons. 
 Among the cattle were two oxen, Buck and Old Butler, 
 which were great pets of the boys. They would sit on 
 the heads of the oxen as they lay in the grass, and rest 
 their arms on the oxen's horns as though they were arm- 
 chairs. A story is told of how Old Butler saved Whit- 
 tier's life at the risk of his own. One day, he was 
 bringing some salt for the oxen. Old Butler espied him, 
 and knowing what he had, started toward him with 
 long strides down the hillside. The earth was loose and 
 the incline very great. The ox was coming rapidly upon 
 the boy, and he could not stop himself. He would have 
 crushed him to death, but with a presence of mind that 
 was almost human, he leaped into the air over Whit- 
 tier's head, landing far below, but without injury. 
 
 On the road from Haverhill to the Whittier farm, 
 about a mile from the honse, is Kenoza lake, formerly 
 called Great Pond. In 1859, the shores were improved 
 for a park, and at its opening Whittier read the poem 
 which gave to it the Indian name of Kenoza, meaning 
 pickerel. 
 
 Lake of the pickerel ! — let no more 
 
 The echoes answer back, " Great Pond," 
 
 But sweet Kenoza, from thy shore 
 And watching hills beyond, 
 
 Let Indian ghosts, if such there be 
 Who ply unseen their shadowy lines, 
 
 Call back the ancient name to thee, 
 As with the voice of pines. 
 
SNOAV-BOUND 201 
 
 The shores we trod as barefoot boys, 
 
 The nutted woods we wandered through, 
 
 To friendship, love, and social joys 
 We consecrate anew. 
 
 In sunny South and prairied West 
 Are exiled hearts remembering- still, 
 
 As bees their hive, as birds their nest, 
 The homes of Haverhill. 
 
 Long be it ere the tide of trade 
 
 Shall break with harsh resounding din 
 
 The quiet of thy banks of shade, 
 And hills that fold thee in. 
 
 Still let thy woodlands hide the hare, 
 The shy loon sound his trumpet-note, 
 
 Wind-weary from his fields of air, 
 The wild goose on thee float. 
 
 Kenoza Lake. 
 
 The home circle consisted of father and mother, uncle 
 Moses, his father's brother, aunt Mercy, his mother's 
 sister, his sisters, Mary and Elizabeth, and his brother, 
 Matthew Franklin. In Snow-Bound, the poet gives a 
 beautiful picture of this home of his boyhood, portray- 
 ing with tender, loving words each member of the fire- 
 side group. 
 
 Shut in from all the world without, 
 We sat the clean-winged hearth about, 
 Content to let the north wind roar 
 In baffled rage at pane and door, 
 
202 JOHN GEEENLEAF WHITTIEE 
 
 While the red logs before us beat 
 The frost-line back with tropic heat ; 
 And ever, when a louder blast 
 Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 
 The merrier up its roaring- draught 
 The great throat of the chimney laughed. 
 
 We sped the time with stories old, 
 Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told. 
 
 Our mother, while she turned her wheel 
 Or run the new-knit stocking heel, 
 Told how the Indian hordes came down 
 At midnight on Cocheco town, 
 And how her own great-uncle bore 
 His cruel scalp mark to fourscore. 
 Recalling, in her fitting phrase, 
 So rich and picturesque and free, 
 (The common unrhymed poetry 
 Of simple life and country ways,) 
 The story of her early days. 
 
 Our uncle, innocent of books, 
 
 Was rich in lore of fields and brooks, 
 
 The ancient teachers never dumb 
 
 Of Nature's unhoused lyceum. 
 
 In moons and tides and weather wise, 
 
 He read the clouds as prophecies, 
 
 And foul or fair could well divine, 
 
 By many an occult hint and sign, 
 
 Holding the cunning-warded keys 
 
 To all the woodcraft mysteries ; 
 
 Himself to Nature's heart so near 
 
 That all her voices in his ear 
 
 Of beast or bird had meaning clear. 
 

204 JOHN GliEENLEAF WHITT1EH 
 
 Next, the dear aunt, whose smile of cheer 
 And voice in dreams I see and hear, — 
 The sweetest woman ever Fate 
 Perverse denied a household mate, 
 Who, lonely, homeless, not the less 
 Found peace in love's unselfishness, 
 And welcome wheresoe'er she went, 
 A calm and gracious element, 
 Whose presence seemed the sweet income 
 And womanly atmosphere of home. 
 
 There, too, our elder sister plied 
 Her evening task the stand beside ; 
 A full, rich nature, free to trust, 
 Truthful and almost sternry just, 
 Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act, 
 And make her generous thought a fact, 
 Keeping with many a light disguise 
 The secret of self-sacrifice. 
 
 As one who held herself a part 
 Of all she saw, and let her heart 
 
 Against the household bosom lean, 
 Upon the motley braided mat 
 Our youngest and our dearest sat, 
 Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, 
 
 Now bathed in the unfading green 
 And holy peace of paradise. 
 
 Brisk wielder of the birch and rule, 
 The master of the district school 
 Held at the fire his favored place, 
 Its w r arm glow lit a laughing face 
 Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared 
 The uncertain prophecy of beard. 
 
ANECDOTES 205 
 
 He teased the mitten-blinded cat, 
 Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat, 
 Sang songs, and told us what befalls 
 In classic Dartmouth's college halls. 
 
 So days went on : a week had passed 
 
 Since the great world was heard from last. 
 
 The Almanac we studied o'er, 
 
 Read and reread our little store 
 
 Of books and pamphlets, scarce a score. 
 
 At last the floundering carrier bore 
 
 The village paper to our door. 
 
 Lo ! broadening outward as we read, 
 
 To warmer zones the horizon spread, 
 
 In panoramic length unrolled 
 
 We saw the marvels that it told. 
 
 We felt the stir of hall and street, 
 The pulse of life that round us beat. 
 The chill embargo of the snow 
 Was melted in the genial glow ; 
 Wide swung again our ice-locked door, 
 And all the world was ours once more ! 
 
 Snow-Bound. 
 
 Very few anecdotes of Whittier's boyhood have 
 been preserved. In later years he himself related the 
 following incident to a friend. 
 
 When he was nine years old, President Monroe 
 visited Haverhill, and on the same day a circns pitched 
 its tents in the town. Whittier was not allowed to be 
 present at either event. He did not care so much 
 about the circus, but was bitterly disappointed at not 
 
206 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 seeing the president. The next day he trudged to 
 Haverhill, determined to see at least the footprints of 
 the great man. In the circus parade, there was an ele- 
 phant whose footprints were plainly visible in the road 
 over which the procession had passed. When Whittier 
 came to these, he was at once convinced that they 
 must be the footprints of President Monroe, the great- 
 est man in America, and he reverently followed them 
 as far as they could be traced. 
 
 One of his childish fears was of a gander, the leader 
 of a flock of geese that he and. his father met every 
 time they went on a certain journey. In going up hill, 
 the boy and his father would get out of the wagon and 
 walk. The gander would take this opportunity to run 
 after them, hissing and flapping his wings in a most 
 alarming manner. This used to frighten Whittier very 
 much, and he would have been glad to be safe in the 
 wagon, but he did not like to admit that he was afraid. 
 This stage of the journey was always greatly dreaded 
 by him. 
 
 Another experience of fear was with the Country 
 Bridge Ghost. This was a headless spirit which was 
 supposed to haunt the " Country Bridge." Upon being 
 dared by some of his playmates to run across this bridge 
 after sundown, Whittier promised not only to cross it, 
 but to call for the ghost to come forth. He kept his 
 promise, but when he approached the bridge fear over- 
 came his brave resolutions, and, although he called 
 loudly for the ghost, he ran so fast he never knew 
 whether it answered his summons or not. 
 
 Whittier went to school when he was seven years 
 
TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER 207 
 
 old. He had very little opportunity, however, for an 
 education, as the school term only lasted during the 
 three winter months and there was usually a new mas- 
 ter every term. At one time, the school was kept in a 
 private house, while the school-building was undergoing 
 repairs. The schoolmaster, who became his lifelong 
 friend, was Joshua Coffin. He tells us of this teacher 
 and these school days in his poem, To My Old School- 
 master. 
 
 Old friend, kind friend ! lightly down 
 Drop time's snow-flakes on thy crown ! 
 Never be thy shadow less, 
 Never fail thy cheerfulness. 
 
 I, the urchin unto whom, 
 In that smoked and dingy room, * 
 Where the district gave thee rule 
 O'er its ragged winter school, 
 Thou didst teach the mysteries 
 Of those weary A B C's, — 
 Where, to fill the every pause 
 Of thy wise and learned saws, 
 Through the cracked and crazy wall 
 Came the cradle-rock and squall, 
 And the goodman's voice, at strife 
 With his shrill and tipsy wife, — 
 Luring us by stories old, 
 With a comic unction told, 
 More than by the eloquence 
 Of terse birchen arguments 
 (Doubtful gain, I fear), to look 
 With complacence on a book ; — 
 
208 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 I, — the man of middle years, 
 In whose sable locks appears 
 
 Many a warning fleck of gray, 
 
 Looking back to that far day, 
 And thy primal lessons, feel 
 Grateful smiles my lips unseal, 
 As, remembering thee, I blend 
 Olden teacher, present friend. 
 
 To My Old Schoolmaster. 
 
 The site of the old schoolhouse where Whittier at- 
 tended school is marked by a wooden slab on a tall post 
 set back from the roadside. On it is written, " Here 
 Whittier went to school." The following description 
 of the schoolhouse is taken from In School Days : 
 
 Still sits the schoolhouse by the road 
 
 A ragged beggar sleeping ; 
 Around it still the sumachs grow, 
 
 And blackberry -vines are creeping. 
 
 Within, the master's desk is seen, 
 
 Deep scarred by raps official ; 
 The warping floor, the battered seats, 
 
 The jack-knife's carved initial ; 
 
 The charcoal frescos on its wall ; 
 
 Its door's Worn sill, betraying 
 The feet that, creeping slow to school, 
 
 Went storming out to playing ! 
 
 In School Days. 
 
 If there was little time or opportunity for education 
 at school, there was less at home, for here his reading 
 
THE BAREFOOT BOY 209 
 
 was still more limited. There were only twenty vol- 
 umes in the house and they were nearly all journals of 
 the pioneers of the Friends' Society. His reading in 
 those early days was mostly from the Bible. To this 
 constant Bible reading may be attributed the accurate 
 knowledge of Bible history so apparent in his poems. 
 Other reading consisted of the almanac and the vil- 
 lage weekly newspaper. 
 
 His boyhood was simple and uneventful. He at- 
 tended school when he could, worked on the farm or 
 helped his mother in the performance of her home du- 
 ties. Sometimes on Sundays, the boy would be taken 
 with his parents to the Friends' meeting-house. This 
 was at Amesbury, about eight miles distant from the 
 farm. The Whittiers made the journey in an old- 
 fashioned chaise, and when the boy was crowded out, 
 he would spend the day wandering in the woods, or on 
 the lake shore or climbing Job's Hill. In his poem, 
 The Barefoot Boy, Whittier describes himself in those 
 early days. 
 
 Blessings on thee, little man, 
 Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
 With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
 - And thy merry whistled times ; 
 With thy red lip, redder still 
 Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 
 With the sunshine on thy face, 
 Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; 
 From my heart I give thee joy, — 
 I was once a barefoot boy ! 
 
210 JOHN GEEENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 Oh for boyhood's painless play, 
 Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
 Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
 Knowledge never learned of schools, 
 Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
 Of the wild-flower's time and place, 
 Flight of fowl and habitude 
 Of the tenants of the wood ; 
 How the tortoise bears his shell, 
 How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
 And the gronnd-mole sinks his well ; 
 How the robin feeds her young, 
 How the oriole's nest is hung ; 
 Where the whitest lilies blow, 
 Where the freshest berries grow, 
 Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
 Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; 
 Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
 Mason of his walls of clay, 
 And the architectural plans 
 Of gray hornet artisans ! 
 For, eschewing books and tasks, 
 Nature answers all he asks ; 
 Hand in hand with her he walks, 
 Face to face with her he talks, 
 Part and parcel of her joy, — 
 Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 
 
 All too soon these feet must hide 
 In the prison cells of pride, 
 Lose the freedom of the sod, 
 Like a colt's for work be shod, 
 Made to tread the mills of toil, 
 Up and down in ceaseless moil : 
 Happy if their track be found 
 Never on forbidden ground ; 
 
BOYHOOD 211 
 
 Happy if they sink not in 
 Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
 Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
 Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 
 
 The Barefoot Boy. 
 
 So passed the lonely days of boyhood and youth on 
 the farm, free from all outside disturbances and in- 
 fluences, surrounded by the beauties of nature and the 
 pure moral atmosphere of his Quaker home. Very 
 little was heard from the outside world. Visits of 
 traveling Friends would occasionally break the monot- 
 ony of the home. Sometimes tramps would come to 
 the house, very often receiving a kindly welcome. The 
 visits of these beggars, or old stragglers as they were 
 then called, were events of considerable interest in 
 the lonely farm life. Many of them visited the farm 
 at regular intervals and became well known. In his 
 Yankee Gipsies, Whittier gives an interesting account 
 of these visitors. To one, a wandering Scotchman, he 
 owes his first knowledge of the poet Burns. This man 
 after eating his bread and cheese, and drinking his 
 cider, sang for them Bonnie Boon, Highland Mary and 
 Auld Lang Syne. The incident seems unimportant, yet 
 in the Quaker home, where music was not allowed, this 
 first introduction to the beautiful Scotch ballads opened 
 to the boy a new world. When he was fourteen years 
 old, his attention was again attracted to the Scotch poet. 
 His teacher, Joshua Coffin, brought to the house a vol- 
 ume of Burns's poems, from which he read, greatly to 
 the boy's delight. Whittier borrowed the book, taught 
 himself the dialect, and read and reread the poems. 
 
212 JOHN GKEENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 This was Whittier's first knowledge of poetry, and 
 it made a lasting impression upon him. The verses 
 awakened feeling and thought before unknown. During 
 the next few years, he tried to shape his own thoughts 
 in rhyme in imitation of Burns. These, however, were 
 not his first efforts, for when he was a boy of seven, he 
 used to write verses instead of doing his sums. Like 
 the plant closed within the dark cells of a seed, the 
 innate talent was there ; it only needed the poetry of 
 Burns to awaken it. In his poem, Burns, he speaks of 
 this first acquaintance with his poetry and of the older 
 poet's influence upon him, in a very beautiful manner. 
 
 Wild heather bells and Robert Burns ! 
 
 The moorland flower and peasant ! 
 How, at their mention, memory turns 
 
 Her pages old and pleasant ! 
 
 The gray sky wears again its gold 
 
 And purple of adorning, 
 And manhood's noonday shadows hold 
 
 The dews of boyhood's mornino-. 
 
 I call to mind the summer day, 
 The early harvest mowing, 
 
 The sky with sun and clouds at play, 
 And flowers with breezes blowing. 
 
 How oft that day, with fond delay, 
 I sought the maple's shadow, 
 
 And sang with Burns the hours away, 
 Forgetful of the meadow ! 
 
BURNS 213 
 
 Sweet clay, sweet songs ! The golden hours 
 Grew brighter for that singing, 
 
 © © O ' 
 
 From brook and bird and meadow flowers 
 
 A dearer welcome bringing:. 
 
 © © 
 
 New light on home-seen Nature beamed, 
 
 New glory over Woman ; 
 And daily life and duty seemed 
 
 No longer poor and common. 
 
 I woke to find the simple truth 
 
 Of fact and feeling better 
 Than all the dreams that held my youth 
 
 A still repining debtor : 
 
 With clearer eyes I saw the worth 
 Of life among the lowly ; 
 
 The Bible at his Cotter's hearth 
 Had made my own more holy. 
 
 Through all his tuneful art, how strong 
 
 The human feeling gushes ! 
 The very moonlight of his song 
 
 Is warm with smiles and blushes ! 
 
 Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, 
 
 So " Bonnie Doon " but tarry ; 
 Blot out the Epic's stately rhyme, 
 
 But spare his Highland Mary. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 During this period, William Lloyd Garrison, who was 
 only three years older than Whittier, was writing for 
 the Newburyport Herald. He was the great abolition- 
 ist that awakened the national conscience to the sin of 
 
214 JOHN G KEEN LEAF WHITTIER 
 
 slavery. In 1826, he established The Free Press, to 
 which the Whittier family subscribed. In this paper, 
 in 1826, appeared Whittier' s first published poem, The 
 Exile's Departure. The poem had been sent to the 
 paper by his sister Mary without his knowledge. One 
 summer day, while he was mending fences with some 
 of the older members of the family, the postman came 
 along and, taking a copy of The Free Press from the 
 saddle-bags, threw it to them. Whittier took the 
 paper, opened it, saw his poem in the poet's corner, 
 and read his lines with delight again and again, all 
 work being forgotten for the time. So began his career 
 as a poet. 
 
 Shortly after the publication of this poem, while 
 working in the fields one day, word was brought to 
 Whittier that a stranger had driven to the house and 
 had asked for him. As visitors were very unusual, the 
 boy was much astonished. He hesitated about seeing 
 his caller, but his sister induced him to appear. He 
 entered the house by the back door that he might dress 
 properly before he presented himself to the stranger, 
 who proved to be Garrison, the young and enthusiastic 
 editor of The Free Press. His sister Mary had revealed 
 the authorship of The Exile's Departure to Garrison, 
 and he had come out to the farm on a friendly visit of 
 encouragement. This was the first meeting of the two 
 young men, and the beginning of that life-long friend- 
 ship which had, upon Whittier at least, such a strong 
 influence. In a poem written some years after this 
 first meeting, in 1833, Whittier expresses his love for 
 Garrison. 
 
WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON 215 
 
 I love thee with a brother's love, 
 
 I feel my pulses thrill, 
 To mark thy spirit soar above 
 
 The cloud of human ill. 
 My heart hath leaped to answer thine, 
 
 And echo back thy words, 
 As leaps the warrior's at the shine 
 
 And flash of kindred swords ! 
 
 Have I not known thee well, and read 
 
 Thy mighty purpose long ? 
 And watched the trials which have made 
 
 Thy human spirit strong ? 
 And shall the slanderer's demon breath 
 
 Avail with one like me, 
 To dim the sunshine of my faith 
 
 And earnest trust in thee ? 
 
 To William Lloyd Garrison. 
 
 The words of praise and encouragement from Garri- 
 son made a deep impression on the young poet, and had 
 great weight with his family. Garrison spoke to the 
 boy's father about his ability, and advised and urged 
 his being better educated. Though the family were 
 well-to-do farmers for that period, still there was no 
 money that could be used for the boy's education, so it 
 did not seem possible at first to act upon the advice. 
 However, a way was found, and that through the boy's 
 own effort. One of the helpers on the farm, who made 
 ladies' shoes during the winter months, offered to teach 
 Whittier the trade. The offer was eagerly accepted. 
 During the next winter, Whittier earned enough money, 
 making ladies' slippers at twenty-five cents a pair, to 
 
216 JOHN GBEENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 pay for six months' schooling, board and a snit of 
 clothes. He calculated the cost so closely and lived 
 so economically that at the end of six months, he had 
 just twenty-five cents left. 
 
 In April, 1827, when he was in his twentieth year, 
 Whittier went to the Academy at Haverhill. As the 
 academy was just opened and in a new building, there 
 was a formal dedication for which Whittier wrote an 
 ode that was sung. He remained in Haverhill six 
 months, leaving every Friday to spend Saturday and 
 Sunday at home. His regular studies were the ordi- 
 nary English branches but he also took lessons in 
 French. His work in prose composition was surpris- 
 ingly good from the first, and he immediately estab- 
 lished a good record in all his work. His standing at 
 school, the fact that he had written a hymn for the open- 
 ing of the Academy, and had had some verses printed, 
 attracted a great deal of attention to him and made him 
 quite a person of distinction in the town of . Haverhill. 
 
 He is described at that period as being tall, slight, 
 erect, very handsome and distinguished-looking, with re- 
 markably beautiful eyes. He was very shy, grave, and 
 quiet in manner, but there was an undercurrent of fun 
 and wit also. He was always extremely courteous, and 
 had a keen sense of truth and justice. Then, as always, 
 he was much loved by children. In later years, when 
 he had his home at Amesbury and at Oak Knoll, Dan- 
 vers, Massachusetts, he had many friends among the 
 little ones. He was often spoken of by the children of 
 Amesbury as " the man who owns the parrot." The 
 parrot, called Charlie, had belonged to his sister Mary. 
 
OAK KNOLL 
 
 217 
 
 When she died he took care of it. It was a great talker, 
 and would often even after having been well fed, say 
 again and again, " What does Charlie want ? " This 
 bird and its oft repeated question became the subject 
 of a poem entitled The Common Question. 
 
 Med Hiding Hood is a poem about a little girl friend, 
 
 OAK KNOLL, DANVERS, MASSACHUSETTS 
 
 who, clad in her red cloak, went out on the snow-cov- 
 ered lawn and fed the blue jays and the squirrels with 
 nuts and corn. 
 
 At Oak Knoll, Whittier had another dear little friend 
 named Phoebe. She considered him her especial play- 
 fellow. One day, after romping with her, he said, " She 
 is seventy, I am seven, and we both act like sixty." 
 
218 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEE 
 
 At the close of his first term, the autumn of 1827, 
 Whittier had his first and only experience as a teacher. 
 He taught the district school at Amesbury during the 
 following winter. In the spring, he returned to the 
 Academy and passed another six months in study. 
 
 While in Haverhill, Whittier boarded with Mr. A. 
 W. Thayer, the editor and publisher of The Haverhill 
 Gazette. As early as 1828, he wrote poems for this 
 paper, and continued his contributions for nearly forty 
 years. 
 
 In the autumn of 1828, Whittier obtained a place as 
 a regular writer for The American Manufacturer of Bos- 
 ton. This position had been obtained for him by Gar- 
 rison, who, his Free Press being a failure, had gone to 
 Boston and established The National Philanthropist. As 
 Whictier's salary w T as very small and his help needed 
 on the farm, he returned to his home in the early sum- 
 mer of 1829 and remained there until the summer of 
 1830. 
 
