the shortening process from "Jehoshua" to "Jesus," why should their "fellow-servant" come down so heavily upon the poor Jews for giving us "Jehovah" instead of "Yahveh!"

When our author treads upon the old, familiar, solid, Apostolic ground, and proceeds to show that the inspired writers "without attempt at explanation, or hint at any species of accommodation, transfer to CHRIST all the predictions inevitably associated in their minds with the kingdom of YAHVEH," we follow him with great delight. Guided by this thread which never breaks, we roam with him through the otherwise bewildering labyrinth of the Prophets, and in the confidence. and joy of our souls we can smile at his persistency in changing the spelling of "Jehovah" wherever he finds it, and is ever and anon complacently insinuating that he is leading us where we have never been before, and never could have found our way but for the help of "modern scholarship." We are not provoked to ask, but we ask in all good nature, if the Epistle to the Hebrews is the last work issued by the "modern" press, and when we may look for another volume from the same able pen? Where was Mr. MacWhorter bred, in what branch of the Church was he trained, that he should be so constantly crying out with the irrepressible wonder and admiration of a novice, in view of the perfect reflection of the Sun of Righteousness in the mirror of prophecy, ages before his rising image was visible to the world at large; in view of the consequent unity of the two Testaments as one word by one Spirit manifesting one God and Saviour; and in view of the grandeur of the scheme of Redemption, historically surveyed from Paradise Lost as described in Genesis, to Paradise Regained as disclosed in Revelation? We had supposed that such glorious visions were the property of all Christians, the lot of their inheritance from their fathers, their daily study from their youth up, the perennial source of their consolation and support in this wearisome, enfeebling and sorrowful pilgrimage.

It was our design to have occupied the larger part of this article with an analysis of the old, yet it seems forgotten, argument upon which the "doctrine of the Person and Kingdom. of Christ" has rested securely since the days of the Apostles. But we must reserve this subject for another occasion.

ARTICLE V.

Cyclopedia of American Literature: Embracing personal and critical Notices of Authors, and Selections from their Writings: From the earliest Period to the present Day: With Portraits, Autographs, and other Illustrations. By EVERT A. DUYCKINCK and GEORGE L. DUYCKINCK. In Two Volumes, pp. 676, 781. New York: Charles Scribner.

About the end of the second decade of the present century, Sydney Smith concluded one of his most characteristic and trenchant articles in the Edinburgh Review, in the following contemptuous and illiberal strain: "In the four quarters of the globe, who reads an American book? or goes to an American play? or looks at an American picture or statue? What does the world yet owe to American physicians or surgeons? What new substances have their chemists discovered? or what old one have they analyzed? What new constellations have been discovered by the telescopes of Americans? What have they done in mathematics? Who drinks out of American glasses? or eats from American plates? or wears American coats or gowns? or sleeps in American blankets?" It must be confessed that, as compared with the present, it was then a day of small things with us. There was far less untruth than scorn and truculence expressed in those obstinate questionings. Our young literati took them sorely to heart. The national vanity was deeply wounded, and its self-complacent pride would not brook the insult. Quills innumerable instantly bristled in a sharp defence. Some were angry, and answered scorn with scorn: some were grieved, and remonstrated: others were only amused, and laughed. Seybert produced voluminous statistics to enlighten our cousins on the other side. Walsh made a strong and effective appeal from their harsh and illiberal judgments. Cooper uttered a loud and indignant protest. But Halleck was more philosophical-he only smiled and pointed to the future. His humor is contagious and irresistible. We quote from the opening of his poem of Red Jacket:

Cooper, whose name is with his country's woven,
First in her files, her Pioneer of mind-

A wanderer now in other climes, has proven
His love for the young land he left behind;

And throned her in the senate-hall of nations,
Robed like a deluge rainbow, heaven-wrought;
Magnificent as his own mind's creation,

And beautiful as its green world of thought;

And faithful to the Act of Congress quoted
As law authority, it passed nem. con.,
He writes that we are, as ourselves have voted,
The most enlightened people ever known.

That all our week is happy as a Sunday

In Paris-full of song, and dance, and laugh;
And that from Orleans to the Bay of Fundy
There's not a bailiff or an epitaph.

And furthermore-in fifty years, or sooner,
We shall export our poetry and wine;

And our brave fleet-eight frigates and a schooner-
Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the line.

