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CHAPTER XXV.

LITERATURE.

The literature of England is that of America. Our popular and standard works are reprinted, and circulated from Maine to Georgia, from New Jersey to Illinois. At a solitary log-house standing in the midst of the native forest, and remote from town or village, I found books which may be seen on the toilette of London ladies. The poetry of Scott, Byron and Southey is as familiar to the Americans as to us, and the Waverley novels are devoured with equal avidity. The Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews, and several of our Magazines are regularly reprinted. Of native authors they have comparatively few, a circumstance by no means discreditable to them, as it is the almost necessary result of their situation. Yet they were highly nettled and indignant, when a question was tauntingly put some years ago in the Edinburgh Review, "Who reads an American book?" The fact was, that they were sensible that from the paucity of their authors, the question was one not to be so easily answered as such a one as this, Has America

ever produced a great man? If this question had been put, it would have excited only a smile. Hence they may perceive, that so long as they manifest anger at English prejudices and sarcasms, it will not unreasonably be concluded that they are not ill-founded. Would Julius Cæsar or Alexander the Great have been offended, if they had been represented as cowards? Or would their own Washington have been offended, if he had been stigmatised as the enemy of his country? If then the taunting question of the Reviewers excited wrath in the Americans, we may be sure it was owing to their inability to answer it, or at least to their consciousness of its being a question naturally arising from the state of their literature.

Since that question was put, Washington Irving has redeemed the character of his country; though in my opinion, the want of native literature is no disgrace to them since they are amply supplied from abroad. When a country is furnished with an article, what signifies it whether it be of native growth or of foreign importation? Before however proceeding to offer any remarks on his writings or those of other authors of note, let me advert to the miscellaneous pamphlets constantly issuing from the press. I

was surprised on inspecting a number of these, to find that they were written so carelessly and slovenly, as to appear like the productions of a schoolboy unskilled in grammar. The Annual Report of one of the New York charity schools, was the most faulty composition I almost ever saw. Some violation of syntax was perceptible in nearly every sentence, certainly in every paragraph. It is likely that the framers of that Report had had only a commercial education, and had never bestowed much time in reading any books besides their bibles and ledgers; as such, the errors may be pardoned. But what defence can be offered for the numerous errors in the publications of the Philadelphian Society for promoting Agriculture? a society which enrols on its list of members several men of literary reputation. These errors might in many cases pass unobserved, if it were not for the occasional attempt at fine writing; for where that is conspicuous we begin to criticise. I was much amused at an attempt of this sort in one of the pamphlets issued by the Colonization Society, which as a specimen I here insert, assuring the reader that it is only one instance out of many. "Africa," says the writer, "has been the cradle of a race of men, having characteristics sufficiently bold to distinguish them from every other people.

Africa, which has been their cradle, is a storehouse furnished with rich and various supplies to nurture them to manhood, and when the voice of nature shall pronounce their exit, will afford a sepulchre for the slumber of their ashes!" Till I read this, I had never let in the idea, that there was any country on the earth so filled with corpses, as to have no vacant space for a new grave. But, as the adage is, we live and learn. A still more amusing passage of a similar stamp, may be seen in a memoir of Fulton of steamboat memory, read before a literary society in New York. The author, if I remember rightly, (for I have not the book by me) is anticipating the future glory of his country; and whenever an American gives the reins to his imagination on that subject he is like a wild animal, pursuing the chase so eagerly that he sees neither posts nor pitfalls.

The Americans often make a remark when speaking of their literature, which appears to me to be perfectly preposterous. It is, that Milton, Locke, Swift, and the whole host of authors anterior to the Independence are their countrymen. We might with as great propriety claim Franklin and Washington as our countrymen. They say that the separation from the mother country

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was in government and laws, but not in literature; and that as they speak our language, they have a right to consider themselves as participators in the honour which those writers conferred on their native land. But surely this claim is one that no other people would have set up, for it confounds all the established notions attached to what we call our country. The population of America is a compound race from English, French, Dutch, German, Spanish and African stocks; and though the English language is by far the most general, yet there are districts where other languages are exclusively spoken. In the midland parts of Pennsylvania, German is spoken; in New York, Dutch; in Louisiana, French; and in Florida, Spanish. Are the persons who speak these different languages to claim our authors for their countrymen? Yet they are Americans as well as those who speak English. In short, it seems wonderful that the claim producing these remarks, should ever have been set up.

Though the number of native authors whose works are destined to rank as standard classics is small, there is no deficiency of pamphleteers and authors of the common sort, whose writings are calculated to serve a temporary purpose. Of

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