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From the Examiner.

The Song of Hiawatha. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Bogue.

"the rushing of great rivers
Through their palisades of pine trees,
And the thunder in the mountains,
Whose innumerable echoes

Flap like eagles in their eyries."

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MR. LONGFELLOW has here done his best to accomplish for the Indian border-land of These "innumerable echoes are one of America what years ago Walter Scott did for the most marked features in the song. Like our own Scottich border-land. He has given the Hebrew poets, whose verses reply to each it a poetical interest, and sought to link with other in measured cadence, the Indian songit enduring associations. Nor will such a singer never fails to repeat the more emphatic service be a slight one. All future wander-closing lines of every section, varying in ers across those prairies, all who may pene-words, the same in substance. The result is trate the pine forests of the North-western a peculiar and original, and certainly very States, track the course of the Upper Missis- effective, wildness. sippi, or explore the shore of the Great Lake, will have reason to be grateful to the poet. Something to complete the charm was absent until now. No tradition linked the present with the past. No rich imagination, no warmth or wealth of fancy, had lighted up the scene. Travellers, and tourists in America hereafter will owe a debt of honest gratitude to the Song of Hiawatha.

And here at home we have reason to be grateful. In giving a new life to the far West, Mr. Longfellow has also brought the spirit of it to our firesides. We get all that was worth preserving of the Red Man, and may gladly and gratefully consign the rest of him to extirpation and silence.

There is, however, another peculiarity in the poem, which is also as certainly original, but hot effective at all. This is the too abundant use of Indian words. So far is this carried, that if Mr. Longfellow had wished, in his professional capacity, to give us a course of Ojibway, he could hardly have done more. Nor might we gracefully have declined such a close to the duties of a chair he has discharged so long with so much honor. But as English readers and not American students, we must protest against an introduction of such quantities of miserable, harsh, unpleasing, useless words into an English poem. Proper names are admissible. Minnehaha (so called after the most sparkThe Song of Hiawatha is a tale of Indian ling of waterfalls), Nokomis, Hiawatha himmythology. Its hero is one who lived, prayed, self, and others to these we cannot reasontoiled, and fasted for his people's good; ably object. But to be bored with the Ojibwho was prophet and king, at once a ruler way for "blue heron," or crawfish," or and a seer, the first of all the "mystery "seagulls," is quite unnecessary. They add men"; who taught the maize to grow, and no real local truth to the picture. They the weeds yield their healing virtues; who weary and annoy the reader. What possible invented the canoe for the waters, and hunt- object can lines like these serve unless it be ed down the enemies of his race; and who to remind us how Adam named the animals : at last, his mission ended, and his work performed, underwent human loss and sorrow, and faded away in the light of dawning Christianity. With this main story are interwoven tradition and legend, descriptions of scenery and sketches of life, pathetic, Or these: humorous, fanciful, playful, all very fresh and new, and all tinted with the rich coloring of an Indian summer.

The metre of the poem has been boldly chosen- but we are not disposed to think unwisely. Its unrhymed trochees appear at first monotonous and strange; but as we read on we see their meaning and intention better, and still as we advance they speak to us more and more clearly of

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"Saw the wild rice, Mahnomonee,
Saw the blueberry, Meenahga,
And the strawberry, Odahmin,
And the gooseberry, Shahbomin,
And the grape vine, the Bemahgut."

666

Kago, kago! do not touch it, Ah kaween!' said Mudjekeewis.” Mr. Longfellow must really be persuaded to banish from his fifth, or his fiftieth edition, such specimens of "unknown tongues.”

Small blemishes are they, however, in a volume of so much beauty and tender grace. Every page shows us something we would gladly transfer to our columns, particularly

that section of it which seems to us fullest of fancy and choice expression-the Hunting of Pau-Puk-Keewis. But we have space only for two short quotations, by no means remarkable; we could easily choose a hundred such.

Hiawatha has a friend, Chibiabos, "the sweet singer," who has died, and Hiawatha sits in his wigwam lamenting.

"He is dead, the sweet musician!
He the sweetest of all singers !
He has gone from us forever,
He has moved a little nearer
To the master of all music,
To the master of all singing!
O my brother, Chibiabos!

