The house is a place in which one cannot fail to be reminiscent, for hall and parlour and garden-room are full of associations. Here Whittier received many men and women famed in letters. Here is the mother's picture; the desk upon which "SnowBound" was written; an album presented to the poet on his eightieth birthday, containing signatures of all the members of Congress and many other notable men. There are engravings and books and chair and lounge that he enjoyed—even coat and hat and boots and as we look and listen all seem but one living monument inscribed with Whittier's name.

Whittier was perhaps not a great man, but who would not be satisfied with such a

Lifelong record closed without a stain

A blameless memory shrined in deathless song."

SELECTED FROM POEM ON "BURNS
"Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns!
The moorland flower and peasant!
How, at their mention, memory turns
Her pages old and pleasant!

I call to mind the summer day,
The early harvest mowing,

The sky with sun and clouds at play,

And flowers with breezes blowing.

Bees hummed, birds twittered, overhead
I heard the squirrels leaping,

The good dog listened while I read,
And wagged his tail in keeping.

I watched him while in sportive mood
I read The Twa Dogs'' story,
And half believed he understood
The poet's allegory.

I matched with Scotland's heathery hills,
The sweetbrier and the clover;
With Ayr and Doon, my native rills,
Their wood-hymns chanting over.

The dusk of twilight round us grew,
We felt the falling of the dew;

For, from us, ere the day was done,
The wooded hills shut out the sun.

But on the river's farther side
We saw the hill-tops glorified,—

A tender glow, exceeding fair,
A dream of day without its glare.

With us the damp, the chill, the gloom: With them the sunset's rosy bloom;

While dark, through willowy vistas seen, The river rolled in shade between.

From out the darkness where we trod,
We gazed upon those hills of God,

Whose light seemed not of moon or sun, We spake not, but our thought was one.

We paused, as if from that bright shore Beckoned our dear ones gone before;

And stilled our beating hearts to hear
The voices lost to mortal ear!

Sudden our pathway turned from night; The hills swung open to the light;

Through their green gates the sunshine showed, A long, slant splendour downward flowed.

Down glade and glen, and bank it rolled;
It bridged the shaded stream with gold;

And, borne on piers of mist, allied
The shadowy with the sunlit side!

"So," prayed we, "when our feet draw near, The river dark, with mortal fear,

"And the night cometh chill with dew, O Father! let thy light break through!

"So let the hills of doubt divide,

So bridge with faith the sunless tide!

"So let the eyes that fail on earth . On thy eternal hills look forth;

"And in thy beckoning angels know

The dear ones whom we loved below!"

- Whittier.

XVII

WAR LITERATURE

ONE has well said:

"Many's the thing liberty has got to do before we have achieved liberty. Some day we'll make that word real — give it universal meaning!"

Our country won its independence through its makers of freedom; but as we have seen, at the very outset of United States History, there were two perfectly distinct ideas of government: one believing in a strong central power at Washington the other in rights of the independent States; one the Federalist or Whig party- the other, the Anti-Federalist or Democratic; and while both parties were attempting to adjust the government to sectional differences, discussions about slavery became prominent. This was practised both in the North and South; but more in the latter, for the negro liked not the colder climate, while he seemed to flourish on the Southern plantation. And the question took this form: "Is slavery an evil? If so, should it be allowed in new States being rapidly admitted to the Union?"