augmented, now that their features are fastened upon all hearts by the stamp of fiction?

No one can suppose, that prose-fiction can become a substitute for poetry. Whatever resemblance there may be between them, in respect of some of their materials and effects, they are so distinct as to belong to different provinces of literature. It is nevertheless the case, that in advanced stages of culture and refinement, prose-fiction will secure and maintain the ascendancy. Though poetry is an element of all inward and outward nature, yet its sublimest utterances are rarely heard. It is therefore circumstantial, ordained to wait times and seasons, never impatient to speak, never obtrusive, never anxious to force. mankind to yield it reverence. It is too great to be restless for human applause, too glorious to seek familiar companionship, too divine to be dependent on mortal love. Prosefiction has charms for the multitude. It is of the world and worldly. It is unquestionably a most enchanting display of imaginative excellence. Considered in any light, it exerts a commanding power over the human mind, subordinating all varieties of thought and emotion to itself, employing all the treasures of wisdom to make itself effective, turning science into magic and magic into science, dealing with facts plain and obscure, with mysteries known and unknown, with beings seen and unseen, and indulging itself in every way consistent with its scope to afford amusement and profit. In the impossibilities of the Arabian Nights, in the exuberant animal spirits of the works of Rabelais, in the wit of Don Quixote, in the domestic loveliness of the Vicar of Wakefield, in the mutterings and moanings of distracted Europe in the Sorrows of Werter, in the romance of history as seen and felt in the writings of Scott, there is the same assertion of its sway over the passions of men.

A fascinating form of literature having acquired its maturity in modern society and exerted an extensive agency over mind, morals and manners, its study is a matter of interest to all, who watch the developments of our race. Whatever

novel-writing may have been before the eighteenth century, it was then, that it assumed importance, as an intellectual instrumentality, under the guiding genius of Richardson. How wide has been its range! How unforeseen its results! To awaken its power, to show its vast capabilities, to estab

lish its identity with the throbbings of warm hearts and the laborings of quickened understandings, it has put itself in nearest alliance with imagination and claimed its utmost ingenuity. It has not been disappointed. Obedient to the call, imagination has travelled over lands far and near, over seas stormy and serene, listening to strange voices and beholding strange sights, poring over old volumes, gathering up singular legends, then disdaining one and all, courting phantoms, making friends of fairies, painting terrific scenes upon the clouds, and moving the elements to perform its purposes. Philosophy has protested against it, but in vain. History has wondered at its own transformations. And yet, it has gone on further in its career and freer and freer in its spirit, determined to convince spectator and student, that it grasps the highest interests of society. We believe it. We bow to it. We breathe an earnest wish for its wise direction. Of all enthronements, imagination has now the uppermost. Of all earthly glory, it wears the brightest. Of all human means, its full activity, with sanctified guidance, is most needed. Nothing, in the late progress of humanity, has surprised us so much as this concentration of literary mind in fiction, and nothing, it appears to us, is fraught with so many consequences of good or evil. If its morbid exhibitions could now cease and society avail itself of that general vigor of mind, which imagination only can supply, and convert it to useful objects, we should then see, that it can be made to sustain the two-fold office of prophet and reformer. A genius of rare endowments is required to accomplish this change. Strong men-gifted men-do not always appear in periods of critical responsibility. If this were the established law, mankind would never retrograde. The history of recent literature brings us to a point of solemn reflection. The force of the world has been transferred to the few, and the power of the few is controlled by imagination. A master-mind is needed to redeem the present state of things. If one of deep sympathies, earnest will, resistless energy, universal affections, strong instincts, spiritual without abstraction, material without grossness, with an inspired imagination and overflowing heart could now take advantage of the modern tendencies of literature and its results in the social system, we think, that other schemes of reform might be set aside and the world left to its protection.

We have a new American novel before us. Like the he ro, whose name it bears, its paternity has been concealed, and like him, it must pass through a warfare with opinion and prejudice. Its subject is interesting to every American heart. It is founded upon that exciting period of our revolution, when the cause of liberty seemed to be prostrated in the South, when, excepting those who adhered to Sumter and Marion, the mass of the people had quailed before the terror of successful arms and resigned the pursuit of freedom. The facts of the work are historical and traditionary; blended with skill, and arranged with tact. They present light and shade, reality and fancy, so as to convey a strong impression of the spirit of the times. Revolutions bring out character strongly; they teach great truths and reveal mighty passions; they give to the individual an opportunity to signalize himself, and call for the utmost degree of personal valor. Whatever amount of wisdom, ingenuity, boldness and magnanimity may dwell in society, is then required and consequently will be shown. History can do perfect justice to no revolution. It may announce the philosophy embraced in its contests and analyze the principles connected with it, but to dissect is not to paint. We want the scenes and the actors. We want the whole ground laid before us. Let us see and hear for ourselves. Let us mingle in the shock and stand amid the storm. Give us the solid and substantial history, with its quiet air and possessed temper, for truth, but do not leave us with it alone. We confess our passion for something more. Convert it all into pictures, spread them out in their length and breadth, collect the sunshine over them, if these are to be brightened; or gather the cloud, if they are to be shaded; sketch the scenery of events, and let nature lend the grandeur of the mountain and the repose of the valley to the deeds of patriotism; show us the hearth with its love-circle, and the altar, with its heart-worshippers, move us with the baptism of blood and captivate us with the triumph of martyrs. Men are forming history into an abstract science. Robertson gave impulse to the effort; Schlegel and Guizot have advanced it. We enter no protest. We rather rejoice in it. Monarchy will learn good lessons from them; so will aristocracy. We only deny the competency of philosophy to execute the whole work. We plead for the poetry of history. What intellectual and moral wealth is in it! What facili

