IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 4* A /.^ m 1.0 I.I 1.25 2.2 l^|2£ 125 ISO ""^^ ll^H Ill 1.8 U [ill 1.6 - 6" V] V) > *^ .!>^ 71 ^ 1^> > ^%/^^^V >^ ''^ y Phol Sciraices Corporation \ ^ \\ "% V 6^ '^.1<^ 23 WEST MAIN STITEET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 / CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICMH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for IHistorical iVIicroraproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques Technical and Bibliographic Notes/Notes techniques at bibliographiques The Institute has attempted to obtain the best original copy available for filming. Features of this copy which may be bibliographically unique, which may alter any of the images in the reproduction, or which may significantly change the usual method of filming, are checked below. n D n n D D D D Coloured covers/ Couverture de couleur I I Covers damaged/ Couverture endommagde Covers restored and/or laminated/ Couverture restaurde et/ou pellicul6e I I Cover title missing/ Le titre de couverture manque Coloured maps/ Cartes gdographiques en couleur □ Coloured ink (i.e. other than blue or black)/ Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire) Coloured plates and/or illustrations/ Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur Bound with other material/ Reli6 avec d'autres documents Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion along interior margin/ Lareliure serrde peut causer de I'ombre ou de la distortion le long de la marge int6rieure Blank leaves added during restoration may appear within the text. Whenever possible, these have been omitted from filming/ II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajout^es lors d'une restauration apparaissent dans le texte, mais, lorsque cela 6tait possible, ces pages n'ont pas 6t6 film^es. Additional comments:/ Commentaires suppldmentaires; L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire qu'il lui a 6t6 possible de se procurer. Les details de cet exemplaire qui sont peut-dtre uniques du point de vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier une image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une modification dans la mdthode normale de filmage sont indiqu6s cl-dessous. □ Coloured pages/ Pages de couleur n Pages damaged/ Pages endommag6es I I Pages restored and/or laminated/ D Pages restaur^es et/ou pellicul^es Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/ Pages d6color6es, tachetdes ou piqudes □ Pages detached/ Pages d6tachdes 0Showthrough/ Transparence I I Quality of print varies/ Quality indgale de I'impression Includes supplementary material/ Comprend du matdriel suppl^mentaire Only edition available/ Seule Edition disponible Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata slips, tissues, etc., have been refilmed to ensure the best possible image/ Les pages totalement ou ^artiellement obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure, etc., ont 6t6 filmdes d nouveau de fapon d obtenir la meilleure image possible. This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/ Ce document est filmd au taux de reduction indiqud ci-dessous. 10X 14X 18X 22X 26X 30X y 12X 16X 20X 24X 28X 32X plaire es details iques du int modifier ixiger une de filmage 8d/ iqudes itaire The copy filmed here has been reproduced thanks to the generosity of: National Library of Canada The images appearing here are the best quality possible considering the condition and legibility of the original copy and in keeping with the filming contract specifications. Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed beginning with the front cover and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All other original copies are filmed beginning on the first page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impression. The last recorded frame on each microfiche shall contain the symbol •—►(meaning "CON- TINUED"), or the symbol V (meaning "END"), whichever applies. Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: L'exemplaire film6 fut reproduit grdce d la g6n6roslt6 de: Bibliothdque nationale du Canada Les images suivantes ont 6t6 reproduites avec le plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et de la nettet6 de l'exemplaire filrr.6, et en conformity avec les conditions du contrat de filmage. Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en papier est imprim6e sont film^s en commengant par ie premier plat et en terminant soit par la dernidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration, soit par le second plat, selon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont fiimds en commen^ant par la premidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la dernidre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbole ^►^ signifie "A SUIVRE", le symbole V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre film6s d des taux de reduction diffdrents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul clichd, il est filmd d partir de Tangle sup6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. d by errata Imed to ment I, une pelure, 9 faqon d le. 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 1 ex. "^ ^^Lfn^ ZJL^ c ^^'^^^t^€r //,iii, 27 NOTICS I'ROM CoNVKRSATlONS WITH (JivURt'.K W. WHITMAN, I893: MosTi.v IN If IS Own Worms, lloiuue I.. Tinubd, ■i^x, A Woman's Kstimatic or Wai.t Whitman, Anne i!iUhtist,i^\ TiiK Man Wai.t Whitman, Jiii/iniil Mum ice /imke, t^-j Inne,ly, 195 Wai.t Whitman: I'okt and riiii.osoi'HK.R and Man, J/,/ (,'. tHfitH,>/t, Jfl;^ VVai.t WllliivlAN, /; /«•. /i',y/,.A««/ lutn'^liUf,! fnm thf (Iftmnn hy .■11/ > fit /oitihni ,i»,/ /\'i,h,ti,i Af.itiiiif fUiiHtr, jHij MoiiNM Taiii.k with Wai.t VVimtman, tt,„iiM, mi Wai.t Whitman ani» tii« Cuhmu: Hknhh, Ki,h,v,i M,tmuf lUitke, lMMiH«TAI,ITV, ll'.iff U'AlfHhttt, ^n Tim I'liHT or Immuutai.itv, //i,wi,i< n tt,tt»f,t, ^,^l,>^ VV'Al.r WlMIMAN ANII Till'. CuMMilN l'l',UI'l,l'„ /,i//« /iuil , TIIK, IlKATII UV VVAI.T WHITMAN, IhWUt lt,<», it\ ft,wi /'tmih, V'i /'>'»/ \\..lf U hi/nt,»i,T>\ from Atihui l.\u,h, \/\,'A\ ftom /',/»;. Ulus, isM| fusm K.twntii I'ltv'i/rft, HH)\ ftxf)0( fy-i'm.-l. /<.'. t ,)». »./'!■. J«|; f),Mn «,'. ('. ,)f,i,,ni/,iv, fi)(>; />,'r,r,f,/|.. ,\,\^\ pom /,>lni h'uxkiit, \^i; from r.fu'.nW /',>;,-,/,«, \n}i from Sf,)n,iixh ()' (,'t,t,i'\; \^i; from Sf.iMilhh (>'(.>tf.n', \(\i\ from /oo^titH MiUrt, {(tO; from Si,/nry l,itii,r, )(MJ ftim Kof>ttl Hu,h,)ti,tH, \\yi\ f,om ll'.i/f W'hitm.nt, ^M; from John MMiMxf't^ Svmotuh, 41 4 ( from lr,,ii,i\ llow,if,l Hi/liums, 4jO. n Ihf liftmnn t>y LOVE AND DRATH : A SYMPHONY.* riy yoim At<" inc, ton s vmonds. I'inl Afovement. A, IhiuM, 4.^7 Ton loiif? linvo I refrained ; too hm% ttre (liimb Tlir prrlndiiif^M of jtjissionrttc jir(»|»lH'( y. — Klarc of triiitnpliant l,riiiii|ict, fifo, and drum Hiartlcs my imising soul's tnonotony. — A iiiiglitirr spirit tlinn my own controls Tlic slorm of tiirbidcnt tiiotij^hfs tliat siirfrr in mc. l'lioil)os Apolloii ! (lie firrfc tlmiidcr rolls; The Mckcrinf^ flames dest c nd ; my sails arc driven Forth to the sea, whereof the waves arc sonis, Whose flux and reflux between Hell and Heaven Are Love and Death, twin brcjtbcrs I — Hard sublime, To whom the keys of mysteries are given, 'I'hroned in thine orb, fulftlling Space and Time, Noting the world's words with unerring earl How shall 1 dare in this ephemeral rhyme To tell what thou hast taught me, to inisphcrc The new-born star, thy |)lanet, the desire Of nations faltering in a night of fear, — More marvellous than Phosphor or the fire Of Hesperus love-lorn, not less divine Than timt first splendor from the angelic » hoir Flashed on poor shepherd-folk in Palestine? *Tn the pro|iliet poet of Democi'nc". Religion, Love, tliis verse, n feeble ■ic\w of hi» Hung, iR licilicalod, (•) JN RE WALT WHITMAN, Thou dost establish — and our hearts receive — New laws of Love to link and intertwine Majestic peoples ; Love to weld and weave Comrade to comrade, man to bearded man. Whereby indissoluble hosts shall cleave Unto the primal truths republican. Not therefore is our worship less to thee, First Muse and mistress of the primeval Pan, Nurse of the seedlings of Humanity I Thou shrined within our inmost spirit's core, Mother and Mate and Sister, One and Three I Thou to the altar steps of heaven didst soar, Madonna, maiden mystery, whose womb Made man and God one flesh for evermore. Nay, not the less art thou life's beauty-bloom. Bride, whom we seek and cleave to ! — Though afar. Half buried in dim mist and murky spume, We watch the rising of thy brother star, Imperious, awful, vague in night, whose rays, Mingled of azure hues and cinnabar, Shed hope and fear on the dim water-ways. Friend, Brother, Comrade, Lover ! last and best I That from this dull diurnal strife dost raise My panting soul to thy celestial rest ! How holy are the heavens when thou art near I I soar, I float, I rock me on thy breast ; The music of thy melodies I hear ; I see thee aureoled with living light Lean from the lustrous rondure of thy sphere. Ethereal, disei.ibodied ; whom the blight Of warping passion hath no power to tame ; . . Who fearest not with eye serenely bright To gaze on death and sorrow and mortal shame— For who art Thou to tremble or turn pale, Whose life is Love eternally the same? LOVE AND DEATH: A SYMPHONY. How shall I praise Thee ? with what voice prevail O'er legioned heretics, that, madly blind, Imagining a vain thing, rise and rail Against thy sanctity of godhood shrined In beauty of white light they may not bear? Lo I Thou, even Thou, in thine own time shalt bind And break their kings and captains ! from thin air Forth-flashing fiery-browed and unsubdued. Thine athletes shall consume them unaware I Yea, even now, like Northern streamers hued With radiant roses of the ascendant morn, I see thy fierce unfaltering multitude Of lovers and of friends in tranquil scorn Arise, o'erspread the dusky skies, and drown In seas of flame the pallid stars forlorn. There shall be comrades thick as flowers that crown Valdarno's gardens in the morn of May ; On every upland and in every town Their dauntless imperturbable array, Serried like links of living adamant By the sole law of love their wills obey, Shall make the world one fellowship, and plant New Paradise for nations yet to be. O nobler peerage than that ancient vaunt Of Arthur or of Roland ! Chivalry Long sought, last found ! Knights of the Holy Ghost Phalanx Immortal ! True Freemasonry, Building your temples on no earthly coast. But with star-fire on souls and hearts of man ! Stirred from their graves to greet your Sacred Host The Theban lovers, rising very wan, By death made holy, wave dim palms, and cry : ** Hail, Brothers ! who achieve what we began ! '*■ O Love in Death ! O Love that canst not die t I JN RF WALT WHITMAN. O Death whom Love on wings of steady fire Piercing to perfect life, doth sanctify ! In vain unto your summits I aspire, As though from heaven descending I might bring Flame-words of force to make dull hearts desire The seething waters of your sacred spring ! Ho ! ye that sigh for freedom, ye that yearn, Pent in this prison-house of languishing ! Haste to the everlasting fountains : turn Your trammels of the flesh to yielding air : Your aching hours, your tears that freeze and burn, Your dear expense of passionate despair, Barter for hope unbounded, perfect bliss ! Who swoons for very love, who longs to snare Two separate souls in one perennial kiss. To merge the bounds of being, to become Of twain one sentient shape of blessedness — Let him seek Death ! There, in that tranquil dome, Where what we were dissolves, what we must be Endures regenerate, there the living home Of Love defies corruptibility. . Second Movement. Thus far the chords tumultuous through my soul Swept from the lyre of him, whose solemn chant Reverberates like midnight thunder-roll Mid thwarting hills and pinewoods resonant. Then on my dreaming eyes — as though to base • The promise of the Future against taunt Or tumult of the turbulent populace — There rose a vision of the glimmering Past, Clear, though scarce-seen, like a remembered face. A city of the Plague, suspense, aghast. Through all her silent streets and temples dim (&.V,. Jfc'*- ■'.. . .- 1 i2Et35iriSL:jfc<[WKtfiaBiftfii -K'^' '-21 LOVE AND DEATH: A SYMPHONY. With dusky pyre-smoke and with incense cast In vain to soothe insensible teraphim : — Black-stoled processions along ways erewhile Clamorous with Bacchic shout and marriage hymn ;— With beaten breast, with ominous shriek, they pile Corpse upon corpse ; then bid the flickering fire. Lurid on palace-porch and peristyle, Wrap in one ravening sheet, ascending higher Than Pallas brazen on the city's brow. Mother and maid, wife, brother, son and sire. Day after day they perished. Then, for now The people were foredone with wasting woe, Spake the deep-throated prophet : "Vow for vow; Blood for shed blood ; for blow malignant blow : Think ye the gods forget ? Think ye the stain Of sacrilege and slaughter long ago Spilt to insult the unappeasable fane Of blood-born, blood-bedewed Eumenides, Beareth not fruit and blossometh again ? I tell you, for the rrime of Megacles — Your crime, since who hath purged you ? — like a tree Springs the dread vengeance of dim goddesses. Now therefore heed my message : let there be Ere morning-light two lives of men free-born By voluntary choice and service free To death for saving of the city sworn : Die must they ; this the gods require ; than this No less shall pluck from Athens' heel the thorn That rankles and corrodes her comeliness. Lo ! I have spoken. Take ye now good care : For like a dream or drop of dew your bliss Shall surely wither into wandering air, Till men cry : Here was Athens ! By yon stone Note where her temples and her houses were ! Unless the debt, exacted now, and grown , Enormous by long lapse, be fully paid ! " . i. urMyii^v^sguitiliw. IN RE WALT WHITMAN. Thus Epimenides. With muttered moan The people heard, and bowed faint heads, and laid Dust on rent raiment^ with dull grief distraugi.t. That eve two lovers in the leafy glade Of cool Colonos,_ soothed to solemn thought By songs the night-bird flung for very mirth, As though no lurid air weighed fever-fraught O'er the hushed city and the sickening earth. Lay merged in dreamings of the doom to be. • Their sounding titles, their resplendent birth,. Their strength, their beauty, their young chivalry. Shall these be told, or in the noontide blaze Of their great deed be swallowed utterly ? Ah ! wherefore from the Limbo of dead days Recall thy name, Cratinus? Wherefore dare To vex thy laurel wreath with wordy praise, Aristodemus? Noble, valiant, fair, Of equal youth and hoiior, for the pride Of Hellas they arose, a stately pair. Vast was the love between them — deep and wide As heaven up-breaking through a myriad spheres : Sevenfold had it been proved and purified By yearnings, and by achings, and by tears^ By fierce abstentions, and by fierce recoils Into the furnace-fire througi throbbing years. Now nobly tempered, from t)ie transient toils Of sense set free for luminous emprize, This love, elate, arrayed in radiant spoils. Shone like a beacon-light from ardent eyes. " O true and tried ! "— So speech belike arose Between them, as strong winds in summer rise With surge Eolian from the rapt repose Of midnight, to sweep silent lands and fail, Crying : Dawn comes ; the golden gates unclose j "^.jiiX. rr -£.am^jii^m miM\ ^ i i«* i i ' i . ■ ■ ■ r'l a rggrr-'ra a rTa «.wiA.F mM LOVE AND DEATH: A SYMPHONY, Before the bridegroom's feet of fire we sail ! — " O true as beaten brass ! O trebly tried As adamantine plates of linked mail I Sleep'st thou, or ponderest what the prophet cried ? Wherefore should we then live ? The athlete's crown j The warrior's brow with bay leaves glorified ; Seats at the hearth-stone of our mother-town ; • To round and ring the whole, an honoured tomb ; These hopes are ours. Were it not well to drown These good things in one best ? to pluck the bloom Now perfect of young life and love, that ne'er Can fill her cup again of pure perfume Or spread fresh petals to the nourishiiig air? This flower once gathered will not die ; no rime Shall nip the delicate leaves ; no storm shall bare The anthered gold ; no treacherous sap shall climb The fragile tubes with husk of hardening fruit To choke the fretwork of the fiery prime. Who knows — forgive me, Love ! — what little root Of bitterness might rise to mar our joy ? Dimmed eyes, chilled hearts, dry lips with languor mute, Tiie years that wither, and the years that cloy, These come to other lovers : shall we stay To suffer chance and change, our souls destroy ? Did not Patroclus die ? Achilles pay, Though goddess-born, his life, a little price, "• For love made sure, for fame that flouts decay ? Why linger ? Why turn back ? Fix steadfast eyes There on the goal of daring ! Is it nought That thus fulfilling a fair sacrifice. The peace of Athens by our blood be bought ? Nought that we shine for ever in pure gold At Delphian altars ; that our tale be taught On songs from lips of mighty poets rolled, To lovers and to lopging youths afire With sorrow that our sacred dust is cold ? Oh! with what ardent hearts, what proud desire. • iW IN RE WALT WHITMAN. Shall thosie young souls yearn after us — what lays Year after year the laurel-wreathed choir, Circling our shrine with hymns and holy praise. Shall waft to isles Elysian, where we lie Mid lilies and Imperishable bays I '' In such lapt communing and converse high Methinks those lovers lingered, sphere by sphere Ascending the celestial galaxy Of burning thoughts — : as some rash pioneer. Skirting an inaccessible precipice Grade over grade, beholds at length the sheer Waste of wide heaven unfold, a wilderness Of air and light spanning the supine world: Thus they on wings out-soaring the abyss Of fears and cares and joys diurnal, hurled Their souls forth at a venture, sprang like light Into ecstatic comet-cyc les whirled Round heaven's ascendant spirals infinite. Growing enamored of the thought of Death, They cried : " Hail, Death ! Brother of nourishing Night! May fails; the might of summer minisheth; And mortal love endures a little space : Nay, even now we draw a dying breath ; Our life is one brief flight to thine embrace: But thy perennial foison shall not fade ; No wrinkles shall corrode thy tranquil face ; Nor shall thy blissful slumber be o'erlaid With such vain dreams as trouble human sleep. Brother of Love ! whose might by thee is made More lasting than the adamantine steep Of walls Olympian ! unto thee we turn ; ' Into thine ageless hands, to guard anc keep, '' ' We yield these souls unterrified, that burn //or draughts of cooling from thy sacred lake. Thirst deep as ours disdains life's shallow urn ; ^> ' V-.- "-< - ia ' -atti a a iP J3 H mmmtmttim LOVE AND i)EATH: A SYMPHONY. While from thy we'l gods yearn in vain to slake The lingering fevci of immortal hours." Morn now began to whiten in the wake Of Phosphor : far athwart dim olive-bowers * Freshened the breeze of dawning : so they rose. As one with toil forespent, with waning powers, Forth from the stifling city-tumult goes In summer to fresh fields and hiils serene For sure rejuvenescence and repose ; " So toward the Alps and upland breezes keen, The snows untroubled and the silver rills, That death doth hide from life in his demesne, Those comrades o'er the dew-regenerate hills Went smiling. Arm in stalwart arm enlaced, Alike resplendt ■.:., and with wedded wills. They seemed twin Gods, fraternal stars embraced, Or heroes from red slaughter homeward bound Of ravening monsters in a dismal waste. Their tawny curls by summer noons embrowned, Their limbs athletic, their broad breasts of brass, With aureoles of the smiting sun were crowned. So, brushing diamonds from the glimmering grass, Forth from the fields they paced and toward the shrine Of Pallas on the city-brow did pass. There laid they down their lives ; there death divine Made their love perfect in the piety They bore theii mother — Bride of the ocean brine, Athens, the morning-star of liberty. Would that my song could utter how the hymn Swelled in their dying ears victoriously ! How o'er their swooning eyes with death-mists dim Swam the wild vision of the wistful crowd, Submiss, suspense, straining each quivering limb To greet with eyes aflame and blessings loud, With sobs and tears and sighs and out-stretched hands,. Their saints, in death gods evident avowed ! > - ■i i y,\ I ! k I «n Iff HK W4f.r wtnr,HA^. tl1, Miry wrtp liolil ' Wlilr rvnl rti rOM *'" '" •''•t•Ml^•^^ mill In wltl^J I >l I'liink '<()»(Hl'«r' ,rt plitttirt itl giilit ^^^Vn^ ilnvrliki* i»H titr Wrtlt't^, Itt l.iivr'n f\fn Si»tiniliitn itttfitlltDiititltlf ilrp(lt<(, llirv \\\i'W Slhmn to I'lulotr nnlilnl ln\ml•lt•^ltlr^ Ami seek \\\ \kt\{\\ a l-ovrt Inil itml tiuc. iVi'p rtlo^ lit ilrrpt rtm» ht fitt-ntimlrtvil itgo With «ttiljinnliitiMi5 Vitii i'«< I IrttiotVt Irrtt 'l"l;ti\'*tttit'« llti< ittviitlitltlc Itftilrtur 0( hntt^htv ilri-iW. Sff. vott IIitI miitti'i t»vtf 1li< llittitttittn tovrit ! ritr rtiilnl llitntr hm kwani blown 1''lrt<«hr'< h\ri(;tttl itlltlrtr: li).iltli'itnl roii«\ 'iVtt^r tlti'Ws. kittt fittfln'itd, ipiivitittfi l\ttm'V ll|t« SttMijihU'ttrM to wire tho sploitilittn, prtfjloeye ■SittotiMrttttn liko ntWW rti«fx (• pIrtltiM ill tM li|t«p t'Vtt lV:tt (Ititl tltOM' -swiO frri sltntlM jtitsn Itiltt Ity— t''i\Mt\ ^inits likr ihi^sc h<> snti* tlti> (Iviit^ sp.ttk, V;\ss\ttg ItxMtt \^^\\\\ to jMtlttt I otttilttt!»Ilv, Shrtll thttMil \\\\>\ \\\Atx^n of titp wrti«tp|\tl iliisk, Till, (\xri1 lv\iM>\l rtll iltrttti-? ox chftttjtt' «l Ift5t, N. \ "■«-■-■■[- [I --|inrii|iiiir-manii|^;jm B)iNtt*»:(iAMaw»MMMM in\'K ANI* IHHAIHt A ffVMI'nniHY II fliifkltitili lirtHiil nlifivf' ilif i(fii fril iifk. Vt'ti, llkr rt "ihU, 'Mi-difltH-fl 'liild rift lift VWt Alitl Nlt'l l-f-rtlinlUK In Jlir lltiifKlrr-lirnl Of rr'fliirlil K'')i''"<>i'iit (111- III'- Miiil-i (liiit (d'"il '*'*>w, written liy Walt Whilman within the ycnr followin;; the isnuc of the first edition of hiit |Hien)ii, expresi in ery one, he seems to say, appears excellent to me ; every employment is adorned, and every male and female glorious. • . ; . . itherers and those : while I wait for him or her who " The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate tliem, I am enamored of growing outdoors, ... Of men that live among cattle, or taste of the ocean or woods, Of the builders and steerers of ships, of the wielders of axes and mauls, of the drivers of horses, I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out. What is commonest, and cheapest, and nearest, and easiest, is me, Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns, Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me, Not asking the sky to come down to my goodwill. Scattering it freely forever." If health were not his distinguishing attribute, this poet would' be the very harlot of persons. Right and left he flings his arms, drawing men and women with undeniable love to his close era- i:y m WHill^niftta- m' i;'^ ao irr liE WALT wniTSfAS. brace, loving the clasp of their hands, the touch of their necks and breasts, and the sound of their voices. All else seems to burn up under his fierce affection for persons. Politics, religions, institutions, art, (luickly fall aside before them. In the whole universe, he says, 1 see nothing more divine than human souls. " Whrn the psalm singR instead of the slnjjer, When the Ncript preaches tiistcnil of the ])rencher, When the (utlpit descends and goes, instead »{ the carver that carved the Rupportinj; desk, When the sacvcd vessels or tlie bits of the cutharist, or the tath and plast, ])roorerttc as ctTccuially as tlie younj; silversntiths or takers, or the niasons in tlieir overalls, "When a university course convinces like a slund)ering woman ond chihl Convince, . AVhen the minted goKl in the vault smiles like the ni|{ht-watchman's daugh- ter, '\Vhen warrantee deeds luafc in chaiis opposite and arc my friendly com- panions, 1 intend to reach them my hand and make as much of them as I make of men and women." Who then is that insolent unknown? Who is it, praising hiuisolf as if others were not fit to do it, and coming rough and unhidden among writers, to unsettle what was settled, and to revolutionize in fict our modern civilization ? Walt Whitinan was born on Long Island, on the hills about thirty miles from the greatest American city, on the last day of May, 1819, and has grown up in Brooklyn and New York to be thirty-six years old, t'j enjoy perfect health, and to understand his country and its spirit. Interrogations more than this, and that will not be put off un- answered, spring continually through the perusal of " Leaves of Grass:" Must not the true American poet indeed absorb all others, and present a new and fiir more atiiple and vigorous type? Has not the time arrived for a school of live writing and tui- tion consistent with the principles of these poems? consistent with the free spirit of this age, and with the American truths of WALT WHITMAN AND HIS POEMS. at t carved the politics? consistent with geology, and astronomy, and phrenol- ogy, and human physfology ? consistent with the sublimity of immortality and the directness of common sense? If in this poem the United States have found their poetic voice and taken measur and form, is it any more than a bcj nning? Walt Whitman himself disclaims singularity in his work, and announc es the coming after him of great successions of poets, and that he but lifts his finger to give the signal. Was he not needed ? Has not literature been bred in-and-in long enough? Has it not become unbearably artificial ? Shall a man of faith and practice in the simplicity of real things be called eccentric, while every disciple of the fictitious school writes without question ? Shall it still be the amazement of the light and dark that freshness of expression is the rarest (piality of all? You have come in good time, Walt Whitman I In opinions, in manners, in costumes, in books, in the aims and occupancy of life, in associates, in poems, conformity to all unnatural and tainted customs i)asses without remark, while perfect naturalness, health, faith, self-reliance, and all primal expressions of the manliest love and friendship, subject one to the stare and con- troversy of the world. I ' i (22) An ulil mnti once «nw I, Howfil low v/nn he willi lime, lIciut-fioH'.cil, white willt rime, Ki-mly mill lipc Id dlo. I'pmi n ctid he Moml Al)i)vp llip son'n umcst j His lioanl liioKf nn Iiir> hreait 1(1 vfiiernlilc \U»u\. And Miili'cniy ilii-ic cnme Jiom far with niry ircnd A maiden round who-^c bond Tlipro Innncd n wrrnlli of llnmr. Ah <;od! Hut nhp was fair I To look were to disdain All other joy and pain. Anil lovL- hor to despair. •• [ come," nhc cried, in tone like swceioM siren son^. " ■I'lioiiuli I have tarried long, 1 CDinc, my own, my own ! See. t.ove, 'tis love compels These kisses, piioeless. rare; Come, let n»e crown thy hair With wreathM imn;orlelles." The olil man answered herj His voice was like the sen : «' Conjcst to mock at ine ? Mine eyes are all aldurr. Thou art loo late. In sooth Naught earthly makes me ^,dad. Where wert thou in my mad, My caijer, (iery youth ? " " Nay. frrieve not thou," she said, " I'or I have loved full oft, And at my lover» scoffed, Alive to woo them dead." " ( )h liend ! " I eried. " for nh-xme I " Yielding to wrath's surprise. She turned. I knew the eyes And siren face of l'an\e. LEAVES OF GRASS: A VOLUME OF POEMS JUST PUBLISHED. liy WM.I Will t MAN. To give jiulgmeiit on real poems, one needs an nr.rotint of the poet himself. Very devilish to some, and very divine to some, will appear the ))oel of these new poems, the " Leaves of drass;" an attem|)t, as they are, of a naive, masculine, affec- tionate, contemplative, sensual, imperious person, to cast into literature not only his own grit and arrogance, but his own flesh and form, imdraped, regardless of models, regardless of modesty or law, and ignorant or silently scornful, as at first appears, of all except his own presence and experience, and all outside the fiercely loved land of his birth, and the birth of his parents, and their parents for several generations before him. Politeness this man has none, and regulation he has none. A rude child of the jjcople I — No imitation — No foreigner — but a growth and idiom of America. No discontented — a careless slouch, enjoying to- day. No dilettante democrat — a man who is art-and-part with tlie commonalty, and with immediate life — loves the streets — loves the docks — loves the free rasping talk of men- -likes to be called by his given name, and nobody at all need Mr. him — can laugh with laughers — likes the ungenteel ways of laborers — is not prejudices one mite against the Irish — talks readily with them — talks readily with n'^'gers — docs not make a stand on being a gentleman, nor on learning or manners — eats cheap fare, likes tiie strong flavored coffee of the coffee-stands in the market, at sunrise — likes a supper of oysters fresh from the oyster-smack — likes to make one at the crowded table among sailors and work- people — would leave a select soiree of elegant people any time to go with tumultuous men, roughs, receive their caresses and (23) '■ fil Iv: oaiMMwNMaqMRnMur'riaAtM^':? •4 IN RK WALT WHITMAN. V welcome, listen to their noise, oaths, smut, fluency, laughter, repartee — and can preserve his presence perfectly among these, and the like of these. The effects he produces in his poems are no effects of artists or the arts, but effects of the original eye or arm, or tlie actual atmosphere, or tree, or bird. You may feel the unconscious teaching of a fine brute, but will never feel the artificial teaching of a fine writer or speaker. Other poets celebrate great events, personages, romances, wars, loves, passions, the victories and power of their country, or some real or imagined incident — and ])olish their work and come to conclusions, and satisfy the reader. This poet cele- brates natural propensities in himself; and that is the way he celebrates all. He comes to no conclusions, and does not satisfy the reader. He certainly leaves him what the serpent left the woman and the man, the taste of the Paradisaic tree of the knowledge of good and evil, never to be erased again. What good is it to argue about egotism ? There can be no two thoughts on Walt Whitman's egotism. That is avowedly what he steps out of the crowd and turns and faces them for. Mark, critics ! Otherwise is not used for you the key that leads to the use of the other keys to this well-enveloped man. His whole work, his life, manners, friendships, writings, all have among their leading purposes an evident purpose to stamp a new type of character, namely his own, and indelibly fix it and pub- lish it, not for a model but an illustration, for the present and future of American letters and American young men, for the south the same as the north, and for the Pacific and Mississippi country, and Wisconsin and Texas and Kansas ana Canada and Havana and Nicaragua, just as much as New York and Boston. Whatever is needed toward this achievement he puts his hand to, and lets imputations take their time to die. First be yourself what you would show in your poem — such seems to be this man's example and inferred rebi..e to the schools of poets. He makes no allusions to books or writers ; their spirits do not seem to have touched him ; he has not a word to say for or against them, c" their theories or ways. He never offers others ; what he continually offers is the man whom I LEA VES OF ORASS. •s our Brooklynites know so well. Of pure American breed, large and lusty — age thirty-six years, (1855,) — never once using medi- cine — never dressed in black, always dressed freely and clean in strong clothes — neck open, shirt collar flat and broad, coun- tenance tawny transparent red, beard well-mottled with white, hair like hay after it has been mowed in the field and lies tossed and streaked — his physiology corroborating a rugged phrenol- ogy * — a person singularly beloved and looked toward, especially by young men and the illiterate — one who has firm attachments there, and associates there — one who does not associate with lit- erary people — a man never called upon to make speeches at pub- lic dinners — never on platforms amid the crowds of clergymen, or professors, or aldermen, or congressmen — rather down in tlie bay with pilots in their pilot-boat — or off on a cruise with fishers- in a fishing-smack — or riding on a Broadway omnibus, side by side with the driver — or with a band of loungers over the open grounds of the country — fond of New York and Brooklyn — fond of the life of the great ferries — one whom, if you should meet, you need not expect to meet an extraordinary person — one in whom you will see the singularity which consists in no singular- ity — whose contact is no dazzle or fascination, nor requires any deference, but has the easy fascination of what is homely and ac- *" Phrenological Notes on W. Whitman," by L. N. Fowler, July, 1849. — Size of head large, 23 inches. Leading traits appear to be Friendship, Sym- pathy, Sublimity, and Self-Esteem, and markedly among its combinations the dangerous faults of Indolence, a tendency to the pleasures of Voluptuousness, and Alimentiveness, and a certain reckless swing of animal will. [The organs are marked by figures from I to J, indicating their degrees of development, I meaning very small, 2 small, 3 moderate, 4 average, S full» 6 large, and 7 very large.] Amativeness, 6; Thiloprogenitiveness, 6^ Adhesiveness, 6; Inhabitiveness, 6; Concentraliveness, 4; Combativeness, 6; Destructiveness, 5 to 6; Alimentiveness, 6; Acquisitiveness, 4 ; Secie- tiveness, 3; Cautiousness, 6; Approbativeness, 4; Self-Esteem, 6 to 7 ; Firmness, 6 to 7 ; Conscientiousness, 6; Hope, 4; Marvellousness, 3 ; Ven- eration, 4; Benevolence, 6 to 7; Constructiveness, 5; Ideality, 5 to 6; Sub- limity, 6 to 7; Imitation, 5; Mirthfulness, $; Individuality, 6; Form, 6; Size, 6; Weight, 6; Color, 3; Order, 5; Calculation, 5; Locality, 6^ Eventuality, 6 ; Time, 3; Tune, 4; Language, S ; Causality, 5 to 6; Com- parison, 6; Suavitivcness, 4; Intuitivenass, or Human Nature, 6. t J i 'Jl hi. a6 IN KK WALT WIUTMAS. customed — as of something you knew before, and was waiting for — there you have Walt Whitman, the begetter of a new off- spring out of literature, taking with easy nonchalance the chances of its present reception, and, through all misunderstandings and distrusts, the chances of its future reception — preferring always to 8|K*ak for himself rather than have others speak for him. AN ENGLISH AND AN AMERICAN POET. By HALT WHITMAN. It is always reservcr ENGLISH AND AN AMERICAN POET. 29 Call up the dread past from its awful grave To tell him of our future. As the air Doth sphere the world, so shall his heart of love — Loving mankind, not peoples. As the lake Reflects the flower, tree, rock, and bending heaven, Shall he reflect our great humanity ; And as the young Spring breathes with living breath On a dead branch, till it sprouts fragrantly Green leaves and sunny flowers, shall he breathe life Through every theme he touch, making all Beauty And J'oetry forever like the stars." (Alexander Smith.) The best of the school of poets at present received in Great / Britain and America is Alfred Tennyson. He is the bard of ennui and of the aristocracy, and their combination into love. This love is the old stock love of playwrights and romancers, Shakspere the same as the rest. It is possessed of the same un- natural and shocking passion for some girl or woman, that wrenches it from its manhood, emasculated and impotent, with- out strength to hold the rest of the objects and goods of life in their proper positions. It seeks nature for sickly uses. It goes screaming and weeping after the facts of the universe, in their calm beauty and equanimity, to note the occurrence of itself, and to sound the news, in connection with the charms of the neck, hair, or complexion of a particular female. Poetry, to Tennyson and his British and American eleves, is a gentleman of the first degree, boating, fishing, and shooting genteelly through nature, admiring the ladies, and talking to them, in company, with that elaborate half-choked deference that is to be made up by the terrible license of men among them-, selves. The spirit of the burnished society of upper-clasf. Eng- land fills this writer and his effusions from top to toe. Like that, he does not ignore courage and the superior qualities of men, but all is to show forth through dandified forms. He meets the nobility and gentry half-way. The models are the sa^ne both to the poei and the parlors. Both have the same supercilious ele- gance, both love the reminiscences which extol caste, both agree on the topics proper for mention and discussion, both hold the same undertone of church and state, both have the same lan^ ^ 30 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. guishing melancholy and irony, both indulge largely in persi- flage, both are marked by the contour of high blood and a con- stitutional aversion to anything cowardly and mean, both accept the love depicted in romances as the great business of a life or a poem, both seem unconscious of the mighty truths of eternity and immortality, both are silent on the presumptions of liberty and equality, and both devour themselves in solitary lassitude. Whatever may be said of all this, it harmonizes and represents facts. The present phases of high-life in Great Britain are as natural a growth there, as Tennyson and his poems are a natural growth of those phases. It remains to be distinctly admitted that this man is a real first-class poet, infused amid all that ennui and aristocracy. Meanwhile a strange voice parts others aside and demands for its owner that position that is only allowed after the seal of many returning years has stamped with approving stamp the claims of the loftiest leading genius. Do you think the best honors of the earth are won so easily, Walt Whitman ? Do you think city and country are to fall before the vehement egotism of your rec^ itative of yourself? f " I am the poet of the body, . And I am the poet of the soul. ' The pleasures of heaven are with me, and the pains of hell are with me, The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue. I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a mavi. And I say there is notliing greater than the mother of men. I chant a new chant of dilation or pride. We have had ducking and deprecating about enough, I show that size is only development." It is indeed a strange voice ! Critics and lovers and readers of poetry as hitherto written, may well be excused the chilly and unpleasant shudders which will assuredly run through them, to their very blood and bones, when they first read Walt Whitman's AN ENGLISH AND AN AMERICAN POET. 31 poertis. If this is poetry, where must its foregoers stand ? And what is at once to become of the ranks of rhymesters, melan^ choly and swallow-tailed, and of all the confectioners and uphol sterers of verse, if the tan-faced man here advancing and claim- ing to speak for America and the nineteenth hundred of the Christian list of years, typifies indeed the natural and proper bard? The theory and practice of poets have hitherto been to select certain ideas or events or personages, and then describe them in the best manner they could, always with as much ornament as the case allowed. Such are not the theory and practice of the new poet. He never presents for perusal a poem ready-made on the old models, and ending when you come to the end of it; but every sentence and every passage tells of an interior not always seen, and exudes an impalpable something which sticks tO' him that reads, and pervades and provokes him to tread the half-invisible road where the poet, like an apparition, is striding fearlessly before. If Walt Whitman's premises are true, then there is a subtler range of poetry than that of the grandeur of acts and events, as in Homer, or of characters, as in Shakspere — poetry to which all other writing is subservient, and which confronts the very meanings of the works of nature and com- petes with them. It is the direct bringing of occurrences and persons and things to bear on the listener or beliolder, to re- appear through him or her ; and it offers the best way of making them a part of him and her as the right aim of tl.: greatest poet. Of the spirit of life in visible forms — of the spirit of the seed growing out of the ground — of the spirit of the resistless motion of the g. 1)6 passing unsuspected but quick as lightning along its orbit — of them is the spirit of this man's poetry. Like them it eludes and mocks criticism, and appears unerringly in results. Thirgs, facts, events, persons, days, ages, qualities, tumble pell- mell, exhaustless and copious, with what appear to be the same disregard of parts, and the same absence of special purpose, as in nature. But the voice of the few rare and controlling critics,, and the voice of more than one generation of men, or two gen- erations of men, must speak for the inexpressible purposes of na- j »'^ 1 1 p* .' 1 n J is| bb H^< 4 i it . SlIF' ■; i 1 T^A^H 3« RE WALT WHITMAN. ture, and for this haughtiest of writers that has ever yet written and printed a book. His is to prove either the most lamentable of failures or the most glorious of triumphs, in the known history of literature. And after all we have written we confess our brain- felt and heart-felt inability to decide which we think it is likely to be. ^1 NOTES FROM CONVERSATIONS WITH GEORGE W. WHITMAN, 1893: MOSTLY IN HIS OWN WORDS. Sy HORACE L. TRAUBEL. In spite of what Walt may have said to you, that nigligi pic- ture* must have been taken later than 1849. I^ shows him pretty gray, to be sure. But Walt began to get gray about thirty. I should say he always wore a beard. I never remember his shaving. Walt was very reticent in many particulars. For example, I never knew him to explain his business projects or schemes of any kind — to communicate particulars of any plan he may have had in hand. When he got into the "Leaves of Grass" affair he seemed to devote everything to that. Do you ask if he was shiftless? No: he was not shiftless — yet he was very curiously deliberate. I could hardly describe his stubborn reserve, pa- tience. He got offers of literary work — good offers : and we thought he had chances to make money. Yet he would refuse to do anything except at his own notion — most likely when ad- vised would say : " We won't talk about that ! " or anything else to pass the matter off. I can give you a case. Some of the proprietors of the Eagle talked in a way not to suit him, and he straightway started up and left them. He never would make concessions for money — always was so. He always had his own way, or took it. There was a great boom in Brooklyn in tlie early fifties, and he had his chance then, but you know he made nothing of that chance. Some of us reckoned that he had by *" Leaves of Grass," Pocket Edition, 1889, facing page I32. 3 '^li^ 34 W RE WALT winnrAX. this neglect wasted his best opportiiiiity, lor no otiier etinally good cIkuuo over after appeared. Wall did not alwiiys dress in this present style. He was rather stylislj when y<»i"g. He started in with his new notions somewhere between 1850-55. A goiul «leai is always said as if to convict Walt of indecency. The "Children of Ailain " poems opened the way for it. Yet there never was a wi)rse err*)r. Kven in early life Walt had no licentions habits. Nor was he qualmish, either. One of the greatest things about Walt was his wonderful calm- ness in trying times when evcrylHidy else would get excited. He was always cool, never llurrieil ; would get mad but never lose his heail ; was never scareil. His relations with his father were always friendly, always gooil. I don't think his father ever had an idea what Walt was up to, what he meant. To him, like to all the rest, Walt was a niyslery. On literary topics Walt was the one to go to. We never doubted that. It was always apparent and acknowledged. But in business the rest of us were nearer the mark. We mixetl up in busin -ss affairs. He seemed \.o have a contempt for them. Yet he was ipii«~k and cute, too. I remember when he went to New Orleans ar started the Orstrnt. The whole affair hap- pened just as he uescribed it. At the theater or opera he ran across the moneyed man who was willing to Ixick him up, and they made the contract then and there. His association with neighbors and strangers was not at that jwriod .so market! as later. I dt) not mean that he was not on the friendliest terms with all. Only, he was scarcely so apt to chime in — establish an acquaintance. Although I am asked that question, I am confident I never knew Walt to fall in love with young girls or even to show them markeil attention. He did not seem to affect the girls. There are many misconceptions or assumptions of this sort current. Why, you even say that you are told by some one who professed to be his friend that Walt was in those years a sore discomfort to his i^arents. There is no worse nonsense. There's not a word of truth in it. Quite the opposite. He was clean in his habits. »* CONVERSATfOm WITH GFOnOK W. WUiTMAN. 35 He was forbearing and conciliating. He was always gentle till you got him started — always. .'I'liat fisherman story they tell about at such lenj,'th is all true. Some one who was thoroughly informed nnist have written it uj). If I am not mistaken Walt even gave the fellow a devil of a licking afler the trial, the ver- dict — after Uie first thrashing, for which he was arrested. He- was a muscular young man at that time — very strong — already of striking appearance. Walt was called Walt probably because his father was Walter.- It was a way we had of separating them. He liked "Walt" and stuck to it. I was in Brooklyn in the early fifties, when Walt came 1)a(k from New Orleans. We all lived together. No change soeined to come over him : he was the same man he had been, grown older and wiser. He made a living now — wrote a little, worked a little, loafed a little. He had an idea that money was of no consequence. He was not very practical — the others of us could give him points in this direction — but as for the rest, we could not understand him — we gave him up. I guess it was about those years he had an idea he could lecture. He wrote what mother called "barrels" of lecttires. We g*MJ|MJMji ial ftJ ^a3i- """'-■■■ ■ ■"■■■■' — "-AaS^ata^ CONVERSATJONR WITH OEOROE W. WHITMAN. 39 that Walt said anything about Alcott and the others, though they came a number of times. It would be hard for me to say anything in connection with his public speaking. I never htard him speak at a political meeting. In fiict, at the time he was making political speeches I was too small. Besides, I rather think he was then boarding in New York — I don't think he was at home. When "Franklin Evans" was published I could not have been more than nine or ten years of age. I have heard it said that copies are scarce — in fact, you are sa>lng it now — but I feel quite sure that I have seen a copy within the last five or six years. Yet I do nt know of anybody who has a c >py. Walt never made anything of it himself. Probably there is some mystery about it, but it is quite positive that Walt did not at that time, any more than at any time since, say anything to his family to indicate that he took any pride in it. Quite the con- trary, in fact. He rather disliked or laughed at the mention of it. Walt had very few books. He was not a book collector. But he spent a good 'iiany hours in the libraries of New York. He cared little for sport. As for gunning, he would have nothing to do with it. He would fish now and then, but was not carried away with it. He was an old-fashioned ball-player and entered into a game heartily enough. Long age we lived on a farm. Walt would not do farm work. He had things he liked better — school-teaching, for instance, and writing. He taught an ordinary district school, and only continued at it a year or so — perhaps three or four years. I my- self went to school to him. It v/as said at the time that Walt made a very good schoolmaster. His own education was gained in the Brooklyn schools. Altogether, Walt's life was uneventful, containing no startling events, so far as I know. I think he became a Republican when Fremont came up. Previous to 1856 he was -c Free Soil Democrat. In the case of slavery he was always for the slave, but he was not as far ad- , >f .V 40 I If RE WALT WHITMAN. \ vanccd as Gcrrit Smith, Wendell Phillips and that claw of men. At the time " Leaves of Grass" was printed— the 1855 edi- tion — Beccher was neither friendly nor unfriendly. Later on Walt and he were quite thick. I suppose I might go on talking in this way, but you would find in the end that I had not added greatly to your information about Walt. But some things said here, simple and superfluous as they may seem, should be kept in mind and set down as his- tory. For there have been charges made and doubts expressed on points on which charges are unjust and doubts have no ex- cuse. And as these are features on which I can speak by some authority, my silence might be construed as confession. It A WOMAN'S ESTIMATE OF WALT WHITMAN.* By ANNK GILCHKIST June 3i, 1869. — I was calling on [Mr. Madox Brown] a fort- night ago, and he put into my hands your edition of Walt Whitman's poems. I shall not cease to thank him for that. Since I have had it, I can read no other book : it holds me en- tirely spell-bound, and I go througli it again and again with deepening delight and wonder. June 23. — I am very sure you are right in your estimate of * LonJon, Nov. 20, 1869. The great satisraction wliich I felt in arranging, about two years ago, the first edition (or ralher selection) of Walt Whitman's poems published in Eng- land hag been, in due course of time, followed by another satisfaction — and one which, rightly laid to heart, is both less mixed and more intense. A lady, whose friendship honors me, read the selection last summer, and immedititely afterwards accepted from me the loan of the complete edition, and read that also. Doth volumes raised in her a boundless and splendid enthusiasm, en- nobling to witness. This found pression in some letters which she addressed to me at the time, and which contain (I aflirm it without misgiving, and I hope not without some title to form an opinion) about the fullest, farthest- reaching, and most eloquent appreciation of Whitman yet put into writing, and certainly the most valuable, whether or not I or other readers find cai'se for critical dissent at an item here and there. The most valuable, I say, be- cause this is the expression of what a woman sees in Whitman's poems — a woman who has read and thought much, and whom to know is to respect and esteem in every relation, whether of character, intellect, or culture. I longed that what this lady had written should he published for the benefit of English, and more especially of American readers. She has generously acceded to my request. The ensuing reflections upon Whitman's poems con- tain several passages reproduced verbatim from the letters in question, sup- plemented by others which the same lady has added so as more fully to define and convey the impression which those unparalleled and deathless writings- have made upon her. W. M. Ro.ssetti. (40 43 JN RE WALT WHITMAN. Walt Whitman. There is nothing in him that I shall ever let go my hold of. For me the reading of his poems is truly a new birth of the soul. I shall quite fearlessly accept your kind offer of the loan of a complete edition, certain that great and divinely beautiful nature has not, could not infuse any poison into the wine he has poured out for us. And as for what you specially allude to, who so well able to bear it — I will say, to judge wisely of it — as one who, having been a happy wife and mother, has learned to accept all things with tenderness, to feel a sacredness in all ? Perhaps Walt Whitman "las forgotten — or, through some theory in his head, has overridden — the truth that our instincts are beautiful facts of nature, as well as our bodies j and that we have a strong instinct of silence about some things. July II. — I think it was very manly and kind of you to put the whole of Walt Whitman's poems into my hands ; and that I have no other friend who would have judged them and me so wisely and generously. I h.ifi not dreamed that words could cease to be words, and becomr. electric streams like these. I do assure you that, strong as y am, I feel sometimes as if I had not bodily strength to read many of these poems. In the series headed " Calamus," for in- stance, in some of the "Songs of Parting," the "Voice out of the Sea," the poem beginning " Tears, Tears," etc., there is such a weight of emotion, such a tension of the heart, that mine re- fuses to beat under it — stands quite still — and I am obliged to lay the booi; down for a while. Or again, in the piece called " Wii'C Whitman," and one or two others of that type, I am as one hurried th^- ugh stormy seas, over high mountains, dazed with sunliii'it, stunned with a crowd and tumult of faces and voices, till I am breathltss, bewildered, half dead. Then come parts and whole poems in which there is such calm wisdom and strength of thought, such a cheerful breadth of sunshine, that the soul bathes in them renewed and strengthened. Living im- pulses flow out of these that make me exult in life, yet look long- ingly towards " the superb vistas of Death." Those who admire this poem, and don't care for that, and talk of formlessness, ab- A WOMAN'S ESTIMATE OF WALT WHITMAN. 43 sence of meter, etc., are quite as far from any genuine recogni- tion of Walt Whitman as his bitter detractors. Not, of course, that all the pieces are equal in power and beauty, but that all are vital ; they grew — they were not made. We criticise a palace or a cathedral ; but what is the good of criticising a forest ? Are not the hitherto-accepted masterpieces of literature akin rather to noble architecture; built up of material rendered precious by elaboration ; planned with subtle art that makes beauty go hand in hand with rule and measure, and knows where the last stone will come, before the first is laid ; the result stately, fixed, yet such as might, in every particular, have been different from what it is (therefore inviting criticism), contrasting proudly with the careless freedom of nature, opposing its own rigid adherence to symmetry to her willful dallying with it ? But not such is this book. Seeds brought by the winds from north, south, east, and west, lying long in the earth, not resting on it like the stately building, but hid in and assimilating it, shooting upwards to be nourished by the air and the sunshine and the rain which beat idly against that, — each bough and twig and leaf growing in strength and beauty its own way, a law to itself, yet, with all this freedom of spontaneous growth, the result inevitable, un- alterable (therefore setting criticism at naught), above all things vital, — that is, a source of ever-generating vitality : such are these poems. " Roots and leaves themselves alone are these, Scents brought to men and women from the wild woods and from the pond- side, Breast sorrel and pinks of love, fingers that wind around tighter than vines. Gushes from the throats of birds hid in the foliage of trees as the sun is risen, Breezes of Jand and love, breezes set from living shores out to you on the living sea, — to you, O sailors ! Frost-mellowed berries and Third -month twigs, offered fresh to young per- sons wandering out in the fields when the winter breaks up. Love-buds put before you and within you, whoever you are, ' Buds to be unfolded on the old terms. ' If you bring the warmth of the sun to them, they will open, and bring form, . . color, pjrfume, to you : . 44 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. If you become the aliment and the wet, they will become flowers, fruits^ tall branches and trees.*' And the music takes good care of itself too. As if it could be otherwise! As if those "large, melodious thoughts," those emotions, now so stormy and wild, now of unfathomed tender- ness and gentleness, could fail to vibrate through the words in strong, sweeping, long-sustained chords, with lovely melodies winding in and out fitfully amongst them ! Listen, for instance, to the penetrating sweetness, set in the midst of rugged grandeur, of the passage beginning, — "I am he that walks with the tender and growing night; I call to the earth and sea half held by the night." r I I see that no counting of syllables will reveal the mechanism of the music j and that this rushing spontaneity could not stay to bind itself with the fetters of meter. But I know that the music is there, and that I would not for something change ears with those who cannot hear it. And I know that poetry must do one of two things, — either own this man as equal with her highest, completest manifestors, or stand aside, and admit that there is some thing come into the world nobler, diviner than herself, one that is free of the universe, and can tell its secrets as none before. I do not think or believe this ; but see it with the same unmis- takable dehniteness of perception and full consciousness that I see tlie sun at this moment in the noonday sky, and feel his rays glowing down upon me as I write in the open air. What more can you ask of the words of a man's mouth than that they should " absorb into you as food and air, to appear again in your strength, gait, face,"— that they should be "fibre and filter to your blood," joy and gladness to your whole nature? I am persuaded that one great source of this kindling, vitaliz- ing power — I suppose the great source — is the grasp laid upon the present, the fearless and comprehensive dealing with reality. Hitherto the leaders of thought have (except in science) been men with their faces resolutely turned backwards ; men who have made of the past a tyrant that beggars and scorns the present. A WOMAN'S ESTIMATE OF WALT WHITMAN. •; hardly seeing any greatness but what is shrouded away in the twilight, underground past ; naming the present only for dis- paraging comparisons, humiliating distrust that tends to create the very barrenness it complains of; bidding me warm myself at fires that went out to mortal eyes centuries ago ; insisting, in re- ligion above all, that I must either " look through dead men's eyes," or shut my own in helpless darkness. Poets fancying themselves so happy over the chill and faded beauty of the past, but not making me happy at all, — rebellious always at being dragged down out of the free air and sunshine of to-day. But this poet, this "athlete, full of rich words, full of joy," takes you by the hand, and turns you with your face straight forwards. The present is great enough for him, because he is great enough for it. It flows through him as a " vast oceanic tide," lifting up a mighty voice. Earth, " the eloquent, dumb, great mother," is not old, has lost none of her fresh charms, none of her divine meanings ; still bears great sons and daugh- ters, if only they would possess themselves and accept their birthright, — a richer, not a poorer, heritage than was ever pro- vided before, — richer by all the toil and suffering of the gener- ations that have preceded, and by the further unfolding of the eternal purposes. Here is one come at last who can show them how ; whose songs are the breath of a glad, strong, beautiful life, nourished sufficingly, kindled to unsurpassed intensity and great- ness by the gifts of the present. " Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy." " O the joy of my soul leaning poised on itself, — recewing identity through materials, and loving them, — observing characters, and absorbing them! O my soul vibrated back to me from them ! O the g "some saunter over fields and hillsides ! The leaves and flowers of the commonest weeds, the moist, fresh stillness of the woods. The exquisite smell of the earth at daybreak, and all through the forenoon. O to realize space ! The plenteousness of all — that there are no bounds ; -4 H '!■ ?^**i I^^B^ III 46 IN HE WALT WHITMAN. To emerge, and be of the sky-^of the sun and moon and the flying clouds, as one with them. O the joy of sufliering, — To struggle against great odds, to meet enemies undaunted, To be entirely alone with them — to find how much one can stand ! " I used to think it was great to disregard happiness, to press on to a high goal, careless, disdainful of it. But now I see that there is nothing so great as to be capable of liappiness ; to pluck it out of "each moment and whatever happens; " to find that one can ride as gay and buoyant on the angry, menacing, tumul- tuous waves of life as on those that glide and glitter under a clear sky ; that it is no: iefeat and wretchedness v uch come out of the storm of adversity, but strength and calni:.;ss. See, again, in the pieces gatliered together under the title " Calamus," and elsewhere, what it means for a man to love his fellow-man. Did you dream it b' 'ore? These " evangel-poems of comrades and of love" speak, with the abiding, penetrati'"q; power of prophecy, of a "new and superb friendship; " spt .k not as beautiful dreams, unrealizable aspirations to be laid aside in sober moods, because they breathe out what now glows within the poet's own breast, and flows out in action toward the men around hiin. Had ever any land before her poet, \:H only to concentrate within himself her life, and, when she kindled with anger against her children who were treacherous to the cause her life is bound up with, to announce and justify her terrible purpose in words of unsurpassable grandeur (as in the poem be- ginning, "Rise, O days, from your fathomless deeps"), but also to go and with his own hands dress the wounds, with his powerful presence soothe and sustain and nourish her suffering soldiers, — hundreds of them, thousands, tens of thousands, — by day and by night, for weeks, months, years? I i •' I sit by the restless all the dark night ; some are so young. Some suffer so much : I recall the experience sweet and sad. Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have crossed and rested,. Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips : — " ng clouds. A WOMAK'S ESTIMATE OF WALT WHITMAN. 47- Kisses, that touched with the fire of a strange, new, undying eloquence the lips that received them I The most transcendent genirs could not, untaught by that "experience sweet and sad," have breathed out hymns for the dead soldiers of such ineffably tender, soriowful, yet triumphant beauty. But the present spreads before us other thing- besides those of which it is easy to see the greatness and beauty ; and the poel would leave us to learn tlie iiardest part of our lesson unhelped if he took no heed of these; and would be unfaithful to his' calling, as interpreter of man to himself and of the scheme of things in relation to him, if he did not accept all — if he did not teach " the great lesson of reception, neither preference nor de- nial." If ht feared to stretch out the hand, not of condescend- ing pity, but of fellowship, to the degraded, criminal, foolish, despised, knowing that they are only laggards in " the great procession winding along the roads of the universe," "the far- behind to come on in their turn," knowing the "amplitude of Time," how could he roll the stone of contempt off the heart as he does, and cut the strangling knot of the problem of inherited; viciousness and degradation? And, if he were not bold and true to the utmost, and did not own in himself the threads of darkness mixed in with the threads of light, and own it with i'ne- same strength and directness that he tells of the light, and not in those vague generalities that everybody uses, and nobody means, in speaking on this head, — in the worst, germs of all that is in the best ; in the best, germs of all that is in the worst, — the- brotherhood of the human race would be a mere flourish of rhetoric. And brotherhood is naught if it does not bring brother's love along with it. If the poet's heart were not "a measureless ocean of love " that seeks the lii)s and would quench the thirst of all, he were not the one we have waited for so long. Who but he could put at last the right meaning into that word " democracy," which has been made to bear such a burthen of incongruous notions ? — " By God ! I will accept nothing that all cannot have their counterpart of on> the same terms ! " — ii. -Ill : 48 jy RK WALT WHITMAN. fl.islung it forth like a banner, making it draw the instant alle» giance of every man and woman who loves justice. All occupa- tions, however homely, all developments of the activities of man, need the poet's recognnion, bct-ause every man needs the assurance that for him also the materials out of which to build up a great and satisfying life lie to hand, the sole magic in the use of them, all of the right stuff in the right hands. Hence those patient enumerations of every conceivable kind of in- dustry : — " In thcin far more than you estimated — in them fnr less alto." Far more as a means, next to nothing as an end ; whereas we are wont to take it the other way, and think the result something, but :lie nieans a weariness. Out of all come strength, and the cheorfilness of strength. I murmured not a little, to say the truth, under these enumerations, at first. But now I think that not only is their purpose a justification, but that the musical ear and vividness of perception of tiio poet have enabled him to per- form this task also with strength and grace, and that they are harmonious as well as necessary parts of the great whole. Nor do I sympathize with those who grumble at the unex- pected words that turn up now and then. A tpiarrel with words is always, more or les" a quarrel with meanings; and here we are to be as genial and as wide as nature, and quarrel with noth- ing. If the thing a word stands for exists by divine appointment (and what does not so exist ?). the word need never be ashamed of itself; the shorter and more direct, the better. It is a gain to make friends with it, and see it mi good company. Fere, at all events, " poetic diction" wouid not serve, — not p'etty, soft, colorless words, laid by in lavender for the special use; of poetry, that have had none of tl.e wear an t And I ki " No array You ai^ by any o: even for i men had the deptl become c out of h hand, by himself, poor imi pride, tli pride, h( it will n( " the di 4 A WOMAN'S KSTlltfATK OF WALT WHITMAN. 49 80 many generations for purposes, good, bad, and indifferent, and become warped and blurred in the process, grow young again, regenerate, translucent. It is not mere deligiit they give us,— //la/ the "sweet singers," with tlieir subtly wrought gifts, their mellifluous speech, can give too in their degree; it is such life and health as enable us to pluck delights for ourselves out of every hour of the day, and taste the sunshine that ripened the corn in the crust we eat (I often seem to myself to do that). Out of the scorn of the present came skepticism ; and out of the large, loving acceptance of it comes faith. If fio7v is so great and beautiful, I need no arguments to make me believe that the fimvs of the past and of the future were and will be great and beautiful too. •' I know 1 am dcatlileiii. • I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by n carpenter's compass. I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night. I know I am au(;ureft(t pride of man i« cnlmlng nml excellcnf to the sonl," — . of a woman above all. It is true that instinct of silence I spoke of is a beautiful, imperishable- part of nature too. Hut it is not iHMulind when it means an ignominious shame brooding darkly. Shanie is like a very flexible veil, that follows faithfully the shajie of what it covers — beautiful when it hides a beautiful thing, ugly when it hides an ugly one. It has not covered what was beauti- ful here ; it has covered a mean distrust of a man's self and of his Creator. It was neetleil that this silence, this evil spell, should for once be broken, and the ilaylight let in, that the dark cloud lying under might be scattered to the winds. It was needed that one who coiild here intliiate for us "the path between reality anr:\ting for ever the Uiumph of IhingB." Now silence may brood again ; but lovingly, happily, as pro- tecting what is beautiful, not as hiding what is unbeautiful ; con- sciously enfolding a sweet and sacred mystery — august even as the mystery of Death, the dawn as the setting ; kindred gran* A WOMAN'S KSrmATE Of WALT WHITMAN. 5* deurs, wliirh to eyes that are opened shed a hallowing beauty on alt that Biirrcnnuh and preludes them. " O vaM nnil well-vpilM Denth t '• ' "O the beniiliriit toiit'h of Death, om Sing and lienunibing a few mnmentu, for rea«une I " He who ran thtis look with foarloRsness at the beauty of Dentil may well dare to teach us to hxtk with fearless, inilroubled eye* at the perfect beauty of I.ove in all its apjujinted rcaliznlioiis. Now none need turn away their thounhis with pain or shnnie;, thounh only lovers and poets may say what they will, — the lover to his own, the jioet to all, be.trent diTHv or drnlrndittn, l»nt ran nee far nlon^h into the dimnrnn to know that not t)nly in each atom in\perinhal»le, hut tliat ilH endown^enlH, rharaiterinlii s, alliniti- n, riertrie and other atlrarlionn and ropnlsionn — however snspeiuli'd, hid, t the poet l)c happv al)«Mil the vit.\l witole ? shall the highent forre, the vital, lliat controls and roin|>eln into roniplete sniwervienre for iln own ixuposos the rest, be the oidv one that in destrm tiblo ? and the lovo and (houuhl (hat ondow tho whole be less enduring than the gravitating, rheniiial, elertrie powers that entlow its atoms? \\\\\ identity is the essenec of love ami thought — I still I, you still vo\t. Certaiidv no man need ever again be srareil by the •'dark hush " and the little han«lful of n'hise. "YoM Mt not ■icMtovil to ihe windii — yoM gnthcr crrininly nnuI." Seienee knows that whenever a thing jwsses from a solid to a siibile air, jwwer is set free to a wider seo|>e of aetion. The |X)et knows it too, and is darzleti as he turns his eyes towarii A WOMAN'S KSTIMArH Of WALT WHITMAN. S5 ••the «u|irrl> vidliw of (Irntli." lie known tliut " llic (MTpetunl Iriinnri'r* mid promotloitN " ntiil "the iiiit|ili(iiilo of iiin(*"nrc for II iiiiiii im wi'll ns for the carlli. Tlu' iiiiin of wicnip, willi (iiiwriiricil, hcIT ilt'iiyiiiK toil, fiiiil<< the httrrs niiil juinii tliciit into wokU. Iliit (lit' poet alone tnn iiiiikc t (niiplitr Hciiti-nrcfl. 'I'lic IIIIIII of Hiienip fiirniNlwn the prnniwti ; luit it in tlie poet who (IrnwH ttie iliiiil « (MkIiinioii. Iloih to^othor tire "nwifdy Hiiil niihly pripating a future j,'rioet " (jonc 1 Uravc, hopeful Walt! lie mi(;ht not be a singer without fault, Anil his Inrgr, roujjh-hewn rhythm tliil not chime With iluiccnt daintiness of lime and riiyme. He was no neater than wide Nature's wild, More metrical than sea winds. Culture's child, Lapped in luxurious laws of line and lilt, Shrank from him shuddering, who was roughly built As Cyclopean temples. Yet there rang True music through his rhapsodies, as he sang Of brotherhood, and freedom, love and hope. With strong, wide symjiathy which dared to cope With all life's ph.ises, and call nought unclean. Whilst hearts are generous, and whilst woods are green, lie shall find hearers, who, in a slack time Of puny l);irds and pessimistic rhyme, Dared to liid men ailvcnture and rejoice. His " yawp barbaric " was a human voice ; The singer was a man. America Is jworcr by a stalwart soul to-day, And may feel pride that she hath given birth To this stout laureate of old Mother Eailh. (5«) PuHck. roti n, THE MAN WALT WHITMAN. B^ RtCHAHD MAURICE BUCKS. How many a man whose lot has been cast in thj^se current days has wished that his life might have been passed cotemporary with some historic character for whom he is possessed of an es- pecial admiration. With the wise Socrates, for instance ; or Aris- totle, " U maestro di color che sanno ; " or Plato, "whose lan- guage," says Shelley, " is rather that of an immortal spirit than a man j " or Paul, reckoned by Comte, " le vrai fondatem du Christianisme ; " or Mohammed, "the inspired Arab;" or Luther, Dant6, Bacon, Swedenborg ; or the almost divine Fran- cis D'Assisi, that he might have seen and conversed with the great spirit then upon the earth; while all the time, entirely unconscious of the fact, he has been living side by side with one perhaps as great as tlie greatest of tliese. Just so did the contemporaries of these glorious ones carelessly jostle them on the street, sit opposite them at table, talk with them and hear them talked about ; stand by, perhaps, while one of them was being driven forth from Florence; hear another preach, witneiis the lamentable disgrace of a third, see one fleeing throtigh the desert from his enemies, listen to the subtle discourse of another in street or market place, note a certain religious innovator pleading for the new ideas at Antioch, Athens, or Corinth — pass among them, and tiieii return to his daily round of occupation unimpressed, most likely discontented at the absence of interesting persons and events in his age and land. We see what we have it in us to see. Around each of us is spread out every day and night the infinite universe, inimitably extended, peopled with innumerable worlds and unimaginable spirits, infinitely various in infinite ways, infinitely complex, in- (57) i ! m S8 iff KK WAt.r WtttTMAX. finiii'ly lu'rtn»in»l - rtfjninst nil t>f wlii« h we t)ppose nn infltiite Rtoliitity, :\iui with itiHiute nnstimme ilemaml suitietlting in which wv vm feel an itiierest. We believe in R\i|Me»nely Rtrat men in the prt-tt, nml most of i\* believe in evolution, bnt we Irtil to te;»li7»' timt llie<(e two belieCs itnply the existence of still greater men, \n i\\\ ileprtrt- tttents, in the nroilern that* in the !\n» ienl world. t)ur eyes are tlrtf.r.leil by the urtntt hist»>rir nantes, ftnil» if we wonlil tell the trnih. we shonhl own th.M we are A lillh- t\(\;\'u\ to risk t.nr own jnmi^, pvrvv ntom of n>v Moivt, foimpil fnMi^ tliW «oil, ilii« nir, lUin\ \\f\r- ol pniTiu^ \wi\n lu-ne lVbiv>gtaphy sttrh as until now the world has not seen: What." ttlbly spfi mals, of hiitiself- so ntm h the Uivin " Whrtt rtw \ nf\tt ftll h\i{ A f'h\\A plenst-it with the sintnd of my own nume ? ^r^vrtltnij it ovrt n\\<\ ovrv ; I MrtWil AJW11 to hem it newt tue* me," tf \w rtMnbinoil both parts of (JoetheS " Tatist " with his prose W^mK. " Wahrhoit tnt\l l)i« hinttg ans meittem I, ebon," we slivntid hA\-c a K>ok stririlv parallel to the vohnne unttainiitg the eonv plete ^\^>tks of Walt Whitt^an ; bttt the arhieventottt of the great (ren^^an, grand as it is. would still fall far short of that of the American poet. THK MAff WAIT WIUmAN. 5V M iiifltiite in which most of ie?

