hou wast not made for death, immortal bird.' In this sense it is
indeed true that poetry is emotion remembered in tranquillity; which may
be extended to mean affection remembered in loneliness. There is in it a
spirit not only of detachment but even of distance; a spirit which does
desire, as in the old English rhyme, to be not only over the hills but
also far away. In other words, in so far as it is true that the
Englishman is an exception to the great truth of Aristotle, it is
because he is not so near to Aristotle as he is to Homer. In so far as
he is not by nature a political animal, it is because he is a poetical
animal. We see it in his relations to the other animals; his quaint and
almost illogical love of dogs and horses and dependants whose political
rights cannot possibly be defined in logic. Many forms of hunting or
fishing are but an excuse for the same thing which the shameless
literary man does without any excuse. Sport is speechless poetry. It
would be easy for a foreigner, by taking a few liberties with the facts,
to make a satire about the sort of silent Shelley who decides ultimately
to shoot the skylark. It would be easy to answer these poetic
suggestions by saying that he himself might be responsible for ruining
the choirs where late the sweet birds sang, or that the immortal bird
was likely to be mortal when he was out with his gun. But these
international satires are never just; and the real relations of an
Englishman and an English bird are far more delicate. It would be
equally easy and equally unjust to suggest a similar satire against
American democracy; and represent Americans merely as birds of a feather
who can do nothing but flock together. But this would leave out the fact
that at least it is not the white feather; that democracy is capable of
defiance and of death for an idea. Touching the souls of great nations,
these criticisms are generally false because they are critical.

But when we are quite sure that we rejoice in a nation's strength, then
and not before we are justified in judging its weakness. I am quite sure
that I rejoice in any democratic success without _arriere pensee_; and
nobody who knows me will credit me with a covert sneer at civic
equality. And this being granted, I do think there is a danger in the
gregariousness of American society. The danger of democracy is not
anarchy; on the contrary, it is monotony. And it is touching this that
all my experience has increased my