cally and minutely. Their narratives, in the language of their times, in every size, from the ponderous folios of Cotton Mather, to the modest pamphlet of his relation Increase, are precisely the auxiliaries desiderated by the compiler of romance, who would borrow their power from the muses, of giving to his inventions a resemblance to reality, and exhibiting 'truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.' Ἴδμεν ψεύδεα πολλὰ λέγειν ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα We seek, almost hopelessly, for such materials, elsewhere throughout the country; but must resort to oral tradition, or the pages of some general history, which present no living pictures of men or their manners. As adminicles of testimony, on this point, I again refer to the works, noticed at the commencement of this article. Captain Mason and Captain Kyd, the murder of Miss M'Rae and the abortive attempt to seize Arnold in his quarters, with several other names and incidents of peculiar interest, are happily introduced by these authors; sufficiently so, at least, to show what might be made of them, in a more elaborate effort. Themes for the ludicrous, as a part of the province of fiction, are also abundant in the records and remembrances of our past history, and in the former and present state of society in different parts of our country. It is hardly necessary to mention as illustrations, M'Fingal and Knickerbocker, Rip Van Winkle, the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, &c. I ought, perhaps, to adduce, the Long Finne, also, as an example. But I candidly confess, that having asked many times what it was meant to demonstrate,' and having never received a satisfactory answer, I have not yet spent my judgment upon its perusal. These instances show what may be done; but it is obvious that much more remains unattempted. Nothing like the different kinds of humour, applied to the description of character, in the novels of Fielding, Smollet, or the author of Waverly, has yet been elicited here; where the variety of character and circumstances is so great, and in some respects so novel. The ground is scarcely broken. If some enterprizing Yankee, who has fought his way through the world, would only communicate all his adventures, from the time he left the interior of Connecticut,' with a light heart and a thin pair of breeches,' until he became a substantial man, and at ease in his possessions, and would entrust his manuscript to some ingenious and accomplished writer, who might recast and embellish it,—to such an one, for instance, as dramatised Captain Riley's Narrative,-we have no doubt he might draw tears, both of laughter and sentiment, from all who could read English. The history of witchcraft, to which the writer in this magazine alludes, might be employed for the purposes of either comic or tragic romance, though more adapted to the latter. A great deal was written on the subject, at the time it was in vogue, which would abundantly supply the wants of the novelist. The persecutions also of the Quakers and Baptists, and, indeed, of all who differed from themselves, by the sturdy Calvinists, who came over the water to enjoy that liberty of conscience, which they would allow to no one else, are minutely detailed, and might be used with effect in fiction. The writer next inquires, " without the traditionary associations connected with the strong features of nature in the old world, what could be made of them?" Seeming to imply, that the sublime and picturesque, grand and beautiful scenery of our own country, which is unconnected with legendary lore, affords no subjects, on which the imagination may dwell with delight. In the first place, as we have before stated, associations are not wanting; and in the next, we would ask, after the classical remembrances, which are common to all the enlightened nations of Christendom, what associations have we with most of the mountains, rivers and lakes, which have been sung in modern verse. We have surely a better acquaintance here with our own highlands, than with Skiddaw, Schehralion, or any other hill in Scotland. But we read and relish the descriptive poetry of Scott, solely for its own excellence. Can we not admire a beautiful landscape, without knowing from what country it is copied? Wherein, indeed, would we be wiser for the information, if we had never seen, and never heard of the original? And need we name Thompson, Beattie, Cowper, Wordsworth, and many other examples, to show that descriptive poetry can be created, without the scene deriving additional interest from history or tradition, or without, in truth, having any names, capable of being introduced into poetry? What associations have we with the Cumberland lakes? What kind of a name for a romantic river, is Duddon, which has, nevertheless, been taught to meander through many very pleasing sonnets? Or how many persons, except in those sonnets, ever heard of such a stream? For sound, it cannot compare with the Hudson; and the latter, by the way, through all its majestic course, is connected with many associations, for those who know how to feel and employ them. I do not, however, in denying these positions of this correspondent, intend, in any manner, to controvert the general doc trine for which he contends, that the extensive range of modern literature demands, in a writer who would acquire any permanent celebrity, a liberal acquaintance with the past history and present state of the literary world. I have no manner of respect for some stump philosophers of our own, who have seriously proposed that the importation of foreign books should be prohibited. The opposite system, however, may be carried too far. To go over all the ground that is behind, would be the labour of a life: to keep even pace with all the different authors, who are now shedding their lights, of different lustre, over Europe, would be impossible. Every fair in Germany, every annual catalogue published in England, presents us with almost a new library. But the scholar here, who would dedicate his time and talents to contributing to the establishment of a national literature, which