SOVEREIGNTY OF LITERATURE.. SOVEREIGNTY OF LITERATURE. BY JOHN PEGG, JR. 263 of literary glory; and it did little more than dig up the buried genius of Athenian strength, robing him with imperial purple. The dominion of Greece is sublime and noble. The distinguished essayist, Macauley, speaks, in reference to her, thus: "Her power is indeed manifested at the bar, in the senate, in the field of battle, in the school of philosophy. But these are not her glory. Wherever literature consoles sorrow, or assuages pain-wherever it brings gladness to the eyes that fail with weakness and tears, and ache for the dark house and long sleep-there is exhibited in its noblest form the influence of Athens." LITERATURE exerts a controlling power in the destiny of nations. Its imperial spirit has held a sceptre in every period of its existence. In the early and wild ages of the world, ere thought received its full authority, its dominion was limited; but, as civilization moved onward in its exalting and enlightening march, thought obtained a higher supremacy, and truth secured more than regal power. And when that still nobler destiny, that awaits the advancing state of society, shall have arrived, then may we expect that an intelligent people will render more devoted homage to "truths that wake to perishence, it hath power to enslave him in the deepest never." While literature may exalt man, and lead him on to the fulfillment of the noble design of his exist degradation. Instead of its being the enthroned glory of virtue and truth, it may put on the diadem of vice and desolation. Beneath its deadly rule, France consigned the deathless elements of divinity in the mind of man to the grave; and, with an in Literature derives extensive sovereignty from perpetuating the memorials of national virtue and glory-from treasuring up the bright achievements of the past. There is a native impulse in man to worship the distinguished relics of a proud ancestry:scription as awful as that of Atheos, inscribed by the heart loves to bow with loyalty to the eminent genius of its own land. Thus our forefathers, from their graves, in an inspiring voice, speak to us the powerful dialect of the dead. The soul, pondering on the high results of former labor, feels an emotion kindred to that of Correggio, when, gazing in rapture upon the works of the Roman masters, he exclaimed, "I, too, am a painter!" The strength of ancestral impressions is finely illustrated by the Scottish arms, when advancing against the firm columns of the tricolored flag. Exulting in their hereditary valor, in the rush of triumph they sent up the shout, "Scotland for ever!" Shelley amid the princely splendors of Alpine scenery, it engraved upon the tomb of the immortal spirit, "Thou shalt sleep for ever." Thus were they descending to the repose of everlasting slumber, when Chateaubriand entered that grave-yard of the soul; and, proclaiming the truths of Christianity amid the dismal gloom, he awoke the eternal sleep of the soul, and started it on to its glorious destiny; and, by the lovely strength of truth and the enchanting melody of his own style, he taught the vine-robed hills of France to exclaim to its sister hills, "There is a God!" It is sad, that so often the literary sovereign, who The elements of empire repose under the protec-directs the fate of man for centuries, is deprived of tion of literature; and every nation may receive this bright inheritance of "hoary antiquity." the honors of his royal position while living. History proclaims it to be the destiny of exalted thought and action, to be neglected by its own age. The culmination of the most lofty spirit seldom transpires during its pilgrimage on earth: this scene is to fall on the vision of the future. Thus the terrible gloom of the Tuscan bard but slightly beclouded rolled away the stone, and he came forth in a glori-Hesperia's shore; yet now it not only overshadows ous resurrection. On the revival of his verses, the olive groves of Greece became vocal with their majestic melody, patriotism girt on the sword with renewed energy, and the laurel bloomed with renovated beauty upon the brow of the warrior. Statuary made its sublimest efforts to delineate his august images, and their godlike presence, in marble, thronged the streets of Athens. And still Homer rules the soul. The noblest spirits have given to him willing adoration. Even the mighty Milton, on his lofty pilgrimage to the mount of God, lingered in the grove of Parnassus, and went up from the heights his native Florence, but, like a portending cloud, stretches over the world, beneath whose awful shade posterity trembles. The strength of past literature directs the future. The genius of the dead, rising from the grave of the ancient world, wrapped in the shroud of receding ages, in sepulchral tones admonishes the living. The patriarch of Grecian song still speaks in the groves of the Academy, and weaves the laurel of Ionia around the harp of New England's bard. Christianity still weeps in beholding Socrates and Aristotle offering such exalted homage to an unknown Divin of Qlympus, in his ascent to the regions of eternality. The garlands of Poesy, scattered by the hand light. It was from Greece that Rome, in the earlier period of its existence, derived most of the elements of Tasso, linger in beauty upon the holy sepulchre. On the pages of Dante still burns the altar-fire of 264 CATARACT OF VELINO.