illustration] [illustration: the open road. afoot and light-hearted, i take to the open road, healthy, free, the world before me, the long brown path before me, leading wherever i choose. (_song of the open road_).] a · day · with walt whitman by maurice clare [illustration] london hodder & stoughton _in the same series._ _tennyson._ _wordsworth._ _browning._ _burns._ _byron._ _keats._ _e. b. browning._ _whittier_. _rossetti._ _shelley._ _longfellow._ _scott._ _coleridge._ _morris._ a day with walt whitman. about six o'clock on a midsummer morning in 1877, a tall old man awoke, and was out of bed next moment,--but he moved with a certain slow leisureliness, as one who will not be hurried. the reason of this deliberate movement was obvious,--he had to drag a paralysed leg, which was only gradually recovering its ability and would always be slightly lame. seen more closely, he was not by any means so old as at first sight one might imagine. his snow-white hair and almost-white grey beard indicated some eighty years: but he was vigorous, erect and rosy: his clear grey-blue eyes were bright with a "wild-hawk look,"--his face was firm and without a line. an air of splendid vital force, despite his infirmity, was diffused from his whole person, and defied the fact of his actual age, which was two years short of sixty. dressing with the same large, leisurely gestures as characterized him in everything, walt whitman was presently attired in his invariable suit of grey: and by the time the clock touched half-past seven, he was seated in the verandah, comfortably inhaling the sweet, fresh morning air, and quite ready for his simple breakfast. in this old farmhouse, in the new jersey hamlet of white horse, walt whitman had been long an inmate. he was recovering by almost imperceptible degrees from the breakdown induced by over-strain, mental and physical, which had culminated in intermittent paralytic seizures for the last eight years, and had left his robust physique a mere wreck of its former magnificence. here, in the absolute peace and seclusion of the little wooden house, with its few fields and fruit-trees, he lived in lovable companionship with the farmer-folk, man, wife and sons: and here, the level, faintly undulated country, "neither attractive nor unattractive," supplied all the needs of his strenuous nature and healed him with its calm, curative influences. he steeped himself, month by month, season after season, in "primitive solitudes, winding stream, recluse and woody banks, sweet-feeding springs and all the charms that birds, grass, wild-flowers, rabbits and squirrels, old oaks, walnut-trees, etc., can bring." simple fare, these charms might seem to a townsman: to the "good grey poet" they were not only sufficient but inexhaustible. dearly as he loved the "swarming and tumultuous" life of cities, the tops of broadway omnibuses, the brooklyn ferry-boats, the eternal panorama of the multitude, his true delight was in the vast expanses, the illimitable spaces, the very earth from which, antæus-like, he drew his vital strength. out here, in the country solitudes, alone could he observe how--in a way undreamed of by the street-dweller,- ever upon this stage is acted god's calm annual drama, gorgeous processions, songs of birds, sunrise that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul, the heaving sea, the waves upon the shore, the musical, strong waves, the woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering trees, the lilliput countless armies of the grass. (_the return of the heroes._) it may be doubted whether any other poet who has been inspired by outdoor nature, has approximated so closely as whitman to the "shows of all variety," which nature presents,--from the infinite gradations of microscopic detail, to the enormous range and sweep of dim vastitudes. his poetry has a huge elemental quality, akin to that of winds and clouds and seas. "to speak with the perfect rectitude and insouciance of the movements of animals, and the unimpeachableness of the sentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside,"--this was the standard he had set himself: and, in pursuance of this ideal, he had given his first and most typically unconventional volume the title "_leaves of grass_." no name could better convey and sum up his meaning in art,--a commixture of the minute and the universal, the simple and the inexplicable, the particular and the all-pervading,--the commonplace which is also the miracle: for to whitman leaves of grass were this and more. "to me," he declared, "as i lean and loaf at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass," every hour of the light and dark is a miracle- every cubic inch of space is a miracle, the grass-blades no less so than the "gentle soft-born measureless light." and, avowedly, from these external expressions of nature he derived all power of song- i hear you whispering there, o stars of heaven- o suns--o grass of graves--o perpetual transfers and promotions,- if you do not say anything, how can i say anything? thus he had arrived at declaring, with august arrogance: "let others finish specimens--i never finish specimens: i shower them by exhaustless laws as nature does, fresh and modern continually." nor are you to suppose that this was a late development of nature-worship in a man suddenly confronted with teeming glories and wonderments. all through his life he had been soaking himself in the mysterious loveliness of the world around. "even as a boy," he wrote, "i had the fancy, the wish, to write a poem about the seashore--that suggesting dividing line, contact, junction, the solid marrying the liquid--that curious, lurking something (as doubtless every objective form finally becomes to the subjective spirit) which means far more than its mere first sight, grand as that is.... i felt that i must one day write a book expressing this liquid, mystic theme. afterward ... it came to me that instead of any special lyrical or epical or literary attempt, the seashore should be an invisible _influence_, a pervading gauge and tally for me in my composition." even as a child, upon the desolate beaches of long island, he had, "leaving his bed, wandered alone, bare-headed, barefoot," over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, and explored the secret sources of tragedy that are hidden at the roots of love. once paumanok, when the snows had melted--when the lilac-scent was in the air and fifth-month grass was growing, up this seashore, in some briers, two guests from alabama--two together, and their nest, and four light-green eggs, spotted with brown, and every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand, and every day the she-bird crouch'd on her nest, silent, with bright eyes, and every day i, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them, cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. * * * * * till of a sudden, may-be kill'd, unknown to her mate, one forenoon the she-bird crouch'd not on the nest, nor return'd that afternoon, nor the next, nor ever appear'd again. and thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea, and at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather.... yes, when the stars glisten'd, all night long on the prong of a moss-scallop'd stake, down, almost amid the slapping waves, sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears * * * * * i, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, listen'd long and long.... (_out of the cradle endlessly rocking_). but now the stafford family were assembled at breakfast and walt limped in to join them. courteously and simply he greeted the various members of the household,--the dark, silent, diligent methodist father,--the spiritually-minded yet busy-handed mother,--the two young fellows, the married daughter and her little ones. he was the most domesticated, least troublesome of inmates, and his "large sweet presence" imparted something to the homely breakfast-table, something of benignity and tranquillity, which it had lacked before his entrance. "the best man i ever knew," mrs. stafford called him. her sons adored him; and her grandchildren were almost like his own, in the love and confidence with which they curled themselves upon his great grey knee when the meal was over. for his affection for children, his sense of fatherhood, was a predominant trait of whitman's character. lonely, since his mother's death, he had lived as regards the closer human relationships: lonely, in this sense, he was doomed to remain. a veil of secrecy hung over his past life, which none had ever ventured to lift. rumours of a lost mate, as in the song of the alabama bird upon the shore,--of children whom he never could claim,--hints of harsh fates and imperious destinies, occasionally penetrated that close-woven curtain of silence which covered his most intimate self. but only in his poems had he voiced his loneliness, and that with the tenderest poignancy of yearning for "better, loftier love's ideals, the divine wife, the sweet, eternal, perfect comrade".... that woman who passionately clung to me. again we wander, we love, we separate again, again she holds me by the hand, i must not go, i see her close beside me with silent lips sad and tremulous. * * * * * (be not impatient--a little space--know you, i salute the air, the ocean and the land, every day, at sundown, for your dear sake, my love.) and this was the man who had been blamed for his utter lack of "the romantic attitude towards women!" but whitman was no light singer of casual empty love-lyrics; he was of sterner stuff than that. no dainty dolce affettuoso i, bearded, sun-burnt, gray-neck'd, forbidding, i have arrived. * * * * * as breakfast passed, he spoke but little to his companions. his ordinary mood of "quiet yet cheerful serenity," lay gently on him, and he was content to sit almost silent, emanating that radiant power, that "effluence and inclusiveness as of the sun," which none could fail to note in him. when addressed, he only replied with the brief monosyllable "ay? ay?" (which he pronounced _oy? oy?_), and which, slightly inflected to answer various purposes, served him for all response. [illustration: i, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, listen'd long and long.... (_out of the cradle endlessly rocking_).] the meal was not yet over, for most of the family, when whitman, rising abruptly with that startling _brusquerie_ which occasionally offended his friends, observed "ta-ta!" to everybody in general and departed--"as if he didn't care if he never saw us again!" remarked one of the young men. he left the house and strolled down the green lane, to a wide wooded hollow, where the stream called timber creek went winding among its lily-leaves beneath the trees. here whitman had found, a year before, "a particularly secluded little dell off one side by my creek ... filled with bushes, trees, grass, a group of willows, a straggling bank and a spring of delicious water running right through the middle of it, with two or three little cascades. here (he) retreated every hot day" (_specimen days_),--and here, while the summer sun drew sweet aromatic odours from the tangled water-mints and cresses, he proceeded slowly now, carrying a portable chair, and with his pockets filled with note-books; for, as he truly avowed, "wherever i go, winter or summer, city or country, alone at home or travelling, i _must_ take notes." he was about to make sure of a morning's unmitigated delight,--in the spot where he sought, "every day, seclusion--every day at least two or three hours of freedom, bathing, no talk, no bonds, no dress, no books, no manners." and each step of the way was a pure joy to him. "what a day!" he murmured, "what an hour just passing! the luxury of riant grass and blowing breeze, with all the shows of sun and sky and perfect temperature, never before so filling me body and soul!" so rhapsodizing inwardly and drinking in the beauty of sight and sound, he proceeded, "still sauntering on, to the spring under the willows--musical as soft clinking glasses--pouring a sizeable stream, pure and clear, out from its vent where the bank arches over like a great brown shaggy eyebrow or mouth-roof--gurgling, gurgling ceaselessly; meaning, saying something, of course (if one could only translate it.)" (_specimen days._) here he sat down awhile and revelled in sheer joy of summer opulence. he enumerated to himself,--laying a store of lovely recollections for future reference in darker days,--"the fervent heat, but so much more endurable in this pure air--the white and pink pond-blossoms, with great heart-shaped leaves, the glassy waters of the creek, the banks, with dense bushery and the picturesque beeches and shade and turf; the tremulous, reedy call of some bird from recesses, breaking the warm, indolent, half-voluptuous silence: the prevailing delicate, yet palpable, spicy, grassy, clovery perfume to my nostrils,--and over all, encircling all, to my sight and soul, the free space of the sky, transparent and blue," (_specimen days_,) and, "from old habit, pencilled down from time to time, almost automatically, moods, sights, hours, tints and outlines, on the spot." minutes like these were the seed time of his art, if that can be called art which was almost one with nature. for walt whitman had, from the very outset, striven to obtain that fusion of identity with _natura benigna_, which, even if only momentary, bequeathes a lasting impression on the mind. he had always felt, with regard to his productions, that "there is a humiliating lesson one learns, in serene hours, of a fine day or night. nature seems to look on all fixed-up poetry and art as something almost impertinent.... if i could indirectly show that we have met and fused, even if but only once, but enough--that we have really absorbed each other and understood each other,"--it sufficed him. nothing less did: for he recognised that "after you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, love and so on--have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear--what remains? nature remains: to bring out from their torpid recesses, the affinities of a man or woman with the open air, the trees, fields, changes of seasons--the sun by day and the stars of heaven by night." and, while confessing, "i cannot divest my appetite of literature, yet i find myself eventually trying it all by nature--_first premises_ many call it, but really the crowning results of all, laws, tallies and proofs.... i have fancied the ocean and the daylight, the mountain and the forest, putting their spirit in a judgment on our books. i have fancied some disembodied soul giving its verdict." (_specimen days._) he was "so afraid," as he phrased it, "of dropping what smack of outdoors or sun or starlight might cling to the lines--i dared not try to meddle with or smooth them." to be "made one with nature," in a deeper sense than ever any man yet had known, was, in short, his ideal,--and, one may say, his achievement. for the verdict of the average person, vacant of _his_ glorious gains, he did not care. regardless of ridicule, calumny, contumely, he had pursued his own way to his own goal: till he was able at last to realize his dream of- me imperturbe, standing at ease in nature, master of all, or mistress of all--aplomb in the midst of irrational things. and now he was an old man, to look upon,--yet a man surcharged with electric vigour and daily renewing his physical strength from the fountains of eternal youth. he was just as full of _élan_, of enterprise, of the glorious hunger for adventure, as when first he had proclaimed,- afoot and light-hearted, i take to the open road, healthy, free, the world before me, the long brown path before me, leading wherever i choose. allons! to that which is endless, as it was beginningless, to undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights, to merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to, again to merge them in the start of superior journeys; to see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it, to look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you--however long, but it stretches and waits for you; to see no being, not god's or any, but you also go thither. (_song of the open road._) the big grey man expanded almost visibly in the sun-steeped air, as he absorbed the exquisite minutiæ of the green dell into his mind, and assimilated the music of the wind and stream. sound of any sort had a powerfully emotional effect upon him. it was not mere fancy on whitman's part that "he and wagner made one music." with music on the most colossal scale his poems are fraught from end to end: and while their technical form may be less finished, less perfected, than those of other authors,--while they have less melody, they have the multitudinous harmony, the superb architectonics, the choral and symphonic movement of the noblest masters. "such poems as _the mystic trumpeter_, _out of the cradle_, _passage to india_, have the genesis and exodus of great musical compositions." and to many auditors, the "vast elemental sympathy" of this unique personality can only be compared to that of beethoven, whom he said he had "discovered as a new meaning in music:" beethoven, by whom he allowed he "had been carried out of himself, seeing, hearing wonders:" beethoven, who, like himself, sought inspiration continuously in the magic and mystery of nature. [illustration: the lumbermen's camp. lumbermen in their winter camp, day-break in the woods, stripes of snow on the limbs of trees, the occasional snapping, the glad clear sound of one's own voice, the merry song, the natural life of the woods, the strong day's work, the blazing fire at night, the sweet taste of supper, the talk, the bed of hemlock boughs, and the bear-skin. (_song of the broad-axe_).] and thus, all whitman's finest poems have a processional air, like the evolution of some great symphony--a pageantry of sound, so to speak, which whirls one forward like a leaf upon a resistless stream. sometimes he is superbly triumphant, as in his inaugural _song of myself_: with music strong i come--with my cornets and my drums, i play not marches for accepted victors only, i play great marches for conquer'd and slain persons. sometimes he translates the sonorities of the air into immortal effluences of meaning: hark, some wild trumpeter--some strange musician, hovering unseen in air, vibrates capricious tunes to-night.... blow, trumpeter, free and clear--i follow thee, while at thy liquid prelude, glad, serene, the fretting world, the streets, the noisy hours of day, withdraw; or he blends all sorts and conditions of beautiful resonance into, surely, the strangest yet loveliest love-song ever yet set down: i heard you, solemn-sweet pipes of the organ, as last sunday morn i pass'd the church, winds of autumn, as i walked the woods at dusk, i heard your long-stretch'd sighs up above so mournful, i heard the perfect italian tenor singing at the opera, i heard the soprano in the midst of the quartet singing; heart of my love! you too i heard murmuring low through one of the wrists around my head, heard the pulse of you, when all was still, ringing little bells last night under my ear. but now the precious hour had arrived, which to whitman spelt revivification and rejuvenescence above all others: the time when, stripped of all externals, he became the very child of mother earth. in his own description of the process: "a light south-west wind was blowing through the tree-tops. it was just the place and time for my adamic air-bath.... so, hanging clothes on a rail near by, keeping old broadbrim straw on head and easy shoes on feet ... then partially bathing in the clear waters of the running brook--taking everything very leisurely, with many rests and pauses ... slow negligent promenades on the turf up and down in the sun ... somehow i seemed to get identity with each and everything around me, in its condition. perhaps the inner, never-lost rapport we hold with earth, light, air, trees, etc., is not to be realized through eyes and mind only, but through the whole corporeal body." (_specimen days._) power and joy and exhilaration infused his whole frame. "here," he murmured, "i realize the meaning of that old fellow who said he was seldom less alone than when alone. never before did i get so close to nature: never before did she come so close to me." and a miracle of transient transformation had been wrought upon him. his youth was "renewed like the eagle's," his lameness hardly perceptible, as he reluctantly emerged from the sweet water, and, having dried himself in the sun-glow, still more reluctantly dressed again. this was no longer the "battered, wrecked old man," the veteran of life-long battles with the world: but one who could realize with keenest perception every sensation of stalwart strength. he might have been, at this moment, one of his own "lumbermen in their winter camp," enjoying day-break in the woods, stripes of snow on the limbs of trees, the occasional snapping, the glad clear sound of one's own voice, the merry song, the natural life of the woods, the strong day's work, the blazing fire at night, the sweet taste of supper, the talk, the bed of hemlock boughs, and the bear-skin. (_song of the broad-axe._) or a scion of the "youthful sinewy races," whom he had chanted in _pioneers_: come, my tan-faced children, follow well in order, get your weapons ready; have you your pistols? have you your sharpedged axes? pioneers! o pioneers!... all the past we leave behind! we debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world; fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labour and the march, pioneers! o pioneers! here at last was the true walt whitman, superabundant in splendid vitality and conscious of mental and physical power through every fibre of his being. [illustration: the pioneers. all the past we leave behind! we debouch upon a newer, mightier world,.... down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep.... pioneers! o pioneers! (_pioneers._)] one last longing, loving look he cast upon the creek before returning homewards. the magnificent mid-noon lay full-tide over all, brimming the uttermost shores of beauty: it was the very apotheosis of summer, the tangible realization of whitman's prophetic vision. all, all for immortality, love like the light silently wrapping all, nature's amelioration blessing all, the blossoms, fruits of ages, orchards divine and certain, forms, objects, growths, humanities, to spiritual images ripening. give me, o god, to sing that thought, give me, give him or her i love this quenchless faith, in thy ensemble, whatever else withheld withhold not from us belief in plan of thee enclosed in time and space, health, peace, salvation universal. is it a dream? nay but the lack of it the dream, and failing it life's lore and wealth a dream, and all the world a dream. * * * * * now he passed back up the lane to the little farmstead, and, entering in, found the midday meal was served. mr. stafford was already seated and about to say grace. whitman stopped as he passed behind the farmer's chair, and clasping stafford's head in his large, well-formed hands, became an actual part, as it were, in the benediction. then he took his seat in silence. but that irrepressible joyousness which sometimes, after working on a manuscript, seemed to shine from his face and pervade his whole body,--that "singular brightness and delight, as though he had partaken of some divine elixir"--was visible now upon his noble features. he talked a little, in simple homely phrases,--giving little idea of the voluminous reserve force within him: telling little incidents of the war of secession and anecdotes of his hospital experiences. he had been a volunteer nurse of exquisite patience and admirable efficiency throughout those terrible years 1862-64. his passionate tenderness and sympathy then found vent: and he gave his best and uttermost: believing that (in his own words) "these libations, extatic life-pourings, as it were, of precious wine or rose-water on vast desert-sands or great polluted rivers, taking chances of _no return_,--what are they but the theory and practice ... of christ or of all divine personality?" for in the human, however defaced, he still could discern the divine and immortal. the worth of every individual soul was the pivot of all his arts and beliefs: "because, having looked at the objects of the universe, i find there is no one, nor any particle of one, but has reference to the soul." usually, to his sensitive mind, able as it was to realise with the keenest sympathy every phase of human suffering, the memories of carnage were repulsive. by day he could shut them off: but by night, he said, in clouds descending, in midnight sleep, of many a face in battle, of the look at first of the mortally wounded, of that indescribable look, of the dead on their backs, with arms extended wide- i dream, i dream, i dream. (_old war dreams._) but he had faith in the future of his country, vast hopes in the purification wrought out by those sorrowful years: and his poem _to the man-of-war bird_ was but one of many allegories in which he saw his beloved america rising transfigured from the ashes of the past. thou who hast slept all night upon the storm, waking renew'd on thy prodigious pinions, (burst the wild storm? above it thou ascended'st, and rested on the sky, thy slave that cradled thee,).... thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,) to cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane, thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails, days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating, at dusk that look'st on senegal, at morn america, that sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud, in them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my soul, what joys! what joys were thine! and out of the smoke and din of conflict, he believed, should spring "the most splendid race the sun ever shone upon," knit in sublime unity of brotherhood. dinner over, whitman retired awhile to his own apartment: that fearful chaos of pell-mell untidiness which was the delight of its occupant and the despair of mrs. stafford. an indescribable confusion it was of letters, newspapers and books,--an inkbottle on one chair, a glass of lemonade on another, a pile of mss. on a third, a hat on the floor.... imperturbably composed, the poet surveyed his best-loved books,--scott, carlyle, tennyson, emerson,--translations of homer, dante, hafiz, saadi: renderings of virgil, epictetus, marcus aurelius,--versions of spanish and german poets: most well-worn of all, shakespeare and the bible. finally, out of the heterogeneous collection he selected george sand's _consuelo_ and seated himself at the window with it. on another afternoon he would have returned to the creek, but to-day he was expecting a friend. and friends, with him, did not mean mere acquaintances: still less those visitors who were brought by vulgar curiosity. although the best of comrades and one who found companionship most exhilarating, he had a bed-rock of deep reserve, and "to such as he did not like, he became as a precipice." but to those with whom he was truly _en rapport_,--whether by letter or in the flesh,--he was spendthrift of his personality. his english literary friends,--tennyson, rossetti, buchanan, browning and others, had supplied the financial aid which enabled him to recuperate at timber creek: compatriots such as emerson, john burroughs, and a host of old-time friends were welcome visitors. but nothing in his life or in his literary fortunes, he declared, had brought him more comfort and support--nothing had more spiritually soothed him--than the "warm appreciation and friendship of that true full-grown woman," anne gilchrist, the sweet english widow who was now staying with her children in philadelphia, to be within easy reach of whitman. "among the perfect women i have known (and it has been very unspeakable good fortune to have had the very best for mother, sisters and friends), i have known none more perfect," wrote the poet, "than my dear, dear friend, anne gilchrist." it was this warm-hearted, courageous englishwoman, "alive with humour and vivacity," whose musical voice was shortly heard outside, enquiring for walt. he hastened down to receive her. [illustration: the man-of-war bird. thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,) to cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane, thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails, days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating, at dusk that look'st on senegal, at morn america, that sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud, in them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my soul, what joys! what joys were thine! (_to the man-of-war bird._)] anne gilchrist's opinion of whitman was even more enthusiastic than his appreciation of her. she admired and revered the courage with which he expounded his theories of life, no less than the expression of them in words which, as she put it, ceased to be words and became electric streams. "what more can you ask of the words of a man's mouth," she exclaimed, "than that they should absorb into you as food and air, to reappear again in your strength, gait, face--that they should be fibre and filter to your blood, joy and gladness to your whole nature?" she alone, of all women, and almost alone among men, had stood forth to defend him for the "fearless and comprehensive dealing with reality" which had alienated the conventional and offended the prudish--and she alone was the recipient, now, of his most intimate thoughts and aspirations. they sat together on the shady piazza, and he unfolded to her, while her children played around, the hopes and wishes of his heart not only for america but for all humanity. he said, "my original idea was that if i could bring men together by putting before them the heart of man with all its joys and sorrows and experiences and surroundings, it would be a great thing.... i have endeavoured from the first to get free as much as possible from all literary attitudinism--to strip off integuments, coverings, bridges--and to speak straight from and to the heart; ... to discard all conventional poetic phrases, and every touch of or reference to ancient or mediæval images, metaphors, subjects, styles, etc., and to write _de novo_ with words and phrases appropriate to our own days." he took her hand as he spoke, as was his wont with a sympathetic listener, and gazed with eagerness into her serious yet easily-lighted face. his "terrible blaze of personality" was subdued for the nonce into that child-like simplicity, that woman-like tenderness, which constituted some of his chief charms. they discussed the work of contemporary poets, english and american. whitman, however much he differed from these in theory and method, gave generous homage to their varied genius. he loved to declaim the _ulysses_ and kindred majestically-rolling passages of tennyson, in a clear, strong, rugged tone, devoid of all elocutionary tricks or affectation. he never spoke a line of his own verse, but to recite from shakespeare was a great pleasure to him: and he compared the shakespearean plays to large, rich, splendid tapestry, like raffaelle's historical cartoons, where everything is broad and colossal. for scott, whose work, he said, breathed more of the open air than the workshop, he had unfeigned admiration. dramatic work and music in all its forms he discussed with knowledge and fervour. as for the poets of america, he poured encomium upon them ungrudgingly. "i can't imagine any better luck befalling these states for a poetical beginning and initiation than has come from emerson, longfellow, bryant and whittier." (_specimen days._) the afternoon shadows stretched themselves out, and at sunset mrs. gilchrist and her children departed. it had been for her a memorable afternoon: and whitman had been thoroughly in his element as comrade of so congenial a soul. now, as the twilight deepened, he devoted himself to the consideration of the deepest notes in the whole diapason of human existence. never was a man of more exuberant a joy in life: never one who gazed more courageously into the dim-veiled face of death,--the sower of all enigmas, the comforter of all pain. whispers of heavenly death, murmur'd i hear; labial gossip of night--sibilant chorals; footsteps gently ascending--mystical breezes, wafted soft and low.... (did you think life was so well provided for--and death, the purport of all life, is not well provided for?)... i do not doubt that whatever can possibly happen, any where, at any time, is provided for, in the inherences of things; i do not think life provides for all, and for time and space--but i believe heavenly death provides for all. (_whispers of heavenly death._) and his heart once more, as in the matchless threnody for lincoln, _when lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed_, uttered its song of summons and of welcome. 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.... dark mother, always gliding near, with soft feet, have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? then i chant it for thee--i glorify thee above all. the skies deepened into purple, and the march of the stars began: it was the sacredest hour of the day to whitman, a period consecrated and set apart above all. "i am convinced," thought he, "that there are hours of nature, especially of the atmosphere, mornings and evenings, addressed to the soul. night transcends, for that purpose, what the proudest day can do." (_specimen days._) and a new buoyancy quickened in his soul; the indomitable spirit of enterprise revived within him. now, at eleven at night, he was more exhilarated in mind than his body had been in the blue july morning: and, casting one comprehensive glance upon the burning arcana of the heavens, that he might carry into his sleep a memory of that glory, he "desired a better country," with longing and deep solicitude. bathe me, o god, in thee, mounting to thee, i and my soul to range in range of thee! * * * * * passage to more than india! o secret of the earth and sky! of you, o waters of the sea! o winding creeks and rivers! of you, o woods and fields! of you, strong mountains of my land! of you, o prairies! of you, gray rocks! o morning red! o clouds! o rain and snows! o day and night, passage to you! o sun and moon, and all you stars! sirius and jupiter! passage to you!... o my brave soul! o farther, farther sail! o daring joy, but safe! are they not all the seas of god? o farther, farther, farther sail! (_passage to india_.) _printed by percy lund, humphries & co. ltd.,_ _bradford and london._ the whitman bibliography _this edition of the whitman bibliography is limited to five hundred numbered copies, of which this is no. 288_ [illustration: walt whitman] the bibliography of walt whitman by frank shay new york friedmans' 1920 copyright, 1920, by friedmans'. to the memory of horace traubel 1856-1919 poet, philosopher, comrade foreword "_camerado, this is no book; who touches this touches a man._" walt whitman's relation to his work was more personal than that of most poets. he was, in a larger sense, a man of one book, and this book, issued and reissued at various periods of the poet's life, was, at each issuance, the latest expression of his development. the infinite care he gave to his work; the continual study of each poem resulted in changes in each edition. the book literally grew with the man and in the present authorized edition of today we have his final and complete utterance. whitman's early fugitive work presents to the student a curious anomaly. it gives no intimation of the great nature that later produced leaves of grass and democratic vistas. in quality it was beneath the standards of the nickle-dreadfuls of yesterday. bearing such titles as "one wicked impulse"; "revenge and requital, tale of a murderer escaped"; "the angel of tears"; (many of them are in the prose works) they appealed to a class to whom thought was anathema and reading solely a pastime. they are didactic to the extreme, presenting the horrible results of sin and the corresponding rewards of virtue. their value as literature, however, does not come within the province of the bibliographer. the care whitman bestowed upon his writings was carried to the mechanical production of his books. each edition was manufactured under his supervision and when completed represented the latest and highest achievements in commercial bookmaking. further, he took such an intense personal interest in the sale of his books that he invariably knew at all times the number of copies sold and the number on hand. the first edition comprised three distinct variations. the first of these, in paper wrappers, are undoubtedly the result of whitman's impatience at the delays of the binder. considering that he had a press at his disposal, it is not assuming too much to suggest that while awaiting deliveries from the binder he printed the jackets himself for immediate use. this is the only way to account for the existence of the paper copies. further proof that this contention is correct is that each copy bears an inscription in whitman's holograph. though whitman insisted that "the entire edition sold readily" there is little doubt he meant circulated. in fact, they were circulated so rapidly a new edition was required within ten months. this second edition was a dumpy sexto-decimo of nearly four hundred pages. twenty new poems were added, one of the earlier poems was dropped and all were retouched. this edition did sell rapidly and only fear of public criticism prevented the publishers from reissuing the book. the failure to find a firm to stand sponsor for his book discouraged whitman to the extent of planning to go west and pioneer. his plans for this venture were completed when thayer and eldridge opened negotiations for the book's republication with any new material available. this offer took the poet to boston to oversee the work and in may, 1860, a substantial volume, with many new poems came from the press. the book went through two editions, a total of between thirty-five hundred and four thousand copies when the publishers failed. the plates were sold at auction and went to a notorious pirate, who, within the next ten years, published and sold over ten thousand copies. whitman had no control over these crimped editions and forever after they were a torment to him. it was not until after the civil war that a new authentic edition was published--again without a publisher. in later issues of this edition whitman bound in the sheets of "drum-taps" and "when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd," and in still later issues, "songs before parting." the total number of copies issued is not known but must have been quite small owing to the effect of the lower priced pirated edition. the fifth edition was published in washington and attracted little or no attention save in england where the demand for complete and unabridged copies was fostered by rossetti's emasculated edition. the english demand was so great that whitman was compelled to reprint one or two new editions. he got around the expense of new plates by inserting "intercallations"--poems printed on separate slips of paper and tipped in. in 1881, the next boston edition was issued. with a recognized publisher of osgood's standing there should have been no question of the final success of "leaves of grass." osgood published all the work of the new englanders; longfellow, lowell, emerson and whittier. whitman was in good company save that the society for the suppression of vice considered "leaves of grass" to be bad company and through district attorney stevens secured its suppression. osgood promptly withdrew the book and gladly turned over to the author all unsold and unbound copies and the plates. the plates went to rees, welsh and company, of philadelphia, who brought out an edition and then dropped from sight. david mckay published an edition from the same plates. during this time certain "special" and "author's" editions were published by whitman as his own publisher. after whitman's death small, maynard & company, of boston, became the authorized publishers. they were followed in turn by d. appleton and company, and mitchell kennerley. at this writing messrs. doubleday, page & co. are the authorized publishers of "leaves of grass," and the "prose works." any bibliography of whitman's works can be called but an attempt. his temperamental handling of the plates of the various editions of "leaves of grass" resulted in many curious imprints. there may be omissions, i grant, but not serious ones. the work i undertook was a clearing up of the fog which hung about the various boston editions and setting cataloguers right on the first edition. i must, at this point, thank anne montgomerie traubel, of camden, mr. walter bartley quinlan and mr. alfred f. goldsmith, of new york, and mr. henry s. saunders, of toronto, canada, for valuable suggestions and comparison of notes, and mr. m. m. breslow for permission to use his very excellent collection of whitmaniana as a basis for this bibliography. frank shay. new york city july, 1920. note the arrangement is chronological, the only practicable method. in listing titles and imprints i have sought to follow the typography and punctuation of the originals. where this was not practicable i have inserted punctuation marks to give the matter coherence. where i have interpolated remarks or descriptions within the titles i have enclosed them in brackets to distinguish them from whitman's parenthesis. 1842 the new world. extra series. number 34. new york, november, 1842. original temperance novel. franklin evans; or the inebriate. a tale of the times. by walter whitman. royal octavo, pp. 31, uncut. published as an extra to "_the new world_." the last page (32) contains advertisement: "new works in press." written during whitman's bohemian days it was advertised as a thrilling romance by one of the best novelists in this country and had a sale of between 20,000 and 25,000 copies, which netted the author about $200. references to the work in later years irritated whitman and he refused to discuss it. the work is extremely scarce considering the great number that were published. 1855 leaves of grass. brooklyn, new york. 1855. first edition. twelve poems. imperial octavo, pink paper wrappers. "leaves of grass" printed in block letters across front wrapper, end wrapper blank. steel engraved portrait, title, uncaptioned preface, xii, leaves of grass, pp. 95, end blank. the author's name appears only in the copyright notice, and in the first poem: "walt whitman, an american, one of the roughs, a kosmos." the poems, twelve in number, are without titles. in the present authorized edition they appear under the following titles: song of myself. a song for occupations. to think of time. the sleepers. i sing the body electric. faces. song of the answer (part one). europe. a boston ballad. there was a child went forth. who learns my lesson complete. great are the myths. the preface was later worked into three poems: by blue ontario's shore. song of prudence. to a foil'd european revolutionaire. there are three variations of the first edition. the one noted above in pink wrappers is unquestionably the first issue. the second issue is bound in green cloth, gilt edges, and with the title stamped in rustic letters in gilt on the front cover. the last issue of this edition has all the points of the second issue with eight pages of press notices bound in at the front. less than nine hundred copies were printed in july, 1855, in the printshop of andrew h. rome, 98 cranberry street, brooklyn, the author assisting in the type composition and presswork. the volume was placed on sale at fowler & wells, broadway, new york, and at swaynes, in fulton street, brooklyn, at two dollars, but was later reduced to one dollar. very few copies were sold; whitman giving almost the entire edition to critics and friends. catalogued from the maier copy. a reprint of this edition was issued in january, 1920, by mr. thomas b. mosher, portland, maine. 1856 leaves of grass. brooklyn, new york. 1856. second edition. thirty-two poems. thick 16mo, green drab cloth, sprinkled edges. title stamped in gilt on face of binding; on back title and quotation from emerson's letter "i greet you at the beginning of a great career, r. w. emerson," portrait, same as in the first edition, title, contents, iv, leaves of grass, pp. (5)-342, leaves droppings (reprint of emerson's letter; whitman's letter to emerson and press notices), pp. 345-384, advertisement. owing to the storm of criticism which arose against the book, fowler & wells, the new york publishers, refused to put their name on the title page, and though they attended to all the details of presswork and distribution, the volume was issued from brooklyn, without imprint. it is said that there are copies in existence bearing fowler & wells imprint, but this is doubtful as such copies are unknown to whitman collectors. in this edition the prose preface of the first edition is worked into four poems: by blue ontario's shore; song of the answerer, part two; to a foil'd european revolutionaire, and song of prudence; the balance being reprinted in specimen days and collect, 1881. owing to the refusal of fowler & wells to stand sponsor to the volume, only 1,000 copies were printed and the book was out of print 1858-1860. 1860 leaves of grass imprints. american and european criticisms of "leaves of grass." boston: thayer and eldridge, 1860. 18mo, printed wrappers, pp. 64. a reprint of current criticisms of the first and second editions. pp. 7, 30, 38, contain articles written and contributed anonymously by whitman to various new york papers. they were later reprinted in the fellowship papers and in in re walt whitman, 1893. it is exceedingly rare. 1860 leaves of grass. boston: thayer and eldridge, year '85 of the states. (1860-61.) third edition. 154 poems. duodecimo, brown cloth, heavily blind embossed. portrait, at the age of forty, engraved by schoff, after the painting by charles hine, in 1859, on an irregular tinted background, title, contents, pp. iv-456. issued may, 1860. the author went to boston to superintend the printing and binding. the publishers failed during the period of financial depression at the beginning of the civil war and the plates were sold at auction to r. worthington, who surreptitiously used them with the original imprint. there are, for this reason, four or more editions bearing the original thayer and eldridge imprint. the first issue is distinguished by the engraved portrait which is on an irregular tinted background and by the gilt embossed butterfly on the backbone of the binding. on the verso of the title is the inscription "electrotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. printed by george c. rand & avery." the second issue has the portrait on white paper and lacks the gilt butterfly. the third issue, or the first pirated issue, lacks the printer's inscription and is bound in cheap cloth. early issues, all spurious, contain catalogues of worthington's publications bound in at the end. the plates were purchased by whitman's literary executors after his death. in this edition the author abandons calling the months by their common names and adopts the quaker style: that of calling september the ninthmonth, etc. copies of the first issue with the tinted portrait are extremely scarce. the various editions have heretofore remained undistinguished. 1865 walt whitman's drum-taps. new york, 1865. duodecimo, brown cloth, title (drum-taps) stamped on gold ground on front cover, title, contents, iv, pp. 5-72. but few copies had been issued when the death of president lincoln occurred and the author withheld the balance until a few weeks later when he added "when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd and other pieces," with pagination distinct from that of drum-taps, as a sequel. this and the "sequel" formed the first and second annexes to the fourth edition, 1867, of leaves of grass, and were later incorporated in the washington, 1871 edition under the title of drum-taps. copies without the "sequel" are exceedingly scarce. 1865 sequel to drum-taps (since the preceding came from the press). when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd. and other pieces. washington, d. c., 1865-6. duodecimo, pp. 24. it is doubtful if any copies reached the market other than those issued as a part of drum-taps. the remaining copies were bound up with second issue of the 1867 edition. 1867 leaves of grass. new york, 1867. fourth edition. duodecimo, walnut half-morocco, title, contents, iv, pp. (7)-338. there is also a cloth bound issue that differs in no manner from the above. both have "ed'n 1867" stamped in gilt on back. later issues of this edition have added, under separate pagination, drum-taps, pp. iv-72; sequel to drum-taps, pp. 24; songs before parting, pp. 36. a blank leaf separates each section. in this edition the author changes the writing of the past participle to 'd. the verses and sections are numbered. 1868 poems by walt whitman. selected and edited by william michael rossetti [quotation from michelangelo]. london: john camden hotten, piccadilly, 1868. "rossetti" edition. duodecimo, blue cloth, uncut; half-title, portrait with facsimile signature, title, page of quotations from swedenborg, carlyle, and robespierre, note on portrait, dedication (by w. m. r.) to william bell scott, contents, prefatory notices, preface to leaves of grass, pp. 64; half-title, pp. 401, postscript. eight pages of advertisements in front, and sixteen pages in back. the first english, or "rossetti's edition." w. d. o'connor writing to an european friend called it "a fairly representative, but nevertheless, castrated edition." a second edition from new type was issued in 1886 by chatto & windus, london. third edition, 1910. 1871 leaves of grass. washington, d. c., 1871. [pointing hand] see advertisement at end of this volume. fifth edition. duodecimo, light green paper wrappers, uncut; title, contents, pp. vi-384. copyright notice dated 1870; later issues were bound in cloth. 1871 memoranda. democratic vistas. washington, d. c., 1871. [pointing hand] see advertisement at end of this volume. duodecimo, light green paper wrappers, uncut; title, contents, pp. 84. copyright notice dated 1870. 1871 leaves of grass. passage to india. (five line poem beginning, "gliding o'er all.") washington, d. c., 1871. [pointing hand] see advertisement at end of this volume. duodecimo, light green paper wrappers, uncut; title, contents, pp. iv-120. copyright notice dated 1870. 1871 after all, not to create only. recited by walt whitman on invitation of managers american institute, on opening their 40th annual exhibition, new york, noon, september 7, 1871 (device). boston: roberts brothers, 1871. duodecimo, beveled cloth boards, half-title, title, note, vii; pp. 24, notes. there is also a limp cloth issue which is quite common, that was issued to be sold at the exhibition. the poem was later published in the transactions of the american institute, 1871-72. albany, 1872. 1872 leaves of grass. washington, d. c., 1872. second issue of the fifth edition. duodecimo, green cloth, uncut; title, contents, vi, pp. 384. passage to india, pp. 120. printed from the plates of the washington, 1871 editions of leaves of grass and passage to india. later issues have after all, not to create only, pp. 14 bound in. 1872 leaves of grass. as a strong bird on pinions free. and other poems. washington, d. c., 1872. duodecimo, green cloth, uncut; title, contents, preface, x; one song, america, before i go, one page; souvenirs of democracy, facsimile signature, one page; pp. 14; virginia--the west; by broad potomac's shore, one page, unnumbered; eight pages advertisements. 1875 memoranda during the war. by walt whitman. author's publication. camden, new jersey, 1875-76. octavo, maroon cloth, title stamped in gold on cover; page, "remembrance copy;" portrait, title, pp. 68, advertisement. 1876 leaves of grass. [nine-line poem beginning "come, said my soul," signed walt whitman in the author's autograph.] author's edition, with portraits from life. camden, new jersey, 1876. sixth edition. octavo, half-calf, leather label, title, contents, vi; pp. 384, advertisement. portrait same as in the first edition facing page 29; woodcut portrait by w. j. linton facing page 285. 1876 leaves of grass. [nine-line poem in author's holograph, signed walt whitman.] author's edition. with portraits and intercallations. camden, new jersey, 1876. octavo, half calf, leather label, uncut. the same in every detail except for a new title. at the end of the table of contents a slip is tipped in: intercallations page as in a swoon 207 the beauty of the ship 247 when the full-grown poet came 359 after an interval 369 on each page indicated will be found a poem, tipped in. there is a variation in the intercallations: a few contain "a death sonnet for custer." 1876 two rivulets including democratic vistas, centennial songs, and passage to india. author's edition. camden, new jersey, 1876. octavo, half-calf, leather label; portrait, "photo'd from life, sept., '72, brooklyn, n. y., by g. f. pearsall, fulton st." signed "walt whitman, born may 31, 1819"; title, pp. 32, blank leaf; democratic vistas, pp. 84; blank page; centennial songs, 1876, pp. 1-18; blank page; as a strong bird on pinions free, preface, pp. x, pp. 14, blank page; passage to india, pp. 120; blank page, advertisement. the above and leaves of grass, 1876, were uniform in binding and comprised whitman's complete works to date. 1881 leaves of grass [device]. boston: james r. osgood & company, 1881-82. seventh edition. duodecimo, yellow cloth, facsimile signature stamped in gilt on front cover; title, contents, pp. 382. this edition was suppressed by district attorney stevens on complaint of the society for the suppression of vice. the unbound copies were claimed by the author who inserted a new title-page. the plates were turned over to rees, welsh and company. later they were given to david mckay, who issued several editions bearing the dates of 1884, 1885, 1886. there is also an edition from these plates with mckay's imprint and putnam's name on the binding. 1881 leaves of grass. by walt whitman, author's copyright edition [device]. london: david bogue, 3 st. martin's place, trafalgar square, w. c., 1881. (all rights reserved.) octavo, olive cloth, uncut; title, contents, pp. 382. the collation being the same as that of the boston, 1881 edition it is possible that bogue purchased the sheets from osgood or whitman and bound the book to his own tastes. there was another issue, same collation, in 1884. 1881 leaves of grass by walt whitman: preface to the original edition, 1855 [device]. london: trã¼bner & co., 1881. octavo, blue wrappers, uncut, title, pp. 31, advertisements. only 500 copies were printed. an edition on large paper, bound in light blue wrappers and limited to twenty-five copies was issued at the same time. 1882 specimen days and collect. by walt whitman, author of "leaves of grass." philadelphia: rees, welsh & co., no. 23 south ninth street, 1882-83. duodecimo, paper wrappers, uncut; portrait, title, contents, pp. 374; advertisement. very few copies were issued in wrappers, the larger number being bound in yellow cloth and with the imprint of david mckay. the edition with the imprint of wilson and mccormick, glasgow, 1883, was printed from the same plates. 1886 leaves of grass. the poems of walt whitman (selected), with introduction by ernest rhys. 18 mo, blue cloth, paper label, uncut; portrait, title, contents, introduction, xxxix, pp. 318; advertisements. the canterbury poet series. 1887 specimen days in america. by walt whitman. newly revised by the author, with fresh preface and additional note. london: walter scott, 24 warwick lane, paternoster row, 1887. 16 mo, blue cloth, paper label, uncut; half-title, title, contents, preface, pp. 312; advertisements. the camelot series. later published by routledge in the new universal library. 1888 november boughs. by walt whitman. philadelphia: david mckay, 23 south ninth street, 1888. octavo maroon cloth, uncut; title stamped in gilt on front cover; portrait, the 70th year, title, contents, (5)-140; advertisement. 1888 complete (portrait) poems and prose of walt whitman, 1855-1888. authenticated and personal book (handled by w. w.). portraits from life. autograph. eighth edition, leaves of grass; third edition of prose works. octavo, half cloth, uncut. leaves of grass, pp. 382; specimen days, pp. 374; november boughs, pp. 140. portraits face pp. 29 and 206. 600 copies. 1888 democratic vistas, and other papers. by walt whitman. published by arrangement with the author. london: walter scott, 24 warwick lane, paternoster row, 1888. 12 mo, cloth, paper label, uncut; title, contents, preface, pp. 175; advertisements. 1889 leaves of grass with sands at seventy and a backward glance o'er travel'd roads. to-day, after finishing my 70th year, the fancy comes for celebrating it by a special, complete, final utterance, in one handy volume, of l. of g., with their annex, and backward glance--and for stamping and sprinkling all with portraits and facial photos, such as they actually were, taken from life, different stages. doubtless, anyhow, the volume is more a _person_ than a book. and for testimony to all (and for good measure) i here with pen and ink append my name: walt whitman. portraits from life; autograph; special edition. (300 copies only printed--$5 each.) the "pocketbook" leaves of grass. duodecimo, black morocco, with and without flaps, gilt edges. portrait, title, contents, pp. 9-382; sands at seventy, pp. 383-404; a backward glance o'er travel'd roads, separate pagination, pp. 1-18. portraits face pp. 29, 132, 214, 296, 383. 1889 gems from walt whitman. selected by elizabeth porter gould. philadelphia: david mckay, publisher, 23 south ninth street, 1889. oblong duodecimo, maroon cloth; title, contents, poem to w. w., pp. 58. 1891 good-bye my fancy, 2d annex to leaves of grass. philadelphia: david mckay, publisher, 23 south ninth street, 1891. octavo, green or maroon cloth, uncut, gilt top; title stamped in gilt on front cover; portrait, title, contents, pp. (5)-66. 1891 leaves of grass. including sands at seventy. 1st annex, good-bye my fancy; 2d annex, a backward glance o'er travel'd roads, and portrait from life. [nine-line poem, facsimile signature of the author.] philadelphia: david mckay, publisher, 23 south ninth street, 1891-2. ninth edition. octavo, paper wrappers, paper label, uncut; title, contents, pp. 438. later issues were bound in cloth and have the publisher's address at 1022 market street. 1892 complete prose works. walt whitman. philadelphia: david mckay, publisher, 23 south ninth street, 1892. octavo, green cloth, uncut, gilt top; title, contents, viii, pp. 522. 1892 selected poems. by walt whitman. new york: charles l. webster & co., 1892. 16 mo, grey cloth; half-title, portrait, editor's note, pp. 179; advertisements. in the fiction, fact, and fancy series. edited by arthur stedman. 1892 autobiographia, or the story of a life. by walt whitman. selected from his writings. new york: charles l. webster & co., 1892. 16 mo, grey cloth; half-title, photo of mickle street, camden house, title, editor's note, w. w. by e. c. s., pp. 205; advertisements. the publisher failed and very few copies reached the market. in the fiction, fact, and fancy series edited by arthur stedman. there is an issue in blue cloth from the same plates, uncut, bearing the imprint of g. p. putnam's sons, london, 1892, and some bearing the mckay imprint. 1893 _in re_ walt whitman. edited by his literary executors, horace l. traubel, richard maurice bucke, thomas b. harned [quotation from lucretius]. published by the editors through david mckay, 23 south ninth street, philadelphia, 1893. octavo, cloth, uncut; half-title, title, a first and last word, contents, x, pp. 452; advertisements. but 1,000 copies were published. each copy was to be numbered consecutively, though many are found without the number. most copies have the signatures of one or all the executors. the volume contains the following by walt whitman: walt whitman and his poems, pp. 13-21. leaves of grass: a volume of poems just published, pp. 23-26. an english and an american poet, pp. 27-32. letters in sickness: washington, 1873, pp. 73-92. the first three articles were written by whitman during 1855-56 and sent to the newspapers anonymously. he insisted that considering the misunderstanding and abuse accorded to leaves of grass, he was compelled to resort to these methods to defend his work in columns that would have been otherwise closed to him. the latter was a series of letters to his mother. [*]1895 the masterpiece library. xxvii. poems by walt whitman [quotation]. london: "review of reviews," office price one penny. duodecimo, orange wrappers, pp. 60; advertisements. no. 27 of the penny poets. quite scarce. [*date registered british copyright office.] 1897 leaves of grass including sands at seventy, good-bye my fancy, old age echoes, and a backward glance o'er traveled roads. by walt whitman [device]. boston: small, maynard & company, 1897. octavo, green cloth, uncut; portrait, title, poem, author's note, no pagination, pp. 455. later editions from the same plates: d. appleton & company. mitchell kennerley. doubleday, page & company. 1897 calamus. a series of letters written during the years 1868-1880. by walt whitman to a young friend [peter doyle]. edited with an introduction by richard maurice bucke, m. d., one of whitman's literary executors. [quotation from p. 102, "leaves of grass," edition of 1892.] published by laurens maynard at 287 congress street in boston, mdcccxcvii. duodecimo, boards, cloth back, paper label; zinc etching of whitman and peter doyle reproduced from a photograph by rice, washington, d. c., 1869; title, 4 pp. quotations, chronological notes of walt whitman's life, introduction, pp. 173. the first issue was limited to 35 numbered copies. a regular edition was published at the same time. 1898 complete prose works. specimen days and collect, november boughs and good-bye my fancy. by walt whitman [device]. boston: small, maynard & company, 1898. octavo, cloth, uncut; half-title, portrait, title, contents, list of illustrations, pp. 527. later editions from the same plates: a. appleton & company. mitchell kennerley. doubleday, page & company. 1898 the wound dresser. a series of letters written from the hospitals in washington during the war of the rebellion. by walt whitman. edited by richard maurice bucke, m. d., one of whitman's literary executors [device]. boston: small, maynard & company, 1898. octavo, red buckram, uncut; title, portrait, contents, pp. 201. the edition was limited to 10 copies signed by the editor; the earliest of these copies have the publisher's device slightly out of the center. 1898 selections from the prose and poetry of walt whitman. edited with an introduction by oscar lovell triggs, ph.d. (the university of chicago) [device]. boston: small, maynard & company, 1898. octavo, buckram, uncut; half-title, portrait, title, dedication, preface, contents, introduction xliii, half-title, pp. 248. selected bibliography (251)-257. 1898 "walt whitman at home." by himself. critic pamphlet no. 2. new york: the critic co., 1898. duodecimo, sewn, uncut; title, portrait, pp. 21. facsimiles of walt whitman's manuscript on pp. 15 and 21. 1899 notes and fragments. left by walt whitman and now edited by dr. richard maurice bucke, one of his literary executors. "waifs from the deep cast high and dry," leaves of grass, pp. 278. printed for private distribution only, 1899. small quarto, pebbled cloth, uncut; half-title, title, preface, pp. 211. 250 copies. 1900 leaves of grass. by walt whitman. including a facsimile autobiography, variorum readings of the poems and a department of gathered leaves [device]. philadelphia: david mckay, 1022 market st. 8vo, green cloth; g.t., uncut; portrait, title, preface by david mckay, contents, x, facsimile of whitman's autobiography, pp. 510, alphabetical index of titles, (511)-516. there are portraits facing pp. 31, 117, 395 of the text. 1900 leaves of grass [device]. walt whitman. new york and boston: h. m. caldwell co. 18mo, pictorial board on cloths, uncut, portrait, title, pp. 88; advertisements. 1900 when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd. essex house press, london: 1900. 12mo. vellum, uncut. 135 copies on vellum. 1902 the complete writings of walt whitman. issued under the editorial supervision of his literary executors, richard maurice bucke, thomas b. harned, and horace l. traubel. with additional bibliographical and critical material by oscar lovell triggs, ph.d. g. p. putnam's sons. new york and london: the knickerbocker press. ten volumes, various bindings, uncut. every scrap of paper and memoranda of whitman's is here collected and edited by his literary executors. leaves of grass takes up three volumes; the prose works seven. vol. 1. introduction. leaves of grass. vol. 2. leaves of grass. vol. 3. leaves of grass, variorum readings, index. vol. 1. specimen days. vol. 2. specimen days; collect. vol. 3. collect, november boughs, good-bye my fancy. vol. 4. good-bye my fancy, the wound dresser. vol. 5. calamus, chapters by t. b. harned. vol. 6. notes and fragments. vol. 7. notes and fragments, the growth of leaves of grass, bibliography, by o. l. triggs. there are several editions; three of which were published simultaneously. autograph edition, with ms. inserted 32 sets. paumanok edition, coloured plates 300 sets. camden edition 300 sets. the lamb publishing company later published from the same plates: national edition 1,000 copies. 1904 walt whitman's diary in canada with extracts from other of his diaries and literary note-books. edited by william sloane kennedy [device]. boston: small, maynard & company, mcmiv. octavo, grey boards, parchment back and corners, uncut; half-title, portrait, title, editor's preface, pp. 73. the edition was limited to 500 copies of which few were sold, the balance being bound up in light blue cloth, some without portrait. 1904 an american primer. by walt whitman, with facsimiles of the original manuscript. edited by horace traubel [device]. boston: small, maynard & company, mcmiv. 8vo, grey boards, vellum back and corners, uncut; half-title, portrait, title, foreword, half-title, 3 pp. facsimiles, pp. 35. the edition was limited to 500 copies of which few were sold, the balance being bound up in light blue cloth, some without portrait. 1904 leaves of grass [selected]. with a prefactory note by harry roberts. london: anthony treherne & co., ltd., 1904. duodecimo, cloth, title, preface, pp. 272. vol. i of the vagabonds library. 1904 selected poems of walt whitman. edited with introduction and notes by julian w. abernethy, ph.d. [device]. new york: charles e. merrill co. 16 mo, brown wrappers, title, introduction, critical opinions, bibliography, pp. 63. in maynard's english classic series, no. 242. 1904 song of myself. i, walt whitman, now thirty-seven years old, in perfect health, begin, hoping to cease not till death. i will make the poems of materials, for i think they are the most spiritual poems, and i will make the poems of my body and mortality. done into print by the roycrofters at their shop which is in east aurora, new york, a.d. mdcccciv. small quarto, various bindings, uncut; half title, portrait, title, pp. 70. 1905 lafayette in brooklyn. by walt whitman, with an introduction by john burroughs. new york: george d. smith, 1905. octavo, grey boards, paper labels, uncut; half-title, publisher's note and autograph signature portrait on japan paper, title, contents, list of plates, note, half-title, facsimile of manuscript on japan paper, note, lafayette in brooklyn, notes. no pagination. there is a portrait of lafayette in the text. the issue was limited to 250 copies, 15 of which were on imperial japanese vellum, the balance on hand-made paper. 1905 the book of heavenly death by walt whitman, compiled from leaves of grass by horace traubel [device]. portland, maine: thomas b. mosher, mdccccv. duodecimo, light blue boards, paper label, uncut; note, facsimile, note, portrait (lear) title, contents, preface, pp. 103 including index. 500 copies from type. collated from late edition. 1906 memories of president lincoln and other lyrics of the war. by walt whitman [device]. portland, maine: thomas b. mosher, mdccccvi. 16mo, grey boards, paper labels, uncut; half-title, title, contents, foreword, pp. (43). 950 copies from type. 1906 memories of president lincoln, and other lyrics of the war. by walt whitman [device]. portland, maine: thomas b. mosher, mdccccvi. duodecimo, boards, paper label, uncut; half-title, title, contents, foreword by horace traubel and t. b. m., note by john burroughs, pp. 45. 1906 walt whitman. a little book of nature thoughts. selected by anne montgomerie traubel [device]. portland, maine: thomas b. mosher, mdccccvi. narrow 16mo, blue wrappers, uncut; half-title, title, preface, pp. 82, index. 1907 the wisdom of walt whitman. selected and edited, with introduction by laurens maynard. new york: brentano's fifth avenue, mcmvii. 24mo, limp morocco; half-title, title, contents, introduction, pp. 154; index, pp. 155-165. 1909 leaves of grass. by walt whitman. london, new york, toronto and melbourne: cassell and company, ltd. mcmix. duodecimo, cloth or leather, pp. 468. the peoples library. 1912 memories of president lincoln. when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd; o captain! my captain; hush'd be the camps to-day; this dust was once the man [device]. portland, maine: published by thomas b. mosher at xlv exchange street, mdccccxii. imperial octavo, grey boards, uncut; part of lincoln, title, lincoln's gettysburg address, note by william marion reedy, contents, half-title, foreword by horace traubel and t. b. m., half-title, pp. 13, printed on front of each page, bibliographical notes, (16) note. 300 copies on hand made paper. 50 copies of japanese vellum. 1912 leaves of grass (1), and democratic vistas. by walt whitman. london: published by j. m. dent & sons, ltd., and in new york by e. p. dutton & co. duodecimo, cloth and leather, pp. 359. everyman's library; introduction by horace traubel. 1912 the rolling earth. outdoor scenes and thoughts from the writings of walt whitman. compiled by waldo r. browne, with an introduction by john burroughs [quotation]. boston and new york: houghton mifflin company. the riverside press, cambridge, 1912. 16 mo, cloth; half-title, portrait, title, dedication, pp. (223). 1913 poems from leaves of grass. by walt whitman. the colored illustrations by margaret c. cook. london: j. m. dent & sons, ltd. new york: e. p. dutton & co., 1913. octavo, cloth, gilt, uncut; half-title, title, contents, list of illustrations, pp. 260. twenty-four colored plates mounted on oxford brown paper. from the text of the 1861 edition. 1913 criticism, an essay. by walt whitman for members. newark: carteret book club: 1913. duodecimo, boards, uncut. edition limited to one hundred copies. 1914 leaves of grass (selected). by walt whitman [quotation from dubury]. london: charles h. kelly. duodecimo, crimson cloth; decorated title and frontispiece, pp. 300. edited by john telford. "special care has been taken in this edition to omit everything that would offend the reader's taste." from the editor's preface. 1915 memories of president lincoln. by walt whitman [device]. little leather library corporation, 1915. sexto-decimo, limp calf, pp. 127. n. d. sea drift. by walt whitman [device]. london: jarrold & sons. sexto-decimo, polished levant, uncut. printed on one side of the page, pp. 52 (104). +------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: the advertisement pages at the | | end of the book were not available for inclusion | | in this e-book. | +------------------------------------------------------+ walt whitman _yesterday & today_ by henry eduard legler chicago brothers of the book 1916 copyright 1916 by the brothers of the book the edition of this book consists of six hundred copies on this fabriano hand-made paper, and the type distributed. this copy is number 2 to dr. max henius consistent hater of shams ardent lover of all outdoors and generous giver of self in genuine fellowship this book is dedicated _walt whitman: yesterday & today_ i on a day about mid-year in 1855, the conventional literary world was startled into indecorous behavior by the unannounced appearance of a thin quarto sheaf of poems, in form and in tone unlike anything of precedent issue. it was called leaves of grass, and there were but twelve poems in the volume. no author's name appeared upon the title page, the separate poems bore no captions, there was no imprint of publisher. a steel engraving of a man presumably between thirty and forty years of age, coatless, shirt flaringly open at the neck, and a copyright notice identifying walter whitman with the publication, furnished the only clues. uncouth in size, atrociously printed, and shockingly frank in the language employed, the volume evoked such a tirade of rancorous condemnation as perhaps bears no parallel in the history of letters. from contemporary criticisms might be compiled an anthology of anathema comparable to wagner's schimpf-lexicon, or the dictionary of abuse suggested by william archer for henrik ibsen. some of the striking adjectives and phrases employed in print would include the following, as applied either to the verses or their author: the slop-bucket of walt whitman. a belief in the preciousness of filth. entirely bestial. nastiness and animal insensibility to shame. noxious weeds. impious and obscene. disgusting burlesque. broken out of bedlam. libidinousness and swell of self-applause. defilement. crazy outbreak of conceit and vulgarity. ithyphallic audacity. gross indecency. sunken sensualist. rotten garbage of licentious thoughts. roots like a pig. rowdy knight errant. a poet whose indecencies stink in the nostrils. its liberty is the wildest license; its love the essence of the lowest lust! priapus--worshipping obscenity. rant and rubbish. linguistic silliness. inhumanly insolent. apotheosis of sweat. mouthings of a mountebank. venomously malignant. pretentious twaddle. degraded helot of literature. his work, like a maniac's robe, bedizened with fluttering tags of a thousand colors. roaming, like a drunken satyr, with inflamed blood, through every field of lascivious thought. muck of abomination. a few quotations from the press of this period will serve to indicate the general tenor of comment: "the book might pass for merely hectoring and ludicrous, if it were not something a great deal more offensive," observed the christian examiner (boston, 1856). "it openly deifies the bodily organs, senses, and appetites in terms that admit of no double sense. the author is 'one of the roughs, a kosmos, disorderly, fleshly, sensual, divine inside and out. the scent of these armpits an aroma finer than prayer.' he leaves 'washes and razors for foofoos,' thinks the talk about virtue and vice only 'blurt,' he being above and indifferent to both of them. these quotations are made with cautious delicacy. we pick our way as cleanly as we can between other passages which are more detestable." in columns of bantering comment, after parodying his style of all-inclusiveness, the united states review (1855) characterizes walt whitman thus: "no skulker or tea-drinking poet is walt whitman. he will bring poems to fill the days and nights--fit for men and women with the attributes of throbbing blood and flesh. the body, he teaches, is beautiful. sex is also beautiful. are you to be put down, he seems to ask, to that shallow level of literature and conversation that stops a man's recognizing the delicious pleasure of his sex, or a woman hers? nature he proclaims inherently clean. sex will not be put aside; it is the great ordination of the universe. he works the muscle of the male and the teeming fibre of the female throughout his writings, as wholesome realities, impure only by deliberate intention and effort. to men and women, he says, you can have healthy and powerful breeds of children on no less terms than these of mine. follow me, and there shall be taller and richer crops of humanity on the earth." from studies among the leaves, printed in the crayon (new york, 1856), this extract may be taken: "with a wonderful vigor of thought and intensity of perception, a power, indeed, not often found, leaves of grass has no identity, no concentration, no purpose--it is barbarous, undisciplined, like the poetry of a half-civilized people, and as a whole useless, save to those miners of thought who prefer the metal in its unworked state." the new york daily times (1856) asks: "what centaur have we here, half man, half beast, neighing defiance to all the world? what conglomerate of thought is this before us, with insolence, philosophy, tenderness, blasphemy, beauty, and gross indecency tumbling in drunken confusion through the pages? who is this arrogant young man who proclaims himself the poet of the time, and who roots like a pig among a rotten garbage of licentious thoughts?" "other poets," notes a writer in the brooklyn daily eagle (1856), "other poets celebrate great events, personages, romances, wars, loves, passions, the victories and power of their country, or some real or imagined incident--and polish their work, and come to conclusions, and satisfy the reader. this poet celebrates natural propensities in himself; and that is the way he celebrates all. he comes to no conclusions, and does not satisfy the reader. he certainly leaves him what the serpent left the woman and the man, the taste of the paradise tree of the knowledge of good and evil, never to be erased again." "he stalks among the dapper gentlemen of this generation like a drunken hercules amid the dainty dancers," suggested the christian spiritualist (1856). "the book abounds in passages that cannot be quoted in drawing rooms, and expressions that fall upon ears polite with a terrible dissonance." nor was savage criticism in the years 1855 and 1856 limited to this side of the atlantic. the london critic, in a caustic review, found this the mildest comment that whitman's verse warranted: "walt whitman gives us slang in the place of melody, and rowdyism in the place of regularity. * * * walt whitman libels the highest type of humanity, and calls his free speech the true utterance of a man; we who may have been misdirected by civilization, call it the expression of a beast." noisy as was this babel of discordant voices, one friendly greeting rang clear. leaves of grass had but just come from the press, when ralph waldo emerson, from his home in concord, under date of july 21, 1855, wrote to the author in genuine fellowship: "i give you joy of your free and brave thought. i have great joy in it. i find incomparable things said incomparably well, as they must be. i find the courage of treatment which so delights us, and which large perception only can inspire. "i greet you at the beginning of a great career, which yet must have had a long foreground somewhere, for such a start. i rubbed my eyes a little to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of the book is a sober certainty. it has the best merits, namely, of fortifying and encouraging." tracing the popular estimates of walt whitman through the next five years, expressions of unmeasured disapproval similar to those quoted may be found in periodicals and in the daily press, with here and there grudging admission that despite unseemly tendencies, there is evident originality and even genius in the pages of this unusual book. in a comparatively temperate review, august 4, 1860, the cosmopolite, of boston, while deploring that nature is treated here without fig-leaves, declares the style wonderfully idiomatic and graphic, adding: "in his frenzy, in the fire of his inspiration, are fused and poured out together elements hitherto considered antagonistic in poetry--passion, arrogance, animality, philosophy, brag, humility, rowdyism, spirituality, laughter, tears, together with the most ardent and tender love, the most comprehensive human sympathy which ever radiated its divine glow through the pages of poems." a contemporary of this date, the boston post, found nothing to commend. "grass," said the writer, making the title of the book his text, "grass is the gift of god for the healthy sustenance of his creatures, and its name ought not to be desecrated by being so improperly bestowed upon these foul and rank leaves of the poison-plants of egotism, irreverance, and of lust, run rampant and holding high revel in its shame." and the london lancet, july 7, 1860, comments in this wise: "of all the writers we have ever perused, walt whitman is the most silly, the most blasphemous, and the most disgusting. if we can think of any stronger epithets, we will print them in a second edition." ii what were these poems which excited such vitriolic epithets? taking both the editions of 1855 and of the year following, and indeed including all of the four hundred poems bearing whitman's authorship in the three-quarters of a half-century during which his final volume was in the making, scarcely half a dozen poems can be found which could give offense to the most prudish persons. nearly all of these have been grouped, with some others, under the general sub-title children of adam. there are poems which excite the risibles of some readers, there are poems which read like the lists of a mail-order house, and others which appear in spots to have been copied bodily from a gazetteer. these, however, are more likely to provoke good-natured banter than violent denunciatory passion. even ralph waldo emerson, whose generous greeting and meed of praise in the birth-year of leaves of grass will be recalled, in sending a copy of it to carlyle in 1860, and commending it to his interest, added: "and after you have looked into it, if you think, as you may, that it is only an auctioneer's inventory of a warehouse, you can light your pipe with it." had whitman omitted the few poems whose titles are given here, doubtless a few readers would have found his formless verses either curious or ludicrous, or merely stupid, and others would have passed them by as unmeriting even casual attention. the poems which are chiefly responsible for a controversy which raged for half a century, are these: i sing the body electric. a woman waits for me. to a common prostitute. the dalliance of the eagles. wholly dissociated from the picturesque personality from which the book emanated, leaves of grass bears a unique story margined on its pages. the sprawling types whose muddy imprint on the ill-proportioned pages made up the uncouth first edition of the book, were put together by the author's hands, and the sorry press work was his handiwork as well. the unusual preface and the twelve poems that followed he wrote in the open, while lounging on the wharves, while crossing on ferry-boats, while loitering in the fields, while sitting on the tops of omnibuses. his physical materials were the stubs of pencils, the backs of used envelopes, scraps of paper that easily came to hand. the same open-air workshops and like crude tools of writing he utilized for nearly forty years. during the thirty-seven years that intervened between the first printing of his leaves and his death in 1892, he followed as his chief purpose in life the task he had set himself at the beginning of his serious authorship--the cumulative expression of personality in the larger sense which is manifest in the successive and expanding editions of his leaves of grass. that book becomes therefore, a life history. incompletely as he may have performed this self-imposed task, his own explanation of his purpose may well be accepted as made in good faith. that explanation appears in the preface to the 1876 edition, and amid the multitude of paper scraps that came into the possession of his executors, following his passing away, may be found similar clues: "it was originally my intention, after chanting in leaves of grass the songs of the body and of existence, to then compose a further, equally-needed volume, based on those convictions of perpetuity and conservation which, enveloping all precedents, make the unseen soul govern absolutely at last. i meant, while in a sort continuing the theme of my first chants, to shift the slides and exhibit the problem and paradox of the same ardent and fully appointed personality entering the sphere of the resistless gravitation of spiritual law, and with cheerful face estimating death, not at all as the cessation, but as somehow what i feel it must be, the entrance upon by far the greater part of existence, and something that life is at least as much for, as it is for itself." too long for repetition here, but important in the same connection for a full understanding of walt whitman's motives, is that backward glance o'er travel'd roads, wherein he summed up his work in fourteen pages of prose, and with frank egotism appended this anecdote in a footnote on the first page thereof: "when champollion, on his death bed, handed to the printer the revised proof of his egyptian grammar, he said gayly, 'be careful of this--it is my _carte de visite_ to posterity.'" undaunted when ridicule poured over him, evenly tranquil when abuse assailed him, unemotional when praise was lavished upon him, unfalteringly and undeviatingly he pursued his way. the group headings which were added in successive editions of his book, indicate the milestones of his journey from the time when the song of myself noted the beginning, till whispers of heavenly death presaged the ending. familiarity with the main incidents and experiences of his life give to the several annexes, as he was fond of calling the additions that he made to each succeeding issue of his leaves, the clues of chapter headings: children of adam; calamus; birds of passage; sea-drift; by the roadside; drum-taps; autumn rivulets; whispers of heavenly death; songs of parting. a check list of his principal editions of leaves of grass, with characteristics noted, would serve almost as a chronology of whitman's life story. 1855--first edition. twelve poems were included in this edition. they are without distinctive titles, though in later issues they appeared with varying titles, those given in the definitive edition being the following: song of myself. song for occupations. to think of time. the sleepers. i sing the body electric. faces. song of the answerer. europe. a boston ballad. there was a child went forth. my lesson complete. great are the myths. 1856--second edition. in this edition, the second, there are thirty-two poems. the poems are given titles, but not the same ones that were finally included. 1860--third edition. the number of poems is one hundred and fifty-seven. 1867--fourth edition. the poems have grown in number to two hundred and thirty-six. the inclusion here of the war cluster drum-taps, and a rearrangement of other clusters, marks this edition as a notable one. drum-taps had appeared as a separate volume two years earlier. 1871--fifth edition. a total of two hundred and seventy-three poems are here classified under general titles, including for the first time, passage to india, and after all not to create only, groups which prior to this date were issued separately. 1876--sixth edition. this issue was intended as a centennial edition, and it includes two rivulets; there are two hundred and ninety-eight poems. 1881--seventh edition. intended as the completion of a design extending over a period of twenty-six years, whitman had undertaken an extensive revision of what he termed his bible of democracy. there are three hundred and eighteen poems. this is the edition abandoned by the publishers because threatened with prosecution by the district attorney. 1889--eighth edition. in celebration of the author's seventieth birthday, a special autograph edition of three hundred copies was issued. 1892--ninth edition. whitman supervised the make-up of this issue during his last illness. 1897--tenth edition. here appeared for the first time, old age echoes, numbering thirteen poems. 1902--eleventh and definitive edition. issued by the literary executors of walt whitman--horace l. traubel, richard maurice bucke, and thomas b. harned. there have been six editions of whitman's complete writings, and numerous selections from leaves of grass have been published under the editorship of well-known literary men--among them, william m. rossetti, ernest rhys, w. t. stead, and oscar l. triggs. there have been translations into german, french, italian, russian, and several asiatic languages. "i had my choice when i commenc'd," he notes in his backward glance of 1880; "i bid neither for soft eulogies, big money returns, nor the approbation of existing schools and conventions.... unstopp'd and unwarp'd by any influence outside the soul within me, i have had my say entirely my own way, and put it unerringly on record--the value thereof to be decided by time." iii with the war-time period came the turning point in the popular estimate of walt whitman. no doubt, too, his experiences during this time of stress and storm influenced the rest of his career as a man and as a writer. his service as a volunteer nurse in camp and in hospital gave him a sympathetic insight and a patriotic outlook tempered with gentleness which are reflected in his poetry of this period, published under the title drum-taps. his well-known song of sorrow, o captain, my captain, is a threnody poignant with genuine feeling. it has, more than any others of his verses, lyric rather than plangent quality. when lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed, and the sobbing of the bells are other poems belonging to this distinctive group. it is notable that in his lament over the death of lincoln, whitman gives rhyme as well as rhythm to the verses. this was a time of triumph for whitman in a literary sense. in germany, the poet ferdinand freiligrath contributed to the allgemeine zeitung, augsburg, may 10, 1868, a long article in praise of his work. in england, his poetry attracted the attention of the rossettis, tennyson, john addington symonds. mrs. anne gilchrist defended him from the aspersions cast upon his references to womanhood. a sympathetic and friendly tone began to displace the collection of distasteful adjectives which had been his meed heretofore. then, in the latter part of 1865, occurred an episode which drew around whitman a circle of friends keen to resent, and active to condemn, an act of injustice from one high in authority. among the influential friends who rushed to his defense were john burroughs and william douglas o'connor, and the events which drew their fire were these: whitman, whose health was shattered by his untiring devotion and ministrations to ill and wounded soldiers, had been given a minor clerkship in the department of the interior. james harlan was secretary of the department. he had been a methodist clergyman and president of a western college. when his attention was called to whitman's authorship of leaves of grass, the secretary characterized the book as "full of indecent passages," the author was termed "a very bad man," and was abruptly dismissed from the position he had held for six months. whitman meekly accepted the curt dismissal, but william douglas o'connor in a white heat of indignation issued a pamphlet which flayed the astonished secretary of the interior as a narrow-minded calumniator. the pamphlet, now a very rare document, was headed: the good gray poet a vindication with celtic fervor and eloquence, william douglas o'connor made his plea an intercession in the cause of free letters. he examined the entire range of literature, ancient and modern, in quest of parallels that would prove whitman's book by comparison to be a masterpiece of literature, and would demonstrate mr. secretary harlan to be merely a literary headsman. out of many pages of allusion to the literary productions of the great writers of all time and for all time, some characteristic passages may be chosen: "here is dante. open the tremendous pages of the inferno. what is this line at the end of the twenty-first canto, which even john carlyle flinches from translating, but which dante did not flinch from writing? out with dante! "here is the book of job: the vast arabian landscape, the picturesque pastoral details of arabian life, the last tragic immensity of oriental sorrow, the whole over-arching sky of oriental piety, are here. but here also the inevitable 'indecency.' out with job! "here is plutarch, prince of biographers, and herodotus, flower of historians. what have we now? traits of character not to be mentioned, incidents of conduct, accounts of manners, minute details of customs, which our modern historical dandies would never venture upon recording. out with plutarch and herodotus! "here is shakespeare: 'indecent passages' everywhere; every drama, every poem thickly inlaid with them; all that men do displayed, sexual acts treated lightly, jested about, mentioned obscenely; the language never bolted; slang, gross puns, lewd words, in profusion. out with shakespeare! "here is the canticle of canticles: beautiful, voluptuous poem of love literally, whatever be its mystic significance; glowing with the color, odorous with the spices, melodious with the voices of the east; sacred and exquisite and pure with the burning chastity of passion, which completes and exceeds the snowy chastity of virgins. this to me, but what to the secretary? can he endure that the female form should stand thus in a poem, disrobed, unveiled, bathed in erotic splendor? look at these voluptuous details, this expression of desire, this amorous tone and glow, this consecration and perfume lavished upon the sensual. no! out with solomon! "here is isaiah. the grand thunder-roll of that righteousness, like the lion-roar of jehovah above the guilty world, utters coarse words. amidst the bolted lightnings of that sublime denunciation, coarse thoughts, indelicate figures, indecent allusions, flash upon the sight, like gross imagery in a midnight landscape. out with isaiah! "here is montaigne. open those great, those virtuous pages of the unflinching reporter of man; the soul all truth and daylight, all candor, probity, sincerity, reality, eyesight. a few glances will suffice. cant and vice and sniffle have groaned over these pages before. out with montaigne! "here is swedenborg. open this poem of prose, the conjugal love, to me, a temple, though in ruins; the sacred fane, clothed in mist, filled with moonlight, of a great though broken mind. what spittle of critic epithets stains all here? 'lewd,' 'sensual,' 'lecherous,' 'coarse,' 'licentious,' etc. of course these judgments are final. there is no appeal from the tobacco-juice of an expectorating and disdainful virtue. out with swedenborg! "here is goethe: the horrified squealing of prudes is not yet silent over pages of wilhelm meister: that high and chaste book, the elective affinities, still pumps up oaths from clergymen. walpurgis has hardly ceased its uproar over faust. out with goethe! "here is cervantes: open don quixote, paragon of romances, highest result of spain, best and sufficient reason for her life among the nations, a laughing novel which is a weeping poem. but talk such as this of sancho panza and tummas cecial under the cork trees, and these coarse stories and bawdy words, and this free and gross comedy--is it to be endured? out with cervantes! "and here is lord bacon himself, in one of whose pages you may read, done from the latin by spedding into a magnificent golden thunder of english, the absolute defense of the free spirit of the great authors, coupled with stern rebuke to the spirit that would pick and choose, as dastard and effeminate. out with lord bacon! "not him only, not these only, not only the writers are under the ban. here is phidias, gorgeous sculptor in gold and ivory, giant dreamer of the infinite in marble; but he will not use the fig-leaf. here is rembrandt, who paints the holland landscape, the jew, the beggar, the burgher, in lights and glooms of eternity; and his pictures have been called 'indecent,' here is mozart, his music rich with the sumptuous color of all sunsets; and it has been called 'sensual.' here is michael angelo, who makes art tremble with a new and strange afflatus, and gives europe novel and sublime forms that tower above the centuries, and accost the greek; and his works have been called 'bestial.' out with them all!" in his summing up, stirred to wrath by the low tone of contemporary comment, o'connor proceeded to expound the philosophy of literary ideals: "the level of the great books is the infinite, the absolute. to contain all, by containing the premise, the truth, the idea and feeling of all, to tally the universe by profusion, variety, reality, mystery, enclosure, power, terror, beauty, service; to be great to the utmost conceivability of greatness--what higher level than this can literature spring to? up on the highest summit stand such works, never to be surpassed, never to be supplanted. their indecency is not that of the vulgar; their vulgarity is not that of the low. their evil, if it be evil, is not there for nothing--it serves; at the base of it is love. every poet of the highest quality is, in the masterly coinage of the author of leaves of grass, a kosmos. his work, like himself, is a second world, full of contrarieties, strangely harmonized, and moral indeed, but only as the world is moral. shakespeare is all good, rabelais is all good, montaigne is all good, not because all the thoughts, the words, the manifestations are so, but because at the core, and permeating all, is an ethic intention--a love which, through mysterious, indirect, subtle, seemingly absurd, often terrible and repulsive, means, seeks to uplift, and never to degrade. it is the spirit in which authorship is pursued, as augustus schlegel has said, that makes it either an infamy or a virtue; and the spirit of the great authors, no matter what their letter, is one with that which pervades the creation. in mighty love, with implements of pain and pleasure, of good and evil, nature develops man; genius also, in mighty love, with implements of pain and pleasure, of good and evil, develops man; no matter what the means, that is the end. "tell me not, then, of the indecent passages of the great poets. the world, which is the poem of god, is full of indecent passages! 'shall there be evil in a city and the lord hath not done it?' shouts amos. 'i form the light, and create darkness; i make peace, and create evil; i, the lord, do all these things,' thunders isaiah. 'this,' says coleridge, 'is the deep abyss of the mystery of god.' ay, and the profound of the mystery of genius also! evil is part of the economy of genius, as it is part of the economy of deity. gentle reviewers endeavor to find excuses for the freedoms of geniuses. 'it is to prove that they were above conventionalities.' 'it is referable to the age.' oh, ossa on pelion, mount piled on mount, of error and folly! what has genius, spirit of the absolute and the eternal, to do with the definitions of position, or conventionalities, or the age? genius puts indecencies into its works, because god puts them into his world. whatever the special reason in each case, this is the general reason in all cases. they are here, because they are there. that is the eternal why. no; alphonso of castile thought that, if he had been consulted at the creation, he could have given a few hints to the almighty. not i. i play alphonso neither to genius nor to god. "what is this poem, for the giving of which to america and the world, and for that alone, its author has been dismissed with ignominy from a government office? it is a poem which schiller might have hailed as the noblest specimen of native literature, worthy of a place beside homer. it is, in the first place, a work purely and entirely american, autochthonic, sprung from our own soil; no savor of europe nor the past, nor of any other literature in it; a vast carol of our own land, and of its present and future; the strong and haughty psalm of the republic. there is not one other book, i care not whose, of which this can be said. i weigh my words and have considered well. every other book by an american author implies, both in form and substance, i cannot even say the european, but the british mind. the shadow of temple bar and arthur's seat lies dark on all our letters. intellectually we are still a dependency of great britain, and one word--colonial--comprehends and stamps our literature. in no literary form, except our newspapers, has there been anything distinctively american. i note our best books--the works of jefferson, the romances of brockden brown, the speeches of webster, everett's rhetoric, the divinity of channing, some of cooper's novels, the writings of theodore parker, the poetry of bryant, the masterly law arguments of lysander spooner, the miscellanies of margaret fuller, the histories of hildreth, bancroft and motley, ticknor's history of spanish literature, judd's margaret, the political treatises of calhoun, the rich, benignant poems of longfellow, the ballads of whittier, the delicate songs of philip pendleton cooke, the weird poetry of edgar poe, the wizard tales of hawthorne, irving's knickerbocker, delia bacon's splendid sibyllic book on shakespeare, the political economy of carey, the prison letters and immortal speech of john brown, the lofty patrician eloquence of wendell phillips, and those diamonds of the first water, the great clear essays and greater poems of emerson. this literature has often commanding merits, and much of it is very precious to me; but in respect to its national character, all that can be said is that it is tinged, more or less deeply, with america; and the foreign model, the foreign standards, the foreign ideas, dominate over it all. "at most, our best books were but struggling beams; behold in leaves of grass the immense and absolute sunrise! it is all our own! the nation is in it! in form a series of chants, in substance it is an epic of america. it is distinctively and utterly american. without model, without imitation, without reminiscence, it is evolved entirely from our own polity and popular life. look at what it celebrates and contains! hardly to be enumerated without sometimes using the powerful, wondrous phrases of its author, so indissoluble are they with the things described. the essences, the events, the objects of america; the myriad, varied landscapes; the teeming and giant cities; the generous and turbulent populations; the prairie solitudes, the vast pastoral plateaus; the mississippi; the land dense with villages and farms; the habits, manners, customs; the enormous diversity of temperatures; the immense geography; the red aborigines passing away, 'charging the water and the land with names'; the early settlements; the sudden uprising and defiance of the revolution; the august figure of washington; the formation and sacredness of the constitution; the pouring in of the emigrants; the million-masted harbors; the general opulence and comfort; the fisheries, and whaling, and gold-digging, and manufactures, and agriculture; the dazzling movement of new states, rushing to be great; nevada rising, dakota rising, colorado rising; the tumultuous civilization around and beyond the rocky mountains, thundering and spreading; the union impregnable; feudalism in all its forms forever tracked and assaulted; liberty deathless on these shores; the noble and free character of the people; the equality of male and female; the ardor, the fierceness, the friendship, the dignity, the enterprise, the affection, the courage, the love of music, the passion for personal freedom; the mercy and justice and compassion of the people; the popular faults and vices and crimes; the deference of the president to the private citizen; the image of christ forever deepening in the public mind as the brother of despised and rejected persons; the promise and wild song of the future; the vision of the federal mother, seated with more than antique majesty in the midst of her many children; the pouring glories of the hereafter; the vistas of splendor, incessant and branching, the tremendous elements, breeds, adjustments of america--with all these, with more, with everything transcendent, amazing and new, undimmed by the pale cast of thought, and with the very color and brawn of actual life, the whole gigantic epic of our continental being unwinds in all its magnificent reality in these pages. to understand greece, study the iliad and the odyssey; study leaves of grass to understand america. her democracy is there. would you have a text-book of democracy? the writings of jefferson are good; de tocqueville is better; but the great poet always contains historian and philosopher--and to know the comprehending spirit of this country, you shall question these insulted pages." iv it would be wearisome to refer in detail to the numerous estimates of leaves of grass which have found print since 1870. the increasing literature about whitman bespeaks interest, and the kindly tenor of most commentators testifies to the enlarging appreciation of the good gray poet. within the past decade there have appeared seven biographies of him, all but one of them wholly and frankly lavish in his praise, and that one not unfriendly in criticism. numerous book chapters have dealt with him in recognition of his genius, and only here and there have there been suggestions of earlier absolute condemnation. among the biographers have been, in chronological sequence, richard maurice bucke, john burroughs, john addington symonds, isaac hull platt, geo. r. carpenter, bliss perry, henry bryan binns. among the notable contributors of book chapters on whitman may be mentioned from a list of two score or more, robert louis stevenson, in his studies of men and books; a. t. quiller-couch, in his adventures in criticism; thomas wentworth higginson, in his contemporaries; havelock ellis, in the new spirit; edward dowden, in his studies in literature; edmund gosse, in his critical kit-kats; hamilton mabie, in his backgrounds of literature; brander matthews, in his aspects of fiction; edmund clarence stedman, in his poets of america; george santayana, in the poetry of barbarism; and algernon charles swinburne, in his studies in prose and poetry. these have been mentioned specifically because they average the good and the bad rather than join in a chorus of indiscriminate praise. indeed, the two last mentioned are distinctly hostile in tone. swinburne, who in his earlier volume songs before sunrise, addressed a long poem, to walt whitman in america, fervent in praise, "send but a song oversea for us, heart of their hearts who are free, heart of their singer to be for us more than our singing can be," revoked all his former words of sympathetic admiration and in his later volume, printed in 1894, vehemently fell upon whitman in this strain: "there is no subject which may not be treated with success (i do not say there are no subjects which on other than artistic grounds it may not be as well to avoid, it may not be better to pass by) if the poet, by instinct or by training, knows exactly how to handle it aright, to present it without danger of just or rational offense. for evidence of this truth we need look no further than the pastorals of virgil and theocritus. but under the dirty clumsy paws of a harper whose plectrum is a muck-rake any tune will become a chaos of discords, though the motive of the tune should be the first principle of nature--the passion of man for woman or the passion of woman for man. and the unhealthily demonstrative and obtrusive animalism of the whitmaniad is as unnatural, as incompatible with the wholesome instincts of human passion, as even the filthy and inhuman asceticism of ss. macarius and simeon stylites. if anything can justify the serious and deliberate display of merely physical emotion in literature or in art, it must be one of two things; intense depth of feeling expressed with inspired perfection of simplicity, with divine sublimity of fascination, as by sappho; or transcendent supremacy of actual and irresistible beauty in such revelation of naked nature as was possible to titian. but mr. whitman's eve is a drunken apple-woman, indecently sprawling in the slush and garbage of the gutter amid the rotten refuse of her overturned fruit-stall: but mr. whitman's venus is a hottentot wench under the influence of cantharides and adulterated rum." weighing the good and the bad, robert louis stevenson in his essay does not stint admiration nor withhold blame: "he has chosen a rough, unrhymed, lyrical verse; sometimes instinct with a fine processional movement; often so rugged and careless that it can only be described by saying that he has not taken the trouble to write prose * * * and one thing is certain, that no one can appreciate whitman's excellences until he has grown accustomed to his faults." indicating the attitude of his partisans, john burroughs' summing up is fairly representative: "just as ripe, mellowed, storied, ivy-towered, velvet-turfed england lies back of tennyson, and is vocal through him; just as canny, covenanting, conscience-burdened, craggy, sharp-tongued scotland lies back of carlyle; just as thrifty, well-schooled, well-housed, prudent and moral new england lies back of her group of poets, and is voiced by them--so america as a whole, our turbulent democracy, our self-glorification, our faith in the future, our huge mass-movements, our continental spirit, our sprawling, sublime and unkempt nature lie back of whitman, and are implied by his work." it is not the purpose of this book to interpret whitman either as a prophet or a poet, except inferentially as the words of his critics may carry distinct impressions. after all, the justest estimate of whitman and his book is his own. whitman's puzzling characteristics are best understood if we realize that leaves of grass is an autobiography--and an extraordinarily candid one--of a man whose peculiar temperament found expression in prose-verse. his gentleness, his brusqueness, his egotism, his humility, his grossness, his finer nature, his crudeness, his eloquence, are all here. to him they were the attributes of all mankind. "i am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise; regardless of others, ever regardful of others, maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man, stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse, and stuff'd with the stuff that is fine." in his virile young manhood he announced with gusto: "i sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world." in his serene old age he said: "over the tree-tops i float thee a song." and this was his conclusion: "i call to the world to distrust the accounts of my friends, but listen to my enemies as i myself do. i charge you forever reject those who would expound me, for i cannot expound myself." whoso challenges whitman's gift of song may not at any rate deny to him the note of melody. this quality is strong in his titles particularly: rise o days from your fathomless deeps. in cabin'd ships at sea. out of the cradle endlessly rocking. sands at seventy. the sobbing of the bells. soon shall the winter's foil be here. thou mother with thy equal brood. to the leaven'd soil they trod. yon tides with ceaseless swell. when lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed. sparkles from the wheel. brother of all with generous hand. as a strong bird on pinions free. for a just estimate of whitman, as for a clear comprehension of the symbolism contained in leaves of grass, a few blades of the latter will not suffice. it must be all, or none. the two poems here given should be taken, therefore, not as representative of the whole, but as types of two widely variant moods: of olden time, when it came to pass that the beautiful god, jesus, should finish his work on earth, then went judas, and sold the divine youth, and took pay for his body. curst was the deed, even before the sweat of the clutching hand grew dry; and darkness frown'd upon the seller of the like of god, where, as though earth lifted her breast to throw him from her, and heaven refus'd him, he hung in the air, self-slaughter'd. the cycles, with their long shadows, have stalked silently forward since those days--many a pouch enwrapping meanwhile its fee, like that paid for the son of mary. and still goes one, saying, "what will ye give me, and i will deliver this man unto you?" and they make the covenant, and pay the pieces of silver. look forth, deliverer, look forth, first-born of the dead, over the tree-tops of paradise; see thyself in yet-continued bonds, toilsome and poor, thou bear'st man's form again, thou art reviled, scourged, put into prison, hunted from the arrogant equality of the rest; with staves and swords throng the willing servants of authority, again they surround thee, mad with devilish spite; toward thee stretch the hands of a multitude, like vultures' talons, the nearest spit in thy face, they smite thee with their palms; bruised, bloody, and pinion'd is thy body, more sorrowful than death is thy soul. witness of anguish, brother of slaves, not with thy price closed the price of thine image: and still iscariot plies his trade. i the soul, forever and forever--longer than soil is brown and solid--longer than water ebbs and flows. ii each is not for its own sake, i say the whole earth and all the stars in the sky are for religion's sake. iii in this broad earth of ours, amid the measureless grossness and the slag, enclosed and safe within its central heart, nestles the seed perfection. by every life a share or more or less, none born but it is born, conceal'd or unconceal'd the seed is waiting. iv do you not see o my brothers and sisters? it is not chaos or death--it is form, union, plan--it is eternal life--it is happiness. v the song is to the singer, and comes back most to him, the love is to the lover, and comes back most to him--it cannot fail. vi i see hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people _do not weep for me, this is not my true country, i have lived banish'd from my true country, i now go back there, i return to the celestial sphere where every one goes in his turn._ * * * * * this is an attempt, incomplete but fairly representative as to sources, to trace the changing view during half a century of leaves of grass and its author. v sonnets and apostrophes in large number addressed to walt whitman during the later years of his life, and since his passing away, have appeared in fugitive form in widely separated sources. a selection of these may prove of interest by reason of the names attached, as well as because of the subject: "the good gray poet" gone! brave hopeful walt! he might not be a singer without fault, and his large rough-hewn rhythm did not chime with dulcet daintiness of time and rhyme. he was no neater than wide nature's wild, more metrical than sea winds. culture's child, lapped in luxurious laws of line and lilt, shrank from him shuddering, who was roughly built as cyclopean temples. yet there rang true music through his rhapsodies, as he sang of brotherhood, and freedom, love and hope, with strong, wide sympathy which dared to cope with all life's phases, and call nought unclean. whilst hearts are generous, and whilst woods are green, he shall find hearers, who in a slack time of puny bards and pessimistic rhyme, dared to bid men adventure and rejoice. his "yawp barbaric" was a human voice; the singer was a man. america is poorer by a stalwart soul today, and may feel pride that she hath given birth to this stout laureate of old mother earth. --_punch_ good-bye, walt! good-bye from all you loved of earth- rock, tree, dumb creature, man and woman- to you their comrade human. the last assault ends now, and now in some great world has birth a minstrel, whose strong soul finds broader wings, more brave imaginings. stars crown the hill-top where your dust shall lie, even as we say good-bye, good-bye, old walt! --_edmund clarence stedman_ he was in love with truth and knew her near- her comrade, not her suppliant on the knee: she gave him wild melodious words to be made music that should haunt the atmosphere. she drew him to her bosom, day-long dear, and pointed to the stars and to the sea, and taught him miracles and mystery, and made him master of the rounded year. yet one gift did she keep. he looked in vain, brow-shaded, through the darkness of the mist, marking a beauty like a wandering breath that beckoned, yet denied his soul a tryst: he sang a passion, yet he saw not plain till kind earth held him and he spake with death. --_harrison s. morris_ some find thee foul and rank and fetid, walt, who cannot tell arabia from a sty. thou followeth truth, nor feareth, nor doth halt; truth: and the sole uncleanness is a lie. --_william watson_ presage of strength yet to be, voice of the youngest of time, singer of the golden dawn, from thy great message must come light for the bettering days, joy to the hands that toil, might to the hopes that droop, power to the nation reborn, poet and master and seer, helper and friend unto men, truth that shall pass into the life of us all! --_louis j. block_ send but a song oversea for us, heart of their hearts who are free, heart of their singer to be for us more than our singing can be; ours, in the tempest at error, with no light but the twilight of terror; send us a song oversea! sweet-smelling of pine-leaves and grasses, and blown as a tree through and through with the winds of the keen mountain passes, and tender as sun-smitten dew; sharp-tongued as the winter that shakes the wastes of your limitless lakes, wide-eyed as the sea-line's blue. o strong-winged soul with prophetic lips hot with the bloodbeats of song, with tremor of heartstrings magnetic, with thoughts as thunders in throng, with consonant ardours of chords that pierce men's souls as with swords and hale them hearing along. --_algernon swinburne_ serene, vast head, with silver cloud of hair, lined on the purple dusk of death a stern medallion, velvet set- old norseman throned, not chained upon thy chair: thy grasp of hand, thy hearty breath of welcome thrills me yet as when i faced thee there. loving my plain as thou thy sea, facing the east as thou the west, i bring a handful of grass to thee, the prairie grasses i know the best- type of the wealth and width of the plain, strong of the strength of the wind and sleet, fragrant with sunlight and cool with rain- i bring it, and lay it low at thy feet, here by the eastern sea. --_hamlin garland_ i toss upon thy grave, (after thy life resumed, after the pause, the backward glance of death; hence, hence the vistas on, the march continued, in larger spheres, new lives in paths untrodden, on! till the circle rounded, ever the journey on!) upon thy grave,--the vital sod how thrilled as from thy limbs and breast transpired, rises the spring's sweet utterance of flowers,- i toss this sheaf of song, these scattered leaves of love! for thee, thy soul and body spent for me, --and now still living, now in love, transmitting still thy soul, thy flesh to me, to all!- these variant phrases of the long-immortal chant i toss upon thy grave! --_george cabot lodge_ i am no slender singing bird that feeds on puny garden seed! my songs are stronger than those heard in ev'ry wind-full, shallow reed! my pipes are jungle-grown and need a strong man's breath to blow them well; a strong soul's sense to solve their spell and be by their deep music stirred. my voice speaks not, in lisping notes, the madrigals of lesser minds! my heart tones thunder from the throats of throbbing seas and raging winds; and yet, the master-spirit finds the tenderness of mother earth is there expressed, despite the dearth of tinkle tunes like dancing motes! my hand strokes not a golden lyre threaded with silver--spider spun! the strings i strike are strands of fire, strung from earth's center to the sun! thrilled with passion, ev'ry one! with songs of forest, corn, and vine; of rushing water, blood, and wine; of man's conception and desire! but listen, comrade! this i say: in all of all i give my heart! with lover's voice i bid you stay to share with me the better part of all my days! nights! thoughts! and start with far-spread arms to welcome you, and we will shout a song so true that it shall ring for aye and aye. --_ray clarke rose_ your lonely muse, unraimented with rhyme, her hair unfilleted, her feet unshod, naked and not ashamed demands of god no covering for her beauty's youth or prime. clad but with thought, as space is clad with time, or both with worlds where man and angels plod, she runs in joy, magnificently odd, ruggedly wreathed with flowers of every clime. and you to whom her breath is sweeter far than choicest attar of the martyred rose more deeply feel mortality's unrest than poets born beneath a happier star, because the pathos of your grand repose shows that all earth has throbbed within your breast. --_albert edmund lancaster_ they say that thou art sick, art growing old, thou poet of unconquerable health, with youth far-stretching, through the golden wealth of autumn, to death's frostful, friendly cold; the never-blenching eyes, that did behold life's fair and foul, with measureless content, and gaze ne'er sated, saddened as they bent over the dying soldier in the fold of thy large comrade love:--then broke the tear! war-dream, field-vigil, the bequeathã«d kiss, have brought old age to thee; yet, master, now, cease not thy song to us; lest we should miss a death-chant of indomitable cheer, blown as a gale from god;--oh, sing it thou! --_aaron leigh_ o pure heart singer of the human frame divine, whose poesy disdains control of slavish bonds! each poem is a soul, incarnate born of thee, and given thy name. thy genius is unshackled as a flame that sunward soars, the central light its goal; thy thoughts are lightnings, and thy numbers roll in nature's thunders that put art to shame. exalter of the land that gave thee birth, though she insult thy grand gray years with wrong of infamy, foul-branding thee with scars of felon-hate, still shalt thou be on earth revered, and in fame's firmament of song thy name shall blaze among the eternal stars! --_leonard wheeler_ o titan soul, ascend your starry steep, on golden stair, to gods and storied men! ascend! nor care where thy traducers creep. for what may well be said of prophets, when a world that's wicked comes to call them good? ascend and sing! as kings of thought who stood on stormy heights, and held far lights to men, stand thou, and shout above the tumbled roar, lest brave ships drive and break against the shore. what though thy sounding song be roughly set? parnassus' self is rough! give thou the thought, the golden ore, the gems that few forget; in time the tinsel jewel will be wrought. stand thou alone, and fixed as destiny, an imaged god that lifts above all hate; stand thou serene and satisfied with fate; stand thou as stands the lightning-riven tree, that lords the cloven clouds of gray yosemite. yea, lone, sad soul, thy heights must be thy home; thou sweetest lover! love shall climb to thee like incense curling some cathedral dome, from many distant vales. yet thou shalt be, o grand, sweet singer, to the end alone. but murmur not. the moon, the mighty spheres, spin on alone through all the soundless years; alone man comes on earth; he lives alone; alone he turns to front the dark unknown. --_joaquin miller_ i knew there was an old, white-bearded seer who dwelt among the streets of camden town; i had the volumes which his hand wrote down- the living evidence we love to hear of one who walks reproachless, without fear. but when i saw that face, capped with its crown of snow-white almond-buds, his high renown faded to naught, and only did appear the calm old man, to whom his verses tell, all sounds were music, even as a child; and then the sudden knowledge on me fell, for all the hours his fancies had beguiled, no verse had shown the poet half so well as when he looked into my face and smiled. --_linn porter_ friend whitman! wert thou less serene and kind, surely thou mightest (like the bard sublime), scorned by a generation deaf and blind, make thine appeal to the avenger time; for thou art none of those who upward climb, gathering roses with a vacant mind. ne'er have thy hands for jaded triflers twined sick flowers of rhetoric and weeds of rhyme. nay, thine hath been a prophet's stormier fate. while lincoln and the martyr'd legions wait in the yet widening blue of yonder sky, on the great strand below them thou art seen, blessing, with something christ-like in thy mien, a sea of turbulent lives, that break and die. --_robert buchanan_ darkness and death? nay, pioneer, for thee the day of deeper vision has begun; there is no darkness for the central sun nor any death for immortality. at last the song of all fair songs that be, at last the guerdon of a race well run, the upswelling joy to know the victory won, the river's rapture when it finds the sea. ah, thou art wrought in an heroic mould, the modern man upon whose brow yet stays a gleam of glory from the age of gold- a diadem which all the gods have kissed. hail and farewell! flower of the antique days, democracy's divine protagonist. --_francis howard williams_ tranquil as stars that unafraid pursue their way through space, vital as light, unhoused as wind, unloosed from time and place; solemn as birth, and sane as death, thy bardic chantings move; rugged as earth, and salt as sea, and bitter-sweet as love. --_may morgan_ one master poet royally her own, begot of freedom, bore our western world: a poet, native as the dew impearl'd upon her grass; a brother, thew and bone, to mountains wild, vast lakes and prairies lone; one, life and soul, akin to speech unfurl'd, and zeal of artisan, and song not curl'd in fronded forms, or petrified in tone. high latitudes of thought gave breath to him; the paps he suck'd ran not false shame for milk; no bastard he! but virile truth in limb and soul. a titan mocking at the silk that bound the wings of song. a tongue of flame, whose ashes gender an immortal name. --_joseph w. chapman_ thou lover of the cosmos vague and vast, in which thy virile mind would penetrate unto the rushing, primal springs of fate, ruling alike the future, present, past: now, having breasted waves beyond death's blast, new neptune's steeds saluted, white and great, and entered through the glorious golden gate. and gained the fair celestial shores at last, still worship'st thou the ocean? thou that tried to comprehend its mental roar and surge, its howling as of victory and its dirge for continents submerged by shock and tide. by that immortal ocean now what cheer? do crews patrol and save the same as here? --_edward s. creamer_ all hail to thee! walt whitman! poet, prophet, priest! celebrant of democracy! at more than regal feast to thee we offer homage, and with our greenest bay we crown thee poet laureate on this thy natal day. we offer choice ascription--our loyal tribute bring, in this the new olympiad in which thou reignest king. poet of the present age, and of ã¦ons yet to be, in this the chosen homestead of those who would be free- free from feudal usage, from courtly sham and cant; free from kingcraft, priestcraft, with all their rot and rant! prophet of a race redeemed from all conventual thrall, espouser of equal sexship in body, soul, and all! priest of a ransom'd people, endued with clearer light; a newer dispensation for those of psychic sight. we greet thee as our mentor, we meet thee as our friend, and to thy ministrations devotedly we lend the aid that comes from fealty which thou hast made so strong, thro' touch of palm, and glint of eye, and spirit of thy song. we magnify thy mission, we glorify thy aim, unfalteringly adhered to through ill-report and blame- the fretting of the groundlings, the fumings of the pit, the jibes and jeers and snarls and sneers which men mistake for wit. we knew the rising splendor of thy sun could never wane until, the earth encompass'd, it sank in dazzling flame. in faith assured we waited as in patience thou didst wait, knowing full well the answer must sooner come or late. and come it has, sufficingly, the discord disappears until today again is heard the music of the spheres proclaiming thee the well-beloved, peer of the proudest peers. --_henry l. bonsall_ he fell asleep when in the century's skies the paling stars proclaimed another day- he, genial still, amidst the chill and gray, with smiling lips and trustful, dauntless eyes; he, the columbus of a vast emprise, whose realization in the future lay; he, who stepped from the well-worn, narrow way to walk with poetry in larger guise. and fortunate, despite of transient griefs, the years announce him in a new born age; the ship of his fair fame, past crags and reefs, sails bravely on, and less and less the rage of gainsaying winds becomes; while to his phrase the world each day gives ampler heed and praise! --_william struthers_ here health we pledge you in one draught of song, caught in this rhymster's cup from earth's delight, where english fields are green the whole year long- the wine of might, that the new-come spring distills, most sweet and strong, in the viewless air's alembic, that's wrought too fine for sight. good health! we pledge, that care may lightly sleep, and pain of age be gone for this one day, as of this loving cup you take, and, drinking deep, are glad at heart straightway to feel once more the friendly heat of the sun creative in you (as when in youth it shone), and pulsing brainward with the rhythmic wealth of all the summer whose high minstrelsy shall soon crown field and tree, to call back age to youth again, and pain to perfect health. --_ernest rhys_ i loaf and invite my soul and what do i feel? an influx of life from the great central power that generates beauty from seedling to flower. i loaf and invite my soul and what do i hear? original harmonies piercing the din of measureless tragedy, sorrow and sin. i loaf and invite my soul and what do i see? the temple of god in the perfected man. revealing the wisdom and end of earth's plan. --_elizabeth porter gould_ he passed amid the noisy throngs, his elbow touched with theirs; they grumbled at their petty wrongs, their woes and cares; they asked if "princeton stood to win"; or what they should invest; they told with gusto and with grin some futile jest. they jostled him and passed him by, nor slacked their eager pace; they did not mark that noble eye, that noble face. so carelessly they let him go, his mien they could not scan,- thinker whom all the world would know, our greatest man. _max j. herzberg_ here ends this book written by henry eduard legler, arranged in this form by laurence c. woodworth, scrivener, and printed for the brothers of the book at the press of the faithorn company, chicago, 1916. _incipit vita nova_ [frontispiece: walt whitman] walt whitman. an address by robert g. ingersoll "liberty in literature." delivered in philadelphia, oct. 21, 1890. also funeral address delivered at harleigh, camden, n. j., march 30, 1892. with portrait of whitman. authorized edition. new york; the truth seeker company, 28 lafayette place. copyrighted, 1890, by the truth seeker company. testimonial to walt whitman. of all the placid hours in his peaceful life, those that walt whitman spent on the stage of horticultural hall last night must have been among the most gratifying, says the philadelphia press of october 22, 1890. to a testimonial, intended to cheer his declining years, not only in a complimentary sense, came some eighteen hundred or more people to listen to a tribute to the aged poet by col. robert g. ingersoll, such as seldom falls to the lot of living man to hear about himself. on the stage sat many admirers of the venerable torch-bearer of modern poetic thought, as colonel ingersoll described him, young and old, men and women. there were white beards, but none were so white as that of the author of "leaves of grass." he sat calm and sedate in his easy wheeled chair, with his usual garb of gray, with his cloudy white hair falling over his white, turned-down collar that must have been three inches wide. no burst of eloquence from the orator's lips disturbed that equanimity; no tribute of applause moved him from his habitual calm. and when the lecturer, having concluded, said, "we have met to-night to honor ourselves by honoring the author of 'leaves of grass,'" and the audience started to leave the hall, the man they had honored reached forward with his cane and attracted colonel ingersoll's attention. "do not leave yet," said colonel ingersoll, "mr. whitman has a word to say." this is what he said, and no more characteristic thing ever fell from the poet's lips or flowed from his pen: "after all, my friends, the main factors being the curious testimony called personal presence and face to face meeting, i have come here to be among you and show myself, and thank you with my living voice for coming, and robert ingersoll for speaking. and so with such brief testimony of showing myself, and such good will and gratitude, i bid you hail and farewell." the address. _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 progress--but they are not poets, they are not men of genius. at this time a young man--he to whom this testimonial 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 drapery 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 measured. 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 marvelous 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 marvelous, 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 marvelous harmonies. in his words is the old promethean 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. they forget that drapery about the perfect was suggested by immodesty. the provincial prudes, and others of like mold, pretend 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 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 hight, 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 people--rich as well as poor--familiar with labor, a friend of wind and wave, touched by love and friendship--liking the open road, enjoying the 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 a libertine! he lives in the mire. he lacks spirituality!" whoever differs with the multitude, especially with a led multitude--that is to say, with a multitude of taggers--will find out from their leaders that he has committed 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 hights 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 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 foolishness, 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, 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 independence 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 individuality. 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 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 countryman 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 had 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 encyclopedia 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 high esteem would have been destroyed, if those in authority could have had their will. every book of modern 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 ignorant 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 shakespeare 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 oppressed--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 sympathy for the whole human race, and who were great enough to prophesy a grander day, are as alive to-night 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 sympathized 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 ascertainment 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 pass-word 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 declaration of justice, that is to say, a declaration of the independence of the individual, and a declaration that all shall be free. the man who has this spirit can truthfully say: i have taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown. i am for those that have never been master'd. 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. doctrines, politics and civilization exurge from you, sculpture and monuments and any thing 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 cudge 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 develop'd person is to himself 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, 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 unerringly 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 always the head and ideal." and that a great city is that which has the greatest men and women, if it be a few ragged huts it is still the greatest city in the whole world. 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 hight: what do you suppose i would intimate to you in a hundred ways, but that man or woman is as good as god? and that there is no god any more divine than yourself? glorying in individuality, in the freedom of the soul, he cries out: o to struggle against great odds, to meet enemies undaunted! to be entirely alone with them, to find how much one can stand! to look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, face to face! to mount the scaffold, to advance to the muzzles of guns with perfect nonchalance! to be indeed a god! and again; o the joy of a manly self-hood! to be servile to none, to defer to none, not to any tyrant known or unknown, to walk with erect carriage, a step springy and elastic, to look with calm gaze or with a flashing eye, to speak with full and sonorous voice out of a broad chest. to confront with your personality all the other personalities of the earth. walt whitman is willing to stand alone. he is sufficient unto himself, and he says: henceforth i ask not good-fortune, i myself am good-fortune. * * * * * strong and content i travel the open road. he is one of those that look carelessly in the 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 defender of the rights of each for the sake of all--and his sympathies are as wide as the world. he is the defender of the whole race. vi. humanity. the great poet is intensely human--infinitely sympathetic--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 hounded 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 gore dribs, thinn'd 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 violently over the head with whip-stocks. agonies are one of my changes of garments, 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 unintermitted pain. for me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch, it is i let out in the morning and barr'd at night. not a mutineer walks handcuff'd to jail but i am handcuff'd to him and walk by his side. * * * * * judge not as the judge judges, but as the sun falling upon a helpless 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 preaches 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 day, and when they touch my body back again, when a university course convinces like a slumbering woman and child convince, when the minted gold in the vault smiles like the night-watchman's daughter, when warrantee deeds loafe 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, filling 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 and ice in the river, half-frozen mud in the streets, a gray discouraged sky overhead, the short last daylight of december, a hearse and stages, 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 pass'd, the new-dug grave is halted at, the living alight, the hearse uncloses, the coffin is pass'd out, lower'd and settled, the whip is laid on the coffin, the earth is swiftly shovel'd in, the mound above is flatted with the spades--silence, a minute--no one moves or speaks--it is done, he is decently put away--is there any thing more? he was a good fellow, free-mouth'd, quick-temper'd, not bad-looking, 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, sicken'd, was helped by a contribution, died, aged forty-one years--and that was his funeral. let me read you another description--one of a woman: behold a woman! she looks out from her quaker cap, her face is clearer and more beautiful than the sky. she sits in an armchair under the shaded porch of the farmhouse, the sun just shines on her old white head. her ample gown is of cream-hued linen, her grandsons raised the flax, and her grand-daughters spun it with the distaff and the wheel. the melodious character of the earth, the finish beyond which philosophy cannot go and does not wish to go, the justified mother of men. would you hear of an old-time sea fight? would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars? list to the yarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told it to me. our foe was no skulk in his ship i tell you, (said he,) his was the surly english pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be; along the lower'd eve he came horribly raking us. we closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touched, my captain lash'd fast with his own hands. we had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the water, on our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead. fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark, ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported, the master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for themselves. the transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels, they see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust our frigate takes fire, the other asks if we demand quarter? if our colors are struck and the fighting done? now i laugh content, for i hear the voice of my little captain, "we have not struck," he composedly cries, "we have just begun our part of the fighting." only three guns are in use, one is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's mainmast, two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks. the tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top, they hold out bravely during the whole of the action. not a moment's cease, the leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine. one of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking. serene stands the little captain, he is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low, his eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns. toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us. stretch'd and still lies the midnight, 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, the captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through a countenance white as a sheet, near by the corpse of the child that serv'd in the cabin, the dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully curl'd whiskers, the flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below, the husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty, formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars, cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of waves, black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent, 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, the hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw, wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long, dull, tapering groan. some people say that this is not poetry--that it lacks measure and rhyme. viii. what is poetry? the whole world is engaged in the invisible commerce of thought. that is to say, in the exchange of thoughts by words, symbols, sounds, colors and forms. the motions of the silent, invisible world, where feeling glows and thought flames--that contains all seeds of action--are made known only by sounds and colors, forms, objects, relations, uses and qualities--so that the visible universe is a dictionary, an aggregation of symbols, by which and through which is carried on the invisible commerce of thought. each object is capable of many meanings, or of being used in many ways to convey ideas or states of feeling or of facts that take place in the world of the brain. the greatest poet is the one 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 shriveled and worthless--to those whose rivers and mountains and seas and constellations belittle and cheapen the visible world. the inhabitants of these marvelous 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 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 judgment, rhyme is a hindrance to expression. the rhymer is compelled to wander 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 blossom of a great and tender thought. the planting of the seed, the growth, the bud and flower must be rapid. the spring must be quick and warm--the soil perfect, the sunshine and rain enough--everything should tend to hasten, nothing to delay. in poetry, as in wit, the 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 rhythmical as the rise and fall of the sea. in the highest form of expression, the thought should be in harmony with this natural ebb and flow. the highest poetic truth is expressed in rhythmical form. i have sometimes thought that an idea selects its own words, chooses its own garments, and that when the 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 accurately measured intervals. perfect time is the death of 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 suggest perfect freedom. a word more about rhythm. i believe that certain feelings and passions--joy, grief, emulation, revenge, produce certain molecular movements in the brain--that every thought is 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 feelings, 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 molecular movements. all arts are born of the same spirit, and express like thoughts in different ways--that is to say, they produce like states of mind and feeling. the sculptor, the painter, the composer, the poet, the orator, work to the same end, with different materials. the painter expresses through form and color and relation; the sculptor through form and relation. the poet also paints and chisels--his words give form, relation and color. his statues and his paintings do not crumble, neither do they fade, nor will they as long as language endures. the composer touches the passions, produces the very states of feeling produced by the painter and sculptor, the poet and orator. in all these there must be rhythm--that is to say, proportion--that is to say, 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 bight 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 marvelous 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. 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 consider bibles and religions divine--i do not say they are not divine, i say they have all grown out of you, and may grow out of you still, it is not they who give the life, it is you who give the life. * * * * * his [the poet's] thoughts are the hymns of the praise of things, in the dispute on god and eternity he is 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, yet understand god not in the least, nor do i understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.... in the faces of men and women i see god, and in my own face in the glass, i find letters from god dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by god's name. the whole visible world is regarded by him as a revelation, and so is the invisible world, and with this feeling he writes: not objecting to special revelations--considering a curl of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation. the creeds do not satisfy, the old mythologies are not enough; they are too narrow at best, giving only hints and suggestions; and feeling this lack in that which has been written and preached, whitman says: magnifying and applying come i, outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters, taking myself the exact dimensions of jehovah, lithographing kronos, zeus his son, and hercules his grandson, buying drafts of osiris, isis, belus, brahma, buddha, in my portfolio placing manito loose, allah on a leaf, the crucifix engraved, with odin and the hideous-faced mexitli, and every idol and image, taking them all for what they are worth, and not a cent more. whitman keeps open house. he is intellectually hospitable. he extends his hand to a new idea. he does not accept a creed because it is wrinkled and old and has a long white beard. he knows that hypocrisy has a venerable look, and that it relies on looks and masks--on stupidity--and fear. neither does he reject or accept the new because it is new. he wants the truth, and so he welcomes all until he knows just who and what they are. x. philosophy. walt whitman is a philosopher. the more a man has thought, the more he has studied, the more he has traveled intellectually, the less certain he is. only the very ignorant are perfectly satisfied that they know. to the common man the great problems are easy. he has no trouble in accounting for the universe. he can tell you the origin and destiny of man and the why and the wherefore of things. as a rule, he is a believer in special providence, and is egotistic enough to suppose that everything that happens in the universe happens in reference to him. a colony of red ants lived at the foot of the alps. it happened one day, that an avalanche destroyed the hill; and one of the ants was heard to remark: "who could have taken so much trouble to destroy our home?" walt whitman walked by the side of the sea "where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways," and endeavored to think out, to fathom the mystery of being; and he said: i too but signify at the utmost a little wash'd-up drift, a few sands and dead leaves to gather, gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift * * * * * aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me i have not once had the least idea who or what i am, but that before all my arrogant poems the real me stands yet untouch'd, untold, altogether unreach'd, withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows, with peals of distant ironical laughter at every word i have written, pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath.... i perceive i have not really understood any thing, not a single object, and that no man ever can. there is in our language no profounder poem than the one entitled "elemental drifts." the effort to find the origin has ever been, and will forever be, fruitless. those who endeavor to find the secret of life resemble a man looking in the mirror, who thinks that if he only could be quick enough he could grasp the image that he sees behind the glass. the latest word of this poet upon this subject is as follows: "to me this life with all its realities and functions is finally a mystery, the real something yet to be evolved, and the stamp and shape and life here somehow giving an important, perhaps the main, outline 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 indistinct; 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 concerned--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 have maintained that a part is matter and a part is spirit; some that spirit was first and matter after; others that matter 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 substantially crazy; and the spiritualists regard the materialists as low and groveling. 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 wonderful 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 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 traveled 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 nest, and there were four light green eggs, spotted with brown, and the two birds sang for joy: shine! shine! shine! pour down your warmth, 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, while we two keep together. 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! 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 tossing; 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 happy life! o songs of joy! in the air, in the woods, over fields, loved! loved! loved! loved! loved! but my mate no more, 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 answering, delaying not and hurrying not, spoke the low delicious word "death!" "ever death!" the next poem, one that will live as long as our language, entitled: "when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd," 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." in this poem the dramatic unities are perfectly preserved, 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 inlooped flags, the processions 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 sinking 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 fulfill'd 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: a 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. prais'd be the fathomless universe, for life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, and for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise! for the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death. dark mother always gliding near with soft feet, have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? then i chant it for thee, i glorify thee above all, i bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. approach strong deliveress, when it is so, when thou hast taken them i joyously sing the dead, lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, laved in the flood of thy bliss o death. from me to thee glad serenades, dances for thee i propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee, and the sights of the open landscape and the high spread sky are fitting, and life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. the night in silence under many a star, the ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice i know, and the soul turning to thee o vast and well-veil'd death, and the body gratefully nestling close to thee. over the tree-tops i float thee a song, over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide, over the dense-pack'd cities all and the teeming wharves and ways, i float this carol with joy, with joy to thee o death. this poem, in memory of "the sweetest, wisest soul of all our days and lands," and for whose sake lilac and star and bird entwined, will last as long as the memory of lincoln. xii. old age. walt whitman is not only the poet of childhood, of youth, of manhood, but, above all, of old age. he has not been soured by slander or petrified by prejudice; neither calumny nor flattery has made him revengeful 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 manhood'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 you my mother dear you, father--you, brothers, sisters, friends.) for all my days--not those of peace alone the days of war the same, for gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands, for shelter, wine and meat--for sweet appreciation, (you distant, dim unknown--or young or old--countless, unspecified, readers belov'd, we never met, and ne'er shall meet--and yet our souls embrace, long, close and long.) for beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books--for colors, forms, for all the brave strong men--devoted, hardy men--who've forward sprung in freedom's help, all years, all lands, for braver, stronger, more devoted men (a special laurel ere i go, to life's war's chosen ones, 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 inevitable with a smile, and greets it as though it were desired. to be satisfied: this is wealth--success. the real philosopher knows that everything has happened that could have happened--consequently he accepts. 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 the states awhile, but i cannot tell whither or how long, perhaps soon some day or night while i am singing my voice will suddenly cease. o book, o chants! must all then amount to but this? must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?--and yet it is enough, o soul; o soul, we have positively appear'd--that is enough. yes, walt whitman has appeared. he has his place upon the stage. the drama is not ended. his voice is still heard. he is the poet of democracy--of all people. he is the poet of the body and soul. he has sounded the note of individuality. he has given the pass-word primeval. he is the poet of humanity--of intellectual hospitality. he has voiced the aspirations of america--and, above all, he is the poet of love and death. how grandly, how bravely he has given his thought, and how superb is his farewell--his leave-taking: after the supper and talk--after the day is done, as a friend from friends his final withdrawal prolonging, good-bye and good-bye with emotional lips repeating, (so hard for his hand to release those hands--no more will they meet, no more for communion of sorrow and joy, of old and young, a far-stretching journey awaits him, to return no more,) shunning, postponing severance seeking to ward off the last word ever so little, e'en at the exit-door turning--charges superfluous calling back--e'en as he descends the steps, something to eke out a minute additional--shadows of nightfall deepening, farewells, messages lessening--dimmer the forthgoer's visage and form, soon to be lost for aye in the darkness loth, o so loth to depart! and is this all? will the forthgoer be lost, and forever? is death the end? over the grave bends love sobbing, and by her side stands hope and whispers: we shall meet again. before all life is death, and after all death is life. the falling leaf, touched with the hectic flush, that testifies of autumn's death, is, in a subtler sense, a prophecy of spring. walt whitman has dreamed great dreams, told great truths and uttered sublime thoughts. he has held aloft the torch and bravely led the way. as you read the marvelous book, or the person, called "leaves of grass," you feel the freedom of the antique world; you hear the voices of the morning, of the first great singers--voices elemental as those of sea and storm. the horizon enlarges, the heavens grow ample, limitations are forgotten--the realization of the will, the accomplishment of the ideal, seem to be within your power. obstructions become petty and disappear. the chains and bars are broken, and the distinctions of caste are lost. the soul is in the open air, under the blue and stars--the flag of nature. creeds, theories and philosophies ask to be examined, contradicted, reconstructed. prejudices disappear, superstitions vanish and custom abdicates. the sacred places become highways, duties and desires clasp hands and become comrades and friends. authority drops the scepter, the priest the miter, and the purple falls from kings. the inanimate becomes articulate, 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 center, 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 the scarred and threatening cliffs. you stand in orchards where the blossoms fall like snow, where the birds nest and sing, and painted moths make aimless journeys through the happy air. you live the lives of those who till the earth, and walk amid the perfumed fields, hear the reapers' song, and feel the breadth and scope of earth and sky. you are in the great cities, in the midst of multitudes, of the endless processions. you are on the wide plains--the prairies--with hunter and trapper, with savage and pioneer, and you feel the soft grass yielding under your feet. you sail in many ships, and breathe the free air of the sea. you travel many roads, and countless paths. you visit palaces and prisons, hospitals and courts; you pity kings and convicts, and your sympathy goes out to all the suffering and insane, the oppressed and enslaved, and even to the infamous. you hear the din of labor, all sounds of factory, field, and forest, of all tools, instruments and machines. you become familiar with men and women of all employments, trades and professions--with birth and burial, with wedding feast and funeral chant. you see the cloud and flame of war, and you enjoy the ineffable perfect days of peace. in this one book, in these wondrous "leaves of grass," you find hints and suggestions, touches and fragments, of all there is of life, that lies between the babe, whose rounded cheeks dimple beneath his mother's laughing, loving eyes, and the old man, snow-crowned, who, with a smile, extends his hand to death. we have met to-night to honor ourselves by honoring the author of "leaves of grass." [illustration: chapter xii tailpiece] address at the funeral of walt whitman by robert o. ingersoll, at harleigh, camden, new jersey, march 30, 1892. again, we, in the mystery of life, are brought face to face with the mystery of death. a great man, a great american, the most eminent citizen of this republic, lies dead before us, and we have met to pay tribute to his greatness and his worth. i know he needs no words of mine. his fame is secure. he laid the foundations of it deep in the human heart and brain. he was, above all i have known, the poet of humanity, of sympathy. he was so great that he rose above the greatest that he met without arrogance, and so great that he stooped to the lowest without conscious condescension. he never claimed to be lower or greater than any of the sons of men. he came into our generation a free, untrammeled spirit, with sympathy for all. his arm was beneath the form of the sick. he sympathized with the imprisoned and despised, and even on the brow of crime he was great enough to place the kiss of human sympathy. one of the greatest lines in our literature is his, and the line is great enough to do honor to the greatest genius that has ever lived. he said, speaking of an outcast: "not until the sun excludes you will i exclude you." his charity was as wide as the sky, and wherever there was human suffering, human misfortune, the sympathy of whitman bent above it as the firmament bends above the earth. he was built on a broad and splendid plan--ample, without appearing to have limitations--passing easily for a brother of mountains and seas and constellations; caring nothing for the little maps and charts with which timid pilots hug the shore, but giving himself freely with the recklessness of genius to winds and waves and tides; caring for nothing so long as the stars were above him. he walked among men, among writers, among verbal varnishers and veneerers, among literary milliners and tailors, with the unconscious majesty of an antique god. he was the poet of that divine democracy which gives equal rights to all the sons and daughters of men. he uttered the great american voice; uttered a song worthy of the great republic. no man has ever said more for the rights of humanity, more in favor of real democracy, of real justice. he neither scorned nor cringed; was neither tyrant nor slave. he asked only to stand the equal of his fellows beneath the great flag of nature, the blue and stars. he was the poet of life. it was a joy simply to breathe. he loved the clouds; he enjoyed the breath of morning, the twilight, the wind, the winding streams. he loved to look at the sea when the waves burst into the whitecaps of joy. he loved the fields, the hills; he was acquainted with the trees, with birds, with all the beautiful objects of the earth. he not only saw these objects, but understood their meaning, and he used them that he might exhibit his heart to his fellow-men. he was the poet of love. he was not ashamed of that divine passion that has built every home; that divine passion that has painted every picture and given us every real work of art; that divine passion that has made the world worth living in and has given some value to human life. he was the poet of the natural, and taught men not to be ashamed of that which is natural. he was not only the poet of democracy, not only the poet of the great republic, but he was the poet of the human race. he was not confined to the limits of this country, but his sympathy went out over the seas to all the nations of the earth. he stretched out his hands and felt himself the equal of all kings and of all princes, and the brother of all men, no matter how high, no matter how low. he has uttered more supreme words than any writer of our century, possibly of almost any other. he was, above all things, a man, and above genius, above all the snow-capped peaks of intelligence, above all art, rises the true man. he was the poet of death. he accepted all life and all death, and he justified all. he had the courage to meet all, and was great enough and splendid enough to harmonize all and to accept all there is as a divine melody. you know better than i what his life has been, but let me say one thing: knowing as he did, what others can know and what they can not, he accepted and absorbed all theories, all creeds, all religions, and believed in none. his philosophy was a sky that embraced all clouds and accounted for all clouds. he had a philosophy and a religion of his own, broader, as he believed--and as i believe--than others. he accepted all, he understood all, and he was above all. he was absolutely true to himself. he had frankness and courage, and he was as candid as light. he was willing that all the sons of men should be absolutely acquainted with his heart and brain. he had nothing to conceal. frank, candid, pure, serene, noble, and yet for years he was maligned and slandered, simply because he had the candor of nature. he will be understood yet, and that for which he was condemned--his frankness, his candor--will add to the glory and greatness of his fame. he wrote a liturgy for mankind; he wrote a great and splendid psalm of life, and he gave to us the gospel of humanity--the greatest gospel that can be preached. he was not afraid to live; not afraid to die. for many years he and death lived near neighbors. he was always willing and ready to meet and greet this king called death, and for many months he sat in the deepening twilight waiting for the night; waiting for the light. he never lost his hope. when the mists filled the valleys, he looked upon the mountain tops, and when the mountains in darkness disappeared, fixed his gaze upon the stars. in his brain were the blessed memories of the day and in his heart were mingled the dawn and dusk of life. he was not afraid; he was cheerful every moment. the laughing nymphs of day did not desert him. they remained that they might clasp the hands and greet with smiles the veiled and silent sisters of the night. and when they did come, walt whitman stretched his hand to them. on one side were the nymphs of day, and on the other the silent sisters of the night, and so, hand in hand, between smiles and tears, he reached his journey's end. from the frontier of life, from the western wave-kissed shore, he sent us messages of content and hope, and these messages seem now like strains of music blown by the "mystic trumpeter" from death's pale realm. to-day we give back to mother nature, to her clasp and kiss, one of the bravest, sweetest souls that ever lived in human clay. charitable as the air and generous as nature, he was negligent of all except to do and say what he believed he should do and should say. and i to-day thank him, not only for you but for myself, for all the brave words he has uttered. i thank him for all the great and splendid words he has said in favor of liberty, in favor of man and woman, in favor of motherhood, in favor of fathers, in favor of children, and i thank him for the brave words that he has said of death. he has lived, he has died, and death is less terrible than it was before. thousands and millions will walk down into the "dark valley of the shadow" holding walt whitman by the hand. long after we are dead the brave words he has spoken will sound like trumpets to the dying. and so i lay this little wreath upon this great man's tomb. i loved him living, and i love him still. a new book about the bible. the best one of all....... the bible by john e. remsburg. large 12mo. 500 pages. cloth, $1.25 net. postpaid. eleven chapters on the authenticity of the bible--thirteen on the credibility of the bible--ten on the morality of the bible--with an appendix of unanswerable arguments against the divine origin and in favor of the human origin of the bible. twenty-six pages of index, enabling the reader to refer in an instant to any authority quoted or argument used. the titles of the chapters, in detail, are: sacred books of the world, the christian bible, formation of the canoa, different versions of the bible, authorship and dates, the pentateuch, the prophets, the hagiographa, the four gospels, acts, catholic epistles, and revelation; pauline epistles, textual errors, two cosmogonies of genesis, the patriarchal age, the jewish kings, inspired numbers, when did jehoshaphat die?, harmony of the gospels, paul and the apostles, the bible and history, the bible and science, prophecies, miracles, the bible god, the bible not a moral guide, lying, cheating, stealing, murder, war, human sacrifices, cannibalism, witchcraft, slavery, polygamy, adultery, obscenity, intemperance, vagrancy, ignorance, injustice to women, unkindness to children, cruelty to animals, tyranny, intolerance, conclusion, appendix. *** _the book makes some five hundred pages and is printed handsomely on heavy paper, with wide margins. price, $1.25 net_ address the truth seeker co., 28 lafayette place, new york, n. y. new testament stories comically illustrated nearly 400 pages a page of text to each picture about 200 pictures these pictures are the illustrations which appeared in the truth seeker and were highly commended for their wit and point. the text is in chief part by george e. macdonald, most favorably known to readers of the truth seeker. the cover is from an original design by ryan walker, one of the best cartoonists in the whole country. _cloth covers, design in white and tint, $1.50. board covers, illuminated, $1._ the book covers the new testament from matthew to revelation, and the principal incidents in the careers of the "son of man" and his "army" are illustrated in a humorous manner, accompanied with a page of text still more effective. mr. george e. macdonald possesses the delicate touch of mark twain and the quaint conceptions of bill nye, with a style all his own. a perusal of this book cannot fail to destroy the superstitious regard for the new testament now held by deceived christians. the absurdity of the events narrated in the gospels, acts, and epistles is made apparent; 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[illustration: yours sincerely, elizabeth porter gould.] stray pebbles from the shores of thought by elizabeth porter gould boston press of t. o. metcalf & co. 1892 copyright 1892 by elizabeth porter gould contents. poems of nature: page to walt whitman 11 to summer hours 12 a true vacation 13 a question 14 to a butterfly 16 in a hammock 18 o rare, sweet summer day 20 an old man's reverie 22 on jefferson hill 26 on sugar hill 28 at "fairfield's," wenham 29 blossom-time 31 the primrose 33 joy, all joy 35 among the pines 37 conscious or unconscious 39 poems of love: love's how and why 43 love's guerdon 44 a birthday greeting 45 three kisses 48 if i were only sure 50 absence 52 a love song 53 in her garden 55 love's wish 56 is there anything purer 58 longing 60 young love's message 61 a diary's secret 63 a monologue 65 a priceless gift 66 the ocean's moan 67 love's flower 70 renunciation 71 love discrowned 74 a widow's heart cry 76 together 78 shadowed circles 80 miscellaneous poems: a song of success 85 the under world 87 she knows 88 at pittsford, vermont 90 childhood's days 92 an answer 94 where, what, whence 96 heroes 98 a magdalen's easter cry 100 for the anniversary of mrs. browning's death 103 robert browning 105 to neptune, in behalf of s. c. g. 107 to the pansies growing on the grave of a. s. d. 109 a broken heart 111 my release 113 the god of music 115 to wilhelm gericke 118 for e. t. f. 1.--after the birth of her son 119 2.--upon the death of her son 121 to c. h. f. 123 an anniversary poem 126 a comfort 128 an anniversary 129 to miss elizabeth p. peabody 131 at life's setting 133 grandma waiting 136 does it pay 144 auxilium ab alto 145 limitations 147 the muse of history 148 an impromptu to g. h. t. 151 to mrs. partington 153 lines for the seventieth birthday anniversary of walt whitman 156 sonnets: the known god 161 to phillips brooks 163 at the "porter manse" 165 our lady of the manse 167 to b. p. shillaber 169 to our mary 171 a birthday remembrance 173 josef hofmann 175 after the denial 177 gethsemane 179 on lake memphremagog 181 luke 23: 24 183 to members of my home club 185 for my little nephews and nieces: mamma's lullaby 189 warren's song 190 baby mildred 192 rosamond and mildred 194 'chilla 196 childish fancies 197 what little bertram did 199 "dear little mac" 202 willard and florence on mt. wachusett 207 a little brazilian 210 the little doubter 213 our kitty's trick 217 a message 220 poems of nature. to walt whitman. "i loafe and invite my soul." and what do i feel? an influx of life from the great central power that generates beauty from seedling to flower. "i loafe and invite my soul." and what do i hear? original harmonies piercing the din of measureless tragedy, sorrow, and sin. "i loafe and invite my soul." and what do i see? the temple of god in the perfected man revealing the wisdom and end of earth's plan. _august, 1891._ to summer hours. day. trip lightly, joyous hours, while day her heart reveals. such wealth from secret bowers king time himself ne'er steals. o joy, king time ne'er steals! night. breathe gently, tireless hours, while night in beauty sleeps. hold back e'en softest showers,- enough that mortal weeps. ah me, that my heart weeps! a true vacation. in a hammock. "cradled thus and wind caressed," under the trees, (oh what ease.) nature full of joyous greeting; dancing, singing, naught secreting, ever glorious thoughts repeating- pause, o time, i'm satisfied! now all life is glorified! _porter manse, wenham, mass._ a question. is life a farce? tell me, o breeze, bearing the perfume of flowers and trees, while gaily decked birds pour forth their gladness in songs beyond words, and cloudlets coquette in the fresh summer air rejoicing in everything being so fair- is life a farce? how can it be, child, when nature at heart is but the great spirit of love and of art eternally saying, "i must god impart." is life a farce? tell me, o soul, struggling to act out humanity's whole 'midst error and wrong, and failure in sight of true victory's song; with wisdom and virtue at times lost to view, and love for the many lost in love for the few- is life a farce? how can it be, child, when humanity's heart is but the great spirit of love and of art eternally crying, "i must god impart." to a butterfly. o butterfly, now prancing through the air, so glad to share the freedom of new living, come, tell me my heart's seeking. shall i too know after earth's throe full freedom of my being? shall i, as you, through law as true, know life of fuller meaning? o happy creature, dancing, is time too short with pleasure fraught for you to heed my seeking? ah, well, you've left me thinking: if here on earth a second birth can so transform a being, why may not i in worlds on high be changed beyond earth's dreaming? in a hammock. the rustling leaves above me, the breezes sighing round me, a network glimpse of bluest sky to meet the upturned seeing eye, the greenest lawn beneath me, loved flowers and birds to greet me, a well-kept house of ancient days to tell of human nature's ways,- oh happy, happy hour! whence comes all this to bless me, the soft wind to caress me, the life which does my strength renew for purer visions of the true? alas! no one can tell me. but, hush! let nature lead me. let even wisest questions cease while i breathe in such life and peace this happy, happy hour. _porter manse, wenham, mass._ o rare, sweet summer day. "the day is placid in its going, to a lingering motion bound, like a river in its flowing- can there be a softer sound?" --_wordsworth._ o rare, sweet summer day, could'st thou not longer stay? the soothing, whispering wind's caress was bliss to weary brain, the songs of birds had power to bless as in fair childhood's reign. the tinted clouds were free from showers, the sky was wondrous clear, the precious incense of rare flowers made sweet the atmosphere; the shimmering haze of mid-day hour was balm to restlessness, while thought of silent hidden power was strength for helplessness- o rare, sweet summer day, could'st thou not longer stay? _porter manse._ an old man's reverie. blow breezes, fresh breezes, on love's swiftest wing, and bear her the message my heart dares to sing. pause not on the highways where gathers earth's dust, nor in the fair heavens, though cloudlets say must. but blow through the valleys where flowers await to give of their essence ere yielding to fate; or blow on the hill tops where atmospheres lie imbued with the health which no money can buy. but fail not, o breezes, on love's swiftest wing to bear her the message my heart dares to sing. the breezes, thus ladened, sped on in their flight, as, cradled in hammock, i sang in delight, on that blest summer day in the years long ago, when life was all sunshine and youth all aglow. the sweets of the valleys, the breath of the hills were gathered--the best that our loved earth distills- as, obedient still to my wish, on they flew to the home of my darling they now so well knew. * * * * * alas for the breezes, alas for my heart, alas for my message, so full of love's art! if only the breezes had followed their will, and loitered among the pure cloudlets so still, they'd have met a fair soul from the earth just set free in search of their help for its message to me; the message my darling, with last fleeting breath, in vain tried to utter, o'ertaken by death. the breezes, fresh breezes, have blown on since then, with messages laden again and again. as for me, i send none. i wait only their will to bring me that message my lone heart to fill. they'll find it some day in a light zephyr chase, for nothing is lost in pure love's boundless space. on jefferson hill. (before the presidential range.) the sovereign mountains bask in sunset rays, the valleys rest in peace; the lingering clouds melt into twilight haze, the birds their warbling cease; the villagers' hour of welcome sleep is near, the cattle wander home, while wrapped in summer-scented atmosphere, calm evening comes to roam with gentle pace through star-lit space, till moon-kissed night holds all in her embrace, and morning waits to show her dawn-flushed face. on sugar hill. to f. b. f. the lovely valleys nestling in the arms of glorious mountain peaks; the purple tint of sunset hour, and charms the evening hour bespeaks; the monarch peak kissed by the rising sun, while clouds keep guard below; grand, restful views, with foliage autumn-won, and northern lights rare glow,- will e'er recall, in memory's hall, the happy days when on fair "look-off's" height, sweet friendship cast her hues of golden light. _hotel look-off, september, 1891._ at fairfields[a], wenham. _june, 1890._ buttercups and daisies, clover red and white, ferns and crown-topped grasses waving with delight, dainty locust-blossoms, all that glad june yields, welcome me with gladness to dearly-loved "fairfields." but where's my happy collie dog, my rosa? the orioles sing greeting, the butterflies come near, the hens cease not their cackling, the horses neigh "i'm here," the cows nod "i have missed you," the pigs' eyes even shine, and from the red-house hearth-stone comes pet cat valentine. but where's my happy collie dog, my rosa? i miss her joyful greeting, her handsome, high-bred face, her vigorous, playful action in many a fair field chase. not even lively sancho can fill for me her place. o rosa, happy rosa, gone where the good dogs go, dost find such fields as "fairfields," more love than we could show? [a] "fairfields" is but another name for "porter manse." blossom-time. blossoms floating through the air, bearing perfumes rich and rare, free from trouble, toil, and care. would i were a blossom! robins singing in the trees, feeling every velvet breeze, free from knowledge that bereaves. would i were a robin! violets peaceful in the vale, telling each its happy tale, free from worldly noise and sale. would i were a violet! blessed day of needed wealth, full of nature's perfect health, fill me with thy power. then like blossoms i shall be, wafting only purity, or like robins, singing free 'midst the deepening mystery, or like violets, caring naught only to reflect god's thought." _porter manse._ the primrose. who tells you, sweet primrose, 'tis time to wake up after dreaming all day? who changes so quickly your sombre green dress to the yellow one gay, and makes you the pet of the twilight's caress, and of poet's sweet lay? who does, primrose, pray? the primrose, secure on his emerald throne, looked up quickly to say, "a dear lovely fairy glides down from his throne in the sun's golden ray, and with a sweet kiss opens wide all our eyes, saying, 'now is your day.' and lo! when he's gone we are filled with surprise at our wondrous array, so fresh and so gay. do tell us the name of this fairy, i pray, who gives of his beauty, and then hies away without thanks, without pay. does he linger your way?" joy, all joy. lying on the new-mown hay, in a sightly field, on a summer day, with no care to weigh, or a bitter thought to stay all that sense might yield- what a joy to have alway! sky as blue as blue can be, perfect green all round, birdlings on the wing ere they pause to sing on the top of bush or tree, or on sweet hay-mound- restful joy in everything! butterflies just come to light, proud of freedom's hour, cows in pastures near, wondering why i'm here, chipmunks now and then in sight, bees in clover-flower- added joy when these appear! happy children far and near climbing loads of hay, running here and there. farmer's work to share, skipping, shouting loud and clear, full of daring play- children's joy! joy everywhere! among the pines. far up in air the pines are murmuring love songs sweet and low, with a rhythmic flow, worthy of the glad sun's glow. the airy clouds are o'er them bending, captured by the sound of such pleasure found in a playful daily round. the birds pause in their flight to listen, wondering all the while how the trees can smile rooted so to earthly guile. the hush of summer noon enwraps them perfumed from below by the flowers that show they, too, murmuring love songs know. all nature finds a joy in loving- oh, that i could hear love songs once so dear death has hushed forever here! _intervale woods, north conway._ conscious or unconscious? the earthquake's shock, the thunder's roar, the lightning's vivid chain, the ocean's strength, the deluge's pour, the wildest hurricane, are moods that nature loves to show to man who boasts his birth from conscious force she could not know because denied soul-worth. but is it true she does not share a knowledge in god's plan? must not she his own secret bear to so touch soul of man? those who deny this see not clear into the heart of things; for how could otherwise god here reveal his wanderings? poems of love. love's how and why. how do i love thee? oh, who knows how the blush of the rose can its secret disclose? oh, who knows? why do i love thee? ah, who cares sound a passion he shares with the angels? who dares, yes, who dares? love's guerdon. thine eyes are stars to hold me to love's pure rapturous height. thy thoughts are pearls to lead me to truth beyond earth's sight. thy love is life to keep me forever in god's light. a birthday greeting. thy birthday, dear? oh, would i had the poet's art by which i could my wish impart for thy new year; but e'en a poet's pen of gold would fail my wish to thee unfold in earthly sphere. thy birthday, dear? oh, would i had the painter's skill prophetic visions to fulfill for thy new year; but e'en a painter's rarest brush would but my holy visions crush, or fail to cheer. thy birthday, dear? oh, would i had sweet music's aid to vitalize the prayers i've made for thy new year; alas! not even music's best could put in form my soul's behest for thee, my dear. that only will expression find in purest depths of thine own mind this coming year; as, guided by the inner light, there'll come to thee the new-born sight of ravished seer. but in this sight thou may'st so feel eternal beauty o'er thee steal- god's gift, my dear- that thou can'st find the blessed art by which to make e'en depths of heart in form appear. yet, it may be a heaven's birthday will have to dawn for us to say our best things, dear. for, as thou know'st, truth's deepest well must e'er reflect, its depths to tell heaven's atmosphere. three kisses. the kiss still burns upon my brow, that kiss of long ago, when in the flush of love's first hour he said he loved me so. another burns yet deeper still, the kiss of wedded bliss, when soul met soul in rapture sweet- oh, pure love's burning kiss! the third was laid away with him, a kiss for heaven's day, (o heart abide god's way)- when in the life beyond earth's change, beyond these mysteries sad and strange, new life will spring from out the old, new thoughts will larger truth unfold, and love have endless sway. if i were only sure. if i were only sure he loves me still, as in the realms of beauteous space (alas! so far from my embrace) he bides god's will, i could be more content to bear the bitter anguish and despair which now me fill. if i were only sure he waits for me to join him in the heavenly realm (oh, how the thought does overwhelm) when body-free, i could the better bear my fate, as day by day i learn to wait in silent agony. o father, in my doubt one thing is sure, that thou, all love, could ne'er destroy (death only is in earth's alloy) such love so pure as that which blessed our union here, the love which knew no change nor fear- such must endure. absence. the days are happy here, dear, but happier would they be could'st thou be near to bless me with love's sweet ministry; then all this beauty round me would on my memory lie, as prayers of sainted mother, or childhood's lullaby. _hotel look-off, sugar hill, n.h._ a love song. oh! ecstasy rare comes down to share the heart that with human love trembles; while all on the earth is crowned with new birth and everything heaven resembles. but grief and despair have latent their share in hearts that with human love tremble, since fires of love enkindled above in frail earthen vessels assemble. still, ecstasy rare comes down to share the heart that with human love trembles; while all on the earth is crowned with new birth and everything heaven resembles. in her garden. she picks me june roses. were ever such roses? their fragrance would honor the heavenly halls. she finds me pet pansies. such wondrous-eyed pansies, and lovely nasturtiums that run on the walls. sweet peas she's now bringing, while all the time singing. and i? ask the flowers to tell what befalls. love's wish. would i were beautiful! then you at beauty's shrine might freely dine, a welcome guest for joy's bequest. but, dear, if this were so,- if i were beauty's child, all undefiled, to make you blest in beauty's quest, you might forget to see the soul's pure hidden shrine wherein e'er shine the things that test love's true behest. would i were beautiful, that you might better see the soul in me! that wish is best, is 't not, dearest? is there anything purer? oh, the prayer of a dear virgin-heart, breathed forth with true love's gentle art! is there anything purer on land or on sea, more laden with blessing for you or for me? it is sweeter than song ever heard, more precious than love's spoken word. it is fraught with a keen recognition of truest soul-need and fruition. is there anything purer on land or on sea, more laden with comfort for you or for me? it is oftentimes born in great pain, with no ray of hope's blessed gain. but as lulled by the angels at midnight ere reaching the infinite daylight is there anything surer, on land or on sea, to bring the god-father to you or to me? longing. through all this summer joy and rest, though lying on fair nature's breast, there breathes the longing heart's desire, would he were here! the thrill of pain kind nature feels; for all the while there o'er me steals like holy chimes in midnight air, "he'll soon be here." and flowers and trees, vales, hills, and birds make haste to echo her glad words, "he'll soon be here." young love's message. sing too, little bird, what my heart sings to-day. dost thou know?- i'll speak low- "oh, i do love him so." hold safe, waving grass, in thy rhythmical flow, what i say, till the day when as sweet new-mown hay thou can'st bear it to him in the fragrance loved best. thou dost fear?- oh, love dear, how i wish thou wert here! but pause, little cloud, thou canst carry it now, i am sure, sweet and pure, though the winds do allure; for thou art on the way to the west where he is. but dost know?- tell him low, "that i do love him so, oh! i do love him so." a diary's secret. _january 1, 1867._ god's love was once enough my heart to satisfy, when in the days of childhood's faith i knew not doubt or sigh. but since i saw roy's face, and knew his love's sweet cheer, and felt the anguish and despair which come from partings here, so hungry have i grown no love can satisfy, and all my childhood's faith in god doth mock me as a lie. but still in these dark hours i hold one anchor fast: perhaps this is the _woman's_ way to reach god's love at last. _january 1, 1887._ the deepening years have proved love's conquest justified. the woman's hungry heart at last in god is satisfied. a monologue. has love come? ah, too late! already death stands o'er me with hungry eyes that bore me- o cruel fate, that after all life's years of sacrifice and tears, 'tis death, not love, that wins. but, stay! this message bear, ere yet death's work begins: "in other realms earth's losses will change from saddening crosses to love-crowned joy, where death shall have no mission, but love his sweet fruition without alloy." a priceless gift. 'twas much he asked--a virgin heart unknown to worldly ways. what could he give? ah, well he knew he lacked sweet virtue's praise. the virgin heart was given to him without a doubting thought, when, lo! through seeming sacrifice a miracle was wrought; a miracle of love and grace, revealing woman's power; for, clothed in purity, he rose to meet the coming hour. the ocean's moan. last night the ocean's moan was to my ears the deep sad undertone of vanished years, bearing a burden, a bliss unattained, a strife and a longing, a life sad and pained, to the shores vast and free of eternity's sea. but in that undertone of restless pain, came at length a monotone of sweet refrain, bearing a passion long known to the sea- told in moments of silence a sad heart to free- to be borne me some day in the ocean's own way. and this rare monotone of mystery was now that passion-moan of secrecy, bearing, "i love her, my moaning ne'er'll cease till she on my breast findeth love's perfect peace; till she on my breast findeth love's perfect rest." oh, is there tenderer tone for mortal ear, than such a monotone, distinct and clear, bearing its comfort, its heavenly peace, its help for all sorrow, its heart-pain release, to a soul waiting long for love's tender, true song? and now the ocean's moan is to my ears the dearest undertone of all the years, bearing a memory, a sweet bliss attained, a gratified longing, a life's joys regained, to the shores vast and free of eternity's sea. _boar's head, hampton, n.h._ love's flower. love's sweet and tender flower of pure, perennial life, blooms ever fresh in power o'er all earth's wrong and strife. pluck not in haste, young man, this flower of wondrous hue, nor dare to crush, nor fail to scan. such beauty ever new. gaze at it long, young girl, and guard its sacred blush; then shall its treasures old unfurl your yearning soul to hush. love discrowned. (_in four scenes._) scene i. "when he comes, my darling, i shall tell him all: all the secret ecstasy, all the peace and joy, all my heart's sweet fantasy, free from self's alloy,- all- o blessed power of love's sweet hour, when i shall tell him all, shall tell him all!" scene ii. "hark, hark! he's come. i hear his step. o joy, love's hour is here. i knew that he was true and pure, i could not feel love's fear. oh, no; i could not, dear." scene iii. she gave one look, one piercing look, drew back her anguished soul, then murmured low, "o bitter hour! but--god--forgive--the--whole- forgive- o bitter power of love's death-hour, i thought to tell him all, to tell him all." scene iv. he gazed upon her lifeless face, he held her lifeless hand. was this the form he once had loved? he did not understand. once loved? yes, that was so. he'd loved since, one or two, and--well, what was a woman for, if not for man to woo? moral. alas, for broken hearts and lives of those who can but trust! alas, for those who see no law but that of selfish must! renunciation. "oh, is not love eternal when once the heart be won? oh, is not love infernal when love can be undone?" so sighed a gentle maiden in light of memory dear, as, sad and heavy-laden, she longed for knowledge clear. but soon the bitter heart-ache gave way to victory's cheer; for, brave, she chose for his sake the life which knows no peer; the life of abnegation which gives the christ's own peace, but leaves the sad temptation to ask for life's release. a widow's heart-cry. "thy will, not mine, be done!" so breathe i when the day's begun, so breathe i when the day is done. i whisper it in blinding tears, i pause and listen, till appears the welcome voice for listening ears; the voice which checks my wayward will and makes my longing heart to thrill with love for those who need me still. but, o, how long must i so pray? when will i learn to calmly say, "thy will is mine," both night and day? ah! this can never be on earth, since he who gladly gave me birth to everything that was of worth has gone from out my sense and sight, to what? o ye who still invite to heaven's sure realm and faith's own right, reveal some clue for me to see what life is his, what he's to me. alas! ye can't. then what can be more precious when the day is done, or when the morning is begun, than, "not my will, but thine, be done." together. transformed, redeemed from all that dwarfs or blights, in perfect harmony with beauteous sights beyond imagination's highest flights ere reached by seer, we shall together walk the golden streets sometime, my dear. but how, you ask, shall we each other know, so changed from what we were while here below, when, caged like birds, we longed and suffered so? ah, do not fear. will not the soul, when free, seek like the bird its own, my dear? it may not be at once or soon, 'tis true. for you may be among the blessed few who'll sooner reach the blissful heights--your due for pure life here- but sometime, sure as god is love and truth, we'll meet, my dear. some precious, long-forgotten look or word breathed through the softest, sweetest music heard, or some vibration rare of soul depths stirred by memory's tear, will, like a flash of light, reveal our souls together, dear, to live the fuller life we've dreamed of here. shadowed circles. why weepest thou, o dear one? do sorrows press? beneath the weight of sorrow is love's caress. why joyest thou, o dear one? is love thine own? ah! 'neath love's deep rejoicing is sorrow's moan. indeed, all earth's great passions- is it not so?- are circled in the shadow of joy or woe. but why should we bemoan this? could otherwise truth's dazzling light be subject to mortal eyes? could otherwise we enter the endless light, beyond the shadowed circle of mortal sight? miscellaneous poems. a song of success. youth. i am dancing along. just to live is a joy, i'm so happy and free. i know not nor care what will tame or destroy, life now satisfies me. oh, there's naught like dear youth to reveal the glad truth that 'tis pure, healthful joy just to know and to be! middle age. i am marching along, full of work and of plan to alleviate wrong. with a heart full of love both to god and to man, and an arm free and strong. oh, there's naught like mid-life to make sure without strife the beauty of progress through action and song. old age. i am living along, sitting down by the way. my work is all done. i have fought the good fight, known the full of each day, and true victory won. oh, there's naught like old age to declare with the sage, life ending on earth is but heaven begun. the under-world. under the restless surface of ocean's vast domain, the god of perfect quiet holds ever peaceful reign. under the restless surface of passions strong and wild, the still small voice of conscience is heard in accents mild. under the restless surface of all man's life on earth, the christ of sacred story renews each day his birth. she knows. (_written at mountain cottage, on mount wachusett, where louisa m. alcott spent the last summer of her life._) last summer she believed that in and through these beauteous scenes god's loving self did flow, but now she knows 'tis so. for, having crossed the boundary lines of honest doubt and fear, she sees with spirit-eye what sense could not descry. her firm belief, thus blossomed into perfect flower of sight, becomes a restful cheer to all who linger here, still asking for the secret of these changing, beauteous scenes, and troubled with the why of all earth's sorrowing cry. her presence here has filled the place with memory of a soul made beautiful through pain eternity to gain. _august, 1888._ at pittsford, vermont. to j. a. c. as winds the lovely otter creek through vales of summer green, ne'er pausing on its way, though love its tribute pay, so gently winds my loving thought through memory's changing scenes, to days of long ago when thee i first did know. thy heartfelt sympathy and help were to my fresh young soul what these dear vermont hills are to the little rills; a presence near, a faithful strength, life-giving and serene- oh, hills, be now as much to her who feels time's touch! in different paths, through various ways, we've known the world since then. together now we rest on nature's peaceful breast. childhood's days. to m. c. if knowledge gained in later years may wholly cloud from sight the glimpse which childhood's eye hath caught of heaven's celestial light, then need we not the atmosphere of second childhood's days to catch another broader glimpse of heaven's immortal rays? ah, yes; we even need to seek, through earth's illusive hour, immortal childhood's heavenly days of sweet, revealing power; for how can otherwise we catch the deeper glimpses yet of life eternal, glorious, pure, where sun hath never set? an answer. to b. p. s. "why don't i write a story?" ah, friend, if you could see the depths of hidden heart-life alas! so known to me, you'd find the truest story flashed out in gleams of light, before which all pens falter and vanish out of sight. and as they vanish from me they leave the impress clear, that only heaven's pen could write such stories acted here. so in his book of life, revealed to all some day, you'll find my story grand and true, worked out in his own way. where? what? whence? the kingdom of heaven is where? oh, where? would that the heart which with pity o'erflows, while deigning love's burdens to share, could disclose! the kingdom of heaven is what? oh, what? would that the infinite presence which flows through a life on the earth finely cut might disclose! the kingdom of heaven is whence? oh, whence? ah! let the wind and the breath of the rose their secrets of life and of sense dare disclose! could we then see the better whence spirit arose? who knows? oh, who knows? heroes. the heroes on the battlefield are calm in death, their fighting o'er; they feel no more the fevered breath of battle's war; they hear at last the voice that saith "fight on no more." but oh, the heroes on the grander field of peace, who know no rest! whose hearts ne'er feel the full release from mortal quest, nor breathe the air where struggles cease the soul to test. for such we mourn, o purifying soul of life, for such we pray. let nature free them from the strife of falsehood's way, and love through every struggle rife have free, full play. a magdalen's easter cry. in the different mansions of heavenly space prepared for the faithful and pure, (ah me, for the faithful and pure!) can i dare hope to find e'en a small resting place free from sin and all earthly allure? can a soul such as mine, that has wasted life's wealth on the baubles and gewgaws of time, (ah me, on the baubles of time!) have a fitting strength left to regain needed health for the life of a heavenly clime? for a life where the laws of the spirit, not sense, bring their perfect eternal reward, (ah me, their eternal reward!) and the pleasures obtained with such fever intense can find nowhere a vibrating chord? oh, woe is me, woe is me, this easter day! no hope riseth up in my soul. (ah me, my poor sin-laden soul!) i have only the dregs of my pleasure to pay, and such wrong, bitter thoughts of life's whole. but, listen! what's that? what's that message i hear bearing down on my sad troubled heart? (ah me, on my sad troubled heart!) "christ is risen indeed. he is risen to cheer, and his strength to the weakest impart." o christ, can it be that thine own risen strength can give life, added life, to my soul, to my sin-laden, weak, starving soul? yes, 'tis true. i'll believe, and rejoice now at length to feel easter's sweet joy o'er me roll. for the anniversary of mrs. browning's death. _june 29, 1861._ "'tis beautiful," she faintly cried, then closed her weary eyes and died. so stands plain fact on history's page, attested to by friend and sage. but in our hearts the fact grows bright, illumined with immortal light. for open eyes saw heaven's shores, and life, not death, revealed its stores. "'tis beautiful!" it must be so, if such a soul 'midst parting's woe, could with truth's perfect clearness see the secret of life's mystery; could _know_ that fullest life of man needs heaven's light to round god's plan. o woman-soul without a peer, we thank thee more and more each year for this sweet proof of beauty's power beyond earth's transitory hour. it calms our hours of doubt and pain, and beautifies earth's troubled reign, to feel that thou art sending still this same sweet message of god's will, born of fruition's grander sight, of perfect beauty, peace, and light. robert browning. "a peace out of pain, then a light, then thy breast. o thou soul of my soul, i shall clasp thee again, and with god be the rest!" --_prospice._ _fulfilled december 12, 1889._ oh, the blessed fruition of peace out of pain! of a light without darkness, a clasping again! of a full soul reunion in love's endless reign! sing, o earth, with new joy at this victory won! for the faith that endured till the setting of sun! for the hope that shone clear through the mighty work done! for the love that sought god to guide love here begun! sing, o earth, with new joy for such victory won! to neptune, in behalf of s. c. g. o neptune, in thy vast survey of all the ships that sail, watch lovingly the well-known way of one we wait to hail. the cephalonia is her name- but why need i tell more? thou knowest indeed the well earned fame she bears from shore to shore. but since among her company's band is one who's life to me, o neptune, bear her in thy hand e'en yet more tenderly, o'er gentle waves, 'neath fair blue sky, 'midst winds that only blow to make the time more swiftly fly for hearts that hunger so. _boston, september 4, 1886._ to the pansies growing on the grave of a. s. d. beautiful pansies, ye must know your sacred mission here, for how could otherwise ye grow so sweet and full of cheer? your watchful love we can't o'errate, as, lingering here in tears, fond memory brings the precious weight of friendship's golden years. ye are the symbols, pure and sweet, of heartsease and of life, through which our thought may dare retreat from pain and death so rife, to realms of light and peace above, from earth's alloy set free, wherein abide immortal love and deathless ministry. but still, while we your comfort seek, our hearts will wildly yearn to hear once more the loved one speak, once more the form discern. _at woodlawn cemetery, may, 1886._ a broken heart. i. must i always look for sorrow on the morrow? must i never have the hope that a life of larger scope will before my vision ope? ii. ah, 'tis true there is but sorrow on the morrow for the broken hearts that wait, bearing secretly their fate. yet the opening of the gate to the blessed heaven's morrow, when the aching, longing heart shall be free from pain and sorrow, comes before my tired eyes with a wondrous sweet surprise. iii. but this joy is not for me, not for me. alas! for my poor broken heart, with its poisoned arrow's dart. without hope, alone, apart. my release. i hear in the ocean's restless moan my soul's lament. will it ever cease? i feel in the rumbling earthquake's groan deep anguish spent. shall i now know peace? i see in the smallest heaven's loan enough for content- but is that release? o no! my release is but found in the pure undertone, coming nearer and dearer to me, of a great human love beyond nature at best, eternal, inspiring, and free. oh, that's my release. happy me, happy me! the god of music. to e. t. g. out from the depths of silence the god of music came, to echo heavenly cadence on earth's fair shores of fame. full-orbed, with heavenly glory, he met the lords of earth. but 'twas the old, old story, they blind were to his worth. so back to depths of silence he flew on wings of light, "to bide their time of nonsense," he sang when out of sight. and as rolled on the ages, he ever and anon sent down to earth his pages the lords to breathe upon. at length he felt vibrations, from germany's fair clime, of sweetest modulations e'er heard in realms of time. so forth he flew in rapture to that dear father-land, to seize--ere earth could capture- a spirit pure and grand, to which he could surrender himself with perfect ease, and weave the music tender, of heaven's own harmonies. he found the child beethoven; on him his blessing fell. and in his soul was woven the sounds we know so well. to wilhelm gericke. (_on the completion of his conductorship of the boston symphony orchestra._) _1884-1889._ great poets can without the aid of kindred mind reveal to us the secrets laid on them to find; but music-kings need ministries to sound their hidden harmonies. for showing us the inmost heart of these great kings, and making clear with wondrous art their wanderings, we thank thee, while we tender here a "bon voyage" to home's loved sphere. for e. t. f. i. after the birth of her son, r. a. f. _may 28, 1887._ i'd rather hear my baby's coo, that little gurgling coo, than rarest song or symphony born out of music's mystery which once did woo. i'd rather see my baby's face, that lovely dimpled face, than all the choicest works of art, inspired by loving hand or heart, contained in space. i'd rather feel my baby's eyes, such deep blue heavenly eyes, than all the world's delighted gaze, proclaiming with continued praise my power to rise. o yes, 'tis true, my baby dear, my precious baby dear, is more than music, art, or fame, or anything that bears the name of pleasure here. for in this joy i find a rest, a soul-inspiring rest, beyond the wealth of fame or art, to satisfy my woman-heart, or make it blest. and as i live in this my gift, my heaven-sent, blessed gift, thoughts such as mary pondered o'er deep in her heart in days of yore come to uplift, and make the claims of motherhood, dear sacred motherhood, become creation's mountain height, whereon e'er shines the beacon-light of womanhood. _chelsea, mass._ ii. after the death of r. a. f. _february 5, 1888._ would i could see my baby's face, that lovely dimpled face,- o god, how can i bear the pain of never seeing it again, my baby's face; of never seeing in those eyes, those deep blue heavenly eyes, the wondrous glimpses of soul-light which filled my heart with strange delight and sweet surprise; of never hearing baby's coo, that little gurgling coo- o god, how can i bear the pain of never hearing it again, my baby's coo. alas! "thy will, not mine, be done." not mine, but thine, be done. i can but breathe again this prayer, as in the days of past despair, when peace was won. to c. h. f. (_upon receiving a twig of green from the grave of helen hunt jackson, october, 1888._) with reverent touch and grateful heart, dear thoughtful friend, i hold this precious bit of green you kindly send from cheyenne's holy, lonely grave, where pilgrims tend. it touches springs of tenderest life inspired by her, who, child of poetry and ease, did not demur from sacrificing all to be wrong's arbiter. that rare mosaic it suggests made by the hand of those who seek this favored spot in chosen land, where, oft in life, she penned her soul at truth's command. 'tis true, she wished no monument to mark the place; but must she not be satisfied to see the space thus blessed and open to the heart of every race? o brain of power and heart of fire, america's pride, no wonder that the mountain height, above sin's tide, was chosen as the resting place with death to hide; for such could give the needed rest on earth denied, could satisfy the poet's thought, unsatisfied, and symbolize the soul's true rest when glorified. an anniversary poem. and is time marked in heaven? dost know, o spirit friend, 'tis just a year ago to-day thou went so suddenly away, and left me in my loneliness the weary days to spend?- ah, weary days, denied thy praise and all thy many helpful ways! and is earth known in heaven? dost see, o clear-eyed soul, the present changing life of man still working out the wondrous plan of making even broken lives add to the complete whole?- ah, broken lives that death deprives of help like thine that heavenward strives! and are we known in heaven? do i, thy once fond care, still have that patient yearning love which longed to lift my soul above the sweet though transitory joys of even earth's best fare?- ah, earth's best fare cannot compare with thy ideal of me laid bare! a comfort. to s. r. h. i have sowed in tears,- shall i reap in joy? shall my human heart be satisfied, and sorrow and pain be justified? shall full fruition free my soul from limitation's sad control, and all my faculties of mind their perfect rest and freedom find? "they that sow in tears shall reap in joy," sang a poet-heart in the long ago, 'midst depths of sorrow, pain, and woe; and what to him was truth and life has shone through all the ages' strife, to be at last our beacon-light of comfort in the darkest night. an anniversary. the autumn tints of these loved hills outlined against the sky, are dearer far to me this year than in the years gone by; for they are colors nature wears to celebrate the time when her pet child changed life on earth for that of heavenly clime. she thus rejoices, while our hearts wear not their flowers of joy. alas! could she but give us back our gifted artist boy! but then she sees that it was best that he, like her, should know death, and the resurrection too, the fullest life to show. a thank-offering. to miss elizabeth p. peabody. thou priestess of pure childhood's heart, wherein god's spirit lies, thou willing priestess of the art of true self-sacrifice, ere thy rare spirit takes its flight to realms beyond our praise, where childhood's pure eternal light shines through the blessed days, we thank thee for thy legacy of thought wrought out in deed, by which love's sweet supremacy becomes man's potent need. * * * * * our nation must thy secret share, ere it can fully rise to heights of truth and insight where true wisdom's glory lies. at life's setting. put your arms around me. there--like that. i want a little petting at life's setting. for 'tis harder to be brave when feeble age comes creeping, and finds me weeping (dear ones gone), or brings before my tired eyes sweet visions of my youth's fair prize (there is a pain in sacrifice), denied me then and ever. left me alone? no, never. for in god's love i nestled, while with deep thought i wrestled, till all my busy life at length was spent in giving others strength, in making others' homes more bright, in making others' burdens light. but now, alone and weary, i am hungry for a human love's sweet petting at life's setting. keep your arms around me, kiss my fevered brow, whisper that you love me i can bear it now. oh, how this does rest me now my work is done! i've all my life loved others, now i want love, dear one. just a little petting at life's setting; for i'm old, alone, and tired, and my long life's work is done. grandma waiting. a true experience. "still waiting, dear good grandma, for the blessed angel death?" "yes waiting, only waiting to be borne across the sea, to the home my soul's been building all these years of mystery, through ninety years and over now of deep and wondrous change, wherein i've known the heights and depths of human feeling's range, and tried to solve the problems old of human life so strange. * * * * * you want to know my history, because i am so good? ah, child, no human life can here be fully understood. you call me good, and what is more, a 'true and blessed saint.' (there is illusion sweet indeed in what you child-souls paint before you know too much of life and feel its evil taint.) you even picture beauties of my home across the sea which i never dared to hope for e'en on heights of ecstasy. you see me sitting helpless here, blind now for many years, apparently so full of peace, so free from doubts and fears,- though never free from memory's thought which often brings the tears,- and you wonder where's the passion and the energy of youth, the power that even dared to sway to evil ways forsooth. ah, you but see the blessed fruit of what god planted sure, when in my years of sorrow he was whispering, 'endure.' you cannot see the dreadful scars which naught on earth can cure. you cannot see the passion wild, when, 'neath the coffin lid, among the flowers, my children three, my precious all, were hid. nor can you see my conflict sore, when i went almost mad before the dying form of him who had loved me from a lad, a loving husband, kind and true, as ever woman had. but still, before my dear one died, more children came to me: two lovely boys, who seemed at last a recompense to be. for sometimes it does seem as if god sends a special gift, to be a special help and strength, the selfish clouds to lift, or--what, perhaps, we need as much--the wheat from chaff to sift. through all my lonely, widowed life i lived in their sweet ways, and found no sacrifice too great in work for future days. at length they were my crowning joy. i'd come again to know the blessings of a married life--the happiest here below- when, lo! death seized the oldest one, my boy that i loved so. this opened fresh the old deep wounds; but still i had much left, for then i was not, as before, of every child bereft. so on i went in daily life, determined to be true to blessings that were left to me. that does one's life renew,- remember this, my dear one, when your grandma's gone from you. the years went on. i felt i'd had my share of sorrow's pain, so i banished every lingering thought that death could come again. but when we are the surest, child, 'tis then he seems to be more vigilant than ever to proclaim his mystery, as if he envied us an hour of joy's sweet company. my husband first was stricken down; then came the added blow: two grown up sons, all settled with as fine a business show as ever comes to mortals, were cut down in prime of life, having just begun to free me from the circumstances rife, which boded of the bitterness of poverty's dread strife. my soul was then so mystified, so dazed before god's will, that i could only find my voice in his calm words, 'be still.' oh, could i not been spared this stroke, known one less bitter pain, and been as good for duties here, as fit for heaven's reign? was this the way, the only way, eternal life to gain? it cannot be much longer. i shall soon have crossed the sea, to the home my soul's been building all these years of mystery. i've had my share of sorrow, but i've done the best i could. god knows i've tried through all to grow more patient, wise, and good; to get at least this out of life, as every mortal should. but, though i've had his comfort, and still hear his sweet 'endure,' i feel the bitter heartache which no time or sense can cure. my friends have all been laid away, my work long since was o'er, and now i'm only waiting for death's landing on the shore. i hope 'twill be at sunset when he knocks at my soul's door; for, somehow, it much easier seems to go the unknown way attended by the beauty of the sun's last glorious ray. but as i calmly wait and think, it does seem rather queer that what you 'blessed angel' call has seemed my chief curse here. alas! how much we suffer before god's ways appear." does it pay? does it pay--all this burden and worry, all the learning acquired with pain, all the planning and nervous wild action, the restlessness following gain, does it pay? to be free from this burden and worry, to have knowledge without fear and pain, to be peaceful, far-seeing, sweet tempered, and calm in the presence of gain, we must know the pure secret of nature, like her be obedient to law, and work in the light of the promise of blessed results christ foresaw. then each day, and alway, life will pay. auxilium ab alto. the poet young e'er finds a tongue to tell the joys of love. the poet bold e'en dares behold the mystery above. the poet brave e'er loves to rave of wars and victories gained. the poet sweet e'en dares repeat the angels' songs unfeigned. and to each one we say, "well done, go on and do thy best." though still we feel each doth but seal a part of life's bequest. but yet we cry, "o goddess high, must thou thy wealth so share? america feign would have the reign of _one_ thy gift to bear. she needs such one to help her shun the dangerous shoals of thought, which in this age of clown and sage her progress gained hath wrought. she needs such one to help her shun the deeper shoals of wrong, which in these days of doubt's fond lays tempt e'en her favored strong. oh, send such one to say, 'well done,' and tell in truth god's plan, while he declares as well as shares the fullest life of man." limitations. "would that my acts could equal the noble acts i've told. would that i could but master myself as visions bold!" so cried a famous artist, in agony of soul, as waves of great temptation before him high did roll. "oh, would that i could body the thoughts that govern me. oh, would that i could picture the visions i foresee!" so cried a saintly woman, in ecstasy of pain, as waves of sad depression rolled on her soul to gain. the muse of history. clio, with her flickering light and book of valued lore, comes down the ages, dark and bright, our interest to implore. she walks with glad majestic mien, proud of her knowledge gained; though mourning oft at having seen man's life so dulled and pained. her face with lines of care is wrought, from searching mystery's cause, and dealing with the hidden thought of nature's subtle laws. yet still she blushes with new life at sight of actions fine, and pales with anguish at the strife of evil's dread design. she stops to sing her grandest lays when, in creation's heat, she sees evolved a higher phase of life's fruition sweet. 'twas thus in days of genesis, when man came forth supreme. 'twas thus in days of nemesis, when love did dare redeem. and thus 'twill be in future days, when out from spirit laws, shall be brought forth for lasting praise the ever great first cause. oh, gladly know this wondrous muse who walks the aisles of time, and not so thoughtlessly refuse her book of lore sublime; for in it is the precious force of spirit-life divine, which even through a winding course leads in to wisdom's shrine. an impromptu. (_written for g. h. t., on the death of w. s. t., march, 1889._) as brothers here we've shared the smiles, the tears of boyhood's hour, and felt the sweet companionship of manhood's love and power. but now the tie is snapped. he's fled beyond the mortal sight. the grave with all its mystery asserts death's power to blight. alas! death seems the cruel thing in this bright world of ours. the bravest soul shrinks from its hold though loving faith empowers. but, hark! is 't not his voice i hear, with comfort as of yore? "dear brother, death is but more life, the grave is heaven's door." to mrs. partington. _july 12, 1886._ another birthday here? it hardly seems a year since i these words did hear,- when three score years and one did crown thee,- "not till i am an octagon, or, worse still, a centurion, shall i be old, with factories gone all idiomatic and forlorn." but thou art still a "membrane" dear of what we call society's cheer; "ordained beforehand, in advance." ('twas "foreordained," that does enhance,) to hurl not "epitaphs" which sting, but a new "erie's" dawn to bring, of "fluid" thoughts which counteract the "bigamies" of fate and fact. alas! thy crutch of many years still hints "romantic" pains and fears; a "widow cruise's oil jug" say, to keep "plumbago" still at bay! its helpful mission has a share in "lines of pleasant places" rare. and, by the way, not crutch alone finds in that book its value shown. there in the depths of friendship's mines are seen thy tenderest, purest lines; impromptus born at love's command to deck occasion's wise demand. one finds no "sarah's desert" there, no "reprehensible" despair; but teeming thoughts on mounds and press poured out in pure unselfishness. this brings to mind thy _knitting-work_, wherein that "plaguey ike" does lurk, and other books with humor rife, done in the priming of thy life. "contusion of ideas." o no; what "angular saxon" would say so? "congestive thoughts then so inane they'd decompose the soundest brain." yes, there it is, thy humor still, not seventy years and two can kill. 'tis free from all "harmonious" lore, a "wholesome" not a "ringtail" store. lines sent to the dinner given in honor of walt whitman's seventieth birthday, at camden, n.j., may 31, 1889, at 5 o'clock p.m. "splendor of ended day floating and filling me,"[b] comes to my mind as i think of the hour when our poet and friend will be lovingly drinking the mystical cup of the seventy years' power. were i the man-of-war bird he has pictured nothing could keep me from flying that way. but, though absent in body, there's nothing can hinder my tasting the joys of that festive birthday; for on the swift wings of the ending day's splendor my soul will glide in to drink deep the cup's wealth. who knows but the poet's keen sense of pure friendship will feel, 'midst the joy, what i drink to his health?- splendor of ended day be but the door opening the endless way life evermore. [b] "song at sunset."--_w. w._ sonnets. the known god. (_suggested by arlo bates' sonnet, "the unknown god," published in the_ boston courier _of august 21, 1887_.) if paul in athens' street left nothing more than what he found when deep in sacred thought, he stood and marvelled o'er what had been wrought,- the _to the unknown god_ of heathen lore,- then were he only one on thought's wide shore to lose his name in others. but, heaven-taught, undaunted, and in words experienced-fraught, declared he god as known forevermore. paul's words, made deep and strong by martyred life, are more than vision deified. they are love's balm to permeate true mental strife, and bring to sin-sick weary souls a star of hope born of temptation's struggles rife. _to the known god._ through paul we dare thus far. _august, 1887._ to phillips brooks. o type of manhood, strong, serene, and chaste, attuned to law of man as well as god, we hail thee as a guide, who, having trod with christ the spirit-fields, in eager haste makes glad return to give us blessed taste of fruit there found. through thee our feet are shod with gospel-peace, while thy imperial rod becomes our need in times of drought or waste. how can we thank thee for thy helpful cheer, o master-spirit of the priests of earth? by daily doing penance without fear, or resting satisfied in deeds of worth? o no! 'tis when we breathe love's atmosphere, and live like thee the life of heavenly birth. _boston, 1890._ at the "porter manse." [that part of the porter manse containing the room referred to was built early in the last half of the seventeenth century. it was the house which wenham (the first distinct township set off--in 1639--from salem) gave to the second pastor of its church, rev. antipas newman, who married, while living there, governor winthrop's daughter. it was bought by john porter in 1703, and has remained in his family name without alienation to this day.] before a smouldering fire at twilight hour i muse alone. the ancient room, low-beamed, holds for my ear thoughts voiced by forms that teemed two hundred years ago with life and power. i breathe the essence of sweet joys that flower in light of home; while life that only _seemed_ on history's page becomes the real, redeemed from all the chaff that time fails not to shower. ah, such old places, holding through the years continuous life of man's activity, reveal a wealth beyond that which appears in modern homes built e'er so lovingly. imbued so long with human hopes and fears, have they not claim to personality? our lady of the manse. of all those born into the name to share the charming freedom of the porter manse, none were more worthy of inheritance than she who now presides as lady there. her gracious calm makes hospitality wear a beauteous crown of peace. kind tolerance and wide-embracing sympathy enhance her power to please and lighten daily care. 'tis only such rare souls who pierce the truth of home-life secrets, and through tact and grace, make growing years reflect the joys of youth. they lose not hope, though sorrow leave a trace in all their joy. such cannot fail, forsooth, of making home a loved abiding place. to b. p. shillaber. _july 12, 1888._ when lingering day at last recedes from sight, and night comes slowly forth to fill her place, preceded by a twilight-hour's loved face reflecting glorious rays of sunset light, 'tis then my thoughts go wandering with delight through oft-frequented avenues of space to those dear souls--the dearest of the race- who've dwelt with me on friendship's purest height. from this old mountain-top i come to you, my large souled trusted friend of many a year, with birthday greetings of the roseate hue left by a perfect day just lingering here. oh, may life's twilight hold a peace as true, and be as filled with hope of dawn's sweet cheer! _mount wachusett, mass._ to our mary. sweet sister, thoughtful ever of our need, forgetting self, if only we be served, how oft thy loving sympathy has nerved our fainting hearts to kinder, nobler deed, or brought to being thoughts that intercede for others' progress. we, all undeserved, cannot forget that life to ends thus curved made time for us to plant our own pet seed. the world owes much to many a sister dear, who, banishing with tears in midnight hour a fond desire for larger, happier sphere, strives faithfully in lowly life to shower rich daily blessings. such may know e'en here a christ-like joy unknown to worldly power. _chelsea, mass., 1887._ a birthday remembrance. to f. d. l. _september 26._ time brings to thee from out his storehouse old another year, which graciously awaits thy fair soul's bidding, as it estimates the wealth the parting year has left untold. clothed in chameleon garments, which unfold the fresh new days thine eye ne'er underrates, it brings continued hope of life that dates man's finest being. thou its secrets hold! are not such birthdays restful stepping stones, to aid the growing soul pick out the way to life eternal? not earth's bitterest moans or wildest joys can man's true progress stay, if, in these pauses, he but hear the tones of immortality's soothing, deathless lay. _1887._ josef hofmann. (_after hearing him play at boston music hall in 1888._) o marvellous child, a temple where in ease expectant genius dwells, while lingering here on earth to fit us for the heavenly sphere, dost feel awe-struck to know thou hast the keys to new and wondrous unheard harmonies? o favored boy, marked out to be the peer of those who in all ages god's voice hear, hushed are our souls before what thy soul sees! guard tenderly, o earth, o sky, o fates, this precious earthly temple of art's shrine! may chilling poverty, or sin that dates soul loss, ne'er hinder genius' wise design to have full sway--as she anticipates- in working out, in time, her laws divine. i. after the denial. _john 21: 15-18._ when fast was broken on tiberias' shore, the risen lord, still anxious that his own should know love's secret as to him 'twas known, thrice asked of peter, "lovest thou me more than these?" the third time peter's heart was sore. must even love divine have doubt's sad tone? "thou knowest, lord, i love thee," was his moan. then, "feed my sheep," christ answered as before. still in these days the risen lord bends o'er the shores of time, and longs for human love; the love that hears his voice, awake, asleep, and makes response as peter did of yore. "lovest thou me?" o christ, from heights above, thou knowest that we love thee. "feed my sheep." ii. gethsemane. _matthew 26:36-46._ "could ye not watch with me one hour?" o heart of christ, still longing in the bitterest hour for human sympathy and love to shower a needed strength beyond words to impart! humanity is richer for this art of seeing in poor finite man a power- before which even ministering angels cower- to know all truth, e'en dread gethsemane's smart. alas! the power to know will bring the pain. but through the pain of wisdom's true insight is christ's own perfect sympathy made plain. possessed of this, we see in tenderest light his sorrowing heart in failing to obtain the longed-for love in hour of darkest night. on lake memphremagog. by old owl's head on memphremagog's side, in hammock-nook 'midst scenery wild and bold, the spirit of the waters, as of old, broods o'er my soul, its secrets to confide, it whispers of the anguish, joy, and pride, the heart of man has on its bosom told; and hails as conqueror him who once did hold its heart in peace when tempest-tossed and tried. loved spirit of the waters, we too hail the power of him who walked the holy sea of galilee. capacity to fail were harder to believe than victory. may he who conquered wildest nature's heart his infinite power and rest to us impart! _august, 1891._ luke 23:24. from holy depths he to the father prayed, "forgive them, for they know not what they do." his heart, pierced then with anguish through and through, cried out "'tis finished," as he death obeyed. in bitterest wrong this marvellous soul was weighed with tenderest love and longing towards those who, through ignorance of what they might be too, were now the slaves of evil passion's raid. "they know not what they do." o blessed sight into the heart of sin's great mystery. forgiveness here is shown in sweetest light, clothed in her garment of sincerity. blest are those souls who reach this precious height; they know the secret of christ's victory. to the members of my home club.[c] while dwelling in sweet wisdom's fruitful ways, in company with poets grand and good who met our human nature's every mood, what life was ours, beyond our words to praise! in seeking for the secret of the lays which clothed in art pure nature's daily food, or brought to light a christian brotherhood, did we not garner thoughts for future days? 'tis one of wisdom's joys, while lingering here to plant her seeds of righteousness and peace, to give a sweet companionship and cheer to those who seek from her their soul's increase. this, friends, we've felt in our club atmosphere. may its sweet memory linger till life cease! _chelsea, mass., 1888._ [c] for an account of this home club, see the _boston literary world_, of july 9, 1887, and june 9, 1888; also, _lend a hand_, for september, 1889. for my little nephews and nieces. a mamma's lullaby. dream of loveliest beauty in thine hour of sleep, harold, baby boy. lullaby, lullaby, lullaby. catch the sweetest glimpses of the heavenly bliss, while the holy angels bless thee with a kiss. lullaby, lullaby. so shall mamma feel a breath of celestial power, to beautify the ministry, of baby's waking hour. lullaby, lullaby, lullaby, harold, baby boy. lullaby, lullaby. warren's song. how i love you, baby dear, sister rosamond! i must kiss you, i must hug you, i must be your little beau, to protect you or to rescue from the faults of friend or foe. i must grow more wise and graceful every way, that i may be true and helpful for the day when, as lovely fair young woman, you will need my stay. darling rosebud, how i love you, how i love you, sister dear! oh, i will be good and pure, striving always to endure what will make me honest, kind, generous, manly, strong in mind, worthy of my rosebud. darling rosebud, sweetest rosebud, how i love you, sister dear! baby mildred. darling baby mildred, playing on the floor- i see! creeping here and creeping there, into mischief everywhere, mamma's little pet and care- i see! fearless baby mildred, on her rocking horse- i see! never slipping from her place, joyous laughter keeping pace with a motion full of grace- i see! thoughtful baby mildred, papa's pet and pride- i know! lighting up the passing days with such happy, winsome ways, joy of household life that pays- i know! tired baby mildred, lovely eyes all closed- sleep on! waking, heaven will be more near for the angels' presence here, whispering secrets in her ear- sleep on! sleep on! rosamond and mildred. rosamond and mildred, playing on the floor- i see! laughing blue eyes, dimpled face, laughing brown eyes, ways of grace, chubby hands that interlace- i see! rosamond and mildred, trying hard to walk- i see! clinging now to mamma's dress, trembling in new happiness, then at last a sweet success- i see! rosamond and mildred, born the same glad year- i know! cousins; each in her own way growing wiser every day, full of promise as of play- i know! rosamond and mildred, parting to go home- good-bye! each a little picture fair, carrying blessing everywhere. grateful are we for our share- good-bye! good-bye! 'chilla. chinchilla? come, 'chilla!- ah, here she comes bounding, so quickly responding, oh, who could but love her! her fur like chinchilla- her movements all grace- such a wise little face- what kitty is like her? oh, who could but love her, our dear pretty 'chilla! childish fancies. (a fact.) my little nephew, four years old, a sweet-faced, blue-eyed boy, was one day playing by my side with this and that pet toy, when all at once he said to me,- as, laying down my book, i paused a while to watch with joy his bright, expressive look,- "if mac and i should plant today some paper in the ground, say, would it grow to be a book like yours, with leaves all bound?" these were the same two little boys whose nurse searched far and wide for little sister's rubber shoes; "where can they be?" she cried. "i know," replied mac, eagerly, "we planted them last night, to see if they would bigger grow to fit our feet all right." dear little boys! these fancies hint of future questions deep, when evolution's grand idea shall o'er their vision sweep. god grant that when these come to them, as at truth's shrine they bow, a childlike faith and earnestness may fill them then as now. what little bertram did. (a fact) our little bertram, six years old, sat on his grandpa's knee, enjoying to the full the love that grandpa gave so free, when, looking up bewitchingly, he said,--the little teaze,- "will grandpa give me just one cent to buy some candy, please?" who could resist such loveliness? this grandpa could not, sure. so with a kiss he gave the cent- ah, how such things allure! no sooner was the cent in hand, than off the fair boy ran to buy his candy, "'lasses kind," or little "candy-man." now on his way, in scanning well a window full of toys, he spied a ring with big red stone, o'erlooked by other boys. all thought of candy was forgot. he'd buy that ring so fine for his new sister, rosamond- oh, how his eyes did shine! how could he stop to calculate the size of such a thing; his only care was for the price- would one cent buy the ring? ah yes, it would. the ring was bought; and never girl or boy went tripping homeward through the streets with greater wealth or joy. "dear little mac."[d] (a fact.) when nearly eight years old, dear little mac was called from out his happy home-life here to that blest sphere beyond earth's dearest power to call him back. "his questions wise will now sure answer find," said one who'd loved to watch his eager face, in happy chase of many a thought which flitted through his mind. "yes, he knows more than we," another said, "instead of guiding him, he'll be our guide to where abide the things we need most to be comforted." while thus the older ones their comfort sought, two of the children paused in midst of play, to have their say concerning this great mystery death had brought. "dear little mac," said miriam, with a sigh, "he's gone way up to heaven where angels are, way up so far that we can't ever see him till we die." "he's not up there," said bertram. "he can't be. i saw them put him in the cold dark ground, and i went round and threw some flowers in for him to see." "he isn't there," replied the four-year old, "he's up in heaven. my mamma told me so. he _is_, i know. he isn't in the ground all dark and cold." a moment bertram sat absorbed in thought, while miriam felt the joy of victory. then suddenly the lovely six-year-old this idea caught: "i tell you what, mac's body's in the ground; his head, his feet, and every other part, but just his heart- and that's gone up to heaven, and angels found." the child thus solved the thought that troubled so. and as i overheard this earnest talk,- which might some shock,- i wondered if we could more wisdom show. as each seemed satisfied, their play went on. but bertram's thought sank deep in sister's mind, and left behind the wonder how dear mac to heaven had gone. at last, when ready for their sweet "good night," she softly said, "it can't be very dark, not _very_ dark for mac, i know, 'cause god will make it light." oh, lovely faith of childhood's trusting days, sent fresh from heaven to be our loving guide, when sadly tried by doubt or sorrow's strange, mysterious ways. [d] maclaurin cooke gould, died in maplewood, mass., november 8, 1887. willard and florence on mount wachusett. _july, 1888._ happy little girl and boy, dancing hand in hand over hill and valley land, filled with summer joy; climbing up the steep path side to wachusett's top, with that graceful skip and hop born where fairies hide; seeing holyoke from the height, old monadnock clear, while washacum twin-lakes near sparkle in sun-light; tripping down the mountain-road back to cottage home, only pausing there to roam where laurel finds abode; jumping on the new-mown hay, sitting under trees, feeling every mountain breeze, hearing birds' sweet lay; lying on the mossy stone by the brook's cascade, listening 'neath the sylvan shade to its rippling tone; down at pretty echo lake, plucking maiden-hair, gathering glistening "sundew" there for "dear mamma's sake"; picking in the pastures near berries red and blue; spying where the mayflowers grew earlier in the year; watching for the sun to rise, following sunset-cloud, singing low and singing loud while the swift day flies; waiting for the "tally-ho," with its looked-for mails, hearing strangers tell their tales as they come and go; happy little girl and boy, dancing hand in hand over hill and valley land, filled with summer joy. a little brazilian. (a fact.) 'twas in brazil last christmas day, while at a family feast, a little girl of five years old the merriment increased, by crying out,--as glasses held the ice she ne'er had seen,- "oh see! what pretty little stones. what for? where have they been?" "here, give her one," the host exclaimed, pleased with her childish glee. "'twill show her as no words could show what ice is, and must be." she grasped the "white stone" in her hand, all watching eagerly, when suddenly she let it fall, and cried, "it's burning me." but, anxious still to see it more, she asked a servant near to hand it in a napkin wrapped- then there would be no fear. again the ice was in her hand, her plaything for the day, when all at once she cried aloud, "the stone is running away." a glass of water now was used, sure that would keep it hers. but no! with all her loving watch the same result occurs. the plaything gone, at evening hour she sat on uncle's knee. "who makes those white stones, you or god?" she asked, inquiringly. "in miss brown's land [a boston friend] god makes them," answered he. "but in brazil a factory-man makes them for you and me." a moment's pause. then said the child,- heaven's blessing on her fall,- "why doesn't god get from brazil a man to make them all?" the little doubter. "mamma, where is the sun to-day, while all this rain comes down?" ah, little girl of flaxen curl, who has not asked before this question o'er and o'er? "behind the clouds so thick and black the sun is shining still," the mother quickly answered back, her child with faith to fill. the child looked up in strange surprise, in doubt almost a pain, then turned again her wistful eyes to watch the pouring rain. "i don't believe 'tis shining still," she muttered to herself. ah, little girl of flaxen curl, why doubt e'en mother's word, because of feelings stirred? "i won't believe it till i see the sun behind that cloud," she still went on, defiantly, to say in accents loud. now, while she gazed as if to see the truth made known by sight, behold the cloud did suddenly become imbued with light. "there, there, mamma, the sun, the sun!" the little doubter cried. and, full of joy at victory won, she danced with childish pride. the mother watched with tearful eyes her child's transparent joy, but dared not quench the glad surprise, or victory's power destroy. "perhaps she'll need this proof," she sighed, "of hidden things made plain, when in the depths of life she's tried, and all fond hopes are slain." while thus she mused, as mothers will, the little daughter fair rushed to her arms, all smiling still, and said, while nestling there, "behind the clouds the sun _does_ shine, e'en while the rain comes down." ah, little girl of flaxen curl, this wisdom is indeed for future hours of need. our kitty's trick.[e] i know that all the boys and girls would be so glad to see our kitty do the little trick she often does for me. when asked, "o kitty, where's the ball?" she to my shoulder leaps, and looks directly to the shelf, where from a box it peeps. she will not cease to look and beg, until i find the place where she can take between her teeth the ball with easy grace. then quickly to the floor she jumps; when, dropping first the ball, she runs behind the open door that leads into the hall. she waits, with only head in sight, the ball to see me throw; then after it she scampers well some forty feet or so. she never fails to bring it back; then lifts with wondrous grace her velvet paw to take the ball from out its hiding place. this done, she nestles by my side, and purrs while i caress, unconscious of the trick she's done, since three months old or less. she thus will lie in calm repose so long as i am still; but if i move to touch the ball, then all her nerves will thrill, her eyes will shine, she'll quickly find her place behind the door, and wait again to see the ball roll on the long hall floor. ah, kitty dear, who told you how to join thought, act, and sight? must not we think that in you dwells the germ of mental light, the germ that makes you kin to us in kind though not degree, but which was quickened by his touch for our supremacy? [e] these verses, true in every detail, are only preserved in remembrance of a pet cat of our family for many years. a message. a mountain hides within itself this message grand and true, which at my bidding came to-day for me to give to you: "drink deep of nature's sweetest life, while learning how to wait. stand strong against the tempest's strife, not questioning the fate. then shalt thou live above the din of petty things below, absorbing depths of life within, the future to o'erflow." _at the foot of mount holyoke._ transcribers' notes: punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. simple typographical errors were corrected; inconsistent hyphenation was retained. footnotes have been moved to the ends of the poems that reference them. it sometimes was unclear whether or not a new stanza began on a new page. page 32: unbalanced closing quotation mark retained after: god's thought. page 78: "in perfect harmony" was printed as "perect". internet archive (http://www.archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 38889-h.htm or 38889-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38889/38889-h/38889-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38889/38889-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see http://www.archive.org/details/literaryshrinesh00wolfrich transcriber's note: text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). superscripted characters are indicated with a carat followed by the superscripted character(s) in curly braces. literary shrines fifth edition * * * * * * _by dr. wolfe_ uniform with this volume a literary pilgrimage among the haunts of some famous british authors _treating descriptively and reminiscently of the homes and resorts of english writers from the time of chaucer to the present, and of the scenes commemorated in their works_ 262 pages. illustrated with four photogravures. $1.25 a literary pilgrimage and literary shrines two volumes in a box, $2.50 * * * * * * [illustration: the wayside, concord] literary shrines the haunts of some famous american authors by theodore f. wolfe m.d. ph.d. author of a literary pilgrimage etc. j. b. lippincott company philadelphia. mdcccxcv copyright, 1895, by theodore f. wolfe. printed by j. b. lippincott company, philadelphia, u.s.a. to my wife, my sympathetic and appreciative companion in pilgrimages to many literary shrines in the new world and the old, this volume is affectionately inscribed. preface for some years it has been the delightful privilege of the writer of the present volume to ramble and sojourn in the scenes amid which his best-beloved authors erst lived and wrote. he has made repeated pilgrimages to most of the shrines herein described, and has been, at one time or another, favored by intercourse and correspondence with many of the authors adverted to or with their surviving friends and neighbors. in the ensuing pages he has endeavored to portray these shrines in pen-pictures which, it is hoped, may be interesting to those who are unable to visit them and helpful and companionable for those who can and will. if certain prominent american authors receive little more than mention in these pages, it is mainly because so few objects and places associated with their lives and writings can now be indisputably identified: in some instances the writer has expended more time upon fruitless quests for shrines which proved to be non-existent or of doubtful genuineness than upon others which are themes for the chapters of this booklet. t. f. w. contents the concord pilgrimage page i. a village of literary shrines. _abodes of thoreau--the alcotts--channing--sanborn--hudson--hoar- wheildon--bartlett--the historic common--cemetery--church_ 17 ii. the old manse. _abode of dr. ripley--the emersons--hawthorne--learned mrs. ripley--its famed study and apartments--grounds--guests--ghosts- a transcendental social court_ 28 iii. a storied river and battle-field. _where zenobia drowned--where embattled farmers fought--thoreau's hemlocks--haunts of hawthorne--channing--thoreau--emerson, etc._ 39 iv. the home of emerson. _an intellectual capitol and pharos--its grounds, library, and literary workshop--famous rooms and visitants--relics and reminiscences of the concord sage_ 45 v. the orchard house and its neighbors. _ellery channing--margaret fuller--the alcotts--professor harris--summer school of philosophy--where little women was written and robert hagburn lived--where cyril norton was slain_ 52 vi. hawthorne's wayside home. _sometime abode of alcott--hawthorne--lathrop--margaret sidney- storied apartments--hawthorne's study--his mount of vision--where septimius felton and rose garfield dwelt_ 58 vii. the walden of thoreau. _a transcendental font--emerson's garden--thoreau's cove--cairn--beanfield--resort of emerson--hawthorne--channing- hosmer--alcott, etc._ 68 viii. the hill-top hearsed with pines. _last resting-place of the illustrious concord company--their graves beneath the piny boughs_ 75 in and out of literary boston in boston _a golden age of letters--literary associations--isms--clubs--where hester prynne and silas lapham lived--the corner book-store--home of fields--sargent--hilliard--aldrich--deland--parkman--holmes- howells--moulton--hale--howe--jane austin, etc._ 83 out of boston i. cambridge: elmwood: mount auburn. _holmes's church-yard--bridge--smithy, chapel, and river of longfellow's verse--abodes of lettered culture--holmes- higginson--agassiz--norton--clough--howells--fuller- longfellow--lowell--longfellow's city of the dead and its precious graves_ 103 ii. belmont: the wayside inn: home of whittier. _lowell's beaver brook--abode of trowbridge--red horse tavern- parsons and the company of longfellow's friends--birthplace of whittier--scenes of his poems--dwelling and grave of the countess--powow hill--whittier's amesbury home--his church and tomb_ 117 iii. salem: whittier's oak-knoll and beyond. _cemetery of hawthorne's ancestors--birthplace of hawthorne and his wife--where fame was won--house of the seven gables- custom-house--where scarlet letter was written--main street and witch hill--sights from a steeple--later home of whittier- norman's woe--lucy larcom--parton, etc.--rivermouth--thaxter_ 128 iv. webster's marshfield: brook farm, etc. _scenes of the old oaken bucket--webster's home and grave--where emerson won his wife--home of miss peabody--parkman--miss guiney--aldrich's ponkapog--farm of ripley's community--relics and reminiscences_ 141 in berkshire with hawthorne i. the graylock and hoosac region. _north adams and about--hawthorne's acquaintances and excursions- actors and incidents of ethan brand--kiln of bertram the lime-burner--natural bridge--graylock--thoreau--hoosac mountain--deerfield arch--williamstown--bryant_ 155 ii. lenox and middle berkshire. _beloved of the littérateurs--la maison rouge--where the house of the seven gables was written--wonder-book and tanglewood scenes- the bowl--beecher's laurel lake--kemble--bryant's monument mountain--stockbridge--catherine sedgwick--melville's piazza and chimney--holmes--longfellow--pittsfield_ 176 a day with the good gray poet _walk and talk with socrates in camden--the bard's appearance and surroundings--recollections of his life and work--hospital service--praise for his critics--his literary habit, purpose, equipment, and style--his religious bent--readings_ 201 illustrations page the wayside, concord _frontispiece._ the thoreau-alcott house,--present appearance 21 the grave of emerson 78 where longfellow lived 108 the concord pilgrimage i. a village of literary shrines ii. the old manse iii. storied river and battle-field iv. the home of emerson v. alcott's orchard house, etc. vi. hawthorne's wayside home vii. the walden of thoreau viii. the hill-top hearsed with pines i a village of literary shrines _abodes of thoreau--the alcotts--channing--sanborn--hudson--hoar- wheildon--bartlett--the historic common--cemetery--church._ if to trace the footsteps of genius and to linger and muse in the sometime haunts of the authors we read and love, serve to bring us nearer their personality, to place us _en rapport_ with their aspirations, and thus to incite our own spiritual development and broaden and exalt our moral nature, then the concord pilgrimage should be one of the most fruitful and beneficent of human experiences. familiarity with the physical stand-point of our authors, with the scenes amid which they lived and wrote, and with the objects which suggested the imagery of their poems, the settings of their tales, and which gave tone and color to their work, will not only bring us into closer sympathy with the writers, but will help us to a better understanding of the writings. a plain, straggling village, set in a low country amid a landscape devoid of any striking beauty or grandeur, concord yet attracts more pilgrims than any other place of equal size upon the continent, not because it holds an historic battle-field, but because it has been the dwelling-place of some of the brightest and best in american letters, who have here written their books and warred against creeds, forms, and intellectual servitude. it is another stratford, another mecca, to which come reverent pilgrims from the old world and the new to worship at its shrines and to wander through the scenes hallowed by the memories of its illustrious _littérateurs_, seers, and evangels. to the literary prowler it is all sacred ground,--its streets, its environing hills, forests, lakes, and streams have alike been blessed by the loving presence of genius, have alike been the theatres and the inspirations of noble literary achievement. our way lies by historic lexington, and thence, through a pleasant country and by the road so fateful to the british soldiery, we approach concord. it is a placid, almost somnolent village of villas, abounding with delightful lawns and gardens, with great elms shading its old-fashioned thoroughfares and drooping their pliant boughs above its comfortable homes. elizabeth hoar has said, "concord is thoreau's monument, adorned with inscriptions by his hand;" of the circle of brilliant souls who have given the town its world-wide fame, he alone was native here; he has left his imprint upon the place, and we meet some reminder of him at every turn. by the historic village common is the quondam home of his grandfather, where his father was reared, and where the "new england essene" himself lived some time with the unmarried aunt who made the ample homespun suit he wore at walden. the house of his maternal grandmother, where henry david thoreau was born, stood a little way out on a by-road to lexington, and a daughter of this home--thoreau's winsome aunt louisa dunbar--was ineffectually wooed by the famous daniel webster. at the age of eight months the infant thoreau was removed to the village, in which nearly the whole of his life was passed. believing that concord, with its sylvan environment, was a microcosm "by the study of which the whole world could be comprehended," this wildest of civilized men seldom strayed beyond its familiar precincts. alcott declared that thoreau thought he dwelt in the centre of the universe, and seriously contemplated annexing the rest of the planet to concord. on the south side of the elm-shaded main street of the village we find a pleasant and comfortable, old-fashioned wooden dwelling,--the home which, in his later years, the philosopher, poet, and mystic shared with his mother and sisters. about it are great trees which thoreau planted; a stairway and some of the partition walls of the house are said to have been erected by him. in the second story of an extension at the back of the main edifice, some of the family worked at their father's trade of pencil-making. in the large room at the right of the entrance, afterward the sitting-room of the alcotts, some of thoreau's later writing was done, and here, one may morning of 1862, he breathed out a life all too brief and doubtless abbreviated by the storms and drenchings endured in his pantheistic pursuits. in this house thoreau's "spiritual brother," john brown of osawatomie, was a welcome guest, and more than one wretched fugitive from slavery found shelter and protection. from his village home thoreau made, with the poet ellery channing, the journey described in his "yankee in canada," and several shorter "excursions,"--shared with edward hoar, channing, and others,--which he has detailed in the delightful manner which gives him a distinct position in american literature. [illustration: the thoreau-alcott house] after the removal of sophia, the last of thoreau's family, his friend frank b. sanborn occupied the thoreau house for some years, and then it became the home of the alcott family. here mrs. alcott, the "marmee" of "little women," died; here bronson alcott was stricken with the fatal paralysis; here commenced the malady which contributed to the death of his illustrious daughter louisa; here lived "meg," the mother of the "little men" and widow of "john brooke" of the alcott books; and here now lives her son, while his brother, "demi-john," dwells just around the corner in the next street. in the room at the left of the hall, fitted up for her study and workshop, louisa alcott wrote some of the tales which the world will not forget. an added apartment at the right of the sitting-room was long the sick-room of the orphic philosopher and the scene of louisa's tender care. here the writer saw them both for the last time: alcott helpless upon his couch, his bright intelligence dulled by a veil of darkness; the daughter at his bedside, sedulous of his comfort, devoted, hopeful, helpful to the end. a cherished memento of that interview is a photograph of the thoreau-alcott mansion, made by one of the "little men," and presented to the writer, with her latest book, by "jo" herself. the front fence has since been removed, and the illustration shows the present view. in thoreau's time, a modest dwelling, with a low roof sloping to the rear,--now removed to the other side of the street,--stood directly opposite his home, and was for some time the abode of his friend and earliest biographer, the sweet poet william ellery channing. thoreau thought channing one of the few who understood "the art of taking walks," and the two were almost constant companions in saunterings through the countryside, or in idyllic excursions upon the river in the boat which thoreau kept moored to a riverside willow at the foot of channing's garden. the beneficent influence of their comradeship is apparent in the work of both these recluse writers, and many of the most charming of channing's stanzas are either inspired by or are poetic portrayals of the scenes he saw with thoreau,--the "rudolpho" and the "idolon" of his verse. thoreau's last earthly "excursion" was with this friend to monadnoc, where they encamped some days in 1860. to this home of channing came, in 1855, sanborn, who was welcomed to concord by all the literary galaxy, and quickly became a familiar associate of each particular star. to go swimming together seems to have been, among these earnest and exalted thinkers, the highest evidence of mutual esteem, and so favored was sanborn that he is able to record, "i have swum with alcott in thoreau's cove, with thoreau in the assabet, with channing in every water of concord." in this home sanborn entertained john brown on the eve of his virginia venture; here escaping slaves found refuge; here fugitives from the harper's ferry fight were concealed; here sanborn was arrested for supposed complicity in brown's abortive schemes, and was forcibly rescued by his indignant neighbors. this modest dwelling gave place to the later residence of frederic hudson, the historian of journalism, who here produced many of his contributions to literature. professor folsom, of "translations of the four gospels," and the popular authoress mrs. austin have also lived in this neighborhood. for some years sanborn had a famous select school on a street back of thoreau's house, not far from the recent hermit-home of his friend channing, at whose request hawthorne sent some of his children to this school, in which emerson's daughter--the present mrs. forbes--was a beloved pupil, and where, also, the daughters of john brown were for some time placed. a few rods westward from his former dwelling we find sanborn in a tasteful modern villa,--spending life's early autumn among his books. he abounds with memories of his friends of the by-gone time, and his reminiscences and biographies of some of them have largely employed his pen in his pleasant study here. some time ago the sweet singer channing suffered in his hermitage a severe illness, which prompted his appreciative friend sanborn to take him into his own home; so we find two surviving witnesses or participants in the moral, intellectual, and political renaissance dwelling under the same roof. in the kindly atmosphere of this home, the shy poet--who in his age is more recluse than ever, and scarce known to his neighbors--so far regained physical vigor that he has resumed his frequent visits to the boston library, long time a favorite haunt of his. the world refused to listen to this exquisite singer, and now "his songs have ceased." he has been celebrated by emerson in the "dial," by thoreau in his "week," by hawthorne in "mosses" and "note-books," by the generous and sympathetic sanborn in many ways and places; but even such poems as "earth-spirit," "poet's hope," and "reverence" found few readers,--the dainty little volumes fewer purchasers. below the thoreau-alcott house on the village street was a prior home of thoreau, from which he made, with his brother, the voyage described in his "week on the concord and merrimac rivers," and from which, in superb disdain of "civilization" and social conventionalities, he went to the two years' hermitage of "walden." nearly opposite the earlier residence of the stoic is the home of the hoars, where lived thoreau's comrade edward hoar, and edward's sister,--styled "elizabeth the wise" by emerson, of whom she was the especial friend and favorite, having been the _fiancée_ of his brother charles, who died in early manhood. the adjacent spacious mansion was long the home of wheildon, the historian, essayist, and pamphleteer. nearer the village common lived john a. stone, dramatist of "the ancient briton" and of the "metamora" in which forrest won his first fame. in this part of the village the eminent correspondent "warrington," author of "manual of parliamentary law," was born and reared; and in lowell street, not far away, lives the gifted george b. bartlett, of the "carnival of authors,"--poet, scenic artist, and local historian. in the public library we find copies of the printed works of the many concord authors, and portraits or busts of most of the writers. among the treasures of the institution are priceless manuscripts of curtis, motley, lowell, holmes, emerson, hawthorne, thoreau, and others. among the thickly-strewn graves on the hill-side above the common repose the ashes of emerson's ancestors; about them lie the fore-fathers of the settlement,--some of them asleep here for two centuries, reckless alike of the resistance to british oppression and of the later struggle for freedom of thought which their townsmen have waged. a tree on the common is pointed out as that beneath which emerson made an address at the dedication of the soldiers' monument, and bartlett records the tradition that the grandfather of the concord sage stood on the same spot a hundred years before to harangue the "embattled farmers" on the morning of the concord fight. near by is the ancient church where emerson's ancestors preached, and within whose framework the provincial congress met. of the religious services here emerson was always a supporter, often an attendant; here he sometimes preached in early manhood; here his children were christened by the elder channing,--"the first minister he had known who was as good as they;" here emerson's daughter is a devout worshipper. the comparatively few of the transcendental company who prayed within a pew came to this temple, but here all were brought at last for funeral rites: here lay thoreau among his thronging townsmen while emerson and bronson alcott made their touching eulogies and ellery channing read a dirge in a voice almost hushed with emotion; here james freeman clarke, who had married hawthorne twenty-two years before, preached his funeral sermon above the lifeless body which bore upon its breast the unfinished "dolliver romance;" before the pulpit here lay the coffined emerson,--"his eyes forever closed, his voice forever still,"--while a vast concourse looked upon him for the last time, and his neighbor judge hoar pronounced one of the most impressive panegyrics that ever fell from human lips, and the devoted alcott read a sonnet. ii the old manse _abode of dr. ripley--the emersons--hawthorne--learned mrs. ripley--its famed study and apartments--grounds--guests--ghosts--a transcendental social court._ northward from the village common, a delightful stroll along a shaded highway, less secluded now than when hawthorne "daily trudged" upon it to the post-office or trundled the carriage of "baby una," brings us to the famous "old manse" about which he culled his "mosses." this antique mansion was first tenanted by ralph waldo emerson's grandsire, and next by dr. ezra ripley, who married the previous occupant's widow and became guardian of her children,--born under its roof,--of whom emerson's father was one. when his father died emerson found a secondary home here with dr. ripley. the manse was again the abode of emerson and his mother in 1834-35, when he here wrote his first volume. in 1842, the year following the demise of the good dr. ripley, the manse was profaned by its first lay occupant, nathaniel hawthorne. he brought here his bride, lovely sophia peabody (who, with the gifted elizabeth and mrs. horace mann, formed a famous triune sisterhood), and for four years lived here the ideal life of which his "note-books" and "mosses" give us such delicious glimpses. hawthorne's landlord, samuel ripley, was related to the george ripley with whom hawthorne had recently been associated at brook farm. he was uncle of emerson, and preached his ordination sermon; was himself reared in the old manse, and succeeded hawthorne as resident there. his widow, born sarah bradford, and celebrated as "the most learned woman ever seen in new england," the close friend of emerson and of the brilliant concord company, survived here until 1876. she made a valuable collection of lichens, and sometimes trained young men for harvard university. conway records that a _savant_ called here one day and found her hearing at once the lesson of one student in sophocles and that of another in differential calculus, while rocking her grandchild's cradle with one foot and shelling peas for dinner. the place is now owned by her daughters, who reside in cambridge, and is rented in summer. it is little changed since the time emerson's ancestor hurried thence to the gathering of his parishioners by his church-door before the concord battle,--still less changed since the halcyon days when the great wizard of romance dwelt--the "most unknown of authors"--within its shades. it is still the unpretentious eden, "the el dorado for dreamers," which so completely won the heart of the sensitive hawthorne. the picturesque old mansion stands amid greensward and foliage, its ample grounds divided from the highway by a low wall. the gate-way is flanked by tall posts of rough-hewn stone, whence a grass-grown avenue, bordered by a colonnade of overarching trees, leads to the house. within the scattered sunshine and shade of the avenue, a row of stone slabs sunken in the turf like gravestones paves the path paced by ripley, emerson, and hawthorne as they pondered and planned their compositions. of the trees aligned upon either side, some, gray-lichened and broken, are survivors of hawthorne's time; others are set to replace fallen patriarchs and keep the stately lines complete. at the right of the broad _allée_ and extending away to the battle-ground is the field, waving now with lush grass, where hawthorne and thoreau found the flint arrow-heads and other relics of an aboriginal village. upon the space which skirts the other side of the avenue, hawthorne had the garden which engaged so much of his time and thought, and where he produced for us abundant crops of something better than his vegetables. here his brook-farm experience was useful. passing neighbors would often see the darkly-clad figure of the recluse hoeing in this "patch," or, as often, standing motionless, gazing upon the ground so fixedly and so long--sometimes for hours together--that they thought him daft. of the delights of summer mornings spent here with his peas, potatoes, and squashes, he gives us many glimpses in his record of that happy time; but the "note-books" show us, alas! that this simple pleasure was not without alloy, for, although his "garden flourished like eden," there are hints of "weeds," next "more weeds," then a "ferocious banditti of weeds" with which "the other adam" could never have contended. but a greater woe came with the foes who menaced his artistic squashes,--"the unconscionable squash-bugs," "those infernal squash-bugs," against which he must "carry on continual war." for the moments that we contemplate the scene of his entomic warfare, the greater battle-field, a few rods away, seems hardly more impressive. few of the trees which in hawthorne's time stood nearest the house remain; the producers of the peaches and "thumping pears" have gone the way of all trees. so has dr. ripley's famous willow--celebrated in emerson's and channing's exquisite verse and in hawthorne's matchless prose--which veiled the western face of the mansion and through which hawthorne's study-windows peeped out upon orchard, river, and mead. in the orchard that has borne such luscious fruit of fancy, some of the contorted and moss-grown trees, whose branches--"like withered hands and arms"--hold out the sweet blossoms on this june day, are the same that hawthorne pictures among his "mosses," and beneath which he lay in summer reverie. few vines now clamber upon the house-walls, lilacs still grow beneath the old study-window, and a tall mass of their foliage screens a corner of the venerable edifice, which time has toned into perfect harmony with its picturesque environment. it is a great, square, wooden structure of two stories, with added attic rooms beneath an overwhelming gambrel roof, which is the conspicuous feature of the edifice and contributes to its antique form. the heavy roof settles down close upon the small, multipaned windows. from above the door little convex glasses, like a row of eyes, look out upon the visitor as he applies for admission. a spacious central hall, rich in antique panelling and sombre with grave tints, extends through the house. from its dusk and coolness we look out upon the bright summer day through its open doors; through one we see the "hill of the emersons" beyond the highway, the other frames a pleasing picture of orchard and sward with glimpses of the river shining through its bordering shrubbery. the quaint apartments are darkly wainscoted and low-ceiled, with massive beams crossing overhead. some of these rooms hawthorne has shown us. the one at the left, which the novelist believed to have been the sleeping-room of dr. ripley, was the parlor of the hawthornes, and--decked with a gladsome carpet, pictures, and flowers daily gathered from the river-bank--hawthorne averred it was "one of the prettiest and pleasantest rooms in the whole world." to this room then came the sage emerson "with a sunbeam in his face;" the "cast-iron man" thoreau, "long-nosed, queer-mouthed, ugly as sin," but with whom to talk "is like hearing the wind among the boughs of a forest tree;" ellery channing, with his wife and her illustrious sister, margaret fuller; the gifted george william curtis, then tilling a farm not far from the manse, long before he lounged in an "easy chair;" genial bradford, relative of ripley, and associate and firm friend of hawthorne; horatio bridge, of the "african cruiser" and of the recent hawthorne "recollections;" the critic george hillard, at whose house hawthorne was married; "prince" lowell, the large-hearted; franklin pierce, hawthorne's life-long friend. concerning the discussion of things physical and metaphysical, to which these old walls then listened, the host gives us little hint. sometimes the guests were "feasted on nectar and ambrosia" by the new adam and eve; sometimes they "listened to the music of the spheres which, for private convenience, is packed into a music-box,"--left here by thoreau when he went to teach in the family of emerson's brother; once here before this wide fireplace they sat late and told ghost stories,--doubtless suggested by the clerical phantom whose sighs they used to hear in yonder dusky corner, and whose rustling gown sometimes almost touched the company as he moved about among them. in this room dr. ripley penned, besides his "history of the concord fight" and "treatise on education," three thousand of his protracted homilies,--a fact upon which hawthorne found it "awful to reflect,"--and here in our day the gifted george b. bartlett wrote some part of his concord sketches, etc. here, too, and in the larger room opposite, the erudite and versatile mrs. samuel ripley held her social court and received the exalted concord conclave, with other earnest leaders of thought. in the front chamber at the right hawthorne's first child, the hapless una,--named from spenser's "faerie queene,"--was born. behind this is the "ten-foot-square" apartment which was hawthorne's study and workshop. two windows of small, prismatic-hued panes look into the orchard, and upon one of these hawthorne has inscribed,- "nath^{l}. hawthorne. this is his study, 1843." below this another hand has graven,- "inscribed by my husband at sunset apr 3^{d} 1843 in the gold light s. a. h. man's accidents are god's purposes. sophia a. hawthorne 1843." from its north window, said to have been cracked by the explosions of musketry in the conflict, we see the battle-field and a reach of the placid river. this room had been the study of emerson's grandfather; from its window his wife watched the fight between his undrilled parishioners and the british veterans. his daughter mary--aunt of our american plato and herself a gifted writer--used to boast "she was in arms at the battle," having been held up at this window to see the soldiery in the highway. years later emerson himself came into possession of this room, and here wrote his "nature," antagonizing many of the orthodox tenets. perhaps it was well for the moral serenity of his ancestor--to whom the transcendental movement would have seemed arrant march-madness--that he could not foresee the composition of such a volume here within the sanctity of his old study. the book was published anonymously, and sanborn says that when inquiry was made, "who is the author of 'nature?'" a concord wit replied, "god and waldo emerson." next, the dreamy hawthorne succeeded to the little study, and here, with the sunlight glimmering through the willow boughs, he worked in solitude upon his charming productions for three or four hours of each day. here, besides the copious entries in his journals, he prepared most of the papers of his "mosses," wrote many articles for the "democratic review" and other magazines, edited "old dartmoor prisoner" and horatio bridge's "african cruiser." it is note-worthy that the "celestial railroad," in which hawthorne records his condemnation of the spiritual renaissance by substituting the "terrible giant transcendentalist" (who feeds upon pilgrims bound for the celestial city) in place of the pope and pagan of bunyan's allegory, was written in the same room with emerson's volume, which inaugurated the great transcendental movement in the western world. among the recesses of the great attic of the manse we may still see the "saints' chamber," with its fireplace and single window; but it is tenanted by sprouting clergymen no longer. the atmosphere of theological twilight and mustiness--acquired from generations of clerical inhabitants--which pervaded the place in hawthorne's time has been dissipated by the larger and happier home-life of mrs. samuel ripley and the blithe and brilliant company that gathered about her here. dismayed by these beneficent influences, the ghosts have indignantly deserted the mansion: even the persistive clerical, who sighed in hawthorne's parlor and noisily turned his sermon-leaves in the upper hall, has not disturbed the later occupants of the manse. one might muse and linger long about the old place which, as his "mosses" and journals show, hawthorne made a part of his very life. its air of antiquity, its traditional associations, its seclusion, and all its peaceful environment were pleasing to the shy and susceptible nature of the subtle romancer, and accorded well with his introspective habit. besides, it was "the first home he ever had," and it was shared with his "new eve." no wonder is it that he could here declare, "i had rather be on earth than in the seventh heaven, just now." it is saddening to remember that, from this paradise, poverty drove him forth. iii a storied river and battle-field _where zenobia drowned--where embattled farmers fought--thoreau's hemlocks--haunts of hawthorne--channing--thoreau--emerson, etc._ behind hawthorne's "old manse"--its course so tortuous that thoreau suggested for concord's escutcheon "a field verdant with the river circling nine times round," so noiseless that he likened it to the "moccasined tread" of an indian, so sluggish that hawthorne had dwelt some weeks beside it before he determined which way its current lies--flows the concord, "river of peace." this placid stream is the aboriginal "musketaquid" of emerson's poem,--sung of thoreau, channing, and many another bard, beloved of hawthorne and pictured in rapturous phrase in his "note-books" and "mosses from an old manse." it was the delightful haunt of hawthorne's leisure, the scene of the occurrence which inspired the most thrilling and high-wrought chapter of his romance. a grassy path, shaded by orchard trees, leads from the west door of the manse to the river's margin at the place where hawthorne kept his boat under the willows. the boat had before been the property of thoreau, built by his hands and used by him on the famous voyage described in his "week on the concord and merrimac rivers." hawthorne named the craft "pond-lily," because it brought so many cargoes of that beautiful flower to decorate his home. in it, alone or accompanied by thoreau or ellery channing, he made the many delightful excursions he has described. embarking on the slumberous stream, we follow the course of hawthorne's boat to many a scene made familiar by that dreamful romancer and by the poets and philosophers of concord. first to the place, below the bridge of the battle, where one dark night hawthorne and channing assisted in recovering from the water the ghastly body of the girl-suicide, an incident which made a profoundly horrible impression upon the sensitive novelist, and which he employed as the thrilling termination of the tale of zenobia in "the blithedale romance,"--portraying it with a tragic power which has never been surpassed. thence we paddle up the placid stream, as it slumbers along its winding course between the meadows, kisses the tangled grasses and wild flowers that fringe its margins, bathes the roots and boughs of the elders and dwarf willows which overhang its surface as if to gaze upon the reflections of their own loveliness mirrored there. the reach of river--"from nashawtuc to the cliff"--above the confluence of the two branches was most beloved and frequented of thoreau; here he sometimes brought emerson, as on that summer evening when the sage's diary records, "the river-god took the form of my valiant henry thoreau and introduced me to the riches of his shadowy, starlit, moonlit stream," etc. the deeper portion of the river near the manse was hawthorne's habitual resort for bathing and fishing, but his longer solitary voyages and his "wild, free days" with ellery channing were upon the beautiful and sheltered north branch,--the assabeth of the "mosses,"--which flows into the concord a half-mile above the manse. into this branch we turn our boat, and through sunshine and shade we follow the winsome course of the lingering stream, finding new and delightful seclusion at every turn. a railway now lies along one lofty bank, but its unsightliness is concealed by long lines of willows planted by the loving hands of poet and artist,--bartlett and french,--and the infrequent trains little disturb the seclusion of the place. giant trees, standing with "their feet fixed in the flood," bend their bright foliage above the softly-flowing stream and fleck its surface with shadows; pond-lilies are still up-borne by its dreaming waters, and cardinal flowers bedeck its banks; its barer reaches are ribbons of reflected sky. the spot on the margin locally known as "the hemlocks," and noted by hawthorne as being only less sacred in his memory than the household hearth, remains itself undisturbed. here a clump of great evergreens projects from the base of the lofty bank above and across the stream, and forms on the shore a shaded bower, carpeted by the brown needles which have fallen through many a year. this was a favorite haunt of hawthorne and channing in blissful days; here they prepared their sylvan noontide feasts; here they lounged and dreamed; here their "talk gushed up like the babble of a fountain." as we recline in their accustomed resting-place beside the sighing stream, and look up at the azure heaven through the boughs where erstwhile often curled the smoke of their fire, we vainly try to imagine something of what would be the converse, merry or profound, of such starry spirits amid such an inspiring scene, and we more than ever regret that neither the gentle poet nor the subtle romancer has chosen to share that converse with his readers. long and lovingly we loiter in this consecrated spot, and then slowly float back to hawthorne's landing-place by his orchard wall. a few rods distant, at the corner of his field, is the site of the "rude bridge that arched the flood," and the first battle-ground of the american revolution. on the farther side a colossal minute-man in bronze, modelled by the concord sculptor french, surmounts a granite pedestal inscribed with emerson's immortal epic, and marks the spot where stood the irregular array of the "embattled farmers" when they here "fired the shot heard round the world." the statue replaces a bush which sprang from the soil fertilized by the blood of davis, and which emerson imaged as the "burning bush where god spake for his people." the position of the british regulars on the hither shore is indicated by the "votive stone" of emerson's poem,--a slender obelisk of granite,--and near it, close under the wall of the manse enclosure, is the rude memorial that marks the grave of the british soldiers who were slain on this spot. the current tradition that a lad who, after the battle, came, axe in hand, from the manse wood-pile, found one of the soldiers yet alive and dispatched him with the axe, was first related to hawthorne by james russell lowell, as they stood together above this grave. the effect of this story upon the feelings of the susceptible hawthorne is told on a page of "the old manse," and--a score of years later and in different shape--is related in the romance of "septimius felton." iv the home of emerson _an intellectual capitol and pharos--its grounds, library, and literary workshop--famous rooms and visitants--relics and reminiscences of the concord sage._ following the direction of the british retreat from the historic common, we come, beyond the village, to the modest mansion which was for half a century the abode of the princely man who was not only "the sage of concord," but, in the esteem of some contemporaries, "was concord itself." emerson declares, "great men never live in a crowd,"--"a scholar must embrace solitude as a bride, must have his glees and glooms alone." of himself he says, "i am a poet and must therefore live in the country; a sunset, a forest, a river view are more to me than many friends, and must divide my day with my books;" and this was the consideration which finally determined his withdrawal from the storm and fret of the city to his chosen home here by walden woods and among the scenes of his childhood. it was his retirement to this semi-seclusion which called forth his much-quoted poem, "good-by, proud world! i'm going home." to him here came the afflatus he had before lacked, here his faculties were inspirited, and here his literary productiveness commenced. behind a row of dense-leaved horse-chestnuts ranged along the highway, the quondam home of emerson nestles among clustering evergreens which were planted by bronson alcott and henry d. thoreau for their friend. a copse of pines sighs in the summer wind close by; an orchard planted and pruned by emerson's hands, and a garden tended by thoreau, extend from the house to a brook flowing through the grounds and later joining the concord by the famous old manse; beyond the brook lies the way to walden. at the left of the house is a narrow open reach of greensward on the farther verge of which erst stood the unique rustic bower--with a wind-harp of untrimmed branches above it--which was fashioned by the loving hands of alcott. the mansion is a substantial, square, clapboarded structure of two stories, with hip-roofs; a square window projects at one side; a wing is joined at the back; covered porches protect the entrances; light paint covers the plain walls which gleam through the bowering foliage, and the whole aspect of the place is delightfully attractive and home-like. its pleasant and unpretentious apartments more than realize the comfortable suggestion of the exterior. adjoining the hall on the right is the plain, rectangular room which was the philosopher's library and workshop. the cheerful fireplace and the simple furnishings of the room are little changed since he here laid down his pen for the last time; the heavy table held his manuscript, his books are ranged upon the shelves, the busts and portraits he cherished adorn the walls, his accustomed chair is upon the spot where he sat to write. emerson's afternoons were usually spent abroad, but his mornings were habitually passed among his books in this small corner-room--"the study under the pines"--recording, in "a pellucid style which his genius made classic," the truths which had come to him as he mused by shadowy lake or songful stream, in deep wood glade or wayside path. most of all his pen produced, of divinest poetry, of gravest philosophy, of grandest thought, was minted into words and inscribed in this simple apartment. the adjoining parlor--a spacious, pleasant, home-like room, furnished forth with many mementos of illustrious friends and guests--is scarcely less interesting than the library. this house was the intellectual capitol of the village; to it freely came the concord circle of shining ones,--thoreau, channing, sanborn, the alcotts, the hoars,--less frequently, hawthorne. for a long time mrs. samuel ripley habitually passed her sabbath evenings here. the delphic margaret fuller, who was as truly the "blood of transcendentalism" as emerson "was its brain," was here for months an honored guest. for long periods thoreau, whose fame owes much to emerson's generosity, was here an inmate and intimate. in emerson's parlor were held the more formal _séances_ of the concord galaxy; here met the short-lived "monday evening club," which george william curtis whimsically describes as a "congress of oracles," who ate russet-apples and discoursed celestially while hawthorne looked on from his corner,--"a statue of night and silence;" here were held many of bronson alcott's famous "conversations," as well as those of that disciple of platonism, dr. jones. emerson belonged not to concord only, but to the whole world,--"his thought was the thought of christendom." to these plain rooms as to an intellectual court came, from his own and other lands, hundreds famed in art, literature, and politics. here came curtis and bartol to sit at the feet of the sage; charles sumner and moncure conway to bear hence--as one of them has said--"memories like those bunyan's pilgrim must have cherished of the interpreter." here "came theodore parker from the fight for free thought," and wendell phillips and john brown from the conflict for free men; here came howells, bearing the line from hawthorne, "i find this young man worthy;" here came whittier, agassiz, hedge, longfellow, bradford, lowell, colonel higginson, elizabeth peabody, julia ward howe, as to a fount of wisdom and purity. in this unpretentious parlor have gathered such guests as stanley, walt whitman, bret harte, henry james, louis kossuth, arthur clough, lord amberley, jones very, fredrika bremer, harriet martineau, and many others who, like these, would have felt repaid for their journey over leagues of land and sea by a hand-clasp and an hour's communion with the intellect that has been the beacon of thousands in mental darkness and storm. with these came another class of pilgrims, the great army of impracticables, "men with long hair, long beards, long collars,--many with long ears, each in full chase after the millennium," and each intent upon securing the endorsement of emerson for his own pet scheme. the wonder is that the little library saw any work accomplished, so many came to it and claimed the time of the master; for to every one--scholar, tradesman, and "crank"--were accorded his never-failing courtesy and kindly interest. any one might be the bearer of a divine message, so he listened to all,--the most uncouth and _outré_ visitant might be the coming man for whom his faith waited, therefore all were admitted. here all were "assayed, not analyzed." emerson's habitual quest for only the divinest traits and his quickened perception of the best in men enabled him to recognize excellencies which were yet unseen by others. while hawthorne, the shy hermit at the manse, was unheeded by the world and thought crazed by his neighbors, emerson knew and proclaimed his transcendent genius. he first recognized the inspiration of ellery channing, and made for his exquisite verse exalted claims which have been fully justified, and which the world may yet allow. while to others henry thoreau was yet only an eccentric egotist, emerson knew him as a poet and philosopher, and made him the "forest seer, the heart of all the scene," in his lyrical masterpiece "wood-notes." he promptly hailed walt whitman as a true poet while many of us were yet wondering if it were not charitable to think him insane. emerson's cordiality won for him the honor which prophets rarely enjoy in their own country; the objects and places once associated with him here are still esteemed sacred by his old neighbors. we find among them at this day many who can know nothing of his books, but who, for memory of his simple kindness, go far from their furrow or swath to show us spots he loved and frequented in woodland or meadow, on swelling hill-side or by winding river. to his home here emerson brought his bride sixty years ago; here he lived his fruitful life and accomplished his work; here he rose to the zenith of poesy and prophecy; to him here came the "great and grave transition which may not king or priest or conqueror spare;" from here his wife, lingering behind him in the eternal march, went a year or two ago to rejoin him on the piny hill-top; and here his unmarried daughter--of "saint-like face and nun-like garb"--inhabits his home and cherishes its treasures. emerson's son and biographer some time ago relinquished his medical practice in concord, and has since devoted himself to art. he has a residence a mile or so out of the village, but spends much of his time abroad. last year he lectured in london upon the lives and writings of some of the concord authors. v the orchard house and its neighbors _ellery channing--margaret fuller--the alcotts--professor harris--summer school of philosophy--where little women was written and robert hagburn lived--where cyril norton was slain._ a plain little cottage by the road, not far from emerson's home, was for some time the abode of the companion of many of his rambles through the countryside,--the poet ellery channing. it was to this simple dwelling, as the author of "little women" once told the writer, that channing brought his young wife--sister of margaret fuller--before the alcotts had come to live in their hill-side home under the wooded ridge, and it was here he commenced the sequestered life so suited to his nature and tastes. some of his descriptive poems of concord landscapes were written in this little cottage. the scenes of one of his earlier winters in the neighborhood--when he chopped wood in a rude clearing--are portrayed in the exquisite lines of his "woodman." in those days he thought his poems "too sacred to be sold for money," and they were kept for his circle of friends. of the poet's modest home miss fuller--that "dazzling woman with the flame in her heart"--was a frequent inmate; it was from concord that she went to live in the family of horace greeley in new york. at the time of her visits at channing's cottage thoreau was sojourning with emerson, and we may be sure that the quartette of starry souls, thus _juxtaposé_, held much soulful and edifying converse. but those of us who deplore our lack of the supreme transcendental spirit which we ascribe to the concord circle may find consolation in reflecting that some of this gifted company had also earthly tastes, and found even discourse concerning the "over-soul" sometimes tiresome. the "strained pitch of intellectual intensity" was, upon occasion, gladly relaxed; thus we discover the exalted channing sometime profanely inviting hawthorne--"the gentlest man that kindly nature ever drew"--to visit him in concord, alluring the novelist with prospects of strong-waters, pipes and tobacco without end, and urging, as the utmost inducement, "emerson is gone and there is nobody here to bore you." a few furlongs farther eastward, under the high-soaring elms of the lexington road, we come to the "orchard house" of bronson alcott, "the grandfather of the 'little women.'" the tasteful dwelling stands several rods back from the street, nestling cosily at the foot of a pine-crowned slope, and having a wide, sunny outlook in front. embowered in orchards and vines, and shaded by the overreaching arms of giant elms, it seems a most delightful home for culture and contemplative study. the cottage itself is a low, wide, gabled, picturesquely irregular edifice, which our pythagorean mystic evolved from a forlorn, box-like farm-house which he found here when he purchased the place. the rustic fence he set along the highway is replaced by an ambitious modern structure. on this hill-side alcott, the "most transcendent of the transcendentalists," lived for nearly thirty years,--but not all of that time in this house,--coming here first after the failure of his "fruitlands" community in 1845, and finally twelve years later. prior to this he had been assisted by margaret fuller and elizabeth peabody in his renowned boston temple school, which was a failure in a financial sense only, since it furnished a theme for miss peabody's "record of a school," and louisa alcott's girlish recollections of it provided her a model for the delightful "plumfield" of her books. alcott's treatise on "early education," his "gospels" and "orphic sayings," had been published, and his "very best contribution to literature"--his daughter louisa--was also extant before he came to this home, but it was here that his maturer works and most of his charming essays and "conversations" were produced. in this house were held the early sessions of the summer school of philosophy, of which alcott was the leading spirit; here his daughter, the "beth" of "jo's" books, died. the interior of the "orchard house" is roomy and quaint and abounds in surprising nooks and cosy recesses. in the corner-room louisa wrote "little women" and other delicious books; in the room behind it, may, "our madonna,"--who died madame nieriker,--had her studio and practised the art which made her famous before her untimely end. in the great attic under the sloping roof the "little women" acted the "comic tragedies" written by "jo" and "meg" (some of them now published in a volume with a "foreword" by "meg") until the increasing audiences of concord children caused the removal of the mimic stage to the big barn on the hill-side. hawthorne makes this house the abode of robert hagburn in "septimius felton." along the brow of the tree-clad ridge which overlooks the place, and to which bronson alcott resorted for the morning and evening view, the patriots hastened to intercept the retreat of the british troops, "blackened and bloody." in the depression of the ridge just back of the house we find the spot where "septimius felton" shot the young officer, cyril norton, and buried him under the trees. on the grave here "septimius" sat with rose garfield and the half-crazed sibyl dacy; here grew the crimson flower which he distilled in his "elixir of immortality," and here sibyl came to die after her draught of the compound. after the removal of the alcotts to the thoreau house in the village, "apple slump"--as louisa sometimes called this orchard home--became the property and residence of that disciple of hegel, professor harris,--once principal of the summer school of philosophy, and now the head of the national bureau of education at washington,--who sometimes comes here in summer. the "hillside chapel," erected by mrs. elizabeth thompson, of new york, for the sessions of the summer philosophers, is placed among the trees of the orchard adjoining alcott's old home. it is a plain little structure of wood, tasteful in design, with pointed gables and vine-draped porch and windows. its embowered walls, unpainted and unplastered, seem "scarcely large enough to contain the wisdom of the world," but they have held assemblages of such lights as emerson, alcott, sanborn, bartol, mccosh, holland, porter, lathrop, stedman, wilder, hedge, dr. jones, elizabeth peabody, ward howe, ednah cheney, and other like seekers and promoters of fundamental truth. vi hawthorne's wayside home. _sometime abode of alcott--hawthorne--lathrop--margaret sidney--storied apartments--hawthorne's study--his mount of vision--where septimius felton and rose garfield dwelt._ on the lexington road, a little way beyond the orchard house, is the once wayside home of hawthorne, the dwelling in which, at a tender age, louisa m. alcott made her first literary essay. it is a curious, wide, straggling, and irregular structure, of varying ages, heights, and styles. the central gambrel-roofed portion was the original house of four rooms, described as the residence of "septimius felton;" other rooms have been added at different periods and to serve the need of successive occupants, until an architecturally incongruous and altogether delightful mansion has been produced. to the ugly little square house which alcott found here in 1845 and christened "hillside" he added a low wing at each side, the central gable in the front of the old roof, and wide rustic piazzas across the front of the wings. no additions were made during hawthorne's first residence here, nor during the occupancy of mrs. hawthorne's brother, while the novelist was abroad; but when hawthorne returned to it in 1860, with "most of his family twice as big as when they left," he enlarged one wing by adding the barn to it, heightened the other side-wing, erected two spacious apartments at the back, and crowned the edifice with a square third-story study, which, with its great chimney and many gables, overtops the rambling roofs like an observatory, and may have been suggested by the tower of the villa montauto, where he wrote "the marble faun." no important changes have been made by the subsequent owners of the place. hawthorne's widow left the wayside in 1868. it was afterward occupied by a school for young ladies; then by hawthorne's daughter rose--herself a charming writer--with her husband, the gifted and versatile george parsons lathrop; later it was purchased by the boston publisher daniel lothrop, and has since been the summer home of his widow, who is widely known as "margaret sidney," the creator of "five little peppers," and writer of many delightful books. hawthorne said, anent his visit to abbotsford, "a house is forever ruined as a home by having been the abode of a great man,"--a truth well attested by the present amiable mistress of his own wayside, whose experience with a legion of unaccredited, intrusive, and often insolent persons who come at all hours of the day, and sometimes in the night, demanding to be shown over the place, would be more ludicrous were it less provoking. some details of the interior have been beautified by the æsthetic taste of mrs. lothrop, but an appreciative reverence for hawthorne leads her to preserve his home and its belongings essentially unchanged. at the right of the entrance is an antique reception-room, which was hawthorne's study during his first residence here, as it had long before been the study of "septimius felton" in the tale. it is a low-studded apartment with floor of oaken planks, heavy beams strutting from its ceiling, a generous fireplace against a side wall, and with two windows looking out upon the near highway. in this room hawthorne wrote "tanglewood tales" and "life of franklin pierce;" and here that creature of his imagination, "septimius," brooded over his doubts and questions. through yonder windows "septimius" saw the british soldiery pass and repass; above this oaken mantel--now artistically fitted and embellished with rare pottery--he hung the sword of the officer he had slain; before this fireplace he pored over the mysterious manuscript his dying victim had given him; on this hearth he distilled the mystic potion, and here poor sibyl quaffed it. the spacious room at the left, across the hall, was at first hawthorne's parlor; but after he enlarged the dwelling this became the library, where he read aloud to the assembled family on winter evenings, and where his widow afterward transcribed his "note-books" for publication. the sunny room above this was the chamber of the unfortunate una; hawthorne's own sleeping apartment, on the second floor, is entered from the hall through the narrowest of door-ways. in the upper hall a little wall-closet was the repository of hawthorne's manuscripts, and here, to the surprise of all, an entire unpublished romance was found after his death. from this hall a narrow stairway, so steep that one need cling to the iron rail at the side in order to scale it, ascends to hawthorne's study in the tower, a lofty room with vaulted ceiling. on one side wall is the gothic enclosure of the stairs, against which once stood his plain oaken writing-desk; upon it the bronze inkstand he brought from italy, where it held the ink for "the marble faun." in this inkstand, he declared, lurked "the little imp" which sometimes controlled his pen. attached to a side of the staircase was the high desk or shelf upon which he often wrote standing. book-closets filled the corners at the back, and a little fireplace with a plain mantel was placed between two of the windows. loving hands have neatly decorated the ceiling, and painted upon the walls mottoes commemorative of the master who wrought here. the views he beheld through the windows of this sanctum when he lifted his eyes from his book or manuscript are tranquil and soothing: across his roofs in one direction he looked upon the sunny grasslands of the valley; in another he saw placid slopes of darkly-wooded hills and a reach of the elm-bordered road; in a third direction, smiling fields and the vineyards where the famous concord grape first grew met his vision; and through his north windows appeared the thick woods that crowned his own hill-top,--so near that he "could see the nodding wild flowers" among the trees and breathe the woodland odors. local tradition declares that, to prevent intrusion into this den, hawthorne habitually sat upon a trap-door in the floor, which was the only entrance. without this precaution he found in this eyrie the seclusion he coveted, and here, among the birds and the tree-tops, remote from the tumult of life and above ordinary distracting influences, he could linger undisturbed in that border-land between shadow and substance which was his delight, could evoke and fix upon his pages the weird creatures of his fancy. several hours of each day he passed here alone in musing or composition, and here, besides some papers for the "atlantic," he wrote "our old home," "grimshaw's secret," "septimius felton," and the "dolliver romance" fragment. years before, thoreau told him, the wayside had once been inhabited by a man who believed he would never die. the thus suggested idea, of a deathless man associated with this house, seems to have clung to hawthorne in his last years, and was embodied in both his later works,--the scene of "septimius felton" being laid here at the wayside. no one knew aught of its composition, and the author, rereading the tale in the solitude of this study and finding it in some way lacking the perfection of his ideal, laid it away in his closet, and, in weariness and failing health, commenced and vainly tried to finish the "dolliver romance" from the same materials. the house is separated from the highway by a narrow strip of sward, out of which grow elms planted by bronson alcott and clustering evergreens rooted by hawthorne himself. the greater part of his domain lies along the dark slope and the wooded summit of the ridge which rises close behind the house. at the extremity of the grounds nearest the orchard house, a depression in the turf marks the site of the little house where dwelt the rose garfield of "septimius." hawthorne planted sunflowers in this hollow, and julian, his son, remembers seeing the novelist stand here and contemplate their wide disks above the old cellar. on the steep hill-side remain the rough terraces alcott fashioned when he occupied the place, and many of the flowering locusts and fruit-trees he and thoreau planted. here, too, are the sombre spruces and firs which hawthorne sent from "our old home" or planted after his return, and all are grown until they overshadow the whole place and fairly embower the house with their branches. along the hill-side are the famous "acacia path" of mrs. hawthorne and other walks planned by the novelist, some of them having been opened by him in the last summer of his life. by one path, once familiar to his feet, we find our way up the steep ascent among the locusts to the "mount of vision,"--as mrs. hawthorne named the ridge to which the novelist daily resorted for study and meditation. the hill-top is clothed with a tangled growth of trees which hides it from the lower world and renders it a fitting trysting-place for the wizard romancer and the mystic figures which abound in his tales. along the brow we trace, among the ferns, vestiges of the pathway worn by his feet. in the safe seclusion of this spot he spent delectable hours, lying under the trees "with a book in his hands and an unwritten book in his thoughts," while the pines murmured to him of the mystery and shadow he loved. more often he sat on a rustic seat between yonder pair of giant trees, or paced his foot-path hour after hour, as he pondered his plots and worked out the mystic details of many romances, some of them never to be written. walking here with fields he unfolded his design of the "dolliver" tale, which he left half told. here he composed the weird story of "septimius felton," while trudging on the very path he describes as having been worn by his hero,--hawthorne himself habitually walking, with hands clasped behind him and with eyes bent on the ground, in the very attitude he ascribes to "septimius" as rose saw him "treading, treading, treading, many a year," on this foot-path by the grave of the officer he had slain. in this refuge hawthorne remained a whole day alone with his grief, when tidings came to him of the loss of his sister in the burning of the "henry clay." here he sat with howells one memorable afternoon. in the last years his wife was often with him here, sometimes walking, but more frequently sitting, with him,--as did rose with "septimius,"--and looking out, through an opening in the foliage near the western end of his path, upon the restful landscape, not less charming to-day than when his eyes lovingly lingered upon it. we see the same broad, sun-kissed meadows awave with lush grass and flecked with fleeting cloud-shadows, and beyond, the dark forests of thoreau's walden and the gentle outlines of low-lying hills which shut in the valley like a human life. for some months after the election to the presidency of his friend franklin pierce, the wayside was frequented by office-seekers; but ordinarily hawthorne had few visitors besides his concord friends. fields, holmes, hilliard, whipple, longfellow, howells, horatio bridge, the poet stoddard, henry bright, came to him here. the visits of "gail hamilton" (miss abigail dodge), mentioned by hawthorne as "a sensible, healthy-minded woman," were especially enjoyed by him. his own visits were very infrequent; "orphic" alcott said that in the several years he lived next door hawthorne came but twice into his house: the first time he quickly excused himself "because the stove was too hot," next time "because the clock ticked too loud." the wayside was the only home hawthorne ever owned. to it he came soon after his removal from the "little red house" in berkshire, and to it he returned from his sojourn abroad; here, with failing health and desponding spirits, he lived in the gloomy war-days,--writing in his study or, with steps more and more uncertain, pacing his hill-top; from here he set out with his life-long friend pierce on the last sad journey which ended so quickly and quietly. vii the walden of thoreau _a transcendental font--emerson's garden--thoreau's cove--cairn- beanfield--resort of emerson--hawthorne--channing--hosmer--alcott, etc._ one long-to-be-remembered day we follow the shady foot-paths, once familiar to the sublimated concord company, through their favorite forest retreats to "the blue-eyed walden,"--sung by many a bard, beloved by transcendental saint and seer. after a delightful stroll of a mile or more, we emerge from the wood and see the lovely lakelet "smiling upon its neighbor pines." we find it a half-mile in diameter, with bold and picturesquely irregular margins indented with deep bays and mostly wooded to the pebbles at the water's edge. from this setting of emerald foliage it scintillates like a gem: its wavelets lave a narrow pebbly shore within which a bottom of pure white sand gleams upward through the most transparent water ever seen. at one point where the railway skirts the margin, the woods are disfigured with pavilions and tables for summer pleasure-seekers, and a farther wooded slope has recently been ravaged by fire; but most of the shore has escaped both profanation and devastation, so that the literary pilgrim will find the shrines he seeks little disturbed since the concord luminaries here had their haunt. from the summit of the forest ledge which rises from the southern shore, the lakelet seems a foliage-framed patch of the firmament. this rocky eminence affords a wide and enchanting prospect, and was the terminus and object of many excursions of emerson and the other "walden-pond-walkers," as the transcendentalists were styled by their more prosy and orthodox neighbors. it was upon this elevation in the midst of a portion of his estate which he celebrates in his poetry as "my garden"--whose "banks slope down to the blue lake-edge"--that emerson proposed to erect a lodge or retreat for retirement and thought. a mossy path, once trodden almost daily by the philosopher and his friends, brings us to the beautiful and secluded cove where emerson and thoreau kept a boat, and where the shining ones often came to bathe in this limpid water. ablution here seems to have been a sort of transcendent baptism, and many a visitor, eminent in art, thought, or letters, has boasted that he walked and talked with emerson in walden woods and bathed with him in walden water. in this romantic nook thoreau spent much time during his hermitage, sitting in reverie on its banks or afloat on its glassy surface, fishing or playing his flute to the charmed perch. on the shore of this cove he procured the stones for the foundations and the sand for the plastering of his cabin. from the water's edge an obscure path, bordered by the wild flowers he loved, winds among the murmuring pines up to the site of thoreau's retreat, on a gentle hill-side which falls away to the shore a few rods distant. a cairn of small stones, placed by reverent pilgrims, stands upon or near the spot where he erected his dwelling at an outlay of twenty-eight dollars and lived upon an income of one dollar per month. the hermit would hardly know the place now; his young pines are grown into giants that allow but glimpses of the shimmering lake; even the "potato hole" he dug under his cabin, whence the squirrels chirped at him from beneath the floor as he sat to write, and where he kept his winter store,--the "beans with the weevil in them" and the "potatoes with every third one nibbled by chipmunks,"--is obliterated and overgrown with the glabrous sumach. his near-by field, where he learned to "know beans" and gathered relics of a previous and aboriginal race of bean-hoers, is covered by a growth of pines and dwarf oaks, in places so dense as to be almost impassable. some one has said, "thoreau experienced nature as other men experience religion." certainly the life at walden, which he depicted in one of the most fascinating of books, was in all its details--whether he was ecstatically hoeing beans in his field or dreaming on his door-step, floating on the lake or rambling in forest and field--that of an ascetic and devout worshipper of nature in all her moods. thoreau "built himself in walden woods a den" in 1845,--after his return from tutoring in the family of emerson's brother at staten island; here he wrote most of "walden" and the "week on the concord and merrimac rivers," and much more that has been posthumously published; from here he went to jail for refusing to pay a tax on his poll, from here he made the excursion described in "the maine woods." he finally removed from walden in the autumn of 1847, to reside in the house of emerson during that sage's absence in europe. an old neighbor of thoreau's, who had often watched his "stumpy" figure as he hoed the beans, and had even once or twice assisted him in that celestial agriculture, tells us that thoreau's hut was removed by a gardener to the middle of the bean-field and there occupied for some years. later it was purchased by a farmer, who set it upon wheels and conveyed it to his farm some miles distant, where it has decayed and gone to pieces. in concord it is not difficult to identify the personages associated with thoreau's life at walden pond and referred to in his book. the "landlord and waterlord" of the domain, on which thoreau was "a squatter," was waldo emerson; the owner of the axe which the hermit borrowed to hew the frame of his hut was bronson alcott; the "honorable raisers" of the structure were emerson, curtis the nile "howadji," alcott, hosmer, and others; the lady who made the sketch of the hermitage which appears on the title-page of "walden" was the author's sister sophia. of the hermit's visitors here, "the one who came oftenest" was emerson; "the one who came farthest" was also the poet whom the hermit "took to board for a fortnight," ellery channing; the "long-headed farmer," who had "donned a frock instead of a professor's gown," was thoreau's neighbor and life-long friend edmund hosmer, who is celebrated in the poetry of emerson and channing; the "last of the philosophers," the "great looker--great expecter," who "first peddled wares and then his own brains," was bronson alcott, who spent long evenings here in converse with the hermit, or in listening to chapters from his manuscript. here came hawthorne to talk with his "cast-iron man" about trees and arrow-heads; here came george hilliard and james t. fields, and others,--sometimes so many that the hut would scarce contain them; the only complaint heard from thoreau anent the narrowness of his quarters being that there was not room for the words to ricochet between him and his guests. here, too, came humbler visitors, hunted slaves, who were never denied the shelter of the hermitage nor the sympathy and aid of the hermit. another generation of visitors comes now to this spot,--pilgrims from far, like ourselves, to the shrine of a "stoic greater than zeno or xenophanes,"--a man whose "breath and core was conscience." we linger till the twilight, for the genius of this shrine seems very near us as we muse in the place where he dwelt incarnate alone with nature, and there is for us a hint of his healthful spirit in the odor of his pines and of the wild flowers beside his path,--a vague whisper of his earnest, honest thought in the murmur of the clustering boughs and in the lapping of the wavelets upon the mimic strand. we bring from the shore a stone--the whitest we can find--for his cairn, and place with it a bright leaf, like those his callers in other days left for visiting cards upon his door-step, and then, through the wondrous half-lights of the summer evening, we walk silently away. viii the hill-top hearsed with pines _last resting-place of the illustrious concord company--their graves beneath the piny boughs._ during hawthorne's habitation of the "old manse" and his first residence at the wayside, his favorite walk was to the "sleepy hollow," a beautifully diversified precinct of hill and vale which lies a little way eastward from the village. his habitual resting-place here was a pine-shaded hill-top where he often met emerson, thoreau, bronson alcott, elizabeth hoar, mrs. ripley, or margaret fuller,--for all that sublimated company loved and frequented this spot. more often hawthorne lounged and mused or chatted here alone with his lovely wife. their letters and journals of this period make frequent mention of the walks to this place and of "our castle,"--a fanciful structure which, in their happy converse here under the pines, they planned to erect for their habitation on this hill-top. in their pleasant conceit, the terraced path which skirts the verge of the hollow and thence ascends the ridge was the grand "chariot-road" to their castle. this park has become a cemetery,--at its dedication emerson made an oration and frank b. sanborn read a beautiful ode,--and on their beloved hill-top nearly all the transcendent company whom hawthorne used to meet there, save margaret fuller who rests beneath the sea, lie at last in "the dreamless sleep that lulls the dead." first came thoreau, to lie among his kindred under the wild flowers and the fallen needles of his dear pines, in a grave marked now by a simple stone graven with his name and age. next came hawthorne: with his "half-told tale" and a wreath of apple-blossoms from the "old manse" resting on his coffin, and with emerson, longfellow, fields, ellery channing, agassiz, hoar, lowell, whipple, alcott, holmes, and george hilliard walking mournfully by his side, he was borne, through the flowering orchards and up the hill-side path,--which was to have been his "chariot-road,"--to a grave on the site of the "castle" of his fancy; where his dearest friend franklin pierce covered him with flowers and james freeman clarke committed his mortal part to the lap of earth. alas, that the beloved cohabitant of his dream-castle must lie in death a thousand leagues away! in no dream of his would such a separation from her have seemed possible. she tried to mark his tomb by a leafy monument of hawthorn shrubbery, but the rigorous climate prevented; now a low marble, inscribed with the one word "hawthorne," stands at either extremity of his grave, and a glossy growth of periwinkle covers the spot where sleeps the great master of american romance. some smaller graves are beside his: in one lies a child of julian hawthorne; in another, rose--the daughter of hawthorne's age--laid the son which her husband, parsons lathrop, commemorates in the lines of "the flown soul." next mrs. ripley and elizabeth hoar were borne to this "god's acre," and then emerson--followed by a vast concourse and mourned by all the world--was brought to "give his body back to earth again," in this loved retreat, near hawthorne and his own "forest-seer" thoreau. a gigantic pine towers above him here, and a massive triangular boulder of untooled pink quartz--already marred by the vandalism of relic-seekers--is placed to mark the grave of the great "king of thought." it bore no inscription or device of any sort until a few months ago, when a bronze plate inscribed with his name and years and the lines- "the passive master lent his hand to the vast soul that o'er him planned"-was set in the rough surface of the stone. by emerson lie his wife, his mother, two children of his son and biographer dr. emerson, and his own little child,--the "wondrous, deep-eyed boy" whom emerson mourned in his matchless "threnody." "o child of paradise, boy who made dear his father's home, in whose deep eyes men read the welfare of the times to come,- i am too much bereft." six years after emerson, bronson alcott and his illustrious daughter louisa were laid here, within a few yards of hawthorne and the rest, on a spot selected by the "beth" of the alcott books who was herself the first to be interred in it. now all the "little women" repose here with their parents and good "john brooke,"--"jo" being so placed as to suggest to her biographer that she is still to take care of parents and sisters "as she had done all her life." [illustration: the grave of emerson] no other spot of earth holds dust more precious than does this "hill-top hearsed with pines." we are pleased to find the native beauty of the place little disturbed,--the trees, the indigenous grasses, ferns, and flowers remaining for the most part as they were known and loved by those who sleep beneath them. the contour of the ground and the foliage which clusters upon the slopes measurably shut out the view of other portions of the enclosure from this secluded hill-top, and, as we sit by the graves under the moaning pines, we seem to be alone with these _our_ dead. through the boughs we have glimpses of the motionless deeps of a summer sky; the patches of sunshine which illumine the graves about us are broken by foliate shadows sometimes as still as if painted upon the turf. no discordant sound from the haunts of men disturbs our meditations; the silence is unbroken save by the frequent sighs of the mourning pines. as we linger, the pervading quiet becomes something more than mere silence, it acquires the air and sense of reserve: the impression is borne into our thought that these asleep here, who once freely gave us their richest and best, are withholding something from us now,--some newly-learned wisdom, some higher thought. does "an awful spell bind them to silence," or are they vainly repeating to us in the tender monotone of the pines a message we cannot hear or cannot bear? or have they ceased from all ken or care for earthly things? do they no longer love this once beloved spot? do they not rejoice in the beauty of this summer day and the sunshine that falls upon their windowless palace? are they conscious of our reverent tread on the turf above them, of our low words of remembrance and affection? do they care that we have come from far to bend over them here? "for knowledge of all these things, we must"--as the greatest of this transcendent circle once said--"wait for to-morrow morning." in and out of literary boston in boston out of boston i. cambridge; elmwood, etc. ii. belmont; wayside inn; homes of whittier iii. the salem of hawthorne; whittier's oak knoll iv. webster's marsh-field; brook farm and other shrines in boston _a golden age of letters--literary associations--isms--clubs--where hester prynne and silas lapham lived--the corner book-store--home of fields--sargent--hilliard--aldrich--deland--parkman--holmes--howells- moulton--hale--howe--jane austin, etc._ of the cisatlantic cities our "modern athens" is, to the literary pilgrim, the most interesting; for, whatever may be the claims of other cities to the present literary primacy, all must concede that boston was long the intellectual capital of the continent and its centre of literary culture and achievement. if the pilgrim have attained to middle life and be loyal to the literary idols of his youth, his regard for the boston of to-day must be largely reminiscential of a past that is rapidly becoming historic; for, of the constellation of brilliant authors and thinkers who first gained for the place its pre-eminence in letters, few or none remain alive. the requirements of labor and trade are transforming the old streets; the sedate and comfortable dwellings, once the abodes or the resorts of the _littérateurs_, are giving place to palatial shops or great factories; the neighborhood where bancroft, choate, winthrop, webster, and edward everett dwelt within a few rods of each other was long ago surrendered to merchandise and mammon; yet for us the busy scenes are haunted by memories and peopled by presences which the spirit of trade is powerless to exorcise. to tread the streets which have daily echoed the foot-falls of the illustrious company who created here a golden age of learning and culture were alone a pleasure, but the city holds many closer and more personal mementos of her dead prophets, as well as the homes of a present generation who worthily strive to sustain her place and prestige. interwoven with the older boston are literary associations hardly less memorable and enduring than its history: in the belfry of its historic holy of holies--old south church--was the study of the historian dr. belknap, and the dove that nested beneath the church-bell is preserved in the poetry of n. p. willis; king's chapel, the sanctuary where the beloved dr. holmes worshipped for so many years, and whence he was not long ago sadly borne to his burial, figures in the fiction of fenimore cooper; historic copp's hill is also a scene in a tale of the same novelist; the court-house occupies the site of the "beetle-browed" prison of hester prynne of "the scarlet letter;" the storied old state-house marked the place of her pillory; the theatre of the boston massacre is the scene of the thrilling episode of hawthorne's "gray champion;" his "legends of province house" commemorate the ancient structure which stood nearly opposite the old south church; the tremont house, where the "jacobins' club" used to assemble with ripley, channing, theodore parker, bronson alcott, peabody, and the extreme reformers, was the resort of hawthorne's "miles coverdale," as it was of the novelist himself, and on the street here he saw "ragamuffin moodie" of "the blithedale romance." on the site of bowdoin school, charles sumner was born; at one hundred and twenty hancock street he lived and composed the early orations which made his fame; at number one exeter place, theodore parker, the vulcan of the new england pulpit, forged his bolts and wrote the "discourses of religion;" in essex street lived and wrote wendell phillips, at thirty-seven common street he died; at thirty-one hollis street the gifted harriet martineau was the guest of francis jackson; at the corner of congress and water streets lloyd garrison wrote and published "the liberator." in this older city, antedating the luxury of the back bay district of the new boston, mather wrote the "magnalia," paine sang his songs, allston composed his tales, buckminster wrote his homilies, bowditch translated la place's "_mécanique céleste_." here emerson, motley, parkman, and poe were born; here bancroft lived, combe wrote, spurzheim died. here maffit, channing, and pierpont preached; agassiz, phillips, and lyell lectured; alcott, elizabeth peabody, and fuller taught. here sargent wrote "dealings with the dead," sprague his "curiosity," prescott his "ferdinand and isabella;" here margaret fuller held the "conversations" which attracted and impressed the leading spirits of the time, and bronson alcott favored elect circles with his orphic and oracular utterances; here lived melvill, pictured in holmes's "last leaf;" here emerson preached unitarianism "until he had carried it to the jumping-off-place," as one of his quondam parishioners avers, and here commenced his career as philosopher and lecturer. here, besides those above mentioned, dwight, brisbane, quincy, ripley, graham, thompson, hovey, loring, miller, mrs. folsom, and others of similar ability or zeal, discoursed and wrote in advocacy of the various reforms and "isms" in vogue half a century or more ago. it has been said that, according to the local creed, whoso is born in boston needs not to be born again, but some decades ago a literary prowler, like ourselves, discovered that "nobody is born in boston," the people who have made its fame in letters and art being usually allured to it from other places. this is true in less degree of the present age, since hale, robert grant, ballou,--of "the pearl of india,"--bates, guiney, elizabeth stuart phelps, and others are "to the manor born;" but, if boston has few birthplaces, she cherishes the homes and haunts of two generations of adult intellectual giants. prominent among the literary landmarks is the "corner book-store"--once the shop of the father of dr. clarke--at school and washington streets, which, like murray's in london, has long been the rendezvous of the _littérateurs_. here appeared the first american edition of "the opium eater" and of tennyson's poems. here was the early home of the "atlantic," then edited by james t. fields, who was the literary partner of the firm and the presiding genius of the old store. this lover of letters and sympathetic friend of literary men--always kind of heart and generous of hand--drew to him here the foremost of that galaxy who first achieved for america a place in the world of letters. to this literary rialto, as familiar loungers, came in that golden age george hilliard, emerson, ticknor, saxe, whipple, longfellow, hawthorne, lowell, agassiz, the "autocrat," and the rest, to loiter among and discuss the new books, or, more often, to chat with their friend fields at his desk, in the nook behind the green baize curtain. the store is altered some since fields left it; the curtained back-corner, which was the domain of the celtic urchin "michael angelo" and the trysting spot of the literary fraternity, has given place to shelves of shining books. the side entrance--used mostly by the authors because it brought them more directly to fields's desk and den--is replaced by a window which looks out upon the spot where, as we remember with a thrill, fields last shook hawthorne's hand and stood looking after him as--faltering with weakness--he walked up this side street with pierce to start upon the journey from which he never returned. literary tourists come to the store as to a shrine: thus in later years matthew arnold, cable, edmund gosse, professor drummond, dr. doyle, and others like them, have visited the old corner. nor is it deserted by the authors of the day; holmes was often here up to the time of his death, and the visitor may still see, turning the glossy pages, some who are writers as well as readers of books: thomas bailey aldrich, scudder, alger, robert grant,--whose "reflections" and "opinions" have been so widely read,--miss winthrop, miss jewett, mrs. louise chandler moulton, and mrs. coffin are among those who still come to the familiar place. near by, in washington street, hawthorne's first romance, "fanshawe," was published in 1828. from fields's famous store the transition to the staid old mansion which was long his home, and in which his widow still lives, is easy and natural. we find it pleasantly placed below the western slope of beacon hill, overlooking an enchanting prospect of blue waters and sunset skies. it is one of those dignified, substantial, and altogether comfortable dwellings--with spacious rooms, wide halls, easy stairways, and generous fireplaces--which we inherit from a previous generation. here fields, hardly less famed as an author than as the friend of authors, and his gifted wife--who is still a charming writer--created in their beautiful home an atmosphere which attracted to it the best and highest of their kind, and made it what it has been for more than forty years, a centre and ganglion of literary life and interest. the old-fashioned rooms are aglow with most precious memories and teem with artistic and literary treasures, many of them being _souvenirs_ of the illustrious authors whom the fields have numbered among their friends and guests. the letters of dickens, hawthorne, emerson, and others reveal the quality of the hospitality of this house and show how it was prized by its recipients. for years this was the boston home of hawthorne; to it came emerson, longfellow, and whittier almost as freely as to their own abodes; here holmes, lowell, charles sumner, greene, bayard taylor, joseph jefferson, were frequent guests; and here we see a quaintly furnished bedchamber which has at various times been occupied by dickens, trollope, arthur clough, thackeray, charles kingsley, matthew arnold, charlotte cushman, and others of equal fame. of the delights of familiar intercourse with the starry spirits who frequented this house, of their brilliant discussions of men and books, their scintillations of wit, their sage and sober words of wisdom, mrs. annie fields affords but tantalizing hints in her reminiscences and the glimpses she occasionally allows us of her husband's diary and letters. fields's library on the second floor--described as "my friend's library"--is a most alluring apartment, where we see, besides the "shelf of old books" of which mrs. fields gives such a sympathetic account, other shelves containing numerous curious and uniquely precious volumes,--among them the few hundreds of worn and much annotated books which constituted the library of leigh hunt. in this room emerson, while awaiting breakfast, wrote one of his poems, to which the hostess gave title. in later years a younger generation of writers came to this mansion: celia thaxter was a frequent guest; the princess-like sarah orne jewett, beloved by whittier as a daughter, has made it her boston home; aldrich comes to see the widow of his friend; miss preston, mrs. ward, and other luminous spirits may be met among the company who assemble in these memory-haunted rooms. for several years holmes lived in the same street, within a few doors of fields's house. at number fifty-four in quaint pinckney street, around the corner from mrs. fields's and near the former residence of aldrich, we find the house in which the brilliant george hilliard lived and died, scarcely changed since the time james freeman clarke here married hawthorne to the lovely sophia peabody. upon the opposite side, at number eleven, dwells mrs. e. p. whipple, widow of the eminent author and critic,--herself a lady of refined critical tastes,--who keeps unchanged the home in which her husband died. in his lifetime a select circle of friends usually assembled here on sunday evenings,--a circle in which fields, bronson alcott, lowell, emerson, longfellow, holmes, sumner, clarke, dr. bartol, ole bull, lucretia hale, edwin booth, and others of similar eminence in letters or art were included. just around the corner, in louisburg square, bronson alcott died in the house of his daughter mrs. pratt,--the "meg" of louisa alcott's books. on beacon hill, in the next--mount vernon--street, we find near the "hub of the hub" a tall, deep-roomed dwelling, surmounted by an observatory which commands a charming view of the city and its environs, and this is the elegant city home of the poet, novelist, and prince of conversationalists, thomas bailey aldrich. his library, full of treasures, is on a lower floor, but the study in which he pens his delightful compositions is high above the distractions of the world. as one sees the author of "marjorie daw" and the recent "unguarded gates" among his books, there is no hint of his sixty years in his fresh, ruddy face, with its carefully waxed moustache, nor in his sprightly speech and manner. in the same street, the spacious mansion of ex-governor claflin was long a resort of a wise, earnest, and dazzling company of sublimated intellects. this house was in later years the usual haven of whittier, the gentle quaker bard, during his visits to boston; and here, protected by the hostess from the eager kindness of his numerous friends, he spent many restful days when rest was most needed. near by, on the same hill-side, the talented authoress of "john ward, preacher" inhabits a many-windowed home of sober brick. within, we find everywhere evidences of the fastidious personality of mrs. margaret deland. in her parlors are dainty articles of furniture and bric-à-brac, wide fireplaces, deep windows full of flowers, many pictures, many more books. in her study and work-room, her desk stands near another fireplace, about it are still more flowers, pictures and books galore; here, not long ago, that tragedy of selfishness--"philip and his wife"--was written. at the sumptuous home of the sargents in the adjoining street have been held some of the _séances_ of the noted radical club, in which, as mrs. moulton says, "somebody read a paper and everybody else pulled it to pieces." at these sessions such spirits as emerson, bronson alcott, holmes, edward everett hale, carl schurz, the genial colonel higginson, the serene james freeman clarke, the mystic dr. bartol,--who still lives in retirement in his old home,--and other representatives of advanced thought have discussed the ethics of life as well as of letters. a plain brick house of three stories in the same quiet street was the abode of francis parkman's sister, where, after the death of his wife, the historian spent his winters, his study here being a simple front room on the upper floor, with open fireplace and book-lined walls. in park street, above the common, the ample mansion of george ticknor--the chronicler of "spanish literature" and the autocrat of literary taste--was during many years a haunt of the best of boston culture. we find its stately walls still standing, but the interior has been surrendered to the philistines. on beacon street, but a door or two removed from the birthplace of wendell phillips, in a house whose number the poet-lover said he "remembered by thinking of the thirty-nine articles," longfellow won miss appleton to be his wife. just across the common, in carver street, hawthorne's son was born. at many of the homes here mentioned were held the assemblages of the ladies' social club. among its readers were agassiz, emerson, greene, whipple, clarke, and e. e. hale. it was ironically styled the "brain club," and died after many years because, according to one ex-member, "the newer members brought into it too much supper and stomach and no brain at all." a successor has been the round table club, with colonel higginson for first president,--its meetings for essays and discussions being held in the homes of its literary or artistic members. boston's belgravia occupies a district which has been reclaimed from the waters of the "back bay" of the charles river,--on whose shore hawthorne placed the shunned and isolated thatched cottage of hester prynne in "the scarlet letter," and the windows of many of boston's four hundred overlook the same delightful vista of water, hills, and western skies which to the sad eyes of hester and little pearl were a daily vision. on the water side of beacon street, within this select region, is the four-floored, picturesque mansion of brick--its front embellished with a growth of ivy which clusters about the bay-windows--where not long ago we found the gentle and genial holmes sitting among his books, serene in the golden sunset of life, happy in the love of friends and in the benedictions of the thousands his work has uplifted and beatified. the mansion is redolent of literary associations, and throughout its apartments were tastefully disposed articles of virtu, curios, and mementos--literary, artistic, or historic--of affection and regard from holmes's many friends at home and abroad. his study was a large room at the back of the house, occupying the entire width of the second floor. its broad window commands a sweep of the charles, with its tides and its many craft, beyond which the poet could see, as he said, cambridge where he was born, harvard where he was educated, and mount auburn where he expected to lie in his last sleep. we last saw the "autocrat" in his easy-chair, among the treasures of this apartment, with a portrait of his ancestress "dorothy q" looking down at him from a side wall. his hair was silvered and his kindly face had lost its smoothness,--for he was eighty-five "years young," as he would say,--but his faculties were keen and alert, and, in benign age, his greeting was no less cordial and his outlook upon men and affairs was no less cheery and optimistic than in the flush and vigor of early manhood. in this luxurious study were written several of his twenty-five volumes,--"over the teacups" being the most popular of those produced here,--and we found him still devoting some hours of each day to light literary tasks, oftenest dictating materials for his memoirs, which are yet to be published. above the study, and overlooking the river on which he used to row and the farther green hills, is the chamber immortalized in "my aviary;" and here, as he sat in his favorite chair, surrounded by his family, death came to him, and his spirit peacefully passed into the eternal silence. then the "last leaf" had fallen, to be mourned by all the world. a door or two from holmes sometime dwelt the versatile novelist, poet, playwright, and "altrurian traveller." a popular print of "howells in his library" is an interior of his beacon street house; the view of the glassy river-basin, with the roofs and spires of cambridge rising from banks and bowers of foliage beyond,--which he pictures from the new house of "silas lapham" on this street,--is the one howells daily beheld from his study window here. his latest boston home was in the same district on the superb commonwealth avenue, near the statue of garrison, and here, in a sumptuous, six-storied, bow-fronted mansion, he wrote "the shadow of a dream" and other widely read books. a modest, old-fashioned house on beacon street has long been the home of the poet and starry genius julia ward howe, writer of the "battle-hymn of the republic." other members of her singularly gifted family have sojourned here, and the "home of the howes" has been frequented by men and women eminent for culture and thought and for achievement in literature or art. in the adjacent marlborough street recently died the polished author and orator robert c. winthrop, and here, too, was the home of dr. ellis, the friend of lowell's father. farther away in this newer boston of luxury and culture is the charming and hospitable home of the poet, essayist, novelist, and critic mrs. louise chandler moulton, whose american admirers complain that in late years she remains too much in london. when at home, she inhabits a delightful dwelling which, from entrance to attic, teems with pictures, rare books, curios, and other _souvenirs_ of her many friends in many lands. in her library, where much of "garden of dreams," "swallow flights," and other books was written, and where more of all "the work nearest her heart" was accomplished, are preserved many autograph copies of books by recent writers--several of them dedicated to mrs. moulton--and a priceless collection of letters from illustrious literary workers. in her drawing-rooms one may meet many of the famed authors of the day,--higginson, wendell, horsford, bynner, nora perry of the charming books for girls, miss conway, miss louise imogen guiney, mrs. howe, arlo bates, adams, the jocosely serious robert grant, and others of boston's newer lights of literature. if we "drive on down washington street" with "silas lapham," we shall find in chester square the "nankeen square" where he dwelt in his less ambitious days, and the pretty oval green with the sturdy trees which the worthy colonel saw grow from saplings. in a pleasant dwelling on the contiguous street lives and works the bright and busy lucretia p. hale, sister of the author-divine. she was the favorite scholar of miss elizabeth peabody; and she has, through her writings and her classes, acquired an influence and discipleship little smaller than that which margaret fuller once possessed. farther south, in the roxbury district, we seek the abode of the famed author of "the man without a country." sauntering along the shady and delectable highland street, we interrogate a uniformed guardian of the law, who heartily rejoins, "dr. hale's is a temple on the right a block further on: and if any man's fit to live in a temple, it's him." as we walk the "block further on" we think that, however defective his grammar, the policeman's estimate of hale is beyond criticism and agrees with that of the thousands of readers and friends of the indefatigable author, lecturer, preacher, editor, reformer, and promoter of all good. we find the house--very like a greek temple--standing back from the street in the midst of an ample lawn, shaded by noble trees and decked with a wealth of shrubbery and bloom. the mansion is a large square edifice, with great dormer-windows in its roofs, surmounted by a cupola, and having in front a lofty portico upheld by heavy ionic pillars, between which interlacing woodbine forms a leafy screen. within is a wide hall, and opening out of it are generously proportioned rooms, some of them lined from floor to ceiling with thousands of books. the study is a commodious room, with a "pamphlet-annex" adjoining it on the garden side, and is crammed with book-shelves and drawers, while piles of books, magazines, portfolios, manuscripts, and memoranda are disposed on cases, tables, and stands about the apartment. everything is obviously arranged for convenient and ready use, and well it may be so, for this is the work-room and "thinking-shop" of the hardest-working literary man in america. the books which made his first fame were written before he came to this house; of all the works produced in this study, the numerous poems, romances, histories, essays, editorials, reviews, discussions, translations,--to say nothing of the many hundreds of well-considered and carefully written sermons,--we may not here mention even the names, for no writer since voltaire is more fruitful of finished and masterly work. it is notable that hale regards "in his name" as his best work from a literary point of view; of his other productions, he thinks some of the poems of the latest collection, "for fifty years," as good as anything,--"always excepting his sermons." among the abundant treasures of his study, hale has a most interesting and valuable collection of autograph letters, of which he is justly proud. his father was nathan hale of the boston "advertiser," his mother was sister to edward everett and herself an author and translator, his wife is niece to mrs. harriet beecher stowe, his son robert has already acquired a reputation in the domain of letters. the doctor himself has been a writer from childhood, his earliest contributions being to his father's paper. his illustrious sister declares that in their nursery days she and her brother used to take their meals with the "advertiser" pinned under their chins,--a practice to which their literary precocity has been attributed. we find hale at the age of seventy-three blithe and hopeful, working as much and manifestly accomplishing more than ever before. a little farther out on the same street is the dwelling where william lloyd garrison spent his last years, and in this neighborhood lived mrs. blake, poet of "verses along the way." here also are the early home of miss guiney and the school to which she was first sent,--or rather "carried neck and heels," because she refused to walk. close by we find the pleasant home in which jane g. austin wrote some of her famed colonial tales and where she died not many months ago; and in the same delightful suburb, a half-mile beyond hale's house, is the retreat where the beloved author of "little women" breathed out her too brief life. out of boston i cambridge: elmwood: mount auburn _holmes's church-yard--bridge, smithy, chapel, and river of longfellow's verse--abodes of lettered culture--holmes--higginson--agassiz- norton--clough--howells--fuller--longfellow--lowell--longfellow's city of the dead and its precious graves._ crossing the charles by "the bridge" of longfellow's popular poem, a stroll along elm-shaded streets brings us to the ancient common of cambridge and a vicinage which has much besides its historic traditions to allure the literary pilgrim. for centuries the site of a celebrated college and a conspicuous centre of learning, it has long been the abiding-place of representatives of the best and foremost in american culture and mental achievement. close by the common, and opposite the remains of the elm beneath which washington assumed the command of the patriot army, stood the old gambrel-roofed house in which that "gentlest of autocrats," holmes, was born and reared, and upon whose door-post was first displayed his "shingle," on which he whimsically proposed to inscribe "the smallest fevers thankfully received;" across the college grounds is the home-like edifice where lived the erudite professor felton, loved by dickens and oft mentioned in his letters; not far away, at the corner of broadway, was the home of agassiz, since occupied by his son; and a few rods eastward is the picturesque residence of the witty and profound colonel higginson,--poet, essayist, novelist, and reformer. in the adjacent kirkland street dwelt the delightful dr. estes howe, brother-in-law to lowell, with whom the poet sometime lived and whom he celebrated as "the doctor" in the "fable for critics." dr. c. c. abbott formerly lived in this neighborhood, and the collections on which his best-known books are founded are preserved in the near-by peabody museum, beyond which we find the tasteful abode of professor charles eliot norton, the friend and literary executor of lowell. near the common, too, dwelt for a year or so that rare poet arthur clough, author of "the bothie" and "qua cursum ventus;" and the sweet singer charlotte fiske bates--the intimate friend of longfellow--had her habitation in the same neighborhood. opposite the southern end of the common is the ancient village cemetery celebrated in the poetry of holmes and longfellow; a little way westward, howells lived in a delightful rose-embowered cottage and pleasantly pictured many features of the old town in the "charlesbridge" of his "suburban sketches." two or three furlongs distant, within the grounds of the botanic garden, long lived the american linnæus, professor asa gray. of all the cambridge thoroughfares, the shady and venerable brattle street, which curves westward from the university press, is most interesting and attractive. near the press building stands the historic brattle house,--its beautiful stairway and other antique features preserved by the social club, to whom the property now belongs,--where margaret fuller, the priestess and queen of modern transcendentalism, passed much of her youth and young womanhood, and where her sister, wife to the poet ellery channing, was reared. margaret, who is said to have stood for the theodora of beaconsfield's "lothair," first saw the light in a modest little dwelling in main street nearer the boston bridge, and here attended school with holmes and richard henry dana; but it was in this brattle house that her marvellous, and in some respects unique, intellectual career commenced. here she acquired the moral and mental equipment which fitted her for leadership in the most vital epoch of american culture and thought, and here she attracted and attached all the wisest and noblest spirits within her range. to her here came theodore parker, the older channing, harriet martineau, james freeman clarke,--the earnest, brilliant, and thoughtful of all ages and conditions. one noble soul who knew her here speaks of her friendship as a "gift of the gods," and some eminent in thought and achievement testify that they have ever striven toward standards set up for them by her in that early period of her residence here. close by miss fuller's home, "under a spreading chestnut-tree" at the intersection of story street, stood the smithy of pratt, who was immortalized by longfellow as "the village blacksmith." to the poet, passing daily on the way between his home and the college, the "mighty man" at his anvil in the shaded smithy was long a familiar vision. the tree--a horse-chestnut--has been removed, the shop has given place to a modern dwelling, and years ago the worthy smith rejoined his wife, "singing in paradise." a few steps westward from the site of the smithy is the "chapel of st. john" of another sweet poem of longfellow; and just beyond this we find, bowered by lilacs and environed by acres of shade and sward, the colonial cragie house, once the sojourn of washington, but holding for us more precious associations, since sparks, worcester, and everett have lived within its time-honored walls, and our popular poet of grace and sentiment for near half a century here had his home, and from here passed into the unknown. the picturesque mansion wears the aspect of an old acquaintance, and the interior, with its princely proportioned rooms, spacious fireplaces, wide halls, curious carvings and tiles, has much that longfellow has shared with his readers. on the entrance door is the ponderous knocker; a landing of the broad stairway holds "the old clock on the stairs;" the right of the hall is the study, with its priceless mementos of the tender and sympathetic bard who wrought here the most and best of his life-work, from early manhood onward into the mellow twilight of sweet and benign age. here is his chair, vacated by him but a few days before he died; his desk; his inkstand which had been coleridge's; his pen with its "link from the chain of bonnivard;" the antique pitcher of his "drinking song;" the fireplace of "the wind over the chimney;" the arm-chair carved from the "spreading chestnut-tree" of the smithy, which was presented to him by the village children and celebrated in his poem "from my arm-chair." about us here are his cherished books, his pictures, his manuscripts, all his precious belongings, and from his window we see, beyond the longfellow memorial park, the river so often sung in his verse, "stealing onward, like the stream of life." in this room washington held his war councils. of the many intellectual _séances_ its walls have witnessed we contemplate with greatest pleasure the wednesday evening meetings of the "dante club," when lowell, howells, fields, norton, greene, and other friends and scholars sat here with longfellow to revise the new translation of dante. the book-lined apartment over the study--once the bedchamber of washington and later of talleyrand--was occupied by longfellow when he first lived as a lodger in the old house. it was here he heard "footsteps of angels" and "voices of the night," and saw by the fitful firelight the "being beauteous" at his side; here he wrote "hyperion" and the earlier poems which made him known and loved in every clime. later this room became the nursery of his children, and some of the grotesque tiles which adorn its chimney are mentioned in his poem "to a child:" "the lady with the gay macaw, the dancing-girl, the grave bashaw. the chinese mandarin." [illustration: where longfellow lived] along the western façade of the mansion stretches a wide veranda, where the poet was wont to take his daily exercise when "the goddess neuralgia" or "the two ws" (work and weather) prevented his walking abroad. in this stately old house his children were born and reared, here his wife met her tragic death, and here his daughter--the "grave alice" of "the children's hour"--abides and preserves its precious relics, while "laughing allegra" (anna) and "edith with golden hair"--now mrs. dana and mrs. thorp--have dwellings within the grounds of their childhood home, and their brother ernst owns a modern cottage a few rods westward on the same street. in sparks street, just out of brattle, dwelt the author robert carter,--familiarly, "the don,"--sometime secretary to prescott and long the especial friend of lowell, with whom he was associated in the editorship of the short-lived "pioneer." carter's home here was the rendezvous of a circle of choice spirits, where one might often meet "prince" lowell,--as his friends delighted to call him,--bartlett of "familiar quotations," and that "songless poet" john holmes, brother of the "american montaigne." a short walk under the arching elms of brattle street brings us to elmwood, the life-long home of lowell. the house, erected by the last british lieutenant-governor of the province, is a plain, square structure of wood, three stories in height, and is surrounded by a park of simple and natural beauty, whose abundant growth of trees gives to some portions of the grounds the sombreness and apparent seclusion of a forest. a gigantic hedge of trees encloses the place like a leafy wall, excluding the vision of the world and harboring thousands of birds who tenant its shades. some of the aquatic fowl of the vicinage are referred to in longfellow's "herons of elmwood." in the old mansion, long the home of elbridge gerry, lowell was born and grew to manhood, and to it he brought the bride of his youth, the lovely maria white, herself the writer of some exquisite poems; here, a few years later, she died in the same night that a child was born to longfellow, whose poem "the two angels" commemorates both events. here, too, lowell lost his children one by one until a daughter, the present mrs. burnett,--now owner and occupant of elmwood,--alone remained. during the poet's stay abroad, his house was tenanted by mrs. ole bull and by lowell's brother-bard bailey aldrich, who in this sweet retirement wrought some of his delicious work. to the beloved trees and birds of his old home lowell returned from his embassage, and here, with his daughter, he passed his last years among his books and a chosen circle of friends. here, where he wished to die, he died, and here his daughter preserves his former home and its contents unchanged since he was borne hence to his burial. until the death of his father, lowell's study was an upper front room at the left of the entrance. it is a plain, low-studded corner apartment, which the poet called "his garret," and where he slept as a boy. its windows now look only into the neighboring trees, but when autumn has shorn the boughs of their foliage the front window commands a wide level of the sluggish charles and its bordering lowlands, while the side window overlooks the beautiful slopes of mount auburn, where lowell now lies with his poet-wife and the children who went before. his study windows suggested the title of his most interesting volume of prose essays. in this upper chamber he wrote his "conversations on the poets" and the early poems which made his fame,--"irene," "prometheus," "rhoecus," "sir launfal,"--which was composed in five days,--and the first series of that collection of grotesque drolleries, "the biglow papers." here also he prepared his editorial contributions to the "atlantic." his later study was on the lower floor, at the left of the ample hall which traverses the centre of the house. it is a prim and delightful old-fashioned apartment, with low walls, a wide and cheerful fireplace, and pleasant windows which look out among the trees and lilacs upon a long reach of lawn. in this room the poet's best-loved books, copiously annotated by his hand, remain upon his shelves; here we see his table, his accustomed chair, the desk upon which he wrote the "commemoration ode," "under the willows," and many famous poems, besides the volumes of prose essays. in this study he sometimes gathered his classes in dante, and to him here came his friends familiarly and informally,--for "receptions" were rare at elmwood: most often came "the don," "the doctor," norton, owen, bartlett, felton, stillman,--less frequently godkin, fields, holmes, child, motley, edmund quincy, and the historian parkman. while the older trees of the place were planted by gerry, the pines and clustering lilacs were rooted by lowell or his father. all who remember the poet's passionate love for this home will rejoice in the assurance that the old mansion, with its precious associations and mementos, and the acres immediately adjoining it, will not be in any way disturbed during the life of his daughter and her children. at most, the memorial park which has been planned by the literary people of boston and cambridge will include only that portion of the grounds which belonged to the poet's brothers and sisters. a narrow street separates the hedges of elmwood from the peaceful shades of mount auburn,--the "city of the dead" of longfellow's sonnet. lowell thought this the most delightful spot on earth. the late francis parkman told the writer that lowell, in his youth, had confided to him that he habitually went into the cemetery at midnight and sat upon a tombstone, hoping to find there the poetic afflatus. he confessed he had not succeeded, and was warned by his friend that the custom would bring him more rheumatism than inspiration. dr. ellis testified that at this period his friend dr. lowell often expressed to him his anxiety "lest his son james would amount to nothing, because he had taken to writing poetry." in the sanctuary of mount auburn we find many of the names mentioned in these chapters,--names written on the scroll of fame, blazoned on title-pages, borne in the hearts of thousands of readers in all lands,--now, alas! inscribed above their graves. from the eminence of mount auburn, we look upon longfellow's river "stealing with silent pace" around the sacred enclosure; the verdant meads along the stream; the distant cities, erst the abodes of those who sleep about us here,--for whom life's fever is ended and life's work done. near this summit, charlotte cushman rests at the base of a tall obelisk, her favorite myrtle growing dense and dark above her. by the elevated ridge path, on a site long ago selected by him, longfellow lies in a grave decked with profuse flowers and marked by a monument of brown stone. on fountain avenue we find a beautiful spot, shaded by two giant trees, which was a beloved resort of lowell, and where he now lies among his kindred, his sepulchre marked by a simple slab of slate: "good-night, sweet prince!" not far away is the beautiful jackson plot, where not long ago the beloved holmes was tenderly laid in the same grave with his wife beneath a burden of flowers. some of the blossoms we lately saw upon this grave were newly placed by the creator of "micah clarke" and "sherlock holmes," dr. conan doyle. by a great oak near the main avenue is the sarcophagus of sumner, and one shady slope bears the memorial of margaret fuller and her husband,--buried beneath the sea on the coast of fire island. near by we find the grave of "fanny fern,"--wife of parton and sister of n. p. willis,--with its white cross adorned with exquisitely carved ferns; the pillar of granite and marble which designates the resting-place of everett; the granite boulder--its unchiselled surface overgrown with the lichens he loved--which covers the ashes of agassiz; the simple sarcophagus of rufus choate; the cenotaph of kirkland; the tomb of spurzheim; and on the lovely slopes about us, under the dreaming trees, amid myriad witcheries of bough and bloom, are the enduring memorials of affection beneath which repose the mortal parts of sargent, quincy, story, parker, worcester, greene, bigelow, william ellery channing, edwin booth, phillips brooks, and many like them whom the world will not soon forget. in this sweet summer day, their place of rest is so quiet and beautiful,--with the birds singing here their lowest and tenderest songs, the soft winds breathing a lullaby in the leafy boughs, the air full of a grateful peace and calm, the trees spreading their great branches in perpetual benediction above the turf-grown graves,--it seems that here, if anywhere, the restless wayfarer might learn to love restful death. out of boston ii belmont: the wayside inn: home of whittier _lowell's beaver brook--abode of trowbridge--red horse tavern--parsons and the company of longfellow's friends--birthplace of whittier- scenes of his poems--dwelling and grave of the countess--powow hill- whittier's amesbury home--his church and tomb._ a few miles westward from the classic shades of cambridge we found, perched upon a breezy height of belmont, a picturesque, red-roofed villa, for some years the summer home of our "altrurian traveller." from its verandas he overlooked a slumberous plain, diversified with meads, fields, country-seats, and heavy-tinted copses, and bordered by a circle of verdant hills; while on the eastern horizon rises the distant city, crowned by the resplendent dome of the capitol. in his dainty white study here, with its gladsome fireplace and curious carvings and mottoes, howells wrote--besides other good things--his "lady of the aroostook," in which some claim to have discerned an answer to henry james's "daisy miller." in this neighborhood is the valley of "beaver brook," a favorite haunt of lowell, to which he brought the english poet arthur clough. the old mill is removed, but we find the water-fall and the other romantic features little changed since the poet depicted the ideal beauties of this dale, in what has been adjudged one of the most artistic poems of modern times. in a charming retreat among the hills of arlington, scarce a mile away from howells's sometime belmont home, dwells and writes that genial and gifted poet and novelist, john t. trowbridge, whose books--notably his war-time tales--have found readers round the world. [sidenote: longfellow's wayside inn] westward again from belmont, a prolonged drive through a delightful country brings us to "sudbury town" and the former hostelry of 'squire howe,--the "wayside inn" of longfellow's "tales." our companion and guide is one who well knew the old house and its neighborhood in the halcyon days when professor treadwell, parsons,--the poet of the "bust of dante,"--and the quiet coterie of longfellow's friends came, summer after summer, to find rest and seclusion under its ample roof and sheltering trees, among the hills of this remote region. the environment of fragrant meadow and smiling field, of deep wood glade and forest-clad height, is indeed alluring. about the ancient inn remain some of the giant elms and the "oak-trees, broad and high," shading it now as in the day when the "tales" immortalized it with the "tabard" of chaucer; while through the near meadow circles the "well-remembered brook" of the poet's verse, in which his friends saw the inverted landscape and their own faces "looking up at them from below." the house is a great, old-fashioned, bare and weather-worn edifice of wood,--"somewhat fallen to decay."--standing close upon the highway. its two stories of spacious rooms are supplemented by smaller chambers in a vast attic; two or three chimneys, "huge and tiled and tall," rise through its gambrel roofs among the bowering foliage; a wing abuts upon one side and imparts a pleasing irregularity to the otherwise plain parallelogram. the wide, low-studded rooms are lighted by windows of many small panes. among the apartments we find the one once occupied by major molineaux, "whom hawthorne hath immortal made," and that of dr. parsons, the laureate of this place, who has celebrated it in the stanzas of "old house at sudbury" and other poems. but it is the old inn parlor which most interests the literary visitor,--a great, low, square apartment, with oaken floors, ponderous beams overhead, and a broad hearth, where in the olden time blazed a log fire whose ruddy glow filled the room and shone out through the windows. it is this room which longfellow peoples with his friends, who sat about the old fireplace and told his "tales of a wayside inn." the "rapt musician" whose transfiguring portraiture we have in the prelude is ole bull; the student "of old books and days" is henry wales; the young sicilian, "in sight of etna born and bred," is luigi monti, who dined every sunday with longfellow; the "spanish jew from alicant" is edrelei, a boston oriental dealer; the "theologian from the school of cambridge on the charles" is professor daniel treadwell; the poet is t. w. parsons, the dantean student and translator of "divina commedia;" the landlord is 'squire lyman howe, the portly bachelor who then kept this "red horse tavern," as it was called. most of this goodly circle have been here in the flesh, and our companion has seen them in this old room, as well as longfellow himself, who came here years afterward, when the landlord was dead and the poet's company had left the old inn forever. in this room we see the corner where stood the ancient spinet, the spot on the wall where hung the highly colored coat of arms of howe and the sword of his knightly grandfather near queen mary's pictured face, the places on the prismatic-hued windows where the names of molineaux, treadwell, etc., had been inscribed by hands that now are dust. descendants of the woman who died of the "shoc o' num palsy" are said to live in the neighborhood, as well as some other odd characters who are embalmed in parsons's humorous verse. but the ancient edifice is no longer an inn; the red horse on the swinging sign-board years ago ceased to invite the weary wayfarer to rest and cakes and ale; the memory-haunted chambers, where starry spirits met and tarried in the golden past, were later inhabited by laborers, who displayed the rooms for a fee and plied the pilgrim with lies anent the former famed occupants. the storied structure has recently passed to the possession of appreciative owners,--hon. herbert howe being one of them,--who have made the repairs needful for its preservation and have placed it in the charge of a proper custodian. a longer way out of boston, in another direction, our guest is among the haunts of the beloved quaker bard. on the bank of the merrimac--his own "lowland river"--and among darkly wooded hills of hackmatack and pine, we find the humble farm-house, guarded by giant sentinel poplars, where eighty-eight years agone whittier came into the world. [sidenote: scenes of whittier's poems] among the plain and bare apartments, with their low ceilings, antique cross-beams, and multipaned windows, we see the lowly chamber of his birth; the simple study where his literary work was begun; the great kitchen, with its brick oven and its heavy crane in the wide fireplace, where he laid the famous winter's evening scene in "snow-bound," peopling the plain "old rude-furnished room" with the persons he here best knew and loved. we see the dwelling little changed since the time when whittier dwelt--a dark-haired lad--under its roof; it is now carefully preserved, and through the old rooms are disposed articles of furniture from his amesbury cottage, which are objects of interest to many visitors. all about the place are spots of tender identification of poet and poem: here are the brook and the garden wall of his "barefoot boy;" the scene of his "telling the bees;" the spring and meadow of "maud muller;" not far away, with the sumachs and blackberries clustering about it still, is the site of the rude academy of his "school days;" and beyond the low hill the grasses grow upon the grave of the dear, brown-eyed girl who "hated to go above him." we may still loiter beneath the overarching sycamores planted by poor tallant,--"pioneer of erin's outcasts,"--where young whittier pondered the story of "floyd ireson with the hard heart." delightful rambles through the country-side bring us to many scenes familiar to the tender poet and by him made familiar to all the world. thus we come to the "stranded village" of aunt mose,--"the muttering witch-wife of the gossip's tale,"--where whittier found the materials out of which he wrought the touching poem "the countess," and where we see the poor low rooms in which pretty, blue-eyed mary ingalls was born and lived a too brief life of love, and her sepulchre--now reclaimed from a tangle of brake and brier--in the lonely old burial-ground that "slopes against the west." her grave is in the row nearest the dusty highway, and is marked by a mossy slab of slate, which is now protected from the avidity of relic-gatherers by a net-work of iron, bearing the inscription, "the grave of the countess." thus, too, we come to the ruined foundation of the cottage of "mabel martin, the witch's daughter," and look thence upon other haunts of the beloved bard, as well as upon his river "glassing the heavens" and the wave-like swells of foliage-clad hills which are "the laurels" of his verse. in west newbury, the town of his "northman's written rock," we find the comfortable "maplewood" homestead where lived and lately died the supposed sweetheart of the poet's early manhood. [sidenote: whittier's amesbury cottage] whittier's beloved amesbury, the "home of his heart," is larger and busier than he knew it, but, as we dally on its dusty avenues, we find them aglow with living memories of the sweet singer. in friend street stands--still occupied by whittier's former friends--the plain little frame house which was so long his home. a bay window has been placed above the porch, but the place is otherwise little changed since he left it; the same noble elms shade the front, the fruit-trees he planted and pruned and beneath which the saddened throng sat at his funeral are in the garden; here too are the grape-vines which were the especial objects of his loving care,--one of them grown from a rootlet sent to him in a letter by charles sumner. within, we see the famous "garden room," which was his sanctum and workshop, and where this gentle man of peace waged valiant warfare with his pen for the rights of man. in this room, with its sunny outlook among his vines and pear-trees, he kept his chosen books, his treasured souvenirs; and here he welcomed his friends,--longfellow, fields, sumner, lowell, colonel higginson, bayard taylor, mrs. thaxter, mrs. phelps-ward, alice cary, lucy larcom, sarah orne jewett, and many another illustrious child of genius. a quaint franklin fireplace stood by one side wall,--usually surmounted in summer by a bouquet; in the nook between this and the sash-door was placed an old-fashioned writing-desk, and here he wrote many of the poems which brought him world-wide fame and voiced the convictions and the conscience of half the nation. here are still preserved some of his cherished books. above the study was whittier's bedchamber, near the rooms of his mother, his "youngest and dearest" sister, and the "dear aunt" (mercy) of "snow-bound," who came with him to this home and shared it until their deaths. after the others were gone, the brother and sister long dwelt here alone, later a niece was for some years his house-keeper, and at her marriage the poet gave up most of the house to some old friends, who kept his study and chamber in constant readiness for his return upon the prolonged sojourns which were continued until his last year of life,--this being always his best-loved home. near by are the "painted shingly town-house" of his verse, where during many years he failed not to meet with his neighbors to deposit "the freeman's vote for freedom," and the little, wooden friends' meeting-house, where he loved to sit in silent introspection among the people of his faith. the trees which now shade its plain old walls with abundant foliage were long ago planted by his hands. the "powow hill" of his "preacher" and "the prophecy of samuel sewall" rises steeply near his home, and was a favorite resort, to which he often came, alone or with his guests. one who has often stood with whittier there pilots us to his accustomed place on the lofty rounded summit, whence we overlook the village, the long reach of the "sea-seeking" river, and the entrancing scene pictured by the poet in the beautiful lines of "miriam." [sidenote: whittier's tomb] from these precious haunts our pilgrim shoon trace the revered bard to the peaceful precincts of the god's-acre--just without the town--where, in a sequestered spot beneath a dark cedar which sobs and soughs in the summer wind, his mortal part is forever laid, with his beloved sister and kindred, within "the low green tent whose curtain never outward swings." out of boston iii salem: whittier's oak-knoll and beyond _cemetery of hawthorne's ancestors--birthplace of hawthorne and his wife--where fame was won--house of the seven gables--custom-house- where scarlet letter was written--main street and witch hill--sights from a steeple--later home of whittier--norman's woe--lucy larcom- parton, etc.