La. W596. S890'a

Yale University Library

THE
WALT WHITMAN
COLLECTION

of
ADRIAN VAN SINDEREN
1910

A Gift to the Library 1940

C. G. Burgoyne's Printing Business, 146-150 Centre St., N. Y.

TESTIMONIAL TO

WALT WHITMAN.

Let us put Wreaths on the Brows of the Living.

I.

In the year 1855 the American people knew but little of books. Their ideals, their models, were English. Young and Pollok, Addison and Watts were regarded as great poets; some of the more reckless read Thomson's Seasons, and the poems and novels of Sir Walter Scott. A few, not quite orthodox, delighted in the mechanical monotony of Pope, and the really wicked—those lost to all religious shame—were worshipers of Shakespeare. The really orthodox Protestant, untroubled by doubts, considered Milton the greatest poet of them all. Byron and Shelley were hardly respectable—not to be read by young persons. It was admitted on all hands that Burns was a child of nature of whom his mother was ashamed and proud.

In the blessed year aforesaid, candor, free and sincere speech, were under the ban. Creeds at that time were entrenched behind statutes, prejudice, custom, ignorance, stupidity, Puritanism and slavery; that is to say, slavery of mind and body.

Of course it always has been, and forever will be, impossible for slavery, or any kind or form of injustice, to produce a great poet. There are hundreds of verse makers and writers on the side of wrong—enemies of

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progress—but they are not poets, they are not men of
genius.

At this time a young man—he to whom this Testimo-
nial is given—he upon whose head have fallen the snows
of more than seventy winters—this man, born within
the sound of the sea, gave to the world a book:
“Leaves of Grass.” This book was and is the true
transcript of a soul. The man is unmasked. No dra-
pery of hypocrisy, no pretense, no fear. The book was
as original in form as in thought. All customs were
forgotten or disregarded, all rules broken—nothing
mechanical—no imitation—spontaneous, running and
winding like a river, multitudinous in its thoughts as
the waves of the sea—nothing mathematical or meas-
ured. In everything a touch of chaos—lacking
what is called form as clouds lack form, but not lacking
the splendor of sunrise or the glory of sunset. It was
a marvellous collection and aggregation of fragments,
hints, suggestions, memories and prophecies, weeds and
flowers, clouds and clods, sights and sounds, emotions
and passions, waves, shadows and constellations.

His book was received by many with disdain, with
horror, with indignation and protest—by the few, as a
marvellous, almost miraculous, message to the world—
full of thought, philosophy, poetry and music.

In the republic of mediocrity genius is dangerous.
A great soul appears and fills the world with new and
marvellous harmonies. In his words is the old Pro-
methean flame. The heart of nature beats and throbs
in his line. The respectable prudes and pedagogues
sound the alarm, and cry, or rather screech: “Is this
a book for a young person?”

A poem true to life as a Greek statue—candid as
nature—fills these barren souls with fear.

Drapery about the perfect was suggested by im-
modesty.

The provincial prudes, and others of like mould, pre-
tend that love is a duty rather than a passion—a kind
of self-denial—not an overmastering joy. They preach
the Gospel of pretense and pantalettes. In the presence
of sincerity, of truth, they cast down their eyes and

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endeavor to feel immodest. To them, the most beautiful thing is hypocrisy adorned with a blush.

They have no idea of an honest, pure passion, glorying
in its strength.—intense, intoxicated with the beautiful—
giving even to inanimate things pulse and motion, and
that transfigures, ennobles and idealizes the object of its
adoration.

They do not walk the streets of the city of life: they
explore the sewers; they stand in the gutters and cry,
“Unclean!” They pretend 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 American people have developed; they are somewhat acquainted with the literature of the world. They 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 accomplished, 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
full 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
suffering, of the thoughts of men, the habits of the peo-
ple—rich as well as poor—familiar with labor, a friend
of wind and wave, touched by love and friendship—lik-

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ing the open road, enjoying the fields 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.

Walt Whitman announced the gospel of the body. He confronted the people. He denied the depravity of man. He insisted that love is not a crime; that men and women should be proudly natural; that they need not grovel on the earth and cover their faces for shame. He taught the dignity and glory of the father and mother; the sacredness of maternity.