-RURAL LIFE. hell, and bloom the flowers of paradise. Milton still strikes the lyre of heaven; and he alone, in his blindness, dared to climb the heights of celestial song, till he caught the choral melodies of the eternal anthems, and, in his godlike energy, chained his imperishable work to the throne of God. We leave unopened the pure pages of inspiration, whose sublime control has, and ever will exalt man to his loftiest position, and whose sway will become more mighty as man approaches to the Divinity who created him. We will adore in silence the oracles of Heaven, in the revelations of their beauty and strength amid civil institutions and intellectual progress. We love to behold the holy writings, like an angel of light, leading philosophy back from its trembling passage to the tomb-to the feet of Jesus, and there teaching it the true theory of nature and existence. We listen with joy as its voice bids Poesy forsake the mythic groves and Italian scenery for the clime "Where golden fruit mid shadowy blossoms shine, inviting it from Castalia's fount to the blooming banks of Siloa's brook, there to listen to the angels' song "We love The harp the monarch minstrel swept;" and wonder not that "David's LYRE grew mightier than his throne." With awe we behold sacred history returning far beyond the annals of antiquity, to the time when "God dwelt alone, in the stillness and solitude of his own eternity," and there startling us with the beauties of the new created earth. It comes on, disclosing the intervention of a superhuman authority in the ascendency and decline of nations. Then proceeding still onward, it reveals the untold mysteries of the future; and, leaving the prophetic historian trembling in despair upon the verge of time, it enters the gate of eternity; and, after having conversed with the ages that yet repose behind the throne of God, it proclaims endless bliss to those bowing to the sovereignty of the WORD OF LIFE, and perpetual anguish to those who reject its holy dominion. CATARACT OF VELINO. OVER this cataract an iris arches from bank to bank, and its tints are unfading in the poet's immortal verse: "On the verge, From side to side beneath the glittering morn, An Iris sits amid the infernal surge, Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn Its steady dyes, while all around is torn Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn, Love watching Madness with unalterable mien." Sat in the cooling shade; A cottage, painted green. 'Twas just the home for him. And though the rose of youth And love was there and truth. To hear that wedded pair, Of that young maiden fair, In earnest, humble prayer. Mild, gentle as a dove, With pure and holy love. Of fashion's circle moved, As in the home she loved? She was in truth a belle. If sickness, care, or want betide- Hast thou an eye for nature's charms? Hast thou an ear to list the song Of warbling nightingale, Is heard no war or strife; E'en nature's ills seem sent to bless O, there is much of happiness In quiet, rural life! THE HERMIT POET.-STRENGTH THROUGH SUFFERING. THE HERMIT POET. BY ERWIN HOUSE. THIS is the appellation given by his cotemporaries to Robert Southey, late laureate of England. Nothing could be more appropriately applied, since the life of the poet was one of nearly strict seclusion. Seldom did he leave his beautiful home at Keswick, and yet more seldom was he seen by men, unless we except the lake tourists, who not unfrequently annoyed him with their intrusive visits. In a letter to one of his friends, he complains that he could never take a sail on the waters of the Derwent, nor a ten minutes' evening walk, without being stared at by those who deemed a poet some outlandish animal. From these and other circumstances, Dr. Southey 265 moment; but, during his life, he had made the great He is not dead; he breathes the air BY C. C. C. has been accused of pride and hauteur. Mr. Howitt STRENGTH THROUGH SUFFERING. calls him a monk and a bigot-the laudator of crime, tyranny, and carnage. These, to be sure, are epithets neither gentlemanly nor Christian. They have no foundation whatever