e,
simply and bravely, and his career was from first to last consistent and
inspiring, one of the sweetest and gentlest in history.

Although Whittier was endowed with a brighter spark of the divine fire
than Longfellow, he himself was conscious that he did not possess

The seerlike power to show
The secrets of the heart and mind.

He was lacking, too, in intellectual equipment--in culture, in mastery
of rhythm and diction, in felicitous phrasing. And yet, on at least two
occasions, he rang sublimely true--in his denunciation of Webster,
"Ichabod," and in his idyll of New England rural life, "Snow-Bound."

The third of these New England poets, and also the least important, is
Oliver Wendell Holmes. Born at Cambridge, in the inner circle of New
England aristocracy, educated at Harvard, and studying medicine in
Boston and Paris, he practiced his profession for twelve years, until,
in 1847, he was called to the chair of anatomy and physiology at
Harvard, continuing in that position until 1882. He lived until 1894,
the last survivor of the seven poets whom we have mentioned.

During his student days, Holmes had gained considerable reputation as a
writer of humorous and sentimental society verse, and during his whole
life he wrote practically no other kind. Long practice gave him an easy
command of rhythm, and a careful training added delicacy to his diction.
He became remarkably dexterous in rhyme, and grew to be the recognized
celebrant of class reunions and public dinners. Urbane, felicitous and
possessing an unflagging humor, he was the prince of after-dinner
poets--not a lofty position, be it observed, nor one making for immortal
fame. His highwater mark was reached in three poems, "The Chambered
Nautilus," "The Deacon's Masterpiece," and that faultless piece of
familiar verse, "The Last Leaf," all of which are widely and
affectionately known. He lacked power and depth of imagination, the
field in which he was really at home was a narrow one, and the verdict
of time will probably be that he was a pleasant versifier rather than a
true poet.

His claim to the attention of posterity is likely to rest, not on his
verses, but upon a sprightly hodgepodge of imaginary table-talk, called
"The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table"--a warm-hearted, kindly book,
which still retains its savor.

And this brings us to our most versatile man-of-letters--James Russell
Lowell. Born at Cambridge, in the old house called "Elmwo