Maternity, tender and pure as the tear of pity, holy as suffering—the crown, the flower, the ecstasy of love.

People had been taught from bibles and from creeds that maternity was a kind of crime; that the woman should be purified by some ceremony in some temple built in honor of some god. This barbarism was attacked in “Leaves of Grass.”

The glory of simple life was sung; a declaration of independence was made for each and all.

And yet this appeal to manhood and to womanhood was misunderstood. It was denounced simply because it was in harmony with the great trend of nature. To me, the most obscene word in our language is celibacy.

It was not the fashion for people to speak or write their thoughts. We were flooded with the literature of hypocrisy. The writers did not faithfully describe the worlds in which they lived. They endeavored to make a fashionable world. They pretended that the cottage or the hut in which they dwelt was a palace, 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 actually was. They imitated; that is to say, they told lies, and these lies filled the literature of most 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

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aeskru! He lives in the mire. He lacks spirit-
uality!"

Whoever differs with the multitude, especially with a
led multitude—that is to say, with a multitude of tag-
gers—will find out from their leaders that he has com-
mitted an unpardonable sin. It is a crime to travel a
road of your own, especially if you put up guide-boards
for the information of others.

Many many centuries ago Epicurus, the greatest man
of his century, and of many centuries before and after,
said: "Happiness is the only good; happiness is the
supreme end." This man was temperate, frugal,
generous, noble—and yet through all these years he
has been denounced by the hypocrites of the world as
a mere eater and drinker.

It was said that Whitman had exaggerated the
importance of love—that he had made too much of this
passion. Let me say that no poet—not excepting
Shakespeare—has had imagination enough to exaggerate
the importance of human love—a passion that contains
all heights and all depths—ample as space, with a sky
in which glitter all constellations, and that has within it
all storms, all lightnings, all wrecks and ruins, all griefs,
all sorrows, all shadows and all the joy and sunshine of
which the heart and brain are capable.

No writer must be measured by a word or line or
paragraph. He is to be measured by his work—by the
tendency, not of one line, but by the tendency of all.

Which way does the great stream tend? Is it for
good or evil? Are the motives high and noble, or low
and infamous?

We cannot measure Shakespeare by a few lines,
neither can we measure the Bible by a few chapters, nor
"Leaves of Grass" by a few paragraphs. In each there
are many things that I neither approve nor believe—but
in all books you will find a mingling of wisdom and foolish-
ness, of prophecies and mistakes—in other words, among
the excellencies there will be defects. The mine is not
all gold, or all silver, or all diamonds—there are baser
metals. The trees of the forest are not all of one size.
On some of the highest there are dead and useless limbs,

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and there may be growing beneath the bushes, weeds,
and now and then a poisonous vine.

If I were to edit the great books of the world, I
might leave out some lines and I might leave out the
best. I have no right to make of my brain a sieve and
say that only that which passes through belongs to the
rest of the human race. I claim the right to choose. I
give that right to all.

Walt Whitman had the courage to express his thought
—the candor to tell the truth. And here let me say it
gives me joy—a kind of perfect satisfaction—to look
above the bigoted bats, the satisfied owls and wrens
and chickadees, and see the great eagle poised, circling
higher and higher, unconscious of their existence. And
it gives me joy, a kind of perfect satisfaction, to look
above the petty passions and jealousies of small and
respectable people—above the considerations of place
and power and reputation, and see a brave, intrepid man.

It must be remembered that the American people had
separated from the Old World—that we had declared
not only the independence of colonies, but the independ-
ence of the individual. We had done more—we had
declared that the State could no longer be ruled by the
Church, and that the Church could not be ruled by the
State, and that the individual could not be ruled by the
Church. These declarations were in danger of being
forgotten. We needed a new voice, sonorous, loud
and clear, a new poet for America for the new epoch,
somebody to chant the morning song of the new day.

