loveliness; who, from the recalled afflictions of their | tiveness, a sadness, profound and yet heavenward, own lives, impart an abiding peace to ours; who in which touches us deeply. We look, as it were, their varied strains of hope and tenderness and into the still depths of a soul that had grieved and grief, now softly breathe for us the kindly sympa submitted, that had learnt the true wisdom of acthy of a sorrow in common, and now, in tones of knowledging it was well with it to have been trouholy exultation, triumphantly hymn for us the bled, that, to use his own expression, had grown seraph's song? It is therefore reluctantly and most wise enough to gently, with a memory full of gratitude for the bestowal of many pleasant hours, that we now scan the pages of one, long our favorite, prepared to deal with his poems according to the decrees of reflection instead of feeling, and reverentially to withdraw the veil which, in our accustomed readings, we allow lightly to rest upon his defects.

verses.

"Know how sublime a thing it is,
To suffer and be strong!"

A beautiful thing is the silent and constant influence of the presence of poetry on our lives, and those who have keenest felt its mysterious and bewildering power of affording happiness, best know No review of an author's works, made during how lightly the judgment sways the taste, and his life, can estimate his claims to distinction, or be how often passages that, in a literary point of view, regarded as strictly indicative of his general merits, are scarcely above mediocrity, are garnered up in when, even while the criticism is being published, our memories among the pleasant voices which new poems are given to the world, often differing, whisper music to our hearts. We are hardly conin all respects, from any of their predecessors. scious how intimately the poetical is entwined with Mt. Longfellow's publications have so frequently all our moral and intellectual enjoyments, and it is been dwelt upon by verbal critics, and his fanciful only when the touch of some master hand bids expressions and peculiar imagery are hence so the scales fall from our eyes, that we realize the familiar to the public, that we willingly leave to world of unwritten poetry lying in yet unawakenthose more fastidious than we can in sincerity claimed loveliness about our own daily paths. to be, the task of finding fault with particular We do not consider Mr. Longfellow a writer of We admit the usefulness of that labor, brilliant imagination, nor even of quick poetical but we gladly resign it to those of unerring taste. perception. He feels, rather than fancies, and reLet them, if they will, bring forward "line upon flects more than either; the characteristic and the line," and show the ingenuity of their art by heap- attraction of his works is their exceeding thoughting up examples and "piling the pyramid" of cen- fulness. It is this calm, self-searching reflectivesure; we will read their decisions with all due res-ness which constitutes his charm and imparts such pect, but for ourselves, we would rather listen to the blended echoes within our own heart, of the Voices of the Night, and not hurry with curious and irreverent tread where the Footsteps of Angels have passed. It appears to us, that more than necessary importance is attached, in this country, to the mere style of a writer, and the criticism of thought and tendency has given place to a superficial examination of language. Hence a certain prettiness of expression is the prevailing characteristic of the mass of our national poetry, and many a puny conception passes undetected beneath the folds of glittering drapery. We propose to ponder for a short tíme upon the tone, or, as we may term it, the philosophy of Longfellow's Poems, since, at last, it is by the pervading spirit of his works that an author stands or falls.

peculiar sweetness and loftiness to his strains. He retraces the chronicles of his own experience with the quiet serenity of one who has been taught to read the lessons of the past aright; we acknowledge his sincerity, and it comes to us with true and instructive force. His reflections, though sometimes melancholy, as those of a thinking being must be, are never gloomy nor morbid; his spiritual gaze is ever directed upward: his motto is practically as well as poetically "heart within and God o'erhead." His views of human life are full of moral and elevating teachings; he knows the present to be the responsible seed-time for the future; he acts upon the rarely realized conviction, that "we are here that we may immortalize ourselves."

His powerful predilection for German literature has, in some degree, tinged his originally dreamy We cannot in candor bestow upon Mr. Longfel- style of intellect, and though this has in several low the distinction not unfrequently awarded him instances been brought forward among his defects, of being the first of American poets. We believe, it is one we are not disposed to quarrel with. It in the constellation of our country's genius, there is the great secret, the inestimable privilege of are stars of a brightness equalling his own, and mind to recreate, to present under new forms, and two or three of even surpassing brilliancy. He altered by personal peculiarities of imagination, lacks the mournful grandeur of Percival and the the few primitive elements of thought. We do spontaneous originality of Bryant, with its gorgeous not believe it possible for any mind to be injured flow of beautiful and natural imagery. And yet by the influence of what is really and essentially we would rather read his poems than those of either great, provided the influence do not terminate by of the others. There is in them a placid plain-producing imitation. Genius is like the sun, and

its light looks to us all the more glorions when it shines through the stained glass of old and glo

rious visions.

a warm and flushing lustre, like the mellow tint of
some rich and antique painting. He speaks of
life in all its solemn grandeur, its promise and
its hope. A volume of truth is told, simply and
yet graphically, in these lines, familiar to us as
household words-

"Life is real, life is earnest,
And the grave is not its goal,
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul."

