"I never learned exactly how much my friend understood of this frank exposition, but he looked at me steadfastly for a few moments and then rose and left the fire. tion began to subside. They had placed me, on | gang, old fellow, that the big ox-carts were not unmy arrival, by a separate fire, and I sat with my limbered and wheeled into battery.' back to a tree, my hands and feet secured by thongs of buckskin, watching the curious scenes which transpired-sometimes even with a feeling of merriment, notwithstanding the forlorn situation I was in. I had no reason to fear either death or torture, for these savages are more mercenary than cruel in their disposition, and generally reserve their prisoners for slaves, or for runners. Amid the convulsions which had agitated the little community this evening, I had escaped any very marked attention. Sometimes a boy, as he passed me, would salute me with an impudent grimace; or some withered old beldame, whose eye happened to rest upon me, would scowl from beneath her brows and mutter out a curse. "At length the camp became quiet; the different groups at the fire gradually sunk upon the ground, and a few stealthily moving figures were all that betokened life. One old Indian, who had apparently been entrusted with my safe keeping, sat on the opposite side of the fire; but he seemed nodding and dozing; and I watched the effect of the flickering light of the dying fire, as it threw into alternate light and shade the hideous paint and deep seams and furrows of his visage. "I was thus amusing myself, when the gigantic warrior, who had first secured me, advanced from a distant fire, and gravely seated himself near me. For some moments he maintained silence, diligently puffing from his pipe, and anon kicking into their proper places, the smouldering brands as they rolled aside. I thought, however, I could perceive by his grave yet uneasy manner, that he had some communication to make, or some information to elicit, which would require diplomatic tact, and that he was now busily cogitating in what way to address me. At length, he laid his pipe from his mouth, and made advances to a conversation, though in extremely defective English. "The white traders are very many,' said he, 'and the young long knives from the forts have good rifles.' "I made no reply to this truism, and he proceeded: When the white traders fight the Camanches with their rifles only, our hearts are not sick with fear; but when the big wagons are made to fire like a hundred rifles, the young men of the Camanches are astonished and run away. Is it true,' he added inquiringly, that the white traders can shoot with their wagons like a gun?' "Thus again left to myself, I resumed my former occupation of watching my rather stupid looking companion with a painted face. No change had taken place in his position, except that he had moved a little nearer; but he sat perfectly upright, with his eyes closed, like one in sleep, or engaged in deep meditation. A deep bright coat of vermilion was laid in a circle around each eye, parallel lines of blue pigment adorned his cheeks, and I observed that the single scalp lock which depended from his crown was trimmed and painted in a somewhat different style from those of his companions. I sat for more than an hour with my eye fixed upon the stiff figure of this grim barbarian, until the lights grew dim and wavering, when my eyelids fell heavily down, and I unconsciously, though but partially, slumbered. "I know not how long this sleep lasted; but indistinct visions, connected with past recollections, were flitting through my brain, varied by hideous forms and painted spectres, when suddenly I started from my rest, impressed with the idea that I heard my own name pronounced in a clear and distinct whisper. Did I dream it? It could not be. I peered anxiously around for a few moments, until my eyes again fell upon the old savage; stiff and upright as before he still sat, but his eye was open, and the black and glittering iris sparkled with the rays of a diamond as he fixed it upon me. old fellow, thought I, as I settled again into my former posture, has either heard the call, or been aroused by my sudden starting. I watched the old man for a few moments, and then, conscious that his eye was fixed upon me, closed my own, and feigned repose again. That This time my faculties were all awake, and I heard the same clear whispered pronunciation of my name. Cautiously did I open my eyes and fix them again upon the old man; he had moved himself to within a few feet of where I sat; his head was slightly inclined towards me; his eye was still on me; but I thought I detected about his mouth, a smile which betokened some better emotion than savage malignity. "At length he moved