shipman came down at midnight to call the relief, he spied it, and we had another scene. This was the last I ever saw of my caps. I have never had one on since, and consequently have never had the earache!"

Of the young midshipman's early cruises the incidents are not many, but the reminiscences of associates are entertaining. It is not so much as a traveler that the naval officer tells his story, although there are many quick characterizations of places and scenes rather, he is one of a party of youngsters, kept in discipline by their elders, but full of life, and gaining rapidly in confidence and self-reliance as they use the little authority with which they are entrusted. An officer of the navy carries the entire United States on the quarter-deck; and since he is brought into frequent intercourse with representatives of other governments, he acquires a dignity and sense of responsibility which are often beyond his years. At the same time, he has all the freedom of a man of the world, and, associating with his equals in close companionship, he keeps a bonhomie which makes him the envy of those who are entangled in the life of cities and the snares of competition.

When the war with Mexico came, the young midshipman, then under twenty, secured an appointment on the Potomac, which had been ordered to the Gulf, and his narrative of adventures during the war, when the navy was supporting the army, is exceedingly racy. There is an absence of any comment upon the rights or wrongs of the war; one only sees the lively young officer in for the fun of the thing, and the sailors doing their part with an indescribable drollery. light-heartedness of the navy, its innocent bravery, its careless, happy-go-lucky style of entering upon grave situations, are all reflected in the story of the squad

ron.

The

Captain Parker gives an account of the capture of Alvarado, a small town thirty-three miles southeast of Vera

Cruz, by Lieutenant Hunter, of the Scourge, in the most impudently private fashion. Commodore Perry had made up his mind to take the place, and accordingly moved gravely toward it with his squadron.

"We sailed in the Potomac, and as the signal was made to the ships to make the best of their way we, being out of trim and consequently a dull sailer, did not arrive off Alvarado until toward the last. As we approached the bar we saw that something was wrong, as the vessels were all underweigh instead of being at anchor. Very soon the Albany hailed us, and said that Alvarado was taken.

By whom?' asked our captain. By Lieutenant IIunter, in the Scourge,' was the reply. And so it was. Hunter, the day before, had stood in pretty close, and observing indications of flinching on the part of the enemy he dashed boldly in and captured the place almost without firing a gun. Not satisfied with this, he threw a garrison, consisting of a midshipman and two men, on shore, and proceeded in his steamer up the river to a place called Tlacatalpan, which he also captured.

"When General Quitman arrived with his brigade, and the place was delivered over to him by Passed Midshipman William G. Temple (the present Commodore Temple), he was greatly amused, and laughed heartily over the affair. But it was far otherwise with Commodore Perry; he was furious, and as soon as he could get hold of Hunter (which was not so easy to do, as he continued his way up the river, and we could hear him firing right and left) he placed him under arrest, and preferred charges against him. This was a mistake; he should have complimented him in a general order, and let the thing pass. Lieutenant Hunter was shortly after tried by a court-martial, and sentenced to be reprimanded by the commodore; the reprimand to be read on the quarterdeck of every vessel in the squadron.

This was done, and the reprimand was very bitter in tone and unnecessarily severe. The reprimand said in effect, Who told you to capture Alvarado? You were sent to watch Alvarado, and not to take it. You have taken Alvarado with but a single gun, and not a marine to back you!' And it wound up by saying that the squadron would soon make an attack on Tobasco, in which he should not join, but that he should be dismissed the squadron. This action on the part of the commodore was not favorably regarded by the officers of the squadron; and as to the people at home, they made a hero of Hunter. Dinners were given him, swords presented, etc., and he was known as Alvarado' Hunter to his dying day."

One does not need to go so far as Commodore Perry in his reprimand, which undoubtedly had much to do in causing a reactionary feeling, but it is a little curious to find an officer like Captain Parker so entirely indifferent to a clear breach of discipline. If Lieutenant Hunter had not succeeded, what would have been the judgment?

It is hard not to let Captain Parker tell over again here some of the amusing stories which make his pages a running fire of laughter, as of the captain who treated his crew by the Thompsonian method, in which all the numbers were marked from one to ten, and finding himself out of an appropriate number six dosed his victim with two threes; of the dueling at Annapolis; of the sailor who captured a Mexican and hauled him along to the captain's tent, inviting his friends to come along and see him shoot him after he had reported the capture, and the sailor's discomfiture when his captive was put in the guard-house instead, and he himself narrowly escaped the cat; and of Captain Parker's predicament when he found himself on a Fall River steamboat with empty pockets. The drollery with which his stories are told is delightful, and the

good-natured criticism of himself and comrades is always in good taste.

