irrefutable answer. He surveys the New York of 1870, "its facades of
marble and iron, of original grandeur and elegance of design," etc., in
his familiar catalogical jargon, and shutting his eyes to its glow and
grandeur, inquires in return, Are there indeed _men_ here worthy the
name? Are there perfect women? Is there a pervading atmosphere of
beautiful manners? Are there arts worthy freedom and a rich people? Is
there a great moral and religious civilization--the only justification of
a great material one? We ourselves in good time shall have to face and to
answer these questions. They search our keenest hopes of the peace that
is coming. And we may be fortified perhaps by the following queer proof
of history repeating itself:

Never, in the Old World, was thoroughly upholster'd exterior
appearance and show, mental and other, built entirely on the idea
of caste, and on the sufficiency of mere outside
acquisition--never were glibness, verbal intellect, more the
test, the emulation--more loftily elevated as head and sample--
than they are on the surface of our Republican States this day.
The writers of a time hint the mottoes of its gods. The word of
the modern, say these voices, is the word Culture.

Whitman had no very tender regard for the Germany of his time. He fancied
that the Germans were like the Chinese, only less graceful and refined
and more brutish. But neither had he any particular affection for any
relic of Europe. "Never again will we trust the moral sense or abstract
friendliness of a single _Government_ of the Old World." He accepted
selections from its literature for the new American Adam. But even its
greatest poets were not America's, and though he might welcome even
Juvenal, it was for use and not for worship. We have to learn, he
insists, that the best culture will always be that of the manly and