himself cautiously still nearer, and then spoke in the same subdued tone in which my name had been uttered before, but otherwise in a manner which spake only of utter I could not but smile at the odd conceit with which the chief had been impressed by the unexpected discharge of the four-pounder, and the ludi-indifference. crous mixture of doubt and curiosity with which he made his statement and inquiry. "Aye, aye, red skin,' said I, 'they can fire any thing on wheels, from a stage-coach to a baby's wagon; and it's lucky for you and your howling "The Noyatunga is very sleepy to-night,' he said in English almost perfect. "I nodded a simple assent. But when he Long knife. The Osage term for white man. closes his eyes a spirit calls him by name, and bids him come back to his wigwam.' "Who and what are you? and why did you call me by name?' said I, now thoroughly acquainted with the mystery of my late summons. "The memory of my brother is very short,' said my cautious companion. 'He does not remember my face, though he has seen it within ten summers; he does not remember that I have slept in his barrack; he does not remember that I have eaten of his bread, and been warmed by his blanket. I am now a Camanche, and my squaw is at their village in the wigwam of her father; but my brother, the white men once called me the 'Leaping Buck, a kahega* of the Kanzas!' "As he concluded, he gently drew his knife across the thongs which bound me, and slipping my hand quietly into his, I recognized my old friend with a hearty greeting. "The Noyatunga must be fleet of foot, while his enemies are sleeping, if he wishes to find the camp of the Spanish traders. I will go by-and-by: let my brother follow; let him keep his eye upon yonder star until he strikes a trail, then he will see me!' "He glided from my side as he spoke, and I watched his snake-like form as he crept through the underbrush and disappeared; though I listened with painful acuteness, I could not hear the rustling of a leaf, nor the crackling of a twig. After a few minutes of painful suspense, finding that all were still, and apparently buried in sleep, I ventured to commence my operations. Creeping through the thicket without any serious noise, I found the trail, and after a brisk walk, soon found my friend; he held in his hand the bridle of the troop-horse which had brought me in the evening before, and pointing out the course I was to pursue, motioned me to mount. I sprung to my seat, and putting spurs to my horse, ere the sun had fairly risen, I found myself safe in the camp of the traders." "You, Pedro!" shouted Roaring Tom as he finished his story, "bring in Pomp and picket him to yonder sapling. If some outlying Osage," he muttered, "chanced to be skulking on our trail, he would cut his lariat so quick it would make his head swim. "What! ho! younker, asleep?" "No, no! I'm not asleep; but I would thank you not to slap me so hard on the shoulder, and to tell me why you called our little field-piece, 'Betsy Baker.'" THE OLD FRIAR. BY SPENCER WALLACE CONE. 1. Who is there but is sad at times, II. A Friar old, a Friar gray, A solemn man is he, And, just ere night, upon his way He wendeth noiselessly. He cometh to the sad at heart, The merry mind also, And well he knows to play his part With pleasure, and with woe. III. There are many wrinkles on his brow, And his hair is nearly white, I know, by that within my mind, IV. He asks no word of courtesy, Though a man of ancient birth, He seats him by the hearth; And we think of things long passed away, V. I wot not what his thoughts may be, That now I am alone. My head upon my right, VI. Then comes to me a sister dear, Who sleeps in my native south, And she draweth to me very near, And presses her ruby mouth, With a gentle kiss, upon my cheek, Alice, my sister! Art thou there? Come to my arms, my own-I speak To cold, and formless air. VII. Anon there comes to me another; Lays his soft hand in mine. VIII. And then that Friar old and gray, And bids me think how happier far, My sister, and my brother are Than here on earth they were. IX. He preaches too that dull despair But cowards should appal; That flowers in spring-time bloom as fair, And life half shade, half light:- OUR POETS. NO. I. H. W. LONGFELLOW. the imagination, and hence our writers excel far more in prose than in poetry; for, while in history, politics, and science, we have writers fully on a par with those of Britain, we must confess, (that in our humble judgment,) we have but little poetry worthy of the name. It is true, that we have had many writers of verses; but a mere mastery over the mechanism of verse, is as far from constituting a true poet, as a sanctimonious visage, a religious Many have the knack of composing easy verses, who possess neither