in truth, and are nothing more than the ebullitions of a mean and vulgar spirit, which delights in defaming the character of others. Mr. Howitt knew full well, in writing his sketch of Robert Southey, that he was throwing dirt, without provocation, upon the poet: else, taking a double aim, from some pique at the poet's widow, he thought to shoot a poisoned pin-point at the heart of the living through the memory of the dead; either of which things argues a state of mind the most detestable. The poet, we must acknowledge, was naturally reserved, and his pursuits tended to make him more so. In this particular he resembled his intimate friend Cowper. He was a lover of solitude. His chosen retreat was his library, and his never-failing friends the books and works of other men. Of these he himself says: "When disappointment's bitter sting Inflicts its keen and tort'ring smart, To the last he retained his old affection for books. His library was his favorite haunt; and there, for hours, would he sit and converse with the spirits of men whose bodies were slumbering in the grave. But now Southey, too, is slumbering there. The poet, the philosopher, the historian, is dead. He fell the victim of insanity. For two long years he lived with a "brain worn out." "The fervent spirit, working out its way, And o'er-informed its tenement of clay." It was a favorite dogma of the ancient Stoics, that pain is no evil; and, in the analysis of human character and conduct, we find this to be true. A higher faith than the philosophy of the Stoic, teaches us to glory in tribulation, through which our being becomes clothed with those virtues which invigorate and exalt the soul, and are the necessary preparatives for a state of peace and blessedness. When we would single out, from among the elevated and distinguished, those whom we admire and venerate, we are compelled to select those who have preserved the light of the spirit brilliant and undimmed amidst the darkest gatherings of anguish. Romance catches this living truth, and the glory of the imagined hero fades away so soon as the elements of danger and adversity repose in quiet, successful fortune. Like the steamer which pants and struggles to be free, and, with gathered strength, shoots forth like a thing of life over its element and toward its destiny, the human soul, for the same end, meets a repression here and there-is frustrated in its projects and disappointed in its success. We ask, why these shackles? why this trial of strength? But have we, for our priceless lading, the wealth of virtue? Have we gained that wealth of spirit which will enable us to leave the vain good of the thronging world in the distance, and triumphantly mount the tossing billows, and grapple with the giant of the tempest? Tired and bereft ones! be assured that, in your trial, you are not mocked and put to shame, but tested and purified-that, in your bereavement, you are not to be shorn of strength, and left disconsolate; but power will be perfected in weakness, and the brightest effulgence will shine forth at the close of the gloomiest night. In these trials the soul is not passive-it is active; and this fortitude will bring tributes of richest treasures to the heart. Suffering has been the portion of 266 STRENGTH THROUGH SUFFERING. the human heart ever since toil was made the condition of man's temporal life. The floodgate was lifted, and tears from the great fountains of sorrow swept like a spring-tide over the fairest interests of humanity. We look into the depths of our own experience, and, in the abundance of our selfishness, forget that there have existed, in all ages and conditions, hearts that have felt as keenly the touches of sorrow, that have been as burdened by the weight of woe, as our own. There have existed spirits who have been crushed by the malevolence of a cold, repellent world; but, like the rose, the fragrance of their worth rises sweeter and purer from the ruthless destruction of their bloom. Everywhere, in our daily walks, the gray locks and the furrowed brow of age, the bitter anguish limned upon the cheek of youth, the disappointment mingling with the prattle of infancy, the shadows on the most sunny countenance, and the wasting of the most noble frame, warn us that there can be no exemption from this stern law of our being. What! are not they from whose eyes beam the fire of genius, on whose heads repose the chaplet of honor and fame, around whom glitter the insignia of royalty?