carried to excess, or that it may at times be turned into improper channels, no candid mind would wish to deny; against these injurious tendencies, we should be earnest in opposing a strong barrier; but it is not becoming to cherish a prejudice against the spirit itself, from its possible exuberance. That excitement, and continued excitement is as necessary to success in national as individual effort, that it has been the constant companion of liberty, and liberty the foster mother of science, and art, and literature, we conceive to be truths deeply traced upon each page of the world's history. We have sufficient evidence of this in the old republics of Greece, a bright constellation mirrored in the dark ocean of ignorance heaving its sullen waters around them, and in the brightest of the bright, the far-famed "fierce democracy" of rock-girt Attica. And when we behold these republics sinking beneath the shade of their own insignificance, as they resign their right of independence; when we perceive all the glowing enthusiasm of genius, swept into darkness along with their liberties; and when, on the other hand, we behold the gorgeous vision of the Roman commonwealth, swelling up from the garden of the earth, with the glory of her heroes, and the pomp of her triumphs, magnificent as the approach of day, and then perceive all fading away "like a school-boy's dream"-her soldiery, no longer able to find excitement in the din of battle, rushing to the bloody shows of the circus and amphitheater, we must be compelled to cherish that spirit which keeps the attention of our people alive, upon all topics concerning their personal happiness and political security. What constituted the difference between these renowned republics, and the nations that slept the death-sleep of despotism near them? What gave to the mythology of the Greeks that tasteful elegance, which gives a charm to vaguest superstition, while the mythology of Egypt remained dark, bloody, repulsive? Was it any advantage of soil and climate? or was it a precedence in the cultivation of letters, which rendered the former people so vastly superior to the countless hosts of Persia and Assyria? Yet both the climate and soil of the latter were famed to be far more attractive, and Cadmus introduced into Athens the Phenician alphabet, in which were to be couched the choice productions of the muse of Parnassus.

But more especially in tracing the progress of free principles in modern times, do we find them kindling along their path a blaze of enthusiasm, until in rainbow splendor it spans the heavens from east to west. All are acquainted with the degeneracy of the human mind after the downfall of the Roman empire, and the firm establishment of papal dominion. Cloud mounted on cloud, darkening its horizon, gathering in revolving blackness, until the last star was blotted from the firmament, and the world was wrapt in the deepest midnight of ignorance. Every refinement of torture, every stratagem of malignity, which could excruciate the body

or debase the mind, was called into earnest and constant requisition. All knowledge was locked up in the walls of the convent; all wealth was monopolized by a sordid and blood-thirsty priesthood; the wings of genius were clipped, and the worst passions of the human breast inflamed to their intensest glare. It is only in contemplating the gloomy depths into which the human mind has at times been plunged, that we are enabled to realize the priceless blessings which we ourselves are enjoying. The night of the middle ages is one from which the mind shrinks back with instinctive horror. And what was it other than a high and noble enthusiasm, kindled on the altar of Italian liberty, which roused the continent to life and action-started the human soul from the almost dreamless slumbers of centuries-brought the sombre palaces of the feudal times, with their turrets and battlements courting the sky, in thunder to the earth-tore the fetters from the freedom of the press, and taught the mind of man to rise up in all its native majesty.

"Or quai pensier, quai petti

Son chiusi a te, sant' aura, e divo ardore !"

In turning to our country, we may expect to find the tendencies of this spirit more fully exemplified. We are aware how liable the mind is to be borne away in the contemplation of such a subject to be borne, perhaps, beyond the region of truth. We are fully conscious, that excess of prosperity may be as injurious to a nation, as it may be to an individual, and that the injunction of the poet is universal in its application:

"Aequam memento rebus in arduis

Servare mentem, non secus in bonis."

But when we contemplate the glorious spectacle our own country presents, the glorious example she has set to the world; when we perceive the high capabilities and lofty attributes of human nature, as freed from the shackles of slavery,-the giant mould of a nation's character,-the sublime unfolding of a nation's energies, the rapid progress of a free people in all that can constitute national or individual happiness; our flag loved and honored on the remotest shores, our name a synomyme for all that is great or enviable in a people, we feel that we cannot too highly esteem that liberal policy which has thus rendered us so distinguished among the nations.

While this may be regarded as the mere rhapsody of a heated fancy, we still insist that there is a useful lesson to be learned from these two contrasted pictures in human history; there is much in them to endear our own free institutions to our hearts, and to make us beware of cramping, in the slightest degree, the great principles which breathed forth in our own and other revolutions,

that mark the various stages of man's progress towards refinement and happiness. But while we feel justified in assuming these as truths too clear to admit of any, the least hesitation, we think also that powerful arguments are here presented, to bring us to the firm conviction, that this government and country do open the noblest vista, down which the inspired eye of genius has ever gazed, for mental effort and mental advancement. Laying entirely out of view the barriers removed from before the cultivation of letters, and the encouragements offered, we shall merely speak of that spirit itself, which "breathes the breath of life" in every channel of human exertion, into every topic of human thought. That spirit has, indeed, so far desolated the world with revolutions, the darkest and bloodiest, throwing into dire confusion all the elements of the political atmosphere, in order to create from them a new and purer, which might reach through its ubiquity the lowest recesses of society, call forth latent worth wherever it might have shrunk from the frown of oppression, and teach the humblest to make use of those powers which God has given him. This great work has now passed through the first and most difficult stage towards its final and glorious completion, and the spirit which inspires it has assumed a wholly different tone and complexion, for now the human mind is free. It can think and act for itself. A free press is thrown open to the world. A nation's intellect stands out to view in its giant yet beauteous proportions. The struggle is now between mind and mind—no longer between body and body. The nation's hero is to be no longer the bloodstained warrior, reeking in his glory, but he who shall wield with greatest power the scepter of truth; who shall exert the mightiest and best influence; who shall impress his name the deepest on his country's institutions; who shall give birth to ennobling thoughts and creative principles.