 During the years from 1830 to 183 % -Whittier did r 
 great deal of writing both in prose an< . verse for the 
 different papers of that period. Though many of the 
 pieces are not of value in themselves, s ^ the constant 
 writing was excellent practice. During this period, he 
 edited The Haverhill Gazette, and The New England 
 Review of Hartford for a year and half. Of th 
 many poems published in the review, i retained only 
 three in the later editions of his works : $he Frost Spirit 
 The City of the Plain, The Vaudois Teacher. The las 
 poem was translated many years ag In :o French, and 
 was believed by the Protestants of jie lower Alps to 
 
CAREER AS EDITOR 219 
 
 be an original French poem. When the people learned 
 that it was written by an American, at a general as- 
 semblage of their churches, an affectionate address was 
 sent to Whittier. 
 
 After Whittier became editor of the Review, he spent 
 part of the time in Hartford, and part at the farm on 
 account of his father's failing health. His father died 
 in June, 1831. Whittier then went to Hartford for a 
 short period, leaving his mother and sisters in charge of 
 the farm. His own want of health, however, forced 
 him to give up the newspaper drudgery in January, 
 1832, and to return again to the farm where he re- 
 mained during the year. 
 
 In February, 1831, he published a volume called 
 New England Legends in Prose and Verse. 
 
 After his return from Hartford, Whittier thought 
 long upon the question of slavery, its contradiction to 
 free institutions in a free country and to all .Christian 
 teachings. A*ter having studied the subject long and 
 thoughtfully, ) i printed, in 1833, a pamphlet on slavery 
 and abolition. For many years after this, his pen was 
 never idle, and his writings in prose and verse were de- 
 voted to the F ;; irpose of freeing the slaves. 
 
 An anti-slavery society was formed in Haverhill in 
 April, 1 834, < 1 which Whittier was made secretary. 
 In 1835 he s elected to the state legislature, and 
 this, with the exception of once being a presidential 
 elector, was tl only political position he held, his ad- 
 vocacy of abolition tending to make him unpopular 
 with many. ' \ 
 
 As Whittier ct /oted his life more and more to the 
 
220 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 cause of freedom and the brotherhood of man, his life 
 became more closely linked with that of Garrison's, and 
 both are part of the history of that great moral struggle, 
 the effort to awaken the conscience of the people to 
 the sin of slavery, which preceded the Civil War. Gar- 
 rison believed that the three great evils to be attacked 
 were slavery, war and intemperance. As the years 
 passed by, Whittier sacrificed all possible ease and leis- 
 ure,, the companionship of scholars and all prospect of 
 literary renown, yielding more and more to the influence 
 of Garrison, with whom he stood unswervingly for truth 
 and freedom. His poem on Sumner may well be applied 
 to himself as he started on his career as an abolitionist. 
 
 In referring in after years to this period of his life, 
 Whittier says, " I had thrown myself with a young 
 man's fervid enthusiasm into a movement which com- 
 mended itself to my reason and conscience, to my love 
 of country, and my sense of duty to God and my fellow- 
 men." 
 
 From the time of his father's death in 1831, until 
 1837, Whittier managed the farm, sometimes engaging 
 help, but always doing a good share of the work him- 
 self. The income, as usual, was very small, so every 
 farm product was used either in the house or given in 
 exchange for other things that were needed. In the 
 autumn he would drive his team to Rock Bridge on 
 the Merrimac, carrying vegetables and apples to be ex- 
 changed for salt fish. It was a life of toil and hardship, 
 a struggle with poverty, but a strong will and a cheer- 
 ful and contented mind lightened the burden. Though 
 he wrote much, it was for a cause that had but few 
 
CONTINUED STRUGGLES 221 
 
 followers, so his income from that source ivas but 
 slight. In 1836, he again became the editor of the 
 Gazette in Haverhill, but he gave it up in a few months. 
 
 In 1837, Whittier went to Philadelphia to write for 
 The Pennsylvania Freeman, a paper devoted to the anti- 
 slavery cause, of which he became the editor in 1838. 
 The office of the Freeman, which was in Pennsylvania 
 Hall, was sacked and burned by a mob in May, 1838, 
 the entire building being destroyed. Whittier resigned 
 this editorship in March, 1810, and left Philadelphia 
 the following May. 
 
 The old homestead was sold in 1810, and the family, 
 consisting of mother, aunt, and younger sister, moved 
 to Amesbury. Here Whittier joined them on his re- 
 turn from Philadelphia. He made this his legal resi- 
 dence, though he spent much of his time during the 
 last few years of his life at Oak Knoll, Danvers, Mas- 
 sachusetts. 
 
 Whittier's life, from the time he moved to Amesbury. 
 was uneventful. For five years or more following this 
 removal, he was earnestly engaged in working for the 
 anti-slavery cause. It was done in straitened circum- 
 stances, for he had to depend on his writings for sup- 
 port. His standing as a great poet had not yet been 
 established, and the fact that he was an abolitionist was 
 sufficient to exclude his writings from many magazines 
 and newspapers. He wrote constantly, however, for 
 those papers that sympathized with his views, and fre- 
 quently went from town to town trying to create a feel- 
 ing against slavery. The one break in his residence in 
 Amesbury was the six months that he lived in Lowell, 
 
222 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 while writing for The Middlesex Standard. Some of 
 these articles were afterwards reprinted under the title 
 The Stranger in Lowell. 
 
 The home circle gradually narrowed. His sister 
 Mary had been married some years before to Mr. Jacob 
 Caldwell who once was publisher of the Haverhill 
 G-azette. She died in 1861. His aunt, Mercy Hussey, 
 died in the spring of 1846. His mother lived until 
 1857. She had the happiness of seeing her son prop- 
 erly appreciated as a poet. 
 
 Whittier speaks thus tenderly of his mother : " All 
 that the sacred word mother means in its broadest and 
 fullest significance, our mother was to us — a friend, 
 counselor, companion, ever loving, gentle and unself- 
 ish." 
 
 His sister Elizabeth was his closest and most sympa- 
 thetic companion. Her death occurred in 1864. She 
 was, like her brother, an active worker in the anti-sla- 
 very cause, and bore, with him, with grave patience the 
 insults of riotous mobs. As her nature was retiring, 
 she took but little part in public demonstrations. She 
 wrote poetry from her fifteenth year, and her poems are 
 full of tender feeling and reveal her spiritual nature. 
 In Hazel Blossoms, Whittier has printed a few of her 
 poems. He exercised, however, as much severity of 
 judgment in making the selections as he did in regard 
 to his own works. As a result, many of her poems 
 which were well worth reprinting, can only be found 
 in the periodicals where they first appeared. It was 
 of this sister that he wrote in The Tent on the 
 Beach, 
 
LAYS OF MY HOME 22'3 
 
 " the dear 
 Memory of one who might have tuned my song 
 To sweeter music by her delicate ear." 
 
 The first volume of poems for which Whittier re- 
 ceived any remuneration was the one published in 1843, 
 entitled Lays of my Home and Other Poems. This little 
 book contained poems that have become great favor- 
 ites. In this collection, the poet gives glimpses of him- 
 self and of his friends. He paints charming pictures 
 of the beautiful Merrimac and the scenery of the river- 
 valley. 
 
 In order to fully understand and rightly value Whit- 
 tier's position in the group of America's great poets, 
 close study and a complete knowledge of the great 
 moral conflict for the freedom of the slaves is neces- 
 sary. The desire to abolish slavery in the United 
 States was not one that united the entire North against 
 the entire South. The small party of men and women 
 who looked upon slavery within the boundaries of a 
 free country as a national disgrace and contrary to all 
 Christian teaching, also had opposed to them a large 
 part of the North itself. Even the churches forgot 
 the teachings of Christ and the brotherhood of man. 
 Some clergymen actually preached in defense of the 
 slaveholder. When Garrison attacked them with quo- 
 tations from the Scriptures, he was called an infidel. 
 After awhile these friends of the slave were looked 
 upon as a distinct sect, and were separated from reli- 
 gious bodies as rigorously as were the first Quakers. 
 The abolitionists were everywhere insulted, their public 
 meetings mobbed, and their places of meeting burned to 
 
224 JOHN GkEENLEAF WHITTIEk 
 
 the ground by their Northern neighbors. The criminal 
 laws were consulted to find excuse for their arrest and 
 imprisonment, juries were urged to indict them, and 
 governors of states offered rewards for their heads. 
 These persecutions not only occurred in the large cities, 
 but even in the small towns of such a state as Massa- 
 chusetts. This malicious feeling was displayed not 
 merely by the low, ignorant classes, but by the cultured, 
 educated and wealthy. As we look back upon that 
 period, we are shocked at the outrages committed 
 against these brave workers for truth and freedom. 
 
 This treatment did not turn Whittier from his pur- 
 pose. He had been brought up in a home where duty 
 to God and to man was the principal influence. He 
 became a most earnest worker, and of all our poets did 
 the most for abolition. From 1832 to the close of the 
 war in 1865, his peri was always busy. Every impor- 
 tant event connected with that long and dreadful contest 
 brought forth from his heart poems that are strong, in- 
 spiring, arousing. That they fulfilled their mission 
 there is little doubt. They had a wide circulation, and 
 were read in % the schools and in the homes. They 
 reached the hearts of the people. When the final 
 struggle, the Civil War, came, the result of the work 
 of Whittier and that small band of abolitionists was 
 seen by the loyal response to arms. Their earnest and 
 constant endeavors also made the Emancipation Proc- 
 lamation possible. 
 
 As poetry was a means not an end with Whittier, as 
 his purpose was to reach the heart and conscience of 
 men, the anti-slavery poems are not as remarkable for 
 
ANTISLAVERY POEMS 225 
 
 beauty of thought and form as are those relating to other 
 incidents and calmer periods of his life. If his censure 
 seemed harsh and severe at times, it was because he felt 
 so keenly the importance of the occasion and the hour. 
 These poems were written at the call of duty, and they 
 are an earnest and eloquent protest against slavery. 
 They are strong, religious, hopeful. Being associated 
 with his toils and triumphs, they show his inmost feel- 
 ings when most deeply touched. 
 
 The poems of this group are numerous. It is diffi- 
 cult to trace all to their first publication. Many of 
 them, however, were printed in The Liberator, The 
 Emancipator, The Anti-slavery Standard, The Haverhill 
 Gazette and The National Era. In the latest edition 
 of Whittier's works, they are to be found under the 
 headings of Anti-slavery Poems, In War Time and 
 After the War. 
 
 The poem, Expostulation, was called forth by a 
 speech of a German patriot, Dr. Charles Follen. In 
 his speech he condemned in eloquent language the 
 crime of a free country holding men in bondage. The 
 poem is strong, forcible, almost harsh. 
 
 Hunters of Men is a protest against the action of the 
 American Colonization Society whose plan was that 
 the free blacks should be sent to Africa, and that there 
 should be no emancipation unless the negroes were sent 
 out of the country immediately upon obtaining their 
 freedom. 
 
 Stanzas for the Times refers to a proslavery meeting 
 in Faneuil Hall, the so-called " Cradle of Liberty." 
 At this meeting, a demand was made for the suppression 
 
226 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 of free speech, for it was claimed it would interfere 
 with the interests of commerce. 
 
 At a meeting of the General Association of Congre- 
 gational Ministers of Massachusetts in 1837, a pastoral 
 letter was sent to the churches under its care. Its 
 purpose was to discourage all discussion, especially the 
 public speaking of women, upon the subject of slavery. 
 This letter was aimed principally against Sarah and 
 Angelina Grimke, two women of Carolina, who had 
 been slave-owners, but had become staunch defenders 
 of freedom. Whittier's reply, The Pastoral Letter, is 
 filled with sarcasm and indignation. 
 
 Texas, To Faneuil Hall, To Massachusetts, The 
 Pine Tree, To a Southern Statesman and At Washing- 
 ton are all poems in which Whittier expresses the 
 intense feeling of the anti-slavery party concerning the 
 annexation of Texas, for the friends of slavery held that 
 the new territory was large enough to form six slave 
 states. The first poem was written at the suggestion 
 of Lowell, who appealed to Whittier to " cry aloud and 
 spare not against the accursed plot." 
 
 The first real, encouragement which the abolitionists 
 received was the formation in 1848 of a national anti- 
 slavery party. This party was led by Martin Van 
 Buren. The great joy felt by the abolitionists over 
 this event was beautifully expressed by Whittier in 
 the Pwan. 
 
 The Crisis relates to the terms of the treaty of peace 
 with Mexico. A Sabbath Scene was called forth by the 
 eagerness with which the clergymen, even of the North, 
 urged the enforcement of the Fugitive Slave Law. 
 
AN OPPONENT OF WAR 227 
 
 The Kansas Emigrants, For Righteousness' Sake, A 
 Letter and Burial of Barbour are poems which refer to 
 the settlement of Kansas and the conflicts which took 
 place between the antislavery and the proslavery 
 settlers. The Kansas Emigrants was sent to the first 
 company of settlers as they started upon their journey 
 across the prairies. It was sung by them when they 
 started, it was sung by them during their journey, it 
 was sung in their new homes. 
 
 The poems written during the Civil War, In War 
 Time, are few and full of sadness and anxiety. A 
 Quaker, the friend of peace, could hardly Avrite war 
 poems. The idea of war was most abhorrent to 
 Whittier. To him, it was only murder. He did not 
 favor forcing the South by war to free the slaves. His 
 feeling on this subject is plainly expressed in the poem, 
 A Word for the Hour. 
 
 To John 0. Fremont refers to an incident that 
 occurred during the early part of the war. Fremont 
 had charge of the army of the West. A number of 
 slaves came into his lines whom he proclaimed free. 
 President Lincoln annulled his proclamation and later 
 relieved Fremont of his command. 
 
 During this period of strife and suspense, Whittier's 
 reliance and trust in the Power that makes for right- 
 eousness, will be seen in Thy Will Be Done, The 
 Battle Autumn of 1862, The Watchers, and Ein Feste 
 Burg ist Unser G-ott. 
 
 Barbara Frietehie is the only romantic ballad in this 
 group of poems. 
 
 Laus Deo is a beautiful poem full of gratitude for 
 
228 JOHN GREENLEAF WH1TTIER 
 
 the abolition of slavery by the constitutional amend- 
 ment. Its ratification by the states was announced 
 December 18, 1865. Whittier sat in the Friends' 
 meeting-house in Amesbury when the good news was 
 proclaimed by the ringing of bells. The poem " wrote 
 itself, or rather sang itself, as the bells rang," for he 
 recited a portion of it to some associates before it was 
 written. 
 
 It is done ! 
 Clang of bell and roar of gun 
 Send the tidings up and down. 
 
 How the belfries rock and reel ! 
 How r the great guns, peal on peal, 
 Fling the joy from town to town ! 
 
 Ring, O bells ! 
 
 Every stroke exulting tells 
 Of the burial hour of crime. 
 
 Loud and long, that all may hear, 
 
 Ring for every listening ear 
 Of Eternity and Time ! 
 
 Let us kneel : 
 God's own voice is in that peal, 
 
 And this spot is holy ground. 
 
 Lord, forgive us ! What are we, 
 That our eyes this glory see, 
 
 That our ears have heard the sound ! 
 
 It is done ! 
 In the circuit of the sun 
 
 Shall the sound thereof go forth. 
 It shall bid the sad rejoice, 
 It shall give the dumb a voice, 
 
 It shall belt with joy the earth ! 
 
ICHABOD 229 
 
 Ring and swing, 
 Bells of joy ! On morning's wing- 
 Send the song of praise abroad ! 
 With a sound of broken chains 
 Tell the nations that He reigns, 
 Who alone is Lord and God ! 
 
 Laus Deo. 
 
 The Peace Autumn in After the War expresses the 
 same spirit of glad thankfulness. 
 
 Among the group of personal poems which bear upon 
 the anti-slavery struggle are two of unusual interest. 
 Brotvn of Ossawatomie relates to John Brown's kiss- 
 ing the child of a slave mother when he . was being 
 led on his way to his execution. Ichabod, meaning the 
 glory has departed, refers to the great conciliatory 
 speech of Daniel Webster in March, 1850. The result 
 of this speech was the passage of the Fugitive Slave 
 Law. The poem is strong and beautiful, and was writ- 
 ten more in grief than in anger over the loss of a great 
 leader, and his descent from the high position which he 
 had previously held. Some years after, Whittier ex- 
 pressed in The Lost Occasion the same grief and 
 regret, but in milder language. At the time of the 
 writing of Ichabod, remembering the great cause at 
 stake, none but the strongest language seemed possible 
 to the poet. Ichabod is equaled by no other poem of 
 the same nature in the English language. 
 
 In the history of no other conflict for human rights 
 do we find poems that make such a direct appeal to the 
 heart, conscience, honor and valor of man. Bryant, 
 Longfellow and Emerson gave aid with timely words 
 and the influence of their names to the cause of free- 
 
230 JOHN GREEN LEAF WHITT1ER 
 
 dom. Lowell employed all his sarcasm and wit in its 
 behalf, but Whittier seemed to live for no other pur- 
 pose than to sound the call to duty, duty to God and 
 man. At the celebration of the thirtieth anniversary 
 of the founding of the American Anti-slavery Society, 
 Garrison, who presided, made an impressive speech in 
 which he referred to the services Whittier had rendered 
 to the cause. He said, " I have no words to express 
 my sense of the value of his services. There are few 
 living who have done so much to operate upon the 
 public mind and conscience and heart of our country 
 for the abolition of slavery as John Greenleaf Whittier." 
 Ill health prevented Whittier from attending this 
 gathering. In his letter of congratulation, he says, " I 
 set a higher value on my name as appended to the anti- 
 slavery declaration of 1833 than on the title page of 
 any book. Looking over a life marked by many errors 
 and shortcomings, I rejoice that I have been able to 
 maintain the pledge of that signature, and that in the 
 long intervening years, 
 
 'My voice, though not the loudest, has been heard 
 Wherever Freedom raised her cry of pain.'" 
 
 In reading carefully Whittier's poems, it will be 
 seen that all of suffering humanity appealed to him. 
 He dwells upon the wrongs of the Indian, protests 
 against capital punishment, and expresses his sympathy 
 for the prisoner for debt. 
 
 Whittier's writing was not confined wholly to poetry. 
 Much excellent prose came from his pen, but it did not 
 make the deep and lasting impression that his poems 
 
PROSE WRITINGS 231 
 
 have made. Among the most interesting of his prose 
 works are Literary Recreations, Old Portraits, a collec- 
 tion of biographical sketches, and Margaret Smith's 
 Journal, which is considered his best effort. 
 
 In 1857, when Whittier had reached his fiftieth year, 
 a complete edition of his poems was published. He 
 had already won his position in literature. He was 
 well known as a man with high moral ideals, and his 
 place among the great poets was established. The same 
 year The Atlantic Monthly was organized, and he was 
 invited to be one of its contributors with Longfellow, 
 Lowell, Emerson and Holmes. The Atlantic was the 
 first magazine of high rank which considered the great 
 moral question of the day. In fact, it discussed all 
 moral and political questions with the greatest freedom. 
 Whittier's poems during the first few years were largely 
 upon general subjects, for he left the discussion of all 
 grave questions to the editors. 
 
 The contributors to the Atlantic would meet socially 
 once a month, but as Whittier's health was feeble, the 
 result of his years of privations and hard toil, he rarely 
 attended these meetings. In this way, he was deprived 
 of the pleasure of interchanging thoughts and opinions 
 with his literary associates. His increasing ill health 
 forced him to a life of seclusion, and as the years passed 
 on, the publication of a poem became the only event in 
 his life. 
 
 In 1860, appeared another volume of poems, Home 
 Ballads, Poems and Lyrics. Among the poems were 
 Kenoza Lake, Brown of Ossawatomie and Telling the 
 Bees. This last poem refers to a custom in New Eng- 
 
232 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 land of telling the bees when a death occurred in a 
 family, and of draping their hives in mourning, to pre- 
 vent their seeking a new home. It is a very beautiful 
 idyl. All the bits of description in it are pictures of 
 the old homestead of his childhood. 
 
 Snow-Bound was published in 1866. It is a true and 
 very charming description of country life in New Eng- 
 land in the days of Whittier's boyhood. Parts of it 
 were quoted in describing the poet's home circle, but 
 the whole poem should be studied in order to under- 
 stand its full beauty. It is the very best expression of 
 Whittier's poetic ability. It immediately became a 
 very great favorite, and added much to Whittier's fame. 
 In it, he refers with sadness to the changes that Time 
 had wrought in that fireside group. 
 
 O Time and Change ! — with hair as gray 
 
 As was my sire's that winter day, 
 
 How strange it seems, with so much gone 
 
 Of life and love, to still live on ! 
 
 Ah, brother! only I and thou 
 
 Are left of all that circle now. 
 
 Snow-Bou?id. 
 
 His brother, Matthew Franklin, died in Boston, Janu- 
 ary 7, 1883. When this brother was a baby, and his 
 parents were talking about naming him, Whittier, then 
 a little fellow, suggested that as his name was Green- 
 leaf, his brother's name should be Peachleaf. 
 
 The Tent on the Beach and Other Poems appeared in 
 1867. It is the story of the poet, and his two friends, 
 Bayard Taylor and James T. Fields, camping on Salis- 
 bury beach, and telling stories of old times. The in- 
 
THE ETERNAL GOODNESS 233 
 
 troduction is saddened by the memory of his sister's 
 death, and he tells us, too, to think of his " enforced 
 leisure of slow pain." Among the occasional poems in 
 this volume are Our Master and The Eternal Goodness 
 which are marked by deep religious feeling. The latter 
 poem is a full expression of Whittier's creed. 
 
 I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground 
 
 Ye tread with boldness shod ; 
 1 dare not fix with mete and bound 
 
 The love and power of God. 
 
 Ye praise His justice ; even such 
 
 His pitying love I deem : 
 Ye seek a king; I fain would touch 
 
 The robe that hath no seam. 
 
 The wrong that pains my soul below 
 
 1 dare not throne above : 
 ] know not of His hate, — 1 know 
 
 His goodness and His love. 
 
 I dimly guess from blessings known 
 
 Of greater out of sight. 
 And, with the chastened Psalmist, own 
 
 His judgments too are right. 
 
 The Eternal Goodness. 
 
