Chapter XXVIII: Front Matter (28)

I will now observe upon the time of life most suited to an attainment of that skill, essential in opening to the neophyte these well-stored magazines of useful and pleasing information. If the candidate for distinction in any, the simplest profession, had at the time of entering upon it, yet to master the rudiments of his language, would he not contemplate the double task in despair? Knowing that the greatest genius on earth, if without the means of expressing the teeming thoughts of a crowded mind, is but a "mighty savage," he feels, if success be his object, the absolute necessity of beginning the almost endless labor. From childhood to manhood he should be furbishing this key to his mind's resources.

And the case is the same with regard to the study of the elements which throw open the riches of the past to our conception. These riches are very seldom possessed when the means of doing so are not gradually acquired in very early years. The hours are not then counted--the labor does not present itself in a huge and startling mass to the narrow view of youth, but is seen part by part as the student advances. With years of inactive life before him, his time is his own, and we may almost say unlimited. Undeterred by the calls of the world, he has leisure to possess himself of every requisite for enjoying the feast to be partaken of hereafter. Turn to one who, after neglecting the acquisition of that which he has at length learned to look upon as most valuable, attempts to rectify his error. With the duties of life accumulating every moment on his hands--with the toil to be endured spread out like a map before his eye, he rarely has energy enough to persevere. The task is given up as a hopeless one, and his judgment, on the ground of interference with essential duties, sanctions the decision urged by timidity. Then deprived of all means of gaining the treasure, he laments the error by which its acquisition was deferred until too late a season.

I have said nothing of the exquisite entertainment to be drawn from the study before us. My object has been to work on the feelings of real and palpable interest, so effectual in ruling men of the present day.

Let us now turn to a picture, to me of great beauty. The strifes and toils of the world are left behind us. We have sought the shades of retirement, to consume in domestic happiness the few remaining years of our earthly term. The merchant has come from the hills and valleys of the east to the banks of the Nile. He brings with him

"Munera terræ
Et maris extremos Arabas distantes et Indos."

His wanderings have been among the groves of spice, and over the sands of the great deserts. His cheek has been shaded by the palm and the cool cedar, but it has too been blistered by a scorching sun. All this is at length passed, and chaunting the "Allah Acbar," wearied--yet joyful in his weariness--he plants his pavilion on the quiet shore, there in patience to abide the coming of Dyerm or Xebeck, appointed for his passage to the destined mart. Thus after experiencing the various fortunes of active life, we sink into ease.

To him who has no '_munera scientiæ_'--no attachment to polite research, from which to draw pleasure in the hours of solitude, this seclusion is worse than a foretaste of that grave so soon to succeed it. His mind is a mere void, aching to be filled. Accustomed to satiety, before the affairs of life were relinquished, the contrast is now all the more painful. It is this that accounts for the discontent of those "_refugees from the closed shop_," whom we see around us. But on this picture I do not love to linger. There is another, possessing in the home of his retirement, a home of placid delight. Surrounded by the fruits of mental exertion--the parent tree long dead--he revels among the richly flavored and the luscious, until existence becomes one continued feast. His influence in the world is undiminished--his works are remembered with feelings of reverence and affection. Afar from the restless crowd he is, as has been beautifully said, like the moon in her relation with ocean; and rendered no less influential by the tranquil steadiness with which he keeps aloof from the scenes of his influence. To such a man the treasures of ancient lore are invaluable; they are charms possessing power to call up the host of worthies, by nature and assiduous cultivation, great and excellent. In the sacred recesses of his studio he communes with these. He is cheered by his intercourse with companions so pleasing, and his path to the grave is smoothed by {216} flowers of the softest leaf. At length the drama draws to a close! Like the chaste Talbot, he breathes his gratitude to those who have been to him the fountains of 'sweet joy.' It is his last breath. Loved for his virtues, and venerated for his good works, he sinks to the grave, on whose brink he has long been lingering, and whose ideal horrors, the lessons of true knowledge have rendered to him objects to be welcomed, not dreaded--loved, not feared.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MEMORY.--AN ALLEGORY.

An evil genius visited the happy islands which repose upon the bosom of the deep blue sea. In these smiling gardens the blest recline, remote from the turmoil and confusion of life: there are trees loaded with golden fruits--flowers of a thousand hues, and sweet fountains of limpid water spread their silvery lines along the emerald lea. The melody of singing birds, the soft murmur of running streams, and sounds of distant music, fall upon the ravished ear. The wanton breeze steals fragrance from the flowers as it passes on, and sweet perfumes scent the air. Here childish innocence reposes on beds of flowers; there groups of maturer years recline on verdant knolls, enjoying the passing hour. Pairs wander arm in arm in pursuit of pleasures that never pall, and gay crowds lightly dance their hours away in mirth and song. The genius pronounces the fatal word, and each breathing figure is transformed to mute and changeless stone. The voice of mirth is hushed, the tones of music have fled, years roll away, and the living statues still look in marble coldness on the changing scene. Its flowers wither--its trees of golden fruits die one by one away--the birds flee from their green retreats, and the creeping serpent hisses in the tangled brake--tall rank grass covers the favorite walks, or choke the streams, whose turbid waters force their sluggish way. At length a passing vessel stops--a stranger wanders over the wondrous scene. On a pillar an inscription is engraved; he pauses to read the word, and instantly the spell is broken--the marble statues melt into silent shadows of the human form, and flitting forth in pairs and groups, they wander over their once loved home. They seek their familiar haunts; they search for the objects of their love; and each shadow as it passes, whispers, _gone_: and returning to their places, their forms resume their marble lineaments, and stand once more cold monuments of their former selves. Such indeed is the human mind. First comes youth's genial season; hopes linked with loves in happy pairs, wander around the smiling scene, which fancy decks with flowers. Here joy dancing to the song of mirth, lightly whiles his hours away; there young affections and gentle thoughts, like virgin sisters of a primeval race, pursue their quiet way to the bright abode which fancy hath created so beautiful and fair. But at length sorrow comes to breathe its spell. How many hopes, and loves, and pure affections, and pleasant thoughts, are changed and gone! Inurned in icy coldness, they are sepulchered in memory's cave; and yet, perhaps, some simple word of other times is breathed, its spell evokes departed joys and buried loves. Dim shadows of the past arise--they fleeting come. But fancy too is changed; it no longer forms the gay creations of its youth, but fills its gloomy fields with pictures at which the heart doth shrink. The very thoughts for which we sighed, are now without a home, and seek to pass away.

