ment, under which he lives is essentially republican. The object of their federative associations is declared to be "the preservation of the external and internal security of Germany, the independence and inviolability of the confederated states." An anecdote is told of the city of Leyden, which aptly illustrates our position. "When the city of Leyden had in common with the lower countries fought through one of the bloodiest and noblest struggles for liberty on record, William of Orange offered her immunity from taxes, that she might recover from her losses and be rewarded for her labors in the cause. The city declined the offer, and only asked the privilege of erecting within its walls a literary university as the best reward for its more than human endurance and perseverance."

It has been maintained that the direct patronage of some royal court, is necessary to the highest development of literature: that its smiles, its artificial environments and solid benefactions are absolutely indispensable to the production and nurture of literary excellence. That there have been golden eras of literature, induced by the direct patronage of royalty, cannot be successfully denied, yet an examination of them will somewhat modify their celebrity. The age of Louis XIV is confessedly the most brilliant one of French literature. For high literary polish, for beauty and purity of style, and finished composition, it has no superior. Yet an eminent writer says of it "Talent seemed robbed of the conscious elevation, of the erect and manly spirit which is its noblest associate and its surest indication. The mild purity of Fenelon, the lofty spirit of Bossuet, the masculine mind of Boileau, and the sublime fervor of Corneille, were contaminated by the contagion of ignominious and indiscriminate servility." Of the writings of this age the language is elegant and the ornament chaste, but there is not in them that vigor, depth, and clearness which the writings of Rosseau, Voltaire and Montesquieu exhibit. Nearly, or quite all of English literature, has been brought forth under a monarchy. Consequently the greatest and most fertile field of literature is to be found under the monarchical form of government. Yet a careful examination of the biography of its authors, will show that many of its greatest and representative ones have arrayed themselves in opposition to the encroachments of royal power and ambition on the liberties of the people. Many of them have been the open champions of liberty, like Milton and Sidney, and many others have been in sympathy and secret alliance with its friends. Some of the

noblest and most finished specimens of English style and English thought have come from those members of Parliament who have opposed the crown in its attempts to violate the political rights and freedom of the English people.

The examples which we have cited from history, we think, establish our position so far as these nations are concerned. The same truth can be seen in all national progress and development. Wherever the empire force has given way or even made concessions to the empire of reason, wherever the selfish policy of tyranny has given permanent place to the enlightened administration and impartial wisdom of well regulated republics, there can be seen mental activity, fresh thought and literary animation. At first there will be a great demand for political knowledge and wisdom, as in this country, but there will soon follow an appreciation of, and taste for, the higher kinds of literary culture and excellence. The spirit of republics will not tolerate a literature vitiated by such servility and mere personal adulation, as the direct patronage of royalty is likely to produce. There is no toleration for Boswellism in republics. But that which embodies the thoughts, the feelings, and aspirations not of one, but of all men, will bring its authors a rich harvest of fame and celebrity. In the republic there are no arbitrary restrictions to enthrall the intellect and cripple its efficiency. Genius is not subject to the caprices of any one man, and is not driven by fear into abject sycophancy. "A strong genius succeeds best in republics," is the reluctant confession of an ardent royalist of England. For it is in a republic that his activity of mind is stimulated by the freedom of expression which surrounds him. Personal independence, the cardinal virtue of the republic, finds expression in his productions. The republican author may lead the spirit of his age and is not compelled to follow it like the recipient of court favors. A gifted author and distinguished genius, under a tyranny, in speaking of one of his best productions, described it as "a monster for which by good fortune, the world has no original, which I would not wish to be immortal, except to perpetuate an example of the offspring, which genius in its unnatural union with thralldom, may give to the world." Such criticisms, have never been made on the productions of republican genius. For there is no slavery of genius in a republic, no "uunatural union with thralldom," and no unnatural masters. It is a subject only to those restrictions, which a regard for its own health and success and highest development, imposes.

We have not spoken of the literature of those nations which regard personal liberty as the impracticable dream of the visionary enthusiast, or of that of those which have never been taught the salutary lesson, which successful revolutions teach. The reason is that they have no "golden eras," no national literature, no literary legacies to leave to posterity. Like Spain and Mexico, they need some republican Prescott to write their history and rescue the records of their early life and progress from obscurity and oblivion.

S. D. F.

A Visit to the Mammoth Cave.

B- and myself walked down the hill to the entrance of the Cave, and had time to make a few observations before the rest of our party arrived. The mouth of the Cave yawned before us in the midst of a solitude, which, save the house near the entrance, seemed as wild as when in times past the Indian had followed the deer over the lofty bill thus undermined, or fished in the beautiful river which flowed at its base. Here, in the wilderness, where man has done least, the voice of God is speaking in its grandest tones, and before you behold the wonders which are within, you feel a premonition of their beauty and majesty. A thin mist formed by the breath of the cave coming in contact with outer air, rises cloud-like from the entrance, and slowly melts away in the atmosphere above. This monster draws but one breath through his rocky sides in a year, occupying all summer in an expiration, and all winter in an inspiration. The temperature within the Cave remains, summer and winter, at 590. We had barely time to make these observations, when the remainder of our party came straggling down the hill, all in the cave dress, a heavy suit with a pea-jacket and oil cloth cap for the gentlemen, and fancy-colored Turkish costumes for the ladies.

