Yet he was a young man in poor attire， with no insigniaof rank or acknowledged eminence， nor anything todistinguish him among the crowd except a high， whiteforehead， beneath which a pair of deep-set eyes wereglowing with warm light. It was such a light as neverilluminates the earth， save when a great heart burns asthe household fire of a grand intellect. And who was he；Who， but the Master Genius， for whom our country islooking anxiously into the mist of time， as destined tofulfil the great mission of creating an American literature，hewing it， as it were， out of the unwrought granite of ourintellectual quarries. From him， whether moulded in theform of an epic poem， or assuming a guise altogether new，as the spirit itself may determine， we are to receive ourfirst great original work， which shall do all that remainsto be achieved for our glory among the nations. How thischild of a mighty destiny had been discovered by the Manof Fancy， it is of little consequence to mention. Suffice it，that he dwells as yet unhonored among men， unrecognizedby those who have known him from his cradle； thenoble countenance， which should be distinguished by ahalo diffused around it， passes daily amid the throng ofpeople， toiling and troubling themselves about the triflesof a moment—and none pay reverence to the workerof immortality. Nor does it matter much to him， in histriumph over all the ages， though a generation or two ofhis own times shall do themselves the wrong to disregardhim.
By this time， Monsieur On-Dit had caught up thestranger’s name and destiny， and was busily whispering theintelligence among the other guests.
“Pshaw！” said one， “there can never be an AmericanGenius.”
“Pish！” cried another， “we have already as good poets asany in the world. For my part， I desire to see no better.”
And the Oldest Inhabitant， when it was proposedto introduce him to the Master Genius， begged to beexcused， observing， that a man who had been honoredwith the acquaintance of Dwight， and Freneau， and JoelBarlow， might be allowed a little austerity of taste.
The saloon was now fast filling up， by the arrival of otherremarkable characters； among whom were noticed DavyJones， the distinguished nautical personage， and a rude，carelessly dressed， harum-scarum sort of elderly fellow，known by the nickname of Old Harry. The latter， however，after being shown to a dressing room， re-appeared withhis grey hair nicely combed， his clothes brushed， a cleandicky on his neck， and altogether so changed in aspectas to merit the more respectful appellation of VenerableHenry. John Doe and Richard Roe came arm-in-arm，accompanied by a Man of Straw， a fictitious endorser， andseveral persons who had no existence except as voters inclosely contested elections. The celebrated Seatsfield， whonow entered， was at first supposed to belong to the samebrotherhood， until he made it apparent that he was a realman of flesh and blood， and had his earthly domicile inGermany. Among the latest comers， as might reasonablybe expected， arrived a guest from the far future.
“Do you know him？ do you know him？” whisperedMonsieur On-Dit， who seemed to be acquainted witheverybody. “He is the representative of Posterity—theman of an age to come！”
“And how came he here？” asked a figure who wasevidently the prototype of the fashion-plate in a magazine，and might be taken to represent the vanities of the passingmoment. “The fellow infringes upon our rights by comingbefore his time.”
“But you forget where we are，” answered the Man ofFancy， who overheard the remark； “the lower earth， it istrue， will be forbidden ground to him for many long yearshence； but a castle in the air is a sort of no men’s land，where Posterity may make acquaintance with us on equalterms.”
No sooner was his identity known， than a throng ofguests gathered about Posterity， all expressing the mostgenerous interest in his welfare， and many boasting of thesacrifices which they had made， or were willing to make，in his behalf. Some， with as much secresy as possible，desired his judgment upon certain copies of verses， orgreat manu rolls of prose； others accosted him withthe familiarity of old friends， taking it for granted that hewas perfectly cognizant of their names and characters. Atlength， finding himself thus beset， Posterity was put quitebeside his patience.
“Gentlemen， my good friends，” cried he， breaking loosefrom a misty poet， who strove to hold him by the button，“I pray you to attend to your own business， and leave meto take care of mine！ I expect to owe you nothing， unlessit be certain national debts， and other incumbrancesand impediments， physical and moral， which I shall findit troublesome enough to remove from my path. As toyour verses， pray read them to your contemporaries. Yournames are as strange to me as your faces； and even wereit otherwise—let me whisper you a secret—the cold， icymemory which one generation may retain of another， isbut a poor recompense to barter life for. Yet， if your heartis set on being known to me， the surest， the only method，is， to live truly and wisely for your own age， whereby， if thenative force be in you， you may likewise live for posterity！”
“It is nonsense，” murmured the Oldest Inhabitant， who，as a man of the past， felt jealous that all notice should bewithdrawn from himself， to be lavished on the future， —“sheer nonsense， to waste so much thought on what onlyis to be！”