ALPHA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

The following lines were found, written in a "delicate bird-quill hand," on a blank leaf on the Petrarch of one, among the prettiest of my fair cousins. The authoress perhaps caught a certain quaintness of expression from the strained verses of the Italian lover; but the idea I am inclined to believe original, notwithstanding the assertion "This was stolen from Boccacio," with which the lines are capped. Stevens, the Puck of commentators, asks "What has truth or nature to do with sonnets?" and Byron echoes the question. There may be some truth in this, though the opinion of the first sprung from hatred towards Malone, and that of the latter from chagrin at his own want of success. If the proper characteristic of the sonnet be an artificial quaintness, my cousin has succeeded admirably,--which I presume Mr. White will have too much gallantry to deny.

THE CREATION OF THE ANTELOPE.

The tone of coming Ariel's voice was sweet
To wise Prospero; he had flown the girth
Of this green sphere, and gifts from wave and earth
Were bound with flowers upon his pinions fleet,
As singing came he to his master's feet.
Four aspen leaves plucked in the shivering north--
The Palmiste bough and fruit--of eastern birth--
And leaf of Abelè--a thorny sheet--
Were there: And in a cask of quaint device
Was pent the flash thrown from the gaudy plume
Of Sopor's empress-bird, of thousand dyes--
Then by this flash begot--from glamour's womb,
Gleamed into being two most gorgeous eyes
Like those twin stars that lit creation's gloom.

And hoofs most delicate the wise man wrought
Of Ariel's gift of restless aspen leaves:
And skilfully as slim Tarantul' weaves
The curtain to her silken couch, soon brought
The sheet of Abelè to beauty: naught
Torn from Earth's Edens by his wily thieves
So soothed their master as this gem of leaves!
With downy softness from his magic caught,
It lay a snowy skin. Next of the bough
And fruit pluck'd from the Palmiste's sinewy stem,
A neck and graceful head formed he: Life's glow
Then tinged each vein. "'Tis done--gleam thou bright gem,"
Pleased Prospero said, "on Hemalaya's brow,
A living jewel to his diadem!"

E. D.

{217}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.--NO. 3.

BY A VIRGINIAN.

_Pittsfield, Mass., July 26th, 1834_.

One means by which Prussian tyranny sought to break down the spirit and health of Baron Trenck, during his long and rigorous imprisonment at Magdeburg, was to have him roused by a sentinel, every fifteen minutes of his sleeping hours. You can form a lively conception of the efficacy of the plan, if you have ever been compelled by exhausted nature to woo her "sweet restorer" in a stage-coach, over a very uneven road: but what think you of dozing it _outside_, on the driver's seat? Instead of _two_ this morning, the waiter called me at _one_; when I had not slept a single wink--("sleepless myself, to give my readers sleep.") Sickened by the motion of the close and crowded coach, I presently mounted beside the driver; where drowsiness soon overcame me. So, tying one arm with my handkerchief to the iron on the stage roof, I took, for about two hours, such slumber as was permitted by the heavings of our vehicle, on a hilly road: such slumber, as one might enjoy while tossed in a blanket, or "upon the high and giddy mast," rocking his brains, "in cradle of the rude imperious surge." On fully awaking, half an hour before sunrise, I found we were ascending a mountain (part of the Green Mountain,) by a gentle slope of three or four degrees, continuing for six miles. The scenery, (wildly picturesque in itself,) bursting thus suddenly upon the view, was particularly striking. Indeed, no day of my tour has presented a greater number of boldly beautiful landscapes. That I never try to spread these beauties upon my page, you must ascribe to the fear that they would but 'evanish' in the endeavor, and by no means to any profane contempt--unpardonable, you know according to Dr. Beattie, for

--------"the boundless store
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields;
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even;
All that the mountains sheltering bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of Heaven"--

I most devoutly worship them all. But humbler themes befit and demand my pen.