The great man who gives a true transcript of his mind
fascinates and instructs. Most writers suppress indi-
viduality. They wish to please the public. They
flatter the stupid and pander to the prejudice of their
readers. They write for the market—making books as
other mechanics make shoes. They have no message—
they bear no torch—they are simply the slaves of
customers. The books they manufacture are handled
by "the trade;" they are regarded as harmless. The
pulpit does not object; the young person can read the
monotonous pages without a blush—or a thought. On
the title pages of these books you will find the imprint

7

of the great publishers—on the rest of the pages, nothing. These books might be prescribed for insomnia.

### III.

Men of talent, men of business, touch life upon few sides. They travel but the beaten path. The creative spirit is not in them. They regard with suspicion a poet who touches life on every side. They have little confidence in that divine thing called sympathy, and they do not and cannot understand the man who enters into the hopes, the aims, and the feelings of all others.

In all genius there is the touch of chaos—a little of the vagabond; and the successful tradesman, the man who buys and sells, or manages a bank, does not care to deal with a person who has only poems for collaterals—they have a little fear of such people, and regard them as the awkward country man does a sleight-of-hand performer.

In every age in which books have been produced the governing class, the respectable, have been opposed to the works of real genius. If what are known as the best people could have their way, if the pulpit had been consulted—the provincial moralists—the works of Shakespeare would have been suppressed. Not a line would have reached our time. And the same may be said of every dramatist of his age.

If the Scotch Kirk could have decided, nothing would have been known of Robert Burns. If the good people, the orthodox, could have had their say, not one line of Voltaire would now be known. All the plates of the French Encyclopædia would have been destroyed with the thousands that were destroyed. Nothing would have been known of D'Alembert, Grimm, Diderot, or any of the Titans who warred against the thrones and altars and laid the foundation of modern literature not only, but what is of far greater moment, universal education.

It is not too much to say that every book now held in

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high esteem would have been destroyed, if those in au-
thority could have had their will. Every book of mod-
ern times, that has a real value, that has enlarged the
intellectual horizon of mankind, that has developed the
brain, that has furnished real food for thought, can be
found in the Index Expurgatorius of the Papacy, and
nearly every one has been commended to the free minds
of men by the denunciations of Protestants.

If the guardians of society, the protectors of "young
persons," could have had their way, we should have
known nothing of Byron or Shelley. The voices that
thrill the world would now be silent. If authority could
have had its way, the world would have been as ignor-
ant now as it was when our ancestors lived in holes or
hung from dead limbs by their prehensile tails.

But we are not forced to go very far back. If Shakes-
pearce had been published for the first time now, those
divine plays—greater than continents and seas, greater
even than the constellations of the midnight sky—
would be excluded from the mails by the decision of the
present enlightened Postmaster-General.

The poets have always lived in an ideal world, and
that ideal world has always been far better than the
real world. As a consequence, they have forever
roused, not simply the imagination, but the energies —
the enthusiasm of the human race.

The great poets have been on the side of the op-
pressed — of the downtrodden. They have suffered
with the imprisoned and the enslaved, and whenever
and wherever man has suffered for the right, wherever
the hero has been stricken down — whether on field or
scaffold — some man of genius has walked by his side,
and some poet has given form and expression, not
simply to his deeds, but to his aspirations.

From the Greek and Roman world we still hear the
voices of a few. The poets, the philosophers, the
artists and the orators still speak. Countless millions
have been covered by the waves of oblivion, but the
few who uttered the elemental truths, who had sym-
pathy for the whole human race, and who were great
enough to prophesy a grander day, are as alive to-night

9

as when they roused, by their bodily presence, by their
living voices, by their works of art, the enthusiasm of
their fellow men.

Think of the respectable people, of the men of wealth
and position, those who dwelt in mansions, children of
success, who went down to the grave voiceless, and
whose names we do not know. Think of the vast
multitudes, the endless processions, that entered the
caverns of eternal night—leaving no thought—no
truth as a legacy to mankind!

The great poets have sympathised with the people.
They have uttered in all ages the human cry. Unbought
by gold, unawed by power, they have lifted high the
torch that illuminates the world.

