Day," "The Bridge," "The Day is Done," verses whose simplicity
lent themselves temptingly to parody. Yet such poems as "The
Belfry of Bruges," "Seaweed," "The Fire of Driftwood," "The
Arsenal at Springfield," "My Lost Youth," "The Children's Hour,"
and many another lyric, lose nothing with the lapse of time.
There is fortunately infinite room for personal preference in
this whole matter of poetry, but the confession of a lack of
regard for Longfellow's verse must often be recognized as a
confession of a lessening love for what is simple, graceful, and
refined. The current of contemporary American taste, especially
among consciously clever, half-trained persons, seems to be
running against Longfellow. How soon the tide may turn, no one
can say. Meanwhile he has his tranquil place in the Poet's Corner
of Westminster Abbey. The Abbey must be a pleasant spot to wait
in, for the Portland boy.

Oddly enough, some of the over-sophisticated and
under-experienced people who affect to patronize Longfellow
assume toward John Greenleaf Whittier an air of deference. This
attitude would amuse the Quaker poet. One can almost see his dark
eyes twinkle and the grim lips tighten in that silent laughter in
which the old man so much resembled Cooper's Leather-Stocking.
Whittier knew that his friend Longfellow was a better artist than
himself, and he also knew, by intimate experience as a maker of
public opinion, how variable are its judgments. Whittier
represents a stock different from that of the Longfellows, but
equally American, equally thoroughbred: the Essex County Quaker
farmer of Massachusetts. The homestead in which he was born in
1807, at East Haverhill, had been built by his
great-great-grandfather in 1688. Mount Vernon in Virginia and the