I am not sure but his name ought to lead the list of American
bards. Years ago I thought Emerson pre eminent (and as to the last
polish and intellectual cuteness may-be I think so still)--but, for
reasons, I have been gradually tending to give the file-leading place
for American native poesy to W. C. B.
Of Emerson I have to confirm my already avow'd opinion regarding his
highest bardic and personal attitude. Of the galaxy of the past--of
Poe, Halleck, Mrs. Sigourney, Allston, Willis, Dana,
John Pierpont, W. G. Simms, Robert Sands, Drake, Hillhouse, Theodore
Fay, Margaret Fuller, Epes Sargent, Boker, Paul Hayne, Lanier, and
others, I fitly in essaying such a theme as this, and reverence for
their memories, may at least give a heart-benison on the list of their
names.
Time and New World humanity having the venerable resemblances more
than anything else, and being "the same subject continued," just here
in 1890, one gets a curious nourishment and lift (I do) from all those
grand old veterans, Bancroft, Kossuth, von Moltke--and such typical
specimen-reminiscences as Sophocles and Goethe, genius, health, beauty
of person, riches, rank, renown and length of days, all combining and
centering in one case.
Above everything, what could humanity and literature do without the
mellow, last-justifying, averaging, bringing-up of many, many years--a
great old age amplified? Every really first-class production has
likely to pass through the crucial tests of a generation, perhaps
several generations.
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