e
resignation to the will of God, and entire dependence on our Lord Jesus
Christ, and a good hope of Immortality."

NEW ENGLAND MANNERS AND CUSTOMS IN THE TIME OF BRYANT'S EARLY LIFE.

BY MRS. H. G. ROWE.

Ninety-one years ago, in the little town of Cummington, Mass., was born
a child, who was destined, in after years, to be the first of a grand
line of American poets, who have made this, the second century of our
Republic, famous by their genius and originality.

Not long since, in looking over an old magazine, published in
Philadelphia in 1809, I came across quite an extended review of
Campbell's, then just issued, poem, "Gertrude of Wyoming," and was
not a little amused at the closing comments.

After a little mild praise, and a good deal of equally mild criticism,
of the Scotch poet, the editor goes on to say:--

"But, after all, although lesser poets are constantly rising above the
literary horizon, challenging the admiration of the reading world for a
few short months,--possibly years,--and then sinking into the obscurity
of a forgotten past, the sun of English poetry has set forever. With
Pope, Milton, and Dryden, England lost her last true poets. Henceforth
all who claim that title must be more or less skilful _imitators_ merely
of the great masters who have gone before them.

"As for America," he continues, with the most unpatriotic candor, "there
is not the smallest chance of her ever producing a real poet. Ingenious
scribblers she may have, without doubt, but the typical American never
had or will have one grain of poetry in his hard, shrewd, matter-of-fact
nature."

This was the verdict of a Philadelphia editor seventy-six years ago.
To-day the bust of our own Longfellow stands in Westminster Abbey, side
by side with a Chaucer and a Shakspere, while not only the
English-speaking world on both sides of the ocean, but the dwellers in
sunny Italy, upon the frozen steppes of Russia, and in far-off Japan and
India, sing and repeat, each in his own tongue, the stirring
battle-hymns and sweet home-songs of the gifted singers of our Western
World.

We are often reminded that a writer's environments have much to do with
the character of his writings, and in Bryant's case this fact is
particularly noticeable.

His earliest poems, and especially that great masterpiece,
"Thanatopsis," written at the early age of eighteen, show unmistakably
that the boy had grown up in the closest familiarity with th