AMERICAN LITERATURE.

HUMAN nature does not change with passing ages; and the question, Can any good thing come out of Nazareth? is asked now, as it was eighteen hundred years ago. A prophet is not without honour, save in his own country, is a truth, the confirmation of which we daily witness. Who has not observed the magic of a name? The mass of mankind admire a beautiful painting, if it be the acknowledged work of a master whose pencil confers immortality. The same painting, if ascribed to an inferior artist, would be divested of half its beauties, except to those who are skilled in the

art.

Who reads an American book? tauntingly asked a proud Briton. Englishmen think more favorably of us now, than they did when this question was asked. At the meeting of the British Association for the promotion of Science, held at Manchester, in June, 1842, Sir John Herschel-referring to Mr. Schoolcraft, an American geographer, who had communicated to the Geographical Society of London a series of observations on the Lakes of America-said, "It is impossible for me here to allude to any member of the United States, with reference to matters by which the least national feeling is awakened, without paying a tribute

to the high estimation in which science is certainly held by that great and rising country. In every department of science, especially those which receive their impulse from Europe, they appear to take so warm an interest and part, that they may be regarded, in that sense at least, as more completely our brethren than formerly. I pay this humble tribute to the scientific ardour of our American brethren; and I hope that they will perceive there is a feeling prevalent amongst the scientific men, and amongst all classes, of Great Britain, which, we trust, will draw closer the ties of brotherhood between the two countries."

But we cannot expect entire liberality, towards our literary men, on that side of the "big pond." National jealousy will cause Englishmen to depreciate our literature, as they did our seamanship until they were taught that, gun for gun, and man for man, the proud lion-flag of old England was humbled beneath the stripes and stars. No American would admit that he failed to appreciate a work because it was of American origin; but, although his pride of country reject the admission, it does not follow that he has disproved the secret existence of what he so indignantly disclaims. Encouragement and protection are terms unknown, as applied to American literature.

I confess anxiety to see the elevation of our national literature: and I believe the time will come when our country, in this, as in other departments of a nation's glory, will occupy a proud position. Why should the authors of England be superior to those of our country? We have the same blood in our veins; we derive

our mental cultivation from the same immortal works. Is there any thing Baotian in the nature of our climate to make "genius sicken and fancy die?" Authorship is a business in England; and writers pass their lives in the production of works which procure bread and immortality. Macaulay receives five hundred dollars for one of his articles in the Edinburgh Review. In this country, men who feel the immortal energies of genius kindling within them, might starve on the product of literary labour. Hence, they do not aim to attain high literary excellence; but employ their time in felling the oaks of our mighty forests, and cultivating the bountiful soil; or, in the pursuits of commerce, they spread our canvass on the bosom of every sea, and furl it in the ports of every land. We have statesmen and orators, of the present day, equal to any others that now live; and, with the same cultivation, perhaps Patrick Henry would have surpassed his great contemporaries, Chatham and Burke. Our men of genius become statesmen and orators, because the nature of our institutions developes talents of that order. When our people will consent to wear American cloths and silks, our manufactures may rival those of England and France. American artisans, with sufficient encouragement, would soon equal those of Birmingham and Sheffield. I deny that Englishmen are superior to Americans in genius; and I have no objection to compare our soldiers, our sailors, our manufacturers, our machinists, our agriculturists, our statesmen, our orators, with those of England. The name of an American occupies the proudest position on the page of

history. Hannibal was the greatest soldier that ever lived; but Washington was never conquered at Cannæ. A Chief Justice of the United States has left a reputation, unsurpassed by that of any man who ever wore the ermine. It is thought, by competent judges, that America has produced a metaphysician equal to any other of any age of the world. Who taught the Englishman to draw down the forked lightning from heaven, and cause it to play harmlessly by his side? Who gave to the world the application of that mighty agent which now regulates the intercourse and commerce of nations? Who invented the machinery which has proved such an incalculable blessing to the poor, by reducing, ten-fold, the price of cotton fabrics? In the two wars with Great Britain, as well as under other circumstances, Americans have proved themselves equal to all emergencies with any competitors; and, when hardly pressed, have shewn, even in the infancy of political existence, the strength of a giant. It would never have been supposed that the infant Hercules had the power to strangle the two serpents, had not the trial been offered by the jealousy of Juno. In like manner, the sleeping, yet giant-like energies of our manufacturers and mechanics, can only be called into action by the encouragement of competition with the older nations of Europe.

Englishmen write better books than Americans, for the same reason that they make better cutlery and cloths: they receive compensation for labour. No man, who is dependent on his labour for bread, will devote his talents to literature, unless he can look for

ward to the prospect of honourable support, in connec tion with a life of literary toil. The literary man, the man who acquires, but does not produce-so beautifully compared, by the elder D'Israeli, to the streams that flow under ground, and contribute to supply and swell the lake, themselves unseen and unknown— may exist in any country, if he have leisure, and the means to indulge his tastes. But the author is made of different materials; and something more exciting, more propelling, is required for authorship. Genius alone will not make authors, for the same reason that a rich virgin-soil will not, without cultivation, produce a harvest. And, as every product of the soil requires its appropriate culture to ensure a reward for the labour of the cultivator, so with the human mind. The Poet forms no exception to the general rule, although the remark of Horace be true, Poeta nascitur, non fit. Burns cultivated his poetic genius as he followed the plough; or when he lay on a mass of straw in his barn-yard, and, looking on a planet in the clear, starry sky, composed that noblest of all his lyrics, "To Mary in Heaven." Hogg cultivated his genius as he watched his flocks on the banks of the Ettrick; or became familiar with the scenes and legends of the hills and valleys of Scotland. The Oneida Chief displayed a genius for oratory when he said, "When Jesus Christ came into the world, he threw his blanket around him, but the God was within." So, the Moslem General who exclaimed to the army, dismayed and confused by the fall of their Commander in the midst of battle, "What if