It is a New England custom, to bury all the dead of a township, or of a certain subdivision of it, in a common grave yard; usually, not within any village, and apart from any church. This yard is enclosed with a wall; and every grave is marked by a stone (commonly hewn marble,) with a neat and simple inscription of name and years, supplying "the place of fame and elegy." By a sort of tacit consent, each family is allowed to cluster its dead together in a separate portion of the ground; sometimes in a capacious vault, marked with the family name. The curious may at any time find an hour's amusement--aside from the more serious thoughts proper to the place--in reading, on the tombstones, the surnames common and peculiar to New England, and the Christian names--mostly scriptural--betokening the original and enduring sway of Puritanism. A southerner naturally wonders why the grave yards are without the villages. To an inquiry of mine into the reason, a _'cute_ female (evidently far wiser than her husband, who was also in company,) answered, that it was "to accommodate those who live at a distance." How it did this--or how, if the distant on one side were accommodated, those on the other were not equally incommoded--my sage instructress did not expound. The village itself (at least its ordinary _nucleus_, the meeting-house) is usually central to the town, for the equal convenience of all. It seems more probable that _health_, and the readier command of space, influence the location of burying grounds.

One of the objects that have struck me most pleasingly, is the _Liberty Pole_, in almost every village. Its use is to hoist a flag upon, on the Fourth of July, and other festal days. It figures exquisitely in "McFingal"--that best poem, of its length, that America has produced; so often quoted for Hudibras, and so inadequately honored, not only in the south, but here, in its native north. Do take down the book, or, if you have it not, go straight and buy it; turn to the second or third canto--I forget which--and be grave if you can, while you read how the Tory hero "fierce sallied forth" attended by

"His desperate clan of tory friends:
When sudden met his angry eye
A pole ascending thro' the sky:--"

the ceremonies of its rearing and consecration; the attack, not _wordy_ alone, of the hero upon it; his inglorious discomfiture; his wadling flight,

("With legs and arms he worked his course,
Like rider that outgoes his horse;")

his fall, and decoration with tar and feathers; the hoisting of the tory constable by a rope fastened to his waistband,

"Till, like the earth, as stretched on tenter,
He hung, self-balanced, on his centre;"

where, as Socrates (according to a witty comic poet of his day) got himself swung in mid air to clear his perceptions,

"Our culprit thus in purer sky,
With like advantage raised his eye;
And looking forth in prospect wide,
His _tory errors clearly spied_."

I had enjoyed so many a laugh at the whole scene, that when a Liberty Pole was first shown me (at Hartford) by an interesting fellow traveller, it required all my phlegm to refrain from clapping my hands with pleasure.

* * * * *

_Albany, July 27_.

It was nearly eleven--two hours later than usual--when we arrived last night. A series of little casualties delayed us: a thunder storm, quite as magnificent as most that we have in Virginia, only our thunder and lightning are far superior; a tree, of eight or nine inches diamater, blown across the road by a _semi_-tornado that accompanied the cloud; and divers other detentions. The storm met us near the top of a mountain, upon the line of Massachusetts and New York; obliging us to halt, and fend off the rain as best we might, by buttoning down the curtains. The descent hitherward, winds, for perhaps a mile, along the steep mountain side; commanding a fine view of the pretty village of Lebanon, and its prettier valley. Near Lebanon is a settlement of Shakers. The only incivility I have {218} yet experienced from a stage driver, was a few miles this side of Lebanon; when, availing myself of a brief halt at a hotel to get some refreshment, I received an indistinct notice that the stage could not wait: and a minute or two after, some one called to me, "you are left, sir!" On going to the door, sure enough, the horses were in a sweeping trot, twenty or thirty yards (or, as they say here, four or five rods) off. I soon overtook them; and was admitted, the driver surlily grumbling at the unreasonableness of expecting him to _wait all day_. He was soured by being so late. And whoever considers how nice a point of honor--aye, and of duty, and interest--it is with that fraternity to be punctual, will not blame him very severely. They have been civil and obliging to me; the one by whom I slept yesterday morning, was even kind.

So well established is this good character of New England stage drivers, that ladies often travel by stage for scores of miles, with no other protector. And the driver does protect them, vigilantly. Every way, however, the freedom with which females trust themselves abroad there, and in the south, is remarkably different. I have seen handsome young ladies, of refined appearance, driving in a chaise, with no male attendant, to a town seven or eight miles from their home. And such things are of every day occurrence, attracting no especial notice. This freedom arises, I believe, from several causes. It is unquestionably owing, in part, to the sober, honest, and peaceful habits of the people, and to the certainty, that any wrong or insult offered to a female, would be promptly resented and punished; as in Ireland, under the reign of Brien the Brave, a beautiful damsel, richly attired, could walk alone, safe and fearless, from end to end of the kingdom.[1] Contiguity of residences aids this effect. Then, in the country villages of the north, there are many more ladies than gentlemen, from the emigration of the latter westward, and from their resorting to the maritime cities and to the ocean, for trade and seafaring employment. Besides, New Englanders have less time for pleasure than we have; and no Virginian will deny that "to tend the fair" is a _pleasure_. But the freedom of female movements is partly attributable also to the prevalence, among the New England men, of a less tender and obsequious _manner_ at least, towards the fair sex, than southrons habitually shew. They do not practise those minute, delicate attentions--that semi-adoration--ingrained in the very constitutions of our well bred men. (Not dandies--I speak of _men_.) Indeed our claim to superiority may be pushed still further. In affability to inferiors, our northern brethren are decidedly behind us. In their middling and lower classes, nay and in the lower _tier_ of their upper classes, this short-coming is particularly discernible: and extends even to their deportment towards equals. Clowns and servants--I beg pardon--"_helps_"--seem not to expect, or to relish, the courtesy which, in the Old Dominion, every true gentleman pays to the poorest man. Soon after entering the country, I found it necessary, if I would have respect from them, to abate much of the respectful address, which habit had rendered essential to my own comfort. Can these deficiencies of manner--supposing them to exist--and _my_ belief of them is confirmed by that of others--be ascribed to the utter proscription of _duelling_--that vaunted nurse of courtesy? I should rather attribute them to three other causes. _First_--a dislike to outward displays of emotion; a hard-featured sturdiness of soul, which, content to _feel_ kindly and deeply, and to _act_ kindly too in things of solid import, forgets or disdains the petty blandishments of _manner_, as idle forms, often the offspring of deceit, and unworthy of a mind bent upon substantial good. This estimable, but unamiable trait--derived purely from his sire, John Bull--makes Jonathan disliked on a superficial view. But those who consider him with candid attention, and bearing in mind the true saying of honest Kent, that

