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made to recall the shields of armies in the sunshine, we feel that something there is equally wrong, and are either amused or angry at the poet's false taste. The truth is, there is a great deal too much fancy, a great deal too much comparison, for mere comparison's sake, in all Longfellow's writings. The faculty of comparison, we remark en passant, is one of the commonest of the human mind; too common, in fact, to attract any attention. The veriest clown is full of it: the day, he says, is as cold as ice, or, it may be, as hot as fire; the cheeks of his sweetheart are as red as roses, her eyes are as bright as sunshine, &c., &c.; through the muddy waters of his soul the images float double, duck and shadow! Of course Longfellow's comparisons are not altogether of this sort; if they were, we should not have taken the trouble to allude to them; but it is just because they are not of this sort, but in their way really admirable, and because they are so much admired by the world in general, and our young poets in particular, that we do allude to them, and in this-we hope not ill-natured-manner. What we remarked concerning Longfellow's themes, that they were academical, applies equally to the character of his fancies, for they are academical too, derived from books. Seldom does he draw his metaphors from the natural world, but mostly from old chronicles and histories, and the chivalrous customs of the past. And they appear to be ingrafted on his style rather than to grow from it naturally. And some of them are so far-fetched that they could not have possibly been suggested to him, in any known operation of the mind, in connection with the subjects they are falsely supposed to adorn. This leads us to believe that he is always on the hunt for images, which he preserves, when found, in a common-place book, to be kept till called for; and that when he begins to compose he turns to it, to see what he can work into his composition. Hence his habit of expressing a sentiment in the first half of a verse, and illustrating it in the last, by a fancy; hence the hot-bed character of some of his poems; and hence his quaint but often incongruous mosaic of sentiments and conceits, few of which are ever broadly true. An example will show what we mean. In one of his prettiest poems he personifies Death as a reaper, and the young children, as flowers whom the afore

said reaper cuts down; so far well. But a few stanzas after, he speaks of the same flowers blooming again in fields of light, and that is not so well; for flowers that have once been cut down can never be made to bloom again; the comparison ends with their death, but Longfellow does not know it. We might multiply instances like this, but will not; it not being our object to chronicle Longfellow's shortcomings, but to show the difficulties which attend his style of writing. The wonder is that he has not failed much oftener, as he must have done but for his exquisite tact; and with those who follow himimitation is a "vile phrase"-the wonder is that they succeed at all. Wanting his genius and tact, they only exaggerate his peculiarities. What in him is merely the ornament of a style, is with them the style itself. When he presents us with a flower, they present us with thousands, or the beginning of thousands; and where he says a good thing, they try to say more than could Shakspeare himself. can followers, Miss Alice most prominent, and the one who has most pushed his style to extremes. In one of her poems she compares a rose to a beacon-light, or a beacon-light to a rose, we are not certain which, for no other earthly reason than because they both are red, her feeling for color completely blinding her to their otherwise total dissimilarity.

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And now that we have alluded to color, we have hit upon the great cause of some of Longfellow's failures, and upon one of the greatest charms and excellences of his poetry. In a feeling for color, harmonious color-always we think an unmistakeable sign of genius-Longfellow is not surpassed by any living, and but by few of the dead masters of song. Many of his poems are absolutely beautiful, flushed with all gorgeous and magnificent hues, and bathed in golden splendors; like our American forests in autumn, when the leaves are million-colored, or like the marble pavements of old cathedrals, flooded with the light of the stained windows. Even where words of color are wanting, and where there is not the slightest allusion to it, it somehow impresses itself upon our minds, and becomes the distinctive type and badge of Longfellow's genius.

Akin to this feeling for color, and perhaps a different manifestation of it, is the

