writing for an audience which is, so to speak, unpicked, and which, therefore, includes the picked one, as an apple includes its core.
One does not need to be a very great author in America to find that his voice is heard across a continent—a thing more stimulating and more impressive to the imagination than the morning drum-beat of Great Britain.
The whole vast nation, but a short time since, was simultaneously following the Rise of Silas Lapham, or The Casting Away of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine.
In a few years the humblest of the next generation of writers will be appealing to a possible constituency of a hundred millions.
He who writes for a metropolis may unconsciously share its pettiness; he who writes for a hundred millions must feel some expansion in his thoughts, even though his and theirs be still crude.
Keats asked his friend to throw a copy of Endymion into the heart of the African desert; is it not better to cast your book into a vaster region that is alive with m