Our party numbered about twenty, and to us its most noticeable members were two Southern beauties of a mischievous age, and a gentleman of Lambertian proportions, afterwards known par excellence as "The Fat Man." We thought we could detect sources of pleasure and amusement in all three, and this our experience afterwards fully confirmed. We engaged the Brass Band at the Cave to accompany us, and by this time our guide has lit and handed each of us a light tin oil lamp, an enterprising artist has ambrotyped the

company standing at the entrance, and all being ready, the word is given, and down the steps we go, and soon the lights are flashing far ahead in the darkness. Having passed through the dark throat of the cavern, the lights played in fitful shadows over a ceiling an hundred feet high, and half as wide. Along the floor were strewn the remains of vats, water-pipes, and other materials employed in 1812 in the manufacture of gunpowder. There too were the tracks, now nearly fossil, of the oxen and carts used in its transportation. These hardly appeared in keeping with the character of the place. It seemed almost like desecration, that this Temple, which God had built, and from which he had shut out his sun and stars, should be lit by man's feeble rush-lights, and profaned by the material of his labor. Nevertheless. the party trailing along this avenue, listening to the explanations of the guide, giving vent to their feelings in ex. clamations of wonder and admiration, the lights dimly illuminating the immense void, filling it with weird forms and shadows, combined to form a scene at once striking and beautiful.

B-and myself were not, however, so overpowered as to be oblivious to the presence of the two young ladies who had charmed us at the entrance. Cave etiquette permitted. and we ventured a few remarks to the black-eyed beauty on what we were passing. We were not repulsed. Though in a few minutes we heard the voice of the young lady's aunt uneasily calling, "Alice, Alice, where are you?" and perceiving the young lady thus attended, she evidently thought her in danger of pitfalls, and cautioned her to keep in sight. Our friend was equally fortunate in his advances, and thenceforward all was "serene." In the meantime, the music of the band comes floating back to us, and we hurry forward and find it playing in the Methodist Church, as it is called. From a ledge of rock as a pulpit itinerant Methodist ministers preached the Gospel more than fifty years ago, and occasionally, even now, service is held here on the Sabbath, by visitors to the cave. A little farther on we came to the Giant's Coffin, a rock in the exact shape of a coffin, large and grand enough to have contained an Átlas when his labors were over. Traced above, on the ceiling, on a white ground of limestone, is a figure of black gypsum called the Ant-eater, and an ordinary imagination will not fail to perceive a resemblance to the animal.

Here, in taking the long route we leave the main cave, and the avenue, for a while, becomes contracted and irregular. A bump of the head or a fall, generally enforces a lesson of carefulness, and a

fine opportunity is afforded for the display of gallantry in assisting the young ladies over the rough way. We hurry on by many objects of interest which we have not space to mention, and ere long reach the Bottomless Pit. This, paradoxically enough, is one hundred and seventy-five feet deep, and is spanned by the Bridge of Sighs. On this we take our position, and follow with the eye the lighted wisp of paper which the guide has thrown down, as it slowly descends, dimly lighting up the abyss, and finally resting a faint star on the bottom. A Bengal light then shows us high over-head, a lofty dome, corresponding in dimensions to the pit, and about sixty feet high. We have all crossed the bridge and now hear our band playing a little in advance. We soon enter a large room, with a smooth floor, which has fitted it to be called Revellers' Hall. "Take your partners for a dance," shouted the leader of the band. "I am a Grandmother," said our companion's aunt-with whom we were on good terms by this time-" but I cannot resist the temptation to dance in the cave." In a moment two sets were on the floor. dies to the right," called our prompter, and soon we were threading the mazes of the merriest dance imaginable. The Grandmother was young again; the music thrilled through every frame, and back and forth, and round and through we went with a joyous life and eagerness, worthy of nature's ball-room. Frank warns us we have not time to stop long, so reluctantly we cease dancing and leave the spot, laughing and exhilirated by the unexpected sport.

66

"La

How far did you say it was to Fat Man's Misery?" enquired "The Fat Man" of the guide. Frank replied that we would be there now in a few minutes. The information seemed to afford no great satisfaction, and Mr. W- was evidently getting a little nervous. Sure enough, in a little while we were there. A tortuous avenue, low, and very narrow, in some places not more than a foot and a half wide, opened before us. We were pushing our way slowly along this, when we heard in front deep breathings, and nervous exclamations. We hastened forward to witness the scene. Lambert had given his lamp to Frank, and his hat to a gentleman of the party, and one in front and the other in the rear were working him through. "Slowly, slowly now," muttered he; "hold a moment, I believe I am fast." "No, I reckon not," said Frank; "just give him a push there behind, if you please, while I take a pull in front." "Ugh! this is disgusting." Easy, easy there, not quite so hard

on my right side, if you please.

There, thank you, sir, I believe I