It is not an unkind country, this big republic, where the manners are so "free and easy," the _tempo_ of life so quick, the pressure of business so heavy and continuous. The feeling of philanthropy in its broader sense,--the impulse which makes men inclined to help one another, to sympathize with the unfortunate, to lift a neighbour or a stranger out of a tight place,--good will, in short,--is in the blood of the people. When their blood is heated, they are hard hitters, fierce fighters. But give them time to cool down, and they are generous peacemakers. Abraham Lincoln's phrase, "With malice toward none, with charity for all," strikes the key-note. In the "mild concerns of ordinary life" they like to cultivate friendly relations, to show neighbourliness, to do the useful thing. There is a curious word of approbation in the rural dialect of Pennsylvania. When the country folk wish to express their liking for a man, they say, "He is a very common person,"--meaning not that he is low or vulgar, but approachable, sympathetic, kind to all. Underneath the surface of American life, often rough and careless, there lies this widespread feeling: that human nature everywhere is made of the same stuff; that life's joys and sorrows are felt in the same way whether they are hidden under homespun and calico or under silk and broadcloth; that it is every man's duty to do good and not evil to those who live in the world with him. In literature this feeling has shown itself in many ways. It has given a general tone of sympathy with "the under dog in a fight." It has led writers to look for subjects among the plain people. It has made the novel of American "high life" incline generally to satire or direct rebuke. In the typical American romance the hero is seldom rich, the villain seldom poor. In the weaker writers the humane sentiment dwindles into sentimentality. In the stronger writers it gives, sometimes, a very noble and manly note. In general you may say that it has impressed upon American literature the mark of a moral purpose,--the wish to elevate, to purify, to fortify the mind, and so the life, of those who read. Is this a merit or a fault in literature? Judge for yourselves. No doubt a supremely ethical intention is an insufficient outfit for an author. His work may be "Chaste as the icicle That's curded by the frost from purest snow And hangs on Dian's temple," and yet it may be without savour or permanence. Often the desire to teach a good lesson bends a book from the straight line of truth-to-the-facts, and makes a so-called virtuous ending at the price of sincerity and thoroughgoing honesty.