ties for a knowledge of humanity! What silent and solemn memorials! What prophetic tokens! What spirit-power and spirit-pleadings! Fiction can best appropriate these treasures to human enlightenment, for it knows their worth, and is eager to demonstrate it. "Onslow" places the struggles of our revolution in the South prominently and impressively before us. The peculiar circumstances of the South at that time gave some distinct characteristics to the contest, which ought not to be overlooked. The Cavalier and Huguenot traits should be kept in view, whenever that era is studied, as well as the state of things with which they were associated. The spirit of chivalry animates the entire work. Resolution to suffer and sacrifice,-high sense of personal honor-magnanimous bearings towards enemies are frequently portrayed. We think, that toryism deserved severer treatment from our author. A colonial revolution can scarcely be free from such a taint, but, whenever we reflect upon the aggressions of England and the absolute necessity for a resort to arms by our countrymen, we cannot look upon the friends of monarchy in the colonies, in any other than a detestable light.

The hero of the volume is Julian Onslow. There is sufficient mystery about his parentage and history to excite the imagination of the reader. Few things give a novelist a finer command of human sympathies than such circumstances, and as we pursue their corroding influence upon a noble mind like Julian's, the struggles of his pride, the lurking suspicion that it may thwart his fondest hopes, we cannot but realize a deep interest in his life. The passive qualities predominate in him. Whenever occasion requires, he exhibits the active virtues, cherishing them as a sort of reserved store for special necessities. A great mind should always entertain an equal sympathy with exertion and repose, and manifest its strength alike in them. The ocean is sublime in calm and storm. To see a heroic man of large views, mighty powers, and acute sensibilities, bearing the reverses of fortune in tranquillity, turning away from every thing to be every thing to himself, and awaiting the occurrence of propitious events, with sustained hope, expands our ideas of humanity and impels us to feel, that true majesty of character may assume various forms. lian is decided and bold-never rash-never reckless-a firm patriot, mortified under reverses but not disheartened,

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prompt to assert the rights of his country and zealous to defend them. A band of guardian-angels seems to be around him. They sometimes act strangely and speak incoherently, but yet, the trusty friends keep him in their view and exert themselves to shield him. Several scenes awaken a lively interest in his behalf. The capture, subsequently to his interview with Edir Immerson, is admirably told, and presents one of the most striking incidents of the plot. Julian is a man of thought and feeling. We like his sentiment and pathos. Situated as he is, with his tenderest passions fixed upon a charming woman, with his domestic relations involved in perplexity, with his life in jeopardy, he is true to nature in that current of deep emotion, which so often flows from his bosom. Apart from these facts, strong attributes of character and high hopes are calculated to impart a hue of gentle sadness to the spirit. There is something subdued in all bright expectations. There is something mournful in all dreams or realities of happiness. If man is ever conscious of profound feeling, it is when bliss swells into ecstacy and ecstacy trembles in awe. We think that Julian's character is not developed sufficiently by our author. It lacks ideality. It is sometimes too negative. A prairie is a magnificent scene, but we admire the undulating surface. Canals are useful, but the water glides with too much stillness for impression. Julian quickens your pulse and sends the blood hurriedly to the brain at times, but in so fine and endearing a character and under such stimulating circumstances, we should like to realize the import of one favorite word-power. If the hero could have had better opportunities of exhibiting his energetic attributes of mind, the individualism of his nature would have been more fully disclosed, and the attractions of the work enhanced.

The heroine of the volume is St. Ille Grayson. She belongs to a high-minded and honorable South-Carolina family, and in every thing, sustains the dignity of her station. Without etheriality, she is an elevated woman, identified with real life, and moving before you with the home-ease of familiar experience. The fancy is never strained to appreciate her. With a woman's heart, she endures suspense and suffering, believing against belief, and hoping against hope, tender and true, calm and constant, with sufficient strength to brave difficulty, and prudence enough to restrain her from