social itic and a race n indi- ing, his pecula- es, are | words, i TlfE MAN WALT WHITMAN. 6f " Who sees lurther than othen; he who has learned to mark the EternaU, and in the course of nature to perceive their might and wisdom." Usually, in the case of a so-called great man the rise above the level of ills time is in one, or at most two or three, mental de- partments. Aristotle, for instance, and Newton, are great by the intellect; Sophocles by intellect and artistic genius; Mo- hammed had creative religious as well as supreme artistic in* stinct ; tiie author of the Shaksperean dramas was a philosopher, poet, scientist, but did not possess the higher religious emotions and aspirations, nor had he what may be called prophetic insight, j If these plays proceeded from Bacon, then he, Leonardo da Vinci and Goethe were of all men the most universally endowed with) great qualities — yet they all came short, judged by the last and highest standard. In the case of Wait Whitman the advance beyond the limits- of his time and race was not confined to any one function or group of functions — it was universal, along the whole line. His- intellect, had it stood alone, was great enough to have entitled, him to rank among the foremost thinkers of the race, as witness, among a hundred other proofs, his comprehensive vision and acceptance of evolution in both the inorganic and organic worlds before Darwin published the "Origin of Species" or Spencer began his cyclopaedic treatise. But, exceptional as is his in- tellect, the moral and emotional side of his mind is still more developed. His capacity for affection and sympathy is, I believe,, unprecedented, and hissterner moral qualities — courage, firmness; and resolution — are as strongly if not more strongly marked. And along with these he has prophetic vision, religious assurance, aspiration and insight of the highest order, and, furthermore, creative imagination by which to embody them in new ideals. Putting aside his exceptional intellectual and moral status as shown in his writings, his advance beyond the past and present levels of humanity is attested in every part and aspect of his organ- ization — in his build, stature, his exceptional health of mind and body, the texture and tint of his skin, the size and form of his features, his cleanliness of mind and body, the grace of his* I <54 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. movements and gestures, the grandeur, and especially the mag- netism, of his presence, the peculiar charm of his voice, his genial and kindly humor, the simplicity of his habits and tastes, his freedom from conventions, the largeness and beauty of his manners, his calmness and majesty, his charity and for- bearance, his entire unresentfulness under whatever provocation, his liberality, his universal sympathy with humanity in all ages and lands, his broad tolerance, his catholic friendliness and his unexampled faculty of attracting affection. And still far from all has been said, curious, interesting and suggestive points being still to note ; the extraordinary perfection, namely, of his senses, and his universality from the point of view of physiognomy. The coin- .sense, the sense of musical harmony, the sense of frag ct , are each, perhaps, only a few thousand years old, and arej. ..pi -ess of development. In Walt Whitman the senses of fra^, nee anj 'nrmony, and, I believe, of color also, are far beyond the usua* r.u2dard, while his ear for ordinary sounds is almost preternaturally acute : •■ "I hear br.ivur.is of birds, dus//e of grmving wheat ; " and elsewhere he speaks of hearing the grass grow and the trees coming out in leaf. Then note this passage on fragrance : " There is a scent to every Ihing, even the snow. No two places, hardly any two hours, anywhere exactly alike. How diflferent the odor of noon from midnight, or winter from summer, or a windy spell from a still one." All his senses, so far as I have been able to discover, are de- veloped to the same degree, so that he sees, hears, feels, in his mere physical surroundings, phenomena and qualities inappreci- able to others ; while in spiritual affairs — the corresponding facul- ties being developed harmoniously with the rest — he has an in- stinct, sense, intuition, illumination, or whatever it may be called, in comparison with which the psychic vision of the average man is mere blindness. " " Then, as to the other point. An English expert in physiog- nomy, wh stance of people ha ments (ch man poss< tion. Upon { terials, w< portioned the lowes preterhun phetic ph man, and wealth." This b which it I tional ra{ Walt Wh sage he b " has a n he will t richer in And b he brings that it ha nesses, gr from res pretense from fau tions, su spiritual, acceptat life of f sympath life whi< verse — a a life o 5 beauty , THE MAN WALT WHITMAN. (j nomy, whil'* on a visit to America, called on the poet at the in> stance of the present writer, to whom he wrote that while most people have one, two or three of the four recognized tempera- ments (choleric, phlegmatic, sanguine, melancholic), »Valt Whit- man possesses all four of them — a rare and remarkable combina- tion. Upon such ample and stable basis, and of such various ma- terials, was built this exceptional character — symmetrical, pro- portioned ; each human faculty — the highest as the lowest, and the lowest as the highest — fully represented, with a result almost preterhuman in its typical humanity. To use Emerson's pro- phetic phrase: " He stands among partial men for the complete man, and apprises us not only of his wealth bat of the common-| wealth." This breadth and symmetry of development, and the extent which it rovers in all direcfions, bringing this man into excep- tional rapport with the universe, is the distinguishing mark of Walt Whitman, and is our guarantee of the truth of the mes sage he brings us. For in virtue of his special organization lu *' has a new thought ; he has a whole new experience to unfold ; he will tell us how it was with him, and all men will be U.i richer in his fortune." And beyond all other messages, and as warrant for the rest he brings to each man and woman that of a noble life, evid*^ cing that it has been lived and may be lived — a life free from .. s.tti- nesses, greed and sordid care ; from hates, envyings and jealousies; from resentments and meannesses; from conventionality and pretense ; from remorse and regret ; from fear and complaint j from fault-finding, wrangling and querulousness ; from prostra- tions, superstitions and supplications — a life copious, vehement, spiritual, bold — a life of grand acceptations in a grand spirit ; acceptation of pain, sorrow, loss, sickness, old age, death — ^a life of freedom, of love and of content — a life of friendship, sympathy, forbearance, kindness, helpfulness and devotion — a life which freely takes and enjoys its patrimony, the divine uni- verse — a life which knows its own continuity and immortality— a life of unlimited struggle and aspiration — a life of reality^ It 1 . 1 ; Mr If I' 4$ JN RK WALT WHITMAS. Rclf-esteem, definiteness, elevatcdness. 'I'liis is the leuon he sets America and the world. On all points his book and his life are at one. He once said to the present writer: "I have imaj;incd a life which should be that of tiie average man, in average circumstances, and still grand, heroic." So he lived, and such a lite he pictured in his book. What his writings teach he teaches with still stronger emphasis in his actu.il, ordinary, daily liTe. As in this he was simple, unaffected, unpretending, so in his book he is always downriglit, plain bnd straiglit forward. Never an insincere line or word. The most commonplace antl the most profoimd say- ings side by side, the one uttered as truthfully ai d moderately as the other. HIcnding every-day sights and experiences with glimpses into the profoundest depths of his spiritual conscious* ness. The one as n)uch a plain matter of fact as the other. For instance: all through tlie " Ixjaves," will be found such contrasting passages as the two which follow: •• Lumbermen in Iheir winter cnmp, (Uyhrcitk in the woods, itripei of snow on the liinbsi of trees, the occasiuiial snapping, The gtad clear sound of one's own voice, the merry song, the natural IfTii of the wooiIh, the strong day's work, The blazing fire at niglit, the sweet tnste of supper, the talk, the bed of hemlock lx>ughs and the bearsitin." " There is that in me — I do not know what it is — bui I know it ii in me. Wrench'd and sweaty— calm and cool then my liody becomes, I sleep — I sleej.- long : I do not know it — it is without name — it is a word unsaid, It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symlK>l. Somcthiog it swings on more than the earth I swing on. To it the crcilion is the friend whose embracing awakes me. IVrha|is I might tell more. Outlines I I plead for my brothers and sisters. Do you see O my brothers and sisters ? It is not chaos or death — it is form, union, plan — it is eternal life — it is Happiness." See how fervently he expresses in his book, and over and over again repeats his faith in (might I not say his knowledge of?) im- mortality. His private, unpoetic, every-day assurance is neither on he sets once said h flhuuld , and still red in his stronger is he was is always ucre line [)nnd say- loderately nces with :onsciou8< he other, und such es of snow natural l-r«i the bed of in me. THE MAN WALT WHITMAN. 67 more nor less than there set down. I asked him one day when we were alone together whether he believed in the personal, con- scious immortality of the soul. He answered : "Yes, I do." I said : " Ihit |)crha|)s you believe in it as so many do — as some- thing tliat is more likely than not, and not as something cer> tain. Arc you sure," 1 continued, " that you will retain individu- ality and consciousness after death?" He paused a moment before replying, and then said, earnestly: "Yes; I am sure of it." In " Leaves of Grass " he declares: " I call to the world to (liitrimt the accounts of my frlcndi but listen to my enemies as 1 niyseir do." So acctjsations and allegations such as were flimg at him almost daily (for as it is written of such as he : " he must stand for a fool and a churl for a long season ") he would meet by the remark (when he noticed them at all) that he deserved the worst that could be said of him, and if that particular story did not hapjien to be true, he had no doubt committed other acts that were worse. He never seemed to feel the least aggrieved or injured by the tales told about him ; looked upon them as natural, and in a sense justi- fied — incidents to be looked for, expected. I was much an- noyed, on one occasion, when a certain person manifested strong disapprobation and dislike of him and his writings, and I spoke to him about it. "Why," answered he, rather sharply, "who wotild want the world all made up of sweets? " All who know anything of " Leaves of Grass " know how the author deals with death. For instance : and sbten. life— it is and over of?) im- s neither " My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite : I laugh at what you call dissolution, And I know the amplitude of time." "The joy of death. The beautiful touch of death soothing and benumbing a few moments for reasons." "Come lovely and soothing death." ..j»k MtMW ■aaiii ■MHMM 61 IN KK WAl.T Will I'M AN, " l'r>i*M Iw the falhonilrM unlvrrie, Kurney to a foreign land of which it knows nothing but in charge of some one in whom it has complete trust. Being sj)oken to one ila\ when supposed to be dying, by a devoted anainful iickneM, ending with the ixtet't death. The wunls written itand good Rtill, and, in fact, fail lo represent the heroism of the man. I do not add more here Iwcause Movacc I,. Trrtul>el will some day f,ivc the world what must prove an authoritative history of Wall Whitman's List monthi. pars, with )m, when s .s< arccly Icarnt'd oiifronts intaining «ii(Tcring . that ho y weary, latiuii the ill short hal)itiial .'pression, rts on a in ihargc en to one intimate the little l)is usual nil right book he 'e u|) one lan gives lit VVhit- kinpathy, to tliosc «aves of unit more llcn stand I do not the world onthi. TllK MAN WAir WlHTMAy. 6<) Graia" is a lover of his kind in a new and higher sense — ufTec* tion, devotion, faith, pride, all the lofty passions, are in him de> vcloped to an unprecedented degree. Those who know the ac- tual flesh and blood Walt Whitman can bear witness that the living man fell not an iota short of his pen and ink pr( totype. Was he, then, perfect? Yes; perhaps as perfect as any man ever was. liut see what, in one edition after another, over aniu'4h'd, rmenied, lied, hIoIc, Knid^'d, lliid ^uilv, an|{cr, liiM, liot wiithcii I d.ired not osl|H)nemeiits, mennncHi, latineii, none of these wnnt- Moreover, he cautions us : " Nur do those know me hest who admire me and vaunlinKly )>raise me." On the other hand, his claims are as colossal as his confessions. For instance : " Siop this day ind night with me and you shall |)ouess the origin of alt |M>ems." " I know I am auguit." " I myself would expect to \tc youi ^oi\." " Divine nm I inside and out and I make holy whatever I touch or am louch'd from." And again : " Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself; (I am large, I contain multitudes.) " AAer all, are not evil and good, perfection and imperfection, t0tmmmm — Mim UK 70 /iV RK WAi.r wniTMAy. tAAUen \s> ge\y, if not entirely, of point of view ? To thos^d who love us ' (lough att? we not each |K'rfe«:t ? And to those who dis- like us how very imperfect ! To luiuself every wise man is a mixture of pood and evil. *'\Vh) callest thou n\c good?" asked Jesus; "there is none good but one, that is (Jod." Each man is a ma«e of inexplicable «ontradictions. But do rjot all fpialities serve ? lias not each funciion and faculty, how- ever sroininglv useless or base, its value and purpose in the great schcmo ? How would it all look from the highest vantage grotuul ? l( is said that, surveying and summing up his total creation, " (Jod saw fvnythiHj^ that he had made, and behold it was v?ry g^Hnl." (>urMipp(>sed primitive Aryan, waking up to-etals of flowers? What use to take hii\i to hear the («»itter»i;immerung ? The funeral march for Siegfried would be to him so much noise. A rose ganlcn w»>uld have no more fragian«e than a potato field. The philosophy, science, art, poetry, religion, the higher social virtues, day, would all 1h? to him as i; they were not ; he would l)e utterly unable to see, feel or in any way realii-.e them. Many things in the new world about him would !!cem by comparison with those in the old world that he would remember, nonsen- sical, immoral, coarse, ext^^vagant, foolish, alfccteil, irreligious — for he would have his own idc.^s of ri'ligion, morality and of the social proprieties. Doubtless, at the same time, he would dimly re<'ognize the (to him) striking, preterhuman qualities in the men about him. Ihii if he could be made, all at once, to see and hear, feel and know, in the modern sense, of those terms ? What an awakening would that be ! l^et us wake up ! Let us o|>en otir eyes and see the new world as revealetl and ilhistrateil by this man. I,et us realize, if we can. who and what he is who so long has labot^d for and among us nos« who who dis- tnd evil. Ib none Hut do My, liow- khe great vantage |liis total rl.old it rtiK MAX WALT WtnTMAX. 7» lis ; who has so murh aspired, achieved, enjoyetl and RulTered for and with tiH ; and who, in rnlmness and ronfidence, awaits now the change he has so long and well propareil for. Smh a man as Wall Whitman could not in the nature of thingji l»c understood and appreciated by the world at large cluring his lifetime. As Emerson says of the ideal poet: "Thou shait Ik; known oidy to thine own, and they shall console thee with tendcresl love." Nothing l)ut the intense affection he has aroused in certain hearts could have led even to his partial recognition by the few who now imperfectly feel and see the beauty and majesty of his character. Hui as surely as the earth continues to revolve around the sun and mankind to live upon it, so certainly will the day come when he will take his place with the greatest ami best of llu>se who have led the race of man onward and upward toward spiritual freedom and light. .1 i \ ■MM Prof. Dowdkn's Westminster Rn-ino article last fall made us all pleased & proud. He and I have since had some correspondence, and I have come to consider him, like yourself, fully as near to me in personal as literary relations. I have received word direct from Mrs. Gilchrist. Nothing in my life, ov my literary fortunes, has brought me more comfort and support every way — noth- ing has more spiritually soothed me than the warm appreciation of friendship of that true, full-grown woman — (I still use the broad, grand old Saxon word, our highest need). I have twice received letters from Tennyson — and very cordial and hearty letters. He sends me an invitation to visit him I deeply appreciate Swinburne's kindness and approbation. I ought to have written him to acknowledge the very great compliment of his poem addressed to me in " Songs before Sunrise," but am just the most wretched & procras- tinating letter-writer alive. If I should indeed come to England I will call upon him among the first, and personally thank him I received some time since a most frank & kind letter, and brief printed poem, from John Addington Symoners — you know they killed me off once before — it is just sunset — the sun is shining out bright at last. Jan. 29, 535 Fifteenth St., Wednestiay afternoon. — Dearest mother, I am writing this lying in bed — the doctor wishes me to keep as much in bed as possible — but I have to keep in, as I cannot move yet without grc.it difficulty, & I am liable to dizziness & nausea, at times, on trying to move, or even sitting up — Rat I am certainly over the worst of it, & really — though slowly- -■w/r^y i>/(,'. The doctor says there is no doubt of it — yesterday after- noon I eat something like a meal for the fin,t time— boiled chicken, & some soup with bread broken up in t — relished it well — I still have many callers — only a few particular ov.es are admitted to see mc — Mrs. O'Connor comes & a youiig woman named Mary Cole — Mrs. Asliton has sent for me to be brought to her liouse, to be taken care of — of course I do not accept her oflVr — they live in grand s'»'le & I should be more bothered than benefit. cJ by their rcnr.enents & luxuries, servants, &c. Mother I want you to ki.-.v wruly, that I do not want for any thing — .ns to all the little extra fixings and stip.'rfluities, I never ng first week — fers, 1 „it frite tl.is should ow tliey shining LETTERS IN SfCKNESS: WASHINGTON, 1873. 7S i'ver I wish — & two or ihice ^^.jd friends here. So I want you ' ■ no* feel at all uneasy — iis I write Peter Doyle is i,itting by the window reading — he and Charles Eldridge regularly come in & do wliatever I want & are bc'.'i very helpful to n.r- '.ne conies day time, & one eveni-"T — I had a good night's sleep last night — My mind is just as clear as ever — & has been all the time — (I have not been at all down hearted either) — (My January pay is due me, & as soon as I get up I shall forward you your $ao). Dear sister Lou — Your letter came this morning & was very pleasant to get it — I shall be getting well soon — am on a fair way to it now — — Latest Yi past 4. — I have just set up & had my bed made by Pete — I am already beginning to feel something like myself — will write in 2 days. Jan. 31, Friday noon. — Dearest mother, I write this lying in bed yet — but I sit up several times during the day, now, for a few minutes at a time — am gradually gaining the use of my left arm & leg — (the right side has not been affected at allY— think I shall be able to move rotnid a little by Sunday — The Doctor has just been — he says I am doing very well — John Burroughs is here tem|)orarily — he comes in often — Eldridge and Peter Doyle are regular still, helping & lifting & nursing me — but I feel now that I sliall soon be able to help myself — I slept quite well last night — It has been very cold in- deed here, they say — but I have not felt it — as I write, it looks pleasant and bright, the sun shining in real cheerful — I see by sister Lou's letter that you had no news from St. Louis — poor, poor Mat, I think about her often, as I am lying here — I have not written to Han since I had the paralysis — Mother you might send one of my letters to her, Han, when you next write — (this one, or any) — Say I .sent my love, & I will be up before long- Well Mother dear, and Sister Lou and Brother George, I will close for the present, for this week — will write Sunday — but I understand the mails are a little irregular this weather. i ,i4^»^.r^^,..«..— »-,.,, ....r-^ — ■■■■~~-iWimriimiffliBwnwiitiirflM»i>tiiriwiwirii>i»M»»ii" 76 JN RE WALT WHITMAN. if Feb. 2, Sunday afternoon, ]4 P^ni 3- — Dearest mother, I am sit- ting up on the sidt* of );he bed writing this. Every thing is going on as well with me as I could expect. I rec'd your letter dear mother — you may rest assured that I write the exact facts about my sickness — I am not gaining very fast, but it is sure — I am on the gain every day a little — I still have a good deal of distress in the head — the quieter 1 am left by general visitors the more com- fortable I am — I slept fairly last night — & eat quite a nice breakfast this morning — (dinner I left mostly untasted) — I bave all the attention I need, & food &c. I will write toward the middle of the week — Write whether this and the money come safe. Love to you dear mother, & George & Lou — & don't be uneasy about me. I have been up by the window looking out on the river & scenery — it is beautiful weather now — they have sent over & paid me my January pay — all are very kind. Feb. 4, Tuesday afternoon, 3 d clock. — Dearest mother, I wrote you Sunday enclosing the ^20, which I suppose you rec'd all safe. I am still anchored here in my bed — I am sitting up now on the side — Mrs. O'Connor has just been to see me — I was glad to see her — I am still improving, but slowly — the doctor did not come yesterday, which I suppose is a good sign — I expect him this afternoon or evening — he evidently thinks I am on the gain — Pete has just come in, & wil! take this to the p. o. for rne— Love to you dear mother, & to all. roast ap favorabl Moth( have wi which t I kee Love to I hav' bed- compan Feb. 7, Friday afternoon, y^ past ?. — Dearest mother, I am still anchored here — sit up some, but only for a short spell at a time — am feeble, and \\.\yt distress in the head — these are the worst features— but am gradually regaining the use of my left limbs — very, very slowly, but certainly gaining — Doctor only comes now every other day — As I write Mrs. O'Coinor is sitting here in the room, mend- ing bome stockings &c for me — She has brought me some nice LETTERS IN SICKNESS: WASHINGTON, 1873. 77 I am sit- is going ter dear jout my on the IS in the re coni- a nice -I bave roast apple in a tumbler — It is a dark wet day to-day — not very favorable — Mother dear I rec'd your letter, acknowledging the money — I have written a short letter to Hannah, & also one to Jeff — which they must have rec'd by this time — I keep up my spirits very well — do not need for anything — Love to you, & all dearest mother. I have tacked your picture up on the wall at the foot of the bed — the one I like — it looks as natural as can be — & is quite company for me — as I am alone a good deal, (& prefer to be). Feb. 9, Sunday afternoon, 4 0^ clock — Dearest mother, I suppose you have rec'd word from Jeff that poor Mat was sinking, & you might expect to hear of her death at any moment — that she was a very great sufferer when he wrote. I got his letter dated Feb. 5th, yesterday, — he said he was writing to you same time — He wrote very serious but calm — Mother I will not write much to-day — I feel so bad about Mat — I am still improving — but slowly though I realize some improvement every day — my head is easier to-day. Feb. 10, Monday afternoon, 3 0^ clock — Dearest mother, I send you Jeff's letter, rec'd this morning, as it may possibly be later than any you have — I had a very good day yesterday, & the best night last night I hare had for a week — Doctor Drinkard has just been in — he says I am progressing the very best — In a day or two more I think I shall get out — or to the front door, at any rate — Dear sister Lou, I rec'd your letter this morning — I will see how I feel, when I get better — about coming on — Don't think of such a thing as George's coming on here for me — You may be sure I shall be with you all in as good health as ever, yet — & before very long — to-day I liave been sadly pestered with visitors — every thing goes well with me, except the slowness of my im- provement. Feb. 13, Thursday night, 8 o'clock — Dearest mother, It is a dis- ;i MMM 78 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. nial winter snow storm outside, and as I " ite I am sitting here by a good wood fire in the stove — have otm alone all the even- ing — I sit up as much as I can, eaiiecially evenings — as I sleep better afterwards — I rec'd a letter from Jeff to-day, Matty was as well as at last accounts — about the same — no worse — I also rec'd a letter from Heyde — he said Han was well as usual. I have been sitting up nearly all day — & have less distress in the head than I have had, — which is a great gain — I had a letter from Mrs. Price to-day — she invites me to come and stop awhile there, as soon as I can journey — Mother it is kind of company to write to you — it is very lone- some to sit here all the evening in my room — about 9 Charles Eldridge comes in & assists me to soak my feet in hot water, & then I turn in — (I have my trousers on this evening, first time in 3 weeks). Friday noon, Feb. 14. — Mother I am sitting up again to-day — passed a comfortable night, & as soon as it is favorable weather I shall try to get started for outside — first, to get down stairs — & then perhaps across the street. 3 o'clock — I have just got a letter from Jeff, which I enclose as it is the latest — Mrs. O'Connor has just been to see me— brought a basket of nice things — Mother dear I hope you will have a pleasant Sunday — I send you Harper's and Frank Leslie's — I am having a very fair day to-day — it is moderate &• pleasant here, but mostly cloudy — I have been quite occupied wiit'ng several letters about business — have sat up all day, with the ex- ception of an hour — Love to you dear mother. Feb. 17, Monday afternoon, }4 Past 3. — Dearest mother, I have been down stairs, & out on the street this afternoon — it is such fine weather, (after the bad storm of yesterday) — I got along very slowly, & didn't go far — but it was a great thing after being kept in for over three weeks-:- I rec'd a short letter from Jeff again to-day dated 13th — noth- ing different with Mat. I rec'd your letter Saturday — I hope now to inr.prove in walking, & then I shall begin to feel all right— (b friend ac( Dear all. Feb. I pose yov stairs & bear, Jeff to-t the nigV departui Thiiu slowly- waiting to you I Feb. with d< of the been a scribed just M better. Fe' same 1 any m it has writte you r upbj Ft here som( app< J'ng here |he even- I sleep [y was as ho rec'd stress in ho come (ry lone- I Charles water, rst time LETTERS IN SICKNESS: WASHINGTON, 1873. 79 right — (but am still very feeble & slow) — Peter Doyle & another friend accompanied me out — Dear mother I hope this will find you feeling well. Love to all. Feb. 19, IVeJnesday afternoon, 3 o'clock. — Mother dear I sup- pose you got a letter from me telling you that I had been down stairs & out on Monday — it was more exertion than I could bear, and I have not been so well since. — I got two letters from Jeff to-day, the last one dated the 16th — Mat had rested well the night before — poor, poor Mat, I am ready to hear of her departure any day — it seems terrible — Things are going on as well as could be expected with me, but slowly — I overdid the matter day before yesterday and am now waiting — I am sitting up by the stove alone writing this. Love to you dearest mother, and to all — Feb. 20, Thursday afternoon. — Well mother its over at last with dear Matty — I got a dispatch of her death on the evening of the 19th — I suppose you have too, of course — It must have been a relief from very great suffering, as Jeff's letters of late de- scribed it — poor dear sister, she has many real mourners — I have just written to Han about it — I am about the same — rather better. Fe' 21, Friday afternoon. — Dearest mother, I am about the same to-day, rather on the improve — have not tried to get out any more — feel pretty much depressed about Mat's death, (but it has been to her no doubt, a relief from great pain) — Have just written a few lines to Jeff — Wrote yesterday to Han — Mother you must not get gloomy, — Feel better as I write — I am sitting up by the stove. Feb. 23^/, Sunday afternoon, ]4 p^^t two. — Well mother dear here I sit again in the rocking chair by the stove — I have just eat some dinner a little piece of fowl & some toast and tea — my appetite is good enough — & I have plenty brought to me — ^I m «e IN RE WALT WHITMAN. have been sitting up all day — liave some bad spells, but am de- cidedly gaining upon the whole — think I have fully recovered where I was a week ago, and even a little better — went down stairs yesterday and out for five minutes into the street — & shall do so again this afternoon — as I think it did me good yesterday — though I was very tired, on returning — as I have to go down and up 4 flights of stairs — The doctor comes every day — (I must tell you again I have a first-rate doctor, I tiiink he understands my case exactly — I consider myself very lucky in having him) — Mother yesterday was a very serious day with me here — I was not so very sick, but I kept thinking all the time it was the day of Matty's funeral — Every few minutes all day it would come up in my mind — I suppose it was the same with you — Mother your letter came Friday afternoon — it was a very good letter, & after reading it twice I enclosed it in one to Han — she must have got it Saturday night — There are great preparations here for 4th of March, — inauguration — if you & I had a house here, we would have George & Lou come on & see the show, for I have no doubt it will be the finest ever seen here — (but I am in hopes to be able to get away for all that) — }4 past 4. — Mother I have just been down & out doors- walked half a block — & have come back — Wfn/ all alone — (got a little assistance at the steps) this is the most successful raid yet — & I really begin to feel something like myself — Hope this will find you all right dearest mother — Feb. 26, Wednesday noon. — Dearest mother, I am getting along real well, upon the whole — I went out and over to the office yesterday — went in & sat down at my desk a few minutes — It was my greatest effort yet, and I was afraid I had overshot the mark again, as I felt dizzy and tired last night — But to-day I feel getting along all right — I am going out a little to-day, but not much — I feel now over the worst of my fit of sickness & comparatively comfortable. Poor Martha — the thouglits of her still come up in my mind, as I sit here a great deal of the time alone — Poor Jeff, & poor children too— I have re still living got a secon out, & get & then I w days, or th to-day wit beginning Everyth of March i it all- Love to March your letter — every tl in nearly Hannah t & me to going off" To-day over for t Mrs. O'C was so pi but stopt have just sit here getting i apply ni; written I evening for last got a le John Bi to Wasl for this &aU. 6 LETTERS IN SICKNESS: WASHINGTON, 1873. 8x I have received a letter from Lillie Townsend, — Aunt Sally is still living and well as usual, ^ nothing very new — I have just got a second note from Mrs. Price — Mother I shall try to get out, & get my Feb. pay, I have to get it fiom the old office & then I will send you your i,zo. — (I hope within a couple of days, or three at most) — I expect Mrs, Burroughs here probably to-day with a carriage to take me out riding — so you see I am beginning to sport around — Everything here now is inauguration — & will be till the 4th of March is over — for my part I want to get out of the way of it all- Love to you Mammy dear, & to Georgey & Lou & all. March 7, Friday afternoon, 2 o'clock. — Dear mother I got your letter yesterday — I was glad to hear all the things you wrote — every thing, however little, is interesting, when you are kept in nearly all the time — I have rrc'd a very good letter from Hannah this morning — she writes in good spirits, & wants you & me to come up there next summer — says Heyde thinks of going off then to the Adirondacks on a trip — To-day is very jileasant indeed — the cold spell seems to be over for the present — I have been out about noon quite a while — Mrs. O'Connor came to visit me, & as I was all dressed, & it was so pleasant, I went out, — she convoyed me — I didn't go far, but stopt in at one or two places, near by — have now returned, have just eat a bite of lunch, and am feeling (inite comfortable — sit here now alone writing this — as I told you in my last, I am getting .along well, but it is very, very slow — I cannot begin to apply my brain to regular work yet — though, for all that, I have written two or three little poems for the Graphic a N. Y. daily evening paper just commenced — (one of them was in the number for last Wednesday) — they pay me moderately — I was glad you got a letter from Mary — if you write tell her I am improving — John Burroughs is just in to see me, having returned for a while to Washington — Well, mother dear, I will bid you good bye for this week — Love to you & to Brother George & Sister Lou &all. 6 ;'l *» mm IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) ^1^ 1.0 I.I 150 ■^™ M^H ^ lAa II 2.0 1.8 1.25 ||.4 m "• 6" — ► Hiotographic Sciences Corporation "^V 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) S72-4S03 r 82 IN BE WALT WHITMAN. i » March 9, Sunday afternoon, 5 0^ clock. — Dearest mother, I will not vvite much to-day, as I have just come in from being out over tivo hours, & I feel quite i red. I cannot walk any to speak of, but I have been out taking a ride in the cars, and sitting in the parks a little while. Peter Doyle has been with me. It is as pleasant and warm as summer here to-day. I have not rec'd any letters for the last two days — I suppose you got my letter Saturday — I have been out more to-day than any day yet, as it has been so warm and fine — Love to you Mama dear & to all. Mother write me what envelopes you would like to have me direct, & enclose you — I have not been over to the office yet, except that one time ten or twelve days ago. March 13, Thursday, 2 o'clock p. m. — Dearest mother, I wrote you a short & very hurried letter last night, only a few minutes before the mail closed — To-day Mrs. O'Connor has just paid me a pleasant visit — & I have been eating my lunch of a roast apple & biscuit — I am feeling about the same — I suppose you are most tired, & perhaps a little suspicious of hearing I am "about the same^^ — Well I am quite tired myself, & want much to get out, & go to work, & go about — But I just have to make the best of it, & console myself with realizing that disagreeable as it is, it might be a great deal worse — & tha: i am feeling free from pain & comparatively comfortable, & that it cannot be very long before I shall have the good use of my limbs again — So I just try to keep patient & wait — & you must too, dearest mother — I got a good letter from Hattie to-day, dated March 9 — she says she was writing to you — so I suppose you have one too — They seem to like it at Mr. & Mrs. Buckley's. Mother I got your letter of Monday and Lou's of Sunday — it is an afTection of the leg from the knee downward, martially helpless — but the principal trouble is yet in the head, & so easily getting fatigued — my whole body feels heavy, & some- times my head. Still, I go out a little every day almost — accom- panied by Peter, or some one — sometimes spend an hour out, but cannot walk, except a very little indeed, very slowly indeed— LE Mother in « the matter March x it is very i tween two afternoon- John Bi or let his 1 here agaii wife is he gives a vt front)— in good, the; Well n little fron March well to-d — I supp been her think me here for —but it have had moments afternooi it, so fat Moth< so clutrn talked t( think al Mrs. Mari on the try ta i pother, I fom being Iwalk any I cars, and 3een with I have h got my day yet, & to all. have me Ifiice yet, lother, I ily a few r has just ich of a suppose learing I , & want ust have ing that tha: i iable, & d use of — & yon 1 9 — she le too — inday — •artially & so : some- accom- ut, but ieed— LETTER^I IN SICKNESS: WASHINGTON, 1873. 83. Mother in my looks you would hardly know the least thing had been the matter with Pie — I am neither pale nor thin in the least — March 14, Fn day forenoon. — I am sitting here in my room — it is very pleasart out apparently — I generally go out a little be- tween two & three, and shall probably get out a little this afternoon — John Burroughs has been on here again — he is trying to sell or let his house, & does not succeed very satisfactorily — he left here again by the train last evening & returned north — his wife is here — Mother I send the Harper's Weekly — that picture gives a very good idea of the Capitol, (what they call the east front) — in the extra is a picture of the inauguration ball — very good, they say — you must look over them Sunday. Well mother dear it is now after 12 — I expect to get out a. little from 2 to 3 — Love to you & to Lou & George & all. March 17, Monday afterncon. — Well mother dear I feel quite well to-day considering — in good spirits, & free from any pain — I suppose you got my letter Saturday last — The doctor has been here to-day, first time in three days — (so you see he don't think me a very critical case). We have had real March weather here for two or three days, strong & sudden winds, & dust — but it is pleasanter to-day — it is now about J^ past i — I have had my lunch & Mrs. O'Connor has come in for a few moments — I have a little piece in the N. Y. Graphic of Saturday- afternoon, March 17 — it is a daily afternoon paper — I write for it, so far — they pay moderately — Mother, I feel to-day as if I was getting well — (but my leg is; so clumsy yet — & my head has to avoid much talking or being talked to) — I hope this will find you all right, dearest mother — I think about you much — Mrs. O'Connor wishes me to give her love to you. . March 21, Friday noon. — Dearest mother, I am still feeling. on the gain to-day — I go out a little every day, & think I shall try to make a beginning at work in the office Monday or Tues- I ;1 « u \T u S4 A,V /i'/-; WALT WHITMAN. 3. — Dear mother, 1 have come over this afternoon to the oHiec, iS: am now writing this at my liesk. T did not snrceed in working any — was not well ■enough the past week, — although I have not gone behindhand — • but as I sit here this afternoon, it appears to me I shall be able to make a commencement next Monday — for, though feeble, I feel just now tiiore like work than any time yet — We have had real blowy March weather here to-ilay, stulden & fitful showers & heavv < louds & wiml — vv: now ii is (piite clear and pleas- ant — I cannot walk around yet but feel in good spirits — am ]>leased to feel as well as I do, iS: got along as well .as I do — Mother I do tiot show any sickness in my looks, in flesh or face, except very little jierhap.s — I will finish to-morrow or next day. Sunday night — 8 o'(-lock — I still feel as well as yesterday, & have been out twice to-day, riding in the cars & walking a little — I get in the cars right at my door, & am brought back there again — It h.is been a beautiful day — I am now sitting in my room, by the stove, but there is hardly need of a fire — Peter Doyle is here for a couple of hours — he is reading — the doctor has been in to-day — he says I am getting along very well — Monday af"ternoon, 1 o'clock — Mother, I am ovr at my desk IM yesterday, — Jofr has or Kansas "I got the t().(Iay — . Miie more Already li side of —Spring 1 10 re in ec days — I-ovc to ?r, I liave iting this not well idhaiid — I I)c able feeble, I lave had showers Hi pleas- irits — am s I do— I or face. ?rday, & liking a 5ht bark tling in '—Peter ' doctor ny desk LKI'ThUS IN SWKNl'JSS: WASIllSGToy, 1«73. «5 in the ofliec again, writing this. I liave re< 'd yonr letter tluit the money came safe. 1 have just written a letter to Jeff, iV en- closed Josephine's h yours in it — I am feeling on the gain, but still very slow'y. I am taking some me mM- t J i m r n. «6 /,v ?n: n-At.r w hum Ay. IM \Vr\\ n\otlipr, t Ix'liovo \h-M u .'ill tn- (uM)igc vV Sialcr Lou — Af>n! \. Fn/Mv fi. IVatrst niolhor, t roiM your letter to ilnv, iinil I nlso vfn1 I think he h,»s reeoveied fron\ the Rh<>i k, iU»d (Utends to his hnsniess iis well ;is ever They seem to W well silttrtted rtl the Ihu kley's- -)e(T writes quite rt gooil deal flhont \'Mi he writes about Miit's death — about her wishing to see us before she died — I nm writing this seated at \w\ desk '\\\ the olVtee -1 (ome I'r to the oiri< e aboiu »2 I do not (eel very well, most of the lime, but have spells when I feel tuueh better, generally evening —1 thit^k tlie sun aflVi ts me — Mother we — 1 and the liortor — have talked nuK h of lh(> eler- trie battery treatment — but as l(>ng as the head is afVeeted, (the brain \' nerves^ thev sav it mtist not be ap|>lieil, for it will do n\iMv \yM\\\ than good, might (>atise «-onvuIsions — My doetor, l>r. l>rinkard. savs he will use it as soon as he (eels it will do good — ■ but tlu' time has not eome vet — 1 believe 1 toUl you 1 am taking iron, stryelmia and (pnnine to give strength — 1 wnMe to )efl" vesterdav — I send you Harper's Weekly, to-day, MvMlier it i'' «)uite interestiiig — \ still hold my mind about getting a house hen^ tV sh^/i cntainh do so—\\ jM-esent mv great hojw is to get well, to get s(i 1 ran walk, vSr have s<>me use of my bml%s — 1 <\an write, preltv well, and my mind is elear. but I ean- not walk a block, ^ have no power to do anv thing, in lit\ii\g or moving am- thiiig in mv room, or at mv desk — Siill I keep good sjMrits. Vtier far than I wonlil have supposed nnself, knowing that 1 shall get all nglit in time — I know how mvn than thev are, »Sj feel thankful onovigh that they are as well .as they are— Mother 1 was glad to Ing the thing I ' Well Sunday ^ past A\»ril, I.T'.TTKliS IN SICKNKSS: WASlllNai'ON, IR7.1. «7 will fiiul I.Dve to |«t1|| lo||(>l- I wrote 'oi Aunt I n is p\\- ^i.llly's I'loin llm \' "<>'nn 1(» '»'"! ilr;»l KJiinf) to 1 •'oino ■^1 of (lie t'vpMing I lie elt'r. t<'«l, (the I will ,|,) 'ti>t, !>r. > ROOll — iM taking , to-(l,iy, t RiMting iv(t lio|)e of my II t ran- 1 lifbng I I keep myself, '(' murh h feol '^ 1 was glad to got yonr letter of Tuesday, April i. — I have been rend- ing the wreik of the Athinii, April isl, — 1 think it the saddest thin^ I ever read Will tnaina dear, 1 will (lose — I hope yon will have a pleasant Snnday — I.ove to yon dear inotlier, tt to all— it is now about Yi past I I'Viday afterin)on I wrote to yon Wednesday ad April, whi( h I suppose you got. April (), SufhiiiY n'rninir. — I)earest niother, I will ((unniein e a letter to yon, though there is nothing jiartic ular to write about — but it is a pleasure evei» to write — as 1 am alone a great deal yet in my rooni. It is aboiU >o». — Well mother dear I am now fndshing my letter over at (lie offiee seated at my desk — I do not feel very well, my head is still so feeble - I suppose I ought to be satisfied that I tlo not go behimlhand - I send you cpiite a bundle ol papers to-day -One of the (Jrapliies with one of my pieees in — the spring seems to be opening here, the grass is (jnite green, «\' the trees are beginning to bud out — it looks very pleasant — lA»ve to you mama dear & all. Af>fi/ t6, If^etfftrstfdv n<>oH. — Dearest mother, I have had one or two (piite good spells — but am not feeling well just now — have got over to the offiee, & am now sitting at my 'alk a while - 1 think tlicrc is no doubt that, take tlic lime right through, I gain steadily, though very slowly indeed — but I get many tedious spells, both of head vS: )in»bs — there secniti to be great deal of pandysis — I hear, or read of lases, every day. One man here to day told me of his father, who had a very bad stroke at 70 years of age, but got over it after all, and lived 17 or 18 years iifter, by great care — So I hear of many cases, some good, sonie uidavorable. As to myself, I do not lose faith for a mo- nu-nl, in my ultimate recoverv, — though, as I said, I have some bad houis, — sometimes very bad. Well mam i dear I have scribbled out this sheet nearly, such as it is — I sent you a letter last Monday — I have changed the address on the envelopes to you, mother, as you see — is it right ? I am feeling better — my hcatl is some easier — Love to you dear mama, & all. Af>ril 19, Sdfutuittv. — It is now about noon, & I have just come over to the olVu e, and have put up the wiiulow for a few moments, to stand tS: get the fresh air, & then jnit it down again. Right opposite the window — in the President's grounds a man in his shirt-sleeves is raking up the grass that has been al- ready cut on a ^ acre patch — so you can see spring has advanced here — the trees are quite green — Mother, I have had the second application of electricity to-day, quite a good application by Dr. Drinkard — he rubs the handles over my leg iSr thigh, for perhaps twenty minutes — the shock is very perceptible — it is not jxiinful at all, feels something like pressing a sore — I feel as I said before, that it will be beneficial to me, (^though there are difterent opinions about it) — I feel bet- ter to-day than yesterday — I think, mother dear, there is no doubt at all that I progress surely though very slowly, (& with an occasional bad spell) — Did you read in the morning papers to-day about the fight with the Modocs out in Californi.i — & Col. Mason — I think (but am 1 going to books— ^1 April 2 improviuj clumsdy am stroni The doc appHcati 1 have you, say J speaks 1) nothing I am V cloudy i< day last me abou lieve it i active- letter— ' write wl good ac^ April got the over to Mother next — y get this better 1 advanc cold 'w day is Lov Ma LKTTI'.ns IN SICKNi'JiS: WASHINGTON, 1H73. 87 oiild l)e 'alk roiigli, in.iiiy L' great 11" man t'ke at "t 18 a iiio- soine liave letter pes to (hut am not sure) it is Jule Mason — it is quite interesting — I am going to worit for a couple of lioiirs now at my work in the office books — I am feeling (jiiite conifortable this afternoon. Af>nl list, Afonday, i o\lock iiften,jon, — Mother, I am decidedly improving — feel more like myself the last three days — I walk very clumsily yet, & do not try ' > get around by walking — but I think I am stronger now, iS; my prospects arc better than any lime yci. 'Pile (locloi has applied elci Iricity again to-day, making the lliird application — So uptMi the whole I think I am doing real wdl-- l have rec'd a leile- from I'riscilla 'I'ownsend — She speaks of you, says that Aunt Sally, always wants to hear from yon — Slie speaks of Sarah Avery's calling there, & of Ms. 'I'ripp, & all — nothing very new — I am writing this over at the office — It is pleasant here, but cloudy & coolish — Mother I suppose you got my letter Satur- day last — How is Sister Lou getting along — when yon write tell me about her — Oeorge I suppose is full of business— Well I be- lieve it is better for a man tc have plenty to ilo, if he is well & active — Well mamma dear I have written you quite r rambling letter — Tell nie when you want envelopes & I will send them — write whenever you can — I think I shall be able to soon give a good account of my improvement. April yi. Wdinfsday afternoon. — Mother dear I suppose you got the letter Tuesday — I am about the same — I have not gone over to the office to-day, & am writing this in my room — Mother I send you %\<^ in this — will scml the other 5 in my next — Write and send me word, soon as convenient, after yon get tbis — I have not been feeling so well this forenoon, but feel better now — As I said before I have up; and downs — but steadily advance, quite certain, though very slowly — I seem to have a bad cold in my head — I am going to try to go out in the oar, as the day is so pleasant and bright. Love to you & all, mother dear. May T. Wednesday noon. — Dearest mother, I have just rec'd ir i 90 IN UK WALT WHITMAN. I yoiir short letter of yesterday — Mother I feel so bad, you are not well, 1 don't know what to do — Will not rest, and some food that suits, be good remedies? — An old person wants the most favorable conditions, to get over any tiling. Mother, I will come on about the ist of next month — I am getting along favorably, they all say, but hn.ve frequent distress in my head, & my leg is clumsy as ever — I am writing this in the office at my desk — I send some papers to-day — nothing particular in them — but I tiiink the English paper, the Sunderland Times, good reading — Mother write, if perfectly convenient, either Friday or Saturday, as I am anxious about you — Good bye dearesi mother, & keep up a good heart. I am yesterda —feel b a visit tl time, & shall be As you con grass one go( Mot 5 It I May II, Sunday forenoon. — Dearest mother, Well mother dear, I am certainly getting well again — I have maile a great improve- ment the last three days, & my head feels clear and good nearly all the time — & that, the doctor says, will bring my log all right in a little while — Yesterday was a beautiful day, & I was out a good deal — walked some, a couple of blocks, for the first time — Peter Doyle convoyed me — This morning I have had my breakfast, & have been sitting by my open window looking out — it is very pleasant and warm, but cloudy — we have heavy showers here nights — too much rain indeed — still spring is very fine here, & it looks beautiful from my windows — I am writing this in my room — I am feeling just now well as usual in my general health — part of the time just as well as ever — but of course I expect a few set- backs before I get well entirely, & supple in my limbs — It is remarkable how much paralysis there is — cases occur here, every few days — & in other cities — There is quite a time here about the burial of Mr. Chase, his body is at the Capitol to-day, & he is buried to-morrow — Mother the paper I send you has a pic- ture of a railroad depot they are building here — it is for the road Peter Doyle works on — you will see a piec in that paper about the Beecher and Tilton scandal — it is very coarse — I think Beecher a great humbug, but I don't believe there is any truth in that piece — (but of course don't know) — LKTTKliS IN SICKNESS: WASIIINQTOS, 1873. 9» M are not Ime food I lit* most [ill come [vorably, my leg I desk— I [—but I 'ading — Uurday, I am still having electricity applied — the doctor applied it yesterday — I am certainly getting -'ong better the last few days — feel better — feel more like myselt — I shall come & pay you a visit the first part of next month — shall write before I come, the time, &c. — Mother I hope tiiis will find you feeling better — I shall be anxious to hear — write a line or two, Tuesday — As I sit by the window this forenoon looking out, I wish you could take a look at the prospect, it is so fine, the trees & grass so green, and tlie river & hills in the distance — it does one good to look at it — Mother I shall feel anxious until I hear from you— May 13, Tuesday aflernoon. — Dearest mother, I suppose you got my letter Monday 12th (written Simday,) — I am still improv- ing — (I don't feel quite as well to-day as for some days past — but it is a great advance on what I have been) — & am in good spirits — Dear mother, I feel very anxious about you — it is very dis- tressing to have the nervous system afiected, it always makes one feel so discouraged, that is the worst of it — Mother I am afraid you are more unwell than you say — I think about it night & day — the enclosed letter came to me yesterday -Jeff sent it to me, by mistake (may-be one for me has gone to you) — I got anotlier letter from Jeff to-day — all are well — Jeff too is anxious about you — Mother try to write a line soon after yon get this — I am writing this in the office — Mother I shall come on. \ i\ May 16, Friday forenoon. — Dearest mother, I am sitting i'l my room waiting for the doctor — Mother you are in my min'l most of the time — I do hope as I write this you are feeling better dear mother do not get discouraged — there is so much in keeping good heart, (if one only can) — I think that is what has kept me up, & is bringing me through — I think I am still on the gain, though it is very slow — my breakfast is brought up yet, has been this morning — I don't go out till about noon — then I hitch over to the office, & stay there for a couple of hours — then I hitch out & get in the cars & take quite a long ride, (sometimes i -if i in a » .1 •I •• /.V A' a; wait M7///»M.V. It ill|||n^ prcllv liv(l\, iiH llir Inti k is |»ihI IhH I tloii'i inintl it iniirli) I (liin'i I'lU nny tlnimi, milv u liKhl Imuli, us I Hixl it Ik nun l\ bctln l«ti ino —I ifrlniiilv ilnn't ^rt iMliimlliaml uny, tlmt's picllv I l(;M. (V I « mint oil liitir In iiijiiii^ iiii' nil li^lll tlir oiilv lliiiiH I lliiiik 111 now IS son, iIimi iimilu'i, \ iiltniil vmi nclliii^ woll >\\h\ Mwwfi us iisiiiil I ^ol ynr Irllci vrstrninv ('riiiiiH- tlnv) I siipptw ynii Kill iniiif vchIchIiiv- I n«miI lliillicii liile " Cmplii. " \ oil.' lo Il;ii) itUo — (llio nrtnicns tin* IiihI one I soiit tt» voti I. It is Hiiinnl.ii liow null li nfiviiin (liscaM' tluTC is mul many rases ot iMialyni!* »V itpopU'xy I ilunk llu-ic is sinnrlliiiiK in the nil, for It your |Mst--laHt siinimn cspofiiilly I'oiliinatoly, it RCrins as it' must |u'ii|ilo ^ol ovri il I'lulav allcmoon \ o'llork. — I am ovci al ilicolliii' llavo llo\ i\ It'ttrr iVoin Sislri I ,on wiiltcn 'riinrsdav momiiin, wliii h given u\c nwni rv\\v\, as it savs tlial Sniuiav «as vmii woisl day, \- llial vmi liavo ^ol nliot now iKai, «loar niotlur. I liopc yiMi art" slill grtlin^j lu'tlci von must liv to led jiooil roiiia^i- — • 1 sliall I omo on soon, piolnMv .il'ont llic is| ol Jniir 1 liave got u letter tiom John Ihnroiighs this morning he »V wilo ntv hoth a lillh' liomosii k lor Wasliinglon thov had got a nire homo lioro hill hois goin^ to soil it -\- soltlo up ihnr he docs JHlior ihoro— hilt ho was doing woll ononf»h hoio, \* was very oomloiiahlc. My hortd lioiihh>s mo to-dav. hnl I am over liiMo al mv desk, rtt oflioe- Molhor it' mnvoniont wrilo mo a line Sunday, so I will get il Mimdav. 1 oil wiitos a voiv ^oo\\, fooling letter, ahout you — Wrts very unhappy Sunday. Illllll ll IkI ll JM lll.ll's ' iMtly I llJh^ liili-N. .1 lillC I -iciit ni.iny m (lie V. if WALr will IMAN AND IMS l»e and a streiiuoiisness that (he man did net show. In his tiaily life and habit Whitman wis at ease in /ion. Then we are all better judges of men than we are of books, and strange to say, the more a book is like the live man the less able we nre to judge it. We are bowildered when we fiiul (he natural where we expet tod the artilicial. The droll American limiior occasionally crops out in these clippings. One writer says Whitman was too well up in physi- ology for the popular taste. Another says " he cast his eye in every direction and (jnoted everything he saw above par." The New York HcraU had said, "he stru generahty. 'I'lie aveiage tiewspaper eilitor and liook notieer of this eountry {s nolle too -^ntv oi himsell when lie h,\s onlv a third or lonrth rate work to vieal with. Tlunk then wlial a list he will make ot it when suddenly railed npvm to pass jmlgnient \ipon a great prim- itive poem, as I'honMU eallevl " Leaves ol tJrass." Think too what atmos\>heiv of nrlcome ami pieparation there is likely to W for sueh a work in a gix'at, ernde, sprawling, niannnon wor- shipping, pohlu al iv>hhing. newspaper-beridilen eoiiixry like ours ! — A work that i\iakes no aeciMint at all of our sehool-lKM)k culture, our brie-a-hrae art, and our soeial refinei'.entsaitd distinc- tions, and that must be jndped as we judg'' real things, real men auvl woi\uM\. real seenes anil processes of nature, -a kind of judgment wliit h we are totallv unprepainl for in literature, Kven \V,\h Whitnian the man was not always appreciated. One of the noblest, most impu^ssive. most benignant, most lov- able f^gntvs ever seen in this eonntrv, perhaps altogether the most so, and yet a Piuladelphia editor only saw in him a rather vulg,4r old man nvssing tl^e ^'amden ferry. If the avemge eilitorial es-e sees only this in the man. what will it see in the \H>ok ? ^^^w and then in these clippings one falls upon a stn^k of unmistakable venom and hatix^l, as in the it'view in the A'^tttttin and the editorial con>ments in the fneit Wtter things of the 7)W.»-, around which the luster of givat names and high service still lingers ; but the other two iournals have alw.ivs Iven the avowttl enemies of Whitman, and his death gave the opportunity for the final and. cri"»wning insult. " .\ man," says our poet, " is a summons auvl ch.allenge," ftnd the challenge is quickly taken up by all who |5eel .\ggrie\"€ii by his manliness. A gt^at many readers seiMu to ::-T(?S'^f^{^v^^Ti^^ llU'li I o J'lnpt at [llu-ii i\ |lU'l| to rlu'a|> !>'iii(iy |lli lale o( it priin- l^ 1(H) n-ly ti> < wor- like lH)ok I of WALT WllirMAN AND Hl& RFA'KNT VIHTICS. 95 •liivo been nggrievcil by Wliilmnn's ngffrcssive ()iit-s|tokon manli- lU'SH, and tlicy luivc it-tortctl upon him in ways nnil in a spirit proper lo tlicin. The rank indiviihinl (lavnr of his poems — their n/ /frs((> ([waWi'wH — fairly throw tiie dileltanle into tonvidsioiis< Men who arc (oo liune and too sironjf for their a^e (generally excite nuich more liostility than tiiose who are inadecpiale, or who Mie simply onl of joint with it. We disregard Ih-' small man, we langh nt the crank ; hut the giant who goes his ow vay, regard- less of the lookers-on, we are apt to follow with envy and hatred. In politi(H, in religion, in literatme, the exieplionally bold nnd strong < haracter, accompanied as it usually is with ex( cplion- nlly strong laults, always puts our sense of manliness to the test. The death of Wall Whitman has tested the manliness of our literary circles, and onr power to deal with original first-class work, as they have not before been tested in this generation It is easy to see that the general current of these < lippings has been a good deal influem ed by the high opinion held of Whit- man in Kngland and on the Continent. This opinion always seems to have one of three elTecfs upon the Anu'rir.m reviewer: if he is favorably inclined toward the jioet it strengthens and confirms his goiul opinion ; if not, it dazes and bewiklers him, or else irritates and embitters him. It has had this last effect upon the writers in the Niifioti and the Ittihfendeni. Th.it 'I'ennyson and Rossetti and Freiligralh and many others should .see in Whitman a great man and poet fairly makes pie of many well- settled editorial opinions. Some of them seem to question themselves whether or not after all Tolstoi may not be a novelist? Ibsen a dramatist? and the author of the "Leaves" a poet ? Whitman's breadth, his absolute independence, his unshaken determination to go his own way in the world, is, if it must be confessed, more English than American. It is also pretty certain that the strong tmdisguised man-flavor of his work, the throb and presstire in it of those things which make for the virility and per- petuity of the race, are more keenly relished in Britain than in America, bo thoroughly are v* yet under the spell of the refined, and the conventional. i % gd IX UK WAIT wnir^rAX. I'Im- Hiin'sh press Ims first find l.tsi \\;\i\ its spltpfitl flings al WInnn.m, one of the lalost M least, Hint ot I'IumhIoio Watla (wliocver he be) in the Afhffitrum betiiiving an iiggiessive speci- men of the tlirty ihiek-witted roekncy l)l;ukgni\nl. A ctif is ni'vei more A enr tlum wlien he lifls up his log over the r.ireass of !\ (le;t say of Whitman that nature seiMned personified and made al)sohjlely friendly to nian in hi\n. There is a blending of rude fore e and icnderncBs here. riie innnetise vitality of nature eonibines with a eerlain mild and preeiouB lujmaimess that is singtilarly rare and efiTeclive.*' One of the Ohirago dailies had a svinposinm \ipon Whitman, in whieh tw ive persons look part, — thr?e |ioets, (woi lergyinen, four editors, atid tlm^e prose writers. The poets were against him by .1 tw^o-lhinls majority, as is usually the ease. When a first- ratepoel like Tonnvson isfvnhim alesser poet will be »nildly against him, while a poetling will be furiously against him. There is no stitkler lor the ;„;es and preeedents like the amateru'. Our rary fiUd n)riirking singer, Jatnes Whitromb Riley, has wrestlecl with him. bnt with very poor results he says. Mauriec Thompson sees nothing in hiu\ whatever. The tnan whom Kmerson, Thoreau, Tennysor,, K<»skin, Carlylo. Symon«ls, Freiligrath did see something in, the ("rawAntlsvdle singer fin»ls vpiitc barrei\ of all valuable poetie (pialities. W'hitman says there is no "object so soft but it M,akes a h(d^ for the wheel'd uitiversc " (I suspect here is the origin of Or. Holmes' famous " hub"\ atul who knows but Caawfordsville n»ay yet be the hub of our poetic cycle? Mr, Mc(i»>vern rc|>eats what he said of Whitman in his *' Golden Legacy," namely, that "Leaves of Grass" is the WAt.r WItlTMAN Afft) tltS HKCENT CRtTWff. 97 % *' lioarse song of a man — not tlie animal man, male and female, bill the clmnirler man, of whom woman in tier heart is iiroiul — • the linn anti-feminine, grosR, living, ecstatic." A central shot, Mr. McCtovern. Joseph Cook apprehends that the so-called in« decencies (clergymen almost always fix their eyes upon these passages) will drag the book down to oblivion : twelve lines drag down and swamp over twelve thousand ! Hut the man in the Chicago symposinm who saw deepest and truest into the subject was " Uncle Remus," great hearted Joel Chandler Harris. Men of broad and dee[» sympathies invariably have the pass-word to Whitman. What some of us only arrive at after years of study " Uiu le Remus " reaches quickly and easily. " In order to ap- preciate Whitman's poetry and his purpose," he says, " it is necessary to possess the intuition that enables the mind to grasp in instant and express admiration the vast group of facts that make man — that make Iil)crty — that make America. There is no poetry in the details; It is all in the broad, sweeping, compre- hensive assimilation of the mighty forces behind them — the in- evitable, unaccountable, irresistible forward movement of man in the making of this republic." And again: " 'ri\osc who approach Walt Whitman's poetry from the literary side are sure to be disappointed. Whatever else it is it is not literary. Its art is its own, and the melody of it must be sought in other suggestions than those of meter . . . Those who are merely literary will find little substance in the great drama of Democracy, which is outlined by Walt Whitman in his writings.— it is no distinction to call them poems. But those who know nature at first hand — who know man — who see ill this Republic something more than a political government — will find therein the thrill and glow of poetry and the essence of melody. Not the poetry that culture statuls in expectation of, nor the melody that capers in verse and meter, Init those rarer intimations and suggestions that are born in primeval solitudes or come whirling from the vast funnel of the storm." How ad- mirable I how true I No man has ever spoken more to the point upon Walt Whitman. A remark of the Boston Globe is in a similar vein : " If there J m n ^^ tftr w ur M^fnurv II i< n\\\ r^i rlli-niT in hin wiitln^ li |q n lUnht i rui rllrino lltnn lit ili^i'q \»t\( iltMrlop |U'< n«M itlrH HHi( >ii\ r iHllll'sllrtI (rl!iinl i-i w WW ^v\\v\t\\ i\\\v. \\\r iiiliiq do nm m-r* lIliH j tllix in i|rliliii'v li> ''(;ni iiii> (o uidIj out i< ul li^ w.iltr ii|( till' wiinil. " I Hlii'i|\ no 'x\\\'t liiirim." \\v Winn. " Imi nho\«ti \\\v\\\ In i-Mli;in'«(li'nn I.IUq nr"»li i\nil nioilrin I on Uin\i»IU " "I'ln-litltoiinr In noiniiil: Irrninil Mini nnlr:nnn| \M \\\\\ i< in no." '\'\\v one Wodl lir ln lirl'oir |i|n\ in niium'nllVl**' UrM. A Will Hnown linmiiiil »oninonrr lolil inr \\\\\\ NMiiiimni'n jMMMnn niinn\l;ni il !iiin. :nnl net l\ln\ io vvoiK. In :\ \\\\ iln- liiptilv wionjiln nonnn liltr tlio'^r ol lVini\noi\ iliil no(. Ilirnr IjWI IcH «o^hin^ I'm him lo ilo Vhr r\\\W',\\ opinioi^ ol iMiil nl(lnM;\ npon on» ptirl. tin nlnnvn \\\ \\\rH .■fwr'/..?^ |tiiii lU'HiuiH-t nnn'Urlv npon onf of \\ liiim;nrn nii'iiin \\\v\ ^»oinlin^ onl \vluiri»\ l\r \V:K In KiiU>, \\\v \\y\\v\ mu-^ • "Mm llnu lir lirtil powrl tM nonn- )ir |Mnvi'i ol ;\ viyoioiin rtnil inirnnrlv Vitrll pn-^iM^rtlil V. ripir-^ninfj ilnrll nilll \\v\\W\ f\»..ilrnnnr'sn ol nih'Vrtnt «» iOnl ;dwolnlr nimriilv ot •srnlinnnit. Mm M\\\ wtnnn^ mt inipn'nini in nothing no nnn b wo. iln-\ mic \\\ rrti h \^\\v\. M\\ \\m ini»Mi-5i is lonnnnnU lv>iiii| IviOliil In \\\v \imonn limmnsm i\\\k\ » onrritlmrnl"-. tn nliiih • iMlirrilion in ^nnliflr. \\ in niM onlv \W Um\\ \\\;\[ in i\iiiHi i:illv hiilil.-n i\inl nnrm^ np ; iln- i\nn«l .tml lnv\u ;n\(| nonl, ihp n>V'«iriionn noinr \\\\\\\l \w \\\\\r\\ onr nnliMiln;\|iiv in tlintin^ni'^hnl mnl nf|i!\i!ni'(l 1^\\n^ r\TVV oilnn. A\r h[\h\\\\;\\\\' tomrHlt-il hrnrrnh ilir npolo'ii «M M\v\\ n-rtppii^nn ol ont noi irti ronM'niionidiiirn. It WHS \\\\\\ \\\\\\\\\M\\ mnil. iln* nrrivi vnntr ol hin rtUhnlion, \\\t\\ hv loip tl\rM' tirtpiNin^n rtw-.n .\\\y\ nlnnv,> llkr Mill lli'il |iiiii'iil4 III (lie (Ijiiilt'li o| ImIi'K, Im lirtltcil dliil tinf tmlitdiiftl, iiihI II \<\ llil'i iitttml 'iiiil Intfllci ihmI ifiln'ilin-'iq n| \\\ U llMiii llic I.MlHlitii 7W/»<»I Im ti'iliiliilv Mill' n| |||q I liiff l(illl«), tl Ihlll wt* Itllllil Hill fiiilllle' ill !i ili'MvllH! initIM iil lllt'Mlilc |int'(, lict !II|m»" ll Wiiiilil hi' 111 U!ii Willi mil ilniiicMili mill mmi lul IhmIIikIm, Imii In n piU'l (III lllr WIllllllMII Mt (llr. will) MIlllMllhlh'q »l)Ml|li( (•IIImIImII ((If iIiihicmIIc rlilMlloti, will) liliiiirlii'M IiIm iitlt-Kiiii c finiii m pMint nf virw witflp till rtllinil.'ll iltlil rtrililflllnl iHmHih IImiim tilt- ImmI Mlf'lit Itl, Witfir lllnili'MlV III lltllllitili'Mlv ;|M< Iml. iinil wlli'li' III! llic liIlN Mini lilltl iillllM Mi till' llllllUlll llMllv tile I ltlll({:iy<* IiIm ^''.|(^li!^ll h Miiiiplc Iml " iiliMiiliilcIv liicrici livf " iH\ Illl- othiM litUiil, tt W(<<tii vvtiU't MjinikM (ir lih "(ilmtiliite ime of ■<*.-. • lOO IN RE WALT WHITMAN. words; " which is in the spirit of Col. IngersoU's remark that he "uttered more supreme words than any other writer of our century." Ruskin is reported to have said, there were words and phrases in him that were like rifle bullets. Only careless readers can pronounce his language ineffective. It never has the air of being studied ; on the contrary his more striking lines seem like lucky hits, and I think it is Robert Louis Stevenson who says he often stumbles upon just the right words in just the right order ; the poet has covered up his tracks well, when he makes us think that his "supreme words" come by chance, or that he stumbles upon them. As a matter of fact, his friends know how long and patiently he searched for the right word. He once told me he had been searching for twenty-five years for the word to express what the twilight note of the robin meant to him. In " Halcyon Days," meaning old age, he speaks of the apple that hangs "indolent-ripe on the tree." "You waters," he says in an- other poem, "I have finger'd every shore with you," "Every 3;eel that dent? the water " is another happy phrase. In- deed they can l)e found everywhere, but they never court atten- tion and seem all unconscious of themselves. He fulfills the promise in this respect which he early made in the preface to his first poems, " to speak in literature with the perfect rectitude and insouciance of the movements of animals and the unimoeachable- ness of the sentiment of trees in the woods and gra>s by the road-side." His absolute use of words is well seen in such phrases as these : "the huge and thoughtful night," or the " teem- ing spiritual darkness," "the slumbering and liquid trees," " bare-bosom'd night," "magnetic nourishing night," and in such lines as the one in which he says the great poet "judges not as the judge judges, but as the sun falling round a helpless thing," and in entire poems, such as the one called " A Leaf of Faces." Whitman's power to use words can no more be ques- tioned than the greatest of the antique masters. I will give one more sample — from "A Broadway Pageant : " ** The Originatress comes, The nest of languages, the bequeather of poems, the race of eld, ^ <^r- i WALT WHITMAN AND HIS RECENT CRITICS. lof Florid with blood, pensive, rapt with musings, hot with passion, Sultry with perfume, with amjle and flowing garments, With sunburnt visage, with intense soul and glittering eyes, The race of Brahma comes." • The power to use words was in W'Mtman's eyes a divine power, and was bought with a price. " For only at last after many years, after chastity, friendship, procreation, prudence and nakedness. After treading ground, and breasting river and lake. After a loosen'd throat, after absorbing eras, temperamenig, races, after knonied^je, freedom, crimes, After complete faith, after clarifyings, elevations and removing obstructions, After these and more, it is just possible there comes to a man, a woman^ the divine power to speak words." One critic aslts, " Was he not strong rather than great? Was that magnificent physical energy of his adequately matched by spiritual energy ? Will not his work affect the future rather as a passion than a power?" The opinion of the London Times, certainly a not over-friendly authority, is that Whitman was a man of power. I should say unhesitatingly that his work be- longs *o the poetry of power as that of our other poets belongs to the poetry of sentiment. He is strong, but he is more than that, if we are to make the distinction indicated; he gives one a sense of magnitude and power beyond all other current poets. He is not intense, he is calm, far-reaching, transforming, with a quality about him that goes with the crest and summit of things — with the day at its full. One is astonished to hear a Pennsyl- vania country paper say, " He is either a great original genius, one of the few historical figures cf literature, or he is nothing." An editorial writer in the Chris/tan Union said his " imagination was so great that, compared with most contemporary American verse-makers, he is as the mystery and vastness of the forest to the birds which break its silence with their solitary notes." His power in this respect is often shown in single lines, as " The moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight." " The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind." I I J': tea IN RE WALT WHITMAN. *' I depart as nir, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun." ' ■** Rise after rise l>ow the phantoms behind me." " Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limitless and lonesome ]>rairie." " Where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square miles far and near." " The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing." Any, any number of others that might be quoted. Quite a general view of his poetry is that it will undergo a sifting and winnowinj^ process by time — like that of many other poets — and the fittest in it survive. But Whitman belongs to a new genus of poets. We can of course cull out favorite pas- sages and whole poems from the mass ol his work, yet ihe dis* tinctive value of his book is not in its finished specimens of verse, its poe«..c selection and artistic elaboration, as in other poets, but in the vital and masterful personality which it holds. We cannot sift or carve a man, we must take him entire, and the mass of Whitman's work must survive, or all perish. His quality as a man and his power as a spirit fills it all. Some of the newspapers have seriously discussed the question whether or not he was a poet at all. I quite agree with a writer in tlie Nineteenth Century a few years ago, that we need not be at all zealous to claim this title for him, and with " Uncle Remus" that it is no distinction to call his writings nnerr.5. But if we give up the word poet, it must be for a designation that ■means more, instead of less, as bard, prophet, seer, apostle. ^' Leaves of Grass " is primarily a gospel and is only secondarily -a poem. Its appeal is to the whole man and not merely to one set of faculties, as the aesthetic. It cannot be too often said that the book is not merely a collection of pretty poems, then: s elaborated and followed out at long removes from the personality of the poet, but x series c sorties into the world of materials, the American work., piercing through the ostensible shows of things to the interior meanings, and illustrating in a free and large way the genesis and growth of a man, his free use of the world about -i WALT WHITMAN AND IIIH RECENT CRITICS. 103 him, appropriating it to himself, seeking liis spiritual identity througti its various objects and experiences, and giving in many direct and indirect ways the meaning and satisfaction of life. There is much in it that is not poetical in the popular sense, much that is neutral and negative and yet is an integral part of the whole, as in the world we inhabit. If it offends, it is in a wholesome v/ay, like objects in the open air. Whitman was ////artistic rather than ///artistic. His orb of song was modelled after a certain other orb with which we all have at least a limited acquaintance. His long lists and enumerations, page after page of scenes, actions, trades, tools, occupations, nave their purpose; they give weight and momentum ; they sup- ply negative elements and backgrountls which are just as imi)or- tant in his poetic scheme as the positive and select elements. For clews to his poetic methods read t.i poems called " Laws for Creation " and " To the Sayers of Words." Gabriel Sarrazin, Whitman's Parisian critic and admirer, de- clares, that "overcrowded and disorderly as it may be, if heroic emotion and thought and enthusiasm vitalize it, a work will al- ways be of perfect beauty." The question of "good taste" does not come in in discussing Whitman, because his final appeal is not to taste, but to the reader's power to deal with real things. . ' ;' . . "The learn'd, the virtuous, the benevolent, and the usual lerms; A man like me and never the usual terms," If we are to make anything of this poet at all, it must be upon terms that sound strange in current criticism. The interest is shifted to new grounds — from the theme to the man, from art to nature, from skill of workmanship to power of initiativCu > '• " Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity, .. When I give I give myself." This is his supreme distinction : he gives us a man and not a statue ; he imparts to us living impulses and not intellectual Formulas, or artistic symbols ; and if we are to make anything of him at all, it must be upon the basis of the primary universal Ml « ' [t I04 IN RK WALT WUITMAX, human attributes and qualities. His tvork is an utterance from the will, the afTections, the personality, of a strong, original man, rather than from his intellect, or his scholarship, or his skill as a verbal poet. Ii is a personal revelation, ami has more or less the character of a gospel, as have all primary human ut- terances from out the abysmal man. / So far as our culture and civilization tend to ♦'•"• bleached, the dainty, the depleted, Walt Whitman is ti . and remedy. His work is rich in the (pialities that make man man and that make life masterful. If you want tiie qualities that make the scholar, or the verbal poet, or the conventional gentleman, look for them elsewhere. If you want sweets ratiier than tonics, look for them elsewhere. If you want to be sootiied and lulled rather than aroused and dilated, go elsewhere. If you are too delicate for the open-air, keep in-doors. If Whitman is too strong for you, stick to Holmes and Longfellow. I have not a word to say against those poets ; they are what they are, sweet and skillful singers of the domestic sentiments. But if you want to breathe the atmosphere of a sentiment, not of houses and rooms, nor of books and pictures, nor of family and fireside, but of a teeming continent, or of the globe swimming through space, go to Whit- man. He will familiarize you with great thoughts, out-door thoughts, cosmic thoughts, and with impulses that sway races and found empires. His poems are rank with the very sweat and odor of humanity. The daintiness and fastidiousnesj of the art poets are not here. The whole drift of his work is to get rid for once of the arti- ^ ficial, and to bring to bear upon the reader's mind real nature, often rude abysmal nature. He cuts under the artificial and conventional in everything, in manners, in morals, in religion, in vtrse. To have used the highly wrought and elaborate poetic forms would have been at war with his purpose in this respect. He strips the soul bare, the mind bare, the conscience bare, the body bare. He strips from the muse all her customary trappings and finery. He will have no gags, or veils, or disguises of any sort. He lets the air and light into every corner and recess of H WAI.r WHITMAN AND HIS RECENT CHITICH. »o5 the heart and mind. What man thinks and feels, his base and wicked thuughts ua well as his good, shall come out. •'Come I nm dcterminetl to unbare this brond breait of mine, I have long enough stitl'd and cliok'd." " Undrnpe 1 you are not guilty to me, nor stnle, nor discarded, I see throu(;h the broadcloth and i;in(;ham whi-thcr or no, And am around, tenaciouH, ac(|uisitive, tireless, and cannot i)e shaken away." One rather friendly critic says Whitman chose to live in the wilderness of the human mind and that out of that wilderness he at times brings us something very fresh and tonic. Well, there is something in this wilderness suggestion : he lived in close contact with primitive nature undoubtedly, but he did not shut himself up in any part or corner ; he was free and makes others free of the whole. The reader that does not see it is Man universal that speaks here does not see very deeply. Convict Whitman of any narrowness or partiality whatever and you strike him a fatal blow. The one thing he t»us/ be, to make good his claim, is, to be all-inclusive of humanity. In his main poem, the "Song of Myself," he sweeps through the whole orbit of human experience, he sounds every depth of joy and suffering, of being and doing, of knowing and intuition ; he delves into the past, he revels in the present, he soars into the future, he identifies himself with every type and condition of man, he sweeps over the continent, he touches upon every phase of the- life and manifold doings of this diverse, widespread complex people, and says all " these tend inward to me and I tend out- ward to them." " And such as it is to be of these more or less I am. And of these one and all I weave the song of myself." •' I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise, Regardless of others, ever regardful of others, Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man. Stuff 'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff 'd with the stuff that is fine.'*' 111 ii! 'toft t\ UK WAl.r WHITMAX. "A Ivmnrt witli ihf KimpIrM, n Itfiirhrr of iIip ihotiKlitlnllpM, A nnvlre Iii-kJiuiIdh yri «»prrlrnl i>f myrlinl^ of urniiotM, < If rvptv tlllf nivl ''HM ii>»> I, "f rvrry rrtMl< rttl'l tpliKlnH, A Inimi-t, mi'ihrtmc, nHi^i, Ki>ntlpninii, Milni, i|imlf self-sarrifice ? Here we tomb upon ethi<-al considerations, here we toneh npon the rule of life. H(>w does this rule applv in .irt, in literature? Ortainly not by checking e(Tort, by thwarting originality, by denying genins. The poet's life may be fnll of solf-rennnciation ; bnl he mnsi not •deny himself t() his reader, — he mnst not withhold that whi«-h n'Ai.r HJ/iiMAii AMt HIS HHrhwr cuirirs. 107 defloM liini 1)11(1 makr'M hitn wliitt lie in. Ho iimy give wny to othi'tH ill lilc; lint III* must nut ^ivt* way t«i otlicfH in liii book. If he ^iv(«rrpinn nirts"* nioviMnvni ol l\lq vrtst< i<« in Vri^jMt^H vs'ith ihrRf* ihinp^. IIm? onlv «r!«nrtin( snunpstpil a\\\\ \ht onlv »t»«»iirtini ^li^ni^pil \% ihm \>( ilw liilr I*\iIUm »hrtt jtnrx to il* n\;nl( rh«' «i>iM'i ol tl\\n»til (>n(i nitn-iinnl vrisi' no ili>nl»t in^pnnr"* ^\\y\ hrl)><« Ininn inh\ !»hii|\r {\\i> n\n'jc o( n\!\nv n |mhM j Vmu svIu "»l^onl<«n! npon r\»-»\ porHr spnii.rtntl vh(U|i»' thi*««« wiil^ linvlfsunpn* l^\\\\ xiioohnitrniT who \rpnorl»V iM B^^"^' rt>i !<», lir llitti \\o\M lo«' h^<« liiv sliiUl \\\\\\ \». ho ihrti mvr'i hini-^ili \\\v most ih«>lv Bhrtll yhf m«>M iWlv ti?tTi\T*. \Vh\tin;\n innnvil hinmoM in \\\« Ihonjiht. in »hr K^Nf^ol' his tonnuv rtnil oi ht* IVUowx j ho iil«»i\« tifio\1 hitnxrlt with ^\\ ivpo* rtt\«l »ot\«liiiot\>» oi tnoi^ ; ho litot!\lly 1^>:^^^' hiiwvli tho ^l^^t^^^•^ !\\\\\ r\\\\!\\ o( nil Ho thiMiuhl of hin^'trh onh rt< he thon^hi of othoi-* in rttnl thi\Mi^h hn\i"»-— in\tno«1irtto xnoopsn rtiut rtp- plnn"5o. \»^-nlih. h^^^^o\•n, Intntlv, iViot\>n\ within, Uo < hoio )hh1 in his ^^t^o^^v niwi in hts litx\ When iho M\pivt\\o honr o( ttinl «>AM\<> trt h'i^ « x>t\iMt V. ht !«<»t\^M hot A$ he \V(\s hwt rthle to !»ot\'« ht*v, ^v inin»«it^»in^ h> hov wiMin\lo<< ntuJ \hit\g !«oUlioin ov»i t>l iW rtb«t\v\rtiux' v^i hix «^yt^^^^A^hv nt^ii hn-v. it WALT WHITMAN AT DATE. By IWKACK L. IKAVUKL. ]n\\H AniUNniMN SvMoNHs linn fprpitlly «nltl ; "'T,pnvp« of » nllt'Miion. Fur m vidm-s hip Iipip dislrilmlpd, it in not In voitp oi p( lio of mIoiR loii^s dcitd, or ol pioplipts rpiiiptnlipipd !oi- spi'i i!\l nnd Ipmpomry ipimoti^ of iittp or rrppd, bill Ire, in n iiiun the Bpleiied flower or our inotlern deiiioi im y, itn Ainerlemi ii wreiU, rotiiwt, oHen dpi ried, liiil idwnya fnt seeing Anieiii iin — Ihtil llie mnplesi «inglp nieswi^e so fur known in lilpinlnre is lu tird. •' I'lxiept tlip Millie," il is held ; Itnt the Mililp is w niosiiir, roin- j)lex In rnnge rtnd iipprom h, evoked of niuny hnnds, onl of we know not whrtt varied londilions, to exeept whii h is lo nmke no exreplion nt idl. If (he indnnu'in of Svinonds is (o be nnifinned or its rorrert- ness is even siisperled, u streitin of inndiMlnble irtininnilions hns been set fh'e In (he modern wmld. And i( is to some of the rtoweii; idong (he wnv iiml the wood th^it drifts with the tide (hut (lu" midst ol liin Hponf{in^ oH, lie sliililioiiiiy rcrtaincd from rallinn asMiHlaiirc Mill for what followi-d wo Khoiild nrvcr have known that Iiimo. in \m privary, lie had inri with a tiitiral cxpcru'iK c. Ho told lis Hiilisn|iit'iilly that ho had di'tftniiiu'd to li^lil the liatllc out Hiii^lc haiuh'd. Tin' next lotcnooii iMilv ho Niistainod aiioilirr slim k, and toward noon a Ihiid. 1 had « omo over that div with proofn, to Ihid him upon Iho loiin^o in the pallor, llainod and Mrs, Davis prosont, at his sido, and ho oiuliMvoiiii(^ in vain to lorovci his inipaiicd HpoiM h, 'rhoiif{h ho liati siiU'oioil many similar Mows in years nono. hoictoroio aitinilalion had liron in no wav alTn tod. I siipposo I wont y mimitos olapsod lioloio ho rofiaiiiod soil-con- trol. I'o Mis, D.ivis' iiupiiiios ho rospondod thai ho would so()n lio lioltoi. lull if ho woio not it would lio all rif^lit. Yot his losiliom was so prompt that lu lore I loft ho lookod i iir- Rorily at nil the pr«)ol"s, and aiiswoiod all my i|U0Htions. The ensiling woi-k was a bad one, but he was (U)wm stairs ovorv day ami would diilvlalk proof with mo in theevoniiin. On .Satmday night, whon Hiuko wont with llarnod and with mo to Miokic ntioct, Whitman appoarod to bo swept to iho border line of ( ol- lapse, and there wore hours on Sumlay when we ah ieit that ho had romc near his end. At this jiimlme Dr. Osier, of I'liiladelphia, was called in fi>r eonsultalion. It was readily soon that Wnilman was in no condition to live. Hut the application of drastic mcasvircs produced a marked cliaiige in the night. Monday, mtffimmt^i^" WAt.r WniTMAN AT ItATK. 