which we especially value in him is the intense home-feeling which, without any conscious aim at being American, gives his poetry a flavor of the soil surprisingly refreshing.  Without being narrowly provincial, he is the most indigenous of our poets.  In these times, especially, his uncalculating love of country has a profound pathos in it.  He does not flare the flag in our faces, but one feels the heart of a lover throbbing in his anxious verse.

Mr. Whittier, if the most fervid of our poets, is sometimes hurried away by this very quality, in itself an excellence, into being the most careless.  He draws off his verse while the fermentation is yet going on, and before it has had time to compose itself and clarify into the ripe wine of expression.  His rhymes are often faulty beyond the most provincial license even of Burns himself.  Vigor without elegance will never achieve permanent success in poetry.  We think, also, that he has too often of late suffered himself to be seduced from the true path to which his nature set up finger-posts for him at every corner, into metaphysical labyrinths whose clue he is unable to grasp.  The real life of his genius smoulders into what the woodmen call a smudge, and gives evidence of itself in smoke instead of flame.  Where he follows his truer instincts, he is often admirable in the highest sense, and never without the interest of natural thought and feeling naturally expressed.

HOME BALLADS AND POEMS

The natural product of a creed which ignores the aesthetical part of man and reduces Nature to a uniform drab would seem to have been Bernard Barton. His verse certainly infringed none of the superstitions of the sect; for from title-page to colophon there was no sin either in the way of music or color.  There was, indeed, a frugal and housewifely Muse, that brewed a cup, neither cheering unduly nor inebriating, out of the emptyings of Wordsworth’s teapot.  How that little busy B. improved each shining hour, how neatly he laid his wax, it gives us a cold shiver to think of—­ancora ci raccappriccia! Against a copy of verses signed “B.B.,” as we remember them in the hardy Annuals that went to seed so many years ago, we should warn our incautious offspring as an experienced duck might her brood against a charge of B.B. shot.  It behooves men to be careful; for one may chance to suffer lifelong from these intrusions of cold lead in early life, as duellists sometimes carry about all their days a bullet from which no surgery can relieve them.  Memory avenges our abuses of her, and, as an awful example, we mention the fact that we have never been able to forget certain stanzas of another B.B., who, under the title of “Boston Bard,” whilom obtained from newspaper columns that concession which gods and men would unanimously have denied him.