HARNED / WHITMAN Box 4 Folder 19 MISCELLANY Newspaper & magazine clippings, Aug. 1860–Dec 1892 (L.C. 218) (1 of 3) EW-YORK DAILY TRIBUNE, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1884. [*2014 A*] and Zachariah, Abijah Whitman, who goes over into the 1500's, but we know little about him, except that he also was for some time in America. The Whitmans as originally spreading from this outset, were long-lived, most of them farmers, had big families, and were strenuous for the best education that could be obtained. One is mentioned as a great linguist, and sometimes acted in the courts as interpreter with the Indians; and down to the present date twelve of the name have graduated at Harvard, five at Yale and nine at other New-England colleges. There have been ministers and deacons and teachers by the dozen. THEN ON MY MOTHER'S SIDE. [*2013A*] The next day, July 30, I devoted to the maternal locality, and if possible was still more penetrated and impressed. I write this paragraph on the burial hill of the Van Velsors, near Cold Spring, the most significant depository of the dead that could be imagined, without the slightest help from art, soil sterile, a mostly bare plateau-flat of an acre, the top of a hill, brush and well grown trees and dense woods bordering all around, very primitive, secluded, no visitors, no road (you cannot drive here, you have to bring the dead on foot, and follow on foot). Two or three-score graves quite plain; as many more almost rubbed out. My grandfather Cornelius and my grandmother Amy (Naomi) and numerous relatives nearer or remoter, on my mother's side, lie buried here. The scene as I stood or sat, the delicate and wild odor of the woods, a slightly drizzling rain, the emotional atmosphere of the place, and the inferred reminiscences, were such as I never realized before. I went down from this ancient grave place eighty or ninety rods to the site of the Van Velsor homestead, where my mother was born (1795), and where every spot had been familiar to me as a child and youth (1825-'40). Then stood there a long rambling dark-gray, shingle-sided house, with sheds, pens, a great barn and much open road-space. Now of all those not a vestige left; all have been pulled down, erased, and the plough and harrow passed over foundations, road-sp [?] and everything for many summers; fenced in at present, and grain and clover growing like any other fin fields. Only a big hole from an ancient cellar, with some little heaps of broken stone, green with grass and weeds, identified the place. Even the great old brook and spring seemed to have mostly dwindled away. 'TIS FIFTY YEARS SINCE. In some particulars this whole scene, with what it aroused, memories of my young days there half a century ago, the vast old kitchen and ample fireplace and the sitting-room adjoining, the plain furniture, the meals, the house full of merry people, my grandmother Amy's sweet old face in its Quaker cap, my grandfather "the Major," jovial, red, stout, with sonorous voice and characteristic physiognomy, made perhaps the most pronounced half-day's experience of my whole jaunt. The Van Velsors were pure Hollandic or Dutch. The old stock of the Netherlands portrayed in Motley's books, and so deeply grafted on Manhattan Island and in Kings and Queens Counties, never yielded a more marked and fall Americanized specimen than Major Cornelius Van Velsor. If the family (not only the men but the women) had any special passion it was for fine horses. JAYNE'S HILL. I write this back again at West Hills on the high elevation (the highest spot on Long Island?) of Jayne's Hill, which we have reached by a fascinat- ing winding road. A view of thirty or forty, or even fifty or more miles, especially to the east and south and southwest; the Atlantic Ocean to the latter points in the distance--a glimpse or so of Long Island Sound to the north. WHAT LINGERS PLEASANTEST IN MEMORY. Huntington, Aug. 1.--We are just leaving; a perfect day in sun, temperature, after the rain of yesterday and last night. I am indebted to Charles Velsor. Henry Lloyd, John Chichester, Lemuel Carll. Lawyer Street, Charles Shepard and other friends and relatives, for courtesies. Seems to me I have had the memorable though brief and quiet jaunt of my life. Every day a point attained; every day something refreshing, Nature's medicine. All about here, and area of many miles, Huntington. Cold Spring Harbor. East and West and Lloyd's Necks (to say nothing of the water views), the hundreds of tree-lined roads is a lanes, with their turns and gentle slopes, the rows and groves of locusts, after the main objects of my jaunt, made the most attraction, as I rode around. I didn't know there was so much in mere lanes and trees. I believe they have done me more food than all the swell scenery I could find. W. W. August 3, 1881. AMERICAN AUTHORS AND ENGLISH CRITICISM. A LETTER FROM ROBERT BUCHANAN. To the Editor of The Tribune. SIR: My attention has just been called to the special New-York correspondence of The Pittsburg (Penn.) Chronicle-Telegraph, in which the writer, while saying some unpleasant and a few flattering things about myself, accuses me of having "imbecilely" attacked on some remote occasion the poets of America. Now this accusation, though made ad captandum with no little recklessness, discomforts me to some extent, seeing that it might, if re-echoed, prejudice me with that great American public to which I owe so many favors, which has always been generous to me and mine, and to which I, as a novelist, dramatist, and writer of verse, have reason to feel profoundly grateful. My chief offence appears to be, that I praised, perhaps over-zealously, an American, who still remains, in my opinion, one of the greatest and strongest men of the century, Mr. Walt Whitman, and that, in so doing. I underestimated the more popular singers of this much-singing country. It is quite necessary to explain, therefore, that my glowing admiration of Whitman has never in any way qualified my respectful appreciation of those writers who, while lacking his originality, have won sympathetic readers wherever the English tongue is spoken. Again and again I have written in the warmest terms of Emerson, and compared him favorably with our own Carlyle. I have edited and edition of Longfellow, and sounded his praises roundly. Whittier and Bryant have always had my homage, and I was among the first to welcome the fresh and sunny genius of Bret Harte. It is true, nevertheless, that I seek in American literature, wherever I find it, a larger outlook than has been seen as yet from the salons of Boston or the farm-yards of Concord; that I have little or no sympathy with the native talent which affects the manners of the London man-about-town and the airs of the Parisian petit maitre; that, in short, I love the "wood notes wild" of this continent better than its mocking-bird imitations of European tunes, now long out of fashion even there. This alone, to some of your critics, seems an offence. My friend Mr. Stedman, whose own work, by the way, refutes some of his own theories, in so far as it is charmingly native and American, has lectured me very seriously on my perversity. It is such a mistaken idea, I am told, to imagine that American literature ought to be monstrous, formless, cosmic, and all that sort of thing! With all humility I hold that it ought at least to escape our English limitations. the best American work does so. Whitman's work does so invariably. Emerson's frequently, Whittier's very often, Longfellow's occasionally. But it seems to me (if so insignificant a person as myself may express an opinion) that the young literary men of America are beset by what I have remarked as a failing of some American gentlemen, socially; and that is, a morbid diffidence as to their own native resources, resulting in a frequent effort to assume "superior" manners, too commonly European. With materials all round them which we poor Londoners gape at in hopeless envy, with rich and abundant forms of life and a marvellous scenic panorama close to their hand, they set out for Italy or Paris, and literally go wool-gathering. No one admires more than I do the charming filagree-work of Mr. Howells; but I don't want filagree-work from the mind which could conceive that marvellous picture f the Spiritualist in the "Undiscovered Country." I take this novel, by the way, as a sad example of a work of genius gone wrong through a refinement of European (or Bostonian) ethics. The are is admirable; the moral is, that young ladies should beware of Spiritualism, not merely because it is false and silly and productive of hyperæs theria, but because it is the sole mission of young ladies to meet young men, and spoon, and marry and inherit the domestic virtues of their fathers and mothers. For the rest, I should rejoice to see the rising novelists of America invoke a deus ex machina of a more robust virility than is fasionable with super-sensitive and super-amatory misses. "Who goes there, hankering, gross, mystical, nude?" Not, certainly, our friend with the super- human insight into the feelings and impulses of young ladyism, the American dilletante. He, good soul, still remains, characteristically diffident of his own powers, and morbidly afraid of committing a literary solecism, under the inspiring mantle of the arch-enchanter, Trollope. This, then, is my offence, that, loving and admiring America and Americans so much, I love and admire their robust natural ways both in life and literature, and have no sympathy with their affectations in the direction of genteel European ethics and a blameless European culture. I see no reason why they should be ashamed of being original, whether in the cut of their coats or the style of their books. I think it would be as rational for them to talk eternal Chinese, as eternal Bostonese; neither lingo is the true speech of this princely race, so truly imperial and cosmopolitan. But whatever style they use, and whatever tongue they speak, I, for one, shall hold them in life-long gratitude for a thousand kindnesses done to me while I was still a stranger, and repeated daily now I am a visitor to their hospitable land. In the correspondence alluded to EVENING STAR. CROSBY S. NOYES. . . . . . . Editor. Largest Circulation in the District Reading Matter on Every Page. WASHINGTON CITY: TUESDAY............... October 3, 1871. The newspapers still keep up their talk about Walt Whitman. Here now comes the announcement that Roberts brothers, of Boston, are to publish his late American Institute utterance in small book form. From abroad, we learn that the English poet and critic, Roden Noel, of aristocratic and Lord Byron lineage, has prepared a lengthy review of Whitman for the Dark Blue, the new Oxonian magazine. Taking the American Institute piece for their cue, the country and city press, all around have opened fire on W. W., and kept up continuous fusillades of mostly witless and a little witty squibbing, with here and there an extended editorial generally against the poem. The N. Y. World's frantic, feeble articles on it are curiosities. The Telegram dryly calls it the longest conundrum ever yet given to the public. The N. Y. Sun, the Standard, and some other journals, however, strongly commend the piece. The simple truth about Whitman, as author not only of this American Institute piece but all else, is that is contempt for the "poets" and "poetry" of the day, his presentation of thoughts and things at first hand instead of second or third hand, his sturdy and old-fashioned earnestness, and his unprecedented novelty, make him a capital target for the smart writers and verbal fops engaged in manufacturing items and "criticism." Then besides, to be candid, Walt Whitman is a pretty hard nit to crack. His involved sentences always hiding at least half their meaning, his kangaroo leaps as if from one crag to another, his appalling catalogues, (enough to stagger the bravest heart,) his unheard of demands for brains in the reader as well as the thing read, and then his scornful silence, never explaining anything nor answering any attack, all lay him fairly open to be misunderstood, to slur, burlesque, and sometimes spiteful innuendo; and will probably always continue to do so. Like his own "Kosmos," he can be viewed from many and partial points of view; among the rest, from one or two whence he certainly appears gross, repellent, and dangerous. But his complete and permanent character- and that is the only just method of comprehending him- is nevertheless healthy, free, manly, attractive, and of a purity and strength almost beyond example. The basis of his principle poetry is the intuitional and emotional, actuated by what the phrenologists term self-esteem and adhesiveness. Like all revolutionists and founders, he himself, will have to create the growth by which he is to be fully understood and accepted. This will be a slow and long work, but sure. A number of workingmen assembled in New York city on Sunday night last, and organized the "Workingmen's Party," which is to undertake the herculean task of "reforming the corruption of the rulers" in the commercial metropolis of the nation. A good business to be engaged in, but only to be accomplished by a union of forces against the Tammany plunderers, and not by the spasmodic and disjointed efforts of new organizations and small fractions of existing parties. 2016[*Whitman personal Scrap Book very important 20120*] FRANK LESLIE'S ILLUSTRATED NEWSPAPER. 537 PEARL STREET, NEW YORK. FRANK LESLIE, EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR. NEW YORK, APRIL 8, 1876. 84 FRANK LESLIE'S ILLUSTRATED NEWSPAPER. WALT WHITMAN.—PHOTOGRAPHED BY W. KURTZ. WALT WHITMAN. WALTER WHITMAN, who has been christened "the poet of health and strength," was born on Long Island, N. Y., May 31st, 1819. He comes from a mixed stock, being English on his father's side and Holland Dutch on his mother's. His name first attained national prominence during the last war. A portion of that time he was employed in the Interior Department, and another in the office of the Attorney-General. At the close of 1862 he began to visit the sick and wounded of the army both on the field and in the hospitals in and near Washington, and he continued steadily at this work until 1865. In January, 1873, he had an attack of the character of a paralytic stroke, and for several months he lay in a very precarious condition. It was then that the public began to learn of the peculiarities of the man. Alfred Tennyson, the Poet-laureate of England, frequently wrote him words of cheer, and mentioned a case of cerebral disease within his own knowledge in England, similar to Whitman's, from which the sufferer was restored to sound health. A letter written by Ralph Waldo Emerson in July, 1855, was given to the public, in which, in speaking of the gift of a copy of Whitman's "Leaves of Grass," the sage of Concord said: "I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed." The book first appeared about twenty-one years ago, and consisted of twelve poems, which number in subsequent publications has been swelled to over two hundred, touching almost every conceivable topic. Carlyle described him as "a man furnished for the highest of all enterprises—that of being the poet of his age." During the last few years Mr. Whitman has been collecting his hospital experiences for a volume entitled "Memoranda of the War," and in preparing a new poetical work which he proposes to call the "Two Rivulets." Whatever may be the degree of interest and sympathy with which his works have been received in this country, certain it is that they have enjoyed a great popularity abroad. Very copious translations have appeared in the German, Danish and French languages, and a selected edition has been issued in London. Algernon Swinburne and Robert Buchanan have on many occasions tendered Mr. Whitman their earnest reverence, and Mr. Buchanan, learning a few weeks ago that the aged and rugged singer was unable to secure a publisher for his late works, sent him a check for $100, and started a popular subscription in England to aid him in bringing his productions into a shape for general study. Last Summer he appeared before a club of mechanics at Camden, N. J., where he is now living, and read one of his own poems, "The Mystic Trumpeter." In appearance he was then a large lame old man, six feet tall, and dressed in his favorite suit of English gray. A criticism of one's own work may not always be acceptable to the thinking world; but Whitman's views of his own mission may serve to explain the theory of his verses: "The feudal poet was the finder and user of materials, characters, all ready for him; but I have really to make all, except my own inspiration and intentions—have to map out, fashion, form and knit and sing the ideal American. Shakespeare, and all, sang the past; I project the future—depend on the future for my audience." [*2012*] NEW-YORK DAILY TRIBUNE [*2013A*} THURSDAY, AUGUST 4, 1881 A WEEK AT WEST HILLS. LETTER FROM WALT WHITMAN. A VISIT TO HIS BIRTHPLACE AND FAMILY BURIAL GROUND—GLIMPSES OF THE BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY AROUND HUNTINGTON AND COLD SPRING HARBOR, LONG ISLAND—HISTORICAL REMINISCENCES OF THE WHITMAN FAMILY. To the Editor of The Tribune, SIR: I have been for the last two weeks jaunting around Long Island, and now devote this letter to West Hills (Suffolk County, 39 miles from new-York), and the main purpose of a journey thither, to resume and identify my birth-spot, and that of my parents and their parents, and to explore the picturesque regions comprised in the townships of Huntington and Cold Spring Harbor. I shall just give my notes verbatim as I pencilled them. AN OLD HOMESTEAD. [*2013*] July 29—Down at the native place, after a long absence. Hadn't been in Huntington Village for over 40 years, and only once briefly at the Hills during that time. Rode around to all the old familiar spots, viewing and pondering and dwelling long upon them, everything coming back to me from fifty years, with childhood's days and scenes. Went first to the old Whitman homestead on the upland at West Hills, and took a view eastward, inclining south, over the broad and beautiful farm lands of my grandfather (1780) and my father. There was the new house (1810), the big oak a hundred and fifty or two hundred years old; there the well, the sloping kitchen-garden, and a little way off even the well-kept remains of the dwelling of my great-grandfather (1750-'60) still standing, with its mighty timbers and low ceilings. Near-by, a stately grove of tall, vigorous black-walnuts, beautiful, Apollo-like, the sons or grandsons, no doubt, of black-walnuts during or before 1776. On the other side of the road spread the famous apple orchard, over 20 acres, the trees planted by hands long mouldering in the grave my uncle (Jesse's), but quite many of the [?] of throwing out their annual blossoms and fruit yet. THE ACTUAL BIRTH-SPOT. Went down nearly a mile further to the house where I was born (May 31, 1819) in the fertile meadow land. As I paused and looked around I felt that any good farmer would have gloated over the scene. Rich corn in tassel, many fields; they had cradled their wheat and rye, and were cutting their oats. Everything had changed so much, and it looked so fine, I began to doubt about the house, and drove in and inquired, to be certain. I saw Mrs. J——, wife of the owner, (son of the J—— that bought the farm of my father 60 years ago). She was very courteous, and invited us in (Dr. Bucke, of Canada, with me), but we declined. We drove back to the homestead, let down some bars at the foot of a slope and ascended to a spot most interesting of all. AN OLD LONG ISLAND CEMETERY. I write these lines seated on an old grave (doubtless of a century since at least) on the burial hill of the Whitmans of many generations. Fifty and more graves are quite plainly traceable, and as many more decayed out of any form; depressed mounds, crumbled and broken stones, covered with moss, the gray and sterile hill, the clumps of chestnuts outside, the silence, just varied by the soughing wind. There is always the deepest eloquence of sermon or poem in any of these ancient graveyards of which Long island has so many; so what must this one have been to me? A whole family history, with its succession of links, from the first settlement down to date, is told here—three centuries concentrate on this sterile acre. FOUNDERS AND FOREFATHERS. The Whitmans on Long island or in New-England and the Middle States (without going further back) are generally traceable to John Whitman, born 1602, in England, where he grew up, married, and his eldest son was born in 1629. He came over in the True Love in 1640 to America, and settled in Weymouth, Mass., which place is the mother-hive of the New-Englanders of the name; he died in 1692. His brother, Rev. Zachariah Whitman, also came over in the True Love either at that time or soon after and settled at Milford, Conn. A son of this Zachariah named Joseph, migrated to Huntington, Long Island, and permanently settled there. Savage's Genealogical Dictionary (vol. 1, p. 524) gets the Whitman family established at Huntington, per this Joseph, before 1664. It is quite certain that from that beginning, and from Joseph, the West Hill Whitmans, and all others in Suffolk County have since radiated, myself among the number. John and Zachariah both went to England and back again divers times; they had large families, and several of their children were born in the old country. We hear of the father of John4 THE PHILADELPHIA PRESS.—SATUR The Philadelphia Press. PUBLISHED DAILY AND WEEKLY. TERMS OF THE PRESS. THE DAILY PRESS IS DELIVERED BY CARRIERS IN PHILADELPHIA AND IN ALL TOWNS THROUGHOUT THE STATE AT 12 CENTS PER WEEK. THE SUNDAY PRESS, 4 CENTS [?] COPY. BY MAIL, POSTAGE PRICE IN THE UNITED STATES: DAILY, (EXCEPT SUNDAY,) ONE YEAR. - - $6.00 DAILY, (EXCEPT SUNDAY,) ONE MONTH, - .60 DAILY, (INCLUDING SUNDAY,) ONE YEAR, - 7.50 DAILY, (INCLUDING SUNDAY,) ONE MONTH. .65 SUNDAY, ONE YEAR. - - - - - - - - 2.00 WEEKLY, ONE YEAR, - - - - - - - - 1.00 REMITTANCES, DRAFTS, CHECKS, AND POST-OFFICE ORDERS SHOULD BE MADE PAYABLE TO THE ORDER OF THE PRESS COMPANY, LIMITED. PUBLISHERS, SEVENTH AND CHESTNUT STREETS, PHILADELPHIA. NEW YORK OFFICE, ROOM 49, TRIBUNE BUILDING. THE PRESS IS FOR SALE IN NEW YORK AT 7 O'CLOCK EVERY MORNING AT THE LEADING NEWS STANDS. THE PRESS CAN NOT BE HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR THE RETURN OF REJECTED COMMUNICATIONS. Readers going out of town can have THE PRESS mailed to them every day for three months for $1 95 or 65 cents per month, address changed as often as desired. In changing address be careful to give old as well as new address. NOTICE.—Persons remitting postage stamps in payment of subscription or advertising are requested to send none of a larger denomination than TWO CENTS. Those of greater value can not be used and will be returned to the senders. NOTICE TO MAIL SUBSCRIBERS.—THE DATE PRINTED ON THE WRAPPER OF EACH PAPER DENOTES THE TIME WHEN THE SUBSCRIPTION EXPIRES. LARGEST SUNDAY CIRCULATION The Press SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1888. THE SUNDAY PRESS—20 PAGES THE SUNDAY PRESS to-morrow will contain, besides the news of the world, the most interesting special cable letters from European capitals and a remarkable array of correspondence and special articles. Among the special features of the supplement will be: BILL NYE ON THE CAMPAINS.—The humorist's [?] in po[?] [?] and machinery. GILBERT AND SULLIVAN'S NEW OPERA.—Glimpses of the book and a description of the cast, costumes and music. (Illustrated.) A NIGHT OF PARISIAN LIFE.—Blakely Hall's trip to the Fulle Bergeres and the amazing sights he saw. STAY AWAY FROM TOWN.—Dr. Hammond's discussion of schools, malaria and sewer gas. TRYING TO MAKE A FORTUNE.—An insight into the mysteries of the bucket-shops. ODD FIGURES AT LONG BRANCH.—"Kamera's" pictures of the dude and the dudine. (Illustrated.) THE LOVE OF NOVEL LOVERS.—Passionate passages from recent romances. (Illustrated.) WHY I HAVE A BLAZER.—A humorous and curious story of an ardent man who led a dual life. (Illustrated.) NOW FOR THE OYSTER.—Scenes along the wharves as the bivalve bobs up serenely. HOWARD FIELDING'S TWO DOGS.—A chapter of amusing disasters. HOW TO ARRANGE THE HAIR.—Information of much interest to every woman. A[?] WITH THE UGLY GIRL.—Shirley Dare co[?] [?] [?] [?] [?] WORLD [?] who [?]ell the [?]d freshest things. AMUSEMENTS.—The freshest news and gossip of the stage. Next week's attractions and coming theatrical events. THE SPORTING WORLD.—Comments on matters of interest to sportsmen. Notes and gossip of turf and field, cricket, rowing, tennis and athletics. BASE BALL.—Letters from THE PRESS special writers on the national game in every base ball centre. Doings of players in Philadelphia and elsewhere, and opinions and predictions of a base ball expert. The movements of the SECRET SOCIETIES and the NATIONAL GUARD chronicled at length in interesting fashion. SECRETARY LITCHMAN stands where all the leading unions do on the subject of Protection; but Democratic papers find it hard to admit that American labor has the intelligence to know when it is well off and the courage to say so. THE corn crop of 1877 lost 350,000,000 bushels between the August and September reports last year, after promising in June to be the largest on record. These are facts which it is well to remember after one of the coolest Augusts in years past. IT is not a comfortable thing for the Democrats in either house of Congress to stir up a debate on the civil service reform question, as Senator Vest discovered in the Senate yesterday. The hypocrisy of President Cleveland's position on the reform question is sure to be exposed anew, and there is no answer to it that the Democrats can make. Nothing practical is ever accomplished by these exposures, however, since Mr. Cleveland is a candidate for re-election and a horde of federal office-holders grateful for favors received are all at work with his knowledge and in many instances under his direction. No reform is possible under such circumstances. WHEN President Hyde, of Bowdoin College, took a Free-trade somersault into the Democratic party one of his excuses was the extravagance of the Republican party. He cited the Blair Educational bill as proof of his charge and claimed that the Republican Senate had passed the measure against "the almost unanimous testimony of educational experts." As to the Blair bill being a Republican measure, the Rev. A. D. Mayo shows in a letter to the Boston Transcript that it has received the votes of sixteen or seventeen Democratic senators from the South every time it passed the Senate, and that a great majority of the educational experts in the country have repeatedly sent petitions to Congress in its favor. President Hyde's arguments on the tariff question when he quoted "Parsee" Moore as "that reliable statistician" were on the same plane. When President Hyde is ten years beyond his present thirty years of age he will probably be more discreet in his utterances. THE people of Montgomery County have not been much accustomed to turning good judges off the bench on partisan account, and it is not probable they can be persuaded to do so this year. The fact that the Democrats have made an unobjectionable nomination does not change this fact. Judge Weand, who was appointed to succeed the late Judge Boyer, and who will undoubtedly be the Republican nominee for election to the full term, has shown in his brief service that he possesses an admirable equipment and ability for the bench. He is recognized as a man of the highest character, intelligence and integrity even by his Democratic opponents, and no proper reason can be urged for discouraging goo[?] [?]vice on the bench by the defeat of a good [?] Only those who want to make the ju[?] [?]rtisan affair [?] [?]mend any such course. Judge Weand deserves to be kept on the bench, and we believe that he will be by the votes of Democrats as well as Republicans. THE Times has the assurance to talk about "free ores" in connection with the Mills bill. Probably the Times, in its ignorance, thinks the Mills bill gives free ore. It does nothing of the sort. It cuts the duty on all a mill like the Pencoyd makes, and leaves it unchanged on its ore and coke. Yet the Times actually charges the Messrs. Roberts with seeking to "keep up the needless cost of their own product." It would puzzle the Times to tell anyone how a bill which does not reduce the raw material used in iron will cause any less cost in iron-making. But the Times turned its brains upside down in its somersault and it has never recovered their use since. UNLESS the Spring wheat has received more injury than there is yet any reason to believe, the total wheat crop of the country will be larger than was feared two months ago. All the more recent reports indicate that the Winter states are to have a heavier output than was expected in June. Out of the 290,000,000 bushels of Winter wheat grown last year over one-third was produced by Ohio and states East of Ohio. Whatever reduction takes place in the yield of these states, and it is not large, is plainly a mere change of crops. The selling Spring wheat of the country is grown between Indiana and Kansas. It is noticeable that these states, with the exception of Missouri, all report a better yield than last year. If this proves to be the case, the reduced crops abroad will not cause the advance which has been confidently expected. THE WASTE OF TEMPERANCE VOTES. Those who are sincere and earnest in their desire for temperance reform and the practical restriction of the liquor traffic have some facts before them in New Jersey which most forcibly illustrate the different positions of the leading political parties on the question of temperance. The effective efforts of the Republicans in that state have stood the test of the courts, and the people are now determining by popular vote in the different counties whether they shall have no liquor selling at all or whether they shall allow it to be sold under the restrictions of high license. This is being done under a law passed by the Republican Legislature at the last session. It was antagonized by the Democrats in both houses, and finally had to be passed by the Republican majority over the veto of a Democratic governor. It is a law which will lead to absolute prohibition in a large part of the state, or in the whole state if the people so will by their votes. This has not been done with the aid of the Third party Prohibitionists, because what they have done has been really to aid the Democrats. In the Legislature which passed this act there were ten or twelve Democratic members opposed to it, whose election could have been prevented by the Prohibition vote of their district. That vote could have elected Republicans who would have supported the bill. The temperance people who voted for a Third party Prohibition candidate for governor in 1886 also aided to elect the Demo[?] Executive who vetoed the [?] [?]perance [?] [?]uld have given the state[?] Republican governor in sympathy with Republican temperance legislation. For several years the political Prohibitionists in New Jersey have had candidates for all offices, chiefly designed to injure the Republicans. Their votes have elected Democrats in many instances. They gave the state to Cleveland in 1884; they gave it to the Democrats in 1886, and by antagonizing Republican candidates for the Legislature in nearly every district they ave elected Democratic members who would otherwise have been defeated. And yet the Democrats so elected, from the Governor down, have combined with the liquor interests to defeat Republican legislation in behalf of temperance. We have thus stated the facts directly and accurately. There is no doubt that many who have voted in such way as to keep Democrats in power and thus defeat all hope of temperance reform have felt the mistake. Are there enough Third party Prohibitionists left to give the Democrats to New Jersey again this year; to enable them to control the Legislature and repeal the recent temperance legislation? The Democrats think there are. Their whole reliance for success in that state is upon the Third party Prohibitionists on one side and the saloons on the other. It is not perfectly well known that if they succeed the saloons and not the Prohibitionists will control them? What do real temperance reformers propose to do about it? A DEADLOCK OF CONFERREES. The Republicans of the Twenty-first Congressional District have ended by nominating a strong candidate and a good soldier in Captain Craig after a not unusual experience with the conferree system. It is not the less annoying, however, because it happens to be a common feature of that unrepublican method. Each of the four counties in the district had a candidate and each candidate had three conferrees, who did exactly as they were directed by the candidates whom they served. Several weeks have been spent in the fruitless effort to make one of the four the candidate for the district. The Westmoreland conferrees at last made a proposition that the contest should be referred back to the party rank and file, all the counties holding primary elections, to be succeeded by a district convention, in which the candidates should be represented by one delegate for every 1000 votes that had been cast for him. This proposition was so manifestly fair and gave the party voters such a direct voice in the selection of a candidate that it ought to have been adopted without hesitation; bu it was not adopted. It was rejected by the vote of the other three counties, but it did its share in bringing on a decision. It is something to know, however, that every experience of this kind tends to make the conferree system still more undesirable and unpopular. The patience of the people is severely tried in these contests, and, as has been often shown, they easily lead to scrimonious feeling between the candidates and their followers, which may cost the party the district. This has occurred in both parties in this State quite enough to condemn the method and show how desirable it is to substitute some other for it. The Twenty-first District has a decided Republican majority, but it would inevitably have been represented by a Democrat if the present deadlock had led to Republican division. What good objection there is to allowing the masses of the party to vote directly for the candidate for nomination we have [?]ver been able to [?] T[?] [?]mmferree system certainly [?] [?]o are subst[?] [?] the han[?] [?] more frequently defeats the popular will than expresses it. Every man in the party should have as much to say in the selection of candidates as any other man. Until the conferree system is wholly abolished there will necessarily be trouble. When it is abolished the average grade of candidates will be much higher. THE RECORD STUMPS THE "RECORD." Our Free-trade friend the Record admits all we asserted when it put out the low wages in poor lands to show that Protection did not give high pay to labor. We said two things. First, that in all the lands it named wages have risen since Protection came in. The Record admits this. It has its own theory for this, but we can do without its theories as long as it admits our facts. The facts are the plea for Protection, just as theory is the argument for Free Trade. Second, we said that after trying Free Trade or a low tariff nearly every European nation has gone back to Protection. War and indebtedness, says the Record, was the reason for "oppressive taxes on imports." Was it? Debt and war made these lands want more money; but if the Record is right why did not these lands raise their revenues on the Free-trade plan? They knew how it worked; they had tried it; its results were familiar; why not go on taxing that way? The reason is clear. They had found out it was not the best way. They left Free Trade and turned the Protection because, as Prince Bismarck said, the prosperity of the United States showed that a Protective tariff would not only raise revenue but increase prosperity. Of course, if Prince Bismarck had read the Record he would have known better; but he didn't. But he had read instead the record of our great growth, he was familiar with the way in which a great people wisely taxed had made the duties which filled the Treasury with a surplus fill the land with fatness. He had seen it was possible so to direct the effect of taxation that it would develop resources and stimulate industry. This sight changed his old view. Of course, if he had been as wise as the editor of the Record it would not; but, being only plain Prince Bismarck, the greatest man in Europe, it did. Moreover, the Record says our idea is that "Protective tariffs insure high wages." This is not our view and the Record, we feel sure, did not intend to make its plea strong by giving ours wrong. Our view is that Protective tariffs increase wages and make them higher. This is quite another thing and it meets all the facts of low wages in protected countries. In all of them, the Record admits, Protection has increased wages. It is all we claim it does and it is quite enough to make it a good thing for those who work. Wages come out of the product. Make the product larger and wages go up. If men are idle or the land has no wealth in it, wages will be low, as in Spain or Mexico. Protection will not insure high wages there or else[?]ere, but it will increase the wages already [?]d by creating conditions which add to the [?]uct. Local manufactures make a local [?]nd, neighborhood industries give the neighborhood work. Men wake up, they [work] harder, mines are opened and the prod[?] [?] and out of this comes more [?] Record gives things and glorio[?] [?] [?] [?] thought of, the product is still greater and wages are still more increased. THE "POST" AND THE PRESIDENT. The President has placed his supporters in the Senate in an awkward position by his sudden change of policy, but he has done quite as badly by his Independent friends. The Boston Herald, it is true, refuses to follow the President in his new course, but the New York Evening Post is ready at all sacrifices to accept the President's new policy as its own. Early last year the Post held that our fishing trade was "a mere wart upon the commerce of Canada and the United States, and there was no reason why the whole system should suffer on account of the wart." If this was true when Congress passed a bill making a slight interference with this "system," is it not still more true now that the President wishes to enlarge this interference? Eighteen months ago the Post itself was of the opinion that the retaliation should be in some degree commensurate with the interests attacked. The last clause of the Retaliation act of 1887 provided that the President might exclude part or all the products of British North America from the United States. But of this the Post said in review of Senator Edmunds' report "it is of more than questionable utility and more than questionable justice since its effect is to punish citizens of the United States for the misdeeds of Canadian authorities." Yet this is precisely what the President now asks authority to do and the Post has no word of protest. We have just shown in what light it regarded "the fish catch and the fish trade" when it was commenting upon the action of the Republican majority of the Senate. Now that the President has spoken in his message it becomes a "valuable right." When the President says that he "turns to the contemplation of a plan of retaliation," his utterance is "weighty and important," and his plan for cutting off our trade with Canada by land is "the most appropriate and effectual remedy that can be imagined to meet the most substantial grievance we have to complain of." But when the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations said that the questions at issue were not "subjects for treaty negotiation," and proposed the mild step of suspending the small share of our trade with that country which comes by sea, the Post felt that this was a "declaration of an intention to apply coercion to the greatest naval power of the world, at the same time, too, when we have made no preparation for a conflict even with one of the lesser powers, and when confessedly we can make no adequate preparations under ten years, if we can under twenty." We thought the Post wrong then in its absurd fears. We should think the same now of the more extreme retaliation urged by the President. But it is plain that the Post can not have been right in its apprehensions over the policy of the Senate and right now in its approval of that of the President. If the denial of a right which Canada enjoys under the proclamation of 1830 is all the Post said it was, the abrogation of a right secured by the twenty-ninth article of the Treaty of Washington must be a much more serious step, and particularly when Secretary Bayard and the Democrats of the Senate both insist that it is still in force. Three months ago the Post was quoting with approval the declaration of the Senate Democratic minority that "it has never been stated by any administration, or diplomatist, or by Congress, that any one case, or that all the cases that have grown out of our disputes with Great Britain about the Treaty of 1818 gave a just ground for retaliation, reprisals or war." We have all along held the [?] We have felt that the action of Ca[?] warranted retaliation; but if the Po[?] [?]cere in its previous belief, how can i[?] the President with approval now th[?] poses reprisals far beyond any yet [?] by the warmest supporters of the rig[?] fishermen? But we need not multiply qu[?] Enough has been given to show that [?] has been forced in its support of its c[?] to traverse its past position on a subj[?] which we have always felt it was wr[?] have at least hoped it would be consis[?] IT is remarked with some curiosity [?] large number of the New York Mug[?] are preparing to brak into the Rep[?] party again in order to avoid meetin[?] [?]ernor Hill. The agility of the Mug[?] extraordinary, but he deserves no credi[?] A showman once tricked the public by [?] [?]iting what he called his "celebrated [?] turkeys"—turkeys that hopped about [?] foot and then on the other, greatly sur[?] everybody until someone discovered [?] iron platform upon which the poor fow[?] exhibited was kept constantly heated [?] the performance, thus compelling th[?] birds to shift themselves from one foot [?] other frequently. The platform whereu[?] New York Mugwumps stand is hot al[?] fact, there is a regular Hill fire under it. THE sister in charge of St. Francis' [?]tal, Trenton, writes to THE PRESS that [?] [?]bishop Corrigan's recent order forbidding [?]ters of charity to ask for alms on the [?] Jersey race courses did not apply to the [?] of St. Francis' Hospital, none of whom [?] ever collected money at Monmouth Park. Archbishop's order referred to the sisters [?] New Jersey institution, but St. Francis' [?]pital was not alluded to. HE was from the South, sah, and aft[?] had talked to his hearers until the plast[?] on the walls of the hotel corridor had cr[?] in a thousand places, he concluded: [?] now, gentlemen, if you will kindly accom[?] me to the bar we will strike the key-no[?] the campaign." And, lo! they all [?] "straight" and made it unanimous. F[?] was the whisky-note they had struck. NOW that Roger Q. Mills has gone int[?] state of New York to explain that the De[?]cracy is not for Free Trade, perhaps he will [?]plain what he meant when he said not [?] ago: "I am, a Free-trader and I glory in [?] If Roger Q. Mills will devote himself to r[?]ciling the inconsistencies and contradiction [?] Stateman Mills he will have an all-Sum[?] job of it. MARK this as a prediction and call a[?]tion to it at the White House: Mr. Clevel[?] bluff and bluster about retaliation will [?] [?]swered by an increased Republican m[?] in every state bordering on Canada. T[?] the way the border states will scare [?] President's theatrical talk about war. THE people of this great country conti[?] regard the tariff as the central issue of th[?] [?]paign notwithstanding Mr. Cleveland's att[?] to divert their attention from it by inv[?] them to his grand codfish ball. It loo[?] though the only guest at that ball woul[?] Mr. Cleveland himself. THE intimation that the President's ret[?]tion message is to be dramatized has exc[?] consi[?]ble curiosity in theatrical [?] [?]itation in deal[?] [?] a j[?] Mr. Cleveland [?] man of Destiny, but he d[?] merely to convince people who [?] enough to deny it. IF it takes a Democratic presi[?] years to find out that Canada has im[?] American fishermen, how long, at [?] rate of progress, will it take him to [?] This is for the first class in mental ar[?] THE venerable Thurman will appear [?] York next week. His arrival will en[?] people over there to note the differ[?] [?]tween the old style of Democrat and [?] Cleveland style. THE Democratic Sun prints a tab[?] gives Grover Cleveland a majority of [?] the city of New York. This is pretty [?] to Mr. Cleveland, but the Republica[?] stand it. MR. CLEVELAND is running like fury a[?] the Pennsylvania farmers. We observe, [?] ever, that the farmers are pretty close be[?] him and that the sticks they carry are awfu[?] sharp. CANADA talks war, which shows that she can't appreciate a joke. It is a mighty strange thing that Mr. Cleveland can't indulge in a little quiet fun without making somebody mad. IT is generally agreed among patriotic Americans [?] [?] [?] [?] and Minister Phelps should resign. They represent British but not American interests. BELVA ANN LOCKWOOD can't carry Pennsylvania, no matter how many speeches s[?] makes. Pennsylvania is engaged, whet[?] Belva Ann is or not. IT is believed that the Free-trade [?] be willing to quit now and call it a dra[?] this is a fight to the finish. THE public will be pleased to le[?] Mrs. Langtry and that man are [?] Europe. CONGRESS seems to be getting tir[?] country was there weeks and weeks a[?] AS VIEWED by the present Admin[?] public office is a private fishing trip. THEY R here, gentlemen. Make th[?] out! PERSONALS THE King of Sweden has been appoint[?] [?]miral in the German navy. EMPEROR FRANCIS JOSEPH will visit th[?] Russia at Gmunden to-day. SIR JOHN SAVILE LUMLEY, late British [?] at Rome, has been retired to the peerage. M. DE CLAPENDER, the new Swiss mini[?] United States, has started for Washingto[?] EMPEROR WILLIAM'S infant son was b[?] [?]terday. He was christened Oscar K[?] Adolph. FREDERICK WILLIAM JANSSEN, well [?] athletic circles, has lately compiled [?] [?]lating to amateur athletics in America [?] MRS. JOHN R. MCPHERSON is regaini[?] at Baden-Baden, and will be joined [?] husband, the New Jersey Senator, late [?] SENATOR INGALLS, while presiding o[?] ate, makes use of the old-fashioned [?] measure the five-minute speeches of [?] orators, a senator beginning his spe[?] glass full of sand, and he has to stop w[?] is empty. LEO XIII is said to be suffering fro[?] though the public is not permitted [?] what his real condition is. He is trou[?] [?]vousness and has a morbid fear of de[?] nation magnifying the slightest indi[?] serious disorders. MAJOR MCKINLEY allows that Thom[?] Read was a fine post, but he says the[?] imagination in his verses on Sh[?] Winchester. They simply tell th[?] [?]nished truth about the terrible f[?] Kinley was there and saw the [?] charger.SS.—SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1888. 3 [?]G FOR A DEAD HORSE. Proverbial Dead Horse This Time, but One in Fact. [?] Because an Insurance Company [?]'t Pay a Policy After the Sick Horse was Killed Under Orders of the Law. [?]ng for a dead horse" is always an un- [?] duty that fills more than one space on [?]t's calendars. In a new suit of this [?]er begun in Common Pleas Court No. 3 [?]ay Isaac B. Mauger presents a claim of [?] kind, inasmuch as the circumstances [?] several side arguments against a com- [?] [w]hose very purpose of existence is the [?]ious task of paying for horses that hap- [?] die on their owner's hands. [?] Mawger is in the furniture business and [?]t 536 Chatham street. He owned a [?]g called "Harry," bay in color, sixteen [?]half hands high, who was six years old [?]e, 1885. He valued Harry at $225 and [?]t a policy on his life for that amount at [?]me in the People's Mutual Live Stock [?]nce Company of Pennsylvania. This [?]ny promised in consideration of Mr. [?]er's abiding by a scheme of assessments simi- [?] those employed by ordinary mutual life in- [?]ce companies to pay Mr. Mawger $225 in case [?] should die of disease or by accident. The [?] was to expire on the fifth of June of this [?] at twelve o'clock noon. ORDERED TO BE KILLED. [?]eral months prior to the date of the expiration [?] policy. Harry was taken sick and became [?]. The insurance company provided a veterin- [?]urgeon to look after the case and to treat the [?]ct whose death by disease or accident would [?]hem $225. Harry's case grew worse and the [?]ul surgeon declared that his art was exhausted [?]hat Harry's life could not be saved. The horse [?]ed great pain with his malady. His groans [?]icking in his stall disturbed the neighbors. [?]y Mr. Mawger is a humane man. The horse [?] [w]orth $225 to him, for his policy was still in [?] provided Harry should die by accident or [?]se before the fifth of June. The policy gave no [?]cit direction about what the Live Stock Insur- [?] Company would do if Harry were killed to put [?] out of his misery. But on June 2 there ap- [?]d an officer of the law, who informed Mr. [?]ger that if he suffered the horse to live longer [?]ould be violating the statute called the Act of [?] providing for the punishment of cruelty to [?]als in this commonwealth, and so long as he [?]wed the horse to live in its present condition he [?] rendering himself liable to the penalties in [?] cases made and provided. [?]cordingly Harry was killed on the 4th day of [?]e, within forty-eight hours of the time the pol- [?] on his life expired, at the behest of the law, [?] Mr. Mauger, who had watched his sufferings, [?]w he had done a humane act. After a prompt [?]fication of the circumstances, he forwarded to [?] company the necessary proof of the animal's [?]th. THE COMPANY RESISTS [?]w, because the horse's death was not actually [?]esult of the disease, the company refused to [?] arguing that as the death could not be called [?]ent, and it was not a natural death the case [?]ot provided for in their policy. A formal de- [?]l and refusal was made and Mr. Mauger's [?]el, Lawyer Frederick J. Geiger, brought sit [?] value of the horse with interest from the [?]f the death. [?] Mauger's claim rests on the fact that the [?] would have died anyway of the disease, as [?]ed by the company's veterinary; that he ful- [?] the conditions of his policy until he found [?]he law wouldn't let him do so any longer. [?] company, however, object to paying for his [?] horse, for if he had been allowed for forty-eight [?] to struggle for life with the disease, the com- [?] would have had no further pecuniary interest [?] a case. [?]esides," it argued, "he might have got well." [*2015*] Assignment of a Shoe Dealer. [?]lexander B. Murdock, boot and shoe maker at [?] Market Street, made an assignment yesterday [?]avor of James McKnight, dealer in boots and [?]es, of 2[2]4 Market Street. Mr. Murdock has been [?]n business in West Philadelphia. H[?] [?]tained a heavy loss, o[?] [?] [?]Fro[?] [?]one of the [?] publicans [?] from Bright's disease on the [?] in mid-ocean on Tuesday last. [?]13 Arch street, and was for the past [?]s the station master of the Pennsylvania [?]epot. He was also a member of Camden [?] 15, F. and A. M. He was buried at sea [?] miles from Sandy Hook. Mr. Deebrow [?] the Lord Gough for Europe on July 11, for [?] He had improved somewhat, but on the [?]me was attacked by congestion, which re- [?]ally. [?]armer Shoemaker's Revenge. [?]d Shoemaker, a farmer of Centre Township, [?] County, about two weeks since had a [?]ussle with a number of young men who [?]vouring without permission his choice [?]ions. During a fight with the thieves [?]lowed his hired man named Wilson, [?]ower lip bitten off. Last Sunday Mr. Shoe- [?]iscovered a number of young men in his [?]nd gave chase with the aid of his dogs and [?] barreled gun. He succeeded in capturing [?]ung man, and placed him in his carry-all to [?]r him to the Gloucester authorities. On his [?]he young man managed to escape, but before [?]t away the farmer claims he discovered his [?]. Yesterday he appeared before Justice Ban- [?] and swore to a warrant, charging John Pike, [?]loucester, with being the offender. The justice [?]osed a fine on the young man for trespass. The [?]mer refused to prosecute for theft. ------- Experiments in Dog Killing. Veterinary Surgeons W. B. E. Miller and O. T. Sellers visited the dog pound of Dog-catcher Simmons yesterday and experimented on the easiest way of killing dogs. Cyanide of potassium was used on seven dogs and death resulted in from fifteen seconds to one minute and five seconds. The dogs died without showing symptoms of any unnecessary pain. The veterinaries will make further experiments next week. -------------------- Beer Without the U. S. Stamps. George Sheintinger, a brewer living at Cramer's Hill, was held in $1000 bail by Justice Cassady yesterday on a charge of selling beer without the necessary revenue stamps being affixed. United States [D]istrict Attorney Bigelow conducted the prosecu[?]n. The principal witness against the defendant [?] Frank Shaw, a saloon keeper at Cramer's Hill [?] defendant was formerly a brewer in Philadel- --------- ACROSS THE FERRIES. [?] Blevin, of Camdon, was locked up in the [?]ter Lockup last night for a hearing before [?]O'Kane to-day. After imbibing freely he [?] for a train, but could not resist the tempta- [?] throwing a stone through the plate-glass [?]y in the bulk of John Pew's jewelry store on [?]reet. [?]oung men, about 1 o'clock yesterday morn- [?] into a fight near the Gloucester Ferry Slip [?]hem had his wrist and hand badly lacer- [?] a penknife. They called on City Physician [?] and had the wound dressed, but refused to [?]r names. [?]g daughter of Frank Kenny, of Gloucester, [?]d a hammock yesterday and fractured her [?] year-old-son of James Nicholson, of Glou- [?]actured his arm yesterday by falling out of [?] George Vanderslice, of 626 North Sixth [?]ed in Smyrna, Del., yesterday. He was 60 [?]re and for years was captain of the old [?]xon ferryboat. He was a member of [?] Lodge, No. 22, I. O. O. F. [?]rk Carman says that the newly-elected [?] officers must qualify at his office within [?] or they will lose their positions. [?] A. Perks, a well-known manufacturer of [?]s seriously ill with typhoid fever. [?] Ireland, of 1031 Locust Street, was badly [?]out the face yesterday while at work in [?] canning factory. [?]ll grocers will to-day keep open as late as [?]e, as the agreement on which they entered [?] 7 o'clock during the months of July and [?] ended without any violation. [?] L. Bonsall, formerly proprietor of the [?]dy Post, is seriously ill at Brown's Mills. [?] Hon. Harry L. Bonsall was telegraphed [?] for that place yesterday. His son has [?]ng from hemorrhages for years. [?]eas train from Atlantic City, on the [?]a and Atlantic City road, was detained [?]Winslow by the breaking of a driving ------- Every Man of Family. [?] essential that every man of family [?]de for those dependent upon him to [?]s ability. The Provident Fund So- [?] Broadway, New York, has formulated a [?]nd accident insurance which possesses [?]ent features. For $12 per annum a [?] receives $[??] per week indemnity in [?]nt, and if death results from an acci- [?]ily or next of kin will be paid $5000. [?] has an experienced staff of officials. [?]ident, Mr. A. N. Lockwood, is a most [?]surance writer. Since its introduc- [?] plan a year ago, over $20,000,000 of [?] [b]een issued, and its agents are to be [?]te. ** AMONG THE CHURCHES. ------------- Fresh News and Notes of Various Denominations at Philadelphia. To-morrow will be the fourteenth Sunday after Trinity. The subject of the lesson selected by the Joint Diocesan Committee is "St. Paul and St. Barnabas set apart for missionary work." The leading text is—"Be it known unto you, therefore, men and brethren, that through this man is preached unto you the forgiveness of sin, and by him all that believe are justified from all things, from which ye could be justified by this law of Moses."—Acts xiii: 28-39. The subject of the International Sunday-school lesson is "The Spies Sent to Canaan"—Numbers xiii: 7-[??]. The golden text is, "Let us go up at once and possess it, for we are well able to overcome it."— Numbers xiii: 30. Presbyterian. Rev. Madison Peters is preaching at his church every Sunday, both morning and evening. The German Street Church will resume evening service to-morrow. Rev. Dr. Gossman preached last Sunday evening at the First Church. Rev. Mr. Rambo preached in the Wharton Street Church last Sunday morning and Rev. Mr. Chapman in the evening. Dr. Harper of the North Broad Street Church, has returned home from a trip to the National Park. The Second Church of West Chester is in a falling condition. It is very likely that the Presbytery will order its dissolution at the next meeting. Rev. Andrew Lees, of London, preached at the Ninth Church last Sunday evening. Rev. E. M. Ferguson preached last Sunday morning at the Tabernacle Church. Dr. McCook still continues at Manasquan. The Rev. Dr. Richard Allen preached at the Cohocksink Church last Sunday, both morning and evening. Rev. John McCloud, a sometime pastor of the Southwestern Church, preached there last Sunday morning. Rev. W. H. Hodge, of the Columbia Avenue Church, will conduct the services at the Presbyterian Home on Tuesday evenings during September. An interesting occasion may be expected at the Woodland Presbyterian Church, Forty-second and Pine Streets, next Tuesday evening. A farewell meeting will be tendered to the Rev. William S. Nelson and his wife, missionaries to Syria. Mr. Nelson is the son of Dr. Nelson, editor of the Church at Home and Abroad, and is a recent graduate of Lane Seminary. Rev. H. Clay Trumbull and Rev. Dr. Gillespie, of the Board of Foreign Missions, New York, will address the meeting. "Can a Murderer Be Saved?" was the interesting title selected by the Rev. Dr. Yelland, of the Westminster Church, for his last Sunday evening sermon. Protestant Episcopal. Rev. Thomas A. Ege, of Germantown, has taken charge of the chapel of the Memorial Church of the Prince of Peace at Gettysburg. Rev. John P. Peters, Ph. D., is still with the Syrian expedition. For the past two months, Rev. S. B. Simes, rector of Old Swedes Church, has been on a vacation. This week he returned and will officiate in the church to-morrow. Mrs. Harry G. Clay, of this city, is collecting funds to erect a chapel at Eagles Mere. St. Paul's Church, Third and Walnut, Rev. Thomas K. Conard, rector, is holding services both morning and afternoon at present. The sacrament of Holy Communion was administered last Sunday morning at 11 o'clock at Christ's Church. Baptist. To-morrow the Fifth Church will be reopened for services. Rev. Dr. Thomas is expected to preach. Rev. E. Lucas, of Trenton, preached in the Memorial Church last Sunday both morning and evening. The new building of the Immanuel Church will cost from $4000 to $6000, and will cover the whole of that portion of the lot now unoccupied. This improvement will nearly double the capacity of the building a it stands at present. The contract has been awarded for a chapel at Point Pleasant. Rev. William Cathcart preached at the North Church last Sunday both morning and evening. "The Summer Ended" was the subject upon w[?]h Dr. Lisk, pastor of the Centennial Church, pres[?]d a sermon last Sunday evening. A social meeting was held in Spruce Street C[?]h last Sunday evening, Rev. Thomas Needham [?]eciding. The Allentown Church has elected Rev. T. C. Young to be their pastor. Dr. Wynn. of the First Church, Camden [?]at present away on a vacation to impro[?] which for some time past [?] Rev. Dr. T[?] [?] [?] Street Church last Sunday morning. Rev. Mt Thompson preached at the Ebenezer Church last Sunday evening. Rev. R.J. Carson preached an excellent sermon in St, George's Church last Sunday evening upon the "Handwriting on the Wall." Rev. George W. Babcock preached at Emmanuel Church last Sunday evening. The Ocean Grove camp-meeting is largely at- tended. Many prominent Philadelphia clergymen are present and have made addresses. " Excusable Forgetfulness" is the title upon which Rev. J. C Hickerton preached a most in- teresting sermon at the Eighteenth Street Church last Sunday morning. Rev. J. Walker Jackson, of the Unites States Navy, preached at the Spring Garden Street Church last Sunday evening upon the subject, "All Is Yours." Rev. E. A. Rawden preached at the Tabernacle Church last Sunday, both morning and evening. The poachers' meeting will be held on Monday next. On Monday of last week ground was broken for the erection of a new church at West Grove. It is expected that the building will be finished by the first of the year. The African Church at West Chester is being renovated. A new parsonage is also contemplated. A holiness meeting was held at Thirteenth Street Church last Sunday afternoon. Roman Catholic. To-morrow is the fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost. The service of the Forty Hours Devotion will be held at St. Bonifacius , St Dominic's, Holmesburg, and Holy Family, New Philadelphia. The new church at Manayunk, St John the Bap- tist, will probably be roofed over before wet weather. The building is built entirely of Hersey granite, in the Gothic style of architecture, according to plans and specifications prepared by P. C. Keeley, of Brooklyn, N. Y. The tower is to be 195 feet in height. The building covers an area of 96 by 108 feet, and has five entrances, so arranged that in case of fire the building could be emptied in a very few minutes. The work is being done under the super- vision of Patrick Longby, who is executor under the will of Bernard McCann, to whom this church is being erected as a memorial. The feast of St. Augustine will be duly solemnized at St. Augustine's Church to-morrow with a solemn high mass and a panegyric of the saint. Father Laboureau writes from Ontario to thank the Church at Philadelphia for the funds contributed toward the building of a church at Penetanguishene. He says the church will not be finished for more than a year yet. Contributions will continue to pour into the sanitarium fund. The Treasurer acknowledges this week additional contributions to the amount of about $226. A paragraph in Dorchester's "Christianity of the United States" quotes Archbishop Ryan as advocating the persecution of heretics as soon as the Catholics of the United States have become numerous enough to do so. This the Archbishop emphatically denies, stating that he never thought, spoke or wrote such a sentiment. Hebrew. Last Sunday the Chebra Chesed Shel Emet consecrated a new cemetery in Frankford. The Publication Society have selected the following officers: Mr. Jacob H. Schiff, of New York; Leo N. Levy, Esq. of Galveston. Tex.; M. Bernard Hettman of Cincinnati, O. and the Rev. Dr. G. Gotthell, of New York, as its vice-presidents. Mr. Howard S. Friedman, of Philadelphia, was elected treasurer. Mayor Solzberger, Esq., of this city, is chairman of the Committee of Publication. Mr. Simon A. Stern, of this city, is Las on the committee. The Young Women's Union will hold a meeting in Touro Hall, next Wednesday afternoon, at half-past 2 o'clock. To-morrow, Monday and Wednesday are the days designated by the various congregations for the sale of seats, The Rodef Sholom congregation will allow its members to select their pews. The congregation Beth Israel will also utilize to-morrow morning for that purpose and for opening its Sunday-school. In addition to the same programme the Adath Josh- urun synagogue will be open Monday morning. Seats will be sold by the Anshe Emeth congregation to-morrow and Wednesday. The Northern Sunday School will reopen to-morrow. Rev. Dr. M. Jastrow, Sr., will begin his course of Sabbath lectures to-morrow morning at the synagogue of Rodef Sholom congregation, Broad and Mt. Vernon. General. To-morrow at 6.30 Bishop Taylor, of Africa. will speak at the meeting of the Young Men's Christian Association. Dr. Welsh, of the Methodist Church, addressed the Gospel meeting in the Park last Sunday. These meetings will continue until the weather will no longer permit. The Apollo Union meets every Monday evening in the rooms of the Sunday Breakfast Association. The Woman's Christian Temperance Union still continues to hold meeting in various parts of the city as well as at the headquarters, 55 North Thirteenth Street, every Tuesday and Sunday evenings. Rev. Dr. Josiah Strong. of the U. S. Evangelical Alliances, and author of "Our Country." will preach Sunday next, morning and evening, in the Congregational Church, Eighteenth and Green streets. The Friendship Liberal League holds a debate upon some religious topic every Sunday afternoon and evening at the hall Broad and Wood Streets. Last Sunday afternoon the debate was se aside on account of the death of a member of the league. Rev. Frank F. Fry. son of Rev. Dr. J. Fry of Reading, will enter in his duties to-morrow as assistant to Rev. Dr. J.A. Seiss, pastor of the Church of the, Holy Communion, corner of Broad and Arch Streets. ATLANTIC'S EARLY AUTUMN. ------------ Indications of the Greatest September Crowds Ever Seen There. ------------ Extensive Preparations for the Reception of the Harmony Legion and the Other Republicans—Law and Order People Coming to the Front ------------ [*2015B*] From the Regular Correspondent of THE PRESS. ATLANTIC CITY, N. J., Ang. 30. —There is every indication to-night that the Saturday and Sunday that ushers in September will bring the largest early Autumn crowds that have been seen on the island for several years. The mountaineers are coming in greater number than ever arrived before. They are coming from the Adirondacks, from the Blue Ridge, which takes in Monroe County, Pn., and from the pretty slopes which take in Lancaster County on the one end and Delaware Country on the other. Thos contingent is the after- Summer swash, as you might call it, because they do not care to visit the sea when the great tide of travel is on. I think that next Satur- day and Sunday will be the biggest September days in the history of the island. The Republican Club Visitors. There are great expectation regarding the big Republican parade to-morrow night. The Union Republican Club, which Ex-Chairman Leeds will marshal, will make its headquarters at the Journalist Clubhouse, 1122 Atlantic Avenue. The clubhouse will be handsomely decorated with the flags of all nations, and there will be and abundance of red and green fire, The route of the parade will be as follows: Form on South side of Atlantic Avenue, right resting on Virginia Avenue, as SP. M. The line will move at 8.30 sharp, over the follow- ing route: Up Atlantic Avenue to Massachusetts, countermarch down Atlantic Avenue to Georgia Avenue, down Georgia Avenue to Pacific Avenue, up Pacific to Rhode Island Avenue, up Rhode Island to Arctic Avenue, down Arctic to Georgia Avenue, down Georgia to Atlantic Avenue, up Atlantic Ave- nue to North Carolina Avenue and dismiss. There will be at least 3000 men in the line. It was settled late to-night that the parade should not start until half past nine o'clock. The change was due to an order from Chair- man Leeds which was intended to avert a con- flint between the managers of the fireworks display and the processionists. The fireworks will go on with probably 1500 members of the Harmony legion and other clubs present. as the line wheels up and down Atlantic Avenue it is-predicted that the greatest pyrotechnic display that has every be seen in Atlantic City will be presented. The town is alive over the affair and the most unique feature will be two line of marching Democrats who will not vote for Harrison and Morton but will do the city honour by receiving their opponents. Enforcing the License Law. The Law and Order people are coming to the front to-night. They have sent out a clearly printed notice which said: "The Woman's Christian Temperance Union have decided to take much action as will secure the observance of the law passed during the Winter of 1887-8 against selling liquor on the Sabbath day. Violation of the same on or after September 2d, '88, will be dealt with according to law. By order of the Union. (Signed) J. M. FRENCH, Cor. Sec'y." A Fireman's Timely Act. One of the most popular young councilmen in Atlantic City is Lewis Groff. He is a member of the Neptune Hose Company, and responded to the alarm of the fire last night. When the engine was fashion out of the hose house a pretty, flaxen- haired, little girl stood directly opposite the en- trance on the street. She was so much excited that she didn't seem to realize her peril, and would undoubtedly have been [?] the horse but for the brave inter- [?] quickly sprang in front of [?] threw himself [?] The City's Fire Hydrants. The Atlantic City Water Work Company carved a notice on the City Council to-night that the fire hydrants would be dismantles at 6 o'clock P. M., September 15, 1888, if the difficulty between the company and the city was not adjusted at or before that time. The Consumers' Company sent in a communication station that they would furnish the city water for fire protection tree, which was accepted by the City Council. Driftwood of the Shore. Mrs. H. B. Graham, after having been absent from her home in Philadelphia for a year, travelling through the West and winding up with a season at Atlantic, will shortly return to the city. Miss Sallie Emmons, who so seldom visits the beach, although she has been here all season, yesterday surprised her friends by her abilities as a surf bather and breaker diver. The families of E. C. Levy and W. H. Morris will return to Philadelphia to-morrow. Mrs. Fiotta Alateldt says she will remain in Atlantic City as long as there is the least sign of a season. Mrs. A. W. Burroughs and Mrs. Joseph Kern have returned to their homes in Wilmington. Mr. G. Glocker and his daughters, Miss Julia and Mrs. F. H. Sanford, with the latter's two sons, are late arrivals. P. O'Neill, the well-known Twenty-ninth Ward Boniface makes Atlantic City his base of supplies while almost daily taking fishing excursions out from Longport. Mrs. F. H. Connolly and Miss Sallie Connolly, of Phillipsburg, N. J., who made things pleasant wherever they went, returned home yesterday. Charles Shurtcliff, a retired manufacturer, who owns one of the finest cottages and prettiest flower gardens on North Carolina Avenue, will leave for home about September 15. Hon. R. J. Westinghouse, of Pittsburg, with his daughter is sojourning on Kentucky Avenue. Charles A. Lane, of Allen, Lane & Scott, is enjoying cottage life by the sea. Mrs. A. E. Strattan is among the latest Philadelphians who have sought Atlantic's pleasures. Thomas B. Dudley, the well-known Camden orator and politician, is here. Charles G. Siegfried and wife are registered at one of the prominent down-town hotels. W. L. Blair brought his family down this week for a brief stay. Walter Wood, the financier and railroad director, is here for a brief rest from official duties. Miss Madge E. Miller graces the piazza of an up-town cottage. H. J. McLaughlin is a familiar figure on the avenues. Mrs. Emily Buck, now here, is a charming representative of Philadelphia society. George Edmiston is among the recent Philadelphia arrivals. Edward Bromley, the well-known carpet manufacturer, is here with his mother and sister. Hon. George J. Elliott, Chairman Quay's partner, will remain here during September. Mrs. J. R. Adams, wife of the well-known Philadelphia lawyer, is here. Rev. Charles S. Daniels, of Philadelphia, still lingers by the sea. David B. Locke, prominent in Camden business circles, was down yesterday on a flying trip. Miss Effie R. Latton, of West Philadelphia, has a host of admirers. She is staying at a cottage on Virginia Avenue. Harry Kent is here for a two weeks' visit. Colonel H. A. Seligson, of Washington, who arrived here yesterday in his tally-ho, leaves Monday next for Philadelphia. William Wilkinson, of W. A. Henly & Co., is talked of for referee in the coming yacht races. Dominick McCaffrey closed his place to-day, but remains on the Island until October. Patrick O'Neill, liquor dealer, of Philadelphia, with his lovely daughter Mame, will remain here until the middle of September. Terrence Connell, of the Philadelphia Mint, is expected here with the Quaker City Yacht Club. George Gansert and wife, of Columbia Avenue, who have been stopping at the Windsor for a week, left for the city this afternoon. Mr. Walter A. Brown, of Washington, is enjoying his first visit to Atlantic. He says he will come again. --------------------------------- CAPE MAY'S CLOSING SEASON. -------------- Brief Personal Notes Among Cottagers and Late Hotel Guests. CAPE MAY, Aug. 31 [SPECIAL].--Cape May's season is rapidly drawing to a close, yet many remain to enjoy the fair September weather. Here and there are to be seen the storm windows. Cottage life is very pleasant just at this period. Dr. Charles R. King has closed his Howard Street cottage and returned to his home in Andalusia, Pa. Mr. and Mrs. H. R. Ploomer are guests of the Cape. Edward Mathers was one of yesterday's arrivals. William King, the oil merchant, will remain September out. Valentine H. Smith, the druggist, ceased cottage life here to-day and returned this afternoon to his Philadelphia residence. P. [?.] Byrne, a Zoological Garden official, arrived at the Arlington last evening. Harry S. Taggart closes his Decatur Street and Columbia Avenue cottages next Wednesday for the season. A [?????ded] the [gam???????????????????????????????elute] at [Riv????????] by a [??????????????????????????] --------------------------------------------------------------------------- MARKS BROS. 1332 CHESTNUT ST. --------- Open all day September 1. Cut Prices! Cut Prices! It will pay you to stop in and see what we have to offer in every department of the store. Prior to removal to our New Building at Eighth and Arch Streets we want to sell Seventy-five Thousand Dollars' worth of merchandise, consisting of Hats, Bonnets, Ribbons, Laces, White Goods, Silks, Velvets, Flowers, Feathers, Upholstery Goods, and Coats, Jerseys, Wraps and Newmarkets. Bargains all over the store. --------- MARKS BROS. 1332 CHESTNUT ST. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ BUSINESS OPPORTUNITIES!!! See advertisements on 9th Page of THE SUNDAY PRESS. One cent a word. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- FOR BOARDING! FOR ROOMS! For Houses to Let! and For Sale! see advertisements in THE SUNDAY PRESS. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ OCEAN GROVE JOTTINGS. ---------- A Large Exodus Attends the Closing of the Camp-meeting Services. OCEAN GROVE, Aug. 31 [SPECIAL].--The exodus from the Grove at the close of the camp-meeting was unusually large, many thousands taking the first trains out for home. The camp grounds today look as if a cyclone had swept over the place. The majority of the tents are down, furniture is piled in heaps in front of the cottages and everywhere hustle and confusion reigns. Services will be held in the auditorium on Sunday as usual. The best talent obtainable will fill the pulpit morning and evening. The young people's meeting will close Sunday morning, and the leader, Rev. [C??l.] Yatman, will take charge of a revival to New York on Monday. Mrs. Rev. William B. Osborn delivered an address in the Tabernacle this afternoon, explaining her mission training school. Miss Adelaide Shaw, a Philadelphia artist, is boarding on Main Avenue. Dr. I. F. Bird, of Philadelphia, is here for a needed rest. E. Garrison, a Bordentown grocer, is stopping on Main Avenue. George A. Perry, a Philadelphia business man, his accommodations on Main Avenue. Frank Everit, a Trenton livery man, boards near the sea on Atlantic Avenue. Captain C. H. Dixon, of Baltimore, is a recent arrival. Dr. Charles C. H. Dixon, of Baltimore, is a recent arrival. Dr. Charles A. Lee is a well-known Baltimorean boarding on Lake Avenue. Miss Abbie Laughlin, of Philadelphia, is a Pilgrim Pathway sojourner. Joseph S. Wright, of Burlington, arrived yesterday for a short visit. Mrs. Harrison Stiles, of Philadelphia, is located on Ocean Pathway. Miss Mamie E. Hinky, of Philadelphia, is at a popular house. Albert I. Magilton, a prominent Philadelphian, is sojourning on Lake Avenue. Rev. L. B. Hartman, a Baptist divine of Trenton, is resting on Pilgrim Pathway. Homer Wise, a prominent Philadelphian, is registered at a Central Avenue hotel. Miss Amy M. Perinchife, of Mount Holly, is enjoying seaside life on Ocean Pathway. R. N. Henderson and wife, of Philadelphia, has accommodation on Ocean Pathway. Mrs. H. H. Laughlin, a prominent resident of Philadelphia, is a Pilgrim Pathway health [??er.] [?????????????????????????????????????????????????] ASBURY PARK, Aug. 31 [?????]