should be characterized by simplicity and strength, must begin by making himself familiar with the manner of the ancient models, and of the founders of modern literature. The ornate, overloaded, obviously artificial, and often dissolute style of the lighter literature of the day, with its endless redundance, useless verbiage, and unmeaning allusions, affords no precedent for our primitial classics. It ought not to, and it is pleasant to observe that it does not, suit the genius of our nation; for those writers who have been most successful among ourselves, have been most distinguished for cultivated simplicity. The affected parade of superficial acquirements, and the actual possession of sound and general knowledge, are not easily confounded. It may be feared, however, that the foppish and ambitiously quaint style of some English Magazines, which circulate freely among us, may have a pernicious effect, in corrupting the taste of many, particularly the young. Let it be also observed, in passing, that though we have nothing, yet, which we can call, without hyperbole, national literature, much is to be learned respecting our country, with which a national writer, without wishing to become an antiquarian, ought to be acquainted, if he would not be thought shamefully ignorant. Surely, any thing relating to our continent, from Greenland to Cape Horn, is more interesting to an American, than the family history of some obscure chieftain, accounts of the crude superstitions of barbarians, with whom we have no associations, or memoirs on the obsolete customs of some tribe which has longest remained out of the pale of civilization; with all which the presses of modern times have been groaning. I contend, too, strenuously, for a point, which it scarcely seems necessary to urge, that a writer of talents, among our Vol. I. No. II. 18 own people, should devote his abilities and apply his acquirements to subjects of domestic interest; exclusively so, so far forth as his opportunities admit. Why should we do what others have done well before, and be content, at best, but with the praise of successful imitation? If an accomplished American travels, and records his adventures, and the feelings to which they gave birth, what can he say of the vestiges of antiquity which he visits, which has not been suggested before? He can, however, compare what he sees abroad, with what he left at home, and communicate, for the benefit of his countrymen, the result of such comparison, whether in their favour or against them. Is the historian to repeat the thrice-told tale of another people, when our own annals are imperfectly recorded? Is the political philosopher to be forever perplexed with the concerns of Europe, her rotten dynasties, conflicting interests, and compli cated finance, without turning to our own unparalleled institutions, on which no feudal system or fungous hierarchy ever operated with their unnatural influences; which have no ancient evils to remedy, but need only beware of the introduction of errors? It should be his task to detect the appearance, and warn against the result of such admissions; to point out the proper modes of applying the powerful energies and resources of our young empire, for the good of present and future generations. Is the poet to take up the burthen of a strain, with which the hills and groves of Europe have been vocal for ages, when nature, in her unpolluted simplicity and grandeur, invites him to the festival of imaginative feeling, in the bosom of her ancient solitudes? Is the novelist to describe manners, which he can glean only from books, when our own are before him, undepicted, though rich in all the materials of satire, description and romance? Can the painter or sculptor, (if any such we should have,) find no symmetry in the vanishing forms of our aborigines; no historical incident which might live on the canvass; no worthy whose reverend image should be perpetuated in enduring marble? The literature of a nation is its common property, and one of the strongest bonds of common feeling. More particularly does it become so, when the subject is domestic. The fame of an author who is universally admired, is part of the inheritance of every individual citizen of his country. He adds another ligament to the ties which bind a people together; and in so doing, although the immediate object of his efforts may have only been to amuse his readers, he becomes the benefactor of his country. With such reservations and comments, I willingly concede to the writer on modern literature,' the necessity of studying foreign examples; and devoutly wish that the prosecution of native literature may be conducted on principles as liberal as those he espouses. I hope, too, that he will comply with a promise, which he is so well able to perform, of lending his hand to the good work himself. Illustration, on such a subject, is better than theory. I cannot conclude an article on domestic literature, without expressing the joy with which every intelligent observer of the signs of the times, must mark the present indications of rapid advancement. As has been recently well observed by an elegant writer, we have no cause to blush, if our national pride rests as much on just anticipations, as on our recollections of what has been. With the promise held forth by the spirit of domestic improvement, which seems now spreading wide through our country, in every department, we may soon expect an æra, when the taunts of foreign criticism will be hushed; when apology will not be necessary, and recrimination will be idle; when we may point as proudly to the imperishable labours of genius, in the fields of literature, as we now do to the discoveries of our philosophers, the inventions of our mechanists, or the triumphs of our arms. MICHAEL HILDESHEIM, OR THE EVIL EFFECTS OF PROFANE SWEARING. A Tale from the German of Hans Von Hochberger. YOUNG Michael Hildesheim was the happiest man He loved her when his bosom first began But Michael dwelt contented with his wife, Enjoy her fortune only for her life, Which, on her dying without issue, would Michael had but one fault,-but that was great; |