 In School Days, from which we have quoted a de- 
 scription of the schoolhouse, was published in 1870. 
 It is a charming story of an incident in his friendship 
 with a little girl classmate. 
 
 Among the purely^ personal poems is My Triumph. 
 In it, Whittier shows how indifferent he is to praise 
 or fame ; that he thinks only of the good that has been 
 done and of that which still can be accomplished. 
 
234 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 Hazel Blossoms was published in 1875 when Whittier 
 was sixty-eight years old. The principal poem in this 
 collection is the one to Charles Sumner, who died in 
 1874. The poem was due to the poet's feeling of 
 sincere friendsship and deep admiration for Sumner's 
 career. It is a long poem of fifty verses, and shows 
 careful study. It is a just and fine tribute to a Northern 
 statesman who was intellectual, faithful, persistent and 
 brave, and whose career was spotless. In this volume 
 are a small number of his sister Elizabeth's poems. 
 
 On December 17, 1877, the publishers of The Atlan- 
 tic Monthly gave a dinner in honor of Whittier' s seven- 
 tieth birthday. Among the men of eminence present 
 were Emerson, Longfellow and Holmes. All contrib- 
 uted words of praise in prose and verse. Emerson, 
 instead of reading a poem of his own, paid Whittier 
 the greater compliment of reading Iehabod. Whittier s 
 seventieth birthday was not only celebrated by the 
 publishers of The Atlantic Monthly in Boston, but 
 magazines, newspapers, authors and a host of others 
 remembered it with kind words and congratulations, — 
 so warm a place had he won in the hearts of the people. 
 
 In 1878, appeared At Eventide, which in many ways 
 is a summary of Whittier's own life. 
 
 The Lost Occasion, to which we have already referred, 
 was one of a collection of poems that was published in 
 1881. 
 
 At Sundown appeared in 1890, when Whittier was 
 eighty years old. It was printed only for his friends 
 and was sent to them on his birthday. The affectionate 
 dedication is to Edmund Clarence Stedman. In a re- 
 
LAST WRITINGS 235 
 
 print of these poems, their number has been increased 
 and contains his last writing, To Oliver Wendell 
 Holmes, which Whittier sent to his friend on his eighty- 
 third birthday. It is dated August 29, 1892, only nine 
 days before Whittier died. It shows his brave and 
 cheerful spirit, and his fine appreciation of his friend, 
 whose work was quite different from his own. 
 
 Among the thousands who with hail and cheer 
 
 AVill welcome thy new year, 
 How few of all have passed, as thou and I, 
 
 So many milestones by ! 
 
 We have grown old together ; we have seen 
 
 Our youth and age between. 
 Two generations leave us, and*to-day 
 
 We with the third hold way, 
 
 Loving and loved. If thought must backward run 
 
 To those who, one by one, 
 In the great silence and the dark beyond 
 
 Vanished with farewells fond, 
 
 Unseen, not lost ; our grateful memories still 
 
 Their vacant places fill, 
 And with the full-voiced greeting of new friends 
 
 A tenderer whisper blends. 
 
 The hour draws near, howe'er delayed and late, 
 
 When at the Eternal Gate 
 We leave the words and works we call our own, 
 
 And lift void hands alone 
 
 For love to fill. Our nakedness of soul 
 
 Brings to that Gate no toll ; 
 Giftless we come to Him, who all things gives 
 
 And live because He lives. 
 
 To Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
236 JOHN GKEENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 Whittier was stricken with paralysis September 3, 
 1892. At the time, he was visiting friends at Hampton 
 Falls, N. H. When the serious nature of his illness 
 became apparent, his friends thought that he might 
 want to return to Amesbury, as he had often expressed 
 the wish that he might die where his beloved mother 
 and sisters had lived and died. He was too ill to be 
 moved, however, but he bore this last disappointment 
 with the same old-time patience. He died September 
 7, 1892. His poem, At Last, was recited by one 
 of the group of relatives about his bedside as he 
 quietly passed away. He was buried in the village 
 cemetery of Amesbury, in the section reserved for the 
 Society of Friends. ^Unseen, not lost," he yet lives, for 
 from his life-work there emanates an influence that will 
 always be felt. 
 
 In glancing backward over the life of Whittier, it 
 will be seen that none of the influences which sur- 
 rounded the lives of our other poets, Emerson, Lowell, 
 Longfellow, Holmes, and helped to form their charac- 
 ters, came into the life of Whittier. He had nothing 
 in common with them until very late in life. His life 
 and work stand alone. On the lonely farm, in the 
 little town of Haverhill, were to be found none of the 
 culture and learning of Boston and Cambridge. The 
 great world of literature was unknown to him for many 
 years. College training he had none. Neither did he 
 come from a stock of highly educated men and" women. 
 For generations back his ancestors were simple, God- 
 fearing folk. He began his life's, work with no knowl- 
 edge of the usages and conventionalities of the world 
 
THE QUALITY OF HIS WORK 237 
 
 outside of the home circle ; he was prepared for the 
 battle with little education, but was sustained and for- 
 tified by the desire to perform his duty to God and 
 man. The standard by which he measured all things 
 was the standard of Right. 
 
 Whittier's literary methods and style are his own. 
 His lack of education and the loneliness of those early 
 years placed him outside of all literary, poetic or theo- 
 logical influences. His devotion to abolition still fur- 
 ther separated him from his fellow men. In the early 
 days the effect of Burns may be seen, but it was not 
 until late in life that he had the leisure to study the 
 old masters. It was then he wrote : 
 
 ' ' I love the old melodious lays 
 Which softly melt the ages throllg•h. ,1 
 
 If, now and then, his poems show a lack of finish, an 
 absence of that beauty of form which is found in some 
 of the other poets, the spirit that breathes through them 
 is beyond criticism. Love of truth, beauty and nature, 
 and for man and God, are the strains of music heard in 
 all. How hard the task, how brave the struggle, how 
 great the heights he scaled ! 
 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 1809-1894 
 
 gre 
 
Where is this patriarch you are kindly greeting? 
 
 Not unfamiliar to my ear his name, 
 Nor yet unknown to many a joyous meeting 
 
 In days long vanished, — is he still the same ? 
 
 Yes, long, indeed, I've known him at a distance, 
 And now my lifted door-latch shows him here ; 
 
 I take his shriveled hand without resistance, 
 And find him smiling as his step draws near. 
 
 I come not here your morning hour to sadden, 
 A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff, — 
 
 I, who have never deemed it sin to gladden 
 This vale of sorrow with a wholesome laugh. 
 
 If word of mine another's gloom has brightened, 
 
 Through my dumb lips the heaven-sent message came 
 
 If hand of mine another's task has lightened, 
 It felt the guidance that it dares not claim. 
 
 The Iron Gate. 
 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 
 
 As the swift seasons roll ! 
 
 Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
 Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
 Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 
 
 Till thou at length art free, 
 Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! 
 
 The Chambered Nautilus. 
 
 When a person thinks of an author, he usually thinks 
 of a man who has devoted his life to the writing of 
 books ; who has no interest in politics, who could 
 understand medicine as little as a child, and to whom 
 law is a puzzle, while in the matters of ordinary busi- 
 ness, he is also unfortunately ignorant and unsuccess- 
 ful. In short, the usual idea of an author, especially 
 of a poet, is that he is incapable of taking part in the 
 practical affairs of life, but belongs wholly to the world 
 of intellect, where to weave the fancies of the imagina- 
 tion in glowing words and dainty verse is his sole 
 occupation. Yet the fact is that many of the greatest 
 writers gained distinction in other professions, and it was 
 because of this knowledge of many things beside writing 
 words and making verses, this helpful knowledge of 
 life and men, that they were enabled to become great 
 writers. James Russell Lowell was one of our great 
 
 243 
 
1>44 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 poets, but lie was also interested in public affairs, for 
 lie loved his country and his country's honor beyond 
 all things else, and well represented our nation's inter- 
 ests at the Court of St. James. Henry Wadsworth 
 Longfellow, the poet with whose works you are, per- 
 haps, the most familiar, was a very successful and much 
 loved professor at Bowdoin College and at Harvard 
 University. Oliver Wendell Holmes, whose poetry is 
 humorous, pathetic, beautiful, and whose prose is among 
 the wittiest, was also a physician of profound knowledge 
 and a writer of valuable essays upon medical subjects, 
 whose opinion was respected by the greatest physicians. 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes was born in an " old gambrel- 
 roofed house " in Cambridge, Massachusetts, August 
 29, 1809. In referring to his birthday, he said, " In 
 the last week of August used to fall Commencement 
 Day at Cambridge. I remember that week well, for 
 something happened to me once at that time, namely, 
 I was born." This " old gambrel-roofed house " stood 
 between the sites how occupied by the Hemenway 
 Gymnasium and the Law School of Harvard University. 
 It was a spacious mansion, set well back from the road, 
 with a generous expanse of common beside it, and tall 
 American elms that overshadowed it. The poet says, 
 
 ' ' The old house was General Ward's headquarters at the break- 
 ing out of the Revolution ; the plan for fortifying Bunker's Hill 
 was laid, as commonly believed, in the southeast lower room, the 
 floor of which was covered with dents, made, it was alleged, by the 
 butts of the soldiers 1 muskets. In the house, too, General War- 
 ren probably passed the night before the Bunker Hill battle, and 
 over its threshold must the stately figure of Washington have 
 often cast its shadow." 
 
246 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 When, years after, the old homestead became the 
 property of Harvard University, Holmes wrote most 
 regretfully of its destruction: 
 
 "The 'Old Gambrel-rpofed House' exists no longer. . . . 
 We may die out of many houses, but the house can die but once ; 
 and so real is the life of a house to one who has dwelt in it, 
 more especially the life of a house which held him hi dreamy 
 infancy, in restless boyhood, in passionate youth, — so real, I 
 say, is its life, that it seems as if something like a soul of it 
 must outlast its perishing frame." 
 
 To his friend, Lowell, he wrote : 
 
 "Our old house is gone. I went all over it, — into every 
 chamber and closet, and found a ghost in each and all of them, 
 to which I said good-by. I have not seen the level ground 
 where it stood. Be very thankful that you still keep your birth- 
 place. This earth has a homeless look to me since mine has 
 disappeared from its face." 
 
 The Reverend Abiel Holmes, the father of the poet, 
 apart from his severe religious belief, which was that 
 of the early New England days, was a modest, kindly 
 gentleman of culture. He had some literary ability, 
 and wrote a few poems which were published in book 
 form. His Annals of America, however, was the 
 first accurate American history after the Revolution. 
 Holmes's mother, Sarah Wendell, was a bright, well- 
 educated woman, from whom he seemed to inherit his 
 intellectual ability. His parents came from the best 
 New England stock. The first Holmes to arrive in 
 this country was John Holmes, who came from Eng- 
 land to Woodstock, Connecticut, with the first settlers 
 in 1686. The Wendells came from Holland about 
 1640, and settled at Albany. 
 
ANCESTORS 247 
 
 These facts about Holmes's ancestors are interesting 
 because, as he has written: 
 
 " The nest is made ready long beforehand for the bird which 
 is to be bred in it and to fly from it. The intellectual atmos- 
 phere into which a scholar is born, and from which he draws 
 the breath of his early mental life, must be studied, if we will 
 hope to understand it thoroughly/' 
 
 Dorothy Quincy, celebrated by the poet in the follow- 
 ing lines, was an ancestor of his and also of his wife. 
 
 Grandmother's mother : her age, I guess, 
 Thirteen summers, or something less ; 
 Girlish bust, but womanly air; 
 Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair ; 
 Lips that lover has never kissed ; 
 Taper fingers and slender wrist ; 
 Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade ; 
 So they painted the little maid. 
 
 On her hand a parrot green 
 
 Sits unmoving and broods serene. 
 
 Hold up the canvas full in view, — 
 
 Look ! there's a rent the light shines through, 
 
 Dark with a century's fringe of dust, — 
 
 That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust ! 
 
 Such is the tale the lady old, 
 
 Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told. 
 
 O Damsel Dorothy ! Dorothy Q. ! 
 Strange is the gift that I owe to you ; 
 Such a gift as never king 
 Save to daughter or son might bring, — 
 All my tenure of heart and hand, 
 All my title to house and land ; 
 Mother and sister and child and wife 
 And joy and sorrow and death and life ! 
 
248 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 What if a hundred years ago 
 
 Those close-shut lips had answered No, 
 
 When forth the tremulous question came 
 
 That cost the maiden her Norman name, 
 
 And under the folds that look so still 
 
 The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill ? 
 
 Should I be I, or would it be 
 
 One-tenth another, to nine-tenths me ? 
 
 Dorothy Q. 
 
 Some years later the poet sent to his grandniece, 
 Dorothy Quincy Upham, who was named after Dorothy 
 Q., the following verses : 
 
 Dear little Dorothy, Dorothy Q., 
 What can I find to write to you ? 
 You have two LPs in your name, it's true. 
 And mine is adorned with a double-u, 
 But there's this difference in the IPs, 
 That one you will stand a chance to lose 
 When a happy man of the bearded sex 
 Shall make it Dorothy Q. + X. 
 
 May Heaven smile bright on the blissful day 
 That teaches this lesson in Algebra ! 
 AVhen the orange blossoms crown ycur head, 
 Then read what your old great-uncle said, 
 And remember how in your baby-time 
 He scribbled a scrap of idle rhyme, — 
 Idle, it may be — but kindly, too, 
 For the little lady, Dorothy Q." 
 
 Of his childish impressions the poet wrote, 
 
 " When the chick first emerges from the shell, the Creator's 
 studio in which he was organized and shaped, it is a very little 
 world with which he finds himself in relation. First the nest, 
 then the hen-coop, by and by the barnyard with occasional pre- 
 
250 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 datory incursions into the neighbor's garden — and his little uni- 
 verse lias reached its boundaries. Just so with my experience 
 of atmospheric existence. The low room of the old house — the 
 little patch called the front yard — somewhat larger than the 
 Turkish rug beneath my rocking-chair — the back yard with its 
 wood-house, its carriage house, its barn, and, let me not forget, 
 its pigsty. These were the world of my earliest experiences. 
 But from the western window of the room where" I was born, I 
 could see the vast expanse of the Common, with the far-away 
 ' Washington Elm ' as its central figure — the immeasurably dis- 
 tant hills of the horizon, and the infinite of space in which these 
 gigantic figures were projected — all these, in unworded im- 
 pressions — vague pictures swimming by each other as the eyes 
 rolled without aim — through the lights and shadows which 
 floated by them. From this center I felt my way into the crea- 
 tion beyond. 
 
 "Like all children, I began to speculate on the problems of 
 existence at an early age. ... As for the government of the 
 universe to which I belonged, my thoughts were very confused. 
 The Deity was to me an Old Man, as represented in some of the 
 pictures I had seen. Angels and Demons were his subjects, 
 and fellow-inhabitants with myself in the planet on which I 
 lived. . . . 
 
 "The garret, the door of which I sometimes passed, but 
 whose depths I never exj)lored until later in life, was full of 
 unshaped terrors. There was an outhouse where old and broken 
 furniture had been stored, which I shunned as if it had been 
 peopled with living bipeds and quadrupeds in the place of old 
 chairs and tables. 
 
 " Two specters haunted my earliest years, the dread of mid- 
 night visitors, and the visits of the doctor. I hardly know when 
 I was not subject to fears when left alone in the dark. These 
 terrors were vague, and different at different times. I could not 
 say that I believed in ghosts, nor yet that I disbelieved in their 
 existence, but the strange sounds at night, the creaking of the 
 boards, the howling of the winds, the footfall of animals, voices 
 heard from a distance and unaccounted for, — all such things 
 
CHILDHOOD 251 
 
 kept me awake, restless, and full of strange apprehensions. 
 These fears lasted, until, on the approach of adolescence, I became 
 greatly ashamed of them. . . . The other source of distress was, 
 as I have said, the visits of the physician. The dispenser of 
 drugs that embittered my boyhood was Dr. William Gamage. 
 He was an old man, associated principally in my mind with two 
 vegetable products, namely: the useful though not comforting 
 rhubarb, and the revolting and ever to be execrated ipecacu- 
 anha. The dread of the last of these two drugs was one of my 
 chronic miseries. . . . Such causes of unhappiness as those I 
 have mentioned may seem trivial to persons of less sensibility 
 than myself, but they were serious drawbacks to the pleasures 
 of existence, and, added to the torture of tooth-drawing, made a 
 considerable sum of wretchedness. 
 
 ' ' One of the greatest changes of the modern decades has been 
 in the matter of heating and lighting. "We depended on wood, 
 which was brought from the country in loads upon wagons or 
 sledges. This was often not kept long enough to burn easily, 
 and the mockery of the green-wood fire was one of my recollec- 
 tions, the sap oozing from the ends, and standing in puddles 
 around the hearth. 
 
 "Some of my pleasantest Sundays were those when I went 
 with my father, who was exchanging pulpits with a neighboring 
 clergyman. We jogged off together in one of the old-fashioned 
 two-wheeled chaises, behind a quiet horse, for the most part. I 
 remember the house at Lexington at which we stayed, had a 
 sanded floor instead of a carpeted one. 
 
 " I never wanted for occupation. Though not an inventor, I 
 was always a contriver. I was constantly at work with tools of 
 some sort. I was never really a skillful workman, — other boys 
 were neater with their jackknives than I. I had ingenuity enough 
 to cut a ball in a cage, with a chain attached carved out of the 
 same wood ; but my tendency was to hasty and imperfect work- 
 manship. I was always in too much of a hurry to complete my 
 work, as if linished when only half done. My imagination helped 
 me into immense absurdities, in which, however, I found great de- 
 light. Thus, before I had a pair of skates, I had made one skate 
 
252 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 of wood, which I had fastened on to my foot, and experimented 
 with ' on the ditch, 1 a narrow groove which one could step across, 
 but where I served my first apprenticeship in the art of skating. 
 But the strongest attraction of my early ' teens ' was found in 
 shooting such small game as presented, more especially small 
 birds and squirrels. It sounds strangely now to say that my 
 achievements as a sportsman were performed, not with a gun, 
 such as is carried by the sportsman of to-day, not even with a 
 percussion lock in use during the greater part of my manhood, 
 but with the old flintlock, such as our grandfathers used in the 
 Revolution. I do not think I ever used a percussion cap, but 
 many a flint have I worn down in service. . . . An old ' king's 
 arm ' had been hanging up in the store closet ever since I could 
 remember. This I shouldered, and with this I blazed away at 
 every living thing that was worthy of a charge of the smallest 
 shot I could employ/' 
 
 This ability to " contrive " was shown in later years 
 by his inventing the hand stereoscope, which had a 
 light frame that was easily held in one hand. Although a 
 large number of them have been manufactured, Holmes 
 derived no benefit, as he did not have his invention 
 patented. The stereoscope in use before this was a 
 large, clumsy case, too heavy to hold in the hand, and 
 with room for only a small number of pictures. 
 
 Holmes' schooling began early, and, as was custom- 
 ary at that time, at a dame's school. At the age of 
 ten, he went to a school at Cambridgeport where he 
 stayed five years. Of his school days, he wrote, 
 
 ' ' My first schoolmaster, William Biglow, was a man of 
 peculiar. character. ... He was of a somewhat Bardolphian as- 
 pect, red in the face, and was troubled from time to time with 
 headaches, which led to occasional absence from the place of 
 duty. He was a good-natured man, a humorist, a punster ; but 
 his good-nature had something of the Rip Van Winkle character. 
 
SCHOOL DAYS 253 
 
 " I do not remember being the subject of any reproof or dis- 
 cipline at that school, although I do not doubt I deserved it, for 
 I was an inveterate whisperer at every school I ever attended. 
 I do remember that once as he passed me, he tapped me on the 
 forehead with his pencil, and said he ' couldn't help it if I would 
 do so well, 1 a compliment which I have never forgotten." 
 
 From Cambridgeport, Holmes went to Phillips Acad- 
 emy at Andover, Massachusetts. He gives us a de- 
 lightful picture of his boyish impressions in a poem 
 entitled The School-Boy, read at the centennial celebra- 
 tion of the foundation of Phillips Academy, 1778- 
 1878. 
 
 My cheek was bare of adolescent down 
 
 When first I sought the academic town ; 
 
 Slow rolls the coach along the dusty road, 
 
 Big with its filial and parental load ; ' 
 
 The frequent hills, the lonely woods are past, 
 
 The schoolboy's chosen home is reached at last. 
 
 I see it now, the same unchanging spot, 
 
 The swinging gate, the little garden plot, 
 
 The narrow yard, the rock that made its floor, 
 
 The flat, pale house, the knocker-garnished door, 
 
 The small, trim parlor, neat, decorous, chill, 
 
 The strange, new faces, kind, but grave and still ; 
 
 Two, creased with age, — or what I then called age, — 
 
 Life's volume open at its fiftieth page ; 
 
 One a shy maiden's, pallid, placid, sweet 
 
 As the first snowdrop, which the sunbeams greet ; 
 
 One the last nursling's ; slight she was, and fair, 
 
 Her smooth white forehead warmed with auburn hair. 
 
 Brave, but with effort, had the schoolboy come 
 To the cold comfort of a stranger's home ; 
 
254 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 How like a dagger to my sinking heart 
 
 Came the dry summons, " It is time to part" ; 
 
 " Good-by ! " " Goo — ood-by ! " one fond maternal kiss. 
 
 Homesick as death ! Was ever pang like this? . . . 
 
 Too young as yet with willing feet to stray 
 
 From the tame fireside, glad to get away, — 
 
 Too old to let my watery grief appear, — 
 
 And what so bitter as a swallowed tear ! 
 
 How all comes back ! the upward slanting floor, — 
 
 The master's thrones that flank the central door, — 
 
 The long, outstretching alleys that divide 
 
 The rows of desks that stand on either side, — 
 
 The staring boys, a face to every desk, 
 
 Bright, dull, pale, blooming, common, picturesque. 
 
 Grave is the Master's look ; his forehead wears 
 Thick rows of wrinkles, prints of worrying cares ; 
 Uneasy lie the heads of all that rule, 
 His most of all whose kingdom is a school. 
 Supreme he sits ; before the awful frown 
 That bends his brows the boldest eye goes down ; 
 Not more submissive Israel heard and saw 
 At Sinai's foot the Giver of the Law. 
 