beauty which Longfellow sees in common things, and by which he most proves his right to the sacred name of poet. Selecting themes which other poets have considered common, and which of themselves are common, he dreams over them with a loving heart, and bathes them in the light of his genius till they become rare and beautiful, and often highly spiritual. No longer common is the village blacksmith in his old smithy under the spreading chestnut, and no longer common a rain in summer. The old tower at Newport is haunted by a skeleton in armor, and the Armory at Springfield is vocal with sounds and songs of war, yet over all is heard the voice of Christ saying, "Peace! Peace!" A city bridge at midnight is filled with a procession of all the care-encumbered men who have crossed it; a sea-weed floats ashore from the reefs of Bermuda or the bright Azores, with fragments of a song from the poet's heart. An old song-book recalls days of wandering on the banks of the Baltic, and the bards who penned its pages in solitary chambers. And the old clock, the dear old clock on the stairs, what does it not recall of "the old fashioned country-seat" in which it stands and utters its mystical words of awe," forever, never, never! forever!" The homeliness of feeling, if we may use the phrase, which this last poem imbodies, is a prominent trait in Longfellow's mind, and exhibits itself more or less in all his productions, lending to them a certain humanness which is undoubtedly the chief cause of their popularity. Poems like the "Psalm of Life," "The Light of Stars," "The Footsteps of Angels," are true, though rather faint imbodiments of something eternal in the heart of man; some bright aspiration, or vague regret. So with "Maidenhood" and "Excelsior:" in the one every woman recognizes a mysterious phase, and a charmed stage of her existence; while the other recalls to every man the brave bright dreams of his dead and gone youth, when he too bore,

"Mid snow and ice,
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!"

"It would be easy," says Whipple, one of Longfellow's kindest and most appreciative critics,-"it would be easy to say much of Longfellow's singular felicity in addressing the moral nature of man. It

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has been said of him, sometimes in derision, that all of his poems have a moral. There is doubtless a tendency in his mind to evolve some useful meaning from his finest imaginations, and to preach when he should only sing; but we still think the moral of his compositions is rarely thrust intrudingly forward, but rather flows naturally from the subject. There is nothing of the spirit of Joseph Surface in his genius; he does not pride himself on his being a man of noble sentiments.' The morality of 'The Psalm of Life' is commonplace. If versified by a poetaster it would inspire no deep feeling and strengthen no high purposes. But the worn axioms of didactic verse have the breath of a new life breathed into them when they are touched by genius. We are made to love and follow what before we merely assented to with a lazy acquiescence. Many of Longfellow's creations are exceedingly lovely, and impress the mind with their grace and goodness. There is in their very tone a certain tenderness and almost womanliness of feeling, and a pure and beautiful morality, which is the natural element of his genius. He is not wedded to creeds, sects, and formulas; no one can be farther from it; nor yet to the vague and misty benevolences of philosophy, and the moonshine of transcendentalism; but he is naturally devout, and his devotion breathes the spirit of Christianity. In the selection and management of his themes he shows fine taste and tact, perhaps the word "instinct" would be better, seldom if ever selecting subjects beyond the popular comprehension, and never once treating them in any but the most straightforward manner; plainness in fact being the very name for his style. Now and then his fancies may be a little too far-fetched, and his allusions too learned for the mass of readers; but commonly any fairly-educated person can understand him to his depths.

HOPEFULNESS.-True hope is based on energy of character, and has always cause to hope, because it knows the mutability of human affairs, and how slight a circumstance may change the whole course of events. Such a spirit, too, rests upon itself; it is confined to partial views, or to one particular object. And if at last all should be lost, it has saved itself-its own integrity and worth.

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DR. BUNTING.

WESLEYAN THEOLOGICAL INSTITUTION, RICHMOND, ENGLAND.

E present engravings of this institution, and its first President, as a gratification to our Methodist readers. Many of them, perhaps the most of them, do not approve of Theological Seminaries; but they will not the less be interested to see these pictorial representations of the magnificent structure, which, for good or evil to Methodism, their brethren of England have erected. It is a monument of an important change in the history of the denomination-if not a change of sentiment, as some contend, yet a change of policy. As such, we are sure, American Methodists, of whatever opinion on the subject, will be interested in our cuts. We insert them merely as representations of a matter of historical fact, and not for the purpose of making out an argument for or against technical theological education. They are engraved from the London Illustrated News. The portrait of the venerable Bunting will especially be acceptable. It is a very correct likeness of what he was a few years since. Time has recently laid its hand heavily upon him, and he now ranks among the super

annuated of his ministerial brethren. We notice, however, by the English papers, that he still occasionally appears in the pulpit with much of his former power and effect. He is considered the greatest mind yet produced by English Methodism since Wesley, and his talents alone have raised him to the chief directorship of the denomination. He has used his extraordinary power and influence with scrupulous and tireless devotion to the interests of the Church.

