{
  "schema": "tga.work.v1",
  "identifier": "dresden:vol-3:liberty-in-literature",
  "slug": "liberty-in-literature",
  "title": "Liberty in Literature",
  "subtitle": "A Testimonial to Walt Whitman.",
  "excerpt": "An address honoring Walt Whitman as the poet of liberty, democracy, and the body — a wreath placed on the living brow of the man who dared to sing America as it is.",
  "year": 1890,
  "volume": 3,
  "category": "Tribute",
  "author": {
    "name": "Robert G. Ingersoll",
    "wikidata": "Q360326",
    "viaf": "44331023"
  },
  "isPartOf": {
    "title": "The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll",
    "edition": "Dresden Edition",
    "publisher": "C. P. Farrell",
    "year": 1900
  },
  "license": "https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/",
  "url": "https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/liberty-in-literature/",
  "wordCount": 10435,
  "body": "(A TESTIMONIAL TO WALT WHITMAN.)\n  • An address delivered in Philadelphia, Oct. 21, 1890. Used\n    by permission of the Truth Seeker Co.\n\nI. Let Us Put Wreaths on the Brows of the Living.\n\nIN the year 1855 the American people knew but little of books. Their\nideals, their models, were English. Young and Pollok, Addison and Watts,\nwere regarded as great poets. Some of the more reckless read Thomson's\n\"Seasons\" and the poems and novels of Sir Walter Scott. A few, not quite\northodox, delighted in the mechanical monotony of Pope, and the\nreally wicked—those lost to all religious shame—were worshipers of\nShakespeare. The really orthodox Protestant, untroubled by doubts,\nconsidered Milton the greatest poet of them all. Byron and Shelley were\nhardly respectable—not to be read by young persons. It was admitted\non all hands that Burns was a child of nature of whom his mother was\nashamed and proud.\n\nIn the blessed year aforesaid, candor, free and sincere speech, were\nunder the ban. Creeds at that time were entrenched behind statutes,\nprejudice, custom, ignorance, stupidity, Puritanism and slavery; that is\nto say, slavery of mind and body.\n\nOf course it always has been, and forever will be, impossible for\nslavery, or any kind or form of injustice, to produce a great\npoet. There are hundreds of verse makers and writers on the side of\nwrong—enemies of progress—but they are not poets, they are not men of\ngenius.\n\nAt this time a young man—he to whom this testimonial is given—he upon\nwhose head have fallen the snows of more than seventy winters—this man,\nborn within the sound of the sea, gave to the world a book, \"Leaves of\nGrass.\" This book was, and is, the true transcript of a soul. The man is\nunmasked. No drapery of hypocrisy, no pretence, no fear. The book was\nas original in form as in thought. All customs were forgotten\nor disregarded, all rules broken—nothing mechanical—no\nimitation—spontaneous, running and winding like a river, multitudinous\nin its thoughts as the waves of the sea—nothing mathematical or\nmeasured—in everything a touch of chaos; lacking what is called form,\nas clouds lack form, but not lacking the splendor of sunrise or the\nglory of sunset. It was a marvelous collection and aggregation of\nfragments, hints, suggestions, memories, and prophecies, weeds and\nflowers, clouds and clods, sights and sounds, emotions and passions,\nwaves, shadows and constellations.\n\nHis book was received by many with disdain, with horror, with\nindignation and protest—by the few as a marvelous, almost miraculous,\nmessage to the world—full of thought, philosophy, poetry and music.\n\nIn the republic of mediocrity genius is dangerous. A great soul appears\nand fills the world with new and marvelous harmonies. In his words is\nthe old Promethean flame. The heart of nature beats and throbs in his\nline. The respectable prudes and pedagogues sound the alarm, and cry, or\nrather screech: \"Is this a book for a young person?\"\n\nA poem true to life as a Greek statue—candid as nature—fills these\nbarren souls with fear.\n\nThey forget that drapery about the perfect was suggested by immodesty.\n\nThe provincial prudes, and others of like mold, pretend that love is a\nduty rather than a passion—a kind of self-denial—not an over-mastering\njoy. They preach the gospel of pretence and pantalettes, In the presence\nof sincerity, of truth, they cast down their eyes and endeavor to feel\nimmodest. To them, the most beautiful thing is hypocrisy adorned with a\nblush.\n\nThey have no idea of an honest, pure passion, glorying in its\nstrength—intense, intoxicated with the beautiful, giving even to\ninanimate things pulse and motion, and that transfigures, ennobles, and\nidealizes the object of its adoration.\n\nThey do not walk the streets of the city of life—they explore the\nsewers; they stand in the gutters and cry \"Unclean!\" They pretend that\nbeauty is a snare; that love is a Delilah; that the highway of joy is\nthe broad road, lined with flowers and filled with perfume, leading to\nthe city of eternal sorrow.\n\nSince the year 1855 the American people have developed; they are\nsomewhat acquainted with the literature of the world. They have\nwitnessed the most tremendous of revolutions, not only upon the fields\nof battle, but in the world of thought. The American citizen has\nconcluded that it is hardly worth while being a sovereign unless he has\nthe right to think for himself.\n\nAnd now, from this height, with the vantage-ground of to-day, I propose\nto examine this book and to state, in a general way, what Walt Whitman\nhas done, what he has accomplished, and the place he has won in the\nworld of thought.\n\nII. The Religion of the Body.\n\nWALT WHITMAN stood when he published his book, where all stand to-night,\non the perpetually moving line where history ends and prophecy begins.\nHe was full of life to the very tips of his fingers—brave, eager,\ncandid, joyous with health. He was acquainted with the past. He knew\nsomething of song and story, of philosophy and art; much of the heroic\ndead, of brave suffering, of the thoughts of men, the habits of the\npeople—rich as well as poor—familiar with labor, a friend of wind and\nwave, touched by love and friendship, liking the open road, enjoying the\nfields and paths, the crags, friend of the forest—feeling that he\nwas free—neither master nor slave; willing that all should know his\nthoughts; open as the sky, candid as nature, and he gave his thoughts,\nhis dreams, his conclusions, his hopes and his mental portrait to his\nfellow-men.\n\nWalt Whitman announced the gospel of the body. He confronted the people.\nHe denied the depravity of man. He insisted that love is not a crime;\nthat men and women should be proudly natural; that they need not grovel\non the earth and cover their faces for shame, He taught the dignity and\nglory of the father and mother; the sacredness of maternity.\n\nMaternity, tender and pure as the tear of pity, holy as suffering—the\ncrown, the flower, the ecstasy of love!\n\nPeople had been taught from Bibles and from creeds that maternity was\na kind of crime; that the woman should be purified by some ceremony in\nsome temple built in honor of some god. This barbarism was attacked in\n\"Leaves of Grass.\"\n\nThe glory of simple life was sung; a declaration of independence was\nmade for each and all.\n\nAnd yet this appeal to manhood and to womanhood was misunderstood. It\nwas denounced simply because it was in harmony with the great trend of\nnature. To me, the most obscene word in our language is celibacy.\n\nIt was not the fashion for people to speak or write their thoughts.