The really important part of the book, however, is that which follows the date of 1861, when Captain Parker, then an instructor in the Naval Academy, resigned his commission when Virginia seceded, and took his stand with the Confederacy. He indulges in a little. reserved comment upon the political aspects of the rebellion, but his chief contribution to history is in his account of the engagements in which he took part. His narrative is so straightforward and so free from bluster that it carries with it conviction of its truthfulness, and must take its place as a valuable report of an eye-witness. One is struck by the change in tone. The old gayety is nearly gone, and, though cheerfulness and resolution are never wanting, there is from the outset an air of resignation, as if the narrator quietly abandoned any hope of success, but never for a moment his sense of duty to the Confederacy The animus of the book is so fair and honorable that the most ardent Unionist can read it with respect for the captain, and it will go hard with him if he cannot applaud him for his manliness and devotion.

The most spirited narrative is undoubtedly his account of the engagement of the Merrimac with the Cumberland. He has an air of slighting the operation of the Monitor, but his picture of the uncouth monster which ran its snout into the wooden navy, and at once made a revolution in marine warfare, is very effective. So, too, is his account of the manner in which the Palmetto State, of which he was lieutenant, temporarily broke up the blockade of Charleston; and we close this running comment of a most readable book with a portion of this narrative, which gives a good example of Captain Parker's more careful

manner:

"About ten P. M., January 30th, Commodore Ingraham came on board the

Palmetto State, and at 11.30 the two vessels quietly cast off their fasts and got underweigh. There was no demonstration on shore, and I believe few of the citizens knew of the projected attack. Charleston was full of spies at this time, and everything was carried to the enemy. It was nearly calm, and a bright moonlight night, the moon being eleven days old. We went down very slowly, wishing to reach the bar of the main ship channel, eleven miles from Charleston, about four in the morning, when it would be high water there. Commander Hartstene (an Arctic man, who rescued Kane and his companions) was to have followed us with several unarmed steamers and fifty soldiers to take possession of the prizes; but for some reason they did not cross the bar. We steamed slowly down the harbor, and, knowing we had a long night before us, I ordered the hammocks piped down. The men declined to take them, and I found they had gotten up an impromptu Ethiopian entertainment. As there was no necessity for preserving quiet at this time, the captain let them enjoy themselves in their own way. No men ever exhibited a better spirit before going into action; and the short, manly speech of our captain convinced us that we were to be well commanded, under any circumstances. We passed between Forts Sumter and Moultrie, the former with its yellow sides looming up and reflecting the moon's rays, — and turned down the channel along Morris Island. I presume all hands were up in the forts and batteries watching us, but no word was spoken. After midnight the men began to drop off by twos and threes, and in a short time the silence of death prevailed. I was much impressed with the appearance of the ship at this time. Visiting the lower deck, forward, I found it covered with men sleeping in their pea-jackets, peacefully and calmly, on the gun-deck; a few of the more thoughtful seamen were

pacing quietly to and fro, with folded arms; in the pilot-house stood the commodore and captain, with the two pilots; the midshipmen were quiet in their quarters (for a wonder); and aft I found the lieutenants smoking their pipes, but not conversing. In the ward-room the surgeon was preparing his instruments on the large mess-table; and the paymaster was, as he told me, 'lending him a hand.'

"As we approached the bar, about four A. M., we saw the steamer Merce dita lying at anchor a short distance outside it. I had no fear of her see ing our hull; but we were burning soft coal, and the night being very clear, with nearly a full moon, it did seem to me that our smoke, which trailed after us like a huge black serpent, must be visible several miles off. We went silently to quarters, and our main-deck then presented a scene that will always live in my memory. We went to quarters an hour before crossing the bar, and the men stood silently at their guns. The port-shutters were closed, not a light could be seen from the outside, and the few battle-lanterns lit cast a pale, weird light on the gun-deck. My friend Phil. Porcher, who commanded the bowgun, was equipped with a pair of white kid gloves, and had in his mouth an unlighted cigar. As we stood at our stations, not even whispering, the silence became more and more intense. Just at my side I noticed the little powder-boy of the broadside guns sitting on a match-tub, with his powder - pouch slung over his shoulder, fast asleep, and he was in this condition when we rammed the Mercedita. We crossed the bar and steered directly for the Mercedita. They did not see us until we were very near. Her captain then hailed us, and ordered us to keep off, or he would fire. did not reply, and he called out, "You will be into me.' Just then we struck him on the starboard quarter, and, dropping the forward port-shutter, fired the

We

bow-gun. The shell from it, according to Captain Stellwagen, who commanded her, went through her diagonally, penetrating the starboard side, through the condenser, through the steam-drum of the port boiler, and exploded against the port side of the ship, blowing a hole in its exit four or five feet square. She did not fire a gun, and in a minute her commander hailed to say he surrendered. Captain Rutledge then directed him to send a boat alongside. When I saw the boat coming I went out on the afterdeck to receive it. The men in it were half dressed, and as they had neglected to put the plug in when it was lowered, it was half full of water. We gave them a boat-hook to supply the place of the plug, and helped to bail her out.