fancy nor feeling. The most ordinary penny-a-liner, may, with the assistance of Byshe's Rhyming Dictionary, construct any given number of verses, containing the proper number of feet; and hence, arises the distinction between the poets, whose overflowing fancy pours forth its treasures in prodigal profusion; and the dull scribbler, who cudgels his brain for a rhyme to his second couplet. man. It has been the misfortune of our country to be overrun by these pseudo-poets, who mistake their own folly for inspiration; encouraged by the indiscriminate eulogy passed on every American work by our critics, who, exasperated by the unfair and It must be admitted that, we Americans, are unjust censure of the British press, run to the other rather a prosaic than a poetical people. This extreme; and thus encouraged many—“ in spite of arises, as much from the peculiar nature of our in- nature and their stars, to write." We verily bestitutions, as from any other cause; for, in a coun-lieve that injudicious praise has done more to lower try, where the road to political preferment is open the character of our literature, than all the slashing to all, it is but natural, that youthful ambition censure of the British critics. should be directed to it, in preference to the slower, but more enduring trophies of literary distinction. Mingling in the practical business of life, at a much earlier period than is customary in Europe, the American youth is but too apt to entertain a contempt for pursuits, which do not realize any immediate advantage, but require a long and painful probation of sedentary study before any benefit can be derived from them; and hence, it is rare to find among us a man, whose whole life has been dedicated to letters. Nor are the rewards here, of authorship, sufficient to tempt any one to devote himself to these pursuits; for we have been informed, that nothing but the private fortune of Mr. Prescott, enabled him successfully to prosecute that great work, which will endure as long as the literature of our country; and which will always be identified with the memory of that daughter, whose zeal, inspired by love, supplied the failing sight of her gifted father. Literature with us then, is looked upon rather as an amusement, than as an occupation. Denied the learned leisure requisite to undertaking works of magnitude, the works of our authors are usually hastily written in some moments of leisure snatched from their ordinary occupations, and want that elaborate finish and careful revision which characterize the master-pieces of English genius. The hard and practical nature of their pursuits tends to strengthen the judgment at the expense of Yet, in spite of these numerous disadvantages, we have had some noble poetry. "Marco Bozaris" and "Thanatopsis" of themselves, would be sufficient to establish the character of any poet. How delightful is it, after wading through volumes which you judge to be verse only by the capitals prefixed to each line, to turn to some genuine flow of true poetry, as refreshing to the wearied reader, as the sight of the cool and gushing spring to the way worn pilgrim. Of these, some have already gained their full meed of fame; but others, who deserve it equally, have not been equally fortunate. Thus, Halleck and Bryant enjoy a merited celebrity with the whole reading public, while Longfellow finds "audience fit, though few:" his reputation being very high in some portions of the Union; while in others, he is comparatively unknown. And, as we believe that he is not at all known and appreciated at the South in proportion to his merits, we propose dedicating the remainder of this paper to a brief notice of his works; in the hope that some one more worthy of the task, may thereby be induced to do justice to one who deserves so well of his country. For if, as Dr. Channing nobly expresses it," one great and kindling thought can do much to elevate the character of a nation," what must he deserve, who, scorning the vulgar path to distinction, has dedicated his life to literature, and proved that America could produce a poet, who, for smoothness of verse, splendor of imagery and gush ing thought, may challenge comparison with some of the piece is made to centre on the hopeless of the proudest names of England? This is not struggles of the baffled fiend. the language of exaggerated encomium. We have no reason to be prejudiced in his favor. On the contrary, our local prejudices were at first arrayed against him; but these all faded away on the perusal of his works, which bear the impress of a soul "smit with the love of sacred song," and a mind rich in the lore of the present and the past. Far more stern and gloomy was the spirit of Dante; to him, life had been but one long scene of