"And the melancholy fir trees
Waved their dark green fans above him,
Waved their purple cones above him,
Sighing with him to console him,
Mingling with his lamentation
Their complaining, their lamenting."

As brief must be our closing extract. Hiawatha has wooed and won fair Minnehaha (or Laughing Water), a daughter of the Dacotahs. He is bringing her home, and all nature is rejoicing in his joy. The bluebird and the robin sing out congratulation, and the

squirrel watches them as they travel through his woods.

"From the sky the sun benignant

Looked upon them through the branches,
Saying to them, 'O my children,
Love is sunshine, hate is shadow,
Life is checkered shade and sunshine:
Rule by love, O Hiawatha !'

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"From the sky the moon looked at them,
Filled the lodge with mystic splendors,
Whispered to them, O my children,
Day is restless, night is quiet,
Man imperious, woman feeble,
Half is mine, although I follow:
Rule by patience, Laughing Water !'"'

Mr. Longfellow's reputation will, we think, be raised by the Song of Hiawatha; it is by far, in our judgment, the most original of all his productions; though we do not expect it to be immediately popular. Its peculiarities of subject, of treatment, particularly of metre, may forbid this. But when these get familiarized to the taste and the ear, its beauties will open out and display themselves more freely, and it will appear generally what it really is, a charming poem, edly high work of art.

and an undoubt

NEW SECT IN WHITE. To whom did Henry IV. refer in his opening speech to the Parliament, when he made the following announcement?

"And whereas the King hath certainly understood that a new sect hath risen up, clothed in white vesture, and assuming to themselves great sanctity, and whereas the people of this realm may lightly consent and be perverted by its novelty, their alms be diverted, and the kingdom itself be subverted, should the new professors enter the realm: therefore, by the advice of the Lords spiritual and temporal, the King hath ordained by proclamation that every county and seaport shall be shut against them; and any one harboring or maintaining them shall forfeit all that he is able to forfeit." - Rolls.

J. W.

[Mosheim has given some account of this sect in his Eccles. Hist., book III. pt. II. ch. 5: "In Italy a new sect, that of the White-clad Brethren, or the Whites (fratres albati, seu Candida), produced no little excitement among the people. Near the beginning of the fifteenth century a certain unknown priest descended from the Alps, clad in a white garment, with an immense number of people of both sexes in his train, all clothed like their leader, in white linen, whence their name of the White Brethren. This multitude

marched through various provinces, following a cross borne by the leader of the sect, and by a great show of piety, so captivated the people that numberless persons of every kind joined its ranks. Boniface X., fearing soine plot, ordered the leader of this host to be apprehended and committed to the flames. After his death the multitude gradually dispersed.”] — Notes and Queries.

QUOTATIONS WANTED.-Who are the authors of the following?

"Qui jacet in terra, ron habet unde cadat." "Vox audita perit, litera scripta manet." "Fiat justitia, ruat cœlum."

"Indocti discunt, et ament meminisse periti." (This is the motto to Laharpe's Cours de Littérature.)

"He equall'd all but Shakspeare here below."
"Death hath a thousand ways to let out life."
"Forgiveness to the injured does belong,
But they ne'er pardon who have done the
wrong.'
PHILADELPHIA.

J. SN.

—Notes and Queries

From the Critic. ing he ever made, and which had long hung

The Crayon: a Journal devoted to the Graph-framed under that roof." Another drawing, ic Arts and the Literature related to them."a slight sketch," was purchased by the inVol. I. New York: Stillman and Du- defatigable worshipper from a clerk in the rand. London: Trübner and Co.

