.
They were not seamen, and have left scant memorials of themselves in
names that fringe the sea; but to lakes they cling with tireless
tenacity.

Let these words suffice. As one who journeys in circles finds no end
of journeying, so I. This theme runs on, nor stops to catch breath. I
make an end, therefore, not because the subject is exhausted, but
because it is dismissed. But this study in geography is journeying
among dead peoples as certainly as it the land were crowded with
obelisk and tomb. To those who were and are not, say, Vale! Vale!

"Ye who love the haunts of Nature,
Love the sunshine of the meadow,
Love the shadow of the forest,
Love the wind among the branches,
And the rain-shower and the snowstorm,
And the rushing of great rivers
Through their palisades of pine-trees,
And the thunder in the mountains,
Whose innumerable echoes
Flap like eagles in their eyries,--
Listen to these wild traditions.
Ye who love a nation's legends,
Love the ballads of a people,
That like voices from afar off
Call to us to pause and listen,
Speak in tones so plain and childlike,
Scarcely can the ear distinguish
Whether they are sung or spoken,--
Listen to this Indian Legend.
Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple,
Who have faith in God and nature,
Who believe that in all ages
Every human heart is human,
That in even savage bosoms
There are longings, yearnings, strivings,
For the good they comprehend not,
That the feeble hands and helpless,
Groping blindly in the darkness,
Touch God's right hand in that darkness,
And are lifted up and strengthened,--
Listen to this simple story.
Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles
Through the green lanes of the country,
Where the tangled barberry-bushes
Hang their tufts of crimson berries
Over stone walls gray with mosses,
Pause by some neglected graveyard,
For awhile to muse, and ponder
On a half-effaced inscription,
Written with little skill of song-craft,
Homely phrases, but each letter
Full of hope and yet of heart-break,
Full of all the tender pathos
Of the Here and the Hereafter,--
Stay, and read this rude inscription."

Only saying, Read not the "Song of Hiawatha," but the story of dead
peoples by the ashes of their campfires,--these names they have left,
clinging to places like blue to distant hills.

VI

Iconoclasm in Nineteenth Century Literature.

That histor