\nWe were flooded with the literature of hypocrisy. The writers did not\nfaithfully describe the worlds in which they lived. They endeavored to\nmake a fashionable world. They pretended that the cottage or the hut in\nwhich they dwelt was a palace, and they called the little area in which\nthey threw their slops their domain, their realm, their empire. They\nwere ashamed of the real, of what their world actually was. They\nimitated; that is to say, they told lies, and these lies filled the\nliterature of most lands.\n\nWalt Whitman defended the sacredness of love, the purity of passion—the\npassion that builds every home and fills the world with art and song.\n\nThey cried out: \"He is a defender of passion—he is a libertine! He\nlives in the mire. He lacks spirituality!\"\n\nWhoever differs with the multitude, especially with a led\nmultitude—that is to say, with a multitude of taggers—will find out\nfrom their leaders that he has committed an unpardonable sin. It is\na crime to travel a road of your own, especially if you put up\nguide-boards for the information of others.\n\nMany, many centuries ago Epicurus, the greatest man of his century, and\nof many centuries before and after, said: \"Happiness is the only good;\nhappiness is the supreme end.\" This man was temperate, frugal, generous,\nnoble—and yet through all these years he has been denounced by the\nhypocrites of the world as a mere eater and drinker.\n\nIt was said that Whitman had exaggerated the importance of love—that\nhe had made too much of this passion. Let me say that no poet—not\nexcepting Shakespeare—has had imagination enough to exaggerate the\nimportance of human love—a passion that contains all heights and all\ndepths—ample as space, with a sky in which glitter all constellations,\nand that has within it all storms, all lightnings, all wrecks and ruins,\nall griefs, all sorrows, all shadows, and all the joy and sunshine of\nwhich the heart and brain are capable.\n\nNo writer must be measured by a word or paragraph. He is to be measured\nby his work—by the tendency, not of one line, but by the tendency of\nall.\n\nWhich way does the great stream tend? Is it for good or evil? Are the\nmotives high and noble, or low and infamous?\n\nWe cannot measure Shakespeare by a few lines, neither can we measure the\nBible by a few chapters, nor \"Leaves of Grass\" by a few paragraphs. In\neach there are many things that I neither approve nor believe—but\nin all books you will find a mingling of wisdom and foolishness, of\nprophecies and mistakes—in other words, among the excellencies there\nwill be defects. The mine is not all gold, or all silver, or all\ndiamonds—there are baser metals. The trees of the forest are not all of\none size. On some of the highest there are dead and useless limbs,\nand there may be growing beneath the bushes weeds, and now and then a\npoisonous vine.\n\nIf I were to edit the great books of the world, I might leave out some\nlines and I might leave out the best. I have no right to make of my\nbrain a sieve and say that only that which passes through belongs to the\nrest of the human race. I claim the right to choose. I give that right\nto all.\n\nWalt Whitman had the courage to express his thought—the candor to\ntell the truth. And here let me say it gives me joy—a kind of perfect\nsatisfaction—to look above the bigoted bats, the satisfied owls and\nwrens and chickadees, and see the great eagle poised, circling higher\nand higher, unconscious of their existence. And it gives me joy, a kind\nof perfect satisfaction, to look above the petty passions and jealousies\nof small and respectable people, above the considerations of place and\npower and reputation, and see a brave, intrepid man.\n\nIt must be remembered that the American people had separated from the\nOld World—that we had declared not only the independence of colonies,\nbut the independence of the individual. We had done more—we had\ndeclared that the state could no longer be ruled by the church, and\nthat the church could not be ruled by the state, and that the individual\ncould not be ruled by the church.\n\nThese declarations were in danger of being forgotten. We needed a new\nvoice, sonorous, loud and clear, a new poet for America, for the new\nepoch, somebody to chant the morning song of the new day.\n\nThe great man who gives a true transcript of his mind, fascinates and\ninstructs. Most writers suppress individuality. They wish to please the\npublic. They flatter the stupid and pander to the prejudice of their\nreaders. They write for the market, making books as other mechanics make\nshoes. They have no message, they bear no torch, they are simply the\nslaves of customers.\n\nThe books they manufacture are handled by \"the trade;\" they are regarded\nas harmless. The pulpit does not object; the young person can read the\nmonotonous pages without a blush—or a thought.\n\nOn the title pages of these books you will find the imprint of the great\npublishers; on the rest of the pages, nothing. These books might be\nprescribed for insomnia.\n\nIii\n\nMen of talent, men of business, touch life upon few sides. They travel\nbut the beaten path. The creative spirit is not in them. They regard\nwith suspicion a poet who touches life on every side. They have little\nconfidence in that divine thing called sympathy, and they do not and\ncannot understand the man who enters into the hopes, the aims and the\nfeelings of all others.\n\nIn all genius there is the touch of chaos—a little of the vagabond; and\nthe successful tradesman, the man who buys and sells, or manages a bank,\ndoes not care to deal with a person who has only poems for collaterals;\nthey have a little fear of such people, and regard them as the awkward\ncountryman does a sleight-of-hand performer.\n\nIn every age in which books have been produced the governing class, the\nrespectable, have been opposed to the works of real genius. If what are\nknown as the best people could have had their way, if the pulpit had\nbeen consulted—the provincial moralists—the works of Shakespeare would\nhave been suppressed. Not a line would have reached our time. And the\nsame may be said of every dramatist of his age.\n\nIf the Scotch Kirk could have decided, nothing would have been known\nof Robert Burns. If the good people, the orthodox, could have had their\nsay, not one line of Voltaire would now be known. All the plates of the\nFrench Encyclopedia would have been destroyed with the thousands that\nwere destroyed. Nothing would have been known of D'Alembert, Grimm,\nDiderot, or any of the Titans who warred against the thrones and altars\nand laid the foundation of modern literature not only, but what is of\nfar greater moment, universal education.\n\nIt is not too much to say that every book now held in high esteem would\nhave been destroyed, if those in authority could have had their will.\nEvery book of modern times that has a real value, that has enlarged the\nintellectual horizon of mankind, that has developed the brain, that has\nfurnished real food for thought, can be found in the Index Expurgatorius\nof the Papacy, and nearly every one has been commended to the free minds\nof men by the denunciations of Protestants.\n\nIf the guardians of society, the protectors of \"young persons,\" could\nhave had their way, we should have known nothing of Byron or Shelley.\nThe voices that thrill the world would now be silent. If authority could\nhave had its way, the world would have been as ignorant now as it was\nwhen our ancestors lived in holes or hung from dead limbs by their\nprehensile tails.\n\nBut we are not forced to go very far back. If Shakespeare had been\npublished for the first time now, those divine plays—greater than\ncontinents and seas, greater even than the constellations of the\nmidnight sky—would be excluded from the mails by the decision of the\npresent enlightened postmaster-general.