And this spirit alone should give to our literary productions a striking trait of original force and energy. We find that the literature of every civilized people, tracing back to the farthest epochs of history, has always been marked by some one prominent feature in their own character. The exquisite taste of the Athenians, which displayed itself in all their arts-their statuary and architecture, as well as in the graceful intricacies of their mythology-also makes its appearance in the natural simplicity and elegant sublimity of their poets, philosophers, and orators. Without stopping to designate, we may say, that the same is observable in the literature of modern nations-of Germany, Italy, France, and England. Now what should be the leading feature of our literature-bold, native, original? It should, in a single phrase, be fired with the spirit of a free and proud people, a people of immense energy and boundless resource, thinking, and as they think, acting-exulting in having realized the bright dreams of the ancient poet, and still pressing forward to the goal of national

perfection; it should be filled with noble excitement. Its every thought" should "breathe," its every "word" should “burn.” Could we draw a symbol by which to represent it, it should be a statue of gigantic dimensions, every muscle, firm and compact, fashioned for strength and activity; its feet should be set upon the constitution; in its right hand should be held forth the declaration of independence; the trump of liberty should be placed to its lips, proclaiming aloud to the world the solution of that great problem of centuries, THAT MAN MAY GOVERN HIMSELF.

We might go on speculating, without a definite limit, upon the character of our national literature, but we desist. That the democratic principle should, in its influence upon the human soul, unfold hitherto latent powers and emotions, produce new and vivid combinations of thought, add unknown grace and vigor to every movement of the mind, give to all its struggles and outpourings a distinguishing characteristic of nationality, will not, we imagine, be deemed a subject of doubt. And under a government original in its nature, original in its operation on social character, original in its settlement, and original in its relations to the world, certainly there must be ample materials afforded to the inventive genius, all enlivened by that spirit, that Promethean fire, that lightning of a nation's being, comprised in the single phrase, liberty of thought and action. But our literary men have yet to feel the quickening influences of this spirit. They have yet to burn with the true fervor of democratic emotion. Their views have yet to be so expanded as to embrace, with a life-giving philanthropy, all the various interests of man-man as he is found all around the globe. Under the magic of that principle of onward advancement, which lies at the bottom of the faith of the democrat, they have yet to see future generations brought into close intimacy with their own minds and hearts, glorying in the bright achievements of their own genius, acknowledging the sovereignty of their own thought; they have yet to feel themselves a central heat, diffusing warmth, and light, and happiness, not only over the present denizens of earth, but over humanity in every age. They have yet to be conscious, that to achieve any great conquest in the realms of thought, they must beware of deadening those nerves of noble emotion, which spring from a firm trust in the innate goodness of human nature; that faith in a higher and better condition on earth, which is the surest test of a faith in a higher, and purer, and holier life to come. They must learn to banish their traitor doubts and misgivings, and yield themselves to that inspiring excitement, beneath whose influence only can man be advanced to the highest perfection in his mental, moral, or physical nature. Then, and not till then, may they find, to their own astonishment, the flood-tides of new and original thought, of new and original expression, gushing forth, pure, copious, without an effort.

208

THE WIND.

SAD and wild is the wail of the wind,
As on viewless wings it hurries past:
Oh! whence this spell, that quiets the mind,
And passion enchains in slumbers fast?

"Tis said that oft at eventide,

When still the leaf, and clear the sky,

On airy wing kind spirits ride,

And charm the wilds with minstrelsy.

'Tis to the voice of these we listen,

In lonely place when sad we roam; While far away o'er meadows glisten,

The lamps that light the fire-fly home.

Oh! know you not that the rushing winds,
The zephyrs that kiss the fragrant grove,
Are the pinions' sweep of mighty minds,
Or spirits that sad and lonely rove?

Who cannot hear in the howling blast,

That scatters the rain, or vestal snow, A gentle voice as it hurries past,

That bids our hearts with sympathy glow?

Have the winds so wild, the power to wake
Long silent chords of memory's lyre?
Can the blasts alone the slumbers break,
Of feeling's deep, but smothered fire?

Oh, not around us spirits dwell:

From fleecy cloud, from fading leaf,
Their whisp'rings come, with magic spell,
To silence passion, quiet grief.

Oh! I love to hear the glad winds blow,
When deep the night, and dark the sky;

For I hear in wild unceasing flow,

The spirit tones that swell on high.

And I love to hear at eventide,

The music sweet of forest and rill,

When softer notes on light wings ride

O'er gentle dale, and wood-crowned hill.

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