tive also to the pressures and discomforts of existence, those sands which drop in and grit between the shell of our outward condition and the fleshy sensibilities. They yearn consequently to bring their surroundings into a better correspondence with their tastes and aspirations, and their perpetual tendency is to gather costly appliances and comforts about them, to shut out the actual existence by one of ideal refinement; or, as our young poet Stoddard has it, in his "Castle in the Air," they would sport among

"The garnered excellence of Earth and Time," Besides, with superior powers to entertain, or an elevated fame to render their acquaintance a distinction, authors are more sought for than others by general society, where, whether they learn refined or dissipated habits, they equally expose themselves to expense. It is impossible to keep up a varied and generous intercourse, without falling into more or less extravagance; and genius with its irritable fancies and impetuous impulses, is least of all likely to resist the allurements of luxurious living, or to temper the seductions of taste with the cold discipline of judgment. Not that, genius is ever destitute of judgment,-seeing that the most subtle, strong, unerring judgment is its very essence, but then its judgment is the theoretic judgment, which is displayed in the creation and providence of a great drama or poem, and not the practical judgment, which controls every-day affairs. It is in danger therefore of running into prodigality, or, for want of appropriate and ample nourishment, is betrayed into questionable indulgences. Ah! then the clouds darken about it: the present grows comfortless and the future minatory and poor genius, losing its freshness and glow, is genius no more. It utters its wail into the uncaring universe, like one who falls at midnight from some on-rushing steamship, and hearing no reply but the plash of its own sinking, goes down into the unyielding depths!

But is the world to blame for such miscarriages? Is the literary profession, as a practical pursuit, to blame? Is this lot worse, in its external liabilities, than that of other men; and would not the chimney-sweep or the lawyer, who should forget the actual conditions of social existence, to indulge in dreams and idealizations, fail as signally as the author?

Let us not be understood, however, to maintain in the foregoing remarks, that want of success in authorship is always evidence either of want of merit, or of want of prudence. We mean no such

thing on the contrary, we know that works of the most unquestionable excellence have often to wait for appreciators, -in fact, that genius, as a general thing, must create its own audience; but this is as true of other professions as it is of literature. It is true in art; true in science; true in mechanical inventions; and sometimes true in practical enterprise; and all that we design to urge is simply that authorship is no exception to other pursuits. We believe that if competent men engage in it with industry, patience, and consistent purpose, conducting their affairs with average foresight, they will reap at the least the average pecuniary rewards. The depreciating view that prevails is an unjust as well as an injurious one, and one therefore that ought to be removed. It is unjust because it exaggerates the disparagements of a true and worthy literary life, and injurious, because it happens in this world, that the respectability of a pursuit too much depends upon what the Californians call the "prospecting," or the chance of turning up some genial and ravishing deposit of sunny ore.

Nowhere has the literary profession been supposed to be more hopeless than in the United States; and yet, we are persuaded that here as elsewhere, in spite of all the drawbacks, adventitious or necessary, a career of honor and profit is open to all who engage in it with the proper qualifications, and pursue it with fidelity and self-control. We do not say that the pecuniary rewards of it are as generous as they ought to be, or probably will be hereafter; we do not say that it will become in the present state of society as fertile as trade, or even as the learned professions; but we do say that, besides its peculiar harvests in the way of reputation and influence on the great cotemporary and prospective movements of thought, it holds out the guerdon of reasonable pecuniary success, and of social compensations that ought to satisfy reasonable desires.

In proof of this, we appeal to the experience of those writers among us, who have shown by their works, their fitness for their vocations. They are nearly all in comfortable positions, and many of them are afluent. Mr. Putnam's book contains an account of some twenty of them (announcing others that are to follow) and scarcely one of the number can be said to be poor. Mr. Prescott enjoys a princely income, a part of it inherited, it is true, but the other part derived from his books: the old age of Irving is made glad by more than competence, worthily won by his pen: Mr. Cooper's

novels enabled him to live generously during his whole life: Bancroft is indebted for his political and social position to his merits as a historian: Bryant, though not altogether by his poetry, yet by the exercise of his literary abilities, for the newspaper is a branch of literature, has been placed at his ease: while among those not included in this volume, Melville, Mitchell, Headley, Stephens, Curtis and others, have reaped large rewards from their publications. On the other

hand, if Hawthorne and others are not yet at the summits of fortune, they have at least a glimpse of the golden heights.