\n\nThe poets have always lived in an ideal world, and that ideal world has\nalways been far better than the real world. As a consequence, they\nhave forever roused, not simply the imagination, but the energies—the\nenthusiasm of the human race.\n\nThe great poets have been on the side of the oppressed—of the\ndowntrodden. They have suffered with the imprisoned and the enslaved,\nand whenever and wherever man has suffered for the right, wherever the\nhero has been stricken down—whether on field or scaffold—some man\nof genius has walked by his side, and some poet has given form and\nexpression, not simply to his deeds, but to his aspirations.\n\nFrom the Greek and Roman world we still hear the voices of a few.\nThe poets, the philosophers, the artists and the orators still speak.\nCountless millions have been covered by the waves of oblivion, but the\nfew who uttered the elemental truths, who had sympathy for the whole\nhuman race, and who were great enough to prophesy a grander day, are as\nalive to-night as when they roused, by their bodily presence, by their\nliving voices, by their works of art, the enthusiasm of their fellow-men.\n\nThink of the respectable people, of the men of wealth and position,\nthose who dwelt in mansions, children of success, who went down to\nthe grave voiceless, and whose names we do not know. Think of the vast\nmultitudes, the endless processions, that entered the caverns of eternal\nnight, leaving no thought, no truth as a legacy to mankind!\n\nThe great poets have sympathized with the people. They have uttered in\nall ages the human cry. Unbought by gold, unawed by power, they have\nlifted high the torch that illuminates the world.\n\nIV.\n\nWalt Whitman is in the highest sense a believer in democracy. He\nknows that there is but one excuse for government—the preservation of\nliberty, to the end that man may be happy. He knows that there is but\none excuse for any institution, secular or religious—the preservation\nof liberty; and that there is but one excuse for schools, lor universal\neducation, for the ascertainment of facts, namely, the preservation of\nliberty. He resents the arrogance and cruelty of power. He has sworn\nnever to be tyrant or slave. He has solemnly declared:\n\n\"_I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy, By God!\nI will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the\nsame terms_.\"\n\nThis one declaration covers the entire ground. It is a declaration of\nindependence, and it is also a declaration of justice, that is to say,\na declaration of the independence of the individual, and a declaration\nthat all shall be free. The man who has this spirit can truthfully say:\n\n\"_I have taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown. I am for those\nthat have never been master'd._\"\n\nThere is in Whitman what he calls \"The boundless impatience of\nrestraint,\" together with that sense of justice which compelled him to\nsay, \"Neither a servant nor a master am I.\"\n\nHe was wise enough to know that giving others the same rights that he\nclaims for himself could not harm him, and he was great enough to say:\n\"As if it were not indispensable to my own rights that others possess\nthe same.\"\n\nHe felt as all should feel, that the liberty of no man is safe unless\nthe liberty of each is safe.\n\nThere is in our country a little of the old servile spirit, a little of\nthe bowing and cringing to others. Many Americans do not understand that\nthe officers of the government are simply the servants of the people.\nNothing is so demoralizing as the worship of place. Whitman has reminded\nthe people of this country that they are supreme, and he has said to\nthem:\n\n\"_The President is there in the White House for you, it is not you who\nare here for him, The Secretaries act in their bureaus for you, not you\nhere for them. Doctrines, politics and civilization exurge from you,\nSculpture and monuments and any thing inscribed anywhere are tallied in\nyou_.\"\n\nHe describes the ideal American citizen—the one who\n\n\"_Says indifferently and alike 'How are you, friend?' to the President\nat his levee, And he says 'Good-day, my brother,' to Cudge that hoes in\nthe sugar-field_.\"\n\nLong ago, when the politicians were wrong, when the judges were\nsubservient, when the pulpit was a coward, Walt Whitman shouted:\n\n\"Man shall not hold property in man.\"\n\n\"_The least develop'd person on earth is just as important and sacred\nto himself or herself as the most develop'd person is to himself or\nherself._\"\n\nThis is the very soul of true democracy.\n\nBeauty is not all there is of poetry. It must contain the truth. It is\nnot simply an oak, rude and grand, neither is it simply a vine. It is\nboth. Around the oak of truth runs the vine of beauty.\n\nWalt Whitman utters the elemental truths and is the poet of democracy.\nHe is also the poet of individuality.\n\nV. Individuality.\n\nIN order to protect the liberties of a nation, we must protect the\nindividual. A democracy is a nation of free individuals. The individuals\nare not to be sacrificed to the nation. The nation exists only for the\npurpose of guarding and protecting the individuality of men and women.\nWalt Whitman has told us that: \"The whole theory of the universe is\ndirected unerringly to one single individual—namely to You.\"\n\nAnd he has also told us that the greatest city—the greatest nation—is\n\"where the citizen is always the head and ideal.\"\n\nAnd that\n\n\"_A great city is that which has the greatest men and women, If it be a\nfew ragged huts it is still the greatest city in the whole world._\"\n\nBy this test maybe the greatest city on the continent to-night is\nCamden.\n\nThis poet has asked of us this question:\n\n\"_What do you suppose will satisfy the soul, except to walk free and own\nno superior?_\"\n\nThe man who asks this question has left no impress of his lips in the\ndust, and has no dirt upon his knees.\n\nHe was great enough to say:\n\n\"_The soul has that measureless pride which revolts from every lesson\nbut its own._\"\n\nHe carries the idea of individuality to its utmost height:\n\n\"_What do you suppose I would intimate to you in a hundred ways, but\nthat man or woman is as good as God? And that there is no God any more\ndivine than Yourself?_\"\n\nGlorying in individuality, in the freedom of the soul, he cries out:\n\n  \"O to struggle against great odds, to meet enemies undaunted!\n  To be entirely alone with them, to find how much one can stand!\n  To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, face to face!\n  To mount the scaffold, to advance to the muzzles of guns with perfect nonchalance!\n  To be indeed a God!\"\n\nAnd again:\n\n  \"O the joy of a manly self-hood!\n  To be servile to none, to defer to none, not to any tyrant known or unknown,\n\n  To walk with erect carriage, a step springy and elastic,\n  To look with calm gaze or with a flashing eye,\n\n  To speak with full and sonorous voice out of a broad chest,\n  To confront with your personality all the other personalities of the earth.\"\n\nWalt Whitman is willing to stand alone. He is sufficient unto himself,\nand he says:\n\n  \"Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune.\n  Strong and content I travel the open road.\"\n\nHe is one of\n\n  \"Those that look carelessly in the faces of Presidents and Governors,\n  as to say 'Who are you? '\"\n\nAnd not only this, but he has the courage to say: \"Nothing, not God,\nis greater to one than one's self.\" Walt Whitman is the poet of\nIndividuality—the defender of the rights of each for the sake of\nall—and his sympathies are as wide as the world. He is the defender of\nthe whole race.