 As to the traveler's eye the varied plain 
 Shows through the window of the flying train, 
 A mingled landscape, rather felt than seen, 
 A gravelly bank, a sudden flash of green, 
 A tangled wood, a glittering stream that flows 
 Through the cleft summit where the cliff once rose, 
 All strangely blended in a hurried gleam, 
 Rock, wood, waste, meadow, village, hillside, stream, 
 So, as we look behind us, life appears, 
 Seen through the vista of our bygone years. 
 
EARLY POEMS 255 
 
 Yet in the dead past's shadow-tilled domain, 
 Some vanished shapes the hues of life retain ; 
 Unbidden, oft, before our dreaming eyes 
 From the vague mists in memory's path they rise. 
 
 The School-Boy. 
 
 From Andover, Holmes went to Harvard College in 
 the summer of 1825, thus becoming a member of " the 
 famous class of '29," as it has been called, because of 
 the distinction which many of the members gained in 
 their different professions. Among them was Samuel 
 Francis Smith, the author of " America." 
 
 While at Harvard, Holmes " wrote poetry fiercely," 
 as he himself afterward said, for a little monthly paper, 
 called the Collegian. He said, " It was silly stuff, I 
 suppose, but the papers have quoted some of it about 
 as if they really thought it respectable." Among this 
 " silly stuff," were The Dorchester Giant, The Specter 
 Pig, Evening, By a Tailor, and several other equally 
 well-known poems. The Dorchester Giant is his very 
 amusing account of the presence of the pudding stones 
 which are found in such quantities near Dorchester, 
 Milton and Roxbury, Massachusetts. 
 
 THE DORCHESTER GIANT 
 
 There was a giaut in time of old, 
 
 A mighty one was he ; 
 He had a wife, but she was a scold, 
 So he kept her shut in his mammoth fold ; 
 
 And he had children three. 
 
 It happened to be an election day, 
 
 And the giants were choosing a king ; 
 
256 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 The people were not democrats then, 
 They did not talk of the rights of men, 
 And all that sort of thing. 
 
 Then the giant took his children three, 
 
 And fastened them in the pen ; 
 The children roared ; qnoth the giant, " Be still ! " 
 And Dorchester Heights and Milton Hill 
 
 Rolled back the sound again. 
 
 Then he brought them a pudding stuffed with plums, 
 
 As big as the State-House dome ; 
 Quoth he, " There's something for you to eat; 
 So stop your mouths with your 'lection treat, 
 
 And wait till your dad comes home." 
 
 So the giant pulled him a chestnut stout, 
 
 And whittled the boughs away ; 
 The boys and their mother set up a shout, 
 Said he, " You're in, and you can't get out, 
 
 Bellow as loud as you may." 
 
 Off he went, and he grow T led a tune 
 
 As he strode the fields along ; 
 'T is said a buffalo fainted away, 
 And fell as cold as a lump of clay, 
 
 When he heard the giant's song. 
 
 But whether the story's true or not, 
 
 It isn't for me to show ; 
 There's many a thing that's twice as queer 
 In somebody's lectures that w r e hear, 
 
 And those are true, you know. 
 
 What are those lone owes doing now, 
 
 The wife and the children sad ? 
 O, they are in a terrible rout, 
 Screaming, and throwing their pudding about, 
 
 Acting as they were mad. 
 
THE DORCHESTER GIANT 257 
 
 They flung it over to Roxbury hills, 
 
 They flung it over the plain, 
 And all over Milton and Dorchester too 
 Great lumps of pudding the giants threw ; 
 
 They tumbled as thick as rain. 
 
 Giant and mammoth have passed away, 
 
 For ages have floated by ; 
 The suet is hard as a marrow-bone, 
 And every plum is turned to a stone, 
 
 But there the puddings lie. 
 
 And if, some pleasant afternoon, 
 
 You , ll ask me out to ride, 
 The whole of the story I will tell, 
 And you shall see where the puddings fell, 
 
 And pay for the punch beside. 
 
 Just what was to be Holmes's life work, was a matter 
 of considerable doubt during his college days. His 
 father wished him to be a clergyman like himself, 
 although he by no means insisted upon it. The son, 
 however, had no inclination toward the ministry. He 
 said, " I might have been a minister myself, for aught I 
 know, if a certain clergyman had not looked and talked 
 so like an undertaker." 
 
 During his last year at college, Holmes wrote in a 
 letter to a friend, " I am quite undecided what to 
 study ; it will be law or physic, for I cannot say that 
 I think the trade of authorship quite adapted to this 
 meridian." Even after he was graduated from Har- 
 vard, the question was not finally settled. He studied 
 law at the Dane Law School, Cambridge, for a year, 
 but the study was not pursued with much enthusiasm. 
 
258 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 It was during this year, 1830, that Holmes wrote 
 that stirring poem, Old Ironsides. The historic frigate, 
 Constitution, old and unseaworthy, was condemned by 
 the Navy Department to be destroyed. Holmes read 
 of it in the newspapers, and immediately wrote the 
 protest, Old Ironsides. 
 
 OLD IRONSIDES 
 
 Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 
 Long; has it waved on high 
 
 © © ' 
 
 And many an eye has danced to see 
 
 That banner in the sky ; 
 Beneath it rung the battle shout, 
 
 And burst the cannon's roar ; — 
 The meteor of the ocean air 
 
 Shall sweep the clouds no more ! 
 
 Her deck, once red with heroes 1 blood, 
 
 Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
 When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 
 
 And waves were white below, 
 No more shall feel the victor's tread, 
 
 Or know the conquered knee ; — 
 The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
 
 The eagle of the sea ! 
 
 O better that her shattered hulk 
 
 Should sink beneath the wave ; 
 Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 
 
 And there should be her grave ; 
 Nail to the mast her holy flag, 
 
 Set every threadbare sail, 
 And give her to the god of storms, 
 
 The lightning and the gale ! 
 
260 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 The poem was published in The Boston Daily Adver- 
 tiser, and from that was copied into almost every paper 
 in the country, awakening national indignation against 
 an action done in the ordinary course of business. The 
 Secretary of the Navy, who was much surprised at the 
 indignation, withdrew his order. The frigate was 
 saved, and a number of people of the United States 
 heard for the first time of Oliver Wendell Holmes, a 
 law student at Cambridge, who was one month past 
 his majority. 
 
 The next year, Holmes gave up law and began the 
 study of medicine. In March, 1831, he wrote, 
 
 " I must announce to you the startling- position that I have 
 been a medical student for more than six months. I know I 
 might have made an indifferent lawyer, — I think I may make 
 a tolerable physician, — I do not like the one and I do like the 
 other. And so you must know that for the last several months 
 I have been quietly occupying a room in Boston, attending medi- 
 cal lectures, and going to the Massachusetts Hospital. ... If 
 you would die fagged to death like a crow with the king birds 
 after him, — be a schoolmaster; if you would wax thin and 
 savage, like a half-fed spider, — be a lawyer; if you would go 
 off like an opium-eater in love with your starving delusions, — 
 be a doctor.' 11 
 
 Holmes studied for over two years at the private 
 school of Dr. James Jackson. After he finished the 
 course with Doctor Jackson, two years more of study 
 in European hospitals was necessary, if he were to be 
 more than a country doctor. His parents were not 
 rich, but they made such sacrifices as were necessary to 
 give their son this extra preparation for his profession. 
 In the spring of 1833, when he was little more than 
 
IN PARIS 261 
 
 twenty-one years old, Holmes was in Paris " at last, 
 quietly established and almost naturalized," and " quite 
 absorbed in study." There he worked diligently, going 
 to the hospital at half-past seven every morning, where 
 he heard lectures by the most prominent physicians and 
 surgeons of France. He generally stayed there till ten 
 o'clock, when he had breakfast. After breakfast, study 
 was continued until five o'clock. In the evening, he 
 sometimes went to the theater. He felt that his time 
 was well spent, and that he was learning more in these 
 two years in Paris than he would have done in a life- 
 time of ordinary practice. 
 
 During his sta}^ in Europe, Holmes did no literary 
 work, as he was wholly absorbed in study, occupying all 
 his time with it. The editor of The New England 
 Magazine, an old friend of his, requested him to write 
 for that publication. Holmes gave the following 
 reasons for declining : 
 
 "I am at the present moment living not merely the most 
 laborious, but by far the most unvaried and, in its outward 
 circumstances, most unexciting mode of life that I have ever 
 lived. Nearly five hours in the day I pass at the bedside of 
 patients, and you may imagine that this is no trifling occupation 
 when 1 tell you that it is always with my note-book in my hand ; 
 that I often devote nearly two hours to investigating a difficult 
 case, in order that no element can escape me, and that T have 
 always a hundred patients under my eye. Add to this the details 
 and laborious examination cf all the organs of the body in such 
 cases as are fatal — the demands of a Society of which I am a 
 member — which in the course of two months has called on me 
 for memoirs to the extent of thirty thick-set pages — all French, 
 and almost all facts hewn out one by one from the quarry — 
 and my out-of-door occupations have borne their testimony. . . . 
 
262 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 No, John, a heavier burden from my own science, if you will, 
 but not another hair from the locks of Poesy." 
 
 In December of 1835, Holmes returned from Europe. 
 On his return to Cambridge, lie read before the mem- 
 bers of the Phi Beta Kappa Society, his Poetry, in 
 which he affectionately alludes to his boyhood. His 
 beautiful tribute to the war-song, Marseillaise, is con- 
 sidered the finest part of the poem. 
 
 In the latter part of 1836, he published his first volume 
 of poems. It was a collection of those that had appeared 
 elsewhere. It contained, among others, Old Ironsides, 
 the history of which you already know, the very attrac- 
 tive poem To an Insect, and The Last Leaf, which be- 
 came a great favorite, and was translated into French 
 and German. These poems are full of rollicking good 
 humor, of a swing which carries the reader along, and 
 of a determination to see the bright side c lvp *» and to 
 try to make others see it. This bright 
 disposition was one of the Doctor's B 
 traits during his whole life. 
 
 TO AN INSECT 
 
 I love to hear thine earnest voicf 
 
 Wherever thou art h' i, 
 Thou testy little dogmatist, 
 
 Thou pretty Katydid ! 
 Thou mindest me of £. 
 
 Old gentlefolks are u 
 Thou say'st an undisp 
 
 In such a solemn w° 
 
TO AN. INSECT 263 
 
 Thou art a female, Katydid ! 
 
 I know it by the trill 
 That quivers through thy piercing notes, 
 
 So petulant and shrill ; 
 I think there is a knot of you 
 
 Beneath the hollow tree, — 
 A knot of spinster Katydids, — 
 
 Do Katydids drink tea ? 
 
 tell me where did Katy live, 
 And what did Katy do ? 
 
 And was she very fair and young, 
 
 And yet so wicked, too? 
 Did Katy love a naughty man, 
 
 Or kiss more cheeks than one ? 
 
 1 warrant Katy did no more 
 
 Than many a Kate has done. 
 
 Dear me! Til tell you all about 
 y fuss with little Jane, 
 i Ann, with whom I used to walk 
 ^ often down the lane, 
 all that tore their locks of black, 
 1 wet their eyes of blue, — 
 tell me, sweetest Katydid, 
 aat did poor Katy do ? 
 
 >! the living oak shall crash, 
 hat stood f, or ages still, 
 
 shall rend its mossy base 
 under r down the hill, 
 :ff1 >, Katydid 
 
 .-word, to tell 
 :l of the maid 
 ^ o ,she knows so well. 
 
264 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 Peace to the ever-murmuring race ! 
 
 And when the latest one 
 Shall fold in death her feeble wings 
 
 Beneath the autumn sun, 
 Then shall she raise her fainting ^oice, 
 
 And lift her drooping lid, 
 And then the child of future years 
 
 Shall hear what Katy did. 
 
 Holmes took his degree from Harvard in 1836, and 
 this same year begun the practice of medicine in 
 Boston. Here, in his office, " the smallest fevers were 
 thankfully received." As a visiting physician, Dr. 
 Holmes never had a very large practice, but as a 
 lecturer and a college professor, he was very successful. 
 The reason he was not a success as a physician was that 
 most people at that time had an idea that a doctor 
 must be old, white-haired and solemn. The ordinary 
 doctor, even though he had lived all his life in some 
 small town, never broadening his knowledge by visiting 
 the large hospitals of his own country nor those of 
 Europe, was preferred to Dr. Holmes, notwithstand- 
 ing his three years of study and experience in Paris and 
 Edinburgh. He, unfortunately, was brilliant, witty and, 
 worst of all, a poet. Regarding this poor success as a 
 physician, he wrote in later years, — 
 
 "Besides — my prospects — don't you kno\v r that people won't 
 
 employ 
 A man that wrongs his manliness by laughing like a boy ? 
 And suspect the azure blossom that unfolds upon a shoot, 
 As if wisdom's old potato could not flourish at its root ? 
 
MARRIAGE 265 
 
 It's a vastly pleasing prospect, when you're screwing out a 
 
 laugh, 
 That your very next year's income is diminished by a half ! " 
 
 As we have said, he was very successful as a profes- 
 sor, and a writer on medical subjects. In 1838, he was 
 appointed Professor of Anatomy at Dartmouth College, 
 which position he held for two years. 
 
 In June, 1840, Holmes married Miss Amelia Lee 
 Jackson, a lady who made an ideal wife for the doctor, 
 as their happy married life shows. They had three chil- 
 dren. The eldest son was Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., 
 whose birth his father announced to his sister in the 
 following letter: 
 
 My Dear Ann, — Last evening between eight and nine there 
 appeared at No. 8 Montgomery Place a little individual who may 
 be hereafter addressed as 
 
 Holmes, Esq. 
 
 or 
 
 The Hon. Holmes, M.C. 
 
 or 
 
 His Excellency Holmes, President, etc., etc., but who for 
 
 the present is content with scratching his face and sucking his 
 right forefinger. 
 
 In' My Hunt After the Captain, Holmes gives a thrill- 
 ing account of his search for this son, who had been 
 wounded in battle, during the war of the Rebellion. 
 
 He afterward became prominent in his profession, 
 that of law, and Dr. Holmes wrote of him to a friend : 
 
 " Thank you for all the pleasant words about the Judge. To 
 think of it, — my little boy a Judge, and able to send me to jail 
 if I don't behave myself. " 
 
266 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 The second child was a daughter, who died in 1889, 
 and the third, another boy, who died in 1884. 
 
 In 1847, Dr. Holmes was appointed Parkman Pro- 
 fessor of Anatomy and Physiology in the Medical 
 School of Harvard University. He also occasionally 
 gave instruction in the use of the microscope. Teach- 
 ing so many branches prompted him to say that he 
 occupied " not a professor's chair, but a whole settee." 
 Dr. Holmes held this professorship of anatomy for 
 thirty-five years. 
 
 At the University, the lectures frequently began at 
 eight o'clock and continued until two. By this time 
 the students were completely worn out by their close 
 attention to five hours of continuous instruction. To 
 Dr. Holmes was assigned the last hour, for, as one of 
 the students has said, " No one but Dr. Holmes could 
 have been endured under the circumstances." He was 
 frequently greeted upon his entrance in the classroom 
 with uproarious applause. With his bright, cheery 
 disposition, his quaint and humorous comparisons, and 
 the wit which sparkled through the whole lecture, he 
 was able to hold the weary students' attention. Yet 
 beneath the brightness and attractiveness of Dr. 
 Holmes's lectures, were the solid foundation of fact 
 and a thorough knowledge of his subject, so that the 
 student listened not only with pleasure but with profit. 
 Thus the very traits which had hindered him in his 
 practice as a physician greatly aided him to succeed as 
 a professor and a lecturer. 
 
 Dr. Holmes delivered a large number of public lec- 
 tures on literature and other general topics. In this he 
 
CONTRIBUTOR TO THE ATLANTIC 267 
 
 was also very successful. At times he became very 
 tired of it. " Family men," he said, " get dreadfully 
 homesick." His health also suffered considerably from 
 the exposure of country traveling. 
 
 From 1849, for seven succeeding years, Holmes spent 
 his summers at Canoe Place, the name of his home 
 which he built on a part of the large estate that his 
 great-grandfather had purchased, at Pittsfield, Massa- 
 chusetts, The place was so called because of the 
 mark, a canoe, with which the Indian sachem signed 
 away the land. During these summer months, he deliv- 
 ered lectures before the Berkshire Medical School at 
 Pittsfield. At the Berkshire festivals, the poet was fre- 
 quently called upon to write a poem, which he did in 
 his usual wise and witty way. 
 
 In 1857, a monthly magazine was started in Boston, 
 of which James Russell Lowell was invited to become 
 the editor. He accepted on the condition that Holmes 
 should be the first contributor engaged. The condition 
 was agreed to. Holmes was very much surprised at his 
 friend's invitation to become a regular contributor, and 
 was at first inclined to refuse, as he had for many years 
 been too busy with other duties and studies to give 
 any time to literature. However, Lowell insisted and 
 Holmes yielded. He afterwards said, Lowell " woke 
 me from a kind of literary lethargy in which I was half 
 slumbering, to call me to active service." 
 
 Holmes' first service to the new magazine was to 
 christen it, for it was at his suggestion that it was 
 called The Atlantic. His first contributions were a se- 
 ries of papers entitled The Autocrat of the Breakfast 
 
268 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 Table. Holmes had published two papers under the 
 same name many years before in The New England 
 Magazine, which explains why he began the new papers 
 with " I was just going to say, when I was interrupted." 
 Previous to the publication of these papers, Holmes 
 was known to only a small circle as a writer and a lec- 
 turer, a wit and a brilliant conversationalist, but these 
 papers made him well known not only in America but 
 in Europe. They contained the brightest and best of 
 the poet's thoughts, and as a whole are doubtless his 
 finest work. In The Autocrat appeared The Chambered 
 Nautilus, probably the most beautiful of Holmes's 
 poems. 
 
 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 
 
 This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 
 
 Sails the unshadowed main, — 
 
 The venturous bark that flings 
 On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
 In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 
 
 And coral reefs lie bare, 
 Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 
 
 Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 
 
 Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 
 
 And every chambered cell, 
 Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
 As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 
 
 Before thee lies revealed, — 
 Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! 
 
 Year after year beheld the silent toil 
 That spread his lustrous coil ; 
 Still, as the spiral grew, 
 
THE CHAMBERED HAUTILUS 269 
 
 He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
 Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 
 
 Built up its idle door, 
 Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no 
 more. 
 
 Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
 
 Child of the wandering sea, 
 
 Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
 From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
 Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! 
 
 While on mine ear it rings, 
 Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that 
 sings: — 
 
 Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 
 
 As the swift seasons roll ! 
 
 Leave thy low- vaulted past ! 
 Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
 Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 
 
 Till thou at length art free, 
 Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! . 
 
 Holmes's connection with The Atlantic was not sev- 
 ered until his death, and the different publishers of the 
 magazine were always the publishers of his writings. 
 
 Following The Autocrat came The Professor at the 
 Breakfast Table, published in The Atlantic, in 1859. In 
 1871, appeared The Poet at the Breakfast Table. Both 
 are written in mnch the same pleasing, conversational 
 style as The Autocrat. 
 
 The poems which Holmes had published since 1849, 
 appeared in 1862, in a volume entitled Songs in Many 
 Keys. In this collection was the beautiful ballad, Agnes. 
 
 On July 4, 1863, the poet delivered an oration before 
 
270 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 the city authorities of Boston. This oration, The In- 
 evitable Trial, was an eloquent, patriotic appeal to his 
 countrymen to be true to their country and the cause 
 of liberty. Not only was it of value and interest at 
 that particular period, but it is still considered, aside 
 from its patriotism, a very fine piece of prose literature. 
 In Pages from an Old Volume of Life, published later, 
 will be found My Hunt After the Captain, The Inevitable 
 Trial, Cinders from the Ashes, and many other valuable 
 essays. 
 
 Holmes collected several of his different writings and 
 published them, in 1866, under the title of Soundings 
 from the Atlantic. In 1878, he wrote the biography of 
 his lifelong friend, John Lothrop Motley. In 1884, a 
 similar task, though a labor of love as before, again fell 
 to him, that of writing the biography of his friend, 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson, the great poet and philosopher. 
 
 Besides his poetical works and the Breakfast-Table 
 Series, which chiefly made him famous, Holmes wrote 
 three novels. Elsie Venner was published in 1860, The 
 Guardian Angel in 1867, and a A Mortal Antipathy 
 in 1885. 
 
 In 1882, Dr. Holmes resigned his professorship at 
 Harvard University, a position which he had held for 
 over thirty-five years. His class presented him with a 
 silver loving-cup, on which was engraved the following 
 lines, quoted from his own writings : 
 
 " Love bless thee, joy" crown thee, God speed thy career.' 1 
 
 Dr. Holmes, with his daughter, visited Europe in 
 1886. He spent most of his time in England, where 
 
DEATH 271 
 
 his writings were known and admired. He was most 
 cordially received, and was overwhelmed with atten- 
 tions. In 1880, Harvard had conferred upon him the 
 degree of Doctor of Law. During his stay in England, 
 Cambridge made him a Doctor of Letters, Edinburgh 
 gave him the degree of Doctor of Laws, and Oxford 
 made him Doctor of Civil Law. Iri memory of this 
 journey, the Doctor wrote the volume Our Hundred 
 Days in Europe. 
 
 In 1888, Mrs. Holmes died, and his daughter, Mrs. 
 Sargent, came to live with the Doctor. She, too, passed 
 away during the next year. His eldest son, the only 
 remaining child, then came with his wife, and stayed 
 with his father for the rest of his life. In his last years, 
 Dr. Holmes's eyesight began to fail him, though he 
 never became totally blind. 
 
 Dr. Holmes died peacefully in his chair, October 7, 
 1894, — ""the last leaf upon the tree." 
 
 " There's Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit; 
 A Leyden jar always full-charged, from which flit 
 The electrical tingles of hit after hit ; 
 In long poems 't is painful sometimes, and invites 
 A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes, 
 Which pricks down its sharp little sentences spitefully 
 As if you got more than you'd title to rightfully, 
 And you find yourself hoping its wild father Lightning 
 Would flame in for a second and give you a fright'ning. 
 He has perfect sway of what I call a sham metre, 
 But many admire it, the English pentameter, 
 And Campbell, I think, wrote most commonly worse, 
 With less nerve, swing, and fire in the same kind of verse, 
 
272 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 Nor e'er achieved aught in : t so worthy of praise 
 As the tribute of Holmes to the grand Marseillaise. 
 