1 1 1 , f llicrcfiiri', IimmimIiI im iinirrr nil iiik hmdrfl hope, Hii« kc had to f(ii hiiiiip wilhoiil Tiirlhcr tiirryiiig. t nliall tirvrr TiirKct hid (le< )iailiirr the Holcinii ( mtvi) timi, on my huU' m oh hit, that Home IHMt in ;ill w;m iiK'viliilili', Rrt (ivriy 110111 lliin itltn< k Wim tnlioim and never ;ilm(i|iile, Wliitinan iilwayft altiiliiiird lim relcimc to |)r. Ilili k»''N piem-iHo and " alfe» lioinitr cxfiriHC of cxpciiiMWO niid Hkill." lie ralh'd it " piilliiiK HaTtly from a rhmc call." 'riie wliolo of lliiii yriir Imd its HlindnwH and doiililn- -firsli n»- millll'*, fresh leidVeiies. VVIiilmiin ii'^tnied liir ; " VVc iiifiy f^o down any duv. Tlie old Hhipdiniiot hsl lor ntiiiiy mnic voyages nt the iK'Ht. Milt the \\:\\! is ntill up— I am •tlill at the wheel I " ill till" mean lime we proecedcd with our w hemes, prodiii iiiff " Niivemliei IImiij^Iis" and the llioiimind p.i^ed imlM^rapli edit KMl ol his ( oinpleir W(Mks. ill tKM() we pi ml ed an edition ol " i,eiiveH ofdiass," III I rieliralion of his liiitlidjiy. " Novemlier lldu^^hs " was slow in the makiiifr. Spells of illness liiiidr rolililiiioiis woik impossihic ; hilt he heroii ally persevered. I left proof with hint raeh eveiiiiii^ on mv letiiin lioin i'liil;idelphia, and he would ex- amine it the toijdwin^ day. lie thoroughly resperled my aiitoiioinv, never oin c crossing my traiisac tioiis with priiiti-r or liinder. lie hati a keen oyc for mistakes in the types, his ror- rretlons were alw.iys rlear, and his dctermiiialion to have thiiij.,'s hifl own way was .ilisnliile. " Novemher Houghs " «:oiilained liolh prose and verse, the latter f^rotiped as " Sands at Seventy " and ro arranged as to he iiK orporated with all later editions of" Leaves of (Irass." I ic- memlier our dim iiisinn of this headline at I larned's lidile, one Siiii- dav previous to Wliilmaii'H illness. Whitman had an alternate, and then nn alternate lor the alternate — and we voted for l!ie words he adopted. There was plan and plan until the last loin h was secured. I never found him rearhing out at random or throw-, mg his work together. Neither did he hiiild in any formal sense. He set his streams free and let them find their nalnr.i' nnioii. Sted- man classes VVhitmaii's Lincoln poem with F.owll's ode — Imt there is every differem e hetwecii them, as between a doiid or a hrook that floats or Hows in the humor of freedom, and a stately arch that is deliheratelv built. ut rx KK iv.4/r ^^■rnr!^rA^^. Wlutm.in likes a Ivmdsome i^^pe- He li;\to« lo have rt rhnpter close at the end of a page ; wonld ratlicr rut off a precious paragraph, as he ^M in "A Hackwaril (ilance," than leave the eye offended. So, too, wonh' he areoiuinodate poem to rircnmstanre. A line too much or too little did not worry him. He never quarrelled with necessity — made it, rather, his agent, sniiplicaiing his a]>proval. His insertions were circmnsiiect and left no jar on tin* ear. His bine pencilled excisions were made without ion^p\m< tion. The little poem, " Memories," was writ- ten on the margin of a jiroi^f sheet, to fill \\\) a imge. He always had a nohle line ready. His verbal ear was exact and exacting. Two or three (ff the poen^s were written in this time of his great illness, to run in on p;^ge 40^^. "1 always know what 1 want before 1 get through," he laughingly assiires me, "but 1 do not always see all the details < lear at the beginning. ... I feel about for the lay of the griMmd." And vet he is tpiick to flash out approval on occa- sion. He says he is " disi dvered " by intuitive people — that he finds he really has no secret plan or thought which somebody does not detect. To ivmcmber " N(iw rrecedent 'S()ngs, I'virewell," and " A\\ Evening Lull," with the fiM'itnote thev trail in their wake, is im- posed upon anv student of Whitman who realizes how profoundly t^ian ntul work ntn one into the r r,r,\ss." Whitman was most ]vitient with the printers. None beyond the first and always fleeting shades of irritation appeared at any time. When anything pleased hinr, he always wished to send some book or coin or portrait, in recognition — for instance, to tlie bov who took his luoofs. tii tlie ftueman who anticipated his desires and realized his taste, lo the biuilcr who forecast or con- firmed his design. " How mu( h 1 owe to that man Mirick, who bosses the cori^posing-room. and Downs — you say his name ^s IV-iwns? — the jMoof teader. 1 vo\M not tell. . . . They anticii>ate, they more that^ fulfill me. my wishes. . . . t Jiave l>een mainly fortunate in my bookmakers — but I never fell WA L r irW / VMA N AT PA TE. »23 into better hands than these. ... So you nntst treat them well — give tlieni my love— in tioihin^ hidr our feelings. . . 1 always have a suspicion that these print-fellows anyhow crown all the rest." His ( antion is a finality to be tluly tnulershnxl and reinenihcred. I never knew him to do anything in a hurry. The printer could not get a snap " yes " or " n(J " on any question. He would insist on full time to weigh every problem. He never let go his task. Whatever the difficulties or tlclays, he held fast to the native call. " Metier inc for mine than any other for me," he wotild answer when expostulated with. Some of his friends thought he ought to give the books into other hands. He would not do it. He liked counsel well, but likcfl better the privilege to refuse it. Hut he was always gentle. I lis nays were sweeter than the yers of other tnen. I always felt free to give tny opin- ions. Sometimes he would adopt them, sfunetimes not, but whether yes or no, never with flourish. He had sut h a fascinat- ing way of following his notiiuis, after having listened to all that could be said in critic ism, that you were not suie he had not abscrbed your own. The doubts, dismays, to tne almost tragic anxieties, out of wliii h " November Houghs" was born, gave it warrant of fire. Tliis book threw up numerous (|ues- tions. One of them attached to the fate of the essay on Islias Hi(ks. It was oidy after mm h persuasion, and after the devel- opment of the fact that our book was to lack in bulk, that he decided tf) include it. 'I"he piece was iu;t really finished, was not all that he intended it to be, but he pat( hed it together, smoothed the rough joints, wrote a prefatory note, and let it go. When I remarked, " Its proud merit art lies the book," he responded, "Can it be? Can I have won my battle after all? . . . It has been in me for many a year to say the best that tnav be said of IIi( ks." Though Walsh had exper ted it for J.ippincotf s, the events detailed hurried it into tliis volume. While it had not t»een made complete, the insecurity of his ten- ure, and the desire to supervise its production, had disposed him to f( < I exctised in laum hing it without additiiui or elaboration. We followed this vohime with the "complete" Whitman, con- 144 IN RE WALT WmiMAX. taiiiing all in poetry or prose to that day printed. The " Note at Beginning " and " Note at End," in tlie big volume, and the title page, wero new, and were the subject of much debate. Hoth notes were quite impronii)tu. We approached and pursued the new task under mucli the same anxiety. Whitman was vigilant, however much it cost his body. Errors that had passed into earlier editions, (aught by him or his iViends, trifles of punctuation or spoiling, were duly adjusted. He continued to demand proof till the last letter seemed in right joint. Whitman always keeps copies of his books, in whic h to indicate the discoveries of successive readings. With each new edition he makes some change. He always says that, though the earlier volumes may have a "curio" value, the latest have the only full, intrinsic worth. He owns the plates of " Leaves of Grass " and " November Houghs." The plates of " Sjjecimen Days " be- long to McKay. Hut the " complete " Whitman and the birthday cnlilion appear without the name of a publisher. Whitman sells thetn from time to tinie, either through McKay or direct from the box in his room to the customer. Orders come from the most distant points, in Europe antl America, in .Australia and .\sia. Usually, in sending ofT a book, he writes to ask the pur- chaser to acknowledge its arrival He enjoys tin idea that a writer might (in his case very often iloes") deal direct with his public. He is generous with his frieuositive to-day as in days of best health. He will concede that he loses here and there from his adherence to an old principle — " or is it a prejudice ? " — but will contend that he has more than compen- sating gains. He has never used tobacco in any form, is only a moderate partaker of good wines and whiskies, and is studiedly abstemious with coffee and tea. His daily bathing, his habitual rubbing, his careful regard for the remote previsions of the per- son, are vital. No professional prescription could in these things do for him what his constant watchfulness and calm effect. He is famous for his skilful ])reparation of toddies. War memories, old instincts preserved, his conviction of its medic- inal efficacy, maintain the drink in his respect. With un- wearied hand he dispenses the potion among his sick neighbors. One night he offered the mixture to Harrison Morris — taking the water from the stove, the whiskey from a bottle, using a big mug and a spoon, out of the last tasting the consistency of the liquor from time to time. Morris had not expected a stiff drink. With interesting humor, Whitman, who saw his wry face, smiled 9 i : I ill tl« IN Rn: WAi.r \vnirMA?r. Atiil ;isk«'(l : " Wli.ii is it ? Docs it need iimre whiskey? " Hill his tnsic in foodHtiilTs is oxni t niul his knowhMlf{0 of what his rdiulitiiiM iiiip(ts(>s pciCi'tt. hf. Hiirkc thinks he- is not on |mr- tinil.M pitinis snniricnllv ( fiirriil ms Io liisijirl, linl luhnilft th;U on the \vl\oh' lie rxetrisrs woiKh'lhii hi'lgiii(M\t. It was ll»r nifjht of Witshinnfon's itiilhilnv. 1HM7. IliiU Whit- \\\,\\\ npppnicti hefoie the lltintentponny I'hib, in I'hiladclphiit. I I onvfveil the invilalion to him weeks picvionv, \\\n\ I remem- ber his I Dnsent :is he s;it i)y Ihe winlei Hie in liis pnihir. We tried Io net him to write some few lirief notes or passM^es whirh he mijiht rend rtiid then lot go (ii preiioiis historir inamisc ript) into the nrrhives of the Clnh ; l»iit whih' lie never refused onr mifigrslion, and even spoke of it as "a ^t^od idea," he never ac- quiesced, and in tite end no word was written or obtained. Professor Hrinton rmne over to see me one evening, mid we went down to Whitman's together. Me liappened to he in the kitchen talking to Mrs Davis, and there received ns, neither apologizing nor ofTering to lake ns elsewhere. Some < hanre question in the course of our talk caused his digressiiui to (treek art and poetry ; and his ( otifident rotninent flowed wilhotit stint, and in tones jnire as Ihe nature he described. I walked to the ferrv with Hrinton, who said as he was leaving ine : "That was a great talk. Wliy shouldn't he go over just such ground for the Club? It is the very thing we want." Next day I repeated this Io Whitman, who .asked in wonder: "What did 1 talk about? I don't 'emember a wt)rd of it." The night of Ihe meeting I had a carriage ready and matle the trip over with him. C'ohl as it was, he threw every window open. He saluted nil the ferrymen, had quite n talk with one of the «leck hands, was soon on easy terms with our driver. The stars were so clear, the air so racy, he said at one moment : " It is like a new graiM of health and freedom." When we reached (tirard street (the meeting was in the New Century Club rooms) half a dozen cabmen who stood about offered to help him. He was readily got up-stnirs, into the already crowded and not caparions room. We took I' ovetco.it and h.it. On first entering, he sat among the irrcj(u!.^r clusters of tncnd)crs and their friends. WAl/r win I'M \S AT h\TE. •J» ?" WW wliiU lii« I on par- ts tliiU on vM Wliil- latli'lliliiit. I reineiu- -lor. We m'H wliit li uniim ript ) fiispti our ticver ac- lU'll. (, ami we l)p in tlio IS, neither le cliiince 1 to Oreek l\oiit stint, walked to e: " riiat ground for I repealed id I talk and tiinde V wintlow with one ver. The ent: " It ic reached lb rooms) n. He was raparions tering, he r friends. There was a platforin raised nliont a foot at one end of the room. Would lie !ake that? Me responded, "I am in your hands Mow," a(ldin^, "liiil, first, can't wej^et more nir Into this room? " lie was helped to the platform. The s( cue was iiiii(|iic and im- pressive. The rontiast of his simple, massive exterior hisvoiie, flan, and smile — willi the literary, intellet liial, often ho» ial pomp of the group about him, was great. Some of tis sat along the edge of the platform at his feet, others stood behind him. He was prai til ally siirroimded. Miit whatever the (diilrast, the doubt, the critical feeling, his own bearing shamed all aniago* nislic nssertion. His freedcmi and spontaneity were, in fart, nliiKist exasperating. He would not, for instance, talk of poetry, of philosophy, of firl, or of anylhing wlii< h would in.ingnrale (on- troversy, .Siibtle iii(|niries were advam ed and passed. He took fiome printed sheets from his breast -pot ket, reading "The Mys- tic 'rrmnpeter " and "A Voice from the Sea," repeated Miirger's " Midnight Visitor," and answered one or two of the more in- nocent i|nestions that were put. One response, dealing with the idea of protediirc and system — " Method does not trouble me, my own method or that of others, provided I or they 'get there'" — excited much amusement. His reading was solemn and im|)iessive. There was some further program, in whic h he apparently look little interest. He c hose his own lime tct whis- per to me his desire to go. On the way clown-stairs he took a flip or more of tea or < ciffee. He was led out as he had been led in. On the step he turned to me — f had one arm --and made some remark about the glory of the stars and how good it was to be free with them again. The drivers here all circled him again, offering congratnlation.s and help. The Contemporary C'lub has 8inc:e given him a second re- ception — April 15th, i«(;o. This time he read his Lincoln ad- dress. He volunteered it, through me, casually, one night. He had missed iH8c; because the early months of that year were full of doubt and disaster. Hut now he felt able to venture and inspired to speak. He was prompted by what he described as a sentiment of religious duty. 'I'here was that in his love for Lincoln wliic h made this sad task welcome. iSut in the mean, % m ija /iV UK WAIT WHITMAN. \\ time Ijc sufTt'icil it return of the Krippp, nnd for n ffw (lny« It rpoiiumI tliat it woiilil be iinpoRsiliU' for liiin to get out. Our CIiiI) ( omiiiitloc wcrr dcrply concerned. Wliitman himnclf peiionsly tloiihled the issue. He wrote to Dr. Hinke almost positively predi(ling a snrreniler. Yet lie did not incline to any |)reniatnrc negative. 'I'lii* ftfteenlli was a 'Tuesday. I went to liun cpiestioningly on the 'rinirsday and l''riday that preceded, Imlh times fmdiM^ him in lu-d. Personally, I rather urged de- nial. I meant that he should assume nil risks. Would it not be as well to realize the impossible? Hut no ! (Nnild the cards be heUl tmtil Simday ? Let them be held, then : he wotdd hope to the last. 'This was an extra Club meeting: the regidar meet- ing had been the 'I'uesday just passed. Saturday came ; he was little, if any, better. Hnt he still persisted. I had promised the President and Sey friends, not you, not Dr. Hucke, know the full measure of my stubbornness." Hut the Tuesday night was in every respect auspicious, and four of us went over in the carriage together. Whitman afterward described this voyage in an unsigned note to the Hoston Tfitnactil^t. He laughingly described it to me as having all the features of a vio- lent rebellion against a sick-bed. 'I'hc ride was very much a.s the previous one had been. Hut the exertion of ascending a long flight of stairs, which he insisted ujmn, nearly overcame him. He was led to the platform, read his new introductory words, and got along without great difficulty. His voice was melodious, almost as strong as years before. He would not be introduced, saying to the President or to some others that he desired no preliminaries. His manner was indefinably easy. He wore his glasses, often gesticulated appropriately, now and then left his manuscript to add a sentence, or to look across the room, or to rei)eat some significant turn of phrase or thought. W ^ WAI/f Wit I I'M AS AT hATK. '31 There were imnfinKrn in tlic rcciml (»f wliirh he threw his j(rent body back in hiH ( liair, Hpokr with ^rcat vrhcinciKT, riii<)inK head nnd tunc and eye in pcrfcf I a(<(»rd. He |tali(Mitly rfriuained tiiitii l>i. FiirncsH had fiiiishcd his remarket, and then retired an (inosteiitalioiiHly as lie had < oine. lie said iaii^hin^dy the next day, " 'i'lie vi( tnry was lliat I did not ' (hnik ' altogether." The victory was, likewise, that he had again borne lestiinoiiy to the one of two (»r three men, or the (»ne single man, in America with whom he rcf o^;iii/,cd a « onsannninity of nature. 'I'hongli tliese iletails of special events may seem tiresome. rcKarded simply in and for themselves, they serve important ends if the invariable demov . icy of Whilman's manner, nnoer whatever pressure of literary or so( iai display, is to be tmderslood. And while upon this topic I might add that he is the oidy honor- ary mcnd)er of the Contemporary (!lnb. t have been asked whether Whitman does not lack liumor, whether his manners arc not nn(()iith, and kindred things, of which the absurdity is apparent to any one who meets him fat e to face. Kspe( iaily am I aske llip^f <*llp««HMt- hiMUifi P It H rprfrtlft flili prtiirtl tlirfiiljjil fw»i Imiijlupi, Itiit tln-tp wvm Wliiltiiufi, n kln^ mi liii HlliMtP. Ilitf :1 qlllilf vl«(iMr' Ami nlwil lite VMIIMjj ln;tll writf (til fM irhlf lll!lt lit' lt:l(l rttttf flitlll 1 (Ml;llll Nctt Vnlk !1( liiN tM nITt't Wliintiiin rt Itctu'dt. Wliiiiiiriii tfplicil with ilu' snine frtlin ititi thitiiph nnvv Willi :iii initprt'

oili ll in intPlllinli, no lluUtrf III « liniti Mill uttltlly rlllll tlt^Mf Wrlmillr, llililii rill pliipt'l iiinilili(MI'<, lirvPl r;lll«(. He U'ill t;i»t*)y ilchiitc liii M«ii wmk pvph Willi liii iiillm :ii ipic^iiitii. AHpi- Iip piili- li";ln"< rt t»ip» lit! (rvU lie iMiultl to ^ivp llirlil. !Hi' Willi liiolc ot li'sq ilmiqiMH t-clmrtVil, ;iiitl fio tlirit wnvs ;iiipiy fli;il lir l'!iil?» in roiiVfiqiHioiinl |>0\VP1-<<, Of \<^ «V<»P>VP(I, Of i« rol«l. Of Ilr1i< k .mthpntir wokI rt^ fo hi^ loinlilion. " nivp tliPin sill t\\\ lipst irsperts ami hn-e." s;iiil ho. on flip pmis'll tltrm f Mill lif.M Mir fnrf, nHfr n fioft. 1>ll Mirm my ii|iltl» Irencivd, but he will bring them all down. . . . He is a mighty force in this niodern world — this America." He has had varied impulses for and against 'I'olsto!. He thought " Sebastoiml " a masterpiece, while the introspection of "My Confession" and "My Religion" oflended him. The " Kreutzer Sonata" elicited his applause. Amiel he speaks of as a sin-hunter. He has read in Ibsen somewhat, but does not find him attractive. He admits that the meagerness of his knowledge of Hrowning prevents judgment. He speaks of special pcr- tions of Browning's work and credits them with power and native right. Tiiere his criticism stops. Tliough he reads stories and novels least of all, he is frank and young even with these, and perfectly willing to try a new light. He is not set in any tradition whatever. He likes to hear of new books, new actors, new artists. Ho looks tijion himself as only a forerunner, at the best. Why, therefore, may not any day be the dav of best arrival ? He is a new-old man in the greatest sense. His boy- hood still cotiimands, and his entlnisiasms ascend the dizziest heights. He never will disctiss a book save as it asserts a human ajiotheosis and serves human ends. He sees no literary greatness but through the vision o " the race. No man has a more penetrat- ing eye for shams. Jolm lUirroughs once told me that he thought Whitman the best critic in America. 1 know myself the marvellous complexities of style and subject through which he will pierce a straight i)ath to the central purpose. He always ex- presses .idmiration for the great iurists, who cannot be distracted by multitudes of detail. How many fledgeling poets send their songs to him ! I find he cuts a few pages — enough to free the first evidences of music, if there be any — and that pause and silence tell the rest. He looks enough at the poetry of magazines to per- ceive its jirevai)ing lack of flavor and conviction. What seal art, he will ask. but flows in red blood, from love to lover, to unite and consecrate un»lying days ? Yet he is never harsh in special crit- icism. He is vehement in his general principles, but his forgive- WALr WHITMAN AT DATE. »J9 nC99 and affection for individuals are boinidless. He loves books from the side of tiie meciianic. He delights in tlie simple honest face of the picas, enjoys and commends tiie printer who is gen- erous with his ink, discovers and dwells npon any felicitous or skillful (if not sensati(mal) arrangement of page or cover. In short, the integrity of a book throiighont is, he claims, an im- portant mark in the history of an age. He rather affects Knglish printing, and on the whole will not admit that the art has yet given America all its secrets and success all its laurels. He ap- preciates Ingersoll's vivid picture of the average book — " On the title pages of these books you will find the imprint of the great publishers — on the rest of the pages, nothing." If a book have not brains or love it may have good paper and honest bind- ing. These are consolations wlii( h he acce|)ts and comminiicates with rare humor. No one who came npon him frequently and was a witness of all his tastes and moods could fail to perceive and acknowledge his catholicity. Whitman is a great reformer — is in everything non-conventional — yet never reads "reform" books. " Leaves of (Jrass" epit- omizes a thousand philosophies. All the modern reformers find themselves reflected in " Leaves of Clrass," and each reformer thinks his the only reflection, and Whitman therefore specialized. But, including all— anarchist, socialist, democrat, aristocrat — Whitman eludes the claims of all. He does this in his person as in his books. Men are angered because no label will stick to him. A distinguished Irish clergyman came in one summer evening, and his very preliminary — that he had travelled three thousand miles to question Whitman about certain philosophies in " Leaves of (Jrass " — was an ofTence, and made the interview ridiculously brief. Whitman knows little or nothing of the de- tail of industrial movements — of special reforms and social ideals — yet there is V day no more sympathetic appeal than his, spoken freely at all limes to his rich as to his poor friends, for the sanc- tity und elevation of the fireside, for the meting of justice to the masses, for all possible extinction of the tyranny of circumstance. Great capital, emiihasis placed upon possession, the ^c/cr/' of social trappery, invite and receive his disgust. He recognizes the il ' m ^* 140 IN BE WALT WHITMAN. M vicious tendencies of our monopolistic civilization, and with a free hand sketciies its dangers. "What we need is a race enjoy- ing just harvests — not a special few grabbing up the whole product of the field." Whitman never forgets his debt, and that of his ancestors, to Eiias Hicks. He abounds in reference to George Sand, a paper- covered translation of whose " Consuelo," belonging to his mother, is an object of abiding resource and affection. He com- mends the scientific spirit, seeing in Darwin and typical men of his character the clearest eyes of our generation. His whole life / is elevated to such covenants. He makes truce with every man for the best that is in him. He meets laborer, railroader, clerk, merchant, lawyer, artist, on his » ^n ground, and always ith keen, inquisitive inspiration. His slightest reference to mctl -^r- hood is a picture of household, babe and man. His friendships have been the greatest. The valorous history of O'Connor re- mains yet to be told in that sure outline and fu'' color which it demands. Whitman repeats again and again that, whatever his receptivity, that of O'Connor, at least in literature, was vastly greater. There are warm personal relations between him and Tennyson, though they have never seen each other. I remember a letter "rom Tennyson, surrounded by its rib of black, redolent with savor of wind and water, a strain of poetry in itself, which Whitman for a long time carried in his vest pocket. What he has been to John Burroughs, that writer has often told ; but what John Burroughs has been to him, in years of national and personal war and peace, is unwritten history. New years bring new lovers. Dr. Bucke, whose book was published about 1883, Dowden, Symonds, Kennedy, Sarrazin, and Bertz are regular or occasional correspondents. The eloquent voice and pen of Ingersoll have been potent for Wliitman on more than one oc- casion. Whitman writes them his postals or brief letters in a style simple, frank, and full of affection. These messages abound in the gentle cadent confidences of love — in flashes of poetic feeling and glowing peaks of sunny thought ; but they are never epigrammatic. He is not in the least demonstrative, never ex- cessively applauding, never making superfluous calls for devotion. WALT WHITMAN AT DATE. 141 He never apologizes. He is not afraid to discuss the weaknesses of his friends, and never slow to point out " the much that Walt Whitman mu^t answer for." He treats his household as by a holy law. Mrs. Davis, his housekeeper, never finds him indiffer- ent, condescending, or morose. His spirit ignores all petty household worries. Warren Fritzinger, who attends rpon Whit- man, and is provided for through a fund statedly replenished by a group of Whitman's lovers, and who finds his service a delight, attests that in whatever hour or necessity. Whitman's most in- timate humor is to the last degree composed and hopeful. In his relations with his neighbors. Whitman, while homely and affec- tionate, always stops short of familiarity. He sends the sick among them offerings of fruit, or of reading matter, or any minor commodities which brighten afflicted days. One of his delights is in the liberal distribution of the papers, par phlets and books that so plentifully arrive. To England, to Germany, to Australia, to our own West, to institutions of charity, to Bucke, to Bur- roughs, to Kennedy, to Mrs. O'Connor, go the informal re- minders of his remembrance — always the particular oaper to the one in whom he thinks it will find the best response, I have a large collection of papers, manuscripts and letters which he has at different times given me. I am often the bearer of gifts to the "boys" in Philadelphia. He will get his magazine pieces duplicated, in order that he may send copies to his family ; and he will similarly use large numbers of newspapers containing significant references to himself. Thus he is saved the burden of a large correspondence, since his friends will understand by such tokens that he has them near at heart, however the labors of letter-writing may, in these days, go unperformed. Whatever the clouds that gather, the spiritual Whitman re- mains undisturbed. There is no fall in sweetness, no diminu- tion of vital affection, no reduction in will. His criticism is as keen as when it spoke its first word. He remarks a break in visual clearness, that his memory has recently been less faithful, and that his hearing has lost in delicacy. The quality of his work defies the charge of deterioration, but he can by no means do as much, or work with the same fire and intensity, as in the past. fi" !j X4a IN BE WALT WHITMAN. I 1 f I Application wearies him. Yet he is occupied the larger part of every day. Though he outlines and discusses many unaccom- plished plans, I notice that the defect is not in his plans but in their issue — that the body will not readily respond. He is taken out regularly in his chair, perhaps to the outskirts of the town, where he may scan the free sky, the shifting clouds, watch the boys at base-ball, or breathe in drowsily — " for reasons," he would say — the refreshing air; or he is guided to the river, with its boats and tides and revelation of sunset. In winter his sensi- tiveness to the cold is apt to house him, or force his goings-forth into the earlier hours, near mid-day. There was a time when he spent many noons and evenings on the ferry-boats, but he is disinclined in these later times to face crowds and confusion and questioners, and therefore seeks less-travelled ways. Whitman's life is p'-actically spent in one room of his house. I have already alluded to it : a second-story room, about twenty feet square, facing north. He likens it to " some big old cabin for a kinky sailor — captain of a ship." We see there two old tables — one a Wiiitman heirloom, having more than a hundred years of history, and another made in Brooklyn by his father. Scarcely one piece of modern furniture appears. There is a wood stove, in which he keeps up a rousing fire in cold seasons; a solid, uncreaking bed, plain and old ; some heavy boxes, in which he stores copies of his own books ; an ample rattan-seated chair with timber-like rockers and arms, large as ship's spars, with a wolf-skin thrown over its back when winter appears. He sits here— reads, scribbles, ruminates. His writing is always done on his knee, a tablet being his constant companion. Around him are the books which have been named and others, spread upon chairs, tables, and floor, '/otters, papers, magazines, manuscripts, memoranda slips, are scattered in greatest confusion. There are certain volumes here of vhich he says he " reads lingeringly and never tires." His tables are never without flow- ers. As he can walk only by the aid of furniture, cane, and wall, he has abandoned any attempt at apparent order and what strict housekeepers would call neatness. But he likes his room well ventilated. His tastes, habits, looks, show more plainly in WALT WHITMAN AT DATE. U3: old age his farmer and Holland ancestry, with their unartificial and Quaker tendencies. He constantly asserts that no sketch of him would hit the- mark that left out the principal object of his whole life, namely,, the composition and finish of his tnagnum opus, the poems, con- sistently with their own plan. This has been his aim, work and thought from boyhood, and the proper rounding of it has become the joy and resolve of his old age. All the later writings show how unfailingly this purpose controls. Read the concluding poems in " November Boughs," which we thought would be the last, then' "Old Age's Ship and Crafty Death's," "To my 71st year," " The Voice of Death," and latest and perhaps most wonderful of all, " To the Sunset Breeze," as indicating how this giant man,, sitting here in the freedom which no physical disorder can destroy, is establisning a very heaven of purposeful stars. He has pictures of his friends about him. The mantelpiece, the walls, even the tables, have these reminders. Several pictures of Whitman, made in oil, by Sidney Morse, are, or have been, upon the walls. Dr. Johnston took one of them home with him to Eng- land, In the hall are copies of the two Morse busts. Upon the door, or sofa, against the wall, on nails and under papers, is. his clothing. An elegant, never-used, dusty, brass lamp is set in. the corner. His evening light is either from the broken-chim- neyed drop on one of the tables, or from a gas-jet in another part of the room. The room adjoining, in which his attendant sleeps,, has likewise its loaded bookshelves and overflowing boxes. Friends are surprised to find him living in such simplicity. But this room, with its homely liberty, gives him all there is of house- hold sacredness and content. There is probably no other study like it in the world. It is rather the den of a newspaper office — the odd and end of a household — yet a royal chamber, too, such as this world cannot companion to-day. Here is the field which invites the rally of friends. He is on no throne. But his dig- nity and placid courtesy possess all who approach. The world- seeks him in this spot, to forget instantly all the environing^, humbleness, and to know the soul by which the place is in- habited. ♦ i ! I'l ': M4 IN RK WALT wnrntAtf, All the features «)f Whitman's fare siigncst inception ami ani- plitMUf. Ilenre the failure of Alexamlcr to make of his pinched and fuiinalixed Whitman anything which can have value. Hence the explanation why Kakins, in that giorinuB head founracticnlly a complete collection of Whitman por- traits. Their numlier and range are enormous. Almost every photographer of nc te in the East has been tempted to make tome trial. Il'/f /- r WIIITMA N AT DA TK. »45 wliich gave It ImckKmnnd, its rcnli nation, the splendid proportions of its benefit, Ingersoirstinhesitntinggcnero.iity.nre hidden factors of which few know. The tittcrance itself Whitnnn regards as in many resjiccts the nioRt significan* in the stormy career of •• Leaves of (truss." Synioiids alway«, addresses him as " Mas- ter," and writes him the warmest lot'crs. 'I'hc host of his callers is great — every day some. John Hurroiighs comes down once a year, in the fall, from his estate, to spend several days In Cam- den. Whitman's family are all more or less distant. He has a sister in Vermont, another on Long Island, a brother, George, in Iturlington, New Jersey. Mis brother "Jeff," who recently died in St. Louis, was an engineer of note, dear to Whitman, who trr oiled with him in earlier years. Records may be foimd in "Specimen Days" in mention of " JcfT," to whom Whitman has just written loving and memorable words of tribute for an engineering journal. Whitman has instinctive reverence for women, always address- ing and approaching them with gentle courtesy. And women reciprocate the tender respect. Women, who are first to wonder at his gospel of sex, are first to accept it, too, and least willing of all to yield its sacred im|)ort. And with their intuitions awake and sensitive, they early realize how Whitman's concrete net reflects the word he has spoken. No man is so loved of strong women. It is happiness to hear him talk of " the mothers of America"— how our future is involved with their symmetrical de- velopment and high faith. His atmosphere breathes composure, power, sweetness, rever- ence, the background of all moral force. He rarely speaks of morality, yet is profoundly moral in all that he does and says. He puts the brightest face on all he sees. His discussion of cur- rent vices is strong and denunciatory — yet unfailing in its look forward. I never know him to strike a note of despair. His darkest pictures leave a spot for hope — issue a sunniness and assurance. As between the final poetic utterance of Whittier and Tennyson he rather preferi."*d the first, as having a more un- questionable atmosphere of joy. Whitman is often spoken of as " queer " or *• eccentric." He 10 Q. ,**%-*- It 146 IN RK WALT WHITMAN. r }. s \ ■ \ is neither, except in the sense that must always distinguish indi- viduality. He delights in free speech, gravity and purity. He has the clean instincts which prevail over and explain grossness and squalor, whether of life or voice — evil narrative or cheer- less philosophy. He delights to tell and to hear stories. His sense of the humorous is strong. He discusses his contempo- raries with the utmost freedom, yet with the utmost sweetness. Any just report of his conversation would reveal the simple power and lambent reach of his thought. I know no great ^vent to pass by him unnoticed. All the world's afTairs are his affairs. He loves the transactions of big conferences — of scientists, mechanics, laborers, engineers. He enjoys all that tends to enlarge the scope ci man's hope, any- thing that adds to the generosity of ou. national example, anything that in religion or society oi politics is for breadth and solidarity. He is intensely attracted toward the expand- ing movements of labor and the serious outcome they seem to invoke. He disdains patriotism in the common sense — looks to America to lead new ways rather than to halt till all are ready to come. He is lame, he suffers pain and physical decadence, he knows that by gradual retreats life is leaving him ; yet his light that burns on the height, and his loving and capacious dream and carol for America and for the world, are strong as in youth, and seem sustained from exhaustless deposits. His amenity is invariable. His respect for man as man is infinite. It is the first note and the last of his song — its dawn and sunset. Day by day he sends forth some new message to the world — some poem, some bit of penetrating prose — written on the oddest pieces of paper utilized in the history of literature. These are leaves of immortal life. He writes a large hand, uses a mam- moth Falcon pen, will dip in none but the blackest ink ; he will not punctuate by the rule of schools, will not adopt the phrase- ology of taste, will not rhyme like the poets, will not perfume and carpet his study, will not accept household and architecture as substitutes for virtue and freedom ; he will not reverence the mechanic in man more than the king in man, but the man in man, be his dress or titles what they may ; he will not confuse WALT WHITMAN AT DATE. M7 uish indi- rity. He grossness or cheer- ries. His :ontempo- sweetness. iple power . All the ons of big leers. He hope, any- I example, or breadth lie expand- ey seem to e — looks to II are ready decadence, im; yet his d capacious strong as in His amenity e. It is the set. the world — m the oddest These are uses a mam- ink ; he will the phrase- not perfume architecture ■everence the ^ the man in 1 not confuse . uses with ends, will not repulse the criminal and invite the saint, will not defer to the humor of magazinists, will not minimize his nature in order that conventior may profit, wilt not travel the polite earth for fame or gain. These denials are thick, every one, with affirmation : for all that Whitman denies is denied out of respect for that primal self which to-day utters scripture and to-morrow will pulse in the life of the race. What men need to know of him is his wonderful; simplicity and capaciousness — that manuscript, house, room,, nurse, pen, chirography, friendships, speech, all point to im- pulses, means, and ends, unusual and great. It is the mark of a new entrance upon the stage. It is the sign of man to men thai they must come from the cover of goods — that the hideous mockeries of society carry death and dishonor in their plausible splendor — that the summoner himself is the first to demonstrate that possessions, which the world mistakes for the necessity of power, are simple leaves on the wind when a strong man arrives. Whitman is not America except as America is universal. He is democracy — and democracy has no geographical word. He has taught literature that it is not to tell a life but to be one; and when priest and prophet, editor and lawyer, mechanic and tradesman, have learned this lesson, equity will prevail, and the now obscured stars in the moral heavens will stand forth in honor of the restoration. M Wait's stronj; jMiirit* arc his linmtl, free, flowing discourse of lifej hit coniinaiul over liir(;o prospects of life; liis vi({()r; his slrikinK ilown tu deep siaiuiariU; the roll of loine of his grriiul old lines, some of them holding nmrc thnn volumes. There is much iniiierfectif)n in his work. In fact, hut Utile Is perfect. l,fi US s,iy it while there is yet opi><>rtunity. A time will con»e when Walt Whitman — the so long ignored (except liy n few, among whom were those who scorned, insulted, persecuted him), afterwards tlie hutl of the irrepressible w itling : — nay, perhaps the day is coMing fast when it will be heresy, prcsump- lion, folly, to suggest that this Wa't Whitman is not |X!rfect and complete. The man or woman who wouhl read Walt Whitman and carry away evil is worthy only of pity. The (jucstion of morality is not depenencer, we are more vigorous after Carlyle, more healthy in reading Walt Whilmon. Arthur Lynch : "AfoJtrH Authors.** (148) "THE GOOD GRAY POET;" SUPPLEMENTAL Br IflLl.lAM IHH'Cl.AS O'CONNOK. [Tliis unpul)li»heil letter l>y the Inlc William Dmij-lnn O'Connor, founJ ninoii^ iiis |iii|icrx ut hin dcntli, wni dntcil January jj, iMdd, ami was evi- dently wriitcn in (lie heat of (he controversy (hat wait armi^ed liy his faniou* pnni|ihli't of the prcviouH Septend)er, in which for the lirst (inte and l>y hi* hanil Whitman appeared as " The (fOod (Iray I'oct." The Harlan episoile referred to in the letter is too jjenerally known, and too frecpicnily leferrcd ti> in this vohinic, to need repetition here. O'Connor's pamphlet is to-day nccet- gihie in Doctor Hucke's Life of Walt Whitman, in which volume it is printeil as an independent chapter, in connection with an introductory letter, marked by the same power and character, contributed supplementally in l88j. 'I'he letter herewith given was written to the Iloston 'l'>,xn$ciif>t. For reasons of which we are not cognizant it was never printed.— TllK Kditors.] Your notice of "The Good Gray Poet," wliich 1 have only recently received, appears to be duly itupressed with the fiict that I did not try to cast my pamphlet in that placid style of Addi- son which, I see, the latest hij;h Oxford criticism in the person of Matthew Arnold considers stiperior to the style of Jeremy Taylor. Your notice is also obviotisly penetrated with the con- viction that I am one of those tasteless and extravagant beings who to the vindication of an angnst poet, long nnd deeply wronged, bring nothing of that Attic tranquillity of spirit whose highest tritjtnph j)erhaps appears •-> the perfect composure of the Price Current. Levity aside, however, I thank you for what you say of my little work. Doubtless you praise it far more and censure it much less than it deserves. But I cannot feel an equal satisfaction at the cold and slight- ing, almost justificatory, tone in which you treat the action of the Secretary of the Interior, and as the opinion of the Tran- script is valued by me, permit me in all kindness and courtesy to ('49) "#"%-*- ISO IX HE WALT WHITMAN. ■observe, that I do not think that your apprehension of my posi- tion in respect to his conduct, is either clear or fair. Let me tell you why. The main view my pamphlet takes of this matter, directly and I think justly i.onnects it with the interests of intellectual lib- erty and the rights of authors in this age. It is an age when the dark spirit, born of the narrow mind and rotten heart, which so often compelled the richest and boldest meanings of the great literature if medieval Europe to skulk in enigma and innuendo, and which followed thought everywhere with the rack, the fagot and the axe, no longer fronts its victims in the robes of the in- quisitor or the bloody jerkin of the torturer, but wears the re- spectable black coat of the dull divine or the office-jacket of the ass reviewer. Hegel denounced as "an obscene bird of the night," and made odious by critical interpretation; Kant mud- balled witli epithets, and his thought screened thickly with lies ; Swedenborg, with purity as of the darkling dawn, assailed as the apostle of lechery; Voltaire coffined in slander; Humboldt labelled " infidel ; " Fourier advertised into abomination as the high pi iest of anarchy and brothelry — these are triumphs almost worthy of the bolder hour when, livid with hatred, that spirit of the pit tore handsfull of pages from hundreds of copies of Mon- taigne, shrieked through the Puritan at Shakspere or through the Papist at Rabelais, and gave Campanella to the rack and Bruno to the fire. What for his only too bounded but all-noble thought, turns out old Comte from his professor's chair to sub- sist on the charity of scholars? What for a historic speculation on the gentle god of old Judea, sends forth Renan amidst a howl of priests from the French University? What assaults with printed yells Colenso, Parker, Maurice, Strauss, Buckle, Powell, Darwin, Lyell, Huxley, Lecky, Mill? What gives a gratified audience to the hammerer of tin foil from gold proverbs, as he maligns Goethe and defames Emerson? What derides as a crazed fanatic Wendell Phillips, scholar, statesman, the cheva- lier of our politics? What treats with social dishonor the highest heart, the subtlest intellect, this day in England, the noble and gracious lady who wrote " Romola ? " What draws i "THE GOOD GRAY POET:" SUPPLEMENTAL. 151 infamy like a curtain across the fame of the first woman in France, great as Sophocles, George Sand? What poisons public opinion against every noble thinker who aims to greatly benefit mankind? The operations of that dark Janus, still strong on earth, bigot on one side and on the other prude I All thought, all life, suffers from it. Here is the cancer we so gingerly call "The Great Social Evil"— ghastly, mournful, perilous to society; and you know that such is the mental narrowness and nasty nicety of the times that it cannot even be discussed, though discussion must precede remedy. What pub- lisher would undertake the Shakspere Drama, if written in our age ? Under the terror of our literary and social conventions, what writer could dare project upon the mind a figure so great, so real as Sancho Panza ? Literature is dwarfed, degraded : under the spell of "intelligent criticism," "public opinion," " good taste," the author is no longer man, but mannikin. I will not offend by pointing at our own writers, but look at Dickens. With genius enough to have rivalled Cervantes, warned back, he shrinks from his possibilities, shrinks from verities, portrays all manners except those Shakspere dared to portray ; will tell you in conversation all about the devil lusts of the original of Quilp, but in the book never put;; one touch to the character that re- minds you of the grand and absolute fidelity to truth of the hand that created Cloten, or Thersites, or Caliban. Contrast as a presentation of a man possessed with passion, Bradley Headstone in " Our Mutual Friend " with Claude TroUo in Hugo's " Notre Dame." Which is real? Which is true? What influence for- bade the English ncvcli':^ to give to his creation the life-like reality, the fiery flesh and blood of the archdeacon of Hugo ? Look at Thackeray, born a giant satirist, gifted with the divine power to make villains tremble ; the charmed circle of convf.n- tion is drawn around him ; he shrinks under the fatal magic into a burly pigmy ; drop)s the tremendous knout of great satire for a gentleman's riding whip; flinches, spares, moderates; never strikes any vices, any crimes, that one may not decently name, though these are the worst ; turns away from the dreadful massed miseries and wrongs and shames of England ; becomes a beater .•'It.' , ' ^T TTT .-^."-Ji. IS* IN RE WALT WHITMAN. \ of dogs not merely dead, but rotten, like the Georges — a beater of poodle lords and wiffet flunkeys — but a sparer of the huge, powerful, cruel, bloody bull dog — British government and society ; and at last, when all is done, is nothing but the admir- able melancholy broken torso that might have been the English Juvenal. Look at Tennyson ; restrictions are put upon him, and with the highest endowments, he submits to them ; he deserts the mighty revolutionary ideas of the nineteenth century for verbal color and music ; while America is locked in the death-grapple of civil war for them all, and the noblest minds of England are one with her cause, and Lancashire starves in silence lest her ban- ner should stagger in the battle, he, a poet, sits behind his roses at Fariingford, a secessionist. And as a poet, yielding to the im- posed contiitions of his time, he who should be one of the brave breed that make men in love with liberty turns frnni the actual, rude, incomparable beauty of Nature in its totality, to mirror in his verse a selected and assorted universe ; becomes the poet of the garden instead of the globe, becomes the poet of the gentleman and the lady instead of the man and the woman ; and, in fine, is only saved by the necessities of his genius from being merely the prince of confectioners. Nearly every great book expurgated — Eschylus, Juvenal, Tacitus, Lucretius, Shaks- pere, Plutarch, Dant6, the Bible, accused — yes, actually accused this very month by gentlemen who undertake in the public journals to shove aside Aristotle and Longinus and teach me criticism — accused of " loose writing," of -'improprieties," of " indecency," and expurgated : — the artistic, the moral unity of their impression thus destroyed, the educational purpose and power, the liberating and enlarging influence, residing just as much, I insist, and every thoughtful man knows, in their " in- decent," as in their "decent " passages, thus frustrated. Man, nature, society, things as they are, fearlessly reported no longer : letters warned into omission, hiatus, concealment, silence, for- bidden to afi"ord any rich or ample lesson ; the arriere pensee on every page ; thought limping in shackles ; a mean moralism sup- planting science ; the writers dwarfs and fops and slaves ; the few who dare covered with obloquy ; literature on all sides en- "THE GOOD GRAY POET:" SUPPLEMENTAL. 153 couraged to please rather than serve, and bidding fair to sink to the uses of candy — this is the picture ! You know, I presume, the recent angry mutter that flew around your own city wiien Ticknor & Fields ventured to print the superb Gulistan of Saadi without expurgation. The very lexicons are expurgated ; Roget's Thesaurus : the Dictionary (incubus). Now at such a time as this, when "good taste," "public opinion," "intelli- gent criticism" have contrived, one would think, sufficient dis- couragements and obstacles to the free action of conscience and genius — when literature is deprived of the conditions necessary to develop it into greatness — the head of a great Department of Government in America, taking one step further, sets the bold example of direct persecution. French tyranny vacating the chairs of Comte and Renan ; English theologic bias trying to push Colens iv\>m his bishopric, vile acts as they are, have yet a certain propriety. For as respects such places, it is tacitly understood that orthodoxy is the condition of occupancy. But the utter impertinence, the audacity and novelty of the Secretary of the Interior's action, promotes it to be captain of all opinions and acts that affix penalties to authorship. A poet, acting as an exemplary public officer, is deprived of his employment as a punishment for his poems. Poetry, if it attempts to rise above conventions to the freedom of the great masters, is a penal offence. That is M". Harlan's position. And you seem to- think this a trifle — the "mere loss of an office" — not con- nected with intellectual interests or the rights of authors — not worth making a stir about. Suppose widening from a solitary act it becomes the general rule. Tell me now how free letters will fare when authors are punished for freedom ! Or does an act only become censurable when it becomes general ? Do you deal with the thief when he has picked one pocket, or do you wait till he has picked fifty? Suppose this infamous invasion of the liberty of literature had been made on the person of Long- fellow. Mr. Editor, you think my pamphlet excessive — extrav- agant ; but in such a case, you would exhaust the capacities of language to denounce the outrage ! You know you would ! The second view my pamphlet presents is this : ) '»S4 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. Here is Walt Whitman — a man who has lived a brave, simple, clean, grand, manly life, irradiated with all good works and •offices to his country and his fellow-men — intellectual service to the doctrines of liberty and democracy, personal service to slaves, prisoners, the erring, the sick, the outcast, the poor, the wounded and dying soldiers of the land. He has written a book, wel- comed, as you know, by noble scholars on both sides of the At- lantic ; and this, for ten years, has made every squirt and scoun- drel on the press fancy he had a right to insult him. Witness the recent editorial in the Chicago Republican. Witness the newspapers and literary journals since 1856, spotted with squibs, pasquinades, sneers, lampoons, ferocious abuse, libels. The lying jabber of the boys, drunkards and libidinous persons privi- leged to control many of the public prints, has passed as evidence •of his character; the ridiculous opinions of callow brains, the re- fraction of filthy hearts, have been received as true interpreta- tions of his volume. All this is notorious. You know it, I sup- pose, as well as I. And finally after the years of defamation, -calumny, private affronts, public contumely, my pamphlet refers to — after the social isolation, the poverty, the adversity which an evil reputation thus manufactured for a man and following him into every detail of his life, must invol /e — Mr. James Harlan, Secretary of the Interior, lifting the charge of autorial obscenity into the most signal consequence, puts on the top-stone of out- rage by expelling him from office with this brand upon his name. The press spreads the injury. It was telegraphed from Washing- ton to the Eastern and Western papers. It was made the sub- ject of insulting paragraphs in some journals and of extended and actionable abuse in others. Now all this, too, you seem to consider of little or no importance. You think ten years of in- jurious calumny crowned with this conspicuous outrage, offers no "fit occasion for such an apotheosis of the victim." I under- take to say that if any Chadband plus McSycophant had been Managing Director of the India House when Charles Lamb was a clerk there, and had expelled the gentle Londoner for the al- leged "indecency" of his published defc.ice of the licentious j)lays of Vanbrugh and Wycherly, there would have been a hum- "THE GOOD GRAY POET:" SUPPLEMENTAL. simple, >rks and ervice to to slaves, wounded jok, wel- f the At- id scoun- Witness tuess the h squibs, s. The )ns privi- evidence IS, the re- iterpreta- it, I sup- faniation, ilet refers which an ving him I Harlan, obscenity le of out- his name. Wash in g- the sub- extended u seem to ars of in- , offers no I under- had been Lamb was "or the al- licentious ;n a hum- »55 ming time that day through Temple Bar and a', around St. Paul's, and literature to this hour would be in commotion about it. And if Allan Cunningham, or any other friend of Lamb, had chosen to embalm the subject in a pamphlet, considering the offence as a culmination of the malice of the "scoundrel re- viewers," as De Quincey calls them, from whom ..ven Lamb suf- fered ; treating it in its proper relation to the rights and uses of letters; extolling the delicate brilliance of his friend's genius, as I have the grandeur and immensity of mine ; and flinging back upon the monkey malignity of the defamers the glowing record of those virtues which cast the light that never was on sea or shore on Elia's grave, — I don't believe Coleridge would have thought it " no fit occasion for such an apotheosis of the victim," or coldly belittled the act of the insolent official who had vio- lated every propriety of the administration of a public office, and trampled on the rights of thought and the liberties of authors, that he might punish a writer for his writing. Pardon my frankness. I do not mean to be rude, but I can- not help some warmth of feeling on this matter. Here, in this city, from persons of the highest station, from the bench, from the bar, from members of Congress, from private citizens, I have heard Mr. Harlan's act spoken of only with amazement and utter condemnation. It has been the same everywhere. When I was in New England in October, no person with whom I conversed on this mi ^-jr manifested other than astonished and indignant feeling. vVhen in Ticknor & Fields' parlor, I mentioned it to a gentleman, one of your personal friends and of your own im- mediatp circle, I remember how he changed color and sat down, like one incredulous of the tale. He could hardly believe that such a thing had been done. This is a fair specimen of the just and honorable emotion which the knowledge of this act has everywhere excited. I cannot therefore but feel surprised at your treatment of it. Wh t is thought of "Leaves of Grass" is of comparatively little moment. To you, the book may be even below criticism. To me, it is one of those great works which only the brave can undertake, which only the few can comprehend, but which, \ SB3Wmi'Uy if II " } 156 ly RE WALT WHITMAN. nevertheless, penetrate nations and ages, inform them with their own life and make them remembered. But whatever its rank, its author deserves the equal treatment due to every writer of an honest book, and any wrong done to him in his autorial char- acter concerns every true member of the literary guild. In no sense can I allow this to be a matter of small importance. If you put it on personal grounds, let me remind you that to a poor, unpopular and almost proscribed poet, what you call the " mere loss of an office " might be of the utmost worldly consequence, involving even the plunge into utter ;ienury or want. But I scorn to rest the case even on a consideration so grave as this. Admitting that this were a little thing, a man, high in place, has wantonly violated the great principle of intellectual liberty, and the violation of that principle can never be a little thing. The infraction of a noble doctrine is not to be measured by the smallness of the circumstance, and half the battles of liberty have raged around events trivial but for their connection with some great cause. If this Methodist Secretary had expelled a clerk for being an Episcopalian, no one would think of reducing it to the character of an ordinary dismissal, speak of it as the " mere loss of an office," or in any way consider it of slight im- portance. It would be deemed, and justly deemed, a public violation of the sacred principle of religious liberty. The right of an author to publish an honest book without being deprived of his bread, is at least of equal sanctity with the right of a man to worship free of penalty at an Episcopalian temple. That right, simple and commonplace as it is, has been bought by cen- turies of agony and struggle, by the toil of the learned and the blood of the brave. Never while I live, if I can help it, shall it be violated in the person of the humblest man or woman that holds a pen. Never shall I consider its violation as else than an outrage, demanding the most serious and general public attention and the most signal condemnation. Not one word, therefore, of the claim you deride, do I abate. I say to-day, I say to-mor- row, I shall say forever, that this act of Mr. James Harlan — the disgraceful expulsion of a noble author from the employment which gave him the means of life, solely and only for the publi- I 'THE (. WD GRAY POET:" SUPPLEMENTAL. 157 cation years ago of a volume of verse — is a violation as gross and audacious as it is novel, of the doctrine of liberty which it is the main purpose of the American polity to enshrine and defend. As such, it rises to the dignity of a public concern. As such, undulled by apathy, undaunted by ridicule, again I commend it to every one who guards the freedom of letters and the liberty of thought throughout the civilized world. It is the first time in America that an author has been punished for his authorship : as far as I can have it so, it shall be the last. In i88i, T. W. Rolleston sent Walt Whitman his translation of the Encheiridiovi of Epictetus. In the front of the small book, under date 1888, Whitman has written : " Have had this little volume at hand or in my hand often all these years- "ve -cad '. over and over and over." The following aie a few of the nuir - p.-'Siages strongly marked and underlined by him : " It is not things in msel .e trouble and confuse our ni ids." but the opinions held about them, which " Wish not ever to seem wise, and if ever you shall find yourself accounted to be somebody, then mistrust yourself. For know that it is not an easy matter to make a choice that shall agree both with external things and with nature, but it must needs be that he who is careful of the one shall neglect the other." " In going about, as you are careful not to step upon a nail or twist your foot, even so be careful that you do no injury to your own essential part. And if we observe this we shall the more safely undertake whatever we hav» to do." ('58) WALT WHITMAN. By GABRIEL SARRAZIN: Trantlattd from thi Frtneh by HARRISON S. MORRIS. of the te 1888, ny hand Uowing by him : 1, which counted an easy nd with neglect ist your iai part, we have / At the moment when, in western Europe, the educated and* literary classes are allowing themselves to become inoculated' with the subtle poison of pessimism ; when, in Russia, a nation of so grand a future, the Slav spirit gropes in the midst of Utopias and contradictions, mingling tendencies toward conquest and supremacy with the idea of a mission at once humanitarian and mystical — at the self-same moment a triumphant voice is raised on the other side of the Atlantic. In this chant of a last- ing and almost blinding luminary, no hesitations, no despairs; the present and the past, the universe and man, free from all . concealment, confront with a serene superiority the bitter smile of the analyst. There is no need for us any longer to search | / for ourselves, because we have found ourselves; and from tbi- ' midst of its period of development one nation at least points °. its coming puissance reflected in the mirror of the future. The man who thus announces himself — himself and his race — brings- at the same time a word absolutely new, a form instinctively au- dacious, novel, overstepping all literary conventions. He- creates a rhythm of his own, less rigid than verse, more broken than prose — a rhythm adapted to the movement of his emotion, hastened as it hastens, precipitated, abated, and led into repose. At times he will utter almost an Hebraic chant, quitted anon as he enlarges or abandons himself to the theme. But, as he freely uses the forms of others as well as his own, the habitual employ^ ment of the artifices of literary writing is, to him, entirely un- known. If he makes literature, it is, openly and without shame, as an author ignorant of research and artistic vainglory. The.- ('59) % Xj i6o IN RE WALT WHITMAN. word literateur, in the sense it assumes amoiigst the older civiliza- tions, cannot in any manner be applied to him. His writings come forih glowing and direct, with an immediate significance and as if spoken. As those ot the ancient prophet poets his words arc addressed to the assembled people. The mr.n with whose biography we design to terminate this study {La Renaissance de la Poisie Anglaise, 1 798-1 889) is a Yankee named Walt Whitman. Not only is he not illiterate, but he has read all that we have. He has seen, besides, more than we have, and more distinctly ; he has travelled in the Union, and his poet's eye has marvelled at the thousand details of virgin nature and a young civilization. Lectures and spectacles have been but a leaven, a suggestion ; they have only stimulated and nourished the vast syntliesis, instinctive and philosophic, whose germ lay in his original mind. It is that synthesis of the Cosmos, framework and substance of his |. entire work, which we essay to outline in our first chapter. The second will be devoted to. his views purely American and patri- otic. The third will give an idea of the astonishing freshness of the book, and, lastly, the fourth, in recounting the history of this masculine life and personality so simply epic, will bring into view conceptions and horizons which, resembling in no- wise those we are familiar with in Europe, are none the less large and comforting. I.-PANTHEISM. The poetry of Walt Whitman proclaimed at the outset com- plete pantheism, with no extenuation, and with all its conse- quences (see "Song of the Universal"). At first there was an outcry. Shelley himself had- dreamed of sanctifying evil — had declared it the necessary brother of good and its equal. One may perhaps be permitted to say that evil envelopes good as the fertilizer encloses and nourishes the germ of the flower ; but to place the pedestal of Satan next that of the Divine — what spirit escaped from the nether regions has committed that audacity ? And worst of all, most incomprehensible of all, the heart of the miscreant whence springs this blasphemy seems to WALT WIIITMAlf. l6l have wings, joyous, light, which palpitate in ecstasy. In brief, and with the conilition that one possesses an idea of the senti- ment of the sublime, the explanation was simple enough, and to understand it one had but to regard the love of the great Yankee for the Cosmos — that love at once pious, profound, overflowing, ecstatic, strong as an intoxication and as a possession. Neitheri in the dawn of civilizations in the Orient, tliat region of mysticism, | nor amongst the most exalted Catholics of Spain and Italy, has a spirit ever more profoundly lost itself in God than has Walt Whit- man's. For him, Nature and God are one. God is the universe, or, to speak more exactly, the mystery at once visible and hidden in the universe. Wholly unlike Carlyle, who has been thought to possess traits of resemblance with Walt Whitman, but who, before the unknown divinity, could only prostrate himself and tremble with a holy terror, Walt Whitman, in his confident and lofty piety, is the direct inheritor of the great Oriental mystics, Bralima, Proclus, Abou Said. In Europe he may be compared with the German metaphysicians, disciples and developers of Spinoza ; more than one trait unites him to Herder, to Hegel, to Schelling — above all, to the bizarre, chaotic and sublime Jean Paul. From these to him — Jean Paul apart, and noting that Whitman differs from Richter by a total lack of humor — there is still all the distance from the philosopher to the poet, the doctor to the dervish : more candid and more in- tense than they, the Yankee bard abandons himself with ecstasy mto the avlored hands of the Universal Being. Living in happy harmony with all the aspects of the Cosmos, even the most sombre, he exclaims at the close of " Leaves of Grass," his great collection of poems : " And henceforth I will go celebrate anything I see or am, . . . and deny nothing." And then, in effect, he says : God being in all things and everywhere, how can I help loving Him in all things and everywhere ; and because the unbeliever dares judge of Him from seeing a part of one of His faces, should the believing heart follow the pitiful example? Jacob Boehm held evil to be the promoter of good — the good of strife and victory. But this position is always open to dispute, and Walt Whitman never disputes. II II i6j ly fiK WALT WIIITMAS. Let us o\vin at hnzunl " Leaves of Clrn.ss " and (|uute : "Swiftly aiiiHc niul »|ir(nil Aroiiixl ine the pence antl knowlc(l|;c lliat pain nil (lie iirKiiiiirnl of the enilh, An contain' d, I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine nhuiit their condition, They do not lie nwakc in the ilnrk and weep for their sinv, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to (tod, Not one is dissnlisficd, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, Not one kneels to another , , .** . " And I say to mankind. Be not curious about Ood, For I who am curious al)out each am not cuiious about God, (No ar ny of termi can say how much I nm at peace about God and about death.) I hear and behold God in every object, yet underi^tand God not in the least. Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself. Why should I wish to see God better than this day ? I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment theii, In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass, I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God'i name. And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go, Others will punctually come for ever and ever." : H le women my acid and iclf- ,nia of owning lod and about ITALT WHITMAN. 1 63 •• Ah more than any prir«t f ) «oul we loo believe In God, Hut will) tl)c tnyilery of (iutl we dare not dally." ' «' An fur me, (Jorn, itorniy, nmid ihcw vehement dnyi.) 1 t have the idea of all, and am all and bc-lieve in all, I believe materialiim in true and ipiritualittm i* true, I reject no part." And finally, in a piece particularly sitrnificant, which has bcerP reiuarlccd by all readers of the poet, after having opposed in a violent (itsliion Ormiizd to Ahrinian, they giving, in two long stanzas, their sentiments and the dcvelopiucnls of their rOles, the first whispers the burden : *' My chniity hu* no death — my wiiidom diei not, neither early nor late, and my sweet love — " and the secontl the reply : " Aloof, dinHatinfiod, ploliing revolt, comrade of CiiminaU, . . . Cfiual with any, rcid txi any, nur time nur cliange thall ever change me ur my words " — until, at last, they are reconciled in the final synthesis: " Santa Spirito, breather, life, Deyond the li(;ht, li[;hter than li(;hl, Iteyond the fl;xme» of htll, joyous, jeajiing easily above hell, Heyond Paradise, perfumed solely with mine own perfume. Including all life on earth, touching, including (jod, including Saviour and Satan, Ethereal, pervading all, (for without me what were all ? what were God ?) E»sence of forms, life of the real identities, permanent, positive, (namely the unseen,) Life of the great round world, the sun and stars, and of man, I, the general soul. Here the square finishing, the solid, T the most solid, Breathe my breath also through these songs."* Surely, I repeat, as regards thought this pantheism is not new, and wc have but to examine it a little closer to recognize under * See still other passages of absolute pantheism : that which pp. 46-47 begins with " What blurt is this"— in the Soni,' of Myself— VkW^ read to section 2j; and the piece entitled All is Truth, p. 361. II i64 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. the mystic tide of vjrds the theory of the identity of contradic- tions announced by Hegel, the greatest of philosophers according to Walt Whitman, ("Specimen Days," pp. 174-177.) Advocating the same theory, we have M. Renan. With Hegel the conception appears to me but a cold light, and with M. Renan only an ignis fatuus. Likewise with Goethe and Spi- noza, I find little enough of the flame : the second pleases himself with deductive demonstration, and the first with a plastic marble, a definitive expansion of the idea. It is never so with Walt Whitman. He is like the old prophets, a living spirit that talks with the greatest of the gods ; an independent soul who does not incline to the idea of dissolving, after death, in the universal. This point is certainly one of the most original in his metaphys- ics. Instead of allowing that the cosmic sea is to absorb the drops of water of his life, and that his soul is to be rendered into the general soul, the Yankee poet defends his individuality. Of a truth the passages wherein he indicates his personal immortality are sufficiently obscure. He has doubted often, he owns it him- self,* and his affirmation never reaches a perfectly clear formula. •" What do you think has become of the young and ohl men ? And what do you think has become of the women and children ? They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life. . . ." " The question, O me ! so sad, recurring — What good amid these, O me, life ! Answer. 1 h.it you are here — that life exists and identity, Th.it the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse," " I swear I think now that every thing without exception has an eternal soul i The trees have, rooted in the ground ! the weeds of the sea have ! the animals * 1 swear I think there is nothing but immortality ! " Immortality of all or of the individual ? Without doubt one * " Leaves of Gr.iss," Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances, p. lol. ;5ee also. Yet, yet, ye Downcast Hours, p. 341. ■V WALT WHITMAN. 165 would be justified in saying that the affirmation is not explicit ; but such as it is, it is buttressed with tiie idea that each being carries into the future life the conscience of the past life, and there is no other sense to give to the word identity which occurs constantly throughout "Leaves of Grass." There is neither mystery nor anxiety attendant upon him as he goes onward, by way of love, in serene hope. It must not be thought that his definitive optimism is free from crises; numerous are the traces of meditative sorrows, of his bitternesses as thinker and patriot. He knows that the ordinary course of the world is pitiable, and that terrors lie in wait for the solitary muser.* But faith supports him and the pride of feeling, with all other beings, his brothers, the eternal manifestations of Eternal Thought. From this flows that mighty and sacred joy which laughs through the whole book, joy such as one imagines of some antediluvian colossus, h-xshing the resplendent waves, and breathing out enormous water-spouts in. the face of the earliest suns. From this his song, so to speak, pre-Adamic of the flesh ; his worship of forms and of colors ; his appetite for sexual embracemenls ; his adoration of the body and the act of generation i When all is full of the Spirit, when all is divine, what evil is there in the fact that the source of life lies in bubbling passion and frenzy ! Naturally enough, the whited sepulchres of America and England madly cry : " The hideous voice of rottenness denounces the august shameless- ness of Walt Whitman. Reflect : an echo of the Phallic cult fills the air; Bacchus, the conqueror, comes anew on his car surrounded by nymphs and fauns and bacchanals. Hearken : again an appeal for the naive sensuality of primitive civiliza- tions; the old rites are brought forth and the sacramental orgies ! " So cry in denancc, with affront upon their faces, the fainting depravities and secular Sodoms ! Phariseeism never pardons the poet. A Secretary of the Interior, Mr. James Harlan, peremptorily, in 1865, deprived Walt Whitman of a *See / Sit unJ Look Out, p. 215. See also 0/ i':e Terrible Doubt of Appearances, p. loi, and Yet, yet, ye Do^vncasl Hours, p. 341, I i66 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. modest office which he filled in the Department at Washing- ton, because he "was the author of 'Leaves of Grass.' " He met with many discouragements at the end of the Secession War, during which he had cared for the wounded with an unparalleled devotion, and bore himself like a veritable hero of humanity. If his pantheism celebrates the flesh, which he holds as part of the spirit — as the most innocent and primordial part — and if he proclaims joy — the drunkenness of the world-f&te — lie never- theless does not fail to love and to tenderly salute endur- ance, now put to torture, now fallen into the lowest depths. I have already said, and it cannot be too often repeated, because it is the key to the book, that in the light of thought all things are necessary, because divine — all, even vice and crime, however inexplicable this last may seem. Let no one mistake these words, however : there is no more impetuous idealist tlian Whit- man, nor a more indefatigable preacher of truth, of good, and of beauty. He holds that the evil will disappear, and before the ecstatic vision of the perfect and radiant future raises a long cry of triumph.* Yet is not that very hope a dogma of the dogmas? No, we cannot judge of evil, because that would be to judge God, and how can the lover judge that which he loves? Evil is a mystery, perhaps the most sacred of all mysteries, because it is the least comprehensible, because it may be the expiatory victim offered to good, the holocaust always smoking on the altar. Immense is the pity of Whitman for the det,racled and miserable, as vast and tender as that of Shelley, of Hugo, of Tolstoi, of Dostoievsky — great spirits who bring back to our days the teach- ings of the purer heroes of Buddhism and Christianity, and who, from forth tlieir march into the future, turn toward the past cycles and reacli a hand to Sakya-Mouni, to Jesus of Nazareth, to Francis of Assissi, to Saint Theresa, to Vincent dt Paul, to F6nelon, to Saint Jean de Dieu, to Jean d'Avila. Whether * See these magnificent pieces ; The Mystic 7'ru>npett-r, p. 356 ; As I IVa/k These Broad Majestic Days, p. 369 ; So Lon^ ! p. 380. See also Roam- ing in Thought, Y>, 216, , WALT WHITMAN. 167 whole peoples in distress, or the crushed and broken individual, are concerned, or simply the ordinary and middling humanity, I do not know any amongst all tiiese who has surpassed in char- { ity, in pity, in dt 'otedness, in love, him who gave at the same time his words and his actions, and while caring for his fellow- creatures, dying or sick, wrote the following pieces which I cite among so many others : " The Base of All Metaphysics," " Re- corders Ages Hence," "Calamus," " Salut au Monde," " Pio- neers! O Pioneers!" "Old Ireland," "O Star of France, ' "To Him that was Crucified," "To a Common Prostitute," "The City Dead House." This last, above all, is poignant an'^ might have been written by Dostoievsky. II.— THE NEW WORLD. Tills system of metaphysics, in appearance composite yet in- dissolubly amalgamated, which unites across the ages elements the most hostile and most remote, binds together the teachings of Jesus and Spinoza, brings into union Brahmins and Encyclopae- dists, Lucretius and Fichte, Darwin and Plato, founds upon a single solid ground ecstasy and science, and, if one accuses it of contradictions, responds haugtitily, It is possible,"! am large, I contain multitudes" ("Leaves of Grass," Song 0/ Myself , p. 78) — this system, to him who has felt and created it, is but a watch-tower erected over the New World. It is a world of activity, peopled by a race once old and become new from contact with a new soil ; a race invigorated by an enormous influx of blood ,• a race of which the muscular force (actually incommensurable, but too often hindered by the intrigues of Yankee politicians and their creatures) buttressed behind this unclean front, founds, overthrows, pierces, works, invents machines, peo- ples deserts and throws imnii^nse iron cities on tlie shores of rivers and lakes. The poet aj. pears anew. He extols in exact terms the famous material conquests of tlie American world. His utterance is that of a realist who has himself seen and wrouglu and touched with his fingers the details, who knows tlie manipulations and technical names. As for tlie metaphysical, '"iwffi* ggjjf^ > m i 1 11 III w i| i i f«1 i iil i» [lwnig i i I riMirtn.i l^nmifiillii n i68 ly StE WALT WIIinfAN. scientific, psyihologic and moral accessions of Europe, 1 e clnves only to adapt and utilize them lor America. In short, i>' •'' not the wore" uf the poet or dreamer merely, but of the man oi ,..