is achievement will challenge every other man of conscious powers,
and they will educate and ripen each other till the best, who is never
the first, will appear and supply the need. No great man ever appeared
alone. He is the greatest of a group of great men, many of whom
preceded him, and without whom he would have been impossible. Homer,
alone of his group, has reached us; Shakespeare will live alone of his
age, four thousand years hence."

"But, Mr. Ridgeley, our continent and our life, with our fresh, young,
intense natures, seem to me to contain all the elements of poetry, and
the highest drama," said Miss Giddings.

"So they seem to us, and yet how much of that is due to our
egotism--because it is ours--who can tell? Of course there is any
amount of poetry in the raw, and so it will remain until somebody
comes to work it up. There are plenty of things to inspire, but the
man to be inspired is the thing most needed."

"So that, Mr. Ridgeley," said Ida, "we may not in our time hope for
the American novel, the great American epic, or the great American
drama?"

"Well, I don't know that these will ever be. That will depend upon our
luck in acquiring a mode and style, and habit of thought, and power
of expression of our own, which for many reasons we may never have. An
American new writes as much like an Englishman as he can--and the more
servile the imitation, the better we like him--as a woman writes like
a man as nearly as she possibly can, for he is the standard. What
is there in Irving, that is not wholly and purely English? And so of
Cooper; his sturdiness and vigor are those of a genuine Englishman,
and when they write of American subjects, they write as an Englishman
would; and if better, it is because they are better informed."

"Mr. Ridgeley," said Miss Giddings, "can't you give us an American
book?"

"'When the little fishes fly
Like swallows in the sky,'

An American will write an American book," said Bart, laughing. "But
your question is a good answer to my solemn twaddle on literature."

"No, I don't quite rate it as twaddle," said Ida.

"Don't you though?" asked Bart.

"No," seriously. "Now what is the effect of our American literature
upon the general character of English literature? We certainly add to
its bulk."

"And much to its value, I've no doubt," said Bart. "Well, with
increased strength and vigor, we shall begin by imperceptible degrees,
to modify and change the whole, and th