\n\nVI. Humanity.\n\nTHE great poet is intensely human, infinitely sympathetic, entering\ninto the joys and griefs of others, bearing their burdens, knowing their\nsorrows. Brain without heart is not much; they must act together. When\nthe respectable people of the North, the rich, the successful, were\nwilling to carry out the Fugitive Slave Law, Walt Whitman said:\n\n  \"I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs,\n  Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen,\n  I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the ooze of my skin,\n  I fall on the weeds and stones,\n  The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close,\n  Taunt my dizzy ears, and beat me violently over the head with whip-stocks.\n  Agonies are one of my changes of garments,\n  I do not ask the wounded person how he feels,\n  I myself become the wounded person....\n  I... see myself in prison shaped like another man,\n  And feel the dull unintermitted pain.\n  For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch,\n  It is I let out in the morning and barr'd at night.\n  Not a mutineer walks handcuff'd to jail but I am handcuff'd to him and walk by his side.\n  Judge not as the judge judges, but as the sun falling upon a helpless thing.\"\n\nOf the very worst he had the infinite tenderness to say: \"Not until the\nsun excludes you will I exclude you.\"\n\nIn this age of greed when houses and lands and stocks and bonds outrank\nhuman life; when gold is of more value than blood, these words should be\nread by all:\n\n  \"When the psalm sings instead of the singer,\n  When the script preaches instead of the preacher,\n  When the pulpit descends and goes instead of the carver that carved the supporting desk,\n  When I can touch the body of books by night or day, and when they touch my body back again,\"\n  When a university course convinces like a slumbering woman and child convince,\n  When the minted gold in the vault smiles like the night-watchman's daughter,\n  When warrantee deeds loaf in chairs opposite and are my friendly companions,\n  I intend to reach them my hand, and make as much of them as I do of men and women like you.\"\n\nVii\n\nThe poet is also a painter, a sculptor—he, too, deals in form and\ncolor. The great poet is of necessity a great artist. With a few words\nhe creates pictures, filling his canvas with living men and women—with\nthose who feel and speak. Have you ever read the account of the\nstage-driver's funeral? Let me read it:\n\n  \"Cold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf, posh and ice in the river, half-frozen mud in the streets,\n  A gray discouraged sky overhead, the short, last daylight of December,\n  A hearse and stages, the funeral of an old Broadway stage-driver, the cortege mostly drivers.\n  Steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell, The gate is pass'd, the new-dug grave is halted at, the living alight, the hearse uncloses.\n  The coffin is pass'd out, lower'd and settled, the whip is laid on the coffin, the earth is swiftly shovel'd in,\n  The mound above is flatted with the spades—silence,\n  A minute—no one moves or speaks—it is done,\n  He is decently put away—is there anything more?\n  He was a good fellow, free-mouth'd, quick-temper'd, not bad-looking,\n  Ready with life or death for a friend, fond of women, gambled, ate hearty, drank hearty,\n  Had known what it was to be flush, grew low-spirited toward the last, sicken'd, was helped by a contribution, Died, aged forty-one years—and that was his funeral.\"\n\nLet me read you another description, one of a woman:\n\n  \"Behold a woman!\n  She looks out from her quaker cap, her face is clearer and more beautiful than the sky.\n  She sits in an armchair under the shaded porch of the farmhouse,\n  The sun just shines on her old white head.\n  Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen,\n  Her grandsons raised the flax, and her granddaughters spun it with the distaff and the wheel.\n  The melodious character of the earth.\n  The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go and does not wish to go,\n  The justified mother of men.\"\n\nWould you hear of an old-time sea-fight?\n\n\"Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars? List to the\nyarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told it to me. Our foe was\nno skulk in his ship I tell you, (said he,) His was the surly English\npluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will\nbe; Along the lower'd eve he came horribly raking us. We closed with\nhim, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd, My captain lash'd fast\nwith his own hands. We had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the\nwater, On our lower gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first\nfire, killing all around and blowing up overhead. Fighting at sun-down,\nfighting at dark, Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks\non the gain, and five feet of water reported, The master-at-arms loosing\nthe prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for\nthemselves. The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the\nsentinels, They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to\ntrust.\n\n  Our frigate takes fire,\n  The other asks if we demand quarter?\n  If our colors are struck and the fighting done?\n  Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,\n  'We have not struck,' he composedly cries, 'we have just begun our part of the fighting.'\n  Only three guns are in use,\n  One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's mainmast,\n  Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks.\n  The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top,\n  They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.\n  Not a moment's cease,\n  The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazines.\n  One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking.\n  Serene stands the little captain,\n  He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low,\n  His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns.\n  Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon the surrender to us.\n  Stretch'd and still lies the midnight,\n  Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness. Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the one we have conquer'd,\n  The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through a countenance white as a sheet,\n  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,\n  The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below,\n  The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty, Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars,\n  Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of waves,\n  Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent,\n  A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful shining, Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors,\n  The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw,\n  Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long, dull, tapering groan.\"\n\nSome people say that this is not poetry—that it lacks measure and\nrhyme.\n\nVIII. What is Poetry?\n\nTHE whole world is engaged in the invisible commerce of thought. That\nis to say, in the exchange of thoughts by words, symbols, sounds, colors\nand forms. The motions of the silent, invisible world, where feeling\nglows and thought flames—that contains all seeds of action—are made\nknown only by sounds and colors, forms, objects, relations, uses and\nqualities, so that the visible universe is a dictionary, an aggregation\nof symbols, by which and through which is carried on the invisible\ncommerce of thought. Each object is capable of many meanings, or of\nbeing used in many ways to convey ideas or states of feeling or of facts\nthat take place in the world of the brain.