--The annual boat carnival took place this evening on Wesley Lake, and was a most brilliant affair, over 20,000 people from this and other towns witnessing the marine pageant. There were nearly 200 handsomely illuminated and decorated boats in line, the Neptune Cornet Band, in a large barge, leading the procession. The cottages on both sides of the lake were profusely decorated. Anchored in the centre of the lake was a boat filled with little girls, one of their number, Miss Hogan, impersonating the Goddess of Liberty. Five hundred dollars worth of fireworks were discharged from the two bridges, while Greek fire burned incessantly from the lake terraces and the boats. In rowing up and down the lake the boats in line executed several funny movements. It was the prettiest carnival ever given by the boat boys. Miss Lizzie M. Wilson, of Burlington, is an Asbury Avenue guest. Miss A. Lloyd, a tall, beautiful brunette, registering from Yardley, Pa., is one of the many attractive young ladies at the Albion. E. J. Buckley and wife, of Philadelphia, are at an Asbury Avenue hotel. Judge Charles a. Bennett and wife, of Freehold, are here for a short stay. Misses Lillian Carrington and Edna Seger, of Philadelphia, are two of the many pretty girls stopping in the Park. Miss Mary Butterworth, daughter of Congressman Butterworth, of Ohio, is stopping on Kingsley Street. Postmaster Fred G. Weise, of Bordentown, is at an Asbury Avenue hotel. Chief of Police Charles H. McChesney, of Trenton, was one of yesterday's arrivals. Edmund C. Hill, one of Trenton's aldermen and treasurer of the Staet Republican League, was here yesterday. Rev. James Brady, of Lambertville, N. J., is a Fourth Avenue boarder. Captain Jonathan May, president of the Sixth National Bank of Philadelphia has accommodations on Third Avenue. Colonel George P. McLean, commander of Pennsylvania's 93d Regiment, stops on Asbury Avenue. E. T. Bassett, of Washington, one of the architects on the new United States library building, in lingering on Seventh Avenue. F. E. Stone, of Williamsport, Pa., stops on Cookman Avenue. A. P. Lee, J. H. Stitner and John A. Myers, of Philadelphia, registered yesterday at a Cookman Avenue house. Recent arrivals from Trenton include Joseph J. Case, Robert E. Pond, E. E. Kurtz and Theodore S. Worley. Insurance Agent A. R. Worthington, of Trenton, is at a popular Asbury Avenue hotel. Miss Annie Arrowsmith, of Freehold, is a recent Cookman Avenue arrival. The latest arrivals from Philadelphia include J. H. Stitzer, Joseph S. Wright, Frederick K. Liebrandt, Ed. T. Davis, Homer A. Reeves, Charles W. Parker, W. C. Parker, Miss Emily B. Rood, Miss E. H. Brown, W. J. Lockwood, Mrs. M. S. McCant, H. C. Knight, William W. Allen and wife, J. Harry Hugh and wife, Mrs. F. Umberger, Mrs. Street, Howard Powell, Miss Annie E. Posell, Lee Carson, Miss Clara Deventer, Horace e. Winters, Miss Gertrude Black, Miss Jennie R. Woodruff, Henry D. Ditmer, Charles V. M. Brent, William O. Harvey, Michael W. Brown, Mrs. E. M. Stockton, Mrs. Henry D. Little and family, Miss Carrie Osborne, Herbert H. Wintend and George V. Smock. ----------------------------------------- For Daily Record of Deaths see Page 5. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ROYAL BAKING POWDER Absolutely Pure. This Powder never varies. A marvel of [?????] strength and wholesomeness. More economical than the ordinary kinds, and can not be sold in competition with the multitude of low test, short weight, [al???] of phosphate powder. Sold only in cans. ROYAL BAKING POWDER CO. 105 Wall St., N. Y. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- BUSINESS OPPORTUNITES!!! See advertisements on 9th Page of THE SUNDAY PRESS. One cent a word. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- DO YOU WANT TO RENT ROOMS! Advertise in THE [S??????] [?imes] One Cent [??????8 [T]HE PHILADELPHIA PRESS.—SATUR[D] Wanamaker's PHILADELPHIA, Saturday, September 1, 1888. The weather to-day is likely to be fair. Closed at 1 P. M. to-day. Last half holiday this year. [*BOOK NEWS*] BOOK NEWS for September has a plate paper portrait of Rev. E. P. Roe —welcome name in a hundred thousand homes. Fifty-two other pages brimming with news of the month about Books, including what is in them. And the fair price. How often do you get books at the fair price? You are likely to save the year's cost of BOOK NEWS on a single book. About 200 titles now in the Keystone Library, and new ones coming day by day. Marvels of cheapness. Your favorite author, maybe, for 10c. Bookmakers are quickening for the fall trade. We've a big table where a sample of the new books lands at the first jump. Always full of the latest. Look and welcome. Near Thirteenth street entrance. Take a glance at the six windowsful of Men's 50-cent Neckwear on Chestnut street. It will set you thinking. For sale both ends of the Store. [*FAIRMOUNT ARDMORE WASSAHICKON BEEMONT*] We put the Fairmount $2, Ardmore, cork handle, $3.50, Belmont $4 and Wissahickon $4 at the head as the best Rackets for the money. Special-priced Rackets every now and then. Wright and Ditson's, $5.50; Nahant [f]or $4. All sorts of sporting an $1,500 IN CASH PRIZES FOR THREE BEST ADVERTISEMENTS. The Chicago Daily News has reduced its price from two cents to One Cent per copy. For a year past its sales have been over "a-million-a-week," and with this as a fixed accomplishment, it has ventured the final step in journalistic progression, and has undertaken to place an ideal American daily paper on the basis of the lowest unit of American coinage— ONE CENT. This purpose has already been realized,—the circulation of THE CHICAGO DAILY NEWS now averages 225,000 copies a day. To push this phenomenal success to its greatest legitimate extent, two things alone seem essential: First—To make as good a newspaper as the best, if not a little better; second—to let every man, woman and child in the Northwest know it's being done, and done at one cent a day. THE DAILY NEWS believes that it is competent to take care of the first named condition, and knows of no better way of meeting the second than by general newspaper advertising. To do the latter most effectively it here solicits the co-operation of all who believe themselves competent to write an effective newspaper advertisement. To induce the best effort in its service in this matter THE DAILY NEWS will reward the writers of the three best advertisements submitted, with three cash prizes, aggregating Fifteen Hundred Dollars, divided as follows: First Cash Prize—For best advertisement, - - - - - - - - $1,000.00 Second Cash Prize—For second best advertisement, - - - - - 300.00 Third Cash Prize—For third best advertisement, - - - - - - 200.00 Total, - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - $1,500.00 The advertisement may be a single announcement, or a series of announcements not exceeding six in number. The space required must be eight inches deep, six and one-quarter inches wide. For the general guidance of all who enter the competition, the following ten points are briefly stated as being those which THE DAILY NEWS will require to be most prominently brought out. The advertisement must emphasize: 1—That THE DAILY NEWS is first, last and all the time, a newspaper. Because that should be the first and controlling consideration in the production of an American Daily paper,—and it isn't always so. It costs money, enterprise and hard work in unstinted measure to make a genuine news-paper. It is a member of the ASSOCIATED PRESS, of which the other Chicago morning members are the Tribune, Times and Inter-Ocean. Its facilities for news gathering are equal tot he best. 2—That THE DAILY NEWS is a daily paper for busy people. Because this is a country of busy people, and the Northwest is the busiest part of it. Most people haven't the time or patience to read a "blanket sheet,"—they absolutely haven't any use for it. Newspaper reading, after all, is but an incident of life, not its chief business. Therefore THE DAILY NEWS is a short-and-to-the-point paper. 3—That THE DAILY NEWS is an independent, truth-telling newspaper. Because the American people are intelligent enough to prefer honest, impartial journalism to the misleading, truth-discoloring dishonesty of the regulation political "organ." Everybody really wants to know the truth in political matters; the most violent partisan doesn't want misinformation for a daily diet. And as to editorial expression, even the most unreasonable partisan will rarely take lasting offence at an adverse opinion, so long as he is confident of the honesty of purpose back of the opinion. It's not the mere fac[?] of disagreement that makes trouble, it's the suspicion of insincerity. [Make this point very strong and clear. It's because THE DAILY NEWS has won its way to the confidence of its readers of every political faith that it has a circulation of over "a-million-a-week." 4—That THE DAILY NEWS is a family paper. Because this is the age of the newspaper,—a time when everybody reads it, and it is all-important that the newspaper should be made with direct reference to the needs of all the members of the family. Woman and her interests never occupied so large a share of the world's thought as to-day, —a fact not to be overlooked. The moral tone and influence of a daily paper must also be constantly watched, for children read it. THE DAILY NEWS is for the home, and therefore it follows 5—That THE DAILY NEWS is against the saloon. Because "the liquor interest" arrogantly assumes to dominate in American politics, and THE DAILY [?]EWS believes that it is not for the country's good that [???] one interest should thus over-ride all others, much less [??]e which stands as the representative of all that is most un-American among us. THE DAILY NEWS is not the organ of prohibition. It is not sure that prohibition is the best thing. Good people who have made this subject a life-long study do not agree as to the remedy. THE DAILY NEWS has no eutopian hope that it is possible to legislate men into goodness, but it has a very positive conviction that it is entirely practicable, and altogether desirable, to legislate saloon-keepers into their proper place, as being engaged in a traffic which here, as everywhere else in the civilized world, is only tolerated as, apparently, a necessary evil. [There must be no uncertain sound on this point.] 6—That THE DAILY NEWS is a happy p[a]per. Because it believes in the practical wisdom of being good natured: of being generally satisfied rather than everlastingly dissatisfied. The chronic fault-finder is a nuisance, and THE DAILY NEWS will have the least possible of him. The world is better than it used to be, and is getting better every day. It's a good place to live in—let's make the best of it. 7—That THE DAILY NEWS costs a great deal of money to make. Because there is sometimes no way of demonstrating the value of a thing, to some people, so conclusively as by showing, even in part, what it costs to make it. There are 302 people on the regular weekly pay-roll of THE DAILY NEWS, and their salaries range from $5,500 to $6,000 per week, aggregating $300,000 a year. The white paper costs another $300,000 a year. The aggregate expenditures of THE DAILY NEWS for 1888 will vary but a trifle either way from $900,000. And yet 8—That THE DAILY NEWS now costs the reader only One Cent a Day. Because this is the most wonderful thing in modern journalism, and deserves telling o'er and o'er. [There is little danger of making too much of this point.] 9—That THE DAILY NEWS is now literally everybody's paper. Because heretofore metropolitan daily papers have been too expensive, both in price and in time required to read them, to make it practicable for the farmer or the mechanic to take them. Now this is changed. The farmer particularly should take a daily paper now that it costs but little more than the old-time weekly, and is condensed so that he can also afford the time to read it. He'll save its yearly cost over and over again by knowing the market prices every day, instead of weekly as heretofore. 10—That THE DAILY NEWS now inaugurates a newspaper revolution. Because such a combination of values as it now affords the reader is absolutely without parallel among American newspapers, and it is bound to make the dry-bones rattle. The result of this revolution is that every English reading person living within daily newspaper distance of Chicago can afford, both as to price and time, to have his city daily. [*2015E*] A critical reading of the paper itself will suggest other points which may be introduced according to the judgment of the advertisement writer. Outline illustrations or poetry may be used, but they are not [?????]sary to success in the competition. The prizes will be awarded to the three most successful advertisements, whatev[?? ??????] the absolute grade of their merits, the publisher of the DAILY NEWS being sole judge. The advertisements must be [? ?]re September 15th and the awards will be made at the earliest date practicable thereafter. Intending comp[?] [?] for the pape[?] complete prospectus, and the advertisements must be submitted under the conditions therein [?] VICTOR F. LAWSON, Publisher TH[?] [?] [*2015D*][?ESS].—SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1888 7 BOYS' SCHOOL SUITS Can be had at our Store for less money than you ever thought of paying before. They are beautifully made and perfect fitting. We anticipate your wants and are first in the field to supply them. You will find us still at the front with popular goods at their right values. Osterhout & Goodrich, 1311 TO 1317 MARKET STREET. STORE OPEN SATURDAY NIGHTS. WE ARE AFTER THE "NIMBLE SIXPENCE" NEW STORE, NEW GOODS, NEW METHODS. No old fogyism nor hundred per cent profits. Quick sales, smallest possible profits, and a complete stock of Furniture equal to any in the world. Look out for announcement of the opening of the New Retail Store of the PHILADELPHIA Furniture Manufacturing Co. 1008 MARKET STREET. [?The] prosecutorix is a resident of Allentown, Pa., [?ere] Beatin formerly played. The arresting [?officers] were Constable King, of this city, [?and] an Allentown detective, and Beatin [?was] taken to Allentown this evening [?and] his trial is set for Monday. [?He] is well thought of by the balance of the team, [?who] all speak of him in the highest praise. He [?denies] that he is guilty, and claims that when he [?comes] up for trial he will be able to [?prove] himself innocent. Manager Leadley thinks Beatin will be able to prove his innocence, placing [?considerable] confidence in the young pitcher's story, [?which] is to the effect that the prosecutrix is [endeavoring?] to make a scapegoat of him. [?nlap] is still lame and [wil?] [?] playing [?the] latter part of next [week?] [?rg] goes [?Indianapolis] Sunday [?] games. [?day] afternoon [?] played THE CENTRAL LEAGUE. Newark Turns the Tables on Easton and Whitewashes Them. NEWARK, N. J., Aug. 31 [SPECIAL].—The Eastons were unable to touch Baker's deceptive curves to-day and in consequence the Newarks won hautily. Both teams played a pretty fielding game, the only error on the Newark side being Smith's fumble of a hard-hit grounder. Howe, formerly of the Londons, was given a trial at second in place of Simmons, who is sick, and he played a good game on the base and also hit well. The score: NEWARK. R. 1B. PO. A. E. Casey, c. f. ....... 0 1 0 0 0 Coogan, r. f. .....2 3 3 0 0 Fields, 1b. ........ 2 2 15 1 0 Jones, 3b. ........ 0 1 0 2 0 Johnson, l. f. ... 0 0 0 0 0 Howe, 2b. ......... 0 1 2 2 0 Sullivan, c. ...... 0 0 6 2 0 Smith, s. s. ...... 0 0 1 5 [?] EASTON. R. 1B. PO A. E. McDerm'tt, 2b. 0 0 5 3 0 Spill, s. s. ......... 0 0 1 5 0 Knowlton, c. f 0 0 1 0 0 Frank, 3b. ......... 0 0 2 3 0 EArle, 1b. ......... 0 1 11 0 2 Burke, l. f. .... 0 0 [?] 0 0 Sullivan, r. f. ... 0 1 [?] 0 [McKeever?] [?] SAYLOR'S SEPTEMBER SONG ALWAYS ON THE LEAD! SEPTEMBER FIRST. Hail, brightest day of all the year! The bounding oyster now is here. Refreshed by rest since April's close, Pinguid and sleek the bivalve grows. For seventeen long and weary weeks We've mourned as those whose sorrow speaks In quivering voice and moistening eye, His absence from the "stew" and "fry." The social "steam," the "broiled on toast" We've missed, how sadly let his voice, Trembling, attest. We now rejoice, Four months of R-less name are gone, Cheerful SEPTEMBER now comes on. The oyster from his ocean bed Now raises up his shapely head; His long vacation now is o'er, We gladly welcome him once more. Through fiery trials though he's passed He's sure of safe retreat at last; And though to martyrdom he go, No lack of warmth shall ever know. So gladly we will ever raise A welcome to September days, That brings us, midst the fruits of Fall THE NOBLE OYSTER, BEST OF ALL! 126 & 128 Dock Street, below Second, Phila. READY FOR BUSINESS MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, WITH A Full Supply of All the Best Grades of Fresh and Salt Oysters Sold at wholesale and retail, fresh opened while you wait. By the hundred, thousand or million; by the gallon, half gallon, quart or pint; by the sack, barrel, wagon load or boat load. Oysters shipped to all parts of the United States. Send for price lists and learn of the special inducements to hotels, restaurants and dealers. 100,000 Opened Daily. Call and Witness It. Elegant Stewing Oysters………………44 cents per hundred Fine Oysters for Raw……………… 60 cents per hundred For Broiling or Frying……………… 75 cents per hundred Extra Choice Flavor……………… 85 cents per hundred Extra Large……………… $1 00 per hundred All prices by the gallon, half-gallon, quart and pint. NEW PUBLICATIONS. NEW PUBLICATIONS. THE CENTURY for September. For the first time in its history THE CENTURY MAGAZINE devotes a single issue largely to educational themes, while at the same time keeping up its other distinctive features. The SPECIAL EDUCATIONAL ARTICLES are as follows: "Uppingham: An Ancient School Worked on Modern Ideas," richly illustrated, and with portrait of Edward Thring, the late head-master (said to be, since Arnold of Rugby, the most highly esteemed educator of England); "The University and the Bible," by T. T. Munger, a [?] argument for the teaching of Christian [a?] classics; "Women Who Go To College," by Arthur [Gilm?] [?] [?] WHIG HALL, PRINCETON. FOUNDED 1769. One of the 28 society-halls and chapter-houses illustrated in the article on "College Fraternities."LITERATURE AND ART. GREENWOOD'S FAREWELL, AND OTHER POEMS. By the Earl of Southesk, K.T. (Strahan and Co.) A superficial reader of advertisements and catalogues, seeing how plentiful are titled and wealthy authors, is apt to wonder how it is that wealth and titles confer upon them such a much larger share of literary power than is possessed by ordinary folk. If literary power were to be measured by the power of paying printers' bills and publishers' charges, there would be some excuse for wondering; but this is not exactly the case, and, if the matter be looked into a little, perhaps it will be found that there is nothing to be surprised at after all. We all of us, in our hearts of hearts, think ourselves clever people, if not geniuses; and a good many of us think that our cleverness or genius lies in the direction of authorship; but, fortunately or unfortunately, we generally find a curb put upon our ambition to enlighten the world with our brilliant thoughts. Dick, Tom and Harry have to take their manuscripts to a publisher and say, "Please, sir, will you print this for the benefit of the world and hand me over my share of the profits?" and in nine cases out of ten the publisher replies, "No, thank you; it won't pay." Dick, Tom and Harry are thereupon driven into humbler but more useful arts. Dukes, earls and marquises are able to pursue a different plan. "Give this grand work to the world," they say. "I'll give you a cheque for all your expenses, and you can send me a cheque for the money you receive from an appreciative public." Thereupon the publisher publishes, the titled author draws his cheque, but alas! he rarely gets the other cheque that he expected. He can console himself, however, with the reflection that his name will go down to posterity not only in "Burke's Peerage," but also in the catalogue of the British Museum Library; and, in the meanwhile, he has plenty of prettily- bound copies of his "works" to give away to his friends. We will not venture to suggest that the Earl of Southesk comes under this latter description; but, premising that opposite to the title-page is a long list of his other "works," ranging in price from 1s. to 18s. apiece, we will give our readers a sample or two of the contents of the collection of "poems" before us. Here is the first of three pages headed "Necromancy": Come! - come! - come! - From the depths of the sea; Numb - numb - numb And cold though you be. Wring - wring - wring Your dripping curls; String - string - string Your necks with pearls. Oh, [?] So gently glad - so gently glad. Oh, thou art like a tender tune, So sacred sad - so sacred sad. This love within thine eye's gray deep, All Heaven is there - all Heaven is there; And glooms of Eden fondly sleep Within thy hair - within thy hair. Thy soul upon my soul outflows So full and free - so full and free, That all, in most divine repose, Is filled with thee - is filled with thee. If our readers like such verse, Lord Southesk offers them plenty of it; or if they have a comic turn, his lordship is as liberal in his supply of vulgarity. Think of this for a picture of "young housekeeper Moll," in a book dedicated by a peer of the realm to "My Wife": - She was something to see, as you smoked in your chair. With her rolling black eyes and the kink in her hair; With her shoes down at heel, and her cheeks pink as paint, and holes in her stockings- no beastly constraint! And her ringlets they smelt like a hairdresser's shop, Ander dress was green stuff, splattered over with slop; And her hands were good large ones, her ankles were thick, And her nails they were bitten clean down to the quick. She'd a taste of a temper, but nothing like vice- It is downright unchristian to be too precise:- For a shy with a bottle I don't know her match; But good lawk! what is that when a fellow can catch? Oh, wasn't it prime! you could drink, you could smoke, You could curse and blaspheme, you could sing, you could joke; Things are changed now, alas!- all is bother and bore,- Why, the missus looks wild if you spit on the floor! That last extract is from a long "poem," styled "Pigworm and Dixie," which ends thus:- Lawk, what do I care! My blest body will rot, My blest soul (if I've got one) will foddle to pot, And I'll treat the poor worms to a famous repast- Oh yes, I'll be useful to something at last! As worms do not generally fatten on paper and printers' ink, we do not see that any sort of usefulness can come from the publication of the Earl of Southesk's latest "work." A STRING OF PEARLS, FROM THE MASTERS OF THOUGHT AND LANGUAGE. By Charles C. Cattell. (Birmingham: Cornish Brothers.) In this modest little volume Mr. Cattell give 237 extracts from various authors, from Socrates and Euripides down to Mill and Buckle, the quotations being groups under such headings as "Persecution," "Truth," Religion," and "Morals." Such collections always furnish agreeable reading for odd minutes, and may now and then breed opinions that last a lifetime. Some of the paragraphs quotes by Mr. Cattell are out of place, and other are little more than interesting truisms; but the really good things here brought together constitute a wonderful shillingsworth which everyone will be enriched by investing in. We have on our table "A Handy Books of the Labour Laws," by George Howell (Foster, 14, Fetter-lane); "A Concise View of the Law of Landlord and Tenant," By J. H. Redman and G. E. Lyon (Eeves and Turner); "John and Eva," by Francis Hughes (Chatto and Windus); "The Wallbridge Miscellanies" (Simpkin, Marhsall and Co.); "Y[?] Outside Fools! Glimpses Inside the Stock Exchange," by Erasmus Pinto, Bro[?] Unreal," by Harriet O[?] "Saint Nicolas' Eve, and [?] Roswell (S. Tinsley); an[?] book to the Black Forest [?] circus.) THE COMIC [?] DRIVING A BARGAIN.- Economical Dro[?] Polite Clerk- Five-and-ninepence, please. [?] shillings! Clerk (astonished)- [?]? Dr[?] an'-thruppence, an' dust a bawbee mair! The Wheel of Misfortune- The treadmill [?] A FORLORN HOPE- The Dowager- No [?] your hands so successfully, except poor [?] a chance. My Lord- Yes- a- g[?]- a b[?] a-. My Lady- Oh poor Maria's mo[?] garden party. We might give an afterno[?] BY SPECIAL LISCENCE- Paterfamilias [?] man!- Jarvis! You will have to drive [?] back here to the wedding breakfast, and [?] Bridge; so I particularly wish you to keep [?] Jarvis- All right, sir. But I should like to fa[?] evening, sir.- Punch. A TEST OF MERIT.- Tourist- Are there any [?] little man? Small Native-'iles, sir, there [?] Middle street, and the Cobblers' Arms down [?] Which is the best one? Small Native- I d[?] alhis gits drunk at the Cobblers. FROM KISSESHEN.—Prince Bismarck, in a [?] school festival, advised the boys when in tr[?] parents. He is putting his precept into [?] present. He's troubled with liver and has a [?] VERY HARD WORK.—A contemporary inf[?] maker in receipt of five-and-sixpence a week [?] of dissipated habits," and adds, "he never d[?] none for nine years." Under the circumsta[?] argue that nine years is a short "nevuc"; [?] whole statement. The man must have ha[?] live, and harder still to be dissipated—on [?] Let the sceptical try it for themselves. MUSICAL INTELLIGENCE.—Though there [?] that Mendelssohn's part song, "O hills, [?] given the other night at a party in Marlbo[?] that Princess Mary of Cambridge sang [?] oh Teck those lips away!" or that Princ[?] pany with "I Connaught sing the old s[?] ONE OF THE SIX HUNDRED.—Hopeful [?] go after that place where the [?]mar[?] boy [?] Yes; and I de[?]y I'd s-got it, if there [?] and ninety-nine other smart boys got t[?] The End of the Anti-Tobacco Society [?] The Wrong Tip—Tip out. A Big Twister—The sea-serpent. BETTER LATE THAN NEVEr.—By [?] drummers are henceforth abolished [?] place is to be supplied by buglers. Th[?] were engaged has doubtless given [?] thing which is likely to be beaten [?] "HAVE YOU [?] (By One [?] Have you ever met with a yo[?] lmby and look happy at one and [?] Have you ever heard of a gene[?] flowers in her bonnet at her sha[?] Have you ever met anybody [?] pressed sneeze in St. Paul's Ca[?] Have you ever come across a[?] bread? Have you ever spoken to a gr[?] the [?]operatve stor[?]? Have you ever met a gro[?] Funny Foihr. LABOUR [?] [?] YO[?] [?] th [?] of [?]age[?] [?] before the [?] [?]epptember [?] tion of [?] be considered at a meet[?] presentatives to be appointed by the [?] and [?] as early a date as possible. MINERS' DEMONSTRATION. On Monday the South Staffordshire miners, nu[?] several thousands, held their annual demonstration at [?] Resolutions were passed rejoicing at the present peace [?] masters and men in South Staffordshire, advocating [?] tion, and congratulating working men upon their i[?] successes during recent years. Parliament was petit[?] favour of Mr. Macdonald's Compensation Bill, and [?] milation of the county and borough franchise. Mr. [?] the Secretary of the National Association, said the un[?] bered about 130,000 members, 14,000 of whom were [?] Staffordshire; it was high time Mr. Joseph Chamber[?] to Parliament. THE OPERATIVE MASONS AT BRISTOL. The dispute between the master builders and the [?] masons of Bristol, by which nearly 1,000 men have b[?] work for about a fortnight, has terminated. The d[?] the men for an increase of a halfpenny per hour, m[?] rate of wages 8d. per hour has been conceded by the [?] the men on their part agreeing to some important [?] tions of their rules, and accepting the proposal of th[?] to refer all future disputes to a committee of conci[?] consist of six masters and a like number of men. [?] terms work is to be resumed. REDUCTIONS OF WAGES IN THE IRON TRAD[?] Notices of a reduction to the iron-workers of Me[?] shay, of Cinderford, have caused great excitement [?] will be reduced 10 per cent. below the standa[?] years ago. TRADE DISPUTE AT SHEFFIELD The masons at Sheffield have demanded an increa[?] week! Their wages are now 34s. At a meeting of t[?] Builders' Association on Wednesday night it [?] an offer of an advance of [?] week had been [?] masters offered to submit the dispute to arbitr[?] STRIKE AT A QUARRY. The men at Mona Moel Tryfan Slate Qu[?] largest in Carnarvonshire, have struck wo[?] manager's refusal to grant the Saturday half [?] HOSPITAL SUNDAY.—Down to Friday evening [? in aid of the Hospital Sunday Fund had reach[?] about £24,000. REAL SUMMER DELICACY.—ROSE [?] LIME JUICE C[?] with water or as an effervescing drink in soda or potash[?] freshing, or blended with spirits it supplies a delightful [?] stimulant, sustaining exertion, and extremely wholesome. [?] anywhere. Purchasers should be careful to order Rose's Lime Juice C[?], all others being imitations. Wholesales Stores, 11, Curtam-road, Flus[?]—[A[?]OVE.] "FOR THE BLOOD IS THE LIFE."—Clarke's World-fa[?] [?]ood. Mixture is warranted to cleanse the blood from all impurities f[?] WHATEVER cun[?]e arising. For scrofula, scurvy, skin and blood dimu[?] [?]nd sores of all kinds its effects are marvellous. Thousands of testimon[?] In Bottles [?]. fsl. each and in cases containing six times the quantity, [?] each of all chemists. Sent to any address, for 20 oz [?] stamps, by [?] proprietor, F. J. Clarke, Chemist, Apothecaries' Hall. Li[?] INFANT LIFE.—The safest remedy for children cuttin[?] [?]eir teeth is MRS. JOHNSON'S SOOTHING SYRUP, an innocent a[?]ation which is not swallowed as a medicine but is used only on the gum[?] It contains no narcotic, nor anything that can injure the most delic[?] infant. It cools the heated gums and gives immediate relief. Pr[?]red only by Barclay and Sons, Farringdon-street, London. Price 2s. [?] per bottle. Sold by all Chemists—[ADVT.] ADVICE TO MOTHERS—Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup [?]ould always be used when children are cutting teeth. It relieves the little suffering once it produces natural quiet sleep by [?]lieving the child from pain, and the little cherub awakes "as bright as a button." It is [?]erfectly harmless, and very pleasant to taste. It soothes the child, it se[?] the [?] allays all pain, relieves wind, regulates the bowels, and is the best known remedy for dysentery and diarrhœa, arising from teething or that cause.— Price is 17d. per bottle, of all chemists.—[ADVT.] IN CONSUMPTION AND WAFTING DIS[?]RY, THE EFFICACY OF DR. [?] JONGH'S LIGHT-B[?]W[?] COD LIVER OIL IS UNEQUALLED.—On Henry Hanks, author of "Consumption: its Treatment and [?] —"The superior efficacy of Dr. de Jongh's Light-Brown Cod Liver Oil over the Pale Cod Liver Oil has proved, to my experience, [?] Patients who have persisted for several months in the use of the latter, with scarcely any perceptible improvement, [?] after a brief trial of Dr. de Jongh's Light-Brown Cod Liver Oil, [?] each fatness, and those distressing symptoms accompanying [?] have so rapidly subsided, that I have been indor[?]d as confidant in its reputed remedial powers, and consequently in advice its substantial for the Pale Cod Liver Oil." Mr. Benjamin Clarke, M.R.C.S., F.U.S., author of "Notes and Suggestions on Cod Liver Oil and its Uses," writes—"The effect of the Pale Oil on the circulation is [?] feebly mar[?] as not to be perceptible; so that in some [?] of ex[?] f[?]bility, the patient, from the slowness of its action, is in danger of [?], from sal[?]tior, or the disease, as in consumption, may become [?] [?]ble from p[?]fra[?]n. My inference agrees with the remark that [?] Jongh's Light-Brown Oil effects a cure in half the time that the [?] data." [?] de Jongh's Light BRown Cod Liver oil is sold [?] [?]lf-pints, [?] ad. 1 pints, 4s. 9d.; quarts, 9s., [?] Ansar, [?]ford and Co., 77, Strand, Lon[?] SPATCH AN IRISH DIVORCE CASE [?]xtraordinary divorce case of "Morgan v. Morgan" [?] for hearing at Dublin on Tuesday. From the statement of Serjeant Armstrong it appeared that [?]itioner, Mr. Richard Spread Morgan, of Bridestown [?] in county Cork, had been a captain in the Royal [?]rtillery, and is the son of a gentleman of good family [?] county. The respondent was one of the daughters [?] Earl of Mountcashel, a nobleman who, previous to [?]une curtailed under the operation of the Encumbered [?] Act, was possessed of a large landed property. On [?]h of August, 1858, the petitioner was married to the [?]dent, then Lady Kathleen Louisa Moore, in the parish [?] of Kilworth, a place from which the eldest son of the [?] of Mountcashel derived his title of Viscount Kilworth. [?] was issue of the marriage a son (since deceased) and [?] girls, one of whom, Louisa Jane, was now about 16 years of [?] the second, Maria Florence, aged about 15; and the [?], Anna Priscilla, aged 11. The petition imputed mis[?]uct on the part of the respondent with William Mangan, [?]oom; Henry Fleming, a fisherman; Arthur William Vin[?] [?] and Mr. Henry Bacon Julian, and also that she had her[?] [?] acknowledged tat she had been unfaithful to her hus[?]d. There was no issue of cruelty presented to the jury. [?] among the acts which the petitioner charged as having [?]n committed by his wife towards him between 1858 and [?]8 were pulling out his whiskers, cutting him with a whip, [?]wing his shirts out the windows, cutting up his clothes, [?]ng a gun at him, preventing the servants from cooking [?]od, throwing water on his bed and himself, telling him [?]is children were illegitimate, selling his clothes and his [?] filling his boots with water, and striking him with a [?] The respondent went to London in 1868, and had not [?]ived with the petitioner. She alleged that the petitioner [?]ted her, and did not provide for her and her children. [?] Harlington, a servant, who had lived with the parties [?]ur years, was examined at great length in proof of the [?]tions of the petition. [?] Wednesday the case was resumed. Portions of the [?]nce given were unfit for publication. Lady Morgan [?] her husband in 1868, and a woman named Harrington, who was in their service from 1863 until that time, has deposed that she has been a conniving witness of numerous acts of impropriety on the part of Lady Morgan, and that a gentleman named Vincent visited the latter in private, and witness had seen her kiss him. The witness was provided with a bell to sound as a warning during respondent's private interviews with her associates, and also made signals for them at a window with lighted candles. She also deposed to Lady Morgan's intimacy with the groom Mangan, for whom Lady Morgan bought new clothes and a watch, and used to keep him for a long time in the drawing-room, alleging that she was teaching him to write. Lady Morgan had told her that she was in the habit of going to Mr. Julian's office in Cork, and she heard her tell Captain Morgan she would pay Julian in the way he (the captain) liked least. She also deposed to her ladyship's intimacy with the dog boy Fleming. She had asked her why she did not choose gentlemen rather than fellows of his class. The rows between the captain and his wife were incessant, and she had heard him desire the latter to go to a brothel. Letters were read addressed by the respondent to Harrington, in which, referring to her husband, she wrote: —"He may blame himself for anything I am driven to; he knows I have no means of living in London and supporting his child, and I would rather die than live in that horrible village of Kilworth again. John Heffernan, a billiard-marker, deposed that at Kanturk Races there was to have been a gentlemen's race, in which Captain Morgan was to ride; but as it did not fill, Captain Morgan refused to ride among the "jocks." When he refused, the respondent abused him, and called him a "cowardly dog," and said if only she was a man she would ride herself. She walked with a jockey, n[?]med Donnelly, arm=in-arm round the course, and afterwards got into a waggonette with a party, drank some wine or brandy, and then drove away. The petitioner was not[?]ous of the waggonette party; he went home disgusted. The petitioner, Captain Morgan, said that at the time of his marriage with Lady Louise Catherine Moore he was "[?] 28 years of age. [?] by a[?] [?] [?]ows, his fath[?] [?]toy at his [?] The petitioner [?] wife's statements of misbehaviour, and conferred [?] [?]self been guilty of immoral conduct with her before his marriage. She had taunted him and called him a cuckold. He considered she was unworthy of the belief on her oath. He must confess he never thought very highly of her. She frequently assaulted him. With him there could not be a fouler woman. He had told her that she was only fit for a brothel, but that was because she said she had made him a cuckold. Captain Morgan admitted two letters, written by him to his wife in 1870, at an interval of about six months, in which he implored her to return to him, acknowledged the falsehood of the charges he had made against her, and promised reformation. On Thursday Captain Morgan, cross-examined, admitted having received a letter from his father accusing him of extravagance and dissipation, calling him a notorious drunkard, and stating that his debts amounted to more than all he had would pay. On one occasion the respondent came home crying, saying that Mr. Hunt had insulted her. Petitioner went to Hunt's house, and have him a good thrashing with a stick. He got two years for that assault, but was only in gaol for one year. He was bound over to keep the peace three times. The respondent once struck him across the face with a leg of mutton. He remembered her telling the children that he was a devil, and the only occasion upon which he ever punished one of his children was when the mother told the child to call him a devil. He remembered once saying he would break her spirit, but he never said he would make her life a hell. Re-examined, he said on one occasion she took a loaded gun off the kitchen table and presented it at him, and said she would shoot him. The charge she made against him of starving her and giving the children cold potatoes was quite untrue. More than once she beat the setter dogs to annoy him, threw his clothes on the fire, struck him across the face with a stick, refused to allow his food to be cooked, struck a chair across his knees and sat on it, filled his boot with water and poured it over him, prayed that he might die a fearful death, called him, before the servants, a drunken, cowardly ruffian, and swore, by a fearful oath, that she would injure him in every way she could, and in the way he would feel most. She also had caused Margaret Corscadden to hire men to best him; she raised a faction for that purpose. This statement Corscadden corroborated. Lady Louisa, she said, was to send her to America for doing this service. Captain Morgan went home, however, by a different way and escaped. Mr. Murphy, Q.C., opened the case for Lady Morgan, and the hearing was then adjourned. On Friday Mr. Murphy, Q.C., resumed his address for Lady Louisa Morgan. Referring to the allegation that she had an infamous book in the house for the purpose of reading it, he denounced the charge as a fabrication on the part of the petitioner and the servants who were his witnesses. The respondent was fond of horses and dogs, and often fed them in the stables, which accounted for her being seen there by one of the witnesses. It had been alleged that she was seen walking about a racecourse with a low fellow named Donnelly; but what was the evidence in support of the charge? That of a billiard-marker, who was drunk when he was examined. The charge that she had been guilty of impropriety with Mr. Julian, solicitor, of Cork, and Mr. Vincent, also of that city, was utterly groundless, and originated in the diseased imagination of the petitioner. At the conclusion of the counsel's statements, Mr. Vincent was examined, and stated that he was a trustee for the respondent under her marriage settlement, and had frequent interviews with her in 1864, when she wanted him to consent to her paying a debt of her husband's for which he had been arrested, and he refused. He denied most positively that he ever kissed her or observed any impropriety on her part. Mr. George Washington Craig, the next witness, deposed that the respondent came to his house with her sister after a trial in Cork, and that Captain Morgan threatened to say things of her family that would astound the world. He had heard Captain Morgan's allegations about the respondent, and everyone in court who heard them was disgusted, but he brought her to his house notwithstanding what he heard. Mrs. Westropp was next examined, and deposed that, in her opinion, Lady Louisa Morgan always acted like a lady. Mr. Julian gave evidence to contradict the imputation of any impropriety with him. He explained, in reference to a bouquet which it was said he presented to her, that on the occasion of a trial which had been alluded to he presented it to the chairman at Quarter Sessions, who handed it to her. He had been concern[e?] in defending Captain Morgan in a prosecution, and refused then to face any instructions causing imputations on the respondent. He had sinc[?] [?]een engaged against the petitioner. Mr. Exham, Q.C., w[??] [????]d to give evidence confirmatory of Mr. Julian's. The hearing was ag[?] adjourned. Yesterday the examination of witnesses for the defence was continued. A police-constable stated that one night Lady Morgan came to the police barracks for protection against Captain Morgan. The latter was so violent that he had to be placed in the strong room, and next day was bound over to keep the peace. Lady Catherine Louisa Morgan said that before the first month of her married life was over the captain used to take great delight in contradicting her. She was very fond of reading, and her husband said that he would break her spirit, and have her as tame as a mouse. One day in the hunting field he threw her out of the saddle, and she had to be attended by a surgeon in consequence of the injuries she received. One of his residences was a miserable little cabin with the windows patched with straw. The captain was constantly drunk. On one occasion when she received £20 from the captain's father to purchase a ring, he took it, and she never saw it afterwards. She had frequently to hide herself at night in the woods from her husband. She swore positively that no impropriety ever took place between herself and Mr. Victor Roche, a gentleman of property in the neighbourhood. The captain was in the habit of calling her foul names before company, and treated her and her children in a very improper way. The court was densely crowded during the day. ITEMS OF NEWS. CAPTAIN MATTHEW WEBB on Monday night announced, at the Greyhound Hotel, Richmond, that at the latter end of August next he will attempt to swim from the north of Scotland to Ireland, under the same conditions as he crossed the Channel. HIS Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge visited the camp at Aldershot on Monday, and was present at a grand sham fight. The troops paraded at an early hour. The idea of the operations carried out was that the defending force represented the rearguard of an army retreating on Hartley Row, and that its duty was to cover the retreat of the main body across the Basingstoke Canal against the attacking force. The strength of the latter was 5,763 officers and men, including a regiment of cavalry and 18 guns. The defenders numbered 4,285 officers and men two regiments of cavalry, and an equal number of guns. On the arrival of the duke at Rushmoor the fighting commenced. After some skirmishing near the town and camp the defenders were driven from their advanced positions at Rushmoor towards Eelmoor; thence in the direction of Norris Hill, where a final stand was made. Here some exceedingly sharp fighting took place until the bugle sounded "Cease fire." The decision of the umpires was not made known, but to all appearances the attacking force had the best of the fight. During the early part of the proceedings a splendid charger, belonging to and ridden by Colonel T. D. Baker, Assistant-Adjutant-General, dropped dead on the field. ON Sunday, at Bellingham, two lads named John Armstrong, 14, and William Wilson, 14, were drowned while bathing in the Ladder Pool, North Tyne. A tailor, named Robson, swam to the assistance of the boys, and he also was drowned. BENJAMIN HARRIS, of Gloucestershire, was charged before the Little Dean magistrates on Monday, with the manslaughter of Fred Pugh, a mason of Cut's Hill, Dudley, Staffordshire. Prisoner was committed for trial. AT the Bristol Police-court Edmund Legg was charged on Tuesday with stabbing Thomas Allen, and was remanded. Frederic K. Davis, a respectable young man, was committed for trial for embezzling £98. Prisoner attributed his defalcations to betting. A YOUNG lady named Owen has been drowned at Babbicombe under circumstances which should be a warning to proprietors and managers of bathing machines. The deceased, with an elder sister, engaged a machine of a map, who directly after went to look for some crab pots, and when he was away a gentleman saw the young ladies floating out to sea, they apparently having let go the ropes attached to the machine, and been carried off their feet by a receding wave. The ma[?] [?] on was called to this, and he rowed [?] [?] the bodies [?] case [?] MR. [?] king [?] was charged h[?] hearsay County Bene[?] with a [?] Mrs. Millicent Harris, at [?] Surrey. The complainant gave evidence as to the alleged offence and the prisoner, who reserved his defence, was committed for trial. MARTHA BUSBY was committed, at the Leamington Petty Sessions Court on Wednesday, for trial at Warwick Assizes on a charge of wilfully murdering her illegitimate child. The body was found with a ligature round the neck, and the mouth stuffed with leaves, and death had resulted from suffocation. The prisoner being dangerously ill, bail was accepted. ON Wednesday morning, before the Cambridge magistrate, a summons was taken out by Mr. Abel against Mr. Manley, the manager of a theatrical company lately performing there. It charged Mr. Manley with giving performances in a place not duly licensed. Mr. Manley admitted the charge, and a nominal fine of 1s. and costs was inflicted, amid applause. TWO children were burnt to death at Shirley, Croydon, on Wednesday. AN explosion of coal gas took place on Wednesday morning on board the German brig. Johann Friedrich, in Shields Harbour, through the lighting of a match in the cabin. The vessel was greatly damaged, and two of the crew seriously injured—namely, Hermann Alske and Peter Turo. Captain Kell was also hurt. ON Wednesday afternoon, in the Third Police-court, Liverpool, James Gale was brought before Mr. W. Bennett, charged with having stolen £400 belonging to the London and Lancashire Fire Insurance Company, of which he had been manager. Formal evidence having been given, the prisoner was remanded. ON Wednesday an unmarried woman named White, residing at Bath, was summoned for keeping twelve dogs in her house so as to cause a nuisance. She was ordered to abate the nuisance within a week. THE Ipswich Borough Recorder on Thursday afternoon sentenced to twelve months' hard labour a man named J. A. Clarke, who, in the capacity of a tanner's clerk, had diverted to his own uses a sum of £262 belonging to his employers. THE restored choir of Exeter Cathedral was formally reopened for Divine service on Thursday, the Bishop of Exeter preaching in the morning, and the Dean (Dr. Boyd) in the afternoon. The restoration has been effected at a cost of £25,000, from the designs of Sir Gilbert Scott. It is proposed to expend £15,000 on the restoration of the nave. THE Avon, brigantine, of Shoreham, Captain Barnes, from Hartlepool to Newhaven with coals, was in collision on Friday with a full-rigged ship, name unknown, off the South Foreland, and sustained considerable damage. Three seamen of the Avon got on board the vessel which was in collision. AT Durham Assizes on Friday a young man named James Brown was sentenced to five years' penal servitude for feloniously wounding Mary Bell at Stockton. In passing sentence Mr. Justice Lush remarked that he was determined to put down with the strong arm of the law the frequent brutal offences against women. A CARMAN at Falmouth has been sentenced to six weeks' imprisonment, with hard labour, for assaulting a widow named Roberts. A CASE of death by lightning is reported from Corfe Mallen. Mr. James White, of Mill Farm, and a lad named Tom Warren were on Wednesday afternoon loading hay, when the former was knocked off the load by lightning, and falling on the kid both were killed. A carter was also severely injured. On Wednesday morning a girl named Charlotte Starks, residing with her aunt at Ash, near Guildford, was sent to Guildford to pay a brewer's bill. She did so, and wandered on to Ripley, six miles towards London, where she was seen by a constable, and he advised her to return home. At 8 she returned to Ash, perfectly naked, alleging that she had been stripped by gipsies on the Hog's Back. On Thursday morning her clothing was found secreted in different parts of a hedge about a mile from Ash. The girl denies having been to Ripley, and maintains her story that she was robbed about three miles from house, and that she walked to Ash without covering of any sort. The girl is 13 years of age. PARAGON FRAGRANT LIQUID DENTIFRICE is pronounced by the Press, and several eminent Dentists and Physicians, the best Dentrifrice in the world. It thoroughly cleanses the teeth and makes them beautifully white, prevents tartar and averts decay. Being an Antiseptic and Astringent it removes all disagreeable odour from whatever cause arising [?] sweetens the breath, hardens the gums, prevents and [?] loose [?] The PARAGON has a most exquisite and delicate fragrance and a flavo[?] so delicious that it will cause universal admiration. Sold in bottles at [?] and 2s. 6d., by all Chemists and Perfumers, and sent to any address carri[?] paid by 18 or 23 Stamps by the Proprietor. J. H. BOWEN, 51, Wirma[?] street, London. W—[ADVT.] Action Against MR. Peter Taylor, M.P. In the Common Pleas Division of the High Court of Justice on Thursday, Mr. Justice Archibald and a special jury had before them in action brought by Mr. Robert Buchanan against Mr. Peter Alfred Taylor, M.P., proprietor of the Examiner Newspaper.VOL. III.—NO. 46. THE NEW YORK SATURDAY ------------------------------------------------------------------ [From The Weekly Day Book.] IO TRIUMPHE. BY WILLIAM WINTER. I. Surge up in wanton waves to-day, Ye myriad memories of the Past! In shine and shadow glance and play— This golden triumph is your last. II. Float, phantoms, o'er the sapphire sea— Remembered joy, remembered pain, Passions and fears that used to be, But never can be mine again! III. Sweet visions faded long ago, So beautiful and once so dear, That wrought my bliss, that wrought my woe, Your welcome and farewell are here! IV. For now no more can fancy wile My steadfast soul with dreams untrue; I give you each a parting smile, I give you all a glad adieu. V. Henceforth for me the past is dead, Deep buried in Lethean waves, Firm is the ground whereon I tread, That will not know the shape of graves. VI. As one whose soul, in second birth, Attains its natural verge and scope, I spurn away the dust of earth— I scale the radiant peaks of Hope! VII. The sunshine wraps me in its arms! North-winds of power around me blow! And heaven's ablaze with starry charms To bless the path whereon I go! VIII. For mine is now the ardent truth, The secret of the lover's kiss, The valley of immortal youth, The mountain height of perfect bliss. ------------------------- [From the London Critic, of October 20th.] COVENTRY PATMORE. * Mr. Coventry Patmore threatens to become an institution. As an accident, we should not have objected to him, and there certainly was just enough sweetness in 'The Angel in the House' to make such a composition pass for once in a way; but if we are to have angels in the house every year—cherubs, too, whose waxen rosiness and sweet unmeaning expression, make them as like each other as cherries on a stalk— then we feel inclined to cry out with the unfortuate husband whose wife had presented him with a trio of blessings, 'Run and tell your mistress to stop.' No, it really will not do. Whilst Tupper lives, Mr. Patmore must be moderate; he must not draw too largely upon our admiration. Or if he will persist, he must favor us with something of a much higher grade than the volume before us. Two hundred and thirty-eight pages, ninety-two of which have really nothing on them—they are blank— and the remaining one hundred and forty-six next to nothing; this is a sore trial to the patience. As for story, Mr. Patmore is infinitely worse than Canning's knife-grinder; for he had none, whereas Mr. Patmore has a very stale, flat, unprofitable, and pointless one— one of the simplest and silliest. No doubt we shall hear a great deal from the lenient and friendly critics about the 'chaste simplicity' of the Patmorian muse. So far as it goes, it is the story of a very uninteresting young sailor, named Frederick Graham, who falls in love with his cousin Honoria. He corresponds with his mother on the subject, defiant of the old song which condemns the conduct of him that courts a pretty girl and goes and tells his mother; whereupon that matron (who seems to be a kind of Polonius in petticoats) replies to him with wise saws and modern instances, couched in the feeblest and occasionally the worst of rhymes. The best of advice, even when so clothed, is proverbially of little avail; and consequently, when Honoria Churchill is married to Felix Vaughan, a sucking M.P., Frederick Graham makes no more ado, but kicks over the maternal traces and marries off-hand the chaplain's pretty daughter Jane—a simple little soul, good at her needle, but whose education (so far as the accomplishments go) has been sadly neglected. The remainder of the poem—if that word can be here applied without profanation—is devoted to the task of proving that the match was not such a bad one as might be expected, and that a simple little soul may make her husband very happy without being a fine lady. This is really all that Mr. Patmore has to tell us. Yet even this might have been told in a manner worthy of our admiration. Alfred Tennyson told us even a better story of the same kind in 'The Miller's Daughter,' and needed but a very small proportion of two hundred and thirty-eight pages to tell it in. Let us allow Mr. Patmore to explain his own manner of telling his story. We have already explained that the thread of the plot is kept up by a series of letters— 'Frederick Graham to his mother;' 'Mrs. Graham to Frederick;' 'Lady Clitheroe to Mary Churchill;' and so on. The interesting correspondence opens with a letter from Frederick to his mother, presumably in reply to one in which the good lady has been warning him against falling in love with his cousins. Frederick pleads a former love in childhood: Mother, I smile at your alarms! Against my Wiltshire Cousin's charms I'm shielded by a prior spell. The fever love, as I've heard tell, Like other nursery maladies, Is never badly taken twice. Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes, My playmate in the pleasant days At Knatchley, and her sister, Anne; The twins, so made on the same plan, That one wore blue, the other white, To mark them to their father's sight; And how, at Knatchley harvesting, You bade me kiss her in the ring. The latter, however, ending with some very warm praises of Miss Honoria Churchill, one of the said cousins, Mrs. Graham is not to be put off the scent; accordingly, next post brings: My dearest child, Honoria sways A double power, through Charlotte Hayes! In minds to first-love's memory pledged The second Cupid's born full-fledged. The Churchills came, last Spring, to Spa, And stay'd with me a week. I saw, etc. Miss Honoria is then roundly rated as a cold-hearted puss; but the Mentor soon melts into the mother, and the letter ends, as naturally as gracefully, with some tender maternal cares, in lines which will no doubt prove very effective with Mr. Patmore's warmest admirers: I send you, dear, A trifling present; 'twill supply Your Salisbury costs. You have to buy Almost an outfit for this cruise! But many are good enough to use Again, among the things you send To give away. My Maid shall mend And let you have them back. This union of love and old clothes is certainly a novelty in poesy, for which Mr. Patmore deserves full credit. Frederick Graham, however, is too far gone with Miss Honoria to be bribed into indifference by even the trifling remittance of cash alluded to in the good lady's letter; albeit in his reply he repudiates the idea, on the ground of the immense disparity between them. He is not good enough for her: But why, dear mother, warn me so? I love Miss Churchill? Ah, no, no! I view, enchanted, from afar, And love her as I love a star. And concludes with requesting his mother to Leave me alone, And let in me love's will be done. And so it is, Frederick proposes to Miss Honoria, and is refused. The young lady prefers Mr. Felix Vaughan, who has a seat in the Commons and a fine park, to a ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- * Faithful for Ever. By Coventry Patmore. London: John W. Parker & Son. pp. 239. [*2019*] [*(over) French translater Leaves of Grass*] young lieutenant with little but his love and his mother's small remittances; and it must be always very satisfactory (even among poets) when the course of true love is found to run in the direction of the 'best match.' Frederick is of course in despair; and his mother, quite oblivious of her objections to Miss Honoria, is quite indignant with the hussy for having the impudence to refuse her Fred: My own dear child, Honoria's choice Shows what she is, and I rejoice You did not win her. Felix Vaughan Preferred to you? My [?]aith is gone In her fine sense! And thus you see You were too good for her! Ah me, The folly of these girls! they doff Their pride to sleek success, and scoff At far more noble fire and might That woo them from the dust of fight! The good lady goes on to advise her son to be careful in his loves—he has been in lov[?] now, and may often be again: Remember, Frederick, this makes twice You've been in love; then why not thrice, Or ten times? In a subsequent letter Frederick has seen the announcement in the Times of his beloved Honoria's marriage: Postscript.—Since this was penn'd, I read, That 'Mr. Vaughan, on Tuesday, wed 'The beautiful Miss Churchill.' So That's over; and to-morrow I go To take up my new post on board The 'Wolf,' my peace at last restored. So ends book the first. Book the second opens with a letter from Mrs. Graham to her young Hopeful, giving him some excellent counsel about the choice of a wife: A poor estate's a foolish plea For marrying to a base degree. A gentlewoman's twice as cheap, As well as pleasanter to keep. Nor think grown women can be train'd, Or, if they could, that much were gain'd; For never was a man's heart caught By graces he himself had taught. And fancy not 'tis in the might Of man to do without delight; For should you in her nothing find To exhilarate the higher mind, Your soul will clog its useless wings With wickedness of lawful things, And vampire pleasure swift destroy Even the memory of joy. So let no man, in desperate mood, Wed a dull girl because she's good. All virtues in his wife soon dim, Except the power of pleasing him, Which may small virtue be, or none! Alack the day! Before this piece of worldly wisdom comes to hand, Frederick has done the awful deed, and has married little Jane, the Chaplain's daughter, who is good but not pretty: A dear, good girl, who saw my pain, And spoke as if she pitied me,— How glad and thankful I should be If some kind woman, not above Myself in rank, would give her love To one that knew not how to woo, Whereat she, without more ado, Blush'd, spoke of love return'd, and closed With what I meant to have proposed. Jane seems to be a very uninteresting little body— at least, if there be much fidelity in her husband's picture of her: Her knowledge and conversing powers, You'll find, are poor. The clock, for hours, Loud clicking on the mantel shelf, Has all the talking to itself. But to and fro her needle runs Twice, while the clock is ticking once; And, when a wife is well in reach, Not silence separates, but speech; And I, contented, read, or smoke, And idly think, or idly stroke The winking cat, or watch the fire, In social peace that does not tire; Until, at easeful end of day, She moves, and puts her work away, And, saying, 'How cold 'tis,' or 'How warm,' Or something else as little harm, Comes, used to finding, kindly press'd, A woman's welcome to my breast, With all the great advantage clear Of none else having been so near. The reader will not, we imagine, care for much more of this. The story concludes as we have indicated; and the last letter is one from Jane to her mother-in-law, in which the progress she and her husband have made in domestic felicity is happily illustrated in the following: Postscript.—I've one thing more to tell: Fred's teaching Johnny algebra? The rogue already treats mamma As if he thought her, in his mind, Rather silly, but very kind. Is that not nice? It's so like Fred! Good-bye! for I'm to go to bed, Because I'm tired, or ought to be. That's Frederick's way of late. You see He really loves me after all. He's growing quite tyrannical! Now, does Mr. Coventry Patmore, does any one, think that such stuff a this may not be reeled off by the thousand pages from the brain of any man who chooses to give himself to such an occupation? It is not perhaps so astonishing that there are people in the world who will imbibe such very weak intellectual water-gruel, because we all know that the mental invalids are much more numerous than the robust of brain, and water-gruel suits their constitutions better than stronger food, for which they have no digestion. Tupper flourishes, and both Dr. Cumming and Mr. Bellew are much admired; so there is some hope for Mr. Coventry Patmore. But he must elect, for he cannot serve both Minerva and Moria. The bard of the tea-tables has no place at the banquets of heroes; and if Mr. Patmore publishes any more such compositions as 'Faithful for Ever,' he must be satisfied with the lisped plaudits of girls fresh from boarding-schools, still redolent of bread and butter. By all others he runs imminent risk of being relegated to that locality which seems to have supplied him with a Christian name. ----------- [From the same, Oct. 27] Letter from Mr. Ruskin. It would obviously be a most inconvenient custom were we, as a rule, to admit into our columns criticisms upon the verdicts which we pronounce. Proverbially, however, there must be exceptions to every rule, and when one of Mr. Ruskin is [?] [?] forward to defend an author when we have condemned, we must surely step out of our path to afford him a hearing: TO THE EDITOR OF THE CRITIC. SIR,--I do not doubt, from what I have observed of the general tone of the criticisms in your columns, that, in candor and courtesy, you will allow me to enter protest, bearing such worth as a private opinion may, against the estimate expressed in your last number of the merits of Mr. C. Patmore's new poem. It seems to me that you have read it hastily; and that you have taken such a view of it as on a first reading almost any reader of good but impatient judgement would be but too apt to concur with you in adopting -- one nevertheless, which if you examine the poem with care, you will, I think, both for your reader's sake and for Mr. Patmore's, regret having repressed so decidedly. The poem is, to the best of my perception and belief, a singularity perfect piece of art; containing, as all good art does, many very curious short-comings (to appearance), and place of rest, or of dead color; or of intended harshness, which, if they are seen or quoted without the parts of the piece to which they relate, are of course absurd enough, precisely as the discords in a fine piece of miscue would be, if you played them without their resolutions. You have quoted separately Mr. Patmore's discords; you might by the same system of examination have made Mozart or Mendelssohn appear to be no musicians, as you have probably convinced you quick readers that Mr. Patmore is not poet. I will not beg of you so much space as would be necessary to analyze the poem; but I hope you will let me--once for all--protest against the method of criticism which assumes that entire familiarity and simplicity in certain portions of a great work destroy its dignity. Simple things ought to be simple said, and truly poetical diction is nothing more nor less than right diction the incident being itself poetical or not, according to its relations and the feelings which it is intended to manifest not according to its own nature merely. To take a single instance out of Homer bearing on that same simple household work which you are so shocked that Mr. Patmore's taking notice of, Homer describes the business of family washing, when it comes into his poem, in the most accurate terms he can find; 'They took the clothes in their hands; and pored on the clear water; and trod them in trenches, thoroughly, trying who could do it best; and when they had washed them and got off all the dirt, they spread them out on the sea-bench, where the sea had blanched the shingle cleanest.' These are the terms in which the great poet explains the matter. The less poet--or, rather, man of modern wit and breeding, without superior poetical power-- thus put the affair into dignified language: Then emulous the royal robes they have: And plunge the vestures in the cleansing wave. (The vestures, cleansed, overspread the shelly sand, Their snowy lustre whitens all the strand.) [*2019*] Now, to my mind, Homer's language is by far the most poetical of the two--is, in fact, the only poetical language possible in the matter. Whether it was desirable to give any account of this, or anything else, depends wholly on the relation of the passage to the rest of the poem; and you could only show Mr. Patmore's glance into the servant's room to be ridiculous by proving the mother's mind, which it illustrates, to be ridiculous. Similarity, if you were to take one of Mr. George Richmond's perfectest modern portraits, and give a little seperate engraving of a bit of the necktie or coat-lappet, you might easily demonstrate a very prosaic character either in the riband-end or the button-hole. But the only real question respecting them is their relation to the face, and the degree in which their help to express the character of the wearer. What the real relations of the parts are in the poem in question only a thoughtful and sensitive reader will discover. The poem is not meant for a song, nor calculated for an hour's amusement; it is, as I said, to the best of my belief, a finished and tender work of very noble are. Whatever on this head may be the final judgement of the public, I am bound, for my own part, to express my obligations to Mr. Patmore, as one of my severest models and tutors in use of English, and my respect fro him as one of the truest and tenderest thinkers who have ever illustrated the most important, because commonest, states of noble human life. I remain, sir, yours, etc., JOHN RUSKIN. When such a man as Mr. Ruskin undertakes to vouch for a work of art that it is 'a singularly perfect piece of art'--even when it is a poetical work that is referred to--when he further says that it is 'a finished and tender work of very noble art,' and testifies of its author that he is one of his 'severest models and tutors in the use of English.' it is no slight praise, and by no means calculated to render Mr. Patmore less appreciative of his own merits. Before, however, we admit the justice of this high praise, we must be permitted to test, first, the value of Mr. Ruskin's general opinion upon poetry, and, secondly, the value of his verdict in this particular case. Now it by no means fellows that, because a man is a great authority upon one subject, his opinion should be equally cogent upon another, and it is scarcely a consequence that because Mr. Ruskin's opinion is to be received with respect as to the merits of a Turner or the authenticity of a Correggio, his estimate of a poet should be of equal value, We have not forgotten some very singular expressions of opinion by Mr. Ruskin on the subject of poetry. If we be not very much mistaken, he said that he preferred 'Aurora Leigh' to any poem since Milton; and, again, with regard to severe models in English, we believe that we violate non of the societies of domestic life when we say that, in spite of his own very brilliant and nearly accurate style of composition, we have heard that Mr. Ruskin is a very ardent admirer of Mr. Spurgeon. Upon many points we have a very great respect for Mr. Ruskin's opinion; but even in the art of painting we have detected him in so many paradoxes and contradictions, that we are by no means inclined to accept his opinion as final upon any subject. Thus it is that, while we respect Professor Faraday as an electrician, we should not care for his opinion of a melodrama much more than for that of other people. Even in his own particular subject, the dogmata of an authority cannot always be considered as final. Highly as we rank Professor Owen as a man of science, and Mr. Ruskin as an art-critic, were the former to tell us that mouse was a greater and more powerful animal than an elephant, or were the latter to pronounce the Trafalgar-square fountains to be 'finished and tender works of very noble are,' we might be excused of we received those announcements with diffident feeling of doubt. It is very much in this spirit that we have received Mr. Ruskin's reversal of our judgement on Mr. Patmore's poem. Although Mr. Ruskin's assumption that we had 'read the poem hastily' was quoted unfounded. we have reconsidered the matter, but without seeing any cause for altering our opinion. A reperusal leads to the belief that the 'poem' is about as jejune, puerile, and inartistic a piece of writing as it would be possible to produce, We quite agree with Mr. Ruskin as to the merits of simplicity: but, though we prefer his literal translation of the passage relating to the washing-day of Nausicaa and her maids to the tawdry parody of Pope, we still more delight in the noble, sonorous rhythmical hexameters of the original than in even Mr. Ruskin's rendering. Now it was not only the simplicity of the incident about old clothes which Mr. Patmore introduced that we objected to--an even here (regarding the matter from the point of art) there is a wonderful difference between washing clothes in clean water and laying them on the beach to dry, and mending old clothes and sending them back because they are too good to be given away--but also because the treatment of the topic is vulgar and unmusical. We purposely avoided the questions of rhyme and euphony, because to have criticized 'Faithful for Ever' upon these points would have been an endless task: but we must declare that we seldom have met with a work in which all the rules of taste have been so utterly set at defiance as in this. We open the book at hazard, and find well rhyming with possible, dare with more, not with aught, Vaughn with gone, and so on ad infinitum. Again, we at once grant to Mr. Ruskin that a brick is not a fair specimen of a palace, even though it may have once formed part of it, and all that he says about Mozart's discords and the 'dead color' of positing we readily admit; but the discords and the dead color are never glaringly incongruous, or they would destroy the effect of the best works. What is there in either Mendelssohn or Mozart that can at all equal Mr. Patmore's never-to-be-forgotten couplet: A gentlewoman's twice as cheap, As well as pleasanter to keep. True it may be, that a coat-lappet or a necktie would be no fair sample of one of Richmond's portraits, or a discord a fair specimen of a Mass by Mozart; but if the necktie turned out to be a horse-collar, or 'Jim Crow' were discovered in the Mass, it would need the testimony of even a greater man than Mr. Ruskin to convince us that the work was commendable. It had been out intention to have given some further quotations from this poem in support of our view; but the number of passages marked for that purpose is so great that we must refrain. We content ourselves with referring Mr. Ruskin to pp. 61, 62, and asking him whether the even there sought to be described is in any way intelligible, and what may be his opinion of the captain who said to one who has just saved a man overboard, 'Your duty was to let him drown'! No, With all respect to Mr. Ruskin, we must adhere to our original opinion of Mr. Patmore and his poem. --------------------- (From the New York Express.) The SATURDAY PRESS, one of the liveliest and most independent weekly journals published not only in this city, but in the country, announces that it is in want of means. The PRESS deserved to succeed. It is edited on an excellent plan--that of always saying exactly what it think. It never scruples to attack stupidity, no matter in how high places, and is unmerciful in its verdicts on twaddle, no matter how elegant. Its criticisms are sometimes rather glib, and apparently unconsidered, and its prejudices pertinacious; but its motives seem always generous, and of its sincerity there can be no doubt. Quite a real of youthful literary talent has at various times contributed to its col-EW YORK SATURDAY PRESS. NOVEMBER 17, 1860. A CHAMPION OF DISHONOR. The Cambridge Chronicle (more commonly known as the Cambridge Sycophant) is much outraged that one of its contemporaries should prefer death to dishonor, and devotes more than a column to the congenial though somewhat superfluous task of ridiculing the idea as contrary to its (the Chronicle's) notion of newspaper morality and personal manhood. Of course no one can quarrel with the Chronicle on this ground, as by voluntarily recording its own shame, it places itself beyond the pale of criticism. FRENCH APPRECIATION OF 'LEAVES OF GRASS.' The October number of the Bibliographie Impériale, received by the last mail, contains the announcement of a French translation of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, together with a short notice of the work, and a few extracts from the proof-sheets. The name of the translator is not given, or rather it is concealed by the simple initials V. H. The book issues from the press of Messrs. Lefebvre, Martin & Co., rue des Bons Enfants. We subjoin one of the extracts, that our readers may obtain an idea of the manner in which our eccentric poet is understood and rendered 'across the salt sea billowy brine.' We commence with an extract from the French preface: "La Poésie, enfant de l'Imagination, mais dont le pére est inconnu—la chose ayant été faite pardevant Monsieur le Maire du 21e arrondissement—la Poésie, disons nous, se permet, de temps en temps, quelques petites excentricités, qui, lorsqu' elles sont bien faites, ne peuvent manquer d'ajouter un attrait de plus à la littérature dont elle fait un des ornements les plus caractéristiques. Mais dans la Poésie française ces excentricités sont assez rares. Chez nous la Poésie a toujours [?] basée sur des principes plus ou moins constipés; par conséquent c'est avec un véritable plaisir que nous accueillons une Poésie étrangère qui renferme ces elements d' excellence et d'originalité dont nous ne cessons pas de déplorer l'absence dans notre littérature poetique. . . . . Depuis des siècles nos poetes ont toujours commis cette immense erreur—ils ont spéculé sur la bêtise de leurs lecteurs. Ils se sont dits que personne su monde n'était capable de comprendre à demi mot, de deviner intuitivement la pensée. Et se laissant guider par cette idée fallacieuse, ils ont écrit de manière à ne laisser aucun travail à l'imagination —on n'a qu'à les lire pour les comprendre. Ont ils bien compris la Poésie? Nous croyons pouvoir affirmer que non. Un poëme parfait doit etre completement incompréhensible, et cependant il doit faufiler parmi ses vers le fantôme d'une idée, belle, subkime, qui sera completée par la vigoureuse imagination du lecteur. Et voilà ce qui fait le charme du poëte Américain. En le lisant on ne comprend rien, et plus on le lit moins on comprend. Cependant on croit éprouver quelque chose. On sent son âme lancée dans une nouvelle voie; ce n'est pas le poeme que l'on comprend, c'est l'inspiration du poete que l'on partage; on n'est plus un simple lecteur, on devient un associé dans une grande entreprise poétique. . . . "Ou a reproché à Mr. Whitman, l'usage de metaphores vulgaires, on a même été jusqu'à l'accus[??]d obscenité. Mais on a eu tort. Victor Hugo a dit, dans sa belle comédie de la Mort d'Abel: 'Qui se sent morvaux qu'il se mouche.' L'esprit de Mr. Whitman le trouve souvent dans cet état; peut on lui reprocher son mouchoir dans ces circonstances, même s'il sonne du cor un peu fort? Non, mille fois non." From this extract it will be seen that an honest appreciation of Mr. Walt Whitman is rapidly gaining ground in France. In that Imperial country his democratic poetry is taking root, and will live. We congratulate him sincerely on this enviable result of his inspirations, and on the fact of his having obtained a foothold for his popularity, where the greatest of English poets, Tupper, failed before him. We now subjoin specimens of the translations: VISAGES. Flanant sur les trottoirs, ou chevauchant dans les sentiers de la campagne, voila toujours des visages! Visages d'amitié, de précision, de précaution, visages suaves, idéales, Le visage spirituel, puissant; le visage vulgaire, bienveillant, mais toujours bienvenu: Le visage de la musique chantée, les sublimes visages d'hommes de loi et de juges, larges du côté de l'occiput; [?]isages de chasseurs et de pêcheurs, au front bombé, visages rasés et blanchis de citoyens orthodoxes, [?] visage de l'artiste, pur, extravagant, interrogeant et palpitant [?] vilain visage d'une âme belle, le beau visage détesté ou méprisé, [?]inte visages d'enfants, le visage lumineux de la mère de beaucoup d'enfants, [?] visage d'un amour, le visage de la vénération, [?] visage d'un rêve, le visage d'un rocher immoile, [?] visage privé de ce qui est bon, et de ce qui est mauvais, [?]isage châtré, enfin; [?]n faucon sauvage, dont les ailes sont coupées par celui qui fait tout ce qui concerne cet état, [?]n étalon qui se trouve dans le même embarras, [?]