V. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER AS I KNEW HIM, BY MARY

B. CLAFLIN.

Mr. Whittier, the poet beloved of the people, was unique in his absolute simplicity and truthfulness. The transparency of his soul was apparent to all who came in contact with him, and it would seem impossible to represent anything to him otherwise than just as it was in truth, because he detected at a glance, the slightest prevarication or false coloring. He seemed more akin to God than most human beings, in his childlike trust and faith in the fatherhood of the divine Being, and in his exquisite love to Him whom the Father sent to teach us the brotherhood of man. Mr. Whittier's love to his kind, his godlike justice and mercy in all his dealings with his fellowmen, were so apparent that it was not easy to turn aside from the straight and narrow path of righteousness when dealing with him. His language was simple as a child's and unadorned with superfluous words. It was always yea and nay, and his "thee" and "thou" were musical sounds in the ears of those who loved him—and who did not love him?

Sometimes a friend would ask him why the Quakers perverted the English grammar in such fashion with the thee and thou. His reply always hushed the questioner, and made him feel that he would rather hear Mr. Whittier's sweet tones in the language he chose to use, even if it defied all the rules of English grammar: "It has been the manner of speech of my people for two hundred years; it was my mother's language, and it is good enough for me; I shall not change my grammar."

Mr. Whittier's conversation was full of reminiscences of his early life in the country. He loved nature with a reverent and appreciative love. Every little flower growing by the roadside or in the green meadows about his early home he looked upon as a thought of God for His children; the sunset clouds awakened in his poetic heart such enthusiasm that his great luminous eyes would light up as if they saw through the gates into the celestial city beyond-the city where, he said,

No branch of palm, no gate of pearl I merit,
Nor street of shining gold.

Some humble door among the many mansions,

Some sheltering shade where sin and sorrow cease,
And flows forever through heaven's green expansions
The river of Thy peace.

He saw God's works in all things and recognized His love in dealing with His children. All the windows of his heart were open to the day.

He once said to me: "I have seen a very wicked woman to-day on her death bed. She was suffering intolerable tortures on account of the sins of her past life and the near approach of death. I stood by her bed; she was poor and friendless, and as I listened to her groans and moans I said, 'I would give all I possess to relieve that poor soul'; and then came the thought, as from God,-Who am I, a sinful man, to offer my little all to relieve that sin-burdened soul, when there is One with infinite love and limitless power who waits to show mercy? I will leave the poor woman with Him." And such was his attitude toward all erring and sinsick souls.

In the main Mr. Whittier's life was one of earnest, serious thought. He was always working for the amelioration and elevation of humanity, and yet he was full of wit and humor. Not even Sydney Smith, who was so famous for his wit, or our own Dr. Holmes, could excel him in repartee.

A young girl who was in the house with Mr. Whittier, and of whom he was very fond, went to him one day with tearful eyes and a rueful face, and said: "My dear little kitty Bathsheba is dead, and I want you to write a poem to put on her grave stone. I shall bury her under a rose bush." Without a moment's hesitation the poet said in solemn tones:

Bathsheba! to whom none ever said scat

No worthier cat

Ever sat on a mat

Or caught a rat
Requiescat!

The same little girl's pony broke his leg, and again the poet was called upon to comfort the child with some poetic sentiment. She said, "I have written some lines myself but I can't think how to finish the verse."

"What did you write?" asked Mr. Whittier.

"My pony kicked to the right, he kicked to the left,

The stable post he struck it,

He broke his leg short off"

and then added Mr. Whittier,

"And then he kicked the bucket!"

Mr. Whittier was attending a fair in the city which was being held for some object of charity. A lady said to him,

"I have already given one hundred dollars to this object; I will give ten more if you will give me an impromptu couplet."

Quick as thought he wrote:

Rejoicing that the emptiest fame

May change at charity's sweet claim
To gold of God-I give my name.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

He was always ready to respond to charity's sweet claim. During the war a Quaker friend who was a shipbuilder called on Mr. Whittier and said: “Friend Whittier, I am in great perplexity. Thee knows I do not approve of war any more than thee does, and I do not wish to do anything to help it on. I am asked to build some war ships, and I am told there is great need of them. What shall I do?"

The two old friends talked over the situation for awhile, but Mr. Whittier did not commit himself till just as the shipbuilder was leaving, when he said, "Thomas, if thee builds the ships, I advise thee to use the best timber, and build them strong."

There was at one time a desire on the part of the abolitionists to make a colored preacher chaplain of the house of representatives, and knowing that Mr. Whittier would have great influence he was asked to head the petition to bring about the desired end. Of course everybody knew Mr. Whittier was the most ardent abolitionist of them all, and that no one could outdo him in devotion to the colored brethren, and when the petition was handed him it was never for a moment doubted that he would sign it with alacrity. He shook his head and said, "Thee knows I don't approve of hiring folks to pray and paying them for it."