"They are not empty-hearted, whose low sound
Reverbs no hollowness"--

perhaps find the unsightly iron casket stored with the richest jewels. _Second_--(a less creditable cause; applicable only to the imputed want of courtesy towards inferiors)--The employment of whites, as servants. A master cannot treat these as his equals: it is utterly incompatible with the relation. His demeanor towards them, he naturally extends to their kindred, and to their class; that is, to all the poor around him. According to that general principle of divine wisdom and goodness, which, by a counterpoise of good and evil, equalizes every human lot, the blighting curse of slavery seems to carry this mitigation along with it--a more delicate and scrupulous regard, in the free, to even the _minute_ gratification of their fellow-free. Hence--and from their greater leisure to cultivate _manner_--chiefly arises, we may suppose, the superiority of slave-holders in the several points of politeness. Just so, according to Montesquieu, good-manners characterize a monarchy. Those who can see in this, a recompense either for a privation of the glorious right of self-government, or for the unmeasured ills entailed by domestic slavery upon a community, are welcome to the consolation. _Third_--(applicable, like the last, only to intercourse with inferiors)--the system of electioneering practised in the northern states. Usage and public opinion allow no man to declare himself a candidate for office. His doing so, would be political suicide. He must be _nominated_ by a CAUCUS--or CONVENTION, as "ears polite" now require it to be called. The convention is got up in this wise: One, or two, or three, tolerably influential men, having a friend whom they wish to exalt, call a private meeting of those over whom their influence especially is, and after insinuating his merits into the minds assembled, get a resolution passed, for a general _caucus_, of the whole party, in the _town_, or election district. All who were at the private meeting, bestir themselves diligently to congregate at the caucus, such persons, chiefly, as they, or some of them, can control: and in this they are so successful, that a nomination there, of the individual designated by the first movers of the scheme, is almost sure to result. This nomination goes abroad, as made by a _meeting of the people_; and unless some more skilfully conducted or powerfully headed counter movement take place, our candidate may count with reasonable certainty upon his election. Such is the machinery by which aspirants get themselves hoisted into office; as explained to me by one familiar with it--who had actually profitted by it more than once--and who owned that it was rather a shabby {219} feature in the politics of his country. All aspirants, therefore, (and in our country, how few are not so--openly or covertly!) pay court, not to the people at large, but only to the known leaders of the caucus. Contemning the passive wires and puppets, they regard only the hand that works them. Thus the commonality, losing their importance in elections, lose their strongest hold upon the civility of their superiors. I need not run out the process. 'Twere well, if deprivation of bows, and smiles, and kind words, were all that the million suffer by the caucus system. But, by rendering them _insignificant in the body politic_, that system threatens popular government itself with overthrow. I wish, I long, to see my fellow Virginians copy our brethren of the north in many things: but _this system_, may they shun as the cholera! May they always adhere to their own frank and manly plan, of having the candidate appear before them, and face to face declare his sentiments and manifest his ability to defend the great interests with which he asks to be entrusted!

[Footnote 1: See T. Moore's Irish Melody--

"Rich and rare were the gems she wore."]

While talking of _manners_, it would have been seasonable to speak of the _impertinent inquisitiveness_, commonly ascribed to the Yankees. I have seen no trace of the fault: not even so much as our own people sometimes shew. While on foot, in the country, I was sometimes asked _where I was from_; but it was always where the question was suggested and justified by the course of conversation, or by the tenor and number of my own inquiries; or, to furnish a starting place for our colloquy--a platform whence to toss the ball of discourse: never, in a manner the least abrupt or offensive. Among the better classes, such as are casually met in stage-coaches and hotels, there was all the delicate forbearance in this respect, which marks true politeness every where.

Again--Our brother Jonathan is reputed, with us, a great sharper. _Yankee tricks_, and _Yankee knavery_, are ideas inseparable from the word _Yankee_. Now my own experience does not enable me to add a single one to the catalogue of anecdotes, by which that characteristic is supposed to be proven. Not a single cheat--not a single trick--was practised upon me during my sojourn in Yankee land: unless, indeed, it was so adroitly done, as to have been hitherto imperceptible to me. The fact is, our ideas on this point are derived almost entirely from those delectable samples of honesty, ycleped "Yankee pedlers," who for many years have so swarmed over the south: a race, by whom their countrymen at home protest, with hands uplift, against being judged; and by whom, in very truth, it is no more fair to judge them, than it would be to judge of us by the vilest scum of our society, who may have fled to Carolina or the Western forests, from the just punishment of their crimes, or from the detestation that dogged their vices.