It seems to us that no one can earnestly and in reverence ponder on the loftier aims of our nature without coming forth from his reveries a better and wiser man, and the poet who gives voice to his reflections in musical words, confers no slight benefit on his fellow beings. Men will hearken to the

turn inattentively from graver teachings, and that is no light responsibility resting upon those who have the faculty of imparting such instruction clearly and impressively.

"Man is not born to

Longfellow has drunk deeply of the tempting and exhilarating draughts of foreign lore; his mind is imbued with the spirit of the old world's treasured records, and he comes from shrines where he worshipped well and long, to a land whose shrines are yet to be reared. It is not strange that his compositions reflect the glory over which he had so rapturously lingered, that vague images flit around him, which are of necessity vaguely depicted, and that memories of an ancient world follow him to his home, in a land that can boast no mental antiquity, and whose vast grandeur is, as yet, wholly material. The nature of Mr. Longfellow's mind seems remarkably reverential, and unpretending declarations of poetry, who would he carries to excess his admiration of genius and its great results; he craves gigantic models, and is forced to look for them abroad. All this is well, and we think its effect on the general character of his productions an elevating and a beneficial one, solve the mystery of existence, but must, nevérbut we do most seriously protest against the bad theless, attempt it, in order that he may keep withtaste which introduces imitation of diction. An in the limits of the knowable." author's style of expression should be peculiarly Mr. Longfellow's creative powers are not rehis own, and we think Mr. Longfellow often sacri-markable, and we search in vain among his pubfices much of his native loftiness by clothing his lished writings, for evidence of any conspicuous imaginings in the dim and tantalizing mysticism of boldness of conception, or dazzling vividness of German modes of expression. He perplexes his imagination. There is no actual deficiency of orireaders by robing in grotesque and not original ginality, but he prefers to win on our interest by drapery thoughts far too noble to be thus disguised the purity and pathos of his compositions, rather and disfigured. Why will he not leave to feebler than to startle us by their novelty. minds peculiarities so uncouth, and give us in his own manner his own lovely fancies? We do lament that one so fully competent to form his own style should borrow the mannerisms of others, be the originals who they may, and we hope a defect so easily corrected will not sully the beauty of his future literary labors.

To us, the most delightful of all Longfellow's publications is that strange prose-poem, Hyperion. This work, in its plan and execution, stands alone in our national literature; we know of nothing to be compared with it among our imaginative chronicles. It is, like most of his writings, strongly tinted by the shadows of German peculiarities, but they are softened and mellowed into one harmonious whole, and if he occasionally wanders too far into the dim mazes of the vapor land, we can forgive, in a novel of two volumes, the defects which would be unpardonable in brief poems. There are few episodes in modern romance superior to the closing chapter of that singular and tantalizing production, and it is in itself sufficient to prove its composer, emphatically, and in the word's loftiest sense-a poet.

Criticism is often lavished upon the fantastic imagery with which the imaginative love to adorn their reveries, but it has always seemed to us an uncalled for profanation of poetry to shackle it with useless and encumbering forms, and to endeavor to clog with chains of the earth its flight in wandering through the flower land. Its nature is peculiarly a fanciful and variable thing, not to be lightly fettered or constrained, and of course, not to be subjected to the unyielding rules of other methods of composition. We would not bind the wild It is the custom of many to scan with extreme bird, whose flight is so far above us, and whose harshness the juvenile poems of a writer, if offered gushing song floats like a spirit's, full of rapture by him to the world in maturer life, when his inand of promise, but oh! we implore that its plu- tellectual reputation is in some degree established, mage may not be borrowed, but that it may appear and it is often indeed a matter of surprise, that in its own exquisite hues, now soft as the passing dyes of summer sunset, now radiant and glowing as if touched by the rainbow.