 His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric 
 Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satiric 
 In a measure so kindly, you doubt if the toes 
 That are trodden upon are your own or your foes." 
 
 Lowell: A Fable for Critics. 
 
 It was just that estimate of, and admiration for, 
 Holmes's literary ability that induced James Russell 
 Lowell to insist upon his becoming a regular contribu- 
 tor to The Atlantic, The debt of gratitude that is due 
 to Lowell is well expressed by Holmes himself, who 
 said, at the breakfast given him in 1879 by the publish- 
 ers of The Atlantic : 
 
 " But what I want especially to say here is, that I owe the 
 impulse which started my second growth, to the urgent hint of 
 my friend Mr. Lowell, and that you have him to thank, not only 
 for his own noble contributions to our literature, but for the 
 spur which moved me to action, to which you owe any pleasure 
 I may have given, and I am indebted for the crowning hairiness 
 of this occasion.'" 
 
 It was at this famous breakfast that the poet read 
 his beautiful poem, The Iron Crate,, a selection from 
 which we have quoted at the beginning of this 
 biography. 
 
 Holmes is a national writer. Not in the sense, how- 
 ever, of writing about any particular period of American 
 life, or about the peculiarities of any section of our 
 country, as Longfellow in his Evangeline, Hiawatha, and 
 Miles Standish, Lowell in The Biglow Papers, and 
 
THE BOYS 273 
 
 Whittier in his war poems, B%6t in the sense that there is 
 a close mingling of the humorous and the pathetic, of 
 shrewd common sense and beautiful thoughts. His 
 style is unique : clear in expression, high in thought, 
 graceful and lofty. 
 
 There are in his poems suggestions of stories, and 
 traditions of old Colonial days, as in Dorothy Q., 
 Grandmother s Story of Bunker Hill Battle, and in the 
 beautiful ballad of Agnes. There are also beautiful 
 descriptive passages, high moral truths, and a constant 
 recurrence of humor and pathos. 
 
 Of all our American poets, Holmes was, without 
 doubt, the best writer of " occasional verses," as they 
 are called, being composed to celebrate some especial 
 occasion. The most famous of these poems are those 
 written for the annual meetings of the class of '29, con- 
 tributed regularly from 1851 to 1894. In all of them 
 is a tender pathetic touch which the bright sparkle of 
 humor in them seems to hide from many readers. In 
 The Boys, written for the class meeting in 1859, when 
 the^" boys " were old men, the tears and the laughter 
 are closely mingled. 
 
 Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys ? 
 If there has, take him out, without making a noise. 
 Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite S 
 Old Time is a liar ! We're twenty to-night ! 
 
 We're twenty ! We're twenty ! Who says we are more ? 
 He's tipsy, — young jackanapes ! show him the door ! 
 " Gray temples at twenty ? " — Yes ! white if we please ; 
 Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing: can freeze ! 
 
274 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, 
 Of talking (in public) as if we were old : — 
 That boy we call " Doctor," and this we call " Judge ; " 
 It's a neat little fiction, — of course it's all fudge. 
 
 That fellow's the " Speaker,' 1 — the one on the right; 
 " Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night ? 
 That's our " Member of Congress," we say when we chaff ; 
 There's the « ' Reverend " What's his name ? — don't make me 
 laugh. 
 
 And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith, 
 Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith ; 
 But he shouted a song for the brave and the free, — 
 Just read on his medal, " My country," " of thee ! " 
 
 Yes, we're boys, — always playing with tongue or with pen, — 
 And I sometimes have asked, — Shall we ever be men? 
 Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, 
 Till the last dear companion drops smiling away ? 
 
 Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray ! 
 The stars of its winter, the dews of its May ! 
 And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, 
 Dear Father, take care of thy children, the boys. 
 
 The Boys, 
 1859. 
 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 1819-1891 
 
There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb 
 With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme, 
 He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, 
 But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders, 
 The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching 
 Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching ; 
 His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, 
 But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell, 
 And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem, 
 At the head of a march to the last New Jerusalem. 
 
 A Fable for Critics. 
 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 And what is so rare as a day in June ? 
 
 Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
 Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, 
 
 And over it softly her warm ear lays ; 
 Whether we look or whether we listen, 
 We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
 Every clod feels a stir of might, 
 
 An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
 And, groping blindly above it for light, 
 
 Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
 The flush of life may well be seen 
 
 Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
 The cowslip startles in meadows green, 
 
 The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
 And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 
 
 To be some happy creature's palace ; 
 The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
 
 Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
 And lets his illumined being o'errun 
 
 With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
 His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
 And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ; 
 He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
 In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ? 
 
 Vision of Sir Launfal. 
 
 This lovely passage from Sir Launfal shows Lowell 
 to be truly a poet of nature. The picture of a rare 
 day in June is so exquisite, so full, so complete that 
 there is never a perfect day that the lines do not come 
 
 279 
 
280 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 back like the ever recurring strains of sweet music. 
 They recall the beautiful summer day, with the bright 
 sunlight, the deep blue sky, the trees and the birds, the 
 buds and the blossoms. Sometimes the picture they 
 bring is that of the seashore with its stretch of white 
 sand, the great blue ocean, and the music of the 
 waves upon the beach ; sometimes it is a bit of green 
 woods with the birds flitting from bough to bough, 
 and the blue sky peeping in between the leaves ; and 
 sometimes the picture is a bit of meadow and a clump 
 of trees in whose shadow one can lie and read and 
 read or dream of all the beautiful things of life. The 
 Vision of Sir Launfal is but one of the many poems 
 that place Lowell in the front rank of American poets, 
 and his works in both prose and poetry show him to 
 be one of our best scholars. 
 
 James Russell Lowell was born in Cambridge, Mas- 
 sachusetts, February 22, 1819. The Lowells were 
 descended from Percival Lowell (Lowle), who came 
 from Bristol, England, in 1639 and settled at Newbury, 
 Massachusetts. John Lowell, who was born in 1704 
 and graduated from Harvard in 1721, was the first 
 minister of Newburyport. His son, also John, took a 
 prominent part in the forming of the state government 
 after the Revolution. He was the author of the sec- 
 tion of the Bill of Rights which abolished slavery in 
 Massachusetts. Lowell, the manufacturing city, on the 
 Merrimac, was named after the Rev. Charles Lowell, 
 the father of the poet, and his brother, Francis Cabot 
 Lowell, who were among the first colonists to discover 
 a way of using the water power of New England. The 
 
ELM WOOD 281 
 
 Russells were also of English descent. The first Rus- 
 sell, Richard, settled at Charlestown, in 1640. The 
 poet's mother, who was of Scotch origin, came from an 
 old Orkney family. 
 
 Lowell was most fortunate both in regard to his 
 home life and the social influences that surrounded 
 his boyhood. His father was a cultured, refined and 
 gracious gentleman. His mother had a remarkable gift 
 for languages and a great love for old songs and ro- 
 mances. From her, Lowell inherited his poetic tem- 
 perament and his love for the beauties of nature. He 
 was the youngest child, and had two brothers and two 
 sisters. Does it not seem very odd that so great a man 
 should ever have been called " Baby Jamie " ? Yet 
 such was his mother's pet name for him for many 
 years. 
 
 The home of Lowell was named Elm wood because of 
 some old elms that stood in front of the house. It is in 
 Cambridge, four miles from Boston. The house is a 
 large, comfortable one, built in the colonial style. It is 
 three stories high, and somewhat resembles the Craigie 
 House. In a letter to a friend, written when he was a 
 man of mature years, Lowell thus describes his favorite 
 room : 
 
 " Here I am in my garret. I slept here when I was a little 
 curly-headed boy, and used to see visions between me and the 
 ceiling, and dream that so often recurring dream of having the 
 earth put into my hand like an orange. In it I used to be shut 
 up without a lamp — my mother saying that none of her children 
 should be afraid of the dark — to hide my head under the pil- 
 lows, and then not to be able to shut out the shapeless monsters 
 that thronged around me, minted in my brain. It is a pleasant 
 
282 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 room, facing, from the position of the house, almost equally 
 toward the morning and the afternoon. In winter I can see the 
 sunset, in summer I can see it only as it lights up the tall trunks 
 of the English elms in front of the house, making them some- 
 times, when the sky behind them is lead-colored, seem of the 
 most brilliant yellow. When the sun, towards setting, breaks 
 
 elm wood, lowell's home 
 
 out suddenly after a thunder-shower and I see them against an 
 almost black sky, they have seemed of a most peculiar and daz- 
 zling green tint, like the rust on copper. In winter my view is 
 a wide one, taking in a part of Boston. I can see one long curve 
 of the Charles, and the wide fields between me and Cambridge, 
 and the flat marshes beyoud the river, smooth and silent with 
 glittering snow. As the spring advances and one after another 
 of our trees puts forth, the landscape is cut off from me piece by 
 
CAMBRIDGE THIRTY YEARS AGO 283 
 
 piece, till, by the end of May, I am closeted in a cool and 
 rustling privacy of leaves." * 
 
 Elmwood stood fronting upon a lane between two 
 roads. The house was surrounded by pleasant grounds, 
 consisting of a garden, a lawn, an orchard and a large 
 stretch of woodland. Though Elmwood was so near 
 the city of Boston, yet at that time the whole district 
 was quite rural. Between the house and the village of 
 Cambridge was a long stretch of open space. To the 
 east from the house, close to the Charles river, was a 
 slight elevation called Symonds' Hill. The country 
 back of Elmwood was a farming district, with stretches 
 of woods and meadows. 
 
 The following, taken from Lowell's Cambridge Thirty 
 Years Ago, describes the region as it was in his child- 
 hood : 
 
 " Approaching it from the west by what was then called the 
 New Road (so called no longer, for we change onr names as 
 readily as thieves, to the great detriment of all historical asso- 
 ciation), yon would pause on the brow of Symonds 1 Hill to enjoy 
 a view singularly soothing and placid. In front of yon lay the 
 town, tufted with elms, lindens, and horse-chestnuts. . . . Over 
 it rose the noisy belfry of the College, the square, brown tower 
 of the church, and the slim, yellow spire of the parish meeting 
 house, by no means ungraceful, and then an invariable charac- 
 teristic of JSTew England religious architecture. On your right, 
 the Charles slipped smoothly through green and purple salt- 
 meadows, darkened, here and there, with the blossoming black- 
 grass as with a stranded cloud-shadow. ... To your left hand, 
 upon the Old Road, you saw some half-dozen dignified old 
 houses of the colonial time, all comfortably fronting southward. 
 
 * From Letters of James Russell Lowell. Copyright, 1893, by Harper & 
 Brothers. 
 
284 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 If it were early June, the rows of horse-chestnuts along the 
 fronts of these houses showed, through every crevice of their 
 dark heap of foliage, and the end of every drooping limb, a cone 
 of pearly flowers, while the hill behind was white or rosy with 
 the crowding blooms of various fruit-trees. 11 
 
 At the end of the New Road toward Cambridge stood 
 a line of six willows which Lowell mentions in his 
 Indian Summer Reverie and also in Under the Willows. 
 
 . . . IVe seen those unshorn few, 
 The six old willows at the causey's end 
 
 (Such trees Paul Potter never dreamed nor drew), 
 Through this dry mist their checkering shadows send, 
 Striped, here and there, with many a long-drawn thread, 
 Where streamed through leafy chinks the trembling red, 
 Past which, in one bright trail, the hangbird\s flashes blend. 
 
 Indian Summer Reverie. 
 
 This willow is as old to me as life ; 
 And under it full often have I stretched 
 Feeling the warm earth like a thing ali 
 And gathering virtue in at every pore 
 Till it possessed me wholly, and thou tsed, 
 
 Or was transfused in something to w! , night 
 
 Is coarse and dull of sense. Myself ^ t. 
 
 Gone from me like an ache, and what km I 
 
 Became a part of the universal joy. IJlfe - 
 
 My soul went forth, and, mingling wi. se, 
 
 Danced in the leaves ; or, floating in " 
 Saw its white double in the stream bt hem agai. 
 Or else, sublimed to purer ecstasy, eculiar ant 
 Dilated in the broad blue over all. inter my vi 
 
 I was the wind that dappled the lush ee one long c 
 The tide that crept with coo> t and Cambridge 
 
 The thin-winged swallow sk« and silent with 
 
 The life that gladdened eve id one after another 
 
 'it off from me piece by 
 
TO THE DANDELION 285 
 
 The boy had a very free and happy outdoor life in 
 this country home. He keenly enjoyed such a life, 
 caring little for school. The ample grounds, covering 
 many acres, with their grassy lawns, orchards and 
 groves, afforded him many opportunities to study nature. 
 That he became an interested and a close observer of 
 all her moods and manifestations is shown in many of 
 his writings. Here the dear dandelion of his boyhood 
 grew, and here he heard the robin's song. 
 
 Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, 
 Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, 
 
 First pledge of blithesome May, 
 Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold, 
 
 High-hearted buccaneers, o"er joyed that they 
 An Eldorado in the grass have found, 
 
 Which not the rich earth's ample round 
 May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me 
 Th° \11 the prouder summer-blooms may be. 
 
 Gr ch as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow 
 
 Thr, he primeval hush of Indian seas, 
 
 wrinkled the lean brow 
 Of a 5 ' rob the lover's heart of ease ; 
 
 Spring's largess, which she scatters now 
 To 3 nc 1 poor alike, with lavish hand. 
 oircL v n mos t hearts never understand 
 t at God's value, but pass by 
 red wealth with unrewarded eye. 
 
 Jlc of New 
 
 Charles sL 
 
 idows, dark 
 
 ass as with a 
 
 tood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee ; 
 
 upon the Old ^ back the robin,s son & 
 
 houses of the co J ' e dark old tree 
 
 clearly all day long, 
 
 * From Letters of J J. 
 
 t> « nldish piety, 
 
 Brothers. L J ' 
 
286 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 Listened as if I heard an angel sing 
 
 With news from heaven, which he could bring 
 Fresh every day to my untainted ears 
 When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. 
 
 How like a prodigal doth nature seem, 
 When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! 
 
 Thou teaches me to deem 
 More sacredly of every human heart, 
 
 Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
 Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, 
 Did we but pay the love we owe, 
 And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
 On all these living pages of God's book. 
 
 To the Dandelion. 
 
 In My G-arden Acquaintances the poet invites one to 
 wander in his little kingdom. In the essay, he mentions 
 forty species of birds that nested within the grounds of 
 his home, whose habits he had lovingly watched from 
 his boyhood. He says, " All my birds look upon me as 
 though I were a tenant at will, and they, landlords. 
 There is something inexpressibly dear to me in these 
 old friendships of a lifetime." 
 
 How he valued in after years the lessons taught him 
 in his close study of nature is shown in a letter he 
 wrote to his nephew, Charles R. Lowell. 
 
 "Let me counsel you to make use of all your visits to the 
 country as opportunities for an education which is of great im- 
 portance, which town-bred boys are commonly lacking in, and 
 which can never be so cheaply acquired as in boyhood. Remem- 
 ber that a man is valuable in our day for what lie knows, and 
 that his company will always be desired by others in exact pro- 
 portion to the amount of intelligence and instruction he brings 
 with him. I assure you that one of the earliest pieces of definite 
 
STUDY OF NATURE 287 
 
 knowledge we acquire after we have become men is this — that 
 our company will be desired no longer than we honestly pay our 
 proper share in the general reckoning of mutual entertainment. 
 A man who knows more than another knows incalculably more, 
 be sure of that, and a person with eyes in his head cannot look 
 even into a pigsty without learning something that will be use- 
 ful to him at one time or another. Not that we should educate 
 ourselves for the mere selfish sake of that advantage of superi- 
 ority which it will give us. But knowledge is power in this 
 noblest sense that it enables us to benefit others and to pay our 
 way honorably in life by being of use. 
 
 "Now, when you are at school in Boston you are furnishing 
 your brain with what can be obtained from books. Yon are 
 training and enriching your intellect. While you are in the 
 country you should remember that you are in the great school 
 of the senses. Train your eyes and ears. Learn to know all 
 the trees by their bark and leaves, by their general shaj3e and 
 manner of growth. Sometimes you can be able to say positively 
 what a tree is not by simply examining the lichens on the bark, 
 for you will find that particular varieties of lichens love particu- 
 lar trees. Learn also to know all the birds by sight, by their 
 notes, by their manner of flying ; all the animals by their gen- 
 eral appearance and gait or the localities they frequent. 
 
 " You would be ashamed not to know the name and use of 
 every piece of furniture in the house, and we ought to be as 
 familiar with every object in the world — which is only a larger 
 kind of house. You recollect the pretty story of Pizarro and 
 the Peruvian Inca ; how the Inca asked one of the Spaniards 
 to write the word Bio (God) upon his thumbnail, and then, 
 showing it to the rest, found only Pizarro unable to read it. 
 AY ell, you will find as you grow older that this same name- of 
 God is written all over the world in little phenomena that occur 
 under onr eyes every moment, and I confess that I feel very 
 much inclined to hang my head with Pizarro when I cannot 
 translate these hieroglyphics into my own vernacular.' 1 * 
 
 * From Letters of James Russell Lowell. Copyright, 1893, by Harper & 
 Brothers. 
 
288 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 Lowell became an earnest student and lover of books 
 as he grew older, but they were the books of his own 
 choosing rather than those which were required to be 
 studied at school and college. As a little fellow, he 
 attended a "dame's" school in Cambridge. When 
 he was about eight years old, he became a day scholar 
 at the boarding school of Mr. William Wells, near Elm- 
 wood. In this school he was well grounded in Latin. 
 
 Lowell mentions his childish experiences in the fol- 
 lowing poem which is published in his Biglow Papers : 
 
 " Propped on the marsh, a dwelling now, T see 
 The humble schoolhouse of my A, B, C, 
 Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire, 
 Waited in ranks the wished command to fire, 
 Then all together, when the signal came, 
 Discharged their a-b abs against the dame. 
 Daughter of Danaus, who could daily i^our 
 In treacherous pipkins her Pierian store, 
 She,' mid the volleyed learning firm and calm, 
 Patted the furloughed ferrule on her palm, 
 And, to our wonder, could divine at once 
 Who flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce. 
 
 " Ah, dear old times ! there once it was my hap, 
 Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap 
 From books degraded, there I sat at ease, 
 A drone, the envy of compulsory bees; 
 Rewards of merit, too, full many a time, 
 Each with its woodcut and its moral rhyme, 
 And pierced half-dollars hung on ribbons gay 
 About my neck (to be restored next day) 
 I carried home, rewards as shining then 
 As those that deck the lifelong pains of men, 
 
CHILDISH EXPERIENCES 289 
 
 More solid than the redemanded praise 
 With which the world beribbons later days. 
 
 Ah, dear old times ! how brightly ye return ! 
 How, rubbed afresh, your phosphor traces burn ! 
 The ramble schoolward through dew sparkling meads, 
 The willow-wands turned Cinderella steeds, 
 
 The dinner carried in the small tin pail, 
 
 Shared with some dog, whose most beseeching tail 
 
 And dripping tongue and eager ears belied 
 
 The assumed indifference of canine pride ; 
 
 The caper homeward, shortened if the cart 
 
 Of neighbor Pomeroy, trundling from the mart, 
 
 O'ertook me, — then, translated to the seat 
 
 I praised the steed, how stanch he was and fleet, 
 
 While the bluff farmer, with superior grin, 
 
 Explained where horses should be thick, where thin, 
 
 And warned me (joke he always had in store) 
 
 To shun a beast that four white stockings wore. 
 
 What a fine natural courtesy was his ! 
 
 His nod was pleasure, and his full bow bliss ; 
 
 How did his well-thumbed hat, with ardor rapt, 
 
 Its curve decorous to each rank adapt ! 
 
 How did it graduate with a courtly ease 
 
 The whole long scale of social differences, 
 
 Yet so gave each his measure running o 1 er, 
 
 None thought his own was less, his neighbor's more ; 
 
 The squire was flattered, and the pauper knew 
 
 Old times acknowledged 'neath the threadbare blue ! 
 
 Dropped at the corner of the embowered lane, 
 
 Wliistling I wade the knee-deep leaves again, 
 
 While eager Argus, who has missed all day 
 
 The sharer of his condescending play, 
 
 Comes leaping onward with a bark elate 
 
 And boisterous tail to greet me at the gate ; 
 
 That I was true in absence to our love 
 
 Let the thick dogVears in my primer prove." 
 
290 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 As before mentioned, Lowell's father was a clergy- 
 man, and he frequently would exchange Sunday ser- 
 vices with other clergymen whose charges were in 
 neighboring towns or villages. On these trips, which 
 were often a day's journey from home, he would take 
 his son James. In this way the boy had many oppor- 
 tunities to become well acquainted with the New Eng- 
 land people, their manners and customs, and their 
 peculiarities of speech. That he was a close observer 
 of the Yankee of that period is shown in some of his 
 writings, especially in The Bigloiv Papers and Fitz 
 Adams Story. All the early influences in Lowell's 
 life are felt in his works. 
 
 Quite a number of Lowell's letters to his friends have 
 been published. They are very interesting and give 
 one a closer acquaintance with the real man. The fol- 
 lowing letters were written when he was a little boy : 
 
 Jan. 25, 1827. 
 My dear brother The dog and the colt went down today with 
 our boy for me and the eolt went before and then the horse 
 and slay and dog — I went to a party and I danced a great deal 
 and was very happy — I read french stories — The colt plays 
 very much — and follows the horse when it is out. 
 Your affectionate brother 
 
 James R. Lowell. 
 I forgot to tell you that sister mary has not given me any 
 present but I have got three books.* 
 
 Nov. 2, 1828. 
 My Dear Brother, — I am now going to tell you melancholy 
 news. I have got the ague together with a gumbile. I presume 
 you know that September has got a lame leg, but he grows bet- 
 
 * From Letters of James Russell LoAvell. Copyright, 1893, by Harper & 
 Brothers. 
 