\n\nThe greatest poet is the one who selects the best, the most appropriate\nsymbols to convey the best, the highest, the sublimest thoughts. Each\nman occupies a world of his own. He is the only citizen of his world.\nHe is subject and sovereign, and the best he can do is to give the facts\nconcerning the world in which he lives to the citizens of other worlds.\nNo two of these worlds are alike. They are of all kinds, from the\nflat, barren, and uninteresting—from the small and shriveled\nand worthless—to those whose rivers and mountains and seas and\nconstellations belittle and cheapen the visible world. The inhabitants\nof these marvelous worlds have been the singers of songs, utterers of\ngreat speech—the creators of art.\n\nAnd here lies the difference between creators and imitators: the creator\ntells what passes in his own world—the imitator does not. The imitator\nabdicates, and by the fact of imitation falls upon his knees. He is\nlike one who, hearing a traveler talk, pretends to others that he has\ntraveled.\n\nIn nearly all lands, the poet has been privileged. For the sake of\nbeauty, they have allowed him to speak, and for that reason he has told\nthe story of the oppressed, and has excited the indignation of honest\nmen and even the pity of tyrants. He, above all others, has added to\nthe intellectual beauty of the world. He has been the true creator of\nlanguage, and has left his impress on mankind.\n\nWhat I have said is not only true of poetry—it is true of all speech.\nAll are compelled to use the visible world as a dictionary. Words have\nbeen invented and are being invented, for the reason that new powers are\nfound in the old symbols, new qualities, relations, uses and meanings.\nThe growth of language is necessary on account of the development of the\nhuman mind. The savage needs but few symbols—the civilized many—the\npoet most of all.\n\nThe old idea was, however, that the poet must be a rhymer. Before\nprinting was known, it was said: the rhyme assists the memory. That\nexcuse no longer exists.\n\nIs rhyme a necessary part of poetry? In my judgment, rhyme is a\nhindrance to expression. The rhymer is compelled to wander from his\nsubject, to say more or less than he means, to introduce irrelevant\nmatter that interferes continually with the dramatic action and is a\nperpetual obstruction to sincere utterance.\n\nAll poems, of necessity, must be short. The highly and purely poetic\nis the sudden bursting into blossom of a great and tender thought. The\nplanting of the seed, the growth, the bud and flower must be rapid. The\nspring must be quick and warm, the soil perfect, the sunshine and rain\nenough—everything should tend to hasten, nothing to delay. In poetry,\nas in wit, the crystallization must be sudden.\n\nThe greatest poems are rhythmical. While rhyme is a hindrance, rhythm\nseems to be the comrade of the poetic. Rhythm has a natural foundation.\nUnder emotion the blood rises and falls, the muscles contract and relax,\nand this action of the blood is as rhythmical as the rise and fall of\nthe sea. In the highest form of expression the thought should be in\nharmony with this natural ebb and flow.\n\nThe highest poetic truth is expressed in rhythmical form. I have\nsometimes thought that an idea selects its own words, chooses its own\ngarments, and that when the thought has possession, absolutely, of the\nspeaker or writer, he unconsciously allows the thought to clothe itself.\n\nThe great poetry of the world keeps time with the winds and the waves.\n\nI do not mean by rhythm a recurring accent at accurately measured\nintervals. Perfect time is the death of music. There should always be\nroom for eager haste and delicious delay, and whatever change there\nmay be in the rhythm or time, the action itself should suggest perfect\nfreedom.\n\nA word more about rhythm. I believe that certain feelings and\npassions—-joy, grief, emulation, revenge, produce certain molecular\nmovements in the brain—that every thought is accompanied by certain\nphysical phenomena. Now, it may be that certain sounds, colors, and\nforms produce the same molecular action in the brain that accompanies\ncertain feelings, and that these sounds, colors and forms produce first\nthe molecular movements and these in their turn reproduce the feelings,\nemotions and states of mind capable of producing the same or like\nmolecular movements. So that what we call heroic music produces the\nsame molecular action in the brain—the same physical changes—that\nare produced by the real feeling of heroism; that the sounds we call\nplaintive produce the same molecular movement in the brain that grief,\nor the twilight of grief, actually produces. There may be a rhythmical\nmolecular movement belonging to each state of mind, that accompanies\neach thought or passion, and it may be that music, or painting, or\nsculpture, produces the same state of mind or feeling that produces\nthe music or painting or sculpture, by producing the same molecular\nmovements.\n\nAll arts are born of the same spirit, and express like thoughts in\ndifferent ways—that is to say, they produce like states of mind and\nfeeling. The sculptor, the painter, the composer, the poet, the orator,\nwork to the same end, with different materials. The painter expresses\nthrough form and color and relation; the sculptor through form and\nrelation. The poet also paints and chisels—his words give form,\nrelation and color. His statues and his paintings do not crumble,\nneither do they fade, nor will they as long as language endures. The\ncomposer touches the passions, produces the very states of feeling\nproduced by the painter and sculptor, the poet and orator. In all\nthese there must be rhythm—that is to say, proportion—that is to say,\nharmony, melody.\n\nSo that the greatest poet is the one who idealizes the common, who gives\nnew meanings to old symbols, who transfigures the ordinary things of\nlife. He must deal with the hopes and fears, and with the experiences of\nthe people.\n\nThe poetic is not the exceptional. A perfect poem is like a perfect day.\nIt has the undefinable charm of naturalness and ease. It must not appear\nto be the result of great labor. We feel, in spite of ourselves, that\nman does best that which he does easiest.\n\nThe great poet is the instrumentality, not always of his time, but\nof the best of his time, and he must be in unison and accord with the\nideals of his race. The sublimer he is, the simpler he is. The thoughts\nof the people must be clad in the garments of feeling—the words must\nbe known, apt, familiar. The height must be in the thought, in the\nsympathy.\n\nIn the olden time they used to have May day parties, and the prettiest\nchild was crowned Queen of May. Imagine an old blacksmith and his wife\nlooking at their little daughter clad in white and crowned with roses.\nThey would wonder while they looked at her, how they ever came to have\nso beautiful a child. It is thus that the poet clothes the intellectual\nchildren or ideals of the people. They must not be gemmed and garlanded\nbeyond the recognition of their parents. Out from all the flowers and\nbeauty must look the eyes of the child they know.\n\nWe have grown tired of gods and goddesses in art. Milton's heavenly\nmilitia excites our laughter. Light-houses have driven sirens from the\ndangerous coasts. We have found that we do not depend on the imagination\nfor wonders—there are millions of miracles under our feet.