ânant sur le pavé, ou traversant le bac sans cesse, voilà donc toujours des visages. Calamus—No. 17. [?]ai rêvé de celui que j'aime nuit et jour, jai rêvé qu'on m'annoncait sa mort; [?]t dans mou rêve je me suis rendu à l'endroit où on avait enterré celui que j'aime—mais il n'y était pas; [?]t dans mon rêve, j'errais, le cherchant dans les cimetiéres, [?]t je n'aim trouvé partout qu'un grand cimetière, les maisons pleines de vie étaient egalement pleines de mort (cette maison l'est aussi,) [?]es rues, les quais, les theatres, Chicago, Boston, Philadelphie, Mannahatta étaient anssi pleins de morts que de vivants; [?]s rengorgeaient de morts, encore plus que de vivants; [?]t mon rêve, je le raconterai desormais à chaque personne, et à chaque époque; [?]t desormais, je me trouve lie à ce que j'ai rêvé; [?]t maintenant je suis disposé à me ficher de cimetieres, et à m'en passer, [?]t si ma chambre était tapissée de souvenirs mortuaires —même la chambre où je mange, où je dors— j'en serais bigrement content; [?]t s le cadavre de celui que j'aime, ou bien, ie mien, est convenablement pulvérisé, et flanqué dans la mer, Dieu de Dieu que je serai content; [?]u si on le jette aux quatre vents, je serai content. The chapter entitled 'Walt Whitman,' is thus trans[??]ted: Je me celébre, moi-même, et la forme que je revetiral, tu la revêtiras aussi, Car chaque atome qui m'appartient, trouve son pareil en toi. Je flane, et j'invite mon Ame; Je flane à mon alse en contemplant un brin d'herbe d'été. Les maisons et les chambres sont pleines de parfums, les armoires sont bourrées de parfums, Je respire cette odeur, je la connais, et elle me fait bien plaisir; Cette distillation aimerait bien m'enivrer, mais je l'en empecherai. L'atmosphere n'est pas un parfum—elle n'a pas de goût de distillation, elle est sans odeur; Elle est dans ma bouche tout a jamais, j'en suis enamouraché. J'irai sur le tertre à la lisière du bois, je m'exposerai sans déguisement, je me mettrai tout nu. Car j'ai tellement le désir de sentir son haleine sur mon corps que j'en perds la boule. La vapeur de ma propre haleine, Les échos, les gazouillements des ruisseaux, les chuchottements bourdonnant à mes oreilles, la racine de l'Amour, le fil de la Vierge, les vignes egalement vierges. Ma respiration et mon inspiration, les battements de mon cœur, le flux de sang et d'air dans mes poumons, L'odeur de feuilles vertes et de feuilles seches, de la plage, des rochers noirs de la mer, et du foin dans le grenier, Et ma voix qui a le doux son d'un vomissement, mes paroles livrées aux tourbillons des vents, Quelques legers baisers, quelques caresses, des bras qui m'entourent, Le jeu du soleil et de l'ombre sur les arbres, lorsque leurs branches souples se saluent; Les delices solitaires, ou la foule dans les rues, ou dans les champs et sur les côtes, La sensation de la santé, les trilles de midi, la chanson que je roucoule moi-même lorsque je me leve de mon lit, et que je vais eudevant du soleil. 60. Croyez-vous que mile acres solent beaucoup? Est-ce que vous [?]riez pratiqué longtemps, par hasard, l'art d[?] lire? Ne serez vous pas joliment fier lorsque vous aurez découvert la s[?]gnification de mes poemes? Il y en a bien de q[?]ol, je ne vous dis que cela. CHANTS DEMOCRATIQUES. O mère! O fils! O troupeau continenta[?] O fleurs des prairies! O espace sans fin! [?] bourdonnements de produits puissants! O villes grouillantes! si invincibles, si tumultueuses, si fieres! O race de l'avenir! O femmes! O pères! O hommes d[?] passion et d'orage! O toi-mème! O Dieu! O moyen divin! O forta de la halle bar[?]us! O poetes! O dormeur! Eau de Javelle! Terre! tu parais atte[?]dre quelque chose de moi. Dis-donc, Vieille Tou[?]ie, qu'est-ce que tu me veux, a la fin des fins? He la-bas! Homme i[?]puissant, faible dans les jambes, ouvrez le bec, que je souffle de la poussière, dedans. Je suis le pompler e[?]rasé, ma poitrine brisée; Les murailles ont d[?]gringolé, et m'ont enseveli sous leurs débris; J'ai respiré le feu et la fumée, j'ai entendu les hurlements de me[?] camarades, J'ai écouté le cliqu[?]tis lointain de leurs beches et de leurs haches Ils ont enlevé les p[?]utres, et m'ont retiré doucement— Je suis couché là, vetu de ma chemise de flanelle rouge; un g[?]and silence se fait entendre pour moi, Je repose là, san[?] douleur, épuisé, mais non malheureux; Les visages qui m'entourent sont blancs et beaux— les pompiers ont été leurs casques, Et la foule agenon [?]llée est éclairée par la flamme des [?] These few quotations will suffice to show how thoroughly the poems of Walt Whitman may take root in the French language. Poetry is not a matter of words, it is all in its ideas, and so perfectly cosmopolite are those poems which Walt Whitman has given to the world, that even a change of language in no wise impairs these power or their sweetness. The French translation: 'Brins d'herbe,' will appear early in January. We predict for it a large sale abroad, and a proportionate increase of the author's reputation. BOOKS, ETC. The Loves and Heroines of the Poets, ILLUSTRATED WITH REAL AND IDEAL PORTRAITS, From designs by Barry and others, of PETRARCH'S LAURA, TASSO'S LEONORA, BEN JONSON'S CELIA, SURREY'S GERALDINE, SHAKESPEARE'S LOVE, WALLER'S SACCHARISSA, POPE'S MARTHA BLOUNT, BYRON'S MAID OF ATHENS, BURNS' HIGHLAND MARY, COLERIDGE'S GENEVIEVE, TENNYSON'S MAUD, LONGFELLOW'S MINNEHAHA. By Richard Henry Stoddard. One elegant quarto volume, uniform with "Court of Napoleon." Bound in Turkey, gilt, or antique, $12. WOMEN OF THE SOUTH Distinguished in Literature. By Mary Forrest. MADAME LE VERT, MARIA J. MCINTOSH, ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON, ANNA CORA RITCHIE, MARION HARLAND, L. VIRGINIA FRENCH, AUGUSTA J. EVANS. An elegant quarto volume, Bound in Turkey, gilt or antique, $9. Derby & Jackson, PUBLISHERS, 498 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. The Great Novel of the Season. Now Ready: HARRINGTON: A STORY OF TRUE LOVE. By the Author of "What Cheer?" "The Ghost, A Christmas Story," "A Tale of Lynn," etc. Price…………………………$1 25. Thayer & Eldridge, BOSTON. Positivist Publications. Publications of the English Branch of THE POSITIVE SCHOOL. THE POSITIVE PHILOSOPHY of AUGUSTE COMTE, freely translated and condensed by Harriet Martineau, in two volumes, 8vo. John Chapman, 142 Strand, London, 1853. 16s. sterling. THE CATECHISM OF POSITIVE RELIGION, translated from the French of Auguste Comte, by Richard Congreve. John Chapman, 8 King William St., Strand, London, 1858. 1 vol., 12mo. 6o. 6d. GIBRALTAR; OR, THE FOREIGN POLICY OF ENGLAND, by Richard Congreve. John W. Parker & Son, West Strand, London, 1857. Pamphlet, 8vo. 1s. 6d. INDIA, by Richard Congreve. John Chapman, London, 1858. Pamphlet. 8vo. 1s. THE NEW RELIGION IN ITS ATTITUDE TOWARDS THE OLD. A Sermon preached at South Fields, Wandsworth, Surrey, on the 19th of January, 1859, the Anniversary of the Birth of Auguste Comte, by Richard Congreve. John Chapman, London, 1859. Pamphlet, 8vo. 1s. THE PROPAGATION OF THE RELIGION OF HUMANITY. A Sermon preached at South Fields, Wandsworth, Surrey, on the 19th of January, 1860, the Anniversary of the Birth of August Comte, by Richard Congreve. John Chapman, London, 1860. Pamphlet, 8vo. 1s. THE ROMAN EMPIRE OF THE WEST, by Richard Congreve. John W. Parker & Son, London, 1854. 4s. Publications of the American Branch. MODERN TIMES, THE LABOR QUESTION, AND THE FAMILY, by Henry Edger. 1855. Pamphlet, 12mo. 5 cts. COMTE'S POSITIVIST CALENDAR, with a brief Exposition of Religious Positivism, and an Appendix, by Henry Edger. 1856. 8vo, paper, 50 cts.; muslin, 75 cts. Orders for any of the above works, and Contributions to the Positive Typographical Fund (established to facilitate the publication and circulation of Books expository of the new Doctrines), may be sent to HENRY EDGER, Member for North America of the Positive Council, MODERN TIMES (THOMPSON), LONG ISLAND. Chants of the Prairies. "These LEAVES seem to us the most natural produce of the American soil. They are certainly filled with an American spirit, breathe the American air, and assert the fullest American freedoms." —London Leader, June 20, 1860. For Sale at all Bookstores.—Price $1 25. LEAVES OF GRASS, Including all of Walt Whitman's former pieces, with new ones. "Leaves of Grass Imprints," a handsome little 64 page volume, in reference to the above Poems, collecting American and European criticisms on the First (1856) and the Second (1857) Issues of Walt Whitman's "Leaves." Very instructive, curious, serious, and amusing. Send us your address, anywhere in the United States, and we will forward you [?] "Imprints," free and prepaid. We send the "LEAVES OF GRASS," complete, in elegant binding, to any address in the United States, on receipt of price as above ($1 25), with 29 cents for postage, which has to be prepaid. THAYER & ELDRIDGE, 1[?]6 Washington Street, Boston, Mass. A. RANKIN & CO., No. 96 Bowery, IMPORTERS AND MANUFACTURERS OF HOSIERY, UNDER-GARMENTS, —AND— Gentlemen's Furnishing Goods, Invite attention to their extensive assortment, embracing every variety of Hosiery for Ladies, Gentlemen, and Children. Under-Garments and Hosiery, of every size and quality, made to order. DRESS SHIRTS—A large assortment on hand, or made to order at short notice, and a perfect fit guaranteed. Gymnastic suits, and Theatrical Hosiery and Tights—a great assortment on hand—and any size and quality made to order. Goods exchanged, and money cheerfully refunded in case of dissatisfaction. ESTABLISHED IN THE YEAR 1823. A. RANKIN & CO., No. 96 BOWERY. INSURANCE. Incorporated 1823. Seventy-Five per cent. of the net Profits divided among the Assured. North American Fire Insurance Co. Of the City of New York. Cash Capital and Surplus,……………$300,000. This Company divides, annually, Seventy-five per cent. of the net profits of the business to the Policy Holders, in Scrip bearing interest at Six per cent., and redeemable in Cash when the Assets reach the sum of FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS. DIRECTORS. J[?] W. Otis, Thomas Tileston, R. M. Blatchford, Caleb Swan, Thomas W. Gale, Daniel B. Fearing, Charles Williams, W. Whitewright, Cornelius McCoon, Andrew Foster, Wyllis Blackstone, Joshua J. Henry, Drake Mills, Josiah Lane, Acton Civill, John Aochinclo[?], Oliver S. Carter, Andrew Ritchie, William Barton, Oliver H. Shepard, James B. Johnston, JAMES W. OTIS, President. B. W. BLEECKER, Secretary. NEW ENGLAND LIFE INSURANCE CO., (PURELY MUTUAL) OF BOSTON, Mass. B. F. STEVENS, Secretary. WILLARD PHILLIPS, President. Nearly Two Millions Dollars well invested to meet losses—after having paid near a Million to the widows, orphans, and creditors of the insured, and upwards of a Million in dividends, to those holding policies. A uniformly prosperous career of seventeen years has created a surplus fund of $700,000 over and above all liabilities. Last dividend 39 per cent., amounting to $336,000, all of which has been paid in cash. The success of this company is owing to economy in conducting its business, care of its risks, and prudent investments. The great and striking feature of the Mutual principle is, that it secures to the insured, a return of all over and above the actual cost; so that the party may be said to insure himself at the very lowest possible rate. This is done every five years, when the business relations of the Company are as it were for the time being closed. The surplus funds divided pro rata to all the insured. Documents of a most interesting character forwarded gratis, by mail or otherwise, upon application at the Branch Office, to JOHN HOPPER, Agent and Attorney for the Company, Metropolitan Bank Building, 110 Broadway, corner Pine street, New York city. THE Manhattan Fire Insurance Co., (INCORPORATED, 1821.) Office No. 68 Wall Street. CAPITAL, $250,000. Insures Buildings, Merchandise, Furniture, Vessels in Port and their Cargoes, and other property, against Loss or Damage by Fire. DIRECTORS: W. P. Palmer, Rufus L. Lord, William F. Mott, Edwin D. Morgan, William W. Fox, Richard Tighe, Peter Cooper, Thomas Barron, Robt. B. Mintors, Moses Taylor, Thos. W. Pearsall, Henry Elsworth, Augustus H. Ward, James Colles, Sydney Mason, L. S. Suarez, John Caswell, John Steward, John C. Green, Eben. B. Crocker. WILLIAM PITT PALMER, President. ANDREW J. SMITH, Secretary. THE BROOKLYN Fire Insurance Company. CHARTERED 1824. OFFICE 16 Merchants Exchange, NEW YORK. OFFICE 11 COURT, Cor. of Remsen street, BROOKLYN. CASH CAPITAL,…………………………$153,000 00 SURPLUS…………………………107,641 72 ASSETS…………………………$269,641 72 Dividends---JANUARY and JULY. WILLIAM F. LEGGETT, Secretary. WILLIAM ELLSWORTH, President. CHARLES BURKHALTER, Vice President. GEORGE ALGER, ROBERT C. BELL, } Surveyors. MEDICAL, ETC. The extraordinary efficacy of SAND'S SARSAPARILLA in all cases of scrofula, erysipelas, cutaneous and eruptive disorders, and similar complaints, would appear almost incredible, were not such wonderful cures of daily occurrence certified by persons of undoubted truth and respectability, establishing the incontestible fact that in this class fo disorders, as an alternative and renovating agent it is unequalled. Eminent physicians have proved by many years' experience that they can produce the happiest results by its administration, and therefore use it with confidence. Prepared and sold by A. B. & D. SANDS, Druggists, 100 Fulton street, New York. Sold also by Druggists generally. MRS. E. J. FRENCH, Clairvoyant and Magnetic Physician, NO. 8 FOURTH AVENUE………………NEW YORK. Patients examined, prescribed for, and treated. Examination, with written diagnosis and prescription, Five Dollars. A limited number of patients can be furnished pleasant rooms and all the comforts of a home during the Fall and Winter months. WILLIAM C. HUSSEY, HEALING MEDIUM For the cure of Acute and Chronic Diseases without the use of Medicines. DYSPEPSIA CURED IN A FEW SITTINGS. 222 GREENE STREET, 2d door below Fourth street, New York. Office Hours from 8 A. M. to 4 P. M. ORIENTAL BATHS! NO. 8 FOURTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. (Near the Cooper Institute.) Also, Electro-Magnetic and Medicated Baths. As a luxury, or as a means simply of cleanliness, no mode of bathing equals the true Oriental or Graduated Vapor Bath. They equalize the circulation, allay nervous irritability, give elasticity and vivacity, remove cutaneous eruptions and other blemishes, render the skin soft and pliant, and impart a Freshness and Beauty to the Complexion, which no cosmetic in the world will do. As a remedial agent for many conditions of the human organism they cannot be too highly appreciated. Among the diseases enumerated by a long list of eminent European and American physicians, as cured or greatly ameliorated by the VAPOR BATH, are Gout, Rheumatism, Neuralgia, Liver and Kidney Affections, Dropsical tendencies, Cramp, Colic, Dyspepsia, Erysipelas, Epilepsy, all Febrile or Inflammatory Attacks, Dryness and Acrid Heat of the Skin, &c. In all those affections of the Mucous Membrane, which resemble Consumption in so many of their symptoms, in Asthma and Spasms of the Respiratory Organs, in Hemorrhage of the Lungs, Night Sweats, Bronchial and Catarrhal affections, Colds, Coughs, &c., they are perhaps the safest and best remedy known. No medicine will give such speedy and permanent relief in all those diseases known as Female Weaknesses, Irregularities, &c. The VAPOR BATH promotes a healthy circulation of all the fluids, acting always in perfect harmony with nature. Elegantly Fitted-up Suits of Rooms for Ladies. Skilful attendants in both the Ladies and Gentlemen's departments. Open daily from 7 A. M. to 10 P. M. Sundays, 7 to 12 M. Portable Oriental Baths, with all appliances complete, built to order, and for sale. T. CULBERTSON. DR. JOHN SCOTT, Magnetic Physician, NO. 36 BOND STREET, NEW YORK. Dr. Scott cures PILES and CANCERS without the use of the knife. Also cures GRAVEL. All Rheumatic Complaints treated with certainty. Hours from 9 A. M. to 5 P. M. N. B.—Medicines sent to all parts of the United States and the Canadas, on description of disease. Patients will be received at the house at reasonable board.[*Olive Harper's N.Y. Graphic letter Nov. 6, '75*] NOVEMBER 6, 1875---TWELVE PAGES. 53 acid is one of the most important chemicals of commerce. A great deal of sulphur is used in rubber manufactures. Bleaching is still largely performed by means of sulphur, though in some departments of the business chlorine is preferred. But a use to which sulphur has been put within the last few years is likely to increase the consumption of the mineral almost indefinitely. It is found to be one of the best preventives of the grape vine disease, and the employment of sulphur for this purpose is spreading in Germany, France, and America. The principal supply of sulphur comes at present from Sicily, where it is mined in a very loose and expensive manner. The cost of production of the Sicily sulphur is about $15 per ton, and transportation to New York is $7. The market price is about $30 per ton. Sulphur can be produced in this country at a price considerably below this. In the first place the sulphur in the Wyoming beds is much purer than the Silician deposits. To work the Wyoming sulphur no shafts, machinery, or cribbing are required, and the works for refining the mineral can be built cheaper than elsewhere, as the clay for bricks and retorts and the coal are within a mile or two of the deposit, and it is probable sulphur from this point could be placed on the market at $8 per ton. WALT WHITMAN IN PRIVATE LIFE. A VISIT TO HIS QUIET COUNTRY HOME-PERSONAL REVIEW OF HIS WORKS. (CORRESPONDENCE OF THE DAILY GRAPHIC.) PHILADELPHIA, November 2.---White with the snows and storms of winter, bent, bowed, and scarred with fierce tempests, but staunch and strong of heart as an oak tree, is Walt Whitman, the glorious representative of America; worthy poet of a new and rugged yet grand theme, which needs to be interpreted with a grandeur and newness undreamed of or unthought of by those would-be poets-those word-stringers who gather age-polished thoughts and hang them on silken threads. Not of them nor that ilk is this grand old poet, who lives in his quiet retirement in out-of-the-world Camden; who sits so calmy, full of conscious power, in his arm-chair, and seems to care nothing for the outside world, with its fevers and fears. I went the other day by appointment to visit him at his home in Camden, and after my usual quantum of annoyance at last reached his house, where a belligerent dog seemed to think I had no business. I rang and was received by the poet himself, who came to the door and welcomed me with a simple kindness that more than paid me the trouble of so long a trip. A few commonplace words and I settled my mind to business. I was a reporter; I was going to "interview" him after the recognized style, and I was not going to spare him nor myself; but somehow I forgot all that in looking at him, and I thought of the temple of Jupiter Olympus that I had seen in Athens. He seemed in some indefinable manner to partake of the grandeur, the simplicity, the repose, and the rarity of that majestic ruin, colossal even in its decay. He looks as one would think the author of "Leaves of Grass" would look, and yet he is more. That book gives an idea of wonderful force of mind, originality, and the power of making thunder roll and reverberate in type; of hurling strong words after each other, careless of whom he strikes with the fervid showers, or how many prejudices he shatters to atoms. In that book there is the strength of the giants of old, the beauties of the creation, and the harsh simplicity of the child who knows not how to clothe bare truths because he knows not that the world would rather the innocence be covered with a guilty mantle. To the pure all things are pure. Even to the impure this old man must seem to be the poorest of men-seem so because he is so. THE POET AT REST. He was in his easy-chair, his face turned to the light, his little dog in his lap and looking up to him with affectionate gaze, his blue eyes beaming kindliness, his firm mouth expressing much sweetness and much sorrow, his color still healthy red, his hair and beard white as snow, with deep lines of care and thought upon his brow, his large frame bowed with sickness. And he made a study for a painter. His [?]y, unstudied dress added greatly to the dignity of his manner, and he was entirely devoid of any sign of that vanity that I have always considered inherent in male poets. I looked at him closely; his hands were strong and clean, his nails cared for. His collar was open, but snowy in whiteness, and one could see at a glance he felt that the gift of nature, a mortal, living body, was not to be neglected or disregarded, as too many writers think. He sat there smiling and talking and caressing his dog and turning the tables to a certain extent by asking me questions, but I reminded myself of my errand, and yet hated myself for it. I liked him so well and admired his greatness so thoroughly that I felt I was doing an injustice to both of us in visiting him in the character of a legitimized spy. Yet when I did ask him impertinent questions he did not show me the door nor knock me on the head. I thought him a very old man, at least eighty; but he is only fifty-seven years old. What freezing sorrow has blanched his hair and furrowed his noble forehead a pitying Christ knows. For me I would not know. [*2018*] HOW FAME MAY BE WON. I asked him how many books he had published. I supposed from his reputation in Buda-Pest in Hungary, in Germany, France, and in that severest country to please of all, England, that he must have published an infinite number of books, though I had never seen but one here, and I found that the one I had read was the only one. Let those who rail at that book think of that fact. A great and spreading fame abroad and universal admiration won through the very book our far-seeing critics abuse. Another book to be shortly published will, I hope, bring him if not more honor at least more money. Walt Whitman as a worker has been indefatigable in his efforts to perfect his book, and he tells me that he must have rewritten that twenty times. I wonder where is another worker who would do the same? Where is the carpenter who would undo and do over his work twenty ways, or where the woman who would have patience to pick out her work nineteen times that the twentieth might be more perfect? Whitman has been accused of egotism, and with some reason, because there are few people capable of understanding how perfectly he loses his personality in what he writes; and so when he speaks of his works in his hearty, whole-souled way, forgetting in the warmth of the conversation that he is the author of them and consequently should not praise nor even appreciate them, people will call him vain. For me, I think a writer has as much right to demand and express admiration for his productions as an architect has to speak highly of the work of his hands. Indeed so far as that goes any worker in any grade of life should be given the full right to express his or her satisfaction for a perfect work. Walt Whitman has been working diligently many years; that he has worked well and to the purpose all civilized nations admit. Why, then should he not say as he feels, that he has done well? I like the honesty that holds itself above these petty notions that we should not show a natural and just pride in our works because it is our hands that have wrought them. PERSONAL OPINIONS OF HIS POEMS. Speaking of the different poets of the past, he said: "Shakespeare and the rest sang of the past, drew their inspirations from realities of events or character that was poetry in itself, mellowed by age and embellished by fancy, but for my own poems what have I? I must even make my subjects-make all except inspirations and intentions; must mould and carve and sing the ideal American. I project the future-depend on the future for my audience. I know perfectly well my path is another one. Most of the poets are impersonal; I am personal. They portray anything, everything, except themselves. In my poems all revolves around, radiates from, and concentrates in myself. I have but one central figure-the general human personality typified in myself. But my book compels every reader to transpose himself into that central position, and become the living fountain, actor, and experiencer of every page, every aspiration, every line." To a great extent this is true. Yet those who see and talk with this strange poet can best appreciate the noblest meanings of his poetry. He began to write when a boy, always with the same aim in his mind, and has kept to it till success has crowned him. He is six feet tall, and is bowed by this stroke of paralysis, and walks but slowly, leaning heavily on a large cane. His book has not enriched him, and he has but a slender income. Why is genius suffered to starve, or, starving, live? Letters from the most eminent men of all countries come to this gray lion of Camden, who receives them with a pleasure fine to see, yet without the slightest semblance of exaltation at their adulation. I happened to have it in my power to tell him some little anecdotes and items connected with the appreciation of his works in other lands, and he received them with evident pleasure, but with a gravity that showed he felt them only his just due. I asked him if he had never felt any longing to give voice to his own poems in public, and he replied in the affirmative, but said he preferred writing to speechifying. Recently he read one of his poems before a club in Camden, and I was informed that it was well done. Indeed, one sight of Walt Whitman's face leaves no room to think he would do anything other than well that he tried to do at all. CHARACTERISTICS. These great men have a very tender side to their hearts after all, and Whitman has evidently one of the tenderest for little children, for animals, and for those whom destiny has placed in serville positions, for he is kind and gentle with them all, and will go out of his way for them at any time. I wanted to know what the surroundings of this man were. I found a handsome house, with white marble steps, the outer door invitingly open; a pretty parlor, with three windows-two on one street and one on the other-bright and cheerful. The furniture was ordinary, except the arm-chair, that seems to bear the impress of the poet's form, and a fine oil painting of him as he must have looked some ten or fifteen years ago. It represents a handsome, fresh, and good face-yet I like better the older features and the silver crown of to-day. I wanted to see his own particular den, his private and sacred corner where he writes (for he lives with his brother), but he did not ask me, and I could not propose it, so that is lost to posterity. I wanted to know (as I told him) what he ate, how much he ate, and how he ate it. I always had an idea that poets were fed on finer food than falls to the lot of ordinary mortals, but, according to what I hear, his diet is peculiarly substantial and of generous quantity. And, after all, why shouldn't it be? We talked of everything under the sun, almost of everything I could think to ask or he to answer, and yet I cannot tell of what we did converse, and if I did start out to do it the whole DAILY GRAPHIC would be full-and then what? But what did I learn at Walt Whitman's? Why this: He is great; he is more, he is grand; he is good; he has gained fame abroad and abuse at home; he is America's own poet, Freedom's poet; he is prematurely old, and sick and poor-but add that the poor go to him when wanting a friend, homeless dogs follow him gratefully and little children gather affectionately around him-this aged, white-maned lion of Camden. OLIVE HARPER POE'S "PORPHYROGENE." (TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY GRAPHIC.) Your correspondent "Gadabout," who in Saturday's DAILY GRAPHIC quotes from Poe's "Haunted Palace" the word (and line) "Porphyrogene," and seems at a loss for its meaning, may be interested to know that it is an abbreviation, coined perhaps by the poet, of "Porphyrogenite," or "born in the purple." The question now arises whether Poe used it simply as expressive, in one concise line, of exalted rank, or whether his "Haunted Palace" lay upon the Bosphorus, and his monarch was the ill-fated Constantine VII., born A.D. 905, and distinctively surnamed "Porphyrogenitus." As Eugenitus (well-born) became softened with Eugene, so the poet might readily by analogy coin Porphyrogene, and in one line summon a vision of the romantic story of the prince who (born in the porphyry or purple-lined apartments of the Byzantine Palace, reserved for the use of the empresses who felt their time at hand, and titularly called to the throne from birth) lived to see his dominions usurped by a rude Roman soldier, while yet too young to hold the reins. After a turbulent rein the usurper died, and while his children quarrelled over the succession the loyal people sought out their true prince-Porphyrogene-and called him to the throne. He reigned many years, and rather yielded the reins to his wife, the Empress Helena. As he is supposed to have died from poison at the age of fifty-four, perhaps the poet pictured in the shadowy forms called up in the later verses of the poem some courtier and his accomplice whose crime caused the palace to be haunted. We see, at all events, that the word Porphyrogene was deliberately chosen, and that to the student of history it is suggestive of "a tale of the olden time." Gibbon says: "In the Greek language purple and porphyry are the same words, and as the colors of nature are invariable we may learn that a deep, dark red was the Tyrian dye which stained the purple of the ancients." He then speaks of the porphyry-lined apartment and of the prince whose surname suggests this communication. CHARLES H. WARD Oceanic, Monmouth County, N.J., November 1. FEMALE LAWYERS IN IOWA. (Correspondence of the Chicago Tribune.) Without noise and confusion, Iowa is making steady progress in woman's rights. Although the word "male" in the constitution prevents her from becoming a member of the Legislature, and, by presumption, Governor and Lieutenant-Governor (yet the constitution does not expressly prohibit women. It says "person," and subsequently uses the term "he shall," &c., but the law says "he" or "him" means both sexes)-I say, although expressly prohibited from the Legislature (as are negroes) and the ballot, she is working her way into many offices of trust and the courts. Three women have already been admitted to the Supreme Court of the State-Mrs. J. Ellen Foster, of Clinton; Mrs. Annie C. Savery, of this city; and Mrs. Emma Haddock, of Iowa City. Mrs. Foster argued her first case in Court last week, [?n] behalf of a woman who sued a saloon-keeper in damages for selling liquor to her husband. Yesterday Mrs. Haddock was admitted to practice in the United States Circuit and District Courts of this State-the first case of the kind in any State in the Union. She is the wife of Judge Haddock and a woman of fine culture, who graduated at the Law Department of the State University with high honors. She is highly esteemed also for her many womanly virtues. With Judge Dillon, feared as he was under Iowa progressive ideas, it was easy to grant the boon and welcome woman into a new field of labor; with Judge Love, an old Jacksonian Democrat, with all the name implies. it was quite a step in advance to welcome to the bar of his Court (the United States District) a woman as an attorney; but the Judge is a man of eminent practical good sense, wise enough to accept the inevitable with good grace and becoming dignity. PECULIARITIES OF A PHYSICIAN'S BRAIN. (From the Indianapolis Herald.) The autopsy of Dr. Athon's brain establishes the claim of medicine to being an almost exact science. The first stroke of paralysis, involving the left side, naturally enough excited a great deal of interest among the city doctors, and it was agreed that it was caused by the bursting of a small blood vessel in the right hemisphere of the brain. The second stroke, it was also decided, was caused by a more serious rupture in the left hemisphere, necessitating a more complete paralysis of the right side. The doctors also diagnosed the cause of the trouble-fatty degeneration of the blood vessels fo the base of the brain. They even told the exact location of the two blood clots that had formed in the brain. After death the clots-the smaller one on the right, and the larger one on the left-were found just as they had been predicted, and dissection revealed so extensive a weakening of the blood vessels by fatty degeneration that it was a matter of wonder the doctor had lived so long. The brain itself was large, solid, and fine looking in texture. It weighed nearly fifty-four ounces, but this included the three or four ounces of coagulum, so that the brain proper may be put down at fifty ounces. Before the autopsy a well-known physician staked his reputation on finding the larger blood clot in a certain locality, and agreed to quit the practice of medicine if it was not found there. He even predicted the size of it.[*Summerland (Eng) Times - March 31 '76*] LITERATURE WALT WHITEMAN. It is now eight or nine years since we introduced our readers to the American prophet of the new Democratic school of poetry, Walt Whitman. A seven-and-sixpenny edition of his poems, edited by W. M. Rossetti, had them just appeared. We spoke of it in terms of high admiration, on account of the freshness of style, the novelty, and at the same time truth an purity of the ideas, and the evidently noble idiosyncrasy of the writer, who had struck out for himself an entirely new path in climbing the dizzy heights of Parnassus. We were aware of the difficulty of gaining the ear of the public, accustomed to well-sounding lay of a more conventional and carefully measured type, for poems void of almost everything usually associated with modern poetry, ---rhyme, regular metre, and even what is called common sense. Yet there was a fascination and a power about Walk Whitman's writings, that would, in the end, we felt sure, be appreciated by at least a select few superior to fashion ; and we now rejoice to know that this is the case. He whom such men as W.B. Scott, Rossetti, Swinburne, and Robert Buchanan, unit in a warmly hailing and welcoming as a brother artist, is not likely to be a person of contracted genius, mediocre talent, or poor performance ; and by all of these competent authorities, not to mention others of less note, Whitman is recognized as "a true poet and a strong thinker." But, as Mr. Buchanan says, in a letter which he addresses to the other week to the editor of the Daily News, ---"for the general public---for that public which runs as it reads, and judges as it runs, ---it is necessary to explain that Whitman is not merely an author whose literary claims set authors by the ears ; that he is something far nobler even than a great poet--- a martyred man, perhaps the best and noblest now breathing on our planet, one to whom good men would almost kneel if they knew his beneficence." This needs a little explanation. A native of Long Island, in the State of New York, Walt Whitman was schooled at Brooklyn, and began life at the age of thirteen, working as a printer, later on as a country teacher, and then as a miscellanous press-writer in New York. From 1837 to 1848 he had, as Mr. John Burroughs, the author of "Walt Whitman as Poet and Person," too promiscuously expresses it, "sounded all experiences of life, whit their passions, pleasures, and abandonments,"---in plain terms, he had been sowing his wild oats, as most other men do in some fashion or other. in 1849, he began traveling, and be- came at New Orleans a newspaper editor, and, two years afterwards, at Brooklyn, a printer. He next followed his fathers business of carpenter and builder. In 1862, after breaking of of the great Civil War, in which his enthusiastic unionism and also his strong anti-slavery feelings attached him inseparably though not rancorously to the good cause of the North, he undertook the nursing of the sick and wounded in the field, writing also a correspondence in the New York Times. "I am informed," sats Mr. Rossetti, "that it was through Emersons's intervention that he obtained the sanction of President Lincoln for this purpose of charity, with authority to draw the ordinary army rations, ---Whitman stipulating at the same time that he would not receive any renumeration for his services. The first immediate occasion of his going down to camp was on behalf of his brother, Lieutenant-Colonel George W. Whitman, of the 51sr New York Veterans, who had been struck in the face by a piece of shell at Fredericksburg. From the spring of 1863, this nursing, both in the field and more especially in hospital at Washington, became his one daily and nightly occupation ; and the strongest testimony is borne to his measureless self-devotion and kindliness in the work, and to the unbounded fascination, a kind of magnetic attraction and asendancy, which he exercises over the patience, often with the happiest sanitary results. Northerner or Southerner, the belligerent received the same tending from him. It is said that by the end of the war he had personally ministered to upwards of one hundred thousand sick and wounded. In a Washington hospital he caught, in the summer of 1864, the first illness he had ever known, caused by poison absorbed into the system by attending some of the worst cases of gangrene. It disabled him for six months. He returned to the hospitals towards the beginning of 1865, and obtained also a clerkship in the Department of the Interior. it should be added that, thought he never actually joined the army as a combatant, he mad a point of putting down his name on the enrolment-lists for the draft, to take his chance as it might happen for serving the country in arms. The reward of his devotedness came from his clerkship by the minister, Mr. Harlan, who learned that Whitman was the author of the 'Leaves of Grass,' a book whose outspokenness, or (as the official chief considered it) immortality, raised a holy horror in the ministerial breast. President Lincoln, on the other hand, is said by Mr. Burroughs to have considered him "by far the noblest and truest of the political characters of the time." His first poem of any sort was named "Blood Money," in denunciation of the Fugitive Slave Laws. His first considerable work was the "Blades of Grass," of which the type of the first edition was set up entirely by himself. Some time after it appeared, Emerson declared it to be "the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed." But there were certainly some passages in it which might with some fairness be deemed offensive to the taste for propriety in this peculiarly nervous age, when people are mostly afraid to call a spade a spade, and in America even to speak of the legs of a table is indecent. Whitman protests against this silly squeamishness. He says he knows of no reason why what is universally seen and known, necessary and right, should not also, when occasion asks, be allowed and proclaimed in speech. "Men and women, and the earth and all upon it, are," says he, "simply to be taken as they are, and the investigations of their past and present and future shall be unintermitted, and shall be done with perfect candour." But The American public, it seems, is not yet prepared to accept this as a true saying, and act up to the spirit of it. So on his own side of the Atlantic, Walt Whitman appears to have won as little credit as Robert Burns did, in strait-laced, long-faced, whiskey-drinking Scotland, eighty year ago. For the London papers within the last month have given a startling series of extracts from the West Jersey Press, relative to the poet's temporal and worldly condition, which is something like a counterpart to that of the broken-down exciseman-poet at Dumfries, when the decorous yet not less wicked world had turned its back upon him, and left him to die in poverty and neglect. Walt Whitman, it appears, is cold-shouldered by all the orthodox (alias respectable) poets in America, who instinctively feel that he has little in common with them, because his flight is far away into the high empyrean, while they keep within a safe and easy distance of mother earth. He is, indeed, a literary outlaw, and more is the pity, he feels it. The Daily News New York correspondent tell us he has fallen into obscurity, if not into positive neglect, and apparently into a mood of sorrow, and moreover he probably has ten admirers and readers abroad for every one that he has at home. This is mournful, yet not strange, for Mrs. Grundy is still Empress of America, in spite of its free government, and indeed, in some degree, in consequence of it. On our side of the water, Whitman's admirers are still only a select few, if compared with the aggregate mass of readers ; but they are sufficiently numerous, we believe, to warrant us in predicting the the appeal which is now being made to the British public in favour of the distressed poet will lead to something substantially for his benefit. It is not intended that Mr. Whitman's sense of dignity and independence should be wounded, by anything in the shape or form of a money subscription. A thousand copies of his collected works, about to be published in a cheap form, in two volumes, for the author's behoof, ought to be disposed of easily in England alone. This of itself would give the poet a lift. And it would introduce his works to hundreds of ready who may otherwise never see them. And if it be true what Robert Buchanan says that "the teaching of Whitman is destined to exercise an extraordinary influence on the future of religion as well as poetry," every person who has the least yearning to understand the signs of the times ought to read them. 2021 Tribune March 31, ‘76 WALT WHITMAN’S CLERKSHIP A CARD FROM MR. STEDMAN--THE GOVERNMENT AND LITERATURE--IS WHITMAN I ANY SPEIAL DISTRESS? To the Editor of The Tribune. SIR: Permit me to disclaim the undue credit given me in your paragraph referring to Walt Whitman’s experience at Washington. It is true that the indignation of writing-men was aroused by the Pharisaical action of the Secretary o removed Mr. Whitman from the Interior Department; and it was owing to the simultaneous expression of this feeling, by authors and newspaper correspondents, that attention was called to the poet’s case, and a comfortable desk procured for him in the Attorney- General’s office. It anybody was specially prominent in behalf of “the good, gray Poet,” it certainly was his brilliant and impetuous friend, Mr. William D. O’Connor, the devoted adherent who at the time gave him that title,--and the credit should be placed where it belongs. The Administrations of Lincoln and Johnson were very friendly to the literary class. any authors held office at Washington; others were in the Customs or Revenue service, here and elsewhere; and some of the more eminent were high in rank upon the diplomatic list. It seems to me that our Government has not been open to much censure for ignoring either the wants or the abilities of literary men. So far as I have ay right to speak for American authors, I would say that even those of my acquaintance who do not justify the extreme claims set forth by the disciples of Whitman have a sincere regard for the man, and that they would lie to prove it. No people stand by one another more generously than authors, actors, and artists, despite their frequently restricted means. If the poet really is in need, his fellow-craftsmen gladly would do what they can to relieve him. Nevertheless, both for his sake and their own, they would not wish to have their action made public, and they certainly do not need to receive any humane lessons from a transatlantic sentimentalist. Very truly yours. New-York, March 30, 1876. E.C. STEDMAN. 2020 NEW YORK HERALD NEW YORK, SUNDAY, APRIL 2, 1976. Walt Whitman's Want -- A Public. The idea that poverty is a good training school for poetry has been held by a great many, and undoubtedly the poets who pierced the several crusts of society, beginning at the bottom one, had some great advantages over their less lucky brethren who always had enough to eat and to wear. A new school is fast gaining ground, whose maxims are that all poets should be well fed, and that the works of the particular poets who write for "future ages" and all that sort of thing should be forced down the throat of the present age, whether it would or no. Mr. Robert Buchanan, himself, we believe, a poet, is the exponent of this new and dangerous doctrine, and he points his moral with the case of Walt Whitman. We do not know what Mr. Whitman has to say of this doctrine, but in his heart of hearts he cannot approve it. The picture which it would bring to his mind of bloated poets and a public dosed in platoons with his poetry as it came raw from his hands, just as old sea captains administer castor oil and lime juice to their crews, would be revolting to him. Blatant, coarse and sensual as his song is, the "good, gray poet" would much prefer the modest, kindly offices which in old times men did for one another to the style of this dramhead Mr. Buchanan, who would go about shouting his friend's poverty with the energy of an intoxicated tam-tam beater. To help a shunned fellow creature, be he poet or pariah, is a good office, and to help Walt Whitman put his poems in durable bindings, where posterity may get them, if it wants them, can scarcely be considered criminal in this liberal age. The chances against survival are very many, and Walt Whitman's friends have a right to assist him in the task of guarding his poems for the three incubatory centuries he deems necessary against the grinding teeth of the cynical rag mill of time ; for, as Swift says in the "Tale of a Tub," "Books, like men, their authors, have no more than one way of coming into the world ; but there are ten thousand to go out of it and return no more." So far Mr. Buchanan has a tolerable cause, but beyond that he plunges into a quagmire, to use a mild expression. When he berates [?] [?] people, calls "typical Yankee editors" pudding heads, scolds American poets for "rooks" and "crows," calls Whitman a sick eagle and "the only remaining prophet" who America wants to murder, Mr. Buchanan is recklessly floundering. There is a certain quality in Whitman's writing which is not overlooked or underestimated in this country - namely, his bold belief in the great destiny of the United States - but his uncouthness, his catalogue tediousness, which is that of a business directory, albeit in spasms, remove even the least objectionable of his "poems" from that interest which would make his work profitable. This is the most helpful view. When it is added that the "good, gray poet" has more unfiltered filth and naked nastiness in his works that would fit out an armada of Swinburnes in their most indecent moods, even Mr. Buchanan will admit that in a country where women can read it would be hard to circulate his prophet. Then, as to the prophecy. We heartily sympathize with the aspirations after democracy which penetrate so many of the band of modern English singers - Mr. Buchanan, we believe, among the number - and can dimly understand how even the incoherent exalting yells of Walt Whitman may sound like an encouraging voice to them, so that they absorb the moral stench of the breath for the sake of the democracy. In America, however, where freedom is, there is no such temptation. The fine enthusiasm of the Declaration of Independence had its echo in our day in the Proclamation of Emancipation; but, as Americans dine daily on the roast beef of liberty, they cannot, except on such extraordinary occasions, exhibit the same enthusiasm over the meat that glows in the breasts of the freedom- hungry singers beyond the seas. We used this figure to illustrate a fact, although it may sound like a cynicism. The snorting- buffalo ideal of freedom may be an improvement on the red ideal of strangling the last king with the entrails of the last priest, but it is still a little wild to run a steady government on. These are some of the reasons why Mr. Whitman is unsuccessful here. Whether his "Leaves of Grass" will, like Drayton's "Polyolbion," be dug up after a couple of centuries to give a subdued mummified pleasure to the curious, we leave to the literary burrowers of that period, and the defence of our poets, whom Mr. Buchanan calls "crows," we leave to themselves. 2022 Washington Evening Star Sept: 25 '68 WALT. WHITMAN ON A GOLD BASIS. - The ever-increasing favor the American poet finds in Europe, oddly contrasts with the treatment he has received in the past in his own country. No less striking a parallel is afforded between the offishness of publishers toward his writings here and the high pecuniary value set upon them by the same class abroad. For the group of poems from his pen, entitled "Whispers of Heavenly Death," which appeared in the last number of the English Broadway Magazine, the proprietors paid Mr. Whitman twenty-five dollars a page in gold! This amounts to about seventy-five dollars in currency for the whole - the composition occupying two pages of the magazine. It is needless to add that no other poet, except Tennyson, commands such a price in England. 2023 WALT WHITMAN. IN the second number of the Secularist our readers will find a report of a lecture by Mr. Foote on "Whitman and Swinburne, or Democracy and Freethought in America and England," in which the former of these poets is mentioned in terms of highest praise and approval. Since then several prose and verse extracts from his writings have been given in our "Selection" column, all of them being, in our opinion, splendid examples of noble thought and worthy expression. But our purpose now is not to insist on the value of Whitman's poetry; it is rather to call attention to the dreadfully impoverished state into which he has fallen, to show that this misfortune is the direct result of his lofty heroism, and to ask those who esteem godlike virtue to succour its possessor in the day of his need. When Joaquin Miller, some few months ago, state that the "good grey poet" was half starving in a land of plenty, and amongst men whose agonies he had once assuaged, some other American writer jauntily replied that there were enough admirers of Whitman in the States to shield him from want, should the need arise. Yet it is now plain that for a long while Whitman has had great difficulty in keeping the wolf from the door. He is "old, poor, and paralysed," and no hand is stretched forth to assist him. His efforts to earn a little money by contributing to the magazines have been miserably futile; the Atlantic Monthly "will no touch him;" his offerings to Scribner "are returned with insulting notes," and Harper's, which did print a couple of his pieces two years ago, is afraid now to shelter his productions; and lastly, "all the established American poets studiously ignore him." This is an appalling picture, but its accuracy is established [?] Secularist March 25 1876[*Weekly London G.W. Hoote, editor*] March 25, 1876.] THE SECULARIST. 203 by a reluctant confession from Whitman's own patient lips. Mr. Robert Buchanan, nearly a fortnight since, wrote a long and eloquent letter to the Daily News severely censuring the literary men of America for neglecting its greatest poet, and asking Whitman's English admirers to subscribe liberally for copies of the complete edition of his works in two volumes, which he is preparing for publication largely with his own handiwork. The next day appeared a brief, pregnant letter from Mr. W. M. Rossetti, approving of Mr. Buchanan's scheme; and on the following day this very liberal Daily News not only intimated that it would acknowledge no further subscriptions, but published one of the very meanest articles that ever appeared even in it's pages; one of those lofty sneering articles in which successful panderers to Bumble and Philistia contrive to throw ridicule upon their nobler contemporaries who are content to utter their own thoughts whether the world heeds them or not, and have no wish to skulk behind an anonymous shelter. All these writers, widely as they differed in many other respects, agreed in basing Whitman's claims entirely upon the ground of his poetic merits. Now this is a sad mistake. The world is not to be blamed for not seeing what it has no eyes to see, and is not at all bound to keep Whitman alive because he is a great poet. If his works are demanded he lives; if not, he dies in poverty like half the great poets who have ever lived from Homer's days to the present. Whitman's claims rest upon a different foundation. He is entitled to assistance from human-kind because of his actual past services to them; and America, in letting him remain in irksome poverty, acts much like England would if it allowed Florence Nightingale to sink into a beggar's grave. Whitman was known and loved by many of the common people long before the great war between North and South, but that war proved and revealed his character in all the grandeur of its strength and tenderness. While so many were skulking from the call to arms, he who might easily have evaded it by reason of his premature greyness which made him appear much older than he actually was—went straight to the front, not to take part in the slaughter, but to tend the sick and wounded. Lincoln, through the intervention of Emerson, permitted him to engage in this work of charity. Whitman himself stipulated that he should have no pay, but simply authority to draw the ordinary army rations. He remained at the front through the winter of 1862—63, engaged in this divine compassionate labour of love; but stern self-restraint was needed to prevent his sympathetic nature from being completely overwhelmed by the horrors of carnage and suffering he witnessed. Afterwards he removed to Washington where the sick and wounded were chiefly concentrated, the Capitol city being one huge hospital. The winter of 1863—64 he spent with the army at Brandy Station and Culpepper, working in the Brigade and Division hospitals. His unceasing devotion to this truly pious task proved too much for even his magnificent physique, and in the summer of 1864 he succumbed to the first illness of his life. His system had become deeply saturated with the worst poison of hospital malaria. He was ordered north, where he lay ill for six months; and the illness, although his grand constitution rallied against it, left permanent effects. In February, 1865, having sufficiently recovered, and wishing to return to his voluntary pious service, he procured a clerkship in the Department of Interior, from which he was soon afterwards dismissed by a new Secretary, the Hon. James Harlan, on account of the audacious outspokenness of his "Leaves of Grass." Fortunately, another place of moderate pay in the Attorney-General's office was offered him by a distinguished cabinet minister. Long after the fever of the war subsided, and when the sick and wounded of the terrible struggle began to be forgotten except by their near kindred, Whitman continued his sacred ministrations. Every Sunday found him at the hospitals, and he frequently went there during the week, taking care always to be fresh in body and buoyant in mind. He entered with a huge haversack of appropriate articles, chiefly summer fruit, and most bought with his own pocket-money. His visits did as much good as the doctor's attendance; his entrance in any ward was the signal for manifestations of utmost delight. "His magnetism," said one who knew him well, "was incredible and exhaustless. It is no figure of speech, but a fact deeper than speech. The lustreless eye brightened up at his approach; his common-place words invigorated; a bracing air seemed to fill the ward and neutralise the bad smells." He always visited every patient, pairing an orange for one, giving a kindly word or nod to a second, chatting with a third, writing letters for a homesick fourth, and so on through the whole muster. During the war it is calculated that from seventy to a hundred thousand prostrate soldiers must have passed under his care, many of them being good family and position. How is it that they bear no remembrance of their good nurse? Since the war Whitman has ministered freely out of his scant means to the poor and afflicted, rnd had diligently visited hospitals and prisons to comfort and counsel, showing how nobly pious a man may be while standing outside all the creeds. But we have not space to dwell on his subsequent life. He never fully recovered from his illness contracted in the war, and anœmia (deficiency of blood) of the brain setting in, he was obliged to retire from his official post. How he has lived since we know not; it is said that his brother, Colonel Whitman, gave the poet for some time a home in his house. At any rate this sublimely great, and exquisitely tender man, who every single day of his life practised more charity than most of us manifest in a lifetime, lies now in a state of abject poverty, while well-to-do critics amuse themselves with arguing whether his poetic merits entitle him to consideration. Why the man's supremely holy life is a greater poem than any written one. Mr. Buchanan and Mr. Rossetti propose to succour Whitman by taking a number of copies of the complete edition of his works. The plan has our approval, and shall have our support. One of our subscribers has already offered to take ten copies at say 10s. each, and we have written to Mr. Rossetti ordering copies for ourselves. Probably some of our readers would like to assist this scheme. Some of them, perhaps, dislike Whitman's casual audacities of expression, and some will feel no interest in his poems at all; but all must admire the grandeur, courage, veracity, and loving piety of the man himself. Whatever aid is intended should be forthcoming at once. G. W. F. [*2027*][?] [?] News March 13 '76 Buchanan's Letter THE POSITION OF WALT WHITMAN 2028 TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY NEWS SIR, - Simultaneously with your American Correspondent's article on the new poem by Walt Whitman there appears in the Athenaeum [of yesterday] a startling series of extracts from the West Jersey Press relative to the poet's own temporal and worldly condition. For full particulars of the truth I must refer the public to the pages of your contemporary. It is enough to explain here that Whitman, "old, poor, and paralysed," is in absolute and miserable poverty; that his "repeated attempts to secure a small income by writing for the magazines during his illness have been utter failures" ; that the publishers will not publish, the bookstorekeepers will not keep for sale, his great experiments in poetry ; and, lastly - "O rem ridiculam, Cato, et jocosam:" - all "the established American poets studiously ignore" him, while he lies at Camden preparing, largely with his own handiwork, a small edition of his works in two volumes, which he now himself sells to keep the wolf from the door." This is neither the time nor the place to discuss in detail to solemn a matter as the claims of this discarded and insulted post to literary immortality. If those claims are as true as I and many others in England deem them to be, God will justify his works to an early posterity; but this is certainly the time, and your columns are possibly the place, for an expression of English indignation against the "orthodox American authors, publishers, and editors" who greet such a man as the author of "Leaves of Grass" with "determined denial, disgust, and scorn." One can understand the publishers, for American publishers have been justly described by Whitman himself as "mostly sharks;" one can forgive the editors, for all men know of what pudding a typical Yankee editor's brains are made; but as for the "orthodox American authors" and the "established American poets" - orthodox perhaps in the sense of the affiliation to the Church of English literature, and "established" truly in their custom of picking the brains of British bards - there is but one word for them, and that may be lengthened into a parable. He who wanders through the solitudes of far-off Uist or lonely Donegal may often behold the Golden Eagle sick to death, worn with age or famine, or with both, passing with weary waft of wing from promontory to promontory, from peak to peak, pursued by a crowd of prosperous rooks and crows, which fall screaming back whenever the noble bird turns his indignant head, and which follow frantically once more, hooting behind him, whever he wends again upon his way. The rook is a "recognized" bird; the crow is perfectly "established." But for the Eagle, when he sails aloft in the splendour of his strength, who shall perfectly discern and measure his flight? Perhaps, after all, the so-called "established poets" of America, despite their resemblance to the birds that blacken the fallows and stubbles of English literature, may claim to be at least in indigenous as the loon, the snow-bunting, and the whip-poor-will, birds well "recognised" even here in England and duly "established" in popular liking. For such denizens of the Bostonian pond of farm-rail to crouch down in disgust and scorn when the King of Birds passes overhead is no more than natural. It is less conceivable that that other eagle of American literature, aquiline of breed but born and degenerated in captivity, should see in silence the sufferings of his freer and sublimer brother, should utter no note of warning or of sympathy, should seem to approve by tacit and implicit silence the neglect and scorn of the little New England songsters who peck about his cage. It was the voice of Emerson - a noble and a reverberatory voice then and now - which first proclaimed the name of Whitman to American, in words of homage such as not twice in one century is pain by one poet authenticated to another obscure. It is the voice of Emerson which should be heard again for the vindication of the honour of America, now likely to be tarnished eternally by the murder of its only remaining Prophet. It cannot be that a long captivity in the cage of respectability, and daily association with the choir of hedgerow warblers, has so weakened the heart of Emerson that he falters from his first faith, that he no longer recognizes the wild eagle his kinsman, because that kinsman's flight is afar off, and his wings, though old and feeble, are still free! There is in England no sincerer admirer of Emerson than the present [?] who waits with anxiety this moment of explanation Meantime is Walt Whitman to die because America is too blind to understand him? or rather shall not we in England, who love and revere the Prophet of Democracy, pay our mite of interest on the debt which we accept, and which America is backward to disown? Speaking in the name of many admirers of Whitman, I unheasitatingly suggest such a course as will be at once a help and an honour to the "good gray Poet" - a help temporary and feeble it is true, but given for love's sake, reverently, to one far nobler than ourselves. We never bowed but to superior worth. Nor ever failed in our allegiance there! Strong as is the prejudice in some circles even here against Whitman - for alas! even England does not lack it's "orthodox authors, publishers, and editors" - I believe there is scarcely one living English poet who will no rejoice to lend his aid in a cause so righteous, yet so forlorn. But for the general public - for that public which runs as it reads, and judges as it runs - it is necessary to explain that Whitman is not merely an author whose literary claims set authors by the ears; that he is something far nobler even than a great poet - a martyred man, perhaps the best and noblest now breathing on our planet, one to whom good men would almost kneel, if they knew his beneficence; one whose hand I, at least, would kiss reverently, in full token of my own unworthiness and infinite inferiority. He has acted as well as preached his gospel of universal love and charity; he has given away his substance to his poor brethren; and he has contracted his hopeless disease solely through his personal devotion to the sick and wounded in the late American war. "The pity of it, the pity of it, Iago!" Even those Americans who deny his poetic claims admit (with a smile), his ineffable goodness; but, alas! goodness is not a commodity in demand among "orthodox authors, publishers, and editors," nor is it strictly desiderated among "established" and money-making poets. Nevertheless, only this last consecration of Martyrdom was wanting to complete our poet's apotheosis. As Christ had His crown of thorns (I make the comparison in all reverence), and as Socrates had his hemlock cup, so Walt Whitman has his final glory and doom even though it come miserably in the shape of literary outlawry and official persecution, Meantime, while the birds of the fallow are chirping and cramming, he leaves, as certainly at least as the second of these Divine sufferers, a living scripture to the world: which the world will read presently; which for every ten that know it now will count hereafter its tens of thousands; which will not be lost to humanity as long as poetry lives and the thoughts of men are free. What I have to suggest is simply this. I have already said that Whitman is preparing an edition of his works in two volumes. Now, let a committee be formed here in England, and a subscription instituted to collect subscriptions for the purchase, to begin with, or (say) some five hundred copies of the poet's complete works. This, calculating the price at 10s. per copy, would require only some 250l.; and such a sum, which a prosperous writer may make with a few strokes of the pen, would be more than sufficient for the poet's temporary needs, while furnishing at the same time a substantial proof of the honour in which he is held here in the heart of England. If the five hundred copies could be extended to a thousand, or more, so much the better for the poet, so much the more honour to England, so much the more shame to the literary coteries which emasculate America. With regard to the copies of the works so purchased, I should suggest their gratuitous, or partly gratuitous, distribution on some such plan as that adopted and admirably carried out by the Swedenborgian Society. To many a poor and struggling thinker such a gift would be as manna, such teaching as that of Whitman would be as Heavenly seed. I throw out the hint for what it is worth; but to save misconception, let me disclaim entire sympathy with Whitman's materialistic idealism, which seems to go too far in the direction of illuminating the execrable. One scripture, however, supplements another, and he is perhaps the wisest who harmonises them all. That the teaching of Whitman is destined to exercise an extraordinary influence on the future of religion as well as poetry, no one who has read his works will deny. Unfortunately the process of perusal, which is usually supposed to be preliminary to literary judgment, is just the process which general readers and particular critics refuse to apply in this instance; and still more unfortunately, Whitman is the worst poet in the world to be judged by mere "dipping," or by any amount or extracts however admirably chosen - I am, &c., ROBERT BUCHANAN. March 12. P.S. - Any communications on the subject of this letter may be addressed under care of Messrs. Strahan and Co., 36, Peternoster-row, who will, I am sure, as enlightened English publishers, further the object in view by all means in their power. R. B.then read, amounting in the aggregate to 2,400% [*L. News abt March 15 '76*] MR. WALT WHITMAN. TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY NEWS. SIR,-- A large number of sympathetic letters have already reached me in response to my letter concerning the American poet Whitman, and I have every reason to believe that substantial help will be forthcoming. Meantime I take cognisance of the letter from Mr. William Rossetti, published in your columns of to-day, and as that gentleman is, I am glad to see, prepared to undertake the organisation of a fund for the purchase of Whitman's works, I think all future correspondence, subscriptions, &c., should be addressed to him. For my own part I shall be glad to co-operate in any scheme for Whitman's benefit. I would only quote one expression from a letter just received from the Rev. John T. Robinson --"Bis dat qui cito dat; your plan, I fear, would work too slowly. I am sure it would be easy to send help at once in some pleasant and brotherly way that would not be offensive to Whitman's feelings," It is gratifying to observe that most of my correspondents are men of business, who understand the holiness and dignity of labour. No man had sung so nobly as Whitman the righteousness and beauty of Work; and high and low, from him who works with his brain to him who works with his hands, would be strengthened by the poetic scripture of this colossal workman and bard. Some one--a voice in the dark--an "obscure" echo--accuses me of abusing "Lowell and Longfellow." I take leave to observe--with timidity, lest my praise may "injure" the pride or the pockets of those prosperous poets--that I should be ungrateful indeed if I failed to remember with pleasure the voice which sang "the Present Crisis" and "the Courtin," or that other voice "Evangeline." I trust I have a heart for every true singer who makes music, whatever his rank may be in the poetic choir, It would be a better reply to my general complaints if any American, "obscure" or otherwise, could tell me how much sympathy either Mr. Lowell or Mr. Longfellow, or any other wealthy and influential singer, has shown for the great Poet and Martyr who now lies neglected, insulted, "old and paralysed," at Camden dedicating his completed work, as another great poet and martyr did before him, "To Time," which obliterates the pigmies, and only preserves the mastodons, of history and literature.--I am, &c., ROBERT BUCHANAN. March 14. P.S.--I have to acknowledge subscriptions of one pound each from Messrs. John Browning, R. Salaman, and Alfred Marks; a promise of one pound each from Messrs. William Robins and John. T Robinson, and of three pounds from Mr. A. D. Smith. All these unknown correspondents stipulate, I am proud to say, for copies of the poet's works. (We cannot acknowledge further subscriptions.) TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY NEWS. SIR,--It is unfortunate Mr. Buchanan should have clouded a question of benevolence with untimely literary fervour. There appear to be different opinions as to the merits of what Mr. Whitman believes to be poetry Some persons apparently admire it vastly, and regard his literary method as a new revelation. Others conceive "prose-poetry" to be at best a sort of "two-headed nightingale," curious as a study, but not otherwise pleasant to contemplate. Time will arbitrate between them. But I have never heard but one opinion as to the nobility of Mr. Whitman's character; and while folks argue, he starves. I for one revere a man who aspired to be a poet, whether he succeeds in being one or not, and still more the man who in a greedy age, abandons profitable employment to follow what he thinks his vocation. Therefore, let every one bring his obolus, if it really be required, without any reference to canons of criticism. At the same time, I believe the American people to be second to non in native kindliness of heart; and though they may not think Mr. Whitman a poet, I am sure they will be the first to help his distress. He nursed their wounded during their sad fratricidal war with incessant charity; and to have done this is to have done more than to have composed all the poetry that was ever written.--Your obedient servant, March 14. ALFRED AUSTIN. [*2029*] TUESDAY, MARCH 14, [*76*] [*Daily News*] MR. WALT WHITMAN'S POEMS. TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY NEWS SIR,--You cannot, I am sure, have foreseen the probable consequences of publishing Mr. Robert Buchanan's letter. We Americans are known to be a thin-skinned race, and I do not see how we can possibly survive the expression of Mr. Robert Buchanan's opinion of us. True, Mr. Robert Buchanan's name is unknown in America; but the Daily News is well known there-known as a journal usually friendly to us, and always as civil as circumstances permit. So, when we learn from you columns that we must abandon henceforth those claims to distinction in literature which we have lately been told were out best title to respect, I can think of nothing so likely to occur in the States as a general happy-despatch. What publisher can value life after being called by Mr. Robert Buchanan a shark? What "Yankeer editor," when he is told that "all men know of what pudding his brains are made," will not hasten to blow them out? What verse-writer will not take flight to a better world to escape being catalogued in a "choir of hedgerow warblers?" With a splendour of ornithological erudition I cannot sufficiently admire, Mr. Robert Buchanan likens our American poets to snow-buntings, whip-poor-wills, and loons, to rooks and carrion crows. They are creatures who have lived and fattened by "picking the brains of British bards." Whether Mr. Robert Buchanan means to complain that his own brains have gone to furnish the empty skulls of Lowell and Longfellow, I do not know, any more than I know whether he himself expects immortality as British Bard under the name of Robert Buchanan, or as Scotch Reviewer under that of Thomas Maitland. His American victims may find some slight comfort in the fact that no one of them has yet been accused of singing his own praises under a fictitious signature. As to Mr. Walt Whitman's claims, for the pushing of which Mr. Robert Buchanan has striven to insult every other American writer, living or dead, I do not care to express an opinion. I know the English public well enough to believe that Mr. Whitman will be judged on his merits, and that they will not second Mr. Buchanan's efforts to raise a now idol on the ruins of old reputations. Nor, on the other hand, ought Mr. Whitman to suffer because he has incurred Mr. Robert Buchanan's praise.-- I am, Sir, your obedient servant, AN OBSCURE AMERCIAN. TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY NEWS. SIR,--I have read--and read with much general concurrence and satisfaction--the letter by Mr. Robert Buchanan, published in your paper of to-day, urging that the English admirers of Walt Whitman should dhow their feeling towards him by some such act as the purchase of a large number of copies of his forthcoming books. As this is a matter in which I am warmly interested, and to some extent personally concerned, I take leave to address you on the subject. It was to me that Whitman wrote those words, published in the Athenæum of last Saturday, vouching for the entire truth of the statements regarding him made in the West Jersey Press (also partially reproduced in the Athenæum). Several days ago, in conjunction with another of Whitman's English admirers (a lady), I wrote to the poet commissioning for each of us a certain number of his forthcoming volumes-- in fact, therefore, I have already done what Mr. Buchanan suggests; and so has the friend just mentioned, and another friend, a distinguishes literary man, who has been in frequent communication with me for months past, as to this or any other appropriate form in which English sympathy and regard for Whitman might take shape. In writing to the poet to bespeak the books, I asked him expressly whether he would like the same course, or any other course, to be adopted by other of his admirers in this country, an din the event of his replying affirmatively, I offered to undertake the requisite correspondence at starting. His answer may probably reach me within a fortnight or so. Let us therefore trust that, what between the steps that have been already taken, and those that will almost for certain ensure upon Mr. Buchanan's printed letter, some substantial expression will shortly be given to the feelings o f a good number of English, Scotch, and Irish admirers of this powerful and moving poet. Will his own countrymen yet exhibit the fruits of a late repentance, and allow themselves to be encouraged or shames in to some measure of justice to his claims?--.Your faithful servant, WM. MICHAEL ROSSETTI. [*2030*] 56, Euston-square, March 13.London Daily News 2031 March 16 '76 The merits of Mr. WALT WHITMAN are again, but this time in a somewhat new way, a subject of controversy. In the sense of the French phrase at least, Mr. WHITMAN ought to be a happy man-he has made himself talked of. On this side of the Atlantic he is at irregular intervals the subject of impassioned debate; and naturally, when people on the other side of the ocean learn that their countryman is the theme of controversy here, they are led to turn him into a subject of disreputation there. We are sincerely sorry to find that at the present moment the name of Mr. WHITMAN is brought before the public in very melancholy fashion. The poet is falling into years; he is poor and infirm; his works do not pay; no publisher will bring out a volume for him; no editor of a magazine will even print his verses. Therefore his admirers here are appealed to by Mr. ROBERT BUCHANAN, Mr. WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI, and others, to make some effort to assist their favourite in the most appropriate and honourable way, by helping him to publish and dispose of his books. This in itself is not merely reasonable, but beyond the scope of rational objection. If the world at large refuses to recognise a poet, the exceptional persons, be their numbers few or many, who declare themselves his devoted disciples might well be proud of the office of enabling him to continue his struggle against popular neglect and consequent poverty. But, somewhat unfortunately, the English admirers of WALT WHITMAN do not always confine themselves to the vindication of their poet's fame. "Woe to the age that mis- ?? " prizes thee," is the epitaph pronounced over the brave old "Goetz of Berlich- "ingen" by one of the personages in GOETHE'S drama. Some of Mr. WALT WHITMAN'S admirers are always proclaiming war upon the age that misprizes him. This naturally creates a certain bitterness and anger in the discussions about the poet. Some Americans, for instance, like our own correspondent, "An Obscure American," are willing enough that Mr. WHITMAN should be assisted with the sale of his poems, but do not quite like hearing their country denounced as ungrateful and stupid because she fails of her own accord to do homage to her poet. Now it seems only fair to say that if America is in this matter either ungrateful or unappreciative, she is at least not inconsistent. She did not crown WALT WHITMAN with laurel wreaths one day and leave him with a beggar's staff another day. Blindly it may be, but consistently, she has from first to last failed or refused to recognise Mr. WHITMAN as her national poet. Mr. EMERSON, indeed, is the discoverer of WALT WHITMAN. We are not certain whether he now believes that Mr. WHITMAN has quite come up to the expectations he originally formed of him. But however that may be, it was Mr. EMERSON who first introduced the poet to the world, and ever his authority did not succeed. in obtaining for WALT WHITMAN the recognition of his countrymen. Here in England are the poet's warmest admirers, and we need hardly say that even here they are not many. But it is certain that among his English champions are men of high poetic faculty, such as Mr. SWINBURNE and Mr. BUCHANAN, and men of unquestioned reputation as critics, like Mr. WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI and Mr. EDWARD DOWDEN. We cannot discover that there are any lukewarm opinions, any moderate views, among those who principally concern themselves with the poet or the controversy. Those who do not admit that WALT WHITMAN is the prophet of a new poetical [dis ---nstation] appear to set him down as an idiot. []the judgement of one group of persons, his is certain day a wondrous stranger with this or that peculiarity of garb, or feature, is to appear among them, and is to be their king. Some day there wanders into their settlement an unsuspecting and perhaps utterly commonplace stranger. His mere coming excites wonder and emotion of various kind, and if he bears about him any mark which ingenuity can possibly adopt as one of the tokens of the prophecy, he is naturally accepted as the long-expected chief, and is even perhaps forcibly installed in the high position. 