forfeiting his national character, every American writer is called upon, unconditionally, to submit. These rules demand, in every American work, a copious admixture of American peculiarities, and a uniform selection of domestic topics.

Philosophy, she who searches after universal truth, and strives to grasp the essential nature and first principles of things, cannot certainly be expected to submit to critical enactments which would limit her range or shackle her activity. She who delights to destroy unessential distinctions, to dissipate prejudices, and to lay bare the links which bind the world together, will never consent to humor the favorite follies of any nation, or talk the cant of any age. This is so very clear, that perhaps the limitary decrees of our literary dictators were originally meant to extend only to the poetical department of literature. But beauty, that which fills the mind with admiration or delight, and which is the foundation of all poetry, is in its nature, as universal as truth itself; and as far as it is combined with what is local and peculiar, is, in the same degree, dimmed and obscured. Sir William Jones assures us, that when the student of the oriental languages has mastered all the difficulties of grammar, and made himself familiar with the meaning of words, he has accomplished but half his task; before he can understand or enjoy the poets of the East, he must, as it were, educate himself anew; acquire entirely new trains of associations and sets of ideas; acquaint himself with all the traditionary stories, and proverbial wisdom, the prejudices and peculiarities of the orientals. A Persian critic might, perhaps, make similar remarks on European literature; but will any one pretend that writers, whether oriental or occidental, are to be applauded for wrapping up in the disguise of peculiar and arbitrary allusions truths, which, if plainly shown, would instantly convince every mind, and sentiments which, if simply expressed, would at once reach every heart? It is true, that no author writes without allusion to local and temporary peculiarities, but those who think that in these allusions all the beauty of writing consists, resemble that sect of philosophers who concluded, because the mind conceives only by ideas of external things, that there are no external things at all, and that all existence is merely ideal.

What are called national peculiarities are, in fact, only the peculiarities of the unpolished and uneducated. The gentlemen of all countries, the scholars of all countries, except in a few unessential trifles, are perfectly alike. Men of genius are, for the most part, not less remarkable for the liberality of their minds than the vigor of their intellects. "I am a citizen of the world," said the Greek philosopher; and every man who feels himself at all raised above the common level will be inclined to claim a similar citizenship. Such men will scorn to have their views and affections limited by the im

agirary lines of geographical boundaries. Nor does the restriction of American writers to domestic topics seem at all more reasonab'e. Domestic topics are few, narrow and barren. This is alike the case in every country. One would think that the varicus and intricate history of Italian revolutions might furnish ample materials for poetry. Yet it was not there that either Tasso or Ariosto sought subjects. The one chose for his hero a French knight; and the other, a knight who never existed but in romance. Milton, so far from feeling himself limited by the narrow bounds of England, or obliged to minister to any national prejudice, boldly penetrates chaos, and heaven, and hell

And justifies the ways of God to man.

Spencer found heroes and adventurers in fairy land, and Shakspeare himself borrowed the plots of almost all his best plays from the stores of foreign fiction. This is what might be expected. Poetry delights to produce something higher, better, nobler,—something more grand, beautiful and impressive, than what we meet with in every-day life. The poet's eye rests not on any mere terrestrial object; it glances from heaven to earth, and again from earth to heaven. What is domestic is familiar; and what is familiar has little power to astonish or delight. Poetry, therefore, either creates regions and beings of its own, or else, by laying its scenes in foreign lands or distant ages, seeks a liberty of ornament and exaggeration which no domestic subject would permit.

How much better claims than the poets of Italy and England have American writers to this indulgence! What effort of genius can breathe the least spirit of poetry or romance into the dull, cold, calculating prudence of American life? Thrift,-thrift is the characteristic of our people. "Provision," says Sir Philip Sidney, "is the foundation of hospitality, and thrift is the jewel of magnificence." No doubt; so they are. But we have hitherto been content with collecting the jewel, and laying the foundation; we have yet scarcely attempted to kindle the flame, or erect the structure. A great deal of the spirit of the American character may be seen in Franklin's Essays, a book deservedly of much reputation, but which no one reads without feeling all that is generous and noble, every flash of enthusiasm, and spark of rapture, die away within him.

Prudence, discretion, sobriety, are qualities, whether of a nation or an individual, much to be approved. But what we approve we do not always admire. Who does not praise the calm quiet and rural peace of a country village? Yet who will deny that the noise, parade and show, the gay follies and splendid vices of a great city strike the imagination much more forcibly?

The usefulness of American history, life and manners, for all the purposes of literature, is so well displayed by a writer whom expe

