and materialism of the times, another carnival of the
same gods whose picture he so much admires in Homer;
then in the Middle Age; then in Calvinism. Banks and
tariffs, the newspaper and caucus, Methodism and
Unitarianism, are flat and dull to dull people, but
rest on the same foundations of wonder as the town of
Troy and the temple of Delphi, and are as swiftly passing
away. Our logrolling, our stumps and their politics, our
fisheries, our Negroes and Indians, our boats and our
repudiations, the wrath of rogues and the pusillanimity
of honest men, the northern trade, the southern planting,
the western clearing, Oregon and Texas, are yet unsung.
Yet America is a poem in our eyes; its ample geography
dazzles the imagination, and it will not wait long for
metres. If I have not found that excellent combination
of gifts in my countrymen which I seek, neither could
I aid myself to fix the idea of the poet by reading now
and then in Chalmers's collection of five centuries of
English poets. These are wits more than poets, though
there have been poets among them. But when we adhere
to the ideal of the poet, we have our difficulties even
with Milton and Homer. Milton is too literary, and Homer
too literal and historical.

But I am not wise enough for a national criticism,
and must use the old largeness a little longer, to
discharge my errand from the muse to the poet
concerning his art.

Art is the path of the creator to his work. The