-must they, too, gather glory and strength from suffering? Yes; for nature here knows no favorites. The pride of intellect and the conceit of ignorance, the exalted and the lowly, must submit to this fiery trial of spirit. In the narrative of the heart's sufferings, we everywhere find the portraiture of anguish too exquisite to be removed by earthly cordials. On every page is the record of some heart, in its weariness and exhaustion, longing for a lifeless sleep, but to whom death was as a "locked and treasured thing." The prolonged and bitter trials of woman's susceptible nature have not been unrecorded. Often does the smothered flame consume unseen, rather than betray its wasting existence; and while we see the grief that pours itself away in weeping, our nature may have known the deep-struck sorrow that refuses tears. But we rejoice that, although some have yielded in weakness, many have bravely struggled with their woes, and gained the palm of victory. Poverty, distress, and misfortune, have reared themselves like a wall around their habitations; but even from these humble spots have loomed bright examples of truth and virtue. Others, from the mysterious depths of their own being, have brought those priceless gems, whose brightness and beauty have delighted our hearts, and we in our enjoyment forget the toil undergone to obtain them. "They learned in suffering what they taught in song." In an age of antiquity, a mendicant bard wandered over the hills and vales of his native land, singing, for the pittance of charity, strains which have since entranced a listening world. And perhaps he little thought, while those songs were passing { from mouth to mouth, that his labor was planting in eastern soil a shrub whose roots the rough storms of centuries should fasten, and give to it might, and growth, and wide-spreading shadow, till pilgrims of all ages should delight to pay their devotions upon this spot. One of the greatest heroes that ever lived was pierced with a sword while in contest with an enemy, and, prostrate, refused to withdraw the weapon from the wound till victory was declared by his army; but when the triumphant shout rang over the host, he cried, "It is now your Epaminondas is born, who dies in so much glory." An Athenian of great private and public virtue, who stood unmoved amidst the fickleness and treachery of his countrymen, was asked, when led to death, for some message to his son. "Tell him," he said, with a magnanimity that was no creation of the moment, "to forget this injury of the Athenians." The early home of "Jerusalem's poet" was in the splendor of palaces; but, at the command of a tyrant, he was cast forth into penury, and immured in the dungeon's gloom; and, at last, when that brow, which no garland of honor could grace, so entwined was it with the fadeless chaplet it had woven for itself, was about to receive the "laureate crown," the dark cypress waved over his remains, and his tried but purified spirit plumed its flight for that land where suffering is unknown. England boasts of one who tuned his harp to so godlike imaginings, that they seemed the language of beatific visions. But how much that blind poet suffered! Yet, in his mental and physical agonies, in social and civil convulsions, he was "majestic in the patience of his spirit," enduring unmoved the violence of the storm, and ever faithful to his God and his country. There was one, a few centuries ago, whose character was the offspring of the tempest; and he had the secret of the power which could control it; so that, while standing forth in the centre of the world's hostilities, he challenges the host of enemies in the name of truth. And hither, to this earnest contest, every trembling spirit may be pointed as to one of the greatest examples of courage and strength in opposing error. Look into the cold gloom of that solitary prison, and mark the wan inmate-an exile from the worlda recluse from its associations. But in that loneliness there is a trial which purifies and elevates the spirit; and soon the captive directs the world to a pilgrim who may guide the soul in a shining, upward progress to the society of heaven, and to a rest in the bosom of its God. The wise man reasoning of immortality over his poisoned cup, the hero with his three hundred brave comrades making his willful sacrifice in the face of a sure destruction, the noble patriot yielding himself to the most horrid death rather than barter the THE CONTEST AND THE TRIUMPH. 