2031A It was somewhat in this way, we think, that WALT WHITMAN came in the first instance to be installed as the national poet of America. As we have already said, his chief admirers were to be found, where they still are, in England. We do not by any means go the length of those who would deny to WALT WHITMAN any poetic genius or faculty. There are many passages in his works which do seem to indicate the presence of that power, not easily definable in words, which distinguishes the poet, though he write but twenty lines, from the most accomplished maker of verses. If it is in the nature of things possible to [?] have been a poet, but for some reason was not, then we might think of Mr. WHITMAN as of such a marred or incompleted being. A block of marble might under certain conditions have become a noble statue, but the possibility is not, we suppose, for a lump of dough. WALT WHITMAN appears to us to have some at least of the material of fancy, insight, and emotion, out of which, under befitting conditions, poetry might have been wrought. Some of his smaller and less pretentious compositions do indeed seem full of poetic feeling, and moving even to a sort of melody. But we fail to discover any particular message or revelation which his works bring to the world, no matter how indulgently we read them. That the poetry of the future is to free itself from the bonds of rhyme and rhythm and other such conventionalities is very much like telling us that the music of coming generations shall be emancipated from the tyranny of notes, and instruments, and voices, and that the MICHAEL ANGELO of the proud days to follow our will scorn to trouble himself about colours and outlines. We are not sufficiently free of soul to be able to imagine an art without special conditions, and if we are told that WALT WHITMAN proves that what we believed to be the essential conditions of the poetic art are not really so, we can only stoldily answer that his example confirms, instead of disturbing, our previous conviction. Nor do we see anything particularly new, whatever the merit, in the other revelations which he is supposed to illustrate as to man's duty of rebellion against certain immemorial conventionalities of speech and demeanour. Mr. WHITMAN theory, if he really has any such, was we think rather powerfully advocated as long ago as the days of DIOGENES, and as lately as the time of ROUSSEAU, but nothing in particular came of the theory in either case, or in any case. The ways of social life went on just the same as before. We must own, however, that a poet starts rather heavily weighted who sets out to make a fame with such burdensome self-imposed difficulties and incumbrances heaped upon him. Those, at all events, who encouraged WALT WHITMAN to believe that he had found the new, true, and the grand way to be a poet, are fairly bound to help him along the path which we regret to hear begins to grow more and more dark and weary. However opinions may differ about the poetry, we believe that among all who have known him there is no difference of opinion as to the simple honestly, truth, and purity of the man. If he is a martyr, as some of his admirers say, he is probably the martyr of a theory. It is for those who upheld the theory to sustain its victim rather than to throw the blame of the martyrdom on the [?] at large, who from first to last never assented [?] principle nor encouraged any one in [?] experiment. No 2524, Mar. 11, '76 THE ATHENEUM Walt Whitman. From time to time echoes reach this country, from across the Atlantic, of controversies regarding the literary and worldly well-being of the America poet, Walt Whitman. For instance, Mr. Joaquin Miller delivers a lecture to an American audience, telling them that Whitman is disgracefully treated by his countrymen; and forthwith some on writes from the United States to a London review to say that Mr. Miller is all in the wrong, and the American public well affected, and even affectionately disposed, towards Whitman. Lately the Wesst Jersey Press (26th January) has published an article named, "Walt Whitman's Actual American Position." It comes to us authenticated by Whitman's own words: --"My theory is that the plain truth of the situation here is best stated ; it is even worse than described in the article." It may, therefore, interest some of our readers if we reproduce the principal passages:-- "The real truth is that with the exception of a very few readers (women equally with men), Whitman's poems in their public reception have fallen still-born in this country. They have been met, and are met to-day, with the determined denial, disgust, and scorn of orthodox American authors, publishers, and editors, and, in a pecuniary and worldly sense, have certainly wrecked the life of their author. "From 1845 to 1855 Whitman, then in Brooklyn and New York cities, bade fair to be a good business man, and to make his mark and fortune in the usual way--owned several houses, was worth some money and 'doing well.' But, about the latter date, he suddenly abandoned all, and commenced writing poems, got possessed by the notion that he must make epics or lyrics, 'fit for the New World.'.... Little or no impression (at least ostensibly) seems to have been made. Still he stands alone. No established publishing house will yet publish his books. Most of the stores will not even sell them. In fact, his works have never been really published at all. Worse still ; for the last three years he left them in charge of book agents in New York city, who, taking advantage of the author's illness and helplessness, have, three of them, one after another, successively thievishly embezzled every dollar of the proceeds ! "Repeated attempts to secure a small income by writing for the magazines during his illness have been utter failures. The Atlantic will not touch him. His offerings to Scribner are returned with insulting notes ; the Galaxy the same. Harper's did print a couple of his pieces two years ago, but imperative orders from head-quarters have stopped anything further. All the established American poets studiously ignore Whitman.... But the poet himself is more resolute and persevering than ever. 'Old, poor and paralyzed,' he has, for a twelvemonth past, been occupying himself by preparing largely with his own handiwork, here in Camden, a small edition of his complete works in two volumes, which he himself now sells, partly, 'to keep the wolf from the door' in old age, and partly to give, before he dies, as absolute an expression as may be to his ideas. 'Leaves of Grass' is mainly the same volume previously issued, but has some small new pieces, and gives two characteristic portraits. Of 'Two Rivulets' he has printed the newer parts here in Camden." 2032the heavens, the wind rises, and the ... That is the case even to-day, and no one can ... how long it may continue. London Daily News March 17 [2033] the purest, whitest, loftiest soul of his age. In the estimate of another set, he is simply a coarse and Indecent driveller. As to WHITMAN'S poetic position, we cannot help thinking that it was to some extent forecast for him; that he presented himself opportunely to fill a place which certain persons had already determined that somebody must fill. During the TICHBORNE trial one of the witnesses said he had always wondered, seeing how determined Lady TICHBORNE was to have a long-lost son restored to her, that some claimant for the position bad not turned up years before the famous and fat adventurer presented himself. In the same way we may, perhaps, express our wonder, seeing how many persons were determined on America's having a grand national poet, utterly unlike any other poet, that an acceptable claimant for the place did not present himself years before Mr. WALT WHITMAN was discovered. America, it was declared, must have a poet all her own. He must sum up somehow in his style all the attributes of vastness, newness, grandeur, and freedom, which the soil and institutions of the States represent. He must typify Niagara and the prairies, and the Mississippi, and the Rocky Mountains, the Adirondacks, the Golden Gate, the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky, the big trees of California, the great lakes, and the setting sun. He must stand forth the representative of man, emancipated and progressive. He must be artis­tically the " last word" of the Anglo-Saxon race. All this had long been settled. Many years ago Mr. LONGFELLOW had good humouredly but effectively ridiculed the whole theory in his " Kavanagh." He endeavored. to show that the greatness of poets does not necessarily correspond with the height of mountains, and that at all events, let the mountains of a poet's native country be never so high, let its lakes be seas, and its cinna­mon bears fierce as other people's tigers, there are certain essential conditions in the production of poetry, from which the Sierra Nevada or the Alleghenies can no more confer a dispensation than modest Helvellyn or, for that matter, Ludgate-hill. It was settled, however, that there was to be a great national minstrel of America. When, therefore, a man of such authority as Mr. EMERSON professed to have discovered a genuine poet, inspired of Heaven and earth, who disdained the trammels of conventional rhythm and rhyme, and who was a law unto himself, it is not sur­prising that a good many people believed their predictions to have come right and the hour to have brought the man. We read in many histories and tales about legends long prevailing among some semi-savage tribe which tell that on an un-... is one point on which I [illegible] concur, and that the generosity of Americans in general. It is not America, but the literary class in America., which persecutes Walt Whitman; and it is therefore to the literary and litera­ture-loving class in England, Scotland, and Ireland that we mean to appeal. Every subscriber to a Whitman Fund will be more or less a believer in Whitman's works; otherwise his help, like Mr. Austin's, will have to be thankfully declined. And so, sir, to conclude, I shall leave the matter to a general jury of English readers, who may or may not endorse your slimming up ; and thanking you sincerely for the impartial way in which you have opened your columns to the discussion, I am; &e., March 16. ROBERT BUCITANAN. [2033A] London Daily News, Tuesday, March 14, 1876. MR. WALT WHITMAN'S POEMS. TO THE EDITOR OF TILE DAILY NEWS. Sir,—You cannot, I am sure, have foreseen the probable consequences of publishing Mr. Robert Buchanan's letter. We Americans are known to be a thin-skinned race, and I do not see how we can possibly survive the expression of Mr. Robert Buchanan's opinion of us. True, Mr. Robert Buchanan's name is unknown in America ; but the Daily News is well known there—known as a journal usually friendly to us, and always as civil as circumstances permit. So, when wo learn from your columns that `ve must abandon henceforth those claims to distinction in literature which we have lately been told were our best title to respect, I can think of nothing so likely to occur in the States as a general happy-despatch. What pub­lisher can value life eater being called by Mr. Robert Buchanan a shark? What "Yankee editor," when he is told that " all men know of what pudding his brains are made," will not hasten to blow them out? What verse-writer will not take flight to a better world to escape being catalogued in a "choir a, hedgerow warblers?" With a splendor of ornithological erudition I cannot sufficiently admire, Mr. Robert Buchanan likens our American poets to snow-buntings, whip-poor-wills, and loans, to rooks and carrion crows. They are creatures who have lived and fattened by "picking the brains of British horde." Whether Mr. Robert Buchanan means to complain that his own brains have gone to furnish the empty skulls of Lowell and Longfellow, I do not know, any more than I know whether he himself expects immortality as British Bard under the name of Robert Buchanan, or as Scotch Reviewer under that of Thomas Maitland. His American victims may find some slight comfort in the fact that no one of them has yet been accused of singing his own praises under a fictitious signature. As to Mr. Walt Whitman's claims, for the pushing of which Mr. Robert Buchanan has striven to insult every other American writer. living or dead, I do not care to express an opinion. I know the English public well enough to believe that Mr. Whitman will be judged on his merits, and that they will not second Mr. Buchanan's efforts to raise a new idol on the ruins of old reputations, Nor, on the other hand, ought Mr. Whitman to holier because he has incurred Mr. Robert Buchanan's praise—I am, Sir, your obedient servant, AN OBSCURE AMERICAN. • To The Editor of the DAILY NEWS. sir, I have read—and read with much general concurrence and satisfaction—the letter by Mr. Robert Buchanan, published in your paper of to-day, urging that the English admirers of Wait Whitman should show their feeling towards him by some such act as the purchase of a large number of copies of his forthcoming books. As this is a matter in which. I am warmly interested, and to some extent personally concerned, I take leave to address you on the subject. It was to me that Whitman wrote those words, published in the Athenaeum of last Saturday, vouching for the entire truth of the statements regarding him made in the West Jersey Press (also partially reproduced hi the Athenaeum). Several days ago, in conjunction with another of Whitman's English admirers (a lady), I wrote to the poet commissioning for each of us a certain number of his forthcoming volumes—in fact, therefore, I have already done what Mr. Buchanan suggests; and so has the friend just mentioned, and another friend, a distinguished literary man, who has been in frequent communication with me for mouths pear:, as to this or any other appropriate form in which English sympathy and regard for Whitman might take shape. In writing to the poet to bespeak the books, I asked him expressly whether he would like the same course, or any other course, to be adopted by a' his admirers in this country, and in the es cue of his replying affirmatively, I offered to undertake the requisite correspondence at starting. His answer may probably reach me within a fortnight or so. Let us therefore trust that, what between the steps that have be already taken, and those that will almost for certain en... upon Mr. Buchanan's printed letter, some substantial pression will shortly be given to the feelings of a number of English, Scotch, and Irish admirers powerful and moving poet. Will his own countrymen exhibit the fruits of a late repentance, and allow selves to be encouraged or shamed into some [?] justice to his claims ?—Your faithful servant, [2034] WM. MICHAEL ROSS...From the West Jersey Press, Jan. 26th, 1876. Walt Whitman's Actual American Position. The Springfield Republican prints another long account of Walt Whitman, and an estimate of his reputation in England and America. The criticism is friendly, and probably correct in its foreign statement, but makes an entire mistake about he position of "Leaves of Grass," and its author in this country. Indeed we had better furnish some facts of the matter within our positive knowledge. The real truth is that with the exception of a very few readers, (women equally with men,) Whitman's poems in their public reception have fallen still-born in this country. They have been met, and are met to-day, with the determined denial, disgust and scorn of orthodox American authors, publishers and editors, and, in a pecuniary and worldly sense, have certainly wrecked the life of their author. From 1845 to 1855 Whitman, then in Brooklyn and New York cities, bade fair to be a good business man, and to make his mark and fortune in the usual way—owned several houses, was worth some money and "doing well." But, about the latter date, he suddenly abandoned all, and commenced writing poems— got possessed by the notion that he must make epics or lyrics, "fit for the New World;" and that bee has buzzed in his head ever since, and buzzes there yet. Accordingly, the outlines of "Leaves of Grass" were sent out twenty years ago, printed partly by his own hands; for the first two or three years arousing only a howl of criticism and the charge of obscenity Since then numerous additions and new issues have been quietly, resolutely fashioned and put forth by his ownself, as if the author were sublimely indifferent to publishers, to the reading public, and to the usual profits. That he went down to the field, soon after the war of 1861 broke out, and spent the ensuing four years as a hard-working unpaid army nurse and practical missionary —that in the overstrained excitement and labors of those years were planted the seeds of the disease that now cripples him—that he got work in 1865 at Washington as a clerk in the Interior Department, but was turned out forthwith by Secretary Harlan declaredly for his being the author of the "Leaves"—that he received an appointment again, but after some years was again discharged–being taken ill—that he left Washington, and has now lived for a while in a sort of half-sick, half-well condition, here in Camden—and that he remains singularly hearty in spirit and good natured, though, as he himself grimly expressed it lately, "pretty well at the end of his rope"—are parts of his history we will merely mention. And now, since that beginning, over twenty years have passed away, and Whitman has grown gray in the battle. Little or no impression, (at least ostensibly,) seems to have been made. Still he stands alone. No established publishing house will yet publish his books. Most of the stores will not even sell them. In fact, his works have never been really published at all. Worse still; for the last three years having left them in charge of book agents in New York city, who, taking advantage of the author's illness and helplessness, have, three of them, one after another, successively thievishly embezzled every dollar of the proceeds! Repeated attempts to secure a small income by writing for the magazines during his illness have been utter failures. The Atlantic will not touch him. His offerings to Scribner are returned with insulting notes; the Galaxy the same. Harper's did print a couple of his pieces two years ago, but imperative orders from head-quarters have stopped anything further. [*2035*] All the established American poets studiously ignore Whitman. The omnium gatherums of poetry, by Emerson, Bryant, Whittier, and by lesser authorities, professing to include everybody of any note, carefully leave him out. Again, of perhaps the finest general criticism abroad, the articles friendly to him-- for instance from the Westminster Review, the Revue des Deux Mondes, and the Gentleman's Magazine, have been unnoticed; while the scolding and cheap abuse of Peter Bayne is copied and circulated at once in the Boston Living Age. We have now said enough to suggest the bleakness of the actual situation, so far. But the poet himself is more resolute and persevering than ever. "Old, poor and paralyzed," he has, for twelvemonth pat been occupying himself by preparing, largely with his own handiwork, here in Camden, a small edition of his complete works in two volumes, which he himself now sells, partly "to keep the wolf from the door" in old age--and partly to give before he dies, as absolute an expression as may be to his ideas. "Leaves of Grass" is mainly the same volume previously issued, but has some small new pieces, and gives two characteristic portraits. Of "Two Rivulets," he has printed the newer parts here in Camden. Walt Whitman's artist feeling for deep shadows, streaked with just enough light to relieve them, might find no greater study than his own life. From the West Jersey Press March 15th, 1876. Walt Whitman. LONDON, March 13.-- Robert Buchanan, the poet, writes to the London Daily News this morning, concerning certain extracts from the WEST JERSEY PRESS, reproduced in the London Athenæum, describing Walt Whitman's impoverishment and sufferings, and makes an earnest appeal for his relief. Mr. Buchanan says: "I suggest the formation of a committee to collect subscriptions for the purchase of Whitman's complete works (which the latter is now preparing) to begin with, say 500 copied, and if the number could be extended to a thousand or more, so much the better for the poet, so much more honor for England, so much more shame to the literary coteries which emasculate America." In addition to what we gave in out article of January 26, alluded to above, we present a few further items. Nearly all through 1873-'4, Whitman, prostrated by paralysis, did not expect to live from one month to another; and perhaps the end, under the circumstances, not be dreaded. He had been discharged by the government from his clerkship in Washington; his illness unfitted him to earn his own living thenceforward; the loss at the time, by somewhat sudden death of an unusually beloved mother and a sister, had loosed earthly ties, and even his literary ventures, (which were a complete failure in worldly respects,) cease for a time to possess any interest. But he has since recuperated considerably, accepted the situation , and occupied himself leisurely the past year in revising, adding to an completing, a new edition of his works, now at last ready and supplied to those who want it. It is very personal. Whitman puts his portrait in every volume, with his own hands, and signs his autograph. He sells them himself, by mail, (post office address here in Camden, New Jersey,) for the sufficient reasons that no publisher in America will print his works, and that for the last three years the New York jobbers, in whose agency they have been place, have gouged the proceeds. Though Walt Whitman's good health and strength are probably gone for ever, he is hearty and even jolly, and would never be taken for a sick man; and he may indeed last for years yet. And though his worldly means are narrowed even to poverty, he passes among the common people for quite a millionaire! [*2036*] THE CAMDEN DAILY POST PUBLISHED EVERY AFTERNOON, At 108 & 110 Federal Street, BY H. L. BONSALL & CO. ADVERTISEMENTS FOR INSERTION IN "THE POST SHOULD BE RECEIVED AT THIS OFFICE NOT LATER THAN 11 O'CLOCK, A. M. [*2037*] WEDNESDAY, APRIL 5, 1876. THE CONWAY-WALT-WHITMAN MUDDLE --Is not the controversy over W. W., his writings and his "poverty," becoming a little of a bore, as well as a confusion? Here now, (April 4), appears a London card from M. D. Conway placing the whole matter, (which out of some chaos was emerging and going on nicely), again in a considerable muddle. Mr. Whitman has been urged to make a statement over his own name, but positively refuses to do so. He has no appeared in the matter, or instigated it, takes the whole thing very coolly, is not only content with, for instance, the letters of Buchanan in London and John Swinton in New York, but is candidly, fervently grateful to those gentlemen. We learn that he never "authorized" either any such statement as this of April 4, or any statement at all from Mr. Conway, who appears to be a sort of mar-all, and in many ways to show clearly, (not withstanding his long and learned lectures to the contrary), that the Devil does in fact exist and goes about destroying and smashing things. No one supposed Whitman was starving for food, or in beggar's rags. The true points are that the old chap's savings have been exhausted by over three years' sickness and expense,--that though nor actually suffering from want, nor with the least idea of ever so suffering, he is without means and likely to be henceforth, and disabled from the usual employments; that he may, perhaps, live several years,-- has all the usual wants and expenses,--is pretty free-handed with his money when he has any--that some of his friends and brethren in Great Britain and America have voluntarily done--what they have done; and that Whitman has expressed himself entirely contented with their action and, without abating a jot of his manliness, thankfully accepts the results. To all the flummery and the frivolous falsehoods and personal impertinences which the matter has evoked, of course he makes no reply at all, and take no notice. [*2037*] From The West Jersey WJ Press Jan 26 1876 Walt Whitman's Actual American Position. The Springfield Republican prints another long account of Walt Whitman, and an estimate of his reputation in England and America. The criticism is friendly, and probably correct in its foreign state­ment, but makes an entire mistake about the position of " Leaves of Grass," and its author in this country. Indeed we had better furnish some facts of the mat­ter within our positive knowledge. The real truth is that with the exception of a very few readers, (women equally with men,) Whit­man's poems in their public reception have fallen still-born in this country. They have been met, and are met to-day, with the determined denial, disgust and scorn of orthodox American authors, publishers and editors, and, in a pecuniary and worldly sense, have certainly wrecked the life of their author. From 1845 to 1855 Whitman, then in Brooklyn and New York cities, bade fair to be a good business man, and to make his mark and fortune in the usual way—owned several houses, was worth some money and "doing well." But, about the latter date, he sud­denly abandoned all, and commenced writing poems—got possessed by the notion that he must make epics or lyrics, "fit for the New World;" and that bee has buzzed in his head ever since, and buzzes there yet. Accordingly, the outlines of "Leaves of Grass" were sent out twenty years ago, printed partly by his own hands; for the first two or three years arousing only a howl of criticism and the charge of obscenity Since then numerous additions and new issues have been quietly, resolutely fashioned and put forth by his ownself, as if the author were sublimely indifferent to publishers, to the reading public, and to the usual profits. Then he went down to the field, soon after the war of 1861 broke out, and spent the ensuing four years as a hard-working unpaid army nurse and practical mis­sionary—that in the overstrained excitement and labors of those years were planted the seeds of the disease that now cripples him—that he got work in 1865 at Washington as a clerk in the Interior Depart­ment, but was turned out forthwith by Secretary Harlan declaredly for his being the author of the " Leaves "—that he received an appointment again, but after some years was again discharged—being taken ill—that he left Washington, and has now lived for a while in a sort of half-sick, half-well condition, here In Camden—and that he remains singularly hearty in spirit and good natured, though, as he him­self grimly expressed it lately," pretty well at the end of his rope "—are parts of his history we will merely mention. 2038 And now, since that beginning, over twenty years have passed away, and Whitman has grown gray in the battle. Little or no impression, (at least ostensibly,) seems to have been made. Still he stands atone. No established publishing house will yet publish his books. Most of the stores will not even sell them. In fact, his works have never been really published at all. Worse still; for the last three years having left them in charge of book agents In New York city, who, taking advantage of the author's illness and helpless­ness, have, three of them, one after another, success­ively thievishly embezzled every dollar of the pro­ceeds! Repeated attempts to secure a small income by writing for the magazines daring his illness have been utter failures. The Atlantic will not touch him. His offerings to Scribner are returned with insulting notes; the Galaxy the same. Harper's did print a couple of his pieces two years ago, but imperative orders from head-quarters have stopped anything further. All the established American poets studiously ignore Whitman. The omnium gatherums of poetry, by Emerson, Bryant, Whittier, and by lesser authorities, professing to include everybody of any note, care­fully leave him out. Again, of perhaps the finest general criticism abroad, the articles friendly to him—for instance from the Westminster Review, the Revue des Deux Mondes, and the Gentleman's Magazine, have been unnoticed; while the scolding and cheap abuse of Peter Bayne is copied and circulated at once in the Boston Living Age. We have now said enough to suggest the bleakness of the actual situation, so far. But the poet himself is more resolute and persevering than ever. "Old, poor and paralyzed," he has, for a twelvemonth past been occupying himself by preparing, largely with his own handiwork, here in Camden, a small edition of his complete works in two volumes, which he himself now sells, partly "to keep the wolf from the door" in old age—and partly to give before he dies, as absolute an expression as may be to his ideas. "Leaves of Grass" is mainly the same volume pre­viously issued, but has some small new pieces, and gives two characteristic portraits. Of "Two Rivulets,'' he has printed the newer parts here in Camden. Walt Whitman's artist feeling for deep shadows, streaked with just enough light to relieve them, might find no greater study than his own life. 2038A From the Camden N.J. Democrat Dec. 5th, 1874 A Shameful Case or Sickness The N. Y. Tribune devotes one of its big type editorials to Camden, expressing much contempt for the brief poetical "Old Man's Thought" of Walt Whitman at the late open­ing of Cooper school in this city, and then, with tongue in cheek, ends its sneer by a fling at Mr. Whitman's being "out of health," as if that were something quite shameful. Does the Tribune know why Walt Whitman is "out of health?" His physicians unani­mously pronounce his disease—which is one of the most tediously baffling affections of the brain and nervous power—to have its origin back in a series of overstrained labors con­tinued night and day, in the army hospitals and on the battle-fields, from 1862 to 1865. During that period, and in those scenes, he was continuously at work, literally saving hundreds from death, often sat up all night—was always on the go—visited, cheered hospi­tals, regiments, armies—disbursed many thousands of dollars—and in the pride and strength of a physical health and vigor seldom vouch safed to man, and under a tension of both bodily and mental powers for nearly three years, gave, himself no leisure, no rest. For those were terrible years. Every month of them, thousands of noble young men were dying from mere want of attention, and it was no time to think of selfish prudence. And that was the way Walt Whitman gets "out of health," to be lampooned by a leading Ameri­can press. The Tribune seems exercised for a hero—"Wanted, a Hero." It goes after Garibaldi, Hans Christian Andersen, and others, and eulogizes and begs money for them every day. And it has, we hear, given $1000 to Charles Reade, (and it is worth the sum), to hunt up an undoubtedly heroic old Scotchman who saved persons from drowning, and writes ten columns about him. Now, without asking a cent, we present "the subject of our article," old, poor, discharged, sick, (and made fun of for being sick), to our New York contemporary. 2041 [Crossed out the following] We do not, for 'the Tribune, (which praises Charles Gaylor's works and Nova Penny's) enter on the subject of the old man's poetry, for about it there ii the widest difference of opinion. While nearly altogether neglected in this country, in Europe the literary reputation of Whitman has early assumed colossal proportions. But on this matter of his past personal life, to those Who know the facts, there can be but one judgment.[WEDN]ESDAY, JANUARY 24, 1883. ---SIX PAGES WALT WHITMAN AN ENGLISH CRITIC ON THE AMERICAN POET. (From the London Nineteenth Century.) III. The passage from this region of pure imagination and passion to the other works of the same writer compels us to deal with his religious and political [philosophy.] In religion, if he is to be labeled with a name, it must be perhaps "Pantheist;" he is an exponent of "Cosmic Emotion." "I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand not God in the least." It is the contemplation of "the fathomless universe," and all its movements and rests, its organic and its inorganic existences, which stirs the religious emotion in his soul. Men are inclined to cry, "What is this separate nature so unnatural? What is this earth to our affections? (unloving earth without a throb to answer ours, cold earth, the place of graves)." To answer this question is the function of the poet, to sooth "the sad incessant refrain, Wherefore unsatisfied soul, and Whither, O mocking Life?" His answer is, "Bathe in the spirit of the universe, intoxicate thyself with God." Thoughts, silent thoughts, of time, and space and death, like waters flowing, Bear me indeed as through the regions [infinite,] Whose air I breathe, whose ripples hear, lave me all over, Bathe me, O God, in thee, mounting to thee, I and my soul to range in range of thee. O Thou transcendent, Nameless, the fiber and the breath, Light of the light, shedding forth universes.... Thou pulse, thou motive of the stars, suns, systems, That, circling, move in order, safe, harmonious, Athwart the shapeless vastness of space, How should I think, how breathe a single breath, how speak, if out of myself I could not launch to those superior universes! God, as he includes all, includes personality, and from god will come somehow a satisfaction of the longing of the soul. What conclusions, if any, are to be drawn from the alteration in the new edition of the poem called "Gods," I leave it to the curious to consider; but in it clearly, as elsewhere, we find anticipation of the Lover divine, and perfect comrade, Waiting content, invisible yet, but certain, of whom, wether he be ideal or real we cannot pronounce. About immortality he doubts, yet strongly believes. In moments of cool reflection he feels that the question of "identity beyond the grave" is the great unsolved problem. Yet his poetical optimism continually leads him to assert immortality, and that not merely the merging of our life in the vital forces of the universe, though that is sometimes his meaning, but actual personal identity of the human soul after death. We have on the other hand among his first utterances, I bequeath myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love; and, on the one hand, we have later the picture of the chamber of death where The living look upon the corpse with their eyesight, But without eyesight lingers a different living and looks curiously on the corpse. and again the cry: If maggots and rats ended us, then alarum! for we are betrayed, Then indeed suspicion of death. On the whole he seems to become more [definite] as he proceeds in his anticipation of "Identity after the grave" As for defined creeds it is not they which give the life; Leaves are not more shed from the trees, or trees from the earth, than they are shed out of you. God and the soul are not to be agued about; Logic and sermons never convince; The damp out of the night strikes deeper into my soul. But religion is the thing above all, and he rarely fails to point the way to spiritual meanings. His morality is almost comprised in the one word "health," health of body and health of soul, the healthy and sane man to be the ultimate standard. These are Greek ethics, and the maxim on which they seem to be based, Whatever tastes sweet to the most perfect person, that is finally right, is thoroughly Aristotelian. A "sane sensuality," as it is called by one of his friends, is a necessary part of the ideal man. The body is sacred as well as the soul, and to assert its sacredness is the purpose of his sometimes outrageously [philosophical] details, which can hardly have the desired effect, but are clearly not meant, nor indeed adapted to minister to vicious tastes; they may disgust, but they can hardly corrupt. That being so, his optimism is the more comprehensible; and it is upon a basis of optimism after all that he builds his whole religion and [philosophy.] He has too firm a grasp of fact to ignore the existence of evil. if he exclaims at times, "There is no evil," he adds, "or if there is, it is just an important to you as anything else." "I am not the poet of goodness only; I am just as much as the poet of evil" But he believes that evil is transient and relative; he holds that the drift of things is toward good; that all is, not at once, but finally for the best. This he says, in plain prose, is the growing conviction of his life, and inverse, of the souls of men and women going forward along the road of the universe, They go, they go I know that they go, but I know not where they go, But I know that they go forward toward the best. This is which makes him so much at peace with god and about death. "No array of words can describe how much I am at peace about God and about death;" the heroic failures of this world are to him eternal successes. "Battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won;" therefore "Vivas to those who have failed!" And above all the cause of liberty will finally succeed. Revolt! and still revolt! revolt! When liberty goes out of a place it is not the first to go, nor the second or third to go, nor the second or third to go, It waits for all the rest to go, it is the last, When there are no more memories of heroes and martyrs, And when all life and all the souls of men and women are discharged from any part of the earth, Then only shall liberty, or the idea of liberty, be discharged from that part of the earth, And the infidel come into full possession. Too much, perhaps, has been said of the religion and morality of the poet, and too little of the literary aspect of his works. But this it is difficult to illustrate sufficiently by quotation, and impossible to sufficiently by quotation, and impossible to set forth without illustration. It seemed to me that suggestions of the drift of the whole were more likely to be useful than attention to particular points. [Everyone]will remark first the too frequent infelicity of sentiment and [phrase,] and then the striking directness of utterance, and the stumbling, as if by accident, on the absolutely best words in the absolutely best order, which characterizes his finest work. Wether these be truly poems, or fine imaginings only, we need not be much concerned to inquire. 2040 His own claim to be the poet of America is based on other than purely literary grounds. Give me the pay I have served for, Give me to sing the songs of the great Idea, take all the rest I have loved the earth, sun, animals; I have despised riches; I have dismissed whatever insulted my own soul or defiled my body, Claimed nothing to myself which I have not carefully claimed for others on the same terms, Sped to the camps and comrades found and accepted from every state, Upon this breast has many a dying soldier leaned to breathe his last). Say, O mother, have I not to your thought been faithful? Have I not through the life kept you and yours before me? [2040 A] G. C. Macaulay. [Howe Journal] [3 Park Place] [New York] New York Daily Tribune FOUNDED BY HORACE GREELEY. SATURDAY, APRIL 22, 1876. 8 [2042] WALT WHITMAN. IS HE PERSECUTED To the Editor of The Tribune. Sir: No objection need be taken to your editorial of April 12 upon Walt Whitman. I differ with you, and your statements are in some respects inaccurate, but it is a legitimate attempt at a critical estimate. Nor would I, perhaps, ask leave, a fortnight later, to reply to your editorials on the same subject, of March 28 and 30, if I did not see them, like a new kind of dragon's teeth, springing up widely, as your exchanges will show, in the foul and copious abuse and insults journals of every description in this country are not ashamed to offer to a great genius, even when age, poverty, and illness have drawn around him their sad sanctuary. In Mr. Whitman's case, the admitted facts are these: He is old, even less with years than noble service; his labors and emotions in the hospitals of the war have left him paralyzed; and he lives, wholly without personal means, in the mumble dwelling of a relative. Under these circumstances, I see no reason for breaking the force of any appeal that might be made for him, however mistaken or injudiciously worded. But you discourage even sympathy when you represent, and cite Lord Houghton to prove, that the state of infirmity and dependence in which he lives is one of "modest simplicity, but not of discomfort." It appears that Mr. Conway, since his return to London, has published a card, taking the same Arcadian view. I never before heard that the condition of being old, crippled, ill, and without money characterized in terms like these, and it strikes me that from such "modest simplicity," Lyeurgus with all Sparta at his back, might recoil. But you go further, and in your comments upon Mr. Buchanan's letter you elaborately discredit the proposed purchase by friends in England of an edition of the stricken poet's works, an assistance and a hornage which the case fully justifies; while the same splendid British testimonial, conceived in a spirit and form worthy of gentlemen, and as honorable in Mr Whitman to accept as for them to bestow, your London correspondent, ingenious in insult, and as delicate as accurate, carefully degrades with the well chosen epithets of "charity" and "alms." A good deal has been printed abroad upon this matter, but you find room only for excerpts from Mr. Buchanan's letter,, which disconnection garbles, and for the despicable paragraph in which the slick and insolent swells of The Saturday Review mention the movement for relief as "a strangely impudent agitation." It seems to me that in the presence of the unmistakable shapes and shadows of an august need, to which manly hearts are everywhere responding, such an attitude ill becomes the foremost journal of America. At such a time, too, and in such a connection, you reproduce the small and stale old slurs and figments invented twenty years ago, and kept in constant use by the enemies of the poet. In this there seems to be some vague and grotesque intention to make him at once criminal and ridiculous. I never heard that Henry Heine incurred infamy by being depicted in his shirt sleeves in the engraving prefixed to the Reisebilder; but the way you handle the similar picture of Walt Whitman, in his typical mechanic's costume in the old quarto of '55, does not suggest an equal good fortune. At all events, since this is an affair of moral character, as well as a chronicle of small beer, let us be exact, and not call the shirt in the picture "flannel," when it is linen. However, a critic in the Appletons' Journal, whose article contains less truth to the square than I thought type capable of, outdoes you by malignly masking the shirt "red flannel," and adding "a blouse and tarpaulin" as the favorite attire of Mr.[*N.Y. Tribune April 13 '76*] [*Compliments of A H Gauglwer*] [*THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS*] 6 WALT WHITMAN'S POETRY. AN ESTIMATE OF ITS VALUE. POEMS REFLECTING NATURE AND NOT BOOKS— POWER BUT NOT ELEGANCE—LITERARY CONSCIOUSNESS ABSENT—THE FAVORABLE OPINION OF A NEW SCHOOL OF ENGLISH AND AMERICAN CRITICS. To the Editor of The Tribune. SIR: As one of the friends and admirers of Walt Whitman in this country I deeply regret that you should have felt obliged, in repelling the attack of Robert Buchanan upon the guild of New-England authorship in Tuesday's TRIBUNE, to throw the weight of your great journal so decidedly against the literary claim of the American poet. It has been my good fortune to know Whitman long and intimately, and I owe him a debt of gratitude I can never hope to repay. As a young man I have obtained no such moral and intellectual lifts, as some one has aptly named this kind of service, from any other source as from his poems and his contact and conversation. He has been a help to me, as I know he has been to others, in a way and to a degree that mere literature never can be—a help like that one gets from primitive sources and from the great sciences. Hence I felt personally aggrieved over your indorsement of the critical estimate of him pronounced by The London Daily News—all the more aggrieved because I know it to be sincere and inspired by no craft hostility. [*2039*] The News, no doubt, speaks the opinion of a large number of its readers, and perhaps the opinion of the majority of British literary journals, but not the opinion of a majority of the rising men in the fields of English poetry and criticism, as you are doubtless aware. There is Mr. Buchanan himself, who has certainly earned the right to be heard, and who said of Whitman nearly ten years ago that "in actual living force, in gripe and muscle, he has no equal among contemporaries." And I will say here that this is very nearly the opinion of our poet pronounced by the French journal, Revue du Lundi, on the occasion of the publication of his " Drum-Taps." But before Mr. Buchanan, Wm. M. Rossetti, the accomplished London poet and critic, had come out strongly on behalf of Whitman, calling his "Leaves of Grass" the "largest poetic enterprise of our age." Next came Prof. Dowden of Trinity College, Dublin, with an article in the Westminster Review, in as noble and lofty a strain of welcome as was ever called forth by any poet. Roden Noel, the relative of Byron, himself a poet and ex-M. P., has also enrolled himself among the champions of "Leaves of Grass." Prof. Clifford of the Royal Institute welcomes its author as the poet of all others whose utterances are most in harmony with modern science. J. Addington Symonds, an eminent Greek scholar, author of "Studies of the Greek Poets" and a poet himself, says Whitman is more truly Greek than any other man of modern times. Mr Swinburne's admiration of him is well known. Arthur Clive celebrates him in The Gentleman's Magazine as the "Poet of Joy," and George Saintsbury, one of the critics of the Academy and The Contemporary Review, has lent his trenchant pen in his defense. The attitude of Tennyson toward him is eminently cordial and sympathetic. In every literary gathering in London or Edinburgh or Dublin I am informed there is always a large sprinkling of admirers of Whitman, and it would appear that no man is so much discussed and championed. Then what shall we say of Freiligrath's welcome of him and of the reception given his works by the Danish and Norwegian poets and critics? Is it only a possible or is it an actual poet that has thus met with a reception abroad never given to any other American singers? I am aware that there are dissenting voices in Great Britain, but they are for the most part feeble voices. Alfred Austin, the flippant critic of the "Poetry of the Period" and author of a recent drama. decries him as he does Tennyson and Browning. Peter Bayne, too, a Peter so dense, a friend says, that it will take more than one cock-crowing even to wake up his slumbering faculties. [*2039A*] At home the rising and the risen literary lights are nearly all set against Whitman, though I know he has a large and an increasing circle of appreciative readers in this country. For my own part I have no more doubt of his greatness than I have of the sun at noon-day. He seems to me about the only American poet that a man, apart from the versifier, the scholar, the professor, the gentleman of elegant leisure, &c., would want to read, because in him alone there is a breeze bracing and masculine as of the mountain or the shore. I am aware that there is something rude and forbidding about him, just as there is about the open air, and that certain delicate indoor temperaments cannot endure him; but it is so much the worse for them that they cannot. Were he less a cosmic poet, reduced in his rank primary human or manly qualities, with the conscious, elegant, literary worker uppermost, his reception in this country at least would have been quite different. But he would have been so much less worthy of attention. What he gives us is well oxygenated; it is red, arterial blood, and has in it the making of virile, robust men. Can the same thing be said of the works of our popular poets? In highly refined and cultivated times like ours, the great mass of the poetry is written as it were out of the atmosphere, out of the general store of distilled and accumulated literary skill and refinement, and while it has its value, for any high tonic and national purposes it is absolutely worthless. You will agree with me that Whitman's poems are not so written. They are a breath from the sea and the woods, and not from the libraries, and will be valued highest by him whose spiritual lungs are strongest and cleanest. Are we never to get beyond the point where the demand is for something elegant and scholarly, and where the analogue in art of the power and informality of elemental nature is more acceptable than any studied form and elaboration, however complete? May be Whitman is not a poet or an artist in the current acceptation of those terms. He probably is not. So much the better if we have to employ new terms to describe him. Certain it is that his quality is as potent, as positive, and as deeply rooted as that of any man in literature, while the consideration of his work and methods starts a multitude of the greatest problems. Indeed, to me his poems have a political and a metaphysical background in the presence of the grandeur of which most of the mooted questions among scholars about even Shakespeare or Dante seem ingenious or trivial. In regard to the state of the case that gave rise to Mr. Buchanan's letter, I know Whitman is poor and in feeble health. I know also his life has been a singularly unselfish one; that he has bestowed himself upon others; that he has really "scattered with lavish hand all that he earned or achieved." But he is a philosopher as well as a poet, and I have never yet seen him in any but the most cheerful and magnanimous frame of mind. JOHN BURROUGHS. Esopus, N. Y., March 30, 1876.The Index Boston, December 20, 1883. For the Index. SONNETS. TO WALT WHITMAN. O rich fulfilment of the Prophecies, By God's own finger writ on every hand, In plain and mountain of thy native land, Its boundless prairies, rivers, lakes, and seas; O Bard! with thought and speech befitting these, And soul in all as generously planned! Present in thee, by Nature's largess, stand And voice themselves the world's democracies. All Powers that wait on freedom thee attend, And breathe in every cadence of thy song; And every impulse that doth work the Will That shapes the world forever to the end That heaven in man shall yet itself fulfil, Is thine ally, and shall thy verse prolong. IN TENEBRIS. A cunning not their own hands makes wise. And Powers there be that are unguessed of men That build their faiths beyond the utmost ken Of early wisdom. Spirits in disguise Lead our feet daily under fairer skies Than those our eyes behold. Hands guide the pen Of bard and prophet and of statemen, when They wot not of their presence. Stars arise We dream not of, to light o'er perilous seas The drifting barks of years that journey on, Bearing the seeds of far-off centuries. Though unperceived, there blows a breath through ill Towards heavenly shores, and a propitious moon Sways all the ocean tides of human will. WALTER R. THOMAS. 2044 EDITORIAL NOTES TUESDAY, JANUARY 25, 1887 NEW ORLEANS IN 1848 Walt Whitman Gossips of His Sojourn Here Years Ago as a News- paper Writer. Notes of His Trip Up the Mississippi and to New York. Among the letters brough me this morning (Jan. 15, 1887,) by my faithful post office carrier, J.S., is one as fol- lows: "NEW ORLEANS, Jan. 11 '87.--We have been informed that when you were younger and less famous than now, you were in New Orleans and perhaps have helped on the Picayune. If you have any remembrance of the Picayune's young days, or of journalism in New Orleans of that era, and would put it in writing (verse or prose) for the Pica- yune's fiftieth year edition, Jan. 25, we shall be pleased." etc. in a response to which: I went down to New Orleans in 1848 to work on a daily newspaper, but it was not the Picayune, though I saw quite a good deal of the editors of that paper, and knew its personnel and ways. But let me indulge my pen in some gossippy recollections of that time and place, with extracts from my ojournal up the Mississippi and across the great lakes to the Hudson. Probably this influence most deeply pervading everything at that time [?] the United States both in phys- [?-acts] and in sentiment, was the Mexican war, then near its end. Fol- lowing a brilliant campaign (in which our troops had marched to the capital city, Mexico, and taken full possession), we were returning after our victory. From the situation of the country, the city of New Orleans had been our chan- nel and entrepot for every thing, going and returning. It had the best news and war correspondents; it had the most to say through its leading papers, the Picayune especially, and its voice was readiest listened to; from it "Chap- paral" had gone out, and his army and battle letters were copied everywhere, not only in the United States but in Europe. Then the social cast and re- sults; no one who has not seen the so- ciety of a city under similar circum- stances can understand what a strange vivacity and rattle were given through- out by such a situation. I remember the crowds of soldiers, the gay, young officers, going or coming, the receipt of important news, the many discussions, the returning wounded and so on. I remember very well seeing Gen. Taylor with his staff and other officers at the St. Charles Theatre one evening (after talking with them during the day). There was a short play on the stage, but the principal performance was from Dr. Colyer's troupe of "Model Artists," then in the full tide of their popularity. They gave many fine groups and solo shows. The house was crowded with uniforms and shoulder straps. Gen. T. himself, if I remember right, was almost the only officer in civilian clothes; he was a jovial, old, rather stout, plan man, with a wrinkled and dark yellow face, and, in ways and manners, the least of conven- tional ceremony or etiquette I ever saw; he laughed unrestrainedly at everything comical. He had a great personal resemblance to Fenimore Cooper, the novelist, of New York. I remember Gen. PIllow and quite a cluster of other militaires also present. One of my choice amusements during my stay in New Orleans was going down to the old French Market, espe- cially of a Sunay morning. The show was a varied and curious one; among the rest teh Indian and negro hucksters with their wares. For there were al- ways fine specimens of Indians, both men and women, yound and old. I re- member I nearly always on these occa- sions got a large cup of delicious cof- fee with a biscuit for my breakfast from the immense shining copper ket- tle of a great Creole mulatto woman ( believe she weighted 230 pounds). I never have had such coffee since. About nice drinks, anyhow, my recol- lection of the "cobblers" (with straw- berries and snow on top of th elarge tumblers), and also the exquisite wines and the perfect and mild French brandy help the regretful reminiscence of my New Orleans experiences of those days. And what splendid and roomy and leisurely barrooms! particularly the grand ones of the St. Charles and St. Louis. Bargains, appointments, business conferences, etc., were gen- erally held in these barrooms. I used to wander a midday hour or two now and then for amusement on the crowded and bustling levees on the banks of the river. The diagonally wedged-in boats, the stevedores, the piles of cotton and other merchandise, the carts, mules, negroes, etc., afforded never-ending studies and sights to me. I made acquaintances among the cap- tains, boatmen, or other characters, and often had long talks with tehm---some- times finding a real rough diamond among such chance encounters. Sun- days I sometimes went forenoons to the old Catholic Cathedral in the French quarter. I used to walk a goo deal in this arrondissement; but I have deeply regretted since that I did not cultivate, while I had such a good opportunity, the chance of better knowledge of French and Spanish Creole New Or- leans people. I have an idea that there is much and of importance about the Latin race contributions to American nationality in the South and Southwest that I have grown to think highly of and that will never be put on record). Let me say, for better detail, that through several months (1848) I worked on a new daily paper, the Crescent; my situation rather a pleasant one. My young brother Jeff was with me, and he not only grew very homesick, but the climate of the place, and especially the water, seriously disagreed with im. From this and other reasons (although I was quite happily fixed) I made no very long stay in the South. In due time we took passage northward for St. Louis in the Pride of the West steamer, which left her wharf just at dusk. My brother was unwell, and lay in his berth from the moment we left till the next morning; he seemed to me to be in a fever, and I felt alarmed. However, the next morning he was all right again, much to my relief. Our voyage up the Mississippi was after the same sort as the voyage, some months before, down it. The shores of this great river are very monotonous and dull---one continuous and rank flat, with the exception of a meagre stretch of bluff, about the neighborhood of Natchez, Memphis, etc. Fortunately we had good weather, and not a great crowd of passengers though the berths were all full. The Pride jogged along pretty well, and put us into St. Louis about noon Saturday. After looking around a little I secured passage on the steamer Prairie Bird, (to leave late in the afternoon,) bound up in the Illinois River to La Salle, where we were to take canal for Chicago. During the day I rambled with my brother over a large portion of the town, searched after a re- fectory, and, after much trouble, suc- ceeded in getting some dinner. Some of the streets of St. Louis are pleasant and cleanly, paved with limestone; but iu dry weather the dust is distressing. St. Louis, however, is a great place for trade and money-making; there were enough signs of that on every side. Our Prairie Bird started out at dark, and a couple of hours after there was quite a rain and blow, which made them haul in along shore and tie fast. We made but thirty miles the whole night. The boat was excessively crowd- ed with passengers, and had withal so much freight that we could hardly turn around. I slept on the floor, and the night was uncomfortable enough. The Illinois River is spotted with little vil- lages with big names, Marseilles, Naples, etc.; its banks are low, and the veteta- tion excessively rank. Peoria, some distance up, is a pleasant town; I went over the place; the country back is all rich land, for sale cheap. Three or four miles from P. land of the first qual- ity can be bought for $3 or $4 an acre. (I am transcribing from my notes writ- ten at the time.) Arriving at La Salle Tuesday morn- ing, we went on board a canal boat, had a detention by sticking on a mud bar, and then jogged along at a slow trot, some seventy of us, on a moderate-sized boat. (If the weather hadn't been rather cool, particularly at night, it would have been insufferable.) Illinois is the most splendid agricultural coun- try I ever saw; the land of surpassing richness; the place par excellence for farmers. We stopped at various points along the canal, some of them pretty villages. It was 10 o'clock A.M. when we got in Chicago, too late for the steamer; so we went to an excellent public house, the American Temperance, and I spent the time that day and till next morning, looking around Chicago. The city is a fine one, and has every appear- ance of thrift. At 9 the next forenoon we started on the Griffith (on board of which I am now inditing these memorands), up the blue waters of Lake Michigan. I was delighted with the appearance of the towns along Wisconsin. At Milwaukee I went on shore, and walked around the place. They say the country back is beautiful and rich. (It seems to me that if we should ever remove from Long Island, Wisconsin would be the proper place to come to.) The towns have a remarkable appearance of good living, without any penury or want. The country is so good naturally, and labor is in such demand. On Friday night we passed through Mackinaw Straits, north; weather cold, and wind stiff. Saturday we had rather a pleasant passage, although the fog was dense. We steamed along, how- ever, without interruption, and in the evening it cleared off beautifully. We ran down the St. Clair River and anchored there. Starting at daylight, we soon ran on the St. Clair flats, where we stuck for some four hours or more. The passengers, and much of the freight, were transferred to a steam- lighter, and we got off at length. From the captain of the lighter we learned that Gen. Taylor had been nom- inated by the Whig National Conven- tion, at Philadelphia. From present appearances, there is every likelihood of his election. Cass is too unpopular with a large number of the Democratic party. Taylor will most likely carry New York. (I am curious to see what course my Radical friends will adopt in New York.) It doesn't seem much like Sunday, to- day, on board the boat. The passengers are amusing themselves in various ways; or rather trying to amuse them- 2045Whitman! If such things must be confuted, I will say that the poet's aversion to "red flannel," which he never wears, is known to his friends; and the "blouse and tar- paulin" he probably reserves for his court-dress when Mr. Dana presents him to Queen Victoria. 2042 As for the letter Emerson once wrote him, it was in no just sense of the term, as you charge, a "private" letter; It was originally published in THE TRIBUNE, and at the importunate and protracted solicitation of its editor and If [?] private letter, and not proper for publication, [?] to be con[?] expression or opinion about a book, and was no more "private" nor reserved from print than scores of similar letters we see constantly in the French and English journals from Victor Hugo, Thiers, Quinet, Carlyle, Garibaldi, Swinburne, and other celebrities. The fuss that has been made about this document is preposterous; and the engraving of a sentence from it on the cover of the second edition of the book--what was it, at the utmost, but a logical step from the original publication by THE TRIBUNE, and a question, and a very small question, of taste simply? Furthermore the letter was not, as you allege, "impulsive," nor "extravagant," nor "written after the perusal of a few pages" of "Leaves of Grass." Mr. Emerson, every one knows, is eminently cool-headed, and not a man of impulse and ardor. What he wrote to Mr. Whitman, the letter itself shows, was written after he had possessed and read the book for some time; and it was his deep and deliberate judgement, which, no matter what may be said, he has never retracted. The further statement that Mr. Emerson was mortified to find that "innocent purchasers" had been beguiled by the publication of his indorsement of the volume into taking home "something impossible to be read aloud under the evening lamp," I find highly comical. I imagine Mr. Emerson's mortification at the discovery that some of these pretty lambs, tempted from their scrofulous French novel by his praise of Shakespeare into taking home to their families the volume of the mighty dramatist, had found their purchase was "something impossible ot be read aloud under the even- ing lamp!" Fancy pater familias, by that serene light, treating the astounded circle to a reading from "Othello" or "Troilus and Cressida!" Is the "Inferno," for all its iron music, and evening lamp composition? If Mr. Bayard Taylor has not gone of again, like Waring, please ask him, fresh from his fine translation, which so delights German scholars here, whether "Faust" was written to be read aloud under the Argand. You will excuse a plan, unlettered man who ventures to think Rabelais good and great beyond even the lofty praise of Coleridge--but under what evening lamp does the stereoscope show views of those sublime farce-mountains, whose ranges of laughter and grandeur overshadow Christendom? Our translation of the Bible is alrady expurgated, yet even now so little is it fit for reading aloud under the evening lamp that Dr. Noah Webster, acting on Archbishop Tillotson's suggestion, tried to introduce a new version. The idea! that the great books--the books of inestimable value--the seminal and cyclopaedic books that keep the form and pressure of the time and create new ages-- should be brought to the test of evening-lamp elocution! I never read, I never expect to read, a book greater, nobler, more useful, more illuminated, than Swedenborg's "Treatise on the Organs of Generation;" and it is to be condemned, I suppose, because not suited to the purpose of the private Murdochs of the center-table! As for "Leaves of Grass" the case happens to be quite different, and I assure you that I have heard it read aloud, very often, "under the evening lamp," and in very high and pure society too; as indeed it may well be, for it does not contain, from title page to colophon, one impure thought or indecent word--not one;-- the plan of the work having excluded those freedoms rightfully permitted nevertheless by art and need to all great geniuses, and practiced upon occasion by all, from Aeschylus and Aristophanes to Shakespeare and Moliere. And I bed to add that one of the utmost intelligent and appreciative tributes ever paid the book, which you imagine must be hidden away from darkness "from the eyes of woman and youth" is the article entitled "A Woman's Estimate of Walt Whitman," published in The Boston Radical, and written by an English lady, as spiritually noble in mind and soul as she is beautiful in person, and whose position in society equals the best in London. In fact, all you say in this connection implies the gravest misapprehension of the character of "Leaves of Grass," and the social rank and moral qualities of its readers. [*2042A*] Your are no less gravely mistaken when you think our literary people have been friendly to its author; and strange indeed is your fancy that "general indignations" and "American authors residing in Washington" replaced the position of which he was robbed by Mr. Secretary Harlan. In this affair of the clerkship, my friend Mr. Stedman has already printed his disclaimer. I will add that I never knew Mr. Stedman to be second in any good work when he could be first, but in this case he simply had no opportunity, and was not even in Washington. The following are the facts: When Mr. Harlan became Secretary of the Interior, he announced that the Department was to be run "on the principles of Christian civilization." These he proceeded to illustrate by sitting [?] on a copy of "Leaves of Grass," purloined for [?] been [?] some [?] by Mr [?]ton, then Assistant Attorney-General; and the one which replaced it in the Attorney-General's office, Mr. Whitman owed to the same constant kindness. With the exception noted by Mr. Stedman, no authors in Washington or elsewhere had anything to do with the matter. The expulsion was treated by the literary people with perfect indifference or hearty approval, being commonly regarded as a good joke; instead of "the general feeling of indignation" you fancy, there was a general feeling that Mr. Whitman was served just right; and you will see by the newspapers of the day that the incident only made him the target for mockery and abuse. Three months later, in a pamphlet, I did my best to secure for the infamy of Mr. Harlan's action lasting remembrance; and you will find that then, nearly every leading journal, reviewing me, expressly slurred over, extenuated or defended the deed of the Secretary. There are two or three exceptions, but my well-tilled scrap-book shows that "the general feeling of indignation" expressed in the literary and other journals of the time was not by any means lavished on Mr. Harlan, who indeed had every reason to feel very comfortable, until the rolling wave of European rebuke taught him and his supporters that there was literary honor and conscience outside of America. I will add here that the advance in prices since 1861 made the pay Mr. Whitman received, like all our salaries in this city, a small affair; but he always lived frugally, and hoarded his narrow means in the service of the neglected and forgotten, and the surplus you appear to blame him for not accumulating he spent for others, much of it in small sums constantly sent away to assist poor soldiers or their families in different parts of the country, and much in the hospitals which remained here long after the war, and in which to the very last he continued his pathetic and immortal walks of comfort and charity. In condemnation of the act of official persecution committed by Mr. Secretary Harlan there was one ringing article from the pen of Henry J. Raymond; a noble editorial in the Boston Commonwealth, written, I hope I may properly say, by Mr. Frank B. Sanborn, and valiant letters in three or four journals by Col. R. J. Hinton. The public prints teemed with comment, but this is all, or nearly all, we have to show to the credit of our literati in this connection. The affair, in fact, sufficiently indicates in outline the attitude held before and since by the literary class toward the poet. 2043 That class you assail Mr. Buchanan for censuring. I want to put in a word here for Mr. Buchanan. Since every hand just now appears to be raised against him, let me advance the fact, which I see stated in a newspaper, that before he published in the London News the letter you treat so contemptuously he sent Walt Whitman a draft for $100. While you are strenuously denouncing his opinions and deriding his metaphors, forgive me if I think this manly action, like the drums heard by Socrates, will prevent some of us from hearing what you say. Few will care for mere flaws in the rhetoric of a young poet, whose Scottish heart at the earliest rumor of a good man's distress, outleaped his words in such a deed. I infer from what you tell of his letter- which you don't print- that it was a plea for succor which showed undue literary fervor; and it appears that this was owing to the fact that he thought the man and poet whom he loved was starving. God grant we may never have to record of him a fault less proud than this, in which I recognize, as in the recent letter of John Swinton, the spirit that was stout in a good cause one immortal day behind the pikes and hurdles- the good red blood and gallant perfume of Bannockburn! For all the rest, I have only to say to him, in the words of Grant's armorial legend, "Stand fast, Craig Ellachich!" You think it mere "recklessness" in him to charge that the literary class of America persecute our poet. Whenever he wants facts to sustain that charge, American authors will owe it to the magnanimity of Walt Whitman if the disgrace they to-day are clumsily trying to hide does not come out with torrent fullness in names and dates and specifications. You allow, justly, "the fine humanity and integrity of Walt Whitman's nature;" but we can show Mr. Buchanan a Cambridge dinner party, uniting with the very distinguished American author, their host, to persuade an English gentleman not to present the letter of introduction he bore from an eminent English nobleman, by representing that Mr. Whitman, to whom it was addressed, was "nothing but a low New-York rowdy"- "a common street blackguard." When this leaf from the biography of Truthful James, which also forms a fine illustration of Chesterfield, has been sufficiently pondered, you can perhaps decide the difficult question whether it can properly be considered "persecution" to insolently meddle with one's private letter, to intercept one's foreign visitors, and to give a man of "fine humanity and integrity" such a character as the epithets and adjectives I have cites convey. Meanwhile, Mr. Buchanan, to whom I offer the above as an instance of the way the man has been treated, may like to see a specimen of the candid treatment given to the man's book; and I beg to show him this other distinguished American author, favorably, if feebly, reviewing "Leaves of Grass" in the North American, even linking it with Greek poetry in his panegyric; but this long ago, before the storm began; and after, several times, notably in a recent Harper, when the wind is nor'-nor'-west, and he no longer knows a hawk from a hern-shaw, reviving the fine Cambridge image of the "b'hey," and prating about the book being "cleaned"- he who had said, before he thought it popular to pander, that it contained "nothing grosser than some passages in Homer," and "not a word meant to attract readers by its grossness!" But perhaps he now thinks Homer also should be "cleaned." From a hundred similar instances of such Spanish-Inquisition candor and good-will, Mr. Buchanan may like to turn to a lower class in this centennial exposition; and we will show him for example, Littell's Living Age, in which he will never find any of the fine reviews of Walt Whitman which star the European journals, rakeable and interesting of course to eclectic minds, such as this [?] pretends to cater to; but [?] the poet harm, the dull insults [?] Bayne, the purblind devotee of [?] Buchanan wishes to go still lower into the [?] literary class to create that unjust odium around our poet, which they well know performs all the effects of persecution, we will dredge for him in the great sink of 20 years of newspaper scu[?]rility and outrage. What will he think, for example, of this gem, cut by an eminent hand, in the Boston Transcript of April 1- within a fortnight: "Like a maniac or a beast, he (Whitman) has proved himself incapable of observing the commonest respect to the modesty of human nature, to say nothing of conventional manners, and it has been simply impossible to have him about!" This is a single brilliant from a carcanet of such- an excerpt from an April Fool's-Day article, actually- ludicrous as it may seem- written to rebut Mr. Buchanan's charge, and to prove that to publicly blacken a man's character, wholesale and broadcast, is not to persecute him! It is uttered of a man whose "truth and whole-hearted benevolence" - whose "fine humanity and integrity" you certify; whose personal behavior and the conduct of whose life have been marked by an imperial simplicity, purity, and decorum never yet denied by the worst enemy of his works whose prejudice or hatred stopped at the boundary of a lie; whom Lincoln admired, whom Sumner revered, whom Longfellow, I remember, came to see in the hospitals, and Tennyson has invited to visit him in England! Copenhagen promulgates him; Paris lauds him; in Dublin University, Tyrrell, the editor of "Euripides," lectures on him; in the University of London Clifford makes for him the just and haughty claim that more than any poet he contains emotion- the feeling inspired by the sense of the Infiniverse; and meanwhile here he is proclaimed so vile, so lawless, that it is impossible to have him about! The grave has hardly closed over the first of modern German poets, Freiligrath, when the man he covered all over with ardent eulogy, hailing his works as the dayspring of a new and grander poetry, is publicly advertised in his own country as a maniac or a beast- and show me the literary man or the journal that takes up the brutal and infamous slander! Here his days have been succor, and abroad his works glory; but they lampoon him; they pasquinade him; they cabal against him; they write him down in the newspapers and magazines; they intrigue with foreign sub-sub-editors to belittle or to blackguard him; they have "obscure Americans" in London to vilify him; they have everywhere platoons of slanderous tongues pouring volleys into willing ears about him; they use all the subtle and unseen methods and machinery of the ring; they make him walk, as Tennyson says, with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies; they embarrass, embitter, and make life hard for him; they assert derelictions, whisper vices, and looks crimes; they sow for him disgust in the homes and insults in the streets; they make existence for him a cave of tragic shadow freaked with light that resembles gloom. Meanwhile, you think it "recklessness"- "simply preposterous" - to charge that he meets with "persecution" or "scorn." Accept my sincerest compliments- the trophies of Militiades will not let you sleep, and you wish to emulate Cervantes as the master of irony! God forbid that I should say one word to discourage that late repentance Mr. Rossetti rightly thinks the literary portion of Walt Whitman's countrymen owe him. But is not my fault if the last fortnight's journals reaching Mr. Buchanan, do not convince him, if he ever doubted it, of the entire tenability of his position, and show him our wits and scholars sustaining justifying in their own persons his fine image of the dying eagle, wearily flying, pursued by prosperous rooks and crows! [2043A*] I do not propose to discuss here "Leaves of Grass." My regard for the work antedates by several years my acquaintance with the author, and no one can justly ascribe it to the bias of personal friendship. It was morning in the world with me when I first read those mighty pages, and felt to my inmost soul the vast charm of their sea-like lines and superb imagination; and today, after many years have passed, I never open the book without receiving again that supreme impression of its wild delicacy and splendor. To all its wondrous recreation of the actual orb of things gross and delicate; its consummate art of selection and coordination; the grand felicity of its apt and agreeing rhythmus, like the copious and unequal pouring of the breakers on the sands; and the sublime and living beauty interrused with the whole- it appears that many are insensible; and it makes me tolerant when I see, for all his more conventional form, so many also insensible to the gorgeous and lofty sanctus of so great a poet, in prose and verse, as Victor Hugo; or when I muse on Voltaire and Marmontel, abler far than our critics, deriding or denouncing the barbaric yawp of Shakespeare. Be it so: we can well pardon blindness- or could, were it not for its resultant bitterness. If my voice could weigh in the debate I see rebeginning, I would ask for Walt Whitman nothing by the candid effort at a fair interpretation of his writings, which his admitted genius deserves. To-day, as ever, even in his age, his poverty, his infirmity, no friend of his could desire a worthier tribute than fair play and justice toward the sublime and honest book to which he has given his life. This he has never received. It is idle to say, with the editor of The London News, that "he is the martyr of a theory." Even if true, what excuse would that be for persecution? I fancy Alva saying of the corpses of the Netherlands, or Torquemada of those that sarieked away their lives in fire in Toledo, "They are the martyrs of a theory." What theory confers on those that differ the right to torture? But Walt Whitman has never had even the poor justice of being made to suffer for his real views. The theory of his work he himself has stated, in masterly English, in the preface to his first edition, in the letter to Emerson prefixed to his second, and in the work itself; and I for one am willing he should be tried upon it. It has never received the least consideration; but instead, there has been slander, furious and atrocious, and the perusal of his writings precisely in the spirit of a dirty boy who reads the Scriptures, to put lewd meanings upon texts in Deuteronomy and Kings. I might ask, in this day of costly testimonials, when rich givers abound, whether the man by whom New-York and our country in this age will one day be chiefly remembered, as England lives in the memory of Shakespeare, is to languish away his few remaining years in neglect and poverty at Camden? Rather let me ask, recalling the thrilling thought of St. Albans, whether it is only [?] that will open to him the gates of a good fame. Who more than most deserves it in his life[?] shame [?] prove [?] Vande[?]selves, for it seems rather dull work with most of them. We have a pretty full complement. [*2045A*] About 5 o'clock this afternoon I heard the cry of "a woman overboard." It proved to be a crazy lady, who had become so from the loss of her son a couple of weeks before. The small boat put off, and succeeded in picking her up, though she had been in the water 15 minutes. She was dead. Her husband was on board. They went off at the next stopping place. While she lay in the water she probably recovered her reason, as she tossed up her arms and lifted her face toward the boat. Sunday Morning, June 11. -- On a sand bar, in the St. Clair flats, where we have been stuck for a couple of hours. We passed down Lake Huron yesterday and last night, and between 4 and 5 o'clock, this morning we ran on the "flats," and have been vainly trying, with the aid of a steam tug and a lumbering lighter, to get clear again. The day is beautiful and the water clear and calm. Night before last we stopped at Mackinaw, (the island and town,) and I went up on the old fort, one of the oldest stations in the Northwest. We expect to get to Buffalo by to-morrow. The tug has fastened lines to us, but some have been snapped and others have no effect. We seem to be firmly imbedded in the sand. (With the exception of a larger boat and better accommodations, it amounts to about the same thing as a becalmment I underwent on the Montauk voyage, East Long Island, last summer,) Later.