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- insignia of rank or acknowledged eminence,’ is introduced to the Man of
Fancy, who is the giver of the feast. Now, the page having reference to
this Master Genius, so happily expresses much of what I yesterday wrote,
touching the coming of the literary Shiloh of America, that I cannot but
be charmed by the coincidence; especially, when it shows such a parity
of ideas, at least in this one point, between a man like Hawthorne and a
man like me.
And here, let me throw out another conceit of mine touching this
American Shiloh, or Master Genius, as Hawthorne calls him. May it not
be, that this commanding mind has not been, is not, and never will be,
individually developed in any one man? And would it, indeed, appear so
unreasonable to suppose, that this great fulness and overflowing may be,
or may be destined to be, shared by a plurality of men of genius?
Surely, to take the very greatest example on record, Shakespeare cannot
be regarded as in himself the concretion of all the genius of his time;
nor as so immeasurably beyond Marlowe, Webster, Ford, Beaumont, Jonson,
that these great men can be said to share none of his power? For one, I
conceive that there were dramatists in Elizabeth’s day, between whom and
Shakespeare the distance was by no means great. Let any one, hitherto
little acquainted with those neglected old authors, for the first time
read them thoroughly, or even read Charles Lamb’s _Specimens_ of them,
and he will be amazed at the wondrous ability of those Anaks of men, and
shocked at this renewed example of the fact, that Fortune has more to do
with fame than merit,--though without merit, lasting fame there can be
none.
Nevertheless, it would argue too ill of my country were this maxim to
hold good concerning Nathaniel Hawthorne, a man who already in some few
minds has shed ‘such a light as never illuminates the earth save when a
great heart burns as the household fire of a grand intellect.’
The words are his,--in the _Select Party_; and they are a magnificent
setting to a coincident sentiment of my own, but ramblingly expressed
yesterday, in reference to himself. Gainsay it who will; as I now write,
I am Posterity speaking by proxy--and after-times will make it more than
good, when I declare, that the American who up to the present day has
evinced, in literature, the largest brain with the largest heart, that
man is Nathaniel Hawthorne. Moreover, that whatever Nathaniel Hawthorne
may hereafter write, _Mosses from an Old Manse_ will be ultimately
accounted his masterpiece. For there is a sure, though secret sign in
some works which proves the culmination of the powers (only the
developable ones, however) that produced them. But I am by no means
desirous of the glory of a prophet. I pray Heaven that Hawthorne may yet
prove me an impostor in this prediction. Especially, as I somehow cling
to the strange fancy, that, in all men, hiddenly reside certain
wondrous, occult properties--as in some plants and minerals--which by
some happy but very rare accident (as bronze was discovered by the
melting of the iron and brass at the burning of Corinth) may chance to
be called forth here on earth; not entirely waiting for their better
discovery in the more congenial, blessed atmosphere of heaven.
Once more--for it is hard to be finite upon an infinite subject, and all
subjects are infinite. By some people this entire scrawl of mine may be
esteemed altogether unnecessary, inasmuch ‘as years ago’ (they may say)
‘we found out the rich and rare stuff in this Hawthorne, who you now
parade forth, as if only you _yourself_ were the discoverer of this
Portuguese diamond in your literature.’ But even granting all this--and
adding to it, the assumption that the books of Hawthorne have sold by
the five thousand--what does that signify? They should be sold by the
hundred thousand; and read by the million; and admired by every one who
is capable of admiration.
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