These results are the more remarkable, because in this country, success is rendered difficult by an artificial obstruction thrown in its way. The American author has to contend against two rivalries, both formidable-first, that of his native competitor; and second, that of the foreign writer. And in respect to the latter, he enters the lists under the additional disadvantage, that while his own works must be paid for by the publisher, those of the foreigner are furnished like the showman's wonders, "free gratis and for nothing." No sooner is a literary venture of Bulwer, Thackeray, or Dickens afloat, than a whole baracoon of "bookaneers," as Hood called them, rushes forth to seize it, and so long as they may do this, they will not spend money, not much of it certainly,-in any regular merchandise. Who will buy domestic goods when he can import foreign goods without price? It is not in human nature to drive so thriftless a trade.

Our

manufacturing friends of the protectionist school, declaim dolorously against the policy of government which exposes their arts to the cheap competition of Europe; but what a clamor would they raise if the exotic productions, which come into market against their own, were admitted, not merely duty free, but without having been subjected to an original cost? Yet this is precisely the sorrow of the American author! At great expense himself, he works against an antagonism which costs nothing; for the slight per centage allowed to foreign writers by our American publishers, for the privilege of a first copy, is virtually nothing.

His case,

therefore, is even worse than that of the broomseller of the old anecdote, who, stealing his raw materials, wondered how his rival could undersell him; until he was told that the cunning rogue stole his brooms ready-made. Thus, the publisher gets his commodity ready-made, and floods the market with it, while the poor American producer hawks and sings his articles about the streets in vain!

How long the latter will submit to this injustice, we cannot say,-but let us express the hope, by way of episode, that now, when we are about to have in the chief seat of political power a gentleman, one of whose distinctions it is, that he is the warm personal friend of our most illustrious tale writer, he will signalize that friendship by exerting his influence to secure to the craft of Hawthorne its just and long-delayed rights. Let him do this, and the authors of America,destined to a longer life than its politicians, will take care of his good fame.

But all these considerations take for granted the second assumption of Mr. Putnam's book, to which we alluded in the outset, viz., that we have genuine American authors. Is it so? We know that a different opinion obtains, and that foreign writers declare, with some degree of emphasis, that, as yet, we are mere imitators, unfledged provincials, -repeating the copies set in the Old World, and quite destitute of originality, independence or native force. It is not three months since a callow Scotch critic, speaking ex cathedra, in the North British Review, conceded to us only three poets, and those, as he dogmatically alleged, were servile echoes of Wordsworth and Tennyson. Other writers before him have repeatedly and triumphantly asked for our dramatists, novelists, essayists, and wits; and Monsieur Philarete Chasles, in his late self-complacent French summary of American literary achievements, finds it difficult to drum up more than half-a-dozen authors on whom he bestows any thing like praise. There is, therefore, considerable unanimity in the judgment against us; and, though the London Times in its recent notice of the "Blithedale Romance,” relaxes a little of its accustomed severity, and warns its cotemporary British writers to bestir their pens, it must be confessed that there still exists a general incredulity abroad, if not a lurking contempt, in respect to our literary pretensions.

We will not gainsay the partial justice of the sentence, nor endeavor to hide the rags and tatters of our poverty; and yet, whether moved thereto by overweening national pride or by an egregious ignorance, let others decide-we are disposed to maintain that our literature is wrongly depreciated, and that we have at least done as much as could have been expected from us under the circumstances of our national history and development.