\n\nNothing can be more marvelous than the common and everyday facts of\nlife. The phantoms have been cast aside. Men and women are enough for\nmen and women. In their lives is all the tragedy and all the comedy that\nthey can comprehend.\n\nThe painter no longer crowds his canvas with the winged and\nimpossible—he paints life as he sees it, people as he knows them, and\nin whom he is interested. \"The Angelus,\" the perfection of pathos, is\nnothing but two peasants bending their heads in thankfulness as they\nhear the solemn sound of the distant bell—two peasants, who have\nnothing to be thankful for, nothing but weariness and want, nothing but\nthe crusts that they soften with their tears—nothing. And yet as you\nlook at that picture you feel that they have something besides to be\nthankful for—that they have life, love, and hope—and so the distant\nbell makes music in their simple hearts.\n\nIX.\n\nThe attitude of Whitman toward religion has not been understood. Toward\nall forms of worship, toward all creeds, he has maintained the attitude\nof absolute fairness. He does not believe that Nature has given her last\nmessage to man. He does not believe that all has been ascertained. He\ndenies that any sect has written down the entire truth. He believes in\nprogress, and so believing he says:\n\n  \"We consider Bibles and religions divine—I do not say they are not divine,\n  I say they have all grown out of you, and may grow out of you still,\n  It is not they who give the life, it is you who give the life.\"\n\n  \"His [the poet's] thoughts are the hymns of the praise of things,\n  In the dispute on God and eternity he is silent.\"\n\n  \"Have you thought there could be but a single supreme?\n  There can be any number of supremes—one does not countervail another\n  anymore than one eyesight countervails another.\"\n\nUpon the great questions, as to the great problems, he feels only the\nserenity of a great and well-poised soul:\n\n  \"No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death.\n  I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least,\n  Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself....\n  In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,\n  I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God's name.\"\n\nThe whole visible world is regarded by him as a revelation, and so is\nthe invisible world, and with this feeling he writes:\n\n\"Not objecting to special revelations—considering a curl of smoke or a\nhair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation.\"\n\nThe creeds do not satisfy, the old mythologies are not enough; they are\ntoo narrow at best, giving only hints and suggestions; and feeling this\nlack in that which has been written and preached, Whitman says:\n\n  \"Magnifying and applying come I,\n  Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters,\n  Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah, Lithographing Kronos,\n  Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson,\n  Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,\n  In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix engraved,\n  With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli, and every idol and image,\n  Taking them all for what they are worth, and not a cent more.\"\n\nWhitman keeps open house. He is intellectually hospitable. He extends\nhis hand to a new idea. He does not accept a creed because it is\nwrinkled and old and has a long white beard. He knows that hypocrisy has\na venerable look, and that it relies on looks and masks, on stupidity\nand fear. Neither does he reject or accept the new because it is new. He\nwants the truth, and so he welcomes all until he knows just who and what\nthey are.\n\nX. Philosophy.\n\nWALT WHITMAN is a philosopher. The more a man has thought, the more he\nhas studied, the more he has traveled intellectually, the less certain\nhe is. Only the very ignorant are perfectly satisfied that they know.\nTo the common man the great problems are easy. He has no trouble in\naccounting for the universe. He can tell you the origin and destiny of\nman and the why and the wherefore of things. As a rule, he is a\nbeliever in special providence, and is egotistic enough to suppose that\neverything that happens in the universe happens in reference to him.\n\nA colony of red ants lived at the foot of the Alps. It happened one day\nthat an avalanche destroyed the hill; and one of the ants was heard to\nremark: \"Who could have taken so much trouble to destroy our home?\"\n\nWalt Whitman walked by the side of the sea \"where the fierce old mother\nendlessly cries for her castaways,\" and endeavored to think out, to\nfathom the mystery of being; and he said:\n\n  \"I too but signify at the utmost a little wash'd-up drift,\n  A few sands and dead leaves to gather,\n  Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.\n  Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me\n  I have not once had the least idea who or what I am,\n  But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet untouch'd,\n  untold, altogether unreach'd,\n  Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows,\n  With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,\n  Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath....\n  I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single object,\n  and that no man ever can.\"\n\nThere is in our language no profounder poem than the one entitled\n\"Elemental Drifts.\"\n\nThe effort to find the origin has ever been, and will forever be,\nfruitless. Those who endeavor to find the secret of life resemble a man\nlooking in the mirror, who thinks that if he only could be quick enough\nhe could grasp the image that he sees behind the glass.\n\nThe latest word of this poet upon this subject is as follows:\n\n\"To me this life with all its realities and functions is finally a\nmystery, the real something yet to be evolved, and the stamp and shape\nand life here somehow giving an important, perhaps the main outline to\nsomething further. Somehow this hangs over everything else, and stands\nbehind it, is inside of all facts, and the concrete and material, and\nthe worldly affairs of life and sense. That is the purport and meaning\nbehind all the other meanings of Leaves of Grass.\"\n\nAs a matter of fact, the questions of origin and destiny are beyond the\ngrasp of the human mind. We can see a certain distance; beyond that,\neverything is indistinct; and beyond the indistinct is the unseen. In\nthe presence of these mysteries—and everything is a mystery so far as\norigin, destiny, and nature are concerned—the intelligent, honest man\nis compelled to say, \"I do not know.\"\n\nIn the great midnight a few truths like stars shine on forever, and from\nthe brain of man come a few struggling gleams of light, a few momentary\nsparks.\n\nSome have contended that everything is spirit; others that everything\nis matter; and again, others have maintained that a part is matter and a\npart is spirit; some that spirit was first and matter after; others that\nmatter was first and spirit after; and others that matter and spirit\nhave existed together.\n\nBut none of these people can by any possibility tell what matter is, or\nwhat spirit is, or what the difference is between spirit and matter.\n\nThe materialists look upon the spiritualists as substantially crazy; and\nthe spiritualists regard the materialists as low and groveling. These\nspiritualistic people hold matter in contempt; but, after all, matter is\nquite a mystery. Y ou take in your hand a little earth—a little dust.\nDo you know what it is? In this dust you put a seed; the rain falls upon\nit; the light strikes it; the seed grows; it bursts into blossom; it\nproduces fruit.