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- unduly lauding foreign writers, and, at the same time, duly recognise
the meritorious writers that are our own; those writers who breathe that
unshackled, democratic spirit of Christianity in all things, which now
takes the practical lead in this world, though at the same time led by
ourselves--us Americans. Let us boldly condemn all imitation, though it
comes to us graceful and fragrant as the morning; and foster all
originality, though at first it be crabbed and ugly as our own pine
knots. And if any of our authors fail, or seem to fail, then, in the
words of my Carolina cousin, let us clap him on the shoulder and back
him against all Europe for his second round. The truth is, that in one
point of view this matter of a national literature has come to such a
pass with us, that in some sense we must turn bullies, else the day is
lost, or superiority so far beyond us, that we can hardly say it will
ever be ours.
And now, my countrymen, as an excellent author of your own flesh and
blood--an unimitating, and, perhaps, in his way, an inimitable man--whom
better can I commend to you, in the first place, than Nathaniel
Hawthorne. He is one of the new, and far better generation of your
writers. The smell of young beeches and hemlocks is upon him; your own
broad prairies are in his soul; and if you travel away inland into his
deep and noble nature, you will hear the far roar of his Niagara. Give
not over to future generations the glad duty of acknowledging him for
what he is. Take that joy to yourself, in your own generation; and so
shall he feel those grateful impulses on him, that may possibly prompt
him to the full flower of some still greater achievement in your eyes.
And by confessing him you thereby confess others; you brace the whole
brotherhood. For genius, all over the world, stands hand in hand, and
one shock of recognition runs the whole circle round.
In treating of Hawthorne, or rather of Hawthorne in his writings (for I
never saw the man; and in the chances of a quiet plantation life, remote
from his haunts, perhaps never shall); in treating of his works, I say,
I have thus far omitted all mention of his _Twice Told Tales_, and
_Scarlet Letter_. Both are excellent, but full of such manifold,
strange, and diffusive beauties, that time would all but fail me to
point the half of them out. But there are things in those two books,
which, had they been written in England a century ago, Nathaniel
Hawthorne had utterly displaced many of the bright names we now revere
on authority. But I am content to leave Hawthorne to himself, and to the
infallible finding of posterity; and however great may be the praise I
have bestowed upon him, I feel that in so doing I have served and
honoured myself, rather than him. For, at bottom, great excellence is
praise enough to itself; but the feeling of a sincere and appreciative
love and admiration toward it, this is relieved by utterance, and warm,
honest praise ever leaves a pleasant flavour in the mouth; and it is an
honourable thing to confess to what is honourable in others.
But I cannot leave my subject yet. No man can read a fine author, and
relish him to his very bones while he reads, without subsequently
fancying to himself some ideal image of the man and his mind. And if you
rightly look for it, you will almost always find that the author himself
has somewhere furnished you with his own picture. For poets (whether in
prose or verse), being painters by nature, are like their brethren of
the pencil, the true portrait-painters, who, in the multitude of
likenesses to be sketched, do not invariably omit their own; and in all
high instances, they paint them without any vanity, though at times with
a lurking something that would take several pages to properly define.
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