-- We are off again-- expect to reach Detroit before dinner. We did not stop at Detroit. We are now on Lake Erie, jogging along at a good round pace. A couple of hours since we were on the river above. Detroit seemed to me a pretty place and thrifty. I especially liked the looks of the Canadian shore opposite and of the little village of Windsor, and, indeed, all along the banks of the river. From the shrubbery and the neat appearance of some of the cottages, I think it must have been settled by the French. While I now write we can see a little distance ahead the scene of the battle between Perry's fleet and the British during the last war with England. The lake looks to me a fine sheet of water. We are having a beautiful day. June 12.--We stopped last evening at Cleveland, and though it was dark, I took the opportunity of rambling about the place; went up in the heart of the city and back to what appeared to be the courthouse. The streets are unusually wide, and the buildings appear to be substantial and comfortable. We went down through Main street and found, some distance along, several squares of ground very prettily planted with trees and looking attractive enough. Returned to the boat by way of the lighthouse on the hill. This morning we are making for Buffalo, being, I imagine, a little more than half across Lake Erie. The water is rougher than on Michigan or Huron. (On St. Clair it was smooth as glass.) The day is bright and dry, with a stiff head wind. We arrived in Buffalo on Monday evening; spent that night and a portion of next day going round the city exploring Then got in the cars and went to Niagra; went under the falls--saw the whirlpool and all the other sights. Tuesday night started for Albany traveled all night. From the timeday light afforded us a view of the country all seemed very rich and well cultivated. Every few miles were large towns or villages. Wednesday lake we arrived at Albany. Spent the evening in exploring. There was a political meeting (Hunker) at the capitol, but I passed it by. Next morning I started down the Hudson in the Alida; arrived safely in New York that evening. Walt Whitman. A [?] of New Orleans Life. [?] of Jan. 15, contains the following [?] of Towards the Gulf: a [?] of Louisiana." published by Harlow Brothers: If true art consists in the creation of things that leave an agreeable impression, then the last romance of New Orleans life--"Towards the Gulf"--is not a creation of true art. Pleasurable emotion is not one the sentiments that accompany the perusal of the book, which, nevertheless, leaves on the mind an impression of unmistakable power. The romance of "miscegenation" is in itself a disagreeable subject, rendered, donbly so in this book by the drift of circumstances and the unconcious realization of an act from which the main characters of the novel recoil with horror. We do not mean that there is anything which exactly recalls the story of Edinpus or the old German romance-- sung in interminable numbers by the [?] of Gregory; but the cen- [?] is the accomplishment of a marriage wherein jarring and discordant elements are commingled, wherein the fateful fires of race prejudice are kindled anew, and the commission of crime in the ancestor come to weigh with crashing force on the descendant. The plot, to be sure, is one of singular probability in the confusion of tongues and races which exists in Louisiana, and above all in New Orleans, but such a plot, unless treated with the highest skill, the rarest reserve, becomes positively odious, and lacerates the feelings of the reader without furnishing the harmonizing balm, the assuaging pity and compassion, the resolution of discords into harmonies which the self- indulgence of the modern reader has come to demand from the romance-writer almost as a right. [*2045B*] How pitiable that a scion of one of the lordly Creole families of Louisiana- John Morant- proud to excess of its purity of blood and the spotlessness of its ancestry, should be made to fall in love with and marry, unwittingly, an octoroon of wonderful beauty, who does not herself know that she is an octoroon! The horrible suspicion is breathed into Morant's ear just before the marriage takes place; but such is his passionate devotion and the chivalry of his nature that he will not believe it, and the marriage takes place, fraught from the beginning with gloom, horror and suspicion. The beautiful object of it is perfectly ignorant and innocent; she knows nothing of the stain in her 'scatcheon; and she lives on, from month to month, conscious that an impassible gulf is building itself between her and her devoted husband, without the possibility of an explanation on his part. Things at the last reach a crisis when, in John's absence, his wife finds out through old Celine (a negress) what it is that is gnawing at her husband's heart. She is stricken down by the revelation and dies by her own hand in an access of (self-abnegation and despair, leaving a little boy upon whom, by some hideous freak of heredity, the marks of his ancestry are frightfully visible. His father regards him with loathing, and is infinitely relieved when a fatal accident befalls the child. Out of such elements what fruition of joy can come? Is society in the South indeed drifting "Towards the Gulf" in such fashion? We cannot believe it. [*N Y World May 21. '76*] WALT WHITMAN. [*2046*] THE ATHLETIC BARD PARALYZED AND IN A ROCKING CHAIR. HIS EXPLANATION OF HIS VERSE AND HIS CONDITION. ]FROM THE SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT OF THE WORLD.] PHILADELPHIA, May 20.- So much has been printed lately about Walt Whitman that his ase assumes fresh interest. Robert Buchanan's gushing eulogium and Moncure D. Conway's acrid remarks upon it are only two of a dozen writings in which attempts are made to sift his merits as a man of genius and to describe his lamentable present condition of life. He lives in Camden, N. J., right across the Delaware from Philadelphia. There I visited him the other morning. He was alone in a pleasant parlor at the corner of West and Stevens streets. His seat was by the window. The floor around it, and one or two chairs near it, were strewn with scrawled half- sheets of note-paper, freshly opened letters and torn envelopes. A pocket ink-bottle and a pen lay on the marble-topped stand before him and a lead pencil on the window-sill at his elbow. He looked like a diseased Druid. The Walt Whitman, whose gray mane I had seen swishing in the wind against the cheeks of Washington car-drivers and Broadway omnibus-drivers in the old days when that rough companionship was most natural to him, was not wholly undistinguishable, but sadly broken. Long white hair, a long white beard and moustache, a florid face with spirited blue eyes, a gigantic frame withered with paralysis and encased in a shirt thrown open clear below his corded neck, a gray coat and trowsers, a black vest and shoes tied with leathern strings- this was the Walt Whitman who now excused himself from rising. On a distant sofa lay the broad-brimmed white hat which he had worn for nearly a quarter of a century. His tone and manner were perfectly cheerful, and went far to explain the affectionate interest he is said to inspire in most people who personally approach him. In answer to my inquiries he described some features of the vicinity in Camden, talked of the Centennial Exhibition, and was finally drown to speak of his own concerns by remark (glancing at the papers surrounding him) that he "seemed to be still at it." "O, yes," said he, "I hav'n't given up yet by any means. Just now though I have been wrestling with the letters of some friends. I got a letter this morning from Joachim Miller- did you ever see his handwriting?" "Once." "Well, it's more than I can make out. The letter lies down there on the floor somewhere. I can't read it." "You and Mr. Miller are friends, then?" "He comes over here to see me. He interests me; I like him. What some would call his egoism, or his vanities, attach me to him." Soon after there was an opportunity to ask how long ago Mr. Whitman himself began his studies as a bard, He answered slowly: "About twenty years ago. Yes; it was just about twenty years ago when I made the first splurge." "And you have written a good deal since be sides 'Leaves of Grass?'" "Yes. What I have written has accumulated until I suppose it must now amount to some seven or eight hundred pages." "Years ago I read 'Leaves of Grass;' and from what then appeared and has since been said on the subject of your work I suppose you to have had a plan." Whitman gazed earnestly for a moment, then turned his face tranquilly towards the window and rested his cheek upon his hand. "I'm almost tired," he said, in a tone of mingled patience and fortitude, "of talking of that. I set out with a design as thoroughly considered as an architect's plan for a cathedral. None of the poets had touched exactly what I wanted to do. It seemed to me that all had fallen short of getting deep into the appreciation and sympathies of the mass of mankind. Of course, I can in a brief conversation only suggest what I mean. Shakespeare's of war and passion, Milton's allegories, and the poetry of men like Tennyson and Longfellow- in fact, all the poetry I had ever read, all seemed to fall short of touching the people of the world in their very cores of understanding and desire. I set out to illustrate, without any flinching, actually humanity. I proposed to myself a series of compositions which should depict the physical, emotional, moral, intellectual and spiritual nature of a man." "That man being yourself?" "That man, for purposes of illustration, being myself. My work is extremely personal- rightly considered so- and on the fly-leaf of each volume I have put my photograph with my own hand." "Does you age or personal sketch appear?" "I shall be fifty-seven years old the last day of this month." "Excuse the interruption. You were explaining the plan of your work?" "You can see that I had first to deal with the physical, the corporeal, the amative business- that part of the nature which is developed so strongly between the ages of twenty-two and thirty-five. It is that part of my endeavor which caused most of the harshest criticism, and prevented candid examination of the ensuing stages of the design. Still I have gone on adding, building up, preserving as far as I am able to do so, in my original intention. I suppose I may fail, as many others have failed, in fully expressing myself. The difficulty is not in knowing what a man wants to say, but in formulating it, articulating it. Still, I shall continue to work ahead." "Nothing seems to have embittered you." "Not at all" (with a pleasant laugh.) "The fact is, I'm not at all disappointed. I'm rather surprised that otherwise that there should be so much interest just now, and controversy over what I have done. I didn't think anything of the kind would come so soon. Indeed my work is so different from the accepted forms of poetry that it could not and cannot be expected to make its way readily through the world. I letter which I received from an eminent man in England yesterday partly explains the matter, perhaps, though I can't say how far he is correct. He speaks of the critics and periodicals, and says that beyond them is a mass of active intellects in Great Britain- intelligent and healthy- minded people everywhere- who are unsatisfied with that kind of verse which restricts itself within the epical and lyrical barriers." "You have some zealous friends in England, judging from Mr. Buchanan's recent letter?" "Some excellent ones. Over there in the corner is a pile of my books, for which I have just received an order from England." "I notice Buchanan's letter has been bitterly assailed?" "If that letter could have been submitted to me before it was printed," said Whitman, "I should have done my best to stop the publication of it. Since it has appeared I can make no public objection it it. It expressed for me so much kindness and even reverence, and contained among other things such an amount of truth in regard to the action towards me of published and booksellers in the United States, that I cannot now properly criticise it." "The bookseller have not been friendly, then?" 2046[*A*]"Certainly not. I have printed my own works, and am now printing them in two volumes, for sale. I do it in a way that would excite the derision of the booksellers. The volumes consist of "Leaves of Grass" and "Two Rivulets," the latter consisting of verse and prose. I sell them from here." "Rapidly?" "No. Still many people take them at the rather extravagant price of $5 a volume." In subsequent conversation Mr. Whitman said in respect to his condition in life: "Well, you see, here I am. I am living here at my brother's house. I have lived here for the last several years because they had plenty of room. But there is as purely a business arrangement about it as yours at an inn. I pay, of course. I am very poor, yet not a beggar. A paralysis of the left side, which chiefly affects my left leg and thigh, hinders me. But my chief trouble of late has been a stomachic and liver affection. This bothers me greatly." Whatever else may be said, there is nothing about Walt Whitman that denotes him as a seeker for mere alms. Even his five dollars a volume is not too big a price for any admirer of his to pay for such a rare collection. J.B.B. THE HOUR, FRIDAY, MARCH 17 1876 2047 THE WALT. WHITMAN WRANGLE. A very discreditable controversy has arisen as to the merits, both personal and literary, of the American poet Walt. Whitman. There are those who deny that Mr. ROBERT BROWNING is a poet, and many persons who avow that they have read and enjoyed that wearisome and pedantic composition, "The Ring and the Book," are believed to be hypocrites. But as regards WHITMAN the heretics and unbelievers in his claims are innumerable. The only difficulty, in fact, has been to discover the faithful, to whom WALT. WHITMAN is what Mr. BUCHANAN would call a "a scripture." Half-a-dozen people look upon WHITMAN's poems as a canonical book, but alas! there are a horde of critical Giaours to whom his writings are simply unutterable and absolute nonsense. With him it is a case of "Aut Caesar, aut nullus." He is a deity to his roomful of admirers, and a grotesque intruder into Parnassus to his enemies. He has never been modestly and temperately appreciated. Yet it must not be forgotten that WHITMAN has at least three supporters. EMERSON has espoused his cause. The old sarcasm--we merely quote it because it is of course a sarcasm, and nothing more--used to be that WHITMAN had written all the favourable reviews of his own poems, save one, and that its author was RALPH WALDO EMERSON. On this side of the Atlantic WHITMAN is praised by WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI and by ROBERT BUCHANAN. Some of WHITMAN's poems have lately been published, and have been eulogised by one of our contemporaries. We propose to speak of them presently. Mr. BUCHANAN is known to the public as the most irritable member of the genus irritabile, a disappointed poet. He has merit, solid merit, but he has not been fortunate in obtaining what he thinks his due meed of public gratitude. He is a man with a grievance as much as is an Irish Home Ruler. When the French were defeated five years ago by the Germans, they used to lay the flattering unction to their souls that they had been trahis. In the same way Mr. Buchanan is and has been for many years firmly persuaded that there is a critical conspiracy against him. The writer of that charming poem, "Madonna's Child," is believed to entertain a similar depressing conviction. Hence Mr. BUCHANAN is a champion of all neglected bards, and of WALT. WHITMAN in particular. His letter to a contemporary about him was highly creditable to his generosity, and none can refuse to sympathise with his plea for a wayward, eccentric writer, who is now cursed with the triple misfortune of age, poverty, and paralysis. But then Mr. BUCHANAN need not have opened the floodgates of abuse against every author, critic, publisher, and printer in the United States. We cannot follow Mr. BUCHANAN into his crowd of metaphors. As a master of the art of manufacturing "tropes," he is a rival of the member for Stoke. So far as we profess to comprehend his flowery language, Mr. BUCHANAN thinks that the New England poets and men of letters are mere hedgerow sparrows, caged by the demoralising bars of respectability, and that, while EMERSON is a famed and demoralised kind of golden eagle, WALT. WHITMAN is a wild eagle of the freest and noblest order. After these flights of rhetoric, Mr. BUCHANAN deigns to descend to earth, and winds up with the kind but homely suggestion that a subscription should be raised in England for a large purchase of the volumes that contain a mystic poetry of the future, which in America succeeds even less as the poetry than do WAGNER'S pieces as the music of the future. Naturally Mr. BUCHANAN has given offence, and has annoyed a correspondent, who signs himself "An Obscure American." Mr. BUCHANAN'S now forgotten attack, under the pseudonym of "Maitland," on the so-called "Fleshly School" of poetry has been rather ill-naturedly revived, while Mr. W. M. ROSSETTI'S epistle is couched in somewhat embittered and inflammatory language. [*2047A*] It is difficult to answer the question whether WALT. WHITMAN is really a poet at all. No doubt he overrates himself, and his friends overrate him. But still the man has a touch of something uncommonly like poetic fire. He is possessed with the notion that this century-and who shall gainsay it?- is pregnant with a poetry of its own, a poetry the first utterances of which WALT. WHITMAN himself considers that he has been privileged with stammering lips to pronounce. The essence of the nineteenth century is material progress, and in the mine, the steam-engine, the telegraph, and the factory, WHITMAN discovers the raw element of a possible poetry. The gold may be enshrined in stubborn quartz, but still it is gold, and only awaits the skill of the intellectual chemist to extract it. VICTOR HUGO has show that "Le Progrès" is not an unpoetical subject, and WALT. WHITMAN has tried, not without a limited success, to make the same demonstration. He has made a courageous effort to idealise the facts and circumstances of an unpromising age. He is uncouth in his phraseology, and at times unintelligible. But that which we have to ask is not what is a man's mental nadir but what is his mental zenith. WALT. WHITMAN, at his worst, is very bad, but then at his best he is very good. A certain poem of his called "Eidolons," we declare frankly that we do not understand, neither do we expect to understand it on this side of eternity. Nevertheless, WALT WHITMAN has moments of bright inspiration. His ode to a locomotive is instinct with strange power, and suggestive of strange possibilities. Cylinders, brass rods, and pistons are not attractive objects, but in WHITMAN'S hands they have become almost poetical, and none but an American free-lance could have spoken periphrastically of a steam-engine as a "fierce-throated beauty." Like indications of an abnormal and undisciplined variety of talent may be seen in his short but effective poem on Democracy. WHITMAN lacks literary finish; he is wild at all times, and incoherent and mutinous at most times, but still he displays a vigorous indiosyncrasy. If he is not a JOSHUA of the nineteenth century poetry he is held by a few adorers to be at least in intention its MOSES. We are sorry that he is poor, and are afraid that he is miserable. All we ask for him is a fair hearing and fair criticism. But this we will say, that his claims might have been advocated in less offensive and acrimonious terms than they have been, and that, great as are the evils of poverty, it does not necessarily follow that an unsuccessful man is meritorious, or that an unsaleable book is better and more precious than one that sells. It has been said by a great doctor of the Church that the judgment of the world at large is unimpeachable, and this applies especially to literature. Primâfacie a work that gets dusty on a bookseller's shelves is a worthless one. But, still, there are exceptions, and we shall be glad if this unpleasant controversy about WALT. WHITMAN has this result, that a candid and friendly glance is paid to his writings, and that they are estimated on their merits, without fear or favour, and on nothing else. Very likely WHITMAN is no poet at all. But he may conceivably be a pioneer of an as yet non-existent type of poetry, and one which will interpret this epoch in an adequate manner to the future. All things have humble beginnings. The artless verses of a St. FRANCIS of Assissi preceded the full orbed music of a DANTE. We daresay that the primitive Greek actors, besmeared with wine-lees, were often tedious and childish, and yet in them and their modest calling lay the germs of Greek tragedy. It may be that the weird stanzas, scarcely prose and scarcely poetry, of WALT. WHITMAN are the embryo of a more ample, complete, and penetrating poetry than has yet been known in the world of letters. Finally, if obscurity be complained of, did any man living ever comprehend Mr. BROWNING'S "Sordello?" [*2047B*] JUNE 24, 1876.] description of the scene in the theatre President Lincoln was shot, he is away into real eloquence, as in his r] tives into real poetry, by the fervour imagination. The ethical purpose o] book-and it is needless to say that i] one-manifestly is to exemplify in a tragical passage of real life the possibi] carrying out that principle of sane an] sacrificing love of comrades for one a] which Whitman has so often celebrat] his most elevated and mystical utter] It is the old story of Achilles and Patr] transferred from windy Troy to the ba] the Potomac. It is conceivable that all Whitman's theories about vers] democracy and religion have been re] or have become effete, this one infl] may be still at work, a permanent be] of widened emotion to all future genera] [*2048B*] EDMUND W. GOS][*London Academy June 24*] 602 THE ACADEMY. [June 24, 1876. "fetishism" is the ruling faith. Next to it comes a belief in "dash," which is the West African synonym for "a present" or "douceur." Most of the chiefs and potentates took this out, when they could, in rum and spirits. The soi-disant Bishop of the Island of Anno Bom, a dependency of Fernando Po, where there are twenty-two professedly Roman Catholic churches and a cathedral for a population of 600, asked for a dash of candles! The King of the island and his interpreter preferred a dash of rum (p. 163). These and like notes of intercourse with the natives of the West African Coast give a value to the work before us, the only drawback to which consists in certain grammatical solecisms, such as (p. 65), "antelopes had been shot close to;" plausable for plausible (p. 90); and in two instances (p. 140 and p. 161) "flags" are spoken of as "flown," not when they have disappeared, as the participle is used in the saying "the bird is flown," but in the sense of "hoisted" or "unfurled." JAMES DAVIES. WALT WHITMAN'S NEW BOOK. Two Rivulets. By Walt Whitman. (Camden, 1876). The new volume by Walt Whitman will not be found to contain any very important illustrations of his theory of poetic composition, or any very original ethical statements, but it throws a good deal of light upon his personal character, and embraces much individual and incidental matter which is of very high interest. In the first place, we fancy that it will be difficult for any sincere critic, desirous of judging without prejudice on either side, to read the "Memoranda during the War" without acknowledging that the author is personally brave and self-sacrificing, and the preface to the whole without admitting that his aims are pure and his belief in his own mission genuine. It has become difficult to speak of Whitman without passion. His opponents expend upon him every term of obloquy, private and public, which their repertory contains; his more extreme admirers claim for him all the respect reserved, long after their deaths, for the founders of successful religions. Between theclass that calls Whitman an immoral charlatan bent on the corruption of youth, and the class that accounts him an inspired prophet, sent, among other iconoclastic missions, to abolish the practice of verse, there lies a great gulf. One would like to ask if it be not permitted that one should hold, provisionally, an intermediate position, and consider him a pure man of excellent intentions, to whom certain primitive truths with regard to human life have presented themselves with great vividness, and who has chosen to present them to us in semirhythmic, rhetorical language, which rises occasionally, in fervent moments, to a kind of inarticulate poetry, and falls at others into something very inchoate and formless. A wise admirer might even say that the book called Leaves of Grass was intended to give a section, as it were, of the ordinary daily life of a normal man, and therefore properly falls, as every life does, occasionally into [*2048*] shapeless passages of mere commonplace or worse, Poetry proper being always occupied with the rapid and ecstatic moments of life, whether in sorrow or pleasure. The folly of refusing to admit any beauty in Whitman's work seems obvious in the face of a dozen such passages as the famous "Burial Hymn," or the picturesque parts of the rhapsody called "Walt Whitman;" the danger of acknowledging him with too little reserve is best realised if one conceives the dread possibility of the arising of a school of imitators of his tuneless recitative. The book before us contains all the small miscellaneous writings of Whitman now collected for the first time. In verse (or recitative) we have the "Passage to India," which appeared in 1872, and "As a Strong Bird on Pinions Free," dating from the same year. The prose book called "Democratic Vistas" was printed in 1871, and all, therefore, which we have to consider here is the opening cluster of rhythmical pieces called "Two Rivulets," the "Centennial Songs," and the prose "Memoranda during the War," all which are now published for the first time. Of the brief but varied contents of the first of these, the most remarkable is a dramatic soliloquy put into the mouth of the dying Columbus, who, sick to death with grief and disappointment, but indomitable still, paces the shores of Jamaica and utters his piteous and majestic lament:— "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 with Thee." The division into lines is our own, the sequence of no words being altered, and it will be seen how naturally the slow march falls into scarcely irregular blank verse. This piece, which might take a place among the death songs of "A Passage to India" may be contrasted with "The Ox-Tamer," a very fine study of life in the West, where "In a far-away northern county, in the placid, pastoral region, Lives my farmer-friend, the theme of my recitative, a famous Tamer of Oxen." This is a worthy pendent to the description of the bridal of the Trapper, and the similar passages of marvellous picturesque directness to be found in Leaves of Grass. An address "To a Locomotive in Winter" is certainly the most vivid and imaginative view of an apparently hopeless subject yet achieved. "From that Sea of Time" presents a remarkably beautiful idea of the poet holding to his ear, one after another, the limpid and voiceless shells blown up on the shore of history, and hopelessly striving to gain from their murmurs some tidings of the sea of Time from whence they come, a thought kindred to the famous fancies of Wordsworth and of Landor. There is not much else in the section which possesses special merit, and there is one piece, called "Eidolons," which contains almost every vicious habit of style which Whitman has ever adopted, and which is quite enough, alone, to make the general objection to his writings plausible. Of the four "Centennial Songs," one, "The Song of the Redwood Tree," has something primitive or Vedic in the strength of imagination which links in it one great chorus the vast forces of nature, rain and snow and the wild winds, colossal trees, and huge mountains, and the serene skies above them all. This heroic chant is full of an arrogance appropriate to the occasion, and is far above any perfunctory trickle of complimentary song. The other three rhapsodies are hardly poetic, though vigorous and sympathetic. In the determination "to sing a song no poet yet has chanted," Whitman forces into his page an enumeration, of necessity fragmentary and whimsical, of the mechanical inventions and natural products of America. The result is decidedly grotesque. There is a very advanced Swedish poet of our day who has introduced "petroleum" into his verse, but that was in singing of the French Commune, and even he, and certainly every other bardic person, small or great, would shrink from inditing such a line as:— "Steam-power, the great express-lines, gas, petroleum." The catalogue of the limbs of the human body, which has been so much laughed at in Leaves of Grass, was better than this. To Whitman the world and all it contains is so ceaselessly exciting and delightful that he is willing to let any objects whatever pass before his imagination in a kind of ceaseless phantasmagoria. This, however, is not enough for a poet; he has a constructive and elective work to do. Shelley has described the poet's enjoyment in the mere lazy observation of the current facts of nature, but he has not neglected to observe that this is not in itself poetry, any more than food or even chyle is in itself blood for he has been careful to add:— "Out of these create he can Forms more real than living man." It would be too much to assert that no poet will ever arise great enough to create nurslings of immortality out of the observation of such matter as express-lines, gas petroleum, but certainly to recapitulate with emphasis the names of these things is not to produce poetry. Space is not left us to chracterise fu[?] the "Memoranda during the War." They are notes, fragments, ejaculations of the most unaffected kind, and do more than any other writing to endear Whitman to us. There [??] something inexpressibly tender and ma[?] in the tone of these notes; and something exceedingly stirring in the description of alternate excitement and depression of war-time: the pleasure in the presence around him of so many brave and handsome men, all fired with the same patriotic ex[??]tation; the sadness of watching the dea[???] of so many of these in the prime of life. In [??] true spirit of his own passionate "Calamu[?]" he wandered from tent to tent, minister[???] to the dying, comforting the wounded, b[???]ing everywhere about him that fr[??]ment of fragrant reed, that fascination [?] personal character, which he values highly, and which he exercises over m[??] who know him only through his bo[??] From a literary point of view, his p[??] style may be justly criticised as heavy [?] disjointed, but the intrinsic interes[?] the story easily carries the reader abo[?]. In some cases, as in the marvellously pow[?]June 24, 1876.] THE ACADEMY. 601 Roberts, has tried his hand at the task—a task difficult enough for a Frenchman, but which must be still more so for an Englishman. By attempting to give the literal meaning, verse for verse—we might almost say, word for word—he has increased the difficulty. Taking all this into consideration, it is bestowing great praise on Mr. Roberts's attempt to say that it is not a complete failure, and that he has been very successful with some of the verses. Unfortunately there are lines which are unintelligible: such, for instance, as— "La pudique rougeur ne lui fut point honteuse." Others are not French, as-- "On blâme comme si dégouté de la vie." But he has done what is still less pardonable in an Englishman than making faults of French, he has misconstrued the sense. "Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood" does not mean "Quelque jeune Hampden peut-être est couché la Qui ne souffrit jamais aux jeux la tyrannie." A little tyrant is not a child-tyrant, but a tyrant on a small scale. M. J. Chénier has translated it much better:— "Là peut-être sommeille un Hampden de village Qui brava le tyran de son humble héritage." A wrong meaning generally is conveyed by Mr. Roberts having, almost throughout, substituted mythological names for allegorical abstractions. "Beauty" and "wealth" become "Plutus" and "Cythère" ; "some [?]ute inglorious Milton" is "quelque Milton [?]connu d'Uranie" ; "knowledge," "la [Muse]." Again we find the expression "l'encens d'Hélicon," and "la Cynthie" for [the] moon. These are real misinterpretations in a piece [that] is quite modern, of which rustic simplicity should be the chief characteristic. [?] is giving it a false colouring to change [the] philosophical note into mythology. To feel the difference between a translation by a genuine poet and one which is [merely] a creditable and toilsome labor, we [?]ould read M. J. Chénier's translation of [?]ray's Elegy. It is not so literal, but it produces on the French reader an impression [similiar] to, though no doubt less powerful [than], that produced by the original. Mr. [Roberts] will say that he wished to to keep [more] closely to the original; but then why [?] make a prose translation? G. Monod. [?] West coast of Africa, as seen from the Deck of a Man-of-War. By the late Commander Hugh Dyer, R.N., H.M.S. [?]orch. (London: J. Griffin & Co., Cockspur Street, 1876.) Commander Dyer's friends have done well [?] publishing his lively record of a year's [experience] of the "West Coast of Africa," [?] much as, though seemingly not written [?] the press, nor pretending to distinct [?]ary merit, it may serve as some [memorial] of an intelligent British seaman, [?]of a zeal for freedom and civilisation, [?] animated by an enlarged spirit of [?]ty. Interested in his subject from the [?]hat the region commemorated was one [which], twenty years before, he had [?]n elder brother "gallantly leading his boat's crew" in an attack on Lagos, Captain Dyer was peculiarly fitted to gather and impart information respecting its present condition and prospects; and in the little volume now put forth we have his survey—lasting through a full year—of the entire western seaboard of Africa from the Cape of Good Hope on the south to Cape Spartel on the north, in a little ship of 428 tons, which called at most places of importance en route, enabling its commander to gain such knowledge of the country and natives as might correct or modify the preconceptions of imperfect information. Making Cape Coast a starting-point, he seems to have divided the year between the Bights division of the West African station (which stretches from Cape Palmas to Cape Lopez, and is so called from the Bights of Benim and Biafra) and the southern division, which lies between Cape Lopez and the twentieth parallel of latitude, and which he regards as healthier and better in climate, harbours and markets, than the other division; although his general verdict on the whole coast is that the climate is less bad, and the soil more productive of food, cotton, oil, timber, and minerals than has been supposed ; while there are good harbours and large rivers with natural high [?] to the interior. One great part of [his] work during the year was to assist or [arbitrate] at "palavers" of the innumerable petty kings, whose function seems to be to go to war with one another and obstruct these roads; and it is hard to conceive any service at the same time more ludicrous and yet more fraught with grave results than those which Captain Dyer and Commodore Commerel performed for King George Pepple, in arranging a peace between the men of Bonny and the men of Apobo (pp. 151–159), because this peace, brought about by a convention which enabled one king to air his patent-leather boots and tall "Lincoln and Bennett," and a rival potentate to figure in a naval uniform with a military officer's cocked hat, meant really and truly a revival of trade and commerce. A similar service was rendered to the King of Axim, whose quarrels and differences with Blay, the chief of the Ancobras, and Amaku, King of Apollonia, the Commander of the Torch, and a certain Dr. Johnstone, who was consul, coroner, and acting-commandant at Axim, were able to settle in the August of 1871. This, too, involved visits to each of the capitals of the rival chiefs, with, in most cases, a review of troops, very like Bombastes' ragged regiment, on the beach, in which warriors with slaves ornamented with fingers and jaw-bones, and carrying skulls smeared with blood, played a considerable part. Of Amaku, King of Apollonia, we are told that at the palaver he was surmounted by the large red umbrella with which we are familiar since the Ashantee war; but, on the whole, the impression left by Captain Dyer's account is, that these petty kings are well-affected—through fear, or a shrewd notion who are the most useful friends—to the English nation ; and this is no small security for the accomplishment of our raison d'être in West Africa, the abolition of slavery, and the opening-out of trade in the interior. As regards the first of these there is yet a good deal to be done if what Captain Dyer says be correct, that a court presided over by a British judge on the Gold Coast "can direct a reluctant slave to return and be obedient to his master" (p. 43); if, too, as is strongly suspected at Palmas, a chief market for Kroomen and labourers, mail steamers are found to have a hundred or more natives on board who are neither on the ship's muster-roll nor on the passenger-list. One of our author's errands was to enquire into this coast-labour traffic ; and, though it was hard to prove a direct case of kidnapping, he held that there was grave suspicion of an opening of the slave-trade in a new form, and in his report recommended that the matter should be watched. There is much that is amusing in the accounts here given of society and its members at Cape Coast, at the recently Dutch settlement of Elmina, at Lagos, and elsewhere. One learns in the account of Elmina that a "Dutch widow" there may mean a native woman married according to native forms to a settler from Holland, who enjoys legal rights during the white man's residence in the country, and whose children are legitimate. The chief hotel at Elmina is kept by the widow of not one but several Dutch ex-governors, all of whom had returned to Holland. We believe that the same marital arrangement exists also at Mecca; though it would seem to have been devised rather in the interest of convenience than of morality. At Lagos the favourite local blockade of antagonistic kings, termed "stopping the roads," had so drained the colonial chest that when Mr. Larcom took for a time the duty of Colonial Treasurer he told Captain Dyer that he found but 3s. 6d. in it, and at his resignation, a fortnight later, it contained 14s. 9d. (see p. 55). Among the most interesting accounts of excursions to the interior (for the notice of the Gaboon river disappoints us inasmuch as, though this is the gorilla country, no French officer had ever seen one, and the American missionary, Mr. Bushnell, in a residence of twenty-five years, only two young ones, dead) is the ascent of the Congo river (pp. 145– 50), the channel of which was very wide and deep, up to Punta de Lenha, thirty miles above Banana. Hence the party got by a steam-pinnace through a rapid stream to M'Boma, the channel widening between the two places to twelve miles in breadth, and the country beyond the fine river scenery becoming rich and picturesque. M'Boma used to be the great slave depôt of the South Coast, as Lagos was of the Bights, where it was not uncommon formerly to keep from 10,000 to 30,000 slaves in stock. Happily it has still a good market for palm oil, and hopes soon the be the great mart for ivory. Forty miles above M'Boma were the Falls of Yellala, which our explorers failed to reach owing to the violence of the current and the failure of coals. Civilisation hereabouts is at a low ebb, if we may judge by the sight our author's eyes beheld of five men chained together with iron rings round their necks as a punishment for pilfering. This is bad enough, but in another town (Kabenda) a man was roasted alive for lending the key of his chief's cash-box to his sons to help themselves to his doubloons (p. 142). As is natural among the unenlightened races,CAMDEN DAILY POST. PUBLISHED EVERY AFTERNOON AT 108 & 110 FEDERAL ST., H. L. BONSALL & CO. H. L. Bonsall, W. E. Schoch, Bart L. Bonsall, C. H. Whitecar. Advertisements for insertion in "The Post should be received at [this] office not later than 11 o'clock, A. M. *2049* SATURDAY, NOVEMER 18, 1876 [Contributed to the Camden Daily Post] WALT WHITMAN. A Symposium in a Sick Room. The Greeks ridiculed the idea of death being an evil because it was universal. There is consolation in the idea. Keen and cultured De Quincey wrote an essay on "murder [as] one of the fine arts." But it would have puzzled even so great an arbitor elegantiarum in letters as De Quincey to have written anything pleasant about pleuro-pneumonia. Yet there are pleasant things about it—even though 'twixt the sharp twinges of pain one is made to feel the truth of Bailey's couplet —"All religion can inspire is—hope; and all morality can teach is—bear." There are pleasant things about the sick room albeit one thinks most about the chances of Tilden's being counted out, and of the prospects of leaving the ills we have and flying to those we know not of. But I repeat there are loci ameniores (better places) even in pleuro-pneumonia, for, no sickness, no symposium! And the good women—God bless them—who were the first at the sepulchre and the last at the cross—how kind they are at the door of illness. And how gracious to the taste and smell of the man habituated to the doctor's cachet de pain—[the thin wafers hiding calomel]—is the fragrant red-rose and the tube-rose or the pure white lily. Ah! there is more religion in the women than in the stronger sex, and it is well that it is so, for a woman without religion is a flower without perfume—a rainbow without color —a flame without heat. But I started to tell about Walt Whitman and a symposium. Walt had been to see me and left me asleep and dreaming all night after, of leaves and grass—of Tennyson—and of walking in the Garden with imaginary Mauds. He promised me a bottle of a rare "old dominion Burgundy." I made a certified case to the doctor by way of certiorari, and got his oral opinion that I might drink some light wine once a day till the returns in South Carolina were heard by the Supreme Court! The following card in the dear familiar hand-writing of Walt was brought to me "Dear S. :—It seems the bottle I left for you was broken by accident. Here is another. Don't mind the tart puckery taste. It is the taste of the grape-skin in the Virginia wine. Hope you are getting all right. Love to you and the household. W. W." There was good cheer in this greeting tied on a card on to the neck of the bottle by the "Good Grey Poet," but the cheer was better when Walt himself was announced. It is the personality—the personelle, do you call it?—of the poet that is to me more attractive than his writings, and my earliest recollections of poetry, [I was 17], contain a memory of the lines about the "Wild barbaric yawp." Walt was in one of his brightest and happiest moods, and we cussed and discussed things from honest John Dickens, the dramatist [whose poetry about the "fly sipping treacle" is dear to Judge Horner] down to Tilden, the statesman, Bonsall, the editor, with a few eulogistic sentences about Jacques Strop and Robert Macaire! I never saw my grey haired friend in such royal spirits. Nor do I allude to the generous libation of Jake Lawrence's apple toddy, which having kept for twenty years in Lawrence's cellar, [the original apple jack I mean], Walt thought a sin that it should not begin to gladden a poet's stomach. If I was a painter I would fain paint the grim [to those who don't know him] but much-loving bard as he appeared with a short collar, open and fine beard, frosted poll, but not with age, till I could compare him only to my ideal of Achilles and Ulysses [not "our" Ulysses?] combined. We touched our glasses—mine the generous Falernian brought by the poet himself —and his the twenty year old apple of Lawrence—to Lord Brolingbroke's toast "Here's to friendship and liberty." Walt talked of Emerson and Tennyson, and of the host of English friends whose words of praise, warm and earnest, have kindled up the great poet's American admirers, till Longfellow himself began to appreciate the poet of American manhood, whose large utterances will live in the coming ages. Walt agreed with me in thinking "Ulysses" the greatest of Tennyson's short poems. And with his sonorous well-modulated voice the "Good Gray" repeated half of this poem from memory, describing how the wanderer returned to Penelope but weaned of home joys, called those who had stood by him and with a "frolic welcome took the thunder and the sun shine," opposing "free hearts and free foreheads"—called them to sail again with him "beyond the baths of all the western stars"—and when ebb came in the tide of poetry, the rippling gossip about society and manners, and about Johnson, the poet went on, and I could but think of what a crowning glory it was to a poet's life—like the life of Walt Whitman—that in an acquaintance of many years I had never heard Walt speak ill of a human being. Noblesse oblige might be for him a fitting crest, or a better and more fitting one kind hearts are more than coronets. For we can truly say of W. W., "His wit, as lambent as bright, ne'er carried away a heart stain on its blade." The light still burned and the old dominion, redolent and fragrant of the Virginia grape, stood on the sideboard when Walt gathered his gray [shawl] about him. I was loth to let him go, and detained him long enough to tell him that the New York Herald said on him on the 15th instant, "that if he had devoted himself to prose, Walt Whitman would have been America's greatest historian." Walt, himself, seemed loth to go but he said that all symposiums must end. "When the soul speaks, it speaks no longer," says Schiller, and these pleasant things which, like forgotten music, "can never be written." But who can ever tell me that there are not pleasant places in a sick-room—and even pleuro-pneumonia has its joys. But at ten the good, gray poet with a hearty "God bless you," disappeared slowly down stairs, humming a pleasant song, and at quarter past ten the mino voice on the symposium was hushed— asleep. J. M. S. Camden, Nov. 18, 1876. [*20494*] Whitman (Walt), b. at West Hills, Long Island, N. Y., May 31, 1819; educated in the public schools of Brooklyn and New York City; learned the printing and subsequently the carpenter's trade; taught school; made extended pedestrian tours through the U. S. and Canada 1847–48; edited for brief periods newspapers at New Orleans and at Huntington, L. I.; was a volunteer nurse in the hospitals at Washington and in Virginia 1862–65; held clerkships in the government offices at Washington most of the time from 1865 to 1874; since which time, being partially disabled by paralysis, he has resided at Camden, N. J. Author of Leaves of Grass (1855), Drum-Taps (1865), and Two Rivulets (1873). [*2050*] Johnson's Cyclopes, [?] 2050[?] [*Boston [?] Herald [?] [?] 24*] It is pleasing to turn aside a moment from the ordinary and usual topics of journalism to note the changed tone of the press toward America's unique genius, Walt Whitman. The good, gray poet, now nearly three-score years of age, stricken with paralysis and in a condition of comparative poverty, is living, we believe, at Camden, N. J. His paralysis, which he so cheerfully endures, is the result of his intensely arduous labors in the great hospitals of war days. This man gave his best years and a great share of his vitality to the service of the stricken heroes of the civil conflict. Some of the best war poems of our literature resulted from the inspiration of those days. To Whitman, who has always loved his "America" so fiercely, so grandly and so proudly, must be inexpressibly precious the recent tributes to his poetic genius. Himself the manliest of men, his printed lines have found true appreciation among young men. Very recently Mr. John Burroughs, the naturalist-essayist, took occasion in an essay entitled "The Flight of the Eagle" to pay a magnificent tribute to Whitman's genius, and the leading journals of the country have responded in hearty accord to Mr. Burroughs' masterly eulogium. Thus we have evidence that the country begins "to absorb the poet as affectionately as the poet has absorbed the country." So soon, much sooner perhaps than even Emerson anticipated, has tardy justice come to one of America's most loving and loyal sons. [*2051 F. B. Guernsey.*] [*Camden, N. J.*] DAILY POST. THURSDAY, March 29, 1877. WALT WHITMAN. He visits New York after 5 years absence High tone Society now takes him to its bosom—Yet he rides again atop of the Broadway Omnibuses and Fraternizes with drivers and boatmen—He has a New Book under way—He is better in health. After an absence and sickness of nearly five years, says a New York paper of March 28th, 1877, the "old gray poet" has returned temporarily to his Mast-hemm'd Manhattan, and, in moderation, has been all the past month visiting, riding, receiving, and jaunting in and about the city, and, in good-natured response to pressure, has even appeared two or three times in brief, off hand public speeches. Mr. Whitman, at present near his fifty-ninth birth day, is better in health and appearance than at any time since his paralytic attack at Washington in 1873. Passing through many grave experiences since that period, he still remains tall and stout as ever, with the same florid face, with his great masses of hair and beard whiter than ever. Costumed in his usual entire suit of English gray, with loose sack coat and trousers, and broad shirt collar open at the neck and guiltless of tie, he has, through the month, been the recipient and centre of social gatherings, parlors, club meetings, lunches, dinners, and even dress receptions— all which he has taken with steady good nature, coolness, and moderation. As he sat on the platform at the Liberal Club on Friday night last he looked like an old Quaker, especially as, in response to the suggestion of the President, and sitting near a window draught, he unhesitatingly put on his old white broadbrim, and wore it the whole evening. In answer to pressing requests, however, toward the close, he rose to let the audience see him more fully, and doffing his hat, smilingly said, in response to calls for a speech, that he "must decline to take any other part than listener, as he knew nothing of the subject under debate, (blue glass,) and would not add to the general stock of misinformation." At the full dress reception of the Portfolio and Palette Clubs on the Fifth ave., a few nights previous, as he slowly crossed the room to withdraw, he was saluted by a markedly peculiar murmur of applause, from a crowded audience of the most cultured and elegant society of New York, including most of the artists of the city. It was a singularly spontaneous and caressing testimonial, joined in heartily by the ladies, and the old man's cheeks, as he hobbled along through the kindly applause and smiles, showed a deep flush of gratified feeling. [*2052*]Mr. Whitman has been the guest, most of the month, of Mr. and Mrs. Johnston of 113 east Tenth street, whose parlors have been thrown open on two special occasions for informal public receptions in compliment to him, which were crowded, happy, and brilliant to the highest degree. The poet has also been up to the Hudson on a five days' visit to his friend John Burroughs at Esopus. George W. Waters, the artist, has taken advantage of his visit here to paint a good head of him, which will be on view at the forthcoming Academy Exhibition. (A sad interpolation remains to be made here - the fearfully sudden and unexpected death of his beloved hostess Mrs. Amelia F. Johnston, which occurred just at the close of the visit. Rare and beautiful in every relation, as wife, mother and friend, the memory of this sainted lady will always be deeply cherished.) Nearly every fair day, up to Saturday, Mr. Whitman has explored the city and [*2052A*] DAILY POST. THURSDAY, AUGUST 2, 1877. "The Old Gray" under a tree. Walt Whitman, the poet, is considerably improved in health, and, we understand, (says the Washington Evening Star,) contemplates making a visit soon to this city. His familiar form on the Avenue once more, would be a welcome sight to his many friends. Of late the poet has been sojourning quietly at a farm house with his friends Mr. and Mrs. George Stafford, at Timber Creek, a pleasant stream, near Kirkwood, N. J., some twelve miles from Philadelphia. One of his English admirers, Herbert Gilchrist, a young artist, who is visiting this country, having found the poet in his retreat, has been staying some weeks in the same neighborhood, and visiting the poet daily, in order to paint his portrait. The painting, which is now well advanced, and promises to be an excellent likeness, represents Mr. Whitman sitting in an easy chair under a favorite tree. It is hoped that the painting will be retained in this country. [*2053*] *The London "Times" (June, 1878,) in an article on the death of William Cullen Bryant, takes for its main theme, this excessive imitativeness of American poets, and their entire want of special nativity, adding, "Unless Walt Whitman is to be reckoned among the poets, American verse, from its earliest to its latest stages, seems an exotic, with an exuberance of gorgeous blossom, but no principle of reproduction." The same English journal (March 25, 1882), in an editorial on the death of Longfellow, continues in a similar strain, "We are not forgetting his 'Hiawatha' when we say that he might have written his best poems with as much local fitness in our own Cambridge as in its namesake across the Atlantic;" and sulkily adds: "We are told that in Walt Whitman's rough, barbaric, untuned lines, full of questionable morality, and unfettered by rhyme, is the nucleus of the literature of the future. That may be so, and the Leaves of Grass may prove, as is predicted, the foundation of a real American literature, which will mirror the peculiarities of the life of that continent, and which will attempt to present no false ideal. Yet we shall be surprised if the new school, with its dead set towards ugliness and its morbid turn for the bad sides of nature, will draw people wholly away from the stainless pages, rich in garnered wealth, fancy and allusions, and the sunny pictures, which are to be found in the book of the poet who has just died." [*2054*] [*London Times March 31, '82*] [*Death of Longfellow*] MARCH 31, 1882. THE TIMES WEEKLY EDITION THE DEATH OF MR. LONGFELLOW. MR. LONGFELLOW, the poet, died on Friday. This news will be read with deep regret wherever the English tongue is spoken. The death of no English man of letters could excite more genuine sorrow than that of the much-loved author of "Evangeline," and he will not be more sincerely lamented in America than here. Indeed if we are to take special note of the multitude of his readers and the unfailing sympathy accorded in this country to all that came from his pen, MR. LONGFELLOW was almost as much an English as an American poet. For nearly fifty years he has been before the world as an author. Some of his adored prose writings were published as long ago as 1835; some of his best known poems go back to 1839 - the date of his "Voices of the Night." During the long period which has since elapsed he has been read as sedulously in England as in his own country. Each of his principal poems met with unstinted applause here; and we do not know whether more editions of his elegant "Evangeline" or "The Song of Hiawatha" have circulated in the United States than here. Englishmen may put in a still more important claim with respect to this sweet singer. Though he took many of his subjects from his own land, though at times he was ambitions to be thought a national poet, his literary characteristics make him one with a great family of English poets. In his elegant diction, refined so as to lack nerve, in his ample knowledge of the treasure of our literature, leading occasionally to too pronounced imitativeness, in his avowed sympathy with WORDSWORTH and KEATS and SHELLEY, and his many points of contact with TENNYSON, he is identified with the literature of this country. He was, in fact, the foremost of a brilliant group which, while lending lustre to their native land, reflected honour upon the poets of this country which had been their teacher. Those who hereafter may read the poems of BRYANT, WHITTIER, MRS. SIGOURNEY, or LONGFELLOW will find it difficult to understand that they wrote just while the development of the United States was most striking; and that they penned their finished lines in the vicinity of mighty rivers, pathless forests, and untrodden prairies. In the well turned classic allusions and in the ample knowledge of European models, they will find much for admiration. They will miss - and the omission may affect the durability of the reputation of this school - native savour and that true local colour which atone for much uncouthness and lack of skill in verification. MR. LONGFELLOW was early removed from the special influences of American life. As a young man he lived abroad. He came under the resistless spell of GOETHE. While in Europe he fell under the influences which fostered our own poet, TENNYSON. He was an ardent student and a persevering, if not very successful, translator of DANTE. He took German, English, or Italian themes, according to his wide reading or his experience as a traveller suggested. We are not forgetting his "Hiawatha" when we say that he might have written his best poems with as much local fitness in our own Cambridge as in its namesake across the Atlantic. And so it has come that he has been read by English girls and undergraduates, by susceptible persons of all ranks here, as much as in his own country, and his death will be regarded as a calamity common to be English-speaking nations. There will be no disposition at this season to speak a harsh word of a poet who had, in a remarkable degree, the gift of inspiring his readers with affection for him; and, in fact, there are few points at which criticism can find an opening. His dulcet verses, or some specimens of them - for posterity is pitilessly fastidious to all but a few singers - are likely long to be attractive to the multitude of those who do not care to analyse their pleasures to minutely or to sift the ethical [*2055*] beauty of this moral or sentiments from the elements of imagination. Some of his touching and simple ballads are pretty sure to be familiar to generations yet to come. The purity of his thoughts, his affinity to all that is noblest in human nature, and his unfailing command of refined harmonious language may continue to draw to him readers who will not be deterred by the judgment of critics that he was not a great poet. That judgment has long been pronounced, and it is pretty sure not to be reversed. MR. LONGFELLOW was far from being mediocre or commonplace. But he himself well knew that he was not in the first rank. He had in the youth of both countries ardent admirers; and there was a time when even their elders used to say that he was to prove another TENNYSON. But poetry at its best is a fabric spun only by the strongest brains. Force of will and strength of mind - qualities akin to the gifts of the successful general or the great mathematician - go to the making of such a poem as the world cares to read. The elegance and refinement and ingenuity of "The Golden Legend" are far away from mediocrity and are worth more than the affectation of vigour and profuse inspiration in more pretentious writers. But the author of that poem does not belong to the same strong, swift-souled race as BYRON or SHELLEY, and has little affinity to it. To many it will seem that the death of LONGFELLOW is the close of an era of American literature. HAWTHORNE, THOREAU, MARGARET FULLER --to mention a once famous group of prose writers--have passed away: and BRYANT and most of LONGFELLOW'S poetic rivals have followed them to the grave. The Boston transcendental school is extinct as a literary power; and so, too, we may say, is the school of elegant and refined poets whose literary sympathies were with our Lake poets. Who will rule in their place? The comic literature of America is abundant and has its peculiar touch. But a nation needs more than mirth; it longs for other nutriment than the jest books, which are now turned out with mechanical swiftness and monotony. It will seek for teachers as well as jesters. But the search will be difficult. One cannot readily point to worthy successors to the brilliant Boston group. We are told that in WALT WHITMAN'S rough, barbaric, untoned lines full of questionable morality and unfettered by rhyme, is the nucleus of the literature of the future. That may be so, and "The Leaves of Grass" may prove, as is predicted, the foundation of a real American literature, which will mirror the peculiarities of the life of that continent, and which will attempt to present no false ideal. Yet we shall be surprised if the new school, with its dead-set towards ugliness, and its morbid turn for the bad sides of nature, will draw people wholly away from the stainless pages, rich in garnered wealth of fancy and allusions, and the sunny pictures, which are to be found in the books of the poet who has just died. MR. LONGFELLOW has left no enemies behind him; he had many warm friends and admirers; and his reputation as a poet may survive much longer than those who vaunt the "poetry of realism" care to admit. [*2055A*][*218 Aug*] The London Times of March 25, 1882, contained a long editorial on Longfellow, from which the following is extracted : — "Those who hereafter may read the poems of Bryant, Whittier, Mrs. Sigourney, or Longfellow, will find it difficult to understand that they wrote just while the development of the United States was most striking; and that they penned their finished lines in the vicinity of mighty rivers, pathless forests, and untrodden prairies. In the well-turned classic allusions, and in the ample knowledge of European models, they will find much for admiration. They will miss — and the omission may affect the durability of the reputation of this school — native savor and that true local color which atone for much uncouthness and lack of skill in versification ....We are not forgetting his Hiawatha, when we say that he might have written his best poems with as much local fitness in our own Cambridge as in its namesake across the Atlantic.... "There will be no disposition at this season to speak a harsh word of a poet who had in a remarkable degree the gift of inspiring his readers with affection for him; and, in fact, there are few points at which criticism can find an opening. His dulcet verses, or some specimens of them, — for posterity is pitilessly fastidious to all but a few singers, — are likely long to be attractive to the multitude of those who do not care to analyze their pleasures too minutely, or to sift the ethical beauty of their moral or sentiments from the elements of imagination. Some of his touching and simple ballads are pretty sure to be familiar to generations yet to come. The purity of his thoughts, his affinity to all that is noblest in human nature, and his unfailing command of refined, harmonious language, may continue to draw to him readers who will not be deterred by the judgment of critics that he was not a great poet. He himself well knew that he was not in the first rank. He had in the youth of both countries ardent admirers; and there was a time when men their elders used to say that he was to prove another Tennyson. But poetry at its best is a fabric spun only by the strongest brains. Force of will and strength of mind—qualities akin to the gifts of the successful general or the great mathematician—go to the making of a poem which the world cares to read. The elegance and refinement and ingenuity of The Golden Legend are far away from mediocrity, and are worth more than the affectation of vigor and profuse inspiration in more pretentious writers. But the author of that poem does not belong to the same strong, swift-souled race as Byron or Shel- ley, and has little affinity to it. ..........[*2056*] "One cannot readily point to worthy successors to the brilliant Boston group. Mr. Longfellow has left no enemies behind him; he had many warm friends and admirers; and his reputation as a poet may survive much longer than those who vaunt the 'poetry of realism' care to admit." Richard Henry Stoddard has said of the poet: "He has more than held his own against all English-writing poets, and in no walk of poetry so positively as that of telling a story. In an age of story-tellers, he stands at their head....Mr. Longfellow's method of telling a story will compare favorably with any of the recognized masters of English narrative verse from Chaucer down." [*2056A*] [*Moncure D. Conway, South Place Chapel, Finsbury London*] [*Lecture on W. W. at Belfast by Rev. A. C. Street*] THE NORTHERN WHIG, BELFAST, TUESDAY, JANUARY 7, 1873. ROSEMARY STREET MUTUAL IMPROVEMENT ASSOCIATION. INAUGURAL LECTURE BY THE REV. J. C. STREET. YESTERDAY evening, a public lecture on "The Life and Writings of Walt Whitman," was delivered in the new schools in Rosemary Street, by the Rev. James C. Street. Mr. Robert M'Calmont, F.C.S., presided; and there was a very large attendance of ladies and gentlemen. THE CHAIRMAN, in introducing the lecturer, said that he thought it was due to some of those present to let them know that the society which they were about to inaugurate that night, by public lecture, was started a few months ago, on a requisition to Mr. Street, signed by thirty or forty young men, requesting him to call them together for the purpose of having it established. They had been meeting regularly from week to week for some time past, and at present there were between seventy and eighty subscribing members. He was happy to be able to say that there were a few ladies amongst them who were also subscribing members of the society which was now about to be launched. He had been at the starting of one or two societies which were now extinct; but he must add that they had not hitherto the same accommodation nor organisation which they now had. That room would be open every night, from seven to ten o'clock. There would be a variety of daily papers, ten or a dozen weekly papers, and about the same number of monthly magazines, on the tables; and he might add that if the young ladies were anxious to have the room for a portion of the day they would get it at whatever hour was found to suit their convenience. The ladies had the same right to come there in the evenings as the gentlemen, but if they wished a separate hour in the middle of the day it would readily be granted. (Hear, hear.) He now begged to call upon Mr. Street to proceed with his lecture. (Applause.) Mr. STREET, who was received with applause, said that literature is so great a blessing to humanity that every new candidate for honours in its wide and fruitful field ought to command respectful attention, and his rightful place be assigned to him, that he may contribute his proper share to the enlightenment, the culture, and the happiness of mankind. At first it is always difficult to assign a man his true position, and it is the more difficult in proportion as the man developes new characteristics and powers, and departs from the beaten track of his predecessors and contemporaries. The newness of his thought, or the peculiarity of his method, or the uniqueness of his illustrations, startle us out of the every-day round of our thinking, and produce a temporary aberration of judgement, and it is not until we are somewhat accustomed to his individuality that we can do justice to his merits or comprehend his position. He remembered when "Walt Whitman's Poems" were first put into his hands by an enthusiastic admirer of his (Whitman) in the North of England, and he was asked at the same time to look at his photograph just received from America, and at the same moment assured that no such poetic genius had appeared in the modern world, that he felt a strong and sudden disinclination to pay any heed whatever to the new claimant, and a half determination that he would neither read the book nor look upon the picture, nor trouble himself to find out the merits of this literary prodigy. He had so many times before been beset by enthusiastic partisans of new and heaven-inspired poets, and so many of them had proved to be so utterly worthless, that he did not care to go over the same experience again. But when his resolution was half made, his friend said, "Perhaps you think it not worth your while to read the book; but let me tell you that Emerson--from whom I have a letter here--said of one of his poems that it was 'the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed.'" "What Emerson?" he (the lecturer) asked; and when he was told "Ralph Waldo Emerson," he felt his interest immediately excited, and he determined to read attentively what he had so conspicuously praised. First, however, he gazed upon the portrait. It was the portrait of a huge, shaggy Samson of a man, with enormous brainpower and tremendous muscles, who impressed you at once with a sense of force and ruggedness, but with eyes so clear and piercing that he seemed always to be gazing through the outward into the very heart of men and things. He felt instantly the force of an expression used by President Lincoln, when he first saw Walt Whitman--"Well, he looks like a man." Without turning over a page of his writings, he began to see how easily such a thoroughly marked individuality could stamp its impression upon others, and rouse a perfect passion of enthusiastic admiration. But when he turned to the book itself--the American edition--and read on for a page or two, he felt nothing but bewilderment, astonishment, and repugnance. The [*2057*]style was new and ungainly, the thought was commonplace and vulgar, and, despite the indications now and then of a felicitousness in the choice of phrases, the language seemed rude and repulsive. Besides, he came upon some startling indecencies of expression, and suggestions of physical coarseness, that he was tempted to throw the volume into the fire, and conclude that his friend was an idiot, and that Emerson had lost his mental cunning. But again, and yet again, he took up the volume to read, and gradually he became fascinated, and began to see a masculine vigour, a new and weird but most majestic rhythm, a fine poetic sensibility and pathos, a comprehensive grasp of thought, and a boldness of conception and treatment, which compelled him resolutely to examine the merits of the book, and qualify himself to form some judgment respecting this remarkable man. In this way did Walt Whitman first enter his (Mr. Street's) mental world, and it was long before he felt capable of estimating the position which he should, and hereafter would, occupy in the history of literature, and in commonwealth of poetry. Feeling that his individuality was too marked to be passed over, he had ventured to offer a few remarks about him to the members of the literary society. He could not do better than quote from Rossette the paragraph --"Walt Whitman (we infer that he was, in fact, baptised Walter, like his father, but he always uses the name Walt) was born at the farm-village of West Hills, Long Island, in the State of New York, and about thirty miles distant from the capital, on the 31st day of May, 1819. His father's family, English by origin, had already been settled in this locality for five generations. His mother, named Louisa Van Velsor, was of Dutch extraction, and came from Cold Spring County, about three miles from West Hills. A fine-looking old lady she has been termed for her advanced age. A large family ensued from the marriage. The father was a farmer, and afterwards a carpenter and builder. Both parents are adhered in religion to the great Quaker iconoclast Elias Hicks. Walt was schooled at Brooklyn, a suburb of New York, and began life at the age of thirteen, working as a printer, later on as a country teacher, and then as a miscellaneous press writer in New York. From 1837 to 1818 he had, as Mr. Burroughs too promiscuously expressed it, 'sounded all experiences of life, with all their passions, pleasures, and abandonments.' In 1849 he began travelling, and became at New Orleans a newspaper editor, and at Brooklyn two years afterwards a printer. He next followed his father's business of carpenter and builder. In 1862, after breaking out of the great civil war, in which his enthusiastic Unionism, and also his antislavery feelings, attached him inseparably, though not rancorously, to the good cause of the North, he undertook the nursing of the sick and wounded in the field, writing also a correspondence in the New York Times. I am informed that it was through Emerson's intervention that he obtained the sanction of President Lincoln for this purpose of charity, with authority to draw the ordinary arm rations, Whitman stipulating at the same time that he would not receive any remuneration for his services. The first immediate occasion of his going down to camp was on behalf of his brother, Lieut.