*''/'' tical and UiVhanicr.l action, which he sends forth. "Leaves of Grass," indeed, is not jmrely poetic, at least \:\ the sense of the older literatures. It is useless to seek here the refinement and impeccable virtuosity of a Tennyson. Walt Whitman is not an artist ; he is above art. Not only do the words of his verse fail of being the most choice, but he laughs at proportion and composition. He is charged with affecting the rude, the overcharged, the encumbered. The religious and bai baric lyrism which Anglo-Saxon poetry possesses in common with the Bible is in "Leaves of Grass" interspersed with a multitude of prosaic images, infinity of detail and minute enumerations of all points of view. Our Latin genius soberly prunes down inequalities and knows nothing, ordinarily, of such lawless modes of expression. It takes them for chaos, and there commits the gravest of error:>. Without wishing to defend exuberance or to oppose good taste, it will be per- mitted me to say that this last should only dominate writings which aim at pure art, where form is so paramount in, im- portance as to relegate substance to the background. Where these larger works •'re in question, however — works wherein all external appearances and human masse? precipitate themselves ; where, at the same time, battalions of sensations, sentiments and ideas enter the breach ; where science and morality and aesthetics are fused— where such creations are concerned, the horizon widens strangely. There are no other rules save those of nobilitv and sfrength of spirit, and these suffice amply to create a moit tmlooked-for and grandiose aspect of beauty. Though the reader may encounter what is difficult and distasteful, it will not alter the easily verifi'-d fact that, f " author has sprinkled tlirotigh his work a throng of toucli.f; \ first sight prosaic, yet that in reality these touches contribute to the poetry of the en- semhle. Take any of the great pieces haphazard, and remove such details as seem superfluous; you will perceive immediately that life and truth have vanished from the picture, and that it is li WALT WHIXMAN. ,69. now ti?v*rsed only by great and monotonous sweeps of con- dor v.>i^-fi. (In revenge — one or two books apart — you can strike Out ali or nothing from our naturalistic romancers and re'M er more nor less will remain, because in Mieir i»'odiictions is neither sentiment, poetry, pity, nor inoial ronscience.) For, over- crowded and disorderly as it may be, if emotion and thought animate it, a work will always be of perfect beauty. But models fashioned of cinder and mud, though they be miracles of chisel- ling, will always remain cinder and mud. Let us, then, return to the subject of the chapter. From the special point of view we have assumed it is difficult to make choice among the "Leaves of Grass" : each page exhales the odor of the earth. I would distinguish particularly, however, several long and significant pieces, from which I will take ex- tracts: "Song of the Broad-Axe," " Song of the Exposition," "By Blue Ontario's Shore," "Thou Mother with thy Equal Brood." These contain the outlook of contemporary America and a vision of the future America, as well of that America whence the ideal and heroic humanity must be evolved. In Walt Whitman, as in all the true and great poets, the simplest view of the object awakens an infinity of images and ideas. Poet of the outside world as well as of the soul, he does not, however, refrain from noting, by means of expressions often as simple as those of a precise conversation, the thousands and thousands of appearances which take his eye. He evokes cor- respondences and re-establishes all the links in a chain seen only through spiritual eyes. With an axe for touchstone he resusci- tates the past, paints the actual hour, creates the future, be- cause he has seen instantly that that steel instrument plunges and cuts into the roots of the tree of history — that it is the con- structor of all civilizations past, present, and to come — and the fol- lowing is what gives rise to the list, infinitely extended, of actions which compose its functions : " We.ipon shapely, naked, wan, Heail from the mother's bowels drawn, Wooded flesh and metal Ixsne, liml> only one and lip only one, Gray-blue leaf by red-heat grown, helve produced from a little seed sown,. ■w 170 IN KE WALT WHITMAN. Resting the grass amid and uj>on, To be lean'd and to lean on."* Then oome the infinite series of transformations of the axe : " The log at the wood-pile, the axe supported by it, The sylvan hut, the vine over the doorway, the space clear'd for a garden, The irregular tapping of rain down on the leaves after the storm is luU'd, The wailing and moaning at intervals, the thought of the sea. The thought of ships struck in the storm and put on their beam ends, and the cutting away of masts. The sentiment of the huge timbers of old-fashion'd houses and barns, The remember'd print or narrative, the voyage at a venture of men, families, goods. The disemb.irkalion, the founding of a new city. The voyage of those who sought a New England and found it, the outset anywhere, The settlements of the Arkansas, Colorado, Ottawa, Willamette, The slow progress, the scant fare, the axe, rifle, saddle-bags ; The beauty of all adventurous and daring persons, The beauty of wood-boys and wood-men with their clear untrimm'd faces. The beauty of independence, departure, actions that rely on themselves. The American contempt for statutes and ceremonies, the boundless im- patience of restraint."! * " Leaves of Grass," Song of the Broad Axe, p. 148 : " Arme belle, nue, pftle, Tfiie tir^c (les entrailles de la mire. Chair de bois, os de m6tal, d'un seul membre et d'une seule livre, Feuille gris-bleu faite par la chaleur rouge manche n6 d'une petite graine, Tu reposes dans I'lierbe et sur I'hf.rlie, Pour t'appuyer et qu'on s'appuie sur toi. f" Leaves of Grass," Song of the Broad Axe, 'p. \^^: *' La bftche ts. la pile de bcrls, et la hache dessus, La hutte foresti^ve, la vigne qui ombrage la porte, I'eniplacement digagfi pour »r jirdin, La chute irr6giiii6re kV la pluie sur les feuilles, I'orage wne fois apais6, La plain! c et le gtmissement par intervalles, la pens6e de la mer. La pens^e de vaisseaux frapjiis dans I'orage, renversfes sur leurs cOtis, leurs mftis r .s6s, Le sentiment des 6nurmes chai pentes des maisons et des granges de I'ancien temps. WALT WHITMAir. irx It is useless to insist, is it not true ? You know as well as I do ithis sort of imagination ; and, doubt not, in turning the page together we may be deluged now with one part, now with the ■other, to the confines of the farthest future. And, in truth, it is in the future that this " Song of the Broad-Axe " will be devel- oped. Only, since in the last verses cited we are in America, let us establish ourselves there to the end of the chapter. It would be difficult to find elsewhere than in Walt Whitman such words as follow : rude and democratic as they appear, they still attest a spirit if not new, nevertheless renewed and truly free. To recover the thread of their origin it is necessary to go beyond the Christian era, and to resurrect certain of the apostrophes of the Agora and the Forum. But in modern Europe all the in- vocations to cities, which affect the form of poetry or of oratory, "whether they pour forth in imposing periods or thunder in peals of the tribunal, have always, even the most convincing of them, an indescribably artificial and theatrical air. One feeh 'hat they strain after the idea tliey would express, and that they are far from arising out of the ambient atmosphere with the natural ex- pansion and simplicity of such a passage as this : " A great city is that which has the greatest men and women, If it be a few ragged huts it is still the greatest city in the whole world. icement digagi nges de I'ancien L'imprim^ ou le r^cit qu'on se rappelle, le voyage & I'aventure des hommes, des families, des hiens, Le d^barquement, la fondation d'uiie cit6 nouvelle, Le voyage de ceux qui cherchArent une nouvelle Angleterre et la trouvdrent, le ddbut n'imporle oti, Les etablissements de I'Arkansas, du Colorado, de I'Ottawa, du Willamette, Le progrds lent, la niaigre cliSre, la liache, le rifle, le bagage de selle, La beaut* de tous les gens hardis et aventureux, La beaut6 ties enfants des bois et des hommes des bois, avec leurs francs visages incuites. La beaut6 de Tindipendance, du depart, des actions qui complent sur elles- mfimes, (Le mipris am6ricain pour les statuts et c6r6monie3, I'impatience illimitie de I'entrave." } I f 17a IN RE WALT }y HITMAN. The place where a great city stands is not liie place of '^tretch'd wharves, ducks, manufactures, deposits of produce merely, Nor the place of ceaseless salutes of new-comers or ihe anchor-lifters of the departing, Nor the place of the tallest and costliest buildings or shops selling goods from the rest of the earth, Nor the place of the best libraries and schools, nor the place where money IS plentiest, Nor the place of the most numerous population. Where the city stands with tiie brawniest breed of orators and l)ards. Where the city stands that is belov'd by these, and loves them in return and understands them. Where no monuments exist to heroes but in the common words and deeds, Where thrift is in its place, and prudence is in its place, Where the men and women think lightly of the laws, Wher? the slave ceases, and the master of slaves ceases. Where the populace rise at once against the never-ending audacity of elected persons. Where fierce men and women pour forth as the sea ta the whistle of death pours its sweeping and unript waves. Where outside authority enters always after the precedence of inside authority, Where the citizen is always the head and ideal, and President, Mayor, Governor and what not, are agents for pay. Where children are taught to be laws to themselves, and to depend on them- selves. Where equanimity is ilhistrated in affairs, Where speculations on the soul are encouraged, Where women walk in public processions in the streets the samr as the men. Where they enter the public assembly and take places thf; same as the men ; Where the city of the faithfulest friends stands, Where the city of the cleanliness of the sexes stands, Where the city of the healthiest fathers stands, Wui'- the city of the best-bodied mothers stands, There the great city stands." * *" Leaves of Grass," Song of thf Broad-Axe, pp. 152-153 : " Une grande cit6 est celle qui poss6de les plus grands hommes et les plus grandes femmes, Ne ftkt-elle que de quelques grossi^res huttes, elle serait encore la plus grande cil6 du monde. .^- WALT WHITMAN. »73 rds and deeds. Walt Whitman would not be the vast spirit he is, did he not know that the great democratic city of the future is the fruit of the present and of the past, the definitive result of all human , labor; if he did not bend, with a respect which our European '• L'endruit oii se drcsse la grande cit6 n'est point I'endroit oft s'itendent les quais, les docks, les manufactures, ^iln|)les dipOis des produits, Ni rendroit des saluts sans fin des nouveaux arrives uu des partants qui I6venl I'nncre, Ni I'endroit des plus hauts et des plus pricieux Edifices ou des magasins qui vendent les marchandises du reste de la terre, Ni I'endroit des l)ihlioth^<|ues les plus completes et des meilleures icoles, ni I'endroit oi I'argent ahonde, Ni I'endroit de la population la plus nombreuse. I.& od la c\\.t se dresse, avec sa g^n^ration la plus lobuste d'orateurs et de bardes, L& oft la cit£ se dresse qu'ils aiment par dessus tout, qui paie leur amour de retour et les coinprend, Lft oft les h^ros n'ont de monuments que dans les propos et fails publics, L& oft r^conomie est ft sa place, et la prudence ft sa place, Oft les hommes et les femmes n'ont que faire des lois, Oft I'esclave cesse, et le maltre de I'esclave, Oft le populaire se live d'un bond contre I'audace incessante des personnes 6lues, Oft des hommes et des femmes farouches se ripandent comme au sifflet de la niort la mer r6pand ses vagues; d'un seul bloc qui balaient tout. Oft I'autoriti extirieure passe toujour* apr6s I'auloriti intirieure. Oft le citoyeii est toujours la tCte et I'idial, et oft le President, le Maire, le Gouverneur, et je ne sais quoi ne sf>nt que des agents ralariis. Oft Ton apprend aux enfants ft 6tre leurs lois ft eux m£mes et ft compter sur soi, Oft, dans les affaires, on fait preuve d'6galit6 d'ftme, Ou Ton encourage les speculations sur I'ftme, Ou, dans les processions publiques, les femmes marchent les 6gales des hommes, Oft elles entrent dans I'assemblie publique, et, les igales des hommes, y prenncnt place ; Lft oft se dresse la cit6 des plus fidfiles amis, Lft oft se dresse la cit6 de la propret6 des sexes, Lft oft se dresse la cit6 des pires au beau sang, Lft oft se dresse la cit6 des mires au beau corps, Lft se dresse la grande cit6." 1^4 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. democrats might well emulate, before the Titanic efTort with which it is compacted cycle by cycle, with a strength never slackened by lassitude, by the arms of anterior generations : an effort which has even yet only vanquished a moiety, and will one day scale the heavens : " Sail, sail thy best, ship of Democracy, Of value is thy freight, 'tis not the I'resent only. The Past is also stored in thee, Thou holdest nut the venture of thyself alone, not of the Western continent alone, Earth's risumi entire floats on thy keel O ship, is steadied by thy spars, With thee Time voyages in trust, the antecedent nations sink or swim with thee, With all their ancient struggles, martyrs, heroes, epics, wars, thou bear'st the other continents, Theirs, theirs as much as thine, the destination-port triumphant; Steer then with good strong hand and wary eye O helmsman, thou carriest great companions, Venerable priestly Asia sails this day with thee. And royal feudal Europe sails with thee."* And where does this vessel go ? Toward the shores of the West — there, where the strife with antagonists such as the old * " Leaves of Grass," Thou Mother with Thy Equal Brood, p. 348 : " Vogue, vogue & pleines voiles, vaisseau de la Dimocratie, Tu poites un pricieux chargement, ce n'est pas le I'risent seul, Le Pass£ aussi est ton fret, Tu ne contiens pas que ta pacotille personnelle, ni que celle du continctit de rOuest, Sur ta quille, vaisseau, flotte un risumi de la terre, et tes m&ts le main- tiennent, Avec toi le Temps voyage en confiance, avec toi plongent ou nagent les nations antirieures, Avec toutes leurs anciennes luttes, martyrs, hiros, 6pop6es, guerres, tu portes les autres continents, Oui, la fortune des autre autant que celle du tien, le port de destination tri- omphant ; Gouverne d'une main solide et d'un oeil avisi, timonier, tu portes de grands compagnons. La v6n6rable Asie sacerdotale fait voile en ce jour avec toi, Avec toi fait voile la royale Europe fSodale." ^ WALT WHITMAN. 175 rn continent u bear'st the hou earnest landlords of the ancient world no longer exists ; wiiere not only the modern brain can conceive its thoughts in liberty, but where the modern arm finds itself freed from the old prejudices of European life; where action is truly the sister of dreams; and where, under imposing palaces of glass, marvels of industrial, workmanship lift themselves daringly toward the skies : " Around a palace, loftier, fairer, ampler than any yet, Earth's nioiiern wonder, history's seven outstripping, • High rising tier on tier with glass and iron facades. Gladdening the sun and sky, enhued in cheerfuicst hues. Bronze, lilac, robin's-egg, marine and crimson. Over whose golden root shall flaunt, beneath thy banner Freedom, The banners of the States and Hags of every land, A brood of lofty, fair, but lesser palaces shall cluster Not only all the world of works, trade, products, But all the workmen of the world here to be represented."* Here follows an enumeration of the splendors of human genius- in their apogee. In the course of his work Walt Whitman re- iterates constantly, and in striking r6sum6s, the glorious synihesis- of the future of humanity. Among these diverse concentrations of light separated by commas, we prefer the following : " Thee in thy future, Thee in thy only permanent life, career, thy own unloosen'd mind, thy soaring spirit, *" Leaves of Grass," Song of the Exposition, p. 160: " Autour d'un palais plus 61evi, plus beau, plus ample qu'aucun encore, Merveille de la terre moderne, surpassant les sept merveilles du monde, Elan^ant, 6iage sur 6tage, ses facades de veire et de fer, Rijouissant le soleil et le ciel, rayonnant des couleurs les plus gaies, Bronze, lilas, oeuf de rouge-gorge, marine, et cramoisi, Au-dessus du toit dor6 durjuel flotteront, sous ta bnnni&re, Liberid, Les banni^res des £tats et les drapeaux de tous les pays, Une couv^e de liauts, de beaux, et cependnnt de moindres palais se- groupera. Non seulenient le monde des oeuvres, du commerce, des produits, Mais tous les ouvriers du monde y seront repr6seni6s." ^'^i. %. .^v^o. W IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) V A MJ.. /. 2l lA ^ 1.0 I.I ■ 50 "^^ ^ Ml 12.0 12.2 1.8 11.25 nil 1.4 6" V] <^ n 01 %ji' ^i. % ard des gens, n'ai 6t£ mon chapeau k rien de coniiu ou d'in- con nil, Ai librement li6 comjiapnie avec les tem])6raments puissants et incultes, et avec les jeunes, et avec les m^res de famille, Me suis lu 4 moi-nii8nie ces feiiilles en plein air, les ai niises ii I'ipreuve pris des arbres, sous les 6toiles, sur le bord des fleuves, Ai renvoyi tout ce qui insultait mon ftme ou souillnit mon corps, N'ai rien r^clami pour moi que je n'aie eu soin de i6clanier pour les autres, Ai couru aux camps, y ai trouv^ et accept^ des camarades venus de cliaque fetat, (Sur ma poitrine plus d'un soldat mourant s'est appuy6 pour rendre le der- nier soupir, Ce bras, cette main, cette voix onf nourri, relev6, ritabli, Rappel6 h. la vie plus d'une forme prostr6e ;) Et maintenant j'attends volontiers que se ddveloppe, pour qu'on me com- prenne, le goflt de ma personnalit6, Ne Kejetant personne, admeUant tous." WALT WHITMAN. '«5 rendre Ic der- |u on me com* feat, and did not despair of the Union even after Bull Run. A Christian truly evangelical, he has preached by example; not content to teach with words alone, he has exhorted his fellow- creatures to love and aid one another, to elevate their voices in favor of the weak, the disinherited, the suffering, tlie proscribed, to salute the oppressed or vantpiislied nations, and, faithful in all points of the doctrine of the Divine Master, to deny no one, and to gather into their universal love even the prostitutes and criuunals of the earth. He has himself, and in the fullest sense of the word, practiced fraternity. During the Secession War he cared for and assisted, dressing their wounds and cheering their spirits, more tiian a hundred thou- sand uf the wounded or sick. Commanding genius that he is, he has rendered homage to his brother jwssessors of genius — Poe, Brvant, Longfellow, Thoreau, Whittier, limerson, Lincoln. Tliough still believing, he has never ceased to adore the Kosmos ; mobile, ecstatic and joyous, his hymn nestles in the bosom of Di vin ■ ity. Asa poet he has disdained the atmosphere of the salon ; he has taken the grand route open to all in the wide spaces of the Union, across the cities, the streams, the prairies, the forests, the moun- tains ; he has abandoned hii :elf to the life of nature ; has pro- claimed the innocence and sanctity of the flesh ; has drunk, eaten, loved ; has grown intoxicated with the odors of grass and flowers ; has bathed in the sea ; has taken the tan of the sun. Oh, yes, in truth, this is a man ! I will go no further with his life, becaus he has himself con- tinued it in the passages quoted ; but for t,.ose who are curious about the smaller events on which it bears, irc some pages of biography : Walt Whitman was born on the 31st ot May, ..S19, at a farm in West Hills, Long Island. In taking a survey of that interior we may easily see that its inhabitants are of the middle class of America, such as it was at the commencement of this century. Both sexes worked at manual labor. Twelve or fourteen slaves came and went, giving to the place a patriarchal air. The house was long, built of strong oaken beams, and was a story and a half high. A vast kitchen, containing a huge chimney, occupied one fM IN RK WAI.T WIIITMAIT, I end of it, and there clustered were the yotiiiK darkien, sitting on the floor in a circle, cntioK tlieir sii|)i)or of Indian pudding and milk. There was no luxury of furniture, neither car- pet nor htoves — only a great wood fire to cheer the inmates. The fare was wholesome and substantial ; pork in abundance, veal, beef, vegetables, cider — no coffee — tea anil sugar only for the women. Few books were present. The annual almanack was a rare treat, ai\(l le< tures iluring the winter nig'uts a relish long to be reuiembered. They travelled on horseback in those days, and on upland roads could have a view of the sea, whither the householtl often went for amusement and bathing, or, now 4tnd again, the men on more practical expeditions, to cut salt hay or to fish. These were the scenes amid which our poet passed his earliest years, imder the eye of excellent parents. I lis father, Walter Whitman, was a |)lacid and serious man, kind to children and iinimals. His mother, Louisa van Velsor, daughter of an old fatnily of Hollandish mariners, was noted for the goodness of her heart, her cciuable cheeriness, her good sense, i)hysical health and household industry — briefly, she was the true type of a wife and mother. What wonder if from such a stock sprung the strong and genial branch which is called Walt Whitman ? He came into the family at the moment when his father was about to change his business of farming for that of builuiuliiig its passions, pleasures, in- toxications. Characteristic iilly, the company he continued to prefer was that of the ordinary classes, those people whom the "snobs" of all countries 3 194 IN EE WALT WHITMAN. sary complement of every great life, is come to fix about that venerable brow its supreme and touching halo. To-day the consecration is absolute ; the poet, carried onward by the hero, is perfected by the stoic and is crowned in bim. So em- bodied, he stands an adequate type for the sculptor's chinel. Like his brother in genius, who, seeing his worth at a glance, called him "a man," whom he called in his turn "captain" and the death of whom he chanted in immortal melodies, he has an indescribable masculinity, serenity simple and epic, absent since the great citizens of the ancient republics departed. In a word, he appears as a specimen, rare in the modern world, of those powerful and flexible organizations which rose in the antique cities of the golden age, anxious to cultivate numberless aptitudes and tending instinctively toward the incarnation of a complete manhood. DUTCH TRAITS OF WALT WHITMAN.. - By WILLIAM SLOANE KENNEDY. Ancestrally, Walt Whitman, who makes so much of mother- hood and fatherhood, comes himself meandering from a blended tri-heredity stream of Dutch (" Hollandisk ") and the original Friends (Quakers) and Puritans of Cromwell's time. His mother was of pure Netherland descent, and his maternal grandmother was a Quaker in religion. I believe the Dutch element domi- nates the Quaker in him. He " favors " his mother, nee Louisa Van Velsor — inherits her to the life, emotionally and in phys- ique. She was a person of medium size (a little //«j), of splendid physique and health, a hard worker, bore eight children, was be- loved by all who met her ; good-looking to the last ; lived to be nearly eighty. Dr. Bucke's book about Walt Whitman has quite a good portrait of his mother at seventy. No tenderer or more invariable tie was ever between mother and son than the love be- tween her and Walt Whitman. No one could have seen her and her father, Major Kale (Cornelius) Van Velsor, of Cold Spring, Queen's county, N. Y., either in their prime or in their older age, without instantly perceiving their plainly-marked HoUand- esque physiognomy, color and body build. Walt Whitman has all of it. He shows it in his old features now, especially in his full face and red color. The rubicund face in the oil portrait of him by Hine, the New Yorker, or Eakins, the Philadelphia artist, looks amazingly like one of Rubens's or Teniers's Dutch burgomasters ; as also does one of Cox's photographs (the one with hat on head thrown back which W. calls " the laughing phi- losopher "). Tacitus, Taine, Motley, all speak of the rose-colored skins, blue eyes, and flaxen (almost white) hair of the Hol- landers. The Romans related that the children of the Nether- ('95) ! f f i f- > i I 196 ly RE WALT wiirnrAN, lands had the hair of old men. Perhaps the turning of Walt's hair almost wliite before he was thirty may have to be ascribe*! to this Dutch peculiarity. His pink-tinged skin is unmistakably Dutch. For some reason, there is no fitting record, either in portrait- ure or literary text, of very grand women of Holland, although .'lat country produced the choicest specimens of the earth. It ■was a type and growth of its own ; a noble and perfect maternity was its result. Whitman, as his friends know, is fond of reviewing in conver- sation the history and development of the Low Dutch, their •:oncrete physiology, their fierce war against Philip and Aiva, the building of the great dykes, the shipping and trade and col- onization — from 1600 to the present — and their old cities and towers and soldiery and markets and salt air and flat topography and human pi:ysiognomy and bodily form, and their coming and planting here in America and investing themselves not so much in outward manifestations as in the blood and breed 01" the American race ; and he considers his " Leaves of Grass " to be in some respects understood only by reference to that Holland- •esque interior of history and personality. To this hour he has never forgiven Washington Irving for making the foundation- settlers of New Amsterdam (New York city) so ridiculous and stupid. One likes to think of Whitman, the first Democrat of the New World, as sprung from far-off Holland, the rr- die of liberty in the Old World. It must be plainly said, however, that Walt Whitman is monumentally neither an Englishman nor a Dutch- man nor a Quaker : he is an American pagan, an aboriginal crea- tion, fresh-minted, sui generis. Nevertheless, the Hollander and the Quaker are plainly discernible in the background of his being — like the Pyncheon ghost in Alicr s necromantic vision. Every man is really a sort of palimp iest, and his mind and body are r ^perimposed upon a series of some hundred million erasures by the hand of Nature. Your ancestors or mine, footing it back only to the time of William the Conqueror, actually number three or four millions. A typical poet is the summing up of a It * "• VUrCII TRAITS OF WALT WHITMAN. »97 ver, that Walt race, its perfect flower, containing not only its richest perfume, but the germs of its coming vital thought. To Walt Wiiitman, as, in many respects, the voice and type of the American-bora Dutch race, may be applied the old Hollandisk couplet : '• De waarheid die in diiister lag, Die koint met klanrheid aan den dag." (" The truth ihat lay darkling now leaps to the light.") " Leaves of Grass," and their author too, are much like a great mass of dark-rolling gray clouds, looking at first impassive enough, but surcharged full with chain lightning. Not the Scotch-Irish stock itself, or the Jewish, is more dourly and stubbornly prepotent in the ocean of human society than is this Dutch strain in ,* merica. These original storks tinge and saturate the billows of humanity through generations, as great r'vers debouching into the deep carry their own color in haughty flow far out on the high seas. Few realize how the Dutch ele- ment has percolated through our population in New York and Pennsylvania. As late as 1750 more than one-half of the in- habitants of New York State were Dutch.* The rural Dutch to- day almost always have large families of children, and form in every respect the solidest element in their community. In New York city and in Brooklyn and Albany it is superfluous to say that to belong to a Dutch family is to belong to blue blood, the aristocracy. Besides Whitman, the American Dutch have pro- duced such intellectualities as Wendell Phillips, the orator, and the scientist and wit Oliver Wendell Holmes — descended from^ the Wendells of Albany on his mother's side. It is stated by recent savans that there are cogent reasons for believing that the origin of our puMic-school system is traceable to the wisdom of the citizens of New Amsterdam. (See Mr. Elting's paper, just mentioned.) " The first universities," says Max Miiller, " which provided chairs for the comparative study of the religions of fhe world, were those of little, plucky Holland." * Irving Elting, " Dutch Village Communities on the Hudson River," in. Johns Hopkins University " Studies," etc.. Series 4, Vol. I., p. 65. I 198 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. The Dutch are very practical and materialistic, and are great money-makers, but are yet " terribly transcendental and cloudy, too," writes Walt Whitman to me. " More than half the Hol- landisk * immigrants to New York bay," he writes, "became farmers, and a goodly portion of the rest became engineers or sailors." ' The English and t' " ;ins the Low Dutch are so much alike in basic traits thi 1 . diffirult to unthread these in Whit- man's make-up, and say, "So much is English and so much Dutch." I3ut I think his tremendous stubbornness, the inexor- able firmness of his phlegmatic nature, are inherited from the heroic defenders of Haarlem, Leyden and Alkmaar. His en- durance, practicality, sanity, thrift, excessive neatness and purity of person, and the preponderance of the simple and serious over the humorous and refined in his phrenology, are clearly of Dutch origin. Taine, in his rare little study, " The Philosophy of Art in the Netherlands," speaks of the phlegm of the Dutch and the passivity of their features. They love silence and absorption of mind ; are collected, calm, patient, long-planning, and prefer depth to shining surfaces. Their soft and sluggish atmosphere produces in them a measureless content and a great dis])osition to sensuousncss. All this applies remarkably to the Holland- esque-American poet. Remember, too, the prosaic realism of Whitman — his deep-rooted hankering after details, enumera- tions — and tally it with the minute finish of the pictures of Van Eyck, Teniers, Rubens. In love of power and glowing-exuber- ant life Whitman seems to me strongly to resemble Rubens. 'Like him, too, in his deep affection for his mother and in his generous treatment of his contemporaries. Though the topping fact forever separating Walt from all those Old-World Nether- landers is his profound spirituality, his soaring, never-absent mystical philosophy. The transcendentalism, or profound de- itermination upon the religious, of the American-born Dutch ft * A word of his own coining. " About the best word to nip and print and ■stick to," he states. His word suggests to me " Hollandesque," which I pre- fer, I believe, though " HoUandisk " is more vigorous. DUTCH TEA ITS OF WALT WHITMAN. 199 (and it is undoubted) is not found among the Continental Hol- landers — at least in their art. Riiskin, s|)eaking of the material- istic side of the Dutdi character, caustically remarks that their only god is a pint pot, and all the incense offered thereto comes out of a small censer or bowl at the end of a pipe. But this is only a peevish artist's persiflage. It leaves wholly untouched the massive and splendid moral qualities of the Dutch. In America tlie Netherlanders have evidently not only blended with and colored the English stock, but have themselves been perceptibly Americanized, have assimilated a measure of the Puritan qualities of spirituality, philosophy and idealism, that seem to thrive in our intense, thought-sharpening climate, and among the New England people by whom the American Dutch have continually been surrounded both on Long Island and in New York State. As for Whitman's imaginative genius, I have sometimes won- dered, did it not come in, perchance, through a Welsh crevice? His maternal grandmother was a Williams, and almost all Wil- liamses are Welsh. After all, Walt Whitman may be a Celtic geyser bursting through a Flemish mead. u Onk thiiiR strike* me about every one who carei for what you write — while your altractiui) Ih most absuUitu, and the iniprciisiou yuu make as puwcrrul as that of any teacher oxvaUs, you do not rob the mind of its independence, or divert it from its true direction— you make no slaves, however many lovers. You have many readers in Ireland, and those who read do not feel a quali- fied deli)^ht in your poems — do not love them by degree, but with an absolute, a personal love. We none of us (piestion that yours is the clearest, and sweetest, and fullest American voice. We yrant as true all that you claim for yourself. And you gain steadily among us new readers and lovers. Ei/wani Doxiuien to IV lit ll'hitmnn, liTl. I I.IKR well the positions & ideas in your Westminster article — radiating from tlie central point of assumption of my pieces being or conuncncing "the poetry of Democracy." It presents all the considerations, which such a critical text and starting point require, in a full, eloquent, and convincing manner. I entirely accept it all & several, and am not unaware that it affords perhaps, if not the only, at least the most likely gate, by which you, as an earnest friend of my book, & believer in it, and critic of it, would gain en- trance to a loading review. Then tinally I think the main point you exploit is v 'ly of the fust importance — and perhaps too all the rest relating to my book can be broached through it as well as any way. Walt Whitman to Edward Dmuden, 1 873. (200) WALT WHITMAN : POET AND PHILOSOPHER AND MAN. By HORACE L. TRAVBBL, Whitman, 1 87 1. i Doxvdcn, 1872. Aftkr the storms and perils and superficial reverses of more than three decades, Walt Whitman remains the one unicjue in- fluence devt;h)ped in tlie literature of our Western democracy. Greeted with almost universal laugliter, neglect, or scorn, he has lived to see all trivial objections thrown into disrespect, a'l tra- ditions and hypocrisies mo^e or less questioned, and much of even the popular opposition yielding to inevitable applause. This is the history of all daring genius of the first order. But our mod- ern lives are lived so compactly — the years crowd so fast one upon another — that the justice which anciently came only for the memory of greatness may now crown its gray hairs. Tiiere are many proofs in the case of Walt Whitman that his foothold is gained and that he forecasts new religious and political revela- tions. Not for hair-splittings or professional displays or simple ends of art or merely to dally with the edge of life had he come and had his summons excited custom and prejudice to alarm. Whitman is an American. In the large .sense he is a child of the republic. In him democracy first found unapologetic voice. Through his book have swept all airs out of the free heavens, gushed all streams aromaed by the wild earth. The grave problems of our youthful history find in him solace, judgment, and exit. What has he done to justify the declaration ? How is his book greater than a thousand books of his time ? Wherein is his individuality majestic above the majesty of other men who have had their hour of speech or song, of philosophy or story?" Walt Whitman is the first man to utter the message of our de- (201) !'l -30 a IN RE WALT WHITSfAN. : I f ^ I niocracy, the first to indicate by other than hints and signs the future to which it tends, the first to show that America is impor- tant in the measure of its ability to make all lands co-inheritors of its opportunity, the first to prove that man is complete even in his incompleteness, the first to put standciid, Ojeda-like, into the Pacific of iniquity and to claim it as virtue's own, for ends not less certain because obscure. These facts impose upon us a peculiar obligation to understand the word he has spoken, the de- meanor which has distinguished him, the issue that he involves. II. Whitman's life from its start was rebellious to all formal lines. His father possessed a free individuality, and his mother was dis- tinguished bv the abundance of her optimism. In Whitman himself these cardinal factors combined to produce the most exalted effects. Whether he writes or speaks, he tenderly credits all the claims of ancestry and soil — the Quaker element in his spiritual cosmography, the Dutch and English brawn and brain, the sacred potent mother-light that flashed peace and content into all moods and seasons, the pauseless sea from whose musical lips he caught the first pulse and rhythm of song. He had heroic history back of him. Members of the line had participated in the Revolution. His grandfather had known Thomas Paine and was in positive friendly relations with Elias Hicks. His father was a builder of houses, and was reputed in his trade to be a man of marked and peculiar integrity. The common schools gave Walt Whitman his only technical instruction. By happy gradation he was printer, country school-teacher, writer for newspapers and magazines, participant in the largest practical activities of natural culture — the wholesome air of immediate experience. As a boy of nine- teen, he established The Long Islander in Huntington, his native town. After celebrating its golden birthday, this weekly journal is still a regular visitor. Follow him in the drift of his joyous freedom, as he absorbs the great cities, and passes not only un- scathed and unsoiled, but with astonishing spiritual increase, through their barbarisms — as he accepts the significance of all WALT WHITMAN: POET AND PHILOSOPHER AND MAN. 203 their horror, squalor, injustice, equally with their populou-iness, beauty, splendor, and virtue — their light and shade, placidity and storm. No spot in this measureless garden went untouched ; the good and the bad were equally his demesne — perhaps the evil his more incessant companion, attracting him by the very bitterness of its necessity. We are told that his magnetism was as full and round and potent then as in his more mellow old age ; that he rescued and elevated tlie degraded and oppressed ; that no political, social, religious aspiration, no matter what its color, nor whether his literal agreement could be given to it, went altogether without his friendly examination and respect ; that he accepted the tribute of libraries and museums, of books and pictures and curios and antiques ; that he loved Homer, Shak- spere, Ossian — would pay his respects to reviews, improvising books from leaves which contained cherished essays, so as the more easily to provide reading-matter for his travels afoot ; that he affected pilots, deck-hands, transportation men, almost in mass the creatures of movement, serving on cars, boats, in the postal service, who symbolized the flowing and creative char- acter of our racial life. Tlie peculiar genius of " Leaves of Grass " was prepared for and birthed in the midst of these shift- ing scenes, so that when in future years pen and paper became Whitman's agents of communication it was not his part to set out on an expedition into strange territory, but to revoyage — to reflect old experience, not to make or form anew. He shared in the political life of the pre-war times, after an appropriate non-partisan fashion. He was a born lover of the drama and of music. All through his writings and speech are scattered allusions to the actors and singers. What he describes as his debt to Alboni and the elder Booth almost transcends belief. In 1847 3nd thereabouts we find him editing the Eagle, in Brooklyn. Two years later, accompanied by his young brother Jeff, he entered upon his Southern tour, working and writing, observing the current life, responding to the impress of man and scene. He returned to Brooklyn in 1851, where he started and for a year controlled the Freeman. Again a twist in the fates, again a change of occupation — now to take up an ancestral MR| IN RE WALT WHITMAN. line : to become carpenter and builder. He was highly suc- cessful in this choice, which, e says, threatened to make him rich ; but he eventually abandoned all its glittering prospects for two reasons, these being, first, his deep-rooted distaste for material accumulation, and, second, the fact that " Leaves of Grass" was at last coming into practical mental consistence and required his immediate application. Now the book : the year 1855, the poems only twelve, the public derision and outcry everywhere tremendous. He had scarcely expected a greeting in such terms: he had rather anticipated inattention. But he deliberately resolved to persevere. In 1862 his brother George was wounded at Fredericksburg. Walt hastened thither, found the injured man in no serious con- dition, lingered about the camp, went to Washington with some wounded Brooklyn soldiers, whom he nursed, and without de- sign, but by natural sympathy and easy transition, found him- self occupied with the army hospital work which has become an immortal integer of his fame. It is matter of interest no less than of amusement to observe how studiously Whittier (to quote but one name) speaks of Whitman's concern and affection and labor for the soldiers and ignores " Leaves of Grass." The detail of the years from 1862 to 1873 has been much ex- ploited both by writers upon Whitman, and by Whitman himself in "Specimen Days" and in detached prose articles. Dr. Bucke quotes samples of Whitman's correspondence at this period. Some day, when the yellowed letters now fastened together by odd pieces of tape in Whitman's room are given to the world, there will be presented the rarest portraiture of our war possible outside of " Drum Taps." Whitman had a preliminary physical break-down in 1864, but a trip north, away from the anxious and malarious scenes of the hospitals, effected a temporary return to health. About this time he was given a clerkship in the Interior Department. It was no misfortune that the head of the department happened to be a narrow pietist and politician who summarily ejected Whitman upon discovering that he was the author of " Leaves of Grass. '^ But for this coupled stupidity and injustice, we should never have WALT WHITMAN: POET AND PHILOSOPHER AND MAN. 205 had O'Connor's magnificent eulogium and philippic — which is to imagine the world bereft of what Whitman refers to as " in respects" its choicest combination of passion and learning and perfect prose. Instantly appointed to a clerkship in the Attor- ney-General's Office, Whitman remained without further change till 1873, from which year of paralysis he has never been able to pursue any continuous daily imperative task. While in Washington, Whitman at first sustained himself by correspondence for Northern papers, Henry J. Raymond being particularly friendly. Much of his income from the clerkships, along with various Northern contributions, went into the service of the army patients. Whitman's near intimacies during the decade in Washington were with Burroughs and O'Connor. He had close friendly as- sociation with Peter Doyle, a railroad-man, who had neither professional nor scholarly interests. I have known no richer treat than an hour's talk with O'Connor or Burroughs when either was in the humor to review the remarkable comradeship they shared in Washington. The paralytic attack of 1873 proved really the culmination and summing-up of many encroaching previous attacks, and was the fruit of Whitman's hospital labors, too long persisted in, over a period of four strenuous years. He was on his way to a resort on the New Jersey sea-coast, when, suffering a severe reverse in Philadelphia, he was conveyed to Camden, where he took up his residence. His health there has been fluctuating. But after the first two or three years hr; resumed and maintained a certain vigor and strength which, until 1888, protected him against the more painful sacrifices of freedom and labor. At different times he issued forth from tiiis Camden nest for long or short flights — into the pines, down to Timber Creek, west as far as Denver, north into the Canadas, to Long Island, to New York City. He went to Boston in 1883 to supervise the issue of the Osgood edition of " Leaves of Grass." He has lectured sun(* y times upon Lincoln, and written at intervals for magazines and papers. His life has been quiet, undisturbed even by literary tempests in teapots. He has published additions to his books — his latest, -i 2o6 7^- RE WALT WHITMAN. " Nov2mber Boughs" — and has collected and is prepared to issue a further, perhaps final volume, ^ poetic and prose melange, within the next six months. These crude glimpses of Walt Whitman's career on its statisti- cal side serve to show the expansive structure of his genius. He has never been content with what one class or one sect or one party or merely superficial power and knowledge may show. He has met with and possessed America on the side of her cohesion and unity. In the early years a dweller in town and city, on sea-shore, farm, and street, a teacher in common schools, a writer on journals, a dreamer with books, a companion of low and high, a wanderer in untrod ways, North and South, he compassed the full circle of active factors which belong to the making of this new nation. Unlik . most of the poets, he has never had a profes- sional chair, never enjoyed the repose and ease of a study, never been a stay-at-home or a man oracular of proprieties and forms. Comprehend these fe.-'tures, remember the appellant and sacred character of the hospital years, take in the patient faith of the long period of his physical disability, trace with sufficient confidence the inspirations which have haloed his passage, and the purpose and courage of his history become manifest. III. But if vVhitman's life has expressed a peculiar fla.or and drawn its meanings from other than the usual swim and courtesies of affairs, it must be that his is a creative individuality. And he in fact initiates a peculiar type. Regard introductively the breadth of his manhood. Physically, morally, spiritually, he is and has been large and free. His corporeal two hundred pounds is tallied on every side by the posture of person and spirit. In days of perfect health he must have been of superb stature, for even now the indication of symmetry is without flaw. His head has a noble weight, ease, and repose. To unite such strength and mass with such control and movement implies exceptional adjust- ment. The always-opened shirt-front discloses the neck and breast. Hand and arm are large and well formed. I have never known an artist to leave him disappointed in any one of these 11 V WALT WHITMAN: POET AND PHILOSOPHER AND MAN. 207- physical features. Constructively, they answer to an almost ideal standard. It is true, the lameness of recent years has served to- detract from the emphasis of the first impression, but a brief stay in his room, and the silent witness which reminiscence every- where throws out in voice and gesture, speedily convince. I have yet to find one among the strangers I have taken to see Whitman who has not confessed that he realized the presence of subtler forces which haunted him in after-days. The long hair and beard, the large dreamy eye, the nose and lips, a voice which plays with all shades of tone and color — the breeze and tempest and rainbow of speech — everything artless and unschooled, unite- to the disaster of criticism. Here, too, are traits of great sweet- ness. Critics in earlier days of " Leaves of Grass" — and the echo of these accusations is not altogether lost — were very specific in description of the rowdyism of its author. Walt Whitman, they said, being what he was — a consort for loafers and prosti- tutes, and no more — could scarcely be expected to rise above himself in his books. Now that we honor him for his universal associations, no gibe can be other than a further note to his- merit. It was the necessity of the man that he should proffer this sunny hospitality. So far as body will bear the strain, all- are welcome at his door. But pretence, or glitter, or fame, pride of name or place, need at no time expect a special saluta- tion. If the laborer from the street or the beggar or the criminal* bring the true message of self, secreting no honest trait in an effort to impress or attract or overawe. Whitman will respond- with word and act. For the moment this true sinner will confuse- all the false saints in the calendar of pilgrims. Here, then, is- the open door — the secret passage, which after all has no mys- teries but to the veiled and the blind. His is the way of vigorous individuality : to hail all with infinite patience and affection ; to utter no harsh words to friends whose service about him may halt or stumble ; to discuss contemporaries with freedom, yet to save at all times the hyper-censuring phrase; to endure pain with resignation, to confront show with simplicity, to win hate by love, to give his cause fire and impersonality. What can rebuff a faith which defies school and creed in the interest of that- i$oB IN HE WALT WHITMAN. d[ ' ^ nature without which scholars and priests, whatever their gaudy possessions, would go houseless forever? Whitman has always delighted to roam the streets. As long as strength remained he went afloat on that hastening sea. Driven to chair and attend- ance, he still enjoys what air and river and the lives of cities bestow. ' Whitman vindicates the declaration that in all the essentials of culture nature provides tlic jirofoundest resources. School, church, social respectability, were but the minor, almost forbid- •den, elements to his making, except as they stream unheralded into him and, in common with the whole area of life and phe- nomena, are adopted in his philosophy. His teacher has been the joy and despair, the calm and passion, the belief and denial, the love and hate, the virtue and vice, the purity and squalor, of peace and war. New York, Washington, New Orleans, Phil- adelphia, Quebec, Boston, Denver — these, with their unity and contrariety, have passaged and tilled the field. America — the es- sential America — that is, the toilers, soldiers, sailors, railroad- men, laborers, all artisans, equally with classes called learned and professions called respectable — has mentored and sustained, and finally will confirm him. Such tuition has gathered about no other man. No college would have done other than injure him. No perpetual lien laid by a single calling would have spared or softened his ruin. He belongs to city and prairie, to opera and brothel, to jail and prison, to years before war, to war, to after-suffering, to labor and to the pen, to boats that sail, to movement, to liberty. If Whitman is in any manner set apart from puppetry, from echoes lost in their last refinements, it is by virtue of this inherent genius which went straight through all cries of sect and model, past all danger-signs, across deepest streams and impenetrable fastnesses — the drag-way and wreck of mediocrity and sham — to primal spirit and law. This faith- fulness elevates his old age as it inspired his youth. It blesses him with gentleness, fortitude, content ; it passes into the folds of his dress, governs his appetite, connects the clean body and the clean soul ; it presides over his reverence for ancestry, his love of family and companions, his enduring hail and kiss for WALT WllITMAX: I'OIJT AND PJIILOSOl'llhli AND MAN. ao9 outcasl and victim ; it suggests morality, imposes i I.iinnister. QUAKER TRAITS OF WALT WHITMAN. Jly n//.UAAl m.O/lAJi h/iJV.\fi/>l'. It is n riirioiis fact that the three chief clomorrats of tlic New World shodUl bo immediately or remotely of (,)uakcr aiic fstry — Whitman, WhittitT, and Al)raham l-infini^. Quakerism is extremely democratic ; any man or woman may be in direct communica- tion with God; hence Whitman's basilar doctrine of comrade- ship, ecjuality, love of the average man, and his exalting of woman to perfect equality with man. Jfis sincerity and plainness. His placidity. Freedom from all passionate grief (though this comes partly from his paternal Dutch or Hollandisch an- cestry). His silence. If he can't do what you want him to do, he doesn't say he is sorry : he simply is silent. (213) /// I if 1 Hn II I ll \ ■ 11 i ai4 /AT RE WALT WHITMAN. Unconventionaliim. No bowing to audience ; wears his hat in the house if he wants to (as do Quakers) ; neither takes nor gives titles of honor or respect. Belief in the ri)^ht of free speech. Benevolence ami friendliness. Deep religiousness. The soul is his constant theme. One cannot say that Quakerism has done more than to some- what perceptibly ////.<,v Whitman's writings. The dithyrambic fiber and superhuman strength of them are drawn from a deeper fount tlian that wliich welled forth from the soul of leather- breeched cobbler Fox. And so is the passion-flower bloom of Whittier's soul — the fiery attar of his rustic verse. In Whit- man's case the Quaker survivals are chiefly visible in his per- sonal habits and social temperament. But they are none the less interesting. I think the Quaker traits in him grow stronger every year. Tiie volcanic strength of mature manhood being passed, he reverts tenderly to the maternal teachings: they well up spon- taneously now (a tenderer feeling, more Christlike spirit of benevolence, if possible). The sun's glare has left the land- scape, and the myriad quiet lights of heaven come out one by one. WALT WHITMAN. By KARL KNORTZ: TrantUttd from iMf Otrman by ALFRED FORMAN »nd KiaiAKO MAURICE BUCKS, The first volume of Putnam's Monthly contained a sympathetic Christmas Eve story, referring to the time of the American Civil War, which bore the title, " The Carijenter." In it was pre- sented to us a family, assembled at the hearth on the festival of the holy evening, whose conversation turned principally on the terrors of the war and the conjectured plans of the generals. The youngest daughter of the house, who took no interest in this conversation, and whose thoughts were certainly more occupied with the anticipated gifts and the probable bringer of the same, interrupted suddenly the warlike conversation with the niiive question as to what trade Jesus really followed ? When, now, the old farmer had answered this question, and the maiden had expressed the wish that she might some day see the Good Car- l)enter of Nazareth (for she would surely not be afraid of him), there suddenly entered the room a stranger — a man with gray beard and hair, but with a youthfully fresh face — who held out a plane which he had found by chance in the immediate vicinity of the farm house. They bade him welcome, directed him to a seat at the comfortable fireside, and inquired among other things as to his name and occupation — without, however, giving special attention to his answers, and without giving him an opportunity to be explicit, so that, since he had introduced himself as of that calling, they simply called him Mr. Carpenter. The maiden ap- proached him trustfully and whispered in his ear that she knew who he was, and it appeared toeveryn.emberof the family as if they had in their presence an old friend ; accordingly, they all chatter with him unrestrainedly on important and unimportant private _ (2IS) - •■•■ammmitlm Axm i i ' juii 2l6 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. t ■ ■' i matters. The stranger showed himself worthy of this trust by as- suming the part of a wise counsellor, and secured anew by pru- dent means, which saved offence to either party, the tlireatened domestic peace of the family, after which, giving and receiving a blessing, he took his departure. Every one who at the time cursorily read this story thought that its author merely intended to present in that " faithful Eck- hart " the founder of the Christian religion upon his mysterious Christmas eve rounds. But whoever carefully examined the striking talk of that stranger — his constant use of unaccustomed and characteristic expressions, his sentences epigrammalically pointed and drenched with an original but sympathetic perfume of poetry — and who, at the same time, was sufficiently acquainted with American literature to know to whom these individualities of speech pointed before all other writers, became immediately convinced that it was a case of well calculated and adroit mysti- fication. Those who so approached the picture would perceive that its author, VV. D. O'Connor, so well known for his admirable literary style, was seeking here to erect a monument to his re- vered friend, the fiercely attacked author of " Leaves of Grass," and at the same time to characterize his humanitarian work. In this " Carpenter" there is presented the poet Walt Whit- man, to whose life and works we are now about to devote a por- tion of this evening. . . . The fact that " Leaves of Grass" has been so variously judged — called by one critic the offspring of an unhinged brain, and by another one of the mightiest poetic works of all times — shows that the reading of it is anything but an easy labor, and that for its proper appreciation something much more than a superficial literary and philosophical preparation is imperatively necessary. At first the form or formlessness of " Leaves of Grass " has a repelling effect, for Whitman declares energetic war against any received " ars poetica," which he scornfully designates as " poetic machinery ;" and he says, not altogether without justifi- cation, that for the most part only mediocre poets hide them- selves behind iambic, trochaic, and dactylic verse- measuring, in order to conceal their poverty of original thouglit by artful and WALT WHITMAN. 217 artificial rhymes. In his opinion, the time has come when tlie external difiFerence between poetry and prose may be wiped out, and when the poet should be his own lawgiver and provide his original thoughts with a form corresponding to them. The free lines which he uses, and which are to a Tennysonian poem as a symphony of Beethoven is to a song of Abt's, are at all events most fitting to his ideas, siiice the storm, for example, does not roar in regular time. But yet they are not altogether without rhythmic swing; when he pictures lofty emotions of the soul, his inborn speech-instinct forces him to a certain met- rical form which exerts an irresistible spell upon the reader. When, on the other hand, he is ventilating ethical and pliilo- sophical problems, or when he (as he so often does) is enumerat- ing the countries, rivers, and nations of the world in the manner of a concise hand-lexicon, ornamenting such catalogue here and there with the rich charm of expressive adjectives — such, for in- stance, as those with which Homer makes his long ship catalogue pleasing — his style is more prosaic even than the crv of the grass- hopper or the cabalistic prose of the ' 'yEsthclica in N'uce ' ' of the ^'Magus of the North " — with which philosophy, moreover, Whit- man has in common his obscurity of expression, predilection for nature, aversion to antiquated institutions, and much besides. When Carriere, in his work, " The Essence and the Forms of Poetry," says that " poetic feeling and perception demand in their expression now rhymed and now rhymeless verse," and that " the question of male or female rhyme, of Sapphic or Al- caic Strophe, is by no means an indifferent one," and that "these things should be preconsidered," and that "no par- ticular form should be either thoughtlessly rejected or arbi- trarily applied," he acknowledges the received principle of our writers on poetics, in whose view the various ideas must allow themselves to be forced into definite rhythms by their originators. When, however, this resthetic writer says, in the sentence im- mediately following, that in the true work of art the form grows out of the idea and is its organic outcome, he is in contradiction with himself, for he there asserts nothing else than that the form springs out of tlie idea, and that therefore, of necessity, there- '' t i ^i8 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. ■must be as many forms as there are ideas — on which principle the practice of Whitman would be brilliantly justified. When the impulse toward poetry first stirred in Whitman, he, likewise, paid his homage to rhyme. Later, however, when by study and meditation his spiritual horizon was widened, he shook off this fetter and wrote that rhythmical prose with which, for the rest, the reading world had already become familiar by means of the Psalms, Job, Ossian, as well as by Friedrich Schlegel's translation of the Ramayana. Far more disturbing than the absence of regular meter is the presence of a number of Spanish and French expressions added to the scorn of grammar and the setting aside of its rules. Whitman orders himself as little after the prescriptions of the grammarians as the primitive forest does after the aesthetic prin- <:iples of the landscape gardener. He very often transfers the office of the verb to the noun, or vice versa. The logical con- nection of the separate sentences one must find out for one's self — not always an easy task. Over and above this, the difficulty is increased by his sparse use of punctuation, so that it often seems as if we had sibylline sentences before us. Sometimes, when we believe that we have at last grasped the meaning of a passage and found the Ariadne thread of this labyrinth of thought, in the very next section of the verse we are met by new, almost insuperable, difficulties, so that we often doubt the sanity of our own judgment, or are inclined to reckon the poet a bewilderer of malice prepense. Whitman himself knows very well the difficulties that he prepares for his readers^ for he says toward the end of " The Song of Myself: " •' You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good iiealth to you nevertheless, And filter and fiber your blood." And adds, so as not to frighten his reader away— " Failing to fetch me at first keep encoar.iged, Missing me one place search anotlier, I s.op somewhere waiting for you." WALT WHITMAN. 219 His wealth of words — especially, however, of adjectives — is astounding; but because he often gives to them a meaning other than the current one, new difficulties again spring up for the reader, and he who has abandoned himself to the illusion of having fully mastered the English language will often have to seek comfort in " Webster's Unabridged." Uhland once made the remark that the roots of his poetry lay in love for the people, and that, therefore, to the people was it dedicated. Whitman makes a like claim for his poems, and says that they appeal chiefly to the moral feeling, and are constituted as though the average man had himself thought and shaped them. But here he is judging the capacity of others by his own ; and this is one of the reasons — indeed, the principal reason — why he has not, so far, penetrated the people, has never become popular, and has found his disciples only among the cultured literary public. But even to these his words with respect to the understanding of " Leaves of Grass" are applicable: *' For these leaves and me you will not understand, They will elude you at first and still more afterward, I will certainly elude you, Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold 1 Already you see I have escaped from you." Every one who so far has ventured on the reading of " Leaves of Grass" has had the following experience": After the perusal of the first few pages it has seemed to him that the book must have been the work of a madman. Soon, however, he has been suil'lcnly arrested by an original thought which has revealed to him the meaning of what he had so far read, and has irresistibly urged him to read further. He has found himself, then, in the condition of the magician's pupil in Goethe's ballad, who is im- able to free himself from the spirits which he has called up. Whitman is himself well aware of this peculiar magic, for he says frankly and openly : " I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me? I follo\v you whoever you are from the present hour, My words itch at your ears till you understand them." f- no rx HK n.n.r wnrrHAX. The to.uling nl " l.nwps of Oi-aBs " iimy he «-()m|)atT(l to the nRcriil nl a moimlniii. whi'io every lalioiiniis slop is irwan Int Willi lunv .unl lasi inatitifi views. Tlu- siiininit. Iiowcvcr, of litis spiiilmomitain lias ncvrf yet been learhetl, as is coiifessetl tcailily liv liis niiml aiileiit woislii|ii»eis ami most industrious trailers, who roinlort tlieniselves with Ihe tliouj^lil ilmi .is Ihev liave alreaiiv i-oiu|iiereil so nuuiv tlilTii iillies. Ilie l('l\l,•^illin^ secrets will he yet iinveileti to llieni. Wlien I ont e i.illetl llie alleiition of Dr. Mm ke. a ranailian |iliysiiian, to some of the passafirs wliii 1\ I loimtl alisoliitelv miinlellijjiltle. and indulged in the hope that I mifihl ^el what I lai ked from that years-lonp intimate of Whilnian. who was also the author of a liook upon him, he niiivclv answereil : " Why, who can iindersland it ? it will lie A hmidred years, perhaps, before any one nnilerstands i'." That, ai all events, was honestly spoken. Nevertheless, Whit- man's obsrnrilv is not bv anv means to be exi used, for the poet or philosopher who believes that he ean bless the world with new thoiiulils should be rarel'iil to i lothe them in sm h hnmiage as at least lo niak(> tluMii intelligible to a moderately ( nlliired, eo- tniipoi.uv. man.''' In Ihe New York (ir,t/iasp the jioelie import o( " Leaves of (liass." |)nrin^ the first loin vears the book was for him a siib)e( 1 (>f merrimenl and an example of Iniman perversity. Pining the next two years of his Whitman novitiate he ornipieil himself pritnip.illv with the (|iiestion as to whether behind this nmisnal. primeval, jmifile like speerh no grain of poetry mighl bo hidden. Miit only in t!-.e seventh year did he arrive al an iiiiderstandin>; either of the rhythm or spiritual fonlenis of "Leaves of (trass. " Herewith he confirms our former judumenl. that " Leaves of (trass " is not a reading for Sunday afternoon in a rot king-i hair, or on the sofa, and that in spite of nil initiatory dijcouragements we arc irresistibly again dr.iwn to it. * Wliitmnii's l.iiin«nge, to niv tniiul. i'^ lu'ifcclly clnir. Tim tUniiailly 'okcii of hv \\\c ll:i<; lolcu'iu't' (o his i\iei\l\inj;, wliiih is olkMi nhove (or he- IKMlll) ilic iv.iili of tlio oiiliiimv ul. -U. M. II. UAi.r wnrvMAS. «9t K(»r lli«' prnper fi|i|iri'i i;itii»n. iiiul (ni liu ililalin^ tlu' hIiiiIv, of lliis lionk. Whiliiiiiii li.is liiiiisi'll pmvidi'il ns with two romiueli- tnries- liisi, iianu'lv, liis own lilc; iiml, stvcmdly, liis proHe W(»rk, " IH'MKK mti«; Vislan," wliii li t(»iiliiins, rirlily set inwords niitl imams, lii^ pdlitical, pliilnsnpliii anti porlic arliril to thp Irvil ot llu' wri^lUicsl rtinl iioldr'?! pt^^hlr|ll'^. A. bUoiii" vmv !•< vriHii<i' Inisli, livclv, ii'jpitin^, cMiotioMrtl ihrv \\\\\«> I !i;U;\«trll7r»i bv ronv:tHP. M\\\, srll-fOtUrol. irlinMlitv, sttii tlinrss, volMi-t hr,-iltli ;\i\il rulnl riutvshirss- whirli Inst, hinvfvi't, nmsl W I ■.\\y.\h\o ot « onvi'ision into jilmviti^ liiitc. I'^vpi y i ivic rrtnTi uml rtiMivitv sli^ll stiuul ojmmi to women, itiul evpt-vwlieie ?!lviil ihfv \\o\V, rtmoMitig ;UI tliev tomh, rts t-pprp<»rlU!itives of womnnliiiPSH -though of a woiimnliiu'ss siirh ;is luis nevrv \ i-l Iuth nin I o\ilil l>o |>ii tmnl In- poet oi iiinrlist. i 'Icopitli;*, Hci ultu. Hnmhilil, lVm'l.>p«\ ;iml the mnnnoiis oihrr hrroiiu-s of p;ist rtgrs rttr not idcrtis of t^rnunimv pmilh-tl IVom frMiltilisn*. Rimt* now iUMnortrtr\ . in spito of its fanlts, mitnifi'stptl in pinrtire, hut e;1silv unnl. ,»lTonls ;U till cvriUs thr ln>st oppoitimitv fnv the tmshiirklrtl gvowih o\ iniliviihinlit v. nml ihr most rfliMllve srhiii * lov tho fovmnuon of piitiioiism. Whitman i;ills lontlly \()MMi \hv visiiii) \omh to tlipilmtnl timy "^1 piohlnnc,. ,\ i"* III lie !;ii( |•r>^^- livf'lv, :ls|)iriii)i, : tin- iiipli iiuist H'linhilitV. •'till I ll l;Wl. iKMVrvi't. I''. I']vptv I ivir :iin! evpfvMliete ■pif^plllrtHvpM of :i'< npvpi \v[ hppit •"'prtii.i, Hcmlm. U'lKiiU's nf pjist "iilnlimn. Riiitp In piiufifp. h\\^ 'oitimiiv for flm most pfTriHve l;1M i;llh Irnttlly V with piiliiirni tv, Imf to fjivp lent splr-lbiMipt! WliiiiuMii ill \m l'< liold totiHll- Hi' must ttoini'ih l.»11t|'!( uppq ntiil pc;i( ('. the wirtlh fhp Imp grulio, to love oil tin- Hi tllP lirrlMUflll mT Ilin tttlfnppiiit ( n||nip(|P'<, tinf't itniul llpnti liU nwil rcft. He must lie tltp li'Mvcii wliii l\ Ifiivcim :tt lii'^l llif wluile lump "I lii'j own iiiUiiMi, aiul nltcnvutl-f mII llic world. II" lip- lr)ni»>« In titp ppopip, who, wllhont KtMnlln^ lilni piivilrHPs, fpmlily nt knowlctlfjc hlin -.{n Inw^lvpf titnl IpihIpI. . . . WliilMifin ii the port of idfiitlly: he !■< ll't" '^killlid pilot, thr ImrniMl witrli. the hunted qhivc, tliP nm'hcd linnnn. in every nhninid he is pinil' ll » > »1 I S faifht'ul, sclf-sarrifK ing friend. If, however, in spite of all this, he in not to be called (Christian, the denial certainly dues not redound to the credit of the Christian religion. . Whitin.ui is nn(|ii(.-!itional>ly a genius and as such his own law< giver. When a celebrated psychologist asserts that genius is not the frientl on whose hosoni we can find rest in grief and storm because its soul-ntoods are subject to fitful change, his observa- tion has no application to the author of " Leaves of (irass," for he is perhaps a greater genius in the r6le of friend than in that of poet. Whitman's importance in its full circumference was first ac- knowledged in Kngland. The professors and literary historians — Dowilen, Symonds and Clifford — publisiicd panegyrics upon him, and the so-called pre-Raphaelii'*s, '-.iich as Swinburne, Rossetli, Morris, Hiu hanan and Oscar Wilde, no less than the art-critic Ruskin, have not only done their utmost to procure him a large circle of readers in B^ngland, but by considerable ct)ntributions they in his old age have assisted in relieving him from pressing pe( imiary need. In the Niitttfi'uth Ctntiiry for December, 1882, an English essayist asserts that the majority of .\mericans are still too nar- row hearted to understand and value a ^nr\i like Whitman. h\ Ciormany Kreiligrath once broke a lance for him, without, however, being able to excite even a i)assing interest in " Leaves of Crass." The talented novelist Rudolf Schmidt, in Den- mark, has interested himself in him vvith more success. In America the press sought, first, to kill him with abuse, but, finding that abuse tlid not serve, it attempted to stifle him with silence. The mere titles of the two poems, " A Woman Waits for Me " and " To a Common Prostitute," were sufficient to outlaw him \\\\\\ the puritan, although the Christian, according to Luther's declar.-ition, ought to speak nothing but good of his calumniated neighbor, and it would have been easy enough to find plenty of good to say about Whitman. Instead of doing their duty by Whitman and the public in an impartial objective statement of his doctrine, his critics resorted to ridicule — a proceeding in WALT WHITMAN. 33^ whirh even Riyard Taylor participated, without, however, ignor- ing Whitman's poclii al gifts. Ono criticasttT even asserted, in all solemnity, that Whitman at bottom was nothing but a con- Hcious and calculating comedian, who had thoroughly studied his rAIe and acted it out with admirable consistency. What a pity such a( tors are so rare I The most stupid essay on Whitman api)eared in 1884, in the Not til Amfritan Revinv, and it is a matter of woniler to me that the usually so-cautious editor of this monthly should have ac- cepted such a manifest piece of botch-work. Its author, Walter Kenedy, has not the least capacity for the comprehension of a poet like Whitman. He dismisses him as if he had ( ome out of a madhouse, and says that if once the " Leaves of Grass " were purified from the immorality contained in them, they would cease to find a single buyer, 'lo Whitman's creative genius (now universally admitted) he devotes not a single word. And this is what passes for impartial criticism ! William Cullen Bryant, with whom Whitman w.ns on intimate terms, and with whom he frecpiently took extended walking tours on Long Island, has to my knowledge never given public expression to his views upon '• Leaves of Grass," but since the appearance of W. I). O'Connor, Dr. Bucke, Burroughs nud Stedman, Whitman's following in America has slowly increased and every ye.ir add to its numbers. Other poets are no doubt more geneially re;'d, but of none has there been more said and written of late years than of Whitman, nor has any found at the last such warm and devoted friends. The time for ignoring him is p-ist, though, on the other hand, the time for his recognition and comprehension has not come. His world-salute has already been answered from every country in which homage is paid to poetry. I have here sought to present him impartially and without bias, and have neither ignored nor palliated his weaknesses, oddities and idiosyncrasies. As one who has sacrificed his health and fortunes to the needs of the poor, the wounded and the outcast, and has not, in spite of ample opportunity, made seasonable provision for his old age, I f. I' 230 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. he may appear to us an unpractical dreamer. Our reverence, however, we cannot on this account withhold from him ; as poet of the already-mentioned bird-idyl, as well as of the elegy on the death of Lincoln, wt do not hesitate to condone his ofifences against the codes of so-called good taste, of meter and of grammar. From the point of view of aesthetics his aim has been the beautiful ; from that of philosophy, truth ; from that of ethics, good J as democrat, he wills to all men freedom and joy. As genius Whitman is primitive-American — a self-rooted autochthonic Titan. He and his " Leaves " are one; they are his flesh and b'ood, his heart and soul. " Camerado," he says, in closing, " this is no book, who touches this touches a man." WALT WHITMAN, THE POET OF AMERICAN DEMOCRACY. By RUDOLF SCHMIDT: Translated from the Danish by R. M. BAIN {of the British Muttum), and RICHARD MA URICE B UCKE. ■ - : V ,,•■.•.,'.,. American literature has gone through precisely the same de- velopment (in spite of all ditferences) which can be pointed out in all modern literature, and which is based in a necessity raised above all external contraries. ... - Walt Whitman's verses are arbitrarily divided into very differ- ent lengths. Sometimes it is undeniable that the rhythmic swing does not strike the ear at all, at others every line is marked by a rapid certainty and majestic force which can only be compared with the heaving breast of the ocean or the course of wind over the prairies. German, as well as Scandinavian, literature can certainly -how poems in rhythmic prose, but the most casual comparison will establish the radical difference between them and those of Walt Whitman. The only thing which approxi- mately reminds us of the American poet's mode of expression is the peculiar accent which is here and there discovered in our translation of the Old Testament or in one or two of H. Werge- land's unrhymed poems. In one of the prefaces in which Walt Whitman, at various times, has entered the lists with great vigor and superiority in defence of his own style of art, he expressly represents it as the object of the finished artist to approach nature herself, whose rhythm in its manifold expressions is ever present and yet never allows itself to be confined within any single regular pulse. There is no doubt that this idea of a new and peculiar form of art has (perhaps half-unconsciously) in- fluenced the aut'iior in the choice of the general title," Leaves of Grass," under which he continues to classify all his poems. For (23') 'I 232 IN RE WALT WHITMAN, if f it is the swaying, rocking, the never-interrupted, but constantly bending (rising and falling) of the grass which he strives to represent in language. The poet in i ./duces himself at once to his readers as a widely travelled Odysseus, of whom it may well be said that he has seen manifold cities and understood their ways — but these are after all at bottom not essentially different one from another to him. . . . The immeasurable domain is everywhere to him one and the same thing — it is simply America, the home and hearth of freedom, the soil upon which the foun- dations of human truth and nobility are to be laid. It is not with the repose of contemplation, but with the everywhere vigorous joy of recognition, with the innate force of vitality, that he de- clares what he has seen. . . . That a poet in a spiritual manner should reproduce the impressions of the natural scenery of his country is certainly the main effect in which all the active powers of his genius should concentrate themselves, at least so far as re- gards a liberating, regenerating poetry. But when the reproduc- tion is in itself an illumination, these initial impressions of nature may be presented to the reader in ways new and unexpected. The peculiar point of view of the author's imagination, the material which he had to work upon, already announced itself in the first edition of " Leaves of Grass " with strikingly typical peculiarity. The great introductory piece, which gave .he keynote not only of this first outpouring of thoughts and moods, but also of the later editions which swelled to very much larger compass, had subsequently for its title " Walt Whitman." " I celebrate myself" — thus begins this poem, striking at the outset the keynote of democracy. Downright self-glorification is nevertheless in itself such a dwarfing sentiment that one knows beforehand no true poetic inspiration can be born of it. In reality, the poet only takes his point of departure from himself in order to portray a type. "What is a man anyhow?" he says — " What am I ? what are you ? All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own, else it were time lost listening to me." But this facing about puts the matter in a new light, and shows that the poet is really possessed of the democratic idea in its depth and truth. It is in virtue of this general respect for 11 WALT WHITMAN, THE POET OF AMERICAN DEM CRA CY. 235 "What am I after all," thus begins one of his lesser but a child, pleas'd with the sound of my own name ? man that democratic equality emphasizes the rights of individ- uals, but it is impossible for the individual to insist on the right for himself without at the same time recognizing it in every other man. When, then, the poet strives to discover the leading trait in himself, it is after all only human nature which lies before him. This seeking in his own soul causes the poet a wonderful joy- poems, repeating it over and over; I stand apart to hear — it never tires me." But what he brings before us is not the accident of his own individuality, it is what is common, typical. The poem has- fifty-two parts, which so far as outward form is concerned are not united together by any binding thread whatever. It is a world of ideas, figures and imaginative combinations cast forth hig- gledy-piggledy, often with an appeal to the sense of the reader of remarkably striking force, but also frequently entangled in obscurity to such a degree that it is impossible for the reader to get at his meaning. But in any case one always feels that these ideas and figures have their hidden explanation in the author's own soul, and the fact that they all are expressions of life from the same source constitutes the real unity of the poem. In the poem "Walt Whitman" is drawn the bold outline of a new departure in humanity — a man vigorous, with warm blood and fruitful brain, strong muscle, wealth of imagination healthily- rooted in sensuous organic nature, and at the same time with a power of spiritual flight — able to attain the highest thoughts of the human mind. The real hero of this poem is no individual man but the American people — the type of humanity that people represents. And of this type the poet is intimately persuaded that it compre- hends, if not in actual reality at least in disposition and poten- tiality, the highest condition for the progress of all humanity. It has been said by the poet's admirers that the whole compre- hensive collection of " Leaves of Grass," with all its manifold contents, should properly be regarded as a single poem, which at bottom is only a further development of that which bears as title the poet's own name. They would have the book regarded 234 ty^ UK WALT WniTMArf. as the great pioneer's epic, the poet himself «,i)nstanlly standing in the background, and the feeling of energetic humanity in Ids •own soul giving a satisfactory explanation of each individual part. The ncver-before-hcanl words and sentences of this author, 4n which these images burst forth, thus become the outward sign of his calling as the f»)rerunner of a regeneration of humanity. This is so far true that in the various parts into which the poems are divided there is found a transition which begins in the ob- scurity of natmc's operations atul ends in the clearest and surest certainty of the spirit. The firht degree in this scale has the common title, " Children of yVdam," and already shows in strong trails what a new and strange individuality the reader has before him. The auotheo8is of the sexual relations has become an actual impossibility, for every gleam of a consciousness different from that with which humanity's infancy has heretofore looked upon these inevitable relations produces a change of impression which excites disgust. ■ The unavoidable working out of these modes of thought in the new-world poet is expressed in such a violent atid unbridled manner that it has the ap|)carance on the face of it of incompre- Jiensible brutality, so long as one dwells on the details, and this k WALT WlltnfA \, rifK PORT OF A MKRICAN DEMOCRACY. 