267 welfare of his country-Rome, with countless others, are magnanimous instances of sublime endur ance. But if we urge our way into the hosts of those who have been "more than conquerors," and behold the calm majesty, the heavenly patience with which they suffer, "And there, while o'er the gasping breast The last keen torture stole, With the high watchword of the skies, Went forth the sainted soul," THE CONTEST AND THE TRIUMPH. BY REV. GEORGE B JOCELYN. THE thrilling scenes in the drama of redemption were drawing to a close. Immanuel, the true GodMan, had spent his whole life in traversing the land of Judea, pouring joy and consolation into the habitations of the sorrowing and distressed. At his approach disease had fled, at his voice the dumb had spoken and the deaf heard, and, in obedience to his we shall see the highest exemplification and end of command, the gloomy grave had restored its pale the trial of the human spirit. inhabitant to life. His sympathetic heart was full Is this deep, this universal suffering an inexplica-of the work he had to do. His presence had halble mystery? No! The pen of Inspiration traces, in vivid truth, the anguish the soul cannot avoid, but faithfully depicts the beauty and excellency of meek and lowly acquiescence under the will of a higher and wiser energy, the glorious release at last, and the regenerate, spiritualized, and new-living ascent in purity and brightness, to the home of its nativity, where "the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary find eternal rest." Though One infinitely wise and kind has destined us to painful trials, his watch-care is over the process, that the spirit shall be purified from all baseness, and prepared to image forth his own perfection. The tender shrub, trained, in the nursery of the hothouse, to a rapid but feeble growth, can only live under the florist's care; but the oak, as it stretches upward, exposed to the fury of the tempest, seeks its unaided support far in its native soil, and stands firm and unshaken. Thus the soul, only when tossed and tried in merciless suffering, is able to develop the farreaching depth of its being, its towering strength, its spreading capacities. It is not the gilded bauble buoyantly floating over the surface which is eagerly desired and highly valued, but the pearl that lies hid in the chambers of the deep, and demands, for its possession, the tried skill and toilsome labor. Thus must the priceless virtues of the heart be found. It is not the rough, unhewn block, perchance thrown in our pathway, but the invaluable gem polished and fitted by the agency of the most severe instruments, which the heavenly King will place in lustre and glory in the diadem of a brightening immortality. If these are truths-if such be the wise arrangement with which the Creator has invested the being of every one-if this is the ordeal of the human spirit, and this its unspeakable result, shall we not listen to the language of one of our sweetest poets, as the voice of a brother spirit whispering encouragement and pointing to triumph? "O fear not in a world like this! And thou shalt know, ere long, lowed all Judea, and made it "Holy Land;" for there was scarcely a stream that had not drunk his tears-a vale that had not heard the music of his voice-a mountain upon which he had not stood and invoked blessings upon a fallen race-nor an ungodly city over which he had not wept. But his mission was now nearly accomplished. From those, of his own kindred, whom he came to redeem, he had suffered the most bitter persecution-the most deadly hatred, and now, that his hour was at hand, his "soul was exceeding sorrowful, even unto death." Alone, at midnight's melancholy hour, the Son of God retires to pray. His chosen cowatchers, Peter, James, and John, had fallen asleep, and none, save his Father, saw the deep agony, in which he "fell on his face, and prayed, saying, O, my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me! Nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt." No voice spoke an answer to his petition-no sound broke the dread stillness of the hour-no ray of light relieved the terrible gloom of Gethsemane's garden. "He went away again the second time, and prayed, saying, O, my Father, if this cup may not pass away from me except I drink, thy will be done." Now heavier seemed the mountain load of earth's accumulated crimes, and blacker hung the cloud of wrath above the Savior's head. No pen can describe the agony of that hour; for the mind cannot conceive of that agony which dissolves the human frame, and sends life's current through the pores of the skin. Inspiration tells us humanity failed him, and "angels came and ministered unto him." The cup might not pass, and angels and Divinity girded him for the The traitor Jufinal hour. That hour had come. das-who, in private, had listened to his Savior's blessed teachings-to whom the "mysteries of the kingdom of God" had been revealed-who, with him, had proclaimed throughout Judea's land the Gospel of the new and everlasting covenant-lured by a few pieces of silver, and blinded by the evil one, approached him, and, while the bloody sweat of Gethsemane's awful struggle was upon his brow, with a kiss betrayed him into the hands of his enemies. Knowing that his hour had come, he permitted himself to be led away to pass a mock trial, and |