ust be whose
hands take hold of the palaces of the world's heart, who grasps the
spirit of the coming time. Errors may be forgiven, vices may be
forgotten, where only a noble aim has influenced, as a true creative
genius gleamed.

But larger constellations have appeared in our literary sky, that burn
with undimmed lustre even beside that great morning star that rose above
the horizon of the Middle Ages. Historians we have, with all of
Chaucer's truthfulness and luxuriance of expression, and poets with his
fresh tendernesses, his flashing thoughts, and exquisite simplicity of
heart. And perhaps, if we inquire for the distinguishing features of our
literature, we shall discover them to be the strength and cheerfulness
so pre-eminently the characteristics of Chaucer, which we have so long
been accustomed to deny to ourselves. Observe the stately but flowing
periods of Motley; his polished courtliness of style, the warm but not
exaggerated coloring of his descriptions, the firm but never ungraceful
outlines of his sketches of character that mark him the Michael Angelo
among historians. In his brilliant imagery, his splendid scholarship,
his fine analytical power, he is not surpassed by Macaulay, while he far
exceeds him in impartiality,--that diamond of the historian,--and in his
keen comprehension of the great motive-principles of the age which he
describes. Neither are Prescott, Bancroft, or Irving inferior to Gibbon,
Hume, or Robertson.

And over and through our poetry blow fresh and inspiring the winds from
our own vast prairies. Those names, few, but honorable, that have become
as household words among us, are gilded, not with the doubtful lustre of
a moonlit sentimentality, but with the real gold of day-dawn. If they
are few, let it be remembered that we are now but first feeling our
manhood, trying our thews and sinews, and must needs stop to wonder a
little at the gradual development of our unsuspected powers. The most of
our great men have been but stalwart mechanics, busied with the
machinery of government, using intellect as a lever to raise ponderous
wheels, whereon our chariot may run to Eldorado. We have a right to be
proud of our poets; their verses are the throbs of our American heart.
And if we do but peer into their labyrinth of graceful windings and
reach their Chrimhilde Rose-garden, we shall find it begirt with the
strong, fighting men of humor. This element lurks under many a musical
strophe and crow