235 American c riticism lias done persistently. Hut if with r'^gani to these ontpnurings one hits upon tlic idea of rebutting theni with the same passion with which they obtrude themselves, then, in- «leetl, this mode of regarding them as criterion for a sound judg- ment is dearly false and invali«l. Curiously enough, it is a woman who. with the truthful instir :t which so often guides her .sex, here first expresses the opinion which does justice to the poet's intention, and by so doing makes a reconsideration of the itman," caused to be published in May, 1870, in the Boston Nihiioii. This letter, which plainly reveals itself as the effusion of a |)crspicacious mind cultivated by manifold observa- tion and learning, expressly insists that Whitman's expression of intoxication by the feeling of life is not to be taken by itself but as a phase of the poet's thought — " the primeval foundation of the race;" in coi.sc<]ucnce of which he praises the splendor of a perfect body and the rich productive ])owcrs of t'le unpoisoned sources of life. The aiithoress < alls attention to this significant line of the poet : " Life of my senses and flesh, transcending my senses and flesh." It is a poem of the body which the author wishes to make, but such a poem as is full of deeply felt truth, and not a poem in which the worship of beauty becomes the cloak for a carnally excited imagination. It is also readily perceived that it is no subjective erotic poet's pen which has jiroduced these grotesque lines. There is cast over this grim falling foul of those things about which a moral instinct tolls men to hold their tongues, a gust as it wore of strong inspiration. The new dciiarture, which at first had such a repulsive eflfect, now appears in any case as a fully cons(-ious spiritual aim ; and if a man cannot altogether get his mental habits reconciled to seeing the cymbal of a corybant clashed bv a man whosa clothes are sewn in a New York tailor's ini r «3« JN RK WALT WHITMAN. shop, at least one gets to understand the poet as a characteristic expresser of his country and people. A few years ago the papers announced an exhibition of new-born cliildren in an American town, and the mother of the strongest and healthiest of the little mortals was presented with a valuable prize. On the reception of this prize the triumphant matron with a loud voice undertook in the following year to win the prize that should be then set, and the assembly ai)plauded rapturously. There are points of view from which such things look uncommonly low and brutal, but one would Jo better to be silent rather than deny that this is a sound and sensible path to be pursued. The same element in the nature of the American jieople which finds expression in this case has in the poet's mind condensed itself into wild, uncon- trollable expression, and inasmuch as he seeks words for what lives within him in the deep layer of the language, without any mealy-mouthedness, he is not therefore an apostle of immorality who without shame substitutes for the well-known obsequious delicacy of European literature mere impudent audacity ; he is simply the sober organ of the democratic mind. The next division of the poems has as general title " Calamus." In one of these poems the author addresses the reader in the following words : " Whoever you tire holding me now in hand, Without one thing all will lie useless, I give you fair warning before you attempt me further, I am not what you supposed, but far different. Who is he th.it would become my follower ? Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections? The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive, Vou would have to give up nil else, I alone would expect to be your sole and excluswe standard, Your novitiate ..ould even then be long and exhausting. The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives around you would have to be abandon'd. Therefore release me now before troubling ysurself any further, let go your hand from my shoulders, Put me down and depart on your way. I I IVALT WHITMAN, rUK POET OF AMElilVAN DEMOCRACY. 337 Or else l>y stcnlth in imrne wood for trial, Or iiack of a rock in the open air, (For in any roof M room of a house I emerge not, nor in company, And in libraries I lie as one dumi), a (;nwk, or unborn, or dead,) But just possibly with you on a high hill, first watching lest any person for miles around a|)proach unawares, Or |x)ssibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea or some q>iiet island, Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you. With the comrade's lonjj-dwciling kiss or the new husband's kiss, I'or I am the new husband and I am the comrade. Or if you will, thrusling me beneath your clothing, Where I may feel the throbs of your heart or rest upon your hip. Carry me when you go fordi over land or sea ; For thus merely touching you is enough, is best, And thus touching you would I sdently sleep and be carried eternally. But these leaves conning you con at peril, For these leaves and me you will not understand. They will elude you at first and still more afterward, I will certainly elude you. Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold ! Already you see I have escaped from you." . It is not only that Walt Whitman departs so completely from every previous literary experience, but also that there is so much in him which is rather glimpsed than clearly expressed, and this makes him certainly often glide away from the reader in phrases which can with difficulty be brought under any regular and definite meaning. In any case it will always be possible to follow him through all his chief tendencies if one strives to see in these tendencies an impulse of the very thought of Democracy itself. It is not merely that the individual when in health and power demands free breathing room for its own self, respects the same right in other individuals, and is thereby led to an advan- tageous self-limitation ; there is also a limitation of a more inti- mate and noble kind which the free self, precisely in the firm feeling of only following the law of its own will, may of spiritual necessity impose upon itself; it is that which lies in the demand I J ajH IX KN UAI.T WIlir.UAX, (tf lovo. The lUiovi' uH-nlioiu'd ilivisinn of " l.t-avcs oi driiiw" iili'ali/.CM riioiHlship Ih"|w«'i'i\ mrn : tlu* love ofi oiunulcs. " I Kiuv ii) I iuiii\k >;itiwiii^;. All iilxiir Ntiiitil ii iiiiil ihi' iiiiisK liuiij; iIkwii Iiiiki (lie lirniii'l)('i«, NViilii'ut i>i>v 'I'lniinnitin il hm-w iIicu- iiiu-iin^ jnyinin leuvos oldnik kicph, Anil ilx liiitk, Miilc, unlirnilin^, Uintv, nnulc nio iliiiiU ol niyHfll, llul I wonilciM linw il rnulil ntu-i jnyoii'. loiwos iitaiiilni); iduno Ihcio with- KUl lis flicitil Itriu, inr I knew I ciillM not, Anil 1 lm(", I'lloHnu joyous Icmi-n nil il^ lilo without A fvicnd a lover ncnr, 1 know voiy woll I oouM not." Utit with the iVco lH)ml ol" iiniiin which the port designates in these wonis as Ills own soul's net essity l»e will now eniirele the .\\nerie;tn States ;n\t' bung ahoiit their true i)nencs8. •'("onii", I will lunkr llic o,>n|inonl iiulissoluMo, I will nirtkc Iho n\(isi s,l(Mivliil i,v»o ilio sun over siionc uj)on, I will m«ko (livinr n\,tj;iu'tii' liimls, Willi llu- love ol ooiiojilo*, With ilu> lilo lonj; lovo of coniriulen, I will i>lnnt conipi\nionsl\ip tliiok ns lioos ixlon^ nil llic rivers of Amoricn, Mu\ rtlon^; tlio slioirs of iho ^ronl Irtko*. nml aII over the piniricH, 1 will mnke insoparnMo iilios with iheir nrm» nhout cAch other's necks, Hy the lo\o >>f v'onira(lo«t, Ity iho manly love of comnxden, Kor you those fnun mo, t> Pomoiiaoy, lo *oivo you niA femmet For )^n^, for you I am lulling: these s*>nj;s," Tlie politieo-soeirtl freeiUMU-eqiiality doetrine, whieh through sttoh long ages was so ctirionsly split up ainoitg its Kuropean heralds, insotuuch that first one then another side of it was cx- agigeiated at the expense of the opposite side, has among the AniJ hoh inatj the WhI for\i WAW WHITMAN, TIIK VOKT Of AMKItlVAN DKMOCRACY. 339, AnuTicntis fouiul tlic link of personal unity wliicli firHl ical'y I\i)I(Ih it lonctlicr. 'I'liis wliolo section of the poent contiiins so many expresHioiis of « li'r^e anil waiin lu-art that one gets to love tiie p(M'i very th-aily. Tins method of approat h is precisely what Whitman hiinself, in the above nanunl address to the reader, puts forward as the oidy «ey to a real comprehension of him. And in the nndst of all hit egoism we can easily distinguish in him ii longing that this key may he discovered. " Nt>w lirt me cloic la your fiice till I whiiper, Wlml yiui iirp lioliliiin U in rciilily mi imok, nor pnrf of n book t it in II nun, llusliM nnd tiill lilnnilcil -it in I -.So l< loii/i ! — Aiul t li(i|ie wc sIk'U niucl ii^nin." Yet not even this current of thought in Walt Whitman have the American critics tnulerstood, although it touches the very heart-root of their |)eople. The partiality for sailors, hunters, boatmen and pioneers, expressed iu so many places by the poet, has in the very home of democracy been brought up against him as a vulgar penchant, which cannot but exclude him from the culture ard nobility a man nnist necessarily have to work his way in literature, in this respect, however, it was reserved for Whitman, by his very deeils, to de( lare what his words meant, so that no mistake was any longer possible. His career in the camps and hospitals ihning the civil war, which followed the early editions of " Leaves of (Irass," became the plainest com- mentary to his song of " love of comrades." Hut that we possess in Walt Whitman an individuality which has received once for all its impress and full idea of the public spirit prevail- ing in American and tiemocratic society, is to be recognized, jwrhaps, most plainly, when we compare him with those poetic phenomena in European literature in whom a bursting forth of the national minil has occurred as if from the very depths of the nation itself. It follows of itself that we are not talking here tiboiit the V mimon people in whom in every literature (here at home also) a brief interest has been awakened by means of a ! i [ Ii 240 IN KK WALT WHITMAX. WAL iv- 11 skillful imitation of a poetry which has found its proper expression and exhausted its significance beforehand. . . . Walt Whitman's poetry certainly brings about a remarkable feeling of life in the reader, and immediately operates as some- thing absol itely original, which has its flow from nature's own source. But those qualities with which the simple popular poet so strangely masters his own mind he possesses in a lesser degree [/*. e., Whitman has in less degree than they the dominant char- acteristics of the popular poet, such as Burns and Koltsov]. In a somewhat old " Travels in America " I once read that the European fruit trees in the soil of the New World bore fruit of far fainter flavor, but, by way of compensation, of a far more considerable size, tlian in the Old World. Whether or no this be the case, we have hjre an analogy which is very edifying with regard to the relatiors between Walt Whitman and his European comi)eers. He ha^ shot up from a spiritual soil still lacking in the juices which give to the fruits of the mind their peculiar aroma and fascinating sweetness, but the whole circumference is many times greater, and promises, when once the full ripening has come, productions of a far richer power and fulness. The Euro- pean poets have glorified affection and friendship, as individual feelings. Whitman sings the attraction between the sexes as the healthy foundation of a new race, and men's affectionate devo- tion to each other as the true uniting energy of a free community. At the same time, his feeling of self and personality is so far from being less strong than it is in those other poets that on the con- trary he, quite diff'erently from them, has penetrated into the inmost qualities of self in such a way as lyric torch has never before illuminated. . . . Whitman is a democratic poet, who has become the spokesman of a democratic people. The breadth of the continent is illustrated in his poems. . . . There is in Whitman a mass of miscellaneous commonplaces — one might almost say of unsifted newspaper expressions; there is something abrupt, angular, raw, which repulses ; but behind all this we observe, at the same time, the volatile mind which has not perished beneath, but works groaning through, the un- f • expression emarkable WALT niflT.VAX, TIIK POKT OF AMERICAN Ut:MOCRAi.!Y. ,41 rhythmic- and half-rhythmic combinations of wouls, wluch rom- binations, however, in his liappier moments, he brings togetlier so as to form surprising artisti< effects. Tlie impression that we here stand before a new departure makes us again reverse ciu judgment, iiowever tasteless, even dis- gusting, the details may have been to us. Tlic feeling comes to one that the pure and perfect beauty with which our minds have been seized in reading Whitman may be attained by this road also and indeed reveal itself (througij this style) with a hitherto unknown power and splendor, Walt Whitman has his own way of computing time. He talks of the " seventieth " or " eightieth year of these states," he cal- culates by peculiar divisions, and refers to " the I'residentiads," as the old Greeks to tlie Olympiads. Sometimes the self con- sciousness of the Americans assumes such an expression in him that no Yankee even of the most magniloquent sort would find it easy to go beyond him. But the very affection which expresses itself as a broader and wider popular feeling gives the poet the necessary corrective. There are expressions enough to be found in " Leaves of Grass " which guarantee that Whitman is by no means of the same kidney as that American citizew who looked through the papers for a school for his son where he could be ex- empted from the humbug history of those nations which ha>'e been dead and buried these thousands of years and were unable tc show a single citizen " who could steer a steamboat or manage a hotel ! " If it has hitherto been permitted to us Europeans to write and think as if the New World did not exist, a corre- sponding one-sided forgetfulness is quite an impossibility with an American poet. Even if his patriotic feeling makes bim a citizen rather of a continent than of a country, nevertheless, in that very fact he has a constant reminder that on the other side of the great ocean there is the Old World where stood the cradle of humanity, where his forefathers lived, and where the culture on which he himself rests was founded. This reminder finds constant expression in Walt Whitman, who never lets it go; in his loftiest flights it still hangs over him, at once questioning and warning him. • ' • >- . . I 16 » ri u r.../i It 1 «^i i\ WA II 1/ 1 u iiiruA.y. " \% I |ii u|>i'M my |ii>rin«, runviili'ihiK, liM|>riln|| l<>ii||, A I'hntiiom nn»»e hrfnir me uUli ill«iiiiMlvil nH|nTl, Ti'iillilc in ln'unlv, «})••, nnil |iii«fi, ■| lir ni'nin* nl pin'ti nl nM lundi, A« In nil- itlrniinit like llnmc (U pym, Will) (inun |ii>ln(iny In tntinv ttiinixtlitl «n«m, And nu'imclim vi'ke, 11 A,it sittjirst tht'H f it salil." And t\v\\ in plm ch wlicrr iho ^olf f'X.ilfnlion of llie p«»et roKi li(es ami a< ross all the world. As if in a li^hlnin^ flasli, whii h is kindled and ex- pires in the same moment, we see the Moom and det line of na- tions, the rlash of events, the might and ruin of i ivilizations, the peetiliarity of « limates and dilTerent modes of life, the seductions and tenors of natme, the whole dashed off in a few rapid lines, l>iit often with so sine an intuition that the reader feels the imag. fastened in his soul as an abiding possession. Theie me nn- deniahlv long stretches of leaden prose in between. In passages like this — • " 1 om of Mmlrid, Cmlif, llnrcelonn, Oporti>, Lyons, nnimelR, Heme, Krntik* fort, Stulltrnvl, I'lnin, I'lorence" — there is neither poetry tier rhythm ; yet the poet returns to siini- II 1/ /• II mnn v, ///a; rnnniA umir.ty niuniK \i y ,^y llir ptirl wiii^ opus Mpw Woilil. |fiMi wniili-'l." ) IrttnU. villi (inc iif TllC Hll«»llf» I wiflo noll- lic pnnt nnd '< p<«'t» sill- Ulnars witli 's-ryc view, il itrKmn all 0(1 and ex- lino of na- tations, till* RoduclinnH :ipi(l linen, s llie iinag. 10 arc nn- In passagca trine, Frnitk* ns to simi- lar onnnH'ratioiiM Imili lioio and in ollior porniN willi ixmiImi liindnt'SM 11)0 ,\,i>//i .hniHiitH A'lifcU' (iir Jannarv, iHfiy. Iimm wiilt Niiirnnil wtirdiH Iwitloil him with tliin pmiliarily ; lai hk ic mh ri'il, luiwovrr, oorlainly i"» ll»' • rilii ol tin- IIVt/Hinnfi/ A',rt'U> wliin lie insislH lli:it tlicso IIsIm, wlnllior llioy srrvo ti» niiiko llin uionl;d liuri/nii widor and t loaror, (»r wlirthoi llioy aro pinoly IVagniontary «ir nrrasiniial, always liavo llio Hanto looling nf in lonso vilalilv. I lit jov in liMnian lilo and in tlio inaniluld pliaso^ (if iiatnro In ronHoipiontly inlilli^dtk* to m cvni In llxme i aHOii wlioio v.oiannot sliaio it willi liiin ; wo aro i arrit'd alini|{ with him Itoi ;ni4o wo havo tdisorvod ami Icit his lull liiiin \»iwr\ oko whoro ; ami ovoit whon tho pnot's vttli o wiiimN InmrMO ami haisli to ns. we noverthplcHs Tool that ho who horo iimirH out his " Imr- liarir yawp mor tho roofs of (ho world " is a spiiit whoso wings roally havo power lo hoar him ovoiywhore. Iliil this poom, "Saint an Momlo," also shows tho way lo Iho last point ni dif- ferom o hotwoon Wall Whilman ami tho pools who in Iv. opo spring spiritnally from the voiy heart (»f the people. 'I'lic poetry whii h begins with sexual (^loiilli ation as nn organii operation of natnro, ends in boldly taking possession of tho spirit of human- ily ami tho whole rontont of history in a high nolo (tf warning as to the «ontinnily of the Anioric an people. For sm h an eagle (light as this those other poet natnros wanted lioth wings and do- sire. They were sonis lull of spiritual yoarnings, motive powers of whole oommnnitios, ( apaMe of high aspirations Iml not of at- taining the last heights. Walt Whitman is asonl who possossosiilji the groat fnmlamenlal ideas, lint he is (ndy able oec asionally to im- perferlly lot thorcnilenls of his mimi bla/e forth in thoughts wliii h take on at their best in his verse the glowing beauty ..f newly last preeions metals. His admirers regard him as being as grejil a thinker as po' - , in reality, he is a heaving, restless ( ombina- tion of both. Upon him tho great fundamental print ipio of I'antheism. as understood by (lerman thinkers in the (Irst throe- quarters of the present icnlury, has oxereised the same power of cm hantmcnt that it mcciiis bound to exert on every one who awakens to life in the higher realms of thought. The gradations «44 lA RK WAIT WHITMAN. uiuler which all the poems in " l.enves of Grass" so niHurally seem to fall is in reality only the Ameriranizetl interpretation of the dogma of absolute philosophy of the unity of the world of spirit nnd natnre. \\\ a letter to the atithor of these lines Walt Whitman himself names Hegelianism as the undercurrent which fru< tifies his views of life. Thus pantheistic amal^ramation agrees tip to a certain point with the essence of democracy, hut beyond that point it bee diucs altogether opposed to it ; and this split Is plandy recognizable in Wall Whitman. lie plunges with the jov of a swimmer into the billows ol the connnon life of the nniverse, where one form conslintly proceeds from another as the expression of t>ne and the same formative energy, lie also joyfully takes tip the grand thought of the impossibility of evil, And likes to look upon that which usually scai\dalizes men as an expression, lawful in its way, oi' life's energies. Hut there is a boundarv line bevond which his instincts stubboridy refuse to be earned bv this » nrrent \ipon wliich he has allowed himself so truslfuUv to be borne along. The democrat who uttered the words " I celebrate myself" will not be satisfied in death with flowing back into the circle of universal being. He is deter- mined to have his individuality, his own self, along with him, on the other side of the dark entrame. From moment to mo- ment !ie lets his voice ring forth, ipiestioning, into the glotuii of deaili, and proudlv marks how the vaulted distance echoes back thesomid. Wliitman's fancv rises in his addresses to Death to an unusual glow of color, ami this exalted iinil religioiis feeling can be discerned ]ierhaps n\ost plainly in the brief, cold conclusion of the epigrammatic poem " Kespondez : " "111 (lie limitetl Venrs of life do nothing for the linutless years of death! (Whnt do you suppose dcnth will do, then?) " If one asks, once for all, has Walt Whitman any peculiarly poetic gifts ? the answer is, that the evidence of such is undoubt- edly to be fotmd in hini. and ntnv and then of a power and purity that has seldom if ever been surp.issed. There arc images that for simplicity and directness remind us of the Homeric pic- tures, and there are flights of fancy of tuarvcllous grace and I I 10 n.Hurnlly [iretittioii of H.' world of ; liiu-s \V:ilt irrent which ntion agrees Itnt hi'yond this split is ;fs with the life of the I another as y. lie also ility of evil, ^s men as an It there is a refuse fo be I himself so uttered the (leath with He i^ deter- ig with him, lUMit to mo- le gloom of erhoes hark Death to an s feeling ran I eonchision enrs of deiUhl y peruliarly is undoubt- power h\m\ e are images iomerii: pir- \ grace and MALI WHITMAN, THK POKT OF AMKIili'AN DIJKHKAi Y. 245 viva( ity. Read, for instance, the following fragments of a poem which has for title the author's own name : " A rlilM •snM UTtnt is thf x^iJsh ? fetching it In me with full liniid'; j !li)W cinilil I nnswcr tlie child? 1 do imt kimw wlml ii is nny inure limn lie. 1 guess it must l)c the ling of my tlis|)osilioii, out of hopeful grecii sluU woven. Or I nuoss it is the hnndkerchief of the l.nrd. A seenlcd gift and rememi)riiucer designedly dropl, llenriiiK llie owner's imme somewny in the corners, Ihnt we mny see niid reMi!irl<, and sny W'hou- ? Or 1 guess the ^rass Is itself n child, the produced Imhe of llie vegetation. Or 1 f;ness it is n uniform liiero^1y|ihic, And it menus, Sproutirn nlilos " which author un- ican demo- am ic figure o, they re- >nal revel.".- is evident led the ex- st manifold of critics, which goes 1 a genuine nee in the tion is pre- e stroke of adedness — iar impres- tion which WALT WHITMAN, THE POET OF AMERICAN DEMOCRA CV. 247 journals all over the world put such an extraordinary value upon. The poet of " Leaves of Grass " has no faculty for the sharp- spiced meats of modern journalism, and many things in these essays may be called insignificant from a literary standpoint. But he who has once come to love Walt Whitman will value even these small works. They will remind him of the Latin verse which says: '• Clay vessels saturated with wine will preserve its fragrance even after they have been soused with water." . . . " Drum-Taps" are more artistic than Wiiitman's former poems — the real poetic essence in the man's nature has here violently burst forth. . . . That of Whitman's writings which leaves the strongest impres- sion of an elevated and superior mind, a glancing with penetra- tion upon all the events of its time and people, and the clearest judgment as to their meaning and tendency, is his little prose book, *' Democratic Vistas." To say of this work that it is in its kind the most pregnant thing that has ever been written would not be a completely correct description, for the work is unique; it represents quite a new type of literary production. The fire of the poet and the lucidity of the thinker are here united with the marvellous foresight of the seer. The manifold elements in Wiiitman's nature are in this book woven together into a prose to wliich one may most truly apply an often mis- used expression, viz., that it resembles a stream of molten noble metals. And the simile becomes the more striking when we re- member that the series of thoughts, although often in literary contradiction with the rapid course of words employed, neverthe- less harmonize with each other so perfectly that they point to a hidden law of unity in the author's personality. The work is built upon the idea that public spirit is not created by institu- tions as our national liberals naively imagine, but that institutions themselves will infallibly grow rotten, like an old mill, if public spirit is not constantly at work propping them up and re-edify- ing them. What Whitman aims at is the individual — his prin- cii)le and will. Whilst public opinion in America generally puts forward railway extension and technical invention as the imme- diate testimony of human progress, Walt Whitman, on the other 1 I 248 IN RE WALT WmnfAN. t hand, insists as the condition of true advance on the necessity of a new race of poets, orators, folk-awakeners, who, born of the democratic spirit, shall lift the masses to the level of their own thought. Scarcely anywhere else in the world has the superficial democratic mental culture been submitted to such a scarifying criticism — the real democratic programme has never been placed before our eyes in its circumference and development with such a prophetic sureness. There is scarcely a single movement in politics, social life and literature which the author does not touch with the finger of genius and bring under a surprising, hitherto unsuspected, illu- mination. Every fresh time that we take up the book it reveals to us new points of view and gives us an ever-growing impression of the depth and width of the thoughts contained in it. In this work, which in so miny ways proclaims the renaissance of life, the poet's fancy makes itself felt, penetrated with the constantly recurring thought of Death also. To him the higliest aim of democratic poetry is to write the " Song of Death/' the con- quest of which, to Whitman, is only anotjier name for the victory of personality. ... e necessity born of the their own superficial I scarifying •een placed ; with such "LEAVES OF GRASS" AND MODERN SCIENCE. ial life and ; finger of scted, illu- k it reveals impression t. In this ice of life, constantly !st aim of ' the con- the victory By RICHARD MAURICE BUCKE. Walt Whitman is not a scientist nor in any sense a teacher of science. There is no evidence that he has valued or studied technical knowledge in any of its numerous departments. His is the science of the seer or poet (but always^of the modern seer), which comes not of study but of direct insight. It is not less exact than that of the scientist and is more comprehensive and vital. He is not informed (the inside of him is not formed) by books. He hears the stars of heaven whispering. The suns, the grassy mounds of graves, Me eternal omnipresent and per- petual transfers and promotions of the objective universe, tell him the open secrets that so few ever discover, that none read in books. Did he study mythology? Well, perhaps he did, if he ever studied anything. At all events, he has mastered it and has seen and taught more clearly, I think, than any predecessor, the central fact of it, viz., that all religions are really one, and one only. Merely diflferent languages, each expressing the same thing. Exactly as " Ich weiss nicht," " Je ne sais pas," and " I don't know," all mean (are) the same. So in a truly scien- I tific spirit he accepts all faiths as all equally divine — as all equally human — as all having sprung from the great heart of man — as all having been shaped by his inspired lips. Bibles and religions are, he says, divine, but they have all grown out of man and may I grow out of him still. It is he that gives life to them, not they that give life to him. ; He is not an Egyptologist, but has perhaps dipped as deep a& (249) 850 TX RK WAIT WilfTMAV, nny in.iii into tlie scrrct of the far Imck rnco that icrtrejl its obe- lisks on tho Imnks of llio vcncnthle, vnst mollicr, the Nile. lie prol);»l)ly knows little or nothing of terhniiiil physiology, hut I'or nil that in " Chihlien of Atlitm " he has lecogniRetl and ni:te«l upon one of the iloepcst of all physiological truths (far too wiilo anti ileep to hv set forth here), and in so tloing has (on the sn|)poHilion that his work will live) done more for the future of the Iniinan rat e than ull the physiologists and doctors of (his generation. Kinerson made a strennons atlcm|)t to divert Walt Whitman front his purpose as contained in these, the most vital ami important of all his, poems, luit happily, and iiuleed inevit- ahly, without success. The poet knew that this realm also be- longed to him. That the ftubidden and veiled voices had to be allowed and tmveiled. That the indecent voices hatl to be trans- figured, and the impure voices clarified, and that he, for his part, was \U)\ permitted to press his fingers across his moiilh, but had to speak ont aiul prove to a skeptic world that sexual organs and acts are not vile, but more thai» all else illustrious. This achieve- nu'ut of his is (if we will think of it) a result of profouiul, and at the same time practical (^not bo much " modern " as future), science. j Walt Whitman has never been ( I snpposc) a student of zoology, but before the " Origin of Species " was published — back in the early fifties — he knew why the animals reminded him of I imself. That he had passed that way huge times ago, and had neg- ligently dropped the luiman tokens th»t they exhibit, him- self moving forward then and now and forever, infinite and omnigenous. The so-called nebular hypothesis and the whole modern theory of evolution seem to have been present aiul familiar tt) his mind iVom the first. Did he get them from Laplace, I.amarck and the " Vestiges," or did he himself see evolution occurring ? The nebula cohering to an orb ? The piling of the long, slow strata? The vast vegetables and the monstrous sauroids ? The latter view seems the nu>re likely. Without study, by mere observation of the life of the tncn and women around him, sec the depth and scope of his political : I "IKAVE'S OF an ASS" A NO MODERN fiCIKNCR. a5» nml snciologit nl tcarliiii^. Nothing short of nbnohitc ctpmlily of siirroinulinj^H— thi' al)olilioii of iiitliviiliml ov, icrship, the (lontictiidc luiil « iiiitciitpt for nil ontwnnl law (the inner taking its pln«:e), the perfccl freedom and balance of the sexes, the rerognition of the sarrctlncss of eat li iixlividtial, faith iii the nitiniale salvation and iierferlion of all withont ex«i'|ttion — will satisfy him. Note the fii'ld ho covers. I low he totichcs npon or dips into all concpivablc siibjocts, and never (as far as I know) strikes a false note. Ni ver of course covciing or intending to rover the field, he e nobles, and idealizes the object of its adoration. They do not walk the streets of the cily of life — they ex|)lore the sewers; they stand in the gutters and cry "Unclean!" They i)retend that beauty is a snare ; that love is a Delilah ; that the highway of joy is the broad road, lined with flowers and filled with perfume, leading to the city of eternal sorrow. Since the year 1855 the Anieriian people have developed; they are somewhat a( (piainted with the literature of the world. 'I'hey have witnessed the most tremendous of revolutions, not only upon the fields of battle, but in the world of thought. The American citizen has concluded that it is hardly worth while being a sovereign unless he has the right to think for himself. And now, from this height, with the vantage-ground of to-day,. I propose to examine this book and to state, in a general way, what Walt Whitman has done, what he has accomplisheil, and the place he has won in the world of thought. II. -THE RELIGION OF THE BODY. Walt Whitman stood, when he published his book, where all' stand to-night — on the perpetually moving line where history ends and prophecy begins. He was fidi of life to the very tips of his fingers — brave, eager, candid, joyous with health. He was- acquainted with the past. He knew something of song and story, of philosophy and art — much of the heroic dead, of brave suffer- ing, of the thoughts of men, the habits of the peojile — rich as well as poor — familiar with labor, a friend of wind and wave, touched by love and friendship — liking the open road, enjoying the fieUls and paths, the crags — friend of the forest — feeling that he was free — neither master nor slave — willing that all should know his thoughts — open as the sky, candid as nature — and he gave his thoughts, his dreams, his conclusions, his hopes, and. his mental portrait to his fellow-men. *5fi /iV KK WArr nil UMAX. 1 Wall NVItitmnn aniiDimrcil iho gospol ttf llic liody. He con* (VoMli'il tlio iM'oplc. \\v ttonicd llio depravity ol' mnti, lli< iii- nistnl lltiU lovo in tiitl ii rrinic ; that luci) iiiid wnntrn slioiilil lie prontlly iiatiiriil ; tltat tlu>y nccti nol ({rovcl on the (MiiIi nitil cover tlieir liires lor Hhitiiu*. Hi* taught the iliKiiily and glory of tlu* fallier «nd inolhrr ; the srtt ri'dnoMH of luiUeniity. Maternity, tender and pure an the tear of pity, holy ni snfTcr- inn ll\(' « rown, the lluwor, llio erslasv o( love. IVopIc had been lan^ht Irtnn bibles and I'loni (reeds that maternity was i\ kind oi' crime ; that the woman shonld lie piirilieil l)y sonu' ceremony in some temple bnill in lionor of some xod. This barbarism was attacked in " l,ea\es of (trass." Tlie f^lorv of simple life was snng j a declaration of indepond- c)\( e was n\ade for ea« h and all. And yet this appeal to maidiood and fo womanhood wan mis- tmderstotul. It was denonni (>d sin\plv because it was in har« , monv with the great trend of nature. To mo, the most obscene 1 word in onr language is celibacy. It was not the fashion ibr people to speak or write their thoughts. We were flooded with the literature of hypoi risy. The writers ilid not failhl'ully desiribe the worlds in which they lived. They endeavoretl to make a fashionable world. They pretended that the cottage or the hut in which they dwelt was a l)alace, and they called the little area in which they threw their slops their domain, their realm, their empire. They were ashamed of the real, of what their world acluallv was. They imitate*! ; that is to say, they tt)ld lies, and these lies filletl the literature of nu)st lands. Walt Whitman defended the sacredness of love, the purity of passion — the passion that builds every home and fills the world with art and song. They cried out : " He is a defender of passion — he is a liber- tine ! He lives in the mire. He lacks spirituality I " Whoever difTers with the multitude, cspc«ially with a led nnil- titude — that is to say, with a multitude of taggers — will find out from their leaders that he has committed an unpardonable sin. ; f Liin.RiY IS i.irhiiM'UHh:. •57 It is ft I rliiu' lo Iravi'l a rond of your own, enpocially if you put ii|i ^iiitlt'-lioaids (or tlit* iiiroriiiiilinn of ntlicrK. Miiny, iiiiiny < rniiii icn a^w MpimiuH, tlic ){r«'iitent iiian of liin « fiitury, and of many (onluncs before and alter, mud : " llappi* ncHH in the only ((ood ; liappinom in the Miprenie end." 'ridn man was temperate, IrnKal, generoiin, noble -and yet throuf(h all these years lie has been denmnired by tlie hypoi riles of llie >v(irld as a mere eater and drinker. It wan said that Whitman had exa^^erated the important c of love — that he had made too nnii h of this passion. |,et mc say that no poet not excepting Shakspere -has had ima){inalioM enough to exa^geiate tiie inipoitaiue of human love a passion that ( ontnins all hei^hts and all depths— ample as spaei*, with a sky in wlii( h glitter all ronstellations, and that has witliin it all storms, all li^htnin^s, all wre< ks and ruins, all griefs, all sorrows, all shadows, and .ill the joy and sunshine of which the heart anu, no\ voii i.urr for (h»-m. , . . Koi'Iriiies, |)<;litic<) lUul civilizntion rxiirj;'' lo-iu y.»u, .Seiil| field." I-ong a^o, wlien tlte pohlicians were wrong, when the judges were subservient, when tiio i)uli)it was a cowanl, Walt Whitman shouted : " Mun -liiill not hold property in n>i\n. "i III' least dcvi'lo|i'd iHMson on i-urlh is ju^t ;>» im|HKtnnt and snored to him- si'ltor herself ns the most develop'd person is to himself or herself," 'I'his is thi" very sotil of true democracy. Hcanty is not all there is of poetry. It ninst contain the (tilth. It is not simply an oak, rtide and f;r,ui.self ? " i Ghirying in individuality, in the freedom of the soul, he cries out *?! 'O to strURple ajjninst (jrcat n(hls, to meet enemies undaunted! < Ti) l)c entirely alime widi them, to lind how much one can standi ■fo look strife, torture, prison, |iopular odium, face to face ! To mount the scnfluld, to advance to the muzzles of guns with perfect non- chalance I To he indeed a iJod 1 " And again : "O the joy of a manly selfhood ! To l)c servile to none, to defer to none, not to any tyrant known or unknown, To walk with creel CTrriajje, a step sprin^jy and elastic. To look with cahn ^ar.e or with a flashiu); eye. ^i>: ; r 3 ! I ■t-'V^- i »t 1^4 tiv NH WAf.r unii^AX, I'll (pf.'l* with n I\i1l ntui nonoi-niu viiirr o\\\ of n lituml rlli>«f, 1*0 col(0>i»ii with ymir prrnminlily all ilie mlipr prMrxmlHiefi of the f«i1Ii." VVrtIt Wliitmnn is willing lo Mnml alone. He is sniVu iont nnio hinisrir, nnd he srtyst " Ilencefoilli I nnk i)i>i mmil fninuu", I iiiy«('lt nin nmtd lotlune." •'Stn>t»|{ mill conieiit I (invel ihe n\^c\\ toml." He is one of '• Thois llint InnU inrcle«»ty in the fiiccs of I'leslilcnis niul Viovernorn, ns lo Krty ' Who ni^e you ? '" And not only llus, l>iil lio has the rontage to s.ty : " Nnlhing» not (lod, is grcrtler to one lli.tn one's self." Wall Whilncni is Iho port o( Iniliviihialilv— the ilfrfmler of ♦lie tighl'< o\' vm\\ for tho sake of all — and his svtnpallncs nre as wiiU" !\s the woiM. He is the deleiuiei of the whole ime. VI.-miMANHY. The great poet is intensely lunuan — infinitely svnipiuhetir— - entering into the joys itnd griefs of others, bearing their hnnlens, knowing their sorrows. Hrain withont heart is n»>! nnuli ; they tnnst ad together. Wheti the respi'i tahle people of the Not ill, the rii h. the snci essfnl, were willing to < arrv ont the Kiigitive Slave law, Wall Whitman said : " I <\n\ \]\e houMilrit ntnve, I wltu-c nt thp Mtr of the ilo(js, Holl a\\>\ ili>«|>!\ii- nrt' «pon mr. ctnrk nml njinin rrm-U tlu- mmUsinpn, 1 iliitcli (hr vrtiln of the IVtue, my goie diilis, tliiuii M with tiie no/c of my \ M\ ii\\ the wrcit^ r>nil itone^, The riilevo »|i\n then unw Uliti^j homes, hnul rlose, Vrtvrt my Mtry env<;. nnil liciit mi- violently ovrc the henil with whip-Mocks. ApMues are iM^-r of my chntAnen of gnitHem*. 1 iii|»s iiittpnil of tin- Hliiurr, Wlii'ii the «nl)'t (iiciiilicM iimlciiil "I llie pipurlirr, VVIirii till' |'iil|iil ili-criMidt ;iiiil unps ln«lcml nf iltp rnrvpr llinl cnrvpil ili'* «li|'|'oiliii(; ilf"«U, \Vhpii I inn Iniii li ihf Imilv nf liiinly liiiitli iiiv I'Mitv liiiik njjiini, Wlii'li n iKiivciMity I'niiim' cniiviiiii-s llUc n qliiiiiliprliiK wniTinn nml rli I'l cnllvliicc, WIlPII ill'" lliillli'il ^nlil ill llic vnillt ailiiii-s liltc tllP iiinlit wnlcliiimn'i ilniiulilcr. Wlipii wnir-.mlpe ileeils lonfe In clmiis n|i|in«lte ami tire my hifmlly tniii pnnloii!*, 1 iiilpnil In n-m li (linn inv Imml.nml iiihUp ns mitrli nf iliciii nly rnkiiiK in. We rlimnl willi him. ihi* ynnU rnlnnjjled, the cannon touch'd, My crtptniii lash'd fust with his own hnnii*. We hnil leceivM minie eignloen pdiiml shotn imiler the wnter, <)n()iir lower kmm (Uik two hirge pieces had luirst at the lirst (ire, killing all nroutiil and hlowini; up overhead. Fif»htiMR at SUM ilown, (iniilin(j at dnrk, Ten o'cK)ck at night, the full nioim well up, our leaks on the pain, and five fpct of water rcpurted. The master at arms loosing; the prisoners conlincd in the afterhoUl to give them a chance for themselves. The transit (o and from the magnziiie is now stnpt liy the sentinels, They see so many strange faces they do not know wliom to trust. Our fri(»atc takes fire, 'I'he other asks if we demand (juarter ? If our colors ure struck and the fighting done ? Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain, W> hiWf fiol ftiiick, he composedly cries, we have Just begun our part of the fighting. Only three \\\\\\9, are in use, One is directetl hy the captain himself against the enemy's niiiinmast, Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his ilecks. The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top, They hold out hravely during the whole of the action. Not a moment's rease, The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine. One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking. Serene stands the little captain, Me is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low. His eyes give more light to us than our Ijattle-lanlcrns. Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us. 368 I\ RK WALT WHITMAN. StrctchM and (till lies the midnight, Two great hulls niotionless on the brenst of the darkneM, Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pais to the one we have coiKjuvi'd, The captain on the quarter deck coldly giving his orders through a counte- nance while as a sheet. Near by the corpse of the child that serv'd in the cabin, The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully curl'd whiskers, The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below, The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty, Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of ficsh u|X)n the masts and spars, Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of waves, Hlack and impassive guns, litter of jrowder parcels, strong scent, A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful shining. Delicate snifls of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore, deaih-mcssagcs given in charge to survivors, The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw. Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long, dull, tapering groan." • Some people say that this is not poetry — that it lacks measure and rhyme. Vlll.-WHAT IS POETRY? The whole world is engaged in the invisible commerce of thought. That is to say, in the exchange of thoughts by words» symbols, sounds, colors and forms. The motions of the silent^ invisible world, where feeling glows and thought flames — that contains all seeds of action — are made known only by sounds and colors, forms, objects, relations, uses and qualities — so that the visible universe is a dictionary, an aggregation of symbols, by which and through which is carried on the invisible commerce of thought. Each object is capable of many meanings, or of being used in many ways to convey ideas or states of feeling or of facts that take place in the world of the brain. ' The greatest poet is the one wi.o selects the best, the most appropriate symbols to convey the best, the highest, the sub- limest thoughts. Each man occupies a world of his oVn. He - ;j LIBERTY IN LITERATURE. 369 is the only citizen of his world. He is subject and sovereign, and the best he <:an do is to K>ve the facts concerning the world in winch he lives to the citizens of other worlds. No two of these worlds are alike. They are of all kinds, from the flat, barren, and uninteresting — from the small and shrivelled and worthless — to tliuse whose rivers and mountains and seas and constellations belittle an *^W ^;. '/ /A Photographic Sdences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 \ iV A 27° IN RE WALT WHITMAN. All poems, of necessity, must be short. The highly and purely poetic is the sudden bursting into blossom of a great and tender thought. The planting of the seed, the growth, the bud and flower must be rapid. The spring must be quick and warm — the soil perfect, the sunshine and rain enough — everything should tend to hasten, nothing to delay. In poetry, as in wit, the crys- tallization must be sudden. The greatest poems are rhythmical. While rhyme is a hin- drance, rhythm seems to be the comrade of the poetic. Rhythm has a natural foundation. Under emotion, the blood rises and falls, the muscles contract and relax, and this action of the blood is as rhythmical as the rise and fall of the sea. In the highest form of expression, the thought should be in harmony with this natural ebb and flow. The highest poetic truth is expressed in rhythmical form. I have sometimes thought that an idea selects its own words, chooses its own garments, and that when the thouglit has possession, ab- solutely, of the speaker or writer, he unconsciously allows the thought to clothe itself. The great poetry of the world keeps time with the winds and the waves. I do not mean by rhythm a recurring accent at accurately measured intervals. Perfect time is the death of music. There should always be room fur eager haste and delicious delay, and whatever change there may be in the rhythm or time, the action itself should suggest perfect freedom. A word more about rhythm. I believe that certain feelings and passions — joy, grief, emulation, revenge — produce certain molecular movements in the brain — that every thought is accom- panied by certain physical phenomena. Now it may be that certain sounds, colors, and forms produce the same molecular action in the brain that accompanies certain feelings, and that these sounds, colors, and forms produce first, the molecular movements and these in their turn reproduce the feelings, emo- tions and states of mind capable of producing the same or like molecular movements. So that what we call heroic music, pro- duces the same molecular action in the brain — the same physical LIBERTY IN LITERATURE. 2Tt and purely and tender >e bud and warm — the iiiig should it, the crys- e is a hin- Rhythm rises and the blood he highest with this il form. I ds, chooses ession, ab- allows the winds and accurately c. There delay, and the action in feelings =e certain is accom- y be that molecular , and that molecular igs, emo- le or like Jsic, pro- physical changes — that are produced by the real feeling of heroism ; that the sounds we call plaintive produce the same molecular move- ment in the brain that grief, or the twilight of grief, actually produces. There may be a rhythmical molecular movement belonging to each state of mind, that accompanies each thought or passion, and it may be that music, or painting, or sculpture, produces the same state of mind or feeling that produces the music or painting or sculpture, by producing the same molecular movements. All arts are born of the same spirit, and express like thoughts in different ways — that is to say, they produce like states of mind and feeling. The sculptor, the painter, the composer, the poet, the orator, work to the same end, with different materials. The painter expresses through form and color and relation ; the sculptor through form and relation. The poet also paints and chisels — his words give form, relation, and color. His statues and his paintings do not crumble, neither do they fade, nor will they as long as language endures. The composer touches the passions, produces the very states of feeling produced by the painter and sculptor, the poet and orator. In all these there must be rhythm — that is to say, proportion — that is to say, har- mony, melody. So that the greatest poet is the one who idealizes the common, who gives new meanings to old symbols, who transfigures the ordinary things of life. He mubt deal with the hopes and fears, and with the experiences ot tiie people. The poetic is not the exceptional. A perfect poem is like a perfect day. It has the undefinable charm of naturalness and ease. It must not appear to be the result of great labor. We feel, in spite of ourselves, that man does best that which he does easiest. The great poet is the instrumentality, not always of his time, but of the best of his time, and he must be in unison and accord with the ideals of his race. The sublimer he is, the simpler he is. The thoughts of the people must be clad in the garments of feeling — the words must be known, apt, familiar. The height, must be in the thought, in the sympathy. ~,jat^mmmtalmtu0lltttttttlltmtit ttitmmtimtmmumim 473 IN RK WAI.T WniTMAN. I In tiie olilcn time tlicy used to have May-tJay parties, and the jtrottiost child was crowned Queen of May. Imagine an old l)la< ksmith and his wile looking at their little dangiUer < lad in white and crowned witii roses. 'I'hey woiikl wonder while they looked at her, how they ever came to have so bcantifrl a child. It is thus that the poet clothes the intellectual children or ideals of I lie people. They n\nst \\o\. hegommed and garlanded heyond the recognition of their parents. Out irom all the llowers and beauty must look the eyes of the child they know. We have grown tired of gods and goddesses in art. Milton's heavenly militia excites our laughter. Light houses have driven sirens from the dangerous coasts. We have fomid that we do not depend on the imagination for wonders — there are millions of miracles under our feet. Nothing can be more marvelloiis than the common and everyday facts of life. The phantoms have been cast aside. Men anil women are enough for men and women. In their lives is all the tragedy and all the comedy that they can compre- hend. The painter no longer crowds his canv.ns with the winged and impossible — he paints life as he sees it, jieople as he knows them, and in whom he is interested. "Tiie Angehis," the perfection of pathos, is nothing but two ])easants bending ihcir heads in thankfulness as they hear the solemn somul of the distant bell — two peasants, who have nothing to be thankful for — nothing but Aveariness and want, nothing but the crusts that they soften with their tears — notliing. And yet as you look at that jiicture you feel that they have something besides to be thankful for — that they have life, love, and hope — and so the distant bell makes music in their simple hearts. IX. The attitude of Whitman toward religion has not been under- stood. Towards all forms of worship, towards all creeds, he has maintained the attitude of absolute fairness. He does not believe that Nature has given her last message to man. He does not believe that all has been ascertained. He denies that any sect llliHRTY IN LlTKRATUliK. 273 es, and the nc ail old lU-r (lad in wliilo ihey rl a child, n or ideals I'd beyond lowers and Milton's avc driven wo do not iiillions of iinon and ast aside. In their II coniprc- Inged and )ws them, |)orfection heads in mt bell— thing but •ften with rture you for — that ;11 makes ;n imder- Is, he has )t believe does not any sect bas written down the entire truth. He uclieves in progress, and, so believing, he says : " We consider MMcs n.iul icli^jidus divine — I do not say they nre not divine, I say they Imve ail ;;ro\vn out of yoii, and may j;ro\v out of you still. It is not they who give the life, it is you whu give the life." *' His [the poet's] thou(;lits arc tin- hymns nf the praise of things, In the dispute on (lod and elernily he is silent." " Have you thought there coulil l>c Imt a single supreme ? There can be any nund)ei of sujjreuies — one does not countervail another any more than one eyesight countervails another." Upon the great questions, as to the great problems, he feels only the serenity of a great and well-poised soul. " No array of teims can say how much I am at peace al)out (iod and aliout death. I hear and behold (Jod in every object, yet understand Clod not in the least, Nor do I understand who tiiere can be more wonilcrful than myself." ■" In the faces of men and women I sec (Iod, and in my own face in the glass, I find letters from Goil dropt in the .street, and every one is sign'd by (iod's name." The whole visible world is regarded by him as a revelation, and so is the invisible world, and with this feeling he writes: "Not objecting lo special revelations, considering a curl of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation." The creeds do not satisfy, the old mythologies are not enough ; they are too narrow at best, giving only hints and suggestions; and feeling this lack in that which has been written and preachfd. Whitman says : " Magnifying and applying come I, Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters, Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah, Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson, Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, lirahma, lUiddha, In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix engraved, l8 J lliWlKl] lHIIillli'll r^ I i 874 /,v /./■; w.u.r wiimiAX. With Odin niul llic liiik'nus-fiu'eil Mfxitli and cvciy i'l>'l mid imago, Tnkiiij; thcni all for what they are woiili mikI iml a cen( iiicire." Whitman keeps open lionse. He is intellectually hospitable. He extends his hand to a new idea. 1 le (jtus not accept a creed because it is wrinkled and old and has a long uhite beard. He knows that hypoc risy has a venerable look, and thai it relies on looks and niasks — on slnpidity — and fear. Neither iUk-h he re- ject or accept the new because it is iicw. He wants the truth, and so he welcomes all until he knows just who and what they are. X.-PHILOSOPHY. Walt Whitman is a philosopher. The more a man has thought, the niore he has studied, the more he has travelled intellectually, the less certain he is. Only the very ignorant are perfect Iv satisfied that thev know. To the common man the great problems are easy. He has no trouble in accounting for the universe. He tan tell yon the origin and destiny of man and the why ami the wherefore of things. As a rule, he is a believer in spec iai providence, and is egotistic enough to suppose that everytliing that happens in the universe happens in reference to him. A colony of red ants lived at the foot of the .Mps. It hap- pened one day that an avalanclie destroyed the hill ; and one of the ants was heard to remark: " Who could have taken so much trouble to cleslroy our home ? " Walt Whitman walked by the side of the sea " where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways," and en- deavored to think out, to fathom the mystery of being ; and he said : "I too Init signify .it the utmost n lillle wasli'd up drift, A few sands and dead leaves to (;adKT. Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift." " Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me T have not otice had the least idea who or what I am, But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet untouch'd, untold, altogether unieach'd. I.IIIKUTY IS l.lTI./i.iTl'Iih'. K5 hos|)il;\I)l(\ ( Cpl a ( loi'il IkmhI. Mo it relics on (loo-i iio rc- is the tnitli, Kit I hey ure. sttidifd, the c is. Duly )\v. To the 3 no trouble ' origin and ings. As a is egotistic the universe )s. It hap- and one of en so much where the " and en- ig ; and he ne I have not ct untouch'd, \Viiliiliiuvii fur, iiKnU'ii^j iiu- willi inotkcoiinriilulatory hI^iih mid l»(W*, Willi (Kills 111 (lislMiil iiiTiiiial liiii^jliItT lit every wonl I li;ivc wrilli ii, I'oilitili^ ill sili'iicc Ik |I|("<<- <)roach strong deliveress, When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead, Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee. Laved in the flood of thy hliss O death. From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee I pro[)ose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee, And the sij;hts of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. The night in silence unci many a star. The ocean shore and the usky whispering wave whose voice I know^ And the soul turning to t! \st and well-veil'd death, And the body gratefully close to thee. Over the tree-to])s I float thet >ng, Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide. Over the dense-pack'd cities all and the teeming wharves and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee () death." This poem, in memory of" the sweetest, wisest soul of all our w I i J •So /.V UN WAIT WHITMAy. (Iiii. .ilntM- ill. ol oi«l iini'. llrliiiH not l>cn» hoiiumI ll.il I. TV li.is niiiilc liim ifvinmliil or aiion-iiil. Now sUliiig liy llic liii'suli", in llic wiiiU'i ol liU'. l»y HlaiiiliM or prlnluil lty |ticjiulin« ; iitiilin raliimiiv noi " llln |i, Mowing Irrc, with iho dilu ions iuMi bv In-idoin of diMlh j old .i^c, supribly lising. Will omiii).; llu' ini'lV.iblf .if.;f;n'f;alion of dying days." Ilo is laking Ihc " lol'licst look at last," ami boliHi' ho gooH lie tittors llmnks : " I'oi hriillli. ll\o luiililiU- --ini. llu' iin|>nlp,>lili' nir Tt life, iiu'ii' Iifi\ I'Ki jMi'iioim ever linm'iitin uifinorio^, (ol voii inv mnilni ilii\i — vmi, lnlhcr — yui, lr ^PDllc woiiIh, iMirsic», ^i{\n froin l'nriM|»n liiiiiN, 1'\>i slulii'i, winr iniil humI — for swi'iM n|i|>r<'»Miini> (\'y>» iliHiiuil. dim \n\kiiown — iir yoiinj; or ulil couiillc^s, unspccilicil, irmlrni bclovM, \Vr ttrvcr lucl, ni\i| lu-'ci sl):(ll lurol - nnil yrt our soiiU rmlirrtfo, lon^, iIohp nnil lon^ ;) V'or hoinu*, jjiiMips, lovr, iK-oiK, woiils, luxik^ — for oolors, fotnin. I'or i\]\ llu> liiuvc slioii); men -lU'volcil, liatilv turn who've (oi \mu I spiunn ill frceiloni's help, nil ycms, nil Iniiils, I'or Imivor, Mron^jer, niorr ilcvoloil men — (a speeini Ininel ere 1 i;o, lo life's w.'Ar's ehosen one*, The e;»mioi»eri-s ol" si>nj; nnd tl\oii(;ht - the ^renl nrtillerisis — Ihe loremosl lender'*, cnptnins of the soul)." It is a groat thing to proaoh philosophy — far greater to live it. inni;iY IS i.miiMVith:. aflt TIh' liinlusl |iliiltiM)|)liy in rrplH iIk- im-vilulilc with n muilr, iind HHTls It iw llioiijili II wi-rr tlcsiiid. Til Ik- Hulislinl : This is wt.ilili siini-sf*. 'I'lio real |iliilus< loiili, i »llilll IlilMM-o- llii- Slilli'^ iiwliili'. Iml I rililtliil Irll wlilllirr nr linw li |Viliii|w •••■Ml mmw iluy iir iiiulK while I inn HiiiKin^ niy vnl.i- will NinMinly "«. ii'ime. (> l><«('ino«rn«'y — of all pcoplr. llr is tlir pori ol ilic luuty and koiiI. lie lias hoiiiuUmI tlic iiolc ol liulividtialil v. lie lias ^{ivcn tlic pass word piimoval. Mr is tlir I'oti ol I Inniinilv — of liiti'llft liial I lospilalitv. He lias voi( cd tlic a'.piMlmns of Anit'iira- and. aliovc all, lie is Ilic pod ol l.ovf and hcilli, tlow ^^alldlv, liow liiavrly lie lias ^ivcii liis tlioii({lil, and liow Rl ipcili is liis laicwcll —liis loavc-tnkinn " AOi'i- llii' ;in^, (tiMul-liyo mill (iiiiiil liyo willi ciiinliiiiiiil li|w icim'iiIiii^;, (So lirtiil fur liN limiil ti> rrii-usp ilium- limiiln — im ninrr w ill lliry nicfi, No iiiorr Im roiiiiiiuiiioii of Konnw miil jny. of oM iim! voiin^, A fm-slicliliiiii^ ioimu'y nwnils liiiii, In nliiin no innir.) Sliiiniiiii^;, |iiiM|iiiiiin^ sovrinncc— •trokin^ lo wnni olT ilir Inst woiil cvri so lilllc. EVii 111 llir rxil-iliMii liitiihii; — rlinrjjrs stipi'illiinim fulling; Imck — e'en ns lir lltHl'l'lllls llio Sti'pd, Si'ini'lliiii^; lo ckc out n nilnutP ndiliilnnnl — Rlimlows of nij;lilfi»ll ilcriiriiin^,. l''im'Wi'l!><, iiirssn^jcs Irssriiiiij; — (liinnirr llir foilli^jncr's vimijjc ninl loini, Soon Id lie lost foi ;iyi: in llio iluikiicHH — loili, «) so loili to ilcjiart I " ,) IS a82 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. And is this all ? Will the forthgoer be lost, and forever? Is ■death the end ? Over the grave bends Love sobbing, and by her side stands Hope and whispers : \\q shall meet again. Before all life is death, and after all death is life. The falling leaf, touched with the hectic flush, that testifies of autumn's death, is, in a subtler sense, a prophecy of spring. Walt Whitman has dreamed great dreams, told great truths and uttered sublime thoughts. He has held aloft the torch and bravely led the way. As you read the marvelous book, or the person, called "Leaves -of Grass," you feel the freedom of the antique world ; you hear the voices of the morning, of the first great singers-voices ele- mental as those of sea and storm. The horizon enlarges, the heavens grow ample, limitations are forgotten — the realization of the will, the accomplishment of the ideal, seem to be within your power. Obstructions become petty and disappear. The chains and bars are broken, and the distinctions of caste are lost. The soul is in the open air^ under the blue and stars — the flag ot" Nature. Creeds, theories and philosophies ask to be exam- ined, contradicted, reconstructed. Prejudices disappear, super- stitions vanish and custom abdicates. The sacred places become higliways, duties and desires clasp hands and become comrades and friends. Authority drops the scepter, the priest the miter, and the purple falls from kings. The inanimate becomes articu- late, the meanest and humblest things utter speech and the dumb and voiceless burst into song. A feeling of independence takes j)ossession of the soul, the body expands, the blood flows full .and free, superiors vanish, flattery is a lost art, and life becomes rich, royal, and superb. The world becomes a personal possession, and the oceans, the continents, and constellations belong to you. You are in the centre, everything radiates from you, and in your veins beats and throbs the pulse of all life. You become a rover, careless and free. You wander by the shores of all seas and hear the eternal psalm. You feel the silence of the wide forest, and stand beneath the intertwined and ovemrching boughs, entranced -witli symphonies of winds and woods. You are borne on the LIBERTY IS LirERArURE. 283 tides of eager and swift rivers, hear the rush and roar of cataracts as they fall beneath the seven-Inied arch, and watch the eagles as they circling soar. You traverse gorges dark and dim, and climb the scarred and threatening cliffs. You stand in orchards where the blossoms fall like snow, where the birds nest and sing, and painted moths make aimless journeys through the happy air. You live the lives of those who till the earth, and walk amid the perfumed Ids, hear the reapers' song, and feel the breadth and scope of I. .irth and sky. You are in the great cities, in the midst of multitudes, of the endless processions. You are on the wide plains — the prairies — with hunter and trapper, with savage and pioneer, and you feel the soft grass yielding under your feet. You sail in many ships, and breathe the free air of the sea. You travel many roads, and countless paths. You visit palaces and prisons, hospitals and courts ; you pity kings and convicts, and your sympathy goes out to all the suffering and insane, the op- pressed and enslaved, and even to the infiimous. You hear the din of labor, all sounds of factory, field, and forest, of all tools, instrument? and machines. You become familiar with men and women of all employments, trades and professions — with birth and burial, with wedding feast and funeral chant. You see the cloud and flame of war, and you enjoy the ineffable perfect days of peace. In this one book, in these wondrous " Leaves of Grass," you find hints and suggestions, touches and fragments, of all there is of life, that lies between the babe, whose rounded cheeks dimple beneath his mother's laughing, loving eyes, and the old man, snow-crowned, who, with a smile, extends his hand to death. We have met to-night to honor ourselves by honoring the author of " Leaves of Grass." ^1 Tnv sympnilu- of Wliilniiin i'< IvMinillc^s — not n\i\n nlnne ov nniiiials nli^nr, but biwlf iimuimrtte tvitiivo is ah oihcii anil ns'^iniilrttoil in his exlvaonlinrtiy |HMv>n,il\ty. Often we thinU owe of t'lr t'lenietitR of natui-e has fmiml n voice, mill thmiilevs m-eat syUaMes in o\u eais. He sjieaU^ like sonuMhing more than man — sonu-lhing tienienilous. Something (hat we know not speaks wonls thnt we oanniit oompiehenil. He is not ovec-anxions to he nnilcfstood. N<^ man i-ont|>ieIienils what the twittering of thi ciistart |Meei>;ely means, or can express deal ly in iloliniie hinguage the sioniluanee of tlie rising sun. He too is elemental anil a part of Nature — not merely a clever man writing |xiems. The iniellecturtlism whidi has marked the century — the cnliivation of sen- timent anil the eni.^iions — thre^itcnoil to enfeeble and emasiulale the eilncateil classes. I'he strong voice of Whitman, showing again ami again, in meta- phors and images, ii\ startling vivid mentorahle language, the supreme need of sweet hlooil and pure (Icsh, the dcliglit of vigor and activitv and of mere ex- istence where there is health, the pleasures of mere stjciety, even without clever conversation, — of haihing, swimming, riding, nnd the inhaling of pure nir — has so arrested the mind of the worhl, that a relapse to scholasticism is no longer possible. Stftni/ish O'Grnay-. " H',(,V U'hi/»i^notiiy nlmie nor lintin aluiie is worthy for the Muse, 1 say the Fonn loiuplote is wnrlhier fni, I The Female equally with the Mule I sing. or l,ife Immense in passion, pulse, and power, ( "hcerriil, for freest action forniM under the laws divine, ri»e Modern Man 1 sinp." Here is announced, with the finest accuracy, the tnatcrial of Whitman's verse. And what material ! The poets of the present, while o< I upying themselves nierely with the sitrfacc of life, have arrived at so fine a technical result that we seldom feel any want (285) 286 ly RK WALT WHITMAN. ill tills respect. And yet there is wanting that which gives to every phenomenon of our days its real worth and importance. Where is the poet who has taken comjilete possession of the niind- roiupicsts of this singular age, and who has taken into himself, and |)oeti(ally presented, modern man witli his terrible energy, his unexampled intellectnal activity and his infinite boldness in word and deed? If this age is actually to be represented in lit- erature, it must be done by one who is able to reconcile the all- denying spirit of analytics with the all-.tftirming spirit of democ- racy — who can embrace in himself the intricate spiritual strivings of the age, demonstrate their true direction, and, by the inexpli- cable powers of a magic personality, impart to that which is now impotent through dispersion the miglitiest effectiveness. That is Walt Whitman's task, and that task he has fulfilled. But do not let us be in a hurry to imagine that in a way so easy and off- hand we shall be able to acknowledge in this Yankee the world- poet of the age. As I have already inilicated, his recognition demands a self-examination such as we each hesitate to undertake. Moreover, the first impression of the book, considered as art, is not an attractive one, but rather one of surprise or even conster- nation. In it we have an entirely new literary form, a new method of treatment, and sniijects strange to all preceding poetry. All rules, all deeply meditated definitions, are demolished ; of antecedent poetry nothing remains — except the poetry. It is now high time for me to give my hearers some idea of the actual contents of this work — of the doctrine which is its special mark. But the book does not easily lend itself to an interpreter, liecause, among other things, so much depends upon the person- ality of the author. And fiirther, although I have been familiar with " Leaves of GrAss " for some six years, I am certain that I have still only a superficial idea of its contents. But, superficial as it may be compared with the full meaning which still lies be- yond me, even this seems worth reporting. There are many things in Whitman's works which should as- sure him special consideration in Germany. He is the greatest poetic representative of that which is usually considered a prime focal point in German philosophy. In the philosophy of the WALT W II 173! AN. 287 modern world there are apparcnlly only two princii)al currents — the one starting from England, the other from Germany. In England, as is well known, thinkers are chiefly occupied with the laws of ])iicn()mena — the manner of their origin, and liow they condition each other; with all, in short, which may be called their visible activities. But in the philosophy especially charac- teristic of Germany the starting point is from the inner, the sub- jective, not from the outer, the objective ; that is to say, it does , not consider tiie material of speculation as so given in experience that we have nothing more to do than to observe certain relations- and sequences. German thought prefers to absorb itself in the content of the soul-life — it seeks to formulate continually deeper and clearer the various ideas and experiences which go to make up this content — it desires, in fact, to be certain of its premises before it proceeds to draw conclusions. And when the ])rol)lem is thus presented it becomes clear that the true task of philosophy is not to draw conclusions on this and that, but really to lift the inner life more and more into the light of consciousness. Ger- man philosophy keeps thus firm hold of the center of the thinking soul, and does not lose itself in observation. Phenomena and thflr laws are not regarded as inde|)eiulent facts, setting bounds- to the activity of the soul, but rather as expressions of its activ- ity — as fiues, rather than as fetters, of the soul. Now, in Walt Whitman this principle of procedure — the principle, namely, of continuously working in towards the center, towards the primi- tive actuality of things — receives the most manifold and interest- ing application. For example, religions, social theories, political institutions and the like become for him vapor and dust the mo- ment that either in word or deed they claim or are given an in- dependence which places them beyond or in contradistinction to the life of man. But they are deprived of their significance only in order to receive for the first time their real significance. P'or they are all utterances of the human spirit, and for every one who regards them from the proper point of view they emit some ray of the godhood that they contain. Here I should be glad to insert an extended specimen wliich. -^ .1^: 388 /iV j"l-: ,VALr WI/fTMAX. might be taken as typical of his fitat period style as well as of his views: " I heard what was said of the universe, Heard it and heard it of several thous'^n''. yea-s; It is middling well as far as it goos — but is ihat all? Magnifying and applying come I, Outbidding at the start the old cautious huckrtcrs, T;.king myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah, Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson, Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Helus, Ikalmia, lUiddha, In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix engraved, With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexiili am; every idol and image, Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent iiore, Admitting they were alive and did the work of theii days, (They bore mites as for unflcdg'd birds who Dave now to rise and fly and sing for themselves,) Accepting the rough deitic sketches to fill out better in myself, bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see, Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house. Putting higher claims for him there with iiis roH'dup sleeves driving the mallet and chisel, Not objecting to special revelations, Considering a curl of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation, Lads ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-Iadder ropes no less to me than the gods of the antique wars. Minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction, Their brawny limbs passing safe over charr'd laths, their while foreheads whole an.' unhurt out of the lames ; By the mechanic wife with her Ijabe at her nipple interceding for every person born. Three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty angels with shirts bagg'd out at their waists. The snagtooth'd hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to come, Selling all he possesses, travelling on foot to fee lawyers for his brother and sit by him while he is tried for forgery ; What was strewn in the amplest strewing the square rod about me, and not filling the square rod then, , The bull and the bug never worshipp'd half enough, Dung and dirt more admirable than was dream'd. The supernatural of no account, myself waiting my time to be one of the supremes. ), \. WALT WIIirHAy, •% and not ). The (lay getting ready for mc when I sliall do as much good as the best, and l)c as prodij^ious ; Ily my 'ifcdmnps ! Ijoconiinj; already a creator, I'uttin^i myself iicre and now to the ambush'd worn!) of the shadows." Monstrous and ini poetic as these expressions, these metaphors, may sound, 1 beg my hearen to believe that they sound the same in English as in German. At Whitman's first appearance he was ridiculed as a lunatic — save where it was shocked by his audacity — by the whole literary world, the highest spirits, such as Tennyson and Emerson, alone excepted. But along with his ^glorification of the begetting spirit, we may set the I'ollowing glorification of the begotten, which is composed in a milder key : " Not you alone proud truths of the world, Noi- you alone ye facts of modern science, l!ut myths and fables of eld, Asia's, Africa's fables, The far-darting l)eams of the spirit, the unloos'd dreams. The dee|) diving i)ihles and legends, The daring plots of the poets, the elder religions ; O you temples fairer than lilies jiour'd over liy the rising sun! O you failles s]iurning the known, eluding the hold of the known, mounting to heaven ! You lofty and dazzling towers, pinnacled, red as roses, burnish'd with gold! Towers of fables immortal fasliion'd from mortal dreams! You too I welcome and fully the same as the rest! You too with joy I sing." : | Walt Whitman is essentially and in the first place a poet, not a philosopher ; but that he has occupied himself with philosophic questions, and in a ])hilosophic manner, will be clear to every reader. And in this respect he stands in a special relationship to his age, in which thought has achieved an unexampled influence over action. In these days a purely mechanical conception of the universe has found the most extraordinary dissemination. Is the origin of this mode of thinking to be sought in the spirit of freedom, which during this and the preceding century has arisen in EurojK, and which not seldom in the extremity of its insolence 19 t90 IN RE WALT Wlffr.VAX. degenerates into the Platonic v/3pt{? It is certain, in any case, that the philosophy of the present day is characterized by a strong disinclination to acknowledge any authority whatever. No one is willing to take up the position of a learner — of a non-knower — nor to believe that anotlier can see light and symmetry where for himself nothing but darkness exists. The cuteness which dis- covers logical connections is plentifully at hand — but not so the wholesome and noble scepticism which not only questions the insight of others, but also, and chiefly, its own. For exam])le, when a thinker like Herbert Spencer seeks to go to the founda- tion of the idea of duty, he begins with the first conception of it that comes to hand in his (in certain directions) very limited understanding, thus : that duty is metcly ra impulse which at times forces us to the voluntary endurance of avoidable unpleas- antnesses — believing hereby that he has exhausted the meaning of the idea of duty, and proceeding calmly in his examination without any suspicion that duty can really be anything other than what he takes it for and what he has assumed it to be. Now, for those who reject such mechanical philosophy the great problem of the century is the upholding and strengthening of the idea that moral conceptions have (rooted in the nature of the mind itself and independently of objectivity) an aim and a determinate place in the general scheme. Those holding these latter views will find a powerful friend in Whitman. It is doubtless true that Whitman does not furnish us with the facile, cut and dried, proof such as might, without giving us any trouble, dispe! all jur uncertainties. In matters of tliis sort, in the long run, logic is of no avail ; and what \Vhitman does for us goes to the heart of the problem, for he helps us to see with our own eyes all objects of thought as they exist. He gradually strengthens in us the religious sense. We feel ourselves, at last, in relationship not with merely dead, mechanical objects, but with utterances 'f a living essence. We experience with respect to the whole objective world the same transformation as that which happens when our formal opinions become converted into vital convictions. We know that it is not only possible, but that it also frequently happens, that we can firmly believe in a ? n any case, by a strong No one i-knower — y where for which dis- not so tlie estions the ir example, he founda- ception of sry limited : which at le unpleas- le meaning WALT wnirMAN. tfi thing without this belief having any actual influence upon cue life or mode of thought. For example: how many are there now in the world who are convmced of the truth of the Christian doctrine of the immor- tality of the soul — that is to say, that there is a future life in. which the material victories and defeats of the present will count for notliing, but where the spirit in which we have acted wilf count for all ! And yet it strikes us as an altogether abnormal exception when we meet with a man who goes through life with the peace of mind which is the logical outcome of this belief. According to Cardinal Newman, who, in an extremely interest- ing work, has examined the psychology of the subject, this state; in which our views and feelings stand opposed to each other might rightly be called one of " formal " belief — a state wiiich he distinguishes from that of effective, "actual " belief. Now, it happens not unfrequently that a formal belief of this descrip- tion passes into an actual belief. How can such a change have been effected ? Only, as it seems to me, by the fact that a new relation between us and the object of our belief has been in some manner brought about by means of which the object is no longer for us a mere name, a logical conclusion, a tradition, but a thing, an actuality, touching the deeps of our consciousness. No matter in what way we describe the thing, every one is acquainted with it, and I need only call attention to the fact that this pro- cess of actualization can take place equally v here the result may be described no": as an ascent, or belief, " formal " or " actual," but as a vital, spiritual perception, avVKi^tfii, of the object in question. The bringing about of such a relationship between the human soul and the whole inner and outer world is a prime feature of Whitman's effect upon his readers. When he has ac- complished this, he believes that he has accomplished every- thing, for the perception in their actuality of the things of ordi- nary experience is religion and begets ethics. On this point Whitman stands in close relationship with another great poet, William Wordsworth. If Whitman has any predecessor, this predecessor is Wordsworth. For each equally primarily sets himself to the unlocking of the springs of rever- 9t)2 L\ UK WALl' WHITMAN. enic, juy niul nulilc pasniun which lie (-oiitaincd in uur relation- ships to the facts of daily life. \Vhcn«c it is that they derive the faculty for the solving of this riddle, what it is tli.it makes their words so c(To( live, is pret i«icly the inexplicable cleinent in poetry. Hill It IS the privilege of poets to be able to express tlieiP own perception of things in sue i» a manner as to enable nsalso to per- ceive with their eyes, provided we are morally (pialified — pro- ' ' ■ "'Mt is, that knowleilge, insight into the sonl of things, is v consotinciue to us tiian that empty a< quaintam eship with names and appearances which usvially passes for knowl- edge. . . . I have said th.it Whitman t laims to derive the conviction of the divine from every i'orm of experience. From every form ? Even iVom that which we » all evil ? Yes, most certainly — from tvil also. . . . Whitman knows nothing of exceptions. 