JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 379 



ishly. The weakest creatures of his seaside home had risen up 

 against him in a body; and, not overstepping the bounds of due 

 punishment, had held him up lastingly to public scorn and 

 detestation. It is perhaps instructive, in connection with such 

 reforming enthiisiasm as pervades this spirited ballad, to learn 

 from a note in the final edition, that twenty-two years after 

 the original publication Whittier was creditably informed that 

 Ireson had really been innocent.* Against the skipper's will, it 

 appeared, his refractory crew had compelled him to desert his 

 sinking townsfolk; and then, to screen bhemselves, they had 

 falsely accused him, with the direful result commemorated by 

 the poet. His answer to his informant is characteristic: "I have 

 now no doubt that thy version of Skipper Iresou's ride is the 

 correct one. My verse was founded solely on a fragment of 

 rhyme which I heard from one of my early schoolmates, a native 

 of Marblehead. I supposed the story to which it referred dated 

 back at least a century. I knew nothing of the participators, and 

 the narrative of the ballad was pvire fancy. I am glad for the 

 sake of truth and justice that the real facts are given in thy 

 book. I certainly would not knowingly do injustice to any one, 

 dead or living." And having thus introductively done full jus- 

 tice to the memory of poor Floyd Ireson, he proceeds to reprint 

 his ballad. 



In touching these narrative and legendary poems of Whittier, 

 I have perhaps allowed myself to lay undue emphasis on phases 

 of them that are not their best. One and all, I think, we may 

 call simple, earnest, artless, and beautifully true to the native 

 traditions and temper of New England. In that very fact, 

 however, which is what I have tried to emphasize, lies their 

 weakness as literature. The temper of ISTcav England is essen- 

 tially serious, always uncomfortable if it cannot defend itself 

 on firm ethical ground. And thoroughly good narrative ought to 

 be as free from obvious ethical admixture as are the exquisitely 

 pure descriptions of New England landscape which, as I have 

 said, seem to me Whittier's most lasting work. At times, these 

 narratives of his blend almost inextricably with his poems of 

 Nature ; from the narratives may be selected extracts which in 

 simple descriptive power are as beautiful as anything Whittier 

 ever did. But, in general, the impression that these narratives 



* Poetical Works, Vol. I. p. 174. 



