A national
literature is, of course, in one sense, a great mirror or reflector.
There must however be something before--something to reflect. I
should say now, since the secession war, there has been, and to-day
unquestionably exists, that something.
Certainly, anyhow, the United States do not so far utter poetry,
first-rate literature, or any of the so-call'd arts, to any lofty
admiration or advantage--are not dominated or penetrated from actual
inherence or plain bent to the said poetry and arts. Other work, other
needs, current inventions, productions, have occupied and to-day
mainly occupy them. They are very 'cute and imitative and proud--can't
bear being left too glaringly away far behind the other high-class
nations--and so we set up some home "poets," "artists," painters,
musicians, _literati_, and so forth, all our own (thus claim'd.) The
whole matter has gone on, and exists to-day, probably as it should
have been, and should be; as, for the present, it must be. To all
which we conclude, and repeat the terrible query: American National
Literature--is there distinctively any such thing, or can there ever
be?
Note:
[46] The essay was for the _North American Review_, in answer to the
formal request of the editor. It appear'd in March, 1891.
GATHERING THE CORN
_Last of October_.--Now mellow, crisp, Autumn days, bright moonlight
nights, and gathering the corn--"cutting up," as the farmers call it.
Now, or of late, all over the country, a certain green and brown-drab
eloquence seeming to call out, "You that pretend to give the news, and
all that's going, why not give us a notice?" Truly, O fields, as for
the notice,
"Take, we give it willingly.
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