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employ of Messrs. Smith, Elder, and Co., Ruskin's publishers; and this last, with This first volume of an American weekly autograph appended, was sent to the New publication, the scope of which is sufficiently York Academy Exhibition, where it excited indicated by its title, deserves notice on ac- much criticism and considerable ridicule. Mr. count of its novelty of plan, as well as the Ruskin, on hearing of this transaction, is enthusiasm that evidently actuates its con- naturally very much annoyed, and writes a ductors. It offers no bait of pretty engrav-letter to The Crayon, of which the following ings, like the so-called "Art" periodicals passages have more than merely local interof our own country, but relies upon an earn- est: "Until I was 18 or 19, I was totally est exposition of, and commentary upon, the ignorant of the first principles of drawingprofound principles of the graphic arts to and as I never had any invention, it would interest and edify its readers. Its motto is be difficult to produce anything more confrom "Modern Painters " "Whence, in temptible in every way than the sort of fine, looking to the whole kingdom of organ- sketch I used to make in my boyhood. Nor ic nature, we find that our full receiving of do I at present rest my hope of being of serits beauty depends, first on the sensibility, vice as a critic on any power of painting. and then on the accuracy and touchstone When I praise Turner, I do not think I can faithfulness of the heart in its moral judg- rival him, any more than in praising Shakments;" and Ruskin's writings are its chief speare I suppose myself capable of writing oracles. The editor has disinterred and re- another Lear.' But I can now draw steadpublished a long series of papers entitled ily, thoroughly, and rightly, up to a certain The Poetry of Architecture; or the Archi- point; and as the American public have seen tecture of the Nations of Europe, considered my child-work, I shall be grateful to them in its Association with Natural Scenery and if they will do me the justice to examine, National Character, by Kata Phusin," which with some attention, the drawing which Í appeared in Loudon's Architectural Maga- shall take care to have in the next New York zine about eighteen years ago, and are from Exhibition, if it may then be accepted. the hand of Ruskin. These are interesting You sent me two rather formidable queries as compositions, belonging to the vernal sea- in your last private note to me. On one son of a style which has since reached so What are the limits of detail?' I have elaborate and full-colored a development, something like sixty pages of talk in the third and also as showing the careful study and volume of Modern Painters,' which, if I thought bestowed by the young man upon live, will be out about Christmas; but I may his subject, along with that nicety of obser- answer hurriedly, as you will at once undervation, at once poetic and microscope, which stand what I mean, that as far as you can is so rare and exquisite a gift. But these see detail you should always paint it papers also exhibit very distinctly, in their you intend your picture to be a finished one, cruder modes of expression, his tendency to and to be placed where its finished painting fantastic and incoherent deductions from illcan be seen. .. In every picture intended established premises, assuming the guise of for finished work, and intended to be seen logical accuracy and the boldness of indispu- near, the limit of detail is visibility — and table truth. We also, from an attempt or no other." The Crayon is also an advocate two which are utter failures, catch a hint of of the Pre-Raphaelite school of painting, the deficiency of humor in Ruskin, in com- which appears to have many warm admirers mon perhaps with most very dogmatic mon. on the other side of the Atlantic. For the The Oxford graduate is much more pas- rest, it contains some poetry, not particusionately honored and admired in America larly noticeable either as bad or excellent, than in his own country; and from this feel- and a great deal of aesthetic criticism, which ing, a somewhat amusing incident took its is, we much fear, like most such ware, rather rise in connection with the Academy of De- enthusiastic than strong, rather flatulent sign in New York last spring. An American than nutritious. Enthusiasm, however, is enthusiast, it appears, visiting Mr. Ruskin's at all events a living condition, and we wish house at Denmark Hill, in his absence, our youthful contemporary all manner of obtained from the house-keeper, in addi- success and development, internal and extion to other precious little reminiscences ternal.

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PATIENCE ON A MONUMENT.

I KNEEL within the church alone
All through the long, long day,
And list the night's low breezes moan
Amid the turrets gray;
In summer-time I faintly hear
The laugh of merry children near,

Their voices blithe and gay

Hushed by the aisles and walls of stone
Down to a sad soft under-tone.

They play amid the quiet graves
That thickly lie around,
And softly to the silent caves

Comes the untroubled sound;
The long grass trembles in the air,
The wild thyme sheds its perfume there
Above the hallowed ground,
And daisies, like Faith's upward eye,
Gaze ever deep into the sky.
Here have I heard the bridal vows

In faltering accents low,
Have gazed on fair unfurrowed brows
Unworn by wave of wo;

Have heard the pastor's voice proclaim
The union of heart and name,

And seen her tears o'erflow
Who saw the strange new path untried,
And feared, yet joyed, to be a bride.
And I have seen through silent aisles
The dead brought solemnly
Past the gray columns' ancient piles,
Beneath my gaze to lie;

And while the clear, calm voice of prayer
Silverly fell on the hushéd air,

Have seen the mourner's eye
Turn with a fierce despair on mẹ,
As though I mocked his misery.