--rivermouth--thaxter._ [sidenote: hawthorne's salem] a half-hour's jaunt by train brings us to the shaded streets of quaint old salem and the scenes of hawthorne's early life, work, and triumph. here we find on charter street, in the old cemetery of "dr. grimshaw's secret" and "dolliver romance," the sunken and turf-grown graves of hawthorne's mariner ancestors, some of whom sailed forth on the ocean of eternity nearly two centuries ago. among the curiously carved gravestones of slate we see that of john hathorn, the "witch-judge" of hawthorne's "note-books." close at hand repose the ancestors of the novelist's wife, and the doctor swinnerton who preceded "dolliver" and who was called to consider the cause of colonel pyncheon's death in the opening chapter of "the house of the seven gables." the sombre house which encroaches upon a corner of the cemetery enclosure--with the green billows surging about it so closely that its side windows are within our reach from the gravestones--was the home of the peabodys, whence hawthorne wooed the amiable sophia, and where, in his tales, he domiciled grandsir "dolliver" and also "doctor grimshaw" with ned and elsie. we found it a rather depressing, hip-roofed, low-studded, and irregular edifice of wood, standing close upon the street, and obviously degenerated a little from the degree of respectability--"not sinking below the boundary of the genteel"--which the romancer ascribed to it. the little porch or hood protects the front entrance, and the back door communicates with the cemetery,--a circumstance which recalls the novelist's fancy that the dead might get out of their graves at night and steal into this house to warm themselves at the convenient fireside. not many rods distant, in union street, stands the little house where captain hathorn left his family when he went away to sea, and where the novelist was born. the street is small, shabby, shadeless, dispiriting,--its inhabitants not select. the house--builded by hawthorne's grandfather and lately numbered twenty-seven--stands close to the sidewalk, upon which its door-stone encroaches, leaving no space for flower or vine; the garden where hawthorne "rolled on a grass-plot under an apple-tree and picked abundant currants" is despoiled of turf and tree, and the wooden house walls rise bare and bleak. it is a plain, uninviting, eight-roomed structure, with a lower addition at the back, and with a square central chimney-stack rising like a tower above the gambrel roof. the rooms are low and contracted, with quaint corner fireplaces and curiously designed closets, and with protuberant beams crossing the ceilings. from the entrance between the front rooms a narrow winding stair leads to an upper landing, at the left of which we find the little, low-ceiled chamber where, ninety years ago, america's greatest romancer first saw the light. it is one of the most cheerless of rooms, with rude fireplace of bricks, a mantel of painted planks, and two small windows which look into the verdureless yard. in a modest brick house upon the opposite side of the street, and but a few rods distant from the birthplace of her future husband, hawthorne's wife was born five years subsequent to his nativity. [sidenote: the manning house] abutting upon the back yard of hawthorne's birthplace is the old manning homestead of his maternal ancestors, the home of his own youth and middle age and the theatre of his struggles and triumph. it is known as number twelve herbert street, and is a tall, unsightly, erratic fabric of wood, with nothing pleasing or gracious in its aspect or environment. the ugly and commonplace character of his surroundings here during half his life must have been peculiarly depressing to such a sensitive temperament as hawthorne's, and doubtless accounts for his mental habits. that he had no joyous memories of this old house his letters and journals abundantly show. its interior arrangement has been somewhat changed to accommodate the several families of laborers who have since inhabited it, and one front room seems to have been used as a shop; but it is not difficult to identify the haunted chamber which was hawthorne's bed-room and study. this little, dark, dreary apartment under the eaves, with its multipaned window looking down into the room where he was born, is to us one of the most interesting of all the hawthorne shrines. here the magician kept his solitary vigil during the long period of his literary probation, shunning his family, declining all human sympathy and fellowship, for some time going abroad only after nightfall; here he studied, pondered, wrote, revised, destroyed, day after day as the slow months went by; and here, after ten years of working and waiting for the world to know him, he triumphantly recorded, "in this dismal chamber fame was won." here he wrote "twice-told tales" and many others, which were published in various periodicals, and here, after his residence at the old manse,--for it was to this manning house that he "always came back, like the bad halfpenny," as he said,--he completed the "mosses." this old dwelling is one of the several which have been fixed upon as being the original "house of the seven gables," despite the novelist's averment that the pyncheon mansion was "of materials long in use for constructing castles in the air." the pilgrim in salem will be persistently assured that a house which stands near the shore by the foot of turner street, and is known as number thirty-four, was the model of hawthorne's structure. it is an antique edifice of some architectural pretensions, displays five fine gables, and has spacious wainscoted and frescoed apartments, with quaint mantels and other evidences of colonial stateliness. it was an object familiar to the novelist from his boyhood,--he had often visited it while it was the home of pretty "susie" ingersol,--and it may have suggested the style of architecture he employed for the visionary mansion of the tale. the names maule and pyncheon, employed in the story, were those of old residents of salem. [sidenote: hawthorne's custom-house] but a few rods from herbert street is the custom-house where hawthorne did irksome duty as "locofoco surveyor," its exterior being--except for the addition of a cupola--essentially unchanged since his description was written, and its interior being even more somnolent than of yore. the wide and worn granite steps still lead up to the entrance portico; above it hovers the same enormous specimen of the american eagle, and a recent reburnishing has rendered even more evident the truculent attitude of that "unhappy fowl." the entry-way where the venerable officials of hawthorne's time sat at the receipt of customs has been renovated, the antique chairs in which they used to drowse, "tilted back against the wall," have given place to others of more modern and elegant fashion, and the patriarchal dozers themselves--lying now in the profounder slumber of death--are replaced by younger and sprightlier successors, who wear their dignities and pocket their emoluments. at the left we find the room, "fifteen feet square and of lofty height," which was hawthorne's office during the period of his surveyorship: it is no longer "cobwebbed and dingy," but is tastefully refitted and refurnished, and the once sanded floor, which the romancer "paced from corner to corner" like a caged lion, is now neatly carpeted. the "exceedingly decrepit and infirm" chairs, and the three-legged stool on which he lounged with his elbow on the old pine desk, have been retired, and the desk itself is now tenderly cherished among the treasures of the essex institute, on essex street, a few blocks distant, where the custodian proudly shows us the name of hawthorne graven within the lid, in some idle moment, by the thumb-nail of the novelist. some yellow documents bearing his official stamp and signature are preserved at the custom-house, and the courteous official who now occupies hawthorne's room displays to us here a rough stencil plate marked "salem n hawthorne surr 1847," by means of which knowledge of hawthorne's existence was blazoned abroad "on pepper-bags, cigar-boxes, and bales of dutiable merchandise," instead of on title-pages. the arched window, by which stood his desk, commands a view upon which his vision often rested, and which seems to us decidedly more pleasing and attractive than he has led us to expect. the picturesque old wharf in the foreground, the white-sailed shipping, and a shimmering expanse of water extending to the farther bold headlands of the coast form, we think, a pleasant picture for the lounger here. the apartment opposite to hawthorne's was, in his day, occupied by the brave warrior general james miller, who is graphically described as the "old collector" in the introduction to "scarlet letter;" the room directly above it--which is the private office of the present chief executive, the genial collector waters--a portrait of the hero of lundy's lane now looks down from the wall upon the visitor; but no picture of hawthorne is to be found in the edifice. an ample room at the right of the hall on the second floor, now handsomely fitted and furnished, was in hawthorne's time open and unfinished, its bare beams festooned with cobwebs and its floor lumbered with barrels and bundles of musty official documents; and it was here that he discovered, among the accumulated rubbish of the past, the "scarlet, gold-embroidered letter," and the manuscript of surveyor prue,--hawthorne's ancient predecessor in office,--which recorded the "doings and sufferings" of hester prynne. a short walk from the custom-house brings us to the spot where, with "public notices posted upon its front and an iron goblet chained to its waist," stood that "eloquent monologist," the town-pump of hawthorne's famous "rill." already its locality, at the corner of essex and washington streets, is pointed out with pride as being among the sites memorable in the town's history, and thus the playful prophecy with which hawthorne terminates the sketch of his official life is more than fulfilled. the spacious and well-preserved old frame house at number fourteen mall street--a neighborhood superior to that of his former residences--was hawthorne's abode for three or four years. it was here that he, on the day of his official death, announced to his wife, "well, sophie, my head is off, so i must write a book;" and here, in the ensuing six months, disturbed and distressed by illness of his family, by the death of his mother, and by financial needs, he wrote our most famous romance, "the scarlet letter." a bare little room in the front of the third story was his study here, and while he wrote in solitude his wife worked in a sitting-room just beneath, decorating lamp-shades whose sale helped to sustain the household. [sidenote: salem--witch hill] as we saunter along the "main street" of hawthorne's sketch and the other shady avenues he knew so well, the curious old town, which in his discontent he called tame and unattractive, seems to our eyes picturesque and beautiful, with its wide elm-bordered streets, its grassy waysides, its many gardens and square, embowered dwellings, not greatly changed since he knew them. if we follow "the long and lazy street" to the witch hill, which the novelist describes in "alice doane's appeal," we may behold from that unhappy spot, where men and women suffered death for imagined misdoing, the whole of hawthorne's salem, with the environment he pictures in "sights from a steeple." we see the house-roofs of the town--half hidden by clustering foliage--extending now from the slopes of the fateful hill to the glinting waters of the harbor; the farther expanse of field and meadow, dotted with white villages and scored with shadowy water-ways; the craggy coast, with the atlantic thundering endlessly against its headlands. yonder is the steeple of hawthorne's vision, beyond is the scene of the exquisite "footprints in the sand," and across the blue of the rippling sea we behold the place of the fierce fight in which the gallant lawrence lost at once his ship and his life. not far from salem is oak-knoll, where the white-souled whittier, "wearing his silver crown," passed "life's late afternoon" with his devoted relatives. it is a delightful, sheltered old country-seat, with wide lawns, and scores of broad acres wooded with noble trees, beneath which the poet loved to stroll or sit, soothed and inspirited by the gracious and generous beauty of the scene about him. one spot in the glimmering shade of an overarching oak is shown as his favorite resort. close by the house is a circular, green-walled garden, where, in summer mornings, he delighted to work with rake and hoe among the flowers. the mansion is a dreamful, old-fashioned edifice, with wide and lofty piazzas, whose roofs are upheld by massive columns; and, with its grand setting of trees, it presents a pleasing picture. whittier's study--a pleasant, cheerful room, with a delightful outlook and sunny exposure, a friendly-looking fireplace, and a glass door opening upon the veranda--was especially erected for him in a corner of the house, and here his later poems were penned. a bright and ample chamber above the parlor was his sleeping-apartment. [sidenote: whittier--longfellow, etc.] the sweet poetess miss preston and the sprightly and versatile "gail hamilton" dwelt in the neighborhood and came often to this room to talk with the "transplanted prophet of amesbury." lucy larcom and that "sappho of the isles," celia thaxter, came less frequently. the place is still occupied by the relatives whittier loved, who have preserved essentially unchanged the scenes he here inhabited. a little farther up the rock-bound coast are the scene of lucy larcom's touching poem "hannah's at the window binding shoes;" the hearth-stone where longfellow saw his "fire of drift-wood;" and the bleak sea-side home of "floyd ireson" of whittier's verse. beyond these lie the sometime summer homes of the poet dana, harriet prescott spofford, fields, and whipple, with that mecca of the tourist, the savage reef of norman's woe,--celebrated in longfellow's pathetic poem as the scene of "the wreck of the hesperus,"--not far away; while across the harbor a summer resort of the gifted elizabeth stuart phelps ward stands--an "old maid's paradise" no longer--among the rocks of the shore. by the mouth of whittier's "lowland river" we find the birthplace of lloyd garrison, the ancestral abode of the longfellows, the tomb of whitefield beneath the spot where he preached, the once sojourn of talleyrand. here, too, still inhabited by his family, we find the large, three-storied corner house in which parton spent his last twenty years of busy life, and the low book-lined attic study where, in his cherished easy-chair with his manuscript resting upon a lap-board, he did much of his valuable work. still farther northward, we come to the ancient town of aldrich's "bad boy"-hood,--immortalized as the "rivermouth" of his prose,--the place of longfellow's "lady wentworth," the home of hawthorne's sir william pepperell; and to the picturesque island realm of that "princess of thule," celia thaxter, and her gifted poet-brother laighton;--but these shrines are worthy of a separate pilgrimage. out of boston iv webster's marshfield: brook farm, etc _scenes of the old oaken bucket--webster's home and grave--where emerson won his wife--home of miss peabody--parkman--miss guiney--aldrich's ponkapog--farm of ripley's community--relics and reminiscences._ one day's excursion out of boston is southward through the birthplace and ancestral home of the brilliant essayist quincy to the boyhood haunts of woodworth and the scenes which inspired his sweetest lyric. in scituate, by the village of greenbush, we find the well of the "old oaken bucket" remaining at the site of the dwelling where the poet was born and reared. most of the "loved scenes" of his childhood--the wide-spreading pond, the venerable orchard, the flower-decked meadow, the "deep-tangled wildwood"--may still be seen, little changed since he knew them; but the rock of the cataract has been removed and the cascade itself somewhat altered by the widening of the highway; the "cot of his father" has given place to a modern farm-house; and the "moss-covered bucket that hung in the well" has been supplanted by a convenient but unpoetical pump. [sidenote: webster's home and grave] a few miles beyond this romantic spot we come to the marshfield home of daniel webster, set in the midst of a pleasant rural region, not far from the ancient abode of governor winslow of the plymouth colony. on the site of webster's farm-house of thirty rooms--destroyed by fire some years ago--his son's widow erected a pretty and tasteful modern cottage, in which she preserved many relics of the illustrious statesman and orator, which had been rescued from the flames. some of the relics were afterward removed to boston, and, the family becoming extinct with the death of mrs. fletcher webster, the place found an appreciatory proprietor in mr. walton hall, a boston business-man who was reared in this neighborhood, where webster's was "a name to conjure by." the objects connected with the memory of the statesman have been as far as possible preserved, and we find the cottage partially furnished with his former belongings. here we see his writing-table, covered with ink-stained green baize; his phenomenally large arm-chair with seat of leather; the andirons from his study fireplace; the heavy cane he used in his walks about the farm; portraits of the great _genius loci_--one of them representing him in his coarse farm attire--and of members of his family; a fine cabinet of beetles and butterflies presented to him by the emperor of brazil; and a number of paintings, articles of furniture, and bric-à-brac which had once been webster's. near the house stand the great memorial elms, each planted by webster's hand at the death of one of his children. his favorite tree, beneath which his coffined figure lay at his funeral, was injured by the fire and has since been removed. behind the house is a pretty lakelet, on whose surface--by his desire--lights were kept burning at night during his last illness, so that he might see them from his bed in the pink room where he died. his study window looked out through a colonnade of trees upon the hill-side cemetery--a furlong distant--where he now sleeps in a spot he loved and chose for his sepulchre. his tomb, on the brow of the hill, is marked by a huge mound of earth crowned by a ponderous marble slab. the memorial stones about it were erected by him to commemorate his family, already sleeping in the vault here before he came to lie among them:--all save one, and that one died at bull run. not far away lie governor winslow and the peregrine white who was born on the mayflower. from among the neglected graves we look abroad upon the acres webster tilled, the creeks he fished, the meadows he hunted, the haunts of his leisure during many years: on the one hand, we see a stretch of verdant pastures and lowly hills dotted by white cottages and bounded by distant forests; on the other hand, across the wave-like dunes and glistening sands we see a silver rim flecked with white sails,--the ocean, whose low-sounding monotone, eternally responding to some whisper of the infinite, mayhap lulls the dreamless sleepers beneath our feet. southward again, we come to historic old plymouth, with its many puritan shrines and associations, which did not prevent its becoming a shire-town of transcendentalism. here we see the house (framed in england, and erected here upside down) where emerson, the fountain-head of that great "wave of spirituality," wooed and won miss jackson to be his wife; and not far away the lovely spot where, among his gardens, groves, and orchards, marston watson had his "hillside" home,--to which resorted emerson, theodore parker, peabody, thoreau, and bronson alcott, and which the latter celebrated in a sonnet. here, too, we find the church where kendall preached, and the farm of morton, the earliest historian of the western world. [sidenote: miss peabody] in the boston suburb of jamaica plain we find, near the station, the modest apartments where miss elizabeth peabody--the "saint elizabeth" of her friends--passed her later years, and where, not many months ago, she died, having survived nearly all her associates in the earlier struggle for the enlargement of the bounds of spiritual freedom. she had been the intimate friend of emerson, channing, theodore parker, and the rest; and of the wider spirituality which they proclaimed she was esteemed a prophetess. most of her literary work was done before she came to this home; and the latest literary effort of her life, her autobiography (which was undertaken here in age and weariness), was frustrated by her increasing infirmities. [sidenote: parkman] in the same delightful suburb was the ideally beautiful home of the historian francis parkman. his wide and tasteful dwelling surmounted an elevation overlooking a pretty lakelet, and was environed by ample grounds filled with choicest shrubbery and flowers, where there were roods of the roses and lilies he loved and studied. in this place he lived thirty-four years, and, although practically blind and rarely free from torturing pain, he here produced many volumes and accomplished the work which places him among the foremost historians of the age. in this home he died a year or so ago: his grounds having been taken for a public park, it is now proposed to erect here a bronze memorial of the great historian amid the floral beauty he created and cherished. in the remoter region of canton, thomas bailey aldrich has a sometime summer home, erected among enchanting landscapes, where he has pondered and written much of his dainty prose and daintier poesy. the curious name of this rural retreat is preserved in the title of his entertaining volume of travel-sketches, "from ponkapog to pesth." the tree near his door was the home of the pair of birds he described in the delightful sketch "our new neighbors at ponkapog." [sidenote: miss guiney] a morning's drive westward through the shade and sheen of a delectable urban district conveys us to the village of auburndale, where we find the tasteful cottage home of louise imogen guiney, with its french roofs, wide windows, square tower, and embosoming foliage. here, if we come properly accredited, we may (or might before she became the village postmistress) see the gifted poetess of "white sail" and "roadside harp" and essayist of "english gallery" and "prose idyls"--a _petite_ and attractive young lady--at her desk, surrounded by her treasures of books and bric-à-brac and with the portraits of many friends looking down upon her from the walls of the square upper room where she writes. she has little to say concerning her own work,--fascinating as it is to her,--but discourses pleasantly on many topics and narrates _con amore_ the history of the precious tomes and the literary relics she has gathered here, and describes the traits and lineage of her beloved canine pets, who have been execrated by some of her neighbors. [sidenote: brook farm] nearer jamaica plain is the quiet corner of west roxbury, where the exalted community of brook farmers attempted to realize in external and material fashion their high ideals and to inaugurate the precursor of an arcadian era. in this season, "the sweet o' the year," we find the farm a delightful spot, fully warranting hawthorne's eulogium in "blithedale romance." the songful stream which gives the place its name is margined by verdant and sun-kissed meads which slope away to the circling charles; on either side, fields and picturesque pastures--broken here and there by rocky ledges and copse-covered knolls--swell upward to feathery acclivities of pine and oak, with rugged escarpments of rock. from the elevation about the farm-house we overlook most of the domain of these social reformers,--the many acres of woodlands, the orchards and fields where ripley, george william curtis, hawthorne, dwight, bedford, pratt, dana, and other transcendental enthusiasts held sublimated discourse while they performed the coarsest farm drudgery, applied uncelestial fertilizers, "belabored rugged furrows," or delved for the infinite in a peat-bog. curtis has said "there never were such witty potato-patches, such sparkling corn-fields; the weeds were scratched out of the ground to the music of tennyson and browning." the farm-house stands above the highway, and is shaded by giant trees planted by ripley and his associates. it is a commodious, antiquated structure of weather-worn wood, two stories in height, with a vast attic beneath the sloping roofs and an extension which has been recently enlarged. the original edifice is a ponderous fabric of almost square form, with an entrance in the middle of the front, massive chimneys at either end, and contains four spacious lower rooms, besides an outer scullery. here we see the sitting-room of the reformers, where at first channing sometimes preached and the now "nestor of american journalism" sang bass in the choir; their refectory, where dana served as head-waiter; and their brick-paved kitchen, where the erudite mrs. ripley and the soulful margaret fuller sometimes helped to prepare the bran bread and baked beans for the exalted brotherhood. adjoining is the old "wash-room," where some who have since become famous in literature or politics pounded the soiled linen in a hogshead with a heavy wooden pestle; and just without is the turf-carpeted yard where the dignified and handsome hawthorne, the brilliant charles a. dana (who certainly was the most popular member of the community), and the genial curtis were sometimes seen hanging the moist garments upon the lines, a truly edifying spectacle for gods and men. it was from curtis's pockets that the clothes-pins sometimes dropped during the evening dances. some of the trees yet to be seen near the house were rooted from the nursery established here by dana. this old house was the original "hive" of the community, who added the extensive wing at the back, but increasing numbers soon forced a portion of the company to swarm, and other dormitories were erected. of these we find vestiges of the "eyrie"--which was also used as a school-house--upon a commanding ledge at a little distance from the house, and nearer the grove where the rural festivals of the association were held. of the "nest," the little house where miss ripley lived, the "cottage," where margaret fuller lodged during her sojourns at the farm, the large barn, where social _séances_ were held while the starry company prepared vegetables for the market, and the other steading erected by the community, only the cellars and broken foundations remain. in the wood at some distance from the house is the "eliot's pulpit" of coverdale's narrative, a mass of rock crowning a knoll and having a great fissure through its core; in the forest beyond we may find "coverdale's walk," and the "hermitage" where he heard by accident the colloquy of westervelt and zenobia. after the day of ripley's brilliant colony the broad acres of brook farm were tilled by the town poor, and--"to what base uses!"--the pretty cottage of margaret fuller became a loathsome small-pox pest-house; the rooms of the "hive," after six years of familiarity with ideal refiners and reformers, became the abode of paupers, and at this day are aswarm with an odorous multitude of german orphans, wards of a lutheran society that now owns the place. while the pilgrim may find but few traces of the physical labors of the choice spirits who once inhabited this spot, the beneficent results of the mental and moral work here accomplished--especially among the young--are manifest and ineffaceable. these infertile fields yielded but scant returns for the manual toil of the optimistic philosophers, but their earnest strivings toward social and mental emancipation have borne abundant fruit. in berkshire with hawthorne i. the graylock and hoosac region ii. lenox and middle berkshire i the graylock and hoosac region _north adams and about--hawthorne's acquaintances and excursions--actors and incidents of ethan brand--kiln of bertram the lime-burner--natural bridge--graylock--thoreau--hoosac mountain--deerfield arch- williamstown--bryant._ the hawthorne pilgrimage has drawn us to many shrines: the sunny scenes of "the marble faun," the peaceful landscapes of "our old home," the now busy city of "the scarlet letter," the elm-shaded salem of "dr. grimshaw" and "the house of the seven gables," the manse of the "mosses," the wayside of "septimius felton" and "the dolliver romance,"--these and many another resort of the subtile romancer, in the old world and the new, have held our lingering feet. amid the splendors of a new england september we follow him into the "headlong berkshire" of "ethan brand" and "tanglewood tales." hawthorne was more than most writers influenced by environment; the situations and circumstances under which his work was produced often determined its tone and color, while the persons, localities, and occurrences observed by his alert senses in the real world about him were skilfully wrought into his romance. his residence in berkshire affected not only the books written there, but some subsequently produced, and the scenery of this loveliest corner of new england supplied the setting for many of his tales. some of the best passages of his "american note-books" are records of his observations in this region,--sundry scenes, characters, and incidents being afterward literally transcribed therefrom into his fiction,--while a few of his shorter stories seem to have been suggested by legends once current in berkshire. it passes, therefore, that for us the greatest charm of this realm of delights is that all its beauties--the grandeur of its mountains, the enchantment of its valleys, the glamour of its autumn woods, the sheen of its lakelets, the sapphire of its skies--serve to bring us into closer sympathy with hawthorne, to whom these beauties were once a familiar vision. he first came to berkshire in the summer of 1838. for thirteen years he had bravely "waited for the world to know" him. his "twice-told tales" had brought him little fame or money, but they had procured him the friendship of the peabodys, and it would appear that he and the lovely sophia already loved each other. in a letter to her sister elizabeth, written early in the summer, sophia says, "hawthorne came one morning for a take-leave call, looking radiant. he said he was not going to tell any one, not even his mother, where he should be for the next months; he thought he should change his name, so that if he died no one would be able to find his gravestone. we asked him to keep a journal while he was gone. he at first said he would not write anything, but finally concluded it would suit very well for hints for future stories." it was from his journal of these months of mysterious retirement that, forty years later, the gentle sophia--then his widow--transcribed those pages of the "note-books" which contain the account of his sojourn in upper berkshire and of his observations and meditations there. how far the journal furnished "hints for future stories" the literary world well knows. a few days after this "take-leave call" we find hawthorne at pittsfield, where his berkshire saunterings (and ours) fitly began. we follow him northward along a curving valley hemmed by mountains that slope upward to the azure; on the right rise the rugged hoosacs in "wave-like walls that block the sky with tints of gold and mists of blue;" on the left loom the darkly-wooded domes of the taconics above the bright upland pastures, while before us grand old "graylock" uprears his head "shaggy with primeval forest,"--his gigantic shape forming the culmination of the superb landscape. hawthorne's superlative pleasure of beholding this grandeur and beauty from the driver's seat of a stage and being regaled at the same time by the converse of the driver is denied to us, but we enjoy quite as much as did hawthorne the little "love-pats" and passages of a newly-wedded pair of our fellow-passengers. the stage has disappeared, the driver and the high-stepping steeds which served him "in wheel and in whoa" have given place to the engineer and the locomotive; the changes of the half-century since hawthorne journeyed here have well-nigh overturned the world; only the eternal beauty of these hills and the bewraying demeanor of the newly-married remain evermore unchanged. [sidenote: hawthorne at north adams] [sidenote: characters of his fiction] at north adams, which the magician, "liking indifferent well, made his head-quarters," we have lodgings near the place of his on the main street and in the domicile of one who, as a lad of fourteen years, had known hawthorne during his stay here. apparently he did not attempt to carry out his plan of concealing his identity; he certainly was known to some of the villagers as the author of "twice-told tales," and a descendant of one of hawthorne's "seven doctors of the place" recalls his delight on being told that the "whig tavern boarder" was the creator of "the gentle boy;" and he remembers his subsequent and consequent worshipful espionage of the wonderful being. to this espionage we are indebted for some edifying details of hawthorne's sojourn in upper berkshire. the world has known few handsomer men than hawthorne was at this period of his life,--he had been styled oberon at college,--and our informant recollects him as "the most brilliantly handsome person he ever beheld," tall, dark, with an expressive mobile face and a lustrous eye which held something "indescribably more than keenness" in its quick glances. (charles reade said hawthorne's eye was "like a violet with a soul in it.") as remembered here, his expression was often abstracted, sometimes despondent. he would sit for hours at a time on the broad porch of the old "north adams house," or in a corner of the bar-room, silently smoking and apparently oblivious to his surroundings, yet, as we know, vigilant to note the oddities of character and opinion he encountered. it is certain that he did not drink immoderately at this time. there were a few persons--_not_ the model men of the community--to whom he occasionally unbent and whom he admitted to a sort of comradeship, which, as his diary shows, often became confessionary upon their part. with these he held prolonged converse upon the tavern porch,--his part in the conversations being mainly suggestions calculated to elicit the whimsical conceits or experiences of his companions,--sitting the while in the posture of the venerable custom-house officials, described in the sketch introductory to the "scarlet letter," with "chair tipped on its hind legs" and his feet elevated against a pillar of the porch. among those remembered to have been thus favored was captain c----, called captain gavett in the "note-books," who dispensed metaphysics and maple sugar from the tavern steps, and a jolly blacksmith named wetherel, described by hawthorne as "big in the paunch and enormous in the rear," who came regularly to the bar for his stimulant. another was the "lath-like, round-backed, rough-bearded, thin-visaged" stage-driver, platt, whom hawthorne honors as "a friend of mine" in the diary, and whose acquaintance he made during the ride from pittsfield. in later years platt's pride in having known hawthorne eclipsed even his sense of distinction in being "the first and only man to drive an ox-team to the top of graylock, sir." he had once been employed to haul the materials for an observatory up that mountain's steep inclines. of the other "hangers-on" who were wont to infest the bar-room and porch fifty years ago and whom hawthorne depicts in his journal and his fiction, few of the present generation of loungers in the place have ever heard. orrin ----, the sportive widower whose peccadilloes are hinted at in the "note-books," is remembered by older residents of the town, and the "fellow who refused to pay six dollars for the coffin in which his wife was buried" may still be named as the personification of meanness. the maimed and dissolute daniel haines--nicknamed "black hawk"--was then a familiar figure in the village streets, and his unique history and appearance could not escape the notice of the great romancer nor be soon forgotten by the towns-people. as hawthorne says, "he had slid down by degrees from law to the soap-vat." once a reputable lawyer, his bibulous habits and an accident--his hand being "torn away by the devilish grip of a steam-engine"--had so reduced him that at the time hawthorne saw him he maintained himself by boiling soap and practising phrenology. it is remembered that he used to "feel of bumps" for the price of a drink, and that, hawthorne's head being submitted to his manipulation, he gravely assured the tavern company, "this man was created to shine as a bank president," and then privately advised the landlord to "make that chap pay in advance for his board." a resident tells us that this dirty and often drunken haines used to make biweekly visits to his father's house, with a cart drawn by disreputable-looking dogs, to receive fat in exchange for soap. the novelist touches this odd character many times in his journal, and utilizes it in the romance of "ethan brand," where it is the "lawyer giles, the elderly ragamuffin," who, with the rest of the lazy regiment from the village tavern, came in response to the summons of the "boy joe" to see poor brand returned from his long search after the unpardonable sin. this "boy joe," son of "bertram the lime-burner," was also a bar-room character, noted here by hawthorne, but obviously for a different use than that made of him in "ethan brand,"--a reference to him in the "note-books" being supplemented by this memorandum: "take this boy as the germ of a tavern-haunter, a country _roué_, to spend a wild and brutal youth, ten years of his prime in prison and his old age in the poor-house." this sketch may have been written in the spirit of prophecy, so exactly has the life of one bar-room boy coincided with hawthorne's outline; the career of another lad whom he here saw and possibly had in mind was happier. [sidenote: characters and scenes] a modern hotel has replaced the "whig tavern" of hawthorne's time, and a new set of _habitués_ now frequent its bar-room; another generation of fat men has succeeded the individuals whose breadth of back was a marvel to the novelist, and in the increased population of the place the "many obese" would no longer provoke comment. the lapsing decades have expanded the pretty and busy factory-village he found into a prettier and busier factory-city without materially changing its prevailing air. the vigorous young city has not wholly out-grown the "hollow vale" walled in by towering mountains; the aspect of its grand environment is therefore essentially unaltered, and it chances that there is scarcely a spot, in or about the town, which received the notice of hawthorne which may not still be identified. it is our crowning pleasure in the resplendent autumn days to follow his thoughtful step and dreamy vision through town and country-side to the spots he frequented and described, thus sharing, in a way, his companionship and beholding through his eyes the beauties which he has depicted of mountain and vale, forest and stream. on the summit of a hill in the village cemetery, where white gravestones gleam amid the evergreens, the grave of a child at whose burial hawthorne assisted is pointed out by one who was present with him. the well-known author-divine washington gladden, sometime preached in a near-by church. the ever-varying phases of the heights which look down upon the town--the wondrous play of light and shade upon the great sweeps of foliage which clothe the mountain-sides, the shadows chasing each other along the slopes and changing from side to side as the day declines, until the vale lies in twilight while the near summits are gilded with sunset gold, the exquisite cloud-effects as the fleecy masses drift above the ridges or cling to the higher peaks--were a never-failing source of pleasure to hawthorne, as they are to the loiterer of this day. every shifting of the point of view as we stroll in the town reveals a new aspect of its mountain ramparts and arouses fresh delight. hawthorne thought the village itself most beautiful when clouds deeply shaded the mountains while sunshine flooded the valley and, by contrast, made streets and houses a bright, rich gold. [sidenote: hawthorne's rambles] the investing mountains give to the place the "snug and insular" air which hawthorne observed; from many points it seems completely severed from the rest of the world. on some dark days sombre banks of cloud settle along the ridges and apparently so strengthen and heighten the beleaguering walls that we recall hawthorne's fancy that egress is impossible save by "climbing above the clouds." however, the railways tunnel the base of one mountain and curve around the flanks of others, while "old roads winding, as old roads will," find easy grades about and over the ramparts, so that the bustling "tunnel-city" is by no means isolated from the outside world. the rambles among and beyond these investing mountains, by which hawthorne made himself and "eustace bright" of "wonder-book" and "tanglewood tales" familiar with "rough, rugged, broken, headlong" berkshire, were usually solitary. the before-mentioned admirer of the "gentle boy" sometimes offered to guide the novelist to places of interest in the vicinage, but he usually preferred to be alone with nature and his own reveries. once when the lad proposed to pilot him to the peak of graylock, hawthorne replied he "did not care to soar so high; the bellows-pipe was sightly enough for him." he visited the latter point many times; it is a long walk from the village, and once he returned so late that the hotel was closed for the night and our lad pommelled the door for him until the landlord descended, in wrath and confidentially scant attire, to admit the novelist. [sidenote: ethan brand] one starless night we were guided to the kiln of "bertram the lime-burner" which hawthorne visited with mr. leach,--one of several kilns high up on the steep slope without the town, where the marble of the mountain is converted into snow-white lime. the graphic imagery of the tale may all be realized here upon the spot where it is laid. amid the darkness, the iron door which encloses the glowing limestone apparently opens into the mountain-side, and seems a veritable entrance to the infernal regions whose lurid flames escape by every crevice. the dark and silent figure, revealed to us by the weird light, sitting and musing before the kiln, is surely "ethan brand" on his solitary vigil, intent on perilous thoughts as he looks into the flame, or mutely listening to the fiend he has evoked from the fire to tell him of the unpardonable sin; or it is the same brand returned to the foot of graylock after eighteen years of weary searching abroad, to find the sin in his own heart and to burn that heart into snowy whiteness and purity in the kiln he had watched so long. as we ponder the scene we would scarce be surprised to witness the approach of the village rabble led by joe, the old jew exhibiting his "peep-show" at the foot of the kiln, and the self-pursuing cur violently chasing his own shortened tail, or to hear the demoniac laughter of brand which scattered the terror-stricken rabble in the surrounding darkness. certain it is that, thirteen years before he wrote the tale, hawthorne saw here, at a kiln on the foot-hill of graylock, his "bertram," and heard the legend of a demented creature who threw himself into the midst of the circle of fire. the name "ethan brand" was that of an old resident of hawthorne's salem. [sidenote: graylock] the summit of graylock, whose rugged beauty has been sung by holmes, thoreau, bryant, and fanny kemble, had for hawthorne a sort of fascination. from the streets of the village, from all the ways by which he sauntered through the country-side, his eyes were continually turning to that lofty height, observant of its ever-changing aspects. his diary of the time abounds with records of its phases, presented in varying conditions of cloud and sunshine and from different places of prospect, and of the fanciful impressions suggested to his subtile thought by each fresh and unfamiliar appearance. a walk repeatedly enjoyed by him is along a primitive road on the mountain-side to the southern end of the notch,--"where it slopes upward to the skies,"--whence he could see most of the enchanting valley of berkshire--with its lakes, embowered villages, and billowy expanses of upland and mead--extending between mountain-borders to the great dome which looms across it sixty miles away. in the distance he could see the crags of bryant's monument mountain--the "headless sphinx" of his own "wonder-book"--rising above the gleaming lake whose margin was to be his later home. our route to the peak of graylock is that taken by hawthorne and thoreau through the savage cleft of the notch. we follow up a dashing mountain-stream past a charming cascade beneath darkening hemlocks, then along a rough road by the houses whose inhabitants hawthorne thought "ought to be temperance people" from the quality of the water they gave him to drink. in the remoter parts of the glen a stranger-pedestrian is still a wonder, and will be regarded as curiously as was the romancer. from the extremity of the notch, graylock rises steeply, his sides clothed with forests, through which we climb to the summit and our reward. from the site of thoreau's bivouac, where fanny kemble once declaimed romeo and juliet to a picnic party, we behold a scene of unrivalled vastness and beauty,--on every side peak soaring beyond peak until the shadowy outlines blend with the distant sky. the view ranges from grand monadnock and the misty adirondacks to the catskills, the dome of mount washington, and the far-away hills of connecticut, while at our feet smiles the bright valley, as beautiful as that in which rasselas dwelt. [sidenote: natural bridge] a mile from the town we find one of the most picturesque spectacles in new england, the natural bridge, to which hawthorne came again and again during his sojourn in this region. amid a grove of pines apparently rooted in the solid rock, a tributary of the hoosac has, during measureless eons of time, worn in the white marble a chasm sixty feet deep and fifteen feet wide, spanned at one point by a beautifully arched mass which forms a bridge high above the stream which frets along the rock-strewn floor of the canyon. within the ravine the brook falls in a rainbow-crowned cascade, and below this is a placid pool with margins of polished marble, where hawthorne once meditated a bath, but, alarmed by the approach of visitors, he hastily resumed his habiliments, "not caring to be to them the most curious part of the spectacle." from the deep bed of the brook the gazer looks heavenward between lofty walls of crystalline whiteness which seem to converge as they rise, whose surmounting crags jutting from the verge are crowned by sombre evergreens which overhang the chasm and almost shut out the sky. as we traverse the gorge whose wildness so impressed hawthorne and listen to the re-echoing roar of the now diminished stream, we are reminded of his conceit that the scene is "like a heart that has been rent asunder by a torrent of passion which has raged and left ineffaceable traces, though now there is but a rill of feeling at the bottom." our way back to the town is along a riotous stream which took strong hold upon the liking of the novelist, by which he often walked and in whose cool depths he bathed. his brief descriptions of its secluded and turbulent course, through resounding hollows, amid dark woods, under pine-crowned cliffs,--"talking to itself of its own wild fantasies in the voice of solitude and the wilderness,"--although written at the time but for his own perusal, are among the gems of the language. farther down, the boisterous stream is now subdued and harnessed by man and made to turn wheels of factories; its limpid waters are discolored by dye-stuffs; its beauty is lost with its freedom; it becomes useful and--ugly. [sidenote: incidents and characters of tales] one day our excursion is into the romantic valley of the deerfield by the old stage-road over the hoosac range, the route which hawthorne took with his friends birch and leach. the many turns by which the road accomplishes the ascent afford constantly varying vistas of the valley out of which we rise, and progressively widening prospects of the forest-clad mountains beyond. at the summit we are in the centre of the magnificent panorama of mountains--glowing now with autumnal crimson and gold--which extorted from henry clay the declaration that he had "never beheld anything so beautiful." on the bare and wind-swept plain which lies along the summit are a few farm-dwellings. among these at the time of hawthorne's visit--before the great tunnel had pierced the mountain and superseded the stage-route--was a homely wayside inn, afterward a farm-house, at whose bar passengers were wont to "wet their whistles." it may be assumed that the romancer and his companions failed not to conform to this time-honored custom, for it was in that rude bar-room--since a farm-kitchen--that hawthorne met the itinerant jew with a diorama of execrable scratchings which he carried upon his back and exhibited as "specimens of the fine arts;" in that room also the novelist witnessed the whimsical performance of the usually sensible and sedate old dog, who periodically broke out in an infuriated pursuit of his own tail, "as if one half of his body were at deadly enmity with the other." these incidents were carefully noted at the time for possible future use, and in such choice diction that when, many years afterward, he wove them into the fabric of a tale of "the snow image" volume, he transcribed them from his diary to his manuscript essentially unchanged. this instance illustrates the method of this consummate literary artist and his alertness to perceive and utilize the details of real life. his journals abundantly show that he was by no means the aphelxian dreamer he has been adjudged. [sidenote: deerfield arch] as we descend into the deep valley we find a wild gulf where a brooklet from the top of hoosac falls a hundred feet into a rock-bordered pool, whence it hastens to lose itself in the river; and a mile or two farther along the deerfield we come to the natural arch which hawthorne visited. it is in one of the wildest parts of the picturesque valley, where mountain-walls rise a thousand feet on either side. through a mass of rock projecting from the margin the stream has wrought for itself a symmetrically arched passage as large as and very like the door-way of an old-world cathedral. the summit of the arch and the water-worn pillars upon either side display "pot-holes" and other evidences of erosion, and in the bed of the current lie fragments of similarly attrite rocks which seem to indicate that at some period a series of arches spanned the entire space from mountain to mountain. hawthorne's pleasing fancy makes this arch the entrance to an enchanted palace which has all vanished except the door-way that "now opens only into nothingness and empty space." [sidenote: williamstown] on other days our saunterings follow hawthorne's to beautiful williamstown and through the picturesque scenery which environs it. within the park-like village the alma mater of bryant, garfield, and hawthorne's "eustace bright" stands embowered in noble elms and overlooked by mighty graylock. viewed from here, emerson thought graylock "a serious mountain." thoreau considered its proximity worth at least "one endowed professorship; it were as well to be educated in the shadow of a mount as in more classic shades. some will remember not only that they went to the college but that they went to the mountain." hawthorne visited both. at the college commencement we find him more attentive to the eccentric characters in the assemblage without the church than to the literary exercises within, as evidenced by his piquant description of the enterprising pedler with the "heterogeny" of wares, the gingerbread man, the negroes, and other oddities of the out-door company. [sidenote: bryant--emerson] about us here lie the scenes which stirred in william cullen bryant that intense love of nature which inspired his best stanzas. a winsome walk brings us to a sequestered glen where a brooklet winds amid moss-covered rocks and dainty ferns, and mirrors in its clear pools the overhanging boughs and the patches of azure; this was a favorite haunt of the youthful bryant, and here he pondered or composed his earlier poems, including some portion of the matchless "thanatopsis." here emerson, lingering under the spell of the spot, was moved to recite wordsworth's "excursion" to a companion, who must evermore feel an enviable thrill when he recalls the exquisite lines falling from the lips of the "great evangel and seer" amid the loveliness of such a scene. ii lenox and middle berkshire _beloved of the littérateurs--la maison rouge--where the house of the seven gables was written--wonder-book and tanglewood scenes--the bowl--beecher's laurel lake--kemble--bryant's monument mountain- stockbridge--catherine sedgwick--melville's piazza and chimney- holmes--longfellow--pittsfield._ we have only to accompany eustace bright of "wonder-book" from williams college to his home, where catherine sedgwick's "stockbridge bowl" nestles among the summer-enchanted hills of central berkshire, to find the abode of hawthorne during the most fertile period of his life. this region of inspiring landscapes has long been a favorite residence of _littérateurs_. here jonathan edwards compiled his predestined treatises; here catherine sedgwick wrote the romances which charmed her generation; here elihu burritt "the learned blacksmith," wrought out the "sparks" that made him famous; here bryant composed his best stanzas and made monument mountain and green river classic spots; here henry ward beecher indited many "star papers;" here herman melville produced his sea-tales and brilliant essays; here headley and holmes, lowell and longfellow, curtis and james, audubon and whipple, mrs. sigourney and martineau, fanny kemble and frederika bremer, the gifted sisters goodale, and many other shining spirits, have had home or haunt and have invested the scenery with the splendors of their genius. half a score of this galaxy were in berkshire at the time of hawthorne's residence there. after his sojourn in northern berkshire he returned to salem, where he married the lovely sophia peabody, endured some years of custom-house drudgery, and wrote the "scarlet letter," which made him famous: he then sought again the seclusion of the mountains. [sidenote: hawthorne's return to berkshire] poverty, which he had long and bravely endured, has been assigned as the cause of his removal to the humble berkshire abode in 1850; one writer refers to the slenderness of his larder here, another says the rent for his poor dwelling was paid by his friends, another that the rent was remitted by the owner, who was his friend. but the success of the "scarlet letter" had relieved the necessitous condition of its author; and his landlord here--tappan of "tanglewood"--testifies and hawthorne's letters show that he was able to pay his rent. his motive in returning to berkshire is stated in a letter to bridge: "i have taken a house in lenox--i long to get into the country, for my health is not what it has been. an hour or two of labor in a garden and a daily ramble in country air would keep me all right." doubtless, too, he hoped to find the quiet and seclusion of the place favorable for his work. [sidenote: his home and study] the habitation to which he brought his family he describes as "the very ugliest little bit of an old red farm-house you ever saw," "the most inconvenient and wretched hovel i ever put my head in." his wife's letters characterize it, "the reddest and smallest of houses," with such a low stud that she "fears to be crushed." in later years we have found it scarcely changed since hawthorne's occupancy; it was indeed of the humblest and plainest,--a low-eaved, one-and-a-half-storied structure, with a lower wing at the side, dingy red in color, with window-shutters of green. the interior was cosy and more commodious than the exterior would indicate, and one could readily conceive that the artistic taste and deft fingers of mrs. hawthorne might create here the idyllic home her letters portray. we have been indebted to the courtesy of hawthorne's friend tappan for glimpses of the rooms which mrs. hawthorne had already made familiar to us: the tiny reception-room, where she "sewed at her stand and read to the children about christ;" the drawing-room, where she disposed "the embroidered furniture," and where, in the farther corner, stood "apollo with his head tied on;" the dining-room, where the "pembroke table stood between the windows;" the small boudoir, with its enchanting outlook; the "golden chamber" where the baby rose was born; the room of the "little lady una;" and the low, dingy apartment which was the study of the master-genius. of this room she says, "it can boast of nothing but his presence in the morning and the picture out of the window in the evening." his secretary was so placed that as he sat at his work he could look out upon a landscape of forest and meadow, lake and mountain, as beautiful as a poet's dream. it was the exquisite loveliness of this scene--which hawthorne thought surpassed all others in berkshire--that for a time reconciled him to the deficiencies of his situation here. monument mountain, looming almost across the valley, is the most prominent feature of this view, and it was from his study window that he noted most of its varying aspects which are depicted in the "wonder-book" and in his letters and journals. its contour is to him that of a "huge, headless sphinx," and when--as on the days we beheld it from his window--it blazes from base to summit with the resplendent hues of autumn, his fancy suggested that "the sphinx is wrapped in a rich persian shawl;" with the sunshine upon it, "it has the aspect of burnished copper;" now it has "a fleece of sun-brightened mist," again it seems "founded on a cloud;" on other days it is "enveloped as if in the smoke of a great battle." upon the pane through which he had looked upon these changeful phases his hand inscribed, "nathaniel hawthorne, february 9, 1851." [sidenote: site of his little red house] he could scarcely have found a lovelier location for his home. the valley, which sometimes seemed to him "a vast basin filled with sunshine as with wine," is enclosed by groups of mountains piled and terraced to the horizon. as we behold them in the splendor of the october days, great patches of sunshine and sable cloud-shadows flit along the glowing slopes in the sport of the wind. on the one side, the ground sweeps upward from the cottage site to the "bald summit" of the "wonder-book;" on the other, a meadow--as long as the finger of the giant of "three golden apples"--slopes to the lake a furlong distant. that beautiful water, sung by sigourney, sedgwick, and fanny kemble, stretches its bays three miles among the hills to the southward and mirrors its own wooded margins and the farther mountains. beyond the lake, rising in mid-air like a great gray wall, are the sheer precipices of monument mountain, and in the hazy distance the loftier taconics uprear their grand dome in the illimitable blue. of "la maison rouge" of hawthorne's letters, the pilgrim of to-day finds only the blackened and broken foundation walls: a devouring fire, from which tappan saved little of his furniture, has laid it low. these walls (which remain only because relic-hunters cannot easily carry them away) measurably indicate the form and dimensions of the cottage and its general arrangement. its site is close upon the highway, from which it is partially screened by evergreen trees. the gate of the enclosure is of course an unworthy successor to that upon which fields found hawthorne swinging his children, but these near-by elms have shaded the great romancer, the tallest of the evergreens is the tree his wife thought "full of a thousand memories," and all about the spot cluster reminders of the simple, healthful life hawthorne led here. here are the garden ground he tilled and where he buried the pet rabbit "bunny;" the "patch," ploughed for him by tappan, where he raised beans for himself and corn for his hens (he had learned something of agriculture at brook farm, albeit it was said there he could do nothing but feed the hogs); the now great fruit-trees whose leaden labels little julian destroyed, as tappan remembers; the place of the "scientific hennery," fitted up by the "man of genius and the naval officer,"--hawthorne and horatio bridge; the long declivity where the novelist as well as his eustace bright used to coast "in the nectared air of winter" with the children of the "wonder-book;" the leafy woods--his refuge from visitors--where he walked with his children and where bright nutted with the little pringles; the lake-shore where hawthorne loitered or lay extended in the shade during summer hours, "smoking cigars, reading foolish novels, and thinking of nothing at all," while the children played about him or covered his chin and breast with long grasses to make him "look like the mighty pan." near by are other friends he has made known to us. yonder copse shades a narrow glen whose braes border a brooklet winding and chattering on its way to the lake; this glen was a summer haunt of hawthorne, where he doubtless pondered much of his work. here he brought his children "to play with the brook" and helped them to build water-falls, or reclined in the shade and told them stories as described in the "wonder-book,"--for this is the "dell of shadow-brook," where the children picnicked with bright and where he told them the story of "the golden touch" on such an afternoon as this, on which we behold the dell thickly strewn with golden leaves, as if king midas had newly emptied his coffers there. [sidenote: tanglewood and wonder-book scenes] yonder mansion of hawthorne's landlord, just beyond the highway, is "tanglewood,"--place of the pringles' home and still the abode of tappan's daughters,--where bright spent his vacations and where hawthorne makes him tell many of the "tales." the view described on the porch, where the "gorgon's head" was narrated, is the one hawthorne saw from his study window. glimpses of various rooms of the mansion which tappan then inhabited and called "highwood" are prefixed to the stories told in them. beyond "tanglewood" steeply rises an eminence whose bare acclivity hawthorne often climbed with his family,--the "bald summit" where the pringles listened to the tale of "the chimera." we ascend by the novelist's accustomed way "through luther butler's orchard," and are repaid by a view extending from the mountains of vermont to the catskills and deserving the high praise hawthorne bestowed. a golden cloud floating close to graylock's shaggy head reminds us of hawthorne's conceit that a mortal might step from the mountain to the cloud and thus ascend heavenly heights. the farther ranges enclose a valley of wave-like hills,--which look as if a tumultuous ocean had been transfixed and solidified,--dotted with farmsteads and picturesque villages whose white spires rise from embowering trees. at our feet the "bowl" ripples and scintillates, farther away the "echo lake" of christine nilsson and many smaller lakelets "open their blue eyes to the sun," while the placid stream, fringed by overhanging willows, circles here and there through the valley like a shining ribbon. here we may realize the immensity of hawthorne's giant in the "three golden apples," who was so tall he "might have seated himself on taconic and had monument mountain for a footstool." [sidenote: resorts and reminiscences] [sidenote: fanny kemble] not far away, near another shore of the shimmering "bowl," that versatile genius "carl benson"--charles astor bristed--dwelt for some time in a quaint old farm-house which has since been destroyed by fire, and here accomplished some of his literary work. laurel lake (the scott's pond of hawthorne's "note-books"), where beecher "bought a hundred acres to lie down upon,"--and called them blossom farm in the "star papers" written there,--was another resort of hawthorne. we find it a pretty water, although its margins are mostly denuded of large trees. a bright matron of the vicinage, who, when a child, thought the author of the "wonder-book" the "greatest man in the world save only franklin pierce," lived then by hawthorne's road to laurel lake. her admiration for him (heightened by his intimacy with pierce) led her to daily watch the road by which he would come from tanglewood, and when she saw him approaching--which would be twice a week in good weather--she would go into the yard and reverently gaze at him until his swift gait had carried him out of sight. to her he was a tall, dark man with a handsome clean-shaven face and lustrous eyes which saw nothing but the ground directly before him, habitually dressed in black, with a wide-brimmed soft hat. usually his walk was solitary, but sometimes herman melville, who was well known in the neighborhood, was his companion, and one autumn he was twice or thrice accompanied by "a light spare man,"--the poet ellery channing. once hawthorne strode past toward the lake when fanny kemble, who lived near by, rode her black steed by his side and "seemed to be doing all the talking"--she was capable of that--and "was talking politics." having secured a democratic auditor, she doubtless "improved the occasion" with her habitual vivaciousness. a neighbor of hawthorne's tells us this incident of the following year, when the novelist's friend pierce had been named for the presidency. one dark night this neighbor went on foot to a campaign lecture at lenox furnace. at its close, he essayed to shorten the homeward walk by a "short cut" across the fields, and, of course, lost his way. descrying a light, he directed his steps toward it, but found himself involved in a labyrinth of obstacles, and had to make so many détours that when he finally reached the house whence the light proceeded, and when in response to his hail the door was opened by kemble herself, he was so distraught and amazed at being lost among his own farms that he could hardly explain his plight; but she quickly interrupted his incoherent account: "yes, i see, poor benighted man! you've been to a democratic meeting; no wonder you are bewildered! now i'll lend you a good whig lantern that will light you safe home." we find mrs. kemble-butler's "perch"--as she named her home here--a little enlarged, but not otherwise changed since the time of her occupancy. she was a general favorite, and her dark steed, which had cost her the proceeds of a volume of her poems, used to stop before every house in the vicinage. she often came, habited in a sort of bloomer costume which shocked some of her friends, to fish in the "bowl" at the time hawthorne dwelt by its shore. the death of louis kossuth, some time ago, reminded her former neighbors here that she led the dance with him at a ball in lenox, when the exiled patriot was a guest of the sedgwicks. [sidenote: monument mountain] our approach to monument mountain is along one of those sequestered by-ways which hawthorne loved, with "an unseen torrent roaring at an unseen depth" near by. a rift in the morning mists which enshroud the valley displays the mountain summit bathed in sunshine. we ascend by bryant's "path which conducts up the narrow battlement to the north," the same along which hawthorne and his friends--holmes, james t. fields, sedgwick, and the rest--were piloted by the historian headley on a summer's day more than forty years ago. standing upon the beetling verge, which is scarred and splintered by thunderbolts and overhangs a precipice of five hundred feet or more, we look abroad upon a landscape of wondrous expanse and beauty. here we may realize all the prospect bryant portrayed as he stood upon this spot: "a beautiful river wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads; on either side the fields swell upward to the hills; beyond, above the hills, in the blue distance, rise the mighty columns with which earth props heaven." in the middle distance, across the bowl, which gleams a veritable "mountain mirror," we see the site of the home whence hawthorne so often looked upon these cliffs. yonder detached pinnacle, rising from the base of the precipice beneath us, is the "pulpit rock" which catherine sedgwick christened when hawthorne's party picnicked here; from the crag projecting from the verge fanny kemble declaimed bryant's poem, and herman melville, bestriding the same rock for a bowsprit, "pulled and hauled imaginary ropes" for the amusement of the company. among these splintered masses the company lunched that day and drank quantities of heidsieck to the health of the "dear old poet of monument mountain." on the east, almost within sight from this eminence, is the spot where he was born, near the birthplaces of warner and the gifted mrs. howe. [sidenote: hawthorne at stockbridge] another day we follow the same brilliant party of hawthorne's friends through the stockbridge ice glen,--a narrow gorge which cleaves a rugged mountain from base to summit, its riven sides being apparently held asunder by immense rocky masses hurled upon each other in wild confusion. beneath are weird grottos and great recesses which the sun never penetrates, and within these we make our way--clambering and sliding over huge boulders--through the heart of the mountain. one of hawthorne's company here testifies that in all the extemporaneous jollity of the scramble through the glen the usually silent novelist was foremost, and, being sometimes in the dark, dared use his tongue,--"calling out lustily and pretending that certain destruction threatened us all. i never saw him in better spirits than throughout this day." from the glen we trace hawthorne to the staid old house of burr's boyhood, where lived and wrote jonathan edwards, and the statelier dwelling whence catherine sedgwick gave her tales to the world. near by we find the grave where she lies amid the scenes of her own "hope leslie," and not far from the sojourn of her gifted niece whose translation of sand's "fadette" has been so well received. overlooking the village is the summer residence of field of the "evangelist,"--author of the delightful books of travel. farther away is a little farm-house, with a "huge, corpulent, old harry viii. of a chimney," to which hawthorne was a frequent visitor,--the "arrow-head" of herman melville. "godfrey graylock" says the friendship between hawthorne and melville originated in their taking refuge together, during an electric shower, in a narrow cleft of monument mountain. they had been coy of each other on account of melville's review of the "scarlet letter" in duyckinck's _literary world_, but during some hours of enforced intercourse and propinquity in very contracted quarters they discovered in each other a correlation of thought and feeling which made them fast friends for life. thereafter melville was often at the little red house, where the children knew him as "mr. omoo," and less often hawthorne came to chat with the racy romancer and philosopher by the great chimney. once he was accompanied by little una--"onion" he sometimes called her--and remained a whole week. this visit--certainly unique in the life of the shy hawthorne--was the topic when, not so long agone, we last looked upon the living face of melville in his city home. march weather prevented walks abroad, so the pair spent most of the week in smoking and talking metaphysics in the barn,--hawthorne usually lounging upon a carpenter's bench. when he was leaving, he jocosely declared he would write a report of their psychological discussions for publication in a volume to be called "a week on a work-bench in a barn," the title being a travesty upon that of thoreau's then recent book, "a week on concord river," etc. [sidenote: melville's arrow-head] sitting upon the north piazza, of "piazza tales," at arrow-head, where hawthorne and his friend lingered in summer days, we look away to graylock and enjoy "the calm prospect of things from a fair piazza" which melville so whimsically describes. at arrow-head, too, we find the astonishing chimney which suggested the essay, still occupying the centre of the house and "leaving only the odd holes and corners" to melville's nieces, who now inhabit the place in summer; the study where hawthorne and melville discussed the plot of the "white whale" and other tales; the great fireplace, with its inscriptions from "i and my chimney;" the window-view of melville's "october mountain,"--beloved of longfellow,--whose autumn glories inspired that superb word-picture and metaphysical sketch. on a near knoll, commanding a view of the circle of mountains and the winding river, stands the sometime summer residence of holmes among his ancestral acres, where hawthorne and fields came to visit him. his "den," in which he did much literary work, overlooks the beautiful meadows, and is now expanded into a large library, while the trees he planted are grown to be the crowning beauty of the place, which the owner calls holmesdale. it was the hereditary home of the wendells. [sidenote: pittsfield] beyond, at the edge of the town of pittsfield, is the mansion where longfellow found his wife and his famous "old clock on the stairs." at the athenæum in the town some thousands of holmes's books will soon be placed, and here is preserved the secretary from hawthorne's study in the little red house,--a time-worn mahogany combination of desk, drawers, and shelves, at which he wrote "the house of the seven gables," "the wonder-book," "the snow image," and part of "the blithedale romance." pittsfield was long the home of "godfrey graylock;" here the gifted rose terry cooke passed her closing years of life with her husband, and not far away josh billings, "the yankee solomon," was born and reared as henry savage shaw. one day we trace from pittsfield the footsteps of hawthorne and melville across the taconics to the whilom home of "mother ann" and to the higher hancock peaks. hawthorne's daily walk to the post-office was past the later residence of charlotte cushman, and by the church where the older channing delivered his last discourse and where twenty years ago parkhurst was preacher. in the church-tower fanny kemble's clock still tells the hours above the lovely spot where she desired to be buried. [sidenote: hawthorne's habit of meditation] these various excursions compass the range of hawthorne's rambles in this region: he was never ten miles away from the little red house during his residence here. obviously he preferred short and solitary strolls which allowed undisturbed meditation upon the work in hand. the quantity and finish of the writing done here indicate that much thought was expended upon it outside his study. we may be sure that upon "the house of the seven gables" were bestowed, besides the five months of daily sessions at his desk, other months of study and thought as he strolled the country roads and loitered by the lake-side or in the dell of "blossom-brook." he avowed himself a shameless idler in warm weather, declaring he was "good for nothing in a literary way until after the autumnal frosts" brightened his imagination as they did the foliage about him here; yet the meditations of one summer in berkshire produced his masterpiece, and the next summer accomplished "the wonder-book," quickly followed by "the snow image" and "blithedale." during this summer also he had a voluminous correspondence with the many "pyncheon jackasses" who thought themselves aggrieved by his use of their name in "the house of the seven gables." [sidenote: life in the little red house] of the simple home-life at the little red house, hawthorne's diaries and letters, as well as some of the books written here, afford pleasing glimpses. the "violet" and "peony" of the "snow image" story are the novelist's own little una and julian, and the tale was suggested by some occurrence in their play; the incidents related of eustace bright and the young pringles, which are prefixed to the "wonder-book" stories, are merely experiences of hawthorne and his children, and during the composition of these tales he delighted these children--as one of them remembers--by reading to them each evening the work of the day. a grim-visaged negress named peters, who was the servant here in the little red house, is said to have suggested the character of aunt keziah in "septimius felton." hawthorne's chickens receive notice as members of the family in his diary,--thus: "seven chickens hatched, j. t. headley called--eight chickens;" "ascended a mountain with my wife, eight more chickens hatched." in a letter to horatio bridge, "our children grow apace and so do our chickens;" "we are so intimate with every individual chicken that it seems like cannibalism to think of eating one of them." hawthorne's daily walk with pail in hand to luther butler's, the next farm-house, he speaks of as his "milky way." butler lives now two miles distant. the novelist thus announces to his friend bridge the birth of the present gifted poetess, mrs. lathrop, the daughter of his age: "mrs. hawthorne has published a little work which still lies in sheets, but makes some noise in the world; it is a healthy miss with no present pretensions to beauty." five cats were cherished by the novelist and his children; a snowy morning after hawthorne's removal, three of the cats came to a neighboring house, where their descendants are still petted and cherished. a few visitors came to the little red house--kemble, james, lowell, holmes, e. p. whipple, and the others already mentioned--in whose presence the "statue of night and silence" was wont to relax, but for the most part his life was that of a recluse. here, as elsewhere, his thoughts dwelt apart in "a twilight region" where the company of his kind was usually a perturbing intrusion. for companionship, his family, the lake, the woods, his own thoughts, sufficed; he seldom sought any other, and therefore was unpopular in the neighborhood. it is hardly to be supposed that the creator of zenobia, hester prynne, and the pyncheons would greatly enjoy the society of his rural neighbors, but they were not therefore the less displeased by his habitually going out of his way--sometimes across the fields--to avoid meeting them. some of them had a notion that he was the author of "a poem, or an arithmetic, or some other kind of a book,"--as he makes "primrose pringle" to say of him in the tale,--but to most he was incomprehensible, perhaps a little uncanny, and the great genius of romance is yet mentioned here as "a queer sort o' man that lived in tappan's red house." [sidenote: reasons for leaving berkshire] his son records that after hawthorne had freed himself from salem "he soon wearied of any particular locality;" after a time he tired even of beautiful berkshire. its obtrusive scenery "with the same strong impressions repeated day after day" became irksome; then he grew tired of the mountains and "would joyfully see them laid flat." he writes to fields, "i am sick of berkshire, and hate to think of spending another winter here." doubtless the region which we behold in the glamour of the early autumn seemed very different to hawthorne in the season when he had daily "to trudge two miles to the post-office through snow or slush knee-deep." ellery channing--who had knowledge of the winter here--in his letters to hawthorne calls berkshire "that satanic institution of spitzbergen," "that ice-plant of the sedgwicks." a more cogent reason for hawthorne's discontent here is found in his failing health. he writes to pike, "i am not vigorous as i used to be on the coast;" to fields, "for the first time since boyhood i feel languid and dispirited. oh, that providence would build me the merest shanty and mark me out a rood or two of garden near the coast." for these and other reasons hawthorne finally left berkshire at the end of 1851, going first to west newton and a few months later to "the wayside," while his friend tappan occupied the thenceforth famous little red house. the world of readers owes much to hawthorne's residence among the mountains. besides the material here gathered and the exquisite settings for his tales these landscapes afforded, we are indebted to his environment in berkshire for the quality of the work here accomplished and for its quantity as well; for he responded so readily to the inspiriting influence of his surroundings that he produced more during his stay here than at any similar period of his life. the soulful beauty and the seclusion of the haunts to which we here trace him, suiting well his solitary mood, may measurably account to us for his habit of thought and for the manner of expression by which nature was here portrayed and life expounded by the great master of american romance. a day with the good gray poet a day with the good gray poet _walk and talk with socrates in camden--the bard's appearance and surroundings--recollections of his life and work--hospital service- praise for his critics--his literary habit, purpose, equipment, and style--his religious bent--readings._ "how can you find him? nothing is easier," quoth the philadelphia friend who some time before whitman's death brought us an invitation from the bard; "you have only to cross the ferry and apply to the first man or woman you meet, for there is no one in camden who does not know walt whitman or who would not go out of his way to bring you to him." the event justifies the prediction, for when we make inquiry of a tradesman standing before a shop, he speedily throws aside his apron, closes his door against evidently needed customers, and--despite our protest--sets out to conduct us to the home of the poet. this is done with such obvious ardor that we hint to our guide that he must be one of the "whitmaniacs," whereupon he rejoins, "i never read a word whitman wrote. i don't know why they call him socrates, but i do know he never passes me without a friendly nod and a word of greeting that warms me all through." we subsequently find that it is this sort of "whitmania," rather than that swinburne deplores, which pervades the vicinage of the poet's home. our conductor leaves us at the door of three hundred and twenty-eight mickle street, a neat thoroughfare bordered by unpretentious frame dwellings, hardly a furlong from the delaware. the dingy little two-storied domicile is so disappointingly different from what we were expecting to see that the confirmatory testimony of the name "w. whitman" upon the door-plate is needed to convince us that this is the oft-mentioned "neat and comfortable" dwelling of one of the world's celebrities. we are kept waiting upon the door-step long enough to observe that the unpainted boards of the house are weather-worn and that the shabby window-shutters and the cellar-door, which opens aslant upon the sidewalk, are in sad need of repair, and then we are admitted by the "good, faithful, young jersey woman who," as he lovingly testifies, "cooks for and vigilantly sees to" the venerable bard. a moment later we are in his presence, in the spacious second-story room which is his sleeping apartment and work-room. "you are good to come early while i am fresh and rested," exclaims walt whitman, rising to his six feet of burly manhood and advancing a heavy step or two to greet us; "we are going to have a talk, and we have something to talk about, you know," referring to a literary venture of ours which had procured us the invitation to visit him. when he has regained the depths of his famous and phenomenal chair, the "jersey woman" hands him a score of letters, which he offers to lay aside, but we insist that he shall read them at once, and while he is thus occupied we have opportunity to observe more closely the bard and his surroundings. [sidenote: whitman's personal appearance] we see a man made in massive mould, stalwart and symmetrical,--not bowed by the weight of time nor deformed by the long years of hemiplegia; a majestic head, large, leonine, homeric, crowned with a wealth of flowing silvery hair; a face like "the statued greek" (bucke says it is the noblest he ever saw); all the features are full and handsome; the forehead, high and thoughtful, is marked by "deep furrows which life has ploughed;" the heavy brows are highly arched above eyes of gray-blue which in repose seem suave rather than brilliant; the upper lid droops over the eye nearly to the pupil,--a condition which obtains in partial ptosis,--and we afterward observe that when he speaks of matters which deeply move him his eyelids have a tendency to decline still farther, imparting to his eyes an appearance of lethargy altogether at variance with the thrilling earnestness and tremor of his voice. a strong nose, cheeks round and delicate, a complexion of florid and transparent pink,--its hue being heightened by the snowy whiteness of the fleecy beard which frames the face and falls upon the breast. the face is sweet and wholesome rather than refined, vital and virile rather than intellectual. joaquin miller has said that, even when destitute and dying, whitman "looked like a titan god." we think the habitual expression of his face to be that of the sage benignity that comes with age when life has been well lived and life's work well done. the expression bespeaks a soul at ease with itself, unbroken by age, poverty, and disease, unsoured by calumny and insult. certainly his bufferings and his brave endurance of wrong have left no record of malice or even of impatience upon his kindly face. his manly form is clad in a loosely fitting suit of gray; his rolling and ample shirt-collar, worn without a tie, is open at the throat and exposes the upper part of his breast; all his attire, "from snowy linen to burnished boot," is scrupulously clean and neat. [sidenote: his study and surroundings] his room is of generous proportions, occupying nearly the entire width of the house, and lighted by three windows in front. the floor is partly uncarpeted, and the furniture is of the simplest; his bed, covered by a white counterpane, occupies a corner; there are two large tables; an immense iron-bound trunk stands by one wall and an old-fashioned stove by another; a number of boxes and uncushioned seats are scattered through the apartment; on the walls are wardrobe-hooks, shelves, and many pictures,--a few fine engravings, a print of the seminole osceola, portraits of the poet's parents (his father's face is a good one) and sisters, and of "another--not a sister." there are many books here and there, some of them well worn; one corner holds several greek and latin classics and copies of burns, tennyson, scott, ossian, emerson, etc. on the large table near his chair are his writing materials, with the bible, shakespeare, dante, and the iliad within reach. bundles of papers lie in odd places about the room; piles of books, magazines, and manuscripts are heaped high upon the tables, litter the chairs, and overflow and encumber the floor. this room holds what whitman has called the "storage collection" of his life. "and now you are to tell me about yourself and your work," says the poet, pushing aside his letters. but, although he is the best of listeners, we are intent to make him talk, and a fortunate remark concerning one of his letters which had seemed to interest him more than the others--it came from a friend of his far-away boyhood--enables us to profit by the reminiscential mood the letter has inspired. in his low-toned voice he pictures his early home, his parents, and his first ventures into the world; with evident relish he narrates his ludicrous experience when he--a stripling school-master--"went boarding 'round." than this, there was but one happier period of his life, and that was when he drove among the farms and villages distributing his _long islander_: "that was bliss." later he was a politician and "stumped the island" for the democratic candidates, but the enactment of the fugitive slave law disgusted him, and he declared his political emancipation in the poem "blood-money." at odd times he has done "a deal of newspaper drudgery" and other work, but his "forte always was loafing and writing poetry,--at least until the war." he began early to clothe his thought in verse, and was but a lad when a poem of his was accepted for publication in the new york _mirror_, and he depicts for us the surprised delight with which he beheld his stanzas in that fashionable journal. [sidenote: his recollections] a pleasure of those early years was the companionship of bryant, and he details to us the "glorious walks and talks" they had together along the north shore in sweet summer days. this, he says with a sigh, was the dearest of the friendships lost to him by the publication of "leaves of grass;" "but there were compensations, emerson and tennyson." of later events he speaks less freely. of the years of devoted service to the wounded and dying in army hospitals, when day and night he literally gave himself for others,--living upon the coarsest fare that he might bestow his earnings upon "his sick boys,"--of these years he speaks not at all, save as to the causation of his "war paralysis." "yes, it made an old man of me; but i would like to do it all again if there were need." of his long years of suffering and his brave and patient confronting of pain, poverty, and imminent death, his "specimen days" is the fitting record. replying to a question concerning a dainty volume of his poems which lay near us, and which we have been secretly coveting, he says, "you know i have never been the fashion; publishers were afraid of me, and i have sold the books myself, though i always advise people not to buy them, for i fear they are worthless." but when he writes his name and ours upon the title-page, and lays within the cover several portraits taken at different periods of his life, we wonder if he can ever know how very far from "worthless" the book will be to us. we tender in payment a bank-note of larger denomination than we could be supposed to possess, with a deprecating remark upon the novelty of an author's handling a fifty-dollar note, whereupon he laughs heartily: "a novelty to you, is it? i tell you it's an impossibility to me; why, my whole income from my books during a recent half-year was only twenty-two dollars and six cents: don't forget the six cents," he adds, with a twinkle. then he assures us that he is not in want, and that his "shanty," as he calls his home, is nearly paid for. [sidenote: popularity with his neighbors] he proposes a walk,--"a hobble" it must be for him,--which may afford opportunity to change the note; and as we saunter toward the river, he leaning heavily upon his cane, it is a pleasure to observe the evident feeling of liking and camaraderie which people have for him. they go out of their way to meet him and to receive merely a friendly nod, for he stops to speak with none save the children who leave their play to run to him. he seems mightily amused when one wee toddler calls him "mister socrates," and he tells us this is the first time he has been so addressed, although he understands that some of his friends speak of him among themselves by the name of that philosopher. so far as he knows, the name was first applied to him in buchanan's lines "to socrates in camden." everywhere we go, on the ferry, at the hotel where we lunch, he receives affectionate greeting from people of every rank, yet he is not loquacious, certainly not effusive. he shakes hands but once while we are out, and that is with an unknown man, and because he _is_ unknown, as whitman afterward tells us. during luncheon we speak of a recent visit to mrs. howarth (the poetess "clementine"). whitman is at once interested, and questions until he has drawn out the pathetic story of her struggles with poverty, disease, and impeding environment, and then declares he will go to see her as soon as he is able. he declines to receive a copy of her poems, saying he is far more interested in her than he could possibly be in her books, and that he "nowadays religiously abstains from reading poetry." confirmation of this latter statement occurs in our subsequent conversation. a friend of ours had met swinburne, and had been assured by that erratic (please don't print it erotic) bard that he thinks whitman, next to hugo, the best of recent poets. when we tell our poet of this, and endeavor to ascertain if the admiration be reciprocal, we find him unfamiliar with swinburne's recent works. reference to the latter's retraction of his first praise elicits the pertinent observation, "the trouble with swinburne seems to be he don't know his own mind," but this is followed by warm encomiums upon "atalanta" and its gifted author. whitman had seen emerson for the last time when the philosopher's memory had failed and all his powers were weakening: instead of being shocked by this condition, whitman thinks it fit and natural, "nature gradually reclaiming the elements she had lent, work all nobly done, soul and senses preparing for rest." mentioning george arnold,- "doubly dead because he died so young,"-we find that whitman loved and mourned him tenderly. he expresses an especial pleasure and pride in the successes of the poet richard watson gilder,--"young gilder," as he familiarly calls him. he loves browning, and laments that "browning never took to" him. he thinks our own country is fortunate in having felt the clean and healthful influences of four such natures as emerson, bryant, whittier, and longfellow. [sidenote: his good word for everybody] indeed, he has a good word for everybody, and discerns laudable qualities in some whom the world has agreed to contemn and cast out. he has glowing expressions of affection for his devoted friends in all lands, and only words of excuse for his enemies. of the pharisaic harlan, who dismissed him from a government clerkship solely because he had, ten years before, published the poems of "enfans d'adam," he charitably says, "no doubt the man thought he was doing right." concerning his harshest critics, including the author of the choice epithet "swan of the sewers," he speaks only in justification: from their stand-point, their denunciations of him and his book were deserved; "he never dreamt of blaming them for not seeing as he sees." after our return to his "shanty" we read to him a laudatory notice from the current number of one of our great magazines, in which one of his poems is mentioned with especial favor; whereupon he produces from his trunk a note written some years before from the same magazine, contemptuously refusing to publish that very poem. evidences like this of a change in popular opinion are not needed to confirm whitman's faith in his own future, nor in that of the great humanity of which he is the prophet and exponent. questioned concerning his habits and methods of literary work, he says he carries some sheets of paper loosely fastened together and pencils upon these "the rough draft of his thought" wherever the thought comes to him. thus, "leaves of grass" was composed on the brooklyn ferry, on the top of stages amid the roar of broadway, at the opera, in the fields, on the sea-shore. "drum taps" was written amid war scenes, on battle-fields, in camps, at hospital bedsides, in actual contact with the subjects it portrays with such tenderness and power. the poems thus born of spontaneous impulse are finally given to the world in a crisp diction which is the result of much study and thought; every word is well considered,--the work of revision being done "almost anywhere" and without the ordinary aids to literary composition. in late years he wrote mostly upon the broad right arm of his chair. complete equipment for his work was derived from contact with nature in her abounding moods, from sympathetic intimacy with men and women in all phases of their lives, and from life-long study of the best books; these--job, isaiah, homer, dante, shakespeare--have been his teachers, and possibly his models, although he has never consciously imitated any of them. his matter and manner are alike his own; he has not borrowed blake's style, as stedman believed, to recast emerson's thoughts, as clarence cook alleged. his style would naturally resemble that of the semitic prophets and gaelic bards,--"the large utterance of the early gods,"--because inspired by familiarity with the same objects: the surging sea, the wind-swept mountain, the star-decked heaven, the forest primeval. [sidenote: his literary work--its aims] his purpose, the moral elevation of humanity, he trusts is apparent in every page of his book. by his book he means "leaves of grass," the real work of his life, representing the truest thoughts and the highest imaginings of forty years, to which his other work has been incidental and tributary. after its eight periods of growth, "hitches," he calls them, he completes them with the annex, "good-bye my fancy," and thinks his record for the future is made up; "hit or miss, he will bother himself no more about it." when questioned concerning the lines whose "naked naturalness" has been an offence to many, he impressively avers that he has pondered them earnestly in these latest days, and is sure he would not alter or recall them if he could. [sidenote: his religious trust] while not professing a moral regeneration or confessing the need of it, he yet assures us, "no array of words can describe how much i am at peace about god and about death." the author of "whispers of heavenly death" cannot be an irreverent person; the impassioned "prayer"- "that thou, o god, my life hast lighted with ray of light, ineffable, vouchsafed of thee. for that, o god, be it my latest word, here on my knees, old, poor, and paralyzed, i thank thee.... i will cling to thee, o god, though the waves buffet me. thee, thee, at least, i know"-is not the utterance of an irreligious heart. one who has known whitman long and well testifies that he was always a religious _exalté_, and his stanzas show that his musings on death and immortality are inspired by fullest faith. as we listen to him, calmly discoursing upon the great mysteries,--which to him are now mysteries no longer,--we wonder how many of those who call him "beast" or "atheist" can confront the vast unknown with his lofty trust, to say nothing of actual thanksgiving for death itself! "praised be the fathomless universe for life and joy, for objects and knowledge curious, and for love, sweet love,--but praise! praise! praise! for the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death." we who survive him will not forget his peaceful yielding of himself to "the sure-enwinding arms," nor the abounding trust breathed in his last message, sent back from the mystic frontier of the shadowy realm: "tell them it makes no difference whether i live or die." [sidenote: readings] in our chat he discloses a surprising knowledge of men and things, and a more surprising lack of knowledge of his own poetry. more than once it strangely appears that the visitor is more familiar with the lines under discussion than is their author. when this is commented upon he laughingly says, "oh, yes, my friends often tell me there is a book called 'leaves of grass' which i ought to read." so when we, about to take leave, ask him to recite one of his shorter poems, he assures us he does not remember one of them, but will read anything we wish. we ask for the wonderful elegy, "out of the cradle endlessly rocking," and afterward for the night hymn, "when lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed," and his compliance confers a never-to-be-forgotten pleasure. he reads slowly and without effort, his voice often tremulous with emotion, the lines gaining new grandeur and pathos as they come from his lips. and this--alas that it must be!--is our final recollection of one of the world's immortals: a hoar and reverend bard,--"old, poor, and paralyzed," yet clinging to the optimistic creeds of his youth,--throned in his great chair among his books, with the waning light falling like a benediction upon his uplifted head, his face and eyes suffused with the exquisite tenderness of his theme, and all the air about him vibrating with the tones of his immortal chant to death,--the "dark mother always gliding near with soft feet." another hand-clasp, a prayerful "god keep you," and we have left him alone in the gathering twilight. [sidenote: his future fame] we will not here discuss his literary merits. the encomiums of emerson, thoreau, burroughs, sanborn, stedman, ruskin, tennyson, rossetti, buchanan, sarrazin, etc., show what he is to men of their intellectual stature; but will he ever reach the great, struggling mass for whose uplifting he wrought? his own brave faith is contagious, and we may discern in the wide-spread sorrow over his death, in the changed attitude of critics and reviewers, as well as in the largely increased demand for his books, evidences of his general acceptance. his day is coming,--is come. he died with its dawn shining full upon him. index abbot, c. c., 104. agassiz, 49, 104, 115. alcott, bronson, 21, 73, 78, 92, 144; orchard house, 54; wayside, 58. alcott, l. m., 21, 54, 102; grave, 78; homes, 21, 55. aldrich, 91, 111, 140; in boston, 92; ponkapog, 146. amesbury, 124. auburndale, 146. austin, j. g., 102. bartlett, g. b., 25, 34, 41. bartol, dr., 48, 94. beecher, h. w., 176, 185. benson, carl, 184. berkshire, 155-198. billings, josh, 193. boston, 83-102. bridge, horatio, 34, 182. brook farm, 147. brown, john, 20, 23. bryant, w. c., 174, 188, 189, 207. burritt, elihu, 176. cambridge, 103. carter, robert, 109. channing, w. e., 24, 41, 50, 72, 186; homes, 22, 24, 52. clarke, j. f., 27, 76. clough, arthur, 49, 104, 118. concord, 17-80; battle-field, 43; river, 39. conway, moncure, quoted, 29, 48. cooke, rose terry, 193. corner book-store, boston, 87. curtis, g. w., 33, 48, 148, 149. cushman, charlotte, 114, 193. dana, c. a., 149. dana, r. h., 105. danvers, oak-knoll, 138. day with walt whitman, 201. deerfield arch, 173. deland, margaret, 93. elmwood, 110. emerson, r. w., 26, 27, 28, 36, 41, 43, 69, 86, 144, 175; grave, 77; home, 45. emerson, william, 26, 29, 35. ethan brand, 166. fanny fern's grave, 115. felton, professor, 104. field, h. m., 190. fields, annie, 89, 91. fields, j. t., 65, 87; home, 89. fuller, margaret, 48, 53, 86, 115, 149; brattle house, 105. gail hamilton, 66, 139. garrison, w. l., 85, 102, 139. gilder, r. w., 211. gladden, washington, 164. grant, robert, 89, 99. gray, asa, 105. graylock, 158, 167, 174, 184. guiney, l. i., 99, 102; home, 146. hale, e. e., 94; study and abode, 100. hale, lucretia p., 99. hamilton, gail, 66, 139. harris, professor, 56. haverhill, 122. hawthorne, 27, 41, 50, 53, 85, 88, 91; berkshire, 155-198; brook farm, 149; manse, 28-39; salem, 128-138; sleepy hollow, 75-77; wayside, 59-67. headley, j. t., 187, 195. higginson, t. w., 94, 99, 104. hilliard, george, 34, 66, 91. hoar, elizabeth, 25. hoar, judge, 27. holmes, 84; boston abodes, 91, 95; cambridge, 103; grave, 114; pittsfield, 192. house of the seven gables, 132, 193, 194. howarth, clementine, 209. howe, julia w., 98. howells, 49, 66; homes, 97, 105, 117. jamaica plain, 145. jewett, sarah orne, 91. kemble, fanny, 169, 186, 188, 193. kossuth, louis, 49, 187. larcom, lucy, 139. lathrop, g. p., 59. lathrop, rose h., 195. laurel lake, 185. lenox (hawthorne), 176-198. little men, 21. little women, 21, 55, 78. longfellow, 106, 110, 139, 192; grave, 114; home, 107; wayside inn, 118. lowell, j. r., 43, 118; elmwood, 110; mount auburn, 113. marshfield, 142. martineau, harriet, 85, 106. melville, herman, 177, 185, 188; arrow-head, 190. monument mountain, 168, 179, 187. moulton, l. c., 93, 98. mount auburn, 113. natural bridge, 169. north adams, 158-171. norton, professor, 104. oak-knoll, 138. old manse, 28-39. orchard house, 53-56. parker, theodore, 49, 85. parkman, francis, 94, 113; home, 145. parsons, t. w., 118, 119, 120. parton, james, 115; study, 140. peabody, elizabeth, 29, 54, 145. phelps-ward, mrs., 91, 125, 139. phillips, wendell, 49, 85. pittsfield, 190-193. plymouth, 144. prescott, w. h., 86. ripley, ezra, 28, 33, 34. ripley, mrs. samuel, 29, 35, 48. salem, 128. sanborn, f. b., 20-24. scarlet letter, 95, 135, 136. sedgwick, catherine, 176, 189, 190. septimius felton, 55, 60-65. silas lapham, 97, 99. sleepy hollow, 75-80. sprague, charles, 86. stockbridge, 189; bowl, 176, 181; glen, 189. stone, j. a., 25. sudbury, 118. summer school of philosophy, 55, 56. sumner, charles, 85, 92, 124. swinburne, a. c., 210. tanglewood, 183. thaxter, celia, 91, 139, 140. thoreau, 19, 22, 27, 33, 41, 50, 63, 76, 169, 174; abodes, 20, 24; walden, 68-74. ticknor, george, 94. walden pond, 68. wayside, the, 58. wayside inn, the, 118. webster, daniel, 19; marshfield, 142. wheildon, william, 25. whipple, e. p., 66, 76, 91. whitefield, george, 140. whitman, walt, 50; a day with, 201; leaves of grass, 212, 213. whittier, 90, 93; homes, 122, 124, 138; scenes, 122, 123, 124, 126; sepulchre, 127. williamstown, 173. willis, n. p., 84, 115. woodworth; old oaken bucket, 141. zenobia, 40, 150. * * * * * * transcriber's note: inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. walt whitman in mickle street "_there's this little street and this little house_" edna st. vincent millay [illustration: 328 mickle street from a painting [1908] by marsden hartley] walt whitman in mickle street elizabeth leavitt keller new york mitchell kennerley mcmxxi copyright 1921 by mitchell kennerley printed in the united states j. j. little and ives company, new york editor's note elizabeth leavitt keller was born at buffalo, n. y., on november 3, 1839. both her parents were descended from the first settlers of this country, and each in turn came to buffalo in its early days, her mother, sarah ellis, by private conveyance in 1825, and her father, james s. leavitt, by way of the newly opened erie canal in 1834. elizabeth was the second daughter. in the spring of 1841 she was taken to niagara falls, and all her childhood recollections are clustered around that place. returning to buffalo in 1846, her father opened a book-bindery, and later added a printing office and stationery store. at nineteen years of age elizabeth leavitt was married to william wallace keller, of little falls, n. y. seven years later she became a widow. her natural instinct for nursing was developed during the civil war and the years that followed, but the time and opportunity for professional training did not come until 1876, when, her two children being provided for, she was free to apply for admission to the school for nurses connected with the women's hospital in philadelphia--one of the three small training schools then existing in the united states. before her course was finished her younger sister died. mrs. keller left the hospital to take care of the five motherless children, and it was not until ten years later that she was free to resume her training. when she graduated she was a grandmother--the only one, it need scarcely be said, in the class. while nursing her patient, walt whitman, during his last illness, she learnt much about his personality and home life, and much also about his unselfish friend and housekeeper, mrs. davis. the desire to tell the truth about the whole case--so often misunderstood or distorted--grew stronger with the passing years, and finally mrs. keller entered an old ladies' home in her own city, where she would have leisure to carry out her design. here the book was commenced and completed. "after numerous struggles and disappointments," she writes, "my second great desire--to set mrs. davis in her true light--has been fulfilled--this time by a great-grandmother!" it is not often that a great-grandmother, after a long life of service to others, sees her first book published on her eighty-second birthday. mrs. keller uses her pen as if she were twenty or thirty years younger. her letters are simple but cheery, her outlook on life contented but in no way obscured. not deliberately, but through a natural gift, she conveys vivid impressions of the world as it now appears to her, just as she conveys so unpretentiously but unforgettably in her book the whole atmosphere of walt whitman's world, when it had been narrowed to the little frame house in mickle street, and finally to a bed of suffering in one room of that little house. whatever else her book may be, it is an extraordinary instance of revelation through simplicity; the picture stands out with all its details, not as a work of conscious art, but assuredly as a work that the artist, the student of life and of human nature, will be glad to have. charles vale preface had it ever occurred to me that the time might come when i should feel impelled to write something in regard to my late patient, walt whitman, i should have taken care to be better prepared in anticipation; would have kept a personal account, jotted down notes for my own use, observed his visitors more closely, preserved all my correspondence with dr. bucke, and recorded items of more or less interest that fade from memory as the years go by. still, i have my diary, fortunately, and can be true to dates. after i had been interviewed a number of times, and had answered various questions to the best of my knowledge and belief, i was surprised to see several high-flown articles published, all based on the meagre information i had furnished, and all imperfect and unsatisfactory. interviewers seemed to look for something beyond me; to wait expectantly in the hope that i could recall some unusual thing in mr. whitman's eccentricities that i alone had observed; words that i alone had heard him speak; opinions and beliefs i alone had heard him express; anything remarkable, not before given to the public. they wanted the sensational and exclusive, if possible. i suppose that was natural. but it set me thinking that if my knowledge was of any value or interest to others, why not write a truthful story myself, instead of having my words enlarged upon, changed and perverted? simple facts are surely better than hasty exaggerations. i have done what i could. one gentleman (_mr. james m. johnston, of buffalo_), who has read the manuscript, and for whose opinion i have the greatest regard, remarked as he returned it: "it appears to me that your main view in writing this was to exonerate mrs. davis." he had discovered a fact i then recognized to be the truth. my greatest fear is that i may have handled the whole truth too freely--without gloves. e. l. k. contents i mary oakes davis 1 ii walt whitman's home 8 iii the mickle street house 18 iv the new régime 27 v curious neighbors 37 vi mr. whitman drives 47 vii brooms, bills and mental chloroform 55 viii visiting and visitors 67 ix a bust and a painting 73 x rest--and routine 87 xi a shock, and some changes 100 xii anchored 113 xiii warren fritzinger 119 xiv friends, money, and a mausoleum 133 xv the last birthday party 142 xvi the new nurse 150 xvii "shift, warry" 167 xviii winding up 176 xix the trial 182 xx conclusion 187 walt whitman's monuments, by guido bruno 195 walt whitman speaks 207 index 225 walt whitman in mickle street _i write this book in loving memory of three of the most kind-hearted, unselfish and capable people i ever knew i dedicate it to alex. mcalister, m.d._ halcyon days not from successful love alone, nor wealth, nor honored middle-age, nor victories of politics or war; but as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm, as gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky, as softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame like fresher, balmier air, as the days take on a mellower light, and the apple at last hangs really finish'd and indolent-ripe on the tree, then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all, the brooding and blissful halcyon days! walt whitman walt whitman in mickle street i mary oakes davis "_she hath wrought a good work on me.... this also that she hath done shall be spoken of for a memorial of her._"--st. mark xiv: 6, 9. "_whitman with the pen was one man--whitman in private life was another man._"--thomas donaldson. someone has said: "a veil of silence, even mystery, seems to have shut out from view the later home life of walt whitman." there is no reason for this, but if it be really so, the veil cannot be lifted without revealing in a true light the good woman--mary oakes davis--so closely connected with the poet's later years, and of whom he often spoke as "my housekeeper, nurse and friend." mrs. davis's life from the cradle to the grave was one of self-sacrifice and devotion to others. her first clear recollection was of a blind old woman to whom her parents had given a home. in speaking of this she said: "i never had a childhood, nor did i realize that i had the right to play like other children, for at six years of age 'blind auntie' was my especial charge. on waking in the morning my first thought was of her, and then i felt i must not lie in bed another minute. i arose quickly, made my own toilet and hastened to her." she continued with a detailed account of the attention daily given to "auntie," how she put on her stockings and shoes, and handed her each article of clothing as it was needed; how she brought fresh water for her ablutions, combed her hair and made her presentable for the table; how at all meals she sat by her side to wait upon her, and how, after helping her mother with the dishes, she walked up and down the sidewalk until schooltime to give "auntie" her exercise, the walks being repeated when school was over. it seems strange that parents could permit such sacrifice for an outsider, however helpless, unmindful of their injustice toward the little daughter who so willingly and unconsciously yielded up her young life. no wonder this lesson of utter devotion to another, so early implanted in the tender heart of the child, should in after years become part and parcel of the woman. when mary was twelve years of age "blind auntie" died. then came two more years of schooling, after which the girl voluntarily assumed another burden--the care of a melancholy, selfish invalid, a distant relative living in the country, of whom she had heard much from time to time. with her she stayed for six years, being in turn nurse, companion, housekeeper or general servant, as need required. poor child, she failed in brightening the invalid's life--which was her only hope in going there. all her efforts were unappreciated and misunderstood, and it was a hard task to follow out what she conceived to be her duty. during the first four years her sole remuneration was a small sum of money on rare occasions, or a few articles of clothing; during the last two, a modest monthly salary. the entire period was one of unremitting care and self-abnegation, and at the age of twenty, utterly disheartened, she summoned up resolution to leave. she had long contemplated paying a visit to an old schoolmate and dear friend, mrs. fritzinger, the wife of a sea-captain, whose home was in camden, new jersey, and to this city she now went. arriving, to her great sorrow she found her friend in a serious physical condition, and remained to nurse her through a protracted illness, which ended fatally. on her deathbed mrs. fritzinger confided her two young sons to mary's care, and from this time on they called her mother. captain fritzinger soon became blind and had to give up the sea. he still however retained marine interests in philadelphia, to and from which city mary led him daily. then came a long illness. the captain appointed mary co-guardian to his two sons, and at his death divided his property equally between the three. captain davis, a friend of the fritzingers, had met mary during mrs. fritzinger's lifetime. he was much attracted to her, proposed marriage and was accepted on condition that the wedding should not take place as long as her friends had need of her. but time slipped by; it may be captain davis thought their need of her would never end; so, meeting her in philadelphia one morning, he insisted upon their going to a minister's and becoming man and wife. mary, thus forcefully pressed, consented, but exacted the promise that he would not tell the fritzingers until his return from the trip he was on the eve of taking. in a few days he left camden. his vessel was wrecked off the coast of maine, and he was buried where he washed ashore. his hasty marriage and unlooked-for death prevented him from making the intended provision for his wife, and as she shrank from any contest with his family, all that was left to her was his name and the cherished memory of her one brief love. during captain fritzinger's nine years of blindness, and through all his long sickness, mary's ingrained habit of devotion to one person made her somewhat forgetful of others; and dearly as she loved the boys who called her mother, their happiness was too often sacrificed to their father's infirmities. strange--and yet not strange, perhaps--that one whose childhood had been an unbroken martyrdom, should now be not always conscious of the needs of a new generation. the house in which they lived, in a little street running at right angles to stevens street, was closed at dusk. then, when she had read the daily papers, mary would extinguish the lights, feeling that to read to herself, or for the boys to play games, would be selfish, as the sick man was deprived of such enjoyments. it didn't occur to her that these wide-awake youngsters had nothing of her own childhood spirit of resignation, or that the noise and laughter of other boys frolicking in the streets could have any attraction for them. they were sent early to bed, but time and again made their escape through the window, creeping along the shed, and so to the fence and the street. both boys had an innate love for the sea, and at the age of fourteen and sixteen respectively had become so restless and urgent for a change, that their father yielded to their wishes and procured berths for them aboard the same ship. in two years they returned to find him dead, and in a short time they embarked again in separate vessels and for longer voyages. during their first absence, captain fritzinger had invited another ex-captain--an old shipmate and intimate friend--to come to his house to board, and for mutual companionship. the new guest was in poor health and extremely crotchety, and immediately upon his host's demise he took possession of the bed left empty. then ensued for mrs. davis two more years of fidelity and constant care, until the one old shipmate went the way of the other. but even now the long-tried woman was not left without someone to minister to, for shortly before a young orphan girl had been entrusted to her. it was certainly her destiny to find full scope for the spirit of self-sacrifice so early implanted, and so persistently called upon. but it was almost inevitable for such a nature to be unconscious of the vein of irony in human affairs, of the element of the grotesque in the sublime. she went quietly on her accustomed way. it was her vocation to be victimized, and her daily business to be a blessing to others. such was the woman who entered so closely into walt whitman's life during the seven years spent in mickle street. she meant more to him than he was perhaps aware of; more, certainly, than he ever cared to admit. if she was incapable of realizing the fulness of his genius, he seemed unable to measure the fulness of hers. but he was glad to profit by it. ii walt whitman's home "_and whether i come into my own to-day or in ten thousand or in ten million years, i can cheerfully take it now or with equal cheerfulness i can wait._"--walt whitman. "_i only thought if i didn't go, who would?_"--mary o. davis. after physical disability had incapacitated him for duty, walt whitman went to camden, the new jersey suburb of philadelphia, and there the remaining years of his life were spent, at first in his brother's house in stevens street and later in a little frame cottage, no. 328 mickle street, "where he lived alone with a single attendant," as a magazine writer phrased it. this attendant was mary oakes davis. with but one exception (_thomas donaldson, in "walt whitman the man"_), all writers who have touched upon whitman's domestic life seem to have failed to mention the interval between his two camden homes. fortunately it was of short duration, but in it came the great turning point in his career. of his early habits something may be learned from his brother george, who says: "wait was always a trying person to live with." ("_in re walt whitman._") then he goes on to relate some of the poet's peculiarities, irregularities and eccentricities. "he had an idea that money was of no consequence.... he would lie abed late, would write a few hours if he took the notion, perhaps would go off for the rest of the day. if we had dinner at one, like as not he would come at three; always late. just as we were fixing things on the table he would get up and go around the block. he was always so. "he would come to breakfast when he got ready. if he wished to go out, he would go, go where he was a mind to, and come back in his own time." it cannot be denied that a person with these traits of character would be an uncomfortable inmate to have in any home, and with mr. whitman this disregard for the convenience of others grew more marked as he advanced in years and deteriorated in body. notwithstanding this, when his good brother and his most excellent sister-in-law retired to their farm in burlington, new jersey, they urged him to accompany them. their kind offer of a home mr. whitman thought best to decline, for although at this time he had but a restricted popularity as an author, he had some staunch friends in his own city, in new york, philadelphia and abroad, and after twelve years' residence in one locality he thought it unwise to change. no doubt he did not take into consideration the difficulties he would have to encounter alone, nor realize how unfitted he was to cope with them; but as usual he overruled all opposition and followed his own inclination. or he may have had a premonition of the popularity just at hand. first he rented a room, taking his meals at odd times and in odd places. this he soon found to be a miserable mode of existence, for he was crippled financially as well as physically, and even to this late day, "his medium of circulating his views to the world was through very limited editions, which he himself usually paid for, or which failed to circulate at all." (_thomas donaldson._) the old man with his basket of literature upon his arm, plodding his way through the streets of camden and philadelphia, had long been a familiar sight, and now with slow sales and lack of former comforts it was doubly hard on him. but at this time his life had settled down to one great desire, that of rewriting his book, _leaves of grass_, and living to see it put before the world in a full, improved and complete form. he believed it was to be, and this was his principal object in remaining in a city where he had already suffered the delays and disappointments that make the heart sick and wear out the body. yet dark as was the outlook, this hope buoyed him up, and after the struggles of half a century his courage had not forsaken him. "in the period named, he was hungry, cold and neglected," says donaldson; and again: "whitman was extremely poor in camden after his brother moved away, and up to about 1884. his change of luck began about then. he had previously, to use a sailor's phrase, 'been scudding under bare poles.' he had several runs of luck after 1884." walt whitman and mrs. davis were not personally acquainted. to be sure, he had seen her innumerable times leading captain fritzinger past his brother's house, but he had never spoken to her. as for her, the poor old man had long been a secret pensioner upon her tender heart, drawing a full bounty of pity therefrom. their first interview took place on one cold frosty morning, when in deepest dejection he came a suppliant to her door. surprised as she was to find him there, she warmly invited him in, and a good breakfast soon followed the kind reception. with his writings she was totally unacquainted, and she naturally shared the universal opinion of her neighbors, that he was "a little off." nevertheless, when from the grateful warmth and good cheer he grew loquacious, and dilated upon his work and aired his lofty hopes, she listened attentively, that he might not suspect that to her all this seemed but an empty dream and delusion. she talked encouragingly, and on his rising to go cordially invited him to repeat his visit. he did so, and thenceforward this compassionate woman's homely kitchen became his one haven of rest. he knew that a hot meal and many thoughtful attentions always awaited him there; attentions such as lacing his shoes, washing and mending his clothing, and not infrequently superintending a refreshing foot-bath. "being an invalid he felt his helplessness, so attentions were doubly dear to him." (_thomas donaldson._) as the fall advanced and the weather grew severe, his bachelor quarters became more and more unsuitable, and he was indeed fortunate in the friendship he had so auspiciously formed. he developed into a daily visitor, and each morning might have been seen scuffing along in his unclasped antiquated arctics, cane in hand, and his long white hair and beard blowing in the wind. mrs. davis said that the very sight of those ungainly old arctics always brought tears to her eyes. during this winter (1884-5), through the generosity of a philadelphian (mr. george w. childs), and from the sale of his book, mr. whitman was in a way to arrange for a payment upon a small house. he was not the man to ask advice, and the selection he made was not a wise one. "it was a coop at best," as thomas donaldson says, and a much more comfortable home in a far more suitable location could have been secured for less than the price he had agreed to pay. however, it promised him a regular abiding place. the house being occupied when he became the owner, he made an arrangement with the tenants: they were to remain, and he would come there to live with them, his board to offset the rent. but the scheme did not work, and at the expiration of the first month he was left solitary and alone with his personal household goods, consisting of a scantily furnished bedstead, a home-made table, a rickety chair and a large packing box. the table served as writing desk and the packing box as kitchen and dining table. "upon it was a small coal oil stove, where he would cook a bite at the risk of his life." (_thomas donaldson._) his daily visits to mrs. davis were resumed. her back door would slowly open and he would appear saying in a pathetic voice: "pity the sorrows of a poor old man, whose trembling limbs have brought him to your door." he was always welcomed and former relations were renewed. this continued for awhile, but light housekeeping being so great a tax upon him, and his house being so "forlorn, dirty and untenantable," (_thomas donaldson_), mrs. davis went there with him in his perplexity. how could the place be anything but cold when it was heated only by the occasional flame of an oil lamp? worse still, the back door was held partly open by an accumulation of ice resulting from a ruptured water pipe. seeing how matters stood, mrs. davis, at that time a "strong, rosy-cheeked jersey woman" (_thomas donaldson_), went to work with a will, and the ice was rapidly dispersed by her vigorously wielded axe. with the door closed things soon assumed a more cheerful aspect, and at her suggestion mr. whitman purchased a small second-hand cooking stove, which, unassisted, she set up and got into running order. she carpeted his sleeping room, gave him a mattress and bedding, and in many other ways helped to make "the coop," as whitman himself called it, more habitable and homelike. then, unmindful of the distance--several blocks--she came each evening to attend to the fire, cook the food, run the invalid's errands and wait upon him generally. in speaking of this time she said: "when the poor old man was not in sight, he was so much upon my mind i could not pass one peaceful hour." suffice it to say, walt whitman had become the next object of her solicitude. he has been called a prophet. was it prophetical when, some years before, he wrote: "though poor now even to penury, i have not been deprived of any physical thing i need or wish for whatever, and i feel confident i shall not in the future"? some have considered him a cunning man; all agree that he was a remarkable judge of character. understanding this woman as he did,--as he must have done,--had he resolved to have her devote herself to him? this question can never be truthfully answered, but whether with premeditation or not, he certainly had gained a great influence over her. although comparatively comfortable in his new home now, he did not discontinue his accustomed morning visits, and as he persisted in his old delinquencies he completely upset the routine of mrs. davis's daily life and work. things ran on in this way until one morning late in february, while he was sipping his coffee, he told her he had a proposition to make. he said: "i have a house while you pay rent; you have furniture while my rooms are bare; i propose that you come and live with me, bringing your furniture for the use of both." a suggestion of this kind was so unlooked for that she refused to give it a moment's consideration. he said no more at the time, but a few days later again broached the subject. and this he continued to do daily until mrs. davis, who remained firm for awhile, at last began to waver. the young orphan girl strongly opposed such a step, but mr. whitman's persistence prevailed, for mrs. davis at last gave a reluctant consent. the advantage was all on the poet's side, as he must have seen, but recent events had raised his hopes and he made promises of adequate and more than adequate returns for all that had been done or might be done for him. as his money was "only in sight," to use his own words, the expenses of moving were paid by mrs. davis; as he was disabled, the work and worry were hers as well; but finally all was accomplished, her goods were transferred to his house and put in their new places, and the seven years of their domestic life together commenced. in this way did the "good gray poet" retire with his "single attendant" to the little frame cottage, no. 328 mickle street, camden, new jersey. iii the mickle street house "_the tide turned when he entered the mickle street house._"--thomas donaldson. "_whitman had great satisfaction in the managing skill of his housekeeper._"--sidney morse. added to "managing skill," mrs. davis had patience, perseverance, determination, courage and health; furthermore--having accompanied the fritzinger family upon a number of ocean trips, undertaken in the hope of benefiting mrs. fritzinger--she had shipboard experience which enabled her to make available every inch of space in a house smaller than the one she had left. it was an unpretentious brown frame structure, sadly out of repair, and decidedly the poorest tenement in the block. on the right was a brick house whose strong walls seemed to be holding it up, while on the left was an alley--scarcely more than a gutter--closed from the street by a wooden door. this narrow passage, filled with ice and snow in the winter, often damp and slippery even in warm weather, was unfit for general use; and as the house was not properly drained, the cellar through its one little window was often flooded from dripping eaves. three wooden steps without a banister led from the sidewalk to the front door, which had to be closed to allow those who entered to ascend the stairs. this narrow staircase, an equally narrow hall and two connecting rooms called "the parlors" comprised the first floor of the main building. between the parlors were folding doors, and each room had an exit into the hall. there were two windows in the front parlor and a single one in the back. between and under the front windows was an entrance to the cellar, with old-fashioned slanting doors. the rear and smaller portion of the house was divided into but two apartments, the kitchen below and a sleeping room above. at the back of the kitchen was a small shed, and quite a large yard. some people believed that this yard, with its pear tree and grape vine, had been the main attraction of the place for mr. whitman. on ascending the staircase, a small landing and the back sleeping room were reached; then, turning about, came more stairs, with a larger landing, part of which had been made into a clothespress. apart from this landing and a little den, sometimes known as "the anteroom," the upper portion of the main building had only one room. but the two doors in it, and a deep rugged scar across the low ceiling, testified to its having formerly been divided by a partition. as one of the doors was permanently fastened, the only access was through the den, anteroom, or "adjoining apartment," as it was also occasionally called. in the larger room was a fireplace with a mantel shelf above. there were two windows corresponding with the windows below, while the smaller room or den, reduced to one-half its proper width by some pine shelves and an outjutting chimney, had like the room below but one. the outlook from this window, into which the sun made but a few annual peeps, was the brick wall on one side, the back roof on the other, and a glimpse of the sky. the situation of the house was anything but inviting, and the locality was one that few would choose to live in. it was near both depot and ferry, and as the tracks were but a block away, or scarcely that, being laid in what would have been the centre of the next street, there was an uninterrupted racket day and night. the noise of the passenger and excursion trains--for the excursions to the coast went by way of camden--was only a minor circumstance compared with that of the freight trains as they thundered by, or passed and re-passed in making up. close at hand was a church with a sharp-toned bell, and a "choir of most nerve-unsettling singers" (_thomas donaldson_); and as if this were not enough, there was at times a most disagreeable odor from a guano factory on the philadelphia side of the delaware. such was the house to which mary davis had now come, and where through the strange, busy days of the next seven years she was destined to be walt whitman's indispensable "housekeeper, nurse and friend"--or, from the outsider's point of view, his "single attendant." the spring of 1885 was far advanced before things were fairly in running order, for from the first there had been no intermission in the poet's erratic mode of living, and mrs. davis had been obliged to devote much time to his personal wants. somehow he had a way of demanding attention which she found it impossible to resist. truly she had been hampered on all sides, this faithful martha-mary; so many things to be seen to, so many things to handle and rehandle and change about before an established place for them could be found; the strenuous cleaning, for the former tenants had left the place extremely dirty; and the pondering over repairs, and deciding which were absolutely essential and unpostponable, and which could be put off for a little while longer. she first carpeted, furnished and settled the parlors, intending the back one as the sleeping room for her young charge, until her marriage in the fall, when it could be used as a spare room. but mr. whitman had different intentions, for he at once appropriated both rooms, and would not allow the doors separating them to be closed. one of the front windows became his favorite sitting place, and here he wrote, read his papers and sat while entertaining his friends. he was delighted with these rooms, and in them he enjoyed himself to his heart's content: first in getting things into disorder at once, and then in keeping them so. the back room, which became kitchen, dining room and sitting room combined, was so compactly filled that many people remarked its close resemblance to the cabin of a ship, in the way of convenience as compared with space. it was lighted by one window, and over the ingrain carpet a strip of stair carpeting made a pathway from the hall to the outer door. on the sitting room side were a lounge, sewing machine, two rocking chairs, a stand and some small pieces of furniture; on the other was a dining table against the wall, one leaf extended and always set, with the dining chairs pushed under it when not in use; the range--a veritable giant--standing in place of the dwarf it had ousted; a sink with cubby-hole below, crowded to overflowing with pots and kettles, and shelves above loaded with dishes while their enclosing doors were closely hung with kitchen utensils. as the lower shelf only could be reached by hand, a stool (a chair that had lost its back) was kept under a projection of the range. the shed, where mr. whitman's stove was set up, was packed with household goods and chattels, classified and stored ready for momentary use, and around the walls were suspended the extra chairs. a shelf in the inside cellarway off the hall was the only pantry, and the sides of the cellarway the only tin-cupboard; then for want of a place for the flour barrel, it was left standing opposite the cellar door in the hall. in this part of the house people went by feeling, not by sight, and strangers as a rule always collided with the barrel before entering the kitchen. the little passage between the back part of the house and the wall of the one adjoining it--simply a pathway to the back entrance of the cellar--mrs. davis canopied with old sails and utilized as a laundry. here she kept her washing bench, tubs and pails, and here she washed and ironed when the weather permitted. this furnished the view from the back parlor window. the cellar and its hanging shelf had their share of plunder, and here the firewood was sawed and split. as for pictures, there were more than enough for all the rooms, and between them wall pockets, paper racks and brackets abounded. her family of birds--a robin she had rescued from a cat, a pair of turtle doves and a canary--she attached to the kitchen ceiling. she made a little place in the shed for her cat's bed, and found a shelter for a few hens in the small outhouse. her dog, more aristocratic, slept on the lounge. on a shelf over the dining table were a clock, some china vases, and a stuffed parrakeet. no wonder that upon entering the house the first thing observed was the over-filled appearance of each small room. upon a bracket in the front parlor she placed a model of a ship that had been given to captain fritzinger by the maker. this pleased mr. whitman exceedingly, for he had often noticed and admired it. he said that the first time he had desired to write anything was when he saw a ship in full sail. he tried to describe it exactly and failed; had often since studied ships in the vain hope of getting the whole beautiful story into words, but had never been able to do so. the mantels of both parlors mrs. davis heaped with shells and curiosities from distant parts of the world. some of them were rare and valuable. such was the inside of the house after it had passed through mary's transforming hands. there were many things in it that might have been better elsewhere, perhaps. but where? it was only a little house, and mary had come to it from a larger one, with all her possessions. she had nowhere else to put them now, without losing them. if mr. whitman had any sense of being over-crowded, it was his own fault. she had come at his urging--and he had taken the two large parlors on the first floor, and the large front chamber with the anteroom above, entirely for his own use, thus leaving for the two women the kitchen (which he shared with them in its aspect of dining room) and the only remaining room in the house--the little back chamber on the second floor. into this, they condensed and squeezed their more personal belongings. iv the new régime "_i know an old story. it goes back to 1826, when a monument to bellman, the swedish poet, was unveiled in stockholm. the king and queen were there, and bellman's old wife. and the king spoke of the dead poet, and praised him in a flight of purple phrases; but the old wife said, 'oh yes, but if your majesty only knew what a nuisance he was about the house....' but frankly, wouldn't you like to know what kind of a nuisance the poet was at home?_"--vance thompson. discovering so quickly that her new charge was decidedly a self-centered person, and seeing that waiting upon him promised to be her chief occupation, mrs. davis planned her work accordingly, and being an early riser was able to devote the untrammelled morning hours to preparations for the day. mr. whitman usually arose at nine o'clock, but in this, as in all things, he consulted his own wishes alone. his breakfast hour was any time during the forenoon; and no doubt he did not understand how or why this could discommode his new housekeeper. when the signal came--one that mrs. davis soon learned, three or four loud peremptory raps upon the floor above--she dropped whatever she might be doing and hastened upstairs. since mr. whitman's first stroke of paralysis, nearly twenty years before, he had become so disabled that he required much assistance while dressing, and for this he was not at all diffident in asking. besides, he was "very curiously deliberate." there being no water on the second floor, mrs. davis carried up and down all that he needed for his baths,--and he used water freely. then when fully dressed he consulted his own feelings in regard to coming downstairs. in his mother's house in long island, and in his brother's in camden, walt had seldom taken his meals with the family. while living in brooklyn, new orleans and washington, his meal times were of no importance to anyone except himself, and he could not see why this rule should not apply to his own house, or any house where he might be staying. to him regular meals were a bondage he could not endure. going up and down stairs was a difficult task, and after coming to the mickle street house he seldom did so unaided, so the old signal was repeated when he was ready to descend, and again mrs. davis hastened to him. as he never would tell what he wanted until he was seated at the table, she always kept a supply of special things on hand; nothing elaborate,--maybe steak, chops, oysters or eggs. he never found fault with his food, and although he did not often commend it he must have been fully appreciative, for all through his letters and conversations, as given in the various books about him, are allusions to mary's good cooking. occasionally, to suit her own convenience, she would have his breakfast prepared; but if she mentioned this fact while helping him to dress he would invariably say, "ah! i will not eat anything for awhile." when the dishes had been set aside to be kept warm, and mary was again busily engaged,--the wash perhaps partly hung on the line, or her deft hands in the dough,--the peremptory signal would come, and on being helped down and seated at the table he would coolly demand something entirely different from what she had provided. he commenced housekeeping by inviting company--lord or beggar--to dine with him, and would keep these guests at the table for hours; even "when he was eating off a dry goods box for a table, and drinking milk warmed over a coal oil lamp, and a few crackers with it, he would ask you to dine, with the dignity of a prince, and never apologize or mention the food." (_thomas donaldson._) a biographer (_horace traubel_) says, "he was very simple in his tastes, taking only two meals in a day." true; but the day was nearly consumed in getting and serving these two meals, with the after work that followed. to mrs. davis's surprise he did not hesitate to entertain visitors in his sleeping room if they arrived while he was there, and many of them would remain until "the wee sma' hours." there was a charm in fellowship with him, and ill and lethargic as he had grown, it was said: "walt whitman's friends rarely visited him without having a good laugh over something or other"; and "gifted with a clear resonant voice, the poet often gratifies his friends as he sits by a blazing wood fire--which is his delight--singing old-fashioned songs." it was this irregularity that had worn upon his sister-in-law, for during the years in which she had endured walt's thoughtlessness, she had had the care of edward, the irresponsible, feeble-minded brother; and when, by the doctor's advice, she left camden for the country, the home was tendered to walt with this option: he was to conform to their way of living and cease turning night into day. he did indeed have "runs of luck" after 1884, and who can deny that the greatest of these was in securing the undivided attention of a warm-hearted, unselfish woman, and in her making it possible for him to live untrammelled, in his own home? surely the tide turned when this good woman ceased to be an independent being and became the strong prop on which he leaned; a shield between him and all annoyances. while perplexed with settling the house, and having no time to go over the same ground twice, although the condition of the parlors troubled her, mrs. davis had let them go, awaiting a favorable time to clean and regulate them thoroughly. this opportunity came in the summer, during the first of mr. whitman's temporary absences. since he had been in his own house, old friends had occasionally called to take him to spend the day with them. this time he was asked to remain a week. he gladly availed himself of the change, and his housekeeper was no less pleased to have a week to herself. in it she did her best to restore order, and when she had finished was really proud of the improvement she had effected. mr. whitman returned. he at once discovered what had taken place during his absence, and his consternation knew no bounds! he said that he had left _everything exactly_ as he wished it to remain; where he could find it; now the very things he needed most were gone; in fact he could find nothing he wanted, and in the future he forbade _anyone_ to meddle with his private property; he desired and expected to find--at all times and upon all occasions--his personal matters unmolested, undisturbed, left entirely alone. mrs. davis mildly replied that she had only taken from the room some useless papers, scraps of letters, old envelopes, bits of twine and wrapping paper. he declared that these were the very things he needed most; the ones he specially missed. she remonstrated, but to no purpose; he silenced her; just how, she could not comprehend. to walt whitman's credit be it said, he never spoke an unkind word to mrs. davis; never was arrogant or overbearing to her; never belittled her or put her down before others; always treated her as an equal; relied upon her judgment and often sought her advice;--but he would have his own way, and she with her yielding nature soon gave in; the struggle was only a short one; before winter commenced, confusion once more reigned. in due time piles of periodicals were stacked on the table and on chairs; newspapers, letters, envelopes and bundles of manuscript were in the corners; and as he had immediately set about the work he had so greatly at heart, cuttings, rejected scraps of paper and general litter soon covered the floor, the confusion gradually making its way into the next room and threatening to invade the hall. the front parlor became a veritable editor's sanctum; nothing but the smell of printer's ink and the sound of the press were wanting. some of his poems he altered and revised again and again, and in a short time the large waste basket mary had placed in the room was filled to overflowing. as he would not allow her to remove or empty the basket, it became the foundation of a hillock of débris. sometimes when he seemed off-guard she would surreptitiously remove a few dust pans full, but he was not deceived, and even this she had to discontinue. the first summer and fall in his own house were decidedly pleasant and beneficial to mr. whitman. he worked as he felt able or inclined; was encouraged with the progress he was making, and gratified with the prospect before him. he believed, and must have seen, that situated so advantageously the one desire of his life was to be consummated, and that even though it were to be accomplished in a slow way, he would live to see his book completed and in a form to meet his most sanguine wishes. visitors retarded his work, but this was no real detriment, nor did he feel the time lost that he spent in returning visits. making over the old material and adding to it the poems he had composed since the issue of the last edition, was something he could lay down and take up at any time. and he certainly did enjoy agreeable company, delighting whole-heartedly in their companionship as he dispensed the hospitality of his own board. by degrees mrs. davis accustomed herself to her new surroundings and was no longer astonished at any of walt's remarkable ways or unreasonable requests; besides, she remembered that the step she had taken was after all self-imposed, that all her friends had protested, and that it was now irrevocable; so with good sense and in good time she became, if not fully reconciled, at least resigned. she didn't exactly regret coming to mickle street, but she could judge from the few months she had passed there what the years to come might bring; yet even with this outlook she resolved not to shrink from but bravely to face the future, whatever might betide; and so unconsciously she transferred to walt whitman the devotion she had given to others. she seldom left the house when he was there alone, for with that enigmatical instinct chronic patients develop he knew, and always wanted something, whenever she was busiest or on a momentary absence. therefore after awhile she put all other considerations aside, and gave her full energies to the work she had undertaken; individual wishes were surrendered as she strove to adjust her ways to the erratic ones of the old man; familiar customs were discarded and former friends neglected. she seemed almost to lose her personality and to become a part of the house and the peculiar life lived there. she was never obtrusive, and did all things in a quiet manner. if company lingered until midnight she remained up to assist her charge to bed; she humored his vagaries, and always had a smile and a pleasant word for him. when he was inclined to be despondent, she cheered him; when he was in pain, she had some simple remedy at hand; when he was in danger of overtaxing his strength, she gently cautioned him; and if the disorder of his rooms troubled her, she did not let him guess how much. at first she supposed he was not in a position to purchase new clothing, and did her best to make him presentable in what he had, while she patiently awaited the time when the expected money should come in; and through her efficiency in washing, darning, patching and mending he soon presented a much improved appearance, often commented on. his brother, his good sister-in-law, his other relatives and all his friends rested in peace. they knew the hands he was in, the shoulders upon which the burden had fallen. v curious neighbors "_mr. whitman and his housekeeper were closely watched by some curious people who had never lived near a poet before. in addition they minded their own business. that camden should contain two such people in one street was enough to create wonder._"--thomas donaldson. the inhabitants not only of mickle street, but of contiguous ones, were deeply interested in the strange couple who had come to live among them, and kept a close watch upon every movement. their vigilance troubled mrs. davis, for she could see no reason why anyone should be curious about them. it was different with mr. whitman, who never saw anything he did not choose to. "i don't think a man ever existed so entirely indifferent to criticism and slander." (_sidney morse._) if mrs. davis chanced to go to her front door, half a dozen women would appear at theirs; if she swept her sidewalk, her broom seemed to set in motion half a dozen others. if she left her house for five minutes or remained away for hours, she would find sentinels awaiting her return. sometimes as she was approaching home she would hear a shrill childish voice call out: "mama! mama! here she comes!" or she would see a young urchin--presumably on guard--scamper into the house to give the alarm. "they seemed always upon the alert, and saw to it that whatever went into mr. whitman's house should have an eye escort in and an eye escort out." (_thomas donaldson._) from behind curtains, shutters and blinds mrs. davis could see and instinctively feel eyes fastened upon her, and what appeared especially remarkable was that this intrusive neighborly interest failed to die out or lessen with time. it was a matter of genuine personal curiosity, keen and continuing, and not of the transient attention any newcomer might awaken. unquestionably there was an atmosphere of perplexity and perhaps suspicion in the locality. for one thing, extravagant and impossible as it may seem, it had been rumored about that some people who entered "the poet's" house never came out again. a frequent caller during mr. whitman's first years of housekeeping says: "opposite, as i slid into the house one day, sat a bundle of dirt with bread and sugar upon it, on watch. as i hurried in i heard it yell, 'hurry, mama! a fat man at whitman's door!' and presently a female watcher of two hundred and fifty pounds pattered to the door, wiping her fat arms on a checked apron. i heard her say as she retreated, 'jimmie, watch if he comes out!' this confirmed the suspicion i had long had, that someone in the vicinity held that persons entered but didn't leave the whitman house, and that they mysteriously disappeared." (_thomas donaldson._) this is no doubt curiously exaggerated; the woman probably only wished to get another glimpse of the "fat man" as he came out; but it is interesting as showing the feeling of a visitor. the effect of such conditions upon a woman like mrs. davis, living in the house itself and constantly exposed to the oppressive surveillance, might well have been serious. but she had a placid disposition and took things quietly. she was not at all disturbed because none of the older watchers made overtures towards an acquaintance. it was different with the young people, however, for after their awe had somewhat subsided they began to be venturesome--to show their hardihood perhaps--and soon became quite familiar, making the cellar doors (old-fashioned slanting ones) their regular rendezvous. here they would come to "mind babies," to hold mimic school and singing classes, to play games, keep house, take lunch and eat taffy purchased at a little corner store. undoubtedly one inducement for their constant visits was the chance of getting one of the pennies that rolled occasionally out of the window above. before summer had ended they had grown decidedly sociable, and in one of their favorite pastimes--running up and sliding down the cellar doors--each would pause for a moment at the top and peek in at the "good gray poet" as he sat anchored in his great chair, and ask, "how do you do to-day, mr. whitman?" the poet's original style of dressing was probably one reason why he attracted so much notice. he wore gray clothes, large of make and uncertain of fit, with an open vest, over which was turned the broad collar of his shirt. the latter, during his entire sojourn in camden, was invariably made of a good quality of unbleached cotton. he preferred this to any other material, and he could not tolerate a separate collar, starched bosom or necktie. he despised an ordinary pocket-handkerchief, and carried instead a generous piece of soft cotton or cheesecloth. his wide-brimmed hat, always looking the worse for wear, was usually turned up in front. all this, with his size and long white hair and beard, made him a picturesque individual, and it was only natural that he should be recognized at once as a decidedly uncommon person. walt was an invalid and infirm, nevertheless when he was equipped and started he could go unaccompanied to philadelphia and other nearby places. this enabled him to call upon friends, transact matters of business and keep in touch with the world generally. sometimes he would take an extended ride on a street car, but the greatest source of enjoyment to him was a trip back and forth on the delaware river. from the ferry boat he could feast his eyes upon ships--"those floating poems" (_his own words_)--either in the distance or passing close at hand. and here he was sure to meet some old acquaintance or to make a new one, and so feel himself still a factor in the busy bustling life around him. pleasant as were these rides to him, each one brought more or less tribulation to mrs. davis, for governed as he apparently was by the impulse of the moment, she was never given warning of his intentions or allowed time for preparations. his excursions therefore were a trial she had not counted upon. he would not mention the ferry, or hint of going there, until he was seated at the table, or more likely had finished his breakfast. this made much extra running up and down for mary, who could have simplified matters by having him dressed to begin with for the weather and the occasion. this did not seem to occur to him. crippled, slow, and requiring so much assistance, and feeling that neither his own time nor that of anyone else was of much account, it was often past noon before he was ready for the start. then mrs. davis, who always saw him safely on the street car, would hurriedly don her outer garments, for mr. whitman had little patience with delay in other people. the housekeeper helping the poet down the front steps was a sight none of the neighbors would willingly lose, therefore the couple always sallied forth under the musketry of glances shot out at them from every direction. when walking in the street mr. whitman carried his cane in one hand, and with the other he clung tightly to the arm of his companion. his size and weight (even now, in spite of his invalidism, he weighed two hundred pounds) would have made a fall a serious matter. the street cars--horse cars, running at fifteen minute intervals--on their way to the ferry crossed mickle street at the first corner above. if unfortunately one was missed, it seemed a long and tedious wait for the next. to mrs. davis this was both tiresome and embarrassing; embarrassing because of the lookers-on, and tiresome because during the delay mr. whitman depended mainly upon her arm for support. all the conductors knew the picturesque old man, and were obliging and attentive to him. when he was entrusted to their care mrs. davis had nothing to fear; she was also confident that he would find a helping hand wherever he might go, so quickly doing her buying and errands she would hasten home, where a myriad of duties awaited her. mr. whitman never gave a clue to his calculations--if he happened to have any--and consequently there could be no certainty as to the length of time he might be away. however, in the case of a ferry ride a few hours might be counted upon. of these mary would make full use; then as the afternoon lengthened and dinner time approached, she would grow restless and commence going to meet the cars. the return route was two blocks away, but the distance could be shortened by way of the back gate. if mr. whitman was not in the first car met, she would hurry back, accomplish what she could in the next quarter of an hour, and then go again. frequently when the car was not on time, some domestic calamity would occur; the fire would go out, or something burn, or a pot boil or stew over. in this case she would make what reparation she could in the limited time allotted her, then go again. this order of things would be kept up until mr. whitman's arrival; then would come the slow walk home, and the equally slow removing of wrappings, over-shoes and so on. he always returned hilarious, braced up by the good time he had enjoyed, and totally unconscious that his housekeeper had had any extra work whatever, or a minute of anxiety on his account. the rides were indeed trying to her, and in pleasant weather he would go no less than three or four times a week. following the ferry ordeals, there came another unlooked-for tax, that of getting him ready for winter engagements and taking him wherever he had to go. there would have been less trouble in this if he had possessed a suitable outfit, but as he had made but few additions to his scanty wardrobe, the threadbare garments needed constant renovation. he had sufficient shirts, however, now; for soon after getting into his own house he had given her money for material, and she had made him six new ones. he himself superintended the cutting out and putting together, as they were to be fashioned with exactitude after the old pattern. with one of them he was particularly pleased, for around the collar and cuffs mrs. davis had sewed some lace edging of her own. this shirt he kept for special occasions, and never put it on without making some pleasant remark in regard to the trimming. but of the two, mrs. davis had much the more pride in his appearance, for she had learned that he was often invited to meet distinguished people. she accompanied him on his way to all social gatherings, and unless other escort was assured, called for him. this, however, was of rare occurrence, as guests began to vie with each other in seeing him home. she also went with him to places of business in camden and philadelphia, at which times he depended upon her alone, both going and coming back. the task of walking with him was doubly burdensome when the roads were rough and uneven, or slippery with snow and ice, which caused him to cling to her arm with a grip of iron. he had lost strength in his lower limbs, but gained it in the upper, as mary often realized, though mr. whitman was unaware of the severity of the pressure. as he could not carry his cane in his left hand, the entire strain came upon her right arm, and as he became more and more dependent upon her, these walks grew almost unendurable; especially so when, for some purpose or other, or upon meeting a friend, he would thoughtlessly stand to talk, never releasing his grip. vi mr. whitman drives "_i swear i will never again mention love or death inside a house, and i swear i will never translate myself at all, only to him or her who privately stays with me in the open air._"--walt whitman. "_for such a lover of nature not to be able to get out of doors, was a calamity than which no greater was known._"--thomas donaldson. the first winter over, spring came and was passed in about the same daily routine; but before the summer was far advanced mrs. davis was convinced that the old man's walking days were rapidly drawing to a complete close. this troubled her greatly, and during one of mr. thomas donaldson's frequent evening visits she talked earnestly with him about it. mr. donaldson, the poet's intimate and constant friend, was a practical man; one ready to listen to the suggestions of others, and to assist in forwarding their plans. between him and mrs. davis there was a mutual understanding; each knew the other's worth. he had always shown consideration for her; had sought her out in her own house, and stood manfully by her side in her ministrations to the invalid. she told him she was certain, from the number of letters mr. whitman received, his many visitors from other cities and abroad, his increasing list of invitations and requests for personal interviews, that he must be a man in whom others were deeply interested. she said that for some time she had had a plan in her mind. it was this: that he should write to mr. whitman's friends--as he knew just who they were--and solicit a subscription of ten dollars from each of them, the fund to be appropriated to the purchase of a horse and carriage for the poet's use. mr. donaldson fell in with the scheme, and thirty-one of the thirty-five letters written by him received prompt replies, and in each was the sum asked for. as the gift was to be a surprise, only a few friends were let into the secret. a comfortable buggy was ordered and a gentle pony selected, as it was supposed the drives would be quiet ones, in suburban places. on the fifteenth of september all was completed, and mr. donaldson came over in the afternoon, ostensibly to make a call. he found his friend on a lounge in the front room, and seating himself commenced to chat with him upon the topics of the times. this he continued to do until he heard the gift carriage drive up to the door. his young son blaine sat by the driver's side. mr. donaldson went to the window, and mr. whitman hobbled after him to see who had arrived. "bless me," he said, "what a fine turnout! and there is blaine! well, well, how the lad does seem to fit it; how comfortable it does look! what does it all mean?" "it certainly does look comfortable," mr. donaldson replied, "and walt, it's yours." this statement he repeated twice before his astonished friend could believe he had heard aright, and even then he did not appear to take in or comprehend the full meaning of such an announcement. while still dazed and hardly himself--impassive as was his natural demeanor--his friend handed him a letter containing the names of the contributors, in an envelope with $135.40 enclosed. mr. whitman read the letter and was completely overcome; tears trickled down his cheeks, and he was unable to articulate a word. when he was somewhat composed, mrs. davis, who had been slyly watching the scene, came in with his coat and hat, and proposed that he should at once--and for the first time--take a drive in a turnout of his own. it proved to be a long drive, as it was late in the afternoon when he returned. mrs. davis was delighted; the gift surpassed her highest expectations, was much nicer and more expensive than she had thought it was to be; and she rejoiced to see the poor old man, who not two years before had shuffled to her door, now riding in a carriage of his own!--and one provided, too, by those friends he had told her of, friends she had believed to be but myths conjured up in his own lonesome mind. mr. whitman deeply appreciated the compliment paid him. he said: "i have before now been made to feel in many touching ways how kind and thoughtful my loving friends are, but this present is so handsome and valuable, and comes so opportunely, and is so thoroughly a surprise, that i can hardly realize it. my paralysis has made me so lame lately that i have had to give up my walks. oh! i shall have a famous time this fall!" previous to the presentation an arrangement had been made at a nearby stable for the care of the horse, the running expense of which was to be met by a number of friends; a young man was also engaged to harness the horse and drive the rig to the door. but who was to summon it? that part being unprovided for, it fell to mrs. davis, and mr. whitman became as erratic with his horse as he was with all other things. some mornings it would be: "i must give up my ride to-day, the weather is so uncertain"; soon after: "it looks like clearing up, i will go"; then on mrs. davis's return from the stable: "i have made up my mind to defer my ride." again would come the determination to go, followed with the afterthought of remaining at home, until ordering the carriage and countermanding the order would keep the obliging messenger running to and from the stable until dark. riding was so great an enjoyment to mr. whitman that when once in his carriage he was loth to leave it. "only one thing seemed to have the power of forcing from him an occasional lament, and that was prolonged stormy weather when bad health kept him indoors for days and weeks." poor frank, the pony, had not been selected for speed or endurance, and in an amazingly short time he succumbed to over-driving. at the expiration of only two months, mr. donaldson says, "the pony showed the effects of mr. whitman's fast driving, and had a shake in the forelegs--or rather tremble--that gave the impression that he was getting ready to lie down.... some weeks after this i was again in camden, and while on the main street i saw a cloud of dust rising from a fast-approaching vehicle. in a moment a splendid bay horse attached to a buggy came into view. he was coming in a mile in three minutes' gait, and to my amazement, in the buggy was walt whitman holding on to the lines with one hand for dear life. when he observed me, he drew up with great difficulty and called out, 'hello, tom, ain't he splendid?' my breath was about gone. i managed to speak. 'mr. whitman, in the name of common sense what has come over you? where is frank?' 'sold; i sold him. he was groggy in the knees and too slow. this horse is a goer, and delights me with his motion.'" the ready sale of frank was a great mortification to mrs. davis, and she felt it keenly; the more so as the pony had been, in a measure, the outcome of her suggestion. although the horse and carriage were "a source of infinite joy and satisfaction to mr. whitman, and aided him to pass three years of his invalid life in comparative ease, giving him touches of life and air and scenery otherwise impossible," they were a constant expense and vexation to others. he seldom went for a drive alone, and as a rule chose as his companion one of the many young men of his acquaintance. he always wished to hold the lines himself. although mrs. davis was the usual messenger to and from the stable, although she got her charge ready for his drives, assisted him to the carriage and almost lifted him in and out of it, neither he nor anyone else ever proposed that she should have the pleasure of a drive, or suggested that an occasional airing might do her good. while owning the horse mr. whitman did not wholly discontinue his ferry rides, but he no longer "haunted the delaware river front" as formerly. what a change two years had made in his surroundings!--and what a change in those of mary davis! he had come more prominently before the great world; she had nearly passed out of her own limited sphere. the tide which turned when they entered the mickle street house was now in full flood for him. but what for her? his book had had a good sale; private contributions were sent to him, amounting to many hundreds of dollars; and from this time on he did little with his pen, though he got occasional lifts from periodicals for both old and new work, and the new york _herald_ paid him a regular salary as one of its editorial staff. but he resigned this position the following year. vii brooms, bills and mental chloroform "_he detested a broom. he considered it almost a sin to sweep, and always made a great fuss when it was done._"--eddie wilkins. "_the tremendous firmness of walt whitman's nature grew more inflexible with advancing years._"--horace traubel. the second winter in mickle street passed much like the previous one. to mr. whitman it brought heavier mail, an increase of complimentary notes and invitations, more numerous requests for autographs, steady progress with revision-work, a little new and profitable composition, the delightful companionship of old friends, the pleasure of making new ones, and the comfortable assurance that come what might, there was a capable captain at the helm, who would on all occasions guide the ship of affairs smoothly along. to mrs. davis it brought the same old round of work. the next spring and part of the summer were charming seasons to the poet. in them he revelled in his turnout; was sought after, eulogized and lauded. his day-star was truly in the ascendant. this acknowledged popularity was a revelation to mrs. davis, who often asked herself, "where were these friends--the ones in particular who have always lived in camden--when a short time ago poor old mr. whitman, homeless and uncared for, so much needed their help?" but as his popularity increased and grew more marked, as letters and invitations came pouring in, and as at certain gatherings she knew him to be the honored guest, it began to dawn upon her that his poetry--the poetry she had so often heard derided--might mean something after all, and she set herself assiduously to studying it. finding so much that was beyond her comprehension, she sometimes sought elucidation from the author. this he never vouchsafed, and gave but one reply to all her questions: "come, you tell me what it means." unable to comply, she soon laid the book aside and gave her time and attention to other matters. thus, failing to understand anything of his "soul flights," she no doubt was the better prepared to minister to his mundane needs. a domestic angel in the house she certainly could be. an intellectual angel might have worried mr. whitman. yes, his day-star was truly shining. it was no will-o'-the-wisp he was chasing the day he came hungry and cold, weary and desolate to a good woman's door. evidently he might have done better with his "little money" at that time, even if it was "only in sight," as "driblets were occasionally coming in." with these driblets he might have kept himself more presentable, seemed less of a derelict. but he had one preëminent need: he needed mary davis, and he got her. she had not peered into the future with his prophetic insight, and in helping to open the way for the good times to come--times he had told her so much about--she had been governed by her kind heart alone. her associates had never spoken of her protégé in any too flattering terms, and weighing all poets by his local standard, had congratulated themselves that not one of them was in danger of ever degenerating into such genius. by midsummer mr. whitman had visited in and near camden, and had made two or three trips to atlantic city and new york. everyone was kind and considerate to him, wherever he might be, and as a reliable person always accompanied him on these expeditions, mrs. davis was never uneasy on his account, and his absences were her opportunities for resting up and putting the house to rights. nor did she altogether skip the parlors, for she had somewhat lost her confidence in mr. whitman's gift of missing the very thing that was gone. another mary--an unfortunate woman; but who ever attached themselves to mrs. davis who were not in some trouble or other?--used to come in to assist when extra help was required. her field of action ended at the kitchen door when the master was at home, for she stood in great awe of him and knew better than to appear in his presence with any order-restoring implement in her hands, especially a broom. but how she exulted when he was at a distance; when she could pass the old boundary unchallenged, and could rub and polish to her heart's desire, and according to her own ideas of cleanliness. she was often heard to remark that mr. whitman was the most "unthrifty" man she had ever met. mr. whitman might be able to control the use of brooms about his own premises, but his authority did not extend beyond. how the women of the locality learned of his antipathy to sweeping, either in or out of doors, is not known. probably in some unguarded moment he had condemned it in their hearing. "he was extremely annoyed by the habit the women of his neighborhood had of coming out two or three times a day with their brooms, and stirring up the water in the gutter. he thought it caused malaria. if they would only let it alone!" (_thomas donaldson._) it may be that the women made their brooms an excuse for tantalizing "the poet." he was no less opposed to their sweeping in dry weather, and one morning when six or seven appeared simultaneously and set to sweeping with a will, he knew that it was nothing less than a concerted plan, and this he would not endure. irritated beyond self-control, he let his indignation fly out of the window in passionate and pointed sentences, which the sweepers totally ignored. in 1867, about four years after his general breakdown, he had commenced to give occasional lectures. this spring (1886) he delivered two, the first on march 1, in morton hall, camden, the second on the afternoon of april 15, in the chestnut street opera house, philadelphia. both lectures were upon the same subject, his favorite theme: abraham lincoln. he was not an orator, and his audiences were at all times made up of people more curious perhaps to see than to hear him. this second lecture--his last appearance but one as a speaker in the "quaker city"--was a greater strain than he had calculated upon, although the arrangements had been made for him by his friends, and he was conveyed from his own house direct to the back door of the theatre. he always remained in his carriage while crossing the river. few people attended this lecture, and out of the $692 it netted him, only $78.25 was received at the door. the rest was made up by appreciative admirers. two gentlemen gave each $100, four gave $50 each, eight gave $10, two $5, and a society--the acharon--gave $45. the money was handed to mr. whitman in a large white envelope as he left the stage. it was not removed from the envelope until the next forenoon, when it was deposited unbroken in the bank. during the summer mr. whitman sustained a sunstroke, fortunately not a serious one, but while suffering from the effects of it he was obliged to give up his jaunts and remain indoors. however, on pleasant evenings he could sit in a chair on the sidewalk, under his one cherished shade tree, into the bark of which he soon wore a hole with the restless movement of his right foot. of the passers-by there were few who did not know him; many would pause for a moment's speech, others would occasionally get a chair and remain for an hour's chat. he soon recovered, but if the similar stroke he had suffered a few years before had served "to lower his fund of strength, weaken the springs of his constitution and almost wholly destroy his walking powers," (_thomas donaldson_), there was certainly little encouragement in store for him. his housekeeper, too, had her physical troubles. she had visibly changed; how could it be otherwise? the back part of the house was gloomy, at times damp and unwholesome, and she had grappled with so many difficulties that she had lost strength and flesh, felt run down and nervous, while the "rosy cheeks" had faded forever. this sickness not only made mr. whitman even more dependent upon her than usual, but it caused her great anxiety in another way. she realized the great risk she had taken and was taking, for on coming into the house she had relied upon verbal promises alone; no written contract or agreement had been entered into. now month had followed month and she had waited in vain for the old man to allude to living expenses or inquire as to her ability to meet them longer. strange as it may seem, since being settled in his own house walt had never mentioned money, or in any way broached the subject of his financial standing. during the first year she had not been at all disturbed in mind; she had confidence in his integrity, and believed he had no means of meeting present embarrassments. the next summer she saw that money was coming in from a number of sources, but had no way of learning the amounts received or in what way they were disbursed. this sunstroke and the consequences that might have resulted from it were enough to arouse her thoroughly. not that she had lost confidence in mr. whitman, but it came home to her that should he die she would be in no way secured. before long the bequest left her by captain fritzinger would be following her own savings, which were rapidly dwindling away. after thinking the matter over seriously, she resolved that as soon as the sick man had somewhat recuperated she would make an effort to have things put on a new and safer basis. she knew that from private donations, sale of books, government pension, receipts from lectures and so on, he had opened a bank account. she also knew he was paying one-half the expenses of edward at a sanitarium and was sending a weekly remittance to his sister in vermont,--and knowing all this, she felt that she was being treated with injustice. she had already spoken to mrs. whitman and to one or two others, and they had assured her that walt was abundantly able to meet all household expenses, and would without doubt do so in his own good time. she had never solicited his confidence, and yet while they were strangers, or comparative strangers,--long before she had entertained the slightest thought that she should one day exchange her home for his,--he had talked freely, even confidentially, to her; had voluntarily spoken of his money matters, his past disappointments and future expectations. but since she had come into the mickle street house he had never renewed these subjects, and his way of passing them over was inexplicable to her. when the first repairs had been made in the house, she had taken the bill to him for approval and payment. he had simply glanced at it, and returned it with the words: "i think it must be all right." she had remained standing in the doorway until, silent, seemingly absorbed in his reading and oblivious of her presence, he had made her feel so uncomfortable that she had quietly glided away to pay the carpenter out of her own purse. this happened so early in their housekeeping together that she, so charitable by nature, had excused him on the ground that, having no money, he had disliked to talk further about the bill. but a year had passed, she understood his position better, and she could not excuse him again on this plea. she had mentioned the urgent need of further repairs (and when were they not needed in this little rookery?) and he had promptly replied: "have it done; certainly, certainly; have everything done that is required." the result was still the same; although ordering the work, he was just as indifferent as before in regard to settling for it. and so it had gone on in all cases where money had been needed, until mrs. davis, who was neither dull nor obtuse, saw that it was merely a matter of choice with him whether he paid for things promptly or not. the receipted bills she had carefully filed away, but what proof had she that they had been met with her own money? at the expiration of the second year, mr. whitman at his own expense had the water carried upstairs and a bathtub put in. this was a blessing to both of them, and mrs. davis ungrudgingly saw a portion of her own room--the one little back chamber--sacrificed that it might be made possible. up to the time of the sunstroke she had made a number of futile attempts to introduce the subject of finances, but he had simply uttered "ah!" (what a world of meaning he could put into that monosyllable!) and had silenced her with a look. an observer says: "i found whitman sitting on the front stoop talking with a negative pugnacious reformer. the poet entertained his ideas without a trace of impatience or severity of judgment, and yet he was capable of quietly chloroforming him if he became too disagreeable." another writes: "this leading trait of his character lasted until life glimmered faintly." it was this "leading trait" that prevented mrs. davis from introducing any subject not pleasing to him. again: "he has his stern as well as sad moods; in the former there is a look of power in his face that almost makes one tremble." mrs. davis had no fear of mr. whitman; he never gave her cause to tremble, but he quietly chloroformed her times without number. the expenses of the house were not light; amongst other things, two coal fires in winter, and a wood fire much of the time. wood was a luxury to him, but it was an expensive item to his housekeeper, and the little stove in his sleeping room devoured it like an insatiate monster. "he enjoyed a wood fire." then she supplied his table and entertained his guests--his many guests. she never bothered him; was always on hand and ready to help him to mature his plans, however inexpedient or impracticable they might appear to her. viii visiting and visitors "_his haunt on 'timber creek' is one of the loveliest spots imaginable; no element lacking to make it an ideal ground for a poet, or study place for a lover of nature._"--william sloane kennedy. "_april 11, 1887. i expect to go to new york to speak my 'death of lincoln' piece thursday afternoon next. probably the shake up will do me good...._ "_stood it well in new york. it was a good break from my monotonous days here, but if i had stayed longer, i should have been killed with kindness and attentions._"--walt whitman. it was decided that mr. whitman should make one of his delightful visits to his friends, the staffords, in their beautiful country home, "timber creek," just as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to take the trip, and mrs. davis thought best to defer talking with him or considering any definite step regarding home matters until he returned. she took pains to get him ready, and, as she had done before, persuaded him to purchase some new clothing and look his best. this visit, like previous ones, was charming to the poet, and he came home much benefited. while he was away mrs. davis rested and paid a short visit to the aged parents of mrs. fritzinger in doylstown, pennsylvania. in this breathing spell she had thought home matters over and had planned her mode of procedure; but alas! when the poet appeared upon the spot and she had welcomed him, the courage she had summoned up when he was out of sight deserted her. she threw out hints, then made attempts to speak, but to no avail; an understanding was not brought about and things went on in the old fashion. much as mr. whitman enjoyed his visits and jaunts, coming back to his own home was the one great joy of his life, and meeting his housekeeper after even a brief absence was always a pleasure to him. it was quite late in the fall when he returned. he resumed his work at once, and the winter was not an unpleasant one to him; only somewhat tedious, because he was so closely confined to the house. in other ways it was made cheerful with social events and agreeable company, and it was brightened with anticipations of the delightful drives to be enjoyed in the spring. (it was about this time that horace traubel commenced to come to the house.) each season had added to his popularity, until he had attained the zenith of his most sanguine imaginations; his most potent daydreams had truly materialized; he was fully on the crest of the wave! his housekeeping had surpassed his fondest expectations, for to him his home was ideal. deprivation was a thing of the past; there was no lack of means, as private contributions were sent to him amounting to many hundreds of dollars. that he was poor and needy, and "was supported in his final infirmities by the kind interest of his friends, who subscribed each his mite that the little old frame house in camden might shelter the snowy head of the bard to the end," was the universal belief, and a kindly feeling was manifested towards him in his own home and in england. it is to be regretted that he was not better fitted physically to enjoy all his later blessings. out-of-doors life seemed essential to him, and after a number of outings he was able, as early as april 6, 1887, to read his lincoln lecture--the last he gave in his own city. it was well attended, and listened to with deep attention. on the 12th of the same month he went to new york for the purpose of reading his lecture there. he was accompanied by william duckett, a young friend who acted as valet and nurse, and it was on his arm the old man leaned as he came forward on the stage and stood a few minutes to acknowledge the applause of the audience. when the tumult had subsided, the poet sat down beside a stand, laid his cane on the floor, put on his glasses and proceeded to read from a little book, upon whose pages the manuscript and printed fragments were pasted. "the lecturer was dressed in a dark sack coat, with dark gray waistcoat and trousers, low shoes, and gray woollen socks. the spotless linen of his ample cuffs and rolling collar was trimmed with a narrow band of edging, and the cuffs were turned up over the ends of his sleeves." thus says the new york _tribune_ of the next day, and it cannot be denied that his appearance did credit to his housekeeper's attention at this time, as it did on all other public occasions. the "spotless linen," however, was unbleached cotton, one of the six new shirts mrs. davis had made for him. the lecture was very successful. at the close, a little girl, laura stedman, the five year old granddaughter of the "banker poet," walked out upon the stage and presented mr. whitman with a basket of lilac blossoms. the new york _times_ had this account of the event the next morning: "forth on the stage came a beautiful basket of lilac blossoms, and behind it was a little bit of a maiden in a white normandy cap and a little suit of quaker gray, her eyes beaming, and her face deeply impressed with the gravity of the occasion. she walked to where he sat and held out her gift without a word. he started, took it and then took her. "it was december frost and may-time blossom at their prettiest contrast, as the little pink cheek shone against the snow-white beard, for the old man told his appreciation mutely by kissing her and kissing her again, the audience meanwhile applauding sympathetically." mr. whitman then recited his poem "o captain!" and the curtain fell--fell to shut him from the sight of a new york audience forever. mrs. davis always dreaded mr. whitman's new york visits, and this episode caused her extra anxiety. she knew that his many and influential friends would give him a warm welcome and a great reception, and she also knew how prone the poet was to go beyond the bounds of prudence. he could stand only a little fatigue and excitement now. he returned in good condition, however, and she flattered herself that a quiet summer was before them. he had told her that this lecture (which increased his bank account by six hundred dollars) was to be his last public function, but she had no knowledge of something else he had in near view; something he had already arranged for. ix a bust and a painting "_sidney morse has made a second big head (bust), an improvement, if i dare to say so, on the first. the second is the modern spirit awake and alert as well as calm--contrasted with the antique and egyptian calmness of the first._"--walt whitman. "_oh, that awful summer of 1887!_"--mary davis. early in the summer, when he had fully recovered from his exertions in new york, mr. whitman received a letter from a sculptor, mr. sidney morse, requesting the privilege of coming to camden at once, to make a plaster bust of him. the promise had been given to mr. morse for the summer, but the actual date had not been fixed upon. eleven years before this artist had made a very unsatisfactory bust of walt, one he had always wished to improve upon. on the first occasion walt had not entertained the thought of such an undertaking in his brother's house, but had gone to philadelphia for the sittings. this time, as before, the choice of location had been left to him; and it seemed almost incredible that he, who had been initiated in this line of art, should have imposed upon his housekeeper to the extent of giving his own stuffy little house the preference over a more suitable place. he had answered mr. morse's letter, telling him he would cheerfully put himself at his disposal; the summer was before them, and nothing else impending. in short, he would engage himself to him for the summer, and he was confident the result would be better this time. about two weeks elapsed, and nothing had been said to mrs. davis on the subject when one morning to her surprise the artist arrived, prepared to go to work without delay. had she been consulted, she could have made preliminary preparations; had she been better informed she would have persuaded mr. whitman to select a different place, and had she been fully enlightened she would have insisted upon it. mr. morse writes: "i found mr. whitman more crippled and quieter in manner than when we met before. eleven years had wrought their changes. he was however in a less perturbed frame of mind." naturally so; in his own home, contradicted in nothing, with his own carriage, and a devoted woman to wait upon him,--one who never intimated that there existed such exigencies as living expenses or household entanglements. it was left to the artist to tell mrs. davis the purpose for which he had come. he said that he was desirous of beginning his work as soon as was compatible with mr. whitman's convenience, and the poet seeing no obstacle in the way of an immediate commencement, it was decided that the first sitting should take place the following afternoon. mrs. davis was somewhat enlightened as to what the making of a bust implied when a load of mysterious and cumbersome articles drove up to the door in the morning. puzzled both as to their use and where they could be housed, she had them delivered at the back gate and piled up in the yard. mr. morse kept his appointment with promptitude, and after a few minutes' conversation with his subject, he summoned the housekeeper, and then, "the litter of everything under heaven was poked aside" to make a clearing by the window. mrs. davis assisted him in bringing some of the articles from the yard, such as boards and boxes upon which to fashion the clay; then when the necessity came for something in which to mix it, her wash tubs were at once appropriated, and as smaller vessels were from time to time required, many of her dishes and kitchen utensils were one by one pressed into service. during the first afternoon the work was put well in progress, and what a time was thus inaugurated! before the week ended there was clay and plaster on all sides. the two men, interested in the bust alone, were oblivious to everything else, and passed the time chatting in a lively strain. the artist was satisfied with his work and delighted with the prospect of being undisturbed until its completion. he writes: "my deep satisfaction overflowed to the housekeeper, who admonished me that there was an element of uncertainty in mr. whitman's programme nowadays"--and sooner than he had counted upon, her words were verified, for on the morning following her mild warning a telegram came and "the damper fell," as mr. morse says. this was the telegram: "am in new york and may arrive in camden at any moment. herbert gilchrist." "he's coming to paint me," said mr. whitman on reading the message; "i had forgotten about him. we will put him over there somewhere; i don't see what i can do to stop it; he has come all the way from england--from england, sidney, to paint me. make the best of it, share the crust with him." "the damper fell" for mrs. davis as well, when mr. whitman in his usual off-hand manner announced the news to her. another artist coming! a portrait painter! and mr. whitman who had known of this for an indefinite time had given her no warning, had taken her unaware. she was completely overcome, and not a little indignant. had he really forgotten it, or had he thought it a matter of too little importance to mention? it was not often that mrs. davis shed tears in self-pity, but now they were her only relief. it was not the extra work and expense that troubled her most; it was mr. whitman's indifference towards her. mr. morse was also touched, and confesses that in his disappointment he was half inclined to pack his traps and go. for a moment the housekeeper's mind tended in the same direction. "but," continues mr. morse, "when the young man appeared on the scene in person, i was calm once more and ready to be pacified." mrs. davis also calmed herself and, as was her disposition, concealed her feelings and roused herself to meet the emergency. "the litter of everything under heaven" was poked still further aside, the stove was taken down and put into the cellar, things heaped and packed higher in the corners or carried out of the room, and a place made for the newcomer. mr. gilchrist proved to be an agreeable, enthusiastic young man, and one never to get into another's way. mr. morse could keep his place at the window, and mr. gilchrist could place his easel a little way back, so that the sitter didn't need to change his position to be in a good light for both. but what of mrs. davis when paint and oil were added to plaster and the other refuse pervading the parlors? had the confusion been confined to these rooms alone it could have been held in check, but for lack of room the kitchen soon became an auxiliary to the improvised studio. again quoting mr. morse: "for a week we kept it up, working some, talking more, mr. whitman's wistful eye on us both." this favorable state of affairs was, however, of short duration, for after the first week the progress of the artists was unsatisfactory; they were hindered by constant interruptions, and as company began to pour in upon them, some days would pass and find little accomplished by either. it seemed a fatality that so many people should have chosen this very time to make their visits, especially people from abroad. before long the strain of it told visibly on mr. whitman. mr. morse observed not only this, but the anxious look on mrs. davis's face as well, and on consulting her found she was much alarmed, and feared that their subject would give out unless some change could be made. the change was made when early the next morning the sculptor betook himself with his effects to the yard. this arrangement not merely gave additional space in the parlors where two or three spectators could sit or stand, but it also removed from them their chief attraction. some of mr. whitman's friends called daily, several twice or even three times in a single day. mr. morse was satisfied with the new order of things and says: "in the cool shadow of the house, under a propitious sky (when it was propitious), with high boarded fence, and a grape vine wreathing itself into a pear tree for a background, my work proceeded. occasional excursions to the studio in front for memory sketches seemed to be serving me all right." up to this time mrs. davis had had undisputed possession of the yard, and this constant running back and forth was almost unendurable to her. for the excursions were not confined to the sculptor; all comers, casual or constant visitors, old friends and strangers, even ordinary passers-by--following the lead of others--deliberately took the right of way through the hall and kitchen, until it might as well have been a public passage from street to yard. then in unfavorable weather, when the work could not go on, came another complication, as the unwieldy appurtenances had to be brought into the little canvas-covered alcove, shed and kitchen, obstructing everything. it was worse still in case of a sudden shower, when the things had to be hustled in anywhere and anyhow. but the front of the house! it was vacation time, and the "plaster man" and "painter man" at whitman's were the great source of entertainment in the neighborhood. children thronged the cellar doors from early morning until late at night; babies were held up to look in, and there was a general scramble for the best point of view. pedestrians, market people and others passing the house were attracted by this manifest excitement, and there was scarcely one of them who did not pause to satisfy his or her inquisitiveness with a peep. from a distance it was difficult to discern what could be taking place at the poet's, and everybody, old and young, even the halt and the lame, seemed to have time to walk an extra block or two to ascertain. however, as there was no alternative, mrs. davis was willing to bear it all patiently for a few weeks at most, as she supposed. mr. morse, pressed by his host, fell into the habit of remaining to lunch; mr. gilchrist often joined them; and as in the course of conversation interesting subjects would come up, the day's work for both frequently ended at noon. should incidental visitors arrive during meal time, they were invited without ceremony or apology to the kitchen, and mr. whitman always pressed them to eat something, regardless of the time of day or what might be upon the table. his talk was animated and arresting. he would usually begin with current events, then run into discussions on various themes, often intricate, and the two artists felt themselves extremely fortunate to be the privileged recipients of some of his most striking thoughts and phrases. it was at this juncture that one day an english gentleman accompanied by two ladies rang at the open door. mr. whitman had never met them, but seeing them from his seat at the table he welcomed them with these words: "oh, darlings, come right this way, come right this way." on their complying he continued: "herbert, sidney, move a little. mary, lay the plates and bring the chairs." (the extra ones hanging in the shed.) then came a hitching and shuffling of chairs, and a crowding together. at first the party looked a little annoyed, but when they were fairly seated they soon became so absorbed in the poet's talk and in his associates that, unconsciously to everyone except the housekeeper, lunch merged into dinner. but this was no unusual occurrence. indeed there were days when mr. whitman would remain at the table from lunch until a very late hour, company coming and leaving in relays. this summer, and for some time previous, he had dispensed with the regular breakfast, taking an early cup of coffee and a piece of toast in his own room. but the other meals certainly involved plenty of work and patience. well might he say: "mrs. davis has a knack of anticipating what i want, and in case of emergency at the dinner table knows right well how to make the best of it. she has rare intelligence and her tact is great." she indeed had tact. "jolly dinners you have here," quoth one distinguished visitor, notwithstanding they were served in the little heated kitchen. mrs. davis always waited upon the guests in a pleasant genial manner, and few knew to whom it was due that the "jolly dinners" ran so agreeably along. her watchful eye detected when any article of food was getting low, either for present company or when their places were about to be taken by newcomers. a thousand times she slipped out quietly to the little side gutter and ran (she always ran) to procure a loaf of bread, an extra supply of butter, crackers or cheese. the home-made supplies rarely gave out, as she provided bountifully for all. mr. whitman had good reason for going on to say, as he did: "i am well pleased with my housekeeper. she does better for me than a whole retinue of pompous bothering waiters. i detest the critters; bowing and watching"--and probably expecting their just remuneration--for to complete his appreciation of her virtues he could have added: "and she furnishes the means." yes; the lingering lunches and "jolly dinners" were paid for out of her fast decreasing bank account, as was everything else. it was doubtful if mr. whitman realized in how many ways he was indebted to her, or if the idea ever occurred to him that he could ask too much of her. so confident was he of her always making "the best of it" that nothing agitated or worried him. yet this entertaining anyone and everyone in the kitchen often placed her in unpleasant and embarrassing predicaments. of these he seemed to have no knowledge, as he never made an attempt to extricate her from one. visitors were often more observing, and no doubt most of them saw under what disadvantages she was placed. some of them kindly helped her over difficulties, and others just as kindly passed awkward little occurrences by apparently unnoticed. although mr. whitman did not mind what people said or thought about him, mrs. davis was sensitive and criticism hurt her feelings. she knew full well that she was sometimes blamed, by visitors who did not understand the conditions, for things for which she was not at all responsible. she knew that to her charge was laid the air of negligence that pervaded the house, and even mr. whitman's bluntness towards certain people. "there were grim and repellent traits in walt whitman. he was naked of manners and suave apologies as the scarred crag of the matterhorn of verdure." that physical suffering was many times the key to the old man's roughness mrs. davis understood, and she had a mild way of smoothing it over and putting other people at ease. she always spoke highly of both the artists, and in many ways they were more considerate of her than was their host. with things going on as they did, both were retarded in their work, and each in turn became discouraged. mr. whitman would sometimes be out of humor for sitting, or so worn out and ill that he could not come downstairs until late in the day; or again, when all looked promising he would order his carriage, drive off and leave them in the lurch. consequently each work of art required more time for its completion than had been calculated. mrs. davis did her best to encourage both the sculptor and the painter, and in every way she could devise, endeavored to forward their work. she removed obstacles; she influenced their sitter, and persuaded him to be quieter, to avoid over-exertion and excitement, to see less company and to lie down during the heat of the day. at length both bust and picture were finished. each proved to be highly satisfactory, and by many they are thought to be the most lifelike representations of the original. of the bust mr. whitman himself said: "i am quite clear _this_ is the typical one; modern, reaching out, looking ahead, democratic, more touch of animation, unsettledness, etc., etc. not intended to be polished off, left purposely a little in the rough." x rest--and routine "_heat, heat, heat, day and night!... i am still getting along through the hot season--have things pretty favorable here in my shanty, with ventilation (night and day), frequent bathing, light meals, all of which makes it better for me in my shattered helpless condition to tug it out here in mickle street, than to transfer myself somewhere, to seashore or mountains. it is not for a long time, anyway._"--walt whitman. mr. whitman had reached the limit of endurance when the artists bid him and camden adieu, while mrs. davis, with the constant demands upon her time and strength, the condition of the house, unlimited entertaining and lengthened working hours, had completely succumbed. another thing that had been to their disadvantage was the extreme heat, for it had been and still was an extremely hot summer--a jersey summer. each was prostrated, and for awhile rest and relaxation alone could be thought of. a short lull that followed the recent turmoil, however, and succeeding cool weather, did much towards their recuperation; but unfortunately sick-headaches, which had been occasional with mrs. davis, now became persistent; her vitality was gone, and her courage was on the wane. in fact she never fully recovered, nor did she ever forget "that awful summer of 1887." but while she was so miserable and ill she was not forgotten by her old friends, who rallied at once to her assistance, and it was through their thoughtfulness and kind attentions that a general and final collapse was avoided. none of them had been willing to give her up altogether when she moved into the mickle street house. she for her part had never willingly neglected them; one or another, understanding this, had run in the back way at odd times, and if by chance they had found the kitchen in her undisputed possession, had gladly remained to lend her a helping hand. nor with her multiplicity of new duties and in her new surroundings had she been unmindful of her habit of protectiveness, and this house became, as her own had been, the temporary shelter for some orphan girl or boy, some friendless woman or stranded young man. crowded as it was, the little whitman home could make room for an emergency case. as the owner was just now confined for some weeks to his sleeping apartment, mrs. davis could lie upon the kitchen lounge when the kind ministrations of her friends relieved her of immediate household duties; then in turn rouse herself, drag herself upstairs and attend to the wants of the sick man there. her helpers were glad to prove their friendship for her, but it didn't reach the extent of waiting upon the disabled poet; this rested with her alone. not that they were afraid of him, or that he had ever been rude or impolite to them, but not one of them was exactly at ease in his presence. by good fortune, at this opportune time a gentleman and his wife invited mrs. davis to accompany them upon an excursion to southern california. at first she declined the invitation; the distance seemed so great, and mr. whitman was so poorly, there was no telling what might happen during her absence. but she was still pressed to go, and unknown to her the project was broached to mr. whitman, who highly approved of it. finally she accepted the proffered kindness; her friends assisted her in her preparations, and she set off with pleasurable anticipations. this journey was the one great delight of her life, and she returned much benefited. but how about the good little woman who had strongly urged her going, who had added her earnest persuasions to those of the others, and who had offered her own and her daughter's services in place of hers? poor little woman, she did her best willingly and uncomplainingly; but she did openly avow at the expiration of the three weeks that had mary stayed another day, she would have gone insane. during his housekeeper's brief absence, mr. whitman had found how truly his home was not home without her. he frankly told her this, and acknowledged to her that no one living could fill her place to him; that others around him irritated him--unconsciously, he knew--while she instinctively soothed and quieted him, overwrought and impatient as he might sometimes feel. furthermore, he presented her with a nice gold ring. soon after her return, walt, who was quite himself once more, paid another visit to the staffords, and getting him ready for this trip was her first work on reaching home. "timber creek" was his favorite resort, a haunt he so thoroughly enjoyed that it flashed across the mind of a friend while sauntering about with him there, that it would be a capital idea to raise a "walt whitman cottage fund," and build him a little summer home there. on cautiously sounding walt upon the subject, he eagerly responded: "oh, how often i have thought of it!" so it was decided to build a cottage here, or by the seaside somewhere, where he could spend part of the year with nature and away from the noise and turmoil of the city. eight hundred dollars were quickly raised towards the fund; the site for building, tiles for the chimney and plan by the architect were donated; but alas, it was seen that it was too late in his life for the scheme to be feasible, and the money was cheerfully given to him by the contributors to be used as he thought best. on this particular occasion mrs. davis was more than glad to be alone. the parlors were much as the artists had left them, and a general housecleaning was instituted. and such a cleaning! everything had to be handled and looked over, discarded or packed away. it was a disheartening task. dried paint and plaster were on every side and resisted all attempts at removal, as though they had learned the lesson of persistency from the late sitter; besides, some repairs had to be made against the coming winter, and the stove had rusted in the cellar. in good time all was accomplished and order again restored. mr. whitman returned refreshed, and oh, so glad to get back to his own home once more. but as a matter of course he acted as though beside himself for awhile, and the old act of hunting for lost or missing articles was repeated. mrs. davis, however, who had taken more than one lesson from him, passed his perturbation by without apparent notice. she knew the time was not far in the future when rapidly failing health would altogether prevent his leaving home; he would probably be confined to the upper part of the house, perhaps to his bed; and she thought it wise to be in readiness for whatever was in store. although he had been situated so auspiciously for his comfort, and in a way to attain the great object he desired, mr. whitman's past four years had not been all sunshine. he had had spells of deep depression, days when he felt no inclination to come downstairs, or even to speak; and during the winter of this year the dark cloud hovered more persistently above him than ever before. for one thing, there were weeks when extremely cold or stormy weather prevented his going out of doors. mrs. davis had much sympathy for him while the dreary mood lasted, and in many ways endeavored to dispel it. during the inclement weather she found in her cheery canary bird a valued assistant, and knowing the old man's fondness for the little fellow, she would at times stealthily place the cage in his room, "and let the sun shine out for a moment, this bird would flood the room with trills of melody." (the canary outlived mr. whitman, and through his long sickness, lasting from the summer of 1888 to the spring of 1892, it was always a welcome visitor in his room.) this would act as an inspiration, and mr. whitman would often take this time to write to some friend, always mentioning the singing of the bird and the shining of the sun. "pleasant weather as i write seated here by the window, my little canary singing like mad." "sunny and summery weather here, and my canary is singing like a house on fire." "dull weather, the ground covered with snow, but my little bird is singing as i write." good cheer may have been another comforting agent, for he writes: "we have (mrs. davis has) just had a baking. oh! how i do wish i could send the dear frau one of our nice pumpkin pies, a very little ginger, no other spice." "a cold freezing day. have had my dinner of rare stewed oysters, some toasted graham bread, and a cup of tea." "have had a bad spell of illness again, but am better to-day. have just eaten a bit of dinner for the first time in over a week--stewed rabbit with a piece of splendid home-made bread, covered with stew-gravy." "have just had my dinner--a great piece of toasted graham bread, salted and well buttered with fresh country butter, and then a lot of panned oysters dumped over it, with hot broth; then a nice cup custard, and a cup of coffee. so if you see in the paper that i am starving (as i saw the other day), understand how." in speaking of mrs. davis in a letter of the previous summer, he writes: "very hot weather here continued. i am feeling badly, yet not so badly as you might fancy. i am careful and mrs. davis is very good and cute." "am idle and monotonous enough in my weeks and life here; but on the whole am thankful it is no worse. my buying this shanty and settling down here on half, or one-fourth pay, and getting mrs. davis to cook for me, might have been bettered by my disposing some other way, but i am satisfied it is all as well as it is." through the winter mr. whitman plodded on with his literary work, and by spring the parlors were once more transformed into a regular printing and mailing establishment. to these over-filled rooms he had added an oil portrait of an ancestor, a life-size bust of elias hicks, and a seated statuette of himself. he was very careful of the two latter works of art, and to protect them from dust kept them partially encased in newspapers. when a caller once slyly lifted the paper from the statuette, he found a colony of ants had made the lap of it their home. the bust of hicks was very conspicuous, and looked spectral in its paper headgear. mrs. davis would occasionally remove the yellow and time-worn papers, and replace them with clean ones. the owner no doubt noticed this, but he had ceased to be too observant of some things, and had become more lenient where "mary" was the offender. and mary had learned just how far she could go with impunity. in a way their lives had merged together. it was a custom with mr. whitman to have his manuscripts set up in type before sending them away--even his "little bits" of newspaper contributions. this was done in a "quaint little printing office" in town, the proprietor of which was "an old fellow acquaintance" of walt's. in this matter, as in all others, he was very impatient, for the moment anything was ready for the press he would summon mrs. davis, regardless of time, weather or her own occupations, saying: "take this to the printer's, mary, and tell him i want it _immediately_"; and although most of this work was done gratuitously, the "old fellow acquaintance" was decidedly accommodating to his honored patron, and often laid other jobs aside for his "odd bits." he was as well always courteous to mrs. davis. it may be that he could not withstand her appeals for haste, and was willing to incommode himself to save her from fruitless trips to the office; for he knew that in an unreasonably short time the poet would demand his printed bit. in fact, so impatient would the writer often become, that to pacify him his good housekeeper would make half a dozen trips to the office. frequently he would correct the proof and return it for a second, perhaps a third or fourth printing, and frequently he would say: "don't come back without it, mary; wait for it." it would have been inconsistent with mrs. davis's natural activity for her to remain sitting in a printing office for an unlimited time, therefore she usually took advantage of these opportunities to do a little shopping, make a friendly call, or even a hasty run to philadelphia. the corrected copies were never destroyed, but, like everything else, were dropped on the floor. it was no wonder that "to some walt whitman's house was a sort of conglomerated dime museum." strangers who called drew their own inferences and reported accordingly, and in this way contradictory stories were told and sent out into the world. much that was false was believed, until the prevailing impression was that "he was living in poverty and neglect." he was extremely non-committal, and his housekeeper never intruded her knowledge upon anyone, so it was natural that errors as to his home life should creep in. it was certainly difficult to credit that from sheer preference any human being could live in and enjoy the state of disorder that was found in the whitman house, thanks to the poet's peculiarities. but this manner of living suited him, and in it he found true comfort. it must be confessed that things were outwardly so indicative of neglect that mistakes were bound to be made, while little of the actual life was known or understood, except by intimate friends. "the junk shop jumble of those lonesome rooms," writes one; and again: "i found the venerable poet in his garret, living in neglect and want, cooking soup in a yellow bowl on a sheet-iron stove nearby." (_s. t. packard in a magazine article._) (the bowl merely contained clean water for the purpose of moistening the overheated atmosphere of the room.) still further he writes: "whenever his strength permitted he rose from his armchair with the rough bear-robe thrown over the back." it was really a white wolf-skin robe, a present to mr. whitman and of great service to him. in truth the elucidation, explanation and straightening out of the various stories concerning the life of walt whitman in mickle street would require a volume in itself. no fancifulness, however, on the part of more or less observant visitors could rival that of their subject, for "his imagination could and did convert the narrow walls of the house in camden into boundaries of nations, seas, oceans, mountain-chains, vistas of eden, forests, cities, palaces, landscapes, hovels, homes of the rich, and art galleries, so that whitman was thus of the great world while out of it." "a peculiar feature of walt whitman's rooms, those i mean which his housekeeper is not allowed to put into order, is the chaos and confusion in which his papers are coiled. the bump of order does not exist in his cranium." (_william sloane kennedy._) but visitors were left to their own impressions, and these were too often unjust to the woman who always did her best to prevent the confusion from growing still worse confounded. xi a shock, and some changes "_you have a good housekeeper._"--e. l. keller. "_yes, good, square--tip-top--devoted to me. behind all she has spunk, very sensitive, the least word sets her off. a good woman._"--walt whitman. "_sunsets and sunrises to his soul were almost equal to food for his body._"--thomas donaldson. at last the long tedious winter ended, and never was a spring more welcome to mr. whitman, for his acme of enjoyment was still to be out of doors. during the months when he was so closely confined to the house he had become even more dependent upon his housekeeper, had more often sought her companionship, had been more confidential towards her, and had repeatedly expressed his thankfulness that he was in his own domicile, and was so fortunate as to have her efficient services. he would saunter more frequently into the kitchen for a social chat, and preferred to take his meals there whenever he felt equal to it. altogether, he was much more domesticated. still, he had been able to go out sometimes, had taken part in a number of social gatherings, where he had enjoyed the pleasure of congenial company, had even had "some jolly dinners" in his own house; but nothing could compete with the delight he experienced when he was under the blue sky. his drives were absolutely joyful to him, and the first one set all his recuperative forces in action. his rapid gain was distinctly perceptible, and everything looked hopeful and promising. on may 31, 1888--his sixty-ninth birthday--a lawyer, one of his later friends (_mr. thomas b. harned, horace traubel's brother-in-law_), and one at whose hospitable board he was often found, gave a reception and supper in his honor. it was a most enjoyable affair. but four days later, after a lengthened drive mr. whitman was tempted to visit the river bank to contemplate the setting sun. he imprudently prolonged his stay until the evening dampness caused him to feel a sensation of chilliness, which increased momentarily until upon his reaching home it terminated in a real chill, followed by still more serious consequences, for from it resulted a paralytic shock. it was not a heavy shock, but was quite violent enough to cause alarm. at the first symptom mrs. davis summoned a physician, and did everything in her own power to alleviate his sufferings. he was seriously ill throughout the night, and next day had two recurrences of the shock, one in the morning and the other at noon. after the third it was believed, even by his physicians, that the termination of all was near at hand. for hours he was speechless, and to every appearance in a comatose condition. his friend dr. r. m. bucke of canada--who had come to camden to attend the birthday celebration--had not yet returned home, and hurried at once to the bedside, where he was unremitting in his care and attention. dr. bucke was a skilful physician and a man of great executive ability, and his timely presence was a great blessing to all. his appreciation of mr. whitman as a writer, and his personal friendship for him, were of long standing. to the surprise and relief of everybody, an unlooked-for reaction took place, and the sick man's first words on recovering his speech were: "it will soon pass over, and if it does not it will be all right." he was carried to his sleeping apartment, and from this time to his death he used the front parlor only as a sitting room. dr. bucke and mr. donaldson had talked much while their old friend was lying in the comatose state, and both were troubled that things were so complicated, and that no one in particular seemed to have the least supervision over him or his personal belongings. both were surprised when they learned that he had never made a will, and had never offered a suggestion or given any directions in regard to his literary affairs. they were anxious as well, because they knew that in case of death, which seemed so close at hand, his papers and manuscripts would be scattered and lost. as to home matters, dr. bucke said that mrs. davis was worn out and a permanent nurse must be provided. this point mr. donaldson cordially endorsed. of mr. whitman's pecuniary standing the doctor had no knowledge, but mr. donaldson was better informed in regard to the sums he had received, and after consultation both fully agreed that the time had come when someone must take charge of affairs and no longer allow them to run on in the old haphazard way. they decided to talk with mrs. davis, and upon their doing this she gave them a correct, full and truthful statement of the facts of the case. she could well enlighten them on the subject of outgoings, and both men were genuinely astonished to learn that walt whitman had never contributed one farthing towards the maintenance of the house,--for repairs, supplies, furniture or fuel. she told them that while so many had been solicitous of mr. whitman's comfort and interests, she felt aggrieved that no one had ever exhibited the least consideration for her; that she had spoken to mr. and mrs. george whitman a number of times, and they had assured her that walt was in a position to meet all expenses of the house, and to the best of her belief they both supposed that he was doing this, though neither had made any inquiries of her. she said that in addition to her giving her time as general servant to all, her funds were rapidly diminishing, her goods going to rack and ruin, her health failing; and she felt that she could bear the burden no longer. she mentioned the promises walt had made, and added that she did not doubt that in his way of thinking, and of doing things, he still intended to deal honestly and honorably by her; that she had endeavored to talk with him and come to a satisfactory understanding, until she was convinced that he avoided the subject purposely. she felt that in no way was she secured, and it was a positive fact that two years more would bankrupt her. what she asked was a settlement on the spot, and that someone might be found to take her place. _take her place!_ was there a woman upon earth who could or would do this? it was a proposition that neither of her auditors would consider; up to this time the thought of her leaving had never entered their minds; indeed, no one had ever stopped to think that she might in time wear out and be obliged to give up, or perhaps get discouraged and go of her own free will. they urged her to abandon such an idea. what would the mickle street house be without her? the mere suggestion was the extreme of cruelty, for the sick man, although a little better at present, was too low for any change, especially one that would touch him so closely. dr. bucke gave her his word that he would be personally responsible for all she had spent, and for proper payment for her services as housekeeper both in the past and the future; he told her that her work would be lightened immeasurably, as a regular nurse was to be engaged; and that in case mr. whitman should die before matters were settled, her interests should be carefully looked after. relying on this promise, she remained. in a few days mr. whitman's friends spoke to him and proposed that out of his bank account, which had grown to some thousands of dollars, he should hereafter purchase his own wood, pay for one-half the other fuel, keep the house in repair, and settle his private expenditures, to all of which he gave a ready and willing assent. next day they advised his making a will, which he did, and it is known that in this he made some provision for mrs. davis, but its full contents were never disclosed, as he wrote it himself. on learning that according to jersey law a woman could be the executor of an estate, he said it was his wish and desire that his esteemed sister-in-law, louise whitman, should close his. (this will was replaced by one made in december, 1891, during his last sickness.) in regard to his literary matters, it was thought best that they should be placed in the hands of three executors, dr. bucke being one. when it was made known that in future mr. whitman was to have a regular nurse, some of his young admirers volunteered to solicit a monthly contribution from his numerous friends to meet this expense. the patient made some inquiries regarding the nurse fund, and on being told that it was all right and attended to, never alluded to the subject again. the task of keeping the fund up fell to horace traubel; for when it was first started people subscribed under the impression that it was a temporary matter, that mr. whitman's life hung on a thread, and that they would only be called upon once or twice; so all ran smoothly for a while. but as months merged into years some donors became tired of giving, while others found themselves unable to continue. mr. traubel was indefatigable in his endeavors to serve his friend. as one subscriber after another fell out, he called upon people or wrote to them in order to fill the vacant places. besides this matter, in the four years in which he was connected with the poet he did much writing and corresponding for him, and was of great service to him. the sick man improved slowly, and when there were no longer any indications of a relapse and everything had been satisfactorily arranged, dr. bucke returned to his home; not however until he had again talked with mrs. davis and had once more assured her that full justice should be done, and that she need no longer feel uncertain as to her own well-being. while mr. whitman was so very ill, there was no difficulty in securing a professional nurse. the first, a gentlemanly middle-aged man named musgrove, left when the patient had in a measure regained his normal condition. other nurses were in turn engaged, but the place was so undesirable, the duties so varied and uncongenial, accommodations so lacking and the remuneration so small, that after a short trial each one left, all of them testifying to the housekeeper's goodness to them, and to her unselfish surrender of herself to their patient. after mr. musgrove's first few weeks there was not much regular nursing, and at mr. whitman's request mrs. davis did most of this; but there remained the heavy lifting and hard work. the wood was bought in cord lengths and thrown through the slanting door into the cellar, where it was sawed and split. the cellar was not only cold and damp, but the wood was often wet and clumsy to handle. besides sawing, splitting and carrying the wood up two flights of stairs, the nurse was expected to do sufficient carpentering to keep the house in repair, shovel snow in winter, run errands for his patient, and later wheel him about the streets in an invalid chair. this chair was purchased from the proceeds of a birthday dinner given for the poet in his own city, may 31, 1889. one hundred and twenty-five dollars were donated on the occasion, and as mr. whitman had now become too decrepit to use his carriage, that and the horse were disposed of, and the wheel-chair substituted. there was so much trouble in getting a nurse who cared to remain, that late in the fall following the shock dr. bucke sent a young canadian to fill the place. this young man, who desired to study medicine, had accepted the position with that object in view, and coming through personal interests alone he was naturally much engrossed in his own affairs, and never lost sight of his own advantages. he saw that by embracing this opportunity he could attain the necessary knowledge, keep a roof over his head (one that generally leaked, but this did not dampen his ardor), earn his board and clothing, and have besides the great benefit of attending lectures in philadelphia. during the five months between the shock and the advent of the student nurse, mr. whitman had resumed his writing, and his bedchamber became his sanctum. before his illness mrs. davis had managed to keep the upper portion of the house in passable order. now it was gradually assuming the late appearance of the parlors, for here at least mr. whitman had full control, and would brook no interference whatever. when the nurse found that his best endeavors to bring about a change in this merely meant wasted time, he quietly went his own way and left his patient to do the same. he confessed that he thought him "the most singular mortal" he had ever met, and said: "when i was first employed he would chat ten minutes at a time with me; now we pass about twenty words a day. keeps his own business to himself, and talks but little even with his intimates." the young man's application to his studies appeared so commendable to mrs. davis that she at once set about trying to forward his efforts. the only method she saw was to do his washing, ironing and mending, that the small weekly sum thus saved might go towards purchasing books he needed and could not afford to buy. he was delighted to own the volumes so obtained, and would pore over them for hours at a time, totally unmindful of the fact that the real donor was performing many duties that should justly have fallen to him. having no room of his own, the kitchen was necessarily his study, and in a letter he writes: "mr. whitman calls me by knocking on the floor, i usually being in the room below." mrs. davis always prepared the invalid's meals, carried them to him, and if possible sat with him when he partook of them. these were their times for exchanging confidences and chatting on home topics. "more than anyone else was she his confidant, and deserved to be." (_thomas donaldson._) he was interested in simple things, and little home talks never wearied him. he used few, plain and ordinary words in conversation, and his manner was simplicity itself. mrs. davis never spoke of anything unpleasant to him, and was always on guard lest others might do so; she was a good listener, not a loquacious talker, and her voice, naturally soft, had a soothing effect. his literary matters were well looked after, and he seldom called his nurse except for some actual need. such comments, however, as the following are misleading: "he treats his household as by a holy law, mrs. davis his housekeeper never finds him indifferent, condescending or morose. his spirit ignores all petty household worries...." ("_in re walt whitman._") mrs. davis also sat with the sick man, or within call, whether his nurse had gone on an errand for him, or to philadelphia on his own account. and yet the student-nurse made no sign of reciprocating her many kindnesses to him; took everything she did for him as his just due; accepted any and every service she might render him, but most emphatically refused to give one in return. he left camden the last of october, 1889, and returned to canada. he parted both with mr. whitman and mrs. davis on the most friendly terms, saying that much as he disliked to leave them, his own worldly future depended upon other work than nursing. [illustration: "_a time-worn look and scent of oak attach both to the chair and the person occupying it_" (_letter from walt whitman_)] xii anchored "_am anchored helpless here all day, but get along fairly. fortunately have a placid, quiet, even, solitary thread quite strong in weft of my disposition._"--walt whitman (aug. 22, 1890). "_whitman's stalwart form itself luxuriates in a curious great cane-seat chair, with posts and rungs like a ship's spars; altogether the most imposing heavy-timbered, broad-armed and broad-bottomed edifice of the kind possible. it was the gift of the young son and daughter of thomas donaldson of philadelphia, and was made especially for the poet._"--william sloane kennedy. the long confinement to his room covering more than half of '88, and extending into the next year, had forced mr. whitman to relinquish his summer and autumn drives. this was the one thing to which he could not be reconciled; the one thing to which he had looked forward so wistfully all the previous winter and spring. alas! the fatal river drive was his last. as already explained the horse and carriage, now useless to him, were disposed of, and the wheel-chair took their place. this chair was indeed a boon to him, and he appreciated the thoughtful kindness of his friends in the appropriate gift. as soon as his strength would permit, which was some months after his attack, he had resumed his writing. he had also read his papers and periodicals, and thus managed to wear the long days through. the cheery canary had done his part in helping to beguile the irksome hours, and watch, the coach dog, sure of a friendly greeting had made a daily call. towards spring the time had been less tedious, and in march the invalid had become sufficiently strong to be assisted downstairs. at this he was highly encouraged, for he realized the advancement he had made. while he had been so low in the past summer, mrs. davis had once more instituted a regular cleaning and renovating of the parlors. this he must have noticed, but he made no remarks in regard to it. he was led now to his favorite window, where stood his armchair with the white wolf-skin thrown over the back; in this he was placed, and day after day sat contentedly anchored. it was a sad disappointment to him when ailments occasionally prevented his coming downstairs; here he preferred taking his evening meal and meeting his friends. writing materials were always at hand on a small shelf under the window sill, but these he used only to jot down passing thoughts or to indite a friendly line. soon he could come into the kitchen, where he often chose to dine. sometimes his friends would join him in a "jolly dinner" in the dear old place; but things had changed--were but a semblance of what had been--and his desire to remain undisturbed and with his housekeeper alone during meal times grew upon him. during the summer and fall he had incidental outings with his nurse (eddie wilkins, the student). the first few were necessarily of short duration and slow of motion, then as his strength returned they were lengthened, and he realized the pleasure in store for him should his life be prolonged another year. after each ride mrs. davis met him with some light refreshment, after which all he desired was rest--a long rest, sometimes of several days. it was impossible to receive one-half of the people who called upon him--indeed, this would have been a tax upon a strong man. mrs. davis always answered the door bell; and it was no uncommon thing for him to tell her that as he wanted to have a day of unbroken tranquillity, no one was to be admitted to his room--excepting always a number of dear old friends, and his ever-welcome brother and good sister-in-law. strange that these were often the days when visitors would flock there, the great majority of whom would leave deeply disappointed, and for this cause the inoffensive housekeeper--she who had to bear the brunt of everything--incurred the displeasure, even the enmity, of some people. so little was known to the world at large of the poet's private life and of his state of health, that strangers would sometimes go to certain persons in philadelphia to inquire how they might have an audience with him. this condition of things did not develop until after the illness of the previous year, and much trouble resulted from it, as visitors would show their cards or letters of introduction and insist upon going to his room. friends living either in philadelphia or in camden, especially those who saw much of the poet, should have been mindful that so sick a man might not at all times feel inclined to talk with strange people, or might not be equal to it if he were so inclined. but his wishes or needs were not conformed with, and in some cases the protestations of mrs. davis were wholly disregarded. she invariably met each individual pleasantly and never spoke hastily or abruptly to anyone; she always gave civil answers to their questions; often went to mr. whitman to intercede for them; and it was through her influence alone that many were admitted to his presence. but if he was not disposed to yield, her best efforts would be in vain, and the only alternative left her was to offend others instead of him. during the seven years she was with him she had numberless strange or even unique experiences, but having quick perception she was seldom deceived. some people would haughtily demand an audience with the poet; others would compromise by interviewing her, while the more determined would force their way in uninvited and positively refuse to leave the house until they had spoken with the owner. many brought gifts which they wished to present in person; and veterans came asking that they might only clasp the hand that had ministered to them so tenderly at some time during the civil war. nor were souvenir fiends wanting, and many trinkets, ornaments and keepsakes belonging to mrs. davis were surreptitiously carried off. a few people spoke slightingly of the housekeeper, but never in mr. whitman's presence, for "mary" was "mary" to him at all times and in all places. a number who had rendered him services--those in particular who within the last year or two had given money towards his support (as was supposed)--were indignant that mrs. davis should presume to speak so decidedly to them, believing that were their names only taken to walt he would be delighted to see them. and yet a visit to the poet in his own house was to some people a decided disappointment, even when they were able to see and talk with him. they did not find what they had been looking for, something based on idle rumor and curious expectation, something extraordinary or even outlandish. one of the most noticeable things about him, says one, was "an absence of all effort to make a good impression, or of posing." instead of finding a gruff old fossil, or bearding a lion in his den, they found an everyday, quiet, dignified man. xiii warren fritzinger "_he (mr. wilkins) left mr. whitman in october, 1889, and was succeeded as nurse by warren fritzinger, a young man of twenty-five, and a son of mary o. davis, his housekeeper and friend. mr. fritzinger (warry) remained with mr. whitman until his death, a faithful, earnest man._"--thomas donaldson. "_i get along well, am comfortable, have a fair appetite, and keep a good oak fire._"--walt whitman. while the question of getting another nurse was pending, harry and warren fritzinger returned to camden. it was a mutual surprise, for the brothers had lost trace of each other and came from different parts of the world. it was indeed a joyful reunion, and though seven years had elapsed since they had seen their foster-mother, their love had not abated and each brought her a substantial gift in money. coming from california, warren's gift was in gold--double eagles. they remembered walt whitman as a man, but neither of them had read his poetry, and although their mother had mentioned the change at the time it was made, they knew nothing of the way in which she was living, and both were much alarmed at her altered appearance. not at all satisfied, they urged her to resign her position; to move into a more fitting place, and let them take care of her. but believing, as did others, that mr. whitman's life was drawing to a close, she pleaded that she could not reconcile her mind to deserting him in his helplessness. she enlightened them in regard to financial matters, saying that she thought it wiser to wait quietly where she was until things were adjusted. again, the house practically contained her possessions only, and these she could not think of moving at a time like the present; the sick man could not abide the confusion. she furthermore said that the house had become homelike to her, that all of mr. whitman's friends were kind to her, especially his sister-in-law, who made weekly visits, always bringing something with her; that she had implicit confidence in mrs. whitman, and knew that should any controversy arise in the settling of affairs, this upright and capable woman would be on her side. again, she had pledged her word to stay; it was expected of her; and yet the strongest argument came from her own kind heart--the old man needed her. in her many talks with warren she told him how she dreaded the coming of another strange nurse, even though his term of service was likely to be so short; and as she could not see how a few months, at most, could make any material difference to him, she did wish that he would make up his mind to apply for the position. mr. whitman's friends and literary executors at once caught at this, and all brought their influence to bear, pressing the place upon him and promising that, should he remain until mr. whitman's demise, they would stand by him and see him placed in some good way of earning a livelihood. the situation had no inducements for him; it was in fact decidedly distasteful; but feeling assured that it couldn't really affect his worldly career, he consented. he was not one to do things by halves, and from the day he undertook this work until the last hour of his patient's life, he performed his manifold duties in a cheerful, willing and most capable manner. he loved the sea, with its broad spaces, and soon the narrow limits of the little house became intolerable to him. this he did not betray, and being naturally light-hearted and always appearing happy, few who met him realized the trial he was undergoing. he was honest and straightforward, and believed everyone to be the same. mr. whitman, who had taken to him at once, was delighted when he was told that this bright "sailor boy" was to be his next attendant. warren was indeed a blessing, not only to the patient, but to his mother, for he was always ready to assist her and to help out in times of need. but, better than all, he soon acquired a way of quietly managing the "good gray poet" that no other living mortal ever attained. when it was decided that massage would benefit mr. whitman, he took a course in a philadelphia hospital and became a professional masseur, as well as wood-sawyer and amateur carpenter. good places were offered him, but he was bound, and could accept none of them. one excellent position was kept open for months and he was advised by his friends not to let so good an opportunity go by, but mr. whitman lingered on, and the place was filled. in going to sea as a boy, warren was at a disadvantage on land. this he realized, and in the situation thus surrendered he had seen a way in which he could retrieve his lost time. walt's literary attainments and associations were pleasant enough to encounter, but they were of no material benefit to him, and the remuneration was much smaller than he had ever before received. this was a great drawback, for having met a young lady whom he hoped to marry, he felt inclined and perfectly able to better himself. as his predecessor's prediction, that mr. whitman would not outlive the year, was not verified, and new year's day, 1890, not only found him alive but in a much improved condition, with no indications of immediate danger, it came home to warren that he had unfortunately tied himself to an uncertainty, and that his term of service might be years instead of weeks. there seemed no present help, however, so he philosophically accepted the conditions and stuck to his work with manly courage. warren's engagement commenced so late in the season that mr. whitman had but a few outings before another winter shut him in. he had however two or three trips to the river bank, which he enjoyed greatly; all the more because they led to conversations on ships and ocean life. warren was a fluent and interesting talker, which made him an enviable companion for anyone who, like the poet, was an ardent lover of freedom and the boundless deep. he often referred to warren as his "sailor boy," and said that he was of much service to him when he was at a loss about the names of different parts of a ship. the young "sailor boy" had a vein of poetry in his own composition, and although he might not be qualified to weigh the bard's words and their import in the same scale with some others, he got a clear insight into their meaning. the sick man had his ups and downs during this winter, but was seldom confined to his bed more than a week at a time. when he was at all able, he was helped downstairs to sit by the window. he spent more time in the kitchen with mrs. davis, and took a lively interest in anything she might be doing; he talked to the birds, made a playmate of the cat, had fellowship with the dog--in short his home life resembled that of any old man in his own home and with his own kin. he would read and write a little at a time, or glance over his papers, but there was a perceptible falling off in all ways, and his domestic life became more and more dear to him; it had no jars, ran smoothly along, and was to him his world. he was still just as inflexible about having his own way. however, it had so long been a part of his housekeeper's life to yield to this, that he seldom had to insist upon anything. he would usually retire early now, though this was not a stated rule. he might be in bed by eight o'clock, or up until midnight, and he was as ingenious as ever in making work for other people. as his massage was to be the last thing before sleep, warren could not calculate upon his own doings for a single evening. he might go out before dark, make a call or do an errand, then hasten home to wait up two or three hours or even longer; or on going out and remaining but a little beyond eight, would on his return find his patient in bed groaning, and saying that he had been suffering severely for his rubbing, or "pummelling," as he called it. suffice it to say he was as exacting with his willing nurse as he had always been with his faithful housekeeper. during the two and a half years that warren was with him, he had but a single untrammelled evening, for mr. whitman wanted him always near, even when no service was required. and so things jogged on satisfactorily to friends and admirers, but tediously indeed to the young marine. horace traubel writes: "warren fritzinger, who attends upon mr. whitman and is provided for through a fund steadily replenished by a group of walt's lovers--and who finds his services a delight--attests that whatsoever the hour or necessity, whitman's most intimate humor is to the last degree composed and hopeful." ("_in re walt whitman._") others have written of this period as one of grave neglect; a time when the aged man was deprived of the care and comfort so essential to one in his condition. they underrated both his means and the attention lavished upon him. "he is old and poor," says one, "and were it not for small contributions from time to time from friends who sympathize with him in his poverty, age and helplessness, would actually suffer for the bare necessaries of life. for many years his income from all sources has not exceeded an average of two hundred dollars, which to a person in his helpless condition goes but a little way even in supplying the roughest and commonest of food and care." and again: "his wants are not many, for he lives simply from necessity and choice; but in his old age and constantly failing health, he needs that comfort and attendance which he has not the means to procure." the poet himself was neither discontented nor dull. as his infirmities brought new privations, he bowed to the inevitable. he missed the outdoor life keenly, but was grateful for such trips as he could get under warren's care. as for indoors, conversations if protracted wore upon him, and he could no longer take part in them with anything of his old enthusiasm and vim. but there was no fundamental infirmity of mind, no childishness of senility; he was essentially young in his habits, thought and manner, and remained so until his death. sometimes, indeed, the flame of mental energy rose high again; and it was never extinguished. "the body was fading; the vital parts seemed reluctant to die even in their own exhaustion. the soul, the mind, the man were there, and at times in full vigor, while the case was wrecked. grandly and clearly his mentality stood above the slowly straining and wasting body." (_thomas donaldson._) but others suffered with and through him. warren had relinquished hope after hope, had on several occasions abandoned his resolve to better himself and get married; his mother's entreaties and the reiterated promises and solicitations of mr. whitman's friends, especially his literary executors, were more than he could combat. but with all outward signs of contentment, the confinement soon left visible marks upon him; a second pair of rosy cheeks faded, and from handling the icy wood in the cellar a lasting cold was contracted. he purchased a writing desk--one that fitted the niche between the chimney and the window in the anteroom--and here he wrote, studied and read when not actively employed; always busy, always within call. when the monotony and confinement became too pressing, he purchased a violin and took music lessons. he declared that this saved him from fits of desperation. mr. whitman himself was not the only old person dependent for comfort upon mrs. davis and her sons, for the maternal grandparents of the latter, living in beardstown, pennsylvania, octogenarians and both amazingly jealous of the poet, had to be visited, looked after and consoled. one great annoyance to warren was mr. whitman's aversion to prompt payment. the old man had signified his willingness to purchase his own wood, but he was so delinquent about settling for it that the proprietor of the woodyard, a man whose heart had never been warmed by the poet's effusions, saw no reason why he should warm his body gratis, and so sent him bill after bill, until at length he refused to deliver a load until the previous one was paid for. be it understood, mr. whitman intended to pay for his wood, but he intended to pay in his own time, and not be dictated to; consequently there was a controversy when each load was delivered. "his pride was adamant to anything that seemed concession." (_john t. trowbridge._) warren knew that the old man had money, that right was on the wood-dealer's side, and he would not follow his mother's way of putting people off--telling them that mr. whitman was too miserable to be troubled, asking for an extension of time, etc., then paying the bill herself and lacking the courage to present the receipt. no, "warry" would approach the subject in such an original fashion and hand the bill to his patient in such an offhand way that it would appeal to him directly, and as a rule the money was counted out with a quiet chuckle. eddie wilkins wrote: "mr. whitman is stubborn and self-willed. you can only get along with him by letting him have his own way." warren would meet the stubbornness and self-will with just as persistent good-nature, and would usually gain his point. he was the only person walt whitman never chloroformed with one of his "ahs!" early in april, 1890, the poet was asked to read his lincoln lecture at the art club rooms in philadelphia, and he agreed. he was just recovering from a bad spell, and mrs. davis did her best to dissuade him from such an undertaking, but without avail; he summoned up his resolution once more and had his own way. with the assistance of warren and others, he dressed and painfully dragged himself to the place of destination, and there, before a gay and crowded assembly, he appeared for the last time in public as a speaker. but the effort was too great, and when the reading was ended and the congratulations over, he was taken home in a suffering and nearly unconscious condition and carried to his bed, where, exhausted and worn out, he was for some days obliged to remain. however, on may 31 he was sufficiently recovered to attend a birthday dinner at reiser's in philadelphia. when the guests were assembled--some fifty or sixty in number--warren wheeled him into the room, where without leaving his chair he joined in the convivialities of the occasion. he did not fear to dissipate a little at events like this, nor did he always pause at the point of prudence, for he knew that in whatsoever state he might reach home the best of after-care awaited him there. during the spring and summer the chair rides were resumed whenever he was at his best, and he entered into the enjoyment with zest and appreciation. when feeling particularly well he would make up for lost time, until the rolling chair with its distinguished occupant and handsome boyish-looking propeller was often seen by the hour as it passed through the streets of camden and adjacent suburbs. this chair stimulated the interest of the neighbors and whenever it was carried to the sidewalk the news spread quickly, so that by the time mrs. davis appeared with warren, helping the old man down the stoop, they had a good-sized and extremely attentive audience. no doubt they had long since ceased to look upon mr. whitman as a mysterious personage, but they comprehended that he was not one of them, and everything new connected with him still excited their curiosity. warren's advent at a season when he was so needed was indeed a blessing to his mother. now she could count upon her time and arrange for her work, could go out with no anxiety as to home matters, and could have the kitchen to herself when she wished. the heat of this summer debilitated the invalid more than that of the previous one, or even of the famous (or dreadful) one of 1887, devoted so exhaustingly to art. for days the old man would now be too overcome for any outing, and would be glad instead to sit on the sidewalk, as of old, in the shade of his cherished tree. he spent some evenings with friends, and occasionally went out to a sunday dinner or to meet certain people; but this became too strenuous, and the after-effects too serious. the chair rides, though so often interrupted, were continued until late in the fall. "was out in wheel-chair yesterday, november 8, from twelve to two-thirty." he made a few visits to the river, and seated in his chair took his last boat rides across it. in october he visited philadelphia for the last time. xiv friends, money, and a mausoleum "_christmas day, 1890, was spent by walt whitman in giving himself and all his family a christmas present for all eternity. he went out to harleigh cemetery, a suburb of camden, to select a site for a tomb._"--william sloane kennedy. on the evening of october 21, colonel robert ingersoll gave a lecture in horticulture hall, philadelphia, for the benefit of mr. whitman. the subject was "liberty in literature." this form of assistance to the poet was suggested to colonel ingersoll by mr. johnston of new york, one of walt's oldest and most valued friends, who came to camden to talk the matter over and make the necessary arrangements. mr. whitman took unusual interest in the project and was desirous of being present. mr. johnston, who had great confidence in mrs. davis and much regard for her opinion, consulted her upon the subject. she said that recent cool weather had done much for the old man, and barring unlooked-for accidents, she believed that he could be counted upon. mr. whitman himself, who was well aware that his later appearances in public had proved a great tax upon his strength, declared his intention of husbanding the little that remained for the event. this he did; the evening arrived, the weather was favorable, and all was well. every possible exertion had been spared him, and he started off in high spirits. an easy carriage had been secured, and he reached the hall without fatigue; even in better condition than had been anticipated. he was accompanied by a friend, and by warren and mrs. davis, for both mr. johnston and colonel ingersoll had insisted upon her being one of the party. on alighting from the carriage and entering the hall, mrs. davis was given a seat in the audience not far from the stage, and mr. whitman and warren were taken behind the scenes, where the lecturer and some gentlemen awaited them. an armchair had been placed for the poet by the speaker's stand. a few moments before the lecture began, he came upon the stage and seated himself. he was greeted with enthusiasm by the overflowing house, and when the eloquent speaker had closed his fine address, he arose, came forward and spoke a few words. this was his last appearance in public. colonel ingersoll had engaged a room in a nearby hotel, where at the close of the lecture a small company were invited to partake of a collation and pass an informal, social hour. when all were seated at the table, the colonel handed mr. whitman $870 as his share of the proceeds, and upon doing so remarked to mrs. davis: "that sum will keep you all in comfort this winter." but like all other sums received by mr. whitman, it was deposited unbroken in the bank. mr. whitman stood this exertion well, but the reaction came later; the borrowed strength gave out, and the winter found him much the worse for wear. he came downstairs a number of times in october and november, and had occasional outings, but he passed the time chiefly in his own room, and the big chair which warren and his mother had carried up and down stairs, to the place where it was needed for the time being, was never again taken below. he sat up much less, however, and would lie upon his back for hours, with his eyes partially closed and his hands crossed upon his breast. letters came with kind wishes and friendly words; these he appreciated, though he could seldom answer them. yet he still read and wrote a little, still looked over his newspapers and periodicals, and the accumulating litter therefore received its weekly contributions; but at his mother's earnest request warren did not interfere. when little things were carried upstairs, the old man would often ask that they might be left. if any article were taken up he would usually say, "leave it a while longer; i may want it by and by." this accounts for the soiled dishes frequently seen in his room. old friends and new ones were constant, and seemed to devise ways in which they could shower attentions upon the sick man. the oysterman in the next street sent word that he was at all times welcome to a free share of his stock in trade, and there was no time when oysters were not kept unopened in the cellar; but mr. whitman beyond doubt overstepped the bounds of the donor's generous intentions when he treated his company so lavishly to stews and half-shells, also when he ordered supplies for his young men friends in return for services they rendered him. mrs. davis and warren did not approve of this, and each was ashamed to visit the little place so many times; they without money, and the oysters without price. did mr. whitman, in truth, have an accurate or an undeveloped knowledge of the cost of living? eddie wilkins writes: "oh, he knows the value of money, and is very careful with his own." his benevolence to the sick and wounded soldiers during a great part of the civil war is an old and often repeated story, but in this he was to a great extent the almoner of others. his self-sacrificing labors as a volunteer visiting nurse were his own free-will offering, and from them came his long years of suffering, for his early paralysis was the result of these exhaustive and unremitted efforts. "his devotion surpassed the devotion of woman." (_john swinton, in a letter to the new york herald_, april 1, 1876.) most of the time while he was living in washington he occupied a small room up three flights of stairs. he had but little furniture and no dishes; he ate out of paper bags and subsisted upon a very meagre sum of money. this sufficed for that period of his life, when he was in "his splendid prime." (_john swinton._) he had health, strength and only himself to think of; and taking a house of his own in after years--humble as was the one in mickle street--did not seem to mature in him any realizing sense of the intrinsic value of money, or reveal to him his own pecuniary obligations. he never seemed to question what housekeeping involved, never seemed to pause and think that certain responsibilities rested upon him alone, or feel that he might be wronging others, especially those whose services he accepted and whose embarrassments he never inquired into, never offered to relieve. but mrs. davis, conservative, conscientious, and true to him, did not disclose his domestic failures or discuss them with others. his financial standing was not revealed to his english friends, and remained quite a secret until the christmas season of this year, when he was given a site for a grave in harleigh cemetery. it is not unreasonable to believe that he had special designs in putting money so quietly aside, one of which--and the greatest, perhaps--was to build a family vault. it has been said that it was for this very purpose he accumulated money; hoarded, accepted and saved in the most minute of things. thomas bailey aldrich often told the delightful story of a certain $9.00 which whitman borrowed from him--magnificently, but also irrevocably--in pfoff's restaurant on broadway. after he had accepted and secured the site, he spoke freely of his wishes and intentions regarding the tomb. he specified that certain members of his family should be placed in it, and requested in particular that his parents should be brought from long island to sleep with them there. it was to be of granite, massive and commodious; and on a projection above the door was to be a granite statue of himself, standing. his ideas were excessive, and the expense far beyond his means; still, he may have thought that the proceeds accruing from his book would warrant an extravagance for death that he never vouchsafed to life. the tomb was begun according to his orders, but was finished on a much smaller scale--as it now stands--and just in time to lay him therein. when it became known that preparations had been made to erect this costly mausoleum, it dawned upon some of his friends that he had a way of keeping things to himself. it certainly did seem strange that some of them should pay a monthly tax for his support when he had means of his own, and could contemplate such an expenditure as this. in truth people were getting tired of the constant drain upon their purses, and many had long questioned why they should so frequently be called upon, and wondered what _could_ become of the money that flowed in large and small streams into the whitman exchequer. a few even suspected mrs. davis of appropriating it, and of this--unknown to her--she was accused. she was also charged with wastefulness, neglect of the invalid, and gross incompetence. the poet still kept his affairs to himself, and "it may be he thought that what he received from his admirers was but a portion of the debt they owed him." (_william sloane kennedy._) january and february of this winter were hard months to the sick man. he suffered with severe headaches, lassitude and inertia, added to which he had long and obstinate spells of indigestion. he remarked to some old friends that he suffered somewhat from want of persons to cheer him up; most visitors came to him to confess their own weakness and failures, and to disburden themselves of their sorrows. it was just the opposite disposition in his two constant attendants that made their companionship so agreeable to him. warren's witty and playful sallies always provoked a quiet smile, and his mother's "inventive thoughtfulness" was rewarded with an appreciative, approving look. during march he made some gain, but it was not until april 15 that he got out of doors to enjoy the sunshine and invigorating air. with his rides new courage came to him, and in may he was able to be taken to the cemetery to witness the progress made on the tomb. but in the last ten months of his life he was so worn by pain, and had so aged, that his restful, reliable home comforts were the dearest of all earthly things to him. xv the last birthday party "_there was one more birthday dinner celebrated with his friends in the mickle street house on may 31, 1891. whitman was seventy-two. that privacy, which is the normal privilege of old age, was one of the kinds of happiness which he didn't experience._"--bliss perry. "_munching a little bread dipped in champagne and talking about death. he had never been more picturesque._"--bliss perry. on may 31, when mr. whitman had reached the age of seventy-two, his last birthday (as it proved) was celebrated by a dinner given in his own home. this arrangement was adopted as the only means of ensuring his presence, and the gathering was the final social event in that little house. the managing committee was composed of young men, most of whom knew nothing of the limited dimensions of the place, and had not reflected upon the incongruity of their undertaking; nor, until the plans were all made, arrangements nearly completed and the invitations issued, was mrs. davis told what was to take place. when the youngest of the three literary executors, who had devised and was at the head of the scheme, finally informed her, she said she feared that such a thing as seating thirty-six people in the parlors was impracticable; however, she would do her best in helping them to carry out their wishes. it was by good luck that the arrangements were in the hands of inexperienced, enthusiastic and hopeful young people, for the difficulties to be overcome would have discouraged older and more experienced folk at the outset. it was better still for them that they found a well-balanced mind, willing hands and managing skill in their home agent, as this alone saved them from ignoble failure. first the parlor doors, double and single, together with the hall and kitchen doors, secured with old-fashioned six-screw hinges, were removed and carried into the yard; the spare bed put up since mr. whitman's last stroke was taken down, together with the stove, and with the entire furniture likewise removed. this was literally turning the parlors inside out. mrs. davis, as usual, succeeded in making a place for everything. warren did most of the hard work and lifting, while his mother swept the rooms, cleaned the windows, put up fresh curtains and made the place so presentable that the young men of the committee, who took kindly to her encouraging words and wise suggestions, acknowledged that they did not see how they could have managed without her ready and efficient coöperation. on the morning of the birthday she was of equal service to the waiters who, when the tables, chairs and dishes arrived, discovered many drawbacks in such an unlooked-for banquet hall. the head table was placed across the front parlor, in a line with the windows, the other, the length of the back parlor, forming a t with it; and these, with the small chairs, so completely filled the rooms that only just sufficient space was left for the waiters to serve the guests through the two doorways. most of the viands came ready cooked, and the caterer had done full justice to them; the coffee was made on the kitchen stove, which, with the little one in the shed, was brought into requisition for heating purposes. mrs. davis was usefulness itself in getting things in readiness, advising with the caterer and helping him out of quandaries. when the dinner had been decided upon she had been told that it should put her to no extra work; and when she made the matter really possible she was told that she had done her part, which should end there, as the committee would attend to putting things to rights afterwards. getting mr. whitman ready, and seeing that he was in no way overtaxed, was of much importance, and it was carefully looked after. at the appointed hour, seven p. m., the guests assembled, and there being no reception room, each took his or her assigned place at the table; then, when all were seated, the venerable host was brought down. he was met with congratulations, and led to the head of the table. there were twenty-seven men and five women present, and not until the greetings were over did he and his old friends observe that mrs. davis had been left out. room at the table was not wanting, as three chairs were vacant through the non-arrival of the expected occupants; besides, two of the ladies were strangers to the poet. mrs. davis felt the slight, although she could not very well have formed one of the company in any event, her presence being indispensable elsewhere. it was a good dinner and well served, all things considered. the day was insufferably hot, and the windows and the front door were left wide open. many noticed and remarked that during the dinner no loungers were about the front of the house, "no boys looking in, yelling or throwing stones or mud--no curiosity gazers. respect for mr. whitman possibly prevented this." (_thomas donaldson._) respect for mr. whitman in part, no doubt, but a greater respect for a contract made beforehand; mrs. davis had bought them off; something good for each one of them for good conduct. she was not so successful in securing the same considerate behavior from watch, her coach dog, for to her great mortification, just as one gentleman commenced to read "o captain! my captain!" he came into the parlor doorway, "put his nose up in the air and uttered a series of the most ungodly howls ever listened to." (_thomas donaldson._) he continued to howl until the reading ceased, then abruptly left the room. the dinner lasted until ten o'clock--three hours. a stenographer took down the toasts, responses, scraps of conversation, etc. but while these were at their height, one compliment, one little speech, was not recorded. mr. whitman looked around the table as if seeking something, and on being asked, "is there anything you want, walt?" replied, "yes, i want a piece of _mary's bread_." it was brought to him. mr. whitman, no doubt, feeling that mary had been slighted, took this peculiar way of his own to show his regard for her. the next day the tables and chairs were taken away, but the committee's promises of assistance were probably forgotten, for regardless of the poor days mr. whitman passed in consequence of the dinner, and his need of extra care, no help whatever was proffered and mrs. davis and warren were left to right the house by degrees, working as they could. the summer following the invalid was glad to pass quietly in his room. the heat overcame him, for he had lost all his resistant power, and truly needed the attention and care that it was his good fortune to receive. part of the time he was up and dressed, but he seldom felt equal to more than this. his outings were few in number, the reading fell off, and the writing was nearly discontinued. however, this did not prevent the litter in his room from mysteriously increasing in the same slow, sure, steady ratio. as this did not bother him, and he was inclined to be tranquil and satisfied, no one disturbed him, or interfered in any way with his idiosyncrasies. his world had become contracted to still smaller dimensions; the four walls of his own room enclosed it. he had relinquished his hold upon outside life with its bustle and excitement, and more than ever wished to be left alone, left to himself. he was his own best company, apparently, for he often evinced disapprobation on being roused from one of his long reveries. at intervals he would seem to be the old-time man, would rouse up and talk, even jest, after which would follow spells of depression or dreaded indigestion. in the latter case, day would succeed day when his only nourishment would be a light cup-custard or a small glass of iced buttermilk. the fall did little for him, and there was an unmistakable and steady decline until december 17, when after a number of miserable days he was seized with a chill, the precursor of pneumonia. for a week his life hung in the balance; friends and relatives were summoned, and the best medical advice was procured. each hour the final call seemed at hand; then came a pause, and the issue was uncertain; next there was a slight improvement. the burden of all this fell mainly upon warren, who was only relieved temporarily day or night by his no less worn-out mother. believing that each day would be the last, each had held up and gone on, until on the 28th the limit of endurance was reached, and they asked for assistance. as the patient's symptoms were tending toward a protracted illness rather than a speedy death, his friends saw that this was imperative, and dr. bucke, who had recently arrived in camden, went to philadelphia to engage a professional nurse. xvi the new nurse "_well, i told you doctors when i was so very bad, 'let me go; let me die.' i felt you would not listen to a word ... you would not think of it for a moment, and here i am._ "_i chose to go. i may pull through it and have it all to go through again; it looks more so to-day than for a fortnight. you are all making a strong pull for me, i can see that._"--walt whitman. the requirements in the nurse were maturity, experience in the care of sick men, and the ability to take notes and keep a careful record. dr. bucke engaged a suitable person, and talked freely and unreservedly to her about the patient, his physical condition and his eccentric habits. he said it was his firm belief that his life could not last more than a few days longer, and that he was confident that another such room as the one he was in, littered and uncared for, did not exist upon the face of the earth. he further said that his poor old friend had been in wretched health for some years past, that he was in no way able to look out for himself, and that he was in the hands and at the mercy of a designing and unprincipled woman,--the unrefined and ignorant widow of a sailor,--who as a housekeeper was unreliable and dishonest, and who alone was responsible for the condition in which the sick room was to be found. he added that it had been arranged that the nurse should go out to all her meals at the expense of the patient's friends; that she was to have nothing whatever to do with the housekeeper, _and above all things she was not to allow her to enter the sick man's room_. to put the matter to her concisely, she was, during the entire engagement, long or short as it might prove, to speak to but three persons, these being the two literary executors living in camden, mr. harned and mr. traubel, and her own colleague, warren fritzinger. he told her that the first things he desired her to do were to get the sick room into order, and to begin recording the daily transactions; she must be careful to note all mr. whitman's words as they were uttered, and to write them down faithfully. dr. bucke spoke as one having full authority, and the nurse had no reason for disbelieving anything he had said. (and ever after believed that mrs. davis had been cruelly maligned (but by whom?) and that dr. bucke, who lived at a distance and saw little of his friend's home life, had been deceived and misled.) he assured her that _money in abundance_ would be supplied for all the sick man's needs, and that it was the wish of his friends that he should have every comfort possible until the end. by a second appointment dr. bucke met the nurse at the ferry, and they set out together for the dying poet's home, the doctor, while crossing the delaware, repeating and dwelling upon what he had previously said. the ring at the door was answered by a pleasant, ladylike woman, between whom and the doctor there was a show of mutual good feeling. the back parlor was given to the nurse as her room, and when she had laid her wraps aside dr. bucke led the way upstairs. to the relief of all mr. whitman had made no objections to a lady as nurse, and when she entered his room he extended his hand. a number of gentlemen were present, among them his brother george and the two literary executors, who had remained to take leave of dr. bucke. an artist who had just completed some etchings of the poet had sent him six complimentary copies, one of which he presented to his departing friend, at whose request he was raised up to autograph it. this, it was supposed, would be his last signature. the prospect being that he would not only survive the night, but would pass it in comparative comfort, his friends and relatives left, excepting only his niece, miss jessie whitman, the daughter of his brother jefferson. poor warren was overjoyed at the idea of going to bed, for in the last four days and nights he had had no rest, and since the chill, ten days before, had not found time to change or remove his clothing. while giving the nurse her instructions he confessed that he was completely done up, that such a siege as he had just passed through was worse than a storm at sea; nevertheless he wished and expected to be called at any moment if his services were required. mrs. davis, totally unconscious of any ill feeling toward her and disposed to show every courtesy to the nurse, prepared a nice supper to which she invited her to come. what could the nurse do? no way had been opened for her to go outside to her meals--at least for the present--and no one except dr. bucke had mentioned such a thing; it was dark, she was in a strange city and ravenously hungry. she could not make up her mind to refuse and run off at once to seek a restaurant, especially at a time like this; could not risk leaving a patient so dangerously ill, even for a minute; nor could she desert the two weary people who were looking to her for relaxation and relief. no; she would sooner fast for the night. but fasting was not necessary; so descending the stairs, passing through the hall and running headlong into the flour barrel, she entered the little cabin-like kitchen. mrs. davis was so worn out for sleep that even while standing her eyelids would close. she apologized, saying that she had been awake so many hours she was not at all herself. the nurse begged her to lie down at once, believing this weary, sad-looking woman must be a relative of her patient's, or a dear friend who had come there to bridge over the present crisis. dr. bucke had not mentioned the housekeeper's name, and the kindly, hospitable person who had been introduced as mrs. davis belied in every way the description of the sailor's unrefined widow. besides, warren called her mother. the sick man required but few attentions during the night, and was so painfully still the nurse went to his bedside a number of times to assure herself that he was breathing. warren came in twice to reconnoitre and turn him over, and when morning peeped into the window of the dull little anteroom and he found that no new complications had developed and that mr. whitman had not suffered from the change, he was jubilant over it. after preparing breakfast, mrs. davis, as was her custom, went upstairs to sit with the patient while the others were below. she entered his room, and he--who up to this time had lain with downcast eyes, speechless, almost immovable--looked up, smiled, and exclaimed in a pleased voice, "ah, mary!" there was no mistaking the friendly relation between these two people, and before noon the nurse learned that the coarse housekeeper, the _dreaded_ housekeeper, was no other than this pleasant, tired-out woman, whose kindness she appreciated because she had at once made her feel so much at home. what did the nurse think! when mr. whitman was supposed to be dying, mrs. davis had in a way managed to meet the emergencies of the occasion; when a rubber sheet was called for, and no one offered to procure or order one, she gave her own oilcloth table cover to supply the need. when extra sheets were in demand and were not forthcoming from any quarter, she bought a piece of cloth, tore off the lengths, and was obliged to use them unlaundered and unhemmed, for even in this trying time only one person, besides her personal friends, had offered her the least assistance or inquired as to the straits to which she was put. this single exception was mr. whitman's sister-in-law, who had left a sick bed to come to camden and do what she could. when with the coming of the nurse, and cessation from immediate anxiety, mrs. davis found time to look around, she discovered more than an abundance of work. an enormous wash had accumulated, her boiler had given out, and damp and cloudy weather necessitated drying everything within doors. then as the eaves trough had fallen down, and the kitchen ceiling leaked, warren's skill in carpentering was in instant demand. they found the nurse willing to assist in any way, and the housekeeper was delighted that she was plain spoken and matter-of-fact, and knew almost nothing of her patient as a writer; that she regarded him only as a sick and helpless old man, needing personal care, and not the adulation with which he was surfeited. mr. whitman himself took kindly to her, for like mrs. davis she never questioned him, and if she spoke at all, always touched upon the most simple, commonplace subjects. on one occasion she ventured to say to him: "i suppose you would be disgusted with me if i told you that i had never heard of _leaves of grass_ until i came here?" he laughed a little and replied: "i guess there are plenty of people in the world who can say the same. _leaves of grass_ was the aim of my life. in these days and nights it is different: my mutton broth--my brandy--to be turned promptly and kept clean--are much more to me and appeal to me more deeply." little by little, much was accomplished; the sheets were hemmed, and the nurse with part of the small and only sum of money given to her soon had a new boiler on the stove; then when the table cover, which had become stiff, wrinkled and ruined, was replaced with a smooth rubber sheet, and a rubber ring purchased, which gave the patient great relief, and a few trifling articles secured, the money was exhausted. mrs. george whitman added some things to the supply, after which it fell to mrs. davis to resort to her own means as of old, and one by one the gold pieces--warren's gift--melted away. in the course of a couple of weeks the nurse learned that she was boarding at the expense of the housekeeper, and finding that no arrangements had been made to this effect she wrote to dr. bucke, laying the matter before him, as it had been agreed that she should write to him semi-weekly and in full confidence. in her next letter she told him of her own belief in mrs. davis as a most excellent woman; she enlarged upon her devotion to mr. whitman and his fondness for her, and expressed her great astonishment that a man of his experience could be so mistaken in anyone. in reply he wrote that he was pleased to know that he had been misled. mrs. davis was much distressed in regard to the cleaning of the sick room. she feared it would make mr. whitman unhappy, and she felt that as his life was to end in so short a time, further indulgence might be granted him. but he was found to be not at all disposed to make objections; indeed, he was passive in the extreme, and when the nurse in any doubt or difficulty would occasionally appeal to him, he had but one reply: "ask mary." to the surprise of everyone he lingered on, improving instead of growing worse, and by the end of the month had regained something of his former condition. he even wrote a few short letters, autographed the five remaining etchings, and a photograph for the nurse. when the ominous symptoms had disappeared and he was not only out of danger, but quite comfortable, and mrs. davis had got the most pressing work well in hand, things assumed an almost unbroken routine. warren took the night work, as reporters often came to the house at late hours and he was accustomed to meeting them; even friends would come thus unseasonably to inquire for the poet and perhaps beg for admittance to his room. yet there were many nights during the long sickness--lasting to march 26--when following a number of good days he would sink into a state of collapse, and then both nurses would remain up together. as warren did his home work in the forenoon, which was also his mother's busiest time, the nurse prepared the patient's breakfast and gave it to him; but seeing that he really preferred mary's presence to her own, she often exchanged work with her, and the only actual difference was that walt had three nurses instead of two. getting the sick room into order was a tedious task. the nurse was directed to leave every scrap of paper with writing upon it in the room, to remove only the newspapers, magazines, circulars, bound books, wrapping papers and so on. then there were days when it was evident that mr. whitman wished to be alone, other days when he was very low and could not be disturbed, still other days when he had long visits from friends; and the work would have to be postponed for the time being. all the newspapers and magazines were stacked upon the landing outside the anteroom door; the books--usually dropped anywhere, open--were placed upon the pine shelves; the manuscripts were piled upon one side of the sick room, and the old envelopes, wrapping paper and odds and ends of string alone were thrown away. warren's desk came in nicely, and seated at this the nurse wrote her record, going into the details and minutiæ of the case, as she had been instructed. in this warren took his part, and as he knew most of the people who called, his information and night notes were a valuable addition. a cot under the shelves in the anteroom, which had served as a bed for the nurses at night and a settee by day, was taken out and a comfortable lounge substituted, which had been hidden from view under the débris in the other room. this gave both rooms a better appearance, besides providing a more comfortable seat and sleeping place. mr. whitman did not take medicine with regularity; only when some acute pain or persistent discomfort rendered it essential. his temperature was never taken, his pulse and respiration but seldom; and in no way was he roused up, except for an unavoidable cause, or perhaps to meet company. he fully understood his own condition, and pleaded for but one thing: rest. when he had his poor days--when it seemed that he could not again rally--he saw no one, and in the last two months he wished to see few beside his nurses, his two doctors (dr. alex. mcalister of camden, and dr. longaker of philadelphia), and his faithful mary. he said that others tired him, and yet many saw him and held conversations with him, even at this late stage in his life. colonel ingersoll came twice, and sent him a basket of champagne, of which he took sparingly from time to time. it was not so lonesome for warren when there was someone associated with him in his work, and the nurse listened with interest to the stories he told of his early escapades, and of his subsequent adventures in strange countries and at sea. he could boast of having saved two fellow creatures from drowning, that is, if he were at all inclined to boast, which he was not. after awhile he confided the disappointments of his love affair, saying he thought it hard that after being engaged for over two and a half years, he had not, since he had assumed the care of mr. whitman, had the opportunity and pleasure of inviting and escorting his fiancée to an evening entertainment. the nurse thought so too; she sympathized with him; and his one untrammelled evening was when, unknown to his mother, she slipped over to philadelphia, bought tickets and secured seats that he might have the gratification of taking "coddie" to the theatre. this plot was several days in maturing, and when the secret was disclosed mrs. davis was terribly exercised, fearing that something dreadful might come up just at that particular time. she tried to dissuade warren from going, but it was two against one, and he went. nothing eventful occurred; mr. whitman was at his best, and when he asked for "warry," and was told where he had gone, he was perfectly satisfied. but day by day the patient steadily declined, and as one of his lungs was nearly useless, it affected his breathing to such an extent that his only relief was in change of position--"shifting," as he called it when he was being turned from one side to the other. he could eat while lying down, but could drink only when his head was raised with the pillow to support it. often when mrs. davis went into the room to turn him, or to take him some little home-made delicacy, she came out in tears. what was said when the two were alone--if they spoke at all--was never repeated, never reported. mr. whitman did not know that the nurse kept an account of his words, or wrote anything whatever regarding him; for of all things he disliked, the worst was to feel that there was someone at hand or just out of sight with pencil and paper in readiness for instant use. one day warren told him that his brother harry's christmas present was a little boy that he had named for him: walt whitman fritzinger. this pleased the sick man, and he expressed a wish to see his little namesake. the child was kept in readiness for a week; then early one evening, when mr. whitman was feeling better than usual, he was sent for. his nurse brought him over, carried him into the sick room and laid him in the arms of the old man, who kissed the little fellow, held him a few minutes and repeated a number of times: "well, well, little walt whitman, little walt whitman." there were present the child's mother and nurse, mrs. davis, warren, and mrs. keller, mr. whitman's nurse. he never saw the child again, but often inquired after him, and added a codicil to his will bequeathing him two hundred dollars. (my name is on the codicil as witness to the signature.--e. l. k.) the invalid had never bought himself a new mattress, and the one given him by mrs. davis seven years before--too wide for the bedstead and extending several inches beyond it at the back--had from long and constant usage become hollow in the centre, making it difficult to turn him from one side to the other, for he would often slip back into the hollow place. warren once said: "when i come on this side of the bed you slip away from me." "ah, warry," he replied, "one of these fine mornings i shall slip away from you forever." one evening a member of the editorial staff of the new york _evening telegram_ visited him. mr. whitman knew that he was coming, and had made up a little roll of his writings to give him. (mr. traubel always made these engagements, met the parties and accompanied them to the house.) upon leaving, the gentleman said that the paper had raised a fund wherewith to purchase flowers for the poet's room. afterwards learning that the defective lung made the fragrance of flowers stifling to him, the paper requested that the money be applied in some other way. mrs. davis suggested a longer bed and a firm, level mattress. this was agreed to, the money came duly to hand, and the two nurses went together to select the bed. the one decided upon was a single one, made of oak and standing at least three inches higher than the old one; the mattress was of sea-grass. when the useful gift, which was a surprise to mr. whitman, arrived and was being set up--february 22, 1892--walt was seated for the last time in his big chair. warren said it would be a pity to have this bedstead battered up as the old one had been--for the old man still kept his cane within reach and often pounded upon the footboard; so he rigged up a bell in the anteroom, and carried the wire over the door and into the sick room, where a drop string came down to the bed. mr. whitman found this an easier way of summoning aid; it was the "quaint bell" mentioned by two or three writers. when the patient was settled on the new bed, he looked at mrs. davis and said: "you can have the old one, mary." the _evening telegram_ gift was a great acquisition, and it is to be regretted, for the sake both of the invalid and those who waited upon him, that it did not come in some way years before. xvii "shift, warry" "_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._" --walt whitman. "_she was his loyal friend and nurse. she stood by him in life, and closed his eyes in death._"--thomas donaldson. in january, when mr. whitman first rallied, wrote the few short letters and autographed the pictures, his friends were much encouraged; but subsequent sinking spells destroyed their hopes, and his extremely low condition led them to believe that he would wield his pen no more. in his poor days scarcely a word was spoken in the house, and his three nurses worked silently, almost mechanically, about him. then with another temporary reaction, hopes were again renewed and a change in everything was manifest; even the dull little anteroom seemed brighter. on february 5, he had so far regained his strength as to request writing materials. his old way of writing in bed was to be firmly propped up, with a pillow before him on which to rest a light smooth-covered book. now he was too weak to hold the book, and although well supported at the back he found it an almost insurmountable task to indite even a few words. mrs. davis believed he could do much better were something devised on which the paper before him could rest firmly. she was equal to the occasion, for going to a young artist and teacher of painting (a young lady named miss button) next door she procured a drawing board, to which she had legs attached,--two short stationary ones in front, and two longer at the back, fastened with hinges--thus making it adjustable to almost any angle. the invention worked well, and the next day, when he again requested pen and ink, it was placed before him. he was surprised and pleased, and all he could say was, "just the thing; just the thing"; then looking at the nurse he added: "_that's mary_; that's mary; just the right thing at the right time." not mary the efficient housekeeper or capable manager, but just the right woman in the right place. it was on this board that walt whitman's last words were inscribed. his book, which had been completed, was out of the press, and a few copies had been hurried through that he might see the work as it would go out into the world. mr. d. mckay, his publisher, brought them over one evening, and the dying poet expressed to him the great satisfaction he felt at the manner in which the edition had been produced. he asked to have fifty copies bound at once in manila paper covers, that he might give or send them to certain friends. this was done; he designated the people who were to receive them, and mr. traubel attended to the inscriptions. the last thing walt wrote for printing was a notice in regard to this edition. his writing board was of the greatest service to him in accomplishing this task; without it, not only this notice, but his last written words to his friends at large, his farewell greeting or salutation, would never have been written. when he had completed the notice, making numerous alterations until he seemed satisfied, he called for mrs. davis, who on coming into the room held a secret "confab" with him, after which she got ready and left the house. the following afternoon she again left the house and on her return handed walt a printed proof. in this, as of old, he made some corrections, and it was again taken out and again called for. these were mary's last visits to the "quaint little printing office," and the "old fellow acquaintance's" last acts of kindness to his dying patron. in the two days intervening between the writing of this notice and its ultimate approval, walt wrote his last words to all--the final greeting just mentioned to his friends at large. he wrote it himself on post office paper, and when he had covered one piece, he called for mucilage with which to add a second. he had measured the little printed slip, and had left a space for it. he worked intently until the task was completed. his tendency to recline backward made it difficult for him to use the pen properly, therefore mrs. davis or the nurse usually sat behind him, and by leaning forward and holding him in her arms supported him in a more comfortable and convenient position. while one assisted him in this way, the other held the inkstand near him, as he could no longer reach it from its accustomed place, the chair beside his bed. when the greeting was finished, the printed notice was pasted in its place. the original writing was sent to mr. bolton of england, with the request that he would have it facsimiled and distributed amongst all walt's friends. here is the letter horace traubel wrote conveying the poet's wishes. camden, n. j., february 8th, 1892 "w. asked me this ev'g to give you this counsel.--'if entirely convenient, facsimile the letter of february 6th, and send it copiously to european and american friends and friends anywhere,'--letting us have copies here as well. it was a great struggle to get this letter written and he wishes it to go out as his general salutation of friends to whom his strength will not permit him specially to write. it was framed with that end in view." the request was promptly complied with and an exact reproduction was made, even to the use of two pieces of paper pasted together, as in the original. the desired copies arrived before walt's death, and he gave or sent them to his friends, as he had done with the author's copies of his book. he evinced much interest in doing this, and kindly presented his nurses with both a facsimile and a book. as may be supposed, everyone was on the alert to secure his last signature, and the nurse, who had the advantage of being on the spot when he was able to write, had this honor. selecting one of the numerous photographs with which his room abounded--she subsequently learned that this was his own favorite ("_mr. whitman was not vain as to pictures of himself. he seemed to like best the photograph showing him sitting in a chair with a butterfly in his hand._"--_thomas donaldson_)--she kept it near his bed, and when the watched-for opportunity came, one morning after he had signed some papers and had written a kindly word to his sister (mrs. heyde of burlington, vt.), while she sat behind him as a support, she reached for it, telling him that she would like to own it, and hoped if he were not too fatigued he would autograph it for her. he willingly complied, saying: "yes, for you; but i would do it for no one else." (i gave this picture, with feelings of gratitude for kindness shown me, to dr. lucien howe, of buffalo, new york.--e. l. k.) the signature was written with a blue pencil, as he had now discarded ink. only once again did he sign his name in full, and this was in a business document. he used simply his initials in his last effort to write to his sister. unhappily, a change of care was in prospect, for mrs. keller was to leave him the second week in march, in consequence of an engagement previously made. she had mentioned this to dr. bucke, who had assured her that it could not possibly conflict with his friend's case. but when the sick man lingered until late in february, it was seen that some steps must be taken. and yet his span of life was so uncertain, that even at this late day it was deemed wiser not to mention the subject to him until it could no longer be postponed. the matter was talked over between his executors, his sister-in-law and the doctors, and all agreed that under the circumstances a stranger in the house would not be desirable. mrs. davis in particular dreaded it, and had made provision against it. the friend who had before kept house for her, while she made her trip to southern california, was to come again to do the housework, so that her own undivided time and attention might be given to the dying man. the nurse left on march 8. from this time on mr. whitman grew more and more uneasy in bed, and as he could now lie upon his left side but a few moments at a time, he required almost constant turning; and for eighteen days and nights his two faithful attendants did this. a water bed was bought for him; he only had the comfort of it for a single night. "march 25, 1.15 a. m., 1892.--we put him on the water bed at twelve o'clock. i have turned him twice since, and i can assure you from present indications if it does the old man no good, it will us. he turns just as easy again; can turn him with one hand, and then it does away with the ring. he was turned sixty-three times in the last twenty-four hours; how is that for business? kind of beats when you were here.... mama has one of her old headaches, has had it since yesterday, but hopes to be clear of it by morning.... we had a run of visitors to-day, and the old gent had four letters in the morning mail, of which three were applications for autographs." (_extracts from warren's letter to mrs. keller._) his last days were a repetition of the preceding ones; a flaring up of the torch, and a dying down; a fainter flare, and a gentle going out. on the evening of march 26 a little card was printed and widely circulated. camden, n. j., march 26, '92. whitman began sinking at 4.30 p. m. he continued to grow worse and died at 6.43 p. m. the end came peacefully. he was conscious until the last. there were present at the bedside when he died--mrs. davis, warren fritzinger, thos. b. harned, horace l. trauble and myself. alex. mcalister, m. d. this young physician saw much of mr. whitman during the last three months of his life, and his faithful services were given without price. the evening previous to his death mr. whitman requested to see mr. donaldson, the trusted friend who had done so much to make his home life a success. he came at once, and they had a long last interview. mrs. davis promised to notify him if the patient grew worse, and the next day at three p. m. she wrote for him to come, saying that mr. whitman was surely "slipping away" from them. he died before his friend reached the house. his last words were addressed to his faithful "sailor boy": "shift, warry." it was the time for the final turn, from life into death. mrs. davis closed his eyes. xviii winding up "_... the grand old man whose kindly face we never shall forget._"--dr. alex. mcalister (_in a letter to mrs. keller_). "_these promises are fair, the parties sure._" --shakespeare (_i king henry iv_). on the morrow the little parlors were again cleared--this time to make room for a coffin--and walt whitman, at last free from pain, was brought downstairs. an artist was in waiting to take a cast of his face, and later a post-mortem was held. mrs. davis thought the latter something dreadful, believing as she did that it was either prompted by curiosity or was done simply for the sake of a newspaper article. when all preliminaries were over, the poet, clothed in his accustomed style, was laid in his coffin. this, of heavy oak, was placed in the centre of one room, and all through the afternoon friends and acquaintances came to see him. the following day the public was admitted, and thousands thronged in to look at the familiar form and face: that placid face, telling that the long sought-for rest was at last attained. people entered through one parlor door, then passing around the coffin left by the other. during the morning mrs. davis made a hurried run to philadelphia to procure some needful things for the funeral, and on her return was surprised and horrified to find that during her absence a load of empty barrels had arrived, and that into these the literary executors--dr. bucke having arrived the night before--were hastily packing all the movable contents of the two upper rooms. this, to her, heartless expediency was more than she could bear, and going upstairs she asked why mr. whitman's things might not remain undisturbed until after he was buried. dr. bucke told her curtly that his own time was limited, and it was not convenient for _him_. overcome with grief, she sought her own room. she knew that mr. whitman's literary effects belonged legally to his executors, but she felt that his home was sacred to him while he remained in it. the barrels containing his writings and some articles coming under the head of personal property, such as books, pictures, his knapsack, the inkstand mrs. davis had bought for him while on her journey, and by him returned to her, etc., were taken from the house while he, the owner, lay there sleeping in his coffin. of walt whitman's funeral much has been said and written. it was arranged and conducted by friends, and was attended by many celebrated people. warren was sick and worn out, but kept up bravely and was at everybody's bid and "on deck" throughout all; then he was obliged to yield to a heavy cold and utter exhaustion. mrs. davis was little better off, but was able to be around. it has been said that in mr. whitman's will he provided generously for his housekeeper. he left her one thousand dollars; not one-fourth of the sum she had expended for him, without taking into consideration her seven years of unpaid service--and such service! the only additional bequest to her was the free rentage of the house for the term of one year. in a few months mrs. louise whitman followed her brother-in-law, and the will went into other hands. still a few months later edward whitman died in the asylum and was buried from the undertaker's, with no services whatever. but three people followed him to the grave: his brother george, mrs. davis, and warren fritzinger. when the professional nurse left camden, mrs. whitman, to simplify matters, settled with her from her own private bank account. this she did in anticipation of the winding-up of the estate at the expiration of one year after the death of her brother-in-law. she had talked with mrs. davis on this subject and had instructed her to put in her claim at the proper time. the year expired, but mrs. davis on presenting the claim was told that it was thought that in all ways full justice had been done her, and that no demands whatever of hers would be recognized; furthermore, that it was the wish of the executors that she should vacate the premises _at once_. this was an unexpected blow, and although her regard for dr. bucke personally was lessened, her confidence in his integrity remained unshaken, and she immediately wrote to him. unmindful of his promises that all should be well for her, and that he would be personally responsible, he coolly refused to take any part in the matter, saying that it was something which did not in the least concern him; she must settle it with those at hand. she saw no way of redress, and was given barely time in which to find another house. what an exit! watch, the dog, showed more resistance, and was determined to remain in his old quarters. he absolutely refused to leave, and as a last resort was carried away in a securely locked cab. warren was no better dealt with than his mother. sadly changed from the once robust sailor boy, he tramped the streets of camden and philadelphia in search of work. _any_ work this time; any work but nursing! he applied to those who had been mr. whitman's most active friends when anything of note was going on, but no encouragement was given him; some went so far as to tell him that his services to his late patient had about incapacitated him for many kinds of employment. he solicited and applied, but no helping hand was held out to him. he took soap orders, then accepted the only thing that presented itself, the position of night watchman in a camden bank. after awhile a tea merchant--one of the most kind-hearted of men and a friend of both his mother and mr. whitman--offered him a clerkship in his store. he would have preferred outside work, but had no choice and gladly accepted. in a year he married, and notwithstanding disappointments and discouragements, was the same bright cheerful warry to the end of his short life. he died after a few days' sickness in october, 1899, aged thirty-three years. xix the trial "_'tis called ungrateful with dull unwillingness to repay a debt._" --shakespeare (_richard iii_). "_proceed in justice, which shall have due course._" --(_the winter's tale_). but to go back. mrs. davis's friends, many of mr. whitman's, and a number of outsiders were disgusted and indignant at the treatment she had received and united in urging her to sue the estate and take her case into court. she was loath to do this, and hesitated for a long while; but in 1894 the unsolicited offer of an eminent judge to represent her without a fee (he said she was the worst used woman he had ever met) and the continued persuasions of her friends roused her at last to stand up for herself, and for once to take her own part. the loss of her money did not trouble her so much as the thought of what might be (and had been) said against her. she was confident that had mrs. whitman lived all would have been different. but mrs. whitman had not lived, and she had to face a problem that perplexed and saddened her, darkening her view of human nature, and throwing a shadow over the past and the future. the whole thing seemed so impossible, so hopelessly unfair. the trial came off in the county court house, camden, in april, 1894. mrs. davis's witnesses came voluntarily to her aid--the tea merchant only, and at his own request, being subpoenaed. there was the former orphan girl, now a wife and mother, who told the story of the poet's coming to the widow's door; of her many kind offices to him, and his appreciation; of his repeated promises to repay her if she would come to live with him, and his urgent appeals to her to do so. she gave the particulars of the transfer into the mickle street house, and much that followed after; the purchases mrs. davis had made, and the expense she had been put to. the first professional nurse, mr. musgrove, came forward that he might speak his good word for the late housekeeper, and the second and last trained nurse (mrs. keller) was glad to testify in public to the plaintiff's devotion to her distinguished patient, and his great regard for her. warren told the plain and convincing story of mr. whitman's intentions, as expressed to himself, of repaying his mother for the money she had spent. when asked how he knew that she had spent her own money, he answered that he had recognized at least the new gold pieces he had given her--the double eagles--which had gone one by one during the last two years. then when the defendant's lawyer asked, in a very insinuating manner, what had become of the champagne left in the cellar at the time of mr. whitman's death, the young artist who lived next door told how some boys had made their way into the cellar one day, had drunk the wine and become hopelessly intoxicated. the friend who had kept house on the two special occasions, and who had been a constant visitor there for seven years; neighbors who had seen mrs. davis helping the old man in and out of his carriage and rolling chair, and carefully covering and protecting him while he was sitting out of doors; and others who knew of her unremitting attentions, all spoke for her, while quite a number of citizens told her that her case was so strong they would not volunteer as witnesses, but were with her heart and soul. among these was the young doctor. on the opposite side were the two literary executors, george whitman, and a few others. the oyster man was there to tell of the quantity of oysters he had taken or sent to the house--more than one man, a sick man at that, could possibly consume; the object was to accuse mrs. davis by suggestion of getting them for herself in a dishonorable manner; but when on the stand the man could not speak, and after the trial went to her and begged her pardon. much interest was manifested in the case, which lasted two days; the court room was crowded at each session, and it was not difficult to tell on which side lay the sympathy. her opponents could bring no charge against her; they could only try to slur her and belittle what she had done. the testimony taken, mrs. davis's counsel called his client forward, placed a chair for her in the sight of all, and then in touching, eloquent words summed up the case, saying that many among those present had seen walt whitman going about the streets of camden, alone, cold and neglected, that it was a well-remembered sight, just as it was a well-known fact that this good woman's heart and home alone had been opened to him. as was expected, mrs. davis won her case; she received a fair sum of money, and the congratulations, spoken or written, of all who knew her sterling worth and the true story of her years of service. xx conclusion "_which makes her story true, even to the point of her death._"--shakespeare (_all's well that ends well_). "_a virtuous and a christian-like conclusion._"--(_richard iii_). if, profiting from past experience, mrs. davis had learned to realize that into all lives there comes a time when self has the right of consideration, she could have avoided further complications. but the early precepts were too deeply implanted, and before she had left the mickle street house a selfish uninteresting woman had in some insidious way fastened upon her. this burden she carried to the end. nor were money troubles wanting, grave and crippling, and due of course to the same fatal habit of helping others at her own expense. one day there came to her in great agitation an admirer of her late friend and patient, saying that he was threatened with financial ruin, even defamation of character, unless a certain sum of money was at once forthcoming; simply a loan for a few months; it would be faithfully repaid. mrs. davis had long contemplated purchasing a small home; she had the means of doing so, and this money was at once offered and accepted, but never returned. warren's death followed, and her one strong prop was gone. mrs. davis was not much of a correspondent; but notwithstanding this, she and the nurse, mrs. keller, occasionally exchanged letters, and the most friendly relations existed between them. after there had been a longer silence than usual, mrs. keller wrote to dr. mcalister, asking him if their friend still lived in berkley street (the house she went to from mickle street, and the only one she lived in after that), and if so, requesting him to call and learn why she did not write. he did so, and replied that he had found mrs. davis about as usual, that she had sent much love and the promise of writing soon. another long interval of silence followed, and finally came this letter--the last communication that passed between them. "434 berkley street, camden, n. j. october 16, 1908. "dear mrs. keller, i am just in receipt of your letter. yes, dr. mcalister did call last spring and i told him i would write you in a few days, which i fully intended to do, but it so turned out that i went to france with a friend, where i spent the summer; i have been home about three weeks. my going away was entirely unexpected, and i had but a few hours to get in readiness; left everything at loose ends, and one vexatious oversight was i forgot my address book. i thought about you many times, and would have written to you from over there had i had your address. i was delighted to hear from you--will write to you in a few days. i am wrestling with a bad cold. hope you are well. "lovingly, "m. o. davis." mrs. davis had always wished to see niagara falls, and mrs. keller, whose home was near that city, hoped that the long looked-for and talked-of visit was at last near at hand; would take place in the following summer. instead, at the expiration of a month she received a black-edged envelope, the contents reading: "yourself and family are respectfully invited to attend the funeral of mary o. davis on monday, november 23, at 3 p. m., from the son's residence--h. m. fritzinger, 810 state street, camden, n. j. interment at evergreen cemetery." on november 20, 1908, the following notice appeared in several papers. whitman's last nurse dead woman who cared for poet succumbs too. mrs. mary l. davis, who nursed walt whitman, the "good gray poet," during his last illness, and was with him at his death, at no. 328 mickle street, camden, died last night in cooper hospital of intestinal troubles. she was the widow of levin j. davis. after the death of whitman mrs. davis resided for a short time at no. 432 clinton street, camden, and then she went to live with a wealthy family in new york city. about a year ago she developed intestinal troubles. the family she was living with took her to paris for treatment by eminent specialists. she returned a month ago and went to camden to visit henry m. fritzinger, of no. 810 state street. there mrs. davis was taken ill with the affliction from which she suffered so much, and was removed to cooper hospital. the nurse who had cared for him in his last illness!--not his "faithful housekeeper, nurse and friend." but the brief report, it will be seen, had more than one error. perhaps the best way of giving a clear picture of the concluding stages will be to quote a letter from her son--as he was always called; warren's brother harry. it is a very human document. "dear friend, i am convinced that you think this letter should have been written long before, but on account of how things have gone i can assure you that i was taxed to the utmost. mother died on the 18th of november; buried on the 23rd. you would be surprised how people who were her friends through money have changed.... "when mother moved from mickle street to 434 berkley street she lived there until she died, although i tried for years to get her to come and live with me, as she would have been company for my wife when i was away. she had a party living with her by the name of mrs. h----, a big lazy impostor. she waited on her, carried coal and water upstairs, ashes and slops downstairs, until she worked herself into the condition which she died from. "about eighteen months or two years ago, there was a family by the name of mr. and mrs. mailloux, and dr. bell of new york, admirers of walt whitman, who came on and got acquainted with mother. they took a great liking to her and offered her a home with them, but she still stayed on in berkley street. mother paid them several visits, and at last was persuaded to accompany mrs. mailloux to paris on their regular trip, as a companion. she left america feeling as well as ever. my wife and i saw her aboard the train at broad street, and she was met in jersey city by her friends. "while she was in paris, this woman who was living with her started the devil going, when i was compelled to go down and take charge of the house. it warmed up until i was compelled to write to mother and ask her to send me authority to protect her interests. this spoiled her visit; she returned to america before the rest of the party. when she arrived she came directly to my house; was suffering with a severe cold. she was with us about six weeks. in the meantime my wife had her fixed up in fairly good shape. she told me that she was going to break up and come to live with us, but could not do it in a day or two. "after she was home about a week she was sick. she fooled along until i became dissatisfied and sent my doctor down to her. he attended her two days, and ordered her to the hospital, as an operation was the only thing to save her. after she was opened they found the bowels separated, also a cancerous tumor. she lived five days after the operation. "all this trouble was not felt until two weeks before she died. where the report came from about her ill health and going to paris for aid i do not know, but you always find newspaper reports wrong. "well, there is one thing that i feel thankful for: that she died before i did. if such had not been the case, she would have been buried in a pauper's grave, or gone to the dissecting table. "mother has been a friend to many; they have handled what money she had, amounting to hundreds of dollars. when she died all debts were cancelled as far as they were concerned, and not one would say: 'here is five cents towards putting a good and faithful servant away.' but mother was laid away as fine as anybody...." little more need be said. mrs. davis was comparatively a young woman at the time of walt whitman's death,--being then in her fifty-fifth year,--and in the sixteen years that followed, his friends passed away one by one, and she almost passed out of the memory of his life, as though she had never taken part in it. but the part she did take deserves remembrance. harry fritzinger's letter speaks for itself, and i have tried, poorly as i may have done so, to speak for one whom i valued and value as a good woman and a loving friend. walt whitman's monuments a letter written in camden on the twenty-seventh anniversary of his death by guido bruno dear walt whitman: to-day is the 27th anniversary of your death. i came here to worship at your shrine. i am a european, you must know, and reverence of our great writers and artists is bred in us, is part of our early training. we love to visit the houses where genius lived, to see with our own eyes the places our great men loved. camden hasn't changed much since you left. the people among whom you lived are to-day the same as they were then: petty, mean, vain, unforgiving. your friends are few just as in the olden days. let me tell you about it. it never entered my mind to make sure of the street number of your old residence. "any child on the street will direct me," i thought, "to whitman's house." getting off the ferry, the same ferry on which you loved to ride back and forth, in spring and autumn, i asked a policeman how to get to your house. "the whitman house?" he repeated; "it's somewhere out of the way, i'm sure. you had better stop in the ridgely house. that's the best place in town." he knew nothing of you and thought i was looking for a hotel. a druggist at the nearby corner knew about you. "william kettler used to be a great friend of his," he told me. "he'll tell you all about him." and he gave me mr. kettler's address. mr. kettler still lives on north street, and has become chief city librarian lately. he's very deaf, but extremely kind and friendly. he was in the midst of moving. mrs. kettler is ill, you must know, and they will live on the shore for the rest of the season. "this whitman cult makes me sick," he commenced. "who was whitman anyway? a poet? i dare say that there are hundreds of magazine writers to-day as there were during his lifetime, who write just as good verse as he did. and his prose is abominable. his writings are not fit to be read in a respectable home. they corrupt the mind and are dangerous to the morals. we knew him well, we saw him daily and his disgraceful way of living was open town talk. "i was a newspaper man and associated with the old camden _post_ at the time of bonsall, when whitman used to come to see us almost daily. bonsall used to be a friend of his and did him a great many good turns. but whitman was an ingrate. "shall i tell you what we respectable citizens of camden think of him? i don't mean the young generation, but the people who actually knew him. it doesn't sound nice to speak badly about dead people. but we knew him as an incorrigible beggar who lived very immorally ... an old loafer. "why, only a few months ago, one of the most prominent citizens of our town, john j. russ, the great real estate dealer, objected to whitman's name on the honor tablet of our new library. judge howard carrot of merchantville could tell you how that old scoundrel got people into trouble, and if the case had come into court, the scandal would have been so great, that the judge decided to dispose of it privately. "i remember, several years after the civil war, whitman's last visit to the camden _post_. mr. bonsall, the chief editor, myself and whitman were chatting in the office. there was a very young reporter in the room. mr. whitman insisted on telling us one of his filthy stories. he knew many of them and would tell them without discriminating who was present. filth seemed to be always on his mind. mr. bonsall was shocked. and i remember distinctly what he told him, before turning him out of the office. 'look here, whitman,' he said, 'why don't you become a useful citizen, like every one of us? you never did anything decent and worthy of an american citizen. while we took up our guns and went out to fight the enemy, you stalked about hospitals, posing as a philanthropist. later on, we returned to civilian life, hunting jobs and pensions, trying to earn a livelihood, while you were preaching humanitarian principles and talking against the cruelties of warfare on union square. _now_, while we are chained to our jobs, you are writing pornographic pieces that no self-respecting publisher would print, and loaf about most of the time, corrupting our young folk. i will not tolerate loose talk in these offices, therefore, get out and never let me see you again.'" "but haven't you said," i interjected, "that mr. bonsall was a friend of whitman?" "they used to be friends," cried mr. kettler, "until that treacherous business of the poem came up. whitman was getting up a little book of poems. mr. bonsall, who, in my estimation, was not only an excellent man and writer, but also a poet of no mean ability, sent in a contribution. this particular poem was very beautiful. it was the only one that whitman did not print. ever since mr. bonsall and myself had not much use for whitman, who stabbed his friends in the back at the first opportunity." "hurt vanity," i thought. how small this man kettler seemed to me with his petty grievances. forty years have passed and he couldn't forget your refusal of a poem. "but what is the worst," mr. kettler continued, "whitman has spoiled the life of horace traubel. what an excellent young man he used to be, the son of an honored, upright citizen. traubel got obsessed with whitman's greatness. he devoted his whole life to whitman. he took whitman's morals for his own standard." and mr. kettler proceeded to tell about traubel's private life. some stories a policeman's wife, traubel's next door neighbor, had told him. does all this amuse you, walt whitman? the frame-house where you lived is in a dreadful condition. an italian family is living there. a taxi driver, thomas skymer. he has three children and four boarders. the boarders have children, too. a litter of young ones are playing in your back yard, around the broken well. your front room, where you used to sit near the window and entertain your visitors, is a living and dining room combined. not even a picture of yours is in this room. over the mantel hangs a cheap chromo of the italian king. one of the little boys knew your name. "do you want to see where the old guy died?" he asked, and led me into the back room on the same floor. there was a big bed there. i never saw a bigger one in my life. "we all sleep in it," said the boy. i know, walt whitman, you are shrugging your shoulders, smiling indifferently. what does it matter to you who is sleeping now in the room where you died, who is living now in the house where you lived, loved and sang? but my heart cramped and ached. the poverty, the bad odor, the utter irreverence! this italian pays $10 a month rent. the neighborhood is run down, and the property could be easily bought for a few thousand dollars. is this how the greatest nation honors its greatest literary genius? your enthusiastic young physician, dr. alexander mcalister, has grown a bit old, but not in spirit. he took me up to his library and here, as well as in his heart, you have found your sanctuary. "i loved walt whitman," dr. mcalister said, "ever since i was a student in the medical school, and met the old gentleman regularly on the street. we talked occasionally; once he asked me to his house, later on, after my graduation, i had occasion to render him professional services, and for all the years, until whitman's death, i called on him at least once a day. he was the most clean-minded and kind man i have ever met. i never heard him utter an obscene word. the magnificent personality of walt whitman and his general comradeship, inspired by his ingrained feelings and intuitive beliefs concerning the destiny of america, must certainly have impressed all who met him long before he was known as a poet. he lived a life so broad and noble that it will be more studied and emulated, and will sink deeper and deeper into the heart. the social, human world, through his aid, will reach a level hitherto unattained. the new life which he preached has not been even dreamed of yet, has not become yet an object of aspiration to us americans. he has set the spark to the prepared fuel, the living glow has crept deeply into the dormant mass; even now tongues of flame begin to shoot forth. the longer whitman is dead the better he will be known. he seems to me the typical american, the typical modern, the source and centre of a new, spiritual aspiration, saner and manlier than any heretofore. whitman thought that man has within him the element of the divine, and that this element was capable of indefinite growth and expansion. "he was the most democratic man that ever lived. everybody was welcome to his house, everybody his equal, he was everybody's friend. he had many enemies, but also many friends. he thought ingersoll his best friend. dr. longaker and horace traubel were almost always present, especially during the last years of his life. once in a while they got on his nerves because they continually carried paper and pencil, writing down every word he said. let me tell you a few incidents of his last illness. they all expected him to die. traubel and dr. longaker were constantly in the hall outside of the sick room, eager to catch every one of whitman's words. warren fritzinger, his nurse, was with him. "'are those damn fools out there this afternoon?' he remarked when his condition became very weak and the rustling of papers in the hall seemed to annoy him. "the day before he died i came in the morning and asked him, 'how do you feel?' "'well, doctor,' he answered, 'i am tired of this dreadful monotony of waiting. i am tired of the sword of damocles suspended over my head.'" would it interest you, walt whitman, to know about your last minutes on earth, when you lay unconscious in a coma? dr. mcalister described them to me. "his end was peaceful. he died at 6:43 p. m. at 4:30 he called mrs. davis and requested to be shifted from the position he was lying in. the nurse was sent for, and later on they sent me a message. when i reached his bedside, he was lying on his right side, his pulse was very weak and his respiration correspondingly so. i asked him if he suffered pain and if i could do anything for him. he smiled kindly and murmured low. he lay quietly for some time with closed eyes. a little after 5 his eyes opened for a moment, his lips moved slightly, and he succeeded in whispering: '_warry, shift._' warry was his nurse, and these were the last words of whitman. then the end came. i bent over him to detect the last sign of the fleeting life. his heart continued to pulsate for fully fifty minutes after he ceased breathing." dr. mcalister was a great friend of yours, walt whitman, and i feel that you are with him every minute of his life. he showed me letters from your old nurse, mrs. keller, who wrote a few articles about you. he treasures the books you inscribed for him, your pictures hang on his walls and he especially loves the little plaster cast you gave him. of course, you know that an autopsy was performed shortly after your death. may i tell you about your brain, which is at present in the possession of the anthropometric society? i believe it is an honor to have one's brains placed in this society's museum, because this society has been organized for the express purpose of studying high-type brains. the cause of your death was pleurisy of your left side and consumption of the right lung. you had a fatty liver, and a large gall stone in the gall bladder. the good doctors marvelled that you could have carried on respiration for so long a time with the limited amount of useful lung tissue. they ascribed it largely to that indomitable energy "which was so characteristic of everything pertaining to the life of walt whitman." they said in their official report that any other man would have died much earlier with one-half of the pathological changes which existed in your body. in the late afternoon while the sun was setting over an ideal spring day, i walked out to the harleigh cemetery, where you built for yourself that magnificent tomb. how wise you were, walt whitman, to supervise the cutting of the stones, to watch the workmen while they were preparing your grave. what a beautiful spot you chose for your last resting place. the lake lay still in the warm evening air, the willows swayed gently as if patted by unseen hands. an old working-man, about to leave the cemetery, showed me the spot where you used to sit and watch them work. he told me how you wrote "pieces" on scraps of paper that you borrowed here and there, and how you read them to the stonecutters, who were building your tomb. i asked for the key. they keep it locked lately. i opened the heavy granite door, and stood for quite a while in the semi-darkness of your little house. i thought of you lying there on your bier, peaceful, indifferent, kind. then i thought of the other monument you had built in words, a temple not made with hands, builded for eternity. always self-sufficing, walking your own path towards your own goal. no legend tells of you, of your life or achievement. you live in the hearts of thousands of americans. soon, very soon, perhaps, your name and america will be synonymous. walt whitman, we here on earth are awakening to your ideals of america. affectionately yours, guido bruno walt whitman speaks ever upon this stage is acted god's calm annual drama, gorgeous processions, songs of birds, sunrise that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul, the heaving sea, the waves upon the shore, the musical, strong waves, the woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering trees, the liliput countless armies of the grass, the heat, the showers, the measureless pasturages, the scenery of the snows, the winds' free orchestra, the stretching light-hung roof of clouds, the clear cerulean and the silvery fringes, the high dilating stars, the placid beckoning stars, the moving flocks and herds, the plains and emerald meadows, the shows of all the varied lands and all the growths and products. [_the return of the heroes_] shot gold, maroon and violet, dazzling silver, emerald, fawn, the earth's whole amplitude and nature's multiform power consign'd for once to colors; the light, the general air possess'd by them--colors till now unknown, no limit, confine--not the western sky alone--the high meridian- north, south, all, pure luminous color fighting the silent shadows to the last. [_a prairie sunset_] ever the undiscouraged, resolute, struggling soul of man; (have former armies fail'd? then we send fresh armies--and fresh again); ever the grappled mysteries of all earth's ages old or new; ever the eager eyes, hurrahs, the welcome-clapping hands, the loud applause; ever the soul dissatisfied, curious, unconvinced at last, struggling to-day the same--battling the same. [_life_] spirit that form'd this scene, these tumbled rock-piles grim and red, these reckless heaven-ambitious peaks, these gorges, turbulent-clear streams, this naked freshness, these formless wild arrays, for reasons of their own, i know thee, savage spirit--we have communed together, mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own; was't charged against my chants they had forgotten art? to fuse within themselves its rules precise and delicatesse? the lyrist's measur'd beat, the wrought-out temple's grace--column and polish'd arch forgot? but thou that revellest here--spirit that form'd this scene, they have remember'd thee. [_spirit that formed this scene_] quicksand years that whirl me i know not whither, your schemes, politics, fail, lines give way, substances mock and elude me, only the theme i sing, the great and strong-possess'd soul, eludes not, one's-self must never give way--that is the final substance--that out of all is sure, out of politics, triumphs, battles, life, what at last finally remains? when shows break up what but one's-self is sure? [_quicksand years_] o living always, always dying! o the burials of me past and present, o me while i stride ahead, material, visible, imperious as ever; o me, what i was for years, now dead, (i lament not, i am content); o to disengage myself from those corpses of me, which i turn and look at where i cast them, to pass on (o living! always living!) and leave the corpses behind. [_o living always, always dying_] this is thy hour, o soul, thy free flight into the wordless, away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, night, sleep, death and the stars. [_a clear midnight_] i was thinking the day most splendid till i saw what the not-day exhibited, i was thinking this globe enough till there sprang out so noiseless around me myriads of other globes. now while the great thoughts of space and eternity fill me i will measure myself by them, and now touch'd with the lives of other globes arrived as far along as those of the earth, or waiting to arrive, or pass'd on farther than those of the earth, i henceforth no more ignore them than i ignore my own life, or the lives of the earth arrived as far as mine, or waiting to arrive. o i see now that life cannot exhibit all to me, as the day cannot, i see that i am to wait for what will be exhibited by death. [_night on the prairies_] now the great organ sounds, tremulous, while underneath (as the hid footholds of the earth, on which arising rest, and leaping forth depend, all shapes of beauty, grace and strength, all hues we know, green blades of grass and warbling birds, children that gambol and play, the clouds of heaven above) the strong base stands, and its pulsations intermits not, bathing, supporting, merging all the rest, maternity of all the rest, and with it every instrument in multitudes, the players playing, all the world's musicians, the solemn hymns and masses rousing adoration, all passionate heart-chants, sorrowful appeals, the measureless sweet vocalists of ages, and for their solvent setting earth's own diapason, of winds and woods and mighty ocean waves, a new composite orchestra, binder of years and climes, ten-fold renewer, as of the far-back days the poets tell, the paradiso, the straying thence, the separation long, but now the wandering done, the journey done, the journeyman come home, and man and art with nature fused again. [_proud music of the storm_] now trumpeter for thy close, vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet, sing to my soul, renew its languishing faith and hope, rouse up my slow belief, give me some vision of the future, give me for once its prophecy and joy. o glad, exulting, culminating song! a vigor more than earth's is in thy notes, marches of victory--man disenthral'd--the conqueror at last, hymns to the universal god from universal man--all joy! a reborn race appears--a perfect world, all joy! women and men in wisdom, innocence and health--all joy! riotous laughing bacchanals fill'd with joy! war, sorrow, suffering gone--the rank earth purged--nothing but joy left! the ocean fill'd with joy--the atmosphere all joy! joy! joy! in freedom, worship, love! joy in the ecstasy of life! enough to merely be! enough to breathe! joy! joy! all over joy! [_the mystic trumpeter_] the touch of flame--the illuminating fire--the loftiest look at last, o'er city, passion, sea--o'er prairie, mountain, wood--the earth itself; the airy, different, changing hues of all, in falling twilight, objects and groups, bearings, faces, reminiscences; the calmer sight--the golden setting, clear and broad: so much i' the atmosphere, the points of view, the situation whence we scan, brought out by them alone--so much (perhaps the best) unreck'd before; the lights indeed from them--old age's lambent peaks. [_old age's lambent peaks_] thanks in old age--thanks ere i go, for health, the midday sun, the impalpable air--for life, mere life, for precious ever-lingering memories, (of you, my mother dear--you, father--you, brothers, sisters, friends), for all my days--not those of peace alone--the days of war the same, for gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands, for shelter, wine and meat--for sweet appreciation, (you distant, dim unknown--or young or old--countless, unspecified, readers belov'd, we never met, and ne'er shall meet--and yet our souls embrace, long, close and long); for beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books--for colors, forms, for all the brave strong men--devoted, hardy men--who've forward sprung in freedom's help, all years, all lands, for braver, stronger, more devoted men--(a special laurel ere i go, to life's war's chosen ones, the cannoneers of song and thought--the great artillerists--the foremost leaders, captains of the soul): as soldier from an ended war return'd--as traveller out of myriads, to the long procession retrospective, thanks--joyful thanks!--a soldier's, traveller's thanks. [_thanks in old age_] _prais'd be the fathomless universe, for life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, and for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise! for the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death._ [_when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd_] index acharon society, 60 aldrich, t. b., 139 anthropometric society, 204 "auntie, blind," 1, 2, 3 bell, dr., 192 "blind auntie," 1, 2, 3 bolton, mr., 171 bonsall, mr., 197 bruno, guido, 195, 206 bucke, dr. r. m., ix, 102, 103, 105, 106, 108, 109, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 158, 173, 177 button, miss, 168 camden _post_, 197 carrot, judge howard, 197 childs, george w., 13 "coddie," 162 cooper hospital, 190 davis, capt. l. j., 4, 190 davis, mary o., _passim_ donaldson, blaine, 49 donaldson, thomas, 1, 8, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 18, 21, 30, 37, 38, 39, 47, 48, 49, 52, 61, 100, 103, 111, 113, 119, 127, 146, 172, 175 duckett, wm., 69 ellis, sarah, v fritzinger, capt., 4, 5, 11, 25, 62 fritzinger, henry m., 119, 163, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194 fritzinger, mrs., 3, 18, 68 fritzinger, walt whitman, 164 fritzinger, warren, 119 _sqq._, 203, 204 gilchrist, herbert, 76 _sqq._ harleigh cemetery, 133, 138, 205 harned, thomas b., 101, 151 heyde, mrs., 172 hicks, elias, 95 howe, dr. lucien, 172 ingersoll, col. robt., 133, 134, 135, 161, 202 _in re walt whitman_, 9, 112, 126 johnston, jas., x johnston, mr. (n. y.), 133, 134 keller, mrs. e. l., v, vi, vii, 164, 172, 173, 174, 176, 183, 188, 204 keller, wm. wallace, v kennedy, wm. sloane, 67, 99, 113, 133, 140, 189 kettler, wm., 196, 198, 199 kettler, mrs. w., 196 _leaves of grass_, 157 leavitt, jas. s., v lincoln lecture, 60, 69, 130 longaker, dr., 161, 202 mcalister, dr. alex., 161, 175, 176, 188, 189, 201, 203, 204 mckay, d., 169 mailloux, mr., 192 mailloux, mrs., 192 mary, 58 morse, sidney, 18, 37, 73 _sqq._ musgrove, mr., 108, 183 n. y. _evening telegram_, 165, 166 n. y. _herald_, 54, 137 n. y. _times_, 71 n. y. _tribune_, 70 packard, s. t., 98 perry, bliss, 142 russ, j. j., 167 st. mark (quoted), 1 shakespeare (quoted), 176, 182, 187 skymer, thomas, 200 stafford family, 67 stedman, laura, 70 swinton, john, 137, 138 thompson, vance, 27 "timber creek," 67, 90 traubel, horace, 30, 55, 68, 101, 107, 126, 151, 165, 171, 199, 202 trowbridge, john t., 129 _walt whitman the man_, 8 whitman, edward, 31, 63, 178 whitman, george, 9, 104, 153, 179, 185 whitman, jefferson, 153 whitman, miss jessie, 153 whitman, mrs. g., 63, 104, 106, 156, 158, 178, 182 wilkins, e., 55, 115, 119, 129, 137 women's hospital, phila., vi transcriber's notes: text in italics is surrounded with underscores: _italics_. inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained from the original. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. produced from images generously made available by the internet archive.) [illustration: walt whitman from a photograph by gardner, washington the heliotype printing co. boston] the wound dresser a series of letters written from the hospitals in washington during the war of the rebellion by walt whitman edited by richard maurice bucke, m.d. one of whitman's literary executors boston small, maynard & company 1898 _copyright, 1897, by small, maynard & company_ _but in silence, in dreams' projections, while the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on, so soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand, with hinged knees returning i enter the doors, (while for you up there, whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart.)_ _i onward go, i stop, with hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, i am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable, one turns to me his appealing eyes--poor boy! i never knew you, yet i think i could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you._ _i am faithful, i do not give out, the fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen, these and more i dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame.)_ _thus in silence, in dreams' projections, returning, resuming, i thread my way through the hospitals, the hurt and wounded i pacify with soothing hand, i sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young, some suffer so much, i recall the experience sweet and sad, (many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd and rested, many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)_ _the wound dresser._ preface as introduction to these letters from walt whitman to his mother, i have availed myself of three of whitman's communications to the press covering the time during which the material which composes this volume was being written. these communications (parts of which, but in no case the whole, were used by whitman in his "memoranda of the secession war") seem to me to form, in spite of certain duplications, which to my mind have the force, not the weakness, of repetition, quite an ideal background to the letters to mrs. whitman, since they give a full and free description of the circumstances and surroundings in the midst of which those were composed. readers who desire a still more extended account of the man himself, his work and environment at that time, may consult with profit the editor's "walt whitman" (pp. 34-44), o'connor's "good gray poet" (included in that volume, pp. 99-130), "specimen days" (pp. 26-63, included in walt whitman's "complete prose works"), and above all the section of "leaves of grass" called "drum-taps." i do not believe that it is in the power of any man now living to make an important addition to the vivid picture of those days and nights in the hospitals drawn by whitman himself and to be found in his published prose and verse, and, above all, in the living words of the present letters to his mother. these last were written on the spot, as the scenes and incidents, in all their living and sombre colors, passed before his eyes, while his mind and heart were full of the sights and sounds, the episodes and agonies, of those terrible hours. how could any one writing in cold blood, to-day, hope to add words of any value to those he wrote then? perhaps, in conclusion, it may be as well to repeat what was said in the introduction to a former volume,--that these letters make no pretensions as literature. they are, as indeed is all that whitman has written (as he himself has over and over again said), something quite different from that--something much less to the average cultured and learned man, something much more to the man or woman who comes within range of their attraction. but doubtless the critics will still insist that, if they are not literature, they ought to be, or otherwise should not be printed, failing (as is their wont) to comprehend that there are other qualities and characteristics than the literary, some of them as important and as valuable, which may be more or less adequately conveyed by print. r. m. b. contents page the great army of the wounded 1 life among fifty thousand soldiers 11 hospital visits 21 letters of 1862-3 47 letters of 1864 143 the great army of the wounded the military hospitals, convalescent camps, etc., in washington and its neighborhood, sometimes contain over fifty thousand sick and wounded men. every form of wound (the mere sight of some of them having been known to make a tolerably hardy visitor faint away), every kind of malady, like a long procession, with typhoid fever and diarrhoea at the head as leaders, are here in steady motion. the soldier's hospital! how many sleepless nights, how many women's tears, how many long and waking hours and days of suspense, from every one of the middle, eastern, and western states, have concentrated here! our own new york, in the form of hundreds and thousands of her young men, may consider herself here--pennsylvania, ohio, indiana, and all the west and northwest the same--and all the new england states the same. upon a few of these hospitals i have been almost daily calling as a missionary, on my own account, for the sustenance and consolation of some of the most needy cases of sick and dying men, for the last two months. one has much to learn to do good in these places. great tact is required. these are not like other hospitals. by far the greatest proportion (i should say five sixths) of the patients are american young men, intelligent, of independent spirit, tender feelings, used to a hardy and healthy life; largely the farmers are represented by their sons--largely the mechanics and workingmen of the cities. then they are soldiers. all these points must be borne in mind. people through our northern cities have little or no idea of the great and prominent feature which these military hospitals and convalescent camps make in and around washington. there are not merely two or three or a dozen, but some fifty of them, of different degrees of capacity. some have a thousand and more patients. the newspapers here find it necessary to print every day a directory of the hospitals--a long list, something like what a directory of the churches would be in new york, philadelphia, or boston. the government (which really tries, i think, to do the best and quickest it can for these sad necessities) is gradually settling down to adopt the plan of placing the hospitals in clusters of one-story wooden barracks, with their accompanying tents and sheds for cooking and all needed purposes. taking all things into consideration, no doubt these are best adapted to the purpose; better than using churches and large public buildings like the patent office. these sheds now adopted are long, one-story edifices, sometimes ranged along in a row, with their heads to the street, and numbered either alphabetically, wards a or b, c, d, and so on; or wards 1, 2, 3, etc. the middle one will be marked by a flagstaff, and is the office of the establishment, with rooms for the ward surgeons, etc. one of these sheds, or wards, will contain sixty cots; sometimes, on an emergency, they move them close together, and crowd in more. some of the barracks are larger, with, of course, more inmates. frequently there are tents, more comfortable here than one might think, whatever they may be down in the army. each ward has a ward-master, and generally a nurse for every ten or twelve men. a ward surgeon has, generally, two wards--although this varies. some of the wards have a woman nurse; the armory-square wards have some very good ones. the one in ward e is one of the best. a few weeks ago the vast area of the second story of that noblest of washington buildings, the patent office, was crowded close with rows of sick, badly wounded, and dying soldiers. they were placed in three very large apartments. i went there several times. it was a strange, solemn, and, with all its features of suffering and death, a sort of fascinating sight. i went sometimes at night to soothe and relieve particular cases; some, i found, needed a little cheering up and friendly consolation at that time, for they went to sleep better afterwards. two of the immense apartments are filled with high and ponderous glass cases crowded with models in miniature of every kind of utensil, machine, or invention it ever entered into the mind of man to conceive, and with curiosities and foreign presents. between these cases were lateral openings, perhaps eight feet wide, and quite deep, and in these were placed many of the sick; besides a great long double row of them up and down through the middle of the hall. many of them were very bad cases, wounds and amputations. then there was a gallery running above the hall, in which there were beds also. it was, indeed, a curious scene at night when lit up. the glass cases, the beds, the sick, the gallery above and the marble pavement under foot; the suffering, and the fortitude to bear it in the various degrees; occasionally, from some, the groan that could not be repressed; sometimes a poor fellow dying, with emaciated face and glassy eyes, the nurse by his side, the doctor also there, but no friend, no relative--such were the sights but lately in the patent office. the wounded have since been removed from there, and it is now vacant again. of course there are among these thousands of prostrated soldiers in hospital here all sorts of individual cases. on recurring to my note-book, i am puzzled which cases to select to illustrate the average of these young men and their experiences. i may here say, too, in general terms, that i could not wish for more candor and manliness, among all their sufferings, than i find among them. take this case in ward 6, campbell hospital: a young man from plymouth county, massachusetts; a farmer's son, aged about twenty or twenty-one; a soldierly, american young fellow, but with sensitive and tender feelings. most of december and january last he lay very low, and for quite a while i never expected he would recover. he had become prostrated with an obstinate diarrhoea: his stomach would hardly keep the least thing down; he was vomiting half the time. but that was hardly the worst of it. let me tell his story--it is but one of thousands. he had been some time sick with his regiment in the field, in front, but did his duty as long as he could; was in the battle of fredericksburg; soon after was put in the regimental hospital. he kept getting worse--could not eat anything they had there; the doctor told him nothing could be done for him there. the poor fellow had fever also; received (perhaps it could not be helped) little or no attention; lay on the ground, getting worse. toward the latter part of december, very much enfeebled, he was sent up from the front, from falmouth station, in an open platform car (such as hogs are transported upon north), and dumped with a crowd of others on the boat at aquia creek, falling down like a rag where they deposited him, too weak and sick to sit up or help himself at all. no one spoke to him or assisted him; he had nothing to eat or drink; was used (amid the great crowds of sick) either with perfect indifference, or, as in two or three instances, with heartless brutality. on the boat, when night came and when the air grew chilly, he tried a long time to undo the blankets he had in his knapsack, but was too feeble. he asked one of the employees, who was moving around deck, for a moment's assistance to get the blankets. the man asked him back if he could not get them himself. he answered, no, he had been trying for more than half an hour, and found himself too weak. the man rejoined, he might then go without them, and walked off. so h. lay chilled and damp on deck all night, without anything under or over him, while two good blankets were within reach. it caused him a great injury--nearly cost him his life. arrived at washington, he was brought ashore and again left on the wharf, or above it, amid the great crowds, as before, without any nourishment--not a drink for his parched mouth; no kind hand had offered to cover his face from the forenoon sun. conveyed at last some two miles by the ambulance to the hospital, and assigned a bed (bed 49, ward 6, campbell hospital, january and february, 1863), he fell down exhausted upon the bed. but the ward-master (he has since been changed) came to him with a growling order to get up: the rules, he said, permitted no man to lie down in that way with his own clothes on; he must sit up--must first go to the bath-room, be washed, and have his clothes completely changed. (a very good rule, properly applied.) he was taken to the bath-room and scrubbed well with cold water. the attendants, callous for a while, were soon alarmed, for suddenly the half-frozen and lifeless body fell limpsy in their hands, and they hurried it back to the cot, plainly insensible, perhaps dying. poor boy! the long train of exhaustion, deprivation, rudeness, no food, no friendly word or deed, but all kinds of upstart airs and impudent, unfeeling speeches and deeds, from all kinds of small officials (and some big ones), cutting like razors into that sensitive heart, had at last done the job. he now lay, at times out of his head but quite silent, asking nothing of any one, for some days, with death getting a closer and a surer grip upon him; he cared not, or rather he welcomed death. his heart was broken. he felt the struggle to keep up any longer to be useless. god, the world, humanity--all had abandoned him. it would feel so good to shut his eyes forever on the cruel things around him and toward him. as luck would have it, at this time i found him. i was passing down ward no. 6 one day about dusk (4th january, i think), and noticed his glassy eyes, with a look of despair and hopelessness, sunk low in his thin, pallid-brown young face. one learns to divine quickly in the hospital, and as i stopped by him and spoke some commonplace remark (to which he made no reply), i saw as i looked that it was a case for ministering to the affection first, and other nourishment and medicines afterward. i sat down by him without any fuss; talked a little; soon saw that it did him good; led him to talk a little himself; got him somewhat interested; wrote a letter for him to his folks in massachusetts (to l. h. campbell, plymouth county); soothed him down as i saw he was getting a little too much agitated, and tears in his eyes; gave him some small gifts, and told him i should come again soon. (he has told me since that this little visit, at that hour, just saved him; a day more, and it would have been perhaps too late.) of course i did not forget him, for he was a young fellow to interest any one. he remained very sick--vomiting much every day, frequent diarrhoea, and also something like bronchitis, the doctor said. for a while i visited him almost every day, cheered him up, took him some little gifts, and gave him small sums of money (he relished a drink of new milk, when it was brought through the ward for sale). for a couple of weeks his condition was uncertain--sometimes i thought there was no chance for him at all; but of late he is doing better--is up and dressed, and goes around more and more (february 21) every day. he will not die, but will recover. the other evening, passing through the ward, he called me--he wanted to say a few words, particular. i sat down by his side on the cot in the dimness of the long ward, with the wounded soldiers there in their beds, ranging up and down. h. told me i had saved his life. he was in the deepest earnest about it. it was one of those things that repay a soldiers' hospital missionary a thousandfold--one of the hours he never forgets. a benevolent person, with the right qualities and tact, cannot, perhaps, make a better investment of himself, at present, anywhere upon the varied surface of the whole of this big world, than in these military hospitals, among such thousands of most interesting young men. the army is very young--and so much more american than i supposed. reader, how can i describe to you the mute appealing look that rolls and moves from many a manly eye, from many a sick cot, following you as you walk slowly down one of these wards? to see these, and to be incapable of responding to them, except in a few cases (so very few compared to the whole of the suffering men), is enough to make one's heart crack. i go through in some cases, cheering up the men, distributing now and then little sums of money--and, regularly, letter-paper and envelopes, oranges, tobacco, jellies, etc., etc. many things invite comment, and some of them sharp criticism, in these hospitals. the government, as i said, is anxious and liberal in its practice toward its sick; but the work has to be left, in its personal application to the men, to hundreds of officials of one grade or another about the hospitals, who are sometimes entirely lacking in the right qualities. there are tyrants and shysters in all positions, and especially those dressed in subordinate authority. some of the ward doctors are careless, rude, capricious, needlessly strict. one i found who prohibited the men from all enlivening amusements; i found him sending men to the guard-house for the most trifling offence. in general, perhaps, the officials--especially the new ones, with their straps or badges--put on too many airs. of all places in the world, the hospitals of american young men and soldiers, wounded in the volunteer service of their country, ought to be exempt from mere conventional military airs and etiquette of shoulder-straps. but they are not exempt. w. w. _from the new york_ times, _february 26, 1863_. life among fifty thousand soldiers our brooklyn people, not only from having so many hundreds of their own kith and kin, and almost everybody some friend or acquaintance, here in the clustering military hospitals of washington, would doubtless be glad to get some account of these establishments, but also to satisfy that compound of benevolence and generosity which marks brooklyn, i have sometimes thought, more than any other city in the world. a military hospital here in washington is a little city by itself, and contains a larger population than most of the well-known country towns down in the queens and suffolk county portions of long island. i say one of the government hospitals here is a little city in itself, and there are some fifty of these hospitals in the district of columbia alone. in them are collected the tens of thousands of sick and wounded soldiers, the legacies of many a bloody battle and of the exposure of two years of camp life. i find these places full of significance. they have taken up my principal time and labor for some months past. imagine a long, one-story wooden shed, like a short, wide ropewalk, well whitewashed; then cluster ten or a dozen of these together, with several smaller sheds and tents, and you have the soldiers' hospital as generally adopted here. it will contain perhaps six or seven hundred men, or perhaps a thousand, and occasionally more still. there is a regular staff and a sub-staff of big and little officials. military etiquette is observed, and it is getting to become very stiff. i shall take occasion, before long, to show up some of this ill-fitting nonsense. the harvest is large, the gleaners few. beginning at first with casual visits to these establishments to see some of the brooklyn men, wounded or sick, here, i became by degrees more and more drawn in, until i have now been for many weeks quite a devotee to the business--a regular self-appointed missionary to these thousands and tens of thousands of wounded and sick young men here, left upon government hands, many of them languishing, many of them dying. i am not connected with any society, but go on my own individual account, and to the work that appears to be called for. almost every day, and frequently in the evenings, i visit, in this informal way, one after another of the wards of a hospital, and always find cases enough where i can be of service. cases enough, do i say? alas! there is, perhaps, not one ward or tent, out of the seven or eight hundred now hereabout filled with sick, in which i am sure i might not profitably devote every hour of my life to the abstract work of consolation and sustenance for its suffering inmates. and indeed, beyond that, a person feels that in some one of these crowded wards he would like to pick out two or three cases and devote himself wholly to them. meanwhile, however, to do the best that is permitted, i go around, distributing myself and the contents of my pockets and haversack in infinitesimal quantities, with faith that nearly all of it will, somehow or other, fall on good ground. in many cases, where i find a soldier "dead broke" and pretty sick, i give half a tumbler of good jelly. i carry a good-sized jar to a ward, have it opened, get a spoon, and taking the head nurse in tow, i go around and distribute it to the most appropriate cases. to others i give an orange or an apple; to others some spiced fruits; to others a small quantity of pickles. many want tobacco: i do not encourage any of the boys in its use, but where i find they crave it i supply them. i always carry some, cut up in small plugs, in my pocket. then i have commissions: some new york or connecticut, or other soldier, will be going home on sick leave, or perhaps discharged, and i must fit him out with good new undershirt, drawers, stockings, etc. but perhaps the greatest welcome is for writing paper, envelopes, etc. i find these always a rare reliance. when i go into a new ward, i always carry two or three quires of paper and a good lot of envelopes, and walk up and down and circulate them around to those who desire them. then some will want pens, pencils, etc. in some hospitals there is quite a plenty of reading matter; but others, where it is needed, i supply. by these and like means one comes to be better acquainted with individual cases, and so learns every day peculiar and interesting character, and gets on intimate and soon affectionate terms with noble american young men; and now is where the real good begins to be done, after all. here, i will egotistically confess, i like to flourish. even in a medical point of view it is one of the greatest things; and in a surgical point of view, the same. i can testify that friendship has literally cured a fever, and the medicine of daily affection, a bad wound. in these sayings are the final secret of carrying out well the rã´le of a hospital missionary for our soldiers, which i tell for those who will understand them. as i write, i have lying before me a little discarded note-book, filled with memoranda of things wanted by the sick--special cases. i use up one of these little books in a week. see from this sample, for instance, after walking through a ward or two: bed 53 wants some liquorice; bed 6--erysipelas--bring some raspberry vinegar to make a cooling drink, with water; bed 18 wants a good book--a romance; bed 25--a manly, friendly young fellow, h. d. b., of the twenty-seventh connecticut, an independent young soul--refuses money and eatables, so i will bring him a pipe and tobacco, for i see he much enjoys a smoke; bed 45--sore throat and cough--wants horehound candy; bed 11, when i come again, don't forget to write a letter for him; etc. the wants are a long and varied list: some need to be humored and forgotten, others need to be especially remembered and obeyed. one poor german, dying--in the last stage of consumption--wished me to find him, in washington, a german lutheran clergyman, and send him to him; i did so. one patient will want nothing but a toothpick, another a comb, and so on. all whims are represented, and all the states. there are many new york state soldiers here; also pennsylvanians. i find, of course, many from massachusetts, connecticut, and all the new england states, and from the western and northwestern states. five sixths of the soldiers are young men. among other cases of young men from our own city of brooklyn i have encountered and have had much to do with in hospital here, is john lowery, wounded, and arm amputated, at fredericksburg. i saw this young fellow down there last december, immediately after the battle, lying on a blanket on the ground, the stump of his arm bandaged, but he not a bit disheartened. he was soon afterward sent up from the front by way of aquia creek, and has for the past three months been in the campbell hospital here, in ward 6, on the gain slowly but steadily. he thinks a great deal of his physician here, dr. frank hinkle, and as some fifty other soldiers in the ward do the same, and bear testimony in their hearty gratitude, and medical and surgical imprisonment, to the quality of dr. h., i think he deserves honorable mention in this letter to the people of our city--especially as another brooklyn soldier in ward 6, amos h. vliet, expresses the same feeling of obligation to the doctor for his faithfulness and kindness. vliet and lowery both belong to that old war regiment whose flag has flaunted through more than a score of hot-contested battles, the fifty-first new york, colonel potter; and it is to be remembered that no small portion of the fame of this old veteran regiment may be claimed near home, for many of her officers and men are from brooklyn. the friends of these two young soldiers will have a chance to talk to them soon in brooklyn. i have seen a good deal of jack lowery, and i find him, and heard of him on the field, as a brave, soldierly fellow. amos vliet, too, made a first-rate soldier. he has had frozen feet pretty bad, but now better. occasionally i meet some of the brooklyn fourteenth. in ward e of armory hospital i found a member of company c of that regiment, isaac snyder; he is now acting as nurse there, and makes a very good one. charles dean, of co. h of the same regiment, is in ward a of armory, acting as ward-master. i also got very well acquainted with a young man of the brooklyn fourteenth who lay sick some time in ward f; he has lately got his discharge and gone home. i have met with others in the h-street and patent-office hospitals. colonel fowler, of the fourteenth, is in charge, i believe, of the convalescent camp at alexandria. lieutenant-colonel debevoise is in brooklyn, in poor health, i am sorry to say. thus the brooklyn invalids are scattered around. off in the mud, a mile east of the capitol, i found the other day, in emory hospital there, in ward c, three brooklyn soldiers--allen v. king, michael lally, and patrick hennessy; none of them, however, are very sick. at a rough guess, i should say i have met from one hundred and fifty to two hundred young and middle-aged men whom i specifically found to be brooklyn persons. many of them i recognized as having seen their faces before, and very many of them knew me. some said they had known me from boyhood. some would call to me as i passed down a ward, and tell me they had seen me in brooklyn. i have had this happen at night, and have been entreated to stop and sit down and take the hand of a sick and restless boy, and talk to him and comfort him awhile, for old brooklyn's sake. some pompous and every way improper persons, of course, get in power in hospitals, and have full swing over the helpless soldiers. there is great state kept at judiciary-square hospital, for instance. an individual who probably has been waiter somewhere for years past has got into the high and mighty position of sergeant-of-arms at this hospital; he is called "red stripe" (from his artillery trimmings) by the patients, of whom he is at the same time the tyrant and the laughing-stock. going in to call on some sick new york soldiers here the other afternoon, i was stopped and treated to a specimen of the airs of this powerful officer. surely the government would do better to send such able-bodied loafers down into service in front, where they could earn their rations, than keep them here in the idle and shallow sinecures of military guard over a collection of sick soldiers to give insolence to their visitors and friends. i found a shallow old person also here named dr. hall, who told me he had been eighteen years in the service. i must give this judiciary establishment the credit, from my visits to it, of saying that while in all the other hospitals i met with general cordiality and deference among the doctors, ward officers, nurses, etc., i have found more impudence and more dandy doctorism and more needless airs at this judiciary, than in all the twoscore other establishments in and around washington. but the corps of management at the judiciary has a bad name anyhow, and i only specify it here to put on record the general opinion, and in hopes it may help in calling the attention of the government to a remedy. for this hospital is half filled with new york soldiers, many noble fellows, and many sad and interesting cases. of course there are exceptions of good officials here, and some of the women nurses are excellent, but the empire state has no reason to be over-satisfied with this hospital. but i should say, in conclusion, that the earnest and continued desire of the government, and much devoted labor, are given to make the military hospitals here as good as they can be, considering all things. i find no expense spared, and great anxiety manifested in the highest quarters, to do well by the national sick. i meet with first-class surgeons in charge of many of the hospitals, and often the ward surgeons, medical cadets, and head nurses, are fully faithful and competent. dr. bliss, head of armory-square, and dr. baxter, head of campbell, seem to me to try to do their best, and to be excellent in their posts. dr. bowen, one of the ward surgeons of armory, i have known to fight as hard for many a poor fellow's life under his charge as a lioness would fight for her young. i mention such cases because i think they deserve it, on public grounds. i thought i would include in my letter a few cases of soldiers, especially interesting, out of my note-book, but i find that my story has already been spun out to sufficient length. i shall continue here in washington for the present, and may-be for the summer, to work as a missionary, after my own style, among these hospitals, for i find it in some respects curiously fascinating, with all its sadness. nor do i find it ended by my doing some good to the sick and dying soldiers. they do me good in return, more than i do them. w. w. _from the brooklyn_ eagle, _march 19, 1863_. hospital visits as this tremendous war goes on, the public interest becomes more general and gathers more and more closely about the wounded, the sick, and the government hospitals, the surgeons, and all appertaining to the medical department of the army. up to the date of this writing (december 9, 1864) there have been, as i estimate, near four hundred thousand cases under treatment, and there are to-day, probably, taking the whole service of the united states, two hundred thousand, or an approximation to that number, on the doctors' list. half of these are comparatively slight ailments or hurts. every family has directly or indirectly some representative among this vast army of the wounded and sick. the following sketch is made to gratify the general interest in this field of the war, and also for a few special persons through whose means alone i have aided the men. it extends over a period of two years, coming down to the present hour, and exhibits the army hospitals at washington, the camp hospitals in the field, etc. a very few cases are given as specimens of thousands. the account may be relied upon as faithful, though rapidly thrown together. it will put the reader in as direct contact as may be with scenes, sights, and cases of these immense hospitals. as will be seen, it begins back two years since, at a very gloomy period of the contest. began my visits (december 21, 1862) among the camp hospitals in the army of the potomac, under general burnside. spent a good part of the day in a large brick mansion on the banks of the rappahannock, immediately opposite fredericksburg. it is used as a hospital since the battle, and seems to have received only the worst cases. outdoors, at the foot of a tree, within ten yards of the front of the house, i notice a heap of amputated feet, legs, arms, hands, etc.