One day Whittier told the writer of his having begun a poem--his biographer also tells this--upon the banishing of the Arcadians from their country. But he added that he had abandoned it on learning that Longfellow was writing “Evangeline.” His listener realized the fervor of Huguenot indignation (for Whittier had Huguenot blood in his veins) which would have inspired his muse at the wrongs of those innocent people and the pathos with which he would have told their story, and expressed her regret that he had not written the poem. But he answered with decision: “No; it was better so. Longfellow has done the work as it should have been done.” * * * * * One day the doctor said to the poet: “You have written so much, Mr. Whittier, that I suppose you write now without labor--that writing is easy to you?” “No,” returned Whittier emphatically. “Everything is labor to me. I don’t know any easy writing.” * * * * * In addition to this careful work--rather, as a part of it--no one realized better than the poet the difference between a poem in manuscript and the same poet in print. So, he would often say to one of his young neighbors--a printer--“Fred, I want to see thee a minute.” And he would hand the young man the poem--or a portion of it--to put into type, so that the poet before sending it to the publishers might judge for himself how it would look printed. He used to say, appreciative of the glamour of acceptance, that print improved things. * * * * * There was once at least, however, when he waited for no such self-criticism, when the spirit moved him so strongly that it swept away all but the emotion it kindled in his heart--there was once, at least, that it was “easy writing” for him so far as the flowing of his pen was concerned, which could not go fast enough to keep pace with the rush of his thoughts--although, no doubt, he paid by days of headache for the all but involuntary toil of his spirit. It was when he wrote his paean for the passage through Congress of the Constitutional Amendment abolishing slavery. That morning the poet came home from the Fifth Day (Thursday) meeting of the Friends, his eyes large with excitement--as one who saw him told the writer--and, as if the thought in his heart and the words on his lips were too overwhelming to be true, he cried: “What are the bells ringing for? The flags are up--and away up!” Then when there was no longer question as to the meaning of the flags and the bells, he sat down at his desk and wrote like one inspired--as, indeed, he was. I think his biographer tells, as did also one in the house, that there was no walking back and forth in the room, as was often the case when he was writing, but the words flowed upon the paper as fast as his pen could move. When the poem was written, it was sent to the publisher with scarcely a revision.