VOL. XXXII.

The Wild Horses of the Pampas.
UT on the prairies there, rolling away,

Rolling in billows, like waves in the bay,
Browsing, and nibbling the delicate green
Of the pampas, a troop of wild horses is seen.
Beautiful fellows, as wild as can be-
Vild as the surf and the surge of the sea.
Vith rivery manes, and eyes shot with fire,
And limbs whose tendons and cords are of wire.
A stallion their leader, a powerful black,
Battle scars thick on his flanks and his back;
His neck a massive one, glossy and proud;
His eye like lightning licking the cloud.

In sooth they make a magnificent sight-
That herd of horses-fourscore of them, quite.
Horses that never knew bridle nor rein,
That ne'er felt the lash nor the rowel's pain.
Ramping and romping at will on the plain.

But, hark! the thunder of hundreds of hoofs,
Like a storm beating hard on a village's roofs,
Is heard in the west, and a roar like the sea
When the tempest lashes it furiously;
Then pricking their ears, with a look of surprise
And of anger, perchance, in their great, rolling eyes,
They snuff at the winds that come over the plain,
Their muscles all bunching, and tense every vein.
Then they snort with alarm, while the lightning of fight
Flashes out of their eyes that are all blazing bright.
Then, wheeling as if by a bugle's command,

Each steed in a trice takes his place in the band-
The strong oues before and the weaker behind ;
While the strangers rush o'er the plain like the wind.
Over the pampas they gallop and dash
As if every courser was urged with the lash.
A hundred swift horses, all rushing along,
With the rumble and blore of buffaloes strong.
But, lo! on a sudden the dark, flying mass
Brings up at a halt in the deep, waving grass,
And, lifting their long, slender necks high in air,
With a look of surprise at the other ones stare.
Then they snort defiance, and, prancing around,
Soon form into ranks on the broad battle-ground.
Like a cyclone that tears o'er the prairie they dash-
Rush over the plain, with a clatter and crash-
The two rival armies, the stallions in front,
Ever eager to bear battle's terrible brunt.
Faster, and faster, and harder they go,
Like tigers or lions leaping after the foe.
Their eyes all as red as the red thunder light,
And their galloping hoofs all too eager to smite.
Like thunder clouds big with the tempest they meet
And battle with tushes and furious feet.
Half of them thrown by the shock to the plain,
Some of them never to rise thence again.

No. 8.

O Heaven, what a sight! What a tempest of blows!
What a thunder-gust rages around the fierce foes!
What shrieking and screaming, like demons in pain,
As the horses battle with might and with main,
And the terrible hoofs beat out many a brain!
They kick and they bite they roll and they rear:
They rush and they plunge, and scream in their fear:
The blood flowing freely from many a flank,
And turning to crimson the grasses and brank.
Never wolves on the shore of the frozen seas
Were so fierce, so cruel, so savage as these :
Never the panther nor jaguar waged

A bloodier battle, nor angrier raged

Than those furious steeds, as they bite and smite,
And tear up the plain in their terrible fight.
But, see! now the leaders-two thunderbolts-meet
And battle and batter with teeth and with feet,
Wheel, and career 'round each other, and pound
And pummel, and strike, till they fall to the ground.
But, ah! they are up again, screaming with rage,
And again, with a rush and a crash, they engage,
Snorting, and shrieking with passion and pain.
And striking and beating with might and with main :
Till one of them falls on the ripple-grass, dead-
The black having shattered and crushed in his head
Then, stricken with panic, the strange horses flee
With the speed of the wind o'er the green, grassy sea,
The maimed left behind, to the rage of their foes,
Who batter their skulls with their terrible blows;
Then sink on the pampas, all reeking and wet
With blood and with foam, with froth and with sweat,
Panting and blowing, and gasping for breath,
The living ones close by their comrades in death.

Such are the battles are fought when they meet-
The steeds of the pampas, so fiery and fleet:
Steeds that are shod with the lightning, and strong
As the thunder that rumbles and rattles along.

Longfellow.

J. E. F. J.

One of the most pleasing characteristics of this writer's works is his intense humanity.-Gilfillan.

HIS century is marked by its wonderful progress and advancement. It has revolutionized learning and reared monuments that will forever extol the praises of its people. It has begotten men whose names will forever linger as household words, both in the new and the old world, men whose genius cannot be unsung, whose works cannot but merit praise until the end of time. The eastern continent has walked hand in hand with the western, and both have contributed alike to the welfare and civilization of the human race. The former investigated the remotest recesses of time and experimented in

scientific knowledge; the latter has been an utilitarian, and contributed to the practical prosperity of mankind. Both have produced paragons of science, literature and art, whose deeds will never be erased from the pages of history.

