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of the tobacco, with its red flowers waving in the air. 'It is a gift sacred to peace. You will use it on public occasions. It is an appeal to the GREAT SPIRIT for the truthfulness of what you say.'


OZHEÖD* created men and Monetoes, or spirits, but He could not always keep them in peace. Isheoda, Noden, and Neebee, the spirits of fire, air, and water, went to war. The fire-spirits lived under ground, and often shook the earth by their power. Their king, or Ogima, came out on the surface of the earth one day, and seeing Atahentsic, the daughter of Wudjoo the King of the Mountains, fell in love with her and carried her off. She was very handsome and very proud, and all the spirits were enamored with her. Noden, to obtain the maid, split the earth open. The fire-spirits sent up flames through the opening and melted the rocks. The Neebunaubaigs, or water-spirits, then mustered their powers from the north and filled up the orifices with water.

To stop the war and produce peace among His subjects, OZHEōD sent a gift to Wudjoo the King of the Mountains a gift called Usama, or tobacco, with His commands to call the spirits together and smoke. It is a sacred weed and a gift of peace. Send messengers, said HE, with this boon, to the warring and angry spirits. They obeyed him, and met together on a high mountain of Lake Superior, called Kaug-Wudjoo, where they at first began to boast and try their powers. The Spirit of Fire raised up his war-club, and there came up out of the rocks streams of melted metals, red, white and yellow; and this is the reason why the rocks of Lake Superior are so full of copper, iron and other metals at this day. The Spirits of Water and of Wind united their powers, producing a tempest, whereby large fragments of black and red rocks were carried and spread over the plains reaching to the Mississippi River, where they are still to be seen. After this trial of their powers, the spirits sat down in a circle to smoke the gift sent to them, Papuckawiss acting as Mudjekewiss, or pipe-bearer and master of ceremonies. He lit the ceremonial pipe with a spark of fire obtained from collision with flint. He then held the pipe up toward the zenith, then to the east, west, north and south alternately, and having done this, he carried it round to each chief or spirit. After indulging a long time in this rite, in which all the spirits united, Papuckawiss knocked the ashes carefully out of the pipe. The Spirit of Wind then blew away all these ashes and filled up all the orifices, which made rich land where corn might grow.

In this way the country was prepared for the residence of man, and the great lakes, Superior, Huron, Michigan, Erie and Ontario were formed. But Atahentsic was not recovered, neither did she become the wife of Isheoda the Fire Spirit. She had made acceptable offerings to OZHEÖD the Creator, who took her to heaven, where she is still to be seen as the morning star.

* CREATOR of Heaven and Earth.



A CLEVER bard, a dainty and a sensuous, (not sensual) is THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH a fact of which our readers, at least, are not ignorant. His are the aesthetics of poetical portraiture and enjoyment. His fancy is exceedingly delicate in detail, almost attenuated: and yet his pictures of nature are as clear as KENSETT'S, and his portraits as 'biting' as the best limnings of ELLIOTT. Of the former, take this for an example: 'Piscataqua River' it is 'hight:' once before extolled poetically in these pages, but never so felicitously as here:

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One of the best things in the volume, to our taste, is 'The Tragedy,' wherein the author, having gone to the opera to hear 'The Dame with the Camelias' sung, is attracted by a single face in the brilliant audience :

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A rake of a cousin from the metropolis, 'with his city airs and handsome eyes,' had 'led her soul astray':

'ONE night they left the cottage

One night in the mist and rain;
And the old man never saw his child
Nor RICHARD MAY again;

Never saw his pet in the clover patch,
In the meadow nor the lane.

Many a dreary winter came,
And he had passed away;

And we never heard of her who fled

In the night with RICHARD MAY;

Never knew if she were alive or dead

Till I met her at the play!

'And there she sat with her great brown eyes,

They wore a troubled look;

And I read the history of her life

As it were an open book;

And saw her Soul, like a slimy thing
In the bottom of a brook.

'There she sat in her rustling silk,
With diamonds on her wrist,
And on her brow a slender thread
Of pearl and amethyst.

'A cheat, a gilded grief!' I said,
And my eyes were filled with mist.

'I could not see the players play,
I heard the music moan;

It moaned like a dismal autumn wind,
That dies in the woods alone;
And when it stopped I heard it still,
The mournful monotone!'

We agree with a contemporary critic, in whom we think we recognize a popular brother-poet, and a favorite correspondent of this Magazine, that this 'Year's volume of Mr. ALDRICH has better characteristics than its predecessors: 'it shows the possession of higher faculties, and the awakening of a more æsthetic taste on the part of the author. Its tone is more subdued; its sentiments are riper. His fondness for rich color is still visible, but his color itself is somewhat sobered: he has more faith in neutral tints than formerly, and is willing to acknowledge that some things can even be done in marble. We mean by this, that he is sometimes content to be merely thoughtful; to present his thoughts in their intellectual nakedness, whereas before he clothed them in the purple and fine linen of poesy.' The little book is a very handsome one, being excellently well printed, upon delicately-tinted paper, while its binding is 'in a concatenation accordingly.'