CLASS POEM 291 
 
 ter every day and now is very well but still limps a little. We 
 have a new scholar from round hill. his name is Hooper and 
 we expect another named Penn who I believe also comes from 
 there. The boys are all very well except Nemaise, who has got 
 another piece of glass in his leg and is waiting for the doctor to 
 take it out, and Samuel Storrow is also sick. I am going to 
 have a new suit of blue broadcloth clothes to wear every day and 
 to play in. Mother tells me I may have any sort of buttons I 
 choose. I have not done anything to the hut but if you wish 
 I will. I am now very happy; but I should be more so if you 
 were there. I hope you will answer my letter if you do not I 
 shall write you no more letters, when you write my letters you 
 must direct them all to me and not write half to mother as you 
 generally do. Mother has given me the three volumes of the 
 tales of a grandfather. 
 
 farewell 
 
 Yours truly 
 
 James R. Lowell. 
 You must excuse me for making so many mistakes. You 
 must keep what I have told you about my new clothes a secret 
 if you don't I shall not divulge any more secrets to you. I have 
 got quite a library. The Master has not taken his rattan out 
 since the vacation. Your little kitten is as well and playful as 
 ever and I hope you are to for I am sure I love yon as well as 
 ever. Why is grass like a mouse who can't guess that he he he 
 ho ho ho ha ha ha hum hum hum.* 
 
 In 1834, when Lowell was about fifteen years old, 
 he entered Harvard College. As many of the studies 
 required by the college were those that did not interest 
 him, his work as a student . became very irksome. He 
 was graduated, however, receiving his bachelor degree in 
 1838. His first printed poem was his " Class Poem." 
 It was printed in pamphlet form for his classmates, and 
 dedicated to them in the following original manner : 
 
 * From Letters of James Russell Lowell. Copyrighted, 1893, by Harper & 
 Brothers. 
 
292 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 " To the class of 1838, some of whom he loves, none of 
 whom he hates, this ' poem ' is dedicated by their classmate. 1 ' 
 
 Lowell had such a keen appreciation of his ability to 
 become a writer and a poet, that it was most difficult 
 for him to decide upon a profession. The ministry was 
 first considered but dismissed because he felt that no 
 man should be a minister unless he had money other 
 than his salary to support him. " For," he wrote, " the 
 minister of God should not be thinking of his own and 
 children's bread when dispensing the bread of life." 
 The study of law received his attention, but not always 
 an earnest nor continuous attention, for all the while he 
 felt within himself the spirit of poesy craving for ex- 
 pression. However, in the spring of 1839, he entered 
 the Dane Law School. He finished his studies at the 
 Harvard Law School the following year, receiving the 
 degree of Bachelor of Laivs. 
 
 Lowell had no desire to practice law ; in fact, he had a 
 decided dislike for it, as the following lines plainly show: 
 
 " They tell me I must study law. 
 
 They say that I have dreamed, and dreamed too long ; 
 
 That I must rouse and seek for fame and gold ; 
 That I must scorn this idle gift of song, 
 
 And mingle with the vain and proud and cold. 
 Is, then, this petty strife 
 The end and aim of life, 
 All that is worth the living for below ? 
 God ! then call me hence, for I would gladly go ! " * 
 
 Owing, however, to the fact that his father had lost 
 the greater part of his personal property, and to Lowell's 
 
 * Letters of James Russell Lowell. Copyright, 1893, by Harper & Bros. 
 
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294 JAMES KUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 desire to many Miss Maria White, to whom he had be- 
 come engaged, the practice of laiv seemed to be a neces- 
 sity as a means of earning his livelihood. Bnt after 
 giving the matter some attention, he at last dismissed it 
 entirely, and devoted his efforts wholly to literature. 
 
 Lowell was a contributor of poems to several periodi- 
 cals for a year or two, under his own name and the 
 assumed name of Hugh Percival. These poems were 
 collected and published in 1841 as his first volume of 
 poems. It was called A Years Life. They are now 
 published in the volume of Earlier Poems. He also 
 started a literary magazine, The Pioneer, but only three 
 numbers of it were published. 
 
 It was wholly the lack of business ability that caused 
 The Pioneer to fail, for the magazine had as its contribu- 
 tors such writers as Hawthorne, Whittier and Poe. In 
 it appeared Hawthorne's Hall of Phantasy and Poe's 
 Lenore. In one of the numbers was Lowell's Song 
 Writing, an excellent essay upon the value and influence 
 of that form of poetry called songs. In the same num- 
 ber, Lowell took his stand with the anti-slavery party, 
 and wrote an almost prophetic criticism upon the future 
 influence of the work and writings of Garrison and 
 Whittier. 
 
 In the winter of 1843, Lowell published his second 
 volume of Poems. These indicated the growth of his 
 powers, and plainly showed that he was wise in de- 
 ciding to devote his life to literature and not to law. 
 
 Although Lowell's income from his writings was 
 small and uncertain, yet it seemed sufficient to permit 
 his marrying. In December, 1844, he was married to 
 
THE CHANGELING 295 
 
 Miss White. As Mrs. Lowell was rather frail, they 
 spent the winter in Philadelphia, the climate there being 
 milder than in Cambridge. They returned to Elmwood 
 in the following June. The happiness of Lowell's home 
 life was greatly increased by the birth of his daughter, 
 Blanche, in December, 1845. The little one lingered 
 with them hardly more than a year. The following 
 beautiful poem shows how dearly her father loved her. 
 
 I had a little daughter, 
 
 And she was given to me 
 To lead me gently backward 
 
 To the Heavenly Father's knee. 
 That I, by the force of nature, 
 
 Might in some dim wise divine 
 The depth of his infinite patience 
 
 To this wayward soul of mine. 
 
 She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth, 
 
 And it hardly seemed a day, 
 When a troop of wandering angels 
 
 Stole my little daughter away ; 
 Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari 
 
 But loosed the hampering strings, 
 And when they had opened her cage-door, 
 
 My little bird used her wings. 
 
 But they left in her stead a changeling, 
 
 A little angel child, 
 That seems like her bud in full blossom, 
 
 And smiles as she never smiled ; 
 When I wake in the morning, I see it 
 
 Where she always used to lie, 
 And I feel as weak as a violet 
 
 Alone 'neath the awful sky. 
 
296 JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 This child is not mine as the first was, 
 
 I cannot sing it to rest, 
 I cannot lift it up fatherly 
 
 And bliss it upon my breast : 
 Yet it lies in my little one's cradle 
 
 And sits in my little one's chair, 
 And the light of the heaven she's gone to 
 
 Transfigures its golden hair. 
 
 The Changeling. 
 
 In The First Snow-Fall, his thought is of this little 
 daughter when he refers to "a mound in sweet Auburn." 
 
 THE FIRST SNOW-FALL 
 
 The snow had begun in the gloaming, 
 
 And busily all the night 
 Had been heaping field and highway 
 
 With a silence deep and white. 
 
 Every pine and fir and hemlock 
 
 W r ore ermine too dear for an earl, 
 And the poorest twig on the. elm-tree 
 
 AVas ridged inch deep with j)earl. 
 
 From sheds new-roofed with Carrara 
 
 Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, 
 The stiff rails softened to swan's-down, 
 
 And still fluttered down the snow. 
 
 I stood and watched by the window 
 
 The noiseless work of the sky, 
 And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 
 
 Like brown leaves whirling by. 
 
 I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
 
 Where a little headstone stood ; 
 How the flakes were folding it gently, 
 
 As did robins the babes in the wood. 
 
THE FIRST SNOW-FALL 297 
 
 Up spoke our own little Mabel , 
 
 Saying, ' ' Father, who makes it snow ? " 
 
 And I told of the good All-father 
 Who cares for us here below. 
 
 Again I looked at the snow-fall, 
 
 And I thought of the leaden sky 
 That arched o'er our first great sorrow, 
 
 When that mound was heaped so high. 
 
 I remembered the gradual patience 
 That fell from that cloud like snow, 
 
 Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
 The scar that renewed our woe. 
 
 And again to the child I whispered, 
 
 " The snow- that husheth all, 
 Darling, the merciful Father 
 
 Alone can make it fall ! " 
 
 Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; 
 
 And she, kissing back, could not know 
 That my kiss was given to her sister, 
 
 Folded close under deepening snow. 
 
 Lowell had four children, three daughters and a son. 
 Only one child lived, his daughter Mabel. He dearly 
 loved his little ones and their death was a great sorrow 
 to him. Those who visited him at that time, remember 
 the pairs of baby shoes that hung over a picture frame 
 in his study. From the window, he could see Mount 
 Auburn, the resting place of the little feet. Beside 
 The Changeling and The First Snow-Fail, She Came and 
 Went is another poem that expresses, hut in part, his 
 fatherly love. 
 
298 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 SHE CAME AND WENT 
 
 As a twig trembles, which a bird 
 
 Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, 
 
 So is my memory thrilled and stirred ; — 
 I only know she came and went. 
 
 As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, 
 The blue dome's measureless content, 
 
 So my soul held that moment's heaven ; — 
 I only know she came and went. 
 
 As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps 
 The orchards full of bloom and scent, 
 
 S 3 clove her May my wintry sleeps ; — 
 I only know she came and went. 
 
 An angel stood and met my gaze, 
 
 Through the long doorway of my tent ; 
 
 The tent is struck, the vision stays ; — 
 I only know she came and went. 
 
 Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, 
 
 And life's last oil is nearly spent, 
 One gush of light these eyes will brim, 
 
 Only to think she came and went. 
 
 The loss of their children told greatly upon Mrs. 
 Lowell's health, which had always been delicate, and 
 their trip to Europe, in 1851, was undertaken with the 
 hope that it might benefit her. The death of their 
 youngest child, their baby son, Walter, who was buried 
 in Rome, was a grief from which Mrs. Lowell never 
 recovered. They returned from Europe the following 
 autumn, and Mrs. Lowell died at Elmwood in the au- 
 tumn of 1853. On the day of her death, a child was 
 born to Longfellow. His Two Angels, which Longfel- 
 
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 299 
 
 low sent to Lowell, is a most beautiful expression of 
 sympathy for his friend's sorrow. 
 
 Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, 
 
 Passed o'er our village as the morning broke ; 
 
 The dawn was on their faces, and beneath 
 
 The somber houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. 
 
 Their attitude and aspect were the same, 
 
 Alike their features and their robes of white ; 
 
 But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, 
 And one with asphodels, like flakes of flight. 
 
 'Twas at thy door, O friend ! and not at mine, 
 The angel with the amaranthine wreath, 
 
 Pausing, descended, and with voice divine, 
 
 Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. 
 
 Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, 
 A shadow on those features fair and thin ; 
 
 And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, 
 Two angels issued, Where but one went in. 
 
 Two Angels. 
 
 In the summer of 1846, the Mexican war was in 
 progress, and in June of that year Lowell's first poem 
 of the first series of The Biglow Papers, in which he 
 holds up to scorn the efforts to raise volunteers in 
 Boston, appeared in The Boston Courier. 
 
 The next important poem after the Bigloiv Papers 
 was The Vision of Sir Launfal. It was published in 
 1848. The poem was written in forty-eight hours, 
 during which time the poet scarcely ate or slept. 
 Throughout it seems inspired. The pictures of sum- 
 mer and of winter, which form the introductions to the 
 
800 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 first and second parts, are exquisitely beautiful. It is 
 a landscape poem, and its popularity is due more to its 
 presentation of nature than to its legend. This alle- 
 gory shows the deeply religious element in Lowell's 
 nature and his sincere love for humanity. 
 
 Shortly after Sir Launfal, appeared The Present 
 Crisis, the most eloquent and patriotic of all his 
 poems. 
 
 A Fable for Critics 
 
 " Set forth in October, the 31st day, 
 In the year '48, G. P. Putnam, Broadway, 1 ' 
 
 is a keen, satirical and humorous estimate of the writers 
 of that period. It is, on the whole, surprisingly just. 
 The poem is unequaled by anything of the same nature, 
 in the English language. The poet in his prefatory 
 note says, 
 
 " This jeu cVcsprit was extemporized, I may fairly say, so 
 rapidly was it written, purely for my own amusement and with 
 no thought of publication. I sent daily instalments of it to a 
 friend in New York, the late Charles F. Brio-o-s. He ur^ed me 
 to let it be printed, and I at last consented to its anonymous pub- 
 lication. The secret was kept till after several persons had laid 
 claim to its authorship. 1 ' 
 
 Beaver Brook, a few miles from Elmwood, was a 
 favorite haunt of the poet. He has made the beauties 
 of the place familiar to all in his exquisite poem, Beaver 
 Brook. The mill is no longer there, but the Waverly 
 Oaks, seven to eight in number, still stand. To the 
 Dandelio?i and The Birch Tree are two other poems that 
 are beautifully descriptive. 
 
PROFESSOR IN HARVARD COLLEGE 301 
 
 In the winter of 1855, Lowell was appointed to the 
 professorship of " French and Spanish languages and 
 literatures, and belles-lettres " in Harvard College. He 
 accepted the position on the condition that he be per- 
 mitted to spend a year in Europe in preparatory study. 
 During the summer of the next year, he returned from 
 Europe ; in the autumn, he began his duties as pro- 
 fessor. 
 
 Although Lowell was well fitted by education and 
 by a kindly, sympathetic nature to be a teacher, still 
 the performance of his duties was very irksome. With- 
 out doubt, his work as professor interfered with his 
 literary efforts, and even seemed at times to crush all 
 poetic expression. After he had been teaching about 
 ten years, he writes, " I have been overhauling my old 
 manuscripts, and hope to finish some beginnings which 
 have stood still ever since I was benumbed by sitting 
 down in the professor's chair." 
 
 In another letter, he writes, " I begin my annual dis- 
 satisfaction of lecturing next Wednesday. I cannot 
 get used to it. All my nightmares are of lecturing." 
 
 In 1874, when he was contemplating the giving up 
 of his professorship, he wrote, in quite a different spirit, 
 the following : 
 
 "I was never good for much as a professor — once a week, 
 perhaps, at the best, when I could manage to get into some con- 
 ceit of myself, and so could put a little of \\\j go into the boys. 
 The rest of the time my desk was as good as I. And then, on 
 the other hand, my being a professor wasn't good forme — it 
 damped my gunpowder, as it were, and my mind, when it took 
 fire at all (which wasn't often), drawled off in an unwilling fuse 
 
302 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 instead of leaping to meet the first spark. Since I have dis- 
 charged my soul of it and see the callous on my ankle where the 
 ball and chain used to be, subsiding gradually to smooth and 
 natural skin, I feel like dancing round the table as I used when 
 I was twenty, to let off the animal spirits." * 
 
 In the summer of 1857, Lowell was married to Miss 
 Frances Dunlap. In the autumn of the same year, he 
 became the editor of The Atlantic Monthly, which office 
 he held for nearly four years. Shortly after giving up 
 that work, he became the joint editor of The North 
 American Review, retaining the position for ten years. 
 
 Lowell is often spoken of as the poet-statesman, and 
 he well deserves the name, for few poets have ever ren- 
 dered such service to their country as he did to his. 
 While in Philadelphia during the winter of 1844-45, 
 Lowell became a contributor to The Pennsylvania Free- 
 man. He also became a contributor to The Anti-Slavery 
 Standard, published in New York, which was the organ 
 of the Anti-Slavery Society. The contributions to these 
 papers, his writings in both prose and poetry, show the 
 keen interest Lowell took in the grave and exciting 
 events of that period, his intense patriotism and his 
 hatred of slavery. The following, quoted from a letter 
 to a friend, expresses his sentiments on the subject of 
 slavery in no uncertain terms : 
 
 " The horror of slavery can only be appreciated by one who 
 has felt it himself, or who has imagination enough to put himself 
 in the place of the slave, and fancy himself not only virtually 
 imprisoned, but forced to toil, and all this for no crime and no 
 reason except that it would be inconvenient to free them. What 
 if the curse of slavery were entailed upon them by their ances- 
 
 * Letters of James Russell Lowell. Copyright, 1893, by Harper & Bros. 
 
THE BIGLUW PAPERS 303 
 
 tors, does this in the least affect the clear question of right and 
 wrong? If this be so, then no barbarian can ever be reformed. 
 -But, thank God, this is not so. This is the only excuse which 
 a pandering conscience, a terrified love of gain, invent for the 
 slaveholders, and in which we Northern freemen sustain and en- 
 courage (hem. Are the slaves to be forever slaves because our 
 ancestors committed a horrible crime and wrong in making them 
 so ? Only think for a moment on the miserable and outrageous 
 lie and fallacy here. 11 * 
 
 The Present Crisis, printed in 1848, is replete with 
 his patriotism and his hatred of oppression. The first 
 series of T lie Bigloiv Papers (published in 1848) relates 
 to the Mexican war. Lowell regarded the war as a 
 national crime committed in behalf of slavery. He en- 
 deavored to express the feelings of the New Englanders, 
 especially the people of Massachusetts, upon the sub- 
 ject. The second series, which appeared about twenty 
 years later (1867), refers to the exciting events of the 
 Civil War. He had thrown himself heart and soul into 
 the cause of abolition, and the The Biglow Papers were 
 the medium through which he expressed his bitter 
 hatred of slavery. Beneath his keen satires, his severe 
 censure of political wrong doing, there flows a stream 
 of gentle humor and human sympathy. The papers are 
 an excellent comment on the exciting times from the 
 beginning of the Mexican War to the Civil War. 
 The keen wit and humor displayed placed Lowell in 
 the front rank of humorists. During the Rebellion, 
 Lowell's writings were among the most powerful and 
 effective expressions of the North. The Commemoration 
 
 * From Letters of James Russell Lowell. Copyright, 1893, by Harper & 
 Brothers. 
 
304 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 Ode was recited in Memorial Hall at the Harvard com- 
 memoration, July 21, 18(35, in honor of the ninety-three 
 alumni who fell in the Civil War, among whom were 
 five of the poet's kindred. It contains a noble tribute 
 to President Lincoln, and is full of elevated thought, 
 great beauty and power. Beside the above, The Washers 
 of the Shroud is one of the strongest war poems. 
 
 The volume of poems containing Under the Willows 
 appeared in 1869. In the preface, the author states 
 that no collections of his poems had been made since 
 1848 and that some of them are of still earlier date. 
 Under the Willows is descriptive of the many outdoor 
 attractions that had delighted Lowell from his boyhood. 
 The willows themselves had always had a peculiar 
 charm for the poet. Not only did he love the willows 
 dearly, but he taught others to love them so well that a 
 resident of Cambridge changed the plan of her house to 
 avoid cutting down one of them. 
 
 In Lowell's long poem, The Cathedral, is a full ex- 
 pression of his religious faith. It is not only in this 
 poem that we find an expression of his love for God 
 and man, but it is shown in many of his shorter poems, 
 especially in The Search, Grodminster Chimes and The 
 Foot Path, 
 
 As a writer of prose, Lowell also ranks among the 
 first of our American authors. His first prose work, 
 Conversation on Some of the Older Poets, was published 
 in 1845. In 1854 appeared the Life of Keats. 
 
 Fireside Travels was published in 1864. This is a 
 book of charming essays which had appeared in the 
 magazines of the day. In this collection is Cambridge 
 Thirty Years Ago. 
 
306 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 My Study Windows, which was published in 1870, 
 contains some of Lowell's best prose writings. 
 
 In the summer of 1872, Lowell went to Europe, on 
 his third visit, remaining abroad two years. The de- 
 gree of Doctor of Civil Law was conferred upon him 
 by Oxford in June 1873, and the degree of Doctor of 
 Laws by Cambridge. 
 
 Lowell was sent by our government as Minister to 
 Spain in 1877. He was afterward transferred to Eng- 
 land (1880). He made many friends while in England, 
 charming the English people by his courtliness and his 
 brilliant talents. He delivered a number of speeches, 
 which are published among his political and literary 
 addresses. Lowell returned to the United States in 
 1885, and lived a retired life with his only daughter, 
 at South boro', Mass. He was not afterward engaged in 
 public life, and was prevented by failing health from 
 doing much literary work. He died at Elmwood, 
 August 12, 1891. 
 
 As a writer, Lowell is one of our best poets, essayists, 
 critics and lecturers. His writings are humorous, witty, 
 pathetic and kindly satirical. As an American, he was 
 a true patriot, eager for his country's good ; an ardent 
 abolitionist ; and an excellent Minister to the Court of 
 St. James. England has honored his memory by erect- 
 ing a memorial window to him in Westminster Abbey. 
 
NDEX 
 
IXDEX 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Admitted to the bar ... 23 
 Ages, The, Selection from 29 
 
 Ancestors 11, 12 
 
 Baylies, Hon. William, 
 
 Studies law with ... 23 
 Boyhood, Description of 13, 14 
 Boys of My Boyhood, The, 
 
 Selection from .... 13 
 Bryant, 
 
 Homestead, Description of 6 
 Peter (Dr.), 
 
 Description of . . 12, 13 
 Influence of, upon Wil- 
 liam Cullen . . 14, 15 
 Marriage of ... . 12 
 Peter (Mrs.), 
 
 Description of . . . 12 
 Influence of, upon Wil- 
 liam Cullen ... 14 
 
 Philip (Dr.) 11 
 
 Stephen 11 
 
 William Cullen, 
 
 Birth of 5 
 
 Birthplace of . . . 5 
 
 Death of 45 
 
 Description of . . . 16 
 Edgar Allan Poe's 38, 39 
 Marriage of . . . . 29 
 William Cullen (Mrs.), 
 
 Death of 39 
 
 Description of . . .29 
 
 Poems to 39 
 
 Cedarmere 38 
 
 Central Park, New York City, 
 
 Influence in establishing 36 
 College career . . . . 16, 18 
 
 l'AGE 
 
 Courtship of Miles Standish, 
 
 The 12 
 
 Cummington, 
 
 Life at 10 
 
 Natural surroundings of 8 
 
 Curtis, George William, 
 Thanatopsis character- 
 ized by 19 
 
 Death of William Cullen 
 
 Bryant .45 
 
 Death of the Flowers, The, 
 
 Selection fiom .... 32 
 
 Death of Lincoln, The, 
 
 Publication of ... . 34- 
 Selection from .... 34 
 
 Death of Slavery, The . . 'So 
 
 Editor, 
 
 Career as .... 31-33 
 Eveniiig Post .... 31 
 New lark Review and 
 Atheneum 31 
 
 Education, 
 
 College 18 
 
 Early 13-16 
 
 Eightieth Birthday ... 40 
 
 Embargo, The, Account of, 15, 16 
 
 Europe 35 
 
 Fairchild, Prances (Miss). 
 
