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To eke her being out.

Our very hope belied our fears;

Our fears our hope belied;

We thought her dying when she slept,

And sleeping when she died.

But when the morn came dim and sad,

And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed; — she had

Another morn than ours.

Mr. Aldrich's thus: —

Her sufferings ended with the day,

Yet lived she at its close,

And breathed the long, long night away

In statue-like repose;

But when the sun in all its state

Illumed the eastern skies,

She passed through Glory's morning gate,

And walked in paradise.

And here, to be sure, we might well leave a decision in the case to the verdict of common sense. But since the "Broadway Journal" insists upon the "no resemblance," we are constrained to point out especially where our supposed similarity lies. In the first place, then, the subject in both pieces is death. In the second, it is the death of a woman. In the third, it is the death of a woman tranquilly dying. In the fourth, it is the death of a woman who lies tranquilly throughout the night. In the fifth, it is the death of a woman whose "breathing soft and low is watched through the night," in the one instance, and who "breathed the long [[,]] long night away in statue-like repose" in the other. In the sixth place, in both poems this woman dies just at daybreak. In the seventh place, dying just at daybreak, this woman, in both cases, steps directly into Paradise. In the eighth place, all these identities of circumstance are related in identical rhythms. In the ninth place, these identical rhythms are arranged in identical metres; and, in the tenth place, these identical rhythms and metres are constructed into identical stanzas.

At this point the matter rested for a fortnight, when a fourth friend of Mr. Longfellow took up the cudgels for him and Mr. Aldrich conjointly, in another communication to the "Mirror." I copy it in full.

PLAGIARISM. — Dear Willis — Fair play is a jewel, and I hope you will let us have it. I have been much amused, by some of the efforts of your critical friend, to convict Longfellow of imitation, and Aldrich and others, of plagiarism. What is plagiarism? And what constitutes a good ground for the charge? Did no two men ever think alike without stealing one from the other? or, thinking alike, did no two men ever use the same, or similar words, to convey the thoughts, and that, without any communication with each other? To deny it would be absurd. It is a thing of every day occurrence. Some years ago, a letter was written from some part of New England, describing one of those scenes, not very common during what is called "the January thaw," when the snow, mingled with rain, and freezing as it falls, forms a perfect covering of ice upon every object. The storm clears away suddenly, and the moon comes up. The letter proceeds — "every tree and shrub, as far as the eye can reach, of pure transparent glass — a perfect garden of moving, waving, breathing crystals. . . . . . Every tree is a diamond chandelier, with a whole constellation of stars clustering to every socket," &c. This letter was laid away where such things usually are, in a private drawer, and did not see the light for many years. But the very next autumn brought out, among the splendid annuals got up in the country, a beautiful poem from Whittier, describing the same, or rather a similar scene, in which is this line:

The trees, like crystal chandeliers,

was put in italics by every reviewer in the land, for the exceeding beauty of the imagery. Now the letter was written, probably, about the same time with the poem, though the poem was not published till nearly a year after. The writers were not, and never have been, acquainted with each other, and neither could possibly have seen the work of the other before writing. Now, was there any plagiarism here? Yet there are plenty of "identities." The author of the letter, when urged, some years after; to have it published, consented very reluctantly, through fear that he should be charged with theft; and, very