--about a load for a one-horse cart. several dead bodies lie near, each covered with its brown woollen blanket. in the dooryard, toward the river, are fresh graves, mostly of officers, their names on pieces of barrel staves or broken board, stuck in the dirt. (most of these bodies were subsequently taken up and transported north to their friends.) the house is quite crowded, everything impromptu, no system, all bad enough, but i have no doubt the best that can be done; all the wounds pretty bad, some frightful, the men in their old clothes, unclean and bloody. some of the wounded are rebel officers, prisoners. one, a mississippian--a captain--hit badly in the leg, i talked with some time; he asked me for papers, which i gave him. (i saw him three months afterward in washington, with leg amputated, doing well.) i went through the rooms, down stairs and up. some of the men were dying. i had nothing to give at that visit, but wrote a few letters to folks home, mothers, etc. also talked to three or four who seemed most susceptible to it, and needing it. december 22 to 31.--am among the regimental brigade and division hospitals somewhat. few at home realize that these are merely tents, and sometimes very poor ones, the wounded lying on the ground, lucky if their blanket is spread on a layer of pine or hemlock twigs, or some leaves. no cots; seldom even a mattress on the ground. it is pretty cold. i go around from one case to another. i do not see that i can do any good, but i cannot leave them. once in a while some youngster holds on to me convulsively, and i do what i can for him; at any rate stop with him, and sit near him for hours, if he wishes it. besides the hospitals, i also go occasionally on long tours through the camps, talking with the men, etc.; sometimes at night among the groups around the fires, in their shebang enclosures of bushes. i soon get acquainted anywhere in camp with officers or men, and am always well used. sometimes i go down on picket with the regiments i know best. as to rations, the army here at present seems to be tolerably well supplied, and the men have enough, such as it is. most of the regiments lodge in the flimsy little shelter tents. a few have built themselves huts of logs and mud, with fireplaces. i might give a long list of special cases, interesting items of the wounded men here, but have not space. left falmouth, january, 1863, by aquia creek railroad, and so on government steamer up the potomac. many wounded were with us on cars and boat. the cars were just common platform ones. the railroad journey of ten or twelve miles was made mostly before sunrise. the soldiers guarding the road came out from their tents or shebangs of bushes with rumpled hair and half-awake look. those on duty were walking their posts, some on banks over us, others down far below the level of the track. i saw large cavalry camps off the road. at aquia creek landing were numbers of wounded going north. while i waited some three hours, i went around among them. several wanted word sent home to parents, brothers, wives, etc., which i did for them (by mail the next day from washington). on the boat i had my hands full. one poor fellow died going up. am now (january, february, etc., 1863) in and around washington, daily visiting the hospitals. am much in campbell, patent-office, eighth-street, h-street, armory-square, and others. am now able to do a little good, having money (as almoner of others home), and getting experience. i would like to give lists of cases, for there is no end to the interesting ones; but it is impossible without making a large volume, or rather several volumes. i must, therefore, let one or two days' visits at this time suffice as specimens of scores and hundreds of subsequent ones, through the ensuing spring, summer, and fall, and, indeed, down to the present week. sunday, january 25.--afternoon and till 9 in the evening, visited campbell hospital. attended specially to one case in ward i, very sick with pleurisy and typhoid fever, young man, farmer's son--d. f. russell, company e, sixtieth new york--down-hearted and feeble; a long time before he would take any interest; soothed and cheered him gently; wrote a letter home to his mother, in malone, franklin county, n. y., at his request; gave him some fruit and one or two other gifts; enveloped and directed his letter, etc. then went thoroughly through ward 6; observed every case in the ward (without, i think, missing one); found some cases i thought needed little sums of money; supplied them (sums of perhaps thirty, twenty-five, twenty, or fifteen cents); distributed a pretty bountiful supply of cheerful reading matter, and gave perhaps some twenty to thirty persons, each one some little gift, such as oranges, apples, sweet crackers, figs, etc., etc., etc. thursday, january 29.--devoted the main part of the day, from 11 to 3.30 o'clock, to armory-square hospital; went pretty thoroughly through wards f, g, h, and i--some fifty cases in each ward. in ward h supplied the men throughout with writing paper and a stamped envelope each, also some cheerful reading matter; distributed in small portions, about half of it in this ward, to proper subjects, a large jar of first-rate preserved berries; also other small gifts. in wards g, h, and i, found several cases i thought good subjects for small sums of money, which i furnished in each case. the poor wounded men often come up "dead broke," and it helps their spirits to have even the small sum i give them. my paper and envelopes all gone, but distributed a good lot of amusing reading matter; also, as i thought judicious, tobacco, oranges, apples, etc. some very interesting cases in ward i: charles miller, bed no. 19, company d, fifty-third pennsylvania, is only sixteen years of age, very bright, courageous boy, left leg amputated below the knee; next bed below him, young lad very sick--gave the two each appropriate gifts; in the bed above also amputation of the left leg--gave him a part of a jar of raspberries; bed no. 1, this ward, gave a small sum also; also to a soldier on crutches, sitting on his bed near. evening, same day.--went to see d. f. r., campbell hospital, before alluded to; found him remarkably changed for the better--up and dressed (quite a triumph; he afterwards got well and went back to his regiment). distributed in the wards a quantity of note-paper and forty or fifty, mostly paid, envelopes, of which the men were much in need; also a four-pound bag of gingersnaps i bought at a baker's in seventh street. here is a case of a soldier i found among the crowded cots in the patent hospital--(they have removed most of the men of late and broken up that hospital). he likes to have some one to talk to, and we will listen to him. he got badly wounded in the leg and side at fredericksburg that eventful saturday, 13th december. he lay the succeeding two days and nights helpless on the field, between the city and those grim batteries, for his company and his regiment had been compelled to leave him to his fate. to make matters worse, he lay with his head slightly down hill, and could not help himself. at the end of some fifty hours he was brought off, with other wounded, under a flag of truce. we ask him how the rebels treated him during those two days and nights within reach of them--whether they came to him--whether they abused him? he answers that several of the rebels, soldiers and others, came to him, at one time and another. a couple of them, who were together, spoke roughly and sarcastically, but did no act. one middle-aged man, however, who seemed to be moving around the field among the dead and wounded for benevolent purposes, came to him in a way he will never forget. this man treated our soldier kindly, bound up his wounds, cheered him, gave him a couple of biscuits gave him a drink of whiskey and water, asked him if he could eat some beef. this good secesh, however, did not change our soldier's position, for it might have caused the blood to burst from the wounds where they were clotted and stagnated. our soldier is from pennsylvania; has had a pretty severe time; the wounds proved to be bad ones. but he retains a good heart, and is at present on the gain. it is not uncommon for the men to remain on the field this way, one, two, or even four or five days. i continue among the hospitals during march, april, etc., without intermission. my custom is to go through a ward, or a collection of wards, endeavoring to give some trifle to each, without missing any. even a sweet biscuit, a sheet of paper, or a passing word of friendliness, or but a look or nod, if no more. in this way i go through large numbers without delaying, yet do not hurry. i find out the general mood of the ward at the time; sometimes see that there is a heavy weight of listlessness prevailing, and the whole ward wants cheering up. i perhaps read to the men, to break the spell, calling them around me, careful to sit away from the cot of any one who is very bad with sickness or wounds. also i find out, by going through in this way, the cases that need special attention, and can then devote proper time to them. of course i am very cautious, among the patients, in giving them food. i always confer with the doctor, or find out from the nurse or ward-master about a new case. but i soon get sufficiently familiar with what is to be avoided, and learn also to judge almost intuitively what is best. i do a good deal of writing letters by the bedside, of course--writing all kinds, including love letters. many sick and wounded soldiers have not written home to parents, brothers, sisters, and even wives, for one reason or another, for a long, long time. some are poor writers; some cannot get paper and envelopes; many have an aversion to writing, because they dread to worry the folks at home--the facts about them are so sad to tell. i always encourage the men to write, and promptly write for them. as i write this, in may, 1863, the wounded have begun to arrive from hooker's command, from bloody chancellorsville. i was down among the first arrivals. the men in charge of them told me the bad cases were yet to come. if that is so, i pity them, for these are bad enough. you ought to see the scene of the wounded arriving at the landing here, foot of sixth street, at night. two boat-loads came about half-past seven last night. a little after eight it rained, a long and violent shower. the poor, pale, helpless soldiers had been debarked, and lay around on the wharf and neighborhood, anywhere. the rain was, probably, grateful to them; at any rate they were exposed to it. the few torches light up the spectacle. all around on the wharf, on the ground, out on side places, etc., the men are lying on blankets, old quilts, etc., with the bloody rags bound around their heads, arms, legs, etc. the attendants are few, and at night few outsiders also--only a few hard-worked transportation men and drivers. (the wounded are getting to be common, and people grow callous.) the men, whatever their condition, lie there and patiently wait till their turn comes to be taken up. near by the ambulances are now arriving in clusters, and one after another is called to back up and take its load. extreme cases are sent off on stretchers. the men generally make little or no ado, whatever their sufferings--a few groans that cannot be repressed, and occasionally a scream of pain as they lift a man into the ambulance. to-day, as i write, hundreds more are expected; and to-morrow and the next day more, and so on for many days. the soldiers are nearly all young men, and far more americans than is generally supposed--i should say nine tenths are native born. among the arrivals from chancellorsville i find a large proportion of ohio, indiana, and illinois men. as usual there are all sorts of wounds. some of the men are fearfully burnt from the explosion of artillery caissons. one ward has a long row of officers, some with ugly hurts. yesterday was perhaps worse than usual: amputations are going on; the attendants are dressing wounds. as you pass by you must be on your guard where you look. i saw, the other day, a gentleman, a visitor, apparently from curiosity, in one of the wards, stop and turn a moment to look at an awful wound they were probing, etc.; he turned pale, and in a moment more he had fainted away and fallen on the floor. i buy, during the hot weather, boxes of oranges from time to time, and distribute them among the men; also preserved peaches and other fruits; also lemons and sugar for lemonade. tobacco is also much in demand. large numbers of the men come up, as usual, without a cent of money. through the assistance of friends in brooklyn and boston, i am again able to help many of those that fall in my way. it is only a small sum in each case, but it is much to them. as before, i go around daily and talk with the men, to cheer them up. my note-books are full of memoranda of the cases of this summer, and the wounded from chancellorsville, but space forbids my transcribing them. as i sit writing this paragraph (sundown, thursday, june 25) i see a train of about thirty huge four-horse wagons, used as ambulances, filled with wounded, passing up fourteenth street, on their way, probably, to columbian, carver, and mount pleasant hospitals. this is the way the men come in now, seldom in small numbers, but almost always in these long, sad processions. through the past winter, while our army lay opposite fredericksburg, the like strings of ambulances were of frequent occurrence along seventh street, passing slowly up from the steam-boat wharf, from aquia creek. this afternoon, july 22, 1863, i spent a long time with a young man i have been with considerable, named oscar f. wilber, company g, one hundred fifty-fourth new york, low with chronic diarrhoea and a bad wound also. he asked me to read him a chapter in the new testament. i complied and asked him what i should read. he said, "make your own choice." i opened at the close of one of the first books of the evangelists, and read the chapters describing the latter hours of christ and the scenes at the crucifixion. the poor wasted young man asked me to read the following chapter also, how christ rose again. i read very slowly, for oscar was feeble. it pleased him very much, yet the tears were in his eyes. he asked me if i enjoyed religion. i said, "perhaps not, my dear, in the way you mean, and yet may-be it is the same thing." he said, "it is my chief reliance." he talked of death, and said he did not fear it. i said, "why, oscar, don't you think you will get well?" he said, "i may, but it is not probable." he spoke calmly of his condition. the wound was very bad; it discharged much. then the diarrhoea had prostrated him, and i felt that he was even then the same as dying. he behaved very manly and affectionate. the kiss i gave him as i was about leaving, he returned fourfold. he gave me his mother's address, mrs. sally d. wilber, alleghany post-office, cattaraugus county, n. y. i had several such interviews with him. he died a few days after the one just described. august, september, october, etc.--i continue among the hospitals in the same manner, getting still more experience, and daily and nightly meeting with most interesting cases. through the winter of 1863-4, the same. the work of the army hospital visitor is indeed a trade, an art, requiring both experience and natural gifts, and the greatest judgment. a large number of the visitors to the hospitals do no good at all, while many do harm. the surgeons have great trouble from them. some visitors go from curiosity--as to a show of animals. others give the men improper things. then there are always some poor fellows, in the crises of sickness or wounds, that imperatively need perfect quiet--not to be talked to by strangers. few realize that it is not the mere giving of gifts that does good; it is the proper adaption. nothing is of any avail among the soldiers except conscientious personal investigation of cases, each for itself; with sharp, critical faculties, but in the fullest spirit of human sympathy and boundless love. the men feel such love more than anything else. i have met very few persons who realize the importance of humoring the yearnings for love and friendship of these american young men, prostrated by sickness and wounds. february, 1864.--i am down at culpepper and brandy station, among the camp of first, second, and third corps, and going through the division hospitals. the condition of the camps here this winter is immensely improved from last winter near falmouth. all the army is now in huts of logs and mud, with fireplaces; and the food is plentiful and tolerably good. in the camp hospitals i find diarrhoea more and more prevalent, and in chronic form. it is at present the great disease of the army. i think the doctors generally give too much medicine, oftener making things worse. then they hold on to the cases in camp too long. when the disease is almost fixed beyond remedy, they send it up to washington. alas! how many such wrecks have i seen landed from boat and railroad and deposited in the washington hospitals, mostly but to linger awhile and die, after being kept at the front too long. the hospitals in front, this winter, are also much improved. the men have cots, and often wooden floors, and the tents are well warmed. march and april, 1864.--back again in washington. they are breaking up the camp hospitals in meade's army, preparing for a move. as i write this, in march, there are all the signs. yesterday and last night the sick were arriving here in long trains, all day and night. i was among the new-comers most of the night. one train of a thousand came into the depot, and others followed. the ambulances were going all night, distributing them to the various hospitals here. when they come in, some literally in a dying condition, you may well imagine it is a lamentable sight. i hardly know which is worse, to see the wounded after a battle, or these wasted wrecks. i remain in capital health and strength, and go every day, as before, among the men, in my own way, enjoying my life and occupation more than i can tell. of the army hospitals now in and around washington, there are thirty or forty. i am in the habit of going to all, and to fairfax seminary, alexandria, and over long bridge to the convalescent camp, etc. as a specimen of almost any one of these hospitals, fancy to yourself a space of three to twenty acres of ground, on which are grouped ten or twelve very large wooden barracks, with, perhaps, a dozen or twenty, and sometimes more than that number, of small buildings, capable all together of accommodating from five hundred to a thousand or fifteen hundred persons. sometimes these large wooden barracks, or wards, each of them, perhaps, from a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet long, are arranged in a straight row, evenly fronting the street; others are planned so as to form an immense v; and others again arranged around a hollow square. they make all together a huge cluster, with the additional tents, extra wards for contagious diseases, guard-houses, sutler's stores, chaplain's house, etc. in the middle will probably be an edifice devoted to the offices of the surgeon in charge and the ward surgeons, principal attachã©s, clerks, etc. then around this centre radiate or are gathered the wards for the wounded and sick. these wards are either lettered alphabetically, ward g, ward k, or else numerically, 1, 2, 3, etc. each has its ward surgeon and corps of nurses. of course there is, in the aggregate, quite a muster of employees, and over all the surgeon in charge. any one of these hospitals is a little city in itself. take, for instance, the carver hospital, out a couple of miles, on a hill, northern part of fourteenth street. it has more inmates than an ordinary country town. the same with the lincoln hospital, east of the capitol, or the finley hospital, on high grounds northeast of the city; both large establishments. armory-square hospital, under dr. bliss, in seventh street (one of the best anywhere), is also temporarily enlarged this summer, with additional tents, sheds, etc. it must have nearly a hundred tents, wards, sheds, and structures of one kind and another. the worst cases are always to be found here. a wanderer like me about washington pauses on some high land which commands the sweep of the city (one never tires of the noble and ample views presented here, in the generally fine, soft, peculiar air and light), and has his eyes attracted by these white clusters of barracks in almost every direction. they make a great show in the landscape, and i often use them as landmarks. some of these clusters are very full of inmates. counting the whole, with the convalescent camps (whose inmates are often worse off than the sick in the hospitals), they have numbered, in this quarter and just down the potomac, as high as fifty thousand invalid, disabled, or sick and dying men. my sketch has already filled up so much room that i shall have to omit any detailed account of the wounded of may and june, 1864, from the battles of the wilderness, spottsylvania, etc. that would be a long history in itself. the arrivals, the numbers, and the severity of the wounds, out-viewed anything that we have seen before. for days and weeks a melancholy tide set in upon us. the weather was very hot. the wounded had been delayed in coming, and much neglected. very many of the wounds had worms in them. an unusual proportion mortified. it was among these that, for the first time in my life, i began to be prostrated with real sickness, and was, before the close of the summer, imperatively ordered north by the physician to recuperate and have an entire change of air. what i know of first fredericksburg, chancellorsville, wilderness, etc., makes clear to me that there has been, and is yet, a total lack of science in elastic adaptation to the needs of the wounded after a battle. the hospitals are long afterward filled with proofs of this. i have seen many battles, their results, but never one where there was not, during the first few days, an unaccountable and almost total deficiency of everything for the wounded--appropriate sustenance, nursing, cleaning, medicines, stores, etc. (i do not say surgical attendance, because the surgeons cannot do more than human endurance permits.) whatever pleasant accounts there may be in the papers of the north, this is the actual fact. no thorough previous preparation, no system, no foresight, no genius. always plenty of stores, no doubt, but always miles away; never where they are needed, and never the proper application. of all harrowing experiences, none is greater than that of the days following a heavy battle. scores, hundreds, of the noblest young men on earth, uncomplaining, lie helpless, mangled, faint, alone, and so bleed to death, or die from exhaustion, either actually untouched at all, or with merely the laying of them down and leaving them, when there ought to be means provided to save them. the reader has doubtless inferred the fact that my visits among the wounded and sick have been as an independent missionary, in my own style, and not as an agent of any commission. several noble women and men of brooklyn, boston, salem, and providence, have voluntarily supplied funds at times. i only wish they could see a tithe of the actual work performed by their generous and benevolent assistance among the suffering men. he who goes among the soldiers with gifts, etc., must beware how he proceeds. it is much more of an art than one would imagine. they are not charity-patients, but american young men, of pride and independence. the spirit in which you treat them, and bestow your donations, is just as important as the gifts themselves; sometimes more so. then there is continual discrimination necessary. each case requires some peculiar adaptation to itself. it is very important to slight nobody--not a single case. some hospital visitors, especially the women, pick out the handsomest looking soldiers, or have a few for their pets. of course some will attract you more than others, and some will need more attention than others; but be careful not to ignore any patient. a word, a friendly turn of the eye or touch of the hand in passing, if nothing more. one hot day toward the middle of june i gave the inmates of carver hospital a general ice-cream treat, purchasing a large quantity, and going around personally through the wards to see to its distribution. here is a characteristic scene in a ward: it is sunday afternoon (middle of summer, 1864), hot and oppressive, and very silent through the ward. i am taking care of a critical case, now lying in a half lethargy. near where i sit is a suffering rebel from the eighth louisiana; his name is irving. he has been here a long time, badly wounded, and lately had his leg amputated. it is not doing very well. right opposite me is a sick soldier boy laid down with his clothes on, sleeping, looking much wasted, his pallid face on his arm. i see by the yellow trimming on his jacket that he is a cavalry boy. he looks so handsome as he sleeps, one must needs go nearer to him. i step softly over, and find by his card that he is named william cone, of the first maine cavalry, and his folks live in skowhegan. well, poor john mahay is dead. he died yesterday. his was a painful and lingering case. i have been with him at times for the past fifteen months. he belonged to company a, one hundred and first new york, and was shot through the lower region of the abdomen at second bull run, august, 1862. one scene at his bedside will suffice for the agonies of nearly two years. the bladder had been perforated by a bullet going entirely through him. not long since i sat a good part of the morning by his bedside, ward e, armory-square; the water ran out of his eyes from the intense pain, and the muscles of his face were distorted, but he utters nothing except a low groan now and then. hot moist cloths were applied, and relieved him somewhat. poor mahay, a mere boy in age, but old in misfortune, he never knew the love of parents, was placed in his infancy in one of the new york charitable institutions, and subsequently bound out to a tyrannical master in sullivan county (the scars of whose cowhide and club remained yet on his back). his wound here was a most disagreeable one, for he was a gentle, cleanly, and affectionate boy. he found friends in his hospital life, and, indeed, was a universal favorite. he had quite a funeral ceremony. through fourteenth street to the river, and then over the long bridge and some three miles beyond, is the huge collection called the convalescent camp. it is a respectable sized army in itself, for these hospitals, tents, sheds, etc., at times contain from five to ten thousand men. of course there are continual changes. large squads are sent off to their regiments or elsewhere, and new men received. sometimes i found large numbers of paroled returned prisoners here. during october, november, and december, 1864, i have visited the military hospitals about new york city, but have not room in this article to describe these visits. i have lately been (november 25) in the central-park hospital, near one hundred and fourth street; it seems to be a well-managed institution. during september, and previously, went many times to the brooklyn city hospital, in raymond street, where i found (taken in by contract) a number of wounded and sick from the army. most of the men were badly off, and without a cent of money, many wanting tobacco. i supplied them, and a few special cases with delicacies; also repeatedly with letter-paper, stamps, envelopes, etc., writing the addresses myself plainly--(a pleased crowd gathering around me as i directed for each one in turn.) this brooklyn hospital is a bad place for soldiers, or anybody else. cleanliness, proper nursing, watching, etc., are more deficient than in any hospital i know. for dinner on sundays i invariably found nothing but rice and molasses. the men all speak well of drs. yale and kissam for kindness, patience, etc., and i think, from what i saw, there are also young medical men. in its management otherwise, this is the poorest hospital i have been in, out of many hundreds. among places, apart from soldiers', visited lately (december 7) i must specially mention the great brooklyn general hospital and other public institutions at flatbush, including the extensive lunatic asylum, under charge of drs. chapin and reynolds. of the latter (and i presume i might include these county establishments generally) i have deliberately to put on record about the profoundest satisfaction with professional capacity, completeness of house arrangements to ends required, and the right vital spirit animating all, that i have yet found in any public curative institution among civilians. in washington, in camp and everywhere, i was in the habit of reading to the men. they were very fond of it, and liked declamatory, poetical pieces. miles o'reilly's pieces were also great favorites. i have had many happy evenings with the men. we would gather in a large group by ourselves, after supper, and spend the time in such readings, or in talking, and occasionally by an amusing game called the game of twenty questions. for nurses, middle-aged women and mothers of families are best. i am compelled to say young ladies, however refined, educated, and benevolent, do not succeed as army nurses, though their motives are noble; neither do the catholic nuns, among these home-born american young men. mothers full of motherly feeling, and however illiterate, but bringing reminiscences of home, and with the magnetic touch of hands, are the true women nurses. many of the wounded are between fifteen and twenty years of age. i should say that the government, from my observation, is always full of anxiety and liberality toward the sick and wounded. the system in operation in the permanent hospitals is good, and the money flows without stint. but the details have to be left to hundreds and thousands of subordinates and officials. among these, laziness, heartlessness, gouging, and incompetency are more or less prevalent. still, i consider the permanent hospitals, generally, well conducted. a very large proportion of the wounded come up from the front without a cent of money in their pockets. i soon discovered that it was about the best thing i could do to raise their spirits and show them that somebody cared for them, and practically felt a fatherly or brotherly interest in them, to give them small sums, in such cases, using tact and discretion about it. a large majority of the wounds are in the arms and legs. but there is every kind of wound in every part of the body. i should say of the sick, from my experience in the hospitals, that the prevailing maladies are typhoid fever and the camp fevers generally, diarrhoea, catarrhal affections and bronchitis, rheumatism and pneumonia. these forms of sickness lead, all the rest follow. there are twice as many sick as there are wounded. the deaths range from six to ten per cent of those under treatment. i must bear my most emphatic testimony to the zeal, manliness, and professional spirit and capacity generally prevailing among the surgeons, many of them young men, in the hospitals and the army. i will not say much about the exceptions, for they are few (but i have met some of those few, and very foolish and airish they were). i never ceased to find the best young men, and the hardest and most disinterested workers, among these surgeons, in the hospitals. they are full of genius, too. i have seen many hundreds of them, and this is my testimony. during my two years in the hospitals and upon the field, i have made over six hundred visits, and have been, as i estimate, among from eighty thousand to one hundred thousand of the wounded and sick, as sustainer of spirit and body in some slight degree, in their time of need. these visits varied from an hour or two, to all day or night; for with dear or critical cases i watched all night. sometimes i took up my quarters in the hospital, and slept or watched there several nights in succession. i may add that i am now just resuming my occupation in the hospitals and camps for the winter of 1864-5, and probably to continue the seasons ensuing. to many of the wounded and sick, especially the youngsters, there is something in personal love, caresses, and the magnetic flood of sympathy and friendship, that does, in its way, more good than all the medicine in the world. i have spoken of my regular gifts of delicacies, money, tobacco, special articles of food, knick-knacks, etc., etc. but i steadily found more and more that i could help, and turn the balance in favor of cure, by the means here alluded to, in a curiously large proportion of cases. the american soldier is full of affection and the yearning for affection. and it comes wonderfully grateful to him to have this yearning gratified when he is laid up with painful wounds or illness, far away from home, among strangers. many will think this merely sentimentalism, but i know it is the most solid of facts. i believe that even the moving around among the men, or through the ward, of a hearty, healthy, clean, strong, generous-souled person, man or woman, full of humanity and love, sending out invisible, constant currents thereof, does immense good to the sick and wounded. to those who might be interested in knowing it, i must add, in conclusion, that i have tried to do justice to all the suffering that fell in my way. while i have been with wounded and sick in thousands of cases from the new england states, and from new york, new jersey, and pennsylvania, and from michigan, wisconsin, indiana, illinois, and the western states, i have been with more or less from all the states north and south, without exception. i have been with many from the border states, especially from maryland and virginia, and found far more union southerners than is supposed. i have been with many rebel officers and men among our wounded, and given them always what i had, and tried to cheer them the same as any. i have been among the army teamsters considerably, and indeed always find myself drawn to them. among the black soldiers, wounded or sick, and in the contraband camps, i also took my way whenever in their neighborhood, and i did what i could for them. w. w. _from the new york_ times, _december 11, 1864_. [illustration: louisa (van velsor) whitman from a daguerreotype taken about 1855 the heliotype printing co. boston] letters of 1862-3 i _washington, monday forenoon, dec. 29, 1862._ dear, dear mother--friday the 19th inst. i succeeded in reaching the camp of the 51st new york, and found george[1] alive and well. in order to make sure that you would get the good news, i sent back by messenger to washington a telegraphic dispatch (i dare say you did not get it for some time) as well as a letter--and the same to hannah[2] at burlington. i have staid in camp with george ever since, till yesterday, when i came back to washington, about the 24th. george got jeff's[3] letter of the 20th. mother, how much you must have suffered, all that week, till george's letter came--and all the rest must too. as to me, i know i put in about three days of the greatest suffering i ever experienced in my life. i wrote to jeff how i had my pocket picked in a jam and hurry, changing cars, at philadelphia--so that i landed here without a dime. the next two days i spent hunting through the hospitals, walking day and night, unable to ride, trying to get information--trying to get access to big people, etc.--i could not get the least clue to anything. odell would not see me at all. but thursday afternoon, i lit on a way to get down on the government boat that runs to aquia creek, and so by railroad to the neighborhood of falmouth, opposite fredericksburg--so by degrees i worked my way to ferrero's[4] brigade, which i found friday afternoon without much trouble after i got in camp. when i found dear brother george, and found that he was alive and well, o you may imagine how trifling all my little cares and difficulties seemed--they vanished into nothing. and now that i have lived for eight or nine days amid such scenes as the camps furnish, and had a practical part in it all, and realize the way that hundreds of thousands of good men are now living, and have had to live for a year or more, not only without any of the comforts, but with death and sickness and hard marching and hard fighting (and no success at that) for their continual experience--really nothing we call trouble seems worth talking about. one of the first things that met my eyes in camp was a heap of feet, arms, legs, etc., under a tree in front of a hospital, the lacy house. george is very well in health, has a good appetite--i think he is at times more wearied out and homesick than he shows, but stands it upon the whole very well. every one of the soldiers, to a man, wants to get home. i suppose jeff got quite a long letter i wrote, from camp, about a week ago. i told you that george had been promoted to captain--his commission arrived while i was there. when you write, address, capt. george w. whitman, co. k., 51st new york volunteers, ferrero's brigade, near falmouth, va. jeff must write oftener, and put in a few lines from mother, even if it is only two lines--then in the next letter a few lines from mat, and so on. you have no idea how letters from home cheer one up in camp, and dissipate homesickness. while i was there george still lived in capt. francis's tent--there were five of us altogether, to eat, sleep, write, etc., in a space twelve feet square, but we got along very well--the weather all along was very fine--and would have got along to perfection, but capt. francis is not a man i could like much--i had very little to say to him. george is about building a place, half hut and half tent, for himself, (he is probably about it this very day,) and then he will be better off, i think. every captain has a tent, in which he lives, transacts company business, etc., has a cook, (or a man of all work,) and in the same tent mess and sleep his lieutenants, and perhaps the first sergeant. they have a kind of fire-place--and the cook's fire is outside on the open ground. george had very good times while francis was away--the cook, a young disabled soldier, tom, is an excellent fellow and a first-rate cook, and the second lieutenant, pooley, is a tip-top young pennsylvanian. tom thinks all the world of george; when he heard he was wounded, on the day of the battle, he left everything, got across the river, and went hunting for george through the field, through thick and thin. i wrote to jeff that george was wounded by a shell, a gash in the cheek--you could stick a splint through into the mouth, but it has healed up without difficulty already. everything is uncertain about the army, whether it moves or stays where it is. there are no furloughs granted at present. i will stay here for the present, at any rate long enough to see if i can get any employment at anything, and shall write what luck i have. of course i am unsettled at present. dear mother; my love. walt. if jeff or any writes, address me, care of major hapgood, paymaster, u. s. a. army, washington, d. c. i send my love to dear sister mat,[5] and little sis[6]--and to andrew[7] and all my brothers. o mat, how lucky it was you did not come--together, we could never have got down to see george. ii _washington, friday morning, jan. 2, 1863._ dear sister[8]--you have heard of my fortunes and misfortunes of course, (through my letters to mother and jeff,) since i left home that tuesday afternoon. but i thought i would write a few lines to you, as it is a comfort to write home, even if i have nothing particular to say. well, dear sister, i hope you are well and hearty, and that little sis[9] keeps as well as she always had, when i left home so far. dear little plague, how i would like to have her with me, for one day; i can fancy i see her, and hear her talk. jeff must have got a note from me about a letter i have written to the _eagle_--you may be sure you will get letters enough from me, for i have little else to do at present. since i laid my eyes on dear brother george, and saw him alive and well--and since i have spent a week in camp, down there opposite fredericksburg, and seen what well men, and sick men, and mangled men endure--it seems to me i can be satisfied and happy henceforward if i can get one meal a day, and know that mother and all are in good health, and especially be with you again, and have some little steady paying occupation in n. y. or brooklyn. i am writing this in the office of major hapgood, way up in the top of a big high house, corner of 15th and f street; there is a splendid view, away down south of the potomac river, and across to the georgetown side, and the grounds and houses of washington spread out beneath my high point of view. the weather is perfect--i have had that in my favor ever since leaving home--yesterday and to-day it is bright, and plenty warm enough. the poor soldiers are continually coming in from the hospitals, etc., to get their pay--some of them waiting for it to go home. they climb up here, quite exhausted, and then find it is no good, for there is no money to pay them; there are two or three paymasters' desks in this room, and the scenes of disappointment are quite affecting. here they wait in washington, perhaps week after week, wretched and heart-sick--this is the greatest place of delays and puttings off, and no finding the clue to anything. this building is the paymaster-general's quarters, and the crowds on the walk and corner of poor, sick, pale, tattered soldiers are awful--many of them day after day disappointed and tired out. well, mat, i will suspend my letter for the present, and go through the city--i have a couple of poor fellows in the hospital to visit also. walt. _saturday evening, jan. 3_ [1863.] i write this in the place where i have my lodging-room, 394 l street, 4th door above 14th street. a friend of mine, william d. o'connor,[10] has two apartments on the 3rd floor, very ordinarily furnished, for which he pays the _extra_ordinary price of $25 a month. i have a werry little bedroom on the 2nd floor. mr. and mrs. o'connor and their little girl have all gone out "down town" for an hour or two, to make some saturday evening purchases, and i am left in possession of the premises--so i sit by the fire, and scribble more of my letter. i have not heard anything from dear brother george since i left the camp last sunday morning, 28th dec. i wrote to him on tuesday last. i wish to get to him the two blue woolen shirts jeff sent, as they would come very acceptable to him--and will try to do it yet. i think of sending them by mail, if the postage is not more than $1. yesterday i went out to the campbell hospital to see a couple of brooklyn boys, of the 51st. they knew i was in washington, and sent me a note, to come and see them. o my dear sister, how your heart would ache to go through the rows of wounded young men, as i did--and stopt to speak a comforting word to them. there were about 100 in one long room, just a long shed neatly whitewashed inside. one young man was very much prostrated, and groaning with pain. i stopt and tried to comfort him. he was very sick. i found he had not had any medical attention since he was brought there; among so many he had been overlooked; so i sent for the doctor, and he made an examination of him. the doctor behaved very well--seemed to be anxious to do right--said that the young man would recover; he had been brought pretty low with diarrhoea, and now had bronchitis, but not so serious as to be dangerous. i talked to him some time--he seemed to have entirely given up, and lost heart--he had not a cent of money--not a friend or acquaintance. i wrote a letter from him to his sister--his name is john a. holmes, campello, plymouth county, mass. i gave him a little change i had--he said he would like to buy a drink of milk when the woman came through with milk. trifling as this was, he was overcome and began to cry. then there were many, many others. i mention the one, as a specimen. my brooklyn boys were john lowery, shot at fredericksburg, and lost his left forearm, and amos h. vliet--jeff knows the latter--he has his feet frozen, and is doing well. the 100 are in a ward, (6), and there are, i should think, eight or ten or twelve such wards in the campbell hospital--indeed a real village. then there are 38 more hospitals here in washington, some of them much larger. _sunday forenoon, jan. 4, 1863._ mat, i hope and trust dear mother and all are well, and everything goes on good home. the envelope i send, jeff or any of you can keep for direction, or use it when wanted to write to me. as near as i can tell, the army at falmouth remains the same. dear sister, good-bye. walt. i send my love to andrew and jesse and eddy and all. what distressing news this is of the loss of the monitor.[11] iii _washington, friday noon, february 6, 1863._ dearest mother--jeff must have got a letter from me yesterday, containing george's last letter. the news of your sickness and the strange silence of han made me feel somewhat gloomy. i wrote to george yesterday, conveying the news--and to-day i have sent him another letter, with much more comforting news, for i was so glad to hear from han (her letter enclosed in jeff's received this morning) that i wrote him right away, and sent han's letter. mother, i am quite in hopes george will get a furlough--may-be my expectations are unfounded, but i almost count on it. i am so glad this morning to hear you are no worse, but changed for the better--and dear sister mat too, and sissy, i am so glad to think they are recovering. jeff's enclosure of $10 through mr. lane, from the young engineers for the soldiers in hospitals, the most needy cases, came safe of course--i shall acknowledge it to mr. lane to-morrow. mother, i have written so much about hospitals that i will not write any in this letter. we have had bad weather enough here lately to most make up for the delightful weather we had for five weeks after i came from home. mother, i do hope you will be careful, and not get any relapse--and hope you will go on improving. do you then think of getting new apartments, after the 1st of may? i suppose jeff has settled about the lot--it seems to me first rate as an investment--the kind of house to build is quite a consideration (if any house). i should build a _regular irish shanty_ myself--two rooms, and an end shed. i think that's luxury enough, since i have been down in the army. well, mother, i believe i will not fill out the sheet this time, as i want to go down without delay to the p. o. and send george's letter and this one. good-bye, dear mother. walt. iv _washington, monday morning, feb. 9, 1863._ dearest mother--i write to enclose you a letter i have just received from george. his corps (ninth army) and perhaps one other are to move either to fort monroe, or somewhere down there--some say suffolk. i am in hopes that when they get there, george will still have a sight for a furlough. i have written him i should think four letters since the 27th jan. (and have sent him han's letter to you in one). i hope he has got most of them before this. i am afraid the $3 change i sent him is gone. he will write to you as soon as he gets settled wherever they go to. i don't know as it makes any difference in respect to danger, or fighting, from this move. one reason they have to move from the rappahannock, up there, is that wood is all gone for miles, forage is scarce to get, and i don't know as there is any need of their staying there, for any purpose. in some haste, dearest mother, as i am off to visit for an hour or so, one of my hospitals. your affectionate son, walt. v _office major hapgood, cor. 15th & f sts, washington, feb. 13, 1863._ dear brother[12]--nothing new; still i thought i would write you a line this morning. the $4, namely $2 from theo a. drake and $2 from john d. martin, enclosed in your letter of the 10th, came safe. they too will please accept the grateful thanks of several poor fellows, in hospital here. the letter of introduction to mr. webster, chief clerk, state department, will be very acceptable. if convenient, i should like mr. lane to send it on immediately. i do not so much look for an appointment from mr. seward as his backing me from the state of new york. i have seen preston king this morning for the second time (it is very amusing to hunt for an office--so the thing seems to me just now, even if one don't get it). i have seen charles sumner three times--he says ev'ry thing here moves as part of a great machine, and that i must consign myself to the fate of the rest--still [in] an interview i had with him yesterday he talked and acted as though he had life in him, and would exert himself to any reasonable extent for me to get something. meantime i make about enough to pay my expenses by hacking on the press here, and copying in the paymasters' offices, a couple of hours a day. one thing is favorable here, namely, pay for whatever one does is at a high rate. i have not yet presented my letters to either seward or chase--i thought i would get my forces all in a body, and make one concentrated dash, if possible with the personal introduction and presence of some big bug. i like fat old preston king very much--he is fat as a hogshead, with great hanging chops. the first thing he said to me the other day in the parlor chambers of the senate, when i sent in for him and he came out, was, "why, how can i do this thing, or any thing for you--how do i know but you are a secessionist? you look for all the world like an old southern planter--a regular carolina or virginia planter." i treated him with just as much hauteur as he did me with bluntness--this was the first time--it afterward proved that charles sumner had not prepared the way for me, as i supposed, or rather not so strongly as i supposed, and mr. king had even forgotten it--so i was an entire stranger. but the same day c. s. talked further with mr. king in the senate, and the second interview i had with the latter (this forenoon) he has given me a sort of general letter, endorsing me from new york--one envelope is addressed to secretary chase, and another to gen. meigs, head quartermaster's dept. meantime, i am getting better and better acquainted with office-hunting wisdom and washington peculiarities generally. i spent several hours in the capitol the other day. the incredible gorgeousness of some of the rooms, (interior decorations, etc.)--rooms used perhaps but for merely three or four committee meetings in the course of the whole year--is beyond one's flightiest dreams. costly frescoes of the style of taylor's saloon in broadway, only really the best and choicest of their sort, done by imported french and italian artists, are the prevailing sorts. (imagine the work you see on the fine china vases in tiffany's, the paintings of cupids and goddesses, etc., spread recklessly over the arched ceiling and broad panels of a big room--the whole floor underneath paved with tesselated pavement, which is a sort of cross between marble and china, with little figures, drab, blue, cream color, etc.) these things, with heavy elaborately wrought balustrades, columns, and steps--all of the most beautiful marbles i ever saw, some white as milk, other of all colors, green, spotted, lined, or of our old chocolate color--all these marbles used as freely as if they were common blue flags--with rich door-frames and window-casings of bronze and gold--heavy chandeliers and mantles, and clocks in every room--and indeed by far the richest and gayest, and most un-american and inappropriate ornamenting and finest interior workmanship i ever conceived possible, spread in profusion through scores, hundreds, (and almost thousands) of rooms--such are what i find, or rather would find to interest me, if i devoted time to it. but a few of the rooms are enough for me--the style is without grandeur, and without simplicity. these days, the state our country is in, and especially filled as i am from top to toe of late with scenes and thoughts of the hospitals, (america seems to me now, though only in her youth, but brought already here, feeble, bandaged, and bloody in hospital)--these days i say, jeff, all the poppy-show goddesses, and all the pretty blue and gold in which the interior capitol is got up, seem to me out of place beyond anything i could tell--and i get away from it as quick as i can when that kind of thought comes over me. i suppose it is to be described throughout--those interiors--as all of them got up in the french style--well, enough for a new york. vi _washington, march 31, 1863._ dearest mother--i have not heard from george, except a note he wrote me a couple of days after he got back from his furlough. i think it likely the regiment has gone with its corps to the west, the kentucky or tennessee region--burnside at last accounts was in cincinnati. well, it will be a change for george, if he is out there. i sent a long letter to han last saturday--enclosed george's note to me. mother, when you or jeff writes again, tell me if my papers and mss. are all right; i should be very sorry indeed if they got scattered, or used up or anything--especially the copy of "leaves of grass" covered in blue paper,[13] and the little ms. book "drum-taps," and the ms. tied up in the square, spotted (stone-paper) loose covers--i want them all carefully kept. mother, it is quite a snow-storm here this morning--the ground is an inch and a half deep with snow--and it is snowing and drizzling--but i feel very independent in my stout army-boots; i go anywhere. i _have_ felt quite well of my deafness and cold in my head for four days or so, but it is back again bad as ever this morning. dear mother, i wrote the above in my room--i have now come down to major hapgood's office. i do not find anything from home, and no particular news in the paper this morning--no news about the ninth army corps, or where they are. i find a good letter from one of my new york boys, (fifth avenue) a young fellow named hugo fritsch, son of the austrian consul-general--he writes me a long, first-rate letter this morning. he too speaks about the opera--like jeff he goes there a good deal--says that medori, the soprano, as norma made the greatest success ever seen--says that the whole company there now, the singers, are very fine. all this i write for jeff and mat--i hope they will go once in a while when it is convenient. it is a most disagreeable day here, mother, walking poshy and a rain and drizzle. there is nothing new with me, no particular sight for an office that i can count on. but i can make enough with the papers, for the present necessities. i hear that the paymaster, major yard, that pays the 51st, has gone on west, i suppose to cincinnati, or wherever the brigade has gone--of course to pay up--he pays up to 1st of march--all the army is going to be paid up to 1st march everywhere. mother, i hope you are well and hearty as usual. i am so glad you are none of you going to move. i would like to have the pleasure of miss mannahatta whitman's company, the first fine forenoon, if it were possible; i think we might have first-rate times, for one day at any rate. i hope she will not forget her uncle walt. i received a note from probasco, requesting me not to put his name in my next letter. i appreciate his motive, and wish to please him always--but in this matter i shall do what i think appropriate. mother, i see some very interesting persons here--a young master's mate, who was on the hatteras, when surprised and broadsided by the alabama, capt semmes--he gave me a very good acc't of it all--then capt. mullen, u. s. army, (engineer) who has been six years out in the rocky mts. making a gov't road 650 miles from ft. benton to walla walla--very, very interesting to know such men intimately, and talk freely with them. dearest mother, i shall have great yarns to spin, when i come home. i am not a bit homesick, yet i should like to see you and mat very, very much--one thinks of the women when he is away. walt. shall send the shirts in a day or two. vii _washington, wednesday forenoon, april 15, 1863._ dearest mother--jeff's letter of the 11th, acknowledging the books, also the one about five days previous, containing the $10 from van anden, came safe. jeff's letters are always first rate and welcome--the good long one with so much about home, and containing han's and george's, was especially so. it is a great pleasure, though sometimes a melancholy one, to hear from han, under her own hand. i have writ to george--i wrote last friday. i directed the letter to "lexington or elsewhere, kentucky"--as i saw in a letter in a cincinnati paper that gen. ferrero was appointed provost marshal at lexington. the 51st is down there somewhere, and i guess it is about as well off there as anywhere. there is much said about their closing up the regimental companies--that is, where there are ten companies of 40 men each, closing them up to five companies, of 80 men each. it is said the government purposes something of this kind. it will throw a good many captains and lieutenants out. i suppose you know that le gendre is now colonel of the 51st--it's a pity if we haven't americans enough to put over our old war regiments. (i think less and less of foreigners, in this war. what i see, especially in the hospitals, convinces me that there is no other stock, for emergencies, but native american--no other name by which we can be saved.) mother, i feel quite bad about andrew--i am so in hopes to hear that he has recovered--i think about him every day. he must not get fretting and disheartened--that is really the worst feature of any sickness. diseases of the throat and bronchia are the result always of bad state of the stomach, blood, etc. (they never come from the throat itself). the throat and the bronchia are lined, like the stomach and other interior organs, with a fine lining like silk or crape, and when all this gets ulcerated or inflamed or what-not (it is dr. sammis's _mucous membrane_, you know) it is bad, and most distressing. medicine is really of no great account, except just to pacify a person. this lining i speak of is full of little blood vessels, and the way to make a _real cure_ is by gentle and steady means to recuperate the whole system; this will tell upon the blood, upon the blood vessels, and so finally and effectually upon all this coating i speak of that lines the throat, etc. but as it is a long time before this vital lining membrane (_very important_) is injured, so it is a long time before it can be made all healthy and right again; but andrew is young and strong enough and [has a] good constitution for basis--and of course by regular diet, care, (and nary whiskey under any circumstances) i am sure he would not only get over that trouble, but be as well and strong as he ever was in his life. mother, you tell him i sent him my love, and nancy[14] the same, and the dear little boys the same--the next time you or mat goes down there you take this and show him. mat, i am quite glad to hear that you are not hurried and fretted with work from new york this spring--i am sure i should think sis and housekeeping, etc., would be enough to attend to. i was real amused with sis's remarks, and all that was in the letter about her. you must none of you notice her smartness, nor criticisms, before her, nor encourage her to spread herself nor be critical, as it is not good to encourage a child to be too sharp--and i hope sissy is going to be a splendid specimen of good animal health. for the few years to come i should think more of that than anything--that is the foundation of all (righteousness included); as to her mental vivacity and growth, they are plenty enough of themselves, and will get along quite fast enough of themselves, plenty fast enough--don't stimulate them at all. dear little creature, how i should like to see her this minute. jeff must not make his lessons to her in music anyways strong or frequent on any account--two lessons a week, of ten minutes each, is enough--but then i dare say jeff will think of all these things, just the same as i am saying. jeff writes he wonders if i am as well and hearty, and i suppose he means as much of a beauty as ever, whether i look the same. well, not only as much but more so--i believe i weigh about 200, and as to my face, (so scarlet,) and my beard and neck, they are terrible to behold. i fancy the reason i am able to do some good in the hospitals among the poor languishing and wounded boys, is, that i am so large and well--indeed like a great wild buffalo, with much hair. many of the soldiers are from the west, and far north, and they take to a man that has not the bleached shiny and shaved cut of the cities and the east. i spent three to four hours yesterday in armory hospital. one of my particular boys there was dying--pneumonia--he wanted me to stop with him awhile; he could not articulate--but the look of his eyes, and the holding on of his hand was deeply affecting. his case is a relapse--eight days ago he had recovered, was up, was perhaps a little careless--at any rate took cold, was taken down again and has sank rapidly. he has no friends or relatives here. yesterday he labored and panted so for breath, it was terrible. he is a young man from new england, from the country. i expected to see his cot vacated this afternoon or evening, as i shall go down then. mother, if you or mat was here a couple of days, you would cry your eyes out. i find i have to restrain myself and keep my composure--i succeed pretty well. good-bye, dearest mother. walt. jeff, capt. muller remains here yet for some time. he is bringing out his report. i shall try to send you a copy. give my best respects to dr. ruggles. mother, my last letter home was a week ago to-day--we are having a dark rainy day here--it is now half-past 3. i have been in my room all day so far--shall have dinner in half an hour, and then down to armory. viii _washington, april 28, 1863._ dearest mother--a letter from jeff came this morning. mother, i was sorry to hear you had a return of your rheumatism--i do hope you will favor yourself more, it depends so much on that--and rheumatism is so obstinate, when it gets hold of one. mother, you received a letter from me sent last wednesday, 22nd, of course, with a small quantity of shinplasters. next time you or jeff writes, i wish you would tell me whether the letters come pretty regularly, the next morning after i write them--this now ought to reach you wednesday forenoon, april 29th. mother, did a mr. howell call on you? he was here last week to see about his boy, died a long while ago in hospital in yorktown. he works in the navy yard--knows andrew. you will see about him (the boy) in a letter i sent yesterday to the _eagle_--it ought to appear to-day or to-morrow. jeff, i wish you would take 10â¢ i send in this letter and get me ten copies of the _eagle_ with it in--put in five more of my pictures (the big ones in last edition "leaves"), and a couple of the photographs carte visites (the smaller ones), and send me to the same direction as before; it came very well. i will send an _eagle_ to han and george. the stamps and 10â¢ are for jeff for the papers and postage. i have written to han, and sent her george's last two letters from kentucky; one i got last week from mount sterling. i write to george and send him papers. sam beatty is here in washington again. i saw him, and he said he would write to george. mother, i have not got any new clothes yet, but shall very soon i hope. people are more rough and free and easy drest than your way. then it is dusty or muddy most of the time here. mother dear, i hope you have comfortable times--at least as comfortable as the law allows. i am so glad you are not going to have the trouble of moving this 1st of may. how are the browns? tell will i should like to see him first rate--if he was here attached to the suite of some big officer, or something of that kind, he would have a good time and do well. i see lots of young fellows not half as capable and trustworthy as he, coming and going in washington, in such positions. the big generals and head men all through the armies, and provosts etc., like to have a squad of such smart, nimble young men around them. give my respects to mr. and mrs. brown. tell jeff i am going to write to mr. lane either to-day or to-morrow. jeff asks me if i go to hospitals as much as ever. if my letters home don't show it, you don't get 'em. i feel sorry sometimes after i have sent them, i have said so much about hospitals, and so mournful. o mother, the young man in armory-square, dennis barrett, in the 169th n. y., i mentioned before, is probably going to get up after all; he is like one saved from the grave. saturday last i saw him and talked with him and gave him something to eat, and he was much better--it is the most unexpected recovery i have yet seen. mother, i see jeff says in the letter you don't hear from me very often--i will write oftener, especially to jeff. dear brother, i hope you are getting along good, and in good spirits; you must not mind the failure of the sewer bills, etc. it don't seem to me it makes so much difference about worldly successes (beyond just enough to eat and drink and shelter, in the moderatest limits) any more, since the last four months of my life especially, and that merely to live, and have one fair meal a day, is enough--but then you have a family, and that makes a difference. matty, i send you my best love, dear sister--how i wish i could be with you one or two good days. mat, do you remember the good time we had that awful stormy night we went to the opera, new york, and had the front seat, and heard the handsome-mouthed guerrabella? and had the good oyster supper at fulton market--("pewter them ales.") o mat, i hope and trust we shall have such times again. tell andrew he must remember what i wrote about the throat, etc. i am sure he will get all right before long, and recover his voice. give him my love--and tell mannahatta her uncle walt is living now among the sick soldiers. jeff, look out for the _eagles_, and send the portraits. dearest mother, i must bid you and all for the present good-bye. walt. ix _washington, tuesday, may 5, 1863._ dearest mother--your letter came safe, and was very welcome, and always will be. mother, i am sorry about your rheumatism--if it still continues i think it would be well for me to write a line to mrs. piercy, and get jeff to stop with it, so that you could take the baths again, as i am sure they are very beneficial. dear mother, you write me, or jeff must in the next letter, how you are getting along, whether it is any better or worse--i want to know. mother, about george's fund in the bank; i hope by all means you can scratch along so as to leave $250 there--i am so anxious that our family should have a little ranch, even if it is the meanest kind, off somewhere that you can call your own, and that would do for ed etc.--it might be a real dependence, and comfort--and may-be for george as much as any one. i mean to come home one of these days, and get the acre or half acre somewhere out in some by-place on long island, and build it--you see if i don't. about hannah, dear mother, i hardly know what advice to give you--from what i know at present i can't tell what course to pursue. i want han to come home, from the bottom of my heart. then there are other thoughts and considerations that come up. dear mother, i cannot advise, but shall acquiesce in anything that is settled upon, and try to help. the condition of things here in the hospitals is getting pretty bad--the wounded from the battles around fredericksburg are coming up in large numbers. it is very sad to see them. i have written to mr. lane, asking him to get his friends to forward me what they think proper--but somehow i feel delicate about sending such requests, after all. i have almost made up my mind to do what i can personally, and not seek assistance from others. dear mother, i have not received any letter from george. i write to him and send papers to winchester. mother, while i have been writing this a very large number of southern prisoners, i should think 1,000 at least, has past up pennsylvania avenue, under a strong guard. i went out in the street, close to them. poor fellows, many of them mere lads--it brought the tears; they seemed our flesh and blood too, some wounded, all miserable in clothing, all in dirt and tatters--many of them fine young men. mother, i cannot tell you how i feel to see those prisoners marched. x _washington, wednesday forenoon, may 13, 1863._ dearest mother--i am late with my letter this week--my poor, poor boys occupy my time very much--i go every day, and sometimes nights. i believe i mentioned a young man in ward f, armory-square, with a bad wound in the leg, very agonizing--had to have it propt up, and an attendant all the while dripping water on night and day. i was in hopes at one time he would get through with it, but a few days ago he took a sudden bad turn and died about 3 o'clock the same afternoon--it was horrible. he was of good family--handsome, intelligent man, about 26, married; his name was john elliot, of cumberland valley, bedford co., penn.--belonged to 2nd pennsylvania cavalry. i felt very bad about it. i have wrote to his father--have not received any answer yet; no friend nor any of his folks was here, and have not been here nor sent--probably don't know of it at all. the surgeons put off amputating the leg, he was so exhausted, but at last it was imperatively necessary to amputate. mother, i am shocked to tell you that he never came alive off the amputating table--he died under the operation--it was what i had dreaded and anticipated. poor young man, he suffered much, very, _very_ much, for many days, and bore it so patiently--so that it was a release to him. mother, such things are awful--not a soul here he knew or cared about, except me--yet the surgeons and nurses were good to him. i think all was done for him that could be--there was no help but take off the leg; he was under chloroform--they tried their best to bring him to--three long hours were spent, a strong smelling bottle held under his nostrils, with other means, three hours. mother, how contemptible all the usual little worldly prides and vanities, and striving after appearances, seems in the midst of such scenes as these--such tragedies of soul and body. to see such things and not be able to help them is awful--i feel almost ashamed of being so well and whole. dear mother, i have not heard from george himself; but i got a letter from fred mcready, a young brooklyn man in 51st--he is intimate with george, said he was well and hearty. i got the letter about five days ago. i wrote to george four days since, directed to winchester, kentucky. i got a letter from a friend in nashville, tenn., yesterday--he told me the 9th army corps was ordered to move to murfreesboro, tenn. i don't know whether this is so or not. i send papers to george almost every day. so far i think it was fortunate the 51st was moved west, and i hope it will continue so. mother, it is all a lottery, this war; no one knows what will come up next. mother, i received jeff's letter of may 9th--it was welcome, as all jeff's letters are, and all others from home. jeff says you do not hear from me at home but seldom. mother, i write once a week to you regular; but i will write soon to jeff a good long letter--i have wanted to for some time, but have been much occupied. dear brother, i wish you to say to probasco and all the other young men on the works, i send them my love and best thanks--never anything came more acceptable than the little fund they forwarded me the last week through mr. lane. our wounded from hooker's battles are worse wounded and more of them than any battle of the war, and indeed any, i may say, of modern times--besides, the weather has been very hot here, very bad for new wounds. yet as jeff writes so downhearted i must tell him the rebellion has lost worse and more than we have. the more i find out about it, the more i think they, the confederates, have received an irreparable harm and loss in virginia--i should not be surprised to see them (either voluntarily or by force) leaving virginia before many weeks; i don't see how on earth they can stay there. i think hooker is already reaching after them again--i myself do not give up hooker yet. dear mother, i should like to hear from han, poor han. i send my best love to sister mat and all. good-bye, dearest mother. walt. xi _washington, tuesday forenoon, may 19, 1863._ dearest mother--... i sent george a letter yesterday--have not got any letter myself from georgy, but have sent him quite a good many and papers. mother, what a tramp the 51st has had--they only need now to go to california, and they will finish the job complete. o mother, how welcome the shirts were--i was putting off and putting off, to get some new ones. i could not find any one to do them as i want them, and it would have cost such a price--and so my old ones had got to be. when they came back from the wash i had to laugh; they were a lot of rags, held together with starch. i have a very nice old black aunty for a washwoman, but she bears down pretty hard, i guess, when she irons them, and they showed something like the poor old city of fredericksburg does, since burnside bombarded it. well, mother, when the bundle came, i was so glad--and the coats too, worn as they are, they come in very handy--and the cake, dear mother, i am almost like the boy that put it under his pillow and woke up in the night and eat some. i carried a good chunk to a young man wounded i think a good deal of, and it did him so much good--it is dry, but all the better, as he eat it with tea and it relished. i eat a piece with him, and drinked some tea out of his cup, as i sat by the side of his cot. mother, i have neglected, i think, what i ought to have told you two or three weeks ago, that is that i have discarded my old clothes--somewhat because they were too thick, and more still because they were worse gone in than any i have ever yet wore, i think, in my life, especially the trowsers. wearing my big boots had caused the inside of the legs just above the knee to wear two beautiful round holes right through cloth and partly through the lining, producing a novel effect, which was not necessary, as i produce a sufficient sensation without--then they were desperately faded. i have a nice plain suit of a dark wine color; looks very well, and feels good--single breasted sack coat with breast pockets, etc., and vest and pants same as what i always wear (pants pretty full), so upon the whole all looks unusually good for me. my hat is very good yet, boots ditto; have a new necktie, nice shirts--you can imagine i cut quite a swell. i have not trimmed my beard since i left home, but it is not grown much longer, only perhaps a little bushier. i keep about as stout as ever, and the past five or six days i have felt wonderful well, indeed never did i feel better. about ten or twelve days ago, we had a short spell of very warm weather here, but for about six days now it has been delightful, just warm enough. i generally go to the hospitals from 12 to 4--and then again from 6 to 9; some days i only go in the middle of the day or evening, not both--and then when i feel somewhat opprest, i skip over a day, or make perhaps a light call only, as i have several cautions from the doctors, who tell me that one must beware of continuing too steady and long in the air and influences of the hospitals. i find the caution a wise one. mother, you or jeff must write me what andrew does about going to north carolina. i should think it might have a beneficial effect upon his throat. i wrote jeff quite a long letter sunday. jeff must write to me whenever he can, i like dearly to have them--and whenever you feel like it you too, dear mother. tell sis her uncle walt will come back one of these days from the sick soldiers and take her out on fort greene again. mother, i received a letter yesterday from john elliot's father, in bedford co., pennsylvania (the young man i told you about, who died under the operation). it was very sad; it was the first he knew about it. i don't know whether i told you of dennis barrett, pneumonia three weeks since, had got well enough to be sent home. dearest mother, i hope you will take things as easy as possible and try to keep a good heart. matty, my dear sister, i have to inform you that i was treated to a splendid dish of ice-cream sunday night; i wished you was with me to have another. i send you my love, dear sister. mother, i hope by all means it will be possible to keep the money whole to get some ranch next spring, if not before; i mean to come home and build it. good-bye for the present, dear mother. walt. xii _washington, tuesday forenoon, may 26, 1863._ dearest mother--i got a long letter from george, dated near lancaster, kentucky, may 15th; he seems to be well and in good spirits--says he gets some letters from me and papers too. at the time he wrote the 51st was doing provost duty at lancaster, but would not probably remain so very long--seem to be moving towards southeast kentucky--had a good camp, and good times generally. le gendre is colonel--gen. ferrero has left the service--col. potter (now brig.-gen.) is in cincinnati--capt. sims, etc., are all well. george describes kentucky as a very fine country--says the people are about half and half, secesh and union. this is the longest letter i have yet received from george. did he write you one about the same time? mother, i have not rec'd any word from home in over a week--the last letter i had from mr. lane was about twelve days ago, sending me $10 for the soldiers (five from mr. kirkwood and five from mr. conklin brush). mother dear, i should like to hear from martha; i wish jeff would write me about it. has andrew gone? and how is your wrist and arm, mother? we had some very hot weather here--i don't know what i should have done without the thin grey coat you sent--you don't know how good it does, and looks too; i wore it three days, and carried a fan and an umbrella (quite a japanee)--most everybody here carries an umbrella, on account of the sun. yesterday and to-day however have been quite cool, east wind. mother, the shirts were a real godsend, they do first rate; i like the fancy marseilles collar and wrist-bands. mother, how are you getting along--i suppose just the same as ever. i suppose jess and ed are just the same as ever. when you write, you tell me all about everything, and the browns, and the neighborhood generally. mother, is george's trunk home and of no use there? i wish i had it here, as i must have a trunk--but do not wish you to send until i send you word. i suppose my letter never appeared in the _eagle_; well, i shall send them no more, as i think likely they hate to put in anything which may celebrate me a little, even though it is just the thing they want for their paper and readers. they altered the other letter on that account, very meanly. i shall probably have letters in the n. y. _times_ and perhaps other papers in about a week. mother, i have been pretty active in hospitals for the past two weeks, somewhere every day or night. i have written you so much about cases, etc., i will not write you any more on that subject this time. o the sad, sad things i see--the noble young men with legs and arms taken off--the deaths--the sick weakness, sicker than death, that some endure, after amputations (there is a great difference, some make little of it, others lie after it for days, just flickering alive, and o so deathly weak and sick). i go this afternoon to campbell hospital, out a couple of miles. mother, i should like to have jeff send me 20 of the large-sized portraits and as many of the standing figure; do them up flat. i think every day about martha. mother, have you heard any further about han? good-bye for the present, dearest mother. walt. xiii _washington, tuesday morning, june 9, 1863._ dearest mother--jeff's letter came yesterday and was very welcome, as i wanted to hear about you all. i wrote to george yesterday and sent jeff's letter enclosed. it looks from some accounts as though the 9th army corps might be going down into east tennessee (cumberland gap, or perhaps bound for knoxville). it is an important region, and has many southern unionists. the staunchest union man i have ever met is a young southerner in the 2nd tennessee (union reg't)--he was ten months in southern prisons; came up from richmond paroled about ten weeks ago, and has been in hospital here sick until lately. he suffered everything but death--he is [the] one they hung up by the heels, head downwards--and indeed worse than death, but stuck to his convictions like a hero--john barker, a real manly fellow; i saw much of him and heard much of that country that can be relied on. he is now gone home to his reg't. mother, i am feeling very well these days--my head that was stopt up so and hard of hearing seems to be all right; i only hope you have had similar good fortune with your rheumatism, and that it will continue so. i wish i could come in for a couple of days and see you; if i should succeed in getting a transportation ticket that would take me to new york and back i should be tempted to come home for two or three days, as i want some mss. and books, and the trunk, etc.--but i will see. mother, your letter week before last was very good--whenever you feel like it you write me, dear mother, and tell me everything about the neighborhood and all the items of our family. and sister mat, how is she getting along--i believe i will have to write a letter especially to her and sis one of these times. it is awful dry weather here, no rain of any consequence for five or six weeks. we have strawberries good and plenty, 15 cents a quart, with the hulls on--i go down to market sometimes of a morning and buy two or three quarts, for the folks i take my meals with. mother, do you know i have not paid, as you may say, a cent of board since i have been in washington, that is for meals--four or five times i have made a rush to leave the folks and find a moderate-priced boarding-house, but every time they have made such a time about it that i have kept on. it is mr. and mrs. o'connor (he is the author of "harrington"); he has a $1600 office in the treasury, and she is a first-rate woman, a massachusetts girl. they keep house in a moderate way; they have one little girl (lost a fine boy about a year ago); they have two rooms in the same house where i hire my rooms, and i take breakfast (half-past 8) and dinner (half-past 4) with them, as they will have it so. that's the way it has gone on now over five months, and as i say, they won't listen to my leaving--but i shall do so, i think. i can never forget the kindness and real friendship, and it appears as though they would continue just the same, if it were for all our lives. but i have insisted on going to market (it is pleasant in the cool of the morning) and getting the things at my own expense, two or three times a week lately. i pay for the room i occupy now $7 a month--the landlord is a mixture of booby, miser, and hog; his name is g----; the landlady is a good woman, washington raised--they are quite rich; he is irish of the worst kind--has had a good office for ten years until lincoln came in. they have bought another house, smaller, to live in, and are going to move (were to have moved 1st of june). they had an auction of the house we live in yesterday, but nobody came to buy, so it was ridiculous--we had a red flag out, and a nigger walked up and down ringing a big bell, which is the fashion here for auctions. well, mother, the war still goes on, and everything as much in a fog as ever--and the battles as bloody, and the wounded and sick getting worse and plentier all the time. i see a letter in the _tribune_ from lexington, ky., june 5th, headed "the 9th army corps departing for vicksburg"--but i cannot exactly make it out on reading the letter carefully--i don't see anything in the letter about the 9th corps moving from vicksburg; at any rate i think the 2nd division is more likely to be needed in kentucky (or as i said, in eastern tennessee), as the secesh are expected to make trouble there. but one can hardly tell--the only thing is to resign oneself to events as they occur; it is a sad and dreary time, for so many thousands of parents and relatives, not knowing what will occur next. mother, i told you, i think last week, that i had wrote to han, and enclosed george's last letter to me--i wrote a week ago last sunday--i wonder if she got the letter. about the pictures, i should like jeff to send them, as soon as convenient--might send 20 of the big head, 10 or 12 of the standing figure, and 3 of the carte visite. i am writing this in major hapgood's office--it is bright and pleasant, only the dust here in washington is a great nuisance. mother, your shirts do first rate--i am wearing them; the one i have on to-day suits me better than any i have ever yet had. i have not worn the thin coat the last week or so, as it has not been very hot lately. mother, i think something of commencing a series of lectures and reading, etc., through different cities of the north, to supply myself with funds for my hospital and soldiers' visits, as i do not like to be beholden to the medium of others. i need a pretty large supply of money, etc., to do the good i would like to, and the work grows upon me, and fascinates me--it is the most affecting thing you ever see, the lots of poor sick and wounded young men that depend so much, in one word or another, upon my petting or soothing or feeding, sitting by them and feeding them their dinner or supper--some are quite helpless, some wounded in both arms--or giving some trifle (for a novelty or a change, it isn't for the value of it), or stopping a little while with them. nobody will do but me--so, mother, i feel as though i would like to inaugurate a plan by which i could raise means on my own hook, and perhaps quite plenty too. best love to you, dearest mother, and to sister mat, and jeff. walt. xiv _washington, monday morning, june 22, 1863._ dear mother--jeff's letter came informing me of the birth of the little girl,[15] and that matty was feeling pretty well, so far. i hope it will continue. dear sister, i should much like to come home and see you and the little one; i am sure from jeff's description it is a noble babe--and as to its being a girl, it is all the better. (i am not sure but the whitman breed gives better women than men.) well, mother, we are generally anticipating a lively time here, or in the neighborhood, as it is probable lee is feeling about to strike a blow on washington, or perhaps right into it--and as lee is no fool, it is perhaps possible he may give us a good shake. he is not very far off--yesterday was a fight to the southwest of here all day; we heard the cannons nearly all day. the wounded are arriving in small squads every day, mostly cavalry, a great many ohio men; they send off to-day from the washington hospitals a great many to new york, philadelphia, etc., all who are able, to make room, which looks ominous--indeed, it is pretty certain that there is to be some severe fighting, may-be a great battle again, the pending week. i am getting so callous that it hardly arouses me at all. i fancy i should take it very quietly if i found myself in the midst of a desperate conflict here in washington. mother, i have nothing particular to write about--i see and hear nothing but new and old cases of my poor suffering boys in hospitals, and i dare say you have had enough of such things. i have not missed a day at hospital, i think, for more than three weeks--i get more and more wound round. poor young men--there are some cases that would literally sink and give up if i did not pass a portion of the time with them. i have quite made up my mind about the lecturing, etc., project--i have no doubt it will succeed well enough the way i shall put it in operation. you know, mother, it is to raise funds to enable me to continue my hospital ministrations, on a more free-handed scale. as to the sanitary commissions and the like, i am sick of them all, and would not accept any of their berths. you ought to see the way the men, as they lay helpless in bed, turn away their faces from the sight of those agents, chaplains, etc. (hirelings, as elias hicks would call them--they seem to me always a set of foxes and wolves). they get well paid, and are always incompetent and disagreeable; as i told you before, the only good fellows i have met are the christian commissioners--they go everywhere and receive no pay. dear, dear mother, i want much to see you, and dear matty too; i send you both my best love, and jeff too. the pictures came--i have not heard from george nor han. i write a day earlier than usual. walt. we here think vicksburg is ours. the probability is that it has capitulated--and there has been no general assault--can't tell yet whether the 51st went there. we are having very fine weather here to-day--rained last night. xv _washington, june 30th, 1863._ dearest mother--your letter, with han's, i have sent to george, though whether it will find him or not i cannot tell, as i think the 51st must be away down at vicksburg. i have not had a word from george yet. mother, i have had quite an attack of sore throat and distress in my head for some days past, up to last night, but to-day i feel nearly all right again. i have been about the city same as usual nearly--to the hospitals, etc., i mean. i am told that i hover too much over the beds of the hospitals, with fever and putrid wounds, etc. one soldier brought here about fifteen days ago, very low with typhoid fever, livingston brooks, co. b., 17th penn. cavalry, i have particularly stuck to, as i found him to be in what appeared to be a dying condition, from negligence and a horrible journey of about forty miles, bad roads and fast driving; and then after he got here, as he is a simple country boy, very shy and silent, and made no complaint, they neglected him. i found him something like i found john holmes last winter. i called the doctor's attention to him, shook up the nurses, had him bathed in spirits, gave him lumps of ice, and ice to his head; he had a fearful bursting pain in his head, and his body was like fire. he was very quiet, a very sensible boy, old fashioned; he did not want to die, and i had to lie to him without stint, for he thought i knew everything, and i always put in of course that what i told him was exactly the truth, and that if he got really dangerous i would tell him and not conceal it. the rule is to remove bad fever patients out from the main wards to a tent by themselves, and the doctor told me he would have to be removed. i broke it gently to him, but the poor boy got it immediately in his head that he was marked with death, and was to be removed on that account. it had a great effect upon him, and although i told the truth this time it did not have as good a result as my former fibs. i persuaded the doctor to let him remain. for three days he lay just about an even chance, go or stay, with a little leaning toward the first. but, mother, to make a long story short, he is now out of any immediate danger. he has been perfectly rational throughout--begins to taste a little food (for a week he ate nothing; i had to compel him to take a quarter of an orange now and then), and i will say, whether anyone calls it pride or not, that if he _does_ get up and around again it's me that saved his life. mother, as i have said in former letters, you can have no idea how these sick and dying youngsters cling to a fellow, and how fascinating it is, with all its hospital surroundings of sadness and scenes of repulsion and death. in this same hospital, armory-square, where this cavalry boy is, i have about fifteen or twenty particular cases i see much to--some of them as much as him. there are two from east brooklyn; george monk, co. a, 78th n. y., and stephen redgate (his mother is a widow in east brooklyn--i have written to her). both are pretty badly wounded--both are youngsters under 19. o mother, it seems to me as i go through these rows of cots as if it was too bad to accept these _children_, to subject them to such premature experiences. i devote myself much to armory-square hospital because it contains by far the worst cases, most repulsive wounds, has the most suffering and most need of consolation. i go every day without fail, and often at night--sometimes stay very late. no one interferes with me, guards, nurses, doctors, nor anyone. i am let to take my own course. well, mother, i suppose you folks think we are in a somewhat dubious position here in washington, with lee in strong force almost between us and you northerners. well, it does look ticklish; if the rebs cut the connection then there will be fun. the reb cavalry come quite near us, dash in and steal wagon trains, etc.; it would be funny if they should come some night to the president's country house (soldiers' home), where he goes out to sleep every night; it is in the same direction as their saucy raid last sunday. mr. lincoln passes here (14th st.) every evening on his way out. i noticed him last evening about half-past 6--he was in his barouche, two horses, guarded by about thirty cavalry. the barouche comes first under a slow trot, driven by one man in the box, no servant or footman beside; the cavalry all follow closely after with a lieutenant at their head. i had a good view of the president last evening. he looks more careworn even than usual, his face with deep cut lines, seams, and his _complexion gray_ through very dark skin--a curious looking man, very sad. i said to a lady who was looking with me, "who can see that man without losing all wish to be sharp upon him personally?" the lady assented, although she is almost vindictive on the course of the administration (thinks it wants nerve, etc.--the usual complaint). the equipage is rather shabby, horses indeed almost what my friends the broadway drivers would call _old plugs_. the president dresses in plain black clothes, cylinder hat--he was alone yesterday. as he came up, he first drove over to the house of the sec. of war, on k st., about 300 feet from here; sat in his carriage while stanton came out and had a 15 minutes interview with him (i can see from my window), and then wheeled around the corner and up fourteenth st., the cavalry after him. i really think it would be safer for him just now to stop at the white house, but i expect he is too proud to abandon the former custom. then about an hour after we had a large cavalry regiment pass, with blankets, arms, etc., on the war march over the same track. the regt. was very full, over a thousand--indeed thirteen or fourteen hundred. it was an old regt., veterans, _old fighters_, young as they were. they were preceded by a fine mounted band of sixteen (about ten bugles, the rest cymbals and drums). i tell you, mother, it made everything ring--made my heart leap. they played with a will. then the accompaniment: the sabers rattled on a thousand men's sides--they had pistols, their heels were spurred--handsome american young men (i make no acc't of any other); rude uniforms, well worn, but good cattle, prancing--all good riders, full of the devil; nobody shaved, very sunburnt. the regimental officers (splendidly mounted, but just as roughly dressed as the men) came immediately after the band, then company after company, with each its officers at its head--the tramps of so many horses (there is a good hard turnpike)--then a long train of men with led horses, mounted negroes, and a long, long string of baggage wagons, each with four horses, and then a strong rear guard. i tell you it had the look of _real war_--noble looking fellows; a man feels so proud on a good horse, and armed. they are off toward the region of lee's (supposed) rendezvous, toward susquehannah, for the great anticipated battle. alas! how many of these healthy, handsome, rollicking young men will lie cold in death before the apples ripen in the orchard. mother, it is curious and stirring here in some respects. smaller or larger bodies of troops are moving continually--many just-well men are turned out of the hospitals. i am where i see a good deal of them. there are getting to be _many black troops_. there is one very good regt. here black as tar; they go around, have the regular uniform--they submit to no nonsense. others are constantly forming. it is getting to be a common sight. [_the rest of the letter is lost._--ed.] xvi _washington, july 10, 1863._ dear mother--i suppose you rec'd a letter from me last wednesday, as i sent you one tuesday (7th). dear mother, i was glad enough to hear from george, by that letter from snyder's bluffs, june 28th. i had felt a little fear on acc't of some of those storming parties grant sent against vicksburg the middle of june and up to the 20th--but this letter dispels all anxiety. i have written to george many times, but it seems he has not got them. mother, i shall write immediately to him again. i think he will get the letter i sent last sunday, as i directed it to vicksburg--i told him all the news from home. mother, i shall write to han and enclose george's letter. i am real glad to hear from mat and the little one, all so favorable. we are having pleasant weather here still. i go to campbell hospital this afternoon--i still keep going, mother. the wounded are doing rather badly; i am sorry to say there are frequent deaths--the weather, i suppose, which has been peculiarly bad for wounds, so wet and warm (though not disagreeable outdoors). mother, you must write as often as you can, and jeff too--you must not get worried about the ups and downs of the war; i don't know any course but to resign oneself to events--if one can only bring one's mind to it. good-bye once more, for the present, dearest mother, mat, and the dear little ones. walt. mother, do you ever hear from mary?[16] xvii _washington, wednesday forenoon, july 15, 1863._ dear mother--so the mob has risen at last in new york--i have been expecting it, but as the day for the draft had arrived and everything was so quiet, i supposed all might go on smoothly; but it seems the passions of the people were only sleeping, and have burst forth with terrible fury, and they have destroyed life and property, the enrolment buildings, etc., as we hear. the accounts we get are a good deal in a muddle, but it seems bad enough. the feeling here is savage and hot as fire against new york (the mob--"copperhead mob" the papers here call it), and i hear nothing in all directions but threats of ordering up the gunboats, cannonading the city, shooting down the mob, hanging them in a body, etc., etc. meantime i remain silent, partly amused, partly scornful, or occasionally put a dry remark, which only adds fuel to the flame. i do not feel it in my heart to abuse the poor people, or call for a rope or bullets for them, but, that is all the talk here, even in the hospitals. the acc'ts from n. y. this morning are that the gov't has ordered the draft to be suspended there--i hope it is true, for i find that the deeper they go in with the draft, the more trouble it is likely to make. i have changed my opinion and feelings on the subject--we are in the midst of strange and terrible times--one is pulled a dozen different ways in his mind, and hardly knows what to think or do. mother, i have not much fear that the troubles in new york will affect any of our family, still i feel somewhat uneasy about jeff, if any one, as he is more around. i have had it much on my mind what could be done, if it should so happen that jeff should be drafted--of course he could not go without its being the downfall almost of our whole family, as you may say, mat and his young ones, and sad blow to you too, mother, and to all. i didn't see any other way than to try to raise the $300, mostly by borrowing if possible of mr. lane. mother, i have no doubt i shall make a few hundred dollars by the lectures i shall certainly commence soon (for my hospital missionary purposes and my own, for that purpose), and i could lend that am't to jeff to pay it back. may-be the draft will not come off after all; i should say it was very doubtful if they can carry it out in n. y. and brooklyn--and besides, it is only one chance out of several, to be drawn if it does. i don't wonder dear brother jeff feels the effect it would have on domestic affairs; i think it is right to feel so, full as strongly as a man can. i do hope all will go well and without such an additional trouble falling upon us, but as it can be met with money, i hope jeff and mat and all of you, dear mother, will not worry any more about it. i wrote to jeff a few lines last sunday, i suppose he got. mother, i don't know whether you have had a kind of gloomy week the past week, but somehow i feel as if you all had; but i hope it has passed over. how is dear sister mat, and how is miss mannahatta, and little black head? i sometimes feel as if i _must_ come home and see you all--i want to very much. my hospital life still continues the same--i was in armory all day yesterday--and day and night before. they have the men wounded in the railroad accident at laurel station (bet. here and baltimore), about 30 soldiers, some of them horribly injured at 3 o'clock a. m. last saturday by collision--poor, poor, poor men. i go again this afternoon and night--i see so much of butcher sights, so much sickness and suffering, i must get away a while, i believe, for self-preservation. i have felt quite well though the past week--we have had rain continually. mother, i have not heard from george since, have you? i shall write han to-day and send george's letter--if you or jeff has not written this week, i hope jeff will write on receiving this. good-bye for present, dearest mother, and jeff, and mat. walt. mother, the army is to be paid off two months more, right away. of course george will get two months more pay. dear mother, i hope you will keep untouched and put in bank every cent you can. i want us to have a ranch somewhere by or before next spring. xviii _washington, aug. 11, 1863._ dear mother--i sent jeff a letter on sunday--i suppose he got it at the office. i feel so anxious to hear from george; one cannot help feeling uneasy, although these days sometimes it cannot help being long intervals without one's hearing from friends in the army. o i do hope we shall hear soon, and that it is all right with him. it seems as if the 9th corps had returned to vicksburg, and some acc'ts say that part of the corps had started to come up the river again--toward kentucky, i suppose. i have sent george two letters within a week past, hoping they might have the luck to get to him, but hardly expect it either. mother, i feel very sorry to hear andrew is so troubled in his throat yet. i know it must make you feel very unhappy. jeff wrote me a good deal about it, and seems to feel very bad about andrew's being unwell; but i hope it will go over, and that a little time will make him recover--i think about it every day. mother, it has been the hottest weather here that i ever experienced, and still continues so. yesterday and last night was the hottest. still, i slept sound, have good ventilation through my room, little as it is (i still hire the same room in l street). i was quite wet with sweat this morning when i woke up, a thing i never remember to have happened to me before, for i was not disturbed in my sleep and did not wake up once all night. mother, i believe i did not tell you that on the 1st of june (or a while before) the o'connors, the friends i took my meals with so long, moved to other apartments for more room and pleasanter--not far off though, i am there every day almost, a little--so for nearly two months and a half i have been in the habit of getting my own breakfast in my room and my dinner at a restaurant. i have a little spirit lamp, and always have a capital cup of tea, and some bread, and perhaps some preserved fruit; for dinner i get a good plate of meat and plenty of potatoes, good and plenty for 25 or 30 cents. i hardly ever take any thing more than these two meals, both of them are pretty hearty--eat dinner about 3--my appetite is plenty good enough, and i am about as fleshy as i was in brooklyn. mother, i feel better the last ten days, and at present, than i did the preceding six or eight weeks. there was nothing particular the matter with me, but i suppose a different climate and being so continually in the hospitals--but as i say, i feel better, more strength, and better in my head, etc. about the wound in my hand and the inflammation, etc., it has thoroughly healed, and i have not worn anything on my hand, nor had any dressing for the last five days. mother, i hope you get along with the heat, for i see it is as bad or worse in new york and brooklyn--i am afraid you suffer from it; it must be distressing to you. dear mother, do let things go, and just sit still and fan yourself. i think about you these hot days. i fancy i see you down there in the basement. i suppose you have your coffee for breakfast; i have not had three cups of coffee in six months--tea altogether (i must come home and have some coffee for breakfast with you). mother, i wrote to you about erastus haskell, co. k, 141st, n. y.--his father, poor old man, come on here to see him and found him dead three days. he had the body embalmed and took home. they are poor folks but very respectable. i was at the hospital yesterday as usual--i never miss a day. i go by my feelings--if i should feel that it would be better for me to lay by for a while, i should do so, but not while i feel so well as i do the past week, for all the hot weather; and while the chance lasts i would improve it, for by and by the night cometh when no man can work (ain't i getting pious!). i got a letter from probasco yesterday; he sent $4 for my sick and wounded--i wish jeff to tell him that it came right, and give him the men's thanks and my love. mother, have you heard anything from han? and about mary's fanny--i hope you will write me soon and tell me everything, tell me exactly as things are, but i know you will--i want to hear family affairs before anything else. i am so glad to hear mat is good and hearty--you must write me about hat and little black head too. mother, how is eddy getting along? and jess, is he about the same? i suppose will brown is home all right; tell him i spoke about him, and the browns too. dearest mother, i send you my love, and to jeff too--must write when you can. walt. xix _washington, aug. 18, 1863._ dear mother--i was mighty glad to get george's letter, i can tell you--you have not heard since, i suppose. they must be now back again in kentucky, or that way, as i see [by] a letter from cairo (up the mississippi river) that boats had stopt there with the 9th corps on from vicksburg, going up towards cincinnati--i think the letter was dated aug. 10. i have no doubt they are back again up that way somewhere. i wrote to george four or five days ago--i directed it ohio, mississippi, or elsewhere. mother, i was very glad indeed to get your letter--i am so sorry andrew does not get any better; it is very distressing about losing the voice; he must not be so much alarmed, as that continues some times years and the health otherwise good. .......... mother, i wrote to han about five days ago; told her we had heard from george, and all the news--i must write to mary too, without fail--i should like to hear from them all, and from fanny. there has been a young man here in hospital, from farmingdale; he was wounded; his name is hendrickson; he has gone home on a furlough; he knows the van nostrands very well--i told him to go and see aunt fanny. i was glad you gave emma price my direction here; i should [like] to hear from mrs. price and her girls first rate, i think a great deal about them--and mother, i wish you to tell any of them so; they always used me first rate, and always stuck up for me--if i knew their street and number i should write. it has been awful hot here now for twenty-one days; ain't that a spell of weather? the first two weeks i got along better than i would have thought, but the last week i have felt it more, have felt it in my head a little--i no more stir without my umbrella, in the day time, than i would without my boots. i am afraid of the sun affecting my head and move pretty cautious. mother, i think every day, i wonder if the hot weather is affecting mother much; i suppose it must a good deal, but i hope it cannot last much longer. mother, i had a letter in the n. y. _times_ of last sunday--did you see it? i wonder if george can't get a furlough and come home for a while; that furlough he had was only a flea-bite. if he could it would be no more than right, for no man in the country has done his duty more faithful, and without complaining of anything or asking for anything, than george. i suppose they will fill up the 51st with conscripts, as that seems the order of the day--a good many are arriving here, from the north, and passing through to join meade's army. we are expecting to hear of more rows in new york about the draft; it commences there right away i see--this time it will be no such doings as a month or five weeks ago; the gov't here is forwarding a large force of regulars to new york to be ready for anything that may happen--there will be no blank cartridges this time. well, i thought when i first heard of the riot in n. y. i had some feeling for them, but soon as i found what it really was, i felt it was the devil's own work all through. i guess the strong arm will be exhibited this time up to the shoulder. mother, i want to see you and all very much. as i wish to be here at the opening of congress, and during the winter, i have an idea i will try to come home for a month, but i don't know when--i want to see the young ones and mat and jeff and everybody. well, mother, i should like to know all the domestic affairs at home; don't you have the usual things eating, etc.? why, mother, i should think you would eat nearly all your meals with mat--i know you must when they have anything good (and i know mat will have good things if she has got a cent left). mother, don't you miss _walt_ loafing around, and carting himself off to new york toward the latter part of every afternoon? how do you and the browns get along?--that hell hole over the way, what a nuisance it must be nights, and i generally have a very good sleep. mother, i suppose you sleep in the back room yet--i suppose the new houses next door are occupied. how i should like to take a walk on old fort greene--tell mannahatta her uncle walt will be home yet, from the sick soldiers, and have a good walk all around, if she behaves to her grandmother and don't cut up. mother, i am scribbling this hastily in major hapgood's office; it is not so hot to-day, quite endurable. i send you my love, dear mother, and to all, and wish jeff and you to write as often as you can. walt. xx _washington, aug. 25, 1863._ dear mother--the letter from george, and your lines, and a few from jeff came yesterday, and i was glad indeed to be certain that george had got back to kentucky safe and well--while so many fall that we know, or, what is about as bad, get sick or hurt in the fight, and lay in hospital, it seems almost a miracle that george should have gone through so much, south and north and east and west, and been in so many hard-fought battles, and thousands of miles of weary and exhausting marches, and yet have stood it so, and be yet alive and in good health and spirits. o mother, what would we [have] done if it had been otherwise--if he had met the fate of so many we know--if he had been killed or badly hurt in some of those battles? i get thinking about it sometimes, and it works upon me so i have to stop and turn my mind on something else. mother, i feel bad enough about andrew, and i know it must be so with you too--one don't know what to do; if we had money he would be welcome to it, if it would do any good. if george's money comes from kentucky this last time, and you think some of it would do andrew any real good, i advise you to take some and give him--i think it would be proper and george would approve of it. i believe there is not much but trouble in this world, and if one hasn't any for himself he has it made up by having it brought close to him through others, and that is sometimes worse than to have it touch one's self. mother, you must not let andrew's case and the poor condition of his household comforts, etc., work upon you, for i fear you will--but, mother, it's no use to worry about such things. i have seen so much horrors that befall men (so bad and such suffering and mutilations, etc., that the poor men can defy their fate to do anything more or any harder misfortune or worse a-going) that i sometimes think i have grown callous--but no, i don't think it is that, but nothing of ordinary misfortune seems as it used to, and death itself has lost all its terrors--i have seen so many cases in which it was so welcome and such a relief. mother, you must just resign yourself to things that occur--but i hardly think it is necessary to give you any charge about it, for i think you have done so for many years, and stood it all with good courage. we have a second attack of hot weather--sunday was the most burning day i ever yet saw. it is very dry and dusty here, but to-day we are having a middling good breeze--i feel pretty well, and whenever the weather for a day or so is passably cool i feel really first rate, so i anticipate the cooler season with pleasure. mother, i believe i wrote to you i had a letter in n. y. _times_, sunday, 16th--i shall try to write others and more frequently. the three _eagles_ came safe; i was glad to get them--i sent them and another paper to george. mother, none of you ever mention whether you get my letters, but i suppose they come safe--it is not impossible i may miss some week, but i have not missed a single one for months past. i wish i could send you something worth while, and i wish i could send something for andrew--mother, write me exactly how it is with him.... mother, i have some idea han is getting some better; it is only my idea somehow--i hope it is so from the bottom of my heart. did you hear from mary's fanny since? and how are mat's girls? so, mannahatta, you tear uncle george's letters, do you? you mustn't do so, little girl, nor uncle walt's either; but when you get to be a big girl you must have them all nice, and read them, for grandmother will perhaps leave them to you in her will, if you behave like a lady. matty, my dear sister, how are you getting along? i really want to see you bad, and the baby too--well, may-be we shall all come together and have some good times yet. jeff, i hope by next week this time we shall be in possession of charleston--some papers say burnside is moving for knoxville, but it is doubtful--i think the 9th corps might take a rest awhile, anyhow. good-bye, mother. walt. xxi _washington, sept. 1, 1863._ dear mother--i have been thinking to-day and all yesterday about the draft in brooklyn, and whether jeff would be drafted; you must some of you write me just as soon as you get this--i want to know; i feel anxious enough i can tell you--and besides, it seems a good while since i have received any letters from home. of course it is impossible for jeff to go, in case it should turn out he was drafted--the way our family is all situated now, it would be madness. if the common council raise the money to exempt men with families dependent on them, i think jeff ought to have no scruples in taking advantage of it, as i think he is in duty bound--but we will see what course to take, when we know the result, etc.; write about it right away. the _eagles_ came; this is the second time; i am glad to get them--jeff, wait till you get four or five, and then send them with a two-cent stamp. i have not had any letter from george. mother, have you heard anything? did the money come? dear mother, how are you nowadays? i do hope you feel well and in good spirits--i think about you every day of my life out here. sometimes i see women in the hospitals, mothers come to see their sons, and occasionally one that makes me think of my dear mother--one did very much, a lady about 60, from pennsylvania, come to see her son, a captain, very badly wounded and his wound gangrened, and they after a while removed him to a tent by himself. another son of hers, a young man, came with her to see his brother. she was a pretty full-sized lady, with spectacles; she dressed in black--looked real velsory.[17] i got very well acquainted with her; she had a real long island old-fashioned way--but i had to avoid the poor captain, as it was that time that my hand was cut in the artery, and i was liable to gangrene myself--but she and the two sons have gone home now, but i doubt whether the wounded one is alive, as he was very low. mother, i want to hear about andrew too, whether he went to rockland lake. you have no idea how many soldiers there are who have lost their voices, and have to speak in whispers--there are a great many, i meet some almost every day; as far as that alone is concerned, andrew must not be discouraged, as the general health may be good as common irrespective of that. i do hope andrew will get along better than he thinks for--it is bad enough for a poor man to be out of health even partially, but he must try to look on the bright side. mother, have you heard anything from han since, or from mary's folks? i got a letter from mrs. price last week; if you see emma tell her i was pleased to get it, and shall answer it very soon. mother, i have sent another letter to the n. y. _times_--it may appear, if not to-day, within a few days. i am feeling excellent well these days, it is so moderate and pleasant weather now; i was getting real exhausted with the heat. i thought of you too, how it must have exhausted you those hot days. i still occupy the same 3rd story room, 394 l st., and get my breakfast in my room in the morning myself, and dinner at a restaurant about 3 o'clock--i get along very well and very economical (which is a forced put, but just as well). but i must get another room or a boarding-house soon, as the folks are all going to move this month. my good and real friends the o'connors live in the same block; i am in there every day. dear mother, tell mat and miss mannahatta i send them my love--i want to see them both. o how i want to see jeff and you, mother; i sometimes feel as if i should just get in the cars and come home--and the baby too, you must always write about her. dear mother, good-bye for present. walt. xxii _washington, sept. 8, 1863, tuesday morning._ dearest mother--i wrote to jeff sunday last that his letter sent sept. 3rd, containing your letter and $5 from mr. lane, had miscarried--this morning when i came down to major hapgood's office i found it on my table, so it is all right--singular where it has been all this while, as i see the postmark on it is brooklyn, sept. 3, as jeff said. mother, what to do about andrew i hardly know--as it is i feel about as much pity for you as i do for my poor brother andrew, for i know you will worry yourself about him all the time. i was in hopes it was only the trouble about the voice, etc., but i see i was mistaken, and it is probably worse. i know you and jeff and mat will do all you can--and will have patience with all (it is not only the sick who are poorly off, but their friends; but it is best to have the greatest forbearance, and do and give, etc., whatever one can--but you know that, and practice it too, dear mother). mother, if i had the means, o how cheerfully i would give them, whether they availed anything for andrew or not--yet i have long made up my mind that money does not amount to so much, at least not so very much, in serious cases of sickness; it is judgment both in the person himself, and in those he has to do with--and good heart in everything. (mother, you remember theodore gould, how he stuck it out, though sickness and death has had hold of him, as you may say, for fifteen years.) but anyhow, i hope we will all do what we can for andrew. mother, i think i must try to come home for a month--i have not given up my project of lecturing i spoke about before, but shall put it in practice yet; i feel clear it will succeed enough. (i wish i had some of the money already; it would be satisfaction to me to contribute something to andrew's necessities, for he must have bread.) i will write to you, of course, before i come. mother, i hope you will live better--jeff tells me you and jess and ed live on poor stuff, you are so economical. mother, you mustn't do so as long as you have a cent--i hope you will, at least four or five times a week, have a steak of beef or mutton, or something substantial for dinner. i have one good meal of that kind every day, or at least five or six days out of the seven--but for breakfast i have nothing but a cup of tea and some bread or crackers (first-rate tea though, with milk and good white sugar). well, i find it is hearty enough--more than half the time i never eat anything after dinner, and when i do it is only a cracker and cup of tea. mother, i hope you will not stint yourselves--as to using george's money for your and jess's and ed's needful living expenses, i know george would be mad and hurt in his feelings if he thought you was afraid to. mother, you have a comfortable time as much as you can, and get a steak occasionally, won't you? i suppose mat got her letter last saturday; i sent it friday. o i was so pleased that jeff was not drawn, and i know how mat must have felt too; i have no idea the government will try to draft again, whatever happens--they have carried their point, but have not made much out of it. o how the conscripts and substitutes are deserting down in front and on their way there--you don't hear anything about it, but it is incredible--they don't allow it to get in the papers. mother, i was so glad to get your letter; you must write again--can't you write to-morrow, so i can get it friday or saturday?--you know though you wrote more than a week ago i did not get it till this morning. i wish jeff to write too, as often as he can. mother, i was gratified to hear you went up among the soldiers--they are rude in appearance, but they know what is decent, and it pleases them much to have folks, even old women, take an interest and come among them. mother, you must go again, and take mat. well, dear mother, i must close. i am first rate in health, so much better than a month and two months ago--my hand has entirely healed. i go to hospital every day or night--i believe no men ever loved each other as i and some of these poor wounded sick and dying men love each other. good-bye, dearest mother, for present. walt. _tuesday afternoon._ mother, it seems to be certain that meade has gained the day, and that the battles there in pennsylvania have been about as terrible as any in the war--i think the killed and wounded there on both sides were as many as eighteen or twenty thousand--in one place, four or five acres, there were a thousand dead at daybreak on saturday morning. mother, one's heart grows sick of war, after all, when you see what it really is; every once in a while i feel so horrified and disgusted--it seems to me like a great slaughter-house and the men mutually butchering each other--then i feel how impossible it appears, again, to retire from this contest, until we have carried our points (it is cruel to be so tossed from pillar to post in one's judgment). washington is a pleasant place in some respects--it has the finest trees, and plenty of them everywhere, on the streets and grounds. the capitol grounds, though small, have the finest cultivated trees i ever see--there is a great variety, and not one but is in perfect condition. after i finish this letter i am going out there for an hour's recreation. the great sights of washington are the public buildings, the wide streets, the public grounds, the trees, the smithsonian institute and grounds. i go to the latter occasionally--the institute is an old fogy concern, but the grounds are fine. sometimes i go up to georgetown, about two and a half miles up the potomac, an old town--just opposite it in the river is an island, where the niggers have their first washington reg't encamped. they make a good show, are often seen in the streets of washington in squads. since they have begun to carry arms, the secesh here and in georgetown (about three fifths) are not insulting to them as formerly. one of the things here always on the go is long trains of army wagons--sometimes they will stream along all day; it almost seems as if there was nothing else but army wagons and ambulances. they have great camps here in every direction, of army wagons, teamsters, ambulance camps, etc.; some of them are permanent, and have small hospitals. i go to them (as no one else goes; ladies would not venture). i sometimes have the luck to give some of the drivers a great deal of comfort and help. indeed, mother, there are camps here of everything--i went once or twice to the contraband camp, to the hospital, etc., but i could not bring myself to go again--when i meet black men or boys among my own hospitals, i use them kindly, give them something, etc.--i believe i told you that i do the same to the wounded rebels, too--but as there is a limit to one's sinews and endurance and sympathies, etc., i have got in the way, after going lightly, as it were, all through the wards of a hospital, and trying to give a word of cheer, if nothing else, to every one, then confining my special attentions to the few where the investment seems to tell best, and who want it most. mother, i have real pride in telling you that i have the consciousness of saving quite a number of lives by saving them from giving up--and being a good deal with them; the men say it is so, and the doctors say it is so--and i will candidly confess i can see it is true, though i say it of myself. i know you will like to hear it, mother, so i tell you. i am finishing this in major hapgood's office, about 1 o'clock--it is pretty warm, but has not cleared off yet. the trees look so well from where i am, and the potomac--it is a noble river; i see it several miles, and the arlington heights. mother, i see some of the 47th brooklyn every day or two; the reg't is on the heights back of arlington house, a fine camp ground. o matty, i have just thought of you--dear sister, how are you getting along? jeff, i will write you truly. good-bye for the present, dearest mother, and all. walt. xxiii _washington, sept. 15, 1863._ dear mother--your letters were very acceptable--one came just as i was putting my last in the post office--i guess they all come right. i have written to han and george and sent george papers. mother, have you heard anything whether the 51st went on with burnside, or did they remain as a reserve in kentucky? burnside has managed splendidly so far, his taking knoxville and all together--it is a first-class success. i have known tennessee union men here in hospital, and i understand it, therefore--the region where knoxville is is mainly union, but the southerners could not exist without it, as it is in their midst, so they determined to pound and kill and crush out the unionists--all the savage and monstrous things printed in the papers about their treatment are true, at least that kind of thing is, as bad as the irish in the mob treated the poor niggers in new york. we north don't understand some things about southerners; it is very strange, the contrast--if i should pick out the most genuine union men and real patriots i have ever met in all my experience, i should pick out two or three tennessee and virginia unionists i have met in the hospitals, wounded or sick. one young man i guess i have mentioned to you in my letters, john barker, 2nd tennessee vol. (union), was a long while a prisoner in secesh prisons in georgia, and in richmond--three times the devils hung him up by the heels to make him promise to give up his unionism; once he was cut down for dead. he is a young married man with one child. his little property destroyed, his wife and child turned out--he hunted and tormented--and any moment he could have had anything if he would join the confederacy--but he was firm as a rock; he would not even take an oath to not fight for either side. they held him about eight months--then he was very sick, scurvy, and they exchanged him and he came up from richmond here to hospital; here i got acquainted with him. he is a large, slow, good-natured man, somehow made me often think of father; shrewd, very little to say--wouldn't talk to anybody but me. his whole thought was to get back and fight; he was not fit to go, but he has gone back to tennessee. he spent two days with his wife and young one there, and then to his regiment--he writes to me frequently and i to him; he is not fit to soldier, for the rebels have destroyed his health and strength (though he is only 23 or 4), but nothing will keep him from his regiment, and fighting--he is uneducated, but as sensible a young man as i ever met, and understands the whole question. well, mother, jack barker is the most genuine union man i have ever yet met. i asked him once very gravely why he didn't take the southern oath and get his liberty--if he didn't think he was foolish to be so stiff, etc. i never saw such a look as he gave me, he thought i was in earnest--the old devil himself couldn't have had put a worse look in his eyes. mother, i have no doubt there are quite a good many just such men. he is down there with his regiment (one of his brothers was killed)--when he fails in strength he gets the colonel to detach him to do teamster's duty for a few days, on a march till he recruits his strength--but he always carries his gun with him--in a battle he is always in the ranks--then he is so sensible, such decent manly ways, nothing shallow or mean (he must have been a giant in health, but now he is weaker, has a cough too). mother, can you wonder at my getting so attached to such men, with such love, especially when they show it to me--some of them on their dying beds, and in the very hour of death, or just the same when they recover, or partially recover? i never knew what american young men were till i have been in the hospitals. well, mother, i have got writing on--there is nothing new with me, just the same old thing, as i suppose it is with you there. mother, how is andrew? i wish to hear all about him--i do hope he is better, and that it will not prove anything so bad. i will write to him soon myself, but in the meantime you must tell him to not put so much faith in medicine--drugs, i mean--as in the true curative things; namely, diet and careful habits, breathing good air, etc. you know i wrote in a former letter what is the cause and foundation of the diseases of the throat and what must be the remedy that goes to the bottom of the thing--sudden attacks are to be treated with applications and medicines, but diseases of a seated character are not to be cured by them, only perhaps a little relieved (and often aggravated, made firmer). dearest mother, i hope you yourself are well, and getting along good. about the letter in the _times_, i see ever since i sent they have been very crowded with news that must be printed--i think they will give it yet. i hear there is a new paper in brooklyn, or to be one--i wish jeff would send me some of the first numbers without fail, and a stray _eagle_ in same parcel to make up the 4 ounces. i am glad to hear mat was going to write me a good long letter--every letter from home is so good, when one is away (i often see the men crying in the hospital when they get a letter). jeff too, i want him to write whenever he can, and not forget the new paper. we are having pleasant weather here; it is such a relief from that awful heat (i can't think of another such siege without feeling sick at the thought). mother, i believe i told you i had written to mrs. price--do you see emma? are the soldiers still on fort greene? well, mother, i have writ quite a letter--it is between 2 and 3 o'clock--i am in major hapgood's all alone--from my window i see all the potomac, and all around washington--major and all gone down to the army to pay troops, and i keep house. i am invited to dinner to-day at 4 o'clock at a mr. boyle's--i am going (hope we shall have something good). dear mother, i send you my love, and some to jeff and mat and all, not forgetting mannahatta (who i hope is a help and comfort to her grandmother). well, i must scratch off in a hurry, for it is nearly an hour [later] than i thought. good-bye for the present, dear mother. walt. xxiv _washington, sept. 29, 1863._ dear mother--well, here i sit this forenoon in a corner by the window in major hapgood's office, all the potomac, and maryland, and virginia hills in sight, writing my tuesday letter to you, dearest mother. major has gone home to boston on sick leave, and only the clerk and me occupy the office, and he not much of the time. at the present moment there are two wounded officers come in to get their pay--one has crutches; the other is drest in the light-blue uniform of the invalid corps. way up here on the 5th floor it is pretty hard scratching for cripples and very weak men to journey up here--often they come up here very weary and faint, and then find out they can't get their money, some red-tape hitch, and the poor soldiers look so disappointed--it always makes me feel bad. mother, we are having perfect weather here nowadays, both night and day. the nights are wonderful; for the last three nights as i have walked home from the hospital pretty late, it has seemed to me like a dream, the moon and sky ahead of anything i ever see before. mother, do you hear anything from george? i wrote to him yesterday and sent him your last letter, and jeff's enclosed--i shall send him some papers to-day--i send him papers quite often. (why hasn't jeff sent me the _union_ with my letter in? i want much to see it, and whether they have misprinted it.) mother, i don't think the 51st has been in any of the fighting we know of down there yet--what is to come of course nobody can tell. as to burnside, i suppose you know he is among his _friends_, and i think this quite important, for such the main body of east tennesseans are, and are far truer americans anyhow than the copperheads of the north. the tennesseans will fight for us too. mother, you have no idea how the soldiers, sick, etc. (i mean the american ones, to a man) all feel about the copperheads; they never speak of them without a curse, and i hear them say, with an air that shows they mean it, they would shoot them sooner than they would a rebel. mother, the troops from meade's army are passing through here night and day, going west and so down to reinforce rosecrans i suppose--the papers are not permitted to mention it, but it is so. two army corps, i should think, have mostly passed--they go through night and day--i hear the whistle of the locomotive screaming away any time at night when i wake up, and the rumbling of the trains. mother dear, you must write to me soon, and so must jeff. i thought mat was going to send me a great long letter--i am always looking for it; i hope it will be full of everything about family matters and doings, and how everybody really is. i go to major's box three or four times a day. i want to hear also about andrew, and indeed about every one of you and everything--nothing is too trifling, nothing uninteresting. o mother, who do you think i got a letter from, two or three days ago? aunt fanny, ansel's mother--she sent it by a young man, a wounded soldier who has been home to farmingdale on furlough, and lately returned. she writes a first-rate letter, quaker all over--i shall answer it. she says mary and ansel and all are well. i have received another letter from mrs. price--she has not good health. i am sorry for her from my heart; she is a good, noble woman, no better kind. mother, i am in the hospitals as usual--i stand it better the last three weeks than ever before--i go among the worst fevers and wounds with impunity. i go among the smallpox, etc., just the same--i feel to go without apprehension, and so i go. nobody else goes; and as the darkey said there at charleston when the boat run on a flat and the reb sharpshooters were peppering them, "somebody must jump in de water and shove de boat off." walt. xxv _washington, oct. 6, 1863._ dearest mother--your letter and george's came safe--dear brother george, one don't more than get a letter from him before you want to hear again, especially as things are looking pretty stormy that way--but mother, i rather lean to the opinion that the 51st is still in kentucky, at or near where george last wrote; but of course that is only my guess. i send george papers and occasionally letters. mother, i sent him enclosed your letter before the last, though you said in it not to tell him how much money he had home, as you wanted to surprise him; but i sent it. mother, i think rosecrans and burnside will be too much for the rebels down there yet. i myself make a great acc't of burnside being in the midst of _friends_, and such friends too--they will fight and fight up to the handle, and kill somebody (it seems as if it was coming to that pass where we will either have to destroy or be destroyed). mother, i wish you would write soon after you get this, or jeff or mat must, and tell me about andrew, if there is anything different with him--i think about him every day and night. i believe i must come home, even if it is only for a week--i want to see you all very much. mother, i know you must have a great deal to harass and trouble you; i don't mean about andrew personally, for i know you would feel to give your life to save his, and do anything to nourish him, but about the children and nancy--but, mother, you must not let anything chafe you, and you must not be squeamish about saying firmly at times not to have little georgy too much to trouble you (poor little fellow, i have no doubt he will be a pleasanter child when he grows older); and while you are pleasant with nancy you must be sufficiently plain with her--only, mother, i know you will, and jeff and mat will too, be invariably good to andrew, and not mind his being irritable at times; it is his disease, and then his temper is naturally fretful, but it is such a misfortune to have such sickness--and always do anything for him that you can in reason. mat, my dear sister, i know you will, for i know your nature is to come out a first-class girl in times of trouble and sickness, and do anything. mother, you don't know how pleased i was to read what you wrote about little sis. i want to see her so bad i don't know what to do; i know she must be just the best young one on long island--but i hope it will not be understood as meaning any slight or disrespect to miss hat, nor to put her nose out of joint, because uncle walt, i hope, has heart and gizzard big enough for both his little nieces and as many more as the lord may send. mother, i am writing this in major hapgood's office, as usual. i am all alone to-day--major is still absent, unwell, and the clerk is away somewhere. o how pleasant it is here--the weather i mean--and other things too, for that matter. i still occupy my little room, 394 l st.; get my own breakfast there; had good tea this morning, and some nice biscuit (yesterday morning and day before had peaches cut up). my friends the o'connors that i wrote about recommenced cooking the 1st of this month (they have been, as usual in summer, taking their meals at a family hotel near by). saturday they sent for me to breakfast, and sunday i eat dinner with them--very good dinner, roast beef, lima beans, good potatoes, etc. they are truly friends to me. i still get my dinner at a restaurant usually. i have a very good plain dinner, which is the only meal of any account i make during the day; but it is just as well, for i would be in danger of getting fat on the least encouragement, and i have no ambition that way. mother, it is lucky i like washington in many respects, and that things are upon the whole pleasant personally, for every day of my life i see enough to make one's heart ache with sympathy and anguish here in the hospitals, and i do not know as i could stand it if it was not counterbalanced outside. it is curious, when i am present at the most appalling things--deaths, operations, sickening wounds (perhaps full of maggots)--i do not fail, although my sympathies are very much excited, but keep singularly cool; but often hours afterward, perhaps when i am home or out walking alone, i feel sick and actually tremble when i recall the thing and have it in my mind again before me. mother, did you see my letter in the n. y. _times_ of sunday, oct. 4? that was the long-delayed letter. mother, i am very sorry jeff did not send me the _union_ with my letter in--i wish very much he could do so yet; and always when i have a letter in a paper i would like to have one sent. if you take the _union_, send me some once in a while. mother, was it will brown sent me those? tell him if so i was much obliged; and if he or mr. and mrs. brown take any interest in hearing my scribblings, mother, you let them read the letters, of course. o, i must not close without telling you the highly important intelligence that i have cut my hair and beard--since the event rosecrans, charleston, etc., etc., have among my acquaintances been hardly mentioned, being insignificant themes in comparison. jeff, my dearest brother, i have been going to write you a good gossipy letter for two or three weeks past; will try to yet, so it will reach you for sunday reading--so good-bye, jeff, and good-bye for present, mother dear, and all, and tell andrew he must not be discouraged yet. walt. xxvi _washington, oct. 11, 1863._ dear friend[18]--your letters were both received, and were indeed welcome. don't mind my not answering them promptly, for you know what a wretch i am about such things. but you must write just as often as you conveniently can. tell me all about your folks, especially the girls, and about mr. a. of course you won't forget arthur,[19] and always when you write to him send my love. tell me about mrs. u. and the dear little rogues. tell mrs. b. she ought to be here, hospital matron, only it is a harder pull than folks anticipate. you wrote about emma;[20] she thinks she might and ought to come as nurse for the soldiers. dear girl, i know it would be a blessed thing for the men to have her loving spirit and hand, and whoever of the poor fellows had them would indeed think it so. but, my darling, it is a dreadful thing--you don't know these wounds, sickness, etc., the sad condition in which many of the men are brought here, and remain for days; sometimes the wounds full of crawling corruption, etc. down in the field-hospitals in front they have no proper care (can't have), and after a battle go for many days unattended to. abby, i think often about you and the pleasant days, the visits i used to pay you, and how good it was always to be made so welcome. o, i wish i could come in this afternoon and have a good tea with you, and have three or four hours of mutual comfort, and rest and talk, and be all of us together again. is helen home and well? and what is she doing now? and you, my dear friend, how sorry i am to hear that your health is not rugged--but, dear abby, you must not dwell on anticipations of the worst (but i know that is not your nature, or did not use to be). i hope this will find you quite well and in good spirits. i feel so well myself--i will have to come and see you, i think--i am so fat, out considerable in the open air, and all red and tanned worse than ever. you see, therefore, that my life amid these sad and death-stricken hospitals has not told upon me, for i am this fall so running over with health, and i feel as if i ought to go on, on that account, working among all the sick and deficient; and o how gladly i would bestow upon you a liberal share of my health, dear abby, if such a thing were possible. i am continually moving around among the hospitals. one i go to oftenest the last three months is "armory-square," as it is large, generally full of the worst wounds and sickness, and is among the least visited. to this or some other i never miss a day or evening. i am enabled to give the men something, and perhaps some trifle to their supper all around. then there are always special cases calling for something special. above all the poor boys welcome magnetic friendship, personality (some are so fervent, so hungering for this)--poor fellows, how young they are, lying there with their pale faces, and that mute look in their eyes. o, how one gets to love them--often, particular cases, so suffering, so good, so manly and affectionate! abby, you would all smile to see me among them--many of them like children. ceremony is mostly discarded--they suffer and get exhausted and so weary--not a few are on their dying beds--lots of them have grown to expect, as i leave at night, that we should kiss each other, sometimes quite a number; i have to go round, poor boys. there is little petting in a soldier's life in the field, but, abby, i know what is in their hearts, always waiting, though they may be unconscious of it themselves. i have a place where i buy very nice homemade biscuits, sweet crackers, etc. among others, one of my ways is to get a good lot of these, and, for supper, go through a couple of wards and give a portion to each man--next day two wards more, and so on. then each marked case needs something to itself. i spend my evenings altogether at the hospitals--my days often. i give little gifts of money in small sums, which i am enabled to do--all sorts of things indeed, food, clothing, letter-stamps (i write lots of letters), now and then a good pair of crutches, etc., etc. then i read to the boys. the whole ward that can walk gathers around me and listens. all this i tell you, my dear, because i know it will interest you. i like washington very well. (did you see my last letter in the new york _times_ of october 4th, sunday?) i have three or four hours' work every day copying, and in writing letters for the press, etc.; make enough to pay my way--live in an inexpensive manner anyhow. i like the mission i am on here, and as it deeply holds me i shall continue. _october 15._ well, abby, i guess i send you letter enough. i ought to have finished and sent off the letter last sunday, when it was written. i have been pretty busy. we are having new arrivals of wounded and sick now all the time--some very bad cases. abby, should you come across any one who feels to help contribute to the men through me, write me. (i may then send word some purchases i should find acceptable for the men). but this only if it happens to come in that you know or meet any one, perfectly convenient. abby, i have found some good friends here, a few, but true as steel--w. d. o'connor and wife above all. he is a clerk in the treasury--she is a yankee girl. then c. w. eldridge[21] in paymaster's department. he is a boston boy, too--their friendship has been unswerving. in the hospitals, among these american young men, i could not describe to you what mutual attachments, and how passing deep and tender these boys. some have died, but the love for them lives as long as i draw breath. these soldiers know how to love too, when once they have the right person and the right love offered them. it is wonderful. you see i am running off into the clouds, but this is my element. abby, i am writing this note this afternoon in major h's office--he is away sick--i am here a good deal of the time alone. it is a dark rainy afternoon--we don't know what is going on down in front, whether meade is getting the worst of it or not--(but the result of the big elections cheers us). i believe fully in lincoln--few know the rocks and quicksands he has to steer through. i enclose you a note mrs. o'c. handed me to send you--written, i suppose, upon impulse. she is a noble massachusetts woman, is not very rugged in health--i am there very much--her husband and i are great friends too. well, i will close--the rain is pouring, the sky leaden, it is between 2 and 3. i am going to get some dinner, and then to the hospital. good-bye, dear friends, and i send my love to all. walt. xxvii _washington, oct. 13, 1863._ dearest mother--nothing particular new with me. i am well and hearty--think a good deal about home. mother, i so much want to see you, even if only for a couple of weeks, for i feel i must return here and continue my hospital operations. they are so much needed, although one can do only such a little in comparison, amid these thousands. then i desire much to see andrew. i wonder if i could cheer him up any. does he get any good from that treatment with the baths, etc.? mother, i suppose you have your hands full with nancy's poor little children, and one worry and another (when one gets old little things bother a great deal). mother, i go down every day looking for a letter from you or jeff--i had two from jeff latter part of the week. i want to see jeff much. i wonder why he didn't send me the _union_ with my letter in; i am disappointed at not getting it. i sent han a n. y. _times_ with my last letter, and one to george too. have you heard anything from george or han? there is a new lot of wounded now again. they have been arriving sick and wounded for three days--first long strings of ambulances with the sick, but yesterday many with bad and bloody wounds, poor fellows. i thought i was cooler and more used to it, but the sight of some of them brought tears into my eyes. mother, i had the good luck yesterday to do quite a great deal of good. i had provided a lot of nourishing things for the men, but for another quarter--but i had them where i could use them immediately for these new wounded as they came in faint and hungry, and fagged out with a long rough journey, all dirty and torn, and many pale as ashes and all bloody. i distributed all my stores, gave partly to the nurses i knew that were just taking charge of them--and as many as i could i fed myself. then besides i found a lot of oyster soup handy, and i procured it all at once. mother, it is the most pitiful sight, i think, when first the men are brought in. i have to bustle round, to keep from crying--they are such rugged young men--all these just arrived are cavalry men. our troops got the worst of it, but fought like devils. our men engaged were kilpatrick's cavalry. they were in the rear as part of meade's retreat, and the reb cavalry cut in between and cut them off and attacked them and shelled them terribly. but kilpatrick brought them out mostly--this was last sunday. mother, i will try to come home before long, if only for six or eight days. i wish to see you, and andrew--i wish to see the young ones; and mat, you must write. i am about moving. i have been hunting for a room to-day--i shall [write] next [time] how i succeed. good-bye for present, dear mother. walt. xxviii _washington, oct. 20, 1863._ dearest mother--i got your last letter sunday morning, though it was dated thursday night. mother, i suppose you got a letter from me saturday last, as i sent one the day before, as i was concerned about andrew. if i thought it would be any benefit to andrew i should certainly leave everything else and come back to brooklyn. mother, do you recollect what i wrote last summer about throat diseases, when andrew was first pretty bad? well, that's the whole groundwork of the business; any true physician would confirm it. there is no great charm about such things; as to any costly and mysterious baths, there are no better baths than warm water, or vapor (and perhaps sulphur vapor). there is nothing costly or difficult about them; one can have a very good sweating bath, at a pinch, by having a pan of warm water under a chair with a couple of blankets around him to enclose the vapor, and heating a couple of bricks or stones or anything to put in one after another, and sitting on the chair--it is a very wholesome sweat, too, and not to be sneezed at if one wishes to do what is salutary, and thinks of the sense of a thing, and not what others do. andrew mustn't be discouraged; those diseases are painful and tedious, but he can recover, and will yet. dear mother, i sent your last letter to george, with a short one i wrote myself. i sent it yesterday. i sent a letter last wednesday (14th) to him also, hoping that if one don't reach him another will. hasn't jeff seen capt. sims or lieut. mcready yet, and don't they hear whether the 51st is near nicholasville, kentucky, yet? i send george papers now and then. mother, one of your letters contains part of my letter to the _union_ (i wish i could have got the whole of it). it seems to me mostly as i intended it, barring a few slight misprints. was my last name signed at the bottom of it? tell me when you write next. dear mother, i am real sorry, and mad too, that the water works people have cut jeff's wages down to $50; this is a pretty time to cut a man's wages down, the mean old punkin heads. mother, i can't understand it at all; tell me more of the particulars. jeff, i often wish you was on here; you would be better appreciated--there are big salaries paid here sometimes to civil engineers. jeff, i know a fellow, e. c. stedman; has been here till lately; is now in wall street. he is poor, but he is in with the big bankers, hallett & co., who are in with fremont in his line of pacific railroad. i can get his (stedman's) address, and should you wish it any time i will give you a letter to him. i shouldn't wonder if the big men, with fremont at head, were going to push their route works, road, etc., etc., in earnest, and if a fellow could get a good managing place in it, why it might be worth while. i think after jeff has been with the brooklyn w[ater] w[orks] from the beginning, and so faithful and so really valuable, to put down to $50--the mean, low-lived old shoats! i have felt as indignant about it, the meanness of the thing, and mighty inconvenient, too--$40 a month makes a big difference. mother, i hope jeff won't get and keep himself in a perpetual fever, with all these things and others and botherations, both family and business ones. if he does, he will just wear himself down before his time comes. i do hope, jeff, you will take things equally all round, and not brood or think too deeply. so i go on giving you all good advice. o mother, i must tell you how i get along in my new quarters. i have moved to a new room, 456 sixth street, not far from pennsylvania avenue (the big street here), and not far from the capitol. it is in the 3d story, an addition back; seems to be going to prove a very good winter room, as it is right under the roof and looks south; has low windows, is plenty big enough; i have gas. i think the lady will prove a good woman. she is old and feeble. (there is a little girl of 4 or 5; i hear her sometimes calling _grandma, grandma_, just exactly like hat; it made me think of you and hat right away.) one thing is i am quite by myself; there is no passage up there except to my room, and right off against my side of the house is a great old yard with grass and some trees back, and the sun shines in all day, etc., and it smells sweet, and good air--good big bed; i sleep first rate. there is a young wench of 12 or 13, lucy (the niggers here are the best and most amusing creatures you ever see)--she comes and goes, gets water, etc. she is pretty much the only one i see. then i believe the front door is not locked at all at night. (in the other place the old thief, the landlord, had two front doors, with four locks and bolts on one and three on the other--and a big bulldog in the back yard. we were well fortified, i tell you. sometimes i had an awful time at night getting in.) i pay $10 a month; this includes gas, but not fuel. jeff, you can come on and see me easy now. mother, to give you an idea of prices here, while i was looking for rooms, about like our two in wheeler's houses (2nd story), nothing extra about them, either in location or anything, and the rent was $60 a month. yet, quite curious, vacant houses here are not so very dear; very much the same as in brooklyn. dear mother, jeff wrote in his letter latter part of last week, you was real unwell with a very bad cold (and that you didn't have enough good meals). mother, i hope this will find you well and in good spirits. i think about you every day and night. jeff thinks you show your age more, and failing like. o my dear mother, you must not think of failing yet. i hope we shall have some comfortable years yet. mother, don't allow things, troubles, to take hold of you; write a few lines whenever you can; tell me exactly how things are. mother, i am first rate and well--only a little of that deafness again. good-bye for present. walt. xxix _washington, oct. 27, 1863._ dearest mother,--yours and george's letter came, and a letter from jeff too--all good. i had received a letter a day or so before from george too. i am very glad he is at camp nelson, kentucky, and i hope and pray the reg't will be kept there--for god knows they have tramped enough for the last two years, and fought battles and been through enough. i have sent george papers to camp nelson, and will write to-morrow. i send him the _unions_ and the late new york papers. mother, you or jeff write and tell me how andrew is; i hope he will prove to be better. such complaints are sometimes very alarming for awhile, and then take such a turn for the better. common means and steadily pursuing them, about diet especially, are so much more reliable than any course of medicine whatever. mother, i have written to han; i sent her george's letter to me, and wrote her a short letter myself. i sent it four or five days ago. mother, i am real pleased to hear jeff's explanation how it is that his wages is cut down, and that it was not as i fancied from the meanness of the old coons in the board. i felt so indignant about it, as i took it into my head, (though i don't know why) that it was done out of meanness, and was a sort of insult. i was quite glad jeff wrote a few lines about it--and glad they appreciate jeff, too. mother, if any of my soldier boys should ever call upon you (as they are often anxious to have my address in brooklyn) you just use them as you know how to without ceremony, and if you happen to have pot luck and feel to ask them to take a bite, don't be afraid to do so. there is one very good boy, thos. neat, 2nd n. y. cavalry, wounded in leg. he is now home on furlough--his folks live, i think, in jamaica. he is a noble boy. he may call upon you. (i gave him here $1 toward buying his crutches, etc.) i like him very much. then possibly a mr. haskell, or some of his folks from western new york, may call--he had a son died here, a very fine boy. i was with him a good deal, and the old man and his wife have written me, and asked me my address in brooklyn. he said he had children in n. y. city and was occasionally down there. mother, when i come home i will show you some of the letters i get from mothers, sisters, fathers, etc.--they will make you cry. there is nothing new with my hospital doings--i was there yesterday afternoon and evening, and shall be there again to-day. mother, i should like to hear how you are yourself--has your cold left you, and do you feel better? do you feel quite well again? i suppose you have your good stove all fired up these days--we have had some real cool weather here. i must rake up a little cheap second-hand stove for my room, for it was in the bargain that i should get that myself. mother, i like my place quite well, better on nearly every account than my old room, but i see it will only do for a winter room. they keep it clean, and the house smells clean, and the room too. my old room, they just let everything lay where it was, and you can fancy what a litter of dirt there was--still it was a splendid room for air, for summer, as good as there is in washington. i got a letter from mrs. price this morning--does emmy ever come to see you? matty, my dear sister, and miss mannahatta, and the little one (whose name i don't know, and perhaps hasn't got any name yet), i hope you are all well and having good times. i often, often think about you all. mat, do you go any to the opera now? they say the new singers are so good--when i come home we'll try to go. mother, i am very well--have some cold in my head and my ears stopt up yet, making me sometimes quite hard of hearing. i am writing this in major hapgood's office. last sunday i took dinner at my friends the o'connors--had two roast chickens, stewed tomatoes, potatoes, etc. i took dinner there previous sunday also. well, dear mother, how the time passes away--to think it will soon be a year i have been away! it has passed away very swiftly, somehow, to me. o what things i have witnessed during that time--i shall never forget them. and the war is not settled yet, and one does not see anything at all certain about the settlement yet; but i have finally got for good, i think, into the feeling that our triumph is assured, whether it be sooner or whether it be later, or whatever roundabout way we are led there, and i find i don't change that conviction from any reverses we meet, or any delays or government blunders. there are blunders enough, heaven knows, but i am thankful things have gone on as well for us as they have--thankful the ship rides safe and sound at all. then i have finally made up my mind that mr. lincoln has done as good as a human man could do. i still think him a pretty big president. i realize here in washington that it has been a big thing to have just kept the united states from being thrown down and having its throat cut; and now i have no doubt it will throw down secession and cut its throat--and i have not had any doubt since gettysburg. well, dear, dear mother, i will draw to a close. andrew and jeff and all, i send you my love. good-bye, dear mother and dear matty and all hands. walt. xxx _washington, dec. 15, 1863._ dearest mother--the last word i got from home was your letter written the night before andrew was buried--friday night, nearly a fortnight ago. i have not heard anything since from you or jeff. mother, major hapgood has moved from his office, cor. 15th street, and i am not with him any more. he has moved his office to his private room. i am writing this in my room, 456 sixth street, but my letters still come to major's care; they are to be addrest same as ever, as i can easily go and get them out of his box (only nothing need be sent me any time to the old office, as i am not there, nor major either). anything like a telegraphic dispatch or express box or the like should be addrest 456 sixth street, 3rd story, back room. dear mother, i hope you are well and in good spirits. i wish you would try to write to me everything about home and the particulars of andrew's funeral, and how you all are getting along. i have not received the _eagle_ with the little piece in. i was in hopes jeff would have sent it. i wish he would yet, or some of you would; i want to see it. i think it must have been put in by a young man named howard; he is now editor of the _eagle_, and is very friendly to me. mother, i am quite well. i have been out this morning early, went down through the market; it is quite a curiosity--i bought some butter, tea, etc. i have had my breakfast here in my room, good tea, bread and butter, etc. mother, i think about you all more than ever--and poor andrew, i often think about him. mother, write to me how nancy and the little boys are getting along. i got thinking last night about little california.[22] o how i wished i had her here for an hour to take care of--dear little girl. i don't think i ever saw a young one i took to so much--but i mustn't slight hattie; i like her too. mother, i am still going among the hospitals; there is plenty of need, just the same as ever. i go every day or evening. i have not heard from george--i have no doubt the 51st is still at crab orchard. mother, i hope you will try to write. i send you my love, and to jeff and mat and all--so good-bye, dear mother. walt. letters of 1864 i _washington, friday afternoon, jan. 29. '64._ dear mother--your letter of tuesday night came this forenoon--the one of sunday night i received yesterday. mother, you don't say in either of them whether george has re-enlisted or not--or is that not yet decided positively one way or the other? o mother, how i should like to be home (i don't want more than two or three days). i want to see george (i have his photograph on the wall, right over my table all the time), and i want to see california--you must always write in your letters how she is. i shall write to han this afternoon or to-morrow morning and tell her probably george will come out and see her, and that if he does you will send her word beforehand. jeff, my dear brother, if there should be the change made in the works, and things all overturned, you mustn't mind--i dare say you will pitch into something better. i believe a real overturn in the dead old beaten track of a man's life, especially a young man's, is always likely to turn out best, though it worries one at first dreadfully. mat, i want to see you most sincerely--they haven't put in anything in the last two or three letters about you, but i suppose you are well, my dear sister. mother, the young man that i took care of, lewis brown, is pretty well, but very restless--he is doing well now, but there is a long road before him yet; it is torture for him to be tied so to his cot, this weather; he is a very noble young man and has suffered very much. he is a maryland boy and (like the southerners when they _are_ union) i think he is as strong and resolute a union boy as there is in the united states. he went out in a maryland reg't, but transferred to a n. y. battery. but i find so many noble men in the ranks i have ceased to wonder at it. i think the soldiers from the new england states and the western states are splendid, and the country parts of n. y. and pennsylvania too. i think less of the great cities than i used to. i know there are black sheep enough even in the ranks, but the general rule is the soldiers are noble, very. mother, i wonder if george thinks as i do about the best way to enjoy a visit home, after all. when i come home again, i shall not go off gallivanting with my companions half as much nor a quarter as much as i used to, but shall spend the time quietly home with you while i do stay; it is a great humbug spreeing around, and a few choice friends for a man, the real right kind in a quiet way, are enough. mother, i hope you take things easy, don't you? mother, you know i was always advising you to let things go and sit down and take what comfort you can while you do live. it is very warm here; this afternoon it is warm enough for july--the sun burns where it shines on your face; it is pretty dusty in the principal streets. congress is in session; i see odell, kalbfleisch, etc., often. i have got acquainted with mr. garfield, an m. c. from ohio, and like him very much indeed (he has been a soldier west, and i believe a good brave one--was a major general). i don't go much to the debates this session yet. congress will probably keep in session till well into the summer. as to what course things will take, political or military, there's no telling. i think, though, the secesh military power is getting more and more shaky. how they can make any headway against our new, large, and fresh armies next season passes my wit to see. mother, i was talking with a pretty high officer here, who is behind the scenes--i was mentioning that i had a great desire to be present at a first-class battle; he told me if i would only stay around here three or four weeks longer my wish would probably be gratified. i asked him what he meant, what he alluded to specifically, but he would not say anything further--so i remain as much in the dark as before--only there seemed to be some meaning in his remark, and it was made to me only as there was no one else in hearing at the moment (he is quite an admirer of my poetry). the re-enlistment of the veterans is the greatest thing yet; it pleases everybody but the rebels--and surprises everybody too. mother, i am well and fat (i must weigh about 206), so washington must agree with me. i work three or four hours a day copying. dear mother, i send you and hattie my love, as you say she is a dear little girl. mother, try to write every week, even if only a few lines. love to george and jeff and mat. walt. ii _washington, feb. 2, 1864._ dearest mother--i am writing this by the side of the young man you asked about, lewis brown in armory-square hospital. he is getting along very well indeed--the amputation is healing up good, and he does not suffer anything like as much as he did. i see him every day. we have had real hot weather here, and for the last three days wet and rainy; it is more like june than february. mother, i wrote to han last saturday--she must have got it yesterday. i have not heard anything from home since a week ago (your last letter). i suppose you got a letter from me saturday last. i am well as usual. there has been several hundred sick soldiers brought in here yesterday. i have been around among them to-day all day--it is enough to make me heart-sick, the old times over again; they are many of them mere wrecks, though young men (sickness is worse in some respects than wounds). one boy about 16, from portland, maine, only came from home a month ago, a recruit; he is here now very sick and down-hearted, poor child. he is a real country boy; i think has consumption. he was only a week with his reg't. i sat with him a long time; i saw [it] did him great good. i have been feeding some their dinners. it makes me feel quite proud, i find so frequently i can do with the men what no one else at all can, getting them to eat (some that will not touch their food otherwise, nor for anybody else)--it is sometimes quite affecting, i can tell you. i found such a case to-day, a soldier with throat disease, very bad. i fed him quite a dinner; the men, his comrades around, just stared in wonder, and one of them told me afterwards that he (the sick man) had not eat so much at a meal in three months. mother, i shall have my hands pretty full now for a while--write all about things home. walt. lewis brown says i must give you his love--he says he knows he would like you if he should see you. iii _washington, friday afternoon, feb. 5, 1864._ dearest mother--i am going down in front, in the midst of the army, to-morrow morning, to be gone for about a week--so i thought i would write you a few lines now, to let you know. mother, i suppose you got my letter written last tuesday--i have not got any from home now for a number of days. i am well and hearty. the young man lewis brown is able to be up a little on crutches. there is quite a number of sick young men i have taken in hand, from the late arrivals, that i am sorry to leave. sick and down-hearted and lonesome, they think so much of a friend, and i get so attached to them too--but i want to go down in camp once more very much; and i think i shall be back in a week. i shall spend most of my time among the sick and wounded in the camp hospitals. if i had means i should stop with them, poor boys, or go among them periodically, dispensing what i had, as long as the war lasts, down among the worst of it (although what are collected here in hospital seem to me about as severe and needy cases as any, after all). mother, i want to hear about you all, and about george and how he is spending his time home. mother, i do hope you are well and in good spirits, and jeff and mat and all, and dear little california and hattie--i send them all my love. mother, i may write to you from down in front--so good-bye, dear mother, for present. walt. i hope i shall find several letters waiting for me when i get back here. iv _culpepper, virginia, friday night, feb. 12, 1864._ dearest mother--i am still stopping down in this region. i am a good deal of the time down within half a mile of our picket lines, so that you see i can indeed call myself in the front. i stopped yesterday with an artillery camp in the 1st corps at the invitation of capt. crawford, who said that he knew me in brooklyn. it is close to the lines--i asked him if he did not think it dangerous. he said, no, he could have a large force of infantry to help him there, in very short metre, if there was any sudden emergency. the troops here are scattered all around, much more apart than they seemed to me to be opposite fredericksburg last winter. they mostly have good huts and fireplaces, etc. i have been to a great many of the camps, and i must say i am astonished [how] good the houses are almost everywhere. i have not seen one regiment, nor any part of one, in the poor uncomfortable little shelter tents that i saw so common last winter after fredericksburg--but all the men have built huts of logs and mud. a good many of them would be comfortable enough to live in under any circumstances. i have been in the division hospitals around here. there are not many men sick here, and no wounded--they now send them on to washington. i shall return there in a few days, as i am very clear that the real need of one's services is there after all--there the worst cases concentrate, and probably will, while the war lasts. i suppose you know that what we call hospital here in the field is nothing but a collection of tents on the bare ground for a floor--rather hard accommodation for a sick man. they heat them there by digging a long trough in the ground under them, covering it over with old railroad iron and earth, and then building a fire at one end and letting it draw through and go out at the other, as both ends are open. this heats the ground through the middle of the hospital quite hot. i find some poor creatures crawling about pretty weak with diarrhoea; there is a great deal of that; they keep them until they get very bad indeed, and then send them to washington. this aggravates the complaint, and they come into washington in a terrible condition. o mother, how often and how many i have seen come into washington from this awful complaint after such an experience as i have described--with the look of death on their poor young faces; they keep them so long in the field hospitals with poor accommodations the disease gets too deeply seated. to-day i have been out among some of the camps of the 2nd division of the 1st corps. i have been wandering around all day, and have had a very good time, over woods, hills, and gullies--indeed, a real soldier's march. the weather is good and the travelling quite tolerable. i have been in the camps of some massachusetts, pennsylvania, and new york regiments. i have friends in them, and went out to see them, and see soldiering generally, as i can never cease to crave more and more knowledge of actual soldiers' life, and to be among them as much as possible. this evening i have also been in a large wagoners' camp. they had good fires and were very cheerful. i went to see a friend there, too, but did not find him in. it is curious how many i find that i know and that know me. mother, i have no difficulty at all in making myself at home among the soldiers, teamsters, or any--i most always find they like to have me very much; it seems to do them good. no doubt they soon feel that my heart and sympathies are truly with them, and it is both a novelty and pleases them and touches their feelings, and so doubtless does them good--and i am sure it does that to me. there is more fun around here than you would think for. i told you about the theatre the 14th brooklyn has got up--they have songs and burlesques, etc.; some of the performers real good. as i write this i have heard in one direction or another two or three good bands playing--and hear one tooting away some gay tunes now, though it is quite late at night. mother, i don't know whether i mentioned in my last letter that i took dinner with col. fowler one day early part of the week. his wife is stopping here. i was down at the 14th as i came along this evening, too--one of the officers told me about a presentation to george of a sword, etc.--he said he see it in the papers. the 14th invited me to come and be their guest while i staid here, but i have not been able to accept. col. fowler uses me tip-top--he is provost marshal of this region; makes a good officer. mother, i could get no pen and ink to-night. well, dear mother, i send you my love, and to george and jeff and mat and little girls and all. walt. direct to care of major hapgood as before, and write soon. mother, i suppose you got a letter i wrote from down here last monday. v _washington, march 2, 1864._ dear mother--you or jeff must try to write as soon as you receive this and let me know how little sis is. tell me if she got entirely over the croup and how she is--also about george's trunks. i do hope he received them; it was such a misfortune; i want to hear the end of it; i am in hopes i shall hear that he has got them. i have not seen in the papers whether the 51st has left new york yet. mother, i want to hear all about home and all the occurrences, especially the two things i have just mentioned, and how you are, for somehow i was thinking from your letters lately whether you was as well as usual or not. write how my dear sister mat is too, and whether you are still going to stay there in portland avenue the coming year. well, dear mother, i am just the same here--nothing new. i am well and hearty, and constantly moving around among the wounded and sick. there are a great many of the latter coming up--the hospitals here are quite full--lately they have [been] picking out in the hospitals all that had pretty well recovered, and sending them back to their regiments. they seem to be determined to strengthen the army this spring to the utmost. they are sending down many to their reg'ts that are not fit to go in my opinion--then there are squads and companies, and reg'ts, too, passing through here in one steady stream, going down to the front, returning from furlough home; but then there are quite a number leaving the army on furlough, re-enlisting, and going north for a while. they pass through here quite largely. mother, lewis brown is getting quite well; he will soon be able to have a wooden leg put on. he is very restless and active, and wants to go round all the time. sam beatty is here in washington. we have had quite a snow storm, but [it] is clear and sunny to-day here, but sloshy. i am wearing my army boots--anything but the dust. dear mother, i want to see you and sis and mat and all very much. if i can get a chance i think i shall come home for a while. i want to try to bring out a book of poems, a new one, to be called "drum-taps," and i want to come to new york for that purpose, too. mother, i haven't given up the project of lecturing, either, but whatever i do, i shall for the main thing devote myself for years to come to these wounded and sick, what little i can. well, good-bye, dear mother, for present--write soon. walt. vi _washington, march 15, 1861._ dearest mother--i got a letter from jeff last sunday--he says you have a very bad cold indeed. dear mother, i feel very much concerned about it; i do hope it has passed over before this. jeff wrote me about the house. i hope it will be so you can both remain in the same house; it would be much more satisfaction.... the poor boy very sick of brain fever i was with, is dead; he was only 19 and a noble boy, so good though out of his senses some eight days, though still having a kind of idea of things. no relative or friend was with him. it was very sad. i was with him considerable, only just sitting by him soothing him. he was wandering all the time. his talk was so affecting it kept the tears in my eyes much of the time. the last twenty-four hours he sank very rapidly. he had been sick some months ago and was put in the 6th invalid corps--they ought to have sent him home instead. the next morning after his death his brother came, a very fine man, postmaster at lyne ridge, pa.--he was much affected, and well he might be. mother, i think it worse than ever here in the hospitals. we are getting the dregs as it were of the sickness and awful hardships of the past three years. there is the most horrible cases of diarrhoea you ever conceived of and by the hundreds and thousands; i suppose from such diet as they have in the army. well, dear mother, i will not write any more on the sick, and yet i know you wish to hear about them. every one is so unfeeling; it has got to be an old story. there is no good nursing. o i wish you were--or rather women of such qualities as you and mat--were here in plenty, to be stationed as matrons among the poor sick and wounded men. just to be present would be enough--o what good it would do them. mother, i feel so sick when i see what kind of people there are among them, with charge over them--so cold and ceremonious, afraid to touch them. well, mother, i fear i have written you a flighty kind of a letter--i write in haste. walt. the papers came right, mother--love to jeff, mat, and all. vii _washington, march 22, 1861._ dearest mother--i feel quite bad to hear that you are not well--have a pain in your side, and a very bad cold. dear mother, i hope it is better. i wish you would write to me, or jeff would, right away, as i shall not feel easy until i hear. i rec'd george's letter. jeff wrote with it, about your feeling pretty sick, and the pain. mother, i also rec'd your letter a few days before. you say the browns acted very mean, and i should say they did indeed, but as it is going to remain the same about the house, i should let it all pass. i am very glad mat and jeff are going to remain; i should not have felt satisfied if they and you had been separated. i have written a letter to han, with others enclosed, a good long letter (took two postage stamps). i have written to george too, directed it to knoxville. mother, everything is the same with me; i am feeling very well indeed, the old trouble of my head stopt and my ears affected, has not troubled me any since i came back here from brooklyn. i am writing this in major hapgood's old office, cor. 15th and f streets, where i have my old table and window. it is dusty and chilly to-day, anything but agreeable. gen. grant is expected every moment now in the army of the potomac to take active command. i have just this moment heard from the front--there is nothing yet of a movement, but each side is continually on the alert, expecting something to happen. o mother, to think that we are to have here soon what i have seen so many times, the awful loads and trains and boat loads of poor bloody and pale and wounded young men again--for that is what we certainly will, and before very long. i see all the little signs, geting ready in the hospitals, etc.; it is dreadful when one thinks about it. i sometimes think over the sights i have myself seen, the arrival of the wounded after a battle, and the scenes on the field too, and i can hardly believe my own recollections. what an awful thing war is! mother, it seems not men but a lot of devils and butchers butchering each other. dear mother, i think twenty times a day about your sickness. o, i hope it is not so bad as jeff wrote. he said you was worse than you had ever been before, and he would write me again. well, he must, even if only a few lines. what have you heard from mary and her family, anything? well, dear mother, i hope this will find you quite well of the pain, and of the cold--write about the little girls and mat and all. walt. viii _washington, march 29, 1864._ dearest mother--i have written to george again to knoxville. things seem to be quiet down there so far. we think here that our forces are going to be made strongest here in virginia this spring, and every thing bent to take richmond. grant is here; he is now down at headquarters in the field, brandy station. we expect fighting before long; there are many indications. i believe i told you they had sent up all the sick from front. [_the letter is here mutilated so as to be illegible; from the few remaining words, however, it is possible to gather that the writer is describing the arrival of a_ train of wounded, over 600, _in washington during_ a terribly rainy afternoon. _the letter continues_:] i could not keep the tears out of my eyes. many of the poor young men had to be moved on stretchers, with blankets over them, which soon soaked as wet as water in the rain. most were sick cases, but some badly wounded. i came up to the nearest hospital and helped. mother, it was a dreadful night (last friday night)--pretty dark, the wind gusty, and the rain fell in torrents. one poor boy--this is a sample of one case out of the 600--he seemed to be quite young, he was quite small (i looked at his body afterwards), he groaned some as the stretcher bearers were carrying him along, and again as they carried him through the hospital gate. they set down the stretcher and examined him, and the poor boy was dead. they took him into the ward, and the doctor came immediately, but it was all of no use. the worst of it is, too, that he is entirely unknown--there was nothing on his clothes, or any one with him to identity him, and he is altogether unknown. mother, it is enough to rack one's heart--such things. very likely his folks will never know in the world what has become of him. poor, poor child, for he appeared as though he could be but 18. i feel lately as though i must have some intermission. i feel well and hearty enough, and was never better, but my feelings are kept in a painful condition a great part of the time. things get worse and worse, as to the amount and sufferings of the sick, and as i have said before, those who have to do with them are getting more and more callous and indifferent. mother, when i see the common soldiers, what they go through, and how everybody seems to try to pick upon them, and what humbug there is over them every how, even the dying soldier's money stolen from his body by some scoundrel attendant, or from [the] sick one, even from under his head, which is a common thing, and then the agony i see every day, i get almost frightened at the world. mother, i will try to write more cheerfully next time--but i see so much. well, good-bye for present, dear mother. walt. ix _washington, thursday afternoon, march 31, 1864._ dearest mother--i have just this moment received your letter dated last monday evening. dear mother, i have not seen anything in any paper where the 51st is, nor heard anything, but i do not feel any ways uneasy about them. i presume they are at knoxville, tennessee. mother, they are now paying off many of the regiments in this army--but about george, i suppose there will be delays in sending money, etc. dear mother, i wish i had some money to send you, but i am living very close by the wind. mother, i will try somehow to send you something worth while, and i do hope you will not worry and feel unhappy about money matters; i know things are very high. mother, i suppose you got my letter written tuesday last, 29th march, did you not? i have been going to write to jeff for more than a month--i laid out to write a good long letter, but something has prevented me, one thing and another; but i will try to write to-morrow sure. mother, i have been in the midst of suffering and death for two months worse than ever--the only comfort is that i have been the cause of some beams of sunshine upon their suffering and gloomy souls, and bodies too. many of the dying i have been with, too. well, mother, you must not worry about the grocery bill, etc., though i suppose you will say that it is easier said than followed (as to me, i believe i worry about worldly things less than ever, if that is possible). tell jeff and mat i send them my love. gen. grant has just come in town from front. the country here is all mad again. i am going to a spiritualist medium this evening--i expect it will be a humbug, of course. i will tell you next letter. dear mother, keep a good heart. walt. how is california? tell hat her uncle walt will come home one of these days, and take her to new york to walk in broadway. poor little jim, i should like to see him. there is a rich young friend of mine wants me to go to idaho with him to make money. x _washington, tuesday afternoon, april 5, 1864._ dearest mother--i got a letter from jeff yesterday--he says you often work too hard, exposing yourself; i suppose, scrubbing, etc., and the worst of it is i am afraid it is true. mother, i would take things easy, and let up on the scrubbing and such things; they may be needed perhaps, but they ain't half as much needed as that you should be as well as possible, and free from rheumatism and cold. jeff says that ---has had the chicken pox. has she got all over it? i want to hear. so nance has had another child, poor little one; there don't seem to be much show for it, poor little young one, these times. we are having awful rainy weather here. it is raining to-day steady and spiteful enough. the soldiers in camp are having the benefit of it, and the sick, many of them. there is a great deal of rheumatism and also throat disease, and they are affected by the weather. i have writ to george again, directed to knoxville. mother, i got a letter this morning from lewis brown, the young man that had his leg amputated two months or so ago (the one that i slept in the hospital by several nights for fear of hemorrhage from the amputation). he is home at elkton, maryland, on furlough. he wants me to come out there, but i believe i shall not go--he is doing very well. there are many very bad now in hospital, so many of the soldiers are getting broke down after two years, or two and a half, exposure and bad diet, pork, hard biscuit, bad water or none at all, etc., etc.--so we have them brought up here. oh, it is terrible, and getting worse, worse, worse. i thought it was bad; to see these i sometimes think is more pitiful still. well, mother, i went to see the great spirit medium, foster. there were some little things some might call curious, perhaps, but it is a shallow thing and a humbug. a gentleman who was with me was somewhat impressed, but i could not see anything in it worth calling supernatural. i wouldn't turn on my heel to go again and see such things, or twice as much. we had table rappings and lots of nonsense. i will give you particulars when i come home one of these days. jeff, i believe there is a fate on your long letter; i thought i would write it to-day, but as it happens i will hardly get this in the mail, i fear, in time for to-day. o how i want to see you all, and sis and hat. well, i have scratched out a great letter just as fast as i could write. _wednesday forenoon._ mother, i didn't get the letter in the mail yesterday. i have just had my breakfast, some good tea and good toast and butter. i write this in my room, 456 sixth st. the storm seems to be over. dear mother, i hope you are well and in good spirits--write to me often as you can, and jeff too. any news from han? walt. xi _washington, april 10, 1864._ dearest mother--i rec'd your letter and sent the one you sent for george immediately--he must have got it the next day. i had got one from him before yours arrived. i mean to go to annapolis and see him. mother, we expect a commencement of the fighting below very soon; there is every indication of it. we have had about as severe rain storms here lately as i ever see. it is middling pleasant now. there are exciting times in congress--the copperheads are getting furious and want to recognize the southern confederacy. this is a pretty time to talk of recognizing such villains after what they have done, and after what has transpired the last three years. after first fredericksburg i felt discouraged myself, and doubted whether our rulers could carry on the war--but that has passed away. the war must be carried on, and i could willingly go myself in the ranks if i thought it would profit more than at present, and i don't know sometimes but i shall as it is. mother, you don't know what a feeling a man gets after being in the active sights and influences of the camp, the army, the wounded, etc. he gets to have a deep feeling he never experienced before--the flag, the tune of yankee doodle and similar things, produce an effect on a fellow never such before. i have seen some bring tears on the men's cheeks, and others turn pale, under such circumstances. i have a little flag; it belonged to one of our cavalry reg'ts; presented to me by one of the wounded. it was taken by the secesh in a cavalry fight, and rescued by our men in a bloody little skirmish. it cost three men's lives, just to get one little flag, four by three. our men rescued it, and tore it from the breast of a dead rebel--all that just for the name of getting their little banner back again. the man that got it was very badly wounded, and they let him keep it. i was with him a good deal; he wanted to give me something, he said, he didn't expect to live, so he gave me the little banner as a keepsake. i mention this, mother, to show you a specimen of the feeling. there isn't a reg't, cavalry or infantry, that wouldn't do the same on occasion. _tuesday morning, april 12._ mother, i will finish my letter this morning. it is a beautiful day to-day. i was up in congress very late last night. the house had a very excited night session about expelling the men that want to recognize the southern confederacy. you ought to hear the soldiers talk. they are excited to madness. we shall probably have hot times here, not in the army alone. the soldiers are true as the north star. i send you a couple of envelopes, and one to george. write how you are, dear mother, and all the rest. i want to see you all. jeff, my dear brother, i wish you was here, and mat too. write how sis is. i am well, as usual; indeed first rate every way. i want to come on in a month and try to print my "drum-taps." i think it may be a success pecuniarily, too. dearest mother, i hope this will find you entirely well, and dear sister mat and all. walt. xii _washington, tuesday noon, april 19, 1864._ dearest mother--i haven't heard any news from home now in more than a week. i hope you are well, dear mother, and all the rest too. there is nothing new with me. i can only write the same old story about going to the hospitals, etc., etc. i have not heard anything since from george--have you heard anything further? i have written to him to annapolis. we are having it pretty warm here to-day, after a long spell of rain storms, but the last two or three days very fine. mother, i suppose you got my letter of last tuesday, 12th. i went down to the capitol the nights of the debate on the expulsion of mr. long last week. they had night sessions, very late. i like to go to the house of representatives at night; it is the most magnificent hall, so rich and large, and lighter at night than it is days, and still not a light visible--it comes through the glass roof--but the speaking and the ability of the members is nearly always on a low scale. it is very curious and melancholy to see such a rate of talent there, such tremendous times as these--i should say about the same range of genius as our old friend dr. swaim, just about. you may think i am joking, but i am not, mother--i am speaking in perfect earnest. the capitol grows upon one in time, especially as they have got the great figure on top of it now, and you can see it very well. it is a great bronze figure, the genius of liberty i suppose. it looks wonderful towards sundown. i love to go and look at it. the sun when it is nearly down shines on the headpiece and it dazzles and glistens like a big star; it looks quite curious. well, mother, we have commenced on another summer, and what it will bring forth who can tell? the campaign of this summer is expected here to be more active and severe than any yet. as i told you in a former letter, grant is determined to bend everything to take richmond and break up the banditti of scoundrels that have stuck themselves up there as a "government." he is in earnest about it; his whole soul and all his thoughts night and day are upon it. he is probably the most in earnest of any man in command or in the government either--that's something, ain't it, mother?--and they are bending everything to fight for their last chance--calling in their forces from southwest, etc. dear mother, give my love to dear brother jeff and mat and all. i write this in my room, 6th st. walt. xiii _washington, april 26, 1864._ dearest mother--burnside's army passed through here yesterday. i saw george and walked with him in the regiment for some distance and had quite a talk. he is very well; he is very much tanned and looks hardy. i told him all the latest news from home. george stands it very well, and looks and behaves the same noble and good fellow he always was and always will be. it was on 14th st. i watched three hours before the 51st came along. i joined him just before they came to where the president and gen. burnside were standing with others on a balcony, and the interest of seeing me, etc., made george forget to notice the president and salute him. he was a little annoyed at forgetting it. i called his attention to it, but we had passed a little too far on, and george wouldn't turn round even ever so little. however, there was a great many more than half the army passed without noticing mr. lincoln and the others, for there was a great crowd all through the streets, especially here, and the place where the president stood was not conspicuous from the rest. the 9th corps made a very fine show indeed. there were, i should think, five very full regiments of new black troops, under gen. ferrero. they looked and marched very well. it looked funny to see the president standing with his hat off to them just the same as the rest as they passed by. then there [were the] michigan regiments; one of them was a regiment of sharpshooters, partly composed of indians. then there was a pretty strong force of artillery and a middling force of cavalry--many new york, pennsylvania, massachusetts, r. i., etc., reg'ts. all except the blacks were veterans [that had] seen plenty of fighting. mother, it is very different to see a real army of fighting men, from one of those shows in brooklyn, or new york, or on fort greene. mother, it was a curious sight to see these ranks after rank of our own dearest blood of men, mostly young, march by, worn and sunburnt and sweaty, with well-worn clothes and thin bundles, and knapsacks, tin cups, and some with frying pans strapt over their backs, all dirty and sweaty, nothing real neat about them except their muskets; but they were all as clean and bright as silver. they were four or five hours passing along, marching with wide ranks pretty quickly, too. it is a great sight to see an army 25 or 30,000 on the march. they are all so gay, too. poor fellows, nothing dampens their spirits. they all got soaked with rain the night before. i saw fred mcready and capt. sims, and col. le gendre, etc. i don't know exactly where burnside's army is going. among other rumors it is said they [are] to go [with] the army of the potomac to act as a reserve force, etc. another is that they are to make a flank march, to go round and get lee on the side, etc. i haven't been out this morning and don't know what news--we know nothing, only that there is without doubt to be a terrible campaign here in virginia this summer, and that all who know deepest about it are very serious about it. mother, it is serious times. i do not feel to fret or whimper, but in my heart and soul about our country, the forthcoming campaign with all its vicissitudes and the wounded and slain--i dare say, mother, i feel the reality more than some because i am in the midst of its saddest results so much. others may say what they like, i believe in grant and in lincoln, too. i think grant deserves to be trusted. he is working continually. no one knows his plans; we will only know them when he puts them in operation. our army is very large here in virginia this spring, and they are still pouring in from east and west. you don't see about it in the papers, but we have a very large army here. mother, i am first rate in health, thank god; i never was better. dear mother, have you got over all that distress and sickness in your head? you must write particular about it. dear brother jeff, how are you, and how is matty, and how the dear little girls? jeff, i believe the devil is in it about my writing you; i have laid out so many weeks to write you a good long letter, and something has shoved it off each time. never mind, mother's letters keep you posted. you must write, and don't forget to tell me all about sis. is she as good and interesting as she was six months ago? mother, have you heard anything from han? mother, i have just had my breakfast. i had it in my room--some hard biscuit warmed on the stove, and a bowl of strong tea with good milk and sugar. i have given a michigan soldier his breakfast with me. he relished it, too; he has just gone. mother, i have just heard again that burnside's troops are to be a reserve to protect washington, so there may be something in it. walt. it is very fine weather here yesterday and to-day. the hospitals are very full; they are putting up hundreds of hospital tents. xiv _washington, april 28, 1864._ dearest mother--i thought i would write you just a line, though i have nothing of importance--only the talk of the street here seems more and more to assert that burnside's army is to remain near here to protect washington and act as a reserve, so that grant can move the army of the potomac upon richmond, without being compelled to turn and be anxious about the capital; also that burnside can attend to lee if the latter should send any force up west of here (what they call the valley of the shenandoah), or invade pennsylvania again. i thought you would like to hear this; it looks plausible, but there are lots of rumors of all kinds. i cannot hear where burnside's army is, as they don't allow the papers to print army movements, but i fancy they are very near washington, the other side of arlington heights, this moment. mother, i wrote yesterday to han, and sent one of george's letters from annapolis. mother, i suppose you got my letter of tuesday, 26th. i have not heard anything from you in quite a little while. i am still well. the weather is fine; quite hot yesterday. mother, i am now going down to see a poor soldier who is very low with a long diarrhoea--he cannot recover. when i was with him last night, he asked me before i went away to ask god's blessing on him. he says, i am no scholar and you are--poor dying man, i told him i hoped from the bottom of my heart god would bless him, and bring him up yet. i soothed him as well as i could; it was affecting, i can tell you. jeff, i wrote to mr. kirkwood yesterday to 44 pierrepont st. he sent me some money last monday. is probasco still in the store in n. y.? dear sister mat, i quite want to see you and california, not forgetting my little hattie, too. walt. _2 o'clock, 28th april._ dearest mother--just as i was going to mail this i received authentic information [that] burnside's army is now about 16 or 18 miles south of here, at a place called fairfax court house. they had last night no orders to move at present, and i rather think they will remain there, or near there. what i have written before as a rumor about their being to be held as a reserve, to act whenever occasion may need them, is now quite decided on. you may hear a rumor in new york that they have been shipped in transports from alexandria--there is no truth in it at all. grant's army of the potomac is probably to do the heavy work. his army is strong and full of fight. mother, i think it is to-day the noblest army of soldiers that ever marched--nobody can know the men as well as i do, i sometimes think. mother, i am writing this in willard's hotel, on my way down to hospital after i leave this at post office. i shall come out to dinner at 4 o'clock and then go back to hospital again in evening. good bye, dear mother and all. walt. xv _washington, may 3, 1864._ dearest mother--i received your letter dated last friday afternoon, with one from mr. heyde. it seems by that han is better, but, as you say, it would be much more satisfactory if han would write to us herself. mother, i believe i told you i sent a letter to han last week, enclosing one of george's from annapolis. i was glad to get heyde's letter, though, as it was. mother, i am sorry you still have returns of your cold. does it affect your head like it did? dear mother, i hope you will not expose yourself, nor work too much, but take things easier. i have nothing different to write about the war, or movements here. what i wrote last thursday, about burnside's corps being probably used as a reserve, is still talked of here, and seems to be probable. a large force is necessary to guard the railroad between here and culpepper, and also to keep from any emergency that might happen, and i shouldn't wonder if the 9th would be used for such purpose, at least for the present. i think the 51st must be down not very far from fairfax court house yet, but i haven't heard certain. mother, i have seen a person up from front this morning. there is no movement yet and no fighting started. the men are in their camps yet. gen. grant is at culpepper. you need not pay the slightest attention to such things as you mention in the _eagle_, about the 9th corps--the writer of it, and very many of the writers on war matters in those papers, don't know one bit more on what they are writing about than ed does. mother, you say in your letter you got my letter the previous afternoon. why, mother, you ought to [have] got it wednesday forenoon, or afternoon at furthest. this letter now will get in new york wednesday morning, by daylight--you ought to get it before noon. the postmaster in brooklyn must have a pretty set of carriers, to take twice as long to take a letter from new york to you as it does to go from washington to n. y. mother, i suppose you got a letter from me friday, also, as i wrote a second letter on thursday last, telling you the 9th corps was camped then about sixteen miles from here. about george's pictures, perhaps you better wait till i hear from him, before sending them. i remain well as usual. the poor fellow i mentioned in one of my letters last week, with diarrhoea, that wanted me to ask god's blessing on him, was still living yesterday afternoon, but just living. he is only partially conscious, is all wasted away to nothing, and lies most of the time in half stupor, as they give him brandy copiously. yesterday i was there by him a few minutes. he is very much averse to taking brandy, and there was some trouble in getting him to take it. he is almost totally deaf the last five or six days. there is no chance for him at all. quite a particular friend of mine, oscar cunningham, an ohio boy, had his leg amputated yesterday close up by the thigh. it was a pretty tough operation. he was badly wounded just a year ago to-day at chancellorsville and has suffered a great deal; lately got erysipelas in his leg and foot. i forget whether i have mentioned him before or not. he was a very large, noble-looking young man when i first see him. the doctor thinks he will live and get up, but i consider [it] by no means so certain. he is very much prostrated. well, dear mother, you must write and jeff too--i do want to see you all very much. how does mat get along, and how little sis and all? i send my love to you and jeff and all. we are having a very pleasant, coolish day here. i am going down to post office to leave this, and then up to my old friends the o'connors to dinner, and then down to hospital. well, good-bye, dear mother, for present. walt. _tuesday afternoon, 3 o'clock._ mother, just as i was going to seal my letter, major hapgood has come in from the p. o. and brings me a few lines from george, which i enclose--you will see they were written four days ago. xvi _washington, may 6, 1864._ dearest mother--i write you a few lines, as i know you feel anxious these times. i suppose the new york papers must have it in this morning that the army of the potomac has made a move, and has crossed the rapidan river. at any rate that is the case. as near as i can learn about burnside's army, that lies in the rear of the army of the potomac (from warrenton, virginia and so to rappahannock river and up toward manassas). it still appears to be kept as a reserve and for emergencies, etc. i have not heard anything from the 51st. mother, of course you got my letter of tuesday, 3rd, with the letter from george dated bristoe station. i have writ to george since, and addressed the letter warrenton, va., or elsewhere, thinking he might get it. mother, the idea is entertained quite largely here that the rebel army will retreat to richmond, as it is well known that grant is very strong (most folks say too strong for lee). i suppose you know we menace them almost as much from up fortress monroe as we do from the rapidan. butler and w. f. smith are down there with at least fifty or sixty thousand men, and will move up simultaneously with grant. the occasion is very serious, and anxious, but somehow i am full of hope, and feel that we shall take richmond--(i hope to go there yet before the hot weather is past). dear mother, i hope you are well, and little california--love to jeff and mat and all. walt. mother, you ought to get this letter saturday forenoon, as it will be in n. y. by sunrise saturday, 7th. mother, the poor soldier with diarrhoea is still living, but, o, what a looking object; death would be a boon to him; he cannot last many hours. cunningham, the ohio boy with leg amputated at thigh, has picked up beyond expectation now!--looks altogether like getting well. the hospitals are very full. i am very well indeed--pretty warm here to-day. xvii _washington, monday, 2 o'clock--may 9, '64._ dearest mother--there is nothing from the army more than you know in the n. y. papers. the fighting has been hard enough, but the papers make lots of additional items, and a good deal that they just entirely make up. there are from 600 to 1000 wounded coming up here--not 6 to 8000 as the papers have it. i cannot hear what part the 9th corps took in the fight of friday and afterwards, nor whether they really took any at all--(they, the papers, are determined to make up just anything). mother, i received your letter and han's--and was glad indeed to get both. mother, you must not be under such apprehension, as i think it is not warranted. so far as we get news here, we are gaining the day, so far _decidedly_. if the news we hear is true that lee has been repulsed and driven back by grant, and that we are masters of the field, and pursuing them--then i think lee will retreat south, and richmond will be abandoned by the rebs. but of course time only can develope what will happen. mother, i will write again wednesday, or before, if i hear anything to write. love to jeff and mat and all. walt. xviii _washington, may 10, '64_ (_1/2 past 2 p.m._) dearest mother--there is nothing perhaps more than you see in the n. y. papers. the fighting down in the field on the 6th i think ended in our favor, though with pretty severe losses to some of our divisions. the fighting is about 70 miles from here, and 50 from richmond--on the 7th and 8th followed up by the rebel army hauling off, they say retreating, and meade pursuing. it is quite mixed yet, but i guess we have the best of it. if we really have, richmond is a goner, for they cannot do any better than they have done. the 9th corps was in the fight, and where i cannot tell yet, but from the wounded i have seen i don't think that corps was deeply in. i have seen 300 wounded. they came in last night. i asked for men of 9th corps, but could not find any at all. these 300 men were not badly wounded, mostly in arms, hands, trunk of body, etc. they could all walk, though some had an awful time of it. they had to fight their way with the worst in the middle out of the region of fredericksburg, and so on where they could get across the rappahannock and get where they found transportation to washington. the gov't has decided, (or rather gen. meade has) to occupy fredericksburg for depot and hospital--(i think that is a first rate decision)--so the wounded men will receive quick attention and surgery, instead of being racked through the long journey up here. still, many come in here. mother, my impression is that we have no great reason for alarm or sadness about george so far. of course i _know_ nothing. well, good-bye, dearest mother. walt. mother, i wrote you yesterday, too. tell dear brother jeff to write me. love to mat. the poor diarrhoea man died, and it was a boon. oscar cunningham, 82nd ohio, has had a relapse. i fear it is going bad with him. lung diseases are quite plenty--night before last i staid in hospital all night tending a poor fellow. it has been awful hot here--milder to-day. xix [_washington_] _may 12, 1/2 past 5 p.m._ dearest mother--george is all right, unhurt, up to tuesday morning, 10th inst. the 51st was in a bad battle last friday; lost 20 killed, between 40 and 50 wounded. i have just seen some of the 51st wounded just arrived, one of them fred saunders, corporal co. k, george's company. he said when he left the 51st was in rear on guard duty. he left tuesday morning last. the papers have it that burnside's corps was in a fight tuesday, but i think it most probable the 51st was not in it. fred mcready is wounded badly, but not seriously. sims is safe. you see le gendre is wounded--he was shot through the bridge of nose. mother, you ought to get this friday forenoon, 13th. i will write again soon. wrote once before to-day. walt. xx _washington, may 13, 1864, 2 o'clock p. m._ dearest mother--i wrote you a hurried letter late yesterday afternoon but left it myself at the p. o. in time for the mail. you ought to have got it this forenoon, or afternoon at furthest. i sent you two letters yesterday. i hope the carrier brings you your letters the same day. i wrote to the brooklyn postmaster about it. i have heard from george up to tuesday morning last, 10th, till which time he was safe. the battle of friday, 6th, was very severe. george's co. k lost one acting sergeant, sturgis, killed, 2 men killed, 4 wounded. as i wrote yesterday, i have seen here corp. fred saunders of co. k, who was wounded in side, nothing serious, in friday's fight, and came up here. i also talked with serg. brown, co. f, 51st, rather badly wounded in right shoulder. saunders said, when he left tuesday morning he heard (or saw them there, i forget which) the 51st and its whole division were on guard duty toward the rear. the 9th corps, however, has had hard fighting since, but whether the division or brigade the 51st is in was in the fights of tuesday, 10th, (a pretty severe one) or wednesday, i cannot tell, and it is useless to make calculations--and the only way is to wait and hope for the best. as i wrote yesterday, there were some 30 of 51st reg't killed and 50 wounded in friday's battle, 6th inst. i have seen col. le gendre. he is here in washington not far from where i am, 485 12th st. is his address. poor man, i felt sorry indeed for him. he is badly wounded and disfigured. he is shot through the bridge of the nose, and left eye probably lost. i spent a little time with him this forenoon. he is suffering very much, spoke of george very kindly; said "your brother is well." his orderly told me he saw him, george, sunday night last, well. fred mcready is wounded in hip, i believe bone fractured--bad enough, but not deeply serious. i cannot hear of his arrival here. if he comes i shall find him immediately and take care of him myself. he is probably yet at fredericksburg, but will come up, i think. yesterday and to-day the badly wounded are coming in. the long lists of _previous arrivals_, (i suppose they are all reprinted at great length in n. y. papers) are of men three-fourths of them quite slightly wounded, and the rest hurt pretty bad. i was thinking, mother, if one could see the men who arrived in the first squads, of two or three hundred at a time, one wouldn't be alarmed at those terrible long lists. still there is a sufficient sprinkling of deeply distressing cases. i find my hands full all the time, with new and old cases--poor suffering young men, i think of them, and do try, mother, to do what i can for them, (and not think of the vexatious skedaddlers and merely scratched ones, of whom there are too many lately come here). dearest mother, hope you and all are well--you must keep a good heart. still, the fighting is very mixed, but it _seems steadily turning into real successes_ for grant. the news to-day here is very good--you will see it [in the] n. y. papers. i steadily believe grant is going to succeed, and that we shall have richmond--but o what a price to pay for it. we have had a good rain here and it is pleasanter and cooler. i shall write very soon again. walt. xxi _washington, may 18, 1864._ dearest mother--i will only write you a hasty note this time, as i am pretty tired, and my head feels disagreeable from being in too much. i was up yesterday to carver hospital and again saw the man of the 51st, thos. mccowell, who told me of george, up to latter part of thursday, 12th inst. i questioned him, and his story was very clear, so i felt perfectly satisfied. he is wounded in hand; will be transferred soon to new york and may call on you. he is a young irishman, and seems to be a very good fellow indeed. i have written to george, day before yesterday. did you send my last letter to han? if not, send it yet. mother, i see such awful things. i expect one of these days, if i live, i shall have awful thoughts and dreams--but it is such a great thing to be able to do some real good; assuage these horrible pains and wounds, and save life even--that's the only thing that keeps a fellow up. well, dear mother, i make such reckoning of yet coming on and seeing you. how i want to see jeff, too--o, it is too bad i have not written to him so long--and mat, too, and little california and all. i am going out now a little while. i remain first rate, as well as ever. walt. xxii _washington, monday forenoon, may 23, '64._ dear brother jeff--i received your letter yesterday. i too had got a few lines from george, dated on the field, 16th. he said he had also just written to mother. i cannot make out there has been any fighting since in which the 9th corps has been engaged. i do hope mother will not get despondent and so unhappy. i suppose it is idle to say i think george's chances are very good for coming out of this campaign safe, yet at present it seems to me so--but it is indeed idle to say so, for no one can tell what a day may bring forth. sometimes i think that should it come, when it _must_ be, to fall in battle, one's anguish over a son or brother killed would be tempered with much to take the edge off. i can honestly say it has no terrors for me, if i had to be hit in battle, as far as i myself am concerned. it would be a noble and manly death and in the best cause. then one finds, as i have the past year, that our feelings and imaginations make a thousand times too much of the whole matter. of the many i have seen die, or known of, the past year, i have not seen or heard of _one_ who met death with any terror. yesterday afternoon i spent a good part of the afternoon with a young man of 17, named charles cutter, of lawrence city, mass., 1st mass. heavy artillery, battery m. he was brought in to one of the hospitals mortally wounded in abdomen. well, i thought to myself as i sat looking at him, it ought to be a relief to his folks after all, if they could see how little he suffered. he lay very placid in a half lethargy with his eyes closed. it was very warm, and i sat a long while fanning him and wiping the sweat. at length he opened his eyes quite wide and clear and looked inquiringly around. i said, "what is it, my dear? do you want anything?" he said quietly, with a good natured smile, "o nothing; i was only looking around to see who was with me." his mind was somewhat wandering, yet he lay so peaceful, in his dying condition. he seemed to be a real new england country boy, so good natured, with a pleasant homely way, and quite a fine looking boy. without any doubt he died in course of night. there don't seem to be any war news of importance very late. we have been fearfully disappointed with sigel not making his junction from the lower part of the valley, and perhaps harassing lee's left or left rear, which the junction or equivalent to it was an indispensable part of grant's plan, we think. this is one great reason why things have lagged so with the army. some here are furious with sigel. you will see he has been superseded. his losses [in] his repulse are not so important, though annoying enough, but it was of the greatest consequence that he should have hastened through the gaps ten or twelve days ago at all hazards and come in from the west, keeping near enough to our right to have assistance if he needed it. jeff, i suppose you know that there has been quite a large army lying idle, mostly of artillery reg'ts, manning the numerous forts around here. they have been the fattest and heartiest reg'ts anywhere to be seen, and full in numbers, some of them numbering 2000 men. well, they have all, every one, been shoved down to the front. lately we have had the militia reg'ts pouring in here, mostly from ohio. they look first rate. i saw two or three come in yesterday, splendid american young men, from farms mostly. we are to have them for a hundred days and probably they will not refuse to stay another hundred. jeff, tell mother i shall write wednesday certain (or if i hear anything i will write to-morrow). i still think we shall get richmond. walt. jeff, you must take this up to mother as soon as you go home. jeff, i have changed my quarters. i moved saturday last. i am now at 502 pennsylvania av., near 3rd st. i still go a little almost daily to major hapgood's, cor. 15th and f sts., 5th floor. am apt to be there about 12 or 1. see fred mcready and others of 51st. george's letter to me of 16th i sent to han. should like to see mr. worther if he comes here--give my best remembrance to mr. lane. i may very likely go down for a few days to ball plain and fredericksburg, but one is wanted here permanently more than any other place. i have written to george several times in hopes one at least may reach him. matty, my dear sister, how are you getting along? o how i should like to see you this very day. xxiii _washington, may 25, 1864._ dearest mother--i have not heard anything of george or the reg't or corps more than i have already written. i got jeff's letter on sunday and wrote to him next day, which you have seen, mother, of course. i have written to han and sent her george's letter to me dated 16th. i have heard that the 9th corps has been moved to the extreme left of the army. i should think by accounts this morning that the army must be nearly half way from fredericksburg to richmond. the advance can't be more than 30 to 35 miles from there. i see fred mcready about every other day. i have to go down to alexandria, about 6 miles from here. he is doing quite well, but very tired of the confinement. i still go around daily and nightly among wounded. mother, it is just the same old story; poor suffering young men, great swarms of them, come up here now every day all battered and bloody--there have 4000 arrived here this morning, and 1500 yesterday. they appear to be bringing them all up here from fredericksburg. the journey from the field till they get aboard the boats at ball plain is horrible. i believe i wrote several times about oscar cunningham, 82nd ohio, amputation of right leg, wounded over a year ago, a friend of mine here. he is rapidly sinking; said to me yesterday, o, if he could only die. the young lad cutter, of 1st massachusetts heavy artillery, i was with sunday afternoon, (i wrote about in jeff's letter) still holds out. poor boy, there is no chance for him at all. but mother, i shall make you gloomy enough if i go on with these kind of particulars--only i know you like to hear about the poor young men, after i have once begun to mention them. mother, i have changed my quarters--am at 502 pennsylvania av., near 3d street, only a little way from the capitol. where i was, the house was sold and the old lady i hired the room from had to move out and give the owner possession. i like my new quarters pretty well--i have a room to myself, 3d story hall bedroom. i have my meals in the house. mother, it must be sad enough about nance and the young ones. is the little baby still hearty? i believe you wrote a few weeks after it was born that it was quite a fine child. i see you had a draft in the 3d congressional district. i was glad enough to see jeff's name was not drawn. we have had it awful hot here, but there was a sharp storm of thunder and lightning last night, and to-day it is fine. mother, do any of the soldiers i see here from brooklyn or new york ever call upon you? they sometimes say they will here. tell jeff i got a letter yesterday from w. e. worthen, in which he sent me some money for the men. i have acknowledged it to mr. w. by letter. well, dear mother, i must close. o, how i want to see you all--i will surely have to come home as soon as this richmond campaign is decided--then i want to print my new book. love to mat--write to a fellow often as you can. walt. xxiv _washington, may 30, 1864._ dearest mother--i have no news at all to write this time. i have not heard anything of the 51st since i last wrote you, and about the general war news only what you see in the papers. grant is gradually getting nearer and nearer to richmond. many here anticipate that should grant go into richmond, lee will make a side movement and march up west into the north, either to attempt to strike washington, or to go again into pennsylvania. i only say if that should happen, i for one shall not be dissatisfied so very much. well, mother, how are you getting along home?--how do you feel in health these days, dear mother? i hope you are well and in good heart yet. i remain pretty well: my head begins to trouble me a little with a sort of fullness, as it often does in the hot weather. singular to relate, the 1st mass. artillery boy, charles cutter, is still living, and may get well. i saw him this morning. i am still around among wounded same, but will not make you feel blue by filling my letter with sad particulars. i am writing this in willard's hotel, hurrying to catch this afternoon's mail. mother, do you get your letters now next morning, as you ought? i got a letter from the postmaster of brooklyn about it--said if the letters were neglected again, to send him word. i have not heard from home now in some days. i am going to put up a lot of my old things in a box and send them home by express. i will write when i send them. have you heard anything from mary or han lately? i should like to hear. tell jeff he must write, and you must, too, mother. i have been in one of the worst hospitals all the forenoon, it containing about 1600. i have given the men pipes and tobacco. (i am the only one that gives them tobacco.) o how much good it does some of them--the chaplains and most of the doctors are down upon it--but i give them and let them smoke. to others i have given oranges, fed them, etc. well, dear mother, good-bye--love to matty and sis. walt. fred mcready is coming home very soon on furlough--have any of the soldiers called on you? xxv _washington, june 3, 1864._ dearest mother--your letter came yesterday. i have not heard the least thing from the 51st since--no doubt they are down there with the army near richmond. i have not written to george lately. i think the news from the army is very good. mother, you know of course that it is now very near richmond indeed, from five to ten miles. mother, if this campaign was not in progress i should not stop here, as it is now beginning to tell a little upon me, so many bad wounds, many putrefied, and all kinds of dreadful ones, i have been rather too much with--but as it is, i certainly remain here while the thing remains undecided. it is impossible for me to abstain from going to see and minister to certain cases, and that draws me into others, and so on. i have just left oscar cunningham, the ohio boy--he is in a dying condition--there is no hope for him--it would draw tears from the hardest heart to look at him--he is all wasted away to a skeleton, and looks like some one fifty years old. you remember i told you a year ago, when he was first brought in, i thought him the noblest specimen of a young western man i had seen, a real giant in size, and always with a smile on his face. o what a change. he has long been very irritable to every one but me, and his frame is all wasted away. the young massachusetts 1st artillery boy, cutter, i wrote about is dead. he is the one that was brought in a week ago last sunday badly wounded in breast. the deaths in the principal hospital i visit, armory-square, average one an hour. i saw capt. baldwin of the 14th this morning; he has lost his left arm--is going home soon. mr. kalbfleisch and anson herrick, (m. c. from new york), came in one of the wards where i was sitting writing a letter this morning, in the midst of the wounded. kalbfleisch was so much affected by the sight that he burst into tears. o, i must tell you, i [gave] in carver hospital a great treat of ice cream, a couple of days ago--went round myself through about 15 large wards--(i bought some ten gallons, very nice). you would have cried and been amused too. many of the men had to be fed; several of them i saw cannot probably live, yet they quite enjoyed it. i gave everybody some--quite a number [of] western country boys had never tasted ice cream before. they relish such things [as] oranges, lemons, etc. mother, i feel a little blue this morning, as two young men i knew very well have just died. one died last night, and the other about half an hour before i went to the hospital. i did not anticipate the death of either of them. each was a very, very sad case, so young. well mother, i see i have written you another gloomy sort of letter. i do not feel as first rate as usual. walt. you don't know how i want to come home and see you all; you, dear mother, and jeff and mat and all. i believe i am homesick--something new for me--then i have seen all the horrors of soldiers' life and not been kept up by its excitement. it is awful to see so much, and not be able to relieve it. xxvi _washington, june 7, 1864._ dearest mother--i cannot write you anything about the 51st, as i have not heard a word. i felt very much disturbed yesterday afternoon, as major hapgood came up from the paymaster general's office, and said that news had arrived that burnside was killed, and that the 9th corps had had a terrible slaughter. he said it was believed at the paymaster general's office. well, i went out to see what reliance there was on it. the rumor soon spread over town, and was believed by many--but as near as i can make it out, it proves to be one of those unaccountable stories that get started these times. saturday night we heard that grant was routed completely, etc. etc.--so that's the way stories fly. i suppose you hear the same big lies there in brooklyn. well, the truth is sad enough, without adding anything to it--but grant is not destroyed yet, but i think is going into richmond yet, but the cost is terrible. mother, i have not felt well at all the last week. i had spells of deathly faintness and bad trouble in my head too, and sore throat (quite a little budget, ain't they?) my head was the worst, though i don't know, the faint spells were not very pleasant--but i feel so much better this forenoon i believe it has passed over. there is a very horrible collection in armory building, (in armory-square hospital)--about 200 of the worst cases you ever see, and i had been probably too much with them. it is enough to melt the heart of a stone; over one third of them are amputation cases. well, mother, poor oscar cunningham is gone at last. he is the 82d ohio boy (wounded may 3d, '63). i have written so much of him i suppose you feel as if you almost knew him. i was with him saturday forenoon and also evening. he was more composed than usual, could not articulate very well. he died about 2 o'clock sunday morning--very easy they told me. i was not there. it was a blessed relief; his life has been misery for months. the cause of death at last was the system absorbing the pus, the bad matter, instead of discharging it from [the] wound. i believe i told you i was quite blue from the deaths of several of the poor young men i knew well, especially two i had strong hopes of their getting up. things are going pretty badly with the wounded. they are crowded here in washington in immense numbers, and all those that come up from the wilderness and that region, arrived here so neglected, and in such plight, it was awful--(those that were at fredericksburg and also from ball plain). the papers are full of puffs, etc., but the truth is, the largest proportion of worst cases got little or no attention. we receive them here with their wounds full of worms--some all swelled and inflamed. many of the amputations have to be done over again. one new feature is that many of the poor afflicted young men are crazy. every ward has some in it that are wandering. they have suffered too much, and it is perhaps a privilege that they are out of their senses. mother, it is most too much for a fellow, and i sometimes wish i was out of it--but i suppose it is because i have not felt first rate myself. i am going to write to george to-day, as i see there is a daily mail to white house. o, i must tell you that we get the wounded from our present field near richmond much better than we did from the wilderness and fredericksburg. we get them now from white house. they are put on boats there, and come all the way here, about 160 or 170 miles. white house is only twelve or fifteen miles from the field, and is our present depot and base of supplies. it is very pleasant here to-day, a little cooler than it has been--a good rain shower last evening. the western reg'ts continue to pour in here, the 100 days men;--may go down to front to guard posts, trains, etc. well, mother, how do things go on with you all? it seems to me if i could only be home two or three days, and have some good teas with you and mat, and set in the old basement a while, and have a good time and talk with jeff, and see the little girls, etc., i should be willing to keep on afterward among these sad scenes for the rest of the summer--but i shall remain here until this richmond campaign is settled, anyhow, unless i get sick, and i don't anticipate that. mother dear, i hope you are well and in fair spirits--you must try to. have you heard from sister han? walt. you know i am living at 502 pennsylvania av. (near 3d st.)--it is not a very good place. i don't like it so well as i did cooking my own grub--and the air is not good. jeff, you must write. xxvii _washington, june 10, 1864._ dearest mother--i got your letter dated last wednesday. i do not always depend on ----'s accounts. i think he is apt to make things full as bad as they are, if not worse. mother, i was so glad to get a letter from jeff this morning, enclosing one from george dated june 1st. it was so good to see his handwriting once more. i have not heard anything of the reg't--there are all sorts of rumors here, among others that burnside does not give satisfaction to grant and meade, and that it is expected some one else will be placed in command of 9th corps. another rumor more likely is that our base of the army is to be changed to harrison's landing on james river instead of white house on pamunkey. mother, i have not felt well again the last two days as i was tuesday, but i feel a good deal better this morning. i go round, but most of the time feel very little like it. the doctor tells me i have continued too long in the hospitals, especially in a bad place, armory building, where the worst wounds were, and have absorbed too much of the virus in my system--but i know it is nothing but what a little relief and sustenance of [the] right sort will set right. i am writing this in major hapgood's office. he is very busy paying off some men whose time is out; they are going home to new york. i wrote to george yesterday. we are having very pleasant weather here just now. mother, you didn't mention whether mary had come, so i suppose she has not. i should like to see her and ansel too. the wounded still come here in large numbers--day and night trains of ambulances. tell jeff the $10 from mr. lane for the soldiers came safe. i shall write to jeff right away. i send my love to mat and all. mother, you must try to keep good heart. walt. xxviii _washington, june 14, 1864._ dearest mother. i am not feeling very well these days--the doctors have told me not to come inside the hospitals for the present. i send there by a friend every day; i send things and aid to some cases i know, and hear from there also, but i do not go myself at present. it is probable that the hospital poison has affected my system, and i find it worse than i calculated. i have spells of faintness and very bad feeling in my head, fullness and pain--and besides sore throat. my boarding place, 502 pennsylvania av., is a miserable place, very bad air. but i shall feel better soon, i know--the doctors say it will pass over--they have long told me i was going in too strong. some days i think it has all gone and i feel well again, but in a few hours i have a spell again. mother, i have not heard anything of the 51st. i sent george's letter to han. i have written to george since. i shall write again to him in a day or two. if mary comes home, tell her i sent her my love. if i don't feel better before the end of this week or beginning of next, i may come home for a week or fortnight for a change. the rumor is very strong here that grant is over the james river on south side--but it is not in the papers. we are having quite cool weather here. mother, i want to see you and jeff so much. i have been working a little at copying, but have stopt it lately. walt. xxix _washington, june 17, 1864._ dearest mother. i got your letter this morning. this place and the hospitals seem to have got the better of me. i do not feel so badly this forenoon--but i have bad nights and bad days too. some of the spells are pretty bad--still i am up some and around every day. the doctors have told me for a fortnight i must leave; that i need an entire change of air, etc. i think i shall come home for a short time, and pretty soon. (i will try it two or three days yet though, and if i find my illness goes over i will stay here yet awhile. all i think about is to be here if any thing should happen to george). we don't hear anything more of the army than you do there in the papers. walt. mother, if i should come i will write a day or so before. _the letter of june 17, 1864, is the last of whitman's, written from washington at or about this time, that has been preserved and come down to us. many, probably many more than have been kept, have been lost; indeed, it is a wonder that so many were saved, for they were sent about from one member of the family to another, and when once read seem to have been little valued. the reader will have noticed a certain change of tone in the later letters, showing that whitman was beginning to feel the inroads which the fatigues, the unhealthy surroundings of the hospitals, and especially the mental anxiety and distress inseparable from his work there, were making upon even his superb health. down to the time of his hospital work he had never known a day's sickness, but thereafter he never again knew, except at intervals which grew shorter and less frequent as time went on, the buoyant vigor and vitality of his first forty-four years. from 1864 to the end of 1872 the attacks described in his "calamus" letters became from year to year more frequent and more severe, until, in january, 1873, they culminated in an attack of paralysis which never left him and from the indirect effects of which he died in 1892._ _but for years, though often warned and sent away by the doctors, during his better intervals and until his splendid health was quite broken by hospital malaria and the poison absorbed from gangrenous wounds, he continued his ministrations to the sick and the maimed of the war. those who joined the ranks and fought the battles of the republic did well; but when the world knows, as it is beginning to know, how this man, without any encouragement from without, under no compulsion, simply, without beat of drum or any cheers of approval, went down into those immense lazar houses and devoted his days and nights, his heart and soul, and at last his health and life, to america's sick and wounded sons, it will say that he did even better._ _r. m. b._ _as at thy portals also death, entering thy sovereign, dim, illimitable grounds, to memories of my mother, to the divine blending, maternity, to her, buried and gone, yet buried not, gone not from me, (i see again the calm benignant face fresh and beautiful still, i sit by the form in the coffin, i kiss and kiss convulsively again the sweet old lips, the cheeks, the closed eyes in the coffin;) to her, the ideal woman, practical, spiritual, of all of earth, life, love, to me the best, i grave a monumental line, before i go, amid these songs, and set a tombstone here._ _printed by john wilson and son, at the university press, cambridge, u.s.a., in december, 1897._ footnotes: [1] his brother, capt. (afterwards col.) george w. whitman, born 1829, now (1897) residing in burlington, n. j. [2] his favorite sister, hannah louisa whitman (mrs. c. l. heyde), born 1823, now (1897) residing in burlington, vt. [3] his brother, thomas jefferson whitman, born 1833, died 1890. [4] brig.-gen. edward ferrero, commanding second brigade, second division, army of the potomac, under whose command the 51st brooklyn regiment fought at fredericksburg. george whitman was a captain in this regiment. [5] martha, wife of "jeff." she died in 1873. "1873.--this year lost, by death, my dear dear mother--and just before, my sister martha--the two best and sweetest women i have ever seen or known, or ever expect to see" (walt whitman, "some personal and old age jottings"). [6] "jeff's" little daughter, mannahatta. she died in 1888. [7] his brother, andrew jackson whitman, born 1827, died 1863. his other brothers at this time, besides those previously mentioned, were jesse whitman, born 1818, died 1870, and edward whitman, born 1835, died 1892. [8] martha. [9] mannahatta. [10] william douglas o'connor, born jan. 2, 1832. he was a journalist in boston in early life, went to washington about 1861, first as clerk in the light house bureau, and later became assistant superintendent of the united states life-saving service; died in washington, may 9, 1889. he was one of whitman's warmest friends, and the author of "the good gray poet." [11] the monitor foundered off cape hatteras in a gale december 29, 1862. [12] "jeff." [13] a copy of the 1860 (first boston) edition of "leaves of grass," which whitman used for preparing the next (1867) edition. from various evidence this is the same copy, with his ms. alterations, which secretary harlan found in whitman's desk at the interior department in 1865, and which he read surreptitiously before discharging the poet from his position. it is now in the possession of mr. horace l. traubel, of camden, n. j. the reference to "drum-taps," published in 1865, shows that it had already taken shape in ms. [14] andrew whitman's wife. [15] jessie louisa whitman. [16] his sister, mary elizabeth whitman (mrs. van nostrand) born 1821 now (1897) residing in sag harbor, l. i. [17] mrs. whitman's maiden name was louisa van velsor. [18] mrs. abby price, an intimate friend of whitman, and a friend and neighbor of his mother. [19] mrs. price's son, a naval officer. [20] mrs. price's daughter, and sister of the helen mentioned later. [21] formerly of thayer & eldridge, the first boston publishers of "leaves of grass" (1860 edition). [22] jeff's daughter jessie was originally called california. the letters of anne gilchrist and walt whitman [illustration: walt whitman photograph taken about the year 1870] the letters of anne gilchrist and walt whitman edited with an introduction by thomas b. harned one of walt whitman's literary executors illustrated garden city new york doubleday, page & company 1918 copyright, 1918, by doubleday, page & company all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian in memoriam augusta traubel harned 1856-1914 contents page preface xix introduction xxi a woman's estimate of walt whitman 3 a confession of faith 23 letter i. walt whitman to william michael rossetti and anne gilchrist 56 ii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _earl's colne_ _september 3, 1871_ 58 iii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _shotter mill, haslemere, surrey_ _october 23, 1871_ 65 iv. walt whitman to anne gilchrist _washington, d. c._ _november 3, 1871_ 67 v. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd., camden sq., n. w., london_ _november 27, 1871_ 68 vi. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd., camden sq., n. w., london_ _january 24, 1872_ 72 vii. walt whitman to anne gilchrist _washington, d. c._ _february 8, 1872_ 75 viii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd., camden sq., n. w., london_ _april 12, 1872_ 76 ix. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd., camden sq., n. w., london_ _june 3, 1872_ 79 x. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd., camden sq., n. w., london_ _july 14, 1872_ 82 xi. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd., camden sq._ _november 12, 1872_ 85 xii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd., camden sq., london, n. w._ _january 31, 1873_ 86 xiii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd., camden sq., london, n. w._ _may 20, 1873_ 88 xiv. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _earl's colne, halstead_ _august 12, 1873_ 91 xv. walt whitman to anne gilchrist _camden, new jersey_ _undated. summer of 1873_ 94 xvi. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _earl's colne, halstead_ _september 4, 1873_ 96 xvii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis road, camden square, london, n. w._ _november 3, 1873_ 98 xviii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis road, camden square, london, n. w._ _december 8, 1873_ 102 xix. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis road, camden square, london, n. w._ _february 26, 1874_ 105 xx. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis road, camden square, london, n. w._ _march 9, 1874_ 108 xxi. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis road, camden square, london, n. w._ _may 14, 1874_ 109 xxii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis road, camden square, london, n. w._ _july, 4, 1874_ 112 xxiii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _earl's colne_ _september 3, 1874_ 115 xxiv. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis road, camden square, london, n. w._ _december 9, 1874_ 119 xxv. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis road, camden square, london, n. w._ _december 30, 1874_ 121 xxvi. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _earl's colne, halstead_ _february 21, 1875_ 123 xxvii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis road, camden square, london, n. w._ _may 18, 1875_ 126 xxviii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _earl's colne_ _august 28, 1875_ 129 xxix. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 torriano gardens, camden square, london_ _november 16, 1875_ 133 xxx. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 torriano gardens, camden road, london_ _december 4, 1875_ 137 xxxi. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _blaenavon, routzpool, mon., england_ _january 18, 1876_ 139 xxxii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 torriano gardens, camden road, london_ _february 25, 1876_ 141 xxxiii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 torriano gardens, camden road, london_ _march 11, 1876_ 143 xxxiv. walt whitman to anne gilchrist _camden, new jersey._ _undated, march, 1876_ 145 xxxv. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 torriano gardens, camden road, london_ _march 30, 1876_ 147 xxxvi. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 torriano gardens, camden road, london_ _april 21, 1876_ 149 xxxvii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 torriano gardens, camden road, london_ _may 18, 1876_ 152 xxxviii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _round hill, northampton, massachusetts_ _september, 1877_ 154 xxxix. beatrice c. gilchrist to walt whitman _new england hospital, codman avenue, boston highlands_ _undated_ 156 xl. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _chesterfield, massachusetts_ _september 3, 1878_ 159 xli. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _concord, massachusetts_ _october 25 (1878)_ 161 xlii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _39 somerset street, boston_ _november 13, 1878_ 163 xliii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _112 madison avenue, new york_ _january 5, 1879_ 166 xliv. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _112 madison avenue, new york_ _january 14, 1879_ 169 xlv. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _112 madison avenue, new york_ _january 27, 1879_ 171 xlvi. herbert h. gilchrist to walt whitman _112 madison avenue, new york_ _february, 2, 1879_ 173 xlvii. beatrice c. gilchrist to walt whitman _33 warrenton street, boston_ _february 16, 1879_ 175 xlviii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _112 madison avenue, new york_ _march 18, 1879_ 177 xlix. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _112 madison avenue, new york_ _march 26, 1879_ 179 l. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _glasgow, scotland_ _june 20, 1879_ 181 li. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _lower shincliffe, durham_ _august 2, 1879_ 183 lii. walt whitman to anne gilchrist _camden, new jersey_ _undated, august, 1879_ 186 liii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 elm villas, elm row, heath street, hampstead, london_ _december 5, 1879_ 187 liv. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _5 mount vernon, hampstead_ _january 25, 1880_ 190 lv. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _marley, haslemere, england_ _august 22, 1880_ 193 lvi. herbert h. gilchrist to walt whitman _12 well road, keats corner, hampstead, london_ _november 30, 1880_ 195 lvii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _well road, keats corner, hampstead, london_ _april 18, 1881_ 197 lviii. herbert h. gilchrist to walt whitman _well road, keats corner, hampstead, north london_ _june 5, 1881_ 200 lix. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _12 well road, hampstead, london_ _december 14, 1881_ 203 lx. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _12 well road, hampstead, london_ _january 29 and february 6, 1882_ 205 lxi. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _12 well road, hampstead, london_ _may 8, 1882_ 207 lxii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _well road, keats corner, hampstead, london_ _november 24, 1882_ 209 lxiii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _12 well road, hampstead, london_ _january 27, 1883_ 211 lxiv. herbert h. gilchrist to walt whitman _well road, keats corner, hampstead, london_ _april 29, 1883_ 213 lxv. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner, hampstead, london_ _may 6, 1883_ 215 lxvi. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner, hampstead, london_ _july 30, 1883_ 217 lxvii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner, hampstead, london_ _october 13, 1883_ 220 lxviii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner, hampstead, london_ _april 5, 1884_ 223 lxix. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _hampstead, london_ _may 2, 1884_ 225 lxx. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner, london_ _august 5, 1884_ 227 lxxi. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _wolverhampton_ _october 26, 1884_ 228 lxxii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner, hampstead, london_ _december 17, 1884_ 230 lxxiii. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner, hampstead, london_ _february 27, 1885_ 233 lxxiv. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _hampstead, london_ _may 4, 1885_ 236 lxxv. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _hampstead, london_ _june 21, 1885_ 239 lxxvi. anne gilchrist to walt whitman _12 well road, hampstead, london_ _july 20, 1885_ 241 illustrations walt whitman _frontispiece_ facing page anne gilchrist 54 facsimile of a typical whitman letter 94 facsimile of one of anne gilchrist's letters to walt whitman _in the text pages_ 131, 132 preface probably there are few who to-day question the propriety of publishing the love-letters of eminent persons a generation after the deaths of both parties to the correspondence. when one recalls the published love-letters of abelard, of dorothy osborne, of lady hamilton, of mary wollstonecraft, of margaret fuller, of george sand, bismarck, shelley, victor hugo, edgar allan poe, and--to mention only one more illustrious example--of the brownings, one must needs look upon this form of presenting biographical material as a well-established, if not a valuable, convention of letters. as to the particular set of letters presented to the reader in this volume, a word of explanation and history may be required. most of these letters are from anne gilchrist to walt whitman, a few are replies to her letters, and a few are letters from her children to whitman. mrs. gilchrist died in 1885. when, two years later, her son, herbert harlakenden gilchrist, was collecting material for his interesting biography of his mother, whitman was asked for the letters that she had written to him--or rather for extracts from them. in reply to this request the poet said, "i do not know that i can furnish any good reason, but i feel to keep these utterances exclusively to myself. but i cannot let your book go to press without at least saying--and wishing it put on record--that among the perfect women i have met (and it has been my unspeakably good fortune to have had the very best, for mother, sisters, and friends) i have known none more perfect in every relation, than my dear, dear friend, anne gilchrist." but since whitman carefully preserved them for twenty years, refusing to destroy them as he had destroyed such other written matter as he did not care to have preserved, it would appear that he intended that so beautiful a tribute to the poetry that he had written, no less than to the personality of the poet, should be included in that complete biography which is being slowly written, by many hands, of america's most unique man of genius. in any case, when these letters came into my hands in the apportionment of whitman's literary legacy under the will which named me as one of his three literary executors, there were but three things which i could honourably do with them--rather, on closer analysis, there seemed to be but one. to leave them in _my_ will or to place them in some public repository would have been to shift a responsibility which was evidently mine to the shoulders of others who, perhaps, would be in possession of fewer facts in the light of which to discharge that responsibility. to destroy them would be to do what whitman should have done if it was to be done at all, and to erase forever one of the finest tributes that either the man or the poet ever received, one of the most touching self-revelations that a noble soul ever "poured out on paper." the remaining alternative was to edit and publish them (after keeping them a proper length of time), for the benefit, not only of the general reader, but as an aid to the future biographer who from the proper perspective will write the life of america's great poet and prophet. in this determination my judgment has been confirmed by that of the few sympathetic friends who, during the twenty-five years that the letters have been in my possession, have been allowed to read them. it is a matter of regret that so few of whitman's letters to mrs. gilchrist are available. those included in this volume, sometimes in fragmentary form, have been taken from loose copies found among his papers after his death, or, in a few instances, are reprinted from herbert harlakenden gilchrist's "anne gilchrist" or horace traubel's "with walt whitman in camden." acknowledgment of these latter is made in each instance. but though whitman's letters printed in this correspondence will not compare with mrs. gilchrist's in point of number, enough are presented to suggest the tenor of them all. as a matter of fact, the first love-letter from anne gilchrist to walt whitman was in the form of an essay written in his defense called "an englishwoman's estimate of walt whitman." for that reason this well-known essay is reprinted in this volume; and "a confession of faith," in reality an amplification of the "estimate" written several years after the publication of the latter, is included. the reader who desires to follow the story of this friendship in a chronological order will do well to read at least the former of these tributes before beginning the letters. indebtedness is acknowledged to prof. emory halloway of brooklyn, new york, for valuable suggestions. t. b. h. introduction undoubtedly mrs. gilchrist's "estimate of walt whitman," published in the (boston) _radical_ in may, 1870, was the finest, as it was the first, public tribute ever paid to the poet by a woman. whitman himself so considered it--"the proudest word that ever came to me from a woman--if not the proudest word of all from any source." but a finer tribute was to follow, in the sacred privacy of the love-letters which are now made public forty years and more after they were written. the purpose of this introduction is not to interpret those letters, but to sketch the story in the light of which they are to be read. and since both anne gilchrist and walt whitman have had sympathetic and painstaking biographers, it will not be necessary here to mention at length the already known facts of their respective lives. the story naturally begins with whitman. he was born at west hills, long island, new york, on may 31, 1819. his father was of english descent, and came of a family of sailors and farmers. his mother, to whom he himself attributed most of his personal qualities, was of excellent hollandic stock. moving to brooklyn while still in frocks, he there passed his boyhood and youth, but took many summer trips to visit relatives in the country. he early left the public school for the printing offices of local newspapers, picking enough general knowledge to enable him, when about seventeen years of age, to teach schools in the rural districts of his native island. very early in life he became a writer, chiefly of short prose tales and essays, which were accepted by the best new york magazines. his literary and journalistic work was not confined to the metropolis, but took him, for a few months in 1848, so far away from home as new orleans. in 1851-54, besides writing for and editing newspapers, he was engaged in housebuilding, the trade of his father. although this was, it is said, a profitable business, he gave it up to write poetry, and issued his first volume, "leaves of grass," in 1855. the book had been written with great pains, according to a preconceived plan of the author to be stated in the preface; and it was finally set up (by his own hands, for want of a publisher) only, as he tells us, after many "doings and undoings, leaving out the stock 'poetical' touches." its publication was the occasion of probably the most voluminous controversy of american letters--mostly abuse, ridicule, and condemnation. in 1862 whitman's brother george, who had volunteered in the union army, was reported badly wounded in the fredericksburg fight. walt, going at once to the war front in virginia, found that his brother's wound was not serious enough to require his ministrations, but gradually he became engaged in nursing other wounded soldiers, until this work, as a volunteer hospital missionary in washington, engrossed the major part of his time. this continued until and for some years after the end of the war. whitman's own needs were supplied by occasional literary work and from his earnings as a clerk first in the interior and later in the attorney general's department. he had gone to washington a man of strong and majestic physique, but his untiring devotion, fidelity, and vigilance in nursing the sick and wounded soldiers in the army hospitals in and about washington was soon to shatter that constitution which was ever a marvel to its possessor, and to condemn him to pass the last two decades of his life in unaccustomed invalidism. the history of the civil war in america presents no instance of nobler fulfilment of duty or of sublimer sacrifice. meanwhile his muse was not neglected. his book had gone through four editions, and, with the increment of the noble war poetry of "drum taps," had become a volume of size. at a very early period "leaves of grass" had been hailed as an important literary contribution by a few of the best thinkers in this country and in england but, generally speaking, nearly all literary persons received it with much criticism and many qualifications. in washington devoted disciples like william douglas o'connor and john burroughs never varied in their uncompromising adherence to the book and its author. this appreciation only by the few was likewise encountered in england. the book had made a stir among the literary classes, but its importance was not at all generally recognized. men like john addington symonds, edward dowden, and william michael rossetti were, however, almost unrestricted in their praise. it was william rossetti who planned, in 1867, to bring out in england a volume of selections from whitman's poetry, in the belief that it was better to leave out the poems that had provoked such adverse criticism, in order to get whitman a foothold among those who might prefer to have an expurgated edition. whitman's attitude toward the plan at the time is given in a letter which he wrote to rossetti on december 3, 1867: "i cannot and will not consent of my own volition to countenance an expurgated edition of my pieces. i have steadily refused to do so under seductive offers, here in my own country, and must not do so in another country." it appeared, however, that rossetti had already advanced his project, and whitman graciously added: "if, before the arrival of this letter, you have practically invested in, and accomplished, or partially accomplished, any plan, even contrary to this letter, i do not expect you to abandon it, at loss of outlay; but shall _bona fide_ consider you blameless if you let it go on, and be carried out, as you may have arranged. it is the question of the authorization of an expurgated edition proceeding from me, that deepest engages me. the facts of the different ways, one way or another way, in which the book may appear in england, out of influences not under the shelter of my umbrage, are of much less importance to me. after making the foregoing explanation, i shall, i think, accept kindly whatever happens. for i feel, indeed know, that i am in the hands of a friend, and that my pieces will receive that truest, brightest of light and perception coming from love. in that, all other and lesser requisites become pale...." the rossetti "selections" duly appeared--with what momentous influence upon the two persons whose friendship we are tracing will presently be shown. on june 22, 1869, anne gilchrist, writing to rossetti, said: "i was calling on madox brown a fortnight ago, and he put into my hands your edition of walt whitman's poems. i shall not cease to thank him for that. since i have had it, i can read no other book: it holds me entirely spellbound, and i go through it again and again with deepening delight and wonder. how can one refrain from expressing gratitude to you for what you have so admirably done?..." to this rossetti promptly responded: "your letter has given me keen pleasure this morning. that glorious man whitman will one day be known as one of the greatest sons of earth, a few steps below shakespeare on the throne of immortality. what a tearing-away of the obscuring veil of use and wont from the visage of man and of life! i am doing myself the pleasure of at once ordering a copy of the "selections" for you, which you will be so kind as to accept. genuine--i. e., _enthusiastic_--appreciators are not so common, and must be cultivated when they appear.... anybody who values whitman as you do ought to read the whole of him...." at a later date rossetti gave mrs. gilchrist a copy of the complete "leaves of grass," in acknowledging which she said, "the gift of yours i have not any words to tell you how priceless it will be to me...." this lengthy letter was later, at rossetti's solicitation, worked over for publication as the "estimate of walt whitman" to which reference has already been made. anne gilchrist was primarily a woman of letters. though her natural bent was toward science and philosophy, her marriage threw her into association with artists and writers of _belles lettres_. she was born in london on february 25, 1828. she came of excellent ancestry, and received a good education, particularly in music. she had a profoundly religious nature, although it appears that she was never a believer in many of the orthodox christian doctrines. very early in life she recognized the greatness of such men as emerson and comte. in 1851, at the age of twenty-three, she married alexander gilchrist, two months her junior. though of limited means, he possessed literary ability and was then preparing for the bar. his early writings secured for him the friendship of carlyle, who for years lived next door to the gilchrists in cheyne row. this friendship led to others, and the gilchrists were soon introduced into that supreme literary circle which included ruskin, herbert spencer, george eliot, the rossettis, tennyson, and many another great mind of that illustrious age. within ten years of their marriage the gilchrists had four children, in whom they were very happy. but in the year 1861, when anne was thirty-three years of age, her husband died. it was a terrible blow, but she faced the future unflinchingly, and reared her children, giving to each of them a profession. at the time of her husband's death his life of william blake was nearing completion. with the assistance of william and gabriel rossetti mrs. gilchrist finished the work on this excellent biography, and it was published by macmillan. whitman has paid a fitting tribute to the pluck exhibited in this achievement: "do you know much of blake?" said whitman to horace traubel, who records the conversation in his remarkable book "with walt whitman in camden." "you know, this is mrs. gilchrist's book--the book she completed. they had made up their minds to do the work--her husband had it well under way: he caught a fever and was carried off. mrs. gilchrist was left with four young children, alone: her perplexities were great. have you noticed that the time to look for the best things in best people is the moment of their greatest need? look at lincoln: he is our proudest example: he proved to be big as, bigger than, any emergency--his grasp was a giant's grasp--made dark things light, made hard things easy.... (mrs. gilchrist) belonged to the same noble breed: seized the reins, was competent; her head was clear, her hand was firm." the circumstances under which she first read whitman's poetry have been narrated. when in 1869 whitman became aware of the rossetti correspondence, he felt greatly honoured, and through rossetti he sent his portrait to the as yet anonymous lady. in acknowledging this communication his english friend has a grateful word from "the lady" to return: "i gave your letter, and the second copy of your portrait, to the lady you refer to, and need scarcely say how truly delighted she was. she has asked me to say that you could not have devised for her a more welcome pleasure, and that she feels grateful to me for having sent to america the extracts from what she had written, since they have been a satisfaction to you...." early in 1870 the "estimate" appeared in the _radical_, still more than a year before mrs. gilchrist addressed her first letter to whitman. he welcomed the essay, and its author as a new and peculiarly powerful champion of "leaves of grass." to rossetti he wrote: "i am deeply touched by these sympathies and convictions, coming from a woman and from england, and am sure that if the lady knew how much comfort it has been to me to get them, she would not only pardon you for transmitting them but approve that action. i realize indeed of this smiling and emphatic _well done_ from the heart and conscience of a true wife and mother, and one, too, whose sense of the poetic, as i glean from your letter, after flowing through the heart and conscience, must also move through and satisfy science as much as the esthetic, that i had hitherto received no eulogium so magnificent." concerning this experience whitman said to horace traubel, at a much later period: "you can imagine what such a thing as her 'estimate' meant to me at that time. almost everybody was against me--the papers, the preachers, the literary gentlemen--nearly everybody with only here and there a dissenting voice--when it looked on the surface as if my enterprise was bound to fail ... then this wonderful woman. such things stagger a man ... i had got so used to being ignored or denounced that the appearance of a friend was always accompanied with a sort of shock.... there are shocks that knock you up, shocks that knock you down. mrs. gilchrist never wavered from her first decision. i have that sort of feeling about her which cannot easily be spoken of--...: love (strong personal love, too), reverence, respect--you see, it won't go into words: all the words are weak and formal." speaking again of her first criticism of his work, he said: "i remember well how one of my noblest, best friends--one of my wisest, cutest, profoundest, most candid critics--how mrs. gilchrist, even to the last, insisted that "leaves of grass" was not the mouthpiece of parlours, refinements--no--but the language of strength, power, passion, intensity, absorption, sincerity...." he claimed a closer relationship to her than he allowed to rossetti: "rossetti mentions mrs. gilchrist. well, he had a right to--almost as much right as i had: a sort of brother's right: she was his friend, she was more than my friend. i feel like hamlet when he said forty thousand brothers could not feel what he felt for ophelia. after all ... we were a family--a happy family: the few of us who got together, going with love the same way--we were a happy family. the crowd was on the other side but we were on our side--we: a few of us, just a few: and despite our paucity of numbers we made ourselves tell for the good cause." from these expressions it is quite clear that whitman's attitude toward mrs. gilchrist was at first that of the unpopular prophet who finds a worthy and welcome disciple in an unexpected place. and that he should have so felt was but natural, for she had been drawn to him, as she confided to him in one of her letters, by what he had written rather than and not by her knowledge of the man. there can be no doubt, however, that on mrs. gilchrist's part something more than the friendship of her new-found liberator was desired. when she read the "leaves of grass" she was forty-one years of age, in the full vigour of womanhood. to her the reading meant a new birth, causing her to pour out her soul to the prophet and poet across the seas with a freedom and abandon that were phenomenal. this was in the first letter printed in this volume, under date of september 3, 1871, and about the time that whitman had sent to his new supporter a copy of his poems. perhaps the strongest reason why whitman did not reply to passion with passion lies in the fact that his heart was, so far as attachments of that sort were concerned, already bestowed elsewhere. i am indebted to professor holloway for the information that whitman was, in 1864, the unfortunate lover of a certain lady whose previous marriage to another, while it did not dim their mutual devotion, did serve to keep them apart. to her whitman wrote that heart-wrung lyric of separation, "out of the rolling ocean, the crowd." this suggests that there was probably a double tragedy, so ironical is the fate of the affections, anne gilchrist and walt whitman both passionately yearning for personal love yet unable to quench the one desire in the other. but if there could not be between them the love which leads to marriage, there could be a noble and tender and life-long friendship. over this whitman's loss of his magnificent health, to be followed by an invalidism of twenty years, had no power. in 1873 whitman was stricken with paralysis, which rendered him so helpless that he had to give up his work and finally his position, and to go to live for the rest of his life in camden, new jersey. mrs. gilchrist's affection for him did not waver when this trial was made of it. indeed, his illness had the effect, as these letters show, of quickening the desire which she had had for several years (since 1869) of coming to live in america, that she might be near him to lighten his burdens, and, if she could not hope to cherish him as a wife, that she might at least care for him as a mother. whitman, it will be noted, strongly advised against this plan. just why he wished to keep her away from america is unclear, possibly because he dared not put so idealistic a friendship and discipleship to the test of personal acquaintance with a prematurely broken old man. nevertheless, on august 30, 1876, mrs. gilchrist set sail, with three of her children, for philadelphia. they arrived in september. from that date until the spring of 1878 the gilchrists kept house at 1929 north twenty-second street, philadelphia, where whitman was a frequent and regular visitor. it is interesting to note that mrs. gilchrist's appreciation of whitman did not lessen after she had met and known him in the intimacy of that tea-table circle which at her house discussed the same great variety of topics--literature, religion, science, politics--that had enlivened the o'connor breakfast table in washington. she shall describe it and him herself. in a letter to rossetti, under date of december 22, 1876, she writes: "but i need not tell you that our greatest pleasure is the society of mr. whitman, who fully realizes the ideal i had formed from his poems, and brings such an atmosphere of cordiality and geniality with him as is indescribable. he is really making slow but, i trust, steady progress toward recovery, having been much cheered (and no doubt that acted favourably upon his health) by the sympathy manifested toward him in england and the pleasure of finding so many buyers of his poems there. it must be a deep satisfaction to you to have been the channel through which this help and comfort flowed...." and a year later she writes to the same correspondent: "we are having delightful evenings this winter; how often do i wish you could make one in the circle around our tea table where sits on my right hand every evening but sunday walt whitman. he has made great progress in health and recovered powers of getting about during the year we have been here: nevertheless the lameness--the dragging instead of lifting the left leg continues; and this together with his white hair and beard give him a look of age curiously contradicted by his face, which has not only the ruddy freshness but the full, rounded contours of youth, nowhere drawn or wrinkled or sunk; it is a face as indicative of serenity and goodness and of mental and bodily health as the brow is of intellectual power. but i notice he occasionally speaks of himself as having a 'wounded brain,' and of being still quite altered from his former self." whitman, on his part, thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon sunshine of such friendly hospitality, for he considered mrs. gilchrist even more gifted as a conversationalist than as a writer. for hints of the sort of talk that flowed with mrs. gilchrist's tea i must refer the reader to her son's realistic biography. after two years of residence in philadelphia, the gilchrists went to dwell in boston and later in new york city, and met the leaders in the two literary capitals. from these addresses the letters begin again, after the natural interruption of two years. it is at this time that the first letters from herbert and beatrice gilchrist were written. these are given in this volume to complete the chain and to show how completely they were in sympathy with their mother in their love and appreciation of whitman. from new york they all sailed for their old home in england on june 7, 1879. whitman came the day before to wish them good voyage. the chief reason for the return to england seems to have been the desire to send beatrice to berne to complete her medical education. after the return to england, or rather while they are still en route at glasgow, the letters begin again. several years of literary work yet remained to mrs. gilchrist. the chief writings of these years were a new edition of the blake, a life of mary lamb for the eminent women series, an article on blake for the dictionary of national biography, several essays including "three glimpses of a new england village," and the "confession of faith." she was beginning a careful study of the life and writings of carlyle, with the intention of writing a life of her old friend to reply to the aspersions of freude. this last work was, however, never completed, for early in 1882 some malady which rendered her breathing difficult had already begun to cast the shadow of death upon her. but her faith, long schooled in the optimism of "leaves of grass," looked upon the steadily approaching end with calmness. on november 29, 1885, she died. when whitman was informed of her death by herbert gilchrist, he could find words for only the following brief reply: _15th december 1885. camden, united states, america._ dear herbert: i have received your letter. nothing now remains but a sweet and rich memory--none more beautiful all time, all life all the earth--i cannot write anything of a letter to-day. i must sit alone and think. walt whitman. later, in conversations with horace traubel which the latter has preserved in his minute biography of whitman, he was able to express his regard for mrs. gilchrist more fully--"a supreme character of whom the world knows too little for its own good ... if her sayings had been recorded--i do not say she would pale, but i do say she would equal the best of the women of our century--add something as great as any to the testimony on the side of her sex." and at another time: "oh! she was strangely different from the average; entirely herself; as simple as nature; true, honest; beautiful as a tree is tall, leafy, rich, full, free--_is_ a tree. yet, free as she was by nature, bound by no conventionalisms, she was the most courageous of women; more than queenly; of high aspect in the best sense. she was not cold; she had her passions; i have known her to warm up--to resent something that was said; some impeachment of good things--great things; of a person sometimes; she had the largest charity, the sweetest fondest optimism.... she was a radical of radicals; enjoyed all sorts of high enthusiasms: was exquisitely sensitized; belonged to the times yet to come; her vision went on and on." this searching interpretation of her character wants only her artist son's description of her personal appearance to make the final picture complete: "a little above the average height, she walked with an even, light step. brown hair concealed a full and finely chiselled brow, and her hazel eyes bent upon you a bright and penetrating gaze. whilst conversing her face became radiant as with an experience of golden years; humour was present in her conversation--flecks of sunshine, such as sometimes play about the minds of deeply religious natures. her animated manner seldom flagged, and charmed the taciturn to talking in his or her best humour." once, when speaking to walt whitman of the beauty of the human speaking voice, he replied: "the voice indicates the soul. hers, with its varied modulations and blended tones, was the tenderest, most musical voice ever to bless our ears." her death was a long-lasting shock to whitman. "she was a wonderful woman--a sort of human miracle to me.... her taking off ... was a great shock to me: i have never quite got over it: she was near to me: she was subtle: her grasp on my work was tremendous--so sure, so all around, so adequate." if this sounds a trifle self-centred in its criticism, not so was the poem which, in memory of her, he wrote as a fitting epitaph from the poet she had loved. "going somewhere" my science-friend, my noblest woman-friend (now buried in an english grave--and this a memory-leaf for her dear sake), ended our talk--"the sum, concluding all we know of old or modern learning, intuitions deep, of all geologies--histories--of all astronomy--of evolution, metaphysics all, is, that we all are onward, onward, speeding slowly, surely bettering, life, life an endless march, an endless army (no halt, but, it is duly over), the world, the race, the soul--in space and time the universes, all bound as is befitting each--all surely going somewhere." the letters of anne gilchrist and walt whitman a woman's estimate of walt whitman[1] [from letters by anne gilchrist to w. m. rossetti.] _june 23, 1869._--i am very sure you are right in your estimate of walt whitman. there is nothing in him that i shall ever let go my hold of. for me the reading of his poems is truly a new birth of the soul. i shall quite fearlessly accept your kind offer of the loan of a complete edition, certain that great and divinely beautiful nature has not, could not infuse any poison into the wine he has poured out for us. and as for what you specially allude to, who so well able to bear it--i will say, to judge wisely of it--as one who, having been a happy wife and mother, has learned to accept all things with tenderness, to feel a sacredness in all? perhaps walt whitman has forgotten--or, through some theory in his head, has overridden--the truth that our instincts are beautiful facts of nature, as well as our bodies; and that we have a strong instinct of silence about some things. _july 11._--i think it was very manly and kind of you to put the whole of walt whitman's poems into my hands; and that i have no other friend who would have judged them and me so wisely and generously. i had not dreamed that words could cease to be words, and become electric streams like these. i do assure you that, strong as i am, i feel sometimes as if i had not bodily strength to read many of these poems. in the series headed "calamus," for instance, in some of the "songs of parting," the "voice out of the sea," the poem beginning "tears, tears," &c., there is such a weight of emotion, such a tension of the heart, that mine refuses to beat under it,--stands quite still,--and i am obliged to lay the book down for a while. or again, in the piece called "walt whitman," and one or two others of that type, i am as one hurried through stormy seas, over high mountains, dazed with sunlight, stunned with a crowd and tumult of faces and voices, till i am breathless, bewildered, half dead. then come parts and whole poems in which there is such calm wisdom and strength of thought, such a cheerful breadth of sunshine, that the soul bathes in them renewed and strengthened. living impulses flow out of these that make me exult in life, yet look longingly towards "the superb vistas of death." those who admire this poem, and don't care for that, and talk of formlessness, absence of metre, &c., are quite as far from any genuine recognition of walt whitman as his bitter detractors. not, of course, that all the pieces are equal in power and beauty, but that all are vital; they grew--they were not made. we criticise a palace or a cathedral; but what is the good of criticising a forest? are not the hitherto-accepted masterpieces of literature akin rather to noble architecture; built up of material rendered precious by elaboration; planned with subtile art that makes beauty go hand in hand with rule and measure, and knows where the last stone will come, before the first is laid; the result stately, fixed, yet such as might, in every particular, have been different from what it is (therefore inviting criticism), contrasting proudly with the careless freedom of nature, opposing its own rigid adherence to symmetry to her willful dallying with it? but not such is this book. seeds brought by the winds from north, south, east, and west, lying long in the earth, not resting on it like the stately building, but hid in and assimilating it, shooting upwards to be nourished by the air and the sunshine and the rain which beat idly against that,--each bough and twig and leaf growing in strength and beauty its own way, a law to itself, yet, with all this freedom of spontaneous growth, the result inevitable, unalterable (therefore setting criticism at naught), above all things, vital,--that is, a source of ever-generating vitality: such are these poems. "roots and leaves themselves alone are these, scents brought to men and women from the wild woods and from the pondside, breast sorrel and pinks of love, fingers that wind around tighter than vines, gushes from the throats of birds hid in the foliage of trees as the sun is risen, breezes of land and love, breezes set from living shores out to you on the living sea,--to you, o sailors! frost-mellowed berries and third-month twigs, offered fresh to young persons wandering out in the fields when the winter breaks up, love-buds put before you and within you, whoever you are, buds to be unfolded on the old terms. if you bring the warmth of the sun to them, they will open, and bring form, colour, perfume, to you: if you become the aliment and the wet, they will become flowers, fruits, tall branches and trees." and the music takes good care of itself, too. as if it _could_ be otherwise! as if those "large, melodious thoughts," those emotions, now so stormy and wild, now of unfathomed tenderness and gentleness, could fail to vibrate through the words in strong, sweeping, long-sustained chords, with lovely melodies winding in and out fitfully amongst them! listen, for instance, to the penetrating sweetness, set in the midst of rugged grandeur, of the passage beginning,- "i am he that walks with the tender and growing night; i call to the earth and sea half held by the night." i see that no counting of syllables will reveal the mechanism of the music; and that this rushing spontaneity could not stay to bind itself with the fetters of metre. but i know that the music is there, and that i would not for something change ears with those who cannot hear it. and i know that poetry must do one of two things,--either own this man as equal with her highest completest manifestors, or stand aside, and admit that there is something come into the world nobler, diviner than herself, one that is free of the universe, and can tell its secrets as none before. i do not think or believe this; but see it with the same unmistakable definiteness of perception and full consciousness that i see the sun at this moment in the noonday sky, and feel his rays glowing down upon me as i write in the open air. what more can you ask of the works of a man's mouth than that they should "absorb into you as food and air, to appear again in your strength, gait, face,"--that they should be "fibre and filter to your blood," joy and gladness to your whole nature? i am persuaded that one great source of this kindling, vitalizing power--i suppose _the_ great source--is the grasp laid upon the present, the fearless and comprehensive dealing with reality. hitherto the leaders of thought have (except in science) been men with their faces resolutely turned backwards; men who have made of the past a tyrant that beggars and scorns the present, hardly seeing any greatness but what is shrouded away in the twilight, underground past; naming the present only for disparaging comparisons, humiliating distrust that tends to create the very barrenness it complains of; bidding me warm myself at fires that went out to mortal eyes centuries ago; insisting, in religion above all, that i must either "look through dead men's eyes," or shut my own in helpless darkness. poets fancying themselves so happy over the chill and faded beauty of the past, but not making me happy at all,--rebellious always at being dragged down out of the free air and sunshine of to-day. but this poet, this "athlete, full of rich words, full of joy," takes you by the hand, and turns you with your face straight forwards. the present is great enough for him, because he is great enough for it. it flows through him as a "vast oceanic tide," lifting up a mighty voice. earth, "the eloquent, dumb, great mother," is not old, has lost none of her fresh charms, none of her divine meanings; still bears great sons and daughters, if only they would possess themselves and accept their birthright,--a richer, not a poorer, heritage than was ever provided before,--richer by all the toil and suffering of the generations that have preceded, and by the further unfolding of the eternal purposes. here is one come at last who can show them how; whose songs are the breath of a glad, strong, beautiful life, nourished sufficingly, kindled to unsurpassed intensity and greatness by the gifts of the present. "each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy." "o the joy of my soul leaning poised on itself,--receiving identity through materials, and loving them,--observing characters, and absorbing them! o my soul vibrated back to me from them! "o the gleesome saunter over fields and hillsides! the leaves and flowers of the commonest weeds, the moist, fresh stillness of the woods, the exquisite smell of the earth at daybreak, and all through the forenoon. "o to realize space! the plenteousness of all--that there are no bounds; to emerge, and be of the sky--of the sun and moon and the flying clouds, as one with them. "o the joy of suffering,- to struggle against great odds, to meet enemies undaunted, to be entirely alone with them--to find how much one can stand!" i used to think it was great to disregard happiness, to press on to a high goal, careless, disdainful of it. but now i see that there is nothing so great as to be capable of happiness; to pluck it out of "each moment and whatever happens"; to find that one can ride as gay and buoyant on the angry, menacing, tumultuous waves of life as on those that glide and glitter under a clear sky; that it is not defeat and wretchedness which come out of the storm of adversity, but strength and calmness. see, again, in the pieces gathered together under the title "calamus," and elsewhere, what it means for a man to love his fellow-man. did you dream it before? these "evangel-poems of comrades and of love" speak, with the abiding, penetrating power of prophecy, of a "new and superb friendship"; speak not as beautiful dreams, unrealizable aspirations to be laid aside in sober moods, because they breathe out what now glows within the poet's own breast, and flows out in action toward the men around him. had ever any land before her poet, not only to concentrate within himself her life, and, when she kindled with anger against her children who were treacherous to the cause her life is bound up with, to announce and justify her terrible purpose in words of unsurpassable grandeur (as in the poem beginning, "rise, o days, from your fathomless deeps"), but also to go and with his own hands dress the wounds, with his powerful presence soothe and sustain and nourish her suffering soldiers,--hundreds of them, thousands, tens of thousands,--by day and by night, for weeks, months, years? "i sit by the restless all the dark night; some are so young, some suffer so much: i recall the experience sweet and sad. many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have crossed and rested, many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips:--" kisses, that touched with the fire of a strange, new, undying eloquence the lips that received them! the most transcendent genius could not, untaught by that "experience sweet and sad," have breathed out hymns for her dead soldiers of such ineffably tender, sorrowful, yet triumphant beauty. but the present spreads before us other things besides those of which it is easy to see the greatness and beauty; and the poet would leave us to learn the hardest part of our lesson unhelped if he took no heed of these; and would be unfaithful to his calling, as interpreter of man to himself and of the scheme of things in relation to him, if he did not accept all--if he did not teach "the great lesson of reception, neither preference nor denial." if he feared to stretch out the hand, not of condescending pity, but of fellowship, to the degraded, criminal, foolish, despised, knowing that they are only laggards in "the great procession winding along the roads of the universe," "the far-behind to come on in their turn," knowing the "amplitude of time," how could he roll the stone of contempt off the heart as he does, and cut the strangling knot of the problem of inherited viciousness and degradation? and, if he were not bold and true to the utmost, and did not own in himself the threads of darkness mixed in with the threads of light, and own it with the same strength and directness that he tells of the light, and not in those vague generalities that everybody uses, and nobody means, in speaking on this head,--in the worst, germs of all that is in the best; in the best, germs of all that is in the worst,--the _brotherhood_ of the human race would be a mere flourish of rhetoric. and brotherhood is naught if it does not bring brother's love along with it. if the poet's heart were not "a measureless ocean of love" that seeks the lips and would quench the thirst of all, he were not the one we have waited for so long. who but he could put at last the right meaning into that word "democracy," which has been made to bear such a burthen of incongruous notions? "by god! i will have nothing that all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms!" flashing it forth like a banner, making it draw the instant allegiance of every man and woman who loves justice. all occupations, however homely, all developments of the activities of man, need the poet's recognition, because every man needs the assurance that for him also the materials out of which to build up a great and satisfying life lie to hand, the sole magic in the use of them, all of the right stuff in the right hands. hence those patient enumerations of every conceivable kind of industry:- "in them far more than you estimated--in them far less also." far more as a means, next to nothing as an end: whereas we are wont to take it the other way, and think the result something, but the means a weariness. out of all come strength, and the cheerfulness of strength. i murmured not a little, to say the truth, under these enumerations, at first. but now i think that not only is their purpose a justification, but that the musical ear and vividness of perception of the poet have enabled him to perform this task also with strength and grace, and that they are harmonious as well as necessary parts of the great whole. nor do i sympathize with those who grumble at the unexpected words that turn up now and then. a quarrel with words is always, more or less, a quarrel with meanings; and here we are to be as genial and as wide as nature, and quarrel with nothing. if the thing a word stands for exists by divine appointment (and what does not so exist?), the word need never be ashamed of itself; the shorter and more direct, the better. it is a gain to make friends with it, and see it in good company. here at all events, "poetic diction" would not serve,--not pretty, soft, colourless words, laid by in lavender for the special uses of poetry, that have had none of the wear and tear of daily life; but such as have stood most, as tell of human heart-beats, as fit closest to the sense, and have taken deep hues of association from the varied experiences of life--those are the words wanted here. we only ask to seize and be seized swiftly, over-masteringly, by the great meanings. we see with the eyes of the soul, listen with the ears of the soul; the poor old words that have served so many generations for purposes, good, bad, and indifferent, and become warped and blurred in the process, grow young again, regenerate, translucent. it is not mere delight they give us,--_that_ the "sweet singers," with their subtly wrought gifts, their mellifluous speech, can give too in their degree; it is such life and health as enable us to pluck delights for ourselves out of every hour of the day, and taste the sunshine that ripened the corn in the crust we eat (i often seem to myself to do that). out of the scorn of the present came skepticism; and out of the large, loving acceptance of it comes faith. if _now_ is so great and beautiful, i need no arguments to make me believe that the _nows_ of the past and of the future were and will be great and beautiful, too. "i know i am deathless. i know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by the carpenter's compass. i know i shall not pass, like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night. i know i am august. i do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood. "my foothold is tenoned and mortised in granite: i laugh at what you call dissolution, and i know the amplitude of time." "no array of terms can say how much i am at peace about god and death." you argued rightly that my confidence would not be betrayed by any of the poems in this book. none of them troubled me even for a moment; because i saw at a glance that it was not, as men had supposed, the heights brought down to the depths, but the depths lifted up level with the sunlit heights, that they might become clear and sunlit, too. always, for a woman, a veil woven out of her own soul--never touched upon even, with a rough hand, by this poet. but, for a man, a daring, fearless pride in himself, not a mock-modesty woven out of delusions--a very poor imitation of a woman's. do they not see that this fearless pride, this complete acceptance of themselves, is needful for her pride, her justification? what! is it all so ignoble, so base, that it will not bear the honest light of speech from lips so gifted with "the divine power to use words?" then what hateful, bitter humiliation for her, to have to give herself up to the reality! do you think there is ever a bride who does not taste more or less this bitterness in her cup? but who put it there? it must surely be man's fault, not god's, that she has to say to herself, "soul, look another way--you have no part in this. motherhood is beautiful, fatherhood is beautiful; but the dawn of fatherhood and motherhood is not beautiful." do they really think that god is ashamed of what he has made and appointed? and, if not, surely it is somewhat superfluous that they should undertake to be so for him. "the full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul," of a woman above all. it is true that instinct of silence i spoke of is a beautiful, imperishable part of nature, too. but it is not beautiful when it means an ignominious shame brooding darkly. shame is like a very flexible veil, that follows faithfully the shape of what it covers,--beautiful when it hides a beautiful thing, ugly when it hides an ugly one. it has not covered what was beautiful here; it has covered a mean distrust of a man's self and of his creator. it was needed that this silence, this evil spell, should for once be broken, and the daylight let in, that the dark cloud lying under might be scattered to the winds. it was needed that one who could here indicate for us "the path between reality and the soul" should speak. that is what these beautiful, despised poems, the "children of adam," do, read by the light that glows out of the rest of the volume: light of a clear, strong faith in god, of an unfathomably deep and tender love for humanity,--light shed out of a soul that is "possessed of itself." "natural life of me faithfully praising things, corroborating for ever the triumph of things." now silence may brood again; but lovingly, happily, as protecting what is beautiful, not as hiding what is unbeautiful; consciously enfolding a sweet and sacred mystery--august even as the mystery of death, the dawn as the setting: kindred grandeurs, which to eyes that are opened shed a hallowing beauty on all that surrounds and preludes them. "o vast and well-veiled death! "o the beautiful touch of death, soothing and benumbing a few moments, for reasons!" he who can thus look with fearlessness at the beauty of death may well dare to teach us to look with fearless, untroubled eyes at the perfect beauty of love in all its appointed realizations. now none need turn away their thoughts with pain or shame; though only lovers and poets may say what they will,--the lover to his own, the poet to all, because all are in a sense his own. none need fear that this will be harmful to the woman. how should there be such a flaw in the scheme of creation that, for the two with whom there is no complete life, save in closest sympathy, perfect union, what is natural and happy for the one should be baneful to the other? the utmost faithful freedom of speech, such as there is in these poems, creates in her no thought or feeling that shuns the light of heaven, none that are not as innocent and serenely fair as the flowers that grow; would lead, not to harm, but to such deep and tender affection as makes harm or the thought of harm simply impossible. far more beautiful care than man is aware of has been taken in the making of her, to fit her to be his mate. god has taken such care that _he_ need take none; none, that is, which consists in disguisement, insincerity, painful hushing-up of his true, grand, initiating nature. and, as regards the poet's utterances, which, it might be thought, however harmless in themselves, would prove harmful by falling into the hands of those for whom they are manifestly unsuitable, i believe that even here fear is needless. for her innocence is folded round with such thick folds of ignorance, till the right way and time for it to accept knowledge, that what is unsuitable is also unintelligible to her; and, if no dark shadow from without be cast on the white page by misconstruction or by foolish mystery and hiding away of it, no hurt will ensue from its passing freely through her hands. this is so, though it is little understood or realized by men. wives and mothers will learn through the poet that there is rejoicing grandeur and beauty there wherein their hearts have so longed to find it; where foolish men, traitors to themselves, poorly comprehending the grandeur of their own or the beauty of a woman's nature, have taken such pains to make her believe there was none,--nothing but miserable discrepancy. one of the hardest things to make a child understand is, that down underneath your feet, if you go far enough, you come to blue sky and stars again; that there really is no "down" for the world, but only in every direction an "up." and that this is an all-embracing truth, including within its scope every created thing, and, with deepest significance, every part, faculty, attribute, healthful impulse, mind, and body of a man (each and all facing towards and related to the infinite on every side), is what we grown children find it hardest to realize, too. novalis said, "we touch heaven when we lay our hand on the human body"; which, if it mean anything, must mean an ample justification of the poet who has dared to be the poet of the body as well as of the soul,--to treat it with the freedom and grandeur of an ancient sculptor. "not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy of the muse:--i say the form complete is worthier far. "these are not parts and poems of the body only, but of the soul. "o, i say now these are soul." but while novalis--who gazed at the truth a long way off, up in the air, in a safe, comfortable, german fashion--has been admiringly quoted by high authorities, the great american who has dared to rise up and wrestle with it, and bring it alive and full of power in the midst of us, has been greeted with a very different kind of reception, as has happened a few times before in the world in similar cases. yet i feel deeply persuaded that a perfectly fearless, candid, ennobling treatment of the life of the body (so inextricably intertwined with, so potent in its influence on the life of the soul) will prove of inestimable value to all earnest and aspiring natures, impatient of the folly of the long-prevalent belief that it is because of the greatness of the spirit that it has learned to despise the body, and to ignore its influences; knowing well that it is, on the contrary, just because the spirit is not great enough, not healthy and vigorous enough, to transfuse itself into the life of the body, elevating that and making it holy by its own triumphant intensity; knowing, too, how the body avenges this by dragging the soul down to the level assigned itself. whereas the spirit must lovingly embrace the body, as the roots of a tree embrace the ground, drawing thence rich nourishment, warmth, impulse. or, rather, the body is itself the root of the soul--that whereby it grows and feeds. the great tide of healthful life that carries all before it must surge through the whole man, not beat to and fro in one corner of his brain. "o the life of my senses and flesh, transcending my senses and flesh!" for the sake of all that is highest, a truthful recognition of this life, and especially of that of it which underlies the fundamental ties of humanity--the love of husband and wife, fatherhood, motherhood--is needed. religion needs it, now at last alive to the fact that the basis of all true worship is comprised in "the great lesson of reception, neither preference nor denial," interpreting, loving, rejoicing in all that is created, fearing and despising nothing. "i accept reality, and dare not question it." the dignity of a man, the pride and affection of a woman, need it too. and so does the intellect. for science has opened up such elevating views of the mystery of material existence that, if poetry had not bestirred herself to handle this theme in her own way, she would have been left behind by her plodding sister. science knows that matter is not, as we fancied, certain stolid atoms which the forces of nature vibrate through and push and pull about; but that the forces and the atoms are one mysterious, imperishable identity, neither conceivable without the other. she knows, as well as the poet, that destructibility is not one of nature's words; that it is only the relationship of things--tangibility, visibility--that are transitory. she knows that body and soul are one, and proclaims it undauntedly, regardless, and rightly regardless, of inferences. timid onlookers, aghast, think it means that soul is body--means death for the soul. but the poet knows it means body is soul--the great whole imperishable; in life and in death continually changing substance, always retaining identity. for, if the man of science is happy about the atoms, if he is not baulked or baffled by apparent decay or destruction, but can see far enough into the dimness to know that not only is each atom imperishable, but that its endowments, characteristics, affinities, electric and other attractions and repulsions--however suspended, hid, dormant, masked, when it enters into new combinations--remain unchanged, be it for thousands of years, and, when it is again set free, manifest themselves in the old way, shall not the poet be happy about the vital whole? shall the highest force, the vital, that controls and compels into complete subservience for its own purposes the rest, be the only one that is destructible? and the love and thought that endow the whole be less enduring than the gravitating, chemical, electric powers that endow its atoms? but identity is the essence of love and thought--i still i, you still you. certainly no man need ever again be scared by the "dark hush" and the little handful of refuse. "you are not scattered to the winds--you gather certainly and safely around yourself." "sure as life holds all parts together, death holds all parts together." "all goes onward and outward: nothing collapses." "what i am, i am of my body; and what i shall be, i shall be of my body." "the body parts away at last for the journeys of the soul." science knows that whenever a thing passes from a solid to a subtle air, power is set free to a wider scope of action. the poet knows it too, and is dazzled as he turns his eyes toward "the superb vistas of death." he knows that "the perpetual transfers and promotions" and "the amplitude of time" are for a man as well as for the earth. the man of science, with unwearied, self-denying toil, finds the letters and joins them into words. but the poet alone can make complete sentences. the man of science furnishes the premises; but it is the poet who draws the final conclusion. both together are "swiftly and surely preparing a future greater than all the past." but, while the man of science bequeaths to it the fruits of his toil, the poet, this mighty poet, bequeaths himself--"death making him really undying." he will "stand as nigh as the nighest" to these men and women. for he taught them, in words which breathe out his very heart and soul into theirs, that "love of comrades" which, like the "soft-born measureless light," makes wholesome and fertile every spot it penetrates to, lighting up dark social and political problems, and kindling into a genial glow that great heart of justice which is the life-source of democracy. he, the beloved friend of all, initiated for them a "new and superb friendship"; whispered that secret of a godlike pride in a man's self, and a perfect trust in woman, whereby their love for each other, no longer poisoned and stifled, but basking in the light of god's smile, and sending up to him a perfume of gratitude, attains at last a divine and tender completeness. he gave a faith-compelling utterance to that "wisdom which is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and of the excellence of things." happy america, that he should be her son! one sees, indeed, that only a young giant of a nation could produce this kind of greatness, so full of the ardour, the elasticity, the inexhaustible vigour and freshness, the joyousness, the audacity of youth. but i, for one, cannot grudge anything to america. for, after all, the young giant is the old english giant--the great english race renewing its youth in that magnificent land, "mexican-breathed, arctic-braced," and girding up its loins to start on a new career that shall match with the greatness of the new home. a confession of faith[2] "of genius in the fine arts," wrote wordsworth, "the only infallible sign is the widening the sphere of human sensibility for the delight, honour, and benefit of human nature. genius is the introduction of a new element into the intellectual universe, or, if that be not allowed, it is the application of powers to objects on which they had not before been exercised, or the employment of them in such a manner as to produce effects hitherto unknown. what is all this but an advance or conquest made by the soul of the poet? is it to be supposed that the reader can make progress of this kind like an indian prince or general stretched on his palanquin and borne by slaves? no; he is invigorated and inspirited by his leader in order that he may exert himself, for he cannot proceed in quiescence, he cannot be carried like a dead weight. therefore to create taste is to call forth and bestow power." a great poet, then, is "a challenge and summons"; and the question first of all is not whether we like or dislike him, but whether we are capable of meeting that challenge, of stepping out of our habitual selves to answer that summons. he works on nature's plan: nature, who teaches nothing but supplies infinite material to learn from; who never preaches but drives home her meanings by the resistless eloquence of effects. therefore the poet makes greater demands upon his reader than any other man. for it is not a question of swallowing his ideas or admiring his handiwork merely, but of seeing, feeling, enjoying, as he sees, feels, enjoys. "the messages of great poems to each man and woman are," says walt whitman, "come to us on equal terms, only then can you understand us. we are no better than you; what we enclose you enclose, what we enjoy you may enjoy"--no better than you potentially, that is; but if you would understand us the potential must become the actual, the dormant sympathies must awaken and broaden, the dulled perceptions clear themselves and let in undreamed of delights, the wonder-working imagination must respond, the ear attune itself, the languid soul inhale large draughts of love and hope and courage, those "empyreal airs" that vitalize the poet's world. no wonder the poet is long in finding his audience; no wonder he has to abide the "inexorable tests of time," which, if indeed he be great, slowly turns the handful into hundreds, the hundreds into thousands, and at last having done its worst, grudgingly passes him on into the ranks of the immortals. meanwhile let not the handful who believe that such a destiny awaits a man of our time cease to give a reason for the faith that is in them. so far as the suffrages of his own generation go walt whitman may, like wordsworth, tell of the "love, the admiration, the indifference, the slight, the aversion, and even the contempt" with which his poems have been received; but the love and admiration are from even a smaller number, the aversion, the contempt more vehement, more universal and persistent than wordsworth ever encountered. for the american is a more daring innovator; he cuts loose from precedent, is a very columbus who has sailed forth alone on perilous seas to seek new shores, to seek a new world for the soul, a world that shall give scope and elevation and beauty to the changed and changing events, aspirations, conditions of modern life. to new aims, new methods; therefore let not the reader approach these poems as a judge, comparing, testing, measuring by what has gone before, but as a willing learner, an unprejudiced seeker for whatever may delight and nourish and exalt the soul. neither let him be abashed nor daunted by the weight of adverse opinion, the contempt and denial which have been heaped upon the great american even though it be the contempt and denial of the capable, the cultivated, the recognized authorities; for such is the usual lot of the pioneer in whatever field. in religion it is above all to the earnest and conscientious believer that the reformer has appeared a blasphemer, and in the world of literature it is equally natural that the most careful student, that the warmest lover of the accepted masterpieces, should be the most hostile to one who forsakes the methods by which, or at any rate, in company with which, those triumphs have been achieved. "but," said the wise goethe, "i will listen to any man's convictions; you may keep your doubts, your negations to yourself, i have plenty of my own." for heartfelt convictions are rare things. therefore i make bold to indicate the scope and source of power in walt whitman's writings, starting from no wider ground than their effect upon an individual mind. it is not criticism i have to offer; least of all any discussion of the question of form or formlessness in these poems, deeply convinced as i am that when great meanings and great emotions are expressed with corresponding power, literature has done its best, call it what you please. but my aim is rather to suggest such trains of thought, such experience of life as having served to put me _en rapport_ with this poet may haply find here and there a reader who is thereby helped to the same end. hence i quote just as freely from the prose (especially from "democratic vistas" and the preface to the first issue of "leaves of grass," 1855) as from his poems, and more freely, perhaps, from those parts that have proved a stumbling-block than from those whose conspicuous beauty assures them acceptance. fifteen years ago, with feelings partly of indifference, partly of antagonism--for i had heard none but ill words of them--i first opened walt whitman's poems. but as i read i became conscious of receiving the most powerful influence that had ever come to me from any source. what was the spell? it was that in them humanity has, in a new sense, found itself; for the first time has dared to accept itself without disparagement, without reservation. for the first time an unrestricted faith in all that is and in the issues of all that happens has burst forth triumphantly into song. "... the rapture of the hallelujah sent from all that breathes and is ..." rings through these poems. they carry up into the region of imagination and passion those vaster and more profound conceptions of the universe and of man reached by centuries of that indomitably patient organized search for knowledge, that "skilful cross-questioning of things" called science. "o truth of the earth i am determined to press my way toward you. sound your voice! i scale the mountains, i dive in the sea after you," cried science; and the earth and the sky have answered, and continue inexhaustibly to answer her appeal. and now at last the day dawns which wordsworth prophesied of: "the man of science," he wrote, "seeks truth as a remote and unknown benefactor; he cherishes and loves it in his solitude. the poet, singing a song in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly companion. poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all science, it is the first and last of all knowledge; it is immortal as the heart of man. if the labours of men of science should ever create any material revolution, direct or indirect, in our condition, and in the impressions which we habitually receive, the poet will then sleep no more than at present; he will be ready to follow the steps of the man of science not only in those general indirect effects, but he will be at his side carrying sensation into the midst of the objects of science itself. if the time should ever come when what is now called science, thus familiarized to man, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the poet will lend his divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the being thus produced as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man." that time approaches: a new heaven and a new earth await us when the knowledge grasped by science is realized, conceived as a whole, related to the world within us by the shaping spirit of imagination. not in vain, already, for this poet have they pierced the darkness of the past, and read here and there a word of the earth's history before human eyes beheld it; each word of infinite significance, because involving in it secrets of the whole. a new anthem of the slow, vast, mystic dawn of life he sings in the name of humanity. "i am an acme of things accomplish'd, and i am an encloser of things to be. "my feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs; on every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps; all below duly travell'd and still i mount and mount. "rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me: afar down i see the huge first nothing--i know i was even there; i waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist, and took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon. "long i was hugg'd close--long and long. "immense have been the preparations for me, faithful and friendly the arms that have help'd me. cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen; for room to me stars kept aside in their own rings, they sent influences to look after what was to hold me. "before i was born out of my mother, generations guided me; my embryo has never been torpid--nothing could overlay it. "for it the nebula cohered to an orb, the long slow strata piled to rest it on, vast vegetables gave it sustenance, monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it with care. "all forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and delight me; now on this spot i stand with my robust soul." not in vain have they pierced space as well as time and found "a vast similitude interlocking all." "i open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems, and all i see, multiplied as high as i can cypher, edge but the rim of the farther systems. "wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, outward, and outward, and for ever outward. "my sun has his sun, and round him obediently wheels, he joins with his partners a group of superior circuit, and greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them. "there is no stoppage, and never can be stoppage; if i, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces, were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would not avail in the long run; we should surely bring up again where we now stand, and as surely go as much farther--and then farther and farther." not in vain for him have they penetrated into the substances of things to find that what we thought poor, dead, inert matter is (in clerk maxwell's words) "a very sanctuary of minuteness and power where molecules obey the laws of their existence, and clash together in fierce collision, or grapple in yet more fierce embrace, building up in secret the forms of visible things"; each stock and stone a busy group of ariels plying obediently their hidden tasks. "why! who makes much of a miracle? as to me, i know of nothing else but miracles, * * * * * "to me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, every cubic inch of space is a miracle, every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, ... every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them, all these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles." the natural _is_ the supernatural, says carlyle. it is the message that comes to our time from all quarters alike; from poetry, from science, from the deep brooding of the student of human history. science materialistic? rather it is the current theology that is materialistic in comparison. science may truly be said to have annihilated our gross and brutish conceptions of matter, and to have revealed it to us as subtle, spiritual, energetic beyond our powers of realization. it is for the poet to increase these powers of realization. he it is who must awaken us to the perception of a new heaven and a new earth here where we stand on this old earth. he it is who must, in walt whitman's words, indicate the path between reality and the soul. above all is every thought and feeling in these poems touched by the light of the great revolutionary truth that man, unfolded through vast stretches of time out of lowly antecedents, is a rising, not a fallen creature; emerging slowly from purely animal life; as slowly as the strata are piled and the ocean beds hollowed; whole races still barely emerged, countless individuals in the foremost races barely emerged: "the wolf, the snake, the hog" yet lingering in the best; but new ideals achieved, and others come in sight, so that what once seemed fit is fit no longer, is adhered to uneasily and with shame; the conflicts and antagonisms between what we call good and evil, at once the sign and the means of emergence, and needing to account for them no supposed primeval disaster, no outside power thwarting and marring the divine handiwork, the perfect fitness to its time and place of all that has proceeded from the great source. in a word that evil is relative; is that which the slowly developing reason and conscience bid us leave behind. the prowess of the lion, the subtlety of the fox, are cruelty and duplicity in man. "silent and amazed, when a little boy, i remember i heard the preacher every sunday put god in his statements, as contending against some being or influence." says the poet. and elsewhere, "faith, very old now, scared away by science"--by the daylight science lets in upon our miserable, inadequate, idolatrous conceptions of god and of his works, and on the sophistications, subterfuges, moral impossibilities, by which we have endeavoured to reconcile the irreconcilable--the coexistence of omnipotent goodness and an absolute power of evil--"faith must be brought back by the same power that caused her departure: restored with new sway, deeper, wider, higher than ever." and what else, indeed, at bottom, is science so busy at? for what is faith? "faith," to borrow venerable and unsurpassed words, "is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." and how obtain evidence of things not seen but by a knowledge of things seen? and how know what we may hope for, but by knowing the truth of what is, here and now? for seen and unseen are parts of the great whole: all the parts interdependent, closely related; all alike have proceeded from and are manifestations of the divine source. nature is not the barrier between us and the unseen but the link, the communication; she, too, has something behind appearances, has an unseen soul; she, too, is made of "innumerable energies." knowledge is not faith, but it is faith's indispensable preliminary and starting ground. faith runs ahead to fetch glad tidings for us; but if she start from a basis of ignorance and illusion, how can she but run in the wrong direction? "suppose," said that impetuous lover and seeker of truth, clifford, "suppose all moving things to be suddenly stopped at some instant, and that we could be brought fresh, without any previous knowledge, to look at the petrified scene. the spectacle would be immensely absurd. crowds of people would be senselessly standing on one leg in the street looking at one another's backs; others would be wasting their time by sitting in a train in a place difficult to get at, nearly all with their mouths open, and their bodies in some contorted, unrestful posture. clocks would stand with their pendulums on one side. everything would be disorderly, conflicting, in its wrong place. but once remember that the world is in motion, is going somewhere, and everything will be accounted for and found just as it should be. just so great a change of view, just so complete an explanation is given to us when we recognize that the nature of man and beast and of all the world is _going somewhere_. the maladaptions in organic nature are seen to be steps toward the improvement or discarding of imperfect organs. the _baneful strife which lurketh inborn in us, and goeth on the way with us to hurt us_, is found to be the relic of a time of savage or even lower condition." "going somewhere!" that is the meaning then of all our perplexities! that changes a mystery which stultified and contradicted the best we knew into a mystery which teaches, allures, elevates; which harmonizes what we know with what we hope. by it we begin to "... see by the glad light, and breathe the sweet air of futurity." the scornful laughter of carlyle as he points with one hand to the baseness, ignorance, folly, cruelty around us, and with the other to the still unsurpassed poets, sages, heroes, saints of antiquity, whilst he utters the words "progress of the species!" touches us no longer when we have begun to realize "the amplitude of time"; when we know something of the scale by which nature measures out the years to accomplish her smallest essential modification or development; know that to call a few thousands or tens of thousands of years antiquity, is to speak as a child, and that in her chronology the great days of egypt and syria, of greece and rome are affairs of yesterday. "each of us inevitable; each of us limitless--each of us with his or her right upon the earth; each of us allow'd the eternal purports of the earth; each of us here as divinely as any are here. "you hottentot with clicking palate! you woolly hair'd hordes! you own'd persons, dropping sweat-drops or blood-drops! you human forms with the fathomless ever-impressive countenances of brutes! i dare not refuse you--the scope of the world, and of time and space are upon me. * * * * * "i do not prefer others so very much before you either; i do not say one word against you, away back there, where you stand; (you will come forward in due time to my side.) my spirit has pass'd in compassion and determination around the whole earth; i have look'd for equals and lovers, and found them ready for me in all lands; i think some divine rapport has equalized me with them. "o vapours! i think i have risen with you, and moved away to distant continents and fallen down there, for reasons; i think i have blown with you, o winds; o waters, i have finger'd every shore with you. "i have run through what any river or strait of the globe has run through; i have taken my stand on the bases of peninsulas, and on the high embedded rocks, to cry thence. "_salut au monde!_ what cities the light or warmth penetrates, i penetrate those cities myself; all islands to which birds wing their way i wing my way myself. "toward all, i raise high the perpendicular hand--i make the signal, to remain after me in sight forever, for all the haunts and homes of men." but "hold!" says the reader, especially if he be one who loves science, who loves to feel the firm ground under his feet, "that the species has a great future before it we may well believe; already we see the indications. but that the individual has is quite another matter. we can but balance probabilities here, and the probabilities are very heavy on the wrong side; the poets must throw in weighty matter indeed to turn the scale the other way!" be it so: but ponder a moment what science herself has to say bearing on this theme; what are the widest, deepest facts she has reached down to. indestructibility: amidst ceaseless change and seeming decay all the elements, all the forces (if indeed they be not one and the same) which operate and substantiate those changes, imperishable; neither matter nor force capable of annihilation. endless transformations, disappearances, new combinations, but diminution of the total amount never; missing in one place or shape to be found in another, disguised ever so long, ready always to re-emerge. "a particle of oxygen," wrote faraday, "is ever a particle of oxygen; nothing can in the least wear it. if it enters into combination and disappears as oxygen, if it pass through a thousand combinations, animal, vegetable, mineral--if it lie hid for a thousand years and then be evolved, it is oxygen with its first qualities neither more nor less." so then out of the universe is no door. continuity again is one of nature's irrevocable words; everything the result and outcome of what went before; no gaps, no jumps; always a connecting principle which carries forward the great scheme of things as a related whole, which subtly links past and present, like and unlike. nothing breaks with its past. "it is not," says helmholtz, "the definite mass of substance which now constitutes the body to which the continuance of the individual is attached. just as the flame remains the same in appearance and continues to exist with the same form and structure although it draws every moment fresh combustible vapour and fresh oxygen from the air into the vortex of its ascending current; and just as the wave goes on in unaltered form and is yet being reconstructed every moment from fresh particles of water, so is it also in the living being. for the material of the body like that of flame is subject to continuous and comparatively rapid change--a change the more rapid the livelier the activity of the organs in question. some constituents are renewed from day to day, some from month to month, and others only after years. that which continues to exist as a particular individual is, like the wave and the flame, only the _form of motion_ which continually attracts fresh matter into its vortex and expels the old. the observer with a deaf ear recognizes the vibration of sound as long as it is visible and can be felt, bound up with other heavy matter. are our senses in reference to life like the deaf ear in this respect?" "you are not thrown to the winds--you gather certainly and safely around yourself; * * * * * it is not to diffuse you that you were born of your mother and father--it is to identify you; it is not that you should be undecided, but that you should be decided; something long preparing and formless is arrived and form'd in you, you are henceforth secure, whatever comes or goes. "o death! the voyage of death! the beautiful touch of death, soothing and benumbing a few moments for reasons; myself discharging my excrementitious body to be burn'd or reduced to powder or buried. my real body doubtless left me for other spheres, my voided body, nothing more to me, returning to the purifications, farther offices, eternal uses of the earth." yes, they go their way, those dismissed atoms with all their energies and affinities unimpaired. but they are not all; the will, the affections, the intellect are just as real as those affinities and energies, and there is strict account of all; nothing slips through; there is no door out of the universe. but they are qualities of a personality, of a self, not of an atom but of what uses and dismisses those atoms. if the qualities are indestructible so must the self be. the little heap of ashes, the puff of gas, do you pretend that is all that was shakespeare? the rest of him lives in his works, you say? but he lived and was just the same man after those works were produced. the world gained, but he lost nothing of himself, rather grew and strengthened in the production of them. still farther, those faculties with which we seek for knowledge are only a part of us, there is something behind which wields them, something that those faculties cannot turn themselves in upon and comprehend; for the part cannot compass the whole. yet there it is with the irrefragable proof of consciousness. who should be the mouthpiece of this whole? who but the poet, the man most fully "possessed of his own soul," the man of the largest consciousness; fullest of love and sympathy which gather into his own life the experiences of others, fullest of imagination; that quality whereof wordsworth says that it "... in truth is but another name for absolute power, and clearest insight, amplitude of mind and reason in her most exalted mood." let walt whitman speak for us: "and i know i am solid and sound; to me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow: all are written to me, and i must get what the writing means. "i know i am deathless; i know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by the carpenter's compass; i know i shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night. "i know i am august; i do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood; i see that the elementary laws never apologize; (i reckon i behave no prouder than the level i plant my house by, after all.) "i exist as i am--that is enough; if no other in the world be aware i sit content; and if each one and all be aware, i sit content. "one world is aware, and by far the largest to me, and that is myself; and whether i come to my own to-day, or in ten thousand or ten million years, i can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness i can wait. "my foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite; i laugh at what you call dissolution; and i know the amplitude of time." what lies through the portal of death is hidden from us; but the laws that govern that unknown land are not all hidden from us, for they govern here and now; they are immutable, eternal. "of and in all these things i have dream'd that we are not to be changed so much, nor the law of us changed, i have dream'd that heroes and good doers shall be under the present and past law, and that murderers, drunkards, liars, shall be under the present and past law, for i have dream'd that the law they are under now is enough." and the law not to be eluded is the law of consequences, the law of silent teaching. that is the meaning of disease, pain, remorse. slow to learn are we; but success is assured with limitless beneficence as our teacher, with limitless time as our opportunity. already we begin- "to know the universe itself as a road--as many roads as roads for travelling souls. for ever alive; for ever forward. stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied; desperate, proud, fond, sick; accepted by men, rejected by men. they go! they go! i know that they go, but i know not where they go. but i know they go toward the best, toward something great; the whole universe indicates that it is good." going somewhere! and if it is impossible for us to see whither, as in the nature of things it must be, how can we be adequate judges of the way? how can we but often grope and be full of perplexity? but we know that a smooth path, a paradise of a world, could only nurture fools, cowards, sluggards. "joy is the great unfolder," but pain is the great enlightener, the great stimulus in certain directions, alike of man and beast. how else could the self-preserving instincts, and all that grows out of them, have been evoked? how else those wonders of the moral world, fortitude, patience, sympathy? and if the lesson be too hard comes death, come "the sure-enwinding arms of death" to end it, and speed us to the unknown land. "... man is only weak through his mistrust and want of hope," wrote wordsworth. but man's mistrust of himself is, at bottom, mistrust of the central fount of power and goodness whence he has issued. here comes one who plucks out of religion its heart of fear, and puts into it a heart of boundless faith and joy; a faith that beggars previous faiths because it sees that all is good, not part bad and part good; that there is no flaw in the scheme of things, no primeval disaster, no counteracting power; but orderly and sure growth and development, and that infinite goodness and wisdom embrace and ever lead forward all that exists. are you troubled that he is an unknown god; that we cannot by searching find him out? why, it would be a poor prospect for the universe if otherwise; if, embryos that we are, we could compass him in our thoughts: "i hear and behold god in every object, yet understand god not in the least." it is the double misfortune of the churches that they do not study god in his works--man and nature and their relations to each other; and that they do profess to set him forth; that they worship therefore a god of man's devising, an idol made by men's minds it is true, not by their hands, but none the less an idol. "leaves are not more shed out of trees than bibles are shed out of you," says the poet. they were the best of their time, but not of all time; they need renewing as surely as there is such a thing as growth, as surely as knowledge nourishes and sustains to further development; as surely as time unrolls new pages of the mighty scheme of existence. nobly has george sand, too, written: "everything is divine, even matter; everything is superhuman, even man. god is everywhere. he is in me in a measure proportioned to the little that i am. my present life separates me from him just in the degree determined by the actual state of childhood of our race. let me content myself in all my seeking to feel after him, and to possess of him as much as this imperfect soul can take in with the intellectual sense i have. the day will come when we shall no longer talk about god idly; nay, when we shall talk about him as little as possible. we shall cease to set him forth dogmatically, to dispute about his nature. we shall put compulsion on no one to pray to him, we shall leave the whole business of worship within the sanctuary of each man's conscience. and this will happen when we are really religious." in what sense may walt whitman be called the poet of democracy? it is as giving utterance to this profoundly religious faith in man. he is rather the prophet of what is to be than the celebrator of what is. "democracy," he writes, "is a word the real gist of which still sleeps quite unawakened, notwithstanding the resonance and the many angry tempests out of which its syllables have come from pen or tongue. it is a great word, whose history, i suppose, remains unwritten because that history has yet to be enacted. it is in some sort younger brother of another great and often used word, nature, whose history also waits unwritten." political democracy, now taking shape, is the house to live in, and whilst what we demand of it is room for all, fair chances for all, none disregarded or left out as of no account, the main question, the kind of life that is to be led in that house is altogether beyond the ken of the statesmen as such, and is involved in those deepest facts of the nature and destiny of man which are the themes of walt whitman's writings. the practical outcome of that exalted and all-accepting faith in the scheme of things, and in man, toward whom all has led up and in whom all concentrates as the manifestation, the revelation of divine power is a changed estimate of himself; a higher reverence for, a loftier belief in the heritage of himself; a perception that pride, not humility, is the true homage to his maker; that "noblesse oblige" is for the race, not for a handful; that it is mankind and womankind and their high destiny which constrain to greatness, which can no longer stoop to meanness and lies and base aims, but must needs clothe themselves in "the majesty of honest dealing" (majestic because demanding courage as good as the soldier's, self-denial as good as the saint's for every-day affairs), and walk erect and fearless, a law to themselves, sternest of all lawgivers. looking back to the palmy days of feudalism, especially as immortalized in shakespeare's plays, what is it we find most admirable? what is it that fascinates? it is the noble pride, the lofty self-respect; the dignity, the courage and audacity of its great personages. but this pride, this dignity rested half upon a true, half upon a hollow foundation; half upon intrinsic qualities, half upon the ignorance and brutishness of the great masses of the people, whose helpless submission and easily dazzled imaginations made stepping-stones to the elevation of the few, and "hedged round kings," with a specious kind of "divinity." but we have our faces turned toward a new day, and toward heights on which there is room for all. "by god, i will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms" is the motto of the great personages, the great souls of to-day. _on the same terms_, for that is nature's law and cannot be abrogated, the reaping as you sow. but all shall have the chance to sow well. this is pride indeed! not a pride that isolates, but that can take no rest till our common humanity is lifted out of the mire everywhere, "a pride that cannot stretch too far because sympathy stretches with it": "whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard! these shows of the east and west are tame, compared to you; these immense meadows--these interminable rivers- you are immense and interminable as they; these furies, elements, storms, motions of nature, throes of apparent dissolution--you are he or she who is master or mistress over them, master or mistress in your own right over nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution. "the hopples fall from your ankles--you find an unfailing sufficiency; old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are promulges itself; through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted; through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance and ennui, what you are picks its way." this is indeed a pride that is "calming and excellent to the soul"; that "dissolves poverty from its need and riches from its conceit." and humility? is there, then, no place for that virtue so much praised by the haughty? humility is the sweet spontaneous grace of an aspiring, finely developed nature which sees always heights ahead still unclimbed, which outstrips itself in eager longing for excellence still unattained. genuine humility takes good care of itself as men rise in the scale of being; for every height climbed discloses still new heights beyond. or it is a wise caution in fortune's favourites lest they themselves should mistake, as the unthinking crowd around do, the glitter reflected back upon them by their surroundings for some superiority inherent in themselves. it befits them well if there be also due pride, pride of humanity behind. but to say to a man, 'be humble' is like saying to one who has a battle to fight, a race to run, 'you are a poor, feeble creature; you are not likely to win and you do not deserve to.' say rather to him, 'hold up your head! you were not made for failure, you were made for victory: go forward with a joyful confidence in that result sooner or later, and the sooner or the later depends mainly on yourself.' "what christ appeared for in the moral-spiritual field for humankind, namely, that in respect to the absolute soul there is in the possession of such by each single individual something so transcendent, so incapable of gradations (like life) that to that extent it places all being on a common level, utterly regardless of the distinctions of intellect, virtue, station, or any height or lowliness whatever" is the secret source of that deathless sentiment of equality which how many able heads imagine themselves to have slain with ridicule and contempt as johnson, kicking a stone, imagined he had demolished idealism when he had simply attributed to the word an impossible meaning. true, _in_equality is one of nature's words: she moves forward always by means of the exceptional. but the moment the move is accomplished, then all her efforts are toward equality, toward bringing up the rear to that standpoint. but social inequalities, class distinctions, do not stand for or represent nature's inequalities. precisely the contrary in the long run. they are devices for holding up many that would else gravitate down and keeping down many who would else rise up; for providing that some should reap who have not sown, and many sow without reaping. but literature tallies the ways of nature; for though itself the product of the exceptional, its aim is to draw all men up to its own level. the great writer is "hungry for equals day and night," for so only can he be fully understood. "the meal is equally set"; all are invited. therefore is literature, whether consciously or not, the greatest of all forces on the side of democracy. carlyle has said there is no grand poem in the world but is at bottom a biography--the life of a man. walt whitman's poems are not the biography of a man, but they are his actual presence. it is no vain boast when he exclaims, "camerado! this is no book; who touches this touches a man." he has infused himself into words in a way that had not before seemed possible; and he causes each reader to feel that he himself or herself has an actual relationship to him, is a reality full of inexhaustible significance and interest to the poet. the power of his book, beyond even its great intellectual force, is the power with which he makes this felt; his words lay more hold than the grasp of a hand, strike deeper than the gaze or the flash of an eye; to those who comprehend him he stands "nigher than the nighest." america has had the shaping of walt whitman, and he repays the filial debt with a love that knows no stint. her vast lands with their varied, brilliant climes and rich products, her political scheme, her achievements and her failures, all have contributed to make these poems what they are both directly and indirectly. above all has that great conflict, the secession war, found voice in him. and if the reader would understand the true causes and nature of that war, ostensibly waged between north and south, but underneath a tussle for supremacy between the good and the evil genius of america (for there were just as many secret sympathizers with the secession-slave-power in the north as in the south) he will find the clue in the pages of walt whitman. rarely has he risen to a loftier height than in the poem which heralds that volcanic upheaval:- "rise, o days, from your fathomless deeps, till you loftier and fiercer sweep! long for my soul, hungering gymnastic, i devour'd what the earth gave me; long i roam'd the woods of the north--long i watch'd niagara pouring; i travel'd the prairies over, and slept on their breast- i cross'd the nevadas, i cross'd the plateaus; i ascended the towering rocks along the pacific, i sail'd out to sea; i sail'd through the storm, i was refresh'd by the storm; i watch'd with joy the threatening maws of the waves; i mark'd the white combs where they career'd so high, curling over; i heard the wind piping, i saw the black clouds; saw from below what arose and mounted (o superb! o wild as my heart, and powerful!) heard the continuous thunder, as it bellow'd after the lightning; noted the slender and jagged threads of lightning, as sudden and fast amid the din they chased each other across the sky; --these, and such as these, i, elate, saw--saw with wonder, yet pensive and masterful; all the menacing might of the globe uprisen around me; yet there with my soul i fed--i fed content, supercilious. "'twas well, o soul! 