Mr.Stanton sprang to his feet and recited some of Whittier's stirring stanzas on freedom, which electrified the audience, and, turning to Campbell, he said: "What do you say to that ?" "Ah! that's real poetry," he replied.

"And John Greenleaf Whittier is its author," said Mr.Stanton.
I enjoyed, too, the morning and evening service, when the revered mother read the Scriptures and we all bowed our heads in silent worship.

There was, at times, an atmosphere of solemnity pervading everything, that was oppressive in the midst of so much that appealed to my higher nature.
There was a shade of sadness in even the smile of the mother and sister, and a rigid plainness in the house and its surroundings, a depressed look in Whittier himself that the songs of the birds, the sunshine, and the bracing New England air seemed powerless to chase away, caused, as I afterward heard, by pecuniary embarrassment, and fears in regard to the delicate health of the sister.

She, too, had rare poetical talent, and in her Whittier found not only a helpful companion in the practical affairs of life, but one who sympathized with him in the highest flights of which his muse was capable.

Their worst fears were realized in the death of the sister not long after.