Mr. Whittier was the close friend of Curtis, Longfellow, Lowell, Holmes, Emerson, and Bayard Taylor, but it was not until the later years of his life, after the great question of freedom had been settled, that he was recognized as their peer in a literary sense.

VI. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, OUR POET OF NATURE, AS I REMEMBER HIM, BY HENRIETTA S. NAHMER.

As Bryant was the oldest of our galaxy of American poets, and the first of them to pass away, those who can speak of him from personal recollection are themselves fast passing with the second century since his advent. Not far from the birthplace of Bryant, which is marked by a plain

monolith in granite, and on the same ridge where the Bryant homestead commands a view of the Hampshire hills for miles, there stood in the fifties a little red schoolhouse so completely hidden in the forest that the stranger could not know of its existence until close upon it. Here was the typical New England school of that date, and while as yet no modern methods had crept in to disturb the somewhat dull serenity of teacher and pupil, there was once a day at least a refreshing détour into by-ways, where one might associate with the great ones of literature; and in the daily reading of selections from the English classics was begun that education which Matthew Arnold defines as the highest culture, "the knowledge of the best that has been thought and said in all ages." Instead of the commonplaces by which the children of to-day are nourished, the youth of that time were spelling out lofty themes from Cowper, the smooth verse of Addison, and the unequalled repose and dignity of Gray's "Elegy." What matter if the philosophy and insight of the glorious verse of "Thanatopsis" was beyond the reach of our comprehension, the rolling measure of its cadences was music to our ears, even then stirring to the harmonies of the universe.

on.

One summer day a traveller, slight in build, of quiet, thoughtful manner, passed through those leafy paths vocal only with song birds and the prattle of school children. The good old New England training, which inculcated reverent and respectful greeting to the stranger, had not yet passed out of fashion, and we shyly courtesied to the passing wayfarer. He with the old-time courtesy to old and young alike pleasantly returned our greeting, and passed Later we were told by our elders that the author of "Thanatopsis" had returned for a brief hour to the old home of his childhood, now passed into the hands of strangers. We had scarcely realized before that our poet was of flesh and blood, and busily concerned in the world's work. Still less did one of that merry careless group laboring to parse what seemed to her immaturity the painfully involved sentences of that immortal poem, dream that in the years to come, she should have pleasant associations for a brief season with the gray-haired bard.

The years that bridged the fifties and seventies, the fateful years of the republic, passed, and Bryant, who had served his country faithfully by his pen, through the storm and stress of civil war, now retired to the old scenes of his youth, restoring the family home, to which he came for a few weeks each year, to perform the literary task so congenial,

the translations from Homer. Here also he laid out roads, planted orchards, and became an influence among the townspeople, who in their isolation and somewhat narrow sphere, began to see and appreciate the larger views of life which such an honored citizen of the great world brought into the little town. We had looked on our poet as one who in the political world and among literary circles reflected honor upon our unknown quiet town among the hills; now we were to know him as the country gentleman, interested in rural pursuits, and as he beautified this home an impetus, whose results were beneficent and far-reaching, was given to the neighbor farmers. Scotch larches were added to our flora, and willows from Roslyn were transplanted to the banks of the rivulet, and once from far away Scotland the poet, touched with loving remembrance, sent a request that some fringed gentian be transplanted to a well known corner, in the green fields of his modest country home.

At one time Charles Sumner came to spend two or three days with the poet, and upon one auspicious afternoon George W. Curtis drove over from his summer home in Ashfield, to greet the famous men. While the three, with John Fi. Bryant, the poet's brother, were seated upon the piazza, nineteen hundred feet above the sea level, commanding a glorious panorama of mountain, valley, and sky, conversing of the San Domingo annexation, the theme which was absorbing the mind of the great senator, the room behind was quickly filled with country folk, eager to catch a glimpse or a word, upon the only occasion that ever came into their lives to see these notable men, who, unconscious of this homage, might yet feel that it was no mean tribute from this true and honest farmer folk.

Bryant presented his native town with a library and the necessary buildings, and in the completing and arranging of that work, it was the happy privilege of the writer to spend some hours with Bryant, and, after his return to the city, to have the benefit of his advice by correspondence. Awaiting the completion of the stone edifice designed for their reception, the books were stored in the unfinished rooms of the house which had been his maternal grandfather's and which was in process of restoration. The glory of autumn was upon the hills and tinging the forests with splendor, and as the gray-haired man climbed nimbly the steep hill between the homestead and our place of work, the inspiration which natural scenery ever had for him clothed his daily morning greeting with winged and happy utter

ance.