Not only in the practical and political, but also in the literary and intellectual, field each has achieved great eminence and renown. England beheld the zenith of its fame in the poet laureate, Alfred Tennyson; France immortalizes Victor Hugo; Italy sees the height of its glory in Vincenzo Monti; Germany enthroned Goethe in its bosom; and this country perceives its highest poetical luminary in H. W. Longfellow, who has carved his name on the heart of every true admirer of genuine song. Now, "whenever an age begets a new art we see hovering about it a dozen men of talent, who partly express the general idea surrounding one or two men of genius, who express it thoroughly." The names of Thackeray, Holmes, Lowell, Whittier and Emerson are closely linked with those of Cooper and Longfellow. But it remained for those two particularly to paint American life in all its native characteristics. The former delighted to roam in the verdant fields of nature, touching upon American life externally. Longfellow's muse was enthroned in the happy quietude of peaceful joy. He was the first to revel in the secret emotion, the lofty characteristics of an infant nation without a literature. He is to America what Goethe is to Germany-the poet of the people.

Longfellow was born on February 27, 1807, the same year that gave birth to Whittier. His father, Stephen Longfellow, was a sound and sensible lawyer, of courteous and upright princip'es. He held several important government positions, being repeatedly elected a member of the Massachusetts legislature, while Maine was still a district of that state. He was also a presidential elector when Monroe was first elected, and a member of the United States House of Representatives from 1823 to 1825. His mother was a cheerful, gentle and devout lady, somewhat fond of poetry. Both were greatly interested in the welfare of their son, who at an early age showed a great aptitude for letters. Unlike Bryant and Whittier, he had every opportunity for advancement in learning. At the age of fourteen he entered Bowdoin College, having such men as Hawthorne, Cheevers, Pierce, and others, for his classmates. In 1825, the year of his graduation, he delivered an address on "American Literature," which betrayed such noble thought, and teemed with such vivacity of expression, that the faculty advised him to fit himself for a professorship at the college. He accordingly went abroad and travelled for three years in France, Italy, Spain and Germany, drinking deep at the fountains of European literature. On his return he entered upon his duties with great success. As a professor he was always kind and amiable. Each student found in him a ready adviser, cheerful and self-sacrificing, never weary. Amid all his labors, however, he found time to write and publish an account of his travels, entitled "Outre-Mer." He had, indeed, written several articles for magazines, especially for the "Atlantic Monthly." but this narration of his travels was his first work in book form. It was received with general delight, and laid the corner

stone of the future popularity of the author. As a whole it is hard to classify it. "The Pilgrim's Bret iary," the title of one of its chapters, might aptly * applied to the book. It shows high descriptive poers, portraying the joyous delight of the poetic soul. Especially noteworthy is the criticism on Spanish Moral and Devotional Poetry." We often hear of the Valiant Spaniards of old; and in this species of poic creation we find their deeds crystalized.

66

Two years after the appearance of “ Outre-Mer the chair of Modern Languages at Harvard was offered to Longfellow, a position which he gladly accepted. This involved a second trip to Eur pe, to acquire a more minute knowledge of modern tongues. His travels this time were confined to northern Europe. In England he visited several distinguished persons, among whom was Charles Dickens. When he returned, in 1839, he at once took charge of his position at Harvard.

As after his first trip, so now he published an ac count of his tour. "Hyperion," a work more serious than "Outre-Mer," owing, perhaps, to the recent death of his wife, was full of the spirit of Germany. Late in the same year he also published "Voices of the Night," a volume of pocnis partly made up of translations and partly of his own verse. More characteristic of the poet, however, as though he were but slowly discovering his own powers, were "Ballads and Other Poems." The year 1845 disclosed "The Belfry of Bruges," which contained some of his best minor poems.

Like many men of tr.vel, our author was ver. desir ous of visiting places of interest and residing in houses of historical renown. Many an historic cloister, castle and private house sheltered his genial person. Now, when he came to Cambridge, he naturally sought lodg ings in the famous Craigie house, where Washington once had his headquarters. Dr. Edward Everett and Dr. Joseph Worcester also were at one time inmates of this historic mansion. Longfellow had at this time a somewhat youthful appearance, and Mrs. Craig e demurred, saying that she was sorry, but she never had students to live with her.

"But I am not a student," he replied, "but a professor at the University."

"A professor?" she said, as she curiously remarked his youthful, student-like appearance.

"I am Professor Longfellow," he said. "Oh! if you are the author of 'Outre-Mer,' then. you may come," replied the aged lady, as she passed through the stately mansion.

He was assigned to the chamber which the famous general once occupied, and gladly did he set up his home within the walls hallowed by the presence of that most enthusiastic of American patriots-George Washington.

After fifteen years of incessant labor and trial he resigned his position at Harvard, to devote the rest of his life and energy to literature and to the enjoyment of a happy home. He had not only been professor, but also chief of instructors. There were about 200 students in his department, with an average of half-adozen instructors. To him fell the superintendence of it all. His lectures at all times were specimens of brilliant rhetoric, always delightful, full of instruc

tion and entertainment. Edward Everett, one of his students, said that his presence in the class-room commanded the respect of all, and was always accompanied with internal joy. The manner of his teaching was based on Europe in methods - oral and practical, rather than theoretical and by means of books.

