No More Learning

and the young woman think often of him? and do the middle-aged and the old
think of him?

A great poem is for ages and ages, in common, and for all degrees and
complexions, and all departments and sects, and for a woman as much as a
man, and a man as much as a woman. A great poem is no finish to a man or
woman, but rather a beginning. Has any one fancied he could sit at last
under some due authority, and rest satisfied with explanations, and realise
and be content and full? To no such terminus does the greatest poet bring--
he brings neither cessation nor sheltered fatness and ease. The touch of
him tells in action. Whom he takes he takes with firm sure grasp into live
regions previously unattained. Thenceforward is no rest: they see the space
and ineffable sheen that turn the old spots and lights into dead vacuums.
The companion of him beholds the birth and progress of stars, and learns
one of the meanings. Now there shall be a man cohered out of tumult and
chaos. The elder encourages the younger, and shows him how: they two shall
launch off fearlessly together till the new world fits an orbit for itself,
and looks unabashed on the lesser orbits of the stars, and sweeps through
the ceaseless rings, and shall never be quiet again.

There will soon be no more priests. Their work is done. They may wait a
while--perhaps a generation or two,--dropping off by degrees.
A superior
breed shall take their place--the gangs of kosmos and prophets _en masse_
shall take their place. A new order shall arise; and they shall be the
priests of man, and every man shall be his own priest. The churches built
under their umbrage shall be the churches of men and women. Through the
divinity of themselves shall the kosmos and the new breed of poets be
interpreters of men and women and of all events and things. They shall find
their inspiration in real objects to-day, symptoms of the past and future.
They shall not deign to defend immortality, or God, or the perfection of
things, or liberty, or the exquisite beauty and reality of the soul. They
shall arise in America, and be responded to from the remainder of the
earth.

The English language befriends the grand American expression--it is brawny
enough, and limber and full enough. On the tough stock of a race who,
through all change of circumstance, was never without the idea of political
liberty, which is the animus of all liberty, it has attracted the terms of
daintier and gayer and subtler and more elegant tongues. It is the powerful
language of resistance--it is the dialect of common sense. It is the speech
of the proud and melancholy races, and of all who aspire. It is the chosen
tongue to express growth, faith, self-esteem, freedom, justice, equality,
friendliness, amplitude, prudence, decision, and courage. It is the medium
that shall well nigh express the inexpressible.

No great literature, nor any like style of behaviour or oratory or social
intercourse or household arrangements or public institutions, or the
treatment by bosses of employed people, nor executive detail, or detail of
the army or navy, nor spirit of legislation, or courts or police, or
tuition or architecture, or songs or amusements, or the costumes of young
men, can long elude the jealous and passionate instinct of American
standards. Whether or no the sign appears from the mouths of the people, it
throbs a live interrogation in every freeman's and freewoman's heart after
that which passes by, or this built to remain. Is it uniform with my
country?