them to look over the book and at life with their own eyes.

This side of truth is very present to Whitman; it is this
that he means when he tells us that "To glance with an eye
confounds the learning of all times." But he is not unready.
He is never weary of descanting on the undebatable conviction
that is forced upon our minds by the presence of other men,
of animals, or of inanimate things. To glance with an eye,
were it only at a chair or a park railing, is by far a more
persuasive process, and brings us to a far more exact
conclusion, than to read the works of all the logicians
extant. If both, by a large allowance, may be said to end in
certainty, the certainty in the one case transcends the other
to an incalculable degree. If people see a lion, they run
away; if they only apprehend a deduction, they keep wandering
around in an experimental humour. Now, how is the poet to
convince like nature, and not like books? Is there no actual
piece of nature that he can show the man to his face, as he
might show him a tree if they were walking together? Yes,
there is one: the man's own thoughts. In fact, if the poet
is to speak efficaciously, he must say what is already in his
hearer's mind. That, alone, the hearer will believe; that,
alone, he will be able to apply intelligently to the facts of
life. Any conviction, even if it be a whole system or a
whole religion, must pass into the condition of commonplace,
or postulate, before it becomes fully operative. Strange
excursions and high-flying theories may interest, but they
cannot rule behaviour. Our faith is not the highest truth
that we perceive, but the highest that we have been able to
assimilate into the very texture and method of our thinking.