authors have so little hesitation in laying before the public productions generally grossly defective. The sarcasm of Göethé, that "modern Poets mix There is a tranquil and philosophic beauty in a great deal of water with their ink," always comes Longfellow's reflections on humanity, which is pe- to our memory when we encounter such youthful culiarly attractive and comes over the reader with rhapsodies. There are, of course, many early

poems well worthy of being published, for inspira- veil of clouds which hangs between our eyes, and tion is independent of years, and occasionally dawns the unending beauty of a lasting and a lovelier with wonderfully glorious lustre upon the young world. We envy not the man, though the world, and susceptible. Still, as a general rule, it is a for a time, ring with his praise, who has desecrated rash and hazardous undertaking to lay open to uni- by unworthy appropriation an endowment so soulversal examination the first flights of a mind whose touching in purpose, and so fearfully soul-profaning after soarings have been so high. That most when wronged. Be his distinction for talent what treacherous and variable of confidants, the gentle it may, he is to be earnestly pitied, though after public, has seldom any compassion for such compar- all he is his own enemy more than that of others. atively feeble efforts, but to us there is an especial We think the effect of such productions is overand indescribable interest clinging around, and rated, and we seriously believe the moral injury inalmost hallowing a writer's earliest literary effusions. flicted by degrading one's intellect and perverting They come to us like the freshness of spring, its objects, is an ill, falling less on the many who like the buds of flowers, like the sweet faces of read, than on the individual who writes. The childhood, and they remind us of what, in all created fame, or rather the notoriety of productions tending things is beautiful, purity and youth. They neces- to lower the standard of moral worth, is in its very sarily are deficient in the polish of expression and nature evanescent. Be the mere literary merits of melody of versification, only acquired by constant such works great as they may, their spirit soon and studious carefulness of practice, but it is a cu- ceases to attract and interest the least fastidious, rious, and not an uninteresting employment to and the wit and point of the personal allusions they observe the first flashing forth of genius, to follow, contain necessarily die with the remembrance of step by step, its irregular progress towards excel- the trivial circumstances which gave them rise. lence, to watch its eager searchings for the high and spiritual, and to trace the gradual working out, elearly and radiantly, ideals once so vague and shadowy in their undefined loveliness. Several of the early poems contained in the Voices of the Night, are full of beauty, both in conception and vigor of execution, and the fact appears to us to be somewhat surprising.

The strongest and most powerful attribute of a Poet's mind is thirsting reverence for the beautiful; he is perplexed and haunted in his earliest reflections by dreams of surpassing fairness; whatever is loveliest in nature, or loftiest in moral greatness, approaches nearest to the fulfilment of his spirit's mysterious and indefinite ideal, and is of course most precious to his thoughts and attracThere is a certain character of intellect, whose tive to his feelings. It is a sacred thing, a yearnyouthful productions are from necessity its best. ing devotion to the High and Holy, and it seems to Authors writing from the spontaneous impulses of a us a fearful crushing of life's divinest tendencies, a quick susceptibility and an easily excited imagina- voluntary and cruel depressing of all the heavention, find, in their very youthfulness, their source of ward and spiritual impulses that proclaim our loftiest inspiration. Such is not, however, the heavenward and immortal destiny and make our tone of the most enduring and elevated order of mental being but a little lower than the angels ;-a talent, and it is not the characteristic of Mr. Long-terrible hoarding up of humiliating remembrances, fellow's mind. He writes better as he grows older, to commit the offence against one's own nature, of for the chief excellence of his works consists in profaning that nature's elevating attribute and of their evident progressiveness and their exhibition taking the name of poetry in vain, by making it of the halo which poetry in its truest lustre throws license desecration. around the daily scenes of common experience and From the too common fault of perverting one's human existence. To us, it seems among the most powers, Mr. Longfellow is wholly exempt: his aims precious prerogatives of genius to idealize and are always upward, and the character of his comadorn the ordinary events and objects around us, to positions is always a dignified and often a sublime carry onward into every day circumstances, and one. His principal defect, we have already obevents of trivial, but universal interest, the exalt-served, is his somewhat affected following of the ing presence of the lovely and the heavenward. German style of expression, and we are convinced Real poetry, like the pure essence of Christianity, this is a fault, his usually correct and polished taste is a thing of life, a brightness shining around our will induce him hereafter to remedy. usual allotments, not a glory separate and apart, not a spirit demanding uncommon seasons and rare occurrences to call forth its noblest exercise.

We think he has penetrated more profoundly and thoughtfully than any of our native Poets into the depths of humanity; that he contemplates philosoThe children of song are, as a holy priesthood, phically its springs of action and feels its incesendowed with the faculty of revealing in living sant need of culture and desire for encouragement, language the deep mysteries lying within our secret and we believe his works are calculated materially hearts, of holding up to our gaze the proud aims, to refine and exalt those who read them candidly. the vast responsibilities, the immortal destiny of We cordially bid him god-speed in his intellce

our nature, and of drawing aside, as it were, the tual progress, for we feel that his advancement is,

with him, a conscientious and thoughtful pilgrimage | (though in different degrees) would form an into a proud and glorious shrine, and we believe the teresting chapter in the annals of their political Poet who awakens an earnest reverence for his art economy. and an admiration for its beautiful means of im- 5. Some details of the annual Fairs held at Wilprovement, confers on his race a benefit, whose liamsburg, where a small body of merchants acresults will not easily pass away, and nobly per- tually settled the price of tobacco for the year, the forms a noble part in his day and generation. advance on the cost of English goods that should constitute their market price, and the rate of Exchange for sterling bills?