sorrow and suffering, and mankind his bitterest enemies; with them, he knew no brotherhood, but that of hate; deep, enduring, inveterate hate; his gloomy spirit seems to revel in picturing the tortures of suffering sinners; he takes a gloomy joy in depicting the endless tortures of a future hell, without relief and without hope; the farther we proceed, the more do images of pain and terror thicken around us, until we reach the climax of them all,-Ugolino wiping his bloody lips on the scalp of his tortured enemy. Nor is it on paper alone that Longfellow is a poet. Poetry enters into the very nature of the man, and forms a portion of his being. Unlike those "who coin their brain for daily bread," and whose inspiration only lasts with the occasion which calls it forth, Longfellow is a poet by nature, to whose While then, we listen with fascinated eagerness gifted eye the humble clod of the valley bears the to themes like these, we are sensible that nothing impress of its great Creator. His melodious words, but the genius of the author can render them atgushing forth full of tenderness and melody, are tractive; we know that our reason revolts at the but the outpourings of a soul, as responsive to each pictures they have drawn; and that pain, not pleatouch of human sympathy, as the fabled lyre of sure, is produced by their perusal. Yet we recur Memnon to the rays of the morning sun. The sel- to them with a morbid eagerness, again and again, fish man cannot be a poet. To charm the eye, to be disgusted and fascinated as before. And why and fascinate the ear, of those who know him not; is this? Because there are two sources to which to cause the selfish and indifferent to forget the the poet may appeal, the imagination and the heart; reality, and to regard the phantoms of his imagi- they often act in concert, but are touched by difnation as living and breathing beings; to touch the|ferent and independent causes. And, it is to the hearts of the cold, the callous and the vain.; and to imagination, that these great poets appeal; while transfer to them, the light of that inspiration, which kindled his own soul,-this is the province of the poet. And to do this, it requires that he should himself possess the most boundless sympathy with human weakness and human suffering. Some few matchless spirits there have been, who seemed to soar above human weakness and human folly; who, enthroned in a majestic serenity of soul, sit like monarchs of the intellectual world. But these, though they command our admiration, cannot win our sympathy and love. Such was Milton; such was Dante, monarchs of the wide domain of thought, and, like earthly rulers, isolated from communion with their kind, by the very loftiness of their position; we gaze with admiration on the triumphs of their genius; but neither the English bard who painted the primeval innocence of man, nor the gloomy Florentine, who sang of hell, can be brought home to the business and bosoms of ordinary men; for, each of them created a world of his own, into which none but himself might enter. our pity for human suffering is often merged in our admiration at the beauty of the description. The "Manfred" of Byron and "Prometheus" of Shelley belong to this school. For beauty of diction and splendor of imagery, they cannot be surpassed. Yet these have never been popular for the very cause we have stated. The taste of the age demands that poetry, to be successful, should be brought home to ourselves; that it should treat of man and the visible world, and that Imagination, who has heretofore circled heaven and hell in her rapid flights, should for a time, furl her wings, and abide within the limits of this world. Hence a style of poetry has arisen, which we may well term the poetry of the affections. We repeat then, that the poet should sympathize with his reader if he wish to touch his heart; and, that the highest triumph of poetry, is, when it enlists our feelings in the cause of virtue and humanity, and ripens into maturity, the germs of goodness and beauty, which lurk in every human heart; for, to the gifted eye of the poet, much is The very themes they selected are removed be- revealed which escapes the ordinary observer. yond the ordinary sphere of human sympathy. In Thus, to the practical eye of common sense, the Milton, the grand conception is the character of Scotch would appear to be a keen, calculating, the fallen archangel; the most powerful descrip-matter-of-fact people; shrewd, hardy and commontions are those where he paints the tortures of a place. But the gifted eye of the peasant-bard being originally pure, who, with a perfect know- saw them in their true light; he detected the latent ledge of good and evil, has dared to say "Evil, be vein of sentiment