It hardly needs be said--common fame loudly enough proclaims--that religion flourishes in New England, as much as in any part of the world. Yet it does not obtrude itself upon the traveller's notice. It is a quiet, Sabbath-keeping, morals-preserving, good-doing, and heaven-serving religion, free from several extravagancies, that have elsewhere crept into christianity. Meetings for eight, ten, or twelve days together, and suspending, meanwhile, all attention to important secular duties, I have not seen or heard of: even a meeting at all, on a working day, did not meet my view during the (nearly) four weeks of my stay; except funerals. The people seem to think both parts of the third commandment alike binding: "_Six days shalt thou labor_," as well as "_Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy_." Dancing is by no means proscribed, or unusual. It is taught at many or most of the high female boarding schools. Even in Connecticut, "junkettings" are not unfrequent, lively enough to have pleased our venerable Pendleton, yet "soberly" enough conducted, to have suited Lady Grace. At New Haven, within bowshot of Yale College, a dance was kept up for two successive nights till eleven or twelve o'clock, in an apartment just across the street from my lodging. True, I have seen no match for my father's friend and mine, Dr. K----, who, since the birth of his seventh grandchild, has so often realized that pleasing trait in the picture of French rural life--

"And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore,
Has frisked beneath the burthen of three score;"

but I saw as great a wonder, in a church last Sunday. The music struck me as particularly fine; I doubted not that it was an organ; till, looking up to the gallery, there sat a gentleman scraping away with might and main _upon a violin_, and another upon a bass viol: accompanied by a flute, and an admirably tuned choir. "Our armies swore terribly in Flanders:" but it was nothing to the deep, anathematizing abomination with which some "unco guid" folks of my acquaintance (not of yours) would have beheld this uncommon mode of "hymning the great Creator." Even me, it affected very singularly: I thought of the war-lock-dance in Kirk Alloway; of Auld Nick in shape of "towsie tyke, black, grim and large," whose province it was to "gie them music;" how

"He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl;"
While "hornpipes, jigs, strathpeys and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels:"
"Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'
Which e'en to name wad be unlawfu':"

and I did not know what catastrophe might ensue, from the profanation. Happily, however, none occurred.

In the formalities of piety, the descendants of the Pilgrims are radically changed from the puritanical strictness of their forefathers. The quaint names, indeed, are retained; but the straight-lacedness they imply is gone: you find _Leah_, or _Naomi_, upon near approach, to be as arch a lass, and _Jeremiah_, or _Timothy_, as merry a grig, as any Sally, or Betty, Tom, or Bob, south of the Potomac.

No one in Massachusetts is any longer compelled by law to pay for the support of religion, its temples, or its ministers. The law, requiring the citizen to do so, only letting him choose the sect or the minister to whom his contribution should enure, was repealed last year. Each religious _society_--answering to _congregation_ with us--has a sort of _corporate_ faculty, involving the power to tax its members for church expenses, and to coerce payment by distress if it be withheld. Even this is a stride towards hierarchy from which _our_ lawgivers have shrunk ever since 1785; and which our people will probably never permit.

I must say more to you, of the goodly land I have {220} just left. My having quitted it, need subtract nothing from the credit attached to my observations: for I shall touch no topic, which is not as fresh in my mind, and as susceptible of truthful representation, as if the local scene itself stretched around me. Adieu

From the Western Monthly Magazine.

AMERICAN LITERATURE.--ITS IMPEDIMENTS.

We live in a country pre-eminently rich in mental and physical resources. We have whatever internally or externally is requisite to promote national greatness and prosperity. We live in the full possession and enjoyment of a government founded on the experience of the past, and reared by the genius and wisdom of an unrivalled ancestry. The mind here blooms and grows under the protecting wings of the Genius of Freedom--its native boldness and vigor unrestrained. Here it may be aroused to all that is noble in enterprise, or excellent in virtue. Here the aliments of its growth are as rich and as inspiriting, as they are abundant. It enjoys the choice fruit of the loftiest minds of departed ages; and may feast on the wisdom and learning of every modern age. It enjoys the bland influence of the christian spirit; and may attain a superior standard in moral greatness and power. But these are not the only advantages which tend to the development of American mind. In whatever direction we gaze, nature's beauties, as profuse and lovely as the stars of the sky, meet the vision. We behold landscape after landscape, enchanting beyond measure; the graceful undulations of luxuriant prairies; tall forests, clothed in the magnificent robes of summer, or cheerless with the storms of winter; noble and beautiful rivers, over whose placid waters genius and enterprise have scattered the wonders and researches of science; towering mountains, fairy groves, and silver-sparkling lakes. Add to these, the wild traditions of a people unknown to former minds: traditions, over which curiosity loves to linger, and philosophy to speculate; traditions, which, imbodying the terrific, the romantic, and the ennobling of the savage state, throw over the page of fiction a charm and an interest, enchanting and enchaining.

From this view, we might indulge the prophetic thought, that our national mind would attain to the highest degree of intellectual pre-eminence. Now, the mind is the prime source of literature, creating it, and giving to it an enduring form. If all its powers are fully developed in their varied beauty and might, that literature to which it gives character, will be of an exalted nature. Should then our national mind be made to appreciate its advantages, it naturally follows, that our literature will be all that is grand and sublime--will soar to the loftiest summit of the Olympian mount. But whatever will have a tendency to pervert these advantages, to draw the mind into pursuits below its real nature, will impede its growth. We behold around us such impediments. It shall be our object to exhibit a few of them, feeling convinced that if the obstacles which retard the transit of our literature in its ascent to greatness, be once known and surmounted, its destiny will be bright and glorious.