THE RISE OF THE DUTCH REPUBLIC: A HISTORY. BY JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY. In Three Volumes: pp. 1825. With a copious Index. New-York: HARper and Brothers.

We have read these three volumes through: and as we read, and admired, we had the hope 'largely developed,' (as 'dear Dr. FRANCIS' used to say,) that our elder Brothers of SAINT NICHOLAS,' Mr. VERPLANCK, Dr. VERMILYE, DE PEYSTER OGDEN, and others' of that ilk,' who have so often dwelt, on the occasion of our anniversaries, upon the 'glorious Dutch Republic,' were enjoying at the same moment the intellectual treat which was spread out before us. Of one thing at least we are now well assured: and that is, that Mr. MOTLEY stands in the very front rank of modern historians. He has brought his style, which is essentially his own, to very great perfection. It is terse; it is picturesque; it is preeminently pure and flowing. His descriptions of scenery are pictures: in proof of which, we need only refer the reader to the opening chapters, describing the early 'Netherlands,' or 'Holland.' The simple vernacular words in these chapters are actually redolent of the oozy, spongy soil: while the portraits of his heroes, the grouping and contrast of character, are not less striking and felicitous. The amount of research displayed in these volumes is enormous. Not only has their author made himself thoroughly acquainted with all which had previously been published upon the subject, but he has added much to what was hitherto known of the secret workings of the actors in the scenes which took place in Europe during the sixteenth century. He has not only 'carefully studied all the leading contemporary chronicles and pamphlets of Holland, Flanders, Spain, France, Germany, and England,' but has drawn largely upon those mines of historic wealth, which are to be found in the secret archives of Holland, of Spain, and of England. One of our most distinguished critics, speaking of the life and vigor which characterize Mr. MOTLEY'S work, well and truly says, that 'There is warmth and glow in every part. We meet with no dead matter, or matter which, if not in itself dead, hangs its life on the greater one of which it is a part, but to which it contributes and is subordinate. Mr. MOTLEY has no fancy for collecting facts as boys collect the dried and cast-off shells of locusts which they find clinging to trees, 36


from which the warmth and spirit fled long ago.' Each of his details is but a tint laid on to develope the nicety and graduate the colors of his paintings of men, their minds and actions; for which we would have but a poor substitute in mere sharp outlines, which, however impressive from their simplicity and broad treatment, and valuable from their display of the flight of human progress from lofty peak to peak, over chasms of confused events and long tracts of time, could hardly compensate for the loss of vividness and subtle charm of detailed color of a more elaborated painting. His characters not only act but speak, and not with feigned words put into their mouths, such as the dramatist may imagine would fitly express the thought of their hearts and reveal them to us, or show his personages in their dealings with men, and appropriately belong to his characters; but with the very words which fell from the mouths of statesmen, kings, leaders, the populace in the streets, and were noted and garnered up in store-houses of diplomacy, in state papers, offices, in archives, to be restored by our historian to the tongues which uttered them: for he himself tells us, that no personage is ever made, in the text, to say or to write any thing except what, upon the best evidence of eye and earwitnesses, he is known to have said or written. It is no longer permitted to historians as was formerly the case, from the times of LIVY to those of Cardinal BENTIVOGLIO — to invent harangues, letters and conferences. Where my narrative, for the convenience of the reader, is thrown into dramatic form, the words-not the substance merely, but the ipsissima verba - have been gathered from authentic documents. The reader may be sure that he is never made to be present at imaginary conversations, which, however agreeable and instructive in works intentionally fictitious, are quite out of place in those which claim to be historical.' Such would be the impression, we venture to say, of nine out of every ten of his readers, without this assurance of our conscientious and faithful historian, whom no labor could daunt, no troublous exploration or wearisome research appal: and yet he is never oppressed by the weight of details, but always shows himself superior to his subject. With no less love of precision and accuracy than the critic in philology, or the commentator on the classics, his imagination never sleeps. He is always imbued with the spirit of the occasion; full of sympathy with the heroes of his story; entering with almost the warmth of personal love or hate into the characters which he portrays; and without seeking the flowers of rhetoric, kindling every scene that he describes with the richest glow of fancy.'

The 'embarrassment of riches' in our marked passages from these volumes would almost prevent selection, even had we the requisite space for quotation. The opening descriptive chapters, the destruction of the Spanish Armada; the portraitures of Leicester, ElizabeTH, of the 'Three HENRY'S, (especially he of Navarre, the leader of the Huguenot party,) largely engaged our pencil as we read: but we must pass them all by, referring the reader to the work in which they have their being, as if at present living and moving upon the great stage of action. We are glad, but not surprised, to hear that seven thousand copies of this work have already been demanded of the publishers, and that still another large edition has just been sent to press, while its success has been equally remarkable in Great-Britain. Excellently well printed, upon good paper, and really 'illustrated' by the noble head of WILLIAM of Orange, of glorious memory.

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