Kingsbury, Theodore Bryant, 1828-1913
Cover page
Page 1
It is not my
our object in this composition, to vindicate
our political institutions, our manners, morals and social organization from
the illiberal, vindictive and bigoted assaults of the hired minions of
despotism, for the space and time allowed me, will not admit of an extended
review of the subject; but I
we would say a word in favor of that Literature
whose infancy was slandered, and whose progress has been dogged by the scoffs and sneers of those, whose pride
and glory it should have been, to protect and foster it. It has struggled
hitherto against many adverse circumstances. The very discovery and settlement
of this country marked a new era in the history of the human mind. Since then,
what may be called the practical concerns of life; the pursuits of gain and the
rage for utility have, to a great extent, occupied the energies of all the
civilized world; and few bright luminaries in Literature have any where made
their appearance.
Very many causes have conspired to impede our progress as a Literary
people—these we will
not recapitulate. We
cannot, however, forbear pointing out a striking difference existing in the
respective promotion of English and American Literature. In
England
there are many princely estates enabling the possessors to obtain the costly
means of prosecuting researches in science, or to reward excellence in
literature and the polite arts; hereditary fortunes furnishing their inheritors
with time and means for the long and constant cultivation of letters. Yet,
notwithstanding all obstructions, every American citizen has a right to be
proud of his country and his country's literature. 'Tis true our literature is
yet in its infancy, yet, it is equally true that there are those numbered among
our writers, the fame of whom would
2 add
even to the
Page 2
greatness of a
Shakspeare or a
Milton, a
Goethe or a
Dante. It is but yesterday, we took our place among the nations of the
earth and it is not to be expected, that we should at once reach the summit of
intellectual greatness. All that is valuable
and
destined to last is of slow growth, The mushroom may spring up in a
night—but the sturdy oak is the growth of centuries. If we cannot boast
of a
Newton, a
Locke, a
Milton, a
Scott
or a
Bacon; we have a
Franklin, a
Bryant, a
Cooper, and
Irving and a
Presscott
,
3 and
among our female writers a
Sedgewick and a
Sigourney, with many others fast rising in fame, whose
writings would adorn any period of English or German Literature.
American Literature is in one respect superior to that of every
country on the globe, and this distinction alone should entitle it to the
marked respect of all the Christian World. For the number of our authors in
every department, there never have been as few, whose writings breathe an
unhealthy morality. You will look in vain over the catalogue of American
writers for the sneering Atheist, the plausible Infidel and the corrupt
Libertine, each of whom has contributed so much to poison and contaminate the
modern literature of other countries.
It has been said by some European Scholars that science and
literature have in this country no governmental patronage, therefore high
attainments are not to be expected. If we look into the history of ancient
4
literature, we behold many noble and splendid specimens of intellectual
greatness. But where were they reared? Not in the palaces of the
great, nor under the sun-shine of Royal
patronage,—but mostly upon the rugged soil and islands of ancient
Greece. The
muse of
Homer never
graced the halls of princes, and with the artificial charms of modern
refinement she was also unacquainted. She breathed the pure airs of her native
mountains and amidst their wild and beautiful scenery caught her inspiration.
The philosophy of
Plato, grew
sublimely fair—not under the smiles of royal favor—but in groves
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of the academy, under the fostering influence of
Liberty, its guardian genius. The eloquence of
Demosthenes, before whose resistless power the armies of
Macedonia
retired, was the pride and ornament of independent
Greece; all
have read with the deepest sympathy and interest, how, his putting forth his
energies in the cause of
freedom, he expired, as his
country's Star slowly descended into the abysmal depths of eternity's Ocean. We
need not go back to the ancients for examples of human vigor and finished
culture. But few of the illustrious names that grace the annals of English
literature owe, their greatness or acquirements to the patronage of the crown.
They wrote themselves into fame, and produced their immortal works unaided and
alone, with not patronage but genius and unwearied industry.
Our clime and beautifully romantic scenery are highly suitable
to and favorable to the intellectual
development of the nation. For its influence is displayed in the energy of
thought and feeling which characterize all
classes, not less the uneducated than the learned and most accomplished
scholar.
Who can behold our mountain rivulets, leaping among the rocks and
stealing their way into the dark valley beneath, or linger upon the banks of
our streams, amidst the rich and blooming foliage which adorns them, and not
have his soul awakened to a glow of the most pleasurable emotion? Who can stand
upon the shores of our broad majestic lakes, and gaze upon their unruffled
expanse, bounded only by the distant horizon, and not feel his spirit subdued
by the grandeur of the scene?—Who has not felt a mingling of sublime and
pleasing sensations while gazing upon the flow of our mighty rivers—the
wav wave of
5 our
lofty forests—and the awful grandeur
Page 4
of the
mountains which the hand of nature in wild magnificence, has scattered over our
country? While standing at the foot of our foaming cataracts, and looking up to
the ocean of waters, which pour their immense volumes into the abyss
below,—the soul itself seems lost in the sublimity of its own conception;
the glory and greatness of man fades away; the majesty of
God fills the
soul—his voice alone is heard in the deep heavy thunders of the
cataracts.