## IV.

Walt Whitman is in the highest sense a believer in
democracy. He knows that there is but one excuse
for government—the preservation of liberty; to the end
that man may be happy. He knows that there is but
one excuse for any institution, secular and religious—
the preservation of liberty; and that there is but one
excuse for schools, for universal education, for the ascer-
tainment of facts, namely, the preservation of liberty.
He resents the arrogance and cruelty of power. He has
sworn never to be tyrant or slave. He has solemnly
declared:

> "I speak the password primeval—I give the sign of Democracy.
> By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms."

This one declaration covers the entire ground. It is
a declaration of independence, and it is also a declara-
tion of justice, that is to say, a declaration of the inde-
pendence of the individual, and a declaration that all
shall be free. The man who has this spirit can truth-
fully say:

> "I have taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown.
> I swear I am for those that have never been mastered."

10

There is in Whitman what he calls "The boundless
impatience of restraint"—together with that sense of
justice which compelled him to say: "Neither a servant,
nor a master, am I."

He was wise enough to know that giving others the
same rights that he claims for himself could not harm
him, and he was great enough to say: "As if it were
not indispensable to my own rights that others possess
the same."

He felt as all should feel, that the liberty of no man
is safe unless the liberty of each is safe.

There is in our country a little of the old servile
spirit, a little of the bowing and cringing to others.
Many Americans do not understand that the officers of
the government are simply the servants of the people.
Nothing is so demoralizing as the worship of place.
Whitman has reminded the people of this country that
they are supreme, and he has said to them :

"The President is there in the White House for you—it is not you
who are here for him.

The Secretaries act in their bureaus for you—not you here for
them.

All doctrines, all politics and civilization exurge from you.

All sculpture and monuments and anything inscribed anywhere
are tallied in you."

He describes the ideal American citizen—the one

"Who says, indifferently and alike, 'How are you, friend?' to the
President at his levee.

And he says 'Good day, my brother,' to the slave that hoes in the
sugar field."

Long ago, when the politicians were wrong, when the
judges were subservient, when the pulpit was a coward,
Walt Whitman shouted :

"Man shall not hold property in man.

The least developed person on earth is just as important and sacred
to himself or herself as the most developed person is to him-
self or herself."

This is the very soul of true democracy.

Beauty is not all there is of poetry. It must contain
the truth. It is not simply an oak, rude and grand,

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neither is it simply a vine. It is both. Around the oak of truth runs the vine of beauty.

Walt Whitman utters the elemental truths and is the poet of democracy. He is also the poet of individuality.

V.

INDIVIDUALITY.

In order to protect the liberties of a nation, we must protect the individual. A democracy is a nation of free individuals. The individuals are not to be sacrificed to the nation. The nation exists only for the purpose of guarding and protecting the individuality of men and women. Walt Whitman has told us that: "The whole theory of the universe is directed to one single individual—namely, to you."

And he has also told us that the greatest city—the greatest nation—is "where the citizen is the head and the ideal."

And that

"The greatest city is that which has the greatest man or woman.

"If it be but a few ragged huts it is still the greatest city in the whole world."

By this test maybe the greatest city on the continent to-night is Camden.

This poet has asked of us this question:

"What do you suppose will satisfy the soul, except to walk free and own no superior?"

The man who asks this question has left no impress of his lips in the dust, and has no dirt upon his knees.

He was great enough to say:

"The soul has that measureless pride which revolts from every lesson but its own."

He carries the idea of individuality to its utmost height:

"What do you suppose I have intimated to you in a hundred ways

But that man or woman is as good as God?

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And that there is no God any more divine than your-
self."

Glorying in individuality, in the freedom of the soul,
he cries out:

"Oh, the joy of suffering !
To struggle against great odds;
To meet enemies undaunted;
To be entirely alone with them—to find out how much I can
stand;
To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, death, face to face;
To mount the scaffold—to advance to the muzzle of guns—with
perfect nonbalance—
To be indeed a God."

And again:

"Oh, the joy of a manly self-hood,
Personality—to be servile to no one.
To defer to no one—not to any tyrant known or unknown;
To walk with erect carriage and step springy and elastic;
To look with calm gaze, with a flashing eye;
To speak with a full and sonorous voice out of a great chest;
To confront with your personality all other personalities on the
earth."

