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 roost 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, no! 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.

??

LOVE AND WAR IN THE WILDS OF CANADA.

A TALE OF 1756-8.

"Mark ye the flashing oars,

And the spears that light the deed;
Each hath brought back his shield,—
Maid, greet thy lover home."

On a brilliant starlight night towards the close of the summer of 1758, soon after the bell of the only small cathedral Montreal then contained, had chimed the hour of midnight, there might be seen two figures so closely enveloped in the French costume of the day, as to conceal their persons from observation, silently threading their way through one of the dark streets of the city, leading to the quays on the banks of the majestic St. Lawrence.

Their hasty steps and noiseless tread, with the frequent changing of their course, could not fail to attract the attention of the most careless observer. Reaching a dilapidated portion of the city's walls, they rapidly passed over it to a secluded point upon the river, a short distance below the fortifications of the town, and as they supposed, beyond the observation of the dozing sentinel.

Here a light canoe was launched by one whose form and dress bespoke him a "son of the forest ;" and they were about to enter, when their Indian friend Teniqua, (for such was his name,) calling their attention to the movements of a sentinel, whose observation they seemed to have attracted, and directing them to remain motionless, took his bow and arrow, threw himself beneath the shade of a few old logs and bushes, and soon gained a near position to the sentinel, who had approached within a few paces of the objects of his suspicion: when a gentle breeze suddenly casting aside the fur over-dress of one of them, displayed the slender form of a female, whose jeweled necklace and silver fringed pelisse, reflecting the rays of the rising moon, quickly convinced the hitherto doubting sentinel. In an instant his carabine was presented, with the ordinary demand of "Who's there?" Tremulous with fear they were about to reply, "Friends," when the shrill whistle of an arrow- —a groan, and the heavy fall of the dying sentinel released them from their suspense. The well-aimed arrow of Teniqua had done its work upon one of the hated Frenchmen.

In an instant they entered the boat and pushed from the bank, but had receded only a few rods, and were yet in hearing dis

tance of the shore, when they saw the forms, and heard the voices of men upon the bank they had a moment before left.

"The birds are flown," said one of them. "There! yonder go the cursed rebels; but let's take them on the wing." And suiting the action to the word, their guns were leveled, and would perhaps have effected their wishes, but for the interference of their commander-"No, for God's sake, no!" said he, "seize yonder boat, and let us pursue the rascals."

To tear loose, and launch a light boat, was but the work of a moment for three sturdy soldiers, urged on by the promises and commands of their leader. The canoe had however receded so as to appear but like a dark speck upon the silvery waters, ere the pursuit commenced.

There was the struggle on the one hand for freedom-for life, and that which was dearer than life. On the other, for the sweets of revenge. Teniqua and his companion labored in silence.

Each seemed to fly over the waters; yet Teniqua saw the other boat was rapidly gaining on them. Their oaths and imprecations became more and more distinct; when the fair maiden, who, seated in the stern of the boat, had been eagerly watching their pursuers, and stimulating her companions to greater effort, suddenly exclaimed, "They are fast gaining on us! I can already hear their threats of revenge! Senezergus is of the number! Heaven preserve us from his power! Oh! Henry! Oh! Teniqua!-save us from their hands!" The shore was now in view; a few strokes of the oar could bring them to it; but their pursuers must inevitably strike the bank nearly as soon as they. "What say you, Teniqua," said Maverick, "can we reach the land in time to gain your hidden caverns?" possible," was the laconic reply in broken French. The answer was like an electric shock to his two companions; long and fondly indulged hopes were in an instant blasted. Maverick dropped his oar, and drawing a brace of pistols from beneath his dress, resolved to die sooner than yield.

"Im

"Madman," said Teniqua, "would you certainly give yourself and your woman into the fangs of these hounds of h-1? Gain the shore, where from behind trees or logs, we may lessen their number as they land, and then try the edge of our knives upon the rest."

M. seeing the folly of his course again plied the oar. They had just gained the covert of a log on the bank, when their pursuers swept into a small cove a few paces below them. "Now is our time," said Teniqua. "Aim sure if you would live!" And they were just about to fire, when their fair companion rushing to them, and throwing their pieces aside, shrieked "forbear! forbear!-do not fire-Edward is there, and uncle; and I'd rather die myself than see them bleed. Fly, Teniqua-take Henry to your retreat.