-Colonel George W. Whitman, of the 51st New York Veterans, who had been struck in the face by a piece of shell at Fredericksburg. From the Spring of 1863, this nursing, both in the field, and more especially in the hospital at Washington, became his one daily and nightly occupation, and the strongest testimony is borne to his measureless self-devotion and kindliness in the work, and to the unbounded fascination, a kind of magnetic attraction and ascendency, which he exercised over the patients, often with the happiest sanatory results. Northerners or Southerners, the belligerents received the same tending from him. It is said that by the end of the war he had personally ministered to upwards of 100,000 sick and wounded. In a Washington hospital he caught, in the Summer of 1864, the first illness he had ever known, caused by poison absorbed into the system in attending some of the worst cases of gangrene. It disabled him for six months. He returned to the hospitals towards the beginning of 1865, and obtained also a clerkship in the Department of the Interior. It should be added that, though he never actually joined the army as a combatant, he made a point of putting down his name on the enrolment list for the draft, to take his chance, as it might happen, for serving the country in arms. The reward for his devotedness came at the end of 1865, in the form of dismissal from his clerkship by the Minister, Mr. Harlan, who learned that Whitman was author of 'The Leaves of Grass'--a book whose outspokenness (or as the official chief considered it, immorality) raised a holy horror in the ministerial breast. The poet, however, soon obtained another modest, but creditable, post in the office of the Attorney-General. He still visits the hospitals on Sundays, and often on other days as well.' Having referred to what Whitman claimed to be, and the terms in which he spoke of himself, the lecturer set forward in order his various writings. He then went on to say that no complete edition of Whitman's poems has yet appeared in England. He is yet to a great extent unknown, and he (the lecturer) thought that the form of his writings, and the blemishes of his expression, will for a long time keep him in the background. Perhaps he may never be popular, though Rossette says, "His voice will one day be potential or magisterial wherever the English language is spoken--that is to say, in the four corners of the earth; and in his own American hemisphere, the uttermost Avatars of democracy will confess him not more their announcer than their inspirer." The English edition, published in 1868 by Hotten, is a selection, edited and arranged by Wm. Michael Rossette, who had distributed the poems of Whitman differently from the poet himself, and otherwise taken liberties which are to be regretted. He has divided the poems into five sections, which he has named as follows:--1. Chants Democratic (poems of democracy). 2. Drum Taps (war songs). 3. Walt Whitman (personal poems). 4. Leaves of Grass (unclassifed poems). 5. Songs of Parting (missives). Having, amid loud applause, read selections from each of these sections, Mr. Street said that the readers of Whitman, so far as their written estimates of him go, may be described as of two classes--first, the enthusiastic and almost indiscriminating admirers; and second, those who pour ridicule upon his pages and laugh at his pretensions as a poet. Swinburne, Rossette, W. B. Scott, Conway, Burroughs, Buchanan, Emerson, and W. J. Fox may be cited among others, whose praises of Whitman have been generous and lofty. Others, again, speak of him as "intolerably rough and floundering," and of his style as "utterly formless," while they are stern and severe in condemning his indelicacy and coarseness. Other estimates strangely contrast with these. Rossette says, "I read the book ('Leaves of Grass') eagerly, and perceived that its substantiality and power were still ahead of any eulogium with which it might have been commended to me [Scott had commended it]; and, in fact, ahead of most attempts that could be made at verbal definition of them." He also says, "I believe that Whitman is one of the huge, as yet mainly unrecognised, forces of our time; privileged to evoke, in a country hitherto still asking for its poet, a fresh, athletic, and American poetry, and predestined to be traced up by generation after generation of believing, ardent--let us hope not servile--disciples. Thorean said of him, "He is Democracy;" and also, "After all, he suggests something a little more than human." Mr. Street concluded as follows:--But, "formless" as Whitman is, according to any rules of poetic wit, commonly received, a perusal of his writings convinces the most fastidious that he is pursuing a distinct plan of his own, and evolving from his wide-grasping thought an artistic whole which satisfies some lofty standard which he has set up for himself. I cannot judge him, therefore, by the ordinary rules of art, or I should say he is no artist, and yet to form such a conclusion would be to raise more difficulties than it would settle. He is so evidently a genuine poet--has such deep and mighty sympathies-- seems to be able to enter so thoroughly into the heart of men and things--grasps so instantaneously the beautiful and immortal part of all phenomena--groups, systematises, and blends what to common and prosaic natures appears utterly irreconcilable, that the feeling is left that you must find out his own standard, and judge him by that. He has such astonishing insight and outsight of things. The elemental principle he grasps, and the eternal form and purpose seem equally revealed to him. Most comprehensive-sighted of men, he sees everything. Nothing eludes him. Power, passion, principle, thought, work, and motive; the labour, the ingenuity, the commerce of all kinds; art, history, law, conflict, evolution, order--all seem to be open to him. But over and above all there is such a deep, wonderful, human sympathy and love. Neither weakness, suffering, nor sin shuts his compassionate soul. Evil and vice seem to him as much parts of the Divine plan of growth as goodness and virtue, and he not only accepts the facts, but treats them as Divine. He makes every reader feel very near to him. You almost feel the strong grasp of the man's hand, or the touch of the comrade's kiss. Out of his astonishing humanness, this reverence for facts, comes much of that treatment of the relations of the sexes, the endearments of love and conjugal affection, which have called down upon him so much condemnation. I can easily see that to Whitman "all things are pure," and that no lewd thought or passion moved in him when he wrote of things the very reading of which will stir up those thoughts and passions in less noble natures. From this point of view these things are defensible. But I venture to think, nevertheless, that for general readers--men and women, young men and maidens, --they are hurtful, and to be regretted. To cut them out of his poems is to emasculate the poet and make him other than he is; but to leave them in is to endanger the tender and delicate susceptibilities of his readers. There is, I think, a needless baldness and coarseness of illustration at times which might have been avoided, and the avoidance of which would in no sense have injured his aim, or marred the completeness of his work. Whitman has lived too entirely in his own world to be able to comprehend the force of that canon of manners and morals which has such a tremendous power over the great world of man, and hence he has sinner unwittingly, but seriously. But, with all this, Whitman makes you believe in man and in woman --in the grand and measureless possibilities which lie before our race, and you rise from his books feeling stirred up and exalted, believing more fully in yourself and in all men. He is thus true to the function of the loftiest poet. He inspires, quickens, and ennobles. One writer has charged him with "bluster," and "inordinate self-assertion." I think there is reason for the charge. The "Leaves of Grass" are Walt Whitman from beginning to end. He never ceases to set himself forward. He claims a unique position, and certainly he vindicates it by his tremendous originality. You cannot bind him by any law or custom. He bursts through all. His enormous strength cannot be held in bounds. Like a tremendous river he sweeps over the banks of criticism, and bursts fearlessly forth in every direction. Hence his self- assertion. You feel the man, and this man in every line. He demonstrates himself even to the end. I find it difficult to define Whitman's true position. He is, I think, not only a poet, but a great one; and though I do not think him by any means the greatest, I look upon him as a typical poet of the age, and especially of America. Large, limitless-- comprehensive in aim and spirit--bounding with life and power--open-eyed to see everything--open-hearted to receive every man--tender, compassionate, sympathetic, he lays his hand upon the present as a master and a teacher. He, like the land to which he belongs, turns no one aside --receives, incorporates, and assimilates all; and prophesies of the nobler breeds of men who shall spring from the loins of this wondrous present. He seems not only to be en rapport with the boundless activities of to-day, but to move consciously and majestically towards to-morrow. His free, brave spirit never quails. Just as he is said to look with his great blue eyes, as the eagle does, right into the eye of the midday blazing sun, so does he fearlessly gaze into the depths of men and things, and come back to the world laden with an argosy of great thoughts and conceptions, which startle us by their grandeur. Longfellow, Bryant, Whittier, Poe, Peabody, and Holmes, though all Americans, may just as fittingly be put into the rank of English poets. They are not so knit up with the life and essential spirit of America as to be an absolute and essential part of her. But Whitman is at once the product and the prophecy of America. You do not see how he could have been born elsewhere--how such a nature could, in any other state or civilsation, have grown up. He is America embodied and idealised. In a lesser degree this may be said of Bret Harte, but in a higher degree of Walt Whitman. He will be a greater power in the future than to-day. His pages, better than those of modern historian and annalist, reflect the life of the age. Painter or historian of centuries hence would learn more from Whitman of the life of to-day than from the pages of any of her other writers. He writes with an iron pen. His lines are deep and clear. He makes the life of to-day a reality for all days. His very formlessness, his agglutination of words, his cumulative facts, his rugged, powerful style, all fit him for leaving a deep impress on the future. Grander poets will arise--with more sweetness and artistic excellence, and with not less power; but I do not think Whitman will ever be driven forth from the lofty station he has assumed and kept as the Poet of America and Democracy. (Applause.) On the motion of Mr. HERBERT DARBISHIRE, seconded by Mr. JOHN R. NEILL, a vote of thanks was most enthusiastically passed to the lecturer. Mr. STREET, in acknowledging the vote, took occasion to refer to the object for which they were assembled, and to express the hope that the society had before it a happy and prosperous career. (Applause.) The CHAIRMAN announced that the rooms would be open on this (Tuesday) and the following evenings, from seven to ten o'clock. The proceedings then terminated. The Manor colliery, near Sheffield, is flooded. [*x 2057A x8]Sunday Morning, November 13, 1881 [*Boston Globe*] "LEAVES OF GRASS." Kosmos, or Walt Whitman's Song of the Universe. A perfect Poem-Picture of American Democracy. The Hermit Thoreau's Opinion of Our Good Gray Poet. [*2058*] Should any one ask the question, "Will Walt Whitman, the poet, and 'Leaves of Grass' (the work on which his fame will rest, whatever he may write in the future), now that after upward of twenty-five years of patient waiting both have got within the sacred circle controlled by a syndicate of literary men and publishers, become rapidly popular?" The answer must be, "No." The book is too radical, too free, too independent and far too true to make its conquest of a popular verdict an easy matter. To the question, "Will the book and the man ever be popular?" the answer, in the opinion of the present writer, must be a qualified "Yes." Walt Whitman is, par excellence, the poet and priest of democracy—the American type of democracy; the democracy based upon individuality, though not, perhaps, the ultimate democracy; the democracy based upon I, the individual; not the democracy based upon we, the sum of all individuals. In "Leaves of Grass" Walt Whitman has personified—or rather, idealized—the genius of American democracy. The work cannot be separated into any number of complete and independent poems; it is one complete and all-embracing poem, the subject of which is the Kosmos. It is the Kosmos as viewed from the standpoint of the American idea of democracy—the sovereignty of each and every individual. Walt Whitman is an individualist of the most pronounced type. So, while admitting that his grand psalms of the Universe will attain a gradual and limited popularity, attaining such popularity only as fast as they become popularly understood, their influence may diminish should ever the American idea of democracy—individual sovereignty—lose its hold on popular opinion. Walt Whitman has written the drama—it may be almost called the history—of the first century of American civilization. It may be doubted whether it will fit the second century as well; indeed, how could that be expected, for it is possible to write The Drama of the Future [?] All that we can know of the future we have learned from the past and from what we can understand of the tendencies of this present time; but what poet or seer, let him be ever so wise, can forecast the future development—even for one brief century—of the wonderful, creative, multitudinous human mind? But let us take a survey of the book. Let us see how far it fits the foregoing remarks. First, as to the title—why "Leaves of Grass?" The author himself evidently loves the title, as is evinced by the ornamentation not only of the latest but of previous editions. His very signature on the cover reminds one of grass—and it has a meaning. Let us read the meaning in his own words: "A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green-stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I gave them the same, I receive the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier." "Leaves of Grass," then, are not only symbolical of all the great alchemy of nature, of all creation, all production, all evolution, but symbolical of immortality as well—the permanence and indestructability of all things. And so the title is good. What of the man? What of Walt Whitman himself? This brings us to one of the most interesting features of the book; indeed, the key to its entire plan—its marked personality. It was not by mere whim or caprice—much less by accident of any publisher's device—that the unique [?] of the author (the only illustration of the volume) is not in the usual place, fronting the title-page, but incorporated in the verse, and accompanied by his account of his own relation to his work and to the reader. This is introduced as a Song of Myself, and is carried through fifty-two stanzas, occupying fifty pages. The portrait, copied from a daguerrotype taken in 1856, when he was a working carpenter, as well as an unhatched poet —represents him in the loose shirt, open at the neck and lapping over the waist of the unbraced pants of an ordinary mechanic; his flannel undershirt revealed; a broad-brimmed, soft felt hat carelessly thrown back sideways on his head, which is inclined in the same way. The expression on his face shows energy, self-reliance and is full of thought; his attitude is firm, careless and unstudied—the left hand in his pocket and the right resting with bent elbows on his hip, which is thrown up to support it. There he stands—Walt Whitman—a man and a workingman; every line, every shadow, "every atom of blood" and fibre of him. But let him speak for himself: "I celebrate myself, and sing 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. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death. * * * * * * * * 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 for yourself. I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end, But I do not talk of the beginning of the end. There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection that there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world. Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase, always sex, Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life. To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so. Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams, Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical, I and this mystery here we stand. * * * * * * * * Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionaring, idle, unitary Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. * * * * * * * * Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, Not words, music or rhyme I want, nor custom or lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice. * * * * * * * * 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 creator is love, And limitless are leaves stiff and 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." "A child said, What is the grass?" etc., then comes in, and for several pages the reader's attention is chained to A Beautiful Panorama of Human Life in all its various aspects, civilized and uncivilized; to all possible life experiences of men, women and children; life animate and inanimate (if the term is admissible), all of which, and all actions and feelings and promptings and meanings, are embodied in himself, and felt and expressed by himself—Walt Whitman. We can only cull a specimen or two here and there as we turn over the charming pages: "The little one sleeps in its cradle, I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand. 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. What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is ME. Me coming in for my chances, spending for vast returns, Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me, Not asking the sky to come down to my good will, Scattering it freely for ever. * * * * * * * * And such as it is to be of these more or less I am, And of these one and all I weave the song of myself. I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise, Regardless of others, ever regardful of others, Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man, Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff that is fine, One of the nation of many nations, the smallest the same and the largest the same, * * * * * * * * A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest, A novice beginning yet experient of myriads of seasons, Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion, A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailer, Quaker, Prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest. I resist anything better than my own diversity, Breathe the air but leave plenty after me, And am not stuck up, and am in my place. * * * * * * * * These are really the thoughts of all men, in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing, If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing. This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is, This the common air that bathes the globe." Now comes a passage remarkable for its nobility: "With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums. I play not marches for accepted victors only. I play marches for conquer'd and slain persons. Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won. I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them. Vivas to those who have fail'd! And to those whose war vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! * * * * * * * * In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. * * * * * * * * I exist as I am, that is enough, If no other in the world be aware I sit content, And if each and all be aware I sit content. * * * * * * * * My foot-hold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite, I laugh at what you call dissolution, And I know the amplitude of time. * * * * * * * * I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. * * * * * * * * I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also. What blurt is this about virtue and about vice? Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent. * * * * * * * * Endless unfolding of words of ages! And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse. A word of the faith that never balks, Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely. * * * * * * * * I accept reality and dare not question it, Materialism first and last imbuing. Now for the key-note of Our Author's Cosmopolitan Personality: "Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding. No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women, or apart from them, No more modest than immodest. Unscrew the locks from the doors! Unscrew the doors themselves from the jambs! Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me. * * * * * * * * I speak the password primeval, I give the sign of Democracy. By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms." Here is a suggestive word to impatient revolutionists: "All truths wait in all things, They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it, They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon." Listen to this, ye who see no poetry in "Leaves of Grass;" "I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars, And a pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree-toad is a chef d'oeuvre for the highest, And a running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, And the cow crunching with depressed head surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. * * * * * * * * I think I could turn and live with the animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd, I stand and look at them long and long. * * * * * * * * Not one kneels to another, not to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth, So they show their relations to me." Turning over page after page we reach the following: "It is time to explain myself—let us stand up. What is known I strip away, I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown. The dock indicates the moment—but what does eternity indicate? We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them. Births have brought us richness and variety, And other births will bring us richness and variety. I do not call one greater and one smaller, That which fills its period and place is equal to any. * * * * * * * * I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I am encloser of things to be * * * * * * * * 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, * * * * * * * * All forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and delight us, Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul." Here we have in epitome the true story of The Creation of Man. And what comprehensive grasp of infinity, what far-reaching perception, is revealed in these lines! "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 vim of the farther systems. Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, Outward and outward and forever 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 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 space 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." Here are a few lines that show the fulness of his fellowship with all others: "I tramp a perpetual journey. (come listen all!)THE SUNDAY CHRONICLE NCISCO, CAL. SUNDAY, MAY 19, 1878. [*2-589A*] 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, 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 the public road. Not I, not anyone else can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself. * * * * * * * * If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip, And in due time you shall repay the same service to me. * * * * * * * * You are also asking me questions, and I hear you, I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself. Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams, Now I wash the gum from your eyes, You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life. Long have you timidly waded, holding a plank by the shore, Now I will you to be a bold swimmer, To jump off into the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair. * * * * * * * * I do not say these things for a dollar, or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat, (It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of you. Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen'd.) * * * * * * * * 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 hand-saw second my words. No shutter'd room or school can commune with me, But roughs and little children better than they. * * * * * * * * There is that in me—I do not know what it is—but I know it is in me. * * * * * * * * I do not know it—it is without name—it is a word unsaid, It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol. * * * * * * * * 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." Will what has been written and quoted serve to give some idea of the spirit and meaning of this wonderful poem of humanity and the universe? It was been written with the hope that it may, Boston Daily Globe: that with no expectation of doing anything like justice to the vast range of observation, profundity and minuteness of analysis, philosophic and religious interpretation, intimate knowledge and deep and earnest sympathy, not only with all humanity but with all nature, that Place this Book in the Front Rank of the highest branches of American literature. One might as well try to epitomize Shakespeare in a newspaper article as to try to do so with "Leaves of Grass." That all who read this imperfect review will be induced thereby to read and study the volume for themselves, and become greater, nobler and happier by the experience, is the earnest hope of the writer. [*2058B*] The following appreciative opinion of, that other faithful student of nature—Thoreau—written in 1856, and therefore at a time when even a man of his independence could hardly be expected to be very outspoken in the face of social prudery, will be read with interest, and will be a fitting appendix to what has been already said: "He (Whitman) is apparently the greatest democrat the world has seen; a remarkably strong, though coarse nature, of a sweet disposition, and much prized by his friends. Though peculiar and rough in his exterior, his skin, all over, red, he is essentially a gentleman. I am still in some quandary about him—feel that he is essentially strange to me, at any rate; but am surprised by the sight of him. He is very broad, but not fine. . . . . He has long been an editor and writer for the newspapers—was editor for the N. O. Crescent once. . . . . Since I have seen him, I am not disturbed by any brag or egotism in his book. He is a great fellow. There are two or three pieces in the book which are disagreeable, at least, simply sensual. He does not celebrate love at all. It is as if the beasts spoke. I think men have not been ashamed of themselves without reason. No doubt there have always been dens where such deeds were unblushingly recited, and it is no merit to compete with such. But even on this side he has spoken more truth than any modern I know. [What of Shakespeare, Byron, and Burns?] I have found his poem exhilarating, encouraging. [Emerson uses a similar expression.] As for its sensuality —and it may be less so than it seems—I do not so much wish those parts unwritten, as that men were so pure that they could read them without harm, that is without understanding them (?) . . . . On the whole it is to me very brave and American. We ought to rejoice greatly in him. He occasionally suggests something a little more than human. How people must shudder as they read him? He is awfully good. To be sure I sometimes feel a little imposed on. By his heartiness and broad generalities he puts me into a literal frame of mind prepared to see wonders—as it were sets me upon a hill or in the midst of a plain—stirs me well up and then—throws in a thousand of brick. Though rude and sometimes ineffectual, it is a good primitive poem—an alarum or trumpet-note ringing through the American camp. Wonderfully like the Orientals, too, considering that when I asked if he had read them he answered, 'No; tell me about them.'" Thoreau has evidently written just what he felt when the surprise and what may be called the shock of an unprecedented revelation was fresh upon him. His candor and his good judgment, under the circumstances, is worthy of all commendation, but he might write differently today if he were alive. VETERAN AUTHORS. Bronson Alcott as Philosopher DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. Walt Whitman's poetry, Humanity and Poverty—His Devotion to Sick Soldiers—Etc. [CORRESPONDENCE OF THE CHRONICLE.] NEW YORK, May 2, 1878. Among the veteran authors of the Republic hardly one can be mentioned who is more original, more sincere, more conscientious, more unworldly in every sense than the American Platonist and idealistic philosopher A. Bronson Alcott. Born at Wolcott nearly seventy-nine years ago, on a Connecticut farm, he had but a desultory, picked-up education, and while still a boy was induced by a rustic trader to go to Virginia to peddle goods, the trader having furnished him with a miscellaneous assortment and $25 cash capital, in addition to the price of a voyage from New York to Norfolk, Virginia. He set out at once upon his mission, as totally disqualified for it as any human being could be, though relishing the prospect of travel as a change in his monotonous surroundings. Such a peddler has scarcely been seen in the South before or since. After quitting the vessel at Norfolk he wandered off into the country with his wares, far more intent on seeing nature and talking with people than in pushing trade. The latter, indeed, was hardly in his thought. He was as destitute of any notion of business as a cow is of knowledge of conic sections. He went from plantation to plantation, talking with the negroes, with children, with grown white persons, learning something from all, and rendering himself so agreeable by his gentleness, amiable curiosity and freedom from all assumption that he became a favorite with every one. The planters, finding him very intelligent, invited him to their houses, lent him books, discussed questions with him, and he so enjoyed their hospitality that he might have continued vagabondizing for years had not the Connecticut trader, learning that he had sold next to nothing, recalled him to the North. It is said that in four or five months of absence he sold less than $5 worth of goods, and most of these on credit, while his expenses must have been several hundred dollars. AS A SCHOOL TEACHER. Going back to Connecticut, he concluded —though not without emphatic averment to that effect from his employer—that he was not designed to be a peddler. He undertook the more congenial occupation of teaching, and had considerable success with small children. After a little he removed to Boston, and, by what he called the natural mode of instruction, gained a number of pupils, and was getting on admirably with them when their parents, alarmed lest they should be made infidels, withdrew their tender offsprings in a spasm of theologic terror. The alarm was baseless; but they dreaded innovation; and when Alcott had announced that he could detect in the children's minds the foreshadowing of their creed, their mothers believed that something dreadful would soon happen. The publication of a book entitled "Conversations on the Gospels," drawn from colloquies of the teacher with his pupils, raised a storm of prejudice, the Boston newspapers attacking the innocent school, which was finally closed for lack of support. Alcott, than whom a purer and better man even saintly Boston did not contain, was denounced by the rabidly orthodox as a disseminator of destructive doctrines and an enemy of society. AS A REFORMER. The philosopher, feeling discouraged and distressed that his conscientious labors had been so miscomprehended, quitted Boston to take up his abode at Concord, Mass., where he became deeply interested in natural theology, as he styled it (most persons would term it rational religion), education, diet and divers social and political reforms, and studied them earnestly and profoundly. He had not been there long when James P. Greaves of London, the friend and coadjutor of Pestalozzi, invited him to England. Greaves died before his arrival, but Alcott was kindly received by the educationist's friends, who had given his name to their school, Alcott House, at Ham, a suburb of the British metropolis. He stayed in England some months, exchanging views with prominent reformers, and returning to the United States brought with him two of his English friends, Charles Lane and H. G. Wright, the former of whom purchased at Harvard, Mass., a farm. They named it Fruitlands, and thither they went to found a new community on high moral and idealistic principles. The scheme failed, as all such schemes do. Lane and Wright went back to England, the farm was sold and the enterprise abandoned. Alcott, though full of ideas, is one of the least practical of men. His very honesty and purity disqualify him for dealing with the world. His faith in his intuitions, of which he talks much, leads him to most erroneous conclusions respecting life, and really renders him unfit to grapple with it materially. Had it not been for the practicality of his four daughters—he has no sons—the family would probably have come to want. His daughter Louisa has been remarkably successful as a writer of juvenile stories, her "Little Women" having had an extraordinary sale and put some thousands of dollars into her purse. She may be said to have been the main prop of the family financially. Many years ago, when the Alcotts were extremely poor, its masculine head happened by some strange circumstance that has never been satisfactorily explained to be in possession of $10. A professional vagabond, with the clairvoyance of a certain order of tramps, called at the home of the Alcotts at Concord, inquired for the philosopher, invented a piteous tale, and obtained the $10. His daughters were greatly vexed when they heard how their father had been guiled, for they could not remember when there had been so large a sum in the house before. Paterfamilias assured them that the tramp was a brother in distress, and that it was the duty of humanity to give him succor. Two days after, to the credit of our kind be it known, the vagabond returned the money in a letter, saying that having learned of Alcott's goodness and innocence, he scorned to defraud so noble a man of his money. There is some virtue in tramps after all. AS A PHILOSOPHER. Alcott has lived at Concord for thirty years, not far from the home of Emerson, who considers his one of the most original and suggestive minds of the age. The two are intimate friends, and nearly all the Emersonians, who go to Concord as to an intellectual Mecca, visit the home of the venerable idealist. For years he was in the habit of holding "conversations" on religion, ethics, philosophy, life, poetry and other general themes wherever he has been invited. These have been chiefly monologues, albeit the audience was invited to take part. They have brought him in very little money—barely enough to pay expenses —and as a rule have not been very satisfactory, because he holds that they are dependent on sympathy and mental conditions which cannot be compelled. Recently he has remained at home, owing to the infirmities of age. He has published two or three books, one of them, "Orphic Sayings," marked by insight, sagacity and freshness, but as far removed from the thought and feeling of the multitude as can well be imagined. His is a venerable and striking figure. He looks like an ideal Egyptian. His eyes are clear, dark, luminous; his hair, which is now long, is fine and white, and his face full of gentleness, sympathy and benevolence. His voice is deep, impressive, melodious, and to talk with him half an hour makes one feel unsecularized and insulated from mere personal concerns. It is illustrative in a certain way of the nineteenth century that this idealist and Platonic philosopher, this ingenious and entirely blameless soul, has not made money enough, had he been left to himself, to provide for his simple daily needs. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES Introduced himself to the whole republic not to speak of Great Britain, by his "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," published in the Atlantic nine or ten years ago, and has since stood at the very front of American authors. He was widely known as humorest, poet, and popular lecturer before that; but hardly anybody had supposed him capable of so brilliant work as the "Autocrat," and by it he fairly took the cultured public by surprise. He is the son of Dr. Abiel Holmes, the noted annalist, and the grandson of Dr. David Holmes, who in the colonial days served during three campaigns in Canada and was four years in the army of the rebels as surgeon in the Revolution. A Cantabrigian by birth, he graduated, as became a youth of his nativity, at Harvard. After occupying himself with law awhile, he turned to medicine, studied in Europe for several years, and received the degree of M. D. at 27. Two years later he was chosen Professor of Anatomy and Physiology at Dartmouth, and on the resignation of Dr. John C. Warren succeeded to the same chair in the Medical College at Harvard, relinquishing the general practice of his profession. LITERATURE AND MEDICINE. Holmes attracted attention as a poet before leaving college, and up to the present has sustained the promise of his early years. His songs and lyrics have never been surpassed by any of his countrymen, and his felicity of versification on special occasions has been generally admired. He possesses a rare talent in this way, and of the scores of poems he has been called upon to write for commencements, anniversaries, dinners, receptions and welcomes, not one has fallen below a certain level. Remarkable spontaneity is his, as is shown by the radiant quality of his talk, for which he is justly renowned. He has sparkling wit not less than rich humor, and his companionship is full of cheer and stimulus. His "Autocrat" and his "Professor at the Breakfast Table" are books that can be read and reread, and each time enjoyed. They are individual and delightful, and well-night unique in American and English literature. It is questionable if any Briton could have written them. Surely no Briton has thus far written anything like them. Holmes' "Elsie Venner" and "Guardian Angels" are thoroughly American novels, and have been translated into several modern languages. They are marked by the insight into human nature, the epigrammatic force of statement and the exceeding cleverness which have distinguished all his compositions. A SCIENTIST. Holmes has gained fame for his researches in auscultation and microscopy, and is a man of science as well as imagination. Of late years he has written little, even for the Atlantic, his favorite vehicle of communication with the public, and has wholly ceased to appear before lyceums in consequence of his delicate health. He has refused most tempting offers from lecture bureaus; but it is very seldom that he can e persuaded to leave his comfortable home in Boston except for his rustic recreation in Summer. He married when young a daughter of Chas. Jackson of the [H?b], and as she had property and he had likewise, he could essay literature without the usual perils. He has several children, the eldest of whom, Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., is said to be very bright. He is now, I think, a professor at Harvard. He served with distinction and was severely wounded during the civil war as officer of a Massachusetts regiment, as may be remembered from his father's humorous-pathetic paper in the Atlantic "My Search after the Captain." THE MAN. The elder Holmes (he was named Oliver Wendell after his maternal grandfather) will be 69 next August, and, although fragile and somewhat feeble, is likely to live longer than his father—he died at 74—because he takes such excellent care of himself. It is said that he regulates all his movements by hygienic notions and contrivances, keeping barometers, aerometers, thermometers, and many other instruments in his study, and consulting them incessantly. He enjoys himself, despite his valetudinarianism, and they who find him at leisure for an hour or two in the evening are particularly fortunate; for he has as much freshness of feeling and elasticity of mind as a boy. He is a little fellow, horizontally and perpendicularly; he has a queer, quizzical, wrinkled face, his gray eye usually beaming with the consciousness of an unuttered joke, and a heart full of kindness and sympathy. Nominally a Unitarian, he is virtually a rationalist, and has sometimes given offense to the very orthodox by the presentation in his writings of conspicuously liberal views. WALT WHITMAN Has been the cause of more controversy as to his poetry and poetic ability than any bard of the country or the time. He is one of the most renowned unknowns living. Everybody has heard of him; yet his name can hardly be found in any of the biographical dictionaries. He is a poet on whom public opinion is so very widely divided that some critics rank him as the first and most original of American singers, and others pronounce him unworthy of serious consideration. One of his most enthusiastic admirers, William D. O'Connor, for example, declares that he is the superior of all contemporaneous poets, and deserves to rank with Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare. Public Opinion on the other hand, avers that any man in England who should issue such senseless trash as Whitman's poems would be regarded as a proper candidate for a lunatic asylum. Between these two extremes the truth, as usual, may be sought. But it is far easier to understand why he should be censured than praised, since his poetry is altogether unlike that which has been so called since the early ages. It is natural to think and say that if he be a poet, Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare must be something else. Whitman was born at West Hills, a village of Suffolk county, and is the only poet of any reputation who Long Island has furnished. Indeed that island is thought here to be a sort of Boeotia, where mosquitoes, bull-frogs, and bumpkins greatly abound. He is not so old as is believed, nor as he seems, for he has not yet reached his fifty-eighth year. Frequent reference to his venerable appearance has induced the community to bestow upon him near seventy years, and since his paralysis he surely looks with his gray locks, careworn face and limping gait as if he might have attained the age of the Psalmist. He has been printer, school teacher, journalist and accountant, and has always been poor because he has never tried to make money. Always an observer and student of nature he has no fondness for books, preferring to wander in the woods or open fields, or to talk with common people on the wharves or in the market, to shutting himself up in the library. He likes, he says, to get his lessons at first hand instead of second or third hand from printed pages. HIS POEMS. His first poems, "Leaves of Grass," a thin volume of less than one hundred pages, appeared some twenty-three years ago, and has since been augmented by various pieces of the same sort, although called "Drum-Taps" and other names. His warmest admirers have been and are still among the English, notably Wm. M. Rossetti, Robert Buchanan and Swinburne; but William D. O'Connor, John Burroughs, Moncure D. Conway and other Americans have praised him to the echo. When he published his first "Leaves," Emerson was so pleased with them that he wrote him a letter in which he used the words, "I welcome you on the threshold of a great career." This extravagant recommendation induced hundreds to read Whitman who would not otherwise have done so. It is understood that Emerson's expectation of the bard betrayed him into a warmth of expression of which he afterwards repented. Whitman's poems have to the mass of readers no color, form or music; are, in fact, the reverse of what is generally considered poetry. But his lovers claim that he has everything which he should have, and that he is the foremost singer of an unappreciative age. His verses stream with naturalness, catholicism and humanity, and compel one to admire the man, whatever one's opinion of the artist. He demonstrated his humanity, affection and tenderness while in one of the Departments at Washington during the war, by buying out of his small savings numerous comforts for the sick and wounded soldiers in the hospitals. He was as gentle and kind to them as the finest woman. His acts were poetic, if his writings were not. Recently he has lived in Camden, N. J. He is a bachelor, has a superb head, and attracts attention wherever he goes. He is a veritable democrat, full of sympathy and kindness—a true man, such as may not be found in ten thousand. Ochram. [*2059*][*Pennypacker's interview*] THE PRESS.—PHILADELPHIA, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 3, 1880. WALT WHITMAN. THE POET CHATS ON THE HAPS AND MISHAPS OF LIFE. SOMETHING ANENT THE CURIOUS STORY OF HIS OWN LIFE. HOW HE BEGAN—THE EDGES OF CANADA —A BRIGHT AND HONORABLE CLUSTER IN OUR LITERATURE —A CURIOUS LITTLE DIARY. [*2060*] It was with some trepidation that I waited in the parlor of the modest and cosy home of Walt Whitman, at the corner of Stevens and West streets, in Camden, for I recalled the words of Rosetti, who, in his volume of criticism on the leading English poets of all time, closes his notice of Longfellow, the only American represented in the book, with the words: "But a far greater than he, far greater than all his American contemporaries, is Walt Whitman." And if Professor Clifford Mr. Symonds, Professor Tyrell, Freiligrath and the "Revue des Deux Mondes" are right; if English poets like Tennyson and Swinburne, and such American writers as Emerson and John Bur[roughs] have not hailed with too great haste [?] as the poet [th?] [?] is to Americ[?] [?] Italian, [Shakespeare] to the English. If they have MEASURED HIS GREATNESS aright it may come to pass that one shall be remembered simply because one "gave and took in common talk" with him, and one may well tremble inwardly a little before such an interview. A heavy and irregular footfall overhead, telling of lameness, came along the hall, and slowly down the stairway, and the poet entered the room. I see that he is above the average height, that his hair and beard are long and white as snow, and afterward, when he sits with his back to the light from the window there is perceptible in his ruddy face a deep, rich, almost maroon color. The face must have been very handsome once, and now, as he talks, the lines of age fade away, the face takes on the look of youth again, and the beauty of a portrait that hangs upon the wall. His eyes are blue-grey and his forehead prominent just above the eyes, but not high. Although he will not clothe his ideas in the old forms of poetry, he has not declined to dress his body in the style of garments which poets affect, and his expanse of shirt bosom, fastened with a white button the size and shape of a buttonwood-ball, and his vast rolling collar are of a spotless purity. His health has been much improved by his leisurely jaunt of the last few months through Colorado, Kansas and Missouri, and he expressed pleasure at finding how truthfully he had represented in his poetry the vastness, the life, the soil and the rankness of the West. He had never been West but once before, on a hurried trip, and was not personally familiar with that section of the country. "Still, I have always," he said, "taken the greatest care to be accurate in what I have written. I have associated much with Western people—with boatmen, herders, men of the plains—and have got them to spin their yarns for me, something they were really always ready to do," he added, with a laugh, "and it pleases me to find that I have written of things as they really are. On the sea I have not always been so fortunate. In one of my descriptions of the vast spaces of the sea occurred the line, 'Where the she-whale swims with her calves and never forsakes them.' I submitted this to an old whaler, and, after hesitating a good deal, he told me that he had never seen a she-whale with more than one calf; that all whalers believed the whale had but one calf at a time. In the next edition of my volume I changed the line to * * * 'With her calf and never forsakes it.'" Walt Whitman's voice is full and strong, and he talks with some hesitancy, after the manner of a man accustomed to express himself with the pen. He was born in 1819 on the western edge of Suffolk county, Long island, within sound of the sea. He grew up there, roaming the whole island. It has been described as "a peculiar region—plenty of sea shore, sandy, stormy, uninviting, the horizon boundless, the air healthy but too strong for invalids, the bays a wonderful resort for aquatic birds—meadows covered with salt hay—and with numberless springs of the sweetest water in the world." He was educated in the common schools, and afterward worked in the printing offices, occasionally writing for magazines, and as a newspaper editor. In 1847-8 he started on a long jaunt over the Middle and Southern States, up the Mississippi to the great lakes, and along THE EDGES OF CANADA. In 1855 he settled in Brooklyn and New York city as a business man, owned several houses and was worth some money. But suddenly he abandoned all, and commenced writing poems, possessessed by the notion that he must make epics or lyrics "fit for the New World," and that bee still buzzes in his head. "Leaves of Grass" was printed twenty-three years ago, partly by his own hand. Since then five or six new editions have been put forth by himself. When quite a youth he began to write in a style which he has made his own. He came to the conclusion that the old forms of poetry, which he says are well enough in their way, and whose beauties no one appreciates more than himself, were not suited for the expression of American democracy and American manhood. He made many experiments, and destroyed his manuscripts again and again; and as he rejected the old forms, so he threw overboard all the regular stock in trade of the poets. It is true of nearly all poets, he says, but particularly true of the minor poets, that they have selected only the delicate things, the mere prettinesses for poetic treatment. The noble Greek poets seemed to think only the gods and their works were worthy of celebration. Shakespeare wrote chiefly of kings, "but it has been my favorite idea," says Whitman, "to give expression to nature as we actually find it—the man, the American man, the laborer, boatman and mechanic. The great painters were as willing to paint a blacksmith as a lord. Why should the poets only confine themselves to mere sentiment? The theologians to a man teach humility and that the body is the sinful setting of the immortal soul. I wish men to be proud, to be proud of their bodies, to look upon the body as a thing of beauty, too holy to be abused by vice and debauchery. "The fault I have to find with Tennyson, although he is a master of his art, with Longfellow, Whittier, and all the rest, is that they are too much like saints. The work of Heaven is not done on the earth by means of saints. Nature is strong and rank; this rankness is seen everywhere; in man; and it is to this strength and rankness that I have endeavored to give voice. It pleases me to think, also, that if any of my work shall survive, it will be the fellowship in it; the comradeship—friendship is the good old word—the love of my fellow-men. As to the form of my poetry I have rejected the rhymed and blank verse. I have a particular abhorrence of blank verse, but I cling to rhythm; not the outward, regularly measured, short foot, long foot—short foot, long foot— like the walking of a lame man, that I care nothing for. The waves of the sea do not break on the beach, one wave every so many minutes; the wind does not go jerking through the pine trees, but nevertheless in the roll of the waves and in the soughing of the wind in the tree there is a beautiful rhythm. How monotonous it would become, how tired the ear would get of it, if it were regular! It is this under-melody and rhythm that I have attempted to catch, and years after I have written a line, when I read it to myself, or my friends read it aloud, I think I have found it. It has been quite a trial to myself to destroy some of my own pretty things, but I have rigidly excluded everything of the kind from my books." Walt Whitman regards Emerson as by far the greatest of all American authors, as worthy to hold his own with the great geniuses of other lands and other times. "Emerson, Bryant, Whittier, though I should not place the laston two a par with the first named," he said, "and Longfellow —I do not know why Longfellow's name should be omitted from the list—form a very BRIGHT AND HONORABLE CLUSTER in our literature. It will be hard to surpass their achievements." Whittier he does not think a great artist, and regards the motive of "Maud Muller" as particularly bad, and unworthy of poetic treatment. "That any American woman should say, 'Ah, me! if I could only marry a rich man,' is to me an intolerable thought. In Bryant's poetry there is a breath of the open air that, to me, is very sweet. About the man himself—I knew him well—there was the same odor of out of doors. Bayard Taylor was industrious, and meant well. He won for himself a very honorable place in the world." The final cast and coloring of Whitman's poetry is taken from the Secession war (the Union war, he calls it), and he himself is fond of considering that poetry as mainly expressing the twenty or thirty years of which that contest was the centre and culmination. How he went down on the field in '61, and spent four years as a hard-working, unpaid army nurse, when were planted the seeds of the disease that now cripples him and makes him an old man at 61; how he was discharged from his clerkship in the Interior Department at Washington once for being the author of the "Leaves of Grass," and again for being sick, have been told before, but the facts cannot be dinned too often into the ears of the people of an ungrateful Republic. Whitman himself dwells with more satisfaction on his own doings in those four years of the war than on his now world-renowned literary productions. At that period he had the perfection of health, strength and endurance. He was on the go night and day, disbursed immense sums of money, and from first to last had under his care 100,000 soldiers, a portion of whose cases he attended [to] with his own hands. For seven years, half [?] half well, he has [?arded] with his [h?] [?] Whitman of [?], and though in very narrow circumstances he is not in physical want, nor does he expect to be. He can walk very little for he is permanently paralyzed. During 1877, both as an occupation in his half-sick hours and to "keep the wolf from the door," Whitman finally brought out himself his revised and completed writings in two volumes, the "Leaves of Grass" and anewer one, "Two Rivulets," and he continues to act as his own publisher and salesman at Camden. In his poems this nineteenth century of ours, the "Union War" and the comradeship of humanity are the chief factors. In his new volume (1877) he has printed A CURIOUS LITTLE DIARY of the times from 1863 to the middle of 1865, when he steadily devoted himself to the wounded and sick of the army hospitals. The following is a specimen incident from the diary: 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. Wilbur, Company G, 154th New York, Low with chronic diarrhea, 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, 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 diarrhea 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 four-fold. He gave me his mother's address, Mrs. Sally D. Wilber, Allegheny post-office, Cattaraugus county, New York. I had several such interviews with him. He died a few days after the one just described. After an hour's conversation, I left Walt Whitman, feeling that whatever may be said in the discussion, which every year grows louder and more diverse, over his poetry, that at least his method, however startling in its novelty, had not been adopted by him merely as a sail to catch the winds of English—to bear him into popularity there, where they have been looking anxiously for an American poet who should be new, striking, different, the production of her own soil and without a suggestion of the authors who had lived before— and certainly, this single line of his: Vivas to those who have failed— is worth a good many pages of empty words of the much-decorated verse so popular now; and there is rugged thought in this, from "Leaves of Grass:" I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self contained; I stand and look at them sometimes an hour at a stretch. They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins. They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God; No one is dissatisfied—not one is demented with the mania of owning things. Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago. Not one that is respectable or industrious over the whole earth.[*Boston Herald*] SUNDAY, OCTOBER 30, 1881. “LEAVES OF GRASS.” ----- The Complete Poems of Walt Whitman ----- As Published by a Famous Boston House. ----- A Friendly Characterization of the Poet’s Work. ----- When a great man gets ahead of the world he has but to wait quietly and the world will come around to where he is. When Walt Whitman was welcomed to Olympus a quarter of a century ago, his greatness was as secure as it is today, when he is acknowledged by the people whose greatness inspires his verse. In all quarters of the Union, North, South, East and West, Walt Whitman has the warmest personal friends who, if they have not met him face to face, have felt the grasp of his hand in his words. No other man has expressed his personality so strongly in his poems. One of the best characterizations of “Leaves of Grass” is that of a lady, who said: “It does not read like a book; it seems like a man.” The publication of the complete poems of Walt Whitman by one of the leading publishers of the United States is a literary event, for through it the greatest American poet has come to the birthright denied him so long. It has, indeed, mattered little to him, for he had bided his time patiently and serenely, and when such captains of the mind as Emerson and Tennyson reached out their hands in friendly recognition, he could rest satisfied that the multitude would some day acknowledge the prophet hailed by those leaders. The date of the following lines seem remote enough: CONCORD, Mass., July. 1855. Dear Sir: I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of the “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 seemed 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 which so delights us, and which large percept on only can inspire. I greet you at the beginning of a great career, which yet must have has 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. viz., 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 the postoffice. 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. Though these words were afterward somewhat taken back--a little Galileo-like, through fear of the New England pope called prudery-- it was the true Emerson who spoke his heart then. “Leaves of Grass” have been harvested several times and bound in sheaves of various form, from the quaint first edition, which was, both body and soul, the work of Walt Whitman, to that of the New York publisher who was so frightened at what he had done the he BACKED OUT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE; that of the Boston publisher, which has been the standard for many years because of the limited demand; the personal edition published by the poet himself; one or more English editions, and now at last the edition just published by James R. Osgood & Co., a compact volume of 382 pages, with all the elements of attractive typography, binding form and price needed for the great popular success which the work is sure to achieve. That beside its assured hearty reception the book will be much maligned and ridiculed is a matter of course, for as it is read more so will there be more opposition to its lessons. But it is a test of greatness that ridicule it as much as you will, the ridicule will not stick. Walt Whitman has survived the great storms that have assailed him, and his fame is secure from the pattering of little showers. The new edition contains all his poems; the only changes that have been made are in the way of condensation of utterance. There are, also, something like 20 new poems printed direct from the manuscript. There is more of a rounding and completeness of the work; the all-embracing patriotism which forms one of the poet’s grandest characteristics is more comprehensive than ever before manifested. Walt Whitman did yeoman service for the Union in the hospitals of the field during the war, and he loves the whole Union. He has a warm place in his heart for the South, and it is manifested on many pages of this new edition. He writes: “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, Stuft’d with the stuff that is coarse and stuff’d with stuff that is fine. One of the nation of many nations, the smallest the same and the largest the same, A southerner soon as a northerner." The titles of a number of the poems have been changed, notably that of the great poem of the work, that which strikes the key-note of the volume, “Walt Whitman,” being now known as “Song of Myself.” At the beginning of this song is a portrait of the poet as he was when “Leaves of Grass” was gestating, a steel engraving from an old daguerreotype taken in 1856 when Walt Whitman was 37 years old. He was then a carpenter, building and selling cottage houses in Brooklyn, and the picture was taken impromptu one warm June afternoon by Gabriel Harrison. The picture is well described by the lines: “Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am. Stands amused, complacent, compassionating. idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest. Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next. Both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering at it.” THE OLD OBJECTIONS will, of course, be brought up. Many will say they agree with the ideas, but what is the use of printing them in the shape of poetry? Because it reads better that way, and it is poetry of the noblest kind, may be answered. Why is it that so may still insist that conventional form is necessary to poetry? Do they admire the flowers most, or the vase? In Milton’s day many maintained that “Paradise Lost” was not a poem because it was not in rhyme. In the “Leaves of Grass” the blades are of unequal length, but they are ever fresh and beautiful, and full of sweet nutriment. Thought, and truth, and strength, and nobility, and grand proportions, whose symmetry belittles inequalities of metre, are all there, and rythmic swing is there. Is anything more needed for poetry? One of the great features of Walt Whitman is that he does not seek his ideals in far-away times, which, stripped of their glamor of remoteness, are but as the times of today; or, in supreme moments, he idealizes the common-place, and has the clearness of vision that discerns the gleam of gold through all the accumulated dross. The large and magnificent tolerance that includes all and allows for all, and finds a place for all, is a sublime characteristic of the man. There is so much in these lines that they cannot be packed into layers of equal length. The book teems with the ecstasy of being. The statement of details into which the poet now and then drops has been criticised as "cataloguing." But viewed with the poet's intention, what a mosaic picture of the people, of the nation and its races, is thus constituted! One sees the stir and hears the hum of the entire land; feels the pulse of the multitude. What is the use of attempting to depict such a thinking--it can't all be shown. But the effect is like a gleam of sunshine in the depths of a forest; it reveals many things with vivid distinctness; there is a vast reserve of hidden things which might be seen, but enough is shown to tell what is there--to give the character of the place. Do not these fragments, picked from different parts of the country, at random, give an idea of what the life of that country is: "The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee, As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar field, the overrseer views them from his saddle. The bugle calls in the ballroom, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other, The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the musical rain, The wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron. The squaw, wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth, is offering moccasins and bead bags for sale. The connoisseur peers along the exhibition gallery, with half-shut eyes bent sideways." THE WANT OF ARTISTIC GRACE in form is compensated for by the artistic picturesqueness of form. In a measure, the poet makes pictures of his poems, and thus strengthens their individuality. For instance, the frequent use of italics and parentheses and the choice of odd words now and then--a bit of Spanish or French. Camerado and Libertad are favorites. These foreign words and phrases seem to depict unassimilated fragments floating on the life-current of the nation. Many intelligent people fail to comprehend; they can't see what the poet is driving at--it is all so strange and unwonted, or unlike previous models. They get too close to the canvass; they see nothing but paint and brush marks; they do no take it all in--they do no see the picture. What a daring use of color! Only a strong man could wield such a brush. Should a weaker man attempt such bold figures, he would make himself ridiculous; it would seem like affectation, as it would should he wear unconventional dress. But Walt Whitman can carry it off. He looks exceedingly well in his broad hat, wide collar and suit of modest gray. We all want more freedom of movement, but he can afford to take it, and is not afraid. Read this vivid description of a sunrise: "To behold the day-break! The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows, The air tastes good to my palate. Hefts of moving world at innocent gambols silently rising, freshly exuding, Scooting obliquely high and low. Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs. Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven." And this from one of the many pictures of death: "And as to you, corpse, I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me, I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing, I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons." There is much that will not be understood by many, much to which many will object, but as willing guests who approach a bountifully spread table, upon which are dishes which some like and some dislike, and others again can learn to like--there is enough of grandeur and beauty and truth, so that every body can TAKE AWAY SOMETHING TO HIS TASTE. The poems are not to be accepted too literally, and the poet understood to be doing or wishing to do everything which is spoken of under the cover of the first person--he simply expresses his capacity to feel universally; he impersonates all humanity in himself, puts himself in its place, and surveys the universe from his standpoint--as everyone is to himself the central point of the world. "I do not say these things for a dollar, or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat. (It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of you, Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen'd)." Walt Whitman is the poet of evolution-- modern science finds its prophet in him. He conjoins materialism with ideality. He is religious in the largest sense. "Each is not for its own sake, I say the whole earth and all the stars in the sky are for religion's sake. 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, and how certain the future is." The course of the "Song of Myself" is like that of a noble drama, and it has the sublimest moments in its culmination. How sound physical health asserts itself here: "I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd, I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition. They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins. They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things. Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth." What an omnisciently inspired and sustained note in the passages beginning with the following: "I heard what was said of the universe. I heard it and heard it of several thousand years; It is middling well as far as it goes--but is that all? 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 Mexilli and every idol and image, Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more." "I do not despise you priest, all time, the world over, My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths, Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern." "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 on this spot I stand with my robust soul." WAS EVER THE COURSE OF CREATION more concisely and grandly stated? Does it not make old fables turn pale? It is a lofty height from which all this is said down to the world. Taking the national side of the poet, were the local names ever more truthfully or poetically expressed than in the following: "The red aborgines, Leaving natural breaths, sounds of rain and winds, calls as of birds and animals in the woods, syllabled to us for names. Okonee, Koosa, Ottawa, Monongahela, Sauk, Natchez, Chattahoochee, Kaqueta, Oronoco, Wabash, Miami, Saginaw, Chippewa, Oshkosh, Walla-Walla, Leaving such to the States they melt, they depart, charging the water and the land with names." It is interesting to note some of the favorite passages of the poet's most eminent admirers. The lines previously quoted, "I heard what was said of the universe," are specially admired by J. T. Trowbridge, who knows them by heart. The favorite passage of the late Prof. Clifford, the Englishman, who was one of the first to introduce the poet to transatlantic audiences were the glowing lines to night: "I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, I call the earth and sea half-held by the night. Press close bare-bosom'd night--press close magnetic nourishing night! Night of south winds--night of the large few stars! Still nodding night--mad naked summer night. Smile, O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth! Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of departed sunset--earth of the mountains misty-topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-sweeping elbow'd earth--rich apple-blossom'd earth! Smile, for your lover comes. Prodigal, you have given me love--therefore, I to you give love! O unspeakable passionate love." The favorite poem of Charles Sumner's was the first one under the head of "Sea-Drift," the idyl of sunny lovliness, called "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking." The poem is too long to quote here, but here is one of its lyrics, the song of two mated birds, "Two Feathered Guests from Alabama": 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. Of the poems here collected for the first time that written in Platte canon, Colorado, amid its awful ruggedness and grandeur, is a magnificent justification of the poet's methods: 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 revelest here--spirit that form'd this scene. They have remember'd thee. [*2061*]IN "ITALIAN MUSIC IN DAKOTA" a charming picture is given of the effect of music on a quiet evening at a solitary frontier post. All familiar with the plains will respond to the chord here struck: [2061A] Through the soft evening air enwinding all, Rocks, woods, fort, cannon, pacing sentries, endless wilds, In dulcet streams, in flutes' and cornets' notes, Electric, pensive, turbulent, artificial, (Yet strangely fitting even here, meanings unknown before, Subtler than ever, more harmony, as if born here, related here, Not to the city's fresco'd rooms, not to the audience of the opera house, Sounds, echoes, wandering strains, as really here at home, Sonnambula's innocent love, trios with Norma's anguish, And thy ecstatic chorus, Poliuto); Ray'd in the limpid yellow slanting sundown, Music, Italian music in Dakota. While Nature, sovereign of this gnarl'd realm, Lurking in hidden barbaric grim recesses, Acknowledging rapport, however far remov'd, (As some old root or soil of earth its last-born flower or fruit), Listens well pleas'd. In the lines to Gen. Grant, returned from his world's tour, he says that what best he sees in him is not the tributes paid to him, but that in his walks with kings the prairie sovereigns of the West, "Invisibly with thee walking with kings with even pace the round world's promenade, were all so justified." Others of these new poems, full of beauty, are "Thou orb aloft full dazzling" (which was rejected by a leading editor last summer, on the ground that his readers would not understand it), "To the Man-of-War Bird," "Patrolling Barnegat," "My Picture Gallery," "The Prairie States," a tribute to Custer's memory called "From far Dakota's cañons," "A Riddle Song," inspired by the mystery of life, and the following tender, reverential lines to his mother's memory: AS AT THY PORTALS ALSO, DEATH. 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 on earth, life, love, to me the best, I grave a monumental line before I go, amid these songs, And set a tombstone here. Face to face with lines which approach the grave with such classic nobility of step, who can say that Walt Whitman is not a poet? A thoughtful writer of German birth and education, but living today in America, has said that some of the main features and themes of "Leaves of Grass" may be designated as individuality, inevitable law, physical health, modernness, open-air nature, democracy, comradeship, the indissoluble union, good will to other lands, respect to the past, grandeur of labor, perfect state equality, with modernness like a canopy over all, and a resumption of the old Greek ideas of nudity and the divinity of the body, with the Hebrew sacredness of paternity, while the war, the sea, the night, the south and poems of death are also frequently recurring themes. His treatment of the last-mentioned theme is specially notable in the "Memories of President Lincoln." In the stately elegy which begins these memories, "When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed," the threading of the theme shows a high dramatic instinct. As the singer walks the night with the knowledge of death and the thought of death as companions, the warble of the gray-brown bird singing in the swamp the song of death pervades it all. The notes recur like the motive of a symphony, and at last THE SONG BREAKS FORTH: 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. The foregoing lines are but a part of the bird song. Another song on the death of Lincoln: "Oh Captain! My Captain!" is already established as a popular American classic. The poet Stedman, in a recent article, used the unfortunate expression that his appreciative criticism on "Walt Whitman," printed in Scribner's some months ago, was churlishly received. The writer chances to know that Mr. Stedman has somehow sadly misapprehended the state of the case. Mr. Whitman has the warmest personal regard for Mr. Stedman, of whom he speaks with a genuine liking, and he felt the real worth of Mr. Stedman's article, but he also felt that Mr. Stedman had failed to grasp the wholeness of the work, though no finer characterization of the parts could be found. "Leaves of Grass" is a kosmos, and the leaving out of that which Mr. Stedman, in common with many, finds objectionable, would make it like an imperfect body. One of the greatest of living authors, in speaking with the writer about that passage in Mr. Stedman's article, where it was stated that nature always covered up her bare and ugly spots, and that, therefore, such did not belong in the field of poetry, said that there were times when nature was bare and ugly, that it was the province of art to be truthful to nature, and that genius could treat these themes without offence. In all Walt Whitman there is no more evil thought than in the sprouting of a bud or the wafting of pollen on the wings of springtime. Fortunately it is based upon a law more stable than the fickle suffrages of the multitude, or the wishes of those who would have had him write differently, and, therefore, but partially true. FROM The Critic 30 LAFAYETTE PLACE, NEW YORK. "The first literary paper in America."