the same spring of water, but all
men cannot be thrilled or soothed by beholding the same objects of
nature. A beautiful child captivates every one, a beautiful woman
ravishes all eyes. On my way to the Imperial Valley, I recently drove
across a range of California mountains that had many striking
features. A lady asked me if I did not think them beautiful. I said,
"No, they are hideous, but the hideous may be interesting."

The snow is beautiful to many persons, but it is not so to me. It is
the color of death. I could stand our northern winters very well if I
could always see the face of the brown or ruddy earth. The snow, I
know, blankets the fields; and Emerson's poem on the snowstorm is
fine; at the same time, I would rather not be obliged to look at the
white fields.

* * * * *

We are the first great people without a past in the European sense. We
are of yesterday. We do not strike our roots down deep into the
geology of long-gone ages. We are easily transplanted. We are a
mixture of all peoples as the other nations of the world are not. Only
yesterday we were foreigners ourselves. Then we made the first
experiment on a large scale of a democratic or self-governing people.
The masses, and not a privileged few, give the tone and complexion to
things in this country. We have not yet had time to develop a truly
national literature or art. We have produced but one poet of the
highest order. Whitman is autochthonous. He had no precursor. He is a
new type of man appearing in this field.

* * * * *

"What think ye of Whitman?" This is the question I feel like putting,
and sometimes do put, to each young poet I meet. If he thinks poorly
of Whitman, I think poorly of him. I do not expect great things of
him, and so far my test holds good. William Winter thought poorly of
Whitman, Aldrich thought poorly of him, and what lasting thing has
either of them done in poetry? The memorable things of Aldrich are in
prose. Stedman showed more appreciation of him, and Stedman wrote two
or three things that will keep. His "Osawatomie Brown ... he shoved
his ramrod down" is sure of immortality. Higginson could not stand
Whitman, and had his little fling at him whenever he got the chance.
Who reads Higginson now? Emerson, who far outranks any other New
England poet, was fairly swept off his feet by the first appearance of
"Leaves of Grass." Whittier, I am told, threw t