'I'o him (lod is in vvil .is well as in gootl. Is such doctrine immor.il ? If it is, then are we in a truly lamentable condition, for the reverse doc- trine is < ertainly highly immoral — the belief, natnely, that evil, as such, has an independent existence as a primeval principle. SiK h a theory must degenerate either into a revolting devil-wor- ship or into equally revolting cruelties prarHt'rli»t V t»l«' illiM llltlllinl. illlil lU tlii* titiui< MM^r itliU i\i\il lliwll \\\r ^\\r\\ \\\ \\uw\ Pnlllli ill iliul •iilt iill llt> •vlmilinil*. llliinnh (lhv:l\n Wllll < uulnti, niiHl in llu- |nnn nut I).. •Iiir. ir.l in plitt iiiH iiiiil Ituln^ niiiihliiil In iln- iitn>ii \Ulil |«n<^l|^ll• I noMii Willi lirf Hill llinin :l ilin|in||iin, lie || ||n\« t\»i niluihlrlliM!. ll\r %\m\\ im|iit>>«>«lnil nl lllV 1^ l«lniin| ; II MiitV l>.' rmlu'lKOinl. ImiI lilt' n\H\^r ii| \\\r )«llinlllvr iIchichH nl i-llllti llif mniili'ii \\\\\\ miimVll»MlU'M nl «h nl ilililv sr;«H ilun iniinl, In iriMllI ihirrlliMl*. hiUr hnW « vnv inilnililiy niic. Ini llir fiiiltii nil non* ol •' rrrt\rn \\\ Uirtw" wnc n-tchTil wiili :in iilninti iinl- \»'Mi\l \UA\\ nl >^\l|l^n\^lnn I'ln- iritnn lluiml \\\ in \ <«n linn «M ihr* j\n.»n< « illnl " riilMirn nl \iliin," ill wlmli Wliltinin ^injl'* ;M\»I ulnill^oi lllr vMlniiniH in ni.in njin l.|ll\ Willi Irpllil In Ihr irliMInn ol \\\r %v\r'^ \\\\Wv\\\, In inv o|ilninn. llit-i.' j-nr-nm Aiv nni, ImiI \hv «ilii«i*n» whuli nnhnniillv ^vU-t\'\ ilinn I'm illi. iH'^^inn wu\ MMulrinnuinn i«« rxnrmrlv iiulnr'nl I'n iliin ^||^. »n i',\, i ilr\i \\w •• riiiMu-n nl A(l;iin " iiic . imu'h ;\ \i\\\\\\ in.in i\ ninn r:i|Ml\|i« nl -ifli i ninniiiinl \liKr v;niil\<'> . litnl :in iill iniiinl, r\ri\ WW , !■< niivvMr nl l\ll.||ll^ ih.n wliii h iVrtkoi him h:\p|>\ :\inl iaKcs lnn\ \nni;»ll\ I'niw.inl In iliin itint »*4M' H^MtWlrtr. inn till tr It ilitltltllrnii liii l(hlltthl^ inlKliiiiHh i l> In ntl^linil milt lit llliil I |t'iiinii tvlilili ii'iMiiii' III llii'iii II lii'illiip ivMilIt iMiiiiit^ innilltlllil I lltl, (VI- !llr lllilili' lllVill^ III llllii III III! uiilltlll^ III rtH lllti'lltM I mIiiihi' iIi'|i|Ii iinl i iMii|ifi>m ii|i|ullllip,lv liil llic M'lV li'il'iiill lll'll II It Mill llhulf till I'llll II. Ill Illlll III ll'li'll. Illllll, llir III H'tllli-I I'l li|iil||>lll Illlll ^r MlliilliiM Inill) liniii llifMf ItiHi'i ; lie I'l IhiI liliMl^lit Illlll I oliliti I mIiIi iI IiiimIi lull ivllll II Illllll ivllli ti lllcllll, WIltlHI* t«|i||||, III IIm||i|ii|i llitil \\,< nili mil II iliii Illlll-, lull liy Hilllill plhiMin', III It ii|iiiH nnin, •,!l»'linllif^lillif>, i-niillliin, |iiiillv llip, mill ll|iililllii|i III till- illiiivi- |i|i-'iiiiliiir-iil I liiivi' tiiciilv. (i( Ml Inl'il |illlli l|iilll , Illlll llril ll|iit|| llii- IIimI, iIIhI (lit liiil |i^i-| ill |i|r«i»l |iM>ii||nM III i-llli-l ll|iii|| (III i'y|iM>illliili iil llir nllu-f Illlll liliilr liii|iniliiil III lllriii- |r>iil|lli"i \iiil rwii limn |||i< Nlitllil|iiiltll III llili'llr-il I liiivt' illllll wllli Wliiliiiiin ii.'iliMiillv III llir liiii'il 'itl|i'illi till liiiililiJ'l, If we were asked for justification of the high estimate of this poet, which has Iieen implied, if not expressed, in wlial has been hitherto said, the answer would be peihaps first, that he has a power of passionate expression, of strong and simple utterance cf the deepest tones of grief, which is almost or alto- gether without its counterpart in the world. Shelley's skylark pours forth a harmonious madness of joy, Keals' night- ingale seems to be intoxicated with passionate yearning ; but never before has a bird poured forth to a poet a song so capable of stirring the depths of emo- tion in the heart, so heart-breaking indeed in its intensity of' grief, as that of the lone singer "on the prong of a moss-scolloped stake, down almost among the slapping waves." In religion, if he is to be labelled with a name, it must be perhaps " Pan- theist ; " he is an exponent of " Cosmic Emotion." There is indeed something in this tearing away of veils which, however justly it may offend true modesty, is to unhealthiness and piuriency as sunlight and the open air; they shrink from the exposure, and shiver at the healthy fresh- ness; it is not an atmosphere in which they can long survive : mystery is the region in which they thrive, and here all mystery is rudely laid bare. T?ut underlying all, so far as he himself is concerned, is a sympathy em- bracing all human beings, however vile, and all animals and plants, however irresponsive. It is this which leads him at times to emphasize his own sensu- ality, that he may inake himself the eepial of the most depr.ived, to draw them if it may be in the bonds of sympathy to himself. It is this which is the open secret of that magnetic influence which he is said to exercise over those whom he casually meets. It was this which led him to the hospitals rather than to the field of b.itlle, and makes him recall in memory now the experiences of the " Dresser," rather than the great battles and sieges at which he was present. It is as if he were the born poet of emancipation, tender to all suffering persons, yet with nerve strong enough to endure without fainting orshiieking the stroke of necessary surgery. G. C. Macaulay: "Walt Whitmaii." (296) ROLND TABLE WITH WALT WHITMAN. By HORACE L. TRAUBEL. [A number of Walt Whitman's friends celebrated his seventy-second birth- day by a dinner at his own home in Camden, N. J., May 31, 1891. When the guests were assembled Whitman himself came down-stairs and o[)tned the proceedings as indicated. In fact, though Dr. Brinton was official toasi- masler. Whitman, as the course of the conversation shows, himself in effect assumed the head of the table. He was in bad physical condition — had spent a bad day — and we were almost compelled to carry him from his bed-room to the parlor where the table was spread. He sat next to Mrs. Thomas H. Harned, who plied hirn with champagne, which I had had prepared for him, and which he immediately asked for, whereby he was at once built up. At table : Walt Whitman, Charlotte Porter, Anne Montgomerie Traubel, Augusta A, Harned, Hel;n Clarke, Hertha Johnston, D. G. Brinton, II. L. Bonsall, Thomas B. Harned, Francis Howard Williams, Horace L. Trauijel, Harrison S. Morris, Talcott Williams, John H. Cliflord, H. D. Bush, W\ H. Neidlinger, Henry C. Walsh, J. D. Law, R. M. Bucke, Thomas Donaldson, William O'Donovan, Thomas Eakins, Fred L. May, David McKay^ Lincoln L. Eyre, J. K. Mitchell, William Reeder, Daniel Longaker, Geoffrey Buckwalter, William Ingram, Carl Edelheim, G. W. Black, Warren Fritzinger. The conversation about the table as here reproduced is made up from the direct work of a stenographer and liberal notes kept by the writer.] Whitman. — After welcoming you deeply and specifically to my board, dear friends, it seems to me I feel first to say a word for the mighty comrades that have not long ago passed away — Bryant, Emerson, Longfellow ; and I drink a reverent honor and memory to them. \^Liftitig his glass of champagne to his lips.'\ And I feel to add a word to Whittier, who is living with us — a noble old man ; and another word to the boss of us all — Tenny- son, who is also with us yet. I take this occasion to drink niy reverence for those that have passed, and compliments for the two great masters left, and all that they stand for and represents (297) \ '; I) i * w. 'ill 21)8 m RK WALT WniTHAX. lUit I won't keep you any longer ftoin your soup. [ 7hmM />(tssrs »/ 7'(>itr ,is /ifinton sttifteii.] I'd give a lot to have all the English fellows here this minute ! /{rinti'H. — As we are now supplied with what was necessary earlier in the repast for \is to respond appropriately to the toast of our distinguished friend, I now olTer the health of Wait Whitman on this, his birthday, with the hope that he may live to meet us here on the recurrence of this anniversary for many years to come. Whiffthin [.'/j they lirifd'], — 1 thank you all, tny friends. Don't lay it on too thick. \^J\insf—fiooii of trnhuka and ques- tiom.'\ We have a word from Tennyson himself — a very short but wonderfully sweet and affectionate word. And we have a word from Addington Symonds. whom you all know well enough. As for me. I think his word not young enough to be fiery, and not old enough to have lost the pulse. Hut a wonder- ful man is Adtlington Symonds — someways t!ie most indicative and penetrating and signifuant man of our times; tome very valuable because he has thoroughly absorbed not oidy the old Clreek cultus— all that it stand ^ for, which is indescribably expansive — but the modern Italianism. And we have a graphic and beautiful letter from Moncure Conway — a very tnany-sided 300 /iV RE WALT wrnrH.iy. and a very cxj)criencc/'">(t^<', /<>y / "] And we have others. And I do not know, Horace, — or you, Professor — that you could do better than give us a taste of these messages — [L(jt/g;/ttni;;/v] Not too long ! Brinfon \Lfttfri}}hav. In wiitiiiH lh«« ' I, ill' of 'rhom:u l'itii\i',' now \u .\\\\- i niuplfii-il, I huvp fome rtr»o<<>« mitiw |>iv<'::\m"« mill |Mifn\M in ihf wtitinuM of lli;il irvoln lionniv i,>n;\k('i wliii h srmi lu |iiii|t|)i'^\ the ;)|i|i(;n,nir(' ii( n pni'i ol tl«'mi»rinrv, n\u\ WW rnllllltMl iit NN'nli Uliinnnn. I ln'licvi' \\\M (liinoi imv h\\% lU'Vi'r hiiil «(» line n ilcnini i;(( sim c I'uinc'H lintc, mul li;tn ih'v«M li!\ plrwnn' in niiinv vi'M<«ol tt";n^vllun^ \voril\ irailinn t\fiM\\ his lilt* Imsmnip onl. I :(lvv\vs tvnuMnlc'i wilh dtli^lii tl\i' ilav wlirn Mnnn^iitn |i>a\ii(l nil' Wah's lii'^l book, I'lfsli linni tlic pn"<'<. ;\ni| saiil. ' Ni» \\\w\ \\\\\\ rvi"< in his \\vm\ » nn liul lo in o^ni/c a lute port in ihiil liooK.' Al r'nicrson's nMpirsi \ ihIIimI on Wall in ihr lar pati of Umol'lvn. and I hrhi-vc he lnhl uw I was ihc rii-il lilnaiv man who had oviM ralh'il on him. \l anv lalc I shall ahvavs t laiin lo ha\o horn his rohimhns. (hScis ma v have ilist ovcinl him (iisi in a (lisianl «av, hnl I sailrtl I ho ocean lulwi :>n Now N'oik anil Uiooklvn aiul saw him. ami saw his hoailv ami kimllv ohl molhoi, whoso Moiiilo litre (tnd gonlloovos 1 do not joifiot. Saluta- tions to Walt Whitman iVoin his liicnd ol ovoilhiilv I hi oo voais." 7^itnM. \ havo lu ro somothin^ liom hi. lohiislon whiih nMiilon OS (.'oiuvav. if'hYm,tH. — What is that, lloiaro? lot lis heat — what doos tho Oootof say? 7hihfal ivjiv." W-ihUiix -I sec — Ui>ssotti spoaks of the Hortor's Amotlran irpiMts. Who ran tU>nl>t those topotls. lloiaro? Kvon those Hoi'\n niiir wini hi// ir////i/i/V. \r>i liilnv, \\\\<\ III wiitiim invc riniu* tiU ii'Viilii- • III It |Mlf| rlU'Vt' lli.il lie's liiiu', II Mi'iirv llHIIll lllf Ills piiiinn ll:llll Utw- li«' liiim'Mi I.I ' W;lll rmlc, mill I' Ikh ijMiir I'.mrHiiM ■'.liil. ' N«» »Pl ill lll;ll ■;lf |>;ill ol •iiiiy mun ■;ns rliiiin I'cii'il liiin \ivw Voik iitilU' old . S;lll||;l H- yours," >H Wllirll I'liul iloos H : " A'H ill Wliil- Mt* llian inuMii-jiii ■n IlioHC wild ilniilil me, (Imilil llic " l.ciivrM," llll^lll In mit Imw siiprilily (III- hill III! Iiiiiiillcil his ni.'ilciial m It'i il liiiii*lli> ilm'H \<< (ii UiisHctIi, III- ii iiluiivs iiiiinly mill i niiritli'iil, and we will nil tnkt> IiIm liinid In iii^lii. Mill did JuIiiihIihi write iiDlhitiK l Mill will likr. 'riiilt vi-til lisiillnl liniil iim llliniliilrd Htnu's nl niiililiidr, irviTcin c and |'fiMninil Invc, and was llic c•^•llWllin^ |iiivil«'Hi' and ulniv nl iiiy wlmU' lilc. ( )h, how I whli llial I rniild lit- with Mill nil vniii liiithday ; In < watiii ^i;is|i nl voiir hand a^aiii ! Iliil iiiv lilllc mean walti-d incssrii^ri will spiak In ynii and iiMiiind vnii o| llinsc two lia|i|iv illtys W«' HpPlll Inm'thcl days licvtl in In- Inl^nllrn ;||mI it will loll vnii that ill sf>int I lun with vnii a^aiii. loviii^t and lilfssin^." W'hifmiw. Voiy happily put. hmlni. Arc tlu'ir nmir Iclirrs n-ady ? (iilt/ilttif. — " I'm \rry sniiy I live sn lai away thai I i an lie nt yom- dinner In Walt W'liihnaii mily in ink and papi i, I dnii'l knnw what I (an add In express my ie|i(ard and admiialinn Im a man wlm has dared In lie hiiiHelf naliye and iiiiallri ted. In these liavM ol apparent drill tnwaid i eiiliali/.itinn of power, his doe- trine of the Individual comes to have majeslv like that nl Ihsen's — mirpa'-.sinn il, indeed, Inr with eipial weijihl nf imswervi»lji{ rcso- liilinn Wliilnian has a mnre lervent liiim.inily. He is i natural Inyer of man, and dues imt fni^rel the wninided and i ippled even in his ninment ol liotlesi warlare. I need only add llial prejudice a^nillst our most Amerii an ol poets is rapidly passinji nwiiy in Hoston, 'There is very little of ii leinaining amonj^ our most thoii^hiriil critiis. ( )iir papers deal kindly and wilh re gard with his ^real name, and were it possible for him to i onir to llostoM om e more the truth of what I write would be made luuiiifest by deeds nnd wrirds of greeting, by < lusp of hands and |«| M A^- M (/ r IM///I/I,V, Itv Nnnllit^ li|«4. Mi'it unitl woiwi'ti, inni Iti'^tn m iiiiilctNtiiiut iliiii ho ^iMitiN lot \\u' ndcii^il) ol tvioilitiu ititil tttii ilti* wortKui'im ol inunirtni Innoti'mp. 'I'lmi he iiiunN lor m'U hhvi'Miiiu'mi. inr ii\tliMilii,\l ilrM-litpinrnl. lot IiIm'|I\, lnvr iiml licttiM', Tlio h««i» mill iiiiliviilii.tl loim itl litH vi'iHC i<« kmi liiii«. It will hiivr iiit .il< iiliil>lt> clVi'i t ii|tiMt llio \\\\\\\V VOIM' iKIhl no) |l\ \\.\\ it| lluillUitiM lllll bv ilK pOMTI 1(1 «'iliii ,»li' ll»o I'iU In IVi'i*!' loim-* ni\il siilillci thvlliiUM Hum' inmi' I Itl.tkr mllllli«liiilH lit It ^IW.W |iri'iii||jltlv. It |«pnMili' ii\o ollrn. ^'^^H^^. " M\ ;illii liou.iio mooiiiin^ lo NVIiiim^iii I May lio livo oit iltttoit); iiH lor ittitlty it liitppv toitt, lo illitHliitIo llio iitii| os|\ (tttti poiti ol oM itm', iw III' li;m illiiiliitloil Iho Rplomlom ol lull Mooiloil ittitiihooil I I ilinik ol liiiti in lii<« noioiio litlioi ilms itlon^ with iho ^i.iiioim pii Iiih' oT oIiI ('opiiiliis, ttttiili I'liilo ^i\o^ itt llio {'\\M pit^jos ol llio A'r /*«/*//. onlmmjj llio iibnliiig pivsotioo ol iiwool Itopo, lltitt ' kinil nniio ol olil 11^0,' it» Piiuluf ohIIh II. ri\.' loiifioi I livo llio nioio iinpoilitnl iIoom llio liiilli ol W'liiuti.tn into llitn tiinotoonllt oonliti v nppom lo lio, llo {<* lot mo otto ol ill lowjiio;!! otuitiii ip.ilom IVoiii llio ipoiinl dun^om lo wliii It It li.tH lioiu li.iMo llio jlitnuoiH ol liimiiv iiiiil iini Iniii isitt. insiiitiu in tli.ti vii I or ililoiianloisnt wliirit itl puNcnl iillln \<* loii.un Antoiioittt (tn woll its Mniopoitit i rnloin, Tito Jiiniir will rt!«stiiv*llv ho giitloliil lo Wliiliitittt lot ronli >iilinn liii n^to wiili it Ivp '" titiinhooil lli;tl oxhiliiloil it noMo powoi. itit oinolionnl rtitiplntiilo. it tvligionmioss, ;t pltysioitl s;tiiilv, itml siiMplirily tif li.tltit rtinl Oitviijt^o, itgitiitsl wliii It llto inllnonoo ol iho littto i on- spitoti ii^ vrtin, I sitv llto rnltiio will W niitiolnl booittiRO I lliink ili.il. iilvo olhoi giojtl soiiN, Wliilntitit Itifi lioon ' lioloio Ins liitto,' HoVNh fififh' wit'H wur WHinns, in«r niitl iliiil lil<« iitlliit'iiM> iipitii III)' wtitlil liiiM liiiitllv Ih'i'm (i'Ii m yi'l. |l mi7 he It'll lu'i iiilMt' lit)' wmlil !•« KdIii^ In Innvrr iDMil iU llhl|Ut| III ItMll ; illlll IId'II II Mill HMI^Ill/r llM lilirdtli l|'l. I jltill ' Willi you It) witliiiiH |iiv Id xiii ili'iii liinitl iiml In Iphil «-ltU'i cniiiiiiittv Iti'iilili luiil liit|i|iiiii"i>« Iti Illlll mill III vmi iill I " H'hittHiiH, i'llllt i>« line III III! I liirl ihlll^M 'i|i|||iil hi illl tl|i> tTll, III \m\. Vi'H, WI' III I'll II lll'U lllllllllMMll, It III mIi 'illlll, ll Vll> nf(i< III HI',) ;iuiilii I " Iti'lmi' iiiv Illlll' i' " Vi'n iiimI III) Illl ilmilil At till' tiftlit iitiiiiii'iil, ll lit Illl. Al»^7 ( AiJ/fM*),— " My mUIi'I McmmIc iiml I linih lliiiik >Mii vol V Will inly lor (Itr* pli'irlll VDII m'lll Ih III vnlll liimk. ImIwiIhI I'lliprllliM lonl il nil In MM Wi'iijli'l vnil nill Wtllllli'il hH'i'IIIIKm mill Im'mI wUIh"! Ii'I vmii biillnlii)' j wo iii'VCI IniHfl ll. UImI mIw.iv'i wmli vmi illl wnnil " Whi/mtiM. Vi'i V iwi'i'l rtiitl iinMi', vn V iit'iii llir III' III ' I i k imirll iimii' lliiiii It liltli' il IIIV III ll liii'tiil't liitvi' iml In in tvniiii n Mv llii'liil Mil ( illl Itli'^l, iilli' III lli(< i'itllii"4l, It |ili kill tvniiiJti, pliiliMlltil, itnlilr, mil lilli itt^, i^itw ilniilv wlirii iiliinml I'vri v linilv <'Ui< WiH ililrii'sli'il III iithiliK I'l*' *l*i'^l nli'iilliii^ nliul Will lull'. KfUHf.fy. " ! ilnii'l knnw lliil tlu' 'i|iliit iimvcM iiii" Ininiivny tn Villi mill Will III lliii |imlii Illlll Iiiih' initi Ii iiiuM' llimi llic l«illl|i|t< llmilillliil) miliililllitll, Alnliil I 'j.nvi' In vnil.' Tllii t imiHi miv. Imwi'voi llint my ImIIi'I Is miil Inii'vii will In- im. Nllllkcil III till' llllilllillo llilllll|lll n| till' lili'.l'^ litl wllil ll lllill ^ll'lU llni lliiH'liI, ' |,i'.Ui"< n| (liitn'i,* Illl' Mllili' n| llir NilllMi't'llI ll ('ill ItllV, hIiUuIh: tnilli, jii'iliir, rniiii;iili"ilii|i, iiiilnn, qpii iliiilil v. ItntI, IlllltVO itll, llll< mlllllilV mill linliililV nl till' |<:l'i'|> iKiiili'R, im Iniiilicq till' ItiMJv 'I'lic niic iimclii.miti iiiiliittili'il ir ; llio nllici 11 |nvniii lU i cplci nl iijiIiih' ; tlii< niic '4piiiiiiii|: vvliil i{ lini' nl Ainciicii'N gieaU'Nl bnuk Ih Rtlll not wiped out of cxiNtciice. 3IO IN RE WALT WHITMAN. And here before me lies a clipping taken from a Boston paper which describes how a college man was arrested the other day for kissing his wife on the street ! The Boston Dogberry locked up both man and wife in jail over night until it was proved that the woman kissed was the man's lawful wife. Did you ever hear anything more laughable ? Christian anti-naturalism deeply en- trenched, you see, yet, in the popular mind. It will probably take a thousand years or so for the new gospel to supplant the -effete one. However, sursttm corda ! " Whitman. — All that will come to pass, Kennedy — all is to be provided for ! That is one of the things we are here for — that is why we have Ingersoll, great, magnificent fellow that he is! Every blow he strikes for liberty, against what you call Puritanism, is for us, this human critter, the "Leaves," democracy, love I But you know that as well as I do. A Voice. — And what will we get from Donaldson? Whitman. — Tom Donaldson, cannot we have a word from you ? Donaldson. — Mr. Whitman, I did not deserve to be let in. I got here late. But I had been suffering this winter from the attention of three doctors, and after a while I found that by •quitting the doctors I might get well. So I am mending now — shaking off the rheumatism — but pretty slow yet, and late, there- fore, getting here to-night. But we won't say more of that. I want to talk of you. I am not much given to personal compli- ment Whitman. — Where have you been lately? You have been West and in Washington ? Donaldson, — Yes. Whitman. — Tell us something about it. Tell us, too, about Blaine. We are curious about Blaine. Donaldson. — I will talk about a more opportune subject — about Walt Whitman. It seems to me I have never seen a book or newspaper article that conveyed to me the real individuality or personality of Walt Whitman. A Voice. — How about Dr. Bticke's book? Donaldson. — Since Dr. Bucke's book was written I think the Joston pap>er le other day berry locked ; proved that ^ou ever hear m deeply en- nll probably supplant the —all is to be ere for — that that he is ! 1 Puritanism, )cracy, love ! ? I word from be let in. I iter from the )und that by nding now — d late, there- of that. I onal compli- 1 have been 3, too, about le subject — seen a book ndividuality I I think the BOUND TABLE WITU WALT WHITMAN. 3" subject has grown, so that Dr. Bucke might write another — a supplementary — book with profit. Whitman. — Is he speaking of Dr. Bucke's book, Horace? Traubel.—Yt's,. t Whitman \_With raised voice\. — Tom, Horace says you are speaking of Dr. Bucke's book. Look out ! Look out ! I myself swear by it. I have had a thousand books and essays, and Dr. Bucke's is about the only one that thoroughly radiates and depicts and describes in the way that I think thoroughly delineates me. I thoroughly accept Dr. Bucke's book. Donaldson. — So do L But I would like to know where in Dr. Bucke's book is this incident of your life (I am going to give you one particular instance). Oscar Wilde told me Whitman [^Interrupting]. — Take out what I slice in. I think Dr. Bucke has accurately depicted my own preparatory and in- auguratory life — say a certain sixteen to thirty years on which everything else rests: New York, Brooklyn, experimentation in strange ways, not such as usually go to make poetry and books and grand things, but the flash of active life — yes, in New York, Brooklyn (to me the greatest cities in the universe), and from there down to New Orleans, and up the Mississippi to the big lakes. I travelled over and stopped on them all. Dr. Bucke has briefly, but thoroughly, grasped, gripped, digested all that I was in those twenty years, better than anybody else. I do no*- so much dwell upon his criticism of "Leaves of Grass." I still think — I have always thought — that it escapes me myself, its own author, as to what it means, and what it is after, and what it drifts at. Dr. Bucke, with audacious finger, brain, seems to say, "Here is what it means," and " This is not what it means," and "This is a contrast and a comparison," and " This is one side and that is the other side." Well, I don't know — I accept and consider the book as a study. But behind all that (which is anent of what I said fifteen or twenty minutes ago) remains a subtle and baffling, a mysterious, personality. My attempt at " Leaves of Grass " — my attempt at my own expression — is after all this : to thoroughly equip, absorb, acquire, from all quarters, despising nothing, nothing being too small — no science, no ob- \- 312 TAT JiE WALT WHITMAN. servation, no detail — west, east, cities, ruins, the army, the war (through which I was) — and after all that consigning everything to the personal critter. And the doctor is almost the only one of my critics who seems to have thoiouglily understood and ap- preciated that very important fact. To mc it is the personality of the business; it is the personality of the American man, of the fellow from, i860 to 1890 — the forty years, the wonderful forty years, the indescribably wonderful forty years of the recent history of America — in a fellow, in a man, in an individuality, thoroughly absorbed. 1 suppose 1 am getting a little foggy and cloudy, but the idea is, that Doctor Bucke is one of the few who have thoroughly appreciated and understood and realized all that and has dominated his book with it. Most poets, most writers, who have anything to say, have a splendid theory and scheme, and something tiiey want to put forth, I, on the con- trary, have no scheme, no theory, no nothing — in a sense abso- lutely nothing. Donaldson. — Just let 'er go, eh ? Whitman. — Almost that. I have uttered the " Leaves " for the last thirty-five years as an illustration of, as an utterance of, as a radiation from, the personal critter — the fellow, man, indi- viduality, person, American, so to speak. To me, as I have said over and over again, almost tiresomely, there is something curious, indescribably d ivine, in th'* ^r.mpr>.inr^ ;nri;v;.lii.ii;fy thaLisJilxyexy_aU£^ It is behind all, everything — his time, his degree of development, his stage of development. These have been the main things, and out of them I have reiterated and re- iterated and reiterated. I suppose there are four hundred leaves of grass, one after another, which are contradictory, often con- tradictory — oh ! contradictory as hell — perfectly so, but atill held together by that iron band, of whatever it may be — indi- viduality, personality, identity, covering our time, from fifty to uinety. That is me, Tom — that is Dr. Bucke's book. Traubel. — But meantime, Donaldson, what's become of your Oscar Wilde story? You've forgotten all about that. Whitman. — True enough, Tom ; Oscar Wilde I Have you been standing all this time? .: '^i < ROUND TAULE WfTlI WALT WHITMAN. 3'3 ( Donaldson. — Yes, I have 1 Is it left for that young man to get me my rights? 1 l»ave it to all here if it was not your fault, Mr. Whitman, that my story didn't even get started. Whitman. — I own it, Tom. Go on. Donaldson. — Well, the incident I wish to recall to your atten- tion, Mr. Whitman, is this : Of course you did not find Oscar Wilde the kind of fellow that some i)eo|)le thought lie was. On the contrary, you found him a splendid kind of fellow. And he says that not only are you a good poet, but in that room up- stairs, in that front room of yours, over your lamp, you can brew the best milk punch of any man in tiie United States. I am free to claim that no book has ever developed that fact, and yet it is greatly to your credit. Now, I think the most memorable interview I ever had with you, out of many hundred, I had in that little front room. You had a small stove in the corner that looked very much like a fruit can, and you sat in a small arm- chair with a white robe about you, and the stove pipe got out of the hole, and there was no draft, and the fire went out, and you said finally, " Don't you think this room is cold?" and I said, "Yes, I do," and so we two — Oscar Wilde and me — fished around together, and discovered the reason of the accident, which is just as I have given it. Whitman. — Good for you, Tom ! The cat's out of the bag. Donaldson. — But that is not all. I seem almost to have made a speech, anyway, though I expressly intended to avoid that. But before I sit down let me say I brought with me the regrets of some friends over the river — especially of Horace Howard Furness. Traubcl. — And I have a letter from him. Whitman, — Let Furness speak for himself. Furness. — " What wouldn't I give to be able to be with you ! I can join you only in imagination. Yet what imagination is adequate fairly to picture Walt's majestic presence, and the eter- nal sunshine settling on his head which illumines us alTby its mere reflection ? I bid him ' take from my mouth the wish of happy years.' " Whitman. — When you see him give him my love. / .3M IN RE WALT WHITMAN. Donaldson. — And I brought with me from an old gentleman on the Allegheny river a bottle of whiskey which he warrants to be fifty-four years old. Whitman. — Oh ! noble old man ! Hurrah for the old man I Voices. — Bucke ! Bucke ! Bucke. — You all know I am no speaker Whitman. — But you can give a word. Bucke. — If I could speak at all I could say something this evening on the subject in hand. Perhaps the most significant thing of all is the marvellous diversity of opinion about you, Walt, and your book. Whitman. — Expatiate a little on that. Doctor; that is very curious. Bucke. — Well, some think, for instance, that above all things you stand for the divine pasoion of love, others that you especially voice friendship, others again that external nature is your central and supreme theme ; to still others you represent freedom, liberty, joyous and absolute abandonment ; again your religious sense is placed at the head, and we are told that a noble aspiration for perfect spiritual manhood, supreme assurance of immortality, intuitions of the unseen, intense faith in the essential friendliness of the universe to man, is the essence of your life and teaching. But the opposite of all these is in you as well ; you are as capable of hate and scorn as of love and compassion ; imitation and obedience belong to you as much as their seeming opposites ; reckless defiance and contempt are, though subordinated, as inherent in the "Leav;;s" and in you as are reverence and affection ; despondency and despair are as truly component parts of your character as are hope and joy ; common and even coarse manhood is as developed in you as are the glorious ecstasy of the poet and the high speculations of the philosopher : while you are good you are also evil ; the godlike in you is offset by passions, instincts, tendencies that unrestrained might well be called devilish ; if on the whole you have lived -well and done well yet none the less you have had in you, though subordinated, the elements of a Cenci or an Attila. This side of you is little realized, and therefore I have said and BOUND TASLE WITH WALT WHITMAN. gentleman I'arrants to old man I thing this significant bout you, at is very all things that you nature is represent igain your at a noble iirance of ;h in the ssence of is in you love and as much mipt are, d in you air are as and joy ; ^ou as are ms of the [odlike in estrained ave lived in you, n Attila. said and 3»5 say that no one has yet understood you. Like a group of moun- tains passaged by dark ravines your Titanic qualities (good and evil) hide one another, so that we who stand by, beholding and admiring some one — or at most two or three — of the majestic summits, or shuddermg on the edge of some precipice, necessarily fail to see or adequately to divine the hidden peaks, and, still less, the dark intervening chasms. I do not believe that I or any of us realize, Walt, what you really are. The main thing is that we love you and hope to have you live long with us. fV/ti/wan. — I scarcely know whether I do or not. Voicss. — Bonsall ! Bonsall ! IV hitman. — Yes, Harry, give us your "views " — give us your report. Bonsall. — On my way here the train stopped at Harleigh Cem- etery, and as those who had visited the city of the dead and viewed Walt Whitman's tomb entered the cars, I mused how few will honor the living bard to-night compared with the pro- cession of pilgrims from far and near who will make a Mecca of his grave when he is no more ! Camden will be known to the world from the fact of one man living and dying here, as Strat- ford, Concord, and the few shrines that stand alone and need no Westminster or Pantheon in a proud metropolis. In our unstudied and unstinted, our informal and perhaps too careless, colloquialism this evening the thought has been dropped that, until we revere the Man and greet him on each recurring natal day, we do not understand, and cannot comprehend, the length and breadth and height and depth of the philosophy of the Poet. To this, for one, and in common with most of us, I take exception. It is because we do realize what manner of man we honor that we are here to-night. It is because we have im- bibed something of his spirit and can translate tlie message spoken to us with the Right Voice that this responsive echo is called forth. It is because we know whereof we speak that even in our most florid imagery we know that we speak the words of truth and soberness. It is because we have travelled the Open Road with him here, that when we come to tread the highway of the spheres and step from constellation to constellation we shall know I I' ,1 3i6 IN RE WALT WIIITMAX. thvit Walt Whitman will cwait us on a still higher " lift " and extend, as now, the hand we will grasp in courage and confidence because of the light he shed on the way tiiilhcr. IVhitinan. — I did not know you were such a speechmaker^ Harry ! So you object to Biickc's argument ? Well, well, you are both right, I guess — though Doctor gets rather nearer the nerve, so tf) speak. There's a point or two you fellows could argue out together, though as for that I don't suppose argument would settle anything. \^To Tnjui>i'/.~\ Harry has kept his hand on the wheel this niany-a-day — never weary, never unsteady ! Williams {F. H.). — It has become, I had almost said, a fashion to say that Walt Whitman lacks form, and that his method of expressing himself is in great chaos of words. But I do not think that the form in which you have seen fit to express your- self is a mere chaos of words. I do not think that the meie fact that you have refused to be bound by the accepted metrical forms, by the laws of versification as they have been accepted by all time, at all argues that you have disregarded form. As I heard Mr. Richard Watson Gilder say at one of our recent re-unions : *' I think that Walt Wiiitnian's form is one of the most extraordinary things about him. I believe that his form is inimitable." I believe that anybody who will get away from the idea of scanning line by line and will undertake to com|)re- hend the fundamental thought at the bottom of " Leaves of Grass " and which runs through it — not through its sections but through the book as a whole — will find that the form adopted is the only one in which that thought could possibly have been embodied and expressed. Any writer, any jioet, who had .sought to express that thought and had bound himself by any of the accepted metrical laws, would have found himself in the • position of the Irishman who tried to carry home a quart of the critter in a half-pint mug — the verse would not have held the thought. The people who say that his thought is a chaos have simply come across a cosmos which is beyond their comprehension. Whitman. — I hope that is so. Williams, — Mr. Gabriel Sarrazin has said, sir, that you are not an artist — that you are not an artist because you rise superior HOUND TAIiLE WITH WALT WHITMAN. 317 to art. I believe that is nothing more than saying that genius is a law unto itself. Art is an interpretation of nature, and •when the thing to be expressed transcends the laws of art, we then arrive at a point within which a genius — if there be such a man — exists. I mean without regard to the laws of art. That is exactly the idea found in " Leaves of Grass." IVhiiinan. — It is a comfort to hear that. Bravo ! . . . Dr. Bucke is my authoritative expresser and explanator, as far as there can be one. DotuiUson. — What about my hundred pages that I am getting out about you? Whitman. — Go on, Tom, go on — and God be with you ! Morris. — Something has been said about the euphony and harmony of Mr. Whitman's verse. I think if Mr. Donaldson had had the pleasure which I had a couple of weeks ago of going to Long Island and visiting Walt Whitman's birthplace, he could scarcely say, as he has said, that there was no euphony and no harmony in Walt Whitman. The one prevailing feature in all that country is that every door-yard — no matter how humble, how much of a shanty — has a bush of lilac growing. Donaldson. — Did Whitman plant it? Whitman. — Tiiat was a smart dab, Tom. Morris. — He has celebrated it supremely. Another figure •which we find in the two lyrics of Mr. Whitman is the hermit- thrush. It is an indigenous bird in Long Island. Whitman. — It is the sweetest, solemnest of all our singing birds. Morris. — Being on Long Island I was almost constantly in view of the sea. Now, these three elements — the lilac, the hermit-thrush and the sea — are the prevailing elements of those great lyrics, "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking" and the great Lincoln ode. I consider that if any man was to create so much lyric beauty, euphony and harmony are necessarily a main part of his texture. Whitman. — No doubt, Harrison, that is part of the story— but there's a deal more beyond — a deal more ! Donahison. — The idea I have always had of Walt Whitman's V -.-C—- I ^ 318 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. euphony and rhythm ami poetry was the idea expressed by Mr. Williams: it is not at all what Mr. Morris undertakes '0 exhibit. And, by the way, I am twice as old as that boy and he can talk twice as well as I can. IVhit'Hitn. — Don't say that, Tom Donaldson — you stand very well on your own feet. Voices. — Talcott Williams — Williams ! IVhihnan. -CiQi up, Talcott — show yourself! WiUiams {Talcott). — Yes, Mr. Whitman, and all — I will, and let me say a woril, too. We are here marking the fourth of a long series of celebrations of this birthday. l'"rom this point we will go on in the development of those broad principles which will gradually overspread the world, and which to-day are knowrj to all the English-speaking vvorld, and which in time shall know neither let nor limit. As I remember how lesser forms of verse have disappeared, how the bric-a-brac of verse crumbles under the touch of years, I feel that there are new meanings in yours. As we gather at this table, at which few sit but at which all are peers, in the i)resence which dignifies us to-night, I feel in some sense a new meaning in the line, ".Age shakes Athene's tower but spares gray Marathon." For me the democracy of your verse is only the lesser and smaller part of it. The higher and wider side is its spiritual side. The circumstance that, in an age which not only doubts democracy but doubts itself, and doubts, some- times, the universe, the universe has been to you a road of many roads — the road of travelling souls. Voices. — Letters ! Letters ! Whitman. — Yes, Horace, the letters — bits of them, anyway. Wallace. — "This evening — which till a short time ago was dull, cold and overcast, with dark lowering rain-clouds — is now, at sunset, clear, calm, and radiant with heavenliest hues. May it be an omen of your remaining life ! " Whitman. — Good boy ! Good boy ! And a dozen sign with him — royal Lancashire fellows, all. Read their names — read their names ! . . . They call themselves " the College." Mead. — "All lovers of nature and freedom join in grateful thought of your free and stalwart life." i ROUND TABLK WITH WALT WHITMAN. 3^9- May Whitman. — That is a magazinist, but the magazinists as a rule have rejected us. Stedman. — " Life, after all, is not like a river — although it is the fashion to say that it is — for //w/ stream flows more slowly as it nears the boimiUess sea. But if Walt's 'olrtlidays seem to suc- ceed one another more rapidly as the years shorten, I take all the more tiie hope that there may be (to use his own word; a long tally of them yet in store. And Whitman's poetry is like the river: nothing of it more tranquil, nothing broader " and deeper, than his songs almost within sound of the infinite surge. Take, for instance, the last chant of his — ' To the Sun- set Breeze.' It recalls the sense of zest, and of physical har- mony, with which Borrow's blind gypsy asked to be placed where he could feel the wind from the heath : over and beyond this, the reach of a noble intellect, the yielding of a strong soul, to the vast movement of the universe. To such a bard it is of little moment whether he stays in one world or another. But to us it is nuich to have him still among us." , , IVhitman. — We all like Stedman : he is hearty, warm, gener- ous — yes, sticks to his guns, too, though his guns are not always ours. To-night we all seem to melt and flow together. \_To' Tmttlfcl.'] — It might go hard with us if this was all simply di- rected to Walt Whitman I But we are here, I as much as any, to pay our respects, not to Walt Whitman, but to democracy !: lA/otiti aoain."] — Whose is the next message ? Morse. — " I must join the chorus. A friend visiting Camden, some months ago reported to me: 'I found Whitman calmly sitting in the midst of such utter and appalling literary confusion I wondered for a moment how he breathed — vast heaps of every- thing piled about him. It seemed as though an earthquake had thrown all the life and literature of the hour — everything, in fact — • into ruins, but the old god. He alone remained unperturbed and indestructible.' Perhaps this friend did not go so much amiss, forecasting with a wider significance than intended the fate to men and things some far future will reveal." Whitman. — That is Sidney — our Sidney. We have his bust of us up-stairs, and a noble piece of work it is ; some think, the - 3ao IN RE WALT Will Til AN. best. [To Traub< ] John Burroughs, of all men, should be here to-night. He should not only be here but be at the head of the table — see all the fellows, hear all that is said, throw a strain into the music himself. Curtis {George Wil/iam). — "My hearty respect and regard for the sturdy and faithful man whom you honor." ly/ii/inan. — How cautious — how non-committal I Blake. — " My reverential greeting to the venerable poet whose songs will wind men's arms around each other's necks if we will sing them truly after him." Whitman. — Blake — Blake: is that Blake of Chicago? Yes — I know him : he has been here. Thanks! Thanks! Sanborn. — " My earnest iove to you, Walt Whitman, on this memorial occasion. We think of you at Concord as often as we look out over the meadows across the river, which you were so fond of feeding your eyes upon." Whitman. — Sanborn was one of our earliest friends! And now, Tom Harned, you don't intend to slip us altogether ? Get up, Tom : say your say. Harned. — We have heard much about " Leaves of Grass " — about Walt Whitman and his methods. But my mind is ani- mated by other ideas. During the past year I have suffered the dread that perhaps it would not novv be long that we would know Walt Whitman here in person. The tact must be stated that during the past few months he has occupied a room above us, unable to leave it, his physical co^.dition becoming weaker day by day. It seems to me that f'.ie great, the supreme, lesson of Walt Whitman's life is this: that he has been entirely consistent with himself, that he has not advocated any doctrine that he has not lived. And to me, inexpressibly beyond the hope of giving utterance to the thought, the calmness and deliberation with which Walt Whitman invites the future and looks forward un- fearingly to crossing the unknown sea, is one of the most beauti- ful evidences of this consistency. Whitman, above all others, is the poet of immortality. And when I use the word I mean by it a conviction of the immortality of identity — that our lives do not end here, that death is an essential — ay, as he urges, even to ROUND TABLE WITH WALT WJIITMAX. 331 be sung to, praised. Calm, exalted, he awaits death. Here, then, in Walt Whitman's presence, I desire to say that that is the sublime, the supreme, index of his character. W/tifnuvi. — And now comes your turn, Horace. Traubel, — No, I must be excused. I feel myself in the midst of a battle of which I may some time have something to say. My turn has not come. When the battle is over, then I may write of it. Whitman, — You are right, boy — your turn is not yet. Years and years from no\y, when I am gone — when, as you say, the battle is over — much may depend upon your teaching, and you will .set out the exact lines of evidence. You are right, boy — and God bless you ! Clifford. — I will put in a wcTd, too, though, like Traubel, I feel to be excused to-night. Everybody knows Emerson's re- mark : "To be great is to be misunderstood." There is a story that I believe to be authentic to the eff'^ct that when some one 'jame to him and asked what he had meant by a certain passage Oi" passages in his essays, he replied in his rather embarrassed manner that he supposed that when he wrote the matter referred to he had meant something clear enough, which now was for- gotten or obliterated. So, Mr. Whitman, you are not alone in that particular, if your own account of yourself be correct. But I am not going to make a speech. Let me add an amusing episode. In my not very remote experience, when I happened by accident to be one of a company of persons where the name of Walt Whitman was mentioned and pretty warmly es- poused by a majority of those present, a somewhat well- known poetaster of these parts, to whose name it would be cruel if I gave it an immortality by mentioning it here, called a halt by crying out : " Well, if Walt Whitman is a poet, then I am not one." A no inconsiderable world of professionals will one day be tried by that standard, and it is not likely that him we call Whitman — him we honor to-night — will suffer in the decision. Whitman. — Why, Clifford, you swing a heavy cli'.b ! Walt Whitman ? Sure enough — no poet at all ! That is the way 21 ■«»r^ V ./ 33J /iV RK WA/.r wntntAS. the schools have had it for a long time I lUii. here is Miss Porter, too — what has she to say to all this? I\»tfr ( J/m), — I know we all waiu to say soincthinj,' to-ninlit, and what I would like to say, or llie thought that has partic ulaily otTurred to me in what I have read of yours, is that you coniiei t literature more closely with life than any one has done before. And that is what we jtraise particularly — we narrow people who have just lH'),'un to know you — and that is what we look forward to in the future : that that literature may become more widely spreail which is more closely connected with life, as you connect it in your democracy and in your " Leaves of (Irass." Whitman. — And Kakins — what of 'i'om Kakins? He is here. Haven't you somell;i:>g to say to us, Eakins? Eakins. — I a»M not a speaker Whitman. — So much the better — you are more likely to say something. Eakins. — Well, as some of you know, I some years ago — a few — painted a picture of Mr. Whitman. 1 began in the usual way, but soon found that the ordinary methods wouldn't do — that technique, rules and traditions would have to be thrown aside ; that, before all else, he was to be treated as a man, whatever be- came of what are commonly called the |)rinciples of art. Whitman. — What wouldn't we give for O'C'onnor, Ingcrsoll, Burroughs, to-night ! Dear O'Connor — dead, dead ! Mow he would enter into it all — absorb it — glorify it ! Clarkt' {Miss). — I would like to add my personal thanks to Walt Whitman for his insistence upon the true principle of de- mocracy, which consists not in bringing down those things which are high but in raising up those things which are low. Whitman. — A hit sharp on the head of the nail ! Eyre. — Walt, I am one of the boys that you cannot see with your eyes. There are a great many millions outside who cannot see you now, but will see you well by-and-by. I met a man in Philadelphia to-day to whom I said, " I am going to dine to-night with the greatest man of this century." He asked : "Who is that ? " and I answered, " Walt Whitman." He seemed surprised : " You don't mean actually to call him that, do you?" and I Rovxn TAitiK wirn wai.t wiiiTMAy. 3«3 crc IS Miss w^ to-ninlit, purlidilarly yi)U (•()nr.c». — Yes, 1 do. Yoii [turnini^ to Uyii/m<)»\ liavr held hijili the iK'rj)emli( uliir liaml, iind olVoiod iis the most |»iT(iniis gift of llie nges- /floied ns ficeth)in, h)vc, imniorlality. \ 7'/i/-n ni/i/frssiN^ ihosf about tho tiif>/t\ | I,rt us hold up ns good a hand •»H hifih, in alTot lionatc domonstiation t)ronr csloi'm and h)yally I IWiitnutn. -Noble Dot lor! ll is the best note ol" ll\o song, nliuost ! And yet all is so good — all so fits, is of one piece I Jhnhi/i/wn. — If 1 understand what yo\i have done, it is to tuake a plea lot Anieiie.i and the An\erii ans — it is to make a ple.i tor niuversalily and the brotherhood of man. Now, do 1 untlerstand yon right? . U'/i!tm,rn. ~()\\ \ that is one thing — the c otnnn)i\hood, brotherhood, dentoeratization, or whatever it may be tailed, Ihit behintl all that st)niething remains. I hatl a tlispnie with Tliomas DntUey sonic years agt). Mis lhet)rv was, that onr main thing in Amerita was tt) lt)t)k ont tor ourselves — ftir the fellows liore. Well, in responst>, I remei\»ber J saitl, rather ineitlentally (but 1 tell it at the btUttim t)f ,my heart), that the theory of the prt\niess anti expansion of the raiise of the nunmon bulk t)f the \>ei>ple is the same in all tnuntries — not tudy in the Ihilish islantls, but tm the eontinent of iMUf-pe and allwheres — that we are all embarketl together like fellows in a ship, bt)und ft)r good or ttvi bad. What wrt>eks one wrecks all. What reaches the pi>rt for t)ne reat hes the port ft>r all. And it is my feeling, and I ht)pe 1 have in " Leaves of drass" expressetl il, that the bulk t>f the foimnon people, the tt)rst» t)f the pet»plo, the great body of the pe»)ple all t)ver the civilized world — aiul any oilier, lot), for that niatler — are sailing, sailitig together in the samt> ship. Anil that which iet>partlizcs one jetipanlizos all. Anil in my con- test with Thomas Dutlley, wht> is a thorough " prt)tectionist " ^in whit h I thoroughly dilTer f'rom him\ inv feeling was that the attenipt at what they call " protection "—thtingh 1 am nc nostcd in the protection details and thetuies antl fornnilalit)ns a> I sta- tistics, and all that gties tt> boost up and wall i., iiul wall out and prote<'t out (dt)ubtless I tread on the corns t)f a gtitul many peo- [>lc, but I fed i; tleeply, and the ohler 1 live to be the stronger I feci it) — is wrong, and that one feeling for all. extreme reciproc* norxi) TAIU.I-: nnn wait wiutman. %*1 mmonluMxl, ili'^piilo with ml t)iir main tho follows iiuitliMttally u'oiy dC (lie bulk nl" lht« llif Hritisl* res — that we 11(1 lor ^ood rcarhos the fVcliiig. and hat tho hulk real body of her, too, for same ship. 1 in my con- >to»liv)nist " was that the n no' tiostod >n3 a; 'I sta- ivall out and I many pco- ic stronger I ne reciproc- peof^lf, of ix II peoples iittii ail nues. And onnnon Leaves of Grass Ity and openness and frecli leism, is the policy for me. And I not imly ihink that it is an in^portant item in political eronutny, hnt I think it is the essential soi iai (groundwork, away down ; and to me nothin^^ will do evcntnally hut an uiulorstandin^ of (he soltihutly of Ihi that is behind Well, 1 have talked and garrulonssed and frivolled so lerrifii ally this eveniuff, tnmh to my amazement, that I don't think I have anything left. 1 am glad to see yon all, and 1 appre« iaie, thoroughly appreciate, your kindness and lomplimentary honor of me and everything -but oh I I have not felt tip to the o( (asictn of making i\mch of a speei h, or, at any rale, any more of a speech than I have beei\ llabbing away at from time to lime. I must say to my Iriends hnther along the table thai I am about half blind and cannot see more than ten feet ahead and hardly thai- else I am stne I should specify them, [ffe luti/ greetetf one TUl:' COSMir .VAXV/i'. 33J c now, it iiboiit the lit it may ic succes- ral course :c, of tlio iwn to lis. it may be m belMg", iiic, illits- from the f fiiculties i, such as ion, judg- :lio moral we, hope, s in like 1, of form, ng of the sction, of 1 of these unnamed, mple con- miousncss niiiiions of years ago ; self-consc ioniuiiss perhaps two or three liundrcd thousand years ago. (icncral vision is enor- mously old, but the color sense only about a thousand genera- tions; general hearing has existed many millions of years, l)Ul the nuisical sense not many thousand years ; the intellect, the basis of which is self consi iousness, must be over a huiulretl thousand years old, but the human moral nature is probably not a quarter as old ; and so on. V. The length of time during which the race h.is been possessed of any given faculty may be more or less accurately estimated from various indications. In cases in which the birth of the fac- ulty took plate in comparatively recent limes — within, for in- stance, the last twenty-five or thirty thousand years, as iii the case of the color sense and the sense of fragrance — jjliilology, as pointed out by Geiger, may assist materially in determining the age of its ap])earan(e. Hut for comjiaratively early-appearing faculties — as the intellect, self-consciousness — or the assump- tion ol the erect attitude, this means necessa y fails us. We fall back, then, upon two tests: 1st, The age at which the faculty appears in the indivitlual man at the present time; and, ad. The more or less universality of the faculty in the members of the race as we see it at the present tinie. I, As ontogeny is nothing else but philogeny in petto ; that is, as the ev()lution of the individual is necessarily the evolution of the r.ice in an abridged form, sim|)ly because it cannot in the nature of things be anything else — cannot follow any other lines, there being no other lines for it to follow ; it is plain that organs and (iictiities, speaking broadly and generally, will appear in the indivitlual in the same order in which they appeared in the race, and the one being known, the other may with confidence be assumed. 3. When a new (iiculty appears in a race it will be found in the very beginning in one individual of that race ; later, it will be found in a few individuals ; after a further time in a larger per- i) m .VM l.\ h'h: WAIT WHirMA.W Svlf.j « cniam' or llu> nu'mlu'i « or the rme i ullll lutct In half ihr lunnlu'rn, ni\il >«i)otnii)iil, iti^«'i tItotiMitnilN ol KtMUMiMiitnfl, nit ittdivitliial who iniMf<< tuuntft lhiip<( iitio rxislcnrc Itt lltr ittiliv iiln;il, tvltfit itl itil, iinii, (tl, ov itOrt itilolrsrfttio ^M'll ( otlsrioilstH'ss np|\('(tls ill itliotll lliicr yt'itis ol it^ot ; I In- imisintl si'iiNO I'itil'i to iippnti III iiioii' limn liiill. |inliiip«i ninsulrtuMv iiiotc ili.iii luiH, ilu> iitciiilnMHor iluTlvillroil ntrrs (mII I oust ioiwiK'MH tiiih In np|Miir In »ci(;iiiily liol iitoir that' one poiHon out ol a tlioimaiul iinlivuliutN iu llir Maitu' i ivil Ir.fi taronK Of « oiisitloi lln* lam' ol tin* loloi miim*. wIiov m^c ran he approxiittali'ly l\xnl by pliilolonv. as rnnipaitd wiili tin* visual scitM' ol loint. Tin' roloineiiHt' liaH oxistnl in tln« larr Iiaivlv a ilioii'janti ncnnaiion'*. rtitm'H into cxiKlriin' in ihr in tiivnlnal .il lioin llu" am' ol, sav, linn- lo linrm \i'aiH, ainl tails aliojjoiluM lo appoai in ont'atlnli prison oiii ol sixh in llic lliiiislt f^lands. 'I'lio •icns)- ol loim roiiHitloirtl m a pan ol si^lii lum rxisli'il in llio tare probahly al IcitHl a iiiillinn m-ncialions ( iiiMirad ol a llioimainh ; appeals in llic i;nlivi(liial tvillitn a lew ilavw oi weekH ol biiilt (insleail ol al llic a^e ol scvrial veais^ ; jIoch not Tail li> appeal inanv hnus in a nnllion pemoiis unslerttl of failing lo appeal oiiee in sixty iiniiviiiiialH). VI. As llio laenllies naineil and niany iiioie eaitto into oxiHlriiee in the ta»p. eat li in ils own lime, wlieii lite laee was ready lot it, lei Its nssiinte. as we niitsl. ilial giowlli, ovolnlion. d(>velopn\ent, OY w'lalevei we ehoose lo eall il. lias (as tluis exeinplilied) altvays gone on, is going on now. and (as lai as we ean see) will ahvavs gx> on. U we aiv liglit in stnlt an nRsiiniplion, new lat nliies will, iVvMti lime lo lime, aiisc in lite mind. as. in the |>asl, new faeiillies have arisen. Tins lieing granted, lei ns fin t her assume thai what }. e.vU eosmie eonseiousness is siu h a nasreni, stieh a wrr./r*v,/<-, m n-.*f.r wnivM i\ aM) rut' rttsun .vk.v.va;, .1.15 itlmtl wlio III illllH II liuully n liunllv 1' Miimii III \i\\\\\ yniH r lUllHii III :ill, lirill, lOlll lllll'l- lllilll lliill. •t ivili/nl not wow illlr rivil lliimc nm' Willi llu- tile I, ire II llif ill mill liiils lie lliilisli sinlit llilS m (instoiu) V lIllVH III iluiH not ol ruiling istciii (• ill ly loi ii, •ItipilU'llI, il) nhviiys iihviivs illii's will, V l.inillioH tlirti wliiil runiUy. Ami iidu \\[ ih m'r ivlml wi kiimv mIuhii lliii new sfiist'^ Ntiilc, liiiiiltv. rum lidii or wliiitcvcr il iiiny lie (iilliil. Il fippciii'ii prill* ipiitly (pi'ilittpM iihviiy<<) in ilic piiiip- ol lili-, lii< mM»"rior prMinm l»l•|l)ll^ill^ in llu- innil iiilviiin fil liit rs tliill W, il iip|)i'fim ill llir Iokiiiu'iI iiiiliv iiliiuli nl llic liiiiv Il I oiiirs 'iiii|iliiil\ , likf .1 ll.i'ili, jiwl m'lfll MiiiHi inimiH'MsjlMfn • llioii^li tliin IiimI I iitiit'N NO curly in lilc lli;il < onipniilivi'ly iVw rrt- ollcii, ill liitir vt lolmeil or time loloied tiniid, or per- liiipH I'iilher II Hi'iiHo thai llie mind ilnelf Ih lllled wilh him h ii < loud or haze. a. Al the nnuw Inslnnt Iip Ii, im il wpie, liiillied in mi miolion of jov, imsiirmii e, hiinnph, " milvnlioii " 'The l.ml wool i'l iiol «lrii lly eorieel il Inkeii in ilM ordiiim y Heiise, (or the leeliiin, when fully developed, Ih llml no spei inl " Hiilviition " |4 needed, the S( lieino iipojj wliieli the world is liiiill lipin^ iiself siillieieiil. ■^. Siiimllnneoimly witli.oi insliinlly (ollowiii^, Ihe Mhove spiiflr ntid omolioiiiil experiemcs, there i onu •. (o the per^^oii whom we iirp desi riltiiiK a eleiir eoneeplion, in onlliiie, of (he diill of the iini- vcrsp — a « onseioimiiesH thai the over iiiliii|^ powei whii h resides in il is inrmilely lieiiefK eiil : a vision of iiiir winn.lf,, or, nl leiisl, of an immense wnni.K, wliirli dwarfs all eonrepliiin, iniiiniiialioii, or Rprt Illation spriii^iiiK from and lulon^in^ to ordinary self- ronst ionsness, making llio old nllempls to menially grasp the tiniveiRC and IIr meaning petty and even rldiniloim. 4. Along with the above t oines what iiiUHt Ijc called, for wanli h 336 jy KK WA/.r wnirMAS, of a better term, a sense of ituinurtality. Thin is not an Intel* Icctual conviction, stich as that in any riglit-angk-d triangle the 8(iiiares of the siilcs that contain the right angle are together e/ any givfn species on its, so we nuist suppose that the range of cosmic consciousness is greater than that of -elf-consciousness, and it probably is very much greater both in kind and degree : that is to say, given a world peopled with men having cosmic con- sciousness, they would vary both in the way of greater and less intellectual ability, and greater and less moral and spiritual ele- vation, and also in the way of variety, of character, more than would the inhabitants of a planet on the plane of self-conscious- ness. Within the plane of cosmic consciousness one man shall be a god ; another shall not be, to casual observation, lifted so WAIT WHITMAN AM> TIIK COSMIC SKS'SK. 337 I an Intel- innglc the ■lhcrc(iiuil c ; or that I two right limplf ami .•rtainiy of gs to self- ilfscrilu'il, not simply attempted tiic person n it, I cun- a person is traordinary insciousness isciousncss, jctiipyiiiK a 1 its plane owton, or a itellectually e animal in msciousncss ic range of )usness, and egree : that osmic con- er and less )iritual ele^ more than f-conscious- e man shall )n, lifted so very much above ordinary htnnanity, however nuu h his inward life may be exalted, strengthened inil ptiririod by tlie new sense. But as the self-conscious man (however dcgrailed) is in fact almost infinitely above the animal with merely sim|)le conscious- ness, so is any man witli the cosmic sense almost infinitely higher and nobler than any man who is self conscious merely. And not only so, but the man who has had the cosmic sense for even a few moments only will probably never again descend to the si)iritual level of the merely self-conscious, but twenty, thirty or forty years afterwards will still feel within him the jnirifying, strengthening and exalting effect of that divine illumination, and those about him will recognize that his spiritual stature is above that of ordinary men. IX. Wliile its true nature h.ns been entirely unapprehended, the fat/ o{ cosmic consciousness has been long recognized both in the Eastern and Western Worlds, and me great m.ijority of civilized men and women in all countries to-day bow down before teachers who possessed, and because they possessed, the cosmic sense ; for among those who have been thus endowed were Ciuatama the Buddha, Jesus the Christ, Paul, and Mohammed ; and it is entirely because tiiey were so that these men have been enabled to found the religions, and become the leaders, of the civilized world for the last two thousand years. From the time of (niatama to the time of Mohammed was some thirteen hundred years, and from the time of the latter until to-day eleven hundred years. As far as my researches have yet gone we have, to fill up the latter gap, four great names, the owners of which also possessed the faculty in question — Dant6, Las Casas, Balzac and Whitman. Then for the present day the writer of these pages knows, and knows of, ten men, either living or recently dead, all of whom had the faculty in ques- tion. Of course, it will be understood that the eighteen men here specified must be a very small fraction of the total number who within the last twenty-five hundred years have possessed the cosmic sense. I have no doubt I shall myself find many others if I live 22 /• • 338 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. to pursue the present inquiry a few more years ; but these are all I know of at present, and my reasoning to-day must rest on them. Another thing : it is not possible within my present limits to give proof that the men named had what I here call the cosmic sense. This will be adiluced later. In the meantime I ask my readers to take my word for it that these men possessed this faculty. X. As stated above, the cosmic sense comes, when at all, suddenly, and often the exact hour is clearly indicated by the records, as in the cases of Guatama, Paul, Mohammed, Whitman and others I could name. But even when tliis is not true, in all the eighteen cases above referred to the oncoming of the new faculty can be fixed within very narrow limits, and I am able to state, without fear of material error, that the ages at which cosmic consciousness declared itself in the above eighteen men were : in three at the age of thirty years, in three at thirty-two, in one at thirty-three, in two at thirty-four, in four at thirty-five, in one at thirty-seven, in two at thirty-eight, in one at thirty-nine, in one at forty. I will not now dwell on this most important fact (/. <•., the age of the oncoming of cosmic consciousness) further than to point out that it is exactly as it ought to be, if the theory of the new sense as here set forth is correct. XI. It seems that every, or nearly every, man who enters into cos- mic consciousness is at first more or less alarmed, doubting whether the new sense m iy not be a symptom or form of insanity. Mohammed was greatly alarmed, I think it is clear that Paul was, and I could name others who were similarly affected. The first thing each person asks himself upon experiencing the new sense is : does what I see and feel represent reality or am I suffering from a delusion? The f;ict that the new exi)erience seems even more real than the old teachings of consciousness and self-consciousness does not at first fully reassure him, because he probably knows that delusions possess the mind just as firmly as actual facts. True or not true, each person who has the ex- perience in question eventually believes its teachings, accepting WALT WHITMAN AND THE COSMIC SENSE. 339 ters into cos- them as absolutely as any other teachings whatsoever. This, however, would not prove them true, since the same might be said of the delusions of the insane. How, then, shall we know that this is a new sense, revealing fact,and not a form of insanity, plunging its subject into delu- sion ? In the first place, the tendencies of the condition iro question are entirely unlike, even opposite to, those of i cntali alienation, these last being distinctly a-moral, or even immoral, while the former are moral in a high degree. In the second place it is well to bear in mind that all human civilization (speak- ing broadly) rests on the teachings of the new sense. The masters are taught by it, and the rest of the world by them, so that, if what is here called cosmic consciousness is a form of insanity, we are confronted by the terrible fact (were it not an absurdity) that our civilization, including all our highest religions, rests oni delusion. But, in the third place, far from granting such an^ awful alternative, it can be maintained that we have the same evidence of the objective reality which corresponds to this faculty as we have of the reality which tallies any other sense or faculty whatever. For iiistance : I know that the tree across the field is real and not an illusion, because all other persons having the sense of sight to whom I have spoken about it see it, while if it were an illusion it would be visible to no one but myself. By the same method of reasoning do we establish the reality corresponding to cosmic consciousness. Each person wIk* has the faculty is by it made aware of essentially the same fact or facts. If three men looked at the tree and were half an iiour after- wards asked to draw or describe it, the three drafts or descriptions • would not tally in detail but in general outline would correspond. Just in the same way do the reports of those who have, or who • have had, cosmic consciousness correspond in all essentials, though in details they may more or less diverge. So, I do not know any instance of a person who has been "illuminated" denying or disputing the teachings of another who has been through the same experience. Paul, as soon as he attained to cosmic consciousness, saw that the teachings of Jesus were true. So Mohammed accepted Jesus as not only tlie greatest of the I i t i40 li\ Kh: WAIT WIIITMAW l>n)p)uts but US slaniliiig on ;t piano tlislinilly nhove that uphn wlui h sloiul A(l;\m, Nt»;\h, Moses a\u\ the irst. So Wnll Whit- n\,in ;\rropts (I\o (oarliinn of MtiiMha, Jesus, I'anl nnd of Moliniu- med ; (\n«l if, ns ho onro \visl\ci1, the great nKislors otHiliI return rtnil study luni, toothing is uum* rcri un tlum that tlu-y would i.\w\\ and all arut ilie cosmic sense, /". c, before it appeared, atid aiU'rwards, nnd so (better than in ai^y other case, except, perhaps, that o( Halz.u) iwn »ompare the man with his earlier self. 1 mean that we have a series of writings* by Wall Whitman l)eft)re his "1 rtlludo. i>f oovnse, rmiooinllv to "IUmIIi in n Sih.iol rmuu," 1841; "Wild Firtnk'n Kciurn." i 1. ; " Hcniuuo 01 KiuIum nml Son," id. ; " I'lie Ton'h HloMom's." 1S41; "The I i\M of Iho Snoifd Army." id.; " IT.c I'liild fihoit. ,\ Sloiy ot tl\o l.HHt I,oy;\li'iidin;uc," id. j \c. WALT WHir,MAy AM) TUF. COSMtC NluXSK. .14 » ^e that nphn ) WnU Wl\it- \ of Mi)hnm- «o\tUl rotnrn I thoy \\'o\M ,nt summit." agree in nil era who Imvc \v\v.\{ \\i\\rav hciuuHO ho is )ly, tuost per- XiOlloUt c, \\\c n .,» :\[ large I BO doing lu»9 ronsciousncss '~ lor ancient or ly ns ro\>lil he on, and again Not tliat 1 iin- isly for years, age advanr. ,1, tleereasod in \c man witlw aOerwanls, laps, that of 1 mean that ii\ heforc his vi>i>m," 1841 ; iin," ill. ! " The '•■\\\v niil.\ iUuminatioM as well as the series, heginning with the fiisl, 1.S55, edition of " Leaves of drass," prodnced afterwards. We expet I and always lind a diflerem e hetween a man's early and his niattire writings. What an interval, for instanee, hetween Shelley's ron\an< es an«l the ('enei ; hetween Maiaulay's earliest Mssays and the Ilislory t Hut here is something ipiite apart from those rases. We 1 an trare a gradti.d evolution of power IVom /.atrozzi to l«",pipsy«hidion, IVom Mat atilay's " Milton " to his " Massacre of (llen< in-." Put in the case i)f Walt Whitn^an (as in that of Halzac) writings of ahsohitely no value were immediately followed hy pages across each of which in letters of ethereal file are written the woids " Kri-'UNAi. iiiK, ; " [)age3 covered im)1 only by tt mastcrpiei e, hut hy such vital seiUeuces as have not heen written ten linu's in the history of the race. I( is upon this in- stantaneous evolution of the 'IVian from the man, this profound mystery of the atlainmei\t of the " Kingdom of Heaven," that I desire, if possihle, to throw siunc light. Ami it is interesting to remark here that, so far as I 1 ;in judge from my knowledge of Whitman personally, and from a profouiul st»uly of his writings pursued for over a ipiarter of a t entury, he had as little idea as had Muddha. I'aul or Moh.innned what it was that gave him the mental power, the moral elevation, ai\d the percni\ial joyousness which are the rharaeleristies of the slate to which he attaine»l and which seems to have heen to him the sub- ject of conlimied amazement. tjet us see m)w what this man savs about this cosmic sense, which must have eonie to him when he was between the ages of thirty one and thirly-fotir years — I suppose at the age of thirty-two or thirty- three. 'I'he first direct menlicuiofit is on p. i^of the iH^jcedition of " Leaves of Crass " — that is to say, it is on the third page of his first writing after the lunv fac ulty had tome tt) him. The lines arc ftumtl essentially tmallereil in every snbseipient etliliiui. fii the last, i8t)i-99 edititui, they arc upon p. _p. I t|UMic. of course, from the '55 edition, since ! want to get as near to Whit- ntan at the moment of writing the words as possible, lie says: •' I lipliovp in ymi mv si'iil .... iIip ullirr I nin miisl imt nlmte ilspjf tn yoii» And you tnuRt nut be nlmgcil ttj (lie udier, .«i i m i i ii tniimm i> '> * " " 342 JN RE WALT WHITMAN. Loafe with me on the grass .... loose the stop from your throat, Not words, not music or rhyme I want .... not custom or lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice, I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent summer morning ; You settled your head athwart my hips and gently turned over upon me. And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my barestiipt heart. And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet. Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and joy and knowledge that pass all the art and argument of the earth ; And I know that the hand of God is the elder hand of my own. And I know that the spirit of God is the eldest brother of my own. And that all the men ever born are also my brothers .... and the women my sisters and lovers, And that a kelson of the creation is love." The new experience came in June, probably in 1853, when he had just entered upon his thirty-fifth year. Of it he says : I be- lieve in its teachings, although, however, it is so divine the other I am (the old self) must not be abased to it, neither must it ever he overridden by the more basic organs and faculties. Then he says : Stay with me, loafe with me on the grass, instruct me, speak out what you mean, what is in you, no matter about speaking musically or poetically or according to the rules, but just use your own language in your own way. He then turns back to tell of the exact occurrence ; the experience came one June mo'-ning ; the new sense took, though gently, absolute possession : f him, at least for the time ; his heart, he says, henceforth received its in- struction from the new comer, the new self, whose tongue, he says, was plunged to his bare-stript heart, and bis life became subject to its dictation— /V held his feet. Finally, he tells in brief of the change wrought in his mind and heart by the birth within him of the new faculty. He says that he was filled all at once with peace and joy and knowledge transcending all the art and argument of the earth. He attained that point of view from which only can a human being sej something of God ('' which alone," says Balzac, "can explain God" — which point unless heattain " he cannot see," says Jesus, " the kingdom of God "). WALT WHITMAN AND THE COSMIC SENSE. 343 ' And he sums up the account by the statement that God is his clooO friend, that all the men and women ever born are his brothers and sisters and lovers, and that the whole creation is built and rests upon love. Here we have essentially the same set of phenomena found in all other cases of the oncoming of the cosmic sense : 1. ine subjective light, however, seen by Paul, Mohammed and others that I could name, was wanting, at least record of it is wanting — unless the words, quoted later, *' O heaven ! what flash," refers to it. 2. But we have the specific, almost violent, mental expansion occurring at a definite place and moment. 3. Strongly marked moral exaltation. 4. And as strongly marked intellectual illumination, as de- clared in the passage quoted, and as amply proved by the rest of the volume. 5. A conviction of continuous life so clear and strong as to anio''"t to a sense of immortality fully shown in same volume. 6. The extinction — if he ever had them, which is doubtful — of the sense of sin and the fear of death. Those who so far have been endowed with cosmic conscious- ness have been, almost to a man, carried away and subjugated by it ; they have looked upon it — probably most of them — as being a preterhuman, more or less supernatural, faculty separat- ing them from ordinary men. They have almost, if not quite., always sought to help men, for their moral sense has been inev- itably purified and elevated by the oncoming of the new sense to an extraordinary degree ; but they have not realized the need, nor, I suppose, felt the possibility of using their extraordinary in- sight and power in any systematic manner. That is, the man has not mastered, taken possession of and used the new faculty, but has been (on the contrary) largely or entirely mastered and used by it. I think this was clearly the case with Paul, who was Ifed away by the grandeur and glory of the new sense to under- rate the really equal divinity of his previous human faculties. Perhaps the same words could with equal trntli be applied to the case of Guatama. It may be that Walt Whitman is the first man ! iia!i i » ' .jy ' iM < ■ If i 344 IN BE WALT WHIT3fAN. who, having the faculty in a marked manner, deliberately set himself against being thus mastered by it — determining, on the contrary, to subdue it and make it the servant — along with con- sciousness, self-consciousness and the rest — of the united, indi- vidual SELF. He saw, what neither Guatama nor Paul saw, what Jesus saw, though not, I think, so clearly as he, that though this faculty is truly godlike, yet it is no more supernatural or preternatural than sight, hearing, taste, feeling, or any other, and he consequently refused to give it unlimited sway, and would not allow it to tyrannize over the rest. He believes in it, but he says the other self, the old self, must not abase itself to the new — neither must the new be encroached upon or limited by the old ; he will see that they live as friendly co-workers to- gether. And I may say here that whoever does not realize this last clause will never fully understand the " Leaves." The next reference made by Walt Whitman to cosmic con- sciousness, which I shall at present refer to, is in "The Prayer of Columbus." page 323, 1891-2 ed. This poem was written about 1874-5, when the condition of the poor, sick, neglected, spiritual explorer was strikingly similar to that of the great geo- graphical explorer shipwrecked on the Antillean Island in 1503, at which time and place the prayer is supposed to be offered up. Walt Whitman (he has done the same thing a thousand times) used this agreement of circumstance to put his own words into the mouth of the other man. These words refer to his own life, work, fortunes — to himself. In this poem he alludes specific- ally and pointedly to the matter now under consideration. Speaking to God, he says : " Thou knowest my manhood's solemn and visionary meditations." " O, I am sure they really came from Thee, The urge, the ardor, the unconquerable will, The potent, felt, interior command, stronger than words, A message from the Heavens whispering to me even in sleep, These sped me on." " One effort mere, my altar this bleak s:\nd ; That Thou, O God, my life hast lighted, irately set ig, on the with con- ited, indi- saw, what at though natural or any other, sway, and ieves in it, se itself to or limited workers to- real ize this osmic con- The Prayer vas written neglected, ! great geo- nd in 1503, offered up. ;and times) words into is own life, es specific- isideration. lions. ep» WALT WHITMAN AND THE COSMIC SENSE. 345 With ray of light, steady, ir.. iTable, vouchsafed of Thee, Light rare, untellable, lighting the very light, Beyond nil signs, descriptions, languages; For that, C God, be it my latest word, here on my knees. Old, poor, and paralyzed, I thank Thee." " My hands, my limbs grow nerveless. My brain feels rack'd, bewilder'd. Let the old timbers part, I will not part, I will cling fast to Thee, O God, though the waves buffet me, Thee, Thee at least I know." At the time of writing these lines Walt Whitman is fifty-five or fifty-six years of age. For over twenty years he has been guided by this (seeming) supernatural illuminatioii. He has yielded freely to it and obeyed its behests as being from God himself. He has loved the earth, sun, animals, despised riches, given alms to every one that asked, stood up for the stupid and crazy, de- voted his income and labor to others as commanded by the di- vine voice and as impelled by the divine impulse, and now for reward he is poor, sick, paralysed, despised, neglected, dying. His message to man, to the delivery of which he has devoted his life, which has been dearer in his eyes (for man's sake) than wife, children, life itself, is unread or scoffed and jeered at. What shall he say to God? He says that Cod knows him through and through, and that he is willing to leave himself in God's hands. He says he does not know men nor his own work, and so does not judge what men may do with or say to the " Leaves." But he says he does know God, and will cling to him " though the waves buffet me." Then about the inspira- tion, the illumination, the " potent, felt, interior command stronger than words " — he is sure that this comes from God. He has no doubt, there can be no doubt, of that. He goes on to speak of the "ray of light, steady, ineffable," with which God has lighted his life, and says it is "rare, untell- able, beyond all signs, descriptions, languages." And this (be it well remembered) is not the utterance of wild enthusiasm, but of cold, hard fact by a worn-out old man on, as he supposed, his death-bed. • J46 I^ ^E WALT WHITMAN. The next direct allusion to cosmic consciousness to be noted may be found on p. 403 of the 1891-2 edition of the "Leaves." It is embodied in a poem written June, 1888, when he again (and -with good reason) supposed himself dying. The present writer was with him at the time and knows exactly how the case stood. The poem is called " Now Precedent Songs Farewell," and was written as a hasty good-by to the " Leaves" and to the world. Toward the end of the poem, bidding his songs good-by, he alludes to them itnd their origin in the following words : -" O heaven ! what flash and started endless train of all I Compared indeed to that ! What wretched shred e'en at the best of all ! " He says : Compared to the flash, the divine illumination from which they sprang, how poor and worthless his poems are. And it must be borne in mind that Whitman never had a bad opinion of the " Leaves." I have heard him say more than once that none of us — referr'ng to W. D. O'Connor, John Burroughs, my- self and other out-and-out admirers — thought as highly of them •as he did. But thinking that way of them he could still say how poor they were compared to the illumination from which they sprang. This last quoted passage may be compared with another in a quite early poem, "A Song of the Rolling Earth" .