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- 1729
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- 1666
- text
- frightened at this; for when Spenser was alive, he was thought of
very much as Hawthorne is now,--was generally accounted just such a
"gentle" harmless man. It may be, that to common eyes, the sublimity
of Hawthorne seems lost in his sweetness,--as perhaps in that same
_Select Party_ of his; for whom he has builded so august a dome of
sunset clouds, and served them on richer plate than Belshazzar when he
banqueted his lords in Babylon.
But my chief business now, is to point out a particular page in this
piece, having reference to an honored guest, who under the name of the
Master Genius, but in the guise "of a young man of poor attire, with no
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, Shakspeare 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 Shakspeare 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.
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