nell observes, he
shows little interest in the large movements of the world's history.
He seemed to prefer history as sublimated in the poet's song. The
field of _belles-lettres_ was his native province; its atmosphere was
most congenial to his tastes. In book-land it was always June for
him--

"Springtime ne'er denied
Indoors by vernal Chaucer, whose fresh woods
Throb thick with merle and mavis all the year."

But books could never divert his soul from its early endearments with
out-of-door nature. "The older I grow," he says, "the more I am
convinced that there are no satisfactions so deep and so permanent as
our sympathies with outward nature." And in the preface to _My Study
Windows_ he speaks of himself as "one who has always found his most
fruitful study in the open air." The most charming element of his
poetry is the nature element that everywhere cheers and stimulates the
reader. It is full of sunshine and bird music. So genuine, spontaneous
and sympathetic are his descriptions that we feel the very heart
throbs of nature in his verse, and in the prose of such records of
intimacies with outdoor friends as the essay, _My Garden
Acquaintance_. "How I do love the earth," he exclaims. "I feel it
thrill under my feet. I feel somehow as if it were conscious of my
love, as if something passed into my dancing blood from it." It is
this sensitive nearness to nature that makes him a better interpreter
of her "visible forms" than Bryant even; moreover, unlike Bryant he
always catches the notes of joy in nature's voices and feels the
uplift of a happy inspiration.

In the presence of the immense popularity of Mark Twain, it may seem
paradoxical to call Lowell our greatest American humorist. Yet in the
refined and artistic qualities of humorous writing and in the
genuineness of the native flavor his work is certainly superior to any
other humorous writing that is likely to compete with it for permanent
interest. Indeed, Mr. Greenslet thinks that "it is as the author of
the _Biglow Papers_ that he is likely to be longest remembered." The
perpetual play of humor gave to his work, even to the last, the
freshness of youth. We love him for his boyish love of pure fun. The
two large volumes of his _Letters_ are delicious reading because he
put into them "good wholesome nonsense," as he says, "keeping my
seriousness to bore myself with."

But this sparkling and overflowing humor never obscures the deep
s