\n\nWhat is this dust—this womb? Do you understand it? Is there anything in\nthe wide universe more wonderful than this?\n\nTake a grain of sand, reduce it to powder, take the smallest possible\nparticle, look at it with a microscope, contemplate its every part for\ndays, and it remains the citadel of a secret—an impregnable fortress.\nBring all the theologians, philosophers, and scientists in serried ranks\nagainst it; let them attack on every side with all the arts and arms\nof thought and force. The citadel does not fall. Over the battlements\nfloats the flag, and the victorious secret smiles at the baffled hosts.\n\nWalt Whitman did not and does not imagine that he has reached the\nlimit—the end of the road traveled by the human race. He knows that\nevery victory over nature is but the preparation for another battle.\nThis truth was in his mind when he said: \"Understand me well; it is\nprovided in the essence of things, that from any fruition of success,\nno matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle\nnecessary.\"\n\nThis is the generalization of all history.\n\nXI. The Two Poems.\n\nTHERE are two of these poems to which I will call special attention. The\nfirst is entitled, \"A Word Out of the Sea.\"\n\nThe boy, coming out of the rocked cradle, wandering over the sands and\nfields, up from the mystic play of shadows, out of the patches of\nbriers and blackberries—from the memories of birds—from the thousand\nresponses of his heart—goes back to the sea and his childhood, and\nsings a reminiscence.\n\nTwo guests from Alabama—two birds—build their nest, and there were\nfour light green eggs, spotted with brown, and the two birds sang for\njoy:\n\n  \"Shine! shine! shine!\n  Pour down your warmth, great sun!\n  While we bask, we two together.\n  Two together!\n  Winds blow south, or winds blow north,\n  Day come white, or night come black, .\n  Home, or rivers and mountains from home,\n  Singing all time, minding no time,\n  While we two keep together.\"\n\nIn a little while one of the birds is missed and never appeared again,\nand all through the summer the mate, the solitary guest, was singing of\nthe lost:\n\n  \"Blow! blow! blow!\n  Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore;\n  I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me.\"\n\nAnd the boy that night, blending himself with the shadows, with bare\nfeet, went down to the sea, where the white arms out in the breakers\nwere tirelessly tossing; listening to the songs and translating the\nnotes.\n\nAnd the singing bird called loud and high for the mate, wondering what\nthe dusky spot was in the brown and yellow, seeing the mate whichever\nway he looked, piercing the woods and the earth with his song, hoping\nthat the mate might hear his cry; stopping that he might not lose her\nanswer; waiting and then crying again: \"Here I am! And this gentle call\nis for you. Do not be deceived by the whistle of the wind; those are the\nshadows;\" and at last crying:\n\n  \"O past! O happy life! O songs of joy!\n  In the air, in the woods, over fields,\n  Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!\n  But my mate no more, no more with me!\n  We two together no more.\"\n\nAnd then the 'boy, understanding the song that had awakened in his\nbreast a thousand songs clearer and louder and more sorrowful than the\nbirds, knowing that the cry of unsatisfied love would never again be\nabsent from him; thinking then of the destiny of all, and asking of the\nsea the final word, and the sea answering, delaying not and hurrying\nnot, spoke the low delicious word \"Death!\" \"ever Death!\"\n\nThe next poem, one that will live as long as our language, entitled:\n\"When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom'd,\" is on the death of Lincoln,\n\n  \"The sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands.\"\n\nOne who reads this will never forget the odor of the lilac, \"the\nlustrous western star\" and \"the gray-brown bird singing in the pines and\ncedars.\"\n\nIn this poem the dramatic unities are perfectly preserved, the\natmosphere and climate in harmony with every event.\n\nNever will he forget the solemn journey of the coffin through day and\nnight, with the great cloud darkening the land, nor the pomp of inlooped\nflags, the processions long and winding, the flambeaus of night,\nthe torches' flames, the silent sea of faces, the unbared heads, the\nthousand voices rising strong and solemn, the dirges, the shuddering\norgans, the tolling bells—and the sprig of lilac.\n\nAnd then for a moment they will hear the gray-brown bird singing in the\ncedars, bashful and tender, while the lustrous star lingers in the west,\nand they will remember the pictures hung on the chamber walls to adorn\nthe burial house—pictures of spring and farms and homes, and the gray\nsmoke lucid and bright, and the floods of yellow gold—of the gorgeous\nindolent sinking sun—the sweet herbage under foot—the green leaves of\nthe trees prolific—the breast of the river with the wind-dapple here\nand there, and the varied and ample land—and the most excellent sun so\ncalm and haughty—the violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes—the\ngentle soft-born measureless light—the miracle spreading, bathing\nall—the fulfill'd noon—the coming eve delicious, and the welcome night\nand the stars.\n\nAnd then again they will hear the song of the gray-brown bird in the\nlimitless dusk amid the cedars and pines. Again they will remember the\nstar, and again the odor of the lilac.\n\nBut most of all, the song of the bird translated and becoming the chant\nfor death:\n\nA Chant for Death\n\n  \"Come lovely and soothing death,\n  Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,\n  In the day, in the night, to all, to each,\n  Sooner or later delicate death.\n  Prais'd be the fathomless universe,\n  For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,\n  And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise!\n  For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.\n  Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet,\n  Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?\n  Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,\n  I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.\n  Approach strong deliveress,\n  When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead,\n  Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,\n  Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O death.\n  From me to thee glad serenades,\n  Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and 'feastings for thee,\n  And the sights of the open landscape and the high spread sky are fitting,\n  And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.\n  The night in silence under many a star,\n  The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,\n  And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil'd death,\n  And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.\n  Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,\n  Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide,\n  Over the dense-pack'd cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,\n  I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death.\"\n\nThis poem, in memory of \"the sweetest, wisest soul of all our days and\nlands,\" and for whose sake lilac and star and bird entwined, will last\nas long as the memory of Lincoln.\n\nXII. Old Age.\n\nWALT WHITMAN is not only the poet of childhood, of youth, of manhood,\nbut, above all, of old age. He has not been soured by slander or\npetrified by prejudice; neither calumny nor flattery has made him\nrevengeful or arrogant. Now sitting by the fireside, in the winter of\nlife,\n\n\"His jocund heart still beating in his breast,\" he is just as brave and\ncalm and kind as in his manhood's proudest days, when roses blossomed in\nhis cheeks.