'twas a good preparation you gave me! now we advance our latent and ampler hunger to fill; now we go forth to receive what the earth and the sea never gave us; not through the mighty woods we go, but through the mightier cities; something for us is pouring now, more than niagara pouring; torrents of men (sources and rills of the northwest, are you indeed inexhaustible?) what, to pavements and homesteads here--what were those storms of the mountains and sea? what, to passions i witness around me to-day? was the sea risen? was the wind piping the pipe of death under the black clouds? lo! from deeps more unfathomable, something more deadly and savage; manhattan, rising, advancing with menacing front--cincinnati, chicago, unchain'd; --what was that swell i saw on the ocean? behold what comes here! how it climbs with daring feet and hands! how it dashes! how the true thunder bellows after the lightning! how bright the flashes of lightning! how democracy, with desperate, vengeful port strides on, shown through the dark by those flashes of lightning! (yet a mournful wail and low sob i fancied i heard through the dark, in a lull of the deafening confusion.) "thunder on! stride on, democracy! stride with vengeful stroke! and do you rise higher than ever yet, o days, o cities! crash heavier, heavier yet, o storms! you have done me good; my soul, prepared in the mountains, absorbs your immortal strong nutriment, --long had i walk'd my cities, my country roads, through farms, only half satisfied; one doubt, nauseous, undulating like a snake, crawl'd on the ground before me, continually preceding my steps, turning upon me oft, ironically hissing low; --the cities i loved so well, i abandon'd and left--i sped to the certainties suitable to me; hungering, hungering, hungering for primal energies, and nature's dauntlessness; i refresh'd myself with it only, i could relish it only; i waited the bursting forth of the pent fire--on the water and air i waited long; --but now i no longer wait--i am fully satisfied--i am glutted; i have witness'd the true lightning--i have witness'd my cities electric; i have lived to behold man burst forth, and warlike america rise; hence i will seek no more the food of the northern solitary wilds, no more on the mountain roam, or sail the stormy sea." but not for the poet a soldier's career. "to sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead" was the part he chose. during the whole war he remained with the army, but only to spend the days and nights, saddest, happiest of his life, in the hospital tents. it was a beautiful destiny for this lover of men, and a proud triumph for this believer in the people; for it was the people that he beheld, tried by severest tests. he saw them "of their own choice, fighting, dying for their own idea, insolently attacked by the secession-slave-power." from the workshop, the farm, the store, the desk, they poured forth, officered by men who had to blunder into knowledge at the cost of the wholesale slaughter of their troops. he saw them "tried long and long by hopelessness, mismanagement, defeat; advancing unhesitatingly through incredible slaughter; sinewy with unconquerable resolution. he saw them by tens of thousands in the hospitals tried by yet drearier, more fearful tests--the wound, the amputation, the shattered face, the slow hot fever, the long impatient anchorage in bed; he marked their fortitude, decorum, their religious nature and sweet affection." finally, newest, most significant sight of all, victory achieved, the cause, the union safe, he saw them return back to the workshop, the farm, the desk, the store, instantly reabsorbed into the peaceful industries of the land:- "a pause--the armies wait. a million flush'd embattled conquerors wait. the world, too, waits, then soft as breaking night and sure as dawn they melt, they disappear." "plentifully supplied, last-needed proof of democracy in its personalities!" ratifying on the broadest scale wordsworth's haughty claim for average man--"such is the inherent dignity of human nature that there belong to it sublimities of virtue which all men may attain, and which no man can transcend." but, aware that peace and prosperity may be even still severer tests of national as of individual virtue and greatness of mind, walt whitman scans with anxious, questioning eye the america of to-day. he is no smooth-tongued prophet of easy greatness. "i am he who walks the states with a barb'd tongue questioning every one i meet; who are you, that wanted only to be told what you knew before? who are you, that wanted only a book to join you in your nonsense?" he sees clearly as any the incredible flippancy, the blind fury of parties, the lack of great leaders, the plentiful meanness and vulgarity; the labour question beginning to open like a yawning gulf.... "we sail a dangerous sea of seething currents, all so dark and untried.... it seems as if the almighty had spread before this nation charts of imperial destinies, dazzling as the sun, yet with many a deep intestine difficulty, and human aggregate of cankerous imperfection saying lo! the roads! the only plans of development, long and varied, with all terrible balks and ebullitions! you said in your soul, i will be empire of empires, putting the history of old-world dynasties, conquests, behind me as of no account--making a new history, a history of democracy ... i alone inaugurating largeness, culminating time. if these, o lands of america, are indeed the prizes, the determinations of your soul, be it so. but behold the cost, and already specimens of the cost. thought you greatness was to ripen for you like a pear? if you would have greatness, know that you must conquer it through ages ... must pay for it with proportionate price. for you, too, as for all lands, the struggle, the traitor, the wily person in office, scrofulous wealth, the surfeit of prosperity, the demonism of greed, the hell of passion, the decay of faith, the long postponement, the fossil-like lethargy, the ceaseless need of revolutions, prophets, thunderstorms, deaths, new projections and invigorations of ideas and men." "yet i have dreamed, merged in that hidden-tangled problem of our fate, whose long unravelling stretches mysteriously through time--dreamed, portrayed, hinted already--a little or a larger band, a band of brave and true, unprecedented yet, arm'd and equipt at every point, the members separated, it may be by different dates and states, or south or north, or east or west, a year, a century here, and other centuries there, but always one, compact in soul, conscience-conserving, god-inculcating, inspired achievers not only in literature, the greatest art, but achievers in all art--a new undying order, dynasty from age to age transmitted, a band, a class at least as fit to cope with current years, our dangers, needs, as those who, for their time, so long, so well, in armour or in cowl, upheld and made illustrious that far-back-feudal, priestly world." of that band, is not walt whitman the pioneer? of that new world literature, say, are not his poems the beginning? a rude beginning if you will. he claims no more and no less. but whatever else they may lack they do not lack vitality, initiative, sublimity. they do not lack that which makes life great and death, with its "transfers and promotions, its superb vistas," exhilarating--a resplendent faith in god and man which will kindle anew the faith of the world:- "poets to come! orators, singers, musicians to come! not to-day is to justify me, and answer what i am for; but you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before known, "arouse! arouse--for you must justify me--you must answer. "i myself but write one or two indicative words for the future, i but advance a moment, only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness. "i am a man who, sauntering along, without fully stopping, turns a casual look upon you, and then averts his face, leaving it to you to prove and define it, expecting the main things from you." anne gilchrist. [illustration: anne gilchrist photogravure from a painting by her son, made in 1882] letter i[3] walt whitman to w. m. rossetti and anne gilchrist _washington, december 9, 1869._ dear mr. rossetti: your letter of last summer to william o'connor with the passages transcribed from a lady's correspondence, had been shown me by him, and copy lately furnished me, which i have just been rereading. i am deeply touched by these sympathies and convictions, coming from a woman and from england, and am sure that if the lady knew how much comfort it has been to me to get them, she would not only pardon you for transmitting them to mr. o'connor but approve that action. i realize indeed of this emphatic and smiling _well done_ from the heart and conscience of a true wife and mother, and one too whose sense of the poetic, as i glean from your letter, after flowing through the heart and conscience, must also move through and satisfy science as much as the esthetic, that i had hitherto received no eulogium so magnificent. i send by same mail with this, same address as this letter, two photographs, taken within a few months. one is intended for the lady (if i may be permitted to send it her)--and will you please accept the other, with my respects and love? the picture is by some criticised very severely indeed, but i hope you will not dislike it, for i confess to myself a perhaps capricious fondness for it, as my own portrait, over some scores that have been made or taken at one time or another. i am still employed in the attorney general's office. my p. o. address remains the same. i am quite well and hearty. my new editions, considerably expanded, with what suggestions &c. i have to offer, presented i hope in more definite form, will probably get printed the coming spring. i shall forward you early copies. i send my love to moncurã© conway, if you see him. i wish he would write to me. if the pictures don't come, or get injured on the way, i will try again by express. i want you to loan this letter to the lady, or if she wishes it, give it to her to keep. walt whitman. letter ii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _september 3, 1871._ dear friend: at last the beloved books have reached my hand--but now i have them, my heart is so rent with anguish, my eyes so blinded, i cannot read in them. i try again and again, but too great waves come swaying up & suffocate me. i will struggle to tell you my story. it seems to me a death struggle. when i was eighteen i met a lad of nineteen[4] who loved me then, and always for the remainder of his life. after we had known each other about a year he asked me to be his wife. but i said that i liked him well as my friend, but could not love him as a wife should love & felt deeply convinced i never should. he was not turned aside, but went on just the same as if that conversation had never passed. after a year he asked me again, and i, deeply moved by and grateful for his steady love, and so sorry for him, said yes. but next day, terrified at what i had done and painfully conscious of the dreary absence from my heart of any faintest gleam of true, tender, wifely love,[5] said no again. this too he bore without desisting & at the end of some months once more asked me with passionate entreaties. then, dear friend, i prayed very earnestly, and it seemed to me (that) that i should continue to mar & thwart his life so was not right, if he was content to accept what i could give. i knew i could lead a good and wholesome life beside him--his aims were noble--his heart a deep, beautiful, true poet's heart; but he had not the poet's great brain. his path was a very arduous one, and i knew i could smooth it for him--cheer him along it. it seemed to me god's will that i should marry him. so i told him the whole truth, and he said he would rather have me on those terms than not have me at all. he said to me many times, "ah, annie, it is not you who are so loved that is rich; it is i who so love." and i knew this was true, felt as if my nature were poor & barren beside his. but it was not so, it was only slumbering--undeveloped. for, dear friend, my soul was so passionately aspiring--it so thirsted & pined for light, it had not power to reach alone and he could not help me on my way. and a woman is so made that she cannot give the tender passionate devotion of her whole nature save to the great conquering soul, stronger in its powers, though not in its aspirations, than her own, that can lead her forever & forever up and on. it is for her soul exactly as it is for her body. the strong divine soul of the man embracing hers with passionate love--so alone the precious germs within her soul can be quickened into life. and the time will come when man will understand that a woman's soul is as dear and needful to his and as different from his as her body to his body. this was what happened to me when i had read for a few days, nay, hours, in your books. it was the divine soul embracing mine. i never before dreamed what love meant: not what life meant. never was alive before--no words but those of "new birth" can hint the meaning of what then happened to me. the first few months of my marriage were dark and gloomy to me within, and sometimes i had misgivings whether i had judged aright, but when i knew there was a dear baby coming my heart grew light, and when it was born, such a superb child--all gloom & fear forever vanished. i knew it was god's seal to the marriage, and my heart was full of gratitude and joy. it was a happy and a good life we led together for ten short years, he ever tender and affectionate to me--loving his children so, working earnestly in the wholesome, bracing atmosphere of poverty--for it was but just possible with the most strenuous frugality and industry to pay our way. i learned to cook & to turn my hand to all household occupation--found it bracing, healthful, cheerful. now i think it more even now that i understand the divineness & sacredness of the body. i think there is no more beautiful task for a woman than ministering all ways to the health & comfort & enjoyment of the dear bodies of those she loves: no material that will work sweeter, more beautifully into that making of a perfect poem of a man's life which is her true vocation. in 1861 my children took scarlet fever badly: i thought i should have lost my dear oldest girl. then my husband took it--and in five days it carried him from me. i think, dear friend, my sorrow was far more bitter, though not so deep, as that of a loving tender wife. as i stood by him in the coffin i felt such remorse i had not, could not have, been more tender to him--such a conviction that if i had loved him as he deserved to be loved he would not have been taken from us. to the last my soul dwelt apart & unmated & his soul dwelt apart unmated. i do not fear the look of his dear silent eyes. i do not think he would even be grieved with me now. my youngest was then a baby. i have had much sweet tranquil happiness, much strenuous work and endeavour raising my darlings. in may, 1869, came the voice over the atlantic to me--o, the voice of my mate: it must be so--my love rises up out of the very depths of the grief & tramples upon despair. i can wait--any time, a lifetime, many lifetimes--i can suffer, i can dare, i can learn, grow, toil, but nothing in life or death can tear out of my heart the passionate belief that one day i shall hear that voice say to me, "my mate. the one i so much want. bride, wife, indissoluble eternal!" it is not happiness i plead with god for--it is the very life of my soul, my love is its life. dear walt. it is a sweet & precious thing, this love; it clings so close, so close to the soul and body, all so tenderly dear, so beautiful, so sacred; it yearns with such passion to soothe and comfort & fill thee with sweet tender joy; it aspires as grandly as gloriously as thy own soul. strong to soar--soft & tender to nestle and caress. if god were to say to me, "see--he that you love you shall not be given to in this life--he is going to set sail on the unknown sea--will you go with him?" never yet has bride sprung into her husband's arms with the joy with which i would take thy hand & spring from the shore. understand aright, dear love, the reason of my silence. i was obeying the voice of conscience. i thought i was to wait. for it is the instinct of a woman's nature to wait to be sought--not to seek. and when that may & june i was longing so irrepressibly to write i resolutely restrained myself, believing if i were only patient the right opening would occur. and so it did through rossetti. and when he, liking what i said, suggested my printing something, it met and enabled me to carry into execution what i was brooding over. for i had, and still have, a strong conviction that it was necessary for a woman to speak--that finally and decisively only a woman can judge a man, only a man a woman, on the subject of their relations. what is blameless, what is good in its effect on her, is good--however it may have seemed to men. she is the test. and i never for a moment feared any hard words against myself because i know these things are not judged by the intellect but by the unerring instincts of the soul. i knew any man could not but feel that it would be a happy and ennobling thing for him that his wife should think & feel as i do on that subject--knew that what had filled me with such great and beautiful thoughts towards men in that writing could not fail to give them good & happy thoughts towards women in the reading. the cause of my consenting to rossetti's[6] urgent advice that i should not put my name, he so kindly solicitous, yet not altogether understanding me & it aright, was that i did not rightly understand how it might be with my dear boy if it came before him. i thought perhaps he was not old enough to judge and understand me aright; nor young enough to let it altogether alone. but it has been very bitter & hateful to me this not standing to what i have said as it were, with my own personality, better because of my utter love and faithfulness to the cause & longing to stand openly and proudly in the ranks of its friends; & for the lower reason that my nature is proud and as defiant as thine own and immeasurably disdains any faintest appearance of being afraid of what i had done. and, my darling, above all because i love thee so tenderly that if hateful words had been spoken against me i could have taken joy in it for thy dear sake. there never yet was the woman who loved that would not joyfully bare her breast to wrest the blows aimed at her beloved. i know not what fiend made me write those meaningless words in my letter, "it is pleasantest to me" &c., but it was not fear or faithlessness--& it is not pleasantest but hateful to me. now let me come to beautiful joyous things again. o dear walt, did you not feel in every word the breath of a woman's love? did you not see as through a transparent veil a soul all radiant and trembling with love stretching out its arms towards you? i was so sure you would speak, would send me some sign: that i was to wait--wait. so i fed my heart with sweet hopes: strengthened it with looking into the eyes of thy picture. o surely in the ineffable tenderness of thy look speaks the yearning of thy man-soul towards my woman-soul? but now i will wait no longer. a higher instinct dominates that other, the instinct for perfect truth. i would if i could lay every thought and action and feeling of my whole life open to thee as it lies to the eye of god. but that cannot be all at once. o come. come, my darling: look into these eyes and see the loving ardent aspiring soul in them. easily, easily will you learn to love all the rest of me for the sake of that and take me to your breasts for ever and ever. out of its great anguish my love has risen stronger, more triumphant than ever: it cannot doubt, cannot fear, is strong, divine, immortal, sure of its fruition this side the grave or the other. "o agonistic throes," tender, passionate yearnings, pinings, triumphant joys, sweet dreams--i took from you all. but, dear love, the sinews of a woman's outer heart are not twisted so strong as a man's: but the heart within is strong & great & loving. so the strain is very terrible. o heart of flesh, hold on yet a few years to the great heart within thee, if it may be. but if not all is assured, all is safe. this time last year when i seemed dying i could have no secrets between me & my dear children. i told them of my love: told them all they could rightly understand, and laid upon them my earnest injunction that as soon as my mother's life no longer held them here, they should go fearlessly to america, as i should have planted them down there--land of promise, my canaan, to which my soul sings, "arise, shine, for thy light is come & the glory of the lord is risen upon thee." after the 29th of this month i shall be in my own home; dear friend--it is at brookebank, haslemere, surrey. haslemere is on the main line between portsmouth & london. good-bye, dear walt, anne gilchrist. _sept. 6._ the new portrait also is a sweet joy & comfort to my longing, pining heart & eyes. how have i brooded & brooded with thankfulness on that one word in thy letter[7] "the comfort it has been to me to get her words," for always day & night these two years has hovered on my lips & in my heart the one prayer: "dear god, let me comfort him!" let me comfort thee with my whole being, dear love. i feel much better & stronger now. letter iii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _brookebank, shotter mill haslemere, surrey october 23, 1871._ dear friend: i wrote you a letter the 6th september & would fain know whether it has reached your hand. if it have not, i will write its contents again quickly to you--if it have, i will wait your time with courage with patience for an answer; but spare me the needless suffering of uncertainty on this point & let me have one line, one word, of assurance that i am no longer hidden from you by a thick cloud--i from thee--not thou from me: for i that have never set eyes upon thee, all the atlantic flowing between us, yet cleave closer than those that stand nearest & dearest around thee--love thee day & night:--last thoughts, first thoughts, my soul's passionate yearning toward thy divine soul, every hour, every deed and thought--my love for my children, my hopes, aspirations for them, all taking new shape, new height through this great love. my soul has staked all upon it. in dull dark moods when i cannot, as it were, see thee, still, still always a dumb, blind yearning towards thee--still it comforts me to touch, to press to me the beloved books--like a child holding some hand in the dark--it knows not whose--but knows it is enough--knows it is a dear, strong, comforting hand. do not say i am forward, or that i lack pride because i tell this love to thee who have never sought or made sign of desiring to seek me. oh, for all that, this love is my pride my glory. source of sufferings and joys that cannot put themselves into words. besides, it is not true thou hast not sought or loved me. for when i read the divine poems i feel all folded round in thy love: i feel often as if thou wast pleading so passionately for the love of the woman that can understand thee--that i know not how to bear the yearning answering tenderness that fills my breast. i know that a woman may without hurt to her pride--without stain or blame--tell her love to thee. i feel for a certainty that she may. try me for this life, my darling--see if i cannot so live, so grow, so learn, so love, that when i die you will say, "this woman has grown to be a very part of me. my soul must have her loving companionship everywhere & in all things. i alone & she alone are not complete identities--it is i and she together in a new, divine, perfect union that form the one complete identity." i am yet young enough to bear thee children, my darling, if god should so bless me. and would yield my life for this cause with serene joy if it were so appointed, if that were the price for thy having a "perfect child"--knowing my darlings would all be safe & happy in thy loving care--planted down in america. let me have a few words directly, dear friend. i shall get them by the middle of november. i shall have to go to london about then or a little later--to find a house for us--i only came to the old home here from which i have been absent most four years to wind up matters and prepare for a move, for there is nothing to be had in the way of educational advantages here--it has been a beautiful survey for the children, but it is not what they want now. but we leave with regret, for it is one of the sweetest, wildest spots in england, though only 40 miles from london. good-bye, dear friend, anne gilchrist. letter iv[8] walt whitman to anne gilchrist _washington, d. c. november 3, 1871._ (to a. g., earl's colne, halsted, essex, eng.) i have been waiting quite a while for time and the right mood, to answer your letter in a spirit as serious as its own, and in the same unmitigated trust and affection. but more daily work than ever has fallen to me to do the present season, and though i am well and contented, my best moods seem to shun me. i wish to give to it a day, a sort of sabbath, or holy day, apart to itself, under serene and propitious influences, confident that i could then write you a letter which would do you good, and me too. but i must at least show without further delay that i am not insensible to your love. i too send you my love. and do you feel no disappointment because i now write so briefly. my book is my best letter, my response, my truest explanation of all. in it i have put my body and spirit. you understand this better and fuller and clearer than any one else. and i too fully and clearly understand the loving letter it has evoked. enough that there surely exists so beautiful and a delicate relation, accepted by both of us with joy. letter v anne gilchrist to walt whitman _27 november '71._ dear friend. your long waited for letter brought me both joy & pain; but the pain was not of your giving. i gather from it that a long letter[9] which i wrote you sept. 6th after i had received the precious packet, a letter in which i opened all my heart to you, never reached your hands: nor yet a shorter one[10] which, tortured by anxiety & suspense about its predecessor, i wrote oct. 15, it, too, written out of such stress & intensity of painful emotion as wrenches from us inmost truth. i cannot face the thought of these words of uttermost trust & love having fallen into other hands. can both be simply lost? could any man suffer a base curiosity, to make him so meanly, treacherously cruel? it seems to cut and then burn me. i was not disappointed at the shortness of your letter & i do not ask nor even wish you to write save when you are inwardly impelled & desirous of doing so. i only want leave and security to write freely to you. your book does indeed say all--book that is not a book, for the first time a man complete, godlike, august, standing revealed the only way possible, through the garment of speech. do you know, dear friend, what it means for a woman, what it means for me, to understand these poems? it means for her whole nature to be then first kindled; quickened into life through such love, such sympathy, such resistless attraction, that thenceforth she cannot choose but live & die striving to become worthy to share this divine man's life--to be his dear companion, closer, nearer, dearer than any man can be--for ever so. her soul stakes all on this. it is the meaning, the fulfilment, the only perfect development & consummation of her nature--of her passionate, high, immortal aspirations--her soul to mate with his for ever & ever. o i know the terms are obdurate--i know how hard to attain to this greatness, the grandest lot ever aspired to by woman. i know too my own shortcomings, faults, flaws. you might not be able to give me your great love yet--to take me to your breast with joy. but i can wait. i can grow great & beautiful through sorrow & suffering, working, struggling, yearning, loving so, all alone, as i have done now nearly three years--it will be three in may since i first read the book, first knew what the word _love_ meant. love & hope are so strong in me, my soul's high aspirations are of such tenacious, passionate intensity, are so conscious of their own deathless reality, that what would starve them out of any other woman only makes them strike out deeper roots, grow more resolute & sturdy, in me. i know that "greatness will not ripen for me like a pear." but i could face, i could joyfully accept, the fiercest anguish, the hardest toil, the longest, sternest probation, to make me fit to be your mate--so that at the last you should say, "this is the woman i have waited for, the woman prepared for me: this is my dear eternal comrade, wife--the one i so much want." life has no other meaning for me than that--all things have led up to help prepare me for that. death is more welcome to me than life if it means that--if thou, dear sailor, thou sailing upon thy endless cruise, takest me on board--me, daring, all with thee, steering for the deep waters, bound where mariner has not yet dared to go: hand in hand with thee, nestled close--one with thee. ah, that word "enough" was like a blow on the breast to me--breast that often & often is so full of yearning tenderness i know not how to draw my breath. the tie between us would not grow less but more beautiful, dear friend, if you knew me _better_: if i could stand as real & near to you as you do to me. but i cannot, like you, clothe my nature in divine poems & so make it visible to you. ah, foolish me! i thought you would catch a glimpse of it in those words i wrote--i thought you would say to yourself, "perhaps this is the voice of my mate," and would seek me a little to make sure if it were so or not. o the sweet dreams i have fed on these three years nearly, pervading my waking moments, influencing every thought & action. i was so sure, so sure if i waited silently, patiently, you would send me some sign: so full of joyful hope i could not doubt nor fear. when i lay dying as it seemed, [i was] still full of the radiant certainty that you would seek me, would not lose [me], that we should as surely find one another there as here. and when the ebb ceased & life began to flow back into me, o never doubting but it was for you. never doubting but that the sweetest, noblest, closest, tenderest companionship ever yet tasted by man & woman was to begin for us here & now. then came the long, long waiting, the hope deferred: each morning so sure the book would come & with it a word from you that should give me leave to speak: no longer to shut down in stern silence the love, the yearning, the thoughts that seemed to strain & crush my heart. i knew what that means--"if thou wast not gifted to sing thou wouldst surely die." i felt as if my silence must kill me sometimes. then when the book came but with it no word for me alone, there was such a storm in [my] heart i could not for weeks read in it. i wrote that long letter out in the autumn fields for dear life's sake. i knew i might, and must, speak then. then i felt relieved, joyful, buoyant once more. then again months of heart-wearying disappointment as i looked in vain for a letter-o the anguish at times, the scalding tears, the feeling within as if my heart were crushed & doubled up--but always afterwards saying to myself "if this suffering is to make my love which was born & grew up & blossomed all in a moment strike deep root down in the dark & cold, penetrate with painful intensity every fibre of my being, make it a love such as he himself is capable of giving, then welcome this anguish, these bitter deferments: let its roots be watered as long as god pleases with my tears." anne gilchrist. _50 marquis road london camden sqr. n. w._ letter vi anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis road, camden sqre. london, n. w., january 24, '72._ dear friend: i send you photographs of my oldest and youngest children, i wish i had some worth sending of the other two. that of myself done in 1850 is a copy of a daguerrotype. the recent one was taken just a week or so before i broke down in my long illness & when i was struggling against a terrible sense of inward prostration; so it has not my natural expression, but i think you will like to have [it] rather than none, & the weather here is too gloomy for there to be any chance of a good one if i were to try again. your few words lifted a heavy weight off me. very few they are, dear friend: but knowing that i may give to every word you speak its fullest, truest meaning, the more i brood over them the sweeter do they taste. still i am not as happy & content as i thought i should be if i could only know my words reached you & were welcome to you,--but restless, anxious, impatient, looking so wistfully towards the letters each morning--above all, longing, longing so for you to come--to come & see if you feel happy beside me: no more this painful struggle to put myself into words, but to let what i am & all my life speak to you. only so can you judge whether i am indeed the woman capable of rising to the full height of great destiny, of justifying & fulfilling your grand thoughts of women. and see my faults, flaws, shortcomings too, dear friend. i feel an earnest wish you should do this too that there may be the broad unmovable foundation-rock of perfect truth and candour for our love. i do not fear. i believe in a large all-accepting, because all-comprehending, love, a boundless faith in growth & development--in your judging "not as the judge judges but as the sunshine falling around me." to have you in the midst of us! we clustered round you, shone upon, vivified, strengthened by your presence, surrounding you with an atmosphere of love & cheerful life. when i wrote to you in nov. i was in lodgings in london, having just accomplished the difficult task of finding a house for us in london, where rents are so high. and i have succeeded better than i anticipated, for we find this a comfortable, dear, little home--small, indeed, but not so small as to interfere with health or comfort, and at rent that i may safely undertake. my husband was taken from us too young to be able to have made any provision for his children. i have a little of my own--about â£80 a year; & for the rest depend upon my mother, whose only surviving child i am. and she, by nature generous & self-denying as well as prudent, has never made anything but a pleasure of this & as long as she was able to see to her own affairs, was such a capital manager that she used to spare me about â£150 out of an income of â£350. but now though she retains her faculties in a wonderful degree for her years (just upon 86), she is no longer able to do this & has put the management of the whole into my hands. and i, feeling that she needs, and ought to have, now an easier scale of expenditure at colne, have to manage a little more cleverly still to make a less sum serve for us. but i succeed capitally, dear friend--do not want a better home, never get behind hand & find it no hardship, but quite the contrary to have to spend a good deal of time & pains in domestic management. and then, just to help me through at the right moment, dear percy[11] obtained in november a good opening in some large copper & iron mining & smelting works in south wales at a salary upon which he can comfortably live; & he likes his work well--writes very cheerfully--lodges in a farmhouse in the midst of grand scenery, within a walk of the sea. so this enables me to give the girls a turn in education, for hitherto they have had hardly any teaching but mine. and i chose this part because there is a capital day school for them handy. and herby[12] walks in to the best drawing school in london & is very diligent and happy at his work. his bent is unmistakably strong. it was well i have had to be so busy this autumn & winter, dear walt, for i suffered keenly, sometimes overwhelmingly, through the delay in my letters' reaching you. what caused it? and when did you get the sept. & oct. letters & did you get the two copies that i, baffled & almost despairing, sent off in nov.? good-bye, dear friend. annie gilchrist. letter vii[13] walt whitman to anne gilchrist _(washington, d. c.) feb. 8 '72._ i send by same mail with this my latest piece copied in a newspaper--and write you just a line. i suppose you only received my former letters (two)--i ought to have written something about your children (described to me in your letter of last summer--[july 23d] which i have just been reading again.) dear boys and girls--how my heart goes out to them. did i tell you that i had received letters from tennyson, and that he cordially invites me to visit him? sometimes i dream of coming to old england, on such visit.--& thus of seeing you & your children----but it is a dream only. i am still living here in employment in a government office. my health is good. life is rather sluggish here--yet not without the sunshine. your letters too were bright rays of it. i am going on to new york soon, to stay a few weeks, but my address will still be here. i wrote lately to mr. rossetti quite a long letter. dear friend, best love & remembrance to you & to the young folk. letter viii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd. camden sq. n. w. april 12th, '72._ dear friend: i was to tell you about my acquaintanceship with tennyson, which was a pleasant episode in my life at haslemere. hearing of the extreme beauty of the scenery thereabouts & specially of its comparative wildness & seclusion, he thought he would like to find or build a house, to escape from the obtrusive curiosity of the multitudes who flock to the isle of wight at certain seasons of the year. he is even morbidly sensitive on this point & will not stir beyond his own grounds from week's end to week's end to avoid his admiring or inquisitive persecutors. so, knowing an old friend of mine, he called on me for particulars as to the resources of the neighbourhood. and i, a good walker & familiar with every least frequent spot of hill & dale for some miles round, took him long ambles in quest of a site. very pleasant rambles they were; tennyson, under the influence of the fresh, outdoor, quite unconstrained life in new scenery & with a cheerful aim, shaking off the languid ennuyã© air, as of a man to whom nothing has any longer a relish--bodily or mental--that too often hangs about him. and we found something quite to his mind--a coppice of 40 acres hanging on the south side two thirds of the way up a hill some 1000 ft. high so as to be sheltered from the cold & yet have the light, dry, elastic hill air--& with, of course, a glorious outlook over the wooded weald of sussex so richly green & fertile & looking almost as boundless as the great sweep of sky over it--the south downs to surrey hills & near at hand the hill curving round a fir-covered promontory, standing out very black & grand between him & the sunset. underfoot too a wilderness of beauty--fox gloves (i wonder if they grow in america) ferns, purple heath &c &c. i don't suppose i shall see much more of him now i have left haslemere, though i have had very friendly invitations; for i am a home bird--don't like staying out--wanted at home and happiest there. and i should not enjoy being with them in the grand mansion half so much as i did pic-nicing in the road & watching the builders as we did. it is pleasant to see t--with children--little girls at least--he does not take to boys but one of my girls was mostly on his knee when they were in the room & he liked them very much. his two sons are now both 6 ft. high. i have received your letters of march 20 from brooklyn: but the one you speak of as having acknowledged the photograph never came to hand--a sore disappointment to me, dear friend. i can ill afford to lose the long & eagerly watched for pleasure of a letter. if it seems to you there must needs be something unreal, illusive, in a love that has grown up entirely without the basis of personal intercourse, dear friend, then you do not yourself realize your own power nor understand the full meaning of your own words, "whoso touches this, touches a man"--"i have put my soul & body into these poems." real effects imply real causes. do you suppose that an ideal figure conjured up by her own fancy could, in a perfectly sound, healthy woman of my age, so happy in her children, so busy & content, practical, earnest, produce such real & tremendous effect--saturating her whole life, colouring every waking moment--filling her with such joys, such pains that the strain of them has been well nigh too much even for a strong frame, coming as it does, after twenty years of hard work? therefore please, dear friend, do not "warn" me any more--it hurts so, as seeming to distrust my love. time only can show how needlessly. my love, flowing ever fresh & fresh out of my heart, will go with you in all your wanderings, dear friend, enfolding you day and night, soul & body, with tenderness that tries so vainly to utter itself in these poor, helpless words, that clings closer than any man's love can cling. o, i could not live if i did not believe that sooner or later you will not be able to help stretching out your arms towards me & saying "come, my darling." when you get this will you post me an american newspaper (any one you have done with) as a token it has reached you--& so on at intervals during your wanderings; it will serve as a token that you are well, & the postmark will tell me where you are. and thus you will feel free only to write when you have leisure & inclination--& i shall be spared [the] feeling i have when i fancy my letters have not reached you--as if i were so hopelessly, helplessly cut off from you, which is more than i can stand. we all read american news eagerly too. the children are so well & working on with all their might. the school turns out more what i desire for them than i had ventured to hope. good-bye, dearest friend. ann gilchrist. letter ix anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd. camden, sqre. june 3d, 1872._ dear friend: the newspapers have both come to hand & been gladly welcomed. i shall realize you on the 26th sending living impulses into those young men, with results not to cease--their kindled hearts sending back response through glowing eyes that will be warmer to you than the june sunshine. perhaps, too, you will have pleasant talks with the eminent astronomers there. prof. young, who is so skilful a worker with that most subtle of tidings from the stars, the spectroscope--always, it seems hitherto bringing word of the "vast similitude that interlocks all," nay, of the absolute identity of the stuff they are made of with the stuff we are made of. the news from dartmouth that too, is a great pleasure. it has been what seems to me a very long while since last writing, because it has been a troubled time within & what i wrote i tore up again, believing it was best, wisest so. you said in your first letter that if you had leisure you could write one that "would do me good & you too"; write that letter dear friend after you have been to dartmouth[14]--for i sorely need it. perhaps the letters that i have sent you since that first, have given you a feeling of constraint towards me because you cannot respond to them. i will not write any more such letters; or, if i write them because my heart is so full it cannot bear it, they shall not find their way to the post. but do not, because i give you more than friendship, think that it would not be a very dear & happy thing to me to have friendship only from you. i do not want you to write what it is any effort to write--do not ask for deep thoughts, deep feelings--know well those must choose their own time & mode--but for the simplest current details--for any thing that helps my eyes to pierce the distance & see you as you live & move to-day. i dearly like to hear about your mother--want to know if all your sisters are married, & if you have plenty of little nephews & nieces--i like to hear anything about mr. o'connor[15] & mr. burroughs,[16] towards both of whom i feel as toward friends. (has mr. o'connor succeeded in getting practically adopted his new method of making cast steel? percy[17] being a worker in the field of metallurgy makes me specially glad to hear about this.) then, i need not tell you how deep an interest i feel in american politics & want to know if you are satisfied with the result of the cincinnati convention & what of mr. greely?[18] & what you augur as to his success--i am sure dear friend, if you realize the joy it is to me to receive a few words from you--about anything that is passing in your thoughts & around--how beaming bright & happy the day a letter comes & many days after--how light hearted & alert i set about my daily tasks, it would not seem irksome to you to write. and if you say, "read my books, & be content--you have me in them," i say, it is because i read them so that i am not content. it is an effort to me to turn to any other reading; as to highest literature what i felt three years ago is more than ever true now, with all their precious augmentations. i want nothing else--am fully fed & satisfied there. i sit alone many hours busy with my needle; this used to be tedious; but it is not so now--for always close at hand lie the books that are so dear, so dear, i brooding over the poems, sunning myself in them, pondering the vistas--all the experience of my past life & all its aspirations corroborating them--all my future & so far as in me lies the future of my children to be shaped modified vitalized by & through these--outwardly & inwardly. how can i be content to live wholly isolated from you? i am sure it is not possible for any one,--man or woman, it does not matter which, to receive these books, not merely with the intellect critically admiring their power & beauty, but with an understanding responsive heart, without feeling it drawn out of their breasts so that they must leave all & come to be with you sometimes without a resistless yearning for personal intercourse that will take no denial. when we come to america i shall not want you to talk to me, shall not be any way importunate. to settle down where there are some that love you & understand your poems, somewhere that you would be sure to come pretty often--to have you sit with me while i worked, you silent, or reading to yourself, i don't mind how: to let my children grow fond of you--to take food with us; if my music pleased you, to let me play & sing to you of an evening. do your needlework for you--talk freely of all that occupied my thoughts concerning the children's welfare &c--i could be very happy so. but silence with the living presence and silence with all the ocean in between are two different things. therefore, these years stretch out your hand cordially, trustfully, that i may feel its warm grasp. good-bye, my dearest friend. annie gilchrist. letter x anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd. camden sq. london july 14, '72._ the 3d july was my rejoicing day, dearest friend,--the day the packet from america reached me, scattering for a while the clouds of pain and humiliation & filling me through & through with light & warmth; indeed i believe i am often as happy reading, as you were writing, your poems. the long new one "as a strong bird" of itself answers the question hinted in your preface & nobly fulfils the promise of its opening lines. we want again & again in fresh words & from the new impetus & standpoint of new days the vision that sweeps ahead, the tones that fill us with faith & joy in our present share of life & work--prophetic of the splendid issues. it does not need to be american born to believe & passionately rejoice in the belief of what is preparing in america. it is for humanity. and it comes through england. the noblest souls the most heroic hearts of england were called to be the nucleus of the race that (enriched with the blood & qualities of other races & planted down in the new half of the world reserved in all its fresh beauty & exhaustless riches to be the arena) is to fulfil, justify, outstrip the vision of the poets, the quenchless aspirations of all the ardent souls that have ever struggled forward upon this earth. for me, the most precious page in the book is that which contains the democratic souvenirs. i respond to that as one to whom it means the life of her soul. it comforts me very much. you speak in the preface of the imperious & resistless command from within out of which "leaves of grass" issued. this carried with it no doubt the secret of a corresponding resistless power over the reader wholly unprecedented, unapproached in literature, as i believe, & to be compared only with that of christ. i speak out of my own experience when i say that no myth, no "miracle" embodying the notion of a direct communication between god & a human creature, goes beyond the effect, soul & body, of those poems on me: & that were i to put into oriental forms of speech what i experienced it would read like one of those old "miracles" or myths. thus of many things that used to appear to me incomprehensible lies, i now perceive the germ of truth & understand that what was called the supernatural was merely an inadequate & too timid way of conceiving the natural. had i died the following year, it would have been the simple truth to say i died of joy. the doctor called it nervous exhaustion falling with tremendous violence on the heart which "seemed to have been strained": & was much puzzled how that could have come to pass. i left him in his puzzle--but it was none to me. how could such a dazzling radiance of light flooding the soul, suddenly, kindling it to such intense life, but put a tremendous strain on the vital organs? how could the muscles of the heart suddenly grow adequate to such new work? o the passionate tender gratitude that flooded my breast, the yearnings that seemed to strain the heart beyond endurance that i might repay with all my life & soul & body this debt--that i might give joy to him who filled me with such joy, that i might make his outward life sweeter & more beautiful who made my inner life so divinely sweet & beautiful. but, dear friend, i have certainly to see that this is not to be so, now: that for me too love & death are folded inseparably together: death that will renew my youth. i have had the paper from burlington[19]--with the details a woman likes so to have. i wish i had known for certain whether you went on to boston & were enjoying the music there. my youngest boy has gone to spend his holiday with his brother in south wales & he writes me such good news of per., that he is "looking as brown as a nut & very jolly"; his home in a "clean airy old farm house half way up a mountain in the midst of wild rough grand scenery, sea in sight near enough to hear the sound of it about as loud as the rustling of leaves"--so the boys will have a good time together, and the girls are going with me for the holiday to their grandmother at colne. w. rossetti does not take his till october this year. i suppose it will be long & long before this letter reaches you as you will be gone to california--may it be a time full of enjoyment--full to the brim. good-bye, dearest friend, annie gilchrist. what a noble achievement is mr. stanley's:[20] it fills me with pleasure that americans should thus have been the rescuer of our large-hearted, heroic traveller. we have just got his letters with account of the five races in central africa copied from n. y. _herald_, july 29. letter xi anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis road camden sqre. novr. 12, 1872._ my dearest friend: i must write not because i have anything to tell you--but because i want so, by help of a few loving words, to come into your presence as it were--into your remembrance. not more do the things that grow want the sun. i have received all the papers--& each has made a day very bright for me. i hope the trip to california has not again had to be postponed--i realize well the enjoyment of it, & what it would be to california & the fresh impulses of thought & emotion that would shape themselves, melodiously, out of that for the new volume. my children are all well. beatrice is working hard to get through the requisite amount of latin, &c. that is required in the preliminary examination--before entering on medical studies. percy, my eldest, whom i have not seen for a year, is coming to spend xmas with us. good-bye, dearest friend. annie gilchrist. letter xii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis road camden sq. london jan. 31, '73._ dearest friend: shall you never find it in your heart to say a kind word to me again? or a word of some sort? surely i must have written what displeased you very much that you should turn away from me as the tone of your last letter & the ten months' silence which have followed seem to express to me with such emphasis. but if so, tell me of it, tell me how--with perfect candour, i am worthy of that--a willing learner & striver; not afraid of the pain of looking my own faults & shortcomings steadily in the face. it may be my words have led you to do me some kind of injustice in thought--i then could defend myself. but if it is simply that you are preoccupied, too busy, perhaps very eagerly beset by hundreds like myself whose hearts are so drawn out of their breasts by your poems that they cannot rest without striving, some way or other, to draw near to you personally--then write once more & tell me so & i will learn to be content. but please let it be a letter just like the first three you wrote: & do not fear that i shall take it to mean anything it doesn't mean. i shall never do that again, though it was natural enough at first, with the deep unquestioning belief i had that i did but answer a call; that i not only might but ought, on pain of being untrue to the greatest, sweetest instincts & aspirations of my own soul, to answer it with all my heart & strength & life. i say to myself, i say to you as i did in my first letters, "this voice that has come to me from over the atlantic is the one divine voice that has penetrated to my soul: is the utterance of a nature that sends out life-giving warmth & light to my inward self as actually as the sun does to my body, & draws me to it and shapes & shall shape my course just as the sun shapes the earth's." "interlocked in a vast similitude" indeed are these inner & outer truths of our lives. it may be that this shaping of my life course toward you will have to be all inward--that to feed upon your words till they pass into the very substance & action of my soul is all that will be given to me & the grateful, yearning, tender love growing ever deeper & stronger out of that will have to go dumb & actionless all my days here. but i can wait long, wait patiently; know well, realize more clearly indeed that this wingless, clouded, half-developed soul of me has a long, long novitiate to live through before it can meet & answer yours on equal terms so as fully to satisfy you, to be in very truth & deed a dear friend, a chosen companion, a source of joy to you as you of light & life to me. but that is what i will live & die hoping & striving for. that covers & includes all the aspirations all the high hopes i am capable of. and were i to fall away from this belief it would be a fall into utter blackness & despair, as one for whom the sun in heaven is blotted out. good-bye, dearest friend. annie gilchrist. letter xiii anne gilchrist to walt whitman 50 marquis road camden sq. n. w. may 20th, '73. my dearest friend: such a joyful surprise was that last paper you sent me with the poem celebrating the great events in spain--the new hopes the new life wakening in the breasts of that fine people which has slumbered so long, weighed down & tormented with hideous nightmares of superstition. are you indeed getting strong & well again? able to drink in draughts of pleasure from the sights & sounds & perfumes of this delicious time, "lilac time"--according to your wont? sleeping well--eating well, dear friend? william rossetti is coming to see me thursday, before starting for his holiday trip to naples. his father was a neapolitan, so he narrowly escaped a lifelong dungeon for having written some patriotic songs--he fled in disguise by help of english friends & spent the rest of his life here. so this, his first visit to naples, will be specially full of interest & delight to our friend. he is also in great spirits at having discovered a large number of hitherto unknown early letters of shelley's. of modern english poets shelley is the one he loves & admires incomparably the most. perhaps this letter will just reach you on your birthday. what can i send you? what can i tell you but the same old story of a heart fast anchored--of a soul to whom your soul is as the sun & the fresh, sweet air, and the nourishing, sustaining earth wherein the other one breathes free & feeds & expands & delights itself. there is no occupation of the day however homely that is not coloured, elevated, made more cheerful to me by thoughts of you & by thoughts you have given me blent in & suffusing all: no hope or aim or practical endeavour for my dear children that has not taken a higher, larger, more joyous scope through you. no immortal aspiration, no thoughts of what lies beyond death, but centre in you. and in moods of pain and discouragement, dear friend, i turn to that poem beginning "whoever you are holding me now in hand," and i don't know but that that one revives and strengthens me more than any. for there is not a line nor a word in it at which my spirit does not rise up instinctively and fearlessly say--"so be it." and then i read other poems & drink in the draught that i know is for me, because it is for all--the love that you give me on the broad ground of my humanity and womanhood. and i understand the reality & preciousness of that. then i say to myself, "souls are not made to be frustrated--to have their greatest & best & sweetest impulses and aspirations & yearnings made abortive. therefore we shall not be 'carried diverse' forever. this dumb soul of mine will not always remain hidden from you--but some way will be given me for this love, this passion of gratitude, this set of all the nerves of my being toward you, to bring joy & comfort to you. i do not ask the when or the how." i shall be thinking of your great & dear mother in her beautiful old age, too, on your birthday--happiest woman in all the world that she was & is: forever sacred & dear to america & to all who feed on the poems of her son. good-bye, my best beloved friend. annie gilchrist. i suppose you see all that you care to see in the way of english newspapers. i often long to send you one when there is anything in that i feel sure would interest you, but am withheld by fearing it would be quite superfluous or troublesome even. letter xiv anne gilchrist to walt whitman _earls colne halstead august 12, 1873._ my dearest friend: the paper has just been forwarded here which tells me you are still suffering and not, as i was fondly believing, already quite emerged from the cloud of sickness. my darling, let me use that tender caressing word once more--for how can i help it, with heart so full & no outlet but words? my darling--i say it over & over to myself with voice, with eyes so full of love, of tender yearning, sorrowful, longing love. i would give all the world if i might come (but am held here yet awhile by a duty nothing may supersede) & soothe & tend & wait on you & with such cheerful loving companionship lift off some of the weight of the long hours & days & perhaps months that must still go over while nature slowly, imperceptibly, but still so surely repairs the mischief within: result of the tremendous ordeal to your frame of those great over-brimming years of life spent in the army hospitals. you see dear friend, a woman who is a mother has thenceforth something of that feeling toward other men who are dear to her. a cherishing, fostering instinct that rejoices so in tending, nursing, caretaking & i should be so happy it needs must diffuse a reviving, comforting, vivifying warmth around you. might but these words breathed out of the heart of a woman who loves you with her whole soul & life & strength fulfil their errand & comfort the sorrowful heart, if ever so little--& through that revive the drooping frame. this love that has grown up, far away over here, unhelped by the sweet influences of personal intercourse, penetrating the whole substance of a woman's life, swallowing up into itself all her aspirations, hopes, longings, regardless of death, looking earnestly, confidently beyond that for its fruition, blending more or less with every thought & act of her life--a guiding star that her feet cannot choose but follow resolutely--what can be more real than this, dear friend? what can have deeper roots, or a more immortal growing power? but i do not ask any longer whether this love is believed in & welcomed & precious to you. for i know that what has real roots cannot fail to bear real flowers & fruits that will in the end be sweet & joyful to you; and that if i am indeed capable of being your eternal comrade, climbing whereon you climb, daring all that you dare, learning all that you learn, suffering all that you suffer (pressing closest then) loving, enjoying all that you love & enjoy--you will want me. you will not be able to help stretching out your hand & drawing me to you. i have written this mostly out in the fields, as i am so fond of doing--the serene, beautiful harvest landscape spread around--returned once more as i have every summer for five & twenty years to this old village where my mother's family have lived in unbroken succession three hundred years, ever since, in fact, the old priory which they have inhabited, ceased to be a priory. my mother's health is still good--wonderful indeed for 88, though she has been 30 years crippled with rheumatism. still she enjoys getting out in the sunshine in her bath chair, & is able to take pleasure in seeing her friends & in having us all with her. her father was a hale man at 90. these eastern counties are flat & tame, but yet under this soft, smiling, summer sky lovely enough too--with their rich green meadows & abundant golden corn crops, now being well got in. even the sluggish little river colne one cannot find fault with, it nourishes such a luxuriant border of wild flowers as it creeps along--& turns & twists from sunshine into shade & from shade into sunshine so as to make the very best & most of itself. but as to the human growth here, i think that more than anywhere else in england perhaps it struggled along choked & poisoned by dead things of the past, still holding their place above ground. carlyle calls the clergy "black dragoons"--in these rural parishes they are black squires, making it their chief business to instruct the labourer that his grinding poverty & excessive toil, & the squire's affluence & ease are equally part of the sacred order of providence. when i have been here a little i wish myself in london again, dearly as i love outdoor life & companionship with nature. for though the same terrible & cruel facts are there as here, they are not choked down your throat by any one, as a beautiful & perfect ideal. even in england light is unmistakably breaking through the darkness for the toilers. i did not see william rossetti before i came down, but heard he had had a very happy time in italy & splendid weather all the while. mr. conway & his wife are going to spend their holiday in brittany. do not think me childish dear friend if i send a copy of this letter to washington as well as to camden. i want it so to get to you--long & so long to speak with you--& the camden one may never come to hand--or the washington one might remain months unforwarded--it is easy to tear up. i hope it will find you by the sea shore!--getting on so fast toward health & strength again--refreshed & tranquillized, soul & body. good-bye, beloved friend. annie gilchrist. letter xv[21] walt whitman to anne gilchrist i must write friend once more at since i last wrote, clouds have darkened over me, and still remain. on the night of 3d january last i was paralyzed, left side, and have remained so since. feb. 19 i lost a dear dear sister, who died in st. louis leaving two young daughters. may 23d, my dear inexpressibly beloved mother died in camden, n. j. i was just able to get from washington to her dying bed & sit there. i thought i was bearing it all stoutly, but i find it affecting the progress of my recovery since and now. i am still feeble, palsied & have spells of great distress in the head. but there are points more favourable. i am up & dressed every day, sleep & eat middling well & do not change much yet, in flesh & face, only look very old. though i can move slowly very short distances, i walk with difficulty & have to stay in the house nearly all the time. as i write to-day, i feel that i shall probably get well--though i may not. many times during the past year have i thought of you & your children. many times indeed have i been going to write, but did not. i have just been reading over again several of this & last year's letters from you & looking at the pictures sent in the one of jan. 24, '72. (your letters of jan. 24, june 3 & july 14, of last year and of jan. 31, and may 20, this year, with certainly one other, maybe two) all came safe. do not think hard of me for not writing in reply. if you could look into my spirit & emotion you would be entirely satisfied & at peace. i am at present temporarily here at camden, on the delaware river, opposite philadelphia, at the house of my brother, and i am occupying, as i write, the rooms wherein my mother died. you must not be unhappy about me, as i am as comfortably situated as can be--& many things--indeed every thing--in my case might be so much worse. though my plans are not definite, my intention as far as anything is on getting stronger, and after the hot season passes, to get back to washington for the fall & winter. my post office address continues at washington. i send my love to percy & all your dear children. the enclosed ring i have just taken from my finger, & send to you, with my love. [illustration: facsimile of a typical whitman letter. from thomas b. harned's collection] letter xvi anne gilchrist to walt whitman _earls colne sept. 4, 1873._ i am entirely satisfied & at peace, my beloved--no words can say how divine a peace. pain and joy struggle together in me (but joy getting the mastery, because its portion is eternal). o the precious letter, bearing to me the living touch of your hand, vibrating through & through me as i feel the pressure of the ring that pressed your flesh--& now will press mine so long as i draw breath. my darling! take comfort & strength & joy from me that you have made so rich & strong. perhaps it will yet be given us to see each other, to travel the last stage of this journey side by side, hand in hand--so completing the preparation for the fresh start on the greater journey; me loving and blessing her you mourn, now for your dear sake--then growing to know & love her in full unison with you. i hope you will soon get to the sea--as soon as you are strong enough, that is--& if you could have all needful care & comfort & a dear friend with you there. for i believe you would get on faster away from camden--& that it tends so to keep the wound open & quivering to be where the blow fell on you--where every object speaks of her last hours & is laden with heart-stirring associations; though i realize, dearest friend, that in the midst of the poignant sorrow come immortal sweet moments--communings, rapt anticipations. but these would come the same in nature's great soothing arms by the seashore, with her reviving, invigorating breath playing freely over you. if only you could get just strong enough prudently to undertake the journey. when my eyes first open in the morning, often such tender thoughts, yearning ineffably, pitying, sorrowful, sweet thoughts flow into my breast that longs & longs to pillow on itself the suffering head (with white hair more beautiful to me than the silvery clouds which always make me think of it.) my hands want to be so helpful, tending, soothing, serving my whole frame to support his stricken side--o to comfort his heart--to diffuse round him such warm sunshine of love, helping time & the inborn vigour of each organ that the disease could not withstand the influences, but healthful life begin to flow again through every part. my children send their love, their earnest sympathy. do not feel anyways called on to write except when inwardly impelled. your silence is not dumb to me now--will never again cloud or pain, or be misconstrued by me. i can feast & feast, & still have wherewithal to satisfy myself with the sweet & precious words that have now come & with the feel of my ring, only send any old paper that comes to hand (never mind whether there is anything to read in it or not) just as a sign that the breath of love & hope these poor words try to bear to you, has reached you. and just one word literally that, dearest, when you begin to feel you are really getting on--to make me so joyful with the news. good-bye, dearest friend, anne gilchrist. back again in marquis road. letter xvii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd. camden sq. nov. 3, '73 london_ my dearest friend: all the papers have reached me--3 separate packets (with the handwriting on them that makes my heart give a glad bound). i look through them full of interest & curiosity, wanting to realize as i do, in things small as well as things large, my land of promise--the land where i hope to plant down my children--so strong in the faith that they, & perhaps still more those that come after them will bless me for that (consciously or unconsciously, it doesn't matter which) i should set out with a cheerful heart on that errand if i knew the first breath i drew on american soil would be my last in life. i searched hopeful for a few words telling of improvement in your health in the last paper. but perhaps it does not follow from there being no much mention that there is no progress. may you be steadily though ever so slowly gaining ground, my darling! now that i understand the nature of the malady (a deficient flow of blood to the brain, if it has been rightly explained to me) i realize that recovery must be very gradual: as the coming on of it must have been slow & insidious. and perhaps that, & also even from before the war time with its tremendous strain, emotional & physical, is part of the price paid for the greatness of the poems & for their immortal destiny--the rapt exaltation the intensity of joy & sorrow & struggle--all that went to give them their life-giving power. for i have felt many times in reading them as if the light and heat of their sacred fire must needs have consumed the vital energies of him in whose breast it was generated, faster then even the most splendid physique could renew itself. for our sakes, for humanity's sake, you suffer now, i do not doubt it, every bit as much as the soldier's wounds are for his country's sake. the more precious, the more tenderly cherished, the more drawing the hearts that understand with ineffable yearnings, for this. my children all continue well in the main, i am thankful to say, though beatrice (the eldest girl) looks paler than i could wish and is working her brains too much and the rest of her too little just at present, with the hope of getting through the apothecaries hall exam. in arts next sept., which involves a good bit of latin and mathematics. this is all women can do in england toward getting into the medical profession & as the apoth. hall certificate is accepted for the preliminary studies at paris & zurich, i make no doubt it is also at philadelphia & new york; so that she would be able to enter on medical studies, the virtual preliminary work, when we come. for she continues steadfastly desirous to win her way into that field of usefulness, & i believe is well fitted to work there, with her grave, earnest, thoughtful, feeling nature & strong bodily frame. she is able to enjoy your poems & the vistas; broods over them a great deal. percy is bending his energies now to mastering the processes that go to the production of the very best quality of copper such as is used for telegraph wires &c. no easy matter, copper being the most difficult, in a metallurgical point of view, of all the metals to deal with & the company in whose employ he is having hitherto been unsuccessful in this branch. his looks, too, do not quite satisfy me--it is partly rather too long hours of work--but still more not getting a good meal till the end of it. it is so hard to make the young believe that the stomach shares the fatigue of the rest of the body and that there is not nervous energy enough left for it to do all its principal work to perfection after a long, exhausting day. but i hope now i, or rather his own experience and i together, have convinced him in time, and he promises me faithfully to arrange for a good meal in the middle of the day however much grudging the time. my little artist herby is still chiefly working from the antique, but tries his hand at home occasionally with oils & to life & has made an oil sketch of me which, though imperfect in drawing &c., gives far more the real character & expression of my face than the photographs. have you heard, i wonder, of william rossetti's approaching marriage? it is to take place early in the new year. the lady is lucy brown, daughter of one of our most eminent artists (he was the friend who first put into my hand the "selections" from your poems). lucy is a very sweet-tempered, cultivated, lovable woman, well fitted, i should say, to make william rossetti happy. they are to continue in the old home, euston sq., with mrs. rossetti & the sisters, who are one and all fond of lucy. i am glad he is going to be married for i think he is a man capable both of giving and receiving a large measure of domestic happiness. i hope the dear little girls at st. louis are well. and you, my darling, o surely the sun is piercing through the dark clouds once more and strength & health and gladness returning. o fill yourself with happy thoughts for you have filled others with joy & strength & will do so for countless generations, & from these hearts flows back, and will ever flow, a steady current of love & the beautiful fruits of love. when you next send me a paper, if you feel that you are getting on ever so little, dearest friend, just a dash under the word _london_. i have looked back at all your old addresses & i see you never do put any lines, so i shall know it was not done absently but really means you are better. and how that line will gladden my eyes, darling! love from us all. good-bye. anne gilchrist. letter xviii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd. camden sq., n. w. dec. 8, 1873._ my dearest friend: the papers with prof. young's speech came safely & i read it, my hand in yours, happy and full of interest. are you getting on, my darling? when i know that you no longer suffer from distressing sensations in the head & can move without such effort and difficulty, a hymn of thankfulness will go up from my heart. perhaps this week i shall get the paper with the line on it that is to tell me so much--or at least that you are well on your way towards it. and what shall i tell you about? the quiet tenor of our daily lives here? but that is very restricted, though, i trust, as far as it goes, good & healthful. o the thoughts and hopes that leap from across the ocean & the years! but they hide themselves away when i want to put them into words. do not think i live in dreams. i know very well it is strictly in proportion as the present & the past have been busy shaping & preparing the materials of a beautiful future, that it really will be beautiful when it comes to exist as a present, seeing how it needs must be entirely a growth from all that has preceded it & that there are no sudden creations of flowers of happiness in men & women any more than in the fields. but if the buds lie ready folded, ah, what the sunshine will do! what fills me with such deep joy in your poems is the sense of the large complete acceptiveness--the full & perfect faith in humanity--in _every individual unit of humanity_--thus for the first time uttered. that alone satisfies the sense of justice in the soul, responds to what its own nature compels it to believe of the infinite source of all. that too includes within its scope the lot as well as the man. his infinite, undying self must achieve and fulfil itself out of any & all experiences. why, if it takes such ages & such vicissitudes to compact a bit of rock--fierce heat, & icy cold, storms, deluges, crushing pressure & slow subsidences, as if it were like a handful of grass & all sunshine--what would it do for a man! _dec. 18._ the longed-for paper has come to hand. o it _is_ a slow struggle back to health, my darling! i believe in the main it is good news that is come--and there is the little stroke i wanted so on the address. but for all that, i feel troubled & conscious--for i believe you have been a great deal worse since you wrote--and that you have still such a steep, steep hill to climb. perhaps if my hand were in yours, dear walt, you would get along faster. dearer and sweeter that lot than even to have been your bride in the full flush & strength and glory of your youth. i turn my face to the westward sky before i lie down to sleep, deep & steadfast within me the silent aspiration that every year, every month & week, may help something to prepare and make fitter me and mine to be your comfort and joy. we are full of imperfections, short-comings but half developed, but half "possessing our own souls." but we grow, we learn, we strive--that is the best of us. i think in the sunshine of your presence we shall grow fast--i too, my years notwithstanding. may the new year lead you out into the sunshine again--shed out of its days health & strength, so that you tread the earth in gladness again. this with love from us all. good-bye, dearest friend. anne gilchrist. herby was at a conversation last night where were many distinguished men & beautiful women. among the works of art displayed on the walls was a fine photograph of you. 19th, afternoon. and now a later post has brought me the other no. of the _graphic_ with your own writing in it--so full of life and spirit, so fresh & cheerful & vivid, dear friend, it seems to scatter all anxious sad thoughts to the winds. and are you then really back at washington, i wonder, or have you only visited it in spirit, & written the recollection of former evenings? i shall have none but cheerful thoughts now. i shall reread it carefully--read it to the young folk at tea to-night. letter xix anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd. camden sq. london 26 feb., 1874._ my dearest friend: glad am i when the time comes round for writing to you again--though i can't please myself with my letters, poor little echoes that they are of the loving, hoping, far-journeying thoughts so busy within. it has been a happy time since i received the paper with the joyful news you were back at washington, well on your way to recovery, able partially to resume work--scenting from afar the fresh breeze & sunshine of perfect health--by this time, not from afar, perhaps. the thought of that makes dull days bright & bright days glorious to me too. i note in the new york _graphic_ that a new edition of "leaves of grass" was called for--sign truly that america is not so very slowly & now absorbing the precious food she needs above all else? perhaps, dear friend, even during your lifetime will begin to come the proof you will alone accept--that "your country absorbs you as affectionately as you have absorbed it." i have had two great pleasures since i last wrote you. one is that herby has read with a large measure of responsive delight "leaves of grass" quite through, so that he now sees you with his own eyes & has in his heart the living, growing germs of a loving admiration that will grow with his growth & strengthen every fibre of good in him. also he read & took much pride in my "letters," now shown him for the first time. percy has had a fortnight's holiday with us, and looks better in health, though still not altogether as i could wish. he says he is getting such good experience he would not care just yet to change his post even for better pay. music is his greatest pleasure--he seems to get more enjoyment out of that than out of literature, & is acquiring some practical skill. to-day (feb. 25th) is my birthday, dearest friend--a day my children always make very bright & happy to me: and on it they make me promise to "do nothing but what i like all day." so i shall spend it with you--partly in finishing this letter, partly reading in the book that is so dear to me--for that is indeed my soul coming into the presence of your soul--filled by it with strength & warmth & joy. in discouraged moods, when oppressed with the consciousness of my own limitations, failures, lack of many beautiful gifts, i say to myself, "what sort of a bird with unfledged wings are you that would mate with an eagle? can your eyes look the sun in the face like his? can you sustain your long, lifelong flights upward? can you rest in dizzy rocks overhanging dark, tempestuous abysses? is your heart like his, a great glowing sun of love?" then i answer, "give me time." i can bide my time--a long, long growing & unfolding time. that he draws me with such power, that my soul has found the meaning of itself in him--the object of all its deep, deathless aspirations in comradeship with him, means, if life is not a mockery clean ended by death, that the germs are in me, that through cleaving & loving & ever striving up & on i shall grow like him--like but different--the correlative--what his soul needs & desires; and if when i reach america he is not so drawn towards me,--if seeing how often i disappoint myself, needs must that he too is disappointed, still i can hold bravely, lovingly on to this inextinguishable faith & hope--with the added joy of his presence, sometimes winning from him more & more a dear friendship, yielding him some joy & comfort--for he too turns with hope, with yearning, towards me--bids me be "satisfied & at peace!" so i am, so i will be, my darling. surely, surely, sooner or later i shall justify that hope, satisfy that yearning. this is what i say to myself & to you this 46th birthday. have i said it over & over again? that is because it is the undercurrent of my whole life. the _tribune_ with proctor's "lecture on the sun" (& a great deal besides that interests me) came safe. a masterly lecture. and two days ago came the philadelphia paper with prof. morton's speech--deeply interesting. and as i read these things, the feeling that they have come from, & been read by, you turns them into poems for me. good-bye, my dearest friend. anne gilchrist. w. rossetti's marriage is to be the end of next month. had a pleasant chat with mr. conway, who took supper with us a week or two ago. letter xx anne gilchrist to walt whitman _march 9th, 1874._ with full heart, with eyes wet with tears of joy & i know not what other deep emotion--pain of yearning pity blent with the sense of grandeur--dearest friend, have i read and reread the great, sacred poem just come to me.[22] o august columbus! whose sorrows, sufferings, struggles are more to be envied than any triumph of conquering warrior--as i see him in your poem his figure merges into yours, brother of columbus. completer of his work, discoverer of the spiritual, the ideal america--you too have sailed over stormy seas to your goal--surrounded with mocking disbelievers--you too have paid the great price of health--our columbus. your accents pierce me through & through. your loving annie. letter xxi anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd. camden sq. may 14, 1874._ my dearest friend: two papers have come to hand since i last wrote, one containing the memoranda made during the war--precious records, eagerly read & treasured & reread by me. how the busy days slip by one so like another, yet each with its own fresh & pleasant flavour & scent, as like and as different as the leaves on a tree, or the plants in the hedgerows. days they are busy with humble enough occupations, but lit up for me not only with the light of hope, but with the half-hidden joy of one who knows she has found what she sought and laid such strong hold upon it that she fears nothing, questions nothing--no life, or death, nor in the end, in her own imperfections, flaws, shortcomings. for to be so conscious of these, and to love and understand you so, are proofs [that] the germs of all are in her, & perhaps in the warmth & joyous sunshine of your presence would grow fast. anyhow, distance has not baffled her, and time will not. a great deal of needlework to be done at this time of year; for my girls have not time for any at present; it is not a good contrast or the right thing after longish hours of study--much better household activity of any sort. if they would but understand this in schools & colleges for girls & young women. no healthier or more cheerful occupation as a relief from study, could be found than household work--sweeping, scrubbing, washing, ironing, cooking--in the variety of it, & equable development of the muscles, i should think equal to the most elaborate gymnastics. i know very well how i have felt, & still feel, the want of having been put to these things when a girl. then the importance afterwards of doing them easily & well & without undue fatigue, to all who aim to give practical shape to their ardent belief in equality & fair play for all. in domestic life under one roof, at all events, it is already feasible to make the disposals without ignominious distinctions--not all the rough bodily work, never ending, leisure all to the other; but a wholesome interchange and sharing of these. not least too among the advantages of taking an active share in these duties is the zest, the keen relish, it gives to the hours not too easily secured for reading & music. besides, i often think that just as the poem nature is made up half of rude, rough realities and homely materials & processes, so it is necessary for women to construct their poem, home, on a groundwork of homeliest details & occupations, providing for the bodily wants & comforts of their household, and that without putting their own hands to this, their poem will lack the vital, fresh, growing, nature-like quality that alone endures, and that of this soil will grow, with fitting preparation & culture, noble & more vigorous intellectual life in women, fit to embody itself in wider spheres afterwards--if the call comes. this month of may that comes to you so laden with great and sorrowful & beautiful & tender memories, and that is your birth-month too, i cannot say that i think of you more than at any other time, for there is no month nor day that my thoughts do not habitually & spontaneously turn to you, refer all to you--yet i seem to come closer because of the poems that tell me of what relates to that time; but most of all when i think of your beloved mother, because then i often yearn, more than i know how to bear, to comfort you with love and tender care and silent companionship. may is in a sense (& a very real one) my birth-month too, for in it were your poems first put into my hand. i wish i were _quite sure_ that you no longer suffer in your head, and that you can move about without effort or difficulty--perhaps before long there will be a paper with some paragraph about your health, for though we say to ourselves no news is good news, it is a very different thing to have the absolute affirmation of good news. my children are all well and hearty, i am thankful to say, & working industriously. grace means to study the best system of kindergarten teaching--i fancy she is well suited for kindergarten teaching & that it is very excellent work. herby is still drawing from the antique in the british museum. i hope he will get into the academy this summer. he is going to spend his holidays with his brother in south wales--and we as usual at colne, but that will not be till august. did i tell you william rossetti and his bride were spending their honeymoon at naples? & have found it bitterly cold there, i learn. mr. & mrs. conway & their children are well. eustace is coming to spend the afternoon with herby to-morrow. good-bye, my dearest friend. annie gilchrist. letter xxii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd. camden sq. july 4, 1874._ my dearest friend: are you well and happy, and enjoying this beautiful summer? london is, in one sense, a sort of big prison at this time of year: but still at a wide open window, with the blue sky opening to me & a soft breeze blowing in & the book that is so dear--my life-giving treasure--open on my lap, i have very happy times. no one hundreds of years hence will find deeper joy in these poems than i--breathe the fresh, sweet, exhilarating air of them, bathe in it, drink in what nourishes & delights the whole being, body, intellect & soul, more than i. nor could you, when writing them, have desired to come nearer to a human being & be more to them forever & forever than you are & will be to me. o i take the hand you stretch out each day--i put mine into it with a sense of utter fulfilment: i ask nothing more of time and of eternity but to live and grow up to that companionship that includes all. 6th. this very morning has come the answer to my question. first i only saw the poem--read it so elate--soared with it to joyous heights, said to myself: "he is so well again, he is able to take the journey into massachusetts & speak the kindling words." then i turned over and my joy was dashed. my darling; such patience yet needed along the tedious path! oh, it makes me long, with passionate longings, with yearnings i know not how to bear, to come, to be your loving, cheerful companion, the one to take such care, to do all for you--to beguile the time, to give you of my health as you have done to tens of thousands. i do not doubt, either, but that you will get well. i feel sure, sure, it will be given me to see you; and perhaps a very slow, gradual recovery is safest--is the only way in this as in other matters to thoroughness; & a very speedy rally would be specious, treacherous, in the end, leading you to do what you were not yet fit for. i believe if i could only make you conscious of the love, the enfolding love, my heart breathes out toward you it would do you physical good; many-sided love--mother's love that cherishes, that delights so in personal service, that sees in sickness & suffering such dear appeals to an answering, limitless tenderness--wife's love--ah, you draw that from me too, resistlessly--i have no choice--comrade's love, so happy in sharing all, pain, sorrow, toil, effort, enjoyments, thoughts, hopes, aims, struggles, disappointment, beliefs, aspirations. child's love, too, that trusts utterly, confides unquestioningly. not more spontaneously, & wholly without effort or volition on my part, does the sunlight flow into my eyes when i open them in the morning than does the sense of your existence enter like bright light into my awaking soul. and then i send to you thoughts--tender, caressing thoughts--that would fain nestle so close--ah, if you could feel them, take them in, let them lie in your breast, each morning. my children are all well, dear friend. herbert is going to spend his holidays with his brother in wales--& we shall all go to colne as usual the end of this month & remain there through august and september; so if you think of it, address any paper you may send [to] earls colne, halstead, because i should get it a day sooner. but it does not signify if you forget & send it here; it will be forwarded all right. beatrice has just got through one of the govern. exams. in elementary mathematics; and i hope herby has got into the academy, but do not know for certain yet. he works away zealously and with great delight in his work. william rossetti and his wife are coming to dine with us wednesday--they look so well and happy, it does one good to see them. the conways are going to ostend, i think, for their holiday, & when they come back [are] going to move into a larger house. i heard an american lady, miss whitman, sing at a concert the other day, who delighted me, fascinated me--i longed to kiss her after each song, though some of them were poor enough verdi stuff--but she contrived to impart genuineness & beauty to them. i hope you will hear her when she returns to america, which will be soon, i believe. good-bye, dearest friend. beatrice, herby & grace join their love with mine. i had the sweet little bridal poem all safe, & by the bye i liked that springfield paper very much. your loving annie. letter xxiii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _earls colne sept. 3, 1874._ my dearest friend: the change down here has refreshed me more than usual and i find my mother still wonderful for her years (the 89th), able to get out daily in her bath chair for two or three hours--to enjoy our being with her, and suffering little or no pain from rheumatism now. i hope you have had as glorious a summer & harvest as we have, and that you are able to be much out of doors and absorb the health-giving influences, dear friend. such mornings! so fresh and invigourating. i have been before breakfast mostly in a beautiful garden (the old priory garden) with my beloved poems and the dew-laden flowers and liquid light and sweet, fresh air; & the sparkle of the pond & delicious greenness of the meadows beyond & rustling trees, and had a joyful time with you, my darling--sometimes with thoughts that lay hold on "the solid prizes of the universe," sometimes so busy building up a home in america, thinking, dreaming, hoping, loving, groping among dim shadows, straining wistful eyes into the dim distance--then to my poems again--ah! not groping then, but hand in hand with you, breathing the air you breathe, with eyes ardently fixed in the same direction your eyes look, heart beating strong with the same hopes, aspirations, yours beats with. it does not need to be american to love america and to believe in the great future of humanity there; it is curious to be human, still more english to do that. i love & believe in & understand her in & through you: but was always drawn towards her, always a believer, though in a vaguer way, that a new glorious day for men & women was dawning there, and recognized a new, distinctive american quality, very congenial to me, even in american virtues, which you not perhaps rate highly or retard as decisively national, not adequately or commandingly so, at any rate. did i ever tell you the cousin of mine[23] who owns the priory here fought for two years in the secession war in the army of the potomac when burnside & mcclellan were at the head? john cowardine was major in a cavalry regiment--was at vicksburg, frederickburg, &c. never wounded, or but slightly--had a good deal of outpost duty, being just the right sort of a man for that, & has letters of approval from his generals of which he is not a little proud. before that fought under the stars & stripes in mexico & has had a curiously adventurous career, which he commenced by running away from a military college, where he was being prepared for a cadetship, & enlisting as a private--getting out of that by & bye and working his way before the mast as a sailor--then mining in california--then in australia, riding steeplechases, keeper of the melrose hounds, market gardening, hotel keeping, then on his way back to california, cast ashore on one of the navigator islands, where he remained for six months, the only white man among savages, who were friendly & made much of him--now, come into a good estate, married to a woman who seems to suit him well & is healthy, cheerful rich & handsome, he has fallen into indifferent health & considerable depression of spirits. perhaps he finds the atmosphere of squirearchical gentility very stagnant, the bed of roses stifling--perhaps, too, the severe privations he has at different times undergone have injured him. i often think he was perhaps one of those your eyes rested on with pride & admiration--"handsome, tan-faced, dressed in blue." he is the very ideal of a soldier in appearance & bearing--has now some fine children, of whom he is very fond. it was just this time of year i received the precious letter and ring that put peace and joy, and yet such pain of yearning, into my heart--pain for you, my darling. o sorrowing helpless love that waits, and must wait, useless, afar off, while you suffer. but trying every day of my life to grow fitter, more capable of being your comfort and joy and true comrade--never to cease trying this side death or the other--rejoicing in my children more than i ever rejoiced in them before, now that in and through you i for the first time see and understand humanity (myself included)--its divine nature, its possibilities, nay, its certainties. how i do long for you to see my children, dear friend, and for them to see and love you as they will love you, and all their nature unfold and grow more vigorously and joyously under your influence. gracie, of whom you have photographs, grows fast,--is such a fine, blooming girl. i hope soon to send you one of beatrice too. they have been enjoying their visit here and are now gone home. gracie for school, beatrice for the examination at apoth. hall she is hoping to get through. then she is coming here to be with my mother, & i going back to london. we mean now one or other of us always to be with my mother here. herby has had such a happy time with his brother in wales--& is looking as brown as a nut & full of health & life--he had a swim in the sea every day. he did succeed in getting into the academy, & will begin work there oct. 1st! be sure, dear friend, if there is a word about your health in any paper to send it me--that is what i search for so eagerly--to have the joyful news you are getting on--but even if it is but so very very slowly, still i would rather know the truth? i do not like thinking of you mistakenly. i want to send you the thoughts, the yearnings, that belong to you, the cherishing love that enfolds you most tenderly of all when you suffer. o if i could send it! and the cheerful companionship, beguiling the time while strength creeps back. i hope your little nieces at st. louis are well. good-bye, my dearest friend. herby, the only one here with me, would like to join his love with mine. annie gilchrist. i go back the beginning of october. _sep. 14th._ letter xxiv anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd. camden sq. london dec. 9, 1874._ my dearest friend: it did me much good to get your poem--beautiful, earnest, eloquent words from the soul whose dear companionship mine seeks with persistent longing--wrestling with distance & time. it seems to me, too, from your having spoken the poem yourself i may conclude you have made fair progress. what i would fain know is whether you have recovered the use of the left side so far as to get about pretty freely and to have as much open-air life as you need & like; and also whether you have quite ceased to suffer distressing sensations in the head. if you can say yes to the first question, will you in sign of it put a dash under the word _london_, and if yes to the second under _england_, when you next send me a paper? unless indeed the paper itself contain a notice of your health. but if it does not, that would be an easy way of gladdening me with good news, if good news there is. i wish i could send you good letters, dearest friend, making myself the vehicle of what is stirring around me in life & thought that would interest you; for there is plenty. but that is very hard to do--though i watch, hear, read eagerly, full of interest. everything stirs in me a cloud of questions, makes me want to see its relationship to what i hold already. i am forever brooding, pondering, sifting, testing--but that is not the bent of mind that enables one to reproduce one's impressions in compact & lively form. so please, dear friend, be indulgent, as indeed i know you will be, of these poor letters of mine with their details of my children & their iterated and reiterated expressions of the love and hope and aspiration you have called into life within me--take them not for what they are, but for all they have to stand for. beatrice is at colne (having got well through the exam. we were anxious about in the autumn) and is a very great comfort to my mother--as i well knew she would be; for a more affectionate, devoted, care-taking nature does not breathe--with a strong active mental life of her own too. so, though missing her sorely, i am well satisfied she should be there; and the country life and rest are doing her a world of good. my artist boy is working away cheerily at the r. academy, his heart in his work. percy is coming to spend xmas with us--he, too, continues well content with his work and in good health. gracie is blooming. the rossettis have had a heavy affliction this first year of their married life in the premature death of her only brother--a young man of considerable promise--barely 20. the conways are well. i feel more completely myself than i have done since my illness--so you see, dear friend, if it has taken me quite four years to recover the lost ground, one must not be discouraged if two do not accomplish it in your case. i hope your little nieces[24] at st. louis are well--and the brothers you are with, and that you have many dear friends round you at camden. i think my thoughts fly to you on strongest and most joyous wings when i am out walking in the clear, cold, elastic air i enjoy so much. good-bye, my dearest friend. annie gilchrist. a cheerful christmas, a new year of which each day brings its share of restorative influence, be yours. letter xxv anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd. camden sq. dec. 30, 1874._ i see, my dearest friend, i must not look for those dashes under the words i thought were going to convey a joyful confirmation of my hopes. i see how the dark clouds linger. full of pain & indignation. i read the paragraph--but fuller still of yearning tenderness & trust and hope. i believe, my dear love, that what you need to help on your recovery is a woman's tender, cherishing love and care, and that in that warm, genial atmosphere the spring of life will be quickened once more and flow full and strong through all its channels as of old, gradually, not quickly, even so. i dare say: but with plenty of patience; with utmost intelligent care of all conditions favourable to health, of diet, of abundant oxygen in the rooms you inhabit, of as much outdoor life as possible, of happy, cheerful companionship, & all the homely everyday domestic joys which are so helpful in their influences. america is doing what nations in all times have done towards that which is profoundly new & great, that which discredits their old ideals and offers them strange fruits & flowers from another world than that they have been content to dwell in all their lives. but for all that i do not believe the precious seed is lying dormant even now--everywhere a few in whose hearts it is treasured & yields a noble growth. since it is america that has produced you nourished your soul and body, she is silently, unnoticed, producing men & women who will justify you, who will understand the meaning of all and respond with a love that will quicken & exalt humanity as christ's influence once did. still it is inscrutable to me that the heart of america is not now passionately drawn toward the great heart that beats & glows in these poems--that "drum taps," at any rate, are not as dear to her as the memory of her dead heroes, sons, brothers, husbands. it must be that they really do not reach the hands of the american people at large--that the professedly literary, cultivated class asking for nothing better than the pretty sing-song sentimentalities which "join them in their nonsense," or else slavishly prostrating their judgments before the models of the past (so perfect for their day, so wholly inadequate for ours), raise their voices so loud in newspapers & magazines as to prevent or everywhere check the circulation. _jan. 1._ the new year has come in bleakly & keenly to the inner as well as to the outer sense, with the papers full of the details of the dark fate of the emigrant ship & of the terrible railway accidents. percy was not able to join us at xmas (through business) but i am expecting him to-night. my mother bears up against the cold wonderfully--& even continues to go out in her chair. bee's letters are very bright & cheerful--she & indeed all my children enjoy the cold much, provided they have plenty of out-door exercise--above all skating, which they are now enjoying. i too like it, but am so haunted by the thought of the increased misery it brings to our hundreds of thousands of ill-fed, ill-clothed, ill-housed. i trust the family circle round you & your nieces at st. louis & all near & dear to you are well, and that you have felt the warm grasp of many loving friends this wintry, cloudy time, my dearest--and that there may breathe out of these poor words a warm, bright glow of love and hope & unrestricted trust in the future. a. gilchrist. letter xxvi anne gilchrist to walt whitman _earls colne, halstead feb. 21, 1875._ my dearest friend: i have run down to colne for a glimpse of my dear bee, whom i had not seen for five months, and of my mother; & now i am alone with the latter, beatrice taking my place at home with her brother & sister for a week or two. a wonderful evergreen my mother continues; still able to face the keen winds & the frost daily in her bath chair--well swathed, of course in eiderdown & flannels. beatrice takes beautiful care of her & is happy & content with her life here, loving the country as dearly as i do & having time enough for study & reading, as well as for domestic activities, to keep her mind as busy as her body. how i do long for you to see my children, dearest friend. i wonder if you are surrounded with any in your brother's home--young, growing, blossoming plants that gladden you. and i wonder if the winter, which i hear is so severe in america this year, tries you--whether you can yet move briskly enough to keep up the circulation--and whether you have as many dear friends round you as you had at washington. in my walks i keep thinking of these things. write me a little letter once more, it would do me such good. no one of all your friends so easy as i to write to because none to whom any & every little detail is so welcome, so precious--lifting a tiny corner of the great vast of space between us, giving me for a moment to feel the friendly grasp of your hand--i that long for it so. two years are over since your illness began, or seemed to begin, dearest friend--so slow & stealthy in its approaches, so slow & stealthy in its retreat--may the spring that is coming (the birds have already caught sight of it, cold & brown & bare as the landscape still is)--may it but come laden with healing, strengthening, refreshing influences--so that you begin to feel again the joyous freedom of health, warbling once more a song of joy for lilac time. true, i know indeed, my dearest, that anyhow you are content, not grudging the price paid for your life work, but even some way or other the richer for paying it--garnering precious equivalents for pain & privation of health in your inmost soul. i cannot choose but believe this earnestly--the resplendent faith that there is not "one cause nor result lamentable, at last, in the universe" which glows throughout the poems is for me an exhaustless source of strength & comfort.--i see every now & then & like the more each time the conways. i am half afraid mr. conway works too incessantly--that is, does not like well enough the indispensable supplement of close mental work--plenty of air & exercise, &c.,--hates walking, & indeed it is not to be wondered at in great, smoky london (i shall be fond enough & proud enough of it too when i am over the atlantic). unless one has a real passion for open air & the sense of sky overhead, like me. i hear mr. conway is coming to america for six months in october. _feb. 25_--i kept my letter till to-day that i might have the happiness of speaking to you on my birthday. see me this evening in the bright, cheerful parlour of our cottage, which stands just in the middle of the old village (it has been a village & jogged on through all change at its own sober, sleepy pace this 800 years)--my mother in her arm chair by the fire; i chatting with her & working or playing to her when she is awake; & with the poems i love beside me, reading, musing, wondering while she dozes. ah, shall i ever attain to the ideal that burst upon me with such splendour of light & joy in those poems in 1869--so filling, so possessing me, i seemed as if i had by one bound attained to that ideal--as if i were already a very twin of the soul from whom they emanated. but now i know that divine foretaste indicated what was possible for me, not what was accomplished--i know the slow growth--the standstill winters that follow the growing joyous springs & ripening summers. i believe it will take more lives than this one to reach that mountain on which i was transfigured again, never to descend more, but to start thence for new heights, fresh glories. ah, dear friend, will you be able to have patience with me, for me? good-bye, my dearest. anne gilchrist. letter xxvii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _50 marquis rd., camden sq. london, may 18, 1875._ my dearest friend: since last i wrote to you at the beginning of april (enclosing a little photograph of that avenue just by our cottage at colne) i have been into wales for a fortnight to see percy, & have looked for the first time in my life on the atlantic--the ocean my mental eyes travel over & beyond so often and that your eyes and ears & heart have been fed by, have communed with and interpreted, as in a new tongue, to the soul of man. looking upon that, watching the tides ebb & flow on your shores, sharing, through my beloved book, in those greatest movements you have spent alone with it--that was a new joyful experience, a fresh kind of communing with you.--i went to wales because i felt anxious about percy, who is not happy just now. i must not tell friends here about it (except his brother & sisters) but i am sure i may tell you, for you will listen with sympathy. he has attached himself very deeply, i think it will prove, to a girl, & she to him, whose parents welcomed him cordially to their house for a year or two & allowed plenty of intercourse till they became aware through percy himself (who thought it right to tell the father as soon as he was fully aware of his own feelings & more than suspected norah's response to them) that there was a strong affection growing up between the two. then they peremptorily forbade all intercourse--not because they have any objection to percy--quite the contrary, they say; but solely and simply because he is not yet earning money enough to marry on, & they hold that a man has no right to engage a girl's affections till he can do so. as if these things could be timed to the moment the money comes in! percy was in hopes, & so was i, that if i went down, i might get sense enough into their heads, if not kindness & sympathy into their hearts, to see that the sole effect of such arbitrary & narrow-sighted conduct would be to alienate & embitter the young people's feelings toward them, while it would make them more restless & anxious to marry without adequate means. whereas if a reasonable amount of intercourse were allowed, it would be a happy time with them, & norah being still so young (18), & percy working away with all his might, doing very well for his age & sure, conscientious, thorough, capable, & well trained worker that he is (for the l. school of mais gives a first rate scientific preparation for his profession) to be making a modest sufficiency in a year or two. well, they were very courteous & indeed friendly to me, & i think i have won over the mother; but the father remains obdurate, & percy feels bitterly the separation--all the more trying as they live almost within sight of each other. so beatrice & grace are going to spend their holidays with him this summer to cheer him up. meanwhile, dear friend, i am on the whole happier than not about him. i liked what i saw of norah & believe he has found a very sweet, affectionate girl of quiet, domestic nature, practical, industrious, sensible--thoroughly well to suit him, & that there is true & deep love between them--also, she took to me very much, & i feel will be quite another child to me. it is besides no little joy to me to find how percy has confided in me in this & chooses me as the friend to whom he tells all--far from being any separation, as sometimes happens, this love of his seems to draw us closer together. only i am very, very anxious for his sake to see him in a better berth--they would let her marry him on â£300 a year; now he has only â£175. he is quite competent to manage iron or copper or tin works, only he looks so young, not having yet any beard or moustache to speak of. that is the end of my long story. this will reach you on your birthday perhaps, my dearest friend; at any rate it must bear you a greeting of love and fond remembrance for that dear day such as my heart will send you when it actually comes: patiently waiting heart, with the fibres of love and boundless trust & joy & hope which bind me to you bedded deep, grown to be, during these long years, a very part of its immortal substance, untouchable by age or varying moods or sickness, or death itself, as i surely believe. i long more than words can tell to know how it fares with you now in health and spirit. my children are all well & growing & unfolding to my heart's content. beatrice & herbert deeply influenced by your poems. good-bye, my dearest friend. a. gilchrist. letter xxviii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _address 1 torriano gardens camden road, n. w. london earls colne aug. 28, 1875._ my dearest friend: your letter came to me just when i most needed the comfort of it--when i was watching and tending my dear mother as she gently, slowly, with but little suffering, sank to rest. there was no sick bed to sit by--we got her up and out into the air and sunshine for an hour or two even the day before she died--no disease, only the stomach could not do its work any longer & for the last three weeks she lived wholly on stimulants, suffering somewhat from sickness. she drew her last breath very gently before daybreak on the 15th inst., in her 90th year, which she had entered in jan. she looked very beautiful in death, notwithstanding her great age--as well she might--tranquil sunset that it was of a beautiful day--a fulfilled life--joy & delight of her father in youth (who used to call her the apple of his eye), good wife, devoted, self-sacrificing, wise mother--patient, courageous sufferer through thirty years of chronic rheumatism, which, however, neutralized & ceased its pains the last few years--unsurpassed, & indeed i think unsurpassable, in conscientiousness--in the strong sense of duty & perfect obedience to that highest sense--she is one of those who amply justify your large faith in women. i do not need to tell you anything, my dearest friend--you know all--i feel your strong comforting hand--i press it very close. i had all my children with me at the funeral. o the comfort your dear letter was & is to me. thinking over & over the few words you say of yourself--& what is said in the paper (so eagerly read--every word so welcome) i cannot help fancying that the return of the distressing sensations in the head must be caused by your having worked at the book--the "two rivulets" (i dearly like the title & the idea of bringing the poems & prose together so)--that you must be more patient with yourself and submit still to perfect rest--& that perhaps in regard to the stomach--you have not enough adapted your diet to the privation of exercise--that you must be more indulgent to the stomach too in the sense of giving it only the very easiest & simplest work to do. my children join their love with mine. your own loving anne. [illustration: facsimile of one of anne gilchrist's letters to walt whitman] [illustration: facsimile of one of anne gilchrist's letters to walt whitman] letter xxix anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 torriano gardens camden rd., nov. 16, 1875. london_ i have been wanting the comfort of a talk with you, dearest friend, for weeks & weeks, without being able to get leisure & tranquillity enough to do it to my heart's content--indeed, heart's content is not for me at present--but restless, eager, longing to come--& the struggle to do patiently & completely & wisely what remains for me here before i am free to obey the deep faith and love which govern me--so let me sit close beside you, my darling--& feel your presence & take comfort & strength & serenity from it as i do, as i can when with all my heart & soul i draw close to you, realizing your living presence with all my might.--first, about percy--things are beginning to look a little brighter for him. he is just entering upon a new engagement with some very large & successful works--the blenavon iron co.--where, though his salary will not be higher at first, his opportunities of improvement will be better & he is also to be allowed to take private practice (in assaying & analyzing). the manager there believes in science & is friendly to percy & will give him every facility for showing what he can do, so that he hopes to prove to the directors before long that he is worth a good salary. the parents of norah (whom he loves) have released from their unfriendly attitude since my beatrice has been staying with them; the two girls have attached themselves to one another & per. has had delightful opportunities of being with norah, & best of all, she is to return here with beatrice (they are coming to-morrow), & per. is to have a week's holiday & come up, so that he & norah will be wholly together & have, i suspect, the happiest week they have yet had in their lives. then i have stored away for them the furniture of the dear old home at colne, & i really think that by the time '76 is out they will be able to marry. i see, and indeed i have known ever since he formed this attachment, that i must not look for him to come to america with me. but what i build upon, dearest friend, is that when i have been a little while in america & have made friends & had time to look about me i might hear of a good certainty for him--his excellent training at the school of mines, large experience at blenavon, energy, ability, & sturdy uprightness will make him a first-rate manager of works by & bye. but the leaving him so happy with his young wife will make it easier for us to part. _nov. 26_--beatrice has begun to work at anatomy at the school of medicine for women lately founded, & seems to delight in her work. she will not enter on the full course all at once--i am for taking things gently. women have plenty of strength but it is of a different kind from men's & must work by gentler & slower means--above all i do not like what pushes violently aside domestic duties & pleasures. the special work must combine itself with these; i am sure it can. herby is getting on very nicely--never did student love his work better. he is eager, & by making the best use of present opportunities & advantages yet looking towards america full of cheerful hopes & sympathy. grace is less developed in intellect but not less in character than the others. i can't describe her but send you her photograph. there is a freshness & independence of character about her--yet withal a certain waywardness & reserve. she is a good, instinctive judge of character--more influenced by it than by books--yet with a growing taste for them too. she comes to america with a gay and buoyant curiosity, declining to make up her mind about anything till she gets there. we want, as far as possible, to transplant our home bodily--to bring as much as we can of our own furniture because we have beautiful old things precious in herby's eyes & that we are all fond of. and [by] coming straight to philadelphia & taking a house somewhere on the outskirts of it or camden immediately we fancy this might be practicable, but have not yet launched into the matter. i have just heard from mr. rossetti, and also from mrs. conway of her husband having seen you, & if his report be not too sanguine it is a cheering one & would comfort me much, dearest friend. but what he says is so favourable i am afraid to believe it altogether, knowing that you would make the very best of yourself & indeed be probably at your best with the pleasure of seeing an old friend fresh from england. _nov._ 30. and now, dear friend, i have had a very great pleasure indeed, thanks to you--a visit from mr. marvin--& i hope to have another when he returns from paris. and the account he gives of you is so cheerful--so vivid--it seems to part asunder a gloomy cloud that was brooding in my mind. and though i know that for the short hours that you feel bright & well are many long hours when you are far otherwise, still i feel sure those short hours are the earnest of perfect recovery--with a fine patience--boundless patience. and now i can picture you sitting in your favourite window, having a friendly word with passers-by--& feel quite sure that you are happy & comfortable in your surroundings. and a great deal else full of interest mr. marvin told me. i was loth for him to go, but one hour is so small, we have noticed, for a friend, i am sorry to say. william rossetti has a little girl which is a great delight to him. miss hillard of brooklyn has also paid me a visit & spoken to me of you. she charmed me much--only i felt a little cross with her for giving herby such a dismal account of his chances as an artist in america. however, we both refused to be discouraged, for after all he can send his pictures to england to be established &c., having plenty of friends who would see to it; & we are both firm in the faith that if you can only paint the really good pictures the rest will take care of itself, somehow or other--& that can be done as well in america as in england, but of course he must finish his training here. with best love from us all, good-bye, my dearest friend. anne gilchrist. letter xxx anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 torriano gardens camden rd., london dec. 4, 1875._ though it is but a few days since i posted a letter, my dearest friend, i must write you again--because i cannot help it, my heart is so full--so full of love & sorrow & struggle. the day before yesterday i saw mr. conway's printed account of you, & instead of the cheerful report i had been told of, he speaks of your having given up hope of recovery. those words were like a sharp knife plunged into me--they choked me with bitter tears. _don't give up that hope_ for the sake of those that so tenderly, passionately, love you--would give their lives with joy for you. why, who knows better than you how much hope & the will have to do with it, & i know quite well that the belief does not depress you--that you are ready to accept either lot with calmness, cheerfulness, perfect faith, perhaps with equal joy. but for all that, it does you harm. ideas always have a tendency to accomplish themselves. and what right have the doctors to utter gloomy prophecies? the wisest of them know the best how profoundly in the dark they are as to much that goes on within us, especially in maladies like yours. o cling to life with a resolute hold, my beloved, to bless us with your presence unspeakably dear, beneficent presence--me to taste of it before so very long now--thirsting, pining, loving me. take through these poor words of mine some breath of the tender, tender, ineffable love that fills my heart and soul and body--take of it to strengthen the very springs of your life: it is capable of that; o its cherishing warmth and joy, if it could only get to you, only fold you round close enough, would help, i know. soon, soon as ever my boy has one to love & care for him all his own, i will come; i may not before, not if it should break my heart to stop away from you, for his welfare is my sacred charge & nearer & dearer than all to me. verily, my god, strengthen me, comfort me, stay for me--let that have a little beginning on this dear earth which is for all eternity, which will live & grow immortally into a diviner reality than the heart of man has conceived. i am well satisfied with norah, dear friend. she is very affectionate, loveable, prudent, & clear in all practical matters, well suited to percy in tastes, &c. your own annie. letter xxxi anne gilchrist to walt whitman _blaenavon routzpool mon. england jan. 18, '76._ my dearest friend: do not think me too wilful or headstrong, but i have taken our tickets & we shall sail aug. 30 for philadelphia. i found if i did not come to a decision now, we could not well arrange it before next summer. and since we _have_ come to a decision my mind has been quite at rest. do not feel any anxiety or misgivings about us. i have a clear and strong conviction i am doing what is right & best for us all. after a busy anxious time i am having a week or two of rest with percy, who i find fairly well in health & prospering in his business--indeed, he bids fair to have a large private practice as an analyst here, & is already making income enough to marry on, only there is to build the nest--& i think he will have actually to _build_ it, for there seem no eligible houses--& to furnish--so that the wedding will not be till next spring or early summer. nevertheless, with a definite goal & a definite time & the way between not so very rugged, though rather dull and lonely, i think he will be pretty cheery. this little town (of 11,000 inhabitants, all miners, smelters &c.) lies up among the hills 1100 ft. above the sea--glorious hills here, spreading, then converging, with wooded flanks, & swift brooklets leaping over stones in the hollows--the air, too, of course deliciously light & pure. i have heard through a friend of ours of bee's fellow student who lives in camden (mr. suerkrop, i think his name is) that we shall be able to get a very comfortable home with pleasant garden there for about â£55 per an. i think i can manage that very well--so all i need is to hear of a comfortable lodging or boarding house (the former preferred) where we can be, avoiding hotels even while we hunt for the house. i have arranged for my goods to sail a week later than we do, so as to give us time. good-bye for a short while, my dearest friend. anne gilchrist. bee has obtained a very satisfactory account of the women's medical college in philadelphia & introductions to the head, &c. letter xxxii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 torriano gardens camden rd. london feb. 25, '76._ my dearest friend: i received the paper & enclosed slip saturday week, filling me so full of emotion i could not write, for i am too bitterly impatient of mere words. soon, very soon, i come, my darling. i am not lingering, but held yet a little while by the firm grip of conscience--this is the last spring we shall be asunder--o i passionately believe there are years in store for us, years of tranquil, tender happiness--me making your outward life serene & sweet--you making my inward life so rich--me learning, growing, loving--we shedding benign influences round us out of our happiness and fulfilled life--hold on but a little longer for me, my walt--i am straining every nerve to hasten the day--i have enough for us all (with the simple, unpretending ways we both love best). percy is battling slowly--doing as well as we could expect in the time. i think he will soon build the nest for his mate. i think he never in his heart believed i really should go to america, and so it comes as a great blow to him now. you must be very indulgent towards him for my sake, dear friend. i am glad we know about those rascally book agents--for many of us are wanting a goodish number of copies of the new edition & it is important to understand we may have them straight from you. rossetti is making a list of the friends & the number, so that they may all come together. perhaps, dearest friend, you may be having a great difficulty in getting the books out for want of funds--if so, let me help a little--show your trust in me and my love thus generously. your own loving annie. letter xxxiii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 torriano gardens march 11, '76._ i have had such joy this morning, my darling--poems of yours given in the _daily news_--sublime poems one of them reaching dizzy heights, filling my soul with strong delight. these prefaced by a few words, timid enough yet kindly in tone, & better than nothing. the days, the weeks, are slipping by, my beloved, bearing me swiftly, surely to you--before the beauty of the year begins to fade we shall come. the young folk too are full of bright anticipation & eagerness now, i am thankful to say; and percy getting on with, i trust, such near & definite prospect of his happiness that he will be able to pull along cheerily towards it after we are gone, in spite of loneliness. i expect, darling, we must go to some little town or village ten or twenty miles short of philadelphia till the tremendous influx of visitors to the centennial has ceased, else we shall not be able to find a corner there.--by the bye, i feel a little sulky at your always taking a fling at the poor piano. i see i have got to try & show you it too is capable of waking deep chords in the human soul when it is the vehicle of a great master's thought & emotions--if only my poor fingers prove equal to the task! (all my heart shall go into them.) take from my picture a long, long look of tender love and joy and faith, deathless, ever young, ever growing, ever learning, aspiring love, tender, cherishing, domestic love. oh, may i be full of sweet comfort for my beloved's soul and body through life, through and after death. anne gilchrist. letter xxxiv walt whitman to anne gilchrist _camden, new jersey march, 1876._ dearest friend: to your good & comforting letter of feb. 25th i at once answer, at least with a few lines. i have already written this morning a pretty full letter to mr. rossetti (to answer one just rec'd from him) & requested him to loan it you for perusal. in that i have described my situation fully & candidly. my new edition is printed & ready. upon receipt of your letter i sent you a set, two vols. (by mail, march 15) which you must have rec'd by this time. i wish you to send me word soon as they arrive. my health, i am encouraged to think, is perhaps a shade better--certainly as well as any time of late. i even already vaguely contemplate plans (they may never be fulfilled, but yet again they may) of changes, journeys--even of coming to london & seeing you, visiting my friends, &c. my dearest friend, _i do not approve your american trans-settlement. i see so many things here you have no idea of--the social, and almost every other kind of crudeness, meagreness, here (at least in appearance)._ _don't do anything towards it nor resolve in it nor make any move at all in it without further advice from me. if i should get well enough to voyage, we will talk about it yet in london._ you must not be uneasy about me--dearest friend, i get along much better than you think for. as to the literary situation here, my rejection by the coteries and the poverty (which is the least of my troubles), am not sure but i enjoy them all--besides, as to the latter, i am not in want. letter xxxv anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 torriano gardens camden rd., london march 30, '76._ yesterday _was_ a day for me, dearest friend. in the morning your letter, strong, cheerful, reassuring--dear letter. in the afternoon the books. i don't know how to settle down my thoughts calmly enough to write, nor how to lay down the books (with delicate yet serviceable exterior, with inscription making me so proud, so joyous). but there are a few things i want to say to you at once in regard to our coming to america. i will not act without "further advice from you"; but as to not resolving on it, dear friend, i can't exactly obey that, for it has been my settled, steady purpose (resting on a deep, strong faith) ever since 1869. nor do i feel discouraged or surprised at what you say of american "crudeness," &c. (of which, in truth, one hears not a little in england). i have not shut my eyes to the difficulties and trials & responsibilities (for the children's sake) of the enterprise. i am not urged on by any discontent with old england or by any adverse circumstances here which i might hope to better there: my reasons, emotions, the sources of my strength and courage for the uprooting & transplanting--all are inclosed in those two volumes that lie before me on the table. that america has brought them forth makes me want to plant some, at least, of my children on her soil. i understand & believe in & love her in & through them. they teach me to look beneath the surface & to get hints of the great future that is shaping itself out of the crude present, & i believe we shall prove to be of the right sort to plant down there.--o to talk it all over with you, dearest friend, here in london first; i feel as if that would really be--the joy, the comfort, of that. i cannot finish this to-day but send what i have written without delay that you may know of the safe arrival of the books. with reverent, grateful love from us all. anne gilchrist. letter xxxvi anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 torriano gardens camden rd. london april 21, 1876._ my dearest friend: i must write again, out of a full heart. for the reading of this book, "the two rivulets," has filled it very full. ever the deep inward assent, rising up strong, exultant my immortal self recognizing, responding to your immortal self. ever the sense of dearness, the sweet, subtle perfume, pervading every page, every line, to my sense--o i cannot put into any words what i perceive nor what answering emotion pervades me, flows out towards you--sweetest, deepest, greatest experience of my life--what i was made for--surely i was made as the soil in which the precious seed of your thoughts & emotions should be planted--try to fulfil themselves in me, that i might by & bye blossom into beauty & bring forth rich fruits--immortal fruits. so no doubt other women feel, and future women will. do not dissuade me from coming this autumn, my dearest friend. i have waited patiently--7 years--patiently, yet often, especially since your illness, with such painful yearning your heart would yearn towards me if you realized it--i cannot wait any longer. nor ought i to--that would indeed be sacrificing the prudence that concerns itself with immortal things to the prudence that concerns itself only with temporary ones. but, indeed, even so far as this latter is concerned, there is no sacrifice for any. it is by far the best step, for instance, i could take on beatrice's account. she is heartily in earnest in her medical studies. i am persuaded, too, it is a splendid training for her whether or no she ever makes a money-earning profession of it. and in england women have at present no means of obtaining a complete medical education. they cannot get admission to any hospital for the clinical part of the course. so that she is exceedingly anxious to come where it is possible for her to follow out her aims effectually. then, i am confident she will find america congenial to her--that she is in her essential nature democratic--& that she has the intelligence, the sympathies, earnestness, affectionateness, unconventionality needed to pierce through appearances surface "crudeness" & see & love the great reality unfolding below. so i believe has herby. then an artist is as free as an author to work where he pleases & reaps as much from fresh and widened experiences. he does not contemplate cutting himself off from england--will exhibit here--very likely take a studio in london for a season, a couple of years hence to work among old friends & associations & so have double chance & opportunities. then above all, dearest friend, they too see america in & through you--they too would fain be near you. have no anxiety or misgivings for us. let us come & be near you--& see if we are made of the right sort of stuff for transplanting to american soil. only advise us where. if it be philadelphia (which as far as offering facilities for beatrice would, as far as i can learn, suit us very well). we must not come, i think, till the end of october, because of its being so full. perhaps indeed, dearest friend (but dare not build on it) we shall talk this over in england. if you are able to take the journey, it might, and would, be sure to do you good as well as to rejoice the hearts of english friends. but if not, if we are not able to talk over our coming, do not feel the least anxious about us. we shall light on our feet & do very well. percy seems getting on fairly well, considering what a bad time it is in his line of business. i think he will be able to marry this autumn or following winter. i shall go and spend a month with him in july. perhaps, indeed, if, as many are prophecying, the iron trade does not recover its old pre-eminence here, he may be glad by & bye that i have gone over to america & opened a way for him. but if he does not follow me then, if i live, i hope to spend a few months with him every three or four years, instead of as now a few weeks once a year. anyhow we have to live widely apart. thanks for the papers just received. specially welcome the account of some stranger's interview with you--for me too before very long now the joy of hearing the "strong musical voice" read the "wound dresser" or speak. i have happy thoughts for my companions all day long, helping me over every difficulty--strengthening me. good-bye, dearest friend. love from us all. a. gilchrist. letter xxxvii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 torriano gardens camden rd., london may 18, 1876._ just a line of birthday greeting, my dearest friend. may it find you enjoying the beautiful spring-time & the grand sights of people & products & the music at philadelphia, notwithstanding drawbacks (but lessening drawbacks, i earnestly hope) of health, lameness. rejoiced, too, perhaps with the sight of many dear old friends occasion has brought to your city. may all that will do you good come, my dearest friend. and not least the sense of relief & joy in having fulfilled the great task, in the teeth of such difficulties relaunched safely, more fully, richly equipt, the ship to sail down the great ocean of time, bearing precious, precious freight of seed to be planted in countless successions of human souls, helping forward more than even the best lovers of your poems dream, the great future of humanity. that is what i believe as surely as i believe in my own existence. the "low star," the great star drooping low in the west, has been unusually resplendent of a night here lately & by day lilacs & the labernums wonderfully brightening dear old smoky london, constant reminders all, if i needed any, of the poet & the poems, so dear to me. if i do not hear from you to the contrary i am to take our passage by one of the "states" line of steamers that come straight to philadelphia sailing about the 1st sept.--& i am told one ought to secure one's cabin a couple of months or so beforehand. but if there be indeed an increasing hope of your coming here in the course of the summer, or if you think it would be best for us to go to new york (only i want to go at once where we are likely to stop, because of my furniture), let me hear as soon as may be, dear friend. looking at it purely as concerns the young ones, for some reasons it is very desirable to come this year & for others to wait till next. with bee, for instance, we are both losing time & wasting money by going over another winter here when there is no complete & satisfactory medical course to be had. then as regards dear percy, he writes me now that though he is doing fairly well, he does not think he will be able to take a house & marry till next summer--& that i am very sorry for. but then i think that as i could not be with him nor help him forward, the balance goes down on beatrice's side, if i am able to accomplish it. good-bye, my dearest friend. loving, tender thoughts shall i send you on the 30th. solemn thoughts outleaping life, immortal aspirations of my soul toward your soul. the children's love too, please, dearest friend. anne gilchrist. letter xxxviii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _round hill, northampton, mass. monday, sept., '77._ dearest friend: i have had joyful news to-day! percy's wife has a fine little boy--it was born on the 10th, and norah got through well & is doing nicely; so i feel very happy. since then per. has gone to paris where he is to read a paper before the "iron and steel institute" on the elimination of phosphorus from iron--which is also a little triumph of another kind for him--for the council which accepted his paper is composed of eminent english scientists, & eminent foreign ones will hear it.--i need not tell you it is indescribably lovely here now--no doubt kirkwood is the same--the light so brilliant, and yet soft--the rich autumn tints just beginning to appear--the temperature delicious--crisp & bracing, yet genial. the throng of people is gone--but a few of the pleasantest of the old set remain--& a few interesting new ones have come!--among them mrs. dexter from boston, who was a miss ticnor, daughter of the author of the book on spanish literature--she and her husband full of interesting talk. also mr. martin b---and his wife--a fine specimen of a leading bostonian. besides these also a physician from florida whom i much admire--with a beautiful firm tenor voice--very handsome & graceful too, a true southerner, i should say--(but of scotch extraction). next week we go to boston. i went over the lunatic asylum here the other day & saw some strange, sad sights--some figures crouched down in attitudes of such profound dejection i shall never forget them--some very bright and talkative. it is said to be the best managed in america. dr. earle, who is at the head, is a man of splendid capacity for the post--a noble-looking old man (uncle of those miss chases you met at our house). i can't settle to anything or think of any thing since i received percy's letter but the baby & norah. love to you & to mrs. whitman[25] & hattie[26] & jessie.[27] good-bye, dear friend. anne gilchrist. letter xxxix beatrice gilchrist to walt whitman _new england hospital codman avenue boston highlands_ dear walt: hospital life is beginning to seem a long-accustomed life. i enjoy all the duties involved & all the human relations. even getting up in the night is compensated for by yielding a sense of importance & independence. i sleep in a large room with three windows, & three beds in a row. breakfast at 7, & we are supposed to have seen all our patients before breakfast, but do not keep to that rule. after breakfast, round to count pulses & respirations, note condition, dress any wound, in charge, etc. at 1/2 past 8 o'clock go the rounds with the resident physician (dr. berlin), all the students, & superintendent of nurses. then put up medicine, each for her own patients (about 8 in no.), give electricity, etc. if one's patient has an ache or pain, the nurse whistles for the student (my whistle is 2). she sees the patient orders what is necessary, or if serious reports to dr. berlin. then there is some microscopic work, & copying out the history & daily record of the case & making out the temperature charts more than fills in the day. at 8 o'clock we all in conclave report about our patients & talk over any interesting case. one of my patients has empyema following pleurisy. i inject into her chest about a doz. of different preparations. several of my patients (i have all the very sick just now) require very careful watching. in the evening we go round again & count pulses & respirations & note temperatures. if a very sick patient, in the middle of the day; also take pulse, etc. the number of visits depending on the need & the competency of the nurse. i like introducing lint into wounds (such simple ones as an incised abscess of the breast) with the probe, because if i take trouble enough i can do it without hurting the patient, much to the patient's surprise. the other day mr. & mrs. marvin called to see me with mrs. & miss callender--i enjoyed their visit much. to-day mr. marvin drove over to fetch me to lunch, & i had a beautiful drive over to dorchester; in the afternoon a game of lawn tennis, a stroll down to the creek, & drive home by forest hill cemetery & jamaica pond. the air was fresh after a shower & golden-tinted, & the drive through beautiful lanes & country. all were friendly & it was refreshing to emerge from the little hospital world. mr. marvin's cordial face greeted me when i was speaking to some patients in hammocks, under the trees, the day he called, much to my surprise. i was to-day feeling the need of a little change of air & scene, so that the visit was most opportune. mr. morse[28] is working away desperately at the bust of you; he feels as if he would get on famously if he could only catch a glimpse of you. now might not you come to boston on your way to chesterfield, ride up in the open horsecars (a very pleasant ride) to see me also and give mr. morse the benefit of a sitting? how i wish we could get mrs. stafford in here; the patients get most excellent care. i have great confidence in dr. berlin & in the attending physician. i do not want her to come for a month, because dr. berlin has just gone away for a vacation. i fear no mere visiting once a day of a doctor will do her any good--she needs hygienic treatment--massage (a woman works here every day on the patients who need rubbing & massage), feeding up (i have never yet seen a patient whom we could not make eat, appetite or not, by aid of beef-tea & milk), perfect rest, & judicious treatment. dr. berlin is a learned, charming woman of 28--she takes advanced views, gives no medicine at all in some cases, & if any, few at a time, but efficient. she is perfectly unaffected, very intelligent, & has been thoroughly trained. she is a russian. please give my love to mrs. whitman & remember me to colonel whitman. this afternoon, when driving with mr. marvin, i thought of the pleasant drives i have had with colonel whitman. yours affectionately, beatrice c. gilchrist. if it were not for records accumulating mountain high i should have time to write to my friends. letter xl anne gilchrist to walt whitman _sept. 3, '78. chesterfield, mass._ i am half afraid herby has got a malarious place by his description. my dearest friend: i had a lingering hope--till herby went south again--that i should have a letter from you, in answer to mine, saying you were coming up to see us here. in truth, it was a great disappointment to me, his going back to philadelphia instead of your joining us, or him, either here or somewhere near to new york. i wonder where that north amboyna is that you once mentioned to me--and what kind of a place it is. i have had a long, quiet time here, and have enjoyed it very much--never did i breathe such sweet, light, pure air as is always blowing freely over these rocky hills. rocky as they are--and their sides & ravines are strewn with huge boulders of every conceivable size & shape--they nourish an abundant growth of woods, and i fancy the farmers here do a great deal better with their winter crops of lumber and bark and maple sugar than with their summer one of grain & corn. i expect herby has described our neighbours to you--specially levi bryant, the father of my hostess--a farmer who lives just opposite and has put such heart & soul and muscle & sinew into his farming that he has continued to win quite a handsome competence from this barren soil (it isn't muscle & industry only that are wanted here--but pluck and endurance) hauling his timber up & down over the snow & through the drifts, along roads that are pretty nearly vertical. i am never tired of hearing his stories (nor he of telling them) of hairbreadth escapes for him & his cattle--when the harness or the shafts have broken under the tremendous strain--& nothing but coolness & daring have got him or them out of it alive. generally, as he sits talking, his little boy of eleven who bids fair to be like him and can now manage a team or a yoke of oxen as well as any man in the parish--and work almost as hard--sits close by him leaning his head on his father's shoulder or breast--for the rugged old fellow has a vein of great gentleness and affectionateness in him & i notice the child nestles up to him always rather than to the mother--who is all the same a very kind, amiable, good mother. then there are neighbours of another sort up at the "centre"--mr. chadwick, &c., from new york, with whom i have pleasant chats daily when i trudge up to fetch my letters--now & then i get a delightful drive or go on a blackberrying party with the folks round--i expect giddy over to-day & we shall remain here together for about a fortnight--then back to round hill--where i am to meet the miss chase whom you may remember taking tea with & liking--then on to boston to see dear bee--& then to new york, where we shall meet again at last, i hope ere long. love to mr. & mrs. whitman--i enjoy her letters. also to hattie & jessie--who will hear from me by & bye. with love to you, dear friend. good-bye. a. gilchrist. letter xli anne gilchrist to walt whitman _concord, mass. oct. 25th._ my dearest friend: the days are slipping away so pleasantly here that weeks are gone before i know it. the concord folk are as friendly as they are intellectual, and there is really no end to the kindness received. we are rowed on the beautiful river every day that it is warm enough--a very winding river not much broader than your favourite creek--flowing sometimes through level meadows, sometimes round rocky promontories & steep wooded hills which, with their wonderful autumn tints, are like a gay flower border mirrored in the water. never in my life have i enjoyed outdoor pleasures more--i hardly think, so much--enhanced as they are by the companionship of very lovable men and women. they lead an easy-going life here--seem to spend half their time floating about on the river--or meeting in the evening to talk & read aloud. judge hoar says it is a good place to live and die in, but a very bad place to make a living in. beatrice spent one sunday with us here. we walked to hawthorne's old house in the morning, & in the afternoon to the "old manse" and to sleepy hollow, most beautiful of last resting places. tuesday we go on to boston for a week very loth to leave concord--at least, i am!--but giddy begins to long for city life again. and then to new york about the 5th nov. herby told you, no doubt, that i spent an hour or two with emerson--and that he looked very beautiful--and talked in a friendly, pleasant manner. a long letter from my sister in england tells me per. looks well and happy & is so proud of his little boy--and that norah is really a perfect wife to him--affectionate, devoted, and the best of housewives. how glad i am herby is painting you. i wonder if you like the landscape he is working on as well as you did "timber creek." miss hillard has undertaken the charge of a young lady's education, and is very much pleased with her task. she is in a delightful family who make her quite one with them--live in the best part of new york, and pay her a handsome salary. she has the afternoons and saturday & sunday to herself.--concord boasts of having been first to recognize your genius. mr. alcott & mr. sanborn say so. good-bye, dear friend. a. g. letter xlii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _39 somerset st. boston nov. 13, '78._ my dearest friend: i feel as if i didn't a bit deserve the glorious budget you sent me yesterday, for i have been a laggard, dull correspondent of late, because, leading such an unsettled kind of life, i don't seem to have got well hold of myself. beautiful is the title prose poem--the glimpse of the autumn cornfield: one smells the sweet fragrance, basks in the sunshine with you--tastes all the varied, subtle outdoor pleasures, just as you want us to. a lady who has just been calling on me--miss hillard--no relation of the odious dr. h.--said, "have you seen a lovely little bit about a cornfield by walt whitman in a new york paper?" she did not know your poems, but was so taken with this. by the bye, i am not quite american enough yet to enjoy the sound of the locusts & big grasshoppers--ours are modest little things that only make a gentle sort of whirr--not that loud brassy sound--couldn't help wishing for more birds & less insects when i was at chesterfield--but i like our english name "ladybird" better than "ladybug". do your children always say when they see one, as ours do, "ladybird, ladybird, fly away home: your house is on fire, your children are flown"? but for the rest--i believe i am growing a very good american; indeed, certain am i there is no more lovable people to live amongst anywhere in the world--and in this respect it has been good to give up having a home of my own here for awhile--for i have been thrown amongst many more intimately than i could have been otherwise. what you say of herby's picture delights me, dear friend. i have been grieving he was not with us, sharing the pleasant times we have had and enlarging his circle of friends--but after all he could not have been doing better--he must come on here by & bye. i wonder if you are as satisfied with his portrait of you as with the landscape. i suppose he is gone on to new york to-day. i have sighed for dear little concord many times since i came away--beautiful city as boston is & many the interesting & kindly people i am seeing here: but the outdoor life & the entirely simple, unpretending, cordial, friendly ways of concord & its inhabitants won my heart altogether--one of them came to see me to-day & to ask us to go and spend a couple of days with them there again before we leave & i could not say nay, though our time is short. there are some portraits in the art museum here, which interested me a good deal--of adams, hancock, quincy, &c.,--& of some of the women of that time--they would form an excellent nucleus of a national portrait gallery, which (together with good biographies while yet materials & recollections are fresh & abundant) would be a very interesting & important contribution to the world's history.--tennyson's letter is a pleasure to me to see--considering his age & the imperfection of his sight through life, matters are better rather than worse with him than one could have expected. since that was written a friend (walter white) tells me they--the tennysons--have taken a house in eaton sq., london, for the winter. and last, not least, thanks for mr. burroughs's beautiful letter--that young man is indeed, as he says, like a bit out of your poems. there are two or three fine young men boarding here, & giddy & i enjoy their society not a little. love to your brothers & sister. i shall write soon as i am settled down in new york to her or hattie. love to mrs. stafford. and most of all to you. good-bye, dear friend. a. gilchrist. i will send t's letter in a day or two. letter xliii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _112 madison ave. new york jan. 5, '79._ my dearest friend: herby has told you of our difficulties in getting comfortable quarters here--and also that we seem now to have succeeded--not indeed in the way i most wished & hoped we had--in 19th st., taking rooms & boarding ourselves--so that we could have a friend with us when & as we pleased. it seems as if that were not practicable unless we were to furnish for ourselves. certainly our experiences there of using another's kitchen were discouraging--it was so dirty and uncomfortable that we were glad to take refuge in a regular boarding house again before one week was out. it seems to me more difficult to get anything of a medium kind in new york than elsewhere i have been--if it isn't the best, it is very uninviting indeed. herby is enjoying his work and companionship at the league very much. we stand the cold well--how does it suit you? is your arm free from rheumatic pains? when you come to mr. j. h. johnstons, which will be very soon i hope, we shall be quite handy, and have a pretty, sunny room--a sitting room by day!--with a handsome piece of furniture which is metamorphosed into a bed at night--and a large dressing closet with hot & cold water adjoining--all very comfortable. o how wistfully do i think of one evening in philadelphia, last winter. i shan't begin really to like new york till you come and we have had some chats together. i have news from england which makes me rather anxious. the blaenavon co., to which per. is chemist, has gone into liquidation--& i don't know whether it will continue to exist--or how soon in these dull times he may find a good opening elsewhere. should things go badly for him, either giddy and i will return to england to share [our] home with him there, or else i want him to take into serious consideration coming out here, instead of our going back. of course it would be a risky thing for him to do with wife & child, in these times, unless some definite opening presented itself, but i cannot help thinking that, being an expert in his profession, with first rate training & experience, and iron work & metallurgy promising here to have such enormous developments, he would be sure to do well in the end; and meanwhile we could rub on together somehow. however, we shall see. i have laid the matter before him, he & his dear little wife wrote me a very brave, cheery letter when they told me the bad news--& i shall have an answer to mine, i suppose, by the end of the month. kate hillard read an amusing paper on swinburne at a meeting of the woman's club in brooklyn--& we had some fine music too. for the rest, i have not yet presented any introductions here. have had some beautiful glimpses of the north & east river effects of the shipping at sunset, &c.--have subscribed to the mercantile library,--& are beginning to feel at home. herby & giddy had been to hear mr. frothingham this morning, & were much interested. bee missed us sorely at first--but writes--when she does write, which is but seldom--pretty cheerily. friendly remembrance to your brother & sister. i wonder where hattie & jessie are spending their holidays. love from us all. good-bye, dear friend. a. gilchrist. had a letter from mr. marvin--all well--he is doing the washington letter of a n. eng. paper. hopes & trusts you are really going to washington. letter xliv anne gilchrist to walt whitman _112 madison ave. 14 jan., '79._ dearest friend: the pleasantest event since i last wrote has been a visit from mr. eldridge. we had a long, friendly chat that did me good. saturday evening we went to one of miss booth's receptions--met joaquin miller there, who is just back from europe--of course we talked of you. mrs. moulton too is hoping so you will come to new york during her stay here, which is to last a week or two longer. john burroughs has just sent me a post card to say he has returned from a 3-weeks stay with his folks in delaware co.--that he hopes to come here soon--wants mrs. burroughs to come too & board for a month or so--wants also "walt to come--& lecture"--but "walt will not be hurried." did i tell you that we found boarding here a young man, mr. arthur holland, one of the family who were so very friendly to me & made my stay so pleasant both in concord & cambridge? he often comes to our room of an evening for an hour or two's chat, & by the bye, being connected with the iron trade he has been able to make some enquiries for me as to what per's chances as a scientific metallurgist would be in this country--& i am sorry to say he thinks they would be very poor indeed. prof. lesley said the same thing; so it is clear i must not urge him to try the experiment, seeing he has a wife & child. herby & giddy both well. love from us all. good bye, dear friend. a. gilchrist. friendly greeting to your brother & sister. letter xlv anne gilchrist to walt whitman _112 madison ave., jan. 27, '79._ my dearest friend: are you never coming? i do long & long to see you. i am beginning to like new york better than i did and to have pleasant times. had some friendly chats with kate hillard last week, & went with her to call on mrs. putman jacobi, who has a little baby 3 weeks old & is still in her room, but has got through very nicely--she talks well, doesn't she? & has a face with plenty of individuality in it. also we went together on saturday again to one of miss booth's receptions, & there met mrs. croly, & had the best talk about you i have had this long while. i like her cordiality--we are going to her reception on sunday & to one at mrs. bigelow's wednesday. it is true there is not much that can be called social enjoyment at these crowded receptions, but they enable you to start many acquaintanceships, some of which turn out lasting good. we had some fine harp playing & a witty recital at miss booth's. miss selous is back in america. i should not wonder if she comes on here soon. bee is living at the dispensary now, instead of in the hospital, & finds the comparatively outdoor life--& the freedom from being "whistled" for all hours of the day and night as she was there--a wonderful refreshment. that coloured lady, mrs. wiley, whom you met once at our house, is her fellow labourer & room mate at the dispensary. bee likes her much. i am not sure whether you know the gilders? we spent a couple of hours delightfully with them yesterday afternoon. she has a very attractive face, a musical voice, & such a sweet smile. they are going to europe for a four months' holiday this spring. i admire the simple, unconventional way in which they live. herby is working away in the best spirits. he is going to paint that bowling alley subject on a large scale. giddy is sitting by me with her nose in the french dictionary, working away at a novel of balzac's. i have had scarcely any letters from england lately!--and the papers bring none but dismal tidings; nevertheless i don't believe our sun is going down yet awhile--we shall emerge from this dark crisis the better, not the worse, because compelled to grapple with the evils that have caused it, instead of passively enduring them. please give friendly remembrance from me to your brothers & sister. have you been at kirkwood lately, i wonder? i suppose timber creek is frozen over. good-bye, dear friend. write soon, or better still come! a. gilchrist. letter xlvi herbert h. gilchrist to walt whitman _new york 112 madison avenue february 2nd, 1879._ dear darling walt: i read your long piece in the philadelphia _times_ with ever so much interest, & with especial delight the delicately told bit about the dear old pond, artistic, because so true. i know that it will please you to hear that i have gained tenfold facility with my brush since the autumn. it has agreed uncommonly well with me having enlisted under such an experienced & able painter as chase; as a manipulator of the brush he is agreed by the experts (eaton) to have no rival. i may yet be able to paint a head of you in _one_ sitting that will do justice to you. three of my pictures are nicely hung at the water colour exhibition academy of design, the first time that i have exhibited in new york. we had two & three engagements every night (with one exception) last week, & go to mrs. croley's to-night. your friend john burroughs called last wednesday--came to try turkish baths for his malarious trouble, but it seemed to bring on his attacks of neuralgia worse. i am sorry that i can report but poorly of his health, so painfully excruciating was his neuralgia about his arms at times that a dr. was sent for & morphia injected in his wrist, but i am glad to say he reported himself a little better. he hopes that you will come and give the lecture on lincoln this winter; why not, confound it, it would be most interesting. quite often we go to miss booth's receptions. saturday evening, they are gay & amusing. met mr. bliss, the gentleman that talked like "a house afire" one sunday at your house last winter, you remember. last wednesday i, mother, giddy, & kate hillard went to mrs. bigelow's reception. miss h. was asked to recite & she recited the "swineherd" (anderson's) charmingly, & "the faithful lovers," which took every one. "walk in" miller was there (i can't spell his name) & lots more. this morning being sunday, i took my skates to the park. the wind was high & whirled us about fantastically; ladies seated in wicker chairs were pushed rapidly along the pond's smooth icy surface by their gentlemen escorts, tall men kissed the ice or sprawled full length on their backs, while others flew by like swallows; all this with a church spire peeping behind hills dappled with snow & sunshine: what more inspiriting than this? and now dear walt. good-bye for the present. herbert h. gilchrist. letter xlvii beatrice gilchrist to walt whitman _33 warrenton st. feb. 16, 1879._ dear mr. whitman: although not in word, i have thanked you for your letter & papers by enjoying them thoroughly. down at this dispensary we work just as hard as at the hospital, but our spare minutes are our own (no records to write out); our work is under our own control; we are out in fresh air half the day, sometimes half the night, making intimate acquaintance with all sorts of people & places & with far distant parts of boston. we have all the responsibility that it is good for young doctors to have, i. e., in all difficult or obscure & dangerous cases we are obliged to call in older heads & are obliged to report verbally to the visiting physician of the month all our cases & our treatment. only two students live at the dispensary--dr. wiley (the coloured philadelphia student you saw) & myself. in tastes we have much in common & on the whole i prefer to live with her rather than with any of the other students. we share rooms. we have a bedroom, a drug-room, a treatment room, waiting room for patients, & take our meals in the kitchen. a widow woman with two children housekeeps. i think boston a very beautiful city. the public gardens & commons in the busiest part, sloping down from the gilt domed state house on beacon hill, threaded by paths in all directions, traversed by the business men, the fine ladies, the beggars, etc., etc. one broad, sloping path is given up to the boys who want to coast, temporary wooden bridges being thrown over the cross paths. then, crossing south bay to south boston is a beautiful walk i take from one to four times a day. south boston looks rather dingy; it is inhabited mostly by artisans & mill hands & fishermen, but walking up 3rd st., as you cross the lettered streets a, b, c, d, etc., you look down upon the harbour--on bright days bright blue, & a few sails to be seen--at sunset the colours of course are reflected gorgeously. somehow or other the sea looks doubly beautiful set in dingy s. boston. far over in the west end too we have patients. last tuesday i had twins all by myself; only one, however, was born alive; the other had been dead a week. how delightful that you are feeling so much better. shall you not be coming to boston sometime before i leave, 1st june? the boston i know is not the boston i knew in books; i am as far off from that as if i lived in england--is not the "hub"--i was reminded of that last sunday when i had time for once to go to church & went to hear mr. e. e. hale preach and went home to dinner with him.... i like his daughter whom we knew in philadelphia. she is a clever young artist. dr. wiley is very popular with her patients, far more so than i. please remember me to all the staffords & give my especial love to mrs. stafford. also to mrs. whitman. yours affectionately, beatrice c. gilchrist. letter xlviii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _112 madison ave. march 18, 1879._ my dearest friend: i hope you are enjoying this splendid, sunshiny weather as much as we are--the atmosphere here is delicious. in the morning giddy and i set at home busy with needle work, letter writing, and reading. after lunch we go out for a walk or to pay visits--and of an evening very often to receptions (but they are not half so jolly as our evenings at philadelphia). still we have a lively, pleasant time. i like miss booth very much, with her kindly, generous character and active practical mind. so i do mrs. croly--she is more impulsive and enthusiastic. kate hillard often goes with us, & she is always good company. i had a note from edward carpenter the other day brought by a lady who had been living near him at sheffield--an american lady with two very fine little girls who has lately lost her husband in england and was on her way back to her parents' home in pennsylvania--somewhere beyond pittsburg. she is one who loves your poems, & has great hopes of seeing you in new york. she told me her little girls were so fond of carpenter he of them--he is first rate with children. i hope you will not put off coming to new york till we are returning to philadelphia, which will be some time in may. i find beatrice is so anxious to get further advantages for study in england or paris before she begins to practise, and herby is so strongly advised by mr. eaton, of whose judgment & experience he thinks very highly, to study in duron's studio in paris for a year, that i have made up my mind to go back, for a time at any rate, this summer; but i shall leave my furniture here, and the question of where our future home is to be, open. herby is making great progress. i wish you could see the head of an old woman he has just painted--and i wish he had had as much power when he had such splendid chances of painting you. i cannot tell you how vividly and pleasantly chestnut st. on a sunny day rose before me in your jottings. love from us all. tell your sister i often think of her & shall enjoy a chat ever so. a. g. letter xlix anne gilchrist to walt whitman _112 madison ave. march 26, '79._ my dearest friend: it seems quite a long while since i wrote, & a _very long_ while since you wrote. i am beginning to turn my thoughts philadelphia-wards that we may have some weeks near you before we set out on fresh wanderings across the sea; and though i feel quite cheery about them, i look eagerly forward to the time beyond that when we have a fixed, final nest of our own again, where we can welcome you just when and as you please. whichever side the atlantic it is, you will come surely? for you belong to the one country as much as to the other. and i shall always feel that i do too. i take back with me a deep and hearty love for america--i came indeed with a good deal of that, but what i take back is different--stronger, more real. i went over to see friends in brooklyn yesterday, & it was more lovely than i can tell you on the ferry--in fact, it was just your poem, "crossing brooklyn ferry". herby still painting away _con amore_, & making good progress. i met joaquin miller at the bigelows last week, & he was very pleasant (which isn't always the case) and said some very good things to me. thursday we are going to lunch with mrs. albert brown--perhaps you may have heard of her as bessie griffiths. she was a southern lady who, when she was about 18, freed all her slaves & left herself penniless. on sunday we take tea at prof. rood's of columbia college. kate hillard we often see & have lively chats with. we meet also & see a good deal of general edward lee--a fine soldierly looking man, & i believe he distinguished himself in the war & was afterwards sent to organize the new territory of wyoming, & was the first governor. i wish very much that if you or your brother knew him or know anything about him, you would tell me--for reasons that i will tell you by & bye. bee is seeing a great deal of the educated coloured people at boston--was at the meeting of a literary club--the only white among 20 or 30 coloured ladies--likes them much. write soon, dear friend. meanwhile, best love & good-bye. anne gilchrist. no letters from england this long while. please give friendly greetings from me to your brother & sister. letter l anne gilchrist to walt whitman _glasgow friday, june 20, 1879._ my dearest friend: we set foot on dry land again wednesday morning after a good passage--not a very smooth one--and not without four or five days of seasickness, but after that we really enjoyed the sea & the sky--it was mostly cloudy, but such lovely lights and shades & invigorating breezes! and as we got up into northern latitudes, daylight in the sky all night through. the last three days we had glorious scenery--sailed close in under the giant's causeway on the north coast of ireland--great sort of natural ramparts & bastions or rock, wonderfully grand. then we sailed on lough fozle to land a group of irish folk at moville--some of them old people who had not seen ireland for forty years, and who were so happy they did not know what to do with themselves. and what with this human interest, and the first getting near land again and the rich green-and-golden gorse-covered hills & the setting sun streaming along the beautiful lough with golden light, it was a sight & a time i shall never forget. then we entered the firth of clyde & sailed among the islands--mountainous arran, level bute--& on the other hand the green hills of ayr, with pleasant towns nestled under them, sloping to the clyde--this was during the night--we did not go to bed at all it was so beautiful--& then came a gorgeous sunrise--& then the landing at greenock & a short railway journey to glasgow, the tide not serving to bring our big ship up so far. we had very pleasant (& learned withal) companions on the voyage--the professor of greek & of philosophy from harvard and a young student from concord, all of whom we have seen since we landed and hope to see often again, especially the young student, frank bigelow, who is a very nice fellow. herby enjoyed the voyage much & so did giddy. glasgow is a great, solidly built city, very pleasant [in] spite of smoky atmosphere--full of sturdy, rosy-cheeked people with broad scotch accent. we have been rushing about shopping--have not yet seen per.--shall meet him at durham in a week's time & spend a month together there where he will be superintending your works. meanwhile we are going to edinburgh for a few days. i kept thinking of you on the voyage, dear friend, & wondering how you would like it--& whether you could stand being stowed away in the little box-like berth at night. i should recommend any american friend coming over to try this line--we had a fine ship--fine officers & crew--& the latter part, fine scenery. love to your brother & sister & to mr. burroughs. address to me for the present. care percy c. gilchrist blaenavon poutzpool mon. love from us all. i shall write soon again. good-bye dear friend. a. gilchrist. letter li anne gilchrist to walt whitman _lower shincliffe durham august 2d, '79._ dearest friend: i am sitting in my room with my dear little grandson, the sweetest little fellow you ever saw, asleep beside me. giddy and norah (my 3d daughter) are gone into durham to do some shopping. bee is up in london on her way to berne in switzerland, where she has finally decided to complete her medical studies. herby is, i think, staying with eustace conway at hammersmith just now. he has been spending a week at brighton with edward carpenter & his family--but i will leave him to tell his own news. we are lodging in this little village with its red-tiled roofs & gray stone walls, lying among wooded hills, corn fields, meadows, and collieries on the banks of the weir, for the sake of being near percy & his wife. he is superintending here the erection of some kilns for making the peculiar kind of basic firebricks needed in his dephosphorization process. durham cathedral, which was mainly built soon after the norman conquest, is in sight, crowning a wooded hill that rises abruptly from the river-side. it looks as solid, majestic, venerable as the rocks & hills--the interior is of wonderful grandeur & beauty. when you enter one of these cathedrals you are tempted to say architecture is a lost art with us moderns so far as sublimity is concerned--except in vast engineering works. you would not dignify the weir with the name of a river in america--it is no bigger than timber creek--but it winds about so capriciously through the picturesque little city as to make almost an island of the hill on which the castle & cathedral stand & to need three great solid stone bridges within a quarter of a mile of each other, & with its steep wooded sides carrying nature right into the heart of the old town. but the rainy season (we have scarcely seen the sun since we have been in england & i believe it is the same in france & italy) and the great depression in trade, especially the coal & iron, which chiefly concerns this district, seem to cast a gloom over everything. there are whole rows of colliers' cottages in this village empty. where they go to no one knows, but as soon as the collieries reopen they will all reappear. we often meet colliers returning from work--they look as if they had just emerged from hades, poor fellows--their faces black as soot--their lean, bowed legs bare--i believe the mines are hot here; they work with little on--but they are really the cleanest of all workmen, as they take a bath every night on their return before supping. the speech here is almost like a foreign tongue to any one from the south or middle of england. i wonder if you have yet read dr. bucke's book.[29] it is about the only thing i have read since my return. it suggests deeply interesting trains of thought. i wonder if you are at camden, taking your daily trips across the ferry & strolls up chestnut st. i hardly realized till i left it how dearly i love america--great sunny land of hope and progress--or how my whole life has been enriched with the human intercourse i had there. give my love to those of our friends whom you know & tell them not to forget us. i have had a long letter from emma lazarus. i suppose hattie and jessie are spending their holidays at camden & that hattie has pretty well done with school. we have been chiefly busy with needlework since we came--preparing dear bee for berne. i miss her sadly--had quite hoped we should have all been together at paris this winter--but it seems the course is much longer & more arduous [there]. we spent a week in edinburgh before we came on here. it is by far the most beautiful city i have ever seen. the journey between it and berwick-on-tweed lies through the richest & best cultivated farm land in britain--the sea sparkling on one side of us & these fertile fields dotted with splendid flocks & herds--with large comfortable-looking farmhouses, & here & there an old castle; it was singularly enjoyable. how i have wished everywhere that you were with us to share the sight--and the best is that you would return home more than ever proud & rejoicing in america. it is a land where humanity is having, and is going to have, such chances as never before. giddy sends her love. mine also & to your brother & sister. good-bye, dear friend. a. gilchrist. please write soon; i am longing for a letter. letter lii[30] walt whitman to anne gilchrist _(camden, new jersey.) (august, 1879.)_ thank you, dear friend, for your letter; how i should indeed like to see that _cathedral_[31], i don't know which i should go for first, the cathedral or _that baby_.[32] i write in haste, but i am determined you shall have a word, at least, promptly in response. letter liii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _1 elm villas, elm row, heath st. hampstead, dec. 5, '79, london, england._ my dearest friend: you could not easily realize the strong emotion with which i read your last note and traced on the little map[33]--a most precious possession which i would not part with for the whole world--all your journeyings--both in youth & now. mingled emotions! for i cannot but feel anxious about your health, & if i didn't know it was very naught to ask you questions, should beg you [to] tell me in what way your health has failed--whether it is the rheumatic & neuralgic affection that troubled you the last spring we were in philadelphia, or whether the fatigues & excitements & the very enjoyments & full life, & burst of prophetic joy, as it were, had proved too great a strain. but you have accomplished another thing, that had to be done in your life & i exult with you--have seen the vast magnificent theatre, the free, unfettered conditions whereon humanity will enact a new drama, with the parts all so differently cast! the rest--the moving spirit of it all--hints of this, at least--flashes, glimpses, i find in your greatest poems. but, dear friend, i think humanity moves forward [slowly] even under splendid conditions--you must give it a century or two instead of 50 years--before at least the crowning glories of a corresponding literature & art will develope themselves--nature has got plenty of time before her, & obstinately refuses to be hurried; witness her dealings with the mere rocks & stones. bee is at berne, working away merrily, rejoicing in the really splendid advantage for medical study there open to her. she mastered german so as to be able to speak & understand it--lectures & all--with ease during the two months at wiesbaden & she has found a thoroughly comfortable home with some excellent, intelligent ladies who are fond of her & see to her bodily welfare in every possible way. i have my dear little grandson with me here--as engaging a little toddler as the sun ever shone upon--so affectionate & sweet-tempered & bright. i wish i could see him sitting on your knee. you will certainly have to come to us as soon as ever we have a comfortable home, won't you? giddy is well & as rosy as ever. she & herby send their love. i have seen rossetti--he was full of enquiries & affectionate interest in all that concerns you--& loth we were to break off our conversation & hurry back--but hampstead, the pleasantest & prettiest of all our suburbs, is terribly inaccessible & cuts us off a good deal from the intercourse with old friends i had looked forward to. it is on the top of a high hill (as high as the top of st. pauls), & looks down on one side over the great city with its canopy of smoke, & on the other over a wide, pleasant stretch of green & fertile middlesex--has moreover pleasant lanes, solid old houses, shaded by big elms, & other picturesque features & such an abundance of keen, fresh air this cold weather too! we sigh for the warmth of an american house indoors often & for american sunshine out of doors. rossetti has a beautiful little group of children growing up around him--i think the eldest girl will grow up a real beauty & the boy too is a noble little fellow. i meet numbers so delighted to hear about you. i believe addington symonds is preparing a book which treats largely of your poems. glad to hear that brother & sister & nieces are all well. i wish i could write to some of them, but what with needlework, an avalanche of letters, the care of my dear little man--the re-editing of my husband's life of blake, to which there will be a considerable addition of letters newly come to light, i hardly know which way to turn. per. & my nephew & the "process" have made a great stride forward. won two important law suits at berlin, where the bessemer ring & krupp at their head were trying to oust them of their patent rights. also it is practically making good way in england. so by & bye the money will begin to flow in, i suppose--but has not done so yet. i trust, dearest friend, this will find you safe & fairly well again at camden, with plenty of great, happy thoughts to brood over for the winter. love from us all. good-bye. anne gilchrist. letter liv anne gilchrist to walt whitman _5 mount vernon hampstead jan. 25, '80._ my dearest friend: welcome was your postcard announcing recovered health & return to camden! may this find you safe there, well & hearty, able to go freely to & fro on the ferries & streets. i wish one of those old red market ferry cars were going to land you at our door once more! what you would have to tell us of western scenes & life! what teas & what evenings we would have--you would certainly have to say "there is a point beyond which"--& would have pretty late trips back of moonlight. strange episode in my life! so unlike what went before & what comes after--those evenings in philadelphia--yet so natural, familiar, dear! if i were american-born, i certainly should not want to change it for any country in the world, and if as you have dreamed--as i too have dreamed--it is given us hereafter to have another spell of life on this old earth, may my lot be cast there when the great time dimly preparing is actually come. but meanwhile, dear friend, my work lies here: innumerable are the ties that bind us. and i can only hope & dream that you will come & stay with us awhile when we have a home of our own. that dear little grandson stayed with me two months till i really didn't know how to part with him, & grew more & more engaging & pretty in his ways every day--rapid indeed is the opening of the little bud at that age--between 1 & 3--& the way he had of looking up & giving you little kisses of his own accord would win anybody's heart. bee's letters continue as cheery as ever--she is heartily enjoying work & life, and accomplishing the purpose she has set her heart upon, & the people she is with are so good and kindly, it is quite a home. she is working a good deal with the microscope. her outdoor recreation is skating. herby is getting on very nicely. he has had a commission to make some designs for a new kind of painted tapestry--and his figures "audrey & touchstone" are very much admired & have been bought by a rich american, & he has a commission for more. but the summer work he has set his heart upon is a portrait of you from all the material he brought with him--the many attempts he made there--handled with his present improved skill with the brush. i hope you will be able by & bye to send him the photograph he asked for--but no hurry. edward carpenter came up from sheffield and spent an evening with us--which we all heartily enjoyed--he is a dear fellow. we talked much of you. he has been giving lectures this winter on the lives of the great discoverers in science. carpenter knows intimately, goes freely among, a greater range & variety of men than any englishman i know--he has a way of making himself thoroughly welcome by the firesides of mechanics & factory workers--his own kith & kin are aristocratic. giddy is taking singing lessons again, & hoping by the time you next see her to be able to contribute her share of the evening's pleasure. percy is still working away indomitably at the "process," which is gaining ground rapidly on the continent, & i hope i may say slowly & surely in england. i see the gilders now & then--indeed they are coming up to lunch with us to-morrow--mr. gilder[34] is the better for rest--& they seem to enjoy england; but england has done her very worst in the way of climate ever since they have been here. o i do long for a little american sunshine. we met henry james at the conways last sunday & found him one of the pleasantest of talkers. rossetti & all your friends are well. please give my love to your brothers & sister. were jessie & hattie at home in st. louis, i wonder, when you were there? love from us all. good-bye, dearest friend. a. gilchrist. please give my love to john burroughs when you write or see him. letter lv anne gilchrist to walt whitman _marley, haslemere england aug. 22, '80._ my dearest friend: i have had all the welcome papers with accounts of your doings, and to-day a nice long letter from mrs. whitman, which i much enjoyed, giving me better account of your health again, & of your great enjoyment of the water travel through canada. so i hope, spite of drawbacks, you will return to camden for the winter quite set up in body, as well as full of delightful memories. if only we were at 22nd st. to welcome you back & talk it all over at tea! ah, those evenings! my friends told me i looked ten years younger when i came back from america than when i went. and i am not yet quite re-acclimatized; & what with missing the sunshine & working a little too hard, was feeling quite knocked up: so bee insisted on my coming down, or rather up, here to stay with some very kind & dear friends. the house stands all alone on a great heath-covered hill, and below & around are endless coppices, so that you step from the lawn into [a] winding wood-path, along which i wander by the hour: and from my window i look over much such a view as we had at round hill hotel, northampton, this time two years, only that with the soft haze that is so often spread over our landscape, the distant hill looks more ghostly in the moonlight. my friend is a noble, large-hearted, capable woman, who devotes all her life and energies to keeping alive an invalid husband; and he well deserves her care, for he has a beautiful nature, too, & their mutual affection is unbounded. he is just ordered by the doctors to leave the home they have made for themselves up here--which is as lovely as it can be--& to spend two years at least in italy. so it is a sorrowful time with them--they have no children, but have adopted a little niece. our new house is just ready & we are daily expecting our furniture from america. herby has been working as usual, making good progress & has just done a beautiful little drawing for the new edition of his father's book. bee, you will be glad to hear, has decided to continue her medical studies & is going to be assistant to a lady doctor at edinburgh, who is to pay her sufficient salary to cover all remaining expenses. meanwhile we have got her at home for a few weeks to help us through with the move in, and a sad pinch it will be to part with her again. giddy has been paying a delightful visit to some friends of carpenter's near leeds--a quaker family--the daughter very lovable & admirable. we do not forget the staffords[35] nor they us. mont. often sends herby a magazine or a token. love to them when you see them, & to mr. & mrs. whitman & hattie & jessie & kindest remembrance to dr. bucke. send me a line soon, dear friend--i think of you continually & know that somewhere & somehow we are to meet again, & that there is a tie of love between us that time & change & death itself cannot touch. with love, a. gilchrist. letter lvi herbert h. gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner, england 12 well road, hampstead, london november 30th, 1880._ my dear walt: your postcard came to hand some little time ago. i was pleased to get it, to hear of your being well, & with your friends. i have been extremely busy seeing after the new edition of my father's book;[36] the work of seeing such a richly illustrated "edition de luxe" through the press was enormous, but it is done! the binders are now doing their work, & next tuesday the reviewers will be doing theirs--i defy them to find any fault with the book. i dare say you think it "tall" talk, but i think that it is the most perfectly gotten up book that i ever have seen. my mother has written an admirable memoir of my father at the end of the second vol. pond musings (pen sketch of a butterfly) by walt whitman i thought that this was to be the title of your prose volume. i will undertake the illustrations, choosing the paper (hand made), everything except the expense of reproducing, etc. i should say london is the place to have things executed in: if you wish to give photos they must be drawn by an artist and reproduced; no photo ever looked well in a book yet! they haven't decorative importance and don't blend with type. i should suggest that we should imitate the artistic size & style of your earliest edition of "leaves of g.," a large, thin, flat volume, a fanciful, but as inexpensive as possible, cover written in gold on blue, a waterlily say: but i could think this over. i will design fanciful tailpieces to be woven in with the text; as a frontispiece the drawing that i gave you, retouched by me, and reproduced by the typographic etching company, 23 farringdon street, london, e. c. all these are only suggestions, which i am prepared to execute in right earnest thought. i read your letter to mother with interest. we like our new house so much, & i am sure that you would. you must come and stay with us & stroll on hampstead heath, & ride down into london upon an omnibus & sit to some good sculptor here in london (boem say). and you yourself could make arrangements with the publishers. with remembrance to friends, herbert h. gilchrist. letter lvii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner well rd., hampstead apr. 18, '81._ my dearest friend: i have just been sauntering in our little but sunny garden which slopes to the south--surveying with much satisfaction some fruit trees--plum, green gage, pear, cherry, apple--which we have just had planted to train up against the house and fence--in which fashion fruit ripens much better with our english modicum of sunshine, besides taking no room & casting no shade over your little bit of ground--then we have filled our large window with flowers in pots which make the room smell as delicious as a garden. giddy is assiduous in keeping them well watered & tended.--welcome was your postcard--with the little rain-bird's coy note in it. but i had not before heard of your illness, dear friend--the letter before, you spoke of being unusually well, as i trust you are again now, & enjoying the spring. i am well again so far as digestion &c. goes; but bronchitis asthma of a chronic kind still trouble me. my breath is so short i cannot walk, which is a privation. i am going, at the beginning of june, to stay with bee in edinburgh, as she will not have any holiday or be able to come & see us this year, & much am i longing to be with her. have you begun to have any summer thoughts, dear walt? and do they turn towards england, & our nest therein? yes, i have received & have enjoyed all the papers & cuttings--dearly like what you said of carlyle. everyone here is speaking bitterly of the harsh judgments & sarcastic descriptions of people in the "reminiscenses." but i know that at bottom his heart was genial and good & that he wrote those in a miserable mood--& never looked at them again afterwards. i hope you received the little memoir of my husband all right. herby is very busy with a drawing of you--hopes that with the many sketches he made, & the vivid impress on his memory & the help of photographs, it will be good. i wish he had possessed as much power with the brush when he was in america as he has now--he is making very great progress in mastery of the technique. i observe, too, that he reads & dwells upon your poems--especially the "walt whitman"--with growing frequency & delight. we often say, "won't walt like sitting in that sunny window?" or "by that cheery open fire" or "sauntering on the heath"--& picture you here in a thousand different ways. i believe maggie lesley is coming from paris, where she is studying art in good earnest, at the beginning of may, & then will come and spend a few days with us. welcome are american friends! the buxton forman's took tea with us last week & we had pleasant talk of you & of dr. bucke. mrs. forman is a sincere, sympathetic, motherly woman whom you would like. the rossetti's too have been to see us--we didn't think william in the best health or spirits--& his wife was not looking well either, but then another baby is just coming. this easter time the poorest of london working folk flock in enormous numbers to hampstead heath; it is a sight that would interest you--they are rougher & noisier & poorer than such folks in america--& the men more prone to get the worse for drink--but there is a good deal of fun & merriment too--the girls & boys racing about on donkeys (who have a pretty hard time of it)--plenty of merry-go-rounds--& enjoyment of the pure air & sunshine, & such sights, more than they know. the light is failing, dearest friend; so with love from us all, good-bye. anne gilchrist. friendliest greeting to your brother & sister & to hattie & jessie when you write & to the staffords. letter lviii herbert h. gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner, well road north london hampstead, england june 5th, 1881, sunday afternoon_ 5 p. m. my dear walt: you don't write me a letter nor take any notice of my magnificent offers concerning "pond musings", etc. however, i will forgive you this oft-repeated offence. i often think of you, very often of america and things generally there, and nearly always with pleasure. my mother is away staying with beatrice in edinburgh city, recruiting her health, which has most sadly needed it of late. so i and grace & a new scotch lassie, one margaret, who officiates as servant most efficaciously too, i can tell you (such scrubbing & cleaning as you never saw the like) we three, i say, are alone at keats corner; cool sitting here in our long drawing-room (hung with innumerable pictures as of yore), although it has been scorchingly hot this past month. the morning i spend sketching on hampstead heath, which is lovely just now, all the may-trees are in full bloom the gorse & broom are a blaze of yellow, the rooks fly constantly by a quarter of a mile (seemingly) overhead, the sly fellows giving some side like dart when you look up at them even at that height. i am painting one of them; so i have to look up pretty often. in the early morning the nightingale sings, oh, so sweetly, long trills & roulades in the most accomplished manner. last wednesday miss ellen terry, whose name you are doubtless familiar with as being the leading actress in london, well, she called upon me to ask my advice or opinion of a drawing connected with my father's book. ellen terry expressed herself highly interested in our house, pictures, decorations and so forth. her manner was a little stagey, but graceful to the extreme, and you could see peeping out of this theatric manner a kind, good heart, oh, so kind, i feel as if i would do anything for her, her manners were so winning. "will you come to the stage entrance of the lyceum some day soon and you shall have stalls for two; now will you come? do." were her last words to grace. i called on her at kensington last week, returning the drawing, and i was so charmed with two beautiful children of hers, a tall, fair girl, a pretty mixture of shyness and self-possession that quite won me. she too i should fancy will be a great actress some day, she has such a bright face. the boy, master ted, was nice too. well, i gave ellen terry a proof of a drawing that i have just completed for dr. bucke's book--a job i got through buxton forman, a great friend of bucke's, done _con amore_ on my part. this drawing has been beautifully reproduced by the new photo intaglio-process. i hope dr. bucke will like it, but i should not expect great things from him in that line, judging from the twopenny hapenny little pen & ink sketch by waters which he sent over in the first instance; however, forman rescued him from that & so far he has been guided by his friend. whether he will when he sees my drawing, we neither of us know; but both feel to have done our best in the matter. i said that ellen terry must ask for you when she goes to america, which she contemplates some day. i have sold the last drawing i made in new york of you for â£10. 10s to buxton forman ($50. odd). church bells have just commenced chiming in the distance, a sound i like better than the parsons. i hear that the young american artists are doing capitally filling their pockets. my cousin sidney thomas is, or was, in america, a good deal lionized, i understand. if at any time you favour me with a letter let it be a letter and not a postcard please. i have been reading carlyle's reminiscences--good stuff in them, brilliant touches, but dreadfully morbid, don't you think? & one shuts the book up with a feeling that in some respect one carlyle is enough in the world: & yet in some respects a million wouldn't be too many. i often think of your remark to us one day that tolerance is the rarest quality in the world. interested in those boston scraps you send my mother. you have always been pretty well received in boston, have you not--i mean in the emerson days? pity that when emerson is no more there will be no fine portrait of him in existence; there was a nobility stamped upon his face that i never saw the like of, and which should have been caught and stamped forever on canvas. we all see something of the formans & all like them; they have so much character, rather unusual in literary folk of the lighter sort, i fancy; but there is something very fresh and original about forman. nice children they have, too. miss blind is bringing out a volume of poems; why will people all imagine they can write poetry? william rossetti is writing a hundred sonnets--writes one a day; one about john brown is not bad: and many are instructive, but are in no sense poems. i am going down to tea & must not keep grace waiting any longer. love to you. herbert h. gilchrist. letter lix anne gilchrist to walt whitman _12 well road, hampstead london, dec. 14, '81._ my dearest friend: your welcome letter to hand. i have longed for a word from you--could not write myself[37]--was stricken dumb--nay, there is nothing but silence for me still. herby wrote to mrs. stafford first, thinking that so the shock would come less abruptly to you. i heard of you at concord in a kind long letter from frederick holland, with whose wife you had some conversation. indeed all that sympathy and warm & true words of love & sorrow & highest admiration & esteem for my darling could do to comfort me i have had--and most & best from america. and many of her poor patients at edinburgh went sobbing from the door when they heard they should see her no more. the report of your health is comforting dear friend. mine too is better--i am able to take walks again--though still liable to sudden attacks of difficult breathing. herby is working hard--has just been disappointed over a competition design which he sent in to the royal academy--a very poor & specious work obtaining the premium--but is no whit discouraged & has no need to be, for he is making great progress--works hard, loves his work & is of the stuff where of great painters are made, i am persuaded--so he can afford to wait. giddy is not quite so well & strong as i could wish, but there seems nothing serious. she is working diligently at the development of her voice--& is learning german. dr. bucke's friend, mr. buxton forman, & his wife are very warm, staunch friends of herby's. please give my love to your sister, and tell her that her good letter spoke the right words to me & that i shall write before very long. thanks for the paper, dear friend--& for those that came when i was too overwhelmed but which i have since read with deep interest--those about your visit to your birthplace. with love from us all--good-bye, dearest friend. a. gilchrist. letter lx anne gilchrist to walt whitman _12 well road jan 29, '82._ my dearest friend: your letter to herby was a real talk with you. i don't know why i punish myself by writing to you so seldom now, for indeed to be near you, even in that way would do me good--often & often do i wish we were back in america near you. as i write this i am sitting to herby for my portrait again--he has never satisfied himself yet: but this one seems coming on nicely--and so is the consuelo picture. another one he has in his mind is to be called "the tea-party," and it is to be the old group round our table in philadelphia--you & me and dear bee & giddy & himself. he thinks that what with memory & photograph & the studies he made when with you, he will be able to put you & my darling on the canvas. giddy's voice is developing into a really fine contralto & she has the work in her to become an artist, i think & will turn out one of the tortoises who outstrip the hares. percy and norah are spending the winter in london (at kensington)--and we can get round by train in half an hour; so i often see them and the dear little man. do you remember the miss chases--two pleasant maiden ladies who took tea with us once in philadelphia & talked about sojourner truth? one of the sisters is in london this winter & has been several times to see us. the birds are beginning to sing very sweetly here--& our room is full of the perfume of spring flowers--indoor ones. did dear bee tell you, in the long letter she once wrote you, how much she loved the swiss ladies with whom she made her home while in berne? a more tender & beautiful love and sorrow than that with which they cherish the memory of her never grew in any heart. i think you will like to see some of their letters--please return them, for they are very precious to me (the little matters they thank me for are some of dear bee's things which i sent them for tokens). love to your sister & brother. how are mr. marvin & mr. burroughs? best love from us all. good-bye, dear friend. anne gilchrist. letter lxi anne gilchrist to walt whitman _12 well road hampstead may 8th, '82._ my dearest friend: herby went to david bognes[38] about a week ago: he himself was out, but h. saw the head man, who reported that the sale of "leaves of grass" was progressing satisfactorily. i hope you have received, or will receive, tangible proof of the same. bognes is a young publisher, but, i believe from what i hear, a man to be relied on. his father was the publisher of my husband's first literary venture & behaved honourably. herby brought away for me a copy of the new edition. i like the type like that of '73, & the pale green leaf it is folded in so to speak. i find a few new friends to love--perhaps i have not yet found them all out. but you must not expect me to take kindly to any changes in the titles or arrangement of the old beloved friends. i love them too dearly--every word & _look_ of them--for that. for instance, i want "walt whitman" instead of "myself" at the top of the page. also my own longing is always for a chronological arrangement, if change at all there is to be; for that at once makes biography of the best kind. what deaths, dear friend! as for me, my heart is already gone over to the other side of the river, so that sometimes i feel a kind of rejoicing in the swelling of the ranks of the great company there. darwin, with his splendid day's work here gently closed; rossetti, whose brilliant genius had got entangled in a premature physical decay, so that _his_ day's work was over too! in a letter to me, william, who was the best, most faithful & loving of brothers to him, says, "i doubt whether he would ever have regained that energy of body & concentration of mental resource which could have enabled him to resume work at his full & wonted power. without these faculties at ready command my dear gabriel would not have been himself." edward carpenter's father, too, is gone, but he at a ripe age without disease--sank gently. the photographs i enclose are but poor suggestions--please give one to mrs. whitman with my love, or if you prefer to keep both, i will send her others. does the idea ever come into your head, dear friend, of spending a little time this summer or autumn in your english home at hampstead? herby is well and working happily. so is grace. little grandson & his parents away in worcestershire. it is indescribably lovely spring weather here just now. a carpenter near us has a sky-lark in a cage which sings as jubilantly as if it were mounting into the sky, & is so tame that when he takes it out of the cage to wash its little claws, which are apt to get choked up with earth, in warm water, it breaks out singing in his hand! love from us all, dearest friend. good-bye. anne gilchrist. affectionate greetings to your brother & sister & hattie & jessie. do you ever see mr. marvin? if so, give our love, we hope to see him one day. letter lxii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner well rd., hampstead, london nov. 24, '82._ dearest friend: you have long ere this, i hope, received herby's letter telling of the safe arrival of the precious copy of "specimen days," with the portraits: it makes me very proud. your father had a fine face too--there is something in it that takes hold of me & that seems to be a kind of natural background or substratum to the radiant sweetness of that other sacred & beloved face completing your parentage. i like heartily too the new portraits of you: they are all wanted as different aspects: but the two that remain my favourites are the portrait taken about 30 without coat of any kind, and the one you sent me in '69 next to those i love these two latest--& in some respects better, because they are the walt i saw & had such happy hours with. the second copy of book & my lending one, has come safe--too--and the card that told of your attack of illness, & the welcome news of your recovery in the paper; & i have been fretting with impatience at my own dumbness--but tied to as many hours a day writing as i could possibly manage, at my little book now (last night)--finished, all but proofs, so that i can take my pleasure in "specimen days" at last; but before doing that must have a few words with you, dearest friend. first a gossip. do you remember maggie lesley? she came to see us on her way to paris, where she is working all alone & very earnestly to get through training as an artist--then going to start in a studio of her own in philadelphia. she, like my mother's sister, are to me fine, lovable samples of american women--in whom, i mean, i detect, like the distinctive aroma of a flower, something special--that is american--a decisive new quality to old-world perceptions. herby is working away still chiefly at the consuelo picture--has got a very beautiful model to-day sitting to him. his summer work was down in warwickshire, making sketches--& very charming ones they are, of george eliot's native scenes--one of a garden-nook--up steep, old, worn stone steps bordered with flowers that is enticing--it will make a lovely background for a figure picture.--giddy's voice is growing in richness & strength--& she works with all her heart, hoping one day to be a real artist vocally--in church & oratorio music. she will not have power or dramatic ability for opera--nor can i wish that she had; there are so many thorns with the roses in that path. i fear you will be a loser by bogne's bankruptcy. did i tell you that among our friends one of your warmest admirers is henry holmes, the great violinist (equal [to] joachim some think--we among them). per. & wife & little grandson all well. my love to brother & sister & to hattie [&] jessie. good-bye, dear walt. i hope to write more & better soon. anne gilchrist. greetings to the staffords. letter lxiii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _12 well rd. hampstead jan. 27, '83._ it is not for want of thinking of you, dear walt, that i write but seldom: for indeed my thoughts are chiefly occupied with you & your other self--your poems--& with struggles to say a few words that i think want saying about them; that might help some to their birthright who now stand off, either ignorant or misapprehending. we all go on much as usual. _feb. 13._ i wonder if you will like a true story of lady dilke that i heard the other day--i do: it was before her marriage. she was a handsome young heiress, a daring horsewoman, fond of hunting. there was a man, weakly & of good position, who had behaved very basely & cruelly to a young girl in her neighbourhood, & when (as is the case in england) half the county was assembled on the hunting field, lady d. faced him & said in a voice that could be heard afar, "sir you are a black-guard, & if these gentlemen had the right spirit in them they would horsewhip you." he looked at her with effrontery & made a mocking bow. "but," she continued, "since they won't, i will"--and she cut him across the face with her riding whip; upon which he turned and rode off the field, like a dog with his tail between his legs, & reappeared in that neighbourhood no more. she was a woman much beloved--died at the birth of her first child (from too much chloroform having been given her). her husband was heart-broken. i see you, too, are having floods. with us it pours five days out of seven, & so in germany & france. we have made the acquaintance of arabella buckley, who has just written an interesting article about darwin, whom she knew well, for the _century_. she says his was the most entirely beautiful & perfect nature she ever came in contact with. how i wish we could have a glimpse of each other, dear friend--half an hour talk--nay, a good long look & a hand-shake. herby is overhead painting in his studio--such a pleasant room. how is john burroughs? we owe him a letter & thanks for a good art. on carlyle. love to you, dearest friend. hearty remembrances to your brother & sister & hattie & jessie. a. g. letter lxiv herbert h. gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner well road, hampstead, london, england april 29th, '83._ my dear walt: your card to hand last night, with its sad account of dear mrs. stafford's health; but what the doctor says is cheering. i wonder, though, what the doctor would call good weather--mild spring, i suppose. very glad, my dear old walt, to see your strong familiar handwriting again; it does one good, it's so individual that it is next to seeing you. right glad to hear of your good health--had an idea that you were not so well again this winter. john burroughs was very violent against my intaglio; on the other hand, alma tadema--our great painter here--liked it very much. i take violent criticism pretty philosophically, now that i see how unreliable it nearly always is. john burroughs has got a fixed idea about your personality, and that is that the top of your head is a foot high and any portrait that doesn't develop the "dome" is no portrait.--curious what eyes a man may have for everything except a picture. i finished lately a life-size portrait of james simmons, j.p., a hunting (fox) squire of the old school--such a fine old fellow. my portrait represents him standing firmly, in a scarlet hunting-coat well stained with many a wet chase, his great whip tucked under his arm whilst buttoning on his left glove, white buckskin trousers in shade relieving the scarlet coat, black velvet hunting cap, dark rich blue background to qualify and cool the scarlet. i wish you could see it. then i have painted a subject "the good gray poet's gift." i have long meant to build up something of you from my studies, adding colour. you play a prominent part in this picture--seated at table bending over a nosegay of flowers, poetizing, before presenting them to mother. i am standing up bending over the tea-pot, with the kettle, filling it up; opposite you sits giddy; out of the window a pretty view of cannon place, hampstead. mater thinks it a pretty picture and a good likeness of you, just as you used to sit at tea with us at 1729 n. 22nd st. now i am going out for a stroll on hampstead heath. have just come in from a long ramble over the heaths--a lovely soft spring day, innumerable birds in full song. i think j. b. is right when he says that your birds are more plaintive than ours--it's nature's way of compensating us for a loss of sunshine: what would england be without the merry lark, the very embodiment of cheeriness. are not the carlyle & emerson letters interesting? it seems to me to be one of the most beautiful and pathetic things in literature, c's fondness for e. but all englishmen, i must tell you, are not grumblers like carlyle; he stands quite alone in that quality--look at darwin! i should be grateful for another postcard. with all love, herb. gilchrist. letter lxv anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner hampstead may 6, '83._ dearest friend: i feel as if this beautiful spring morning here in england must send you greetings through me. our sunny little mound of garden, which runs down toward the south, is fragrant with hyacinths and wall-flowers (beautiful, tawny, reddish, yellow fellows laden with rich perfume)--and at the bottom is a big old cherry tree--one mass of snowy blossom; in a neighbour's gay garden & beyond is a distant glimpse of some tall elms just putting on their first tender green: our little breakfast room where i always sit of a morning opens with glass doors into this garden. herby is gone with the "sunday tramps," of whom he is a member, for a ten or fifteen-mile walk. said tramps are some half dozen friends & neighbours, some of them very learned professors but genial good fellows withal, who agree to spend every other sunday morning in taking one of their long walks together--& a very good time they have. giddy is gone to hear a lecture; our bonnie scotch girl is roasting the beef for dinner, singing the while in the kitchen; and pussy & i are sitting very companionable & meditative in the little room before described. you cannot think, dear friend, what a pleasure it was to have a whole big letter from you (not that i despise postcards--they are good stop-gaps, but not the real thing). yes, i have & prize the article on the hebrew scriptures. how i wish you could make up your mind to spend your summer holiday with us. i am still struggling along, striving to say something which, if i can say it to my mind, will be useful--will clear away a little of the rubbish that hides you from men's eyes. i hear the "eminent women series" is having quite a large sale in america. good-bye. love to mrs. whitman. greetings to your brother. love from us all to you. a. gilchrist. letter lxvi anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner hampstead, jul. 30, 1883._ my dearest friend: lazy me, that have been thinking letters to you instead of writing them! we have dr. bucke's book at last; could not succeed in buying one at tã¼rbner's--i believe they all sold directly--but he has sent us one. there are some things in it i prize very highly--namely, helen price's "memoranda" and thomas a. gere's. these i like far better than any personal reminiscences of you i have ever read & i feel much drawn to the writers of them. also your letter to mrs. price from the hospitals, dear friend. that makes one hand-in-hand with you--then & there--& gives one a glimpse of a very beautiful friendship. but why & why did dr. bucke set himself to counteract that beneficient law of nature's by which the dust tends to lay itself? and carefully gathering together again all the rubbish stupid or malevolent that has been written of you, toss it up in the air again to choke and blind or disgust as many as it may? what a curious piece of perversity to mistake this for candour & a judicial spirit.[39] then again, how do i hate all that unmeaning, irrelevant clatter about what rabelais or shakespeare or the ancients & their times tolerated in the way of coarseness or plainness of speech. as if you wanted apologizing for or could be apologized for on that ground! if these poems are to be _tolerated_, i, for one, could not tolerate them. if they are not the highest lesson that has yet been taught in refinement & purity, if they do not banish all possibility of coarseness of thought & feeling, there would be nothing to be said for them. but they do: i am as sure of that as of my own existence. when will men begin to understand them? we have had pleasant glimpses of several american friends this summer--of kate hillard for instance, who, by the bye narrowly escaped a bad accident just at our door--the harness broke & the cab came down on the horse & frightened him so that he bolted--struck the cab against a lamp-post (happily, else it would have been worse)--overturned them & it--but when they crawled out no worse harm was done than a few cuts from the glass--& kate & her friend behaved very pluckily, & we had a pleasant evening together after all. then there was arthur peterson, looking much as in the old philadelphia days: and emma & annie lazarus--who, owing to some letters of introduction from james the novelist, have had a very gay time indeed--been quite lionized--and last, not least, mr. dalton dorr, the curator of the pennsylvania museum in fairmount park--whom we all liked much. he is enjoying his visit here with all his heart--is a great enthusiast for our old gothic cathedrals, and for everything beautiful--but says there is nothing such a source of unceasing wonder & delight as riding about london & over the bridges &c on the top of an omnibus watching the endless flow of people--it is indeed a kind of human mississippi or niagara. the young folks are busy packing up to start for the seaside. herby wants a background for a picture in which green turf & trees and all the richness of vegetation come down to the very edge of the sea and i seem to remember such a place near lynn regis, where i was thirty years ago, when my eldest child was born, so they are going to look it up. we hear the heat is very tremendous in america this year. i hope you are as well as ever able to stand it & enjoy it? i wonder where you are. friendly greetings to mr. & mrs. whitman & hattie & jessie & the staffords. love to you, dear friend, from us all. anne gilchrist. my little book on mary lamb just out--will send you a copy in a day or two. letter lxvii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner hampstead oct. 13, '83._ dearest friend: long & long does it seem since i have had any word or sign from you. i hope all goes well & that you have had a pleasant, refreshing summer trip somewhere. all goes on much as usual with us. _hythe. kent. oct. 21._ not having felt very well the last month or two, and giddy also seeming to need a little bracing up, we came down to this ancient town by the sea--one of the cinque ports--on wednesday, and much we like it--a fine open sea--a delicious "briny odour"--and inland much that is curious and interesting--for this part of the kentish coast--so near to france--has innumerable old castles, forts, moats, traces everywhere of centuries of warfare and of means of defence against our great neighbour. it is a fine hilly, woody country, too, and very picturesque these gray massive ruins, many of them used now as farm houses, look. the men of kent are very proud of their country and are reckoned a fine race--tall, muscular, ruddy-complexioned, and often too with thick, tawny-red beards--curious how in our little island the differences of race-stock are still so discernible--keep along this same coast to the west only about a couple of hundred miles & you come to such a different type--dark--blackest and cornish men.--i get a nice letter now & then from john burroughs. i also saw this summer two women doctors who were very kind & good friends to my darling bee--drs. pope--twin sisters from boston, whom it did me good to see. they work hard--have a good practice--& say they don't know what a day's illness means so far as they themselves are concerned. they tell me also that the women doctors are doing capital work in america--and that one of them, who was with dear beatrice at the penn. med. col., dr. alice bennett, is the efficient head of the woman's department of a large lunatic asylum. we are getting on in england too--but the field where english women doctors find the most work & the best position is india, where as the women are not allowed by their male relatives to be attended by men, the mortality was immense.--herby has taken a better studio than our house afforded--both as to light & size--& finds the advantage great. i expect he is having a delightful walk this brilliant morning with the "hampstead tramps"--of whom i think i have told you. they often walk fifteen miles or so on sunday morning. such a glorious afternoon it has been by the sea--sapphire colour--the air brisk & elastic, yet soft. to-morrow gran goes home & i shall be all alone here.--i hear of "specimen days" in a letter from australia--there will be a large audience for you there some day, dear friend. i like what john burroughs has been writing about carlyle much. we have had nothing but stupidities of late about him here--but there will come a great reaction from all this abuse, i have no doubt--he did put so much gall in his ink sometimes, human nature can't be expected to take it altogether meekly. i hope you received my little book safely. i should be a hypocrite if i pretended not to care whether you found patience to read it--for i grew to love mary & charles lamb so much during my task that i want you to love them too--& to see what a beautiful friendship was theirs with coleridge. how are mr. & mrs. whitman and hattie & jessie? send me a few words soon. good-bye, dearest friend. ann gilchrist. letter lxviii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner hampstead april 5, '84._ my dearest friend: those few words of yours to herby "tasted good" to us--few, but enough, seeing that we can fill out between the lines with what you have given us of yourself forever & always in your books--& that is how i comfort myself for having so few letters. but i turn many wistful thoughts toward america, and were not i & mine bound here by unseverable ties, did we not seem to grow & belong here as by a kind of natural destiny that has to be fulfilled very cheerfully, could i make america my home for the sake of being near you in body as i am in heart & soul--but time has good things in store for us sooner or later, i doubt not. i could hardly express to you how welcome is the thought of death to me--not in the sense of any discontent with life--but as life with fresh energies & wider horizon & hand in hand again with those that are gone on first. herby found the little bit of gray cloth very useful--but one day _save him an old suit_. your figure in the picture is, i think, a fair suggestion of one aspect of you; but not, could not of course be, an adequate portrait. he will never rest till he has done his best to achieve that. as soon as he can afford it (for it is a very slow business indeed for a young artist to make money in england, though when he does begin he is better paid than in america) he means to run over to see you. he says he should like always to spend his winters in new york. i say how very highly i prize that last slip you sent me, "a backward glance on my own road"? it both corroborates & explains much that i feel very deeply.--if you are seeing mrs. whitman, please say her letter was a pleasure & that i shall write again before very long. i feel as if this letter would never find you--be sure & let us know your whereabouts. remembrance & love. good-bye, dear walt. anne gilchrist. letter lxix anne gilchrist to walt whitman _hampstead may 2, '84._ my dearest friend: your card (your very voice & touch, drawing me across the atlantic close beside you) was put into my hand just as i was busy copying out "with husky, haughty lips o sea" to pin into my "leaves of grass." i hardly think there is anything grander there. i think surely they must see that that is the very soul of nature uttering itself sublimely. who do you think came to see us on sunday? professor dowden.[40] and i know not when i have set eyes on a more beautiful personality. i think you would be as much attracted towards him as i was. it was he who told me (full of enthusiasm) of the poems in _harper's_ which i had not seen or heard of. we had a very happy two or three hours together, talking of you & looking through blake's drawings. he is a tall man, complexion tanned & healthy, nose finely modelled, dark eyes with plenty of life & meaning in them, hair grayish--i should think he was between forty & fifty--but says his father is still a fine hale old man. herby disappointed again this year of getting anything into the r. academy. i think i like the idea of the shanty, if you have any one to take good care of you, to cook nicely, keep all neat & clean &c. i wonder if i have ever been in mickle st. i, still busy, still hammering away to see if i can help those that "balk" at "leaves of grass". perhaps you will smile at me--at any rate it bears good fruit to me--i seem to be in a manner living with you the while. everything full of beauty just now here, as no doubt it is with you. good-bye, dearest friend--don't forget the letter that is to come soon. love from us all, love & again love from anne gilchrist. letter lxx anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner aug. 5, '84._ dearest friend: the notion [that] one is going to write a nice long letter is fatal to writing at all. and so i mean to scribble something, somehow, a little oftener & make up in quantity for quality! for after all the great thing, the thing one wants, is to _meet_--if not in the flesh--then in the spirit. a word will do it. i am getting on--my heart is in my work--& though i have been long about it, it won't be long--but i think & hope it will be strong. quite a sprinkling of american friends--some new ones this spring--among them mr. & mrs. pennell[41] from philadelphia--whom you know--we like them well--hope to see them again & again. also miss keyse (her sister married emerson's son) from concord, and the lesleys--mary lesley has married & gone to the west--st. paul--has just got a little son. how does the "little shanty" answer, i wonder? herby has been painting some charming little bits in an old terraced garden here. i do wish you could hear giddy sing now; i am sure her voice would "go to the right spot," as you used to say. good-bye, dearest friend. love from all & most from anne gilchrist. letter lxxi anne gilchrist to walt whitman _wolverhampton oct. 26, '84._ dear walt: i don't suppose the enclosed will give you nearly so much pleasure as it gives me. but villiers stanford is, i think, the best composer england has produced since the days of purcell & blow, and your words will be sent home to hundreds & thousands who had not before seen them. how lovely the words read as themes for great music! i have been staying with old friends who have a house you would enjoy--it stands all alone on the top of a heath-clad hill, with miles of coppice (young woods) below it, and spread out beyond is a rich valley with more wooded hills jutting out into it--and you see the storms a long way off travelling up from the sea, and you can wander for miles & miles through the woods or over the breezy hill--or, as you sit at your window, feel yourself in the very heart of a great, beautiful solitude. very kind, warm friends, too, they are, who leave you as free as a bird to do what you like. i have had all the papers, dear friend, & have enjoyed them. now i am in the heart of the "black country," as we call it--black with the smoke of thousands of foundries & works of all kinds--staying with percy & his wife. percy is having a very arduous time here starting some steel works--& what with his men being inexperienced & times bad & the machinery not yet perfectly adjusted, he seems harassed night & day--for these things have to be kept going all night too--but i hope he will get into smoother waters soon. the little son is rosy & bright & healthy--goes to school now, which, being an only child, he enjoys mightily for the sake of the companionship of other boys. love from us all, dear friend. a. gilchrist. grace & herby well & busy when i left. letter lxxii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner hampstead dec. 17, '84._ dearest friend: at last i have extracted a little bit of news about you from friend carpenter, who never comes to see us and is [as] reluctant to write letters as--somebody else that i know. that you have a comfortable, elderly couple to keep house for you was a good hearing--for "the old shanty" had risen before my eyes as somewhat lonely, & perhaps the cooking, &c., not well attended to.--there seems a curious kind of ebb and flow about the recognition of you in england--just now there are signs of the flow--of a steadily gathering great wave, one indication of which is the little pamphlet just published in edinburgh--one of the "round table" series--no doubt a copy has been sent you. if not and you would care to see it, i will send you one. on the whole i like it (barring one or two stupidities)--at any rate, as compared with what has hitherto been written. my poor article has so far been rejected by editors--so i have laid it by for a little, to come with a fresh eye & see if i can make it in any way more likely to win a hearing--though i often say to myself, "if they have not ears to hear you, how is it likely one can unstop their ears?" but on the other hand there is always the chance of leading some to read the poems who had not else done so.--percy & norah and archie, now grown a very sturdy active little fellow, are coming to spend xmas with us, which is a great pleasure. i am deep in froude's last volumes of "carlyle's life in london". folks are grumbling that they have had enough & too much of carlyle & _his_ grumblings and sarcasms. but he is an inexhaustibly interesting figure to me, & will remain so in the long run to the world, i am persuaded. it grieves me that he should have been so cruelly unjust to himself as a husband--that remorse, those bitter self-reproaches, were undeserved, were altogether morbid: he was not only an infinitely better husband than she was wife: he was wonderfully affectionate & tender & just--& as to his temper & irritable nerves, she knew what she was about when she married him. herby was walking through the british museum the other day with a friend when a group, a ready-made picture, struck him--it was a young student-sculptress, a graceful girl high on a pile of boxes modelling in clay a copy of an antique statue, & standing below, looking up at her, was a young sculptor in his blouse, criticising her work with much animation & gesture; the background of the group, a part of the elgin marbles. so this is what herby is painting & i think he will make a very jolly little picture out of it. i have been much a prisoner to the house with bad colds ever since i returned from wolverhampton, but am beginning to get out again--which puts new life into me. i have never envied anything in this world but a man's strong legs & powers of tramping, tramping, over hill & dale as long as he pleases--legs would content me and a sound breathing apparatus! i am in no hurry for wings. giddy's voice, too, is just now eclipsed by cold. i hope you have escaped this evil and are able to jaunt to & fro on the ferries as freely as ever. and i hope the pleasant quaker friends are well--and mr. & mrs. whitman and hattie & jessie--there is a fellow student of giddy's at the guild hall music school who so reminds her of hattie. love from us all, dear friend. most from me. anne gilchrist. letter lxxiii anne gilchrist to walt whitman _keats corner hampstead, england feb. 27, '85._ dearest friend: how has the winter passed with you i wonder? me it has imprisoned very much with bronchial & asthmatic troubles--and the four walls of the house & the ceiling seem to close in upon one's spirit as well as one's body, all too much. i hope you have been able to wend to and fro daily on the great ferry boats & enjoy the beautiful broad river & the sky & the throngs of people as of old--you are in my thoughts as constantly as ever, though i have been so silent. percy & his wife & the little son spent some weeks with us at christmas & now they have taken a house quite near, into which they will be moving in a week or two. i can't tell you what a dear, affectionate, reasonable, companionable little fellow archie is--now six years old. perhaps you will have seen in the american papers that sidney thomas, the cousin with whom percy was associated in the discovery of the basic process, is dead--he spent his strength too freely--wore himself out at 35--he was much loved by all with whom he had to do. his mother & sister have been watching & hoping against hope & taking him to warm climates, he himself full of hope--the mind bright and active to the last--& now he is gone--& his eldest brother died only two months before him.--i cannot help grieving over public affairs too--never in my lifetime has old england been in such a bad way--no honest & capable man seemingly to take the helm--& what carlyle was fond of describing as the attempt to guide the ship by the shouts of the bystanders on shore--the newspapers &c. prospering very ill. a government that tries perpetually how to do it and how not to do it at the same moment! the best comfort is that i do not think there is any, the smallest sign, of deterioration in the english race; so we shall pull through somehow, after tremendous disasters. how many things should i like to sit and chat with you about, dear walt--above all to see you again! i could not get my article into any of the magazines i most wished. i believe it is coming out in _to-day_. giddy was so pleased at your sending her a paper--a very capital article too it is of miss kellogg. i was interested also in a little paragraph i found about pullman town, near chicago, which confirmed my suspicion that it was not a thing with healthy roots--but only a benevolent despotism. i am seeing a good deal of your socialists just now--& i confess that though they mean well, i think they have less sense in their heads than any people i ever saw. i am going to pay a little visit to those friends (friendliest of friends) who live on the lonely top of a heath-covered hill--with such an outlook, such wooded slopes and broad valleys--and the storms travelling up hours before they arrive--such sweeps of sunshine too!--& they mean to drive me about till i am quite strong again. so the next letter i write, dear friend, shall be more cheery. i am afraid to look back lest this one should read too grumbly to send. i don't feel grumbly however--only shut in. herby has been working hard at getting up an exhibition here to help along our public library. it is so very hard to stir up anything like public spirit & unity of action in london or its suburbs--i suppose because of its vastness--& alas! also the social cliques & gentilities & snobbishnesses. good-bye, dearest walt, with love from all. anne gilchrist. letter lxxiv anne gilchrist to walt whitman _hampstead may 4, '85._ my dearest friend: delays of editors--there is no end to them! i am promised now that the art. shall appear in the june no., & if it does i will send you at once the number of copies you name. and if it does not, i think i had best get it back & have done with the editors of _to-day_ & try for some other & better opening again. i have been reading & re-reading & pondering over froude's 9 vols of carlyle--"the reminiscences," "letters," &c. &c.--and am pretty well at boiling point with indignation against froude--boiling point of anger & freezing point of contempt. his betrayal at every point of a sacred trust! lazy, slip-shod editing! not even taking the pains to put letters and their answers together--but printing the one in 1882 & the others three or four years after--so that half the meaning and all the _mutuality_ of the letters are lost! and then the sly malignity of the comments with which they are preceded! if i live i will do my utmost to expose all this & to show that mrs. carlyle was no injured heroine, nor he a selfish & neglected husband. both had their faults, but the balance of affection & tenderness was largely on his side, as well as of other great qualities: though i like her too--& think she would have scorned froude's ignoble championship. herby has had rather better luck with his pictures this year. has one--"the sculptor's lesson"--fairly well hung at the royal academy--where it shines out very cheerfully & holds its own modestly, i may say without maternal vanity. i think i described to you the little bit of actual life it depicts--a young girl he saw at the british museum modelling a copy of an antique statue & young sculptor in his blouse standing below & giving her some animated criticism--a little bit of the elgin marbles in the background. herb. has also a little picture he calls "midsummer"--a bit of a very old & buttressed wall hung with roses in full bloom, & giddy's figure standing above--at the grosvenor. now if he has the luck to sell too! he has a commission also to paint a small portrait of me for our friends at marley, on which he is busy just now. as soon as he has a little spare money in his pocket i think his first use of it will be a run across the atlantic & a glimpse of you, dear friend. giddy is going to sing at a soiree of socialists & revolutionary folk in general on wednesday. her songs are to be "the wearing of the green"--& "poland dirge" & the "marseillaise". you will think we are getting pretty red hot! but alas! though our sympathy with the cause--the cause of suffering millions--is warm, our faith in the wisdom & ability of those who are aspiring to be the leaders, so far as we know anything of them--is infinitesimal. what a burst of beauty we have had during the last ten days! we look out just now on a sea of apple & pear blossoms, from the deepest pink to dazzling white--& the tenderest green intermingled with all. i hope you are able to be out nearly all day & enjoy all--and that home affairs go smoothly & comfortably & that mrs. davis[42] is attentive & good & every way adequate as care-taker. i am looking forward very much to the "after songs" and "letters of parting". does the sale of "leaves of grass" continue pretty steady? i look forward with a sort of dread to seeing my article in proof, lest i should feel very disappointed with it. your loving friend, a. gilchrist. do you ever see or hear from mr. marvin? he is a favourite with all of us. do you remember how we laughed at his dramatic presentation of a negro prayer meeting? letter lxxv anne gilchrist to walt whitman _hampstead, london jan. 21, 85._ my dearest friend: i hope the _to-days_ have come safe to hand. i am thinking a great deal about the new edition; and cannot help hoping you are going to revert to the plan of the centennial edition, which issued your writings in two independent volumes. may i, without being presumptuous, dear walt, tell you how i should dearly like to see them arranged? i want "crossing brooklyn ferry," "song at sunset," "song of the open road," "starting from paumanok," "carol of words," "carol of occupations" and either as "as i sat by blue ontario's shore" or the preface to edit. 55 put into "two rivulets"--you could make room for them that the volumes might balance in size by making them exchange places with the "centennial songs" and the "memoranda during the war"; not that these are not precious to me, but i want it dearest because i want in the two rivulet volume what will best prepare the reader, lift him up to the true point of view, and make him all your own, before he comes to the inner sanctuary of "calamus" & "walt whitman" & "children of adam." monday morn. your letter just to hand. it gives me deep joy, dear friend. i have sent copies of _to-day_ to dr. bucke & john burroughs but did not know of his change of address; so fear it has miscarried. i will send another, and also one to w. o'connor.--you did not tell me about your fall--unless indeed a letter has been lost. it fills me with concern because of the difficulty it increases in getting that free out-door life that is so dear & essential to your soul & body, and because, too, i still cherished in my heart a hope that i should yet see you again--here in my own home--& now it seems next to an impossibility. right thankful am i to hear about mrs. davis--that she takes good care of you--please give her a friendly greeting from me. i am going to have rather a bothersome summer--first of all, the house full of workmen to make all clean & tidy; & then my scotch lassie, friend & factotum rather than servant, must have a holiday & go to her friends in scotland for a month. i shall heartily welcome your friend, no need to say, & be sure to like her. love from grace & herb. & most of all from me. i have plenty more to say but won't delay this. good-bye, dear walt. anne gilchrist. letter lxxvi anne gilchrist to walt whitman _12 well rd., hampstead, eng. july 20, '85._ my dearest friend: a kind of anxiety has for some time past weighed upon me and upon others, i find, who love & admire you, that you do not have all the comforts you ought to have; that you are perhaps sometimes straightened for means. we have had letters from several young men, almost or quite strangers to us, asking questions on this subject; and we hoped & thought that if this were so, you would permit those who have received such priceless gifts from you to put their gratitude into some tangible shape, some "free-will offering." hence the paragraph was put into the _athenaeum_ which i send with this, and we were proceeding to organize our forces when your paper came to hand this morning (the _camden post_, july 3), which seems decisively to bid us desist. or at all events wait till we had told you of our wishes and plan. one thing would, i feel sure, give you pleasure in any case; and that is to know that there is over here a little band--perhaps indeed it is now quite a considerable one, for we had not yet had time to ascertain how considerable--who would joyfully respond to that poem of yours, "to rich givers." a friend and near neighbour of ours, frederick wedmore, is coming over to america this autumn, and counts much on coming to see you. he is a well-known writer on art here--a friendly, candid, open-minded man with whom, i think, you will enjoy a talk. i am on the lookout for miss smith[43]--shall indeed enjoy a talk with a special friend of yours, dear walt. i hope she will not fail to come. giddy is away at haslemere. herby just going to write for himself to you. that is a very graphic bit in the _post_--the portrait of hugo, the canary & the kitten--i like to know all that--as well as to hear the talk. my love, dear walt. anne gilchrist. so far as can be ascertained this is the last letter. anne gilchrist died nov. 29th, 1885. the end the country life press, garden city, n. y. footnotes: [1] reprinted from the _radical_ for may, 1870. [2] reprinted from "anne gilchrist, her life and writings," by her son herbert h. gilchrist--london, 1887. [3] reprinted from horace traubel's "with walt whitman in camden," i, 219-220. although addressed to rossetti, this letter is evidently intended as much for mrs. gilchrist, whose name was not at this time known to whitman. [4] alexander gilchrist. [5] mrs. gilchrist's emotion here apparently prevents her memory from doing complete justice to her own past. for a very different expression of her feelings toward alexander gilchrist, written at the time of her betrothal, see her letter announcing the engagement which she sent to her friend, julia newton, and which is to be found on pp. 30-31 of her son's biography. [6] william michael rossetti. [7] to w. m. rossetti. see _ante_, p. x. [8] first printed in horace traubel's "with walt whitman in camden," iii, 513. [9] evidently meaning the letter of september 3d. [10] missing. [11] percy carlyle gilchrist who became an inventive metallurgist. [12] herbert harlakenden gilchrist, who became an artist. [13] printed from copy retained by whitman. [14] to deliver his dartmouth college ode. [15] william douglas o'connor, an ardent washington friend of whitman. [16] john burroughs, the naturalist, then a young author and disciple of whitman. [17] anne gilchrist's son. [18] horace greeley, nominated by the democrats as their candidate for the presidency. [19] burlington, vermont, where whitman's sister, mrs. heyde, lived. [20] henry m. stanley, african explorer. [21] undated. made up from copy among whitman's papers. this letter evidently belongs to the summer of 1873. [22] the "prayer of columbus" was first published in _harper's magazine_ in march, 1874. [23] john cowardine. see "anne gilchrist, her life and writings," pp. 149 ff. [24] daughters of thomas jefferson whitman. [25] mrs. george whitman. [26] sister. [27] niece. [28] sidney morse, the sculptor. [29] "man's moral nature," by dr. richard maurice bucke. [30] this extract (?) is taken from h. h. gilchrist's "anne gilchrist," p. 252. it is undated, but it is clearly a reply to the foregoing letter from mrs. gilchrist. [31] durham cathedral. [32] anne gilchrist's grandchild. [33] reproduced in "anne gilchrist, her life and writings," facing p. 253. [34] richard watson gilder. [35] of timber creek, camden county, new jersey, whose hospitality helped whitman to improve his health. [36] the second edition of alexander gilchrist's "william blake." [37] because of the death of her daughter beatrice. [38] whitman's london publisher. [39] dr. bucke, in his "life of whitman," had reprinted at the end of the volume many criticisms of the poet, adverse as well as favourable; likewise w. d. o'connor's "good gray poet." [40] edward dowden, of the university of dublin. [41] artists, famous for their etchings. mr. pennell made several etchings for dr. bucke's biography of whitman. [42] mrs. mary davis, who was whitman's housekeeper until his death. [43] daughter of pearsall smith, of philadelphia. books by john burroughs. works. 14 vols., uniform, 16mo, gilt top, $17.10; half calf, $34.10; half polished morocco, $37.45. wake-robin. winter sunshine. locusts and wild honey. fresh fields. indoor studies. birds and poets, with other papers. pepacton, and other sketches. signs and seasons. riverby. whitman: a study. the light of day: religious discussions and criticisms from the standpoint of a naturalist. each of the above, $1.25. literary values. a series of literary essays. far and near. ways of nature. each of the above, $1.10, _net_. postage extra. ways of nature. _riverside edition._ 12mo, $1.50, _net_. postage extra. far and near. _riverside edition._ 12mo, $1.50, _net_. postage 11 cents. a year in the fields. selections appropriate to each season of the year, from the writings of john burroughs. illustrated from photographs by clifton johnson. 12mo, $1.50. whitman: a study. _riverside edition._ 12mo, $1.50, _net_. the light of day: religious discussions and criticisms from the standpoint of a naturalist. _riverside edition._ 12mo, $1.50, _net_. literary values. _riverside edition._ 12mo, $1.50, _net_. postage, 11 cents. winter sunshine. _cambridge classics series._ crown 8vo, $1.00. wake-robin. _riverside aldine series._ 16mo, $1.00. squirrels and other fur-bearers. illustrated. square 12mo, $1.00. _school edition_, 60 cents, _net_. houghton, mifflin and company boston and new york [illustration: walt whitman] whitman _a study_ by john burroughs boston and new york houghton, mifflin and company the riverside press, cambridge copyright, 1896, by john burroughs. _all rights reserved._ contents page preliminary 1 biographical and personal 23 his ruling ideas and aims 73 his self-reliance 85 his relation to art and literature 101 his relation to life and morals 169 his relation to culture 205 his relation to his country and his times 229 his relation to science 249 his relation to religion 257 a final word 263 "_all original art is self-regulated, and no original art can be regulated from without; it carries its own counterpoise, and does not receive it from elsewhere._"--taine. "_if you want to tell good gothic, see if it has the sort of roughness and largeness and nonchalance, mixed in places with the exquisite tenderness which seems always to be the sign manual of the broad vision and massy power of men who can see_ past _the work they are doing, and betray here and there something like disdain for it._"--ruskin. "_formerly, during the period termed classic, when literature was governed by recognized rules, he was considered the best poet who had composed the most perfect work, the most beautiful poem, the most intelligible, the most agreeable to read, the most complete in every respect,--the æneid, the gerusalemme, a fine tragedy. to-day something else is wanted. for us the greatest poet is he who in his works most stimulates the reader's imagination and reflection, who excites him the most himself to poetize. the greatest poet is not he who has done the best, it is he who suggests the most; he, not all of whose meaning is at first obvious, and who leaves you much to desire, to explain, to study, much to complete in your turn._"--sainte-beuve. whitman preliminary i the writing of this preliminary chapter, and the final survey and revision of my whitman essay, i am making at a rustic house i have built at a wild place a mile or more from my home upon the river. i call this place whitman land, because in many ways it is typical of my poet,--an amphitheatre of precipitous rock, slightly veiled with a delicate growth of verdure, enclosing a few acres of prairie-like land, once the site of an ancient lake, now a garden of unknown depth and fertility. elemental ruggedness, savageness, and grandeur, combined with wonderful tenderness, modernness, and geniality. there rise the gray scarred cliffs, crowned here and there with a dead hemlock or pine, where, morning after morning, i have seen the bald-eagle perch, and here at their feet this level area of tender humus, with three perennial springs of delicious cold water flowing in its margin; a huge granite bowl filled with the elements and potencies of life. the scene has a strange fascination for me, and holds me here day after day. from the highest point of rocks i can overlook a long stretch of the river and of the farming country beyond; i can hear owls hoot, hawks scream, and roosters crow. birds of the garden and orchard meet birds of the forest upon the shaggy cedar posts that uphold my porch. at dusk the call of the whippoorwill mingles with the chorus of the pickerel frogs, and in the morning i hear through the robins' cheerful burst the sombre plaint of the mourning-dove. when i tire of my manuscript, i walk in the woods, or climb the rocks, or help the men clear up the ground, piling and burning the stumps and rubbish. this scene and situation, so primitive and secluded, yet so touched with and adapted to civilization, responding to the moods of both sides of the life and imagination of a modern man, seems, i repeat, typical in many ways of my poet, and is a veritable whitman land. whitman does not to me suggest the wild and unkempt as he seems to do to many; he suggests the cosmic and the elemental, and this is one of the dominant thoughts that run through my dissertation. scenes of power and savagery in nature were more welcome to him, probably more stimulating to him, than the scenes of the pretty and placid, and he cherished the hope that he had put into his "leaves" some of the tonic and fortifying quality of nature in her more grand and primitive aspects. his wildness is only the wildness of the great primary forces from which we draw our health and strength. underneath all his unloosedness, or free launching forth of himself, is the sanity and repose of nature. ii i first became acquainted with whitman's poetry through the columns of the old "saturday press" when i was twenty or twenty-one years old (1858 or 1859). the first things i remember to have read were "there was a child went forth," "this compost," "as i ebb'd with the ocean of life," "old ireland," and maybe a few others. i was attracted by the new poet's work from the first. it seemed to let me into a larger, freer air than i found in the current poetry. meeting bayard taylor about this time, i spoke to him about whitman. "yes," he said, "there is something in him, but he is a man of colossal egotism." a few years later a friend sent me a copy of the thayer & eldridge edition of "leaves of grass" of 1860. it proved a fascinating but puzzling book to me. i grazed upon it like a colt upon a mountain, taking what tasted good to me, and avoiding what displeased me, but having little or no conception of the purport of the work as a whole. i found passages and whole poems here and there that i never tired of reading, and that gave a strange fillip to my moral and intellectual nature, but nearly as many passages and poems puzzled or repelled me. my absorption of emerson had prepared me in a measure for whitman's philosophy of life, but not for the ideals of character and conduct which he held up to me, nor for the standards in art to which the poet perpetually appealed. whitman was emerson translated from the abstract into the concrete. there was no privacy with whitman; he never sat me down in a corner with a cozy, comfortable shut-in feeling, but he set me upon a hill or started me upon an endless journey. wordsworth had been my poet of nature, of the sequestered and the idyllic; but i saw that here was a poet of a larger, more fundamental nature, indeed of the cosmos itself. not a poet of dells and fells, but of the earth and the orbs. this much soon appeared to me, but i was troubled by the poet's apparent "colossal egotism," by his attitude towards evil, declaring himself "to be the poet of wickedness also;" by his seeming attraction toward the turbulent and the disorderly; and, at times, by what the critics had called his cataloguing style of treatment. when i came to meet the poet himself, which was in the fall of 1863, i felt less concern about these features of his work; he was so sound and sweet and gentle and attractive as a man, and withal so wise and tolerant, that i soon came to feel the same confidence in the book that i at once placed in its author, even in the parts which i did not understand. i saw that the work and the man were one, and that the former must be good as the latter was good. there was something in the manner in which both the book and its author carried themselves under the sun, and in the way they confronted america and the present time, that convinced beyond the power of logic or criticism. the more i saw of whitman, and the more i studied his "leaves," the more significance i found in both, and the clearer it became to me that a new type of a man and a new departure in poetic literature were here foreshadowed. there was something forbidding, but there was something vital and grand back of it. i found to be true what the poet said of himself,- "bearded, sunburnt, gray-neck'd, forbidding, i have arrived, to be wrestled with as i pass for the solid prizes of the universe, for such i afford whoever can persevere to win them,"-i have persevered in my study of the poet, though balked many times, and the effect upon my own mental and spiritual nature has been great; no such "solid prizes" in the way of a broader outlook upon life and nature, and, i may say, upon art, has any poet of my time afforded me. there are passages or whole poems in the "leaves" which i do not yet understand ("sleep-chasings" is one of them), though the language is as clear as daylight; they are simply too subtle or elusive for me; but my confidence in the logical soundness of the book is so complete that i do not trouble myself at all about these things. iii i would fain make these introductory remarks to my essay a sort of window through which the reader may get a fairly good view of what lies beyond. if he does not here get any glimpse or suggestion of what pleases him, or of what he is looking for, it will hardly be worth while for him to trouble himself further. a great many readers, perhaps three fourths of the readers of current poetry, and not a few of the writers thereof, cannot stand whitman at all, or see any reason for his being. to such my essay, if it ever comes to their notice, will be a curiosity, may be an offense. but i trust it will meet with a different reception at the hands of the smaller but rapidly growing circle of those who are beginning to turn to whitman as the most imposing and significant figure in our literary annals. the rapidly growing whitman literature attests the increasing interest to which i refer. indeed, it seems likely that by the end of the century the literature which will have grown up around the name of this man will surpass in bulk and value that which has grown up around the name of any other man of letters born within the century. when mr. stedman wrote his essay upon the poet early in the eighties, he referred to the mass of this literature. it has probably more than doubled in volume in the intervening years: since whitman's death in the spring of '92, it has been added to by william clark's book upon the poet, professor trigg's study of browning and whitman, and the work of that accomplished critic and scholar, so lately gone to his rest, john addington symonds. this last is undoubtedly the most notable contribution that has yet been made, or is likely very soon to be made, to the whitman literature. mr. symonds declares that "leaves of grass," which he first read at the age of twenty-five, influenced him more than any other book has done, except the bible,--more than plato, more than goethe. when we remember that the man who made this statement was eminently a man of books, deeply read in all literatures, his testimony may well offset that of a score of our home critics who find nothing worthy or helpful in whitman's work. one positive witness in such a matter outweighs any number of negative ones. iv for making another addition to the growing whitman literature, i have no apology to offer. i know well enough that "writing and talk" cannot "prove" a poet; that he must be his own proof or be forgotten; and my main purpose in writing about whitman, as in writing about nature, is to tell readers what i have found there, with the hope of inducing them to look for themselves. at the same time, i may say that i think no modern poet so much needs to be surrounded by an atmosphere of comment and interpretation, through which readers may approach him, as does whitman. his work sprang from a habit or attitude of mind quite foreign to that with which current literature makes us familiar,--so germinal is it, and so little is it beholden to the formal art we so assiduously cultivate. the poet says his work "connects lovingly with precedents," but it does not connect lovingly with any body of poetry of this century. "leaves of grass" is bound to be a shock to the timid and pampered taste of the majority of current readers. i would fain lessen this shock by interposing my own pages of comment between the book and the public. the critic can say so many things the poet cannot. he can explain and qualify and analyze, whereas the creative artist can only hint or project. the poet must hasten on, he must infold and bind together, he must be direct and synthetic in every act. reflection and qualification are not for him, but action, emotion, volition, the procreant blending and surrender. he works as nature does, and gives us reality in every line. whitman says:- "i charge you forever reject those who would expound me, for i cannot expound myself." the type of mind of whitman's, which seldom or never emerges as a mere mentality, an independent thinking and knowing faculty, but always as a personality, always as a complete human entity, never can expound itself, because its operations are synthetic and not analytic, its mainspring is love and not mere knowledge. in his prose essay called "a backward glance o'er travel'd roads," appended to the final edition of his poems, whitman has not so much sought to expound himself as to put his reader in possession of his point of view, and of the considerations that lie back of his work. this chapter might render much that i have written superfluous, were there not always a distinct gain in seeing an author through another medium, or in getting the equivalents of him in the thoughts and ideals of a kindred and sympathetic mind. but i have not consciously sought to expound whitman, any more than in my other books i have sought to expound the birds or wild nature. i have written out some things that he means to me, and the pleasure and profit i have found in his pages. there is no end to what can be drawn out of him. it has been said and repeated that he was not a thinker, and yet i find more food for thought in him than in all other poets. it has been often said and repeated that he is not a poet, and yet the readers that respond to him the most fully appear to be those in whom the poetic temperament is paramount. i believe he supplies in fuller measure that pristine element, something akin to the unbreathed air of mountain and shore, which makes the arterial blood of poetry and literature, than any other modern writer. v we can make little of whitman unless we allow him to be a law unto himself, and seek him through the clews which he himself brings. when we try him by current modes, current taste, and demand of him formal beauty, formal art, we are disappointed. but when we try him by what we may call the scientific standard, the standard of organic nature, and demand of him the vital and the characteristic,--demand of him that he have a law of his own, and fulfill that law in the poetic sphere,--the result is quite different. more than any other poet, whitman is what we make him; more than any other poet, his greatest value is in what he suggests and implies, rather than in what he portrays; and more than any other poet must he wait to be understood by the growth of the taste of himself. "i make the only growth by which i can be appreciated," he truly says. his words are like the manna that descended upon the israelites, "in which were all manner of tastes; and every one found in it what his palate was chiefly pleased with. if he desired fat in it, he had it. in it the young men tasted bread; the old men honey; and the children oil." many young men,--poets, artists, teachers, preachers,--have testified that they have found bread in whitman, the veritable bread of life; others have found honey, sweet poetic morsels; and not a few report having found only gall. vi in considering an original work like "leaves of grass," the search is always for the grounds upon which it is to be justified and explained. these grounds in this work are not easy to find; they lie deeper than the grounds upon which the popular poets rest. because they are not at once seen, many readers have denied that there are any such grounds. but to deny a basis of reality to a work with the history of "leaves of grass," and a basis well grounded on æsthetic and artistic principles, is not to be thought of. the more the poet eludes us, the more we know he has his hiding-place somewhere. the more he denies our standards, the more we know he has standards of his own which we must discover; the more he flouts at our literary conventions, the more we must press him for his own principles and methods. how does he justify himself to himself? could any sane man have written the children of adam poems who was not sustained by deepest moral and æsthetic convictions? it is the business of the critic to search for these principles and convictions, and not shirk the task by ridicule and denial. vii if there was never any change in taste, if it always ran in the same channels,--indeed, if it did not at times run in precisely opposite channels,--there would be little hope that walt whitman's poetry would ever find any considerable number of readers. but one of the laws that dominate the progress of literature, as edmond shérer says, is incessant change, not only in thought and ideas, but in taste and the starting-points of art. a radical and almost violent change in these respects is indicated by whitman,--a change which is in unison with many things in modern life and morals, but which fairly crosses the prevailing taste in poetry and in art. no such dose of realism and individualism under the guise of poetry has been administered to the reading public in this century. no such break with literary traditions--no such audacious attempt to tally, in a printed page, the living concrete man, an actual human presence, instead of the conscious, made-up poet--is to be found in modern literary records. viii the much that i have said in the following pages about whitman's radical differences from other poets--his changed attitude towards the universe, his unwonted methods and aims, etc.,--might seem to place him upon a ground so unique and individual as to contradict my claims for his breadth and universality. the great poets stand upon common ground; they excel along familiar lines, they touch us, and touch us deeply, at many points. what always saves whitman is his enormous endowment of what is "commonest, nearest, easiest,"--his atmosphere of the common day, the common life, and his fund of human sympathy and love. he is strange because he gives us the familiar in such a direct, unexpected manner. his "leaves" are like some new fruit that we have never before tasted. it is the product of another clime, another hemisphere. the same old rains and dews, the same old sun and soil, nursed it, yet in so many ways how novel and strange! we certainly have to serve a certain apprenticeship to this poet, familiarize ourselves with his point of view and with his democratic spirit, before we can make much of him. the spirit in which we come to him from the other poets--the poets of art and culture--is for the most part unfriendly to him. there is something rude, strange, and unpoetic about him at first sight that is sure to give most readers of poetry a shock. i think one might come to him from the greek poets, or the old hebrew or oriental bards, with less shock than from our modern delicate and refined singers; because the old poets were more simple and elemental, and aimed less at the distilled dainties of poetry, than the modern. they were full of action, too, and volition,--of that which begets and sustains life. whitman's poetry is almost entirely the expression of will and personality, and runs very little to intellectual subtleties and refinements. it fulfills itself in our wills and character, rather than in our taste. ix whitman will always be a strange and unwonted figure among his country's poets, and among english poets generally,--a cropping out again, after so many centuries, of the old bardic prophetic strain. had he dropped upon us from some other sphere, he could hardly have been a greater surprise and puzzle to the average reader or critic. into a literature that was timid, imitative, conventional, he fell like leviathan into a duck-pond, and the commotion and consternation he created there have not yet subsided. all the reigning poets in this country except emerson denied him, and many of our minor poets still keep up a hostile sissing and cackling. he will probably always be more or less a stumbling-block to the minor poet, because of his indifference to the things which to the minor poet are all in all. he was a poet without what is called artistic form, and without technique, as that word is commonly understood. his method was analogous to the dynamic method of organic nature, rather than to the mechanical or constructive method of the popular poets. x of course the first thing that strikes the reader in "leaves of grass" is its seeming oddity and strangeness. if a man were to come into a dress reception in shirt sleeves and with his hat on, the feature would strike us at once, and would be magnified in our eyes; we should quite forget that he was a man, and in essentials differed but little from the rest of us, after all. the exterior habiliments on such occasions count for nearly everything; and in the popular poetry rhyme, measure, and the language and manners of the poets are much more than anything else. if whitman did not do anything so outré as to come into a dress reception with his coat off and his hat on, he did come into the circle of the poets without the usual poetic habiliments. he was not dressed up at all, and he was not at all abashed or apologetic. his air was confident and self-satisfied, if it did not at times suggest the insolent and aggressive. it was the dress circle that was on trial, and not walt whitman. we could forgive a man in real life for such an audacious proceeding only on the ground of his being something extraordinary as a person, with an extraordinary message to convey; and we can pardon the poet only on precisely like grounds. he must make us forget his unwonted garb by his unique and lovable personality, and the power and wisdom of his utterance. if he cannot do this we shall soon tire of him. that whitman was a personality the like of which the world has not often seen, and that his message to his country and to his race was of prime importance, are conclusions at which more and more thinking persons are surely arriving. his want of art, of which we have heard so much, is, it seems to me, just this want of the usual trappings and dress uniform of the poets. in the essentials of art, the creative imagination, the plastic and quickening spirit, the power of identification with the thing contemplated, and the absolute use of words, he has few rivals. xi i make no claim that my essay is a dispassionate, disinterested view of whitman. it will doubtless appear to many as a one-sided view, or as colored by my love for the man himself. and i shall not be disturbed if such turns out to be the case. a dispassionate view of a man like whitman is probably out of the question in our time, or in any near time. his appeal is so personal and direct that readers are apt to be either violently for him or violently against, and it will require the perspective of more than one generation to bring out his true significance. still, for any partiality for its subject which my book may show, let me take shelter behind a dictum of goethe. "i am more and more convinced," says the great critic, "that whenever one has to vent an opinion on the actions or on the writings of others, unless this be done from a certain one-sided enthusiasm, or from a loving interest in the person and the work, the result is hardly worth gathering up. sympathy and enjoyment in what we see is in fact the only reality, and, from such reality, reality as a natural product follows. all else is vanity." to a loving interest in whitman and his work, which may indeed amount to one-sided enthusiasm, i plead guilty. this at least is real with me, and not affected; and, if the reality which goethe predicts in such cases only follows, i shall be more than content. xii in the world of literature, as in the world of physical forces, things adjust themselves after a while, and no impetus can be given to any man's name or fame that will finally carry it beyond the limit of his real worth. however "one-sided" my enthusiasm for whitman may be, or that of any of his friends may be, there is no danger but that in time he will find exactly his proper place and level. my opinion, or any man's opinion, of the works of another, is like a wind that blows for a moment across the water, heaping it up a little on the shore or else beating it down, but not in any way permanently affecting its proper level. the adverse winds that have blown over whitman's work have been many and persistent, and yet the tide has surely risen, his fame has slowly increased. it will soon be forty years since he issued the first thin quarto edition of "leaves of grass," and, though the opposition to him has been the most fierce and determined ever recorded in our literary history, often degenerating into persecution and willful misrepresentation, yet his fame has steadily grown both at home and abroad. the impression he early made upon such men as emerson, thoreau, william o'connor, mr. stedman, colonel ingersoll, and others in this country, and upon professors dowden and clifford, upon symonds, ruskin, tennyson, rossetti, lord lytton, mrs. gilchrist, george eliot, in england, has been followed by an equally deep or deeper impression upon many of the younger and bolder spirits of both hemispheres. in fact whitman saw his battle essentially won in his own lifetime, though his complete triumph is of course a matter of the distant future. xiii but let me give without further delay a fuller hint of the attitude these pages assume and hold towards the subject they discuss. there are always, or nearly always, a few men born to each generation who embody the best thought and culture of that generation, and express it in approved literary forms. from petrarch down to lowell, the lives and works of these men fill the literary annals; they uphold the literary and scholarly traditions; they are the true men of letters; they are justly honored and beloved in their day and land. we in this country have recently, in the death of dr. holmes, mourned the loss of the last of the new england band of such men. we are all indebted to them for solace, and for moral and intellectual stimulus. then, much more rarely, there is born to a race or people men who are like an irruption of life from another world, who belong to another order, who bring other standards, and sow the seed of new and larger types; who are not the organs of the culture or modes of their time, and whom their times for the most part decry and disown,--the primal, original, elemental men. it is here, in my opinion, that we must place whitman; not among the minstrels and edifiers of his age, but among its prophets and saviors. he is nearer the sources of things than the popular poets,--nearer the founders and discoverers, closer akin to the large, fervent, prophetic, patriarchal men who figure in the early heroic ages. his work ranks with the great primitive books. he is of the type of the skald, the bard, the seer, the prophet. the specialization and differentiation of our latter ages of science and culture is less marked in him than in other poets. poetry, philosophy, religion, are all inseparably blended in his pages. he is in many ways a reversion to an earlier type. dr. brinton has remarked that his attitude toward the principle of sex and his use of sexual imagery in his poems, are the same as in the more primitive religions. whitman was not a poet by elaboration, but by suggestion; not an artist by formal presentation, but by spirit and conception; not a philosopher by system and afterthought, but by vision and temper. in his "leaves," we again hear the note of destiny,--again see the universal laws and forces exemplified in the human personality, and turned upon life with love and triumph. xiv the world always has trouble with its primary men, or with the men who have any primary gifts, like emerson, wordsworth, browning, tolstoi, ibsen. the idols of an age are nearly always secondary men: they break no new ground; they make no extraordinary demands; our tastes and wants are already adjusted to their type; we understand and approve of them at once. the primary men disturb us; they are a summons and a challenge; they break up the old order; they open up new territory which we are to subdue and occupy; the next age and the next make more of them. in my opinion, the next age and the next will make more of whitman, and the next still more, because he is in the great world-current, in the line of the evolutionary movement of our time. is it at all probable that tennyson can ever be to any other age what he has been to this? tennyson marks an expiring age, the sunset of the feudal world. he did not share the spirit to which the future belongs. there was not one drop of democratic blood in his veins. to him, the people were an hundred-headed beast. xv if my essay seems like one continual strain to attain the unattainable, to compass and define whitman, who will not be compassed and defined, i can only say that i regret it, but could not well help it. talking about whitman, symonds said, was like talking about the universe, and it is so. there is somewhat incommensurable in his works. one may not hope to speak the final word about him, to sum him up in a sentence. he is so palpable, so real, so near at hand, that the critic or expounder of him promises himself an easy victory; but before one can close with him he is gone. he is, after all, as subtle and baffling as air or light. ... "i will certainly elude you, even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold! already you see i have escaped from you." it is probably this characteristic which makes whitman an irrepressible figure in literature; he will not down for friend or foe. he escapes from all classification, and is larger than any definition of him that has yet been given. how many times has he been exploded by british and american critics; how many times has he been labeled and put upon the shelf, only to reappear again as vigorous and untranslatable as ever! xvi so far as whitman stands merely for the spirit of revolt, or of reaction against current modes in life and literature, i have little interest in him. as the "apostle of the rough, the uncouth," to use mr. howells's words, the world would long ago have tired of him. the irruption into letters of the wild and lawless, or of the strained and eccentric, can amuse and interest us only for a moment. it is because these are only momentary phases of him, as it were, and because underneath all he embraces the whole of life and ministers to it, that his fame and influence are still growing in the world. one hesitates even to call whitman the poet of "democracy," or of "personality," or of "the modern," because such terms only half define him. he quickly escapes into that large and universal air which all great art breathes. we cannot sum him up in a phrase. he flows out on all sides, and his sympathies embrace all types and conditions of men. he is a great democrat, but, first and last and over all, he is a great man, a great nature, and deep world-currents course through him. he is distinctively an american poet, but his americanism is only the door through which he enters upon the universal. xvii call his work poetry or prose, or what you will: that it is an inspired utterance of some sort, any competent person ought to be able to see. and what else do we finally demand of any work than that it be inspired? how all questions of form and art, and all other questions, sink into insignificance beside that! the exaltation of mind and spirit shown in the main body of whitman's work, the genuine, prophetic fervor, the intensification and amplification of the simple ego, and the resultant raising of all human values, seem to me as plain as daylight. whitman is to be classed among the great names by the breadth and all-inclusiveness of his theme and by his irrepressible personality. i think it highly probable that future scholars and critics will find his work fully as significant and era-marking as that of any of the few supreme names of the past. it is the culmination of an age of individualism, and, as opposites meet, it is also the best lesson in nationalism and universal charity that this century has seen. biographical and personal i walt whitman was born at west hills, long island, may 30, 1819, and died at camden, n. j., march 26, 1892. though born in the country, most of his life was passed in cities; first in brooklyn and new york, then in new orleans, then in washington, and lastly in camden, where his body is buried. it was a poet's life from first to last,--free, unhampered, unworldly, unconventional, picturesque, simple, untouched by the craze of money-getting, unselfish, devoted to others, and was, on the whole, joyfully and contentedly lived. it was a pleased and interested saunter through the world,--no hurry, no fever, no strife; hence no bitterness, no depletion, no wasted energies. a farm boy, then a school-teacher, then a printer, editor, writer, traveler, mechanic, nurse in the army hospitals, and lastly government clerk; large and picturesque of figure, slow of movement; tolerant, passive, receptive, and democratic,--of the people; in all his tastes and attractions, always aiming to walk abreast with the great laws and forces, and to live thoroughly in the free, nonchalant spirit of his own day and land. his strain was mingled dutch and english, with a decided quaker tinge, which came from his mother's side, and which had a marked influence upon his work. the spirit that led him to devote his time and substance to the sick and wounded soldiers during the war may be seen in that earlier incident in his life when he drove a broadway stage all one winter, that a disabled driver might lie by without starving his family. it is from this episode that the tradition of his having been a new york stage-driver comes. he seems always to have had a special liking for this class of workmen. one of the house surgeons of the old new york hospital relates that in the latter part of the fifties whitman was a frequent visitor to that institution, looking after and ministering to disabled stage-drivers. "these drivers," says the doctor, "like those of the omnibuses in london, were a set of men by themselves. a good deal of strength, intelligence, and skillful management of horses was required of a broadway stage-driver. he seems to have been decidedly a higher order of man than the driver of the present horse-cars. he usually had his primary education in the country, and graduated as a thorough expert in managing a very difficult machine, in an exceptionally busy thoroughfare. "it was this kind of a man that so attracted walt whitman that he was constantly to be seen perched on the box alongside one of them going up and down broadway. i often watched the poet and driver, as probably did many another new yorker in those days. "i do not wonder as much now as i did in 1860 that a man like walt whitman became interested in these drivers. he was not interested in the news of every-day life--the murders and accidents and political convulsions--but he was interested in strong types of human character. we young men had not had experience enough to understand this kind of a man. it seems to me now that we looked at whitman simply as a kind of crank, if the word had then been invented. his talk to us was chiefly of books, and the men who wrote them: especially of poetry, and what he considered poetry. he never said much of the class whom he visited in our wards, after he had satisfied himself of the nature of the injury and of the prospect of recovery. "whitman appeared to be about forty years of age at that time. he was always dressed in a blue flannel coat and vest, with gray and baggy trousers. he wore a woolen shirt, with a byronic collar, low in the neck, without a cravat, as i remember, and a large felt hat. his hair was iron gray, and he had a full beard and mustache of the same color. his face and neck were bronzed by exposure to the sun and air. he was large, and gave the impression of being a vigorous man. he was scrupulously careful of his simple attire, and his hands were soft and hairy." during the early inception of "leaves of grass" he was a carpenter in brooklyn, building and selling small frame-houses to working people. he frequently knocked off work to write his poems. in his life whitman was never one of the restless, striving sort. in this respect he was not typical of his countrymen. all his urgency and strenuousness he reserved for his book. he seems always to have been a sort of visitor in life, noting, observing, absorbing, keeping aloof from all ties that would hold him, and making the most of the hour and the place in which he happened to be. he was in no sense a typical literary man. during his life in new york and brooklyn, we see him moving entirely outside the fashionable circles, the learned circles, the literary circles, the money-getting circles. he belongs to no set or club. he is seen more with the laboring classes,--drivers, boatmen, mechanics, printers,--and i suspect may often be found with publicans and sinners. he is fond of the ferries and of the omnibuses. he is a frequenter of the theatre and of the italian opera. alboni makes a deep and lasting impression upon him. it is probably to her that he writes these lines:- "here take this gift, i was reserving it for some hero, speaker, general, one who should serve the good old cause, the great idea, the progress and freedom of the race, some brave confronter of despots, some daring rebel; but i see that what i was reserving belongs to you just as much as to any." elsewhere he refers to alboni by name and speaks of her as "the lustrous orb, venus contralto, the blooming mother, sister of loftiest gods." some of his poems were written at the opera. the great singers evidently gave him clews and suggestions that were applicable to his own art. his study was out of doors. he wrote on the street, on the ferry, at the seaside, in the fields, at the opera,--always from living impulses arising at the moment, and always with his eye upon the fact. he says he has read his "leaves" to himself in the open air, and tried them by the realities of life and nature about him. were they as real and alive as they?--this was the only question with him. at home in his father's family in brooklyn we see him gentle, patient, conciliatory, much looked up to by all. neighbors seek his advice. he is cool, deliberate, impartial. a marked trait is his indifference to money matters; his people are often troubled because he lets opportunities to make money pass by. when his "leaves" appear, his family are puzzled, do not know what to make of it. his mother thinks that, if "hiawatha" is poetry, may be walt's book is, too. he never counsels with any one, and is utterly indifferent as to what people may say or think. he is not a stirring and punctual man, is always a little late; not an early riser, not prompt at dinner; always has ample time, and will not be hurried; the business gods do not receive his homage. he is gray at thirty, and is said to have had a look of age in youth, as he had a look of youth in age. he has few books, cares little for sport, never uses a gun; has no bad habits; has no entanglements with women, and apparently never contemplates marriage. it is said that during his earliest years of manhood he kept quite aloof from the "girls." at the age of nineteen he edited "the long islander," published at huntington. a recent visitor to these early haunts of whitman gathered some reminiscences of him at this date:-"amid the deep revery of nature, on that mild october afternoon, we returned to the village of huntington, there to meet the few, the very few, survivors who recall walt's first appearance in the literary world as the editor of 'the long islander,' nigh sixty years ago (1838). two of these forefathers of the hamlet clearly remembered his powerful personality, brimful of life, reveling in strength, careless of time and the world, of money and of toil; a lover of books and of jokes; delighting to gather round him the youth of the village in his printing-room of evenings, and tell them stories and read them poetry, his own and others'. that of his own he called his 'yawps,' a word which he afterwards made famous. both remembered him as a delightful companion, generous to a fault, glorying in youth, negligent of his affairs, issuing 'the long islander' at random intervals,--once a week, once in two weeks, once in three,--until its financial backers lost faith and hope and turned him out, and with him the whole office corps; for walt himself was editor, publisher, compositor, pressman, and printer's devil, all in one." ii few men were so deeply impressed by our civil war as was whitman. it aroused all his patriotism, all his sympathies, and, as a poet, tested his power to deal with great contemporary events and scenes. he was first drawn to the seat of war on behalf of his brother, lieutenant-colonel george w. whitman, 51st new york volunteers, who was wounded by the fragment of a shell at fredericksburg. this was in the fall of 1862. this brought him in contact with the sick and wounded soldiers, and henceforth, as long as the war lasts and longer, he devoted his time and substance to ministering to them. the first two or three years of his life in washington he supported himself by correspondence with northern newspapers, mainly with the "new york times." these letters, as well as the weekly letters to his mother during the same period, form an intensely pathetic and interesting record. they contain such revelations of himself, and such pictures of the scenes he moved among, that i shall here quote freely from them. the following extract is from a letter written from fredericksburg the third or fourth day after the battle of december, 1862:-"spent a good part of the day in a large brick mansion on the banks of the rappahannock, immediately opposite fredericksburg. it is used as a hospital since the battle, and seems to have received only the worst cases. out of doors, at the foot of a tree, within ten yards of the front of the house, i notice a heap of amputated feet, legs, arms, hands, etc., about a load for a one-horse cart. several dead bodies lie near, each covered with its brown woolen blanket. in the door-yard, toward the river, are fresh graves, mostly of officers, their names on pieces of barrel-staves, or broken board, stuck in the dirt. (most of these bodies were subsequently taken up and transported north to their friends.) "the house is quite crowded, everything impromptu, no system, all bad enough, but i have no doubt the best that can be done; all the wounds pretty bad, some frightful, the men in their old clothes, unclean and bloody. some of the wounded are rebel officers, prisoners. one, a mississippian,--a captain,--hit badly in leg, i talked with some time; he asked me for papers, which i gave him. (i saw him three months afterward in washington, with leg amputated, doing well.) "i went through the rooms, down stairs and up. some of the men were dying. i had nothing to give at that visit, but wrote a few letters to folks home, mothers, etc. also talked to three or four who seemed most susceptible to it, and needing it." "december 22 to 31.--am among the regimental, brigade, and division hospitals somewhat. few at home realize that these are merely tents, and sometimes very poor ones, the wounded lying on the ground, lucky if their blanket is spread on a layer of pine or hemlock twigs, or some leaves. no cots; seldom even a mattress on the ground. it is pretty cold. i go around from one case to another. i do not see that i can do any good, but i cannot leave them. once in a while some youngster holds on to me convulsively, and i do what i can for him; at any rate, stop with him and sit near him for hours, if he wishes it. "besides the hospitals, i also go occasionally on long tours through the camps, talking with the men, etc.; sometimes at night among the groups around the fires, in their shebang enclosures of bushes. i soon get acquainted anywhere in camp, with officers or men, and am always well used. sometimes i go down on picket with the regiments i know best." after continuing in front through the winter, he returns to washington, where the wounded and sick have mainly been concentrated. the capital city, truly, is now one huge hospital; and there whitman establishes himself, and thenceforward, for several years, has but one daily and nightly avocation. he alludes to writing letters by the bedside, and says:-"i do a good deal of this, of course, writing all kinds, including love-letters. many sick and wounded soldiers have not written home to parents, brothers, sisters, and even wives, for one reason or another, for a long, long time. some are poor writers, some cannot get paper and envelopes; many have an aversion to writing, because they dread to worry the folks at home,--the facts about them are so sad to tell. i always encourage the men to write, and promptly write for them." a glimpse of the scenes after chancellorsville:-"as i write this, in may, 1863, the wounded have begun to arrive from hooker's command from bloody chancellorsville. i was down among the first arrivals. the men in charge of them told me the bad cases were yet to come. if that is so, i pity them, for these are bad enough. you ought to see the scene of the wounded arriving at the landing here foot of sixth street at night. two boat-loads came about half past seven last night. a little after eight, it rained a long and violent shower. the poor, pale, helpless soldiers had been debarked, and lay around on the wharf and neighborhood anywhere. the rain was, probably, grateful to them; at any rate they were exposed to it. "the few torches light up the spectacle. all around on the wharf, on the ground, out on side places, etc., the men are lying on blankets and old quilts, with the bloody rags bound round heads, arms, legs, etc. the attendants are few, and at night few outsiders also,--only a few hard-worked transportation men and drivers. (the wounded are getting to be common, and people grow callous.) the men, whatever their condition, lie there, and patiently wait till their turn comes to be taken up. near by the ambulances are now arriving in clusters, and one after another is called to back up and take its load. extreme cases are sent off on stretchers. the men generally make little or no ado, whatever their sufferings,--a few groans that cannot be repressed, and occasionally a scream of pain, as they lift a man into the ambulance. "to-day, as i write, hundreds more are expected, and to-morrow and the next day more, and so on for many days. "the soldiers are nearly all young men, and far more american than is generally supposed,--i should say nine tenths are native-born. among the arrivals from chancellorsville i find a large proportion of ohio, indiana, and illinois men. as usual, there are all sorts of wounds. some of the men are fearfully burnt from the explosion of artillery caissons. one ward has a long row of officers, some with ugly hurts. yesterday was, perhaps, worse than usual. amputations are going on,--the attendants are dressing wounds. as you pass by, you must be on your guard where you look. i saw, the other day, a gentleman--a visitor, apparently, from curiosity--in one of the wards stop and turn a moment to look at an awful wound they were probing, etc. he turned pale, and in a moment more he had fainted away and fallen on the floor." an episode,--the death of a new york soldier:-"this afternoon, july 22, 1863, i spent a long time with a young man i have been with a good deal from time to time, named oscar f. wilber, company g, 154th new york, low with chronic diarrhoea, and a bad wound also. he asked me to read him a chapter in the new testament. i complied, and asked him what i should read. he said: 'make your own choice.' i opened at the close of one of the first books of the evangelists, and read the chapters describing the latter hours of christ and the scenes at the crucifixion. the poor, wasted young man asked me to read the following chapter also, how christ rose again. i read very slowly, as oscar was feeble. it pleased him very much, yet the tears were in his eyes. he asked me if i enjoyed religion. i said: 'perhaps not, my dear, in the way you mean, and yet, maybe, it is the same thing.' he said: 'it is my chief reliance.' he talked of death, and said he did not fear it. i said: 'why, oscar, don't you think you will get well?' he said: 'i may, but it is not probable.' he spoke calmly of his condition. the wound was very bad; it discharged much. then the diarrhoea had prostrated him, and i felt that he was even then the same as dying. he behaved very manly and affectionate. the kiss i gave him as i was about leaving he returned fourfold. he gave me his mother's address, mrs. sally d. wilber, alleghany post-office, cattaraugus county, new york. i had several such interviews with him. he died a few days after the one just described." and here, also, a characteristic scene in another of those long barracks:-"it is sunday afternoon (middle of summer, 1864), hot and oppressive, and very silent through the ward. i am taking care of a critical case, now lying in a half lethargy. near where i sit is a suffering rebel, from the 8th louisiana; his name is irving. he has been here a long time, badly wounded, and has lately had his leg amputated. it is not doing very well. right opposite me is a sick soldier boy, laid down with his clothes on, sleeping, looking much wasted, his pallid face on his arm. i see by the yellow trimming on his jacket that he is a cavalry boy. he looks so handsome as he sleeps, one must needs go nearer to him. i step softly over to him, and find by his card that he is named william cone, of the 1st maine cavalry, and his folks live in skowhegan." in a letter to his mother in 1863 he says, in reference to his hospital services: "i have got in the way, after going lightly, as it were, all through the wards of a hospital, and trying to give a word of cheer, if nothing else, to every one, then confining my special attention to the few where the investment seems to tell best, and who want it most.... mother, i have real pride in telling you that i have the consciousness of saving quite a number of lives by keeping the men from giving up, and being a good deal with them. the men say it is so, and the doctors say it is so; and i will candidly confess i can see it is true, though i say it myself. i know you will like to hear it, mother, so i tell you." again he says: "i go among the worst fevers and wounds with impunity; i go among the smallpox, etc., just the same. i feel to go without apprehension, and so i go: nobody else goes; but, as the darkey said there at charleston when the boat ran on a flat and the rebel sharpshooters were peppering them, '_somebody_ must jump in de water and shove de boat off.'" in another letter to his mother he thus accounts for his effect upon the wounded soldiers: "i fancy the reason i am able to do some good in the hospitals among the poor, languishing, and wounded boys, is that i am so large and well,--indeed, like a great wild buffalo with much hair. many of the soldiers are from the west and far north, and they like a man that has not the bleached, shiny, and shaved cut of the cities and the east." as to whitman's appearance about this time, we get an inkling from another letter to his mother, giving an account of an interview he had with senator preston king, to whom whitman applied for assistance in procuring a clerkship in one of the departments. king said to him, "why, how can i do this thing, or anything for you? how do i know but you are a secessionist? you look for all the world like an old southern planter,--a regular carolina or virginia planter." the great suffering of the soldiers and their heroic fortitude move him deeply. he says to his mother: "nothing of ordinary misfortune seems as it used to, and death itself has lost all its terrors; i have seen so many cases in which it was so welcome and such a relief." again: "i go to the hospitals every day or night. i believe no men ever loved each other as i and some of these poor wounded, sick, and dying men love each other." whitman's services in the hospitals began to tell seriously upon his health in june, 1864, when he had "spells of deathly faintness, and had trouble in the head." the doctors told him he must keep away for a while, but he could not. under date of june 7, 1864, he writes to his mother:-"there is a very horrible collection in armory building (in armory square hospital),--about two hundred of the worst cases you ever saw, and i have probably been too much with them. it is enough to melt the heart of a stone. over one third of them are amputation cases. well, mother, poor oscar cunningham is gone at last: (he is the 82d ohio boy, wounded may 3, '63). i have written so much of him i suppose you feel as if you almost knew him. i was with him saturday forenoon, and also evening. he was more composed than usual; could not articulate very well. he died about two o'clock sunday morning, very easy, they told me. i was not there. it was a blessed relief. his life has been misery for months. i believe i told you, last letter, i was quite blue from the deaths of several of the poor young men i knew well, especially two of whom i had strong hopes of their getting up. things are going pretty badly with the wounded. they are crowded here in washington in immense numbers, and all those that came up from the wilderness and that region arrived here so neglected and in such plight it was awful (those that were at fredericksburg, and also from belle plain). the papers are full of puffs, etc., but the truth is the largest proportion of worst cases get little or no attention. "we receive them here with their wounds full of worms,--some all swelled and inflamed. many of the amputations have to be done over again. one new feature is, that many of the poor, afflicted young men are crazy; every ward has some in it that are wandering. they have suffered too much, and it is perhaps a privilege that they are out of their senses. mother, it is most too much for a fellow, and i sometimes wish i was out of it; but i suppose it is because i have not felt firstrate myself." of the ohio soldier above referred to, whitman had written a few days before: "you remember i told you of him a year ago, when he was first brought in. i thought him the noblest specimen of a young western man i had seen. a real giant in size, and always with a smile on his face. oh, what a change! he has long been very irritable to every one but me, and his frame is all wasted away." to his brother jeff he wrote: "of the many i have seen die, or known of the past year, i have not seen or known of one who met death with any terror. yesterday i spent a good part of the afternoon with a young man of seventeen named charles cutter, of lawrence city, 1st massachusetts heavy artillery, battery m. he was brought into one of the hospitals mortally wounded in abdomen. well, i thought to myself as i sat looking at him, it ought to be a relief to his folks, after all, if they could see how little he suffered. he lay very placid, in a half lethargy, with his eyes closed; it was very warm, and i sat a long while fanning him and wiping the sweat. at length he opened his eyes quite wide and clear, and looked inquiringly around. i said, "what is it, my dear? do you want anything?" he said quietly, with a good-natured smile, "oh, nothing; i was only looking around to see who was with me." his mind was somewhat wandering, yet he lay so peaceful in his dying condition. he seemed to be a real new england country boy, so good-natured, with a pleasant, homely way, and quite fine-looking. without any doubt, he died in course of the night." another extract from a letter to his mother in april, 1864:-"mother, you don't know what a feeling a man gets after being in the active sights and influences of the camp, the army, the wounded, etc. he gets to have a deep feeling he never experienced before,--the flag, the tune of yankee doodle, and similar things, produce an effect on a fellow never felt before. i have seen tears on the men's cheeks, and others turn pale under such circumstances. i have a little flag,--it belonged to one of our cavalry regiments,--presented to me by one of the wounded. it was taken by the rebs in a cavalry fight, and rescued by our men in a bloody little skirmish. it cost three men's lives just to get one little flag four by three. our men rescued it, and tore it from the breast of a dead rebel. all that just for the name of getting their little banner back again. the man that got it was very badly wounded, and they let him keep it. i was with him a good deal. he wanted to give me something, he said; he did not expect to live; so he gave me the little banner as a keepsake. i mention this, mother, to show you a specimen of the feeling. there isn't a regiment of cavalry or infantry that wouldn't do the same on occasion." [an army surgeon, who at the time watched with curiosity mr. whitman's movements among the soldiers in the hospitals, has since told me that his principles of operation, effective as they were, seemed strangely few, simple, and on a low key,--to act upon the appetite, to cheer by a healthy and fitly bracing appearance and demeanor; and to fill and satisfy in certain cases the affectional longings of the patients, was about all. he carried among them no sentimentalism nor moralizing; spoke not to any man of his "sins," but gave something good to eat, a buoying word, or a trifling gift and a look. he appeared with ruddy face, clean dress, with a flower or a green sprig in the lapel of his coat. crossing the fields in summer, he would gather a great bunch of dandelion blossoms, and red and white clover, to bring and scatter on the cots, as reminders of out-door air and sunshine. when practicable, he came to the long and crowded wards of the maimed, the feeble, and the dying, only after preparations as for a festival,--strengthened by a good meal, rest, the bath, and fresh underclothes. he entered with a huge haversack slung over his shoulder, full of appropriate articles, with parcels under his arms, and protuberant pockets. he would sometimes come in summer with a good-sized basket filled with oranges, and would go round for hours paring and dividing them among the feverish and thirsty.] of his devotion to the wounded soldiers there are many witnesses. a well-known correspondent of the "new york herald" writes thus about him in april, 1876:-"i first heard of him among the sufferers on the peninsula after a battle there. subsequently i saw him, time and again, in the washington hospitals, or wending his way there, with basket or haversack on his arm, and the strength of beneficence suffusing his face. his devotion surpassed the devotion of woman. it would take a volume to tell of his kindness, tenderness, and thoughtfulness. "never shall i forget one night when i accompanied him on his rounds through a hospital filled with those wounded young americans whose heroism he has sung in deathless numbers. there were three rows of cots, and each cot bore its man. when he appeared, in passing along, there was a smile of affection and welcome on every face, however wan, and his presence seemed to light up the place as it might be lighted by the presence of the god of love. from cot to cot they called him, often in tremulous tones or in whispers; they embraced him; they touched his hand; they gazed at him. to one he gave a few words of cheer; for another he wrote a letter home; to others he gave an orange, a few comfits, a cigar, a pipe and tobacco, a sheet of paper or a postage-stamp, all of which and many other things were in his capacious haversack. from another he would receive a dying message for mother, wife, or sweetheart; for another he would promise to go an errand; to another, some special friend very low, he would give a manly farewell kiss. he did the things for them no nurse or doctor could do, and he seemed to leave a benediction at every cot as he passed along. the lights had gleamed for hours in the hospital that night before he left it, and, as he took his way towards the door, you could hear the voices of many a stricken hero calling, 'walt, walt, walt! come again! come again!'" iii out of that experience in camp and hospital the pieces called "drum-taps," first published in 1865,--since merged in his "leaves,"--were produced. their descriptions and pictures, therefore, come from life. the vivid incidents of "the dresser" are but daguerreotypes of the poet's own actual movements among the bad cases of the wounded after a battle. the same personal knowledge runs through "a sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim," "come up from the fields, father," etc., etc. the reader of this section of whitman's work soon discovers that it is not the purpose of the poet to portray battles and campaigns, or to celebrate special leaders or military prowess, but rather to chant the human aspects of anguish that follow in the train of war. he perhaps feels that the permanent condition of modern society is that of peace; that war as a business, as a means of growth, has served its time; and that, notwithstanding the vast difference between ancient and modern warfare, both in the spirit and in the means, homer's pictures are essentially true yet, and no additions to them can be made. war can never be to us what it has been to the nations of all ages down to the present; never the main fact, the paramount condition, tyrannizing over all the affairs of national and individual life, but only an episode, a passing interruption; and the poet, who in our day would be as true to his nation and times as homer was to his, must treat of it from the standpoint of peace and progress, and even benevolence. vast armies rise up in a night and disappear in a day; a million of men, inured to battle and to blood, go back to the avocations of peace without a moment's confusion or delay,--indicating clearly the tendency that prevails. apostrophizing the genius of america in the supreme hour of victory, he says:- "no poem proud, i, chanting, bring to thee--nor mastery's rapturous verse:- but a little book containing night's darkness and blood-dripping wounds, and psalms of the dead." the collection is also remarkable for the absence of all sectional or partisan feeling. under the head of "reconciliation" are these lines:- "word over all, beautiful as the sky! beautiful that war, and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost! that the hands of the sisters death and night incessantly, softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world; ... for my enemy is dead--a man divine as myself is dead; i look where he lies, white-faced and still, in the coffin--i draw near; i bend down, and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin." perhaps the most noteworthy of whitman's war poems is the one called "when lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed," written in commemoration of president lincoln. the main effect of this poem is of strong, solemn, and varied music; and it involves in its construction a principle after which perhaps the great composers most work,--namely, spiritual auricular analogy. at first it would seem to defy analysis, so rapt is it, and so indirect. no reference whatever is made to the mere fact of lincoln's death; the poet does not even dwell upon its unprovoked atrocity, and only occasionally is the tone that of lamentation; but, with the intuitions of the grand art, which is the most complex when it seems most simple, he seizes upon three beautiful facts of nature, which he weaves into a wreath for the dead president's tomb. the central thought is of death, but around this he curiously twines, first, the early-blooming lilacs which the poet may have plucked the day the dark shadow came; next the song of the hermit thrush, the most sweet and solemn of all our songsters, heard at twilight in the dusky cedars; and with these the evening star, which, as many may remember, night after night in the early part of that eventful spring, hung low in the west with unusual and tender brightness. these are the premises whence he starts his solemn chant. the attitude, therefore, is not that of being bowed down and weeping hopeless tears, but of singing a commemorative hymn, in which the voices of nature join, and fits that exalted condition of the soul which serious events and the presence of death induce. there are no words of mere eulogy, no statistics, and no story or narrative; but there are pictures, processions, and a strange mingling of darkness and light, of grief and triumph: now the voice of the bird, or the drooping lustrous star, or the sombre thought of death; then a recurrence to the open scenery of the land as it lay in the april light, "the summer approaching with richness and the fields all busy with labor," presently dashed in upon by a spectral vision of armies with torn and bloody battle-flags, and, again, of the white skeletons of young men long afterward strewing the ground. hence the piece has little or nothing of the character of the usual productions on such occasions. it is dramatic; yet there is no development of plot, but a constant interplay, a turning and returning of images and sentiments. the poet breaks a sprig of lilac from the bush in the door-yard,--the dark cloud falls on the land,--the long funeral sets out,--and then the apostrophe:- "coffin that passes through lanes and streets, through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land, with the pomp of the inloop'd flags, with the cities draped in black, with the show of the states themselves, as of crape-veiled women, standing, with processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night, with the countless torches lit--with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads, with the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, with dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn; with all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour'd around the coffin, to dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs--where amid these you journey, with the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang; here! coffin that slowly passes, i give you my sprig of lilac. "(nor for you, for one alone; blossoms and branches green to coffins all i bring; for fresh as the morning--thus would i chant a song for you, o sane and sacred death. "all over bouquets of roses, o death! i cover you over with roses and early lilies; but mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first, copious, i break, i break the sprigs from the bushes; with loaded arms i come, pouring for you, for you and the coffins all of you, o death.)" then the strain goes on:- "o how shall i warble myself for the dead one there i loved? and how shall i deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone? and what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him i love? "sea-winds, blown from east and west, blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting: these, and with these, and the breath of my chant, i perfume the grave of him i love." the poem reaches, perhaps, its height in the matchless invocation to 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. "prais'd be the fathomless universe, for life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious; and for love, sweet love--but praise! o praise and praise, for the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death. "dark mother, always gliding near, with soft feet, have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? then i chant it for thee--i glorify thee above all; i bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. "approach, encompassing death--strong deliveress! when it is so--when thou hast taken them, i joyously sing the dead, lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, laved in the flood of thy bliss, o death. "from me to thee glad serenades, dances for thee i propose, saluting thee--adornments and feastings for thee; and the sights of the open landscape, and the high-spread sky are fitting, and life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. the night, in silence, under many a star; the ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice i know; and the soul turning to thee, o vast and well-veil'd death, and the body gratefully nestling close to thee." iv whitman despised riches, and all mere worldly success, as heartily as ever did any of the old christians. all outward show and finery were intensely distasteful to him. he probably would not have accepted the finest house in new york on condition that he live in it. during his hospital experiences he cherished the purpose, as soon as the war was over, of returning to brooklyn, buying an acre or two of land in some by-place on long island, and building for himself and his family a cheap house. when his brother jeff contemplated building, he advised him to build merely an irish shanty. after what he had seen the soldiers put up with, he thought anything was good enough for him or his people. in one of his letters to his mother, he comments upon the un-american and inappropriate ornamentation of the rooms in the capitol building, "without grandeur and without simplicity," he says. in the state the country was in, and with the hospital scenes before him, the "poppy-show goddesses" and the italian style of decoration, etc., sickened him, and he got away from it all as quickly as he could. v during the war and after, i used to see a good deal of whitman in washington. summer and winter he was a conspicuous figure on pennsylvania avenue, where he was wont to walk for exercise and to feed his hunger for faces. one would see him afar off, in the crowd but not of it,--a large, slow-moving figure, clad in gray, with broad-brimmed hat and gray beard,--or, quite as frequently, on the front platform of the street horse-cars with the driver. my eye used to single him out many blocks away. there were times during this period when his aspect was rather forbidding,--the physical man was too pronounced on first glance; the other man was hidden beneath the broad-brimmed hat. one needed to see the superbly domed head and classic brow crowning the rank physical man. in his middle manhood, judging from the photos, he had a hirsute, kindly look, but very far removed from the finely cut traditional poet's face. vi i have often heard whitman say that he inherited most excellent blood from his mother,--the old dutch van velser strain,--long island blood filtered and vitalized through generations by the breath of the sea. he was his mother's child unmistakably. with all his rank masculinity, there was a curious feminine undertone in him which revealed itself in the quality of his voice, the delicate texture of his skin, the gentleness of his touch and ways, the attraction he had for children and the common people. a lady in the west, writing to me about him, spoke of his "great mother-nature." he was receptive, sympathetic, tender, and met you, not in a positive, aggressive manner, but more or less in a passive or neutral mood. he did not give his friends merely his mind, he gave them himself. it is not merely his mind or intellect that he has put into his poems, it is himself. indeed, this feminine mood or attitude might be dwelt upon at much length in considering his poems,--their solvent, absorbing power, and the way they yield themselves to diverse interpretations. the sea, too, had laid its hand upon him, as i have already suggested. he never appeared so striking and impressive as when seen upon the beach. his large and tall gray figure looked at home, and was at home, upon the shore. the simple, strong, flowing lines of his face, his always clean fresh air, his blue absorbing eye, his commanding presence, and something pristine and elemental in his whole expression, seemed at once to put him _en rapport_ with the sea. no phase of nature seems to have impressed him so deeply as the sea, or recurs so often in his poems. vii whitman was preëminently manly,--richly endowed with the universal, healthy human qualities and attributes. mr. conway relates that when emerson handed him the first thin quarto edition of "leaves of grass," while he was calling at his house in concord, soon after the book appeared, he said, "americans abroad may now come home: unto us a man is born." president lincoln, standing one day during the war before a window in the white house, saw whitman slowly saunter by. he followed him with his eyes, and, turning, said to those about him, "well, _he_ looks like a _man_." "meeter of savage and gentleman on equal terms." during whitman's western tour in 1879 or '80, at some point in kansas, in company with several well-known politicians and government officials, he visited a lot of indians who were being held as prisoners. the sheriff told the indians who the distinguished men were who were about to see them, but the indians paid little attention to them as, one after the other, the officials and editors passed by them. behind all came whitman. the old chief looked at him steadily, then extended his hand and said, "how!" all the other indians followed, surrounding whitman, shaking his hand and making the air melodious with their "hows." the incident evidently pleased the old poet a good deal. viii whitman was of large mould in every way, and of bold, far-reaching schemes, and is very sure to fare better at the hands of large men than of small. the first and last impression which his personal presence always made upon one was of a nature wonderfully gentle, tender, and benignant. his culture, his intellect, was completely suffused and dominated by his humanity, so that the impression you got from him was not that of a learned or a literary person, but of fresh, strong, sympathetic human nature,--such an impression, i fancy, only fuller, as one might have got from walter scott. this was perhaps the secret of the attraction he had, for the common, unlettered people and for children. i think that even his literary friends often sought his presence less for conversation than to bask in his physical or psychical sunshine, and to rest upon his boundless charity. the great service he rendered to the wounded and homesick soldiers in the hospitals during the war came from his copious endowment of this broad, sweet, tender democratic nature. he brought father and mother to them, and the tonic and cheering atmosphere of simple, affectionate home life. in person whitman was large and tall, above six feet, with a breezy, open-air look. his temperament was sanguine; his voice was a tender baritone. the dominant impression he made was that of something fresh and clean. i remember the first time i met him, which was in washington, in the fall of 1863. i was impressed by the fine grain and clean, fresh quality of the man. some passages in his poems had led me to expect something different. he always had the look of a man who had just taken a bath. the skin was light and clear, and the blood well to the surface. his body, as i once noticed when we were bathing in the surf, had a peculiar fresh bloom and fineness and delicacy of texture. his physiology was undoubtedly remarkable, unique. the full beauty of his face and head did not appear till he was past sixty. after that, i have little doubt, it was the finest head this age or country has seen. every artist who saw him was instantly filled with a keen desire to sketch him. the lines were so simple, so free, and so strong. high, arching brows; straight, clear-cut nose; heavy-lidded blue-gray eyes; forehead not thrust out and emphasized, but a vital part of a symmetrical, dome-shaped head; ear large, and the most delicately carved i have ever seen; the mouth and chin hidden by a soft, long, white beard. it seems to me his face steadily refined and strengthened with age. time depleted him in just the right way,--softened his beard and took away the too florid look; subdued the carnal man, and brought out more fully the spiritual man. when i last saw him (december 26, 1891), though he had been very near death for many days, i am sure i had never seen his face so beautiful. there was no breaking-down of the features, or the least sign of decrepitude, such as we usually note in old men. the expression was full of pathos, but it was as grand as that of a god. i could not think of him as near death, he looked so unconquered. in washington i knew whitman intimately from the fall of 1863 to the time he left in 1873. in camden i visited him yearly after that date, usually in the late summer or fall. i will give one glimpse of him from my diary, under date of august 18, 1887. i reached his house in the morning, before he was up. presently he came slowly down stairs and greeted me. "find him pretty well,--looking better than last year. with his light-gray suit, and white hair, and fresh pink face, he made a fine picture. among other things, we talked of the swinburne attack (then recently published). w. did not show the least feeling on the subject, and, i clearly saw, was absolutely undisturbed by the article. i told him i had always been more disturbed by s.'s admiration for him than i was now by his condemnation. by and by w. had his horse hitched up, and we started for glendale, ten miles distant, to see young gilchrist, the artist. a fine drive through a level farming and truck-gardening country; warm, but breezy. w. drives briskly, and salutes every person we meet, little and big, black and white, male and female. nearly all return his salute cordially. he said he knew but few of those he spoke to, but that, as he grew older, the old long island custom of his people, to speak to every one on the road, was strong upon him. one tipsy man in a buggy responded, 'why, pap, how d' ye do, pap?' etc. we talked of many things. i recall this remark of w., as something i had not before thought of, that it was difficult to see what the old feudal world would have come to without christianity: it would have been like a body acted upon by the centrifugal force without the centripetal. those haughty lords and chieftains needed the force of christianity to check and curb them, etc. w. knew the history of many prominent houses on the road: here a crazy man lived, with two colored men to look after him; there, in that fine house among the trees, an old maid, who had spent a large fortune on her house and lands, and was now destitute, yet she was a woman of remarkable good sense, etc. we returned to camden before dark, w. apparently not fatigued by the drive of twenty miles." in death what struck me most about the face was its perfect symmetry. it was such a face, said mr. conway, as rembrandt would have selected from a million. "it is the face of an aged loving child. as i looked, it was with the reflection that, during an acquaintance of thirty-six years, i never heard from those lips a word of irritation, or depreciation of any being. i do not believe that buddha, of whom he appeared an avatar, was more gentle to all men, women, children, and living things." ix for one of the best pen-sketches of whitman in his old age we are indebted to dr. j. johnston, a young scotch physician of bolton, england, who visited whitman in the summer of 1890. i quote from a little pamphlet which the doctor printed on his return home:-"the first thing about himself that struck me was the physical immensity and magnificent proportions of the man, and, next, the picturesque majesty of his presence as a whole. "he sat quite erect in a great cane-runged chair, cross-legged, and clad in rough gray clothes, with slippers on his feet, and a shirt of pure white linen, with a great wide collar edged with white lace, the shirt buttoned about midway down his breast, the big lapels of the collar thrown open, the points touching his shoulders, and exposing the upper portion of his hirsute chest. he wore a vest of gray homespun, but it was unbuttoned almost to the bottom. he had no coat on, and his shirt sleeves were turned up above the elbows, exposing most beautifully shaped arms, and flesh of the most delicate whiteness. although it was so hot, he did not perspire visibly, while i had to keep mopping my face. his hands are large and massive, but in perfect proportion to the arms; the fingers long, strong, white, and tapering to a blunt end. his nails are square, showing about an eighth of an inch separate from the flesh, and i noticed that there was not a particle of impurity beneath any of them. but his majesty is concentrated in his head, which is set with leonine grace and dignity upon his broad, square shoulders; and it is almost entirely covered with long, fine, straggling hair, silvery and glistening, pure and white as sunlit snow, rather thin on the top of his high, rounded crown, streaming over and around his large but delicately-shaped ears, down the back of his big neck; and, from his pinky-white cheeks and top lip, over the lower part of his face, right down to the middle of his chest, like a cataract of materialized, white, glistening vapor, giving him a most venerable and patriarchal appearance. his high, massive forehead is seamed with wrinkles. his nose is large, strong, broad, and prominent, but beautifully chiseled and proportioned, almost straight, very slightly depressed at the tip, and with deep furrows on each side, running down to the angles of the mouth. the eyebrows are thick and shaggy, with strong, white hair, very highly arched and standing a long way above the eyes, which are of a light blue with a tinge of gray, small, rather deeply set, calm, clear, penetrating, and revealing unfathomable depths of tenderness, kindness, and sympathy. the upper eyelids droop considerably over the eyeballs. the lips, which are partly hidden by the thick, white mustache, are full. the whole face impresses one with a sense of resoluteness, strength, and intellectual power, and yet withal a winning sweetness, unconquerable radiance, and hopeful joyousness. his voice is highly pitched and musical, with a timbre which is astonishing in an old man. there is none of the tremor, quaver, or shrillness usually observed in them, but his utterance is clear, ringing, and most sweetly musical. but it was not in any one of these features that his charm lay so much as in his _tout ensemble_, and the irresistible magnetism of his sweet, aromatic presence, which seemed to exhale sanity, purity, and naturalness, and exercised over me an attraction which positively astonished me, producing an exaltation of mind and soul which no man's presence ever did before. i felt that i was here face to face with the living embodiment of all that was good, noble, and lovable in humanity." x british critics have spoken of whitman's athleticism, his athletic temperament, etc., but he was in no sense a muscular man, an athlete. his body, though superb, was curiously the body of a child; one saw this in its form, in its pink color, and in the delicate texture of the skin. he took little interest in feats of strength, or in athletic sports. he walked with a slow, rolling gait, indeed, moved slowly in all ways; he always had an air of infinite leisure. for several years, while a clerk in the attorney-general's office in washington, his exercise for an hour each day consisted in tossing a few feet into the air, as he walked, a round, smooth stone, of about one pound weight, and catching it as it fell. later in life, and after his first paralytic stroke, when in the woods, he liked to bend down the young saplings, and exercise his arms and chest in that way. in his poems much emphasis is laid upon health, and upon purity and sweetness of body, but none upon mere brute strength. this is what he says "to a pupil:"- 1. is reform needed? is it through you? the greater the reform needed, the greater the personality you need to accomplish it. 2. you! do you not see how it would serve to have eyes, blood, complexion, clean and sweet? do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and soul, that when you enter the crowd, an atmosphere of desire and command enters with you, and every one is impressed with your personality? 