(p. 179, 1 89 1-2 edition). In it he says: " When I undertake to tell the best I 6nd I cannot, My tongue is ineflectual on its pivots, My breath will nut be obedient to its organs, I become a dumb man." And these, with still another from a poem with the significant title "Who Learns My Lesson Complete " (p. 304), as follows: ••' I lie abstracted and hear beautiful tales of things and the reasons of things, They are so beautiful I nudge myself to listen. I cannot say to any person what I hear — I cannot say it to myself — it is very wonderful." So Paul said that he had " heard unspeakable words." be noted Leaves." igain (and ent writer ;ase stood. " and was the world. )od-by, he is: pared indeed lation from i are. And bad opinion n once that roughs, my- hly of them iild still say from which Tipared with ling Earth" WALT WHITMAN AND THE COSMIC SENSE. 347 le significant ), as follows: sons of things, |to myself— it is rds." But Walt Whitman did not die in June, 1888; he rallied and again (it seems) from time to time the vision appeared and the voice whisper- d. Doubtless the vision grew more dim, and the voice less distinct, as time passed and the feebleness of age and sickness grew. At last, in 1891, at the age of seventy-two, they finally departed, and in those mystic lines "To the Sunset Breeze" (p. 414), which the Harpers returned tc .im as a " mere improvisation," he bids it farewell. He say* : " Thou hast, O Nature ! elements ! utterance to my heart beyond the rest— and this is of them." " Thou art Spiritual, Godly, most of all known to my sense. Minister to speak to nie here and now, what word has never told, and cannot tell, Art thou not universal concrete's distillation ? " And so the Sunset Breeze passed, the Spiritual Illummation passed, and shortly after 1'^? passed, and earth lost the last and greatest of the prophets. I 1 u I ; And yet Whitman, though he cries out for "muscle and pluck," untainted flesh and clear eyes, is very far from being a mere lover of coarse material pleasures. He is a r»^ '., and that says enough. His eye sees beauty, his ear hears music. All thing? grow lovely under his haml ; deformity, ugliness, and all things miserable and vile disappear. His touch transmutes them. I have said he is elemental, and more than once the wonder he expresses at the sight of Nature transforming things loathsome into beauty by her own sweet alchemy excites the thought that this poet desires to exert the same influence. No poet since Shakspere has written with a vocabulary so fruitful. Words the most erudite and remote, words not quite naturalized from foreign countries, words used by the lowest of the people, teem in his work, . yet without afl"ectation. You can take away no word that he uses and substitute another without spoiling the sense and marring the melody. For where Whitman seems roughest, rudest, most prosaic, there often is his lan- guage most profoundly melodious. ^itandish 0' Grady: "Walt Whitman, The Poet 0/ Joy." (348) IMMORTALITY. By WALT WHlTMAff, ;," untainted use material auty, his car U(;iiness, and em. I liave ;s at the sijjht veet alchemy ice. so fruitful, from foreign in his work, he uses and nelody. For ^ is his Ian- / o/Joy." [For some time after the birthday dinner of 1890 (May 3i8t, at Reisser's, rhiladclphia) Walt Whitman knew nothing of the existence of this report of one portion of his several discussions with Ingcrsoll and others which chanced that night. At a late hour a Press reporter had been introduced into the room, and he opportunely caught this passage. Months afterwards Talcoit Williams sent a copy of the report to Whitman for revision. Whit- man went to work on it, and gave it what he described to us as "about a per- fect expression " of his " views held at the moment and still adhered to." The manuscript was in this shape returned to Mr. Williams. When Whit- man was preparing his final volume, " Good-Rye," he endeavored to secure a copy of the revi.sed version for publication, but for reasons towards which Whitman never felt kindly Mr. Williams withheld the MS., and would give us no further encouragement than in the loan of the reporter's draft. This draft is appended. It contains only two or three changes, made by W'hitman himself, and is given in lieu of the elaborated draft only because Mr. Williams felt indisposed to allow Whitman to insert the matter in " Good- Bye," and since Whitman's death has equally shown an indisposition to have us use it in this book, although it was Whitman's own desire that it •hould be by this medium given to the public. — The Editors.] Colonel Ingersoll has given me a certificate of character ; and has in some particulars re-echoed what I myself have said and thought of my own works. To me the grandeur of the things I have tried to portray in " Leaves of Grass" is in its essential purpose — in something understood ; something untold but not unfelt. All that I have attempted to glean for the pages of " Leaves of Grass " has been what I have perceived of what I am — of what we all are, of what the world before us is. I have tried to show what I could of practical, materialistic, visible life, with an indication throughout of something behind it all. But never before have I heard, as 1 did hear in Colonel IngersoU's (349) 35° IN RE WALT WniTilAN. remarks, so comprehensive a criticism, in which every word went to the right spot. It seems almost " funny " to me that any one can go as far as he does and not take the next logical step. To me the final and ultimate purpose of everything is completed, as it were, only by the unknown futurity of immortality. By me this is divined, acknowledged ; of course it is not certain, as, for example, that I see my friends here with me now. Next, I have written to prepare for the last step — the thing which it is all for. The forces of life are like a lot of locomo- tives gathered together. Locomotives are wonderful things. They are a proof of the advance of humanity, through intermin- able ranges of ages. Yes, to me a grand locomotive is a proof of the advance of humanity for hundreds of thousands of years. But what for ? If there is no hereafter, what for ? The locomotive is not for itself, but for a purpose. In the same way you might ask of " Leaves of Grass," what are they all for ? — I know what I meant them for ; I know what I felt in my heart or brain or both. Let me say further that Colonel Ingersoll recalls to my mind the well-known story about Lin- coln's generals. Somebody told the President that the ablest one among them was an habitual drunkard. "Ah," said Lin- coln, " find out what brand of whiskey he drink"- I want to send some of it to the other generals." Colonel Ingersoll justifies fully my method, my tricks — my method of describing and appealing. I felt willing to keep the roots of everything in " Leaves of Grass " underground, out of sight, and let the book work its way. If it grew, in verdure and flowerage, so much the better ; but certain important results were to me the main things. I do not know, however, why I have dwelt on all that. Pos- sibly because I never felt so proud, so thoroughly justified, as by my friend's speech to-night. I felt it all through. As a sort of supplement, I may say that I believe thoroughly that the main meaning of all the material world is the invisible and spiritual world, the immortality of the future ; and back of it all is what I may call the Almighty. I accept the term, as IMMORTALITY. 35 « meaning what I mean. I use it of an impersonal deity, not of a being wiio sits on liigh issuing lus orders " Do this or that." But I accept and use it in the only way that I think is consistent with great modern thought, as the grandest justification of hu> manity; of what the old fellows used to call the creation, the creation of man, and by other phrases of that kind. But they, too, are all very profound, deep, wise in their way, reaching down to what humanity was then eligible to feel and to under- ^ stand, Li'» which now seems almost ridiculous to us from our point of view. They knew probably five or ten or twenty or thirty or fifty or one hundred thousand years ago — they knew things that we think we know (and we do know them) ; and the conception was, as I said a few minutes ago, very grand. They also had their presciences — but I must not be garrulous. . . . I don't bother myself about purposes or Infinity, but un- less there is something behind all this outward life it seems to me there is no justificating purpose in it. Unless there is a definite object for it all, what in God's name is it all for ? [Ingersoll's reply to Whitman's final question was this: — I can't tell. And if there is a purpose, and if there is a God^ what is it all for? I can't tell. It looks like nonsense to me- either way.] 1 • These are quite glorious things you have sent me. Who is Walt (Walter ?) Whitman, and is much of him like this ? yoAn Euskin to William Harrison Riley, 1879. Such influences as your:$ are precisely what our poetry in its latest develop- ments needs to make it sane and masculine. Edward Dow Jen to Wall Whitman, 1872. He speaks with praise of the " proud and melancholy races," and there is a very luxury of melancholy in his " Word out of the Sea," and the lone singer on the shore of Paumanok, wonderful, causing tears. Strange, unapprehended influences pour themselves into the words of that great poem which have never before found expression : melancholy as of one surfeited with joy, to whom sorrow is now a deeper joy, woe with a heart of delight, flickering shadows that seem to live and hover beckoning over the scene, voices as from another world, blank desolation which we desire to be no other than it is, suflering and despair, though somehow it seems better than they should be : a poem whose meaning cannot be fathomed, whose beauty cannot be fully tasted — a mystic, unfathomable song. Standish 0' Grady: " Walt Whitman, The Poet of Joy." (352) THE POET OF IMMORTALITY. Bf THOMAS B. HARNED. Walt Whitman was of a profoundly religious nature and " Leaves of Grass " is a religious book. Whitman teaches at all times a positive faith, and nowhere and never negation or doubt. From his mother, to whom he was devotedly attached, he in- herits his spiritual qualities. She was one of those " powerful uneducated " persons that our poet always laid so much stress upon. This woman, of whom he said, " she was the best and sweetest woman I ever saw and ever expect to see," was un- doubtedly a great personality. His Quaker ancestry, in my judg- ment, dominated all other elements in his character. He was from early childhood of a quiet, thoughtful and kindly disposi- tion, full of calm seriousness and powerful faith. Undoubtedly, long before his life purpose had been fully decided upon, his mind ran in humanitarian and spiritual channels. This is clearly seen in the few " pieces in early youth" preserved and printed in the current edition of his complete prose works. They breathe the spirit of sympathy and all point a moral. In one of his earliest pieces he speaks of Jesus as the " beautiful god " and the "divine youth." This veneration for the Nazarene never left him, and however much he may have shocked the conventional Christian with "undue familiarity," as in his poem "To Him That was Crucified," he saw with unerring certainty the distinc- tion between the transient and permanent in the Christian system. He has told me more than once that he regarded it as of the greatest credit to the Caucasian race that it had accepted Christ, how- ever imperfect that acceptance may have been. If to have Christ- like qualities is to be a Christian, then it would be difficult to select a more perfect example than Walt Whitman. His gentleness, a3 (353) "••iww** 354 IX A' A' WALT Wit I nr AN. uiisolfislmcss, rliarity. ami lovMigness for every living creature were so thorougiily natural and spoi.t'neous. tl^->t tlio.iv. »viio knew liirn personally luUy realize how perfectly he has placed a man in his bot)k. I do not agree with Dr. Bucke in his theory that Whitman's cosmic consi iotisness was a sudden conversion into a new spiritual existence, whereby he was enabled to write greater things than theretofore. I fumly believe that his spiritual life was a growth, and that " Leaves of (irass " was evolved from a born spiritual genius passing from stage to stage, through certain formative periods of thought, mifoldiiig until he reached in a per- fectly natmal way his ])eriod of higlu'st fruition. Whitman and his poems have been treated from many stand- points — comradeship, democracy, sex, art, re' ^ion. Because of my intimate personal companionship with him for the last ten years of his life, I desire to add my word on tVe subject of his personal belief in immortality, asset forth in his published writ- ings and personal utterances. This was the main jnjrport of his life-work— all-inclusi\e — without which he and his book would not be the living force that they are. For his was something more than the faith of reason. He was familiar with the ten- dencies of modern thought antl the wilderness to which it leads. Of course his mind was never befogged by any dogm .tic theology. His use of the terms, God, Soul, Immortality, was wholly with- out any ecclesiastical tinge — yet they appear .ill through his poems. " I have no objection to the use of the word ' (lod ' ; 1 u.se it and like it," he has fretjuently said to me. He realize*! so acutely the presence of U.- infinitely miraculous world about him that the petty supernaturalism taught by the schools seemed to hfm vulgar and feeble, without claim to any pl.ace in a truly moderi. philosophy. He believed that we had outlived the need of churches and preachers. In his noble and poetic preface to the first edition of " Leaves of Grass " he said : " There will soon be no more priests. Their work is done. They may wait awhile — perha|is a generation or two — dropping off by degrees. A superior breed shall take their i)lace--the gangs of Kosmos and projihets en masse shall take their place. A new order shall arise, and they shall be the priests of man, and every man shall TIIK I'OKT OF IMMOh'TA/.lTV. 3.S5 ing creature sc wiio knew laced n man theory lluit srsion into a vrite greater spiritual life olvecl from a ough certain •bed in a per- niany stand- IJecause of the last ten iibject of his iblished writ- lurport of his s book would ■as something with the ten- 'hich it leads, lie theology, i wholly with- igh his poems. ; 1 use it and so acutely lout h.i'u that niied to h'm truly moden. the need of )refaervading presence. It never forsook hmi. I hai)|)ened to call at his house when he had a most serious and sudden attack which for the moment seemed fatal. He lay on the lounge insensible. In a moment of recuiring consciousness, I asked him about his condition, and he respcjuded feebly but with the naturalness of a ( hild : " I sliall be better soon, but it will be a// n\'/i/ aiiyuiy." Amid all Ins conflict with conventional religious thought he knew that religion was the most important factor in the history of civilization ; and hence the germ of his book is religion, and therefore he says : " I say no man lias ever yt't liecn half devout enough. None lias over yet aiioved or worshijiM half enuiinh, None ha> iieguii to think how ilivine he hiiiisclf is, and how certain the future is." f /, • i '■U^^ m m-i If S5f' L\ KK WU.r H ,V/7.I/.| V. " I >»rtv ihni ll»p n\\ :>' ' nPiMiiHenl f»>-i«inleHi o( tin le S| ■ iiuisi lir \\w\t le- lij;iiin. Diheruisi' lluti- o le^l »• il ei .iiucm miimlcui ; ^Nuv chnvncici i\<. li'",. roiiliv the im'Mc " ithmii ivlmimi, Ni»v Iniul \\v\ >■ '\\\ 111 »\i «ii.-«ii witlumi di^jinn)." " \\»»\\ vixi, solely (n tl , ]i \\, tin oniil! ilu- uoiins of w nvnt',! iilininii. riu* tullowin^ I li;»ni>« iMU'Ii (ill 111 Uiiitl I sinji " KvvMvwlK'ir lie rcrognizes \\\p vnli-.^ nl tho past, and tlu* iin |«)ilant liiil (hat loligions are tltc H(op|iiit;'-stoneH of tlu* agos— liow (lirv havr paiiUcd pii (mrs. \\ii((in mfa( mu-ius ai\»l timsii , inspind u»ai(yis, rtcairil ivvoliKioiis ami enlarged (hcMadiro of man. Mn( 'u' watiis Ms imt U give tl\«> past inoie than i(H duo. Ho o(i(.l>ids at thes(ar( (he "old raiitions hmkstois." and ivi og- nizos (he seiviir o( all needs and nivths: •• I rtWmn lliem nil foi whut lltey an' woilli, iUdl nut n «oi\( luon-." Mi"^ ph\li'sophv im hides all < luinhes ami leligions. and \n greaier (han anv . Some one onre aski'tl me " \viu'(her Walt VVhiiman ever \ven( lo i hmeh." I < an haidlv explain why, hut (he ipies(ion seemed vei v hidirtons. Strong and eo'Kent, he has always (lavellt-d the open mad. I'or a lew yeais we had a Uni- laiian (.!hnreh in CamiiMi. ami 1 go( him to read his I.ineolu hvture there one week \)t\ eveniog, .'.nd (his wns probably his only yisil (o a < hnni> siii- e eatly youth, ^!any Sunday eyenings t railed on my way tn cluireh, aid he always enjoyed telling me with tine ihmu \("ov lu was ("nil o( 'piiet hnmor^: " NN'ell. I'om, yon know my plulosi-iphi iiu hides (hem ail -rrvv; //ir ( •iifinuvny He neyer rhanged i\.i views rospeeting what he lalleil "(his ( old-bloodeil, lespeetalMe New Kngland in(elle< dialism," and had no (aith in its ('\itutv. I have taken many mini^lers of the Unitarian denomination to the little Mn kle s(ree( s'.irine. and hey wrre all greatly impressed with liim. Ihit though he saw .he ntter shiMlroming y>{ the preaeher oi to-day, and knew that the people are being fed largely upon husks -with (ha( vulgar dualism, which, disreganling (he unity o(" nature, ledtnes theology to a eommei* lal basis ol punishment and rewainls, and is( 111- (Iti'ir re- ll'li^iDII. ami tho iiu- I tlu- ages — . i iuul nuisif, \cstntmc of lian ilH t1\u'. ami n'( Of)- ( n«oif." oils. ;\\u\ IS \i'thcr Walt in wliy, l»i>t iloiil. I\(' lias Uavl a Uni-" \m l,ii\(-oln 'n>1)al>lv Iiis \\ I'vrniiigs lolling WW I' »ittttittm oti " lliia ism," and UTS of I ho hrinc. a.iul igli ho saw knew tl\at that vulgar rothu OS wanls, and W, oi\i, 77//0 /'OA'7' <>/!• IMMOIiVM.ITY 35y nhus to be !(«■ mo*' ii|tiri(unl pneim, Ami 1 will ninlic tin' pcicnts nf inv hxilv nint iiimtnlilv. Fill i lltiiik 1 sliiili tiii'ii supply iiiyii'll with ll»f piicnis til' my ■ ^.I phiI iif imniniintHy." No man ovor had a hroador grasp of iho iiilinilo, and in no lilcr.Tltiro lan W lonnd loliior ast riptions lo Iho illimilaUlo uni- vcrso. In his mind man and his destiny are the purposes of world making. •• Imnipiise Imvc t)pcn tlie piTpnri»iii>ii'< (ni iiii>, Kniliiful niul fricmlly tin- nnim llii\t liuvc lulpM ini>. rycic' feiticd my rrmllp, rnwinn nml lowiii); likr clieciful Imnlmcn, I'm loom lo mo sIhir kcpl nsiilc In lliclr own iiiij; coIumi-iI lo nn oili, 'I'lio lim^; slow '.liiilii pilril lo ii".! ll on, Vnsi vpfJiii'lilcs jjiivr il snslrmnuc. Monslions sniroiils linnsjiortcd il in lltrlr moullis nml ilcposllcil ll willi OHIO. All Touts Imvp Imcn slonilily cmploy'il lo coniplflo nml ili>ti(;l.l mo, Now on lliis vpot I ■;|,inil Willi my lol'usi smil." Not only has this pro'Tss been going on in ihi^ 'v >f-id '^ ours, but it is univers.Tl. 'I'hc essential imilv of naf- .'.lis r,v ,er noon po grandly and t om hisivcly slated. Whilm.. ■ ; mind radiated from this ocntr.d idoa. •' Mv snn tirt': ill': sun nnil louiu' I'on olicilionlly wlic. Is, lie ioins will) hjs pnilnois n ;. up of supciioi liifuil. Ami grenltM sets follow, inakitii; specks of ihe grent"9t inside IliOrn, * t 3gS iiV NN WAl.r nHITMAA'. Tltprr U no Muppngf nml it«vrr cnn l)e Mo|)|tnKf , If I, you, mill (lir wotltU, nml nil lirtu'iitli m upon ihcir j^iii-rnccii, were lliU ntonirnt nMluccil Imck lo n imllltl (lont, it would not nvnil in the lon^i run, AVe ^luMtl.l »ur«'ly l>rlnn up nunin where we ni»W MflUil, And surely ^o ns nnuli Inrthcr, nnd then fnrilier nnd Tnither. A few .lurtdrillion^ of ern*. n few octillioui of cultic leoKuen, dotiot hAmrd the opnn or nutUp it iniimlicnl, They nre luti pnitu, nny tiling i^ l)ul n pnrt. See ever «o fur, there l« limitleM »pnce outiiide of thnt, I'ount ever no nuich, there is liniille^ tin>e nround ihnl. My j-ende«»ou< In nppointed, it l« cerlnin, My l.iud will lie there nnd wnii till I eonn' on perfeet term*, 'I'he jjreiH ( nnieindo, the lovei true lor whom I pine will I'e (here." 1 ilo not piopoRc any discttssion of Whitman's spiritual pan- tlioir.nt. Ill tho Infjliost sense lie aUvtys " walked with (mm! " with even paee. His ttntosliiited faith causeil him lo recognise a (liviitity in all things. " Ah more ihnn nny priext (> ^oul we too believe In (Jod, Hut with the mystery of (iod we dnre not dnUy." To hiiu evil w.is of like origin with good — but he saw the sur- vival of the good— " Uonminu in ihiMi^rht over the Universe, I snw the Utile thnt Is (Jood stendlly hrtslenin^ townnls inunoiinliiv. And the v:\si M ihnt is cidlod Kvil I sow hnstening to mcri^e itself nnd lic- iMn)e lost nnd dcnd." And again : " In this hrond enrth of ours, Amid the men<>uieless niossiiess nnd the sing, Enclosed nnd snfe within its centrnl henit. Nestle* ihe seed pel feciiiui." His use of the term " (Iod " is lo symbolize the spiritual vitalitv whirh pervades the universe. This is the God that has lighted his life do not Imtniil saw the Hiir- 77/A* PORT OF IMMOHTM.nV, 359 " Willi my of ll^hi, Mrnily, liipffuMp, voiicli^nfeil (if Tliee, liulu mil" iintellnlilr, linlilinj; tlio very li((li(, Hfyoiul nil siyiH, (le^cii|itiiin!i, lniiKiin|{ei " Tills is the (Mill fti which he (lung v/hcn the waves Imneted him, tttul of whom lie exiiltitigly says; " Thee, Thee, nt lenM I know." This is tiie God to wliom he reverenti;' says— / •• (}lve me (1 ({ml to %\\\^ iluit ili.nnjlit, <>ive iiic, nivc liiiii or lii-r I liivf (lii'< i|iii'i)( lili'^n fiillli, In riiy eiisciiililf, « Imiever oUc wilhlii'ld witlilmlil nut from Ui, lli'li<-f ill plitii iif rii(>i< riirliificd in Time mid Space, lleallh, pcncu, xnlvntion iitiivcrttitl." Hilt what of the soul of man? Is it a distinct identity? Whitman believed in it ahsoliilcly. " Sure rn ilie moM cerlnin sure, pliimli in ll e uprinlilw, well entrptietl, brnceil ill lilt" liprtiiis, Sli'iil n« II liiir'>ve in ynii my soul, ilic other I nm must not almsc itself lo you, And you must not lie nlmscd tn the other.'' " The liody pernmnciil - The liody Inrkinij there within thy body, The only purport of the form thou nrt, the reni I niyself." How easily and naturally Whitman becomes the poet of death and immortality! Me believes that wc arc now living in an eternal universe, and thai we are deathless. 'I'liis belief is an absolute faith. He does not ptrlend to expound any theory or to explain the niysterv of coiitiniiily. He only sings the lioet'" songs oi exaltation and triutnph. ..,,..,i;-.:....-^^f...---'^^^^.j^^~-1.^-.f ■ ^l^-Tj- 360 I^ UK WALT WIIITMAX. *• I do not (1oul)t I am limitless, and that the universes are lim'tless, in vain I t y tc think how limitless . , . . I do not doubt that temporary affairs keep on and on millions of years .... 1 do not think Life provides for all and for Time and Space, but I believe that Heavenly Death provides for all." " The smallest sprout shows there is really no death." " All goes outward and outward, nothing collapses." " And I have dream'd that the pur)>ose and essence o( the known life, the transient, Is to form and decide identity for the unknown life, the permanent." But what kind of Immortality did he believe in ? Does the individual soul become a part of great nature's spiritual vitality, or retain its individual identity? There is great diversity of opinion among stmlents of Whitman on this subject. Let me put forth no uncertain utterance. I have frequently conversed with him about his belief in Immortality. To the very last he assured me that his faith was "stronger than ever" in the im- mortality of the individual soul. His views are clearly stated In his notice of the death of Carlyle, to be found in his prose writings, where he says: "And now that he has gone hence, can it be that Thomas Carlyle, soon to chemically dissolve in ashes and by winds, remains an identity still ? In ways perhaps elud- ing all the statements, lore and speculations of ten thousand years — eluding all possible statements to mortal sense— ..oes he yet exist, a definite, vital being, a spirit, an individual — perhaps now wafted in space among those stellar systems, which, sug- gestive and limitless as they are, merely edge more limitless, far more suggestive systems ? I have no doubt of It. In silence, of a fine night, such questions are answer'd to the soul, the best answers that can be given. With me, too, when depressed by some specially sad event, or tearing problem, I wait till I go out under the stars for the last voiceless satisfaction." And thus with feet " tenon'd and mortis'd in granite " he could well " laugh at dissolution." Death, " God's beautiful, eternal right hand," " usherer — guide at last to all," became a welcome THE POET OF IMMORTALITY, 361 )f years .... but I believe visitor. It has not been my purpose to write an exhaustive or critical paper. I have barely more than hinted at my subject. I stagger before its magnitude. The best way to understand this gospel of the individual man is to read flie book. That it is tlie basis of a new spiritual acceptance of the universe, en- tirely consistent with modern science, I firmly believe. That it is adapted to all kinds and conditions of men, I also believe. I knew this man intimately, and the only value this artic.- can have is to add my personal testimony to the entire consistency of his life mission. He was as true a prophet as ever trod this planet. Every heart-throb beat in unison with the great heart of humanity. To him this life was serious business, and he labored here, set an incarnated example here, of life and death. Peacefully, joyously, he met his translation. I count it a blessed privilege to have been with him at the parting, when his robust soul, erect before a thousand universes, glided noiselessly forth — this great democrat of earth — without lamentation, join- ing in the sopl^ of the elder prophet: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow «f death, I will fear no evil: ■for thou art with me : thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." 1 h Whitman says that they who in(i>.t loudly praise him are not thiise who understand him best. I, perhaps, will not come under the censure, though I -do under the description ; for I confess I do not understand thisi man. The ■logical sense of the words, the appositeness and accuracy of the images, one 'Can indeed apprehend and enjoy ; but there is an undertone of meaning in Whitman which can never be fully comprehended. This, doubtless, is true of all first-rnte poetry ; but it must be applied in a special sense to the writings of a man who is not only a poet but a mystic — a man who thoroughly enjoys this world, yet looks confidently to one diviner still beyond ; who professes a .passionate attachment to his friends, yet snys that he has other friends, nut to be seen with the eye, closer and nearer and dearer to him than these. The hardening, vulgarizing influences of life have not hardened and vulgarized the spiritual sensibilities of this poet, who looks at this world with the wondering freshness of a child, and to the world beyond with the gaze of a seer. He has what Wordsworth lost, and in his old nge come trailing clouds of glory — shadows cast backward from a sphere which we have left, thrown forward from a sphere to which we are approaching. StanJish O' Grady: "IValt IVhilman, The Poet of Joy.'* (362) WALT WHITMAN AND THE COMMON PEOPLE. Bf JOHN BURROUGHS. When I saw the crowds of common people that flocked to Walt Whitman's funeral, I said, How fit, how touching, all this is ; how well it would please him. It is from the common people, the great army of workers, that he rises and speaks with such power and authority. His poems are all attuned to broad, universal humanity. It is not the si)ecially endowed or privileged few that elicit his enthusiasm, but the average man or woman of trades and occupations. I remember orice calling his attention to a story in a magazine, wherein some typical western frontier charac- ters were portrayed. He said, after reading it, that it would not do at all; that those large, homely, unlettered pioneer characters were not to be looked down upon or treated in the scornful, supercilious manner in which they were treated in this story. Small, perky men always treated them so, but great men never ; and he instanced Tristam Shandy as the proper way to do this thing. The atmosphere which his poems breathe is always that of common humanity — never that of select, specially cultured, privileged humanity. It may seem difficult at first to reconcile his atmosphere and attitude in this respect with our need at all times of keeping bright the ideal of a rare and high excellence. But there is really no discrepancy. The loftiest heroism, the deepest and purest spirituality, we know can go with commonplace every- day humanity. "Charity and personal force," the poet says, "are the only investments worth anything." We are all under (363) ^> IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 l^|2^ |2.5 |50 "^ i^ ^ m ^ L£ 1120 12.2 us us 1.4 1.6 V] V) o 7: / w Photographic Sciences Coiporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 ^V LV \ ^ •sj o^ '9> f 364 /-v iz/i: ir^zr wiiitmax. the illusion, more or less, of the cultured, the refined ; yet we know that true greatness, true nobility, and strength of soul are quite apirt from these things. "The older one grows," says Goethe, "the more one prizes natural gifts, because by no possibility can they be procured and stuck on." Matthew Arnold, in whose essay on Milton I find this remark quoted from Goethe, thought that one danger that threatened us in this country was that we were inclined to make a religion of the "average man," and therefore of losing the saving ideal of rare and high excellence. Whitman would lift the average man to a higher average, and still to a higlier, without at all abating the qualities which he shares with universal humanity as it exists over and under all special advantages and artificial selections. He says that one of the convictions that underlie his " Leaves " is the conviction that the "crowning growth of the United States is to be spiritual and heroic," — a prophecy, I confess, which, with Hillism and Quayism threatening to over- ride us, does not seem very near fulfillment. " I announce a man or woman comingf — perhaps you are the one, I announce a great individual, fluid as nature, chaste, affeciionate, compas- sionate, fully armed, I announce a life that shall be copious, vehement, spiritual, bold. And I announce an old age that shall lightly and joyfully meet its trans- lation." Arnold said we had lost in the sense of distinction in this- country, and found our great historical characters, like Lincoln, deficient in this quality. No doubt this is so ; no doubt dis- tinction — that something about a man and his work that is like cut glass — does not flourish in democracies, where there are no classes ; it belongs to aristocracies. But there is another quality close akin which we c; nnot do without, and which such characters as Lincoln show. I mean elevation — elevation of thought and sentiment. It is a quality which goes with serious- ness and large views. It is very pronounced in both Whitman's poetry and prose. The spirit, especially in the prose writings, is lofty and uncompromising — almost arrogant and dictatorial ned ; yet we ngth of soul Diie grows," because by " Matthew nark quoted tened us in religion of ing ideal of the average ithout at all al humanity md artificial hat underlie g growth of prophecy, I ing to over- ne, Miate, compas- lolcl, meet its trans- tion in this ike Lincoln, > doubt dis- lat is like cut here are no is another I which such elevation of .vith serious- 1 Whitman's 3se writings, 1 dictatorial WALT WHITMAN AND THE COMMON PEOPLE. 365 at times. In the poems, where he gives fuller play to his com- passion and contentment, where he is less the critic and more the lover, the elevation is not of the kind that separates him from his reader ; it is like that of nature, in which we easily share. We feel that here is a soul whose range of thought and emotion are vastly beyond our own, and yet, who in nowise stands aloof or apart from us, or from the lowest of his fellows. ! ! u p {I I WANT, SO does Europe and the best of America, that you put Cohiml)us on deck ! God ! how you can make him stand out in that last, long night as he leans looking for the light— America ! If only six lines, let us have it. Be good to Walt Whitman this once now, and don't let the land have to re- proach itself when you have gone the other side of Darkness. Joaqinn Miller to Walt Whitman, 1891. (366) I IVIY SUMMER WITH WALT WHITMAN, 1887. By SIDNEY If. MOUSE. )Ut Columbus long night as it us have it. 1(1 have to re- mutt, 1 89 1. " From Washington to Camden — not far. From Cleveland to Whitman — as far as the poles." Thus in his devotion a friend of the poet exclaimed when told that I had gone from the White House to 328 Mickle street, Camden, modelling the heads of two representative men. To which challenge I made reply, in substance, as follows : "Two widely different personalities, I grant you, but with somewhat in common. One thing observable in Cleveland as in Whitman is the lack in reverence for tradition and precedent. Neither doubts, I take it, but he is born with his special mission to the modern world. Heir of the ages, he moves in the present as also a new personal force. Whitman makes his own poems out of his own genius and nobody's else. " ' One's self I sing, a simple separate person.* " Cleveland reshapes the party's platform in the similitude of his own convictions." Something like this was afterwards said to Whitman concern- ing the President, he being ** very curious about Grover." He had heard similar things said of him even before he was the President. "He read my 'Leaves' at one time, I'm told, and did not think badly of them. Anyhow, I like to know all about the Presidents. They stand for a good deal, to my thinking. I've a fondness for their messages." When I confessed a liking for the " messages," having at one time gone over them all from Washington's Inaugural down, he replied with a smile that he "was never so far gone as that," but thought it might be "a O67) w ? u 368 IN RK WALT W III r MAN. good thing for a young fellow to go through the list, making his notes. Good history, etc." He pressed nie for "all the news about Cleveland " I could give him. '• What's your off-hand idea of him from observ;.tions taken on the spot? Where's he drifting? What's his creed — politically speaking?" 1 had seen the President an hour or so at a time several morn- ings, taking clay-notes while he opened his mail. Politics were " not in it," but a remark now and then of his threw a sidelight of a political color. Confessing my meager data to Whitman, he urged: "No matter for that, one don't get away with a glance even that doesn't carry an idea with it, often the best." But the most I could vouch for was little enough. " Watching him while he intently, carefully worked at his letters, the Presi- dent was not an uninteresting study. It dawned on me at the time that the presidential attitude kept saying : ' Keep at it, no fuss, never fear.' Then, it did not take long to get the impression that he was a man who really had faith in ideas as though they were some- thing real. His administration, I judge, will stand or fall on ideas. He will not forsake ideas to do politic things. In a sense he is a transcendentalist, though his avoirdupois tells against him. I presented him with a photo of Emerson taken in his younger days. You would have enjoyed seeing how heartily he received it, and the few words of Emersonian admiration. The man must have dipped into a good many Jordan streams. As to his political creed, I think he would not object to one's saying that he hopes to rescue the government from all the usurpations of the paternal system, and let what we call 'government' fall back as the least conspicuous feature of our civilization. Local freedom, local responsibility. * Local option ' on all subjects carried as far as possible. The subject came briefly up in some reference to the scramble for the 'surplus' revenue. 'The saddest thing,' he said, ' in regard to the South is, that they are forsaking their old traditions and going in for the sugar-plums of paternalism.' He was on the de-centralizing track." "That's good democracy," Whitman exclaimed, "and means much if you've the right version of it. Tallies well with what 3IY SUMMER WITH WALT WIIIT.VAy, 1887. 369 t, making his nd" I could 1 observ'.tions s his creed — several morn- Politics were ;\v a sidelight to Whitman, away with a en the best." " Watching :rs, the Presi- ne at the time at it, no fuss, ession that he ■y were some- ■ fall on ideas, sense he is a inst him. I his younger y he received "he man must 3 his political hat he hopes ■ the paternal back as the cal freedom, ts carried as ; reference to Idest thing,' •saking their paternalism.' " and means ill with what I heard before he was the President. We shall see. I have a hope that he'll run his administration as they run banks. Why not? I don't wish to debase the office, nor abolish it as Mon- cure Conway says he does. No, no ; the President is the one man representing every inch of the Republic. He's worth keep- ing if only as a figure-head of our national democracy, the solidarity of the nation. So say I, at any rate, and stick to it." This was in 1887, but I had remembrances of Whitman dating back to 1876, the summer of the Centennial. I was then, as in 1887, under commission to model some portrait of him. To take in the Exposition and study the poet's head would be the economy of the "two birds with one stone." But the resultant "bust ' ' went the rounds telling itspitiable story. Disappointments came drifting in, but none so frankly put as that foj-warded by the poet-victim himself: " Features not unlike, but hut-bnm looks like. . . . How could you?" As a matter of flict, I didn't. If I failed of giving the original brim the " width and generous lop " desired, and always secured, if it was but a twenty- cent straw by the Whitman himself (one of which I ransacked the Quaker city to find for him), the fault was not wholly mine. I could tell a mitigating story of the unlucky Italian who did the casting, demolishing the original brim, substituting therefor a narrow uncanny thing of his own construction. Those were the first years of my art and I had not learned the lesson of eternal vigilance. Whituinn could get around very well by himself in 1876, and came regularly, as he agreed, across the ferry to the extemporized studio on Chestnut street. One part of the preliminary business was the visit to a photog- rapher. He knewofonewhocould be " bossed." Heclimbedthe flights easily enough, but the heat under the skylight was oppressive. He doffed his coat ar-d sat in his sl.irt sleeves. A profile I have of him taken at that sitting shows him looking very old. But the Monday following he seemed to have laid aside ten or twenty of his years. He enjoyed the diversion and was in best of spirits. He presented me with a choice copy of "The Two Rivulets; " choice because there were marginal notes, in his own writing, 24 mt 370 7^" HE WALT WHITMAN. of much interest. He vol'mteered to read, if agreeable fo me, while I worked. I suggested the entertainment should begin with his " Mystic Trumpeter." "Then you like that? I got some- where with that, I think, myself." A moment of turning leaves, then the word "Hark," that begins the poem. Off my guard, I stayed my hand to li ten for some one coming. As if answering my gesture he continued, his intonations still familiar as though the "mystic" visit; it and he were old-time comrades: ..." some wild trumpeter, some strange musician, Hovering unseen in air, vibrates capricious Umes to-night. I hear thee trumpeter, listening alert I catch thy notes, Now pouring, whirling like a tempest round me, Now low, subdued, now in the distance lost." The recitation more than confirmed the report of his gifts as a reader, and further suggested a vindication which all his poems might be capable of. He read yet other things ; passages from " Song of Myself," and " The Singer in the Prison." He told me the story of this last poem. Parepa Rosa, singing to the con- victs of a prison in New York, I think, furnished the theme. An impressive scene, he said, one ever to be remembered. Attracted by his vjice, a dozen or more young fellows, who had come to the Fair from Oil City, softly descended from the upper floor, and stood crowded together in the hall without. Their applause breaking the hush of the mon>ent was startling, so en- tirely unsuspected was their presence. It was as though the very walls were rattling their approbation. Whitman, turning his head and looking steadily to reassure himself that the prison fellows had not escaped, cried, "Come ii." There was needed no second invitation. "So you like it, do you? Well, I rather enjoyed that myself." Would he go to Oil City and read like that ? He should have the whole city out to hear. him. The money consideration should be something munificent. The chambermaid also got interested, even anxious ; appearing ^^^^e^^^ ^ igreeable to me, lould begin with t ? I got some- ; "Hark," that md to li ^ten for : he continued, ■lystic " visiti it lan, to-night. notes, : of his gifts as a ch all his poems ; passages from son." He told iging to the con- l the theme. An :red. Attracted who had come from the upper without. Their startling, so en- though the very an, turning his that the prison There was it, do you ? he go to Oil whole city out d be something e ;ious ; appearing MY SUMMlUt WITH WALT WiriTMAy, \m. 371 each morning late as if bent on knowing what 'twas all about. Slie spread a torn sheet over tlie carpet, and eyed the performance with a dazed sort of concern. Growing familiar, she poured out her own story of folly and disappointment. She had left a good home, she and her cousin, in far away Wales, to come to the Centennial, where, they liad been told, work could be got for the asking at three or four dollars a day. Had lost her cousin. Worked five weeks on promise jf five dollars a week, no cent of which had she yet received. Would I as lief pay my rent to her?' " Money, money ! " exclaimed Wliitman. " All for money you; came ; lost your friend for money ; for money are now in distress. Well, to an extf nt I can sympathize. But if I, like you,- was well-to-do in one place, I'd not pack my duds and start for another for mon&y." " Oh, no, sir ; but we wanted to see the Fair, too." " Have you ? " " No, not ytt." "IF/// you?" " I don't know what I will do, sir." He took the address of her cousin as well as she could give it,, and despatched me on a tour of discovery. 1 was able to trace the cousin to her third engagement. No clue after that. Margie was inconsolable, but the Oil City boys secured her her wages. Sadder and wiser, showering blessings, she departed. It was pathetic, yet interesting. I came upon many such wandering souls in those Centennial days. The whole event lies in my memory as wonderfully domestic and confiding. Whit- man admired the act of the Oil City fellows. When I returned to Camden, in 1887, Whitman had moved. I asked the bootblack, going over the terry, if he could tell me where one Walt Whitman resided. He responded briskly, rest- ing back, flourishing his brushes one in either hand: " Wat, 'im as wears gray and speaks to all on us? Don't know where he /tves / Anybody '11 tell ye. You jes ask." On my way I made several inquiries from curiosity, and learned that he had moved to Mickle street. One young fellow volunteered to go and show me the very house. He was communicative ; said m 37a IS liH WAI.T wHinity. i t -i r toivirils the last : " \)a yoii think lie is riMlly a poet ? " He had rcail him s<>/»i', hnl was yet |>ii/.zleil. The "some" meant a poem (opied in a t'aimlen paper. I tomul Whitman imuh more erippleil, and ipiietcr in manner, than wlien we ntel before. ICleven years had wroiij^hl their « lian^'cs. lie wis, howevei, in a less perturbed frame of minil. In itSyO he had not the returns troni his volumes sent to I'ingland, and was undoul)tedly poor enough in po( ket, anil, as he said, " ilisposed oecasionally to feel blue." lie was at that tin\c (> good almost. I wondered if I eould stand it. It was worth living lor, anyway, if 1 then died outright. I''or- evermore I shall love old Mngland. It all comes over me now ami always does when I think of it, like a great succoring love. Von should have seen the tears, Sidney — or you shouldn't. Willi no iliseounting of friends at home, 1 must say that English Inisiness stands apart in my thought from all else." My purpose on this last visit was like unto thai of my first visit. I still desired, I told him, to make the "bust." He saiil lie would eheerfully put himself at my disposal, The summer was before us, and nothing else impeiuling. Me wouUI eng.igc himself to me for the season. "I'm sure you'll do better this time." So, calling Mary Davis, the housekeeper, he had " the litter of everythin/; under heaven " poked one side to make a cleaving for me at the window. We brought in boxes to fashion a stand for my clay, and I fell to work, he eyeing me curiously that first afternoon. At night he said : "Herein the dark it quite resembles the crittcv." I now had the " critter " all to my- litr .sr.l/.VA.7v' 11777/ WAIT WllirMAS, IMn7. 375 ?" Ho hail ic " meant a cr in manner, cri)iii;l)l their mic of mind, t to iMi^Lmd, 1, as lu" said, at that time nembor, with i speaking in I'VC in tlio oUl ic, in siikness nd said: " I jtl of my hfe, l)iirsl 1)1' snu- loss of it all, iltor that ever >uld stand it. itright. iMir- over mo now i(<'orinj; love. i)U shouldn't, that Knglish of my fust ist." Ho said 'i'lio suinmor would eiij^agc ) bettor this he had " the e to make a )xos to fashion me curiously n the dark it I.T ' all to my- icir, with plenty of time for undislntbod wcuk. My deep salis- faction o'orllowod, I think, It) the housokooper, wiio admonished me that there was an element of )m« ortainly ni Mr. Wliitman's programs nowa-days, and sooner than she eounted on were her worvls verified. With the next morning's salutations the damper fell. "I lore's a telej^iam from llerlc-rt Ciihhrist. lie's in New York and will be on shortly. He's < oininn to pan\l me. 1 had forgotten about him. Hut never mind ; you'll like him. We can put him over there somewhere. I dleasure of watching its progress. 1 usually stayed with Whitman for lunch, Gilchrist frequently joining ns. He was well jiosted. He knew all the Knglish friends and Whitman got in his reven^je for long sittings by making him entertiiin us charmingly with personal anecdote, and accounts of what was being done on the Hritish Isle. Gilchrist was the precursor of an exodus, it fairly seemed, of literary and pleasing characters from abroad, who confessed to having had Walt Whitman on their list from the start, intending to take him in, as one young girl plirased it, if they missed Ni- agara. The young lady herself was of a party of three from merry Plngland, who ajipeared in the door-way one noon, radiant with health, a beautiful tableau. " Ah, darlings," cried Whit- man, through tlie hall, from his seat at the kitchen table : " Come right this way. Herbert, Sidney, move a little. Mary, you lay some plates and bring the chairs." It was a delightful afternoon. Aristocracy or democracy, it mattered not at Whitman's. Either party fell cheerfully into the usual way, did ample justice to a "bite of roast beef," a cup of gooil tea poured generously by the gray-bearded host himself, with perhaps a cup of custard or piece of apple pie. " Jolly dinners you have here," quoth one distinguished visitor, notwithstanding they were served in the little heated kitchen. The poet's conversation at the table dif- fered from his talk evenings in being more animated and in touch with current topics. We were the privileged recipients of some of his "best things" those noon-times, and I indulge a hope that Herbert Gilchrist may yet be forthcoming with remem- brances for which we shall all be grateful. It may be remarked here that Whitman took great satisHiction in the managing skill of his housekeeper. "Mrs. Davis," he more than once said to me, " has a knack of anticipating what I ■want, and in case of an emergency at the dinner table she knows right well how to make the best of it. She has rare intelligence and her tact is great. She does much better for me than a whole MY SUMMER WITH WALT WHITMAN, 1887. 375 But I think I n satisfaction, work, I could ogress. ist frequently I the English ig sittings by anecdote, and le. ly seemed, of confessed to art, inteiuling ey missed Ni- )f tliree from noon, radiant ' cried Whit- d)le : "Come Mary, you hiy ful afternoon, nan's. Either lie justice to a generously by of custard or ;," quoth one served in the the table dif- 1 and in touch ients of some dulge a hope with remem- 3t satisfiiction i. Davis," he paling what I ble she knows e intelligence ; than a whole retinue of pompous, bothering waiters. I detest the critters, bowing and watching." There was yet another Mary, old Aunt Mary, we called her, who came to clean up and i)ut things to rights occasionally from kitchen to cellar. She was never, however, allowed to betake herself with her scrubbing-oulfu above or beyond those aj)art- ments. She would ipiickly have put things all wrong had she appeared in Whitman's private sanctum. Siie served me a bad caper out in the door-yard. My high brown-board fence — worm-eaten, moss-grown, highly artistic, antique, pictures([ue, serving admirably for background — was changed one day, in my absence, to a spotless white. She had "'bin deanin' up," she told me, bound that Mr. Whitman's door-yard should not have " sech a disrespectable api)earance," and I could see she would have banislied me with my dirt, or else have spattered her white- wash over both me and my work with satisfaction. Kor she was " born the very day and the very year Mr. Whitman was born on," and "while she lived was bound to look to his interests." It was not until my "dirt" had taken on some semblance of her hero that she began to be reconciled. "Your Whitman-pictors," she observed, finallv, "look as much like him as a dead man can like the livin'," and she hoped I would not be disappointed about " sellin' 'em." She had a voice like Charlotte Cushman in " Meg Merrilies," and could have been cast without " making up " for tlie part of the Gipsy Queen. She was a bundle of supersitions ; had her piety all by heart. Though scolding with energy on occasion, she was constant in proclaiming the duty of a non-complaining mind. One day I chanced to express a regret for the rain. She swiftly brought me to task, saying that I " must not go agin' God's will." " Does God make the rain?" I letorted. " He doeth all things," she said solemnly. "Doth he drown people?" I persisted. " Ef they're so foolish ez to go in deep water, and they can't swim, He lets 'em pay for 't. He doesn't interfere with the devil's work." " But how does your Satan get work to do, if God doeth all ? " n -■ g|jg'.k*j^ ^ 376 IN RK WALT WIIITMAX. I I ■J "Oh, never yo\i fear for //////. He's allers aprowlin' around lookiii' tor a cliaiuc when God's bark is turned. Tlicrc aint a lazy hair on his head. I wish I could say as much for some others." Whitman, overhearing the "confab," was not sure but Aunt Mary Iiad the best of it. Aunt Mary was an original character, and I am sure that Whit- man enjoyed with the rest of us her occasional coming. .She could remember most back to General Washington, and thouglit in her very heart that a country tliat could boast a Washington and a Whitman would never go to pieces. Among the visitors that summer was a remarkable man, who came all tlie way from Georgia — a sort of pliilosopher-fixrmer, Whitman described him. His name was Joluison. He stopped at the hotel, but made daily visits to the Wiiitmarl home. Alone in the deep seclusion of his farm, that " ran more to weeds than it should," he hat! read " Leaves ofGrass," until the jioems were to him as familiar as his copy of Lindley Murray's grammar. He could place his finger on any line of any poem yoti might name, and doubted if the author himself knew his Look or understood it as well as he tlid. At home, his family and neighbors had poked fun, and pronounced him not exactly in his right mind. He sought relief, temporarily, by shaking the dust of Georgia from his feet and making this "v.sit to the North-land, where dwelt the man who had done most for him after Christ." Emerson he was also familiar with. " Oh, yes, I can quote Emerson, too ; 'out somehow he sets my v'its a buzzin', and it all ends in a headache. But reading Walt 's like sailing a calm, unruffled sea. Witii him, 'I loaf and invite my soul.' With Emerson, it's the other way: your soul invites you ; goes nagging after you, and you feel as though you were a truant and a sinner. I don't like to feel that way. And yet, don't mistake me; I set great store by Emerson ; I place him among the gods. ' Yourself a new-born bard of the Holy Ghost,' he says, 'cast behind you all conformity' (that's what I've done), 'and be acquainted at first hand with Deity.' That's what I've tried to do, too. I know if I could have seen '■/^ vlin' around There aint a :h for some re but Aunt •etliat Wliit- )niinp. She and tliouglit Washington e man, who pher-farmer, inson. He le Wliitman t •' ran more Irass," imtil of Lindley y line of any imsclf knew d home, his red him not porarily, by making this in had done imiliar witli. V he sets my But reading im, * I loaf way : your cl as though 1 that way. merson ; I bard of the ity' (that's vith Deity.' 1 have seen il/I' SU.VJfRR WITH WALT WITTTMAN, 1887. 377 Emerson, I'd found him a right royal man. Quoting him again : ' We mark with light in the memory the few instances we have had in the few dreary years of routine and of sin ' — there it is again, 'sin.' 1 don't take to that wonl nuuh, but iie is ta be forgiven — ' We mark with light the interviews we have had with souls that made ^//r souls wiser ; that spoke what ive thought ; that told u vhat ?tv knew ; that gave us /citvc to he what we really were. That's the whole gosjicl ; to give each other leave to be what we really are. When Jesus said, ' Tlie second is like unto it, love thy neighbor as thyself,' he n^ight have added, and the third is like unto it : give thy neighbor , leave to be what he really is. I put the emphasis on the | ' really,' for that secures you a first-class fellow all the time. You see I believe in heredity some, not altogether, for nobody, no human si)irit, I mean, is ever quite cut off by his descent from communion with what your Concor 1 man calls ' the Holy Ghost.' Heredity, after all, is no more than skin deep. Once a fellow gets his dander up and decides to be himself rt'i///)', then, hered- ity to the fom- winds." And much more — too much of truly interesting talk both for Whitman's nerves and my |)resent use. He took me aside one day confidentially to say : " I'd like well to say it to Walt himself, but I'm 'fraid he wouldn't exactly take it right. You see when I'm down home I often take mv gun and go gunning for 'possum, and when I come along to a spot where I see one has been, I says to myself, ' The old varmint's been here as well as I.' So when I used to read Whitman I'd keep comin' to ideas i)erfectly familiar to me. I'd been there before, and I'd say same as I did of the 'possum, ' The old varmint's been here ; ' and by and by I come to the conclusion that there warn't no place he hadn't been. And I 'spose that's why I took to him, he told me what I knew, spoke what I my.self had been thinking. When a man does that for a fellow, it's easy to believe him great." Then after a little he resumed, and this time even more confidentially: " To tell you the truth, though, I own I am a leetle disappointed. Somehow the man don't come up to his^ poems. He ain't so hearty, so hail fellow well met, so much a 37« /,V lili WALT WlllTffAN. 1 1^ p ' K 1 8 (Icinonat as I expected to find him. In fart, lie seems a little starchy anil rcpollont ; he checks a feller in his ailvanccs and won't (iiiitc let him come to familiar conversation. I have to sit and admire him at a distance about as I did at home before I came." Mrs. Davis had explained to him ll\at Mr. Wiiitnian was perfectly friendly, but had to luisband his strength in order to get through the hot days. He had taken that into considera- tion, and yet — "after I've come all th'' way from old Georgia." He made his visits, however, stayed two or three weeks, even longer than he intended to do, and went home consoled and happv. sending on in advance as herald of his return copies of a Camden newspaper that contained extended complimentary notice of his personality and of his visit to Camden, written, I suspect, by Walt Whitman himself. "That'll convince 'eni down home thai I'm not without honor, save in my oian ,ontifry. And, as they all believe in the Scriptcrs down there, 1 suppose I may sc(>rc a point against them as a prophet." Confirming what Mrs. Davis had said of Whitman's need of defending himself against too great excitement, I told him of the labor agitator who called one afternoon to persuade Whit- man to introduce him to a Camden audience. The man was the happy possessor of a loud voice and in manner was quite im- perious. The conversation ran somewhat like this : " 1 have solved the problem, Mr. Whitman." \\\ ! " In my own miiu *• The right spot to begin." " I believe, in tact, I've settled the matter." " Oh ! " " Now to convince the world. You yourself have struck the key-note." "Thanks." " Your words are a great re-inforcement to the cause." Tl lanks. And so (Ml for ten minutes or more, tlio man standing with hat in hand orating, Wliitman, when there came a lull, looking tip from perusal of his letters, interposing his "thanks." ims a little /antes and 1 have to oinc before ■. Wliilman ;th in Older ) consitlera- 1 C.eorgia." iveeks, even tisolcd and copies of a ipliinentary , written, I invincc 'em , 1 suppose m's need of iold liim of sunde Wliit- iiuin was the IS quite im- e struck the use. anding with uU, looking "thanks." MY SUMMF.n WITH WM.T WKITiMAN, 1N87. 379 Finally, the man, grown weary or perceiving he was making little, if any, progress, suddenly iirouf^ht up with : " Well. Mr. Whitman, I think I'll lake my leave." "Thanks." Not until after he had departed did the inopportuncncss of his response become manifest. He was not, however, greatly disturlu'd in conseciueuce. Tho man did not strike him as a per^-.on wlio could be profoundly (onversant witli any problem. He hail sipiarcly told him he could not go to the church, was unable even to ( onsider the matter; "yet the fellow kept on spouting." Tiic labor problem, as a practical (piestion, be- longed to younger heads than his, if there really was any- thing to be said i>r done about it. He was not sure but things were working well enotigh as they were, evolving in their natural course far better results than any theory of socialism could promise. ICvils were being sloughed off about as fast as they could be, he thought. IJut, he couldn't go into it. 'I'licre was more talk, anyway, on the subject than was warranted by the situation, or good for the workingmen themselves. So far as he could see there was as much "cussed seifishuess" on the one side as the other. It was a (piestion of manhood, if anything. Workiiigmen's strikes were apt to develop little of that. Tiiey would set on their fellow-workingmen who didn't belong to their "union" like tigers or other beasts of jtrey. It was their " union " against the world. Tiie s|)ectaclc was not ))leas- ing. " Let the worker, whoever he be, accejit the situation, and triumph on the side of his manliness in spite of it. Then he would bring to his side the world's sympathy. Let him ride down his temptations to be mean and niggardly, even in dire extremitv, as a hero would, and his cause is won. T,et him say to the 'scab.' 'Thy necessities are as great or greater than mine,' rivalling Sir Philip Sidney. ' How can a man be hid ? ' old Confucius asked. How tan he? or depoiled ? No capitalist can rob any man of his manhood. When the labor agitation is other than a kicking of somebody else out to let my.self in, I shall warm up to it, maybe." At other times he betrayed an anxiety in behalf of the " masses 11 \ !l ■ ^ i I'l'lii irtinfiiiiiMgniir t ^V'^o rx ka; ir.i/.7' whituax. driven to llio wall," ami felt tliat somclnnv the KopiiMii- was not sale wliiU- " anyboily waa lu-inij; so diiven." Ho t oinn\oiule(l nnil gave me rarnegic's book on " Tiinnipliant Denioemcy," tts rontaining nun li tliat was " itbont so anil gratifying, " 1 pnt lliis conversation down in hiai k and wliito one day, all he ha»l j\ist said to nie, and asked hin\, " Will yon sign tlial an yowY whole and final deliverance on the liilun- issuer " After a pause : " No, Sidney ; I don't think so. I .fi»/,/it. iMtt s\ fellow don't like to sign anvthinj; as ' final ' or ' full ' -not while he's alive, anyway. Von nni'^l ronipan" thai with something else I may say some dav, if yon want the ' fmal ' and ' full.' " lie kept the paper tor some time, pr«»mising to put in some " emend, itions," hnl linally it got lost. Of tourse I was not »piite serious abo\it the signing, mu- diti he look <>n the proposi- tion gravely. \ d,\y or two there.ilier he returned to thesubjei t afresh : " .\s summing of all my thoughts. I wish vo\i tosav, that I am for the working >nan ;md \'ov everv man ; wish he should have all that is inst and best for hii\i, as I wish it for everv i\>an. Ihit he should m.ike his tause the e.nise of the maidiness of all ' fnep ; that ass\neil, eviMV effort he mav make is all right. I wish he wotild put il down as his motto; Not ling shall get mv man- hood down ; I will not dii' k muler as a man to anv ralanulv. no more than |ob diM. .\ contribution to the labor auitation that mav not more applv to the labor c.mse than anv other caiise, but il is .1 "search light " nmch needed there as elsewhere. I had said to Whitman thai it would be well if some wise re- porter, like his Mystic Tnmipeter. " hovering imseen in air," could take jiassing notes of hi-; home-life, his conversation with \isitors and friends, and so give his bieiids ever\ where a more authentic account of him than biographers and critics were able to ofler. He assented to the idea heartily, saving he fell the lack of reality in so many of the reports and reviews sent in to him, (he touch of nature that lay in ficls, and suggestcil that 1 might "condescend to the task— wilhonl taking on the invisibleness." To that end he procured, or fished from his pile of valuables on the floor a " bran new notebook " which he proceedeil to K jjmmmm.f jIIc was Hot i)t racy," as ' lit- (lay, all igi) tluU as I'llnw ilon't lu-'s alivi', I- I i\»ay say ml in some I was not ho proposi- > tin' silhjort to sav, tliat ho sliotiltl ovorv man. inoss of all ;ht. I wish [ot inv iiian- alamitv. iu> citation that I- cadse, but c. lie wise ro- ll in air," sal ion with 10 a more s woro ahle oil I ho lark in to him, lat 1 might isihlonoss." ihiablos on oooodcd to ffy s('\t.ur:n with wait ii7/;7'im,v. imh?. .v"^» "ilotliratc." I am provcntotl from giving n fiiisimi/f of this tloili( ation, but it ran as followH: "Wall Whitman, May a,^ 1SH7. S. M. M. (Camtlon, N. j.), Sinlpiiig W. W ." " I pill in Iho srnlpinif," ho said. " to lot lliat o'orshadow the roportorial rnm'ion. i'ho ro|)orlor may ' hover unseen ' in the sculptor." I mado 110 doubt llial I should fill tho book, (some Olio hiiiuln"d and lilly pages), boloro iho siimmor oiidod. Hut to my doop rogrot it lios boloro mo now aboiil as blank as whon it «aino IVom Iho binder. 'I'ho trouble was ho but seldom indiilgod in "talks" imlil alter the evening shadows began to (all. and my pom il had to \\\m\ its way by a sort of" iiistiiu I. I found to(i that I had not been bred lo it. l,isloiiiiig inlet leied, niul I put od" innoh writing that I might the bettor listen, anil oonid never (|uite oiili h on to the reality of it again. I am sorry. In those shadowy hours, silling in his seat bv the window, wah h- iiig the silhonoltod shadows ol passing men and women -the sort t)f company of whom ho never tired- -ho mellowed into gentle <-oiifidoncos. and llie tones of his voice, low and musical, cairicd Kiich persuasion and charm, one was indisiiosed to break in upon them even by tl e scrah liiiig of a pt-ncil. i lis talk at that time was chielly relrospoclivo of men and things ; or, if I gave him the «aie, of himself. It was on one such evening that ho took ii|) his big swan-tpiill pen and set down the following data for my use if t desired il, loiniiig over with pad on window-sill lo(alch the last of the davlighl. Of course il was intended for my spec iai, piiv.ile use. Hut il has often seemeil to me thai his many friends would fool a real interest in seeing llie lialf-jiago of MS, just as lie hastily scratt hod il down. Mill of course the im|)orl is pre- served in type : " ' Leaves of (iiass,' ho should say, was conlinually the expres- sion, in a sense, of the faith that was in him, but never, or very seldom, an expression of Iho reasons for iho failh. The poems were always merely exclamatory, giving a man successive joys, bolheralioiis. special sights, passiinis, moods, ctr., etc, from Iwenlv-fivo lo sixty-five years of ago. amid the inllueiices, en- vironmculs and people of America, North and South, East md 382 IN RE WALT WIIinfAy. K i West, not only amid peace but amid war. I found that he believed in free trade, anti-slavery, the full human and political equality of woman, and thought that the world was governed too much. Yet he was conservative too. He thcugiit the family organiza- tion and the marriage institution the basiis of perniancnt social order. Of theology he thought matters were about right and going on right as ^hey are — including the churches and includ- ing the spirit of free inquiry. "When I was with Whitman it was the hot summer of '87, and he was in his sixty-ninth year. He lived in a little property of his own, a small wooden house in Mickle street, Camden, New Jersey. He was physically very infirm ; he had been paralyzed for fourteen years — a result of his too zealous and long-continued labors during the secession war, on the battle-fields and in the hospitals. But he retained good spirits and was always cheery in his own way without exception. He had a good color and weighed over two hundred pounds. In manners, though hearty and emotional, he had a certain dignity and reserve. He took a daily bath, lived rather abstemiously, liked a good drink of champagne, and dressed in a suit of thin woolen Canada gray, Mrs. Davis, a young, strong, good-looking Jersey woman, a widow, was his cook and housekeeper. I don't think a man ever existed so utterly Midifferent to criticisms and slanders; (there were even then seme in circulation very amusing and strange to those who knew him well). He wrote generally two or three hours a day, and often went out for a drive in a phaeton that his friends had presented him with. He drove h.mself." The effort fiiligued him and ended our evening. " I think it is all right," he said, as he bade me good-night to go upstairs, "that one should like to have himself reported, if he must be reported, truthfully. I guess that hits tolerable near." My " note book," though meager of treasures, may as well be yielded up here, and about in the order set down. When W. W. made his Western trip in company with J. W. P'orney and others, the party stopped at Topeka. Among those at the hotel where they put up was the sheriff of that part. He Ml' SUMMER WITH WALT WIflTMAy, 1887. 383. lat lie believed itical equality ed too much, uily organiza- tTianent social out right and s ar.d includ- nmer of '87, '.ittle property Camden, New :en paralyzed ing-continued s and in the 'ays cheery in d color and hough hearty e. He took od drink, of ]!anada gray, ;y woman, a think a man id slanders; imusing and [enerally two in a phaeton himself." "I think it • go upstairs, f he must be ly as well be r with J. W. Imong those t part. He invited W. and his friends down to the jail to see some twenty or more Indians, captured by the government and kept in the jail-yard. The sheriff went out and spoke to them ; told them- of the distinguished party there, but they paid no attention. Forney went out and others followed. . . . But no look or wordt from the dusky prisoners except the first side-glance. Then W. VV. went out. The old chief looked at him steadily, then extended his hand and said his " how." All the other Indians followed, surrounded Whitman, shaking hands, making the air melodious with their "hows." Tlic sheriff could not understand it. "I. confess," said W. W., relating thisstory, "that I was not a little set up to find that the critters knew the difference and didn't confound me with the big guns of officialism." "Did you know Felton, his Ancient and Modern Greece?' No? you ought. Well, here's a specimen. Let me memorize it for you : — "'The Greeks considered man as placed in the center of a harmonious universe. As he looked upon the objects of nature their colors not only pleased him by their variety, but combined in an harmonious effect upon his organs of vision. The sounds of nature, the song of bird, the voices of the winds and the waves, filled his ear agreeably, and impressed his mind with an indefina- ble sense of harmony. Forms also, the varying surface of the earth — the outlines of the hills — the myriad varieties of trees, animals, and men — the ever shifting, ever beautitul clouds flit- ting across the sky, stirred within him a rhythmical perfection' which did not wholly distinguish itself from the harmony of sound. These objects, too, were in life and motion ; and this motion, in- determinate as it may be, has a regularity and a rhythmical prog- ress ; while some of the objects of nature which strike the senses the earliest and the most deeply — the stars, for instance — move on in their silent courses in such solemn order that the imagina- tion of man in the primitive ages conceived an unheard music of the spheres, which the philosophers themselves did not refuse to believe ; and the moral adaptation between man and the world constituted an ethical harmony never to be lost sight of when we ! y> m i 384 IN RE WALT WIirniAN. « ! ■A endeavor to reproduce to our minds the thoughts, feelings, and speculations of the ancient world. On these primitive harmonies the fine arts were built ; harmony and form ripened into sculp- ture, architecture, and plastic art generally; harmony of color, combined with form, was embodied in painti.ig and the arts of designing ; harmony of sound found its artistic expression in music, poetical rhythm, and impassioned expression in oratory ; harmony of motion was brought into order and system in the rhythmical and modulated movements of the dancer, and in the refinements of the orchestric art. " ' But there was a deeper harmony still that blended all these special rhythms into one, and constituted that music which the ancients conceived of as the basis of civilization and the essence of instruction. To them the natural man was not the savage running naked in the woods, but the man whose senses, imagina- tion and reason are unfolded to their highest rejch ; whose bodily forces and mental powers are in equipoise, and in full and healthy action ; who has the keenest eye, the surest hand, tiie truest ear, the richest voice, the loftiest and most rhythmical step ; whose passions tliough strong are held in check, whose moral nature runs into no morbid perversions, and whose intellectual being is robustly developed ; whose life moves on in rhythmical accord with God, nature, and man, with no discord except to break its monotony and to be resolved in the harmony ot its peaceful and painless close. This is the ideal being, wliose nature is unfolded without disease, imperfection, or sin, to perpetual happiness and joy. Tliis is the ideal education such as the ancient teachers conceived it. This is the ideal music into which all the harmo- nies of the world were blended. This is the ideal man, the musical man, of whose possibility the ancient philosopher dreamed.' " You can say that that is by • le absolutely indorsed. I got the book when I first went to Washington at the commencement of the war, and it was a great enlightenment and consolation to me. Have read it a thousand times and more, and know it most all by heart. Felton was a great old fellow. He didn't have so much harmony as he talked of; no, not he. He was going to 3/r SUMMKH WITH WALT WHITMAN, 1887. 38s , feelings, and live harmonies ed into sculp- iiony of color, md the arts of expression in )n in oratory ; system in the :er, and in the ■nded all these usic which the lid the essence lot the savage nses, imagina- whose bodily ill and healthy tiie truest ear, 1 step ; whose : moral nature actual being is hmical accord pt to break its 5 peaceful and re is unfolded happiness and cient teachers ill the harmo- eal man, the philosopher orsed. I got mmencement onsolation to know it most idn't have so was going to force things. I used to talk with the ministers of Greece about his Modern Greece, and I found his lectures ruled even in Athens." " Dantenctr,'\te the themes of mijjlity books,. Absorbing deep and full from thoughts, plays, specul.itions ? Bui now from thee to me, c.iged bird, to feel thy joyous warble, Filling the air, the lonesome room, the long forenoon, Is it not just as great, () soul? " Speaking of the Emerson dinner at Parker's, he gave with relish the following : Emerson. — Now what will we have to top off with ? W. fK— What are these? Jt. W. E. — I don't know ; we will see. W. ^— But if we don't like them— H. W. E. — Then will we eat what is set before us, asking no questions. Letter received Sept. 19, '88 ; " Camden, Wednesday P. M, Dear S. H. M. — Am surviving yet and in good spirits (sort) after the past nearly four months. Am still imprisoned here in 19° IX UK WAf.r wnmtAx. my silk room, unable to move an)mul or ^d out at all — hut have my brain power as before and right arm voliti«)n — (now reihued to thorn, what great blessings tlieynrcl) — November Houghs is all done, printed and press'd. and wails the binding — will send vou one as soon as I gel it — then I am to have a iH)mplete W. W. in one 900 v»)l. {(}) 1.. of (1., Spec Days, and Nov. H. — all and several condensed in one — this is now going through the presses. — Your bust of me still holds out fully in my estimation. I consider it, (to me at any rate), the best and most t hararlcr- isiir, really arlislie and satisfaetory rendering of any — so llio't by me. 'I'lie bust of Klias Hi«ks pleases and satisfies me first rale — goes to the right s|)ot. — The little armchair statuette is here (as when you left it) and must not be forgotten.— It is valuable t'xceedingly. — Horace is invaluable to me — I couldn't have done anvthing with the printing without him — Whether I shall gel out of this slough remains uncertain. I au\ comfortable. I.ove to you and all iiupiiring friends. Waip Wiiiiman." My last afternoon at Wall's was to me both a sad and pleasant ■one. He was muisually grave and inleni on rescuing something from his pile on ihe Hoot that, appaienlly, eludeil ali the magical poking of his cane, t did not ask what he would find, or «iiTcr assistance. I knew he liked to be let alone in such emer- gcm ies. aiul of all tilings, dreadeil the interfering hand that would dislurb the order of his possessions heaped about him. ('iciierallv there was no trouble. He knew the exact location of about every article, book, pamphlet or letter which he desired ; lull this time he was bafllcd. Several times he rested and re- turned to his search. Hut toward night he pul the cane by re- signedly, settled back in his chair, wrapped tlie big biifTalo robe about him, mused awhile, and then, speaking low, sai«l : " It's of no conseipience, Sidney, but 1 wish very much, if you ever cotnc to think well of it vouiself, you would make just a simple bas-relief of my hospital days. Just a suggesiion — a cot with soldier boy limp and listless on it. and put me in some- where, j>erhaps there by his side. I tried with pencil this morn- ing to indicate my feeling .is to what it should be, but it got all — but have (now reduced )cr Houghs is ig — will send mpletc W. \V. Nov. U.— uU ; thiongli Ihc uy est i mill ion. ost ( haiactci- ) — so tlu)'t hy mc llrst lale — Incite is heic ll is vahiablc lii't have done I shall get out blc. I.ovc to Will IM AN." d and pleasant ling soinclhing ili the magical v(inld find, or in such emcr- ing hand that 'd about hiui. \t I location of •ll he desired ; rested and re- le cane by re- lig bulTalo robe , said : v much, if yon d make just a ;;gestion — a cot me in some- ncil this morn- be, but it got MY SUMMER WITH WAIT WIltTMAN, \>i^T. 39 « spirited away. I'd like that, scorns to mc, more than anything, and to have you do it. They were the precious hours of my life. My mother's love and tlie Idvc of those dear fellows, se< csh or union. It was awiul, or would have been, had it not been grand. They took it all in the most matter-of-fact way. No complaining. 'Ihe fate of war. One rebel boy (juoted Emer- son (^he had been to Harvard or Yale) — " ' Wlmrvcr tinlit", whoever fnlln, JUKlite C()ni|UriH cveinioic' " It seemed to mc all the while not that I was away somewhere, out nursing slnmgeis, but right at home with my own flesh and blood. So it was. No tics < ould be dearer than bound me to each and all of them, My heart bled hour by hour as for its own. 1 don't know wliy I go talking to you on a subject I usually keep sacredly loc ked, but I must show you the little note- books with the blood smudges. I tried to edit them for the printer, but it was like phukiiif; the heart out of them. 1 wish I could find what 1 made. Hut yon will undcrstaiul — something simple and artistic ; just a thought showing me liicre. If I find it, 1 will seiul it. "'A spcclivl vci'sc for you — w (Insh oflicnuty Iniij; ne^leclnl — your myslic roll strnn(;ely (xiillicrcit licrr, Kttcli immc recullcil liy \w from out llio dnrluicM and dcnth's ashes, lleiiccforili to he, dee)>, deep within my hctirl rccordinj;, for miiny u future yenr, Vour mystic roll entire of unknown immes, or Noilh or South, Emlinlmed witii love in this twilight son^;.'" He sat up later than usual that night. When it was time for mc to go he said simply : '• We're all going somewhere ; you know the rest." lie was sitting calm and pale in the dim light .as T jjassed the wimlow, the mortal already ])utting .)n immortality, it seemed to me. A great life, and *' through it all Iw kept the poise of a great soul." saa m B a aaBBg *\\\.'h l:(\()v rtMil >>«l<«irtiiUnl lh^^^lnl\^«, iiiirtrd in rt iln>i< wlirn ilu-ic mi', niunvU-.