favorably known to the literary world in a new magazine he was about to establish in order to raise the character of American literature, which, in his opinion, the 5 existing reviews and magazines had entirely failed to accomplish. A daily increasing want of something better was felt by the public; and the time had come for the establishment of such a periodical

rather florid and exuberant manner his plans and prospects, he entered more at large into the subject of American literature, which it was his design to foster and patronize.

Meanwhile, things had gone on very 10 as he proposed. After explaining in a quietly and monotonously in Mr. Churchill's family. Only one event, and that a mysterious one, had disturbed its serenity. It was the sudden disappearance of Lucy, the pretty orphan girl; and as the 15 booted centipede, who had so much excited Mr. Churchill's curiosity, disappeared at the same time, there was little doubt that they had gone away together. But whither gone, and wherefore, re- 20 mained a mystery.

Mr. Churchill, also, had had his profile, and those of his wife and children, taken, in a very humble style, by Mr. Bantam, whose advertisement he had noticed on 25 his way to school nearly a year before. His own was considered the best, as a work of art. The face was cut out entirely; the color of the coat velvet; the shirt-collar very high and white; and the 30 top of his head ornamented with a crest of hair turning up in front, though his own turned down,- which slight deviation from nature was explained and justified by the painter as a license allowable 35

in art.

One evening, as he was sitting down to begin for at least the hundredth time the great Romance,- subject of so many resolves and so much remorse, so often de- 40 termined upon but never begun,— a loud knock at the street-door, which stood wide open, announced a visitor. Unluckily, the study-door was likewise open; and consequently, being in full view, he found it im- 45 possible to refuse himself; nor, in fact, would have done so, had all the doors been shut and bolted, the art of refusing one's self being at that time but imperfectly understood at Fairmeadow. the vistor was shown in.

'I think, Mr. Churchill,' said he, that we want a national literature commensurate with our mountains and rivers,commensurate with Niagara and the Alleghanies, and the Great Lakes.'

'Oh!'

'We want a national epic that shall correspond to the size of the country; that shall be to all other epics what Banvard's Panorama of the Mississippi is to all other paintings,- the largest in the world.'

'Ah!'

'We want a national drama in which scope enough shall be given to our gigantic ideas and to the unparalleled activity and progress of our people!' 'Of course.'

In a word, we want a national literature altogether shaggy and unshorn, that shall shake the earth, like a herd of buffaloes thundering over the prairies.'

'Precisely,' interrupted Mr. Churchill; 'but excuse me! - are you not confounding things that have no analogy? Great has a very different meaning when applied to a river and when applied to a literature. Large and shallow may perhaps be applied to both. Literature is rather an image of the spiritual world, than of the physical, is it not? - of the internal, rather than the external. Mountains, lakes, and rivers are, after all, only its scenery and decorations, not its subAccordingly, 50 stance and essence. A man will not

He announced himself as Mr. Hathaway. Passing through the village, he could not deny himself the pleasure of calling on Mr. Churchill, whom he knew 55 by his writings in the periodicals, though not personally. He wished, moreover, to secure the coöperation of one already so

necessarily be a great poet because he lives near a great mountain. Nor, being a poet, will he necessarily write better poems than another, because he lives nearer Niagara.'

'But, Mr. Churchill, you do not certainly mean to deny the influence of scenery on the mind?'

No, only to deny that it can create genius. At best, it can only develop it. Switzerland has produced no extraordinary poet; nor, as far as I know, have the Andes, or the Himalaya Mountains, or the Mountains of the Moon in Africa.' 'But, at all events,' urged Mr. Hathaway, let us have our literature national. If it is not national, it is nothing.'

'Yes, but without spasms and convulsions. Authors must not, like Chinese soldiers, expect to win victories by turning somersets in the air.'

5 Well, really, the prospect from your point of view is not very brilliant. Pray, what do you think of our national literature?'

Simply, that a national literature is not

tribute their dew and sunshine to it. Our own is growing slowly but surely, striking its roots downward and its branches upward, as is natural; and I do not wish, for the sake of what some people call originality, to invert it, and try to make it grow with its roots in the air. And as for having it so savage and wild as you want it, I have only to say, that all literature, as well as all art, is the result of culture and intellectual refinement.'

On the contrary, it may be a great 10 the growth of a day. Centuries must condeal. Nationality is a good thing to a certain extent, but universality is better. All that is best in the great poets of all countries is not what is national in them, but what is universal. Their roots are in 15 their native soil; but their branches wave in the unpatriotic air, that speaks the same language unto all men, and their leaves shine with the illimitable light that pervades all lands. Let us throw all the 20 windows open; let us admit the light and air on all sides; that we may look toward the four corners of the heavens, and not always in the same direction.'

'But you admit nationality to be a good 25 thing?"

'Yes, if not carried too far; still, I confess, it rather limits one's views of truth. I prefer what is natural. Mere nationality is often ridiculous. Every one 30 smiles when he hears the Icelandic proverb, "Iceland is the best land the sun shines upon." Let us be natural, and we shall be national enough. Besides, our literature can be strictly national only 35 so far as our character and modes of thought differ from those of other nations. Now, as we are very like the English, are, in fact, English under a different sky,I do not see how ouro literature can be very different from theirs. Westward from hand to hand we pass the lighted torch, but it was lighted at the old domestic fireside of England.'

Ah! we do not want art and refinement; we want genius,- untutored, wild, original, free.'

But if this genius is to find any expression it must employ art, for art is the external expression of our thoughts. Many have genius, but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must go together to form the great poet, painter, or sculptor.'

In that sense, very well.'

'I was about to say also that I thought our literature would finally not be wanting in a kind of universality.

As the blood of all nations is mingling with our own, so will their thoughts and feelings finally mingle in our literature. We shall draw from the Germans, tenderness; from the Spaniards, passion; from the French, vivacity, to mingle more and more with our English solid sense. And this will give us universality, so much to be desired.'