Swift of foot was Hiawatha;
He could shoot an arrow from him,
And run forward with such fleetness,
That the arrow fell behind him!
Strong of arm was Hiawatha;
He could shoot ten arrows upward,
Shoot them with such strength and swiftness
That the tenth had left the bow-string
Ere the first to earth had fallen!
Magic mittens made of deer-skin;
When upon his hands he wore them,
He could smite the rocks asunder,
He could grind them into powder.
He had moccasins enchanted,
Magic moccasins of deer-skin;
When he bound them round his ankles,
When upon his feet he tied them,
At each stride a mile he measured!
(Liza Voronin/The Epoch Times)
“Strong of arm” is Hiawatha at the point he passes from adolescence to early manhood, testing his strength for the first time. He is about to set forth to find his mysterious father Mudjekeewis at “the Doorways of the West-Wind” and avenge the death of his mother. Paradoxically, losing the confrontation will help him to conquer himself—turning his anger and bitterness into the desire to cleanse the world of “monsters,” “magicians” and other evil-doers.
His power comes from within and from without. Like Thor with his hammer or Batman with his utility belt (stuffed full of bat devices like batphones, batbombs and batarangs), Hiawatha is seemingly impervious to harm while wearing his “magic mittens” and “magic moccasins.” He is titanic and irrepressible.
As if he were a bard weaving a tall tale to a breathless audience sitting round a camp fire, Longfellow relates that Hiawatha can shoot a whole quiver of arrows before the first could land back on the ground—daring us to disbelieve him. Hiawatha can even “smite rocks” and “grind them into powder.” His moccasins are like seven league boots in which he strides miles at a time. This exclamation-pointed hyperbole conveys the super-abundant energy of true heroism. (Further on, we read of his “smile of joy and triumph” and “look of exultation.”)
Uniquely in literature, Hiawatha exists not only as a character but also as a rhythm—one as instantly recognizable as the trumpeting motif that begins the theme music to the Superman films. The trochaic tetrameter comes down hard on the initial syllable, carries us forward for another three beats, and tapers off at the end with a weaker syllable, tipping us forward toward the next line. It’s a cunning ploy.
Before we know it, we have devoured pages and pages of the poem, from anecdotes about Hiawatha’s childhood, his romance with Minnehaha and the quest to kill Megissogwon the evil wizard, to the coming of the European settlers and his departure “in the glory of the sunset.”
Through the words and issuing from our lips, the constant rhythm makes us hear and feel the beat of drums—the smack of skin on wood and leather—and conjures up long sublime vistas of prairieland and buffalo. The propulsive drama of each line is compounded further by relentless repetitions that possess the quality of incantation. We are transported into another world—one that is both historical and imaginary—and at the center of it all is Hiawatha.
Every hero expresses a conception of humanity and of our own nature and potential. The original Superman comic strips and TV shows, for example, capture an unabashed optimism and sense of clear morality that seems, unfortunately, to have slipped from view. Today, superheroes and their enemies are almost the same: the Dark Knight and the Joker equally freakish and disturbed. As for Hiawatha, he is both the ultimate hero and victim—and, as such, his story achieves a surprising poignancy. His life and fate linger in the mind long after we have turned the page and shut the book.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882) was an American educator and poet. Christopher Nield is a poet living in London.
