"I do not know any reasonable objection to our admiring the men of genius of a foreign or hostile nation, or their writings. Men of genius are the property of the world. Whatever they may think or say that may delight and instruct one people, may equally delight and instruct all others. We are yet in the infancy of the poetic art, and have produced no poets capable of winning a world-wide reputation."
"That's precisely what the British say, Captain; and if I didn't know that your heart was true as steel to the American cause, I should be a little jealous of you. No poets of reputation! Did you ever read Freneau, Captain? To my mind, he's got more poetry in his little finger than Shakspeare had in his whole body. Now, did Shakspeare ever write anything equal to Freneau's "Antiquity of America"?"
And Ichabod began reciting, in a loud voice—
"'America, to every climate known,
Spreads her broad bosom to the burning zone;
To either pole extends her vast domain,
Where varying suns in different summers reign.'"
"That's the way the poem begins, and it fully keeps up its pitch all the way through."
Ralph had some knowledge of the poetical compositions of Freneau, who had really produced some poems, full of a fine, poetic feeling, and who was much beyond the mass of his poetical contemporaries in this country; yet, although he entertained a feeling of respect for the ability and services of the revolutionary poet, he could not share the high degree of admiration which Ichabod entertained for him.
"I'll grant," said Ralph, scarcely knowing how to reply to the irritated Ichabod, "that Shakespeare never did write precisely such a poem; and I will admit that I do not believe he ever could have written such an one."
"I knew you were right at heart, Captain," exclaimed Ichabod, highly elated over his equivocal victory. "Some of his verses have done as much towards bringing down the British, as whole regiments of Continentals could have done. But then, Freneau is only one of a whole circle of poets. The British boast about their old ballads; now, I'll take an even bet, that I can show 'em ballads, written here at home, that will make 'em ashamed. Why, we've had a woman that would eclipse 'em all, to my mind—Mrs. Bradstreet, of whom another poet said:
"'Her breast was a brave palace, a broad street,
Where all heroic, ample thoughts did meet.'"
"Mrs. Bradstreet did possess a sweetness of expression," said Ralph; "and, with a higher cultivation, she might have written some fine poetry."