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But when we come to the last test of nationality, the test of art
and letters, the case is almost terrible. The English colonies
have produced no great artists; and that fact may prove that they
are still full of silent possibilities and reserve force.
But America has produced great artists. And that fact most certainly
proves that she is full of a fine futility and the end of all things.
Whatever the American men of genius are, they are not young gods
making a young world. Is the art of Whistler a brave, barbaric art,
happy and headlong? Does Mr. Henry James infect us with the spirit
of a schoolboy? No; the colonies have not spoken, and they are safe.
Their silence may be the silence of the unborn. But out of America
has come a sweet and startling cry, as unmistakable as the cry
of a dying man.
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