are somewhat too material; they must not believe that a nation can long exist without men of thought, as well as men of action. The salvation of America lies in the possession of a Republican Literature. The literature of England is slowly sapping the foundation of her institutions. England does all her thinking, and if this system continues, the action of this great nation will be in accordance with the will of the old country. Like the Gulf Stream of Florida, the current of aristocratical genius is slowly drifting the ark of America to a point they little dream of, and never intend. The very bulk of this country renders the operation unseen; but, though imperceptible to the eye, it is palpable to the mind, and certain in its results.

What hope of victory would the armies and navies of this young republic have had, if, when they were arming for the fight, the bystanders had discouraged them; or when sailing to the encounter, the jibes or indifference of their fellow-citizens had been expressed? Certain defeat and disgrace, as sure as heaven! And how can America expect her young authors to vindicate her national glory when she treats them with indifference and neglect. Nay, even worse, she openly discourages them in their attempt, and tacitly confesses that it is hopeless to compete with the writers of England or France. These remarks apply to every branch of American literature; let the people consider this matter, and remedy it before they find the republican form governed by a foreign and aristocratical mind. If luxury enervated the Roman Body, so will a foreign pabulum destroy the American Mind.

It is a curious fact that the worst enemies of the national mind have been a few of her own sons. These are authors who till

lately have entirely enjoyed the monopoly of the English market; now they will be obliged to join the body of native authors, and hurry to the rescue. So long as they could trespass on the mistaken courtesy of the British publishers, and get four thousand guineas for this Life of Columbus, and two hundred guineas for that Typee, there was no occasion for any interference; in fact, they were materially benefited by this crying injustice to the great body of authors. Now their own rights are in jeopardy, and they must join the ranks of International Copyright.

We cannot help here remarking that if we were an American author, we should compel certain writers to account for their past apathy and their present activity; as, however, we wish to close these remarks with good-humor, we shall quote a little anecdote which has gone the round of society in England. It also evidences that Janus-faced figure which every fact and fiction possesses for the human thought.

Owing to some accident there are two portraits of an author in Mr. Murray's private office, in Albemarle street. A friend inquiring of him one day the cause of this superabundant reverence for the great writer, received for reply: "Really, I cannot account for it on any other ground than the fact that I have lost twice as much by that author as by any other."

Although somewhat irrelevant the mention of Mr. Murray's name reminds us of a joke played off by Byron upon that prince of publishers. Mr. Leigh Hunt was our informant.

The "moody Childe" had given to Murray as a birthday present a Bible magnificently bound, and which he enriched

by a very flattering inscription. This was laid by the grateful publisher on his drawing-room table, and somewhat ostentatiously displayed to all comers. One evening, as a large company were gathered around the table, one of the guests happened to open the Testament, and saw some writing in the margin. Calling to Murray, he said: "Why, Byron has written something here!" Narrower inspection proved that the profane wit had erased the word "robber" in the text and substituted that of "publisher," so that the passage read thus: "Now, Barabbas was a publisher!" The legend goes on to state that the book disappeared that very night from the drawing-room table.

After this digression we must return to our poet's fortunes. Mr. Poe abandoned the "Southern Literary Messenger" to assist Professors Anthon, Henry, and Hawks in the conducting of the "New York Quarterly Review." Here he came down pretty freely with his critical axe, and made many enemies. At the end of a year he went to Philadelphia, and amused himself by writing for the "Gentleman's Magazine," since merged into Graham's. His criticisms here, as usual, occasioned much discussion.

Mr. Poe's first volume of poems was a modest pamphlet, called "Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems, by a Virginian." It was published at Boston, in his fifteenth year. The following lines were written two years previous; they exhibit great promise for a boy of thirteen.

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,

The weary, way-worn wanderer bore,
To his own native shore.

"On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy naiad airs have brought me home,
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.

"Lo! in yon brilliant window niche,

How statue-like I see thee stand,

The agate lamp within thy hand,

Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land."

There is a confused and misty classic reminiscence about these lines which shows the poetical mind in its first dreamy efforts to realize.

A second edition of this volume was published in Baltimore in 1827; and a third, we are informed, during the author's cadetship at West Point.

We are much struck with a poem entitled "Ligrea.” It is intended as a personification of music. It is too long to quote entire; we must, however, find space for a few stanzas. For a boy of fourteen it is certainly a singular production, and evidences a psychological development painfully precocious, and indicative of future sorrow.

There is a peculiarity of rhythm in all Mr. Poe's verses