d prose or verse with a high seriousness
has offended against the practice of the masters--save only Walt
Whitman. The written word and the spoken word differ even more widely
in America than elsewhere. The spoken word threw off the trammels of an
uneasy restraint at the very outset. The written word still obeys the
law of gradual development, which has always controlled it. If you
contrast the English literature of to-day with the American, you will
find differences of accent and expression so slight that you may neglect
them. You will find resemblances which prove that it is not in vain that
our literatures have a common origin and have followed a common road.
The arts, in truth, are more willingly obedient than life or politics to
the established order; and America, free and democratic though she be,
loyally acknowledges the sovereignty of humane letters. American is
heard at the street corner. It is still English that is written in the
study.

AMERICAN LITERATURE.

There can, in fact, be no clearer proof that the tradition of literature
is stronger than the tradition of life than the experience of America.
The new world, to its honour be it said, has discovered no new art. The
ancient masters of our English speech are the masters also of America.
The golden chain of memory cannot be shaken off, and many of those who
raise with the loudest voice the cry of freedom have shown themselves
the loyal and willing slaves of the past.

The truth is that from the first the writers of America have lagged
honourably behind their age. The wisest of them have written with a
studious care and quiet reverence. As if to mark the difference between
the written language and the vernacular, they have assumed a style which
belonged to their grandfathers. This half-conscious love of reaction
has been ever present with them. Tou may find examples at each stage of
their history. Cotton Mather, who armed his hand and tongue against
the intolerable sin of witchcraft, wrote when Dutch William was on our
throne, and in style he was but a belated Elizabethan. There is no other
writer with whom we may compare him, save Robert Burton, who also lived
out of his due time. Take this specimen of his prose, and measure
its distance from the prose of Swift and Addison, his younger
contemporaries: "Wherefore the Devil," writes Mather in the simplicity
of his faith, "is now making one Attempt more upon us; an Attempt
more Difficult, more Surpris