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- 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 colouring. 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, Shakespeare was not Shakespeare, but only Master William
Shakespeare of the shrewd, thriving, business firm of Condell,
Shakespeare 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.
This, too, I mean, that if Shakespeare has not been equalled, give the
world time, and he is sure to be surpassed in one hemisphere or the
other. Nor will it at all do to say that the world is getting gray and
grizzled now, and has lost that fresh charm which she wore of old, and
by virtue of which the great poets of past times made themselves what we
esteem them to be. Not so. The world is as young to-day as when it was
created; and this Vermont morning dew is as wet to my feet, as Eden’s
dew to Adam’s. Nor has nature been all over ransacked by our
progenitors, so that no new charms and mysteries remain for this latter
generation to find. Far from it. The trillionth part has not yet been
said; and all that has been said, but multiplies the avenues to what
remains to be said. It is not so much paucity as superabundance of
material that seems to incapacitate modern authors.
Let America, then, prize and cherish her writers; yea, let her glorify
them. They are not so many in number as to exhaust her goodwill. And
while she has good kith and kin of her own to take to her bosom, let her
not lavish her embraces upon the household of an alien. For believe it
or not, England after all, is in many things an alien to us. China has
more bonds of real love for us than she. But even were there no strong
literary individualities among us, as there are some dozens at least,
nevertheless, let America first praise mediocrity even, in her children,
before she praises (for everywhere, merit demands acknowledgment from
every one) the best excellence in the children of any other land. Let
her own authors, I say, have the priority of appreciation. I was much
pleased with a hot-headed Carolina cousin of mine, who once said,--‘If
there were no other American to stand by, in literature, why, then, I
would stand by Pop Emmons and his _Fredoniad_, and till a better epic
came along, swear it was not very far behind the _Iliad_.’ Take away the
words, and in spirit he was sound.
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