Whittier writes thus on principle, as we begin to suspect,
he errs in forgetting that thought so refined as his can be fitly
matched only with an equal refinement of expression, and loses something
of its charm when cheated of it. We hope he will, at least, never mount
Pega'sus, or water him in Heli'con, and that he will leave Mu'seum to
the more vulgar sphere and obtuser sensibilities of Barnum. Where Nature
has sent genius, she has a right to expect that it shall be treated with
a certain elegance of hospitality.
POETRY AND NATIONALITY[1]
[Footnote 1: This essay, to which I have given the above title, forms
the greater part of a review of poems by John James Piatt. The brief,
concluding portion of the review is of little value and is omitted here.
Piatt died several years ago. He was a great friend of William Dean
Howells, and once published a volume of poems in collaboration with him.
A.M.]
One of the dreams of our earlier horoscope-mongers was, that a poet
should come out of the West, fashioned on a scale somewhat proportioned
to our geographical pretensions. Our rivers, forests, mountains,
cataracts, prairies, and inland seas were to find in him their antitype
and voice. Shaggy he was to be, brown-fisted, careless of proprieties,
unhampered by tradition, his Pegasus of the half-horse, half-alligator
breed.
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