 Marriage of 29 
 
 Flood of Years .... 45 
 
 Fountain and Other Poems, 
 
 The, Publication of . 36 
 
 Future Life, The, 
 
 Selection from .... 36 
 
 Great Barrington, 
 
 Residence at ... . 25 
 
 309 
 
310 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Green River, quoted . 20, 28 
 
 2.') 
 
 Poe, Edgar Allan, 
 
 
 Writing of 
 
 26 
 
 Bryant described by . 
 
 38, 39 
 
 Godwin, Parke, 
 
 
 Poems, 
 
 
 Account of writing To a 
 
 
 Complete volume . . 
 
 . 35 
 
 Waterfowl .... 
 
 23 
 
 Familiar 
 
 . 31 
 
 Hallock, Moses (Rev.) . . 
 
 10 
 
 First volume . . . 
 
 . 30 
 
 Howard, Abiel (Dr ) 
 
 12 
 
 Illustrated edition . . 
 
 . 40 
 
 Howe, Samuel (Judge), 
 
 
 Later favorites . . . 
 
 . 40 
 
 Studies law with . . . 
 
 23 
 
 Of nature .... 
 
 . 41 
 
 Hymn to Death, 
 
 
 Phi Beta Kappa Society 
 
 
 Publication of ... . 
 
 30 
 
 Harvard .... 
 
 .' 29 
 
 Selection from .... 
 
 15 
 
 To Mrs. Bryant . . 
 
 . 39 
 
 Iliad, 
 
 
 Poet, The, Selection from 
 
 5 
 
 Publication of ... . 
 
 35 
 
 Poetry, First efforts in . 
 
 15, 10 
 
 Translation of ... . 
 
 35 
 
 Political principles . . 
 
 . 33 
 
 Inscription for the Entrance 
 
 
 Prose works, Quality of 
 
 . 35 
 
 to a Wood, 
 
 
 Publication, First . . 
 
 . 15 
 
 Publication of ... . 
 
 22 
 
 Reputation abroad . . 
 
 . 35 
 
 Selection from ... 22 
 
 23 
 
 Rivulet, The, 
 
 
 Writing of 
 
 22 
 
 Selection from . . . 
 
 10, 11 
 
 Irving, Washington . 
 
 35 
 
 Robert of Lincoln, quoted 
 
 42-44 
 
 June, 
 
 
 Roslyn, N. Y., Home at 
 
 . 38 
 
 Publication of ... . 
 
 31 
 
 Shaw, Abigail .... 
 
 . 11 
 
 Selection from .... 
 
 46 
 
 Slavery, Attitude toward 
 
 . 33 
 
 Law, 
 
 
 Snell, 
 
 
 Practice of 
 
 25 
 
 Ebenezer 
 
 . 12 
 
 Study of 
 
 23 
 
 Sarah, 
 
 
 Letters from the East . . 
 
 35 
 
 Ancestors of . . . 
 
 . 12 
 
 Letters of a 'Traveler . . . 
 
 35 
 
 Marriage of . . . 
 
 . 12 
 
 Life that Is, The, Writing of 
 
 33 
 
 Thomas (Rev.) . . . 
 
 . 12 
 
 Lines on Revisiting the 
 
 
 Solitude, Love of . . . 
 
 . 25 
 
 Country, 
 
 
 Summer Wind . . 
 
 . 25 
 
 Selection from .... 
 
 8 
 
 Quoted 
 
 41, 42 
 
 Little People of the Snow, 
 
 
 Thanatopsis, 
 
 
 The, Selection from 40 
 
 ,41 
 
 G. W. Curtis 1 s opinion o: 
 
 ' 19 
 
 May Sun Sheds an Amber 
 
 
 Quoted 
 
 19-22 
 
 Light, The, 
 
 
 Publication of . . . 
 
 . 19 
 
 Selection from .... 
 
 39 
 
 Selection from . . . 
 
 3 
 
 New York City, 
 
 
 Writing of . 
 
 . 18 
 
 First visit to .... 
 
 31 
 
 Third of November, The, 
 
 
 New York Review and Athe- 
 
 
 Publication of . . . 
 
 . 39 
 
 neum, Co-editor of . . . 
 
 31 
 
 Thirty Poems, published 
 
 . 39 
 
 Odyssey, 
 
 
 To a Waterfowl, 
 
 
 Publication of ... . 
 
 35 
 
 Account of writing . 
 
 . 23 
 
 Translation of ... . 
 
 35 
 
 Parke Godwin on . . 
 
 . 23 
 
 Old Man's Funeral, The, 
 
 
 Quoted 
 
 . 24 
 
 Selection from .... 
 
 5 
 
 Publication of . . . 
 
 . 23 
 
 Our Country's Call, 
 
 
 Translations .... 
 
 . 35 
 
 Selection from ... 33 
 
 34 
 
 Travels 
 
 . 35 
 
INDEX 
 
 311 
 
 ' ' Truth crushed to earth 
 
 shall rise again" . 33, 40 
 
 White Footed Beer and Other 
 
 Poems, The, published . 38 
 
 PAGE 
 
 18 
 
 Williams College . . . 
 Wordsworth, 
 
 Influence of, upon Bryant 35 
 
 POEMS (ENTIRE) 
 
 Green River . . 
 Robert of Lincoln 
 Summer Wind 
 
 20 
 42 
 
 41 
 
 Thanatopsis 
 To a Waterfowl 
 
 19 
 24 
 
 EXCERPTS 
 
 Ages, The ...... 29 
 
 Death of Lincoln, The . . 34 
 
 Death of the Elowers, The . 32 
 
 Future Life, The .... 3(3 
 
 Hymn to Death .... 15 
 
 Inscription for the En- 
 trance to a Wood . . 22 
 
 June 45 
 
 Lines on Revisiting the 
 
 Country ..... 8 
 
 Little People of the Snow, 
 
 The 40 
 
 May Sun Sheds an Amber 
 
 Light, The .... 39 
 
 Old Man's Funeral, The . 4 
 
 Poet, The ....... 4 
 
 Rivulet, The 10 
 
 Thanatopsis 3 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 Ancestors .... 
 Atlantic Monthly, The 
 Boston, 
 
 Description of . . 
 
 Residence in . . 
 Boyhood, Description of 
 Brothers . . . . 55, 61, 
 Bulkeley, Peter (Rev.) 
 Cambridge, Mass., 
 
 Divinity Hall . 
 
 Divinity School 
 
 Harvard College . 
 
 Residence in . . 
 
 52, 53 
 
 College life 
 
 60-62 
 
 . 82 
 
 Concord, Mass., 
 
 
 
 Description of . . . 
 
 . 70 
 
 . 52 
 
 Poems about 
 
 . 70 
 
 55, 60 
 
 Manse, The Old, 
 
 
 55-58 
 
 Description of *. 
 
 . 70 
 
 63, 64 
 
 Mosses from an Old 
 
 
 . 52 
 
 Manse, written in 
 
 53, 70 
 
 
 Nature, written in . 
 
 . 70 
 
 . 66 
 
 Residence in . 60, 66 
 
 68,84 
 
 . 65 
 
 New home at, 
 
 
 . 00 
 
 Description of . 
 
 . 70 
 
 . 66 
 
 Destruction of . . 
 
 . 84 
 
812 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Concord Hymn, Account of 
 Conduct of Life, 
 
 Publication of ... . 
 Death of Ralph Waldo 
 
 Emerson 
 
 Dial, The, 
 
 Earlier poems in . . . 
 
 Editor of 
 
 Dirge, Selection from 
 
 Domestic Life 
 
 Domestic life .... 73, 
 
 Each and All 
 
 Education, 
 
 College . . . . . 60- 
 
 Early ...... 
 
 Emerson, 
 
 Edward 
 
 Joseph (Rev.) of Concord 
 Joseph (Rev.), pioneer 
 minister ...... 
 
 Mary Moody, 
 
 Character of . . . 57, 
 Early life of ... . 
 
 Influence of, upon Ralph 
 
 Waldo 
 
 Love of learning of 
 Ralph Waldo, 
 
 Birth of 
 
 Birthplace of ... . 
 Boyish traits of . . 56, 
 Brothers of . 55, 6.1, 03, 
 Character of, youthful 
 Daughter of ... . 
 
 Death of 
 
 Early life of ... . 
 First wife of . . .67, 
 Marriage of, 
 
 First 
 
 Second 
 
 William, father of Ralph 
 Waldo, 
 Ancestors of . , . 52, 
 Education of 
 Death of ... . 
 Description of . 
 Marriage of . 
 Minister, 
 
 Of First Church of 
 Boston . . . 
 
 5-1 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Emerson, William, (continued), 
 Minister of town of Harvard 54 
 William (Mrs.), 
 
 Character of .... 54 
 
 Struggle with poverty 54, 55 
 
 William, patriot minister 53 
 
 End of working life ... 84 
 
 English Traits ..... 74 
 
 Essayist 77 
 
 Essays, 
 American Scholar . . .77 
 First volume of . . . . 77 
 
 Nature 77 
 
 Second volume of ... 77 
 Europe, 
 
 First trip to 68 
 
 Second trip to .... 77 
 
 Third trip to 84 
 
 Forbearance 51 
 
 Fortus 59 
 
 Furness, W. H 59 
 
 Good- Bye 65 
 
 Publication of .... 78 
 
 Gould, Benjamin Apthorp, 59 
 
 Assistance of, to Emerson 61) 
 
 Harvard College, Career at 60-62 
 
 Haskins, Ruth 54 
 
 Hawthorne, Nathaniel . 53, 85 
 Humble-Bee, The, 
 
 Selection from . . . 74, 79 
 
 Publication of .... 78 
 
 Jackson, Lydia (Miss) . . 68 
 
 Latin School 59 
 
 Lectures, 
 
 Account of .... 74, 76 
 
 In England 77 
 
 Lowell, Charles (Rev.) . . 54 
 Manse, The Old, 53, G6, 68, 70, 84 
 May-Day and other Poems . 82 
 Minister of Second Church 
 of Boston, 
 
 Ordained as 66 
 
 Resignation as .... 67 
 Ministry, Qualified for . . 06 
 
 Studying for 65 
 
 Miscellanies 78 
 
 Monadnock 70 
 
 Mosses from an Old Manse oS, 70 
 Musketaquid 70 
 
INDEX 
 
 313 
 
 My Garden 
 
 65, 
 
 70 
 
 Representative Men . . 
 
 
 77 
 
 Selection from . 
 
 
 71 
 
 Rhodora, The, Publication of 
 
 78 
 
 Nature, published . . 
 
 
 76 
 
 Second Church of Boston, 
 
 
 
 Nature, 
 
 
 
 Anti-slavery movement in 
 
 77 
 
 Love of 
 
 
 65 
 65 
 
 Ordained minister of . 
 Resigned charge of 
 Sermons, 
 
 
 66 
 
 Poems to 
 
 67 
 
 Newtou 
 
 
 68 
 
 
 
 Nun's Aspiration, The . 
 
 
 67 
 
 Criticisms of 
 
 
 67 
 
 "Original poems" . . 
 
 59 
 
 60 
 
 Publication of . 
 
 m, 
 
 67 
 
 Parnassus, 
 
 
 
 Slavery, Attitude toward 
 
 77, 
 
 78 
 
 Account of ... . 
 
 82 
 
 84 
 
 Snow-Storm, The . 
 
 
 78 
 
 Publication of . 
 
 
 82 
 
 Society and Solitude . 
 
 
 77 
 
 Peter's Field .... 
 
 
 64 
 
 South, Trip to the . . 
 
 
 m 
 
 Poems, 
 
 
 
 Teaching 
 
 62 
 
 63 
 
 Earlier, published . . 
 
 
 78 
 
 Terminus, Publication of 
 
 
 82 
 
 First 
 
 
 78 
 
 Threnody 
 
 72 
 
 82 
 
 First volume published 
 
 
 82 
 
 Selection from . 
 
 72 
 
 73 
 
 Pleasure in writing . 
 
 
 78 
 
 To Ellen, Selection from 
 
 67 
 
 68 
 
 Second volume published 
 
 82 
 
 Tucker, Ellen (Miss) 
 
 
 67 
 
 Quality of 
 
 
 84 
 
 
 
 78 
 
 
 
 51 
 
 66 
 
 Walden . 
 
 
 70 
 
 Preaching 
 
 Walden woods . . 
 Webster 
 
 71 
 
 Problem, The, 
 
 78 
 
 Publication of . . . 
 
 
 79 
 
 Woodnotes 
 
 65 
 
 70 
 
 Selection from . . . 
 
 81 
 
 ,82 
 
 I J ublication of . . . 
 
 
 79 
 
 Prose works, 
 
 
 
 Selections from 49, 79 
 
 -81 
 
 86 
 
 Quality of ... . 
 
 
 78 
 
 
 
 
 Forbearance 
 
 POEM (ENTIRE) 
 
 51 
 
 Dirge . 
 Humble-Bee, 
 My Garden . 
 Problem, The 
 
 The 
 
 EXCERPTS 
 
 74 
 
 64 
 79 
 71 
 81 
 
 Threnody 
 To Ellen 
 Woodnotes 
 
 49, 
 
 72 
 67 
 79 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Anecdotes .... 135, 137 
 
 Al Aaraaf 110 
 
 Allan, Mr. and Mrs., 
 
 Adopt Poe 94 
 
 Death of Mr. Allan . . 116 
 
 Home in England ... 95 
 Obtain West Point Ca- 
 
 detship f or l 5 oe . 109, 110 
 Return to America . . 98 
 Secure Poe's discharge . 109 
 
su 
 
 INDEX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Alone, Selection from . . 89 
 
 Annabel Lee, 
 
 Quoted 137-139 
 
 Selection from . . . . 118 
 
 Army, U.S., Enlists in . . 108 
 
 Arnold, Elizabeth ... 93 
 
 Athletics, Account of . 99-101 
 
 Balloon Hoax,, The, publica- 
 tion of 129 
 
 Baltimore, 
 
 Last visit to 145 
 
 Residence in .... 112 
 
 Baltimore Saturday Visitor 
 
 113, 116 
 
 Bamaby Rudge .... 125 
 
 Bells, The, 
 
 Account of 141 
 
 Quoted 141-145 
 
 Black Cat, The, 
 
 Publication of ... . 128 
 Selection from .... 102 
 
 Broadway Journal, 
 
 Connections with . . . 135 
 
 Burton's Gentleman'' s Maga- 
 zine, 
 Associate-editor of . . 121 
 Termination of editor- 
 ship of ... . 123, 124 
 
 Clemm, Maria (Mrs.), 
 
 Description of ... 128 
 
 Opinion of Poe . . . 120 
 Poe's home with . . . 116 
 Removal of, to Richmond 128 
 Virginia, daughter of . . 116 
 Betrothal of, to Poe . 117 
 Marriage of . . . 118, 119 
 
 Goloseum, 
 Quoted .... 114, 116 
 Publication of . . . . 113 
 
 ConchologisVs First Text- 
 Book, published . . . 121 
 
 Critic 119 
 
 Cryptography 125 
 
 Death of Edgar Allan Poe 145 
 
 Descent into the Maelstrom, 
 
 The 125 
 
 Bream within a Dream, A, 
 
 Selection from . . . . 105 
 
 Early struggles . 113, 114, 116 
 
 Education, 
 
 College .... 105, 107 
 
 Early . . .94, 96-99, 104 
 
 Enlists in U.S. Army . . 108 
 
 Eulalume, Selection from . 145 
 
 Evening Mirror, 
 
 Publication of Ihe Baven 
 
 in 130 
 
 Sub-editor of ... . 130 
 Fall of the House of Usher, 
 
 The 121 
 
 Fordham, Home at . . . 137 
 Gold Bug, The, Account of 127 
 Graham's Magazine, 
 
 Contributor to ... . 125 
 Editor of ... . 125, 126 
 Severed Connections with 
 
 127, 128 
 Haunted Talace, The . . 121 
 Quoted .... 122, 123 
 Hopkins, C. D. (Mrs.) . . 93 
 Kennedy, Mr. . . . 113, 117 
 Letters, 
 
 Concerning the use of 
 
 liquor 124 
 
 Concerning his wife's 
 
 death .... 139, 140 
 To Mr. Kennedy . . . 113 
 To James Russell Lowell 
 
 129, 130 
 MS. Found in a Bottle, A . 113 
 Murders of the Bue Morgue, ' 
 
 The 125 
 
 Mystery of Marie Boget . . 127 
 Narrative of Arthur Gordon 
 
 Pym, The . . . 120, 121 
 New York City, 
 
 Visits to . . . 112, 120, 128 
 Pcean, A, Selection from . 104 
 Penn Magazine . . . . 124 
 Philadelphia, Removal to . 121 
 Poe, 
 
 David (General) ... 92 
 David, 
 
 Actor 93, 94 
 
 Death of 94 
 
 Marriage of ... . 93 
 
 Studied law . . . 92, 93 
 
 David (Mrs.) . . . 93, 94 
 
INDEX 
 
 315 
 
 Edgar Allan, 
 
 
 
 Adoption of . . 
 
 
 94 
 
 Birth of . . . 
 
 
 92 
 
 Childhood of 
 
 94, i 
 
 Death of . . . 
 
 
 145 
 
 Description of . 
 
 100 
 
 -102 
 
 Marriage of . . 
 
 118, 
 
 119 
 
 Edgar Allan (Mrs.), 
 
 
 
 Deatli of . . . 
 
 
 137 
 
 Ill health of . . 
 
 
 12G 
 
 Rosalie .... 
 
 
 94 
 
 William Henry Leonard, 
 
 93 
 
 Poems, 
 
 
 
 Eirst volume published . 
 
 107 
 
 Second volume publis 
 
 lied 
 
 110 
 
 Third volume published . 
 
 112 
 
 Position in literature 
 
 145, 
 
 140 
 
 Raven, The, 
 
 
 
 Account of . . . 
 
 
 134 
 
 Quoted .... 
 
 130 
 
 -134 
 
 * Publication of . 
 
 
 130 
 
 Richmond, Va., Residence at 
 
 
 
 117, 
 
 118 
 
 Snowdon 1 s Ladies' Magazine 
 
 127 
 
 Southern Literary Messenger, 
 
 
 Assistant editor 
 
 
 117 
 
 Contributor to . . 
 
 
 117 
 
 Editor of . . . . 
 
 
 119 
 
 Stannard, Mrs. . . . 102-104 
 Stoke-Newington, 
 
 Account of life at . 
 
 Return to America from 
 
 Stylus, The 
 
 Sun, The (New York), 
 
 Publications in . . . . 
 Tale of the Ragged Moun- 
 tains, A 
 
 Tales of the Grotesque and 
 Arabesque .... 
 Tamerlane, Selections from, 
 91, 108 
 Tamerlane and Other Poems 
 
 Account of ... . 107 
 
 Publication of ... . 
 To Helen, Selection from . 
 To My Mother, quoted . . 
 University of Virginia, 
 
 Record at . . . 
 West Point, 
 
 Cadetship, 
 Application for . 
 Appointment to . 
 
 Dismissal from 
 
 Life at Ill, 112 
 
 William Wilson, 
 
 Selection from . . . 96-98 
 
 96-98 
 
 98 
 
 127 
 
 129 
 
 129 
 
 123 
 
 109 
 
 108 
 107 
 103 
 140 
 
 105, 107 
 
 109 
 110 
 112 
 
 POEMS (ENTIRE) 
 
 Annabel Lee . 
 Bells, The . . 
 Coloseum, The 
 
 137 
 141 
 114 
 
 Haunted Palace, The . . 122 
 
 Raven, The 130 
 
 To My Mother .... 140 
 
 EXCERPTS 
 
 Alone 89 
 
 Annabel Lee 118 
 
 Dream within a Dream, A 105 
 
 Eulalume 145 
 
 Pamn, A 104 
 
 Tamerlane ... 91, 108, 109 
 To Helen 103 
 
316 
 
 INDEX 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 Ambitions, Literary . . 170-172 
 
 Ancestors . . . . 151, 152 
 
 Appleton, Frances Elizabeth 181 
 
 Armchair, The famous . . 185 
 
 Ballads and Other Poems, 
 
 Publication of . . . . 181 
 
 Battle of LovelVs Pond, The, 
 
 Account of 1G6 
 
 Quoted 165 
 
 Publication of ... . 105 
 
 Bowdoin College, 
 
 Career in ... 100, 107 
 Professor at . . . 172, 178 
 Stephen Longfellow, trus- 
 tee of 152 
 
 Brunswick, Home at . . 174 
 
 Building of the Ship, The, 
 
 Selection from . . 182, 183 
 
 Cambridge, Residence in . 170 
 
 Carter, Nathaniel H. . . 104 
 
 Childish impressions . 102, 104 
 
 College, 
 
 Degrees 184 
 
 Record at . . . 100, 107 
 
 Courtship of Miles Standish, 
 
 The 183 
 
 Craigie House . . . . . 170 
 History of ... . 170-178 
 Purchase of 181 
 
 Day is Done, The, 
 
 Selection from .... 151 
 
 Death of Henry Wadsworth 
 
 Longfellow .... 180 
 
 Divina Commedia, 
 
 Translation of . . . . 184 
 
 Education, 
 
 College .... 100, 107 
 Early 102, 104 
 
 Essays 173 
 
 Europe, 
 
 First visit to. . . 173, 174 
 Second visit to .... 175 
 Third visit to ... . 181 
 Fourth visit to . . 184, 185 
 
 Evangeline . . . . 181, 182 
 J. R. Lowell's opinion of 182 
 
 Fable for Critics, A, 
 
 
 
 
 Selection from . . 
 
 
 182 
 
 Footsteps of Angels, 
 
 
 
 Selection from . 
 
 175, 
 
 17G 
 
 From my Armchair, 
 
 
 
 Account of . 
 
 
 185 
 
 Selection from . . 
 
 185, 
 
 186 
 
 Harvard College, 
 
 
 
 Professor at . 
 
 174, 
 
 176 
 
 Resignation as . 
 
 
 183 
 
 Hawthorne, Nathaniel 
 
 100, 
 
 176 
 
 Hyperion, 
 
 
 
 Popularity of . . 
 
