And who was
he?--who but the Master Genius for whom our country is looking
anxiously into the mist of Time, as destined to fulfil the great
mission of creating an American literature, hewing it, as it were,
out of the unwrought granite of our intellectual quarries? From
him, whether moulded in the form of an epic poem or assuming a guise
altogether new as the spirit itself may determine, we are to receive
our first great original work, which shall do all that remains to be
achieved for our glory among the nations. How this child of a
mighty destiny had been discovered by the Man of Fancy it is of
little consequence to mention. Suffice it that he dwells as yet
unhonored among men, unrecognized by those who have known him from
his cradle; the noble countenance which should be distinguished by a
halo diffused around it passes daily amid the throng of people
toiling and troubling themselves about the trifles of a moment, and
none pay reverence to the worker of immortality. Nor does it matter
much to him, in his triumph over all the ages, though a generation
or two of his own times shall do themselves the wrong to disregard
him.
By this time Monsieur On-Dit had caught up the stranger's name and
destiny and was busily whispering the intelligence among the other
guests.
"Pshaw!" said one. "There can never be an American genius."
"Pish!" cried another. "We have already as good poets as any in the
world. For my part, I desire to see no better.
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