The issue, it seems to us, has never been accurately stated, and, the discussion in consequence has been needlessly embarrassed. As we conceive them,

the only important points are, whether we possess a native literature at all,whether that literature, if it exists, is equal to what might be justly asked of us, and whether, such as it is, it furnishes any adequate and generous ground of hope for the future?

It would be absurd to expect of us, in this the seventieth year of an independent national existence, as full and rich a literature as that possessed by the older nations,—absurd, for the reason, that we have had no time to produce it in, while our intellectual energies have been absorbed in other ways. A man who has his fields to clear, his house to build out of the primeval forest, his shoes and clothing to make, his ways of access to his neighbors to open, and above all, his government and social order to institute, -in short, who has to provide by dint of the severest toil for the most immediate

nd pressing wants of his existence, is not the man who constructs epics, or amuses his fancy with the invention of dramas or tales. His epics, and dramas, and romances he finds in his work. The giants of the woods are giants more formidable to him, and whose conquest is more important, than any his imagination might conjure from the dim twilight of Greek or Scandinavian mythology; he is battling face to face with the frost, and hail, and mud jotüns that Carlyle speaks of, and has as little relish as he has opportunity, for idle whimsies or songs. At the same time should he be deeply engaged in a novel and somewhat momentous national experiment, working out into practical and victorious solution, a problem in which the political destinies of half a world are involved, the stern and and trying task laid upon him, will scarcely permit of his turning aside to the gentler and more imaginative arts. If, therefore, the whole of his earlier life should exhibit an absolute want of literary activity, the fact would not argue against his capacity for that kind of production, but simply that his powers had been diverted into other channels of development. But this consideration is so obvious that we need not press it further.

Or, if in the progress of wealth and leisure, with the growth of intellectual wants and refinements, we find him prone to imitate the artistic efforts of those who had gone before, he would only be guilty of a very common trait of youth. Nothing is more natural than for juniors to copy their seniors.

Even men and nations endowed with indisputable genius, are apt in their first crude endeavors, to pursue the paths and ape the manners of their predecessors, whose suc

cesses have kindled their imaginations, and for whose qualities they feel a kindred sympathy, but the secrets of whose self-dependence they have not yet learned. Fearful at first of the strength of their untried wings, yet full of the impulse of flight, like young birds they watch the motions of their elders, until in due time they themselves launch forth into the air. Indeed, we remember years ago to have read the work of some unrecognized western philosopher, who maintained,— with an abundance of instances to confirm his theory-that early imitation was a characteristic mark of genius, and that the greatest of men have always begun their careers by the conscious or unconscious adoption of some far advanced model. But be that is it may, we know, in respect to nations, how much of the earlier art and science of Greece was derived from the opulent storehouses of the East, though Greece became the mistress of the intellectual world; we know how dependent the Romans were upon Greece, though Rome subsequently enriched mankind from her native sources; and we know, too, what infusion of the Latin there has been into English speech. May we not infer from these examples then, that if America, as she is tauntingly charged, has sucked too much of her earliest instruction and culture from the breasts of her noble mother, it does not prove that she is now unable to go alone; but it simply shows that America was once quite young. Speaking the language of England was it not inevitable that we should read the literature of England, and draw thence much of our intellectual nurture? Nay, more,-is not the whole earlier literature of England just as much ours as it is that of modern Englishmen ? Up to the time of our revolutionary separation, it was surely the common possession of the English race; and the mere change in our political relations worked no defeat of our claim. We have a right to appeal to Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspeare, Milton, &c., as our ancestors in the direct line, just as the younger members of a family call the common progenitor father, though they may not have inherited the title and the estates. They may have quarrelled with the elder brother even, and quit the paternal roof, and begun new life-methods for themselves in some distant region of the globe, but their lineage remains as clear and indisputable as that of the firstborn.

Now, all this being admitted, the question of American originality narrows itself down to this.-whether the stock has depreciated by crossing the ocean, or in

being exposed to the different influences of new natural and social conditions? Do such of us as have devoted their energies to literature give evidence of deterioration or decay; or is the old vigor still in our loins?

