authors, even the best modern authors of England—accessible though these are and closely related—are imperfect equivalents for the native authors that we need, to express for us the individual adventures and the social sense of men and women who live under our own national conditions. "Best," after all, even in the field of art, is a term which cannot be defined without some reference to what art is so fond of denying to itself—its purpose. When an American reader wishes an intimate picture of American society there can be no best book but an American book. There is always this strong special reason for knowing the literary expression of our national life, even though it be immature, unsatisfactory, and inferior of that of other nations.
The danger involved in assigning to American literature a much larger place in our culture than it now holds is obviously that in seeking to know ourselves and our own place in the world we may grotesquely overvalue our own things. This is a danger which is to be encountered, I believe, not carelessly yet unhesitatingly. It may be safely encountered only if it is met with an adequately equipped open-eyed criticism. Hence the grave importance of criticism at the present juncture in America. To embrace our native literature for better or for worse implies knowing it and valuing it for its virtues, whatever they are; but it need not in the least require us to shut our eyes to its shortcomings. On the contrary, we shall find, as our addiction to American letters increases, that we