I gazed with calm and tranquil gaze
Upon his bloodshot eye;

The sunlight's soft and pleasant rays
Fell on him tenderly;

A prisoned robin's quiet lay
Whispered his wild despair away

Like tones of memory,

And gentler thoughts around him crept,
Until he bowed his head and wept.

I watch amid the slumberers here,

And the long years roll on;

Each Sabbath, listening throngs appear,
Each week, I am alone;

New faces fill each vacant nook,

New children turn their thoughtful look
Upon my brow of stone,

New tombstones stare in moonlight cold,
New lichens grow upon the old.
The gray-haired minister will pass
Amid his flock to rest,
Soon o'er his head the waving grass
By strangers' feet be prest;
The sun's last parting rays will come,
And squares of light amid the gloom
Fall softly on my breast,

Till, rising from their silent caves,

The dead shall leave me but their graves

-Chambers' Journal.

I. R. V.

DUST.

DUST we were, and dust to be,
Dust upon us, dust about us,
Dust on everything we see,

Dust within us, dust without us; Saith the preacher, "Dust to dust!" Let them mingle, for they must.

Dust we raise upon the road,
Dust we breathe in dancing-hall;
Dust infests our home abode,

Dust, a pall, is over all!
'Tis the housewife's daily bread,
Dust, the emblem of the dead.

When the sky above is fair,

And the sun upon the streams,
Floats the dust throughout the air,
Gleaming in its fallen beams;
Every mote is like a man,
Dancing gaily while he can.

Ere the tempest gathers strong,

Blows at times the warning gust, O'er the plain it sweeps along,

Tempest's thrall, a cloud of dust;
Every mote is like a man,
Flying from Oppression's van.

Now the swollen clouds grow dark,
Comes the long-expected flood,
Falling deluge-like and stark;

Dust is beaten down to mud,
So are times when men must grovel
In the palace as the hovel.

Thus we are but motes of dust,

On the ground and in the air,
Blown by pleasure, fear, and lust,
Beaten down to low despair;
Born of dust, to come to dust,
Let us mingle, for we must.

A SIMILE.

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

SLOWLY, slowly up the wall

Steals the sunshine, steals the shade; Evening damps begin to fall,

Evening shadows are displayed. Round me, o'er me, everywhere, All the sky is grand with clouds, And athwart the evening air

Wheel the swallows home in crowds. Shafts of sunshine from the West Paint the dusky windows red; Darker shadows deeper rest Underneath and overhead: Darker, darker, and more wan In my breast the shadows fall; Upward steals the life of man, As the sunshine from the wall. From the wall into the sky,

From the roof along the spire; Ah, the souls of saints that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher.

PART THE LAST.-BOOK III.

CHAPTER XXX. — ANOTHER JOURNEY.

THERE was no very long time necessary to bring to completion the scheme of Mary; it was still fine weather although the end of October, and Mrs. Cumberland became very soon enthusiastic about the visit to Cheshire, to Castle Vivian, and the Grange. "I expect to see quite a delightful sight in your brother's return to your attached peasantry, Mr. Vivian," said Mrs. Cumberland; and Mr. Cumberland himself was persuaded to go with the party, to initiate the country gentlemen there into his views, and perhaps to extend his own ideas. "There are many admirable customs hidden in the depths of the country," said this candid philosopher; "some ancient use and wont in the matter of welcome, I should not be surprised · and I am a candid man, sister Burtonshaw." So the philosopher gave his consent; and hers, too, with a sigh of regret for Sylvo's place, gave Mrs. Bur

tonshaw.