Walt Whitman is willing to stand alone. He is suffi-
cient unto himself, and he says:

"Henceforth I ask not good fortune—I am good fortune.
Strong and content I travel the open road.
I am one of those who look carelessly into faces of
Presidents and Governors as to say, 'Who are you?'"

And not only this, but he has the courage to say:
"Nothing—not God—is greater to one than one's self."

Walt Whitman is the poet of Individuality—the de-
fender of the rights of each for the sake all—and his
sympathies are as wide as the world. He is the de-
fender of the whole race.

VI.

HUMANITY.

The great poet is intensely human—infinitely sym-

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pathetic—entering into the joys and griefs of others, bearing their burdens, knowing their sorrows. Brain without heart is not much; they must act together. When the respectable people of the North, the rich, the successful, were willing to carry out the fugitive slave law, Walt Whitman said:

“I am the wounded slave—I wince at the bite of the dogs.
Hell and despair are upon me—‘Crack’ and again ‘crack’ the
marksmen;
I clutch the rails of the fence—my blood drips, thinned with the
ooze of my skin;
I fall on the weeds and stones;
The riders spur their unwilling horses—haul close;
Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me with the butts of their whips.”

“Agonies are one of my changes of garment.
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels. I, myself, become
the wounded person.

“I see myself in prison shaped like another man;
And feel the dull unintermittted pain.
For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep
watch.
It is I, let out in the morning and barred at night.
Not a prisoner walks handcuffed to the jail but I am handcuffed
to him and walk by his side.

“Judge not as the judge judges, but as the sun falling upon a help-
less thing.”

Of the very worst he had the infinite tenderness to say: “Not until the sun excludes you will I exclude you.”

In this age of greed, when houses and lands, and stocks and bonds, outrank human life; when gold is more of value than blood, these words should be read by all:

“When the psalm sings, instead of the singer;
When the script breaches, instead of the preacher;
When the pulpit descends and goes, instead of the carver that
carved the supporting desk;
When I can touch the body of books, by night or by day, and
when they touch my body back again;
When the holy vessels, or the bits of Eucharist, or lath and plast
procreate as effectually as the young silversmiths or bakers
or the masons in their overalls;

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When the university convinces like a slumbering woman and child
convince;

When the minted gold in the vault smiles like the night-watch-
man's daughter;

When warranty deeds leaf in chairs opposite, and are my friendly
companions;

I intend to reach them my hand and make as much of them as I
do of men and women like you!"

VII.

The poet is also a painter, a sculptor—he too deals
in form and color. The great poet is of necessity a
great artist. With a few words he creates pictures, fill-
ing his canvas with living men and women—with those
who feel and speak. Have you ever read the account
of the stage-driver's funeral? Let me read it:

"Cold dash of waves at the ferry wharf—posh of
ice in the river—half frozen mud in the street—a gray
discouraged sky overhead—short-lasting daylight of
twelfth-month.

"A hearse and stages—other vehicles give place—the
funeral of an old Broadway stage-driver—the cortege
mostly drivers.

"Steady the trot to the cemetery—duly rattles the
death-bell—the gate is passed—the new-dug grave is
hollowed out—the living alight—the hearse uncloses.

"The coffin is passed out—lowered and settled—the
whip is laid on the coffin—the earth is softly shoveled
in.

"The mound above is flattened with the spades.

"Silence: and among them no one moves or speaks.

"It is done. He is decently laid away.

"Is there anything more?

"He was a good fellow—free mouthed—quick tem-
"pered—not bad looking—able to take his own part—
"witty—sensitive to a slight—ready with life or death
"for a friend—fond of women—gambled—ate hearty—
"drank hearty—had known what it was to be flush—
"grew low spirited toward the last—sickened—was
"helped by a contribution—died aged forty-one years—
"and that was his funeral."

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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 who selects the best, the most appropriate symbols to convey the best, the highest, the sublimest thoughts. Each man occupies a world of his own. He is the only citizen of his world. He is subject and sovereign, and the best he can do is to give the facts concerning the world in which 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 those whose rivers and mountains and seas and constellations belittle and cheapen the visible world. The inhabitants of these marvellous worlds have been the singers of songs, utterers of great speech—the creators of art.

