in their cheeks; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head, — upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years with his crew of the Half-moon; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river and the great city called by his name. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls like distant peals of thunder. To make a long story short, the company broke up and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her. She had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but his business. Rip now resumed his old walks and habits. He soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time, and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. CHAPTER IX JOHN G. WHITTIER, 1807-1892 "There is a rush of passion in his verse which sweeps everything along with it." - E. P. WHIPPLE. 'His poetry bursts from the soul with the fire and energy of an ancient prophet. His noble simplicity of character is the delight of all who know him."- W. ELLERY CHANNING. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, the celebrated Quaker poet, was born in Haverhill, Mass., in 1807. His parents belonged to that middle class of New England farmers who are neither rich nor poor. By incessant toil and self-denial a good and honest living was gained, and an honorable name established. Like so many sons of poor farmers, Whittier worked on the farm until he was eighteen, after which he attended the Haverhill Academy for several years. He always had a keen desire to improve himself by private study and reading; and, although his educational opportunities were meager, he trained himself to write well and acceptably for the local newspapers. By his youthful contributions to the press he gained the friendship of William Lloyd Garrison, the well-known antislavery speaker and editor, and through his influence Whittier began to edit a political paper in Boston. wards he took charge of a literary weekly at Hartford, Conn., and, later, an antislavery journal at Philadelphia. He was for many years associate editor of the "National Era" at Washington. After In 1831 he returned to his native town, and devoted himself for several years to farming, and in the meantime served several terms in the Massachusetts Legislature as a representative from Haverhill. He was one of the original members of the American Antislavery Society, and, JOHN G. WHITTIER having been chosen its secretary, took up his residence in Philadelphia, and resided there until 1840, when he returned home. In this same year he settled in Amesbury, a flourishing town a few miles from Haverhill, and continued to make this place his home for the rest of his life. During his last years Mr. Whittier resided most of his time with friends at "Oak Knolls" in Danvers, Mass. His first volume, "Legends of New England in Prose and Verse," was published in 1831, soon followed by "Voices of Freedom," which gave him his first reputation. These volumes were followed, at frequent intervals, by many works, mostly poems. "His poems," says one of his critics, "are among the aesthetic treasures of every intelligent family as far as the English language is spoken. They are recited in every school, and quoted from many a platform and pulpit. Their influences range widely, and always for good." Usually it was not long after he conceived a poetical idea before he reduced it to writing. He wrote only when the mood seized him, and then he wrote as if fired with inspiration, losing all consciousness of time and things, going out of himself as it were, and becoming part and parcel of his subject. His first draft suffered little subsequent alteration, and the various editions of his works represent little or no time spent in revision. In stature Mr. Whittier was like his ancestors, tall, measuring six feet or more, of slender build, but straight as an arrow; a fine-looking man, with high forehead, a fine face, a quiet smile, dark, piercing eyes, and hair once black, but in age thinned and gray. He dressed in a suit of black, cut in Quaker fashion, and his speech was characterized to a slight extent by the peculiarities of the people whose form of service and creed he preferred to any other. Mr. Whittier died in 1892. THE FROST SPIRIT He comes - he comes his footsteps now - the Frost Spirit comes ! You may trace On the naked woods, and the blasted fields, and the brown hill's withered brow. He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth, And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth. From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o'er, — Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms below In the sunless cold of the atmosphere into marble statues grow! He comes he comes the Frost Spirit comes! on the rushing Northern blast, And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past. ΙΟ With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below. He comes he comes lake shall feel the Frost Spirit comes! and the quiet The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater's heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass, 15 Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass. He comes he comes the Frost Spirit comes! let us meet him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor fire his evil power away; high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by! 20 |