New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1881-04-21
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They have Walt Whitman in Bost0n. They lit
orally have him and hold him. He goes 10 rrccp
tuns; hr partahc~ Of breakfasts; hc is called upon
1T hi. hotel and doubtless the old lion wears his
fowery chains with % sweet aud smiling serenity.
Not that the lion il 30 very old clthrr-it is only
siHty-two years since hc came into tins breathing
world Mt West Hill, Long Island. Yet illness has
done much to give to hil an appearance Of true
bardic longevity: and most people who have not
seen him think Of him ~ scnc. like the figures in
the old-fa,honcd illustrations Of Grey or Of Ossian
And somehow We do not easily consider this re-
markahlc man n belonging to age OF steam fac
tories and steel rails. II j, true that he writes anil
talks chiefly Of contemporary matters and men, but
ne does ~ in an antique spirit and almost archaic
phrascolouy lie has an Independence OF literary
convontionalitcs which the iaded readers Of
poetry in England and America have found a.
reyiying as the fresh breeze which come, with the
morning. This making Of verses is now such a
general amusement that it is not strange that
there should he fashion Of It, and that, run
ming IN the same ruts, ministries should
sing in assonancc rather than with q piquant but
harmonious diversity. When Mr.W htman's Leaves
of Grass made its first appearance. men, being much
astoni,hcd hardly knew what To- say OF its rude and
ragged verses which hardly Verses al all, and
Of that physical squint" which Mr. Emerson OBJ
10 hc all nonsense. Ono Of them spoke Of the new
poet "a n had Upper Those who admired, or
thought that they admired. aid so in silence, which
was M least an implied reservation. Everybody
admitted that the book was curious, and even
uuianr-much further few cared 10 60. The comic
newspapers had their usual III of gibcs One might
have thought that Leaves of Grass would be but
nine days wonder whereas IL is in mand and read
still after the lapse Of more than quarter of cen
tury II verse-makers could find out the secret Of
this success they might be surer Of tolcrable diNi-
dcnds when making their scmi-annnal settlements.
We think that Ne make at least q faint indication
Of the secret when we say that Mr. Whitman Is HIM
self and is not always trying to be- somebody else.
H. may have had some notions Of founding a dis
tinctivc school Of American poetry, but that was
only his little weaknoss-a yielding to the throreti-
cal propensity from which nobody in this muddlcd
world is over entirely safe. II Mr.. Whitman had
been no more than preponse pOetical refor1ner he
would have been but slightly recognized and have
sunk into obscurty long ago Such has always been
the fate Of all who wrote poetry according 10
formula. But our Long Island bard in the very be-
ginning was ono of tho most unconscious Of men.
His productions might be good bad, sublime or
silly, poor things rich thngs-but at least they
were his own. He had made attempt 10 help
himself 20 another mans inspiration. lie was not
singing because somebody else had Deen singing Ten
years or ten hundred years ago. Now it is true that
the writer's Of utterly wretched doggerel had been
exhibiting the same marked originality. They, too,
had COMPOUNDED long and short.' They had been
bad enough to be good. But Mr. Whitman was no
more Of this anserne brood than he Of the flock
Of cuckoo imitatOrs who struggle to be like some
celebrated poet, usually TennysOn and occasionally
Swinburne. With all his ruggedness he had n natu-
raj sense of literary FORM and with all his extrava
gance habit Of looking 10 himself for inspiration.
As we have said. men and women found this 10 be
extremely odd. Here was not tho American this or
the American that, but simply Walt Whitman. 1t