that he wished the gentlemen who complained would also steal a few like them.

It is always pleasant to compare poets with each other, so we make no apology for transcribing the following lines from Wordsworth:

"What soul was his, when from the naked top

Of some bold headland he beheld the sun

Rise up, and bathe the world in light? He looked;
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth

And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay

In gladness and deep joy; the clouds were touched,
And in their silent faces did he read
Unutterable love. Sound needed none,
Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank i
The spectacle; sensations, soul and form
All melted into him; they swallowed up
His animal being; in them did he live,
And by them did he live; they were his life.
In such access of mind, in such high tones
Of visitation from the living God,

Thought was not, in enjoyment it expired;
No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request.
Rapt into still communion that transcends
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise,
His mind was a thanksgiving to the power

That made him-it was blessedness and love."

There is little doubt but that Longfellow has been too much disposed to think how other poets have written, and would write, rather than trust to his own impulses. We are, conse

quently, ever and anon reminded of passages in foreign writers, which materially impair our faith in his originality of mind. Nevertheless, if the end of poetry is to afford pleasure, the author of Evangeline is sure of a favorable reception from the student and the peasant. Coming fresh from the perusal of the Spanish Student, we feel that it is too frail fabric to bear the test of a mixed audience, but for a company of young ladies and their lovers it is one of the most gracefully adapted of modern pieces. Every word is elaborately placed, and the melody of the rhythm is a musical accompaniment of itself. But it is as a writer of occasional verses that Longfellow will be popular with the people. We question if any but a few peculiar admirers will ever read his Evangeline or Spanish Student a second time, while they will recur over and over again to his minor poems. They will not pause to inquire with the critic whether this beautiful thought is taken from an English poet, or translated literally from the German. They read not to criticise, but to admire-not to think, but to feel. They wish to receive pleasure, not to explain it away. This system of objection may be carried to any extent. A celebrated divine, who prided himself upon his originality, and who would reject his best thought if he thought it was traceable to any previous author, was startled one day by a friend coolly telling him that his favorite discourse was stolen every word from a book he had at home. The astonished writer, staggered by his friend's earnestness, begged for a sight of this volume. He, however, was released from his misery by the other smilingly announcing the work in question to be Johnson's Dictionary,

where, continued his tormentor, I undertake to find every word of your discourse.

The different views which men may take of the same subject, even under the same aspect, are well illustrated in a story we heard some years ago. It is given to the reign of James the First, of England. This monarch, as is well known, was famous for his admiration of all the frivolities of literature. He was delighted one day to hear that a man had arrived from Paris who could talk by signs, and understand any one else who possessed that accomplishment. In order to test his veracity, the curious king empowered one of his courtiers to find another man who was similarly endowed. Determined to have some sport, he consulted a shrewd fellow of his household, who said that he knew one, a raw Scotchman, who would be the very man for the purpose.

On the day in question these rival masters of the silent language of signs were brought before the pedantic monarch, who was on his throne surrounded by his court. The two professors sat on a platform where all eyes were placed on them.

The foreign professor began first. He held up one finger— the Scotchman looked steadily and held up two; the reply of his antagonist was holding up three; the other then closed his hand, and held it up deliberately in the other's face. Hereupon the foreign professor declared aloud that he was vanquished, for the other was a greater master than himself, as he perfectly understood a system which he thought was known only to himself.

The monarch, anxious to convince himself there was no collusion between the two professors, resolved to examine them

apart. Left alone with the foreigner, his account was this. I held up one finger to say there was but one God-the Father; your professor held up two fingers, to signify that there was another, the Father and the Son. I then held up three, to signify there were Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Upon this my opponent closed his hand, to certify that those Three are One. The monarch was charmed; the explanation was entirely confirmed by the facts; he was present and saw all.

Still, to render assurance doubly sure, he resolved to question the other. His explanation, which was in broad Scotch, was this: "Please your majesty, when I saw the fool hold up one finger I held up two, to show I could beat him there. When the dog held up three to mock me, I got angry, and doubled my fist, signifying I could knock him down if I had any more of that nonsense." The critical king was perfectly satisfied that two persons may very differently explain the same thing.

We hope our readers will pardon this story, but we think the critics may receive it with some profit.

Among the occasional pieces of Mr. Longfellow are his lines to the Village Blacksmith. There is a vigor of portraiture about them which is not very often the characteristic of our poet's muse. He is seldom so graphic as this:

"Under a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hand,

And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

"And the children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing floor."

To this fine poem the author very unnecessarily appends the moral in the old way of Æsop's Fables:

"Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought,
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought."

There is a great sympathy with nature in most of Mr. Longfellow's writings, but it is not of that fresh, dewy kind which shows nature. There is too much of being persuaded into the loveliness of outward things by an effort of the mind, and not of the heart; there is more of the scholar than the lover in his