And here lies the difference between creators and imitators: the creator tells what passes in his own world—the imitator does not. The imitator abdicates, and by the fact of imitation falls upon his knees. He is like one who, hearing a traveler talk, pretends to others that he has traveled.

In nearly all lands, the poet has been privileged—for the sake of beauty, they have allowed him to speak, and for that reason he has told the story of the oppressed, and has excited the indignation of honest men and even the pity of tyrants. He, above all others, has added to the intellectual beauty of the world. He has been the true creator of language, and has left his impress on mankind.

What I have said is not only true of poetry—it is true of all speech. All are compelled to use the visible world as a dictionary. Words have been invented and are being invented—for the reason that new powers are

18

found in the old symbols, new qualities, relations, uses
and meanings. The growth of language is necessary
on account of the development of the human mind.
The savage needs but few symbols—the civilized many
—the poet most of all.

The old idea was, however, that the poet must be a
rhymer. Before printing was known, it was said: the
rhyme assists the memory. That excuse no longer
exists.

Is rhyme a necessary part of poetry? In my judg-
ment, rhyme is a hindrance to expression. The rhymer
is compelled to wunder from his subject—to say more
or less than he means—to introduce irrelevant matter
that interferes continually with the dramatic action and
is a perpetual obstruction to sincere utterance.

All poems, of necessity, must be short. The highly
and purely poetic is the sudden bursting into blos-
som 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 crystallization must be sudden.

The greatest poems are rhythmical. While rhyme is
a hindrance, 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 rhythm-
ical 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 thought has possession, absolutely, 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 accu-
rately measured intervals. Perfect time is the death of

19

music. There should always be room for eager haste
and delicious delay, and whatever change there may
be in the rhythm or time, the action itself should sug-
gest 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 accompanied 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 feel-
ings, emotions and states of mind capable of producing
the same or like molecular movements. So that what
we call heroic music, produces the same molecular
action in the brain—the same physical changes—that
are produced by the real feeling of heroism; that the
sounds we call plaintive produce the same molecular
movement 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 molec-
ular 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 last 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

20

be rhythm—that is to say, proportion—that is to say, harmony, 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 must deal with the hopes and fears, and with the experiences of the 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.

In the olden time they used to have May day parties, and the prettiest child was crowned Queen of May. Imagine an old blacksmith and his wife looking at their little daughter clad in white and crowned with roses. They would wonder while they looked at her, how they ever came to have so beautiful a child. It is thus that the poet clothes the intellectual children or ideals of the people. They must not be gemmed and garlanded beyond the recognition of their parents. Out from all the flowers 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 found that we do not depend on the imagination for wonders—there are millions of miracles under our feet.

Nothing can be more marvellous than the common and everyday facts of life. The phantoms have been cast aside. Men and women are enough for men and women. In their lives is all the tragedy and all the comedy that they can comprehend.

21

The painter no longer crowds his canvas with the winged and impossible—he paints life as he sees it, people as he knows them, and in whom he is interested. “The Angelus,” the perfection of pathos, is nothing but two peasants bending their heads in thankfulness as they hear the solemn sound of the distant bell—two peasants, who have nothing to be thankful for—nothing but weariness and want, nothing but the crusts that they soften with their tears—nothing. And yet as you look at that picture 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 understood. 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 has written down the entire truth. He believes in progress, and, so believing, he says:

> "We can consider bibles and religions divine. I do not say they are not divine. I say they have all grown out of us and may grow out of us still. It is not they who give the life. It is you who give the life."

> "My thoughts are hymns of the praise of things;
> In the dispute on God and eternity I am silent"

> "Have you thought there could be but a single Supreme?
> There can be any number of Supremes. 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 terms can say how much I am at peace about God
> and about death.

> I hear and behold God in every object, not understanding God,
> not in the least.

> Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than
> myself.

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"to something further. Somehow this hangs over
" everything else, and stands behind it, is inside of
" all facts, and the concrete and material and the
' worldly affairs of life and sense. That is the purport
" and meaning behind all the other meanings, of LEAVES
" OF GRASS."