lurking in their minds; and his thou my good," and whose invincible will, conquers sweet and simple songs, full of pathos and tenderagony, torture and shaine. Adam and Eve are ness, have become household words with every but subordinate characters; and the great interest' peasant throughout broad Scotland. The poetry of Professor Longfellow, however, fore remarked, is, its small quantity. One small differs much from that of Burns; the subjects of volume containing all his pieces both original which it treats, are not so popular in their nature, and translated; and we are not certain that the nor of as universal interest; but, if it lack the fire author, who is thus chary of his intellectual wealth, and humor of Burns, it possesses more softness should any more be pardoned than the miser, who and a deeper vein of thought. He is a man whose clings to his glittering hoard; the loss of the pubwhole life has been dedicated to literature, but who lic in the first case being much greater than in the has not slavishly followed any master; whose natu- last, since the hoard of the miser must be left beral bent has been improved and enlarged by fo- hind him; but the riches of the poet perish with reign travel, and who never permits a composi- his own existence. tion to pass from his hand, until polished and per- The pieces contained in this little volume are of fected with his utmost skill. Contemporary critics a three-fold character: "The Voices of the Night," often labor under the difficulty of separating the Earlier Pieces, and Translations principally from man from the author, which sometimes must be the Spanish and German. Our space is so limited done to insure a just criticism; for, in some in- that we will only be enabled to give a few extracts stances, the man and the author are totally differ- from the former of these, which contain the most ent persons. Thus, the writings of Bacon contain finished and perfect of his original pieces, although much sound morality and lofty principle. Yet some of the translations possess a very high order Bacon was a timeserver and an unjust magistrate; of merit; the "Coplas de Maurique" being one of the writings of Machiavel have made his name a by- the most beautiful and touching productions in any word of infamy; yet, he spent a long life of un-language. blemished integrity, and died a martyr to the cause "The Voices of the Night" are introduced by a of liberty; hence a book should generally rest on poetical "Prelude," which is as fair a specimen of its own intrinsic merits alone for its success or the author's style, as any thing he has written; of failure. But there are some cases in which this course it will lose much by being given in fragrule does not apply, where the book and the author ments; but the reader must make allowances for mutually explain one another; this is peculiarly this. After an exordium of considerable power, he the case with men exclusively literary, whose thus continues— books are often the true transcripts of their own thoughts and feelings. Professor Longfellow has written more prose than poetry. “Outre Mer” and “Hyperion,” are, however, steeped in the poetry of the writer's thoughts; and the latter may well be regarded as a Poem in every thing except the metre, for it bears about the same analogy to the ordinary novel, that Spenser's Fairy Queen does to the "Columbiad" of Dwight. In these volumes much of the inner life of the student is unconsciously revealed, embodying as they do, the thoughts and feelings of the scholar, who visits for the first time, the land so rich in historic recollections, and who wanders with rapt enthusiasm among the castled ruins of the glorious Rhine. An abler hand than ours has already done justice to the merits of "Hyperion." But there is one thought which struck us as peculiarly true and beautiful, and which seems to have escaped the notice of the reviewer. It is this: speaking of the troubles which beset the path of life, the author thus concludes: "The shadows of the mind are like those of the body in the morning of life they all lie behind us; at noon we trample them under foot; and in the evening they stretch long, broad and deepening before us. But the morning shadows soon fade away; while those of evening, stretch forward into night, and mingle with the coming darkness." The depth and beauty of this thought must strike the most careless observer. The principal defect in his poetry as we be 1. "And dreams of that which cannot die, Bright visions came to me, As, lapped in thought, I used to lie 2. Dreams that the soul of youth engage Ere Fancy has been quelled- 3. And falling on my weary brain, Like a fast falling shower, 4. Visions of childhood, stay, O stay; 5. Learn that henceforth thy song shall be, |