rience has made wise, that I shall insert a long quotation without apology. "The second obstacle," says Mr. Cooper, "against which American literature has to contend, is in the poverty of materials. There is scarcely an ore which contributes to the wealth of the author that is found here in veins as rich as in Europe. There are no annals for the historian; no follies (beyond the most vulgar and commonplace) for the satirist; no manners for the dramatist; no obscure fictions for the writer of romance; no gross and hardy offences against decorum for the moralist; not any of the rich artificial auxiliaries of poetry. . . . I very well know there are theorists who assume that the society and institutions of this country are, or ought to be, particularly favorable to novelty and variety. But the experience of one month in these States is sufficient to show any observant man the falsity of their position... I have never seen a nation so much alike, in my life, as the people of the United States, and what is more, they are not only like each other, but they are remarkably like that which common sense tells them they ought to resemble.... There is no costume for the peasant, (there is scarcely a peasant at all,) no wig for the judge, no baton for the general, no diadem for the chief magistrate. The darkest ages of their history are illumined by the light of truth; the utmost efforts of their chivalry are limited by the laws of God; and even the deeds of their sages and heroes are to be sung in a language that differs but little from a version of the ten commandments. However useful and respectable all this may be in actual life, it indicates but one direction to the man of genius."* And what is this direction? Why, undoubtedly, that direction which necessity has ever pointed out to genius and enterprise; that direction which our Saxon and Norman ancestors followed, when they left the swamps and forests of the North for richer lands and a more genial climate. We are under no obligation to sit down content with the narrowness of our heritage. What cannot be found at home, may be sought abroad. The literary adventurer, without crime, may load himself with the spoils of every country, and rifle the treasures of every language. Let not him, who desires real and lasting fame, seek inspiration from transient and local excitements. Sound learning, a wide and comprehensive view of things, that calm and steady courage, which, despising the follies of fashion and the clamor of dunces, moves cheerfully and composedly forward to the accomplishment of its objects; these are the qualifications for literary greatness.

Cooper's Travelling Bachelor, vol. ii. p. 108.
49

VOL. I.-NO. VI.

P. Q.

MORNING.

MORN is upon the mountains. The grey rocks
Catch its first tint, and, through the moss that veils
Their wrinkled brows, smile as when erst the stars
Together sang, at young Creation's birth.

The gale awakes, and the tall pines bow down
To its soft visit, while the umbrageous oaks
Spread their broad banners, and each leaf doth lift
Itself, as for a blessing. Up the trunks

Of the lithe willows goes a rustling sound,
The leaping rills shed music, and the groves
Pour from their thousand nests a chirping hymn.
High through the azure floats the warbling choir
On the bright pinions, and glad Nature's voice
Like the clear horn amid the Alpine hills

Is praise to God, at this blest hour of morn.-
-Morn cometh to the cottage. Thro' its door
Peep ruddy faces. Infant mirth breaks forth.
The fair young milkmaid o'er the threshold trips,—
The squirrel leaps,-the shepherd's dog attends
The bleating flock, the joyous lamb sports gay
In innocent pastime, and the healthful swain
With rustic carol bathes his glittering scythe
Among the tears which the shorn grass doth shed.
Joy breathes around, while Health with fragrant lip
And cheek embrown'd, and industry in song
Of merry chorus hail the king of day.
-Morn cometh to the city. See how slow
Its ponderous limbs unfold. On the hot sand
Thus the gorg'd Boa from some heavy feast
Uncoils his length. Heaven's smile is on those spires,
But the sweet bells, and organ pipes, and hymns
Of loud response are silent. Flame hath fallen,
Wherewith to kindle incense, but man locks
The altar of his soul, bartering for sleep,
What Esau sold for pottage. Gilded domes
And marble columns sparkle to the sun,

But not like Memnon's heedful statue breathe
A gratulating voice. Aurora comes
Lightly pavilion'd on a purple cloud :

Sworn worshippers of beauty, where are ye?
Look! Egypt's queen came not so daintily,
When on the Cydnus her resplendent barge
Left golden traces. But your eyes, perchance,
Blear'd with false splendors of some midnight hall,

Do shun the day, and 'mid the pillow's down
Plunging your face, ye lose this glorious sight.
-Hark-life doth stir itself. A cry is heard
From those who tempt the palate, while the sons
Of recreant Israel in shrill tones extol

The threadbare garment, fain to tempt the crowd
As with Iscariot's kiss.-

-The dray horse bows

Beneath his load, eying with quivering limb
The tyrant lash. The crippled beggar takes
His daily stand,-he, who perchance hath grac'd
Some light-heel'd revel of the parted night.

-Wan Sickness too hath wak'd and watch'd for dawn,

Marking with groans the tardy pace of Time.

-Sorrow and Want to their sad vigils creep,

Gaunt Avarice prowls, but where are Wealth and Power,

The deep-indebted, and the high endow'd?

From their own plenitude disease hath sprung:— And Lethargy enchains them, when the soul With her fresh waking pulse should worship God. Hartford, Conn.

L. H. S.

THE DOWNER'S BANNER.

THE battle of Lexington was over, and the enemy in full retreat. Their march, which had begun with the coolness and order of veterans, was sharpened into double quick time; till at length, "sauve qui peut" became the order of the day, and retreat was changed to flight. And reason was there for their haste. From every copse of bushes, every house and barn, blazed the avenging guns of the men whose homes they had violated; and every rod of the ground they had traversed was wet with the expiating blood of Britons. They felt more than a common fear of their fierce pursuers. Conscience told them the injustice of their cause, and admonished of the kindred blood that had been that day wantonly shed. There existed no war. The fourth of July 1776 had not yet come, and the gauntlet of defiance was not yet thrown down. They had entered the bosom of a peaceful land, like wolves; and like wolves, they fled at the voice of the shepherd. There had needed but this impolitic step to sever the colonies forever from their allegiance. That step was taken. The torch of war was lit, and it was for Britain to quench it as she might.