As a matter of fact the questions of origin and destiny
are beyond the grasp of the human mind. We can see
a certain distance; beyond that everything is only in-
distinct; and beyond the indistinct is the unseen. In
the presence of these mysteries—and everything is a
mystery so far as origin, destiny and nature are con-
cerned—the intelligent, honest man is compelled to
say "I do not know."

In the great midnight a few truths like stars shine
on forever—and from the brain of man come a few
struggling gleams of light—a few momentary sparks.

Some have contended that everything is spirit; others
that everything is matter; and again, others who main-
tained that a part is matter and a part is spirit; some
that spirit was first and matter after; others that mat-
ter was first and spirit after; and others that matter
and spirit have existed together.

But none of these people can by any possibility tell
what matter is, or what spirit is, or what the difference
is between spirit and matter.

The materialists look upon the spiritualists as sub-
stantially crazy; and the spiritualists regard the ma-
terialists as low and grovelling. These spiritualistic
people hold matter in contempt; but, after all, matter
is quite a mystery. You take in your hand a little
earth—a little dust. Do you know what it is? In this
dust you put a seed; the rain falls upon it; the light
strikes it; the seed grows; it bursts into blossom; it
produces fruit.

What is this dust—this womb? Do you understand
it? Is there anything in the wide universe more won-
derful than this?

Take a grain of sand, reduce it to powder, take the
smallest possible particle, look at it with a microscope,
contemplate its every part for days, and it remains the

25

citadel of a secret—an impregnable fortress. Bring all the theologians, philosophers and scientists in serried ranks against it; let them attack on every side with all the arts and arms of thought and force. The citadel does not fall. Over the battlements floats the flag and the victorious secret smiles at the baffled hosts.

Walt Whitman did not and does not imagine that he has reached the limit—the end of the road travelled by the human race. He knows that every victory over nature is but the preparation for another battle. This truth was in his mind when he said: “Understand me well; it is provided in the essence of things, that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.”

This is the generalization of all history.

XI.

THE TWO POEMS.

There are two of these poems to which I have time to call special attention. The first is entitled, “A Word Out of the Sea.”

The boy, coming out of the rocked cradle, wandering over the sands and fields, up from the mystic play of shadows, out of the patches of briers and blackberries—from the memories of birds—from the thousand responses of his heart—goes back to the sea and his childhood, and sings a reminiscence.

Two guests from Alabama—two birds—build their nests, and there were four light green eggs, spotted with brown, and the two birds sang for joy:

“Shine, shine,
Pour down your warmth together, great sun!
While we bask, we two together.
Two together—
Winds blow south, or winds blow north,
Day come white, or night come black,
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,
If we two but keep together.”

26

In a little while one of the birds is missed and never
appeared again, and all through the summer the mate,
the solitary guest, was singing of the lost:

"Blow, blow,

Blow up, sea winds, along Paumanok's shore;
I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me."

And the boy that night, blending himself with the
shadows, with bare feet, went down to the sea, where
the white arms out in the breakers were tirelessly toss-
ing; listening to the songs and translating the notes.

And the singing bird called loud and high for the
mate, wondering what the dusky spot was in the brown
and yellow, seeing the mate whichever way he looked,
piercing the woods and the earth with his song, hoping
that the mate might hear his cry; stopping that he
might not lose her answer; waiting and then crying
again: "Here I am!" And this gentle call is for you.
Do not be deceived by the whistle of the wind; those
are the shadows; and at last crying:

"O past, O joy!

In the air, in the woods, over fields,
Loved ! loved ! loved :
Loved—but no more with me—
We two together no more."

And then the boy, understanding the song that had
awakened in his breast a thousand songs clearer and
louder and more sorrowful than the bird's, knowing
that the cry of unsatisfied love would never again be
absent from him; thinking then of the destiny of all,
and asking of the sea the final word, and the sea answer-
ing, delaying not and hurrying not, spoke the low
delicious word "Death!" "ever Death!"

The next poem, one that will live as long as our lan-
guage, entitled: "When Lilacs Last in the Door-
yard Bloomed," is on the death of Lincoln.

"The sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands."

One who reads this will never forget the odor of the
lilac, "the lustrous western star" and "the grey-brown
bird singing in the pines and cedars."

