poetry. Nowhere is there a picture more affecting or more full of pathetic beauty than that of Evangeline in her piteous wanderings in search of her lover. James Russell Lowell, in his Fable for Critics, says:

Had Theocritus written in English, not Greek,

I believe that his exquisite sense would scarce change a line
In that rare; tender, virgin-like pastoral Evangeline,
That's not ancient nor modern, its place is apart
Where Time has no sway, in the realm of pure Art,
'Tis a shrine of retreat from Earth's hubbub and strife
As quiet and chaste as the author's own life.

Of The Song of Hiawatha and of the The Courtship of Miles Standish, no one can speak except in terms of the highest praise. Concerning the former, an English critic remarks: "It is the first permanent contribution to the world's belles lettres made from Indian authorities. It is child-like as Indian life itself, yet possessing the vigor and daring of Tecumseh and the Mohican. The strong fibre of legend which joins and runs through the series of idyls of which it is made up unites like a cable of fancy the weird and pagan traditions of the frozen north of Europe and America."

The student can scarcely omit the study of the entire poem. But as an example of the author's happiest style of narration we quote the following passage descriptive of Hiawatha's wooing:

Thus departed Hiawatha

To the land of the Dacotahs,

To the land of handsome women;
Striding over moor and meadow,
Through interminable forests,
Through uninterrupted silence.

With his moccasins of magic,
At each stride a mile he measured;
Yet the way seemed long before him,
And his heart outrun his footsteps;

And he journeyed without resting, Till he heard the cataract's laughter, Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to him through the silence. "Pleasant is the sound!" he murmured, "Pleasant is the voice that calls me!" On the outskirts of the forest, "Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, Herds of fallow deer were feeding, But they saw not Hiawatha;

To his bow he whispered, " Fail not!"
To his arrow whispered, " Swerve not!"
Sent it singing on its errand,

To the red heart of the roebuck
Threw the deer across his shoulder,
And sped forward without pausing.
At the doorway of his wigwam
Sat the ancient Arrow-maker
In the land of the Dacotahs,
Making arrow-heads of jasper,
Arrow-heads of chalcedony.
At his side, in all her beauty,
Sat the lovely Minnehaha,

Sat his daughter, Laughing Water,
Plaiting mats of flags and rushes;
Of the past the old man's thoughts were,
And the maiden's of the future.

He was thinking, as he sat there,
Of the days when with such arrows
He had struck the deer and bison,
On the Muskoday, the meadow;
Shot the wild-goose, flying southward,
On the wing, the clamorous Wawa;
Thinking of the great war-parties,
How they came to buy his arrows,
Could not fight without his arrows.
Ah, no more such noble warriors
Could be found on earth as they were!
Now the men were all like women,

Only used their tongues for weapons!

She was thinking of a hunter,
From another tribe and country,
Young and tall and very handsome,
Who one morning, in the Spring-time,
Came to buy her father's arrows,
Sat and rested in the wigwam,
Lingered long about the doorway,
Looking back as he departed.
She had heard her father praise him,
Praise his courage and his wisdom;
Would he come again for arrows
To the Falls of Minnehaha?
On the mat her hands lay idle,
And her eyes were very dreamy.

Through their thoughts they heard a footstep,

Heard a rustling in the branches,

And with glowing cheek and forehead,

With the deer upon his shoulders,
Suddenly from out the woodlands
Hiawatha stood before them.

Straight the ancient Arrow-maker
Looked up gravely from his labor,
Laid aside the unfinished arrow,
Bade him enter at the doorway,
Saying, as he rose to meet him,
"Hiawatha, you are welcome!"

At the feet of Laughing Water
Hiawatha laid his burden,
Threw the red deer from his shoulders;
And the maiden looked up at him,
Looked up from her mat of rushes,
Said with gentle look and accent,
"You are welcome, Hiawatha!"

Very spacious was the wigwam,

Made of deerskin dressed and whitened,
With the gods of the Dacotahs
Drawn and painted on its curtains,

And so tall the doorway, hardly

Hiawatha stooped to enter,

Hardly touched his eagle-feathers
As he entered at the doorway.

Then uprose the Laughing Water
From the ground, fair Minnehaha,
Laid aside her mat unfinished,

Brought forth food and set before them,
Water brought them from the brooklet,
Gave them food in earthen vessels,
Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood,
Listened while the guest was speaking,
Listened while her father answered,
But not once her lips she opened,
Not a single word she uttered.
Yes, as in a dream she listened

To the words of Hiawatha,
As he talked of old Nokomis,

Who had nursed him in his childhood,
As he told of his companions,
Chibiabos, the musician,

And the very strong man, Kwasind,
And of happiness and plenty
In the land of the Ojibways,

In the pleasant land and peaceful.
"After many years of warfare,
Many years of strife and bloodshed,
There is peace between the Ojibways
And the tribe of the Dacotahs."
Thus continued Hiawatha,

And then added, speaking slowly,
"That this peace may last forever,
And our hands be clasped more closely,
And our hearts be more united,
Give me as my wife this maiden,
Minnehaha, Laughing Water,
Loveliest of Dacotah women!"

And the ancient Arrow-maker
Paused a moment ere he answered,
Smoked a little while in silence,
Looked at Hiawatha proudly,

The Courtship of Miles Standish was published in 1858, and although inferior to any of the other longer works of Longfellow, is still not unworthy of his reputation. is a story of Puritan sternness and self-denial, of love and self-sacrifice in

"The Old Colony days in Plymouth, the land of the Pilgrims."

It

An American speaks thus of Longfellow: "There is in the tone of his poetry little passion, but much quiet earnestness. His ideas and metaphors are often very striking and poetical, but there is no affluence of imagery or wonderful glow of emotion such as take us captive in Byron or Shelley; the claim of Longfellow consists rather in the wise and tasteful use of his materials than in their richness or originality. He illustrates the gentler themes of song, and pleads for justice, humanity, and particularly the beautiful, with a poet's deep conviction of their eternal claims upon the instinctive recognition of man."

And a writer in the Westminster Review says: "Longfellow's name is a household word in England. Not one of his contemporaries here has had a wider or longer supremacy on this side of the Atlantic; and for this we