| il<^||^|ii wMi-h t trtKif »» the hlHiii?** rthil l»»rtveiy»il rtll \m\ \\A\% oml lli.onjltix || U ni'i nnSv*?. ... I W\i yo« til v\\\\\\\ WW mwimjj vowt (unii pmni1< lM\n.!l with lllm ll\i'»i'. nl \hv iloiM i>| |(U lllllr lin\l«r i|( [\\M «»l n'ri^n I'ltiT to Irtrr (|\c « iscM iHdl Hi-Mi-:!, [Uv IUH«( IMllv IJH'nl, n| nil ttM>iv well t ltiln(Hent or rt mrtM Whrt i» frtt^ I^P*^*^!! nil IHptiWV (MriUlcrlliMW iM prt-oitiMt* 111 Wrtlt \VtM(n>rtn \ si'r ninn' |l\'iii rt www uirtkci nl no(( Soiirtii-x, rtUiii i\ rttiil Im illMrtnt, 1oO\rt» or lUm who (■« OollMilrlTil. rtlld llyllllv. Il>r lilol nr torll I Idiow '« wrir lirir, Ilix vrrcpllon (ii Now ^Ml^lrtMll iniiit\( |tr> vi-lV nonli till' »rtiop. 1 luinw, iiMi, ilirti In ■^unn' ilrtv ni>( xn (rniKic. lutnmiillv will wonilrv \h(\\ www i\»«l>l iUvpII xiile h\ xdlo willi lliW rti|i<«MiMMii \\A\v olhri- im\ .livlnc pnri. i U- IMP, 1<l( ■iUll'I'Injj i\lii>i(l \\\o \\ U \\y'\ 'MM*. Imir IdMtii' In ^IVCII (n H«r ilv mrnl. Ill rttl 'HW l\li»t tiyiUti, Niii ill! I wtllc icmli' iniliin\rn> !|i>nnilv \\\\\ t\\\A (»nl lrnUf»» llvlttP I'l'r-t. Tilt' lAsr Sl( KNI-SS AND Till Dl AMI ()!■ VVAI I \Vllir^\AM. «f lyusihl. n*,\\;.i\tkK. \\\\ I WmiMVN'q liHl '(It l(iic<»q Id iciililv tlsilr-i rmiii lili^ V""iii» ♦tf liu'tniiiil wimI< Im iMrn r,. iiMil Miiniiiiiliil III lltjil liiiii' in Mvii t'iui<«iN till- llmi, lilt' I'luitlinitid «ii;iinni iliti^c ii'idlih* yt'tUM i ilio Hpittiul, liluntl |toimilllltn illtqiiilti'il Imm rniliiid ^lllt^ll'||ll|l1 ^VMnmh in |>;illi'Hh wlintii lif nl llini liiiif i limi'lv nlli'iiiliil. In iMft) lUiil iMftt; III' liiiil lt'm|uti!n V Itii'iik iliiwnq, iiMil llii")!' i nl- hiinjilrtl, in t.innitiv. iMy^, in nn niioik nl iintulvtiM, wlilt It wmm Ult'ttlly ilUHlrtViUril (liiiliiH llif ^iinic vim In llu' iIi'mIIi nl iii'i Miolhri-, Till-' |i!U;ilvii'< innti' lluni min' I'IimihIiI liini In ili'iilli''* lliuil. It li'l np il Hull' in lIu' hilr icvi'Mlir^ ,iit(| I'tulv I'inlilii'M, llu'H m'tlli'il down lliii kct lli;u\ rvci hi llir lull- I'i^ililifM, iinil uli'nililv il»'H|ioi\i'il nniil llip mil Miiilv III lH()i my IVIcliil llniiiic I, Tiiitiliil luiknl nic !n m't* Wllilinini plnrt'oiiiinullv. Il W;l" niilv Mltn MnliU' |i'imii( 400 IN HE WALT W'lflTAfAy. admitting that he had pain or suflored in any way only when he was especially asked. I may say here, thio state of mind (thi^ lack of anxiety for the future, this absence of complaint, this cheerful attitude) was maintained to the last hour of his life. The first part of this, Sunday, night, was passed with sicep at short intervals, but at one a. m., December 21st, his attendants thought the end was near. He took a milk punch and rallied from this very low condition. When I saw him later in the day, he was somnolent ; skin relaxed and leaky ; the Airgr rales per- sisting. He wisiied to be left alone, would not talk — indeed, re- fused to see his near friends. Very remarkably, however, on one occasion, when Warren, his nurse, had left him a few min- ntes, he raised himself in and sat up on the side of the bed. He was unable to get back unaided. Dr. R. M. Bucke arrived late in the day. He fully shared our belief that the end could not be far off. The somnolency and the cyanosis continued on the aad ; also some irregularity of the pulse (the first noticed), and greater frequency. He preferred still to be left alone, saying, " My friends seem not to realize how weak 1 am, and what an effort it is for me to talk." More favorable w?s his taking food — a small mutton chop in the morning, and several milk punches during the day. His attendants reported a fair night, but on the 23d I found him again in a somnolent state, the heart's action very irregular, the pulse small and averaging one hundred and ten beats to the minute. The "ight lung seemed less solid and more pervious to air. Several raw oysters were piten during the day, and this was all. He could not take milk punch or stimulants. December 24th, Dr. McAlister saw the patient with me !\. five P.M. It was evident that the slight ir provement of the preced- ing day had not continued. More careful examination disclosed quite extensive involvement of the left lung, with the right prac- tically useless. C-'^nerally he seemed much weaker. At ten p. m. my colleague was hastdy summoned. He found the patient gen- erally cyanosed, with labored respiration ; a weak, rapid and irregular pulse ; the surface of the body covered with a cold, LAST SICKNESS AND DEATH OF WALT WHITMAN. 401 \\y when he mind (thij nplaint, this his life, with sicep at s attendants \ and rallied r in the day, ■gi' rales per- — indeed, re- however, on n a few -nin- ; of the bed. Iiicke arrived he end could )n the 22d ; I, and greater aying, " My ind what an 5 taking food milk punches night, but on , the heart's one hundred led less solid eiten during lilk punch or ith me i\. five f the preced- ;ion disclosed le right prac- At ten p. M. I patient gen- c, rapid and with a cold, clammy sweat. He was exhausted. It was believed by all present that he could not live through the night — so complete was the collapse. On the asth I saw him twice. Not only had he ral- lied from the collapse by morning, but there seemed a slight amelioration of the bad condition of the previous day. All wore ipiite hopeful. The promising condition continued only a short time. On the a6th he was as bad as ever. He lay all day long in what appeared to be a semi-conscious state, but very curiously rcjjlicd promptly to any question put to him. His hearing, not good of late, was now especially acute. Lowering my voice purposely to test this, I uniformly observed that he heard me. My colleagues agreed with me that this was so. "No pain," said he, "but so very miserable!" His heart seemed failing — irregular and intermittent — the pulse, however, still averaging one hundred. All nourishment was refused. Dr. Bucke, watching at the bedside late in the evening, declared the end near at hand, and that he would remain now imtil all was over. None of us had the faintest idea that the end was yet three months off. But low as was the ebb, life continued. At the con- sultation on the 27th, Drs. McAlister and Bucke present with me, a very careful examination of the chest was made. The patient was supported for a short time in the sitting posture, in order that the bases and posterior surface of the lungs could be exam- ined. Improvement was indicated by the presence of some reso- nance on percussion and by the existence of some breath sounds — though these were feeble. The left side was more impaired than we had believed. The respiratory movements were still entirely abdominal, thirty-three to the minute. Expectoration of muco-purulent matter continued. There was little if any fever, but loss of flesh was evident. That we were not mistaken in our conclusion that there was some improvement the next few days abundantly proved. By January 7th there had been re-established a normal pulse respiration ratio, the former sever.ty- two and the latter eighteen. I had in my attendance during the previous year found the pulse very uniformly at sixty-four. This was, therefore, but little above the normal for him. At this time there was complete abatement of all the alarming symptoms* a6 ^>r . 4oa I.y RK WALT WUITMAS. The tracheal rale — or death-rattle — had bi-cn survived ; one at- V ', i ! tack of I )lctt ith L'gular and intei complete collapse, with cyanosis anil mittent heart action, that all thought the sure precursor of death, was not such. Altogether, this was one of the most rcnuirkable experiences of my entire professional life. While all alarming conditions and signs were now gone, there was never any estab- lishment of real convalescence, iladly as he must have felt, he had already settled down to a routine of daily life little varied from this on to the very last. The curious mental condition of which I have spoken, and which I at first supposed to be a sort of stupor or semi-conscious- ness, was not such at all, as I found upon a more careful investi- gation. Had it been coma, or partial coma, hearing, with the other sjjccial senses, would have been dull ; but his hearing at this time was, for him, remarkably acute — was even abnor- mally so. lie was often supjmsed to be sleeping when he was without doubt perfectly aware of all that was going on about him. All that was necessary to secure his attention was a word uttered in the lowest tones or a touch on the hand or arm. Once, when I supposed him asleep, and placed my finger on his wrist in the lightest manner possible, he looked up and greeted me. He preferreil to be left entirely alone. Often the presence of his best friends seemed to worry him. When he was at his lowest, and when his end was hourly looked for, we were re- quested to induce him, if possible, to see one of them for a few moments on a matter of some importance to himself. " No, no, I cannot I Tell them to wait until I am better." And he con- tinued: "My friends seem not to realize how it tires me to talk." But we said: "You may never be better." All the same his decision was made, and he would not abate from it. He preferred ' attendants in the room adjoininj,^ his own, and had a bell-uull fixed within easy reach of his hand as he was lying down. When he desired help, he rang. He must have sufTered greatly, but he made little complaint. All the pain and soreness was referred to the left side, the splenic region, the sigmoid flexure of the colon ; and near the end of life there was some pain in the left foot. The cause of the pain lAST SlCK'iVHSS AND DEATll OF WALT WIIITMAS. 405 ivcd ; one at- hir and intcr- rsor of death, St remarkable : all alarming krer any estab- : have felt, he L" little varied e spoken, and ;mi-conscious- :arcful investi- ring, with the his hearing at eveii abnor- ; when he was jing on about on was a word liand or arm. f finger on his ip and greeted n the presence 1 he was at his r, we were re- them for a few If. " No, no, And he con- it tires me to ter," All the ite from it. ininj^ his own, hand as he was ttle complaint, ide, the splenic lear the end of ise of the pain was not clear imtil the post-mortem. Hiccough was a very I)ersistcnt symptoni fron> before Christmas up to within a short time of the end. At first it lasted hours without intermission, and 'jnally troubled less contiiuiously. Much cough antl muco- purulent expec toration siiowcd tluit the pneumonia had under* gone partial resolution only. .Souie of the consolidatetl areas were undergoing softening. Only very late were occasional niglit sweats noticed, and the fever, if |)resent at all, was very moderate. There was a < onlinual loss of flesh in spite of a fair amount of nourishment taken daily. As a rule, he would awake about nine A. M. after a restless night. Hourly or ofiener he would ring or call the nurse to change his position. Soon it was possible for him to lie on the left side only, and finally this tortured him. Said he; " I have to choose between two evils : lying on the left side tortures me, on the right the phlegm chokes me." However, after each change of posture he was su|)posed to fall promptly asleep. Between nine and ten in the morning he would have his breakfast — a simjjle meal of Graham toast, coffee and usually either an egg or a small, piece of steak. Then between four and five in the afternoon a second meal, consisting usually of bread and butter, mutton broth and rice, and occasionally including some raw oysters. Milk, either j)lain or as milk punch, was taken very moderately, and the same was true of stimulants in general. Every few days three or four ounces of champagne were taken. This with the view of securing its effect on the alimentary canal. It acted' pretty uniformly as a laxative, and only a few times was it nec- essary to resort to enemata. There were only three or four days during which no food was taken, and then he said he did not want to be bothered with it. Whenever he felt unusually rest- less at night, he would attribute it to having eaten too much. In the vain search for a remedy to control the hiccough, ice- cream, suggested by some o:u', was tried. Its effect was indif- ferent, and several times harmful, in that a diarrhea followed its use. The digestive function was, as a rule, fairly well per- formed. The moderate quantities of food taken were digested. .The tongue remained moist and clean throughout. The excre- ■ i.' '. • 404 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. tion of urine was much below normal. It varied from eight to twelve ounces in the twenty-four hours. Afiet his morning meal Whitman would have the curtain oppo- site his bed raised. He would then obtain the daily papers and his mail and these would engage him for hours. There were very few days when they were neglected. When they were, all hope would sink in the breasts of his attendants, to be as quickly revived by their resimijjtion. Occasionally, some writing was done. On January loth he signed two of the Johnston etchings .for his attending physicians. To the very last day of life thin interest in the news and affairs •of the day was maintained. Little as he said, even in the way of .necessary communications, he would occasionally surprise us by •referring briefly to a bit of news. " Dr. Parker's dead," said he to me on the day following the death of Dr. Andrew J. Parker. He did not, as is usual with consumptives, entertain any hopes .of recovery. Some days he would say he felt much better, but . -snly once during this long period did he apparently allow him- self to be deluded by the hope that he would get well. About the middle of February, one morning after breakfast, some one said to him : " We hope soon to see you in your chair again." His prompt negative — "Never! never!" — showed conclusively that he had no such hope. At another time the nurse told him they were thinking of getting a neV bed for him. "You slip away from us so in this one." He rejoined: "Some of these fine mornings I shall be slipping away from you forever." " Well, doctors, what is the verdict ? " was a question asked us more than once. In explanation of the reason for the question he said he thought " it would be a satisfaction to know how the cat was going to jump." Tlien, too, he was of the opinion that " what the doctors can't tell you about yourself no one else can." The exception referred to, when he apparently allowed himself to be misled by a false hope, was when he declared to Warren one morning that " he was going to beat those doctors yet." Once he gave us the account of the famous two-hour talk on Boston Common with Emerson, who, he said quaintly, " talked the finest talk that ever was talked." At the conclusion of the narration LAST SICKNJiSS AND DEATH OF WALT WHITMAN. 405 from eight to curtain oppo- y papers and There were hey were, all be as quickly ; writing was iston etchings rws and affairs in the way of lurprise us by load," said he 2\v J. Parker. tain any hopes ch better, but ly allow hini- well. About fast, some one • chair again." d conclusively uirse told him 1. "You slip Some of these you forever." ition asked us r the question know how the le opinion that one else can." wed himself to :o Warren one yet." Once alk on Boston alked the finest the narration he promptly extended his hand, and, as Dr. McAlister said, "dismissed us with his blessing." We were much in the dark as to the extent and real nature of his trouble. The large pleural effusion, which, must have existed for weeks, entirely escaped our recognition. Repeatedly the question of cancerous disease came up, but it was always decided against. He continued to lose flesh and strength so gradually that one almost failed to observe the decline. March nth he was again reading the daily papers. For several days they had been neglected. His attendants were greatly cheered. I have already spoken of the necessity for frequent changes of posture. In the twenty-four hours from the 21st to the 22d of March he was turned just forty-one times. On the a3d his hearing was dull. It had all along been quite acute. Respira- tions were now relatively too frequent — twenty-three to tlie min- ute. The pulse was eighty-four. The tracheal rale — "death- rattle " — was again heard, but it disappeared as soon as he turned to his left side from the position on the back. March 26th, although we realized that our patient was extremely weak, we; were hardly prepared for the end, then near at hand. At 12.30 p. M. there was a little dyspncea — he felt short of breath. The respirations had gone up to thirty a minute. His pulse was small and irregular — eighty-four to ninety-two. Some tracheal rales were noticed. This was his last day, and ere the darkness of night had gath- ered his emaciated body was without life. Mr. Traubel sends me this brief statement of the last hour : " Tlie end came so suddenly this day's evening between six and; seven, even after all our anticipation, that we had no time to summon you. Harned, McAlister, Fritzinger, and Mrs. Davis were present already when I arrived. There was no sign of struggle on the part of the patient. The light flickered, lowered,, was quenched. He seemed to suffer no pain. His heart was strong to the last, and even may be said to have outbeat his life, since for some minutes after the breath was gone, the faint throb at his breast, though lessening, continued. He needed nO' 4o6 Ilf^ BE WALT WHITMAN. I help — indeed, help was past avail. A few minor attentions which ^e fairly reasoned might give him comfort were shown. Else- wise we sat or stood and watched. He said nothing. He lay •on his back — the one hand which he had reached out to me when I came, and which I held, on the coverlet. He passed away as peacefully as the sun, and it was hard to catch the moment of transition. That solemn watch, the gathering shadow, the pain- less stirrender, are not to be forgotten. His soul went out with the day. The face was calm, the body lay without rigidity, the majesty of his tranquil spirit remained. What more could be said ? It was a moment not for the doctor, but for the poet, the seer." The wonder, that life had continued so long, grew as one by one the revelations of the post-mortem examination were made. To this examination he had assented months before iiis death. *' Yes," he said, " if it will be of interest to the doctors and of any benefit to medical science, I am willing." The following are the notes of the post-mortem performed on the body of Walt Whitman, March 27, 1892, by Henry W. Cattell, demonstrator of gross morbid anatomy. University of Pennsylvania : The autopsy was made in the presence of Dr. Daniel Longaker, Prof F. X. Dercum, Dr. Alexander McAlister and Horace L. Traubel. The brain was removed by Dr. Dercum, and is now, after having been hardened, in the possession of the Ameri- can Anthropometric Society. This Society, which has been or- ganized for the express purpose of studying high-type brains, intends to first photograph the external surfaces and then maKe a cast of the entire brain. After this, careful microscopic obser- vations will be made by competent observers. Both the head and the brain were remarkably well formed and symmetrical. The scalp was thin, and practically no blood was lost when the incisions were made. The calvarium was white and the muscular tissue pale. The dura mater was very ad- herent to the skull cap and showed recent pachymeningitis on both sides, but especially on the right. The blood in the longi- tudinal sinus was fluid. The bone was well ossified, and there was ntions which own. Else- ng. He lay t to me when issed away as E moment of ow, the pain- ent out with rigidity, the ould be said ? ;t, the seer." e\v as one by were made. )re his death. >ctors and of performed on Henry W. University of iel Longaker, d Horace L. rcum, and is 1 of the Ameri- 1 has been or- h-type brains, nd then maKe roscopic obser- y well formed ically no blood calvarium was ter was very ad- ymeningitis on )d in the longi- I, and there was LAST SICKNESS AND DEATH OF WALT WHITMAN. 407 little or no diploic substance remaining. The pia and arachnoid were very oedematous, and considerable cerebro-spiral fluid escaped during the removal of the brain. Numerous milky patches, especially over the vertex, were seen, but no miliary tubercles were discernible. The membranes were not adherent to the cortex, and the brain substance was excessively soft. The blood vessels of the circle of Willis were very slightly atheromatous. The brain weighed forty-five ounces, two hundred and ninety-two and one-half grains avoirdupois. While this is a medium weight for a brain, it must be remembered that the brain decreases in weight one ounce for every ten years in a person over fifty, and that it is much more important for intellectual and physical well being that the convolutions are well formed, the sulci deep and the cortical substance wide. Large allowance must also be made for the extreme emaciation of the whole body, involving of course the brain. It is likely the brain had shrunk (from this cause) six to eight ounces in tlie last months of life. Taking these elements of the problem into account, it seems likely that at mental maturity Walt Whitman's brain weighed at least fifty-six ounces. The body was emaciated, post-mortem lividity was slight, and there was no rigidity. On attempting to remove the skin of the left side a little to the left of the median line at the sixth rib laud- able pus escaped. On careful examination there was found here an elevated area the size of a fifty-cent piece, which was situated over but slightly to the left of the c-nter of the manubrium and had eroded that bone to the extent of a twenty-five-cent piece. The abscess had burrowed into the pectoralis major and had com- menced to erode the superficial fascia. It had not broken in- wardly, though it could be plainly seen from the posterior surface of the sternum. About half an ounce of pericardial fluid was found. The heart, which weighed about nine ounces, was very flabby and well covered with epicardial fat, except a small portion in the center of the right ventricle. The pulmonary valves were slightly thick- ened but competent. Aortic valves in good condition, closing completely. The mitral valves good, the tricuspids perfectly good. 3t&$ JN RE WALT WHITMAN. {,' , There were three and one-half quarts uf serous fluid in the left pleural cavity, and the lung, the size of the hand, was com- pletely pressed against the mediastinum, so that it was absolutely impossible for air to enter. A few bands of recent Lymph ex- tended across an injected pleura, which was hemorrhagic in spots. On the pleural surface at a point just below the nipple was an abscess the size of a hen's egg, which had completely eroded the fifth rib, the longest diameter of the abscess being in the vertical direction. There was no external mark on the skin to lead one to suspect the presence of the abscess, though there was some bulging and distinct fluctuation, and the two ends of the rib could be plainly felt grating against each other. Only about one-eighth of the right lung was suitable for breathing purposes. The upper and middle lobes were consolidated and firmly bound down to the pleura. There were about four ounces of fluid in the cavity. Large tubercular nodules and areas of catarrhal pneumonia were everywhere to be found. Those portions of the lung not tuber- cular were markedly emphysematous, this being especially marked at the free edges of the lung. The spleen was soft and weighed about eight ounces, the cap- sule thickened and fibrour ; on section pulpy. It was matted down to the diaphragm and showed old peritonitis and peri- splenitis. Numerous tubercles occupied this region, extending to the anterior wall of the stomach and to all of the neighboring viscera. The diaphragm was pushed downward by the fluid. The kidneys were surrounded by a mass of fat. The left supra- renal capsule wai tubercular and contained a cyst the size of a pigeon's egg. In this was found a darkish fluid. The capsule strips readily; the kidney weighed about six and one-half ounces, and showed some parenchymatous change. The kidney sub- stance was soft, red, and swollen, and somewhat granular. The right kidney was a little the smaller and the better of the two. The liver was about normal in size, though fatty, and contained an extra fissure near the center. Some tubercles were observed. A huge gall stcne almost entirely occupied a rather small gall bladder to which it was firmly adherent. The outer surface of the stone was covered with a whitish deposit. LAST SICKNESS AND DEATH OF WALT WHITMAN, 409 ' The pancreas was hemorrhagic. The common iliacs were but very slightly atheromatous, • , Over tlie whole of the mesentery, especially in its lower por- tion, were hundreds of minute tubercles varying i:i size from that of a finr needle-point to the head of a good-sized pin. These whitish points were surrounded by a hemorrhagic base. The serous surface of the intestines was injected and dotted with tubercles. The bladder was empty and the walls thickened. The prostate was enlarged. The rectum was swollen and filled with semifluid feces. A few hardened masses were found in the trans- verse colon. The stomach was small. The vermiform appendix was two inches long and patulous, containing two small hardened fecal masses of an irregular outline. The sigmoid flexure was unusually long. The above macroscopic lesions of the various organs were con> firmed by microscopic sections. It would seem very probable that the extensive adhesion of the dura mater to the calvarium was due to an old sun-stroke. The cause of death was pleurisy of the left side, consumption of the right lung, general miliary tuberculosis and parenchyma- tous nephritis. There was also found a fatty liver, gall-stone, a cyst in the adrenal, tubercular abscesses, involving the bones, and pachymeningitis. It is, indeed, marvellous that respiration could have been car- ried on for so long a time with the limited amount of useful lung tissue found at the autopsy. It was no doubt due la.gely to that indomitable will pertaining to Walt Whitman. Another would have died much earlier with one-half of the pathological changes which existed in his body. To medical ears, at least, it may seem strange that physicians of even average diagnostic skill should overlook a large pleural eff'usion like this. There were two reasons for it — the first was- the lack of complaint of pain ; the second, our respect for his disinclination to be disturbed. It seemed a rudeness, almost, to subject him to a searching examination. Practically, this failure of discovery made little difference, since it is doubtful if the re- '« I i A il'. I 410 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. -moval of the fluid would have added much to his comfort or .succeeded in prolonging life. This pleurisy was due to deposit in the membrane of tubercles, the same as were found about the spleen and the peritoneum of the left side of the abdomen in general. Here they originated peritonitis, and thus accounted for the pain. The abscess Toding the sternum must have existed a long time. It also was tubercular, and in all probability was the original point of development of the disease and the focus of subsequent infection. It is a fact now pretty generally known that individuals in apparently perfect health may have tubercu- lous mediastinal glands, and such this, in all likelihood, was • originally. How long it and the other abscess eroding one of the ribs had existed is a matter of surmise, not of certainty. It miglit have been several years. It certainly antedated the •outbreak of pneumonia in December by months. No wonder, now, that he felt a "deadly lassitude and inertia ! " I wish to silence forever the slanderous accusations that de- bauchery and excesses of various kinds caused or contributed to liis break-down. There was found no trace or reason to suspect, •either during life or after death, either alcoholism or syphilis. This f .^ement is in justice due the memory of one whose ideal •of purity was high. But he had a ruddy face; and he despised not the "despised persons" — therefore he must be one of them! The accusation is as old at lest as the time of the Man of Nazareth, against whom it was charged that he mingled with publicans and sinners. About his (Whitman's) indomitable will there can be no disa- greement. And yet I do not share the opinion that it was exer- cised in a struggle against the inevitable. Perhaps, if he willed at all, it was to die sooner. But bodily pangs and tortures seemed not to perturb him ; he lived out his last days as he had lived his last forty years, with senses alert and keen and emotions under perfect control. His mind was bent on higher things than those passing about his inert and out-worn body. Who, indeed, shall trace for us the mysterious labyrinths of its wan- derings, and record its experiences throughout those long days And weeks and months? We are certain they had not the com- comfort or i to deposit d about the bdomen in accounted lave existed bability was \d the focus rally known ive tubercu- lihood, was iing one of jf certainty, tedated the No wonder, ions that de- )ntributed to n to suspect, or syphilis. : whose ideal le " despised accusation is igainst whom sinners, n be no disa- Lt it was exer- , if he willed and tortures ays as he had and emotions higher things body. Who, [is of its wan- ose long days not the com- lAST SICKNESS AND DEATH OF WALT WHITMAN. 411 plexion of fear, and it seems likely that his lifelong faith in con- tinued existence did not desert him (was probably confirmed) in this last supreme experience and agony. This much, at least, is certain, that at the very end, as all through his life, the act of dying had no terrors for him who had passed • • • • "death with the dying and biith with the new-washed babe." !i ■ i ^ w ll ( Not knowing whether it will reach you, I will, however, write a line vo ac- knowledge the receipt of your beautiful and elevated " Love & Death," & of the friendly letter from you of October 7th last. I have read & re- read the poem, & consider it of the loftiest, strongf^st & tenderest. kVa/t W/iitman to John Addington Symonds, 1872. I THANK you from my heart for the gifl of your great book — that beautiful complete book of your poems and your prose, which I call " Whitman's Bible." But my heart has not the power to make my brain and hands tell you how much I thank you. None of your eleves, your disciples, will be able to tell the world what they have gained from you, what ihey owe to you, what you are for them. . . . We are both growing old, and nearly half a hemisphere divides us, and yet nothing can divide souls, or separate that which is inseparable in the divine nature of the world. ... I cannot find words better fitted to express the penetrative force with which you have entered into me, my reliance on you. . , . You have exercised a controlling influence over me for half a century. . . . More and more of you will be found in me, the longer I live and the firmer I become in manhood. John Addington Symonds to Walt Whitman, 1889. (412) ^ ' LAST DAYS OF WALT WHITMAN. By 7. m IVALLACB. The following pages consist almost wholly of extracts from daily letters written by Horace L. Traubel to friends in England and to Dr. Bucke in Canada during Walt Whitman's last illness. As the letters were written off-hand — often hastily amid pressure of many duties — to a limited number of friends to whom they had special reference, it cannot be claimed for them that they present more than a sectional part of the complete story, which has yet to be written. But they will yield authentic glimpses of the daily course of the long tragedy, and of the deportment and spirit of its suffering hero. Walt Whitman had been failing in health and strength for some months, when, on the 17th of December, 1891, he was seized with a chill and was helped to bed. Dr. Longaker, of Philadelphia, saw him next day and found him suffering from congestion of the right lung. He became rapidly worse, and on the 21st the doctors said that the case was hopeless and that Whitman would not survive many days. Telegrams and cable messages were sent to his friends, and a series of letters succeeded from which are taken the extracts that follow. i Dec. 21. — The danger apprehended by Dr. Longaker for Walt is choking. Mucus is dangerously present in the bron- chials. He is too weak to move himself. Warren turns him every ten minutes, in order to guard against any local accu- mulation of mucus. The right lung is congested — hard — and he breathes only with the other. The heart is unaffected so far. Appetite entirely gone since last Thursday. For weeks before it had been rapidly declining. The only nourishment he takes (413) r 414 IN Rt: WALT WHITMAN. II I i-f rt now is in what he gains from milic punch and his medicine. His weakness is extreme — extreme — but his cheerfulness is marvellous. Kee[) brave, unshaken hearts even now, dear friends. His heart does not lose one drop of its serenity. Dec. 33. — Walt is slowly sleeping away — only dozes, dozes — and never speaks except when spoken to. Bucke should be in Camden now. He will be a host, for he is both doctor and friend. Dec. 23. — Walt holding his own for the immediate moment. What will come to-morrow no one can tell. liucke gives us no encouragement, which but confirms the views of the other doc- tors. The telegrams, etc., etc., to Walt and to me, are vast in number and various in character. Ingersoll wired from Toledo to-day : "After the day the night, and after the night the dawn ; yours with words of love and hope " — which profoundl" affected Walt. Walt serene and natural — for the first time conceding to-day that the end seems near. Dec. 24. — (Cablegram.) Remains the same, Dec. 2$. — (Cablegram.) A little vrorse. Dec. 26. — (Cablegram.) A little better. Dec. 27. — (Cablegram.) A little worse. Dec. 28. — A slight improvement, but we have small hopes for Walt. He is wrecked beyond recovery and he craves to be relieved. Bucke may go home to-night, but expects Walt not to survive his departure many days. Dec. 29. — A dead, inarticulate day, unchanged from yester- day's condition. As he requires constant attendance night and day we yesterday introduced a trained nurse — Mrs. Keller — who will share with Warren the burdens and duties of the watch. Bucke went home last night. Burroughs was here for two or three days, but had to go home Saturday. Jeff's daughter came east, and George Whitman spent one anxious night at 328. Walt clear, calm and tender, but praying for death — to be re- leased. This is his daily wish, cherished and expressed. Dec. 30. — His condition is unchanged. A respite now be- tween troubles. He has not for more than twenty-four hours said a word except by way of giving directions to those who attend him. Hiccoughs persistent for several days. :ine. His iiarvellous. His heart es, dozes — ould be in and friend, moment. Jives us no other doc- are vast in om Toledo the dawn ; :ll" affected conceding 11 hopes for raves to be Walt not to rom yester- e night and teller — who ■ the watch, for two or 's daughter igh'iat 328. 1 — to be ra- sed. te now be- -four hours : who attend LAST DAYS OF WALT WHITMAN. AlS- Jcn. I, 1893. — Walt is conscious and calm, and no day passes without some sign from him of the old affections. But he expresses little voluntary solicitude otherwise with respect to sur- roundings or worldly interests. He will inquire, "What is the news ? " and tiien will lapse, from weakness, unable to follow the thread. In a few minutes we go to have VV. sign a codicil to his will, the particulars of which he outlined to us this afternoon. Johnston (New York) over and hid two or three minutes with Walt. Jan. a. — Walt spent a comparatively easy day, but this even- ing has t n restless and in discomfort. .' have just had quite a talk with him. He wishes to die. There is nothing he %omuch wishes as that. The bronchial trouble is about all gone, but the weakness that remains is abject. He cannot turn iu bed — cannot even turn his head over on the pillow. But he is serene, calm, clear, unclouded mentally. Indeed, he mourns that this is so — that, after the body has so collapsed, these thoughts— -rowd- ing, hurrying thoughts — pursue him. We executed the co.'icil without event yesterday. The scene was striking, never to be forgotten. Ja;i. 4. — Nothing new to report. He seems to lose strength, but gives no further evidence of change. The dreadful hic- ''oughings continue, day and night. I was in his room an hour ago, and he seemed weak and worn past survival. Jan. 5. — Still no change in Walt. Jan. 6. — Without change. Had no talk with him for two days — nor had the others except as they waited upon him and questioned him — till this evening. " Dear, dear doctor," he said on delivery of your message [Dr. B.]. Gives me every sign of great love and tender regard — more than I ever suspected or hoped for. Jan. 7. — No sign or seeming hope of a rally. W. asked yes- terday if word had come of the arrival of his books [two Christ- mas gifts sent by him] in Bolton. A few minutes later John- ston's letter received, in which they are acknowledged. Weather cold — snow fallen and clear skies. Sleighing, too. Likes tO" talk of out-of-doors. F' • i • ■•% 4f« IN RE WALT WHITMAN. i I Jan. 8 — (From Wall's room). Some trifling rally. We send our love. Walt is glad the books arrived sa'cly. Jan. 9. — Walt has eaten more to-day than any day yet. No signs of strength, but some signs of comfort. He sends his love and best words. Position still critical, but more grounds for hope. Jan. ID. — Walt no worse — possibly improved. He has eaten more and shown some signs of really holding his own. Sat up in bed and affixed his signatures to two etchings for the doctors. Jan. II. — Walt very weak to-night — more distinctly so than for a week. I attend to his mail now — giving him tlie substance of important and loving letters, and having perforce to let the rest go. A beautiful letter from IngersoU. Jan. 12. — Perhaps a bit of ease to-day. No change to report. I am just in Warry's room from Walt's after 20 minutes' talk with W. He was sane and loving. Of all his distant friends Bucke and Ingersoll seem most in his mind. I asked as I left, "What message for Bolton?" and he responded: "Tell them I am very low — very — very! — that I still have one chance in four or five — but only one, if that ; tell them I am well seen to — that I am encircled by sweet attentions: tell them I send my best affection and regard — my best, tell them " — and here he broke off out of sheer feebleness, and I cried, " That is enough, don't try more : they will know it all from that ! " and he murmured almost in a whisper — " Right ! " Jan. 13. — A trifle easier to-day. He realizes little uninter- rupted comfort so far. Naturally, to one in his weak condition life is undesirable and useless, and he is frank enough to say he regards his future with fear, if not alarm. His nights are fright- fully restless. He calls again and again and again for the nurses to rearrange his position. Jan. 14. — A trifle easier this evening, but weaker. I left the house at 9.30, and the hiccoughs had not yet appeared. The lungs seem quite clear. The lower part of body gone to skin and bone, the face suffering some but not to a sad degree. Hands thin and generally cold. Senses acute. Cannot turn or even help turn his body about the bed, and at times can hardly turn his LAST DAVS OF WALT WHITMAN. Garland head about the pilluw. I hear from all the fellowi, now in Washington. Jan. 15. — A brief respite to-day. No hiccoughs for 37 hours ; this unprecedented. I reatl him part of my Poet Lore article. He seemed intensely interested, but he was so feeble he could not have it finished at one sitting Jan. 16. — Walt rallied to-day enough to look at ajwper and read the Poet Lore article for himself. He expresses the (to me) most astonishing applause for the article, and even makes me promise a copy for Tennyson as from him. Eats more, hiccoughs gone, comfort greater. Hands and feet all day cold as ice. Weak past utterance still. Hut some real signs of benefit and relief. Weather superb and cold — fine skies and hope ahead. Jan. 1 7. — Walt continues his extraordinary rally. I look upon it as for the present a distinct step beyond danger line. He may live weeks or months now. But do not build too much on this. He has read some to-day. Jan. 18. — A hard day — but to-night he is resting easy and seems happy under some measure of relief. Jan. 19. — An easy day for Walt.* Jan. 20. — A day of some discomfort. The nurse says she dis- covers a daily loss of flesh in W. Stedman over and spent ten minutes with ' in. Walt tried to write to-day but gave up. Jan. 21, — Walt himself is so calm, so sure, so joyful (almost), * {Letter from Warren Fritzins;er.) — Same dale, to this effect: My brother Harry had a Christmas present of a Utile boy and he named it Walt Whitman Fritzinger. When Mr. Whitman was told about it he was extremely pleased and wanted to see it at once. " I want it lv ought and laid right there," he said, putting his hand on his breast. Well, -n a few days — I think ten — I went down to my brother's and brought the bal.y up along with his nurse. The nurse took it upstairs, and Walt said, " O ! here comes the baby, little Walt Whitman, 1 O ! lay it here," he said, indicating his breast. It was laid there, and he put one hand up and patted it and smiled and was quite pleased, and said, " We ought to have our picture taken now. The dear baby, the dear little thing." After about five minutes or so we took it away, after he had kissed it repeatedly. He has inquired after it several times since, and always wants to know how Harry, Becky, and the baby are. 27 4i8 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. i now the active horrors are all fled, that I myself realize a certain measure of relief. Ingersoll came here this evening with his brother-in-law and publisher between six and seven. The talk and the inspiration it meant for me are beyond valuation. And it meant a thou- sand things for Walt and Ingersoll as well. These two giants, full of ardent love, spontaneous as children, brought face to face, with Walt's imminent peril to brace against and defy — offered us a picture, and one which shook our hearts. Words eloquent and sweet were said on both sides, and there were demonstrations of the most subtle and delicate affection. Matched with these were wise and manly consolations, and notes compared out of deep soundings. Things even of the hastening world were brought into vision, discussed and dismissed. It was a great manifest of the power that lives in these two men — a splendid touch of comradeship in rare altitudes and with the best applica- tions of genius and fidelity. You should have listened as Inger- soU's great voice delivered messages from wife and daughters — as he spoke his own fervent hopes and faith, and assured Walt that whether to live or die, whether to lift head as victor or fall at the last day, he, Ingersoll, was his lover and defender, pledged and armed. It was a gauge of battle, and Walt murmured to it, out of his feeble body but unshaken soul: "I know, dear Colonel, I know — know— know." yan. 22. — W. in general recent tone — not better, not worse, so far as outward indications go. He is much pleased >•< ith Young's second article in the Sfar ["Reminiscences of W. W "]. _/orning than at any time ^ince December. He passed a horribly restless night. Longaker l\ ,1 * Whitman's second letter to his sister at Burlington ran as follows : "Jan. 27, noon. " Much the same — weak and restless — otherwise fairly — y'r letter came — 2 enc'd — Geo. was here — my new fuller best ed'n is out — have written to Mary — very cold to day — am propp'd up in bed — read the papers, &c. — ap- petite fair — body sore and feeble — Best love and God bless you. W. W." [The Editors.] f The letter is appended : " Jan. 27, noon. " Feeble and weak and restless, but not without favorable points — appeti* Isolds out — eat two meals eveiy day — bowel movement every day (rather strange after such a long interregnum) — McK was here — paid me $283. — I «nc two adv't slips — to me the 1892 ed'n supersedes them all by far — adv. intended for N Y Trib— God bless you. W. W." [The Editors.] %. LAST DA YS OF WALT WHITMA. '. 42T tells me the impairment is steady. Pale and haggard as death itself. But the soul shines out a great beacon as of old. Feb. 2. — Complains of severe pains in his side. We do not know what they portend. Feb. 3. — After one of his recent nights of restlessness the day has been a quiet sleepy one for Walt. I have this minute asked him, "Any word for Bolton?" and he says, "No, I guess I have no particular word." Yet he tells me at all limes to " keep in touch with the boys " — and seems to dread to have the circle broken, or in any way to have his own silence mar the joy of our comradely sympathies. I had a tender telegram from Inger- soU to-day, which I repeated to Walt, who exclaimed, "The dear, dear fellow ! Always loving and great ! " Feb. 5. — Continues in his quiet depression — rarely says a word to any one except when interrogated. Strangely silent. " Dear doctor," says he, and sends his love to you [Dr. Bucke]. To- night Jupiter and Venus in friendly proximity. What phenom- ena in the clear sky. Walt says he would almost dare to be carried out to see them. Feb. 6. — I hardly need to write you anything to-day, since Walt has sent you a word. And yet I will write, if to say no- more than that you must cherish that note as a struggled last word, written under the saddest difficulties and at the price of complete exhaustion — for when it was done, he, too, was done and sank wearily back on his pillow. By the application of the plasters his side is a bit relieved. But the strength seems de- parted forever. He seems to be thoroughly convinced of that himself, and I do not think he has the least notion he can get essentially better than he is now. Feb. 7. — I supposed Walt had finished your letter yesterday, but he holds it and has added something more to-day. So far as he is concerned there does not seem to be any visible change at all. He passes abjectly weak days, with comfort about all gone and even sound rest not regular or long. Feb. 8. — We here watch Walt as he holds his slender claim against death. All is pain and unrest. He asked me this even- ing to give you this counsel : " If entirely convenient facsimile I i"^ 422 JN RE WALT WHITMAN. the letter of February 6th and send it copiously to European and American friends and friends anywhere," letting us have copies here as well. It meant a great struggle to get this letter written, and he wishes it to go out as his general salutation of friends to whom his strength will not permit him specially to write. It was framed with that end in view. I give you his own words written down as he laboredly uttered them.* Saw a letter at Walt's this morning from Hallam Tennyson, convey- ing a message from his father. Walt asleep, and I did not open it.f ■"■ The letter was to this effect : "Feh 6, 1892. — Well I must send you all dear fellows a word from my own hAiid — propp'd up in bed, deac ■ weak yet, but the spark seems to glimmer yet — the doctors and nurses y Mew York friends as faithful as ever — Here is the adv. of the 92 edn. Dr. Bucke is well & hard at work. Col. Ingersoll has been here — sent a b.-isket of champagne. All are good — phy- sical conditions &c are not so bad as you might suppose, only my sufferings much of the time are i^arful — Again I repeat my thanks to you & cheery British friends may be last — my right arm giving out. "V .LT Whitman. "Feb. 7. — Same cond'n cont'd — More and more it comes to the fore that 'the only theory worthy our modern times for g't literature politics and soci- ology must combine all the best people of all lands, the women not forget- ting. — But the mustard plaster on my side is stinging & I must stop— Good ibye to all. ; - v W. W." [The advertisement referred to reads thus : " Walt Whitman wishes respectfully to notify the public that the book ■' Leaves of Grass,' which he has been working on at great intervals and' p.irtially issued for the past thirty-five or forty years, is now completed, so to ■call it, and he would like this new 1892 edition to absolutely supersede all previous ones. Faulty as it is, he decides it as i)y far his special and entire self-chosen poetic utterance." It is of Whitman's own make, worked out in the midst of the cares of those days. — The Editors.] . , . i . ^ , • . ■(• Again Whitman writes to Burlington : ..'...". " Monday, p. M., Feb. 8, '92. ** Much the same cond'n cont'd. Am probably growing weaker. Will not write much — $2 enc'd — Best love and God bless you. W. W. , " Geo. here yesterday." [The Editors.] LAST DAYS OF WALT WHITMAN. 433 cares of those He has sent four or five lines to Bucke * again. He says : "The good doctor! Iwish I could send him nuore." Feb. 9. — I have just finished a talk with Whitman. His hand and head are happily warm, and I enjoyed having it so — for usually he lives and glows in spots, and I marvel al times how one part of him should be buovitnt and hopeful with physical life, and another as dead as death. We almost see the touch of death in Walt at times, and again are transported with signs of corporeal elation. But in real sober fact, he sees as clearly as we see that the end is near — that at most the lapse is a matter of weeks. He says this to us now day by day, and protests that it is not our part as brave and candid men to shelter ourselves be- hind a delusion. His talk of high themes — of the general trend of woiMly affairs — is still clear and cogent ; but he rarely dwells upon them of his own acc~'d, and only now and then encourages any discussion of them in his presence. I suppose I am the only one with whom he really converses on such subjects, except as men like Ingersoll or Stedman drop in. Walt is no better to-day than yesterday, and yesterday was a bad day indeed. I think the death of George Stafford affected him somewhat. His niece and Mrs. Louisa Whitman here to-day. Feb. 10. — Walt has passed a bad day to-dt.y. He calls it "glum," and says he is at his worst. I have a melancholy letter from Symonds. Walt insisted on hearing the whole letter. While I was reading it Gilder, of the Century, came in, but W. was in too enfeebled a condition to give him more than five minutes. Ingersoll writes a fine letter to Walt and another to me. I hear from Bucke daily. Burroughs writes every now and then. Kennedy too. Walt's own mail from strangers has dropped to a cipher. ' ■ ..-.'- * This constitutes his last direct conimunication with Dr. Bucke on earth : »• Monday, Feb. 8, P. M., '92. " Geo Staflbrd the father is dead — buried to morrow — I keep on much the same — probably growing weaker — ^bowel movement an hour ago — bad steady pain in left side what I call underbelly — Dr McA here daily — God bless you all. • -v. •••■ w • -• -• •• Walt Whitman." • [The Editors.} > ^J ■w 424 IN RF WALT (VHITMAN. M r\ Feb. II. — I have just had a talk with Walt. He laughed, was serious, was interested, was quizzical, very much as of old; but he was weak, he was discouraged, he was imperilled — and this he knew too — and this was not the old status. And here is the dif- ference — and hereby are we watching at the gates of death. Yet I have hours which seem to push away all possibility and taste of despair. I realize his condition — yet find the soul so triumphant I cannot believe it dragged down to the body's death. Nor will it be! Walt is in much earnest about i\\Q facsimile [of letter Feb. 6]. He writes practically nothing. His last letter to Bucke — only a couple of lines — Bucke says was in the worst hand he had ever known from Walt. To-night I got him to write his signature for use in a newspaper {N. Y. Telegram), and the job completely exhausted him — though he did it with determined, if very shaky and feeble hand. Feb. 12. — I have just had a talk with W., but he was so weak, after passing a bad day, that he was not able to say much or to manifest any great interest. I told him I would go into the next room and send a line to you, whereat he advised me to include his love to you all, with special remembrances to George Hum- phreys ar.vl Fred Wild, and particular affectionateness to J. W. W. He loves you all and his nvveet words of you should exalt you forever. To-day's mail brought me a letter from Carpenter and a postal from Rudolf Schmidt. Feb. 15. — No change in Walt. He has slept all day, with hardly a word for any one. Has lately sho.i'n a marked disposition of this sort. It is dreadful to have him ive in this condition. The N. Y. Telegram of Saturday cont lined some matter about Walt. They are getting money for flowers for him. Feb. 17. — The prospects ahead are gloomy in the extreme. When the Telegram speaks of these as W.'s dying days he accepts the statement as truth. But the constant attentions, the pro- vision of foods to meet all humors and necessities, and the service of his friends on every side, are bound to prolong his life and make the inroads upon his remaining strength slow and imper> ceptible. ri lijilrtdjii LAST DA YS OF WALT WHITMAN. 4a$ Feb. 19. — Walt worse again to-day — and still we hope. It is like the cadence in sad music — the wave is up and down — we ride its crest and know its hollows. Fe/f. 20. — The bad reports of yesterday cannot be made brighter by to-day's. He rests all day long, not sleeping, but dozing, and will not manifest any interest in anything under the sun. He does not say a word about you or about any one — not because he forgets, but because the pressure of pain holds him down stiffly to his reserves. The only hope now is for him to maintain absolute privacy and peace — to sweep away all interests and anxieties — to retire into himself, back to nature, and let the winds and seas sail him whither they will. If to life, sweet and good — if to death, still sweet and good : that always has been, and would be, and is, his philosophy. . Walt tells me always to •' keep in touch with the boys every- where," to take his place, now — at least, in those minor matters which another may hold in hand. Feb. 21. — As Carpenter says to me, Walt does seem to turn away from the scenes and claims of this earthly life — to take serene wing to other spheres, away into the eternal silences. He tells me: "I seem to be washed out — to go forth with the tide — the never-returning tide." And usually, when I ask him for mes- sages for others, he gives me some such word as that — and it is a sad word to us, though it may seem to make eternity more glo- rious. We will almost envy the other world that receives him. And yet Walt says always : " I am no saint. Don't let our Bolton fellows tumble into that bog" — though more our comrade, doubt- less, because not saint. • Feb. 22. — I was a party with Walt this morning to the signing of some contract papers — going to New York, to Webster. Walt's signature was very bad, but still characteristic. We made an ex- change of beds, too — (I bought him a bed out of the Telegram flower fund). We feared the moving might shock him — but he was not disturbed. Indeed, he expressed immediate pleasure in the new order. But he was afterwards thoroughly exhausted. Feb. 23. — Have just had a talk with Walt, and while he is in sad bodily condition, his heart and faith are up with. 426 . IN RE WALT WHITSfAN. full sail, and he is at the wheel. But strangely silent day by •day. (Later.) — Your cable just here. — Thanks — thanks from both of ais. He has handed it to me with request to acknowledge. He cannot write. Very serene — uncomplaining — but certainly at the edge of things.* Feb. 25. — For the first time since December, Walt has seemed to show some signs of a rally, though just now, in my talk with him, he was despondent enough and said his apparent •change was only apparent. . Letters from Carpenter and IngersolL Feb. 26. — Walt's improvement yesterday not continued. He asks about the /ac-simi/es every day — anxious as a child. Feb. 28. — Walt has seemingly reached a stage low down and there must halt — his eye still up, but his body dragging him 'ower and lower into the nether pits. Still the silence, still the much sleep. He reads his mail and the paper every day, then relapses in great fatigue. I keep him supplied with choice brandy (1825) Avhich they m.-'ke into a punch for him, and which he calls his "grog" — he seeming from this mixture to get the best physical joy he chances upon these days. All his old simple habits and •expressions cling to him — all the naturalness which has made him the man he is. He will leave us unclothed, as he came. Feb. 29. — Walt has been wrapt in shadows to-day, realizing one of his worst attacks of depression, mental and physical. He was hardly able to talk with me to-night, and as I sat at his bed- side, and read him a letter I received from Hallam Tennyson this morning, he was pale as death and seemed incapable of taking any thorough interest in what I said, or in the significance of the message. But he was touched and murmured forth his gratitude, lam not sure but to-day's evil is the reflex of the day, which is clouded and rainy, with a prevailing cold northeast wind. He * Whitman writes a fourth note to his sister at Burlington : " Feb. 24, '92 " Still very poorly — wearing — much same — Lou here — Jess back in St •Geo. sick rheumatism — 5 enc'd — Best love as always. W. W." 4. .: . [The Editors.] LAST DAYS OF WALT WHITMAN. 4«7 wishes you to send a copy of the /ac-simi/g to L. M. Brown, Not- tingham, and to Rudolf Schmidt. March i. — Walt has spent to-day as bad a day as any he has known since December, and this evening seems depleted of all his strength and hope. March 2. — No change in alifairs here. It is a sad chronicle, yet one full of victorious lessons, loo. I have had a talk with W. — the first, they told me, had by him with anyone to-day. He even laughed at my merry-making description of a tiff be- tween and . Frightfully worn and pale, lips blue, hands cold, and eyes dull. But so earnest and kind, so willing to say right things and do good deeds and make even these last feeble endeavors regnant of old royalty — his pride of person- ality lofty and secure and unruffled ! Such an old age and such a sickness as go to his eternal evidence, and will be to me, its witness, the warrant for many a proud word should I live in years to come. We spoke of things and people to-night, a word being put in of you fellows, and a reminder of the plain men at the ferry, and not a little in connection with the nearer necessities and sufferings, from which he never can escape for an hour and which are our perpetual grief. Not a point seems gained, and he suffers past patience — though he patiently endures! To-day he speaks of his miseries as having new aspects — great pain when he lies /f/t, and choking when he lies rt'^h^. He says: " I shall never see the boys at the ferry again." < . March 3. — The story continues, dear comrades, without that touch of cheer and passage of hope which we look for with eager eyes and fail to find. Dear Walt ! he is low in silence, far gone in weakness, in eye dull, in face pale, in temperature cold, in hope deserted, in content unmoved, in serenity complete. To look on all this is not to deny. but that victory is fulfilled in him — in his ever sweet savor of happy peace and incuriosity about death. Somehow, sometimes, at odd moments, I seem to realize a hap- piness, as if this which to others is pain must be to him glory *nd victory and celebrate a high decree. McAlister says to-day that Walt has lost more in the three days 1" ^1 ii. 4*8 IN RK WALT WHITMAN. fo I past than in the equal number of weeks before. This downward tendency must of course be stemmed, or he will not last much longer, 'jiit, like Bucke, I hardly fear any sudden or quick col- lapse. I am afraid he will go down slowly, inexorably — will make the pace so slow tlie escape will be like a whisper, a sigh, a lapsing breeze. He has asked for neither papers nor mail to- day. The visits of friends are almost entirely cut off, and his correspondence is fallen quite ignobly, till (except for one or two persons, you among them) it is dust and ashes. March 4. — Facsimiles here. Walt is pleased and hastens thanks and love. The \)00v facsimile ! or that poor original, trembling, orthographically faulty, but bravely determined, and with eyes out and ap, from whatever seas of drowning pain ! As if his last word tiie lips closing forever, held n)en to eternal promises, to supernal truths. He wrote a short note to-day to Mrs. Heyde.* March 5. — No change. Less able to talk than last night. The right side trouble persists. When he lies this way he is much choked and can scarcely speak for rising and falling of mucus. Rarely can stand this tack more than ten minutes or fifteen. It is hard, hard, to have him so close, yet to see him so subtly drift- ing away — to see that our best endeavor cannot hold him back, though he still lingers on the crests and in the shadows of the tumultuous waves, within hail and call, and sends us cheery response to every salute. I think he wishes me to give the letter of February 7th to the papers here. He calls it " represent- ative," and regards it as a general recognition and kiss to friends everywhtie. He loves you and thinks of you often, but his words testifying thereto are scarce. Afarch 7. — Walt fearfully down — a bad day throughout — and now he is in for a restless night. This restlessness appears * Note number five to Burlington : " March 4, '92. " Still lingering along pretty low — Lou here yasterday — ^Jess well St. L— 5 enc'd — Best love to you and God bless you. W. W." At one point in thlj letter Whitman had gone over his pencilled line with a pen. [The Editors.] LAST DAYS OF WALT WHITMAS. 4J9 with early evening, works its way fretfully into the midnight, then pours down like a great flood, overwhelming peace, until morning is advanced. He is pale and blue, his eyes are sunken, his temples have fallen in, his cheeks are flat and poor, and his body is terribly emaciated. He suffers constant and intense pain. He told me this evening calmly and rationally that he felt death itself upon him. I almost hope that to-morrow, or any near day, may release him — for the spectacle of his pain is one to break your heart. My sorrow is not made less by the knowl- edge that he never breathes any complaint, but is as nolily serene as in health. It is marvellous how his grand soul triumphs over all physical disaster and holds its old music like a r:iluent sea. Last night I kissed him good-bye and said, " Dear Walt, you do not realize what you have been to us!" to which he murmured, " Nor you what you have been to me ! " Mrs. Keller leaves to-morrow, and Mrs. Davis and Warry will a.ssume the watching between them — some one being engaged to relieve Mrs. Davis in the kitchen. Walt takes the change very hard, and we all regret it, but Mrs. Keller had made an advance contract with another person many months ago. March 8. — Have just had a word with Walt. After his dread- ful night he has lived through a silent day. I found hiiP really too weak to talk. He seemed pleased to hear I was to write to you. March 9. — Poor dear Walt I Sheltering in silence, not saying word or doing deed further to complicate himself with our world — the body maimed and broken — the spirit proud but fleeting. P. M. — Nothing is more painful than his silence — yet nettling more natural, either. My talks with him are few and not full, and consist generally and mainly of the simpler affairs of speech or of those direct matters which pertain to his own business and which I have to watch and keep straight. This silence will doubtless increase. His history is now narrowing down to a few spare sentences and constant attentions. March 10. — You would be much shocked to see Walt as he is now. He is more and more silent. All this day he has hardly said a word in the way of conversation except to me, and even m i'« '!.»'> /.V KN WAIT WniTMAy. tc» inr he wonlil |ii()ltal)lv linvr wiiil lilllf il wonls I rHHiially (lnt|i|it'(i hiui not cxi itcti wliiit lilllo tliorc \n Icll in hint nl tlic ittihirr ol tnrumity. lie in tnrncd and tnrnol, hour a^ainnt Ixitir. (lay iiiul night, iiowlu'rr loully k-hIimI anil at no time iMtjoyinj; nlwohili'ly painh-HH NJinnlirr. 'I'lic |ialiiMin/ /otrx out Iht xivrttrU tHtin (ffsts. 1 am torn lu'd to the <|ni« k. when I wilncss (he drama, as it |iro)tTds, slow pai ««l, into llu' niglil. The gloom galhrrn - yet he got*N nnappallod into the ctcrnai shadows, ilow miK h of hJH voi«- 'Nlill ismnsir ! Ilow arc his utloran«i'H strong and vital I Af,if,/i II. — Ml' has been in nik h a state to-day over that right- Bide trouble that he lias nl no time been able lo rest thai way more than five mimiles. This makes the strain on the (son ) leH side greater. 1 1 is flesh Iwih so far gone that he cannot lie on his liai k at all. My love lo yon all— and Walt'H. "Alwayn M.;/." says W.dl. Afi,/nii;/i/. — I am just bark from Walt's, wiiere [ Nat with Warry on my thiid rail, from la : lu lo u ; 45, Walt in the next room breathing his dillii ult hours away In pain and unrest, t never half believed he wonUI have to pass through this fire, lie tlocs it with more than a inarlyr's (ontent and grace. ,}fiifH talk with him thin rvcning. I In wan too weary and tirrd to Nay mix h or to intcrrst liimHcIf in what I had to tril him. Ilill4!IH|MBpi 443 IN RE WALT WHITMAN. and honored Walt Whitman. In this beautiful and fitting burial-ground we place all of him that is mortal. Future generations will visit this shrine in their adoration of one of the world's immortals. FRANCIS Howard WILLIAMS. These are the words of Confucius: A/l thf living must liie, and dyinf:;, return to the ground. The hones and flesh moulder away hehw, and hidden away, become the earth of the fields. But the spirit issues forth and is displayed on hi):;h in a condition of glorious hrightt fss. These are the words of Gautama : The state that is peaceful^ free from body, from passion and from fear, lohere birth or death is not — that is Nirt'ana, ft is a calm wherein no icind blows. Ninnma is the completion and opposite shore of existence, free from decay, iranquil, hunving no restraint, and of great blessedness. The wind cannot be squeezed in the hand, nor cm its color be told. Vet the wind is. £7>en so Nirvana is. Tliese are the words of Jesus the Christ : Blessed are the poor in spirit ; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn ; for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek ; for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hun^^er and thirst after righteousness ; for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful ; for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart ; for they shall see God. DANIEL G. BRINTON: Friends of the dead, comrades and lovers of him who has left lis — We meet to bid farewell to him whose life and thoughts have forged the bonds between us. We feared that in midwinter he would have been taken from us ; but he abided until the flowers of spring have come to deck his sepulchre, and until the leaves STi-SKt—r^-Ttr!;: AT TIIK GRAVESIDE OF WALT WHITMAN. 443 of grass, typical to his soul of the mystic energy of nature, stretch out their tender fronds toward his tomb. His contending spirit hns reached the end of the untried roads he loved to follow. Through sharp defeats and baffled crises he has fought nut the fight, ever marching on with clear eyes fixed on the well-marked goal. I lis spirit has passed beyond the " frontiers to eyes impenetrable." The "dark mother, gliding near with soft feel," has taken this child to her sure-enwinding arms, and laves him in the flood of her bliss. We stand on the hither shore, and our eyes have not force to search the dimness of the floating ocean into which he has journeyed. Let us turn to note the legacy he has left. No idler was he, no dallier with the golden hours ; but arduous, contentious, undisstiadable and infinitely loving. He came bear- ing the burden of a Gospel, the (lospel of the Individual Man ; he came teaching that the soul is not more than the body, and that the body is riot more than the soul ; and that nothing, not God himself, is greater to one than one's self is. He asked no man to accept his teachings, or to become his disciple, or to call him master. His strong voice resounded above the heads of all higl> men, and over the roofs of the world. It challenged alike wealth and power, and want and death, pro- claiming tliat man, the one man, the individual, every individual, has all rights and all powers, is the autocrat of the world, sole ruler of the universe — let him only enforce his claims and make good his title. His words are perpetual warnings to all sects and syndicates, to all leagues and orders which bind men's mimls or muscles to the bidding of another, which make them slaves in thought or in action ; and a warning against that worse and commoner bondage to one's own self, to imbibed traditions, to cultivated fears, to accepted and self-forged shackles. He who would gain true freedom, who would feel soul and body stinging with a new, an electric life, the life of one's self, let him patiently, persistently seek the meaning of that legacy of verse left with us by him whom now we consign to the clasp of the tomb. Never did he fear that fatal and certain end. Idle, indeed, it '^«mf *UM 444 ly lih' WALT WlHTMAy. was for Death to try to nturm liim. Almost did it seem that to him, iis to tlie mighty sage of Kapilavustii, the Kinf{ of Terrors had kIvci) ii|> iiis secret, and in liis ear had whis|>ere(l iiints of cheer and joy. Deatit liad come to him to mean the trtitl) "without name," the " woni unsiid," not to be found "in any dictionary, utterance, symbol," the creative sign, " the friend whose embracing " should awake him. . Therefore he harl)«)rcd no suspii ion of deatli ; but he forgot not that his concern, and that of all men, is not with death, but with life; not with that which tannot be said, but witii tiiat the saying and doing of whi( h will help the weak and gladden the strong, lift the falling ami enlighten the thoughtful, spread robust love between men and tender sympathy among women. This was his practical n)ission. On tlic portal of the holiest shrine in ancient CJreece were in- scribed the words, '• Know thyself; " the ntessage of " the I'ilot of the (lalilean I^ike" was, " Deny thyself;" the iteration of this child of the doctrine of the inner light, whose mortal remains we now consign to the tond), was, " He thyself." There is no conflict in these teachings. They are the evolution of the self-same sentiment. They are all end)raced in one line of him whom Walt Whitman in his strong and homely phrase called •' the boss of all of us " — " Sclfrcvrrcnce, sclfkiu)wlc«lKo, tcirconlrol, These three nlonc lend life to suverei|;n power." Be thyself; suffer neither the tyranny which comes from the assumptions of others, nor that which proceeds from thine own lower nature ; true to thyself, never canst thou be false to any one — to man, to woman, or to God. This was ///> teaching to whom we now bid farewell — the long, the timeless farewell. FRANCIS HOWARD WiLUAMS: These are the words of the Koran : //<• // is who made the sun for a brightness and the moon for a Hght. AT TIIH UHAVKsntE OF WA/.T Will I MAS. 445 Verily, in Ihf alh't tuition of nif^/it ant/ Jiiy, iin,/ in lohiit Goii hits ertatfd of the htavfns and Ihf earth, are sit^tn unto a people who lio fear. letily those who believe and do what it rii^ht, their P.ord ^i^uides them h their faith ; ieneath them shall riven flow in the ^ardem of pleasure, Tlifsc arc tlie wnnls of Isaiah ; Lord, I will praise thee ; thouf^h thou wast an^^ry with »//•, thine an,t,'er is turned away, and thou comfortedst me. Jiehold, God is my salvation ; I will trust and not be afraid ; for the Lord Jehovah is my streuf^th and my son^ ; he also is become my salvation. Tlu'HC arc the words of Jolin : . 1 am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord ; he that be- iieveth in me, thouj^h he were dead, yet shall he live ; and whosoever believeth in me shall never die. RiCMAKi) MAUi' lis one ih/ii TIlCM " Ami thoui;1i no ^tnnce tpvenl Ihou ilocsl accept My liiini;\jjc — lliiis 110 losH, I prolVoi it Ami h\A llioo Ciller (jloiiously thy rest," FRANCIS Howard Williams: These arc the wonls of the Zend Avesta : /// thf cttif of (hf thirJ ni\:;ht, ivhev Ihf ifiiivn afoe htou^ht amiiist plants a»ti a swfft-sffntfd ivinii. Atiii it sffms to him as if his own fonscifncf ivere aJvanfin); to him in that n>i»la»ts \;\jnii»f; to [///, white- . . . as AT TUK an.WKsioE or ir.i/.r wnivMAy. 4'IQ /iiir Its thf fiutest thinif in thf ivorhf. /Itiii tlw soul of thf fiiithful one aifiiirssfif Ihf, tiski»}; : What nuui/ art thou f Attii she iiU' srcrrc,/, J ivu thy oron lonsiii-rtir. These are the words of IMato : Considifiui; thr sou/ to /><• iinmortii/ anit able to hear all evil and Xi'otrsevete in the toaii which leads upwards. W()m;uT (i. iNnpi^soi.i, : Again we, in the niystory of l.ifc, are brought face to fare with the mystery of Death. A great niaii, ii groat American, the most eii\ii\(Mit ( ili/.i'ii of liiis re|inlili( , iiis dead before us, and we have met to pay a tribtite to his greatness and his woith. 1 know he needs no words of mine. His fame is set lire, lie laid the fitiiiulalions of it deep in the liimian heart and brain. He was, altove all I have known, the poet of humanity, of sym- pathy, lie was so great that he rose above the greatest that he met without arrogance, and so great that he stooped lo ilie lowest without I onsrious condescension. lie never (homed to be lower or greater than any of the sons of mm. lie cinie into our generation a liee, untrammelled spirit, with sympathy for all. His arm was beneath the form o the sick. He sympathizeil with the imprisoned and ilespiscd, and even tm the brow of crime he was great en(: ihe earth. He stretched li his hand and felt himself the equal of all kings and of all princes, and the brother of all men, no matter how higli, no matter how low. He has uttered more supreme words tha-i any writer of our century, possibly of almost any other. He was, above all &^ AT THE GRAVESIDE OF WALT WHITMAN. 45 ' things, a marij and above genius, above all the snow-c; ppcd peak* of intelligence, above all art, rises the true man Greater thaa all is the true man, and he walked nmo'ig \v.s Hlo '-men as su< iu He was tlie uoet of Deatli. He accepted all life .'thI v' death,, and h''. justified all. He had the courage to meet all, and was great enough and splendid enough to harmonize all and to accept all there is of life as a divine melody. You know better than I what his life has been, but let me say one thing ; Knowing, as he did, what others can know and what they cannot, he accepted and absorbed all theories, all creeds, all religions,and believed in none. His philosophy was. a sky that embraced all clouds and accounted for all clouds. He had a philosophy and a religion of his own, broader, as he believed — and as I believe — than others. He accepted all, he understood all, and he was above all. He was absolutely true to himself. He had frankness and courage, and he was as candid as liglit. He was willing that all the sons of men should be absolutely accpiainted with his heart and brain. He had nothing to conceal. Frank, candid, pure, serene, noble — and yet for years he was maligncil and slandered, simply because he had the candor of nature. He will be understood yet, and that for which he was condemned — his frank- ness, his candor — will add to the glory and greatness of his fame. He wrote a liturgy for mankind ; he wrote a great and splen- did psalm of life, and he gave to us the gospel of humanity — the greatest gospel that can be preached. He was not afraid to live, not afraid to die. For many years- he and death were near neighbors. He was always willing and ready to meet and greet this king called Death, and for many months he sat in the deepening twilight waiting for the night, waiting for the light. He never lost his hoi)e. When the mists filled the valley>-, he looked tipon the mountain-tops, and when the mountain?? iii darkness disappeared, he fixed his gaze upon the stars. In his brain were the blessed memories of the day, and in his heart were mingled the dawn and dusk of lif He was not afraid j he was cheerful every moment. The 4<;s IN RE WALT WHITMAN. laughing nymphs of day did not desert him. They remained that they might clasp the hands and greet with smiles the veiled and silent sisters of the night. And when they did come, Walt Whitman stretched his hand to them. On one side were the nymplis of the day, and on the other the silent sisters of the night, and so, hand in hand, between smiles and tears, he reached his journey's end. From the frontier of life, from the western wave-kissed shore, he sent us messages of content and hope, and these messages seem now like strains of music blown by the " Mystic Trum- peter " from Death's pale realm. To day we give back to Mother Nature, to her clasp and kiss, one of the bravest, sweetest souls that ever lived in human clay. Charitable as the air and generous as Nature, he was negligent of all except to do and say what he believed he should do and should say. And I to-day thank him, not only for you but for myself, for all the brave words he has uttered. I thank him for all the great and splendid words he has said in favor of liberty, in favor of man and woman, in favor of motherhood, in favor of fathers, in favor of children, and I thank him for the brave words that he has said of death. He has lived, he has died, and death is less terrible than it was before. Thousands and millions will walk down into the "dark valley of the shadow" holding Walt Whitman by the hand. Long after we are dead the brave words he has spoken will sound like i.umpets to the dying. And so I lay this little wreath upon this great man's tomb. I loved him living, and I love him still. y remained smiles the they did On one the silent smiles and ssed shore, J messages tic Trum- 5 and kiss, mian clay. negligent lid do and myself, for for all the liberty, in n favor of the brave than it was I into the lan by the las spoken 3 tomb. I BOOKS TO BE HAD OF DAVID ricKAY, Publisher and Bookseller, 33 S. NINTH ST., - - - PHILADELPHIA Leaves of Grass, brought up to 1893. Poems— iucMditig Sands at Seventy and Good -Bye, My Fancy {(he Annex pieces of iSS8 and iSgz). Price, $2. Leaves of Grass : Pocket Edition, 1889. Poems — with A Backward G-lance o'er Travel d Roads. Morocco. Autographed. $/(>. This volume may be ordered direct of Horace L. Traubel, Camden, New Jersey. Complete Prose Works, brought up to 1893. I^ose—A Biography — Memoranda of the Secession Wu, and Army Hospital Labors at the Time and on the Spot — With Many Essays {^including Dexaocratic Vistas), etc., etc. Price, $2. November Boughs. V Including A Backward O-lanceo'er Travel' d Roads, Sands at Seventy {Annex to Leaves of Grass) and Notes on Ellas Hicks, etc., etc. Price, $t 2^. Walt Whitman Complete. A large volume of goo pages containing Prose and Poems com- plete to 1889 ; Portraits from life, and Autograph. Price. $12. This volume may be ordered direct of Horace I,. Traubel, Camden, New Jersey. '^es of Grass), ic. Price, $i. ers American n, New York, ginal edition, 1. . bjf Ingersoll, «, March 30, in, Syvwnds, '>er, numbered niains Essays razin, Inger- Cloth, $2.00. /hitman • }ctavo, cloth. 'es and Tele- V