And
And is there nothing in scenes like these to kindle the poets fire:
to awaken the soul of the orator and to draw forth all his powers? Is there
nothing to give strength and wings to genius?
Can the philosopher gaze upon these scenes and not feel
an conscious elevation of thought and
intellect, which shall prompt him to new energy in exploring the untrodden
feilds of science?
The spirit of inquiry into the fundamental principles of law, morals
and politics, being here left free, is pushed with surprising rigor into useful
discovery and investigation, while in other nations the genius of their
authors, confined within a narrow circle, bestows its labors on dry and
abstract science, on fiction & sickly romance. And even in the higher walks
of literature we have taken a proud and honerable stand.
The historian is entitled perhaps to rank as the most noble and
useful species of authors. And where is the historian of modern times whose
light does not pale before the resplendant sun of our own
Presscott
? Who among all this class of writers in
Europe will
compare with him in all the essential and important requisites of this
character? Chaste and terse in diction; simple eloquent and grave in style;
lively and perspicuous in narrative; stately and well sustained in sentiment,
our matchless author has already taken his position by the side of the great
masters of
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*his calling.
6 Nor
must it be forgotten that our writers of this class have to
go travel beyond their own country for
themes to employ their pens, for ours is yet in its infancy and the events of
its career so far are soon told.
Next to history, biography should perhaps be ranked as most
important; and here again we have a work that is the first of its kind. We are
sorry to say that we have seen in so few libraries,
the "Life of Columbus;"
7 and
yet it is a book which no reader can commence without perusing its entire
contents, and no one can travel over these without being afforded much
amusement and solid instruction. Whether we consider the dignity and importance
of the subject; the great and momentous events of which it treats, the
eloquence and beauty of the composition, or the moral grandeur of the
sentiment, no just critic can fail to bestow on the work his most unqualified
commendation. It has another merit—perhaps not its least—it is from
the pen of the good and immortal
Irving. This writer alone would give a high tone to the
literature of any country; and he will stand out, to the eyes of posterity, as
the most prominent land-mark of his age. We shall attempt nothing in praise of
Irving; who can do him justice?
The "
bard of Avon" tells us,
"To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet:
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish
Is wasteful and rediculous excess:"
8 and
wasteful and rediculous indeed it be for us to pronounce a panegyric upon
him, for his fame is now known wherever books are read: his thoughts will
continue to fascinate and instruct
the world
while man has a mind to appreciate and a heart to feel, whatever is
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is pleasing in fancy, pathetic chaste and sublime in
sentiment and good in morals; while to the latest posterity and when our mother
tongue shall speak only in the words of the past, his books will be the glory
of the language in which they were written.
Another great Biographical work is "
Marshall's life of
Washington";
9 a
book whose theme is the grandest in human history, and whose style and
sentiment would render illustrious a much more ignoble subject.
In the field of fiction we have had one writer who should bow his
head only to the "Great Wizard of the North" as
Sir Walter
Scott was called. The Indian Novels of
Cooper—not to speak of his splendid Sea
novels—whose scenes are laid in the awful solitude of the forest, and on
the wide and desolate prairie, and whose characters were the wild red men that
roamed over them, have as much exciting incident, accurate delineation of
character, and more grandeur of scenery, than the best productions of the
author of
Waverly. These are some of our most prominent
authors, but there is a vast multitude of others of less note whose teeming
productions are constantly enriching every branch of Literature. They are
not voluminous; no high-sounding name grace their
title page; nor are they ushered into the world in ponderous tomes whose
potentous dimensions excite the awe of the vulgar and the reverence of the
critic. Yet in their unpretending volumes may be found the richest treasures,
the dust of purest gold.
In one department however there seems to be a lamentable deficiency;
in the flowery field of poetry. The fair Muses it is said will not be wooed by
our sturdy republicans, and reserve their smiles for more courtly gallants, in
gayer climes. It is true the Harp of no great Master has yet sounded among us;
still it is equally true that
Page 7
the inspiring genius
of song is Liberty. And is not the American mind eminently poetical? No
elaborate productions have made their appearance, though
Bryant,
Longfellow,
Halleck and others have written well; yet thousands of the
purest gems sparkle in the ephemeral literature of the day. Songs as sweet as
the sweetest one's of
Burns
and
Moore; odes, sonnets and refrains, breathing in numbers as
harmonious as
Pope's and as chaste as
Wordsworth; the very soul of poetry way be found in many
of our literary journals. But perhaps among the many causes which have impeded
the growth of Poetry, may be assigned as the most prominent the all absorbing
influence and power of her sister Eloquence.