We think that no fair mind can hesitate as to the answer. We believe that our authors have at least not degenerated. On the other hand, we believe that they are worthy scions of the old stock, and more than that, that under the inspiration of a new order of things, such as exists in this country, they have laid the foundations of a peculiar literature,-not yet copious, not yet comparable for richness, depth, variety or grace, with either of the ancient or modern literatures, but still full of native freshness and vigor. Like a noble youth rounding into manhood, we are wild, extravagant and impulsive, betraying the faults of want of discipline and culture, but strong in the consciousness of mighty powers, and bounding forward to a future of glorious developments.

No! we may not point to bright galaxies like those which shed lustre from other heavens; we have no thickly studded constellations and luminous groups scattered all above us; but we may claim single stars that shine with an unborrowed and unfading brilliancy. Few will be disposed to deny that in metaphysics and moral reasoning Jonathan Edwards is of the same order of men with Locke and Butler; in experimental philosophy, Franklin, and in the science of navigation Bowditch, are names consecrated by history. Hamilton, Jefferson, and Madison rank with the statesmen of any age; the historians Bancroft and Prescott take their places by the side of the best modern historians, Alison, Thierry, Guizot, whether we regard the accuracy of their research, or the perspicuity and finish of the style; Cooper as a novelist is only inferior to Scott, to whom all others are inferior; the pleasant essays of Irving fear no comparison with those of Addison and Goldsmith; there are poems of Bryant which will be read with delight as long as Gray's elegy, or Coleridge's Genevieve, or Milton's Lycidas, or Burns' songs, because like those immortal productions they are perfect in their kind; when we name the only eloquence in our language, which approaches the comprehensive and masterly speeches of Burke, we recall that of Webster; the artist of all modern artists who approaches nearest to Titian is Allston; the liveliest magazinist of the day, not excepting Jules Janin, is Willis; the woman, who has written a book which has had a wider instant cir

culation than the book of any other woman or man, is Mrs. Stowe. Well, this is not much it is not Shakspeare, Milton, or Bacon-it is not Swift, Fielding, Thackeray, but it is some proof of what we contend for,-that the old Saxon blood has not turned to water in our veins, nor the old fire of the heart become a putrid phosphor.

It is a piece of unworthy prejudice to pretend that our leading writers are only second editions of European celebrities. Cooper is no more an imitator of Scott than is Bulwer or Dickens; his materials and his methods of presenting them are his own; and no man not born in America, in the shadow of her primeval woods, under the inspirations of her democratic institutions, could have written any of the best of his works. Bryant is wholly American, or if he resembles Wordsworth or Cowper, it is because he writes English with the deep meditative wisdom of the one, and the pensive grace of the other; but neither Wordsworth nor Cowper have written more true, beautiful, or indestructable poems than the Waterfowl or the Prairies. Whom does Emerson imitate ? Carlyle! Why, with scarcely a quality in common with Carlyle, he is the superior of Carlyle, in clearness and depth of insight, as he is in simplicity and melody of style. Has Mr. Dana a prototype, has Channing, has Audubon, has Webster, has Hawthorne, has Melville, has Uncle Tom?

Had

There always must be more or less structural uniformity in the literature of nations which speak the same language. Out of the same deep heart of the national life, from which language comes, literature also is born; and those mysterious indwelling causes, and those apparent external influences, which mould and modify the one, must give form and color to the other. It is impossible to separate ourselves wholly from the features or the predominant traits of our parents. the earlier settlers of this country been mainly French or German, as they were English, our subsequent growth would probably have partaken of a French or German tenor. What literature we might create would have borne a family likeness to Voltaire, or Goethe, to Victor Hugo, or Freligrath, instead of to Milton and Sir Walter Scott, to Addison and Pope; and we should in that event have had to struggle ourselves clear of German mysticism, and French elegance, as we now have to make our way out of the heavy and melancholy gravity of John Bull.