 
 180 
 
 Publication of . 
 
 
 
 179 
 
 Selection from . 
 
 
 178, 
 
 179 
 
 Indian Hunter, The 
 
 
 
 167 
 
 Quoted . . . 
 
 
 108, 
 
 169 
 
 Keramos, Selection from 
 
 158, 
 
 159 
 
 Literary services to Amer- 
 
 
 ica 
 
 180, 
 
 187 
 
 Longfellow, 
 
 
 
 Abigail .... 
 
 
 152 
 
 Henry Wadsworth, 
 
 
 
 Birth of .... 
 
 
 151 
 
 Birthplace of . . 
 
 151, 
 
 152 
 
 Death of . . . 
 
 
 186 
 
 Description of . 
 
 
 166 
 
 Marriage of, 
 
 
 
 First. . . . 
 
 
 174 
 
 Second . 
 
 
 181 
 
 Henry Wadsworth (M 
 
 *.), 
 
 
 174, 175, 
 
 181, 
 
 183 
 
 Stephen .... 
 
 
 152 
 
 William .... 
 
 
 151 
 
 Zilpah Wadsworth . 
 
 151, 
 
 152 
 
 Lovell's Pond . 
 
 
 165 
 
 My Lost Youth, quoted 
 
 154 
 
 -158 
 
 Native Writers 
 
 
 167 
 
 New England Magazine, 
 
 The 
 
 174 
 
 North American Review, 
 
 The 
 
 174 
 
 Orr, Benjamin . . 
 
 
 172 
 
 Outre Mer, published 
 
 
 173 
 
 Poems, 
 
 
 
 College, published . 
 
 
 167 
 
 First, published 
 
 165, 
 
 166 
 
 First volume published . 
 
 180 
 

 INDEX 
 
 317 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Poems, 
 
 
 Spanish Student, The, 
 
 
 Last volume published . 
 
 180 
 
 Selection from . . . . 
 
 182 
 
 Longer 
 
 181 
 
 To the River Charles, 
 
 
 Popularity of ... . 
 
 186 
 
 Selection from .... 
 
 179 
 
 Second volume published 
 
 181 
 
 Translation, 
 
 
 Poems on Slavery .... 
 
 181 
 
 Divina Commedia . . . 
 
 184 
 
 Portland Academy . 
 
 164 
 
 French text-book . . . 
 
 173 
 
 Portland Gazette, The . . 
 
 105 
 
 Ultima Thule, published . 
 
 180 
 
 Potter, Mary Storrer . . 
 
 174 
 
 United States Literary Ga- 
 
 
 Psalm of Life, The . 180 
 
 181 
 
 zette, The 
 
 107 
 
 Ropewalk, The, quoted 100 
 
 -102 
 
 Village Blacksmith, The, 
 
 
 Sea-Diver, The .... 
 
 167 
 
 Account of 
 
 185 
 
 Quoted .... 100 
 
 170 
 
 Selection from .... 
 
 180 
 
 Seventy-second birthday . 
 
 185 
 
 Voices of the Night, published 180 
 
 Sketch Book, The .... 
 
 102 
 
 Wadsworth, 
 
 
 Song of Hiawatha, The 
 
 
 Henry 
 
 154 
 
 Popularity of ... . 
 
 183 
 
 Zilpali 
 
 151 
 
 Selection from .... 
 
 149 
 
 Wadsworth House, 
 
 
 Spanish Student, The, 
 
 
 Description of . . .152 
 
 , 154 
 
 Publication of ... . 
 
 181 
 
 
 
 POEMS (ENTIRE) 
 
 Battle of LovelPs Pond. 
 Indian Hunter, The . 
 My Lost Youth . . 
 
 The 
 
 105 
 168 
 154 
 
 Ropewalk, The 
 Sea-Diver, The 
 
 160 
 109 
 
 EXCERPTS 
 
 V 
 
 Building of the Ship, The . 182 
 
 Day is Done, The . . . 151 
 
 Fable for Critics, A : Lowell 182 
 
 Footsteps of Angels . . . 175 
 
 From My Armchair . . . 185 
 
 Keramos 158 
 
 Song of Hiawatha, The 
 Spanish Student, The . 
 To the River Charles 
 Two Angels .... 
 Village Blacksmith, The 
 
 149 
 182 
 
 179 
 299 
 
 185 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 American Manufacturer, 
 
 Writer for . . . . . 218 
 
 Amesbury, Home at . . . 221 
 
 Ancestors .... 195, 196 
 
 Anecdotes . 200, 205, 200, 216, 
 
 217, 222 
 
 Anti-slavery, 
 
 National party formed . 226 
 Persecution of advocates 
 
 223, 224 
 Poems ....... 225 
 
 Society of Haverhill . . 219 
 
318 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Anti-slavery, Work for 
 At Eventide, published . . 
 Atlantic Monthly, 
 
 Contributor to ... . 
 
 Dinner by publishers of . 
 At Sundown, published . . 
 At Washington .... 
 Barbara Frletchie . . • 
 Barefoot Boy, The, 
 
 Selections from 199, 209- 
 Battle Autumn of 1862, The 
 Boy Captives, The . . . 
 Boyhood . . . 209, 211, 
 Brown of Ossdwatomie . . 
 
 Publication of ... . 
 Burial of Barbour . . . 
 Burns, Selection from 212, 
 Burns, Robert, 
 
 Influence of 
 
 City of the Plain, The . . 
 Coffin, Joshua . . . 207, 
 Common Question, The . . 
 
 Crisis, The 
 
 Death of John Greenleaf 
 
 Whittier 
 
 Education, Early . . 206- 
 Eln Feste Burg ist Unser 
 
 Gott 
 
 Eternal Goodness, The, 
 
 Publication of ... . 
 
 Selections from . 193, 
 Ernie's Departure, The . . 
 
 Expostulation 
 
 Farm life • 
 
 199, 200, 209, 211, 219, 
 For Righteousness'' Sake 
 Frost Spirit, The .... 
 Garrison, William Lloyd, 
 
 Closer association with 
 Whittier 
 
 First meeting . . .213- 
 
 Free Press, established by 
 
 National Philanthropist, 
 Established by . 
 
 Tribute to Whittier . . 
 Greenleaf, Sarah .... 
 Haverhill, Selection from 194, 
 Haverhill Academy, 
 
 Career at ... . 216, 
 
 221 
 234 
 
 231 
 
 234 
 234 
 
 226 
 
 227 
 
 211 
 
 227 
 199 
 212 
 229 
 281 
 213 
 213 
 
 212 
 
 218 
 211 
 
 217 
 
 226 
 
 236 
 
 209 
 
 227 
 
 233 
 
 233 
 
 214 
 225 
 
 220 
 
 227 
 218 
 
 220 
 215 
 214 
 
 218 
 230 
 196 
 195 
 
 218 
 
 200, 
 
 2-2> 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Haverhill Gazette, 
 
 Contributions to . . . 218 
 
 Editor of ... 218, 221 
 Hazel Blossoms, published . 234 
 Herald, Newburyport . . 213 
 Home Ballads, Poems and 
 
 Lyrics 231 
 
 Home circle, Description of 
 
 201-205, 222 
 Home Coming of the Bride, 
 
 Selection from . . . 
 Hunters of Men . . . 
 Hussey, Abigail . 
 
 Ichabod 
 
 In School Days, 
 
 Publication of . . . 
 
 Selection from . . . 
 In War Time .... 
 Kansas Emigrants, The 
 Kenoza Lake, 
 
 Publication of . . . 
 
 Selection from . 
 Laus Deo, 
 
 Selection from . 
 
 Writing of 
 
 Lays of my Home and Other 
 
 Poems 
 
 Letter, A 
 
 Literary Recreations . 
 Lost Occasion, The, . . 
 
 Publication of . . . 
 
 Lowell, Mass 
 
 Margaret Smith's Journal 
 Middlesex Standard . . 
 My Namesake, Selection 
 
 from 
 
 My Triumph .... 
 New England Legends in 
 
 Prose and Verse 
 New England Review, 
 
 Editorship of . 
 Resignation of 
 Oak Knoll, Danvers 
 Old Portraits . . 
 Our Master . 
 Pcean .... 
 Pastoral Letter, The 
 Peace Autumn, The 
 Peasley, John 
 
 196 
 225 
 196 
 229 
 
 233 
 
 208 
 227 
 226 
 
 231 
 201 
 
 229 
 
 228 
 
 223 
 
 227 
 231 
 234 
 229 
 221 
 231 
 222 
 
 191 
 233 
 
 219 
 
 218 
 219 
 221 
 231 
 233 
 226 
 226 
 229 
 196 
 
INDEX 
 
 319 
 
 Pennsylvania Freeman, The, 
 Connection with . . . 221 
 Destruction of . . . . 221 
 Pine Tree, The ... . 226 
 Poems, Comparative influence 
 
 of 229, 230 
 
 First published . . . 214 
 First volume . . . . 219 
 
 Personal 229 
 
 Volume of 1843 . . 223-225 
 Political offices .... 219 
 Position in literature ., . 
 
 .L93, 194, 236, 237 
 Prose Works, Quality of, 230, 231 
 Bed Riding-Hood .... 217 
 Sabbath Scene, A . . . . 226 
 Seventieth birthday . . . 234 
 Slavery, Attitude toward 
 
 219-221, 223-226 
 Snow-Bound, 
 Publication of .... 232 
 Selections from 198-205, 232 
 Stanzas for the Times . . 225 
 Stranger in Lowell, The . 222 
 Teaching 218 
 
 Telling the Bees, . 
 
 Publication of . 
 Tent on the Beach, 
 
 Publication of . 
 
 Selection from . 
 Texas . . . . 
 
 The, 
 
 199 
 231 
 
 222 
 232 
 223 
 226 
 
 PAGE 
 
 218 
 227 
 226 
 226 
 
 227 
 226 
 
 Thayer, A. W. ... 
 Thy Will Be Done .. . 
 To a Southern Statesman 
 To Faneuil Hall . . . 
 To John C. Fremont 
 To Massachusetts . 
 To My Old School Master, 
 
 Selection from . . 207, 208 
 To Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
 
 Selection from .... 235 
 
 Writing of 235 
 
 To William Lloyd Garrison, 
 
 Selection from . . . . 215 
 Vaudois Teacher, The . 218, 219 
 
 Watchers, The 237 
 
 Whittier, 
 
 Elizabeth, Description of 222 
 
 John Greenleaf, 
 
 Birth of 194 
 
 Birthplace, .... 194 
 Description of . 198-200 
 
 Sale of 
 
 Boyhood of . . 
 
 Death of . . . 
 
 Description of . 
 
 Early influences 
 
 Father, Death of 
 
 Joseph .... 
 
 Thomas .... 
 
 Word for the Hour, A 
 
 Yankee Gipsies . . 
 
 211. 
 
 221 
 209 
 236 
 216 
 212 
 218 
 196 
 195 
 227 
 211 
 
 POEMS (EXCERPTS) 
 
 -Barefoot Boy, The . . . 199 
 
 Burns 212 
 
 Eternal Goodness, The 193, 233 
 
 Haverhill 194 
 
 Home Coming of the Bride 196 
 
 In School Days .... 208 
 
 Kenoza Lake . . . . . 200 
 
 Laus Deo 228 
 
 My Namesake 191 
 
 Snow-Bound 198, 199, 201, 232 
 Tent on the Beach, The . 223 
 To my Old School Master . 207 
 To Oliver Wendell Holmes 235 
 To William Lloyd Garri- 
 son 215 
 
320 
 
 INDEX 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Agnes 269 
 
 Ancestors .... 246, 247 
 
 Annals of America . . . 246 
 
 Atlantic Monthly, The, 
 
 Contributions to . . . 267 
 
 Effect of 272 
 
 Naming of . . . . . 267 
 
 Autobiography, Selections 
 
 from, . 248, 250-253, 260 
 
 Autocrat of the Breakfast 
 Table, The . . . 267, 268 
 
 Biglow, William .... 252 
 
 Biographies 270 
 
 Boston Daily Advertiser . 200 
 
 Boys, The, 
 
 Publication of ... . 273 
 Selection from . . . 273, 274 
 
 Chambered Nautilus, The, 
 Publication of .... 268 
 
 Quoted 268, 269 
 
 Selection from .... 243 
 
 Childhood 248-252 
 
 Children 265, 266 
 
 Cinders from the Ashes . . 270 
 
 College, 
 
 Degrees 271 
 
 Record at 255 
 
 Collegian, Contributions to 255 
 
 Dane Law School . . . 257 
 
 Dartmouth College, 
 
 Professor of Anatomy in 265 
 
 Death of Oliver Wendell 
 Holmes 271 
 
 Dorchester Giant, The, . . 255 
 Quoted 255-257 
 
 Dorothy Q., 
 
 Selections from . 247, 248 
 
 Education, 
 
 College 255 
 
 Early 252, 253 
 
 Elsie Venner, published . 270 
 
 Essays 270 
 
 Europe, 
 
 First visit to .... 261 
 Second visit to . . . 270, 271 
 
 Evening, By a Tailor . . 255 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Fable for Critics, A, 
 
 Selection from . . 271, 272 
 Guardian Angel, The, 
 
 Publication of . . . . 270 
 Harvard College, 
 
 Career at 255 
 
 Phi Beta Kappa Society, 
 
 Poetry read before . . 262 
 Professorship at, 
 
 Account of . . 266, 267 
 
 Appointment to . . . 266 
 
 Resignation of . . . 270 
 Holmes, 
 Abiel, (Rev.), Description 
 
 of . .' 246 
 
 Abiel (Mrs.) .... 246 
 
 John 246 
 
 Oliver Wendell, 
 
 Birth of 244 
 
 Birthplace, 
 
 Description of . . 244 
 
 History of . . . . 244 
 
 Property of Harvard 245 
 
 Death of 271 
 
 Marriage of ... . 265 
 
 Oliver Wendell (Mrs), 265, 271 
 Oliver Wendell, Jr., 
 
 Announcement of birth, 265 
 
 Inevitable Trial, The . .270 
 
 Iron Gate, The, . ... 272 
 
 Selection from .... 241 
 
 Jackson, 
 
 Amelia Lee (Miss) . . 265 
 
 James (Dr.), 
 
 Studies medicine with . 260 
 
 Last Leaf , The .... 262 
 
 Law, Study of 257 
 
 Lecturer 266 
 
 Medicine, 
 
 Practice of . . . 264, 265 
 
 Professor of Anatomy . 265 
 Studies, 
 
 Account of . . . 2C0, 261 
 
 In Paris 261 
 
 Novels 270 
 
 Occasional verses .... 273 
 
INDEX 
 
 321 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Old gambrel roofed house, 
 
 the, Account of . . 244, 245 
 
 Old Ironsides, 
 
 Publication of ... . 260 
 
 Quoted 258 
 
 Writing of 258 
 
 Our Hundred Days in 
 
 Europe ..... 271 
 
 Pages from an Old Volume 
 
 ' of Life 270 
 
 Phillips Academy . . . 253 
 
 Pittsfield, Home at . . . 267 
 
 Poems, 
 
 College 255 
 
 First volume published . 262 
 
 Volume of 1862 ... 269 
 
 Poet at the Breakfast Table, 
 
 The 269 
 
 Poetry . 262 
 
 Position in literature, 
 
 244, 272, 273 
 
 Professor at 
 
 Dartmouth 265 
 
 Harvard .... 266, 267 
 
 Professor at the Breakfast 
 
 Table, The, published 269 
 
 Quincy, Dorothy .... 247 
 
 School-Boy, The, 
 
 Selection from . . . 253-255 
 Writing of 253 
 
 Songs in Many Keys . . 269 
 
 Soundings from the Atlantic 270 
 
 Spectre Pig, The ... . 255 
 
 To an Insect, 
 Publication of ... . 262 
 Quoted 262-264 
 
 Upham, Dorothy Quincy, 
 
 Verses to 248 
 
 Wendell, Sarah .... 246 
 
 A 
 
 POEMS (ENTIRE) 
 
 Chambered Nautilus, The 
 
 Dorchester Giant, The . 
 
 Old Ironsides 258 
 
 Chambered Nautilus, The 
 Dorothy Q. . . . . . 
 
 Dorotho Q. (Upham) 
 
 268 
 
 To an Insect 262 
 
 255 
 
 Boys, The 274 
 
 258 
 
 
 WXCI 
 243 
 
 :rpts 
 
 Fable for Critics, A : Lowell 271 
 
 247 
 
 Iron Gate, The .... 241 
 
 248 
 
 School-Boy, The .... 253 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 Ambitions, Literary . . 292, 294 
 
 Ancestors 280, 281 
 
 Atlantic Monthly, The . . 302 
 Anti-slavery party . . . 294 
 Anti-Slavery Standard, The 302 
 
 Beaver Brook 
 
 Biglow Papers, The . 
 First poem published 
 Influence of . . . 
 Publication of . . 
 Selection from . 
 
 300 Birch Tree, The 
 
 . 290 
 . 299 
 . 303 
 . 303 
 
 288, 289 
 . 300 
 
322 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Boston Courier, The . 
 Cambridge . . . 280, 283, 
 Cambridge Thirty Years 
 Ago, 
 
 AGE 
 
 299 
 
 284 
 
 283, 
 
 295, 
 295- 
 291, 
 
 292, 
 
 Selection from 
 Cathedral, The 
 Changeling, The. 
 
 Selection from 
 Children . . 
 " Class Poem " 
 College, 
 
 Degrees . . 
 
 Record . . 
 Commemoration Ode, The . 
 Conversations on Some of 
 the Older Poets . . . 
 Dane Law School, Enters . 
 Death of James Russell 
 
 Lowell 
 
 Earlier Poems 
 
 Editor of 
 
 Atlantic Monthly, The . 
 
 North American Review . 
 
 Pioneer, The .... 
 Education, 
 
 College 
 
 Early 288 
 
 Elmwood, Description of . 
 281-283 
 Europe, 
 
 Eirst visit to 
 
 Second visit to 
 
 Third visit to 
 Fable for Critics, 
 
 Preface to 
 
 Publication of . 
 
 Selection from . 
 Fireside Travels . 
 First Snow-Fall, The 
 
 Quoted . . 
 Fitz Adam's Story 
 Foot Path, The . 
 Harvard College, 
 
 Record in 
 
 Professor . . . 
 Dislike of work as 
 Resignation as . 
 Harvard Law School 
 Hawthorne, Nathaniel 
 
 A, 
 
 296. 
 
 301 
 
 301 
 284 
 304 
 
 296 
 
 -298 
 292 
 
 306 
 291 
 304 
 
 304 
 
 292 
 
 306 
 294 
 
 ,302 
 302 
 294 
 
 291 
 289 
 
 295 
 
 298 
 301 
 306 
 
 300 
 
 300 
 
 277 
 304 
 
 297 
 290 
 304 
 
 291 
 301 
 
 302 
 302 
 292 
 294 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Indian Summer Reverie, 
 
 Selection from ... . 284 
 Law, 
 
 Practice of 294 
 
 Study of 292 
 
 Letters, 
 
 Concerning his professor- ■ 
 
 ship 301, 302 
 
 Concerning slavery . 302, 303 
 
 Eirst 290, 291 
 
 To Charles R, Lowell, 286, 287 
 
 Life of Keats 304 
 
 Lowell, 
 
 Charles (Rev.) . . . 280, 281 
 Charles (Mrs.) .... 281 
 Charles R., 
 Letter from J. R. Lowell 
 
 to 286, 287 
 
 Erancis Cabot . . . • . 280 
 James Russell, 
 
 Birth of 280 
 
 Birthplace of . . 280-283 
 
 Death of 306 
 
 Early influences 281, 282, 
 285, 290 
 Marriage, 
 
 First 294 
 
 Second 302 
 
 James Russell (Mrs.) 
 
 295, 298, 302 
 John, minister of New- 
 
 buryport 280 
 
 John 280 
 
 Percival 280 
 
 Memorial Hall .... 304 
 Minister to Spain and Eng- 
 land 306 
 
 My Garden Acquaintances . 286 
 My Study Window . . . 306 
 Nature, Love of . 285-287, 304 
 Pennsylvania Freeman, The 302 
 Philadelphia, Residence in . 295 
 Pioneer, The, 
 
 Contributors to ... 294 
 
 Established 294 
 
 Poe, Edgar Allan .... 294 
 
 Poems ....... 294 
 
 Poems, 
 
 Eirst 291 
 
INDEX 
 
 323 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Poems, ; 
 
 First volume published . 294 
 Second volume published 294 
 
 Volume of 1869 
 
 
 304 
 
 Poet-statesman 
 
 .' .' 302 
 
 -304 
 
 Position in literature . . 
 
 306 
 
 Present Crisis, The, 
 
 
 
 Publication of . 
 
 . . 300, 
 
 303 
 
 Prose works . 
 
 . . 304, 
 
 306 
 
 Search, The 
 
 
 304 
 
 She Came and Went, 
 
 quoted 
 
 298 
 
 Slavery, Attitude toward . 
 
 294, 
 
 
 302 
 
 -304 
 
 To the Dandelion . 
 
 
 300 
 
 Selection from . 
 
 .' .' 285, 
 
 286 
 
 Two Angels : Selection from 299 
 Under the Willows, 
 
 Publication of .... 304 
 
 Selection from .... 284 
 Vision of Sir Launfal, The, 
 
 Estimate of . . 280, 299, 300 
 
 Publication of ... . 299 
 
 Selection from .... 279 
 
 Writing of 299 
 
 Washers of the Shroud, The 304 
 
 Wells, William .... 288 
 
 White, Maria (Miss). . . 294 
 
 Whittier, John Greenleaf . 294 
 
 Yankee dialect, Student of, 290 
 
 Year's Life, A .... 294 
 
 POEMS (ENTIRE) 
 
 First Snow-Fail, The . . 2G6 [ She Came and Went . . 298 
 
 EXCERPTS 
 
 Biglow Papers, The . . . 288 
 Changeling, The .... 295 
 Fable for Critics, A 182, 271, 277 
 Indian Summer Reverie . 284 
 
 To the Dandelion ... 285 
 
 Two Angels : Longfellow . 299 
 
 Under the Willows ... 284 
 
 Vision of Sir Launfal, The 279 
 
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