ABSTRACT
The literature of a nation is the source of its chief glory. Its eminent authors are the most becoming objects of national pride. A nation without a literature, however abundant in natural resources, is a nation without true greatness, and, however liberal the form of its institutions, without true independence. The literature of England derives an imposing majesty from the past. We fail to define precisely its present limits. Even confining our observations to an equal space of time, and comparing the current literature of each nation strictly in its present aspect, it would be unjust to apply the same rule of calculation to both. A national literature requires time, and the gradual operation of combined influences, for its formation. The very mechanical form and structure of current literature is an index to its character and determines its fate; reveals careless haste in its origin and indicates a transient efflorescence of existence.