But this resemblance between our own

literature and that of England, springing from an identity of race and tongue,made especially apparent during the formative and transitional stages of our growth, will not prevent a remarkably new and original development in the maturer future. Already we have cut ourselves loose from the leading-strings which were inevitable to our childhood,—not in our political system only, but in our manners, morals, and arts; and, under the torrent of influences pouring in upon us from the vast accessions to our population from the Old World, our whole literary and social character is undergoing change. This is not the place to speak of the social indications, but, as it regards the literary, we allege that our younger writers abound in them,-in the most unmistakable evidences of a new and vigorous direction given to their habits of feeling and thought. They are not only less English than their predecessors were; they are not only more universal in their affinities and tastes, the consequence of wider sympathies, and the infusion of the European element; but they are more entirely independent, selfsustained, and have a more distinct character of their own. A certain ready, open impressibility, which takes in all the wonders of nature and all the excellencies of art, and has a quick feeling for every variety of human character,- -is the mark of most of them, accompanied by a fresh, buoyant, genial enthusiasm. Without losing the earnestness of their northern origin, they have had superinduced upon it the volatile and graceful vivacity of the south; they are more external, sensuous, impassioned, but none the less intense and thoughtful. The Saxon and the Celtic bloods unite in their veins, giving brilliancy and facility to a foundation of endurance and power.

It is scarcely time for these new combinations to show themselves in full force -except in practical enterprise, where our achievements both in grandeur of conception and ease of execution surpass all that is recorded in modern annals,-but in that branch of literature, which comes nearest to enterprise, in narratives of travel, there are many signs of a new and vigorous tendency. Stephens in Central America, Melville in the South Seas, Curtis in Egypt and Syria, have marked out styles of their own, each different from the other, and each different from any travellers that have gone before them. They are full of freshness and broad, sensuous life, not like the worn-out debauchees of Europe who travel to get rid of themselves or to find a new sensation, but like marvellously wise children, capa

ble of surprises, but accepting all novelties with good humor; indeed, with a certain rollicking fun, and at the same time estimating them at their true value with an unerring practical sagacity.

Among our nascent poets, too,-such as Saxe, Boker, Read, Taylor, and Stoddart, we discern the earnest of a departure from old methods, and an entrance upon a new and original career. They are more free, frank, and expansive than the modern British poets, and superadd to the concentrated force and strength of their insular models a more affluent, richly colored and catholic view of life. A luxuriance, as of some deep virgin soil, shooting up into weedy extravagance at times, bestrays the inspiration of our prolific nature, and reminds us of broad rivers and lakes, flowery prairies, and interminable leafy woods. faults, therefore, are faults of excess and not of deficiency. They want discipline, but not sensibility nor native vigor. They have the hale, ruddy-complexioned look of health, and above all, a sincere fearless spirit, which betokens a living spirit within, and the capacity for lusty human growth. Let them be true to the promises of their youth, and their manhood will ripen into luscious and fragrant fulfilments.

Their

But we cannot pursue these topics; we have already dwelt so long upon them, that we have left ourselves little space to speak of the work by which they have been suggested. It is confessedly the book of the year. In the splendor of its embellishments no less than in the interest of its contents, we know of no holiday book that can compare with it,-none at least issued on this side of the ocean. Still we

have some faults to find with it: the plates are, here and there, hastily executed: and the letter-press of a few of the contributions is not so sprightly, anecdotal, personal as we should like to have found. It is a prevailing vice of our writers to be too didactic and sedate; and in such a book, of all others, heavy writing is out of place. But this criticism does not apply to the whole volume, in which there is much admirable and vivacious writing: while the entertainment which it furnishes could not well be better. It introduces us by pencil and by pen, to the haunts of novelists and poets, who are dear to the hearts of some, and will live long in the imaginations of others. Having given us many hours of the purest delight, we desire to know them more intimately, as they are known by those permitted a friendly intercourse. We visit Audubon in his snug retreat on the Hudson, while his favorite deer are