\n\nHe has taken life's seven steps. Now, as the gamester might say, \"on\nvelvet,\" he is enjoying \"old age, expanded, broad, with the haughty\nbreadth of the universe; old age, flowing free, with the delicious\nnear-by freedom of death; old age, superbly rising, welcoming the\nineffable aggregation of dying days.\"\n\nHe is taking the \"loftiest look at last,\" and before he goes he utters\nthanks:\n\n  \"For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air—for life, mere life,\n  For precious ever-lingering memories,\n  (of you my mother dear—you, father—you, brothers, sisters, friends,)\n  For all my days—not those of peace alone—the days of war the same,\n  For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands,\n  For shelter, wine and meat—for sweet appreciation,\n  (You distant, dim unknown—or young or old—countless, unspecified,\n  readers belov'd,\n  We never met, and ne'er shall meet—and yet our souls embrace,\n  long, close and long;)\n  For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books—for colors, forms,\n  For all the brave strong men—devoted, hardy men—who've forward\n  sprung in freedom's help, all years, all lands,\n  For braver, stronger, more devoted men—(a special laurel ere I go,\n  to life's war's chosen ones,\n  The cannoneers of song and thought—the great artillerists—\n  the foremost leaders, captains of the soul:\"\n\nIt is a great thing to preach philosophy—far greater to live it. The\nhighest philosophy accepts the inevitable with a smile, and greets it as\nthough it were desired.\n\nTo be satisfied: This is wealth—success.\n\nThe real philosopher knows that everything has happened that could have\nhappened—consequently he accepts. He is glad that he has lived—glad\nthat he has had his moment on the stage. In this spirit Whitman has\naccepted life.\n\n  \"I shall go forth,\n  I shall traverse the States awhile, but I cannot tell whither or how long,\n  Perhaps soon some day or night while I am singing my v\n  voice will suddenly cease.\n  O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this?\n  Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?—and yet it is enough, O soul;\n  O soul, we have positively appear'd—that is enough.\"\n\nYes, Walt Whitman has appeared. He has his place upon the stage.\nThe drama is not ended. His voice is still heard. He is the Poet of\nDemocracy—of all people. He is the poet of the body and soul. He has\nsounded the note of Individuality. He has given the pass-word primeval.\nHe is the Poet of Humanity—of Intellectual Hospitality. He has voiced\nthe aspirations of America—and, above all, he is the poet of Love and\nDeath.\n\nHow grandly, how bravely he has given his thought, and how superb is his\nfarewell—his leave-taking:\n\n  \"After the supper and talk—after the day is done,\n  As a friend from friends his final withdrawal prolonging,\n  Good-bye and Good-bye with emotional lips repeating,\n  (So hard for his hand to release those hands—no more will they meet,\n  No more for communion of sorrow and joy, of old and young,\n  A far-stretching journey awaits him, to return no more,)\n  Shunning, postponing severance—seeking to ward off the last word ever so little,\n  E'en at the exit-door turning—charges superfluous calling back—\n  e'en as he descends the steps,\n  Something to eke out a minute additional—shadows of nightfall deepening,\n  Farewells, messages lessening—dimmer the forthgoer's visage and form,\n  Soon to be lost for aye in the darkness—loth, O so loth to depart!\"\n\nAnd is this all? Will the forthgoer be lost, and forever? Is death the\nend? Over the grave bends Love sobbing, and by her side stands Hope and\nwhispers:\n\nWe shall meet again. Before all life is death, and after all death is\nlife. The falling leaf, touched with the hectic flush, that testifies of\nautumn's death, is, in a subtler sense, a prophecy of spring.\n\nWalt Whitman has dreamed great dreams, told great truths and uttered\nsublime thoughts. He has held aloft the torch and bravely led the way.\n\nAs you read the marvelous book, or the person, called \"Leaves of Grass,\"\nyou feel the freedom of the antique world; you hear the voices of the\nmorning, of the first great singers—voices elemental as those of sea\nand storm. The horizon enlarges, the heavens grow ample, limitations are\nforgotten—the realization of the will, the accomplishment of the ideal,\nseem to be within your power. Obstructions become petty and disappear.\nThe chains and bars are broken, and the distinctions of caste are lost.\nThe soul is in the open air, under the blue and stars—the flag\nof Nature. Creeds, theories and philosophies ask to be examined,\ncontradicted, reconstructed. Prejudices disappear, superstitions vanish\nand custom abdicates. The sacred places become highways, duties and\ndesires clasp hands and become comrades and friends. Authority drops\nthe scepter, the priest the mitre, and the purple falls from kings.\nThe inanimate becomes articulate, the meanest and humblest things\nutter speech, and the dumb and voiceless burst into song. A feeling of\nindependence takes possession of the soul, the body expands, the blood\nflows full and free, superiors vanish, flattery is a lost art, and\nlife becomes rich, royal, and superb. The world becomes a personal\npossession, and the oceans, the continents, and constellations belong\nto you. You are in the center, everything radiates from you, and in\nyour veins beats and throbs the pulse of all life. You become a rover,\ncareless and free. You wander by the shores of all seas and hear the\neternal psalm. You feel the silence of the wide forest, and stand\nbeneath the intertwined and over-arching boughs, entranced with\nsymphonies of winds and woods. You are borne on the tides of eager and\nswift rivers, hear the rush and roar of cataracts as they fall beneath\nthe seven-hued arch, and watch the eagles as they circling soar. You\ntraverse gorges dark and dim, and climb the scarred and threatening\ncliffs. You stand in orchards where the blossoms fall like snow, where\nthe birds nest and sing, and painted moths make aimless journeys through\nthe happy air. You live the lives of those who till the earth, and walk\namid the perfumed fields, hear the reapers' song, and feel the breadth\nand scope of earth and sky. You are in the great cities, in the midst of\nmultitudes, of the endless processions. You are on the wide plains—the\nprairies—with hunter and trapper, with savage and pioneer, and you feel\nthe soft grass yielding under your feet. You sail in many ships, and\nbreathe the free air of the sea. You travel many roads, and countless\npaths. You visit palaces and prisons, hospitals and courts; you pity\nkings and convicts, and your sympathy goes out to all the suffering and\ninsane, the oppressed and enslaved, and even to the infamous. You hear\nthe din of labor, all sounds of factory, field, and forest, of all\ntools, instruments and machines. You become familiar with men and women\nof all employments, trades and professions—with birth and burial, with\nwedding feast and funeral chant. You see the cloud and flame of war, and\nyou enjoy the ineffable perfect days of peace.\n\nIn this one book, in these wondrous \"Leaves of Grass,\" you find hints\nand suggestions, touches and fragments, of all there is of life that\nlies between the babe, whose rounded cheeks dimple beneath his mother's\nlaughing, loving eyes, and the old man, snow-crowned, who, with a smile,\nextends his hand to death.\n\nWe have met to-night to honor ourselves by honoring the author of\n\"Leaves of Grass.\"\n"
}