3. o the magnet! the flesh over and over! go, mon cher! if need be, give up all else, and commence to-day to inure yourself to pluck, reality, self-esteem, definiteness, elevatedness, rest not, till you rivet and publish yourself of your own personality. it is worthy of note that whitman's washington physician said he had one of the most thoroughly natural physical systems he had ever known,--the freest, probably, from extremes or any disproportion; which answers to the perfect sanity which all his friends must have felt with regard to his mind. a few years ago a young english artist stopping in this country made several studies of him. in one of them which he showed me, he had left the face blank, but had drawn the figure from the head down with much care. it was so expressive, so unmistakably whitman, conveyed so surely a certain majesty and impressiveness that pertained to the poet physically, that i looked upon it with no ordinary interest. every wrinkle in the garments seemed to proclaim the man. probably a similar painting of any of one's friends would be more or less a recognizable portrait, but i doubt if it would speak so emphatically as did this incomplete sketch. i thought it all the more significant in this case because whitman laid such stress upon the human body in his poems, built so extensively upon it, curiously identifying it with the soul, and declaring his belief that if he made the poems of his body and of mortality he would thus supply himself with the poems of the soul and of immortality. "behold," he says, "the body includes and is the meaning, the main concern, and includes and is the soul; whoever you are, how superb and how divine is your body, or any part of it!" he runs this physiological thread all through his book, and strings upon it many valuable lessons and many noble sentiments. those who knew him well, i think, will agree with me that his bodily presence was singularly magnetic, restful, and positive, and that it furnished a curious and suggestive commentary upon much there is in his poetry. the greeks, who made so much more of the human body than we do, seem not to have carried so much meaning, so much history, in their faces as does the modern man; the soul was not concentrated here, but was more evenly distributed over the whole body. their faces expressed repose, harmony, power of command. i think whitman was like the greeks in this respect. his face had none of the eagerness, sharpness, nervousness, of the modern face. it had but few lines, and these were greek. from the mouth up, the face was expressive of greek purity, simplicity, strength, and repose. the mouth was large and loose, and expressive of another side of his nature. it was a mouth that required the check and curb of that classic brow. and the influence of his poems is always on the side of physiological cleanliness and strength, and severance from all that corrupts and makes morbid and mean. he says the "expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face: it is in his limbs and joints also; it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists; it is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees; dress does not hide him; the strong, sweet, supple quality he has strikes through the cotton and flannel; to see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more. you linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side." he says he has perceived that to be with those he likes is enough: "to be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,--i do not ask any more delight; i swim in it, as in a sea. there is something in staying close to men and women and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well. all things please the soul, but these please the soul well." emerson once asked whitman what it was he found in the society of the common people that satisfied him so; for his part, he could not find anything. the subordination by whitman of the purely intellectual to the human and physical, which runs all through his poems and is one source of their power, emerson, who was deficient in the sensuous, probably could not appreciate. xi the atmosphere of whitman personally was that of a large, tolerant, tender, sympathetic, restful man, easy of approach, indifferent to any special social or other distinctions and accomplishments that might be yours, and regarding you from the start for yourself alone. children were very fond of him; and women, unless they had been prejudiced against him, were strongly drawn toward him. his personal magnetism was very great, and was warming and cheering. he was rich in temperament, probably beyond any other man of his generation,--rich in all the purely human and emotional endowments and basic qualities. then there was a look about him hard to describe, and which i have seen in no other face,--a gray, brooding, elemental look, like the granite rock, something primitive and adamic that might have belonged to the first man; or was it a suggestion of the gray, eternal sea that he so loved, near which he was born, and that had surely set its seal upon him? i know not, but i feel the man with that look is not of the day merely, but of the centuries. his eye was not piercing, but absorbing,--"draining" is the word happily used by william o'connor; the soul back of it drew things to himself, and entered and possessed them through sympathy and personal force and magnetism, rather than through mere intellectual force. xii walt whitman was of the people, the common people, and always gave out their quality and atmosphere. his commonness, his nearness, as of the things you have always known,--the day, the sky, the soil, your own parents,--were in no way veiled, or kept in abeyance, by his culture or poetic gifts. he was redolent of the human and the familiar. though capable, on occasions, of great pride and hauteur, yet his habitual mood and presence was that of simple, average, healthful humanity,--the virtue and flavor of sailors, soldiers, laborers, travelers, or people who live with real things in the open air. his commonness rose into the uncommon, the extraordinary, but without any hint of the exclusive or specially favored. he was indeed "no sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them." the spirit that animates every page of his book, and that it always effuses, is the spirit of common, universal humanity,--humanity apart from creeds, schools, conventions, from all special privileges and refinements, as it is in and of itself in its relations to the whole system of things, in contradistinction to the literature of culture which effuses the spirit of the select and exclusive. his life was the same. walt whitman never stood apart from or above any human being. the common people--workingmen, the poor, the illiterate, the outcast--saw themselves in him, and he saw himself in them: the attraction was mutual. he was always content with common, unadorned humanity. specially intellectual people rather repelled him; the wit, the scholar, the poet, must have a rich endowment of the common, universal, human attributes and qualities to pass current with him. he sought the society of boatmen, railroad men, farmers, mechanics, printers, teamsters, mothers of families, etc., rather than the society of professional men or scholars. men who had the quality of things in the open air--the virtue of rocks, trees, hills--drew him most; and it is these qualities and virtues that he has aimed above all others to put into his poetry, and to put them there in such a way that he who reads must feel and imbibe them. the recognized poets put into their pages the virtue and quality of the fine gentleman, or of the sensitive, artistic nature: this poet of democracy effuses the atmosphere of fresh, strong adamic man,--man acted upon at first hand by the shows and forces of universal nature. if our poet ever sounds the note of the crude, the loud, the exaggerated, he is false to himself and to his high aims. i think he may be charged with having done so a few times, in his earlier work, but not in his later. in the 1860 edition of his poems stands this portraiture, which may stand for himself, with one or two features rather overdrawn:- "his shape arises arrogant, masculine, naïve, rowdyish, laugher, weeper, worker, idler, citizen, countryman, saunterer of woods, stander upon hills, summer swimmer in rivers or by the sea, of pure american breed, of reckless health, his body perfect, free from taint from top to toe, free forever from headache and dyspepsia, clean-breathed, ample-limbed, a good feeder, weight a hundred and eighty pounds, full-blooded, six feet high, forty inches round the breast and back, countenance sunburnt, bearded, calm, unrefined, reminder of animals, meeter of savage and gentleman on equal terms, attitudes lithe and erect, costume free, neck gray and open, of slow movement on foot, passer of his right arm round the shoulders of his friends, companion of the street, persuader always of people to give him their sweetest touches, and never their meanest. a manhattanese bred, fond of brooklyn, fond of broadway, fond of the life of the wharves and the great ferries, enterer everywhere, welcomed everywhere, easily understood after all, never offering others, always offering himself, corroborating his phrenology, voluptuous, inhabitive, combative, conscientious, alimentive, intuitive, of copious friendship, sublimity, firmness, self-esteem, comparison, individuality, form, locality, eventuality, avowing by life, manners, words to contribute illustrations of results of these states, teacher of the unquenchable creed namely egotism, inviter of others continually henceforth to try their strength against his." xiii whitman was determined, at whatever risk to his own reputation, to make the character which he has exploited in his poems a faithful compend of american humanity, and to do this the rowdy element could not be entirely ignored. hence he unflinchingly imputes it to himself, as, for that matter, he has nearly every sin and dereliction mankind are guilty of. whitman developed slowly and late upon the side that related him to social custom and usage,--to the many fictions, concealments, make-believes, and subterfuges of the world of parlors and drawing-rooms. he never was an adept in what is called "good form;" the natural man that he was shows crude in certain relations. his publication of emerson's letter with its magnificent eulogium of "leaves of grass" has been much commented upon. there may be two opinions as to the propriety of his course in this respect: a letter from a stranger upon a matter of public interest is not usually looked upon as a private letter. emerson never spoke with more felicity and penetration than he does in this letter; but it is for whitman's own sake that we would have had him practice self-denial in the matter; he greatly plumed himself upon emerson's endorsement, and was guilty of the very bad taste of printing a sentence from the letter upon the cover of the next edition of his book. grant that it showed a certain crudeness, unripeness, in one side of the man; later in life, he could not have erred in this way. ruskin is reported saying that he never in his life wrote a letter to any human being that he would not be willing should be posted up in the market-place, or cried by the public crier through the town. but emerson was a much more timid and conforming man than ruskin, and was much more likely to be shocked by such a circumstance. it has been said that the publication of this letter much annoyed emerson, and that he never forgave whitman the offense. that he was disturbed by it and by the storm that arose there can be little doubt; but there is no evidence that he allowed the fact to interfere with his friendship for the poet. charles w. eldridge, who personally knew of the relations of the two men, says:-"there was not a year from 1855 (the date of the emerson letter and its publication) down to 1860 (the year walt came to boston to supervise the issue of the thayer & eldridge edition of 'leaves of grass'), that emerson did not personally seek out walt at his brooklyn home, usually that they might have a long symposium together at the astor house in new york. besides that, during these years emerson sent many of his closest friends, including alcott and thoreau, to see walt, giving them letters of introduction to him. this is not the treatment usually accorded a man who has committed an unpardonable offense. "i know that afterwards, during walt's stay in boston, emerson frequently came down from concord to see him, and that they had many walks and talks together, these conferences usually ending with a dinner at the american house, at that time emerson's favorite boston hotel. on several occasions they met by appointment in our counting-room. their relations were as cordial and friendly as possible, and it was always emerson who sought out walt, and never the other way, although, of course, walt appreciated and enjoyed emerson's companionship very much. in truth, walt never sought the company of notables at all, and was always very shy of purely literary society. i know that at this time walt was invited by emerson to concord, but declined to go, probably through his fear that he would see too much of the literary coterie that then clustered there, chiefly around emerson." xiv whitman gave himself to men as men and not as scholars or poets, and gave himself purely as a man. while not specially averse to meeting people on literary or intellectual grounds, yet it was more to his taste to meet on the broadest, commonest, human grounds. what you had seen or felt or suffered or done was of much more interest to him than what you had read or thought; your speculation about the soul interested him less than the last person you had met, or the last chore you had done. any glimpse of the farm, the shop, the household--any bit of real life, anything that carried the flavor and quality of concrete reality--was very welcome to him; herein, no doubt, showing the healthy, objective, artist mind. he never tired of hearing me talk about the birds or wild animals, or my experiences in camp in the woods, the kind of characters i had met there, and the flavor of the life of remote settlements in maine or canada. his inward, subjective life was ample of itself; he was familiar with all your thoughts and speculations beforehand: what he craved was wider experience,--to see what you had seen, and feel what you had felt. he was fond of talking with returned travelers and explorers, and with sailors, soldiers, mechanics; much of his vast stores of information upon all manner of subjects was acquired at firsthand, in the old way, from the persons who had seen or done or been what they described or related. he had almost a passion for simple, unlettered humanity,--an attraction which specially intellectual persons will hardly understand. schooling and culture are so often purchased at such an expense to the innate, fundamental human qualities! ignorance, with sound instincts and the quality which converse with real things imparts to men, was more acceptable to him than so much of our sophisticated knowledge, or our studied wit, or our artificial poetry. xv at the time of whitman's death, one of our leading literary journals charged him with having brought on premature decay by leading a riotous and debauched life. i hardly need say that there was no truth in the charge. the tremendous emotional strain of writing his "leaves," followed by his years of service in the army hospitals, where he contracted blood-poison, resulted at the age of fifty-four in the rupture of a small blood-vessel in the brain, which brought on partial paralysis. a sunstroke during his earlier manhood also played its part in the final break-down. that, tried by the standard of the lives of our new england poets, whitman's life was a blameless one, i do not assert; but that it was a sane, temperate, manly one, free from excesses, free from the perversions and morbidities of a mammonish, pampered, over-stimulated age, i do believe. indeed, i may say i know. the one impression he never failed to make--physically, morally, intellectually--on young and old, women and men, was that of health, sanity, sweetness. this is the impression he seems to have made upon mr. howells, when he met the poet at pfaff's early in the sixties. the critic i have alluded to inferred license in the man from liberty in the poet. he did not have the gumption to see that whitman made the experience of all men his own, and that his scheme included the evil as well as the good; that especially did he exploit the unloosed, all-loving, all-accepting natural man,--the man who is done with conventions, illusions and all morbid pietisms, and who gives himself lavishly to all that begets and sustains life. yet not the natural or carnal man for his own sake, but for the sake of the spiritual meanings and values to which he is the key. indeed, whitman is about the most uncompromising spiritualist in literature; with him, all things exist by and for the soul. he felt the tie of universal brotherhood, also, as few have felt it. it was not a theory with him, but a fact that shaped his life and colored his poems. "whoever degrades another degrades me," and the thought fired his imagination. xvi the student of whitman's life and works will be early struck by three things,--his sudden burst into song, the maturity of his work from the first, and his self-knowledge and self-estimate. the fit of inspiration came upon him suddenly; it was like the flowering of the orchards in spring; there was little or no hint of it till almost the very hour of the event. up to the time of the appearance of the first edition of "leaves of grass," he had produced nothing above mediocrity. a hack writer on newspapers and magazines, then a carpenter and house-builder in a small way, then that astounding revelation "leaves of grass," the very audacity of it a gospel in itself. how dare he do it? how could he do it, and not betray hesitation or self-consciousness? it is one of the exceptional events in literary history. the main body of his work was produced in five or six years, or between 1854 and 1859. of course it was a sudden flowering, which, consciously or unconsciously, must have been long preparing in his mind. his work must have had a long foreground, as emerson suggested. dr. bucke, his biographer, thinks it was a special inspiration,--something analogous to paul's conversion, a sudden opening of what the doctor calls "cosmic consciousness." another student and lover of whitman says: "it is certain that some time about his thirty-fifth year [probably a little earlier] there came over him a decided change: he seemed immensely to broaden and deepen; he became less interested in what are usually regarded as the more practical affairs of life. he lost what little ambition he ever had for money-making, and permitted good business opportunities to pass unheeded. he ceased to write the somewhat interesting but altogether commonplace and respectable stories and verses which he had been in the habit of contributing to periodicals. he would take long trips into the country, no one knew where, and would spend more time in his favorite haunts about the city, or on the ferries, or the tops of omnibuses, at the theatre and opera, in picture galleries, and wherever he could observe men and women and art and nature." then the maturity of his work from the first line of it! it seems as if he came into the full possession of himself and of his material at one bound,--never had to grope for his way and experiment, as most men do. what apprenticeship he served, or with whom he served it, we get no hint. he has come to his own, and is in easy, joyful possession of it, when he first comes into view. he outlines his scheme in his first poem, "starting from paumanok," and he has kept the letter and the spirit of every promise therein made. we never see him doubtful or hesitating; we never see him battling for his territory, and uncertain whether or not he is upon his own ground. he has an air of contentment, of mastery and triumph, from the start. his extraordinary self-estimate and self-awareness are equally noticeable. we should probably have to go back to sacred history to find a parallel case. the manner of man he was, his composite character, his relation to his country and times, his unlikeness to other poets, his affinity to the common people, how he would puzzle and elude his critics, how his words would itch at our ears till we understood them, etc.,--how did he know all this from the first? his ruling ideas and aims i let me here summarize some of the ideas and principles in which "leaves of grass" has its root, and from which it starts. a collection of poems in the usual sense, a variety of themes artistically treated and appealing to our æsthetic perceptibilities alone, it is not. it has, strictly speaking, but one theme,--personality, the personality of the poet himself. to exploit this is always the main purpose, and, in doing so, to make the book both directly and indirectly a large, impassioned utterance upon all the main problems of life and of nationality. it is primitive, like the early literature of a race or people, in that its spirit and purpose are essentially religious. it is like the primitive literatures also in its prophetic cry and in its bardic simplicity and homeliness, and unlike them in its faith and joy and its unconquerable optimism. it has been not inaptly called the bible of democracy. its biblical features are obvious enough with the darker negative traits left out. it is israel with science and the modern added. whitman was swayed by a few great passions,--the passion for country, the passion for comrades, the cosmic passion, etc. his first concern seems always to have been for his country. he has touched no theme, named no man, not related in some way to america. the thought of it possessed him as thoroughly as the thought of israel possessed the old hebrew prophets. indeed, it is the same passion, and flames up with the same vitality and power,--the same passion for race and nativity enlightened by science and suffused with the modern humanitarian spirit. israel was exclusive and cruel. democracy, as exemplified in walt whitman, is compassionate and all-inclusive:- "my spirit has passed in compassion and determination around the whole earth, i have looked for equals and lovers, and found them ready for me in all lands; i think some divine rapport has equalized me with them. "o vapors! i think i have risen with you, and moved away to distant continents, and fallen down there, for reasons, i think i have blown with you, o winds, o waters, i have fingered every shore with you." ii the work springs from the modern democratic conception of society,--of absolute social equality. it embodies the modern scientific conception of the universe, as distinguished from the old theological conception,--namely, that creation is good and sound in all its parts. it embodies a conception of evil as a part of the good, of death as the friend and not the enemy of life. it places comradeship, manly attachment, above sex love, and indicates it as the cement of future states and republics. it makes the woman the equal of the man, his mate and not his toy. it treats sexuality as a matter too vital and important to be ignored or trifled with, much less perverted or denied. a full and normal sexuality,--upon this the race stands. we pervert, we deny, we corrupt sex at our peril. its perversions and abnormalities are to be remedied by a frank and fervent recognition of it, almost a new priapic cult. it springs from a conception of poetry quite different from the current conception. it aims at the poetry of things rather than of words, and works by suggestion and indirection rather than by elaboration. it aims to project into literature a conception of the new democratic man,--a type larger, more copious, more candid, more religious, than we have been used to. it finds its ideals, not among scholars or in the parlor or counting-houses, but among workers, doers, farmers, mechanics, the heroes of land and sea. hence the atmosphere which it breathes and effuses is that of real things, real men and women. it has not the perfume of the distilled and concentrated, but the all but impalpable odor of the open air, the shore, the wood, the hilltop. it aims, not to be a book, but to be a man. its purpose is to stimulate and arouse, rather than to soothe and satisfy. it addresses the character, the intuitions, the ego, more than the intellect or the purely æsthetic faculties. its end is not taste, but growth in the manly virtues and powers. its religion shows no trace of theology, or the conventional pietism. it aspires to a candor and a directness like that of nature herself. it aims to let nature speak without check, with original energy. the only checks are those which health and wholeness demand. its standards are those of the natural universal. its method is egocentric. the poet never goes out of himself, but draws everything into himself and makes it all serve to illustrate his personality. its form is not what is called artistic. its suggestion is to be found in organic nature, in trees, clouds, and in the vital and flowing currents. in its composition the author was doubtless greatly influenced by the opera and the great singers, and the music of the great composers. he would let himself go in the same manner and seek his effects through multitude and the quality of the living voice. finally, "leaves of grass" is an utterance out of the depths of primordial, aboriginal human nature. it embodies and exploits a character not rendered anæmic by civilization, but preserving a sweet and sane savagery, indebted to culture only as a means to escape culture, reaching back always, through books, art, civilization, to fresh, unsophisticated nature, and drawing his strength thence. another of the ideas that master whitman and rule him is the idea of identity,--that you are you and i am i, and that we are henceforth secure whatever comes or goes. he revels in this idea; it is fruitful with him; it begets in him the ego-enthusiasm, and is at the bottom of his unshakable faith in immortality. it leavens all his work. it cannot be too often said that the book is not merely a collection of pretty poems, themes elaborated and followed out at long removes from the personality of the poet, but a series of _sorties_ into the world of materials, the american world, piercing through the ostensible shows of things to the interior meanings, and illustrating in a free and large way the genesis and growth of a man, his free use of the world about him, appropriating it to himself, seeking his spiritual identity through its various objects and experiences, and giving in many direct and indirect ways the meaning and satisfaction of life. there is much in it that is not poetical in the popular sense, much that is neutral and negative, and yet is an integral part of the whole, as is the case in the world we inhabit. if it offends, it is in a wholesome way, like objects in the open air. iii whitman rarely celebrates exceptional characters. he loves the common humanity, and finds his ideals among the masses. it is not difficult to reconcile his attraction toward the average man, towards workingmen and "powerful, uneducated persons," with the ideal of a high excellence, because he finally rests only upon the most elevated and heroic personal qualities,--elevated but well grounded in the common and universal. the types upon which he dwells the most fondly are of the common people. "i knew a man, he was a common farmer--he was the father of five sons, and in them were the fathers of sons--and in them were the fathers of sons. "this man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person, the shape of his head, the richness and breadth of his manners, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, and the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes, these i used to go and visit him to see--he was wise also, he was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old--his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome, they and his daughters loved him--all who saw him loved him, they did not love him by allowance--they loved him with personal love; he drank water only--the blood showed like scarlet through the clear-brown skin of his face, he was a frequent gunner and fisher--he sailed his boat himself--he had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner--he had fowling-pieces presented to him by men that loved him; when he went with his five sons and many grandsons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang, you would wish long and long to be with him--you would wish to sit by him in the boat, that you and he might touch each other." all the _motifs_ of his work are the near, the vital, the universal; nothing curious, or subtle, or far-fetched. his working ideas are democracy, equality, personality, nativity, health, sexuality, comradeship, self-esteem, the purity of the body, the equality of the sexes, etc. out of them his work radiates. they are the eyes with which it sees, the ears with which it hears, the feet upon which it goes. the poems are less like a statement, an argument, an elucidation, and more like a look, a gesture, a tone of voice. "the word i myself put primarily for the description of them as they stand at last," says the author, "is the word suggestiveness." "leaves of grass" requires a large perspective; you must not get your face too near the book. you must bring to it a magnanimity of spirit,--a charity and faith equal to its own. looked at too closely, it often seems incoherent and meaningless; draw off a little and let the figure come out. the book is from first to last a most determined attempt, on the part of a large, reflective, loving, magnetic, rather primitive, thoroughly imaginative personality, to descend upon the materialism of the nineteenth century, and especially upon a new democratic nation now in full career upon this continent, with such poetic fervor and enthusiasm as to lift and fill it with the deepest meanings of the spirit and disclose the order of universal nature. the poet has taken shelter behind no precedent, or criticism, or partiality whatever, but has squarely and lovingly faced the oceanic amplitude and movement of the life of his times and land, and fused them in his fervid humanity, and imbued them with deepest poetic meanings. one of the most striking features of the book is the adequacy and composure, even joyousness and elation, of the poet in the presence of the huge materialism and prosaic conditions of our democratic era. he spreads himself over it all, he accepts and absorbs it all, he rejects no part; and his quality, his individuality, shines through it all, as the sun through vapors. the least line, or fragment of a line, is redolent of walt whitman. it is never so much the theme treated as it is the man exploited and illustrated. walt whitman does not write poems, strictly speaking,--does not take a bit of nature or life or character and chisel and carve it into a beautiful image or object, or polish and elaborate a thought, embodying it in pleasing tropes and pictures. his purpose is rather to show a towering, loving, composite personality moving amid all sorts of materials, taking them up but for a moment, disclosing new meanings and suggestions in them, passing on, bestowing himself upon whoever or whatever will accept him, tossing hints and clues right and left, provoking and stimulating the thought and imagination of his reader, but finishing nothing for him, leaving much to be desired, much to be completed by him in his turn. iv the reader who would get at the spirit and meaning of "leaves of grass" must remember that its animating principle, from first to last, is democracy,--that it is a work conceived and carried forward in the spirit of the genius of humanity that is now in full career in the new world,--and that all things characteristically american (trades, tools, occupations, productions, characters, scenes) therefore have their places in it. it is intended to be a complete mirror of the times in which the life of the poet fell, and to show one master personality accepting, absorbing all and rising superior to it,--namely, the poet himself. yet it is never whitman that speaks so much as it is democracy that speaks through him. he personifies the spirit of universal brotherhood, and in this character launches forth his "omnivorous words." what would seem colossal egotism, shameless confessions, or unworthy affiliations with low, rude persons, what would seem confounding good and bad, virtue and vice, etc., in whitman the man, the citizen, but serves to illustrate the boundless compassion and saving power of whitman as the spokesman of ideal democracy. with this clue in mind, many difficult things are made plain and easy in the works of this much misunderstood poet. perhaps the single poem that throws most light upon his aims and methods, and the demand he makes upon his reader, is in "calamus," and is as follows:- "whoever you are holding me now in hand, without one thing all will be useless, i give you fair warning before you attempt me further, i am not what you suppos'd, but far different. "who is he that would become my follower? who would sign himself a candidate for my affections? "the way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive, you would have to give up all else, i alone would expect to be your sole and exclusive standard, your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting, the whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives around you would have to be abandon'd, therefore release me now before troubling yourself any further, let go your hand from my shoulders, put me down and depart on your way. "or else by stealth in some wood for trial, or back of a rock in the open air, (for in any roof'd room of a house i emerge not, nor in company, and in libraries i lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,) but just possibly with you on a high hill, first watching lest any person for miles around approach unawares, or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea or some quiet island, here to put your lips upon mine i permit you, with the comrade's long-dwelling kiss or the new husband's kiss, for i am the new husband and i am the comrade. "or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing, where i may feel the throbs of your heart or rest upon your hip, carry me when you go forth over land or sea; for thus merely touching you is enough, is best, and thus touching you would i silently sleep and be carried eternally. "but these leaves conning you con at peril, for these leaves and me you will not understand, they will elude you at first and still more afterward, i will certainly elude you, even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold! already you see i have escaped from you. "for it is not for what i have put into it that i have written this book, nor is it by reading it you will acquire it, nor do those know me best who admire me and vauntingly praise me, nor will the candidates for my love (unless at most a very few) prove victorious, nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much evil, perhaps more, for all is useless without that for which you may guess at many times and not hit, that which i hinted at, therefore release me and depart on your way." when one has fully mastered this poem he has got a pretty good hold upon whitman's spirit and method. his open-air standards, the baffling and elusive character of his work, the extraordinary demand it makes, its radical and far-reaching effects upon life, its direct cognizance of evil as a necessary part of the good (there was a human need of sin, said margaret fuller) its unbookish spirit and affiliations, its indirect and suggestive method, that it can be fully read only through our acquaintance with life and real things at first hand, etc.,--all this and more is in the poem. his self-reliance i it is over sixty years since goethe said that to be a german author was to be a german martyr. i presume things have changed in germany since those times, and that the goethe of to-day does not encounter the jealousy and hatred the great poet and critic of weimar seemed to have called forth. in walt whitman we in america have known an american author who was an american martyr in a more literal sense than any of the men named by the great german. more than heine, or rousseau, or molière, or byron, was whitman a victim of the literary philistinism of his country and times; but, fortunately for himself, his was a nature so large, tolerant, and self-sufficing that his martyrdom sat very lightly upon him. his unpopularity was rather a tonic to him than otherwise. it was of a kind that tries a man's mettle, and brings out his heroic traits if he has any. one almost envies him his unpopularity. it was of the kind that only the greatest ones have experienced, and that attests something extraordinary in the recipient of it. he said he was more resolute because all had denied him than he ever could have been had all accepted, and he added:- "i heed not and have never heeded either cautions, majorities, nor ridicule." there are no more precious and tonic pages in history than the records of men who have faced unpopularity, odium, hatred, ridicule, detraction, in obedience to an inward voice, and never lost courage or good-nature. whitman's is the most striking case in our literary annals,--probably the most striking one in our century outside of politics and religion. the inward voice alone was the oracle he obeyed: "my commission obeying, to question it never daring." the bitter-sweet cup of unpopularity he drained to its dregs, and drained it cheerfully, as one knowing beforehand that it is preparing for him and cannot be avoided. "have you learn'd lessons only of those who admired you and were tender with you? and stood aside for you? have you not learn'd great lessons from those who reject you, and brace themselves against you? or who treat you with contempt, or dispute the passage with you?" every man is a partaker in the triumph of him who is always true to himself and makes no compromises with customs, schools, or opinions. whitman's life, underneath its easy tolerance and cheerful good-will, was heroic. he fought his battle against great odds and he conquered; he had his own way, he yielded not a hair to the enemy. the pressure brought to bear upon him by the press, by many of his friends, and by such a man as emerson, whom he deeply reverenced, to change or omit certain passages from his poems, seems only to have served as the opposing hammer that clinched the nail. the louder the outcry the more deeply he felt it his duty to stand by his first convictions. the fierce and scornful opposition to his sex poems, and to his methods and aims generally, was probably more confirmatory than any approval could have been. it went to the quick. during a dark period of his life, when no publisher would touch his book and when its exclusion from the mails was threatened, and poverty and paralysis were upon him, a wealthy philadelphian offered to furnish means for its publication if he would omit certain poems; but the poet does not seem to have been tempted for one moment by the offer. he cheerfully chose the heroic part, as he always did. emerson reasoned and remonstrated with him for hours, walking up and down boston common, and after he had finished his argument, says whitman, which was unanswerable, "i felt down in my soul the clear and unmistakable conviction to disobey all, and pursue my own way." he told emerson so, whereupon they went and dined together. the independence of the poet probably impressed emerson more than his yielding would have done, for had not he preached the adamantine doctrine of self-trust? "to believe your own thought," he says, "to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true of all men,--that is genius." in many ways was whitman, quite unconsciously to himself, the man emerson invoked and prayed for,--the absolutely self-reliant man; the man who should find his own day and land sufficient; who had no desire to be greek, or italian, or french, or english, but only himself; who should not whine, or apologize, or go abroad; who should not duck, or deprecate, or borrow; and who could see through the many disguises and debasements of our times the lineaments of the same gods that so ravished the bards of old. the moment a man "acts for himself," says emerson, "tossing the laws, the books, idolatries, and customs out of the window, we pity him no more, but thank and revere him." whitman took the philosopher at his word. "greatness once and forever has done with opinion," even the opinion of the good emerson. "heroism works in contradiction to the voice of mankind, and in contradiction, for a time, to the voice of the great and good." "every heroic act measures itself by its contempt of some external good,"--popularity, for instance. "the characteristic of heroism is persistency." "when you have chosen your part abide by it, and do not weakly try to reconcile yourself with the world." "adhere to your act, and congratulate yourself if you have done something strange and extravagant, and broken the monotony of a decorous age." heroism "is the avowal of the unschooled man that he finds a quality in him that is negligent of expense, of health, of life, of danger, of hatred, of reproach, and knows that his will is higher and more excellent than all actual and all possible antagonists." "a man is to carry himself in the presence of all opposition as if everything were titular and ephemeral but he." "great works of art," he again says, "teach us to abide by our spontaneous impression with good-natured inflexibility, the more when the whole cry of voices is on the other side." these brave sayings of emerson were all illustrated and confirmed by whitman's course. the spectacle of this man sitting there by the window of his little house in camden, poor and partially paralyzed, and looking out upon the trite and commonplace scenes and people, or looking athwart the years and seeing only detraction and denial, yet always serene, cheerful, charitable, his wisdom and tolerance ripening and mellowing with time, is something to treasure and profit by. he was a man who needed no assurances. he had the patience and the leisure of nature. he welcomed your friendly and sympathetic word, or with equal composure he did without it. i remember calling upon him shortly after swinburne's fierce onslaught upon him had been published, some time in the latter part of the eighties. i was curious to see how whitman took it, but i could not discover either in word or look that he was disturbed a particle by it. he spoke as kindly of swinburne as ever. if he was pained at all, it was on swinburne's account and not on his own. it was a sad spectacle to see a man retreat upon himself as swinburne had done. in fact i think hostile criticism, fiercely hostile, gave whitman nearly as much comfort as any other. did it not attest reality? men do not brace themselves against shadows. swinburne's polysyllabic rage showed the force of the current he was trying to stem. as for swinburne's hydrocephalic muse, i do not think whitman took any interest in it from the first. self-reliance, or self-trust, is one of the principles whitman announces in his "laws for creations." he saw that no first-class work is possible except it issue from a man's deepest, most radical self. "what do you suppose creation is? what do you suppose will satisfy the soul but to walk free and own no superior? what do you suppose i would intimate to you in a hundred ways, but that man or woman is as good as god? and that there is no god any more divine than yourself? and that that is what the oldest and newest myths finally mean? and that you or any one must approach creations through such laws?" i think it probable that whitman anticipated a long period of comparative oblivion for himself and his works. he knew from the first that the public would not be with him; he knew that the censors of taste, the critics and literary professors, would not be with him; he knew that the vast army of philistia, the respectable, fashionable mammon-worshiping crowd, would not be with him,--that the timid, the pampered, the prurient, the conforming, the bourgeoisie spirit, the class spirit, the academic spirit, the pharisaic spirit in all its forms, would all work against him; and that, as in the case of nearly all original, first-class men, he would have to wait to be understood for the growth of the taste of himself. none knew more clearly than he did how completely our people were under the illusion of the genteel and the conventional, and that, even among the emancipated few, the possession of anything like robust æsthetic perception was rare enough. america, so bold and original and independent in the world of practical politics and material endeavor, is, in spiritual and imaginative regions, timid, conforming, imitative. there is, perhaps, no civilized country in the world wherein the native, original man, the real critter, as whitman loved to say, that underlies all our culture and conventions, crops out so little in manners, in literature, and in social usages. the fear of being unconventional is greater with us than the fear of death. a certain evasiveness, polish, distrust of ourselves, amounting to insipidity and insincerity, is spoken of by observant foreigners. in other words, we are perhaps the least like children of any people in the world. all these things were against whitman, and will continue to be against him for a long time. with the first stroke he broke through the conventional and took his stand upon the natural. with rude hands he tore away the veils and concealments from the body and from the soul. he ignored entirely all social and conventional usages and hypocrisies, not by revolt against them, but by choosing a point of view from which they disappeared. he embraced the unrefined and the savage as well as the tender and human. the illusions of the past, the models and standards, he freed himself of at once, and declared for the beauty and the divinity of the now and the here. the rude realism of his "leaves" shocked like a plunge in the surf, but it invigorated also, if we were strong enough to stand it. out of whitman's absolute self-trust arose his prophetic egotism,--the divine fervor and audacity of the simple ego. he shared the conviction of the old prophets that man is a part of god, and that there is nothing in the universe any more divine than the individual soul. "i, too," he says, and this line is the key to much there is in his work- "i, too, have felt the resistless call of myself." with the old biblical writers the motions of their own spirits, their thoughts, their dreams, were the voice of god. there is something of the same sort in whitman. the voice of that inner self was final and authoritative with him. it was the voice of god. he could drive through and over all the conventions of the world in obedience to that voice. this call to him was as a voice from sinai. one of his mastering thoughts was the thought of identity,--that you are you, and i am i. this was the final meaning of things, and the meaning of immortality. "yourself, _yourself_, yourself," he says, with swelling vehemence, "forever and ever." to be compacted and riveted and fortified in yourself, so as to be a law unto yourself, is the final word of the past and of the present. ii the shadow of whitman's self-reliance and heroic self-esteem--the sort of eddy or back-water--was undoubtedly a childlike fondness for praise and for seeing his name in print. in his relaxed moments, when the stress of his task was not upon him, he was indeed in many respects a child. he had a child's delight in his own picture. he enjoyed hearing himself lauded as colonel ingersoll lauded him in his lecture in philadelphia, and as his friends lauded him at his birthday dinner parties during the last two or three years of his life; he loved to see his name in print, and items about himself in the newspapers; he sometimes wrote them himself and gave them to the reporters. and yet nothing is surer than that he shaped his life and did his work absolutely indifferent to either praise or blame; in fact, that he deliberately did that which he knew would bring him dispraise. the candor and openness of the man's nature would not allow him to conceal or feign anything. if he loved praise, why should he not be frank about it? did he not lay claim to the vices and vanities of men also? at its worst, whitman's vanity was but the foible of a great nature, and should count for but little in the final estimate. the common human nature to which he lay claim will assert itself; it is not always to be kept up to the heroic pitch. iii it was difficult to appreciate his liking for the newspaper. but he had been a newspaper man himself; the printer's ink had struck in; he had many associations with the press-room and the composing-room; he loved the common, democratic character of the newspaper; it was the average man's library. the homely uses to which it was put, and the humble firesides to which it found its way, endeared it to him, and made him love to see his name in it. whitman's vanity was of the innocent, good-natured kind. he was as tolerant of your criticism as of your praise. selfishness, in any unworthy sense, he had none. offensive arrogance and self-assertion, in his life there was none. his egotism is of the large generous species that never irritates or pricks into you like that of the merely conceited man. his love, his candor, his sympathy are on an equal scale. his egotism comes finally to affect one like the independence and indifference of natural law. it takes little heed of our opinion, whether it be for or against, and keeps to its own way whatever befall. whitman's absolute faith in himself was a part of his faith in creation. he felt himself so keenly a part of the whole that he shared its soundness and excellence; he must be good as it is good. iv whitman showed just enough intention, or premeditation in his life, dress, manners, attitudes in his pictures, self-portrayals in his poems, etc., to give rise to the charge that he was a _poseur_. he was a _poseur_ in the sense, and to the extent, that any man is a _poseur_ who tries to live up to a certain ideal and to realize it in his outward daily life. it is clear that he early formed the habit of self-contemplation and of standing apart and looking upon himself as another person. hence his extraordinary self-knowledge, and, we may also say, his extraordinary self-appreciation, or to use his own words, "the quite changed attitude of the ego, the one chanting or talking, towards himself." of course there is danger in this attitude, but whitman was large enough and strong enough to escape it. he saw himself to be the typical inevitable democrat that others have seen him to be, and with perfect candor and without ever forcing the note, he portrays himself as such. as his work is confessedly the poem of himself, himself magnified and projected, as it were, upon the canvas of a great age and country, all his traits and qualities stand out in heroic proportions, his pride and egotism as well as his love and tolerance. "how beautiful is candor," he says. "all faults may be forgiven of him who has perfect candor." the last thing that could ever be charged of whitman is that he lacked openness, or was guilty of any deceit or concealments in his life or works. from the studies, notes, and scrap-books which whitman left, it appears that he was long preparing and disciplining himself for the work he had in view. "the long foreground," to which emerson referred in his letter, was of course a reality. but this self-consciousness and self-adjustment to a given end is an element of strength and not of weakness. in the famous vestless and coatless portrait of himself prefixed to the first "leaves of grass" he assumes an attitude and is in a sense a _poseur_; but the reader comes finally to wonder at the marvelous self-knowledge the picture displays, and how strictly typical it is of the poet's mental and spiritual attitude towards the world,--independent, unconventional, audacious, yet inquiring and sympathetic in a wonderful degree. in the same way he posed in other portraits. a favorite with him is the one in which he sits contemplating a butterfly upon his forefinger--typical of a man "preoccupied of his own soul." in another he peers out curiously as from behind a mask. in an earlier one he stands, hat in hand, in marked _negligé_ costume,--a little too intentional, one feels. the contempt of the polished ones is probably very strong within him at this time. i say contempt, though i doubt if whitman ever felt contempt for any human being. v then whitman had a curious habit of standing apart, as it were, and looking upon himself and his career as of some other person. he was interested in his own cause, and took a hand in the discussion. from first to last he had the habit of regarding himself objectively. on his deathbed he seemed to be a spectator of his own last moments, and was seen to feel his pulse a few minutes before he breathed his last. he has recorded this trait in his poems:- "apart from the pulling and hauling stands what i am, stands amused, complacent, compassionate, idle, waiting, looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it." as also in this from "calamus:"- "that shadow my likeness that goes to and fro seeking a livelihood, chattering, chaffering, how often i find myself standing and looking at it where it flits, how often i question and doubt whether that is really me; but among my lovers, and caroling these songs, oh, i never doubt whether that is really me." whitman always speaks as one having authority and not as a scribe, not as a mere man of letters. this is the privilege of the divine egoism of the prophet. like the utterances of the biblical writers, without argument, without elaboration, his mere dictum seems the word of fate. it is not the voice of a man who has made his way through the world by rejecting and denying, but by accepting all and rising superior. what the "push of reading" or the push of argument could not start is often started and clinched by his mere authoritative "i say." "i say where liberty draws not the blood out of slavery, there slavery draws the blood out of liberty,"... "i say the human shape or face is so great it must never be made ridiculous; i say for ornaments nothing outré can be allowed, and that anything is most beautiful without ornament, and that exaggerations will be sternly revenged in your own physiology and in other persons' physiologies also. "think of the past; i warn you that in a little while others will find their past in you and your times.... think of spiritual results. sure as the earth swims through the heavens, does every one of its objects pass into spiritual results. think of manhood, and you to be a man; do you count manhood, and the sweet of manhood, nothing? think of womanhood and you to be a woman; the creation is womanhood; have i not said that womanhood involves all? have i not told how the universe has nothing better than the best womanhood?" egotism is usually intolerant, but whitman was one of the most tolerant of men. a craving for sympathy and personal affection he certainly had; to be valued as a human being was more to him than to be valued as a poet. his strongest attachments were probably for persons who had no opinion, good or bad, of his poetry at all. vi under close scrutiny his egotism turns out to be a kind of altru-egotism, which is vicarious and all-inclusive of his fellows. it is one phase of his democracy, and is vital and radical in his pages. it is a high, imperturbable pride in his manhood and in the humanity which he shares with all. it is the exultant and sometimes almost arrogant expression of the feeling which underlies and is shaping the whole modern world--the feeling and conviction that the individual man is above all forms, laws, institutions, conventions, bibles, religions--that the divinity of kings, and the sacredness of priests of the old order, pertains to the humblest person. it was a passion that united him to his fellows rather than separated him from them. his pride was not that of a man who sets himself up above others, or who claims some special advantage or privilege, but that godlike quality that would make others share its great good-fortune. hence we are not at all shocked when the poet, in the fervor of his love for mankind, determinedly imputes to himself all the sins and vices and follies of his fellow-men. we rather glory in it. this self-abasement is the seal of the authenticity of his egotism. without those things there might be some ground for the complaint of a boston critic of whitman that his work was not noble, because it celebrated pride, and did not inculcate the virtues of humility and self-denial. the great lesson of the "leaves," flowing curiously out of its pride and egotism, is the lesson of charity, of self-surrender, and the free bestowal of yourself upon all hands. the law of life of great art is the law of life in ethics, and was long ago announced. he that would lose his life shall find it; he who gives himself the most freely shall the most freely receive. whitman made himself the brother and equal of all, not in word, but in very deed; he was in himself a compend of the people for which he spoke, and this breadth of sympathy and free giving of himself has resulted in an unexpected accession of power. his relation to art and literature i whitman protests against his "leaves" being judged merely as literature; but at the same time, if they are not good literature, that of course ends the matter. still while the questions of art, of form, of taste, are paramount in most other poets,--certainly in all third and fourth rate poets, in whitman they are swallowed up in other questions and values. in numerous passages, by various figures and allegories, whitman indicates that he would not have his book classed with the order of mere literary productions. "shut not your doors to me, proud libraries," he says in one of the "inscriptions,"- "for that which was lacking in all your well-fill'd shelves, yet needed most, i bring. forth from the war emerging, a book i have made, the words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything, a book separate, not link'd with the rest nor felt by the intellect, but you, ye untold latencies will thrill to every page." not linked with the studied and scholarly productions, not open to the mere bookish mind, but more akin to the primitive utterances and oracles of historic humanity. a literary age like ours lays great stress upon the savor of books, art, culture, and has little taste for the savor of real things, the real man, which we get in whitman. "it is the true breath of humanity," says renan, "and not literary merit, that constitutes the beautiful." an homeric poem written to-day, he goes on to say, would not be beautiful, because it would not be true; it would not contain this breath of a living humanity. "it is not homer who is beautiful, it is the homeric life." the literary spirit begat tennyson, begat browning, begat the new england poets, but it did not in the same sense beget whitman, any more than it begat homer or job or isaiah. the artist may delight in him and find his own ideals there; the critic may study him and find the poet master of all his weapons; the disciple of culture will find, as professor triggs has well said, that "there is no body of writings in literature which demands a wider conversancy with the best that has been thought or said in the world,"--yet the poet escapes from all hands that would finally hold him and monopolize him. whitman is an immense solvent,--forms, theories, rules, criticisms, disappear in his fluid, teeming pages. much can be deduced from him, because much went to the making up of his point of view. he makes no criticism, yet a far-reaching criticism is implied in the very start of his poems. no modern poet presupposes so much, or requires so much preliminary study and reflection. he brings a multitude of questions and problems, and, what is singular, he brings them in himself; they are implied in his temper, and in his attitude toward life and reality. whitman says he has read his "leaves" to himself in the open air, that he has tried himself by the elemental laws; and tells us in many ways, direct and indirect, that the standards he would be tried by are not those of art or books, but of absolute nature. he has been laughed at for calling himself a "kosmos," but evidently he uses the term to indicate this elemental, dynamic character of his work,--its escape from indoor, artificial standards, its aspiration after the "amplitude of the earth, and the coarseness and sexuality of the earth, and the great charity of the earth, and the equilibrium also." ii unless the poetic perception is fundamental in us, and can grasp the poetry of things, actions, characters, multitudes, heroisms, we shall read whitman with very poor results. unless america, the contemporary age, life, nature, are poetical to us, whitman will not be. he has aimed at the larger poetry of forces, masses, persons, enthusiasms, rather than at the poetry of the specially rare and fine. he kindles in me the delight i have in space, freedom, power, the elements, the cosmic, democracy, and the great personal qualities of self-reliance, courage, candor, charity. always in the literary poets are we impressed with the art of the poet as something distinct from the poet himself, and more or less put on. the poet gets himself up for the occasion; he assumes the pose and the language of the poet, as the priest assumes the pose and the language of devotion. in whitman the artist and the man are one. he never gets himself up for the occasion. our pleasure in him is rarely or never our pleasure in the well-dressed, the well-drilled, the cultivated, the refined, the orderly, but it is more akin to our pleasure in real things, in human qualities and powers, in freedom, health, development. yet i never open his book without being struck afresh with its pictural quality, its grasp of the concrete, its vivid realism, its intimate sense of things, persons, truths, qualities, such as only the greatest artists can give us, and such as we can never get in mere prose. it is as direct as a challenge, as personal as a handshake, and yet withal how mystical, how elusive, how incommensurable! to deny that whitman belongs to the fraternity of great artists, the shapers and moulders of the ideal,--those who breathe the breath of life into the clay or stone of common facts and objects, who make all things plastic and the vehicles of great and human emotions,--is to read him very inadequately, to say the least. to get at walt whitman you must see through just as much as you do in dealing with nature; you are to bring the same interpretive imagination. you are not to be balked by what appears to be the coarse and the familiar, or his rank contemporaneity; after a time you will surely see the lambent spiritual flames that play about it all. "prophetic spirit of materials shifting and flickering about me," and his cosmic splendor, depth, and power. it is not the denial of art, it is a new affirmation of life. it is one phase of his democracy. it is the logical conclusion of the vestless and coatless portrait of himself that appeared in the first edition of his poems. he would give us more of the man, a fuller measure of personal, concrete, human qualities, than any poet before him. he strips away the artificial wrappings and illusions usual in poetry, and relies entirely upon the native and intrinsic. he will have no curtains, he says,--not the finest,--between himself and his reader. "stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, you shall possess the good of the earth and sun (there are millions of suns left), you shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books, you shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, you shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself." this is a hint of his democracy as applied to literature,--more direct and immediate contact with the primary and universal, less of the vestments and trappings of art and more of the push and power of original character and of nature. iii it seems to me it is always in order to protest against the narrow and dogmatic spirit that so often crops out in current criticism touching this matter of art. "the boundaries of art are jealously guarded," says a recent authority, as if art had boundaries like a state or province that had been accurately surveyed and fixed,--as if art was a fact and not a spirit. now i shall deny at the outset that there are any bounds of art, or that art is in any sense an "enclosure,"--a province fenced off and set apart from the rest,--any more than religion is an enclosure, though so many people would like to make it so. art is commensurate with the human spirit. i should even deny that there are any principles of art in the sense that there are principles of mechanics or of mathematics. art has but one principle, one aim,--to produce an impression, a powerful impression, no matter by what means, or if it be by reversing all the canons of taste and criticism. name any principle, so called, and some day a genius shall be born who will produce his effects in defiance of it, or by appearing to reverse it. such a man as turner seemed, at first sight, to set at defiance all correct notions of art. the same with wagner in music, the same with whitman in poetry. the new man is impossible till he appears, and, when he appears, in proportion to his originality and power does it take the world a longer or shorter time to adjust its critical standards to him. but it is sure to do so at last. there is nothing final in art: its principles follow and do not lead the creator; they are deductions from his work, not its inspiration. we demand of the new man, of the overthrower of our idols, but one thing,--has he authentic inspiration and power? if he has not, his pretensions are soon exploded. if he has, we cannot put him down, any more than we can put down a law of nature, and we very soon find some principle of art that fits his case. is there no room for the new man? but the new man makes room for himself, and if he be of the first order he largely makes the taste by which he is appreciated, and the rules of art by which he is to be judged. iv the trouble with most of us is that we found our taste for poetry upon particular authors, instead of upon literature as a whole, or, better yet, upon life and reality. hence we form standards instead of principles. standards are limited, rigid, uncompromising, while principles are flexible, expansive, creative. if we are wedded to the miltonic standard of poetry, the classic standards, we shall have great difficulties with whitman; but if we have founded our taste upon natural principles--if we have learned to approach literature through reality, instead of reality through literature--we shall not be the victims of any one style or model; we shall be made free of all. the real test of art, of any art, as burke long ago said, and as quoted by mr. howells in his trenchant little volume called "criticism and fiction," is to be sought outside of art, namely, in nature. "i can judge but poorly of anything while i measure it by no other standard than itself. the true standard of the arts is in every man's power; and an easy observation of the most common, sometimes of the meanest, things in nature will give the truest lights." it is thought that the preëminence of the greek standards is settled when we say they are natural. yes, but nature is not greek. she is asiatic, german, english, as well. v in poetry, in art, a man must sustain a certain vital relation to his work, and that work must sustain a certain vital relation to the laws of mind and of life. that is all, and that leaves the doors very wide. we are not to ask, is it like this or like that? but, is it vital, is it real, is it a consistent, well-organized whole? the poet must always interpret himself and nature after his own fashion. is his fashion adequate? is the interpretation vivid and real? do his lines cut to the quick, and beget heat and joy in the soul? if we cannot make the poet's ideal our own by sharing his enthusiasm for it, the trouble is as likely to be in ourselves as in him. in any case he must be a law unto himself. the creative artist differs from the mere writer or thinker in this: he sustains a direct personal relation to his subject through emotion, intuition, will. the indirect, impersonal relation which works by reflection, comparison, and analysis is that of the critic and philosopher. the man is an artist when he gives us a concrete and immediate impression of reality: from his hands we get the thing itself; from the critic and thinker we get ideas _about_ the thing. the poet does not merely say the world is beautiful; he shows it as beautiful: he does not describe the flower; he places it before us. what are the enemies of art? reflection, didacticism, description, the turgid, the obscure. a poet with a thesis to sustain is more or less barred from the freedom of pure art. it is by direct and unconsidered expression, says scherer, that art communicates with reality. the things that make for art, then, are feeling, intuition, sentiment, soul, a fresh and vigorous sense of real things,--in fact, all that makes for life, health, and wholeness. goethe is more truly an artist in the first part of faust than in the second; arnold has a more truly artistic mind than lowell. the principles of art are always the same in the respect i have indicated, just as the principles of life are always the same, or of health and longevity are always the same. no writer is an artist who is related to his subject simply by mental or logical grip alone: he must have a certain emotional affiliation and identity with it; he does not so much convey to us ideas and principles as pictures, parables, impressions,--a lively sense of real things. when we put whitman outside the pale of art, we must show his shortcomings here; we must show that he is not fluid and generative,--that he paints instead of interprets, that he gives us reasons instead of impulses, a stone when we ask for bread. "i do not give a little charity," he says; "when i give, i give myself." this the artist always does, not his mind merely, but his soul, his personality. "leaves of grass" is as direct an emanation from a central personal force as any book in literature, and always carries its own test and its own proof. it never hardens into a system, it never ceases to be penetrated with will and emotion, it never declines from the order of deeds to the order of mere thoughts. all is movement, progress, evolution, picture, parable, impulse. it is on these grounds that whitman, first of all, is an artist. he has the artist temperament. his whole life was that of a man who lives to ideal ends,--who lived to bestow himself upon others, to extract from life its meaning and its joy. vi whitman has let himself go, and trusted himself to the informal and spontaneous, to a degree unprecedented. his course required a self-reliance of the highest order; it required an innate cohesion and homogeneity, a firmness and consistency of individual outline, that few men have. it would seem to be much easier to face the poet's problem in the old, well-worn forms--forms that are so winsome and authoritative in themselves--than, to stand upon a basis so individual and intrinsic as whitman chose to stand upon. his course goes to the quick at once. how much of a man are you? how vital and fundamental is your poetic gift? can it go alone? can it face us in undress? never did the artist more cunningly conceal himself; never did he so completely lose himself in the man, identifying himself with the natural and spontaneous; never emerging and challenging attention on his own account, denying us when we too literally seek him, mocking us when we demand his credentials, and revealing himself only when we have come to him upon his own terms. the form the poet chose favored this self-revelation; there is nothing, no outside conscious art, to stand between himself and his reader. "this is no book," he says: "who touches this touches a man." in one sense whitman is without art,--the impression which he always seeks to make is that of reality itself. he aims to give us reality without the usual literary veils and illusions,--the least possible amount of the artificial, the extrinsic, the put-on, between himself and his reader. he banishes from his work, as far as possible, what others are so intent upon,--all atmosphere of books and culture, all air of literary intention and decoration,--and puts his spirit frankly and immediately to his readers. the verse does not seem to have been shaped; it might have grown: it takes no apparent heed of externals, but flows on like a brook, irregular, rhythmical, and always fluid and real. a cry will always be raised against the producer in any field who discards the authority of the models and falls back upon simple nature, or upon himself, as millet did in painting, and wagner in music, and whitman in poetry. whitman's working ideas, the principles that inspired him, are all directly related to life and the problems of life; they are democracy, nature, freedom, love, personality, religion: while the ideas from which our poets in the main draw their inspiration are related to art,--they are literary ideas, such as lucidity, form, beauty. vii much light is thrown upon whitman's literary methods and aims by a remark which he once made in conversation with dr. bucke:-"i have aimed to make the book simple,--tasteless, or with little taste,--with very little or no perfume. the usual way is for the poet or writer to put in as much taste, perfume, piquancy, as he can; but this is not the way of nature, which i take for model. nature presents us her productions--her air, earth, waters, even her flowers, grains, meats--with faint and delicate flavor and fragrance, but these in the long run make the deepest impression. man, dealing with natural things, constantly aims to increase their piquancy. by crossing and selection he deepens and intensifies the scents and hues of flowers, the tastes of fruits, and so on. he pursues the same method in poetry,--that is, strives for strong light or shade, for high color, perfume, pungency, in all ways for the greatest immediate effect. in so doing he leaves the true way, the way of nature, and, in the long run, comes far short of producing her effects." more light of the same kind is thrown upon his methods by the following passage from the preface to the first edition of his poems in 1855. "to speak in literature," he says, "with the perfect rectitude and insouciance of the movements of animals, and the unimpeachableness of the sentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside, is the flawless triumph of art." and again: "the great poet has less a marked style, and is more the channel of thoughts and things without increase or diminution, and is the free channel of himself. he swears to his art, i will not be meddlesome; i will not have in my writing any elegance, or effect, or originality, to hang in the way between me and the rest like curtains. i will have nothing hang in the way, not the richest curtains. what i tell, i tell for precisely what it is. let who may exalt or startle or fascinate or soothe, i will have purpose, as health or heat or snow has, and be as regardless of observation. what i experience or portray shall go from my composition without a shred of my composition. you shall stand by my side and look in the mirror with me." viii but in view of the profound impression whitman's work has made upon widely different types of mind on both sides of the atlantic, and in view of the persistent vitality of his fame, the question whether he is inside or outside the pale of art amounts to very little. i quite agree with the late mrs. gilchrist, that, when "great meanings and great emotions are expressed with corresponding power, literature has done its best, call it what you please." that whitman has expressed great meanings and great emotions with adequate power, even his unfriendly critics admit. thus professor wendell, in an admirable essay on american literature, says that "though whitman is uncouth, inarticulate, and lacking in a grotesque degree artistic form, yet for all that he can make you feel for the moment how even the ferry-boats plying from new york to brooklyn are fragments of god's eternities." in the same way mr. william clark, his british critic and expounder, says that he is wanting in discrimination and art, "flings his ideas at us in a heap," etc., and yet that the effect of his work is "to stir our emotions, widen our interests, and rally the forces of our moral nature." it seems to me that a man who, through the printed page, can do these things, must have some kind of art worth considering. if, through his impassioned treatment of a prosy, commonplace object like a ferry-boat, he can so dignify and exalt it, and so fill it with the meanings of the spirit, that it seems like a part of god's eternities, his methods are at least worth inquiring into. the truth is, whitman's art, in its lack of extrinsic form and finish, is oriental rather than occidental, and is an offense to a taste founded upon the precision and finish of a mechanical age. his verse is like the irregular, slightly rude coin of the greeks compared with the exact, machine-cut dies of our own day, or like the unfinished look of japanese pottery beside the less beautiful but more perfect specimens of modern ceramic art. for present purposes, we may say there are two phases of art,--formal art and creative art. by formal art i mean that which makes a direct appeal to our sense of form,--our sense of the finely carved, the highly wrought, the deftly planned; and by creative art i mean that quickening, fructifying power of the masters, that heat and passion that make the world plastic and submissive to their hands, teeming with new meanings and thrilling with new life. formal art is always in the ascendant. formal anything--formal dress, formal manners, formal religion, formal this and that--always counts for more than the informal, the spontaneous, the original. it is easier, it can be put off and on. formal art is nearly always the gift of the minor poet, and often of the major poet also. in such a poet as swinburne, formal art leads by a great way. the content of his verse,--what is it? in tennyson as well i should say formal art is in the ascendant. creative art is his also; tennyson reaches and moves the spirit, yet his skill is more noteworthy than his power. in wordsworth, on the other hand, i should say creative art led: the content of his verse is more than its form; his spiritual and religious values are greater than his literary and artistic. the same is true of our own emerson. poe, again, is much more as an artist than as a man or a personality. i hardly need say that in whitman formal art, the ostensibly artistic, counts for but very little. the intentional artist, the professional poet, is kept entirely in abeyance, or is completely merged and hidden in the man, more so undoubtedly than in any poet this side the old oriental bards. we call him formless, chaotic, amorphous, etc., because he makes no appeal to our modern highly stimulated sense of art or artificial form. we must discriminate this from our sense of power, our sense of life, our sense of beauty, of the sublime, of the all, which clearly whitman would reach and move. whitman certainly has a form of his own: what would a poet, or any writer or worker in the ideal, do without some kind of form? some consistent and adequate vehicle of expression? but whitman's form is not what is called artistic, because it is not brought within the rules of the prosodical system, and does not appeal to our sense of the consciously shaped and cultivated. it is essentially the prose form heightened and intensified by a deep, strong, lyric and prophetic note. the bonds and shackles of regular verse-form whitman threw off. this course seemed to be demanded by the spirit to which he had dedicated himself,--the spirit of absolute unconstraint. the restrictions and hamperings of the scholastic forms did not seem to be consistent with this spirit, which he identified with democracy and the new world. a poet who sets out to let down the bars everywhere, to remove veils and obstructions, to emulate the freedom of the elemental forces, to effuse always the atmosphere of open-air growths and objects, to be as "regardless of observation" as the processes of nature, etc., will not be apt to take kindly to any arbitrary and artificial form of expression. the essentially prose form which whitman chose is far more in keeping with the spirit and aim of his work than any conventional metrical system could have been. had he wrought solely as a conscious artist, aiming at the effect of finely chiseled forms, he would doubtless have chosen a different medium. ix whitman threw himself with love and enthusiasm upon this great, crude, seething, materialistic american world. the question is, did he master it? is he adequate to absorb and digest it? does he make man-stuff of it? is it plastic in his hands? does he stamp it with his own image? i do not ask, does he work it up into what are called artistic forms? does he make it the quarry from which he carves statues or builds temples? because evidently he does not do this, or assume to do it. he is content if he present america and the modern to us as they are inwrought into his own personality, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, or as character, passion, will, motive, conviction. he would show them subjectively and as living impulses in himself. of course a great constructive, dramatic poet like shakespeare would have solved his problem in a different manner, or through the objective, artistic portrayal of types and characters. but the poet and prophet of democracy and of egotism shows us all things in and through himself. his egotism, or egocentric method, is the fundamental fact about his work. it colors all and determines all. the poems are the direct outgrowth of the personality of the poet; they are born directly upon the ego, as it were, like the fruit of that tropical tree which grows immediately upon the trunk. his work is nearer his radical, primary self than that of most poets. he never leads us away from himself into pleasant paths with enticing flowers of fancy or forms of art. he carves or shapes nothing for its own sake; there is little in the work that can stand on independent grounds as pure art. his work is not material made precious by elaboration and finish, but by its relation to himself and to the sources of life. x whitman was compelled to this negation of extrinsic art by the problem he had set before himself,--first, to arouse, to suggest, rather than to finish or elaborate, less to display any theme or thought than "to bring the reader into the atmosphere of the theme or thought;" secondly, to make his own personality the chief factor in the volume, or present it so that the dominant impression should always be that of the living, breathing man as we meet him and see him and feel him in life, and never as we see him and feel him in books or art,--the man in the form and garb of actual, concrete life, not as poet or artist, but simply as man. this is doubtless the meaning of the vestless and coatless portrait of himself prefixed to the first issue of the "leaves," to which i have referred. this portrait is symbolical of the whole attitude of the poet toward his task. it was a hint that we must take this poet with very little literary tailoring; it was a hint that he belonged to the open air, and came of the people and spoke in their spirit. it is never the theme treated, but always the character exploited; never the structure finished, but always the plan suggested; never the work accomplished, but always the impulse imparted,--freedom, power, growth. "allons! we must not stop here. however sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwelling, we cannot remain here, however sheltered this port, or however calm these waters, we must not anchor here, however welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while. "allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements! health, defiance, gayety, self-esteem, curiosity; allons! from all formulas! from your formulas, o bat-eyed and materialistic priests!" this magnificent poem, "the song of the open road," is one of the most significant in whitman's work. he takes the open road as his type,--not an end in itself, not a fulfillment, but a start, a journey, a progression. it teaches him the profound lesson of reception, "no preference nor denial," and the profounder lesson of liberty and truth:- "from this hour, freedom! from this hour i ordain myself loosed of limits and imaginary lines, going where i list--my own master, total and absolute, listening to others, and considering well what they say, pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating, gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me. "i inhale great draughts of air, the east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine." he will not rest with art, he will not rest with books, he will press his way steadily toward the largest freedom. "only the kernel of every object nourishes. where is he who tears off the husks for you and me? where is he who undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me?" whitman was not a builder. if he had the architectural power which the great poets have shown, he gave little proof of it. it was not required by the task he set before himself. his book is not a temple: it is a wood, a field, a highway; vista, vista, everywhere,--vanishing lights and shades, truths half disclosed, successions of objects, hints, suggestions, brief pictures, groups, voices, contrasts, blendings, and, above all, the tonic quality of the open air. the shorter poems are like bunches of herbs or leaves, or a handful of sprays gathered in a walk; never a thought carefully carved, and appealing to our sense of artistic form. the main poem of the book, "the song of myself," is a series of utterances, ejaculations, apostrophes, enumerations, associations, pictures, parables, incidents, suggestions, with little or no structural or logical connection, but all emanating from a personality whose presence dominates the page, and whose eye is ever upon us. without this vivid and intimate sense of the man back of all, of a sane and powerful spirit sustaining ours, the piece would be wild and inchoate. xi the reader will be sure to demand of whitman ample compensation for the absence from his work of those things which current poets give us in such full measure. whether or not the compensation is ample, whether the music of his verse as of winds and waves, the long, irregular, dithyrambic movement, its fluid and tonic character, the vastness of conception, the large, biblical speech, the surging cosmic emotion, the vivid personal presence as of the living man looking into your eye or walking by your side,--whether all these things, the refreshing quality as of "harsh salt spray" which the poet lanier found in the "leaves," the electric currents which mrs. gilchrist found there, the "unexcelled imaginative justice of language" which mr. stevenson at times found, the religious liberation and faith which mr. symonds found, the "incomparable things incomparably well said" of emerson, the rifle-bullets of ruskin, the "supreme words" of colonel ingersoll, etc.,--whether qualities and effects like these, i say, make up to us for the absence of the traditional poetic graces and adornments, is a question which will undoubtedly long divide the reading world. in the works upon which our poetic taste is founded, artistic form is paramount; we have never been led to apply to such works open-air standards,--clouds, trees, rivers, spaces,--but the precision and definiteness of the cultured and the artificial. if whitman had aimed at pure art and had failed, his work would be intolerable. as his french critic, gabriel sarrazin, has well said: "in the large work which whitman attempted, there come no rules save those of nobility and strength of spirit; and these suffice amply to create a most unlooked-for and grandiose aspect of beauty." "overcrowded and disorderly" as it may seem, "if heroic emotion and thought and enthusiasm vitalize it," the poet has reached his goal. xii sometimes i define whitman to myself as the poet of the open air,--not because he sings the praises of these things after the manner of the so-called nature-poets, but because he has the quality of things in the open air, the quality of the unhoused, the untamed, the elemental and aboriginal. he pleases and he offends, the same way things at large do. he has the brawn, the indifference, the rudeness, the virility, the coarseness,--something gray, unpronounced, elemental, about him, the effect of mass, size, distance, flowing, vanishing lines, neutral spaces,--something informal, multitudinous, and processional,--something regardless of criticism, that makes no bid for our applause, not calculated instantly to please, unmindful of details, prosaic if we make it so, common, near at hand, and yet that provokes thought and stirs our emotions in an unusual degree. the long lists and catalogues of objects and scenes in whitman, that have so excited the mirth of the critics, are one phase of his out-of-doors character,--a multitude of concrete objects, a grove, a thicket, a field, a stretch of beach,--every object sharply defined, but no attempt at logical or artistic sequence, the effect of the whole informal, multitudinous. it may be objected to these pages that they consist of a mass of details that do not make a picture. but every line is a picture of a scene or an object. whitman always keeps up the movement, he never pauses to describe; it is all action. passing from such a poet as tennyson to whitman is like going from a warm, perfumed interior, with rich hangings, pictures, books, statuary, fine men and women, out into the street, or upon the beach, or upon the hill, or under the midnight stars. we lose something certainly, but do we not gain something also? do we not gain just what whitman had in view, namely, direct contact with the elements in which are the sources of our life and health? do we not gain in scope and power what we lose in art and refinement? the title, "leaves of grass," is full of meaning. what self-knowledge and self-scrutiny it implies! the grass, perennial sprouting, universal, formless, common, the always spread feast of the herds, dotted with flowers, the herbage of the earth, so suggestive of the multitudinous, loosely aggregated, unelaborated character of the book; the lines springing directly out of the personality of the poet, the soil of his life. "what is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest is me," says the poet, and this turns out to be the case. we only look to see if in the common and the cheap he discloses new values and new meanings,--if his leaves of grass have the old freshness and nutriment, and be not a mere painted greenness. "the pure contralto sings in the organ loft, the carpenter dresses his plank--the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp, the married and unmarried children ride home to their thanksgiving dinner, the pilot seizes the king-pin--he heaves down with a strong arm, the mate stands braced in the whale-boat--lance and harpoon are ready, the duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches, the deacons are ordained with crossed hands at the altar, the spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel, the farmer stops by the bars, as he walks on a first day loafe, and looks at the oats and rye, the lunatic is carried at last to the asylum, a confirmed case, he will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bedroom; the jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case, he turns his quid of tobacco, while his eyes blurr with the manuscript; the malformed limbs are tied to the anatomist's table, what is removed drops horribly in a pail; the quadroon girl is sold at the stand--the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove, the machinist rolls up his sleeves--the policeman travels his beat--the gate-keeper marks who pass, the young fellow drives the express-wagon--i love him, though i do not know him, the half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race, the western turkey-shooting draws old and young--some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs, out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece; the groups of newly-come emigrants cover the wharf or levee, as the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle, the bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other, the youth lies awake in the cedar-roofed garret, and harks to the musical rain, the wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the huron, the reformer ascends the platform, he spouts with his mouth and nose, * * * * * seasons pursuing each other, the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, and the winter-grain falls in the ground, off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in the frozen surface, the stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe, flatboatmen make fast, towards dusk, near the cotton-wood or pekan-trees, coon-seekers go through the regions of the red river, or through those drained by the tennessee, or through those of the arkansas, torches shine in the dark that hangs on the chattahooche or altamahaw, patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons around them, in walls of adobe, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day's sport, the city sleeps and the country sleeps, the living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time, the old husband sleeps by his wife, and the young husband sleeps by his wife; and these one and all tend inward to me, and i tend outward to them, and such as it is to be of these, more or less, i am." what is this but tufts and tussocks of grass; not branching trees, nor yet something framed and deftly put together, but a succession of simple things, objects, actions, persons; handfuls of native growths, a stretch of prairie or savanna; no composition, no artistic wholes, no logical sequence, yet all vital and real; jets of warm life that shoot and play over the surface of contemporary america, and that the poet uses as the stuff out of which to weave the song of himself. this simple aggregating or cataloguing style as it has been called, and which often occurs in the "leaves," has been much criticised, but it seems to me in perfect keeping in a work that does not aim at total artistic effects, at finished structural perfection like architecture, but to picture the elements of a man's life and character in outward scenes and objects and to show how all nature tends inward to him and he outward to it. whitman showers the elements of american life upon his reader until, so to speak, his mind is drenched with them, but never groups them into patterns to tickle his sense of form. it is charged that his method is inartistic, and it is so in a sense, but it is the whitman art and has its own value in his work. only the artist instinct could prompt to this succession of one line genre word painting. but this is not the way of the great artists. no, but it is whitman's way, and these things have a certain artistic value in his work, a work that professedly aims to typify his country and times,--the value of multitude, processions, mass-movements, and the gathering together of elements and forces from wide areas. xiii whitman's relation to art, then, is primary and fundamental, just as his relations to religion, to culture, to politics, to democracy, are primary and fundamental,--through his emotion, his soul, and not merely through his tools, his intellect. his artistic conscience is quickly revealed to any searching inquiry. it is seen in his purpose to convey his message by suggestion and indirection, or as an informing, vitalizing breath and spirit. his thought and meaning are enveloped in his crowded, concrete, and often turbulent pages, as science is enveloped in nature. he has a profound ethic, a profound metaphysic, but they are not formulated; they are vital in his pages as hearing or eyesight. whitman studied effects, and shaped his means to his end, weighing values and subordinating parts, as only the great artist does. he knew the power of words as few know them; he knew the value of vista, perspective, vanishing lights and lines. he knew how to make his words itch at your ears till you understood them; how to fold up and put away in his sentences meanings, glimpses, that did not at first reveal themselves. it is only the work of the great creative artist that is pervaded by will, and that emanates directly and inevitably from the personality of the man himself. as a man and an american, whitman is as closely related to his work as æschylus to his, or dante to his. this is always a supreme test,--the closeness and vitality of the relation of a man to his work. could any one else have done it? is it the general intelligence that speaks, the culture and refinement of the age? or have we a new revelation of life, a new mind and soul? the lesser poets sustain only a secondary relation to their works. it is other poets, other experiences, the past, the schools, the forms, that speak through them. in all whitman's recitatives, as he calls them, the free-flowing ends of the sentences, the loose threads of meaning, the unraveled or unknitted threads and fringes, are all well considered, and are one phase of _his_ art. he seeks his effects thus. his method is indirect, allegorical, and elliptical to an unusual degree; often a curious suspension and withholding in a statement, a suggestive incompleteness, both ends of his thought, as it were, left in the air; sometimes the substantive, sometimes the nominative, is wanting, and all for a purpose. the poet somewhere speaks of his utterance as "prophetic screams." the prophetic element is rarely absent, the voice of one crying in the wilderness, only it is a more jocund and reassuring cry than we are used to in prophecy. the forthrightness of utterance, the projectile force of expression, the constant appeal to unseen laws and powers of the great prophetic souls, is here. whitman is poetic in the same way in which he is democratic, in the same way in which he is religious, or american, or modern,--not by word merely, but by deed; not by the extrinsic, but by the intrinsic; not by art, but by life. i am never tired of saying that to put great personal qualities in a poem, or other literary work, not formulated or didactically stated, but in tone, manner, attitude, breadth of view, love, charity, good fellowship, etc., is the great triumph for our day. so put, they are a possession to the race forever; they grow and bear fruit perennially, like the grass and the trees. and shall it be said that the poet who does this has no worthy art? xiv nearly all modern artificial products, when compared with the ancient, are characterized by greater mechanical finish and precision. can we say, therefore, they are more artistic? is a gold coin of the time of pericles, so rude and simple, less artistic than the elaborate coins of our own day? is japanese pottery, the glazing often ragged and uneven, less artistic than the highly finished work of the moderns? are we quite sure, after all, that what we call "artistic form" is in any high or fundamental sense artistic? are the precise, the regular, the measured, the finished, the symmetrical, indispensable to our conception of art? if regular extrinsic form and measure and proportion are necessary elements of the artistic, then geometrical flower-beds, and trees set in rows or trained to some fancy pattern, ought to please the artist. but do they? if we look for the artistic in these things, then addison is a greater artist than shakespeare. dr. johnson says, "addison speaks the language of poets, and shakespeare of men." which is really the most artistic? the one is the coin from the die, the other the coin from the hand. tennyson's faultless form and finish are not what stamp him a great artist. he would no doubt be glad to get rid of them if he could, at least to keep them in abeyance and make them less obtrusive; he would give anything for the freedom, raciness, and wildness of shakespeare. but he is not equal to these things. the culture, the refinement, the precision of a correct and mechanical age have sunk too deeply into his soul. he has not the courage or the spring to let himself go as shakespeare did. tennyson, too, speaks the language of poets, and not of men; he savors of the flower-garden, and not of the forest. tennyson knows that he is an artist. shakespeare, apparently, never had such a thought; he is intent solely upon holding the mirror up to nature. the former lived in an age of criticism, and when the poets loved poetry more than they did life and things; the latter, in a more virile time, and in "the full stream of the world." "leaves of grass" is not self-advertised as a work of art. the author had no thought that you should lay down his book and say, "what a great artist!" "what a master workman!" he would rather you should say, "what a great man!" "what a loving comrade!" "what a real democrat!" "what a healing and helpful force!" he would not have you admire his poetry: he would have you filled with the breath of a new and larger and saner life; he would be a teacher and trainer of men. the love of the precise, the exact, the methodical, is characteristic of an age of machinery, of a commercial and industrial age like ours. these things are indispensable in the mill and counting-house, but why should we insist upon them in poetry? why should we cling to an arbitrary form like the sonnet? why should we insist upon a perfect rhyme, as if it was a cog in a wheel? why not allow and even welcome the freedom of half-rhymes, or suggestive rhymes? why, anyway, fold back a sentence or idea to get it into a prescribed arbitrary form? why should we call this verse-tinkering and verse-shaping art, when it is only artifice? why should we call the man who makes one pretty conceit rhyme with another pretty conceit an artist, and deny the term to the man whose sentences pair with great laws and forces? of course it is much easier for a poet to use the regular verse-forms and verse language than it is to dispense with them; that is, a much less poetic capital is required in the former case than in the latter. the stock forms and the stock language count for a good deal. a very small amount of original talent may cut quite an imposing figure in the robes of the great masters. require the poet to divest himself of them, and to speak in the language of men and in the spirit of real things, and see how he fares. xv whitman was afraid of what he called the beauty disease. he thought a poet of the first order should be sparing of the direct use of the beautiful, as nature herself is. his aim should be larger, and beauty should follow and not lead. the poet should not say to himself, "come, i will make something beautiful," but rather "i will make something true, and quickening, and powerful. i will not dress my verse up in fine words and pretty fancies, but i will breathe into it the grit and force and adhesiveness of real things." beauty is the flowering of life and fecundity, and it must have deep root in the non-beautiful. beauty, as the master knows it, is a spirit and not an adornment. it is not merely akin to flowers and gems and rainbows: it is akin to the all. looking through his eyes, you shall see it in the rude and the savage also, in rocks and deserts and mountains, in the common as well as in the rare, in wrinkled age as well as in rosy youth. the non-beautiful holds the world together, holds life together and nourishes it, more than the beautiful. nature is beautiful because she is so much else first,--yes, and last, and all the time. "for the roughness of the earth and of man encloses as much as the delicates of the earth and of man, and nothing endures but personal qualities." is there not in field, wood, or shore something more precious and tonic than any special beauties we may chance to find there,--flowers, perfumes, sunsets,--something that we cannot do without, though we can do without these? is it health, life, power, or what is it? whatever it is, it is something analogous to this that we get in whitman. there is little in his "leaves" that one would care to quote for its mere beauty, though this element is there also. one may pluck a flower here and there in his rugged landscape, as in any other; but the flowers are always by the way, and never the main matter. we should not miss them if they were not there. what delights and invigorates us is in the air, and in the look of things. the flowers are like our wild blossoms growing under great trees or amid rocks, never the camellia or tuberose of the garden or hot-house,--something rude and bracing is always present, always a breath of the untamed and aboriginal. whitman's work gives results, and never processes. there is no return of the mind upon itself; it descends constantly upon things, persons, realities. it is a rushing stream which will not stop to be analyzed. it has been urged that whitman does not give the purely intellectual satisfaction that would seem to be warranted by his mental grasp and penetration. no, nor the æsthetic satisfaction warranted by his essentially artistic habit of mind. well, he did not promise satisfaction in anything, but only to put us on the road to satisfaction. his book, he says, is not a "good lesson," but it lets down the bars to a good lesson, and that to another, and every one to another still. let me repeat that the sharp, distinct intellectual note--the note of culture, books, clubs, etc., such as we get from so many modern writers, you will not get from whitman. in my opinion, the note he sounds is deeper and better than that. it has been charged by an unfriendly critic that he strikes lower than the intellect. if it is meant by this that he misses the intellect, it is not true; he stimulates the intellect as few poets do. he strikes lower because he strikes farther. he sounds the note of character, personality, volition, the note of prophecy, of democracy, and of love. he seems unintellectual to an abnormally intellectual age; he seems unpoetic to a taste formed upon poetic tidbits; he seems irreligious to standards founded upon the old models of devotional piety; he seems disorderly, incoherent to all petty thumb and finger measurements. in his ideas and convictions, whitman was a modern of the moderns; yet in his type, his tastes, his fundamental make-up, he was primitive, of an earlier race and age,--before, as emerson suggests, the gods had cut man up into men, with special talents of one kind or another. xvi take any of whitman's irregular-flowing lines, and clip and trim them, and compress them into artificial verse-forms, and what have we gained to make up for what we have lost? take his lines called "reconciliation," for instance:- "word over all beautiful as the sky, beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be utterly lost, that the hands of the sisters death and night incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world; for my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead, i look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin--i draw near, bend down, and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin." or take his poem called "old ireland:"- "far hence amid an isle of wondrous beauty, crouching over a grave an ancient sorrowful mother, once a queen, now lean and tatter'd, seated on the ground, her old white hair drooping, dishevel'd, round her shoulders, at her feet fallen an unused royal harp, long silent, she, too, long silent, mourning her shrouded hope and heir, of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow because most full of love. "yet a word, ancient mother, you need crouch there no longer on the cold ground with forehead between your knees, oh, you need not sit there veil'd in your old white hair so dishevel'd, for know you the one you mourn is not in that grave, it was an illusion; the son you loved was not really dead, the lord is not dead, he is risen again young and strong in another country. even while you wept there by your fallen harp by the grave, what you wept for was translated, pass'd from the grave, the winds favor'd and the sea sail'd it, and now with rosy and new blood, moves to-day in a new country." or take these lines from "children of adam:"- "i heard you solemn-sweet pipes of the organ as last sunday morn i pass'd the church, winds of autumn, as i walk'd the woods at dusk i heard your long-stretch'd sighs up above so mournful, i heard the perfect italian tenor singing at the opera, i heard the soprano in the midst of the quartet singing; heart of my love! you, too, i heard murmuring low through one of the wrists around my head, heard the pulse of you, when all was still, ringing little bells last night under my ear." put such things as these, or in fact any of the poems, in rhymed and measured verse, and you heighten a certain effect, the effect of the highly wrought, the cunningly devised; but we lose just what the poet wanted to preserve at all hazards,--vista, unconstraint, the effect of the free-careering forces of nature. i always think of a regulation verse-form as a kind of corset which does not much disguise a good figure, though it certainly hampers it, and which is a great help to a poor figure. it covers up deficiencies, and it restrains exuberances. a personality like whitman can wear it with ease and grace, as may be seen in a few of his minor poems, but for my part i like him best without it. xvii how well we know the language of the conventional poetic! in this language, the language of nine tenths of current poetry, the wind comes up out of the south and kisses the rose's crimson mouth, or it comes out of the wood and rumples the poppy's hood. morning comes in glistening sandals, and her footsteps are jeweled with flowers. everything is bedecked and bejeweled. nothing is truly seen or truly reported. it is an attempt to paint the world beautiful. it is not beautiful as it is, and we must deck it out in the colors of the fancy. now, i do not want the world painted for me. i want the grass green or brown, as the case may be; the sky blue, the rocks gray, the soil red; and that the sun should rise and set without any poetic claptrap. what i want is to see these things spin around a thought, or float on the current of an emotion, as they always do in real poetry. beauty always follows, never leads the great poet. it arises out of the interior substance and structure of his work, like the bloom of health in the cheeks. the young poet thinks to win beauty by direct and persistent wooing of her. he has not learned yet that she comes unsought to the truthful, the brave, the heroic. let him think some great thought, experience some noble impulse, give himself with love to life and reality about him, and beauty is already his. she is the reward of noble deeds. xviii the modern standard in art is becoming more and more what has been called the canon of the characteristic, as distinguished from the greek or classic canon of formal beauty. it is this canon, as professor triggs suggests, that we are to apply to whitman. dr. johnson had it in mind when he wrote thus of shakespeare:-"the work of a correct and regular writer is a garden accurately formed and diligently planted, varied with shades and scented with flowers: the composition of shakespeare is a forest in which oaks extend their branches, and pines tower in the air, interspersed sometimes with weeds and brambles, and sometimes giving shelter to myrtles and to roses; filling the eye with awful pomp, and gratifying the mind with endless diversity." classic art holds to certain fixed standards; it seeks formal beauty; it holds to order and proportion in external parts; its ideal of natural beauty is the well-ordered park or grove or flower-garden. it has a horror of the wild and savage. mountains and forests, and tempests and seas, filled the classic mind with terror. not so with the modern romantic mind, which finds its best stimulus and delight in free, unhampered nature. it loves the element of mystery and the suggestion of uncontrollable power. the modern mind has a sense of the vast, the infinite, that the greek had not, and it is drawn by informal beauty more than by the formal. xix it is urged against whitman that he brings us the materials of poetry, but not poetry: he brings us the marble block, but not the statue; or he brings us the brick and mortar, but not the house. false or superficial analogies mislead us. poetry is not something made; it is something grown, it is a vital union of the fact and the spirit. if the verse awakens in us the poetic thrill, the material, whatever it be, must have been touched with the transforming spirit of poesy. why does whitman's material suggest to any reader that it is poetic material? because it has already been breathed upon by the poetic spirit. a poet may bring the raw material of poetry in the sense that he may bring the raw material of a gold coin; the stamp and form you give it does not add to its value. it is doubtful if any of whitman's utterances could be worked up into what is called poetry without a distinct loss of poetic value. what they would gain in finish they would lose in suggestiveness. this word "suggestiveness" affords one of the keys to whitman. the objection to him i have been considering arises from the failure of the critic to see and appreciate his avowed purpose to make his page fruitful in poetic suggestion, rather than in samples of poetic elaboration. "i finish no specimens," he says. "i shower them by exhaustless laws, fresh and modern continually, as nature does." he is quite content if he awaken the poetic emotion without at all satisfying it. he would have you more eager and hungry for poetry when you had finished with him than when you began. he brings the poetic stimulus, and brings it in fuller measure than any contemporary poet; and this is enough for him. an eminent musician and composer, the late dr. ritter, told me that reading "leaves of grass" excited him to composition as no other poetry did. tennyson left him passive and cold, but whitman set his fingers in motion at once; he was so fruitful in themes, so suggestive of new harmonies and melodies. he gave the hints, and left his reader to follow them up. this is exactly what whitman wanted to do. it defines his attitude toward poetry, towards philosophy, towards religion,--to suggest and set going, to arouse unanswerable questions, and to brace you to meet them; to bring the materials of poetry, if you will have it so, and leave you to make the poem; to start trains of thought, and leave you to pursue the flight alone. not a thinker, several critics have urged; no, but the cause of thought in others to an unwonted degree. "whether you agree with him or not," says an australian essayist, "he will sting you into such an anguish of thought as must in the end be beneficial." it matters little to him whether or not you agree with him; what is important is, that you should think the matter out for yourself. he purposely avoids hemming you in by his conclusions; he would lead you in no direction but your own. "once more i charge you give play to your self. i charge you leave all free, as i have left all free." no thought, no philosophy, no music, no poetry, in his pages; no, it is all character, impulse, emotion, suggestion. but the true reader of him experiences all these things: he finds in his pages, if he knows how to look for it, a profound metaphysic, a profound ethic, a profound æsthetic; a theory of art and poetry which is never stated, but only hinted or suggested, and which is much more robust and vital than what we are used to; a theory of good and evil; a view of character and conduct; a theory of the state and of politics, of the relation of the sexes, etc., to give ample food for thought and speculation. the hegelian philosophy is in the "leaves" as vital as the red corpuscles in the blood, so much is implied that is not stated, but only suggested, as in nature herself. the really vast erudition of the work is adroitly concealed, hidden like its philosophy, as a tree hides its roots. readers should not need to be told that, in the region of art as of religion, mentality is not first, but spirituality, personality, imagination; and that we do not expect a poet's thoughts to lie upon his pages like boulders in the field, but rather to show their presence like elements in the soil. "love-buds, put before you and within you, whoever you are, buds to be unfolded on the old terms, if you bring the warmth of the sun to them, they will open, and bring form, color, perfume to you, if you become the aliment and the wet, they will become flowers, fruits, tall branches and trees." the early records and sacred books of most peoples contain what is called the materials of poetry. the bible is full of such materials. english literature shows many attempts to work this material up into poetry, but always with a distinct loss of poetic value. the gold is simply beaten out thin and made to cover more surface, or it is mixed with some base metal. a recent english poet has attempted to work up the new testament records into poetry, and the result is for the most part a thin, windy dilution of the original. if the record or legend is full of poetic suggestion, that is enough; to elaborate it, and deck it out in poetic finery without loss of poetic value, is next to impossible. to me the arthurian legends as they are given in the old books, are more poetic, more stimulating to the imagination, than they are after they have gone through the verbal upholstering and polishing of such a poet as swinburne or even tennyson. these poets add little but words and flowers of fancy, and the heroic simplicity of the original is quite destroyed. xx no critic of repute has been more puzzled and misled by this unwrought character of our poet's verse than mr. edmund gosse, the london poet and essayist. mr. gosse finds whitman only a potential or possible poet; his work is literature in the condition of protoplasm. he is a maker of poems in solution; the structural change which should have crystallized his fluid and teeming pages into forms of art never came. it does not occur to mr. gosse to inquire whether or not something like this may not have been the poet's intention. perhaps this is the secret of the vitality of his work, which, as mr. gosse says, now, after forty years, shows no sign of declining. perhaps it was a large, fresh supply of poetic yeast that the poet really sought to bring us. undoubtedly whitman aimed to give his work just this fluid, generative quality, to put into it the very basic elements of life itself. he feared the "structural change" to which mr. gosse refers; he knew it was more or less a change from life to death: the cell and not the crystal; the leaf of grass, and not the gem, is the type of his sentences. he sacrificed fixed form; above all, did he stop short of that conscious intellectual elaboration so characteristic of later poetry, the better to give the impression and the stimulus of creative elemental power. it is not to the point to urge that this is not the method or aim of other poets; that others have used the fixed forms, and found them plastic and vital in their hands. it was whitman's aim; these were the effects he sought. i think beyond doubt that he gives us the impression of something dynamic, something akin to the vital forces of the organic world, much more distinctly and fully than any other poet who has lived. whitman always aimed to make his reader an active partner with him in his poetic enterprise. "i seek less," he says, "to state or display any theme or thought, and more to bring you, reader, into the atmosphere of the theme or thought, there to pursue your own flight." this trait is brought out by mr. gosse in a little allegory. "every reader who comes to whitman," he says, "starts upon an expedition to the virgin forest. he must take his conveniences with him. he will make of the excursion what his own spirit dictates. [we generally do, in such cases, mr. gosse.] there are solitudes, fresh air, rough landscape, and a well of water, but if he wishes to enjoy the latter he must bring his own cup with him." this phase of whitman's work has never been more clearly defined. mr. gosse utters it as an adverse criticism. it is true exposition, however we take it, what we get out of whitman depends so largely upon what we bring to him. readers will not all get the same. we do not all get the same out of a walk or a mountain climb. we get out of him in proportion to the sympathetic and interpretative power of our own spirits. have you the brooding, warming, vivifying mother-mind? that vague, elusive, incommensurable something in the "leaves" that led symonds to say that talking about whitman was like talking about the universe,--that seems to challenge our pursuit and definition, that takes on so many different aspects to so many different minds,--it seems to be this that has led mr. gosse to persuade himself that there is no real walt whitman, no man whom we can take, as we take any other figure in literature, as an "entity of positive value and definite characteristics," but a mere mass of literary protoplasm that takes the instant impression of whatever mood approaches it. stevenson finds a stevenson in it, mr. symonds finds a symonds, emerson finds an emerson, etc. truly may our poet say, "i contain multitudes." in what other poet do these men, or others like them, find themselves? whitman was a powerful solvent undoubtedly. he never hardens into anything like a system, or into mere intellectual propositions. one of his own phrases, "the fluid and swallowing soul," is descriptive of this trait of him. one source of his charm is, that we each see some phase of ourselves in him, as mr. gosse suggests. above all things is he potential and indicative, bard of "flowing mouth and indicative hand." in his "inscriptions" he says:- "i am a man who, sauntering along without fully stopping, turns a casual look upon you and then averts his face, leaving it to you to prove and define it, expecting the main things from you." this withholding and half-averted glancing, then, on the part of the poet, is deliberate and enters into the scheme of the work. mr. gosse would have shown himself a sounder critic had he penetrated the poet's purpose in this respect, and shown whether or not he had violated the canons he had set up for his own guidance. we do not condemn a creative work when it departs from some rule or precedent, but when it violates its own principle, when it is not consistent with itself, when it hath not eyes to see, or ears to hear, or hands to reach what lies within its own sphere. art, in the plastic realms of written language, may set its mind upon elaboration, upon structural finish and proportion, upon exact forms and compensations, as in architecture, or it may set its mind upon suggestion, indirection, and the flowing, changing forms of organic nature. it is as much art in the one case as in the other. to get rid of all visible artifice is, of course, the great thing in both cases. there is so little apparent artifice in whitman's case that he has been accused of being entirely without art, and of throwing his matter together in a haphazard way,--"without thought, without selection," without "composition, evolution, vertebration of style," says mr. gosse. yet his work more than holds its own in a field where these things alone are supposed to insure success. whitman covers up his processes well, and knows how to hit his mark without seeming to take aim. the verdicts upon him are mainly contradictory, because each critic only takes in a part of his scheme. mr. stedman finds him a formalist. mr. gosse finds in him a negation of all form. the london critic says he is without thought. a boston critic speaks of what he happily calls the "waves of thought" in his work,--vast mind-impulses that lift and sway great masses of concrete facts and incidents. whitman knew from the start that he would puzzle and baffle his critics, and would escape from them like air when they felt most sure they had him in their verbal nets. so it has been from the first, and so it continues to be. without one thing, he says, it is useless to read him; and of what that one thing needful is, he gives only the vaguest hint, only a "significant look." xxi i may here notice two objections to whitman urged by mr. stedman,--a critic for whose opinion i have great respect, and a man for whom i have a genuine affection. with all his boasted breadth and tolerance, whitman, says my friend, is narrow; and, with all his vaunted escape from the shackles of verse-form, he is a formalist: his "irregular, manneristic chant" is as much at the extreme of artificiality as is the sonnet. these certainly are faults that one does not readily associate with the work of whitman. but then i remember that the french critic, scherer, charges carlyle, the apostle of the gospel of sincerity, with being insincere and guilty of canting about cant. if carlyle is insincere, i think it very likely that whitman may be narrow and hide-bound. these things are so much a matter of temperament that one cannot judge for another. yet one ought not to confound narrowness and breadth, or little and big. all earnest, uncompromising men are more or less open to the charge of narrowness. a man is narrow when he concentrates himself upon a point; even a cannon-shot is. whitman was narrow in the sense that he was at times monotonous; that he sought but few effects, that he poured himself out mainly in one channel, that he struck chiefly the major chords of life. his "leaves" do not show a great range of artistic motifs. a versatile, many-sided nature he certainly was not; a large, broad, tolerant nature he as certainly was. he does not assume many and diverse forms like a purely artistic talent, sporting with and masquerading in all the elements of life, like shakespeare; but in his own proper form, and in his own proper person, he gives a sense of vastness and power that are unapproached in modern literature. he asserts himself uncompromisingly, but he would have you do the same. "he who spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my own." "he most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher." his highest hope is to be the soil of superior poems. mr. stedman thinks he detects in the poet a partiality for the coarser, commoner elements of our humanity over the finer and choicer,--for the "rough" over the gentleman. but when all things have been duly considered, it will be found, i think, that he finally rests only with great personal qualities and traits. he is drawn by powerful, natural persons, wherever found,--men and women self-poised, fully equipped on all sides:- "i announce a great individual, fluid as nature, chaste, affectionate, compassionate, fully arm'd, i announce a life that shall be copious, vehement, spiritual, bold,"-and much more to the same effect. "i say nourish a great intellect, a great brain: if i have said anything to the contrary, i hereby retract it." whitman is a formalist, just as every man who has a way of his own of saying and doing things, no matter how natural, is a formalist; but he is not a stickler for form of any sort. he has his own proper form, of course, which he rarely departs from. at one extreme of artificiality mr. stedman apparently places the sonnet. this is an arbitrary form; its rules are inflexible; it is something cut and shaped and fitted together after a predetermined pattern, and to this extent is artificial. if whitman's irregularity was equally studied; if it gave us the same sense of something cunningly planned and wrought to a particular end, clipped here, curbed there, folded back in this line, drawn out in that, and attaining to a certain mechanical proportion and balance as a whole,--then there would be good ground for the critic's charge. but such is not the case. whitman did not have, nor claim to have, the architectonic power of the great constructive poets. he did not build the lofty rhyme. he did not build anything, strictly speaking. he let himself go. he named his book after the grass, which makes a carpet over the earth, and which is a sign and a presence rather than a form. xxii whitman's defects flow out of his great qualities. what we might expect from his size, his sense of mass and multitude, would be an occasional cumbrousness, turgidity, unwieldiness, ineffectualness: what we might expect from his vivid realism would be an occasional over-rankness or grossness; from his bluntness, a rudeness; from his passion for country, a little spread-eagleism; from his masterly use of indirection, occasional obscurity; from his mystic identification of himself with what is commonest, cheapest, nearest, a touch at times of the vulgar and unworthy; from his tremendous practical democracy, a bias at times toward too low an average; from his purpose "to effuse egotism and show it underlying all," may arise a little too much self-assertion, etc. the price paid for his strenuousness and earnestness will be a want of humor; his determination to glorify the human body, as god made it, will bring him in collision with our notions of the decent, the proper; the "courageous, clear voice" with which he seeks to prove the sexual organs and acts "illustrious," will result in his being excluded from good society; his "heroic nudity" will be apt to set the good dame, belles-lettres, all a-shiver; his healthful coarseness and godlike candor will put all the respectable folk to flight. xxiii to say that whitman is a poet in undress is true within certain limits. if it conveys the impression that he is careless or inapt in the use of language, or that the word is not always the fit word, the best word, the saying does him injustice. no man ever searched more diligently for the right word--for just the right word--than did whitman. he would wait for days and weeks for the one ultimate epithet. how long he pressed the language for some word or phrase that would express the sense of the evening call of the robin, and died without the sight! but his language never obtrudes itself. it has never stood before the mirror, it does not consciously challenge your admiration, it is not obviously studied, it is never on dress parade. his matchless phrases seem like chance hits, so much so that some critics have wondered how he happened to _stumble_ upon them. his verse is not dressed up, because it has so few of the artificial adjuncts of poetry,--no finery or stuck-on ornament,--nothing obtrusively beautiful or poetic; and because it bears itself with the freedom and nonchalance of a man in his every-day attire. but it is always in a measure misleading to compare language with dress, to say that a poet clothes his thought, etc. the language is the thought; it is an incarnation, not an outside tailoring. to improve the expression is to improve the thought. in the most vital writing, the thought is nude; the mind of the reader touches something alive and real. when we begin to hear the rustle of a pompous or highly wrought vocabulary, when the man begins to dress his commonplace ideas up in fine phrases, we have enough of him. indeed, it is only the mechanical writer who may be said to "clothe" his ideas with words; the real poet thinks through words. xxiv i see that a plausible criticism might be made against whitman, perhaps has been made, that in him we find the big merely,--strength without power, size without quality. a hasty reader might carry away this impression from his work, because undoubtedly one of the most obvious things about him is his great size. it is impossible not to feel that here is a large body of some sort. we have come upon a great river, a great lake, an immense plain, a rugged mountain. we feel that this mind requires a large space to turn in. the page nearly always gives a sense of mass and multitude. all attempts at the playful or humorous seem ungainly. the style is processional and agglomerative. out of these vast, rolling, cloud-like masses does there leap forth the true lightning? it seems to me there can be no doubt about that. the spirit easily triumphs. there is not only mass, there is penetration; not only vastness, there is sublimity; not only breadth, there is quality and charm. he is both dantesque and darwinian, as has been said. mr. symonds was impressed with this quality of vastness in whitman, and, despairing of conveying an adequate notion of him by any process of literary analysis, resorts to the use of a succession of metaphors,--the symbolic use of objects that convey the idea of size and power. thus, "he is behemoth, wallowing in primeval jungles;" "he is a gigantic elk or buffalo, trampling the grass of the wilderness;" "he is an immense tree, a kind of ygdrasil, striking its roots deep down into the bowels of the world;" "he is the circumambient air in which float shadowy shapes, rise mirage-towers and palm-groves;" "he is the globe itself,--all seas, lands, forests, climates, storms, snows, sunshines, rains of universal earth." colonel ingersoll said there was something in him akin to mountains and plains, and to the globe itself. but whitman is something more than a literary colossus. pigmies can only claim pigmy honors. size, after all, rules in this universe, because size and power go together. the large bodies rule the small. there is no impression of greatness in art without something that is analogous to size,--breadth, depth, height. the sense of vastness is never the gift of a minor poet. you cannot paint niagara on the thumb-nail. great artists are distinguished from small by the majesty of their conceptions. whitman's air is continental. he implies a big country, vast masses of humanity, sweeping and stirring times, the triumphs of science and the industrial age. he is the poet of mass and multitude. in his pages things are grouped and on the run, as it were. little detail, little or no elaboration, little or no development of a theme, no minute studied effects so dear to the poets, but glimpses, suggestions, rapid surveys, sweeping movements, processions of objects, vista, vastness,--everywhere the effect of a man overlooking great spaces and calling off the significant and interesting points. he never stops to paint; he is contented to suggest. his "leaves" are a rapid, joyous survey of the forces and objects of the universe, first with reference to character and personality, and next with reference to america and democracy. his method of treatment is wholesale and accumulative. it is typified by this passage in his first poem:- "listen! i will be honest with you, i do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes. "i tramp a perpetual journey, my signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods, no friend of mine takes his ease in my chair, i have no chair, no church, no philosophy, i lead no man to a dinner table, library, or exchange, but each man and each woman of you i lead upon a knoll, my left hand hooking you round the waist, my right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and a plain public road." he deals with the major elements of life, and always aims at large effects. "lover of populous pavements," he is occupied with large thoughts and images, with races, eras, multitudes, processions. his salute is to the world. he keeps the whole geography of his country and of the globe before him; his purpose in his poems spans the whole modern world. he views life as from some eminence from which many shades and differences disappear. he sees things in mass. many of our cherished conventions disappear from his point of view. he sees the fundamental and necessary things. his vision is sweeping and final. he tries himself by the orbs. his standards of poetry and art are astronomic. he sees his own likeness in the earth. his rapture springs, not so much from the contemplation of bits and parts as from the contemplation of the whole. there is a breadth of sympathy and of interest that does not mind particulars. he says:- "it is no small matter, this round and delicious globe, moving so exactly in its orbit forever and ever, without one jolt, or the untruth of a single second, i do not think it was made in six days, nor in ten thousand years, nor ten billions of years, nor planned and built one thing after another as an architect plans and builds a house." in old age he sees "the estuary that enlarges and spreads itself grandly as it pours into the sea." he looks upon all things at a certain remove. these are typical lines:- "a thousand perfect men and women appear, around each gathers a cluster of friends, and gay children and youths, with offerings." "women sit, or move to and fro, some old, some young, the young are beautiful--but the old are more beautiful than the young." "the runner," "a farm picture," and scores of others, are to the same effect. always wholes, total impressions,--always a view as of a "strong bird on pinion free." few details, but panoramic effects; not the flower, but the landscape; not a tree, but a forest; not a street corner, but a city. the title of one of his poems, "a song of the rolling earth," might stand as the title of the book. when he gathers details and special features he masses them like a bouquet of herbs and flowers. no cameo carving, but large, bold, rough, heroic sculpturing. the poetry is always in the totals, the breadth, the sweep of conception. the part that is local, specific, genre, near at hand, is whitman himself; his personality is the background across which it all flits. we make a mistake when we demand of whitman what the other poets give us,--studies, embroidery, delicate tracings, pleasing artistic effects, rounded and finished specimens. we shall understand him better if we inquire what his own standards are, what kind of a poet he would be. he tells us over and over again that he would emulate the great forces and processes of nature. he seeks for hints in the sea, the mountain, in the orbs themselves. in the wild splendor and savageness of a colorado canyon he sees a spirit kindred to his own. he dwells fondly, significantly, upon the amplitude, the coarseness, and what he calls the sexuality, of the earth, and upon its great charity and equilibrium. "the earth," he says, "does not withhold; it is generous enough:- "the truths of the earth continually wait, they are not so concealed either, they are calm, subtle, untransmissible by print. they are imbued through all things, conveying themselves willingly, conveying a sentiment and invitation of the earth--i utter and utter!" * * * * * "the earth does not argue, is not pathetic, has no arrangements, does not scream, haste, persuade, threaten, promise, makes no discriminations, has no conceivable failures, closes nothing, refuses nothing, shuts none out. of all the powers, objects, states, it notifies, shuts none out." he says the best of life "is not what you anticipated--it is cheaper, easier, nearer," and that the earth affords the final standard of all things:- "i swear there can be no theory of any account unless it corroborate the theory of the earth, no politics, art, religion, behavior, or what not, is of account unless it compares with the amplitude of the earth, unless it face the exactness, vitality, impartiality, rectitude, of the earth." no one can make a study of our poet without being deeply impressed with these and kindred passages:- "the maker of poems settles justice, reality, immortality, his insight and power encircle things and the human race. the singers do not beget, only the poet begets, the singers are welcom'd, understood, appear often enough, but rare has the day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker of poems, the answerer, (not every century, nor every five centuries has contain'd such a day, for all its names.) * * * * * "all this time and at all times wait the words of true poems, the words of true poems do not merely please, the true poets are not followers of beauty, but the august masters of beauty; the greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness of mothers and fathers, the words of true poems are the tuft and final applause of science. "divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of reason, health, rudeness of body, withdrawnness, gayety, sun-tan, air-sweetness, such are some of the words of poems, the sailor, the traveler, underlie the maker of poems, the answerer, the builder, geometer, chemist, anatomist, phrenologist, artist, all these underlie the maker of poems, the answerer. the words of the true poems give you more than poems; they give you to form for yourself poems, religions, politics, war, peace, behavior, histories, essays, daily life, and everything else. they balance ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the sexes; they do not seek beauty, they are sought, forever touching them or close upon them follows beauty, longing, fain, love-sick. they prepare for death, yet are they not the finish, but rather the outset, they bring none to his or her terminus or to be contented and full, whom they take they take into space to behold the birth of stars, to learn one of the meanings, to launch off with absolute faith, to sweep through the ceaseless rings and never be quiet again. * * * * * "of these states the poet is the equable man, not in him but off from him things are grotesque, eccentric, fail of their full returns, nothing out of its place is good, nothing in its place is bad, he bestows on every object or quality its fit proportion, neither more nor less, he is the arbiter of the diverse, he is the key, he is the equalizer of his age and land, he supplies what wants supplying, he checks what wants checking, in peace out of him speaks the spirit of peace, large, rich, thrifty, building populous towns, encouraging agriculture, arts, commerce, lighting the study of man, the soul, health, immortality, government, in war he is the best backer of the war, he fetches artillery as good as the engineer's, he can make every word he speaks draw blood, the years straying toward infidelity he withholds by his steady faith, he is no arguer, he is judgment (nature accepts him absolutely), he judges not as the judge judges, but as the sun falling round a helpless thing, as he sees the farthest he has the most faith, his thoughts are the hymns of the praise of things, in the dispute on god and eternity he is silent, he sees eternity less like a play with a prologue and denouement, he sees eternity in men and women, he does not see men and omen as dreams or dots. * * * * * "rhymes and rhymers pass away, poems distill'd from other poems pass away, the swarms of reflectors and the polite pass, and leave ashes, admirers, impostors, obedient persons, make but the soil of literature." folded up in these sentences, often many times folded up, is whitman's idea of the poet, the begetter, the reconciler; not the priest of the beautiful, but the master of the all, who does not appear once in centuries. we hear nothing of the popular conception of the poet, well reflected in these lines of tennyson:- "the poet in a golden clime was born, with golden stars above." "golden stars" and "golden climes" do not figure at all in whitman's pages; the spirit of romance is sternly excluded. whitman's ideal poet is the most composite man, rich in temperament, rank in the human attributes, embracing races and eras in himself. all men see themselves in him:- "the mechanic takes him for a mechanic, and the soldier supposes him to be a soldier, and the sailor that he has followed the sea, and the authors take him for an author, and the artists for an artist, and the laborers perceive he could labor with them and love them, no matter what the work is, that he is the one to follow it, or has followed it, no matter what the nation, that he might find his brothers and sisters there. * * * * * "the gentleman of perfect blood acknowledges his perfect blood, the insulter, the prostitute, the angry person, the beggar, see themselves in the ways of him, he strangely transmutes them, they are not vile any more, they hardly know themselves they are so grown." let us hold the poet to his own ideals, and not condemn him because he has not aimed at something foreign to himself. the questions which whitman puts to him who would be an american poet may fairly be put to himself. "are you faithful to things? do you teach what the land and sea, the bodies of men, womanhood, amativeness, heroic angers, teach? have you sped through fleeting customs, popularities? can you hold your hand against all seductions, follies, whirls, fierce contentions? are you very strong? are you really of the whole people? are you not of some coterie? some school, or mere religion? are you done with reviews and criticisms of life? animating now to life itself? have you vivified yourself from the maternity of these states? have you, too, the old, ever-fresh forbearance and impartiality? * * * * * what is this you bring my america? is it uniform with my country? is it not something that has been better done or told before? have you not imported this or the spirit of it in some ship? is it not a mere tale? a rhyme? a pettiness?--is the good old cause in it? has it not dangled long at the heels of the poets, politicians, literats of enemies' lands? does it not assume that what is notoriously gone is still here? does it answer universal needs? will it improve manners? can your performance face the open fields and the seaside? will it absorb into me as i absorb food, air, to appear again in my strength, gait, face? have real employments contributed to it? original makers, not mere amanuenses? so far as whitman's poetry falls within any of the old divisions it is lyrical,--a personal and individual utterance. open the book anywhere and you are face to face with a man. his eye is fixed upon you. it is a man's voice you hear, and it is directed to _you_. he is not elaborating a theme: he is suggesting a relation or hinting a meaning. he is not chiseling, or carving a work of art: he is roughly outlining a man; he is planting a seed, or tilling a field. xxv i believe it was the lamented professor clifford who first used the term "cosmic emotion" in connection with "leaves of grass." whitman's atmosphere is so distinctly outside of and above that which ministers to our social and domestic wants,--the confined and perfumed air of an indoor life; his mood and temper are so habitually begotten by the contemplation of the orbs and the laws and processes of universal nature, that the phrase often comes to mind in considering him. he is not in any sense, except perhaps in a few minor pieces, a domestic and fireside poet,--a solace to our social instincts and cultivated ideals. he is too large, too aboriginal, too elemental, too strong for that. i seem to understand and appreciate him best when i keep in mind the earth as a whole, and its relation to the system. any large view or thought, or survey of life or mankind, is a preparation for him. he demands the outdoor temper and habit, he demands a sense of space and power, he demands above all things a feeling for reality. "vastness" is a word that applies to him; abysmal man, cosmic consciousness, the standards of the natural universal,--all hint some phase of his genius. his survey of life and duty is from a point not included in any four walls, or in any school or convention. it is a survey from out the depths of being; the breath of worlds and systems is in these utterances. his treatment of sex, of comradeship, of death, of democracy, of religion, of art, of immortality, is in the spirit of the great out-of-doors of the universe; the point of view is cosmic rather than personal or philanthropic. what charity is this!--the charity of sunlight that spares nothing and turns away from nothing. what "heroic nudity"! like the nakedness of rocks and winter trees. what sexuality! like the lust of spring or the push of tides. what welcome to death, as only the night which proves the day! xxvi this orbic nature which so thrills and fills whitman is not at all akin to that which we get in the so-called nature-poets of wordsworth and his school,--the charm of privacy, of the sequestered, the cosy,--qualities that belong to the art of a domestic, home-loving race, and to lovers of solitude. tennyson's poetry abounds in these qualities; so does wordsworth's. there is less of them in browning, and more of them in the younger poets. that communing with nature, those dear friendships with birds and flowers, that gentle wooing of the wild and sylvan, that flavor of the rural, the bucolic,--all these are important features in the current popular poetry, but they are not to any marked extent characteristic of whitman. the sentiment of domesticity, love as a sentiment; the attraction of children, home and fireside; the attraction of books, art, travel; our pleasure in the choice, the refined, the artificial,--these are not the things you are to demand of whitman. you do not demand them of homer or dante or the biblical writers. we are to demand of him the major things, primary things; the lift of great emotions; the cosmic, the universal; the joy of health, of selfhood; the stimulus of the real, the modern, the american; always the large, the virile; always perfect acceptance and triumph. whitman's free use of the speech of the common people is doubtless offensive to a fastidious literary taste. such phrases as "i will be even with you," "what would it amount to," "give in," "not one jot less;" "young fellows," "old fellows," "stuck up," "every bit as much," "week in and week out," and a thousand others, would jar on the page of any other poet more than on his. xxvii william rossetti says his language has a certain ultimate quality. another critic speaks of his absolute use of language. colonel ingersoll credits him with more supreme words than have been uttered by any other man of our time. the power to use words was in whitman's eyes a divine power, and was bought with a price:- "for only at last after many years, after chastity, friendship, procreation, prudence, and nakedness, after treading ground, and breasting river and lake, after a loosen'd throat, after absorbing eras, temperaments, races, after knowledge, freedom, crimes, after complete faith, after clarifying elevations and removing obstructions, after these and more, it is just possible there comes to a man, a woman, the divine power to speak words." whitman's sense of composition and his rare artistic faculty of using language are seen, as john addington symonds says, in the "countless clear and perfect phrases" "which are hung, like golden medals of consummate workmanship and incised form, in rich clusters over every poem he produced. and, what he aimed at above all, these phrases are redolent of the very spirit of the emotions they suggest, communicate the breadth and largeness of the natural things they indicate, embody the essence of realities in living words which palpitate and burn forever." the great poet is always more or less the original, the abysmal man. he is face to face with universal laws and conditions. he speaks out of a greater exaltation of sentiment than the prose-writer. he takes liberties; he speaks for all men; he is a bird on "pinions free." xxviii in saying or implying that whitman's aim was not primarily literary or artistic, i am liable to be misunderstood; and when whitman himself says, "no one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary performance, or attempt at such performance, or as aiming mainly toward art or æstheticism," he exposes himself to the same misconception. it is the literary and poetic value of his verses alone that can save them. their philosophy, their democracy, their vehement patriotism, their religious ardor, their spirit of comradeship, or what not, will not alone suffice. all depends upon the manner in which these things are presented to us. do we get the reality, or words about the reality? no matter what the content of the verse, unless into the whole is breathed the breath of the true creative artist they will surely perish. oblivion awaits every utterance not touched with the life of the spirit. whitman was as essentially an artist as was shakespeare or dante; his work shows the same fusion of imagination, will, emotion, personality; it carries the same quality of real things,--not the same shaping, constructive power, but the same quickening, stimulating power, the same magic use of words. the artist in him is less conscious of itself, is less differentiated from the man, than in the other poets. he objected to having his work estimated for its literary value alone, but in so doing he used the word in a narrow sense. after all these ages of the assiduous cultivation of literature, there has grown up in men a kind of lust of the mere art of writing, just as, after so many generations of religious training, there has grown up a passion for religious forms and observances. "mere literature" has come to be a current phrase in criticism, meaning, i suppose, that the production to which it is applied is notable only for good craftsmanship. in the same spirit one speaks of mere scholarship, or of a certain type of man as a mere gentleman. it was mere literature that whitman was afraid of, the æsthetic disease, the passion for letters, for poetry, divorced from love of life and of things. none knew better than he that the ultimate value of any imaginative and emotional work, even of the bible, is its literary value. its spiritual and religious value is inseparably connected with its literary value. "leaves of grass" is not bookish; it is always the voice of a man, and not of a scholar or conventional poet, that addresses us. we all imbue words more or less with meanings of our own; but, from the point of view i am now essaying, literature is the largest fact, and embraces all inspired utterances. the hymn-book seeks to embody or awaken religious emotion alone; would its religious value be less if its poetic value were more? i think not. the best of the psalms of david, from the religious point of view, are the best from the literary point of view. what reaches and thrills the soul,--that is great art. what arouses the passions--mirth, anger, indignation, pity--may or may not be true art. no one, for instance, can read "uncle tom's cabin" without tears, laughter, anger; but no one, i fancy, could ever get from it that deep, tranquil pleasure and edification that the great imaginative works impart. keble's poetry is more obviously religious than wordsworth's or arnold's, but how short-lived, because it is not embalmed in the true artistic spirit! in all the great poems, there is something as deep and calm as the light and the sky, and as common and universal. i find this something in whitman. in saying, therefore, that his aim was ulterior to that of art, that he was not begotten by the literary spirit, i only mean that his aim was that of the largest art, and of the most vital and comprehensive literature. we should have heard the last of his "leaves" long ago had they not possessed unmistakably the vitality of true literature, "incomparable things, incomparably well said," as emerson remarked. a scientific or philosophical work lives independently of its literary merit, but an emotional and imaginative work lives only by virtue of its literary merit. different meanings may be attached to these words "literary merit" by different persons. i use them as meaning that vital and imaginative use of language which is the characteristic of all true literature. the most effective way of saying a thing in the region of the sentiments and emotions,--that is the true literary way. his relation to life and morals i i have divided my subject into many chapters, and given to each a separate heading, yet i am aware that they are all but slight variations of a single theme,--viz., whitman's reliance upon absolute nature. that there might be no mistake about it, and that his reader might at once be put in possession of his point of view, the poet declared at the outset of his career that at every hazard he should let nature speak. "creeds and schools in abeyance retiring back awhile, sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, i harbor for good or bad, i permit to speak at every hazard, nature without check, with original energy." the hazard of letting nature speak will, of course, be great,--the hazard of gross misapprehension on the part of the public, and of hesitancy and inadequacy on the part of the poet. the latter danger, i think, was safely passed; whitman never flinched or wavered for a moment, and that his criticism is adequate seems to me equally obvious. but the former contingency--the gross misapprehension of the public, even the wiser public--has been astounding. he has been read in a narrow, literal, bourgeois spirit. the personal pronoun, which he uses so freely, has been taken to stand for the private individual walt whitman, so that he has been looked upon as a compound of egotism and licentiousness. his character has been traduced, and his purpose in the "leaves" entirely misunderstood. we see at a glance that his attitude towards nature, towards god, towards the body and the soul, reverses many of the old ascetic theological conceptions. all is good, all is as it should be; to abase the body is to abase the soul. man is divine inside and out, and is no more divine about the head than about the loins. it is from this point of view that he has launched his work. he believed the time had come for an utterance out of radical, uncompromising human nature; let conventions and refinements stand back, let nature, let the soul, let the elemental forces speak; let the body, the passions, sex, be exalted; the stone rejected by the builders shall be the chief stone in the corner. evil shall be shown to be a part of the good, and death shall be welcomed as joyously as life. whitman says his poems will do just as much evil as good, and perhaps more. to many readers this confession of itself would be his condemnation. to others it would be an evidence of his candor and breadth of view. i suppose all great vital forces, whether embodied in a man or in a book, work evil as well as good. if they do not, they only tickle the surface of things. has not the bible worked evil also? some think more evil than good. the dews and the rains and the sunshine work evil. from whitman's point of view, there is no good without evil; evil is an unripe kind of good. there is no light without darkness, no life without death, no growth without pain and struggle. beware the emasculated good, the good by exclusion rather than by victory. "leaves of grass" will work evil on evil minds,--on narrow, unbalanced minds. it is not a guide, but an inspiration; not a remedy, but health and strength. art does not preach directly, but indirectly; it is moral by its spirit, and the mood and temper it begets. whitman, in celebrating manly pride, self-reliance, the deliciousness of sex; in glorifying the body, the natural passions and appetites, nativity; in identifying himself with criminals and low or lewd persons; in frankly imputing to himself all sins men are guilty of, runs the risk, of course, of being read in a spirit less generous and redemptive than his own. the charity of the poet may stimulate the license of the libertine; the optimism of the seer may confirm the evil-doer; the equality of the democrat may foster the insolence of the rowdy. this is our lookout and not the poet's. we take the same chances with him that we do with nature; we are to trim our sails to the breeze he brings; we are to sow wheat and not tares for his rains to water. whitman's glorification of the body has led some critics to say that he is the poet of the body only. but it is just as true to say he is the poet of the soul only. he always seeks the spiritual through the material. he treats the body and the soul as one, and he treats all things as having reference to the soul. "i will not make a poem, nor the least part, of a poem, but has reference to the soul, because, having look'd at the objects of the universe, i find there is no one, nor any particle of one, but has reference to the soul." the curious physiological strain which runs through the poems is to be considered in the light of this idea. he exalts the body because in doing so he exalts the soul. "sure as the earth swims through the heavens, does every one of its objects pass into spiritual results." ii the reader of whitman must do his or her own moralizing; the poet is here not to deprecate or criticise, but to love and celebrate; he has no partialities; our notions of morality do not concern him; he exploits the average man just as he finds him; he _is_ the average man for the time being and confesses to all his sins and shortcomings, and we will make of the result good or evil, according to our mental horizon. that his work is unmixed good is the last thing the poet would claim for it. he has not, after the easy fashion of the moralist, set the good here and the bad there; he has blended them as they are in nature and in life; our profit and discipline begin when we have found out whither he finally tends, or when we have mastered him and extracted the good he holds. if we expect he is going to preach an austere system of morality to us, or any system of morality, we are doomed to disappointment. does nature preach such a system? does nature preach at all? neither will he. he presents you the elements of good and evil in himself in vital fusion and play; your part is to see how the totals are at last good. it is objected that whitman is too persistent in declaring himself an animal, when the thing a man is least likely to forget is that he is an animal and the thing he is least likely to remember is that he is a spirit and a child of god. but whitman insists with the same determination that he is a spirit and an heir of immortality,--not as one who has cheated the devil of his due, but as one who shares the privileges and felicities of all, and who finds the divine in the human. indeed it is here that he sounds his most joyous and triumphant note. no such faith in spiritual results, no such conviction of the truth of immortality, no such determined recognition of the unseen world as the final reality is to be found in modern poetry. as i have said, whitman aimed to put his whole nature in a poem--the physical or physiological, the spiritual, the æsthetic and intellectual,--without giving any undue prominence to either. if he has not done so, if he has made the animal and sexual too pronounced, more so than nature will justify in the best proportioned man, then and then only is his artistic scheme vitiated and his work truly immoral. it may be true that the thing a man is least likely to forget is that he is an animal; what he is most likely to forget, is that the animal is just as sacred and important as any other part; indeed that it is the basis of all, and that a sane and healthful and powerful spirituality and intellectuality can only flow out of a sane and healthful animality. "i believe in you, my soul, the other i am must not abase itself to you, and you must not be abased to the other." iii furthermore, whitman's main problem is to project into literature the new democratic man as he conceives him,--the man of the future, intensely american, but in the broadest sense human and cosmopolitan; he is to project him on a scale large enough for all uses and conditions, ignoring the feudal and aristocratic types which have for the most part dominated literature, and matching them with a type more copious in friendship, charity, sympathy, religion, candor, and of equal egoism and power. it is to exploit and enforce and illustrate this type or character that "leaves of grass" is written. the poems are the drama of this new democratic man. this type whitman finds in himself. he does not have to create it as shakespeare did hamlet or lear; he has only to discover it in himself. he is it and he gives it free utterance. his work is, therefore, as he says, the poem of himself,--himself written large,--written as upon the face of the continent, written in the types and events he finds on all sides. he sees himself in all men, the bad as well as the good, and he sees all men in himself. all the stupendous claims he makes for himself he makes for others. his egotism is vicarious and embraces the world. it is not the private individual walt whitman that makes these stupendous claims for himself; it is walt whitman as the spokesman of the genius of american democracy. he is not to discuss a question. he is to outline a character, he is to incarnate a principle. the essayist or philosopher may discuss the value of any given idea,--may talk about it; the creative artist alone can give us the thing itself, the concrete flesh-and-blood reality. whitman is not only to make this survey, to launch this criticism; he is to embody it in a living human personality, and enable us to see the world of man and morals through its eyes. what with the scientist, the philosopher, is thought, must be emotion and passion with him. whitman promises that we shall share with him "two greatnesses, and a third one rising inclusive and more resplendent,"- "the greatness of love and democracy and the greatness of religion"-not merely as ideas, but as living impulses. he is to show the spirit of absolute, impartial nature, incarnated in a human being, imbued with love, democracy, and religion, moving amid the scenes and events of the new world, sounding all the joys and abandonments of life, and re-reading the oracles from the american point of view. and the utterance launched forth is to be imbued with poetic passion. whitman always aims at a complete human synthesis, and leaves his reader to make of it what he can. it is not for the poet to qualify and explain. he seeks to reproduce his whole nature in a book,--reproduce it with all its contradictions and carnalities, the good and the bad, the coarse and the fine, the body and the soul,--to give free swing to himself, trusting to natural checks and compensations to ensure a good result at last, but not at all disturbed if you find parts of it bad as in creation itself. his method being that of the poet, and not that of the moralist or preacher, how shall he sort and sift, culling this virtue and that, giving parts and fragments instead of the entire man? he must give all, not abstractly, but concretely, synthetically. to a common prostitute whitman says:- "not till the sun excludes you do i exclude you; not till the waters refuse to glisten for you, and the leaves to rustle for you, do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for you." we are housed in social usages and laws, we are sheltered and warmed and comforted by conventions and institutions and numberless traditions; their value no one disputes. but for purposes of his own whitman ignores them all; he lets in upon us the free and maybe raw air of the great out-of-doors of absolute nature; his standards are not found inside of any four walls; he contemplates life, and would quicken it in its fundamentals; his survey is from a plane whence our arts and refinements and petty distinctions disappear. he sees the evil of the world no less necessary than the good; he sees death as a part of life itself; he sees the body and the soul as one; he sees the spiritual always issuing from the material; he sees not one result at last lamentable in the universe. iv unless, as i have already said, we allow whitman to be a law unto himself, we can make little of him; unless we place ourselves at his absolute point of view, his work is an offense and without meaning. the only question is, has he a law, has he a steady and rational point of view, is his work a consistent and well-organized whole? ask yourself, what is the point of view of absolute, uncompromising science? it is that creation is all good and sound; things are as they should be or must be; there are no conceivable failures; there is no evil in the final analysis, or, if there is, it is necessary, and plays its part also; there is no more beginning nor ending than there is now, no more heaven or hell than we find or make here:- "did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be work'd over and rectified?" it has been urged that whitman violates his own canon of the excellence of nature. but what he violates is more a secondary or acquired nature. he violates our social conventions and instincts, he exposes what we cover up; but the spirit of his undertaking demanded this of him. remember that at all hazards he is to let nature--absolute nature--speak; that he is to be the poet of the body as well as of the soul, and that no part of the body of a man or woman, "hearty and clean," is vile, and that "none shall be less familiar than the rest." his glory is, that he never flinched or hesitated in following his principle to its logical conclusions,--"my commission obeying, to question it never daring." it was an heroic sacrifice, and atones for the sins of us all,--the sins of perverting, denying, abusing the most sacred and important organs and functions of our bodies. v in whitman we find the most complete identification of the man with the subject. he always is, or becomes, the thing he portrays. not merely does he portray america,--he speaks out of the american spirit, the spirit that has broken irrevocably with the past and turns joyously to the future; he does not praise equality, he illustrates it; he puts himself down beside the lowest and most despised person, and calls him brother. "you felons on trial in courts, you convicts in prison-cells, you sentenced assassins chain'd and handcuff'd with iron, who am i too that i am not on trial or in prison? me ruthless and devilish as any, that my wrists are not chain'd with iron, or my ankles with iron?" he does not give a little charity, he gives himself as freely as the clouds give rain, or the sun gives light; he does not write a treatise on democracy, he applies the democratic spirit to everything in heaven and on earth, and redistributes the prizes from its points of view; he does not, except very briefly, sing the praises of science, but he launches his poems always from the scientific view of the world, in contradistinction to the old theological and mythical point of view. it is always the example, it is always the thing itself, he gives us. few precepts, no sermon, no reproof. does he praise candor? no, he is candor; he confesses to everything; he shows us the inmost working of his mind. we know him better than we know our nearest friends. does he exalt the pride of man in himself, or egoism? again he illustrates it: he is egoism; he makes the whole universe revolve around himself; he never for a moment goes out of himself; he does not seek a theme; he is the theme. his egocentric method of treatment is what characterizes him as an artist. he elaborates no theme, he builds nothing, he carves nothing, but makes himself a source and centre of pulsing, vital energy. wave after wave radiates from him. what we see and get always is walt whitman. our attention is never fixed upon the writer, but always upon the man. of course this method of whitman of becoming one with his subject, and speaking out of it, is always the method of the creative artist. it is this that distinguishes the artist from the mere thinker or prose-writer. the latter tells us about a thing; the former gives us the thing, or the spirit of the thing itself. if whitman had put his criticism of our time and civilization in an argument or essay, the world would have received it very differently. as an intellectual statement or proposition, we could have played with it and tossed it about as a ball in a game of shuttlecock, and dropped it when we tired of it, as we do other criticism. but he gave it to us as a man, as a personality, and we find it too strong for us. it is easier to deal with a theory than with the concrete reality. a man is a summons and a challenge, and will not be easily put aside. the great philosophical poets, like lucretius, try to solve the riddles. whitman's aim is only to thrust the riddles before you, to give you a new sense of them, and start the game afresh. he knows what a complex, contradictory thing the universe is, and that the most any poet can do is to break the old firmament up into new forms. to put his arms around it? no. put your arms around your fellow-man, and then you have encompassed it as nearly as mortal can do. vi whitman's attraction toward the common people was real. there is one thing that makes every-day humanity, the great, toiling, unlettered masses, forever welcome to men who unite great imagination with broad sympathies,--they give a sense of reality; they refresh, as nature always refreshes. there is a tang and a sting to the native, the spontaneous, that the cultivated rarely has. the farmer, the mechanic, the sailor, the soldier, savor of the primal and the hardy. in painting his own portrait, whitman makes prominent the coarser, unrefined traits, because here the colors are fast,--here is the basis of all. the careful student of whitman will surely come to see how all the elements of his picture--his pride, his candor, his democracy, his sensuality, his coarseness,--finally fit together, and correct and offset each other and make a perfect unity. no poet is so easily caricatured and turned into ridicule as whitman. he is deficient in humor, and hence, like the biblical writers, is sometimes on the verge of the grotesque without knowing it. the sense of the ridiculous has been enormously stimulated and developed in the modern mind, and--what is to be regretted--it has been mostly at the expense of the sense of awe and reverence. we "poke fun" at everything in this country; to whatever approaches the verge of the ridiculous we give a push and topple it over. the fear which all americans have before their eyes, and which is much stronger than the fear of purgatory, is the fear of appearing ridiculous. we curb and check any eccentricity or marked individuality of manners or dress, lest we expose ourselves to the shafts of ridicule. emerson said he had heard with admiring submission the remark of a lady who declared that the sense of being perfectly well dressed gave a feeling of inward tranquillity which religion was powerless to bestow; and what ranks before religion with us as a people is being in the mode, and writing our verse and cutting our coats in the approved style. pride of the eye, a keen sense of the proprieties and the conventionalities, and a morbid feeling for the ridiculous, would have been death to whitman's undertaking. he would have faltered, or betrayed self-consciousness. he certainly never could have spoken with that elemental aplomb and indifference which is so marked a feature of his work. any hesitation, any knuckling, would have been his ruin. we should have seen he was not entirely serious, and should have laughed at him. we laugh now only for a moment; the spell of his earnestness and power is soon upon us. vii thoreau considered whitman's "leaves" worth all the sermons in the country for preaching; and yet few poets have assumed so little the function of the preacher. his great cure-all is love; he gives himself instead of a sermon. his faith in the remedial power of affection, comradeship, is truly christ-like. lover of sinners is also his designation. the reproof is always indirect or implied. he brings to bear character rather than precept. he helps you as health, as nature, as fresh air, pure water help. he says to you:- "the mockeries are not you; underneath them, and within them, i see you lurk; i pursue you where none else has pursued you: silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustomed routine,--if these conceal you from others, or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me. the shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion,--if these balk others, they do not balk me. the pert apparel, the deformed attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death,--all these i part aside. i track through your windings and turnings,--i come upon you where you thought eye should never come upon you." whitman said, in the now famous preface of 1855, that "the greatest poet does not moralize, or make applications of morals,--he knows the soul." there is no preaching or reproof in the "leaves." "i sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all oppression and shame; i hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with themselves, remorseful after deeds done; i see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying, neglected, gaunt, desperate; i see the wife misused by her husband; i see the treacherous seducer of the young woman; i mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be hid,--i see these sights on the earth, i see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny; i see martyrs and prisoners, i observe a famine at sea,--i observe the sailors casting lots who shall be killed, to preserve the lives of the rest, i observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon laborers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like; all these--all the meanness and agony without end i sitting look out upon, see, hear, and am silent." only once does he shame and rebuke the offender; then he holds up to him "a hand-mirror." "hold it up sternly! see this it sends back! (who is it? is it you?) outside fair costume,--within, ashes and filth. no more a flashing eye,--no more a sonorous voice or springy step, now some slave's eye, voice, hands, step, a drunkard's breath, unwholesome eater's face, venerealee's flesh, lungs rotting away piecemeal, stomach sour and cankerous, joints rheumatic, bowels clogged with abomination, blood circulating dark and poisonous streams, words babble, hearing and touch callous, no brain, no heart left, no magnetism of sex; such, from one look in this looking-glass ere you go hence, such a result so soon--and from such a beginning!" the poet's way is so different from the moralist's way! the poet confesses all, loves all,--has no preferences. he is moral only in his results. we ask ourselves, does he breathe the air of health? can he stand the test of nature? is he tonic and inspiring? that he shocks us is nothing. the first touch of the sea is a shock. does he toughen us, does he help make arterial blood? all that men do and are guilty of attracts him. their vices and excesses,--he would make these his own also. he is jealous lest he be thought better than other men,--lest he seem to stand apart from even criminals and offenders. when the passion for human brotherhood is upon him, he is balked by nothing; he goes down into the social mire to find his lovers and equals. in the pride of our morality and civic well-being, this phase of his work shocks us; but there are moods when the soul says it is good, and we rejoice in the strong man that can do it. the restrictions, denials, and safeguards put upon us by the social order, and the dictates of worldly prudence, fall only before a still more fervid humanism, or a still more vehement love. the vital question is, where does he leave us? on firmer ground, or in the mire? depleted and enervated, or full and joyous? in the gloom of pessimism, or in the sunlight of its opposite?-- "_so long!_ i announce a man or woman coming--perhaps you are the one; i announce a great individual, fluid as nature, chaste, affectionate, compassionate, fully armed. "_so long!_ i announce a life that shall be copious, vehement, spiritual, bold, and i announce an old age that shall lightly and joyfully meet its translation. "i announce myriads of youths, beautiful, gigantic, sweet-blooded; i announce a race of splendid and savage old men." there is no contradiction here. the poet sounds all the experiences of life, and he gives out the true note at last. "no specification is necessary,--all that a male or female does, that is vigorous, benevolent, clean, is so much profit to him or her, in the unshakable order of the universe, and through the whole scope of it forever." viii nothing but the most uncompromising religious purpose can justify certain things in the "leaves;" nothing but the most buoyant and pervasive spirituality can justify its overwhelming materiality; nothing but the most creative imagination can offset its tremendous realism; nothing but the note of universal brotherhood can atone for its vehement americanism; nothing but the primal spirit of poesy itself can make amends for this open flouting of the routine poetic, and this endless procession before us of the common and the familiar. ix whitman loved the word "unrefined." it was one of the words he would have us apply to himself. he was unrefined, as the air, the soil, the water, and all sweet natural things are unrefined (fine but not _re_fined). he applies the word to himself two or three times in the course of his poems. he loved the words sun-tan, air-sweetness, brawn, etc. he speaks of his "savage song," not to call forth the bards of the past, he says, but to invoke the bards of the future. "have i sung so capricious and loud my savage songs?" the thought that his poems might help contribute to the production of a "race of splendid and savage old men" was dear to him. he feared the depleting and emasculating effects of our culture and conventions. the decay of maternity and paternity in this country, the falling off of the native populations, were facts full of evil omen. his ideal of manly or womanly character is rich in all the purely human qualities and attributes; rich in sex, in sympathy, in temperament; physiologically sound and clean, as well as mentally and morally so. "fear grace, fear delicatesse; fear the mellow-sweet, the sucking of honey-juice: beware the advancing mortal ripening of nature! beware what precedes the decay of the ruggedness of states and men." he was himself the savage old man he invoked. it was no part of his plan to preach, in refined and euphonious terms, hygiene and the value of the natural man, but to project into literature the thing itself, to exploit a character coarse as well as fine, and to imbue his poems with a physiological quality as well as a psychological and intellectual. "i will scatter the new roughness and gladness among them." he says to the pale, impotent victim of over-refinement, with intentional rudeness, "open your scarf'd chops till i blow grit within you." x one of the key-words to whitman both as a man and a poet is the word "composite." he was probably the most composite man this century has produced, and in this respect at least is representative of the american of the future, who must be the result of the blending of more diverse racial elements than any man of history. he seems to have had an intuition of his composite character when he said in his first poem:- "i am large,--i contain multitudes." the london correspondent of the "new york tribune," in reluctantly conceding at the time of the poet's death something to the british admiration of him, said he was "rich in temperament." the phrase is well chosen. an english expert on the subject of temperament, who visited whitman some years ago, said he had all four temperaments, the sanguine, the nervous, the melancholic, and the lymphatic, while most persons have but two temperaments, and rarely three. it was probably the composite character of whitman that caused him to attract such diverse and opposite types of men,--scholars and workingmen, lawyers, doctors, scientists, and men of the world,--and that made him personally such a puzzle to most people,--so impossible to classify. on the street the promenaders would turn and look after him, and i have often heard them ask each other, "what man was that?" he has often been taken for a doctor, and during his services in the army hospitals various myths were floating about concerning him. now he was a benevolent catholic priest,--then some unknown army general, or retired sea captain; at one time he was reputed to be one of the owners of the cunard line of steamers. to be taken for a californian was common. one recalls the composite character of the poet whom he outlines in his poems (see quotation, page 159). the book is as composite as the man. it is all things to all men; it lends itself to a multitude of interpretations. every earnest reader of it will find some clew or suggestion by the aid of which he fancies he can unlock the whole book, but in the end he will be pretty sure to discover that one key is not enough. to one critic, his book is the "hoarse song of a man," its manly and masculine element attracts him; to another he is the poet of joy, to another the poet of health, to still another he is the bard of personality; others read him as the poet of nature, or the poet of democracy. his french critic, gabriel sarrazin, calls him an apostle,--the apostle of the idea that man is an indivisible fragment of the universal divinity. xi what has a poet of whitman's aims to do with decency or indecency, with modesty or immodesty? these are social or conventional virtues; he represents mainly primary qualities and forces. does life, does death, does nature, respect our proprieties, our conventional veils and illusions? neither will he. he will strip them all away. he will act and speak as if all things in the universe were equally sacred and divine; as if all men were really his brothers, all women his sisters; as if all parts of the human body were equally beautiful and wonderful; as if fatherhood and motherhood, birth and begetting, were sacred acts. of course it is easy to see that this course will speedily bring him in collision with the guardians of taste and social morality. but what of that? he professes to take his cue from the elemental laws. "i reckon i behave no more proudly than the level i plant my house by." the question is, is he adequate, is he man enough, to do it? will he not falter, or betray self-consciousness? will he be true to his ideal through thick and thin? the social gods will all be outraged, but that is less to him than the candor and directness of nature in whose spirit he assumes to speak. nothing is easier than to convict walt whitman of what is called indecency; he laughs indifferent when you have done so. it is not your gods that he serves. he says he would be as indifferent of observation as the trees or rocks. and it is here that we must look for his justification, upon ethical rather than upon the grounds of conventional art. he has taken our sins upon himself. he has applied to the morbid sex-consciousness, that has eaten so deeply into our social system, the heroic treatment; he has fairly turned it naked into the street. he has not merely in words denied the inherent vileness of sex; he has denied it in very deed. we should not have taken offense had he confined himself to words,--had he said sex is pure, the body is as clean about the loins as about the head; but being an artist, a creator, and not a mere thinker or preacher, he was compelled to act,--to do the thing instead of saying it. the same in other matters. being an artist, he could not merely say all men were his brothers; he must show them as such. if their weakness and sins are his also, he must not flinch when it comes to the test; he must make his words good. we may be shocked at the fullness and minuteness of the specification, but that is no concern of his; he deals with the concrete and not with the abstract,--fraternity and equality as a reality, not as a sentiment. xii in the phase in which we are now considering him, whitman appears as the adamic man re-born here in the nineteenth century, or with science and the modern added, and fully and fearlessly embodying himself in a poem. it is stronger than we can stand, but it is good for us, and one of these days, or one of these centuries, we shall be able to stand it and enjoy it. "to the garden the world anew ascending, potent mates, daughters, sons, preluding, the love, the life of their bodies, meaning and being, curious, here behold my resurrection, after slumber, the revolving cycles, in their wide sweep, having brought me again, amorous, mature--all beautiful to me--all wondrous, my limbs, and the quivering fire that ever plays through them, for reasons most wondrous; existing, i peer and penetrate still, content with the present--content with the past, by my side, or back of me, eve following, or in front, and i following her just the same." the critics perpetually misread whitman because they fail to see this essentially composite and dramatic character of his work,--that it is not the song of walt whitman the private individual, but of walt whitman as representative of, and speaking for, all types and conditions of men; in fact, that it is the drama of a new democratic personality, a character outlined on a larger, more copious, more vehement scale than has yet appeared in the world. the germs of this character he would sow broadcast over the land. in this drama of personality the poet always identifies himself with the scene, incident, experience, or person he delineates, or for whom he speaks. he says to the new englander, or to the man of the south and the west, "i depict you as myself." in the same way he depicts offenders, roughs, criminals, and low and despised persons as himself; he lays claim to every sin of omission and commission men are guilty of, because, he says, "the germs are in all men." men dare not tell their faults. he will make them all his own, and then tell them; there shall be full confession for once. "if you become degraded, criminal, ill, then i become so for your sake; if you remember your foolish and outlaw'd deeds, do you think i cannot remember my own foolish and outlaw'd deeds?" it will not do to read this poet, or any great poet, in a narrow and exacting spirit. as whitman himself says: "the messages of great poems to each man and woman are: come to us on equal terms, only then can you understand us." in the much misunderstood group of poems called "children of adam" the poet speaks for the male generative principle, and all the excesses and abuses that grow out of it he unblushingly imputes to himself. what men have done and still do, while under the intoxication of the sexual passion, he does, he makes it all his own experience. that we have here a revelation of his own personal taste and experiences may or may not be the case, but we have no more right to assume it than we have to assume that all other poets speak from experience when they use the first person singular. when john brown mounted the scaffold in virginia, in 1860, the poet says:- "i was at hand, silent i stood with teeth shut close, i watch'd, i stood very near you, old man, when cool and indifferent, but trembling with age and your unheal'd wounds, you mounted the scaffold,"-very near him he stood in spirit; very near him he stood in the person of others, but not in his own proper person. if we take this poet literally, we shall believe he has been in california and oregon; that he has set foot in every city on the continent; that he grew up in virginia; that every southern state has been by turns his home; that he has been a soldier, a sailor, a miner; that he has lived in dakota's woods, his "diet meat, his drink from the spring;" that he has lived on the plains with hunters and ranchmen, etc. he lays claim to all these characters, all these experiences, because what others do, what others assume, or suffer, or enjoy, that he appropriates to himself. "i am the hounded 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 gore dribs, 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 violently over the head with whipstocks. "agonies are one of my changes of garments, i do not ask the wounded person how he feels--i myself become the wounded person, my hurts turn livid upon me as i lean on a cane and observe. "i become any presence or truth of humanity here, see myself in prison shaped like another man, and feel the dull unintermitted 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 mutineer walks hand-cuffed to the jail, but i am hand-cuffed to him and walk by his side." xiii it is charged against whitman that he does not celebrate love at all, and very justly. he had no purpose to celebrate the sentiment of love. literature is vastly overloaded with this element already. he celebrates fatherhood and motherhood, and the need of well-begotten, physiologically well-begotten, offspring. of that veiled prurient suggestion which readers so delight in--of "bosoms mutinously fair," and "the soul-lingering loops of perfumed hair," as one of our latest poets puts it--there is no hint in his volume. he would have fallen from grace the moment he had attempted such a thing. any trifling or dalliance on his part would have been his ruin. love as a sentiment has fairly run riot in literature. from whitman's point of view, it would have been positively immoral for him either to have vied with the lascivious poets in painting it as the forbidden, or with the sentimental poets in depicting it as a charm. woman with him is always the mate and equal of the man, never his plaything. whitman is seldom or never the poet of a sentiment, at least of the domestic and social sentiments. his is more the voice of the eternal, abysmal man. the home, the fireside, the domestic allurements, are not in him; love, as we find it in other poets, is not in him; the idyllic, except in touches here and there, is not in him; the choice, the finished, the perfumed, the romantic, the charm of art and the delight of form, are not to be looked for in his pages. the cosmic takes the place of the idyllic; the begetter, the adamic man, takes the place of the lover; patriotism takes the place of family affection; charity takes the place of piety; love of kind is more than love of neighbor; the poet and the artist are swallowed up in the seer and the prophet. the poet evidently aimed to put in his sex poems a rank and healthful animality, and to make them as frank as the shedding of pollen by the trees, strong even to the point of offense. he could not make it pleasing, a sweet morsel to be rolled under the tongue; that would have been levity and sin, as in byron and the other poets. it must be direct and rank, healthfully so. the courage that did it, and showed no wavering or self-consciousness, was more than human. man is a begetter. how shall a poet in our day and land treat this fact? with levity and by throwing over it the lure of the forbidden, the attraction of the erotic? that is one way, the way of nearly all the poets of the past. but that is not whitman's way. he would sooner be bestial than byronic, he would sooner shock by his frankness than inflame by his suggestion. and this in the interest of health and longevity, not in the interest of a prurient and effeminate "art." in these poems whitman for a moment emphasizes sex, the need of sex, and the power of sex. "all were lacking if sex were lacking." he says to men and women, here is where you live after all, here is the seat of empire. you are at the top of your condition when you are fullest and sanest there. fearful consequences follow any corrupting or abusing or perverting of sex. the poet stands in the garden of the world naked and not ashamed. it is a great comfort that he could do it in this age of hectic lust and swinburnian impotence,--that he could do it and not be ridiculous. to have done it without offense would have been proof that he had failed utterly. let us be shocked; it is a wholesome shock, like the douse of the sea, or the buffet of the wind. we shall be all the better for it by and by. xiv the lover of whitman comes inevitably to associate him with character and personal qualities. i sometimes meet women whom i say are of the whitman type--the kind of woman he invoked and predicted. they bear children, and are not ashamed; motherhood is their pride and their joy: they are cheerful, tolerant, friendly, think no evil, meet high and low on equal terms; they walk, row, climb mountains; they reach forth into the actual world of questions and events, open-minded, sympathetic, frank, natural, good-natured; the mates and companions of their husbands, keeping pace with them in all matters; home-makers, but larger than home, considerate, forgiving, unceremonious,--in short, the large, fresh, wholesome open-air natures whose ideal so completely possessed walt whitman. a british critic wisely says the gift of whitman to us is the gift of life rather than of literature, but it is the gift of life through literature. indeed, whitman means a life as much as christianity means a life. he says:- "writing and talk do not prove me." nothing but the test of reality finally proves him:- "the proof of the poet shall be sternly deferr'd till his country has absorbed him as affectionately as he has absorbed it." the proof of whitman shall be deferred till he has borne fruit in actual, concrete life. he knew that merely intellectual and artistic tests did not settle matters in his case, or that we would not reach his final value by making a dead-set at him through the purely æsthetic faculties. is he animating to life itself? can we absorb and assimilate him? does he nourish the manly and heroic virtues? does he make us more religious, more tolerant, more charitable, more candid, more self-reliant? if not, he fails of his chief end. it is doubtful if the purely scholarly and literary poets, like milton, say, or like our own poe, are ever absorbed in the sense above implied; while there is little doubt that poets like homer, like shakespeare, are absorbed and modify a people's manners and ideals. only that which we love affects our lives. our admiration for art and literature as such is something entirely outside the sources of character and power of action. whitman identifies himself with our lives. we associate him with reality, with days, scenes, persons, events. the youth who reads poe or lowell wants to be a scholar, a wit, a poet, a writer; the youth who reads whitman wants to be a man, and to get at the meaning and value of life. our author's bent towards real things, real men and women, and his power to feed and foster personality, are unmistakable. life, reality, alone proves him; a saner and more robust fatherhood and motherhood, more practical democracy, more charity, more love, more comradeship, more social equality, more robust ideals of womanly and manly character, prove him. when we are more tolerant and patient and long-suffering, when the strain of our worldly, commercial spirit relaxes, then is he justified. whitman means a letting-up of the strain all along the line,--less hurry, less greed, less rivalry, more leisure, more charity, more fraternalism and altruism, more religion, less formality and convention. "when america does what was promised, when each part is peopled with free people, when there is no city on earth to lead my city, the city of young men, the mannahatta city--but when the mannahatta leads all the cities of the earth, when there are plentiful athletic bards, inland and seaboard, when through these states walk a hundred millions of superb persons, when the rest part away for superb persons, and contribute to them, when fathers, firm, unconstrained, open-eyed--when breeds of the most perfect mothers denote america, then to me ripeness and conclusion." xv after all i think it matters little whether we call him poet or not. grant that he is not a poet in the usual or technical sense, but poet-prophet, or poet-seer, or all combined. he is a poet plus something else. it is when he is judged less than poet, or no poet at all, that we feel injustice is done him. grant that his work is not art, that it does not give off the perfume, the atmosphere of the highly wrought artistic works like those of tennyson, but of something quite different. we have all been slow to see that his cherished ends were religious rather than literary; that, over and above all else, he was a great religious teacher and prophet. had he been strictly a literary poet, like lowell, or longfellow, or tennyson,--that is, a writer working for purely artistic effects,--we should be compelled to judge him quite differently. "leaves of grass" is a gospel--glad tidings of great joy to those who are prepared to receive it. its final value lies in its direct, intense, personal appeal; in what it did for symonds, who said it made a man of him; in what it did for stevenson, who said it dispelled a thousand illusions; in what it did for mrs. gilchrist, who said it enabled her to find her own soul; in what it does for all earnest readers of it in blending with the inmost current of their lives. whitman is the life-giver of our time. how shall a poet give us life but by making us share his larger measure of life, his larger hope, his larger love, his larger charity, his saner and wider outlook? what are the three great life-giving principles? can we name them better than st. paul named them eighteen hundred years ago,--faith, hope, charity? and these are the cornerstones of whitman's work,--a faith so broad and fervent that it accepts death as joyously as life, and sees all things at last issue in spiritual results; a hope that sees the golden age ahead of us, not behind us; and a charity that balks at nothing, that makes him identify himself with offenders and outlaws; a charity as great as his who said to the thief on the cross, "this day thou shalt be with me in paradise." to cry up faith, hope, and charity is not to make men partakers of them; but to exemplify them in a survey of the whole problem of life, to make them vital as hearing, or eyesight in a work of the imagination, to show them as motives and impulses controlling all the rest, is to beget and foster them in the mind of the beholder. he is more and he is less than the best of the other poets. the popular, the conventional poets are mainly occupied with the artistic side of things,--with that which refines, solaces, beautifies. whitman is mainly occupied with the cosmic and universal side of things, and the human and spiritual values that may be extracted from them. his poetry is not the result of the same kind of selection and partiality as that we are more familiar with. hence, while the message of tennyson and his kind is the message of beauty, the message of whitman is, in a much fuller sense, the message of life. he speaks the word of faith and power. this is his distinction; he is the life-giver. such a man comes that we may have life, and have it more abundantly. the message of beauty,--who would undervalue it? the least poet and poetling lisps some word or syllable of it. the masters build its temples and holy places. all own it, all receive it gladly. but the gospel of life, there is danger that we shall not know it when we hear it. it is a harsher and more heroic strain than the other. it calls no man to his ease, or to be lulled and soothed. it is a summons and a challenge. it lays rude, strong hands upon you. it filters and fibres your blood. it is more of the frost, the rains, the winds, than of cushions or parlors. the call of life is a call to battle always. we are stronger by the strength of every obstacle or enemy overcome. "listen! i will be honest with you, i do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes, these are the days that must happen to you: "you shall not heap up what is called riches, you shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve; you but arrive at the city to which you were destined--you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction, before you are called by an irresistible call to depart. you shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you; what beckonings of love you receive, you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting, you shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reached hands toward you. "allons! after the great companions! and to belong to them!" xvi whitman always avails himself of the poet's privilege and magnifies himself. he magnifies others in the same ratio, he magnifies all things. "magnifying and applying come i," he says, "outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters." indeed, the character which speaks throughout "leaves of grass" is raised to the highest degree of personal exaltation. to it nothing is trivial, nothing is mean; all is good, all is divine. the usual distinctions disappear, burned up, the poet says, for religion's sake. all the human attributes are heightened and enlarged; sympathy as wide as the world; love that balks at nothing; charity as embracing as the sky; egotism like the force of gravity; religious fervor that consumes the coarsest facts like stubble; spirituality that finds god everywhere every hour of the day; faith that welcomes death as cheerfully as life; comradeship that would weld the nation into a family of brothers; sexuality that makes prudes shudder; poetic enthusiasm that scornfully dispenses with all the usual adventitious aids; and in general a largeness, coarseness, and vehemence that are quite appalling to the general reader. lovers of poetry will of necessity be very slow in adjusting their notions to the standards of "leaves of grass." it is a survey of life and of the world from the cosmic rather than from the conventional standpoint. it carries the standards of the natural-universal into all fields. some men have accepted poverty and privation with such contentment and composure as to make us almost envious of their lot; and whitman accepts the coarser, commoner human elements which he finds in himself, and which most of us try to conceal or belittle, with such frankness and perception of their real worth that they acquire new meaning and value in our eyes. if he paraded these things unduly, and showed an overweening preference for them, as some of his critics charge, this is of course an element of weakness. his precept and his illustration, carried out in life, would fill the land with strong, native, original types of men and women animated by the most vehement comradeship, selfism and otherism going hand in hand. his relation to culture i "leaves of grass" is not the poetry of culture, but it is to be said in the same breath that it is not such a work as an uncultured man produces, or is capable of producing. the uncultured man does not think whitman's thoughts, or propose whitman's problems to himself, or understand or appreciate them at all. the "leaves" are perhaps of supreme interest only to men of deepest culture, because they contain in such ample measure that without which all culture is mere varnish or veneer. they are indirectly a tremendous criticism of american life and civilization, and they imply that breadth of view and that liberation of spirit--that complete disillusioning--which is the best result of culture, and which all great souls have reached, no matter who or what their schoolmasters may have been. our reading public probably does not and cannot see itself in whitman at all. he must be a great shock to its sense of the genteel and the respectable. nor can the working people and the unlettered, though they were drawn to whitman the man, be expected to respond to any considerable extent to whitman the poet. his standpoint can be reached only after passing through many things and freeing one's self from many illusions. he is more representative of the time-spirit out of which america grew, and which is now shaping the destiny of the race upon this continent. he strikes under and through our whole civilization. he despised our social gods, he distrusted our book-culture, he was alarmed at the tendency to the depletion and attenuation of the national type, and he aimed to sow broadcast the germs of more manly ideals. his purpose was to launch his criticism from the basic facts of human life, psychic and physiologic; to inject into the veins of our anæmic literature the reddest, healthiest kind of blood; and in doing so he has given free swing to the primary human traits and affections and to sexuality, and has charged his pages with the spirit of real things, real life. we have been so long used to verse which is the outcome of the literary impulse alone, which is written at so many removes from the primary human qualities, produced from the extreme verge of culture and artificial refinement, which is so innocent of the raciness and healthful coarseness of nature, that poetry which has these qualities, which implies the body as well as the mind, which is the direct outgrowth of a radical human personality, and which make demands like those made by real things, is either an offense to us or is misunderstood. ii whitman says his book is not a good lesson, but it takes down the bars to a good lesson, and that to another, and that to another still. to take down bars rather than to put them up is always whitman's aim; to make his reader free of the universe, to turn him forth into the fresh and inexhaustible pastures of time, space, eternity, and with a smart slap upon his back with the halter as a spur and send-off, is about what he would do. his message, first and last, is "give play to yourself;" "let yourself go;"--happiness is in the quest of happiness; power comes to him who power uses. "long enough have you timidly waded, holding a plank by the shore; now i will you to be a bold swimmer, to jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair." to hold whitman up to ridicule, and to convict him of grossness and tediousness, is easy enough; first, because he is so out of relation to the modes and taste of his times, and, secondly, because he has somewhat of the uncouthness and coarseness of large bodies. then his seriousness and simplicity, like that of biblical and oriental writers,--a kind of childish inaptness and homeliness,--often exposes him to our keen, almost abnormal sense of the ridiculous. he was deficient in humor, and he wrote his book in entire obliviousness of social usages and conventions, so that the perspective of it is not the social or indoor perspective, but that of life and nature at large, careering and unhampered. it is probably the one modern poem whose standards are not social and what are called artistic. its atmosphere is always that of the large, free spaces of vast, unhoused nature. it has been said that the modern world could be reconstructed from "leaves of grass," so compendious and all-inclusive is it in its details; but of the modern world as a social organization, of man as the creature of social usages and prohibitions, of fashions, of dress, of ceremony,--the indoor, parlor and drawing-room man,--there is no hint in its pages. in its matter and in its spirit, in its standards and in its execution, in its ideals and in its processes, it belongs to and affiliates with open-air nature, often reaching, i think, the cosmic and unconditioned. in a new sense is whitman the brother of the orbs and cosmic processes, "conveying a sentiment and invitation of the earth." all his enthusiasms, all his sympathies have to do with the major and fundamental elements of life. he is a world-poet. we do not readily adjust our indoor notions to him. our culture-standards do not fit him. iii the problem of the poet is doubtless more difficult in our day than in any past day; it is harder for him to touch reality. the accumulations of our civilization are enormous: an artificial world of great depth and potency overlies the world of reality; especially does it overlie the world of man's moral and intellectual nature. most of us live and thrive in this artificial world, and never know but it is the world of god's own creating. only now and then a man strikes his roots down through this made land into fresh, virgin soil. when the religious genius strikes his roots through it, and insists upon a present revelation, we are apt to cry "heretic;" when the poet strikes his roots through it, as whitman did, and insists upon giving us reality,--giving us himself before custom or law,--we cry "barbarian," or "art-heretic," or "outlaw of art." in the countless adjustments and accumulations, and in the oceanic currents of our day and land, the individual is more and more lost sight of,--merged, swamped, effaced. see him in whitman rising above it all. see it all shot through and through with his quality and obedient to his will. see the all-leveling tendency of democracy, the effacing and sterilizing power of a mechanical and industrial age, set at naught or reversed by a single towering personality. see america, its people, their doings, their types, their good and evil traits, all bodied forth in one composite character, and this character justifying itself and fronting the universe with the old joy and contentment. iv "the friendly and flowing savage, who is he? is he waiting for civilization, or is he past it and master of it?" do we not, consciously or unconsciously, ask this or a similar question of every poet or artist whom we pass in review before us? is he master of his culture, or does it master him? does he strike back through it to simple, original nature, or is he a potted plant? does he retain the native savage virtues, or is he entirely built up from the outside? we constantly mistake culture for mere refinement, which it is not: it is a liberating process; it is a clearing away of obstructions, and the giving to inherent virtues a chance to express themselves. it makes savage nature friendly and considerate. the aim of culture is not to get rid of nature, but to utilize nature. the great poet is always a "friendly and flowing savage," the master and never the slave of the complex elements of our artificial lives. though our progress and civilization are a triumph over nature, yet in an important sense we never get away from nature or improve upon her. her standards are still our standards, her sweetness and excellence are still our aim. her health, her fertility, her wholeness, her freshness, her innocence, her evolution, we would fain copy or reproduce. we would, if we could, keep the pungency and aroma of her wild fruit in our cultivated specimens, the virtue and hardiness of the savage in our fine gentlemen, the joy and spontaneity of her bird-songs in our poetry, the grace and beauty of her forms in our sculpture and carvings. a poetic utterance from an original individual standpoint, something definite and characteristic,--this is always the crying need. what a fine talent has this or that young british or american poet whom we might name! but we see that the singer has not yet made this talent his own; it is a kind of borrowed capital; it is the general taste and intelligence that speak. when will he redeem all these promises, and become a fixed centre of thought and emotion in himself? to write poems is no distinction; to be a poem, to be a fixed point amid the seething chaos, a rock amid the currents, giving your own form and character to them,--that is something. it matters little, as whitman himself says, who contributes the mass of poetic verbiage upon which any given age feeds. but for a national first-class poem, or a great work of the imagination of any sort, the man is everything, because such works finally rest upon primary human qualities and special individual traits. a richly endowed personality is always the main dependence in such cases, or, as goethe says, "in the great work the great person is always present as the great factor." "leaves of grass" is as distinctly an emanation from walt whitman, from his quality and equipment as a man apart from anything he owed to books or to secondary influences, as a tree is an emanation from the soil. it is, moreover, an emanation from him as an american in the latter half of the nineteenth century, and as a typical democratic composite man, a man of the common people, bone of their bone and flesh of their flesh, but with an extraordinary endowment of spiritual and intellectual power, to which he has given full swing without abating one jot or tittle the influence of his heritage of the common stock. v there is one important quality that enters into all first-class literary production and into all art, which is taken little account of in current criticism: i mean the quality of the manly,--the pulse and pressure of manly virility and strength. goethe spoke of it to eckermann as a certain urgent power in which the art of his time was lacking. the producers had taste and skill, but were not masterful as men. goethe always looked straight through the work to the man behind it; in art and poetry the personality was everything. the special talent of one kind or another was quite secondary. the greatest works are the least literary. to speak in literature as a man, and not merely as a scholar or professional litterateur, is always the crying need. the new poet has this or that gift, but what is the human fund back of all? what is his endowment of the common universal human traits? how much of a man is he? his measure in this respect will be the measure of the final value of his contribution. the decadence of literature sets in when there is more talent than character in current production; when rare literary and artistic gifts no longer come wedded to large human and manly gifts; when taste is fastidious rather than robust and hearty. when was there a man born to english or american literature with a large endowment of the universal human qualities, or with those elements that give breadth and power, and which lead art rather than follow it? we are living in an age of great purity and refinement of taste in art and letters, but destitute of power. goethe spoke of walter scott not merely as a great talent, but as a "comprehensive nature." without this comprehensive nature as a setting, his great talent would have amounted to but little. this gives the weight, the final authority. how little there was on the surface of scott of the literary keenness, subtlety, knowingness of later producers, and yet how far his contribution surpasses theirs in real human pathos and suggestiveness! the same might be said of count tolstoï, who is also, back of all, a great loving nature. one has great joy in whitman because he is beyond and over all a large and loving personality; his work is but a thin veil through which a great nature clearly shows. the urgent power of which goethe speaks is almost too strong,--too strong for current taste: we want more art and less man, more literature and less life. it is not merely a great mind that we feel, but a great character. it penetrates every line, and indeed makes it true of the book that whoever "touches this touches a man." the lesson of the poet is all in the direction of the practical manly and womanly qualities and virtues,--health, temperance, sanity, power, endurance, aplomb,--and not at all in the direction of the literary and artistic qualities or culture. "to stand the cold or heat, to take good aim with a gun, to sail a boat, to manage horses, to beget superb children, to speak readily and clearly, to feel at home among common people, to hold our own in terrible positions on land and sea." all his aims, ideas, impulses, aspirations, relate to life, to personality, and to power to deal with real things; and if we expect from him only literary ideas--form, beauty, lucidity, proportion--we shall be disappointed. he seeks to make the impression of concrete forces and objects, and not of art. "not for an embroiderer, (there will always be plenty of embroiderers--i welcome them also), but for the fibre of things, and for inherent men and women. "not to chisel ornaments, but to chisel with free stroke the heads and limbs of plenteous supreme gods, that the states may realize them, walking and talking." his whole work is a radiation from an exemplification of the idea that there is something better than to be an artist or a poet,--namely, to be a man. the poet's rapture springs not merely from the contemplation of the beautiful and the artistic, but from the contemplation of the whole; from the contemplation of democracy, the common people, workingmen, soldiers, sailors, his own body, death, sex, manly love, occupations, and the force and vitality of things. we are to look for the clews to him in the open air and in natural products, rather than in the traditional art forms and methods. he declares he will never again mention love or death inside of a house, and that he will translate himself only to those who privately stay with him in the open air. "if you would understand me, go to the heights or water-shore; the nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of waves a key: the maul, the oar, the handsaw, second my words. "no shuttered room or school can commune with me, but roughs and little children better than they. "the young mechanic is closest to me--he knows me pretty well. the woodman, that takes his axe and jug with him, shall take me with him all day; the farm-boy, ploughing in the field, feels good at the sound of my voice: in vessels that sail, my words sail--i go with fishermen and seamen, and love them. "my face rubs to the hunter's face when he lies down alone in his blanket; the driver, thinking of me, does not mind the jolt of his wagon; the young mother and old mother comprehend me; the girl and the wife rest the needle a moment, and forget where they are: they and all would resume what i have told them." vi so far as literature is a luxury, and for the cultured, privileged few, its interests are not in whitman; so far as poetry represents the weakness of man rather than his strength; so far as it expresses a shrinking from reality and a refuge in sentimentalism; so far as it is aristocratic as in tennyson, or mocking and rebellious as in byron, or erotic and mephitic as in swinburne, or regretful and reminiscent as in arnold, or a melodious baying of the moon as in shelley, or the outcome of mere scholarly and technical acquirements as in so many of our younger poets,--so far as literature or poetry, i say, stand for these things, there is little of either in whitman. whitman stands for the primary and essential; he stands for that which makes the body as well as the mind, which makes life sane and joyous and masterful. everything that tends to depletion, satiety, the abnormal, the erotic and exotic, that induces the stress and fever of life, is foreign to his spirit. he is less beautiful than the popular poets, yet more beautiful. he will have to do only with the inevitable beauty, the beauty that comes unsought, that resides in the interior meanings and affiliations,--the beauty that dare turn its back upon the beautiful. whitman has escaped entirely the literary disease, the characteristic symptoms of which, according to renan, is that people love less things themselves than the literary effects which they produce. he has escaped the art disease which makes art all in all; the religious disease, which runs to maudlin piety and seeks to win heaven by denying earth; the beauty disease, which would make of poesy a conventional flower-garden. he brings heroic remedies for our morbid sex-consciousness, and for all the pathological conditions brought about by our excess of refinement, and the dyspeptic depletions of our indoor artificial lives. whitman withstood the æsthetic temptation, as amiel calls it, to which most of our poets fall a victim,--the lust for the merely beautiful, the epicureanism of the literary faculties. we can make little of him if we are in quest of æsthetic pleasures alone. "in order to establish those literary authorities which are called classic centuries," says renan, "something healthy and solid is necessary. common household bread is of more value here than pastry." but the vast majority of literary producers aim at pastry, or, worse yet, confectionery,--something especially delightful and titivating to the taste. no doubt renan himself was something of a literary epicure, but then he imposed upon himself large and serious tasks, and his work as a whole is solid and nourishing; his charm of style does not blind and seduce us. it makes all the difference in the world whether we seek the beautiful through the true, or the true through the beautiful. seek ye the kingdom of truth first and all things shall be added. the novice aims to write beautifully, but the master aims to see truly and to feel vitally. beauty follows him, and is never followed by him. nature is beautiful because she is something else first, yes, and last, too, and all the while. whitman's work is baptized in the spirit of the whole, and its health and sweetness in this respect, when compared with the over-refined artistic works, is like that of a laborer in the fields compared with the pale dyspeptic ennuyé. vii whitman's ideal is undoubtedly much larger, coarser, stronger--much more racy and democratic--than the ideal we are familiar with in current literature, and upon which our culture is largely based. he applies the democratic spirit not only to the material of poetry,--excluding all the old stock themes of love and war, lords and ladies, myths and fairies and legends, etc.,--but he applies it to the form as well, excluding rhyme and measure and all the conventional verse architecture. his work stands or it falls upon its inherent, its intrinsic qualities, the measure of life or power which it holds. this ideal was neither the scholar nor the priest, nor any type of the genteel or exceptionally favored or cultivated. his influence does not make for any form of depleted, indoor, over-refined or extra-cultured humanity. the spirit of his work transferred to practice begets a life full and strong on all sides, affectionate, magnetic, tolerant, spiritual, bold with the flavor and quality of simple, healthful, open-air humanity. he opposes culture and refinement only as he opposes that which weakens, drains, emasculates, and tends to beget a scoffing, carping, hypercritical class. the culture of life, of nature, and that which flows from the exercise of the manly instincts and affections, is the culture implied by "leaves of grass." the democratic spirit is undoubtedly more or less jealous of the refinements of our artificial culture and of the daintiness and aloofness of our literature. the people look askance at men who are above them without being of them, who have dropped the traits and attractions which they share with unlettered humanity. franklin and lincoln are closer akin to this spirit, and hence more in favor with it, than a jefferson or a sumner. whitman might be called the poet of the absolute, the unconditioned. his work is launched at a farther remove from our arts, conventions, usages, civilization, and all the artificial elements that modify and enter into our lives, than that of any other man. absolute candor, absolute pride, absolute charity, absolute social and sexual equality, absolute nature. it is not conditioned by what we deem modest or immodest, high or low, male or female. it is not conditioned by our notions of good and evil, by our notions of the refined and the select, by what we call good taste and bad taste. it is the voice of absolute man, sweeping away the artificial, throwing himself boldly, joyously, upon unconditioned nature. we are all engaged in upholding the correct and the conventional, and drawing the line sharply between good and evil, the high and the low, and it is well that we should; but here is a man who aims to take absolute ground, and to look at the world as god himself might look at it, without partiality or discriminating,--it is all good, and there is no failure or imperfection in the universe and can be none:- "open mouth of my soul uttering gladness, eyes of my soul seeing perfection, natural life of me, faithfully praising things, corroborating forever the triumph of things." he does not take sides against evil, in the usual way, he does not take sides with the good except as nature herself does. he celebrates the all. can we accept the world as science reveals it to us, as all significant, as all in ceaseless transmutation, as every atom aspiring to be man, an endless unfolding of primal germs, without beginning, without end, without failure or imperfection, the golden age ahead of us, not behind us? viii because of whitman's glorification of pride, egoism, brawn, self-reliance, it is charged that the noble, the cultured, the self-denying, have no place in his system. what place have they in the antique bards?--in homer, in job, in isaiah, in dante? they have the same place in whitman, yet it is to be kept in mind that whitman does not stand for the specially social virtues, nor for culture, nor for the refinements which it induces, nor for art, nor for any conventionality. there are flowers of human life which we are not to look for in walt whitman. the note of fine manners, chivalrous conduct, which we get in emerson; the sweetness and light gospel of arnold; the gospel of hero-worship of carlyle; the gracious scholarship of our new england poets, etc.,--we do not get in walt whitman. there is nothing in him at war with these things, but he is concerned with more primal and elemental questions. he strikes under and beyond all these things. what are the questions or purposes, then, in which his work has root? simply put, to lead the way to larger, saner, more normal, more robust types of men and women on this continent; to prefigure and help develop the new democratic man,--to project him into literature on a scale and with a distinctness that cannot be mistaken. to this end he keeps a deep hold of the savage, the unrefined, and marshals the elements and influences that make for the virile, the heroic, the sane, the large, and for the perpetuity of the race. we cannot refine the elements,--the air, the water, the soil, the sunshine,--and the more we pervert or shut out these from our lives the worse for us. in the same manner, the more we pervert or balk the great natural impulses, sexuality, comradeship, the religious emotion, nativity, or the more we deny and belittle our bodies, the further we are from the spirit of walt whitman, and from the spirit of the all. with all whitman's glorification of pride, self-esteem, self-reliance, etc., the final lesson of his life and work is service, self-denial,--the free, lavish giving of yourself to others. of the innate and essential nobility that we associate with unworldliness, the sharing of what you possess with the unfortunate around you, sympathy with all forms of life and conditions of men, charity as broad as the sunlight, standing up for those whom others are down upon, claiming nothing for self which others may not have upon the same terms,--of such nobility and fine manners, i say, you shall find an abundance in the life and works of walt whitman. the spirit of a man's work is everything; the letter, little or nothing. though whitman boasts of his affiliation with the common and near at hand, yet he is always saved from the vulgar, the mean, the humdrum, by the breadth of his charity and sympathy and his tremendous ideality. of worldliness, materialism, commercialism, he has not a trace; his only values are spiritual and ideal; his only standards are the essential and the enduring. what matthew arnold called the anglo-saxon contagion, the bourgeois spirit, the worldly and sordid ideal, is entirely corrected in whitman by the ascendant of the ethic and the universal. his democracy ends in universal brotherhood, his patriotism in the solidarity of nations, his glorification of the material in the final triumph of the spiritual, his egoism issues at last in complete otherism. a race that can produce a man of his fibre, his continental type, is yet at its best estate. did one begin to see evil omen in this perpetual whittling away and sharpening and lightening of the american type,--grace without power, clearness without mass, intellect without character,--then take comfort from the volume and the rankness of walt whitman. did one begin to fear that the decay of maternity and paternity in our older communities and the falling off in the native population presaged the drying up of the race in its very sources? then welcome to the rank sexuality and to the athletic fatherhood and motherhood celebrated by whitman. did our skepticism, our headiness, our worldliness, threaten to eat us up like a cancer? did our hardness, our irreligiousness, and our passion for the genteel point to a fugitive, superficial race? was our literature threatened with the artistic degeneration,--running all to art and not at all to power? were our communities invaded by a dry rot of culture? were we fast becoming a delicate, indoor, genteel race? were our women sinking deeper and deeper into the "incredible sloughs of fashion and all kinds of dyspeptic depletion,"--the antidote for all these ills is in walt whitman. in him nature shows great fullness and fertility, and an immense friendliness. he supplements and corrects most of the special deficiencies and weaknesses toward which the american type seems to tend. he brings us back to nature again. the perpetuity of the race is with the common people. the race is constantly crying out at the top, in our times at least; culture and refinement beget fewer and fewer and poorer and poorer children. where struggle ceases, that family or race is doomed. "now 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." in more primitive communities, the sap and vitality of the race were kept in the best men, because upon them the strain and struggle were greatest. war, adventure, discovery, favor virility. whitman is always and everywhere occupied with that which makes for life, power, longevity, manliness. the scholar poets are occupied with that which makes for culture, taste, refinement, ease, art. "leaves of grass," taken as a whole, aims to exhibit a modern, democratic, archetypal man, here in america, confronting and subduing our enormous materialism to his own purposes, putting it off and on as a garment; identifying himself with all forms of life and conditions of men; trying himself by cosmic laws and processes, exulting in the life of his body and the delights of his senses; and seeking to clinch, to develop, and to realize himself through the shows and events of the visible world. the poet seeks to interpret life from the central point of absolute abysmal man. the wild and the savage in nature with which whitman perpetually identifies himself, and the hirsute, sun-tanned, and aboriginal in humanity, have misled many readers into looking upon him as expressive of these things only. mr. stedman thinks him guilty of a certain narrowness in preferring, or seeming to prefer, the laboring man to the gentleman. but the poet uses these elements only for checks and balances, and to keep our attention, in the midst of a highly refined and civilized age, fixed upon the fact that here are the final sources of our health, our power, our longevity. the need of the pre-scientific age was knowledge and refinement; the need of our age is health and sanity, cool heads and good digestion. and to this end the bitter and drastic remedies from the shore and the mountains are for us. ix the gospel of the average man, matthew arnold thought, was inimical to the ideal of a rare and high excellence. but, in holding up the average man, whitman was only holding up the broad, universal human qualities, and showing that excellence may go with them also. as a matter of fact, are we not astonished almost daily by the superb qualities shown by the average man, the heroism shown by firemen, engineers, workingmen, soldiers, sailors? do we not know that true greatness, true nobility and strength of soul, may go and do go with commonplace, every-day humanity? whitman would lift the average man to a higher average, and still to a higher, without at all weakening the qualities which he shares with universal humanity as it exists over and under all special advantages and social refinements. he says that one of the convictions that underlie his "leaves" is the conviction that the "crowning growth of the united states is to be spiritual and heroic,"--a prophecy which in our times, i confess, does not seem very near fulfillment. he does not look longingly and anxiously toward the genteel social gods, but quite the contrary. in the library and parlor, he confesses he is as a gawk or one dumb. the great middle-class ideal, which is mainly the ideal of our own people, whitman flouts and affronts. there are things to him of higher import than to have wealth and be respectable and in the mode. we might charge him with narrowness and partiality and with seeing only half truths, as mr. stedman has done, did he simply rest with the native as opposed to the cultivated, with brawn as opposed to brains. what he does do, what the upshot of his teaching shows, is that he identifies himself with the masses, with those universal human currents out of which alone a national spirit arises, as opposed to isolated schools and coteries and a privileged few. whitman decries culture only so far as it cuts a man off from his fellows, clips away or effaces the sweet, native, healthy parts of him, and begets a bloodless, superstitious, infidelistic class. "the best culture," he says, "will always be that of the manly and courageous instincts and loving perceptions, and of self-respect." for the most part, our schooling is like our milling, which takes the bone and nerve building elements out of our bread. the bread of life demands the coarse as well as the fine, and this is what whitman stands for. in his spirit and affiliation with the great mass of the people, with the commoner, sturdier, human traits, whitman is more of the type of angelo, or rembrandt, or the antique bards, than he is like modern singers. he was not a product of the schools, but of the race. his relation to his country and his times i it has been said, and justly i think, that in whitman we see the first appearance in literature of the genuinely democratic spirit on anything like an ample scale. plenty of men of democratic tendencies and affiliations have appeared, but none that have carried the temper and quality of the people, the masses, into the same regions, or blended the same humanity and commonness with the same commanding personality and spirituality. in recent english poetry the names of burns and wordsworth occur to mind, but neither of these men had anything like whitman's breadth of relation to the mass of mankind, or expressed anything like his sweeping cosmic emotion. wordsworth's muse was clad in homespun, but in no strict sense was his genius democratic--using the word to express, not a political creed, but the genius of modern civilization. he made much of the common man, common life, common things, but always does the poet stand apart, the recluse, the hermit, the philosopher, loving and contemplating these things for purposes of his art. only through intellectual sympathy is he a part of what he surveys. in whitman the common or average man has grown haughty, almost aristocratic. he coolly confronts the old types, the man of caste, culture, privileges, royalties, and relegates him to the past. he readjusts the standards, and estimates everything from the human and democratic point of view. in his scheme, the old traditions--the aristocratic, the scholastic, the ecclesiastical, the military, the social traditions--play no part. he dared to look at life, past and present, from the american and scientific standpoint. he turns to the old types a pride and complacency equal to their own. indeed, we see in the character which whitman has exploited and in the interest of which his poems are written, the democratic type fully realized,--pride and self-reliance equal to the greatest, and these matched with a love, a compassion, a spirit of fraternity and equality, that are entirely foreign to the old order of things. ii at first sight whitman does not seem vitally related to his own country and people; he seems an anomaly, an exception, or like one of those mammoth sports that sometimes appear in the vegetable world. the whitman ideal is not, and has never been, the conscious ideal of the mass of our people. we have aspired more to the ideal of the traditional fine gentleman as he has figured in british letters. there seems to have been no hint or prophecy of such a man as whitman in our new england literature, unless it be in emerson, and here it is in the region of the abstract and not of the concrete. emerson's prayer was for the absolutely self-reliant man, but when whitman refused to follow his advice with regard to certain passages in the "leaves," the sage withheld further approval of the work. we must look for the origins of whitman, i think, in the deep world-currents that have been shaping the destinies of the race for the past hundred years or more; in the universal loosening, freeing, and removing obstructions; in the emancipation of the people, and their coming forward and taking possession of the world in their own right; in the triumph of democracy and of science; the downfall of kingcraft and priestcraft; the growth of individualism and non-conformity; the increasing disgust of the soul of man with forms and ceremonies; the sentiment of realism and positivism, the religious hunger that flees the churches; the growing conviction that life, that nature, are not failures, that the universe is good, that man is clean and divine inside and out, that god is immanent in nature,--all these things and more lie back of whitman, and hold a causal relation to him. iii of course the essential elements of all first-class artistic and literary productions are always the same, just as nature, just as man, are essentially the same everywhere. yet the literature of every people has a stamp of its own, starts from and implies antecedents and environments peculiar to itself. just as ripe, mellow, storied, ivy-towered, velvet-turfed england lies back of tennyson, and is vocal through him; just as canny, covenanting, conscience-burdened, craggy, sharp-tongued scotland lies back of carlyle; just as thrifty, well-schooled, well-housed, prudent, and moral new england lies back of her group of poets, and is voiced by them,--so america as a whole, our turbulent democracy, our self-glorification, our faith in the future, our huge mass movements, our continental spirit, our sprawling, sublime, and unkempt nature, lie back of whitman and are implied by his work. he had not the shaping, manipulating gift to carve his american material into forms of ideal beauty, and did not claim to have. he did not value beauty as an abstraction. what whitman did that is unprecedented was, to take up the whole country into himself, fuse it, imbue it with soul and poetic emotion, and recast it as a sort of colossal walt whitman. he has not so much treated american themes as he has identified himself with everything american, and made the whole land redolent of his own quality. he has descended upon the gross materialism of our day and land and upon the turbulent democratic masses with such loving impact, such fervid enthusiasm, as to lift and fill them with something like the breath of universal nature. his special gift is his magnetic and unconquerable personality, his towering egoism united with such a fund of human sympathy. his power is centripetal, so to speak,--he draws everything into himself like a maelstrom; the centrifugal power of the great dramatic artists, the power to get out of and away from himself, he has not. it was not for whitman to write the dramas and tragedies of democracy, as shakespeare wrote those of feudalism, or as tennyson sang in delectable verse the swan-song of an overripe civilization. it was for him to voice the democratic spirit, to show it full-grown, athletic, haughtily taking possession of the world and redistributing the prizes according to its own standards. it was for him to sow broadcast over the land the germs of larger, more sane, more robust types of men and women, indicating them in himself. in him the new spirit of democracy first completely knows itself, is proud of itself, has faith and joy in itself, is fearless, tolerant, religious, aggressive, triumphant, and bestows itself lavishly upon all sides. it is tentative, doubtful, hesitating no longer. it is at ease in the world, it takes possession, it fears no rival, it advances with confident step. no man was ever more truly fathered by what is formative and expansive in his country and times than was whitman. not by the literature of his country was he begotten, but by the spirit that lies back of all, and that begat america itself,--the america that europe loves and fears, that she comes to this country to see, and looks expectantly, but for the most part vainly, in our books to find. it seems to me he is distinctly a continental type. his sense of space, of magnitude, his processional pages, his unloosedness, his wide horizons, his vanishing boundaries,--always something unconfined and unconfinable, always the deferring and undemonstrable. the bad as well as the good traits of his country and his people are doubtless implied by his work. if he does not finally escape from our unripe americanism, if he does not rise through it all and clarify it and turn it to ideal uses, draw out the spiritual meanings, then avaunt! we want nothing of him. "the pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell. the former i graft and increase upon myself, the latter i translate into a new tongue." the vital and the formative the true poet always engrafts and increases upon himself, and thence upon his reader; the crude, the local, the accidental, he translates into a new tongue. it has been urged against whitman that he expresses our unripe americanism only, but serious readers of him know better than that. he is easy master of it all, and knows when his foot is upon solid ground. it seems to me that in him we see for the first time spiritual and ideal meanings and values in democracy and the modern; we see them translated into character; we see them tried by universal standards; we see them vivified by a powerful imagination. we see america as an idea, and see its relation to other ideas. we get a new conception of the value of the near, the common, the familiar. new light is thrown upon the worth and significance of the common people, and it is not the light of an abstract idea, but the light of a concrete example. we see the democratic type on a scale it has never before assumed; it is on a par with any of the types that have ruled the world in the past, the military, the aristocratic, the regal. it is at home, it has taken possession, it can hold its own. henceforth the world is going its way. if it is over-confident, over-self-assertive, too american, that is the surplusage of the poet, of whom we do not want a penny prudence and caution; make your prophecy bold enough and it fulfills itself. whitman has betrayed no doubt or hesitation in his poetry. his assumptions and vaticinations are tremendous, but they are uttered with an authority and an assurance that convince like natural law. iv i think he gives new meaning to democracy and america. in him we see a new type, rising out of new conditions, and fully able to justify itself and hold its own. it is the new man in the new world, no longer dependent upon or facing toward the old. i confess that to me america and the modern would not mean very much without whitman. the final proof was wanting till they gave birth to a personality equal to the old types. discussions and speculations about democracy do not carry very far, after all; to preach equality is not much. but when we see these things made into a man, and see the world through his eyes, and see new joy and new meaning in it, our doubts and perplexities are cleared up. our universal balloting, and schooling, and material prosperity prove nothing: can your democracy produce a man who shall carry its spirit into loftiest regions, and prove as helpful and masterful under the new conditions as the by-gone types were under the old? v i predict a great future for whitman, because the world is so unmistakably going his way. the three or four great currents of the century--the democratic current, the scientific current, the humanitarian current, the new religious current, and what flows out of them--are underneath all whitman has written. they shape all and make all. they do not appear in him as mere dicta, or intellectual propositions, but as impulses, will, character, flesh-and-blood reality. we get these things, not as sentiments or yet theories, but as a man. we see life and the world as they appear to the inevitable democrat, the inevitable lover, the inevitable believer in god and immortality, the inevitable acceptor of absolute science. we are all going his way. we are more and more impatient of formalities, ceremonies, and make-believe; we more and more crave the essential, the real. more and more we want to see the thing as in itself it is; more and more is science opening our eyes to see the divine, the illustrious, the universal in the common, the near at hand; more and more do we tire of words and crave things; deeper and deeper sinks the conviction that personal qualities alone tell,--that the man is all in all, that the brotherhood of the race is not a dream, that love covers all and atones for all. everything in our modern life and culture that tends to broaden, liberalize, free; that tends to make hardy, self-reliant, virile; that tends to widen charity, deepen affection between man and man, to foster sanity and self-reliance; that tends to kindle our appreciation of the divinity of all things; that heightens our rational enjoyment of life; that inspires hope in the future and faith in the unseen,--are on whitman's side. all these things prepare the way for him. on the other hand, the strain and strife and hoggishness of our civilization, our trading politics, our worship of conventions, our millionaire ideals, our high-pressure lives, our pruriency, our sordidness, our perversions of nature, our scoffing caricaturing tendencies, are against him. he antagonizes all these things. the more democratic we become, the more we are prepared for whitman; the more tolerant, fraternal, sympathetic we become, the more we are ready for whitman; the more we inure ourselves to the open air and to real things, the more we value and understand our own bodies, the more the woman becomes the mate and equal of the man, the more social equality prevails,--the sooner will come to whitman fullness and fruition. vi some of our own critics have been a good deal annoyed by the fact that many european scholars and experts have recognized whitman as the only distinctive american poet thus far. it would seem as if our reputation for culture and good manners is at stake. we want europe to see america in our literary poets like lowell, or longfellow, or whittier. and europe may well see much that is truly representative of america in these and in other new england poets. she may see our aspiration toward her own ideals of culture and refinement; she may see native and patriotic themes firing lowell and whittier; she may see a certain spirit and temper begotten by our natural environment reflected in bryant, our delicate and gentle humanities and scholarly aptitudes shining in longfellow. but in every case she sees a type she has long been familiar with. all the poets' thoughts, moods, points of view, effects, aims, methods, are what she has long known. these are not the poets of a new _world_, but of a new _england_. the new-world book implies more than a new talent, more than a fresh pair of eyes, a fresh and original mind like the poets named; such men are required to keep up the old line of succession in english authorship. what is implied is a new national and continental spirit, which must arise and voice the old eternal truths through a large, new, democratic personality,--a new man, and, beyond and above him, a new heaven and a new earth. our band of new england poets have carried the new england spirit into poetry,--its sense of fitness, order, propriety, its shrewdness, inventiveness, aptness, and its aspiration for the pure and noble in life. they have finely exemplified the best yankee traits; but in no instance were these traits merged in a personality large enough, bold enough, and copious and democratic enough to give them national and continental significance. it would be absurd to claim that the pulse-beat of a great people or a great era is to be felt in the work of any of these poets. whitman is responded to in europe, because he expresses a new type with adequate power,--not, as has been so often urged, simply because he is strange, and gives the jaded literary palate over there a new fillip. he meets the demand for something in american literature that should not face toward europe, that should joyfully stand upon its own ground and yet fulfill the conditions of greatness. he fully satisfies the thirst for individualism amid these awakening peoples, and the thirst for nationalism also. he realizes the democratic ideal, no longer tentative or apologetic, but taking possession of the world as its own and reappraising the wares it finds there. vii the american spirit is a continental spirit; there is nothing insular or narrow about it. it is informal, nonchalant, tolerant, sanguine, adaptive, patient, candid, puts up with things, unfastidious, unmindful of particulars; disposed to take short cuts, friendly, hospitable, unostentatious, inclined to exaggerate, generous, unrefined,--never meddlesome, never hypercritical, never hoggish, never exclusive. whitman shared the hopeful optimistic temperament of his countrymen, the faith and confidence begotten by a great, fertile, sunny land. he expresses the independence of the people,--their pride, their jealousy of superiors, their contempt of authority (not always beautiful). our want of reverence and veneration are supplemented in him with world-wide sympathies and good-fellowship. emerson is our divine man, the precious quintessence of the new england type, invaluable for his stimulating and ennobling strain; but his genius is too astral, too select, too remote, to incarnate and give voice to the national spirit. clothe him with flesh and blood, make his daring affirmations real and vital in a human personality and imbued with the american spirit, and we are on the way to whitman. moreover, the strong, undisguised man-flavor of "leaves of grass," the throb and pressure in it of those things that make life rank and make it masterful, and that make for the virility and perpetuity of the race, are, if it must be confessed, more keenly relished abroad than in this country, so thoroughly are we yet under the spell of the merely refined and conventional. we fail to see that in letters, as in life, the great prizes are not to the polished, but to the virile and the strong. viii democracy is not so much spoken of in the "leaves" as it is it that speaks. the common, the familiar, are not denied and left behind, they are made vital and masterful; it is the "divine average" that awakens enthusiasm. humanity is avenged upon the scholar and the "gentleman" for the slights they have put upon it; creeds and schools in abeyance; personal qualities, force of character, to the front. whitman triumphs over the mean, the vulgar, the commonplace, by accepting them and imbuing them with the spirit of an heroic ideal. wherever he reveals himself in his work, it is as one of the common people, never as one of a coterie or of the privileged and cultivated. he is determined there shall be no mistake about it. he glories in the common heritage. he emphasizes in himself the traits which he shares with workingmen, sailors, soldiers, and those who live in the open air, even laying claim to the "rowdyish." he is proud of freckles, sun-tan, brawn, and holds up the powerful and unrefined. "i am enamor'd of growing out-doors, of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods, of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses; i can eat and sleep with them week in and week out." "nothing endures," he says, "but personal qualities." "produce great persons and the rest follows." does he glory in the present? he reverently bows before the past also. does he sound the call of battle for the union? but he nourishes the sick and wounded of the enemy as well. does he flout at the old religions? but he offers a larger religion in their stead. he is never merely negative, he is never fanatical, he is never narrow. he sees all and embraces and encloses all. then we see united and harmonized in whitman the two great paramount tendencies of our time and of the modern world,--the altruistic or humanitarian tendency and the individualistic tendency; or, democracy and individualism, pride and equality, or, rather, pride in equality. these two forces, as they appear in separate individuals, are often antagonistic. in carlyle, individualism frowned upon democracy. in whitman they are blended and work together. never was such audacious and uncompromising individualism, and never was such bold and sweeping fraternalism or otherism. the great pride of man in himself, which is one motif of the poems, flows naturally into the great pride of man in his fellows; his egoism does not separate him from, but rather unites him with, all men. what he assumes they shall assume, and what he claims for himself he demands in the same terms for all. he has set such an example of self-trust and self-assertion as has no parallel in our literature, at the same time that he has set an equal example in practical democracy and universal brotherhood. ix whitman's democracy is the breath of his nostrils, the light of his eyes, the blood in his veins. the reader does not feel that here is some fine scholar, some fine poet singing the praises of democracy; he feels that here is a democrat, probably, as thoreau surmised, the greatest the world has yet seen, turning the light of a great love, a great intellect, a great soul, upon america, upon contemporary life and events, and upon the universe, and reading new lessons, new meanings, therein. he is a great poet and prophet, speaking through the average man, speaking as one of the people, and interpreting life from the point of view of absolute democracy. true, the people in their average taste and perceptions are crude and flippant and superficial, and often the victims of mountebanks and fools; yet, as forming the body of our social and political organism, and the chief factor in the world-problem of to-day, they are the exponents of great forces and laws, and often, in emergencies, show the wisdom and unimpeachableness of nature herself. deep-hidden currents and forces in them are liable to come to the surface, and when the politicians get in their way, or miscalculate them, as so often happens, they are crushed. whitman is a projection into literature of the cosmic sense and conscience of the people, and their participation in the forces that are shaping the world in our century. much comes to a head in him. much comes to joyous speech and song, that heretofore had only come to thought and speculation. a towering, audacious personality has appeared which is strictly the fruit of the democratic spirit, and which has voiced itself in an impassioned utterance touching the whole problem of national and individual life. x the whitman literature is democratic, not in the sense that it caters to the taste of the masses or to the taste of the average man; for, as a matter of fact, the masses and the average man are likely to be the last to recognize its value. the common people, the average newspaper-reading citizens, are much more likely to be drawn by the artificial and the conventional. but it is democratic because it is filled with the spirit of absolute human equality and brotherhood, and gives out the atmosphere of the universal, primary, human traits. the social, artificial, accidental distinctions of wealth, culture, position, etc., have not influenced the poet in the slightest degree. whitman finds his joy and his triumph, not in being better than other people or above them, but in being one with them, and sharing their sins as well as their virtues. "as if it harm'd me, giving others the same chances and rights as myself--as if it were not indispensable to my own rights that others possess the same." this is one step further than others have taken, and makes democracy complete in itself. again, his work identifies itself with the democratic ideal in getting rid of the professional and arbitrary elements of poetry, and appealing to the reader entirely through its spirit and content. it is as democratic in this respect as the workman in the field, or the mechanic at his bench. the poems are bathed and flooded with the quality of the common people; with the commonness and nearness which they share with real things and with all open-air nature,--with hunters, travelers, soldiers, workers in all fields, and with rocks, trees, and woods. it is only in the spirit of these things that a man himself can have health, sweetness, and proportion; and only in their spirit that he can give an essentially sound judgment of a work of art, no matter what the subject of it may be. this spirit of the "commonest, cheapest, nearest" is the only spirit in which man's concrete life can be carried forward. we do not live and breathe and grow and multiply, we do not have health and sanity and wholeness and proportion, we do not subdue and improve and possess the earth, in the spirit of something exclusive, exceptional, faraway, aristocratic, but in the spirit of the common and universal. the only demand is that, in a work of art, the common or universal shall be vitalized with poetic thought and enthusiasm, or imbued with the ideal of a rare and high excellence. xi our critics have been fond of taunting whitman with the fact that the common people, the workers, of whom he makes so much, and to whom he perpetually appeals, do not read him, or show any liking for his poems at all. whitman's appeal to the common people, to the democratic masses, is an appeal to the future; it is an appeal to the universal human conscience and intelligence, as they exist above and beneath all special advantages of birth and culture and stand related to the total system of things. it also calls attention to the fact that the spirit in which he writes, and in which he is to be read, is the spirit of open-air life and nature. "no school or shutter'd room commune with me, but roughs and little children, better than they," because the simple, unforced, unrefined elements of human nature are those out of which the poems sprang and with which they are charged. their spirit is closer akin to unlettered humanity than to the over-intellectual and sophisticated products of the schools. of course "roughs and little children" can make nothing of "leaves of grass," but unless the trained reader has that fund of fresh, simple, wholesome nature, and the love for real things, which unlettered humanity possesses, he will make nothing of it either. xii it has been truly said that "the noblest seer is ever over-possessed." this has been the case with nearly all original, first-class men. carlyle furnished a good illustration of its truth in our own time. he was over-possessed with his idea of the hero and hero-worship. and it may be that whitman was over-possessed with the idea of democracy, america, nationality, and the need of a radically new departure in poetic literature. yet none knew better than he that in the long run the conditions of life and of human happiness and progress remain about the same; that the same price must still be paid for the same things; that character alone counts; that the same problem "how to live" ever confronts us; and that democracy, america, nationality, are only way stations, and by no means the end of the route. the all-leveling tendency of democracy is certainly not in the interest of literature. the world is not saved by the average man, but by the man much above the average, the rare and extraordinary man,--by the "remnant," as arnold called them. no one knew this better than whitman, and he said that "one main genesis-motive" of his "leaves" was the conviction that the crowning growth of the united states was to be spiritual and heroic. only "superb persons" can finally justify him. his relation to science i the stupendous disclosures of modern science, and what they mean when translated into the language of man's ethical and æsthetic nature, have not yet furnished to any considerable extent the inspiration of poems. that all things are alike divine, that this earth is a star in the heavens, that the celestial laws and processes are here underfoot, that size is only relative, that good and bad are only relative, that forces are convertible and interchangeable, that matter is indestructible, that death is the law of life, that man is of animal origin, that the sum of forces is constant, that the universe is a complexus of powers inconceivably subtle and vital, that motion is the law of all things,--in fact, that we have got rid of the notions of the absolute, the fixed, the arbitrary, and the notion of origins and of the dualism of the world,--to what extent will these and kindred ideas modify art and all æsthetic production? the idea of the divine right of kings and the divine authority of priests is gone; that, in some other time or some other place god was nearer man than now and here,--this idea is gone. indeed, the whole of man's spiritual and religious belief which forms the background of literature has changed,--a change as great as if the sky were to change from blue to red or to orange. the light of day is different. but literature deals with life, and the essential conditions of life, you say, always remain the same. yes, but the expression of their artistic values is forever changing. if we ask where is the modern imaginative work that is based upon these revelations of science, the work in which they are the blood and vital juices, i answer, "leaves of grass," and no other. the work is the outgrowth of science and modern ideas, just as truly as dante is the outgrowth of mediæval ideas and superstitions; and the imagination, the creative spirit, is just as unhampered in whitman as in dante or in shakespeare. the poet finds the universe just as plastic and ductile, just as obedient to his will, and just as ready to take the impress of his spirit, as did these supreme artists. science has not hardened it at all. the poet opposes himself to it, and masters it and rises superior. he is not balked or oppressed for a moment. he knows from the start what science can bring him, what it can give, and what it can take away; he knows the universe is not orphaned; he finds more grounds than ever for a pæan of thanksgiving and praise. his conviction of the identity of soul and body, matter and spirit, does not shake his faith in immortality in the least. his faith arises, not from half views, but from whole views. in him the idea of the soul, of humanity, of identity, easily balanced the idea of the material universe. man was more than a match for nature. it was all for him, and not for itself. his enormous egotism, or hold upon the central thought or instinct of human worth and import, was an anchor that never gave way. science sees man as the ephemeron of an hour, an iridescent bubble on a seething, whirling torrent, an accident in a world of incalculable and clashing forces. whitman sees him as inevitable and as immortal as god himself. indeed, he is quite as egotistical and anthropomorphic, though in an entirely different way, as were the old bards and prophets before the advent of science. the whole import of the universe is directed to one man,--to you. his anthropomorphism is not a projection of himself into nature, but an absorption of nature in himself. the tables are turned. it is not alien or superhuman beings that he sees and hears in nature, but his own that he finds everywhere. all gods are merged in himself. not the least fear, not the least doubt or dismay, in this book. not one moment's hesitation or losing of the way. and it is not merely an intellectual triumph, but the triumph of soul and personality. the iron knots are not untied, they are melted. indeed, the poet's contentment and triumph in view of the fullest recognition of all the sin and sorrow of the world, and of all that baffles and dwarfs, is not the least of the remarkable features of the book. ii whitman's relation to science is fundamental and vital. it is the soil under his feet. he comes into a world from which all childish fear and illusion has been expelled. he exhibits the religious and poetic faculties perfectly adjusted to a scientific, industrial, democratic age, and exhibits them more fervent and buoyant than ever before. we have gained more than we have lost. the world is anew created by science and democracy, and he pronounces it good with the joy and fervor of the old faith. he shared with tennyson the glory of being one of the two poets of note in our time who have drawn inspiration from this source, or viewed the universe through the vistas which science opens. renan thought the modern poetic or imaginative contemplation of the universe puerile and factitious compared with the scientific contemplation of it. the one, he said, was stupendous; the other childish and empty. but whitman and tennyson were fully abreast with science, and often afford one a sweep of vision that matches the best science can do. tennyson drew upon science more for his images and illustrations than whitman did; he did not absorb and appropriate its results in the wholesale way of the latter. science fed whitman's imagination and made him bold; its effects were moral and spiritual. on tennyson its effects were mainly intellectual; it enlarged his vocabulary without strengthening his faith. indeed, one would say, from certain passages in "in memoriam," that it had distinctly weakened his faith. let us note for a moment the different ways these two poets use science. in his poem to fitzgerald, tennyson draws upon the nebular hypothesis for an image:- "a planet equal to the sun which cast it, that large infidel your omar." in "despair" there crops out another bold inference of science, the vision "of an earth that is dead." "the homeless planet at length will be wheel'd thro' the silence of space, motherless evermore of an ever-vanishing race." in the "epilogue" he glances into the sidereal heavens:- "the fires that arch this dusky dot- yon myriad-worlded way- the vast sun-clusters' gather'd blaze, world-isles in lonely skies, whole heavens within themselves, amaze our brief humanities." as our american poet never elaborates in the tennysonian fashion, he does not use science as material, but as inspiration. his egoism and anthropomorphic tendency are as great as those of the early bards, and he makes everything tell for the individual. let me give a page or two from the "song of myself," illustrative of his attitude in this respect:- "i find i incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots, and am stuccoed with quadrupeds and birds all over, and have distanced what is behind me for good reasons, and call anything close again, when i desire it. "in vain the speeding or shyness, in vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against any approach, in vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powdered bones, in vain objects stand leagues off, and assume manifold shapes, in vain the ocean settling in hollows, and the great monsters lying low, in vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky, in vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs, in vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods, in vain the razor-billed auk sails far north to labrador, i follow quickly, i ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff. * * * * * "i am an acme of things accomplished, and i an endorser of things to be. my feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs, on every step bunches of ages, and large bunches between the steps, all below duly traveled, and still i mount and mount. "rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me, afar down i see the huge first nothing--i know i was even there, i waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist, and took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon. "long i was hugged close--long and long. immense have been the preparations for me, faithful and friendly the arms that have helped me, cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen, for room to me stars kept aside in their own rings, they sent influences to look after what was to hold me. "before i was born out of my mother, generations guided me, my embryo has never been torpid--nothing could overlay it. for it the nebula cohered to an orb, the long, slow strata piled to rest it in, vast vegetables gave it sustenance, monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths, and deposited it with care. all forces have been steadily employed to complete and delight me, now i stand on this spot with my soul. "i open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems, and all i see, multiplied as high as i can cipher, edge but the rim of the farther systems: wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, outward, outward, and forever outward: my sun has his sun, and around him obediently wheels; he joins with his partners a group of superior circuit, and greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them. "there is no stoppage, and never can be stoppage. if i, you, the worlds, all beneath or upon their surfaces, and all the palpable life, were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would not avail in the long run. we should surely bring up again where we now stand, and as surely go as much farther--and then farther and farther. a few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not hazard the span or make it impatient. they are but parts--anything is but a part, see ever so far, there is limitless space outside of that, count ever so much, there is limitless time around that." in all cases, whitman's vision is as large as that of science, but it is always the vision of a man and not that of a philosopher. his report of the facts has an imaginative lift and a spiritual significance which the man of science cannot give them. in him, for the first time, a personality has appeared that cannot be dwarfed and set aside by those things. he does not have to stretch himself at all to match in the human and emotional realm the stupendous discoveries and deductions of science. in him man refuses to stand aside and acknowledge himself of no account in the presence of the cosmic laws and areas. it is all for him, it is all directed to him; without him the universe is an empty void. this is the "full-spread pride of man," the pride that refuses to own any master outside of itself. "i know my omnivorous words, and cannot say any less, and would fetch you, whoever you are, flush with myself." his relation to religion whitman, as i have elsewhere said, was swayed by two or three great passions, and the chief of these was doubtless his religious passion. he thrilled to the thought of the mystery and destiny of the soul. "the soul, forever and forever--longer than soil is brown and solid--longer than water ebbs and flows." he urged that there could be no permanent national grandeur, and no worthy manly or womanly development, without religion. "i specifically announce that the real and permanent grandeur of these states must be their religion, otherwise there is no real and permanent grandeur." all materials point to and end at last in spiritual results. "each is not for its own sake, i say the whole earth and all the stars in the sky are for religion's sake." all our ostensible realities, our art, our literature, our business pursuits, etc., are but fuel to religion. "for not all matter is fuel to heat, impalpable flame, the essential life of the earth, any more than such are to religion." again he says:- "my comrade! for you to share with me two greatnesses--and a third one, rising inclusive and more resplendent, the greatness of love and democracy--and the greatness of religion." it is hardly necessary to say that the religion which whitman celebrates is not any form of ecclesiasticism. it was larger than any creed that has yet been formulated. it was the conviction of the man of science touched and vivified by the emotion of the prophet and poet. as exemplified in his life its chief elements were faith, hope, charity. its object was to prepare you to live, not to die, and to "earn for the body and the mind what adheres and goes forward, and is not dropped by death." the old religion, the religion of our fathers, was founded upon a curse. sin, repentance, fear, satan, hell, play important parts. creation had resulted in a tragedy in which the very elemental forces were implicated. the grand scheme of an infinite being failed through the machinations of the devil. salvation was an escape from a wrath to come. the way was through agony and tears. heaven was only gained by denying earth. the great mass of the human race was doomed to endless perdition. now there is no trace of this religion in whitman, and it does not seem to have left any shadow upon him. ecclesiasticism is dead; he clears the ground for a new growth. to the priests he says: "your day is done." he sings a new song; he tastes a new joy in life. the earth is as divine as heaven, and there is no god more sacred than yourself. it is as if the world had been anew created, and adam had once more been placed in the garden,--the world, with all consequences of the fall, purged from him. hence we have in whitman the whole human attitude towards the universe, towards god, towards life and death, towards good and evil, completely changed. we have absolute faith and acceptance in place of the fear and repentance of the old creeds; we have death welcomed as joyously as life, we have political and social equality as motifs and impulses, and not merely as sentiments. he would show us the muse of poetry, as impartial, as sweeping in its vision, as modern, as real, as free from the morbid and make-believe, as the muse of science. he sees good in all, beauty in all. it is not the old piety, it is the new faith; it is not the old worship, it is the new acceptance; not the old, corroding religious pessimism, but the new scientific optimism. he does not deny, he affirms; he does not criticise, he celebrates; his is not a call to repentance, it is a call to triumph:- "i say no man has ever yet been half devout enough, none has ever yet adored or worship'd half enough, none has begun to think how divine he himself is, or how certain the future is." he accepted science absolutely, yet science was not an end in itself: it was not his dwelling; he but entered by it to an area of his dwelling. the flower of science was religion. without this religion, or something akin to it,--without some spiritual, emotional life that centred about an ideal,--whitman urged that there could be no permanent national or individual development. in the past this ideal was found in the supernatural; for us and the future democratic ages, it must be found in the natural, in the now and the here. the aristocratic tradition not only largely shaped the literature of the past, it shaped the religion: man was a culprit, his life a rebellion; his proper attitude toward the unseen powers was that of a subject to his offended sovereign,--one of prostration and supplication. heaven was a select circle reserved for the few,--the aristocracy of the pure and just. the religion of a democratic and scientific era, as voiced by whitman and as exemplified in his life, is of quite another character,--not veneration, but joy and triumph; not fear, but love; not self-abasement, but self-exaltation; not sacrifice, but service: in fact, not religion at all in the old sense of the spiritual at war with the natural, the divine with the human, this world a vale of tears, and mundane things but filth and ashes, heaven for the good and hell for the bad; but in the new sense of the divinity of all things, of the equality of gods and men, of the brotherhood of the race, of the identity of the material and the spiritual, of the beneficence of death and the perfection of the universe. the poet turns his face to earth and not to heaven; he finds the miraculous, the spiritual, in the things about him, and gods and goddesses in the men and women he meets. he effaces the old distinctions; he establishes a sort of universal suffrage in spiritual matters; there are no select circles, no privileged persons. is this the democracy of religion? liberty, fraternity, and equality carried out in the spiritual sphere? death is the right hand of god, and evil plays a necessary part also. nothing is discriminated against; there are no reprisals or postponements, no dualism or devilism. everything is in its place; man's life and all the things of his life are well-considered. carried out in practice, this democratic religion will not beget priests, or churches, or creeds, or rituals, but a life cheerful and full on all sides, helpful, loving, unworldly, tolerant, open-souled, temperate, fearless, free, and contemplating with pleasure, rather than alarm, "the exquisite transition of death." a final word after all i have written about whitman, i feel at times that the main thing i wanted to say about him i have not said, cannot say; the best about him cannot be told anyway. "my final merit i refuse you." his full significance in connection with the great modern movement; how he embodies it all and speaks out of it, and yet maintains his hold upon the primitive, the aboriginal; how he presupposes science and culture, yet draws his strength from that which antedates these things; how he glories in the present, and yet is sustained and justified by the past; how he is the poet of america and the modern, and yet translates these things into universal truths; how he is the poet of wickedness, while yet every fibre of him is sound and good; how his page is burdened with the material, the real, the contemporary, while yet his hold upon the ideal, the spiritual, never relaxes; how he is the poet of the body, while yet he is in even fuller measure the poet of the soul; in fact, how all contradictions are finally reconciled in him,--all these things and more, i say, i feel that i have not set forth with the clearness and emphasis the subject demanded. other students of him will approach him on other lines, and will disclose meanings that i have missed. writing about him, as symonds said, is enormously difficult. at times i feel as if i was almost as much at sea with regard to him as when i first began to study him; not at sea with regard to his commanding genius and power, but with regard to any adequate statement and summary of him in current critical terms. one cannot define and classify him as he can a more highly specialized poetic genius. what is he like? he is like everything. he is like the soil which holds the germs of a thousand forms of life; he is like the grass, common, universal, perennial, formless; he is like your own heart, mystical yearning, rebellious, contradictory, but ever throbbing with life. he is fluid, generative, electric; he is full of the germs, potencies, and latencies of things; he provokes thought without satisfying it; he is formless without being void; he is both darwinian and dantesque. he is the great reconciler, he united and harmonized so many opposites in himself. as a man he united the masculine and feminine elements in a remarkable degree; he united the innocent vanity of the child with the self-reliance of a god. in his moral aspects, he united egoism and altruism, pride and charity, individualism and democracy, fierce patriotism and the cosmopolitan spirit; in his literary aspects he united mysticism and realism, the poet and prophet, the local and the universal; in his religious aspects he united faith and agnosticism, the glorification of the body and all objective things, with an unshakable trust in the reality of the invisible world. rich in the elements of poetry, a london critic says, almost beyond any other poet of his time, and yet the conscious, elaborate, crystallic, poetic work which the critic demanded of him, carefully stopping short of, quite content to hold it all in solution, and give his reader an impulse rather than a specimen. i have accepted whitman entire and without reservation. i could not do otherwise. it was clear enough to me that he was to be taken as a whole or not at all. we cannot cut and carve a man. the latest poet brings us poetic wares, curiously and beautifully carved and wrought specimens, some of which we accept and some of which we pass by. whitman brings us no cunning handicraft of the muses: he brings us a gospel, he brings us a man, he brings us a new revelation of life; and either his work appeals to us as a whole, or it does not so appeal. he will not live in separate passages, or in a few brief poems, any more than shakespeare or homer or dante, or the bible, so lives. the chief thing about the average literary poet is his poetic gift, apart from any other consideration; we select from what he brings us as we select from a basket of fruit. the chief thing about whitman is the personality which the poetic gift is engaged in exploiting; the excitement of our literary or artistic sense is always less than the excitement of our sense of life and of real things. we get in him a fixed point of view, a new vantage-ground of personality from which to survey life. it is less what he brings, and more what he is, than with other poets. to take him by fragments, picking out poetic tidbits here and there, rejecting all the rest, were like valuing a walk through the fields and woods only for the flowers culled here and there, or the bits of color in the grass or foliage. is the air, the sunshine, the free spaces, the rocks, the soil, the trees, and the exhilaration of it all, nothing? there are flowers in whitman, too, but they are amid the rocks or under the trees, and seem quite unpremeditated and by the way, and never the main concern. if our quest is for these alone, we shall surely be disappointed. "in order to appreciate whitman's poetry and his purpose," says joel chandler harris, "it is necessary to possess the intuition that enables the mind to grasp in instant and express admiration the vast group of facts that make man,--that make liberty,--that make america. there is no poetry in the details; it is all in the broad, sweeping, comprehensive assimilation of the mighty forces behind them,--the inevitable, unaccountable, irresistible forward movement of man in the making of this republic." and again: "those who approach walt whitman's poetry from the literary side are sure to be disappointed. whatever else it is, it is not literary. its art is its own, and the melody of it must be sought in other suggestions than those of metre.... those who are merely literary will find little substance in the great drama of democracy which is outlined by walt whitman in his writings,--it is no distinction to call them poems. but those who know nature at first hand--who know man, who see in this republic something more than a political government--will find therein the thrill and glow of poetry and the essence of melody. not the poetry that culture stands in expectation of, nor the melody that capers in verse and metre, but those rarer intimations and suggestions that are born in primeval solitudes, or come whirling from the vast funnel of the storm." how admirable! how true! no man has ever spoken more to the point upon walt whitman. the appearance of such a man as whitman involves deep world-forces of race and time. he is rooted in the very basic structure of his age. after what i have already said, my reader will not be surprised when i tell him that i look upon whitman as the one mountain thus far in our literary landscape. to me he changes the whole aspect, almost the very climate, of our literature. he adds the much-needed ruggedness, breadth, audacity, independence, and the elements of primal strength and health. we owe much to emerson. but emerson was much more a _made_ man than was whitman,--much more the result of secondary forces, the college, the church, and of new england social and literary culture. with all his fervid humanity and deeply ingrained modernness, whitman has the virtues of the primal and the savage. "leaves of grass" has not the charm, or the kind of charm, of the more highly wrought artistic works, but it has the incentive of nature and the charm of real things. we shall not go to it to be soothed and lulled. it will always remain among the difficult and heroic undertakings, demanding our best moments, our best strength, our morning push and power. like voyaging or mountain-climbing, or facing any danger or hardship by land or sea, it fosters manly endeavor and the great virtues of sanity and self-reliance. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. additional spacing after some of the quotes is intentional to indicate both the end of a quotation and the beginning of a new paragraph as presented in the original text. the following misprint has been corrected: "differentation" corrected to "differentiation" (page 18) other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained. little journeys to the homes of the great elbert hubbard memorial edition printed and made into a book by the roycrofters, who are in east aurora, erie county, new york wm. h. wise & co. new york 1916 publisher's preface elbert hubbard is dead, or should we say, has gone on his last little journey to the great beyond. but the children of his fertile brain still live and will continue to live and keep fresh the memory of their illustrious forebear. fourteen years were consumed in the preparation of the work that ranks today as elbert hubbard's masterpiece. in eighteen hundred ninety-four, the series of little journeys to the homes of the great was begun, and once a month for fourteen years, without a break, one of these little pilgrimages was given to the world. these little gems have been accepted as classics and will live. in all there are one hundred eighty little journeys that take us to the homes of the men and women who transformed the thought of their time, changed the course of empire, and marked the destiny of civilization. through him, the ideas, the deeds, the achievements of these immortals have been given to the living present and will be sent echoing down the centuries. hubbard's little journeys to the homes of these men and women have not been equaled since plutarch wrote his forty-six parallel lives of the greeks and romans. and these were given to the world before the first rosy dawn of modern civilization had risen to the horizon. without dwelling upon their achievements, plutarch, with a trifling incident, a simple word or an innocent jest, showed the virtues and failings of his subject. as a result, no other books from classical literature have come down through the ages to us with so great an influence upon the lives of the leading men of the world. who can recount the innumerable biographies that begin thus: "in his youth, our subject had for his constant reading, plutarch's lives, etc."? emerson must have had in mind this silent, irresistible force that shaped the lives of the great men of these twenty centuries when he declared, "all history resolves itself very easily into the biography of a few stout and earnest persons." plutarch lived in the time of saint paul, and wrote of the early greeks and romans. after two thousand years hubbard appeared, to bridge the centuries from athens, in the golden age of pericles, to america, in the wondrous age of edison. with the magic wand of genius he touched the buried mummies of all time, and from each tomb gushed forth a geyser of inspiration. hugh chalmers once remarked that, if he were getting out a blue book of america, he would publish elbert hubbard's subscription-lists. whether we accept this authoritative statement or not, there is no doubt that the pen of this immortal did more to stimulate the best minds of the country than any other american writer, living or dead. eminent writers study hubbard for style, while at the same time thousands of the tired men and women who do the world's work read him for inspiration. truly, this man wielded his pen like an archangel. not only as a writer does this many-sided genius command our admiration, but in many chosen fields, in all of which he excelled. as an institution, the roycroft shops would reflect credit upon the business acumen of the ablest men that america has produced in the field of achievement. the industry, it would seem, was launched to demonstrate the practicality of the high principles and philosophy preached by its founder, not only by the printed page, but from the platform. right here let it be noted that, as a public speaker, hubbard appeared before more audiences than any other lecturer of his time who gave the platform his undivided attention. where, one asks in amazement, did this remarkable man find the inspiration for carrying forward his great work? it is no secret. it was drawn from his own little pilgrimages to the haunts of the great. again like plutarch, these miniature biographies were composed for the personal benefit of the writer. it was his own satisfaction and moral improvement that inspired the work. following hubbard's tragic death, the announcement was made from east aurora that "the philistine" magazine would be discontinued--hubbard had gone on a long journey and might need his "philistine." besides, who was there to take up his pen? it was also a beautiful tribute to the father from the son. the same spirit of devotion has prompted the roycrofters to issue their memorial edition of the "little journeys to the homes of the great." in no other way could they so fittingly perpetuate the memory of the founder of their institution as to liberate the influence that was such an important factor in molding the career of his genius. if he should cast a backward glance, he would nod his approval. if there is to be a memorial, certainly let it be a service to mankind. he would have us all tap the same source from which he drew his inspiration. autobiographical the mintage of wisdom is to know that rest is rust, and that real life is in love, laughter and work. --_elbert hubbard_ i have been asked to write an article about myself and the work in which i am engaged. i think i am honest enough to sink self, to stand outside my own personality, and answer the proposition. let me begin by telling what i am not, and thus reach the vital issue by elimination. first, i am not popular in "society," and those who champion _my cause in my own town_ are plain, unpretentious people. second, i am not a popular writer, since my name has never been mentioned in the "atlantic," "scribner's," "harper's," "the century" or the "ladies' home journal." but as a matter of truth, it may not be amiss for me to say that i have waited long hours in the entryway of each of the magazines just named, in days agone, and then been handed the frappe. third, i am not rich, as the world counts wealth. fourth, as an orator i am without the graces, and do scant justice to the double-breasted prince albert. fifth, the roycroft shop, to the welfare of which my life is dedicated, is not so large as to be conspicuous on account of size. sixth, personally, i am no ten-thousand-dollar beauty: the glass of fashion and the mold of form are far from mine. then what have i done concerning which the public wishes to know? simply this: in one obscure country village i have had something to do with stopping the mad desire on the part of the young people to get out of the country and flock to the cities. in this town and vicinity the tide has been turned from city to country. we have made one country village an attractive place for growing youth by supplying congenial employment, opportunity for education and healthful recreation, and an outlook into the world of art and beauty. all boys and girls want to make things with their hands, and they want to make beautiful things, they want to "get along," and i've simply given them a chance to get along here, instead of seeking their fortunes in buffalo, new york or chicago. they have helped me and i have helped them; and through this mutual help we have made head, gained ground upon the whole. by myself i could have done nothing, and if i have succeeded, it is simply because i have had the aid and co-operation of cheerful, willing, loyal and loving helpers. even now as i am writing this in my cabin in the woods, four miles from the village, they are down there at the shop, quietly, patiently, cheerfully doing my work--which work is also theirs. no man liveth unto himself alone: our interests are all bound up together, and there is no such thing as a man going off by himself and corraling the good. when i came to this town there was not a house in the place that had a lavatory with hot and cold water attachments. those who bathed, swam in the creek in the summer or used the family wash tub in the kitchen in winter. my good old partner, ali baba, has always prided himself on his personal cleanliness he is arrayed in rags, but underneath, his hide is clean, and better still, his heart is right. yet when he first became a member of my household, he was obliged to take his saturday-night tub out in the orchard, from spring until autumn came with withered leaves. he used to make quite an ado in the kitchen, heating the water in the wash-boiler. six pails of cistern-water, a gourd of soft soap, and a gunny-sack for friction were required in the operation. of course, the baba waited until after dark before performing his ablutions. but finally his plans were more or less disturbed by certain rising youth, who timed his habits and awaited his disrobing with o'erripe tomatoes. the bombardment, and the inability to pursue the enemy, turned the genial current of the baba's life awry until i put a bathroom in my house, with a lock on the door. this bit of history i have mentioned for the dual purpose of shedding light on former bathing facilities in east aurora, and more especially to show that once we had the hoodlum with us. hoodlumism is born of idleness; it is useful energy gone to seed. in small towns hoodlumism is rife, and the hoodlums are usually the children of the best citizens. hoodlumism is the first step in the direction of crime. the hoodlum is very often a good boy who does not know what to do; and so he does the wrong thing. he bombards with tomatoes a good man taking a bath, puts ticktacks on windows, ties a tin can to the dog's tail, takes the burs off your carriage-wheels, steals your chickens, annexes your horse-blankets, and scares old ladies into fits by appearing at windows wrapped in a white sheet. to wear a mask, walk in and demand the money in the family ginger-jar is the next and natural evolution. to a great degree the roycroft shop has done away with hoodlumism in this village, and a stranger wearing a silk hat, or an artist with a white umbrella, is now quite safe upon our streets. very naturally, the oldest inhabitant will deny what i have said about east aurora--he will tell you that the order, cleanliness and beauty of the place have always existed. the change has come about so naturally, and so entirely without his assistance, that he knows nothing about it. truth when first presented is always denied, but later there comes a stage when the man says, "i always believed it." and so the good old citizens are induced to say that these things have always been, or else they gently pooh-pooh them. however, the truth remains that i introduced the first heating-furnace into the town; bought the first lawn-mower; was among the first to use electricity for lights and natural gas for fuel; and so far, am the only one in town to use natural gas for power. until the starting of the roycroft shop, there were no industries here, aside from the regulation country store, grocery, tavern, blacksmith-shop and sawmill--none of which enterprises attempted to supply more than local wants. there was hamlin's stock-farm, devoted to raising trotting-horses, that gave employment to some of the boys; but for the girls there was nothing. they got married at the first chance; some became "hired girls," or, if they had ambitions, fixed their hearts on the buffalo normal school, raised turkeys, picked berries, and turned every honest penny towards the desire to get an education so as to become teachers. comparatively, this class was small in number. most of the others simply followed that undefined desire to get away out of the dull, monotonous, gossiping village; and so, craving excitement, they went away to the cities, and the cities swallowed them. a wise man has said that god made the country, man the city, and the devil the small towns. the country supplies the city its best and its worst. we hear of the few who succeed, but of the many who are lost in the maelstrom we know nothing. sometimes in country homes it is even forbidden to mention certain names. "she went to the city," you are told--and there the history abruptly stops. and so, to swing back to the place of beginning, i think the chief reason many good folks are interested in the roycroft shop is because here country boys and girls are given work at which they not only earn their living, but can get an education while doing it. next to this is the natural curiosity to know how a large and successful business can be built up in a plain, humdrum village by simply using the talent and materials that are at hand, and so i am going to tell now how the roycroft shop came to start; a little about what it has done; what it is trying to do; and what it hopes to become. and since modesty is only egotism turned wrong side out, i will make no special endeavor to conceal the fact that i have had something to do with the venture. in london, from about sixteen hundred fifty to sixteen hundred ninety, samuel and thomas roycroft printed and made very beautiful books. in choosing the name "roycroft" for our shop we had these men in mind, but beyond this the word has a special significance, meaning king's craft--king's craftsmen being a term used in the guilds of the olden times for men who had achieved a high degree of skill--men who made things for the king. so a roycrofter is a person who makes beautiful things, and makes them as well as he can. "the roycrofters" is the legal name of our institution. it is a corporation, and the shares are distributed among the workers. no shares are held by any one but roycrofters, and it is agreed that any worker who quits the shop shall sell his shares back to the concern. this co-operative plan, it has been found, begets a high degree of personal diligence, a loyalty to the institution, a sentiment of fraternity and a feeling of permanency among the workers that is very beneficial to all concerned. each worker, even the most humble, calls it "our shop," and feels that he is an integral and necessary part of the whole. possibly there are a few who consider themselves more than necessary. ali baba, for instance, it is said, has referred to himself, at times, as the whole thing. and this is all right, too--i would never chide an excess of zeal: the pride of a worker in his worth and work is a thing to foster. it's the man who "doesn't give a damn" who is really troublesome. the artistic big-head is not half so bad as apathy. * * * * * in the month of december, eighteen hundred ninety-four, i printed the first "little journeys" in booklet form, at the local printing-office, having become discouraged in trying to find a publisher. but before offering the publication to the public, i decided to lay the matter again before g.p. putnam's sons, although they had declined the matter in manuscript form. mr. george h. putnam rather liked the matter, and was induced to issue the periodical as a venture for one year. the scheme seemed to meet with success, the novel form of the publication being in its favor. the subscription reached nearly a thousand in six months; the newspapers were kind, and the success of the plan suggested printing a pamphlet modeled on similar lines, telling what we thought about things in general, and publishers and magazine-editors in particular. there was no intention at first of issuing more than one number of this pamphlet, but to get it through the mails at magazine rates we made up a little subscription list and asked that it be entered at the post office at east aurora as second-class matter. the postmaster adjusted his brass-rimmed spectacles, read the pamphlet, and decided that it surely was second class matter. we called it "the philistine" because we were going after the "chosen people" in literature. it was leslie stephen who said, "the term philistine is a word used by prigs to designate people they do not like." when you call a man a bad name, you are that thing--not he. the smug and snugly ensconced denizens of union square called me a philistine, and i said, "yes, i am one, if a philistine is something different from you." my helpers, the printers, were about to go away to pastures new; they were in debt, the town was small, they could not make a living. so they offered me their outfit for a thousand dollars. i accepted the proposition. i decided to run "the philistine" magazine for a year--to keep faith with the misguided and hopeful parties who had subscribed--and then quit. to fill in the time, we printed a book: we printed it like a william morris book--printed it just as well as we could. it was cold in the old barn where we first set up "the philistine," so i built a little building like an old english chapel right alongside of my house. there was one basement and a room upstairs. i wanted it to be comfortable and pretty, and so we furnished our little shop cozily. we had four girls and three boys working for us then. the shop was never locked, and the boys and girls used to come around evenings. it was really more pleasant than at home. i brought over a shelf of books from the library. then i brought the piano, because the youngsters wanted to dance. the girls brought flowers and birds, and the boys put up curtains at the windows. we were having a lot o' fun, with new subscriptions coming in almost every day, and once in a while an order for a book. the place got too small when we began to bind books, so we built a wing on one side; then a wing on the other side. to keep the three carpenters busy who had been building the wings, i set them to making furniture for the place. they made the furniture as good as they could--folks came along and bought it. the boys picked up field-stones and built a great, splendid fireplace and chimney at one end of the shop. the work came out so well that i said, "boys, here is a great scheme--these hardheads are splendid building material." so i advertised we would pay a dollar a load for niggerheads. the farmers began to haul stones; they hauled more stones, and at last they had hauled four thousand loads. we bought all the stone in the dollar limit, bulling the market on boulders. three stone buildings have been built, another is in progress, and our plans are made to build an art-gallery of the same material--the stones that the builders rejected. an artist blew in on the way to nowhere, his baggage a tomato-can. he thought he would stop over for a day or two--he is with us yet, and three years have gone by since he came, and now we could not do without him. then we have a few remittance-men, sent to us from a distance, without return-tickets. some of these men were willing to do anything but work--they offered to run things, to preach, to advise, to make love to the girls. we bought them tickets to chicago, and without violence conducted them to the four-o'clock train. we have boys who have been expelled from school, blind people, deaf people, old people, jailbirds and mental defectives, and have managed to set them all at useful work; but the remittance-man of good family who smokes cigarettes in bed has proved too much for us--so we have given him the four-o'clock without ruth. we do not encourage people from a distance who want work to come on--they are apt to expect too much. they look for utopia, when work is work, here as elsewhere. there is just as much need for patience, gentleness, loyalty and love here as anywhere. application, desire to do the right thing, a willingness to help, and a well-curbed tongue are as necessary in east aurora as in tuskegee. we do our work as well as we can, live one day at a time, and try to be kind. * * * * * the village of east aurora, erie county, new york, the home of the roycrofters, is eighteen miles southeast of the city of buffalo. the place has a population of about three thousand people. there is no wealth in the town and no poverty. in east aurora there are six churches, with pastors' salaries varying from three hundred to one thousand dollars a year; and we have a most excellent school. the place is not especially picturesque or attractive, being simply a representative new york state village. lake erie is ten miles distant, and cazenovia creek winds its lazy way along by the village. the land around east aurora is poor, and so reduced in purse are the farmers that no insurance-company will insure farm property in erie county under any conditions unless the farmer has some business outside of agriculture--the experience of the underwriters being that when a man is poor enough, he is also dishonest; insure a farmer's barn in new york state, and there is a strong probability that he will soon invest in kerosene. however, there is no real destitution, for a farmer can always raise enough produce to feed his family, and in a wooded country he can get fuel, even if he has to lift it between the dawn and the day. most of the workers in the roycroft shop are children of farming folk, and it is needless to add that they are not college-bred, nor have they had the advantages of foreign travel. one of our best helpers, uncle billy bushnell, has never been to niagara falls, and does not care to go. uncle billy says if you stay at home and do your work well enough, the world will come to you; which aphorism the old man backs up with another, probably derived from experience, to the effect that a man is a fool to chase after women, because, if he doesn't, the women will chase after him. the wisdom of this hard-headed old son of the soil--who abandoned agriculture for art at seventy--is exemplified in the fact that during the year just past, over twenty-eight thousand pilgrims have visited the roycroft shop--representing every state and territory of the union and every civilized country on the globe, even far-off iceland, new zealand and the isle of guam. three hundred ten people are on the payroll at the present writing. the principal work is printing, illuminating and binding books. we also have a furniture shop, where mission furniture of the highest grade is made; a modeled-leather shop, where the most wonderful creations in calfskin are to be seen; and a smithy, where copper utensils of great beauty are hammered out by hand. quite as important as the printing and binding is the illuminating of initials and title-pages. this is a revival of a lost art, gone with so much of the artistic work done by the monks of the olden time. yet there is a demand for such work; and so far as i know, we are the first concern in america to take up the hand-illumination of books as a business. of course we have had to train our helpers, and from very crude attempts at decoration we have attained to a point where the british museum and the "bibliotheke" at the hague have deigned to order and pay good golden guineas for specimens of our handicraft. very naturally we want to do the best work possible, and so self-interest prompts us to be on the lookout for budding genius. the roycroft is a quest for talent. there is a market for the best, and the surest way, we think, to get away from competition is to do your work a little better than the other fellow. the old tendency to make things cheaper, instead of better, in the book line is a fallacy, as shown in the fact that within ten years there have been a dozen failures of big publishing-houses in the united states. the liabilities of these bankrupt concerns footed the fine total of fourteen million dollars. the man who made more books and cheaper books than any one concern ever made, had the felicity to fail very shortly, with liabilities of something over a million dollars. he overdid the thing in matter of cheapness--mistook his market. our motto is, "not how cheap, but how good." this is the richest country the world has ever known, far richer per capita than england--lending money to europe. once americans were all shoddy--pioneers have to be, i'm told--but now only a part of us are shoddy. as men and women increase in culture and refinement, they want fewer things, and they want better things. the cheap article, i will admit, ministers to a certain grade of intellect; but if the man grows, there will come a time when, instead of a great many cheap and shoddy things, he will want a few good things. he will want things that symbol solidity, truth, genuineness and beauty. the roycrofters have many opportunities for improvement not the least of which is the seeing, hearing and meeting distinguished people. we have a public dining-room, and not a day passes but men and women of note sit at meat with us. at the evening meal, if our visitors are so inclined, and are of the right fiber, i ask them to talk. and if there is no one else to speak, i sometimes read a little from william morris, shakespeare, walt whitman or ruskin. david bispham has sung for us. maude adams and minnie maddern fiske have also favored us with a taste of their quality. judge lindsey, alfred henry lewis, richard le gallienne, robert barr, have visited us; but to give a list of all the eminent men and women who have spoken, sung or played for us would lay me liable for infringement in printing "who's who." however, let me name one typical incident. the boston ideal opera company was playing in buffalo, and henry clay barnabee and half a dozen of his players took a run out to east aurora. they were shown through the shop by one of the girls whose work it is to receive visitors. a young woman of the company sat down at one of the pianos and played. i chanced to be near and asked mr. barnabee if he would not sing, and graciously he answered, "fra elbertus, i'll do anything that you say." i gave the signal that all the workers should quit their tasks and meet at the chapel. in five minutes we had an audience of three hundred--men in blouses and overalls, girls in big aprons--a very jolly, kindly, receptive company. mr. barnabee was at his best--i never saw him so funny. he sang, danced, recited, and told stories for forty minutes. the roycrofters were, of course, delighted. one girl whispered to me as she went out, "i wonder what great sorrow is gnawing at barnabee's heart, that he is so wondrous gay!" need i say that the girl who made the remark just quoted had drunk of life's cup to the very lees? we have a few such with us--and several of them are among our most loyal helpers. * * * * * one fortuitous event that has worked to our decided advantage was "a message to garcia." this article, not much more than a paragraph, covering only fifteen hundred words, was written one evening after supper in a single hour. it was the twenty-second of february, eighteen hundred ninety-nine, washington's birthday, and we were just going to press with the march "philistine." the thing leaped hot from my heart, written after a rather trying day, when i had been endeavoring to train some rather delinquent helpers in the way they should go. the immediate suggestion, though, came from a little argument over the teacups when my son bert suggested that rowan was the real hero of the cuban war. rowan had gone alone and done the thing--carried the message to garcia. it came to me like a flash! yes, the boy is right, the hero is the man who does the thing--does his work--carries the message. i got up from the table and wrote "a message to garcia." i thought so little of it that we ran it in without a heading. the edition went out, and soon orders began to come for extra march "philistines," a dozen, fifty, a hundred; and when the american news company ordered a thousand i asked one of my helpers which article it was that had stirred things up. "it's that stuff about garcia," he said. the next day a telegram came from george h. daniels, of the new york central railroad, thus: "give price on one hundred thousand rowan article in pamphlet form--empire state express advertisement on back--also state how soon can ship." i replied giving price and stated we could supply the pamphlets in two years. our facilities were small, and a hundred thousand pamphlets looked like an awful undertaking. the result was that i gave mr. daniels permission to reprint the article in his own way. he issued it in booklet form in editions of one hundred thousand each. five editions were sent out, and then he got out an edition of half a million. two or three of these half-million lots were sent out by mr. daniels, and in addition the article was reprinted in over two hundred magazines and newspapers. it has been translated into eleven languages, and been given a total circulation of over twenty-two million copies. it has attained, i believe, a larger circulation in the same length of time than any written article has ever before reached. of course, we can not tell just how much good "a message to garcia" has done the shop, but it probably doubled the circulation of "the philistine." i do not consider it by any means my best piece of writing; but it was opportune--the time was ripe. truth demands a certain expression, and too much had been said on the other side about the downtrodden, honest man, looking for work and not being able to find it. the article in question states the other side. men are needed--loyal, honest men who will do their work. "the world cries out for him--the man who can carry a message to garcia." the man who sent the message and the man who received it are dead. the man who carried it is still carrying other messages. the combination of theme, condition of the country, and method of circulation was so favorable that their conjunction will probably never occur again. other men will write better articles, but they may go a-begging for lack of a daniels to bring them to judgment. * * * * * concerning my own personal history, i'll not tarry long to tell. it has been too much like the career of many another born in the semi-pioneer times of the middle west, to attract much attention, unless one should go into the psychology of the thing with intent to show the evolution of a soul. but that will require a book--and some day i'll write it, after the manner of saint augustine or jean jacques. but just now i 'll only say that i was born in illinois, june nineteenth, eighteen hundred fifty-six. my father was a country doctor, whose income never exceeded five hundred dollars a year. i left school at fifteen, with a fair hold on the three r's, and beyond this my education in "manual training" had been good. i knew all the forest-trees, all wild animals thereabout, every kind of fish, frog, fowl or bird that swam, ran or flew. i knew every kind of grain or vegetable, and its comparative value. i knew the different breeds of cattle, horses, sheep and swine. i could teach wild cows to stand while being milked; break horses to saddle or harness; could sow, plow and reap; knew the mysteries of apple-butter, pumpkin pie pickled beef, smoked side-meat, and could make lye at a leach and formulate soft soap. that is to say, i was a bright, strong, active country boy who had been brought up to help his father and mother get a living for a large family. i was not so densely ignorant--don't feel sorry for country boys: god is often on their side. at fifteen i worked on a farm and did a man's work for a boy's pay. i did not like it and told the man so. he replied, "you know what you can do." and i replied, "yes." i went westward like the course of empire and became a cowboy; tired of this and went to chicago; worked in a printing-office; peddled soap from house to house; shoved lumber on the docks; read all the books i could find; wrote letters back to country newspapers and became a reporter; next got a job as traveling salesman; taught in a district school; read emerson, carlyle and macaulay; worked in a soap factory; read shakespeare and committed most of "hamlet" to memory with an eye on the stage; became manager of the soap-factory, then partner; evolved an idea for the concern and put it on the track of making millions--knew it was going to make millions--did not want them; sold out my interest for seventy-five thousand dollars and went to harvard college; tramped through europe; wrote for sundry newspapers; penned two books (couldn't find a publisher); taught night school in buffalo; tramped through europe some more and met william morris (caught it); came back to east aurora and started "chautauqua circles"; studied greek and latin with a local clergyman; raised trotting-horses; wrote "little journeys to the homes of good men and great." so that is how i got my education, such as it is. i am a graduate of the university of hard knocks, and i've taken several postgraduate courses. i have worked at five different trades enough to be familiar with the tools. in eighteen hundred ninety-nine, tufts college bestowed on me the degree of master of arts; but since i did not earn the degree, it really does not count. i have never been sick a day, never lost a meal through disinclination to eat, never consulted a doctor, never used tobacco or intoxicants. my work has never been regulated by the eight-hour clause. horses have been my only extravagance, and i ride horseback daily now: a horse that i broke myself, that has never been saddled by another, and that has never been harnessed. my best friends have been workingmen, homely women and children. my father and mother are members of my household, and they work in the shop when they are so inclined. my mother's business now is mostly to care for the flowers, and my father we call "physician to the roycrofters," as he gives free advice and attendance to all who desire his services. needless to say, his medicine is mostly a matter of the mind. unfortunately for him, we do not enjoy poor health, so there is very seldom any one sick to be cured. fresh air is free, and outdoor exercise is not discouraged. * * * * * the roycroft shop and belongings represent an investment of about three hundred thousand dollars. we have no liabilities, making it a strict business policy to sign no notes or other instruments of debt that may in the future prove inopportune and tend to disturb digestion. fortune has favored us. first, the country has grown tired of soft platitude, silly truism and undisputed things said in such a solemn way. so when "the philistine" stepped into the ring and voiced in no uncertain tones what its editor thought, thinking men and women stopped and listened. editors of magazines refused my manuscript because they said it was too plain, too blunt, sometimes indelicate--it would give offense, subscribers would cancel, et cetera. to get my thoughts published i had to publish them myself; and people bought for the very reason for which the editors said they would cancel. the readers wanted brevity and plain statement--the editors said they didn't. the editors were wrong. they failed to properly diagnose a demand. i saw the demand and supplied it--for a consideration. next i believed the american public. a portion of it, at least, wanted a few good and beautiful books instead of a great many cheap books. the truth came to me in the early nineties, when john b. alden and half a dozen other publishers of cheap books went to the wall. i read the r.g. dun & company bulletin and i said, "the publishers have mistaken their public--we want better books, not cheaper." in eighteen hundred ninety-two, i met william morris, and after that i was sure i was right. again i had gauged the public correctly--the publishers were wrong, as wrong as the editors. there was a market for the best, and the problem was to supply it. at first i bound my books in paper covers and simple boards. men wrote to me wanting fine bindings. i said, "there is a market in america for the best--cheap boards, covered with cloth, stamped by machinery in gaudy tinsel and gilt, are not enough." i discovered that nearly all the bookbinders were dead. i found five hundred people in a book-factory in chicago binding books, but not a bookbinder among them. they simply fed the books into hoppers and shot them out of chutes, and said they were bound. next the public wanted to know about this thing--"what are you folks doing out there in that buckwheat town?" since my twentieth year i have had one eye on the histrionic stage. i could talk in public a bit, had made political speeches, given entertainments in crossroads schoolhouses, made temperance harangues, was always called upon to introduce the speaker of the evening, and several times had given readings from my own amusing works for the modest stipend of ten dollars and keep. i would have taken the lecture platform had it not been nailed down. in eighteen hundred ninety-eight, my friend major pond wanted to book me on a partnership deal at the waldorf-astoria. i didn't want to speak there--i had been saying unkind things in "the philistine" about the waldorf-astoria folks. but the major went ahead and made arrangements. i expected to be mobbed. but mr. boldt, the manager of the hotel, had placed a suite of rooms at my disposal without money and without price. he treated me most cordially; never referred to the outrageous things i had said about his tavern; assured me that he enjoyed my writings, and told me of the pleasure he had in welcoming me. thus did he heap hot cinders upon my occiput. the astor gallery seats eight hundred people. major pond had packed in nine hundred at one dollar each--three hundred were turned away. after the lecture the major awaited me in the anteroom, fell on my neck and rained pond's extract down my back, crying: "oh! oh! oh! why didn't we charge them two dollars apiece!" the next move was to make a tour of the principal cities under major pond's management. neither of us lost money--the major surely did not. last season i gave eighty-one lectures, with a net profit to myself of a little over ten thousand dollars. i spoke at tremont temple in boston, to twenty-two hundred people; at carnegie hall, new york; at central music hall, chicago. i spoke to all the house would hold; at chautauqua, my audience was five thousand people. it will be noted by the discerning that my lectures have been of double importance, in that they have given an income and at the same time advertised the roycroft wares. the success of the roycroft shop has not been brought about by any one scheme or plan. the business is really a combination of several ideas, any one of which would make a paying enterprise in itself. so it stands about thus: first, the printing and publication of three magazines. second, the printing of books (it being well known that some of the largest publishers in america--scribner and appleton, for instance--have no printing-plants, but have the work done for them). third, the publication of books. fourth, the artistic binding of books. fifth, authorship. since i began printing my own manuscript, there is quite an eager demand for my writing, so i do a little of class b for various publishers and editors. sixth, the lecture lyceum. seventh, blacksmithing, carpenter-work and basket-weaving. these industries have sprung up under the roycroft care as a necessity. men and women in the village came to us and wanted work, and we simply gave them opportunity to do the things they could do best. we have found a market for all our wares, so no line of work has ever been a bill of expense. i want no better clothing, no better food, no more comforts and conveniences than my helpers and fellow-workers have. i would be ashamed to monopolize a luxury--to take a beautiful work of art, say a painting or a marble statue, and keep it for my own pleasure and for the select few i might invite to see my beautiful things. art is for all--beauty is for all. harmony in all of its manifold forms should be like a sunset--free to all who can drink it in. the roycroft shop is for the roycrofters, and each is limited only by his capacity to absorb. * * * * * art is the expression of man's joy in his work, and all the joy and love that you can weave into a fabric comes out again and belongs to the individual who has the soul to appreciate it. art is beauty; and beauty is a gratification, a peace and a solace to every normal man and woman. beautiful sounds, beautiful colors, beautiful proportions, beautiful thoughts--how our souls hunger for them! matter is only mind in an opaque condition; and all beauty is but a symbol of spirit. you can not get joy from feeding things all day into a machine. you must let the man work with hand and brain, and then out of the joy of this marriage of hand and brain, beauty will be born. it tells of a desire for harmony, peace, beauty, wholeness--holiness. art is the expression of man's joy in his work. when you read a beautiful poem that makes your heart throb with gladness and gratitude, you are simply partaking of the emotion that the author felt when he wrote it. to possess a piece of work that the workman made in joyous animation is a source of joy to the possessor. and this love of the work done by the marriage of hand and brain can never quite go out of fashion--for we are men and women, and our hopes and aims and final destiny are at last one. where one enjoys, all enjoy; where one suffers, all suffer. say what you will of the coldness and selfishness of men, at the last we long for companionship and the fellowship of our kind. we are lost children, and when alone and the darkness gathers, we long for the close relationship of the brothers and sisters we knew in our childhood, and cry for the gentle arms that once rocked us to sleep. men are homesick amid this sad, mad rush for wealth and place and power. the calm of the country invites, and we would fain do with less things, and go back to simplicity, and rest our tired heads in the lap of mother nature. life is expression. life is a movement outward, an unfolding, a development. to be tied down, pinned to a task that is repugnant, and to have the shrill voice of necessity whistling eternally in your ears, "do this or starve," is to starve; for it starves the heart, the soul, and all the higher aspirations of your being pine away and die. at the roycroft shop the workers are getting an education by doing things. work should be the spontaneous expression of a man's best impulses. we grow only through exercise, and every faculty that is exercised becomes strong, and those not used atrophy and die. thus how necessary it is that we should exercise our highest and best! to develop the brain we have to exercise the body. every muscle, every organ, has its corresponding convolution in the brain. to develop the mind, we must use the body. manual training is essentially moral training; and physical work is, at its best, mental, moral and spiritual--and these are truths so great and yet so simple that until yesterday many wise men did not recognize them. at the roycroft shop we are reaching out for an all-round development through work and right living. and we have found it a good expedient--a wise business policy. sweat-shop methods can never succeed in producing beautiful things. and so the management of the roycroft shop surrounds the workers with beauty, allows many liberties, encourages cheerfulness and tries to promote kind thoughts, simply because it has been found that these things are transmuted into good, and come out again at the finger-tips of the workers in beautiful results. so we have pictures, statuary, flowers, ferns, palms, birds, and a piano in every room. we have the best sanitary appliances that money can buy; we have bathrooms, shower-baths, library, rest-rooms. every week we have concerts, dances, lectures. besides being a workshop, the roycroft is a school. we are following out a dozen distinct lines of study, and every worker in the place is enrolled as a member of one or more classes. there are no fees to pupils, but each pupil purchases his own books--the care of his books and belongings being considered a part of one's education. all the teachers are workers in the shop, and are volunteers, teaching without pay, beyond what each receives for his regular labor. the idea of teaching we have found is a great benefit--to the teacher. the teacher gets most out of the lessons. once a week there is a faculty meeting, when each teacher gives in a verbal report of his stewardship. it is responsibility that develops one, and to know that your pupils expect you to know is a great incentive to study. then teaching demands that you shall give--give yourself--and he who gives most receives most. we deepen our impressions by recounting them, and he who teaches others teaches himself. i am never quite so proud as when some one addresses me as "teacher." we try to find out what each person can do best, what he wants to do, and then we encourage him to put his best into it--also to do something else besides his specialty, finding rest in change. the thing that pays should be the expedient thing, and the expedient thing should be the proper and right thing. that which began with us as a matter of expediency is often referred to as a "philanthropy." i do not like the word, and wish to state here that the roycroft is in no sense a charity--i do not believe in giving any man something for nothing. you give a man a dollar and the man will think less of you because he thinks less of himself; but if you give him a chance to earn a dollar, he will think more of himself and more of you. the only way to help people is to give them a chance to help themselves. so the roycroft idea is one of reciprocity--you help me and i'll help you. we will not be here forever, anyway; soon death, the kind old nurse, will come and rock us all to sleep, and we had better help one another while we may: we are going the same way--let's go hand in hand! contents publisher's preface v autobiographical xi george eliot 47 thomas carlyle 65 john ruskin 85 william e. gladstone 101 j.m.w. turner 121 jonathan swift 141 walt whitman 161 victor hugo 183 william wordsworth 209 william m. thackeray 227 charles dickens 245 oliver goldsmith 271 william shakespeare 299 thomas a. edison 319 george eliot "may i reach that purest heaven, be to other souls the cup of strength in some great agony, enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, beget the smiles that have no cruelty- be the good presence of a good diffused, and in diffusion ever more intense. so shall i join the choir invisible whose music is the gladness of the world." [illustration: george eliot] warwickshire gave to the world william shakespeare. it also gave mary ann evans. no one will question that shakespeare's is the greatest name in english literature; and among writers living or dead, in england or out of it, no woman has ever shown us power equal to that of george eliot, in the subtle clairvoyance which divines the inmost play of passions, the experience that shows human capacity for contradiction, and the indulgence that is merciful because it understands. shakespeare lived three hundred years ago. according to the records, his father, in fifteen hundred sixty-three, owned a certain house in henley street, stratford-on-avon. hence we infer that william shakespeare was born there. and in all our knowledge of shakespeare's early life (or later) we prefix the words, "hence we infer." that the man knew all the sciences of his day, and had such a knowledge of each of the learned professions that all have claimed him as their own, we realize. he evidently was acquainted with five different languages, and the range of his intellect was worldwide; but where did he get this vast erudition? we do not know, and we excuse ourselves by saying that he lived three hundred years ago. george eliot lived--yesterday, and we know no more about her youthful days than we do of that other child of warwickshire. one biographer tells us that she was born in eighteen hundred nineteen, another in eighteen hundred twenty, and neither state the day; whereas a recent writer in the "pall mall budget" graciously bestows on us the useful information that "william shakespeare was born on the twenty-first day of april, fifteen hundred sixty-three, at fifteen minutes of two on a stormy morning." concise statements of facts are always valuable, but we have none such concerning the early life of george eliot. there is even a shadow over her parentage, for no less an authority than the "american cyclopedia annual," for eighteen hundred eighty, boldly proclaims that she was not a foundling and, moreover, that she was not adopted by a rich retired clergyman who gave her a splendid schooling. then the writer dives into obscurity, but presently reappears and adds that he does not know where she got her education. for all of which we are very grateful. shakespeare left five signatures, each written in a different way, and now there is a goodly crew who spell it "bacon." and likewise we do not know whether it is mary ann evans, mary anne evans or marian evans, for she herself is said to have used each form at various times. william winter--gentle critic, poet, scholar--tells us that the sonnets show a dark spot in shakespeare's moral record. and if i remember rightly, similar things have been hinted at in sewing-circles concerning george eliot. then they each found the dew and sunshine in london that caused the flowers of genius to blossom. the early productions of both were published anonymously, and lastly they both knew how to transmute thought into gold, for they died rich. lady godiva rode through the streets of coventry, but i walked--walked all the way from stratford, by way of warwick (call it warrick, please) and kenilworth castle. i stopped overnight at that quaint and curious little inn just across from the castle entrance. the good landlady gave me the same apartment that was occupied by sir walter scott when he came here and wrote the first chapter of "kenilworth." the little room had pretty, white chintz curtains tied with blue ribbon, and similar stuff draped the mirror. the bed was a big canopy affair--i had to stand on a chair in order to dive off into its feathery depths--everything was very neat and clean, and the dainty linen had a sweet smell of lavender. i took one parting look out through the open window at the ivy-mantled towers of the old castle, which were all sprinkled with silver by the rising moon, and then i fell into gentlest sleep. i dreamed of playing "i-spy" through kenilworth castle with shakespeare, walter scott, mary ann evans and a youth i used to know in boyhood by the name of bill hursey. we chased each other across the drawbridge, through the portcullis, down the slippery stones into the donjon-keep, around the moat, and up the stone steps to the topmost turret of the towers. finally shakespeare was "it," but he got mad and refused to play. walter scott said it was "no fair," and bill hursey thrust out the knuckle of one middle finger in a very threatening way and offered to "do" the boy from stratford. then mary ann rushed in to still the tempest. there's no telling what would have happened had not the landlady just then rapped at my door and asked if i had called. i awoke with a start and with the guilty feeling that i had been shouting in my sleep. i saw it was morning. "no--that is, yes; my shaving-water, please." after breakfast the landlady's boy offered for five shillings to take me in his donkey-cart to the birthplace of george eliot. he explained that the house was just seven miles north; but baalam's express is always slow, so i concluded to walk. at coventry a cab-owner proposed to show me the house, which he declared was near kenilworth, for twelve shillings. the advantages of seeing kenilworth at the same time were dwelt upon at great length by cabby, but i harkened not to the voice of the siren. i got a good lunch at the hotel, and asked the innkeeper if he could tell me where george eliot was born. he did not know, but said he could show me a house around the corner where a family of eliots lived. then i walked on to nuneaton. a charming walk it was; past quaint old houses, some with straw-thatched roofs, others tile--roses clambering over the doors and flowering hedgerows white with hawthorn-flowers. occasionally, i met a farmer's cart drawn by one of those great, fat, gentle shire horses that george eliot has described so well. all spoke of peace and plenty, quiet and rest. the green fields and the flowers, the lark-song and the sunshine, the dipping willows by the stream, and the arch of the old stone bridge as i approached the village--all these i had seen and known and felt before from "mill on the floss." i found the house where they say the novelist was born. a plain, whitewashed, stone structure, built two hundred years ago; two stories, the upper chambers low, with gable-windows; a little garden at the side bright with flowers, where sweet marjoram vied with onions and beets; all spoke of humble thrift and homely cares. in front was a great chestnut-tree, and in the roadway near were two ancient elms where saucy crows were building a nest. here, after her mother died, mary ann evans was housekeeper. little more than a child--tall, timid, and far from strong--she cooked and scrubbed and washed, and was herself the mother to brothers and sisters. her father was a carpenter by trade and agent for a rich landowner. he was a stern man--orderly, earnest, industrious, studious. on rides about the country he would take the tall, hollow-eyed girl with him, and at such times he would talk to her of the great outside world where wondrous things were done. the child toiled hard, but found time to read and question--and there is always time to think. soon she had outgrown some of her good father's beliefs, and this grieved him greatly; so much, indeed, that her extra-loving attention to his needs, in a hope to neutralize his displeasure, only irritated him the more. and if there is soft, subdued sadness in much of george eliot's writing we can guess the reason. the onward and upward march ever means sad separation. when mary ann was blossoming into womanhood her father moved over near coventry, and here the ambitious girl first found companionship in her intellectual desires. here she met men and women, older than herself, who were animated, earnest thinkers. they read and then they discussed, and then they spoke the things that they felt were true. those eight years at coventry transformed the awkward country girl into a woman of intellect and purpose. she knew somewhat of all sciences, all philosophies, and she had become a proficient scholar in german and french. how did she acquire this knowledge? how is any education acquired if not through effort prompted by desire? she had already translated strauss's "life of jesus" in a manner that was acceptable to the author. when ralph waldo emerson came to coventry to lecture, he was entertained at the same house where miss evans was stopping. her brilliant conversation pleased him, and when she questioned the wisdom of a certain passage in one of his essays the gentle philosopher turned, smiled, and said that he had not seen it in that light before; perhaps she was right. "what is your favorite book?" asked emerson. "rousseau's 'confessions,'" answered mary instantly. it was emerson's favorite, too; but such honesty from a young woman! it was queer. mr. emerson never forgot miss evans of coventry, and ten years after, when a zealous reviewer proclaimed her the greatest novelist in england, the sage of concord said something that sounded like "i told you so." miss evans had made visits to london from time to time with her coventry friends. when twenty-eight years old, after one such visit to london, she came back to the country tired and weary, and wrote this most womanly wish: "my only ardent desire is to find some feminine task to discharge; some possibility of devoting myself to some one and making that one purely and calmly happy." but now her father was dead and her income was very scanty. she did translating, and tried the magazines with articles that generally came back respectfully declined. then an offer came as sub-editor of the "westminster review." it was steady work and plenty of it, and this was what she desired. she went to london and lived in the household of her employer, mr. chapman. here she had the opportunity of meeting many brilliant people: carlyle and his "jeannie welsh," the martineaus, grote, mr. and mrs. mill, huxley, mazzini, louis blanc. besides these were two young men who must not be left out when we sum up the influences that evolved this woman's genius. she was attracted to herbert spencer at once. he was about her age, and their admiration for each other was mutual. miss evans, writing to a friend in eighteen hundred fifty-two, says, "spencer is kind, he is delightful, and i always feel better after being with him, and we have agreed together that there is no reason why we should not see each other as often as we wish." and then later she again writes: "the bright side of my life, after the affection for my old friends, is the new and delightful friendship which i have found in herbert spencer. we see each other every day, and in everything we enjoy a delightful comradeship. if it were not for him my life would be singularly arid." but about this time another man appeared on the scene, and were it not for this other man, who was introduced to miss evans by spencer, the author of "synthetic philosophy" might not now be spoken of in the biographical dictionaries as having been "wedded to science." it was not love at first sight, for george henry lewes made a decidedly unfavorable impression on miss evans at their first meeting. he was small, his features were insignificant, he had whiskers like an anarchist and a mouthful of crooked teeth; his personal habits were far from pleasant. it was this sort of thing, dickens said, that caused his first wife to desert him and finally drove her into insanity. but lewes had a brilliant mind. he was a linguist, a scientist, a novelist, a poet and a wit. he had written biography, philosophy and a play. he had been a journalist, a lecturer and even an actor. thackeray declared that if he should see lewes perched on a white elephant in piccadilly he should not be in the least surprised. after having met miss evans several times, mr. lewes saw the calm depths of her mind and he asked her to correct proofs for him. she did so and discovered that there was merit in his work. she corrected more proofs, and when a woman begins to assist a man the danger-line is being approached. close observers noted that a change was coming over the bohemian lewes. he had his whiskers trimmed, his hair was combed, and the bright yellow necktie had been discarded for a clean one of modest brown, and, sometimes, his boots were blacked. in july, eighteen hundred fifty-four, mr. chapman received a letter from his sub-editor resigning her position, and miss evans notified some of her closest friends that hereafter she wished to be considered the wife of mr. lewes. she was then in her thirty-sixth year. the couple disappeared, having gone to germany. many people were shocked. some said, "we knew it all the time," and when herbert spencer was informed of the fact he exclaimed, "goodness me!" and said--nothing. after six months spent at weimar and other literary centers, mr. and mrs. lewes returned to england and began housekeeping at richmond. any one who views their old quarters there will see how very plainly and economically they were forced to live. but they worked hard, and at this time the future novelist's desire seemed only to assist her husband. that she developed the manly side of his nature none can deny. they were very happy, these two, as they wrote, and copied, and studied, and toiled. three years passed, and mrs. lewes wrote to a friend: "i am very happy; happy with the greatest happiness that life can give--the complete sympathy and affection of a man whose mind stimulates mine and keeps up in me a wholesome activity." mr. lewes knew the greatness of his helpmeet. she herself did not. he urged her to write a story; she hesitated, and at last attempted it. they read the first chapter together and cried over it. then she wrote more and always read her husband the chapters as they were turned off. he corrected, encouraged, and found a publisher. but why should i tell about it here? it's all in the "britannica"--how the gentle beauty and sympathetic insight of her work touched the hearts of great and lowly alike, and of how riches began flowing in upon her. for one book she received forty thousand dollars, and her income after fortune smiled upon her was never less than ten thousand dollars a year. lewes was her secretary, her protector, her slave and her inspiration. he kept at bay the public that would steal her time, and put out of her reach, at her request, all reviews, good or bad, and shielded her from the interviewer, the curiosity-seeker, and the greedy financier. the reason why she at first wrote under a nom de plume is plain. to the great, wallowing world she was neither miss evans nor mrs. lewes, so she dropped both names as far as title-pages were concerned and used a man's name instead--hoping better to elude the pack. when "adam bede" came out, a resident of nuneaton purchased a copy and at once discovered local earmarks. the scenes described, the flowers, the stone walls, the bridges, the barns, the people--all was nuneaton. who wrote it? no one knew, but it was surely some one in nuneaton. so they picked out a mr. liggins, a solemn-faced preacher, who was always about to do something great, and they said "liggins." soon all london said "liggins." as for liggins, he looked wise and smiled knowingly. then articles began to appear in the periodicals purporting to have been written by the author of "adam bede." a book came out called "adam bede, jr.," and to protect her publisher, the public and herself, george eliot had to reveal her identity. many men have written good books and never tasted fame; but few, like liggins of nuneaton, have become famous by doing nothing. it only proves that some things can be done as well as others. this breed of men has long dwelt in warwickshire; shakespeare had them in mind when he wrote, "there be men who do a wilful stillness entertain with purpose to be dressed in an opinion of wisdom, gravity and profound conceit." lord acton in an able article in the "nineteenth century" makes this statement: "george eliot paid high for happiness with lewes. she forfeited freedom of speech, the first place among english women, and a tomb in westminster abbey." the original dedication in "adam bede" reads thus: "to my dear husband, george henry lewes, i give the manuscript of a work which would never have been written but for the happiness which his love has conferred on my life." lord acton of course assumes that this book would have been written, dedication and all, just the same had miss evans never met mr. lewes. once there was a child called romola. she said to her father one day, as she sat on his knee: "papa, who would take care of me--give me my bath and put me to bed nights--if you had never happened to meet mamma?" * * * * * the days i spent in warwickshire were very pleasant. the serene beauty of the country and the kindly courtesy of the people impressed me greatly. having beheld the scenes of george eliot's childhood, i desired to view the place where her last days were spent. it was a fine may day when i took the little steamer from london bridge for chelsea. a bird-call from the dingy brick building where turner died, and two blocks from the old home of carlyle, is cheyne walk--a broad avenue facing the river. the houses are old, but they have a look of gracious gentility that speaks of ease and plenty. high iron fences are in front, but they do not shut off from view the climbing clematis and clusters of roses that gather over the windows and doors. i stood at the gate of number 4 cheyne walk and admired the pretty flowers, planted in such artistic carelessness as to beds and rows; then i rang the bell--an old pull-out affair with polished knob. presently a butler opened the door--a pompous, tall and awful butler in serious black and with side-whiskers. he approached; came down the walk swinging a bunch of keys, looking me over as he came, to see what sort of wares i had to sell. "did george eliot live here?" i asked through the bars. "mrs. cross lived 'ere and died 'ere, sir," came the solemn and rebuking answer. "i mean mrs. cross," i added meekly; "i only wished to see the little garden where she worked." jeemes was softened. as he unlocked the gate he said: "we 'ave many wisiters, sir; a great bother, sir; still, i always knows a gentleman when i sees one. p'r'aps you would like to see the 'ouse, too, sir. the missus does not like it much, but i will take 'er your card, sir." i gave him the card and slipped a shilling into his hand as he gave me a seat in the hallway. he disappeared upstairs and soon returned with the pleasing information that i was to be shown the whole house and garden. so i pardoned him the myth about the missus, happening to know that at that particular moment she was at brighton, sixty miles away. a goodly, comfortable house, four stories, well kept, and much fine old carved oak in the dining-room and hallways; fantastic ancient balusters, and a peculiar bay window in the second-story rear that looked out over the little garden. off to the north could be seen the green of kensington gardens and wavy suggestions of hyde park. this was george eliot's workshop. there was a table in the center of the room and three low bookcases with pretty ornaments above. in the bay window was the most conspicuous object in the room--a fine marble bust of goethe. this, i was assured, had been the property of mrs. cross, as well as all the books and furniture in the room. in one corner was a revolving case containing a set of the "century dictionary" which jeemes assured me had been purchased by mr. cross as a present for his wife a short time before she died. this caused my faith to waver a trifle and put to flight a fine bit of literary frenzy that might have found form soon in a sonnet. in the front parlor, i saw a portrait of the former occupant that showed "the face that looked like a horse." but that is better than to have the face of any other animal of which i know. surely one would not want to look like a dog! shakespeare hated dogs, but spoke forty-eight times in his plays in terms of respect and affection for a horse. who would not resent the imputation that one's face was like that of a sheep or a goat or an ox, and much gore has been shed because men have referred to other men as asses--but a horse! god bless you, yes! no one has ever accused george eliot of being handsome, but this portrait tells of a woman of fifty: calm, gentle, and the strong features speak of a soul in which to confide. at highgate, by the side of the grave of lewes, rests the dust of this great and loving woman. as the pilgrim enters that famous old cemetery, the first imposing monument seen is a pyramid of rare, costly porphyry. as you draw near, you read this inscription: to the memory of ann jewson crisp who departed this life deeply lamented, jan. 20, 1889. also, her dog, emperor. beneath these tender lines is a bas-relief of as vicious-looking a cur as ever evaded the dog-tax. continuing up the avenue, past this monument just noted, the kind old gardener will show you another that stands amid others much more pretentious--a small gray-granite column, and on it, carved in small letters, you read: "of those immortal dead who live again in minds made better by their presence." here rests the body of "george eliot" (mary ann cross) born 22 november, 1819. died 22 december, 1880. thomas carlyle one comfort is that great men taken up in any way are profitable company. we can not look, however imperfectly, upon a great man without gaining something by it. he is the living fountain of life, which it is pleasant to be near. on any terms whatsoever you will not grudge to wander in his neighborhood for a while. --_heroes and hero-worship_ [illustration: thomas carlyle] while on my way to dumfries i stopped overnight at gretna green, which, as all fair maidens know, is in scotland just over the border from england. to my delight i found that the coming of runaway couples to gretna green was not entirely a matter of the past, for the very evening i arrived a blushing pair came to the inn and inquired for a "meenister." the ladye faire was a little stout and the worthy swain several years older than my fancy might have wished, but still i did not complain. the landlord's boy was dispatched to the rectory around the corner and soon returned with the reverend gentleman. i was an uninvited guest in the little parlor, but no one observed that my wedding-garment was only a cycling costume, and i was not challenged. after the ceremony, the several other witnesses filed past the happy couple, congratulating them and kissing the bride. i did likewise, and was greeted with a resounding smack which surprised me a bit, but i managed to ask, "did you run away?" "noo," said the groom; "noo, her was a widdie--we just coom over fram ecclefechan"; then, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, "we're goin' baack on the morrow. it's cheaper thaan to ha' a big, spread weddin'." this answer banished all tender sentiment from me and made useless my plans for a dainty love-story, but i seized upon the name of the place whence they came. "ecclefechan! ecclefechan! why that's where carlyle was born!" "aye, sir, and he's buried there; a great mon he was--but an infideel." ten miles beyond gretna green is ecclefechan--a little village of stucco houses all stretched out on one street. plain, homely, rocky and unromantic is the country round about, and plain, homely and unromantic is the little house where carlyle was born. the place is shown the visitor by a good old dame who takes one from room to room, giving a little lecture meanwhile in a mixture of gaelic and english which was quite beyond my ken. several relics of interest are shown, and although the house is almost precisely like all others in the vicinity, imagination throws round it all a roseate wreath of fancies. it has been left on record that up to the year when carlyle was married, his "most pleasurable times were those when he enjoyed a quiet pipe with his mother." to few men indeed is this felicity vouchsafed. but for those who have eaten oatmeal porridge in the wayside cottages of bonny scotland, or who love to linger over "the cotter's saturday night," there is a touch of tender pathos in the picture. the stone floor, the bare, whitewashed walls, the peat smoldering on the hearth, sending out long, fitful streaks that dance among the rafters overhead, and the mother and son sitting there watching the coal--silent. the woman takes a small twig from a bundle of sticks, reaches over, lights it, applies it to her pipe, takes a few whiffs and passes the light to her son. then they talk in low, earnest tones of man's duty to man and man's duty to god. and it was this mother who first applied the spark that fired carlyle's ambition; it was from her that he got the germ of those talents which have made his name illustrious. yet this woman could barely read and did not learn to write until her firstborn had gone away from the home nest. then it was that she sharpened a gray goose-quill and labored long and patiently, practising with this instrument (said to be mightier than the sword) and with ink she herself had mixed--all that she might write a letter to her boy; and how sweetly, tenderly homely, and loving are these letters as we read them today! james carlyle with his own hands built, in seventeen hundred ninety, this house at ecclefechan. the same year he married an excellent woman, a second cousin, by name janet carlyle. she lived but a year. the poor husband was heartbroken, and declared, as many men under like conditions had done before and have done since, that his sorrow was inconsolable. and he vowed that he would walk through life and down to his death alone. but it is a matter for congratulation that he broke his vow. in two years he married margaret aitken--a serving-woman. she bore nine children. thomas was the eldest and the only one who proved recreant to the religious faith of his fathers. one of the brothers moved to shiawassee county, michigan, where i had the pleasure of calling on him, some years ago. a hard-headed man, he was: sensible, earnest, honest, with a stubby beard and a rich brogue. he held the office of school trustee, also that of pound-master, and i was told that he served his township loyally and well. this worthy man looked with small favor on the literary pretensions of his brother tammas, and twice wrote him long letters expostulating with him on his religious vagaries. "i knew no good could come of it," sorrowfully said he, and so i left him. but i inquired of several of the neighbors what they thought of thomas carlyle, and i found that they did not think of him at all. and i mounted my beast and rode away. thomas carlyle was educated for the kirk, and it was a cause of much sorrow to his parents that he could not accept its beliefs. he has been spoken of as england's chief philosopher, yet he subscribed to no creed, nor did he formulate one. however, in "latter-day pamphlets" he partially prepares a catechism for a part of the brute creation. he supposes that all swine of superior logical powers have a "belief," and as they are unable to express it he essays the task for them. the following are a few of the postulates in this creed of the brotherhood of latter-day swine: "question. who made the pig? "answer. the pork-butcher. "question. what is the whole duty of pigs? "answer. it is the mission of universal pighood; and the duty of all pigs, at all times, is to diminish the quantity of attainable swill and increase the unattainable. this is the whole duty of pigs. "question. what is pig poetry? "answer. it is the universal recognition of pig's wash and ground barley, and the felicity of pigs whose trough has been set in order and who have enough. "question, what is justice in pigdom? "answer. it is the sentiment in pig nature sometimes called revenge, indignation, etc., which if one pig provoke, another comes out in more or less destructive manner; hence laws are necessary--amazing quantities of laws--defining what pigs shall not do. "question. what do you mean by equity? "answer. equity consists in getting your share from the universal swine-trough, and part of another's. "question. what is meant by 'your share'?" "answer. my share is getting whatever i can contrive to seize without being made up into side-meat." i have slightly abridged this little extract and inserted it here to show the sympathy which mr. carlyle had for the dumb brute. one of america's great men, in a speech delivered not long ago, said, "from scotch manners, scotch religion and scotch whisky, good lord deliver us!" my experience with these three articles has been somewhat limited; but scotch manners remind me of chestnut-burs--not handsome without, but good within. for when you have gotten beyond the rough exterior of sandy you generally find a heart warm, tender and generous. scotch religion is only another chestnut-bur, but then you need not eat the shuck if you fear it will not agree with your inward state. nevertheless, if the example of royalty is of value, the fact can be stated that victoria, queen of great britain and empress of india, is a presbyterian. that is, she is a presbyterian about one-half the time--when she is in scotland, for she is the head of the scottish kirk. when in england, of course she is an episcopalian. we have often been told that religion is largely a matter of geography, and here is a bit of something that looks like proof. of scotch whisky i am not competent to speak, so that subject must be left to the experts. but a kentucky colonel at my elbow declares that it can not be compared with the blue-grass article; though i trust that no one will be prejudiced against it on that account. scotch intellect, however, is worthy of our serious consideration. it is a bold, rocky headland, standing out into the tossing sea of the unknown. assertive? yes. stubborn? most surely. proud? by all means. twice as many pilgrims visit the grave of burns as that of shakespeare. buckle declares adam smith's "wealth of nations" has had a greater influence on civilization than any other book ever writ--save none; and the average scotchman knows his carlyle a deal better than the average american knows his emerson: in fact, four times as many of carlyle's books have been printed. when carlyle took time to bring the ponderous machinery of his intellect to bear on a theme, he saw it through and through. the vividness of his imagination gives us a true insight into times long since gone by; it shows virtue her own feature, vice her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. in history he goes beyond the political and conventional--showing us the thought, the hope, the fear, the passion of the soul. his was the masculine mind. the divination and subtle intuitions which are to be found scattered through his pages, like violets growing among the rank swale of the prairies--all these sweet, odorous things came from his wife. she gave him of her best thought, and he greedily absorbed it and unconsciously wrote it down as his own. there are those who blame and berate; volumes have been written to show the inconsiderateness of this man toward the gentle lady who was his intellectual comrade. but they know not life who do this thing. it is a fact that carlyle never rushed to pick up jeannie's handkerchief. i admit that he could not bow gracefully; that he could not sing tenor, nor waltz, nor tell funny stories, nor play the mandolin; and if i had been his neighbor i would not have attempted to teach him any of these accomplishments. once he took his wife to the theater; and after the performance he accidentally became separated from her in the crowd and trudged off home alone and went to bed forgetting all about her---but even for this i do not indict him. mrs. carlyle never upbraided him for this forgetfulness, neither did she relate the incident to any one, and for these things i to her now reverently lift my hat. jeannie welsh carlyle had capacity for pain, as it seems all great souls have. she suffered--but then suffering is not all suffering and pain is not all pain. life is often dark, but then there are rifts in the clouds when we behold the glorious deep blue of the sky. not a day passes but that the birds sing in the branches, and the tree-tops poise backward and forward in restful, rhythmic harmony, and never an hour goes by but that hope bears us up on her wings as the eagle does her young. and ever just before the year dies and the frost comes, the leaves take on a gorgeous hue and the color of the flowers then puts to shame for brilliancy all the plainer petals of springtime. and i know mr. and mrs. carlyle were happy, so happy, at times, that they laughed and cried for joy. jeannie gave all, and she saw her best thought used--carried further, written out and given to the world as that of another--but she uttered no protest. xantippe lives in history only because she sought to worry a great philosopher; we remember the daughter of herodias because she demanded the head (not the heart) of a good man; goneril and regan because they trod upon the withered soul of their sire; lady macbeth because she lured her liege to murder; charlotte corday for her dagger-thrust; lucrezia borgia for her poison; sapphira for her untruth; jael because she pierced the brain of sisera with a rusty nail (instead of an idea); delilah for the reason that she deprived samson of his source of strength; and in the "westminster review" for may, eighteen hundred ninety-four, ouida makes the flat statement that for every man of genius who has been helped by a woman, ten have been dragged down. but jeannie welsh carlyle lives in the hearts of all who reverence the sweet, the gentle, the patient, the earnest, the loving spirit of the womanly woman: lives because she ministered to the needs of a great man. she was ever a frail body. several long illnesses kept her to her bed for weeks, but she recovered from these, even in spite of the doctors, who thoroughly impressed both herself and her husband with the thought of her frailty. on april the twenty-first, eighteen hundred sixty-six, she called her carriage, as was her custom, and directed the driver to go through the park. she carried a book in her hands, and smiled a greeting to a friend as the brougham moved away from the little street where they lived. the driver drove slowly--drove for an hour--two. he got down from his box to receive the orders of his mistress, touched his hat as he opened the carriage-door, but no kindly eyes looked into his. she sat back in the corner as if resting; the shapely head a little thrown forward, the book held gently in the delicate hands, but the fingers were cold and stiff--jeannie welsh was dead--and thomas carlyle was alone. * * * * * along the thames, at chelsea, opposite the rows of quiet and well-kept houses of cheyne walk, is the "embankment." a parkway it is of narrow green, with graveled walks, bushes and trees, that here and there grow lush and lusty as if to hide the unsightly river from the good people who live across the street. following this pleasant bit of breathing space, with its walks that wind in and out among the bushes, one comes unexpectedly upon a bronze statue. you need not read the inscription: a glance at that shaggy head, the grave, sober, earnest look, and you exclaim under your breath, "carlyle!" in this statue the artist has caught with rare skill the look of reverie and repose. one can imagine that on a certain night, as the mists and shadows of evening were gathering along the dark river, the gaunt form, wrapped in its accustomed cloak, came stalking down the little street to the park, just as he did thousands of times, and taking his seat in the big chair fell asleep. in the morning the children that came to play along the river found the form in cold, enduring bronze. at the play we have seen the marble transformed by love into beauteous life. how much easier the reverse--here where souls stay only a day! cheyne row is a little, alley-like street, running only a block, with fifteen houses on one side, and twelve on the other. these houses are all brick and built right up to the sidewalk. on the north side they are all in one block, and one at first sees no touch of individuality in any of them. they are old, and solid, and plain--built for revenue only. on closer view i thought one or two had been painted, and on one there was a cornice that set it off from the rest. as i stood on the opposite side and looked at this row of houses, i observed that number five was the dingiest and plainest of them all. for there were dark shutters instead of blinds, and these shutters were closed, all save one rebel that swung and creaked in the breeze. over the doorway, sparrows had made their nests and were fighting and scolding. swallows hovered above the chimney; dust, cobwebs, neglect were all about. and as i looked there came to me the words of ursa thomas: "brief, brawling day, with its noisy phantoms, its paper crowns, tinsel-gilt, is gone; and divine, everlasting night, with her star diadems, with her silences and her verities, is come." here walked thomas and jeannie one fair may morning in eighteen hundred thirty-four. thomas was thirty-nine, tall and swarthy, strong; with set mouth and three wrinkles on his forehead that told of care and dyspepsia. jeannie was younger; her face winsome, just a trifle anxious, with luminous, gentle eyes, suggestive of patience, truth and loyalty. they looked like country folks, did these two. they examined the surroundings, consulted together--sixty pounds rent a year seemed very high! but they took the house, and t. carlyle, son of james carlyle, stone-mason, paid rent for it every month for half a century, lacking three years. i walked across the street and read the inscription on the marble tablet inserted in the front of the house above the lower windows. it informs the stranger that thomas carlyle lived here from eighteen hundred thirty-four to eighteen hundred eighty-one, and that the tablet was erected by the carlyle society of london. i ascended the stone steps and scraped my boots on the well-worn scraper, made long, long ago by a blacksmith who is now dust, and who must have been a very awkward mechanic, for i saw where he had made a misstroke with his hammer, probably as he discussed theology with a caller. then i rang the bell and plied the knocker and waited there on the steps for jeannie welsh to come bid me welcome, just as she did emerson when he, too, used the scraper and plied the knocker and stood where i did then. and my knock was answered--answered by a very sour and peevish woman next door, who thrust her head out of the window, and exclaimed in a shrill voice: "look 'ere, sir, you might as well go rap on the curb-stone, don't you know; there's nobody livin' there, sir, don't you know!" "yes, madam, that is why i knocked!" "beggin' your pardon, sir, if you use your heyes you'll see there's nobody livin' there, don't you know!" "i knocked lest offense be given. how can i get in?" "you might go in through the keyhole, sir, or down the chimney. you seem to be a little daft, sir, don't you know! but if you must get in, perhaps it would be as well to go over to mrs. brown's and brang the key," and she slammed down the window. across the street mrs. brown's sign smiled at me. mrs. brown keeps a little grocery and bakeshop and was very willing to show me the house. she fumbled in a black bag for the keys, all the time telling me of three americans who came last week to see carlyle's house, and "as how" they each gave her a shilling. i took the hint. "only americans care now for mr. carlyle," plaintively added the old lady as she fished out the keys; "soon we will all be forgot." we walked across the street and after several ineffectual attempts the rusty lock was made to turn. i entered. cold, bare and bleak was the sight of those empty rooms. the old lady had a touch of rheumatism, so she waited for me on the doorstep as i climbed the stairs to the third floor. the noise-proof back room where "the french revolution" was writ, twice over, was so dark that i had to grope my way across to the window. the sash stuck and seemed to have a will of its own, like him who so often had raised it. but at last it gave way and i flung wide the shutter and looked down at the little arbor where teufelsdrockh sat so often and wooed wisdom with the weed brought from virginia. then i stood before the fireplace, where he of the eternities had so often sat and watched the flickering embers. here he lived in his loneliness and cursed curses that were prayers, and here for near five decades he read and thought and dreamed and wrote. here the spirits of cromwell and frederick hovered; here that pitiful and pitiable long line of ghostly partakers in the revolution answered to his roll-call. the wind whistled down the chimney gruesomely as my footfalls echoed through the silent chambers, and i thought i heard a sepulchral voice say: "thy future life! thy fate is it, indeed! whilst thou makest that thy chief question, thy life to me and to thyself and to thy god is worthless. what is incredible to thee thou shalt not, at thy soul's peril, pretend to believe. elsewhither for a refuge! away! go to perdition if thou wilt, but not with a lie in thy mouth--by the eternal maker, no!!" i was startled at first, but stood still listening; then i thought i saw a faint blue cloud of mist curling up in the fireplace. watching this smoke and sitting before it in gloomy abstraction was the form of an old man. i swept my hand through the apparition, but still it stayed. my lips moved in spite of myself and i said: "hail! hard-headed man of granite outcrop and heather, of fen and crag, of moor and mountain, and of bleak east wind, hail! eighty-six years didst thou live. one hundred years lacking fourteen didst thou suffer, enjoy, weep, dream, groan, pray and strike thy rugged breast! and yet methinks that in those years there was much quiet peace and sweet content; for constant pain benumbs, and worry destroys, and vain unrest summons the grim messenger of death. but thou didst live and work and love; howbeit, thy touch was not always gentle, nor thy voice low; but on thy lips was no lie, in thy thought no concealment, in thy heart no pollution. but mark! thou didst come out of poverty and obscurity: on thy battered shield there was no crest and thou didst leave all to follow truth. and verily she did lead thee a merry chase! "thou hadst no past, but thou hast a future. thou didst say: 'bury me in westminster, never! where the mob surges, cursed with idle curiosity to see the graves of kings and nobodies? no! take me back to rugged scotland and lay my tired form to rest by the side of an honest man--my father.' "thou didst refuse the knighthood offered thee by royalty, saying, 'i am not the founder of the house of carlyle and i have no sons to be pauperized by a title,' true, thou didst leave no sons after the flesh to mourn thy loss, nor fair daughters to bedeck thy grave with garlands, but thou didst reproduce thyself in thought, and on the minds of men thou didst leave thy impress. and thy ten thousand sons will keep thy memory green so long as men shall work, and toil, and strive, and hope." the wind still howled. i looked out and saw watery clouds scudding athwart the face of the murky sky. the shutters banged, and shut me in the dark. i made haste to find the door, reached the stairway--slid down the banisters to where mrs. brown was waiting for me at the threshold. we locked the door. she went across to her little bakeshop and i stopped a passing policeman to ask the way to westminster. he told me. "did you visit carlyle's 'ouse?" he asked. "yes." "with old mrs. brown?" "yes, she waited for me in the doorway--she had the rheumatism so she could not climb the stairs." "rheumatism? huh!--you couldn't 'ire 'er to go inside. why, don't you know? they say the 'ouse is 'aunted!" john ruskin put roses in their hair, put precious stones on their breasts; see that they are clothed in purple and scarlet, with other delights; that they also learn to read the gilded heraldry of the sky; and upon the earth be taught not only the labors of it but the loveliness. --_deucalion_ [illustration: john ruskin] at windermere, a good friend, told me that i must abandon all hope of seeing mr. ruskin; for i had no special business with him, no letters of introduction, and then the fact that i am an american made it final. americans in england are supposed to pick flowers in private gardens, cut their names on trees, laugh boisterously at trifles, and often to make invidious comparisons. very properly, mr. ruskin does not admire these things. then mr. ruskin is a very busy man. occasionally he issues a printed manifesto to his friends requesting them to give him peace. a copy of one such circular was shown to me. it runs, "mr. j. ruskin is about to begin a work of great importance, and therefore begs that in reference to calls and correspondence you will consider him dead for the next two months." a similar notice is reproduced in "arrows of the chace," and this one thing, i think, illustrates as forcibly as anything in mr. ruskin's work the self-contained characteristics of the man himself. surely if a man is pleased to be considered "dead" occasionally, even to his kinsmen and friends, he should not be expected to receive with open arms an enemy to steal away his time. this is assuming, of course, that all individuals who pick flowers in other folks' gardens, cut their names on trees, and laugh boisterously at trifles, are enemies. i therefore decided that i would simply walk over to brantwood, view it from a distance, tramp over its hills, row across the lake, and at nightfall take a swim in its waters. then i would rest at the inn for a space and go my way. lake coniston is ten miles from grasmere, and even alone the walk is not long. if, however, you are delightfully attended by "king's daughters" with whom you sit and commune now and then on the bankside, the distance will seem to be much less. then there is a pleasant little break in the journey at hawkshead. here one may see the quaint old schoolhouse where wordsworth when a boy dangled his feet from a bench and proved his humanity by carving his initials on the seat. the inn at the head of coniston water appeared very inviting and restful when i saw it that afternoon. built in sections from generation to generation, half-covered with ivy and embowered in climbing roses, it is an institution entirely different from the "grand palace hotel" at oshkosh. in america we have gongs that are fiercely beaten at stated times by gentlemen of color, just as they are supposed to do in their native congo jungles. this din proclaims to the "guests" and to the public at large that it is time to come in and be fed. but this refinement of civilization is not yet in coniston, and the inn is quiet and homelike. you may go to bed when you are tired, get up when you choose, and eat when you are hungry. there were no visitors about when i arrived, and i thought i would have the coffeeroom all to myself at luncheon-time; but presently there came in a pleasant-faced old gentleman in knickerbockers. he bowed to me and then took a place at the table. he said that it was a fine day and i agreed with him, adding that the mountains were very beautiful. he assented, putting in a codicil to the effect that the lake was very pretty. then the waiter came for our orders. "together, i s'pose?" remarked thomas, inquiringly, as he halted at the door and balanced the tray on his finger-tips. "yes, serve lunch for us together," said the ruddy old gentleman as he looked at me and smiled; "to eat alone is bad for the digestion." i nodded assent. "can you tell me how far it is to brantwood?" i asked. "oh, not far--just across the lake." he arose and flung the shutter open so i could see the old, yellow house about a mile across the water, nestling in its wealth of green on the hillside. soon the waiter brought our lunch, and while we discussed the chops and new potatoes we talked ruskiniana. the old gentleman knew a deal more of "stones of venice" and "modern painters" than i; but i told him how thoreau introduced ruskin to america and how concord was the first place in the new world to recognize this star in the east. and upon my saying this, the old gentleman brought his knife-handle down on the table, declaring that thoreau and whitman were the only two men of genius that america had produced. i begged him to make it three and include emerson, which he finally consented to do. by and by the waiter cleared the table preparatory to bringing in the coffee. the old gentleman pushed his chair back, took the napkin from under his double chin, brushed the crumbs from his goodly front, and remarked: "i'm going over to brantwood this afternoon to call on mr. ruskin--just to pay my respects to him, as i always do when i come here. can't you go with me?" i think this was about the most pleasing question i ever had asked me. i was going to request him to "come again" just for the joy of hearing the words, but i pulled my dignity together, straightened up, swallowed my coffee red-hot, pushed my chair back, flourished my napkin, and said, "i shall be very pleased to go." so we went--we two--he in his knickerbockers and i in my checks and outing-shirt. i congratulated myself on looking no worse than he, and as for him, he never seemed to think that our costumes were not exactly what they should be; and after all it matters little how you dress when you call on one of nature's noblemen--they demand no livery. we walked around the northern end of coniston water, along the eastern edge, past tent house, where tennyson once lived (and found it "outrageous quiet"), and a mile farther on we came to brantwood. the road curves in to the back of the house--which, by the way, is the front--and the driveway is lined with great trees that form a complete archway. there is no lodge-keeper, no flowerbeds laid out with square and compass, no trees trimmed to appear like elephants, no cast-iron dogs, nor terra-cotta deer, and, strangest of all, no sign of the lawn-mower. there is nothing, in fact, to give forth a sign that the great apostle of beauty lives in this very old-fashioned spot. big boulders are to be seen here and there where nature left them, tangles of vines running over old stumps, part of the meadow cut close with a scythe, and part growing up as if the owner knew the price of hay. then there are flowerbeds, where grow clusters of poppies and hollyhocks (purple, and scarlet, and white), prosaic gooseberry-bushes, plain yankee pieplant (from which the english make tarts), rue and sweet marjoram, with patches of fennel, sage, thyme and catnip, all lined off with boxwood, making me think of my grandmother's garden at roxbury. on the hillside above the garden we saw the entrance to the cave that mr. ruskin once filled with ice, just to show the world how to keep its head cool at small expense. he even wrote a letter to the papers giving the bright idea to humanity--that the way to utilize caves was to fill them with ice. then he forgot all about the matter. but the following june, when the cook, wishing to make some ice-cream as a glad surprise for the sunday dinner, opened the natural ice-chest, she found only a pool of muddy water, and exclaimed, "botheration!" then they had custard instead of ice-cream. we walked up the steps, and my friend let the brass knocker drop just once, for only americans give a rat-a-tat-tat, and the door was opened by a white-whiskered butler, who took our cards and ushered us into the library. my heart beat a trifle fast as i took inventory of the room; for i never before had called on a man who was believed to have refused the poet-laureateship. a dimly lighted room was this library--walls painted brown, running up to mellow yellow at the ceiling, high bookshelves, with a stepladder, and only five pictures on the walls, and of these three were etchings, and two water-colors of a very simple sort; leather-covered chairs; a long table in the center, on which were strewn sundry magazines and papers, also several photographs; and at one end of the room a big fireplace, where a yew log smoldered. here my inventory was cut short by a cheery voice behind: "ah! now, gentlemen, i am glad to see you." there was no time nor necessity for a formal introduction. the great man took my hand as if he had always known me, as perhaps he thought he had. then he greeted my friend in the same way, stirred up the fire, for it was a north of england summer day, and took a seat by the table. we were all silent for a space--a silence without embarrassment. "you are looking at the etching over the fireplace--it was sent to me by a young lady in america," said mr. ruskin, "and i placed it there to get acquainted with it. i like it more and more. do you know the scene?" i knew the scene and explained somewhat about it. mr. ruskin has the faculty of making his interviewer do most of the talking. he is a rare listener, and leans forward, putting a hand behind his right ear to get each word you say. he was particularly interested in the industrial conditions of america, and i soon found myself "occupying the time," while an occasional word of interrogation from mr. ruskin gave me no chance to stop. i came to hear him, not to defend our "republican experiment," as he was pleased to call the united states of america. yet mr. ruskin was so gentle and respectful in his manner, and so complimentary in his attitude of listener, that my impatience at his want of sympathy for our "experiment" only caused me to feel a little heated. "the fact of women being elected to mayoralties in kansas makes me think of certain african tribes that exalt their women into warriors--you want your women to fight your political battles!" "you evidently hold the same opinion on the subject of equal rights that you expressed some years ago," interposed my companion. "what did i say--really i have forgotten?" "you replied to a correspondent, saying: 'you are certainly right as to my views respecting the female franchise. so far from wishing to give votes to women, i would fain take them away from most men.'" "surely that was a sensible answer. my respect for woman is too great to force on her increased responsibilities. then as for restricting the franchise with men, i am of the firm conviction that no man should be allowed to vote who does not own property, or who can not do considerably more than read and write. the voter makes the laws, and why should the laws regulating the holding of property be made by a man who has no interest in property beyond a covetous desire; or why should he legislate on education when he possesses none! then again, women do not bear arms to protect the state." "but what do you say to mrs. carlock, who answers that inasmuch as men do not bear children, they have no right to vote: going to war possibly being necessary and possibly not, but the perpetuity of the state demanding that some one bear children?" "the lady's argument is ingenious, but lacks force when we consider that the bearing of arms is a matter relating to statecraft, while the baby question is dame nature's own, and is not to be regulated even by the sovereign." then mr. ruskin talked for nearly fifteen minutes on the duty of the state to the individual--talked very deliberately, but with the clearness and force of a man who believes what he says and says what he believes. thus, my friend, by a gentle thrust under the fifth rib of mr. ruskin's logic, caused him to come to the rescue of his previously expressed opinions, and we had the satisfaction of hearing him discourse earnestly and eloquently. maiden ladies usually have an opinion ready on the subject of masculine methods, and, conversely, much of the world's logic on the "woman question" has come from the bachelor brain. mr. ruskin went quite out of his way on several occasions in times past to attack john stuart mill for heresy "in opening up careers for women other than that of wife and mother." when mill did not answer mr. ruskin's newspaper letters, the author of "sesame and lilies" called him a "cretinous wretch" and referred to him as "the man of no imagination." mr. mill may have been a cretinous wretch (i do not exactly understand the phrase), but the preface to "on liberty" is at once the tenderest, highest and most sincere compliment paid to a woman, of which i know. the life of mr. and mrs. john stuart mill shows that perfect mating is possible; yet mr. ruskin has only scorn for the opinions of mr. mill on a subject which mill came as near personally solving in a matrimonial "experiment" as any other public man of modern times, not excepting even robert browning. therefore we might suppose mr. mill entitled to speak on the woman question, and i intimated as much to mr. ruskin. "he might know all about one woman, and if he should regard her as a sample of all womankind, would he not make a great mistake?" i was silenced. in "fors clavigera," letter lix, the author says: "i never wrote a letter in my life which all the world is not welcome to read." from this one might imagine that mr. ruskin never loved--no pressed flowers in books; no passages of poetry double-marked and scored; no bundles of letters faded and yellow, sacred for his own eye, tied with white or dainty blue ribbon; no little nothings hidden away in the bottom of a trunk. and yet mr. ruskin has his ideas on the woman question, and very positive ideas they are too--often sweetly sympathetic and wisely helpful. i see that one of the encyclopedias mentions ruskin as a bachelor, which is giving rather an extended meaning to the word, for although mr. ruskin married, he was not mated. according to collingwood's account, this marriage was a quiet arrangement between parents. anyway, the genius is like the profligate in this: when he marries he generally makes a woman miserable. and misery is reactionary as well as infectious. ruskin is a genius. genius is unique. no satisfactory analysis of it has yet been given. we know a few of its indications--that's all. first among these is ability to concentrate. no seed can sow genius; no soil can grow it: its quality is inborn and defies both cultivation and extermination. to be surpassed is never pleasant; to feel your inferiority is to feel a pang. seldom is there a person great enough to find satisfaction in the success of a friend. the pleasure that excellence gives is oft tainted by resentment; and so the woman who marries a genius is usually unhappy. genius is excess: it is obstructive to little plans. it is difficult to warm yourself at a conflagration; the tempest may blow you away; the sun dazzles; lightning seldom strikes gently; the nile overflows. genius has its times of straying off into the infinite--and then what is the good wife to do for companionship? does she protest, and find fault? it could not be otherwise, for genius is dictatorial without knowing it, obstructive without wishing to be, intolerant unawares, and unsocial because it can not help it. the wife of a genius sometimes takes his fits of abstraction for stupidity, and having the man's interests at heart she endeavors to arouse him from his lethargy by chiding him. occasionally he arouses enough to chide back; and so it has become an axiom that genius is not domestic. a short period of mismated life told the wife of ruskin their mistake, and she told him. but mrs. grundy was at the keyhole, ready to tell the world, and so mr. and mrs. ruskin sought to deceive society by pretending to live together. they kept up this appearance for six sorrowful years, and then the lady simplified the situation by packing her trunks and deliberately leaving her genius to his chimeras; her soul doubtless softened by the knowledge that she was bestowing a benefit on him by going away. the lady afterwards became the happy wife and helpmeet of a great artist. ruskin's father was a prosperous importer of wines. he left his son a fortune equal to a little more than one million dollars. but that vast fortune has gone---principal and interest--gone in bequests, gifts and experiments; and today mr. ruskin has no income save that derived from the sale of his books. talk about "distribution of wealth"! here we have it. the bread-and-butter question has never troubled john ruskin except in his ever-ardent desire that others should be fed. his days have been given to study and writing from his very boyhood; he has made money, but he has had no time to save it. he has expressed himself on every theme that interests mankind, except perhaps "housemaid's knee." he has written more letters to the newspapers than "old subscriber," "fiat justitia," "indignant reader" and "veritas" combined. his opinions have carried much weight and directed attention into necessary lines; but perhaps his success as an inspirer of thought lies in the fact that his sense of humor exists only as a trace, as the chemist might say. men who perceive the ridiculous would never have voiced many of the things which he has said. surely those sioux indians who stretched a hay lariat across the union pacific railroad in order to stop the running of trains had small sense of the ridiculous. but it looks as if they were apostles of ruskin, every one. some one has said that no man can appreciate the beautiful who has not a keen sense of humor. for the beautiful is the harmonious, and the laughable is the absence of fit adjustment. mr. ruskin disproves the maxim. but let no hasty soul imagine that john ruskin's opinions on practical themes are not useful. he brings to bear an energy on every subject he touches (and what subject has he not touched?) that is sure to make the sparks of thought fly. his independent and fearless attitude awakens from slumber a deal of dozing intellect, and out of this strife of opinion comes truth. on account of mr. ruskin's refusing at times to see visitors, reports have gone abroad that his mind was giving way. not so, for although he is seventy-four he is as serenely stubborn as he ever was. his opposition to new inventions in machinery has not relaxed a single pulley's turn. you grant his premises and in his conclusions you will find that his belt never slips, and that his logic never jumps a cog. his life is as regular and exact as the trains on the great western, and his days are more peaceful than ever before. he has regular hours for writing, study, walking, reading, eating, and working out of doors, superintending the cultivation of his hundred acres. he told me that he had not varied a half-hour in two years from a certain time of going to bed or getting up in the morning. although his form is bowed, this regularity of life has borne fruit in the rich russet of his complexion, the mild, clear eye, and the pleasure in living in spite of occasional pain, which you know the man feels. his hair is thick and nearly white; the beard is now worn quite long and gives a patriarchal appearance to the fine face. when we arose to take our leave, mr. ruskin took a white felt hat from the elk-antlers in the hallway and a stout stick from the corner, and offered to show us a nearer way back to the village. we walked down a footpath through the tall grass to the lake, where he called our attention to various varieties of ferns that he had transplanted there. we shook hands with the old gentleman and thanked him for the pleasure he had given us. he was still examining the ferns when we lifted our hats and bade him good-day. he evidently did not hear us, for i heard him mutter: "i verily believe those miserable cook's tourists that were down here yesterday picked some of my ferns." william e. gladstone as the aloe is said to flower only once in a hundred years, so it seems to be but once in a thousand years that nature blossoms into this unrivaled product and produces such a man as we have here. --_gladstone, "lecture on homer_" [illustration: william e. gladstone] american travelers in england are said to accumulate sometimes large and unique assortments of lisps, drawls and other very peculiar things. of the value of these acquirements as regards their use and beauty, i have not room here to speak. but there is one adjunct which england has that we positively need, and that is "boots." it may be that boots is indigenous to england's soil, and that when transplanted he withers and dies; perhaps there is a quality in our atmosphere that kills him. anyway, we have no boots. when trouble, adversity or bewilderment comes to the homesick traveler in an american hotel, to whom can he turn for consolation? alas, the porter is afraid of the "guest," and all guests are afraid of the clerk, and the proprietor is never seen, and the afro-americans in the dining-room are stupid, and the chambermaid does not answer the ring, and at last the weary wanderer hies him to the barroom and soon discovers that the worthy "barkeep" has nothing to recommend him but his diamond-pin. how different, yes, how different, this would all be if boots were only here! at the quaint old city of chester i was met at the "sti-shun" by the boots of that excellent though modest hotel which stands only a block away. boots picked out my baggage without my looking for it, took me across to the inn, and showed me to the daintiest, most homelike little room i had seen for weeks. on the table was a tastefully decorated "jug," evidently just placed there in anticipation of my arrival, and in this jug was a large bunch of gorgeous roses, the morning dew still on them. when boots had brought me hot water for shaving he disappeared and did not come back until, by the use of telepathy (for boots is always psychic), i had sent him a message that he was needed. in the afternoon he went with me to get a draft cashed, then he identified me at the post-office, and introduced me to a dignitary at the cathedral whose courtesy added greatly to my enjoyment of the visit. the next morning after breakfast, when i returned to my room, everything was put to rights and a fresh bouquet of cut flowers was on the mantel. a good breakfast adds much to one's inward peace: i sat down before the open window and looked out at the great oaks dotting the green meadows that stretched away to the north, and listened to the drowsy tinkle of sheep-bells as the sound came floating in on the perfumed breeze. i was thinking how good it was to be here, when the step of boots was heard in the doorway. i turned and saw that mine own familiar friend had lost a little of his calm self-reliance--in fact, he was a bit agitated, but he soon recovered his breath. "mr. gladstone and 'is lady 'ave just arrived, sir--they will be 'ere for an hour before taking the train for lunnon, sir. i told 'is clark there was a party of americans 'ere that were very anxious to meet 'im, and he will receive you in the parlor in fifteen minutes, sir." then it was my turn to be agitated. but boots reassured me by explaining that the grand old man was just the plainest, most unpretentious gentleman one could imagine; that it was not at all necessary that i should change my suit; that i should pronounce it gladstun, not glad-stone, and that it was harden, not ha-war-den. then he stood me up, looked me over, and declared that i was all right. on going downstairs i found that boots had gotten together five americans who happened to be in the hotel. he introduced us to a bright little man who seemed to be the companion or secretary of the prime minister; he, in turn, took us into the parlor where mr. gladstone sat reading the morning paper, and presented us one by one to the great man. we were each greeted with a pleasant word and a firm grasp of the hand, and then the old gentleman turned and with a courtly flourish said, "gentlemen, allow me to present you to mrs. gladstone." mr. gladstone was wise: he remained standing; this was sure to shorten the interview. a clergyman in our party who had an impressive cough and bushy whiskers, acted as spokesman, and said several pleasant things, closing his little speech by informing mr. gladstone that americans held him in great esteem, and that we only regretted that fate had not decreed that he should have been born in the united states. mr. gladstone replied, "fate is often unkind." then he asked if we were going to london. on being told that we were, he spoke for five minutes about the things we should see in the metropolis. his style was not conversational, but after the manner of a man who was much used to speaking in public or to receiving delegations. the sentences were stately, the voice rather loud and declamatory. his closing words were: "yes, gentlemen, the way to see london is from the top of a 'bus--from the top of a 'bus, gentlemen." then there was an almost imperceptible wave of the hand, and we knew that the interview was ended. in a moment we were outside and the door was closed. the five americans who made up our little company had never met before, but now we were as brothers; we adjourned to a side-room to talk it over and tell of the things we intended to say but didn't. we all talked and talked at once, just as people do who have recently preserved an enforced silence. "how ill-fitting was that gray suit!" "yes, the sleeves too long." "did you notice the absence of the forefinger of his left hand--shot off in eighteen hundred forty-five while hunting, they say." "but how strong his voice is!" "he looks like a farmer." "eighty-five years of age! think of it, and how vigorous!" then the preacher spoke and his voice was sorrowful: "oh, but i made a botch of it--was it sarcasm or was it not?" "was what sarcasm?" "when mr. gladstone said that fate was unkind in not having him born in the united states!" and we were all silent. then boots came in, and we put the question to boots, who decided it was not sarcasm. the next day, when we went away, we rewarded boots bountifully. * * * * * william gladstone is england's glory. yet there is no english blood in his veins; his parents were scotch. aside from lord brougham, he is the only scotchman who has ever taken a prominent part in british statecraft. the name as we first find it is gled-stane, "gled" being a hawk--literally, a hawk that lives among the stones. surely the hawk is fully as respectable a bird as the eagle, and a goodly amount of granite in the clay that is used to make a man is no disadvantage. the name fits. there are deep-rooted theories in the minds of many men (and still more women) that bad boys make good men, and that a dash of the pirate, even in a prelate, does not disqualify. but i wish to come to the defense of the sunday-school story-books and show that their very prominent moral is right after all: it pays to be "good." william ewart gladstone was sent to eton when twelve years of age. from the first, his conduct was a model of propriety. he attended every chapel service, and said his prayers in the morning and before going to bed at night; he could repeat the catechism backwards or forwards, and recite more verses of scripture than any other boy in school. he always spoke the truth. he never played "hookey"; nor, as he grew older, would he tell stories of doubtful flavor, or allow others to relate such in his presence. his influence was for good, and cardinal manning has said that there was less wine drunk at oxford during the forties than would have been the case if gladstone had not been there in the thirties. he graduated from christchurch with the highest possible honors the college could bestow, and at twenty-two he seemed like one who had sprung into life full-armed. at that time he had magnificent health, a fine form, vast and varied knowledge, and a command of language so great that he was a master of forensics. his speeches were fully equal to his later splendid efforts. in feature he was handsome: the face bold and masculine; eyes of piercing luster; and hair, which he tossed when in debate, like a lion's mane. he could speak five languages, sing tenor, dance gracefully, and was on more than speaking terms with many of the best and greatest men in england. besides all this he was rich in british gold. now, here is a combination of good things that would send most young men straight to perdition--not so gladstone. he took the best care of his health, systematized his time as a miser might, listened not to the flatterers, and used his money only for good purposes. his intention was to enter the church, but his father said, "not yet," and half-forced him into politics. so, at this early age of twenty-two, he ran for parliament, was elected, and has practically never been out of the shadow of westminster palace during these sixty-odd years. at thirty-three, he was a member of the cabinet. at thirty-six, his absolute honesty compelled him for conscience' sake to resign from the ministry. his opponents then said, "gladstone is an extinct volcano," and they have said this again and again; but somehow the volcano always breaks out in a new place, stronger and brighter than ever. it is difficult to subdue a volcano. when twenty-nine, he married catherine glynne, sister and heir of sir stephen glynne, baronet. the marriage was most fortunate in every way. for over fifty years this most excellent woman has been his comrade, counselor, consolation, friend--his wife. "how can any adversity come to him who hath a wife?" said chaucer. if this splendid woman had died, then his opponents might truthfully have said, "gladstone is an extinct volcano"; but she is still with him, and a short time ago, when he had to undergo an operation for cataract, this woman of eighty was his only nurse. the influence of gladstone has been of untold value to england. his ideals for national action have been high. to the material prosperity of the country he has added millions upon millions; he has made education popular, and schooling easy; his policy in the main has been such as to command the admiration of the good and great. but there are spots on the sun. on reading mr. gladstone's books i find he has vigorously defended certain measures that seem unworthy of his genius. he has palliated human slavery as a "necessary evil"; has maintained the visibility and divine authority of the church; has asserted the mathematical certainty of the historic episcopate, the mystical efficacy of the sacraments; and has vindicated the church of england as the god-appointed guardian of truth. he has fought bitterly any attempt to improve the divorce-laws of england. much has been done in this line, even in spite of his earnest opposition, but we now owe it to mr. gladstone that there is on england's law-books a statute providing that if a wife leaves her husband he can invoke a magistrate, whose duty it will then be to issue a writ and give it to an officer, who will bring her back. more than this, when the officer has returned the woman, the loving husband has the legal right to "reprove" her. just what reprove means the courts have not yet determined; for, in a recent decision, when a costermonger admitted having given his lady "a taste of the cat," the prisoner was discharged on the ground that it was only needed reproof. i would not complain of this law if it worked both ways; but no wife can demand that the state shall return her "man" willy-nilly. and if she administers reproof to her mate, she does it without the sanction of the sovereign. however, in justice to englishmen, it should be stated that while this unique law still stands on the statute-books, it is very seldom that a man in recent years has stooped to invoke it. on all the questions i have named, from slavery to divorce, mr. gladstone has used the "bible argument." but as the years have gone by, his mind has become liberalized, and on many points where he was before zealous he is now silent. in eighteen hundred forty-one, he argued with much skill and ingenuity that jews were not entitled to full rights of citizenship, but in eighteen hundred forty-seven, acknowledging his error, he took the other side. during the war of secession the sympathies of england's chancellor of the exchequer were with the south. speaking at newcastle on october ninth, eighteen hundred sixty-two, he said, "jefferson davis has undoubtedly founded a new nation." but five years passed, and he publicly confessed that he was wrong. here is a man who, if he should err deeply, is yet so great that, like cotton mather, he might not hesitate to stand uncovered on the street-corners and ask the forgiveness of mankind. such men are saved by their enemies. their own good and the good of humanity require that their balance of power shall not be too great. had the north gone down, gladstone might never have seen his mistake. in this instance and in many others, he has not been the leader of progress, but its echo: truth has been forced upon him. his passionate earnestness, his intense volition, his insensibility to moral perspective, his blindness to the sense of proportion, might have led him into dangerous excess and frightful fanatical error, if it were not for the fact that such men create an opposition that is their salvation. to analyze a character so complex as mr. gladstone's requires the grasp of genius. we speak of "the duality of the human mind," but here are half a dozen spirits in one. they rule in turn, and occasionally several of them struggle for the mastery. when the fisk jubilee singers visited england, we find gladstone dropping the affairs of state to hear their music. he invited them to hawarden, where he sang with them. so impressed was he with the negro melodies that he anticipated that idea which has since been materialized: the founding of a national school of music that would seek to perfect in a scientific way these soul-stirring strains. he might have made a poet of no mean order; for his devotion to spiritual and physical beauty has made him a lifelong admirer of homer and dante. those who have met him when the mood was upon him have heard him recite by the hour from the "iliad" in the original. and yet the theology of homer belongs to the realm of natural religion with which mr. gladstone has little patience. a prominent member of the house of commons once said, "the only two things that the prime minister really cares for are religion and finance." the statement comes near truth; for the chief element in mr. gladstone's character is his devotion to religion; and his signal successes have been in the line of economics. he believes in free trade as the gospel of social salvation. he revels in figures; he has price, value, consumption, distribution, import, export, fluctuation, all at his tongue's end, ready to hurl at any one who ventures on a hasty generalization. and it is a significant fact that in his strong appeal for the disestablishment of the irish church, the stress of his argument was put on the point that the irish church was not in the line of the apostolic succession. mr. gladstone is grave, sober, earnest, proud, passionate, and at times romantic to a rare degree. he rebukes, refutes, contradicts, defies, and has a magnificent capacity for indignation. he will roar you like a lion, his eyes will flash, and his clenched fist will shake as he denounces that which he believes to be error. and yet among inferiors he will consult, defer, inquire, and show a humility, a forced suavity, that has given the caricaturist excuse. in his home he is gentle, amiable, always kind, social and hospitable. he loves deeply, and his friends revere him to a point that is but little this side of idolatry. and surely their affection is not misplaced. some day a plutarch without a plutarch's prejudice will arise, and with malice toward none, but with charity for all, he will write the life of the statesman, gladstone. over against this he will write the life of an american statesman. the name he will choose will be that of one born in a log hut in the forest; who was rocked by the foot of a mother whose hands meanwhile were busy at her wheel; who had no schooling, no wise and influential friends; who had few books and little time to read; who knew no formal religion; who never traveled out of his own country; who had no helpmeet, but who walked solitary--alone, a man of sorrows; down whose homely, furrowed face the tears of pity often ran, and yet whose name, strange paradox! stands in many minds as a symbol of mirth. and when the master comes, who has the power to portray with absolute fidelity the greatness of these two men, will it be to the disadvantage of the american? * * * * * the village of hawarden is in flintshire, north wales. it is seven miles from chester. i walked the distance one fine june morning--out across the battlefield where cromwell's army crushed that of charles; and on past old stone walls and stately elms. there had been a shower the night before, but the morning sun came out bright and warm and made the raindrops glisten like beads as they clung to each leaf and flower. larks sang and soared, and great flocks of crows called and cawed as they flew lazily across the sky. it was a time for silent peace, and quiet joy, and serene thankfulness for life and health. i walked leisurely, and in a little over two hours reached hawarden--a cluster of plain stone houses with climbing vines and flowers and gardens, which told of homely thrift and simple tastes. i went straight to the old stone church, which is always open, and rested for half an hour, listening to the organ on which a young girl was practising, instructed by a white-haired old gentleman. the church is dingy and stained inside and out by time. the pews are irregular, some curiously carved, and all stiff and uncomfortable. i walked around and read the inscriptions on the walls, and all the time the young girl played and the old gentleman beat time, and neither noticed my presence. one brass tablet i saw was to a woman "who for long years was a faithful servant at hawarden castle--erected in gratitude by w.e.g." near this was a memorial to w.h. gladstone, son of the premier, who died in eighteen hundred ninety-one. then there were inscriptions to various glynnes and several others whose names appear in english history. i stood at the reading-desk, where the great man has so often read, and marked the spot where william ewart gladstone and catherine glynne knelt when they were married here in july, eighteen hundred thirty-nine. a short distance from the church is the entrance to hawarden park. this fine property was the inheritance of mrs. gladstone; the park itself seems to belong to the public. if mr. gladstone were a plain citizen, people, of course, would not come by hundreds and picnic on his preserve, but serving the state, he and his possessions belong to the people, and this democratic familiarity is rather pleasing than otherwise. so great has been the throng in times past, that an iron fence had to be placed about the ivy-covered ruins of the ancient castle, to protect it from those who threatened to carry it away by the pocketful. a wall has also been put around the present "castle" (more properly, house). this was done some years ago, i was told by the butler, after a torchlight procession of a thousand enthusiastic admirers had come down from liverpool and trampled mrs. gladstone's flowers into "smithereens." the park contains many hundred acres, and is as beautiful as an english park can be, and this is praise superlative. flocks of sheep wander over the soft, green turf, and beneath the spreading trees are sleek cows which seem used to visitors, and with big, open eyes come up to be petted. occasional signs are seen: "please spare the trees." some people suppose that this is an injunction which mr. gladstone himself has never observed. but when in his tree-cutting days, no monarch of the forest was ever felled without its case being fully tried by the entire household. ruskin, once, visiting at hawarden, sat as judge, and after listening to the evidence gave sentence against several trees that were rotten at the core or overshadowing their betters. then the prime minister shouldered his faithful "snickersnee" and went forth as executioner. i looked in vain for stumps, and on inquiry was told that they were all dug out, and the ground leveled so no trace was left of the offender. the "lady of the house" at hawarden is the second daughter of mr. and mrs. gladstone. all accounts agree that she is a most capable and excellent woman. she is her father's "home secretary" and confidante, and in his absence takes full charge of the mail and looks after important business affairs. her husband, the reverend harry drew, is rector of hawarden church. i had the pleasure of meeting mr. drew and found him very cordial and perfectly willing to talk about the great man who is grandfather to his baby. we also talked of america, and i soon surmised that mr. drew's ideas of "the states" were largely derived from a visit to the wild west show. so i put the question to him direct: "did you see buffalo bill?" "oh, yes." "and did mr. gladstone go?" "not only once, but three times, and he cheered as loudly as any boy." the gladstone residence is a great, rambling, stone structure to which additions have been made from one generation to another. the towers and battlements are merely architectural appendiculã¦, but the effect of the whole, when viewed from a distance, rising out of its wealth of green and backed by the forest, is very imposing. i entered only the spacious front hallway and one room--the library. bookshelves and books and more books were everywhere; several desks of different designs (one an american roll-top), as if the owner transacted business at one, translated homer at another, and wrote social letters from a third. then there were several large japanese vases, a tiger-skin, beautiful rugs, a few large paintings, and in a rack a full dozen axes and twice as many "sticks." the whole place has an air of easy luxury that speaks of peace and plenty, of quiet and rest, of gentle thoughts and calm desires. as i walked across toward the village, the church-bell slowly pealed the hour; over the distant valley, night hovered; a streak of white mist, trailing like a thin veil, marked the passage of the murmuring brook. i thought of the grand old man over whose domain i was now treading, and my wonder was, not that one should live so long and still be vigorous, but that a man should live in such an idyllic spot, with love and books to keep him company, and yet grow old. j.m.w. turner i believe that these works of turner's are at their first appearing as perfect as those of phidias or leonardo, that is to say, incapable of any improvement conceivable by human mind. --_john ruskin_ [illustration: j.m.w. turner] the beauty of the upper thames with its fairy house-boats and green banks has been sung by poets, but rash is the minstrel who tunes his lyre to sound the praises of this muddy stream in the vicinity of chelsea. as yellow as the tiber and thick as the missouri after a flood, it comes twice a day bearing upon its tossing tide a unique assortment of uncanny sights and sickening smells from the swarming city of men below. chelsea was once a country village six miles from london bridge. now the far-reaching arms of the metropolis have taken it as her own. chelsea may be likened to some rare spinster, grown old with years and good works, and now having a safe home with a rich and powerful benefactress. yet chelsea is not handsome in her old age, and chelsea was not pretty in youth, nor fair to view in middle life; but chelsea has been the foster-mother of several of the rarest and fairest souls who have ever made the earth pilgrimage. and the greatness of genius still rests upon chelsea. as we walk slowly through its winding ways, by the edge of its troubled waters, among dark and crooked turns, through curious courts, by old gateways and piles of steepled stone, where flocks of pigeons wheel, and bells chime, and organs peal, and winds sigh, we know that all has been sanctified by their presence. and their spirits abide with us, and the splendid beauty of their visions is about us. for the stones beneath our feet have been hallowed by their tread, and the walls have borne their shadows; so all mean things are transfigured and over all these plain and narrow streets their glory gleams. and it is the great men and they alone that can render a place sacred. chelsea is now to the lovers of the beautiful a sacred name, a sacred soil; a place of pilgrimage where certain gods of art once lived, and loved, and worked, and died. sir thomas more lived here and had for a frequent guest erasmus. hans sloane began in chelsea the collection of curiosities which has now developed into the british museum. bishop atterbury (who claimed that dryden was a greater poet than shakespeare), dean swift and doctor arbuthnot, all lived in church street; richard steele just around the corner and leigh hunt in cheyne row; but it was from another name that the little street was to be immortalized. if france constantly has forty immortals in the flesh, surely it is a modest claim to say that chelsea has three for all time: thomas carlyle, george eliot and joseph mallord william turner. turner's father was a barber. his youth was passed in poverty and his advantages for education were very slight. and all this in the crowded city of london, where merit may knock long and still not be heard, and in a country where wealth and title count for much. when a boy, barefoot and ragged, he would wander away alone on the banks of the river and dream dreams about wonderful palaces and beautiful scenes; and then he would trace with a stick in the sands, endeavoring, with mud, to make plain to the eye the things that his soul saw. his mother was quite sure that no good could come from this vagabondish nature, and she did not spare the rod, for she feared that the desire to scrawl and daub would spoil the child. but he was a stubborn lad, with a pug-nose and big, dreamy, wondering eyes, and a heavy jaw; and when parents see that they have such a son, they had better hang up the rod behind the kitchen-door and lay aside force and cease scolding. for love is better than a cat-o'-nine-tails, and sympathy saves more souls than threats. the elder turner considered that the proper use of a brush was to lather chins. but the boy thought differently, and once surreptitiously took one of his father's brushes to paint a picture; the brush on being returned to its cup was used the next day upon a worthy haberdasher, whose cheeks were shortly colored a vermilion that matched his nose. this lost the barber a customer and secured the boy a thrashing. young turner did not always wash his father's shop-windows well, nor sweep off the sidewalk properly. like all boys he would rather work for some one else than for "his folks." he used to run errands for an engraver by the name of smith--john raphael smith. once, when smith sent the barber's boy with a letter to a certain art-gallery with orders to "get the answer and hurry back, mind you!" the boy forgot to get the answer and to hurry back. then another boy was dispatched after the first, and boy number two found boy number one sitting, with staring eyes and open mouth, in the art-gallery before a painting of claude lorraine's. when boy number one was at last forcibly dragged away, and reached the shop of his master, he got his ears well cuffed for his forgetfulness. but from that day forth he was not the same being that he had been before his eyes fell on that claude lorraine. he was transformed, as much so as was lazarus after he was called from beyond the portals of death and had come back to earth, bearing in his heart the secrets of the grave. from that time turner thought of claude lorraine during the day and dreamed of him at night, and he stole his way into every exhibition where a claude was to be seen. and now i wish that claude lorraine was the subject of this sketch, as well as turner, for his life is a picture full of sweetest poetry, framed in a world of dullest prose. the eyes of this boy, whom they had thought dreamy, dull and listless, now shone with a different light. he thirsted to achieve, to do, to become--yes, to become a greater painter than claude lorraine. his employer saw the change and smiled at it, but he allowed the lad to put in backgrounds and add the skies to cheap prints, just because the youngster teased to do it. then one day a certain patron of the shop came and looked over the shoulder of the turner boy, and he said, "he has skill--perhaps talent." and i think the recording angel should give this man a separate page in the book of remembrance and write his name in illuminated colors, for he gave young turner access to his own collection and to his library, and he never cuffed him nor kicked him nor called him dunce--whereat the boy was much surprised. but he encouraged the youth to sketch a picture in water-colors and then he bought the picture and paid him ten shillings for it; and the name of this man was doctor munro. the next year, when young turner was fourteen, doctor munro had him admitted to the royal academy as a student, and in seventeen hundred ninety he exhibited a water-color of the archbishop's palace at lambeth. the picture took no prize, and doubtless was not worthy of one, but from now on joseph m.w. turner was an artist, and other hands had to sweep the barber-shop. but he sold few pictures--they were not popular. other artists scorned him, possibly intuitively fearing him, for mediocrity always fears when the ghost of genius does not down at its bidding. then turner was accounted unsociable; besides, he was ragged, uncouth, independent, and did not conform to the ways of society; so the select circle cast him out--more properly speaking, did not let him in. still he worked on, and exhibited at every academy exhibition, yet he was often hungry, and the london fog crept cold and damp through his threadbare clothes. but he toiled on, for claude lorraine was ever before him. in eighteen hundred two, when twenty-seven years of age, he visited france and made a tour through switzerland, tramping over many long miles with his painting-kit on his back, and he brought back rich treasures in way of sketches and quickened imagination. in the years following he took many such trips, and came to know venice, rome, florence and paris as perfectly as his own london. when thirty-three years of age he was still worshiping at the shrine of claude lorraine. his pictures painted at this time are evidence of his ideal, and his book, "liber studiorum," issued in eighteen hundred eight, is modeled after the "liber veritatis." but the book surpasses claude's, and turner knew it, and this may have led him to burst his shackles and cast loose from his idol. for, in eighteen hundred fifteen, we find him working according to his own ideas, showing an originality and audacity in conception and execution that made him the butt of the critics, and caused consternation to rage through the studios of competitors. gradually, it dawned upon a few scattered collectors that things so strongly condemned must have merit, for why should the pack bay so loudly if there were no quarry! so to have a turner was at least something for your friends to discuss. then carriages began to stop before the dingy building at forty-seven queen anne street, and broadcloth and satin mounted the creaking stairs to the studio. it happened about this time that turner's prices began to increase. like the sibyl of old, if a customer said, "i do not want it," the painter put an extra ten pounds on the price. for "dido building carthage," turner's original price was five hundred pounds. people came to see the picture and they said, "the price is too high." next day turner's price for the "carthage" was one thousand pounds. finally, sir robert peel offered the painter five thousand pounds for the picture, but turner said he had decided to keep it for himself, and he did. in the forepart of his career he sold few pictures--for the simple reason that no one wanted them. and he sold few pictures during the latter years of his life, for the reason that his prices were so high that none but the very rich could buy. first, the public scorned turner. next, turner scorned the public. in the beginning it would not buy his pictures, and later it could not. a frivolous public and a shallow press, from his first exhibition, when fifteen years of age, to his last, when seventy, made sport of his originalities. but for merit there is a recompense in sneers, and a benefit in sarcasms, and a compensation in hate; for when these things get too pronounced a champion appears. and so it was with turner. next to having a boswell write one's life, what is better than a ruskin to uphold one's cause! success came slowly; his wants were few, but his ambition never slackened, and finally the dreams of his youth became the realities of his manhood. at twenty, turner loved a beautiful girl--they became engaged. he went away on a tramp sketching-tour and wrote his ladylove just one short letter each month. he believed that "absence only makes the heart grow fonder," not knowing that this statement is only the vagary of a poet. when he returned the lady was betrothed to another. he gave the pair his blessing, and remained a bachelor--a very confirmed bachelor. perhaps, however, the reason his fiancee proved untrue was not through lack of the epistles he wrote her, but on account of them. in the british museum i examined several letters written by turner. they appeared very much like copy for a josh billings almanac. such originality in spelling, punctuation and use of capitals! it was admirable in its uniqueness. turner did not think in words--he could only think in paint. but the young lady did not know this, and when a letter came from her homely little lover she was shocked, then she laughed, then she showed these letters to a nice young man who was clerk to a fishmonger and he laughed, then they both laughed. then this nice young man and this beautiful young lady became engaged, and they were married at saint andrew's on a lovely may morning. and they lived happily ever afterward. turner was small, and in appearance plain. yet he was big enough to paint a big picture, and he was not so homely as to frighten away all beautiful women. but philip gilbert hamerton tells us, "fortunate in many things, turner was lamentably unfortunate in this: that throughout his whole life he never came under the ennobling and refining influence of a good woman." like plato, michelangelo, sir isaac newton and his own claude lorraine, he was wedded to his art. but at sixty-five his genius suddenly burst forth afresh, and his work, mr. ruskin says, at that time exceeded in daring brilliancy and in the rich flowering of imagination, anything that he had previously done. mr. ruskin could give no reason, but rumor says, "a woman." the one weakness of our hero, that hung to him for life, was the idea that he could write poetry. the tragedian always thinks he can succeed in comedy; the comedian spends hours in his garret rehearsing tragedy; most preachers have an idea that they could have made a quick fortune in business, and many businessmen are very sure that if they had taken to the pulpit there would now be fewer empty pews. so the greatest landscape-painter of recent times imagined himself a poet. hamerton says that for remarkable specimens of grammar, spelling and construction turner's verse would serve well to be given to little boys to correct. one spot in turner's life over which i like to linger is his friendship with sir walter scott. they collaborated in the production of "provincial antiquities," and spent many happy hours together tramping over scottish moors and mountains. sir walter lived out his days in happy ignorance concerning the art of painting, and although he liked the society of turner, he confessed that it was quite beyond his ken why people bought his pictures. "and as for your books," said turner, "the covers of some are certainly very pretty." yet these men took a satisfaction in each other's society, such as brothers might enjoy, but without either man appreciating the greatness of the other. turner's temperament was audacious, self-centered, self-reliant, eager for success and fame, yet at the same time scorning public opinion--a paradox often found in the artistic mind of the first class; silent always--with a bitter silence, disdaining to tell his meaning when the critics could not perceive it. he was above all things always the artist, never the realist. the realist pictures the things he sees; the artist expresses that which he feels. children, and all simple folk who use pen, pencil or brush, describe the things they behold. as intellect develops and goes more in partnership with hand, imagination soars, and things are outlined that no man can see except he be able to perceive the invisible. to appreciate a work of art you must feel as the artist felt. now, it is very plain that the vast majority of people are not capable of this high sense of sublimity which the creative artist feels; and therefore they do not understand, and not understanding, they wax merry, or cynical, or sarcastic, or wrathful, or envious; or they pass by unmoved. and i maintain that those who pass by unmoved are more righteous than they who scoff. if i should attempt to explain to my little girl the awe i feel when i contemplate the miracle of maternity, she would probably change the subject by prattling to me about a kitten she saw lapping milk from a blue saucer. if i should attempt to explain to some men what i feel when i contemplate the miracle of maternity, they would smile and turn it all into an unspeakable jest. is not the child nearer to god than the man? we thus see why to many browning is only a joke, whitman an eccentric, dante insane and turner a pretender. these have all sought to express things which the many can not feel, and consequently they have been, and are, the butt of jokes and jibes innumerable. "except ye become as little children," etc.