enough advanced to publish newspapers, and there is much to commend in the rapidity of our progress. It is true, there is something shocking and repugnant to humanity in our disregard of life; the horrible manner in which people are burst up in steamboats and mutilated on public railways; the ferocious fights that take place in our principal cities, and the prevalence of lynch law; the frequency of murder, and the cruel practice of hanging men by the neck like dogs, instead of clipping their heads off with a sword. All these are relics of barbarism, which in some respects arise from the condition of the country, and in others from natural recklessness common to all who have not enjoyed the benefits and restraints of civilization. The perfect simplicity with which an intelligent German will sit down with you over a schoppen of beer and give you his views on all these points is charming. In the course of his miscellaneous reading he has caught at some truths, as may be seen from the above synopsis, while a good many others have escaped him. But it is not so much his want of correct knowledge that is amusing, as the entire self-satisfaction with which he compares the civilization of Germany with the barbarism of America. It is quite useless to undertake to change his views on these points. He is no more susceptible of receiving the impress of new ideas when his mind has once been made up, than if the old ones were pinned and riveted through every partition of his brain. A new idea forced in by power of persuasion would act like a wedge and split his skull. Politeness often induces him to agree with you that there is much to be said in our favor, but you can plainly see that he remains true to his early convictions, and doesn't believe it. And yet there are no people who emigrate to the United States and become citizens, more ready to adapt themselves to the customs of the country. They retain their own prejudices a long time, it is true, and never quite get over their love for the Faderland, but the facility with which they accommodate themselves to circumstances is remarkable. There is considerable practical philosophy, after all, about these people: it seems to be a predominating element in their faith never to make themselves unhappy when they can reasonably avoid it. A very general misconception prevails in reference to the "North" and "South,"-terms which so frequently appear in the newspapers of the United States. The North is supposed to mean North America, and the South, South America. It is the prevailing impression that in North America the people are all free; in South America most of them are supposed to be slaves. Dates, cocoanuts, oranges, bananas, and other tropical fruits are the principal articles of food upon which the Southerners are supposed to subsist; and of the Northerners, a considerable number of them, not residing in the principal cities and more settled parts of the States, are supposed to procure a scanty and somewhat precarious livelihood by chasing buffalo on the prairies, subsisting mainly upon their meat and selling their skins. A lady of considerable intelligence remarked to me the other day that she would not go to "America" for anything in the world. She was afraid of the Indians. She had read about them in Cooper's novels, and they seemed to be a very savage sort of people, often coming upon the houses of the settlers in the dead of night, and killing men, women, and children. She couldn't enjoy a moment's peace in such a country. Besides, she understood the houses were very badly built, and often tumbled down on the occupants and crushed them to death. I told her there was reasonable ground for apprehension on all these points. The Indians were very bad in some parts of the country, but it was a pretty large country, and there was plenty of room to keep out of their way. In New York, Philadelphia, and Washington they were not considered dangerous. The only dangerous people there were politicians,-especially in Washington, where the members of Congress frequently carry pistols and large knives and kill people. On the other point, the flimsy and imperfect manner in which houses are constructed, there was too much truth in what she said. It was scandalous the way in which houses were built there. I knew whole towns to be built up in a week, and abandoned by the citizens in another week. At the great city of Virginia, in Washoe, many of the inhabitants lived in houses built of flour-bags. Even in the city of New York, where people ought to know better, the walls of the houses were so thin that it was dangerous to lean against them. Two cases in point occurred within a few years past, one that of a man who, while sitting in the front room of a hotel, leaned his chair backward and fell through the wall, alighting on a lady's back as she was walking on the pavement below; the other that of a man who, while sleeping with his head against the partition between his own and neighbor's house, was killed by a nail hammered through the wall by a lodger on the other side, who wanted something to hang his hat upon. It was quite true what she said about American houses, as a general thing, but there were exceptions. The people of California, who were farther advanced in the science of architecture than those of any other State in the Union, having had experience in all kinds of material from potato-bags to red-wood boards, and from that all the way up to Suisun marble (the finest in the world), and being likewise in possession of various improvements derived from the aborigines and the learned men of China, built houses very superior to those of which she had read in the books. This was especially the case in the city of Oakland, where I myself had erected a residence far surpassing anything in that particular style of architecture to be found in Germany. I had seen the villa of the Rothschilds near Frankfort, the palace of the grand duke at Biebrich, the king's palace at Wurtzburg, and many other handsome establishments upon which a great deal of money had been expended, but they were of very different material and construction from my villa in Oakland. Amusing as these impressions of the United States are, they derive something of piquancy from the fact that they are not wholly unfounded. Sometimes a home truth emerges from a mass of error; and it is expressed with so much simplicity and such entire unconsciousness of its satirical force that it requires some dexterity to parry the thrust. I generally get over the difficulty by covering it up with a complication of information in no way connected with the subject. THE FAMINE. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. [Whatever be the final decision of critical authorities and arbiters of taste as to the comparative merit of American poets, Longfellow will probably live longest in the hearts of the reading community. His popularity, indeed, is by no means confined to America, and he can scarcely fail to have an enduring fame among all English-speaking peoples. For this the tenderness and depth of feeling which he displays, and the transparent clearness of his verse, in which not a shadow of obscurity rests upon the thoughts, are better elements than breadth of conception and vigor of handling, when combined, as is often the case, with lack of simplicity of language and sympathetic warmth. No other poet of our era has the evenness of Longfellow. Though he may seldom or never rise to the greatest heights, he rarely descends below a certain lofty level. Many of his shorter poems have become household words, both in America and in England. To his skill in versification, and the charm of his simple and picturesque diction, is added an unusual facility in the use of imagery. His wealth of apposite and original metaphors has seldom been equalled, and the whole course of his poetry seems to be lit up with a succession of golden lamps, which brilliantly illuminate its thoughts. The metaphor is often the life of a poem, and many of Longfellow's verses owe their vitality mainly to this side-light of illumination. His longer works consist of "The Spanish Student," "Evangeline," "The Golden Legend," "The Song of Hiawatha," "The Courtship of Miles Standish," the drama of "Michael Angelo," and the prose works 66 Hyperion," "Outre-Mer," and "Kavanagh." Of these "Evangeline" and "Hiawatha" are much the most popular. The latter, from which we select one of its most eloquent sections, endeavors, with great skill and beauty, to give in poetic form some of those Indian legends of which no small store exists among the American aborigines. This poem is couched in a peculiar metre, not very attractive at first reading, but, as is here evidenced, susceptible of much beauty of handling. Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine, in 1807. He was, when quite young, appointed professor of modern languages and literature in Bowdoin College. In 1835 he took the chair of modern languages and belles-lettres at Harvard. This position he resigned in 1854, when he was succeeded by Lowell. He died at Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1882.] O THE long and dreary Winter! O the cold and cruel Winter! Ever thicker, thicker, thicker With his mittens and his snow-shoes |