-London Academy. The Academy, reviewing 'Essays from THE CRITIC,' remarks that Mr. Whitman's 'utterance on the death of Carlyle may well be classed among the most admirable of his poems. Not unlike Carlyle himself in the pithy strength of his ejaculation, there is a grandeur almost elemental in its diction, which ranges from the most comprehensive of criticism to real sublimity of thought and passion.' [*2062*] THE SPRINGFIELD SUNDAY REPUBLICAN: SEPTEMBER 24, 1882. Walt Whitman's new publishers, Rees, Welsh & Co of Philadelphia, are evidently cheap sensationalists, quite unfit to issue a great work like "Leaves of Grass." It is to be regretted that Whitman had not the patience to wait for some firm of consequence to take up the task Osgood feebly laid down. The Philadelphia firm advertise in this fashion in the Philadelphia Press:-- "'Leaves of Grass,' by Walt Whitman, is not an agricultural book in the hay-makers' parlance; but it's a daisy, and don't you forget it." The Critic justly says that "this is a worse 'blow than that dealt by the Massachusetts Dog-'berry." These fellows are apparently gamins out of their place. Nothing could be more vulgar than their adoption of "nigger minstrel" slang for so noble a work, and it can only be explained by supposing that they take Anthony Comstock's ignorant estimate of the "Leaves of Grass" for gospel, and count on the patronage of the obscene. This seems a great pity, but perhaps it is not so, for it may falsely attract to Whitman through their meaner appetites a class of readers who need to learn his great lessons. Suppose that any one with brain enough reads this great passage,--remembering that Whitman, in his first person, represents the essential man:-- "It is time to explain myself--let us stand up. What is Known I strip away-- I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown. The clock indicates the moment--but what does eternity indicate? I am an acme of things accomplished, and I 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 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. 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. * * * * * * 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 further systems. Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, Outward and outward, and forever outward. 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 to a pallid float, it would not avail in the long run; We should surely bring up again where we now stand, And 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, I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured. I tramp a perpetual journey; My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, 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, exchange; But each man and woman of you I lead upon a knoll, My left hand hooking you around the waist, My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road. Not I, not any one else, can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself." This must be read, as it is written, in the grand manner, and the reader who does not realize that his guide casts behind him the centuries and exhorts him to a new lookout into eternity had better read no more. There has been no more magnificent attitude of command taken than Whitman takes in these utterances, and sustains in almost all that he has written. The trivial person has nothing whatever to do with Whitman. [*2063*] A verdict was rendered for the plaintiffs at Providence yesterday in an ejectment suit brought by the Union company against one of the Sprague tenants.BOSTON POST. WEDNESDAY MORNING, NOV. 2, 1881. WALT WHITMAN. The Man and His Book—Some New Gems for His Admirers. The "good grey poet" but a few days since left Boston, where he has been for some weeks past staying and busying himself with revising the proof sheets of the new edition of his famous book, "Leaves of Grass," which is soon to be issued by James R. Osgood & Co. of this city. Mr. Whitman, though now nearly 63 years of age, is still hale and vigorous, both in body and mind. The shock of paralysis which he sometime ago experienced still causes him some inconvenience, but does not prevent his moving about, and his striking face and imposing figure, in its somewhat odd dress, has become quite familiar to people of the West End, where he has resided. All who came in contact with the venerable poet were charmed by his cheery kindness, his wit and humor and his intelligent conversation. He has by no means ceased to write, and during the last two or three weeks of his stay in Boston produced several new pieces, which will appear for the first time in the new edition of his poems. Mr. Whitman is eminently the poet of passing events. He does not seek for a grand subject for his muse, but being of a poetic nature he sees the poetry that exists in events almost commonplace. They suggest a poetic thought, and he gives it expression in his own peculiar style. In fact, the most of his short poems are but the expression of a single thought. As an illustration of Mr. Whitman's grasping an idea, may be instanced his poem, entitled, "The Sobbing of the Bells," first published in the POST. Mr. Whitman was awakened by the tolling of the bells announcing the death of President Garfield. He appreciated the pathos of the event, and rising, wrote the few lines which so beautifully expressed the sentiment, and which have already become famous. Mr. Whitman's poems have been severely critcised, but much of this criticism is due to a failure to understand. Whether his peculiar style of expression is to be commended or not may be a question, but the beauty of the thoughts expressed cannot be denied. Among the new poems to appear in the volume we take the privilege of quoting a few. The following lines, suggested by hearing a regimental band in the wilds of the far west, is another illustration of Mr. Whitman's ability to see the poetry of ordinary events: ITALIAN MUSIC IN DAKOTA. ["The Seventeenth—the finest Regimental band I ever heard."] Through the soft evening air enwinding all, Rocks, woods, fort, cannon, pacing sentries, endless wilds, In dulcet streams, in flutes' and cornets' notes, Electric, pensive, turbulent, artificial, (Yet strangely fitting even here, meanings unknown before, Subtler than ever, more harmony, as if born here, related here, Not to the city's fresco'd rooms, not to the audience of the opera house, Sounds, echoes, wandering strains, as really here at home, Sonnambula's innocent love, trios with Norma's anguish, And thy ecstatic chorus Polinto;) Ray'd in the limpid yellow slanting sundown, Music, Italian music in Dakota. While nature, sovereign of this gnarl'd realm, Lurking in hidden barbaric grim recesses, Acknowledging rapport however far remove'd, (As some old root or soil of earth its last-born flower or fruit), Listens well pleas'd. Another, a bit of description, is in a style well adapted to the grand scene described. SPIRIT THAT FORM'D THIS SCENE. [Written in Platte Canon, Colorado.] 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 revelest here—spirit that form'd this scene, They have remember'd thee. In four lines Mr. Whitman catches a thought that embalms philosophy in poetry. It is this: ROAMING IN THOUGHT. [After reading Hegel.] Roaming in thought over the Universe, I saw the little that is good steadily hastening towards immortality, And the vast all that is call'd Evil I saw hastening to merge itself and become lost and dead. Two other poems of exceptional merit and both new, we quote: The first is: THE DALLIANCE OF THE EAGLES. Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest,) Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles, The rushing amorous contact high in space together, The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel, Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight crappling, In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling, Till o'er the river pois'd, the twain yet one, a moment's lull, A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing, Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight, She hers, he his, pursuing. The second like the one previously quoted is inspired by bird life, and its force is apparent: TO THE MAN-OF-WAR BIRD. 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), Now a blue point, far, far in heaven floating, As to the light emerging here on deck I watch thee, (Myself a speck, a point on the world's floating vast) Far, far at sea, After the night's fierce drifts have strewn the shore with wrecks, With reappearing day as now so happy and serene, The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun, The limpid spread of air cerulean, Thou also reappearest. 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's 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! Mr. Whitman still braves the criticism adverse to certain passages of his poems which has been made. He has expunged none of the lines, except to gain conciseness. That the public is gradually coming to appreciate Walt Whitman and recognize his worth as a poet is evident, and the new edition of his works will be gladly The Republican. OUR BOSTON LITERARY LETTER. PHILOSOPHY, ANTIQUITIES AND HISTORY. Prof Morris's Philosophical Series—Prof Watson on Kant—Dr Harris and His Quarterly—Goldwin Smith—Walt Whitman's New Book. From Our Special Correspondent. Boston, Tuesday, November 8. It is the era of the philosophers once more, if we may [?] which boys carve out of a pumpkin or a block of wood. Yet the book itself is entertaining and will give boys a good conception of what their fathers fought for on each side; for it does justice to the South as well as to the North. The account of Abraham Lincoln is pleasing and contains many of his good sayings. It was a great age, men will say hereafter, and a grand country that could produce in one generation three figures for posterity to gaze on like John Brown, Abraham Lincoln and Walt Whitman,—men unlike each other and unlike all others, such as no other land produced or could produce; embodied heroism, embodied sense and sensibility, embodied imagination. So I view the three men, in the mass of their character,—not considering the loose and trivial details which to many eyes have seemed to be the whole character. If it were possible to see the genius of a great people throwing itself now into this form, now into that,—as the prairie wheat-field takes the quick shape of the passing wind—it would be just to say that we had seen this mystery in the "plain heroic magnitude of mind" with which Brown met death,—in the broad and patient wisdom of Lincoln,—and in the immense landscape of Whitman's teeming and unharvested imagination. His "Leaves of Grass," as he has now published them at Osgood's in Boston, complete the vast picture of his mind and bring out not merely the confusion of details, which we could only see at first, by the light of poetic flashes—but the broad unity of the piece. It is as if the ancient seamen had found their ocean-god slumbering along his shores, and upon near view could only see a hand here, an eyebrow there, a floating mass of beard elsewhere,—but when they stood back from the strand, or best if they climbed a hill of prospect, the symmetry and articulation of the mighty frame plainly appeared, and they knew by sight their unconscious divinity, Neptune. There is in Whitman's verse, more than in any other modern poet's, what Keats called "that large utterance of the early gods,"—an indistinct grandeur of expression not yet molded to the melody of Shakespeare, Lucretius and Æschylus, but like what Keats again calls "the overwhelming voice of huge Enceladus":— "Whose ponderous syllables, like sullen waves In the half-glutted hollows of reef-rock Came booming thus,"— "I announce natural persons to arise, I announce justice triumphant, I announce uncompromising liberty and equality, I announce the justification of candor and the justification of pride. I announce that the identity of these states is a single identity only, I announce the Union more and more compat, indissoluble, I announce splendors and majesties to make all the previous politics of the earth insignificant." It is when he speaks of Lincoln and the civil war that Whitman is at least indistinct, and no other of our poets—no nor all of them together—has so well caught and rendered the spirit of that struggle as he has done it. As has been remarked by others no doubt, and more than once, Whitman gives the whole episode of slavery in its relation to the war, in the strange fragment called ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLORS. Who are you, dusky woman, so ancient, hardly human, With your woolly-white and turbaned head, and bare bony feet? Why, rising by the roadside here, do you the colors greet? 'Tis while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines, Forth from thy hovel door thou Ethiopia com'st to me, As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea. Me, master, years a hundred since from my parents sundered, A little child they caught me as the savage beast is caught, Then hither me across the sea, the cruel slaver brought. No further does she say, but lingering all the day, Her high borne turbaned head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye, And courtesies to the regiments, the guidons moving by. What is it, fateful woman, so blear, hardly human? Why wag your head with turban bound, yellow, red and green? Are the things so strange and marvelous you see or have seen? This new volume of Whitman's contains philosophy, antiquities and history all in one, and is the book of the year in Boston which will bear the most reading and study. The only one to compare with it is another of Osgood's publications, Mr. Cooke's "Ralph Waldo Emerson,"—and the two are curiously related to each other. But for Emerson, Whitman might never have written, or written in another form, and what can be further from the Emersonian mode of writing than these unformed and almost lawless numbers, this broad range over the most prosaic elements of life, as well as those regions of ideal beauty in which the genius of Emerson delights? CHAMOUNI AT SUNRISE From the deep shadow of the silent fir-grove I lift my eyes, and trembling look on thee, Brow of eternity, thou dazzling peak, From whose calm hight my dreaming spirit mounts And soars away into the infinite!Boston Herald SUNDAY, OCTOBER 30, 1881. "LEAVES OF GRASS." The Complete Poems of Walt Whitman As Published by a Famous Boston House. A Friendly Characterization of the Poet's Work. When a great man gets ahead of the world he has but to wait quietly and the world will come around to where he is. When Walt Whitman was welcomed to Olympus a quarter of a century ago, his greatness was as secure as it is today, when he is acknowledged by the people whose greatness inspires his verse. In all quarters of the Union, North, South, East and West, Walt Whitman has the warmest personal friends who, if they have not met him face to face, have felt the grasp of his hand in his words. No other man has expressed his personality so strongly in his poems. One of the best characterizations of "Leaves of Grass" is that of a lady, who said: "It does not read like a book; it seems like a man." The publication of the complete poems of Walt Whitman by one of the leading publishers of the United States if a literary event, for through it the greatest American poet has come to the birthright denied him so long. It has, indeed, mattered little to him, for he has bided his time patiently and serenely, and when such captains of the mind as Emerson and Tennyson reached out their hands in a friendly recognition, he could rest satisfied that the multitude would some day acknowledge the prophet hailed by those leaders. The date of the following lines seems remote enough: Concord, Mass., July, 1855. Dear Sir: I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of the "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 a ways making of what seemed 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 which so delights us, and which large percept on 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 [?], 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 the postoffice. I wish to see my benefactor, and have felt much like striking my task and visiting New York to pay you my respects. R. W. Emerson. Though these words were afterward somewhat taken back—a little Galileo-like, through fear of the New England pope called prudery—it was the true Emerson who spoke his heart then. "Leaves of Grass" have been harvested several times and bound in sheaves of various form, from the quaint first edition, which was, both body and soul, the work of Walt Whitman, to that of the New York publisher who was so frightened at what he had done that he BACKED OUT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE; that of the Boston publisher, which has been the standard for many years because of the limited demand; the personal edition published by the poet himself; one or more English editions, and now at last the edition just published by James R. Osgood & Co., a compact volume of 382 pages, with all the elements of attractive typography, binding form and price needed for the great popular success which the work is sure to achieve. That beside its assured hearty reception the book will be much maligned and ridiculed is a matter of course, for as it is read more so will there be more opposition to its lessons. But it is a test of greatness that ridicule it as much as you will, the ridicule will not stick. Walt Whitman has survived the great storms that have assailed him, and his fame is secure from the pattering of little showers. The new edition contains all his poems; the only changes that have been made are in the way of condensation of utterance. There are, also, something like 20 new poems printed direct from the manuscript. There is more of a rounding and completeness of the work; the all-embracing patriotism which forms one of the poet's grandest characteristics is more comprehensive than ever before manifested. Walt Whitman did yeoman service for the Union in the hospitals of the field during the war, and he loves the whole Union. He has a warm place in his heart for the South, and it is manifested on many pages of this new edition. He writes: "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 a man, Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with stuff that is fine, One of the nation of many nations, the smallest the same and the largest the same, A southerner soon as a northerner." The titles of a number of the poems have been changed, notably that of the great poem of the work, that which strikes the key-note of the volume, "Walt Whitman," being now known as "Song of Myself." At the beginning of this song is a portrait of the poet as he was when "Leaves of Grass" was gestating, a steel engraving from an old daguerreotype taken in 1856 when Walt Whitman was 37 years old. He was then a carpenter, building and selling cottage houses in Brooklyn, and the picture was taken impromptu one warm June afternoon by Gabriel Harrison. The picture is well described by the lines: "Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering at it." THE OLD OBJECTIONS will, of course, be brought up. Many will say they agree with the ideas, but what is the use of printing them in the shape of poetry? Because it reads better that way, and it is poetry of the noblest kind, may be answered. Why is it that so many still insist that conventional form is necessary to poetry? Do they admire the flowers most, or the vase? In Milton's day many maintained that "Paradise Lost" was not a poem because it was not in rhyme. In the "Leaves of Grass" the blades are of unequal length, but they are ever fresh and beautiful, and full of sweet nutriment. Thought, and truth, and strength, and nobility, and grand proportions, whose symmetry belittles inequalities of metre, are all there, and rythmic swing is there. Is anything more needed for poetry? One of the great features of Walt Whitman is that he does not seek his ideals in far-away times, which, stripped of their glamor of remoteness, are but as the times of today; or, in supreme moments, he idealizes the commonplace, and has the clearness of vision that discerns the gleam of gold through all the accumulated dross. The large and magnificent tolerance that includes all and allows for all, and finds a place for all, is a sublime characteristic of the man. There is so much in these lines that they cannot be packed into layers of equal length. The book teems with the ecstasy of being. The statement of details into which the poet now and then drops has been criticised as "cataloguing." But viewed with the poet's intention, what a mosaic picture of the people, of the nation and its races, is thus constituted! One sees the stir and hears the hum of the entire land; feels the pulse of the multitude. What is the use of attempting to depict such a thing—it can't all be shown. But the effect is like a gleam of sunshine in the depths of a forest; it reveals many things with vivid distinctness; there is a vast reserve of hidden things which might be seen, but enough is shown to tell what is there—to give the character of the place. Do not these fragments, picked from different parts of the country, at random, give an idea of what the life of that country is: "The groups of newly-come immigrants 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 ballroom, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other, The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the musical rain, The wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron, The squaw, wrapt in her yellow-bemm'd cloth, if offering moccasins and bead bags for sale, The connoisseur peers along the exhibition gallery, with half-shut eyes bent sideways." THE WANT OF ARTISTIC GRACE in form is compensated for by the artistic picturesqueness of form. In a measure, the poet makes pictures of his poems, and thus strengthens their individuality. For instance, the frequent use of italics and parentheses and the choice of odd words now and then—a bit of Spanish or French. Camerado and Libertad are favorites. These foreign words and phrases seem to depict unassimilated fragments floating on the life-current of the nation. Many intelligent people fail to comprehend; they can't see what the poet is driving at—it is all so strange and unwonted, or unlike previous models. They get too close to the canvass; they see nothing but paint and brush marks; they do not take it all in—they do not see the picture. What a daring use of color! Only a strong man would wield such a brush. Should a weaker man attempt such bold figures, he would make himself ridiculous; it would seem like affectation, as it would should he wear unconventional dress. But Walt Whitman can carry it off. He looks exceedingly well in his broad hat, wide collar and suit of modest gray. We all want more freedom of movement, but he can afford to take it, and is not afraid. Read this vivid description of a sunrise: "To behold the day-break! The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows, The air tastes good to my palate. Hefts of moving world at innocent gambols silently rising, freshly exuding, Scooting obliquely high and low. Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs, Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven." And this from one of the many pictures of death: "And as to you, corpse. I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me, I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing, I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons." There is much that will not be understood by many, much to which many will object, but as willing guests who approach a bountifully spread table, upon which are dishes which some like and some dislike, and others again can learn to like—there is enough of grandeur and beauty and truth, so that every body can TAKE AWAY SOMETHING TO HIS TASTE. The poems are not to be accepted too literally, and the poet understood to be doing or wishing to do everything which is spoken of under the cover of the first person—he simply expresses his capacity to feel universally; he impersonates all humanity in himself, puts himself in its place, and surveys the universe from his standpoint—as everyone is to himself the central point of the world. "I do not say these things for a dollar, or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat, (It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of you. Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen'd)." Walt Whitman is the poet of evolution—modern science finds its prophet in him. He conjoins materialism with ideality. He is religious in the largest sense. "Each is not for its own sake, I say the whole earth and all the stars in the sky are for religion's sake. I say no man has ever yet been half devout enough, None has ever adored or worship'd half enough, None has begun to think how divine he himself is, and how certain the future is." The course of the "Song of Myself" is like that of a noble drama, and it has the sublimest moments in its culmination. How sound physical health asserts itself here: "I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd, I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth." What an omnisciently inspired and sustained note in the passages beginning with the following: "I heard what was said of the universe, I heard it and heard it of several thousand years; It is middling well as far as it goes—but is that all? Magnifying and applying come I, Outbidding at the start the old cautions 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." "I do not despise you priest, all time, the world over, My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths, Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern." "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 nebular cohered to an orb, The long, slow strats 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 on this spot I stand with my robust soul." WAS EVER THE COURSE OF CREATION more concisely and grandly stated? Does it not make old fables turn pale? It is a lofty height from which all this is said down to the world. Taking the national side of the poet, were the local names ever more truthfully or poetically expressed than in the following: "The red aborigines, Leaving natural breaths, sounds of rain and winds, calls as of birds and animals in the woods, syllabled to us for names, Okonee, Koosa, Ottawa, Monongahela, Sauk, Natchez, Chattahoochee, Kaqueta, Oronoco, Wabash, Miami, Saginaw, Chippewa, Oshkosh, Wall-Wall, Leaving such to the States they melt, they depart, charging the water and the land with names." It is interesting to note some of the favorite passages of the poet's most eminent admirers. The lines previously quoted, "I heard what was said of the universe," are specially admired by J. T. Trowbridge, who knows them by heart. The favorite passage of the late Prof. Clifford, the Englishman, who was one of the first to introduce the poet to transatlantic audiences were the glowing lines to night: "I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night, Press close bare-bosomed night—press close magnetic nourishing night! Nights of south winds—might of the large few stars! Still nodding night—mad naked summer night. Smile, O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of departed sunset—earth of the mountains misty-topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbow' earth—rich apple-blossom'd earth! Smile, for your lover comes. Prodigal, you have given me love—therefore, I to you give love! O unspeakable passionate love." The favorite poem of Charles Summer's was the first one under the head of "Sea-Drift," the idyl of sunny lovliness, called "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking." The poem is too long to quote here, but here is one of its lyrics, the song of two mated birds, "Two Feathered Guests from Alabama": Shine! shine! shine! Pour down your warmth, great sun! While we task, 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. Of the poems here collected for the first time that was written in Platte cañon, Colorado, amid its awful ruggedness and grandeur, is a magnificent justification of the poet's methods: 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 revelest here—spirit that form'd this scene, They have remember'd thee.IN "ITALIAN MUSIC IN DAKOTA" a charming picture is given of the effect of music on a quiet evening at a solitary frontier post. All familiar with the plains will respond to the chord here struck: Through the soft evening air en winding all, Rocks, woods, fort, cannon, pacing sentries, endless wilds, In dulcet streams, in flutes' and cornets' notes, Electric, pensive, turouient, artificial, (Yet strangely fitting even here, meanings unknown before, Subtler than ever, more harmony, as if born here, related here, Not to the city's fresco'd rooms, not to the audience of the opera house. Sounds, echoes, wandering strains, as really here at home, Sonnambula's innocent love, trios with Norma's anguish. And thy ecstatic chorus, Poliuto); Ray'd in the limpid yellow slanting sundown, Music, Italian music in Dakota. While Nature, soveriegn of this gnarl'd realm, Lurking in hidden barbaric grim recesses, Acknowledging rapport, however far remov'd, (As some old root or soil of earth its last-born flower or fruit). Listens well pleas'd. In the lines to Gen. Grant, returned from his world's tour, he says that what best he sees in him is not the tributes paid to him, but that in his walks with kings the prairie sovereigns of the West, "Invisibly with thee walking with kings with even pace the round world's promenade, were all so justified." Others of these new poems, full of beauty, are "Thou orb aloft full dazzling" (which was rejected by a leading editor last summer, on the ground that his readers would not understand it), "To the Man-of-War Bird," "Patrolling Barnegat," "My Picture Gallery," "The Prairie States," a tribute to Custer's memory called "From far Dakota's Cañons," "A Riddle Song," inspired by the mystery of lite, and the following tender, reverential lines to his mother's memory: AS AT THY PORTALS ALSO, DEATH. 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. Face to face with lines which approach the grave with such classic nobility of step, who can say that Walt Whitman is not a poet? A thoughtful writer of German birth and education, but living today in America, has said that some of the main features and themes of "Leaves of Grass" may be designated as individuality, inevitable law, physical health, modernness, open-air nature, democracy, comradeship, the indissoluble union, good will to other lands, perfect state equality, with modernness like a canopy over all, and a resumption of the old Greek ideas of nudity and the divinity of the body, with the Hebrew sacredness of paternity, while the war, the sea, the night, the south and poems of death are also frequently recurring themes. His treatment of the last-mentioned theme is specially notable in the "Memories of President Lincoln." In the stately elegy which begins these memories, "When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed," the threading of the theme shows a high dramatic instinct. As the singer walks the night with the knowledge of death and the thought of death as companions, the warble of the gray-brown bird singing in the swamp the song of death pervades it all. The notes recur like the motive of a symphony, and at last THE SONG BREAKS FORTH: 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 fe Have none chanted for thee a chant of fulle come? Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all I bring thee a song that, when thou must indeed come unfalteringly. The foregoing lines are but a part of bird song. Another song on the death of L coln, "Oh Captain! My Captain!" is alrea established as a popular American classic. The poet Stedman, in a recent article, us the unfortunate expression that his apprech tive criticism on "Walt Whitman," printed Scribner's some months ago, was churlish received. The writer chances to know the Mr. Stedman has somehow sadly misapprehended the state of the case. Mr. Whitma has the warmest personal regard for M Stedman, of whom he speaks with a genuin liking, and he felt the real worth of Mr. Stedman's article, but he also felt that Mr. Stedman had failed to grasp the wholeness of th work, though no finer characterization of ti parts could be found. "Leaves of Grass" a kosmos, and the leaving out of that whi Mr. Stedman, in common with many, fin objectionable, would make it like an impe fect body. One of the greatest of living a thors, in speaking with the writer about th passage in Mr. Stedman's article, where it w states that nature always covered up her ba and ugly spots, and that, therefore, such d not belong in the field of poetry, said th there were times when nature was bare a ugly, that it was the province of art to truthful to nature, and that genius could tre these themes without offence. In all Wa Whitman there is no more evil thought th in the sprouting of a bud or the waftin pollen on the wings of springtime. Fo nately it is based upon a law more stable t the fickle suffrages of the multitude, or t wishes of those who would have had hi write differently, and, therefore, but partially true. [*2066A*] -Walt Whitman does not highly regard the city across the river from his Camden home. "I never heard," he says, to a reporter. "that Philadelphia had any literary perception, fine taste, or judgment. It is a place for material things and conservative people, for fat conventionalities, and well-established customs. I cannot class it with other cities, and you must not compel me to talk about it." [*2067A*] [*Ex, NY "Sun" of 11/17/81.*] The Republican. SPRINGFIELD: WEDNESDAY, APRIL 19. 19, 1876 [*covel To W. W.*] WALT WHITMAN. A VISIT TO THE GOOD GRAY POET. His philosophy and Way of Life - His Home in New Jersey - His New Volumes. From Our Special Correspondent. Philadelphia, April 13, 1876. More than ten years ago, when that illustriuous statesman and Christian, Secretary Harian of Iowa, turned Walt Whitman out of his little clerkship in the department of the interior at Washington, one of his eager young friends, Mr O'Connor, printed a warm defense of Whitman, in which he termed him "the good gray poet.' Whitman was then but 46 years of age, or a little older than Thoreau was when he died in 1862, but he had already begin to wear the grizzled beard and silvering locks that have become almost the badge of American poets, since Dana and Bryant and Longfellow have worn them so many years. Emerson, almost alone among the elder poets, has avoided the medieval beard and the insignia of old age - but even he, when 73 years old, as he will be, next month, will have laid aside much of that youthful and alert air that so long have marked him among men and poets. The story of Tithonus is still a parable of the poet, - he is immortal in his love, but loses with years the freshness of his life, and, at last, implores the goddess who made him happy to discharge him from her service and grant him repose among the dead. - "Thou seest all things - thou wilt see my grave, Thou wilt renew thy beauty, morn by morn; I, earth in earth, forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels." Now that Whitman has come almost to his 57th birthday (he was born at West Hills, Long Island, May 31, 1819), and has, for some time, been a confirmed invalid, he has assumed more entirely the grayness that was ascribed to him, and were he inclined to complain, like Tithonus, he might sigh forth, in remembering his former free and joyous life, of which his verses are so full, and contrasting it with his present retirement,- "Alas for this gray shadow, once a man, So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed To his great heart none other than a god. How can my nature longer mix with thine? Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds. I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world, A white-haired shadow, roaming like a dream The ever silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists and gleaming halls of morn." But, like Thoreau in his later months of illness and retirement, Whitman, though graver than formerly, is none the less cheerful, and has no complaints or reproaches against the Muse or against the power that rules the world. Certain statements made in his name about the neglect of critics and publishers, and the hardships of poverty, have come from him only as a mention of the simple fact, and not as reproaches or entreaties, and they ought not so to be interpreted. "For never poor beseeching glance Shamed that sculptured countenance." Whitman has long been a standing text in the newspapers for such wit as Heaven has provided us with, who write, as he once did, for the daily or weekly reader. He provokes jests by his mode of expression and by the contrast he presents to the ordinary and accepted way of life among Americans. He provokes also something more serious than the transient animosity that culminates in a parody or a joke, by the resolute way in which he intrudes, among ideal things, the fleshly and generative forces out of which human life springs, but of which the human soul is reasonably a little shy. This part of his philosophy - for such it is - must not be confounded with the erotic paroxysms of Swinburne, or the cold obscurities of Martial and other elder poets. It is a more ideal phase than those, and, with a little more refinement and modesty in its presentation, would be hardly worse than Shakespeare's treatment of the same matters. It is, for all that, a very great stone of stumbling and ground of offense to the better portion of his readers, and especially to women, upon whom, of late years, and perhaps always, poets have much depended for their audience. It is by taking advantage of this blot that good Peter Bayne has been able to find so many readers for his dull abuse of Whitman in the Contemporary Review; and it is partly because some cheap and nasty poets in England rave a little too much about Whitman's genius (attracted by this very whim of his), that the virtuous people regard him with so much disgust. In sober fact his verses are cleaner and his life incomparably more praiseworthy than Burns's, - whose praise is now in all the churches as well as among the people. But Burns had more romance and melody in his composition, and drew the other sex to read his poems by this attraction. Whitman has a broader range of thought than Burns, and touches upon many of the same chords of emotion, but for lack of the poetic form and melody can never, I suppose, be a popular writer, though very popular in his instincts and his topics. But as a moralist, or as a man of wholesome life and influence, no serious charge can be brought against Whitman, and when the balance is struck between him and certain idols of the people - say Beecher, for instance, - the judgment, even of his own time, will not be heavily against the poet, as compared with the preacher. My first glimpse of Whitman was under such circumstances that I could not easily forget him. It was in April, 1860, when I had been seized at night by the United States marshal, under an unlawful warrant from Washington - as thousands have been since, - had then been taken from him by the sheriff and carried before the Massachusetts supreme court on a writ of habeas corpus. It was feared by some persons that, even if Judge Shaw discharged me (as je did), I might be again seized by the bailiffs of the slave-power, then in its last days of supremacy at Washington, and hurried away in defiance of the state authority. A large number of friends gathered in the court-room in Boston to prevent this by force, if necessary, and among them came Whitman, who was then in the city, publishing the second edition of his "Leaves of Grass." As I sat listening to the arguments of Andrew and Sewall in my behalf, and of Woodbury against them, and watched with admiration the dark, heavy judicial countenance of old Judge Shaw - as striking as the ugliest and wisest of the English chancellors, - I suddenly became aware of another face, no less remarkable, in the court-room. It was Whitman's, - he sat on a high seat near the door, wearing his loose jacket and open shirt-collar, over which poured the fullness of his beard, while above that the large and singular blue eyes, under heavy arching brows, wandered over the assembly, as some stately creature of the fields turns his eyes slowly about him in the presence of many men. I had heard that Whitman was present, and instantly conjectured him to be the magnificent stranger, as indeed he was. A few days afterward, I met him at his publisher's, and heard him expound his new philosophy, as he sat on the counter and listened to my compliments and objections. From that day - 16 years ago - I had not seen him nor exchanged letters with him, until to-day. Hearing that he was brought to an anchor by his guardian genius, and owing him much good-will for the incident above- mentioned, as well as for his brave work in the world, I thought it a duty as well as a pleasure to go and see him. And a pleasure it certainly proved to be - for I found him, as one would wish to find such a person, master of himself and superior to his circumstances, which, also, are less painful than may have been supposed from the ejaculations of Mr Robert Buchanan. Whitman could echo the proud words of his friend Tennyson: - "Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; With that wild wheel we go not up or down; Our hoard is little, but hearts are great. Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate." Whitman lives comfortably and pleasantly, as an invalid can, with his brother, Col George W. Whitman, who is inspector of gas-pipes in the city of Camden. This is a populous but quiet place of twenty or thirty thousand inhabitants - in New Jersey, though a suburb of Philadelphia, - and the street where the Whitmans live (Stevens street, near Fifth) is a still, Philadelphia - looking quarter, of long rows of brick houses with white marble door-steps and white wooden shutters, in one of which, at a street corner, Whitman has taken up his abode. This house has a bay-window on the side street, by which I was directed to it from one of the neighboring houses; and through this bay-window the poet pointed out to me a magnolia-tree in a garden across the way, already in bloom at 11 o'clock, though at sunrise, as he said, not a bud upon it had unclosed. This was the second magnolia -tree I have noticed in blossom, yesterday and to-day, the season not being very forward. Eleven years ago, as Whitman says, when President Lincoln was assassinated (to-morrow is the anniversary), the lilac-bushes were in blossom in his mother's door-yard on Long Island; and ever since then the smell of the lilac brings to his mind the tragedy of Lincoln's death. You may reach Whitman's home at Camden in half an [*2068*]hour from the Continental hotel in Philadelphia, --taking the street cars down Market street to the Camden ferry-boat (10 minutes), then crossing the Delaware, which takes 10 minutes more, and then driving up Fifth to Stevens street, and walking the short distance to the next corner where Whitman lives. The ferry-boat crosses every 15 minutes, and the street cars run all the time, so that it is easier and quicker to make the pilgrimage from Philadelphia than it is to visit the centennial grounds, where thousands daily throng. Whitman is not thronged with visitors, though many persons come to see him,--and I had a two hours' talk with him alone, to-day,-- interrupted only by the coming of a man to bring him a few books, and by the visit of a neighbor's child, a little girl, who told us we could see the baby (Whitman's nephew and namesake, five months old), which we did accordingly. In the room where I found Whitman, a few books were to be seen in a book-case, and two remarkable paintings hung on the wall. One was the portrait of Whitman himself, painted perhaps a dozen or fifteen years ago, before his hair and beard were gray and before his face had lost the colors of youth. The other is a good painting, perhaps 150 years old, of a Dutch ancestor of Whitman's whom he greatly resembles,--both having the ruddy, sensuous and thoughtful face, with strongly-marked eyebrows, and the ancestor, like the poet, wearing his coat open at the neck. The poet now dresses in gray clothes, matching well with his hair and beard, and wears a white scarf or handkerchief loosely tied about his neck above his blue waistcoat--altogether a picturesque and befitting attire, careless but effective. He was sitting by the window as I approached the house, and he opened the door to let me in--walking slowly and with a cane, but not painfully. He suffers much at times from his disorder, which he described as "a baffling kind of paralysis," that first attacked him three years ago, and from which he never expects fully to recover. It is not only reduces his strength and affects his power of motion, but also attacks his digestive organs, and thus causes him many miserable hours--some of which he had experienced that morning, he said. But the expectation of my coming had toned him up, he thought, and he then felt well for an invalid, and cheerful, as he always seems to be. He talks gravely and with a melodious, manly voice, now and then affected by a slight hesitation, as if paralysis were giving him a hint not to move his tongue too much; and very simply, using words without affectation, and choosing them for their fitness to express the idea or the picture in his mind. He talked no more about himself than most men do, and what he said on that score was interesting, which is not the case with most men. He is, certainly, a deeply interesting person, and it was easy to see what drew to him the admiration of Emerson, Alcott and Thoreau, who made his acquaintance in the years before the war--now so far remote. He is, indeed, a distinguished and superior person, apart from what he has written, and has an individuality as marked in its way as was that of Thoreau himself, who was but a year or two older than Whitman. Like Thoreau, Whitman spent much of his life with his mother and sister, between whom and himself the closest affection existed. Indeed, his attack of paralysis in Washington in 1873 was aggravated by the death, soon after, of his mother, his sister having died a little while before. His father, who was a farmer on Long Island, died in 1855, when Whitman was preparing to publish the first edition of "Leaves of Grass." Before this he had written sketches for the Democratic Review, and had helped edit several newspapers--among them the "Plebeian," the editor of which bore the appropriate name of Levi D. Slamm. Thoreau was also a writer for the Democratic Review in those days before the flood,--so were Hawthorne and, I believe, Bryant. Whitman does not estimate American literature as most people do, but there isnothing mean or petty in the view he takes of it and of its chief authors. He thought it fortunate for American poetry that it has had for its sponsors four poets so manly, clean and strong as Emerson, Bryant, Longfellow and Whittier. Only one of these was his personal acquaintance, and Longfellow and Whittier I believe he never saw. Lowell he once saw for a few minutes, in the days when he wore his auburn hair long and sat for his portrait to Page, and wrote socialistic and anti-slavery poems for the newspapers. The Cambridge scholar, young, handsome and fat, as Whitman describes him, gave the Brooklyn mechanic-editor, who then saw him at the office of "The Plebeian," a high and pleasing conception of Yankee poets,--but he has not since set eyes on him. Emerson he came to know a few years later,--the Concord poet having sought him out in New York. Alcott and Thoreau called upon him at his mother's house in Brooklyn during a visit they were making in New York about 1858, and Alcott had since visited him, perhaps in Washington, where Miss Alcott, like Whitman, was a hospital nurse. He told me how he came to visit the camps,--his brother, the colonel, was badly wounded, and Whitman went down to Virginia to take care of him--perhaps to bring home his body. Though he found him better than was feared, yet other soldiers needed his care, and he never left that kind of hospital service during the war. To my mind the best poems that he has written were inspired by the war--and there are short passages, not so much poems as sentences, which are worthy to live, as perhaps they will, among those that Plutarch (and Homer before him) has handed down to immortality. Here are some such,--the first containing his advice to his countrymen in regard to state rights, in which Whitman firmly believes, though he was a strong antagonist of slavery and disunion. He calls it:-- [*2068A*] My Dear Walt The following, I clip from "The Danbury News." Yours. Cal [*2070*] WALT WHITMAN'S CAUTION. "To The States or any one of them, or any city of The States,--Resist much, obey little; Once unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved, Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth ever afterward resumes its liberty." Where could you find that doctrine more concisely taught, in spite of repetitions? Here is a portrait of Washington as good as any every drawn,--Brooklyn Hights being the foreground:-- "And is this the ground Washington trod? And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are thee the waters he crossed, As resolute in defeat as other generals in their proudest triumphs?" Of a high officer in the civil war Whitman says:-- "I saw old General at bay, Old as he was, his gray eyes yet shone out in battle like stars, His small force was now completely hemmed in, on his works." And how could the whole connection of slavery with the civil war and its results be better summed up than in this strong poem?-- ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLORS. [A Reminiscence of 1864.] I. Who are you, dusky woman, so ancient, hardly human, With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare, bony feet? Why, rising by the road-side here, do you the colors greet? II. 'Tis while our army lines Carolina's sand and pines, Forth from thy hovel door, thou, Ethiopia, cont'st to me, As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea. III. Me, master, years a hundred, since from my parents sundered, A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught, Then hither me, across the sea, the cruel slaver brought. IV. No further does she say, but lingering all the day, Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye, And curtseys to the regiments, the guidons moving by. V. What is it, fateful woman, so blear, hardly human? Why wag your head with turban bound--yellow, red and green? Are the things so strange and marvelous, you see or have seen? To return for a moment to the comparison with Burns, here is a poem which cannot be sung like "Scots wha hae," but which is even more startling and moving than that. Whitman's lament for Lincoln also is as touching as most and more sublime than any of Burns's laments for earls and comrades. He, like Whitman, was a true and warm-hearted comrade, and his poetry speaks much of that. But Whitman considers it his mission to have celebrated comradeship in his poems, just as he has idealized democracy in his philosophy. He wishes his works to be regarded (and so they are now published by himself) as a whole. So regarded, he believes that the objectionable passages will be found to have as natural a place in them, as the animal life of man has in his whole existence. He considers his philosophy a spiritual one-- certainly an ideal one,--and by the maturer judgment of the world he is content to abide, as he must, in regard to his rank as a poet and philosopher. In these years of illness and enforced quiet, he has much considered and revised his books, and now he publishes them as he wishes them to stand and to be read. They make two volumes of about 700 pages in all, with three portraits of the author, and his autograph signature, finely bound, and sold for $5 a volume. The small edition he had prepared is selling fast, and he will print another. Perhaps even some publisher may come forward and offer to print for him, but he prefer s now to be his own publisher. [*2068B*] -------------------------------------- [*Very good letter - Ray Sanborn*] We struck a paragraph, yesterday, about Walt Whitman, and thought to wrench a joke out of it, but were obliged to back out for want of nerve before getting half through the item as follows: "Walt Whitman is living quietly in Camden, working steadily and unobtrusively, and occasionally appearing in public for some charitable object. He gave a reading the other evening for the benefit of the poor of the town. The Camden Press speaks of Whitman's old age as black and desolate, since the magazines refuse his contributions, and English abuse of him is copied far and wide. The Press adds: "But the poet himself is more resolute and persevering than ever. Old, poor, and paralyzed, he has for a twelve month past been occupying himself by preparing, largely with his own handiwork here in Camden, a small edition of his complete works in two volumes, which he himself now sells, partly 'to keep the wolf from the door' in old age, and partly to give before he dies as absolute an expression, as may be, of his ideas." [*2069*] Walt Whitman may rest assured that his name will be sacredly cherished in this paper as long as the writer has charge of it. The New-York Times, Sunday, January 22, 1882. WHITMAN, POET AND SEER A REVIEW OF HIS LITERARY SCHEME, WORK, AND METHOD.* I. No writer has been more persistently condemned, and none more persistently and passionately praised, than Walt Whitman has been. He is, we are constantly told, a great poet and a big wind-bag, a profound seer and a boisterous humbug. He disgusts or inspires, he awakens either disdain or devotion. The fine tone of truth has seldom been touched in his case, by even trustworthy critics—although Mr. Stedman has made a temperate and discriminate review of his work. This poet must be, it is insisted, rejected wholly or accepted, and to those who accept him—especially to the young hearts and minds that look straight and sharply to the future—he is an interesting and suggestive personality. It is certainly true that the large reading public, and above all the masses whom Whitman celebrates and extolls, have barely an acquaintance or none at all with his books. They have heard of him by way of much acrimonious controversy, and they have perhaps learned by this time that he counts his supporters among some of the liberal and trained minds of Europe. But his public has been, unfortunately, a narrow circle, and his books have not, therefore, been tested after the usual and trying fashion. A chance is now offered to readers who wish to find out for themselves what sort of a poet Whitman is, for his stray writings, collected in a single and convenient book, have just been published, rearranged and edited by the author. This book is the life work, the first and final word, of Walt Whitman. It presents him—or, as he would probably say, his personality—under all possible lights. It brings together, at last, the fractions and outgrowths of his poetic scheme; and it gains thus a harmony and an intellectual completeness which have been heretofore distinctly wanting. If there is clear purpose, and if there is philosophical conception, in Whitman's poems—"ravings" is the word more often used—they should be apparent now. As to his poetic scheme, aside from quality and method of endeavor, that has a breadth and an originality which criticism cannot lessen if it would. Just what this scheme is may be briefly pointed out. Whitman holds himself to be, in the first place, the representative of new forces in society and in nature. He stands for the American democracy, for the unity and supremacy of the mass, for a nationality which may be regarded as the focus and adjustment of all past nationalities, and for a liberty of body and spirit which no other people save the American people has been finally crowned with. So much for his Americanism, which has an inherent meaning and a power, in spite of all that is said to the contrary. The new forces of nature which Whitman represents in his scheme are scientific forces. As Shelley and Hugo have stood forth and sung for revolutionary progress, he stands forth and sings for scientific progress. Others have pictured the future through the clamor of fire of struggle; he pictures it through the spiritual and material evolution of man. It is here that Whitman is most personal and original. He is the first poet who has touched nature through close knowledge; the first poet who has suggested simply the law and the harmony of the universe, the first who has looked upon external life as a cosmos. He—the leader of his line—has attempted to express what Henry Sedgwick called "cosmic emotion." He has undertaken to grasp the facts of the world and to make these known as poetic facts; to avoid those new literary idealisms and conventionalisms which, to the naturalist and thoughtful observer, are empty child-talk. Poets have written nobly and feelingly of the force and mystery of nature, but always with the slightest possible bulk of learning. Nature is fittingly, truthfully, and powerfully described in the great books of science, not in the songs of the poets. Whitman must have felt this long ago, and he threw himself into the spirit of his century, a century of broad inquiry, keen analysis, and wonderful synthesis. Many of his poems contain the only glimpses to be found in poetry of the real order and meaning of nature. His poetic scheme, therefore, may be rightfully called original. Democracy and cosmos—these, then, are the two starting points in Whitman's ambitious undertaking. His ideas radiate from these points. They lead to his views upon humanity, personality, individual freedom, fraternity, and labor; to his notion of the identity of body and spirit; to his theory of chastity and morality; to his idealization of peoples and trades; to the necessity of egotism and charity; to his conception of progress, and to the essential godhead of man. He seeks, perhaps unconsciously, to stand as an idealist and as a realist, to make democracy and men seem what they are not, and to tell plain facts about them at the same time. Toward nature he is, so far as he goes, a realist, because he is always striving to realize the truth—absolutely the scientific truth—of nature. He is, it is plain, an optimist and an egotist of the most pronounced type; for to be these is to arrive, with him, at natural conclusions. His motive as a poet is essentially a manly and straightforward one, however far and wrong of the mark he may occasionally go; for he preaches purity, courage, virility, liberty, and effort. It is one of his doctrines that there is nothing immoral in fact or in act: there is simply immorality of purpose. He believes that there is forgiveness for all sins, and perhaps, that Walt Whitman is especially designed to define such forgiveness. He believes in the strength and glory and security of humanity in himself, and his mission, in his own eyes, becomes Christ-like. He disdains, of course, the accepted laws of art. He imagines that he can do without these. He constructs, therefore, a language fitted to himself. He stands—so he seems to think—too high for art. Beauty of form may be left to the polishers and the piano players; it is not for the prophets and the Whitmans. On the whole, we have here a poet who has frankly tried less to write a book than to find voice for a man. In one of his first poems he exclaims: "The modern man I sing." In one of his last he adds: "Who touches this touches a man." His text is—and it is a stalwart text: "I stand in my place, with my own day, here!" II. It has been shown what Whitman has striven to be and to do. No one could be more in sympathy with what is real and vital in his scheme than the present writer is. But conception is not execution, and Whitman's plans are infinitely better than his work. One should hardly need to be told, in an epoch so critical and so keenly alive to humor as our own, that mere brag and buncombe and assertion to not pass unchallenged as strength; that noise and strain are not power; that extravagance is not inspiration; that orphic talk is not prophecy. It is right, of course, to credit Whitman with sincerity, with the honesty of his convictions. Many are loth to own this much; though no person, minded to learn and see the truth, can read this poet's work through and fail to feel its occasional fire and stir. Whitman writes, at his best, with deep emotion and conviction. He rises at moments to heights of poetic insight and inspiration. There are a fine lyrical sweep and a genuine epic breadth in a few of his poetic rhapsodies. This would be more clearly felt if his work were not so thickly rutted with that insane kind of nonsense which some devoted worshipers persist in calling great thought and great poetry. Whitman's work is like a rich garden embedded in weed. Flower and weed are here inextricably blended. The brag, and assertion, and wrench of this American seer will never be accepted above their value by those who know that the finest art if a result of the finest sifting of thought, intelligence, emotion, and vigor. Art, in a high sense, is the test of strength, not the sign of weakness. In placing himself above art, in confounding the ability to discriminate and shape with mere technical dexterity, Whitman puts himself on the wrong side of nature. This would not be a matter of much moment, it is true, if his clamorous upholders were not seemingly bent upon elevating his method to a doctrine. The poet who labors with no fetters run to chaos. Nature is like true art in this; it creates within laws. What is more simple and lovely to the sight than a flower? Yet consider the forces that make the flower, the elements that are parts of it, the intricacy of its mechanism; and compare these with the exquisite grace and appropriateness of its outward form. It is a rule in nature that all chaos shall tend to form and harmony; the universe is, when looked at singly, as simple a thing as the cup of a lily. Whitman and writers with his disposition pretend to be the true sight-seers of nature, while they awkwardly reflect its lawlessness and complexity. The harmony and the simplicity of nature are not shown in Whitman's poems, even when these are most true and suggestive. To teach a doctrine of lawlessness, therefore, is about the least intelligent project that his blind followers have tried to carry out. Destructive criticism might be applied to Whitman's little understood and much discussed Americanism. There is certainly a thing which may be called Americanism. This is frequently flashed out in these poems, but it is not lucidly expressed. At times it amounts to palpable rigmarole, which no one but a jaded European nurtured amid the tiresome and mournful strife of the Old World could mistake for the real thing. Our country, it may be explained, represents certain new ideas of nationality and advancement. It represents at the present moment, more strikingly and splendidly than any other land under the sun does, scientific progress as opposed to revolutionary progress. It is a land to which all the currents, and longings, and peoples of history move like rivers converging to one stream and one mouth. It is the mother of individual liberty, freedom of thought, and peaceful labor; a land, therefore, in which the researches of the world are most nobly welcomed, which leads the nations toward a righteous justice, which gives a home to all aliens. What progress may do will awaken here, above all, response and sympathy. Our country illustrates, in brief, the advancing spirit of the nineteenth century. This is certain and clear. On the other hand, we are not a people of the old rugged and uncivilized sort. We are not like those for whom Homer sang, and we stand in no need of a Moses nor of a Mohammed. We are not chiefly—as some of the exuberant persons on the other side of the Atlantic seem to think—hewers of wood and drawers of water. Our lasting honor is—and this is certainly overlooked—that are pioneership is above all intellectual. A ripe and vigorous civilization is at the heart of the land. The rabble and the unthinking mob do not represent our real vitality and progress. It should be plain, then, that our country has a peculiar individuality and a decisive mission. It is a strange union of past, present, and future. A poet like Whitman—who rhapsodizes more often than he thinks and sings—is sure to suggest something of our individuality, and he has, without doubt, gone further than other poets. But his conception of our land and people is full of exactitude, full of false idealism, and loaded with extravagance. There is too much of the red-shirted Hoosier about it. It comes close at times to the spread-eagleism of our astonishing orators, and to the fraternity of the bar-room. Its permanent merit is that it reflects, after all, something of the free and creative spirit which is the spring-source of our life. It tells us of our liberty—a small matter which our ancestors strove mournfully through hundreds of years to win, and which, now that we have got it, we are apt to prize rather loosely and humorously. All that has been written above might be illustrated by columns of extracts from "Leaves of Grass." But others may pick these out for themselves. I have simply sought to show broadly that there are radical sins and false premises at the very basis of these poems. Whitman's theory of life and humanity, and his absolute lack of sound artistic instinct and taste, lead him into extravagances which have as much relation to strong and true song as a fishmonger's bawl has to the melody of birds, or to the musical roll of water upon a stretch of shore. They lead him, also, into some monstrous excesses, and the poems comprised in "Children of Adam" are naked exhibitions of these. THe poems in questions have been struck by many lances, denounced by many mouths. Good ink has been wasted upon them. They are over-Whitmanish and not beautiful. In these fleshly diatribes the poet sets out to "make illustrious" that which is not commonly discussed in sensible and good company. He throws off his shirt, so to speak, and cries lustily, "Behold, I am Walt Whitman, I am moral." Poets have sung with more or less sense of creation—Whitman goes down to the actual facts. This may be moral. It is intended as an illustration of the highest morality. But it is—unless the world has gone wrong since the beginning of time—indecent and vulgar, not one degree above the loose talk which is, unfortunately, common enough in low places and high. As to its pretentious morality, that does not deceive, and it is solely justified in the poet's inner consciousness. The things here uttered by Whitman may be, unquestionably, thought of chastely, but they cannot be written down and seem either pure or modest. At best, they are coarse commonplace, imposed upon the reader with prophetic earnestness. At worst, they are unlawful exposures of the person. It is a relief to turn from this fustian to the "Song of Myself," which is a healthy expression of vigorous humanity and imaginative egotism—a poem in which the relation of a man to his fellow-creatures, and to his world, and to the universe, is set forth at moments with real power of manner, breadth of sympathy, and original feeling. The contradictions in this poem are clearly the result of forethought and design, for it is the good and bad in a man, according to Whitman, that awake the unchecked energy of his nature. "I resist anything better than my own diversity," he says. And he adds, with rare courage: "I accept Reality and dare not question it." There is the right sort of materialism in the following chant: "Smile, O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth! Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of departed sunset—earth of the mountain's misty topt; Earth of the vitreous form of the full moon just tinged with blue; Earth of shine and dark, mottling the tide of the river; Earth of the limpid gray of clouds, brighter and clearer for my sake. Far-swooping elbow'd earth—rich apple-blossom'd earth, Smile, for your lover comes. "Prodigal, you have given me love—therefore I to you give loe. Oh, unspeakable, passionate love!" Here is another passage from the same poem, and in the poet's less rhapsodic manner: "I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained, I stand and look at them long and long. "They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one if demented with the mania of owning things, Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable and unhappy over the whole earth." There is, of course, the usual bulk of orphic and oracular utterance in the "Song of Myself," and much of this is solemn commonplace merged into a species of transcendentalism. Its meaning is not always clear. But, on the other hand, the poetry in this song has strength and reach. The following verses were admiringly quoted by Prof. Clifford in his essay on "Cosmic Emotion:" "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 and outward and forever outward. "My sun has his sun, and round him obediently wheels, He joined with his partners a group of superior circuit, And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them. *LEAVES OF GRASS. Boston: James R. Osgood & Go. "There is no stoppage, and never can be stoppage. If I, you, 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 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 id limitless space outside of that. Count ever so much, there is limitless time aroudn that." In the "Song of the Open Road," "Song of the Answerer," "Song of Joys," "Song of the Exposition," "Song for Occupations," and in other poems more or less identical in spirit with these, there is expressed with undoubted sincerity and vigor, entire sympathy with the moods of nature, with the longings and work of mankind, and with the various sides of life. They are singular combinations of triviality, prosiness, poetic feeling, and arrogant personality. They lack, above all, the fine simplicity and clear brevity of songs meant for the popular ear and heart. Yet they have an intensely modern and popular spirit: "Away with themes of war! away with war itself! Hence from my shuddering sight to never more return that Show of blacken'd mutilated corpses! That hell unspent and void of blood, fit for wild tigers or for lop-tongued wolves, not reasoning men, And in its stead speed industry's campaigns. With thy undaunted armies, engineering, Thy pennants labor, loosen'd to the breeze, Thy bugles sounding loud and clear." That is Whitman at his best, free of verbiage and pretension, and with something to say worth saying, with honest emotion and good sense. The same lyrical sincerity is felt in the invocation to America, ("Song of the Exposition,") when he speaks of "the common indivisible destiny for all." The "Song of the Redwood Tree" is throughout a fine poem, full of brain and freedom, and the real hope and faith of our time are simply expressed in the "Song for occupations:" "The sun and stars that float in the open air, The apple-shaped earth and we upon it, surely ths drift of them is something grand, I do not know what it is except that it is grand and that it is happiness." There are truth, ardor, and inspiration in some of the songs included in "Birds of Passage," the best of these being "Pioneers, Oh Pioneers," which has a rugged rhythmic movement uncommon in Whitman's writings, although the opening to the "Music of the Storm" is equally fine, while some few other passages which have an exceptional quality of sound and rhythm are quickly remarked. The tenderness, pathos, and manhood in the series of poems called "Drum-taps" are, perhaps, the most natural and sympathetic touches in Whitman's copious and curious work, and it may be said of this work, finally, that Whitman himself marks their surest claim to attention in some of his closing verses: "Comrades, this is no book, Who touches this touches a man, (Is it night? are we here together alone?) It is I you hold, and who hold you. I spring from the pages into your arms." _________ III. The permanent value of these poems, in fact, is to be sought in their two clear merits: in their modernness, breadth, and originality of purpose, and in their presentation of a strong and fresh individuality. The aim of these poems, and the man behind them, are more distinctive than the poems themselves. "Who touches this touches a man" is an assertion which is felt to be perfectly just. The book ---judged by the standard of all great books--- falls far below greatness. There is no single poem in it which could be safely compared with any single great poem in our language. Whitman's work is fine in flashes, in strong passages, or in sudden descriptions. It is weighed down, on the other hand, with extravagances and excesses like those already spoken of, with a mass of ill-digested learning, with long stretches of windy prose, with violent and insecure handling of deep themes, with all kinds of crudity, and with a manner which is seldom effective and impressive. This manner has been considerably praised by some for its originality and free musical movement, and it has been called by others a formless manner. But it is surely not formless, since it has a perfectly definite form, deliberately chosen and full of artifice. Its rhythm, however---when it has a rhythm---is perfectly commonplace. The prose of Fenelon and Carlyle and the verse of the Bible have incomparably more poetic color, strength of language, melody and harmony of sound, than Whitman's verse at its best. The laws of natural verse are here ignored, and the result is, of course, unnatural. Compare this verse with the unrhymed movement of Shakespeare and Shelley, with that of Wordsworth's sonnets and Keats's odes, and with the rhythmic freedom of Swinburne's "Song Before Sunrise;" or compare it with the Biblical verse in the Song of Solomon. As to its [paper torn] as a medium for the transparent expression of high thought, compare the most intellectual of Whitman's poems with Tennyson's "In Memoriam." These comparisons will serve better than criticism ---to persons at least who have ears open to musical sound and minds open to conviction Language is to the poet what color is to the painter, and great and genuine thoughts should have great and genuine expressive. To master language, to garment genius fittingly--- this is the art of the poet, and this is the art which Whitman and some others appear to despise. It is art that divides truth and passion from commonplace and rate, that draws a sharp line between sustained strength and hyperbolic bluster. Whitman, however, deserves our deepest gratitude for the stand he has taken, in face of this present age, in the fore of its creative work of reconstruction, in front of its iconoclasm and science. Most of the poets ---especially the American poets---are probably against him, but the spirit of our time is not to be quenched by literary conventions, and the strong minds of our time are with him. His courageous appeal for more knowledge and still more might be fitly contrasted with the sentimental snivel of those timid creatures who weep at the passing of the good old days. These sad persons are typified by this aesthetic Mr. Wilde: "All romance has flown And men can prophesy about the sun. And lecture on his arrows --how, alone Though a waste void the souls atoms run, How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled, And that no more, 'mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head. "Methinks these new Actaeons boast too soon That they have spied on beauty; what if we Have analyzed the rainbow, robbed the moon Of her most ancient, chastest mystery, Shall I, the last Endymion lose all hope Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope?" Those two last lines are worthy of Bunthorne; but they show about as much unconscious humor as most of Bunthorne's contemporaries exhibit when they begin to vent their feelings about romance and science. Weigh such words in the balance with the wise words of Prof. Clifford: "To some minds there is hope and renewing of youth in the sense that the last word is not yet spoken, that greater mysteries yet lie behind the veil. The prophet himself may say with gladness, 'He that cometh after me shall yet be preferred before me.' But others see in the clearer vision that approaches them the end of all beauty and joy in the earth; because their old feelings are not suited to the new learning they think that learning can stir no feelings at all." In his article upon "The Poetry of the Future." (published some months ago in the North American Review,) Whitman wrote these words, which are, I believe, good prophecy: "Science, having extirpated the old stock fables and superstitions, is clearing a field for verse, for all the arts, and even for romance, a hundred-fold ampler and more wonderful, with the new principles behind. Republicanism advances over the whole world. Liberty, with Law by her side, will one day be paramount--will, at any rate, be the central idea. Then only--for all the splendor and beauty of what has been, or the polish of what is--then only will the true poets appear, and the true poems. Not the satin and patchouly of to-day, not the glorifications of the butcheries and words of the past, nor any fight between Deity on one side and somebody else on the other--not Milton, not even Shakespeare's plays, grand as they are." G.E.M. *Leaves of Gras, By Walt Whitman. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co. 2072 The Critic November 5, 1881.] 2072 2072 Whitman's "Leaves of Grass."* PRACTICALLY, but not actually, this is the first time that Mr. Whitman has issued his poems through a publishing house instead of at his private cost. The two volumes called 'Leaves of Grass' and "The Two Rivulets,' which he had printed and himself sold at Camden, N. J., are now issued in one, under the former title, without special accretions of new work, but not without a good deal of re-arrangement in the sequence of the poems. Pieces that were evidently written later, and intended to be eventually put under 'Leaves of Grass,' now find their place; some that apparently did well enough where they were have been shifted to other departments. On the whole, however, the changes have been in the direction of greater clearness as regards their relation to the sub-titles. It is not apparent, however, that the new book is greatly superior to the old in typography, although undeniably the fault of the privately printed volumes, a variation in types used, is no longer met with. The margins are narrower, and the look of the page more commonplace. The famous poem called 'Walt Whitman' is now the 'Song of Myself.' It still maintains: I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable; I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. It still has the portrait of Whitman when younger, standing in a loose flannel shirt and slouched hat, with one hand on his hip, the other in his pocket. 