he ripened sweetness of
a life both publicly and privately well spent. There is fire enough, but
it glows more equably and shines on sweeter scenes than in the poet's
earlier verse. It is as if a brand from the camp-fire had kindled these
logs on the old homestead's hearth, whose flickering benediction touches
tremulously those dear heads of long ago that are now transfigured with
a holier light. The father, the mother, the uncle, the schoolmaster, the
uncanny guest, are all painted in warm and natural colors, with perfect
truth of detail and yet with all the tenderness of memory. Of the family
group the poet is the last on earth, and there is something deeply
touching in the pathetic sincerity of the affection which has outlived
them all, looking back to before the parting, and forward to the assured
reunion.

But aside from its poetic and personal interest, and the pleasure it
must give to every one who loves pictures from the life, "Snow-Bound"
has something of historical interest. It describes scenes and manners
which the rapid changes of our national habits will soon have made as
remote from us as if they were foreign or ancient. Already, alas! even
in farmhouses, backlog and forestick are obsolescent words, and
close-mouthed stoves chill the spirit while they bake the flesh with
their grim and undemonstrative hospitality. Already are the railroads
displacing the companionable cheer of crackling walnut with the dogged
self-complacency and sullen virtue of anthracite. Even where wood
survives, he is too often shut in the dreary madhouse cell of an
airtight, round which one can no more fancy a social mug of flip
circling than round a coffin. Let us be thankful that we can sit in Mr.
Whittier's chimney-corner and believe that the blaze he has kindled for
us shall still warm and cheer, when a wood fire is as faint a tradition
in New as in Old England.

We have before had occasion to protest against Mr. Whittier's
carelessness in accents and rhymes, as in pronouncing "ly'ceum," and
joining in unhallowed matrimony such sounds as _awn_ and _orn_, _ents_
and _ence_. We would not have the Muse emulate the unidiomatic
preciseness of a normal school-mistress, but we cannot help thinking
that, if Mr. Whittier writes thus on principle, as we begin to suspect,
he errs in forgetting that thought so refined as his can be fitly
matched only with an equal refinement of expression, and loses something
of its charm when cheated of i