His poetical powers developed with his age. Nevertheless, his best shorter poems were written during the early part of his life. But, like all creations of poets, his were subject to much adverse criticism, which, however, did not mitigate his popularity. One critic, probably one of the best of his time, termed them "exotic flowers, with no spark of American soil in them." This remark, more than any other, incensed him to strive with all his might to attain he honors he so coveted--to be the poet of America. In his early youth he confidently remarked to a friend that he would become eminent in some walk of life, and now it was evident that poetry must be the goal of his success. As soon as "Evangeline" appeared all his critics were silenced. In this they beheld a genuine American poem, a beautiful reflex of rural life, a tale of a woman's love in Arcadia, captivating in its sweet, harmonious flow of words, not strained, not labored. Its sentiments sound upon the reader's mind like the gentle flow of miniature waves upon the seashore, rippling, delighting, as one gives place to another. It is classified as the "prototype of the American idyll."

Hiawatha," appearing a few years later, is the embodiment of child-like Indian mythology, written in trochaic measure, well adapted to its sentiment. It is extremely poetic in its creation, and exhibits lofty flights of a fertile imagination pursuing phantoms that vanish before the rising king of day. In it is preserved many an ancient Indian mythological tradition.

This poem was followed by Courtship of Miles Standish," a tale of the early Massachusetts settlement, in which John Alden, the poet's ancestor, figures conspicuously. Like "Evangeline," it is written in the stately hexameter that produces such concordant music in Virgil's "Eneid." These latter three are his most important poems, and established his reputation as the national poet of America.

The crown of Longfellow's achievements as a translator was his version of Dante's "Divina Commedia,' published between 1867 and 1872, which is rendered. almost line for line. The metre is preserved throughout, but rhyme is sacrificed. If not the best poem from Dante, it is, at anv rate, the most faithful and scholarly paraphrase. His dramatic experiment also deserves mention; still, it is rather poetic than dramatic. His nature was so constituted as to comprehend everything in its most beautiful aspect. He was all poet. Like Ophelia in "Hamlet":

"Thought and affection, passion, hell itself,
He turns to favor and to prettiness.'

The intellectuality of Emerson passed by him like the idle wind. Beauty, not deep, philosophic reasoning, constituted his joy. His heart and soul always sought happiness, love and beauty. "He was the poet of sentiment and domestic affection, more general

in his appeal than such a singer as Whitman, who is still practically unknown to the fierce democracy to which he addressed himself." Especially conducive to his unbounded success was the manner of his sentiments expressed, the propriety of his figures, the haimony of his numbers, and the unmistakable choice of words that give effect to a composition. Says one author: "Romances of medieval Catholic imagery were of especial charm. To him the clouds were hooded friars that tell their beads in drops of rain."" The midnight winds blowing through the forests were chanting solemn masses. In his journal he wrote, characteristically: "The black shadows lie upon the grass like engravings in the book. Autumn has written his rubric on the illuminated leaves, the winds turn them over and chant like friars."

By nature Longfellow was of a kind disposition. All his poems, like a gentle zephyr, breathe affection, kindness and joy. His words are expressive of his heart. Nature whispers gently in his ear, and poetlike did he mould these whisperings into literary gems. Harmony of sentiment and charm of pictures presented are two great factors of his fame.

He loved to enjoy nature's art gallery. Many a day he oamed from morning till night amid the fragrance of wild flowers. One of his favorite haunts was the bridge between Berton and Cambridge, of which he wrote: "Both ends of which are lost in fog, like the human life, midway between two eternitics, beginning and ending in fog."

Like every mortal, his being was finite, though the virtue of his genius will live with that of Virgil and Shakespeare. When writing his last work, “Ultima Thule," he felt the approach of the end, yet one week before his death he still revised proof-sheets, so industrious was he, even on the very eve of life. Universal sorrow prevailed when the poet, on March 24, 1882, passed to a happier life. As a poet he ranks among the first that ever lived in the tide of time." Some American poets may have been praised more ardently, others may have been admired more enthusiastically, but none has been loved more universally. To this land of freedom he is the artistic, as Halleck is the lyrical, and Bryant the picturesque and philosophical, pet. Many of his expressions have become living thoughts, one of which found exemplification in his own life:

"The heights of great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight;
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.

A. F. V.

The Autobiography of a Coin. IND reader, you, in all probability, have been led to a perusal of this document by seeking me in the curio case of the Jefferson Market Court House, New York, in which case a description of myself is unnecessary. Should it be, however, that you are unaware of my presence in Jef ferson Market, or even ignorant of my very existence, then let the mere mention of my significant name introduce me and insinuate my characteristics.

I am Mr. Golddollar, of Philadelphia. I was born. in that town of brotherly love in June of the year