27

In this poem the dramatic unities are perfectly pre-
served, the atmosphere and climate in harmony with
every event.

Never will he forget the solemn journey of the coffin
through day and night, with the great cloud darkening
the land, nor the pomp of in-looped flags, the pro-
cession long and winding, the flambeaus of night, the
torches flames, the silent sea of faces, the unbared heads,
the thousand voices rising strong and solemn, the
dirges, the shuddering organs, the tolling bells—and
the sprig of lilac.

And then for a moment they will hear the grey-brown
bird singing in the cedars, bashful and tender, while
the lustrous star lingers in the West, and they will
remember the pictures hung on the chamber walls to
adorn the burial house—pictures of spring and farms
and homes and the grey smoke, lucid and bright, and
the floods of yellow gold—of the gorgeous indolent sink-
ing sun—the sweet herbage under foot—the green
leaves of the trees prolific—the breast of the river with
the wind-dapple here and there, and the varied and
ample land—and the most excellent sun so calm and
haughty—the violet and purple morn with just-felt
breezes. The gentle soft born measureless light—the
miracle spreading, bathing all—the fulfilled noon—the
coming eve delicious and the welcome night and the
stars.

And then again they will hear the song of the grey-
brown bird in the limitless dusk amid the cedars and
pines. Again they will remember the star and again the
odor of the lilac.

But most of all, the song of the bird translated and
becoming the chant for death :

THE CHANT FOR DEATH.

Come lovely and soothing death,
Undulate 'round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later delicate death.

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vengeful or arrogant. Now sitting by the fireside, in the
winter of life,

"His jocund heart still beating in his breast,"

he is just as brave and calm and kind as in his man-
hood's proudest days, when roses blossomed in his
cheeks. He has taken life's seven steps. Now, as the
gamester might say, "on velvet." He is enjoying "old
age expanded, broad, with the haughty breadth of the
universe; old age, flowing free, with the delicious,
near-by freedom of death; old age, superbly rising,
welcoming the ineffable aggregation of dying days."

He is taking the "loftiest look at last," and before he
goes he utters thanks "for health, the midday sun, the
impalpable air—for life, mere life; for precious ever
lingering memories of mother, father, brothers, sisters,
friends; for all his days, for gentle words, caresses,
gifts from foreign lands, for shelter, wine and meat,
for sweet appreciation, for beings, groups, love, deeds,
words, books; for colors, forms; for all the brave,
strong men who forward sprung in freedom's help—
all years—in all lands; the cannoneers of song and
thought—the great artillerists, the foremost leaders,
captains of the soul."

It is a great thing to preach philosophy—far greater
to live it. The highest philosophy accepts the inevit-
able with a smile, and greets it as though it were de-
sired.

To be satisfied: This is wealth—success.

The real philosopher knows that everything has hap-
pened that could have happened—consequently he ac-
cepts. He is glad that he has lived—glad that he has
had his moment on the stage. In this spirit Whitman
has accepted life.

"I shall go forth:

I shall traverse these States, but I cannot tell whither or howlong.

Perhaps soon, some day or night, while I am singing, my voice
will suddenly cease,

O soul!

Then all may arrive but to this:

The glances of my eyes that swept the daylight,

The unspeakable love I interchanged with women,

My joys in the open air,

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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 marvellous 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 elemental as those of sea and storm.
The horizon enlarges, the heavens grow ample, limita-
tions are forgotten—the realization of the will, the accom-
plishment 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 of Nature. Creeds, theories and philosophies
ask to be examined, contradicted, reconstructed. Preju-
dices disappear, superstitions vanish and custom abdi-
cates. The sacred places become highways, duties and
desires clasp hands and become comrades and friends.
Authority drops the sceptre, the priest the mitre, and
the purple falls from kirgs. The inanimate becomes ar-
ticulate, the meanest and humblest things utter speech
and the dumb and voiceless burst into song. A feeling
of independence takes possession 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 over-arching boughs, entranced
with symphonies of winds and woods. You are borne
on the tides of eager and swift rivers, hear the rush and
roar of cataracts as they fall beneath the seven-
hued arch, and watch the eagles as they circling
soar. You traverse gorges dark and dim, and climb