We see London, Paris, Italy--not original,
superb, as where they belong--but second-hand here, where they do not
belong. We see the shreds of Hebrews, Romans, Greeks; but where, on
her own soil, do we see, in any faithful, highest, proud expression,
America herself? I sometimes question whether she has a corner in her
own house.
Not but that in one sense, and a very grand one, good theology, good
art, or good literature, has certain features shared in common. The
combination fraternizes, ties the races--is, in many particulars,
under laws applicable indifferently to all, irrespective of climate
or date, and, from whatever source, appeals to emotions, pride, love,
spirituality, common to human kind. Nevertheless, they touch a man
closest, (perhaps only actually touch him,) even in these, in
their expression through autochthonic lights and shades, flavors,
fondnesses, aversions, specific incidents, illustrations, out of his
own nationality, geography, surroundings, antecedents, &c. The spirit
and the form are one, and depend far more on association, identity and
place, than is supposed. Subtly interwoven with the materiality
and personality of a land, a race--Teuton, Turk, Californian, or
what-not--there is always something--I can hardly tell what it
is--history but describes the results of it--it is the same as the
untellable look of some human faces. Nature, too, in her stolid forms,
is full of it--but to most it is there a secret. This something is
rooted in the invisible roots, the profoundest meanings of that place,
race, or nationality; and to absorb and again effuse it, uttering
words and products as from its midst, and carrying it into highest
regions, is the work, or a main part of the work, of any country's
true author, poet, historian, lecturer, and perhaps even priest and
philosoph.
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