--and yet the scoffers are often people of worth. nothing so shows the limitation of humanity as this: genius often does not appreciate genius. the inspired, strangely enough, are like the fools, they do not recognize inspiration. an englishman called on voltaire and found him in bed reading shakespeare. "what are you reading?" asked the visitor. "your shakespeare!" said the philosopher; and as he answered he flung the book across the room. "he's not my shakespeare," said the englishman. greene, rymer, dryden, warburton and doctor johnson used collectively or individually the following expressions in describing the work of the author of "hamlet": conceit, overreach, word-play, extravagance, overdone, absurdity, obscurity, puerility, bombast, idiocy, untruth, improbability, drivel. byron wrote from florence to murray: "i know nothing of painting, and i abhor and spit upon all saints and so-called spiritual subjects that i see portrayed in these churches." but the past is so crowded with vituperation that it is difficult to select--besides that, we do not wish to--but let us take a sample of arrogance from yesterday to prove our point, and then drop the theme for something pleasanter. pew and pulpit have fallen over each other for the privilege of hitting darwin; a bishop warns his congregation that emerson is "dangerous"; spurgeon calls shelley a sensualist; doctor buckley speaks of susan b. anthony as the leader of "the short-haired"; talmage cracks jokes about evolution, referring feelingly to "monkey ancestry"; and a prominent divine of england writes the world's congress of religions down as "pious waxworks." these things being true, and all the sentiments quoted coming from "good" but blindly zealous men, is it a wonder that the artist is not understood? a brilliant picture, called "cologne--evening," attracted much attention at the academy exhibition of eighteen hundred twenty-six. one day the people who so often collected around turner's work were shocked to see that the beautiful canvas had lost its brilliancy, and evidently had been tampered with by some miscreant. a friend ran to inform turner of the bad news. "don't say anything. i only smirched it with lampblack. it was spoiling the effect of laurence's picture that hung next to it. the black will all wash off after the exhibition." and his tender treatment of his aged father shows the gentle side of his nature. the old barber, whose trembling hand could no longer hold a razor, wished to remain under his son's roof in guise of a servant; but the son said, "no; we fought the world together, and now that it seeks to do me honor, you shall share all the benefits." and turner never smiled when the little, wizened, old man would whisper to some visitor, "yes, yes; joseph is the greatest artist in england, and i am his father." turner had a way of sending ten-pound notes in blank envelopes to artists in distress, and he did this so frequently that the news got out finally, but never through turner's telling, and then he had to adopt other methods of doing good by stealth. i do not contend that turner's character was immaculate, but still it is very probable that worldlings do not appreciate what a small part of this great genius touched the mire. to prove the sordidness of the man, one critic tells, with visage awfully solemn, how turner once gave an engraving to a friend and then, after a year, sent demanding it back. but to a person with a groat's worth of wit the matter is plain: the dreamy, abstracted artist, who bumped into his next-door neighbors on the street and never knew them, forgot he had given the picture and believed he had only loaned it. this is made still more apparent by the fact that, when he sent for the engraving in question, he administered a rebuke to the man for keeping it so long. the poor dullard who received the note flew into a rage--returned the picture--sent his compliments and begged the great artist to "take your picture and go to the devil." then certain scribblers, who through mental disease had lost the capacity for mirth, dipped their pen in aqua fortis and wrote of the "innate meanness," the "malice prepense" and the "old adam" which dwelt in the heart of turner. no one laughed except a few irishmen, and an american or two, who chanced to hear of the story. of turner's many pictures i will mention in detail but two, both of which are to be seen on the walls of the national gallery. first, "the old temeraire." this warship had been sold out of service and was being towed away to be broken up. the scene was photographed on turner's brain, and he immortalized it on canvas. we can not do better than borrow the words of mr. ruskin: "of all pictures not visibly involving human pain, this is the most pathetic ever painted. "the utmost pensiveness which can ordinarily be given to a landscape depends on adjuncts of ruin, but no ruin was ever so affecting as the gliding of this ship to her grave. this particular ship, crowned in the trafalgar hour of trial with chief victory--surely, if ever anything without a soul deserved honor or affection we owe them here. surely, some sacred care might have been left in our thoughts for her; some quiet space amid the lapse of english waters! nay, not so. we have stern keepers to trust her glory to--the fire and the worm. nevermore shall sunset lay golden robe upon her, nor starlight tremble on the waves that part at her gliding. perhaps where the low gate opens to some cottage garden, the tired traveler may ask, idly, why the moss grows so green on the rugged wood; and even the sailor's child may not know that the night dew lies deep in the warrents of the old temeraire." "the burial of sir david wilkie at sea" has brought tears to many eyes. yet there is no burial. the ship is far away in the gloom of the offing; you can not distinguish a single figure on her decks; but you behold her great sails standing out against the leaden blackness of the night and you feel that out there a certain scene is being enacted. and if you listen closely you can hear the solemn voice of the captain as he reads the burial service. then there is a pause--a swift, sliding sound--a splash, and all is over. turner left to the british nation by his will nineteen thousand pencil and water-color sketches and one hundred large canvases. these pictures are now to be seen in the national gallery in rooms set apart and sacred to turner's work. for fear it may be thought that the number of sketches mentioned above is a misprint, let us say that if he had produced one picture a day for fifty years it would not equal the number of pieces bestowed by his will on the nation. this of course takes no account of the pictures sold during his lifetime, and, as he left a fortune of one hundred forty-four thousand pounds (seven hundred twenty thousand dollars), we may infer that not all his pictures were given away. at chelsea i stood in the little room where he breathed his last, that bleak day in eighteen-hundred fifty-one. the unlettered but motherly old woman who took care of him in those last days never guessed his greatness; none in the house or the neighborhood knew. to them he was only mr. booth, an eccentric old man of moderate means, who liked to muse, read, and play with children. he had no callers, no friends; he went to the city every day and came back at night. he talked but little, he was absent-minded, he smoked and thought and smiled and muttered to himself. he never went to church; but once one of the lodgers asked him what he thought of god. "god, god--what do i know of god, what does any one! he is our life--he is the all, but we need not fear him--all we can do is to speak the truth and do our work. tomorrow we go--where? i know not, but i am not afraid." of art, to these strangers he would never speak. once they urged him to go with them to an exhibition at kensington, but he smiled feebly as he lit his pipe and said, "an art exhibition? no, no; a man can show on a canvas so little of what he feels, it is not worth the while." at last he died--passed peacefully away--and his attorney came and took charge of his remains. many are the hard words that have been flung off by heedless tongues about turner's taking an assumed name and living in obscurity, but "what you call fault i call accent." surely, if a great man and world-famous desires to escape the flatterers and the silken mesh of so-called society and live the life of simplicity, he has a right to do so. again, turner was a very rich man in his old age; he did much for struggling artists and assisted aspiring merit in many ways. so it came about that his mail was burdened with begging letters, and his life made miserable by appeals from impecunious persons, good and bad, and from churches, societies and associations without number. he decided to flee them all; and he did. the "carthage" already mentioned is one of his finest works, and he esteemed it so highly that he requested that when death came, his body should be buried, wrapped in its magnificent folds. but the wish was disregarded. his remains rest in the crypt of saint paul's, beside the dust of reynolds. his statue, in marble, adorns a niche in the great cathedral, and his name is secure high on the roll of honor. and if for no other reason, the name and fame of chelsea should be deathless as the home of turner. jonathan swift they are but few and meanspirited that live in peace with all men. --_tale of a tub_ [illustration: jonathan swift] birrell, the great english essayist, remarks that, "of writing books about dean swift there is no end." the reason is plain: of no other prominent writer who has lived during the past two hundred years do we know so much. his life lies open to us in many books. boswell did not write his biography, but johnson did. then followed whole schools of little fishes, some of whom wrote like whales. but among the works of genuine worth and merit, with swift for a subject, we have sir walter scott's nineteen volumes, and lives by craik, mitford, forster, collins and leslie stephen. the positive elements in swift's character make him a most interesting subject to men and women who are yet on earth, for he was essentially of the earth, earthy. and until we are shown that the earth is wholly bad, we shall find much to amuse, much to instruct, much to admire--aye, much to pity--in the life of jonathan swift. his father married at twenty. his income matched his years--it was just twenty pounds per annum. his wife was a young girl, bright, animated, intelligent. in a few short months this girl carried in her arms a baby. this baby was wrapped in a tattered shawl and cried piteously from hunger, for the mother had not enough to eat. she was cold, and sick, and in disgrace. her husband, too, was ill, and sorely in debt. it was midwinter. when spring came, and the flowers blossomed, and the birds mated, and warm breezes came whispering softly from the south, and all the earth was glad, the husband of this child-wife was in his grave, and she was alone. alone? no; she carried in her tired arms the hungry babe, and beneath her heart she felt the faint flutter of another life. but to be in trouble and in ireland is not so bad after all, for the irish people have great and tender hearts; and even if they have not much to bestow in a material way, they can give sympathy, and they do. so the girl was cared for by kind kindred, and on november thirtieth, sixteen hundred sixty-seven, at number seven, hoey's court, dublin, the second baby was born. only a little way from hoey's court is saint patrick's cathedral. on that november day, as the tones from the clanging chimes fell on the weary senses of the young mother, there in her darkened room, little did she think that the puny bantling she held to her breast would yet be the dean of the great church whose bells she heard; and how could she anticipate a whisper coming to her from the far-off future: "of writing books about your babe there is no end!" * * * * * the man-child was given to an old woman to care for, and he had the ability, even then, it seems, to win affection. the foster-mother loved him and she stole him away, carrying him off to england. charity ministered to his needs; charity gave him his education. when swift was twenty-one years old he went to see his mother. her means were scanty to the point of hardship, but so buoyant was her mind that she used to declare that she was both rich and happy--and being happy she was certainly rich. she was a rare woman. her spirit was independent, her mind cultivated, her manner gentle and refined, and she was endowed with a keen sense of humor. from her, the son derived those qualities which have made him famous. no man is greater than his mother; but the sons of brave women do not always make brave men. in one quality swift was lamentably inferior to his mother--he did not have her capacity for happiness. he had wit; she had humor. we have seen how swift's father sickened and died. the world was too severe for him, its buffets too abrupt, its burden too heavy, and he gave up the fight before the battle had really begun. this lack of courage and extreme sensitiveness are seen in the son. but so peculiar, complex and wonderful is this web of life, that our very blunders, weaknesses and mistakes are woven in and make the fabric stronger. if swift had possessed only his mother's merits, without his father's faults, he would never have shaken the world with laughter, and we should never have heard of him. in her lowliness and simplicity the mother of swift was content. she did her work in her own little way. she smiled at folly, and each day she thanked heaven that her lot was no worse. not so her son. he brooded in sullen silence; he cursed fate for making him a dependent, and even in his youth he scorned those who benefited him. this was a very human proceeding. many hate, but few have a fine capacity for scorn. their hate is so vehement that when hurled it falls short. swift's scorn was a beautifully winged arrow, with a poisoned tip. some who were struck did not at the time know it. his misanthropy defeated his purpose, thwarted his ambition, ruined his aims, and--made his name illustrious. swift wished for churchly preferment, but he had not the patience to wait. he imagined that others were standing in his way, and of course they were; for under the calm exterior of things ecclesiastic, there is often a strife, a jealousy and a competition more rabid than in commerce. to succeed in winning a bishopric requires a sagacity as keen as that required to become a senator of massachusetts or the governor of new york. the man bides his time, makes himself popular, secures advocates, lubricates the way, pulls the wires, and slides noiselessly into place. swift lacked diplomacy. when matters did not seem to progress he grew wrathful, seized his pen and stabbed with it. but as he wrote, the ludicrousness of the whole situation came over him and, instead of cursing plain curses, he held his adversary up to ridicule! and this ridicule is so active, the scorn so mixed with wit, the shafts so finely feathered with truth, that it is the admiration of mankind. vitriol mixed with ink is volatile. then what? we just run swift through a coarse sieve to take out the lumps of seventeenth century refuse, and then we give him to children to make them laugh. surely no better use can be made of pessimists. verily, the author of gulliver wrote for one purpose, and we use his work for another. he wished for office, he got contempt; he tried to subdue his enemies, they subdued him; he worked for the present, and he won immortality. said heinrich heine, prone on his bed in paris: "the wittiest sarcasms of mortals are only an attempt at jesting when compared with those of the great author of the universe--the aristophanes of heaven!" wise men over and over have wasted good ink and paper in bewailing swift's malice and coarseness. but without these very elements which the wise men bemoan, swift would be for us a cipher. yet love is life and hate is death, so how can spite benefit? the answer is that, in certain forms of germination, frost is as necessary as sunshine: so some men have qualities that lie dormant until the coldness of hate bursts the coarse husk of indifference. but while hate may animate, only love inspires. swift might have stood at the head of the church of england; but even so, he would be only a unit in a long list of names, and as it is, there is only one swift. mr. talmage averred that not ten men in america knew the name of the archbishop of canterbury until his son wrote a certain book entitled "dodo." in putting out this volume, young benson not only gave us the strongest possible argument favoring the celibacy of the clergy, but at the same time, if talmage's statement is correct, he made known his father's name. in all swift's work, save "the journal to stella," the animating motive seems to have been to confound his enemies; and according to the well-known line in that hymn sung wherever the union jack flies, we must believe this to be a perfectly justifiable ambition. but occasionally on his pages we find gentle words of wisdom that were meant evidently for love's eyes alone. there is much that is pure boyish frolic, and again and again there are clever strokes directed at folly. he has shot certain superstitions through with doubt, and in his manner of dealing with error he has proved to us a thing it were well not to forget: that pleasantry is more efficacious than vehemence. let me name one incident by way of proof--the well-known one of partridge, the almanac-maker. this worthy cobbler was an astrologer of no mean repute. he foretold events with much discretion. the ignorant bought his almanacs, and many believed in them as a bible--in fact, astrology was enjoying a "boom." swift came to london and found that partridge's predictions were the theme at the coffeehouses. he saw men argue and wax wroth, grow red in the face as they talked loud and long about nothing--just nothing. the whole thing struck swift as being very funny; and he wrote an announcement of his intention to publish a rival almanac. he explained that he, too, was an astrologer, but an honest one, while partridge was an impostor and a cheat; in fact, partridge foretold only things which every one knew would come true. as for himself, he could discern the future with absolute certainty, and to prove to the world his power he would now make a prophecy. in substance, it was as follows: "my first prediction is but a trifle; it relates to partridge, the almanac-maker. i have consulted the star of his nativity, and find that he will die on the twenty-ninth day of march, next." this was signed, "isaac bickerstaff," and duly issued in pamphlet form. it had such an air of sincerity that both the believers and the scoffers read it with interest. the thirtieth of march came, and another pamphlet from "isaac bickerstaff" appeared, announcing the fulfilment of the prophecy. it related how toward the end of march partridge began to languish; how he grew ill and at last took to his bed, and, his conscience then smiting him, he confessed to the world that he was a fraud and a rogue, that all his prophecies were impositions; he then passed away. partridge was wild with rage, and immediately replied in a manifesto declaring that he was alive and well, and moreover was alive on march twenty-ninth. to this "bickerstaff" replied in a pamphlet more seriously humorous than ever, reaffirming that partridge was dead, and closing with the statement that, "if an uninformed carcass still walks about calling itself partridge, i do not in any way consider myself responsible for that." the joke set all london on a grin. wherever partridge went he was met with smiles and jeers, and astrology became only a jest to a vast number of people who had formerly believed in it seriously. when benjamin franklin started his "poor richard's almanac," twenty-five years later, in the first issue he prophesied the death of one dart who set the pace at that time as almanac-maker in america. the man was to expire on the afternoon of october seventeenth, seventeen hundred thirty-eight, at three twenty-nine o'clock. dart, being somewhat of a joker himself, came out with an announcement that he, too, had consulted the oracle, and found he would live until october twenty-sixth, and possibly longer. on october eighteenth, franklin announced dart's death, and explained that it occurred promptly on time, all as prophesied. yet dart lived to publish many almanacs; but poor richard got his advertisement, and many staid, broad-brimmed philadelphians smiled who had never smiled before--not only smiled but subscribed. benjamin franklin was a great and good man, as any man must be who fathers another's jokes, introducing these orphaned children to the world as his own. perhaps no one who has written of swift knew him so well as delany. and this writer, who seems to have possessed a judicial quality far beyond most men, has told us that swift was moral in conduct to the point of asceticism. his deportment was grave and dignified, and his duties as a priest were always performed with exemplary diligence. he visited the sick, regularly administered the sacraments, and was never known to absent himself from morning prayers. when harley was lord treasurer, swift seems to have been on the topmost crest of the wave of popularity. invitations from nobility flowed in upon him, beautiful women deigned to go in search of his society, royalty recognized him. and yet all this time he was only a country priest with a liking for literature. collins tells us that the reason for his popularity is plain: "swift was one of the kings of the earth. like pope innocent the third, like chatham, he was one to whom the world involuntarily pays tribute." his will was a will of adamant; his intellect so keen that it impressed every one who approached him; his temper singularly stern, dauntless and haughty. but his wit was never filled with gaiety: he was never known to laugh. amid the wildest uproar that his sallies caused, he would sit with face austere--unmoved. personally, swift was a gentleman. when he was scurrilous, abusive, ribald, malicious, it was anonymously. is this to his credit? i should not say so, but if a man is indecent and he hides behind a "nom de plume," it is at least presumptive proof that he is not dead to shame. leslie stephen tells us that swift was a churchman to the backbone. no man who is a "churchman to the backbone" is ever very pious: the spirit maketh alive, but the letter killeth. one looks in vain for traces of spirituality in the dean. his sermons are models of churchly commonplace and full of the stock phrases of a formal religion. he never bursts into flame. yet he most thoroughly and sincerely believed in religion. "i believe in religion, it keeps the masses in check. and then i uphold christianity because if it is abolished the stability of the church might be endangered," he said. philip asked the eunuch a needless question when he inquired, "understandest thou what thou readest?" no one so poorly sexed as swift can comprehend spiritual truth: spirituality and sexuality are elements that are never separated. swift was as incapable of spirituality as he was of the "grand passion." the dean had affection; he was a warm friend; he was capable even of a degree of love, but his sexual and spiritual nature was so cold and calculating that he did not hesitate to sacrifice love to churchly ambition. he argued that the celibacy of the catholic clergy is a wise expediency. the bachelor physician and the unmarried priest have an influence among gentle womankind, young or old, married or single, that a benedict can never hope for. why this is so might be difficult to explain, but discerning men know the fact. in truth, when a priest marries he should at once take a new charge, for if he remains with his old flock a goodly number of his "lady parishioners," in ages varying from seventeen to seventy, will with fierce indignation rend his reputation. swift was as wise as a serpent, but not always as harmless as a dove. he was making every effort to secure his miter and crosier: he had many women friends in london and elsewhere who had influence. rather than run the risk of losing this influence he never acknowledged stella as his wife. choosing fame rather than love, he withered at the heart, then died at the top. the life of every man is a seamless garment--its woof his thoughts, its warp his deeds. when for him the roaring loom of time stops and the thread is broken, foolish people sometimes point to certain spots in the robe and say, "oh, why did he not leave that out!" not knowing that every action of man is a sequence from off fate's spindle. let us accept the work of genius as we find it; not bemoaning because it is not better, but giving thanks because it is so good. * * * * * well-fed, rollicking priest is father o'toole of dublin, with a big, round face, a double chin, and a brogue that you can cut with a knife. my letter of introduction from monseigneur satolli caused him at once to bring in a large, suspicious, black bottle and two glasses. then we talked--talked of ireland's wrongs and woman's rights, and of all the irishmen in america whom i was supposed to know. we spoke of the illustrious irishmen who had passed on, and i mentioned a name that caused the holy father to spring from his chair in indignation. "shwift is it! shwift! no, me lad, don't go near him! he was the divil's own, the very worsht that ever followed the swish of a petticoat. no, no; if ye go to his grave it'll bring ye bad luck for a year. it's tom moore ye want--tom was the bye. arrah! now, and it's meself phat'll go wid ye." and so the reverend father put on a long, black coat and his saint patrick's day hat, and we started. we were met at the gate by a delegation of "shpalpeens" that had located me on the inside of the house and were lying in wait. all american travelers in ireland are supposed to be millionaires, and this may possibly explain the lavish attention that is often tendered them. at any rate, various members of the delegation wished "long life to the iligant 'merican gintleman," and hinted in terms unmistakable that pence would be acceptable. the holy father applied his cane vigorously to the ragged rears of the more presumptuous, and bade them begone, but still they followed and pressed close about. "here, i'll show you how to get rid of the dirty gang," said his holiness. "have ye a penny, i don't know?" i produced a handful of small change, which the father immediately took and tossed into the street. instantly there was a heterogeneous mass of young hibernians piled up in the dirt in a grand struggle for spoils. it reminded me of football incidents i had seen at fair harvard. in the meantime, we escaped down a convenient alley and crossed the river liffey to old dublin; inside the walls of the old city, through crooked lanes and winding streets that here and there showed signs of departed gentility, where now was only squalor, want and vice, until we came to number twelve angier street, a quaint, three-story brick building now used as a "public." in the wall above the door is a marble slab with this inscription: "here was born thomas moore, on the twenty-eighth day of may, seventeen hundred seventy-eight." above this in a niche is a bust of the poet. tom's father was a worthy greengrocer who, according to the author of "lalla rookh," always gave good measure and full count. it was ever a cause of regret to the elder moore that his son did not show sufficient capacity to be trusted safely with the business. the upper rooms of the house were shown to us by an obliging landlady. father o'toole had been here before, and led the way to a snug little chamber and explained that in this room the future poet of ireland was found under one of his father's cabbage-leaves. we descended to the neat little barroom with its sanded floor and polished glassware and shining brass. the holy father ordered 'arf-and-'arf at my expense and recited one of moore's ballads. the landlady then gave us byron's "here's a health to thee, tom moore." a neighbor came in. then we had more ballads, more 'arf-and-'arf, a selection from "lalla rookh," and various tales of the poet's early life, which possibly would be hard to verify. and as the tumult raged, the smoke of battle gave me opportunity to slip away. i crossed the street, turned down one block, and entered saint patrick's cathedral. great, roomy, gloomy, solemn temple, where the rumble of city traffic is deadened to a faint hum: "without, the world's unceasing noises rise, turmoil, disquietude and busy fears; within, there are the sounds of other years, thoughts full of prayer and solemn harmonies which imitate on earth the peaceful skies." other worshipers were there. standing beside a great stone pillar i could make them out kneeling on the tiled floor. gradually, my eyes became accustomed to the subdued light, and right at my feet i saw a large brass plate set in the floor and on it only this: swift died oct. 19, 1745 aged 78 on the wall near is a bronze tablet, the inscription of which, in latin, was dictated by swift himself: "here lies the body of jonathan swift, dean of this cathedral, where fierce indignation can no longer rend his heart. go! wayfarer, and imitate, if thou canst, one who, as far as in him lay, was an earnest champion of liberty----" above this is a fine bust of the dean, and to the right is another tablet: "underneath lie interred the mortal remains of mrs. hester johnson, better known to the world as 'stella,' under which she is celebrated in the writings of doctor jonathan swift, dean of this cathedral. she was a person of extraordinary endowments and accomplishments, in body, mind and behavior; justly admired and respected by all who knew her, on account of her eminent virtues as well as for her great natural and acquired perfections." these were suffering souls and great. would they have been so great had they not suffered? who can tell? were the waters troubled in order that they might heal the people? did swift misuse this excellent woman, is a question that has been asked and answered again and again. a great author has written: "a woman, a tender, noble, excellent woman, has a dog's heart. she licks the hand that strikes her. and wrong nor cruelty nor injustice nor disloyalty can cause her to turn." death in pity took stella first; took her in the loyalty of love and the fulness of faith from a world which for love has little recompense, and for faith small fulfilment. stella was buried by torchlight, at midnight, on the thirtieth day of january, seventeen hundred twenty-eight. swift was sick at the time, and wrote in his journal: "this is the night of her funeral, and i am removed to another apartment that i may not see the light in the church which is just over against my window." but in his imagination he saw the gleaming torches as their dull light shone through the colored windows, and he said, "they will soon do as much for me." but seventeen years came crawling by before the torches flared, smoked and gleamed as the mourners chanted a requiem, and the clods fell on the coffin, and their echoes intermingled with the solemn voice of the priest as he said, "dust to dust, ashes to ashes." in eighteen hundred thirty-five, the graves were opened and casts taken of the skulls. the top of swift's skull had been sawed off at the autopsy, and a bottle in which was a parchment setting forth the facts was inserted in the head that had conceived "gulliver's travels." i examined the casts. the woman's head is square and shapely. swift's head is a refutation of phrenology, being small, sloping and ordinary. the bones of swift and stella were placed in one coffin, and now rest under three feet of concrete, beneath the floor of saint patrick's. so sleep the lovers joined in death. walt whitman all seems beautiful to me. i can repeat over to men and women, you have done such good to me i would do the same to you, i will recruit for myself and you as i go. i will scatter myself among men and women as i go, i will toss a new gladness and roughness among them. --_song of the open road_ [illustration: walt whitman] max nordau wrote a book--wrote it with his tongue in his cheek, a dash of vitriol in the ink, and with a pen that scratched. and the first critic who seemed to place a just estimate on the work was mr. zangwill (he who has no christian name). mr. zangwill made an attempt to swear out a "writ de lunatico inquirendo" against his jewish brother, on the ground that the first symptom of insanity is often the delusion that others are insane; and this being so, doctor nordau was not a safe subject to be at large. but the assize of public opinion denied the petition, and the dear people bought the book at from three to five dollars a copy. printed in several languages, its sales have mounted to a hundred thousand volumes, and the author's net profit is full forty thousand dollars. no wonder is it that, with pockets full to bursting, doctor nordau goes out behind the house and laughs uproariously whenever he thinks of how he has worked the world! if doctor talmage is the barnum of theology, surely we may call doctor nordau the barnum of science. his agility in manipulating facts is equal to hermann's now-you-see-it and now-you-don't, with pocket-handkerchiefs. yet hermann's exhibition is worth the admittance fee, and nordau's book (seemingly written in collaboration with jules verne and mark twain) would be cheap for a dollar. but what i object to is professor hermann's disciples posing as sure-enough materializing mediums, and professor lombroso's followers calling themselves scientists, when each goes forth without scrip or purse with no other purpose than to supply themselves with both. yet it was barnum himself who said that the public delights in being humbugged, and strange it is that we will not allow ourselves to be thimblerigged without paying for the privilege. nordau's success hinged on his audacious assumption that the public knew nothing of the law of antithesis. yet plato explained that the opposites of things look alike, and sometimes are alike--and that was quite a while ago. the multitude answered, "thou hast a devil." many of them said, "he hath a devil and is mad." festus said with a loud voice, "paul, thou art beside thyself." and nordau shouts in a voice more heady than that of pilate, more throaty than that of festus, "mad--whitman was--mad beyond the cavil of a doubt!" in eighteen hundred sixty-two, lincoln, looking out of a window (before lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed) on one of the streets of washington, saw a workingman in shirt-sleeves go by. turning to a friend, the president said, "there goes a man!" the exclamation sounds singularly like that of napoleon on meeting goethe. but the corsican's remark was intended for the poet's ear, while lincoln did not know who his man was, although he came to know him afterward. lincoln in his early days was a workingman and an athlete, and he never quite got the idea out of his head (and i am glad) that he was still a hewer of wood. he once told george william curtis that he more than half expected yet to go back to the farm and earn his daily bread by the work that his hands found to do; he dreamed of it nights, and whenever he saw a splendid toiler, he felt like hailing the man as brother and striking hands with him. when lincoln saw whitman strolling majestically past, he took him for a stevedore or possibly the foreman of a construction gang. whitman was fifty-one years old then. his long, flowing beard was snow-white, and the shock that covered his jove-like head was iron-gray. his form was that of an apollo who had arrived at years of discretion. he weighed an even two hundred pounds and was just six feet high. his plain, check, cotton shirt was open at the throat to the breast; and he had an independence, a self-sufficiency, and withal a cleanliness, a sweetness and a gentleness, that told that, although he had a giant's strength, he did not use it like a giant. whitman used no tobacco, neither did he apply hot and rebellious liquors to his blood and with unblushing forehead woo the means of debility and disease. up to his fifty-third year he had never known a sick day, although at thirty his hair had begun to whiten. he had the look of age in his youth and the look of youth in his age that often marks the exceptional man. but at fifty-three his splendid health was crowded to the breaking strain. how? through caring for wounded, sick and dying men, hour after hour, day after day, through the long, silent watches of the night. from eighteen hundred sixty-four to the day of his death in eighteen hundred ninety-two, he was, physically, a man in ruins. but he did not wither at the top. through it all he held the healthy optimism of boyhood, carrying with him the perfume of the morning and the lavish heart of youth. doctor bucke, who was superintendent of a hospital for the insane for fifteen years, and the intimate friend of whitman all the time, has said: "his build, his stature, his exceptional health of mind and body, the size and form of his features, his cleanliness of mind and body, the grace of his movements and gestures, the grandeur, and especially the magnetism, of his presence; the charm of his voice, his genial, kindly humor; the simplicity of his habits and tastes, his freedom from convention, the largeness and the beauty of his manner; his calmness and majesty; his charity and forbearance--his entire unresentfulness under whatever provocation; his liberality, his universal sympathy with humanity in all ages and lands, his broad tolerance, his catholic friendliness, and his unexampled faculty of attracting affection, all prove his perfectly proportioned manliness." but whitman differed from the disciple of lombroso in two notable particulars: he had no quarrel with the world, and he did not wax rich. "one thing thou lackest, o walt whitman!" we might have said to the poet; "you are not a financier." he died poor. but this is no proof of degeneracy, save on 'change. when the children of count tolstoy endeavored to have him adjudged insane, the court denied the application and voiced the wisest decision that ever came out of russia: a man who gives away his money is not necessarily more foolish than he who saves it. and with horace l. traubel i assert that whitman was the sanest man i ever saw. * * * * * some men make themselves homes; and others there be who rent rooms. walt whitman was essentially a citizen of the world: the world was his home and mankind were his friends. there was a quality in the man peculiarly universal: a strong, virile poise that asked for nothing, but took what it needed. he loved men as brothers, yet his brothers after the flesh understood him not; he loved children--they turned to him instinctively--but he had no children of his own; he loved women, and yet this strongly sexed and manly man never loved a woman. and i might here say as philip gilbert hamerton said of turner, "he was lamentably unfortunate in this: throughout his whole life he never came under the ennobling and refining influence of a good woman." it requires two to make a home. the first home was made when a woman, cradling in her loving arms a baby, crooned a lullaby. all the tender sentimentality we throw around a place is the result of the sacred thought that we live there with some one else. it is "our" home. the home is a tryst--the place where we retire and shut the world out. lovers make a home, just as birds make a nest, and unless a man knows the spell of the divine passion i hardly see how he can have a home at all. he only rents a room. camden is separated from the city of philadelphia by the delaware river. camden lies low and flat--a great, sandy, monotonous waste of straggling buildings. here and there are straight rows of cheap houses, evidently erected by staid, broad-brimmed speculators from across the river, with eyes on the main chance. but they reckoned ill, for the town did not boom. some of these houses have marble steps and white, barn-like shutters, that might withstand a siege. when a funeral takes place in one of these houses, the shutters are tied with strips of mournful, black alpaca for a year and a day. engineers, dockmen, express-drivers and mechanics largely make up the citizens of camden. of course, camden has its smug corner where prosperous merchants most do congregate: where they play croquet in the front yards, and have window-boxes, and a piano and veranda-chairs and terra-cotta statuary; but for the most part the houses of camden are rented, and rented cheap. many of the domiciles are frame and have the happy tumbledown look of the back streets in charleston or richmond--those streets where the white trash merges off into prosperous colored aristocracy. old hats do duty in keeping out the fresh air where providence has interfered and broken out a pane; blinds hang by a single hinge; bricks on the chimney-tops threaten the passersby; stringers and posts mark the place where proud picket fences once stood--the pickets having gone for kindling long ago. in the warm, summer evenings, men in shirt-sleeves sit on the front steps and stolidly smoke, while children pile up sand in the streets and play in the gutters. parallel with mickle street, a block away, are railway-tracks. there noisy switch-engines that never keep sabbath, puff back and forth, day and night, sending showers of soot and smoke when the wind is right (and it usually is) straight over number 328, where, according to john addington symonds and william michael rossetti, lived the mightiest seer of the century--the man whom they rank with socrates, epictetus, saint paul, michelangelo and dante. it was in august of eighteen hundred eighty-three that i first walked up that little street--a hot, sultry summer evening. there had been a shower that turned the dust of the unpaved roadway to mud. the air was close and muggy. the houses, built right up to the sidewalks, over which, in little gutters, the steaming sewage ran, seemed to have discharged their occupants into the street to enjoy the cool of the day. barefooted children by the score paddled in the mud. all the steps were filled with loungers; some of the men had discarded not only coats but shirts as well, and now sat in flaming red underwear, holding babies. they say that "woman's work is never done," but to the women of mickle street this does not apply--but stay! perhaps their work is never done. anyway, i remember that women sat on the curbs in calico dresses or leaned out of the windows, and all seemed supremely free from care. "can you tell me where mr. whitman lives?" i asked a portly dame who was resting her elbows on a windowsill. "who?" "mr. whitman!" "you mean walt whitman?" "yes." "show the gentleman, molly; he'll give you a nickel, i'm sure!" i had not seen molly. she stood behind me, but as her mother spoke she seized tight hold of one of my fingers, claiming me as her lawful prey, and all the other children looked on with envious eyes as little molly threw at them glances of scorn and marched me off. molly was five, going on six, she told me. she had bright-red hair, a grimy face and little chapped feet that made not a sound as we walked. she got her nickel and carried it in her mouth, and this made conversation difficult. after going one block she suddenly stopped, squared me around and pointing said, "them is he!" and disappeared. in a wheeled rattan chair, in the hallway, a little back from the door of a plain, weather-beaten house, sat the coatless philosopher, his face and head wreathed in a tumult of snow-white hair. i had a little speech, all prepared weeks before and committed to memory, that i intended to repeat, telling him how i had read his poems and admired them. and further i had stored away in my mind a few blades from "leaves of grass" that i purposed to bring out at the right time as a sort of certificate of character. but when that little girl jerked me right-about-face and heartlessly deserted me, i stared dumbly at the man whom i had come a hundred miles to see. i began angling for my little speech, but could not fetch it. "hello!" called the philosopher, out of the white aureole. "hello! come here, boy!" he held out his hand and as i took it there was a grasp with meaning in it. "don't go yet, joe," he said to a man seated on the step smoking a cob-pipe. "the old woman's calling me," said the swarthy joe. joe evidently held truth lightly. "so long, walt!" "good-by, joe. sit down, lad; sit down!" i sat in the doorway at his feet. "now isn't it queer--that fellow is a regular philosopher and works out some great problems, but he's ashamed to express 'em. he could no more give you his best than he could fly. ashamed, i s'pose, ashamed of the best that is in him. we are all a little that way--all but me--i try to write my best, regardless of whether the thing sounds ridiculous or not--regardless of what others think or say or have said. ashamed of our holiest, truest and best! is it not too bad? "you are twenty-five now? well, boy, you may grow until you are thirty and then you will be as wise as you ever will be. haven't you noticed that men of sixty have no clearer vision than men of forty? one reason is that we have been taught that we know all about life and death and the mysteries of the grave. but the main reason is that we are ashamed to shove out and be ourselves. jesus expressed his own individuality perhaps more than any other man we know of, and so he wields a wider influence than any other. and this though we only have a record of just twenty-seven days of his life. now that fellow that just left is an engineer, and he dreams some beautiful dreams; but he never expresses them to any one--only hints them to me, and this only at twilight. he is like a weasel or a mink or a whippoorwill--he comes out only at night. "'if the weather was like this all the time, people would never learn to read and write,' said joe to me just as you arrived. and isn't that so? here we can count a hundred people up and down this street, and not one is reading, not one but that is just lolling about, except the children--and they are happy only when playing in the dirt. why, if this tropical weather should continue we would all slip back into south sea islanders! you can raise good men only in a little strip around the north temperate zone--when you get out of the track of a glacier, a tender-hearted, sympathetic man of brains is an accident." then the old man suddenly ceased and i imagined that he was following the thought out in his own mind. we sat silent for a space. the twilight fell, and a lamplighter lit the street lamp on the corner. he stopped an instant to salute the poet cheerily as he passed. the man sitting on the doorstep, across the street, smoking, knocked the ashes out of his pipe on his boot-heel and went indoors. women called their children, who did not respond, but still played on. then the creepers were carried in, to be fed their bread-and-milk and put to bed; and, shortly, shrill feminine voices ordered the other children indoors, and some obeyed. the night crept slowly on. i heard old walt chuckle behind me, talking incoherently to himself, and then he said, "you are wondering why i live in such a place as this?" "yes; that is exactly what i was thinking of!" "you think i belong in the country, in some quiet, shady place. but all i have to do is to shut my eyes and go there. no man loves the woods more than i--i was born within sound of the sea--down on long island, and i know all the songs that the seashell sings. but this babble and babel of voices pleases me better, especially since my legs went on a strike, for although i can't walk, you see i can still mix with the throng, so i suffer no loss. "in the woods, a man must be all hands and feet. i like the folks, the plain, ignorant, unpretentious folks; and the youngsters that come and slide on my cellar-door do not disturb me a bit. i'm different from carlyle--you know he had a noise-proof room where he locked himself in. now, when a huckster goes by, crying his wares, i open the blinds, and often wrangle with the fellow over the price of things. but the rogues have got into a way lately of leaving truck for me and refusing pay. today an irishman passed in three quarts of berries and walked off pretending to be mad because i offered to pay. when he was gone, i beckoned to the babies over the way--they came over and we had a feast. "yes, i like the folks around here; i like the women, and i like the men, and i like the babies, and i like the youngsters that play in the alley and make mud pies on my steps. i expect to stay here until i die." "you speak of death as a matter of course--you are not afraid to die?" "oh, no, my boy; death is as natural as life, and a deal kinder. but it is all good--i accept it all and give thanks--you have not forgotten my chant to death?" "not i!" i repeated a few lines from "drum-taps." he followed me, rapping gently with his cane on the floor, and with little interjectory remarks of "that's so!" "very true!" "good, good!" and when i faltered and lost the lines he picked them up where "the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird." in a strong, clear voice, but a voice full of sublime feeling, he repeated those immortal lines, beginning, "come, lovely and soothing 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. praised be the fathomless universe for life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, and for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise for the sure enwinding arms of cool, enfolding death. dark mother, always gliding near with soft feet, have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? then i chant for thee, i glorify thee above all, i bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. approach, strong deliveress, when it is so, when thou hast taken them i joyously sing the death, lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, laved in the flood of thy bliss, o death. from me to thee glad serenades, dances for thee i propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee, and the sights of the open landscape and the high spread sky are fitting, and life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. the night in silence under many a star, the ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice i know, and the soul turning to thee, o vast and well-veil'd death, and the body gratefully nestling close to thee. over the tree-tops i float thee a song, over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide, over the dense-packed cities all, and the teeming wharves, and ways, i float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, o death." the last playing youngster had silently disappeared from the streets. the doorsteps were deserted--save where across the way a young man and maiden sat in the gloaming, conversing in low monotone. the clouds had drifted away. a great, yellow star shone out above the chimney-tops in the east. i arose to go. "i wish you'd come oftener--i see you so seldom, lad," said the old man, half-plaintively. i did not explain that we had never met before--that i had come from new york purposely to see him. he thought he knew me. and so he did--as much as i could impart. the rest was irrelevant. as to my occupation or name, what booted it!--he had no curiosity concerning me. i grasped his outstretched hand in both of my own. he said not a word; neither did i. i turned and made my way to the ferry--past the whispering lovers on the doorsteps, and over the railway-tracks where the noisy engines puffed. as i walked on board the boat, the wind blew up cool and fresh from the west. the star in the east grew brighter, and other stars came out, reflecting themselves like gems in the dark blue of the delaware. there was a soft sublimity in the sound of the bells that came echoing over the waters. my heart was very full, for i had felt the thrill of being in the presence of a great and loving soul. it was the first time and the last that i ever saw walt whitman. * * * * * a good many writers bear no message: they carry no torch. sometimes they excite wonder, or they amuse and divert--divert us from our work. to be diverted to a certain degree may be well, but there is a point where earth ends and cloud-land begins, and even great poets occasionally befog the things they would reveal. homer was seemingly blind to much simple truth; vergil carries you away from earth; horace was undone without his mã¦cenas; dante makes you an exile; shakespeare was singularly silent concerning the doubts, difficulties and common lives of common people; byron's corsair life does not help you in your toil, and in his fight with english bards and scotch reviewers we crave neutrality; to be caught in the meshes of pope's "dunciad" is not pleasant; and lowell's "fable for critics" is only another "dunciad." but above all other poets who have ever lived, the author of "leaves of grass" was the poet of humanity. milton knew all about heaven, and dante conducts us through hell, but it was left for whitman to show us earth. his voice never goes so high that it breaks into an impotent falsetto, neither does it growl and snarl at things it does not understand and not understanding does not like. he was so great that he had no envy, and his insight was so sure that he had no prejudice. he never boasted that he was higher, nor claimed to be less than any of the other sons of men. he met all on terms of absolute equality, mixing with the poor, the lowly, the fallen, the oppressed, the cultured, the rich--simply as brother with brother. and when he said to an outcast, "not till the sun excludes you will i exclude you," he voiced a sentiment worthy of a god. he was brother to the elements, the mountains, the seas, the clouds, the sky. he loved them all and partook of them all in his large, free, unselfish, untrammeled nature. his heart knew no limits, and feeling his feet mortised in granite and his footsteps tenoned in infinity he knew the amplitude of time. only the great are generous; only the strong are forgiving. like lot's wife, most poets look back over their shoulders; and those who are not looking backward insist that we shall look into the future, and the vast majority of the whole scribbling rabble accept the precept, "man never is, but always to be blest." we grieve for childhood's happy days, and long for sweet rest in heaven and sigh for mansions in the skies. and the people about us seem so indifferent, and our friends so lukewarm; and really no one understands us, and our environment queers our budding spirituality, and the frost of jealousy nips our aspirations: "o paradise, o paradise, the world is growing old; who would not be at rest and free where love is never cold." so sing the fearsome dyspeptics of the stylus. o anemic he, you bloodless she, nipping at crackers, sipping at tea, why not consider that, although evolutionists tell us where we came from, and theologians inform us where we are going to, yet the only thing we are really sure of is that we are here! the present is the perpetually moving spot where history ends and prophecy begins. it is our only possession: the past we reach through lapsing memory, halting recollection, hearsay and belief; we pierce the future by wistful faith or anxious hope; but the present is beneath our feet. whitman sings the beauty and the glory of the present. he rebukes our groans and sighs--bids us look about on every side at the wonders of creation, and at the miracles within our grasp. he lifts us up, restores us to our own, introduces us to man and to nature, and thus infuses into us courage, manly pride, self-reliance, and the strong faith that comes when we feel our kinship with god. he was so mixed with the universe that his voice took on the sway of elemental integrity and candor. absolutely honest, this man was unafraid and unashamed, for nature has neither apprehension, shame nor vainglory. in "leaves of grass" whitman speaks as all men have ever spoken who believe in god and in themselves--oracular, without apology or abasement--fearlessly. he tells of the powers and mysteries that pervade and guide all life, all death, all purpose. his work is masculine, as the sun is masculine; for the prophetic voice is as surely masculine as the lullaby and lyric cry are feminine. whitman brings the warmth of the sun to the buds of the heart, so that they open and bring forth form, color, perfume. he becomes for them aliment and dew; so these buds become blossoms, fruits, tall branches and stately trees that cast refreshing shadows. there are men who are to other men as the shadow of a mighty rock in a weary land--such is walt whitman. victor hugo man is neither master of his life nor of his fate. he can but offer to his fellowmen his efforts to diminish human suffering; he can but offer to god his indomitable faith in the growth of liberty. --_victor hugo_ [illustration: victor hugo] the father of victor hugo was a general in the army of napoleon, his mother a woman of rare grace and brave good sense. victor was the third of three sons. six weeks before the birth of her youngest boy, the mother wrote to a very dear friend of her husband, this letter: "to general victor lahorie, "citizen-general: "soon to become the mother of a third child, it would be very agreeable to me if you would act as its godfather. its name shall be yours--one which you have not belied and one which you have so well honored: victor or victorine. your consent will be a testimonial of your friendship for us. "please accept, citizen-general, the assurance of our sincere attachment. "femme hugo." victorine was expected, victor came. general lahorie acted as sponsor for the infant. a soldier's family lives here or there, everywhere or anywhere. in eighteen hundred eight, general hugo was with joseph bonaparte in spain. victor was then six years old. his mother had taken as a residence a quaint house in the impasse of the feullantines, paris. it was one of those peculiar old places occasionally seen in france. the environs of london have a few; america none of which i know. this house, roomy, comfortable and antiquated, was surrounded with trees and a tangle of shrubbery, vines and flowers; above it all was a high stone wall, and in front a picket iron gate. it was a mosaic--a sample of the sixteenth century inlaid in this; solitary as the woods; quiet as a convent; sacred as a forest; a place for dreams, and reverie, and rest. at the back of the house was a dilapidated little chapel. here an aged priest counted his beads, said daily mass, and endeavored to keep moth, rust and ruin from the house of prayer. this priest was a scholar, a man of learning: he taught the children of madame hugo. another man lived in this chapel. he never went outside the gate and used to take exercise at night. he had a cot-bed in the shelter of the altar; beneath his pillow were a pair of pistols and a copy of tacitus. this man lived there summer and winter, although there was no warmth save the scanty sunshine that stole in through the shattered windows. he, too, taught the children and gave them little lectures on history. he loved the youngest boy and would carry him on his shoulder and tell him stories of deeds of valor. one day a file of soldiers came. they took this man and manacled him. the mother sought to keep her children inside the house so that they should not witness the scene, but she did not succeed. the boys fought their mother and the servants in a mad frenzy trying to rescue the old man. the soldiers formed in columns of four and marched their prisoner away. not long after, madame hugo was passing the church of saint jacques du haut pas: her youngest boy's hand was in hers. she saw a large placard posted in front of the church. she paused and pointing to it said, "victor, read that!" the boy read. it was a notice that general lahorie had been shot that day on the plains of grenville by order of a court martial. general lahorie was a gentleman of brittany. he was a republican, and five years before had grievously offended the emperor. a charge of conspiracy being proved against him, a price was placed upon his head, and he found a temporary refuge with the mother of his godson. that tragic incident of the arrest, and the placard announcing general lahorie's death, burned deep into the soul of the manling, and who shall say to what extent it colored his future life? when napoleon met his downfall, it was also a waterloo for general hugo. his property was confiscated, and penury took the place of plenty. when victor was nineteen, his mother having died, the family life was broken up. in "les miserables" the early struggles of marius are described; and this, the author has told us, may be considered autobiography. he has related how the young man lived in a garret; how he would sweep this barren room; how he would buy a pennyworth of cheese, waiting until dusk to get a loaf of bread, and slink home as furtively as if he had stolen it; how carrying his book under his arm he would enter the butcher's shop, and after being elbowed by jeering servants till he felt the cold sweat standing out on his forehead, he would take off his hat to the astonished butcher and ask for a single mutton-chop. this he would carry to his garret, and cooking it himself it would be made to last for three days. in this way he managed to live on less than two hundred dollars a year, derived from the proceeds of poems, pamphlets and essays. at this time he was already an "academy laureate," having received honorable mention for a poem submitted in a competition. in his twentieth year, fortune came to him in triple form: he brought out a book of poems that netted him seven hundred francs; soon after the publication of this book, louis the eighteenth, who knew the value of having friends who were ready writers, bestowed on him a pension of one thousand francs a year; then these two pieces of good fortune made possible a third--his marriage. early marriages are like late ones: they may be wise and they may not. victor hugo's marriage with adele foucher was a most happy event. a man with a mind as independent as victor hugo's is sure to make enemies. the "classics" were positive that he was defiling the well of classic french, and they sought to write him down. but by writing a man up you can not write him down; the only thing that can smother a literary aspirant is silence. victor hugo coined the word when he could not find it, transposed phrases, inverted sentences, and never called a spade an agricultural implement. not content with this, he put the spade on exhibition and this often at unnecessary times, and occasionally prefaced the word with an adjective. had he been let alone he would not have done this. the censors told him he must not use the name of deity, nor should he refer so often to kings. at once, he doubled his topseys and put on his stage three uncle toms when one might have answered. like shakespeare, he used idioms and slang with profusion--anything to express the idea. will this convey the thought? if so, it was written down, and, once written, beelzebub and all his hosts could not make him change it. but in the interest of truth let me note one exception: "i do not like that word," said mademoiselle mars to victor hugo at a rehearsal of "hernani"; "can i not change it?" "i wrote it so and it must stand," was the answer. mademoiselle mars used another expression instead of the author's, and he promptly asked her to resign her part. she wept, and upon agreeing to adhere to the text was reinstated in favor. rehearsal after rehearsal occurred, and the words were repeated as written. the night of the performance came. superb was the stage-setting, splendid the audience. the play went forward amid loud applause. the scene was reached where came the objectionable word. did mademoiselle mars use it? of course not; she used the word she chose--she was a woman. fifty-three times she played the part, and not once did she use the author's pet phrase; and he was wise enough not to note the fact. the moral of this is that not even a strong man can cope with a small woman who weeps at the right time. the censorship forbade the placing of "marion delorme" on the stage until a certain historical episode in it had been changed. would the author be so kind as to change it? not he. "then it shall not be played," said m. de martignac. the author hastened to interview the minister in person. he got a north pole reception. in fact, m. de martignac said that it was his busy day, and that playwriting was foolish business anyway; but if a man were bound to write, he should write to amuse, not to instruct. and young hugo was bowed out. when he found himself well outside the door he was furious. he would see the king himself. and he did see the king. his majesty was gracious and very patient. he listened to the young author's plea, talked book-lore, recited poetry, showed that he knew hugo's verses, asked after the author's wife, then the baby, and--said that the play could not go on. hugo turned to go. charles the tenth called him back, and said that he was glad the author had called--in fact, he was about to send for him. his pension thereafter should be six thousand francs a year. victor hugo declined to receive it. of course, the papers were full of the subject. all cafedom took sides: paris had a topic for gesticulation, and paris improved the opportunity. conservatism having stopped this play, there was only one thing to do: write another; for a play of victor hugo's must be put upon the stage. all his friends said so; his honor was at stake. in three weeks another play was ready. the censors read it and gave their report. they said that "hernani" was whimsical in conception, defective in execution, a tissue of extravagances, generally trivial and often coarse. but they advised that it be put upon the stage, just to show the public to what extent of folly an author could go. in order to preserve the dignity of their office, they drew up a list of six places where the text should be changed. both sides were afraid, so each was willing to give in a point. the text was changed, and the important day for the presentation was drawing nigh. the romanticists were, of course, anxious that the play should be a great success; the classics were quite willing that it should be otherwise; in fact, they had bought up the claque and were making arrangements to hiss it down. but the author's friends were numerous; they were young and lusty; they held meetings behind locked doors, and swore terrible oaths that the play should go. on the day of the initial performance, five hours before the curtain rose, they were on hand, having taken the best seats in the house. they also took the worst, wherever a hisser might hide. these advocates of liberal art wore coats of green or red or blue, costumes like bullfighters, trousers and hats to match or not to match--anything to defy tradition. all during the performance there was an uproar. theophile gautier has described the event in most entertaining style, and in "l'historie de romanticisme" the record of it is found in detail. several american writers have touched upon this particular theme, and all who have seen fit to write of it seem to have stood under umbrellas when god rained humor. one writer calls it "the outburst of a tremendous revolution in literature." he speaks of "smoldering flames," "the hordes that furiously fought entrenched behind prestige, age, caste, wealth and tradition," "suppression and extermination of heresy," "those who sought to stop the onward march of civilization," etc. let us be sensible. a "cane-rush" is not a revolution, and "bloody monday" at harvard is not "a decisive battle in the onward and upward march." if "hernani" had been hissed down, victor hugo would have lived just as long and might have written better. civilization is not held in place by noisy youths in flaming waistcoats; and even if every cabbage had hit its mark, and every egg bespattered its target, the morning stars would still sing together. "the hunchback of notre dame" was next turned out--written in five months--and was a great success. publishers besieged the author for another story, but he preferred poetry. it was thirty years before his next novel, "les miserables," appeared. but all the time he wrote--plays, verses, essays, pamphlets. everything that he penned was widely read. amid storms of opposition and cries of bravo, continually making friends, he moved steadily forward. men like victor hugo can be killed or they may be banished, but they can not be bought; neither can they be intimidated into silence. he resigned his pension and boldly expressed himself in his own way. he knew history by heart and toyed with it; politics was his delight. but it is a mistake to call him a statesman. he was bold to rashness, impulsive, impatient and vehement. because a man is great is no reason why he should be proclaimed perfect. such men as victor hugo need no veneer--the truth will answer: he would explode a keg of powder to kill a fly. he was an agitator. but these zealous souls are needed--not to govern or to be blindly followed, but rather to make other men think for themselves. yet to do this in a monarchy is not safe. the years passed, and the time came for either hugo or royalty to go; france was not large enough for both. it proved to be hugo; a bounty of twenty-five thousand francs was offered for his body, dead or alive. through a woman's devotion he escaped to brussels. he was driven from there to jersey, then to guernsey. it was nineteen years before he returned to paris--years of banishment, but years of glory. exiled by fate that he might do his work! * * * * * each day a steamer starts from southampton for guernsey, alderney and jersey. these are names known to countless farmers' boys the wide world over. you can not mistake the channel island boats--they smell like a county fair, and though you be blind and deaf it is impossible to board the wrong craft. every time one of these staunch little steamers lands in england, crates containing mild-eyed, lusty calves are slid down the gangplank, marked for maine, iowa, california, or some uttermost part of the earth. there his vealship (worth his weight in gold) is going to found a kingdom. i stood on the dock watching the bovine passengers disembark, and furtively listened the while to an animated argument between two rather rough-looking, red-faced men, clothed in corduroys and carrying long, stout staffs. mixed up in their conversation i caught the names of royalty, then of celebrities great, and artists famous--warriors, orators, philanthropists and musicians. could it be possible that these rustics were poets? it must be so. and there came to me thoughts of thoreau, walt whitman, joaquin miller, and all that sublime company of singers in shirt-sleeves. suddenly the wind veered and the veil fell; all the sacred names so freely bandied about were those of "families" with mighty milk-records. when we went on board and the good ship was slipping down the solent, i made the acquaintance of these men and was regaled with more cow-talk than i had heard since i left texas. we saw the island of portsea, where dickens was born, and got a glimpse of the spires of portsmouth as we passed; then came the isle of wight and the quaint town of cowes. i made a bright joke on the latter place as it was pointed out to me by my jersey friend, but it went for naught. a pleasant sail of eight hours and the towering cliffs of guernsey came in sight. foam-dashed and spray-covered they rise right out of the sea at the south, to the height of two hundred seventy feet. about them great flocks of sea-fowl hover, swirl and soar. wild, rugged and romantic is the scene. the isle of guernsey is nine miles long and six wide. its principal town is saint peter port, a place of about sixteen thousand inhabitants, where a full dozen hotel porters meet the incoming steamer and struggle for your baggage. hotels and boarding-houses here are numerous and good. guernsey is a favorite resort for invalids and those who desire to flee the busy world for a space. in fact, the author of "les miserables" has made exile popular. emerging from my hotel at saint peter port i was accosted by a small edition of gavroche, all in tatters, who proposed showing me the way to hauteville house for a penny. i already knew the route, but accepted the offer on gavroche's promise to reveal to me a secret about the place. the secret is this: the house is haunted, and when the wind is east, and the setting moon shows only a narrow rim above the rocks, ghosts come and dance a solemn minuet on the glass roof above the study. had gavroche ever seen them? no, but he knew a boy who had. years and years--ever so many years ago--long before there were any steamboats, and when only a schooner came to guernsey once a week, a woman was murdered in hauteville house. her ghost came back with other ghosts and drove the folks away. so the big house remained vacant--save for the spooks, who paid no rent. then after a great, long time victor hugo came and lived in the house. the ghosts did not bother him. faith! they had been keeping the place just a' purpose for him. he rented the house first, and liked it so well that he bought it--got it at half-price on account of the ghosts. here, every christmas, victor hugo gave a big dinner in the great oak hall to all the children in guernsey: hundreds of them--all the way from babies that could barely creep, to "boys" with whiskers. they were all fed on turkey, tarts, apples, oranges and figs; and when they went away, each was given a bag of candy to take home. climbing a narrow, crooked street we came to the great, dark, gloomy edifice situated at the top of a cliff. the house was painted black by some strange whim of a former occupant. "we will leave it so," said victor hugo; "liberty is dead, and we are in mourning for her." but the gloom of hauteville house is only on the outside. within all is warm and homelike. the furnishings are almost as the poet left them, and the marks of his individuality are on every side. in the outer hall stands an elegant column of carved oak, its panels showing scenes from "the hunchback." in the dining-room there is fantastic wainscoting with plaques and porcelain tiles inlaid here and there. many of these ornaments were presents, sent by unknown admirers in all parts of the world. in "les miserables" there is a chance line revealing the author's love for the beautiful as shown in the grain of woods. the result was an influx of polished panels, slabs, chips, hewings, carvings, and in one instance a log sent "collect." samples of redwood, ebony, calamander, hamamelis, suradanni, tamarind, satinwood, mahogany, walnut, maples of many kinds and oaks without limit--all are there. a mammoth ax-helve i noticed on the wall was labeled, "shagbark-hickory from missouri." these specimens of wood were sometimes made up into hatracks, chairs, canes, or panels for doors, and are seen in odd corners of these rambling rooms. charles hugo once facetiously wrote to a friend: "we have bought no kindling for three years." at another time he writes: "father still is sure he can sketch and positive he can carve. he has several jackknives, and whittles names, dates and emblems on sticks and furniture--we tremble for the piano." in the dining-room, i noticed a huge oaken chair fastened to the wall with a chain. on the mantel was a statuette of the virgin; on the pedestal victor hugo had engraved lines speaking of her as "freedom's goddess." this dining-room affords a sunny view out into the garden; on this floor are also a reception-room, library and a smoking-room. on the next floor are various sleeping-apartments, and two cozy parlors, known respectively as the red room and the blue. both are rich in curious draperies, a little more pronounced in color than some folks admire. the next floor contains the "oak gallery": a ballroom we should call it. five large windows furnish a flood of light. in the center of this fine room is an enormous candelabrum with many branches, at the top a statue of wood, the whole carved by victor hugo's own hands. the oak gallery is a regular museum of curiosities of every sort--books, paintings, carvings, busts, firearms, musical instruments. a long glass case contains a large number of autograph-letters from the world's celebrities, written to hugo in exile. at the top of the house and built on its flat roof is the most interesting apartment of hauteville house--the study and workroom of victor hugo. three of its sides and the roof are of glass. the floor, too, is one immense slab of sea-green glass. sliding curtains worked by pulleys cut off the light as desired. "more light, more light," said the great man again and again. he gloried and reveled in the sunshine. here, in the winter, with no warmth but the sun's rays, his eyes shaded by his felt hat, he wrote, always standing at a shelf fixed in the wall. on this shelf were written all "the toilers," "the man who laughs," "shakespeare" and much of "les miserables." the leaves of manuscript were numbered and fell on the floor, to remain perhaps for days before being gathered up. when victor hugo went to guernsey he went to liberty, not to banishment. he arrived at hauteville house poor in purse and broken in health. here the fire of his youth came back, and his pen retrieved the fortune that royalty had confiscated. the forenoons were given to earnest work. the daughter composed music; the sons translated shakespeare and acted as their father's faithful helpers; madame hugo collected the notes of her husband's life and cheerfully looked after her household affairs. several hours of each afternoon were given to romp and play; the evenings were sacred to music, reading and conversation. horace greeley was once a prisoner in paris. from his cell he wrote, "the saint peter who holds the keys of this place has kindly locked the world out; and for once, thank heaven, i am free from intrusion." lovers of truth must thank exile for some of our richest and ripest literature. exile is not all exile. imagination can not be imprisoned. amid the winding bastions of the brain, thought roams free and untrammeled. liberty is only a comparative term, and victor hugo at guernsey enjoyed a thousand times more freedom than ever ruling monarch knew. standing at the shelf-desk where this "gentleman of france" stood for so many happy hours, i inscribed my name in the "visitors' book." i thanked the good woman who had shown me the place, and told me so much of interest--thanked her in words that seemed but a feeble echo of all that my heart would say. i went down the stairs--out at the great carved doorway--and descended the well-worn steps. perched on a crag waiting for me was little gavroche, his rags fluttering in the breeze. he offered to show me the great stone chair where gilliatt sat when the tide came up and carried him away. and did i want to buy a bull calf? gavroche knew where there was a fine one that could be bought cheap. gavroche would show me both the calf and the stone chair for threepence. i accepted the offer, and we went down the stony street toward the sea, hand in hand. * * * * * on the twenty-eighth day of june, eighteen hundred ninety-four, i took my place in the long line and passed slowly through the pantheon at paris and viewed the body of president carnot. the same look of proud dignity that i had seen in life was there--calm, composed, serene. the inanimate clay was clothed in the simple black of a citizen of the republic; the only mark of office being the red silken sash that covered the spot in the breast where the stiletto-stroke of hate had gone home. amid bursts of applause, surrounded by loving friends and loyal adherents, he was stricken down and passed out into the unknown. happy fate! to die before the fickle populace had taken up a new idol; to step in an instant beyond the reach of malice--to leave behind the self-seekers that pursue, the hungry horde that follows, the zealots who defame; to escape the dagger-thrust of calumny and receive only the glittering steel that at the same time wrote his name indelibly on the roll of honor. carnot, thrice happy thou! thy name is secure on history's page, and thy dust now resting beneath the dome of the pantheon is bedewed with the tears of thy countrymen. saint genevieve, the patron saint of paris, died in five hundred twelve. she was buried on a hilltop, the highest point in paris, on the left bank of the seine. over the grave was erected a chapel which for many years was a shrine for the faithful. this chapel with its additions remained until seventeen hundred fifty, when a church was designed which in beauty of style and solidity of structure has rarely been equaled. the object of the architect was to make the most enduring edifice possible, and still not sacrifice proportion. louis the fifteenth laid the cornerstone of this church in seventeen hundred sixty-four, and in seventeen hundred ninety the edifice was dedicated by the roman catholics with great pomp. but the spirit of revolution was at work; and in one year after, a mob sacked this beautiful building, burned its pews, destroyed its altar, and wrought havoc with its ecclesiastical furniture. the convention converted the structure into a memorial temple, inscribing on its front the words, "aux grandes hommes la patrie reconnaisante," and they named the building the pantheon. in eighteen hundred six, the catholics had gotten such influence with the government that the building was restored to them. after the revolution of eighteen hundred thirty, the church of saint genevieve was again taken from the priests. it was held until eighteen hundred fifty-one, when the romanists in the assembly succeeded in having it again reconsecrated. in the meantime, many of the great men of france had been buried there. the first interment in the pantheon was mirabeau. next came marat--stabbed while in the bath by charlotte corday. both bodies were removed by order of the convention when the church was given back to rome. in the pantheon, the visitor now sees the elaborate tombs of voltaire and rousseau. in the dim twilight he reads the glowing inscriptions, and from the tomb of rousseau he sees the hand thrust forth bearing a torch--but the bones of these men are not here. while robed priests chanted the litany, as the great organ pealed, and swinging censers gave off their perfume, visitors came, bringing children, and they stopped at the arches where rousseau and voltaire slept side by side, and they said, "it is here." and so the dust of infidel greatness seemed to interfere with the rites. a change was made. let victor hugo tell: "one night in may, eighteen hundred fourteen, about two o'clock in the morning, a cab stopped near the city gate of la gare at an opening in a board fence. this fence surrounded a large, vacant piece of ground belonging to the city of paris. the cab had come from the pantheon, and the coachman had been ordered to take the most deserted streets. three men alighted from the cab and crawled into the enclosure. two carried a sack between them. other men, some in cassocks, awaited them. they proceeded towards a hole dug in the middle of the field. at the bottom of the hole was quicklime. these men said nothing, they had no lanterns. the wan daybreak gave a ghastly light; the sack was opened. it was full of bones. these were the bones of jean jacques and of voltaire, which had been withdrawn from the pantheon. "the mouth of the sack was brought close to the hole, and the bones rattled down into that black pit. the two skulls struck against each other; a spark, not likely to be seen by those standing near, was doubtless exchanged between the head that made 'the philosophical dictionary' and the head that made 'the social contract,' when that was done, when the sack was shaken, when voltaire and rousseau had been emptied into that hole, a digger seized a spade, threw into the opening the heap of earth, and filled up the grave. the others stamped with their feet upon the ground, so as to remove from it the appearance of having been freshly disturbed. one of the assistants took for his trouble the sack--as the hangman takes the clothing of his victim--they left the enclosure, got into the cab without saying a word, and, hastily, before the sun had risen, these men got away." the ashes of the man who wrote these vivid words now rest next to the empty tombs of voltaire and rousseau. but a step away is the grave of sadi-carnot. when the visitor is conducted to the crypt of the pantheon, he is first taken to the tomb of victor hugo. the sarcophagus on each side is draped with the red, white and blue of france and the stars and stripes of america. with uncovered heads, we behold the mass of flowers and wreaths, and our minds go back to eighteen hundred eighty-five, when the body of the chief citizen of paris lay in state at the pantheon and five hundred thousand people passed by and laid the tribute of silence or of tears on his bier. the pantheon is now given over as a memorial to the men of france who have enriched the world with their lives. over the portals of this beautiful temple are the words, "liberte, egalite, fraternite." across its floors of rarest mosaic echo only the feet of pilgrims and those of the courteous and kindly old soldiers who have the place in charge. on the walls color revels in beautiful paintings, and in the niches and on the pedestals is marble that speaks of greatness which lives in lives made better. the history of the pantheon is one of strife. as late as eighteen hundred seventy the commune made it a stronghold, and the streets on every side were called upon to contribute their paving-stones for a barricade. yet it seems meet that victor hugo's dust should lie here amid the scenes he loved and knew, and where he struggled, worked, toiled, achieved; from whence he was banished, and to which he returned in triumph, to receive at last the complete approbation so long withheld. certainly not in the quiet of a mossy graveyard, nor in a church where priests mumble unmeaning words at fixed times, nor yet alone on the mountain-side--for he chafed at solitude--but he should have been buried at sea. in the midst of storm and driving sleet, at midnight, the sails should have been lowered, the great engines stopped, and with no requiem but the sobbing of the night-wind and the sighing of the breeze through the shrouds, and the moaning of the waves as they surged about the great, black ship, the plank should have been run out, and the body wrapped in the red, white and blue of the republic: the sea, the infinite mother of all, beloved and sung by him, should have taken his tired form to her arms, and there he would rest. if not this, then the pantheon. wm. wordsworth even such a shell the universe itself is to the ear of faith; and there are times, i doubt not, when to you it doth impart authentic tidings of invisible things; of ebb and flow and ever-during power; and central peace subsisting at the heart of endless agitation. here you stand, adore and worship, when you know it not; pious beyond the intention of your thought; devout above the meaning of your will. --_wordsworth_ [illustration: william wordsworth] some one has told us that heaven is not a place but a condition of mind, and it is possible that he is right. but if heaven is a place, surely it is not unlike grasmere. such loveliness of landscape--such sylvan stretches of crystal water--peace and quiet and rest! great, green hills lift their heads to the skies, and all the old stone walls and hedgerows are covered with trailing vines and blooming flowers. the air is rich with song of birds, sweet with perfume, and the blossoms gaily shower their petals on the passer-by. overhead, white, billowy clouds float lazily over their background of ethereal blue. cool june breezes fan the cheek. distant knolls are dotted with flocks of sheep whose bells tinkle dreamily; and drowsy hum of beetle makes the bass, while lark song forms the air of the sweet symphony that nature plays. such was grasmere as i first saw it. to love the plain, homely, common, simple things of earth, of these to sing; to make the familiar beautiful and the commonplace enchanting; to cause each bush to burn with the actual presence of the living god: this is the poet's office. and if the poet lives near grasmere, his task does not seem difficult. from seventeen hundred ninety-nine to eighteen hundred eight, wordsworth lived at dove cottage. thanks to a few earnest souls, the place is now secured to the people of england and the lovers of poetry wherever they may be. a good old woman has charge of the cottage, and for a slight fee shows you the house and garden and little orchard and objects of interest, all the while talking: and you are glad, for, although unlettered, she is reverent and honest. she was born here, and all she knows is wordsworth and the people and the things he loved. is not this enough? here wordsworth lived before anything he wrote was published in book form: here his best work was done, and here dorothy--splendid, sympathetic dorothy---was inspiration, critic, friend. but who inspired dorothy? coleridge perhaps more than all others, and we know somewhat of their relationship as told in dorothy's diary. there is a little wordsworth library in dove cottage, and i sat at the window of "de quincey's room" and read for an hour. says dorothy: "sat until four o'clock reading dear coleridge's letters." "we paced the garden until moonrise at one o'clock--we three, brother, coleridge and i." "i read spenser to him aloud and then we had a midnight tea." here in this little, terraced garden, behind the stone cottage with its low ceilings and wide window-seats and little, diamond panes, she in her misery wrote: "oh, the pity of it all! yet there is recompense; every sight reminds me of coleridge, dear, dear fellow; of our walks and talks by day and night; of all the bright and witty, and sad sweet things of which we spoke and read. i was melancholy and could not talk, and at last i eased my heart by weeping." alas, too often there is competition between brother and sister, then follow misunderstandings; but here the brotherly and sisterly love stands out clear and strong after these hundred years have passed, and we contemplate it with delight. was ever woman more honestly and better praised than dorothy? "the blessings of my later years were with me when i was a boy. she gave me eyes, she gave me ears, and humble cares and gentle fears, a heart! the fountain of sweet tears, and love and thought and joy. and she hath smiles to earth unknown, smiles that with motion of their own do spread and sink and rise; that come and go with endless play, and ever as they pass away are hidden in her eyes." and so in a dozen or more poems, we see dorothy reflected. she was the steel on which he tried his flint. everything he wrote was read to her, then she read it alone, balancing the sentences in the delicate scales of her womanly judgment. "heart of my heart, is this well done?" when she said, "this will do," it was no matter who said otherwise. back of the house on the rising hillside is the little garden. hewn out of the solid rock is "dorothy's seat." there i rested while mrs. dixon discoursed of poet lore, and told me of how, many times, coleridge and dorothy had sat in the same seat and watched the stars. then i drank from "the well," which is more properly a spring; the stones that curb it were placed in their present position by the hand that wrote "the prelude." above the garden is the orchard, where the green linnet still sings, for the birds never grow old. there, too, are the circling swallows; and in a snug little alcove of the cottage you can read "the butterfly" from a first edition; and then you can go sit in the orchard, white with blossoms, and see the butterflies that suggested the poem. and if your eye is good you can discover down by the lakeside the daffodils, and listen the while to the cuckoo call. then in the orchard you can see not only "the daisy," but many of them, and, if you wish, mrs. dixon will let you dig a bunch of the daisies to take back to america; and if you do, i hope that yours will prosper as have mine, and that wordsworth's flowers, like wordsworth's verse, will gladden your heart when the blue sky of your life threatens to be o'ercast with gray. here southey came, and "thalaber" was read aloud in this little garden. here, too, came clarkson, the man with a fine feminine carelessness, as dorothy said. charles lloyd sat here and discoursed with william calvert. sir george beaumont forgot his title and rapped often at the quaint, hinged door. an artist was beaumont, but his best picture they say is not equal to the lines that wordsworth wrote about it. sir george was not only a gentleman according to law, but one in heart, for he was a friend, kind, gentle and generous. with such a friend wordsworth was rich indeed. but perhaps the friends we have are only our other selves, and we get what we deserve. we must not forget the kindly face of humphry davy, whose gracious playfulness was ever a charm to the wordsworths. the safety-lamp was then only an unspoken word, and perhaps few foresaw the sweetness and light that these two men would yet give to earth. walter scott and his wife came to dove cottage in eighteen hundred five. he did not bring his title, for it, like humphry davy's, was as yet unpacked down in london town. they slept in the little cubby-hole of a room in the upper southwest corner. one can imagine dorothy taking sir walter's shaving-water up to him in the morning; and the savory smell of breakfast as mistress mary poured the tea, while england's future laureate served the toast and eggs: mr. scott eating everything in sight and talking a torrent the while about art and philosophy as he passed his cup back, to the consternation of the hostess, whose frugal ways were not used to such ravages of appetite. of course she did not know that a combined novelist and rhymster ate twice as much as a simple poet. afterwards mrs. scott tucked up her dress, putting on one of dorothy's aprons, and helped do the dishes. then coleridge came over and they all climbed to the summit of helm crag. shy little de quincey had read some of wordsworth's poems, and knew from their flavor that the man who penned them was a noble soul. he came to grasmere to call on him: he walked past dove cottage twice, but his heart failed him and he went away unannounced. later, he returned and found the occupants as simple folks as himself. happiness was there and good society; few books, but fine culture; plain living and high thinking. wordsworth lived at rydal mount for thirty-three years, yet the sweetest flowers of his life blossomed at dove cottage. for difficulty, toil, struggle, obscurity, poverty, mixed with aspiration and ambition---all these were here. success came later, but this is naught; for the achievement is more than the public acknowledgment of the deed. after wordsworth moved away, de quincey rented dove cottage and lived in it for twenty-seven years. he acquired a library of more than five thousand volumes, making bookshelves on four sides of the little rooms from floor to ceiling. some of these shelves still remain. here he turned night into day and dreamed the dreams of "the opium-eater." and all these are some of the things that mrs. dixon told me on that bright summer day. what if i had heard them before! no difference. dear old lady, i salute you and at your feet i lay my gratitude for a day of rare and quiet joy. "farewell, thou little nook of mountain ground, thou rocky corner in the lowest stair of that magnificent temple which does bound one side of our whole vale with gardens rare, sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, the loveliest spot that man has ever found, farewell! we leave thee to heaven's peaceful care, thee, and the cottage which thou dost surround." * * * * * at places of pleasure and entertainment in the far west, are often found functionaries known as "bouncers." it is the duty of the bouncer to give hints to objectionable visitors that their presence is not desired. and inasmuch as there are many men who can never take a hint without a kick, the bouncer is a person selected on account of his peculiar fitness--psychic and otherwise--for the place. we all have special talents, and these faculties should be used in a manner that will help our fellowmen on their way. my acquaintanceship with the bouncer has been only general, not particular. yet i have admired him from a distance, and the skill and eclat that he sometimes shows in a professional way has often excited my admiration. in social usages, america borrows constantly from the mother country. but like all borrowing it seems to be one-sided, for seldom, very, very seldom, in point of etiquette and manners does england borrow from us. yet there are exceptions. it is a beautiful highway that skirts lake windermere and follows up through ambleside. we get a glimpse of the old home of harriet martineau, and "fox howe," the home of matthew arnold. just before rydal water is reached comes rydal road, running straight up the hillside, off from the turnpike. rydal mount is the third house up on the left-hand side, i knew the location, for i had read of it many times, and in my pocketbook i carried a picture taken from an old "frank leslie's," showing the house. my heart beat fast as i climbed the hill. to visit the old home of one who was poet laureate of england is no small event in the life of a book-lover. i was full of poetry and murmured lines from "the excursion" as i walked. soon rare old rydal mount came in sight among the wealth of green. i stopped and sighed. yes, yes, wordsworth lived here for thirty-three years, and here he died; the spot whereon i then stood had been pressed many times by his feet. i walked slowly, with uncovered head, and approached the gate. it was locked. i fumbled at the latch; and just as there came a prospect of its opening, a loud, deep, guttural voice dashed over me like a wave: "there--you! now, wot you want?" the owner of this voice was not ten feet away, but he was standing up close to the wall and i had not seen him. i was somewhat startled at first. the man did not move. i stepped to one side to get a better view of my interlocutor, and saw him to be a large, red man of perhaps fifty. a handkerchief was knotted around his thick neck, and he held a heavy hoe in his hand. a genuine beefeater he was, only he ate too much beef and the ale he drank was evidently extra xxx. his scowl was so needlessly severe and his manner so belligerent that i--thrice armed, knowing my cause was just--could not restrain a smile. i touched my hat and said, "ah, excuse me, mr. falstaff, you are the bouncer?" "never mind wot i am, sir--'oo are you?" "i am a great admirer of wordsworth----" "that's the way they all begins. cawn't ye hadmire 'im on that side of the wall as well as this?" there is no use of wasting argument with a man of this stamp; besides that, his question was to the point. but there are several ways of overcoming one's adversary: i began feeling in my pocket for pence. my enemy ceased glaring, stepped up to the locked gate as though he half-wished to be friendly, and there was sorrow in his voice: "don't tempt me, sir; don't do ut! the missus is peekin' out of the shutters at us now." "and do you never admit visitors, even to the grounds?" "no, sir, never, god 'elp me! and there's many an honest bob i could turn by ut, and no one 'urt. but i've lost my place twic't by ut. they took me back though. the guv'ner 'ud never forgive me again. 'it's three times and out, mister 'opkins,' says 'ee, only last whitsuntide." "but visitors do come?" "yes, sir; but they never gets in. mostly 'mer'cans; they don't know no better, sir. they picks all the ivy orf the outside of the wall, and you sees yourself there's no leaves on the lower branches of that tree. then they carries away so many pebbles from out there that i've to dump in a fresh weelbarrel full o' gravel every week, sir, don't you know." he thrust a pudgy, freckled hand through the bars of the gate to show that he bore me no ill-will, and also, i suppose, to mollify my disappointment. for although i had come too late to see the great poet himself and had even failed to see the inside of his house, yet i had at least been greeted at the gate by his proxy. i pressed the hand firmly, pocketed a handful of gravel as a memento, then turned and went my way. and all there is to tell about my visit to rydal mount is this interview with the bouncer. * * * * * wordsworth lived eighty years. his habitation, except for short periods, was never more than a few miles from his birthplace. his education was not extensive, his learning not profound. he lacked humor and passion; in his character there was little personal magnetism, and in his work there is small dramatic power. he traveled more or less and knew humanity, but he did not know man. his experience in so-called practical things was slight, his judgment not accurate. so he lived--quietly, modestly, dreamily. his dust rests in a country churchyard, the grave marked by a simple slab. a gnarled, old yew-tree stands guard above the grass-grown mound. the nearest railroad is fifteen miles away. as a poet, wordsworth stands in the front rank of the second class. shelley, browning, mrs. browning, tennyson, far surpass him; and the sweet singer of michigan, even in uninspired moments, never "threw off" anything worse than this: "and he is lean and he is sick: his body, dwindled and awry, rests upon ankles swollen and thick; his legs are thin and dry. one prop he has, and only one, his wife, an aged woman, lives with him near the waterfall, upon the village common." jove may nod, but when he makes a move it counts. yet the influence of wordsworth upon the thought and feeling of the world has been very great. he himself said, "the young will read my poems and be better for their truth." many of his lines pass as current coin: "the child is father of the man," "the light that never was on land nor sea," "not too bright and good for human nature's daily food," "thoughts that do lie too deep for tears," "the mighty stream of tendency," and many others. "plain living and high thinking" is generally given to emerson, but he discovered it in wordsworth, and recognizing it as his own he took it. in a certain book of quotations, "the still sad music of humanity" is given to shakespeare; but to equalize matters we sometimes attribute to wordsworth "the old oaken bucket." the men who win are those who correct an abuse. wordsworth's work was a protest--mild yet firm--against the bombastic and artificial school of the eighteenth century. before his day the "timber" used by poets consisted of angels, devils, ghosts, gods; onslaught, tourneys, jousts, tempests of hate and torrents of wrath, always of course with a very beautiful and very susceptible young lady just around the corner. the women in those days were always young and ever beautiful, but seldom wise and not often good. the men were saints or else "bad," generally bad. like the cats of kilkenny, they fought on slight cause. our young man at hawkshead school saw this: it pleased him not, and he made a list of the things on which he would write poems. this list includes: sunset, moonrise, starlight, mist, brooks, shells, stones, butterflies, moths, swallows, linnets, thrushes, wagoners, babies, bark of trees, leaves, nests, fishes, rushes, leeches, cobwebs, clouds, deer, music, shade, swans, crags and snow. he kept his vow and "went it one better," for among his verses i find the following titles: "lines left upon a seat in a yew-tree," "lines composed a few miles above tintern abbey," "to a wounded butterfly," "to dora's portrait," "to the cuckoo," "on seeing a needlebook made in the shape of a harp," etc. wordsworth's service to humanity consists in the fact that he has shown us old truth in a new light, and has made plain the close relationship that exists between physical nature and the soul of man. is this much or little? i think it is much. when we realize that we are a part of all that we see, or hear, or feel, we are not lonely. but to feel a sense of separation is to feel the chill of death. wordsworth taught that the earth is the universal mother and that the life of the flower has its source in the same universal life from whence ours is derived. to know this truth is to feel a tenderness, a kindliness, a spirit of fraternalism, toward every manifestation of this universal life. no attempt was made to say the last word, only a wish to express the truth that the spirit of god is manifest on every hand. now this is a very simple philosophy. no far-reaching, syllogistic logic is required to prove it; no miracle, nor special dispensation is needed; you just feel that it is so, that's all, and it gives you peace. children, foolish folks, old men, whose sands of life are nearly run, comprehend it. but heaven bless you! you can't prove any such foolishness. jeffrey saw the ridiculousness of these assumptions and so he declared, "this will never do," and for twenty years "the edinburgh review" never ceased to fling off fleers and jeers--and to criticize and scoff. that a great periodical, rich and influential, in the city which was the very center of learning, should go so much out of its way to attack a quiet countryman living in a four-roomed cottage, away off in the hills of cumberland, seems a little queer. then, this countryman did not seek to found a kingdom, nor to revolutionize society, nor did he force upon the world his pattypan rhymes about linnets, and larks, and daffodils. far from it: he was very modest--diffident, in fact--and his song was quite in the minor key, but still the chain-shot and bombs of literary warfare were sent hissing in his direction. there is a little story about a certain general who figured as division-commander in the war of secession: this warrior had his headquarters, for a time, in a typical southern home in the tennessee mountains. the house had a large fireplace and chimney; in this chimney, swallows had nests. one day, as the great man was busy at his maps, working out a plan of campaign against the enemy, the swallows made quite an uproar. perhaps some of the eggs were hatching; anyway, the birds were needlessly noisy in their domestic affairs, and it disturbed the great man--he grew nervous. he called his adjutant. "sir," said the mighty warrior, "dislodge those damn pests in the chimney, without delay." two soldiers were ordered to climb the roof and dislodge the enemy. yet the swallows were not dislodged, for the soldiers could not reach them. so jeffrey's tirades were unavailing, and wordsworth was not dislodged. "he might as well try to crush skiddaw," said southey. william m. thackeray to mr. brookfield september 16, 1849 have you read dickens? oh, it is charming! brave dickens! "david copperfield" has some of his prettiest touches, and the reading of the book has done another author a great deal of good. --w.m.t. [illustration: w.m. thackeray] there are certain good old ladies in every community who wear perennial mourning. they attend every funeral, carrying black-bordered handkerchiefs, and weep gently at the right time. i have made it a point to hunt out these ancient dames at their homes, and, over the teacups, i have discovered that invariably they enjoy a sweet peace--a happiness with contentment--that is a great gain. they seem to be civilization's rudimentary relic of the irish keeners and the paid mourners of the orient. and there is just a little of this tendency to mourn with those who mourn in all mankind. it is not difficult to bear another's woe--and then there is always a grain of mitigation, even in the sorrow of the afflicted, that makes their tribulation bearable. burke affirms, in "on the sublime," that all men take a certain satisfaction in the disasters of others. just as frenchmen lift their hats when a funeral passes and thank god that they are not in the hearse, so do we in the presence of calamity thank heaven that it is not ours. perhaps this is why i get a strange delight from walking through a graveyard by night. all about are the white monuments that glisten in the ghostly starlight, the night-wind sighs softly among the grassy mounds--all else is silent--still. this is the city of the dead, and of all the hundreds or thousands who have traveled to this spot over long and weary miles, i, only i, have the power to leave at will. their ears are stopped, their eyes are closed, their hands are folded--but i am alive. one of the first places i visited on reaching london was kensal green cemetery. i quickly made the acquaintance of the first gravedigger, a rare wit, over whose gray head have passed full seventy pleasant summers. i presented him a copy of "the shroud," the organ of the american undertakers' association, published at syracuse, new york. i subscribe for "the shroud" because it has a bright wit-and-humor column, and also for the sweet satisfaction of knowing that there is still virtue left in syracuse. the first gravedigger greeted me courteously, and when i explained briefly my posthumous predilections we grasped hands across an open grave (that he had just digged) and were fast friends. "do you believe in cremation, sir?" he asked. "no, never; it's pagan." "aye, you are a gentleman--and about burying folks in churches?" "never! a grave should be out under the open sky, where the sun by day and the moon and stars----" "right you are. how shakespeare can ever stand it to have his grave walked over by a boy choir is more than i can understand. if i had him here i could look after him right. come, i'll show you the company i keep!" not twenty feet from where we stood was a fine but plain granite block to the memory of the second wife of james russell lowell. "just mr. lowell and one friend stood by the grave when we lowered the coffin--just two men and no one else but the young clergyman who belongs here. mr. lowell shook hands with me when he went away. he gave me a guinea and wrote me two letters afterward from america; the last was sent only a week before he died. i'll show 'em to you when we go to the office. say, did you know him?" he pointed to a slab, on which i read the name of sydney smith. then we went to the graves of mulready, the painter; kemble, the actor; sir charles eastlake, the artist. next came the resting-place of buckle--immortal for writing a preface--dead at thirty-seven, with his history unwrit; leigh hunt sleeps near, and above his dust a column that explains how it was erected by friends. in life he asked for bread; when dead they gave him a costly pile of stone. here are also the graves of madame tietjens; of charles mathews, the actor; and of admiral sir john ross, the arctic explorer. "and just down the hill aways another big man is buried. i knew him well; he used to come and visit us often. the last time i saw him i said as he was going away, 'come again, sir; you are always welcome!' "'thank you, mr. first gravedigger,' says he; 'i will come again before long, and make you an extended visit.' in less than a year the hearse brought him. that's his grave--push that ivy away and you can read the inscription. did you ever hear of him?" it was a plain, heavy slab placed horizontally, and the ivy had so run over it that the white of the marble was nearly obscured. but i made out this inscription: william makepeace thackeray born july 18, 1811 died dec. 24, 1863 anne carmichael smyth died dec. 18, 1864, aged 72--his mother by her first marriage the unpoetic exactness of that pedigree gave me a slight chill. but here they sleep--mother and son in one grave. she who gave him his first caress also gave him his last; and when he was found dead in his bed, his mother, who lived under the same roof, was the first one called. he was the child of her girlhood--she was scarcely twenty when she bore him. in life they were never separated, and in death they are not divided. it is as both desired. thackeray was born in india, and was brought to england on the death of his father, when he was six years of age. on the way from calcutta the ship touched at the island of saint helena. a servant took the lad ashore and they walked up the rocky heights to longwood, and there, pacing back and forth in a garden, they saw a short, stout man. "lookee, lad, lookee quick--that's him! he eats three sheep every day and all the children he can get!" "and that's all i had to do with the battle of waterloo," said "old thack," forty years after. but you will never believe it after reading those masterly touches concerning the battle, in "vanity fair." young thackeray was sent to the charterhouse school, where he was considered rather a dull boy. he was big and good-natured, and read novels when he should have studied arithmetic. this tendency to "play off" stuck to him at cambridge--where he did not remain long enough to get a degree, but to the relief of his tutors went off on a tour through europe. travel as a means of education is a very seductive bit of sophistry. invalids whom the doctors can not cure, and scholars whom teachers can not teach, are often advised to take "a change." still there is reason in it. in england thackeray was intent on law; at paris he received a strong bent toward art; but when he reached weimar and was introduced at the court of letters and came into the living presence of goethe, he caught the infection and made a plan for translating schiller. schiller dead was considered in germany a greater man than goethe living, as if it were an offense to live and a virtue to die. and young william makepeace wrote home to his mother that schiller was the greatest man that ever lived and that he was going to translate his books and give them to england. no doubt there are certain people born with a tendency to infectiousness in regard to certain diseases; so there are those who catch the literary mania on slight exposure. "i've got it," said thackeray, and so he had. he went back to england and made groggy efforts at blackstone, and somebody's digest, and what's-his-name's compendium, but all the time he scribbled and sketched. the young man had come into possession of a goodly fortune from his father's estate--enough to yield him an income of over two thousand dollars a year. but bad investments and signing security for friends took the money the way that money usually goes when held by a man who has not earned it. "talk about riches having wings," said thackeray; "my fortune had pinions like a condor, and flew like a carrier-pigeon." when thackeray was thirty he was eking out a meager income writing poems, reviews, criticisms and editorials. his wife was a confirmed invalid, a victim of mental darkness, and his sorrows and anxieties were many. he was known as a bright writer, yet london is full of clever, unsuccessful men. but in thackeray's thirty-eighth year "vanity fair" came out, and it was a success from the first. in "yesterdays with authors," mr. fields says: "i once made a pilgrimage with thackeray to the various houses where his books had been written; and i remember when we came to young street, kensington, he said, with mock gravity, 'down on your knees, you rogue, for here "vanity fair" was penned; and i will go down with you, for i have a high opinion of that little production myself.'" young street is only a block from the kensington metropolitan railway-station. it is a little street running off kensington road. at number sixteen (formerly number thirteen), i saw a card in the window, "rooms to rent to single gentlemen." i rang the bell, and was shown a room that the landlady offered me for twelve shillings a week if i paid in advance; or if i would take another room one flight up with a "gent who was studying hart" it would be only eight and six. i suggested that we go up and see the "gent." we did so, and i found the young man very courteous and polite. he told me that he had never heard thackeray's name in connection with the house. the landlady protested that "no man by the name o' thack'ry has had rooms here since i rented the place; leastwise, if he has been here he called hisself by sumpthink else, which was like o'nuff the case, as most ev'rybody is crooked now'days--but surely no decent person can blame me for that!" i assured her that she was in no wise to blame. from this house in young street the author of "vanity fair" moved to number thirty-six onslow square, where he wrote "the virginians." on the south side of the square there is a row of three-storied brick houses. thackeray lived in one of these houses for nine years. they were the years when honors and wealth were being heaped upon him; and he was worldling enough to let his wants keep pace with his ability to gratify them. he was made of the same sort of clay as other men, for his standard of life conformed to his pocketbook and he always felt poor. from this fine house on onslow square he moved to a veritable palace, which he built to suit his own taste, at number two palace green, kensington. but mansions on earth are seldom for long--he died here on christmas eve, eighteen hundred sixty-three. and charles dickens, mark lemon, millais, trollope, robert browning, cruikshank, tom taylor, louis blanc, charles mathews and shirley brooks were among the friends who carried him to his rest. * * * * * to take one's self too seriously is a great mistake. complacency is the unpardonable sin, and the man who says, "now i'm sure of it," has at that moment lost it. villagers who have lived in one little place until they think themselves great, having lost the sense of proportion through lack of comparison, are generally "in dead earnest." surely they are often intellectually dead, and i do not dispute the fact that they are in earnest. all those excellent gentlemen in the days gone by who could not contemplate a celestial bliss that did not involve the damnation of those who disagreed with them were in dead earnest. cotton mather once saw a black cat perched on the shoulder of an innocent, chattering old gran'ma. the next day a neighbor had a convulsion; and cotton mather went forth and exorcised tabby with a hymn-book, and hanged gran'ma by the neck, high on gallows hill, until she was dead. had the reverend mr. mather possessed but a mere modicum of humor he might have exorcised the cat, but i am sure he would never have troubled old gran'ma. but alas, cotton mather's conversation was limited to yea, yea, and nay, nay--generally, nay, nay--and he was in dead earnest. in the boston public library is a book written in sixteen hundred eighty-five by cotton mather, entitled, "wonders of the invisible world." this book received the endorsement of the governor of the province and also of the president of harvard college. the author cites many cases of persons who were bewitched; and also makes the interesting statement that the devil knows greek, latin and hebrew, but speaks english with an accent. these facts were long used at harvard as an argument in favor of the classics. and when greek was at last made optional, the devil was supposed to have filed a protest with the dean of the faculty. the reverend francis gastrell, who razed new place, and cut down the poet's mulberry-tree to escape the importunities of visitors, was in dead earnest. attila, and herod, and john calvin were in dead earnest. and were it not for the fact that luther had lucid intervals when he went about with his tongue in his cheek he surely would have worked grievous wrong. recent discoveries in egyptian archeology show that in his lifetime moses was esteemed more as a wit than as a lawmaker. his jokes were posted upon the walls and explained to the populace, who it seems were a bit slow. job was a humorist of a high order, and when he said to the wise men, "no doubt but ye are the people, and wisdom shall die with you," he struck twelve. when the sons of jacob went down into egypt and joseph put up the price of corn, took their money, and then secretly replaced the coin in the sacks, he showed his artless love of a quiet joke. shakespeare's fools were the wisest and kindliest men at court. when the master decked a character in cap and bells, it was as though he had given bonds for the man's humanity. touchstone followed his master into exile; and when all seemed to have forsaken king lear the fool bared himself to the storm and covered the shaking old man with his own cloak. and if costard, trinculo, touchstone, jaques and mercutio had lived in salem in sixteen hundred ninety-two, there would have been not only a flashing of merry jests, but a flashing of rapiers as well, and every gray hair of every old dame's head would have been safe so long as there was a striped leg on which to stand. lincoln, liberator of men, loved the motley. in fact, the individual who is incapable of viewing the world from a jocular basis is unsafe, and can be trusted only when the opposition is strong enough to laugh him into line. in the realm of english letters, thackeray is prince of humorists. he could see right through a brick wall, and never mistook a hawk for a hernshaw. he had a just estimate of values, and the temperament that can laugh at all trivial misfits. and he had, too, that dread capacity for pain which every true humorist possesses, for the true essence of humor is sensibility. in all literature that lives there is mingled like pollen an indefinable element of the author's personality. in thackeray's "lectures on english humorists" this subtle quality is particularly apparent. elusive, delicate, alluring--it is the actinic ray that imparts vitality. when wit plays skittles with dulness, dulness gets revenge by taking wit at his word. vast numbers of people taking thackeray at his word consider him a bitter pessimist. he even disconcerted bright little charlotte bronte, who went down to london to see him, and then wrote back to haworth that "the great man talked steadily with never a smile. i could not tell when to laugh and when to cry, for i did not know what was fun and what fact." but finally the author of "jane eyre" found the combination, and she saw that beneath the brusk exterior of that bulky form there was a woman's tender sympathy. thackeray has told us what he thought of the author of "jane eyre," and the author of "jane eyre" has told us what she thought of the author of "vanity fair." one was big and whimsical, the other was little and sincere, but both were alike in this: their hearts were wrung at the sight of suffering, and both had tears for the erring, the groping, and the oppressed. a frenchman can not comprehend a joke that is not accompanied by grimace and gesticulation; and so m. taine chases thackeray through sixty solid pages, berating him for what he is pleased to term "bottled hate." taine is a cynic who charges thackeray with cynicism, all in the choicest of biting phrase. it is a beautiful example of sinners calling the righteous to repentance--a thing that is often done, but seldom with artistic finish. the fun is too deep for monsieur, or mayhap the brand is not the yellow label to which his palate is accustomed, so he spews it all. yet taine's criticism is charming reading, although he is only hot after an aniseed trail of his own dragging. but the chase is a deal more exciting than most men would lead, were there real live game to capture. if pushed, i might suggest several points in this man's make-up where god could have bettered his work. but accepting thackeray as we find him, we see a singer whose cage fate had overhung with black until he had caught the tune. the "ballad of boullabaisse" shows a tender side of his spirit that he often sought to conceal. his heart vibrated to all finer thrills of mercy; and his love for all created things was so delicately strung that he would, in childish shame, sometimes issue a growl to drown its rising, tearful tones. in the character of becky sharp, he has marshaled some of his own weak points and then lashed them with scorn. he looked into the mirror and seeing a potential snob he straightway inveighed against snobbery. the punishment does not always fit the crime--it is excess. but i still contest that where his ridicule is most severe, it is thackeray's own back that is bared to the knout. the primal recipe for roguery in art is, "know thyself." when a writer portrays a villain and does it well--make no mistake, he poses for the character himself. said gentle ralph waldo emerson, "i have capacity in me for every crime." the man of imagination knows those mystic spores of possibility that lie dormant, and like the magicians of the east who grow mango-trees in an hour, he develops the "inward potential" at will. the mere artisan in letters goes forth and finds a villain and then describes him, but the artist knows a better way: "i am that man." one of the very sweetest, gentlest characters in literature is colonel newcome. the stepfather of thackeray, major carmichael smyth, was made to stand for the portrait of the lovable colonel; and when that all-round athlete, f. hopkinson smith, gave us that other lovable old colonel he paid high tribute to "the newcomes." thackeray was a poet, and as such was often caught in the toils of doubt--the crux of the inquiring spirit. he aspired for better things, and at times his imperfections stood out before him in monstrous shape, and he sought to hiss them down. in the heart of the artist-poet there is an inmost self that sits over against the acting, breathing man and passes judgment on his every deed. to satisfy the world is little; to please the populace is naught; fame is vapor; gold is dross; and every love that has not the sanction of that inmost self is a viper's sting. to satisfy the demands of the god within is the poet's prayer. what doubts beset, what taunting fears surround, what crouching sorrows lie in wait, what dead hopes drag, what hot desires pursue, and what kindly lights do beckon on--ah! "'tis we musicians know." thackeray came to america to get a pot of money, and was in a fair way of securing it, when he chanced to pick up a paper in which a steamer was announced to sail that evening for england. a wave of homesickness swept over the big boy--he could not stand it. he hastily packed up his effects and without saying good-by to any one, and forgetting all his engagements, he hastened to the dock, leaving this note for the kindest of kind friends: "good-by, fields; good-by, mrs. fields--god bless everybody, says w.m.t." charles dickens i hope for the enlargement of my mind, and for the improvement of my understanding. if i have done but little good, i trust i have done less harm, and that none of my adventures will be other than a source of amusing and pleasant recollection. god bless you all! --_pickwick_ [illustration: charles dickens] the path of progress in certain problems seems barred as by a flaming sword. more than a thousand years before christ, an arab chief asked, "if a man die shall he live again?" every man who ever lived has asked the same question, but we know no more today about the subject than did job. there are one hundred five boy babies born to every one hundred girls. the law holds in every land where vital statistics have been kept; and sairey gamp knew just as much about the cause why as brown-sequard, pasteur, agnew or austin flint. there is still a third question that every parent, since adam and eve, has sought to solve: "how can i educate this child so that he will attain eminence?" and even in spite of shelves that groan beneath tomes and tomes, and advice from a million preachers, the answer is: nobody knows. "there is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will." moses was sent adrift, but the tide carried him into power. the brethren of joseph "deposited him into a cavity," but you can not dispose of genius that way! demosthenes was weighted (or blessed) with every disadvantage; shakespeare got into difficulty with a woman eight years his senior, stole deer, ran away, and--became the very first among english poets; erasmus was a foundling. once there was a woman by the name of nancy hanks; she was thin-breasted, gaunt, yellow and sad. at last, living in poverty, overworked, she was stricken by death. she called her son--homely as herself--and pointing to the lad's sister said, "be good to her, abe," and died--died, having no expectation for her boy beyond the hope that he might prosper in worldly affairs so as to care for himself and his sister. the boy became a man who wielded wisely a power mightier than that ever given to any other american. seven college-bred men composed his cabinet; and proctor knott once said that "if a teeter were evenly balanced, and the members of the cabinet were all placed on one end, and the president on the other, he would send the seven wise men flying into space." on the other hand, marcus aurelius wrote his "meditations" for a son who did not read them, and whose name is a symbol of profligacy; charles kingsley penned "greek heroes" for offspring who have never shown their father's heroism; and charles dickens wrote "a child's history of england" for his children--none of whom has proven his proficiency in historiology. charles dickens himself received his education at the university of hard knocks. very early in life he was cast upon the rocks and suckled by the she-wolf. yet he became the most popular author the world has ever known, and up to the present time no writer of books has approached him in point of number of readers and of financial returns. these are facts--facts so hard and true that they would be the delight of mr. gradgrind. at twelve years of age, charles dickens was pasting labels on blacking-boxes; his father was in prison. at sixteen, he was spending odd hours in the reading-room of the british museum. at nineteen, he was parliamentary reporter; at twenty-one, a writer of sketches; at twenty-three, he was getting a salary of thirty-five dollars a week, and the next year his pay was doubled. when twenty-five, he wrote a play that ran for seventy nights at drury lane theater. about the same time he received seven hundred dollars for a series of sketches written in two weeks. at twenty-six, publishers were at his feet. when dickens was at the flood-tide of prosperity, thackeray, one year his senior, waited on his doorstep with pictures to illustrate "pickwick." he worked steadily, and made from eight to twenty-five thousand dollars a year. his fame increased, and the "new york ledger" paid him ten thousand dollars for one story which he wrote in a fortnight. his collected works fill forty volumes. there are more of dickens' books sold every year now than in any year in which he lived. there were more of dickens' books sold last year than any previous year. "i am glad that the public buy his books," said macready; "for if they did not he would take to the stage and eclipse us all." "not so bad as we seem," by bulwer-lytton, was played at devonshire house in the presence of the queen, dickens taking the principal part. he gave theatrical performances in london, liverpool and manchester, for the benefit of leigh hunt, sheridan knowles and various other needy authors and actors. he wrote a dozen plays, and twice as many more have been constructed from his plots. he gave public readings through england, scotland and ireland, where the people fought for seats. the average receipts for these entertainments were eight hundred dollars per night. in eighteen hundred sixty-three, he made a six months' tour of the united states, giving a series of readings. the prices of admission were placed at extravagant figures, but the box-office was always besieged until the ticket-seller put out his lights and hung out a sign: "the standing-room is all taken." the gross receipts of these readings were two hundred twenty-nine thousand dollars; the expenses thirty-nine thousand dollars; net profit, one hundred ninety thousand dollars. charles dickens died of brain-rupture in eighteen hundred seventy, aged fifty-eight. his dust rests in westminster abbey. * * * * * "to know the london of dickens is a liberal education," once said james t. fields, who was affectionately referred to by charles dickens as "massachusetts jemmy." and i am aware of no better way to become acquainted with the greatest city in the world than to follow the winding footsteps of the author of "david copperfield." beginning his london life when ten years of age, he shifted from one lodging to another, zigzag, tacking back and forth from place to place, but all the time making head, and finally dwelling in palaces of which nobility might be proud. it took him forty-eight years to travel from the squalor of camden town to poet's corner in westminster abbey. he lodged first in bayham street. "a washerwoman lived next door, and a bow street officer over the way." it was a shabby district, chosen by the elder dickens because the rent was low. as he neglected to pay the rent, one wonders why he did not take quarters in piccadilly. i looked in vain for a sign reading, "washin dun heer," but i found a bow street orf'cer who told me that bayham street had long since disappeared. yet there is always a recompense in prowling about london, because if you do not find the thing you are looking for, you find something else equally interesting. my bow street friend proved to be a regular magazine of rare and useful information--historical, archeological and biographical. a lunnun bobby has his clothes cut after a pattern a hundred years old, and he always carries his gloves in his hand--never wearing them--because this was a habit of william the conqueror. but never mind; he is intelligent, courteous and obliging, and i am perfectly willing that he should wear skirts like a ballet-dancer and a helmet too small, if it is his humor. my perliceman knew an older orf'cer who was acquainted with mr. dickens. mr. dickens 'ad a full perliceman's suit 'imself, issued to 'im on an order from scotland yard, and he used to do patrol duty at night, carrying 'is bloomin' gloves in 'is 'and and 'is chinstrap in place. this was told me by my new-found friend, who volunteered to show me the way to north gower street. it's only gower street now and the houses have been renumbered, so number four is a matter of conjecture; but my guide showed me a door where were the marks of a full-grown plate that evidently had long since disappeared. some days afterward i found this identical brass plate at an old bookshop in cheapside. the plate read: "mrs. dickens' establishment." the man who kept the place advertised himself as a "bibliopole." he offered to sell me the plate for one pun ten; but i did not purchase, for i knew where i could get its mate with a deal more verdigris--all for six and eight. dickens has recorded that he can not recollect of any pupils coming to the establishment. but he remembers when his father was taken, like mr. dorrit, to the debtors' prison. he was lodged in the top story but one, in the very same room where his son afterwards put the dorrits. it's a queer thing to know that a book-writer can imprison folks without a warrant and even kill them and yet go unpunished--which thought was suggested to me by my philosophic guide. from this house in gower street, charles used to go daily to the marshalsea to visit micawber, who not so many years later was to act as the proud amanuensis of his son. the next morning after i first met bobby he was off duty. i met him by appointment at the three jolly beggars (a place pernicious snug). he was dressed in a fashionable, light-colored suit, the coat a trifle short, and a high silk hat. his large, red neckscarf--set off by his bright, brick-dust complexion--caused me to mistake him at first for a friend of mine who drives a holborn bus. mr. 'awkins (for it was he) greeted me cordially, pulled gently at his neck-whiskers, and, when he addressed me as me lud, the barmaid served us with much alacrity and things. we went first to the church of saint george; then we found angel court leading to bermondsey, also marshalsea place. here is the site of the prison, where the crowded ghosts of misery still hover; but small trace could we find of the prison itself, neither did we see the ghosts. we, however, saw a very pretty barmaid at the public in angel court. i think she is still prettier than the one to whom bobby introduced me at the sign of the meat-axe, which is saying a good deal. angel court is rightly named. the blacking-warehouse at old hungerford stairs, strand, in which charles dickens was shown by bob fagin how to tie up the pots of paste, has rotted down and been carted away. the coal-barges in the muddy river are still there, just as they were when charles, poll green and bob fagin played on them during the dinner-hour. i saw bob and several other boys, grimy with blacking, chasing each other across the flatboats, but dickens was not there. down the river aways there is a crazy, old warehouse with a rotten wharf of its own, abutting on the water when the tide is in, and on the mud when the tide is out--the whole place literally overrun with rats that scuffle and squeal on the moldy stairs. i asked bobby if it could not be that this was the blacking-factory; but he said, no, for this one allus wuz. dickens found lodgings in lant street while his father was awaiting in the marshalsea for something to turn up. bob sawyer afterward had the same quarters. when sawyer invited mr. pickwick "and the other chaps" to dine with him, he failed to give his number, so we can not locate the house. but i found the street and saw a big, wooden pickwick on wheels standing as a sign for a tobacco-shop. the old gentleman who runs the place, and runs the sign in every night, assured me that bob sawyer's room was the first floor back. i looked in at it, but seeing no one there whom i knew, i bought tuppence worth of pigtail in lieu of fee, and came away. if a man wished to abstract himself from the world, to remove himself from temptation, to place himself beyond the possibility of desire to look out of the window, he should live in lant street, said a great novelist. david copperfield lodged here when he ordered that glass of genuine stunning ale at the red lion and excited the sympathy of the landlord, winning a motherly kiss from his wife. the red lion still crouches (under another name) at the corner of derby and parliament streets, westminster. i daydreamed there for an hour one morning, pretending the while to read a newspaper. i can not, however, recommend their ale as particularly stunning. as there are authors of one book, so are there readers of one author--more than we wist. children want the same bear story over and over, preferring it to a new one; so "grown-ups" often prefer the dog-eared book to uncut leaves. mr. hawkins preferred the dog-eared, and at the station-house, where many times he had long hours to wait in anticipation of a hurry-up call, he whiled away the time by browsing in his dickens. he knew no other author, neither did he wish to. his epidermis was soaked with dickensology, and when inspired by gin and bitters he emitted information at every pore. to him all these bodiless beings of dickens' brain were living creatures. an anachronism was nothing to hawkins. charley bates was still at large, quilp was just around the corner, and gaffer hexam's boat was moored in the muddy river below. dickens used to haunt the publics, those curious resting-places where all sorts and conditions of thirsty philosophers meet to discuss all sorts of themes. my guide took me to many of these inns which the great novelist frequented, and we always had one legend with every drink. after we had called at three or four different snuggeries, hawkins would begin to shake out the facts. now, it is not generally known that the so-called stories of dickens are simply records of historic events, like what-do-you-call-um's plays! f'r instance, dombey and son was a well-known firm, who carried over into a joint stock company only a few years ago. the concern is now known as the dombey trading company; they occupy the same quarters that were used by their illustrious predecessors. i signified a desire to see the counting-house so minutely described by dickens, and mr. hawkins agreed to pilot me thither on our way to tavistock square. we twisted down to the first turning, then up three, then straight ahead to the first right-hand turn, where we cut to the left until we came to a stuffed dog, which is the sign of a glover. just beyond this my guide plucked me by the sleeve; we halted, and he silently and solemnly pointed across the street. sure enough! there it was, the warehouse with a great stretch of dirty windows in front, through which we could see dozens of clerks bending over ledgers, just as though mr. dombey were momentarily expected. over the door was a gilt sign, "the bombay trading co." bobby explained that it was all the same. i did not care to go in; but at my request hawkins entered and asked for mister carker, the junior, but no one knew him. then we dropped in at the silver shark, a little inn about the size of a large dustbin of two compartments and a sifter. here we rested a bit, as we had walked a long way. the barmaid who waited upon us was in curl-papers, but she was even then as pretty if not prettier than the barmaid at the public in angel court, and that is saying a good deal. she was about as tall as trilby or as ellen terry, which is a very nice height, i think. as we rested, mr. hawkins told the barmaid and me how rogue riderhood came to this very public, through that same doorway, just after he had his alfred david took down by the governors both. he was a slouching dog, was the rogue. he wore an old, sodden fur cap, winter and summer, formless and mangy; it looked like a drowned cat. his hands were always in his pockets up to his elbows, when they were not reaching for something, and when he was out after game his walk was a half-shuffle and run. hawkins saw him starting off this way one night and followed him--knowing there was mischief on hand--followed him for two hours through the fog and rain. it was midnight and the last stroke of the bells that tolled the hour had ceased, and their echo was dying away, when all at once---but the story is too long to relate here. it is so long that when mr. hawkins had finished it was too late to reach tavistock square before dark. mr. hawkins explained that as bats and owls and rats come out only when the sun has disappeared, so there are other things that can be seen best by night. and as he did not go on until the next day at one, he proposed that we should go down to the cheshire cheese and get a bite of summat and then sally forth. so we hailed a bus and climbed to the top. "she rolls like a scow in the wake of a liner," said bobby, as we tumbled into seats. when the bus man came up the little winding ladder and jingled his punch, hawkins paid our fares with a heavy wink, and the guard said, "thank you, sir," and passed on. we got off at the cheese and settled ourselves comfortably in a corner. the same seats are there, running along the wall, where doctor johnson, "goldy" and boswell so often sat and waked the echoes with their laughter. we had chops and tomato-sauce in recollection of jingle and trotter. the chops were of that delicious kind unknown outside of england. i supplied the legend this time, for my messmate had never heard of boswell. hawkins introduced me to "the cove in the white apron" who waited upon us, and then explained that i was the man who wrote "martin chuzzlewit." he kissed his hand to the elderly woman who presided behind the nickel-plated american cash-register. the only thing that rang false about the place was that register, perked up there spick-span new. hawkins insisted that it was a typewriter, and as we passed out he took a handful of matches (thinking them toothpicks) and asked the cashier to play a tune on the thingumabob, but she declined. we made our way to london bridge as the night was settling down. no stars came out, but flickering, fluttering gaslights appeared, and around each post was a great, gray, fluffy aureole of mist. just at the entrance to the bridge we saw nancy dogged by noah claypole. they turned down towards billingsgate fish-market, and as the fog swallowed them, hawkins answered my question as to the language used at billingsgate. "it's not so bloomin' bad, you know; why, i'll take you to a market in islington where they talk twice as vile." he started to go into technicalities, but i excused him. then he leaned over the parapet and spat down at a rowboat that was passing below. as the boat moved out into the glimmering light we made out lizzie hexam at the oars, while gaffer sat in the stern on the lookout. the marchioness went by as we stood there, a bit of tattered shawl over her frowsy head, one stocking down around her shoetop. she had a penny loaf under her arm, and was breaking off bits, eating as she went. soon came snagsby, then mr. vincent crummels, mr. sleary, the horseback-rider, followed by chops, the dwarf, and pickleson, the giant. hawkins said there were two picklesons, but i saw only one. just below was the stone pier and there stood mrs. gamp, and i heard her ask: "and which of all them smoking monsters is the anxworks boat, i wonder? goodness me!" "which boat do you want?" asked ruth. "the anxworks package--i will not deceive you, sweet; why should i?" "why, that is the antwerp packet, in the middle," said ruth. "and i wish it was in jonidge's belly, i do," cried mrs. gamp. we came down from the bridge, moved over toward billingsgate, past the custom-house, where curious old sea-captains wait for ships that never come. captain cuttle lifted his hook to the brim of his glazed hat as we passed. we returned the salute and moved on toward the tower. "it's a rum place; let's not stop," said hawkins. thoughts of the ghosts of raleigh, of mary queen of scots and of lady jane grey seemed to steady his gait and to hasten his footsteps. in a few moments we saw just ahead of us david copperfield and mr. peggotty following a woman whom we could make out walking excitedly a block ahead. it was martha, intent on suicide. "we'll get to the dock first and 'ead 'er orf," said 'awkins. we ran down a side street. but a bright light in a little brick cottage caught our attention--men can't run arm in arm anyway. we forgot our errand of mercy and stood still with open mouths looking in at the window at little jenny wren hard at work dressing her dolls and stopping now and then to stab the air with her needle. bradley headstone and charlie and lizzie hexam came in, and we then passed on, not wishing to attract attention. there was an old smoke-stained tree on the corner which i felt sorry for, as i do for every city tree. just beyond was a blacksmith's forge and a timber-yard behind, where a dealer in old iron had a shop, in front of which was a rusty boiler and a gigantic flywheel half buried in the sand. there were no crowds to be seen now, but we walked on and on--generally in the middle of the narrow streets, turning up or down or across, through arches where tramps slept, by doorways where children crouched; passing drunken men, and women with shawls over their heads. now and again the screech of a fiddle could be heard or the lazy music of an accordion, coming from some "sailors' home." steps of dancing with rattle of iron-shod boot-heels clicking over sanded floors, the hoarse shout of the "caller-off," and now and again angry tones with cracked feminine falsettos broke on the air; and all the time the soft rain fell and the steam seemed to rise from the sewage-laden streets. we were in stepney, that curious parish so minutely described by walter besant in "all sorts and conditions of men"--the parish where all children born at sea were considered to belong. we saw brig place, where walter gay visited captain cuttle. then we went with pip in search of mrs. wimple's house, at mill-pond bank, chink's basin, old green copper rope walk; where lived old bill barley and his daughter clara, and where magwitch was hidden. it was the dingiest collection of shabby buildings ever squeezed together in a dark corner as a club for tomcats. then, standing out in the gloom, we saw limehouse church, where john rokesmith prowled about on a 'tective scent; and where john harmon waited for the third mate radfoot, intending to murder him. next we reached limehouse hole, where rogue riderhood took the plunge down the steps of leaving shop. hawkins thought he saw the artful dodger ahead of us on the dock. he went over and looked up and down and under an old upturned rowboat, then peered over the dock and swore a harmless oath that if we could catch him we would run him in without a warrant. yes, we'd clap the nippers on 'im and march 'im orf. "not if i can help it," i said; "i like the fellow too well." fortunately hawkins failed to find him. here it was that the uncommercial traveler did patrol duty on many sleepless nights. here it was that esther summerson and mr. bucket came. and by the light of a match held under my hat we read a handbill on the brick wall: "found drowned!" the heading stood out in big, fat letters, but the print below was too damp to read, yet there is no doubt it is the same bill that gaffer hexam, eugene wrayburn and mortimer lightwood read, for mr. hawkins said so. as we stood there we heard the gentle gurgle of the tide running under the pier, then a dip of oars coming from out the murky darkness of the muddy river: a challenge from the shore with orders to row in, a hoarse, defiant answer and a watchman's rattle. a policeman passed us running and called back, "i say, hawkins, is that you? there's murder broke loose in whitechapel again! the reserves have been ordered out!" hawkins stopped and seemed to pull himself together--his height increased three inches. a moment before i thought he was a candidate for fatty degeneration of the cerebrum, but now his sturdy frame was all atremble with life. "another murder! i knew it. bill sykes has killed nancy at last. there 's fifty pun for the man who puts the irons on 'im--i must make for the nearest stishun." he gave my hand a twist, shot down a narrow courtway--and i was left to fight the fog, and mayhap this bill sykes and all the other wild phantoms of dickens' brain, alone. * * * * * a certain great general once said that the only good indian is a dead indian. just why the maxim should be limited to aborigines i know not, for when one reads obituaries he is discouraged at the thoughts of competing in virtue with those who have gone hence. let us extend the remark--plagiarize a bit--and say that the only perfect men are those whom we find in books. the receipt for making them is simple, yet well worth pasting in your scrapbook. take the virtues of all the best men you ever knew or heard of, leave out the faults, then mix. in the hands of "the lady novelist" this composition, well molded, makes a scarecrow, in the hair of which the birds of the air come and build their nests. but manipulated by an expert a figure may appear that starts and moves and seems to feel the thrill of life. it may even take its place on a pedestal and be exhibited with other waxworks and thus become confounded with the historic and though these things make the unskilful laugh, yet the judicious say, "dickens made it, therefore let it pass for a man." dear old m. taine, ever glad to score a point against the british, and willing to take dickens at his word, says, "we have no such men in france as scrooge and squeers!" but, god bless you, m. taine, england has no such men either. the novelist takes the men and women he has known, and from life, plus imagination, he creates. if he sticks too close to nature he describes, not depicts: this is "veritism." if imagination's wing is too strong, it lifts the luckless writer off from earth and carries him to an unknown land. you may then fall down and worship his characters, and there is no violation of the first commandment. nothing can be imagined that has not been seen; but imagination can assort, omit, sift, select, construct. given a horse, an eagle, an elephant, and the "creative artist" can make an animal that is neither a horse, an eagle, nor an elephant, yet resembles each. this animal may have eight legs (or forty) with hoofs, claws and toes alternating; a beak, a trunk, a mane; and the whole can be feathered and given the power of rapid flight and also the ability to run like the east wind. it can neigh, roar or scream by turn, or can do all in concert, with a vibratory force multiplied by one thousand. the novelist must have lived, and the novelist must have imagination. but this is not enough. he must have power to analyze and separate, and then he should have the good taste to select and group, forming his parts into a harmonious whole. yet he must build large. life-size will not do: the statue must be heroic, and the artist's genius must breathe into its nostrils the breath of life. the men who live in history are those whose lives have been skilfully written. "plutarch is the most charming writer of fiction the world has ever known," said emerson. dickens' characters are personifications of traits, not men and women. yet they are a deal funnier--they are as funny as a box of monkeys, as entertaining as a punch-and-judy show, as interesting as a "fifteen puzzle," and sometimes as pretty as chromos. quilp munching the eggs, shells and all, to scare his wife, makes one shiver as though a jack-in-the-box had been popped out at him. mr. mould, the undertaker, and jaggers, the lawyer, are as amusing as humpty-dumpty and pantaloon. i am sure that no live lawyer ever gave me half the enjoyment that jaggers has, and doctor slammers' talk is better medicine than the pills of any living m.d. because the burnt-cork minstrel pleases me more than a real "nigger" is no reason why i should find fault! dickens takes the horse, the eagle and the elephant and makes an animal of his own. he rubs up the feathers, places the tail at a fierce angle, makes the glass eyes glare, and you are ready to swear that the thing is alive. by rummaging over the commercial world you can collect the harshness, greed, avarice, selfishness and vanity from a thousand men. with these sins you can, if you are very skilful, construct a ralph nickleby, a scrooge, a jonas chuzzlewit, an alderman cute, a mr. murdstone, a bounderby or a gradgrind at will. a little more pride, a trifle less hypocrisy, a molecule extra of untruth, and flavor with this fault or that, and your man is ready to place up against the fence to dry. then you can make a collection of all the ridiculous traits--the whims, silly pride, foibles, hopes founded on nothing and dreams touched with moonshine--and you make a micawber. put in a dash of assurance and a good thimbleful of hypocrisy, and pecksniff is the product. leave out the assurance, replacing it with cowardice, and the result is doctor chillip or uriah heap. muddle the whole with stupidity, and bumble comes forth. then, for the good people, collect the virtues and season to suit the taste and we have the cheeryble brothers, paul dombey or little nell. they have no development, therefore no history--the circumstances under which you meet them vary, that's all. they are people the like of whom are never seen on land or sea. little nell is good all day long, while live children are good for only five minutes at a time. the recurrence with which these five-minute periods return determines whether the child is "good" or "bad." in the intervals the restless little feet stray into flowerbeds; stand on chairs so that grimy, dimpled hands may reach forbidden jam; run and romp in pure joyous innocence, or kick spitefully at authority. then the little fellow may go to sleep, smile in his dreams so that mamma says angels are talking to him (nurse says wind on the stomach); when he awakens the five-minute good spell returns. men are only grown-up children. they are cheerful after breakfast, cross at night. houses, lands, barns, railroads, churches, books, racetracks are the playthings with which they amuse themselves until they grow tired, and death, the kind old nurse, puts them to sleep. so a man on earth is good or bad as mood moves him; in color his acts are seldom pure white, neither are they wholly black, but generally of a steel-gray. caprice, temper, accident, all act upon him. the north wind of hate, the simoon of jealousy, the cyclone of passion beat and buffet him. pilots strong and pilots cowardly stand at the helm by turn. but sometimes the south wind softly blows, the sun comes out by day, the stars at night: friendship holds the rudder firm, and love makes all secure. such is the life of man--a voyage on life's unresting sea; but dickens knows it not. esther is always good, fagin is always bad, bumble is always pompous, and scrooge is always--scrooge. at no dickens' party do you ever mistake cheeryble for carker; yet in real life carker is carker one day and cheeryble the next--yes, carker in the morning and cheeryble after dinner. there is no doubt that a dummy so ridiculous as pecksniff has reduced the number of hypocrites; and the domineering and unjust are not quite so popular since dickens painted their picture with a broom. from the yeasty deep of his imagination he conjured forth his strutting spirits; and the names he gave to each are as fitting and as funny as the absurd smallclothes and fluttering ribbons which they wear. shakespeare has his gobbo, touchstone, simpcox, sly, grumio, mopsa, pinch, nym, simple, quickly, overdone, elbow, froth, dogberry, puck, peablossom, taurus, bottom, bushy, hotspur, scroop, wall, flute, snout, starveling, moonshine, mouldy, shallow, wart, bullcalf, feeble, quince, snag, dull, mustardseed, fang, snare, rumor, tearsheet, cobweb, costard and moth; but in names as well as in plot "the father of pickwick" has distanced the master. in fact, to give all the odd and whimsical names invented by dickens would be to publish a book, for he compiled an indexed volume of names from which he drew at will. he used, however, but a fraction of his list. the rest are wisely kept from the public, else, forsooth, the fledgling writers of penny-shockers would seize upon them for raw stock. dickens has a watch that starts and stops in a way of its own--never mind the sun. he lets you see the wheels go round, but he never tells you why the wheels go round. he knows little of psychology--that curious, unseen thing that stands behind every act. he knows not the highest love, therefore he never depicts the highest joy. nowhere does he show the gradual awakening in man of godlike passion--nowhere does he show the evolution of a soul; very, very seldom does he touch the sublime. but he has given the athenians a day of pleasure, and for this let us all reverently give thanks. oliver goldsmith jarvis: a few of our usual cards of compliments--that's all. this bill from your tailor; this from your mercer; and this from the little broker in crooked lane. he says he has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the money you borrowed. honeydew: but i am sure we were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it. jarvis: he has lost all patience. honeydew: then he has lost a good thing. jarvis: there's that ten guineas you were sending to the poor man and his children in the fleet. i believe that would stop his mouth for a while. honeydew: ay, jarvis; but what will fill their mouths in the meantime? --_goldsmith, "the good-natured man"_ [illustration: oliver goldsmith] the isle of erin has the same number of square miles as the state of indiana; it also has more kindness to the acre than any other country on earth. ireland has five million inhabitants; once it had eight. three millions have gone away, and when one thinks of landlordism he wonders why the five millions did not go, too. but the irish are a poetic people and love the land of their fathers with a childlike love, and their hearts are all bound up in sweet memories, rooted by song and legend into nooks and curious corners, so the tendrils of affection hold them fast. ireland is very beautiful. its pasture-lands and meadow-lands, blossom-decked and water-fed, crossed and recrossed by never-ending hedgerows, that stretch away and lose themselves in misty nothingness, are fair as a poet's dream. birds carol in the white hawthorn and the yellow furze all day long, and the fragrant summer winds that blow lazily across the fields are laden with the perfume of fairest flowers. it is like crossing the dark river called death, to many, to think of leaving ireland--besides that, even if they wanted to go they haven't money to buy a steerage ticket. from across the dark river called death come no remittances; but from america many dollars are sent back to ireland. this often supplies the obolus that secures the necessary bit of cunard passport. whenever an irishman embarks at queenstown, part of the five million inhabitants go down to the waterside to see him off. not long ago i stood with the crowd and watched two fine lads go up the gangplank, each carrying a red handkerchief containing his worldly goods. as the good ship moved away we lifted a wild wail of woe that drowned the sobbing of the waves. everybody cried--i wept, too--and as the great, black ship became but a speck on the western horizon we embraced each other in frenzied grief. there is beauty in ireland--physical beauty of so rare and radiant a type that it makes the heart of an artist ache to think that it can not endure. on country roads, at fair time, the traveler will see barefoot girls who are women, and just suspecting it, who have cheeks like ripe pippins; laughing eyes with long, dark, wicked lashes; teeth like ivory; necks of perfect poise; and waists that, never having known a corset, are pure greek. of course, these girls are aware that we admire them--how could they help it? they carry big baskets on either shapely arm, bundles balanced on their heads, and we, suddenly grown tired, sit on the bankside as they pass by, and feign indifference to their charms. once safely past, we admiringly examine their tracks in the soft mud (for there has been a shower during the night), and we vow that such footprints were never before left upon the sands of time. the typical young woman in ireland is juno before she was married; the old woman is sycorax after caliban was weaned. wrinkled, toothless, yellow old hags are seen sitting by the roadside, rocking back and forth, crooning a song that is mate to the chant of the witches in "macbeth" when they brew the hellbroth. see that wizened, scarred and cruel old face--how it speaks of a seared and bitter heart! so dull yet so alert, so changeful yet so impassive, so immobile yet so cunning--a paradox in wrinkles, where half-stifled desperation has clawed at the soul until it has fled, and only dead indifference or greedy expectation is left to tell the tragic tale. "in the name of god, charity, kind gentlemen, charity!" and the old crone stretches forth a long, bony claw. should you pass on she calls down curses on your head. if you are wise, you go back and fling her a copper to stop the cold streaks that are shooting up your spine. and these old women were the most trying sights i saw in ireland. "pshaw!" said a friend of mine when i told him this; "these old creatures are actors, and if you would sit down and talk to them, as i have done, they will laugh and joke, and tell you of sons in america who are policemen, and then they will fill black 'dhudeens' out of your tobacco and ask if you know mike mcguire who lives in she-ka-gy." the last trace of comeliness has long left the faces of these repulsive beggars, but there is a type of feminine beauty that comes with years. it is found only where intellect and affection keep step with spiritual desire; and in ireland, where it is often a crime to think, where superstition stalks, and avarice rules, and hunger crouches, it is very, very rare. but i met one woman in the emerald isle whose hair was snow-white, and whose face seemed to beam a benediction. it was a countenance refined by sorrow, purified by aspiration, made peaceful by right intellectual employment, strong through self-reliance, and gentle by an earnest faith in things unseen. it proved the possible. when the nations are disarmed, ireland will take first place, for in fistiana she is supreme. james russell lowell once said that where the "code duello" exists, men lift their hats to ladies, and say "excuse me" and "if you please." and if lowell was so bold as to say a good word for the gentlemen who hold themselves "personally responsible," i may venture the remark that men who strike from the shoulder are almost universally polite to strangers. a woman can do ireland afoot and alone with perfect safety. everywhere one finds courtesy, kindness and bubbling good-cheer. nineteen-twentieths of all lawlessness in ireland during the past two hundred years has been directed against the landlord's agent. this is a very irish-like proceeding--to punish the agent for the sins of the principal. when the landlord himself comes over from england he affects a fatherly interest in "his people." he gives out presents and cheap favors, and the people treat him with humble deference. when the landlord's agent goes to america he gets a place as first mate on a mississippi river steamboat; and before the war he was in demand in the south as overseer. he it is who has taught the "byes" the villainy that they execute; and it sometimes goes hard, for they better the instruction. but there is one other character that the boys occasionally look after in ireland, and that is the "squire." he is a merry wight in tight breeches, red coat, and a number-six hat. he has yellow side-whiskers and 'unts to 'ounds, riding over the wheatfields of honest men. the genuine landlord lives in london; the squire would like to but can not afford it. of course, there are squires and squires, but the kind i have in mind is an irishman who tries to pass for an englishman. he is that curious thing--a man without a country. there is a theory to the effect that the universal mother in giving out happiness bestows on each and all an equal portion--that the beggar trudging along the stony road is as happy as the king who rides by in his carriage. this is a very old belief, and it has been held by many learned men. from the time i first heard it, it appealed to me as truth. yet recently my faith has been shaken; for not long ago in new york i climbed the marble steps of a splendid mansion and was admitted by a servant in livery who carried my card on a silver tray to his master. this master had a son in the "keeley institute," a daughter in her grave, and a wife who shrank from his presence. his heart was as lonely as a winter night at sea. fate had sent him a coachman, a butler, a gardener and a footman, but she took his happiness and passed it through a hole in the thatch of a mud-plastered cottage in ireland, where, each night, six rosy children soundly slept in one straw bed. in that cottage i stayed two days. there was a stone floor and bare, whitewashed walls; but there was a rosebush climbing over the door, and within health and sunny temper that made mirth with a meal of herbs, and a tenderness that touched to poetry the prose of daily duties. but it is well to bear in mind that an irishman in america and an irishman in ireland are not necessarily the same thing. often the first effect of a higher civilization is degeneration. just as the chinaman quickly learns big swear-words, and the indian takes to drink, and certain young men on first reading emerson's essay on "self-reliance" go about with a chip on their shoulders, so sometimes does the first full breath of freedom's air develop the worst in paddy instead of the best. as one tramps through ireland and makes the acquaintance of a blue-eyed "broth of a bye," who weighs one hundred and ninety, and measures forty-four inches around the chest, he catches glimpses of noble traits and hints of mystic possibilities. there are actions that look like rudiments of greatness gone, and you think of the days when olympian games were played, and finger meanwhile the silver in your pocket and inwardly place it on this twenty-year-old, pink-faced, six-foot "boy" that stands before you. in ireland there are no forests, but in the peat-bogs are found remains of mighty trees that once lifted their outstretched branches to the sun. are these remains of stately forests symbols of a race of men that, too, have passed away? in any wayside village of leinster you can pick you a model for an apollo. he is in rags, is this giant, and can not read, but he can dance and sing and fight. he has an eye for color, an ear for music, a taste for rhyme, a love of novelty and a thirst for fun. and withal he has blundering sympathy and a pity whose tears are near the surface. now, will this fine savage be a victim of arrested development, and sink gradually through weight of years into mere animal stupidity and sodden superstition? the chances are that this is just what he will do, and that at twenty he will be in his intellectual zenith. summer does not fulfil the promise of spring. but as occasionally there is one of those beautiful, glowing irish girls who leaves footsteps that endure (in bettered lives), instead of merely transient tracks in mud, so there has been a burke, a wellington, an o'connell, a sheridan, a tom moore and an oliver goldsmith. * * * * * while goldsmith was an irishman, swift was an englishman who chanced to be born of irish parents in dublin. in comparing these men thackeray says: "i think i would rather have had a cold potato and a friendly word from goldsmith than to have been beholden to the dean for a guinea and a dinner. no; the dean was not an irishman, for no irishman ever gave but with a kind word and a kind heart." charles goldsmith was a clergyman, passing rich on forty pounds a year. he had a nice little family of eight children, and what became of the seven who went not astray i do not know. but the smallest and homeliest one of the brood became the best-loved man in london. these sickly boys who have been educated only because they were too weak to work--what a record their lives make! little oliver had a pug-nose and bandy legs, and fists not big enough to fight, but he had a large head, and because he was absent-minded, lots of folks thought him dull and stupid, and others were sure he was very bad. in fact, let us admit it, he did steal apples and rifle birds' nests, and on "the straggling fence that skirts the way," he drew pictures of paddy byrne, the schoolmaster, who amazed the rustics by the amount of knowledge he carried in one small head. but paddy byrne did not love art for art's sake, so he applied the ferule vigorously to little goldsmith's anatomy, with a hope of diverting the lad's inclinations from art to arithmetic. i do not think the plan was very successful, for the pockmarked youngster was often adorned with the dunce-cap. "and, sir," said doctor johnson, many years after, "it must have been very becoming." it seems that paddy byrne "boarded round," and part of the time was under the roof of the rectory. now we all know that schoolmasters are dual creatures, and that once away from the schoolyard, and having laid aside the robe of office, are often good, honest, simple folks. in his official capacity paddy byrne made things very uncomfortable for the pug-nosed little boy, but, like the true irishman that he was, when he got away from the schoolhouse he was sorry for it. whether dignity is the mask we wear to hide ignorance, i am not sure, yet when paddy byrne was the schoolmaster he was a man severe and stern to view; but when he was plain paddy byrne he was a first-rate good fellow. evenings he would hold little oliver on his knee, and instead of helping him in his lessons would tell him tales of robbers, pirates, smugglers--everything and anything in fact that boys like: stories of fairies, goblins, ghosts; lion-hunts and tiger-killing in which the redoubtable paddy was supposed to have taken a chief part. the schoolmaster had been a soldier and a sailor. he had been in many lands, and when he related his adventures, no doubt he often mistook imagination for memory. but the stories had the effect of choking the desire in oliver for useful knowledge, and gave instead a thirst for wandering and adventure. byrne also had a taste for poetry, and taught the lad to scribble rhymes. very proud was the boy's mother, and very carefully did she preserve these foolish lines. all this was in the village of lissoy, county westmeath; yet if you look on the map you will look in vain for lissoy. but six miles northeast from athlone and three miles from ballymahon is the village of auburn. when goldsmith was a boy lissoy was: "sweet auburn! loveliest village of the plain, where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain, where smiling spring the earliest visits paid, and parting summer's lingering blooms delayed- dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, seats of my youth, when every sport could please- how often have i loitered o'er thy green, where humble happiness endeared each scene; how often have i paused on every charm, the sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, the never-failing brook, the busy mill, the decent church, that topped the neighboring hill, the hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade for talking age and whispering lovers made: how often have i blessed the coming day, when toil remitting lent its turn to play, and all the village train from labor free, led up their sports beneath the spreading tree- while many a pastime circled in the shade, the young contending as the old surveyed; and many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, and sleights of art and feats of strength went round." in america, when a "city" is to be started, the first thing is to divide up the land into town-lots and then sell these lots to whoever will buy. this is a very modern scheme. but in ireland whole villages belong to one man, and every one in the place pays tribute. then villages are passed down from generation to generation, and sometimes sold outright, but there is no wish to dispose of corner lots. for when a man lives in your house and you can put him out at any time, he is, of course, much more likely to be civil than if he owns the place. but it has happened many times that the inhabitants of irish villages have all packed up and deserted the place, leaving no one but the village squire and that nice man, the landlord's agent. the cottages then are turned into sheep-pens or hay-barns. they may be pulled down, or, if they are left standing, the weather looks after that. and these are common sights to the tourist. now the landlord, who owned every rood of the village of lissoy, lived in london. he lived well. he gambled a little, and as the cards did not run his way he got into debt. so he wrote to his agent in lissoy to raise the rents. he did so, threatened, applied the screws, and--the inhabitants packed up and let the landlord have his village all to himself. let goldsmith tell: "sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn: amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, and desolation saddens all thy green; one only master grasps the whole domain, and half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. no more thy glassy brook reflects the day, but choked with sedges, works its weedy way; along thy glades, a solitary guest, the hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, and tires their echoes with unvaried cries. sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, and the long grass overtops the moldering wall; and, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, far, far away, thy children leave the land." a titled gentleman by the name of napier was the owner of the estate at that time, and as his tenantry had left, he in wrath pulled down their rows of pretty white cottages, demolished the schoolhouse, blew up the mill, and took all the material and built a splendid mansion on the hillside. the cards had evidently turned in his direction, but anyway, he owned several other villages, so although he toiled not neither did he spin, yet he was well clothed and always fed. but my lord napier was not immortal, for he died, and was buried; and over his grave they erected a monument, and on it are these words: "he was the friend of the oppressed." the records of literature, so far as i know, show no such moving force in a simple poem as the re-birth of the village of auburn. no man can live in a village and illuminate it by his genius. his fellow townsmen and neighbors are not to be influenced by his eloquence except in a very limited way. his presence creates an opposition, for the "personal touch" repels as well as attracts. dying, seven cities may contend for the honor of his birthplace; or after his departure, knowledge of his fame may travel back across the scenes that he has known, and move to better things. the years went by and the napier estate got into a bad way and was sold. captain hogan became the owner of the site of the village of lissoy. now, captain hogan was a poet in feeling, and he set about to replace the village that goldsmith had loved and immortalized. he adopted the name that goldsmith supplied, and auburn it is even unto this day. in the village-green is the original spreading hawthorn-tree, all enclosed in a stone wall to preserve it. and on the wall is a sign requesting you not to break off branches. around the trees are seats. i sat there one evening with "talking age" and "whispering lovers." the mirth that night was of a quiet sort, and i listened to an old man who recited all "the deserted village" to the little group that was present. it cost me sixpence, but was cheap for the money, for the brogue was very choice. i was the only stranger present, and quickly guessed that the entertainment was for my sole benefit, as i saw that i was being furtively watched to see how i took my medicine. a young fellow sitting near me offered a little goldsmith information, then a woman on the other side did the same, and the old man who had recited suggested that we go over and see the alehouse "where the justly celebhrated docther goldsmith so often played his harp so feelin'ly." so we adjourned to the three jolly pigeons--a dozen of us, including the lovers, whom i personally invited. "and did oliver goldsmith really play his harp in this very room?" i asked. "aye, indade he did, yer honor, an' ef ye don't belave it, ye kin sit in the same chair that was his." so they led me to the big chair that stood on a little raised platform, and i sat in the great oaken seat which was surely made before goldsmith was born. then we all took ale (at my expense). the lovers sat in one corner, drinking from one glass, and very particular to drink from the same side, and giggling to themselves. the old man wanted to again recite "the deserted village," but was forcibly restrained. and instead, by invitation of himself, the landlord sang a song composed by goldsmith, but which i have failed to find in goldsmith's works, entitled, "when ireland is free." there were thirteen stanzas in this song, and a chorus and refrain in which the words of the title are repeated. after each stanza we all came in strong on the chorus, keeping time by tapping our glasses on the tables. then we all drank perdition to english landlords, had our glasses refilled, and i was called on for a speech. i responded in a few words that were loudly cheered, and the very good health of "the 'merican nobleman" was drunk with much fervor. the three jolly pigeons is arranged exactly to the letter: "the whitewashed walls, the nicely sanded floor, the varnished clock that clicked behind the door; the chest contrived a doubly debt to pay, a bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; the pictures placed for ornament and use, the twelve good rules, the royal game of goose." and behold, there on the wall behind the big oak chair are "the twelve good rules." the next morning i saw the modest mansion of the village preacher "whose house was known to all the vagrant train," then the little stone church, and beyond i came to the blossoming furze, unprofitably gay, where the village master taught his little school. a bright young woman teaches there now, and it is certain that she can write and cipher too, for i saw "sums" on the blackboard, and i also saw where she had written some very pretty mottoes on the wall with colored chalk, a thing i am sure that paddy byrne never thought to do. below the schoolhouse is a pretty little stream that dances over pebbles and untiringly turns the wheel in the old mill; and not far away i saw the round top of knockrue hill, where goldsmith said he would rather sit with a book in hand than mingle with the throng at the court of royalty. goldsmith's verse is all clean, sweet and wholesome, and i do not wonder that he was everywhere a favorite with women. this was true in his very babyhood. for he was the pet of several good old dames, one of whom taught him to count by using cards as object-lessons he proudly said that when he was three years of age he could pick out the "ten-spot." this love of pasteboard was not exactly an advantage, for when he was sixteen he went to dublin to attend college, and carried fifty pounds and a deck of cards in his pocket. the first day in dublin he met a man who thought he knew more about cards than oliver did--and the man did: in three days oliver arrived back in sweet auburn penniless, but wonderfully glad to get home and everybody glad to see him. "it seemed as if i 'd been away a year," he said. but in a few weeks he started out with no baggage but a harp, and he played in the villages and the inns, and sometimes at the homes of the rich. and his melodies won all hearts. the author of "vanity fair" says: "you come hot and tired from the day's battle, and this sweet minstrel sings to you. who could harm the kind vagrant harper? whom did he ever hurt? he carries no weapon--only the harp on which he plays to you; and with which he delights great and humble, young and old, the captains in the tent or the soldiers round the fire, or the women and children in the villages at whose porches he stops and sings his simple songs of love and beauty." * * * * * when goldsmith arrived in london in seventeen hundred fifty-six, he was ragged, penniless, friendless and forlorn. in the country he could always make his way, but the city to him was new and strange. for several days he begged a crust here and there, sleeping in the doorways at night and dreaming of the flowery wealth of gentle lissoy, where even the poorest had enough to eat and a warm place to huddle when the sun went down. he at length found work as clerk or porter in a chemist's shop, where he remained until he got money enough to buy a velvet coat and a ruffled shirt, and then he moved to the bankside and hung out a surgeon's sign. the neighbors thought the little doctor funny, and the women would call to him out of the second-story window that it was a fine day, but when they were ill they sent for some one else to attend them. goldsmith was twenty-eight, and the thought that he could make a living with his pen had never come to him. yet he loved books, and he would loiter about bookshops, pricing first editions, and talking poetry to the patrons. he chanced in this way to meet samuel richardson, who, because he wrote the first english romance, has earned the title of father of lies. in order to get a very necessary loaf of bread, doctor goldsmith asked richardson to let him read proof. so richardson gave him employment, and in correcting proof the discovery was made that the irish doctor could turn a sentence, too. he became affected with literary eczema, and wrote a tragedy which he read to richardson and a few assembled friends. they voted it "vile, demnition vile." but one man thought it wasn't so bad as it might be, and this man found a market for some of the little doctor's book reviews, but the tragedy was fed to the fireplace. with the money for his book reviews the doctor bought goose quills and ink, and inspiration in bottles. grub street dropped in, shabby, seedy, empty of pocket but full of hope, and little suppers were given in dingy coffeehouses where success to english letters was drunk. then we find goldsmith making a bold stand for reform. he hired out to write magazine articles by the day; going to work in the morning when the bell rang, an hour off at noon, and then at it again until nightfall. mr. griffiths, publisher of the "monthly review," was his employer. and in order to hold his newly captured prize, the publisher boarded the pockmarked irishman in his own house. mrs. griffiths looked after him closely, spurring him on when he lagged, correcting his copy, striking out such portions as showed too much genius and inserting a word here and there in order to make a purely neutral decoction, which it seems is what magazine readers have always desired. occasionally these articles were duly fathered by great men, as this gave them the required specific gravity. it is said that even in our day there are editors who employ convict labor in this way. but i am sure that this is not so, for we live in an age of competition, and it is just as cheap to hire the great men to supply twaddle direct as it is to employ foreign paupers to turn it out with the extra expense of elderly women to revise. after working in the griffith literary mill for five months, goldsmith scaled the barricade one dark night, leaving behind, pasted on the wall, a ballad not only to mrs. griffiths' eyebrow, but to her wig as well. soon after this, when goldsmith was thirty years of age, his first book, "enquiry into the present state of polite learning in europe," was published. it brought him a little money and tuppence worth of fame, so he took better lodgings, in green arbor court, proposing to do great things. half a century after the death of goldsmith, irving visited green arbor court: "at length we came upon fleet market, and traversing it, turned up a narrow street to the bottom of a long, steep flight of stone steps called breakneck stairs. these led to green arbor court, and down them goldsmith many a time risked his neck. when we entered the court, i could not but smile to think in what out of the way corners genius produces her bantlings. the court i found to be a small square surrounded by tall, miserable houses, with old garments and frippery fluttering from every window. it appeared to be a region of washerwomen, and lines were stretched about the square on which clothes were dangling to dry. poor goldsmith! what a time he must have had of it, with his quiet disposition and nervous habits, penned up in this den of noise and vulgarity." one can imagine goldsmith running the whole gamut of possible jokes on breakneck stairs, and green arbor court, which, by the way, was never green and where there was no arbor. "i've been admitted to court, gentlemen!" said goldsmith proudly, one day at the mitre tavern. "ah, yes, doctor, we know--green arbor court! and any man who has climbed breakneck stairs has surely achieved," said tom davies. in seventeen hundred sixty, goldsmith moved to number six wine-office court, where he wrote the "vicar of wakefield." boswell reports doctor johnson's account of visiting him there: "i received, one morning, a message from poor goldsmith that he was in great distress, and, as it was not in his power to come to me, begging that i would come to him as soon as possible. i sent him a guinea and promised to come to him directly. i accordingly went to him as soon as i was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. i perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had half a bottle of madeira and a glass before him. i put the cork in the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. he then told me he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced for me. i looked into it and saw its merits; told the landlady i would soon return, and having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. i brought goldsmith the money, and he discharged the rent, not without rating his landlady for having used him so ill." for the play of "the good-natured man" goldsmith received five hundred pounds. and he immediately expended four hundred in mahogany furniture, easy chairs, lace curtains and wilton carpets. then he called in his friends. this was at number two brick court, middle temple. blackstone had chambers just below, and was working as hard over his commentaries as many a lawyer's clerk has done since. he complained of the abominable noise and racket of "those fellows upstairs," but was asked to come in and listen to wit while he had the chance. i believe the bailiffs eventually captured the mahogany furniture, but goldsmith held the quarters. they are today in good repair, and the people who occupy the house are very courteous, and obligingly show the rooms to the curious. no attempt at a museum is made, but there are to be seen various articles which belonged to goldsmith and a collection of portraits that are interesting. when "the traveler" was published goldsmith's fame was made secure. as long as he wrote plays, reviews, history and criticism he was working for hire. people said it was "clever," "brilliant," and all that, but their hearts were not won until the poet had poured out his soul to his brother in that gentlest of all sweet rhymes. i pity the man who can read the opening lines of "the traveler" without a misty something coming over his vision: "where'er i roam, whatever realms i see, my heart untraveled fondly turns to thee; still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, and drags at each remove a lengthening chain." this is the earliest english poem which i can recall that makes use of our american indian names: "where wild oswego spreads her swamps around, and niagara stuns with thundering sound." indeed, we came near having goldsmith for an adopted citizen. according to his own report he once secured passage to boston, and after carrying his baggage aboard the ship he went back to town to say a last hurried word of farewell to a fair lady, and when he got back to the dock the ship had sailed away with his luggage. his earnest wish was to spend his last days in sweet auburn. "in all my wand'rings round this world of care, in all my griefs--and god has given my share- i still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, amidst those humble bowers to lay me down; to husband out life's taper at its close, and keep the flame from wasting by repose. i still had hopes--for pride attends us still- amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, around my fire an evening group to draw, and tell of all i felt and all i saw. and as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, pants to the place from whence at first she flew, i still had hopes, my long vexations past, here to return--and die at home at last." but he never saw ireland after he left it in seventeen hundred fifty-four. he died in london in seventeen hundred seventy-four, aged forty-six. on the plain little monument in temple church where he was buried are only these words: here lies oliver goldsmith. hawkins once called on the earl of northumberland and found goldsmith waiting in an outer room, having come in response to an invitation from the nobleman. hawkins, having finished his business, waited until goldsmith came out, as he had a curiosity to know why the earl had sent for him. "well," said hawkins, "what did he say to you?" "his lordship told me that he had read 'the traveler,' and that he was pleased with it, and that inasmuch as he was soon to be lord-lieutenant of ireland, and knowing i was an irishman, asked what he could do for me!" "and what did you tell him?" inquired the eager hawkins. "why, there was nothing for me to say, but that i was glad he liked my poem, and--that i had a brother in ireland, a clergyman, who stood in need of help----" "enough!" cried hawkins, and left him. to hawkins himself are we indebted for the incident, and after relating it hawkins adds: "and thus did this idiot in the affairs of the world trifle with his fortunes!" let him who wishes preach a sermon on this story. but there you have it! "a brother in ireland who needs help----" the brother in london, the brother in america, the brother in ireland who needs help! all men were his brothers, and those who needed help were first in his mind. dear little doctor goldsmith, you were not a hustler, but when i get to the spirit world, i'll surely hunt you up! william shakespeare it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness. --_as you like it_ [illustration: william shakespeare] i have on several occasions been to the shakespeare country, approaching it from different directions, but each time i am set down at leamington. perhaps this is by some act of parliament--i really do not know; anyway, i have ceased to kick against the pricks and now meekly accept my fate. leamington seems largely under subjection to that triumvirate of despots--the butler, the coachman and the gardener. you hear the jingle of keys, the flick of the whip and the rattle of the lawnmower; and a cold, secret fear takes possession of you--a sort of half-frenzied impulse to flee, before smug modernity takes you captive and whisks you off to play tiddledywinks or to dance the racquet. but the tram is at the door--the outside fare is a penny, inside it's two--and we are soon safe, for we have reached the point where the leam and the avon meet. warwick is worth our while. for here we see scenes such as shakespeare saw, and our delight is in the things that his eyes beheld. at the foot of mill street are the ruins of the old gothic bridge that leads off to banbury. oft have i ridden to banbury cross on my mother's foot, and when i saw that sign and pointing finger i felt like leaving all and flying thence. just beyond the bridge, settled snugly in a forest of waving branches, we see storied old warwick castle, with cã¦sar's tower lifting itself from the mass of green. all about are quaint old houses and shops, with red-tiled roofs, and little windows, with diamond panes, hung on hinges, where maidens fair have looked down on brave men in coats of mail. these narrow, stony streets have rung with the clang and echo of hurrying hoofs; the tramp of royalist and parliamentarian, horse and foot, drum and banner; the stir of princely visits, of mail-coach, market, assize and kingly court. colbrand, armed with giant club; sir guy; richard neville, kingmaker, and his barbaric train, all trod these streets, watered their horses in this river, camped on yonder bank, or huddled in this castle yard. and again they came back when will shakespeare, a youth from stratford, eight miles away, came here and waved his magic wand. warwick castle is probably in better condition now than it was in the sixteenth century. but practically it is the same. it is the only castle in england where the portcullis is lowered at ten o'clock every night and raised in the morning (if the coast happens to be clear) to tap of drum. it costs a shilling to visit the castle. a fine old soldier in spotless uniform, with waxed white moustache and dangling sword, conducts the visitors. he imparts full two shillings' worth of facts as we go, all with a fierce roll of r's, as becomes a man of war. the long line of battlements, the massive buttresses, the angular entrance cut through solid rock, crooked, abrupt, with places where fighting men can lie in ambush, all is as shakespeare knew it. there are the cedars of lebanon, brought by crusaders from the east, and the screaming peacocks in the paved courtway: and in the great hall are to be seen the sword and accouterments of the fabled guy, the mace of the "kingmaker," the helmet of cromwell, and the armor of lord brooke, killed at litchfield. and that shakespeare saw these things there is no doubt. but he saw them as a countryman who came on certain fete-days, and stared with open mouth. we know this, because he has covered all with the glamour of his rich, boyish imagination that failed to perceive the cruel mockery of such selfish pageantry. had his view been from the inside he would not have made his kings noble nor his princes generous; for the stress of strife would have stilled his laughter, and from his brain the dazzling pictures would have fled. yet his fancies serve us better than the facts. shakespeare shows us many castles, but they are always different views of warwick or kenilworth. when he pictures macbeth's castle he has warwick in his inward eye: "this castle hath a pleasant seat: the air nimbly and sweetly recommends itself unto our gentle senses. this guest of summer, the temple-haunting martlet, does approve, by his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle; where they most breed and haunt, i have observed, the air is delicate." five miles from warwick (ten, if you believe the cab-drivers) are the ruins of kenilworth castle. in fifteen hundred seventy-five, when shakespeare was eleven years of age, queen elizabeth came to kenilworth. whether her ticket was by way of leamington i do not know. but she remained from july ninth to july twenty-seventh, and there were great doings 'most every day, to which the yeomanry were oft invited. john shakespeare was a worthy citizen of warwickshire, and it is very probable that he received an invitation, and that he drove over with mary arden, his wife, sitting on the front seat holding the baby, and all the other seven children sitting on the straw behind. and we may be sure that the eldest boy in that brood never forgot the day. in fact, in "midsummer night's dream" he has called on his memory for certain features of the show. elizabeth was forty-one years old then, but apparently very attractive and glib of tongue. no doubt kenilworth was stupendous in its magnificence, and it will pay you to take down from its shelf sir walter's novel and read about it. but today it is all a crumbling heap; ivy, rooks and daws hold the place in fee, each pushing hard for sole possession. it is eight miles from warwick to stratford by the direct road, but ten by the river. i have walked both routes and consider the latter the shorter. two miles down the river is barford, and a mile farther is wasperton, with its quaint old stone church. it is a good place to rest: for nothing is so soothing as a cool church where the dim light streams through colored windows, and out of sight somewhere an organ softly plays. soon after leaving the church a rustic swain hailed me and asked for a match. the pipe and the virginia weed--they mean amity the world over. if i had questions to ask, now was the time! so i asked, and rusticus informed me that hampton lucy was only a mile beyond and that shakespeare never stole deer at all; so i hope we shall hear no more of that libelous accusation. "but did shakespeare run away?" i demanded. "ave coorse he deed, sir; 'most all good men 'ave roon away sometime!" and come to think of it rusticus is right. most great men have at some time departed hastily without leaving orders where to forward their mail. indeed, it seems necessary that a man should have "run away" at least once, in order afterward to attain eminence. moses, lot, tarquin, pericles, demosthenes, saint paul, shakespeare, rousseau, voltaire, goldsmith, hugo--but the list is too long to give. but just suppose that shakespeare had not run away! and to whom do we owe it that he did leave--justice shallow or ann hathaway, or both? i should say to ann first and his honor second. i think if shakespeare could write an article for "the ladies' home journal" on "women who have helped me," and tell the whole truth (as no man ever will in print), he would put ann hathaway first. he signed a bond when eighteen years old agreeing to marry her; she was twenty-six. no record is found of the marriage. but we should think of her gratefully, for no doubt it was she who started the lad off for london. that's the way i expressed it to my new-found friend, and he agreed with me, so we shook hands and parted. charlcote is as fair as a dream of paradise. the winding avon, full to its banks, strays lazily through rich fields and across green meadows, past the bright red-brick pile of charlcote mansion. the river-bank is lined with rushes, and in one place i saw the prongs of antlers shaking the elders. i sent a shrill whistle and a stick that way, and out ran four fine deer that loped gracefully across the turf. the sight brought my poacher instincts to the surface, but i bottled them, and trudged on until i came to the little church that stands at the entrance to the park. all mansions, castles and prisons in england have chapels or churches attached. and this is well, for in the good old days it seemed wise to keep in close communication with the other world. for often, on short notice, the proud scion of royalty was compelled hastily to pack a ghostly valise and his him hence with his battered soul; or if he did not go himself he compelled others to do so, and who but a brute would kill a man without benefit of the clergy! so each estate hired its priests by the year, just as men with a taste for litigation hold attorneys in constant retainer. in charlcote church is a memorial to sir thomas lucy; and there is a glowing epitaph that quite upsets any of those taunting and defaming allusions in "the merry wives." at the foot of the monument is a line to the effect that the inscription thereon was written by the only one in possession of the facts, sir thomas himself. several epitaphs in the churchyard are worthy of space in your commonplace book, but the lines on the slab to john gibbs and wife struck me as having the true ring: "farewell, proud, vain, false, treacherous world, we have seen enough of thee: we value not what thou canst say of we." when the charlcote mansion was built, there was a housewarming, and good queen bess (who was not so awful good) came in great state; so we see that she had various calling acquaintances in these parts. but we have no proof that she ever knew that any such person as w. shakespeare lived. however, she came to charlcote and dined on venison, and what a pity it is that she and shakespeare did not meet in london afterward and talk it over! some hasty individual has put forth a statement to the effect that poets can only be bred in a mountainous country, where they could lift up their eyes to the hills. rock and ravine, beetling crag, singing cascade, and the heights where the lightning plays and the mists hover are certainly good timber for poetry--after you have caught your poet--but nature eludes all formula. again, it is the human interest that adds vitality to art--they reckon ill to leave man out. drayton before shakespeare's time called warwick "the heart of england," and the heart of england it is today--rich, luxuriant, slow. the great colonies of rabbits that i saw at charlcote seemed too fat to frolic, save more than to play a trick or two on the hounds that blinked in the sun. down toward stratford there are flat islands covered with sedge, long rows of weeping-willows, low hazel, hawthorn, and places where "green grow the rushes, o." then, if the farmer leaves a spot untilled, the dogrose pre-empts the place and showers its petals on the vagrant winds. meadowsweet, forget-me-nots and wild geranium snuggle themselves below the boughs of the sturdy yews. the first glimpse we get of stratford is the spire of holy trinity; then comes the tower of the new memorial theater, which, by the way, is exactly like the city hall at dead horse, colorado. stratford is just another village of niagara falls. the same shops, the same guides, the same hackmen--all are there, save poor lo, with his beadwork and sassafras. in fact, a "cabby" just outside of new place offered to take me to the whirlpool and the canada side for a dollar. at least, this is what i thought he said. of course, it is barely possible that i was daydreaming, but i think the facts are that it was he who dozed, and waking suddenly as i passed gave me the wrong cue. there is a macbeth livery-stable, a falstaff bakery, and all the shops and stores keep othello this and hamlet that. i saw briarwood pipes with shakespeare's face carved on the bowl, all for one-and-six; feather fans with advice to the players printed across the folds; the "seven ages" on handkerchiefs; and souvenir-spoons galore, all warranted gorham's best. the visitor at the birthplace is given a cheerful little lecture on the various relics and curiosities as they are shown. the young ladies who perform this office are clever women with pleasant voices and big, starched, white aprons. i was at stratford four days and went just four times to the old curiosity-shop. each day the same bright british damsel conducted me through, and told her tale, but it was always with animation, and a certain sweet satisfaction in her mission and starched apron that was very charming. no man can tell the same story over and over without soon reaching a point where he betrays his weariness, and then he flavors the whole with a dash of contempt; but a good woman, heaven bless her! is ever eager to please. each time when we came to that document certified to by her "judith x shakespeare," mark i was told that it was very probable that judith could write, but that she affixed her name thus in merry jest. john shakespeare could not write, we have no reason to suppose that ann hathaway could, and this little explanation about the daughter is so very good that it deserves to rank with that other pleasant subterfuge, "the age of miracles is past"; or that bit of jolly claptrap concerning the sacred baboons that are seen about certain temples in india: "they can talk," explain the priests, "but being wise they never do." judith married thomas quiney. the only letter addressed to shakespeare that can be found is one from the happy father of thomas, mr. richard quiney, wherein he asks for a loan of thirty pounds. whether he was accommodated we can not say; and if he was, did he pay it back, is a question that has caused much hot debate. but it is worthy of note that, although considerable doubt as to authenticity has smooched the other shakespearian relics, yet the fact of the poet having been "struck" for a loan by richard quiney stands out in a solemn way as the one undisputed thing in the master's career. little did mr. quiney think, when he wrote that letter, that he was writing for the ages. philanthropists have won all by giving money, but who save quiney has reaped immortality by asking for it! the inscription over shakespeare's grave is an offer of reward if you do, and a threat of punishment if you don't, all in choice doggerel. why did he not learn at the feet of sir thomas lucy and write his own epitaph? but i rather guess i know why his grave was not marked with his name. he was a play-actor, and the church people would have been outraged at the thought of burying a "strolling player" in that sacred chancel. but his son-in-law, doctor john hall, honored the great man and was bound he should have a worthy resting-place; so at midnight, with the help of a few trusted friends, he dug the grave and lowered the dust of england's greatest son. then they hastily replaced the stones, and over the grave they placed the slab that they had brought: "good friend, for jesus' sake forbear, to dig the dust enclosed here, blest be the man who spares these stones, and cursed be he who moves my bones." a threat from a ghost! ah, no one dare molest that grave--besides they didn't know who was buried there--neither are we quite sure. long years after the interment, some one set a bust of the poet, and a tablet, on the wall over against the grave. under certain circumstances, if occasion demands, i might muster a sublime conceit; but considering the fact that ten thousand americans visit stratford every year, and all write descriptions of the place, i dare not in the face of baedeker do it. further than that, in every library there are washington irving, hawthorne, and william winter's three lacrimose but charming volumes. and i am glad to remember that the columbus who discovered stratford and gave it to the people was an american: i am proud to think that americans have written so charmingly of shakespeare: i am proud to know that at stratford no man besides the master is as honored as irving, and while i can not restrain a blush for our english cousins, i am proud that over half the visitors at the birthplace are americans, and prouder still am i to remember that they all write letters to the newspapers at home about stratford-on-avon. * * * * * in england poets are relegated to a "corner." the earth and the fulness thereof belongs to the men who can kill; on this rock have the english state and church been built. as the tourist approaches the city of london for the first time, there are four monuments that probably will attract his attention. they lift themselves out of the fog and smoke and soot, and seem to struggle toward the blue. one of these monuments is to commemorate a calamity--the conflagration of sixteen hundred sixty-six--and the others are in honor of deeds of war. the finest memorial in saint paul's is to a certain eminent irishman, arthur wellesley. the mines and quarries of earth have been called on for their richest contributions; and talent and skill have given their all to produce this enduring work of beauty, that tells posterity of the mighty acts of this mighty man. the rare richness and lavish beauty of the wellington mausoleum are only surpassed by a certain tomb in france. as an exploiter, the corsican overdid the thing a bit--so the world arose and put him down; but safely dead, his shade can boast a grave so sumptuous that englishmen in paris refuse to look upon it. but england need not be ashamed. her land is spiked with glistening monuments to greatness gone. and on these monuments one often gets the epitomized life of the man whose dust lies below. on the carved marble to lord cornwallis i read that, "he defeated the americans with great slaughter." and so, wherever in england i see a beautiful monument, i know that probably the inscription will tell how "he defeated" somebody. and one grows to the belief that, while woman's glory is her hair, man's glory is to defeat some one. and if he can "defeat with great slaughter" his monument is twice as high as if he had only visited on his brother man a plain undoing. in truth, i am told by a friend who has a bias for statistics, that all monuments above fifty feet high in england are to the honor of men who have defeated other men "with great slaughter." the only exceptions to this rule are the albert memorial--which is a tribute of wifely affection rather than a public testimonial, so therefore need not be considered here--and a monument to a worthy brewer who died and left three hundred thousand pounds to charity. i mentioned this fact to my friend, but he unhorsed me by declaring that modesty forbade carving truth on monuments, yet it was a fact that the brewer, too, had brought defeat to vast numbers and had, like saul, slaughtered his thousands. when i visited the site of the globe theater and found thereon a brewery, whose shares are warranted to make the owner rich beyond the dream of avarice, i was depressed. in my boyhood i had supposed that if ever i should reach this spot where shakespeare's plays were first produced, i should see a beautiful park and a splendid monument; while some white-haired old patriarch would greet me, and give a little lecture to the assembled pilgrims on the great man whose footsteps had made sacred the soil beneath our feet. but there is no park, and no monument, and no white-haired old poet to give you welcome--only a brewery. "ay, mon, but ain't ut a big un?" protested an englishman who heard my murmurs. yes, yes, i must be truthful--it is a big brewery, and there are four big bulldogs in the courtway; and there are big vats, and big workmen in big aprons. and each of these workmen is allowed to drink six quarts of beer each day, without charge, which proves that kindliness is not dead. then there are big horses that draw the big wagons, and on the corner there is a big taproom where the thirsty are served with big glasses. the founder of this brewery became rich; and if my statistical friend is right, the owners of these mighty vats have defeated mankind with "great slaughter." we have seen that, although napoleon, the defeated, has a more gorgeous tomb than wellington, who defeated him, yet there is consolation in the thought that although england has no monument to shakespeare he now has the freedom of elysium; while the present address of the british worthies who have battened and fattened on poor humanity's thirst for strong drink, since samuel johnson was executor of thrale's estate, is unknown. we have this on the authority of a solid englishman, who says: "the virtues essential and peculiar to the exalted station of british worthy debar the unfortunate possessor from entering paradise. there is not a lord chancellor, or lord mayor, or lord of the chamber, or master of the hounds, or beefeater in ordinary, or any sort of british bigwig, out of the whole of british beadledom, upon which the sun never sets, in elysium. this is the only dignity beyond their reach." the writer quoted is an honorable man, and i am sure he would not make this assertion if he did not have proof of the fact. so, for the present, i will allow him to go on his own recognizance, believing that he will adduce his documents at the proper time. but still, should not england have a fitting monument to shakespeare? he is her one universal citizen. his name is honored in every school or college of earth where books are prized. there is no scholar in any clime who is not his debtor. he was born in england; he never was out of england; his ashes rest in england. but england's budget has never been ballasted with a single pound to help preserve inviolate the memory of her one son to whom the world uncovers. victor hugo has said something on this subject which runs about like this: why a monument to shakespeare? he is his own monument and england is its pedestal. shakespeare has no need of a pyramid; he has his work. what can bronze or marble do for him? malachite and alabaster are of no avail; jasper, serpentine, basalt, porphyry, granite: stones from paros and marble from carrara--they are all a waste of pains: genius can do without them. what is as indestructible as these: "the tempest," "the winter's tale," "julius cã¦sar," "coriolanus"? what monument sublimer than "lear," sterner than "the merchant of venice," more dazzling than "romeo and juliet," more amazing than "richard iii"? what moon could shed about the pile a light more mystic than that of "a midsummer night's dream"? what capital, were it even in london, could rumble around it as tumultuously as macbeth's perturbed soul? what framework of cedar or oak will last as long as "othello"? what bronze can equal the bronze of "hamlet"? no construction of lime, or rock, of iron and of cement is worth the deep breath of genius, which is the respiration of god through man. what edifice can equal thought? babel is less lofty than isaiah; cheops is smaller than homer; the colosseum is inferior to juvenal; the giralda of seville is dwarfish by the side of cervantes; saint peter's of rome does not reach to the ankle of dante. what architect has the skill to build a tower so high as the name of shakespeare? add anything if you can to mind! then why a monument to shakespeare? i answer, not for the glory of shakespeare, but for the honor of england! thomas a. edison the mind can not conceive what man will do in the twentieth century with his chained lightning. --_thomas a. edison_ [illustration: thomas a. edison _photogravure from drawing by gaspard_] some years ago, a law was passed out in ohio, making any man ineligible to act as a magistrate who had not studied law and been duly admitted to the bar. men who had not studied law were deemed lacking in the sense of justice. this law was designed purely for one man--samuel m. jones of toledo. was ever a jones so honored before? in athens, of old, a law was once passed declaring that every man, either of whose parents was an alien, was not a citizen and therefore ineligible to hold office. this law was aimed at the head of one man--themistocles. "and so you are an alien?" was the taunting remark flung at the mother of themistocles. and the greek matron proudly answered, "yes, i am an alien--but my son is themistocles." down at lilly dale the other day, a woman told me that she had talked with the mother of edison, and the spirit-voice had said: "it is true i was a canadian schoolteacher, and this at a time when very few women taught, but i am the mother of him you call thomas a. edison. i studied and read and wrote and in degree i educated myself. i had great ambition--i thirsted to know, to do, to become. but i was hampered and chained in an uncongenial atmosphere. my body struggled with its bonds, so that i grew weak, worried, sick, and died, leaving my boy to struggle his way alone. my only regret at death was the thought that i was leaving my boy. i thought that through my marriage i had killed my career--sacrificed myself. but my boy became heir to all my hunger for knowledge, and he has accomplished what i dimly dreamed. he has made plain what i only guessed. from my position here i have whispered secrets to him that only the freed spirits knew. i once thought my life was a failure, but now i know that the word 'failure' is a term used only by foolish mortals. in the universal sense there is no such thing as failure." just here it seems to me that some one once said that we get no mind without brain. but we had here the brain of the medium, otherwise this alleged message from the spirit realm would not be ours. so we will not now tarry to discuss psychic phenomena, but go on to other things. but the woman from lilly dale said something, just the same. * * * * * edison was born at the little village of milan, ohio, which lies six miles from norwalk on the road between cleveland and toledo. on the breaking out of the civil war the boy was fourteen years old. his parents had moved to sarnia, canada, and then across to port huron. young edison used to ride up and down from detroit on the passenger-boats and sell newspapers. his standing with the detroit "free press," backed up by his good-cheer and readiness to help the passengers with their babies and bundles, gave him free passage on all railroads and steamboat-lines. there was a public library at detroit where any one could read, but books could not be taken away. all edison's spare time was spent at the library, which to him was a gold-mine. all his mother's books had been sold, stolen or given away. and ahoy there, all you folks who have books! do you not know what books are to a child hungry for truth, that has no books? of course you do not! books to a boy like young edison are treasures-trove, in which is stored the learning of all great and good and wise who have ever lived. and the boy has to read, and read for a decade, in order to find that books are not much after all. when edison saw the inside of that library and was told he could read any or all of the books, he said, "if you please, mister, i'll begin here." and he tackled the first shelf, mentally deciding that he would go through the books ten feet at a time. a little later he bought at an auction fifty volumes of the "north american review," and moving the books up to his home at port huron proceeded to read them. the war was on--papers sold for ten cents each and business was good. edison was making money--and saving it. he only plunged on books. over at mount clemens, at the springs, folks congregated, and there young edison took weekly trips selling papers. on one such visit he rescued the little son of the station-agent from in front of a moving train. in gratitude, the man took the boy to his house and told him he must make it his home while in mount clemens; and then after supper the youngster went down to the station; and what was more, the station-agent took him in behind the ticket-window, where the telegraph-instrument clicked off dots and dashes on a long strip of paper. edison looked on with open mouth. "would you like to become a telegraph-operator?" asked the agent. "sure!" was the reply. already the boy had read up on the subject in his library of the "north american review," and he really knew the history of the thing better than did the agent. edison was now a newsboy on the grand trunk, and he arranged his route so as to spend every other night at mount clemens. in a few months he could handle the key about as well as the station-agent. about this time the ice had carried out the telegraph-line between port huron and sarnia. the telegraph people were in sore straits. edison happened along and said to the local operator, "come out here, bill, on this switch-engine and we'll fix things!" by short snorts of the whistle for dots and long ones for dashes, they soon caught the ear of the operator on the other side. he answered back, "what t'ell is the matter with you fellows?" and edison and the other operator roared with laughter, so that the engineer thought their think-boxes needed re-babbitting. and that scheme of telegraphy with a steam-whistle was edison's first invention. * * * * * instead of going to college edison started a newspaper--a kind of amateur affair, in which he himself wrote editorials, news-items and advertisements--this when he was seventeen years old. the best way to become a skilled writer is to write; and if there is a better way to learn than by doing, the world has not yet discovered it. also, if there is a finer advantage for a youth who would be a financier than to have a shiftless father, it has not been recorded. when nineteen, edison had two thousand dollars in cash--more money than his father had ever seen at any one time. the grand trunk folks found that their ex-trainboy could operate, and so they called on him to help them out, up and down the line. then the western union wanted extra good men, and young edison was given double pay to go to new orleans, where there was a pitiful dearth of operators, the southern operators being mostly dead, and northern men not caring to live in the south. so edison traveled north and south and east and west, gathering gear. he had studied the science of telegraphy closely enough to see that it could be improved upon. one message at a time for one wire was absurd--why not two, or four, and why not send messages both ways at once! it was the general idea then that electricity traveled: edison knew better--electricity merely rendered the wire sensitive. edison was getting a reputation among his associates. he had read everything, and when his key was not busy, there was in his hand a copy of gibbon's "decline and fall." he wrote a hand like copperplate and could "take" as fast as the best could send. and when it came to "sending," he had made the pride of chicago cry quits. the western union had need of a specially good man at albany while the legislature was in session, and edison was sent there. he took the key and never looked at the clock--he cleaned up the stuff. he sat glued to his chair for ten hours, straight. at one time, the line suddenly became blocked between albany and new york. the manager was in distress, and after exhausting all known expedients went to edison. the lanky youth called up a friend of his in pittsburgh and ordered that new york give the pittsburgh man the albany wire. "feel your way up the river until you find me," were the orders. edison started feeling his way down the river. in twenty minutes he called to the manager, "the break is two miles below poughkeepsie--i've ordered the section-boss at poughkeepsie to take a repairer on his handcar and go and fix it!" of course, this plain telegraph-operator had no right to order out a section-boss; but nevertheless he did it. he shouldered responsibility like tom potter of the c., b. & q. not long after the albany experience, edison was in new york, not looking for work as some say, but nosing around wall street investigating the "laws automatic ticker." the machine he was looking at suddenly stopped, and this blocked all the tickers on the line. an expert was sent for, but he could not start it. "i'll fix it," said a tall, awkward volunteer, the same which was edison. history is not yet clear as to whether edison had not originally "fixed" it, and edison so far has not confessed. and there being no one else to start the machine, edison was given a chance, and soon the tickers were going again. this gave him an introduction to the stock-ticker folks, and the western union people he already knew. this was in eighteen hundred seventy, and edison was then twenty-three years old. he studied out how stock-reporting could be bettered and invented a plan which he duly patented, and then laid his scheme before the western union managers. a stock company was formed, and young edison, aged twenty-four, was paid exactly forty thousand dollars for his patent, and retained by the company as electrical adviser at three hundred dollars a month. in eighteen hundred seventy-four, when he was twenty-seven, he had perfected his duplex telegraph apparatus and had a factory turning out telegraph-instruments and appliances at newark, new jersey, where three hundred men were employed. in eighteen hundred seventy-six, the year of the centennial exposition, edison told the exposition managers that if they would wait a year or so he would light their show with electricity. he moved to the then secluded spot of menlo park to devote himself to experiments, spending an even hundred thousand dollars in equipment as a starter. results followed fast, and soon we had the incandescent lamp, trolley-car, electric pen and many other inventions. it was on the night of october the twenty-third, eighteen hundred seventy-nine, that edison first turned the current through an incandescent burner and got the perfect light. he sat and looked at the soft, mild, beautiful light and laughed a joyous peal of laughter that was heard in the adjoining rooms. "we've got it, boys!" he cried, and the boys, a dozen of them, came tumbling in. arguments started as to how long it would last. one said an hour. "twenty-four hours," said edison. they all vowed they would watch it without sleep until the carbon film was destroyed and the light went out. it lasted just forty hours. around edison grew up a group of great workers--proud to be called "edison men"--and some of these went out and made for themselves names and fortunes. edison was born in eighteen hundred forty-seven. consequently, at this writing he is sixty-three years old. he is big and looks awkward, because his dusty-gray clothes do not fit, and he walks with a slight stoop. when he wants clothes he telephones for them. his necktie is worn by the right oblique, his iron-gray hair is combed by the wind. on his cherubic face usually sits a half-quizzical, pleased smile, that fades into a look plaintive and very gentle. the face is that of a man who has borne burdens and known sorrow, of one who has overcome only after mighty effort. i was going to say that edison looks like a roman emperor, but i recall that no roman emperor deserves to rank with him--not even julius cã¦sar! the face is that of napoleon at saint helena, unsubdued. the predominant characteristics of the man are his faith, hope, good-cheer and courage. but at all times his humor is apt to be near the surface. had edison been as keen a businessman as rockefeller, and kept his own in his own hands, he would today be as rich as rockefeller. but edison is worth, oh, say, two million dollars, and that is all any man should be worth--it is all he needs. yet there are at least a hundred men in the world today, far richer than edison, who have made their fortunes wholly and solely by appropriating his ideas. edison has trusted people, and some of them have taken advantage of his great, big, generous, boyish spirit to do him grievous wrong. but the nearest i ever heard him come to making a complaint was when he said to me, "fra elbertus, you never wrote but one really true thing!" "well, what was that, mr. edison?" "you said, 'there is one thing worse than to be deceived by men, and that is to distrust them.' now people say i have been successful, and so i have, in degree, and it has been through trusting men. there are a few fellows who always know just what i am doing--i confide in them--i explain things to them just to straighten the matter out in my own mind." but of the men who have used edison's money and ideas, who have made it a life business to study his patents and then use them, evading the law, not a word! from eighteen hundred seventy to eighteen hundred ninety, edison secured over nine hundred patents, or at the rate of one patent every ten days. very few indeed of these patents ever brought him any direct return, and now his plan is to invent and keep the matter a secret in his "family." "the value of an idea lies in the using of it," he said to me. "you patent a thing and the other fellow starts even with you. keep it to yourself and you have the machinery going before the other fellow is awake. patents may protect some things, and still others they only advertise. up in buffalo you have a great lawyer who says he can drive a coach and four through any will that was ever made--and i guess he can. all good lawyers know how to break wills and contracts, and there are now specialists who secure goodly fees for busting patents. if you have an idea, go ahead and invent a way to use it and keep your process secret." * * * * * the edison factories at west orange cover a space of about thirty acres, all fenced in with high pickets and barb-wire. over two thousand people are employed inside that fence. there are guards at the gates, and the would-be visitor is challenged as if he were an enemy. if you want to see any particular person, you do not go in and see him--he comes to you and you sit in a place like the visitors' dock at sing-sing. with me it was different: i had a note that made the gates swing wide. however, one gatekeeper scrutinized the note and scrutinized me, and then went back into a maze of buildings for advice. when he came back, the general manager was with him and was reproving him. in a voice full of defense the county down watchman said: "ah, now, and how did i know but that it was a forgery? and anyhow, i'd never let in a man what looks like that, even if he had an order from bill taft." the edison factories, all enclosed in the high fence and under guard, include four separate and distinct corporations, each with its own set of offices. edison himself owns a controlling interest in each corporation, and the rest of the stock is owned by the managers or "family." with his few trusted helpers he is most liberal. not only do they draw goodly salaries, but they have an interest in the profits that is no small matter. the secrets of the place are protected by having each workman stick right to one thing and work in one room. no running around is allowed--each employee goes to a certain place and remains there all day. to be found elsewhere is a misdemeanor, and while spies at the edison factory are not shot, they have been known to disappear into space with great velocity. to make amends for the close restrictions on workers, an extra wage is paid and the eight-hour day prevails, so help is never wanting. ninety-nine workers out of a hundred want their wages, and nothing else. promotion, advancement and education are things that never occur to them. but for the few that have the stuff in them, edison is always on the lookout. his place is really a college, for to know the man is an education. he radiates good-cheer and his animation is catching. to a woman who wanted him to write a motto for her son, edison wrote, "never look at the clock!" the argument is plain--get the thing done. and around the edison laboratory there is no use of looking at the clock, for none of them runs. that is the classic joke of the place. years ago edison expressed his contempt for the man who watched the clock, and now every christmas his office family take up a collection and buy him a clock, and present it with great ceremony. he replies in a speech on the nebular hypothesis and all are very happy. one year the present assumed the form of an ingersoll dollar watch, which the wizard showed to me with great pride. in the stockade is a beautiful library building and here you see clocks galore, some of which must have cost a thousand dollars a piece, all silent. one clock had a neatly printed card attached, "don't look at this clock--it has stopped." and another, "you may look at this clock, for you can't stop it!" it was already stopped. one very elegant clock had a solid block of wood where the works should have been, but the face and golden hands were all complete. however, one clock was running, with a tick needlessly loud, but this clock had no hands. the edison library is a gigantic affair, with two balconies and bookstacks limitless. the intent was to have a scientific library right at hand that would compass the knowledge of the world. the laboratory is quite as complete, for in it is every chemical substance known to man, all labeled, classified and indexed. seemingly, edison is the most careless, indifferent and slipshod of men, but the real fact is that such a thorough business general the world has seldom seen. if he wants, say, the "electrical review" for march, eighteen hundred ninety-one, he hands a boy a slip of paper and the book is in his hands in five minutes. edison of all men understands that knowledge consists in having a clerk who can quickly find the thing. in his hands the card-index has reached perfection. edison has no private office, and his desk in the great library has not had a letter written on it since eighteen hundred ninety-five. "i hate to disturb the mice," he said as he pointed it out indifferently. he arrives at the stockade early--often by seven o'clock, and makes his way direct to the laboratory, which stands in the center of the campus. all around are high factory buildings, vibrating with the suppressed roar and hum of industry. in the laboratory, edison works, secure and free from interruption unless he invites it. much of his time is spent in the chemical building, a low, one-story structure, lighted from the top. it has a cement floor and very simple furniture, the shelves and tables being mostly of iron. "we are always prepared for fires and explosions here," said edison in half-apology for the barrenness of the rooms. the place is a maze of retorts, kettles, tubes, siphons and tiny brass machinery. in the midst of the mess stood two old-fashioned armchairs--both sacred to edison. one he sits in, and the other is for his feet, his books, pads and paper. here he sits and thinks, reads or muses or tells stories or shuffles about with his hands in his pockets. edison is a man of infinite leisure. he has the faculty of throwing details upon others. at his elbow, shod in sneakers silent, is always a stenographer. then there is a bookkeeper who does nothing but record the result of every experiment, and these experiments are going on constantly, attended to by half a dozen quiet and alert men, who work like automatons. "i have tried a million schemes that will not work--i know everything that is no good. i work by elimination," says edison. when hot on the trail of an idea he may work here for three days and nights without going home, and his wife is good enough and great enough to leave him absolutely to himself. in a little room in the corner of the laboratory is a little iron cot and three gray army blankets. he can sleep at any time, and half an hour's rest will enable him to go on. when he can't quite catch the idea, he closes up his brain-cells for ten minutes and sleeps, then up and after it again. mrs. edison occasionally sends meals down for the wizard when he is on the trail of a thought and does not want to take time to go home. one day the dinner arrived when edison was just putting salt on the tail of an idea. there was no time to eat, but it occurred to the inventor that if he would just quit thinking for ten minutes and sleep, he could awaken with enough brain-power to throw the lariat successfully. so he just leaned back, put his feet in the other chair and went to sleep. the general manager came in and saw the dinner on the table and edison sleeping, so he just sat down and began to eat the dinner. he ate it all, and tiptoed out. edison slept twenty minutes, awoke, looked at the empty dishes, pulled down his vest, took out his regular after-dinner cigar, lighted it and smoked away in sweet satisfaction, fully believing that he had had his dinner; and even after the general manager had come in and offered to bet him a dollar he hadn't, he was still of the same mind. this spirit of sly joking fills the place, set afloat by the master himself. edison dearly loves a joke, and will quit work any time to hear one. it is the five minutes' sleep and the good laugh that keep his brain from becoming a hotbox--he gets his rest! "when do you take your vacation, mr. edison?" a lady asked him. "election night every november," was the reply. and this is literally true, for on that night there is a special wire run into the orange clubhouse, and edison takes the key and sits there until daylight taking the returns, writing them out carefully in that copperplate western union hand. he is as careful about his handwriting now as if he were writing out train-orders. "if i wanted to live a hundred years i would use neither tobacco nor coffee," said edison as we sat at lunch. "but you see i'd rather get a little really good work done than live long and do nothing to speak of. and so i spur what i am pleased to call my mind, at times with coffee and a good cigar--just pass the matches, thank you! some day some fellow will invent a way of concentrating and storing up sunshine to use instead of this old, absurd prometheus scheme of fire. i'll do the trick myself if some one else doesn't get at it. why, that is all there is about my work in electricity--you know, i never claimed to have invented electricity--that is a campaign lie--nail it!" "sunshine is spread out thin and so is electricity. perhaps they are the same, but we will take that up later. now the trick was, you see, to concentrate the juice and liberate it as you needed it. the old-fashioned way inaugurated by jove, of letting it off in a clap of thunder, is dangerous, disconcerting and wasteful. it doesn't fetch up anywhere. my task was to subdivide the current and use it in a great number of little lights, and to do this i had to store it. and we haven't really found out how to store it yet and let it off real easy-like and cheap. why, we have just begun to commence to get ready to find out about electricity. this scheme of combustion to get power makes me sick to think of--it is so wasteful. it is just the old, foolish prometheus idea, and the father of prometheus was a baboon." "when we learn how to store electricity, we will cease being apes ourselves; until then we are tailless orangutans. you see, we should utilize natural forces and thus get all of our power. sunshine is a form of energy, and the winds and the tides are manifestations of energy." "do we use them? oh, no! we burn up wood and coal, as renters burn up the front fence for fuel. we live like squatters, not as if we owned the property. "there must surely come a time when heat and power will be stored in unlimited quantities in every community, all gathered by natural forces. electricity ought to be as cheap as oxygen, for it can not be destroyed. "now, i am not sure but that my new storage-battery is the thing. i'd tell you about that, but i don't want to bore you. of course, i know that nothing is more interesting to the public than a good lie. you see, i have been a newspaperman myself--used to run a newspaper--in fact, veritas and old subscriber once took exception to one of my editorials and threw me into the detroit river--that is where i got my little deafness--what's that? no, i did not say my deftness--i got that in another way. but about lies, you have heard that one about my smoking big, black cigars! well, the story is that the boys in the office used to steal my cigars, and so i got a cigarmaker to make me up a box that looked just like my favorite brand, only i had 'em filled with hemp, horsehair and a touch of asafetida. then i just left the box where the boys would be sure to dip into it; but it seems the cigarman put them on, and so they just put that box into my own private stock and i smoked the fumigators and never knew the difference. "that whole story is a pernicious malrepresentation invented by the enemy of mankind in order to throw obloquy over a virtuous old telegraph-operator--brand it!" witness, therefore, that i have branded it, forevermore! * * * * * once upon a day i wrote an article on alexander humboldt. and in that article among other things i said, "this world of ours, round like an orange and slightly flattened at the poles, has produced but five educated men." and ironical ladies and gents from all parts of the united states wrote me on postal cards, begging that i should name the other four. let us leave the cynics to their little pleasantries, and make our appeal to people who think. education means evolution, development, growth. education is comparative, for there is no fixed standard--all men know more than some men, and some men know more than some other men. "every man i meet is my master in some particular," said emerson. but there are five men in history who had minds so developed, and evolved beyond the rest of mankind so far, that they form a class by themselves, and deserve to be called educated men. the men i have in mind were the following: pericles, builder of athens. aristotle, tutor of alexander, and the world's first naturalist. leonardo, the all-round man--the man who could do more things, and do them well, than any other man who every lived. sir isaac newton, the mathematician, who analyzed light and discovered the law of gravitation. alexander von humboldt, explorer and naturalist, who compassed the entire scientific knowledge of the world, issued his books in deluxe limited editions at his own expense, and sold them for three thousand dollars a set. newton and humboldt each wore a seven and three-fourths hat. leonardo and aristotle went untaped, but pericles had a head so high and so big that he looked like a caricature, and aristophanes, a nice man who lived at the same time, said that the head of pericles looked like a pumpkin that had been sat upon. all the busts of pericles represent him wearing a helmet--this to avoid what the artists thought an abnormality, the average greek having a round, smooth chucklehead like that of a bowery bartender. america has produced two men who stand out so far beyond the rest of mankind that they form a class by themselves: benjamin franklin and thomas a. edison. franklin wore a seven and a half hat; edison wears a seven and three-fourths. the difference in men is the difference in brain-power. and while size does not always token quality, yet size and surface are necessary to get power, and there is no record of a man with a six and a half head ever making a ripple on the intellectual sea. without the cells you get no mind, and if mind exists without the cells, it has not yet been proven. the brain is a storage-battery made up of millions of minute cells. the weight of an average man's brain is forty-nine ounces. now, humboldt's brain weighed fifty-six ounces, and newton's and franklin's weighed fifty-seven. let us hope the autopsist will not have a chance to weigh edison's brain for many years, but when he does the mark will register fifty-seven ounces. an orang-utan weighs about the same as a man, but its brain weighs only a pound, against three pounds for a man. give a gorilla a brain weighing fifty ounces, and he would be a methodist presiding elder. give him a brain the same size of edison's, say fifty-seven ounces, and instead of spending life in hunting for snakes and heaving cocoanuts at monkeys as respectable gorillas are wont, he would be weighing the world in scales of his own invention and making, and measuring the distances of the stars. pericles was taught by the gentle anaxagoras, who gave all his money to the state in order that he might be free. the state reciprocated by cutting off his head, for republics are always ungrateful. aristotle was a pupil of plato and worked his way through college, sifting ashes, washing windows and sweeping sidewalks. leonardo was self-taught and gathered knowledge as a bee gathers honey, although honey isn't honey until the bee digests it. sir isaac newton was a cambridge man. he held the office of master of the mint, and to relieve himself of the charge of atheism he anticipated the enemy and wrote a book on the hebrew prophets, which gave the scientists the laugh on him, but made his position with the state secure. newton is the only man herein mentioned who knew anything about theology, all the others being "infidels" in their day, devoting themselves strictly to this world. humboldt was taught by the "natural method," and never took a college degree. franklin was a graduate of the university of hard knocks, and edison's alma mater is the same. there is one special characteristic manifested by the seven educated men i have named--good-cheer, a great welling sense of happiness! they were all good animals: they gloried in life; they loved the men and women who were still on earth; they feasted on the good things in life; breathed deeply; slept soundly and did not bother about the future. their working motto was, "one world at a time." they were all able to laugh. genius is a great fund of joyousness. each and all of these men influenced the world profoundly. we are different people because they lived. every house, school, library and workshop in christendom is touched by their presence. all are dead but edison, yet their influence can never die. and no one in the list has influenced civilization so profoundly as edison. you can not look out of a window in any city in europe or america without beholding the influence of his thought. you may say that the science of electricity has gone past him, but all the sons of jove have built on him. he gave us the electric light and the electric car and pointed the way to the telephone--three things that have revolutionized society. as athens at her height was the age of pericles, so will our time be known as the age of edison. so here endeth "little journeys to the homes of good men and great," being volume one of the series, as written by elbert hubbard: edited and arranged by fred bann; borders and initials by roycroft artists and produced by the roycrofters, at their shops, which are in east aurora, erie county, new york, mcmxxii available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 56536-h.htm or 56536-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/56536/56536-h/56536-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/56536/56536-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/lifeofwaltwhitma00binnuoft transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). a life of walt whitman by the same writer moods and outdoor verses ("richard askham") for the fellowship [illustration: _walt whitman at thirty-five_] a life of walt whitman by henry bryan binns with thirty-three illustrations methuen & co. 36 essex street w.c. london first published in 1905 to my mother and her mother the republic preface to the reader, and especially to the critical reader, it would seem but courteous to give at the beginning of my book some indication of its purpose. it makes no attempt to fill the place either of a critical study or a definitive biography. though whitman died thirteen years ago, the time has not yet come for a final and complete life to be written; and when the hour shall arrive we must, i think, look to some american interpreter for the volume. for whitman's life is of a strongly american flavour. instead of such a book i offer a biographical study from the point of view of an englishman, yet of an englishman who loves the republic. i have not attempted, except parenthetically here and there, to make literary decisions on the value of whitman's work, partly because he still remains an innovator upon whose case the jury of the years must decide--a jury which is not yet complete; and partly because i am not myself a literary critic. it is as a man that i see and have sought to describe whitman. but as a man of special and exceptional character, a new type of mystic or seer. and the conviction that he belongs to the order of initiates has dragged me on to confessedly difficult ground. again, while seeking to avoid excursions into literary criticism, it has seemed to me to be impossible to draw a real portrait of the man without attempting some interpretation of his books and the quotation from them of characteristic passages, for they are the record of his personal attitude towards the problems most intimately affecting his life. i trust that this part of my work may at any rate offer some suggestions to the serious student of whitman. since he touched life at many points, it has been full of pitfalls; and if among them i should prove but a blind leader, i can only hope that those who follow will keep open eyes. whitman has made his biography the more difficult to write by demanding that he should be studied in relation to his time; to fulfil this requirement was beyond my scope, but i have here and there suggested the more notable outlines, within which the reader will supply details from his own memory. as i have written especially for my own countrymen, i have ventured to remind the reader of some of those elementary facts of american history of which we english are too easily forgetful. the most important chapters of whitman's life have been written by himself, and will be found scattered over his complete works. to these the following pages are intended as a modest supplement and commentary. already the whitman literature has become extensive, but, save in brief sketches, no picture of his whole life in which one may trace with any detail the process of its development seems as yet to exist. in this country the only competent studies which have appeared are that of the late mr. symonds, which devotes some twenty pages to biographical matters, and the admirable and suggestive little manual of the late mr. william clarke. both books are some twelve years old, and in those years not a little new material has become available, notably that which is collected in the ten-volume edition of whitman's works, and in the book known as _in re walt whitman_. on these and on essays printed in the _conservator_ and in the _whitman fellowship papers_ i have freely drawn for the following pages. of american studies the late dr. bucke's still, after twenty years, easily holds the first place. beside it stand those of mr. john burroughs, and mr. w. s. kennedy. to these, and to the kind offices of the authors of the two last named, my book owes much of any value it may possess. i have also been assisted by the published reminiscences of mr. j. t. trowbridge, mr. moncure conway, and mr. thomas donaldson, and by the recently published _diary in canada_ (edited by mr. kennedy), and dr. i. h. platt's beacon biography of the poet. since i never met walt whitman i am especially indebted to his friends for the personal details with which they have so generously furnished me: beside those already named, to mr. and mrs. j. h. johnston, mr. j. hubley ashton, mrs. w. s. kennedy, mrs. e. m. calder, mr. and mrs. (stafford) browning of haddonfield (glendale), mr. john fleet of huntington, captain lindell of the camden ferry, and to mr. peter g. doyle; but especially to whitman's surviving executors and my kind friends, mr. t. b. harned and mr. horace traubel. to these last, and to mr. laurens maynard, of the firm of messrs. small, maynard & co., the publishers of the final edition of whitman's works, i am indebted for generous permission to use and reproduce photographs in their possession. i also beg to make my acknowledgments to mr. david mckay and mr. gutekunst, both of philadelphia. helpful suggestions and information have been most kindly given by my american friends, mr. edwin markham, professor e. h. griggs, mr. ernest crosby, dr. george herron, professor rufus m. jones of haverford, mr. c. f. jenkins of germantown, and mr. and mrs. david thompson of washington. mr. benjamin d. hicks of long island has repeatedly replied to my various and troublesome inquiries as to the quaker ancestry of walt whitman, and dr. e. pardee bucke has furnished me with an admirable sketch of his father dr. r. m. bucke's life and the photograph which i have reproduced. in england also there are many to whom i would here offer my most grateful thanks. and first, to mr. edward carpenter, whose own work has always been my best of guides in the study of whitman's, and whose records of his interviews with the old poet in camden have given me more insight into his character than any other words but whitman's own. he has also read the ms., and aided me by numberless suggestions. mrs. bernard berenson, who for some years enjoyed the old man's friendship, has supplied me with an invaluable picture of his relations with her father, the late mr. pearsall smith, and his family, and has generously lent me various letters in her possession, and permitted me to make reproductions from them. mr. j. w. wallace, of the "bolton group," has allowed me to read and use his manuscript description of a visit to camden in 1891; and another of the same brotherhood, dr. j. johnston, whose admirable account of a similar series of interviews in the preceding year is well known by whitman students, has supplied me with a photograph of the little mickle street house as it then was. to mr. william m. rossetti and to mr. ernest rhys i am indebted for valuable suggestions; and for similar help to my friends, professor w. h. hudson and messrs. arthur sherwell, b. kirkman gray and c. f. mott. finally, the book owes much more than i can say to my wife. while gratefully acknowledging the assistance of all these and others unnamed, i confess that i am alone responsible for the general accuracy of my statements, and the book's point of view, and i wish especially to relieve the personal friends of whitman from any responsibility for the hypothesis relating to his sojourn in the south, beyond what is stated in the appendix. to all actual sins of commission and omission i plead guilty, trusting that for the sympathetic reader they may eventually be blotted out in the light which, obscured though it be, still shines upon my pages from the personality of walt whitman. h. b. b. london, _january, 1905_. contents page preface vii table of contents xiii list of illustrations xv abbreviations employed in the notes xvii introduction: whitman's america xix chap. i. the whitman's of west hills 1 ii. boyhood in brooklyn 10 iii. teacher and journalist 28 iv. romance (1848) 46 v. illumination 56 vi. the carpenter 79 vii. whitman's manifesto 95 viii. the mystic 110 ix. "year of meteors" 134 x. the testament of a comrade 148 xi. america at war 171 xii. the proof of comradeship 190 xiii. a washington clerk 205 xiv. friends and fame 221 xv. illness 247 xvi. convalescence 258 xvii. the second boston edition 278 xviii. among the prophets 289 xix. he becomes a householder 301 xx. at mickle street 314 xxi. "good-bye, my fancy" 325 appendix a 347 appendix b 349 index 351 methuen's catalogue of books transcriber's note list of illustrations facing page walt whitman at 35, from a daguerrotype _frontispiece_ in possession of mr. j. h. johnston his mother, from a daguerrotype in possession of mr. traubel 6 west hills: the whitman house from the lane (1904) 8 w. w.'s father 14 west hills: house from yard 28 new orleans about 1850 48 r. w. emerson 92 w. w. at 40, from a photo, in the possession of mr. d. mckay 140 w. w. at 44, from photo, in possession of mr. traubel 179 william douglas o'connor 190 john burroughs in 1900 201 anne gilchrist, from an amateur photograph 225 w. w. at about 50 227 pete doyle and w. w., by permission of messrs. small, maynard 231 & co., from a photo, by rice, washington, 1869 peter g. doyle at 57, from a photo, by kuebler, philadelphia 233 no. 431, stevens street, camden (1904) 240 facsimile of ms. of portion of preface to 1876 edition, 243 _l. of g._ timber creek, the pool 259 timber creek, below crystal spring 261 edward carpenter at 43 267 dr. r. m. bucke 270 w. w. at 61 276 mr. stafford's store, glendale (1904) 286 mart whitall smith (mrs. berenson) in 1884 302 w. w. and the butterfly; aged 62; from photo, 304 by phillips & taylor, philadelphia facsimile of autograph letter to mr. r. p. smith, 315 in possession of mrs. berenson mickle street, camden, from a photo, by dr. j. johnston 317 facsimile of autograph post cards (1887-88), 326 in possession of mrs. berenson w. w. at 70, by permission of mr. gutekunst, philadelphia 331 robert g. ingersoll 334 w. w. at 72, from a photo, of mr. t. eakins, 338 by permission of messrs. small, maynard & co. horace traubel 342 the tomb, harleigh cemetery (1904) 346 abbreviations _the following abbreviations are used in the notes._ bucke = r. m. bucke's _walt whitman_, 1883. burroughs = john burroughs' _note on walt whitman_, 1867. burroughs (2) = john burroughs' _note on walt whitman_. second edition. burroughs (_a_) = john burroughs' _whitman: a study_, 1896. carpenter = e. carpenter's "notes of visits to w. w." in _progressive review_: (_a_) february, 1897; (_b_) april, 1897. _camden's compliment_ = _camden's compliment to w. w._, 1889. _cam. mod. hist._ = _cambridge modern history: united states._ _comp. prose_ = _w. w.'s complete prose_, 1898. calamus = _calamus, letters of w. w. to pete doyle_, 1897. camden = _camden edition_ (10 vols.) _of w. w.'s works_, 1902. donaldson = t. donaldson's _w. w.: the man_, 1897. _en. brit. suppt._ = _encyclopædia britannica: supplement, united states._ _good-bye and hail_ = _good-bye and hail, w. w._, 1892. _in re_ = _in re w. w._, 1893. johnston = dr. j. johnston's _notes of a visit to w. w._, 1890. kennedy = w. s. kennedy's _reminiscences of w. w._, 1896. _l. of g._ = _leaves of grass_, complete edition of 1897: followed by numerals in brackets, edition of that year. _mem. hist. n.y._ = j. g. wilson's _memorial history of new york_. roosevelt = t. roosevelt's _new york_, 1891. symonds = j. a. symonds's _w. w.: a study_, 1893. _wound-dresser_ = _the w. d., letters of w. w. to his mother_, 1898. _whit. fellowship_ = _whitman fellowship papers_, philadelphia, 1894. manuscripts. mss. berenson = letters in possession of mrs. bernard berenson. mss. berenson (_a_) = reminiscences contributed to this volume. mss. carpenter = letters in possession of e. carpenter. mss. diary = a diary (1876-1887) in possession of h. traubel. mss. harned = papers in possession of t. b. harned. mss. johnston = papers in possession of j. h. johnston, new york. mss. traubel = papers in possession of h. traubel. mss. wallace = j. w. wallace's diary of a visit to w. w. in 1891. introduction whitman's america the men of old declared that the lands of adventure lay in the west, for they were bold to follow the course of the sun; and to this day the bold do not look back to seek romance behind them in the east. whether this be the whole truth or no, such is the notion that comes upon the wind when, journeying westward in mid-atlantic, you begin to know the faces on ship-board, and to understand what it is that is in their eyes. strange eyes and foreign faces have these voyagers--dwellers upon mediterranean shores, peasants from the borders of the baltic, or dumb inhabitants of the vast eastern plains, huddled now together in the ship. but in them is a hope which triumphs over the misery of the present as it has survived the misery of the past, and to-day that hope has a name, and is america. for america is indeed the hope of the forlorn and disinherited in every land to whom a hope remains. from the ends of the earth they set out, and separated from one another by every barrier of race and language, meet here upon the ocean, having nothing in common but this hope, this dream which will yet weld them together into a new people. for the comfortable dreamer there is italy and the past, but for many millions of the common people of europe and of italy herself--and the common people too have their dream--america, the land of the future, is the kingdom of romance. nor to these only, but, as i think, to every traveller not unresponsive to the genius of the land. for it is the genius of youth--youth with its awkward power, its incompleteness, its promise. and the home of this genius must be the land not only of progress and material achievement, but also of those visions which haunt the heart of youth. america is more than the golden-appled earthly paradise of the poor, it is a land of spiritual promise. and more perhaps than that of any nation the american flag is to-day the symbol of a cause, and of a cause which claims all hearts because ultimately it is that of all peoples. and america has another claim to be regarded as truly romantic. hers is the charm of novelty. it is not the glamour of the old but of the new, and the perennially new. some four centuries have passed since the days of columbus, centuries which have dimmed the lustre of many another adventurous voyage into dull antiquity, but america is still the new world, and the exhilarating air of discovery still breathes as fresh in the west as on the first morning. with that discovery there dawned a new historic day whose sun is not yet set. we instinctively put back the beginning of our own era to the time of elizabeth, that virgin queen in whose colony of virginia the american people was first born, to grow up into maturity under its statesmen. and if we see but vaguely in the greyest hours of our dawn the figure of the discoverer, while beyond him all seem strange as the men of yesterday--if we behold our own sun rising on the broad elizabethan hours--how fitting it is that the new world should be peopled by those who still retain most of the temper of that generous morning! the american of to-day with his thirst for knowledge, his versatility, his quick sense of the practicable, his delight in the doing of things, his directness and frankness of purpose, his comradeship and hospitality, his lack of self-consciousness--with all the naïve inconsistencies, the amiable braggings, the mouthings of phrases, and the love of praise which belong to such unconsciousness of self--with his glowing optimism, his belief in human nature, his faith and devotion to his ideals--the american of to-day is in all these things the elizabethan of our story. america is the supreme creation of elizabethan genius--its new world, to which even that world which we call "shakespeare" must give place.[1] the romance of america is not only new, it is like a tale that is being told for the first time into our own ears. and like some consummate story whose chapters, appearing month by month, hold us continually in expectant suspense, its plot is still evolving and its characters revealing themselves, so that as yet we can only guess at its _dénouement_. i call it a romance, for it is indeed a tale of wonder; but unlike the old romances its bold realism is not always beautiful. the style of its telling is often loud, its words blunt, its rhythm strange and full of changes. but it has a large elizabethan movement which cannot be denied. denounce and deprecate as we will, all that is young in us responds to it. the story carries us along, at times by violence and in our own despite, but so a story should. it may be the end will justify and explain passages that to-day are but obscure: no story is complete until the end, and america has not yet been told. it is still morning there: and the heart of it is still the heart of youth. * * * * * the unprejudiced and candid visitor will be provoked to criticism by much that he sees in the united states; but even his criticism will be prompted by the possibilities of the country. it is this sense of its possibilities which captures the imagination, and fills the mind with the desire to do--to correct, it may be--but in any case to do. the incentive to action is felt by everyone, american or immigrant, and dominates all. here for the first time one seems to be, as it were, in a live country, among a live people whose work is actually under its hand and must occupy it for years to come. in england things are different; the country does not so audibly challenge the labourer to till and tame it. it does not say so plainly to every man--_i want you: here is range and scope for all your manhood_. only the seer can read that word written pathetically across all this english countryside whose smooth air of completion conceals so blank a poverty. in america the very stones cry out, and all who run must read. and thus the whole american atmosphere is that of action. * * * * * the chinese, that most practical of peoples, have an old saying that the purpose of the true worship of heaven is to spiritualise the earth. it is a reminder that materialism and mysticism should go hand in hand. now the american is often, and not unjustly, accused of sheer materialism. but by temper he is really an idealist. the very constitution of the united states, not to mention the famous _declaration_, is no less transcendental than the _essays_ of emerson, nor less weighty with deep purpose than the speeches of lincoln. all these are characteristic utterances of the american genius; they have been attested by events, and sealed in the blood of a million citizen soldiers. and how, one may ask, could the citizens of a state which more than any other manifestly depends for its life upon communion in an ideal be other than idealists? gathered from every section of the human race, this people has become a nation through its consciousness of a cause; its members being possessed not of a common blood, tradition or literature, but of a purpose and idea sacred to all. if then the national life depends upon the living idealism of the people, the actual unquestionable vigour of this national life may be taken as evidence of the strength of that idealism. but, on the other hand, the nation's present pre-occupation with its merely material success conceals the gravest of all its perils, because it threatens the very principle of the national life. thus held together by its future, and not as seem most others, by their past, the american nation has been slow in coming to self-consciousness, slow therefore in producing an original or national art. hitherto it has been occupied with its own becoming; and to-day, to virile americans, america remains the most engrossing of occupations, the noblest of all practicable dreams. the spirit of the renaissance has here attempted a task far graver than in medician florence or elizabethan london: to create, namely, not so much a new art as a new race. it has here to achieve its incarnation not in line and colour, not in marble nor in imperishable verse, but in the flesh and blood of a nation gathered from every family of man. and for that, it is forever assimilating into itself scions of every european people, and transforming them out of europeans into americans. vast as such a process is, the assimilation of all their surging aspirations and ideals into one has been hardly less vast. it is little wonder then that america has been slow in coming to self-consciousness. what is wonderful is her organic power of assimilation. and now there begin to be evidences in american thought of a spiritual synthesis, the widest known. as yet they are but vague suggestions. but they seem to indicate that when an american philosophy takes the field it will be pragmatical in the best sense; too earnestly concerned with conduct and with life to be careful of symmetry or tradition; directed towards the future, not the past. it will be a philosophy of possibilities founded upon the study of an adolescent race. it seemed natural to preface this study of whitman with a sketch of the american genius. doubtless that genius has other aspects than those here presented, and to some of these, later pages will bear witness; but the impression i have attempted to reproduce is at least taken from life. it is, moreover, not unlike that of whitman himself as presented in his first preface, and is even more suggestive of the america of his youth than that of his old age. every thinker owes much to his time and race, and whitman more than most. he always averred that the story of his life was bound up with that of his country, and took significance from it. to be understood, the man must be seen as an american. as a modern, we might add, for the story of his land is so brief. dead now some thirteen years, and barely an old man when he died, his personal memory seemed to embrace nearly the whole romance. his grandfather was acquainted with old tom paine, whose _common sense_ had popularised the republican idea in the very hour of american independence: he himself had talked with the soldiers of washington, and as a lad[2] he had met aaron burr who killed the glorious hamilton, sponsor for that constitution which when whitman died was but a century old. in the seven decades of his life the american population had multiplied near seven-fold, and had been compacted together into an imperial nation. it seemed almost as though he could remember the thirteen poor and jealous states, with their conflicting interests and traditions, their widely differing climates, industries and inhabitants, separated from one another by vast distances--and how they yielded themselves reluctantly under the hand of fate to grow together in union into the greatest of civilised peoples; while central in the story of his life was that titanic conflict whose solemn bass accompaniment toned and deepened loose phrases and popular enthusiasms into a national hymn. himself something of a poet--how much we need not attempt to estimate--he did continual homage to that greater poet, whose works were at once his education and his library--the genius of america. none other, ancient or mediæval, discoursed to his ear or penned in immortal characters for him to read, rhythms so large and pregnant. it was the prayer and purpose of his life that he might contribute his verse to that great poem; and his life is like a verse which it is impossible to separate from its context. that he understood, and even in a sense re-discovered america, can scarcely be denied by serious students of his work. i believe that the genius of america will in time discover some essential elements of herself in him, and will understand herself the better for his pages. * * * * * belonging thus to america as a nation, the earlier scenes of walt whitman's story are fitly laid in and about metropolitan new york. it was not till middle life and after the completion and publication of what may be regarded as the first version of his _leaves of grass_--the edition that is to say of 1860--that he removed for a while to the federal capital where, throughout the war, the interest of america was centred. afterwards he withdrew to camden, into a sort of hermitage, midway between new york and washington. though his heart belonged to the west, the far west never knew him. both north and south, he wandered near as widely as the limits of his states. he knew the mississippi, the great lakes, and the rocky mountains; but all that vast and wonderful country which reaches west from colorado towards balboa's sea was untrodden by his feet. a circle broadly struck from the actual centre of population, and taking in denver, new orleans, boston and quebec, includes the whole field of his wanderings within a radius of a thousand miles. he was not a traveller according to our modern use of the word; he had never lost sight for many hours of the shores of america; even cuba and hawaii were beyond his range. but he had studied nearly all the phases of life included in the republic. his birth and breeding in the "middle states" gave him a metropolitan quality which neither new england nor the south could have contributed. of peasant stock, himself an artizan and always and properly a man of the people, he was of the average stuff of the american nation; and his everyday life--apart from the central and exceptional fact of his individuality--was that of millions of unremembered citizens. whitman was not only an american type, he was also a type of america. the typical american is not city born. rapidly as that sinister fate is overtaking the englishman, the native american is still of rural birth.[3] and, as we have said, whitman was of the average; he was born in long island of farming folk. but he was a modern, and the modern movement throughout the world is citywards. everywhere the industrial revolution is destroying the economy of our ancestors and creating another; diverting all the scattered energy which springs out of the countryside into the great reservoirs of city life, there to be employed upon new tasks. modern life is the life of the town, and for many years it was whitman's life. but again every town depends for its vitality and wealth upon the countryside. the city is a mere centre, factory and exchange. it cannot live upon itself. it handles everything but produces none of all that raw material from which everything that it handles is made. especially is this true of the human stuff of civilisation. men are only shaped and employed in cities--they are not produced there. the city uses and consumes the humanity that is made in the fields. and whitman, who was drawn into the outskirts of the metropolis as a child, and as a young man entered into its heart, was born among wide prospects and shared the sane life of things that root in the earth. he was the better fitted to bear and to correlate all the fierce stimuli of metropolitan life. footnotes: [1] _cf._ _camb. mod. hist._, 736; burroughs (_a_), 240; bryce's _american commonwealth_, i., 10, 11, etc.; _l. of g._, 436 n. [2] mss. harned. [3] _cf._ _en. brit. suppt._ walt whitman chapter i the whitmans of west hills the old writers[4] tell how long island was once the happy hunting ground of wolves and indians, the playing place of deer and wild turkeys; and how the seals, the turtles, grampuses and pelicans loved its long, quiet beaches. seals and whales are still occasional visitors, and its coasts are rich in lore of wrecks, of pirates and of buried treasure. a hundred years ago it could boast of hamlets only less remote from civilisation than are to-day the villages of that other "long island"--the group of the outer hebrides--which, for an equal distance, extends along the scottish coast from butt of lewis to barra head. the desultory stage then occupied a week on the double journey between brooklyn and sag harbour. beyond the latter, montauk point thrusts its lighthouse some fifteen miles out into the atlantic breakers. here the last indians of the island lingered on their reservation, and here the whalers watched for the spouting of their prey in the offing. a ridge of hills runs along the island near the northern shore, rising here and there into heights of three or four hundred feet which command the long gradual slope of woods and meadows to the south, with the distant sea beyond them; to the north, across the narrow sound, rises the blue coast line of connecticut. * * * * * it is on the slopes below the highest of these points of wide vision that the whitman homestead lies, one of the pleasant farms of a land which has always been mainly agricultural. large areas of the island are poor and barren, covered still with scrub and "kill-calf" or picturesque pine forest, as in the indian days. but the land here is productive. from the wooded head of jayne's hill behind the farm, the township of huntington stretches to the coast where it possesses a harbour. it was all purchased from the indians in 1653, for six coats, six bottles, six hatchets, six shovels, ten knives, six fathom of wampum, thirty muxes, and thirty needles.[5] the indians themselves do not seem to have caused much anxiety to the settlers; but a generation later, it is recorded that in a single year no fewer than fifteen of the wolves, which they had formerly kept half-tamed, were killed by the citizens of huntington. the next troublers of the peace were the british troops. for here, a century later, during the last years of the war of independence, colonel thompson of his majesty's forces pulled down the presbyterian church, and with its timbers erected a fortress in the public burying-ground, his soldiers employing the gravestones for fire-places and ovens.[6] they seem to have occupied another meeting-house as a stable. such are the everyday incidents of a military occupation; arising out of them, claims to the amount of £7,000 were preferred against the colonel by the township; but he withdrew to england, where, as count rumford, he afterwards became famous upon more peaceful fields. in whitman's childhood, huntington was, as it still remains, a quiet country town of one long straggling street. it counted about 5,000 inhabitants, many of them substantial folk, and in this was not far behind brooklyn. in those days the whole island could not boast 60,000 people. but if they were few, they were stalwart. the old sea-going paumànackers were a rough and hardy folk, and travellers remarked the frank friendliness of the island youth.[7] inter-racial relations seem upon the whole to have been good; the indians being treated with comparative justice, and the negro slaves well cared for. between the dutch and the english there was friction in the early years. long island, or paumanok--to give it the most familiar of its several indian names[8]--had been settled by both races; the dutch commencing on the west, opposite to their fortress and trading station of new amsterdam (afterwards new york), and the english, at about the same time, upon the east. they met near west hills, and whitman had the full benefit of his birth upon this border-line, dutch blood and english being almost equally mingled in his veins. as to the dutch of long island, they were marked here as elsewhere by sterling and stubborn qualities. there is a reserve in the dutch nature which, while it tends to arouse suspicion in others, makes it the best of stocks upon which to graft a more emotional people. slow, cautious, conservative, domestic, practical, they have formed a bed-rock of sound sense and phlegmatic temper, not for long island only, but for the whole of new york state, where, till the middle of the eighteenth century,[9] they were predominant. perhaps no other foundation could have adequately supported the superstructure of fluctuating and emotional elements which has since been raised upon it. the dutch homesteads of the island were famous for their simple, severe but solid comfort, their clean white sanded floors, their pewter and their punches. from such a home came whitman's mother. she was a van velsor of cold spring, which lies only two or three miles west of the whitman farm. her father, major cornelius van velsor, was a typical, burly, jovial, red-faced hollander. but louisa, his daughter, was not wholly dutch, for the major's wife was naomi williams, of a line of sailors, one of that great welsh clan which counted roger williams among its first american representatives. naomi was of quaker stock.[10] * * * * * the quakers appear early in the story of the island, whose settlement was taking place during the first years of their world-wide activity. within a quarter of a century of the first purchase of land from the indians, an english quaker, robert hodgson,[11] was arrested in a long island orchard for the holding of a conventicle. he was carried to new amsterdam, cruelly handled, and imprisoned there. in 1663, john bowne,[12] an islander of some standing who had joined the friends, was arrested and transported to holland, there to undergo his trial for heresy. this was in the period when the district was under dutch control. a year later this came to an end, and when, in 1672, george fox preached under the oaks which stood opposite to bowne's house[13] at flushing, and again from the granite rock in the oyster bay cemetery, he seems to have been met by no opposition more serious than that which was offered by certain members of his own society. we read[14] of the settlement of a group of substantial quaker families near the village of jericho, where they built themselves a place of worship in 1689; and here, a century later, lived elias hicks, perhaps the ablest character, as he was the most tragic figure, in the story of american quakerism. he was a friend of whitman's paternal grandfather, and thus from both parents the boy inherited something either of the blood or the tradition of that society which, directly or indirectly, gave some of the noblest of its leaders to the nation. such men, for instance, as william penn, thomas paine, and, indirectly, abraham lincoln. * * * * * the earliest of the whitmans of whom there appears to be any record is abijah, apparently an english yeoman farmer in the days of elizabeth.[15] his two sons sailed west in 1640 on the _true-love_. one of these, zechariah, became a minister in the town of milford, connecticut, and sometime before charles ii. was crowned in the old country,[16] joseph, zechariah's son, had crossed the sound and settled in the neighbourhood of huntington. either he or his successor seems to have purchased the farm at west hills, where walt whitman was afterwards born; and in 1675 "whitman's hollow" is mentioned as a boundary of the township. the garrulous histories of long island have little to tell us of the family. one of joseph's great-grandsons was killed in the battle of brooklyn,[17] that first great fight between the forces of england and her rebellious colonies, when in 1776 howe and his hessians drove putnam's recruits back upon the little town. lieutenant whitman was one of those who fell on that day before washington could carry the remnant of his troops across the east river under the friendly shelter of the fog. another great-grandson, jesse, married the orphan niece of major brush, also a "dangerous rebel" who suffered in the british prison of "the provost".[18] brushes, williamses and whitmans all seem to have served in the armies of independence, and one at least of their women would have cut a figure in the field. for jesse's mother was large-built, dark-complexioned, and of such masculine manners and speech that she seemed to have been born to horses, oaths and tobacco. as a widow she readily ruled her slaves, surviving to a great age. in contrast with her, jesse's wife, who also displayed remarkable ability, was a natural lady.[19] she had been a teacher, and was a woman of judgment. perhaps jesse himself was of gentler character than his terrible old mother; he had leanings towards quakerism, and was a friend and admirer of elias hicks.[20] so too was walter, the father of walt, and one of jesse's many sons. born in 1789--the year in which the amended constitution of the united states actually came into force--walter grew up into a silent giant,[21] a serious solid man, reserved and slow of speech, kindly but shrewd and obstinate; capable too, when he was roused, of passion. he was a wood-cutter and carpenter, a builder of frame-houses and barns, solid as himself. he learnt his trade in new york, and afterwards wandered from place to place in its pursuit. for a time after his marriage in 1816, he appears to have lived at west hills, probably farming a part, at least, of the lands of his fathers. their old house had recently been replaced by another at a little distance. this is still standing, and here, three years later, his second son was born. the child was called after his father, but the name was promptly clipped, and to this day he remains "walt." * * * * * [illustration: louisa (van velsor) whitman at sixty] his mother,[22] louisa van velsor, was a well-made, handsome young woman, now in her twenty-fourth year. fearless, practical and affectionate, hers was a strong and happy presence, magnetic with the potency of a profound nature, as large and attractive as it was without taint of selfishness. she seemed to unite in herself the gentle sweetness and restraint of her quaker[23] mother, with the more heroic, full-blooded qualities of the old jolly major. she had a natural gift of description and was a graphic story-teller, but of book-learning she had next to none, and letter-writing was always difficult to her. she lacked little, however, of that higher education which comes of life-long true and fine relations with persons and with things. she had been an excellent horsewoman, and in later years her visitors were impressed by her vitality and reserve power. her words fell with weight; she had a grave dignity; but withal her oval face, framed in its dark hair and snowy cap, was full of kindness; and about the corners of her mouth, and under her high-set brows, there always lurked a quaint and quiet humour. little as we know of louisa whitman, we know enough to regard her as in every respect the equal in character of her son, whom she endowed with a natural happiness of heart. she became the mother of eight children, and lived to be nearly eighty years old, somewhat crippled by rheumatism, but industrious, charming and beloved to the last. * * * * * the first four years of his life, little walt spent at west hills. he is not the only worthy of the place, for here, half a century earlier, was born the honourable silas wood,[24] who now and for ten years to come, represented the district in congress. already, doubtless, he was collecting materials for his _sketch of the first settlement of long island_, soon to appear.[25] but neither he nor his history greatly concerns us. some two or three miles of sandy lane separate the old whitman farm from the present railway station. on an autumn day one finds the way bordered by huckleberries and tall evening primroses, yellow toad-flax, blue chickory and corn-flowers, and sturdy forests of golden-rod among the briars and bushes. in the rough hedgerows are red sumachs, oaks, chestnuts and tall cedars, locusts and hickories; the gateways open on to broad fields full of picturesque cabbages, or the plumed regiments of the tall green indian corn. it is a farming country, and a country rich in game--foxes and quails and partridges--and populous now with all kinds of chirping insects, with frogs and with mosquitoes. the wooded hills themselves are full of birds; beyond them there are vineyards. the road winds to the hills which give the place its name. to be precise, the whitman farm, as my driver assured me, belongs to the hamlet of millwell, but the title of west hills is better known. the other name may, however, serve to recall those cold sweet springs which rise along the foot of the hills and keep the country green, and whose waters are highly esteemed in new york. the lane passes by the end of an old grey shingled farmhouse, boasting a new brick chimney. a delicate, ash-like locust tree stands by the big gate. here, if you turn into the farm road under the boughs of the orchard, and then, through the wicket in the palings, cross the weedy garden square, you may enter under the timber-propped porch into the low-ceiled house where walt was born. it is small but comfortable, of two stories and a half. the morning sun streams through the open door, blinks in at the sun-shutters, and filters through the mosquito netting. on the left of the hall[26] are a bedroom and parlour, and the dining-room is on the right, where a wing of one story has been added. beyond this there is a lower extension; and beyond again, extend the chocolate-coloured barns and sheds and byres and stables of the farm. at one corner of the garden palings stands the little well-house with its four neat pillars, and a big bell swings in its forked post by the side gate to summon the men from the fields into which one sees the farm road wandering. the fields run up to the wood. across the road from the garden is an apple orchard, where the pigs root, and the hens scratch and cluck and scuffle. it was planted by walt's uncle jesse. [illustration: whitman's birthplace at west hills, from the lane, 1904] this is not the first ancestral cabin of the whitmans; that lies at a little distance, nearer to the woods. it belongs now to another farm--the former holding having been divided--and the old cabin has become a waggon-shed. both farms have long since passed out of the family; but near the first house, on a little woody knoll,[27] you may still see the picturesque group of unlettered stones which cluster on the whitman burying hill. neither walt himself nor his father and mother are buried here among their relatives and ancestors; but the boy, so early pre-occupied with the mysteries of life, must have often stolen to this strange solitude to commune with its silence and to hear the wind among the branches, whispering of death. there is a big old oak near by, old perhaps as the first whitman settlement, and a grove of beautiful black walnuts, and this, too, was one of the children's haunts. * * * * * such was the old whitman home and country, to which the boy's earliest memories belonged, where he spent some of the years and nearly all the holidays of his youth and early manhood, and in which his later thoughts found their natural background, his deepest consciousness its native soil. it is, as we have seen, no tame or narrow country, but wide and generous, and it is within sound of the sea. in the still night that succeeds a storm, you may hear the strange low murmur of the atlantic surf beating upon the coast.[28] the boy was born in the hills, with that sea-murmur about him. footnotes: [4] see _inter alia_ furman's _antiquities of long island_; and his _notes relating to the town of brooklyn_; silas wood's _sketch of first settlement of l. i._; b. f. thompson's _history of l. i._; n. s. prime's _history of l. i._; _a brief description of new york_, by daniel denton (1690), ed. by g. furman. [5] wood, 73 n. [6] see wood's, thomson's, and prime's _history of l. i._ [7] _comp. prose_, 7; _cf._ furman's _antiquities_, 249; denton, 14. [8] wood, 65; _cf._ _comp. prose_. [9] _in re_, 197. [10] see appendix a. [11] s. m. janney's _history of friends_, vol. i. [12] furman's _antiq._, 97; janney, vol. ii. [13] furman's _antiq._, 229. [14] thompson, _op. cit._ [15] symonds, xii.; _savage genealog. dict._ [16] _comp. prose_, 3; bucke, 13. [17] camden introd. [18] _ibid._ [19] _comp. prose_, 6; camden, xix. [20] _in re_, 202. [21] burroughs, 79; bucke, 15; _whit. fellowship_, '94 (brinton and traubel); _wound dresser_, 115, etc. [22] bucke, 16; _comp. prose_, 274; camden, xvii.; _in re_, 195, etc. [23] see appendix a. [24] wood, 5 (ed. by a. j. spooner). [25] 1828. [26] _whit. fellowship_, _op. cit._ [27] _comp. prose_, 4. [28] _ibid._, 6. chapter ii boyhood in brooklyn the hill-range which forms the back-bone of long island, and upon whose slopes walt whitman was born, terminates on the west in brooklyn heights, which overlook the busy bay and crowded city of new york. the heights recall washington's masterly retreat; and the hint is enough to remind the shame-faced english visitor that the american is not without cause for a certain coolness in the very genuine affection which he manifests for the mother country. 'seventy-six and the six years that followed, with all their legacy of bitter thoughts, was succeeded by 1814 and the burning of the capitol. in this later war it was virginia, not new england, that took the initiative; massachusetts and connecticut even opposed it, and it may have been none too popular in adjacent long island. it is doubtful whether major van velsor or his sons actually took the field against the british. but this second and last of the anglo-american wars was still a bitter and vivid memory when in may, 1823,[29] towards walt's fourth birthday, his father, the old major's son-in-law, left the farm, removing with his family to front street, brooklyn, near the wharves and water-side. though but a country town with great elm-trees still shading its main thoroughfare,[30] brooklyn was growing, and its trade was brisk. it is likely that the carpenter, whitman, framed more than one of the hundred and fifty houses which were added to it during the year. in the meantime, walt took advantage of his improved situation to study men and manners in a sea-port town. he watched the ferry-boats that for the last ninety years had plied to and fro, binding brooklyn to its big neighbour opposite upon manhattan island. for another sixty years their decks provided the only roadway across the east river, and they still go back and forward loaded heavily, in spite of the two huge but graceful bridges which now span the grey waters. the boy gazed wondering at the patient horse in the round house on deck, which, turning like a mule at a wheel-pump, provided the propelling power for the ferry-boat till fulton replaced him by steam. the boy in frocks must have wondered, too, at the great shows and pageants of 1824 and 1825 which filled new york with holiday-making crowds. for in august of the former year, came the old hero of two republics, general lafayette, to be received with every demonstration of admiring gratitude by the people of america. some scintilla of the glory of those days--pale reflection, as it was, of the far-away tragic radiance that lighted up the world at the awakening of justice and of liberty on both sides of the sea--fell upon the child. for when the old soldier visited brooklyn to lay the corner-stone of a library there, he found the youngster in harm's way and lifted him, with a hearty kiss, on to a coign of vantage.[31] thus, at six years old, walt felt himself already famous. again, a few months later, the city was all ablaze with lights and colour and congratulations on the opening of the erie canal, which connected new york with ohio and promised to break the monopoly of western commerce held hitherto by the queen city of the mississippi. * * * * * by this time, the family counted four children; two brothers, jesse and walt, and two little girls, mary and hannah, all born within six years. of the children, walt and hannah appear to have been special friends, but we have little record of this period. as they grew old enough, they attended the brooklyn public school and went duly to sunday school as well.[32] in the summers they spent many a long holiday in the fields and lanes about west hills. a reminiscence of those times is enshrined in one of the best known of the _leaves of grass_,[33] written more than a quarter of a century later, a memory of the may days when the boy discovered a mocking-birds' nest containing four pale green eggs, among the briars by the beach, and watched over them there from day to day till presently the mother-bird disappeared; and then of those september nights when, escaping from his bed, he ran barefoot down on to the shore through the windy moonlight, flung himself upon the sand, and listened to the desolate singing of the widowed he-bird close beside the surf. there, in the night, with the sea and the wind, he lay utterly absorbed in the sweet, sad singing of that passion, some mystic response awakening in his soul; till in an ecstasy of tears which flooded his young cheeks, he felt, rather than understood, the world-meaning hidden in the thought of death.[34] this self-revealing reminiscence, even if it should prove to diverge from historic incident and to take some colour from later thought, illumines the obscurity which covers the inner life of his childhood. elsewhere we can dimly see him as his mother's favourite; towards her he was always affectionate. but with his father he showed himself wayward, idle, self-willed and independent, altogether a difficult lad for that kindly but taciturn and determined man to manage. walt retained these qualities, and they caused endless trouble to every ill-advised person who afterwards attempted the task in which worthy walter whitman failed. among his young companions, though he was not exactly imperious, walt seems to have played the part of a born leader; he was a clever boy; he always had ideas, and he always had a following. and as a rule he was delightful to be with, for he had an unflagging capacity for enjoyment and adventure. but there must have been times when he was moody and reserved. the passionate element in his nature which the song of the mocking-bird aroused belongs rather to night solitudes than to perpetual society and sunshine. as he grew older, and, perhaps, somewhat overgrew his physical strength,[35] he was often unhappy in himself. there was something tempestuous in him which no one understood, he himself least of any. probably his wise and very human mother came nearest to understanding; and her heart was with him as he fought out his lonely battles with that strange enemy of youth's peace, the soul. * * * * * little brothers were added from time to time to the family group; andrew, george and jeff, and last of all poor under-witted ted, born when walt was a lad of sixteen, to be the life-long object of his mother's affectionate care. the names of andrew and jeff reflect their father's political sentiments; the latter recalling the founder of the old jeffersonian republicanism; and the former being called after andrew jackson, the popular and successful candidate for the presidency, in the year of the boy's birth, who afterwards reorganised his party, creating the "democratic" machine to take the place of what had hitherto been the "republican" caucus. thus republicanism changed its name, and the title did not reappear in party politics for a generation. as walter whitman built, mortgaged and eventually sold his frame-houses, the family would often move from one into another: we can trace at least five migrations[36] during the ten years that they remained in brooklyn. he was a busy, but never a prosperous man; with his large family, the fluctuations of trade must have affected him seriously; and scattered through his son's story, there are fast-days and seasons of privation. walter whitman was, in short, a working man upon the borders of the middle-class: thrifty, shrewd, industrious, but dependent upon his earnings; mixing at times with people of good education, but of little himself; a master-workman, the son of a well-read and thoughtful mother, living in the free and natural social order which at that time prevailed in brooklyn and new york. he was not outwardly religious; he was never a church-goer; even his wife, who called herself a baptist, only went irregularly,[37] and then, with an easy tolerance, to various places of worship--the working mother of eight children has her hands full on sundays. in the household there was no form of family prayers. but when old elias hicks[38] preached in the neighbourhood, they went to hear him, tending more towards a sort of liberal quakerism than to anything else. [illustration: walter whitman, senior] the whitmans were not an irreligious family--walt was, for instance, fairly well-grounded in the scriptures--but they thought for themselves, they disliked anything that savoured of exclusion, and their religion consisted principally in right living and in kindliness. their devotion to the old quaker minister is interesting. hicks was a remarkable man and a most powerful and moving preacher. he was large and liberal-minded; too liberal, it would seem, for some of his hearers. his utterances had however passed unchallenged till an evangelical movement, fostered by some english friends among their american brethren, made further acquiescence seem impossible. that which complacently calls itself orthodoxy is naturally intolerant, it can, indeed, hardly even admit tolerance to a place among the virtues; and the evangelical propaganda must be very pure if it is to be unaccompanied by the spirit of exclusion. it may seem strange that such a spirit should enter into a society which gathers its members under the name of "friends," a name which seems to indicate some basis broader than the creeds, some spiritual unity which could dare to welcome the greatest diversity of view because it would cultivate mutual understanding. but the broader the basis and the more spiritual the bond of fellowship, the more disastrous is the advent of the spirit of schism masking itself under some title of expediency, and here this spirit had forced an entrance. between hicks--who himself appears to have been somewhat intolerant of opposition, a strong-willed man, frankly hostile to the evangelical dogmatics--and the narrower sort of evangelicals, relations became more and more strained, until, in 1828, the octogenarian minister was disowned by the official body of quakers, after some painful scenes. he was however followed into his exile by a multitude of his hearers and others who foresaw and dreaded the crystallisation of quakerism under some creed. soon after the crisis, and only three months before his death, elias hicks preached in the ball-room of morrison's hotel on brooklyn heights. among the mixed company who listened on that november evening to the old man's mystical and prophetic utterance, was the ten-year old boy, accompanying his parents. hicks sprang from the peasant-farming class to which the whitmans belonged; and, as a lad, had been intimate with walt's great-grandfather, and with his son after him. it was then, with a sort of hereditary reverence, that the boy beheld that intense face, with its high-seamed forehead, the smooth hair parted in the middle and curling quaintly over the collar behind; the hawk nose, the high cheek bones, the repression of the mouth, and the curiously indian aspect of the tall commanding figure, clad in the high vest and coat of quaker cut. the scene was one he never forgot. the finely-fitted and fashionable place of dancing, the officers and gay ladies in that mixed and crowded assembly, the lights, the colours and all the associations, both of the faces and of the place, presenting so singular a contrast with the plain, ancient friends seated upon the platform, their broad-brims on their heads, their eyes closed; with the silence, long continued and becoming oppressive; and most of all, with the tall, prophetic figure that rose at length to break it. with grave emphasis he pronounced his text: "what is the chief end of man?" and with fiery and eloquent eyes, in a strong, vibrating, and still musical voice, he commenced to deliver his soul-awakening message. the fire of his fervour kindled as he spoke of the purpose of human life; his broad-brim was dashed from his forehead on to one of the seats behind him. with the power of intense conviction his whole presence became an overwhelming persuasion, melting those who sat before him into tears and into one heart of wonder and humility under his high and simple words. the sermon itself has not come down to us. in his _journal_,[39] hicks has described the meeting as a "large and very favoured season." it seems to have been devoid of those painful incidents of opposition which saddened so many similar occasions during these last years of his ministry. the old man had been accused of deism, as though he were a second tom paine and devotee of "reason": in reality his message was somewhat conservative and essentially mystical. a hostile writer[40] asserts truly that the root of his heresy--if heresy we should call it--lay in his setting up of the light within as the primary rule of faith and practice. he always viewed the bible writings as a secondary standard of truth or guide to action; as a book, though the best among books. and as a book, it was the "letter" only: the "spirit that giveth life" even to the letter, was in the hearts of men. in his attitude toward the idea of christ, he distinguished, like many other mystics, between the figure of the historic jesus of nazareth and that indwelling christ of universal mystical experience, wherewith according to his teaching, jesus identified himself through the deepening of his human consciousness into that of deity. in the mystical view, this god-consciousness is in some measure the common inheritance of all the saints, and underlies the everyday life of men. and to it, as a submerged but present element in the life of their hearers, fox and the characteristic quaker preachers have always directed their appeal, seeking to bring it up into consciousness. once evoked and recognised, this divine element must direct and control all the faculties of the individual. it is the new humanity coming into the world. hicks recognised in jesus the most perfect of initiates into this new life; and as such, he accorded a special authority to the gospel teachings, but demanded that they should be construed by the reader according to the christ-spirit in his own heart. properly understood, the doctrine of the inner light is not, as many have supposed it to be, the _reductio ad absurdum_ of individual eccentricity. on the contrary it tends to a transcendental unity; for the spirit whose irruption into the individual consciousness it seeks and supposes, is that spirit and light wherein all things are united and in harmony. in this sense, the quaker preacher was appealing to the essence of all social consciousness--that realisation of an organic fellowship-in-communion which the sacraments of the churches are designed to cultivate. however dark his great subject may appear to the trained gaze of philosophy, the old man's words brought illumination to the little boy. the sense of human dignity was deepened in him; he breathed an air of solemnity and inspiration. hicks died early in the new year, and with him there probably fell away the last strong link which held the whitmans to quakerism. but the seed of the ultimate quaker faith--that faith by which alone a quaint little society rises out of a merely historic and sectarian interest to become a symbol of the eternal truths which underlie society as a whole, a faith which declares of its own experience that deity is immanent in the heart of man--this seed of faith was sown in the lad's mind to become the central principle around which all his after thought revolved. * * * * * although, as these incidents make evident, walt's nature was strongly emotional, he never went through the process known as conversion. religion came to him naturally. responsive from his childhood to the emotional influence of that ultimate reality which we call "god" or "the spiritual," he can never have had the overwhelming sense of inward disease and degradation which conversion seems to presuppose. well-born and surrounded by wholesome influences, it is probable that the higher elements of his nature were always dominant. the idea of abject unworthiness would hardly be suggested to his young mind. he was not ignorant of evil, insensible to temptation, or innocent of those struggles for self-mastery which increase with the years of youth. we have reason to believe that he was wilful and passionate; though he was too affectionate and too well-balanced to be ill-natured. harmonious natures are not insensitive to their own discordant notes, and the harmony of whitman held many discords in solution. he had then in his own experience, even as a child, material sufficient for a genuine sense of sin. but this sense, never, so far as we know, became acute enough to cause a crisis in his life, never created in his mind any feeling of an irreparable disaster, or any discord which he despaired of ultimately resolving. he had not been taught to regard god as a severe judge, of incredible blindness to the complexity of human nature;[41] and perhaps partly in consequence of this, he was ever a rebel against the divine justice. there is, it may be said, another kind of conversion, a turning of the eyes of the soul to discover the actual presence and power of god at hand: the sequel may show whether whitman felt himself to be ignorant of this change. * * * * * honest, upright and self-respecting, his parents never took an ascetic view of morality. they did not share in that puritanical hostility to art and to amusements which too long distorted the image of truth in the mirror of quakerism. even as a lad, walt discovered those provinces of the world of romance which lie across the footlights, and in the dazzling pages of the _arabian nights_;[42] and, as a youth, he followed the wizard of waverley through all his stories and poems, becoming, soon after sir walter's death, the happy possessor of lockhart's complete edition, in a solid octavo volume of 1,000 pages. from this time forward he was an insatiable novel-reader, especially devoted to fenimore cooper, who was then delighting the younger generation with stories of pioneer life. it would be a mistake, however, to suppose that the boy's life at this time was all amusement. at eleven years of age he was in a lawyer's office,[43] proud in the possession of a desk and window-corner of his own. the master found him a bright boy and was kind to him, forwarding his limited education a step further. he also subscribed on his behalf to a circulating library which supplied the lad with a continuous series of tales. but for whatever reason--one fears it was not unconnected with those stories--walt soon found himself running errands for another master. in his thirteenth year he was put to the printing trade, and ceased, at least for a while, to live under his father's roof.[44] the mother was out of health for a long time, during the period of the youngest son's birth and infancy, and when in 1832 the town was visited by a severe epidemic of cholera, the whitman family removed into the country. but walt stayed behind, boarding with the other apprentices of the brooklyn postmaster and printer. mr. clements and his family were good to the lad while he was with them, and some effusions of his--for like other clever boys he was writing verses--appear to have found their way into the _long island patriot_. from the _patriot_ he soon removed to the _star_, another local weekly, whose proprietor, mr. alden j. spooner, was a principal figure in the brooklyn of those days, and who long retained a vivid memory of a certain idle lad who worked in his shop. if he had been stricken with fever and ague, he used to say laughing, the boy would have been too lazy to shake.[45] at thirteen, walt was too much interested in watching things to take kindly to work; most of his time was spent in learning what the world had to teach him; but in the end he learnt his trade as well. no place could have been better chosen to awake his interest in the many-sided life around him than a printing office, the centre of all the local news. here he developed fast in every way, shot up long and stalky, scribbled for the press as well as learning his proper business, and became a very young man about town. already, he felt the attraction of the great island city of mannahatta, where, according to its earliest name, for ever "gaily dash the coming, going, hurrying sea-waves."[46] * * * * * new york had for a time been crippled by the collapse of american trade which followed the close of the napoleonic wars in europe,[47] but had recovered again, and was now growing rapidly--a city of perhaps 200,000 inhabitants, the english element predominating in its curiously mixed population. though it was prosperous, it had its share of misfortune. serious riots--racial, religious and political--were not infrequent. epidemics of cholera swept through it; and in december, 1835, thirteen acres of its buildings were burnt out in a three days' conflagration. in spite of these disasters the town grew and extended, and means of locomotion multiplied. the stages were running on broadway from bowling green to bleecker street, that is about half-way to central park, and the great thoroughfare was crowded with traffic, presenting a scene busier even and certainly more picturesque than that of to-day. fashionable folk still lived "down town" below the present city hall, in a district now given up as exclusively to offices and warehouses as is the city of london. ladies took their children down to play upon the open space of the battery, looking down the beautiful bay; and did their shopping at the various broadway stores. upon their door-steps, on either side of the street, citizens still sat out with their families through the summer evenings; they condescended to drink at the city pumps, and to buy hot-corn and ices from the wayside vendors, while the height of diversion was to run with the engine to some fire. in a word, new york life was still natural and democratic; palaces and slums were as unknown to the democracy of the metropolis as the sky-scrapers which render the approach to-day, in spite of its wooded hills, its ships and islands, among the least beautiful of the great sea-ports of the world. of diversions the citizens had no lack, for the population was now sufficient to support a good native stage and to attract foreign artists. the year 1825 saw the advent of italian opera at the old park theatre, which stood not far from the present post office; and garcia and malibran appeared in the "barber of seville".[48] it was here that edwin forrest was first seen by a new york audience; while fashionable english actors like macready and the kembles were among its visitors. but even more interest centred in the bowery, the great popular theatre built to seat 3,000, where the elder booth and forrest played night after night before enthusiastic houses of young and middle-aged artisans and mechanics capable of thunderstorms of applause. there were other theatres, too, such as niblo's and richmond hill, and to all of these young whitman presently found his way armed with a pressman's pass. he must have spent many an evening in the city while he was still working for mr. spooner, and one unforgettable night, when he was fifteen or so, he was present at a great benefit in the bowery when booth played "richard iii."[49] fifty years later, the scene of that evening remained as clear before his eyes as when he sat in the front of the pit, hanging on every word and gesture of that consummate actor. inflated and stagy his manner might be; but he revealed to the lad, watching his studied abandonment to passion, a new world of expression. for the first time, he understood how far gestures, and a presence more powerful than words, can express the heights and depths of emotion. on that night in the bowery, as upon those memorable nights on the long island beach, and in morrison's ballroom, walt came face to face with one of the supreme mysteries. on these occasions it had been the mystery of death, which alone brings peace to the heart of passionate love, and the mystery of the immanent deity; now it was that other equal mystery, the mystery of expression, the utterance of the soul in living words and acts and vivid presence. love and religion were already significant to him; he had now been shown the meaning of art. * * * * * in the meantime he had begun, as boys will, to take an interest in politics. and before going further, we must glance at the outstanding events and tendencies of the period. those two famous documents, _the declaration of independence_ and the _constitution of the united states_, are associated respectively with thomas jefferson and alexander hamilton,[50] and represent two currents of political theory which beat against one another through subsequent years. jefferson was saturated with the political idealism of the school of rousseau, which sums itself up in the demand for individual liberty and rights, the declaration of individual independence, and freedom from interference. hamilton on the other hand--who was by temper an aristocrat, and once at a new york dinner described the people as "a great beast,"[51]--was possessed by the idea of the nation; he dwelt upon the duty of each member to the whole, promulgating doctrines of solidarity and unity in the cause of a common freedom. the two views are, of course, complementary; their antagonism, if it gave the victory to either, would be fatal to both; and their reconciliation is essential to the life of the republic. but between their supporters, antagonism has naturally existed. the ideal of the jeffersonian republicans became associated with popular or "democratic" sentiment,[52] standing as it did in opposition to the more conservative and constitutional position of the hamiltonian federalists. for a time the two parties dwelt together in such amity that the federalists were actually merged with the republicans; but the uncontested election of monroe was a signal for the outbreak of the old contest. at the next election,[53] an adams of massachusetts was returned to the white house; and jackson of tennessee, one of the defeated candidates, built up a democratic party of opposition whose organising centre was new york. on the other side, the followers of adams and his secretary, henry clay, came eventually to be known as whigs, "republican" ceasing for a quarter of a century to be a party label. the titles of the parties serve approximately to indicate their different tendencies; though it must be remembered that the whiggery of adams was coloured by new england idealism, while the material interests of the south turned their energies to capture the naturally idealistic democracy of jackson. eventually the division became almost a geographical one; though certain of her interests and perhaps her jealous antipathy to new england, gave new york's sympathies to the south. in 1832, when walt was studying the world through the keen eyes of thirteen, and the windows of a brooklyn printing shop, democratic south carolina was offering a stubborn resistance to the federal tariff. theoretically, and one may add ethically, any tariff was contrary to the jeffersonian doctrine of universal freedom; and practically, it was disastrous to the special interests of the south. carolina, under the poetic fire and genius of calhoun, was the southern champion against northern, or, let us say, federal aggression. she stood out for the rights of a minority so far as to propose secession. the south was aggrieved by the tariff, for, roughly speaking, its states were cotton plantations, whose interests lay in easy foreign exchange; they grew no corn, they made no machinery, they neither fed nor clothed themselves. the north on the other hand was industrial, anxious to guard its infant manufactures against the competition of great britain. the west was agricultural, demanding roads and public works which required the funds provided by a tariff. now even these public works, these high roads and canals, were calculated directly to benefit the northern manufacturers rather than the planters of the south whose highway to the west was the great river which had formerly given them all the western trade to handle, and whose cheapest market for machinery and manufactured goods lay over the high sea whither its own staple was continually going. the tariff imposed for the benefit of the northern section was, then, opposed by the south on grounds of industrial necessity as well as of political theory. and it may be noted the argument of the southerner was equally the argument of many an artisan in the metropolis, who saw in free trade the sole guarantee of cheap living. * * * * * thus there was a certain antagonism between the interests of the two geographical sections of the american nation; and this was emphasised by another cause for hostility. every statesman knew that, although unacknowledged, it was really the question of slavery which was already dividing america into "north" and "south". and recognising it as beyond his powers of solution, he sought by maintaining a compromise to conceal it from the public mind. the "sovereign states," momentarily united for defence against a domineering king, had at the same hour been swept by tom paine's and jefferson's versions of the french republicanism, and north and south alike adhered to a doctrinaire equality. the negro, they were willing to agree, should be voluntarily and gradually emancipated. but the hold of this policy on the south was soon afterwards undermined by the economic development which followed the introduction of the cotton-gin. the new and rapidly growing prosperity of the planter depended on the permanence of the "institution". and from this time forward the southern policy becomes hard to distinguish from the vested interests of the slave-owner. the prosperity of the south seemed to depend upon the extension of the cotton industry: the cotton industry, again, upon slave-labour; thus it was argued, the institution of slavery was necessary to the prosperity of the south. the north, so the southerner supposed, had its own interests to serve, and only regarded the south as a market. it was, he felt, jealous of the dominance of southern statesmanship in the union; and its desire to destroy "the institution" was denounced as the sectional jealousy of small-minded, shop-keeping bigots, of inferior antecedents. by the brute force of increasing numbers, by a vulgar love of trade, and the accidents of climate and of mineral resources, the north was beginning to establish its hold upon congress, and arrogating to itself the federal power. hitherto, with the exception of the adamses and of jackson, every president had been of virginian birth, bred, the southerner declared, in the broader views of statesmanship. but the north was now predominant in the house of representatives, and a balance could only be preserved in the senate, where each state appoints two members, by constant watchfulness. thus the rapid settling of the middle west by northerners must be balanced by the annexation of new cotton-growing regions in the south-west. the famous missouri compromise of 1821 fixed the frontier between future free-soil and slave states at the line of the southern boundary of missouri, while admitting that state itself into the union as a member of the latter class. hence it was only in the south-west that slavery could develop, and extension by conquest of cotton territory became henceforward an object of southern politicians. while, then, it was the aggression of the south which finally drove the nation into civil war, the south for many years had viewed itself as an aggrieved partner in the inter-state compact, victimised in the interests of the majority. it felt, perhaps not unjustly, that it was being overridden, and that the federation was becoming what jefferson described as "a foreign yoke".[54] it became excessively sensitive to hostility: every rumour of the spread of abolition sentiment in the north--a sentiment which favoured a new attitude towards the federal power, and would give control to it over the domestic affairs of what hitherto had literally been "sovereign states"--raised a storm of indignation and evoked new threats of secession. * * * * * but while slavery was already playing its part in american politics it had not yet become the main line of party cleavage. although the party of free trade and of state rights was the party of the south, it was not yet the party of slavery. it was still throughout america the "people's party," and the slave power was the last to desire that it should cease to hold that title, especially in the north. for many a year to come there would be stout abolitionists who could call themselves democrats; while "dough-faces," or politicians who served the party of slavery, were always to be found amongst the whigs. even while party feeling ran high, the increase of the means of communication and the introduction of steam transport, both on land and water, favoured the larger federal sentiment and quickened the national consciousness. talk of secession had been heard in new england as well as in south carolina; but actual secession became more difficult as the manufacturers of the east, the cotton-growers of the south, and the farmers of the mississippi basin had tangible evidence of the many interests and privileges which were common to them, and beheld more and more clearly the future upon which america was entering. year by year the idea of the union gained in vitality; and in spite of party feeling, president jackson had a nation behind him when he refused to yield to south carolina's threat of secession. a compromise was effected, and carolina submitted to the collection of duties under a somewhat mitigated tariff: the relation of the constituent states to the federal power remaining still undefined, waiting, for a generation to come, upon the growth of national sentiment on the one hand, and the accumulation of resentment upon the other. footnotes: [29] _comp. prose_; bucke; mss. harned. [30] descriptions of brooklyn at this time in _mem. hist. n.y._; roosevelt; thompson, 179 n.; furman's _brooklyn_; furman's _antiq._, 390-97; burroughs; _comp. prose_, 10 n., 510, etc. [31] _comp. prose_, 9 n. [32] _w. w.'s diary in canada_, 5. [33] _l. of g._, 196. [34] _cf._ especially:- never more shall i escape, never more the reverberations, never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me, never again leave me to be the peaceful child i was before what there in the night, by the sea under the yellow and sagging moon, the messenger there arous'd, the fire, the sweet hell within, the unknown want, the destiny of me. [35] _comp. prose_, 10; grace gilchrist in _temple bar_, cxiii., 200. [36] mss. harned; _comp. prose_, 9. [37] _in re_, 38. [38] _comp. prose_, 9, 457-474; e. hicks' _journal_, under 1829; _the friend_ (philadelphia), _or advocate of truth_, i., 216 (1828). [39] 3rd ed., 438. [40] _the beacon_, 145. [41] bucke, 61. [42] _comp. prose_, 9; _l. of g._, 440. [43] bucke; mss. harned. [44] _comp. prose_, 9, 10; mss. harned. [45] mss. johnston, paper by chandos fulton. [46] _l. of g._, 385; kennedy, 64. [47] for new york see esp. _mem. hist. n.y._, and roosevelt. [48] _mem. hist. n.y._, iv., 171, 477. [49] _comp. prose_, 13, 14, 426-431. [50] _camb. mod. hist._; bryce, i., 1-31. [51] goldwin smith, _the united states_ (1893), 132. [52] _en. brit. suppt._, and g. smith. [53] 1824-25. [54] _cf._ _camb. mod. hist._, 375, 376. chapter iii teacher and journalist the spring of 1836 found whitman in new york.[55] he was in his seventeenth year, had now learnt his trade, and had begun to write for the weekly papers; among others, contributing occasionally to the handsome and aristocratic pages of the _mirror_, perhaps the best of its class.[56] he lived in that journalistic atmosphere which encourages expression and turns many a clever lad into a prig. walt was self-sufficient, but there was nothing of the prig[57] in him. limited as his schooling had been, he was naturally receptive and thoughtful, and his education went steadily forward; he made friends with older men, and with men of education from whom he learnt much. and now he became a teacher. he was a healthy boy, but had somewhat overgrown his strength, and perhaps this was among the causes of his leaving the city in may, and going up long island into the country. he joined his family for awhile, who were living at norwich;[58] and subsequently settled for the winter as a country teacher at babylon, boarding round, as was the custom, in the homes of his various pupils. * * * * * [illustration: whitman's birthplace from the farm-yard, 1904] the little town of babylon stands on the swampy inner shores of the great south bay, which is a spacious lagoon separated from the atlantic by a narrow beach or line of sand hills. this outer beach bears here and there a ridge of pine forest or a lighthouse; but for the rest, it is abandoned to sea-birds and grass, to the winds and a few sand-flowers scattered among the wind markings which are stencilled in purple upon the sand in some delicate aerial deposit. outside, even upon quiet days, the surf beats ponderously with ominous sound, the will and weight of the ocean in its swing. within, across the wide unruffled waters of the lagoon, populous with sails, is the far-away fringe of the babylon woods, and over them, pale and blue, the hill-range above huntington. the bay itself is a glorious mirror for the over-glow of the sky at sunset or sunrise. standing upon its inner rim at babylon, as the colour begins to die into the dusk, you may see mysterious sails moving by hidden waterways among fields still merry with the chirrup of innumerable crickets; while beyond the rattle of cords and pulleys and the liquid murmur of the moving boats, beyond their lights that pierce the darkening water like jewelled spears, glimmers a star on fire island beach to greet the great liners as they pass by. in summer it is a field of many harvests; famous for its blue-fish, its clams and oysters; and neither the lads of babylon nor their young master were behind-hand in spearing eels, catching crabs and gathering birds' eggs.[59] in a hard winter it is frozen over for months together. * * * * * for the greater part of the next four or five years, walt remained in the country, moving about from place to place, and paying occasional visits to new york. he is said to have been a good and popular teacher;[60] and if his equipment was not great, it was sufficient; he liked boys and had the gift of imparting knowledge. he took his work seriously, was always master in the schoolroom, and knew whatever passed there. he followed methods of his own; breaking loose from text-books, to expound his knowledge and impart his own interests to his scholars. the element of personality told throughout his teaching; already it was notable as the power behind all that he did. an impression of himself, of his universal kindliness, of the sympathetic quality of his whole person, his voice and look and manner, and of a certain distinction and dignity inseparable from him, was retained by his pupils in after years. his favourite method of punishment is worth recording, as characteristic of his power and of his theory of pedagogics. an admirable story-teller, he would chastise any scholar who had behaved dishonourably, by describing his conduct to the whole school, and without the mention of a name, the guilty boy or girl was sufficiently self-condemned and punished in his own shame. graver offences were made more public. in recess and away from school, walt was a sheer boy, heartily joining in the most boisterous games and sharing every kind of recreation consistent with his kindly spirit. "gunning" was never included. among the scholars there must often have been those of his own years, and the fact that he could preserve his status as a teacher while living on terms of frank comradeship with his scholars, declares him born to the office. they were mixed schools which he taught, and towards the girls his attitude was one of honest equanimity. he was the same with them as with the boys, betraying neither a sentimental preference nor a masculine disdain. perhaps american girls with their friendly ways and comparative lack of self-consciousness, call for less fortitude on the young teacher's part than some others; but walt's own temperament stood him in good stead. it seems improbable that he was ever subject either to green-sickness or calf-love, and he was no sentimentalist.[61] perhaps the idleness of which mr. spooner retained so lively a recollection, might have hindered his becoming an ideal dominie. his thoughts must sometimes have been far afield, his pupils and their tasks forgotten. it was not, as i have already suggested, that he was lazy; he worked hard and fast when his mind was upon his work, and best of all perhaps as a teacher in contact with human beings; but he was never so busy that he could refuse to pursue an idea, never so occupied that he could miss a new fact or emotion. like other young teachers, walt probably learnt at least as much as he taught, if not from his pupils, then from their parents. boarding with them, he came to know and to love his own people, the peasant-yeomanry of the island.[62] he was a favourite with the friendly long island youths and girls of his own years, but his closer friendships seem to have been with older people: the well-balanced, but strongly marked fathers and mothers of families. he loved the country too, and all the occupations and amusements of the open-air, into which he had been initiated as a child. thus he learned his island by heart, wandering over it on foot, by day and night; sailing its coasts and out into the waters beyond, in pilot and fishing boats, to taste for himself the brave sea life of those old salts, williamses and kossabones, his mother's ancestors. * * * * * in the spring of 1838, we find him again at huntington; and here, in june,[63] he founded a weekly journal, the _long islander_, which is still published. full of interests, self-sufficient and ready with his pen, and in close touch with his readers, he conducted the paper for a while with success. he was nineteen and an enthusiast; and he was both printer, editor and publisher. like others of the time, his paper was probably a humble sheet of four small pages, and his task was not so heavy as it may sound. he thoroughly enjoyed the work, as well he might: the new responsibility and independence were admirably suited to his years and temper. he purchased a press and type, and his printing house was in the upper story of what is now a stable, which stood on the main street of the town. there he did most of the work himself, but i have talked with an old man who shared his task at times. and not his task only; for the printing room was, we may be sure, the scene of much beside labour. walt loved companionship, and was an excellent story-teller; he loved games, especially whist, which he would play--and generally win--for a pumpkin pie. but when he worked, he "worked like the mischief," as the saying is;[64] and when he said so his companions knew that they must go. they must have recognised, if they thought about him at all in that way, that while he made no display of his knowledge he knew far more than they, and while he was an excellent comrade, it would not do to treat walt with too great familiarity. as to his talk, it was clean and wholesome and self-respecting. he was too much of a man already to resort to the mannish tricks of many youths. he had, moreover, at this time, a tinge of puritanism, which did him no harm: he neither smoked nor drank nor swore. he contemned practical jokes. maybe there was less of puritanism about him than of personal pride. he was himself from the beginning, belonged to no set, and went his own ways. he seemed to be everywhere and to observe everything without obtruding himself anywhere. and having purchased a horse, he carried the papers round to the doors of his readers in the surrounding townships. often, afterwards, he recalled those long romantic drives along the glimmering roads, through the still fields and the dark oak woods under the half-luminous starry sky, broken by friendly faces and kind greetings. but before the year was out the appearance of the _long islander_ became more and more irregular, till the patience of its owner and subscribers was exhausted. in the spring it ceased for a time, and when it reappeared it was numbered as a fresh venture under new management. walt had gone back to school teaching at babylon.[65] he continued this work for two years more, wandering from place to place, now at the jamaica academy, now at woodbury, now at whitestone. he was, at this time, a keen debater and politician, an abolitionist, a washingtonian teetotaler, and ardently opposed to capital punishment. he took an active share in the stump oratory of 1840, when van buren of new york was for the second time the democratic nominee for president. the fact, with the knowledge he always showed of the art of oratory, and the plans for lecturing which he afterwards drafted, seems to testify to a native capacity for public speaking, as well as a genuine and serious interest in the affairs of the nation. * * * * * walt whitman was becoming recognised as a young man of ability: in spite of his nonchalant and friendly unassuming ways, he had pride and ambition. he felt in himself that he was capable of great things, and that it was time to begin them. not very clear as to what his proper work might be, he took the turning of his inclination, and early in the summer of 1841 entered the office of the _new world_, as a compositor,[66] to become for the next twenty years one of the fraternity of new york pressmen. his first success was achieved in the august number of the _democratic review_, one of the first american periodicals of the day, which counted among its contributors such writers as bryant, whittier, hawthorne and longfellow. his "death in the schoolroom,"[67] appearing over the initials of "w. w.," caught the public fancy, and was widely copied by the provincial press. it is the study of a gruesome incident in long island country life; by turns sentimental and violent in its horror, and evidently intended as an argument against school flogging. it has a sort of crude power and its subject matter would have appealed to hawthorne. it is by no means discreditable; but to us it seems verbose, and it is clumsy in its exaggerated style. lugare is shown to us at one moment standing as though transfixed by a basilisk--and at another, "every limb quivers like the tongue of a snake". whatever its faults, they did not offend the taste of the hour: the review welcomed his contributions, and some study from his pen appeared in its pages each alternate month throughout the next year, some being signed "walter whitman" in full. to the _new world_ he had meanwhile been contributing conventional and very mediocre verses in praise of death and of compassionate pity.[68] the remorse of a young murderer; an angel's compassionate excuses for evil-doers; the headstrong revolt of youth against parental injustice, and the ensuing tragic fate; the half-insane repulsion of a father toward his son, prompting him to send the lad to a madhouse and thus wrecking his mind; the refusal of a young poet to sell his genius; the pining of a lover after the death of his beloved; the lonely misery of a deaf and dumb girl, who has been seduced and deserted; the reform of a profligate by a child; the sobering of a drunkard at his little sister's death-bed; and an old widow's strewing of flowers on every grave because her husband's remains unknown: such are the subjects with which he dealt.[69] his wanderings in long island had supplied him with incidents upon which to exercise his imagination. those which he selected have always some pathetic interest, while several have an obviously didactic purpose. whitman's moral consciousness was still predominant: he was an advocate of "causes". but his morality sprang out of a real passion for humanity, which took the form of sentiment; a sentiment which was thoroughly genuine at bottom, but which in its expression at this time, became false and stilted enough to bear the reproach of sentimentality. in view of their author's subsequent optimism, it is interesting to note that all these studies are of figures or incidents, more or less tragic. whitman was puzzling over the ultimate questions: the problem of evil, as seen in the sufferings inflicted by tyrannical power, and by callous or lustful selfishness, upon innocent victims; on the inscrutable tragedies of disease and insanity; and again, upon the power of innocence, of sorrow and of love to evoke the good which he saw everywhere latent in human nature, and which a blind and heavy-handed legalitarian justice would destroy with the evil inseparable from it. the more he thought over these problems, the more he recognised the futility of condemnation, and the effectiveness of understanding love. * * * * * the _new world_, upon which he was working, published the first american versions of some of the principal novels of the day; it reprinted several of the new poems of tennyson from english sources and contained long notices of such works as carlyle's _heroes and hero-worship_. in november, 1842, it issued as an extra number dickens's _american notes_, the sensation of the hour--the author having been _fêted_ at the park theatre in february--and announced lytton bulwer's _last of the barons_ to follow. on the 23rd of the month, in the same fashion, appeared _franklin evans, or the inebriate_, a tale of the times, by walter whitman. it was advertised as a thrilling romance by "one of the best novelists in this country"; and the proprietors of the magazine expressed their hope that the well-told incidents of the plot and the excellence of the moral would commend the book to general circulation. nor were they disappointed. it is said that twenty thousand copies were sold. the book, then, achieved a tolerable success, and its author profited to the extent of some forty pounds. copies of _franklin evans_ are now excessively rare, and one may say with confidence they will remain so. for the tale will never be reprinted. it claims to be written for the people and not for the critics, and even the people are unlikely to read it a second time. it is an ill-told rambling story of a long island lad who, going to the metropolis and taking to drink, falls through various stages of respectability till he becomes a bar-tender. he marries and reforms, but presently gives way again to his habit; his wife then dies, and he falls lower. eventually he is rescued from gaol, and signs the "old" pledge against ardent spirits. then he goes to virginia, where he succeeds in fuddling his wits with wine, and marries a handsome creole slave. forthwith he becomes entangled with a white woman who drives his wife to the verge of madness, until a tragic fate releases him from them both, and the story concludes with his signature to the pledge of total abstinence. the author recommends it to his readers, and breaks out into praises of the washingtonian crusade, foretelling its imminent and complete victory over the "armies of drink". the pages are diversified by indian and other narratives impertinent to the plot, and by invectives against the scornful attitude of the pious and respectable toward those who are struggling in the nets of vice. the whole book is loosely graphic and frankly didactic, its author declaring his wish to be improving, though he will keep the amusement of his readers in view. he opines that in this temperance story he has found a novel and a noble use for fiction, and if his first venture be successful, be assured it will be followed by a second. it is difficult to treat _franklin evans_ seriously. that whitman was at the time a sincere advocate of the more extreme doctrines of temperance reform can hardly be doubted. but in after years--the whole incident having become a matter of amusement to its author, not wholly unmingled with irritation when, as sometimes, it was thrust upon him anew by reformers as ardent as he had once been--he would laugh and say with a droll deliberation that the story was written against time one hot autumn in a broadway beer-cellar, his dull thoughts encouraged by bubbling libations. one suspects a humorous malice in the anecdote, belonging rather to his later than his earlier years. it may be noted, however, that while whitman commended the pledge, he also commended a positive policy of "counter attraction" to all the young men who scanned his pages, to wit, an early marriage and a home, though he himself remained a bachelor. _franklin evans_ was honest enough. young whitman was serving the adorable lady temperance with fervour, if not with absolute consistency. he knew her cause to be a good one; but he found that, in this form, it was not quite his own, and he was too natural not to be inconsistent. he had not yet come to his own cause, nor for that matter to himself. and thus his essay became a _tour de force_; as he did not repeat it, we may suppose he was as little satisfied as those who now waste an hour upon this "thrilling romance". he was now in the full stream of journalistic activity. he wrote for the _new york sun_, and appears for a few months to have acted as editor in succession of the _aurora_ and the _tattler_.[70] in 1843 he filled the same post on the _statesman_, and the year after upon the _democrat_; while contributing also to the _columbian magazine_, the _american review_, and poe's _broadway journal_.[71] probably none of these contributions are worthy of recollection. anomalous as it may sound, from twenty-three to thirty-five whitman was better fitted for an editor than for an essayist. he was clever without being brilliant; he had capacity but no special and definite line of his own. his strength lay in his judgment; and upon this both friends and family learnt to rely. several of the papers for which he wrote were party organs; it may have been that his political services in 1840 won him an introduction to the editors of the _democratic review_, and helped him on his further way. in any case, it is certain that he frequented the party's headquarters in the city. tammany hall was named after an indian brave,[72] presumably to indicate the wholly indigenous character of its interests. towards the end of the eighteenth century, it seems to have become the seat of a society of old knickerbockers, gathered partly for mutual protection against certain groups of foreign immigrants who had shown a hostile disposition, and partly in opposition to the aristocratic cincinnati society presided over by washington. during jefferson's presidency it became a political centre, and was identified with the democratic party from the time of its re-organisation under jackson in new york state. the democrats failed to elect van buren, and were in opposition from 1840 to 1844. during the electoral struggle, a baltimore journal had spoken slightingly of the humble character of harrison, the whig candidate:[73] better fitted, it pronounced, for a western log-cabin and a small pension than for the white house. harrison, like andrew jackson, was an old soldier: he had beaten the indians long ago in a fight at tippecanoe; and that, together with the simplicity of this cincinnatus--the imaginary log-cabin, the coon-skins and hard cider, which made him the impersonation of the frontiersman to whom america owed so much, being all artfully exaggerated by party managers--caught the fancy of the whole country, which rang for months together with the refrain of "tippecanoe and tyler too". harrison died immediately after his inauguration and vice-president tyler took his place. in tammany's back parlour, walt made the acquaintance of many notables, and not least, of an old colonel fellowes,[74] who loved to discuss tom paine over a social glass, and to scatter to the four winds the legends of inebriety which had gathered about his later years of poverty and neglect. but that whitman was a violent partisan even at this time, seems to be disproved by the fact that in 1843 or 1844 he contributed political verses to horace greeley's _tribune_, a paper which had grown out of the whig election sheet.[75] and though, like his father, he adhered now and always to the general political tradition of the democrats, was a free trader, jealous of the central power, and voted with his party till it split in 1848, he was as good an abolitionist as greeley himself. indeed, both the _tribune_ poems are inspired by the theme of slavery, and as if in witness to the reality of their inspiration, he breaks for the first time into the irregular metres he was to make his own.[76] a religious ardour breathes from these singular scriptural utterances. the first, "blood-money," is a homily on the text, "guilty of the body and the blood of christ". in the slave, whom he describes as "hunted from the arrogant equality of the rest," he sees the new incarnation of that "divine youth" whose body iscariot sold and is still a-selling. it is an admirable piece of pathos, fresh, direct and unmannered, and by far the most individual and striking thing whitman had done. and it was the only one which could be regarded as prophetic of the work that was to follow. especially is this felt in such lines as the cycles, with their long shadows, have stalked silently forward, since those ancient days; many a pouch enwrapping meanwhile its fee, like that paid for the son of mary. the piece was signed "paumanok," as also was "a dough-face song," which appeared in the _evening post_. the second of the _tribune_ poems, "wounded in the house of friends,"[77] is inferior to the first in poetic merit, though adopting a somewhat similar medium. it is a rather violent denunciation of those intimates of freedom whose allegiance to her can be bought off--"a dollar dearer to them than christ's blessing"--elderly "dough-faces" whose hearts are in their purses. it was upon northern traitors to the cause rather than upon the people of the south, that whitman poured out his indignation: and this position he always maintained. the _tribune_ itself was at the time an ardent supporter of clay's candidature for the presidency; but clay subsequently trimmed upon this very question, and this action, by alienating the anti-slavery party in new york, resulted in his defeat at the polls. whitman's political poems suggest already that loosening of ties which separated him a few years later from the main body of his party; but in 1844, following the lead of advanced democrats like w. c. bryant, he worked actively for polk, the party candidate, who became president.[78] we cannot too often remind ourselves that the later republicanism of the 'sixties was supported by men who had been free-soil democrats as well as by certain of their whig opponents. meanwhile, it was to the radical wing of his party that young whitman belonged. * * * * * though engaged in the political struggle, he was by no means absorbed in it. his profession encouraged his natural interest in the affairs of his country, but not in the political affairs alone. he shared in the social functions of the city and its district. he frequented lectures and races, churches and auction rooms, weddings and clam-bakes.[79] he spent saturday afternoons on the bare and then unfrequented sand ridge of coney island, bathing, reading and declaiming aloud, uninterrupted by a single one of the hundreds of thousands who now fill the island with their more artificial holiday making and their noisier laughter. in those days one did not require a costume to bathe on coney island beach. nearer than coney island, brooklyn ferry was always one of his favourite haunts.[80] walt had always loved the boat as well as the river; as a child he had seen the horses in the round-house give place to the engine with its high "smoke-stack"; the captain and the hands were old friends, and he never tired of watching the passengers. who does not feel the delight of such a ferry, the swing of the boat, the windy gleam in the sky, the lights by day or night upon the water, the sense of weariless and unceasing movement as of life itself? new york, on its island, is richer than most cities in these river crossings, which take you at once out of the closeness and cares of the streets into the free broad roadways of wind and water, roadways which you can scarcely traverse without some enlargement and liberation of the city-pent soul in your breast. and in the city itself he had a thousand interests;[81] he went wherever people met together for any purpose; he had a critic's free pass to the theatres and was often at the opera and circus, he frequented the public libraries too, and the collections of antiquities; but most of all he loved to read in the open book of broadway. up and down that amazing torrent of humanity he would ride, breasting its flood, upon the box-seat of one of the stages, beside the driver. from time to time he would make himself useful by giving change to the fares within, when he was not already too fully occupied declaiming the great passages from his favourite poets into the ears of his friend. the fulness of human life surging through the artery of that great city exhilarated him like the west wind or the sound and presence of the sea. the sheer contact with the crowd excited him. and though he came to know new york in all its dark and sordid corners--and even an american city before the war was not without its shame--he won an inspiration from its multitudinous humanity distinct from any that the country-side could afford. every year he grew more conscious of his membership in the living whole of human life; and the consciousness which brought despair to carlyle, brought faith and glory to whitman. he did not blink the ugly and sinister aspects of things, as many an optimist has done; he saw clearly the brothel, the prison, and the mortuary; his writing at this time, as we have seen, deals largely with the tragedies of life; but humanity fascinated him--not an abstract or ideal humanity, but the concrete actual humanity of new york. for its own sake he loved it, body and soul, as a man should. it was not philanthropy, it was the wholesome, native love of a man for his own flesh and blood, for the incarnation of the other in the same substance as the self. very little passed in the city without his knowledge. he was in the crowd that welcomed dickens in 1842;[82] and was doubtless among the thousands who celebrated the introduction of the first water from the croton supply into new york, and hailed the pioneer locomotive arriving over the new track from buffalo. among the public figures of the day, he became familiar with the faces of great politicians like webster and clay; among writers, he saw fitz-green halleck and fenimore cooper,[83] and made the acquaintance of poe who was struggling against poverty in new york, and who became at this time--1845--suddenly famous through the publication of "the raven";[84] and won the more lasting friendship of bryant, who was at that time the preeminent american poet, and held besides the editorship of the _evening post_, to which walt had been a contributor.[85] * * * * * in february, 1846, whitman was appointed editor of the _brooklyn daily eagle_,[86] a democratic journal of a single sheet. the office was close to the ferry, and he seems at this time to have lived with his family on myrtle avenue, near fort greene, rather more than a mile away. his editorials boasted no literary distinction, and were even at times of doubtful grammar; but they were direct and vigorous, and discussed all the topics of the hour.[87] when a new york episcopal church was consecrated with much ceremony and display, he would denounce the self-complacent attitude of the churches; every instance of lynching or of capital punishment would call forth his protest; he was faithful in his support of the rights of domestic animals; he approved of dancing within reasonable hours, and he advocated art in the homes of the people. largely owing to his persistent advocacy the old battle-ground of fort greene was secured to brooklyn as a park. in dealing with the immediately critical question of relations with mexico, while he anticipated extension of territory without dismay, he uttered his warning against the temper which prompts a nation to aggressive acts. "we fear", he said,[88] "our unmatched strength may make us insolent. we fear that we shall be too willing (holding the game in our own hands) to revenge our injuries by war--the greatest curse that can befall a people, and the bitterest obstacle to the progress of all those high and true reforms that make the glory of this age above the darkness of the ages past and gone." the admission of texas into the union, in 1845, was soon followed by a war with mexico, which eventually completed the filibustering work of houston by the annexation of new mexico and california. this territorial expansion was pushed forward, as we noted before, by polk and the democrats in the interests of the south;[89] but the fact that it was wilmot, a free-soil democrat, who introduced the celebrated proviso to an appropriation of money for the war, proposing to exclude slavery from all territory which might be acquired from mexico, reminds us of the division within the party which resulted in a split two years later. the country at this time was in a condition of feverish irritation; and the war spirit was only too easily aroused. in 1847, it threatened to burst into flame over a territorial dispute with great britain. america claimed the latitude of 54.40 as the northern boundary of oregon, and for awhile, under the jingo president, the country rang with the insane alliterative cry of "fifty-four forty or fight".