SCENES ABROAD.

BY W. M. W.

Fortune, amid the sports she plays with us creatures of her caprice, having allotted me the part of a wanderer over this varied globe, it may not be uninteresting to your readers, if on my way I pick up, for their benefit, a collection of such natural and artificial specimens of things and beings as come under my observation, although it may possess no other worth than what comes of a cruise "round

mer being his own name, the second the common name of river, and thus accident gave this poor fisherman's name to this magnificent country.

Entering the harbor of Callao, the port of Lima, the capital of Peru, we have the gloomy-looking island of San Lorenzo on our right hand, or to the Southward, a lofty and desolate mass of rock and sand without a sprig of vegetation, or a living being upon it. Before us we have the low white houses and dilapidated castles of the town of Callao, and back of this a green plain or valley sweeps away to a semicircular range of rugged, naked hills, enclosing this vale of Lurigancho, through which flows the river Rimae. Casting our view over this green and fertile vale a little to the left of Callao, we discern, at the foot of the hills, distant eight miles, the domes and steeples of Lima, and above all, in the distance, the summit of the Andes: one snow-capped portion of these lofty moun tains, seen just over and back of the city, has a peculiarly striking effect, which has inspired some preceding traveller to sing,

"Like silver bells, yon snowy peaks
Are hung upon the clouds."

the Horn." Whoever prepares himself for a passage around this stormy Cape by reading the awful narratives of the early navigators, will have his imagination teem with the anticipation of every horror of a stormy sea. He will fancy this bold promontory, jutting with intrusive daring into the dark store-house of storm and tempest, while the surges of the great Southern Ocean lash its shores, and winds forever howl around its head in angry rebuke of its temerity. With such anticipations it was difficult to realize that we were sailing through this dreaded region with a gentle breeze, over a smooth blue sea, the sun glittering upon the snows With Lima-"The City of Kings"-before us, of Patagonia, “the Cape" and neighboring islands where viceroys have trod upon streets paved with lying quietly in sight, all nature smiling as if in silver, and whose ladies are now walking in the mockery of past experience. Having made, what mysterious saya-y-manto, we shall not delay in the those who have encountered more honest "Cape small port of Callao. Landing at its very excelWeather" call a fortunate escape, it was still with lent mole, we see rather a busy scene in the landmuch satisfaction that we glided into those ocean ing of the various products of other countries and regions which, from their established reputation for of its own coasts. Among these is fine wheat good behavior, have gained the title Pacific. from Chili, which, as an evidence of the dryness of the climate and absence of rain, lies in an immense pile upon the mole exposed to the weather from one year's end to another. There are also iron vessels of quicksilver, used in the mines for separating the precious metals, large blocks of salt from Sechura and pyramidal earthen jars of Italia, an alcoholic spirit, manufactured and much esteemed in the country, and brought here from Pioco. Numerous carts, made of raw hides, and droves of diminutive donkeys are actively employed in transporting these things to their destination.

One accustomed to the uncertainties of the sea, and the suddenness with which violent storms may break upon quiet calms, can scarcely realize the feeling of retiring at night with the security of awaking in the morning to the same smooth sea and weather. Over such a sea we approached those

shores where

-The glad earth, through all the smiling hours, Unwrought by man, its genial tribute pours; Stern winter frowns not there, nor snow, nor rain Deforms the sky or desolates the plain, But sea-born zephyrs, ever on the wing, Round the blest bowers eternal freshness fling." Peru-the land of the children of the sun-of Ineas who could proffer a room-full of gold as a ransom! The sun of its worship and the rich trea-out of Callao and were on the road to the capital. sures of its mines have illuminated and gilded the pages of historians and poets who have made it their theme.

Two lines, in opposition to each other, were running large, handsome, French-built omnibuses to Lima, and taking our seats in one of these, with three horses abreast in the lead, we soon rattled

This road is 8 miles long and presents some interest to the stranger. It has the appearance of passing over a dead level, although in reality there is An old Spanish author has several chapters upon a slight rise from the sea to the city. The road is the origin of the name of this country, and from broad, and has been constructed at much expense; him we learn that the early adventurers, having a low wall, and outside of this a broad, dry ditch caught an Indian fishing in the river, and asked skirt it on either side. The country through which him the name of the country, he, being much fright- it passes presents either open fields of grassy tusened, supposed they asked either his own name, or socks and sand hills, with numerous jackasses pickwhere he was, and replied Beru and Pelu, the for- ing up their own living, or fields separated by di

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