Zaidee take different directions. There is a painful hesitation between them when they address each other, which Zaidee understands very well, but which Percy cannot understand; and once more his thoughts, baffled and perplexed, centre upon Mary Cumberland's beautiful sister, who is so like his own. Unconsciously to himself, this rencontre increases Percy's difficulty. She is not Mary Cumberland's sister; she is only an adopted child. It suddenly occurs to Percy that Mary meant him to draw some inference from this fact, which she stated to him so abruptly; and, more than ever puzzled, his thoughts pursue the subject; but he can draw no inference; he is only extremely curious, interested, and wondering; he never thinks of Zaidee in connection with this beautiful and silent girl.

And the next day their journey began. Travelling in a railway carriage, even when you can fill it comfortably with your own party, is not a mode of journeying favorable to conversation. Leaning back in her corner, covered up and half concealed under Aunt Burtonshaw's shawls, During the one day which they spent in Lon- looking at the long stripes of green fields, the don before starting for Cheshire, Zaidee, who flat lines of country that quivered by the window felt this journey full of fate for her, a new and with the speed of lightning, Zaidee found in this decisive crisis in her life, wandered out, in her dreaded journey a soothing influence which restless uneasiness. Mary did not watch her calmed her heart. Convinced as she was that quite so jealously as she had done, and she was Mary's object was to try her fully, by bringing . glad to be alone. Without thinking, Zaidee her into close contact with her own family, Zaistrayed along those unfeatured lines of street dee had earnestly endeavored to fortify herself till she came to the well-remembered environ- for the ordeal. But through this long day, ment of squares which surrounded Bedford when her thoughts were uninterrupted, when no Place. Thinking wistfully of her old self, and one spoke but Percy and Mary, whose conversaher vain childish sacrifice, Zaidee passed timidly tion was not for the common ear—or Aunt Burthrough it, looking up for Mrs. Disbrowe's tonshaw, whose addresses were more general, house. Some one before her went up to this and chiefly directed to the subjects of taking house hurriedly as Zaidee advanced, but hesitat- cold or taking refreshments-a pleasant delued, as she did, when he perceived a great many sion of going home stole upon Zaidee's weary carriages, with coachmen in white gloves and heart. Mr. Cumberland, who had been greatly favors, -a large bridal party before the door. struck at the very outset of their journey by the The gentleman before her paused a little, and so large sphere of operation for his educational djd Žaidee; there was a momentary commotion theory, his decorated and emblazoned letters, in in the little crowd, which made an avenue be- those names of railway stations at present intween the door of the house and the carriage scribed in prosaic black and white, was making drawn up before it, and forth issued a bride in notes and sketches for this important object, to flowing white robes and orange blossoms, not lose no time; Mrs. Cumberland was enjoying her too shy to throw a glance around her as she step- languor; Mrs. Burtonshaw presided over the ped into the vehicle. Zaidee shrank, fearing to draughts, the windows, and the basket of sandbe remembered, when she found how she recog-wiches. There was no painful idea, no scrutiny, nized at once Minnie Disbrowe's saucy face. And Mr. Disbrowe is with the bride; and there is mamma, of still ampler proportions, but not less comely, than of old; and a string of bridesmaids, in whose degrees of stature, one lesser than the other, Zaidee fancies she can see Rosie and Lettie and Sissy, the little rebels who tried her so sorely once. Looking on all this with interested eyes, Zaidee does not immediately perceive that this is Mr. Percy Vivian who was bending his course to Mrs. Disbrow's. When she does perceive him, there is a pause of mutual embarrassment. He is wondering if she can know these people, and she is wondering why he should call at Bedford Place; but the carriages sweep on with their gay company, and after the interchange of a very few formal words, Percy and VOL XII. 4

DCVI.

LIVING AGE.

or search, or suspicion, in all these faces. Going home! The dream crept over Zaidee's mind, and it was so sweet, she suffered it to come. She closed her eyes to see the joyous drawing-room of the Grange, all bright and gay for the travellers-Elizabeth, Margaret, Sophy - Philip even - and Zaidee coming home. These impossible dreams were not common to Zaidee; she yielded herself up to the charm of this one with a thankful heart.

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That night they spent at Chester, where Mr. Cumberland made great progress in his scheme for the railway stations. There was still another day's respite for Zaidee, for to-morrow they had arranged to visit Castle Vivian, and the next day after that to continue their journey to the Grange.

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