ess,
the beauty of self-sacrifice, the dignity of humble virtue, and the
strength of that love which is found in "huts where poor men lie."

The new harvest of applause which is gathered by the gifted minds of
England, in a country separated from their own by three thousand miles
of ocean, is a privilege peculiar to them, and one to which no author,
however rich in golden opinion won at home, can feel himself
indifferent. No brow can be so thickly shaded with indigenous laurels,
as not to wear, with emotion, those which are the growth of a foreign
soil. There is no homage so true and unquestionable as that which the
stranger offers. At home the popularity of an author may, during his own
life at least, be greatly increased by circumstances not at all
affecting the intrinsic value of his writings. The caprice of fashion,
the accident of high rank or distinguished social position, the zeal of
a literary faction or a political party, may invest some "Cynthia of the
minute" with a brief notoriety, which resembles true fame only as the
meteor resembles the star. But popularity of this kind is of too flimsy
and delicate a texture to bear transportation. It is only merit of a
solid and durable fabric which can survive a voyage across the Atlantic.
It has been said, with as much truth as point, that a foreign nation is
a sort of contemporaneous posterity. Its judgment resembles the calm,
unbiased voice of future ages. It has no infusion of personal feeling;
it is a serene and unimpassioned verdict, neither won by favor, nor
withheld from prejudice. The admiration which comes from afar off is
valuable in the direct ratio of its distance, as there is the same
degree of assurance that it springs from no secondary cause, but is a
spontaneous and unbought tribute. An English author might see with
comparative unconcern his book upon a drawing-room table in London, but
should he chance to meet a well-thumbed copy of it in a log-house beyond
our western mountains, would not his heart swell with just pride at the
thought of the wide space through which his name was diffused and his
influence felt, and would not his lips almost unconsciously utter the
expression of the wandering Trojan:--

"_Quae regio in terris nostri non plena laboris?_"

It is also probably true that, in our country, English authors find
their warmest and most impassioned admirers. It is as true of the mind
as of the eye, that distance lends enchantment to the v