"Lieutenant T. Abbott, the executive officer of the Mercedita, came in the boat. I conducted him through the port to the presence of Commodore Ingraham. He must have been impressed with the novel appearance of our gun deck; but his bearing was officer-like and cool. He reported the name of the ship and her captain; said she had one hundred and twenty-eight souls on board, and that she was in a sinking condition. After some delay Commodore Ingraham required him to 'give his word of honor, for his commander, officers, and crew, that they would not serve against the Confederate States until regularly exchanged.' This he did, — it was a verbal parole. He then returned to his ship."

Is there a mood in which one should read poetry? Possibly, if the poetry be the expression of a mood. The wiser answer looks to a mood created by the poetry which one reads, and requires that poetry itself should issue from a state of thought and feeling which is beyond the power of caprice. A fine example of a mood passing into a state, and being thus rid of mere caprice, is in Wordsworth's Resolution and Independence. Certainly, the test of poetry which is to stand all weathers is in its power to recall one to that which is permanent in human experience; in its answer not to temporary, fitful gusts of feeling, but to those elemental movements of our nature which lie open to inspiration. The sifting of the older verse is after this silent fashion. Men drop the accidental and hold to the incidental, to that which belongs to poetry rather than to the poet and his times. They do not by this discard the personal, but they require

that the personal shall have the essential attributes of personality, and not the mere dress of the period.

It is here that the difficulty comes in reading the newest poetry. We who read are not quite sure that we bring to the reading minds unembarrassed by the mere fashion and show of things. Yet we have this advantage, — and it is one with the poets themselves, that there exists a permanent body of poetry which is beyond the chances and changes of mortal life. This body of poetry may be added to: we look eagerly in each generation for such additions. It may be departed from in form; but it remains substantially intact, imperishable, new to each generation of men, because its age is the sign of its eternal youth. It furnishes a standard not only for the comparison of new poetry, but for the measure of theology and philosophy. The consensus of poets is really the final tribunal of human thought.

There is a perceptible restlessness nowadays at the absence of new and notable poetry; a half-expressed doubt if poetry has not folded its wings and flown to other spheres, perhaps remaining behind to touch secretly the heart of the novelist, but lingering in an atmosphere inapt for poetic breath. We have no fears. Poetry is not an accidental visitor in this world of ours. If we fancy that agnosticism, for example, must have a new form of expression, or that science has an expulsory power, we shall be wise to wait a bit. Poetry is to decide whether these forms of intellectual life are to abide; they are not the judges. Agnosticism is trying its hand at verse. The most cheerful gnostic could ask no better test of the permanence of the mood.

It is thus of little consequence that when one gathers the fall harvest of poetry in this country he surveys his gains with a compassionate smile. It is true that the gleaner may yet find some golden grain, unobserved by the critical reaper; but taking the field as most see it, the poetic yield is noticeably slight. To change the figure, here is but a halfpenny worth of sack to an intolerable deal of bread. Yet as a thimbleful of lachryma christi outweighs a gallon of New England cider, one need not be wholly in despair because the quantity is so meagre.

To help us in our measure of recent poetry, we are fortunate in having a new draught of the old. For a long time to come new poetry in America will be read by those who have been bred on Emerson, Longfellow, Whittier, Bryant, Holmes, and Lowell: it will not necessarily be written in the supposition of these poets, but whoever comes before the public will find that a standard of poetry exists which they have formed. The prolongation of notes from

1 The Bry of Seven Islands, and other Poems. By JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. Boston: Houghton, Mitlin & Co. 1883.

the elder poets is one of the most de lightful pleasures which the ear already attuned can receive; and since no imitation, however close, can have the same charm, we care less at this moment for any poet who may be a disciple of Mr. Whittier than we do for Mr. Whittier himself.

1

The little volume which bears the name of its first poem is to the lovers of this poet a reminiscence of all that they enjoy in his verse. Here is the story in which the sea seems almost one of the actors; the harrowing tale of Puritan ferocity with the antithesis of a gen tler, purer Christianity; the landscape of mountain and storm; the version of an Israelite legend; the playful, tender thought of friends; the parable; the large, patriotic, prophetic psalm of the country; the wistful, trusting look into the future; the mellow memory; and the quiet revelation of the poet's own personal aspect of life. The verse shows no new essays, but the poet has struck the notes familiar to him, and the reader has a grateful sense of the ease and firmness of the touch.

One renewз his admiration for the power with which Mr. Whittier reproduces color and movement in his poems. Our readers will recall the Storm on Lake Asquam,2 which is included in this volume, and if they read it again will mark the vigorous imagination which records a great moment in nature, and at once lifts it into personality: the rise of the storm, its fury and its decline to a peaceful end, are given with a definiteness of art which a painter could scarcely make more bright to the eye.

It is, however, in the history of human faith and love that this poet finds his best inspiration. He rarely surprises one, for it is not the novel but the common experience which most quickly finds him; his simple power of repeating in

2 Atlantic Monthly, October, 1882.