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- to the contrary course by circumstances, Hawthorne (either from
simple disinclination, or else from inaptitude) refrains from all
the popularizing noise and show of broad farce and blood-besmeared
tragedy; content with the still, rich utterance of a great intellect in
repose, and which sends few thoughts into circulation, except they be
arterialized at his large warm lungs, and expanded in his honest heart.
Nor need you fix upon that blackness in him, if it suit you not. Nor,
indeed, will all readers discern it; for it is, mostly, insinuated
to those who may best understand it, and account for it; it is not
obtruded upon every one alike.
Some may start to read of Shakspeare and Hawthorne on the same page.
They may say, that if an illustration were needed, a lesser light might
have sufficed to elucidate this Hawthorne, this small man of yesterday.
But I am not willingly one of those who, as touching Shakspeare at
least, exemplify the maxim of Rochefoucauld, that "we exalt the
reputation of some, in order to depress that of others";--who, to
teach all noble-souled aspirants that there is no hope for them,
pronounce Shakspeare absolutely unapproachable. But Shakspeare has
been approached. There are minds that have gone as far as Shakspeare
into the universe. And hardly a mortal man, who, at some time or
other, has not felt as great thoughts in him as any you will find
in Hamlet. We must not inferentially malign mankind for the sake
of any one man, whoever he may be. This is too cheap a purchase of
contentment for conscious mediocrity to make. Besides, this absolute
and unconditional adoration of Shakspeare has grown to be a part of
our Anglo-Saxon superstitions. The Thirty-Nine Articles are now Forty.
Intolerance has come to exist in this matter. You must believe in
Shakspeare's unapproachability, or quit the country. But what sort of a
belief is this for an American, a man who is bound to carry republican
progressiveness into Literature as well as into Life? Believe me, my
friends, that men, not very much inferior to Shakspeare are this day
being born on the banks of the Ohio. And the day will come when you
shall say, Who reads a book by an Englishman that is a modern? The
great mistake seems to be, that even with those Americans who look
forward to the coming of a great literary genius among us, they somehow
fancy he will come in the costume of Queen Elizabeth's day; be a writer
of dramas founded upon old English history or the tales of Boccaccio.
Whereas, great geniuses are parts of the times, they themselves are
the times, and possess a corresponding coloring. It is of a piece with
the Jews, who, while their Shiloh was meekly walking in their streets,
were still praying for his magnificent coming; looking for him in a
chariot, who was already among them on an ass. Nor must we forget that,
in his own lifetime, Shakspeare was not Shakspeare, but only Master
William Shakspeare of the shrewd, thriving, business firm of Condell,
Shakspeare and Co., proprietors of the Globe Theatre in London; and by
a courtly author, of the name of Chettle, was looked at as an "upstart
crow," beautified "with other birds' feathers." For, mark it well,
imitation is often the first charge brought against originality. Why
this is so, there is not space to set forth here. You must have plenty
of sea-room to tell the Truth in; especially when it seems to have an
aspect of newness, as America did in 1492, though it was then just as
old, and perhaps older than Asia, only those sagacious philosophers,
the common sailors, had never seen it before, swearing it was all water
and moonshine there.
Now I do not say that Nathaniel of Salem is a greater man than William
of Avon, or as great. But the difference between the two men is by no
means immeasurable. Not a very great deal more, and Nathaniel were
verily William.
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