Individual character is the combined result of early impressions. The same is true in regard to national character. Whatever most influences the young mind, gives tone to its future action. Those circumstances, which most excite and agitate the mind of a nation, likewise mould and shape its future action. What has most deeply interested the American mind? If we trace back the chain of our history to the fearless days of our infancy, we shall find that its absorbing interests have been of a political nature. True, there were some minds among that matchless band of our New England ancestry, who, with the great volume of nature open before them, wrote with a spirit of inspiration, and soared to the high heavens of literature. They were few in number. We need not ask what now moves and engrosses the thoughts and feelings of the American mind. We need not now ask what form of character it is fast assuming: for it is truly becoming a political mind. Now, what will be the effect of such a cast of intellect in impeding the march of our literature, is obvious to any one of common discernment. The _mind_ that would create an exalted literature, should drink at all the fountains of knowledge; should be clothed in forms of grace and loveliness; should have all its powers and faculties developed; its delicate and masculine, its placid, its stormy and religious: it should be like Phidias' Minerva, perfect in all its proportions. Political pursuits do not produce _this mind_. If we examine them, we shall find their elements to be the united effects of _bad_ ambition and immature intellect. It is true, they encourage activity of mind; but it is not that kind of activity which develops its beauties and majesty. That mental action which they promote, has its origin in lawless passions, in inordinate and ungenerous emulation. The political aspirant of the day is attracted by the false glory which beams around our political temple, and thinks no means too low, too debased, to gain entrance there. It is true, politics may bring into the field of competition, timid and shrinking intellect; but they do not impart to it a masculine boldness and nobleness. They train it to deeds of cunning and hypocrisy. We have reference now to the general politics of the age. Party strifes, the natural result of excess in politics, keep the mind in an unhealthy state: at one time raising it to the highest pitch of excitement; at another, causing the most extreme depression. That calm serenity, which moderates and chastens its powers, passions and emotions, is a stranger in a political contest. That mind, inured to party feelings and party interests, can never attain its full vigor and manhood--such is the nature of excess in political pursuits. We would ask, do they cause a full development of the mental powers? Do they awaken the fancy? Do they clothe human thoughts in radiant and brilliant robes? Do they promote mental research? Do they create pure and soaring eloquence? or tune the lyre of poesy to notes celestial? Let the genius of American Literature, as she wings her slow flight upwards, give the answer.

This political spirit, contagious and diffusive in its nature, has spread itself throughout the entire frame of our government. All classes of society, from the proudest to the humblest spheres of life, have imbibed it, feel it, and act under its influence. It composes the chief interests, and engages the active feelings, of almost every community. Who can be insensible to the fact, that our universal mind has already assumed a political character? The aspect of the times prove it beyond the shadow of a doubt. The consequences to our {221} literature are obvious. The majority of our gifted, shining minds, prefer the honors of state to classic fame--rush headlong into fierce unnatural intellectual conflicts, rather than enjoy the calm, soul-ennobling, and sublime strifes of literary pursuit. The goddess of learning is uncourted in her temple. Pure mental illumination shines only on a few isolated spots. Public taste, which may be styled the protectress of literature in every country, instead of being refined and elevated, is corrupted and debased. In short, our literary mind, which, under the influence of our free institutions, might, like the eagle, soar with might and majesty, is chained down and impeded in its action.

It cannot be expected, that such a state of society would patronize noble, intellectual effort. Genuine literary merit, is unnoticed amid the whirl of party. The beauteous and serene beams of the star of science, are lost in the dazzling brightness of the political sun. How feeble the inducement held out in our land to the poet, the historian, or philosopher! The reading portion of our population is but a trifle, compared with the whole. We have a few mature minds, who, soaring above the common level, have taken their seats in the halls of literary eminence. Are they appreciated? Their names are unknown to a majority of the various classes of society? Who read the classic and eloquent orations of Webster and Everett, full of deep principles and splendid thoughts? Who, the placid, flowing and pathetic verse of Bryant, whose thoughts, so melancholy, yet so beautiful, steal over the soul like evening music on the still water? Who are delighted with the brilliant imagery, and chaste conceptions of _Cooper_ and _Irving_? Their productions, the results of long, close, and patient thought, serve for parlor-ornaments, and parlor-reading. They are not studied; and who, without studying, can master the real, pure meaning of a fine thought? A work on modern philosophy is rarely seen, even among the learned circles of society: it never reaches the great mass. How could it be otherwise, when the general mind is agitated and convulsed by political strifes! How could it be otherwise, when all that is beautiful in the heart, and sunshine in the intellect, is debased and destroyed?

