Thou mayest think this an impertinent digression; but I made it, and _I_ best know its design. ’Tis merely a rambling illustration--a stroll through the woods instead of a prosing walk along the road. ’Tis a similitude, I say--too long--yet a good one. Its pith is this. The poets, orators, philosophers, and historians--in fine, _all_ the great authors dressed for court, or--if that term seem too monarchical for the Republic of Letters--they dressed for a levee--a democratic _jam_--they _rouged_, frizzled, combed, brushed, and bedizened themselves artificially. Homer, the oldest, is likewise the simplest of them all. But even _he_ knew that he was stared at, and, like a man in company, adjusted his neckoloth, felt queer, and walked stiff. He does not give his own sentiments--he was writing a history of his nation, and it was at once his interest and his pleasure, to gild each slightest incident, and turn poverty to splendor. Thus does he show us about as much of the real character of those simple people in that early age, as do the roundelays of chivalry acquaint us with the habits of those motley knights, whose loves they celebrate, and whose prowess they record. It is not, then, in the elaborate writers of any nation, that you are to look for faithful portraitures of that nation’s character. Great geniuses bear the same leading traits in all climates, and their works are simple mental creations, rather than copies of the habits of their age. ’Tis familiarity with the various effusions of a thousand different pens--drinking from the heart’s overflowing fullness,--that thoroughly acquaints one with a people.