The London Pictorial Times, in describing this edifice, says,

"The entire plan of the building is two hundred and forty-eight feet by sixty-five in its greatest depth, and that portion of the front which is between the wings is one hundred and sixty-five feet. Beyond the entrance-hall, which has a groined ceiling, is seen the principal staircase branching off right and left. This leads to the library, which is the only public room on that floor, all the rest of it being divided into studies or separate sitting-rooms for the students. The library is lighted by a single window at one end, namely, the lofty oriel over the entrance, which, contrasting with the other windows of the upper floor, gives a marked importance to that portion of the front.

The next floor consists entirely of sleepingrooms for the students, corresponding with their sitting-rooms on that beneath it; and of each sort of rooms there are from sixty to seventy in number. Still higher up, however, is another room quite at the top of the building, intended to be used as an observatory, and commanding a singularly fine prospect of the beautiful scenery around the college, including Windsor Castle in one direction, and Greenwich and Shooter's Hill in another. Upon the groundfloor is the corridor or ambulatory, extending nearly the entire length of the building, forming a walk of two hundred and thirty feet in extent. The wings contain several additional rooms, but we have noticed the principal. The exterior of the building is of Bath stone of superior quality, and we believe the sum expended in its erection was £11,000."

About ten years ago this institution was opened with an address by Dr. Bunting, which we give, though in the meagre outline of a newspaper report from the London Watchman, as indicating somewhat the history of the design :

"Dr. Bunting then addressed the assemblage, in which he entertained strong objections to this place being called the Richmond College; it was the Richmond INSTITUTION ;-to speak more diffusely, the Richmond Branch of the Wesleyan Theological Institution. He hoped his excellent friends to whom would be permanently and regularly intrusted the management of the institution, and the education of the young brethren, would concur with him in the opinion he had just expressed. There were many things implied in what was properly speaking a college, which they did not aim to realize in this establishment. He congratulated the friends of the institution on the numerous assemblage now congregated. It was nearly a hundred years ago-namely, at the Conference of 1744that the propriety of instituting a seminary,' as it was then termed, was first mooted; and this institution was, therefore, in principle anything but an innovation. The question proposed to the Conference of 1744 was, 'Can we have a seminary for laborers?' He hoped the young brethren who were receiving instruction in the Theological Institution would always of such an institution or seminary was first suggested, it was proposed for the instruction

bear this in mind, that when the establishment

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and training of laborers.' His young brethren must remember that they were to be laborers;' and if he thought that anything they might learn, or any habits which they might acquire in that institution, would unfit them for labor, or disincline them to labor, he would most deeply regret its establishment. But he anticipated a very different result. He anticipated that, by the blessing of God upon the assiduous efforts of their tutors, they would, in this in

stitution, learn how to labor, and be strengthened in their determination to labor faithfully and zealously, wherever their lot might be cast. He had stated that, at the Conference of 1744, the question was proposed, Can we have a seminary for laborers? The answer was, 'If God spares us till another Conference.' subject was resumed at the next Conference, and it was asked, 'Can we have a seminary for laborers yet?' 'Not yet,' was the answer; 'not

The

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till God gives us a proper tutor.' The want of a proper tutor was the only reason assigned why an establishment similar in principles and objects to this institution was not made coeval with the earliest periods of Wesleyan Methodism. At the end of a century, that which even at the early period he had referred to was felt to be a desideratum had now, by the providence of God, been supplied. An institution had been established which, for the sake of convenience, had branched into two divisions: one of those branches having been opened last September, at Didsbury, near Manchester, which was called the Northern Branch; and the other, or Southern Branch, being that which they were now assembled, in a more formal and solemn manner than had hitherto been done, to dedicate to the service of God. They seemed, indeed, to have all they required, except two things. They did want more money. (Hear, hear.) It might be said, 'Why did you erect such an expensive building as this? We cannot help doing justice to the architectural merit of the building; we

must allow that it is beautiful and commodious; but have you not spent upon the erection of the building money which might have been better applied to the support of the institution?' He would reply, 'No; these premises are a present to the institution, from the Centenary Fund, by a grant made for the specific purpose of such an erection; and I am informed that not one farthing of the money subscribed by individual friends for the support of the institution-for the maintenance and instruction of the students

will have to be appropriated to defray the cost of the building. (Hear, hear.) He believed it would not be necessary to trench upon any funds contributed for the maintenance of the institution; but that the sum granted from the Centenary Fund would just be sufficient to defray the expenses of the purchase, and of the erection of this beautiful and commodious structure, which was so well calculated to accomplish the monumental and commemorative part of the various noble objects contemplated in the original plan of the Centenary Fund.

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