[90] a spirited foreign policy is the universal panacea of the charlatan; it is his receipt for every internal disorder, and it was continually being prescribed to america during the next fifteen years. this was indeed the charlatan's hour, when the official policy of the dominant democratic party oscillated between jingoism and what was afterwards known throughout america as "squatter sovereignty". it was the repudiation of the wilmot proviso, and the adoption of the new doctrine which douglas afterwards made his own, that drove whitman into revolt. he was comfortably seated in his editorial chair, where he might have remained for years had his radical convictions permitted. though the owners of the _eagle_ were orthodox party men, the editor's anti-slavery attitude was not concealed,[91] and indeed could not be. their criticism of his editorials caused him immediately to throw up his post. he would not compromise on the question, and he would not brook interference. it was january, 1848, when he left the _eagle_,[92] and a few weeks later he was making his way south to new orleans. * * * * * whitman had joined the "barnburners" or van buren men of new york state, who now became free-soil democrats, making the wilmot proviso their platform,[93] in opposition to the "hunkers," who denounced it. as to the whigs, they burked the whole matter, and contrived in their nominating convention to silence the question by shouting. the democratic party found its real platform in the nostrum of "squatter sovereignty," the specious doctrine that in each new state the citizens should themselves decide upon their attitude towards slavery, deciding for or against it when drawing up a constitution. to this, lewis cass, its candidate for the presidency, subscribed. but the "barnburners" put forward van buren, a former president, and a democrat of the school of jefferson and jackson, who was also supported by the "anti-slavery" party. his policy was to confine slavery within its actual limits: "no more slave states, no more slave territory". as a consequence of the democratic split in the empire state, the thirty-six electoral votes of new york were given to the whig candidate, general taylor, the mexican conqueror, and he became the next president. a whole-hearted free-soil democrat, whitman's position as editor of an orthodox party journal had naturally become untenable. footnotes: [55] mss. harned. [56] _comp. prose_, 187. [57] _whit. fellowship_, '94 (traubel). [58] mss. harned. [59] _comp. prose_, 7-9. [60] _whit. fellowship_, '94 (c. a. roe); johnston, 114. [61] _whit. fellowship_ (roe); _in re_, 34. [62] _comp. prose_, 10, 11, 521. [63] _ib._, 10, 11, 188; thomson, 476; burroughs (_a_), 28. [64] _whit. fellowship_, '94 (traubel). [65] mss. harned. [66] _ibid._ [67] _comp. prose_, 336. [68] _new world_, nov. 20, dec. 18, 1841. [69] _comp. prose_, 340-370; _democratic review_, etc. [70] mss. harned; _comp. prose_, 188. [71] _comp. prose_, 12, 196. [72] _new york mirror_ (1833), 87. _cf._ larned. [73] _camb. mod. hist._, 389. [74] _comp. prose_, 90. [75] _mem. hist._, iv., 157. [76] _comp. prose_, 372. [77] _ib._, 273. [78] bucke, 23. [79] _ib._, 21. [80] _comp. prose_, 11. [81] _comp. prose_, 11-14, 426, 519. [82] _comp. prose_, 11. [83] _ib._, 11, 12. [84] _alibone's dict._ [85] _comp. prose_, 196. [86] mss. harned. [87] _atlantic monthly_, xcii., 679. [88] _atlantic monthly_, xcii., 686. [89] _camb. mod. hist._, 397, 398. [90] _ib._, 399. [91] _atlantic monthly_, xcii., 683, 684. [92] mss. harned. [93] _camb. mod. hist._, 399; _comp. prose_, 188. chapter iv romance (1848) whitman was nearly twenty-nine, and had not, so far as i can discover, wandered beyond the limits of his own state,[94] nor had he experienced, to our knowledge, any serious affair of the heart. the only trace of strong personal emotion in his writing hitherto is that which we found in the _tribune_ poems, dictated by the passion of human solidarity. "blood money" is probably the only thing which he had yet produced from the deeper regions of consciousness; it is the only piece of real self-revelation which he had yet confided to the world. now we come suddenly upon a time of wandering, over which he himself has drawn a veil--a veil which covers, we cannot for a moment doubt, one of the most important incidents of his life. but it is a veil which we are unable to raise.[95] * * * * * walking in the lobby of the old broadway theatre, between the acts, one february night,[96] whitman was introduced to a southern gentleman. a quarter of an hour later he had engaged to go south, to assist in starting the _crescent_, a daily paper in new orleans. on the eleventh of the month he set out.[97] the south was as unknown to him as it still remains to the majority of northerners; and the south must have been as strange and fascinating to the son of mannahatta as are the shores of the mediterranean to a londoner. an air of romance seems to breathe from his every reference to this period, and it may well be that the passionate attraction which afterwards drew his memory to the "magnet-south" had some personal incarnation. bidding a hasty good-bye to his family and friends, he left new york and made his way[98] through populous pennsylvania, and over the alleghanies to wheeling on the ohio river, where he found a small steamer, and in it descended leisurely, with many stops by the way, through the recently settled lands of ohio, indiana, kentucky, and illinois, into the mississippi, the father of waters, thenceforward pursuing his voyage for more than a thousand miles along that greatest of american highways, to the borders of the mexican gulf. for the first time his eyes saw how vast was his country: he realised the south, and he understood the significance of the political struggle for the control of the new west. he was almost afraid as he journeyed, not so much at the immensity of the prospect, as because he felt himself upon the verge of the unknown and its mysteries: and his feelings found utterance in some verses written on the voyage and subsequently published--surely, with a smile at the critics--in his _collected prose_. as they illustrate his mood at the time, and afford the best example of his skill as a maker of conventional verses, i may quote from them here. after describing the fantastic forms which line the margins of the forest-bordered river, he proceeds:- tide of youth, thus thickly planted, while in the eddies onward you swim, thus on the shore stands a phantom army, lining for ever the channel's rim. steady, helmsman! you guide the immortal; many a wreck is beneath you piled, many a brave yet unwary sailor over these waters has been beguiled. nor is it the storm or the scowling midnight, gold, or sickness, or fire's dismay- nor is it the reef or treacherous quicksand will peril you most on your twisted way. but when there comes a voluptuous languor, soft the sunshine, silent the air, bewitching your craft with safety and sweetness, then, young pilot of life, beware.[99] the lines are not of the best, but they are suggestive. they seem to express the lurking fear of one hardily bred in the north, when first he feels upon his face the breath of the seductive south. his strenuous self-sufficiency is imperilled. a strange world of sensations surrounds him, awakening in himself a world of emotions as strange. it is suggested to him that he is not quite the man that he supposed, that there is another side to his character, and he resents the suggestion. for who will willingly begin over again the task of self-discovery? the conservative organising active ego fears the awakening of the adventurous, receptive ego. i think whitman was startled as he realised how little as yet he understood himself, or was willing to accept his whole soul if it should rise up and face him. * * * * * [illustration: new orleans about the time of whitman's visit, from a print] the new orleans of '48 must have been the most romantic and perhaps the most prosperous city in the union. it was the centre of western commerce, as well as of mexican filibustering: its great hotels, the st. charles and the st. louis, were the rendezvous of planters and merchants, politicians and adventurers, and of the proudest aristocracy in the states.[100] it was a gay city, with its creole women and spanish men, its dancing and its play, its masks and dominoes, its duels and carnivals; gay as only an old city can be gay, with the contrast between age and youth. about the catholic cathedral was a mass of irregular red-tiled roofs and a net-work of shady alleys, on to which opened great galleries and courtyards full of vines. scent of roses and the caressing sound of creole singing stole upon the languorous breaths of the warm humid air, breaths which lazily stirred the golden-rod that overgrew the dormer windows, the old venetian blinds, the geraniums and the clothes hanging in the sun. along the alleys went the priests in their black skirts. through the doorways one saw red floors sanded and clean, and quaint carved furniture, heirlooms of generations; or caught a glimpse of some old garden with its fountains and lilies, its violets and jonquils, myrtle and jessamine. everywhere flowers and singing birds, and the soft quaint creole phrases falling with the charm that only southern lips confer. such was the old french quarter. along the river-side was another; the lawless world of mississippi flat-boatmen, a vagrant population drawn from many states, who with the soldiers discharged after the mexican war frequented the low saloons and gaming-houses; passionate men, capable of any crime or adventure. again, there were the bohemians of the city, the artists, journalists and actors of a centre of fashion. opera had found its first american home at new orleans, and was presented at the famous orleans theatre four times a week. whitman, the opera-goer, must often have been there. perhaps he met among the bohemians a juvenile member of their group, dolores adios fuertes, a young dancer, to be known hereafter in london and in paris as adah isaacs menken, actress, and authoress of a pathetic volume of irregular metres, who now lies buried at mont parnasse. * * * * * during the three months of his stay, whitman saw new orleans thoroughly.[101] often on sunday mornings he would go to the cathedral; he idled much in the old french quarters, and sauntered and loafed along the levees, making acquaintances and friends among the boatmen and stevedores. he frequented the huge bar-rooms of the two hotels, where most of the business of the city seems at that time to have been transacted; but temperate and simple himself, he preferred to their liqueurs and dainties his morning coffee and biscuit at the stall of a stout mulatto woman, who stood with her shining copper kettle in the french market. there all the races of the world seemed to be gathered to idle or to bargain. he went also to the theatres, where he talked with the soldiers back from the mexican war; among the rest, with general taylor, soon to be president, a jovial, genial, laughter-loving old man, one of the plainest who ever went to the white house, where he died soon after his inauguration in 1849. whitman appears to have been thoroughly enjoying himself, when suddenly about the end of may, he made up his mind to return to the north. his brother jeff, a lad of fifteen, who had accompanied him and was working in the printing office, was homesick and out of health; the climate with its malarial tendencies did not suit him. walt was always devoted to this young brother, who had been his companion on many a long island holiday, tramping or sailing,[102] and becoming alarmed at his condition, hurried him away. there were other reasons which, he says, made him wish to leave the city, but as he does not specify[103] them himself, we can only follow the indications in guessing at their nature. we know they were not connected with his work: it is probable that they were private and personal.[104] * * * * * when asked in later years why he had never married, he would say either that it was impossible to give a satisfactory explanation,[105] although such an explanation might perhaps exist, or he would declare that, with an instinct for self-preservation, he had always avoided or escaped from entanglements which threatened his freedom.[106] these replies he made with an obvious reticence and reservation. he who professed to make so clean a breast of his own shortcomings, and who in his last years required that records of himself should err in being somewhat over personal, deliberately concealed certain important incidents in his life. there can, i think, be only one interpretation of this singular state of affairs: that these incidents concerned others equally with himself, and that those others were unwilling to have them published. if they had been his, and his alone, he would have communicated them, but they were not. whatever whitman's duty in this matter, it behoves his biographer to present as full a picture as possible of his life, and to let no fact go by without notice; while the knowledge that whitman himself could not disclose the whole truth, should only make us the more careful in our reading of the scanty facts which are known. it seems that about this time walt formed an intimate relationship with some woman of higher social rank than his own--a lady of the south where social rank is of the first consideration--that she became the mother of his child, perhaps, in after years, of his children; and that he was prevented by some obstacle, presumably of family prejudice, from marriage or the acknowledgment of his paternity. the main facts can now hardly be disputed. whitman put some of them on record in a letter to addington symonds during the last year of his life, designing to leave a fuller statement in the care of his executors. but this, through access of weakness, was never accomplished. remarks which he let fall from time to time in private conversation seem to admit of no other interpretation than that i have put upon them. in one of his poems[107] he vividly describes how once in a populous city he chanced to meet with a woman who cast her love upon him, and how they remained together till at last he tore himself away, to remember nothing of that city save her and her love. in spite of whitman's express desire that the poem should be regarded merely in its universal application--a desire which in itself seems to betoken a consciousness of self-betrayal--we cannot but recognise its autobiographical suggestion. and in the stress laid upon the part of the woman, we may see a cause for whitman's reticence. if it was she who had pressed the relationship, it behoved him the more, for her sake, to keep silence, and to leave the determination of the relationship to her. but perhaps the most important evidence upon this obscure passage of his story is to be found in the psychological development which we can, as i believe, trace in his character. it was but a short time after his southern visit,[108] perhaps in the same year, that he began to sketch out some of the poems which afterwards took the form familiar to us in _leaves of grass_. now these differ from his earlier writings in many ways, but fundamentally in their subjectivity. in them he sets out to put himself on record in a way he heretofore had not attempted, and this enterprise must, i take it, have had its cause in some quickening of emotional self-consciousness. that process may well have culminated a few years later in what has been described as "cosmic consciousness"; but before that culmination, whitman's experience must have contained elements which do not seem to have been present in the whitman of _franklin evans_, or of the verses written upon the mississippi. these elements, i believe, he acquired or began to acquire in the south. hitherto we have seen him as a young man of vigorous independence, eagerly observant of life, and delighting in his contact with it. henceforward he enters into it in a new sense; some barrier has been broken down; he begins to identify himself with it. strong before in his self-control, he is stronger still now that he has won the power of self-abandonment. unconsciously he had always been holding himself back; at last he has let himself go. and to let oneself go is to discover oneself. some men can never face that discovery; they are not ready for emancipation. whitman was. but who emancipated him? may we not suppose it was a passionate and noble woman who opened the gates for him and showed him himself in the divine mirror of her love? had whitman been an egoist such a vision would have enslaved and not liberated his soul. but if this woman loved him to the uttermost, why did he leave her? why did he allow the foulest of reproaches to blacken that whitest of all reputations, a southern lady's virtue? nowhere in the world could such a reproach have seemed more vile, more cruel. the only answer we can make is that it was, in some almost inexplicable way, her choice. and that somehow, perhaps by a fictitious marriage, this reproach was doubtless avoided; the woman's family being readier to invent some subterfuge than to take a northern journalist and artisan into their sacred circle. there is a poem which remained till recently in manuscript--a poem[109] of bitter sarcasm and marked power of expression--in which whitman holds an aristocrat up to scorn. he never printed it himself, and this fact adds to the possibility that it may gain some of its force from personal suffering. whether whitman met his lady again we do not know. there is no record of a second visit to the south, though there is no evidence to disprove such a visit; rather indeed, to the contrary, for whitman speaks in one of his letters[110] of "times south" as periods in which his life lay open to criticism; and refers, elsewhere,[111] to his having lived a good deal in the southern states. as he was in no position to reply to criticism upon this matter, he was careful not to arouse it. * * * * * whatever lay behind his departure, whitman left new orleans on the 25th of may, 1848,[112] ascending the mississippi in a river steamer between the monotonous flat banks. jeff picked up at once.[113] they spent a few hours in st. louis where the westward flowing streams of northern and of southern pioneers met and mingled.[114] changing boats, and passing the mouth of the great yellow missouri, they made their way up the illinois river for some two hundred miles, arriving after forty-eight hours at la salle, whence a canal boat carried them to chicago. through the rich agricultural lands of illinois they passed at a speed not exceeding three miles an hour. they spent a day in the still very young metropolis of the north-west, travelling thence by way of the great lakes to buffalo. the voyage occupied five glorious summer days. whitman went on shore at every stopping place intensely interested in everything. he was so delighted with the state of wisconsin, which was about this time admitted to the union, that he dreamed of settling in one of its new clean townships; and he carried away with him definite impressions of the towns of milwaukee, mackinaw, detroit, windsor, cleveland, and buffalo. a week from la salle he passed under the falls of niagara and saw the whirlpool; but coming at the end of so much wonder, the stupendous spectacle does not seem to have greatly impressed him. twenty-four hours of continuous travel through the thickly settled country districts of new york state brought him to the old dutch capital of albany, whence descending the beautiful hudson with its wooded high-walled mountain banks, he reached new york on the evening of 15th june. he had been away from home four months, had travelled as many thousand miles, and had made acquaintance with seventeen of the states of the union. in new orleans he had learnt the meaning of the south, from st. louis he had looked into the new west, while in illinois, indiana, wisconsin, michigan, and the coasts of ontario, he had seen the rich corn-lands of the north-west under their first tillage. and he had felt the meaning of the mississippi, that great river whose tributaries, from the alleghanies to the rockies, drain and fertilise half the arable land of america. besides the discovery in himself of a new world, a new hemisphere, whitman came home filled with the sense of his american citizenship. a patriot from his childhood, from henceforward "these states," as he loved to call them, became the object of his passionate devotion. not in their individuality alone--though this he recognised more than ever, regarding each in some degree as a nation--but above all in their union. thus he came back to brooklyn to take up his old vocation and his old acquaintances with a sense of enlargement: latent powers had been awakened within him and a new ideal which may once have been a childish dream, began to dominate his manhood, hitherto lacking in a clear purpose. in the old days,[115] when his mother read the bible to him and taught him something of its meaning, it had seemed to the child that the highest of all the achievements of manhood must be to make such another book as that. it had been written thousands of years ago by inspired men, to be completed some day by others as truly inspired as they. for he believed in the quaker doctrine of the continuity of revelation, which is not strange to a child. such fancies in a child's mind are apt to grow into a purpose: to dream, is to dream of something one will presently do. if the dream is wholly beyond the range of possible accomplishment, a cloud of disillusionment descending on the face of youth will blot it out; but if it is not, it may become an ideal which will shape the whole of manhood as sternly as any fate. to be an american prophet-poet, to make the american people a book which should be like the bible in spiritual appeal and moral fervour, but a book of the new world and of the new spirit--such seems to have been the first and the last of whitman's day-dreams. it must have come to him as a vague longing when he was still very young, and he was never so old as to lose it. now on his return from this long journey, his mind full of america and full of profound and mystical thoughts concerning love and the soul and the soul's relation to the world, the dream began to struggle in him for utterance. it was seven years before it found itself a body of words, but henceforward it took possession of his life. footnotes: [94] descriptions of virginia in _franklin evans_ being probably derived from hearsay. [95] camden, xxxv. [96] _comp. prose_, 14, 188, 522. [97] mss. harned. [98] burroughs, 82. [99] _comp. prose_, 374; see also rejected passages in camden. [100] _historical sketch book and guide to n. o._, 1885. [101] _comp. prose_, 251, 439-443; bucke, 24. [102] _comp. prose_, 514. [103] _ib._, 441. [104] see appendix b. [105] _in re_, 323. [106] bucke, 60. [107] _l. of g._, 94. [108] _in re_, 116; _l. of g._, 434; bucke, 135; _cf. infra_, 89, 103. [109] camden, iii., 261, 262. [110] letter to a. j. symonds, see _infra_, appendix b. [111] _comp. prose_, 522. [112] camden, xxxiv. [113] _comp. prose_, 441-43. [114] _cf._ winston churchill, _the crisis_. [115] _cf._ _l. of g._, 434. chapter v illumination whitman returned to brooklyn about the time that free-soil democrats and liberty men were uniting at buffalo on the ticket and platform which i have already described. he established a small book-store and printing office on myrtle avenue,[116] and commenced the publication of the _freeman_, a weekly first, but afterwards a daily paper. the venture continued for about a year but eventually proved unsuccessful. its failure may have been due to the comparatively small circle of readers which the free-soil party in brooklyn could provide, or it may have resulted from the same lack of regularity which killed the _long islander_. it is not improbable that whitman wearied of the continuous mechanical production demanded by the ownership and management of a daily paper. he was not methodical; and his mind was struggling with ideas which made him restless in harness, ideas so large and fundamental that much of the merely ephemeral detail of journalism must have become irritating and irksome. when the _freeman_ collapsed it was a bondage broken, and its owner and editor became a freeman himself. his father was some sixty years of age and failing in health, and for lack of anything more suited to his state of mind, walt joined him, taking up his business and becoming a master carpenter, building small frame-houses in brooklyn and selling them upon completion as his father had been doing these thirty years. brooklyn was growing fast, and the whitmans prospered. walt lived at home and spent little; he was soon on the way to become rich. what was more important, he was now the master of his own time; and carpentering left his mind free to work entirely in its own way. he was no longer being "pushed for copy". when the mood was urgent he could idle; that is to say, he could give himself up to his thoughts. he could dream, but the saw in his hand and the crisp timber kept him close to reality. he was out of doors, too, and among things rather than thoughts, so that his ideas were but rarely bookish. * * * * * yet though he was the opposite of bookish he was not ill-read. he always carried a volume or part of a magazine in his knapsack with his mid-day dinner;[117] and every week for years he had visited coney island beach to bathe there and to read. he watched the english and american reviews, bought second-hand copies whenever they contained matter of interest to him, tore out his prize and devoured it with his sandwich. he loved especially to read a book in its native elements: the _inferno_[118] in an ancient wood, homer in a hollow of the rocks with the atlantic surf on either hand, while he saw all the stage-plays of shakespeare upon the boards. he had always remained faithful to scott, and especially to the border ballads of his collection, with their innumerable and repaying notes. he studied the bible systematically and deliberately, weighing it well and measuring it by the standards of outdoor america in the nineteenth century. in the same way and spirit he had read and re-read shakespeare's plays before seeing them, until he could recite extended passages; and he had come to very definite conclusions about their feudal and aristocratic atmosphere and influence. he read æschylus and sophocles in translations, and felt himself nearer to the greeks than to shakespeare or the middle ages. it is interesting to note that he barely mentions euripides, most modern of the hellenes, the poet of women, and was evidently little acquainted with plato. surely if he had read _the republic_ or _the symposium_ there could be no uncertainty upon the matter. but about another poet, as opposed to plato as any in the category, there is no shade of doubt. whitman, like goethe and napoleon, was a lover of that shadowy being whom macpherson exploited with such success--ossian the celt.[119] ossian is dead, and for good reasons--we can do much better than read ossian to-day; but with all his mouthings and in spite of the pother of his smoke, he is not without a flavour of those irish epics which are among the perfect things of pure imagination. and when one thinks of the eighteenth century with its town wit, one cannot wonder at the welcome macpherson's ossian won. great billowy sea-mists engulf its reader; and through them he perceives phantom-forms, which, though they are but the shadows of men, are pointed out to him for gods. but at least the sea is there, and the wind and an outdoor world. whitman was not blind to the indefinite and misty in ossian.[120] he himself clung to the concrete, and though he could rant he preferred upon the whole to use familiar phrases. but he loved ossian for better, for worse. and we may add as a corollary he disliked milton.[121] in the case of the foreign classics i have mentioned, and of others like don quixote, rousseau, and the stories of the nibelungen,[122] he fell back upon translations, and in works of classical verse, often upon prose. he declaimed the _iliad_ in pope's heroics, but he studied it according to buckley.[123] as a journalist and writer for the magazines, he had become more or less acquainted with contemporary literature, but, with few exceptions only, it seems to have affected him negatively. he knew something of wordsworth, byron and keats;[124] the first he said was too much of a recluse and too little of a lover of his kind; byron was a pessimist, and in the last of the three he seemed only to find one of the over-sensitive products of civilisation and gentility. tennyson--whose "ulysses" (1842) was a special favourite--interested him from the beginning, though whitman always resented what he called his "feudal" atmosphere.[125] it is doubtful whether he had yet read anything of carlyle's, though he would be acquainted with the ideas of _heroes and hero-worship_. among americans, he was apparently most familiar with bryant and with fenimore cooper. when he first studied emerson is uncertain; he seems to have known him as a lecturer, and could not have been ignorant of the general tendencies of his teaching.[126] longfellow's "evangeline," lowell's "biglow papers" and whittier's "voices of freedom" were the talk of the time. he had met poe; and his tragic death at baltimore in 1849 may have set him to re-read the brilliant but disappointing verses, and profounder criticism, of that ill-starred genius.[127] but it was from the pages of the bible, of homer and of shakespeare, of ossian and of scott that he derived most. ballads he loved when they came from the folk; but blake and shelley, the purely lyrical writers of the new era, do not seem to have touched him; perhaps they were hardly virile enough, for when he came to know and appreciate burns, it was as a lyrist who was at once the poet of the people and a full-blooded man. from all of which it may be deduced that it was the elemental and the virile, rather than the subtle qualities of imagination which appealed to him; he responded to breadth and strength of movement and of passion, rather than to any kind of formal or static beauty. for him, poetry was a passionate movement, the rhythm of progress, the march of humanity, the procession of freedom. it was more; it was an abandonment to world-emotions. where he felt this abandonment to inspiration, he recognised poetry, and only there. in american literature he did not feel it at all. when he read poetry, the sea was his favourite companion. the rhythm of the waves satisfied the rhythmical needs of his mind. everything that belonged to the sea exercised a spell over him. the first vision that made him desire the gift of words was that of a full-rigged ship;[128] and the love of ships and shipping remained a passion with him to the end; so that when he sought to describe his own very soul it was as a ship he figured it. for the embrace of the sea itself, for the swimmer's joy,[129] he had the lover's passion of a swinburne or a meredith. his reading was not, of course, confined to pure literature, but we have no list of the books which he read in other departments. we know that he was deeply interested in the problems of philosophy and the discoveries of science. though never what is called a serious student of their works, he had a good understanding of the attitude both of the metaphysicians and of the physicists of his time; and he had no quarrel with either. in his simple and direct way he came indeed very near to them both; for he loved and reverenced concrete fact as he reverenced the concept of the cosmos. individual facts were significant to him because they were all details of a whole, but he loved facts too for their own sake. and to the whole, the cosmos, his soul responded as ardently as to the detailed parts. the deeper his knowledge of detail--the closer his grasp upon facts--the more intense must be his consciousness of the whole. this consciousness of the whole illuminated him more fully about this date, in a way i will soon recount; it must for some time previously have been exercising an influence upon his thought. regarding poetry as the rhythmical utterance of emotions which are produced in the soul by its relation to the world, he doubtless regarded science as the means by which that world becomes concrete, diverse and real to the soul, as it becomes one and comprehensible to it through philosophy. science and philosophy seemed alike essential, not hostile, to poetry. poetry is the utterance of an inspired emotion; but an emotion inspired by what? by the discovery that the other and the self are so akin that joy and passion arise from their contact. in order to conceive of science or philosophy as hostile to poetry, we must think of them as building up some barrier between us and the world. but in this respect modern science does not threaten poetry, for it recognises the homogeneity of a material self with a material world; neither does idealism threaten the source of this emotion, regarding the self and the world as both essentially ideal. the aim of modern thought has been, not to isolate the soul, but rather to give it back to the world of relations. it seems to me that, in so far as religion has attempted to separate between the self and things, between god and man, between the soul and the flesh, religion has cut at the roots of poetry; but the religion which attempted this is not, i believe, the religion of the modern world. whitman then accepted modern science and philosophy with equanimity, in so far as he understood them, and in their own spheres. apparent antagonisms between them did not trouble him. they were for him different functions of the one soul. he was too sensible of his own identity and unity in himself to share in the perplexity of those who lose this sense through the exclusive exercise of one or other of their functions. his joint exercise of these proved them to be harmonious. he was unconscious of any quarrel in himself between the scientific and the poetic, the religious and the philosophic faculties. definitions in such large matters must generally seem absurd and almost useless, yet here they may be suggestive. if whitman had formulated his thought he might, perhaps, have said: "science is the self probing into the details of the not-self; philosophy is the self describing the not-self as a whole; religion is the attitude of the self toward the not-self; and poetry springs from the passionate realisation of the homogeneity of the self with the not-self". in such rough and confessedly crude definitions we may suggest, at any rate, a theory for his attitude toward the thought of his day. that thought, it seems unnecessary to add, was impregnated by the positive spirit of science. names like those of leibnitz, lamarck, goethe, hegel and comte remind us that the idea of evolution was becoming more and more suggestive in every field--soon to be enforced anew, and more definitely, by darwin, wallace and spencer. the idea of an indwelling and unfolding principle or energy is the special characteristic of nineteenth century thought; and it has been accompanied by a new reverence for all that participates in the process of becoming. every form of life has its secret, and is worthy of study, for that secret is a part of the world's secret, the eternal purpose which affects every soul. we are each a part of that progressive purpose which we call the universe. but we are each absolutely and utterly distinct and individual. every one has his own secret, his own purpose; in the old phrase, it is to his own master that each one standeth or falleth. ideas such as these, the affirmations of a new age, were driving the remnants of the old faiths and the dogmas of the school of paley into the limbo of the incredible; but they were also casting out the futile atheisms and scepticisms of the dead century. the era of mazzini, browning, ruskin, emerson, was an era of affirmations, not an era of doubt. and whitman caught the spirit of his age: eagerly he accepted and assimilated it. his knowledge of modern thought came to him chiefly through the more popular channels of periodical literature, and through conversations with thoughtful men. probably the largest and most important part of his reading, then and always, was the daily press. a journalist himself, he had besides an insatiable craving for living facts, and especially for american facts. he wanted to know everything about his country. america was his passion: he understood america. sometimes he wondered if he was alone in that. * * * * * the papers were, indeed, crowded with news of enterprise and adventure. in california, the new territory which frémont and stockton had taken from mexico, gold was discovered in 1848, and in eighteen months a torrent of 50,000 argonauts had poured across the isthmus and over the plains, leaving their trail of dead through the awful grey solitude of the waterless desert. in the summer of '49 there were five hundred vessels lying in san francisco harbour,[130] where a few years earlier a single visitor had been comparatively rare. and at the same hour, on the eastern coast, every port was a-clamour with men frantically demanding a passage, and the refrain of the pilgrims' song was everywhere heard, oh, california, that's the land for me. there is no indication in whitman's writings that he was ever swept off his feet by this fierce tide of adventure. anyone who has felt such a current setting in among the fluid populations of the west is not likely to underestimate its power. even in the more staid and sober east the excitement must have been intense: and it is, at the first thought, surprising that walt, who was still full of youth and strength and ambition, should have remained at home. on second thought, however, it is clear that gold-seeking was about the last enterprise to entice a man who was shortly to relinquish house-building because he was accumulating money. the attraction of the new lands may have been strong when the _freeman_ released him, but he had had wandering enough for the present, and the attraction of new york itself was at least as strong. unlike joaquin miller, who was among the first in each of the new mining camps which sprang up along the pacific slopes during the next fifty years, whitman remained within the circle of new york bay. he was content to see the vessels being built for their long and hazardous voyage, strong to take all the buffeting of two oceans--those beautiful yankee clipper ships which have never been rivalled for grace combined with speed. he was content to see all the possibilities of that bold frontier life in the friendly faces of young men leaning over the bench or driving their jolly teams. he was not one of those who need to go afield in order that their sluggish blood may be quickened into daring, or their dull mood be thrilled with admiring wonder. nothing was commonplace to his eyes, and he found adventures enough to occupy him in any street. thus while others were framing new governments for new communities, he stayed at home and framed new houses for new families of workmen; and perhaps after all, in his transcendental fashion, he found his own work the more romantic. he had a deeply-rooted prejudice against the exceptional; he planned for himself the life of an average american of the middle nineteenth century, no longer geographically a frontiersman, though more than ever a pioneer in other fields. he would have taken his pan and washed for gold in the sacramento had he wanted; but the brooklyn streets and ferry, broadway and the faces of new york held him. he had not exhausted them yet. he had, moreover, a strongly conservative instinct, an inclination to "stay put," evident in his story from this time forth. he was not a nomad, forever striking his tent and moving on; he wanted a settled home, and attached himself more than most men to the familiar. he took root, like a tree. the secure immobility of his base allowed him to stretch his branches far in every direction. his mind, too, we may be sure, was occupied with its own problems. at first, perhaps, as an inner struggle with insurgent and rebel thoughts and desires, but now as an effort of the conscious self to include and harmonise new elements, and so to lie open to all experience with equanimity, refusing none. such a process of integration in a mind like whitman's requires years of slow growth and brooding consciousness, if it is to be fully and finally achieved. and as the integration of his character became more and more complete, he won another point of view upon all things, and, as it were, saw all things new. it is little wonder that we have but scanty record of the years from 1850 to 1855. in his home-life in brooklyn he was happy and beloved and able to follow his own path without being questioned, or, for that matter, understood. he was probably not quite the easiest of men to live with.[131] he had his own notions, with which others were not allowed to interfere; he never took advice, and was not too considerate of domestic arrangements. as to money, which was never too plentiful in the household, he professed and felt a royal indifference, in which, one may suspect, the others did not share. the father was somewhat penurious on occasion and capable of sharp practice; he had worked hard and incessantly, and had known poverty; the youngest son, moreover, would always be dependent upon others, and jesse, the oldest, seems to have displayed little ability. one can understand that the father and his second son--who, with the largest share of capacity, must have seemed to the old man the most given over to profitless whims and to idle pleasures--had not always found it easy to live together, and that in the past the mother, with her good sense and understanding of them both, had often had to mediate between them. in the later years, however, walt understood his father thoroughly and himself better, so that their relationship became as happy as it was really affectionate. his knowledge of the world, his coolness in a crisis, his deliberate balancing of the facts, and yet more deliberate and confident pronouncing of judgment, made him an oracle to be consulted by his family and the neighbours on every occasion of difficulty. the sisters and younger brothers were all fond of him; he was more than good-natured and kind, and never presumed upon his older years to limit their freedom of action or thought. * * * * * the man's kindliness and benignity are admirably suggested in the portraits taken in his thirty-sixth year, the earliest that we have. one in particular--that chosen for the frontispiece of this book--is almost articulate with candour and goodwill. in many respects it is the most interesting of the hundred or more portraits extant. whitman was an excellent sitter, especially to the camera. his photographs give you a glance of recognition, and rarely wear the abstracted look, the stolidity, which is noticeable in several easel pictures. the daguerrotype of 1854 is the most speaking of the whole series. it is an absolutely frank face, by no means the mask which, according to the sitter himself, one of the later portraits shows. it is frank, and it is kindly, but how much more! the longer one gazes at it the more complex its suggestions become. the eyes are not only kind, they are the eyes of a mystic, a seer; they are a thought wistful, but they are very clear. like william blake's, they are eyes that are good for the two visions; they see and they are seen through. if, as i suppose is probable, something of the expression is due to the fact that the photograph was taken on a brilliant summer's day, we can only congratulate ourselves that the elements co-operated with the sitter's soul. in striking contrast with the eyes is the good-natured but loose mouth, a faun-like expression upon its thick lips, which dismisses at once any fancy of the ascetic saint. the nose, too, is thick, strong and straight, with large nostrils. even in the photograph you can feel that rich and open texture of the skin which radiates the joy of living from every pore. it is the face, above all, of a man, and the face of a man you would choose for a comrade; there would be no fear of his failing or misunderstanding you. but, withal, it is the face of a spirit wholly untamed, a wood-creature if you will, perhaps the face of adam himself, looking out upon eden with divine eyes of immortality. remember, as you meet his gaze, that he knows the life of cities, and that the fall lies behind him, not before. perhaps that is why some who have looked at it describe it as the "christ portrait"--for jesus was the second adam--but this is not the ascetic christ of the churches, the smile about the lips is too full for that. no, it is the face of a man responsive to all the appeals of the senses, a man who drives the full team of those wild horses of passion which tear in pieces less harmonious souls. this is a man who saw life whole, and had joy of it. he knew the life of the body on every side, save that of sickness, and of the mind on every side, save that of fear. his large, friendly, attractive personality was always feeding him with the materials of experience, and there was nothing in it all which he did not relish. the responses of his nature to each object and incident were joyous; for the responses of a harmonious nature are musical, whatever be the touch that rouses them. * * * * * a shrewd estimate of whitman's character had been made five years before by a new york phrenologist, and its general accuracy seems to have vanquished the incredulity of its subject.[132] mr. fowler described him--i will translate the jargon of his pseudo-science into plain english--as capable of deep friendship and sympathy, with tendencies to stubbornness and self-esteem, and a strong feeling for the sublime. he thought that whitman's danger lay in the direction of indolence and sensuality, "and a certain reckless swing of animal will". at the same time he recognised in him the quality of caution largely developed. as this estimate was subsequently quoted by whitman with approval, and referred to as an authority, it evidently tallied with his reading of himself, and while it is by no means remarkable or particularly significant, it bears out other testimony. that "reckless swing of animal will" always distinguished him from the colourless peripatetic brains and cold-blooded collectors of copy so numerous in the hosts of journalism. walt came of a race of slow but passionate men, and when he was deeply moved he could be terrible. at such times his wrath blazed up and overwhelmed him in its sudden access, but it was as short-lived as it was swift. it is related[133] that once in a brooklyn church he failed to remove his soft broad-brimmed hat, and entered the building with his head thus covered, looking for all the world like some quaker of the olden time. the offending article was roughly knocked off by the verger. walt picked it up, twisted it into a sort of scourge, seized the astonished official by the collar--he always detested officials--trounced him with it, clapped it on his head again, and so, abruptly and coolly, left the church. he was a tall, muscular fellow, stood six feet two, and was broad in proportion, and could deal effectually with an offensive person when he felt that action was called for. such actions naturally added to his popularity among the "boys"--the stage-drivers, firemen and others--with whom he was always a favourite. but, as a rule, he had no occasion to use his strength in this manner. he never gave, and rarely recognised, provocation. there are times, however, when persuasion has to give place to more summary demonstrations of purpose. of his strength, but especially of his health, he was not a little proud. as a lad, the praise that delighted him most was that of his well-developed body as he bathed.[134] he did not care to be thought handsome; he knew that wholesomeness and health were really more attractive, and he was content with his own perfect soundness. he was never ailing, even when, in his 'teens, he outgrew for a time his natural vigour. in middle life it was his boast that he could not remember what it was to be sick. vanity is so natural in the young that when properly based it is probably a virtue, and there can be no question that walt's was well-founded. * * * * * there is something more, however, in the portrait i have been describing than the perfection of physical health. it is health raised to its highest possibility, which radiates outward from the innermost seat of life, potent with the magnetism of personality, through every pore and particle of flesh. his health, hitherto unbroken, had been deepened into that sense of spiritual well-being which, in its fulness, only accompanies the realisation of harmony or wholeness.[135] he had undergone some fusing process which ended in unity and illumination. it is difficult to say anything at all adequate about such an experience, because it appears to belong to the highest of the stages of consciousness which the race has yet attained; and because there are many men and women of the finest intellectual training and the widest culture to whom it remains foreign. the petals of consciousness unfold as it were from within, and every stage of unfolding, being symmetrical, appears to be perfect. a further evolution is almost inconceivable, but the flower still unfolds. the healthy and vigorous personality of the man whose story we are trying to read, continued its development a stage further than the general, and at an age of from thirty to thirty-five established an exceptional relation with the universe. that exceptional relation is best described as mystical, though the word has unhappy and unwholesome associations, which cannot attach to the character revealed in the portrait. whitman was almost aggressively cheerful and rudely healthy. but he was not the less a mystic. one of the most essentially religious of men, his religion was based upon profound personal experience. the character of mystical experience seems to vary as widely as does that of individual mystics, but it has certain common features. it is essentially an irruption of some profounder self into the field of consciousness; an irruption which is accompanied by a mysterious but most authoritative sense of the fulness, power and permanence of this new life. consequent upon this life-enhancement, come joy and ecstasy. the whole story of the development of consciousness is, as i have said, a process of unfoldings; but there is one critical moment of that process which occurs sometimes after the attainment of maturity, of such infinite significance to the individual that it seems like a revolution rather than a mere development in consciousness. it is often described as conversion. whitman's experience was fully as significant and wonder-compelling as any; but momentous as it was, its nature compelled him to regard it as a further and crowning step in a long succession of stairs--a culmination, not a change of direction. with it he came to the top of the slope and looked over, on to the summit, and beheld the outstretched world. it was no turning round and going the other way; it was the rewarding achievement of a long and patient climb. but the simile of the mountain-side hardly suffices, for this was a bursting of constraint--a breaking, as well as a surmounting of barriers; as though the accumulating waters in some dark and hidden reservoir should so increase in volume that they burst at last through their confining walls of rubble and of rock, forcing their way upwards in a rush of ecstasy to the universal life and the outer sunshine. this outlet of the pent-up floods of emotional experience into another and a vaster sphere of consciousness--this outpouring of the soul from its confinement in the darkness to the freedom of the light--results from the slow accumulation of the stores of life, but it has at last its supreme hour, its divine instant of liberation. in this it has its parallel with the passion of love. for the inner mysteries of religion and of sex are hardly to be separated. they are different phases of the one supreme passion of immanent, expanding and uniting life; mysterious breakings of barriers, and burstings forth; expressions of a power which seems to augment continually with the store of the soul's experience in this world of sense; experience received and hidden beneath the ground of our consciousness. to feel the passion of love is to discover something of that mystery breaking, in its orgasm, through the narrow completeness and separate finality of that complacent commonplace, which in our ignorance we build so confidently over it, and creating a new life of communion. to feel the passion of religion is to discover more. the relation of the two passions was so evident to whitman that we may believe it was suggested to his mind by his own experience. in some lives it would appear that the one passion takes the place of the other, so that the ascetics imagine them to be mutually exclusive; but this was certainly not whitman's case. whitman's mysticism was well-rooted in the life of the senses, and hence its indubitable reality. we have seen that he had had experience of sex-love, and we have found reasons to aver that it was of a noble and honourable order; we have seen this experience followed by an acute crisis and its determination, or at least its suspension, and change of character. but in the meantime, the sex-experience had revealed to whitman the dominance in his nature of those profound emotional depths of which he had always been dimly conscious since the hours on long island beach. the whole crisis had made him realise more fully than ever the solemnity and mysterious purpose of life. it had not satisfied him: it had roused in him many perplexities, and had entailed what was probably the first great sacrifice of his life. in a word, this obscure and mysterious page in his story prepared him who read it for a further emotional revelation, such as i have been describing. this actually came to him one memorable midsummer morning[136] as he lay in the fields breathing the lucid air. for suddenly the meaning of his life and of his world shone clear within him, and arising, spread an ineffable peace, joy and knowledge all about him. the long process of integration was at last completed. he was at one with himself, and at peace. it was the new birth of his soul, and properly speaking, the commencement of his manhood. co-incident with self-realisation came the realisation of the universe. he saw and felt that it was all of the same divine stuff as the new-born soul within him; that love ran through it purposefully from end to end; that thought could not fathom the suggestions which the least of things was capable of making to its brother the soul; that the very leaves of the grass were inspired with divine spirit as truly as the leaves of any bible. it was as though something far larger than that which he had hitherto regarded as himself had now become self-conscious in him. he was an enthusiast in the literal sense of that mystic word, possessed by a god, filled with the divine consciousness. the spirit is one, and he was in the spirit. it identified him with the things and objects that hitherto had appeared external to him, and infinitely increased his sense of their mysterious beauty. george fox's description of his own mystical experience is true, upon the whole, of whitman's. he writes: "now was i come up in spirit through the flaming sword into the paradise of god. all things were new, and all the creation gave another smell unto me than before, beyond what words can utter."[137] when one considers the quaker reputation for veracity and caution, one can hardly doubt that these wonderful words describe a condition of consciousness similar to that of whitman on the june morning of which we speak. fox continues that the nature of things lay so open to him that he was at a stand "whether he should practise physic for the good of mankind". it was by the subtle sympathy of the spirit that the first quaker supposed himself to be familiar with the medicinal virtues of herbs, and the same sympathy made whitman feel that he understood the purpose of their myriad lives. the wonder of the universal life was revealed to them both. they partook of the consciousness which pervades all matter. to both men illumination brought a double gift of vision, vision into the nature of the universal purpose--of the spiritual or deeper side of life--and insight into the condition and needs of individuals. but in fox and whitman this insight, which seems to predominate rather in observant than in creative types of genius such as theirs, was less prominent than the other vision. they were more largely occupied with the universal than with the individual; and while their words carry the extraordinarily intimate message of an appeal to the profoundest element in each soul, their very universality may have rendered them often indifferent to the secondary consciousness or individual self of their hearers. and it is observable that neither of them evinced anything of that dramatic gift which seems to require the predominance of this insight into the secondary self-consciousness. the impersonality with which as preacher or poet they made their public appeal, must have made them at times somewhat inaccessible in their private lives. consciousness, it would seem, is of a double nature, being, as it were, both personal and impersonal--if we may use these terms of something that seems after all to be so wholly personal. and hence it appears contradictory to itself, and we are forever trying to harmonise it by the sacrifice of one portion to the other. but in reality it is one consciousness with two functions: the first for fellowship and communion, the second for definition and for concrete achievement. whitman developed these two functions harmoniously; he never sacrificed his individual self-consciousness to the cosmic. he was just as positively walt whitman the man, as he was walt whitman the organ of inspiration. i think we may say that in the midst of that mysterious wonder, that extension of himself which took place at the touch of god, whitman's own identity, so far from being lost, was deepened and intensified, so that he knew instinctively and beyond a doubt that it was in some sense of the word absolute and imperishable. * * * * * earlier in this chapter we viewed philosophy as the attempt of the self to apprehend the not-self as a whole; whitman's revelation was, it seems to me, the discovery in himself of the sense which does so apprehend the universe; not as a hypothetical whole, but as an incarnate purpose, a life with which he was able to hold some kind of communion. it was a realisation, not a theory. whatever this communion may have been, it related him to the universe on its spiritual side by a bond of actual experience. it related him to the ants and the weeds, and it related him more closely still to all men and women the world over. the warmth of family affection was extended to all things, as it had been in the experience of the nazarene, and of the little poor man of assisi. but while his sense of relationship to individuals was thus quickened, the quickening power lay in the realisation of god's life, and of his own share in it. his realisation of god had come to him through an ardent love of individual and concrete things; but now it was that realisation which so wonderfully deepened and impassioned his relation to individuals. what we mean when we use the word god in public, is necessarily somewhat ambiguous and obscure; but when whitman used it, as he did but rarely and always with deliberation, he seems to have meant the immanent, conscious spirit of the whole. theory came second to experience with him, and he was no adept at definition: the interest he grew to feel in the hegelian philosophy and in metaphysics resulted from his longing, not to convince himself, but to explain himself intelligibly to his fellows, and, in so far as it was possible, make plainer to them the meaning of the world and of themselves. it seems desirable to define his position a little further, though we find ourselves at once in a dilemma; for at this point it is evident that he was both--or neither--a christian nor a pagan. he is difficult to place, as indeed we must often feel our own selves to be, for whom the idea of a suffering god is no more completely satisfying than that of unconscious impersonal cosmic force. again, while worship was a purely personal matter for him, yet the need of fellowship was so profound that he strove to create something that may not improperly be described as a church, a world-wide fellowship of comrades, through whose devotion the salvation of the world should be accomplished. in a profound sense, though emphatically not that of the creeds, whitman was christian, because he believed that the supreme revelation of god is to be sought, not in the external world, but in the soul of man; because he held, though not in the orthodox form, the doctrine of incarnation; because he saw in love, the divine law and the divine liberty; and because it was his passionate desire to give his life to the world. in all these things he was christian, though we can hardly call him "a christian," for in respect of all of these he might also be claimed by other world-religions. as to the churches, he was not only outside them, but he frankly disliked them all, with the exception of the society of friends; and even this he probably looked upon principally as a memory of his childhood, a tradition which conventionality and the action of schismatics had gone far to render inoperative in his nineteenth century america. we may say that he was unitarian in his view of jesus; but we must add that he regarded humanity as being fully as divine as the orthodox consider jesus to be; while his full-blooded religion was very far from the unitarianism with which he was acquainted;[138] and his faith in humanity exalted the passions to a place from which this least emotional of religious bodies is usually the first to exclude them. in fact, he took neither an intellectual nor an ascetic view of religion. he had the supreme sanity of holiness in its best and most wholesome sense; but whenever it seemed to be applied to him in later years he properly disclaimed the cognomen of saint, less from humility, though he also was humble, than because he knew it to be inapplicable. in conventional humility and the other negative virtues, renunciation, remorse and self-denial, he saw more evil than good. his message was one rather of self-assertion, than of self-surrender. one regretfully recognises that, for many critics, this alone will be sufficient to place him outside the pale. another test would be applied by some, and though it would exclude many besides whitman, we may refer to it in passing. he was apparently without the sense of mystical relationship, save that of sympathy, with jesus as a present saviour-god.[139] but none the less he had communion with the deity whose self-revealing nature is not merely energy but purpose. and his god was a god not only of perfect and ineffable purpose, but of all-permeating love.[140] whether his relation to god can be described as prayer, it is perhaps unprofitable to ask. it is better worth while to question whether he was conscious of feeding upon "the bread of life," for this consciousness is a test of communion. undoubtedly he was; and the nourishment which fed his being came to him as it were through all media. the sacrament of wafer and cup is the symbol of that immanent real presence which is also recognised in the grace before meat. whitman partook of the sacrament continually, converting all sensation into spiritual substance. the final test of religions, however, is to be found in their fruits, and the boast of christianity is its "passion for souls". now whitman is among the great examples of this passion, and his book is one long "personal appeal" addressed, sometimes almost painfully, "to you". but, it may be asked, did he aim at "saving souls for christ"? if i understand this very mystical and obscure question, and its ordinary use, i must answer, no,--but i am not sure of its meaning. whitman's own salvation urged him to save men and women by the love of god for the glory of manhood and of womanhood and for the service of humanity. far as this may be from an affirmative reply to the question, the seer who has glimpses of ultimate things will yet recognise whitman as an evangelical. for he brought good tidings in his very face. he preached yourself, as god purposed you, and will help and have you to be. whether this is paganism or christianity let us leave the others to decide; sure for ourselves, at least, that it is no cold code of ethical precepts and impersonal injunctions, but the utterance of a personality become radiant, impassioned and procreative by the potency of the divine spirit within. * * * * * in stating thus the nature of whitman's vision, i do not wish to place it too far out of the field of our common experience. his ordinary consciousness had been touched by it in earlier hours; and some gleam or glimmer of it enters every life as an element of romance. but for most of us, only as a light on the waters that passes and is gone, not as in whitman's case, and in the case of many another mystic whether pagan or christian--for mysticism is far older and more original than the creeds--as the inward shining and immortal light which henceforward becomes for them synonymous with health and wholeness. for most men, the fairy light of childhood becomes a half-forgotten, wholly foolish memory; romance also we outgrow, or cling only to its dead corpse as to a pretty sentiment. thus the wonder of our childhood and our youth, so essentially real in itself, fades into the light of common day; it becomes for our unbelief a light that never was on sea or land. but in whitman's story we find it living on, to become transformed in manhood into the soul of all reality. his wonder at the world grew more. and this wonder, always bringing with it, to the man as to the child, a sense of exhilaration and expansion, was at the heart of his religion, as it is doubtless at the heart of all. no one will ever understand whitman or his influence upon those who come in contact with him, who does not grasp this fact of his unflagging and delighted wonder at life. it kept him young to the end. the high-arched brows over his eyes are its witness. footnotes: [116] bucke, 25. [117] j. t. trowbridge, _my own story_. _cf._ list of articles, etc., in camden, vol. x. [118] later than this, spring, 1859; _cf._ camden, ix., 92. [119] camden, ix., 188; _comp. prose_, 184, 185. [120] camden, ix., 95. [121] _ib._, 98. [122] _ib._, 80, 81. [123] _l. of g._, 441. [124] camden, ix., 98, 120. [125] _ib._, 123-128; _comp. prose_, 487. [126] camden, ix., 160; _cf._ trowbridge. [127] _l. of g._, 441. [128] kennedy, 43. [129] _fortnightly review_, vi., 538. [130] _camb. mod. hist._, 400, 401; c. h. shinn, _mining camps_ (1885), 132, 133. [131] _in re_, 33-40. [132] _in re_, 25 n. [133] johnston, 102. [134] g. gilchrist, _op. cit._ [135] _comp. prose_, 502. [136] _in re_, 342; camden, iii., 276, 277, 287; bucke's _cosmic consciousness_, 33-35; _l. of g._, 32, 33. _cf._:- ... "swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth. and i know that the hand of god is the promise of my own, and i know that the spirit of god is the brother of my own, and that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers, and that a kelson of the creation is love, and limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields, and brown ants in the little wells beneath them, and mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and poke weed."--l. of g., ed. '92. [137] _fox's journal_ (ed. 1901), p. 28. [138] _comp. prose_, 322; camden, v., 280, 281. [139] _cf._ however, _infra_, 167. [140] _cf. in re_, 368; camden, ix., 166 (on hegel). chapter vi the carpenter in the fifties a change came over america, a change preluding the great struggle which ensued. the population grew rapidly with its former mathematical regularity; but the settlement and development of the country went forward even more rapidly. during the decade, the area of improved land increased by one-half, and the value of farm property was doubled. the west bank of the mississippi being already settled, the future of the lands still further west between the missouri and the rockies, became of paramount interest to the nation. it was this problem of the west which strained until it broke that policy of compromise which for a generation had bound american politics. the year 1850 itself is memorable for clay's opportunist resolutions in congress, which were intended to settle nothing; and for the fierce debates upon them and upon the fugitive slave bill, in which webster and seward, calhoun and jefferson davis participated.[141] clay and webster died soon after, and their party being utterly routed at the polls in 1852, finally went to pieces. the vote of the liberty party had declined, and compromise still held up its foolish head. but the victorious democrats brought all hope of its continuance to an end by reviving the principle of "squatter sovereignty," and proceeding to apply it in the newly settled lands. it was their policy to snatch the question of slavery out of the hands of congress; for which, as the organ of the federal power, they nursed an increasing enmity. the bloody scenes which drew all eyes to kansas made it plain that compromise was done; the south had thrown it over, and was now half-consciously driving the country into war. when the leaders of 1850 died there was no one to take their places, though the crisis called for men of counsel and of spirit. president pierce, of new hampshire, the tool of the party machine, merely represented the political weakness of the nation. it was not till after the next elections that their new leaders were discovered by the american people. judge douglas, the champion of "squatter sovereignty," rose indeed into prominence in 1854, but his greater antagonist still remained comparatively unknown in the country, though famous in his state and among his neighbours for keen logic and humorous common-sense. there was no leadership. compromise was yielding not to principle but to the spirit of the mob. immigration and the increase of the towns favoured organised political corruption; and the tyranny of interests and privileges was beginning to make itself felt on every hand. when parties are separated by motives of personal gain rather than by principle, party-feeling finds expression not in devotion and enthusiasm, but in violence. it was not only in such newly settled lands as kansas, nor alone in such chaotic aggregations of humanity as were being piled together in new york, that constitutional methods were abandoned and private violence was condoned. the spirit of anarchy was abroad, and members of congress went armed to the capitol itself. the violence was a natural reaction from the compromise, and like the compromise was a birth of the materialistic spirit. america's idealism, so triumphant at the close of the eighteenth century, had fallen upon too confident a slumber, and heavily must the republic pay for that sleep. a young nation of idealists is doubtless more subject than any other to these outbreaks of materialism and its offspring. it is optimistic, and when it sleeps it leaves no dogs on guard. the nation becomes engrossed in material tasks, and is presently surprised by the enemy. but being so surprised, and fighting thus at disadvantage, it accomplishes more than the wary old pessimists whose energy is absorbed in prudence. american idealism was asleep, but its slumbers were by no means sound. the voices of garrison, emerson and others mingled troublously with its dreams. and the pursuit and capture of fugitive slaves like anthony burns, in boston itself; and the extraordinary sale, both in america and europe, of _uncle tom's cabin_,[142] did much to quicken that abolitionist sentiment which in the end won the day. for the present, however, and until the third year of the war, abolition remained outside the region of practical politics. the question which was dividing the nation was whether slavery should become a national institution--whether it should take its place, as the south intended, as one of the essential postulates in the theory of american liberty--or should be restrained within its old limits as a state institution, an evil which the federal government would never recognise as necessary to the welfare of america, but which it was too proud and too generous to compel its constituent states to abolish. the situation was one of unstable equilibrium, and the illogical position could not much longer be maintained. it was the logic of ideas that first drove the south into secession, and afterwards the nation into abolition. * * * * * immigration was now beginning to create a difficult problem in the metropolis,[143] and was in part accountable for the corruption which from this time forward disfigured its politics. by 1855 new york counted more than six hundred thousand inhabitants; a number which in itself must inevitably have created many a delicate situation in a new country, but which was rendered tenfold more difficult to manage by its rapid growth and heterogeneous character. it had doubled in fifteen years, and a continuously increasing stream of immigration had poured through it. the first great wave had brought nearly two millions of europeans, principally germans and irish, across the atlantic during the later forties. the failure of the irish potato crop in 1846, the crisis of 1848, when europe was swept by revolution and afterwards by reaction, sent hundreds of thousands of homeless men across the sea. many of the germans afterwards took their share in another struggle for freedom in their new home; but on the other hand, the more helpless of the immigrants, and a large proportion of the irish, swelled the population of new york; and proved themselves quicker to learn the advantages of party subserviency than the ethics of citizenship. many of them had been trained in the school of tyranny at home. thus the city government became almost hopelessly corrupt, falling into the hands of the genteel and unprincipled mayor fernando wood,[144] and isaiah rynders, captain of his bodyguard of blackguards. men of this stamp began to control not only the government of new york city, but the national party which had its headquarters at tammany hall. whitman was intimate with the condition of things there,[145] and knew the men who manipulated the machine, and pulled the strings at the nominating conventions. he has described those of this period in the most scathing words, and has made it clear that they were among the worst of a bad class. they did not favour slavery so much as inaction; they longed only for a continuance of their own good fortune, desiring to fatten peacefully at the troughs of corruption. to men like these, ideals seem to constitute a public danger. and the war which broke over america in 1861 was due as much to the northern menials of mammon as to the real followers of calhoun. it was not only against the south that america fought--or rather it was not against the south itself at all--but against the hosts of those who used her freedom for the accomplishment of an end antagonistic to hers. evidences of the demoralising influence always present in the life of a great city were thus painfully patent in new york, especially in the lowest strata, becoming hourly more debased and numerous. the plutocracy also began to imitate the showy splendours of paris under the second empire.[146] but it would be wrong to assume that corruption and display characterised the metropolis of the fifties. for in spite of the foreign influx, and the venality of a considerable class both of native and of foreign birth, and in spite too of the snobs, in spite that is to say of the appearance of two dangerous elements, the very poor and the very rich, there was still predominant in new york a frank and hearty democratic feeling. the mass of the people still embodied much of the true american genius; they were marked by the friendly, independent and unconventional carriage which is still upon the whole typical of the west. new york was full of large democratic types of manhood. notable, even among these, was walt whitman. even here, he was unlike other men: the fulness of his spirits, his robust individuality, the generosity of his whole nature, was so exceptional as to make itself felt. his figure began to grow familiar to all kinds of new yorkers during these years. he was frequently to be seen on broadway,[147] in his favourite coign of vantage, on the stage-top by the driver's side, a great, red-faced fellow, in a soft beaver, with clothes of his own choosing, an open collar like that of byron or jean paul, and a grey beard. the dress suited him, he was plainly at home in it, and in those days it was not specially remarkable or odd; it was the man himself who compelled attention. on many a holiday through 1853 he might also have been seen at the international exhibition or world's fair,[148] which was held in the crystal palace on sixth avenue and fortieth street, and offered a remarkable object lesson to the people of new york on the development of american resources and the value of that national unity which railroads and machinery were yearly making more actual. here america was seen in all her own natural promise, and also in her relation to the transatlantic world. it was one of those sights which whitman dearly loved. the exhibition taught him far more than books about the country in which he lived; for his mind was like a child's in its responsiveness to concrete illustrations--a quality which may explain the long strings of nouns which figure so oddly on many a page which he afterwards wrote. he loved a medley of things, each one significant and delightful in itself. a catalogue was for him a sort of elemental poem; and being elemental, he sought to introduce the catalogue into literature. we who live in another and more ordered world, rarely respond to this kind of emotional stimulus, which was doubtless very powerful for whitman, and cannot but laugh at his attempts to move us by a chatter of names. it may be we are wrong, and that another age will smile at us in our turn, though at present we remain incredulous. here, too, he studied such examples as he found of statuary and painting, arts of which he must hitherto have been largely ignorant. it is only very old or very wealthy cities that become treasuries of the plastic arts, and at this time new york was not yet sufficiently rich, or perhaps sufficiently travelled, to have accumulated this kind of wealth. whitman was not blind to painting, like carlyle, for in later years he so appreciated the genius of j. f. millet that he used to say, "the man that knows his millet needs no creed".[149] * * * * * after a varied experience as teacher, printer, journalist and editor, whitman had settled into the life of an american artisan. he had inherited much of the dutch realism, the love of things and of the making of things, from his mother's side; while on his father's, the associations with mallet and chisel had been strong from his childhood; and thus his trade helped him to gather together the fragments of his identity and weld them into one. as he was never in any sense its slave, it also provided him with the means for that constant leisurely study of life which was now his real occupation. when a house was off his hands and the money for it assured, he would take a holiday, extending sometimes over weeks together, in the remote parts of long island.[150] the open spaces helped his mood, and the quietness furthered the slow processes of self-realisation. while at brooklyn, he was every day on the ferry, and almost every evening he was in new york. he read during his dinner hour, and thought and meditated while he worked. the physical exercise quieted his brain. taken earlier, it might have deadened it; but he was now a mature man full of thoughts, and well furnished with experience. what he needed was to assimilate all this material and make it his own. and while he built houses, the co-ordinating principle of his personality was building up for him a harmonious self-consciousness, which gradually filled out the large and wholesome body of the man. this gestating process required precisely the deliberation and open-air accompaniments which were afforded by his present life--a life so different from the confinement and incessant strain and stress which check all processes of conscious development in most men and women before they reach maturity. his nature was emotional, and music played a considerable part in its development. always an assiduous opera-goer, whitman took full advantage of the musical opportunities which new york offered him at this time. in 1850, barnum had brought jenny lind to the castle gardens--now the aquarium--a fashionable resort on the battery, and maretzek of the astor opera house, had replied with parodi, and bettini the great tenor.[151] best of all, in 1853, marietta alboni visited the city, and whitman heard her every night of her engagement.[152] this great singer, whose voice was then in the plenitude of its power, had been some twelve years before the public and was already beginning to attain those physical proportions suggested in the cruel but witty saying that she resembled an elephant which had swallowed a nightingale. she was low-browed and of a somewhat heavy face, though whitman thought her handsome; but it was by her voice, not her face, that she triumphed. critics found her talent exceptionally impersonal and even cold, though they confessed that never voice was more enchanting.[153] this coldness is rather difficult to understand, for whitman, who was a judge in such matters, felt it to be full of passion, and a passion which swept him away in the titanic whirlwind of its power.[154] he had found jenny lind somewhat immature and her voice unrewarding, but alboni awakened and illumined his very soul, and became, as it were, the incarnation of music. the same summer[155] walt took his father, whose health was failing, on a visit to huntington, to see the old home for a last time. two years later, walter whitman died and was buried in brooklyn. the family seems to have been living in ryerton street,[156] in a house which was the last building on that side of the town. beside walt, there were three unmarried brothers at home, george and jeff as well as edward; and hannah, walt's favourite sister. we hear little of jesse, the oldest brother, who appears to have been a labourer, of andrew, or of the remaining sister mary. probably they were all married by this time and living away. the three at home were the ablest of the brothers, and doubtless they shared the financial responsibility between them. the portland avenue house, into which they presently moved, bears witness to their comfortable circumstances. walt contributed his share with his brothers; beyond that he seemed indifferent about money; he hardly ever spoke of it, and perhaps by way of contrast with the others, evidently regarded the subject as of minor importance. indeed, just as his own work had really grown profitable and he was on the way to become rich, he gave up carpentering for good. this was early in 1855. of late he had been more and more absorbed and pre-occupied; his days off had been more frequent and numerous, and whatever his immediate occupation he was continually stopping to write. he seemed to grow daily more indifferent to opinion, daily more markedly himself. the fragments which he wrote in out-of-the-way places or at work he would read aloud or recite when by himself, to the waves or to the trees; trying them over at the opera, on the ferry, or on broadway, where in the midst of the city one can be so unobserved and so unheard in the heart of its hubbub. he must assure himself that they were without a hint of unreality or of books. for he was now deliberately at work upon his great task, his child's fancy. he was come up into his manhood. he had, it seemed to him, thoroughly perceived and absorbed the spirit of america and of his time. his message had come to him, and he was writing his prophetic book, his _song of walt whitman_. at last, the manuscript was done, and in the early summer he went to work in a little printing shop on cranberry street, and set up much, perhaps the whole, of the type jealously with his own hands.[157] about the beginning of july, and a few days only before his father's death, it was completed. in the _new york tribune_ for the sixth of the month, it was advertised as being on sale at fowler & wells's phrenological depôt and bookstore on broadway, and at swayne's in fulton street, brooklyn. the price was at first two dollars, which seems a little exorbitant for so slender and unpretending a volume, in shape and thickness a mere single copy of one of the smaller periodicals, bound in sea-green cloth, with the odd name, _leaves of grass_, in fanciful gilt lettering across its face. it was presently reduced to a dollar. the other members of the household took the new venture very quietly. they had never been consulted in the matter--it had been walt's affair, and only his; and the father's death must speedily have obliterated the little mark it made upon their minds.[158] "hiawatha" was published about the same time, and a copy found its way into the house. the mother, turning the pages of both, considered that if longfellow's were acknowledged as poetry, walt's queer lines might pass muster too. brother george fingered the book a little, and concluded it was not worth reading--that it was not in his line anyhow. doubtless they were relieved when the writing and printing were done, thinking that now surely walt would return to the ways of mortals. for he had certainly fallen into the most irregular habits. he lay late abed, and came down still later to breakfast; wrote for a few hours, and when the table was being laid for dinner, took down his big hat and sauntered out, to return presently after the meal was over and the dishes cold.[159] he was not intentionally inconsiderate, but he was wholly engrossed in his work, and so pre-occupied that he must often have been tiresome enough. after dinner he disappeared altogether, spending the afternoon and evening in his own leisurely way; setting type, perhaps, on his book at andrew rome's little office, and then going off to the opera or to some friend's; and, as he came back, staying far into the night in talk with the young fellows on the ferry, or on one of the east river steamers. sometimes hannah or jeff might accompany him, but as a rule he went alone. if his family anticipated any change in his ways when the book was out, they were doomed to disappointment. the new task was but begun; the methods approved themselves to his mind and were pursued. he had weighed everything over again that summer, as soon as the book was out, going away to the eastern shore of long island for months of thought and solitude.[160] * * * * * as one turns the ninety broad pages of the volume, with their large type, their long flowing lines, their odd punctuation and occasional slips in orthography, every detail telling of the individuality behind it, one feels a little of what it must have meant to its maker. five times, they say,[161] he wrote and re-wrote, made and un-made it, and looking back it seemed as though for seven years it had been struggling with him for utterance. he had written tales and verses with the others, but this book he knew was different from them all. it was not so much his writing as himself. it was a man, and, withal, a new sort of man. for better or worse it was walt whitman, a figure familiar enough to the common people of brooklyn and new york, familiar and beloved--he was not unconscious of his exceptional power of attraction[162]--but a walt whitman whom, as yet, they understood very little, who had, indeed, but recently come to an understanding of himself, and who was now approaching to speak with them. here is the frank declaration of himself, which he proffers to all. now, at last, we shall understand one another, he seems to say. it was the old, old need for expression, the ultimate and deepest necessity of man, which urged him to his task and made its publication possible. self-revelation is, of course, continuous and inevitable upon its unconscious side. it is only when it becomes a deliberate act that it astonishes the beholder to outcries of admiration or indignant horror. now the passion that overwhelms the poet is near akin to the lover's, for he is a lover whose heart is transfigured by the presence of beauty, the beloved, immanent in his world. and only by a naked avowal can such passion be satisfied. there are those, of course, who regard every self-revelation as an immodesty, and who will and do avert their eyes from all passion, crying shame. but some at least of the others, who are well aware of the weakness of words, and know how few can use them perfectly, will reverently approach such a confession as whitman's; not, indeed, as if it were that of a young girl, but as that of a man, naïve, yet virile, and of heroic sanity. and if they feel any shame they will frankly acknowledge it to be their own. there is a kind of egoism which all self-revelation pre-supposes--the consciousness of possessing something supremely worthy of giving. this glorious pride is not incompatible with the profoundest humility, for it is divine, like the "i am" of jehovah, the egoism of god. * * * * * if self-expression is the outcome of passion, its new incarnation has some of the wonder which attends a birth. the most virile of poets must here become as a woman; and the mystery which, for any mother, enwraps her first-born, clings for his muse about her slender child by the great god of song. and when, as in the instance of this book of whitman's, the children of the muse betray in every feature the abandonment of the remote passion in which they were conceived, one cannot oneself handle them without emotion. walt regarded the book with undisguised pride and satisfaction. mother-like, he eyed it as the future saviour of men. he saw it prophetic and large with destiny for america. he was confident that the public would be quick to recognise that quality in it for which they had been so long half-consciously waiting. the people would read it with a new delight, for surely it must be dynamic with the joy in which it was written. he often said in later years that _leaves of grass_ was an attempt to put a happy man into literature.[163] others may discuss the optimism and the egoism of his pages, for of both qualities there is plenty in them, but, after all, they are but secondary there. as to the qualities themselves, we may hold contrary and even disparaging opinions of their value, they will certainly at times repel us. but primarily these pages portray the happy man, and a strong and happy personality has the divine gift of attraction. byron may dominate the whole of europe for a generation by the dark satanic splendour of his pride; carlyle may hold us still by his fierce, lean passion for sincerity; but whitman draws us by the outshining of his joy. happiness is not less infectious than melancholy or zeal; and if it is genuine it is at least equally beyond price. as far as it goes, it seems to indicate that a man may be perfectly adjusted to this world of circumstances, which to us appears so often contrary. a happy and intelligent man of thirty-six, who has looked at life open-eyed, and is neither handsome, rich nor famous is worthy of attention. there is something half-divine about him; and we cannot but hope he may prove to be prophetic of the race. * * * * * some such thought must have been in emerson's mind, when a few days after the perusal of _leaves of grass_, he wrote his acknowledgment to its unknown author.[164] the letter has been often quoted, but it is so significant that i must quote it again. for no other literary acknowledgment ever accorded to whitman possesses anything like equal interest or importance. emerson was certainly the most notable force among american writers at that time; and one might add, the only figure of anything like the first magnitude. in great britain, the century had already produced the literature which we associate with the names of wordsworth, coleridge, scott, byron, shelley, keats and carlyle, not to mention the earlier work of tennyson, browning and others. emerson was the only american who could venture to claim rank with these, and then hardly equal literary rank. but in some respects his influence was greater, for his was certainly the clearest and fullest expression of the american spirit in letters. his words are therefore of importance to us:- "concord, mass'tts, _21st july, 1855_. "dear sir,--i am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of _leaves of grass_. i find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that america has yet contributed. i am very happy in reading it, as great power makes us happy. it meets the demand i am always making of what seems the sterile and stingy nature, as if too much handiwork, or too much lymph in the temperament, were making our western wits fat and mean. i give you joy of your free and brave thought. i have great joy in it. i find incomparable things said incomparably well, as they must be. i find the courage of treatment that so delights us and which large perception only can inspire. "i greet you at the beginning of a great career, which yet must have had a long foreground somewhere, for such a start. i rubbed my eyes a little, to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of the book is a sober certainty. it has the best merits, namely, of fortifying and encouraging. "i did not know until i last night saw the book advertised in a newspaper that i could trust the name as real and available for a post office. i wish to see my benefactor, and have felt much like striking my tasks and visiting new york to pay you my respects. r. w. emerson. "mr. walter whitman." [illustration: r. w. emerson] the epigrammatic style of the sentences, together with a strong flavour of sentiment, may set the reader in his turn rubbing his eyes, and wondering whether emerson were consciously inditing a mere complimentary letter. but a second perusal renders such an idea untenable. the epigram and the sentiment were parts of the emersonian mannerism. the letter was not penned in hot haste, after a first glance at the pages; a delay had taken place between reading and writing. moreover, when about this time a visitor called at concord, he was sent on his way to brooklyn as upon a pilgrimage, with the significant words, "americans abroad may now come home: unto us a man is born".[165] another epigram, uttered perhaps with a gentle smile, but without a flavour of irony. emerson was then a man of fifty-two. the first and second series of his lecture-essays had been published more than ten years, and the first volume of his poems in 1847; he was already famous in england as well as in america. but though he was in certain quarters the cynosure of admiration, in others he was the butt of ridicule. this same year the london _athenæum_ praised irving because, as it said, his fancies were ideal, and not like emerson's merely typographical--because they did not consist, like the latter's, in the use of verbs for nouns, in erratic punctuation, tumid epithets, which were startling rather than apposite, or in foreign forms and idioms.[166] this though milder, is not unlike what many of the critics were soon to be saying with better reason of whitman; and it is interesting to recall that in 1839, when he was whitman's age, emerson was struggling to escape from the limits of metre into a rhythm that should suggest the wildest freedom; that should be "firm as the tread of a horse,"[167] vindicate itself like the stroke of a bell, and knock at prose and dulness like a cannon ball; a rhythm which should be in itself a renewing of creation, because it was the form of a living spirit. in later years, emerson seems to have harked back again to the more regular forms, believing them to correspond to essential pulse-beats, or organic rhythm. but his journal contains several little prose poems of the date of 1855 or 1856, notably the sketch of the "two rivers," outlined partly in loose irregular metres. this search of the concord prophet after a new free rhythmical form, must have predisposed him to interest in such a book as _leaves of grass_, where the laws of metre are in force no longer. but beyond this, the older man felt a close kinship with the younger. whitman had declared himself unequivocally for the faith in life which was emerson's gospel; and he smacked of the soil and air of america in a way that emerson could not but love. here at last was an actual incarnation of the ideas he had so long been hurling at the heads of the american people. a beautiful and characteristic modesty is evident in the tone of the letter. emerson might well have acknowledged the younger man as a pupil rather than as a benefactor; it was the same quality as had appeared in his reply to frederika bremer, when, five years earlier, she had been praising his own verses: "the poet of america," he answered gravely, "is not yet come. when he comes he will sing quite differently." the idea of an american poet was "in the air". intellectual america was in revolt; she would remain no longer a mere province of britain; her writers should shape themselves no more upon merely english models. lowell in his "biglow papers" and longfellow in "hiawatha" were among many who sought to exploit the literary soil of the new world. whatever their success in this, they can hardly be said to have inaugurated a new literature. no american muse had yet appeared upon the heights of helicon to spread a new hush over the world, and by her singing raise the place of song perilously near to the stars. but though she had not appeared she was eagerly expected; and emerson's letter is like nothing so much as the heralding cry that he had at last caught a glimpse of her across whitman's pages. it was but a glimpse, and he was yet in doubt; he must come to brooklyn himself, must meet this fellow face to face, and see. footnotes: [141] _camb. mod. hist._, 417, 418. [142] _comb. mod. hist._, 440. [143] _ib._, 701. [144] roosevelt, 195. [145] _comp. prose_, 217. [146] roosevelt, 199. [147] burroughs (_a_), 24, 25. [148] bucke, 25. [149] mss. traubel. [150] bucke, 24. [151] _mem. hist. n.y._, iv., 178. [152] _mem. hist. n.y._, iv., 179; _cf._ _saturday rev._, 30th june, 1894. [153] g. bousquet, _nouvelle biog. générale_. [154] mss. wallace. [155] bucke, 157. [156] m. d. conway, _autobiography_, vol. i. [157] bucke, 24; johnston, 42, 43. [158] _in re_, 35, 36. [159] _in re_, 36. [160] bucke, 26. [161] _ib._, 137. [162] _l. of g._, 322. [163] _l. of g._, 443. [164] kennedy, 74, 75 n.; dr. platt's _walt whitman_, 27, 28, etc. [165] burroughs (_a_), 50. [166] 17th feb., 1855, qu. in _alibone_. [167] _emerson in concord_, 227-233. chapter vii whitman's manifesto it is time that we ourselves took a view of the book, for we must see what whitman had actually done during these last months, and gather what further indications we may as to his general notions of himself and of the world. the volume consists of a long preface or manifesto[168] of the new poetry, and of twelve poems by way of example. the preface commences with a description of america, the greatest of poems, the largest and most stirring of all the doings of men. "here is action untied from strings, necessarily blind to particulars and details, magnificently moving in masses!" here is a nation, hospitable, spacious, prolific; a nation whose common people is a larger race than hitherto, demanding a larger poetry. he describes the american poet, who is coming to awaken men from their nightmare of shame to his own faith and joy. that poet is the lover of the universe, who beholds with sure and mystic sight the perfection that underlies all imperfection, for he sees the whole of things. past and future are present to him; and with them is the eternal soul. "the greatest poet does not moralise or make applications of morals--he knows the soul." his readers become loving, generous, democratic, proud, sociable, healthy, by beholding in his poems the beauty of these qualities. "seer as he is, the poet," continues whitman, "is no dreamer. he sees and creates actual forms.... to speak in literature with the perfect rectitude and insouciance of animals, and the unimpeachableness of the sentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside is the flawless triumph of art. if you have looked on him who has achieved it, you have looked on one of the masters of the artists of all nations and times. you shall not contemplate the flight of the grey gull over the bay, or the mettlesome action of the blood horse, or the tall leaning of sunflowers on their stalk, or the appearance of the sun journeying through heaven, or the appearance of the moon afterward, with any more satisfaction than you shall contemplate him. the great poet has less a marked style, and is more the channel of thoughts and things without increase or diminution, and is the free channel of himself. he swears to his art, i will not be meddlesome, i will not have in my writing any elegance or effect, or originality, to hang in the way between me and the rest like curtains.... i will have purposes as health or heat or snow has, and be as regardless of observation.... you shall stand by my side and look in the mirror with me."[169] his words never pose before the reader for ornament, they are living things. and for this very reason, he follows no models; his thought is living and original; it must find a new form for its perfect expression, as a new seed would find new growth and leafage. the poet appeals to every reader as to an equal, because in every reader he appeals to the supreme soul. many may not hear him, but he appeals to all, and not to a coterie. whitman then proceeds to the praise of science. knowledge, bringing back the mind from the supernatural to the actual, brings faith with it; and the soul is the divinest thing that science discovers in the universe. he turns to philosophy, and bids her deal candidly with whatsoever is real, recognise the eternal tendency of all things toward happiness, and cease to describe god as contending against some other principle. the poet deals with truth and with the actual. all else is but a sham and impotent. for everywhere and always, the soul which is the one permanent reality, loves truth and responds to it. the poet is by nature prudent, as one who knows the real purpose of the soul and of the universe, and would act in accordance with that knowledge. he accepts the impulses of the soul as the only final arguments; and only the deeds which it dictates appear to him to be profitable. living in his age, and becoming its embodiment, he is therewithal a citizen of eternity. the future shall be his proof: will his song remain at her heart? will it awaken, century after century, the divine unrest, and as it were, create new souls forever? as for the priests and their work, they are done. the american poets shall fill their place, and the whole world shall answer to their message. their words shall be in the english tongue--the language of "all who aspire"--but they shall be the very words of the people of america; they shall be native to the soil, and redolent of the air of the republic. such poets shall be america's own, and in them she will welcome her most illustrious visitors. they are her equals; for the soul of a man is as supreme as the soul of a nation. and america shall absorb them as affectionately as they have absorbed her. such is the gist of whitman's manifesto. nature the soul and freedom; simplicity and originality of expression--these, its dominant notes, recall at once rousseau, wordsworth and shelley, with many another; while certain passages remind the reader that _the germ_ was but recently published across the sea, the manifesto of another movement associated with the names of the rossetti family and with the pre-raphaelite brotherhood. but whatever the reminiscences it awakens, whitman's preface is his own. the thoughts were not all originally his. but they had shaped themselves newly in his brain and under his pen, and every line bears the stamp of originality. * * * * * without staying to discuss the preface let us proceed to a rapid survey of the remaining pages. they are written, it would seem, for measured declamation, in a sort of free chant, which is neither prose nor verse, but whose lines coincide in length with natural pauses in the thought. whitman himself spoke very deliberately, in a half drawl; he had a melodious baritone voice of considerable range and power, and one can well imagine how he would recite, when alone or with some intimate friend, the first lines, beginning:- i celebrate myself, and what i assume you shall assume, for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. i loafe and invite my soul, i lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.[170] the lines are quite simple and direct; they are intended to place the reader at once in relation with the actual idler who recites them in the summer fields. he is an out-of-doors fellow, who lives whole-heartedly in the present, rejoicing in the world and observing it. he and his soul--he distinguishes decisively between the temporal and the eternal elements in himself whose equal balance, neither abdicating its place nor contesting that of the other, makes the harmony of his life--he and his soul commune together, and discover that the world means love, and that the very grass is full of suggestions of immortality. everything indeed has its word for walt whitman; he understands what the streets are unconsciously saying; the animals of the country-side, the working men, the youths and the women, each and all are teaching him something of himself. all life appeals to him; he recognises himself in each of its myriad forms. and his thoughts are the half-conscious thoughts which lie in the minds of all. it is not only the happy and prosperous whom he represents, but the defeated also, and the outcast. all things have their mystical meanings; but especially are manhood and womanhood divine. there is nothing more divine than they. as for him, he is proud, satisfied, august. he has no sympathy with whimperings, or conformity to the ideas of others. is not he himself the fellow and equal of the supreme beings, of the night, the earth, and the sea? he has faith in the issue of time; he fully accepts all reality as a part of the whole purpose. he at least will be fearless and frank, and conceal nothing; all desires shall be expressed by him. and to him all the bodily functions are wonderful. his whole life is a wonder and delight, beyond the power of words to utter. sounds especially he enjoys; alluding to the passionate emotions aroused in him by the opera, and adding an obscure, erotic dithyramb on the ecstasy of touch, the proof of reality, for we understand everything through touch. everything is seen by him to be full of meaning, because he himself is a microcosm and summary of the universe "stuccoed with quadrupeds and birds all over". he feels so vividly his personal kinship with the animals which are never pre-occupied about religion or property, that he thinks he must have passed through their present experience "huge times ago," to include it now in his own.[171] forthwith, he strings together in a rapid succession of dazzling miniatures, some of the contents of his personal memory; pictures out of his experience or his imagination, that remain vivid and significant to him. his sympathy makes them actually real to him; the figures in them are each a part of himself. "i am the man," he cries, "i suffered, i was there."[172] but he has his own distinct personality. he is the friendly and flowing savage, full of magnetism, health and power- wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him, they desire he should like them, and touch them, and speak to them, and stay with them. behaviour lawless as snow-flakes, words simple as grass, uncombed head, and laughter, and naïveté, slow-stepping feet, and the common features, and the common modes and emanations.... he sees the divine that is in men, and how all the gods are latent in the race, and with them ever more besides. even in the midst of their absurd littleness, which he fully recognises, he calls men to the reality of themselves, away from the religions of the priests to their own souls. he understands doubt very well, but he has faith, faith in an ultimate happiness for each and all. * * * * * he endeavours to express his sense of eternity, and of the friendliness of the world to him:- rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me, afar down i see the huge first nothing--the vapour from the nostrils of death--i know i was even there, i waited unseen and always, and slept while god carried me through the lethargic mist, and took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon. long i was hugged close--long and long. immense have been the preparations for me, faithful and friendly the arms that have helped me. cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen, for room to me stars kept aside in their own rings, they sent influences to look after what was to hold me. before i was born out of my mother, generations guided me, my embryo has never been torpid--nothing could overlay it. for it the nebula cohered to an orb, the long slow strata piled to rest it on, vast vegetables gave it sustenance, monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths, and deposited it with care. all forces have been steadily employed to complete and delight me, now i stand on this spot with my soul.[173] thus it seems to him that he has existed potentially from the beginning; that all the ages in succession have cared for him, and that now the whole world is full of his kin and lovers. he beholds the universe as gloriously infinite in its assured purpose: god has appointed a meeting-place where he waits for every soul. the way of the soul is eternal progress, and each one must follow that road. my pupils, he exclaims, shall become masters and excel me! they shall be wholesome, hearty, natural fellows, attracted to me because i neither write for money nor indoors.[174] my religion is the worship of the soul. i am calm and composed, and satisfied about god, whom i do not in the least understand. death and decay seem wholesome to him; they are the way of life by which he himself came to the present hour, wherein he realises the mystic reality, the life eternal, and the ineffable idea of happiness as the central purpose of the universe:- do you see, o my brothers and sisters? it is not chaos or death--it is form, union, plan--it is eternal life, it is happiness.[175] with an enigmatical farewell, he resumes his place in the life of the world, awaiting such of his readers as belong to him:- you will hardly know who i am or what i mean, but i shall be good health to you, nevertheless, and filter and fibre your blood. failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged, missing me one place, search another, i stop somewhere waiting for you.[176] the other poems are pendants to the first, offering further exemplifications of the precepts of the preface. he appeals, for example,[177] to his fellow workmen and workwomen, that they realise their own greatness and immortality, their own individual destiny; for nothing can ever be so worthy of their reverence as their own soul. he bids them employ and enjoy this hour to the full,[178] for death comes, and it will not be the same as life. yet death also will be good to the soul--all the signs assure the soul that it will be satisfied; and there is nothing which does not share in the soul-life. in dreams[179] he recognises some free utterances of the soul, and in sleep, the great equaliser of men. as he watches them asleep all become beautiful to him with the beauty of the soul, which men also call heaven. diseased or vile they may be, but their souls forever urge them along the appointed way towards the goal. he seems to see all souls meeting together in sleep, mysteriously to circle the earth, hand in hand. he entrusts himself to sleep with the same security as to death and birth. at the sight and touch of the human body,[180] he kindles with the delight of a renaissance painter, a botticelli or a michael angelo. the very soul loves the flesh, and the contact of flesh with flesh rejoices it. he writes of the magic force of attraction embodied in a woman; nor of attraction only, but of emancipation. he extols the strength and joy which is embodied in a man. the body of every man and woman, says he, should be as sacred to you as your own, for the body is almost the soul, and to desecrate the bodies of the dead is a little thing beside the shame that we put upon the bodies of the living. if life and the soul are sacred, the human body is sacred, and the glory and sweet of a man, is the token of manhood untainted, and in man or woman, a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is beautiful as the most beautiful face.[181] he fills a page[182] with quick hogarthian sketches of the lower types of faces, and then, turning about, acclaims the souls behind them as his equals. they too will duly come to themselves, following towards the light, after the lord. he loves thus to enlarge upon the poet's office as the answerer[183] or sympathiser with all men, and how he should be welcome and familiar to each. in the poet's company, the soul of each one quickens. and yet the poet is no greater than the least; his verses are not nobler than the kindly deed of any poor old woman. he writes of 1848, the year of revolutions,[184] somewhat in the style of "blood money," and probably this page is one of the earliest of the fragments, and may date back to the year which it celebrates. in spite of the successes of tyranny, and the failures of the young men of europe, he sees that liberty herself is never foiled. by way of sharp contrast[185] he directs a mocking and colloquial page of satire against the 'cute bostonians of 1854. whitman's dislike of boston is never for a moment concealed; jonathan the yankee he detests. and now he brings home to him the profits of his bargaining; he has dethroned king george only to set up in his place this republican president, pierce of new hampshire, who in these loud-echoing streets employs the strength of america upon the capture of a fugitive slave. sometimes he is autobiographical.[186] "there was a child went forth,"--he recites--a country boy who, at west hills and in brooklyn, absorbed all the sights and sounds of his world into himself; till the early lilacs, the morning-glories, and the orchard blossom, the quarrelsome and the friendly boys and the bare-footed negro-children all became a part of him. his parents, too, in the daily life of the home as well as by heredity, entered into his make-up; the mother, wholesome, quiet and gentle, the father, virile and hot-tempered, with a streak of craft and astuteness running through him. and as they became a part of me, he says, so now they shall become a part of you that read this page. or at his naïvest, we see him standing open-mouthed and amazed, like a very child, before the sheer naked facts of his own story from the date of his birth to the present hour;[187] and endeavouring to evoke a similar naïve attitude in the reader, not indeed towards the date of whitman's birth, but towards that of his own. upon a kindred note we turn the last page also[188]--for it is a proclamation of reverence, reverence for all the old myths; reverence for the high ideals; reverence too for youth and for age, for speech and silence, for true wealth and true poverty, always with stress upon the last member of each pair; for america, too, and for the earth with its ineffable future; for truth, for justice, for goodness--ay, and, he adds with conscious paradox, for wickedness as well; above all for life, but not less for death. great is life, he concludes:- great is life, real and mystical wherever and whoever: great is death:--sure as life holds all parts together, death holds all parts together: sure as the stars return again after they merge in the light, death is great as life. how are we to sum up these pages, and figure out what it is they come to? no summary is likely to do justice to a book of poetry, which demonstrates itself by wholly other methods than argument, and it would be foolish for me to attempt it. but there is one point with which i must make shift to deal. beginning with a forecast of the new poetry, as of something which should be in its essence indigenous to america, the natural expression of a new spirit and race and of its attitude towards the self and the universe, whitman has boldly given examples to show what it was he meant. what are we to say of these? do they give us a new art-form? or, if you will, a new kind of poetry? do they bring us material for some new law of rhythm or metre? these are deep questions, and dangerous to answer. for myself, i can but give an affirmative to them, accepting the smiles of the incredulous. and i must do so without a discussion which would here be tedious, even if i were able to make it profitable. there is a simple test of the whole matter which one may oneself apply: does whitman's method of writing arouse, in those who can read it with enjoyment, an emotion distinct in character from that aroused by the methods of all other poets? does _leaves of grass_ awake some quality of the soul which answers neither to the words of tennyson nor browning, emerson nor carlyle? the proof by emotional reaction requires some skill in self-observation and more impartiality; but, on the whole, i think those who have tried it fairly seem to take my part, and to answer emphatically in the affirmative. what then is this emotion which whitman alone, or in special measure, evokes? it is a further hard but fair question, for it involves whitman's personality, and this book is an attempt to answer it. briefly, it is the complex but harmonious emotion which possesses a sane full-blooded man of fully awakened soul, when he realises the presence of the eternal and universal incarnate in some "spear of summer grass". one may call it the religious emotion; but it is not the emotion of any other religious poetry, saving perhaps some of the hebrew prophets: and every prophet has his own cry. it is the emotion of a religion which is as large as the largest conceptions which man has yet formed of life; for whitman, apart from any limitations in his thought, appears to have lived more fully and with fuller conscious purpose than did other men. in order to make oneself understood at all one speaks in hyperbole, and doubtless i exaggerate. whitman was, of course, no god among men, nor was he greater than other poets; in a sense he was even less than the least of them, so subjective was his genius; but since he consciously evokes a new emotion, he has his place among true artists, for art is the power of evoking the emotion in others which one intends. and since the new emotion seems to be altogether ennobling when it is fully realised, being at once enlarging and integrating to the soul, we ought the more gladly to hail and acknowledge him. i say a new emotion, not meaning, of course, that he is alone in calling up the soul, for no great poetry can leave the soul unstirred; but that no poetry of modern times stirs the soul in the same manner as does that of this full-natured man. so far, i think, we may acknowledge whitman's success as a poet, and i am not concerned to urge it further. there are many who do not respond to his writings in the way i have indicated, and they naturally refuse him the title. there are others who do, and who accord it to him; and i confess i am of the latter. * * * * * the only american poet who approaches him in sentiment is emerson. poems like "each and all," with its motive of the cosmic unity, "the perfect whole," or "brahma," with its reconciling all-inclusiveness, are very near in thought to whitman; so again is "merlin" with its great is the art, great be the manners of the bard; he shall not his brain encumber with the coil of rhyme and number,-or "woodnotes"--"god hid the whole world in thy heart"--or the exclamation "when worlds of lovers hem thee in" of the "threnody"; or his "test," when he hangs his verses in the wind. the inspiration of the two men made them akin; but it was far from identical. there are sides of _leaves of grass_ which are absent from emerson's writings, just as there are phases of emerson's thought which are never really touched by whitman. but above all, while the works of both are exhilarating to the soul, the emotional reactions from them are quite distinct. considering emerson's influence at the time upon all that was most virile in american thought, we might feel certain that some part at least of his teaching had illuminated whitman's mind, and there is sufficient evidence in his own writings to prove it.[189] he said indeed, that it was emerson who led him to a spiritual understanding of america, and who finally brought his simmering ideas to the boil.[190] but he also vehemently asserted the independence of _leaves of grass_ from any direct emersonian or other literary influence; and in this the internal evidence of his book supports him. it is really impossible to confuse the flavours of whitman and of emerson. * * * * * one more comparison, and i will pursue the story. there is much which whitman obviously shares with shelley. their kinship of inspiration is too significant for a passing note, and might well be followed over many pages. the writer of _leaves of grass_, and the youthful author of _queen mab_, had drunk at the same fountain of love and wonder.[191] shelley's _defence of poetry_ should be read alongside of the preface of 1855. in it also you will find it stated that the poet lives in the consciousness of the whole; that he is not to be bound by metrical custom, the distinction between poets and prose-writers being but a vulgar error; it is sufficient if his periods are harmonious and rhythmical. poetry is therein discovered as the great instrument of morality, for it exercises and therefore strengthens the imagination, which is the organ of love--that going-out of a man from himself to others, in which morality finds the final expression. here, as in whitman's pages, the permanence of poetry is asserted; its significance is not to be exhausted by the generation in which it found expression. poetry is the motive power of action and creates utilities. it is the root and blossom of science and philosophy. poetry is the interpenetration of a diviner nature with our own; it turns all things to loveliness, and strips off that film of use and wont which holds our eyes from the vision of wonder. the great poets are men of supreme virtue and consummate prudence. they are the world's law-givers. it must be enough for us to have noted the parallel, which might easily be pressed too far. there are regions of thought and expression in which their opposition would, of course, appear even more striking; we need not pursue the subject, remembering that much of what they share derives from the influence which we associate with the works of rousseau. * * * * * whatever our opinion of whitman's astonishing "piece of wit and wisdom," we cannot be surprised that in some quarters it was received with contemptuous silence, and in others with prompt and frank abuse. the _boston intelligencer_,[192] for instance, credited it to some escaped lunatic; the _criterion_[193] to a man possessed of the soul of a sentimental donkey that had died of disappointed love; while the _london critic_,[194] comparing him to caliban, declared he should be whipped by the public executioner. it is, perhaps, more astonishing that some of the leading journals and reviews of america--the _north american review_, _putnam's monthly_, and the _new york tribune_[195]--for example, noticed the book at some length and with friendly forbearance, if not with actual acclamation. the first of these gave the book, in its january issue (1856), three pages of discriminating welcome from the pen of edward e. hale, a religious minister of liberal mind and warm heart, whose own inner experience was not without resemblance to whitman's in its harmonious development and absence of spiritual conflict.[196] whitman was probably prepared for the abuse; it was the indifference of the public which astonished him. at first, it would seem, there was no sale whatever for the book;[197] and emerson was the only one of its readers who found it specially significant. having spent the summer months in solitude in the country,[198] whitman decided upon a somewhat questionable method of advertisement: he contributed unsigned notices of his book to the _brooklyn times_,[199] with which he appears to have been connected,[200] and to a phrenological sheet issued by fowler and wells, his agents on broadway. he fortified himself[201] for his task by observing that leigh hunt had written for the press upon his own work, and even claimed the high example of dante. these articles, whose anonymity seems to infringe on the impartiality of the press, and to be in some sense a breach of journalistic honour, are not a little astonishing. that in the phrenological journal may, perhaps, be dismissed as a mere publishers' circular or puff, contributed, as such things frequently are, by the writer. as to the other, whitman was for a while the editor of the _brooklyn times_, and may have written on himself while serving in this capacity, or perhaps at the request of the actual editor, doubtless his personal friend. or, again, if we would excuse, or rather explain, his action, we may regard the reviews as his own attempt to look impersonally at his work. whatever we may think of the moral aspect of the notices, or however we may account for them, they have considerable interest as further expositions of his purpose, re-inforcing the preface after an interval of meditation. as such, and as a corrective of popular misapprehensions, he doubtless intended them. in these pages he lays special emphasis on the american character of his work. he notes his studied avoidance of all foreign similes and classical allusions. he compares himself with tennyson and other poets, only to declare that he is alone in understanding the new poetry, which will not aim at external completeness and finish, but at infinite suggestion; which will be an infallible and unforgettable hint--a living seed, not merely of thought, but of that emotional force which is of the soul and alone can mould personality. footnotes: [168] this is given in full in o. l. trigg's _selections_; parts only, in _comp. prose_, 256. [169] _comp. prose_, 261. [170] _l. of g._, 29. [171] _l. of g._, 54. [172] _ib._, 59. [173] _l. of g._, 55. [174] _l. of g._, 75. [175] _ib._, 78. [176] _ib._, 79. [177] _ib._, 169. [178] _l. of g._, 333. [179] _ib._, 325. [180] _ib._, 81. [181] _ib._ (1855). [182] _ib._, 353. [183] _l. of g._, 134. [184] _ib._, 211. [185] _ib._, 209. [186] _ib._, 282. [187] _l. of g._, 304. [188] _ib._ (ed. 1855). [189] camden, ix., 160; notes to mag. art. of may, 1847. [190] letter in appendix to _l. of g._ (1856) and trowbridge, _op. cit._ [191] it is interesting to recall that _prometheus unbound_ was written in the year of whitman's birth. [192] bucke, 198. [193] _ib._, 197. [194] _ib._, 196; _in re_, 60. [195] _n. a. r._, january, 1856; _trib._, 23rd july, 1855. [196] w. james, _var. of relig. experience_, 82-83. [197] bucke, 138; burroughs, etc. [198] bucke, 26. [199] _in re_, 13, 32; bucke, 195. [200] _atlantic monthly_, xcii., 679. [201] camden, ix., 119. chapter viii the mystic in september, 1855, mr. moncure conway, having heard of whitman during a visit to concord, called upon him in brooklyn, with an introduction from emerson. walt was then living with his family in one of a row of small artisans' houses, in ryerton street,[202] out of myrtle avenue. at the moment, however, he was correcting proofs in the little office where his book had been printed, and wore a workman's striped blue shirt, open at the throat. a few days later, he called upon mr. conway, his sister and another lady, at the metropolitan hotel, where his manners and conversation were enjoyed and approved. he was then garbed in "the baize coat and chequered shirt" in which he appears in the _leaves of grass_ portrait. mr. conway in his story has somewhat confused the details of these visits with those of another paid by him upon a sunday morning some two years later, when the whitmans seem to have moved to a more commodious house on north portland avenue. the matter is not important, and we may follow the main lines of the picturesque account which he contributed in october, 1866, to the _fortnightly review_.[203] according to this narrative, whitman was discovered basking in the hot sunshine on some waste land outside brooklyn. he was wearing the rough workman's clothes of his choice, was as brown as the soil and as grey as the grass bents. his visitor was at once impressed by the exceptional largeness and reality of the man, and by a subtle delicacy of feeling for which _leaves of grass_ does not appear to have prepared him. whitman was slow, serene, gracious; in spite of the grey in his hair and beard, and the deep furrows across his brow, his full red face and quiet blue-grey eyes were almost those of a child. returning to the house, the visitor noticed a quality about him which belonged by rights to the line-engraving of bacchus which hung in the bare room he occupied. like a greek hero-god, he made one ask oneself whether he was merely human. and after crossing the bay with him, and bathing and sauntering along the beach of staten island, the visitor seems to have left in a condition of almost painful excitement, unable to give his thought to anything but whitman. a few days later, according to this account, conway found him setting type for the next edition of his book. although he was still writing occasionally for the press, _leaves of grass_ continued to provide his principal occupation. they crossed the ferry together and rambled about new york. nearly every artisan they met greeted walt affectionately as an old friend, and not one of them knew him as a poet. together they went to the tombs prison, whitman always having acquaintances among the outcasts of society, and often visiting them in detention, both here and at sing-sing. here, conway had an opportunity of estimating the power over others which was wielded by this personality, whose latent force had so much moved himself. the prisoners confided in him, and on behalf of one he interviewed the governor of the prison. the victim had been detained for trial on some petty charge in an unhealthy cell. whitman repeated the man's story, and characterised it, with a sort of religious emphasis and deliberation, as a "damned shame". it was manifestly upon the tip of the official tongue to rebuke walt for impertinence; but though he was dressed as an artisan, his quiet determined gaze was too much for the autocrat, who gave way before it and ordered the prisoner to be transferred to better quarters. * * * * * other distinguished visitors called on him from time to time. of emerson's own visits we know next to nothing, but they were frequent and very welcome, sometimes ending with a dinner at astor house. we have a glimpse of lord houghton, sharing a dish of roast apples with his friendly host.[204] ward beecher, the famous brooklyn preacher, was among the callers; and it was on their way from his church that, on sunday, 9th november, 1856, mrs. whitman, in her son's absence, received bronson alcott and thoreau. both men belonged to the circle of emerson's concord intimates, and both have left a record of the successful renewal of their visit upon the following day.[205] the lovable, mystical, oracular alcott, the delight of his friends, seems to have been greatly attracted by whitman, whom he knew already, and of whom he has spoken in terms of the highest praise. the mother, he found on that first visit, stately and sensible, full of faith in her son "walter"; full, too, in his absence, of his praises, as being from his childhood up both good and wise, the faithful and beloved counsellor of brothers and sisters. they spent two delightful hours with walt next day, a philadelphia lady accompanying them and sharing their intercourse with "the very god pan," as alcott styles him. the conversation was to have been renewed on the morrow, but walt failed to put in an appearance. he was apt to be vague about such appointments, and one could never be sure that he felt himself bound by them. like a quaker of the old school, he followed the direction of the hour, and his promises were tentative and well guarded. thoreau, too, the naturalist philosopher of walden, wrote down his impressions of the interview. he was puzzled by whitman, finding him in many ways a strange and surprising being, outside the range of his experience. rough, large and masculine but sweet--essentially a gentleman, he says; but the title is paradoxical and inappropriate, and he qualifies it immediately by adding that he was coarse not fine. as to the last point, after vigorously debating it, whitman and he appear to have retained contrary convictions. but whitman himself would have been the first to disclaim refinement, a quality which he associated with sterility. if thoreau had said he was elemental, we would not now dissent. they were not likely to understand one another. the two men present a remarkable contrast, though on certain sides they have much in common. thoreau was about two years the older; his principal book of essays, called _walden_ after the site of his hermitage, had been published when he was about whitman's age. physically he was most unlike the genial red-faced giant opposite to him. slight and rather short, with long arms and sloping shoulders; mouth, eyes and nose seemed to tell of solitary concentrated thought. there was something in his face of the frontiersman, that woodland look one sees also in lincoln's portraits; something, too, of the shyness wood creatures have. he disliked and avoided the generality of men. in this he would compare himself with emerson, who found society a refuge from the shabbiness of life's commonplace, while thoreau's own resource was always solitude. he was continually being surprised by the vulgarity of himself and of his fellows, continually flushing with shame, personal or vicarious; and he sought and found a refuge in the pure and lonely spirit that haunted walden pool.[206] whitman, on the other hand, though he loved solitude, seems, even in solitude, to have craved for movement. in this he was very far from the orientalism of thoreau and its strenuous seeking after peace. he loved progress. his genius belonged not to the forest pool, whose reflections were unrippled by a breeze--the mirror of the abstract mind--but to the surging passion of the ocean beach. similarly, in his attitude towards men, he was far removed from both thoreau and emerson. emerson confessed he could not quite understand what whitman so enjoyed in the society of the common people; and many a democrat, if he were only as honest, would make the same confession. it was not that emerson was in any sense of the word a snob; but the emotional side of his nature responded but feebly to certain of the elemental notes whose vibration is felt perhaps more frequently among the common people than elsewhere. emerson's fellowship was largely upon intellectual fields: whitman's almost wholly upon the more emotional. thoreau found society in disembodied thought, and emotional fellowship in the woods. but to whitman the sheer contact with people, and especially the unsophisticated natural folk of the class into which he was born and among whom he was bred, was not only a pleasure but a tonic which he could barely exist without. in solitude, he became after a time, heavy, inert, lethargic. his mind itself seemed to grow stale. he was a mere pool of water left upon the beach, which loses virtue in its stagnant isolation. whitman seems to have been exceptionally conscious of the stream of electric life which is the great attractive power of a city, and which in itself tends to draw all young men and women into its current. it buoyed him up and carried him, giving him a sense of exaltation only to be compared with that which other poets have derived from the mountains, or the wind out of the west. his large body and intuitive mind craved for the magnetic stimulus and suggestion of people moving about him; he did not look to them to save him from the commonplace, nor did he shrink from them as bringing him new burdens of a common shame. coarse, actual, living humanity was his supreme interest and passion. and the delicacy and refinement of the scholar was dreadful to him, because it separated him instantly from the vulgar and common folk. he was one of the roughs, he used to say; and so he was, but with a difference. it was this that puzzled his concord friends who were quick to feel but slow to understand it. their perplexity did not, however, turn into mistrust; for their appreciation of all that they understood was full and generous. thoreau hardly knew whether he was more repelled or attracted by this "great fellow" who seemed to be the personification of democracy.[207] like tennyson at a later date, he was unable to define him, but stood convinced that he was "a great big something".[208] a little more than human, thoreau added; meaning a little larger than normal human development. in any case, the man was an enigma. he wrote of those relations between men and women for which the poets choose the subtlest and most delicate words in their treasury, in syllables which seemed to thoreau like those of animals which had not attained to speech. yet even so, he spoke more truth, beast-like as his voice sounded, than the others. and thoreau frankly reminded himself, if whitman made him blush the fault might not be whitman's after all. they did not talk very much or very deeply, as there were four to share the conversation. thoreau, too, was in a rather cynical mood, and spoke slightingly of brooklyn and america and her politics, which in itself was enough to chill the stream of intercourse. but they found a common interest in the oriental writers with whom whitman was but vaguely acquainted, the scholar advising upon translations. thoreau and emerson had both noted the resemblance between _leaves of grass_ and some of the sacred writings of india; and the latter once humorously described the _leaves_ as a mixture of the _bhagavad-gitá_[209] and the _new york herald_.[210] thoreau died in 1862, and this was probably their only meeting. * * * * * thoreau carried off with him a copy of the new edition of whitman's poems, fresh from the press, and some of the remarks i have alluded to refer especially to its contents, and to several of the new poems which we must now briefly consider, for it is obviously impossible to give any worthy account of whitman without attempting at least to outline the successive expressions of his own views about himself, as they are set forth in his book. none of the twenty new _leaves_ appears so important as the "song of myself," but among them are some of the finest and most suggestive pages he ever wrote, notably the "poem of salutation," and the "poem of the road".[211] the book is now shorn of its prose preface, which would be a serious loss if large portions of it were not to be found broken into lines, and otherwise slightly altered, upon the later pages. it had been used as a quarry for poems, and some of the blocks underwent but little trimming. in the "salutation," he identifies himself elaborately and in much detail, with all peoples of the globe, finding equals and lovers in every land. the universal survey is faithfully made; the poem is like a rapid passage through a gallery of pictures, and regarded as a whole, suggests the outlines of the world-wide field which its author desires the reader to view. whitman asserts his comprehensive sympathy; like america he includes all men. he is one with them in their common humanity, and sympathises with them individually in the main purposes and desires of their lives. the poem opens in the form of question and answer. looking into whitman's face, the questioner sees as it were a whole world lying latent within his gaze and becoming actual as he looks. taking the poet's hand, he begs him to explain: walt accedes with readiness, and immediately forgets the questioner. the subject of the poem--man as the microcosm not only of the universe but of the race--is not perhaps novel; but its meaning is none the less difficult to expound. for it bears directly upon the cosmic consciousness, in which, as i have said, many of us are wanting. there are some, however, who are at times aware of moods in which they realise the symbolic character of all objects; they see them, that is to say, as forms through which vivid emotions are conveyed to the soul. at such moments, the whole world becomes for them a complex of these symbols, whose authenticity they can no more doubt than the meaning of daily speech, and whose ultimate significance is of an infinite content, which forever unfolds before them. such moods were evidently frequent with whitman, and perhaps became the norm of his consciousness. in them his eyes read the world, as though it were the writing of that infinite and supreme soul which was himself, and yet not himself; that soul of all, with which his consciousness was become mystically one. he felt the actual thrill and meaning of the world's words; words which he more fully describes or rather tries to suggest, in another poem, afterwards known as the "song of the rolling earth".[212] in order to explain whitman's meaning one would need to make a study of the roots of this kind of symbolism, a task which is here impracticable. we must be content instead with a glance at the poem itself. "earth, round, rolling, compact--suns, moons, animals--all these are words to be said,"[213] he asserts; vast words, not indeed of dots and strokes, nor of sounds, but of real things which exist and are uttered. i myself, and not my name, he says suggestively, is the real word which the soul understands. he that hath ears to hear, let him hear, not my words but me, the word. the words of great poets are different from those of mere singers and minor poets, because they suggest these ultimate words, these presences and symbols. a symbol, be it remembered, always using the word in the sense indicated, is no arbitrary sign, it is a form or appearance, which seen _through_ the eye--to use blake's happy formula--presents to the imagination an unimpeachable, distinct emotional concept. to whitman, everything became thus symbolic. he saw the earth itself--the whole world about him--as a symbol, infallibly presenting to him a distinguishable idea or meaning; not indeed a thought, for the word fails to express something which must clearly be supra-intellectual--the perception of a conscious state of emotion. of what then was the earth a symbol to whitman's sight? he says, frankly enough,[214] that he cannot convey the idea in print; but that as far as he can suggest it, it is one of progress, or amelioration; it is generous, calm, subtle; it includes the idea of expression, or the bearing of fruit; it is the acceptance of all things, and it is the general purpose which underlies them all. i fear that those who seek for simple explanations in plain words will scarcely be satisfied with this. perhaps whitman is only reasserting in his own manner the familiar adage that god is the prince of poets, and that the universe is his chapbook which he offers to all. if so, he either gives a new meaning to the words, or he has rediscovered their old vital sense and redeemed them from the stigma of rhetoric. i do not know whether after all the simple-sounding words are not the more elusive. the words of the earth-mother spoken to her children are, he would have us believe, ultimate and infallible; all things may be tried by them. that is what he means when he says he has read his poems over in the open air. he has proved them thus to see if their suggestion is that of the earth. she sits, as it were, with her back turned toward her children,[215] but in her hand she holds a mirror, the clear mirror of appearances which are true, and in that mirror we may see ourselves and her. with her ample back toward every beholder, with the fascinations of youth, and equal fascinations of age, sits she whom i too love like the rest--sits undisturb'd, holding up in her hand what has the character of a mirror, while her eyes glance back from it, glance as she sits, inviting none, denying none, holding a mirror day and night tirelessly before her own face. how much we can see, depends upon our own character. to the perfect man, the face of the mother is perfect: to the man ashamed, disfigured, broken, it appears to be such as he. only the pure behold the truth. there is no merely intellectual test of truth, for truth is known only by the soul. as one looks into the mirror, and reads the thought behind appearances, not with the intellect but with the sight of the awakened soul, one grows to understand what progress means, one sees a little further into the secrets of love; one learns that the divine love neither invites nor refuses. the sayers of words are those who with pure insight--or as coleridge would say, imagination--behold things as they are apprehended by the cosmic consciousness; and thus beholding them as they truly are, find words which hint to the soul of that reality which speaks through all appearance. after the sayers come the singers, the poets who, building words together, create new worlds. in another poem, the open road[216] becomes the symbol of freedom, acceptance, sanity, comradeship, immortality and eternal battles. afoot and light-hearted i take to the open road, healthy, free, the world before me, the long brown path before me, leading wherever i choose. henceforth i ask not good-fortune--i am good-fortune, henceforth i whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, strong and content, i travel the open road. (1860.) among the best known and most popular of the _leaves of grass_, it is also among those which are most filled with recondite and mystic meanings. over these we must not linger, save to note the indication of the mystic sense by phrases like "the float of the sight of things" and "the efflux of the soul". the poem as a whole is marked by musical cadences, and is vivid from end to end with courage and the open air. after the "song of myself," thoreau preferred the "sun-down poem," which describes the crossing of brooklyn ferry.[217] it is filled with the thought that, even after half a century and in our own day, when others than he will be crossing, still he will be with them there unseen. the thoughts that come to him show him the soul wrapt around in unconsciousness, and the things which, by contact with the clean senses, are presently realised as meanings by the soul. the poem is a fine example of whitman's delight in movement, in masses of people, and in the surroundings of his city. in the "clef-poem,"[218] intended to strike the key-note, not only for his poems, but as it were for the universe itself with its innumerable meanings, he tells how, standing on the beach at night alone, he realised that all things--soul and body, past and future, here and there--are interlocked and spanned by a vast homogeneity of essence. the knowledge sweeps away all possibilities of anxiety about the future after death; experience can never fail to feed the soul. it contents him also with the present: no experience can ever be more wonderful to him than this of to-night, when he lies upon the breast of the mother of his being. the future can be nothing but an eternal unfolding of this that he beholds already present in his body and soul. * * * * * while dwelling upon the symbolical mysticism which cannot be ignored in whitman's whole habit of thought, i may add a further word upon its character.[219] mysticism appears under several forms. the indian guru, winning the eternal consciousness by long practices in the gymnasium of the mind; the lover discovering it through the fiery gateways, and tear-washed windows of passion; the poet seeking it in the eyes of the beauty that was before the beginning of the world; the quaker awaiting its coming in silence and simplicity; the catholic preparing for it by prayer and fasting, by ritual and ceremony; the lover of nature discovering it among her solitudes; the lover of man entering into it only by faith, in the strenuous service of his kind: all these bear witness to the many ways of experience along which the deep waters flow. belonging to no school, whitman had relations with several of the mystical groups; he had least, i suppose, with that which seeks the occult by traditional crystal-gazing and the media of hypnotic trances or the dreams produced by anæsthetic drugs. he was a mystic because wonders beset him all about on the open road of his soul. in him mysticism was never associated with pathological symptoms; it was, as he himself suggests, the flower and proof of his sanity, soundness and health. he had not learnt his lore from books. plato and plotinus, buddha and boehme, were alike but half-familiar to him; he never studied them closely as a disciple should. his thought may have been quickened by old elias hicks, and strengthened occasionally by contact with the friends. it often recalls the more leonine, less catholic spirit of george fox; and the vision of the soul, standing like an unseen companion by the side of every man, woman, and child, ready to appear at the first clear call of deep to human deep, was ever present to them both, and in itself explains much that must otherwise remain incomprehensible in their attitude. but the world of whitman was that of the nineteenth century, not of the seventeenth: carlyle, goethe and lincoln, had taken the places of calvin, milton and cromwell. in many aspects the mysticism of _leaves of grass_ is nearer to that of _the republic_ and _the symposium_, than to that of fox's _epistles_ and _journal_; nearer, that is, to the greek synthesis, than to the evangelical ardour of the puritan. temperance he loved, but he hated the narrowness of negations. * * * * * to return to the book: the thought of the sanity of the earth is brought to bear upon the problem of evil in a poem[220] which describes how, in spite of the mass of corruption returned to it by disease and death, the earth neutralises all by the chemistry of its laws and life. with calm and patient acceptance of evil, nature refuses nothing, but ever provides man anew with innocent and divine materials. and such, it would seem, is the inherent character of the universe, and therefore of the soul. a poem,[221] whose opening cadences were suggested by the drip, drip, drip, of the rain from the eaves, presents the broad-axe as the true emblem of america, whitman's substitute for the eagle whose wings are always spread. broad-axe, shapely, naked, wan! head from the mother's bowels drawn! wooded flesh and metal bone! limb only one and lip only one! gray-blue leaf by red-heat grown! helve produced from a little seed sown! resting the grass amid and upon, to be leaned, and to lean on. here we enter the picturesque, muscular world of wood-cutters and carpenters so familiar to the author, and we are reminded of the older and more sinister uses and products of the axe. seen by whitman, the broad-axe itself is a poem that tells of strenuous america, with her free heroic life and the comradeship of her western cities, great with the greatness of their common folk. it tells him of the woman of america, self-possessed and strong; and of large, natural, naïve types of manhood. it even prophecies to him of walt whitman, and sings the "song of myself," the message of the noble fierce undying self. as a cuvier can reconstruct an undiscovered creature from a single fossil bone, so might the poet seer have foretold america by this symbol of an axe. the idea of america is further expounded in several other poems, especially in the longest of the additions, which was afterwards expanded into "by blue ontario's shore".[222] much of its essential thought, however, and some of its actual phrasing belongs to the old preface, and has therefore been already noted. it dwells on the potential equality of every citizen in the sight of america herself, an equality based upon the divine soul which is in each; and also, upon liberty, which is the ultimate and essential element of all individual life. the thought of america calls up in whitman's mind the picture of that poet, that "soul of love and tongue of fire," who will utter the idea which is america, and which alone can integrate her diverse peoples into one. and here whitman flings off his cloak which concealed him in the preface, and openly announces that it is he himself who incarnates the spirit of the land. fall behind me, states! a man, before all--myself, typical, before all. give me the pay i have served for! give me to speak beautiful words! take all the rest; i have loved the earth, sun, animals--i have despised riches, i have given alms to every one that asked, stood up for the stupid and crazy, devoted my income and labour to others, i have hated tyrants, argued not concerning god, had patience and indulgence toward the people, taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown, i have gone freely with powerful uneducated persons, and with the young, and with the mothers of families, i have read these leaves to myself in the open air--i have tried them by trees, stars, rivers, i have dismissed whatever insulted my own soul or defiled my body, i have claimed nothing to myself which i have not carefully claimed for others on the same terms, i have studied my land, its idioms and men, i am willing to wait to be understood by the growth of the taste of myself, i reject none, i permit all, whom i have staid with once i have found longing for me ever afterward.[223] the poet is that equable sane man, in whose vision alone all things find and are seen in their proper place, for he sees each _sub specie æternitatis_--in its eternal aspect. but while thus boldly declaring himself as the man that should come, he has of course no desire to stand alone, and attempts to outline the equipment necessary for future american poets. they must not only identify themselves in every possible way with america, they must be themselves creative and virile. those who criticise, explain and adjudge, can only create a literary soil; they cannot produce the flower and fruit of poetry. returning to his favourite adage that a man is as great as a nation, he asserts that the true poet is america; frankly reading himself as a whole, he will see the meanings of america. is then america also a symbol? assuredly. she is the republic; she is the kingdom of god; she is blake's jerusalem; but behold, she is already founded and four-square upon the solid earth. that he was open-eyed to the materialistic spirit rampant throughout the continent while he was writing, is clearly shown in the bitter mockery of "respondez,"[224] a poem afterwards suppressed. it is a challenge to thought; an ironic assertion of things that are false and futile, and which yet parade as realities. though suggestive it is obscure, and its subsequent omission was wise. thoughts of the destiny of america,[225] and of the evil and imperfection which he saw about him, hindering, as it seemed, the realisation of that destiny, and of the destiny of individual souls, must often have moved him to passionate longing. he was not one of those who confuse good with evil; he always recognised the difference between right and wrong as among the eternal distinctions which could never cease to hold true. he hated sin as he hated disease, and recognised both as threatening and actual. if he rarely denounces, it is because he has seen that the way of the soul is along the path of love and not of fear or of hate; and because he recognises the office of sin in the story of the soul. he is not anxious about vice or virtue, but only about life and love. love, at its fullest, is something different from virtue; it contains elements which virtue can never possess, and which most ethical codes consign to the category of vice. such love alone is the expression of the soul; and every student of love discovers sooner or later that the soul has its own intimate standard for judging what is wrong and what is right, and when that which was wrong has now become right for it to do. love, then, is whitman's code. and when he seeks to call the youth of america away from selfishness and sin, he issues no new table of thou-shalt-nots, but fills their ears with the words of their destiny, and of the meaning of america. for he knows that to sin is to choose a narrow and despicable delight, and that one must needs choose the nobler, larger joy when it becomes present and real. hence he recalls all the aspirations that went to the birth of america, and describes the parts that women and men must fill if they are to be realised. he reminds his young readers of all the divine possibilities of manhood and of womanhood, and of how those possibilities are for them; and warns them that the body must necessarily affect the soul, for it is the medium through which the soul comes into consciousness. anticipate your own life--retract with merciless power, shirk nothing--retract in time--do you see those errors, diseases, weaknesses, lies, thefts? do you see that lost character?--do you see decay, consumption, rum-drinking, dropsy, fever, mortal cancer or inflammation? do you see death, and the approach of death? think of the soul; i swear to you that body of yours gives proportions to your soul somehow to live in other spheres, i do not know how, but i know it is so.[226] finally, in the new poems, whitman makes more plain his attitude toward the woman question, as it is called. an american national women's rights association had been founded in 1850, and although its agitation for the suffrage proved unsuccessful, the more general movement which it represented, especially the higher education of women, was gaining ground throughout america. the movement may be said to have been born in new york state, where mrs. elizabeth cady stanton and miss susan b. anthony were its most active leaders; but it owed much to boston also, and notably to margaret fuller (ossoli), whose tragic death had been an irreparable loss to the cause.[227] whitman was in cordial sympathy with everything that could forward the independence of women. but he disliked some outstanding characteristics of the movement. it was in part a violent reaction against the unwholesome sentimentalism of the past; a reaction which took the form of sexless intellectualism with a strong bent towards argumentation, perhaps the most abhorrent of all qualities to whitman. this movement for women's rights seemed to him too academic and too superficial; college education and the suffrage did not appeal to him. but he was not the less an enthusiast for the cause itself, as he understood it. his views are simple and clear. a soul is a soul, whether it be man's or woman's; and as such, it is of necessity free, and the equal of others. a woman is every way as good as a man. this truth must be made effective in all departments of life. then, taking up the thought which underlies the teaching of plato, a woman is a citizen; and an american woman must be as independent, as dauntless, as greatly daring as a man. such as the woman essentially is, such will be the man, her son, and her mate. but--and it is here he differs from the leaders of the movement--sex is basic not only in society but in personal life; and the woman unsexed is but half a woman. two poems in the new edition, the nucleus of the subsequent _children of adam_, are devoted to these ideas. in the first,[228] he describes the women of his ideal:- they are not one jot less than i am, they are tanned in the face by shining suns and blowing winds, their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength, they know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike, retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves, they are ultimate in their own right--they are calm, clear, well-possessed of themselves. in the second,[229] he declares that life is only life after love--he means the passionate fulness of love--and indicates that womanhood is to be glorified not through a sexless revolt, but through the redemption of paternity. when the begetting of children is recognised to be as holy and as noble as the bearing of them, then the rights of women will be on the way to recognition. if motherhood is the glory of the race, then a movement towards perpetual virginity brings no solution of our problem. the only solution lies in the independence of women, and in the evolution of a higher masculine ideal of the sex relation. the whole thing must be naturally and honestly faced. until we so face it, we cannot understand a world in which it is so implicated, that sex is, as it were, a summing up of all things. this last thought grew upon him, becoming more prominent in the next edition. in the present one it recurs in the open letter to emerson printed in its appendix,[230] and gave a peculiar colour to the volume in the public eye. so much was this the case, that a prosecution seemed at one time imminent, many persons regarding the book as obscene. among timid and conventional people, it seems to be established as a canon of criticism that it is always immoral to discuss immorality. they go but little farther who denounce the purity which is not defiled by pitch; or tear out by the roots all flowers that grow upon dung-heaps. * * * * * such then, added to the old, formed the contents of the new edition of 1856. the appendix included emerson's letter, which whitman had been urged to publish, by mr. c. a. dana, editor of the _new york sun_, and a personal friend of emerson.[231] he succeeded in convincing whitman, who appears at first to have doubted the propriety of such an action. there is no evidence that emerson resented the use thus made of his glowing testimony, although he would probably have modified his words had he written in acknowledgment of the enlarged volume. a sentence from the letter appeared also upon the back of the book: "i greet you at the commencement of a great career.--r. w. emerson." this, together with the storm of indignation aroused by the absolutely frank language of the poems dealing with sex, gave the book notoriety and a rapid sale. it is the least pleasing of the editions of _leaves of grass_, insignificant in appearance, and yet aggressive, by reason of that emersonian testimonial. the open letter at the end, of which i have already spoken, is far from agreeable to read. it is careless, egotistical, naïve to a degree, and crowded with exaggerations. addressing emerson as master, it proceeds to denounce the churches as one vast lie, and the actual president as a rascal and a thief. it is so egregiously self-conscious that it makes the reader question for a moment whether all the egoism and naïveté of the preceding pages may not have been worn as a pose; but a moment's further consideration gives the question a final negative. few men are without their hours of weakness; and that whitman was not among those few, the letter is proof if such were needed. the letter is not void of interest, since it records the rapid sale of the previous edition of a thousand copies, and anticipates that in a few more years the annual issue will be counted by thousands. this sanguine forecast explains the permanent and otherwise unreasonable disappointment of whitman at the reception of his book. it still made its appearance devoid of the usual adornment of a publisher's name upon the title-page. messrs. fowler & wells were again the principal agents, others being arranged with in the chief american cities, in london also, and paris and brussels. plates were cast from the type, and a large sale was prepared for. but the new york agents soon withdrew, unwilling to face the storm of public opinion,[232] and perhaps the dangers of prosecution, and the book fell out of print when only a thousand copies had been issued. * * * * * the two ventures of 1855 and 1856 had brought whitman little money, a mere handful of serious readers, and some notoriety. though he did not give in, he began to look about him for some supplementary means of delivering his soul of its burden. his youthful success on the political platform, his love of crowds and of personal contact, his extraordinary popularity among the younger people, and his own keen sense of the power of oratory, turned his thoughts to lecturing.[233] he would follow the road which emerson and thoreau had taken. he would evangelise america with his gospel. henceforward, as his mother said, he wrote barrels of lectures,[234] and at the same time he studied his new art more or less systematically. after his death a package of notes on oratory, and the rough draft of a prospectus were found among his papers; the latter was headed, "15 cents. walt whitman's lectures." it belongs to the year 1858. by this time he had planned to write, print, distribute and recite throughout the united states and canada a number of lectures--partly philosophical, partly socio-political, partly religious--with the object of creating what he conceived to be a new, and for the first time truly american attitude of mind. the lectures were ultimately to form a second volume of explanation and argument which would sustain the _leaves_. he had now omitted any preface to the poems, the creative work standing alone. but having printed the second edition and thus relieved his mind of its most pressing burden, he recognised that the work of explanation and of criticism remained. moreover, he conceived that his lectures would quicken public interest in his book; while, by showing himself, he hoped to dispel some of the misapprehensions which concealed his real meaning from the popular mind. he alludes whimsically in this memorandum to the offensive practice of self-advertisement, of which he was not unconscious, remarking that "it cannot be helped," for it is the only way by which he can gain the ear of america, and bid her "know thyself". finally, he proposed to earn his living in this manner. he would have preferred to give his services without fee, in the quaker fashion; but for the time being at least, he must make a charge of ten dollars (two guineas) a lecture, and expenses, or an admission fee of one dime (about sixpence) a head. the idea of lecturing was probably as old as the idea of the _leaves of grass_; he seems to have been considering it ever since he returned from the south. but now he formulated his ideas, which were of course those underlying the _leaves_, and thought much and cogently on the style and manner of public speaking. his conclusions betray an ideal for oratory as individual and as mystical as that for the poet's art. whitman, the lecturer, is conceived as a prophet possessed by the tempestuous passion of inspiration. the orator is to combine the gifts of the great actor with the inspiration of the pythoness and the spontaneity of the quaker prophet. his gestures should be large, but reserved; the delivery deliberate, thought-awakening, elliptical, prophetic, wholly unlike that of the glib platform speakers of his day and our own. at first, erect and motionless, the speaker would impress his mere personality upon the assembly; then his eyes would kindle, like the eyes in that strange marble balzac of rodin's, and from the eyes outward the whole body would take fire and speak. he conceived of oratory not as the delivery of some well-prepared address, but as the focussing of all the powers of thought and experience in an hour of inspiration and supreme mastery. he saw how much it entailed--what breadth of knowledge, what depth of thought, what perfect flexibility of voice and gesture trained to clear suggestion, what absolute purity of body, what perfect self-control. for, he would say to himself, the great orator is an artist as supreme as alboni herself; his voice is to be as potent as hers, and his life must show an equal devotion to its purpose. in this conception of the orator we have then a most interesting parallel with that of the poet. and just as whitman the poet stands part way between the writer of prose and the singer in verse, including in himself some of the qualities of each, and adding an inspiration wholly his own, so whitman the orator appears in this vision standing between the actor-singer and the lecturer or preacher, improvising great words. the political aspect of his enterprise is suggested by a brief memorandum, dated in april, 1857,[235] wherein he notes that the "champion of america" must keep himself clear of all official entanglements, devoting himself solely to the maintenance of a living interest in public questions throughout the length and breadth of the land. standing aside from the parties with their clamorous cries, he must hold the public ear by nobler tones. in another place[236] he writes that as washington had freed the body politic of america from its dependence upon the english crown, so whitman will free the american people from their dependence upon european ideals. the mere publication of such frank, but private assertions of whitman's own faith in himself, will doubtless arouse a ready incredulity in the reader's mind. it might, perhaps, seem kinder to his memory to suppress them altogether; but upon second thought it will, i think, appear possible that he was a better judge than others of his own ability. his personality was one of extraordinary power, and his outlook of a breadth which was almost unique. and, as i have said, he felt himself to be an incarnation of the american spirit. at the time, america was without leadership. lincoln was still unseen; and whitman was fully as capable of filling the highest office in the united states as several who have held it; while nothing in the circumstances or traditions of the white house made it absurd for any able citizen, of whatever rank, to entertain the thought of its tenancy. this would be especially true of a popular new yorker, who made perhaps the best of all candidates for a presidential campaign. the republican party had but just been formed, and for the first time had fought an election. thunderclouds of war were in the air, urged on by the ominous forces of slavery, and america was without a champion. i think the idea of political leadership crossed whitman's mind at this time, and that he put it definitely aside. the hour cried out for the man, and the cry was not to go unanswered; but with all his power and all his goodwill and fervour, whitman became slowly convinced that it was not to be he. he had seen too much of party manoeuvres, and had too vigorous a love of personal liberty, to contend for office. but he did covet the power of a prophet to stir the heart of america, and appeal to her people everywhere in her name. he never gave up the idea of lecturing or lost his interest in oratory; but the lectures he planned, the course on democracy and the rest, remained undelivered. it is as though he had prepared himself and stood awaiting a call which never came. instead, he turned once more to add new poems to his collection. a hint in explanation is to be found in a poem written about this time,[237] in which he tells how, having first sought knowledge, he then determined to live for america and become her orator; he was afterwards possessed by the desire for a heroic life of action, but was given the commission of song. finally, another change came over his spirit; the claims of his own life seized him; he could not escape from the passion of comradeship which overwhelmed him and wholly absorbed his thought.[238] we shall consider this phase in the next chapter, but before doing so, it will be well to recall the political events of the hour and the circumstances surrounding the advent of a new power and personality into american life. footnotes: [202] m. d. conway, _autobiography_. [203] _fort. rev._, vi., 538; kennedy, 51. [204] _in re_, 36. [205] see _familiar letters of h. d. thoreau_, 339-349. [206] f. b. sanborn's _thoreau_, 307; _cf._ h. s. salt's _thoreau_, 293. [207] _fam. letters_, 347. [208] camden, lxxii.; _cf._ _life of a. tennyson_, ii., 424. [209] a new translation of the great indian classic had just appeared. [210] kennedy, 78. [211] _l. of g._, 112, 120. [212] _l. of g._, 176. [213] _l. of g._ (1860), 329; _cf._ _an american primer_, by w. w. (1904). [214] _l. of g._, 179. [215] _l. of g._, 177. [216] _ib._, 120. [217] _l. of g._, 129. [218] _ib._, 207; ('60), 229-31. [219] see also p. 166. [220] _l. of g._, 285. [221] _ib._, 148. [222] _l. of g._, 264. [223] _ib._ (1860), 121. [224] _l. of g._ (1860), 166. [225] _ib._, 171-74; _cf._ _l. of g._, 213. [226] _l. of g._ (1860), 172. [227] see esp. the _life of susan b. anthony_. [228] _l. of g._, 88. [229] _l. of g._, 90. [230] _ib._ (1856). [231] bucke, 139. [232] burroughs, 19. [233] camden, vii.; viii., 244-260; ix., 200; x., 32. [234] _in re_, 35. [235] camden, ix., 7, 8. [236] _ib._, viii., 245. [237] _l. of g._ (1860), 354. [238] as the poem is not given in the complete _l. of g._ i reprint it here:- long i thought that knowledge alone would suffice me--o if i could but obtain knowledge! then my lands engrossed me--lands of the prairies, ohio's land, the southern savannas, engrossed me--for them i would live--i would be their orator; then i met the examples of old and new heroes--i heard of warriors, sailors, and all dauntless persons--and it seemed to me that i too had it in me to be as dauntless as any--and would be so; and then, to enclose all, it came to me to strike up the songs of the new world--and then i believed my life must be spent in singing; but now take notice, land of the prairies, land of the south savannas, ohio's land, take notice, you kanuck woods--and you lake huron--and all that with you roll toward niagara--and you niagara also, and you, californian mountains--that you each and all find somebody else to be your singer of songs, for i can be your singer of songs no longer--one who loves me is jealous of me, and withdraws me from all but love, with the rest i dispense--i sever from what i thought would suffice me, for it does not--it is now empty and tasteless to me, i heed knowledge, and the grandeur of the states, and the example of heroes, no more, i am indifferent to my own songs--i will go with him i love, it is to be enough for us that we are together--we never separate again. chapter ix "year of meteors" abraham lincoln, the man for whom the hour cried out, was not quite unknown to fame.[239] ten years older than whitman, and like whitman owning to a strain of quaker blood in his veins, he belonged by origin to the south and by adoption to the west. after six years' service in the illinois legislature, and a term in the lower house at washington, he settled down at the age of forty to his profession as a country lawyer. in 1854 the repeal of the missouri compromise in favour of "squatter sovereignty" recalled him to political life, and he became the champion of free-soil principles in his state, against the chief sponsor of the opposing doctrine, the "little giant of illinois," judge stephen douglas. his reply to douglas in october of that year was read and applauded by his party throughout america. hitherto he had been a whig, and during clay's lifetime, his devoted follower, but the repeal of the compromise was followed in 1856 by the formation of a new party, and lincoln and whitman both became "black republicans". "barnburners," abolitionists and "anti-nebraska" men--those that is to say who opposed the application of the doctrine of "squatter sovereignty" to nebraska and kansas--had united to form a new free-soil party. they nominated j. c. frémont, the gallant californian "path-finder" for the presidency; but, owing to the presence of a third candidate put forward by the know-nothing whigs--whose only policy seems to have been a "patriotic" hatred of all catholics and foreigners--the democratic nominee was elected for the last time in a generation. after his four years were out, a succession of republican presidents occupied the white house for twenty-four years. james buchanan, who defeated frémont--becoming like lincoln, his successor, a minority president--seems to have been an honourable and well-intentioned pennsylvanian, but he was a man whose character was quite insufficient for his new office. as an injudicious, short-sighted diplomatist, he had already, when minister at st. james's in the days of president pierce, commended his intrigues for the annexation of cuba. earlier in 1856 chief justice taney, of the supreme court, had delivered his notorious decision in the dred scott case; laying it down that congress could not forbid a citizen to carry his property into the public domain--that is to say, it could not prohibit slavery in the territories--and that, in the political sense of the word, a negro was not a "man," but only property. this decision and the bloody scenes enacted in kansas, where settlers from the north and south were met to struggle for the constitution which should make the new state either slave or free, greatly exasperated public opinion, and called forth, among others, the protests of abraham lincoln. in 1858, while whitman was studying oratory, lincoln was stumping illinois, in those ever-memorable debates which laid bare all the plots and purposes of the southern politicians. when the votes in that contest were counted, lincoln held an actual majority; but douglas was returned as senator by a majority of the electoral votes. though thus defeated, lincoln was no longer hidden in a western obscurity. he was a man with a future; and america had half-unconsciously recognised him. * * * * * towards the close of 1859, the fire which had been kindled in kansas flashed out suddenly in virginia. america was startled by the news of john brown's raid, and the capture of the arsenal at harper's ferry. brown was among the most remarkable personalities of the time; and while some saw in him a religious fanatic of the roundhead type, who compelled his enemies to pray at the muzzle of his musket, and who for the abolition cause would shatter the union; others counted him a martyr for the cause of freedom. emerson had been one of his most earnest backers when first he went to kansas; and now his deed fired the enthusiasm of new england. thoreau wrote: "no man in america has ever stood up so persistently and effectively for the dignity of human nature, knowing himself for a man, and the equal of any government"; and when he was hung, it was thoreau who vehemently declared that john brown seemed to him to be the only man in america who had not died.[240] his high spirit quickened the conscience of the north, and two years later its sons marched into virginia singing the song of his apotheosis. whitman was present at the trial of certain of brown's abettors in the state house at boston;[241] one of a group prepared to effect their rescue in the event of a miscarriage of justice. lincoln, on the other hand, was of those who, in spite of their intense hatred of slavery, wholly disapproved the raid. for him, john brown was a maddened enthusiast, a mere assassin like orsini.[242] his attempt to raise the slaves of virginia in revolt against the whites was abhorrent to the republican statesman whose knowledge of the south showed him the horrors of a negro rising. regarding slavery as the irreconcilable and only dangerous foe of the republic, lincoln held that the federal government must restrain it within its actual bounds; and that the sentiment in favour of gradual emancipation advocated by jefferson, the father of the democratic party, should be encouraged in the states of the south. but it was the states themselves that held and must hold the fatal right of choice; it was for them, not for america, to liberate their slaves. * * * * * while the figure of lincoln was thus becoming more and more visible to the nation, whitman was fulfilling his own destiny in new york. he was born to be a leader of men; but a poet, a path-finder, a pioneer, not a politician or president. whatever his noble ambition might urge, or his quick imagination prompt, he kept his feet to the path of his proper destiny. he had a prodigiously wide circle of friends, gathered from every walk of life: journalists and literary men of all kinds; actors and actresses; doctors and an occasional minister of religion; political and public characters; the stage-drivers and the hands on the river-boats; farmers from the country; pilots and captains of the port; labourers, mechanics and artisans of every trade; loungers too, and many a member of that class which society has failed to assimilate and which it hunts from prison to asylum and poor-house; and he had acquaintances among another class of outcasts whose numbers were already an open menace to the life of the western metropolis, the girls who sell themselves upon the streets.[243] many anecdotes are told of him during these years: how for instance he would steer the ferry-boats, till once he brought his vessel into imminent peril, and never thereafter would consent to handle the wheel; or how, during the illness of a comrade, he held his post, driving his stage in the winter weather while he lay in the wards of the hospital; or again, how he took emerson to a favourite rendezvous of firemen and teamsters, his good friends, and to the astonishment of the kindly sage, proved himself manifestly one of them. a doctor at the old new york hospital,[244] a dark stone building surmounted by a cupola, and looking out over a grassy square through iron gates upon pearl street, often met him in the wards, where he came to visit one or other of his driver friends, and enjoyed the restful influence of his presence there or in the little house-doctor's room. in those days, when broadway was crammed with vehicles and with stages of all colours, much as is the strand to-day, the proverbial american daring and recklessness gave ample opportunity for accidents. as to the drivers, they were generally country-bred farmers' sons, fine fellows, wide-awake and thoroughly conversant with all that passed in the city from the earliest grey of dawn till midnight: and whitman found some of his closest comrades in their ranks. sometimes a member of the hospital staff would go over with him to pfaff's german restaurant or rathskeller on broadway; a large dingy basement to which one descended from the street. here, half under the pavement, were the tables, bar and oyster stall, whereat the bohemians of new york were wont to gather, and in a yellow fog of tobacco-smoke denounce all things bostonian. john swinton, a friend of alcott and of whitman, belonged to the group,[245] and among those who drank herr pfaff's lager-beer, and demolished his schwartz brod, swiss cheese, and frankfurter wurst, were many of the brilliant little band which at this time was making the _new york saturday press_ a challenge to everything academic and respectable. it was here that a young bostonian, paying his first visit to the city in 1860,[246] found whitman installed at the head of a long table, already a hero in that revolutionary young world. the _press_ was his champion, and his voice was not to be silenced. mr. howells, for it was he, had been amused and amazed at the ferociously profane bohemianism of the worthy editor, who had lived in paris, and now worshipped it in the person of victor hugo as much as he detested longfellow and boston. mr. howells was astonished and deeply impressed by the extraordinary charm, gentleness and benignity of the man whom the _press_ was extolling as arch-anarch and rebel. whitman's eyes and voice made a frank and irresistible proffer of friendship, and he gave you his hand as though it were yours to keep. an atmosphere of unmistakable purity emanated from him in the midst of that thickness of smoke, that reek of beer and oysters and german cooking. he was clean as the sea is clean. he passed along the ordinary levels of life as one who lives among the mountains, and finds his home on helicon or olympus. ada clare[247] (mrs. julia macelhinney), by all accounts a charming and brilliant woman, was queen of this rebel circle, and especially a friend of whitman's. news of her tragic death from hydrophobia, caused by the bite of her pet dog, came as a terrible shock to all who had known her. he had other women friends, notably mrs. "abby" price, of brooklyn, and her two daughters.[248] the mother was an incurable lover of her kind, whose hospitality to the outcast survived all the frauds practised upon it. the haunted faces of the needy were becoming only too familiar both in new york and brooklyn. the winter of 1857-58 had been a black one:[249] banks had broken, and work had come to a standstill; and there had been in consequence the direst need among the ever-increasing class of men who were wholly dependent upon their weekly earnings. the rise of this class in a new country marks the advent of the social problem in its more acute form: and from this date on there was a rapid development of the usual palliative agencies, missions, rescue-homes and what-not. the permanent problem of poverty had made its appearance in america. it need hardly be added that at the same time there were many evidences of the growing wealth of another class of the citizens, those whose profits were derived from land-values and the employment of wage-labour. the brown-stone characteristic of the modern city was now replacing the wood and brick which had hitherto lined broadway,[250] as private houses gave way to shops and offices, hotels and theatres. residences were built farther and farther up-town; and the quarantine station on staten island, which stood in the way of a similar expansion in that desirable quarter, was burnt out by aspiring citizens. and meanwhile the pressure of life in the east-side rookeries was growing more and more tyrannous. the foundering of a slave-ship off montauk point was one of the more striking reminders of the menace of vested interests to all that the fathers of the republic had held dear.[251] for even the slave trade was now being revived, and the hands of northern merchants were anything but clean from the gold of conspiracy. sympathy for the "institution" and its corollaries was strong in new york, and was not unrepresented at pfaff's. it must have been about the close of 1861,[252] or a little later, that one of the bohemians proposed a toast to the success of the southern arms. whitman retorted with indignant and passionate words: an altercation ensued across the table, with some show of ill-mannered violence by the southern enthusiast; and whitman left his old haunt, never to return till the great storm of the war had become a far-away echo. * * * * * [illustration: whitman at forty] there are two portraits which belong to the pfaffian days. in either he might be the stage-driver of broadway, and his dress presents a striking contrast with the stiff gentility of the orthodox costume, the silk hat and broadcloth, of the correct citizen. he is a great nonchalant fellow, with rough clothes fit for manual toil; a coat whose collar, by the way, has a rebellious upward turn; a waistcoat, all unbuttoned save at a point about half-way down, exposing the loose-collared shirt surrounded by a big knotted tie. the trousers are of the same striped stuff as the vest; one hand is thrust into a pocket, the other holds his broad brim. in the photograph, which alone is of full length, the face is strong and kindly, as mr. howells saw it; but in the painting, which dates from 1859,[253] and is valuable as showing the florid colouring of the man at this time--the growth of hair and beard, though touched with grey, very vigorous and still dark, the eyebrows almost black, the face handsome, red and full as of an old-time sea-captain--the aspect is heavy and even a little sinister. probably this is a clumsy rendering of that lethargic and brooding condition which the occupation of sitting for a portrait would be likely to induce; and in this it is curiously unlike that of the photograph. the pose in the latter is unstudied and a little awkward; one cannot help feeling that the man ought to loaf a little less. the head is magnificent, but the knees are loose. there was something in whitman's character which this full-length portrait indicates better than any other; something indefinite and complacent, which matched with his deliberate and swaggery gait. it is a quality which exasperates the formalists, and all the people who feel positively indecent in anything but a starched shirt. whitman wore the garb and fell naturally into the attitudes of the manual worker. when he was not at work he was relaxed, and stood at ease in a way that no one could mistake. and when he went out to enjoy himself he never donned a tail-coat and patent shoes. something in this very capacity for relaxation and looseness at the knees made him more companionable to the average man, as it made him more exasperating to the superior person. the gentility of the clerical mannikin of the office was utterly abominable to him; so much one can read in the portrait, and in the fact that he persisted in calling himself walt, the name which was familiar to the men on the ferry and the road.[254] * * * * * early in 1860 whitman made arrangements with a firm of young and enterprising boston publishers for the issue of a third edition of his book. it had now been out of print for nearly three years, and new material had all that time been accumulating, amounting to about two-thirds of what had already been published. he went over to boston and installed himself in a little room at the printing office, where he spent his days carefully correcting and revising the proofs. a friend who found him there speaks of his very quiet manners.[255] he rarely laughed, and never loudly. he seemed to be provokingly indifferent to the impression he was creating, and made no effort to talk brilliantly. he was indeed quite bare of the small change of conversation, and gave no impression of self-consciousness. at the time of this interview he was accompanied by a sickly listless lad whom he had found at the boarding-house where he stayed. whitman had compassion on him and carried him along, in order that he might communicate something of his own superabundant vitality to him. during his stay in boston, walt frequently attended the services then conducted at the seamen's bethel by father taylor.[256] as a rule, he avoided churches of every sort, feeling acutely the ineffectiveness of what is grimly called "divine service," feeling also that worship was for the soul in its solitude.[257] not that he was ignorant of that social passion which finds its altar in communion of spirit, or was blind to the deepest mysteries of fellowship. to these, as we shall see, he was particularly sensitive. but the formalities of a church must have seemed foolish and irksome to one for whom all fellowship was a kind of worship, and all desire was a prayer. in the preaching of father taylor there was nothing formal or ineffective. in it walt felt anew the passionate sense of reality which had thrilled him as a child in the preaching of old elias hicks. father taylor was now nearly seventy;[258] a southerner by birth, he had been a sailor, and became upon conversion a "shouting methodist". the earnestness of his first devotion remained with him to the last; and his prayers were especially marked by the power which flowed from him continually. behind the high pulpit in the quaint heavily-timbered, wood-scented chapel was painted a ship in distress, in vivid illustration of his words which were ever returning to the sea. all his ways were eloquent, unconventional, picturesque and homely like his face, so that he won the hearts of all conditions of men, and became one of the idols of boston. the old man's power of fascination seemed almost terrible to his hearers; one young sailor opined that he must be the actual holy ghost. walt himself was always moved to tears by the marvellous intimacy of his passionate pleading in prayer.[259] he spoke straight to the soul, and not at all, as do common preachers, to the intelligence or the superficial emotions; and the soul of his hearers answered, with the awful promptitude of an unknown living presence within. his passion of love was at once tender and remorseless; whitman compares him with a surgeon operating upon a beloved patient. in this man, before whom all the elocution of the platform was mere trickery, walt recognised the one "essentially perfect orator" whom he had ever heard, the only one who fulfilled the demands of his own ideal. and be it remembered, theodore parker was in his power in those days, while father taylor was an evangelical of the old school. it is, after all, not mysticism but orthodoxy which is exclusive; and though he was wholly a heretic, whitman was able fully to love and appreciate those who were farthest removed from his own point of view. * * * * * upon this visit emerson and whitman saw much of one another. they were both men in middle life--emerson had passed his fiftieth year--and each entertained for the other a feeling of warm and affectionate regard. whitman felt toward the older man almost as to an elder brother,[260] and the sweet and wise and kindly spirit of emerson frequently sought out the younger in brotherly solicitude for his welfare. their intimacy had sprung from emerson's letter, and it was always emerson who pressed it. something in the mental atmosphere in which the concord philosopher moved was very repellant to whitman: he positively disliked "a literary circle," and blamed it for all the real or imagined shortcomings of his friend. he himself would not go to concord from his horror of any sort of lionizing. so when emerson wanted to talk, they would walk together on the common;[261] as on one memorable, bright, keen february day, when under the bare branches of the american elms, they paced to and fro discoursing earnestly. emerson's name had been somewhat too conspicuously displayed on the back of the second edition, of which he had been caused to appear almost as a sponsor; and some of the lines thus introduced had put his puritan friends completely out of countenance, while giving his many enemies an admirable opportunity to blaspheme. the frank celebration of acts to which modern society only alludes by indirection, revealed to the observant eye of orthodoxy that cloven hoof of immorality which it always suspects concealed about the person of the philosophic heretic. and we can well imagine the consternation of the blameless householder of boston as, in the bosom of his astonished family, he read aloud the pages commended to him by the words of the master. it was thus upon emerson, who did not quite approve the offending poems, that much of the storm of indignation wreaked itself; and whatever emerson himself might think of the situation, his family was indignant. one can almost hear them arguing that a man has heresies enough of his own to close the ears of men to his message, without gratuitous implication in heresies which are not his; if he value his charge, let him keep clear of other men's eccentricities; he really has no right to allow himself to be represented as the sponsor for such sentiments as whitman printed in the _body electric_.[262] but whatever his friends might counsel, emerson spoke from his own heart and wisdom that february day. he was pleading not for himself, but for the truth as he saw it, and for his offending friend. it was not because the book was being published as it were in his own diocese, his own beloved boston; but because the new edition would be the first to be issued by a responsible house, and destined, probably, to enjoy a wide and permanent circulation, remaining for years the final utterance of whitman upon these matters, that emerson was so urgent and so eloquent. his position was a strong one; his arguments, and the spirit which prompted them, were, as whitman admitted, overwhelming, and his companion was in a sense convinced. it is much to be regretted that neither of the friends kept any detailed record of this discussion, but i think we can guess what the older man's position would be. your message of the soul, we can imagine emerson saying, is of the utmost importance to america: it is what america needs, and it is what you, and you alone, can make her hear. but you can only make her hear it, if you state it in the most convincing and simple way. now these poems of yours upon sex complicate and confuse the real message, not because they are necessarily wrong in themselves--i do not say they are--but because they do and must give rise to misunderstanding, and in consequence, obscure or even cancel the rest. they give the book an evil notoriety, and will create for it a _succès de scandale_. it will be bought and read by the prurient, to whom its worth will be wholly sealed. and not only do you destroy the value of the book by printing such poems as these, you render it actually dangerous. personally you and i are agreed--he would say--with boehme where he writes that "the new spirit cometh to divine vision in himself, and heareth god's word, and hath divine understanding and inclination ... and ... _the earthly flesh_ ... _hurteth him not at all_".[263] we know the flesh to be beautiful and sacred; we turn with loathing from the blasphemies of saint bernard and of luther, who saw in it nothing but a maggot-sack, a sack of dung. on these things we are at one; but how are we most wisely and surely to direct others on the road to self-realisation? to feed the monster of a crude passion is surely not the way to bring the individual toward the divine vision. to be frank about these matters is necessary; but in order to be honest is it necessary to fling abroad this wildfire, against which we are all contending, lest it destroy the labours of ages? must we nourish this giant, whose unruly strength is for ever threatening to tear in pieces the unity of the self? by these poems you are deliberately consigning your book to the class which every wise parent must label "dangerous to young people," and which the very spirits you most desire to kindle for america will be compelled, by the law of their being, to handle at their peril, and to turn from with distress. * * * * * arguments not unlike these were doubtless used by emerson, for we know that he discussed this problem; and whitman listened attentively to them, explaining himself at times, but generally weighing them in silence. perhaps they were not new to him, but they were rendered the more powerful and well-nigh irresistible by the persuasive and beautiful spirit, the whole magnetic personality of his friend. walt was deeply moved, and when, after a couple of hours, emerson concluded the statement of his case with the challenge, "what have you to say to such things?" could but reply, "only that while i can't answer them at all, i feel more settled than ever to adhere to my own theory and exemplify it". "very well," responded emerson cheerfully, "then let us go to dinner."[264] they had been pacing up and down the long walk by beacon street, from which one looks across the broad, park-like stretch of the common--that common whose grey, bright-eyed squirrels are so confiding, and whose air is so good from the sea. to-day the oldest of the elms, that kept record of the past as wisely as any archives, have yielded to the winds and to the tooth of time. the growth of these trees is very different from that of our english species, and their long, curving branches rib the vault of sky overhead. the two men went over the historic hill--where now the gilded dome of the state house glows richly against the sky--descending through picturesquely narrow streets, full of memories and echoes of old days, to their destination at the american house. footnotes: [239] _cf._ useful ed. of his speeches recently added to "unit library". [240] thoreau's _a plea for captain j. b._, and _the last days of j. b._ [241] kennedy, 49. [242] address at cooper inst., 27th february, 1860. [243] among the mss. traubel is a first draft for a novel (?) dealing with a woman of this class. [244] dr. d. b. st. j. roosa in _n.y. mail and express_. [245] donaldson, 208. [246] w. d. howells, _lity. friends and acq._, 74. [247] kennedy, 70. [248] bucke, 26, 38. [249] _mem. hist. n.y._, iii., 458-60. [250] _cf._ _mem. hist. n.y._, iii., 464, etc. [251] _ib._, iii., 468. [252] kennedy, 69. [253] in possession of mr. j. h. johnston, of new york. reproduced as frontispiece to _comp. prose_. [254] kennedy, 44; bucke, 33; burroughs, 20, 21. [255] mr. trowbridge. [256] _comp. prose_, 385-87. [257] _ib._, 226, 227. [258] _father taylor, the sailor preacher_, by g. haven and t. russell, 1877. [259] _comp. prose_, 386. [260] kennedy, 76, 77; _cf._ _comp. prose_, 315-17; burroughs (_a_), 67, etc. [261] burroughs, 144. [262] _l. of g._, 81. [263] _two theosophical letters_, ii., 11. [264] bucke, 144, 145; _comp. prose_, 184. chapter x the testament of a comrade what the theory was from which even emerson's eloquence could not persuade whitman, we may understand better if we take up the new volume, turning the pages which were now being added to it, till toward the end we come upon the matter of debate. though handsomer and pleasanter to handle than its predecessor, this boston edition still wears a countryman's dress; a heavily stamped orange cover which threatens the symmetry of any library shelf. evidently, whitman did not intend it to lie there in peace. it was to be different from the rest, and bad company for them. it opens on a reproduction of the 1859 painting, which faces an odd-looking lithographed and beflourished title-page. the old preface has gone for good, and now its place is taken by a _proto-leaf_ or summary, by way of introduction.[265] the first edition had been a manifesto of the american idea in literature and ethics, and a declaration of the gospel of self-realisation. the second expanded the mystical meanings involved in this; "think of the soul" running through all, and breaking out continually as a refrain, and it made clearer the message to women already more than hinted in the first. now in the third edition, emphasis falls upon the personal note, which becomes strangely haunting. the book is not only for the first time a complete and living whole; it is a presence, a lover, a comrade, and its close is like a death. * * * * * solitary, singing in the west, says the introductory leaf,[266] the poet is striking up for a new world; and lo, he beholds all the peoples of all time as his interminable audience. for through him, nature herself speaks without restraint; and through him, the soul, the ultimate reality. he sings for america; for there at last the soul is acknowledged; and his song will bind her together. the body, sex, comradeship, these he sings: but above all, faith, for he is proclaiming a new religion which includes all others and is worthy of america.[267] of whatever he may seem to write, he is always writing of religion; for indeed she is supreme. love, democracy, religion--these three--and the greatest of these is religion. the world is unseen as much as seen. the air is full of invisible presences as real as the seen. and his songs also are for those as yet unseen, his children by democracy, the woman of his love. for them he will reveal the soul, glorious in the body. ah, what a glory is this our life, and this our country! death itself will not carry him away from it. in these fields, men and women in the years to come will ever be discovering him, and he will render them worthy of america as none other can. for he has "arrived," he is no longer mortal. if you would behold america, seek her in these pages. and if you would triumph and make her triumphant, you must become his comrade. the final note is one of passionate love-longing for comradeship.[268] such is the summary of the book; but it cannot be so briefly dismissed by us, for it is full of suggestions of the inner workings of whitman's mind at this period, for us, in some respects, the most characteristic and important of all. for after it there comes the war, the watershed of his life; there he employed and in a sense expended all the resources of his manhood, to issue from it upon the slopes of ill-health which lead down into the valley of the shadow. but here he is in his prime, and on the heights. here also, his individuality shows most definitely, even in its secondary qualities. the association with men of a somewhat less bohemian type than were many of his literary friends in new york, and the more cosmopolitan atmosphere of the national capital, together with the close intimacy with death which the war-hospitals afforded, somewhat quieted the tone of later editions. here there is more of the naïve colloquialism and mannerism, the slang and the ejaculations of "the arrogant mannhattanese" which he loves to proclaim himself.[269] it is the edition which is most dear to many an enthusiast, and most exasperating to many a critic. after the first-written and longest of all the poems, "the song of myself," here called "walt whitman," there follow two large bundles, tied together and labelled respectively "chants democratic" and "leaves of grass". the bulk of these consists of material already familiar. but number four of the chants,[270] celebrating the organic unity of america, is new, and may be quoted as a curious example of whitman's style. here are seven pages of soliloquy practically innocent of a period, flowing along together in a hardly vertebrate sentence, which enumerates the different elements included in the union. strange as it certainly looks, this creation must have been so constructed of set purpose, for whitman could not be ignorant of the oddity of its appearance, when viewed by the ever-alert humour of the already hostile american critic. can there possibly be any connection between this style of composition and the larger consciousness of which he had experience? the question may appear absurd, but i ask it in all seriousness, and would propose an affirmative answer. whitman regarded his whole book as a unit, not as a collection. like the composer who elaborates a single theme into a long-sustained symphony, or the psychological novelist who requires three volumes for the portrayal of a personality, he held his meaning suspended in order that it might be more fully grasped; and this is true also of his individual poems. the thought he had to convey was not epigrammatic, but a complex of suggestions which merge into one as they are read together. i would even venture to suggest that some of these exercises in sustained meaning were also designed to train the faculty of apprehending the many-in-one, the unity, which, as he believed, lies behind all variety. in considering this suggestion one may contrast the emotional results produced by epigrams and long sentences. may not the former be the natural rhythm for wit and the latter for imagination? the contrast between the essayist on "man" and the singer of "myself" is obvious;[271] but the optimism of the eighteenth century epigrammatist seems to be echoed in whitman's pages.[272] on the verge of war, and in the midst of all the corruption of american politics, he has the audacity to declare and reiterate, "whatever is, is best". are we to dismiss it as the shallow utterance of a callous-hearted, healthy-bodied, complacent american, deliberately blind to the world's tragedy? a thousand times, no. the pages before and after such declarations are filled with knowledge of suffering and death, of the bereavement of love, of the shame that follows sin, and of the desire for a better day. but here and elsewhere, he sees the perfect plan of the ages being fulfilled. from his pisgah-height, he beholds the stretch of time; and looking out over creation as did the divine eye, he, walt whitman, beholds that it is all good. emerson has written of "the perfect whole"; but in the pages before us whitman specifies the parts, seeing them all illumined by the mystic light of the soul. this lays him open to attack; it is even dangerous from the point of view of morality. whitman acknowledges as much, but he still has faith in his vision; he is still obedient to the inner impulse which for him at least, is indubitably divine. there must always be a point at which the moralist would fain part company from the mystic: one is occupied in the fields of eternity, while the other is pre-occupied upon the battlefield of time. there is room for both in a world where time and eternity alike are real, but the toil of the seer must not be made subservient to that of the warrior. some of the lines of whitman's "hymn to the setting sun" recall the canticle which brother francis used to sing among the olives: open mouth of my soul, uttering gladness, eyes of my soul, seeing perfection, natural life of me, faithfully praising things, corroborating for ever the triumph of things--[273] and it is all pregnant with the wonder of being. in this it is like his earlier work, but it has added deeper notes to its melody, and has won therewith a finer rhythm. a mellow glory of the setting sun irradiates it. all space, the poet reminds us, is filled with soul-life, and the strong chords of that life awake the rhythms of his praise for the joy of the universal being. he greets death with equanimity, and it is this bell-note of welcome to death which gives the full bass to the first boston edition. america, these poems and their writer, and all the struggling creatures of life, are to find their meaning in death, in transition; they are to slough off what is no longer theirs and pass forward into life. are they then to lose individual identity? no, the soul is identity, and they are of the soul; but that in them which is not the soul will find its meaning in death. there is a spiritual body, which the soul has gathered about itself through the agency of the senses, and that body the soul retains; but the body of the senses dissolves and finds new uses and new meanings, through death. we may illustrate this thought from the life of the whole tree, which is enriched by the life of every leaf. when the sap withdraws from the leaf, and the leaf shrivels and dies, and the frost and wind carry its corpse away and mix it with the mire, the soul of the leaf still lives in the tree. but the mere outer body, which did but temporarily belong to the life of the leaf, finds new value by its destruction and death. who has not felt the liberating joy of the autumn gales? who has not rejoiced among the trees, feeling with them the sense of rest and quiescence in which the force of life accumulates anew for expression and growth? but for the fallen leaves also we may rejoice, since their atoms have won something by contact with the life of the tree which now they can communicate to the humble mire. in another of these poems,[274] whitman compares himself with the historian. the latter studies the surface of humanity, while in the former the inner self of the race finds expression. such is the difference between an historian and a prophet. in another,[275] carrying forward a kindred thought, he declares that he has discovered the story of the past, not in books but in the actual present. to the seer, as to god, the past is not gone by, but is clearly legible in the pages of our current life, if only we would learn to read them. it is hidden from our normal consciousness; but in certain phases of consciousness to which, it would appear, whitman attained, it is revealed. to this deeper consciousness whitman looked for the fulfilling of his own work and the integration of all knowledge in the future. as men shall enter into it, he believed, their work will show the clear evidence of an underlying unity;[276] it will cease to be fragmentary, and our libraries, instead of being mere museums filled with specimens, will become organic like a tree. then the sense of the cosmos will superintend all things that man makes, as it superintends all the works of nature. a unity already exists, but an unconscious unity, like that of chaos.[277] his own work is, of course, only a part; a prelude to the universal hymn which later poets will raise together. but it is a prelude, and this distinguishes it from other contemporary verse. america, the land of the many-in-one, he had discovered as the field for the new poetry.[278] for the divine unity is a living complex of variety. every heart has its own song, and yet the heart of all song is one. henceforward, he will go up and down america like the sun, awakening the new seasons of the soul. some of his songs are especially for new york, others for the west, the centre or the south. but everywhere and to all alike, they cry the messages of reality, equality, immortality. neither do they cry only, but they actually create. for song, he says, is no mere sound upon the wind, born but to die; these songs of his are the most real of realities; they will outlast centuries, supporting the democracy of the world.[279] * * * * * the section which is specifically entitled _leaves of grass_ opens upon a note of that humility in which whitman is supposed to have failed. throwing wholly aside his egoism and pride, he identifies himself with tiny and ephemeral things--the scum and weed which the sea flings upon paumanok's coast. "as i ebbed with the ocean of life"[280] is a most significant poem, which it is impossible to summarise briefly. it appears to have been suggested by the experiences of an autumn evening on the long island beach, perhaps upon the then lonely sands of coney island; an evening in which the divine pride of conscious power and manhood, from which as a rule he wrote in the exaltation of inspiration, ebbed away, and left him struggling with the power of what he calls the electric or eternal self, striving as it were against it to retain his own individual consciousness. although it is not easy to explain what he means, the passage admirably suggests the complex inner experience of his life at this period. it was filled with battles and adventures of the spirit, and it kept his mind always supplied with ample material for thought. it is no wonder that the endeavour to explain himself, and to keep some kind of record of these explorations and discoveries in the unknown occupied much of his time, and that these years are somewhat barren of outward incident. the inner experiences of so sane and stalwart a man are of the utmost psychological interest, and we cannot lay too much stress upon their importance in whitman's story, proving as they do the delicate nervous organisation of the man. as the struggle proceeds, walt seems to be seized by a strange new feeling. he is fascinated by the tiny wind-rows left by the tide upon the sand, and the sense of a likeness between himself and them arises in him, taking the form not so much of a thought as of a consciousness of kinship. the ocean scum and débris reminds him how near to him is the infinite ocean of life and death, and how he himself is but a little washed-up drift, soon to be swallowed in the approaching waters. doubt overwhelms him; he seems to know nothing of all that he thought he knew; his soul and nature make mock at him. he admits that he is but as this tiny nothing. this mood is a real one in whitman. it is wrong to think of him as a man who was always complacent and cock-sure; all heroic faith must have its moments of doubt, its crisis of despair, its cry of abandonment upon the cross. but they are moments only. if he is but this sea-drift, yet he claims the shore as his father: "i take what is underfoot: what is yours, is mine, my father". so he takes hold upon the eternal reality and communes with it, praying that his lips may be touched and utter the great mysteries; for otherwise, these will overwhelm his being.[281] pride, the full tide of life, will soon flow again in our veins; but after all, what are we but a strange complex of sea-drift and changing moods strewed here at your feet? it is not pessimism but humility which asks that question, the humility which is part of a divine pride. that pride refuses to blink anything; let us face it all, even to the utmost, he keeps saying. he feels that the soul can and must face all.[282] he has not to make a theory or to justify himself, to uphold institutions, or inculcate moralities; he has to open the doors of life in faith. he has to let light in at all the windows. and if it illumines ugliness as well as beauty, sin and shame as well as virtue and pride--still it is his part to let in the ever-glorious light. the more the light shines in, the more the soul is satisfied. in himself he recognises sin and baseness and gives it expression, bringing it to the light. (o admirers! praise not me! compliment not me! you make me wince, i see what you do not--i know what you do not;) inside these breast-bones i lie smutch'd and choked, beneath this face that appears so impassive, hell's tides continually run, lusts and wickedness are acceptable to me, i walk with delinquents with passionate love, i feel i am of them--i belong to those convicts and prostitutes myself, and henceforth i will not deny them--for how can i deny myself?[283] but it is a mistake to think of the mystic, and especially of whitman, as the mere onlooker at life, and the moralist as the practical person. there is ultimately of course no distinction between mystic and moralist, the mystic is the moralist become seer. and he is, perhaps, even more strenuous in his life than is the moralist; but life has now assumed for him a different aspect. he is no longer pre-occupied by the hunger and thirst after righteousness--for he feeds satisfied upon the divine bread. he is not worried about sin, because he is conscious of the antiseptic power of the soul-life which heals the sores of sin, and sloughs off the body of corruption. what is evil passes away when life is earnestly pursued. he sees that everything which exists at all, however evil it may be, exists by reason of some virtue or excellence which it possesses, and which fits it to its environment. the wise soul uses the excellence of things, and so things hurt it not at all. the things that are not for it are evil to it; but in the sight of god they are not evil, for all things have their value to him. live your life, then, in faith, not in fear; such is the word of the mystic. condemn nothing; but learn what is proper for your own need; and by sympathy, learn to read the hearts about you, and help them also to live according to the wisdom of the soul. feed the soul, think of the soul, exercise the soul--and the things, the instincts, the thoughts that are evil to you now, will presently cease to trouble you. for in whitman's universe the devil is dead. it is this point of view, reached in his illumination, which enabled him to look out upon all the shame and evil of the world, and yet to rejoice. i doubt if he had as yet justified this attitude to himself by any process of reasoning; and it would be presumptuous in me to attempt the task; he simply accepted it as the only possible, or rather the ultimate and highest attitude of the enlightened soul. when one discovers the soul, that is the attitude in which she stands. the joy of the soul fills the universe. nothing any longer seems unworthy of song. not for its own sake, perhaps, but for that which it reveals to the soul. and in the exaltation of this soul-sight he sings. towards the end of this section, there is a little group of poems which deal with the voice.[284] whitman recognised that the human voice is capable of expressing more than mere thoughts. for the whole man speaks in the voice; and as the soul becomes conscious, the voice gains in actual timbre, and wins besides a mystical authority over the heart of the hearer. each word spoken by the awakened soul is freighted with fuller meaning than it carried before, and every word so spoken has a beauty which the soul gives it. he illustrates a kindred thought by dwelling upon the different meanings which his own name assumes in different mouths.[285] it would seem as though he realised that power of the name which is familiar to some uncivilised peoples and has been largely forgotten by us. the section closes with a poignant little verse[286] which declares with all the passion of conviction, that this paper is not paper, nor these words mere words; but that this is the man walt whitman, who hails you here and cries farewell. the book is a sacrament; it is the wafer and wine of a real presence; it is a symbol pregnant with personality; it is no book, it is a man. lift me close to your face till i whisper, what you are holding is in reality no book, nor part of a book, it is a man, flushed and full-blooded--it is i--_so long!_ we must separate--here! take from my lips this kiss, whoever you are, i give it especially to you; _so long_--and i hope we shall meet again. the _salut au monde_ carries this _ave atque vale_ to each and all. i have already spoken of "a word out of the sea"[287] in which whitman relates an incident of his childhood on the long island coast. this is among the most melodious of his chants; and though death and love are the themes of all great poets it would be difficult to quote any passage more suggestive of the pathetic mystery of bereavement, than the song which he puts to the notes of the widowed mocking-bird. the bird's song has purposes unknown to its singer, meanings which are caught by the boy's heart, and awaken there a strange passion and wild chaos, that death, whose voice is as the accompaniment of the sea to the cry of the bird, can alone soothe and order. it is impossible to read this poem and think of its author as ignorant of personal love and personal loss. the notes of despair and triumph blend together here and elsewhere in this edition. we turn now to the _enfans d'adam_, poems of sex, whose name is suggested by whitman's outlook on life as on a garden of eden, and by his conception of himself as it were a reincarnate adam, begetter of a new race of happier men.[288] these are the poems which formed the storm-centre of emerson's discussion. they celebrate the love of the body for its correlative body, the bridegroom's for the bride's; and they celebrate the concern of the soul in reproduction. the proof and law of all life is that it go forth from itself in fertilising power, that it beget or conceive; and without this, life and love would be bereft of glory. and more: for whitman broke wholly with that mysticism which once saw in the organs of sex a deformity consequent upon man's fall; he beheld them rather as the vessels of a divine communion. from this mystical view of whitman's, emerson would conceivably have found no reason for dissent, but the new mysticism was full-blooded and masculine. it sprang out of experience, and was in no respect a substitute for it. when he wrote of the body, walt used the word mystically it is true, but he meant the body nevertheless, using the word to the full of its meaning. he was very far from the abstract philosophic idealism which we usually and often unfairly associate with the transcendentalism of concord. thoreau, for example, the oriental dreamer, had been thrilled through by the bloody and even brutal fanaticism of john brown. yet whitman's virility was different from theirs. his celebration of passion was as honest and frank as omar's praise of the vine. to him, the begetting of children seemed in itself more satisfying to the soul than any words could express. it needed no apologist; but rose out of the region of cold ethics in the divine glow of its ecstatic reality. such an attitude, it seems to me, is only possible to a man who has known true love, and has lived a chaste and temperate life. and these poems, far from representing whitman as a man of dissolute habits, indubitably afford the clearest proof, if it were needed, of his temperance and self-control; but that is, happily, a matter which is beyond dispute. he was not a man to seek unlawful pleasures, or to approach life's mysteries irreverently, neither was he a man to treat womanhood, even when it had covered itself with shame, with anything but the utmost gentleness and chivalry. it was in the cause of womanhood, if we can say that it was in any cause, that he wrote his poems of sex, seeking, for woman's sake, to wipe away the shame that still clings about paternity.[289] the physical rites of love were beautiful to his sight; and he sought to tear away the obscene draperies and skulking thoughts by which they have been hidden. with this in view, he added an inventory of all the items of the flesh to his poem of "the body electric,"[290] intended as are all his lists to make the subsequent generalisation more actual. these, he said, are the parts of the soul. for matter and mind are twin aspects of the one reality, which is the soul. all knowledge comes to the soul through the senses, and if we put shame upon any function of the body we cripple something in the soul. in a singular phrase,[291] he declares that he will be the robust husband of the true women of america, the women who await him; meaning, i suppose, that through the medium of his book, he will quicken in those who are fearless and receptive, the conception of the new humanity. he is adam, destined to be the father of a new race, by the women who are able to receive him. sexual imagery is rightly used in this connection, not only because it is according to mystical precedent, but because sex is the profoundest of the passions, as much spiritual as physical, and all reproductive energy is sexual. whitman believed that until this was recognised, religion and art must remain comparatively sterile. the question which these poems raise is far too large and too delicate for full discussion in this place. and its discussion is rendered more difficult because, present as it is in most of our minds, it is in many still unripe for words. the soul knows its own needs and its own hours, and pages like these of whitman's are not for every reader. whitman knew it, and many a time in this volume he asks whether it were not better for you to put the book aside. as for himself, the time had come when these things must be uttered. the soul must take experience in its own time; but whitman was convinced that without initiation into the mysteries of love, much of life must remain an enigma to the individual. it was, it would appear, after initiation that he himself had realised his identity with all things. we speak sometimes of the bestial side of our nature, forgetting that when love illuminates it, it is this side in particular which redeems all that before seemed gross among the creatures. true to his determination to include all, even the outcast, in his synthesis, whitman, in another poem,[292] companions publicly with sinners and with harlots. he shares their nature also; they, too, have their place. but if he says they are just as good as the best, it is only when seen by the eyes of a divine love. he, as much as any man, realises the handicap of sin; in the end the soul must conquer; but think how sin--the sin of the pharisee and of the callous heart as much as that of the prostitute--disfigures the temple of the soul, and mars the spiritual with the outward body. temperate himself, whitman's sympathy for those who sin in the flesh was very real. and indeed for all sins of passion he felt, perhaps, a special understanding. the story runs that while he was still in boston,[293] he met a lad he had known in new york, who was now, after a drunken brawl, in which he believed he had killed a companion, escaping from the american police to canada. the young fellow told walt his story, and was sent upon his way with that comrade's kiss of affection which meant so much more than good advice or charity. before closing this section, whitman returns[294] to the adamic idea, as though to make his meaning unmistakable. in him, adam has nearly circled the world, and now looks out across the pacific to his first birth-place in the east; and still his work is unaccomplished. still must he go on seeking for his bride, the future. the passion of creation is upon him, he is strained with yearning for that towards which his soul gravitates. as we finish these poems, we remember how at this time their author impressed those who approached him with two equal qualities, his force and his purity: for great passion is a clear wine in a chaste vessel. he had a right to say as his last word on this subject, "be not afraid of my body"; for, indeed, it was his soul, enamoured of all things, wholesome and pure. * * * * * after these poems, comes the "song of the road," and other familiar pieces, and then another group wholly new. these appear to have been written in the autumn of 1859,[295] and are called _calamus_; a name either for a reed or for the sweet-flag,[296] which occurs in the bible and in the pages of greek and latin writers, but is here used of a common american pond-reed, a sort of tall sedge or great spear of grass, a yard or so in height, emitting a pungent watery smell, whose root is used for chewing. in these poems he asserts the soul's need of society, for life and growth. the gospel of self-realisation thus becomes a social gospel, and the thought gives a political significance to these, the most esoteric of all whitman's poems. he seems more than usually sensitive about them, and dreads to have them misunderstood. proud and jealous, he would drive all but a few away from his confidences. they are only intended, he says,[297] for his comrades; for it is only they who will understand them. but in the more obvious sense the poems are for all. it is to comradeship and not to institutions that whitman looks for a political redemption. he will bind america indissolubly together into the fellowship of his friends.[298] their friendship shall be called after him,[299] and in his name they shall solve all the problems of freedom, and bring america to victory. lovers are the strength of liberty, comrades perpetuate equality; america will be established above disaster by the love of her poet's lovers. then he turns to himself and his own friends, or rather, perhaps, to his own conscious need for friends. it is curious when one thinks of it, that we have no record of any close friendship, save that of emerson, dating from these days. and he who knew and loved so many men and women, seems to have carried forward with him no equal friendship from the years of his youth. in this respect, he was solitary as a pioneer. he longed for great companions, but he did not meet them at this time upon the open road of daily intercourse. yet was he not alone. some say he wrote of comradeship because he never found such a comrade as him of whom he wrote;[300] but in one at least of these poems he declares that his life, or at the least his singing, depends upon such comradeship. and the absence of any record merely reminds us that whitman was chary of committing such personal matters to the keeping of a note-book. what record has he left of those women and their children, whose relation to himself must have bulked so largely in the world of his soul? the poems seem to indicate at least one very intimate friendship, more passionately given than returned. sometimes, as on the beach of paumanok, doubt oversets him. perhaps after all,[301] appearances do not mean what he sees in them. perhaps the reality, the purpose, lies still undiscovered in them. perhaps the identity of the human self after death is but a beautiful fable. there is a perfect answer--shall we say an evasion?--of these questionings and of all doubts, which fellowship provides. to me, these, and the like of these, are curiously answered by my lovers, my dear friends; when he whom i love travels with me, or sits a long while holding me by the hand, when the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us and pervade us, then i am charged with untold and untellable wisdom--i am silent--i require nothing further, i cannot answer the question of appearances, or that of identity beyond the grave, but i walk or sit indifferent--i am satisfied, he ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me. then he praises love; all other joys and enterprises of the heroic soul become but little things when weighed against the life of fellowship, the joy of the presence of the beloved.[302] is this another of those places where the moralist begs to take his leave of the mystic? let us beseech him to stay, for it is out of the strenuous passions of the soul that all good and lasting works for humanity have sprung. it was the face of beatrice--and for the italian, it could only have been her face--which drew dante down through the circles of horror and up the steep slopes of purgatory to paradise. it was the beauty of the lady poverty, that enabled her lover to kiss the sores of the lepers in the lazar house below assisi. what would the apostles have done in the name of their lord had they not, like mary the mystic, chosen the better part of communion with him instead of fidgetting forever, with martha, upon the errands of duty? he writes of love's tragedy, and refusal; of the measured love returned for the infinite love accorded.[303] but oftener he dwells upon its joy. the air becomes alive with music he had never heard before.[304] the passion in his heart responds to a passion of which hitherto he had not dreamed, hidden in the heart of the world, awaiting its hour to break forth. and as these poems have come slowly up from out of the inner purpose of things, to find utterance upon whitman's pages, so slowly will their meaning arise in the hearts of those that read them.[305] it is not to be guessed in a moment. for they are freighted with the mystery which unfolds in the patience of the soul. although he warns his reader from time to time to beware of him, for he is not at all the man he seems, a note of yearning for confidence cannot be suppressed. he confesses that his very life-blood speaks in these pages,[306] and that his soul is heavy with infinite passion for the love of its comrades that shall be. sometimes, as he passes a stranger in the streets, he knows in himself that once they were each other's; some deep chord of life thrilling, as though with memory, to promise that they will yet come together again.[307] ah, how many and many an one of these his mystic kin must the lands of the earth contain! it is not america only, but the whole human race that he will bind at last into his fellowship, laughing at institutions and at laws, persuading all men by the power of the soul which is in all.[308] one institution there is which he confesses[309] that he would inaugurate. let men who love one another kiss when they meet, and walk hand in hand. it is no mere sentiment; he sees that love must have its witness. in warm manly love is the mightiest power in the universe, a power that laughs at oppressors and at death.[310] i dreamed in a dream, i saw a city invincible to the attacks of the whole of the rest of the earth, i dreamed that was the new city of friends, nothing was greater there than the quality of robust love--it led the rest, it was seen every hour in the actions of the men of that city, and in all their looks and words. _calamus_, like the bundle labelled _leaves of grass_, closes on the note of personal presence.[311] * * * * * i trust it has already been sufficiently suggested that whitman's mysticism is not to be confused with much that hitherto has passed under that name. mysticism it is, for it is the expression of mystical experience; but it is clearly not the mysticism which is completed in a circle of devotion, religious exercises, meditation and ecstasy. it is the mysticism which recreates the world in a new image. professor royce, in his most interesting lectures on "the world and the individual," has described it, or something very similar to it, under the title of idealism; and his careful and suggestive elaboration of his theme is the best indirect commentary upon what i have called the mysticism of whitman with which i am acquainted. it includes an admirable exposition of the meaning of the soul or self. your whole world, he declares, is your whole self--whitman would perhaps have said, it is the mirror which reveals yourself. the infinite universe, whereof yours is but a part, is the self of god. we live, but are not lost in him, for we are as it were his members. there are two aspects of the human self: the temporal, in which it appears as a mere momentary consciousness, and the eternal, which reveals it as an indestructible purpose, the essence of reality. for reality, the professor argues, is the visible expression of purpose or meaning. to proceed to the social aspect of this teaching: the individual, when he becomes conscious of his world--his self--becomes conscious, too, that his world is only one aspect of the universe, that there are a myriad others, and that the universal life consists of a fellowship of such selves as his. thus, god is the many-in-one; in him the many are one self and complete. and the many do not only seek completion in the divine unity; they also seek fellowship with one another. the divine life, which is the basis of human life, is thus a life of fellowship--as the apostle says, it is love. it is not merely a trinity, it is a city of friends; or rather of lovers, as edward carpenter suggested in his recent essays.[312] now i am convinced that this thought underlies _calamus_; not, indeed, as a metaphysical theory, but as one of those overwhelming realisations of the ultimate significance of things which i have described inadequately as whitman's symbolism. seeking to plumb the depths of passion, he found god. sex became for him, in its essence, the potency of that life wherein we are one. and comradeship, a passion as intense as that of sex, he beheld as the same relation between spiritual or ætherial bodies.[313] he was aware that the noblest of passions is the most liable to base misunderstandings. but in it alone the soul finds full freedom. sex passion finds its proper expression in physical rites, it is the passion of the life in time; on the contrary, the passion of comrades is of eternity and only finds expression in death.[314] this appears to have been whitman's conviction. * * * * * yet another bundle follows _calamus_; a packet of more or less personal letters or messages called _messenger leaves_. in subsequent editions they were sorted out into other sections. they are not all new; but among those that now appear for the first time are the daring and noble lines to jesus. my spirit to yours, dear brother, do not mind because many, sounding your name, do not understand you, i do not sound your name, but i understand you, (there are others also;) i specify you with joy, o my comrade, to salute you, and to salute those who are with you, before and since--and those to come also, that we all labour together, transmitting the same charge and succession; we few, equals, indifferent of lands, indifferent of times, we, enclosers of all continents, all castes--allowers of all theologies, compassionaters, perceivers, rapport of men, we walk silent among disputes and assertions, but reject not the disputers, nor anything that is asserted, ... till we saturate time and eras, that the men and women of races, ages to come, may prove brethren and lovers, as we are.[315] scattered through the generations--so we may read his thought--are those who have come into the cosmic consciousness or larger life, who have passed beyond the reach of time and of mere argument, and who therefore understand one another as others cannot understand them. the love and communion which exists between such great companions, is a pledge and earnest of the society of the future, when all men shall be one, even as these are one. the thought may shock those to whom it comes suddenly, if they see in whitman the "mere man" of their own narrow conception of humanity. but in judging him we must remember that he openly claims for himself and for other men all the divine attributes which christians are in the habit of ascribing to their lord. whitman believed that jesus identified himself with humanity; and that all who enter, as he entered, into the cosmic life share in the fellowship of god, even as did he. more fully than many christians, whitman recognised jesus as literally his elder brother; he joined with him in the words "our father," feeling them to be true. and as one reads the gospel narratives one ventures to believe that the master who called the disciples his friends, would himself have been eager to welcome the assertion of such a relationship. another letter[316] is to one about to die; it is filled not with melancholy but with congratulation. the body that dies is but an excrement, the self is eternal and goes on into ever fuller sunlight. another,[317] which has aroused perhaps more misunderstanding than anything which whitman wrote, is addressed to a prostitute. it hardly seems to call for explanation; for it is like the simple offering of the hand of friendship to an outcast; the assertion that for her, too, whitman's living eternal comradeship is real and close, accompanied by the injunction that she be worthy of such friendship. he writes to rich givers[318] in the franciscan spirit; for he that is willing to give all, is able to accept. to a pupil[319] he suggests that personality is the tool of all good work and usefulness. to be magnetic is to be great. come then and first become yourself. but it is impossible even to refer in passing to all the separate poems, each one with its living suggestion. some of the briefest are not the least pregnant. * * * * * the book closes with poems of departure. a dread falls upon him;[320] perhaps after all he may not linger, to go to and fro through the lands he loves, awakening comrades; presently his voice also will cease. but here and now at least his soul has appeared and been realised; and that in itself should be enough. then he says his farewell. his words have been for his own era; and in every age, the race must find anew its own poets for its own words. but till america shall have absorbed his message, he must stand, and his influence, his spirit, must endure.[321] after all, he does but seek, with passionate longing, one worthier than himself, who yet shall take his place. for him, he has prepared. now is he come to die. without comprehending or questioning, he has obeyed his mystical commission; he has sown the divine seed with which he was entrusted; he has given the message with which he was burdened, to women and to young men; now he passes on into the state for which all experience and service has been preparing him. he ceases to sing. his work is accomplished. now disembodied and free, he can respond to all that love him, and enter upon the intenser reality of the unknown. dear friend, whoever you are, here, take this kiss, i give it especially to you--do not forget me, i feel like one who has done his work--i progress on, the unknown sphere, more real than i dreamed, more direct, darts awakening rays about me--_so long!_ remember my words--i love you--i depart from materials, i am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead.[322] footnotes: [265] _l. of g._, 18. [266] _l. of g._, 19. [267] _ib._, 23. [268] _ib._, 29; (1860), 22. [269] in this edition the old-fashioned, colloquial "you was" is retained. [270] _l. of g._, 138. [271] see _infra_, 289. [272] _l. of g._, 191. [273] _l. of g._, 374. [274] _l. of g._, 11; (1860), 181. [275] _ib._, 300. [276] _ib._, 299. [277] _l. of g._, 18. [278] _ib._ (1860), 190. [279] _ib._ (1860), 193. [280] _ib._, 202. [281] _l. of g._ (1860), 198. [282] _l. of g._ (1860), 236. [283] _l. of g._, 298; (1860), 231. [284] _l. of g._, 297. [285] _l. of g._, 303. [286] _ib._ (1860), 242. [287] _l. of g._, 196; see _supra_, 12. [288] _l. of g._, 79. [289] _cf._ mrs. gilchrist in _in re_, 50. [290] _l. of g._, 87, 88. [291] _ib._, 88. [292] _l. of g._, 94; (1860), 311. [293] bucke, 102, 103. [294] _l. of g._, 95. [295] _ib._ (1860), 378. several of the poems are fuller in this edition, some being omitted in the complete _l. of g._ [296] rossetti, _selections_, 390 n.; kennedy, 134. [297] _l. of g._, 97, 98, 100, 103. [298] _ib._, 99. [299] _ib._ (1860), 349. [300] donaldson, 7. [301] _l. of g._, 101. [302] _ib._ (1860), 354. [303] _ib._ (1860), 355; _l. of g._, 110. [304] _l. of g._, 343. [305] _ib._, 103, 104. [306] _ib._, 104, etc. [307] _ib._, 106. [308] _ib._, 107. [309] _ib._ (1860), 350. [310] _l. of g._, 109. [311] _l. of g._, 112. [312] _the art of creation._ [313] _l. of g._, 96. [314] _ib._, 96. [315] _l. of g._, 298; _cf._ _an american primer_, 18, 19. [316] _ib._, 344. [317] _ib._, 299. [318] _l. of g._, 216. [319] _ib._, 302. [320] _ib._, 370; (1860), 449. [321] _ib._, 380. [322] _l. of g._, 382. chapter xi america at war the new edition of _leaves of grass_ pleased the critics as little as its predecessors, but had a wider circulation. some four or five thousand copies had been sold before the house of thayer and eldridge went down in the financial crash which followed on the outbreak of the war.[323] emerson came in again for some share of the critical assault, though his name was in no way connected with the new issue. of whitman himself a london journalist declared[324] that he was the most silly, the most blasphemous, and the most disgusting writer that he had ever perused. but if it found fresh enemies, the new edition found also new friends; and notably in england, whither a few adventurous copies of the earlier versions had already penetrated. both emerson and thoreau had sent them to their english friends--among whom was carlyle--but apparently with scant acknowledgment. ruskin's correspondent, mr. thomas dixon of sunderland, had purchased a few examples of the first edition at dutch auction; and some of these he forwarded to mr. william bell scott, who again handed on one of them to mr. w. m. rossetti; an act which, as the story will show, proved to be of great importance to walt whitman.[325] it was the book of 1860, however, which first aroused the younger generation of englishmen, among whom was the late mr. addington symonds. "within the space of a few years," says he, "we were all reading and discussing walt." * * * * * the book appeared under the shadow of impending war. with the presidential election of 1860, america came to the edge of the abyss; and the return of abraham lincoln was promptly followed by the organisation of secession. whitman was still in boston when, early in the spring, lincoln first made his appearance in new york, w. c. bryant introducing him to a great meeting at the cooper institute. the famous speech which he then delivered lived long in its hearers' memory; but even the personal impression which he made, remarkable as it was, hardly prepared new york to learn in the following may that it was abraham lincoln, and not w. h. seward, the nominal leader of the republican party, who had received the presidential nomination at the great chicago convention. had the democratic party been able to hold together, lincoln could not have carried the election; but it was now split, and further weakened by the appearance of a constitutional union party.[326] the most dangerous of the opposing candidates seemed to be lincoln's old antagonist and subsequent loyal supporter, judge douglas, who represented his well-worn policy of local option, or "squatter sovereignty". breckinridge of kentucky openly advocated the extension of slave territory; while bell, the unionist, kept his own counsel. early in the summer of that great struggle, whitman returned to new york. in june[327] he was among the immense crowd of interested spectators who filled broadway from side to side, on the arrival of the first japanese embassy to america; and he was of the thousands who welcomed the succession of distinguished visitors who came, that ominous summer, to the capital of the west. there was the _great eastern_, that leviathan of the modern world, whose advent was so long and so eagerly anticipated; there was garibaldi, fresh from the fields whereon italy had become a kingdom--not indeed the sister republic of mazzini's ardent dream, who should have given the new law of liberty to europe, but at least something more than a memory and a geographical term. another, in whom whitman felt an even warmer interest, was "baron renfrew," otherwise the prince of wales. the fair royal stripling of those days attracted the stalwart democrat, who like old george fox, could recognise a man under a crown as readily as a man in rags. whitman's eyes were keen to read personality; perhaps we should rather say that the sense by which personality is distinguished was highly developed in him. and he to whom the attributes of rank were non-existent, fell in love with this young man[328] whose warm heart was to make him perhaps the best beloved of monarchs, as he afterwards fell in love with many a private soldier carried in wounded from the field. albert edward was one of those strangers in whom whitman recognised a born comrade; and this fact at once raises his democratic sentiment out of the region of class feeling. he was a witness, too, of the advent of other visitors even more brilliant, and burdened even more to the popular fancy, and perhaps to his own, with significance. he saw the extraordinary display of the heavens--the huge meteor, luminous almost as the moon, which fell in long island sound, and the unannounced comet flaring in the north. the autumn was loud with the electoral struggle. the presence of three opposing candidates was not enough to assure lincoln's success. the general expectation seems to have leaned towards an electoral tie, none of the candidates polling a majority of the votes; and this would have resulted, as on the similar occasion of 1824, in the choice between them being left to the house of representatives. upon the result of such choice the slave party was willing to stake its hopes of success; anticipating that even though he were the popular candidate, congress would not select lincoln, but would put him aside, as it had passed by jackson in its previous opportunity. but to the consternation of the south, the "black republican" rail-splitter polled a clear majority over all three antagonists combined. a majority, that is to say, of electoral votes, for the american president is not chosen directly by the people, but by the people's delegates.[329] each state elects its quota of presidential electors, chosen not in proportion to the strength of parties in the state, but all of them representing the dominant party.[330] thus it may happen that a candidate, like judge douglas, who polls a large minority of the total popular vote, will receive a mere handful of electoral suffrages, having failed to carry more than one or two states. lincoln was chosen by 180 votes to 123; and though douglas's popular poll was two-thirds of lincoln's, and nearly as large as that of the two other candidates combined, his electoral support was only one-tenth of the voices against lincoln. the republican vote in the country fell short of the combined opposition poll by a million out of a total of less than five million votes. from the popular point of view, lincoln was, therefore, in the difficult position of a minority president. the result of the november elections was scarcely made public before a committee of southern congressmen issued a manifesto,[331] proclaiming the immediate need for a separate confederacy of slave-holding states, if the institution upon which their prosperity depended was to be saved from the machinations of northern politicians. they audaciously identified both lincoln and the republican party with the policy of abolition; whereas the choice of lincoln instead of seward, the abolitionist, might in itself have been accepted as sufficient evidence that the north, while determined to preserve the union, was resolute against interference with the internal policy of the south. the manifesto was followed, on the 20th of december, by the secession of south carolina, ever since calhoun's day the leader of revolt against federal power. georgia, alabama, mississippi, florida and louisiana promptly joined her. although lincoln's election was assured in november, the executive power remained till the beginning of march in the feeble hands of buchanan, who was the creature of advisers themselves divided in counsel, to the signal advantage of that section which supported the revolt. when, at last, the outgoing president made up his mind to dismiss his secessionist secretary of war, the cotton-state caucus called a convention at montgomery, the picturesque and sleepy old capital of alabama; and this finally formulated a permanent constitution for the confederacy precisely a week after the inauguration of the new president.[332] in the meantime lincoln could only stand a spectator of the wholly ineffective measures which were being taken to frustrate the active aggression of the slave power. but towards the end of february he set out for washington. passing on his way through indiana and ohio, he was received by an enormous crowd in new york; and here whitman first saw him, not from his favourite seat upon a stage-coach, for the streets were too densely packed for traffic, but as one of the thirty or forty thousand silent pedestrian onlookers collected in the city's heart, where now the post-office stands. whitman well knew what the ominous silence, which greeted that loosely-made gaunt figure, concealed;[333] and how different was the mood of new york that day from the holiday-making good-humour with which it was wont to greet the arrival of other illustrious guests. under the speechlessness lurked a black moody wrath ready to break forth. it was a pleasant afternoon, just twelve months after that other february day when whitman and emerson had paced up and down the slope of boston common in earnest colloquy. lincoln went silently into the astor house without any demonstration either of welcome or of open hostility; thereafter proceeding to his inauguration. he was compelled to pass secretly through baltimore, where violence was only too ready to manifest itself on the slightest encouragement. the fact that the president-elect, in order to reach the capital, had thus to travel through a state which was only with difficulty retained for the union cause, shows how close that cause was to disaster. and though, as lincoln stated in his inaugural address, the bulk of the american people opposed secession, and the party which favoured it was but a comparatively small minority; yet it could only be either an ignorant optimism, or on the contrary a firmly founded and earnest faith in the devotion of the great mass of the citizens to the ideals of their fathers, which could face such a situation without dismay. the weight of numbers, however, favoured the north. a review of the census returns show that at their first compilation in 1790 the population of the southern and the northern divisions of the country was almost absolutely equal; but that from the beginning of the century the increase in the latter was the more rapid; so that in 1860 the free population of the north was more than double that of the south. but in spite of this great numerical preponderance, the north itself was not united on the question at issue, as is clearly shown by the returns of the presidential election, when douglas polled a million free-state votes. for though douglas opposed secession, he did not oppose the extension of slavery. it is shown clearly, too, in the attitude of new york; of which more, later. and beyond this the southerner was in some respects better fitted, as well by his virtues as by his faults, for a military life. the qualities of leadership and of obedience are cultivated under an aristocratic ideal, as they are not under a democratic. and the south, which had practically controlled the executive under buchanan, and especially the department of war, was better prepared to take the field than was the north. on the other hand, the strength of the union lay in its cause, and in the latent idealism of the american people, which woke into activity at the first menace to the stars and stripes. whether the war really settled anything, whether it might possibly have been avoided, whether secession left to itself would not literally have cut its own throat, these are interesting philosophic speculations into which we need not enter. for already the spectre of war had long been abroad, stalking through the unharvested fields of kansas and nebraska, and gesticulating with horrid signs and mocking whispers in every corner of america. when the slave party had first raised its fatal cry of "our institution in danger," it had raised the cry of war. and when at last men like lincoln retorted with the declaration that the union was irrefragable--that secession could only be justified after some criminal use of the federal power to override the rights of the minority--the battle was manifestly joined. it is but fair to add that although the party of lincoln had now truly become the party of the union, the first line of cleavage between north and south was marked out by a schismatic spirit in the north itself, by its support of its own sectional interests, when enforcing a policy of protection upon the whole country.[334] there can be little doubt that the mistrust felt in the south, while largely due to anterior causes, was born under this evil star. so true does it seem that when a nation's policy is being shaped according to merely material interests, the seeds are being sown of future revolution. * * * * * the fatal movement of american destiny towards its crisis must have dominated much of whitman's thought at this time. secession was in the very air he breathed; for at its first proclamation an echoing voice was heard in new york itself. here mayor wood, after a short period of deserved seclusion, had returned to power. unsatisfied with his patronage he dreamed of wider fields. was it not the splendid vision of a presidency which encouraged this fatuous person to declare for a second secession, the creation of a new island republic of new york? "tri-insula" was to have been its title,[335] and its territories would have comprised mannahatta, staten, and long islands. the proposal was enthusiastically received by the absurd creatures of tammany, who then sat upon the city council. but their complacent folly was of brief duration. it was dispersed by the first rebel gun-shot. * * * * * whitman had been at the opera on fourteenth street,[336] and was strolling homeward down broadway about midnight, on the 13th of april, when he was met by the newspaper boys crying the last extras with more than ordinary vehemence. buying a copy and stopping to read it under the lamps of the metropolitan hotel, he was startled by the news that war had actually broken out. the day before, confederate troops had fired upon the flag at charleston harbour and fort sumter. south carolina had flung her challenge down. the president immediately called for troops, and the response of the north was instantaneous. new york herself did not hesitate, but voted at once a million dollars and sent forward her quota of men.[337] mayor wood was among the many thousands of democrats who became patriots that day--in so far as one can suddenly become patriotic. whitman was not among the volunteers, but his brother george, who was ten years his junior, was one of the first to offer.[338] he had been following the family trade as a brooklyn carpenter, and henceforward proved himself a brave and able soldier. he was neither braver nor abler than walt, but the latter stayed at home, and there are those who have blamed him for it. [illustration: whitman at forty-four] putting on one side, as they have done, his subsequent service to the army, such blame springs from a misunderstanding of the man's nature. there are some men wholly above the reproach of cowardice or indifference, whom it is impossible for us to conceive as shouldering a gun. and for those who knew him most intimately, whitman was such a man. many men who loved peace heard the call to arms and obeyed. abraham lincoln[339] himself--to whom america was entrusting the conduct of the war--had but now proclaimed its futility, while his whole nature revolted from its cruel folly. and had his destiny bidden him to join the colours one cannot doubt that walt whitman would have done so.[340] but that inner voice, which he obeyed, rather forbade than encouraged him. and even in years of war there is service one can do for one's country out of the ranks. no war can wholly absorb the energies of a civilised people, for the daily life of the nation must be continued. there are, besides, tasks that have a prior claim upon the loyalty of the individual, even to the defence of the flag. and whitman had such a task, for he bore, as it were, within his soul the infant of an ideal america, like a young mother whose life is the consecrated guardian of her unborn babe. his book was now, in a sense, complete; but none could feel more strongly than he that even his book was only an inadequate expression of his purpose; while life lasted his days were to be devoted to the creation of an immortal comradeship, and a spiritual atmosphere in which the seeds concealed in his writings might germinate. it must also be noted that, though in his open letter to emerson[341] he had written of war almost as a soldier whose blood kindles at the sound of the trumpets, and though the spirit of his book is one which "blows battles into men," yet the last edition had been marked by a curious and significant approximation to quakerism. it was in 1860, when war was so near at hand, that he substituted the friendly numeral equivalents for the usual names of the months and days of the week; not, assuredly, because he objected to the recognition of heathen deities, like the early friends, but in order to avow some relationship between himself and quakerism. the increase of mystical consciousness may have made him more aware at this time of his real identity with this society of mystics to which he never nominally belonged. we have had repeated occasion to note the quaker traits in whitman's character, and here, at the opening of the war, it is well to emphasise them anew.[342] his love of silence, his spiritual caution, his veracity and simplicity of speech, his soul-sight, and the practical balance of his mysticism--that temperance of character upon which his inspirational faculties were founded--and, finally, the equal democratic goodwill he showed to all men; these qualities speak the original quaker type. and the world may well extend to whitman the respect it acknowledges for the quaker's refusal to bear arms. it was, indeed, because he loved america so well that he did not fight with the common weapons. we have seen that he associated himself intimately with the american genius, a genius which necessarily includes the qualities of the south at least equally with those of the north; he himself[343] inclining to lay the emphasis upon the southern attributes, as though their wealth in the emotional and passionate elements were more essential than any other. america robbed of the south would, indeed, have been america divided against herself. hence he shared to the full in the desire and struggle for unity against the sordid party which instigated secession. but he knew that a victory of arms was not necessarily a victory of principles, and it was for the principle that he strove. may we not assert the possibility of a highly developed and powerful personality exerting itself upon the side of justice and liberty in moments of national crisis, in some manner more potent than that of merely physical service? would not whitman have been wasting his forces if he had surrendered himself to the spirit of the hour, and gone forth with the volunteers to stop or to forward a bullet or a bayonet? these are questions we well may ponder, and without attempting to give reasons for so doing, we may answer in the affirmative. certain it is that two or three days after he first read the news of south carolina's challenge, and the day following the president's appeal, he recorded this singular vow in one of his notebooks as though it were the seal upon a struggle of his spirit: "april 16th, 1861. i have this day, this hour, resolved to inaugurate for myself a pure, perfect, sweet, clean-blooded, robust body, by ignoring all drinks but water and pure milk, and all fat meats, late suppers--a great body, a purged, cleansed, spiritualised, invigorated body."[344] read with its context of the events which were occupying his mind, may we not surmise that this was a new girding of the loins for some service of the great cause, more strenuous than ever, though perhaps yet undefined; that this vow of abstinence for the establishment of a spiritualised body, made thus at the opening of the war, and at the time of george's enrolment, when lincoln's call for volunteers was ringing in the heart of every loyal citizen[345]--that this vow was that of an athlete going into training for a supreme effort; and an athlete whose labours are upon that unseen field, whereon it may be the battles of the visible world are really won. it was thus that whitman obeyed the calls of duty both within him and without. * * * * * lincoln's first tasks were to create an army and to confine the area of insurrection. he proclaimed the blockade of the southern ports; called out more regulars and volunteers, and succeeded in preventing west virginia and missouri from joining the confederacy. had he been able to retain for the service of the union a certain brilliant young officer, the war might have opened and closed upon a very different story; but robert lee had already joined the southern army, though not without an inward conflict. no leader of equal genius appeared upon the other side until grant came out of the west. the weakness of northern generalship was only too clearly evidenced in the defeat at bull run, midway between the two capitals, which were now little more than a hundred miles apart, the confederate government having removed to richmond. as a result of the defeat washington itself lay in imminent peril; and if general johnston had followed up his advantage, it would have fallen into his hands. but he missed his hour, and the consternation of the north was followed by a mood of stubborn resolution. slowly but surely lincoln built up his military organisation. in the whirlpool of currents he remained steadfast to his single policy of maintaining the union. he succeeded in evading the occasions of war which threatened abroad; he conciliated all in the south which was at that time amenable to conciliation; and, eager as he was for emancipation, he refused to be driven before the storm of abolitionist sentiment which had risen in the north. during 1862, while grant and farragut were gradually clearing the mississippi, the great natural thoroughfare of america, lee was more than holding his own among the hills and rivers of virginia. the opposing army of the potomac remained ineffective under the brilliant but dilatory mcclellan, and his more active successors, burnside and hooker. lee assumed the aggressive, and invaded maryland; but was turned back from a projected raid into pennsylvania by the drawn battle of antietam; in which, as in many of the previous engagements of this army, george whitman fought. antietam was immediately followed by the preliminary proclamation of emancipation, to take effect in all states which should still continue in rebellion at the commencement of the new year. lincoln's mind had long been exercised upon the best means of compassing the liberation of the slaves; and until the close of the war, he himself looked for the ultimate solution of the problem to the method of compensation adopted by great britain in the west indies. this was successfully applied to the district of columbia, but the offer of it received no response either from the other states to which it was magnanimously made, or from lincoln's own cabinet. the present proclamation was intended as a blow at the industrial resources of the rebellion. * * * * * in mid-december general burnside lost nearly 13,000 men at fredericksburg, virginia, and reading the long lists of wounded, the whitmans came upon george's name among the more serious casualties.[346] great was the distress in the home on portland avenue, and walt set off at once to seek him at the front. his pocket was picked in a crush at philadelphia station, and he arrived penniless in washington.[347] there, searching the hospitals for three days and nights, he could get no news of his brother's whereabouts, but managed somehow to make his way to the army's headquarters at falmouth. it had been a long, melancholy journey; but arrived at the camp, he found his brother already well again, his wound having healed rapidly. this sudden journey had momentous consequences for whitman. his stay in new york was, perhaps naturally, drawing to a close. there are indications in the last poems that he was contemplating a westward journey, and possibly a settlement beyond the rockies.[348] although he paid it frequent visits, he never lived again in brooklyn. at falmouth he found among the wounded a number of young fellows whom he had known in new york.[349] he took a natural interest in their welfare, and even though he felt he could do little for them, lingered till a party going up to washington offered him an opportunity for usefulness in their escort. arriving at the capital, he found innumerable similar occasions in the many hospitals which had been established in and about the city. these he began to visit daily, supporting himself by writing letters to the new york and brooklyn press--to the _new york times_ in particular--and by copying work in the paymaster's office.[350] it was not till two years later that he obtained regular employment in the civil service; but during the whole of that time he was paying almost daily visits to the wards, in his honorary and voluntary capacity, as friend of the wounded. the number of these was periodically swollen by great battles. on the 4th of may, 1863, general hooker lost the day at chancellorsville, and was replaced by meade. early in july, lee made a second alarming dash into the north, but was turned back by general meade from the bloody field of gettysburg, where the total losses reached the appalling figure of 60,000. by this time, more than two years after the fall of fort sumter, the first easy boasting of a short campaign and an overwhelming triumph, indulged by both sides, had long died; and the solemn sense of the great tragedy being enacted before its eyes possessed the nation. this sentiment could not have been more nobly expressed than in the words used by the president, when, speaking at the dedication of a portion of the gettysburg battlefield as a national cemetery,[351] he said: "we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under god, shall have a new birth of freedom: and that government of the people by the people for the people shall not perish from the earth". meade's victory, and the news following fast upon it of grant's capture of vicksburg, with the consequent reopening of the mississippi, reassured the wavering faith of many patriots. but the situation was still full of peril. in this same month--july, 1863--there were serious riots in new york,[352] instigated by the "copperheads," as the northern sympathisers with the confederacy were dubbed, in opposition to the first draft for the army under the general conscription law of march. in these, more than a thousand persons were killed or wounded. the riots were the more difficult to quell because all available troops and volunteers had been sent to the front; and these of course included a great proportion of the stabler citizens. at the same time the disaffected elements remained in their full strength. the political character of the disturbance was plain enough; for the rioters set upon any negroes they met, slinging them to the lamp-posts, and would have burned down the hospital, full of wounded union soldiers, had they not been prevented. it is some satisfaction to know that we cannot couple the name of fernando wood with these outrages. there was something genuine in his patriotism. he was now in congress, and had recently been vainly attempting, in his usual futile fashion, to negotiate a peace. * * * * * both the draft and the riots caused the whitman family no little anxiety. george, who had entered the army as a private and was promoted stage by stage till he became a lieutenant-colonel, was of course already at the front;[353] and jeff, who had married four years earlier, was keeping the home together for the old mother and helpless youngest son, as well as for his own wife and their young children. anything that happened to him would involve the happiness of the whole family. they feared especially that he might be drawn for service; and walt wrote from washington that in that event, he would do all in his power to raise the necessary money to provide a substitute.[354] walt himself never closed his ears against the call to serve in the ranks, if it should come to him. had he himself been drawn, he might have regarded the circumstance as the intimation of duty; but he was not. instead he took the risks of small-pox in the infectious wards, as well as that which is incurred by the frequent dressing of gangrened wounds; and he bore the spiritual burden of all the pathetic war-wreckage which drifted into washington month after weary month. the tension of those days was terrible to him. devoted to the "mother of all," the american nation, he loved her sons both north and south with an equal affection, their suffering and destruction wringing his heart. for, mystic as he was, he had all the strong passions of humanity, and felt to the full the agonies of the flesh. on the one side also, his own brother was in the hottest of the fighting throughout these years; while on the other, it is just possible that some young son of his own, known or unknown to him, may have served among the boys in the opposite ranks before the war was over. his abolitionist friends would sigh, and say the struggle must go on till every slave should be free; but he who valued freedom not less than they, and understood perhaps better what it really means, dissented from them. the first sight of a battlefield made him cry out for peace; and if in the following months he felt the exhilaration which breathed from the simple heroism displayed by the soldiers, he still saw that war is not all heroic, but in time must darken the fairest cause. the terrible burden of its inconceivable extravagance began to weigh upon him like a nightmare. each new season, with its prospective train of ambulances, its legion of tragedies, bewildered him with its horror; till he angrily denied that the whole population of negroes could be worth so terrific a purchase.[355] it may have been the exaggerated retort to an extremist argument; but indeed it was not for the negroes that the war was being fought; it was not for the powerful but highly coloured manifesto of _uncle tom's cabin_, but for the "declaration of independence," and for the constitution of america. and this both whitman and lincoln realised: they knew the negro of the south as the new englander never knew him, and were firm in demanding for him the rights of a human being; but they knew also that mere abolition would not give him these, nor could it render him capable of the right exercise of american citizenship. * * * * * though lee had been thrown back from gettysburg, his army had never recognised a defeat; and the chief danger to the cause of american unity lay in the conviction of the south that its general and his men were really invincible. for two more years they kept the field, with a heroic determination that appears at the same time little short of criminal when we consider the conditions involved upon all the parties to resistance. and when we add to these the story of the southern military prisons, even the chivalrous fame of lee becomes stained with an ineffaceable shame. better a thousand times to have acknowledged defeat than to have been guilty of enforcing such things. but the pride of the south had become rigid, and would only admit defeat after it was broken. its political leaders had staked everything upon victory; and it would seem that they preferred to sacrifice a whole generation of their supporters and victims rather than bear the penalty of their failure. when grant, or rather the reckless courage of his american volunteers,[356] had crushed general bragg at chattanooga, and his friend sherman had completed the work of clearing tennessee, lee's army remained the sole hope of the desperately impoverished south. but still in itself and in its leader it was absolutely confident. a similar confidence inspired the hearts of the union soldiers, when in march, 1864, the downright laconic general from the west was given supreme command, and went into virginia to crush his antagonist by mere force of numbers and determination. in grant at last both lincoln and the army had found the man they were waiting for. but still a year went by before the task was accomplished--a year whose memory is the most terrible of the war--upon whose page are inscribed such names as, the wilderness, spotsylvania, bloody angle, north anna, cold harbour, recalling those awful fields whereon more than a hundred thousand soldiers fell. while grant was stubbornly pushing lee back upon richmond, and finally holding him there, sherman was cutting him off from further support by that extraordinary march south-eastwards from chattanooga through atlanta to the sea. he captured savannah just before christmas; and afterwards turning north, and wading through all the morasses and crossing all the innumerable streams and rivers of the carolinas, he completed his errand a few days before his chief entered the southern capital. several futile attempts had been made to bring about a reconciliation between north and south before the bitter end;[357] but lincoln, eager as he was for peace, stood out irrevocably for the acknowledgment of the union, and now added to it the emancipation of the slaves. it was clear that nothing short of lee's capitulation could satisfy the country or end the war. on the 3rd april, richmond surrendered to grant; and on the day after, the president, who was then with the army, entered the city which the evacuating forces had fired. five more days and lee gave himself up: by the end of the month the surrender of the confederate troops had been effected, while jefferson davis was captured in georgia on the 10th of may. a fortnight later the combined hosts of grant and sherman passed before the president in a last grand review along pennsylvania avenue and before the white house, to be thereafter disbanded. but the president was no longer abraham lincoln. re-elected in the preceding autumn, in spite of republican intrigues and the dangerous opposition of general mcclellan, who was put forward by the democrats, lincoln had been assassinated during a performance at ford's theatre, on the evening of the 14th of april, the fourth anniversary of the fall of fort sumter. the loss to his country was irreparable. more than any other of its presidents, either before or since, abraham lincoln embodied the real genius of the american nation, and in the hour of their agony he was the father of his people. slowly they had learnt his strength and his wisdom; but they had hardly begun to understand the greatness of a heart which was able to love the south with a mother's tenderness even while it was in arms against him. the vice-president, who stepped into his place, was a union democrat; he also loved the south, but less wisely than well. his rash haste in the reconstruction of the governments of the defeated states threw the nation into the hands of the group of narrowly partisan republicans which continued to rule america with unscrupulous ability and ill-concealed self-interest[358] for sixteen years, threatening by its attitude towards the southern people to alienate their sympathies forever from the union. footnotes: [323] burroughs, 20, 21. [324] _literary gazette_, 7th july, 1860; _qu._ bucke, 202. [325] w. m. rossetti, _selections from w. w._, introd., and e. rhys, _selections from w. w._, introd.; w. b. scott, _autobiog._, ii., 32, 33, 268, 269. [326] there is no fact more important to be remembered for a right understanding of the events that follow than this, that the slave party only controlled a portion, perhaps a minority, of the democrats. [327] _l. of g._, 190; _mem. hist. n.y._, iii., 472. [328] _l. of g._, 1876. [329] bryce, _op. cit._, i., 46, 47. [330] but see _ib._, i., 44. [331] _camb. mod. hist._, 445. [332] _camb. mod. hist._, 449. [333] _comp. prose_, 302. [334] see _supra_, p. 24. [335] roosevelt, 202-04. [336] _comp. prose_, 15, 16. [337] roosevelt, 203; _mem. hist. n.y._, iii., 485. [338] _w.'s memoranda during the war_, 59. [339] inaugural, 1861. [340] bucke, 104. [341] _l. of g._ (1856), appendix. [342] _cf. in re_, 213. [343] _cf._ _comp. prose_, 255, etc. [344] mss. harned. [345] _camb. mod. hist._, 451. [346] _comp. prose_, 15. [347] _wound-dresser_, 23, 47, 48. [348] _l. of g._ (1860), 371. [349] _comp. prose_, 21; _wound-dresser_, 24. [350] burroughs, 29; _wound-dresser_, 10, etc. [351] 19th nov., 1863. [352] roosevelt, 203-206. [353] _wound-dresser_, 94. [354] _wound-dresser_, 95. [355] _cf._ kennedy. [356] owen wister's _grant_ (beacon biogs.), 95, 96. [357] _camb. mod. hist._, 579. [358] _camb. mod. hist._, 638. chapter xii the proof of comradeship whitman's residence in washington and the nature of his occupation in the hospitals, through the years of the war, have rendered an outline of their history almost necessary. of his manner of life during this period we have many notes and records, both in his own letters and memoranda and in the biographical accounts afterwards printed by his friends. during the first five or six months after his arrival he took his meals and spent much of his spare time with mr. and mrs. o'connor, who had recently settled in the city.[359] he boarded in the same house as they, about six blocks from the treasury building, where o'connor worked, and a mile from the armory square hospital, where lay many of his own wounded friends. william douglas o'connor was a strikingly handsome man of thirty years, full of spirit and eloquence.[360] he had previously been a boston journalist, had married in that city a charming wife, and was the father of two children. he had lost his post there through his outspoken support of john brown and the attack on harper's ferry. while out of employment he had written his novel, _harrington_, an eloquent story of the abolitionist cause, which was published by thayer & eldridge. in 1861 he had obtained a comfortable clerkship in the lighthouse bureau under the new lincoln administration. [illustration: william douglas o'connor] whitman had already made his acquaintance in boston, and their friendship now became most cordial and intimate. generous and romantic in his view of life, o'connor's whole personality was very attractive to whitman from the day of their first encounter. he had the warm irish temperament which walt loved; he was a natural actor, and walt was always at home with actors.[361] moreover, he was an eager and intelligent admirer of _leaves of grass_; and his keen insight, wide reading and remarkable powers of elocution sometimes revealed to their author meanings and suggestions in his own familiar words of which he himself had been unconscious. o'connor's personal attachment to and reverence for the older man is evident upon every page of _the carpenter_, a tale which he afterwards contributed to _putnam's magazine_;[362] while in the impassioned eulogium of _the good gray poet_ he has expressed his admiration for the _leaves_. upon politics however the two friends never agreed, and, unfortunately, o'connor was always eager for political argument. he was a friend of wendell phillips, that anti-slavery orator who once described lincoln as "the slave-hound of illinois," because the latter approved the enforcement of the fugitive slave law while it remained on the statute-book: and to o'connor, compulsory emancipation always came before the preservation of the union. this of course was not whitman's view, and it was upon the negro question that their friendship finally suffered shipwreck.[363] o'connor's rooms soon became the centre of an interesting group of literary friends. mr. eldridge, the publisher,[364] came to washington after the wreck of his boston business, and a little later mr. john burroughs,[365] a student of wordsworth, emerson and the _leaves_, being attracted to the capital, whither all eyes were turning, gave up teaching in new england, and obtained a government clerkship. mr. e. c. steadman,[366] a poet and journalist in those days, and a clerk in the attorney-general's department, was of the o'connor group; and mr. hubley ashton[367] also, then a rising young lawyer, who afterwards intervened successfully on whitman's behalf at a critical moment. the last-named of these gentlemen tells me that he first saw whitman late one evening at the rooms of their mutual friend. it was indeed past midnight when walt appeared asking for supper. he was wearing army boots, his sleeves were rolled up, and his coat was slung across his arm. he had just come in with a train-load of wounded from the front, and had been disposing of his charges in the washington hospitals. very picturesque he looked, as he stood there, stalwart, unconventional, majestic, an heroic american figure. * * * * * that figure rapidly became as familiar in washington as it had been in new york.[368] no one could miss or mistake this great jolly-looking man, with his deliberate but swinging gait, his red face with its grey beard over the open collar, and crowned by the big slouch hat; and every one wondered who and what he might be. some western general, or sea-captain, or perhaps a catholic father, they would guess;[369] for he seemed a leader of men, and there was a freshness about his presence that surely must have come either from the prairies, the great deep, or the very heart of humanity. he had the bearing, too, of a man of action; he looked as though he could handle the ribbons, or swing an axe with the best, as indeed he could. whitman was more puzzled than any of the onlookers about his occupation, or rather his business. occupation he never lacked while the hospitals were full; but for years he was very poor, and once, at least, seriously in debt.[370] the need for money, to supply the little extras which might save the life of many a poor fellow in the wards, was constant; and now, probably for the first time, he found it difficult to earn his own livelihood. he had failed in his application for a government clerkship. living in washington was in itself costly, and the paragraphs and letters which he contributed to the local and metropolitan press, with his two or three hours a day of copying in the paymaster's office--a pleasant top-room overlooking the city and the river--brought him but a meagre income. moreover the need for money began to press in a new direction; for first, the family breadwinner at brooklyn was threatened, and then, though he was not drawn for the army, his salary was cut in two.[371] whereupon brother andrew, always one suspects rather a poor tool, fell ill; and died after a lingering malady,[372] leaving a widow and several little children in poverty. walt himself lived in the strictest simplicity. for awhile, as we have seen, he boarded with the o'connors; then he took a little room on a top-floor;[373] breakfasted on tea and bread, toasted before an oil-stove, and had for his one solid meal a shilling dinner at a cheap restaurant. to all appearance he was in magnificent health. at the beginning of the first summer he is so large and well, as he playfully tells his mother, that he looks "like a great wild buffalo, with much hair".[374] simplicity of life was never a hardship to him. there was something wild and elemental in his nature that chose a den rather than a parlour or a club-room for its shelter. the money difficulty renewed his thoughts of lecturing, and after the first summer in washington his home--letters often refer to it.[375] but the plan now appears less as an apostolate than as a means of raising funds for his hospital service. the change may, of course, be due in part to the fact that he was writing of his plans to his old mother, who would be most likely to appreciate this motive; but it was chiefly the result of his present complete absorption in those immediate tasks of comradeship for which he seemed to be born. he was, however, well advised not to actually attempt the enterprise. even a famous orator could hardly have found a hearing during the crisis of the war, when the newspaper with its casualty lists was almost the sole centre of interest. and even had he been sure of success, his hospital service would not have let him go. * * * * * during this first summer whitman hurt his hand, and had to avoid some of the worst cases in order to escape blood-poisoning;[376] but in september he wrote home: "i am first-rate in health, so much better than a month or two ago: my hand has entirely healed. i go to hospital every day or night. i believe no men ever loved each other as i and some of these poor wounded sick and dying men love each other."[377] such words are a fitting commentary upon the pages of calamus. here, among the perishing, the genius of this great comrade of young men found its proper work of redemption. great, indeed, was his opportunity. the federal city was full of troops and of wounded soldiers. the whole of the district a few blocks north of pennsylvania avenue, and of that lying east of the capitol, were alike occupied by parade grounds, camps and hospitals. the latter even invaded the capitol itself; and for a time the present hall of statuary was used as a ward.[378] midway between the capitol and the present washington monument, and close to the baltimore and potomac railway station, is the site of the armory square hospital; four blocks to the north again is the patent office, for a long time filled with beds. and hard by, in judiciary square, where the hideous pension office now stands, was another great camp of the "boys in white". whitman was a frequent visitor at all of these. there were fourteen large hospitals in the city by the summer of 1863; and the total number in and about it rose to fifty. they spread away over the surrounding fields and hill-sides, as far as the fairfax seminary[379] on the ridge above the quaint washingtonian town of alexandria. this was almost in the enemy's country. and even the melancholy strains of the dead march were welcomed with covert rejoicings by its citizens when the funeral of some union soldier passed their doors.[380] all through the war washington itself was full of disaffected persons; and for a while, looking out from the height of the capitol, one could see the confederate flag flying on the virginian hills opposite. the greater part of the hospital nursing was done, of course, by orderlies; and a more or less severe and mechanical officialism prevailed in most of the wards. but this frigid atmosphere was warmed by the presence of a number of women; emissaries of relief associations supported by individual states, or of the sanitary and christian commissions. it is difficult to overestimate the good that was done by dorothea dix and her helpers, among whom were not a few quakeresses; and by all the devoted sisters of mercy and sisters of charity whose goodwill never failed. but even then the field for service was so vast that much remained undone. many of the doctors and surgeons were able and kindly, some of them were absolutely devoted to their painful labours; and many of the nurses were more than patient and faithful; but the lads who were carried in wounded and sick from the cold and ghastly fields, wanted the strong support of manly understanding and prodigal affection in fuller measure than mere humanity seemed able to give.[381] human as he was, walt came to hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, like a saviour. in after years they remembered "a man with the face of an angel" who had devoted himself to their individual needs.[382] the mere presence of a perfectly sane and radiant personality raised the tone of a whole ward.[383] the dead-weight of cloudy depression brooding upon it would melt in the ineffable sunshine that streamed from him. and then he always seemed to know exactly what was wanted, and he was never in a hurry. when anything was to be done or altered, he spoke with the authority of the man who alone, among overpressed and busy people, has the leisure for personal investigation; and therefore in most cases he had his way. absolutely unsparing of himself, he knew too well wherein his strength lay to be careless of his health. if his food was sometimes insufficient, he would yet take his one square meal,[384] after refreshing himself with a bath, before starting upon his rounds. and when they were over, he cleared his brain under the stars before he turned in to sleep. thus he kept his power at the full, and his presence was like that of the open air. he would often come into the wards carrying wild flowers newly picked, and strewing them over the beds, like a herald of the summer. well did he know that they were messengers of life to the sick, words to them from the earth-mother of men. whatever he might be in the literary world of washington or new york, here whitman was nothing but walt the comrade of soldiers. and for himself, he said in later years, that the supreme loves of his life had been for his mother and for the wounded.[385] it is a saying worthy of remembrance, for it indicates the man. of the efficiency of his service there can be no question.[386] he worked his own miracles. he knew it positively himself, and besides, both the lads and the doctors assured him, time and again, that he was saving lives by refusing to give them over to despair. "i can testify," he writes to _the brooklyn eagle_, his old paper, "that friendship has literally cured a fever, and the medicine of daily affection a bad wound."[387] in his own words, he distributed himself,[388] as well as the contents of his pockets and haversack, in infinitesimal quantities, certain that but little of his giving would be wasted. and yet he never gave indiscriminately;[389] he knew always what he was doing, and did it with deliberation. the feeling that the lads wanted him had detained him at the first; the superabundance of his life, and the fulness of his health and spirits, carrying with them a conviction of duty when he entered these vestibules of death.[390] here was something that he, and he only, could adequately accomplish; here was a cry he was bound by the law of his being to answer; and the cry of the hospitals continued to hold him till the war was done. as he left of a night, after going his last round and kissing many a young, pale, bearded face, in fulfilment of his own written injunctions, he would hear the boys calling, "walt, walt, walt! come again, come again!" and it would have required a harder heart than his to refuse them, even had the answer within been less loud and insistent. they kept him busy, too. he provided them with pens, stamps, envelopes and paper, and wrote their letters for them;[391] letters to mothers, wives and sweethearts; and the last news of all, when the sad procession had carried son, husband or lover to his soldier's grave, and had fired over him the last salute. he would enter, armed with newspapers and magazines which he distributed; and often he would read to the men, or recite some suitable verses, never, i think, his own.[392] he played games with them, too; and though he was one of the few men in washington who never smoked,[393] he was the only one of all the visitors who brought them tobacco; and the ward-surgeons, though at first they protested, could not refuse him; it really seemed as though walt knew best. on the glorious fourth, he would provide a feast of ice-cream for some ward;[394] and on other hot days--and there were too many in the capital--would distribute the contents of crates full of oranges,[395] or lemons and sugar for the making of lemonade. it was for such gifts as these, and many others of a similar kind, that he needed money; and through the influence of emerson, james redpath and other friends in new york and boston, he was able to distribute perhaps £1,200 among the soldiers in these infinitesimal quantities.[396] thus he became the almoner of many in the north. much of the service, however, was entirely his own--if one can ever call love one's own, which all things seem to offer to the soul that has learnt to receive from all. in cases of heart sickness, and the despondency and despair that come to the lonely man lying helpless among callous or unimaginative and therefore indifferent persons, walt's quick divination of the real trouble made him the best of nurses; and he took care to remember all the cases that came under his notice, innumerable as they must have seemed. he kept a strict record of his patients and their individual needs in little blood and tear-stained notebooks, many of which are still extant.[397] this is an additional proof of that concrete definiteness of observation which distinguishes his habit of mind from the love of merely nebulous generalisation of which he is sometimes accused. one is bound to respect the intuitions of a mind which has so large a grasp of detail. beginning characteristically with the brooklyn lads whom he found scattered about the several hospitals, and who claimed his attention by the natural right of old acquaintanceship, his work grew like a rolling snowball, as he made his way from bed to bed; for he was always quick to feel the needs of a stranger. before long he realised that there was not one among the thousand tents and wards in which he might not profitably have expended his whole vital energy. as it was, however, he tramped from hospital to hospital, faithfully going his rounds as far afield as the fairfax seminary. and in those days the washington streets were heavy walking in the wet weather; for pennsylvania avenue was the only one that was yet paved,[398] and then boasted nothing but the cobble-stones, which still serve in the quaint streets across the potomac. he walked a great deal. the open air relieved the tension of the wards, which at times was almost unbearable. though his presence and affection saved many a lad's life, there must have been many more that died; and the tragedy of these deaths, and the terrible suffering that often preceded them, bit into his soul. fascinated though he was by his employment, and delighting in it while he was strong and well,[399] the strength of his great heart was often as helpless as a little child's; and his whole nature staggered under the blows, which he felt even in his physical frame. he was literally an "amateur"; he could never take a detached or "professional" attitude towards his patients, for he knew that what they needed from him was love; their suffering became his suffering, and something died in him when they died. the following passage, written when the war itself was drawing to a close, indicates the character of much of his work, and the spirit in which it was done:- "the large ward i am in is used for secession soldiers exclusively. one man, about forty years of age, emaciated with diarrhoea, i was attracted to, as he lay with his eyes turned up, looking like death. his weakness was so extreme that it took a minute or so every time for him to talk with anything like consecutive meaning; yet he was evidently a man of good intelligence and education. as i said anything, he would lie a moment perfectly still, then, with closed eyes, answer in a low, very slow voice, quite correct and sensible, but in a way and tone that wrung my heart. he had a mother, wife and child, living (or probably living) in his home in mississippi. it was long, long since he had seen them. had he caused a letter to be sent them since he got here in washington? no answer. i repeated the question very slowly and soothingly. he could not tell whether he had or not--things of late seemed to him like a dream. after waiting a moment, i said: 'well, i am going to walk down the ward a moment, and when i come back you can tell me. if you have not written, i will sit down and write.' a few minutes after i returned; he said he remembered now that some one had written for him two or three days before. the presence of this man impressed me profoundly. the flesh was all sunken on face and arms; the eyes low in their sockets and glassy, and with purple rings around them. two or three great tears silently flowed out from the eyes, and rolled down his temples (he was doubtless unused to be spoken to as i was speaking to him). sickness, imprisonment, exhaustion, etc., had conquered the body, yet the mind held mastery still, and called even wandering remembrance back."[400] at times the tragedy unnerved him, so that even his native optimism was clouded. "i believe there is not much but trouble in this world," we find him writing to his mother, and the page hardly reads like one of his; "if one hasn't any for himself, he has it made up by having it brought close to him through others, and that is sometimes worse than to have it touch oneself."[401] he had already learnt the primer of sorrow; now he was studying the lore in which he was to become so deeply read. * * * * * even that first summer the malarial climate and excessive heat of washington, with the close watching in the wards, and the continual draught upon his vital forces, affected him perceptibly. in his letters home he mentions heavy colds, with deafness and trouble in his head caused by the awful heat,[402] as giving him some anxiety. he seems to have had a slight sun-stroke in earlier years, which made him more susceptible to this kind of weakness; and on hot days he went armed with a big umbrella and a fan.[403] but through all this time he seemed to his friends the very incarnation of his "robust soul". [illustration: john burroughs at sixty-three] though he shuddered sometimes as he recalled the sights of the wards, the life outside was a pleasant one.[404] he loved to take long midnight rambles about the city and over the surrounding hills, with his friends. in spring, he delighted in the bird-song, the colour and fragrance of the flowers which lined the banks of rock creek,[405] a stream which, entering the broad potomac a mile above the treasury building, separated washington from the narrow ivy-clad streets of suburban georgetown. and the stir and life of the capital always interested him. he loved to watch the marching of the troops; and the martial music and flying colours always delighted him as though he were a boy. he frequently met the president,[406] blanched and worn with anxiety and sorrow, riding in from his breezier lodging at the soldiers' home on the north side of the city, to his official residence. they would exchange the salutations of street acquaintances, each man admiring the patent manliness of the other. in washington, as in new york, whitman was speedily making himself at home with everybody; eating melons in the street with a countryman,[407] or chatting at the capitol with a member of congress; for men or women, black or white, he always had his own friendly word. he had besides, as we have seen, his inner circle at o'connor's. he was often at the capitol, that noble, but somewhat uninteresting building which overlooks the city; and if he deplored the low level of the congressional debates, he found some compensation among the trees without; for fine trees were already a feature of washington,[408] which now appears, as one looks down upon it, like a city builded in a wood. about sundown, too, he liked to stand where he could see the level light blazing like a star upon the bronze figure of liberty, newly mounted above the dome. it was in the summer of 1864, when whitman was forty-five years of age, that he had his first serious illness. he had never been really out of health before. the preceding autumn he had paid a short visit to his home, and in february had gone down to the front at culpepper, thinking that his services might be needed nearer to the actual scene of battle. but he found that he could do better work in washington. the cases there seemed to grow more desperate as the long strain of the war made itself felt upon the men in the ranks. it was immediately after this that grant was given the supreme command; and at the close of march, whitman, who foresaw the real meaning of the task of crushing lee, wrote of it thus: "o mother, to think that we are to have here soon what i have seen so many times; the awful loads and trains and boat-loads of poor, bloody and pale, and wounded young men again.... i see all the little signs--getting ready in the hospitals, etc. it is dreadful when one thinks about it. i sometimes think over the sights i have myself seen: the arrival of the wounded after a battle; and the scenes on the field too; and i can hardly believe my own recollections. what an awful thing war is! mother, it seems not men, but a lot of devils and butchers, butchering one another."[409] a week later, describing the frightful sufferings of the soldiers, and the callous selfishness of their attendants, he says: "i get almost frightened at the world".[410] again, two days after: "i have been in the midst of suffering and death for two months, worse than ever. the only comfort is that i have been the cause of some beams of sunshine upon their suffering and gloomy souls and bodies too."[411] and he adds: "oh, it is terrible, and getting worse, worse, worse".[412] rumours spread in the city of the probable character of grant's campaign; and as he realised more and more fully what would be its inevitable cost, a sort of terror took hold of him. yet he believed in grant, as well as in lincoln.[413] and hating war as he did, he could not see any other course possible now than to complete its work. he was solemnly ready to take his part in those ranks of men converted, as it were, into "devils and butchers," if need be, if he could feel assured that he was more use to america upon the field than in the wards among the sick and dying. meanwhile, he shared the old mother's anxiety about george, who was always in the thick of the fighting. news, both true and false, was arriving; and his letters are always seeking to support the old woman's faith, and to give her the plain truth with all the hope that might be. he was kept very closely occupied now in the hospitals; and especially at armory square, where some 200 desperate cases were collected;[414] men who had lain on the field, or otherwise unattended, until their wounds and amputations had mortified. he had always made a rule of going where he was most needed. but now he began to suffer severely from what he describes as fulness in the head, to have fits of faintness, and to be troubled with sore throat. to add to the horrors of those days, a number of the wounded lads went crazy; and at last the strain became so manifestly too much for his failing vitality, that his friends and the doctors bade him go north for a time. but he hung on still; hoping, like grant, for the war to end with the summer, and writing to his mother that he cannot bear to leave and be absent if george should be hit and brought into washington.[415] however, with midsummer upon him and its deadly heat, he became really ill, and had to relinquish his post. for nearly six months he remained restlessly at home. whitman never fully recovered. we may perhaps be surprised at this, and wonder that he should have broken down, even under the circumstances. was he not in such relations with the universal life that he should daily have been able to replenish the storehouse of his physical and emotional forces? he was no spendthrift, and husbanded them as well as he might, knowing their value; and doubtless he asked himself this very question many a time. doubtless, too, he was confident, at least during the earlier months, that after the strain was over his resilient nature would regain its normal tone. but on the other hand, he had volunteered for a service to whose claims he was ready to respond to the uttermost farthing.[416] where others gave their lives, who was he to hold back anything of his? the soul, one may say, never gives more than it can afford; for the soul is divinely prudent, and knows the worthlessness of such a gift. and giving with that prudence, it never seeks repayment; what it gives, it gives. but the body, even at its best, is not as the soul. and when the soul gives the vital and emotional forces of its body to invigorate other bodies, it may give more of these, and more continuously, than the body can replace. and so it was with whitman. he gave, and i think he gave deliberately, for he was an extraordinarily deliberate man, that for which he cared far more than life; he gave his health to the friends, the strangers, whom he loved; and thus his "spiritualised body"[417] found its use. footnotes: [359] _wound-dresser_, 53. [360] _comp. prose_, 511, 512; howells, _op. cit._ [361] _comp. prose_, 518, 519; mss. traubel. [362] see _infra_, 227. [363] see _infra_, 236. [364] _wound-dresser_, 128; bucke, 39, 40. [365] bucke, 12. [366] _wound-dresser_, 133. [367] calamus, 23, 24, etc. [368] bucke, 99. [369] _ib._, 37. [370] _wound-dresser_, 52. [371] _wound-dresser_, 133. [372] _ib._, 64, etc. [373] trowbridge, _op. cit._ [374] _wound-dresser_, 66. [375] _ib._, 84. [376] _wound-dresser_, 98. [377] _ib._, iii. [378] s. d. wyeth's _the federal city_, 1868. [379] _comp. prose_, 40, 41. [380] j. s. wheelock's _the boys in white_, 1870. [381] _wound-dresser_, 7. [382] bucke, 37. [383] _wound-dresser_, 28. [384] _comp. prose_, 32. [385] _in re_, 391. [386] _wound-dresser_, 8, 89, 113; bucke, 36. [387] _wound-dresser_, 14. [388] _ib._, 12. [389] _wound-dresser_, 32, 33. [390] camden, ix., 200. [391] _wound-dresser_, 13. [392] _ib._, 42. [393] _ib._, 13; calamus, 24. [394] _wound-dresser_, 39. [395] _ib._, 30, 31. [396] donaldson, 153; _comp. prose_, 51. [397] _mem. during the war_, 3. [398] _recollections of washn. in war time_, a. g. riddle, 1895. _see transcriber's note._ [399] _wound-dresser_, 74, 84. [400] _comp. prose_, 453, 454. [401] _ib._, 104. [402] _wound-dresser_, 62, etc. [403] _wound-dresser_, 79. [404] _ib._, 123; _comp. prose_, 70. [405] dr. t. proctor in _journal of hygiene_, feb., 1898. [406] _comp. prose_, 38. [407] calamus, 31. [408] _wound-dresser_, 112. [409] _wound-dresser_, 156, 157. [410] _ib._, 159. [411] _ib._, 160. [412] _ib._, 161. [413] _wound-dresser_, 139, etc. [414] _ib._, 37, etc. [415] _ib._, 198. [416] bucke, 38, 39. [417] _supra_, 181. chapter xiii a washington clerk while whitman was at home, during the latter part of 1864, he doubtless put the finishing touches to _drum-taps_, which was printed at new york early in the following summer. several of the poems in this collection had been written in that city during the two years which had elapsed since the last publication of _leaves of grass_, before he set out for washington. the manuscript had remained at home, tied up in its square, spotted, stone-colour covers,[418] but was sent on to him, to be discussed in the washington circle. early in 1864 a friend seems to have taken it the round of the boston publishers, but without success.[419] if we are to understand whitman's attitude towards the war, we must glance at the little brown volume of seventy-two pages, _walt whitman's drum-taps_. among the poems which preceded his visit to the capital were probably the song of "pioneers,"[420] with its cry of the west, and the poem of the "broadway pageant,"[421] of 1860, celebrating the japanese embassy, and forming a complementary tribute to the maternal east. to these one may add the lines to "old ireland"[422] and the noble "years of the modern".[423] in this last he proclaims the growing consciousness of solidarity among the peoples of the world. artificial boundaries seem to be breaking down in europe, and the people are making their own landmarks--witness the rise of a new italy. everywhere men among the people are awaking to ask pregnant questions, and to link all lands together with steam and electricity. are all nations communing? is there going to be but one heart to the globe? is humanity forming en-masse? for lo, tyrants tremble, crowns grow dim, the earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a general divine war, no one knows what will happen next, such portents fill the days and nights; years prophetical! the space ahead as i walk, as i vainly try to pierce it, is full of phantoms, unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes around me, this incredible rush and heat, this strange ecstatic fever of dreams, o years! your dreams, o years, how they penetrate through me! (i know not whether i sleep or wake); the perform'd america and europe grow dim, retiring in shadow behind me, the unperform'd, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon me.[424] the war poems follow. * * * * * whitman's attitude towards war is not obvious, but it is, i believe, logical and consistent. on one side it approximated to the quaker position, but only on one side. or rather, perhaps, the quaker position approximates to one side of whitman's. he was devoted to a social order, or republic, which could not be realised by deeds of arms. he had no hatred for any of his fellows, and recognised in his political enemy a man divine as himself--one cannot say that he had any personal enemies, though there were men who would like to have been accounted such. the fat years of peace had, however, awakened doubts in him of the average american's capacity for great passions.[425] these seemed to be rare among them, and whitman had been driven to seek them in nature and her storms. it was with exultation, then, that he felt the response of new york and of the whole of america to the call of the trumpet.[426] men of peace are accustomed to lament the contagion of the war-fever, and with a large measure of justice. but so long as civilisation tends to render the common lives of men cheap or calculating, there will remain a divine necessity for those hours of fierce enthusiasm which, like a forest fire or religious revival, sweep irresistibly over a nation. whitman shared the rhythmic answer of the blood, and of the soul which is involved therewith, to the imperious throbbing of the drums.[427] he knew that it represented in some, perhaps barbaric, way the throbbing of the nation's heart, and that the cry "to arms!" called forth much that was best in men. the call to arms is one thing; the actual fighting, which converts men, to use his own phrase, into "devils and butchers," is another. the call to arms awakes something in a man more heroic than the life he ordinarily lives; he seems to hear in it the voice of the nation calling him by name, and when he answers he feels the joy of the nation in his heart. he becomes consciously one with a great host in the hour of peril. he hears the voice of a cause in the bugles and the drums. he shares in a new emotion, which is his glory because it is not his alone. he finds a fuller liberty than he has ever known in the discipline of the ranks; he accepts the petty tyrannies to which he is subjected, feeling that behind the officers is the will of the nation to which he has yielded his own. this, for better and worse, we may call the mysticism of war, and it appealed forcibly to whitman. for him, war was illuminated by the idea of solidarity; an idea which was constantly present to him from this time forward. he no longer saw the great personalities only, nor only their divine comradeship in the life of god; all that remained as vivid as of old; but now he was being constantly reminded of the way in which individuals share consciously in the life of the nation; and this suggested to him how, presently, they will come to be conscious of their part in the life of the race. he recognised how essential was the sense of citizenship to fuller soul-life. the barriers in which our individual lives are isolated must be broken, if liberty is to be brought to the soul. if we are to live fully, we must feel the tides of being sweep through our emotional natures. hence his welcome to war, which, in spite of all the fiendish spirits which follow in its wake, does thrill a chord of national consciousness in the individual heart. we may well ask whether there is no errand worthier of this sense of solidarity than that of slaughter. surely the affirmation of such an errand underlies the whole thought of _drum-taps_, with its call to a "divine war".[428] the hour has come when the social passion is about to rouse the peoples to a nobler crusade against oppression than any yet; when the nations shall be purged by revolutions wholesomer than those of 1789 or 1861. whitman's whole life, throbbing in every page he wrote, proclaims it. he regarded the civil war as a sort of fever in the body politic, caused by anterior conditions of congestion. war had become necessary for the life of that body, and only after a war could health re-assert itself. to compromise continually, as we boast in england that we do, may sustain a sort of social peace, but it is almost certain to drive the disease deeper into the very heart of our national life, and there to sap the sheer ability for any kind of noble enthusiasm. you may purchase a sort of peace with the price of a life more sacred than even that of individual citizens. whitman demanded national health, without which he could see no real peace. he did not suppose, indeed, that war could of itself effect a cure. health could only return in so far as the aroused conscience of the nation--which had lived in its soldiers and in the wives and families who had shared in their devotion--was carried forward into the civil life. peace itself must be rendered sentient of that heroic national purpose which had for a moment flashed across the fields of battle.[429] peace, indeed, is only priceless when it has become more truly and wisely heroical than war; when it has become affirmative where war is cruelly negative; when it creates where war destroys, quickening the heart of each citizen to fulfil a sacred duty. whitman well knew that in order to have such a peace we must set before the peoples a mission, a sublime national task. what party is there to-day, either in england or america, which dares to hold up for achievement any programme of heroism? read in this light, and only so, i believe, will _drum-taps_ yield up its essential meaning. it is a song of the broad-axe, not a scream of the war-eagle.[430] * * * * * in alluding to _drum-taps_, i have somewhat anticipated the natural course of the story, to which we must now return. even at home on furlough, whitman could not wholly relinquish the occupation which he had assumed, and became a frequent visitor at the hospitals of brooklyn and new york. early in december, 1864, he was back again at his post, suffering from the added anxiety for his brother's welfare; for george was a prisoner in the hands of the confederates, enduring the almost inconceivable horrors of a winter imprisonment at dannville. at the beginning of february walt made an application to general grant, through a friend in the office of the _new york times_,[431] for the release of his brother, together with another officer of the 51st new york volunteers; alleging, as an urgent reason, the deep distress of his aged mother whose health was breaking. the application appears to have been successful, and george, who had been captured early in the preceding summer, and upon whom fever, starvation, exposure and cold had wreaked their worst for many months, returned alive to brooklyn, his excellent constitution triumphant over all hardships. in the same month whitman obtained a clerkship in the indian bureau of the department of the interior, and thoroughly enjoyed the contact into which he was thus brought with the aboriginal americans. they on their side appear to have distinguished him as a real man among the host of colourless officials, and to have responded to his advances.[432] this was the early spring of lincoln's death; and walt was at the president's last levee.[433] he looked in also at the inauguration ball held in the patent office--strangely converted from its recent uses as a hospital. there he remarked the worn and weary expression of the beloved brown face; for still the great tragedy dragged on. five or six weeks later, a young irish-virginian, one of walt's washington friends,[434] was up in the second gallery of the crowded theatre upon the tragic night of the assassination, and saw the whole action passing before his bewildered eyes. whitman was at home again in brooklyn: seeing george, we may presume, and making final arrangements for his _drum-taps_; on his return he seems to have heard the whole graphic story from his friend. it is doubtful whether whitman and the dead president had ever spoken to one another, beyond the ordinary greeting of street acquaintances. they had met perhaps a score of times, and it is recorded that once, when walt passed the president's window, lincoln had remarked significantly--"well, _he_ looks like a man".[435] it seems possible that at first whitman may have felt something of the public uncertainty about the character of the new president.[436] how deep-rooted in the average american mind was the distrust or dislike of his policy is seen in the fact that, only six months before the death that was mourned by the whole nation, the opposition to his re-election was represented by a formidable popular vote. the south was in revolt, and therefore of course disfranchised; but even so, mcclellan polled as large a total as had the president at the previous election; though lincoln himself increased his former vote by a little more than one-fifth. so strong ran popular feeling against the whole policy of interference with the seceding states even in the fourth year of the war. but lincoln's death revealed his true worth to america. and the sense of the almost sacramental nature of that death, as sealing for ever the million others of the war, and finally consecrating the re-established union of north and south, grew upon whitman, who long before had realised that lincoln was the father of his country and the captain of her course. a sense of some impending tragedy seems to have accompanied whitman upon his walks at the time of the assassination. it was early spring and the lilac was in blossom; a strange association, deeper than mere fancy,[437] seemed to the poet to establish itself between the scent of the lilac, the solitary night-song of the hermit-thrush, the fulness of the evening star at this time, and the passing of "the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands". it was out of this deeply realised association that he built up the mystical symphony which he afterwards called "president lincoln's burial hymn," a poem in many respects similar to his other great chant of death, "out of the cradle". mystical and symbolic, it is charged with a vast national emotion; and this gives a certain vagueness to its solemnity, better befitting its theme than a more concrete treatment. the poet was not writing of "him i love," but rather attempting to express the feeling of lonely loss which thousands experienced on that dark april day. hence his poem is the hymn of a nation's bereavement rather than the elegy of a great man dead. whitman, in his attitude toward lincoln, had come to regard him as an incarnation of america. he thought of him as he thought of the flag; and his personal reverence for the man took almost the form of devotion to an ideal. * * * * * the president's death had been already noted in _drum-taps_, but when he conceived the longer poem, whitman seems to have recalled the edition,[438] in order to add this and certain other verses as a sequel, thus delaying its publication till about the end of the year. another of the new poems calls for a word in passing. "chanting the square deific"[439] is an attempt to express his theory of ultimate reality, that is to say, of the soul. four elements go to the making of this, and these he calls respectively, jehovah, christ, satan and santa spirita--adopting, as he sometimes would, a formula of his own inventing, that was of no known language. in other words, he conceived of the soul's reality,[440] as characterised by four essential qualities; first, its obedience to the remorseless general laws of being; second, its capacity for attraction to and absorption into others--its love-quality; third, its lawless defiance of everything but its own will; fourth, its sense of identity with the whole. condemnation, compassion, defiance, harmony, these he says are final and essential qualities of the divine; only as they are united can our idea of god or of the soul, which is the son of god, be complete. in the traditional satan of revolt and pride, he saw an element without which the harmony was immaterial and unreal. evil and perilous in itself, in its relation to the rest it is the solid ballast of the soaring soul. in this, he suggests much of the attitude which nietzsche was afterwards to make his own. * * * * * during the composition of some of these poems a crisis occurred in his new official career. the war was over, but the hospitals still were full, and walt was busy there as usual in his leisure hours; and at his desk in the indian bureau, whenever his duties were not pressing, he was at work upon his manuscripts,[441] when some hostile fellow-clerk seems to have called the attention of the newly appointed chief of the department to the character of these private documents. whitman had been a favourite with the chief clerk in the bureau, and had been given a good deal of latitude; perhaps the hostile person had observed this with a jealous eye. the manuscript proved to be not the innocuous _drum-taps_, but an annotated copy of _leaves of grass_ preparing for a new edition. a reading of the volume decided the chief upon a prompt dismissal of its author, and this is not surprising when we remember that mr. harlan had been appointed through the pressure of the powerful methodist interest which he commanded. the methodist eye in him must have regarded many of these pages with suspicion and not a few with disgust. the dismissal itself was perfectly colourless; it ran:- "department of the interior, "washington, d.c., _june 30th, 1865_. "the services of walter whitman, of new york, as a clerk in the indian office, will be dispensed with from and after this date. "jas. harlan, "_secretary of the interior_."[442] it is obvious that the chief had no right to open his clerk's desk and examine what he knew to be private papers; but having done so, and being presumably of an unimaginative, narrowly pious and over-conscientious character, we cannot wonder at his action. from whitman's point of view the matter was serious; he could ill-afford a peremptory dismissal from the public service. and to his friends the dismissal appeared not so much unjust as enormous. o'connor, hearing the news, went straight to hubley ashton, in the fiery heat of that generous and righteous wrath which scintillates and flashes with perfervid splendour through the pages of his _good grey poet_.[443] mr. ashton was not so fierce, but he was indignant. he was a member of the administration, and used his power to whitman's advantage. finding all remonstrance with mr. harlan to be vain, he yet induced him to make some sort of exchange by which whitman was not actually dismissed from the service, but only transferred to his own department--the attorney-general's. painful at the time, the affair did whitman little injury. when harlan's action became known it was far from popular in washington, where every one knew walt, and where next to nobody had read his _leaves_. a section at least of the local press supported the claims of a fellow-pressman;[444] while in the civil service he was a favourite with the clerks. in literary circles, also, o'connor's slashing attack upon the secretary for the interior turned the tables in walt's favour. in later years assaults of the same character were not infrequent, both upon _leaves of grass_ and its author; but, however annoying, they always resulted in arousing curiosity, and thus in extending the circle of readers. probably the fear of this consequence prevented their further multiplication, for average american opinion was then undisguisedly hostile, as, of course, it still remains. * * * * * on the whole, whitman seems to have been happy in his new office. he never tired of the view from his window[445] in the second storey of the treasury building, overlooking miles of river reaches with white sails upon them, and the range of wooded virginian hills. he liked his companions, and he relished the green tea which came in every afternoon from a girl in an adjacent office;[446] not, indeed, intended for him, but resigned to him by its recipient, who was scornful of the cup. he went on great walks, especially by night, and enjoyed his jaunts on the cars. one thanksgiving day we find him picnicing by the falls of the potomac, and on another occasion he is visiting washington's old mansion at mount vernon.[447] every sunday till the close of 1866 he was in the hospitals, and frequently called at one or other during the week. he was a regular visitor at the homes of several friends, and his acquaintance with mr. peter doyle, which seems to have begun during the last winter of the war, had ripened into a close comradeship. mr. and mrs. burroughs had always to keep sunday breakfast waiting for him; there was a regularity in his lateness.[448] after a chat with them, and a glance through the sunday papers, he would stroll over to the office for his letters on his way to some hospital, and during the course of the afternoon he dropped in at the o'connors' for tea. in the winter he spent much of his leisure by the fire in the comfortable library of the treasury building reading novels, philosophy and what he would. he boarded at a pleasant house on m street, near twelfth.[449] it stood back from the road, with a long sweep of sward in front of it, and an arbour under a great cherry tree, which became in spring a hill of snowy blossom. as the evenings grew warmer, whitman and his fellow-boarders would draw their chairs out on to the grass and sit under the trees talking or silently watching the passers-by, or listening to occasional strolling players. to his companions and to casual visitors he seemed as strong as ever. he ate well, avoiding excess, and, still adhering to his resolution, partaking but sparingly of meat. he went to bed and rose early. always affable and courteous, he contrived to take his part in the general conversation without saying much. such a life was easy, and passably comfortable; he was earning a fair salary, and making new friends constantly. but he was without a home; and washington, after all, as the seat of officialism, shows the seamy side of democracy. the cynic declares that its population consists exclusively of negroes, mean whites and officials; thus presenting a melancholy contrast to the metropolis of the fifties with its large class of vigorous-minded, independent artisans, the backbone of a city democracy as the yeoman-farmers are of a nation. the routine also of the work he was doing must often have been irksome to him.[450] it is one of the enigmas of whitman's life that he should have been content to continue in washington six years at least after the hospitals had ceased to claim him; sitting before a government desk as third clerk and earning his regular pay of rather more than three hundred pounds a year.[451] how great the change from his old bohemian days! the question obtrudes, was walt becoming "respectable"? whether he were or no, at least he had become noticeably better clad and less aggressive, a gentler seeming man than of old.[452] and yet there was always something illusive about this apparent change. he could still turn the face of a rock to impertinent intruders;[453] he could still blaze out in sudden anger upon a rare occasion. but he was near fifty now, and for several years the strong sympathies of his nature had been fully and continually exercised in the wards. his individuality was as marked as ever; but with the war he had experienced a deeper sense of his membership in the life of the race. the word "_en-masse_," now so often on his lips, expresses this constant consciousness. it was not new to him, but its dominance was new. again, while he had seen before that, in general, every soul is divine, it was the days and nights which he spent in the wards which made him understand how divine it actually is. the meaning of love grows richer in its exercise, and this was doubtless true in the case of walt whitman. the experience of recent years had cleansed his self-assertion of qualities which were merely fortuitous. never intentionally eccentric, he had previously perhaps exaggerated the traits which were peculiar to a stage in the development of his own personality. but the crucible heat of the wards rid him of that, while integrating his nature more perfectly. living more intensely than ever, he was living more than ever in the lives of others; and this inevitably made him more catholic. other circumstances aided in the same direction. his manner of daily life had altered. he lived no longer among his own folk at home, but instead among professional men and clerks, at a middle-class washington boarding-house. he worked now with a pen, not a hammer; and his book, written for the young american artisan, was being read and appreciated, not at all by him, but instead by students in old and new england. he lost nothing of himself by becoming one of this other class in which for the time he lived with his book. a smaller man might have been seriously affected by such a change in environment; but while it could not be without effect upon whitman, it never made him less true to his essential self. in considering this period, i think we may say that the whitman of the later sixties was still the large masculine man who wrote the first _leaves of grass_; but having in 1860 completed the first plan of the book, his task of self-assertion now became as it were a secondary matter. the suffering and sympathy of the war had developed the saviour in him; so that some of his portraits, taken at the time, have almost the air of a "gentle shepherd". his message became increasingly one of helpful love, newly adjusted to the individuals among whom he was thrown. and with the rise of a group of able young champions and admirers, it became more necessary that he should guard his message and himself from anything that could encourage that habit of personal imitation which would have created a group of little whitmanites, whose very ability must have limited the original inspiration which had bound them to him. thus it was in a sense true that, after the publication of the volume of 1860, the first whitman was, as he prophesied he would be, "disembodied, triumphant, dead". * * * * * so much on the matter of whitman's increased respectability: as to his prolonged stay in washington, something further must be said. it is evident that he was no longer the titan of old days. in the spring of 1867 he writes home that he is well, but "getting old";[454] and every year he seemed to feel the extremes of the washington climate more and more. this is further evidence of decreasing vitality. had he returned to new york, it must probably have been to write for the press; and however physically robust he might suppose himself to be, something at least of the old force of initiative had left him. there was no longer any immediate need for his presence at home; for when jeff went west to st. louis, as engineer to the city waterworks, his brother george was there to take his place as the mother's main support. walt was, moreover, earning a sufficient income in an easy fashion. the work itself was light; he was trusted, and little supervised. his chief seems to have recognised that he had spent himself unsparingly for america in the hospitals, without immediate reward; and now, in consequence, allowed him to arrange his duties as suited him best. he spent but little of his income upon himself; though the penurious simplicity and discomfort of the early days was no longer desirable. he always sent something to his mother, and seems to have divided the remainder between any of his hospital boys who still lingered; the beggars whom he never refused; his friends, and the savings bank. but one suspects that whitman really stayed on in washington for the same reason that he had previously remained in new york. he took root wherever he stood; and it required the tug of duty to remove him. wherever he was, his life was full of incident and material for thought. outward occupation or adventure counted for comparatively little in his experience. his present circumstances favoured the steady progress of his own writing and the prosecution of his friendships. not that he ever forgot his friends in the metropolis, or grew indifferent to the claims of his family. he contrived to spend at least a month every summer in his old haunts, living at home and making daily expeditions on the bay, bathing from the coney island beach, and sauntering along broadway.[455] he often had business at the printers', for he was now again his own publisher. the _leaves_ had been out of print since the failure of his boston friends, and in 1867 he was working on a new edition, completing the very copy which had roused the wrath of mr. harlan. he seems to have spent a few days with his friend mrs. price;[456] and coming down late to tea one evening, after working on his manuscripts, one of the daughters has recorded the extraordinary brightness and elation of his mien. "an almost irrepressible joyousness," she says, "shone from his face and seemed to pervade his whole body. it was the more noticeable as his ordinary mood was one of quiet yet cheerful serenity. i knew he had been working at a new edition of his book, and i hoped if he had an opportunity he would say something to let us into the secret of his mysterious joy. unfortunately, most of those at the table were occupied with some subject of conversation; at every pause i waited eagerly for him to speak; but no, some one else would begin again, until i grew almost wild with impatience and vexation. he appeared to listen, and would even laugh at some of the remarks that were made, yet he did not utter a single word during the meal; and his face still wore that singular brightness and delight, as though he had partaken of some divine elixir." but it was not always in joy that he wrote. other friends have told how they have noted him turning aside from the street into some door or alleyway to take out a slip of paper and write, with the tears running fast across his face.[457] whether in tears or in ecstasy, it is certain that he composed his poems under the stress of actual feeling; and of emotions which shook his whole being and thrilled its heavy, slow-vibrating chords to music. footnotes: [418] _wound-dresser_, 61. [419] trowbridge, _op. cit._ [420] _l. of g._, 183. [421] _ib._, 193. [422] _ib._, 284. [423] _ib._, 370. [424] _l. of g._, 371. [425] _ib._, 228. [426] _ib._, 220. [427] _l. of g._, 222. [428] _cf._ "i, too ... also sing war, and a longer and greater one than any, waged in my book with varying fortune, with flight, advance and retreat, victory deferr'd and wavering, (yet methinks certain, or as good as certain, at the last), the field the world, for life and death, for the body and for the eternal soul, lo, i too am come, chanting the chant of battles, i above all promote brave soldiers."--_l. of g._, 9, 10. [429] _l. of g._, 276, 278. [430] camden, iii., 160, 161. [431] facsimile in williamson's _catalogue_. [432] _in re_, 383; _comp. prose_, 411-13. [433] _comp. prose_, 59. [434] calamus, 25. [435] bucke, 42. [436] _wound-dresser_, 139. [437] _l. of g._, 255; _comp. prose_, 305. [438] _l. of g._, 263; _cf._ (1865); _cf._ calamus, 35 n. [439] _l. of g._, 339. [440] _cf._ w. n. guthrie's _w. w. as religious and moral teacher_ (1897), 80 n.; symonds, 26. [441] bucke, 40-42, 73. [442] mss. traubel; for a further attack see burroughs (2), 123. [443] included in bucke. [444] potter, _op. cit._; bucke, 19. [445] camden, viii., 188-91, etc. [446] _ib._ [447] _ib._ [448] johnston, 130-40; _cf._ camden, viii., 220. [449] potter. [450] camden, viii., 175. [451] _ib._, 184. [452] potter; _rossetti papers_, 492. [453] calamus, 22. [454] camden, viii. [455] see calamus. [456] bucke, 32; miss price gives date as 1866; the new ed. appeared late in 1867. [457] bucke, 171. chapter xiv friends and fame in october, 1867, the new volume appeared; it was intended to replace the former final edition of 1860, and in itself was now regarded as final. whitman wrote home to his mother that at last he had finished his re-arrangings and corrections, for good.[458] but he was mistaken; for because the book was a whole, every page which he added to it in succeeding years entailed a new revision of the rest. each new note affects the old sequence, which thus requires to be ordered anew. the book might be handsomer, he says; but he notes that he has omitted some excessive phrases, and even dropped a passage or two which had not stood the test of time; and now he feels that the volume proves itself to any fair-minded person. beyond these alterations, the book contains little that is new. that public interest in whitman was increasing is shown by the appearance this year of the first of those brief biographical studies which have since become so numerous. it was from the pen of his intimate friend, mr. john burroughs, than whom none knew him better during the washington days; and having besides the full advantage of whitman's supervision, remains a principal authority to this day.[459] equally important was the preparation in england this autumn of a volume of selections by mr. w. m. rossetti.[460] the editor of the _germ_, that most interesting expression of a new and pregnant spirit in art whose brief but brilliant course had ended a few years before the first appearance of the _leaves_, was the right man to introduce walt whitman to the english reader. both he and his brother, the poet, had for several years been admirers of whitman's work; and before the publication of the new edition he had written an able notice of the book in _the chronicle_, a short-lived organ of advanced catholic views.[461] this was widely copied by the american press. it preserves a judicial tone, which while fully appreciating the literary value of the new work, is far from indiscriminate praise. mr. rossetti frankly protested against what he regarded as the gross treatment of gross things, not so much on ethical as on æsthetic grounds; against jarring words and faulty constructions. he noted the obscurity and fragmentary character of many passages, commented on the agglomerative or cataloguial habit, and upon the author's justifiable, but at first sight exasperating, self-assertion. much of this was, at least from its writer's literary point of view, just and valuable criticism. mr. rossetti was less fortunate when he asserted that if only he were brought down by sickness many things would appear very different to whitman; for while the remark contains an incontestable element of axiomatic truth, its particular application was based upon a misapprehension of the poet's character. he conceived that whitman's faith depended upon physical well-being--just as walt once declared that goethe's religion was founded simply upon good digestion and appetite--thus missing the spiritual basis of his personality. but if rossetti's literary criticisms are searching and upon the whole just, his praises are not less notable. _leaves of grass_ he describes as by far the largest poetical performance of our period; and while acclaiming him the founder of american poetry, he foresees that its author's voice will one day be potential and magisterial wherever the english language is spoken. the criticism was followed by the compilation of a volume of selections containing nearly one half of the current _leaves of grass_, and a large part of the original preface of 1855. the enterprise brought the compiler into cordial personal relations with the poet.[462] there had at first been a slight misunderstanding as to the scope of the english version, and an expurgated but otherwise complete edition had been suggested. whitman could not be a party to such a volume, and would naturally have preferred his own complete book to any selections. but in mr. rossetti he recognised an understanding friend. while frankly expressing his own views, he was most cordial and generous in the declaration of his faith in his correspondent's wisdom, and of his desire to leave him unshackled. the selections contained none of the poems which had aroused the indignation of mr. harlan and his friends, and would probably have more than satisfied the very different criticisms of emerson. their publication established the foundation of whitman's english fame, which now rapidly outstripped his american. already known to the few--to such men for instance as tennyson, dante g. rossetti, swinburne, w. bell scott, j. a. symonds and thomas dixon--_leaves of grass_ was from this time eagerly sought after by a considerable number of the younger and more vigorous thinkers. * * * * * although they never met, whitman's friendship with symonds is so important that i cannot pass it by without some reference to the younger man's character.[463] he had been, as is well known, an exceptionally brilliant oxford scholar; who had shown so little trace of the disqualifying elements of genius that his painfully accurate poetic form carried off the newdigate prize. after his studies at balliol, he entered early manhood with impaired sight, an irritable brain and incipient consumption. his temper was naturally strenuous, but this quality was accompanied by introspective morbidity. in the autumn of 1865, at the age of five and twenty,[464] the late mr. frederick myers introduced him to _leaves of grass_; his reading of one of the calamus poems--"long i thought that knowledge alone would suffice me"[465]--from the edition of 1860, sending, as symonds says, electric thrills through the very marrow of his bones. whitman of course rode rough-shod over all the scholar's academic and aristocratic prejudices, and required slow assimilation. this process continued during the next four years; but he says that the book became eventually a more powerful formative influence in his life than plato's works,[466] or indeed any other volume, save the bible. married already, and already largely an invalid, life was full of difficulties for so keen and eager a mind; and the _leaves_ became his anchor, especially the poems of calamus.[467] it was in 1869 and 1870[468] that he realised their full value. already his mind had responded to the idea of the cosmos and of cosmic enthusiasm,[469] suggested to it in the hymn of cleanthes, in certain pages of marcus aurelius, giordano bruno, goethe, and the evolutionists of his own time. to these ideas whitman brought conviction and reality. it was through his study of the _leaves_ that symonds came to understand for himself the infinite value and possibility of human comradeship, and became a glad participant in the universal life. for twenty years the two men corresponded as close friends; and there were few in whose admiration for his work whitman found such keen satisfaction. but addington symonds was always a conscientious as well as an affectionate and reverent friend; and while at a later date he publicly protested against mr. swinburne's assault,[470] and in his posthumous study of whitman, proved himself second to none in his admiration of him whom he called master, yet he himself made some of the frankest and most trenchant criticisms of his friend's work. he thus preserved his independence, and, unlike that of the mere disciple, his praise of whitman is rendered really valuable by this quality. * * * * * [illustration: anne gilchrist] in the summer of 1869, mr. madox brown lent a copy of the _selections_ to his friend mrs. alexander gilchrist, the widow of blake's biographer. she responded to the book's appeal, and immediately borrowed mr. rossetti's copy of the complete volume.[471] while wholly approving the omission from his _selections_ of such poems as the "children of adam," and herself making some partial reservation with regard to these as perhaps infringing in certain passages the natural law of concealment and modesty, she expressed to mr. rossetti, in fervid and impassioned phrases, the joy that came to her in this new gospel, worthy at last as she thought of america. her friend obtained her permission to allow her letters to him to be published; and they appeared in the boston _radical_ for may, 1870. her words of womanly understanding stirred whitman too deeply for much outward expression.[472] he hardly regarded them as a declaration of individual friendship, showing himself at the time even a little indifferent[473] to the personality of their writer. they were, he knew, a testimony not so much to him as to his _leaves of grass_, which were a half-impersonal utterance, and as such he received them with gratitude.[474] nothing, not even o'connor's brilliant vindication, had so justified the poems to their maker. whitman has been roundly abused by mr. swinburne[475] and others, because, as they say, he lacks the romantic attitude toward woman. mr. meredith has shown in his own inimitable way the fiends that mask themselves too often under this romantic mien; and one is not always sure whether whitman's honesty is not in itself a little distasteful to some of his critics. it is true that he has addressed woman as the mother or the equal mate of man, rather than as the maid unwed, as though his thought of sex transcended the limits usually assigned to it. i am persuaded that the explanation of this is to be found in the fact that whitman's mystic consciousness had broken many of the barriers which have constricted the passion of sex too narrowly during past centuries. he heard all the deeps of life calling to one another and responding with passionate avowals of life's unity. the soul of the lover--as all the poets have been telling us since dante's day--discovers its true self in the beloved person: but the soul of whitman discovered itself as surely and as passionately in the beloved world. the expression is so novel that it sounds well-nigh absurd to ears that do not "hear". but for those who can hear, whitman's voice is all surcharged with the lover's passion; not less intense but larger in its sanity than the voices of other poets. again we may justly urge that, in general, it was woman as madonna, rather than as venus, whom he contemplated. or shall we say he saw the madonna in venus, as botticelli did? his love, when he wrote, was that of a man of middle life, in whom the yearning tenderness of fatherhood mingled with the other currents of passion. his vision beheld the divine child, without whom love itself is incomplete. for fatherhood and motherhood are seen by the insight of the poet to be implicit in the passion of sex, and it was impossible for whitman, the seer, to think of one apart from the other. as a wife and a mother, anne gilchrist recognised the beauty and purity of whitman's conception of love; and his book was to her like the presence of a great and wise comrade.[476] she was the first woman who had publicly recognised his purpose in these poems, and it was an act of no small heroism.[477] whitman might well be moved by it. * * * * * [illustration: whitman at about fifty] the _selections_ had appeared in 1868, a year which also saw the publication[478] of o'connor's tale, _the carpenter_, in whose pages commences that legendary element in whitman's story, which follows the advent of the more striking personalities. here whitman is confused with christ, somewhat as was francis by his followers, more than six centuries before. that such a thing should have been possible in the whitman circle requires a few words of explanation. i have already described the poem in which he himself claims comradeship with "the crucified".[479] the further assertion of such a claim inevitably fell to o'connor, whose work was always marked by an element of vehemence and even of excess. brilliant, generous, eloquent, he was oftener a fervid partisan than a safe critic. having already coupled whitman's name with the greatest in literature[480]--an act of audacity, even if we accept the conjunction--it was but natural that, finding the man himself nobler even than his works, he should compare him with the greatest masters of human life. he was not satisfied even with the praises he had piled upon his hero in his indignant rejoinder to the hon. james harlan. o'connor's tale is of no great value; but it reminds us that there was in walt something which bewildered those who knew him best: something jove-like says one;[481] something that, judged by ordinary standards, was superhuman, alike in its calm breadth of view and its capacity for love. they observed that what others might do under the constraint of exceptional influences, of intellectual conviction, moral ideal or religious enthusiasm, he did naturally. he did not rise to an occasion, but always embraced opportunity as though from a higher level. he was not shocked or alienated by things which shocked other men; and personal slights and injuries hardly touched him, dropping from him at once. he was the best of comrades, and yet he was a man of deep reserve. and he was so many-sided that his friends were hardly aware that he concealed something of himself from them. always when you met him again you found him bigger than you had remembered him; and the better you knew him, the less certain you would be of accurately forecasting his actions or understanding his thoughts. if, however, we call him superhuman, it must be by an unusual manner of speech; for he was, as we know, the most human of men, seeming to be personally familiar and at home with every fragment of humanity. he comprehended the springs of action in individuals, as the soul comprehends the purpose of each limb and article of the body. he had the understanding which comes through a subtle sympathy with the whole of things. explain or ignore it as we will, there is in every man that which is divine; but usually this side of his nature is, as it were, turned away from view. our personality has deeps which even our own consciousness has not plumbed, though at times it catches a glimpse of them. and we know that there are men whose consciousness is as much deeper than ours as ours is deeper than that of a babe. whitman was one of these; and the fact that he was such a one must always render the writing of his biography a tentative task. it seems as though o'connor, feeling this, had thrown his own attempt at portraiture into the form of a sort of parable. for his friends, while they saw possibilities in him which they also recognised in themselves, saw also others which bewildered them by their suggestions of the old hero-stories; and it cannot therefore be wondered, if sometimes they found in his life a similitude to that of the nazarene. the world is ever telling over the old legends, and wondering in spite of itself if, after all, they might be true. in our nobler moments we find ourselves rebelling against the traditional limitations of our manhood; something within our own hearts assures us that humanity is destined to attain a nobler stature. every new revelation of the possibilities of life, every new incarnation of humanity in some great soul, brings to our lips the name of jesus. for in it the aspirations of the world's childhood have been made our own. we can never believe that the story of the christ closed with the earthly career of jesus. we know that he will come again; that humanity will renew its promise; that the old stock will break once more into prophetic blossom. and waiting and watching, at the advent of every great one, our hearts cry out the ineffable name of our hope, at whose very hearing the soul of faith is refreshed. every great soul assures us that the old, old stories are more than true; they are prophetic for our very selves; speaking to us of a divine destiny and purpose to which we, too, may--nay, must--eventually arise. to whitman's closest friends such was his gospel. * * * * * but it was not every one who could read him so significantly. merely intellectual people, trying him by their own standards, often found him stupid. a young doctor, for instance, who had known him in new york, and was now a fellow-boarder with him upon m street, records his own impression formed at this time, that walt was physically lazy and intellectually hazy;[482] that his conversation was disappointingly enigmatic and obscure, and his words were misty, shadowy, elusive adumbrations. his vocabulary, says this gentleman, even when he was deeply affected by natural scenes, was almost grotesquely inadequate; they were "tip-top," he would declare; and you could only gather from his manner and the tone of his voice that he meant more than a shabby commonplace. the doctor, who was doubtless an encyclopædia of accurate knowledge, found his companion sadly ignorant of the common names of the trees and birds they noticed on their rambles. a few years later, however, whitman displayed so considerable a knowledge in these directions that one may at least suppose he profited considerably from his companion's information.[483] and even if he did not know their names, he came near to knowing their actual personality; which is probably more than even the worthy doctor attempted. it is very certain that whitman was no dreamer of vague dreams. his face at this time was equally expressive of alertness and of calm. his small eyes, grey-blue under their heavy-drooping passionate lids, were of an extraordinarily penetrating vision. they were the eyes of a spirit which looked out through them ceaselessly as from behind a shelter. circled by a definite line, they had the perceptive draining quality of a child's when it is first awake to all the world's storehouse of strange things.[484] never a merely passive onlooker, he was always a dynamic force, challenging and evoking the manhood of his friends. * * * * * this is notably the case in his relations with peter doyle, of whom i have already spoken as one of walt's closest companions during the greater part of the washington period. doyle was a young catholic, born in ireland but raised in the virginian alexandria.[485] his father, a blacksmith and machinist, eventually went to work in a richmond foundry; and when the war broke out, pete, who was a mere lad, entered the confederate army. soon after, he was wounded and made a prisoner, and being carried to washington, he obtained during his convalescence[486] the post of conductor on one of the tram-cars running upon pennsylvania avenue. it was a course of some four miles, from georgetown, by the white house and treasury and near to armory square, up the hill by the capitol and down again to near the navy yard on the anacostia river. and in such a course he was bound sooner or later to make the acquaintance of whitman. [illustration: doyle at twenty-two and whitman at fifty] their meeting occurred one wild stormy night, perhaps in the winter of 1864-65,[487] when pete was about eighteen. walt had been out to see john burroughs, and was returning wrapt around in his great blanket-rug, the only passenger in the car. pete was cold and lonely: something about the big red-faced man within promised fellowship and warmth. so he entered the car and put his hand impulsively on walt's knee. walt was pleased; they seemed to understand one another at once; and instead of descending at his destination, the older man rode an extra four miles that night for friendship's sake.[488] pete was a fair well-built lad, with a warm irish heart; and in walt, who was old enough to have been his father, the fraternal and paternal qualities alike were very strong. separated from his own children, and his own younger brothers whom he had dearly loved, his heart's tenderness expended itself upon other lads, and upon none more than upon pete. there are few ties stronger than those which bind together the man or woman of middle life whose sympathies are still natural and warm, and the adolescent lad or maiden upon life's threshold. whitman did not appear merely as a good fellow to his young comrade: his affection ran too deep for that. this is well illustrated by an incident in their relationship.[489] in a passing fit of despondency pete declared that life was no longer worth living, and that he had more than half a mind to end it. walt answered him sharply; he was very angry and not a little shocked. this occurred upon the evening of his departure for brooklyn for one of his visits home, and the two separated somewhat coldly. walt arrived really ill, suffering from a sort of partial and temporary paralysis, which seems to have attacked him at times during the latter part of his residence in washington. as soon as he was sufficiently recovered, he wrote his friend a letter full of loving reproaches, of affectionate calls to duty, and promises of assistance. the unmanly folly of pete's words had, he says, repelled him; but afterwards the sense of his indestructible love for the lad had returned again in fuller measure than ever, and he became certain that it was not the real pete, "my darling boy, my young and loving brother," who had spoken those wicked words. he adjures him, by his love for his widowed mother and for walt his comrade, to be a man. many of the letters to pete, during the vacations in brooklyn from 1868 to 1872, are marked by a sort of paternal anxiety for the young man's welfare. pete was impulsive and emotional; he was not one to whom study or thrift was naturally easy. walt aided him all he could in both directions. he was always encouraging his "boys" to read good books, combining still, as in earlier years, the rôles of teacher and comrade; but he never checked in any degree his friend's boyish, generous and pleasure-loving nature. and his love was returned with the whole-hearted loyal devotion of the true celt. * * * * * [illustration: peter g. doyle at fifty-seven] this friendship with doyle was only one among many,[490] and the fact that pete was a catholic and had been a confederate soldier, shows how far such relations transcended any mere similarity of opinion. indeed, there is nothing more notable in the circle of whitman's friends than their extraordinary dissimilarity one from another. day after day, pete would come to the treasury building after his work was done, and wait sleepily there till walt was free; when they would start off upon a stroll, which often extended itself for many miles into the country. walt frequently had other companions upon these rambles. sometimes it would be john burroughs, and sometimes quite a party of men, laughing, singing and talking gaily together as they went. whitman was the heart of good-fellowship; he was the oldest of them in years, but in years only. one wonders sometimes whether he himself realised that all these men were so much his juniors. there was no comrade, either man or woman, who had grown up beside him, learning with him the lessons of life. his mother was the great link with his own boyhood, and the letters which he wrote to her from washington[491] show how strong was his attachment to her, and how great his capacity for home-love. it is, then, not a little tragic that he had no home to call his own. in a sense he was a solitary man; in the midst of his all-embracing love and his self-revealing poems, walt whitman lived his life apart and kept many secrets. in spirit he was as solitary as thoreau, nay, even more than he, for, though his fellowship was with the life universal, his consciousness of it seemed unique. his self-reliant, masculine nature was attractive to women, with whom he had, as one of his friends phrased it, "a good way". with them and with children he was natural and happy. vague and anonymous figures of women move from time to time across his story. in 1863 it is with "a lady" that he first remarks the president's sadness.[492] in 1868 he has great talks and jolly times with the girls he meets on a trip in new england,[493] and he writes of his "particular women friends in new york". in 1869 he declares laughingly, he is quite a lady's man again as in the old days.[494] women trusted him instinctively, and he repayed their trust by a remarkable silence as to his relations with them. he understood the hearts of women, for there was in him much of the maternal. this quality often finds quaint expression in his letters to pete, who is "dear baby"[495] sometimes, and who found more than one kiss sent him upon the paper. as he became famous, whitman had his queue of visitors. now it is a spiritualistic woman, who breaks off her interview in order to converse with the spirit of abraham lincoln; and now a mrs. mcknight,[496] who would paint his portrait. later, when he fell ill, "mary cole" came and ministered to him.[497] mrs. o'connor, with mrs. burroughs and mrs. ashton, belonged to the circle of his friends. with women, as with men, he had his own frank way of expressing affection, and many a time he greeted them with a kiss, knowing it would not be misinterpreted. * * * * * from 1868 to 1870 he was engaged upon a brief political treatise, apparently suggested to him by carlyle's vehement assault upon democracy and all its ways, in _shooting niagara_.[498] life in washington during and after the war had made the short-comings of democracy very evident to whitman. the failure of president johnson and his attempted impeachment, had been followed by drastic measures for enforcing republican ideas in the south by all the abominable methods known to corruption and carpet-bag politicians. the year 1868 saw the election of grant to the presidency, and under him corruption extended in every direction. grant's real work was finished at appomattox,[499] and his eight years of official life added nothing to his fame. but whitman, sharing the national regard for a simple-minded, downright soldier, heartily approved his nomination, and urged his brothers to support him. for the carpet-bag reconstruction of the south he had, of course, no sympathy. he longed for a union of hearts, and looked ardently forward to the day when the south, whom he loved so passionately, would realise again her inalienable part in the union. without her america was incomplete. and in the "magnet south"[500] was much that was personally dearest to whitman's heart. the more extreme abolitionist sentiment had combined with the exigency of party to create a position in the southern states which was intolerable to all right feeling. the suffrage had been taken away from the rebellious whites and given instead to the negroes. it was as though the management of the household affairs should be entrusted to wholly irresponsible children. one need hardly add that it was not the negro who ruled, but the political agent who bought his vote and made a tool of him. such a policy only exasperated the antagonism between north and south. and whitman, though he hated slavery, saw that the negro was not ready to exercise the full rights of citizenship. when the negro vote in the capital became dominant in political elections, and the black population paraded the city in their thousands, armed and insolent, they seemed to him "like so many wild brutes let loose".[501] it was upon this question of negro-citizenship that he quarrelled with o'connor. they had been arguing the subject, as o'connor would insist on doing, and walt, for the nonce, had the better of the bout. thoughtlessly, and in the heat of the moment, he pressed his advantage too far; o'connor lost his temper--perhaps walt did the same--but when a moment later the older man returned to his usual good humour and held out his hand warmly to his friend, o'connor's wrath was still hot; he was offended and refused the reconciliation. in spite of their friends the sad estrangement continued for years. * * * * * the political treatise appeared at last under the title of _democratic vistas_.[502] it is the outcome of whitman's experiences and meditations upon the purpose of social and national life, especially during the last decade in washington. in many respects it is an enlargement of portions of the first preface. in these fragmentary political memoranda whitman is seen as the antagonist of what is often supposed to be the american character. the book is a scathing attack upon american complacency, which is even more detestable to whitman than it was to carlyle. he recognises the vulgarity and corruption that everywhere abound; the superficial smartness and alert commercial cunning which have taken the place of virtues in the current code of transatlantic morals. flippant, infidel, unwholesome, mean-mannered; so he characterises new york, his beloved city. as fiercely as carlyle he detests all the shams and hypocrises of democratic government, and he is as keen to discover the perils of universal suffrage. but withal he holds fast to faith, and offers a constructive ideal. the jottings are threaded together by the reiterated declaration that national life will never become illustrious without a national literature. it is precisely here, says he, that america is fatally deficient. except upon the field of politics, what single thing of moral value has she originated? and what possible value has all her material development unless it be accompanied by a corresponding development of soul? there is something like an inconsistency of attitude in this book; for here, on the one hand, we have whitman assuming the rôle of the moralist, denouncing, menacing, upbraiding, and generally allowing himself to employ the moralist's exaggerated, because partial, manner of speech. on the other hand, we find, interspersed among these passages of condemnation, others which assert his unwavering faith in the issue, his constant sense of the heroic character of the people. whitman never professed consistency, but his inconsistency is generally explicable enough. in this case he is of course denouncing the america of his day, only because he is regarding her from the popular point of view as something perfect and complete. he has faith in america when he views her as a promise of what she shall be; but even then only because he sees far into her essential character. the shallow, popular optimism is, he knows, wholly false; for if america is to triumph, as he believes she will, it can only be by the profound moral forces which are silently at work beneath the trivial shows of her prosperity. the last enemy of the republic was not slain when the slave party of secession, with its feudal spirit, was overcome. the victory of the north has for the present secured american unity, and with it the broad types both of northern and of southern character essential to the creation of a generous and profound national spirit. but america has set forth upon the most tremendous task ever conceived by man; a task indeed beyond the scope of any man's thought. urged on by the inner destiny-forces of the race, she is attempting to realise the race-ideal of a true democracy. to accomplish her errand she must be nerved and vitalised by the highest and deepest of ideals; for hers is a world-battle with all the relentless foes of progress. whitman, seeing clearly the dark aspect of the future, the wars and revolutions yet in store, and having counted the cost of them, though he had faith that america would eventually achieve her purpose, yet might well be foremost in scourging her light moods of optimism with bitter words. and though he had not despaired of america--and even if he had, would have been the last man to suggest despair to others--though, also, he knew and loved the real soul of the nation; he was not so blind to possibilities of disaster, possibilities which he had faced more than once in recent years, as to suppose that she was of necessity chosen to be the elder sister of the republics of the coming centuries.