We may be told, that learning has flourished in other countries, under similar inauspicious influences; that the mightiest geniuses the world has ever seen, wrote their superior works under the frowns of patronage. They were exceptions to all rule. There are few minds cast in the same moulds as those of Cervantes, Petrarch, Dante, Shakspeare, and Milton. If we mark the history of mankind, we will find, that there are now and then, in almost every nation, some unconquerable minds that would, in spite of circumstance, illumine the world. But the principle is a natural one. Mankind are fond of the fame of the moment; self-love is the predominant feature of human character. Men, in general, live not for posthumous glory. The present is more selfish than past ages. There is something exhilarating, spirit-stirring in the smiles and praises of our own countrymen. Genius, or _holy ambition_, then, cannot be aroused to vigorous action, unpatronized. Let it not be supposed, that we would have the mind think for gold. We would have it write,--and it would write, and that, too, with an immortal pen, in lofty and impassioned strains,--under the favor and good-feeling of society. But how can the literary mind be thus stimulated, when the general feeling of society is diametrically opposite to its interests? As well might we ascribe the splendid and magnificent architecture of the pantheon, to the skill and workmanship of the unlettered barbarian. We would not be misunderstood. We would not have our political interests forgotten. We would have them engage a share, but not the universal mind of the nation. We would have communities feel the same degree of interest in literary as in political greatness. We would have them combined; for their united results will increase our power, and throw around the arch of our glory, a radiance, lovely and sublime.

What periods in the history of mankind, are most distinguished for mental superiority? When did Grecian literature assume its brightest charms? Who has studied the character of the Pereclean age, and not experienced feelings of inexpressible delight, as he then beheld the mind in its noblest form? Then, the true value of mind was appreciated, and its efforts liberally patronized. Munificent gifts were the reward of mental exertion. Then, all grades of society, on the return of their Olympia, assembled with joyful hearts, to celebrate the festivities of mind. Then, art shone in original splendor; and science, in utility and nobleness, was unrivalled. Then, the muses were courted in their heavenly abodes, and Grecian poetry breathed a spirit of immortality. The tragedies of _Euripides_ and _Sophocles_ still illume the path of the modern dramatist. Then, the poor of Athens listened to the instructions of the divine _Socrates_. Then, the sacred groves and shades resounded to the eloquence of _Plato_, as the 'soul of philosophy' flowed from his lips. Then, Athens became the magnificent sun of all antiquity. It was no political age. All literary eras of the modern world, are analagous to the Pereclean of the ancient world. The most resplendent galaxys of modern mind have shone in times of the greatest literary feeling and patronage.

But this political influence of national feelings and interests will not be confined to the people. It will, indeed it has, entered within the walls of our academies and universities. Now, it is founded in reason and experience, that in the morning bloom of a literature, there is most need of active mental vigor. It requires untiring and unrelenting strength, to raise the stately pyramid. Alladin's magic lamp of Arabian story, is not an inheritance of this age. Such strength is in youthful mental cultivation. This invigorating influence must then come from our seats of learning. They are to our literature, what the consecrated groves and shades of Athens were to the Grecian--the resort of its protecting spirits. Here, the mind should be trained to action, should commence its acquisitions in knowledge. Here, it should be taught to think, and to feel, with depth and sublimity. Here, a fondness for whatever is great or commanding in human thoughts, should be created. Here, the characteristic features of such minds as Shakspeare and Milton, Newton and Franklin, should be studied; for like bright stars they will shed a cheering light on the obscure wanderings of the youthful intellect. When such is the case, and it never can fail to be, if our universities preserve their characters, the success of American literature will rest on a steadfast foundation. But such cannot be, when their interests and those of the people run in counter channels. In a {222} republic, where public opinion works such magic spells, it is the interest of the minority to yield to its sway. Upon a principle of human nature, the weak cling to the strong. Can, then, our colleges maintain their high, original standing? They must conform, in some degree, to the feelings of the mass of society. Besides, the youth who resort to them, come from the people, and must necessarily bear with them the malady of the people. Who will deny, that this political spirit is now, in many instances, the great stimulus of the American student? He seldom turns his aspiring gaze toward the celestial mount of the muses. He looks abroad upon society, and marks its character. His grasping mind longs for fame. He beholds but one road to eminence--the political. He beholds the splendid career of the mighty intellects of the land; marks a growing and powerful people doing them reverence; hears their name trumpeted by a thousand tongues; and like the Grecian hero, whose slumbers were troubled by the trophies of Miltiades, he burns for action. Nor is this all. In the political world, he sees mind battling with mind; all life, all activity, the congenial elements of panting, fiery ambition. In the literary world, he sees the mind pursuing a silent, unobserved, noiseless march; and not dreaming of the unfading brightness of its matured glories, he disdains its pursuits as unworthy of his attention. The result is natural. The grand, animating, and powerful thoughts of the splendid intellects of the past and the present, which, when sought, come all eloquent from the living page, never breathe their inspiriting energies into his mind. His course being finished, he rushes, full of sanguine hope, on the theatre of action, unskilled and unprepared. His success hangs on a point. An inordinate ambition urges him onward; he faces the storms and tempests, and opposes the thousand counter currents which run in, and keep in perpetual commotion the mountain wave of the political sea. His career is about closing, and, as he imagines, the diadem of glory about settling on his forehead; by some unforeseen stroke of bad fortune, he is hurled from his high elevation, sinks, and falls, and is heard of no more. In this way, many minds meet an unhonored and untimely end--minds, that might have proved great and useful to society--minds, which might have illuminated the arts and sciences with improved splendor--minds, which might have been 'founts of beauty' to our literature.