10
Here we are without a rival since the palmiest days of
Greece &
Rome. Here in
is our Literature rich, splendid, glorious; here in have we given to the world
"In
words
thoughts that breathe and words that burn",
11 a
profusion of the most gorgeous and magnificent treasures, and the sublime
effusions of our
Clays
,
our
Websters, our
Calhouns, our
Corwins and our
Choats, whose words are "sparks of immortality,"
will stand unrivalled amid the decay and mutations of Time, by the everlasting
adamant of
Cicero and
Demosthenes.
Nor should we pass without notice the more humble branch of
periodical literature—a branch in which we may challenge co[m]parison
with the world. One of our Reviews—the
North American
12
—has
long since taken its place among the
ablest in any country; our political organs would be disgraced by a comparison
with those of any other nation, and in our newspapers generally there are more
classical essays, more polished criticism, more pure wit and fun than can be
found in any other similar pages. And the fact too, that so much information of
every sort is thus cheaply and universally diffused, and that many of the most
cultivated minds and brightest geniuses of the country, are engaged in
enriching their columns, will account for the small number of costly works. But
however bright
Page 8
and honorable is our literature, it
has not reached its highest point. It is now but in the bud, and the time is
far distant when it will open in its richest bloom. This is not with us
figuratively speaking "a piping time of peace."
13 It
is for us a stirring age. A mighty career of action is yet to be run: great
events are yet to happen and great achievements yet to be made. And from our
auspicious beginning we have every reason to hope that a brilliant and glorious
career is before us; that we will yet touch a point in national greatness and
grandeur far in advance of any who have gone before us. If not, ours will
atleast be no common fate. If our race is short, it will be marked by a
succession of great events, and our
race
end if speedy will be like the throes and
convulsions of expiring nature.
Then, when our minds have been sobered and our fancies tempered by
the frost of age; then, in that time of repose and meditation will the
literature of our country shine in all its splendor, and reflect a deathless
glory over our aged and decaying republic. All that mighty intellect; all that
diversified genius that is now boiling with a feverish excitement, with
restless desire for achievement, will be calmed into a quiet contemplation of
the past. And
then, as it broods over the mighty
deeds of by-gone times and the stupendous wrecks of fallen power and faded
glory; or sits beneath the shadow of a pure republic, "whose bruised arms
are hung up for monuments,"
14 and
whose career has been "a path of [
love]
light," of burning,
shining light in the wide gloom of time,—illustrated by every virtue that
can refine, humanize and ennoble our race;
then,
will the fruits of a new and glorious literature, unequalled in any age or any
country, ripen to its full perfection;
then, will
burst forth a wild strain of song and harmony, compared to which the epic
effusions of other nations, will be like the bubbling of their brooks by the
thunders of
Niagara.
Endnotes:
1.
Dialectic Society Addresses, UA. Written on eight numbered
sheets, the composition once had been bound and subsequently unbound. It is
endorsed "Composition/on/American Literature/Filed/September 1848./by/
TB.Kingsbury
./
Oxford/N.C."
3. American historian
William Hickling Prescott (1796-1859) was the author of
The History of the Reign of Ferdinand and
Isabella the Catholic
(1838) and
The Conquest of Peru
(1847), among other
works.
4.
Kingsbury
wrote
a on top of
A, which has been erased.
6. The following footnote appears at the bottom of the page:
"*It may not be uninteresting to know, that
Baron Von Humbolt—the most remarkable man of his
age,—before a society in
Germany
lately pronounced
Presscott
greatest of all historians."
7.
Washington Irving,
History of the Life and Voyages of Christopher
Columbus
, 4 vols. (London: John Murray, 1828).
8.
William Shakespeare,
King John
, IV.ii (1623).
9.
John
Marshall,
The Life of
George Washington
, 5 vols. (Philadelphia: C. P. Wayne, 1804).
11.
Thomas
Gray, "The Progress
of Poesy," III.iii (1757).
12.
North American; or, Weekly Journal of Politics, Science and
Literature
(Baltimore: S. Sands, 1800-50).
13.
William Shakespeare,
King Richard the Third
, I.i (1597): "Why,
I, in this weak piping time of peace,/Have no delight to pass away the
time,/Unless to see my shadow in the sun/And descant on mine own
deformity."
14.
William Shakespeare,
King Richard the Third
, I.i (1597): "Our
bruised arms hung up for monuments."