[503] on the contrary, while he had no doubt of the growth and progress of humanity, he knew that a branch of the race might wither away prematurely; and he saw in the current culture and social beliefs of the city populations a wholly false and mischievous conception of american destiny. if the people of america were to perceive nothing but a field for money-making wherever the stars and stripes might float, then their patriotism would be worthless, and the republic must fall. he loved america too passionately to be cynically indifferent as to her fate. in spite of unworthy qualities, she yet might realise the world's hope. but seeking ardently for a way, there was only one that whitman could see; it was the way of religion. the old priestcraft was effete, but religion had not died with it.[504] in a new fellowship of prophet-poets, who should awaken the soul of the nation in the hearts of their hearers, as did the prophet-poets of israel, in these and in these alone he had assurance--for already he seemed to behold them afar off--assurance of the future of his land.[505] whitman agreed with carlyle as to the infinite value to the race of great men. he continually asserts their necessity to democracy; not, indeed, as masters and captains so much as interpreters and as prophets. the truly great man includes more of the meaning of democracy than the little man, and is therefore the better fitted to explain the purpose of the whole. moreover, according to whitman, it is for the creation of great personalities that democracy exists; for he differs widely from the platonic mysticism with its ideal state as the goal of personal achievement. he includes in his philosophy of society what is best both in the individualistic and the socialistic theories. he sees progress depending upon the interplay of two forces, which he calls the two sexes of democracy[506]--solidarity and personality. it is for great souls to declare in the name of personality the fundamental truth of democracy, that every man is destined to become a god. they must realise for themselves, and assert for the world, that a man well-born, well-bred and well-trained, may and must become a law unto himself. according to whitman, the one purpose of all government in a democracy is to encourage by all possible means the development of soul-consciousness in every man and woman without any exception.[507] for, speaking generally, one may affirm that every fragment of humanity is ultimately capable of the heroism which is the force at humanity's heart; but each fragment can only realise its possibilities as a part of the whole, and as sharing in the life of solidarity. to accomplish this destiny, and not for reasons of merit, democracy encourages and requires of every one a participation in the duties and privileges of citizenship. and similarly, it requires that every one should be an owner of property in order that each may have his own material cell in the body politic.[508] all persons are not yet prepared for citizenship; but such as are minors must be wisely and strenuously prepared, for democracy suffers until all become true citizens. the idle and the very poor are always a menace to democracy.[509] even a greater menace, if that be possible, is to be found in the low standard of womanhood which still prevails in america. woman, if only she would leave her silliness and her millinery,[510] and enter the life of reality and enterprise, would, by the majesty of maternity, be more than the equal of man. i think, though approving of women's suffrage, he doubted whether it could effect the change he desired to see. it cannot be doubted that, like plato, he saw in the triviality of the women of the upper classes especially, one of the gravest dangers which beset the republic. for the aim of democracy is great free personalities, and these can only be produced from a noble maternity. unless motherhood and fatherhood in all their aspects become a living science,[511] and the practice of personal health is recognised as the finest of the arts, any achievement of the purpose of democracy must be slow indeed. of other and very secondary kinds of culture, desirable enough in their place, america, he continues, has no lack. in some respects she is more european than europe. but to personality, and the moral force which is personality, she is alarmingly indifferent. we have fussed about the world, cries this stern speaker of truth to his age and nation; we have gathered together its art and its sciences, but we have not grown great in our own souls. our mean manners result precisely from that. thus he returns to reiterate the cry that can always be heard whenever we open any book of his, the cry of the quintessential importance of religion in every field of human life.[512] for religion is the life of the soul; that is to say, it is the heart of life. whitman's religion, however, is not that which is taught by churches and churchmen. it is a religion extricated from the churches. in a notable passage[513] he declares: "bibles may convey, and priests expound, but it is exclusively for the noiseless operation of one's isolated self to enter the pure ether of veneration, reach the divine levels, and commune with the unutterable". in short, religion is moral or spiritual force: it is that which forms and maintains existence: without it, the continued life of nation or individual is inconceivable. for a nation, too, has its soul-identity; and must become conscious of that if it is to live, much more if it is to lead. the awakening of america to this consciousness of its spiritual purpose whitman awaits, as the prophets of israel awaited the messiah.[514] and we may add that with its realisation of nationhood, there comes to a people the sense of its membership in the solidarity of the race. now this soul-consciousness, he proceeds, comes to a nation through its literature. in its songs and in its great epics, a people tells and reads the secrets of its life; it sees there, as in a glass, the divine purpose which tabernacles in its own heart. a literature which can do this for america will not be made by merely correct and clever college men, or by fanciful adepts in the arts of verse. those who make it must breathe the open air of nature; they must, in the largest sense, be men of science. but in whitman's language nature and science include more than the material and the seen. they are the world of reality and its knowledge; and the soul is the essence of reality: wherefore its experience is the sum of knowledge. thus made, literature will for the first time be worthy to quicken and immortalise the life of america.[515] it will feed the infant life of the real nation. reading it, americans will become aware at last of their world-destiny; and they will face the whole of life and death with a new faith and joy. america will become not merely a new world, but the mother of new worlds:[516] and lowering as the skies must often be, and tragic though the day's end, she will behold the stars beyond. * * * * * such, in crudest outline, is the gist of whitman's tractate; which, with the fifth edition of the _leaves_, appeared early in 1871. _leaves of grass_ now included _drum-taps_; but the poems of president lincoln's death, with other matter suggested by the close of the war, were separately published in a little volume of 120 pages, which, while containing poems upon the lines suggested in _democratic vistas_, and reverting again to old themes, was more especially marked by those in which the idea of death as a voyage upon an unknown sea is dominant. [illustration: fac-simile of ms. by whitman, belonging probably to 1875] the little book was called _passage to india_, after the opening poem; and it has a completeness of its own, closing with a "now finalé to the shore". in its preface, he alludes to a plan which he had entertained--his active imagination entertained so many plans which he never realised![517]--the scheme of a new volume to companion and complement the _leaves_, suggestive of death and the disembodied soul, as the _leaves_ were of the life in the body. he found, however, that the body was not so soon to be put aside; to the end, its hold upon him was extraordinarily tenacious. doubting his ability for the task, he became content to offer a fragment and hint of what he had intended. _passage to india_ is among his finest efforts.[518] some of its single lines ring like clear bells, while the movement of the whole is varied, solemn and majestic. he shows his reader how the enterprise and invention of the world is binding all lands together to complete the "rondure" of the earth. the opening of the suez canal and of the pacific railroad are fulfilling the dream of the genoese, who sought a passage to india in the circumnavigation of the world. but, says whitman, with that characteristic mystical touch which is never absent in his poems, it is only the poet who conceives of the world as really one and round. for none but he understands that the universe is essentially one, soul and matter, nature and man. to the mystic sense, india becomes symbolic of all the first elemental intuitions of the human race. thither now again the poet leads his nation, back to its first visions and back to god. returning almost to the phrases of his first great poem,[519] whitman declares his sureness of god, and his resolve not to dally with the divine mystery. for him, god is the heart of all life, but especially the heart of all life that is true, good and loving: he is the reservoir of the spiritual, and he is the soul's perfect and immortal comrade. thus whitman's idea of god embraces the "personal" element, so-called, which has been predicated by christian experience and dogma. when the soul has accomplished its "passage to india"--has realised the unity of all[520]--then, says he, it will melt into the arms of its elder brother, the divine love. he does not mean that it will lose its slowly gained consciousness of selfhood; but that, to employ a formula of the christian faith, it will enter the godhead as a distinct person. for the godhead of whitman's theology is the ultimate unity of ultimate personalities--many-in-one, the god of love, the heart of communion or fellowship. it is with a splendid cry of adventurous delight and heroic ardour that whitman sets out upon his perilous voyage, seeking the meaning of everything and of the whole, all hazards and dangers before him, upon all the seas of the unknown: but not foolhardily--"are they not all the seas of god?" * * * * * in passing, we may note that in these washington poems the feeling for formal perfection is often clearly manifested. many of the shorter lyrics repeat the opening line at their close. and careful reading, or better, recitation, will show that some at least of the longer poems are constructed with a broad, architectonic plan. it is indeed a great mistake to suppose that whitman was careless of form. paradoxical though it sound, it was nothing but his overwhelming sense of the necessity for a living incarnation of his motive-emotions which led him to abandon the accepted media of written expression. he probably laboured as closely, deliberately and long upon his loose-rhythmed verses as a more precious stylist upon his. whether successful or no, he was most conscientious and self-exacting in his obedience to the creative impulse, and in his selection of such cadences and words as seemed to his ear the best to render its precise import. probably the quiet life at washington, and the intercourse there with studious and thoughtful men and women, helped his artistic sense. with a few exceptions, however, the washington poems are somewhat less inevitable and procreative in their quality than those of an earlier period. they are not less interesting, but they are less elemental. * * * * * "the older he gets," wrote a correspondent of the _new york evening mail_, "the more cheerful and gay-hearted he grows."[521] though he was now beginning to wear glasses, his jolly voice as he sang blithely over his bath, and his thrush-like whistle,[522] his hearty appetite and love of exercise, bore witness to vigour and good spirits. the circle of his friends grew daily wider, and a measure of international fame began to come to him. both in germany and in france his book was being read, criticised and admired.[523] rossetti's selections had given him an english public, which was eager now for new editions of his complete poems; he had cordial letters from tennyson and addington symonds; swinburne addressed him in one of his "songs before sunrise," and there were many others.[524] from time to time he would receive an invitation from some academic or other body to recite a poem at a public function. thus, in the autumn of 1871, he gave his "song of the exposition" at the opening of the annual exhibition of the american institute;[525] it is a half-humorous poem, which follows some of the political themes suggested in _democratic vistas_. again, at midsummer, 1872, he recited "as a strong bird on pinions free"[526] on the invitation of the united literary societies of dartmouth college, in new hampshire; making at this time a further tour as far as lake champlain, to visit his sister hannah, who was married unhappily and far from all her people.[527] later the same autumn, old mrs. whitman left brooklyn to live with her son, the colonel, in camden; a quiet unattractive artisan suburb of philadelphia. the old lady, now nearly eighty, partially crippled by rheumatism, and a widow for some eighteen years, did not long survive this transplanting. but sorrows came thick upon the whitmans at this time. and first of all, it was walt himself who broke down and was house-tied. footnotes: [458] camden, viii., 218. [459] _notes on walt whitman as poet and person_, 1867. [460] _poems of w. w._, 1868. [461] see also preface to _poems of w. w._, and _rossetti papers_, 240. [462] _rossetti papers_, 270, 287, etc. [463] symonds, 4; _j. a. symonds, a biography_, by h. r. f. brown. [464] symonds, 158. [465] _supra_, 133 n. [466] _j. a. symonds_, ii., 70; _camden's compliment_, 73. [467] _j. a. symonds_, ii., 15. [468] _ib._, ii., 82. [469] _ib._, ii., 130, 131. [470] symonds in _fortnightly rev._, xlii., 459; a. c. s. in _ib._, 170. [471] _anne gilchrist, her life and writings_, by h. h. g., 1887; and _in re_, 41, 42. [472] _rossetti papers_, 459, 460. [473] bucke, 31. [474] _in re_, 72. [475] _fort. rev._, _loc. cit._ [476] _in re_, 42. [477] see _infra_, 264. [478] in _putnam's magazine_, jan., 1868. [479] see _supra_, 167. [480] in the _good gray poet_. [481] burroughs, 85. [482] potter, _op. cit._ [483] see _infra_, 262. [484] o'connor, qu. in bucke, 62. [485] calamus, 21. [486] mss. wallace. [487] calamus, 23, gives 1866; but _comp. prose_, 70, throws date back: see also _supra_, 210. [488] although it has been previously quoted, the following passage from mr. burroughs' _birds and poets_ gives so graphic a description of whitman at this time, that i cannot forbear to quote it:-"i give here a glimpse of him in washington, on a pennsylvania avenue and navy yard horse-car, toward the close of the war, one summer day at sundown. the car is crowded and suffocatingly hot, with many passengers on the rear platform, and among them a bearded, florid-faced man, elderly but agile, resting against the dash, by the side of the young conductor, and evidently his intimate friend. the man wears a broad-brim white hat. among the jam inside near the door, a young englishwoman, of the working class, with two children, has had trouble all the way with the youngest, a strong, fat, fretful, bright babe of fourteen or fifteen months, who bids fair to worry the mother completely out, besides becoming a howling nuisance to everybody. as the car tugs around capitol hill, the young one is more demoniac than ever, and the flushed and perspiring mother is just ready to burst into tears with weariness and vexation. the car stops at the top of the hill to let off most of the rear platform passengers, and the white-hatted man reaches inside, and gently but firmly disengaging the babe from its stifling place in the mother's arms, takes it in his own, and out in the air. the astonished and excited child, partly in fear, partly in satisfaction at the change, stops its screaming, and as the man adjusts it more securely to his breast, plants its chubby hands against him, and pushing off as far as it can, gives a good look squarely in his face; then, as if satisfied, snuggles down with its head on his neck, and in less than a minute, is sound and peacefully asleep without another whimper, utterly fagged out." [489] calamus, 53-55. [490] calamus, 18. [491] camden, viii., 169-243. [492] _wound-dresser_, 90. [493] calamus, 48. [494] _ib._, 62. [495] calamus. [496] camden, viii., 235. [497] _in re_, 74. [498] _comp. prose_, 208, 209 n. [499] wister's _grant_, 130. [500] _l. of g._, 359. [501] camden, viii., 226 (may, 1868). [502] _comp. prose_, 197-251 [503] _comp. prose_, 246, 247. [504] _ib._, 200. [505] in a most characteristic passage, which may be quoted as a specimen of the style of this book, he writes of "the need of powerful native philosophers and orators and bards ... as rallying-points to come in times of danger.... for history is long, long, long. shift and turn the combinations of the statement as we may, the problem of the future of america is in certain respects as dark as it is vast. pride, competition, segregation, vicious wilfulness, and license beyond example, brood already upon us.... flaunt it as we choose, athwart and over the roads of our progress, loom huge uncertainty, and dreadful, threatening gloom. it is useless to deny it. democracy grows rankly up the thickest, noxious, deadliest plants and fruits of all--brings worse and worse invaders--needs newer, larger, stronger, keener compensations and compellers. our lands embracing so much (embracing indeed the whole, rejecting none), hold in their breast that flame also [which is] capable of consuming themselves, consuming us all.... we sail a dangerous sea of seething currents, cross and under-currents, vortices--all so dark, untried--and whither shall we turn? it seems as though the almighty had spread before this nation charts of imperial destinies, dazzling as the sun, yet with many a deep intestine difficulty and human aggregate of cankerous imperfection--saying, lo! the roads, the only plans of development, long and varied with all terrible balks and ebullitions.... behold the cost, and already specimens of the cost. thought you, greatness was to ripen for you like a pear? if you would have greatness, know that you must conquer it through ages, centuries--must pay for it with a proportionate price. yet i have dreamed, merged in that hidden-tangled problem of our fate, whose long unravelling stretches mysteriously through time ... a little or a larger band--a band of brave and true, unprecedented yet--armed and equipped at every point--the members separated, it may be, by different dates and states ... but always one, compact in soul, conscience-serving, god-inculcating, inspired achievers, not only in literature the greatest art, but in all art--a new, undying order, dynasty, from age to age transmitted--a band, a class, at least as fit to cope with current years, our dangers, needs, as those who, for their times, so long, so well, in armour or in cowl, upheld and made illustrious that far back, feudal, priestly world."--_comp. prose_, 246-48; _cf._ also 202. [506] _comp. prose_, 221; 207 n. [507] _comp. prose_, 212. [508] _ib._, 215. [509] _ib._, 211. [510] _ib._, 206. [511] _comp. prose_, 225. [512] _ib._, 226. [513] _ib._, 227. [514] _ib._, 240, 241. [515] _comp. prose_, 244. [516] _ib._, 250. [517] _comp. prose_, 273 n. [518] _l. of g._, 315. [519] _ib._, 321, 76. [520] _l. of g._, 322. [521] bucke, 44. [522] burroughs, 126. [523] bucke, 202, 203, 207-9. [524] _in re_, 72. [525] _l. of g._, 157; _cf._ "two rivulets," song of expos. [526] _l. of g._, 346. [527] calamus, 98. chapter xv illness at the opening of 1873 whitman had been just ten years in washington, and was in the fifty-fourth of his age. recent letters to his friends had told of more frequent spells of partially disabling sickness and lassitude.[528] on the evening of thursday, january 23rd, he sat late over the fire in the library of the treasury building, reading lord lytton's _what will he do with it?_[529] as he left, the guard at the door remarked him looking ill. his room was close by, just across the street; and he went to bed as usual. between three and four in the morning, he awoke to find that he could move neither arm nor leg on the left side. presently he fell asleep again; and later, as he could not rise, lay on quietly, till some friends coming in raised the alarm and fetched a doctor. after some six or seven years of preliminary symptoms,[530] walt had now had a slight stroke of paralysis. his first thought was of his mother, to whom he wrote as soon as he was able, reassuring her; for the newspapers had exaggerated his condition. once before, he reminds her with grim humour, they had killed him off; but he is on the road to recovery; in a few days he will be back at his desk on the other side of the street. pete doyle, charles eldridge and john burroughs came in to nurse and companion him: mrs. ashton would have carried him to her house; mrs. o'connor, who did not share in the estrangement of her husband, was often at his bedside. and at the bed-foot, his mother's picture was always before him. he had scarcely begun to move about a little in his room before a letter from st. louis told of the death of martha, jefferson whitman's wife, to whom the whole family was much attached, and walt especially. the blow fell heavily on him. on the last day of march,[531] he crossed the street again to his work; and by the end of april he was having regular electrical treatment, and working for a couple of hours daily, with an occasional lapse. his leg was very clumsy, and he complained of frequent sensations of distress and weakness in his head, but he seemed to be progressing as well as was possible. early in may, however, the old mother in camden fell ill. walt was very anxious about her;[532] at her age she could hardly recover from a serious illness, and his letters to her are pathetically full of loving solicitude. she grew rapidly worse, and although he was still but feeble, he could not remain away from her. on the 20th he hurried home, and on the 23rd, while he was with her, she died.[533] the shock to walt was terrible; and when, dreading the heat, he attempted to reach the coast, he had a serious relapse at the outset, and was brought back to colonel whitman's, to the melancholy little house. and here he too, so it would seem, was to end his life. * * * * * only a year before, in the preface to the reprint of his dartmouth college poem,[534] he had declared that now--the four years' war being over, and he himself having rounded out the poem of the "democratic man or woman"--he was prepared for a new enterprise. he would now set to work upon fulfilling the programme of his _democratic vistas_; and put the states of america hand-in-hand "in one unbroken circle in a chant". he would sing the song for which america waited, the song of the republic that is yet to be. again, a year earlier, he had told in his _passage to india_ how he was ready to set forth upon the unknown sea. and now, with his labours unaccomplished, his heart stricken and heavy with bereavement, joylessly he seemed to hear the weighing of the anchor and to feel his ship already setting forth. where now was the old exaltation of spirit; where the eager longing for divine adventure with which hitherto he had always contemplated death? now sorrow claimed him, and for a season he lost hold of joy and faith. he was as one abandoned by the giver of life, and isolated from love. thus deserted, he became utterly exhausted of vitality. it is as though for a time his soul had parted from his bodily life, and yet the life in the body must go on. if death had come now he would not have refused it; but his hour was not yet. neither living nor dying, through the sad, dark days of long protracted illness and solitude, of physical debility and mental bewilderment--as it were, through year-long dream-gropings--he waited. the light of his life seemed suddenly to have gone out.[535] near as he had dwelt to death, in the tragedy of the war-hospitals and in the habit of his thought, he was wholly unprepared for the death of his mother. he was a man upon whose large harmonious and resonant nature every tragic experience struck out its fullest note. philosophy and religion were his, if they were any man's; but he was not one of those who escape experience in the byways of abstraction. he took each blow full in his breast. his mother was dead; that was the physical wrench which crippled him body and soul. he could not accustom himself to her death and departure.[536] he could not understand it, nor why he was so stricken by it. it seemed as though in her life his mother had given to her son something that was essential to that soul-consciousness in which he had lived, and that her death had broken his own life asunder, so that it was no longer harmonious and triumphant. his mother was dead, and he was alone in camden. not perhaps actually alone, for his new sister, george's wife, was always kindly; and so, indeed, was george himself. but spiritually he was alone. he had lost something, it seems, of the spiritual companionship which had made the world a home to him wherever he went. and now the human comrades who had come so close were far away. washington and new york were equally out of reach; and he had lost o'connor. letters, indeed, he had; but they did not make up to him for the daily magnetic contact with the men and women whom he loved. touch and presence meant more to him than to others, and these he had lost. he was, then, very much alone; bereft at once, so it would seem, of the material and the spiritual consciousness of fellowship; standing wholly by himself, in the attitude of that live-oak he had once wondered at in louisiana, because it uttered joyous leaves of dark green though it stood solitary.[537] he was like a tree blasted by lightning; yet he too continued to put forth his leaves one and one, letters of cheery brief words to his old comrades, and especially to pete.[538] he was an old campaigner worsted at last, standing silently at bay; only determined, come what might, that he would not grumble or complain. * * * * * his circumstances were not all gloomy. through the summer of 1873, whitman remained with his brother, at number 322, stevens street, in the pleasant room his mother had occupied upon the first floor. around him were the old familiar objects dear to him from childhood. he was not wholly house-tied: two lines of street-cars ran near by,[539] and by means of one or other he contrived to reach the ferry, which he loved to cross and cross again, revelling in the swing of the tawny delaware, and all the comings and goings of the river and ocean craft. hale old captains still remember him well as he was in those days. sometimes also he would extend his jaunt, taking the market street cars on the philadelphia side of the river, and going as far as the reading-room of the mercantile library upon tenth street.[540] but often he was too weak to go abroad for days together. his brain refused to undertake the task of leadership or co-ordination, and there was no friend to assist him. with his lame leg and his giddiness, he had at the best of times hard work to move about; but as he wrote to pete, "i put a bold face on, and _my best foot foremost_".[541] during bad days he sat solitary at home, trying to maintain a good heart, his whole vitality too depressed to do more. "if i only felt just a little better," he would say, "i should get acquainted with many of the [railroad] men,"[542] a class who affected this particular locality. but feeble as he was, it was long before he made any friends to replace the lost circle at washington. now and again some kindly soul, hearing that he was ill, would call upon him:[543] or jeff would look in on his way to new york, or eldridge or burroughs, coming and going between washington and new england. walt could not readily adjust himself to his new circumstances. his was not an elastic, pliable temper; but on the contrary, very stubborn, and apt to become set in ways; the qualities of adhesion and inertia increasing in prominence as his strong will and initiative ebbed. he kept telling himself between the blurs that disabled his brain, that he might be in a much more deplorable fix; that his folks were good to him; that his post was kept open for his return, and that his friends were only waiting to welcome him back to washington. but he could not pass by or elude the ever-present consciousness and problem of his mother's death. at the end of august he wrote to pete: "i have the feeling of getting more strength and easier in the head--something like what i was before mother's death. (i cannot be reconciled to that yet: it is the great cloud of my life--nothing that ever happened before has had such an effect on me.)"[544] when we remember his separation from the woman and the children of his love, and all the experiences of the war, we may a little understand the meaning of these soberly written words, and the strength of the tie which bound together mother and son. who knows or can estimate the full meaning of that relationship which begins before birth, and which all the changes and separations of life and death only deepen? * * * * * it is difficult to look calmly at this period of whitman's life. one resents, perhaps childishly, the fate which overtook this sane and noble soul. surely he, of all men, had been faithful to the inner vision, and generous to all. he had fulfilled the divine precept; he had loved the lord his god with all the might of soul and body, and his neighbour as himself. from childhood up he had been clean and affectionate, independent and loyal, whole-heartedly obedient to the law as it was written in his heart, undaunted by any fear or convention. he had prized health, and held it sacred, as the essential basis of freedom and sanity of spirit. and he had hazarded it without reserve and without fear, in the infectious and malarial wards of the hospitals. he had opened his heart to learn the full chords and meanings of all the emotions that came to him; and when he had become a scholar in these, he became an interpreter of the soul unto itself, both in the printed page and in the relations of his life. in _leaves of grass_ he gave, to whosoever would accept the gift, his own attitude towards life, and the results of his study of living. in the wards he gave himself in whatever ways he could contrive to the needy. and he gave all. twenty years at least of his own health he sacrificed, and gave freely, out of the overflow of his love, to the wounded in their cots. as i have before suggested,[545] he gave more than, physically speaking, he could afford. but he gave with joy, knowing that he was born to give, and that in giving himself irretrievably, he was fulfilling the highest law of his being, and fully and finally realising himself. it was the crowning proof not only of "calamus," but of his gospel of self-realisation. deliberate though his service was, not even whitman himself could fully estimate the cost of his charity. but he accepted the consequences of all his acts as proper and due, being, indeed, implicit in the acts themselves. and now, when his very joy in life was called in to meet the mortgage he had given; when he was, as it were, stripped naked and left in the dark; he accepted his condition without declaiming against the divine justice, or calling insanely upon god. year after year, he was patient, expecting the light to break again, the daylight beyond death. he had never professed to understand the ways of god, but he had always trusted him. and when faith itself seemed for awhile to forsake him, his blind soul did but sit silently awaiting its return. * * * * * it was out of such a mood, lighted at times by moments of vision, that during 1874 and 1875 he wrote some of the noblest of his verses, notably the "prayer of columbus," the "song of the universal," and the "song of the redwood tree". there are those who have suggested that whitman's illness was brought on by a life of dissipation; one supposes that such persons find in these poems the death-bed repentance of a maudlin old _roué_. but to the unprejudiced reader such a view must appear worse than absurd. whitman never claimed to have lived a blameless life, but he did claim to have lived a sane and loving one; the evidence of all his writings, and of these poems especially, supports that claim. simple and direct, the "prayer of columbus" breathes the religious spirit in which it was conceived. lonely, poor and paralysed, battered and old, upon the margin of the great ocean of death, he pours out his heart and tells the secret of his life; for, as whitman himself confessed, it is he who speaks under a thin historical disguise.[546] i am too full of woe! haply i may not live another day; i cannot rest, o god, i cannot eat or drink or sleep, till i put forth myself, my prayer, once more to thee, breathe, bathe myself once more in thee, commune with thee, report myself once more to thee. thou knowest my years entire, my life, my long and crowded life of active work, not adoration merely; thou knowest the prayers and vigils of my youth, thou knowest my manhood's solemn and visionary meditations, thou knowest how before i commenced i devoted all to come to thee, thou knowest i have in age ratified all those vows and strictly kept them, thou knowest i have not once lost nor faith nor ecstasy in thee.... all my emprises have been fill'd with thee, my speculations, plans, begun and carried on in thoughts of thee, sailing the deep or journeying the land for thee; intentions, purports, aspirations mine, leaving results to thee. o i am sure they really came from thee, the urge, the ardour, the unconquerable will, the potent, felt, interior command, stronger than words, a message from the heavens whispering to me even in sleep, these sped me on.... what the end and result of all, he cannot tell--that is god's business; but he has felt the promise of freedom, religious joy and peace. the way itself has always been plain to him, lit by an ineffable, steady illumination, "lighting the very light". and now, lost in the unknown seas, he will again set forth, relinquishing the helm of choice; and though the vessel break asunder and his mind itself should fail, yet will his soul cling fast to the one sure thing; for though the waves of the unknown buffet his soul, "thee, thee, at least i know". * * * * * in the "song of the universal"--apparently delivered by proxy at the commencement exercises of tuft's college, massachusetts, midsummer, 1874[547]--whitman reiterates his conviction that the divine is at the heart of all and every life. the soul will at last emerge from evil and disease to justify its own history, to bring health out of disease, and joy out of sorrow and sin. blessed are they who perceive and pursue this truth! it is to forward this wondrous discovery of the soul that america has, in the ripeness of time, arrived. the measured faiths of other lands, the grandeurs of the past, are not for thee, but grandeurs of thine own, deific faiths and amplitudes, absorbing, comprehending all, all eligible to all. all, all for immortality, love like the light silently wrapping all, nature's amelioration blessing all, the blossoms, fruits of ages, orchards divine and certain, forms, objects, growths, humanities, to spiritual images ripening. give me, o god, to sing that thought, give me, give him or her i love this quenchless faith, in thy ensemble, whatever else withheld withhold not from us, belief in plan of thee enclosed in time and space, health, peace, salvation universal. without this faith the world and life are but a dream. * * * * * the "song of the californian redwood"[548] still harps upon american destiny and upon the mystery of death. the giant of the dense forest, falling before the axes of the pioneers, declares the conscious soul that lives in all natural things. he complains not at death, but rejoices that his huge, calm joy will hereafter be incarnate in more kingly beings--the men that are yet to dwell in this new land of the west--and, above all, in the godlike genius of america. the "song of the redwood tree" is the voice of a great past, prophetic of a greater, all-continuing, all-embracing future, and, therefore, undismayed at its own passing. such were the weapons with which whitman fought against despair; such the heroic heart which, amid confusion, restlessness and perplexity, still held its own. * * * * * [illustration: col. whitman's corner house, no. 431, stevens street, camden, 1904] at the end of september, 1873, the whitmans had moved into a fine new brick house[549] which george, who was now a prosperous inspector of pipes, had built upon a corner lot on stevens street. it faced south and west, and walt chose a sunny room on the second floor, as we should say, or, according to the american and more accurate enumeration, on the third. here he remained for ten years. the house still stands, well-built and comfortable; and though the neighbourhood is shabby and the district does not improve with time, the trees that stand before it give it a pleasant air upon a summer's day. walt was to have had a commodious room upon the floor below, specially designed for his comfort and convenience, but he preferred the other as sunnier and more quiet. the family now consisted of three only, for edward, the imbecile brother, was boarding somewhere near by in the country. jeff was in st. louis, the two sisters were married, andrew had died. about jesse we have no information; he may still have been living in long island or new york. more than once whitman wrote very seriously to pete, gently preparing him for the worst;[550] but though confinement, loneliness and debility of brain and body made the days and nights dreary, there continued to be gleams of comfort. john burroughs had begun to build his delightful home upon the hudson, and called at camden on his way north, after winding up his affairs in the capital. among occasional callers was mr. w. j. linton, who afterwards drew the portrait for the centennial edition of the _leaves_. and walt made the acquaintance of a jovial colonel johnston, at whose house he would often drink a cup of tea on sunday afternoons.[551] then, too, the young men at the ferry, and the drivers and conductors on the cars, came to know and like him, helping him as he hobbled to and fro.[552] he was often refreshed by the sunsets on the river, and by the winter crossings through the floating ice;[553] while the sound and sight of the railroad cars crossing west street, less than a quarter of a mile away, reminded him constantly of pete doyle, now a baggage-master on the "baltimore and potomac". he had a companion, too, in his little dog,[554] which came and went with him, and all these pleasant, homely little matters go to make his letters as cheerful as may be. if only he could be in his own quarters, and among his friends, he would be comparatively happy. it is the home-feeling and affection that he craves all the time; even a wood-fire would help towards that, but alas, brother george has installed an improved heater! about midsummer, 1874, a new solicitor-general discharged whitman from his post at washington.[555] hitherto walt had employed a substitute to carry on his work. but he had now been ill some eighteen months, and the prospect of his return was becoming so remote that he could not feel he had been treated unjustly. from this time forward his financial position became precarious. the amount of his savings grew less and less, and his earnings were not large. besides beginning to edit his hospital memoranda for publication, he wrote for the papers and magazines whenever his head allowed him to do so; and in england, as well as at home, there was still some demand for his book. but even the scanty sales-money did not always reach him, being retained by more than one agent who regarded the author's life as practically at an end.[556] footnotes: [528] camden, viii., 238-40; calamus, 86. [529] bucke, 46; _in re_, 73. [530] camden, ix., 200. [531] _in re_, 79. [532] _in re_, 89. [533] calamus, 99; bucke, 46. [534] _comp. prose_, 272. [535] _comp. prose_, 274 n. [536] calamus, 104, 109. [537] _l. of g._, 105. [538] see calamus. [539] see calamus, 106. [540] _ib._, 111. [541] _ib._, 106. [542] _ib._ [543] _e.g._, the late mr. wm. ingram. [544] calamus, 109. [545] see _supra_, 204. [546] calamus, 145; _l. of g._, 323. [547] _l. of g._, 181. [548] _ib._, 165. [549] number 431; calamus, 118. [550] calamus, 119, etc. [551] calamus, 126, 127. [552] _ib._, 133. [553] _ib._, 143. [554] _ib._, 137. [555] _ib._, 155. [556] bucke, 46. chapter xvi convalescence all through 1875 the weakness continued; but in november he was well enough to pay a visit to washington, accompanied by john burroughs; and, the public re-burial of poe taking place about that time in baltimore, doyle appears to have convoyed him thither.[557] there, sitting silently on the platform at the public function, he seems once again to have been cordially greeted by emerson, but o'connor, who was also present, made no sign.[558] * * * * * it was not till the following summer that whitman's old spirits began to return. since his mother died he had passed three years in the valley of the shadow, and he was still lonely, sick and poor when his english friends came to his rescue. he and his writings had been pulverised between the heavy millstones of mr. peter bayne's adjectives in the _contemporary review_ for the month of december. in england, as well as in america, he had literary enemies in high places. but on the 13th of march the _daily news_[559] published a long and characteristically fervid letter, full of generous feeling, from mr. robert buchanan, who dilated upon the old poet's isolation, neglect and poverty. it aroused wide comment, and some indignation on both sides of the atlantic, among whitman's friends as well as among his enemies. that he was never deserted by his faithful american friends a series of articles upon his condition, published in the springfield (mass.) _republican_, bears witness.[560] but buchanan's letter evoked new and widespread sympathy, which was the means of saving whitman from his melancholy plight. a fortnight later the _athenæum_ printed his short sonnet-like poem, "the man-o'-war bird". in the meantime, mr. rossetti, always faithful to his friend, had learned of his condition, and had written asking how best his english admirers might offer him assistance. walt wrote in reply, stating that his savings were exhausted, that he had been cheated by his new york agents, and that in consequence he was now, for the new centennial edition, which had just appeared, his own sole publisher.[561] if any of his english friends desired to help him, they could best do so by the purchase of the book. he wrote with affectionate gratitude, and quiet dignity. he was poor, but he was not in want. there came, through mr. rossetti, an immediate, generous and most cordial response, and in the list of english and irish subscribers appear many illustrious names. the invalid revived; "both the cash and the emotional cheer," he wrote at a later time, "were deep medicine".[562] he could now afford to overlook the bitter and contemptuous attacks which were being made upon him by an old acquaintance in the editorials of the _new york tribune_.[563] and, which was at least equally important, he could contrive to take a country holiday. [illustration: timber creek: the pool, 1904] * * * * * about the end of april, or early in may, he drove out through the gently undulating dairy lands and the fields of young corn to the new jersey hamlet of whitehorse, some ten miles down the turnpike which leads to atlantic city and cape may.[564] a little beyond the village, and close to the reading railroad, there still stands an old farmhouse, then tenanted by mr. george stafford, and to-day the centre of a group of pleasant villas known as laurel springs. it was here that whitman lodged, establishing cordial relations with the whole stafford family, relations which added greatly to the happiness of his remaining years. he became especially attached to mrs. stafford, who intuitively read his moods,[565] and to her son harry. * * * * * a short stroll down the green lane, which is now being rapidly civilised out of that delightful category, brings one to a wide woody hollow, where amid the trees a long creek or stream winds down to a large mill-pool with boats and lily leaves floating upon it. save for the boats and the people from the villas, the place has been but little changed by the quarter of a century which has elapsed since whitman first visited it.[566] the walnut and the oak under which he used to sit among the meadow-grass are older trees, of course, and the former is now circled with a wooden seat; but the kecks and crickets, the shady nooks by the pool, the jewel-weed and the great-winged tawny butterflies are there as of old. and with them much of the old, sweet, communicative quiet. at the creek-head, among the willows, is a swampy tangle of mint and calamus, reeds and cresses, white boneset and orange fragile jewel-weed, and above, from its mouth in the steep bank, gushes the "crystal spring" whose soft, clinking murmur soothed the old man many a summer's day. here, early and late, he would sit or saunter through the glinting glimmering lights, and here mother-nature took him, an orphan, to her breast. the baby and boyhood days in the lanes and fields at west hills, and among the woods and orchards came back to him and blessed him with significant memories. to outward seeming an old man, and near sixty as years go, in heart he was still and always a child. and for the last three years a broken-hearted, motherless child. he had been starving to death for lack of the daily ministry of love. [illustration: timber creek: "crystal spring" and the old marl-pit, 1904] at timber creek, by the pool and in the lanes, the touch of that all-embracing love which pervades the universe was upon him. without any effort on his part the caressing air and sunshine re-established the ancient relationship of love, in which of old he had been united to nature. he would sit silent for hours, wrapt in a sort of trance, realising the mystery of the whole, through which, as through a body, the currents of life flow and pulse. woe to any one, however dear, who broke suddenly in upon his solitude![567] his heart went out to the tall poplars and the upright cedars with their tasselled fruit, and he felt virtue flow from them to him in return. he believed the old dryad stories, and became himself truly nympholeptic, and aware of presences in the woods. in august, 1877, he writes: "i have been almost two years, off and on, without drugs and medicines, and daily in the open air. last summer i found a particularly secluded little dell off one side by my creek, originally a large dug-out marl-pit, now abandoned, filled with bushes, trees, grass, a group of willows, a straggling bank and a spring of delicious water running right through the middle of it, with two or three little cascades. here i retreated every hot day, and follow it up this summer. here i realise the meaning of that old fellow who said he was seldom less alone than when alone. never before did i come so close to nature, never before did she come so close to me. by old habit i pencilled down from time to time almost automatically, moods, sights, hours, tints and outlines on the spot."[568] unlike the ordinary naturalist he regarded the birds and trees, the dragon-flies and grey squirrels, the oak-trees and the breeze that sang among their leaves, as spirits; strange, but kindred with his own, members together with his of a transcendental life; and he communed with them. something, he felt sure, they interchanged; something passed between them. their mystical fellowship had its ritual, as have all religions. the place was sacred, and he did off, not only his shoes, but all his raiment, giving back himself to naked mother-nature, naked as he was born of her. in the solitude, among the bare-limbed gracious trees and the clear-flowing water, he enjoyed many a sun-bath, and on hot summer days, in his bird-haunted nook, many a bathing in the spring; many a wrestle, too, with strong young hickory sapling or beech bough, conscious, as they wrestled together, of new life flowing into his veins.[569] whatever ignorance of names his washington acquaintance may have discovered,[570] his diary at this time is full of nature-lore. it enumerates some forty kinds of birds, and he was evidently familiar with nearly as many sorts of trees and shrubs; while differentiating accurately enough between the sundry trilling insects, locusts, grasshoppers, crickets and katydids which populate the district, vibrant by day and night. doubtless he had learnt much from the companionship of john burroughs, but he was himself an accurate observer. the story of his visits to timber creek and its vicinity from 1876 to 1882 is told in _specimen days_, with much else beside--a book to carry with one on any holiday, or to make a holiday in the midst of city work. it is, for the rest, an admirable illustration of the saying of the philosopher-emperor, that virtue is a living and enthusiastic sympathy with nature.[571] * * * * * three years of gradual convalescence were divided not only between the stafford's farm and the house on stevens street, but also with the homes of other friends whose love now began to enrich his life.[572] of three of the most notable among his new comrades we must speak in passing. in the autumn of 1876 anne gilchrist took a house in philadelphia, while in the following summer dr. bucke and mr. edward carpenter came to camden on pilgrimage. whitman often said in his later years that his best friends had been women, and that of his women friends mrs. gilchrist was the nearest. she was an essex girl of good family, nine years younger than whitman.[573] at school she had loved emerson, rousseau, comte and ruskin, and a little later she added to them the writings of carlyle, guyot and herbert spencer. music and science, with the philosophical suggestions which spring from the discoveries of science, were her chief interests. at twenty-three she married alexander gilchrist, an art-critic and interpreter. it was a wholly happy marriage; anne became the mother of four children, and, beside being deeply interested in her husband's work, contrived to contribute scientific articles to the magazines. while compiling his well-known _life of blake_, mr. gilchrist fell a victim to scarlet fever. his widow, with her four young children and the uncompleted book, removed to a cottage in the country, and there, with the encouragement and help of the rossetti brothers, she finished her husband's task. her life was now, as she said, "up hill all the way," but the book helped her. and her close study of blake, added to her scientific interests and her love of music, formed the finest possible introduction to her subsequent reading of whitman. her task was concluded in 1863; it had tided her over the first two years of her bereavement; but her letters of sympathy to dante rossetti, heart-broken at the loss of his young wife, discover her gnawing sorrow yet undulled by time. like whitman, she had the capacity for great suffering. and like whitman, too, she was helped in her sorrow by the companionship of nature. and, again, she was a good comrade. unlike her grandmother, who was one of romney's beauties, anne gilchrist was not a handsome woman; but her personality was both vivid and profound, and increasingly attractive as the years passed. she was so serious and eager in temperament that, even in london, she lived in comparative retirement. the letters which she exchanged with the rossettis during a long period are evidence both of her common-sense and her capacity for passionate sympathy. they are often as frank as they are noble; revealing a nature too profound to be continually considerate of criticism. this gives to some of her utterances a half naïve and wholly charming quality, which cannot have been absent from her personality, and must have endeared her to the comrades whom she honoured with her confidence. this high seriousness of hers made her the readier to appreciate a poet who, almost alone among americans, has bared his man's heart to his readers, careless of the cheap ridicule of those smart-witted cynics whom modern education and modern morality have multiplied till they are almost as numerous as the sands of the sea. she was a little more than forty when she first read _leaves of grass_ and wrote those letters to w. m. rossetti in which she attested her appreciation of their purpose and power.[574] it was no light thing for a woman to publish such a declaration of faith; and in her own phrase,[575] she felt herself a second lady godiva, going in the daylight down the public way, naked, not in body but in soul, for the good cause. she was convinced that her ride was necessary; for men would remain blind to the glory of whitman's message until a woman dared the shame and held its glory up to them. and what she did, she did less for men than for their wives and mothers, upon whom the shadow of their shame-in-themselves had fallen. mr. rossetti has described[576] her as a woman of good port, in fullest possession of herself, never fidgetty, and never taken unawares; warm-hearted and courageous, with full, dark, liquid eyes, which were at the same time alive with humour and vivacity, quick to detect every kind of humbug, but wholly free from cynicism. her face was not only expressive of her character, but "full charged with some message" which her lips seemed ever about to utter. her considerable intellectual force was in happy harmony with her domestic qualities, and filled her home-life with interest. such was the woman who, in november, 1876, at the age of forty-eight, brought her family to philadelphia, in order that one of the daughters might study medicine at girard college; and in whose home, near the college grounds, whitman henceforward, for two or three years,[577] spent a considerable part of his time. the relationship of these two noble souls seems to have been comparable with that which united michael angelo and vittoria colonna, and they were at a similar time of life. * * * * * this, the centennial year, was filled with thoughts and celebrations of american independence; among which we may recall the exposition in philadelphia--where throughout the summer, whitman had been a frequent visitor--and the centennial edition of his works. he had also celebrated the occasion by sitting for his bust to a young sculptor, in an improvised studio on chestnut street. the weather was too hot for a coat; and in his white shirt sleeves he would, at the artist's request, read his poems aloud with naïve delight, which rose to a climax when the sound of applause from a group of young fellows on the stairs without, crowned his efforts. "so you like it, do you?" he cried to them; "well, i rather enjoyed that myself."[578] the old sad and solitary inertia was broken. ill though he often was, the lonely little upper room held him no longer; nor was he any more shut up within the sense of bereavement. jeff had come over from st. louis, and his two daughters spent the autumn with their aunt and uncles in stevens street. all through the winter walt was moving back and forward between george's house, the staffords farm, and mrs. gilchrist's. he was cheerfully busy with the orders for his pair of handsome books, which were selling briskly at a guinea a volume. _leaves of grass_ had been reprinted from the plates of the fifth edition. its companion, _two rivulets_, was a "mélange" compounded of additional poems, including "passage to india," and the prose writings of which we have already spoken, printed at various times during the last five years. "specimen days" was not among them, and did not appear till 1882. the title _two rivulets_ suggests the double thread of its theme, the destiny of the nation and of the individual, american politics and that mystery of immortal life which we call death. they were not far asunder in whitman's thought.[579] at the end of february, mr. burroughs met walt at mrs. gilchrist's, and thence they set out together for new york. here, whitman stayed with his new and dear friends, mr. and mrs. j. h. johnston;[580] and presented himself in his own becoming garb at the grand full-dress receptions which were held in his honour; the applause which greeted him, and the atmosphere of real affection by which he was surrounded, compensating him for the always distasteful attentions of a lionising public, eager for any sensation. he renewed also, and with perhaps more unmitigated satisfaction, his acquaintance with the men on the east river ferries, and the broadway stages; and, finally, he ascended the hudson to stay awhile with john burroughs. this pleasant holiday jaunt was not without its tragic element; his friend, mrs. johnston, dying suddenly on his last evening in new york. * * * * * it was in may that mr. edward carpenter visited him in camden. after a brilliant cambridge career, he was now a pioneer university extension lecturer in natural sciences. but besides, or rather beyond this, a poet, in whom the sense of fellowship and unity was already becoming dominant. [illustration: edward carpenter at forty-three] in a note to his just-published preface, whitman had spoken of the "terrible, irrepressible yearning"[581] for sympathy which underlay his work, and by which he claimed the personal affection of such readers as he could truly call his own. this also was the aim which underlay mr. carpenter's first book of verses, _narcissus and other poems_, published in 1873.[582] their author was already familiar with _leaves of grass_, which he had first read at about the age of twenty-five, and which he had since been absorbing, much as he absorbed the sonatas of beethoven. they fed within him the life of something which was still but dimly conscious; something dumb, blind and irrational, but of titanic power to disturb the even tenor of an academic life. one remarks that both mrs. gilchrist and he shared to the full the modern feeling for science and its philosophy, and for music. when he visited whitman, edward carpenter was thirty-three; it was not till four years after this that he gave himself up to the writing of his own "leaves," coming into his spiritual kingdom a little later in life than did walt. in many respects his nature, and consequently his work which is the outcome and true expression of his personality, was in striking contrast with that of his great old friend. lithe and slender in figure, he was subtle also and fine in the whole temper of his mind; sharing with addington symonds that tendency to over-fineness, that touch of morbid subtilty which demands for its balance a very sweet and strenuous soul, such indeed, as is revealed in the pages of _towards democracy_. he found whitman's mind clear and unclouded after the suffering of the last four years, his perception keen as ever.[583] courteous, and possessed of great personal charm, he was yet elemental and "adamic" in character. he impressed his visitor with a threefold personality: first, the magnetic, effluent, radiant spirit of the man going out to greet and embrace all; then, the spacious breadth of his soul, and the remoteness of those further portions in which his consciousness seemed often to be dwelling; and afterwards, the terrible majesty, as of judgment unveiled in him, a jove-like presence full of thunder. this last element in his nature was naked, ominous, immovable as a granite rock. when once you perceived it, there was, as miss gilchrist has remarked,[584] no shelter from the terrible blaze of his personality. but this rocky masculine ego was wedded in him with a gentle almost motherly affection, which found expression in certain caressing tones of his widely modulated voice. while, to complete alike the masculine and feminine, was the child--the attitude of reverent wonder toward the world. by turns then, a wistful child, a charming loving woman, an untamed terrible truth-compelling man, whitman seems to have both bewitched and baffled his young english visitor. mr. carpenter saw him at stevens street and timber creek, and again under mrs. gilchrist's hospitable roof. they sat out together in the pleasant philadelphia fashion through the warm june evenings upon the porch steps; and walt would talk in his deliberate way of japan and china, or of the eastern literatures. he liked to join hands while he talked, communicating more, perhaps, of himself, and understanding his companion better, by touch than by words. his mere presence was sufficient to redeem the commonplace. his visitor had also an opportunity of noting the efficiency of whitman's defences against the globe-trotting interview-hunting type of american woman. his silence became aggressive, and her words rebounded from it; he had disappeared into his rock-faced solitude where nothing could reach him. and a very few moments of this treatment sufficed, even for the brazen-armoured amazon. * * * * * during mr. carpenter's visit, mrs. george whitman, whom dr. bucke has described as an attractive, sweet woman, was out of health, and her brother-in-law made a daily excursion down town and across the ferry to see her, and to transact his own affairs. in the heat of the following july she first opened the door to dr. bucke.[585] he, too, had long been a student of _leaves of grass_, a student at first against his own judgment, and with little result beyond an annoying bewilderment to his sense of fitness, and of exasperation to his intelligence. but from the first, he felt a singular interior compulsion to read the book, which he could not at all understand. its lack of all definite statement was the head and front of its offending to a keen scientific mind. but now after many years, he had come to recognise the extraordinary power of suggestion which was embodied in every page. dr. r. maurice bucke's personality was strongly marked and striking; he had as much determination as had whitman himself, and his whole face is full of resolute purpose. born in norfolk, in 1837, but immediately transplanted to canada, he was thoroughly educated by his father, who was a man of considerable scholarship and a minister in the church of england. in 1857, he crowned an adventurous youth passed in the mining regions of the western states, by a daring winter expedition over the sierras, in which he was so badly frozen that he afterwards lost both feet, but his tall and vigorous figure showed hardly a trace of this misfortune. returning to canada, he studied medicine; and eventually, in 1877, became the head of a large insane asylum at london, ontario. here he introduced several notable reforms in the treatment of the patients, which were widely imitated throughout america. he was a keen student of mental pathology, and for some time before his death was reckoned among the leading alienists of the continent. certain interesting and suggestive studies of the relation which appears to exist between the so-called sympathetic nervous system and the moral and emotional nature, but especially his _magnum opus_, _cosmic consciousness_, published the year before his death (1901), reveal the direction of his dominant interest. from 1877, he was one of whitman's closest friends, and became subsequently his principal biographer.[586] in the printed recollections of his first interview with whitman,[587] dr. bucke recalls the exaltation of his mind produced by it; describing it as a "sort of spiritual intoxication," which remained with him for months, transfiguring his new friend into more than mortal stature. it is another instance of the almost incredible power of the invalid's personality. [illustration: richard maurice bucke] * * * * * whitman's own jottings and records of the period testify to his increasing physical vigour. he goes, for instance, to the walnut street theatre, to a performance of joaquin miller's _the danites_, accompanied by his friend the author.[588] in the summer of 1878, and in the succeeding year, he is again a guest both of john burroughs and of j. h. johnston.[589] on the second occasion, he had delivered his lecture on the "death of lincoln" in the steck hall, new york; promising himself anew, that if health permitted, he would even now set forth on the lecture tour which he had so long contemplated.[590] but though, in the autumn, he made, with several friends, an extended tour of some sixteen weeks beyond the mississippi, he did not accomplish this cherished scheme. * * * * * at night on the 10th of september, whitman and his party left philadelphia, westward bound. walt delighted in the magic speed and comfort of the pullman;[591] in which, lying awake among the sleepers, he was whirled all through the first night up the broad pastoral valley of the susquehanna, curving with its thousand reedy aits about thick-wooded steeps; and on, over ridge and ridge of the alleghanies, till morning found them at smoking pittsburg. crossing the ohio, almost at the point whence he had descended it thirty years before on that fateful southern journey, the good engine, the baldwin, hurried them all that day through rich and populous ohio and indiana. whitman was not disinclined to acknowledge a personality in the fierce and beautiful locomotive which he had already celebrated in a poem full of fire and of the modern spirit.[592] they were due next morning at st. louis, but about nightfall their headlong flight through the broad lands was arrested. the baldwin ran foul of some obstacle, and suffered serious damage and consequent delay. spending the third night in the city, they continued through a beautiful autumn day, across the rolling prairies of missouri, feasting their eyes upon the wide farmlands full of the promise of bread for millions of men. nor material bread only. there is something in the vast aerial spaces of these prairie states, their great skies and lonely stretches, which exalts and feeds the soul; something oceanic, whitman thought, "and beautiful as dreams".[593] central in the continent, this country had always seemed to him to correspond with certain central qualities in his ideal america, and to supply the background for the two men whose figures stood out supremely above the struggle for the union, lincoln and grant--men of unplumbed and inarticulate depths of character, and of native freedom of spirit and elemental originality of thought. whitman stayed for a while with friends upon the road, at lawrence and topeka. many of the boys he had tended in the wards were now hale men out west, and they were always eager for sight of him; so that there were few places in america where he would not have found a hearty welcome. he proceeded along the yellow kansas river, through the golden belt, and over the colorado table-lands, bare and vast as some immense salisbury plain, to denver. in that young city he spent several days, dreaming his great dreams of a western town that should be full of friends and strong for and against the whole world, breathing her fine air, sparkling as champagne and clear as cold spring water; falling in love with her people and her horses, and the little mountain streams which ran along the channel ways of her broad streets. thence, he made short trips into the rockies; where the railroad winds among fantastic yellow buttes with steep sloping screes, and towering battlements; and the trains swing eagerly round a thousand curves to follow the bronze and amber path-finder, brawling in its sinuous ravine between the pinnacled, red, cloud-topped crags which it has carved and sundered. every break in the walls disclosed olympian companies of august peaks against the high blue. gradually the way would climb to the summit, its straightness widening, here and there, into sedgy mountain meadows closed about by keen-cut granite heights, the perfect record of laborious ages; and as the day advanced, the broad and restful light broadened and grew more serene as it shone afar on chains of snowy peaks. here in this tremendous mountain fellowship, with its shapes at once fantastic and sublime, its solemn joy and wild imagination, its infinite complex of form and colour suggesting vast emotions to the soul, walt breathed his proper air and recognised the landscape of his deepest life. "i have found the law of my own poems," he kept saying to himself with increasing conviction, hour after hour.[594] like the lonely mountain eagle which he watched wheeling leisurely among the peaks, he was at home in this sternly beautiful, untamed, unmeasured land. towards the end of september, he turned east again from the mining town of pueblo; leaving the far west unseen[595]--utah with its canaanitish glories of intense lake and naked, ruddy, wrinkled mountains; the great grey desert of nevada; and the forest-clad sierras looking out across their californian garden towards the pacific. stopping here and there with his former friends, he found his way to jefferson whitman's home in st. louis, and there remained over the year's end. this cosmopolitan western city,[596] planted in the centre of that vast valley which the mississippi drains and waters, and at the heart of the american continent, was intensely interesting to whitman. he had an almost superstitious love for "the father of waters"; and many a moonlit autumn night he haunted its banks, its wharves and bridges, fascinated by the sound of the moving water as the river flowed through the luminous silence under the eternal stars. physically, st. louis did not suit him: he was ill there for weeks together; but even so, he was happy in his own simple, human way. he went twice a week to the kindergartens, and there, for an hour together, he entertained the younger pupils with his funny children's tales.[597] after the first moments of strangeness, and alarm at his size and the whiteness of his hair, nearly all the children quickly came to love old "kris kringle" or "father christmas" as they would call him;[598] and for his part, he was as happy among little children as a young mother. early in january, 1880, he returned home. all his delight in the west, gathered on his first journey up the mississippi thirty years before, and since accumulating from many sources, notably from the young western soldiers he had nursed, had been confirmed by this visit. in only one thing was he disappointed. the men had seemed, to his searching gaze, fit sons of that new land of possibility; but in the women he had failed to find the qualifications he was seeking.[599] physically and mentally, he saw them still in bondage to old-world traditions; instead of originating nobler and more generous manners, they were imitating the foolish gentility of the east. whitman was very exacting in his ideal of womanhood; and perhaps it was mainly upon the ladies of the shops and streets that his strictures were passed; for there are others in that western world, who are not far from her whom he has described in the "song of the broad-axe"--the best-beloved, possessed of herself, who is strong in her beauty as are the laws of nature.[600] * * * * * after six months at home among his books and his friends--to whom at this time he added, at least by correspondence, colonel robert ingersoll, afterwards a member of the inner circle--whitman set out upon another journey, in length almost equal to that of the preceding autumn. early in june,[601] he crossed the bridge over niagara on his way to london, ontario; and now at his second sight, the significance of that majestic scene, which thirty years before he would seem to have missed, was discovered to him. staying with dr. bucke, he made frequent visits to the great asylum, with its thousand patients, under the wise doctor's care. walt's own family life, with the tragedy of his youngest brother's incapacity, had made the melancholy brotherhood of those whom he has beautifully described as the "sacred idiots"[602] especially interesting to him. he attended the religious services held in the asylum; joining with those wrecked minds in a common worship, and seeing the storms of their lives strangely quieted, as though a divine love, brooding over all, had hushed them.[603] with many of the patients he became personally acquainted, and years afterwards recalled them by name, inquiring affectionately after their welfare. whitman was in better health than usual, and in excellent spirits. he loved the doctor, was happy and at home in his household, and on the best of terms with its younger members. among the latter, his presence never checked the natural flow of high spirits, as does the presence of most grown-up persons: he was always one of themselves. this, indeed, was a characteristic of whitman in whatever company he was found, from a kindergarten to a company of "publicans and sinners". the spirit of comradeship identified him with the others, and he was so profoundly himself that such identification took nothing away from his own identity. among the young people of dr. bucke's household his fun and humour had free and natural expression; as when, for example, one moonlit evening, he undertook the burial of an empty wine-bottle, addressing a magniloquent oration over its last resting-place to the goddess semele. he loved to linger at the table, telling stories after tea; and to recite or read aloud, when the family sat together in the dusk on the verandah; and sometimes, too, he would take his turn in singing some well-known song. for reading aloud, he would often choose some poem of tennyson's--"ulysses" seems to have been his favourite. at this time also, in a secluded nook in the grounds, he read leisurely over to himself, with the satisfaction which tennyson's work nearly always gave him, the newly published _de profundis_.[604] his diary of these pleasant, refreshing weeks contains many notes of the thick-starred heavens and the merry birds, and the multitudinous swallows, which would recall to his well-stored mind the story of athene and ulysses' return.[605] * * * * * his vital force seemed to be almost unimpaired. the noble calm of his presence, indeed, made him appear even older than he was; his fine hair was snowy white, and the high-domed crown which rose through it and grew higher and nobler with every year, gave him all claims to reverence.[606] but, though at first sight he seemed to be nearer eighty than sixty years old, and though he was lame from paralysis, a second glance showed him erect and without a line of care or of senility upon his face. his complexion was rosy as a winter pippin, and his cheeks were full and smooth, for his heart was always young. his host wished to show him canada; in which country he was the more deeply interested through his settled conviction that it would presently become a part of the united states. the st. lawrence and the lakes, he always said, cannot remain a frontier-line; they are and should be recognised as a magnificent inland water-way, comparable with the mississippi. towards the end of july[607] he set out upon this great road with his friend. taking boat at toronto, they descended by easy stages, stopping a night or two at kingston, montreal and quebec, whitman thoroughly enjoying all the new scenes and making friends everywhere on the way. he sat on the fore-deck in the august sunshine, wrapped in his grey overcoat, wondering at the grim pagan wildness of the lower st. lawrence, nightly watching the northern lights, and appearing on deck before sunrise. [illustration: whitman at sixty-one, july, 1880] as they turned up the deep dark saguenay and reached the mountain pillars of eternity and trinity, the mystery of northern river and height, with all they hold of stillness and of storm, communed with him. he saw infinite power wedded with an ageless peace; and all, however awful in its sublimity, yet far from inhospitable to an heroic race of men; nay, by its very awfulness, inviting and proclaiming the men who shall dare to dwell therein. with the people of canada, as a whole, he was well pleased. he liked their benevolent care for the weak and infirm in body and mind; and thought them in every respect worthy of the destiny which he believed that he foresaw--the destiny of citizenship in the republic. footnotes: [557] _comp. prose_, 150. [558] the incidents may not all belong to this visit. [559] bucke, 213. [560] _w. w. autobiographia_, 205 n. [561] _comp. prose_, 311, 312; donaldson, 29-31. [562] _comp. prose_, 519. [563] bucke, 215, 216, etc. [564] _cf._ _comp. prose_, 75. [565] mss. wallace. [566] _comp. prose_, 75. [567] mss. wallace. [568] _comp. prose_, 96-98. [569] _comp. prose_, 91, 92, 98. [570] _ib._, 84, 94, 116; _cf. supra_, 230. [571] _ib._, 193. [572] mss. diary; calamus, 170. [573] _anne gilchrist_, by h. h. g. [574] see _supra_, 225-7. [575] gilchrist, 190. [576] _ib._, preface. [577] mss. diary. [578] _in re_, 370. [579] _comp. prose_, 270. [580] bucke, 216, 217. [581] _comp. prose_, 277 n. [582] tom swan's _edward carpenter_, 1902, and article by e. c. in _labour prophet_, may, 1894. [583] carpenter (_a_). [584] g. gilchrist, _op. cit._; _cf._ carpenter (_b_). [585] calamus, 10 n. [586] ms. of dr. e. p. bucke, and _w. w.'s diary in canada_, v. [587] bucke, 50; _whit. fellowship, memories of w. w._, by r. m. b. [588] mss. diary. [589] _comp. prose_, 106, 122. [590] _ib._, 506. [591] _comp. prose_, 132, 149. [592] _l. of g._, 358. [593] _comp. prose_, 134. [594] _comp. prose_, 136. [595] _ib._, 140. [596] calamus, 170-72. [597] bucke, 63. [598] mss. berenson (_a_). [599] _comp. prose_, 146. [600] _l. of g._, 157. [601] _comp. prose_, 153-58, and _whit. fellowship memo. of w. w._ (bucke); bucke, 48. [602] _l. of g._, 325. [603] _comp. prose_, 154. [604] _diary in canada_, 10, 11. [605] _comp. prose_, 132. [606] bucke, 49. [607] _diary in canada_, 41. chapter xvii the second boston edition after a winter in camden, philadelphia and the country, among friends old and new, whitman paid his second visit to boston. the house-tied stationary years of 1873 to 1876 had been succeeded by a period of considerable activity, both mental and physical. on the 14th of april, he gave his lecture on the "death of abraham lincoln," at the hawthorn rooms.[608] it was the third year of its delivery; on the two previous occasions it had been read in new york and philadelphia; and he purposed thus annually to commemorate an event which appeared to him as perhaps the most significant of his time, an event which the american people could ill afford to forget. in whitman's view, as we have noted, the assassination of the great president had sealed the million deaths of the war, and cemented, as could nothing else, the union for whose sake they had been given. he believed that future ages would see in it the most dramatic moment of the victorious struggle of the nation against slavery. rarely hereafter, in spite of increasing feebleness, did he miss the occasion as the season came round; though it was often with difficulty that even a small audience could be gathered for the anniversary. among the friends and notables whom he met in boston was longfellow, who had already called on him in camden; and whitman was warm in eulogies of the old poet's courteous manner and personality.[609] something of the burden of his first prophetic message had lifted from walt's shoulders, and with it some of his wrath against the popular poets of america. he had consequently become better able to express his sense of the real value of work like theirs when its secondary place was recognised. there were others in boston whom he also now discovered for the first time; notably the women of middle and later life, among whom he rejoiced to find some of those large, vigorous personalities whose absence he had lamented in the west. in earlier days he had been alienated by the academic and puritan qualities which still gave its principal colour, especially when seen from new york, to intellectual boston. but both boston and whitman had changed--alike with the war and with the advance of time; the provincialism of the former had given place to broader views, and the nobler identification of new england with the whole interests of the nation; while the latter was now able more generously to estimate even new england's shortcomings, and to recognise among its people that ardour and yearning for the ideal which had always been theirs, but warmed now and humanised, as he thought, by a new joyousness and breadth of tolerance.[610] he felt a sunshine in the streets, which radiated from the men and women who traversed them. this effusive ardour of public spirit set him thinking of athens in her golden days; and for the first time he, who had so much of the greek in his nature, felt himself at home in boston. the visit was also memorable to him because it introduced him to the works of millet, and, one may add, to the emotional significance of painting as an art.[611] as i have before noted, new york only became a centre of art collections in comparatively recent years; and it was probably not till whitman had sat for two hours before some of the breton artist's finest studies in the house of a bostonian, that he recognised painting as the true sister of music and of poetry. it was fitting that this revelation should have come to the poet of democracy from such canvasses as that of the first "sower" and the "watering the cow". surcharged as they are with a primitive emotion new to modern art, the works of millet reveal the inner nature of that great republican peasant people whom whitman always loved. * * * * * much of the early summer, after his return, was spent at glendale, whither the family from whitehorse had now removed, mr. stafford having taken the store on the cross-roads, some three or four miles from his old home. directly opposite to it there stands a methodist chapel, and often on a sunday morning the young people would laugh as they heard walt, in the room above, angrily banging down his window sash at the first clanging of the bell. but behind the chapel is a dense wood, and here he spent many a long, happy day. the heat of july was, as usual, very trying to him; and at the end of the month he accompanied dr. bucke on a visit to his old breezy haunts in long island. the farm at west hills had passed out of the family; iredwell whitman, the last of walt's uncles to hold it, seems to have sold out about 1835. in the little burying ground there is a stone erected to his daughter mahala, who died eight years later.[612] while in boston he seems to have received propositions from the firm of osgood and company for the publication of a definitive edition of the _leaves_, and about the beginning of september, after completing his manuscript at the home of his friends, mr. and (the second) mrs. johnston, at mott haven, new york,[613] he settled down in the new england capital to read proofs and to enjoy himself. he stayed at the bullfinch, close to bowdoin square, and frequented the water-side.[614] often he would take the cars which run through south boston to city point, whose pebbly, crescent beach is lapped forever by the atlantic ripple. and to this place the lover of whitman may well follow, for it holds memories of him. on a summer's evening, after dark, thousands of young bostonians gather under the lamps, laughing and talking and listening to the band; but, beyond the zone of lights and mirth and music, one finds oneself at once in a mystical solitude. a long bridge or pier stretches out into the bay, terminating in castle island and grim fort independence; and wandering out along it, surrounded in every direction by distant lights, the illuminated dome of the state house rising afar in the west, and lights moving to and fro mysteriously upon the water, you feel the night wind blowing cool across the black gulf of sea as it carries to you distant sounds of merry-making. very far away they seem, thus encircled in mysterious spaces which are peopled by sea voices and the stars. the light surf makes upon the shore its constant and delicious murmur--"death, death, death, death, death"[615]--and the lights and the noises of life, with all its passing show, are mysteriously related in that murmur to the sane, star-lighted silence of eternity. whitman walked daily on the common, watching the friendly grey squirrels, and becoming acquainted with each one in turn of the american elms under which he sat.[616] timber creek had deepened his knowledge of the life of trees and little creatures since last he walked here with emerson. emerson, too, he saw once again. mr. sanborn, the friend at whose trial he had been present on that former visit,[617] took him out through the suburbs and the wooded country to concord. it was indian-summer weather, and the meadows, that late saturday afternoon, were busy and odorous with haymaking; all things spoke of peace. emerson came over for the evening to mr. sanborn's house, and the two old friends sat silent in the midst of the talk. bronson alcott, who had brought thoreau to brooklyn and had once compared whitman with plato,[618] was of the company of illustrious and charming neighbours. the others talked, but emerson leaned back in his chair under the light, a good colour in his old face, and the familiar keenness; and near by sat walt, satisfied to watch him without words. on sunday the sanborns and he went over to dinner. his place was by mrs. emerson, who entertained him with talk of thoreau, but though he listened with interest, most of his attention belonged to his beloved host. more than ever, if that were possible, did whitman lovingly recognise the character of his friend. he had not always been just to emerson,[619] nor had emerson always maintained his first generosity;[620] each had said of the other words one cannot but regret, but deeper than such words of partial criticism was the comrade-love which united them. in a letter, written immediately after this visit to his friend alma calder, who had recently become the second mrs. j. h. johnston, whitman wrote: "i think emerson more significant and _glorified_ in his present condition than in any of his former days".[621] the whole family was present, and sitting quietly among them whitman could understand the natural limitations which his household entailed upon the philosopher, and acknowledging these, felt the personal bond stronger than ever. the relation of the two men had been singular as well as noble, for it was the elder who had sought the younger out and affectionately acknowledged him, and through the years that followed the advances had been made by him. whitman's attachment to emerson had been one of love and reverence for his person, much more than of intellectual affinity. "i think," he wrote a few years later to his boston friend, mr. w. s. kennedy, "i think i know b. w. e[merson] better than anybody else knows him--and love him in proportion."[622] the evidence does not indicate a similar understanding on emerson's part, though the love between them was not unequal. to emerson, as to tennyson, whitman remained "a great big something" of undetermined character. whitman met many friends, new and old, upon this visit, but of the old, thoreau had long been dead; and the strong, homely sailor's face of father taylor drew boston no longer to the seamen's bethel. whitman himself attracted much attention as he sauntered along among the fashionable shoppers on washington street; tall, erect and noble, one could not pass him without notice. i have heard a lady tell how, being familiar with his portraits, she recognised him at once. seeing him mount a car she followed, taking a seat where for several miles she could, without rudeness, study and enjoy that splendid ruddy face, through which, lamp-like, there shone and glowed an inner light of spiritual ecstasy. and for whitman himself, those were happy days.[623] the paralysis and the other ailments, more or less serious and painful, by which it had been enforced, troubled him less than usual. in his little room at messrs. rand & avery's printing house, or out-of-doors in the woods with a fallen tree for his table,[624] he was revising the proofs of his _leaves_ with a deliberation and particularity worthy of their final form. for now this singular book, slowly built up through the continual inspiration, thought and labour of a quarter of a century, had come to its completion, and the final plates were to be cast. or better, we may say that for the first time it was to be really published, all other efforts in that direction having been but tentative, and more or less unsuccessful. hitherto, despised and rejected of publishers, it had issued with an innocent air from strange places, unvouched by any name which was recognised by the bookselling world. the edition of 1860 is the only exception; and almost immediately after its publication, the enterprising house which guaranteed it sank into ruins.[625] now at last, the plan of the book had been, as far as health and strength permitted, brought to completion[626]--a plan amended since the previous boston visit, and qualified to admit those poems which had since been written, and at first designed for a supplementary book. the cargo was filled, and the good ship ready to sail. * * * * * after a visit to the globe theatre to see rossi in "romeo and juliet,"[627] and a supper with his co-operators, the printers and proof-readers, whose aid he was always eager to acknowledge, whitman set out again for new york, returning home about the beginning of november. late in the same month, the book, his vessel as he loved to think of it, set out upon its voyage; but in spite of favourable presages and a happy commencement, it was soon shrouded about in fog, which only yielded to a storm. some 2,000 copies were sold during the winter, but early in the new year (1882)[628] the trouble, which seemed to have passed over when the postmaster-general decided that the book was not so obscene as to be "unmailable," began to threaten anew. the boston district attorney,[629] urged by certain agents of the society for the suppression of vice--as though, forsooth, vice could be "suppressed"!--objected to the publication, and demanded the withdrawal of certain passages. whitman was hardly surprised. he had discussed these passages, or a certain number of them, with his own judgment; and it is possible that mrs. gilchrist's view of them had also appealed to him. in his own judgment they were right, but he seems to have been willing to omit five brief items, amounting in all to nearly a page, from the incriminated "children of adam" section, if it would save the edition from further molestation.[630] these he suggested might be cut out of the plates, and replaced by other cancelling lines which he would substitute. this was early in march. but the attorney was not to be so easily satisfied. he demanded the omission of lines in all parts of the volume, amounting to a total of eight or ten pages.[631] this, whitman emphatically refused; and as neither party would give way, messrs. osgood, without testing the case further, threw up their publication on the 9th of april. their action was scathingly contrasted with that of woodfall, the publisher of the letters of junius, and of mr. murray, lord byron's publisher, by w. d. o'connor, in a letter to the _new york tribune_. his indignant sense of literary justice had brought him once more to the side of his old friend, and although the former cordial relations seem hardly to have been re-established, the phantasmal but rigid barrier between them was crumbling away. * * * * * that whitman was sorely disappointed by the issue of the affair, goes without saying, for he had counted much upon this edition. but district attorneys and societies for the suppression of vice were not likely to daunt him. binding a number of copies in green cloth, he issued them himself; for messrs. osgood had made over to him the printed sheets and plates. at midsummer, he transferred the latter to a philadelphia firm--afterwards mr. david mckay--who immediately brought out an edition which sold in a single day.[632] persecution had, as usual, assisted the cause, and for some months the sale continued brisk, bringing whitman at the year's end royalties to the amount of nearly £300.[633] * * * * * the osgood disaster was not the only menace to whitman's slender income during these years. the plates of the original boston edition of 1860 were still extant, having been bought at auction by a somewhat unscrupulous person, who, in spite of whitman's protest, succeeded in putting a number of copies upon the market. this affair was already worrying whitman when he lay ill at st. louis, and it was not till just before the publication of messrs. osgood's edition that some sort of settlement with this mr. worthington was effected. the author seems to have accepted a nominal sum by way of royalty,[634] and was dissuaded from seeking the legal redress for which at first he had hoped. the surreptitious sale of this spurious edition was, however, continued till his death. * * * * * [illustration: glendale store, 1904: whitman occupied one of the rooms looking out over the verandah] much of the winter of 1881 to 1882 had been spent at glendale; and during the following autumn he was busy with the proofs of _specimen days and collect_, a volume of about the same size as the _leaves_, and similar in appearance, which embraced the bulk of his prose writings up to that time, including a selection from the early tales and sketches. the plan of separation adopted in the centennial edition, in which the supplementary volume consisted of both prose and verse, was now abandoned, and the whole of whitman's verse--with the exception of rejected passages which are numerous--was re-arranged and fitted together into the enlarged scheme of the _leaves_. this new arrangement is not without interest. first comes the prefatory section intended to prepare the reader, and to indicate the character of the book--it belongs largely, in order of time, to the later, more explanatory period. there follows the original poem, now known as "the song of myself," with its assertion of the divine and final me--the inherent purpose and personality of the all--and its gospel of self-realisation. after this we have the poems of sex--life's reproductive energy--by which self-assertion is carried out towards society; and then of comradeship and the social passion. these complete the first section of the book, and, as it were, bring the individual to his or her majority. henceforward he is a man and citizen. there ensues a group of a dozen powerful poems--"the open road," "the broad-axe" and others--in which the life of ideal american manhood is celebrated, and the conception of america and her needs becomes more and more complete. in "birds of passage," the loins are girded for noble perils, and here the middle of the volume is reached. there follows, "sea-drift" and "by the road-side"; the former, a group of poems contemplative, in middle life, of the mysteries of bereavement and of death; the latter, full of questions, doubts and warnings, leading up to the "drum-taps," poems of war, of national consciousness and of political destiny. "autumn rivulets" are discursive and peaceful after the storm; they introduce a group, including "the passage to india," in which the unity of the world is emphasised, a unity which is declared simultaneously by whitman with the utterance of his thoughts of death. in "whispers of heavenly death," he gives expression to many moods, to insurgent doubts and to triumphant faith. they are followed by an indian-summer of miscellaneous poems, "from noon to starry night," and the volume closes with the "songs of parting," and the identical words which in 1860 he had set at the end. there is little new in the book beyond the arrangement, and careful and final revision and readjustment of all the items to the unity of the whole. the main lines of the edition of 1860 are still followed; but since that version, most of the political poems have been added, and many of those which sing of battle and of death, with a considerable mass of the explanatory and philosophical material natural to later life. all this has necessarily qualified the earlier work, and has made the task of revision and adjustment necessary. for whitman had a profound sense of congruity and character, and his alterations were dictated by his original purpose of creating a book which his own soul might forever joyfully acknowledge and attest, and even perhaps in future ages continue.[635] the book was his body, projected, out of his deepest realisation of himself, into type and paper, and it changed somewhat in all its parts as it grew to completion and became more perfect. footnotes: [608] _comp. prose_, 171-74, 433; kennedy, 3 n.; bucke, 223-26. [609] _comp. prose_, 173. [610] _ib._, 172. [611] _ib._, 174. [612] mss. wallace. [613] _comp. prose_, 176-80. [614] kennedy, 3 n. [615] _l. of g._, 201. [616] _comp. prose_, 183. [617] _ib._, 181; _supra_, 136. [618] bucke, 100. [619] williamson's _catalogue_, facsimile mem. of 187; _comp. prose_, 315-17. [620] kennedy, 74-79. [621] mss. johnston. [622] kennedy, 77. [623] _comp. prose_, 180-85; bucke, 147; mss. traubel. [624] camden, x., 113. [625] see _supra_, 171. [626] bucke, 147. [627] mss. diary. [628] mss. carpenter. [629] bucke, 58, 148-53; kennedy, 118, 119; camden, viii., 288. [630] mss. johnston. [631] bucke, 151. [632] _ib._, 153. [633] mss. diary; _cf._ donaldson. [634] mss. diary. [635] _l. of g._, fly-leaf. chapter xviii among the prophets with the completion of the main body of his work, and before we pass to the details of his last years in camden, a brief digression into wider fields may perhaps be permissible. for whitman's thought, though it is very consciously his, is interestingly related to that of the preceding century and of his own, and no study of him would be at all complete which left this fact out of consideration. readers who prefer to follow the path of events will find it again in the next chapter. * * * * * while it is difficult to imagine a greater contrast than that between the essayist on man and the singer of myself, they were at least agreed as to the proper subject for human study. physically they were most dissimilar--pope, a little, deformed, ivory-faced wit, all nerves and eyes; whitman, a huge, high-complexioned, phlegmatic peasant-artisan. between their thought lay the century of rousseau, goethe and hegel, of washington, robespierre and napoleon. and their mental contrast was as marked as their physical. it is clearly indicated in the formal character of their work: pope's, a mosaic of brilliant couplets; whitman's, a choral or symphonic movement.[636] wholly lacking in the intellectual dazzle of the augustan wits, whitman's strength lay rather in those naturalistically romantic regions of the imaginative world which in the eighteenth century were being rediscovered by certain provincial singers, the forerunners of the lake-poets. in the verses of scottish poets from ramsay to burns; in macpherson's "ossian," and, finally, in the work of two men who were londoners but "with a difference"--the soul-revealing cries of cowper and the lyric abandonment of blake--there was restored to english poetry that emotional quality which had been banned and ousted by the self-conscious club-men of the eighteenth century.[637] just as the passion of high conviction returns to english politics with burke, and to english religion with wesley, so it finds expression once again in the rhythmical impulse of _lyrical ballads_ and the _songs of innocence_. there is here a new feeling for beauty, a new sense of the emotional significance of nature. with the return of that enthusiasm based upon conviction, which the sceptical deism of pope abhorred, there came a more elastic use of metre. for the movement of poetry should vary as the pulse varies under emotion. passion now took the place of logic in the guidance of the rhythm of thought. and as the spirit of the poet lay open to the stars, his ear caught new and ever subtler rhythms, and became aware that every impelling motive for song has its own perfect and inalienable movement. his attention passed from current standards and patterns to those windy stellar melodies unheard by the town-bred augustan ear. all this, with much more, is revealed in the work of the new poets, from wordsworth, coleridge and shelley to tennyson. when whitman came, his spirit was aware of this newly apprehended canon of poetic form. at first, he tried the medium of rhymed verses; but his were without inspiration. when self-expression became imperative he abandoned them. for the poet, nothing can be more important than the emotional atmosphere which his verses create, for he is conveying rather moods than fancies, inspirations of the soul rather than thoughts of the intelligence. eventually, it is the poet's own personality or attitude of mind that most affects the world; and it seemed to whitman that this must communicate itself through the medium of his thoughts by their rhythm or pulse of speech and phrasing. the manner of speaking means more almost than the matter spoken, because it is by the manner, and not by the thought, that the speaker's attitude toward life is most intimately conveyed. it need hardly be said that there are rhythms which suggest and evoke gladness and exaltation; others which call forth melancholy; others which predispose to lascivious passions, and so forth: the thought is older than plato. whitman wished to convey to his readers all that i have attempted to describe in the foregoing pages; his own attitude towards life, that of a fearless, proud, abysmal, sympathetic, wholesome man. and he found no medium among those in current use which seemed to him effective for his purpose. he had to go back to the prophets of israel, and the rhythm into which their message was put anew by the seventeenth century translators, to find a model. it was from them, and from a study of the movements of prose, but especially of speech, that he came to his own singular, and not inappropriate style. at the last definition, the appeal of _leaves of grass_ is intended to be that of an intimate kind of speech. it would be interesting, in this connection, to compare whitman's manner with that of the other writers of his period who have most distressed the purists--browning, carlyle, emerson and meredith--but that field is too large for us to enter now. * * * * * addington symonds once said[638] that whitman had influenced him even more deeply than plato; and the juxtaposition of the two names is as singular as it is suggestive. for while the "arrogant mannhattanese" is far indeed from the founder of the academy, there is something essentially platonic in whitman's attitude toward poetry. for whitman was a moralist in the highest sense. with plato, he dreamed always of the republic, and that dream was the moving passion of his life. he would--at least in his earlier years--have said with plato, in his _laws_, "the legislator and the poet are rivals, and the latter can only be tolerated if his words are in harmony with the laws of the state". but over the last phrase he would have laughed, adding, in my republic the citizens think lightly of the laws! like plato, he accused all the poets whom he loved best of an essential hostility to the republic. their whole attitude implied an aristocratic spirit, which discovered itself in their rhythms, and struck at the life of america. he would only admit such poets as are in harmony with the spirit of the republic, and interpret the genius of america. it was for america, then, that he made his chants; chanting them, as he hoped, in such fashion that they might forever nerve new soldiers for the battle which he saw her destined to maintain through all the ages against the ancient tyrannies of the past. * * * * * if one were to seek among modern writers for those whose genius is related to whitman's, one would, i suppose, name first rousseau, with his moody self-consciousness, his great social enthusiasm, his religious fervour, and his passionate perception of beauty in nature.[639] and then, after goethe, to whom i have several times referred in passing, one would add byron, that audacious egoist, who, threatening the almighty like some miltonic lucifer, fascinated the gaze of europe.[640] but whitman had almost nothing either of the morbid sentiment or dramatic skill of the french reformer, nor had he byron's theatrical and somewhat futile rhetoric of rebellion. he was indeed very much at peace with the cosmos; his confessions are frank, but impersonal; his egoism may be satanic in its pride, but then for him, satan, though he remains in opposition, is really an essential factor in the government of the worlds. temperamentally he was nearer to george sand;[641] and, on at least one side of his nature, to victor hugo.[642] * * * * * it is rather as a prophet than as a literary figure that we must compare him with his great contemporaries. on this side, he was obviously related to millet, to beethoven and to wagner--but it seems simpler roughly to set him over against several men of his own craft who hold a european reputation--to carlyle, mazzini, emerson, morris, browning, tolstoi and nietzsche. with whitman, carlyle[643] recognised the underlying moral purpose of the universe, and the organic unity or solidarity of mankind; but being himself a calvinistic jacobin of irritable nerves, these convictions filled him, not with a joyful wonder and faith, but with contempt and despair. he never saw humanity as the body of a divine and godlike soul; and though he was continually calling men to duty and repentance, he did so from inward necessity rather than with any anticipation of success. for he felt himself to be a voice crying in the wilderness. whitman worshipped the hero as truly as did carlyle; but then he saw the heroic in the heart of our common humanity, where carlyle missed it; hence his appeal was one of confidence, not despair. for mazzini, the word "duty" was not a scourge but a magician's wand, because he believed.[644] the italian was not, like carlyle, an iconoclast, but a messenger of good tidings; and if he carried a sword, it was in the name of the prince of peace. like whitman, he was conscious of the world-life pulsing through him; in himself he found the peremptory spirit of the republic demanding from him both blood and brain. like whitman also, he looked to a comradeship of young men for the regeneration of his nation; and to a poet to come for the great words which alone can unite men and nations, creating the world anew in the image of humanity. for them both, religion was the ultimate word--a religion free from the shackles of dogma, free in the spirit of the whole--and it was a word which the world could only receive from the poets that are to be. but while thus similar in their aspirations, they were very different in temper and circumstances. for mazzini was a fiery, nervous martyr to his cause, a dantesque exile from the land of his love. and yet his appeal, at least in his writings, is not so intimate as is that of the less vehement apostle of liberty. with emerson,[645] whose relationship to whitman i have already discussed, there is the great contrast of temperament. for in him, passion seems to have played but little part. he is one of the noblest of those constitutional protestants and individualists who are incapable of feeling the fuller tides of the catholic passion of social sympathy. his earnest and profound spirit seems to dwell forever in the sunny cloisters of a thoughtful solitude, far distant from life's rough and tumble. browning's belief that the immanent divinity finds expression through passion, and is lost in all suppression of life;[646] and his faith in the universal plan, which includes the worst with the best, relate his thought to whitman's. for them both, each individual life contains a part of the divine secret. it is the concrete personality of things which they seek to express, though in very different ways. browning astonished carlyle by his confident cheerfulness. and his optimism was founded upon knowledge, or at least did not depend upon ignorance. though he believed in the triumph of the divine element in every soul--the element of love--he recognised the reality of evil, and saw life as a battle. but not as a battle between the body and the soul, or between vice and virtue: the conflict, for browning as for whitman, is ultimately between love as the inmost spirit of life, and all other virtues and vices whatsoever. love alone "leaves completion in the soul," and solves the enigmas of doubt. browning's conception of a democracy, in which all men should "be equal in full-blown powers," and god should cease to make great men, because the average man would have become great, was set forth in some of the earliest work of a genius as precocious in its development as that of his master shelley. but it would be easy to exaggerate the relationship which i have indicated. for browning was a cosmopolitan and delightful gentleman, who in his later years cultivated music and studied yellow parchments and the freaks of human nature, in a venetian palace; while whitman was sauntering through old age in the suburb of an american city, appearing by comparison uneducated, uncouth and provincial. appearance is, however, deceptive, for the earth walt smacks of is the autochthonous red soil of the creation of all things. * * * * * tolstoi, aristocrat as he is by birth and education, is yet a peasant in his physical and spiritual character; a russian peasant, with the moujik's almost oriental stubbornness of resignation and passivity. like whitman, he is one of the people, and in some respects he is an incarnation of russia, as whitman was of america. but while there are many obvious relations between the two men, their contrast is the more striking. tolstoi has the oriental tendency towards pessimism and asceticism. he sees the body and spirit in irreconcilable conflict. and similarly he opposes forever pleasure and duty; so that his is a message of the endless sacrifice of self. an abyss of terror surrounds him, from which he can only escape by a life of resolute and loving self-devotion.[647] his gospel is one of escape, and is in many respects nearer in spirit to carlyle's than to whitman's. tolstoi's detestation of the state is, doubtless, largely traceable to the military despotism under which he has lived. there is a certain element of pessimism also, in the attitude of william morris, as of ruskin his master. but though he flings back the golden age into the thirteenth century, his gospel is really one of actual joy. when the citizen finds pleasure in his daily work, the state will prosper; such is his promise for the future, and his condemnation of the present. carlyle urged men to work, in order to kill doubt, and silence the terrible questions; but morris finds that the questions are really answered by work, if only it is done in the spirit of the artist, and in fellowship with others.[648] like whitman, morris was one who seemed to his friends almost terribly self-sufficing; he could stand alone, they thought. but strong as he seemed in his solitude, he was the poet of fellowship, of a fellowship which is man's fulfilment and immortal life. though whitman's view of that life was more philosophical, and his personality had a more mystical depth, the two men had much in common, especially in the aggressive and elemental masculinity of their character, and their superb joy and pride in themselves. * * * * * it would be interesting to compare whitman's general position with that of nietzsche; that most perplexing figure of young germany in revolt from hegel and all the past, from the restraint, system and conventions which threaten the liberty of the individual spirit. but nietzsche is difficult to summarise; and time has not yet given us the perspective in which alone the general forms of his thought will become evident. it is clear, however, that he expresses that spirit of rebellion which was so marked a feature of the first _leaves of grass_; a rebellion against all bondage, even though it call itself virtue and morality. and this, be it remembered, was always a part of the real whitman; it was the side of the _square deific_ which he has aptly named "satan". between nietzsche's "overman," jealous of every tittle of his identity, and always a law unto himself, refusing to bow his neck to the virtues and vices of the "weaker brother"; and whitman's self-asserting ego, there is the same striking resemblance. one can never omit the dogma of the sacredness of self-assertion, with the criticism of christianity which it involves, from any statement of whitman's position. he evidently detested that plausible levelling argument, so potent for mischief to the race-life which it professes to guard--that one must be always considering the effects of example upon the foolish and perverse, and endeavouring to live down to their folly and perversity, instead of up to the level of true comradeship. be yourself, say whitman and nietzsche, and do not waste your life trying to be what you fancy for the sake of other people you ought to be. whitman's doctrine of equality is again really not unlike nietzsche's doctrine of inequality; for it only asserts the equality of individuals because of the overman latent in each one; and is different enough from the undistinguishing equalitarianism of popular philosophy. but whitman had the balancing qualities which nietzsche lacked. as he said once to mr. pearsall smith: "i am physically ballasted so strong with weightiest animality and appetites, or i should go off in a balloon". in his case, self-assertion was not associated with mania; for it never snapped those ties of comradeship and love which keep men human, but became instead a bond for fuller and nobler relations with men and women. the comparison with nietzsche suggests the limits of whitman's hegelianism. for though he once declared that he "rated hegel as humanity's chiefest teacher and the choicest loved physician of my mind and soul"; and again, that his teaching was the undercurrent which fructified his views of life,[649] yet it may well be doubted whether he ever really mastered the full hegelian theory, or realised the futility of many of those generalisations in which german idealism has been so prolific. it was because hegel saw life, both the me and the not me, as a single whole, and found a place for evil in his world-purpose, that whitman hailed him as the one truly "american" thinker of the age. but in the individualism of nietzsche is the partial corrective of hegel's position; and as i have suggested, whitman would have accepted it as such. * * * * * perhaps the foregoing very rough and ready comparisons may have thrown some light on the outstanding features of whitman's personal message and influence. but there remains another, which i have already suggested, and to which for a moment we must return. whitman was essentially a prophet-mystic, and while he derived nothing from most of the men with whom his thought is related, the indirect influence upon him of george fox the quaker is certain.[650] fox's distinguishing quality was his intense personal reality; there are few more vivid figures on any page of history. this seems to be due to the fulness of life which he realised, and could focus in his actual consciousness. from this he did not derive "advanced views" but vital power. and vital power is equally, and perhaps in fuller measure, characteristic of whitman, manifesting itself by various signs in his daily life, and in the phrases of his book. in whitman, as in fox, this was an attractive power of extraordinary force. around fox it created a society of friends; and one cannot doubt that sooner or later a world-wide fellowship of comrades will result from the life-work of whitman. fox's "friends"--though the meaning of the title may originally have been "friends of the truth"--were real friends; united in a new ideal of communion. they shared the highest experience in common; meeting for the purpose of entering together into "the power of the life". and whitman also realised that life at its highest is only revealed to comrades. his view of religion was even less formal than that of the early quakers; but he, too, preferred to sit in silence with those he loved, realising that divine power and purpose which was one in them. quakerism has not unfairly been spoken of as a spiritual aristocracy; there seems to be something essentially exclusive about it. on the other hand, it is essentially democratic and would exclude none; but the methods necessary to its conception of truth do not appeal to the many. similarly, the fellowship of whitman's comrades must be an aristocracy of overmen--if the words can be divested of all sinister association and read in their most literal sense. whitman recognised that his inner teachings could only be accepted by the few, and for them he set them forth. but for the many also, he had a message. and though the actual comrades of whitman must be able to rise to his breadth of view and depth of purpose, that purpose embraces the whole world. for the possibility of comradeship is implicit in every soul; and there is none--no, not the most foolish or perverted or conventionally good--who is ultimately incapable of entering into it. the fellowship must be as essentially attractive as was the personality of whitman himself; and if few should be chosen to be its members, yet all would be called. once realised as the one end of all individual and social life, such a comradeship would transform our institutions and theories whether of ethics, politics, education or religion. in a word, it would change life into a fine art. for it could be no utopian theory, but the most practicable of gospels. the seed has been already sown, and we may now await with confidence the growth of a tree through whose branches all the stars of faith will yet shine, and in whose embracing roots all the rocks of science will be held together.[651] footnotes: [636] w. m. rossetti in _anne gilchrist_. [637] _cf._ saintsbury's _nineteenth century lit._, and stephen's _english thought in eighteenth century_, ch. xii. [638] _camden's compliment_, 73. [639] _cf._ w. h. hudson's _rousseau_, 245, 246. [640] _comp. prose_, 287; guthrie, _op. cit._, 100, 101. [641] g. gilchrist, _op. cit._ [642] kennedy, 106, 178. [643] _cf._ triggs' _browning and whitman_. [644] mazzini's _duties of man_, etc.; _cf._ bolton king's _mazzini_. [645] see _supra_, 113-6, etc. [646] triggs, _op. cit._; prof. jones's _browning_. [647] note added to _my confession_ in 1882. [648] _a dream of john ball_, and _life of william morris_, by j. w. mackail. [649] _in re_, 244; _comp. prose_, 168, 169, 245; camden, ix., 172. [650] see _supra_, ch. i., ii. [651] horace traubel, of camden, new jersey, editor of _the conservator_, is the secretary of the walt whitman fellowship (international), which meets annually in new york and issues papers. a file of these may now be consulted in the british museum library. chapter xix he becomes a householder emerson and longfellow died within six months of whitman's boston visit; the former being buried in that graveyard at sleepy hollow where walt had so recently stood by the green mounds that mark the resting-places of hawthorne and of thoreau.[652] carlyle had died a year earlier; carlyle who so deeply impressed his impetuous pathetic personality upon all that he handled, and who was one of the principal literary influences upon whitman during his later years, as emerson had doubtless been an inspiration in the earlier. and while walt had been working on the osgood proof-sheets, james garfield, the friend who used to hail him as he passed on pennsylvania avenue riding with pete doyle, shouting out some tag from the _leaves_, and who had now become president of the united states, died amid the mourning of the nation. whitman's daily life had been poorer these last two or three years, since mrs. gilchrist's return to england, but new friends were continually added to his circle. among these was mr. w. s. kennedy, who was working for awhile on one of the philadelphia papers, and has since published a notable collection of reminiscences and memoranda of his relations with the camden poet. the christmas of 1882[653] brought him a delightful gift in the friendship of a quaker family. mr. pearsall smith was a wealthy philadelphia glass merchant, who with his wife had, till recently, been a member of the society of friends. he had had a remarkable career as an evangelist, both in his own country and in europe; his eloquence and magnetic personality having been instrumental in changing the course of many lives. his wife also was an active worker in the fields of religion and philanthropy; and their home in germantown--one of the suburbs of philadelphia most remote in every sense from plebeian camden--became a meeting-place for men and women interested and engaged in the work of reform. by this time, however, mr. pearsall smith himself, finding in human nature more forces than were accounted for in the evangelical philosophy, had withdrawn from active participation in its labours. the elder of his daughters, miss mary whitall smith, a thoughtful and enthusiastic college girl, came back from new england, where she was studying, fired by a determination to meet walt whitman. her parents discovered with dismay that she had read the _leaves_, at first with the consternation proper to her quaker training, but later with ardour. respectable philadelphians, and especially members of the society of friends, were disposed to regard the poet as an outrageous, dangerous person, who lived in a low place, among disreputable and vulgar associates. his works were classed by them with the wares of obscene book-vendors, as absolutely impossible. the parents' consternation at their daughter's resolve may well be imagined. but being wise parents, they were prepared to learn; and mr. smith eventually drove her over in a stylish carriage behind a pair of excellent horses. [illustration: mary whitall smith (mrs. berenson) in 1884] they found whitman at home. he descended slowly, leaning on his stick, to the little stuffy parlour where they were waiting; and with a kindly, affectionate amusement received the girl's homage. her father immediately and impulsively asked the old man to drive back and spend the night with them. this was the spontaneous kind of hospitality which most delighted walt, and after a moment's hesitation, in which he weighed the matter, he decided in favour of his new friends and their excellent equipage. his sister-in-law quickly produced the boots and other necessaries, and they set forth. whitman loved to drive and to be driven, and as he sat on the back seat by his adoring young friend, he heartily enjoyed the whole situation. it was indeed enough to warm an old man's heart. after listening to her avowals, he recommended miss smith to study emerson and thoreau, but was evidently well pleased with her praise. genuine devotion he always accepted. he stayed a couple of days on this occasion; delighting in long drives along the wissahickon creek, and showing himself very much at home among the young people of the household. from this time on, and until the family left for england in 1886, he was their frequent visitor; and in later years--while reverently remembering mrs. gilchrist, who died in 1885--he came to speak of mary whitall smith as his "staunchest living woman friend". his letters to her father also are evidences of a close intimacy between the two men. thus it seems permissible to speak here at greater length than usual of their relations, which serve besides to illustrate others not less affectionate. often during the college vacations, when the house was filled with merry young folk, whitman would sit in the hall to catch the sounds of their laughter, enhanced by a little distance; or from his corner, leaning upon his stick, he would look on for hours together while they danced. spirits ran high on these occasions, and all the higher for his smiling presence. he enjoyed everything, and not least the wholesome incipient love-making which he was quick to notice, and encourage. often he was full of fun; and still, as in the old days, he sang gaily as he splashed about in his bath, a delighted group of young people listening on the landing without to the strains of "old jim crow," some methodist hymn, or negro melody. at night, before retiring, he would take a walk under the stars, sometimes alone, sometimes with his girl friend, who could appreciate the companionableness of silence. he was always perfectly frank, as well as perfectly courteous; if he preferred solitude he said so; and if, when at table, his hostess proposed to read aloud some long family letter, and asked him in an aside whether he would like to hear it, he would smile and answer, no. he came to see them usually in his familiar grey suit; but in winter he wore one of heavier make, which was, however, provided with an overcoat only; indoors, he then put on the knitted cardigan jacket seen in some of his portraits. on one occasion, when some local literary people were invited to meet him, he appeared unaccustomedly conscious of his clothes. uncomfortable at the absence of a coat, he tried the overcoat for awhile; but becoming very hot before the dinner was done, he beat a retreat into the hall; and there divesting himself of the burden, returned in his ordinary comfortable dress. such incidents admirably illustrate his simple and homely ways.[654] * * * * * henceforward, though records are multiplied, the movement of whitman's life is less and less affected by outer events, and becomes yearly more private and elusive. [illustration: whitman at sixty-two] there is little to record of 1883, save that shortly after his sixty-fourth birthday there appeared the biographical study of whitman by his canadian friend. like the earlier and smaller sketch by john burroughs, dr. bucke's volume was revised and authenticated by the poet, and is an invaluable record. though fragmentary and far from exhaustive, it is written by one of the very few who can be said to have caught the real significance of the life and personality of the author of _leaves of grass_. that he fully understood whitman, neither he nor his poet friend ever suggested; but then one must add that whitman always laughingly asserted he did not by any means understand himself.[655] as a result of the sales of the philadelphia edition and the royalties which they brought him, the old man was now enabled to carry a long-cherished plan into execution. on march the 26th, 1884,[656] he left his brother's house, and removed to a little two-story cottage on mickle street, near by. here he installed himself, at first with an elderly workman and his wife, and afterwards under the more efficient _régime_ of mrs. mary davis, a buxom new jersey widow of comfortable presence, who brought into the house that homely atmosphere which whitman had so long been seeking.[657] downstairs, in the little front parlour, he carried on what remained to him of his own publishing--the old autograph editions which he had not entrusted to mr. mckay; and over it, upstairs, was his bedroom, which he liked to compare with a big ship's cabin. in the backyard were lilacs, which he loved; and a shady tree stood in the side-walk in front. he found his little "shack," as he called it, pleasant and restful, and his own. he was not much worried by the rasping church choir and the bells, which jangled cruelly loud for such sensitive hearing every sunday; nor by the neighbourhood of a guano factory, which was noticeable enough to the most ordinary nose.[658] here his friends from far and near were frequent visitors, dr. bucke, john burroughs and peter doyle among them; and in june came edward carpenter from england on his second visit.[659] * * * * * carpenter had now issued his slender green _towards democracy_, that strange, prophetic, intimate book, so unlike all others, even the _leaves_ which it most resembles. it was seven years since the two men had met, and the older had grown thinner and more weary-looking. he had not been worsted in the long struggle with time and illness, but they had left their mark upon his body. the visitor renewed his first impressions of that complex personality; felt again the wistful affection mingled with the contradictiousobstinacy; recognised the same watchful caution and keen perception, "a certain artfulness," and the old "wild hawk look" of his untameable spirit; but, beneath all, the wonderful unfathomed tenderness. whitman manifestly had his moods, "lumpishly immovable" at times, at times deliberately inaccessible. he took a certain wilful pleasure in denial, for the quality of "cussedness" was strong in him. and his friends admired his magnificent "no," issuing from him naked and unashamed, just as mere acquaintances dreaded it. but in other moods he was all generosity, and you knew in him a man who had given himself body, mind and spirit to love, never contented to give less than all. among the topics of their conversations was the labour movement, in which carpenter was actively interested. whitman professed his belief in co-operation, at the same time reiterating his deeply-rooted distrust of elected persons, of officials and committees. he had lived in washington; and besides, his feeling for personal initiative, his wholesome and passionate love of individuality, and its expression in every field, set him always and everywhere against mere delegates and agents. above all things, he abhorred regimentation, officialism and interference. "i believe, like carlyle, in _men_," he said with emphasis. he hoped for more generous, and, as he would say, more prudent, captains of industry; but he looked for america's realisation to an ever-increasing class of independent yeomanry, who should constitute the solid and permanent bulk of the republic. regarding america from the universal point of view, as the standard-bearer of liberty among the nations, he thought of free-trade as a moral rather than a merely economic question. free-trade and a welcome to all foreigners were for whitman integral parts of the american ideal. "the future of the world," he would say, "is one of open communication and solidarity of all races"; and he added, with a dogmatism characteristic of his people, "if that problem [of free interchange] cannot be solved in america, it cannot be solved anywhere". * * * * * in considering whitman's attitude towards the social problem, and especially the labour problem, whose development in america he had been watching since the close of the war, one must consider the conditions of his time and country.[660] the industrial revolution, which is still in progress--and which in its progress is changing the face of the globe, disintegrating the old society down to its very basis in family life--has revealed itself to us in the last generation, much more clearly than to whitman, who grew up seventy years ago in a new land. we can see now that, though it may prelude a reconstruction of human society and relations in all their different phases, it is itself destructive rather than constructive. we recognise that it does not bring equality of opportunity to all, as its earlier observers had predicted;[661] but that, on the contrary, it destroys much of the meaning of opportunity; the control of capital which is the motive power of modern industrial life, falling more and more into the hands of a small group of legatees, on whose pleasure the rest of the community tends to become dependent for its livelihood. and we see the results of this new economic condition in the character of the populations of those vast cities into which the industrial revolution is still gathering the peoples of europe and america. among these, the spirit of individual enterprise and initiative is continually choked by the narrow range of their opportunity. their lives become the melancholy exponents of that theory of the specialisation of industry against which the humanitarians of the age have all inveighed. serious as it was becoming in the new world, the labour question had not yet, in whitman's time, assumed an aspect so menacing as in the old. even to-day the proportion of americans engaged in agriculture is four times as large as that which rules in great britain; and except in the north atlantic states, the rural population does not seem to be actually losing ground;[662] though its increase is much less rapid than that of the urban districts, into which more than a third of the population is now gathered, as against a fifth at the close of the war, or an eighth in the middle of the century. at the time of whitman's death nearly three-quarters of the total number of american farmers were the owners of their farms; and it was in these working proprietors, with the similar body of half-independent artisans who were owners of their houses, that he placed his social faith. these were, as we have seen, the men whom he regarded as citizens in the fullest sense.[663] in this view he was doubtless influenced by mill, whose _principles of political economy_ he seems to have studied soon after its appearance in 1848. roughly speaking, mill had supplemented the teaching of adam smith, that individual liberty is the one sure foundation for the wealth of nations, by describing the proper sphere of social intervention in industrial matters. his picture of the future industry--the association of the labourers themselves on terms of equality, collectively owning the capital with which they carry on their operations, and working under managers selected and removable by themselves--has been quoted as the socialist ideal.[664] and mill was deeply influenced by the early socialists.[665] their activity in europe during the first half of the nineteenth century was so remarkable that it must have come under the notice of whitman. robert owen, intoxicated with what was perhaps a rather shallow conception of the great truth of human perfectibility, had spent his life and wealth in unsuccessful but most suggestive social experiments. no less optimistic were his french contemporaries, st. simon and fourier. in striking contrast with them and their doctrinaire systems, proudhon, the peasant, who presents not a few points of agreement with whitman, looked forward to voluntarism as the final form of society, and detested alike the theoretic elaboration and the sexual lubricity of his amiable but, on the whole, unpractical compatriots. the failure of the risings of 1848, and the succeeding period of reaction, checked the socialist movement,[666] and social reform was left for awhile to middle-class liberalism, with its philanthropic ignorance of the real needs of the workers; until, in the last generation, the demands of labour, the pressure of poverty and the aspirations of social enthusiasts, have together furnished the motive power for a further struggle for the collectivist ideal of "intelligent happiness and pleasurable energy" for all.[667] this recent movement was at first most unequally yoked with an unbeliever in the brilliant, fatalistic theory of karl marx. marx was a year older than whitman; his acute hebrew intellect was trained under the hegelian system of thought, but he was apparently destitute of the finer historic sense, as well as of hegel's idealism.[668] the humanitarian character of the social movement is now once more sweeping it far beyond his formulas; but in whitman's time the marxian theory dominated socialism. in long island and new york, during the period of whitman's youth, the social condition was, on the whole, free from serious disorders, save those incident upon growth and rapid development. the spirit of elizabethan enterprise, the practical achievement of brave and ardently conceived ideas, ruled in that democratic society wherein his habit of mind was shaped, and of which it was in large degree a natural product. whitman's youth and early manhood were little touched by evidences of any social disease so deep-seated as to encourage ideas of revolution. it is true that the vested interests of the slave party made themselves felt in new york; but neither to him nor to the "free-soil" party did the anti-slavery movement suggest that other change which the political title they adopted brings so vividly before the mind to-day. "free-soil" had for him no definitely socialistic significance. and it was only, as we have seen, after the war that the accentuation of the labour problem brought it into prominence in the american cities. whenever, thereafter, whitman, leaving the comparative quiet of his own surroundings, revisited the metropolis, or wandered to some great western centre of industry, he realised dimly the progressive approach of the crisis. the increase in the accumulation of wealth was far outrunning even the rapid increase in population; but a large proportion of this wealth was being concentrated in a few hands which threatened to control the national policy. manufacture was facilitated by the immense influx of immigrants who swelled the dependent city populations, and these immigrants coming more and more from the south-east of europe, that is to say, from the most backward, ignorant and turbulent nations, promised by their presence to create a social problem in the north and middle west not less acute if less extensive than that of the negro in the south. * * * * * democracy looks with suspicion on the very poor,[669] quoth whitman, meaning that the poverty of the poor incapacitates them for citizenship. that, i think, is one of the great and final arguments against the policy of _laissez faire_ under existing circumstances. things would go very well if left to themselves, says the philosophic theorist, and so even whitman is often inclined to declare.[670] but just as the organised party of slavery, in the fifty years before the war, refused to leave things to right themselves, so the party of property to-day interferes, more or less unconsciously, with the principle which it so loudly proclaims. it is because of the existence of innumerable sacrosanct parchments, customs and traditions, and all the subtly clinging fingers of mortmain, that _laissez faire_ remains an empty phrase. if we could burn the parchments and loose the fingers, men might go free. but still for the sake of the nation's health the poor would need to be assisted to rise out of the helpless condition into which society has allowed them to be thrust and held. we have noted whitman's hearty approval of canada's benevolent institutions for the incapable; he fully recognised the duty of society toward such as these.[671] and however hesitating his declarations on a subject which he was willing to leave to younger men, the main principle of his social economy, the right of each individual to be well born, carries us far from the policy of any party dominant to-day in our political life. he recognised this right as far more fundamental than any secondary privilege which has been accorded to property for social convenience. and it is because this right continues to be denied to millions of future citizens, to the most serious peril of the whole republic, and apparently for no better reason than that its recognition must impede the present rate of increase in material development, that the socialist party has arisen in america. it is safe to say that it is the only party which deliberately aims at social amelioration and the equal opportunity of all citizens; and in this respect it seeks to realise whitman's ideal. in so far, however, as it clings to european theories, and identifies itself solely with a section of the nation, proclaiming a class-war in the interests, not of america or of humanity, but of labour--large, and inclusive as the term may be--it seems directly to antagonise that ideal. whitman would certainly be belied by the label of "socialist"; but "individualist" would as little describe him. he was, and must always remain, outside of parties, and to some extent in actual antagonism to them; for while recognising its purpose and necessity, he was essentially jealous of government and control. he wanted to see the americans managing their own affairs as little as possible by deputy, and, as far as possible, in their own persons. that, i take it, is the only form of collectivism or social life which is ultimately desirable; and all political reform will aim at its practical realisation. it depends most of all upon the simultaneous deepening of social consciousness and sympathy and increase of the means and spirit of individual independence. only by these simultaneous developments can we hope to see established that society of comrades which was the america of whitman's vision. * * * * * on the practical side of the labour question the old man occasionally expressed his emphatic dislike of certain sides of trade unionism, and probably misunderstood, as he clearly mistrusted the movement. "when the labour agitation," he would say, "is other than a kicking of somebody else out to let myself in, i shall warm up to it, maybe."[672] and of the workman he added: "he should make his cause the cause of the manliness of all men; that assured, every effort he may make is all right". but he was a poor man himself, judged by modern standards, and he had a profoundly human and practical sympathy with the lives of the poor. he knew exactly where their shoe pinched. and thus, whatever his dislike of unionism, he was an admirable administrator of charity. his delight in giving made him the willing almoner of at least one wealthy philadelphia magnate,[673] and during severe winters he was enabled to supply his friends, the drivers of the street cars, with warm overcoats. in his diary, alongside of the addresses of those who purchased his books, are long lists of these driver friends, dimly reminiscent of the hospital lists which he used to keep in washington. walt was always an incurable giver of gifts, and these, one may be sure, never weakened the manly independence of their recipients. his admiration for generous men of wealth, like george peabody, has found a place in _leaves of grass_.[674] for he saw that to love is both to give and to receive, and in that holy commerce both actions alike are blessed. his interest in social work is shown in a hitherto unpublished letter written about this time to mary whitall smith, who had married and gone to england, and who sent him accounts of the work being done among the poor of the east end through the agency of toynbee hall. of this he writes at noon on the 20th of july, 1885: "the account of the toynbee hall doings and chat [is] deeply interesting to me. i think much of all genuine efforts of the human emotions, the soul and bodily and intellectual powers, to exploit themselves for humanity's good: the _efforts_ in themselves i mean (sometimes i am not sure but _they_ are the main matter)--without stopping to calculate whether the investment is tip-top in a business or statistical point of view. "these libations, ecstatic life-pourings as it were of precious wine or _rose-water_ on vast desert-sands or great polluted river--taking chances for returns _or no returns_--what were they (or are they) but the theory and practice of the beautiful god christ? or of all divine personality?"[675] footnotes: [652] _comp. prose_, 183, 186. [653] mss. diary; mss. berenson (_a_). [654] mss. berenson (_a_). [655] _cf. in re_, 315. [656] kennedy, 11; mss. diary. [657] _in re_, 45, 141, 382; and johnston. [658] donaldson, 69. [659] carpenter (_a_), (_b_). [660] _comp. prose_, 247, 325; _camb. mod. hist._, 707. [661] w. cunningham, _western civilisation_ (ii.), 258-60. [662] _camb. mod. hist._, 712; _en. brit. suppt._ [663] _comp. prose_, 215. [664] kirkup, _hist. of socialism_, 286. [665] marshall, _principles of economics_, 64. [666] kirkup. [667] morris and bax, _socialism_, 321. [668] kirkup, 162. [669] see _supra_, 240. [670] _in re_, 379, 380; carpenter (_b_), etc. [671] see _supra_, 277. [672] _in re_, 379. [673] mss. diary and donaldson. [674] _l. of g._, 294; fuller in 1876 ed. [675] mss. berenson. chapter xx at mickle street the presidential election of the autumn of 1884 brought the long republican _régime_ to an end. during the twenty-four years of its continuance the old party cries had become almost meaningless, and the parties themselves ineffective, while political life had grown increasingly corrupt from top to bottom.[676] the only practical demand of the hour was for a good government, and this required a change of party. whitman, with a number of independent republicans known as "mugwumps," supported the democrat, mr. grover cleveland. with his return to the white house the south may be said to have returned to the union, after a generation of bitter estrangement. in the following summer whitman had a slight sun-stroke, which rendered walking much more difficult.[677] for several months he was a good deal confined to his little house, but his friends promptly came to the rescue with a horse and light american waggon.[678] he was overcome with gratitude for the gift--driving, as we have seen, was one of his delights--and he promptly began to make full use of his new toy. he soon disposed of the quiet steed, thoughtfully provided, and substituted one of quicker paces, which he drove furiously along the country roads at any pace up to eighteen miles an hour.[679] rapid movement brought him exhilaration, and he displayed admirable nerve upon emergency. [illustration: fac-simile of portion of letter from whitman to the late mr. r. pearsall smith, mar. 4, 1884] though he was getting old, his capacity for enjoyment was as great as ever. he enjoyed everything, especially now that at sixty-five he was, for the first time in his life, a householder; he enjoyed his quarters, his friends, his food, and in a grim way his very suffering. "astonishing what one can stand when put to one's trumps,"[680] he wrote on a black day. while he could rattle along the roads in his waggon, he was naturally happy enough, and he encouraged all opportunities for pleasure. he enjoyed his food, and he now relaxed some of the stricter rules of temperance which hitherto he had followed. during periods of his life, as a young man and through the years at washington, he was practically a total abstainer, and till he was sixty he only drank an occasional toddy, punch, or glass of beer. after that he followed the doctor's advice and his own taste, enjoying the native american wines, and at a later period, champagne. stories of heavy drinking were circulated by the gossips, and were tracked at last to the habits of a local artist, who imitated whitman in his garb, and somewhat resembled him.[681] walt's head was remarkably steady, and it need hardly be said that he was always most jealous of anything which could dispute with him his self-control. in 1885 and several subsequent years[682] a popular caterer on the river-side, a mile or two below camden, opened the summer season, about the end of april, with a dinner to some of his patrons, and whitman was one of those who did fullest justice to his planked shad and champagne. for the latter he would smilingly admit an "incidental weakness".[683] his temperance had given him a keen relish for fine flavours, and he enjoyed all the pleasures of the senses without disguise, and with a frank, childlike response to them. this responsiveness, more almost than any other thing, kept his physical nature supple and young. his consciousness was never imprisoned in his brain, among stale memories and thoughts whose freshness had faded; it was still clean and sensitive to its surroundings, and found expression in the noticeably fresh, rich texture of his skin. * * * * * it was well that he should practise these simple pleasures, for apart from his own ailments, which increased with time, he was still troubled with financial difficulties. the purchase of the house had not been exactly prudent, as it added considerably to his expenses, and the success of the philadelphia edition was not long continued. the royalty receipts soon dwindled to a very little stream, and his other earnings--though he was well paid for such contributions as the magazines accepted, and was retained on the regular staff of the _new york herald_--were not large.[684] word went round among his friends, both in america and in england, that the old man was hard up again, and a second time there was a hearty response. a fund, promoted by the _pall mall gazette_ at the end of 1886, brought him a new year's present of £80,[685] and individual friends on both sides of the sea frequently sent thank-offerings to him. some boston admirers attempted at this time to secure for him a government pension of £60 a year,[686] in recognition of his hospital work. but whitman disliked the plan, and though it was favourably reported upon by the pensions committee of the house of representatives, he wrote gratefully but peremptorily refusing to become an applicant for such a reward, saying quite simply, "i do not deserve it".[687] his services in the attorney-general's department seem to have been adequately paid, and one is glad the matter was not pressed. the hospital ministry could not have been remunerated by an "invalid pension"; it was given as a free gift, and now it will always remain so. [illustration: mickle street, camden in 1890: the little house on the right is whitman's] from time to time special efforts were made by his friends to remove any immediate pressure of financial anxiety. whitman, who was on the one hand generous to a fault, and on the other not without a pride which consented with humiliation to receive some of the gifts bestowed, manifested a boyish delight in money of his own earning, and it did his friends good to see his merriment over the dollars taken--six hundred of them[688]--at his lincoln lecture of 1886 in the chestnut street opera house. by way of profit-sharing he insisted on presenting each of the theatre attendants with two dollars. the repetition of the lecture in new york the following spring, at the madison square theatre, before a brilliant company of distinguished people, including mr. james russell lowell, "mark twain," mr. stedman, and whitman's staunch admirer, mr. andrew carnegie, brought him a similar sum;[689] while colonel ingersoll's lecture for his benefit in 1890 was yet more productive, and the birthday dinners also contributed something to his funds. but the mention of these financial matters must not be construed into a pre-occupation with the subject in the old man's later years; it troubled his friends far more than it troubled him. after the gift of the horse and waggon, mr. w. s. kennedy and others planned to provide whitman with a cottage at timber creek.[690] the idea delighted him; he craved for the pure air and the living solitude of the woods. but his health became too uncertain for the realisation of the scheme, and the remainder of his days was spent in camden. * * * * * the little house in quiet, grassy mickle street,[691] standing modestly between its taller neighbours, with the brass plate, "w. whitman," on the door, and the mounting-stone opposite, was becoming a place of frequent pilgrimage, and it has often been lovingly described. during the earlier years, walt's favourite seat was at the left-hand lower window, and there the children would call out to him, and he would answer brightly as they went by to school. the walls and mantel-shelf were covered with portraits, and as to the books and papers, so long as he used the room, it was beyond the wit of any woman to keep them within bounds. but it was afterwards, when he was more confined to his bedroom, that they fairly broke loose. he seems to have enjoyed this native disorder, for in the big, square, three-windowed upper room they occupied not only the shelves and chairs and table but the floor itself. "his boots," says a friend--who, when mrs. davis was out, used to effect an entrance at the window to save her host descending the stairs--"his boots would be standing on piles of manuscript on a chair, a half-empty glass of lemonade or whiskey toddy on another, his ink-bottle on still another, his hat on the floor, and the whole room filled with an indescribable confusion of scraps of paper scrawled over with his big writing, with newspapers, letters and books. he was not at all eager to have order restored, and used to grumble in a good-natured way when i insisted upon clearing things up a bit for him."[692] he liked to think and speak of the room as his den or cabin; it was his own place, and bustling with his own affairs.[693] here were his old-time companionable books: the complete scott of his youth, and a volume of poets which he used in the hospitals; his friend mr. e. c. stedman's _library of american literature_; studies of spanish and german poets, and felton's _greece_; translations of homer, dante, omar khayyam, hafiz, saadi; mr. rolleston's _epictetus_--a constant friend--marcus aurelius and virgil; with ossian, emerson, tennyson and carlyle, and some novels, especially a translation of george sand's _consuelo_; and last, and best read of all, shakespeare and the bible. the book of job was one of his prime favourites in the beloved volume which was always by him in later years. perilously mingled with the papers was wood for his stove, over whose crackling warmth he would sit in the cold weather, ensconced in his great rattan-seated, broad-armed rocker, with the wolf-skin over it; his keen scent relishing the odour of oak-wood and of the printer's ink on the wet proofs which surrounded him. visitors usually waited in the room below for his slow and heavy step upon the stairs. there the canary sang its best, as though to be caged in whitman's house was not confinement after all; and a bunch of fragrant flowers stood on the window-sill. a kitten romped about the premises, which were inhabited besides by a parrot, a robin, and a spotted "plum-pudding" dog; not to mention mrs. davis, and eventually her two stepsons. one of these, warren fritzinger, who had been a sailor and three times round the world, afterwards became walt's nurse, while his brother harry called his first child walt whitman, to the old man's delight. among the visitors was a young japanese journalist, who afterwards published an amusing but ill-advised record of their conversations,[694] a document which seems to the english mind somewhat more injudicious than other whitmanite publications, which certainly do not err on the side of reticence. after his first visit, mr. hartmann maintains that walt shouted after him, "come again," and this injunction from time to time he fulfilled, naïvely recording his own desperate attempts to cope with the long silences which threatened to overwhelm his forlorn sallies into all conceivable regions of conversation. the older man would sit absent-mindedly, replying with an ejaculation or abruptly clipped phrase, or impossible sentence; but chiefly with his monosyllabic "oy! oy?" which served, with a slight inflection, for almost any purpose of response. they say that whitman grew garrulous, or at least less laconic, in his old age;[695] but mr. hartmann hardly found him so. one day, when mrs. davis was absent, they lunched together on "canned lobster" and californian claret in the kitchen. the sun shone on the grass in the little back garden, on the pear-tree half-smothered in its creeper, and the high boarded fence; and on the hens, poking in and out through the open door, and recalling the old farm life at west hills. whitman talked of the west, and of denver, his queen-city of the west. over another similar meal, he declared his love for the _heart of midlothian_, and his distaste for the gloomy poets from byron to poe. they discussed music among their many topics. mr. hartmann declared himself a wagnerian, but whitman confessed his ignorance of the "music of the future"; mendelssohn, of course, he knew; and in later life he had discovered beethoven as a new meaning in music, and had been carried out of himself, as he says, seeing, absorbing many wonders.[696] but he was brought up on the italians; it was from verdi and his predecessors, interpreted by alboni, bettini and others, that he had learnt the primal meanings of music, and they always retained his affection. * * * * * about the middle of may,[697] 1887, a sculptor, who had already studied whitman in the centennial year, came on from washington to mickle street. mrs. davis sided some of the litter in the parlour; and the old man sat for him there as amiably as ten years before in the improvised studio on chestnut street. they talked much of the president, on a portrait of whom mr. morse had been working. whitman had a high opinion of mr. cleveland, and displayed a lively interest in all the personal details his friend could supply. during the sittings herbert gilchrist arrived from england, where his mother had died of a painful disease some eighteen months earlier; and he set up his easel also. callers came from far and near; while dozens of children entered with a word or message from the street, and older folk looked in at the window. whitman was not very well even for him, and he missed his solitude. but he was a delightful and courteous host. the three men often lunched together, while several english visitors--taking whitman on their tour even though they missed niagara[698]--sat down to a bite of beef, a piece of apple-pie, and a cup of tea poured out by the reverend host in the hot little kitchen. good mrs. davis watched her old charge and friend with some anxiety, as this constant stream of visitors flowed in and out; but she herself rose more than equal to every emergency. she had for lieutenant a coloured char-woman, born the same day as whitman, who felt herself for that reason responsible in no ordinary degree for the general appearance of the premises. the sculptor and she often found themselves in conflict. as for his clay, she disdained it along with the whole genus of "dirt". she succeeded in white-washing the delightful moss-covered fence, and would, he felt sure, have liked to treat both him and his work in the same summary fashion. they debated theological problems together, to whitman's amusement, and he would have it that aunt mary came out of these encounters better than the artist. "how does your satan get work to do," the latter would ask, "if god doeth all?" "never you fear for _him_," she retorted. "he's allers a-prowlin' around lookin' fer a chance when god's back is turned. there ain't a lazy hair on _his_ head. i wish," she added significantly, "i could say as much for some others."[699] beside aunt mary other characters appear upon the pages of his friends' journals; notably a garrulous, broad-brimmed georgian farmer, who had served in the confederate army. he was the father of a large family, which he had brought up on the _leaves_. as for himself, he had the book by heart, and was never so happy as when reciting his favourite passages at sunday school treat or church meeting. he knew emerson's writings with almost equal intimacy, but complained that these set his soul nagging after him, while whitman's were soothing to it. with walt he declared that he loafed and invited his soul; with waldo, his soul became importunate and invited him.[700] meanwhile, he admitted, his farm ran more to weeds than it should. doubtless, during his pilgrimage the weeds prospered exceedingly; for he stayed long, and sad to say, in the end he went away a "leetle disappointed". "i have to sit and admire him at a distance," he complained, "about as i did at home before i came." walt liked him, and was amused by his talk, but his advice, his criticism and his interpretations to boot, were overmuch for a weary man. there came one day a "labour agitator," who required an introduction or testimonial of some sort from whitman; and he also went away disappointed. in answer to all his loud-flowing, self-satisfied declarations, whitman merely ejaculated his occasional colourless monosyllable; and when at last the discomfited man took his leave, the poet's absent-minded "thanks!" was more ludicrously and baldly opportune than intentional.[701] humorous as they appeared at the time, there was another side to interviews of this character; for it began to be noised about that whitman was quite spoilt by his rich friends, and had lost his interest in and sympathy with the american working-man. this was due, of course, to a complete misunderstanding. the old fellow who lived in his "little shack" on mickle street, and dined in germantown in his cardigan jacket, might have a world-reputation, but he was not forgetful of the people from among whom he sprang and to whom he always belonged. at the same time it is true, as we saw, that he did not himself profess to understand or to approve the party organisation of labour. he was rather inclined to sit in his corner and have faith, and to listen to what the younger men had to say. in any case, he saw no remedy for present troubles in the exploitation of class feeling; he could see no help in urging the battle between two forms of selfishness. generosity and manhood were his constant watchwords, whether for labour or for the nation. no circumstances, he would say, sitting in his room broken by the suffering of years, can deprive a hero of his manhood. but he would add his conviction that the republic must be in peril as long as any of her sons were being forced to the wall, and his wish that each "should have all that is just and best for him". * * * * * the sculptor and his sitter had many a long evening chat together, the shadows of the passers-by cast by the street light and moving across the blind. the old man's mellow and musical, but somewhat uncertain, voice filled at these times with a confidential charm. one night he wrote out a tentative statement of his general views, declaring for free-trade, and for the acknowledgment of the full human and political equality of women with men. he regarded the world as being too much governed, but he was not against institutions in the present stage of evolution, for he said that he looked on the family and upon marriage as the basis of all permanent social order. he seems to have disliked and even condemned the practices of the american fourierist "free-lovers,"[702] though love's real freedom is always cardinal in his teachings. anything like a laxity in fulfilling obligations, but especially the ultimate obligations of the soul, was abhorrent to him. he was not a critic of institutions; and he accepted the work of the churches and of rationalism as alike valuable to humanity. he added to his statement various personal details; saying, half-interrogatively, that he thought if he was to be reported at all, it was right that he should be reported truthfully. this feeling was undoubtedly very strong with him from the day when he wrote anonymous appreciations of the _leaves_ in the new york press.[703] talk turned sometimes to the washington days, to lincoln's yearning passion for the south, to the affectionate admiration felt by the union veterans for the men and boys who fought under lee, and to the terrible rigidity of the southern pride. such talk would often end in reminiscences of the hospitals; and whitman told his friend that he would like him to cut a bas-relief showing walt seated by a soldier's cot in the wards. it had been his most characteristic pose, if one may use the word; and such a study would have shown him at his own work, the work in which he was most at home, surrounded by the boys who were his flesh and blood.[704] footnotes: [676] _camb. mod. hist._, 651. [677] kennedy, 17. [678] donaldson, kennedy, and mss. diary. [679] mss. diary. [680] kennedy, 64. [681] donaldson, 61. [682] kennedy, 15, 53; mss. diary. [683] _in re_, 129. [684] donaldson, mss. diary. [685] kennedy, 24. [686] donaldson, 170; kennedy, 23, 24. [687] mss. kennedy. [688] donaldson, 109; kennedy, 6. [689] kennedy, 29. [690] _ib._, 54. [691] johnson, 18; kennedy; donaldson; _comp. prose_, 520. [692] mss. berenson (_a_). [693] _in re_, 137, etc. [694] _conversations with w. w._, by "sadakichi," 1895. [695] johnston, 92, 93. [696] _comp. prose_, 151; _cf._ camden, xxxiii. [697] _in re_, 367. [698] _in re_, 374. [699] _ib._, 375, 376. [700] _in re_, 376, 377. [701] _ib._, 379. [702] mss. johnston. [703] see _supra_, 109. [704] _in re_, 390. chapter xxi "good-bye, my fancy" during the first years of his sojourn among them, some of the young men of camden had founded a walt whitman club;[705] and year by year a group of intimate friends was springing up about his own door. chief of these was mr. horace traubel, whose life became so inextricably interwoven with whitman's last years that he has rightly been called the old poet's spiritual son. he was one of the first of walt's camden acquaintances. how or when they met, neither could remember; looking back to the summer evenings when the lame, white-haired man and the fair lad sat together on the steps of the stevens street house, it seemed as though they had always been friends.[706] another of the group was mr. t. b. harned,[707] traubel's brother-in-law, an able lawyer and lover of books, whose house became a second home for whitman after the removal from philadelphia of his friends the pearsall smiths. these two gentlemen, with dr. bucke, eventually became whitman's executors; better than anything else, this shows the confidence which their old friend reposed in them. on his sixty-ninth birthday--friday, 31st may, 1888--his camden friends and others met him at dinner at mr. harned's.[708] two days later he was there again, and dr. bucke, arriving unexpectedly, was of the party. walt had come in his carriage, and afterwards drove the doctor to the ferry. thence he made his way to a point where, urging his horse into the river, he had nothing but water and sky before him, all filled with the sunset glory. he sat for an hour absorbing it in a sort of ecstasy.[709] returning home, he felt that he had been chilled, and recognised intimations of a paralytic attack--the seventh--[710] as he went to bed. he quietly resisted this alone. in the morning he had two more slight strokes, and for the first time temporarily lost the power of speech. this was monday, and all through the week he lay close to death. dr. bucke had returned, his friends entertaining no hopes of his recovery. but the end was not yet. even in the midst of the uncertainty he was determined to complete the work he had in hand. every day he contrived to get downstairs, and every evening he turned over the proof-sheets of a new volume, which horace traubel brought with him from the printer's on his way back from the city. from this time on, traubel was his daily visitor, his faithful and assiduous aid.[711] slowly the old man began again to improve, but he never regained the lost ground. his friends found him paler than of old, with new lines on his face, and a heavier expression of weariness.[712] the horse and carriage were no longer of service, and had to be sold; in the autumn a nurse and wheel-chair took their place. the increased confinement troubled him most of all, so that he became jealous of the tramp with his outdoor life. [illustration: fac-similes of post-cards from whitman to mrs. berenson, 1887-8] altogether, as he wrote to his friends, though holding the fort--"sort o'"--he was "a pretty complete physical wreck".[713] o'connor, too, was now paralysed and near his end; the two old friends, similarly stricken, were once again exchanging greetings, though separated now by a whole continent. in o'connor's case, however, the brain itself was also giving way. walt followed all the illness of him who had been in some respects his best comrade with pathetic interest, until, returning from california to washington, the broken flesh gave freedom at last to the man's fiery spirit.[714] * * * * * whitman grew somewhat more querulous in these later days, with the increase of pain and discomfort;[715] for from this time on one may almost say that he was slowly dying. not that he complained or was inconsiderate, but little things caused him greater irritation, though only for a moment. nothing is more notable in whitman's nature than the short duration of his fits of quick-flaming wrath.[716] they flashed out from him in a sudden word, and passed, leaving no trace of bitterness or resentment behind. an example of this is afforded by his behaviour toward the unexpected and vehement assault upon him by a former admirer, mr. swinburne. having once acclaimed whitman as the _cor cordium_ of the singers of freedom,[717] he now consigned him to the category of the tuppers; opining that, with a better education, he might perhaps have attained to a rank above elliott the corn-law rhymer, but below the laureate southey. according to mr. swinburne's revised estimate, whitman was in short no true poet; and as for his ideal of beauty, it was not only vulgar but immoral. the attack roused whitman to snap out, "isn't he the damnedest simulacrum?" but that was all.[718] the affair was dismissed, and he only regretted that, for his own sake, swinburne had not risen higher. the rather contemptuous reference to whitman's deficient education recalls the first criticism passed upon the _leaves_. their author was gravely commended to the study of addison,[719] and to tell the truth, this has been about the last word of a large number of academic persons from that day to this. their advice, when acted upon, nearly ruined robert burns; it had little effect upon whitman, though it was not neglected. but mr. swinburne's attack reminds one also of something more important even than "addison"; the antithesis and opposition which exists between two great orders of poets, of which his friend dante gabriel rossetti and whitman himself may be taken as the types. the _blessed damozel_ is in another world from any page of the _leaves_; and there is almost nothing which the two poets seem to share. mr. swinburne did good service, in so far as he pointed the contrast; but he confused it by declaiming against the prophet, and extolling the sonneteer. the field may not so be limited; the exile of byron, emerson and carlyle from the brotherhood of poets, though proclaimed by mr. swinburne, can hardly be enforced. for as whitman has suggested,[720] there are, inevitably, two kinds of great poetry: one corresponding, as it were, to the song of the nightingale, and another to the flight of the eagle. he himself has nothing of the infinitely allusive grace of the former, the sonnet-twining interpreters of the romantic past, the painters of subtle dream-beauties and fair women whose faces are the faces of unearthly flowers wrought purely of the passions of dead men. but they again have nothing of his appeal to the heroic and kingly spirit that confronts the equally romantic future, grappling with world-tragedies and creating the new beauty of passions hitherto unborn. doubtless the greatest poets unite these two orders, reconciling them in their own persons; but such are the very greatest of all time. i do not think that whitman himself would have admitted a claim on his behalf to be counted among them.[721] * * * * * the sheets he had been correcting with traubel's aid, in the crisis of his illness, were those of _november boughs_, a volume composed, like _two rivulets_, of prose and verse. it appeared in november, 1888. among its prose papers are sympathetic studies of burns and of elias hicks, with an appreciation of george fox.[722] there are also many reminiscences, notably of the old bowery theatre, and of new orleans; and most interesting of all, a biographical study of the origins and purpose of the _leaves_ themselves. this _backward glance o'er travel'd roads_[723] has far more of modesty in it than his earlier writings, which were necessarily occupied with self-assertion. in his old age he shows himself a little alarmed at his more youthful readiness to take up the challenge which he had seen democracy and science throwing down to poetry. he recognises with clearer vision than many of his friends, his own weakness in poetic technique, and the experimental nature of his work in poetry. but he does not pretend to doubt its importance; for, as he avers, it is the projection of a new and american attitude of mind. he is not without confidence also, that his book will prove a comfort to others, since it has been the main comfort of his own solitary life--and he believes it will be found a stimulus to the american nation of his love. the poems of the new collection are all brief and many of them are descriptive. for the rest, they are mainly the assertions of a jocund heart defying the ice-cold, frost-bound winter of old-age, and waiting for the sure-following spring. meanwhile, he enjoys the inner mysteries, and the enforced quiet of these later days, these starry nights; living, as he quaintly says, in "the early candlelight of old-age".[724] to him they sometimes seem to be the best, the halcyon days of all. not from successful love alone, nor wealth, nor honor'd middle age, nor victories of politics or war; but as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm, as gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky, as softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame, like freshier, balmier air, as the days take on a mellower light, and the apple at last hangs really finish'd and indolent-ripe on the tree, then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all! the brooding and blissful halcyon days![725] he often reviews his past, so seemingly purposeless and incoherent, and yet so profoundly urged from its source within toward the unseen goal. still before him, he sees endless vistas of the eternal purpose. the secret souls of things speak to him; the restless sea betrays the unsatisfied passion of the earth's great heart;[726] the rain bears love back with it to the mountains whence it came.[727] everything instructs him, for he remains eager to learn--criticism and rejection at least as much as acceptance. * * * * * sometimes the long process of dying--the painfully prolonged separating of a body and soul which were more intimately wedded than are others--leaves its mark upon the page; as in a brief note where he states simply that his solemn experiences at this period are unlikely to occur in any other human life.[728] he felt himself solitary even in his pain. but this was a solitude hallowed and supported by the everlasting arms. * * * * * though often sleepless and suffering, he kept, upon the whole, a cheery business about him, working to the end. but silence now predominated in his days, and his craving for it increased. in the evening, traubel would come in and sit beside him, watching his face profiled against the evening light. he had grown to feel the old man's mood, and had learnt to say nothing. after an hour or two he had his reward; walt would bid him good-bye with a smile, saying, "what a good talk we've had". for neither of them wanted words. through the winter and spring of 1888 to 1889 he remained house-tied, anchored in his big chair by the fire; "every month letting the pegs lower," he wrote to his friends.[729] but in june he got out and about in his wheel-chair, and in august crossed the ferry to be photographed, immensely delighted at the evidences of gaiety and prosperity which met him everywhere. america, he would say, is laying great material foundations; the sky-climbing towers will arise in good time. [illustration: whitman at seventy] the birthday dinner, which he did not altogether approve,[730] became this year a public function, and was held in the largest of the camden halls.[731] he was seventy, and the day was but doubtfully propitious. however, he would not disappoint his friends, and arrived when the meal was over. he looked weary, as well he might, but the human contact and the atmosphere of love and fellowship warmed and refreshed him. the messages of congratulation came from far and from many, from william morris among the rest. walt wore a black coat, which was almost unprecedented, and hid himself behind a great bowl of flowers, enjoying their colour and scent, sipping at his champagne, and tapping applause with the bottle whenever he approved a sentiment. one remembers how he used to detest and escape from all lionising, and to-night, after the praises and the enthusiasm were concluded, he said laughingly to his nurse that it was very well, but there was too much "gush and taffy".[732] that spring he had been too ill to celebrate the lincoln anniversary, but in the following, after a struggle with influenza, he delivered it for the last--the thirteenth--time. hoarse and half-blind, he crossed the river,[733] assisted everywhere by willing hands, and with great difficulty climbed the long stairs to the room on south broad street, where horace traubel's contemporary club held its meetings. refusing introduction, he took his seat on the platform, put on his glasses, and got immediately to business, reading with a melodious voice and easy manner. he was over in the city again for his next birthday celebration, and after the dinner, colonel ingersoll made a long, impassioned tribute to his friend.[734] the comradeship between them was strong and satisfying to both; whitman was always in better spirits after a call from the colonel. "he is full of faults and mistakes," he said once to an english friend, "but he is an example in literature of natural growth as a tree"; adding, "he gives out always from himself."[735] their attitude toward questions of religion was often antagonistic, and on this occasion, after the speech, whitman made a sort of rejoinder. while gratefully acknowledging his friend's appreciation of _leaves of grass_, he pointed out that ingersoll had stopped short of the main matter, for the book was crammed with allusions to immortality, and was bound together by the idea of purpose, resident in the heart of all and realising itself in the material universe. he turned to ingersoll, demanding, "unless there is a definite object for it all, what, in god's name, is it all for?" and ingersoll, shaking his head, replied, "i can't tell. and if there is a purpose, and if there is a god, what is it all for? i can't tell. it looks like nonsense to me, either way." from this intellectual agnosticism no argument could dislodge a mind like ingersoll's, for noble as it was, it was limited by its own logic, and to logic alone, working with the material of merely intellectual knowledge, the universe must inevitably remain a riddle. whitman, recognising a more perfect faculty of reason, and cognisant of a field of transcendent knowledge which ingersoll had never known, was able to realise a purpose in this, which to ingersoll seemed only nonsense. for the divinely creative imagination, when it is awakened, discovers in all things the meanings of creative thought. and personality, when in its supreme hours it transcends the limitations of human knowledge, and enters the consciousness of the whole, discovers the meaning of immortality, and the indestructibility of the soul. such flights are naturally impossible to the pedestrian faculties of the mind. ingersoll spoke again in philadelphia, in the same vein and on the same subject, in october.[736] he had a large audience of perhaps two thousand persons in the horticultural hall, and whitman was present on the platform. taking up his subject somewhat in the manner of o'connor in the _good gray poet_, the orator denounced the hypocrisy and parochialism of american opinion, and proclaimed the divine right of the liberator, genius. he justified "children of adam," and gave in his adherence to the theory of free rhythm which is exemplified in the _leaves_. alluding to the subject of their discussion after the recent dinner at reisser's, he declared it impossible for him to make any assertion of immortality; but admitted that hope, replying to the question of love over the grave, might proclaim that "before all life is death, and after death is life". after the fine, but, in cold type at least, the over-florid peroration descriptive of the atmosphere of whitman's work, the applause was dying away, and the people rising to go, when the old poet signalled for them to be detained, and saying that he was there himself to offer the final testimony to and explanation of his writings, if they would look at him and understand, he gave thanks to them and to the orator, and bade them all farewell. [illustration: robert g. ingersoll, from a print] the whole scene presents a curiously suggestive picture. and whitman's situation was a most singular one. his friends had arranged a benefit lecture on the _leaves_ by the most eloquent eulogist in america. it is true the book is not identical with whitman, but it would be difficult to separate the _leaves_ from the man. and here was the man, apparently of his own free will, receiving the eulogy and applause in person and the gate-money by deputy. the pious philadelphians had expressed their disapproval of the lecturer,[737] his iconoclastic fervour and agnosticism, by refusing him the use of the most commodious hall, and their opposition had encouraged walt to stand at his friend's side. but apart from this, his presence illustrates some of the characteristics of his nature, his child-like and sometimes terrible love of directness in the relations of life, and his frank eagerness for appreciation. we have seen already that he could learn from criticism, and there is a story of dr. bucke's which is too good to omit, though it entails a slight digression. it was against the awkwardness, not the severity, of his literary surgeons that he would protest with a quiet humour. after one of their operations, more painful than usual, in his slow, slightly nasal drawl, he related how a quaker was once set on by a robber in a wood. the fellow knocked his passive victim to the ground, rifled him thoroughly, and "pulling out a long knife proceeded to cut his throat. the knife was dull, the patience of the poor quaker almost exhausted. 'friend,' said he to the robber, 'i do not object to thee cutting my throat, but thee haggles.'"[738] but while accepting blame with serenity, he yet preferred praise; understanding praise above all, though even ignorant praise was hardly unwelcome. praise not directly of himself, be it understood--that often made him uncomfortable;[739] but of the book, his _alter ego_, his child. for the book was, besides, a cause, and that the noblest; and even vain applauding of it sounded, in the old man's ears, like the tramp of the hosts of progress; in whose ranks there must needs follow, let us admit, a number of enthusiastic fools. of such, certainly, ingersoll was not one. he saw in the book much of what whitman had put there; and especially he understood how it had been written under the stress of an emotion which finds its symbol in that banner of the blue and stars, which he so happily described as "the flag of nature".[740] other men have given themselves out to be a christ, or a john the baptist, or an elijah; whitman, without their fanaticism, but with a profound knowledge of himself, recognised in a peasant-born son of mannahatta, an average american artisan, the incarnation of america herself. "he is democracy," quoth thoreau;[741] and when he sat with a pleased indifference under the eloquent stream of ingersoll's panegyric, he was only testifying anew to his whole-hearted, glad willingness to give himself, body and mind, for the interpretation of america to her children. but none the less, it was a singular situation; and, doubtless, whitman, who was not by any means obtuse, felt it to be such. * * * * * his last birthday dinner was held in the lower room at mickle street after a winter of illness--"the main abutments and dykes shattered and threatening to give out"[742]--broken by an occasional saunter in his wheelchair with the welcome sight of some four-masted schooner on the river, and by the visits of his friends. he was still himself, however. an english admirer had recently been astounded to find the irrepressible attractive power of the old man.[743] he was brought downstairs, weak, after a bad day, to meet some thirty of his friends. walt himself started the proceedings with a toast to the memory of bryant, emerson and longfellow, and to tennyson and whittier, living yet;[744] for the fact that whittier strongly disapproved of the _leaves_ in no way separated him from whitman's affectionate esteem. rejoicing over his big family gathering, he wistfully remembered the absent. doyle had not been to the house for many months.[745] perhaps he was a little jealous of new friends, and resented even being thought of as a stranger by mrs. davis. o'connor was dead, and so was mrs. gilchrist, and there were many others not less dear. some who were far away sent their greetings, tennyson and symonds among the rest; and there were the usual warm congratulatory speeches. the host was sometimes absent-minded, and sometimes, according to the record, oddly garrulous. but the talk about the table was often of the deepest interest. dr. bucke was present, and whitman and he had a friendly bout over _leaves of grass_. the poet would not accept the doctor's interpretation, or indeed, any other's, saying that the book must have its own way with its readers. it was simply the revelation of the man himself, "the personal critter," as he would phrase it. dr. bucke made some interesting reference to the elements of evil passion which he detected in his old friend's make-up; "the elements of a cenci or an attila". and whitman quite simply admitted that he was not sure that he understood himself. a touch of humour was never long absent where whitman was found. some audacious devotee asked him why he had never married; and walt rambled off into an explanation, which, after alluding to the "nibelungen--or somebody--'s cat with an immensely long, long, long tail to it," and again to the obscurities that confront the biographer of burns, concluded that the matter in question was probably by no means discreditable, though inexplicable enough, except in the light of his whole life. the questioner remained standing--he was very enthusiastic--and had more to follow. but as he began to recite "captain! my captain!" a stray dog which had entered at the open door provided a melancholy and irresistible accompaniment, convulsing those present in their own despite until the tears ran down their cheeks.[746] finally, whitman made an interesting political statement. he condemned as false the protectionist idea of "america for the americans"; and asserted as the basic political principle, the interdependence of all peoples, and their openness to one another for purposes of exchange. the common people of all races are embarked together like fellows on a ship, he said; what wrecks one, wrecks all. the ultimate truth about the human race is its solidarity of interest. then he was tired, and calling for his stick and his nurse, he blessed them all and went slowly upstairs. * * * * * it was the last of his birthday dinners. he was seventy-two, very old in body, and very weary. but he was still bright and affectionate toward the friends who continued to come great distances to greet him. a group at bolton sent two representatives in the years 1890 and 1891, whose records of their visits are suffused with wonder at the old poet's courtesy and loving consideration and comradely demonstrations of personal feeling.[747] he was a little anxious lest his english friends should misapprehend his character: "don't let them think of me as a saint or a finished anything," was the burden of his messages to them, always accompanied by his love. he spoke warmly of the english, comparing them favourably at times with their cousins across the sea, and saying that they represented the deeper and more lasting qualities of the anglo-saxon race; they were like the artillery of its army.[748] the welcome from english readers had astonished and delighted him. in 1887 he contemplated a visit to great britain;[749] and he sometimes seems even to have toyed with the idea of an english home. one can be more democratic there than in america, he had once declared.[750] of his own later years, he said to mr. j. w. wallace, who called frequently during the late autumn of 1891, "i used to feel ... that i was to irradiate or emanate buoyancy and health. but it came to me in time, that i was not to attempt to live to the reputation i had, or to my own idea of what my programme should be; but to give out and express what i really was; and, if i felt like the devil, to say so; and i have become more and more confirmed in this."[751] whitman has so often been accused of a self-conscious pose, that this partial acknowledgment that such a pose had existed is full of interest; an interest accentuated by the statement that he deliberately abandoned it in his later years. talking was at this time often an effort; the heavy feeling in his head, which had become more and more frequent since his first illness, increased till he compared his brain to "sad dough," or "an apple dumpling". at times, when he was really prostrated, his head was "like ten devils".[752] the portrait prefixed to his last little book, is that of some patriarch, bent under a world-weight of experience. the volume, _good-bye, my fancy_, appeared in the winter--sixty pages of fragmentary notes and rhythms of pathetic interest. he called them his "last chirps".[753] it opens on a rather deprecatory note, but is touched here and there with wistful humour. [illustration: whitman at seventy-two] the preface,[754] written two summers before, describes him as moved by the sunshine to the playfulness of a kid, a kitten or a frolicsome wave. he finds a grim satisfaction even in his present state, counting it as a part of his offering to the cause of the union and america, for he has no doubt of its origin in the strain of the war-years. of the war, and of his part in it, he now sees all his _leaves_ as reminiscent. the prose memoranda are principally memorial of old friends, and familiar books and places, and are full of those generous appreciations which were a delightful feature of his later life. among others, are tributes to queen victoria, to his friend tennyson, and to the great american poets.[755] he returns again to his gospel of health,[756] as the message most needed in the world to-day; a message which would contrast with the cry of carlyle or of heine, or of almost any of the dwellers in that europe which he sees afar off, as a sort of vast hospital or asylum ward. it has been his own single purpose to arouse the soul, the essential giver of divine health, in his readers. his aim has always been religious; he foresees the coming of a new religion which shall embrace both the feminine beauty of christianity and the masculine splendour of paganism.[757] the poems are still in the vein of _november boughs_. they are the utterance of certain belated elements in his life-experience, without which his book would be incomplete. some review his past; others anticipate his future. the most important is the poem "to the sunset breeze,"[758] which is perhaps the highest expression of his mystical attitude toward nature. the breeze brings to this lonely, sick man, incapable of movement, the infinite message of god and of the world; it comes to him as a loving and holy companion, the distillation and essence of all material things, the most godly of spirits:- thou, messenger-magical strange bringer to body and spirit of me, (distances balk'd--occult medicines penetrating me from head to foot), i feel the sky, the prairies vast--i feel the mighty northern lakes, i feel the ocean and the forest--somehow i feel the globe itself swift-swimming in space; thou blown from lips so loved, now gone--haply from endless store, god-sent, (for thou art spiritual, godly, most of all known to my sense), minister to speak to me, here and now, what word has never told, and cannot tell, art thou not universal concrete's distillation? law's, all astronomy's last refinement? hast thou no soul? can i not know, identify thee? one cannot doubt the feeling behind these passionate lines, or question the soul-contact which the old poet felt with the things we are complacently and ignorantly contented to regard as mere automata, moved by mechanical force. for whitman, nature was a soul; a soul, though strange and often seeming-hostile, yet beloved and really loving; a soul, whose infinite life is, without exception, seeking and groping after its divine source. he deliberately enumerates a catalogue of things evil to make the significance of his meaning clear. the title of the book is related, on the last page, to a curious thought which occupied his mind at this period. while the imagination which has prompted all his poems has not been exactly himself, it has become so intimately related to him that he cannot now conceive of himself existing after death unaccompanied by it; hence his _good-bye, my fancy_ is but a new welcome, a _vale atque ave_.[759] there are two more poems, not included in this volume, which seem to close his work. one, the last thing that he composed, was a final greeting to columbus, who had become in his mind a type of the poet of the future.[760] the other, the last that i can note of these "concluding chirps,"[761] as he would call them, is a beautiful correction of the popular picture of death's valley. before whitman--and he of all men had a right to speak upon the subject, because he knew death, as it were, personally--there spread out a very different landscape:- of the broad blessed light and perfect air, with meadows, rippling tides, and trees and flowers and grass, and the low hum of living breeze--and in the midst god's beautiful eternal right hand, thee, holiest minister of heaven--thee, envoy, usherer, guide at last of all, rich, florid, loosener of the stricture-knot call'd life, sweet, peaceful, welcome death. as his book-making thus drew to a finish, he occupied himself with his own tomb. this was being erected through the autumn of 1891 among the young beeches and hickories of a new cemetery, a few miles out of camden. it was built of grey granite into the bank, and framed after a well-known design of blake's.[762] at once plain but impressive, it is strikingly different from the poor little cottage in which he died. and the fact illustrates again whitman's simple acceptance of realities. he knew that his grave must be a place of pilgrimage; and having brought the bones of his father and mother to lie beside his own, he gave all possible dignity, for the sake of the book and the cause, to this his last resting-place. while he was thus spending a considerable sum upon his tomb, the extra expenses entailed by his prolonged illness were being met, unknown to him, by the generosity of his camden friends. after his death, his executors were surprised to find that there was in the bank a considerable reserve,[763] amounting to several hundred pounds, available for distribution between his sisters and his brother edward, according to the terms of his will. * * * * * in mid-december, 1891, whitman's right lung became congested, and when dr. bucke arrived on the 22nd the death-rattle had already been heard, and his immediate passing was anticipated.[764] at christmas, john burroughs came over, and found such an unconquered look upon the sufferer's face that the thought of death's nearness seemed impossible.[765] from st. louis came jessie whitman, her father, jefferson, having died a year earlier; and the colonel brother, who seems now to have removed from camden, spent at least one anxious night in the little house. mr. johnston also came over from new york for a last sight of his old friend. but even with those nearest to him, interviews became more and more difficult. he longed for the solitude and silence which their love found it hardest to give. the wintry days at the junction of the years went by in suffering and patience. walt was affectionately grateful for the intimate services of his nurse and of horace traubel; writing of the latter as "unspeakably faithful".[766] though he was generally calm he was longing for death. he had dreadful hiccoughs, and grew colder and more emaciated. the suffering had become terrible, and the anticipation of its long continuance brought fear for the first time to his strong heart. [illustration: horace traubel at forty-five] in mid-january, however, he rallied. the fritzinger baby was born and called after him, and walt had it brought in to be fondled upon his breast.[767] colonel ingersoll called, and his magnetic spontaneous presence and words of profound affection comforted and sustained his friend. then, to his great satisfaction, the tenth edition of his works appeared,[768] and special copies were forwarded to his friends. he contrived to write brief notes to dr. bucke and to his favourite sister, telling them of the publication and of his condition. on the 6th and 7th of february he wrote a last pathetic letter, which was lithographed and sent out to many correspondents. the "little spark of soul" which, according to his own quaint version of a favourite saying of epictetus, had during all these months been "dragging a great lummux of corpse-body clumsily to and fro around," was still glimmering. his friends were ever faithful, he says, and for his bodily state, "it is not so bad as you might suppose, only my sufferings much of the time are fearful". and he added, as a last dictum, the substance of his latest public thoughts--for he read the newspapers constantly to the last--"more and more it comes to the fore, that the only theory worthy our modern times, for great literature, politics and sociology, must combine all the best people of all lands, the women not forgetting".[769] his friend over-sea, addington symonds, was ill and depressed,[770] and george stafford passed away at glendale. he became yet more silent; looked over his letters and the journals; took and relished his brandy-punch and slept. almost daily his pain increased, and the choking mucus. he was often in terrible exhaustion, and the long nights were almost unbearable. "dear walt," said his faithful friend, as he bent down and kissed him, "you do not realise what you have been to us"; and walt rejoined feebly, "nor you, what you have been to me".[771] all through march the restlessness and agony increased. there seemed to be no parcel of his emaciated body which was not the lurking place of pain. the stubborn determination of his nature suffered the last throes of human agony before it would surrender. thus he learnt the lesson of death as few have ever learnt it. those who watched could do little but love him, and for that his dim eyes repaid them a thousandfold to the end. without, the days were dismally bleak; snow lay heavily upon the earth, but in the big three-windowed room winter seemed still more fierce and dread. on the night of the 24th he was moved on to a water bed, which eased him. he tried to laugh when, as he turned him upon it and the water splashed around, warry, the sailor-nurse, said it sounded like the waves upon a ship's flanks. the thought was full of suggestions and chimed with his own; but the mucus choked him into silence. next day he was terribly weak, but restful, and that night he slept and seemed easier. on the following afternoon they saw that at last he was surrendering. he smiled and felt no longer any pain.[772] warry moved him for the last time about six o'clock, and walt acknowledged the change with gratitude. half an hour later, holding traubel's hand in his, he lapsed silently into the unknown. it was growing dark, and the rain fell softly bearing its burden of love to the earth, and dripping from the eaves upon the side-walk. the noble ship had slipt its cable and gone forth upon "the never-returning tide". * * * * * whitman died on a saturday night. on the wednesday following, from eleven to two, the mickle street house was invaded by thousands of people of every age and class, who had come to take a last look at the familiar face. "it was the face of an aged, loving child," said one of them.[773] among the rest came an old washington comrade,[774] who was unrecognised by the policeman keeping order at the little door. no, said he, it is late, and the house is full already. with a bitter and broken heart, he was turning away bewildered from the place, when one of the others saw him and, heartily calling his name, led him in. how many, many thoughts surged through his brain, as he looked on that dear face, and poignantly remembered again the old days! how he reproached himself for the long lapses that had crept of late, half-observed, into their intimacy! why had he not been here these months past, nursing and caring for one who had been dearer to him than his father? why had he left him in his last agonies to hired helpers, however kind, and to new friends. surely, he thought, the old are dearer--if they be true. he went out with the crowd to harleigh, saw the strange ceremony, and heard, without understanding them, the fine words spoken. and then, refusing to be comforted, he escaped, walking home alone along the dusty roads--alone forever now--the tears coursing down his cheeks. but come! he would no longer waste the hours in vain reproaches. walt, after all, understood. he had always understood, and felt the depth of love that sometimes seeks so false an expression in jealousy. come now, he will live henceforward by the thought and in the unclouded love of his old walt, once his and his now forever. of course, he had not understood walt, not as these scholars, these writers and poets understood him. but he had been "awful near to him, nights and days". and those letters of his! sometimes he thought that in the passion of his young plain manhood, he had come nearer, yes, nearer than any other, to that great loving soul. and for my part, i am not sure that he was mistaken. * * * * * meanwhile, in the new cemetery, out along haddon avenue beyond the dominican convent where dwell the sisters of the perpetual rosary, they had buried the remains of walt whitman's body. the hillside above the pool had been covered with folk; and up on the beech-spray over the tomb, the first blue-bird had sung its plaintive-sweet promise of the breaking spring.[775] in the palm-decked white pavilion, with its open sides, the words of the old poet's chant of death had mingled with those of the christ and of the buddha, and with the half-choked sentences of living lovers and friends. "i felt as if i had been at the entombment of christ," writes one; and another murmured, "we are at the summit". but the last words had been spoken by ingersoll--"i loved him living, and i love him still".[776] [illustration: the tomb at harleigh cemetery, 1904] * * * * * "to tell you the truth," writes one who knew him intimately, "i have never had the feeling that walt whitman was dead. i think of him as still there, capable of writing to me at any time, and my thoughts often turn to him for his friendly sympathy."[777] it is incredible that any being who has consciously entered upon that life of love which approves itself to the soul as god's own life, can be fundamentally affected by death. what our life is we know not, nor may we speak with any confidence of the nature of the change which we call death; but love we know, and in it, as ingersoll rightly guessed, is the key to the riddle of mortality. the end footnotes: [705] bucke, 53 n. [706] _in re_, 111. [707] _ib._, 387. [708] _ib._, 119; kennedy, 31. [709] _in re_, 120; kennedy, 32. [710] undated news-cutting. [711] _in re_, 119; kennedy, 58. [712] kennedy, 32. [713] mss. carpenter. [714] kennedy, 63; _comp. prose_, 511 n. [715] johnston, 88. [716] _cf._ calamus, 29. [717] _songs before sunrise_, and _blake, a critical essay_; _cf._ _fortnightly_, xlii., 170. [718] kennedy, 29; burroughs (_a_), 54. [719] mss. wallace. [720] _l. of g._, 425. [721] i cannot omit some reference to the brilliant and interesting criticism of whitman by mr. george santayana, especially that contained in his _poetry and religion_, pp. 175-87, etc., though it is somewhat outside my proper field. mr. santayana, if i understand him aright, regards all mysticism as a form of spiritual loafing; he heartily discounts the more primal emotions as being "low" in the scale of evolution, and sets a correspondingly high premium upon all that is subtle and complex. though he seeks to be just to his victim, his lack of sympathy is clearly evidenced in the cleverly rhetorical but quite unworthy passage (p. 180) wherein whitman is described as having "wallowed in the stream of his own sensibility, as later, at camden, in the shallows of his favourite brook". such phrases may be funny, but i trust the preceding pages have shown that they are not true to the facts of whitman's life. to reply to mr. santayana is obviously beyond my scope; and, even if i could undertake the task, it would entail upon the reader many laborious pages devoted to the study of æsthetic values. for i suspect, that, whichever of us may be right, our difference goes back to the beginning. [722] _comp. prose_, 426, 439, 457, 474. [723] _l. of g._, 488. [724] _l. of g._, 433. [725] _ib._, 388. [726] _ib._, 392. [727] _ib._, 399. [728] _ib._, 403 n. [729] kennedy, 62; mss. berenson, etc. [730] mss. carpenter. [731] _camden's compliment._ [732] donaldson, 101. [733] _comp. prose_, 508; kennedy, 35. [734] _in re_, 349-51; _comp. prose_, 509. [735] mss. wallace. [736] "liberty in literature," by r. g. i., 1891; kennedy, 66; _in re_, 252. [737] kennedy, 38, 66. [738] _whit. fellowship_ (bucke), _memories of w. w._ [739] _cf._ symonds, 3. [740] "liberty in literature." [741] bucke, 188. [742] kennedy, 67. [743] johnston, 27. [744] _in re_, 297, 327. [745] mss. wallace. [746] donaldson, 91. [747] johnston and mss. wallace. [748] mss. wallace; johnston, 85; _in re_, 425. [749] news-cutting, 1887. [750] g. gilchrist, _op. cit._ [751] mss. wallace. [752] _ib._ [753] mss. carpenter. [754] _l. of g._, 408. [755] _comp. prose_, 488; _cf._ _l. of g._, 402 (to emp. william i.). [756] _comp. prose_, 493, 502. [757] _ib._, 524, 525. [758] _l. of g._, 414. [759] _l. of g._, 422. [760] _ib._, 429. [761] _ib._, 428. [762] g. gilchrist, _op. cit._ [763] donaldson, 28; kennedy, 48. [764] _in re_, 413. [765] burroughs (_a_), 53. [766] kennedy, 56. [767] _in re_, 417. [768] _ib._, 422. [769] _in re_, 422 n. [770] he died soon after whitman. [771] _in re_, 429. [772] _in re_, 433, 434. [773] m. d. conway; burroughs (_a_), 55. [774] see _supra_, 230. [775] dr. bucke in _whit. fellowship_. [776] _in re_, 437. [777] mss. berenson. appendix a note on the williamses[778] whitman himself has described his grandmother, naomi williams, as belonging to the quaker society, but upon inquiry it does not appear that she was ever a member. she was one of seven sisters; her father, captain john williams, and his only son, died at sea. he had been part-owner of his vessel, a schooner in the east indian trade, plying between new york and florida, and in 1767 he was married at cold spring, where his father, thomas williams, also a seaman, was living at the same time. the name of thomas williams occurs elsewhere in the old records of this district. in 1759 one of this name, who had a son john, was at cove neck, having removed there from cold spring. this thomas one inclines to identify with the sea-going grandfather of naomi, and he was the son of john williams and tamosin carpenter, of musketa cove, whose name occurs in a document of 1727. i understand that this john and his son thomas were quakers. another captain thomas williams, described as "of oyster bay," was in 1758 first captain of the queen's county recruits. twenty-one years later, a john williams and a daniel van velsor were serving as privates in a long island troop of horse, but they do not concern us. in the absence of any definite information, and in view of the frequency of the name of williams throughout this district--owing to the fact that robert and richard williams (welshmen) settled hereabouts in the middle of the seventeenth century--one can only surmise the cause which severed the family of naomi williams from the society. it is possible that her father married out, thus forfeiting his membership, according to the old laws of the society concerning marriage with a non-member. or the war of independence may have claimed his active participation and thus snapped the bond. or, again, circumstances connected with his profession, or difficulties in attending the meetings for worship, may have caused his name to be dropped from the lists of membership. there would seem to be no doubt, however, that his daughter's sympathies remained with the friends. footnotes: [778] material supplied by benj. d. hicks; _cf._ onderdonck's _queen's county_; thompson's history, 486 n., etc., etc. appendix b whitman in new orleans edward carpenter wrote in the _reformer_, february, 1902, p. 89: "in a letter to j. addington symonds (19th august, 1890),[779] he [whitman] mentioned that he had six children. symonds, writing to me in 1893, quoted the passage in question from this letter of whitman's, and it runs as follows: 'my life, young manhood, mid-age, times south, etc., have been jolly bodily, and doubtless open to criticism. tho' unmarried i have had six children--two are dead--one living, southern grandchild, fine boy, writes to me occasionally--circumstances (connected with their fortune and benefit) have separated me from intimate relations.'" in a letter to carpenter, further attested in conversation with myself, horace traubel says: "walt frequently in his later years made allusions to the fact of his fatherhood. that is, to me. one night, just previous to his death, i went with harned to walt's room, at walt's request, to get a sort of deposition in the matter, its detail, etc., etc.... but he was taken sick in our presence and was unable to proceed. there the thing rested ... he ... could never resume the subject. he wished to have the recital 'put away in harned's safe,' as he said, 'in order that some one should authoritatively have all the facts at command if by some misfortune a public discussion of the incident were ever provoked'.... he did not wish the matter broached. he felt that it would indisputably do a great injury to some one, god knows who (i do not). during walt's last sickness his grandson came to the house. i was not there at the time. when w. mentioned the occurrence to me i expressed my regret that i had missed him. 'i wish i might see him.' 'god forbid!' [said whitman]...." i was informed in camden that there were _two_ southern (?) ladies, one of whom had died. there was an impression among my informants that whitman was explicitly pledged, by the family of one if not both of these ladies, never to hint at his relationship to the children. he told traubel that this enforced separation was the tragedy of his life. there is a love-letter extant, signed with a pseudonym, dated from new york in 1862, evidently written by a cultivated woman. if the grandchild who called at mickle street in 1891 was from the south--the correspondent of symond's letter, as one may suspect--it is difficult to put the birth of his father or mother much later, i think, than 1850. it is noticeable that whitman destroyed the references among his papers to the new orleans visit, beyond those already printed in his prose works. in a book of memoranda referring to his early years, now in the possession of mr. harned, i have noted the tearing out of several leaves after the entry of his starting for new orleans. the specification of "one living southern grandchild," and of four children still living in 1890, suggests the probability that the second lady was not living in the south. footnotes: [779] of which i have seen the original draft. index. abandonment, capacity for self-, 52. abolition sentiment, lincoln and, 182. see slavery. abolitionism, 81; and the south, 235. abolitionist, w. an, 39. abolitionists, 134; in democratic party, 27. actors, w. at home with, 191. adam, w. as, 160-2. adams, president john, 23, 24. addison, w. advised to study, 328. æschylus, w. reads, 57. affirmations of modern thought, 62. agnosticism and reason, 333. agricultural interest in america, 308. alboni, marietta, her influence on w., 86, 131, 320. alcott, a. bronson, his relations with w., 112, 138, 282. alexandria, va., 195, 199. ambition, w. a youth of, 33. america, romance of, xix-xxiii; elizabethan character of, xxi; its development, xxvi; changes in, 79. america, and w., 87, 149, 180; w. an incarnation of, xxviii, 132, 335; an average american, 64; his passion for, 63; describes, 95; his symbol for, 122; symbolic character of, 124; call to citizenship, 125; need for comradeship in, 163; emerson's view of w.'s message to, 145-6; w.'s criticism of, 124, 236-42; w. the poet of, 249, 292 (see american poet); her need for the war, 206-8; a. and the soul, 255; and death, 266; and free-interchange, 306-7; and labour-problem, 307-13; w.'s ideal for, 312; "material foundations," 331; a. and solidarity, 337. american art, xxiv. american bible, w. wishes to write an, 55. american character, the, xxi; its idealism, xxi, xxiii, 80-1, 177; its power of assimilation, xxiv. american character of _l. of g._, 109. american cynicism, 264. american literature, w. and, 60. american opinion hostile to _l. of g._, 214, 333. american poet, the, emerson's dictum, 94; general expectancy of an, 94; w.'s prophecy of an, 95-6; w. as the, 133 _n._ american poets, w. and the, 104, 279; need for, 97. _american review_, w. writes for, 37. anger of w., sudden, 216, 236, 327. animals, w.'s feeling of kinship with, 99. "answerer, song of the," 103. anthony, susan b., 126. antietam, battle of, 182-3. anti-nebraska men, 134. anti-slavery party, 45. appearance, w.'s, 276, 283, 289, 326. see portraits. "appearances, of the terrible doubt of," 164. _arabian nights_, w. reads, 19. aristocrat, poem on an, 53. armory square hospital, w. at the, 190, 194, 203. arrangement of _l. of g._, 286-7. art, its meaning first shown to w., 22; popular, 43; in n.y., 84. "as a strong bird on pinions free". see "thou mother," etc. "as i ebb'd with the ocean of life," 154-6. "as i ponder'd in silence," 208. "as the time draws nigh," 169. asceticism, 71. ashton, j. hubley, describes a visit of w.'s, 192; and harlan incident, 214. ashton, mrs., 234, 248. _athenæum, the_, and w., 259. attila, 336. attorney-general's office, w. in the, 214. aurelius, marcus, 224, 262, 318. _aurora, the_, w. edits, 37. average american, w.'s life to be that of an, 64. babylon, l. i., w. at, 28, 33; described, 28-9. bacchus, w.'s engraving of, 111. "backward glance o'er travel'd roads, a," 329-30. baldwin, the engine, 271. "barnburners," van buren men, become free-soil democrats, 44, 134. barnum, p. t., 85. bathing, w.'s love of, 40. bayne, peter, 258. "beat! beat! drums!" 207. beauty, w. indifferent to formal and static, 59. beecher, ward, 112. beethoven, 267, 293, 320. beggars, w. and, 219. bell, governor, 172. berenson, mrs., her friendship with w., 302-4, 313, 318, 346. bernard, st., 146. bettini, 85, 320. _bhagavad-gitá_, _l. of g._ compared with, 115. bible, w.'s wish to write an american, 55; w. studies the, 57, 224, 318. biographies of w. see j. burroughs, dr. bucke, and preface. birthday dinners, 317, 325, 331-2; last, 335-7. blake, 124, 225, 263, 290, 341; his mystic sight, 66, 118; w. and, 59. "blood-money," 39, 46, 103. body, w. and the, 99, 102, 159-62; "a spiritual body," 152-3; "enamoured" body, 162; and soul, 125. "body electric, i sing the," 102, 145, 160. boehme, 121, 146. bohemians of new york, w. and the, 138. bolton group of whitmanites, 337. books, w.'s method of reading, 57; his favourite books, 58-9, 318. booth, the elder, effect of his acting on w., 22. boston, 81, 138; w.'s dislike of, 103, 279; w. at, 136, 142-7; second visit, 278-83. "boston ballad, a," 103. boston common, 144, 147, 281. _boston intelligencer_, criticism of w., 108. botticelli, 102, 226. bowery theatre, the (now the thalia), 22, 329. bowne, john, a l. i. quaker, 4. bragg, general, 187. breckinridge, j. c., 172. bremer, frederika, and emerson, 94. "broad-axe, song of the," 122, 274. broadway, w. and, 41, 83, 87, 138, 219, 266. _broadway journal_, w. writes for, 37. "broadway pageant, a," 205. brooklyn, 1-3, 10-11; w. in, 56-7, 86, 110, 203-4, 210, 219, 232; leaves, 183; secures fort greene to town, 43. brooklyn, battle of, 5. _brooklyn daily eagle_, w. edits, 42-4; a correspondent of, 196. brooklyn ferry, 11, 40, 85. "brooklyn ferry, crossing," 120. _brooklyn times_, w. and the, 109. brown, john, different views of, and influence on america, 136, 159; o'connor and, 190. brown, madox, 225. browning, r., 62, 92, 291; and w., 293-5. bruno, giordano, 224. brush, major, 5; his niece, 5-6. bryant, w. c., 40, 59, 172, 336; friendship for w., 42. buchanan, president, 135, 175. buchanan, robert, his letter on w., 258-9. bucke, dr. r. m., 263, 305, 325-6, 334, 336, 341, 342; visits w., 269; account of, 269-70; his _cosmic consciousness_, 270; visited by w., 274-7; goes with w. to l. i., 280; his life of w., 304. buddha, the, 121, 345. bull run, battle of, 182. buonarotti, michael angelo, 102, 265. burke, e., 290. burns, anthony, 81, 103. burns, r., 289, 328, 337; w. and, 59; w. on, 329. burnside, general, 182, 183. burr, aaron, w. and, xxv. burroughs, j., in washington, 191, 215; notes on w., 221, 304; walks with w., 233, 262; nurses w., 247-8; visits w., 251, 256, 258, 305, 342; w. visits, 231, 266, 270. burroughs, mrs., 234. "by blue ontario's shore," 123, 209. byron, 91, 320, 328; w. and, 59, 292-3. calamus, meaning of the word, 162. _calamus_ (poems), 162-7, 253; most esoteric of w.'s poems, 162; political significance, 163; personal revelation in, 165; underlying philosophy of, 166-7; vindicated, 194; j. a. symonds and, 224. calhoun, j. c., 24, 79, 175. california, 43, 63-4. californian redwood tree, 255. calvin, 121. camden described, 246; w. in, xxvii, 248, 278, 315; loneliness there, 250; at 322, stevens st., his life there, 250-1; removes to 431, stevens st., 256; friends there, 257, 325; literary work, 257. see mickle st. canada, 311; w. plans to lecture in, 129; goes to, 274-7; interest in, 276-7. canary, w.'s, 319. capital punishment, w. opposes, 33, 42. capitol, w. often at the, 201-2. "captain! my captain!" 337. carlyle, thos., 35, 84, 91, 92, 121, 263, 291, 294, 296, 306, 318, 328, 339; death of, 301; and _l. of g._, 171; his _shooting niagara_, 234, 236; w. and, 41, 59, 293. carnegie, andrew, 317. _carpenter, the_, by o'connor, 191, 227-9. carpenter, edward, 263; visits w., 266-9; account of, 266-7; his _towards democracy_, 267; his account of w., 267-9; second visit to w., 305-7; his _art of creation_, qu., 167; on w.'s children, 349-50. carpenter, tamosin, 347. carpentering, w. takes up, 57; helpful to him, 85; gives up, 87. carpenters, 122. cass, lewis, 44. catalogues in _l. of g._, 84, 160, 222. caution, highly developed in w., 68, 163. cenci, 336. centennial exhibition in philadelphia, 265. champagne, w.'s taste for, 315. "champion of america," 131-2. chancellorsville, battle of, 184. "chanting the square deific," 212. see satan. "chants democratic," 150. charity, w. and, 312-3. chattanooga, battle of, 187. chestnut st. opera house, philadelphia, 317. chicago, w. visits, 54. child, in w.'s nature, the, 78, 344; dreams of a, 55. _children of adam_, 126, 144-7, 159-62, 284-6; difficulty of discussing, 160-1; mrs. gilchrist and, 225, 264. children, w.'s, 51, 186, 230-1, 252, 349-50; w. and, 234, 273, 318, 320. china, w. talks of, 265. chinese proverb, xxiii. christ, 313, 345. see jesus. "christ-portrait" of w., 67. christianity, w. and, 75-7, 168, 297, 339. _chronicle, the_, w. m. rossetti writes on w. in, 222. church, w. in a brooklyn, 68. churches, w. and the, 42, 75-6, 142, 241, 280, 323. cincinnati society, 38. citizenship and the soul, 208; for all, 240. city-life, attraction for w., 114; modern, xxviii. city-populations, 307. clare, ada, 139. class-feeling, w.'s dislike of, 323. classical allusions avoided in _l. of g._, 109. clay, henry, 23, 40, 42, 79, 134. cleanthes, hymn of, 224. clements, mr., w. apprenticed to, 19-20. cleveland, president, 314, 320. clothes, w.'s, 83, 110, 140, 304, 331. cole, mary, 234. coleridge, s. t., 91, 119, 290. colonna, vittoria, 265. _columbian magazine_, w. writes for, 37. columbus, xx-xxi, 243. see _prayer of c._ "columbus, a thought of," 340. common people, w.'s love of the, 114. companions, the great, 168. _complete prose_, qu., 47-8. see footnotes. "compost, this," 122. comrade, w. as a, 67; god the perfect, 244. comrades, a society of, 312. comradeship, _calamus_ poems of, 162; political significance of, 163; w. institutes a rite of, 165; philosophy of, 167; w. creates a, 179; _l. of g._ brings to symonds, 224; universal possibility of, 299-300; w.'s, 133, 149, 168, 196, 228, 232-3, 253, 275, 297. comte, a., 62, 263. concord, w. at, 281-2. concrete, w.'s love for the, 60; quality, w.'s, 198. coney island beach, w. goes to, 40, 57, 154. confederacy of southern states adopts a constitution, 175. consciousness, the unfolding of, 69; the double nature of, 73-4; superhuman elements in, 228; w.'s, 316. see also "cosmic consciousness". _conservator_ (philadelphia), _the_, 300 _n._ conservative quality of w., 64. constitution of u.s., xxiii, xxv, 23. contemporary club, the, 332. _contemporary review_ and w., 258. conversion, w.'s experience compared with, 70, 72. conway, moncure, 93, 110-2, 344. coolness, w.'s, 66. cooper, fenimore, 42, 59; w.'s love for the novels of, 19. "copperheads," 185. "cosmic consciousness," w.'s, 52, 117, 119, 168, 224, 333; w.'s experience of, 72-3; influence on style, 150-1, 153-4; dr. bucke on, 270. cotton in the south, 24, 25. cowper, w., 290. _crescent, the_, new orleans, 46. _criterion, the_, criticism of w., 108. _critic, the_, criticism of w., 108. criticisms of whitman, 171, 222, 224-5, 327-8, 329 _n._, 334-5; by w. 109, 329. cromwell, o., 121. croton water-works, n.y., 42. "crucified, to him that was," 167-8, 227. culpepper, va., w. visits, 202. cuba annexation desired, 135. cuvier, 122. _daily news_ and w., 258. dana, c. a., 127. dancing, w. approves, 43. dannville, 209. dante, 57, 109, 164, 226, 318. dartmouth college, n.h., w. visits, 245. darwin, c., 62. davis, jefferson, 79, 188. davis, mary, 305, 318-21, 336. death, w. and the idea of, 9, 12, 101, 102, 158, 168-9, 242-3, 249, 266, 281, 287, 340-1; immortality and, 152-3, 155; welcome to, 152; w. learns lesson of, 249, 343; in shadow of, 253-4; w.'s, 344; reported, 247. "death's valley," 340-1. declamation, _l. of g._ written for, 98. declaration of independence, xxiii, 23. deliberate way of w. in hospitals, 196; character of w., 204. democracy in new york, 83. democracy, w. as, 335. democracy, dangers of. see _dem. vistas_. _democrat_, w. edits, 37. democratic party, 13, 23, 40, 79, 82, 136, 172. _democratic review_, w. writes for, 33. _democratic vistas_, w. at work on, 234; america's need for national literature, 236; reasons for his criticism, 237; vast task of america, _ib._; fears for her, 238, 238-9 _n._; her need for religion, 238, and for great men, 239; too much "culture," 241; need of personality, of religion and of literature, 242, 245, 248. denver, 272, 320. depression, w.'s, during illness, 249. "devil, if i felt like the," 338. see satan. dickens in america, 35, 42. dix, dorothea, 195. dixon, thomas, and _l. of g._, 171, 223. dog, w.'s, 257. don quixote, w. reads, 58. doubt, w. and, 100, 155, 164. "dough-faces," 27, 39. "dough-face song, a," 39. douglas, s. a., 44, 80, 134, 135, 172, 174, 176. dramatic gift, w. has not the, 73. dreams, w. on, 102. doyle, peter g., 210, 215, 258, 301, 305, 336, 344-5; account of, 230; and w., 231-4; nurses w., 247-8; letters to, 250, etc.; baggage-master, 257. dred scott decision, 135. dress. see clothes. driving, w.'s love of, 303, 314. _drum-taps_, published, 205; recalled, 212. see _l. of g._ dutch, on long island, 3; realism, w.'s, 85. dying, w.'s long, 330. early tales, w.'s, 33-5, 286; early verses, w.'s, 39, 47-8, 290. earth, w.'s conception of the, 117-9, 330; and evil, 122. editor, w. as an, 37. education, w.'s, 28. edward vii. see prince of wales. egoism, a divine, 90; of _l. of g._, 91. egoist, w. not an, 53. eldridge, c. (see also thayer and eldridge), 191, 247-8, 251. election, methods of presidential, 174. elizabeth, queen, xx-xxi. elliott, e., w. and, 327. emancipation, proclamation of, 183. emerson, r. w., xxiii, 59, 62, 81, 108, 110, 129, 136, 151, 176, 258, 263, 291, 293, 303, 318, 328, 336; position in american letters, 91-3; and free rhythm, 92-3; emerson and whitman, 59, 91-4, 106-7, 112, 114-5, 137, 143-7, 148, 159, 163, 171, 322; his letter to w., 92-3, 127-8; w.'s letter to e., 127, 179; discussion between, 145-7, 159, 223; helps w. to get funds for hospitals, 198; w. revisits, 281-2; their friendship, 146, 163, 282-3; contrast of his and w.'s temperaments, 294; death of, 301. emotional, atmosphere of poetry, 290-1; character of w.'s mysticism, 70-1. _enfans d'adam._ see _children of adam_. english, demand for _l. of g._, 257; fame of w., 223, 245; friends help w., 258-9, see friends; habit of compromise, 208; language, w. and the, 97; readers of _l. of g._, 171; reviews, w. reads, 57; w.'s appreciation of the, 338. england and america compared, xxii; dispute between, 43; w.'s idea of a home in, 338. enjoyment, w.'s power of, 314-5. _en-masse_, frequent use by w. of, 216-7. "ensemble," w.'s use of, 255. epictetus, 318, 342-3. equality, doctrine of, accepted in the south, 25; w.'s doctrine of, 102, 297. erie canal opened, 11. euripides, 58. "europe, the 72nd and 73rd year of these states," 103. europe, its lack of sanity, 339. evangelical, w. an, 77. _evening mail_ (_new york_), 245. evil, w. and the problem of, 122, 124, 157, 212, 294-5, 340; evil in w.'s nature, 336. evolution, w.'s doctrine of, 99, 100. evolutionists, the, 224. exhibition, international, 1853, 83-4. "exposition, song of the," 245, 248. expression, need for, 89-90. expurgation, w. agrees to, 285. "faces," 102. "facing west from california's shores," 162. facts, w.'s love for, 60, 63. fairfax seminary hospital, 194, 198. faith, w.'s, 99, 100, 155, 244, 254-5. falmouth, va., 183-4. farragut, admiral, 182. federal sentiment aided by steam-transit, 27. federalists, 23. fellowes, col., 38. fellowship, as an answer to doubt, 164; morris's gospel of, 296; philosophy of, 166-7. fellowship, w.'s, its character, 114, 299-300; with nature, 261-2; w.'s ideal of, 142. fellowship, the walt whitman, 300 _n._ "felons on trial in courts, you," 156. ferries, w. and, 250-1, 266. see brooklyn ferry. ferry-boat, w. steers a n.y., 137. fire-island beach, l. i., 29. "first, o songs, for a prelude," 206. "for you, o democracy," 163. forrest, edwin, 21. _fortnightly review_, m. conway's article on w. in, 110. fourier, 309. fourierists, w. and the, 323. fowler, mr., 67. fowler & wells, 87, 109, 129. fox, george, 121, 173; his mystical experience, 72-3; in l. i., 4; and w., 298-300; w.'s essay on, 329. france, _l. of g._ in, 245; w. and the people of, 280. francis of assisi, 74, 152, 164, 169, 227. _franklin evans_, 46 _n._, 52; described, 35-7. fredericksburg, battle of, 183. _freeman, the_, w. founds, 56, 63. frémont, j. c., 63, 134. free-soil democrats, 40, 44-5, 56, 134; w. and the, 40, 310. free-trade, 177; w. and, 306-7, 323, 337. see also tariffs. friends, w.'s older men, 28; and women, 31; in n.y., 137-9; in washington, 190-2; circle of, 245; in camden, 256-7, 325, 341, 342; english, assist w., 258-9, 316-7; dissimilarity among, 233; his need of, 165, 250-1; a city of, 165. friends, society of. see quakers. friends, fox's, 298-9. fritzinger, harry, 319. fritzinger, warren, 319, 342, 343, 344. fritzinger, w. w., 342. fugitive slave bill, 79. "full of life now," 166. fuller (ossoli), margaret, 126. funeral, w.'s, 344-6. future, poet justified by, 97. future, w.'s attitude towards the, 206. games, w.'s love of, 30, 32. garfield, president, 301. garibaldi visits america, 173. garrison, w. l., 81. gentleman, thoreau thinks w. a, 113. georgian farmer, a, 321-2. german immigrants, 82. germany, _l. of g._ in, 245. _germ, the_, 97, 221-2. gettysburg, battle of, 184, 187; lincoln's speech at, 184. gilchrist, anne (mrs. alexander), 265, 267, 268, 301, 336; reads _l. of g._, 225; views of _c. of adam_, 225-7, 284; letters published, 225; goes to philadelphia, 263; account of, 263-6; w. visits, 266; death of, 303, 320. gilchrist, grace, quoted, 268, etc. gilchrist, herbert h., 320. girls, attitude toward, 30. glendale, w. at, 280, 286. godiva, lady, 264. god, w.'s idea of, 75, 76, 101, 243-4, 253-4. god latent in humanity, 100. goethe, 58, 62, 121, 222, 224, 289, 292. _good-bye, my fancy_, described, 338-40; title explained, 340. _good gray poet, the_, by o'connor, 191, 214, 227, 333. government, purpose of all, 240. grant, gen., 182; takes vicksburg, 185; at chattanooga, 187; faith of north in grant, 188; ends war, _ib._; president, 235; and the west, 272; w.'s belief in, 203; w. appeals to, 209. "great are the myths," 104. great eastern steamship, 173. great men, w. values, 239. greek, w. a, 279. greeley, horace, 39. guyot, 263. hafiz, 318. "halcyon days," 330. hale, e. e., 108. halleck, fitz-green, 42. hamilton, alex., xxv, 23. "hand-mirror, a," 124. happiness, the purpose of things, 101; of old age, 330. harlan, james, 219, 223, 227; dismisses w., 213-4. harleigh cemetery, 345. harned, t. b., relations with w., 325, 349. harper's ferry, 136. _harrington_, by w. d. o'connor, 190. harrison, president, 38. hartmann, s., 319-20. hawthorne, n., 34, 301. health, a fine art, 241; spiritual basis of, 204, 339; open-air and, 340. health, w. proud of his, 68-9; w. to irradiate, 101, 338; w.'s, 28; and mystical experience, 69; w.'s in washington, 193; hurts his hand, 194; careful of his, 196; effect of heat upon, 200; first illness, 202-4; h. seems to be good again, 216; feels extremes of climate, 218; rossetti thinks health affects w.'s philosophy, 222; partial paralysis, 232; illness, 246; details recounted, 247; relapse, 248; depression accompanies illness, 249; consideration of causes, 252-3; illness, poems in, 253-4; convalescence, 258; help derived from nature, 260-2; h. improved, 270; ill in st. louis, 273; in canada, 275-6; better in boston, 283; has a sunstroke, 314; increasing uncertainty, 317; paralysis, 326. hegel, 62, 289, 309; limit of w.'s agreement with, 296-8. heine, 339. heretic, w. a, 143. hero-worship, w.'s, 293. heyde, hannah (whitman), 12, 86, 88, 342; w. visits, 246. hicks, elias, 4, 5, 6, 121, 142; account of, 14-5; preaches at brooklyn, 15-7; his death, 17; effect on w., 16-9; w.'s essay on, 329. "historian, to a," 153. hodgson, robert, an english quaker, 4. home-life, w.'s happy, 65-6. homer, 57, 318. hooker, general, 182, 184. hospitals, w. at the old new york h., 137-8; w. commences to visit washington, 184; service in them, 186; w. at the armory square h., 190; w. at the washington, 192, 198, 318, 324; he needs money for work there, 192; there daily, 194; extent of hospitals, _ib._; nursing in, 195; need for affection in, _ib._; w.'s efficient service in, 196-8; effect on w., 199-200; conditions grow worse, 202-3; visits hospitals at brooklyn and n.y., 209; sundays at washington hospitals, 215; influence on w., 217; causes illness, 252-3, 339; pension proposed for service in, 316. houghton, lord, 112. house-building, 85. householder, w. a, 315. see mickle st. houston, the filibuster, 43. howells, w., and w., 138-9. hugo, victor, 138, 293. humanity, w.'s love for, well founded, 41-2. humility, w. and, 76, 154. humour, w.'s, 303, 336-9. "hunkers," 44. hunt, leigh, 109. huntington, l. i., described, 2-3; w. at, 31; w. visits, 86. see west hills. "hush'd be the camps to-day," 212. "husky-haughty lips, with," 330. idealism. see mysticism. idealism of america. see "american character". identity, w.'s sense of, 74. idiots, w. and, 274. "i dream'd in a dream," 165. _iliad_, pope's translation, 58. illness, w.'s, see health; originates in hospital-work, 339; features of last, 338, 341-4. illumination, w.'s mystical, 69-78. immanence, idea of, central in modern thought, 62. immigration and n.y., 81-2. immigration and the labour problem, 310. immortality, 152-3, 255, 332-3. see death. impersonal quality in w., 73, 293. inconsistency, w.'s, 237. india used symbolically, 243-4. see "passage to i." indian bureau, w. a clerk in, 210; indians on l. i., 1-2; w.'s relations with indians, 210. industrial revolution, the, 307. ingersoll, r. g., and w., 274; lectures on whitman, 317; tribute to w., 332; w.'s view of i., _ib._; his agnosticism, 333; lecture on w., 333-5; visits w., 342; at the funeral, 346. "inner light," doctrine of, 16, 17. institutions, w. and, 165, 323. "ireland, old," 205. irish immigration, 82. irving, washington, 93. israel, prophets of, 238, 241, 291. italy and america, xx; rise of a new, 205-6. "i was looking a long while," 153. jackson, president, 13, 23, 27, 38, 174. jamaica academy, l. i., w. at, 33. japan, w. talks of, 268. japanese embassy, first, 172, 205. jayne's hill, 2. jefferson, president, 13, 23, 25, 26, 38, 136. jesus, 74; w.'s relation to, 76, 227-9; w.'s poem to, 167-8; and humanity, 229. see christ. jingoism in america, 43-4. job, 318. johnson, president, 189, 235. johnston, col., 257. johnston, gen., 182. johnston, mrs. alma c., 280, 282. johnston, j., 336. johnston, j. h., 342; w. visits, 266, 270, 280. journalist, w. as a, 33-45. journeys, w.'s, extent of, xxvii. see south, west, canada. joy, the note of _l. of g._, 90-1. judiciary square hospital, 194. kansas, 80, 134-5. keats, j., 59, 91. kennedy, w. s., 317; w.'s letter to, 282; his reminiscences, 301. "knowledge alone, long i thought that," 132-3. "know-nothing" party, 134-5. kossabones, w.'s ancestors, 31. labour agitator's disappointment with w., a, 322. labour problem, w. and the, 306-13, 322-3; in america, 308; in europe, 308-9; in long island and n.y., 309; in america after the war, 310; problem of immigration, _ib._; _laissez-faire_, 310-1; the socialists, 311; w. and trade-unionism, 312; w. and toynbee hall, 313. lafayette, gen., revisits america, 11. _laissez-faire_, 310-1. laurel springs, 260. lamarck, 62. laws, w. and the, 292. "laws for creations," 153. laziness, w.'s, 30-1. _leaves of grass_, title explained, 72; character of various sections, 286-7; unity as a whole, 287-8; style of, 84, 92, 98, 104-7, 150-1, 244, 273, 289-91, 328; genesis and evolution, 329; w. and, 330, 335; o'connor and, 191; ingersoll and, 332-5; bucke and, 336; the war and, 339; conception, 55; gestation, 85-7. first edition, 87-8; attitude of family to, 88; own view, an expression of himself, 89-90; the keynote, joy, 90-1; emerson's appreciation, 91-2; book described, 95-104; religious emotion in, 105-6; compared with emerson's writings, 106-7; reception of, in america and england, 108-9; writes notices of, 109; its american character emphasised, _ib._; occupies w.'s time, 111; emerson's dictum on, 115; spirit of revolt in this edition, 296-7; see also 148, 217. second edition (1856), 116-129, 148; open letter to emerson in appendix, 127-8; rapid sale, 128-9. third edition, xxvi-xxvii, 132-3, 141-2, 218, 284-6; described, 148-170; personal note dominant in, 148-9; importance of this edition, 149-50; unity of volume, its optimism and mysticism, 151-2; welcome to death characteristic of, 152-3; his work a beginning, 154; _children of adam_, 159-62; _calamus_ group, 162-7; poem to jesus, 167-8; poems of death, 169-70; its circulation, 171; in england, 172; and the war, 180. _drum-taps_, 205-9; "when lilacs last," 211; is read by students, 217; written under strong emotion, 220. fourth edition (1867), 219, 221; w.'s views of, _ib._; rossetti's selections, 221-2; the book in england, 223; mrs. gilchrist and, 225-7, 264. fifth edition (1871), 242; _passage to india_, 243; style of, 244; read in europe, 245; poems of illness and death, 253-5. centennial edition (1876), 259, 265, 286; sells well, 266; preface to, 267; and the rocky mountains, 273. second boston edition, 283-4, 286-8, 301; attacked by district attorney, 284-5; sales, 305; diminution of, 316; re-published by mckay, 285; worthington and, 286. _sands at seventy_, 329-30; latest poems, 338-41. tenth edition, 342. _leaves of grass_, a section of third edition, 150. lectures, w.'s, 129, 193, 270; to supplement _l. of g._, 129-30; a course on democracy undelivered, 132. see lincoln lecture, and oratory. lee, general, 182, 184, 187, 188, 324. leibnitz, 62. liberty, immortal, 103. liberty party, 79. libraries, 153. life and death, 104. lilacs, 305. "lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd, when," 211-2. lincoln, president, xxiii, 5, 80, 121, 132; described, 134; protests against dred scott decision, 135; senatorial contest with douglas, _ib._; attitude toward slavery, 136-7, 181-2; in n.y., 172; election of (1860), 172, 174; interregnum before inauguration, 175; passes through n.y., 175-6; his inaugural address, 176; and the war, 177, 179; call for troops, 178; his first tasks, 181-2; proclamation of emancipation, 183; speech at gettysburg, 184; and abolition, 181-2, 187; enters richmond, 188; re-election and assassination, 189, 210, 264-5; nature of his relation to america, 189; is denounced by w. phillips, 191; american suspicion of his policy, 211; effect of his death, 211-2; and the south, 189, 324; and the west, 271; w. and, 234, 278; w. often meets, 201; w.'s faith in, 203; at last levee, 210; l.'s dictum on w., _ib._; w. and l.'s death, 278. "lincoln's burial hymn, president." see lilacs last. lincoln lecture, w.'s, 270, 278, 317, 332. lind, jenny, 85, 86. linton, w. j., 257. lionising, w. and, 332. literary circle, w.'s dislike of, 144. literature necessary for national life, 236-242. "live-oak growing, i saw in louisiana a," 163, 250. loafing of w., 141. locomotive first enters n.y., 42. "locomotive in winter, to a," 271. london, ont., w. at, 270. longfellow, h. w., 59, 88, 94, 138, 301, 336; and w., 278-9. "long i thought that knowledge alone," 132-3; symonds and, 224. long island described, 1-3, 28-9; w. and, 31, 85, 89, 280. _long island patriot_, w. and the, 20. _long island star_, w. and the, 20. _long islander, the_, 56; w. founds the, 31-2. love, the divine, 119; "the kelson" of the universe, 72, 98; the one essential, 125; the passion of, 127; w. recognises power of, 35; w.'s religion one of, 77; love of nature, w.'s, 260-1. lowell, j. r., 59, 94, 317. luther, 146. lynching, w. denounces, 42. lyrical ballads, 290. lytton, lord, 35, 247. madison sq. theatre, n.y., w. at, 317. "magnet south," 235. man, _l. of g._, not a book but a, 158. "man-o'-war bird, the," 259. mannahatta, early name for n.y., 20. see n.y. manual work, its value to w., 85. maretzek, 85. marriage, w. and, 50-3, 323, 336-7. "mary, aunt," 321. mary and martha, 164. marx, karl, 309. mazzini, 62, 173; and w., 293-4. mcclellan, gen., 182, 189, 211. mckay, david, 285, 305. mcknight, mrs., 234. meade, gen., 184-5. mendelssohn, 320. menken, adah isaacs, 49. meredith, g., 60, 225, 291. _messenger leaves_ (section of _l. of g._), 167-9. meteors in 1860, 173. methodist vote, mr. harlan and the, 213. mexican war, w.'s attitude towards, 43. mickle street, house in, described, 305, 317-9, 320. mill, j. s., w. and, 308. miller, "joaquin," 64, 270. millet, j. f., w. and, 84, 279-80, 293. milton, 58, 121. millwell. see west hills. mississippi, w. descends the, 47; ascends, 53; w. and the, 54, 270-1, 273. missouri compromise, 26, 134; river, 54; state, 271. modesty, w.'s, 329. money, w.'s indifference to, 65, 87; need for, 193, 198; income, 218-9; difficulties, 257-9, 316-7; see also 285, 341. montauk point, 1. montgomery, ala., 175. moralist _versus_ mystic, 152; w. as a, 237, 292. morris, w., 293, 331; w. compared with, 296. morse, sidney, makes a bust of w., 265, 320; discussions with "aunt mary," 321; with w., 322-3. mount vernon, w. visits, 215. "mugwumps," 314. murray and byron, mr., 285. "music always round me, that," 164-5. music, mrs. gilchrist and carpenter's attitude towards, 267; w. and, 85-6, 320. myers, f. w., 224. myrtle avenue, brooklyn, w. at, 56. mysticism and materialism, xxiii; various forms of, 70, 121; whitman's, 69-78, 117-121, 149, 152-67, 254, 298-300; and nature, 261-2, 339-40; and oratory, 130-1; and quakerism, 180; and sex, 226; and war, 180-1, 207-8; philosophy of, 166-7. myths, reverence for, 104. see great are the m. name, the power of the, 158. napoleon, 289. "native moments," 161. natural history, w.'s ignorance of, 230, 260-2. nature and soul-life, 340; w.'s love of, 260-2. negroes, w. doubts if they are worth cost of war, 186-7; w. and negro citizenship, 187; o'connor and w. disagree about, 191; w. and negro problem, 235-6. new amsterdam. see new york. new england, w. visits, in 1868, 234. new orleans of '48 described, 48-50; w. goes to, 44, 46-53, 349-50; reminiscences of, 329. _new world, the_ (n.y.), w. and, 33-7. new york described, 11, 20-22, 80-86, 139-40; art collections of, 279; sympathy with south, 24, 178; attitude towards lincoln, 175-6; during war, 185, 206; w. and, xxvi-viii, 41-2, 64, 111, 245, 266, 270, 280; w. criticises, 236; he leaves, 183. _new york evening post_, w. writes for, 42. _new york herald, the_, 115, 316. _new york saturday press_, w. and the, 138-9. _new york sun_, w. writes for, 37, 127. _new york times_, 184, 209. _new york tribune_, the, 39, 40, 87, 108, 259, 285; w.'s poems in, 46. newspapers, w. and, 62-3. niagara, w. at, 54, 274. nibelungenlied, 58, 337. nietzsche and whitman, 213, 293, 296-8. nonconformity, w.'s, 99. north, its interests antagonistic to the south, 24-5; becomes identified with federalism, 26; not united, 176; idealism of, 177; and protection, _ib._ _north american review_, 108. _november boughs_, 329-30, 339. "now finalé to the shore," 243. nurse, w.'s, 326. "occupations, song for," 101. o'connor, w. d., w. visits and boards with, 190, 201, 215, 225; described, 190-1; and harlan, 214; his _the carpenter_, 227-9; w.'s quarrel with, 236, 248, 250, 258; and messrs. osgood, 285; dies, 326-7, 336. see also _good gray poet_. o'connor, mrs., 234, 248. see also w. d. o'c. officials, w.'s dislike of, 306. old-age, w.'s view of, 330. "old jim crow," w. fond of, 303. omar khayyam, 159, 318. "on the beach at night alone," 120. "once i passed through a populous city," 51. open-air, cure, w. tries, 260; w.'s love for, 199; w. writes in the, 101. see nature. "open road, song of the," 116, 119-20. opera, w. at, 88, 178. optimism, w.'s, 41-2, 91, 151, 200; false popular, 237-8. oratory, w.'s love for, 33; his conception of, 129-31, 135, 143. see also lectures. oregon, dispute over boundary of, 43. oriental writers, w.'s interest in, 115. orsini, 136. osgood & co., 280, 285, 301. ossian, 58, 289, 318. "our old feuillage," 150. "out of the cradle," 12, 158, 211, 281. "outlines for a tomb," 313. "overmen," doctrine of, 297, 299. owen, robert, 308-9. paine, thomas, xxv, 5, 16, 25, 38. painting, w.'s appreciation of, 84, 279-80. paley, 62. _pall mall gazette_ fund, 316. pan, w. compared with, 112. paralysis, w. begins to suffer from, 232. see health. parker, t., 143. parodi, 85. parties, w. outside political, 312. _passage to india_ (booklet), 242-244; poem, 243-4, 249, 266, 287. passion, w. and, 161-2, 206. passionate element in w., 13, 68. past, the, still present, 153, 256. patent office, washington, used as hospital, 194; ball, 210. paternity, redemption of, 127, 241. patriotism, w.'s, aroused, 54-5. paumànackers, 3. "paumanok," nom-de-plume of w., 39. peabody, george, 313. peace, efforts towards, 185, 188; need for heroic idea of, 206-9. penn, william, 5. pension, proposed, 316. personal note in _l. of g._, 158. personality, carpenter's account of w.'s, 268, 306; the source of power, 169; w.'s doctrine of, 239-40; w. retains sense of own, 74; w.'s, influence of, 30. pessimism, tolstoi's, 295-6; morris and ruskin's, 296. pfaff's restaurant, n.y., 138-40. philadelphia, w. in, 251, 331-5. see camden. phillips, wendell, on lincoln, 191. philosophy, w.'s interest in, 60-62. phrenological estimate of w.'s character, 67-8. pierce, president, 80, 103, 135. "pioneers! o pioneers!" 205. pittsburg, w. at, 271. plato, 58, 121, 126, 239, 240, 282; and w., 224, 291-2. plotinus, 121. poe, e. a., 37, 59, 258, 320; w. meets, 42. poet, w. describes his ideal, 95-7, 103, 117-8, 123-4; need of the poet for expression, 89-90; alone realises unity of all, 243; w. as a, 328-9. poets, two orders of, 328-9. "poets to come," 154. poetry, w.'s view of, 59-61, 109; w. reads by the sea, 60; changes in modern english, 289-290. polk, president, 40, 43. poor, a menace to democracy, the very, 240, 310-1. pope, a., w. compared with, 151, 289. population of america, xxv, 176, 308. portraits of w. in 36th year, 66-7; _l. of g._ portrait, 110; "gentle shepherd," 218; others, 140-1, 148, 230, 257, 331, 338. see list of illustrations. pose, w.'s, 338. potter, dr. j., on w., 229-30. prairies, w. and the, 271. praise, w.'s love of, 303, 335. prayer, w. and, 76. "prayer of columbus," 253; described, 254-5. pre-existence, w.'s doctrine of, 101. _preface_ of 1855 used for poems, 116; omitted, 129; in selections, 223. _preface_ to 1871 ed., 243. _preface_ to 2nd annex, 339. pre-raphaelite brotherhood, 97. price, mrs. abby, 139, 219-20. price, miss, qu., 219-20. pride, w.'s, 156, 317. printer, w. as a, 19-20, 56. prisons of the south, 187; w. visits prisons, 111-2. property, w. and private, 240; rights of, 311. prosecution of w. proposed in 1856, 127; in 1882, 284-5. "prostitute, to a common," 168. proudhon, 309. publisher, w. as his own, 219, 258, 259, 285, 305. punishment, method of, 30. "pupil, to a," 169. puritanism, w. free from, 19. _putnam's monthly_, 108. quaker traits in w., 112; w.'s story of a, 334-5. quakeresses in hospitals, 195. quakers, 121; on l. i., 4-5; a crisis among american, 14, 15; attitude to war, w. and the, 206; doctrine of inner light, 16, 17; doctrine of revelation, 55; essential character of their faith, 18; w.'s relation to, 75-6, 180, 206, 298-9, 301-2; williams family and the, 347-8. quebec, w. at, 276. _radical, the_ (boston), publishes mrs. gilchrist's letters, 225. "rain, the voice of the," 330. ramsay, a., 290. rand and avery, 283. realisation, w.'s power of, 99. reality, evil necessary to, 212. recitations, w.'s in hospitals, 197. redpath, james, 198. "redwood tree, song of the," 253; described, 255-6. refinement, w. disclaims, 113. _reformer, the_, 349. rejected passages, 286. religion, w.'s, 18-19, 70-8, 149, 241-4, 254, 299; and poetry, 61; new, 339; importance of, for america, 238, 241. see mysticism. religious emotion in _l. of g._, 105-6. renaissance in america, xxiv. "renfrew, baron," 173. republic, w.'s idea of, 292. see america. republican becomes democratic party, 13; new party formed, 132, 134; and the south, 189, 235; and corruption, 314. respectable, w. seems to be growing, 216, 218. "respondez," 124. "return of the heroes, the," 209. reviews himself, w., 109, 323-4. revolt, w.'s, against bondage, 296-7. rhythm, changes in rhythm of poetry, 290-1; various emotional values of, 291; w.'s feeling for sea, 60; free, emerson studies, 93; w.'s view of, 96-8. rich, w. in danger of becoming, 57. "rich givers, to," 169. richmond, the confederate capital, 182; surrenders, 188. "rise, o days, from your fathomless deeps," 206. robespierre, 289. rock creek, w. at, 201. rocky mountains, w. in the, 272-3. rodin, a., 130. rolleston, t. w., his _epictetus_, 318. "rolling earth, song of the," 117-9. romance of america, the, xix-xxiii. rome, andrew, printer, 88. romney, 264. roosa, d. b. st. j., qu., 137-8. "roots and leaves themselves alone," 165. rossetti, w. m., 97, 171, 259, 263-4; his selections from _l. of g._, 221-3, 227, 245; criticism of _l. of g._, 222; relations with w., 223, 259; and mrs. gilchrist's letters, 225. rossetti, d. g., 222, 223, 263-4, 328. rossi, 284. "roughs," w. "one of the," 114. "rounded catalogue, the," 340. rousseau, j. j., 23, 58, 97, 108, 263, 289, 292. royce, josiah, his _world and the individual_, 166. rumford, count (colonel thompson), 2. ruskin, j., 62, 171, 263, 296. rynders, isaiah, 82. saadi, 318. saint, w. no, 76, 337. st. lawrence river, w.'s view of the, 276. st. louis, w. visits, 53, 271, 273, 286. st. simon, 309. saguenay, w. on the, 276. "salut au monde," 116, 158. sanborn, f. b., w. visits, 281-2. san francisco, 63. sand, george, 293, 318. sanity, w.'s, 297. santayana, george, his criticism of w., 329 _n._ satan, 212, 298, 297, 321. "scented herbage of my breast," 167. science, w. and, 60-2, 96, 242; mrs. gilchrist and carpenter's attitude toward, 267. scott, sir walter, 57, 91, 318, 320; w. reads, 19. scott, w. bell, 171, 223. sea, w. and the, 9, 31, 58, 60, 154-5. secession, south carolina proposes, 24; proclaims, 175; not desired by america, 176; soldiers, w. nurses, 199; talk in new england, 27. self, the, 74, 166; and the other, 61; the electric, 154. self-assertion, w.'s doctrine of, 76, 297. self-consciousness of w., 128. self-realisation, gospel of, 148, 253. self-revelation of w., 264. semele, 275. seward, w. h., 79, 172, 175. sex, w. and, 144-7, 159-62, 167; w.'s expanded conception of, 226; thoreau puzzled by w.'s view, 115; w.'s experience of, 71; and religion, 70-1; basic in life, 126-7. shakespeare, xxi, 57, 318. shelley, p. b., w. indifferent to, 59; compared with, 107-8; also 91, 97, 290, 295. sherman, gen., 187; his march to the sea, 188. ships, w.'s love of, 60, 335-6, 343-4; yankee clipper, 64. sin, w.'s attitude toward, 18, 124-5, 151, 156, 161, 255. skin, rich texture of w.'s, 316. slavery, 79-81, 135-7; divides north from south, 25; w. and, 103; and democratic party, 82, see abolitionism, etc.; s. party and election of 1860, 173-4; and the war, 177; in n.y., 310-1. slave-trade, 140. sleep, w. on, 102. "sleepers, the," 102, 274. sleepy hollow, 301. smith, adam, 308. smith, mary whitall. see mrs. berenson. smith, r. pearsall, 297; relations with w., 301-4; leaves philadelphia, 325. smoking, 32. see tobacco. social functions, w.'s interest in, 40. social problem in n.y., 139-40. socialism, w. and, 239, 312. socialist, ideal, the, 308-9, 312; party in america, 311; socialists, early, 308. solidarity, of the nation, felt in war-time, 207; of the peoples, 205-6; w.'s feeling for, 239-40, 242-3, 306-7, 337, 343. solitude, w.'s, 233, 331, 342; compared with thoreau and emerson's, 113-4. "so long," 169. "sometimes with one i love," 164. "song of myself," 122, 243, 286; analysed, 98-101; qu., 72 _n._; called "walt whitman," 150. sophocles, 57. soul, the flesh and the, in modern religion, 61; and science, 96, 242; in nature, 102, 340; w.'s view of the, 98, 120, 149. south, its interests antagonistic to those of the north and west, 24-5; similarity of interest with n.y., 25; policy, 26, 43; and the war, 82-3, 176-7, 187, 235; slavery and the, 25, 80-1; pride of the, 187, 324; lincoln and, 189; and the union, 180, 314; w. and the, 46-55, 180, 235, 237, 349-50. south carolina, and federal tariff, 24, 27. southey, r., 327. "sovereign states," doctrine of, 26. _specimen days_, 262, 266. _specimen days and collect_, 286. spectacles, w. begins to wear, 245. speech, w.'s manner of, 98; w.'s style and, 291. spencer, herbert, 62, 263. spirits, w. and, 149. spiritualistic woman and w., 234. "spontaneous me," 127. spooner, alden j., 20, 22, 30-1. _springfield (mass.) republican_, 259. square deific. see "chanting the s. d." "squatter sovereignty," 44, 79, 80, 134. stafford family, 260; george, 260-2, 266, 280, 343. stage-driver, w. as a, 137; stage-drivers of n.y., 138. see broadway. stanton, mrs. e. c., 126. stars and stripes, the, xx, 335. "starting from paumanok," 148. staten island, n.y., 140. _statesman, the_, w. edits, 37. stay-at-home, w. a, 64. steam-transit and federal sentiment, 27. stedman, e. c., 191, 317-8. stockton, commodore, 63. "stranger, to a," 165. strength, w.'s great physical, 68. stubborn quality in w., 251. style of _l. of g._, 84, 92, 104-5, 150-1, 244, 289-91. see under _l. of g._ subjective character of w.'s genius, 105. suggestiveness of _l. of g._, 269. sumter, fort, 178. "sunset breeze, to the," 339, 340. "sunset, song at," 152. sunstroke, an early, 200-1; another, 314. superhuman quality in w., 228; noted by m. conway, 111; by thoreau, 115. swayne, bookseller, 87. swinburne, a. c., 60, 223-5, 245, 327-9. swinton, john, 138. symbolism, w.'s, 117-8, 120; example of the broad-axe, 122. see mysticism. symonds, j. a., w.'s letter to, 51, 349-50; and _l. of g._, 172, 224-5; account of, 223-4, 245, 267, 291, 336, 343. sympathy, w.'s yearning for, 267. tammany hall, 38, 82, 178. taney, r. b., 135. tariffs, 24. see free-trade. _tattler_, w. edits, 37. taylor, father, as described by w., 142-3; death, 283. taylor, president, 45, 50. teacher, w. as a, 28-33, 233; method of punishment, 30. teetotalism, w.'s support of, 33, 35-7. see temperance. temperance, w.'s, 122, 159-60, 315. tennyson, a., lord, 35, 92, 109, 223, 245, 283, 290, 318, 336; w. enjoys, 59; w. reads aloud, 275; regards w. as "a great big something," 115; and w., 339. texas admitted to union, 43. thayer & eldridge, publishers, 141-2, 171, 190. theatres of n.y., w. goes to, 85-6, 19, 41, 270, 284. theory, w. no adept in, 75. "there was a child went forth," 103. "these i singing in spring," 163. "think of the soul," 125. thoreau, h. d., 129, 171, 282-3, 301, 303, 335; visits w., 112-6; and j. brown, 136,159; w. solitary as, 233. "thou mother with thy equal brood," 245. timber creek, w. visits, 259-61, 268, 281; descriptions of, 260-1; w. to have a cottage at, 317. tippecanoe, fight at, 38. tobacco, w. distributes in hospitals, 197. tolstoi, l., 293; w. compared with, 295-6. tomb, w.'s, 341. "to one shortly to die," 168. "to soar in freedom," 328. "to think of time," 102. _towards democracy_, e. carpenter's, 267, 305. toynbee hall, w. and, 313. trade-unionism, w. and, 312. tragedy, w.'s predilection for, in earlier writings, 34-5. tramp, w. envies the, 326. traubel, horace, relations with w., 325, 326, 329, 331, 332, 342, 343, 344; quoted, 349-50; sec. of w. fellowship, 300 _n._ treasury building, w. at, 190, 215, 233, 247. _tribune, new york._ see _n. y. t._ "trickle drops," 165. tri-insula, a republic, 178. trowbridge, j. t., 142. tuft's college, mass., 255. tupper, m. f., w. compared with, 327. "twain, mark," 317. "two rivulets" described, 266. tyler, president, 38. ulysses' return, 276. _uncle tom's cabin_, 81, 187. unitarianism, w.'s relation to, 76. union, w. and the idea of the american, 55. unity, w.'s doctrine of the universal, 120; of _l. of g._, 221. "universal, song of the," 253; described, 255. untidiness, w.'s, 318. van buren, 44; w. supports, 33, 38. van velsor, major c., 4, 10; family, 347. -louisa. see l. whitman. -naomi. see williams. verdi, 320. verse, w. writes, 47. vice, society for the suppression of, 284, 285. victoria, queen, w. and, 339. vicksburg taken by grant, 185. virgil, 318. virginia, xx, 26, 188. "vocalism," 157. voice, w.'s, described, 98; w. and the, 154, 157. vow, whitman's (1861), 181, 204, 216. wagner, r., 293, 320. wales, prince of, and w., 173. walks at washington, w.'s, 215, 233. wallace, a. r., 62. wallace, j. w., visits w., 338. "walt," w. calls himself, 141. walt whitman club, 325; fellowship, 300 _n._ war, w.'s attitude towards, 43, 202-3, 205-9; and "a divine war," 206; his mysticism of, 207-8; must be followed by nobler peace, 208-9. war of 1812, 10. war of 1861-65, 182-203; causes of, 82, 208; inevitableness, 177; not for abolition, 187; w. and the, xxvi, 178-209; ready to share in, 202. washington, president, xxv, 5, 10, 38, 289; w. compares himself with, 131. washington, condition of, during war, 194-8, 216. washington, w. in, xxvii, 184-248, 301, 306; its influence on w., 150, 245; w. visits hospitals, see h.; w.'s manner of life in, 190, 193, 215; w. fond of, 201-2; why he remains, 218-9; walks at, 233; w. and negro problem in, 235; hopes to return, 252; discharged from post, 257; visit to, 258. wealth of america becoming concentrated, 310. webster, daniel, 42, 79. wesley, j., 290. west, the, its interests, 24; its settlement threatens the south, 26; problem of, 79; w. and the, xxvii; first sees, 54; contemplates settlement in, 183; journey, 271-4. west hills, the whitman homestead, 5, 103, 260, 320; described, 7-9; holidays at, 12; w. visits, 280. "what am i after all," 158. whigs, the american, 23, 24, 44. whitehorse, the hamlet of, w. stays at, 259-60. see timber creek. whitman, abijah, 5. -andrew, 13, 86, 193, 256. -edward, 86, 256, 341. -george, 13, 86, 182, 185, 246, 248, 250, 256, 257, 266, 342; view of _l. of g._, 88; volunteers, 178-9; wounded, 183; anxiety about, 203; a prisoner, 209-10; in brooklyn, 218; in camden, 246; w. leaves his house, 305. whitman, hannah. see heyde. -iredwell, 280. -jefferson, 13, 50, 53, 86, 88, 185, 193, 251, 256, 273; goes to st. louis, 218; w. visits there, 265-5; death of, 342. -jesse (w.'s grandfather), xxv, 5, 6, 8. -jesse (w.'s brother), 11, 65, 86, 256. -jessie, 342. -joseph, 5. -lieutenant, 5. -louisa (van velsor), 4, 65, 103, 112; described, 6-7; and w., 12-3; illness, 19-20; and _l. of g._, 88; letters of w. to, 202, 233, 247, etc.; age and failing health, 210; a link with w.'s youth, 233; goes to camden, 246; death, 248; effect on w., 249, 250, 252, 258; her tomb, 341. -louisa (mrs. george w.), 250, 269. -mahala, 280. -martha, 248. -mary, 11, 86. -walt, dutch element in, 3; born, 6; at west hills, 7-9; at brooklyn, 10-3; hears hicks, 15-8; amusements and education, 19; as a lad, 19-20; sees booth, 22; and politics, 22, 33; at seventeen, 28; as a teacher, 28-33; games, 30; his idleness, 20, 30-1; and _long islander_, 31-2; wholesomeness, 32; a journalist, 33-7; _franklin evans_, 35; an editor, 37; political views, 39, 40, 44; love of society, 40; and of new york, 20, 41-2; the _eagle_, 42-4; public work, 43; goes to new orleans, 46, 49-53; returns _via_ st. louis, 54; his idea of america, 55; becomes a carpenter, 56; his reading, 57-61; attitude to american writers, 59-60; and to science, etc., 60-2; passion for america, 63; inner development, 65, 69-78; w. at 35, 66-8, 83; in n.y., 82-6; hears alboni, 86; indifference to money, 87; begins _l. of g._, 87; publishes it, 88; daily habits, 65, 88; holidays, 86, 89; power of joy, 91; compared with emerson, 94; view of the poet, 95-7; describes his childhood, 103-4; religious quality of w., 105-6; relation to emerson, rousseau, shelley, 106-8; reviews _l. of g._, 109; visit from conway, 110-2; appearance in '55, 111; visit from alcott and thoreau, 112-5; love of city-life, 114; publishes second edition _l. of g._, 116; symbolism of w., 117-22; w. as the american poet, 123; w. and evil, 124-5; and women, 126-7; in danger of prosecution, 127; publishes emerson's letter, 127-8; his letter to e., 128; idea of lecturing, 129-31; and of political life, 131-2; need for comrades, 132-3; becomes a republican, 134; w. and j. brown, 136; w.'s n.y. friends, 137; in n.y., 138-40; appearance in 1860, 140; rarely laughs, 142; at boston, 142-3; with emerson, 143-7; his optimism, 151; humility, 154; mystic experience, 155; pride, 156; evil qualities, 156; attitude toward sex, 159-62; his temperance, 160; as adam, 162; on comradeship, 163; w. and jesus, 167-8; and death, 169; w. in n.y., 172; and p. of wales, 173; sees lincoln, 175-6; w. and the outbreak of war, 178-81; goes to front, 183-4; home-troubles, 185-6, 193; life in washington, 190, 193, 201; friends there, 190-2; appearance, 192; occupation, 192-3; health, 193; thinks of lecturing, 193-4; in hospitals, 194-200; meets lincoln, 201; first illness, 202, 203-4; willing to share in war, 203; in brooklyn, 203-5, 209; prepares _drum-taps_, 205; attitude to war, 205-9; seeks release of george w., 209-10; clerk in indian bureau, 210 w. and lincoln's death, 211-2; harlan incident, 213-4; as a clerk, 216; gentler, 217; decreasing vitality, 218; visits mrs. price, 219-20; relations with w. m. rossetti, 223; with symonds, 223-5; mrs. gilchrist's letters, 225; w. and sex, 226; legendary element in story of w., 227; outcome of his personality, 228-9; w. and p. doyle, 231-3; w.'s solitude, 233; w. and women, 234; supports grant, 235; quarrel with o'connor, 236; his _democratic vistas_, 236-42; publishes fifth edition of _l. of g._, 242; w. a careful writer, 244; public recitation of poems, 245; illness, 247-57; goes to camden, 248; effect of mother's death, 249; loneliness in camden, 250; poems at this juncture, 253-5; his residence, 256; discharged from post, 257; poverty and help from england, 258-9; visits timber creek, 260-2; mrs. gilchrist comes to phila., 263-5; w. sits for bust, 265; carpenter's visit and account of w., 267-9; dr. bucke's do., 270; w.'s journey west, 271-4; and to canada, 274-7; goes to boston, 278-82; sees emerson, 282; _l. of g._ troubles, 284-6; w. and other prophetic writers, 289-300; puts himself into his rhythm, 291; universality of w., 295; and vital power, 298; his friendship with pearsall smith, 301-4; w. takes the mickle st. house, 305; second visit of carpenter, 305-7; w. and labour problems, 306-13; was he a socialist? 311-2; w. a "mugwump," 314; his household, 317-9; visitors, 319-24; his politico-social views, 323-4; serious illness, 326; more querulous, 327; swinburne's attack, 327; increased need for silence, 331; birthday dinners, 331-2; ingersoll's lecture, 333-5; w. and _l. of g._, 335-6; his views of health, 338-40; his tomb, 341; last illness, 341-4; last letter, 342; death, 344; funeral, 344-6; note on visit to new orleans, etc., 349-50. whitman, his characteristics, described by phrenologist, 67-8. see also 303-4, 334, and under anger, coolness, elemental quality, evil in, humility, humour, mysticism, pride, sanity, wonder, etc. -walter (father of w.), 56, 103; described, 6, 13-4; moves to brooklyn, 10; relations with w., 12, 65; death, 86, 88; tomb, 341. -zechariah, 5. whitman, burying ground, west hills, 9; family, and hicks, 14; and _l. of g._, 88; homestead at west hills, 2. see w. h. whitmanites, 218. whitman's america, introd.; w. owes much to a., xxv; its development, xxvi; extent of w.'s journeys, xxvii; w. a metropolitan american, and a type of america, xxvii-viii. "whitman's hollow," 5. whittier, j. g., 59, 336. "whoever you are holding me now in hand," 163. whole, the idea of the, w.'s love for, 60-1. "who learns my lesson complete?" 104. wholesomeness, w.'s, 32. wickedness, w.'s attitude to, 104. williams, family of, 31, 347-8. -naomi, 4, 347-8. -roger, 4. wilmot proviso, the, 43, 44. wisconsin, state of, w. in, 54. wisdom found in fellowship, 164. "woman waits for me, a," 126. woman, w. and, 102, 125-7, 148, 225-6, 240, 274. women, w.'s relations with, 51-3, 71, 139, 160, 234, 263, 303, 323, 349-50. women of america, 122; of boston, 279. women's suffrage, 240; w. and, 125-6. wonder, w.'s capacity for, 78. wood, fernando, 82, 178, 185. wood, silas, 7. woodfall and junius, 285. "word out of the sea, a." see "out of the cradle". words, w.'s idea of, 96, 117-9; w. invents, 212. wordsworth, w., 91, 97, 290; w. and, 59. work, w.'s power of, 32. working-man, american, w. and the, 312, 322. worship, w. feels this is for solitude, 142. worthington, mr., 285-6. yankee, w. dislikes the, 103. "years of the modern," 205-6. yeomen as citizens, 306, 308. young people, w. and, 275, 303. youth, america the land of, xx-xxii. the aberdeen university press limited a catalogue of books published by methuen and company: london 36 essex street w.c. contents page general literature, 2-19 ancient cities, 19 antiquary's books, 19 beginner's books, 19 business books, 20 byzantine texts, 20 churchman's bible, 20 churchman's library, 21 classical translations, 21 commercial series, 21 connoisseur's library, 22 library of devotion, 22 methuen's half-crown library, 23 illustrated pocket library of plain and coloured books, 23 junior examination series, 24 methuen's junior school books, 24 leaders of religion, 25 little blue books, 25 little books on art, 25 little galleries, 26 little guides, 26 little library, 26 methuen's miniature library, 28 oxford biographies, 28 school examination series, 28 social questions of to-day, 29 methuen's standard library, 29 textbooks of technology, 30 handbooks of theology, 30 westminster commentaries, 31 fiction, 32-40 methuen's strand library, 37 books for boys and girls, 38 novels of alexandre dumas, 38 methuen's sixpenny books, 39 october 1905 a catalogue of messrs. methuen's publications colonial editions are published of all messrs. methuen's novels issued at a price above _2s. 6d._, and similar editions are published of some works of general literature. these are marked in the catalogue. colonial editions are only for circulation in the british colonies and india. an asterisk denotes that a book is in the press. part i.--general literature the motor year book for 1905. with many illustrations and diagrams. _crown 8vo. 5s. net._ health, wealth and wisdom. _crown 8vo, 1s. net._ felissa; or, the life and opinions of a kitten of sentiment. with 12 coloured plates. _post 16mo. 2s. 6d. net._ =abbot (jacob).= see little blue books. *=abbott (j. h. m.)=, author of 'tommy cornstalk.' the old country: impressions of an australian in 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wales. with many illustrations. _crown 8vo. 6s._ *the riviera. with many illustrations. _crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. a book of ghosts. with 8 illustrations by d. murray smith. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. old country life. with 67 illustrations. _fifth edition. large crown 8vo. 6s._ a garland of country song: english folk songs with their traditional melodies. collected and arranged by s. baring-gould and h. f. sheppard. _demy 4to. 6s._ songs of the west: traditional ballads and songs of the west of england, with their melodies. collected by s. baring-gould, m.a., and h. f. sheppard, m.a. in 4 parts. _parts i., ii., iii., 2s. 6d. each. part iv., 4s. in one volume, paper sides, cloth back, 10s. net; roan, 15s._ see also the little guides and methuen's half-crown library. =barker (aldred. f.).= see textbooks of technology. =barnes (w. e.)=, d.d. see churchman's bible. =barnett (mrs. p. a.).= see little library. =baron (r. r. n.)=, m.a. french prose composition. _second edition. cr. 8vo. 2s. 6d. key, 3s. net._ see also junior school books. =barron (h. m.)=, m.a., wadham college, oxford. texts for sermons. with a preface by canon scott holland. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =bastable (c. f.)=, m.a. see social questions series. =batson (mrs. stephen).= a book of the country and the garden. illustrated by f. carruthers gould and a. c. gould. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d._ a concise handbook of garden flowers. _fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =batten (loring w.)=, ph.d., s.t.d., some time professor in the philadelphia divinity school. the hebrew prophet. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ =beaman (a. hulme).= pons asinorum; or, a guide to bridge. _second edition. fcap. 8vo. 2s._ =beard (w. s.).= see junior examination series and the beginner's books. =beckford (peter).= thoughts on hunting. edited by j. otho paget, and illustrated by g. h. jalland. _second and cheaper edition. demy 8vo. 6s._ =beckford (william).= see little library. =beeching (h. c.)=, m.a., canon of westminster. see library of devotion. *=begbie (harold).= master workers. with illustrations. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ =behmen (jacob).= dialogues on the supersensual life. edited by bernard holland. _fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =belloc (hilaire).= paris. with maps and illustrations. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =bellot (h. h. l.)=, m.a. the inner and middle temple. with numerous illustrations. _crown 8vo. 6s. net._ see also =l. a. a. jones.= =bennett (w. h.)=, m.a. a primer of the bible. _second edition. cr. 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =bennett (w. h.) and adeney (w. f.).= a biblical introduction. _second edition. crown 8vo. 7s. 6d._ =benson (archbishop).= god's board: communion addresses. _fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ =benson (a. c.)=, m.a. see oxford biographies. =benson (r. m.).= the way of holiness: a devotional commentary on the 119th psalm. _crown 8vo. 5s._ =bernard (e. r.)=, m.a., canon of salisbury. the english sunday. _fcap. 8vo. 1s. 6d._ =bertouch (baroness de).= the life of father ignatius, o.s.b., the monk of llanthony. with illustrations. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ a colonial edition is also published. =betham-edwards (m.).= home life in france. with many illustrations. _second edition. demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ =bethune-baker (j. f.)=, m.a., fellow of pembroke college, cambridge. see handbooks of theology. =bidez (m.).= see byzantine texts. =biggs (c. r. d.)=, d.d. see churchman's bible. =bindley (t. herbert)=, b.d. the oecumenical documents of the faith. with introductions and notes. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =binyon (laurence).= the death of adam, and other poems. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ *william blake. in 2 volumes. _quarto. £1, 1s. each._ vol. i. =birnstingl (ethel).= see little books on art. =blair (robert).= see illustrated pocket library. =blake (william).= see illustrated pocket library and little library. =blaxland (b.).=, m.a. see library of devotion. =bloom (t. harvey)=, m.a. shakespeare's garden. with illustrations. _fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d.; leather, 4s. 6d. net._ =blouet (henri).= see the beginner's books. =boardman (t. h.)=, m.a. see text books of technology. =bodley (j. e. c.).= author of 'france.' the coronation of edward vii. _demy 8vo. 21s. net._ by command of the king. =body (george)=, d.d. the soul's pilgrimage: devotional readings from his published and unpublished writings. selected and arranged by j. h. burn, b.d. f.r.s.e. _pott 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =bona (cardinal).= see library of devotion. =boon (f. c.).= see commercial series. =borrow (george).= see little library. =bos (j. ritzema).= agricultural zoology. translated by j. r. ainsworth davis, m.a. with an introduction by eleanor a. ormerod, f.e.s. with 155 illustrations. _crown 8vo. third edition. 3s. 6d._ =botting (c. g.)=, b.a. easy greek exercises. _crown 8vo. 2s._ see also junior examination series. =boulton (e. s.)=, m.a. geometry on modern lines. _crown 8vo. 2s._ *=boulton (william b.).= thomas gainsborough: his life, times, work, sitters, and friends. with 40 illustrations. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ sir joshua reynolds. with 49 illustrations. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ =bowden (e. m.).= the imitation of buddha: being quotations from buddhist literature for each day in the year. _fifth edition. crown 16mo. 2s. 6d._ =boyle (w.).= christmas at the zoo. with verses by w. boyle and 24 coloured pictures by h. b. neilson. _super royal 16mo. 2s._ =brabant (f. g.)=, m.a. see the little guides. =brodrick (mary) and morton (anderson).= a concise handbook of egyptian archæology. with many illustrations. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =brooke (a. s.)=, m.a. slingsby and slingsby castle. with many illustrations. _crown 8vo. 7s. 6d._ =brooks (e. w.).= see byzantine tests. =brown (p. h.)=, fraser professor of ancient (scottish) history at the university of edinburgh. scotland in the time of queen mary. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ =browne (sir thomas).= see methuen's standard library. =brownell (c. l.).= the heart of japan. illustrated. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s.; also demy 8vo. 6d._ a colonial edition is also published. =browning (robert).= see little library. =buckland (francis t.).= curiosities of natural history. with illustrations by harry b. neilson. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =buckton (a. m.).= the burden of engela: a ballad-epic. _second edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ eager heart: a mystery play. _third edition. crown 8vo. 1s. net._ =budge (e. a. wallis).= the gods of the egyptians. with over 100 coloured plates and many illustrations. _two volumes. royal 8vo. £3, 3s. net._ =bull (paul)=, army chaplain. god and our soldiers. _crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =bulley (miss).= see social questions series. =bunyan (john).= the pilgrim's progress. edited, with an introduction, by c. h. firth, m.a. with 39 illustrations by r. anning bell. _cr. 8vo. 6s._ see also library of devotion and methuen's standard library. =burch (g. j.)=, m.a., f.r.s. a manual of electrical science. with numerous illustrations. _crown 8vo. 3s._ =burgess (gelett).= goops and how to be them. with numerous illustrations. _small 4to. 6s._ =burke (edmund).= see methuen's standard library. =burn (a. e.)=, d.d., prebendary of lichfield. see handbooks of theology. =burn (j. h.)=, b.d. see library of devotion. =burnand (sir f. c.).= records and reminiscences, personal and general. with a portrait by h. v. herkomer. _crown 8vo. fourth and cheaper edition. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =burns (robert)=, the poems of. edited by andrew lang and w. a. craigie. with portrait. _third edition. demy 8vo, gilt top. 6s._ =burnside (w. f.)=, m.a. old testament history for use in schools. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =burton (alfred).= see illustrated pocket library. *=bussell (f. w.)=, d.d., fellow and vice-president of brasenose college, oxford. christian theology and social progress: the bampton lectures for 1905. _demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net._ =butler (joseph).= see methuen's standard library. =caldecott (alfred)=, d.d. see handbooks of theology. =calderwood (d. s.)=, headmaster of the normal school, edinburgh. test cards in euclid and algebra. in three packets of 40, with answers. _1s._ each. or in three books, price _2d._, _2d._, and _3d._ =cambridge (ada) [mrs. cross].= thirty years in australia. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d._ a colonial edition is also published. =canning (george).= see little library. =capey (e. f. h.).= see oxford biographies. =careless (john).= see illustrated pocket library. =carlyle (thomas).= the french revolution. edited by c. r. l. fletcher, fellow of magdalen college, oxford. _three volumes. crown 8vo. 18s._ the life and letters of oliver cromwell. with an introduction by c. h. firth, m.a., and notes and appendices by mrs. s. c. lomas. _three volumes. demy 8vo. 18s. net._ =carlyle (r. m. and a. j.)=, m.a. see leaders of religion. *=carpenter (margaret).= the child in art. with numerous illustrations. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =chamberlin (wilbur b.).= ordered to china. _crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =channer (c. c.) and roberts (m. e.).= lace-making in the midlands, past and present. with 16 full-page illustrations. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =chatterton (thomas).= see methuen's standard library. =chesterfield (lord)=, the letters of, to his son. edited, with an introduction by c. strachey, and notes by a. calthrop. _two volumes. cr. 8vo. 12s._ *=chesterton (g. k.).= dickens. with portraits and illustrations. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ a colonial edition is also published. =christian (f. w.).= the caroline islands. with many illustrations and maps. _demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net._ =cicero.= see classical translations. =clarke. (f. a.)=, m.a. see leaders of religion. =cleather (a. l.) and crump (b.).= richard wagners music dramas: interpretations, embodying wagner's own explanations. _in four volumes. fcap 8vo. 2s. 6d. each._ vol. i.--the ring of the nibelung. vol. ii.--parsifal, lohengrin, and the holy grail. vol. iii.--tristan and isolde. =clinch (g.).= see the little guides. =clough (w. t.)=, see junior school books. =coast (w. g.)=, b.a. examination papers in vergil. _crown 8vo. 2s._ =cobb (t.).= see little blue books. *=cobb (w. f.)=, m.a. the book of psalms: with a commentary. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ =coleridge (s. t.)=, selections from. edited by arthur symons. _fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ =collins (w. e.)=, m.a. see churchman's library. =colonna.= hypnerotomachia poliphili ubi humana omnia non nisi somnium esse docet atque obiter plurima scitu sane quam digna commemorat. an edition limited to 350 copies on handmade paper. _folio. three guineas net._ =combe (william).= see illustrated pocket library. =cook (a. m.)=, m.a. see e. c. marchant. =cooke-taylor (r. w.).= see social questions series. =corelli (marie).= the passing of the great queen: a tribute to the noble life of victoria regina. _small 4to. 1s._ a christmas greeting. _sm. 4to. 1s._ =corkran (alice).= see little books on art. =cotes (rosemary).= dante's garden. with a frontispiece. _second edition. fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d.; leather, 3s. 6d. net._ bible flowers. with a frontispiece and plan. _fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ =cowley (abraham).= see little library. *=cowper (william)=, the poems of. edited with an introduction and notes by j. c. bailey, m.a. with illustrations, including two unpublished designs by william blake. _two volumes. demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ =cox (j. charles)=, ll.d., f.s.a. see little guides, the antiquary's books, and ancient cities. =cox (harold)=, b.a. see social questions series. =crabbe (george).= see little library. =craigie (w. a.).= a primer of burns. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =craik (mrs.).= see little library. =crashaw (richard).= see little library. =crawford (f. g.).= see mary c. danson. =crouch (w.).= bryan king. with a portrait. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ =cruikshank (g.).= the loving ballad of lord bateman. with 11 plates. _crown 16mo. 1s. 6d. net._ from the edition published by c. tilt, 1811. =crump (b.).= see a. l. cleather. =cunliffe (f. h. e.)=, fellow of all souls' college, oxford. the history of the boer war. with many illustrations, plans, and portraits. _in 2 vols. quarto. 15s. each._ =cutts (e. l.)=, d.d. see leaders of religion. =daniell (g. w.)=, m.a. see leaders of religion. =danson (mary c.)= and =crawford (f. g.).= fathers in the faith. _small 8vo 1s. 6d._ =dante.= la commedia di dante. the italian text edited by paget toynbee, m.a., d.litt. _crown 8vo. 6s._ the purgatorio of dante. translated into spenserian prose by c. gordon wright. with the italian text. _fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ see also paget toynbee and little library. =darley (george).= see little library. *=d'arcy (r. f.)=, m.a. a new trigonometry for beginners. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =davenport (cyril).= see connoisseur's library and little books on art. *=davis (h. w. c.)=, m.a., fellow and tutor of balliol college, author of 'charlemagne.' england under the normans and angevins: 1066-1272. with maps and illustrations. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ =dawson (a. j.).= morocco. being a bundle of jottings, notes, impressions, tales, and tributes. with many illustrations. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ =deane (a. c.).= see little library. =delbos (leon).= the metric system. _crown 8vo. 2s._ =demosthenes.= the olynthiacs and philippics. translated upon a new principle by otho holland. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =demosthenes.= against conon and callicles. edited with notes and vocabulary, by f. darwin swift, m.a. _fcap. 8vo. 2s._ =dickens (charles).= see little library and illustrated pocket library. =dickinson (emily).= poems. first series. _crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. net._ =dickinson (g. l.)=, m.a., fellow of king's college, cambridge. the greek view of life. _third edition. crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =dickson (h. n.)=, f.r.s.e., f.r. met. soc. meteorology. illustrated. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =dilke (lady).= see social questions series. =dillon (edward).= see connoisseur's library. =ditchfield (p. h.)=, m.a., f.s.a. the story of our english towns. with an introduction by augustus jessopp, d.d. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ old english customs: extant at the present time. _crown 8vo. 6s._ see also methuen's half-crown library. =dixon (w. m.)=, m.a. a primer of tennyson. _second edition. crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ english poetry from blake to browning. _second edition. crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =dole (n. h.).= famous composers. with portraits. _two volumes. demy 8vo. 12s. net._ =doney (may).= songs of the real. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ a volume of poems. =douglas (james).= the man in the pulpit. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ =dowden (j.)=, d.d., lord bishop of edinburgh. see churchman's library. =drage (g.).= see books on business. =driver (s. r.)=, d.d., d.c.l., canon of christ church, regius professor of hebrew in the university of oxford. sermons on subjects connected with the old testament. _crown 8vo. 6s._ see also westminster commentaries. =dryhurst (a. r.).= see little books on art. =duguid (charles).= see books on business. =duncan (s. j.)= (mrs. cotes), author of 'a voyage of consolation.' on the other side of the latch. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =dunn (j. t.)=, d.sc., =and mundella (v. a.)=. general elementary science. with 114 illustrations. _second edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =dunstan (a. e.)=, b.sc. see junior school books. =durham (the earl of).= a report on canada. with an introductory note. _demy 8vo. 4s. 6d. net._ =dutt (w. a.).= a popular guide to norfolk. _medium 8vo. 6d. net._ the norfolk broads. with coloured and other illustrations by frank southgate. _large demy 8vo. 6s._ see also the little guides. =earle (john)=, bishop of salisbury. microcosmographie, or a piece of the world discovered; in essayes and characters. _post 16mo. 2s. net._ =edmonds, (major j. e.)=, r.e.; d.a.q.m.g. see w. birkbeck wood. =edwards (clement).= see social questions series. =edwards (w. douglas)=. see commercial series. =egan (pierce).= see illustrated pocket library. *=egerton (h. e.)=, m.a. a history of british colonial policy. new and cheaper issue. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ a colonial edition is also published. =ellaby (c. g.).= see the little guides. =ellerton (f. g.).= see s. j. stone. =ellwood (thomas)=, the history of the life of. edited by c. g. crump, m.a. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =engel (e.).= a history of english literature: from its beginning to tennyson. translated from the german. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ =erasmus.= a book called in latin enchiridion militis christiani, and in english the manual of the christian knight, replenished with most wholesome precepts, made by the famous clerk erasmus of roterdame, to the which is added a new and marvellous profitable preface. from the edition printed by wynken de worde for john byddell, 1533. _fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ =fairbrother (w. h.)=, m.a. the philosophy of t. h. green. _second edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =farrer (reginald).= the garden of asia. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =ferrier (susan).= see little library. =fidler (t. claxton)=, m.inst. c.e. see books on business. =fielding (henry).= see methuen's standard library. =finn (s. w.)=, m.a. see junior examination series. =firth (c. h.)=, m.a. cromwell's army: a history of the english soldier during the civil wars, the commonwealth, and the protectorate. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =fisher (g. w.)=, m.a. annals of shrewsbury school. with numerous illustrations. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d._ =fitzgerald (edward).= the rubáiyát of omar khayyám. printed from the fifth and last edition. with a commentary by mrs. stephen batson, and a biography of omar by e. d. ross. _crown 8vo. 6s._ see also miniature library. =flecker (w. h.)=, m.a., d.c.l., headmaster of the dean close school, cheltenham. the student's prayer book. part i. morning and evening prayer and litany. with an introduction and notes. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =flux (a. w.)=, m.a., william dow professor of political economy in m'gill university, montreal. economic principles. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ =fortescue (mrs. g.).= see little books on art. =fraser (david).= a modern campaign; or, war and wireless telegraphy in the far east. illustrated. _crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =fraser (j. f.).= round the world on a wheel. with 100 illustrations. _fourth edition crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =french (w.)=, m.a. see textbooks of technology. =freudenreich (ed. von).= dairy bacteriology. a short manual for the use of students. translated by j. r. ainsworth davis, m.a. _second edition revised. crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =fulford (h. w.)=, m.a. see churchman's bible. =c. g., and f. c. g.= john bull's adventures in the fiscal wonderland. by charles geake. with 46 illustrations by f. carruthers gould. _second edition. crown 8vo. 1s. net._ =gallichan (w. m.).= see the little guides. =gambado (geoffrey, esq.).= see illustrated pocket library. =gaskell (mrs.).= see little library. =gasquet=, the right rev. abbot, o.s.b. see antiquary's books. =george (h. b.)=, m.a., fellow of new college, oxford. battles of english history. with numerous plans. _fourth edition._ revised, with a new chapter including the south african war. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ a historical geography of the british empire. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =gibbins (h. de b.)=, litt.d., m.a. industry in england: historical outlines. with 5 maps. _third edition. demy 8vo. 10s. 6d._ a companion german grammar. _crown 8vo. 1s. 6d._ the industrial history of england. _tenth edition._ revised. with maps and plans. _crown 8vo. 3s._ english social reformers. _second edition. crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ see also commercial series and social questions series. =gibbon (edward).= the decline and fall of the roman empire. a new edition, edited with notes, appendices, and maps, by j. b. bury, m.a., litt.d., regius professor of greek at cambridge. _in seven volumes. demy 8vo. gilt top, 8s. 6d. each. also, crown 8vo. 6s. each._ memoirs of my life and writings. edited, with an introduction and notes, by g. birkbeck hill, ll.d. _crown 8vo. 6s._ see also methuen's standard library. =gibson (e. c. s.)=, d.d., lord bishop of gloucester. see westminster commentaries, handbooks of theology, and oxford biographies. =gilbert (a. r.).= see little books on art. =godfrey (elizabeth).= a book of remembrance. _second edition. fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ =godley (a. d.)=, m.a., fellow of magdalen college, oxford. lyra frivola. _third edition. fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d._ verses to order. _second edition. fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d._ second strings. _fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =goldsmith (oliver).= the vicar of wakefield. with 24 coloured plates by t. rowlandson. _royal 8vo. one guinea net._ reprinted from the edition of 1817. also _fcap. 32mo._ with 10 plates in photogravure by tony johannot. _leather, 2s. 6d. net._ see also illustrated pocket library and methuen's standard library. =goodrich-freer (a.).= in a syrian saddle. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ =goudge (h. l.)=, m.a., principal of wells theological college. see westminster commentaries. =graham (p. anderson).= see social questions series. =granger (f. s.)=, m.a., litt.d. psychology. _second edition. crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ the soul of a christian. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =gray (e. m'queen).= german passages for unseen translation. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =gray (p. l.)=, b.sc. the principles of magnetism and electricity: an elementary text-book. with 181 diagrams. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =green (g. buckland)=, m.a., assistant master at edinburgh academy, late fellow of st. john's college, oxon. notes on greek and latin syntax. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =green (e. t.)=, m.a. see churchman's library. =greenidge (a. h. j.)=, m.a. a history of rome: during the later republic and the early principate. _in six volumes. demy 8vo._ vol. i. (133-104 b.c.). _10s. 6d. net._ =greenwell (dora).= see miniature library. =gregory (r. a.)=, the vault of heaven. a popular introduction to astronomy. with numerous illustrations. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =gregory (miss e. c.).= see library of devotion. =greville minor.= a modern journal. edited by j. a. spender. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ =grinling (c. h.).= a history of the great northern railway, 1845-95. with illustrations. revised, with an additional chapter. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d._ =grubb (h. c.).= see textbooks of technology. =guiney (louisa i.).= hurrell froude: memoranda and comments. illustrated. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ *=gwynn (m. l.).= a birthday book. new and cheaper issue. _royal 8vo. 5s. net._ =hackett (john)=, b.d. a history of the orthodox church of cyprus. with maps and illustrations. _demy 8vo. 15s. net._ =haddon (a. c.).= sc.d., f.r.s. head-hunters, black, white, and brown. with many illustrations and a map. _demy 8vo. 15s._ =hadfield (r. a.).= see social questions series. =hall (r. n.) and neal (w. g.).= the ancient ruins of rhodesia. with numerous illustrations. _second edition, revised. demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ =hall (r. n.).= great zimbabwe. with numerous plans and illustrations. _royal 8vo. 21s. net._ =hamilton (f. j.)=, d.d. see byzantine texts. =hammond (j. l.).= charles james fox: a biographical study. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d._ =hannay (d.).= a short history of the royal navy, from early times to the present day. illustrated. _two volumes. demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. each._ vol. i., 1200-1683. =hannay (james o.)=, m. a. the spirit and origin of christian monasticism. _crown 8vo. 6s._ the wisdom of the desert. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ =hare. (a. t.)=, m.a. the construction of large induction coils. with numerous diagrams. _demy 8vo. 6s._ =harrison (clifford).= reading and readers. _fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =hawthorne (nathaniel).= see little library. =heath (frank r.).= see the little guides. =heath (dudley).= see connoisseur's library. =hello (ernest).= studies in saintship. translated from the french by v. m. crawford. _fcap 8vo. 3s. 6d._ *=henderson (b. w.)=, fellow of exeter college, oxford. the life and principate of the emperor nero. with illustrations. _new and cheaper issue. demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ =henderson (t. f.).= see little library and oxford biographies. =henley (w. e.).= see methuen's half-crown library. =henley (w. e.) and whibley (c.).= see methuen's half-crown library. =henson (h. h.)=, b.d., canon of westminster. apostolic christianity: as illustrated by the epistles of st. paul to the corinthians. _crown 8vo. 6s._ light and leaven: historical and social sermons. _crown 8vo. 6s._ discipline and law. _fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =herbert (george).= see library of devotion. =herbert of cherbury (lord).= see miniature library. =hewins (w. a. s.)=, b.a. english trade and finance in the seventeenth century. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =hewitt (ethel m.).= a golden dial. _fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ =heywood (w.).= palio and ponte: a book of tuscan games. illustrated. _royal 8vo. 21s. net._ =hilbert (t.).= see little blue books. =hill (clare).= see textbooks of technology. =hill (henry)=, b.a., headmaster of the boy's high school, worcester, cape colony. a south african arithmetic. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =hillegas (howard c.).= with the boer forces. with 24 illustrations. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =hobhouse (emily).= the brunt of the war. with map and illustrations. _crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =hobhouse (l. t.)=, fellow of c.c.c., oxford. the theory of knowledge. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ =hobson (j. a.)=, m.a. international trade: a study of economic principles. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ see also social questions series. =hodgkin (t.)=, d.c.l. see leaders of religion. =hodgson (mrs. a. w.).= how to identify old chinese porcelain. _post 8vo. 6s._ =hogg (thomas jefferson).= shelley at oxford. with an introduction by r. a. streatfeild. _fcap. 8vo. 2s. net._ =holden-stone (g. de).= see books on business. =holdich (sir t. h.)=, k.c.i.e. the indian borderland: being a personal record of twenty years. illustrated. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ =holdsworth (w. s.)=, m.a. a history of english law. _in two volumes. vol. i. demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ *=holt (emily).= the secret of popularity. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ a colonial edition is also published. =holyoake (g. j.).= see social questions series. =hone (nathaniel j.).= see antiquary's books. =hoppner.= see little galleries. =horace.= see classical translations. =horsburgh (e. l. s.)=, m.a. waterloo: a narrative and criticism. with plans. _second edition. crown 8vo. 5s._ see also oxford biographies. =horth (a. c.).= see textbooks of technology. =horton (r. f.)=, d.d. see leaders of religion. =hosie (alexander).= manchuria. with illustrations and a map. _second edition. demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ a colonial edition is also published. =how (f. d.).= six great schoolmasters. with portraits and illustrations. _second edition. demy 8vo. 7s. 6d._ =howell (g.).= see social questions series. =hudson (robert).= memorials of a warwickshire village. with many illustrations. _demy 8vo. 15s. net._ =hughes (c. e.).= the praise of shakespeare. an english anthology. with a preface by sidney lee. _demy 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ =hughes (thomas).= tom brown's schooldays. with an introduction and notes by vernon randall. _leather. royal 32mo. 2s. 6d. net._ =hutchinson (horace g.).= the new forest. illustrated in colour with 50 pictures by walter tyndale and 4 by miss lucy kemp welch. _large demy 8vo. 21s. net._ =hutton (a. w.)=, m.a. see leaders of religion. =hutton (edward).= the cities of umbria. with many illustrations, of which 20 are in colour, by a. pisa. _crown 8vo. 6s._ english love poems. edited with an introduction. _fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ =hutton (r. h.).= see leaders of religion. =hutton (w. h.)=, m.a. the life of sir thomas more. with portraits. _second edition. crown 8vo. 5s._ see also leaders of religion. =hyett (f. a.).= a short history of florence. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ =ibsen (henrik).= brand. a drama. translated by william wilson. _third edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =inge (w. r.)=, m.a., fellow and tutor of hertford college, oxford. christian mysticism. the bampton lectures for 1899. _demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net._ see also library of devotion. =innes (a. d.)=, m.a. a history of the british in india. with maps and plans. _crown 8vo. 6s._ *england under the tudors. with maps. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ *=jackson (c. e.)=, b.a., science master at bradford grammar school. examples in physics. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =jackson (s.)=, m.a. see commercial series. =jackson (f. hamilton).= see the little guides. =jacob (f.)=, m.a. see junior examination series. =jeans (j. stephen).= see social questions series and business books. =jeffreys (d. gwyn).= dolly's theatricals. described and illustrated with 24 coloured pictures. _super royal 16mo. 2s. 6d._ =jenks (e.)=, m.a., reader of law in the university of oxford. english local government. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =jenner (mrs. h.).= see little books on art. =jessopp (augustus)=, d.d. see leaders of religion. =jevons (f. b.)=, m.a., litt.d., principal of hatfield hall, durham. see churchman's library and handbooks of theology. =johnson (mrs. barham).= william bodham donne and his friends. with illustrations. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ =johnston (sir h. h.)=, k.c.b. british central africa. with nearly 200 illustrations and six maps. _second edition. crown 4to. 18s. net._ *=jones (r. crompton).= poems of the inner life. selected by. _eleventh edition. fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ =jones (h.).= see commercial series. =jones (l. a. atherley)=, k.c., m.p., and =bellot (hugh h. l.)=. the miners' guide to the coal mines' regulation acts. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ =jonson (ben).= see methuen's standard library. =julian (lady) of norwich.= revelations of divine love. edited by grace warrack. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =juvenal.= see classical translations. =kaufmann (m.).= see social questions series. =keating (j. f.)=, d.d. the agape and the eucharist. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =keats (john).= the poems of. edited with introduction and notes by e. de selincourt, m.a. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ see also little library and methuen's universal library. =keble (john).= the christian year. with an introduction and notes by w. lock, d.d., warden of keble college. illustrated by r. anning bell. _third edition. fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d.; padded morocco, 5s._ see also library of devotion. =kempis (thomas a).= the imitation of christ. with an introduction by dean farrar. illustrated by c. m. gere. _third edition. fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d.; padded morocco, 5s._ see also library of devotion and methuen's standard library. also translated by c. bigg, d.d. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =kennedy (bart.).= the green sphinx. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ =kennedy (james houghton)=, d.d., assistant lecturer in divinity in the university of dublin. st. paul's second and third epistles to the corinthians. with introduction, dissertations and notes. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =kestell (j. d).= through shot and flame: being the adventures and experiences of j. d. kestell, chaplain to general christian de wet. _crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =kimmins (c. w.)=, m.a. the chemistry of life and health. illustrated. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =kinglake (a. w.).= see little library. =kipling (rudyard).= barrack-room ballads. _73rd thousand. crown 8vo. twenty-first edition. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. the seven seas. _62nd thousand. tenth edition. crown 8vo, gilt top 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. the five nations. _41st thousand. second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. departmental ditties. _sixteenth edition. crown 8vo. buckram. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =knowling (r. j.)=, m.a., professor of new testament exegesis at king's college, london. see westminster commentaries. =lamb= (=charles= and =mary=), the works of. edited by e. v. lucas. with numerous illustrations. _in seven volumes. demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. each._ the life of. see e. v. lucas. the essays of elia. with over 100 illustrations by a. garth jones, and an introduction by e. v. lucas. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d._ the king and queen of hearts: an 1805 book for children. illustrated by william mulready. a new edition, in facsimile, edited by e. v. lucas. _1s. 6d._ see also little library. =lambert (f. a. h.).= see the little guides. =lambros (professor).= see byzantine texts. =lane-poole (stanley).= a history of egypt in the middle ages. fully illustrated. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =langbridge (f.)=, m.a., ballads of the brave: poems of chivalry, enterprise, courage, and constancy. _second edition. crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =law (william).= see library of devotion. =leach (henry).= the duke of devonshire. a biography. with 12 illustrations. _demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net._ a colonial edition is also published. =lee (captain l. melville).= a history of police in england. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ =leigh (percival).= the comic english grammar. embellished with upwards of 50 characteristic illustrations by john leech. _post 16mo. 2s. 6d. net._ =lewes (v. b.)=, m.a. air and water. illustrated. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =lisle (fortunée de).= see little books on art. =littlehales (h.).= see antiquary's books. =lock (walter)=, d.d., warden of keble college. st paul, the master builder. _second edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ *the bible and christian life: being addresses and sermons. _crown 8vo. 6s._ see also leaders of religion and library of devotion. =locke (john).= see methuen's standard library. =locker (f.).= see little library. =longfellow (h. w.).= see little library. =lorimer (george horace).= letters from a self-made merchant to his son. _thirteenth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. old gorgon graham. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =lover (samuel).= see illustrated pocket library. =e. v. l. and c. l. g.= england day by day: or, the englishman's handbook to efficiency. illustrated by george morrow. _fourth edition. fcap. 4to. 1s. net._ a burlesque year-book and almanac. =lucas (e. v.).= the life of charles lamb. with numerous portraits and illustrations. _two vols. demy 8vo. 21s. net._ a wanderer in holland. with many illustrations, of which 20 are in colour by herbert marshall. _crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =lucian.= see classical translations. =lyde (l. w.)=, m.a. see commercial series. =lydon (noel s.).= see junior school books. =lyttelton (hon. mrs. a.).= women and their work. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =m. m.= how to dress and what to wear. _crown 8vo. 1s. net._ =macaulay (lord).= critical and historical essays. edited by f. c. montague, m. a. _three volumes. crown 8vo. 18s._ the only edition of this book completely annotated. =m'allen (j. e. b.)=, m.a. see commercial series. =macculloch (j. a.).= see churchman's library. *=maccunn (florence).= mary stuart. with over 60 illustrations, including a frontispiece in photogravure. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ a colonial edition is also published. see also leaders of religion. =mcdermott (e. r.).= see books on business. =m'dowall (a. s.).= see oxford biographies. =mackay (a. m.).= see churchman's library. =magnus (laurie)=, m.a. a primer of wordsworth. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =mahaffy (j. p.)=, litt.d. a history of the egypt of the ptolemies. fully illustrated. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =maitland (f. w.)=, ll.d., downing professor of the laws of england in the university of cambridge. canon law in england. _royal 8vo. 7s. 6d._ =malden (h. e.)=, m.a. english records. a companion to the history of england. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ the english citizen: his rights and duties. _second edition. crown 8vo. 1s. 6d._ *a school history of surrey. with many illustrations. _crown 8vo. 1s. 6d._ =marchant (e. c.)=, m.a., fellow of peterhouse, cambridge. a greek anthology. _second edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =marchant (c. e.)=, m.a., and =cook (a. m.)=, m.a. passages for unseen translation. _second edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =marlowe (christopher).= see methuen's standard library. =marr (j. e.)=, f.r.s., fellow of st john's college, cambridge. the scientific study of scenery. _second edition._ illustrated. _crown 8vo. 6s._ agricultural geology. with numerous illustrations. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =marvell (andrew).= see little library. =masefield (j. e.)=, sea life in nelson's time. with many illustrations. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ =maskell (a.).= see connoisseur's library. =mason (a. j.)=, d.d. see leaders of religion. =massee (george).= the evolution of plant life: lower forms. with illustrations. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =masterman (c. f. g.)=, m.a. tennyson as a religious teacher. _crown 8vo. 6s._ *=matheson (hon. e. f.).= counsels of life. _fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ a volume of selections in prose and verse. =may (phil)=, the phil may album. _second edition. 4to. 1s. net._ =mellows (emma s.)=, a short story of english literature. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ *=methuen (a. m. s.)=, the tragedy of south africa. _cr. 8vo. 2s. net._ a revised and enlarged edition of the author's 'peace or war in south africa.' england's ruin: discussed in sixteen letters to the right hon. joseph chamberlain, m.p. _crown 8vo. 3d. net._ =michell (e. b)=, the art and practice of hawking. with 3 photogravures by g. e. lodge, and other illustrations. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d._ =millais (j. g.)=, the life and letters of sir john everett millais, president of the royal academy. with many illustrations, of which 2 are in photogravure. _new edition. demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ =millais (sir john everett).= see little galleries. =millis (c. t.)=, m.i.m.e. see textbooks of technology. =milne (j. g.)=, m.a. a history of roman egypt. fully illustrated. _crown 8vo. 6s._ *=milton, john=, the poems of, both english and latin, compos'd at several times. printed by his true copies. the songs were set in musick by mr. henry lawes, gentleman of the kings chappel, and one of his majesties private musick. printed and publish'd according to order. printed by ruth raworth for humphrey moseley, and are to be sold at the signe of the princes armes in pauls churchyard, 1645. a milton day book. edited by r. f. towndrow. _fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ see also little library and methuen's standard library. =mitchell (p. chalmers)=, m.a. outlines of biology. illustrated. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ *=mitton (g. e.).= jane austen and her england. with many portraits and illustrations. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ a colonial edition is also published. '=moil (a.).=' see books on business. =moir (d. m.).= see little library. *=money (l. g. chiozza).= wealth and poverty. _demy 8vo. 5s. net._ =moore (h. e.).= see social questions series. =moran (clarence g.).= see books on business. =more (sir thomas).= see methuen's standard library. =morfill (w. r.)=, oriel college, oxford. a history of russia from peter the great to alexander ii. with maps and plans. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =morich (r. j.)=, late of clifton college. see school examination series. *=morris (j.)=, the makers of japan. with many portraits and illustrations. _demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net._ a colonial edition is also published. =morris (j. e.).= see the little guides. =morton (miss anderson).= see miss brodrick. =moule (h. c. g.)=, d.d., lord bishop of durham. see leaders of religion. =muir (m. m. pattison)=, m.a. the chemistry of fire. the elementary principles of chemistry. illustrated. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =mundella (v. a.)=, m.a. see j. t. dunn. =munro (r.)=, ll.d. see antiquary's books. =naval officer (a).= see illustrated pocket library. =neal (w. g.).= see r. n. hall. =newman (j. h.) and others.= see library of devotion. =nichols (j. b. b.).= see little library. =nicklin (t.)=, m.a. examination papers in thucydides. _crown 8vo. 2s._ =nimrod.= see illustrated pocket library. =northcote (james)=, r.a. the conversations of james northcote, r.a., and james ward. edited by ernest fletcher. with many portraits. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d._ =norway (a. h.)=, author of 'highways and byways in devon and cornwall.' naples. with 25 coloured illustrations by maurice greiffenhagen. a new edition. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =novalis.= the disciples at saïs and other fragments. edited by miss una birch. _fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =oliphant (mrs.).= see leaders of religion. =oman (c. w. c.)=, m.a., fellow of all souls', oxford. a history of the art of war. vol. ii.: the middle ages, from the fourth to the fourteenth century. illustrated. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ =ottley (r. l.).= d.d. see handbooks of theology and leaders of religion. =owen (douglas).= see books on business. =oxford (m. n.)=, of guy's hospital. a handbook of nursing. _second edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =pakes (w. c. c.).= the science of hygiene. with numerous illustrations. _demy 8vo. 15s._ =palmer (frederick).= with kuroki in manchuria. with many illustrations. _third edition. demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ a colonial edition is also published. =parker (gilbert).= a lover's diary: songs in sequence. _fcap. 8vo. 5s._ =parkinson (john).= paradisi in sole paradisus terristris, or a garden of all sorts of pleasant flowers. _folio. £4, 4s. net._ =parmenter (john).= helio-tropes, or new posies for sundials, 1625. edited by percival landon. _quarto. 3s. 6d. net._ =parmentier (prof. léon).= see byzantine texts. =pascal.= see library of devotion. *=paston (george).= social caricatures of the eighteenth century. _imperial quarto. £2, 12s. 6d. net._ see also little books on art and illustrated pocket library. =paterson (w. r.)= (benjamin swift). life's questionings. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ =patterson (a. h.).= notes of an east coast naturalist. illustrated in colour by f. southgate. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ *nature notes in eastern norfolk. a series of observations on the birds, fishes, mammals, reptiles, and stalk-eyed crustaceans found in that neighbourhood, with a list of the species. with 12 illustrations in colour, by frank southgate. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =peacock (n.).= see little books on art. =pearce (e. h.)=, m.a. annals of christ's hospital. with many illustrations. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d._ =peel (sidney)=, late fellow of trinity college, oxford, and secretary to the royal commission on the licensing laws. practical licensing reform. _second edition. crown 8vo. 1s. 6d._ =peters (j. p.)=, d.d. see churchman's library. =petrie (w. m. flinders)=, d.c.l., ll.d., professor of egyptology at university college. a history of egypt, from the earliest times to the present day. fully illustrated. _in six volumes. crown 8vo. 6s. each._ vol. i. prehistoric times to xvith dynasty. _fifth edition._ vol. ii. the xviith and xviiith dynasties. _fourth edition._ vol. iii. xixth to xxxth dynasties. vol. iv. the egypt of the ptolemies. j. p. mahaffy, litt.d. vol. v. roman egypt. j. g. milne, m.a. vol. vi. egypt in the middle ages. stanley lane-poole, m.a. religion and conscience in ancient egypt. fully illustrated. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ syria and egypt, from the tell el amarna tablets. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ egyptian tales. illustrated by tristram ellis. _in two volumes. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. each._ egyptian decorative art. with 120 illustrations. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =phillips (w. a.).= see oxford biographies. =phillpotts (eden).= my devon year. with 38 illustrations by j. ley pethybridge. _second and cheaper edition. large crown 8vo. 6s._ *up along and down along. illustrated by claude shepperson. _crown 8vo. 5s. net._ a volume of poems. =pienaar (philip).= with steyn and de wet. _second edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ a colonial edition is also published. *=plarr (victor)= and =walton (f. w.).= a school history of middlesex. with many illustrations. _crown 8vo. 1s. 6d._ =plautus.= the captivi. edited, with an introduction, textual notes, and a commentary, by w. m. lindsay, fellow of jesus college, oxford. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ =plowden-wardlaw (j. t.)=, b.a., king's college, cambridge. see school examination series. =pocock (roger).= a frontiersman. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =podmore (frank).= modern spiritualism. _two volumes. demy 8vo. 21s. net._ a history and a criticism. =poer (j. patrick le).= a modern legionary. _crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =pollard (alice).= see little books on art. =pollard (a. w.).= old picture books. with many illustrations. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ =pollard (eliza f.).= see little books on art. =pollock (david)=, m.i.n.a. see books on business. =pond (c. f.)=, a montaigne day book. edited by. _fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ =potter (m. c.)=, m.a., f.l.s. a text-book of agricultural botany. illustrated. _second edition. crown 8vo. 4s. 6d._ =potter boy (an old).= when i was a child. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =pradeau (g.).= a key to the time allusions in the divine comedy. with a dial. _small quarto. 3s. 6d._ =prance (g.).= see r. wyon. =prescott (o. l.).= about music, and what it is made of. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ =price (l. l.)=, m.a., fellow of oriel college, oxon. a history of english political economy. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =primrose (deborah).= a modern boeotia. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =pugin= and =rowlandson=. the microcosm of london, or london in miniature. with 104 illustrations in colour. _in three volumes. small 4to. £3, 3s. net._ ='q' (a. t. quiller couch).= see methuen's half-crown library. =quevedo villegas.= see miniature library. =g. r.= and =e. s.= the woodhouse correspondence. _crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =rackham (r. b.)=, m.a. see westminster commentaries. =randolph (b. w.)=, d.d. see library of devotion. =rannie (d. w.)=, m.a. a student's history of scotland. _cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =rashdall (hastings)=, m.a., fellow and tutor of new college, oxford. doctrine and development. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =rawstorne (lawrence, esq.).= see illustrated pocket library. =a real paddy.= see illustrated pocket library. =reason (w.)=, m.a. see social questions series. =redfern (w. b.)=, author of 'ancient wood and iron work in cambridge,' etc. royal and historic gloves and ancient shoes. profusely illustrated in colour and half-tone. _quarto, £2, 2s. net._ =reynolds.= see little galleries. =roberts (m. e.).= see c. c. channer. =robertson, (a.)=, d.d., lord bishop of exeter. regnum dei. the bampton lectures of 1901. _demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net._ =robertson (c. grant)=, m.a., fellow of all souls' college, oxford, examiner in the honours school of modern history, oxford, 1901-1904. select statutes, cases, and constitutional documents, 1660-1832. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ *=robertson (c. grant)= and =bartholomew (j. g.)=, f.r.s.e., f.r.g.s. the student's historical atlas of the british empire. _quarto. 3s. 6d. net._ =robertson (sir g. s.)=, k.c.s.i. see methuen's half-crown library. =robinson (a. w.)=, m.a. see churchman's bible. =robinson (cecilia).= the ministry of deaconesses. with an introduction by the late archbishop of canterbury. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =robinson (f. s.).= see connoisseur's library. =rochefoucauld (la).= see little library. =rodwell (g.)=, b.a. new testament greek. a course for beginners. with a preface by walter lock, d.d., warden of keble college. _fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =roe (fred).= ancient coffers and cupboards: their history and description. with many illustrations. _quarto. £3, 3s. net._ *old oak furniture. with many illustrations by the author, including a frontispiece in colour. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ =rogers (a. g. l.)=, m.a. see books on business. *=romney.= a gallery of romney. by arthur b. chamberlain. with 66 plates in photogravure. _imperial quarto. £3, 3s. net._ see little galleries. =roscoe (e. s.).= robert harley, earl of oxford. illustrated. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d._ this is the only life of harley in existence. see also the little guides. =rose (edward).= the rose reader. with numerous illustrations. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. also in 4 parts. parts i. and ii. 6d. each; part iii. 8d.; part iv. 10d._ =rowntree (joshua).= the imperial drug trade. _crown 8vo. 5s. net._ =rubie (a. e.)=, d.d. see junior school books. =russell (w. clark).= the life of admiral lord collingwood. with illustrations by f. brangwyn. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =st. anselm.= see library of devotion. =st. augustine.= see library of devotion. =st. cyres (viscount).= see oxford biographies. ='saki' (h. munro).= reginald. _second edition. fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ =sales (st. francis de).= see library of devotion. =salmon (a. l.).= a popular guide to devon. _medium 8vo. 6d. net._ see also the little guides. =sargeaunt (j.)=, m.a. annals of westminster school. with numerous illustrations. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d._ =sathas (c.).= see byzantine texts. =schmitt (john).= see byzantine texts. =scott (a. m.).= winston spencer churchill. with portraits and illustrations. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =seeley (h. g.)=, f.r.s. dragons of the air. with many illustrations. _cr. 8vo. 6s._ =sells (v. p.)=, m.a. the mechanics of daily life. illustrated. _cr. 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =selous (edmund).= tommy smith's animals. illustrated by g. w. ord. _third edition. fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =settle (j. h.).= anecdotes of soldiers, in peace and war. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._ a colonial edition is also published. =shakespeare (william).= the four folios, 1623; 1632; 1664; 1685. each _four guineas net_, or a complete set, _twelve guineas net_. =the arden shakespeare.= _demy 8vo. 2s. 6d. net each volume._ general editor, w. j. craig. an edition of shakespeare in single plays. edited with a full introduction, textual notes, and a commentary at the foot of the page. hamlet. edited by edward dowden, litt.d. romeo and juliet. edited by edward dowden, litt.d. king lear. edited by w. j. craig. julius cæsar. edited by m. macmillan, m.a. the tempest. edited by moreton luce. othello. edited by h. c. hart. titus andronicus. edited by h. b. baildon. cymbeline. edited by edward dowden. the merry wives of windsor. edited by h. c. hart. a midsummer night's dream. edited by h. cuningham. king henry v. edited by h. a. evans. all's well that ends well. edited by w. o. brigstocke. the taming of the shrew. edited by r. warwick bond. timon of athens. edited by k. deighton. measure for measure. edited by h. c. hart. twelfth night. edited by moreton luce. the merchant of venice. edited by c. knox pooler. =the little quarto shakespeare.= edited by w. j. craig. with introductions and notes. _pott 16mo. in 40 volumes. leather, price 1s. net each volume._ see also methuen's standard library. =sharp (a.).= victorian poets. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =sharp (mrs. e. a.).= see little books on art. =shedlock (j. s.).= the pianoforte sonata: its origin and development. _crown 8vo. 5s._ =shelley (percy b.).= adonais; an elegy on the death of john keats, author of 'endymion,' etc. pisa. from the types of didot, 1821. _2s. net._ see also methuen's standard library. =sherwell (arthur)=, m.a. see social questions series. =shipley (mary e.).= an english church history for children. with a preface by the bishop of gibraltar. with maps and illustrations. part i. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ =sichel (walter).= disraeli: a study in personality and ideas. with 3 portraits. _demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net._ a colonial edition is also published. see also oxford biographies. =sime (j.).= see little books on art. =simonson (g. a.).= francesco guardi. with 41 plates. _royal folio. £2, 2s. net._ =sketchley (r. e. d.).= see little books on art. =skipton (h. p. k.).= see little books on art. =sladen (douglas).= sicily: the new winter resort. with over 200 illustrations. _second edition. crown 8vo. 5s. net._ =small (evan)=, m.a. the earth. an introduction to physiography. illustrated. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =smallwood, (m. g.).= see little books on art. =smedley (f. e.).= see illustrated pocket library. =smith (adam).= the wealth of nations. edited with an introduction and numerous notes by edwin cannan, m.a. _two volumes. demy 8vo. 21s. net._ see also methuen's standard library. =smith= (=horace= and =james=). see little library. *=smith (h. bompas)=, m.a. a new junior arithmetic. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ *=smith (john thomas).= a book for a rainy day. edited by wilfrid whitten. illustrated. _demy 8vo. 15s. net._ =snell (f. j.).= a book of exmoor. illustrated. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =snowden (c. e.).= a brief survey of british history. _demy 8vo. 4s. 6d._ =sophocles.= see classical translations. =sornet (l. a.).= see junior school books. =south (wilton e.)=, m.a. see junior school books. =southey (r.)=, english seamen. edited, with an introduction, by david hannay. vol. i. (howard, clifford, hawkins, drake, cavendish). _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ vol. ii. (richard hawkins, grenville, essex, and raleigh). _crown 8vo. 6s._ =spence (c. h.)=, m.a. see school examination series. =spooner (w. a.)=, m.a. see leaders of religion. =stanbridge (j. w.)=, b.d. see library of devotion. '=stancliffe.=' golf do's and dont's. _second edition. fcap. 8vo. 1s._ =stedman (a. m. m.)=, m.a. initia latina: easy lessons on elementary accidence. _eighth edition. fcap. 8vo. 1s._ first latin lessons. _ninth edition. crown 8vo. 2s._ first latin reader. with notes adapted to the shorter latin primer and vocabulary. _sixth edition revised. 18mo. 1s. 6d._ easy selections from cæsar. the helvetian war. _second edition. 18mo. 1s._ easy selections from livy. part i. the kings of rome. _18mo. second edition. 1s. 6d._ easy latin passages for unseen translation. _ninth edition. fcap. 8vo. 1s. 6d._ exempla latina. first exercises in latin accidence. with vocabulary. _third edition. crown 8vo. 1s._ easy latin exercises on the syntax of the shorter and revised latin primer. with vocabulary. _tenth and cheaper edition, re-written. crown 8vo. 1s. 6d. original edition. 2s. 6d._ key, _3s. net_. the latin compound sentence: rules and exercises. _second edition. crown 8vo. 1s. 6d._ with vocabulary. _2s._ notanda quaedam: miscellaneous latin exercises on common rules and idioms. _fourth edition. fcap. 8vo. 1s. 6d._ with vocabulary. _2s._ key, _2s. net_. latin vocabularies for repetition: arranged according to subjects. _thirteenth edition. fcap. 8vo. 1s. 6d._ a vocabulary of latin idioms. _18mo. second edition. 1s._ steps to greek. _second edition, revised. 18mo. 1s._ a shorter greek primer. _crown 8vo. 1s. 6d._ easy greek passages for unseen translation. _third edition, revised. fcap. 8vo. 1s. 6d._ greek vocabularies for repetition. arranged according to subjects. _fourth edition. fcap. 8vo. 1s. 6d._ greek testament selections. for the use of schools. with introduction, notes, and vocabulary. _fourth edition. fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d._ steps to french. _sixth edition. 18mo. 8d._ first french lessons. _sixth edition, revised. crown 8vo. 1s._ easy french passages for unseen translation. _fifth edition, revised. fcap. 8vo. 1s. 6d._ easy french exercises on elementary syntax. with vocabulary. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ key. _3s. net._ french vocabularies for repetition: arranged according to subjects. _twelfth edition. fcap. 8vo. 1s._ see also school examination series. =steel (r. elliott)=, m.a., f.c.s. the world of science. with 147 illustrations. _second edition. crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ see also school examination series. =stephenson (c.)=, of the technical college, bradford, and =suddards (f.)= of the yorkshire college, leeds. ornamental design for woven fabrics. illustrated. _demy 8vo. second edition. 7s. 6d._ =stephenson (j.)=, m.a. the chief truths of the christian faith. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =sterne (laurence).= see little library. =sterry (w.)=, m.a. annals of eton college. with numerous illustrations. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d._ =steuart (katherine).= by allan water. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =stevenson (r. l.).= the letters of robert louis stevenson to his family and friends. selected and edited, with notes and introductions, by sidney colvin. _sixth and cheaper edition. crown 8vo. 12s._ library edition. _demy 8vo. 2 vols. 25s. net._ a colonial edition is also published. vailima letters. with an etched portrait by william strang. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. buckram. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. the life of r. l. stevenson. see g. balfour. =stevenson (m. i.).= from saranac to the marquesas. being letters written by mrs. m. i. stevenson during 1887-8 to her sister, miss jane whyte balfour. with an introduction by george w. balfour, m.d., ll.d., f.r.s.s. _crown 8vo. 6s. net._ a colonial edition is also published. =stoddart (anna m.).= see oxford biographies. =stone (e. d.)=, m.a. selections from the odyssey. _fcap. 8vo. 1s. 6d._ =stone (s. j.).= poems and hymns. with a memoir by f. g. ellerton, m.a. with portrait. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =straker (f.).= see books on business. =streane (a. w.)=, d.d. see churchman's bible. =stroud (h.)=, d.sc., m.a. see textbooks of technology. =strutt (joseph).= the sports and pastimes of the people of england. illustrated by many engravings. revised by j. charles cox, ll.d., f.s.a. _quarto. 21s. net._ =stuart (capt. donald).= the struggle for persia. with a map. _crown 8vo. 6s._ *=sturch (f.)=, staff instructor to the surrey county council. solutions to the city and guilds questions in manual instruction drawing. _imp. 4to._ *=suckling (sir john).= fragmenta aurea: a collection of all the incomparable peeces, written by. and published by a friend to perpetuate his memory. printed by his own copies. printed for humphrey moseley, and are to be sold at his shop, at the sign of the princes arms in st. paul's churchyard, 1646. =suddards (f.).= see c. stephenson. =surtees (r. s.).= see illustrated pocket library. =swift (jonathan).= the journal to stella. edited by g. a. aitken. _cr. 8vo. 6s._ =symes (j. e.)=, m.a. the french revolution. _second edition. crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =syrett (netta).= see little blue books. =tacitus.= agricola. with introduction, notes, map, etc. by r. f. davis, m.a. _fcap. 8vo. 2s._ germania. by the same editor. _fcap. 8vo. 2s._ see also classical translations. =tallack (w.).= howard letters and memories. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ =tauler (j.).= see library of devotion. =taunton (e. l.).= a history of the jesuits in england. with illustrations. _demy 8vo. 21s. net._ =taylor (a. e.).= the elements of metaphysics. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ =taylor (f. g.)=, m.a. see commercial series. =taylor (i. a.).= see oxford biographies. =taylor (t. m.)=, m.a., fellow of gonville and caius college, cambridge. a constitutional and political history of rome. _crown 8vo. 7s. 6d._ =tennyson (alfred, lord).= the early poems of. edited, with notes and an introduction, by j. churton collins, m.a. _crown 8vo. 6s._ in memoriam, maud, and the princess. edited by j. churton collins, m.a. _crown 8vo. 6s._ see also little library. =terry (c. s.).= see oxford biographies. =terton (alice).= lights and shadows in a hospital. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =thackeray (w. m.).= see little library. =theobald (f. w.)=, m.a. insect life. illustrated. _second ed. revised. cr. 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =thompson (a. h.).= see the little guides. =tileston (mary w.).= daily strength for daily needs. _eleventh edition. fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._ also an edition in superior binding _6s._ =tompkins (h. w.)=, f.r.h.s. see the little guides. =townley (lady susan).= my chinese note-book. with 16 illustrations and 2 maps. _third edition. demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ a colonial edition is also published. =toynbee (paget)=, m.a., d.litt. dante studies and researches. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ see also oxford biographies. =trench (herbert).= deirdre wed: and other poems. _crown 8vo. 5s._ =trevelyan (g. m.)=, fellow of trinity college, cambridge. england under the stuarts. with maps and plans. _second edition. demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ =troutbeck (g. e.).= see the little guides. =tuckwell (gertrude).= see social questions series. =twining (louisa).= see social questions series. =tyler (e. a.)=, b.a., f.c.s. see junior school books. =tyrell-gill (frances).= see little books on art. =vardon (harry).= the complete golfer. with numerous illustrations. _fourth edition. demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._ a colonial edition is also published. =vaughan (henry).= see little library. =voegelin (a.)=, m.a. see junior examination series. =wade (g. w.)=, d.d. old testament history. with maps. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =wagner (richard).= see a. l. cleather. =wall (j. c.).= devils. illustrated by the author and from photographs. _demy 8vo. 4s. 6d. net._ see also antiquary's books. =walters (h. b.).= see little books on art. =walton (f. w.).= see victor plarr. =walton (isaac)= and =cotton (charles)=. see illustrated pocket library, methuen's standard library, and little library. =warmelo (d. s. van).= on commando. with portrait. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ a colonial edition is also published. =waterhouse (mrs. alfred).= with the simple-hearted: little homilies to women in country places. _second edition. small pott 8vo. 2s. net._ see also little library. =weatherhead (t. c.)=, m.a. examination papers in horace. _cr. 8vo. 2s._ see also junior examination series. =webb (w. t.).= see little blue books. =webber (f. c).= see textbooks of technology. =wells (sidney h.).= see textbooks of technology. =wells (j.)=, m.a., fellow and tutor of wadham college. oxford and oxford life. by members of the university. _third edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =a short history of rome.= _sixth edition._ with 3 maps. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ this book is intended for the middle and upper forms of public schools and for pass students at the universities. it contains copious tables, etc. see also the little guides. =wetmore (helen c.).= the last of the great scouts ('buffalo bill'). with illustrations. _second edition. demy 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =whibley (c.).= see henley and whibley. =whibley (l.)=, m.a., fellow of pembroke college, cambridge. greek oligarchies: their organisation and character. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =whitaker (g. h.)=, m.a. see churchman's bible. =white (gilbert).= the natural history of selborne. edited by l. c. miall, f.r.s., assisted by w. warde fowler, m.a. _crown 8vo. 6s._ see also methuen's standard library. =whitfield (e. e.).= see commercial series. =whitehead (a. w.).= gaspard de coligny. with many illustrations. _demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net._ =whiteley (r. lloyd)=, f.i.c., principal of the technical institute, west bromwich. an elementary text-book of inorganic chemistry. _crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =whitley (miss).= see social questions series. =whitten (w.).= see thomas smith. =whyte (a. g.)=, b.sc. see books on business. =wilberforce (wilfrid).= see little books on art. =wilde (oscar).= de profundis. _fifth edition. crown 8vo. 5s. net._ a colonial edition is also published. =wilkins (w. h.)=, b.a. see social questions series. =wilkinson (j. frome).= see social questions series. =williamson (w.).= the british gardener. illustrated. _demy 8vo. 10s. 6d._ =williamson (w.)=, b.a. see junior examination series, junior school books, and the beginner's books. =wilmot-buxton (e. m.).= makers of europe. _crown 8vo. third edition. 3s. 6d._ a text-book of european history for middle forms. the ancient world. with maps and illustrations. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ see also the beginner's books. =wilson (bishop).= see library of devotion. =willson (beckles).= lord strathcona: the story of his life. illustrated. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d._ a colonial edition is also published. =wilson (a. j.).= see books on business. =wilson (h. a.).= see books on business. =wilton (richard)=, m.a. lyra pastoralis: songs of nature, church, and home. _pott 8vo. 2s. 6d._ =winbolt (s. e.)=, m.a. exercises in latin accidence. _cr. 8vo. 1s. 6d._ latin hexameter verse: an aid to composition. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ key, _5s. net_. =windle (b. c. a.)=, d.sc., f.r.s. see antiquary's books and the little guides. =winterbotham (canon)=, m.a., b.sc., ll.b. see churchman's library. =wood (j. a. e.).= see textbooks of technology. *=wood (j. hickory).= dan leno: his life and achievements. with many illustrations. _crown 8vo. 6s._ a colonial edition is also published. =wood (w. birkbeck)=, m.a., late scholar of worcester college, oxford, and =edmonds (major j. e.)=, r.e., d.a.q.-m.g. a history of the american civil war. with an introduction by h. spenser wilkinson. with 24 maps and plans. _demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net._ =wordsworth (christopher).= see antiquary's books. =wordsworth (w.).= see little library. =wordsworth (w.)= and =coleridge (s. t.).= see little library. =wright (arthur)=, m.a., fellow of queen's college, cambridge. see churchman's library. =wright (c. gordon).= see dante. =wright (sophie).= german vocabularies for repetition. _fcap. 8vo. 1s. 6d._ =wrong (george m.)=, professor of history in the university of toronto. the earl of elgin. with illustrations. _demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._ =wylde (a. b.).= modern abyssinia. with a map and a 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the author has immense command of language, and a limitless audacity.... this interesting and remarkable romance will live long after much of the ephemeral literature of the day is forgotten.... a literary phenomenon ... novel, and even sublime.'--w. t. stead in the _review of reviews_. the master christian. _165th thousand. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'it cannot be denied that "the master christian" is a powerful book; that it is one likely to raise uncomfortable questions in all but the most self-satisfied readers, and that it strikes at the root of the failure of the churches--the decay of faith--in a manner which shows the inevitable disaster heaping up.... the good cardinal bonpré is a beautiful figure, fit to stand beside the good bishop in "les misérables." it is a book with a serious purpose expressed with absolute unconventionality and passion.... and this is to say it is a book worth reading.'--_examiner._ temporal power: a study in supremacy. _130th thousand. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'it is impossible to read such a work as "temporal power" without becoming convinced that the story is intended to convey certain criticisms on the ways of the world and certain suggestions for the betterment of humanity.... if the chief intention of the book was to hold the mirror up to shams, injustice, dishonesty, cruelty, and neglect of conscience, nothing but praise can be given to that intention.'--_morning post._ god's good man: a simple love story. _134th thousand. crown 8vo. 6s._ =cotes (mrs. everard).= see sara jeannette duncan. =cotterell (constance).= the virgin and the scales. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =crane (stephen)= and =barr (robert)=. the o'ruddy. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =crockett (s. r.)=, author of 'the raiders,' etc. lochinvar. illustrated. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the standard bearer. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =croker (b. m.).= angel. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =peggy of the bartons.= _sixth edit. crown 8vo. 6s._ the old cantonment. _crown 8vo. 6s._ a state secret. _third edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ johanna. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the happy valley. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ a nine days' wonder. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =dawson (a. j.).= daniel whyte. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =doyle (a. conan)=, author of 'sherlock holmes,' 'the white company,' etc. round the red lamp. _ninth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =duncan (sara jeannette)= (mrs. everard cotes). those delightful americans. illustrated. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the pool in the desert. _crown 8vo. 6s._ a voyage of consolation. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =findlater (j. h.).= the green graves of balgowrie. _fifth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =findlater (mary).= a narrow way. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the rose of joy. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ see also shilling novels. =fitzpatrick (k.).= the weans at rowallan. illustrated. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =fitzstephen (gerald).= more kin than kind. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =fletcher (j. s.).= lucian the dreamer. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =fraser (mrs. hugh)=, author of 'the stolen emperor.' the slaking of the sword. _crown 8vo. 6s._ *the shadow of the lord. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =gerard (dorothea)=, author of 'lady baby.' the conquest of london. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ holy matrimony. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ made of money. _crown 8vo. 6s._ the bridge of life. _crown 8vo. 6s._ *the improbable idyll. _crown 8vo. 6s._ see also shilling novels. =gerard (emily).= the herons' tower. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =gissing (george)=, author of 'demos,' 'in the year of jubilee,' etc. the town traveller. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ see also shilling novels. =gleig (charles).= bunter's cruise. illustrated. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =harrod (f.) (frances forbes robertson).= the taming of the brute. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =herbertson (agnes g.).= patience dean. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =hichens (robert).= the prophet of berkeley square. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ tongues of conscience. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ felix. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the woman with the fan. _sixth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ byeways. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ the garden of allah. _eleventh edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the black spaniel. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =hobbes (john oliver)=, author of 'robert orange.' the serious wooing. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =hope (anthony).= the god in the car. _tenth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'a very remarkable book, deserving of critical analysis impossible within our limit; brilliant, but not superficial; well considered, but not elaborated; constructed with the proverbial art that conceals, but yet allows itself to be enjoyed by readers to whom fine literary method is a keen pleasure.'--_the world._ a change of air. _sixth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'a graceful, vivacious comedy, true to human nature. the characters are traced with a masterly hand.'--_times._ a man of mark. _fifth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'of all mr. hope's books, "a man of mark" is the one which best compares with "the prisoner of zenda."'--_national observer._ the chronicles of count antonio. _seventh edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'it is a perfectly enchanting story of love and chivalry, and pure romance. the count is the most constant, desperate, and modest and tender of lovers, a peerless gentleman, an intrepid fighter, a faithful friend, and a magnanimous foe.'--_guardian._ phroso. illustrated by h. r. millar. _sixth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'the tale is thoroughly fresh, quick with vitality, stirring the blood.'--_st. james's gazette._ simon dale. illustrated. _sixth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'there is searching analysis of human nature, with a most ingeniously constructed plot. mr. hope has drawn the contrasts of his women with marvellous subtlety and delicacy.'--_times._ the king's mirror. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'in elegance, delicacy, and tact it ranks with the best of his novels, while in the wide range of its portraiture and the subtilty of its analysis it surpasses all his earlier ventures.'--_spectator._ quisante. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'the book is notable for a very high literary quality, and an impress of power and mastery on every page.'--_daily chronicle._ the dolly dialogues. _crown 8vo. 6s._ a servant of the public. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =hope (graham)=, author of 'a cardinal and his conscience,' etc., etc. the lady of lyte. _second ed. crown 8vo. 6s._ =hough (emerson).= the mississippi bubble. illustrated. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =housman (clemence).= aglovale de galis. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =hyne (c. j. cutcliffe)=, author of 'captain kettle.' mr. horrocks, purser. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =jacobs (w. w.).= many cargoes. _twenty-seventh edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ sea urchins. _eleventh edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ a master of craft. illustrated. _sixth edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ 'can be unreservedly recommended to all who have not lost their appetite for wholesome laughter.'--_spectator._ 'the best humorous book published for many a day.'--_black and white._ light freights. illustrated. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ 'his wit and humour are perfectly irresistible. mr. jacobs writes of skippers, and mates, and seamen, and his crew are the jolliest lot that ever sailed.'--_daily news._ 'laughter in every page.'--_daily mail._ =james (henry).= the soft side. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the better sort. _crown 8vo. 6s._ the ambassadors. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the golden bowl. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =janson (gustaf).= abraham's sacrifice. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =keays (h. a. mitchell).= he that eateth bread with me. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =langbridge (v.)= and =bourne (c. harold)=. the valley of inheritance. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =lawless (hon. emily).= see shilling novels. =lawson (harry)=, author of 'when the billy boils.' children of the bush. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =le queux (w.).= the hunchback of westminster. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the closed book. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the valley of the shadow. illustrated. _third edition. crown 8vo._ 6s. behind the throne. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =levett-yeats (s.).= orrain. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =linton (e. lynn).= the true history of joshua davidson, christian and communist. _twelfth edition. medium 8vo. 6d._ =long (j. luther)=, co-author of 'the darling of the gods.' madame butterfly. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ sixty jane. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =lyall (edna).= derrick vaughan, novelist. _42nd thousand. cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =m'carthy (justin h.)=, author of 'if i were king.' the lady of loyalty house. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the dryad. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =macnaughtan (s.).= the fortune of christina macnab. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =malet (lucas).= colonel enderby's wife. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ a counsel of perfection. _new edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ little peter. _second edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ the wages of sin. _fourteenth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the carissima. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the gateless barrier. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'in "the gateless barrier" it is at once evident that, whilst lucas malet has preserved her birthright of originality, the artistry, the actual writing, is above even the high level of the books that were born before.'--_westminster gazette._ the history of sir richard calmady. _seventh edition._ 'a picture finely and amply conceived. in the strength and insight in which the story has been conceived, in the wealth of fancy and reflection bestowed upon its execution, and in the moving sincerity of its pathos throughout, "sir richard calmady" must rank as the great novel of a great writer.'--_literature._ 'the ripest fruit of lucas malet's genius. a picture of maternal love by turns tender and terrible.'--_spectator._ 'a remarkably fine book, with a noble motive and a sound conclusion.'--_pilot._ =mann (mrs. m. e.).= olivia's summer. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ a lost estate. _a new edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the parish of hilby. _a new edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the parish nurse. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ gran'ma's jane. _crown 8vo. 6s._ mrs. peter howard. _crown 8vo. 6s._ a winter's tale. _a new edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ one another's burdens. _a new edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ see also books for boys and girls. =marriott (charles)=, author of 'the column.' genevra. _second edition. cr. 8vo. 6s._ =marsh (richard).= the twickenham peerage. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ a duel. _crown 8vo. 6s._ the marquis of putney. _crown 8vo. 6s._ see also shilling novels. =mason (a. e. w.)=, author of 'the courtship of morrice buckler,' 'miranda of the balcony,' etc. clementina. illustrated. _crown 8vo. second edition. 6s._ =mathers (helen)=, author of 'comin' thro' the rye.' honey. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ griff of griffithscourt. _crown 8vo. 6s._ the ferryman. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =maxwell (w. b.)=, author of 'the ragged messenger.' vivien. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =meade (l. t.).= drift. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ resurgam. _crown 8vo. 6s._ see also shilling novels. =meredith (ellis).= heart of my heart. _crown 8vo. 6s._ '=miss molly=' (the author of). the great reconciler. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =mitford (bertram).= the sign of the spider. illustrated. _sixth edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ in the whirl of the rising. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the red derelict. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =montrésor (f. f.)=, author of 'into the highways and hedges.' the alien. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =morrison (arthur).= tales of mean streets. _sixth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'a great book. the author's method is amazingly effective, and produces a thrilling sense of reality. the writer lays upon us a master hand. the book is simply appalling and irresistible in its interest. it is humorous also; without humour it would not make the mark it is certain to make.'--_world._ a child of the jago. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'the book is a masterpiece.'--_pall mall gazette._ to london town. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'this is the new mr. arthur morrison, gracious and tender, sympathetic and human.'--_daily telegraph._ cunning murrell. _crown 8vo. 6s._ 'admirable.... delightful humorous relief ... a most artistic and satisfactory achievement.'--_spectator._ the hole in the wall. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'a masterpiece of artistic realism. it has a finality of touch that only a master may command.'--_daily chronicle._ 'an absolute masterpiece, which any novelist might be proud to claim.'--_graphic._ '"the hole in the wall" is a masterly piece of work. his characters are drawn with amazing skill. extraordinary power.'--_daily telegraph._ divers vanities. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =nesbit (e.).= (mrs. e. bland). the red house. illustrated. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ see also shilling novels. =norris (w. e.).= the credit of the county. illustrated. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the embarrassing orphan. _crown 8vo. 6s._ nigel's vocation. _crown 8vo. 6s._ barham of beltana. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ see also shilling novels. =ollivant (alfred).= owd bob, the grey dog of kenmuir. _eighth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =oppenheim (e. phillips).= master of men. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =oxenham (john)=, author of 'barbe of grand bayou.' a weaver of webs. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the gate of the desert. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =pain (barry).= three fantasies. _crown 8vo. 1s._ lindley kays. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =parker (gilbert).= pierre and his people. _sixth edition._ 'stories happily conceived and finely executed. there is strength and genius in mr. parker's style.'--_daily telegraph._ mrs. falchion. _fifth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'a splendid study of character.'--_athenæum._ the translation of a savage. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the trail of the sword. illustrated. _eighth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'a rousing and dramatic tale. a book like this is a joy inexpressible.'--_daily chronicle._ when valmond came to pontiac: the story of a lost napoleon. _fifth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'here we find romance--real, breathing, living romance. the character of valmond is drawn unerringly.'--_pall mall gazette._ an adventurer of the north: the last adventures of 'pretty pierre.' _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'the present book is full of fine and moving stories of the great north.'--_glasgow herald._ the seats of the mighty. illustrated. _thirteenth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'mr. parker has produced a really fine historical novel.'--_athenæum._ 'a great book.'--_black and white._ the battle of the strong. a romance of two kingdoms. illustrated. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'nothing more vigorous or more human has come from mr. gilbert parker than this novel.'--_literature._ the pomp of the lavilettes. _second edition. crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ 'unforced pathos, and a deeper knowledge of human nature than he has displayed before.'--_pall mall gazette._ =pemberton (max).= the footsteps of a throne. illustrated. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ i crown thee king. with illustrations by frank dadd and a. forrestier. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =phillpotts (eden).= lying prophets. _crown 8vo. 6s._ children of the mist. _fifth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the human boy. with a frontispiece. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'mr. phillpotts knows exactly what school-boys do, and can lay bare their inmost thoughts; likewise he shows an all-pervading sense of humour.'--_academy._ sons of the morning. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ 'a book of strange power and fascination.'--_morning post._ the river. _third edition. cr. 8vo. 6s._ '"the river" places mr. phillpotts in the front rank of living novelists.'--_punch._ 'since "lorna doone" we have had nothing so picturesque as this new romance.'--_birmingham gazette._ 'mr. phillpotts's new book is a masterpiece which brings him indisputably into the front rank of english novelists.'--_pall mall gazette._ 'this great romance of the river dart. the finest book mr. eden phillpotts has written.'--_morning post._ the american prisoner. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the secret woman. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ knock at a venture. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ see also shilling novels. =pickthall (marmaduke).= said the fisherman. _fifth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ brendle. _crown 8vo. 6s._ ='q,'= author of 'dead man's rock.' the white wolf. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =rhys (grace).= the wooing of sheila. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the prince of lisnover. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =rhys (grace) and another.= the diverted village. with illustrations by dorothy gwyn jeffreys. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =ridge (w. pett).= lost property. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ erb. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ a son of the state. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ a breaker of laws. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ mrs. galer's business. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ secretary to bayne, m.p. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =ritchie (mrs. david g.).= the truthful liar. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =roberts (c. g. d.).= the heart of the ancient wood. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ =russell (w. clark).= my danish sweetheart. illustrated. _fifth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ his island princess. illustrated. _second edition. crown 6vo. 6s._ see also shilling novels. =sergeant (adeline).= anthea's way. _crown 8vo. 6s._ the progress of rachel. _crown 8vo. 6s._ the mystery of the moat. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ mrs. lygon's husband. _cr. 8vo. 6s._ see also shilling novels. =shannon (w. f.).= the mess deck. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ see also shilling novels. =sonnichsen (albert).= deep sea vagabonds. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =thompson (vance).= spinners of life. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =urquhart (m.).= a tragedy in commonplace. _second ed. crown 8vo. 6s._ =waineman (paul).= by a finnish lake. _crown 8vo. 6s._ the song of the forest. _crown 8vo. 6s._ see also shilling novels. =watson (h. b. marriott).= alarums and excursions. _crown 8vo. 6s._ captain fortune. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ twisted eglantine. with 8 illustrations by frank craig. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ see also shilling novels. =wells (h. g.).= the sea lady. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =weyman (stanley)=, author of 'a gentleman of france.' under the red robe. with illustrations by r. c. woodville. _nineteenth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =white (stewart e.)=, author of 'the blazed trail.' conjuror's house. a romance of the free trail. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ =white (percy).= the system. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the patient man. _crown 8vo. 6s._ =williamson (mrs. c. n.)=, author of 'the barnstormers.' the adventure of princess sylvia. _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ the woman who dared. _crown 8vo. 6s._ the sea could tell. _second edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the castle of the shadows. _third edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ see also shilling novels. =williamson (c. n. and a. m.).= the lightning conductor: being the romance of a motor car. illustrated. _twelfth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ the princess passes. illustrated. _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 6s._ my friend the chauffeur. with 16 illustrations. _second ed. crown 8vo. 6s._ *=wyllarde (dolf)=, author of 'uriah the hittite.' the forerunners. _crown 8vo. 6s._ methuen's strand library _crown 8vo. cloth, 1s. net._ encouraged by the great and steady sale of their sixpenny novels, messrs. methuen have determined to issue a new series of fiction at a low price under the title of 'methuen's strand library.' these books are well printed and well bound in _cloth_, and the excellence of their quality may be gauged from the names of those authors who contribute the early volumes of the series. messrs. methuen would point out that the books are as good and as long as a six shilling novel, that they are bound in cloth and not in paper, and that their price is one shilling _net_. they feel sure that the public will appreciate such good and cheap literature, and the books can be seen at all good booksellers. the first volumes are- =balfour (andrew).= vengeance is mine. to arms. =baring-gould (s.).= mrs. curgenven of curgenven. domitia. the frobishers. =barlow (jane).= author of 'irish idylls.' from the east unto the west. a creel of irish stories. the founding of fortunes. =barr (robert).= the victors. =bartram (george).= thirteen evenings. =benson (e. f.)=, author of 'dodo.' the capsina. =besant (sir walter).= a five-years' tryst. =bowles (g. stewart).= a stretch off the land. =brooke (emma).= the poet's child. =bullock (shan f.).= the barrys. the charmer. the squireen. the red leaguers. =burton (j. bloundelle)=. across the salt seas. the clash of arms. denounced. =chesney (weatherby).= the baptist ring. the branded prince. the foundered galleon. john topp. =clifford (mrs. w. k.).= a flash of summer. =collingwood (harry).= the doctor of the 'juliet.' =cornfield (l. cope).= sons of adversity. =crane (stephen).= wounds in the rain. =denny (c. e.).= the romance of upfold manor. =dickson (harris).= the black wolf's breed. =embree (e. c. f.).= the heart of flame. =fenn (g. manville).= an electric spark. =findlater (mary).= over the hills. =forrest (r. e.).= the sword of azrael. =francis (m. e.).= miss erin. =gallon (tom).= rickerby's folly. =gerard (dorothea).= things that have happened. =glanville (ernest).= the despatch rider. the lost regiment. the inca's treasure. =gordon (julien).= mrs. clyde. worlds people. =goss (c. f.).= the redemption of david corson. =hales (a. g.).= jair the apostate. =hamilton (lord ernest).= mary hamilton. =harrison (mrs. burton).= a princess of the hills. illustrated. =hooper (i.).= the singer of marly. =hough (emerson).= the mississippi bubble. ='iota' (mrs. caffyn).= anne mauleverer. =kelly (florence finch).= with hoops of steel. =lawless (hon. emily).= maelcho. =linden (annie).= a woman of sentiment. =lorimer (norma).= josiah's wife. =lush (charles k.).= the autocrats. =macdonnell (a.).= the story of teresa. =macgrath (harold).= the puppet crown. =mackie (pauline bradford).= the voice in the desert. =m'queen gray (e.).= my stewardship. =marsh (richard).= the seen and the unseen. garnered. a metamorphosis. marvels and mysteries. both sides of the veil. =mayall (j. w.).= the cynic and the syren. =meade (l. t.).= out of the fashion. =monkhouse (allan).= love in a life. =moore (arthur).= the knight punctilious. =nesbit (mrs. bland).= the literary sense. =norris (w. e.).= an octave. =oliphant (mrs.).= the prodigals. the lady's walk. sir robert's fortune. the two mary's. =penny (mrs. f. a.).= a mixed marriage. =phillpotts (eden).= the striking hours. fancy free. =randal (j.).= aunt bethia's button. =raymond (walter).= fortune's darling. =rhys (grace).= the diverted village. =rickert (edith).= out of the cypress swamp. =roberton (m. h.).= a gallant quaker. =saunders (marshall).= rose a charlitte. =sergeant (adeline).= accused and accuser. barbara's money. the enthusiast. a great lady. the love that overcame. the master of beechwood. under suspicion. the yellow diamond. =shannon (w. f.).= jim twelves. =strain (e. h.).= elmslie's drag net. =stringer (arthur).= the silver poppy. =stuart (esmé).= christalla. =sutherland (duchess of).= one hour and the next. =swan (annie).= love grown cold. =swift (benjamin).= sordon. =tanqueray (mrs. b. m.).= the royal quaker. =trafford-tannton (mrs. e. w.).= silent dominion. =waineman (paul).= a heroine from finland. =watson (h. b. marriott-).= the skirts of happy chance. books for boys and girls _crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ the getting well of dorothy. by mrs. w. k. clifford. illustrated by gordon-browne. _second edition._ the icelander's sword. by s. baring-gould. only a guard-room dog. by edith e. cuthell. the doctor of the juliet. by harry collingwood. little peter. by lucas malet. _second edition._ master rockafellar's voyage. by w. clark russell. the secret of madame de monluc. by the author of "mdlle. mori." syd belton: or, the boy who would not go to sea. by g. manville fenn. the red grange. by mrs. molesworth. a girl of the people. by l. t. meade. hepsy gipsy. by l. t. meade. _2s. 6d._ the honourable miss. by l. t. meade. there was once a prince. by mrs. m. e. mann. when arnold comes home. by mrs. m. e. mann. the novels of alexandre dumas _price 6d. double volumes, 1s._ the three musketeers. with a long introduction by andrew lang. double volume. the prince of thieves. _second edition._ robin hood. a sequel to the above. the corsican brothers. georges. crop-eared jacquot; jane; etc. twenty years after. double volume. amaury. the castle of eppstein. the snowball, and sultanetta. cecile; or, the wedding gown. acté. the black tulip. the vicomte de bragelonne. part i. louis de la vallière. double volume. part ii. the man in the iron mask. double volume. the convict's son. the wolf-leader. nanon; or, the women's war. double volume. pauline; murat; and pascal bruno. the adventures of captain pamphile. fernande. gabriel lambert. catherine blum. the chevalier d'harmental. double volume. sylvandire. the fencing master. the reminiscences of antony. conscience. *the regent's daughter. a sequel to chevalier d'harmental. illustrated edition. the three musketeers. illustrated in colour by frank adams. _2s. 6d._ the prince of thieves. illustrated in colour by frank adams. _2s._ robin hood the outlaw. illustrated in colour by frank adams. _2s._ the corsican brothers. illustrated in colour by a. m. m'lellan. _1s. 6d._ the wolf-leader. illustrated in colour by frank adams. _1s. 6d._ georges. illustrated in colour by munro orr. _2s._ twenty years after. illustrated in colour by frank adams. _3s._ amaury. illustrated in colour by gordon browne. _2s._ the snowball, and sultanetta. illustrated in colour by frank adams. _2s._ the vicomte de bragelonne. illustrated in colour by frank adams. _3s. 6d._ *crop-eared jacquot; jane; etc. illustrated in colour by gordon browne. _1s. 6d._ the castle of eppstein. illustrated in colour by stewart orr. _1s. 6d._ acté. illustrated in colour by gordon browne. _1s. 6d._ *cecile; or, the wedding gown. illustrated in colour by d. murray smith. _1s. 6d._ *the adventures of captain pamphile. illustrated in colour by frank adams. _1s. 6d._ *fernande. illustrated in colour by munro orr. _2s._ *the black tulip. illustrated in colour by a. orr. _1s. 6d._ methuen's sixpenny books =austen (jane).= pride and prejudice. =baden-powell (major-general r. s. s.).= the downfall of prempeh. =bagot (richard).= a roman mystery. =balfour (andrew).= by stroke of sword. =baring-gould (s.).= furze bloom. cheap jack zita. kitty alone. urith. the broom squire. in the roar of the sea. noémi. a book of fairy tales. illustrated. little tu'penny. the frobishers. *winefred. =barr (robert).= jennie baxter, journalist. in the midst of alarms. the countess tekla. the mutable many. =benson (e. f.).= dodo. =bloundelle-burton (j.).= across the salt seas. =brontë (charlotte).= shirley. =brownell (c. l.).= the heart of japan. =caffyn (mrs.), 'iota.'= anne mauleverer. =clifford (mrs. w. n.).= a flash of summer. mrs. keith's crime. =connell (f. norreys).= the nigger knights. *=cooper (e. h.).= a fool's year. =corbett (julian).= a business in great waters. =croker (mrs. b. m.).= peggy of the bartons. a state secret. angel. johanna. =dante (alighieri).= the vision of dante (cary). =doyle (a. conan).= round the red lamp. =duncan (sarah jeannette).= a voyage of consolation. those delightful americans. =eliot (george).= the mill on the floss. =findlater (jane h.).= the green graves of balgowrie. =gallon (tom).= rickerby's folly. =gaskell (mrs.).= cranford. mary barton. north and south. =gerard (dorothea).= holy matrimony. the conquest of london. =gissing (george).= the town traveller. the crown of life. =glanville (ernest).= the inca's treasure. the kloof bride. =gleig (charles).= bunter's cruise. =grimm (the brothers).= grimm's fairy tales. illustrated. =hope (anthony).= a man of mark. a change of air. the chronicles of count antonio. phroso. the dolly dialogues. =hornung (e. w.).= dead men tell no tales. =ingraham (j. h.).= the throne of david. =le queux (w.).= the hunchback of westminster. =linton (e. lynn).= the true history of joshua davidson. =lyall (edna).= derrick vaughan. =malet (lucas).= the carissima. a counsel of perfection. =mann (mrs. m. e.).= mrs. peter howard. a lost estate. the cedar star. =marchmont (a. w.).= miser hoadley's secret. a moment's error. =marryat (captain).= peter simple. jacob faithful. =marsh (richard).= the twickenham peerage. the goddess. the joss. =mason (a. e. w.).= clementina. =mathers (helen).= honey. griff of griffithscourt. sam's sweetheart. =meade (mrs. l. t.).= drift. =mitford (bertram).= the sign of the spider. =montrésor (f. f.).= the alien. =moore (arthur).= the gay deceivers. =morrison (arthur).= the hole in the wall. =nesbit (e.).= the red house. =norris (w. e.).= his grace. giles ingilby. the credit of the county. lord leonard. matthew austin. clarissa furiosa. =oliphant (mrs.).= the lady's walk. sir robert's fortune. =oppenheim (e. phillips).= master of men. =parker (gilbert).= the pomp of the lavilettes. when valmond came to pontiac. the trail of the sword. =pemberton (max).= the footsteps of a throne. i crown thee king. =phillpotts (eden).= the human boy. children of the mist. =ridge (w. pett).= a son of the state. lost property. george and the general. =russell (w. clark).= a marriage at sea. abandoned. my danish sweetheart. =sergeant (adeline).= the master of beechwood. barbara's money. the yellow diamond. =surtees (r. s.).= handley cross. illustrated. mr. sponge's sporting tour. illustrated. ask mamma. illustrated. =valentine (major e. s.).= veldt and laager. =walford (mrs. l. b.).= mr. smith. the baby's grandmother. =wallace (general lew).= ben-hur. the fair god. =watson (h. b. marriot).= the adventurers. =weekes (a. b.).= prisoners of war. =wells (h. g.).= the stolen bacillus. * * * * * * transcriber's note: in order to preserve the experience of the book, some obcure, inconsistent and archaic words and spellings were maintained, especially in the catalog. the entries in the list of illustrations does not match the wording of the captions, however if the reader compares them, it will be apparent that the meanings correspond. throughout the book, some obvious errors were corrected. these and other notes are listed below. page xvii in this book: _good-bye and hail_ = _good-bye and hail, w. w._, 1892. originally: _goodbye and hail_ = _goodbye and hail, w. w._, 1892. page 23 in this book: election,[53] an adams of massachusetts was returned originally: election,[53] adams of massachussetts was returned page 46 in this book: as strange and fascinating to the son of mannahatta as originally: as strange and fascinating to the son of mannhatta as page 55 in the original book, the only footnote on the page was numbered "4" but the anchor was numbered "1". page 62 in this book: suggest, at any rate, a theory for his attitude toward originally: suggest, at anyrate, a theory for his attitude toward page 122 in this book: the broad-axe as the true emblem of america, whitman's originally: the broadaxe as the true emblem of america, whitman's page 178 in this book: of a new island republic of new york? "tri-insula" originally: of a new island republic of new york? "tri-insula" page 188 in this book: from chattanooga through atlanta to the originally: from chattanooga through atalanta to the footnote 398 in this book: _recollections of washn. in war time_ because of the odd abbreviation of washington, i looked for this book. the only book i found with a similar title by a. g. riddle was _recollections of war times--reminiscences of men and events in washington, 1860-1865_. footnote: 436 in this book: _wound-dresser_, 139. originally: _wound-dresser_, 189. page 215 in this book: he went on great walks, especially by night, originally: he went great walks, especially by night, page 260 in this book: former is now circled with a wooden seat; but the kecks originally: former is now circled with a wooden seat; but the keks page 274 in this book: the "song of the broad-axe"--the best-beloved, originally: the "song of the broadaxe"--the best-beloved, page 338 in this book: the volume, _good-bye, my fancy_, appeared in the originally: the volume, _goodbye, my fancy_, appeared in the page 340 in this book: his _good-bye, my fancy_ is but a new welcome, originally: his _goodbye, my fancy_ is but a new welcome, page 352 in this book: barnum, p. t., 85. originally: barnum, t. p., 85. page 352 in this book: "broad-axe, song of the," 122, 274. originally: "broadaxe, song of the," 122, 274. page 359 in this book: lafayette, gen., revisits america, 11. originally: lafayette, gen., re-visits america, 11. page 362 entries starting with "op" followed entries starting with "or". they have been alphabetized. page 365 in this book: example of the broad-axe, 122. originally: example of the broadaxe, 122. page 6 in this book: and angevins: 1066-1272. with originally: and angevins: 1066-1072. with page 27 in this book: =crashaw (richard).= the english originally: =crawshaw (richard).= the english page 27 in this book: poems of richard crashaw. originally: poems of richard crawshaw. 