of American literature that it can boast no name of
commanding genius--no dramatist to rank with Shakespeare, no poet to
rank with Keats, no novelist to rank with Thackeray, to take names only
from our cousins oversea--and yet it displays a high level of talent and
a notable richness of achievement. Literature requires a background of
history and tradition; more than that, it requires leisure. A new nation
spends its energies in the struggle for existence, and not until that
existence is assured do its finer minds need to turn to literature for
self-expression. As Poor Richard put it, "Well done is better than well
said," and so long as great things are pressing to be done, great men
will do their writing on the page of history, and not on papyrus, or
parchment, or paper.

So, in the early history of America, the settlers in the new country
were too busily employed in fighting for a foothold, in getting food and
clothing, in keeping body and soul together, to have any time for the
fine arts. Most of the New England divines tried their hands at limping
and hob-nail verse, but prior to the Revolution, American literature is
remarkable only for its aridity, its lack of inspiration and its
portentous dulness. In these respects it may proudly claim never to have
been surpassed in the history of mankind. In fact, American literature,
as such, may be said to date from 1809, when Washington Irving gave to
the world his inimitable "History of New York." It struck a new and
wholly original note, with a sureness bespeaking a master's touch.

Where did Irving get that touch? That is a question which one asks
vainly concerning any master of literature, for genius is a thing which
no theory can explain. It appears in the most unexpected places. An
obscure Corsican lieutenant becomes Emperor of France, arbiter of
Europe, and one of the three or four really great commanders of history;
a tinker in Bedford County jail writes the greatest allegory in
literature; and the son of two mediocre players develops into the first
figure in American letters. Conversely, genius seldom appears where one
would naturally look for it. Seldom indeed does genius beget genius. It
expends itself in its work.

Certainly there was no reason to suppose that any child of William
Irving and Sarah Sanders would develop genius even of the second order,
more especially since they had already ten who were just average boys
and girls. Nor did the eleventh, who wa