f Concomly, whom I met, was as interesting a historical
personage at home as Queen Elizabeth would have been in Westminster Abbey.
At Vancouver's Island," said the traveller, "I found an old dingy copy of
the book itself, embroidered and seamed with interlineations and marginal
notes of hundreds of pens, in every style of chirography, yet all
attesting the faithfulness of the narrative. I would have given anything
for that copy, but I do not believe I could have purchased it with the
price of the whole island."

What but that wonderful clement of genius, _intuitive perception_, could
have produced such a book? Irving was never on the Columbia River, never
saw the northwest coast. "The materials were furnished him from the
log-books and journals of the explorers themselves," says Dr. Dryasdust.
True, my learned friend, but suppose I furnish you with pallet and colors,
with canvas and brushes, the materials of art, will you paint me as I sit
here, and make a living, breathing picture, that will survive my ashes for
centuries? "I have not the genius of the artist," replies Dr. Dryasdust.
Then, my dear Doctor, we will put the materials aside for the present, and
venture a little farther with our theory of "intuitive perception."

Longfellow never saw the Acadian Land, and yet thus his pastoral begins:

"This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks."

This is the opening line of the poem: this is the striking feature of Nova
Scotia scenery. The shores welcome us with waving masses of foliage, but
not the foliage of familiar woods. As we travel on this hilly road to the
Acadian settlement, we look up and say, "This is the forest primeval," but
it is the forest of the poem, not that of our childhood. There is not, in
all this vast greenwood, an oak, an elm, a chestnut, a beech, a cedar or
maple. For miles and miles, we see nothing against the clear blue sky but
the spiry tops of evergreens; or perhaps, a gigantic skeleton, "a
rampike," pine or hemlock, scathed and spectral, stretches its gaunt
outline above its fellows. Spruces and firs, such as adorn our gardens,
cluster in never-ending profusion; and aromatic and unwonted odor pervades
the air--the spicy breath of resinous balsams. Sometimes the sense is
touched with a new fragrance, and presently we see a buckthorn, white
with a thousand blossoms. These, however, only meet us at times. The
distinct and characteristic feature of the forest is convey