This last stanza contains a prophecy of progress, which though playfully uttered, our poet has lived to see fully realized. The satiric thong of the Edinburgh, and the galling sarcasms of the Quarterly did something more than to awaken mirth and madness. They administered the needful stimulus, and roused into vigorous activity minds which have since amply vindicated our claims to art and authorship in a practical way. We have now names enrolled in every department of science. and literature. Our actual achievements have not merely conquered prejudices, but also won the admiration and respect of the critical authorities. The fastidious Jeffrey at length became appreciative and complimentary. Lockhart's cold and sarcastic lip relaxed into a gracious smile. And the old and witty Canon of St. Paul's, long ere he found his final resting place in Kensal Green, learned to speak complaisantly of American books, however, and with equal injustice, he might continue to undervalue Pennsylvania bonds.

Our purpose is not to attempt the history nor the vindication. of American Literature, but only to adventure such remarks

upon it as may have been suggested by our reading and reflection. Unquestionably, the truest distinction and glory of nations must be sought in their literature. In it they survive the longest; and by it they achieve the most enduring victories. Mind ever rears the most indestructible monuments. The noblest achievements of the past, in art or arms, live only in the records of genius. Actions may be sublime and impressive; but they are limited in time and space. Thought is free, and wanders through eternity. A conquering army, bannered and plumed and marshaled in proud array, is a grand, stirring pageant; but it is evanescent. The shout and shock of battle sound terrific, but soon die away and are forgotten, like the throes of the earthquake and the rage of the storm. What should we have known of the wars of the Peloponnesus, but for the pen of Thucydides? The battles of Cæsar live only in his Commentaries; and those of Scipio and Hannibal, in the pages of Polybius and Livy. When Alexander was asked whether he would rather be Homer or Achilles, he replied, as we might expect a young warrior, by inquiring which was the greater honor, to be the herald or the victor at the Olympian games. And yet the herald gave immortality to the victor. Aristotle and Alexander were teacher and pupil. The latter founded the Macedonian Empire, which scarcely survived its brilliant chief: the former established a system of philosophy that has created the thinking of millions for twenty-two centuries. Queen Elizabeth played an important part on the world's stage among kings and courtiers, but William Shakspeare will outlive, as he already outshines, his royal patroness. And the victories and political achievements of Cromwell will be forgotten long before the immortal poem of his Latin secretary, whom Charles II. persecuted as "one John Milton."

The spoken word, or eloquence, is most powerful-overwhelming in its immediate effects. It sways masses of men to and fro, as does the wind the trees of the forest. How it rouses and excites! how it moves and melts! how it storms its way into the very citadel of the soul, and carries it captive! There is magic in the eye and voice of the speaker: we hang upon his lips, and listen entranced and breathless. But this power of persuasion passes away and perishes with him who

wields it. In death, the voice loses its music, the eye its fire, and the hand its cunning. What have we left of the splendid eloquence of Pericles or Bolingbroke, of Chatham or Patrick. Henry, which once roused men like a clarion, and reigned supreme in the "senate-hall of nations?" Gone forever from the earth-it moves not, melts not, wins not now. That of Demosthenes and Cicero, and of Clay and Webster, survives only in their recorded speeches. Literature has been called the immortality of speech. To it belongs the task of embalming the thoughts, sentiments, and speech, of those regal intellects that are born to rule mankind. "In books," says Carlyle, "lies the soul of the whole past time: the articulate, audible voice of the past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream." Books have proved themselves to be monuments more enduring than brass or marble. The Parthenon is in ruins, but time has spared the Iliad. The statues of Praxiteles and Phidias are but mutilated torsos, while the tragedies of Eschylus and the odes of Pindar are still admired. Rome and its glory survive, not in the golden palace of Nero, nor in temples and theatres, but in the works of Virgil, and Horace, and Tacitus. This thought is well presented by the Learned Blacksmith, in his somewhat humorous colloquy with a printer's boy.

The printing press, we are told, is the grandest invention since the death of Tubal-Cain. "It is a printing press," said a boy standing by the ink trough, with a queueless turban of brown paper on his head. "A printing press!" I queried musingly to myself. "A printing press? What do you print?" I asked. "Print?" said the boy, staring at me doubtfully; "why, we print thoughts." "Print thoughts!" I slowly repeated after him; and we stood looking for a moment at each other in mutual admiration-he in the absence of an idea, and I in the pursuit of one. "But, my boy," I asked, in honest soberness, "what are thoughts, and how can you get hold of them to print them?" "Thoughts are what come out of the people's minds," he replied. "Get hold of them, indeed? Why, minds arn't nothing you can get hold of, nor thoughts either. All the minds that ever thought, and all the thoughts that mind ever made, wouldn't make a ball as big as

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