aises of this continent. He
alone has the proper point of view; and he, unfortunately, is dumb. But
often, when I have contemplated with dreary disgust, in the outskirts of
New York, the hideous wooden shanties planted askew in wastes of
garbage, and remembered Naples or Genoa or Venice, suddenly it has been
borne in upon me that the Italians living there feel that they have
their feet on the ladder leading to paradise; that for the first time
they have before them a prospect and a hope; and that while they have
lost, or are losing, their manners, their beauty and their charm, they
have gained something which, in their eyes, and perhaps in reality, more
than compensates for losses they do not seem to feel, they have gained
self-respect, independence, and the allure of the open horizon. "The
vision of America," a friend writes, "is the vision of the lifting up of
the millions." This, I believe, is true, and it is America's great
contribution to civilisation. I do not forget it; but neither shall I
dwell upon it; for though it is, I suppose, the most important thing
about America, it is not what I come across in my own experience. What
strikes more often and more directly home to me is the other fact that
America, if she is not burdened by masses lying below the average, is
also not inspired by an elite rising above it. Her distinction is the
absence of distinction. No wonder Walt Whitman sang the "Divine
Average." There was nothing else in America for him to sing. But he
should not have called it divine; he should have called it "human, all
too human."

Or _is_ it divine? Divine somehow in its potentialities? Divine to a
deeper vision than mine? I was writing this at Brooklyn, in a room that
looks across the East River to New York. And after putting down those
words, "human, all too human," I stepped out on to the terrace. Across
the gulf before me went shooting forward and back interminable rows of
fiery shuttles; and on its surface seemed to float blazing basilicas.
Beyond rose into the darkness a dazzling tower of light, dusking and
shimmering, primrose and green, up to a diadem of gold. About it hung
galaxies and constellations, outshining the firmament of stars; and
all the air was full of strange voices, more than human, ingeminating
Babylonian oracles out of the bosom of night. This is New York. This
it is that the average man has done, he knows not why; this is the
symbol of his work, so much more than himself, s