ABSTRACT
American Literature seems to be a thing, certainly,—but it is not the thing exactly. To put Americanism in our letters, is to do something much more important. By a liberal extension of the courtesies of criticism, we are already in possession of a due amount of American authorship; but of such as is individual, and properly peculiar to ourselves, we cannot be said to enjoy much. The early labours of a newly established people were in possession of the Anglo--Norman genius, no doubt—upon this it will be the duty of the Americans to insist;—but its great attainments—its cherished acquisitions—its tastes, its refinements, its polish, were not theirs. Literature, in its essence, is a spiritual immortality; no more than religion a creation of man; but, like the human soul, while enduring the mystery of its incarnation, is subject to the action of the elements, is the slave of circumstance.