What preserves, in its original strength and grandeur, the rich and massy arch of German literature? The incomparable exertions of the German student. The German student! whose mind knows no other commune than the thoughts of the mighty dead. The German student! who knows the power and majesty of truth, and thinks no care, nor labor, too great to possess it; and whose intellectual eye takes in all that is lovely and sublime in creation. The universities of Germany are unequalled in the world. Is it wonderful that its literature is unequalled? But they are supported by the good feeling of society. Let then the current of public feeling be changed in our beloved land; let the American mind feel sensible of the importance of youthful mental cultivation; let the youthful intellect be taught to ascribe as much value, as much greatness, and as much immortality, to literary as to political interests. Let this be done, and our universities will surpass even those of Germany; will furnish to their country, instead of Schillers and Goethes, their prototypes, Shakspeares and Miltons.

But apart from these impediments to American literature, there is another. It glares in the face of every one. It lies in the periodical press. The benefits and glories of the press are familiar to every mind. Disseminating knowledge with unexampled rapidity, its influence is spread over and reaches the extreme borders of society. Being a universal mental aliment, it moulds, and fashions, and directs the thoughts and feelings of the man. Thousands on thousands of minds are developed by its effects, never enjoying any other. To the growing, varied classes of our society, it is the only light of information. How important that its action be pure, healthy, and vigorous! How important that it be the vehicle of virtuous and elevated thought! How important that it send forth on its hundred rapid wings and eloquence, which, like the written eloquence of the lamented Grimke, more enduring than marble or brass, should beautify the affections, and arouse to glorious action the intellect of this and coming ages! Thus mighty in its influence, and thus important in its character, it cannot maintain too high, too noble a standard. It should imbody whatever is great and excellent in human thought. It should teach the people how to apply the principles of science to the arts; and, therefore, should ever preserve, with vestal care, the temple of learning. In short, it should be the tribunal of public taste--an ordeal of criticism--severe, but highminded. Such being its characteristics, the periodical press will be the strongest pillar that shall support the towering fabric of our literature. It cannot fail to be, because through its instrumentality, public feeling is formed and swayed; and we have seen, that the right direction of this feeling will ever insure permanent, liberal, literary patronage. But what is the general character of this branch of the press? Is it a fountain from which flows the pure streams of knowledge? Is it a messenger of eloquent and exalted thoughts? Is it a friend to literature, or the efforts of original and powerful mind? Facts speak to the contrary. The majority of our periodicals, bear upon their very face, a political stamp. They contain in their broad folds, no more than the creations of rankling and disappointed passion, of unripened and undeveloped intellect. Do such minds as Johnson and Addison, spread beauty and interest through their columns? How paltry, how much to be lamented the spirit of their criticisms!--They breathe the essence of fanaticism. True, we have a few quarterlys and monthlys, that rise above the ordinary grade, and will compare, in all the excellencies of thought, with any productions of the kind, in any country or clime. The North American Review, is a fair and splendid specimen of what should characterize that department of our literature. Who ever closed its pages, beaming with a sun-like brilliancy, without having, in some degree, his knowledge enriched, his taste refined, his thoughts enlarged, and his intellect expanded? But shining only on the high peaks of society, its glorious beams never find their way to the mass: its influence, amid the universal debasement of the press, is unseen, unfelt. We have, likewise, a few literary papers; but in the delicate idea and beautiful expression of one of the contributors of the {223} Magazine, they are the mere "sprays of the intellectual wave." We repeat it, the periodical press is, in the strongest sense of the word, political. Now, it is plain to every observing mind, that being the most influential, it should be the purest and noblest portion of our literature. How far it falls short of such a standard, our national mind has fatally experienced. Our country's glory and pride, our own genius, our own talent, call loudly and decidedly for a reformation.

We have now set forth a faint view of some of the impediments to the growth of American literature. We have seen, that political pursuits do not tend to the full development and vigor of the mind, and that without such a cast of mind, there cannot be eloquent and sublime mental action. We have seen, that our nation's mind is absorbed in political interests; in short, that the age is too political. We would ask, if there is no necessity of a change? He who feels the heavenly glow of patriotic devotion, and hopes to see his country the brightest star in the firmament of modern glory, will return an affirmative response.

Our literature has not, as yet, assumed any permanent form. Its features are just beginning to develope. What character it will take, we cannot judge with any degree of certainty. Now, it is a familiar principle, that in the formation of the mind, there is need of the most unceasing care and attention, to shape and direct its budding energies to virtue and excellence. Let the American mind have this attention, and we have a literature purer, nobler, and richer, than has ever illumined mankind. Do we desire a glorious immortality? And is not literary immortality--the mind set forth in visible, enchanting, and enduring forms--far more desirable, than political? How has the greatness and grandeur of all antiquity, been perpetuated? Who will compare the Pereclean age of Greece--an age, as we have seen, when literature shone purely, brightly--with those that followed, when political feuds rent every state? Who will compare the fame of Homer, the mirror-mind of the ancient world, with the most distinguished politician of antiquity? of Milton, with that of Cromwell? of Shakspeare, with that of the profoundest statesman of the Elizabethan age. Political glory, is as the short-lived plant--literary, as the majestic oak. Political glory, is as the flashing meteor--literary, as the splendor of the noon-day sun.

H. J. G.

From Mrs. Jamieson's Visits and Sketches.

THE INDIAN MOTHER.[1]

There is a comfort in the strength of love,
Making that pang endurable, which else
Would overset the brain--or break the heart.
_Wordsworth_.