LITTLE BIOGRAPHIES.—HOW SUCCESS £8 WON. 277

printed, to be distributed broadcast. It is not at
all surprising to learn of a young man so fearless
and so true, that he was a delegate to, and secretary
of, the first National Anti-Slavery Convention at
Philadelphia, in 1833, when he was but twenty-six
years old, and that two years later he was a mem-
ber of the Massachusetts Legislature. However,
few journals desired his ringing poems now. Ed-
itors drew back appalled at the impassioned
outcries for liberty, for action in behalf of the
oppressed four millions of fellow-men.

Soon after this, appearing at Concord, N. H.,
with George Thompson of England, an eloquent
anti-slavery speaker, the twain were mobbed by
two or three hundred persons, severely bruised
with stones, and barely escaping with their lives.
Yet the fearless young Quaker soon went on
to take charge of the Pennsylvania Freeman, at
Philadelphia. There his office was broken open
by a mob, who carried his books and_ papers into
the large hall of the building, set fire to them,
turned on the gas, and then retired to watch their
wild work go on, till the building lay a smouldering
ruin. For a year longer he worked on the paper,
till failing health compelled his return to the farm,
but not to silence, or any abandonment whatever
of his aims, although he had seen a mob, led
by “men of property and standing,” drag his old
friend Garrison through the streets of Boston, with
a rope around his neck, and rescued by the police,
only to be thrown into jail.

In 1847 Mr. Whittier become the associate
editor of the Wetional Era, in which Uncle Tom's
Cabin was printed as a serial. For this paper he
wrote nearly a hundred poems. Ten years later,
when the Atlantic Monthly was established, he was
one of its ablest writers. All these years he had
earned little money, but he had won enduring
fame, and everywhere was reverenced as the cham-
pion of every man’s inalienable rights. Certain
literature may be popular for a time, and find
a large sale, but only that which is written to
elevate the world, has within it enduring life.
Dicken’s books are sure of permanence, because
in them he showed the rich how wretchedly the
poor are housed and fed. Victor Hugo’s works
will not cease to be read, because they are, one
and all, impassioned pleas for liberty and justice.

Whittier’s mother died in 1857, having lived to
see her son come to his fame and honor, She
knew that his voice had thrilled thousands of
hearts; and she also knew there must be later a
glorious outcome in the nation’s life, from his fear-
less work. To the last, the devotion between
mother and son was beautiful.

There has been a glorious outcome, And the
poet of high courage, and deep tenderness, sing-
ing always in clear, true keys, has gone on his way
from honor to honor, along peaceful and sunny
heights now for many a year. On Mr. Whittier’s

seventieth birthday, Mr. Houghton, the publisher
of the Atlantic Monthly, gave a dinner in his
honor. Emerson and Longfellow, Holmes and
Howells, came with tender greetings, while from
Lowell, Bryant, Stoddard, Aldrich, and many
more, letters were read. The once “ barefoot
boy” was hailed the poet of the American people.
Whittier’s life is beautiful with the happiness of
noble aims fulfilled —a life that has hinged always
on that brief law, “ Dare to be true!” Unmar-
ried, the world has wondered if, like Washington
Irving, he did not cherish the memory of some
fair, sweet face. An article having appeared
some time since, in a Western paper, stating that
a lady, recently deceased, was the one whom
Whittier loved, the poet wrote a letter to the edi
tor, saying that the article was very interesting, but
somewhat imaginative, as he had never seen the
person mentioned since she was nine years old.
But doubtless the poem fz School Days was
written from the heart:

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand's light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice

As if a fault confessing.

“T'm sorry that I spelt the word ;
TI hate to go above you,

Because ” — the brown eyes lower fell —
“ Because, you see, I love you.”

Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child face is showing.

Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing!

He lives to learn in life’s hard school
How few who pass above him

Lament their triumph, and his loss,
Like her — because they love him.

“TJ have gotten a great deal out of life; more
than most people,” he said recently. When I
spoke of the early struggles, here recounted, he
replied, “I did not covet what was beyond my
reach. I try to remember only the bright and
good,” and added, playfully, “I have forgotten all
the mischief I did.” He recalled to me the nes
in My Birthday:

Better than self-indulgent years
The outflung heart of youth;
Than pleasant songs in idle years,

The tumult of the truth.

He lives in Lincoln’s memorable words, “ with
malice toward none, and charity for all;” he is
an outspoken proclaimer of total abstinence ;
never uses tobacco; he is modest, self-deprecia-
tive; yet thankful for his poetic gifts. Still so
devoted to principle is he, so brightly yet flames
the early fires, thathe says, “I set a higher value on
my name as appended to the Anti-Slavery Declara-