'Eidolons' has been taken from the second volume and placed, for good reasons that the reader may not be ready to understand, among the first pieces gathered under the sub-title 'Inscriptions.' It ends with the 'Songs of Parting,' under which the last is 'So Long,' a title that a foreigner and perhaps many an American might easily consider quite as untranslatable as Mr. Whitman proclaims himself to be. The motive for the publication seems to be to take advantage of that wider popularity which is coming somewhat late in life to him whom his admirers like to call "the good gray poet." One great anomaly of Whitman's case has been that while he is an aggressive champion of democracy and of the working-man, in a broad sense of the term working-man, his admirers have been almost exclusively of a class the farthest possibly removed from that which labors for daily bread by manual work. Whitman has always been truly caviare to the multitude. It was only those that knew much of poetry and loved it greatly who penetrated the singular shell of his verses and rejoiced in the rich, pulpy kernel. Even with connoisseurs, Whitman has been somewhat of an acquired taste, and it has always been amusing to note the readiness with which persons who would not or could not read him, raised a cry of affectation against those who did. This phenomenon is too well known in other departments of tast to need further remark; but it may be added that Mr. Whitman has both gained by it and lost. He has gained a vigorousness of support on the part of his admirers that probably more than outbalances the acrid attacks of those who consider his work synonymous with all that is vicious in poetical technique, and wicked from the points of morals. As to the latter, it must be confessed that, according to present standards of social relations, the doctrines taught by Whitman might readily be construed, by the overhasty or unscrupulous, into excuses for foul living; for such persons do not look below the surface, nor can they grasp the whole idea of Whitman's treatment of love. However fervid his expressions may be, and however scornful he is of the miserable hypocrisies that fetter but also protect the evilly disposed, it is plain that the idea he has at heart is that universal love which leaves no room for wickedness because it leaves no room for doing or saying unkind, uncharitable, unjust things to his fellow-man. With an exuberance of thought that would supply the mental outfit of ten ordinary poets, and with a rush of words that is by no means reckless, but intensely and grandly labored, Whitman hurls his view of the world at the heads of his readers with a vigor and boldness that takes away one's breath. This century is getting noted among centuries for singular departures in art and literature. Among them all, there is no one bolder or more original than that of Whitman. Perhaps Poe in his own line might be cited as an equal. It is strange, and yet it is not strange, that he should have waited so long for recognition, and that by many thousands of people of no little culture his claims to being a poet at all are either frankly scouted or else held in abeyance. Literature here has remarkably held aloof from the vital thoughts and hopes of the country. It seems as if the very crudity of the struggle here drove people into a petty dilettante atmosphere of prettiness in art and literature as an escape from the dust and cinders of daily life. Hence our national love for "slicked up" pictures, for instance, by which it is often claimed in Europe that promising geniuses in painting, there, have been ruined for higher work. Hence our patronage of poets that have all the polish of a cymbal, but all a cymba's dry note and hollowness. Hence, at one time, our admiration for orators that were ornate to the verge of inanity. Into this hot-house air of literature Walt Whitman bounded, with the vigor and suppleness of a clown at a funeral, Dire were the grimaces of the mourners in high places, and dire are the grimaces still. There were plenty of criticisms to make, even after one had finished crying. Oh! at the frank sensuality, the unbelievable nakedness of Walt. Everything that decent folk covered up, Walt exhibited, and boasted of exhibiting! He was proud of his nakedness and sensuality. He cried, Look here, you pampered rogues of literature, what are you squirming about, when you know, and everybody knows that things are just like this, always have been, always will be? But it must be remembered that this was what he wrote, and that he did with a plan, and by order from his genius. It has never been heard of him that he was disgusting in talk or vile in private life, while it has been known that poets celebrated for the lofty tone of their morality, for the strictness of their Christianity, the purity of their cabinet hymns, can condescend in private life to wallow in all that is base. That is the other great anomaly of Whitman. He rhapsodizes of things seldom seen in print with the enthusiasm of a surgeon enamored of the wonderful mechanism of the body. But he does not soil his conversation with lewdness. If evil is in him, it is in his book. Whitman's strength and Whitman's weakness lie in his lack of taste. As a mere external sign, look at his privately printed volumes. For a printer and typesetter, reporter and editor, they do not show taste in the selection and arrangement of the type. A cardinal sin in the eyes of most critics is the use of French, Spanish, and American-Spanish words which are scattered here and there, as if Whitman had picked them up, sometimes slightly incorrectly, from wandering minstrels, Cubans, or fugitives from one of Walker's raids. He shows crudely the American way of incorporating into the language a handy or a high-sounding word without elaborate examination of its original meaning, just as we absorb the different nationalities that crowd over from Europe. His thought and his mode of expression is immense, often flat, very often monotonous, like our great sprawling cities with their endless scattering of suburbs. Yet when one gets the "hang" of it, there is a colossal grandeur in conception and execution that must finally convince whoever will be patient enough to look for it. His rhythm, so much burlesqued, is all of a part with the man and his ideas. It is apparently confused; really most carefully schemed; certainly to a high degree original. It has what to the present writer is the finest thing in the music of Wagner-- a great booming movement or undertone, like the noise of heavy surf. His crowded adjectives are like the mediaeval writers of Irish, those extraordinary poets who sang the old Irish heroes and their own contemporaries, the chiefs of their clans. No Irishman of to-day has written a nobler lament for Ireland, or a more hopeful, or a more truthful, that has Walt Whitman. Yet it is not said that he has Irish blood. Nor is there to be found in our literature another original piece of prose so valuable to future historians as his notes on the war. Nor is there a poet of the war-time extant who has so struck the note of that day of conflict as Whitman has in 'Drum Taps.' He makes the flesh creep. His verses are like the march of the long lines of volunteers, and then again like the bugles of distant cavalry. But these are parts of him. As he stands complete in 'Leaves of Grass,' in spite of all the things that regard for the decencies of drawing-rooms and families may wish away, he certainly represents, as no other writer in the world, the struggling, blundering, sound-hearted, somewhat coarse, but still magnificent vanguard of Western civilization that is encamped in the United States of America. He avoids the cultured few. He wants to represent, and does in his own strange way to represent, the lower middle stratum of humanity. But, so far, it is not evident that his chosen constituency cares for, or has even recognized him. Wide readers are beginning to guess his proportions. 2072A The Republican. Entered at the Post-Office at Springfield, Mass., as Second-Class Matter. 2073 SPRINGFIELD, SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 13. Walt Whitman, a Kosmos. To make a mark on the sands of life in this busiest, windiest and most tidal period of the world's history, and to keep that mark fresh and deepening for seven-and-twenty-years, is no little achievement for an American author. This Whitman has done, and something more than this. When in 1855 he printed with his own hands his odd and sprawling lines of his "Leaves of Grass" (a few copies, long since out of print, though hardly any one bought them), he announced himself to the world as a poet, and he has never since taken down his sign. He still carries on business at the own stand; still "sounds his 'barbaric yawp over the roofs of the 'world." But now instead of six readers he has six thousand, or perhaps six hundred thousand, and the back counties have not all been heard from yet. That they understand him we would not guarantee--he does not understand himself always; still less did he understand himself when he began to write. He put to sea on a raft and his only compass was a looking-glass, but he has made a good voyage on the whole as if he had sailed in the Great Eastern with all the compasses and chronometers and astronomers on board. "Were it the will of heaven, an osier bough Were vessel strong enough the seas to plow." So said Pindar, only more shortly,--and Whitman has verified the oracle. Courage and trust are the best outfit for a poet, it seems; they are worth all the colleges and libraries in the world. The world itself is the poet's library, and Whitman has had a card to that collection; he has even attempted a catalogue; but like all library I heard, and deem the witness true, [??om] man delights in, God delights in too." 2073 But the career of pleasure and admiration which is only possible to power soon finds its limits in human experience, and must be corrected by the sharp lessons of sorrow and mortification,-- must be continued, if at all, by the completest self-renunciation and trust in the unseen powers. This discipline Whitman has had, it would seem, and has profited by it. His later poems are not quite in the key of his earlier; they have a more serious and religious tone; and their light is thrown back on the dangerous utterances of his youth. He has not rejected these utterances,--has indeed preserved most of them in this new volume,--but has softened them, changed their connection and brought them into a better accord with a life of service to mankind, such as the poet's must be if he would live beyond his own age. Consequently this book will be received, we fancy, as none of Whitman's former books have been. It will no longer be a work prohibited, but, in spite of many passages which must always keep it from a familiar place on the table, and from the perfect liberty of unformed judgements, --it will find its way into all good libraries and into many homes. For the civil war made Whitman a domestic poet, which he had hardly been before. The clear recognition and pathetic portrayal of the home affection in the Americans, not less than their patriotism and devotion to democracy, gives "Drum Taps" an affectionate place in the hearts of his readers. The philosophy of "Leaves of Grass" was oriental, --grand, but peculiar, and to the multitude either irreligious or suspicious,--but this was changed in the war-poems into a spirit which the multitude could understand, because they shared it,--which, indeed, was born of the multitude and possessed Whitman as one of the many, not as among the few. Another change noticeable in him at that time and since affected his meter and the melody of his verse. The measure of the old chapters in "Leaves of Grass" can hardly be called a meter at all; what rhythm it had was rather like the rhythm of Hebrew poetry, in the antithesis or repetition of ideas, not in the harmonious arrangement of words. But it would seem as if the music of the regiments:-- 2073A "Sonorous metal blowing martial sound," had suggested to Whitman a new movement for his lines. They soon became measured and choral in their character,--not a set measure, like the tweedle-de-dum, tweedle-de-dee of the mediocre poets, but a dithyrambic orchestral movement, responding to chords struck at irregular intervals, and leaving the mind free to catch up the next strain, wherever it might come in. This in part is the secret of the Greek chorus-poetry, to which (though the Greek measures are more balanced and mutually responsive) the war pieces of Whitman, and much of his later poetry, bears a strong resemblance. The book deserves study even as a metrical anomaly, were it not entitled to consideration upon much higher regards. Lofty as any sound estimate of Whitman's book must be, it has faults enough to have long ago destroyed the reputation of any writer who had not something better than singularity to commend him. Concerning these, as well as for a larger consideration of his work and [????ce], we shall take another time to speak. [????e] say only that The NY Sun. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1881. SOME NEW BOOKS. 2074 Walt Whitman and the Poetry of the Future. The publication of the Leaves of Grass by a reputable bookmaking house (James R. Osgood & Co.) as a business enterprise, and without expurgation, marks very distinctly an epoch in WALT WHITMAN'S career. It was inevitable that the force of his genius should carry, sooner or later, the inner citadel of respectable literature; but the event has been delayed for a quarter of a century. During that time he has been his own printer and bookseller. Containing passages which under a strict construction of certain statues of the United States could not be permitted to pass through the mails, the privately printed volumes have found a constantly increasing number of purchasers and readers. The accessions have not been from the ranks of the depraved and prurient. Walt Whitman's audience has grown, not by reason of, but in spite of, his frank disregard for some of the proprieties of utterance. Of this side of the matter it is enough to say that if the new edition is a triumph for the poet, it has been achieved without any concession on his part. He has modified nothing. He has cancelled no objectionable line or offensive phrase. He has confessed no sin against good taste or decency. In pushing his way into his present company he has not for an instant hauled in his elbows. In another respect the appearance of the new edition of "Leaves of Grass" is an interesting event. For the first time, the poet can be judged by his poetic scheme in its entirety. The additional verses are not so important in themselves as in the relation of parts to a completed whole. Walt Whitman's admirers have always insisted that criticism before the final development of the plan was premature. The poet has compared his work to one of those ambitious old architectural edifices, built part by part at long intervals, and showing the designer's idea only when the last stone was in place. The gaps have now all been filled. The revision of the several poems, and their rearrangement with reference to the sub-titles and to each other, leave the, we are told, as they were designed to be. While Walt Whitman has kept steadily on his way, unshaken in belief in his mission and uncompromising as to his methods, he has provoked a difference of public opinion more marked, perhaps, than in the case of any author now alive. His aggressiveness seems to leave no middle ground. He is either a genius of colossal proportions or an immense windbag; either to be hailed and worshipped or to be punctured. A considerable part of his contemporaries hold him to be beneath criticism; a small circle of ardent admirers exalt him above it. The poet himself, it is to be feared, is prone to encourage the latter view. Every page that he has written discloses an egotism that reaches the verge of sublimity. He is impatient even of discriminating eulogy. He is said to hold as no better than a vender of scurrilities a friend of his, himself a poet, who not long ago published a magazine article in which the laudation of "Leaves of Grass" was measured instead of being unreserved. With Walt it is: Take me or leave me; but if you take me, take me as the Consummate Man. In estimating a singer and seer this indomitable self-confidence is a quality that ought not to be overlooked. To refuse to admit it as corroborative proof of genius would be to reject one of the lessons of biography. Walt's vigorous personality and the purity and naive simplicity of his private life have drawn about him a circle of devoted friends. They cannot understand why his genius should be denied or overlooked any more than they can see how the existence of the sun can be denied or overlooked when it is shining in a clear sky at noonday. They are exasperated because the great public is so slow to accept the poet at their valuation and his own. On the other hand, those to whom Whitman is a noisy madman, or a disturber of the poetic peace, or a bawler of platitudes, are reluctant to give the poet's adherents credit for any better motive than the affectation of eccentricity. The "good gray poet" business disgusts them. They are puzzled by this admiration with which Whitman's achievements are regarded by Emerson and Tennyson and other bards who are as unlike the [B?rd] of Panmanck as so many [gentle???] in a diving suit. And all the while the belief is growing in cultivated minds that in Walt Whitman we have one of the most remarkable and original individualities in literature. Let us look first at his method. It is from the superficial and non-essential characteristics of "Leaves of Grass" that the popular conception of the poet is derived. The oddities, the whim-whams, the grotesque contrasts lie on the surface, lending themselves readily to burlesque, and affording plenty of material for ridicule. Whitman's versification proceeds in the loosest possible fashion, discarding rhyme altogether, except in rare instances. A vague effect of rhythm is preserved, the [caesura] recurring at irregular and often widely unequal intervals. It is an informal but roughly harmonious flow of words, sustaining the same relation to finished verse as the recitative to the aria. It is regarded by many as a startling innovation, but is really nothing more than a return to the earliest and most nearly spontaneous form of poetic expression. For purpose of comparison, as regards external form only, we place a passage from "The Return of the Heroes" side by side with the passages from the Sixty-fifth and One Hundred and Fourth Psalms in the English version: 2074A Lord O my throat, and clear O soul? The season of thanks and the voice of full yielding, The chant of joy and power for boundless fertility. All tilled and untilled lands expand before me, I see the true arenas of my race, or first or last, Man's innocent and strong arenas. I see the heroes of other toils, I see well wielded in their hands the better weapons. I see where the Mother of All, With full-spanning eye gazes forth, dwells long, And counts the varied gathering of the products. Busy the far, the sunlit panorama, Prairie, orchard, and yellow grain of the North, Cotton and rice of the South, and Louisiana cane, Open unseeded fallows, rich fields of clover and timothy, Kine and horses feeing, and droves of sheep and swine, And many a stately river flowing and many a [jocuna] brook. And healthy uplands with hereby-perfumed breezes, And the good, green grass, that delicate miracle the ever recurring grass. Praise [waneth] for thee, O God, in Zion; O thou that hearest prayer, unto thee shall all flesh come. Thou crownest the year with thy goodness. Thy paths drop fatness, they drop upon the pastures of the wilderness; And the little hills rejoice on every side. The pastures are clothed with flocks, The valleys also are covered over with corn. Bless the Lord, O my soul. O Lord, my God, thou art very great; Thou art clothed with honor and majesty. He watereth the hills from his chambers; The earth is satisfied with the fruit of thy works. He sendeth the springs into the valleys; By them shall the fowls of the heavens have their habitation. They give drink to every beast of the field; the wild asses quench their thirst. He causeth the grass to grow for the cattle, and the herb for the service of man. Again, we present the "Address to the Sun," of Ossian-Macpherson, in passages alternate with those of Walt Whitman's invocation of the same orb. In neither case is assistance given to the rhythm by artificial division of the verses. The interest of the comparison will be found to extend beyond the matter of form: OSSIAN. O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers. Whence are thy beams, O Sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western way; but thou thyself movest alone. WALT WHITMAN. Thou orb aloft full-dazzling, thou hot October noon! Flooding with sheeny light the gray beach sand, the sibilant near sea with vistas far, the foam, and tawny streaks and shades and spreading blue; O sun of noon refulgent! my special word to thee. OSSIAN. Who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon itself is lost in heaven; but though art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. WALT WHITMAN. Hear me illustrious! Thy lover me, for always have I loved thee, even as basking babe, then happy boy alone by some wood-edge, thy touching-distant beams enough, or man matured, or young or old, as now to thee I launch my invocation. OSSIAN. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. WALT WHITMAN. Thou that was fructifying heat and light, o'er myriad farms o'er land and waters North and South, o'er Mississippi's endless course, o'er Texas' grassy plains, Kanada's woods, o'er all the globe that turns its face to thee shining in space; thou that impartian, infoldest all, not only continents, seas; thou that to grapes and weeds and little wild flowers givest so liberally, shed, shed thyself on mine and me, with but a fleeting ray out of the million millions. Strike through these chants. OSSIAN. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exhult, then, O Sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills; the blast of the north is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. WALT WHITMAN. Nor only launch thy subtle dazzle and thy strength for these; prepare the later afternoon of [use] myself--prepare my lengthening shadows, prepare my starry nights. This reversion to a primitive mode of poetic expression is particularly interesting, occurring as it does at a time when a certain school of English-speaking poets are paying so much heed to the merely mechanical and musical qualities of verse. Whitman wastes no strength in the elaboration of metres, of rhyme, of assonance, of refrain. He does not stop to think of melody. There is no doubt that his method is that of the least friction--the least amount of idea rubbed off in the process of conformation. Nor is there any doubt that it is the method best suited to his genius. His sturdy egotism, his sympathy with living Nature and with Man in action, are poured forth in a torrent of words unhampered by the laws of prosody. Fancy the untamable, untranslatable Walt pottering over roundeaux, or elaborating canzonents, or measuring off fourteen lines to the idea! In the three or four poems which have rhyme and the stanza, the rhymes are of the crudest the stanzas are fetters: O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O, the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. A strange thing about Whitman's rugged recitative is that it never becomes monotonous. Within apparently narrow limits of possible variation, he manages to secure a wonderful variety. His longest cumulative passages, his catalogues of natural objects, catalogues of occupations, geographical and physiological lists, are something more than catalogues and lists. The art may be unconscious, but the result shows him a perfect master of the poetic accent. Walt Whitman would have made the catalogue of ships in the "Iliad" a poem in itself. Where his voice sounds in the minor key the music is often so dainty that we fail to notice the absence of the conventional lyric forms. Some lines in "Sea Drift" sound like a snatch of one of Shakespeare's songs: Two together! Winds blow south, or winds blow north, Day come white, or white come black, Home, or rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, minding no time, While we two keep together. Low hangs the moon, it rose late. It is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love, with love—— We have been speaking of some of the surface characteristics of Walt Whitman's poetry. If all poets were in the habit of using this recitative rhythm as a vehicle for their thoughts, what qualities would still distinguish him from the rest? It seems to us that Walt Whitman is the truest representative of the reactionary movement against romanticism—the movement in which Emile Zola is a noisy and mercenary incidental. What he has undertaken to do is to exhibit with absolute unreserve the mind of a modern man in its relations to nature and to modern society. See me, says Walt, the average man of the nineteenth century, just as I am, with all the conventions and lies and shams stripped off, leaving my intellectual and emotional processes absolutely naked to view. See me as I am, bodily, too, if you care for the spectacle—every rag stripped off. And thus unclad, morally and physically, he proceeds to execute all the gymnastic antics that suggest themselves to the imagination of the child of nature when he is freed from the restraint of clothing and set out in the sunlight. [*2074*] [*B*] It is not from any lack of conscientious intention that the poet fails in part of his purpose, and instead of achieving a portrait of the real Walt gives us an approximate Walt, a partly real, partly ideal Walt. No man that ever lived has succeeded [?] making a complete exposure of [?] there are still nooks and corners over [wh?] vanity does and always will insist on drawing the veil. Still, Whitman goes at his work justily, and with many advantages. The individuality which he exhibits is interesting. His courage is dauntless. His sympathy with the external world is genuine; his heart beats in true accord with the heart of nature. He is a born poet, with imagination of a higher order —the imagination which creates new material instead of moulding old stuff into new forms. As compared with Tennyson, for instance, who justly admires him, he is an architect who has conceived a plan and built an edifice, not merely and artist engaged in beautifying with exquisite skill the walls of a structure centuries old. Walt Whitman has found poetry in the so-called commonplace objects of Nineteenth century life. He views at night the "far-sprinkled systems," but he views them through a Nineteenth century scuttle, constructed by a carpenter of today. The scuttle is as poetic an orifice as the oriel or the mullioned window of the bartizan tower; but, being an essentially modern conception, it does not enjoy the prestige which they have in conventional verse. Whitman exults in showing side by side the sublime or the beautiful that has always been acknowledged as such, and the sublime or the beautiful unacknowledged and unrecognized by everybody but himself. He goes forth at night and sings: I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, I call to the earth and sea half-held by night, Press close, bare-bosomed night; press close magnetic, nourishing night! Night of south winds—night of the large few stars! Still nodding night—mad naked summer night! Smile O voluptuous coolbreath'd earth! Earth of the slumberling and liquid trees! Earth of departed sunset—earth of the mountains misty- topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far swooping elbow-d earth—rich apple blossom'd earth! Smile, for your lover comes. Prodigal, you have given me love—therefore I to you give love! O unspeakable passionate love. And with equal joy he contemplates the gigantic black driver of a dray: The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags underneath it on its tied-over chain, The negro that drives the long dray of the stone yard, steady and tall he stands pois'd on one leg on the stringpiece. His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over his hip band, His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat away from his forehead, The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of his polished and perfect limbs. His idea of supreme beauty is man, at his best, in contact with nature—the naked body of the swimmer battling with the waves, the locomotiva driving through the snowdrift, the woodsman swinging his broadaxe, the lusty farmer swinging his scythe, outdoor life, the ship at sea, muscle and pluck forever! No post has ever echoed more accurately the whirr and roar of the restless, every-day life of the world, the infinitely complex movement of human activity, the rush of the planet through space, the resultant sound of all mingled sounds. This booms like the distant voices of the ocean in some of Goethe's lines, but Goethe never came nearer the laboratory of the universe then Whitman in "Eidólons": Ever the dim beginning, Ever the growth, the rounding of the circle, Ever the summit and the merge at last (to surely start again), Eidólons! Eidólons! Ever the mutable, Ever materials changing, crumbling, re-cohering, Ever the ateliers, the factories divine, Issuing Eidólons! The misfortune is that Walt Whitman, not content with his discovery of the value of the spirit of the Nineteenth century and the Modern Man as poetic material, seeks to elevate it into a democratic philosophy, or new religion of humanity. That he regards himself as the prophet of new ideas which loom awfully, but somewhat vaguely, behind the framework of his verses, is shown by abundant evidence. It would perhaps puzzle him to write out in cold prose the cardinal points of his social and religious philosophy, or, having done so, to demonstrate that they contain anything more than the ancient commonplaces. The abstract idea of universal brotherhood, of which the kiss between man and man is his not agreeable poetic type, the equality of man with man and of man with God, some taking truisms afforded by an imperfect acquaintance with the literature of metaphysical thought, a constant insistance on the doctrines of stirpiculture, a firm conviction in the majesty of the People—is not this the sum of the new creed of which he declares himself over and over again the embodiment, and which leads him to the final audacity of a comparison of his own mission with that of Christ? E. P. M. Take rational care of your cold at once by using Dr. Jayne's Expectorant, and you will save much worry, and render less likely the development of a dangerous throat or lung disease. —[?] been the conquerors, all France would have been at your feet." Cardinal Edward Borromeo, who died at Rome a few days ago, was of the celebrated Lombard family of that name which had before him given five cardinals to the church, and had a harsh and haughty demeanor to match his [?meage]. "What's the charm of Robert Collyer? Well," said a parishioner, "perhaps the finest part of it is the way he takes the audience into his confidence toward the end of his sermon and talks as if each one were his bosom friend." Mrs Jane G. Austin, author of "Mrs. Beauchamp Brown," is pictured as a woman of middle age with the brightness of 16 and the wisdom of 70, a clear and easy talker, high-church in religion, with elegant and gesticulating hands, speaking eyes, and clustering curls of white hair about a marble-white forehead. The Lotos club—which some irreverent New Yorkers who don't belong to it persist in calling the cad club—gave Whitelaw Reid a complimentary dinner yesterday. Queen Margherita of Italy has been hard to quote Mark Twain at a ball in the Quirinal, and she read "Tom Sawyer" with her son and found it very amusing that people actually lived in that fashion. Meissonier is sorry he sold "1817" to Stewart, —so bad to have his genius desolated among the American savages, who nevertheless now own several hundred of the best paintings ever done in France. Would the body of the late earl of Crawford and Balcarres have been stolen if the body of A. T. Stewart had not been stolen? It had to come, and it's a wonder it waited so long; the Academy has dubbed W. Clark Russell "our modern Marryat of the commercial navy." Further reminiscences of Garfield, from his intimate friend Col Rockwell, will appear in the Century for January. Walt Whitman denies that he means to visit England presently. Appleton's Journal is no more. Seeing what it has become of late, the only thing to be sorry about is that we shall lose Editor Bunce's companionable chat. D. Appleton & Co do not allow the statement of Editor Rice of the North American Review to go unchallenged, as to the embarrassment of his independence by their school-book interests. They want it understood that they and not Editor Rice closed the connection. "We declined," say Messrs Appleton & Co, "to act as publishers of the Review, distinctly because we considered certain articles that have appeared in its pages blasphemous in character, and hence an offense to good morals, and not because we supposed our interests in other departments would be affected thereby." REPUBLICAN: DECEMBER 4, 1881 Secretary Blaine has received a dispatch from Baron von Steuben, which says he has named his son, born yesterday, "Blaine Steuben."— [Brooklyn Eagle. Questions of sectionalism or revenue reform seem to be disappearing from the (speakership) contest, and the issue is becoming one between stalwarts and anti-stalwarts. Senator Cameron's visit to Mr Conkling is supposed to have had something to do with the introduction of this element into the struggle.—[New York Times. The secret of Beecher's power is the wonderful combination of animalism with a certain bright way of stating the thoughts which are more or less in the minds of men.—[Boston Herald. [*Springhill Republican*] [*2075*] MEN OF LETTERS. Walt Whitman's "cluster" of Notes in the current Critic is peculiarly interesting because devoted to Emerson, of whom, "in the calm, 'peaceful but most radiant twilight of his old 'age," he gives a far better portrait than Frank Fowler does in the sketch from a photograph on the title-page. That sketch entirely misses the Emerson look. Whitman greatly enjoyed his Concord days at Mr Sanborn's, "under the 'shade of old hickories and elms, on the porch, 'within stone's throw of the Concord river;" or in such a company as that town can gather, "a long and blessed evening with Emerson, in a 'way I wouldn't have wished better or differ- 'ent." Mr Emerson said nothing, however, except to greet people on entering, but he sat where Whitman could look at him—"a good 'color in his face, eyes clear, with the well- 'known expression of sweetness, and the old 'clear-peering aspect quite the same." He dined with Emerson the next day; there was talk about Thoreau, as there had been the evening before; Emerson speaking but little, but "an alert listener." Whitman visited the Old Manse, where Emerson wrote his principal poems. "The spot serves the 'understanding of them like a frame does a 'picture. The same of Hawthorne's 'Mosses.' 'One notes the quaintness, the unkempt grass 'and bushes, the little panes in the windows, the 'low ceilings, the spicy smell, the creepers em- 'bowering the light, a certain severity, pre- 'cision and melancholy, even a twist to all, not- 'withstanding the pervading calmness and nor- 'mality of the scene. The house, too, gives out 'the aroma of generations of New England 'Puritanism and its ministers." The poet went to the cemetery where Hawthorne and Thoreau were buried, and to Walden pond, where he added a stone to the cairn that marks the spot where Thoreau's house stood. Dwelling so much in thought of Emerson, it is natural that on Boston Common, about a month later, Whitman should recall his earlier acquaintance with the sage, and write of it now,—with an eye all the while, no doubt, to the critics of the "Leaves of Grass" in the new edition. It is an important contribution to his own biography he makes in this anecdote:— "Up and down this breadth by Beacon street, between these same old elms, I walked for two hours, of a bright sharp February midday 21 years ago, with Emerson, then in his prime, keen, physically and morally magnetic, armed at every point, and when he chose, wielding the emotional as well as the intellectual. During those two hours he was the talker and I the listener. It was an argument-statement, reconnoitering, review, attack, and pressing home like an army corps, in order, artillery, cavalry, infantry), of all that could be said against that part (and a main part) in the construction of my poems, 'Children of Adam.' More precious than gold to me that dissertation—(I only wish I had it now, verbatim). It afforded me, ever after, this strange and paradoxical lesson; each point of E.'s statement was unanswerable, no judge's charge ever more complete or convincing. I could never hear the points better put—and then I felt down in my soul the clear and unmistakable conviction to disobey all and pursue my own way. 'What have you to say then to such things?' said E., pausing in conclusion. '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,' was my candid response. Whereupon we went and had a good dinner at the American house. And thenceforward I never wavered or was touched with qualms (as I confess I had been two or three times before)." It is interesting to learn that Whitman had "qualms," as all but a very few of his toughest readers will certainly have, so long as he is read. As that seems tolerably sure to be as long as any author of to-day is read, we must anticipate the time when he will appear in expurgated editions that can be laid on the family table, to be taken up by whoever will, without offending decency. Mr Whitman makes us admire his spunk and his colossal self-centering in standing up against the clear light of Emerson's argument and saying, "Nevertheless, it is I, that am 'speaking and must speak, and not you, seer'though you are." Some of Whitman's readers have fancied that of late he would have been glad to omit some of the Adamic verse but for pride; and have in fact felt as if his theory of poetry might be in some measure invented to fit the facts and justify them, rather than have been the source and mold of them. As good a thing as has ever been said of Whitman's work in this direction is contained in a review in a previous number of the Critic. Speaking of the old "dilettante atmosphere" of our literature, without vital connection with the life of the country, the reviewer says:— "Into this hot-house air of literature Walt Whitman bounded, with the vigor and suppleness of a clown at a funeral. Dire were the grimaces of the mourners in high places, and dire are their grimaces still. There were plenty of criticisms to make, even after one had finished crying Oh! at the frank sensuality, the unbelievable nakedness of Walt. Everything that decent folk covered up, Walt exhibited, and boasted of exhibiting! He was proud of his nakedness and sensuality. He cried, Look here, you pampered rogues of literature, what are you squirming about, when you know, and everybody knows, that things are just like this, always have been, always will be? But it must be remembered that this is what he wrote, and that he did it with a plan, and by order from his genius. It has never been heard of him that he was disgusting in talk or vile in private life, while it has been known that poets celebrated for the lofty tone of their morality, for the strictness of their Christianity, the purity of their cabinet hymns, can condescend in private life to wallow in all that is base." Well worth quoting, before we leave the two great Americans, is what Walt says of Emerson: "Amid the utter delirium-disease called book- making, its feverish cohorts filling our world 'with every form of dislocation, morbidity, and 'special type of anemia or exceptionalism (with 'the propelling idea of getting the most possible 'money, first of all), how comforting to know of 'and author who has, through a long life, and in 'spirit, written as honestly, spontaneously and 'innocently as the sun shines or the wheat grows '—the truest, sanest, ost moral, sweetest 'literary man on record—unsoiled by pecuniary 'or any other warp—ever teaching the law with 'in—ever loyally outcropping his own self only— 'his own poetic and devout soul!" Touching the uncertainty of fate which wraps around the interesting puppets of Henry James, Jr., in his "Portrait of a lady," it is well to know that a particularly ingenious and persuasive person has interviewed Madame Merle in New York and written out certain elucidations from that intriguing creature's lips. The lady had spent three happy years in America, having left England after "the sad event," namely, the death of Osmond, who was killed on the night train from Marseilles to Paris on his way to visit Gardencourt and make a row. Mrs Osmond was on the train which collided with his, but she didn't know of the event until she reached Rome. "What a happy deliverance," said the reporter, who immediately repressed his buoyancy in presence of Mme Merle, and quickly inquired, "What became of Pansy?" "Pansy!" reiterated Mme Merle; "she married Edward Rosier. They came to the United States two years ago. He is the agent of the Metropolitan museum of fine arts,—purchases pictures and antiques in Europe, and is very much respected." "And Lord Warburton?" asked the interviewer. "Well, he married one of the English nobility, but she was thrown from her horse at a fox hunt two months after marriage and died. The following yearhe visited Leamington and there met Mrs Osmond. Their acquaintance was resumed, and she is now the wife of Lord Warburton." "I supposed Caspar Goodwood is dead?" suggested the reporter. "Oh no, indeed," replied Mme Merle; "he renewed his attentions to Mrs. Osmond, but she refused him. The last I heard of him he was in California, where he had taken to politics, and it is said that he is a coming United States senator. Countess Gemini is dead. Of course you would like to know what became of Henrietta Stackpole?" "I had almost forgotten the correspondent," said the reporter. "She married Bantling," resumed Mme Merle, "but her paces were too rapid for him. Her desire to send full and impartial reports to her paper of every event of consequence kept them on the go from Spain to Russia. He broke up under it and died. Henreitta is a widow now, and says she intends to remain one. Bantling left her a modest fortune." "It seems strange," suggested the reporter, "that Mr James did not give this very interesting information in his book." "Mon Dieu," exclaimed Mme Merle, "comme vous Americans sont difficiles! How could Mr James write about things that did not happen till after the period when he brought his story to a close?" JANUARY 21, 1882. THE EVENING STAR. PUBLISHED DAILY, Except Sunday, AT THE STAR BUILDINGS, Northwest Corner Pennsylvania Ave. and 11th St., by The Evening Star Newspaper Company, GEO. W. ADAMS, Pres't. MR. OSCAR WILDE. WHAT HE HAS TO SAY—ESTHETIC TAFFY FOR THE AMERICANS—THEY LOVE THE TRUE AND THE BEAUTIFUL —MR. WILDE ON THE TOO TOO BURLESQUES— HE THINKS "THE COLONEL" VULGAR—HE IS NOT LOOKING AFTER THE ESTATE OF HIS UNCLE. A STAR reporter called upon MR. Oscar Wilde at the Arlington, yesterday, and was pleasantly greeted by the distinguished esthete. His looks and dress have been so minutely described that these points can be passed. In response to an inquiry from the reporter, Mr. Wilde said that he found a great deal more interest taken in this country in matters esthetic than he expected. "There is," he said, "much more true art here than I supposed; and true art, you know, is estheticism. I have had a great many inquiries from people who want to learn in art, and have seen a great many who have our ideas almost perfectly. I am doing all I can to encourage the spread of true taste. What I would like to see is a permanent standard of taste among the people in their lives and in all they do." AMERICANS SHOULD NOT COPY. "Would the standard be the same for all countries?" "By no means. I think no greater mistake can be made for one country to copy after another. There is an individuality of art for every people. The Americans should not copy the decorations of England. Their flowers, atmosphere and all external forms of art are different. American decoration should be entirely different from that of England or any other country. There is plenty of the beautiful in nature in this country for art's purposes without borrowing. And where there is borrowing there is a lack of individuality which makes the whole unsatisfactory." "What is your particular object in visiting America?" "I want to see the country; and then I want to see how far the people here can love art and how far they can be fed to love art. I would like to spread the truth of art and aid humanity to form the right idea of the true relations of art to life and of life to art." NEW YORK AND PHILADELPHIA AUDIENCES. "Did you notice any difference in the audiences to whom you have lectured?" "I have only lectured in New York and in Philadelphia. I did not notice a very marked difference. New York audiences are electric, and Philadelphia people are thoughtful. The latter make but very little demonstration, but there is an air over the whole assemblage which causes one to know that he is being listened to. I could see their faces listening." O. W. AND W. W. There was a picture of Walt Whitman on the table. The reporter asked Mr. Wilde what he thought of America's rugged poet. "The most delightful day I have spent," he answered, "was in Mr. Whitman's little bare room in Camden. I think Mr. Whitman is in every way one of the greatest and strongest men who have ever lived. He is the simplest and strongest man I ever met. Eccentric? He is not; you cannot gauge great men by a foot-rule. The people in England, for whose opinion he would care, read [?] read him, and wonder at him." PHILADELPHIA. THE PRESS FRIDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1881. NEW PUBLICATIONS. LEAVES OF GRASS. BY WALT WHITMAN. One vol, 12mo (75/8x51/4 in.), 382pp.containing all his poems under the headings "Inscription," "Children of Adam," "Calemus," "Birds of Passage," "Sea-drift," "By the Roadside," "Drum-taps," "Memories of President Lincoln," "Autumn Rivulets," "Whispers of Heavenly Death," "From Noon to Starry Night," "Songs of Parting." Portrait; coth; price, $2.00. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co. The prophet, of whom it was once said that he was not without honor except in his own country, has now, if not a circle of disciples, certainly a large and increasing audience of admirers. Several magazines and newspapers, which either received the words of "the Good Gray Poet" with abuse or refused to allow their pages to be sullied with a notice of his "monstrosities," now welcome his life-work with little short of unstinted praise. Now is this due to the fact that a great publishing house gives its imprint to the title page. The reason lies deeper. While upon some natures his name still has the effect of the traditional red rag upon the angry bull, the majority of cultivated minds begin to see that Walt Whitman is the most American of poets and one of the brightest lights of American literature. It is worth while, then, for even very briefly to examine some of the adverse criticisms that have been passed upon Mr. Whitman, and to see how much weight they really have. First, it is said that the form into which he throws his verse is chaotic, that his poems run to "a chaos of monotonies," and hence his book makes war upon all theories of true poetry. The same criticism would shut out of the category the English Psalms of David, and the best and most satisfactory translations of Homer and the Greek dramatists, Virgil and Dante, Goethe and Victor Hugo. These authors are still poets in the most literal translation, and the man who can read Whitman and find no rhythm lacks a musical ear. He has the most astounding variety of meters suited to every slighest change of sentiment, here lilting like a smooth flowing river, here carrying the reader along with all the rush of a Niagara, and again blocking itself with wonderful expressiveness. A study of Whitman's meters would be no more interesting and instructive than that which is spent on the complicated, and to us moderns the meaningless, systems of the Greek strophe and antistrophe. Take these four lines from "A Broadway Pagean.t" They are worthy of Horace: "Over the Western sea hither from Niphon come, Courteous, the swart-cheek'd two-sworded envoys, Leaning back in their open barouches, bare-headed, impassive, Ride to-day through Manhattan." And hundreds of other instances could be given. Again, it is said that the catalogues with which Walt Whitman loads his poems are unpoetical. Without attempting to argue the point it may be said that were all records of America destroyed and Walt Whitman's poems proserved, the daily life of the nineteenth century might be picture with almost photographic accuracy from these same much-abused catalogues; and, moreover, if anyone reads them understandingly he will not fail to be impressed with their picturesqueness and contrast their felicity of descriptiveness, and, taken in connection with the plan of the whole work, their appropriateness. And this brings us to a third adverse criticism: That the work has no unity of plan. To a narrow conception this is true. It needs a wide perspective, and, if these poems had been left to us by an ancient bard, they would have been prized as the most precious memorial of the past. The old story of the sculptor is not inapplicable here. Seen from a level at a short distance the statue appeared monstrous and coarse; but when erected upon its proper height, the rude lines melted into softness and the coarse features were seen to be simply majestic. His boldness of touch is admirable; his pages are veritable panoramas of life; his observation is all-embracing; nothing fails in the picture, and he is equally at home on the wide plains of the West, the wind-swept "gray beach of the Paumanok shore, or amid the eddying swarms of the city. His adjectives are often worthy of Homer, and his view of the universe wider than Goethe's. A common charge against Mr. Whitman, is that of his overweening vanity. It must be admitted that if his every utterance be taken as the expression of personal individual feeling, vanity could not go further; it would be the acme of conceit. But this again is a narrow view. Mr. Whitman symbolizes in himself the grandeur, the spread, the vast liberty of the man. It is the ideal of self-conscious Pantheism. "The Song of Myself," is not Walt Whitman in any small way. Myself is man idealized, and every pleasure, every passion, every pain which goes to make up the life of the world, is centred upon him as a sentient being capable of all things. Looked upon ideally, therefore, there is no conceit in it; aside from its form, it is the grandest conception of poetry which this century has given, and, if read without prejudice, cannot fail to stir the heart. The egotism is the egotism of the poet, and may be seen in these lines from the greatest of the Welsh bards, which bear a curious similarity in form to Mr. Whitman's poems, though possessing individuality of their own: "Primary chief bard am I to Elphin, And my original country is the region of the Summer Stars. I was with my lord in the highest sphere, On the fall of Lucifer into the depth of hell; I have borne a banner before Alexander; I know the names of the stars from North to South; I have been on the Milky Way at the throne of the Distributor; I have been winged by the genius of the splendid crozier; I have been loquacious prior to being gifted with speech; I am a wonder whose origin is not known; I have been in Asia with Noah in the ark; I have seen the destruction of Sodom and Gomorra; I have been with my Lord in the manger of the ass; I have been in the armament with Mary Magdalen; I have suffered hunger for the Son of the Virgin; I have been fostered in the land of the Deity; I am teacher to all intelligences; I am able to instruct the whole universe; I shall be until the day of doom on the face of the earth, And it is not known whether my body is flesh or fish." And it is said that when Taliesin had finished his song, the kings who heard it were filled with marvel. A still further objections, and the most serious one which has been urged against Mr. Whitman, is on the score of morality. It is claimed that he sins against purity, that he is the poet of the phallus and unbridled lust and indecency. Such a charge is extravagant. The lines which could be condemned on such a plea bear but a small proportion to the rest, and it may be said in defense that were its immodestry to shut it out from libraries, the Bible, Cervantes, Shakespeare, Goethe, and most of the master-pieces of literature would have to suffer in the same way. Again, it was not written [*2077*]Mr. W. Whitman Camden [N. J.] [*2079 B*] LEAVES OF GRASS. [*2080*]WALT WHITMAN. PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION OF "LEAVES OF GRASS" (1855) BY WALT WHITMAN. Demy 8vo., fine toned paper, Price 1s. 6d. ($0.36). AT the suggestion of the late THOMAS DIXON of Sunderland, and by permission of the Author, this beautiful Essay is now reprinted. It is not contained in any current edition whatever of Walt Whitman's works. EMERSON described Leaves of Grass as "the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed . . . I have great joy in it. I find incomparable things said incomparably well, as they must be." RUSKIN writes that the hostility WHITMAN'S writings have excited is due to the fact that "they are deadly true—in the sense of rifles—against our deadliest sins." EDWARD DOWDEN, speaking of WHITMAN, says:—"In him we meet a man not shaped out of old-world clay, not cast in any old-world mould, and hard to name by any old-world name. . . . He attracts us; he repels us; he excites our curiosity, wonder, admiration, love; or our extreme repugnance. He does anything except leave us indifferent. However we feel towards him we cannot despise him." Only 500 copies have been printed and, as many of these have been subscribed for, early application is necessary to secure those which remain.for babes and sucklings, and the person who can get food for vile imaginings from it would be fed equally from a thousand other sources; honi soit qui mal y pense. It can hurt no true man or woman. As regards the question of taste, the chemical view of matter which can reduce a vile and a pleasant odor, rot and sweet, smut and diamond-dust to the same elements is not the most conducive to poetry, and here it seems as though Mr. Whitman failed. Granting his premises that "If any thing is sacred the human body is sacred," still personal preferences, the love of the beautiful, the true, the high, the noble, the best that is meant in the word "taste," is also a part of human nature and therefore superior to the excremental, the disagreeably physical view of man. Mr. Whitman might have consistently taken this ground and raised his poems immeasurably in the eyes of the world which he claims to love, by expunging a few expressions which cannot fail to offend the taste of the reader. Some think it a greater sin to break the laws of good taste than those of morality. Moreover, it is a question whether the attempt to carry out his colossal plan of depicting humanity in its every phase is worth while, since it places his most stimulating, most inspired and grandest utterances out of the kin of the very boys and girls who are growing up into the future men and women, which his verse exalts. We believe in an expurgated Bible, and expurgated Shakespeare and an expurgated Whitman, at least for the use of the young. The question of Mr. Whitman's sins against the English language is of less consequences. Good taste would alter a few; others which make the critics howl are legitimate if North and South, East and West and the all the French, German and Spanish elements of our country be taken into consideration. We have assumed all along that Mr. Whitman is a poet. Some critics deny this, but we venture to say that had Leaves of Grass come down to us from antiquity, it would be the universal claim that they had the sweep and magnificence of the epic and the variety and expression of the lyric. There are poems in "Drum Taps" which stir the [heart] like a bugle: "Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow, Through the windows, through doors, burst like a ruthless force, Into the solemn church and scatter the congregation, Into the school where the scholar is studying; Leave not the bridegroom quite—no happiness must have have with his bride, Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain, So fierce you whirr and pound you drum—so shrill you bugles blow." King David would not have been ashamed of this psalm: "Proud music of the storm, Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies, Strong hum of forest tree-tops—wind of the mountains, Personified dim shapes—you hidden orchestras, You serenades of phantoms with instruments alert, Blinding with Nature's rhythmus all the tongues of nations; You chords left as by vast composers—you choruses; You formless, free, religious dances—you from the Orient, You undertone of rivers, roar of pouring cataracts, You sounds from distant guns with galloping cavalry, Echoes of camps, with all the different bugle calls, Trooping tumultuous, filling the midnight late, bending me powerless, Entering my lonesome slumber-chamber, why have you seized me?" Without even comparing Mr. Whitman in any definite way to any other writer, we do not hesitate to place his name at the head of the poets which America has produced, and we confidently predict for him a safe and sure immortality. The present edition contains about a dozen poems never before printed in a book. The typography is clear, and though Mr. Whitman has followed almost too closely the rhetorical rule about sparing punctuation marks, it is easy and pleasant to read. [*20774*] [A COMIC LIAR.] Published to-day. THE COMIC LIAR—A book not commonly found in Sunday- schools. By "The Funny Man of the New-York Daily Times." WIth harrowing and heart-breaking illustrations. Cloth bound. Price, $1.50. G. W. CARLETON, & CO., Publishers, N. Y. WALT WHITMAN'S Complete Poetic and Prose Works down to dat. Philadelphia edition of 1882-'88. SPECIMEN DAYS AND COLLECT, and autobiography and collection of entire prose writings, including "DEMOCRATIC VISTAS," the 1856 Preface to original LEAVES, &c., &c. Uniform with above, the poems of LEAVES OF GRASS, with new pieces, 300 altogether, comprising the Brooklyn issue of 1855, the Boston of '60, the Washington and New- York of '71, the Camden of '76, and (without omitting a word) the Boston edition of '81. Two volumes, %2 each. Sold separately or together. Sent by mail. DAVID McKAY, Publisher, 23 South 9th-st., Philadelphia. [*2078*] [*?*] [*?*] [*Nov 11 '82*] Institution For Boys and Young Men—City. A GOOD TIME TO ENTER PACKARD'S BUSINESS COLLEGE is now, as the limit is nearly full. No better place in the world for solid instruction in all the commercial branches; and no place where students who have been accustomed to good surroundings are more certain to feel at home. A first-class school in every particular. Nothing mean or cheap about it. [?] The Pioneer Press. MONDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1881. Adress, PIONEER PRESS CO., St. Paul, Minnesota. [*2079*] [?], 116 pp, Boston: [Georg?] LEAVES OF GRASS. By Walt Whitman. Cloth, 12 mo., 382 pp. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co. Books Received. LEAVES OF GRASS. Since the issue, years ago, of a strange, thin volume, bearing this title, the thinkers of the world have been busy in attempting to read the riddle of these poems and their author. The struggle has raged fiercely about every point, from the question whether the term "poem" can properly be applied to these odd recitatives at all, to the question of their meaning and their inspiration. The complete works of Walt Whitman are now put into the hands of the old generation and the [?], to do what work they may; but by this time criticism should have crystallized into something definite, and the world ought not [hunger] to go on wondering, each man scanning [the] face of his neighbor before venturing upon an opinion of his own. And first, let the [old] quarrel about the form of these poems be [finally] dismissed. The question of the fittest [form] for the expression of poetic ideas is as [old] as human thought, and different ages and nations have answered it differently. The modern rules of rhyme and accent would have seemed senseless to the Latin or Greek [prosodists]. All these matters are mere conventionalities; and if a man's genius direct him to write in measures hitherto unknown, why let him be judged independently of what are little more than the literary fashions of the day? Whitman's chants strike rudely on the [?ist]; but there is in their very construction an element of the magnificent old [He?] rhythm which marks the book of [Jo?] [?est] of epics They are not [me?]. The reader with [?] [a theme] running through [?] [all], which will satisfy him as well, if he be a thoughtful man, as if he could scan them glibly by anapests or trochees. That Whitman is a great poet, it does not require a long reading to discover. From this volume could be collected more absolutely fresh instances of that creative genius which is the progenitor of poetry than from any writer of modern times. Metaphors of singular fidelity and beauty, such as "the fan- shaped explosions," crowd upon and round out the lines. Who that has ever heard it can forget this one?—"The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp." Many of his short poems are as clean-cut as crystals, and as melodious as most strictly measured cadences. The "Drum Taps" are famous everywhere; and, though later efforts have been less happy, the one exquisite song, "O, Captain! My Captain!" written on the death of Lincoln, would make him one of our honored poets forever. When mere formal objections are laid by, the most obvious surface criticism upon Whitman is his apparent egotism. It is everywhere "I," "me imperturbe," "I project the history of the future," "You do not understand me, you cannot understand me, but I can wait hundreds of years for my audience, and they will understand and applaud me." If these were merely the mouthings of individual pride, they would inspire deserved disgust. But they are the words of a man who has a message and proves it. Everywhere, to him who reads aright, the personality of the prophet is sunk out of sight, and the prophecy is exalted. This man feels that he has a message to the multitudinous generations. The grandeur of humanity, the oneness of creation, the beauty and the glory in that one word, "life," the meanness of social and artificial distinctions, the grand eternal sweep of cosmic laws, the dignity of everything that is, simply because it is, and the onward march of all things mean and great toward a wondrous destiny,—these are the high thoughts which reduce language almost to incoherence, and fill the seer with unutterable exaltation. Is not this the true humility of one who thinks much of his message and little of himself?— 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. His sympathy with everything in nature bears marks of that higher pantheism to which modern scientific and religious thought distinctly tend. His sinking of self, in the midst of seeming self-glorification, is the poet's tribute to the race. His apparently intuitive grasp of truth toward which knowledge laboriously gropes, has been firmly shown by Professor Clifford in his essay on "Cosmisc Emotion." The wonderful new light that shines to-day upon poems written twenty years ago and since unchanged, but then unintelligible, is a better vindication of the inspiration behind them than all the work of critics and reviewers. Does any man claim that Whitman is weakly athestic? I say no man has ever yet been half devout enough, None has ever yet adored or worthip'd half enough, None has begun to think how divine he himself is, and how certain the future is. All the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each as profound as any. The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man or an infidel. He is religious enough, though not with the faith of the creeds. "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." He looks through nature to ultimate forces and exults in them. And as to you Death, and you bitter tug of mortality, it is idle to try and alarm me. I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven, O suns—O grass of graves—O perpetual transfers and promotions. He is, indeed a poet who sees far and keenly; and no doubt the reader of the future will believe it still more than we. One other current objection must be briefly met. Public and publishers have cried out upon his indecency. It is true that there are in this book things which no man observant of conventions would have dared to print. But it must be said of them, as he says of his poems, that the words are nothing, the tendency everything. His lines are bold and startling, but you can look them through and through and find no prurient suggestiveness. His aim is to glorify human nature as God made it, with powers complete but undefiled. Delicate modestry feeds upon Swinburne, but flees with down- drawn eyelids from Whitman; yet the pages of the latter are to those of the former what a gallery of Greek sculpture, filled with noble, life-like, marble figures, is to the cancan upon the stage of the Paris Varieties. The real, consistent criticisms upon Leaves of Grass have been uttered, if at all, but by few and with hesitation. Whitman seems to have in undue amount the author's tenderness, born perhaps, in this case, of his sense of the greatness of his mission, for every word he has written; and this has prevented the exclusion of worthless matter. The few lines, for instance, entitled The Ship Starting, contain neither thought nor figure of beauty that entitle them to life. And in his longer poems the tiresome enumerations of States, countries and avocations, which sometimes spread over pages, are but the wanderings of heated imagination and vivid fancy, detracting from both the inner thought and the outer artistic effect. To cut down the volume probably one-fourth, if judiciously done, would exclude nothing of present or possible future vaine. The constant use of such words as "ostent," "sidel," "sluing," and the like, is bad English and worse taste. Again, he is open to the charge of making his thought unnecessarily obscure. Doubtless he himself cannot grasp in their fullness all the might ideas which float illusively before him. He is like a child attempting to describe Niagara, or like him who could not utter a word of the things he saw and heard, when caught up to heaven in a vision. But he is, nevertheless, unnecessarily mystic and incoherent. Those who have penetrated to the heart of one of his Delphic sayings can see that its intent was purposely shrouded in vague, verbal involutions. Not only might he have sooner won his place, but he might have done better the work in which he glories, had he courted the strong simplicity which none is better able to master. Leaves of Grass has won its own way, and is sure of its place. Few American authors have the reputation abroad which Whitman has attained. At home he is destined to a closer and more admiring study as the years go by. From such a discipline it is not impossible that a greater future poet may draw virility and inspiration, while avoiding errors which impair the strength and the popular influence of a work unique, original, careless of standards and traditions, yet replete with beauty and power. [*2079A*]THE PHILADELPHIA PRESS THURSDAY, JANUARY 19, 1882. WILDE AND WHITMAN. ----------- THE ÆSTHETIC SINGER VISITS THE GOOD GRAY POET. ---------- He Asks the Advice of the Latter, and is Told to Go Ahead in His Mission to Shatter the Ancient Idols. ---------- Oscar Wilde yesterday called upon Walt Whitman, at his home in Camden, where he has lived for the past nine years, and the two poets discussed men and letters for nearly the entire afternoon. Remembering the value it would have been to the world now, had a record been made of Emerson's celebrated visit to Carlyle, a PRESS reporter last evening obtained Whitman's fresh impressions of the afternoon. the author of "Leaves of Grass," although partly an invalid, makes long jaunts, and has returned from his recent trip to New England in more vigorous physical health than since his paralysis of 1873. "Yes, Mr. Wilde came to see me early this afternoon," said Walt, " and I took him up to my den, where we had a jolly good time. I think he was glad to get away from lecturing, and fashionable society, and spend a time with an 'old rough.' We had a very happy time together. I think him genuine, honest and manly. I was glad to have him with me, for his youthful health, enthusiasm and buoyancy are refreshing. He was in his best mood, and I imagine that he laid aside any affectation he is said to have, and that I saw behind the scenes. He talked freely about the London literati, and gave me many inside glimpses into the life and doings of Swinburne, Dante, Gabriel Rossetti, Morris, Tennyson and Browning." Thus talking, Walt Whitman led the way to his "den," as he calls it, on the third floor. "Wilde and I drank a bottle of wine down stairs," he continued, "and when we came up here, where we could be on 'thee and thou' terms, one of the first things I said was that I should call him 'Oscar,' 'I like that so much,' he answered, laying his hand on my knee. He seemed to me like a great big, splendid boy," said Whitman, stroking his silvery beard. "He is so frank and outspoken, and manly. I don't see why such mocking things are written of him. He has the English society drawl, but his enunciation is better than I ever heard in a young Englishman or Irishman before. We talked here for two hours. I said to him: 'Oscar, you must be thirsty. I'll make you some punch.' 'Yes, I am thirsty,' he acknowledged, and I di make him a big glass of milk punch, and he tossed it off, and away he went." ADVISED TO GO AHEAD. During this communion the representative of the æsthetes expounded freely the theories and the intentions of his school, occasionally asking the old gray poet's opinions and views. The old man, however, evaded these inquiries with a smile. He said: "I wish well to you, Oscar, and as to the æsthetes, I can only say that you are young and ardent, and the field is wide, and if you want my advice, I say 'go ahead.'" Mr. Wilde made friendly inquiries about Whitman's own theories, and the mode and origin of his peculiar work. While answering freely, Walt wound up this part of the conversation by saying that those were problems he himself was always seeking to solve. Wilde described himself as having absorbed the Whitmanesque poetry from boyhood. He said that Lady Wilde bought one of the earliest copies of the poems some sixteen years ago, and was accustomed to read passages from it to him. He also spoke of the Oxford boys taking the book with them and reading it in their rambles. Thus he declared to Whitman: "I have come to you as to one with whom I have been acquainted almost from the cradle." Wilde was very frank in his criticisms of British Philistinism, saying in substance: "One can hardly conceive how doubly and trebly bound literature and art and manners yet remain, even in the best society, in Great Britain. The poet or artist in any department who goes beyond beaten ruts and lines is pretty sure of a hard time. And yet there is a most determined class of the best people in England, not only among the young, but of all ages, both men and women, who are ready and eager for anything in art, science or politics that will break up the stagnation. He makes a great mistake who supposes that old England is abandoned entirely to conservatism. Young blood is pulsing yet in the veins of your old mother country." THE ESTABLISHED IDOLS. Wilde brought many cordial messages from the poets of England to Whitman, and received many to take back. Not the least part of his visit, it may be noted, is the intertwining, which is becoming closer and closer every year through sympathy and personal knowlede, of representative citizens in each country. At one time, in their two hours' talk, Wilde broke out, "I can't listen to anyone unless he attracts me by a charming style, or by beauty of theme." "Why, Oscar," replied Whitman, "it always seem to me that the fellow who makes a dead set at beauty by itself is in a bad way. My idea is that beauty is a result, not an abstraction." "Yes," was the quick response, "I remember you have said 'all beauty comes from beautiful blood and a beautiful brain;' and, after all, I think so, too." Later on Whitman asked: "Are not you young fellows," scanning stalwart Oscar's big proportions, "going to shove the established idols aside, Tennyson and the rest?" "Not at all," said Wilde, emphatically. "His rank is too well fixed and we love him too much. But as for Tennyson, he has not allowed himself to be a part of the living world, and of the great currents of interest and action. He is of priceless value, and yet he lives apart from his time. We, on the other hand, move in the very heart of to-day." As for American poets, Mr. Whitman modestly acknowledged that Wilde had said many gushing things of himself, and had repeated the opinion he has more publicly expressed-- "We in England think there are only two--Walt Whitman and Emerson." Longfellow, he said, poet as he was, had contributed little to literature that m ight not have come just as well from European sources. Wilde also told Whitman that he was much impressed with the active life, the intelligence and the evident superiority of the masses of people in America, so far as he had seem them, over the common ranks in foreign countries. "That's nothing new," said Whitman, patriotically; "but it shows that the young man has his eyes open." As the æsthete departed, Mr. Whitman's farewell was: "Good bye, Oscar, God bless you." During the ride over from Camden, in company with J. M. Stoddart, the publisher, Oscar Wilde was very silent, and seemed deeply affected by the interview. He spoke admiringly of "the grand old man," and of his struggles and triumphs. Mr. Wilde was given a breakfast yesterday morning by Professor S. H. Gross. The others present were Mrs. Orwitz, of Baltimore, Professor Gross's daughter, William Henry Rawle, F. Carroll Brewster, Daniel Dougherty, Dr. Henson and J. G. Rosengarten. The poet wore his usual morning dress of brown velvet coat, and brown trousers of the ordinary cut. From the breakfast he went to Walt Whitman's, and in the evening he dined with George W. Childs. [*2081*] By Fanny Raymond Ritter. II. [*2082*] "Art is a unity; but in this unity we find the variety that exists in every organization. [Poe?] [??,] the most emotional and intellectual of [??rious] branches of Art, may be likened to [??] [??art] and mind; Architecture, Sculpture [an?] [????,] the most formal, we may tern mits [bon?] [?????nsuous,] gives it flesh and blood; and [Mu??] [??????] least earthly, is the winged soul, [whos?] [???er] elevates the entire organism of Art to [th?] [?????] supernatural and spiritual atmosphere.-- [?????????] the "Origin of Art." [*Nobles county Minnesota*] ------------------------------------------------------------ Middington Advance. ------------------------------------------------------------ Terms $2.00 a Year; $1.00 for Six Months. ------------------------------------------------------------- THRUSDAY DECEMBER 14, 1882. ------------------------------------------------------------- HIS IGNORANCE. We find in the Cedar Rapids Republican the report of a Thanksgiving sermon delivered by one Rev. Samuel Ringgold, in which his "riverence" dispensed with the gospel as follows: Your so-called liberal man claims the right to stand on either side, and with him tis but a step from the pulpit to the stage, from a preacher of the goapel to a lecturer against it. One of the apostles of this so-called liberal church, a Boston man, has been preaching recently in Chicago, and he took his text, not from that free Bible of which we boast, but from a book of Walter Whitman, the sale of which has been prohibited by law, because of its vile lewdness, and the only way by which its contents can be made known to the public, is from the pubpit of this liberal church. We should not expect the reverend gentleman to be liberal toward anything but his own illiberality, but a man who preaches in a city like Cedar Rapids ought to be better informed. The Comstock gang did try to suppress the publication of Walt Whitman's poems, or rather to have them excluded from the mails, under the infernal Comstock law, passed by a "fool" Congress in 1873, but the postmaster general very sensibly decided that works which were considered standard and read and accepted as such 'by the people, were not obscene, and should not be excluded from the mails. How many, many times has the ADVANCE iterated and re-iterated the charge that a devil-inspired clergy and church, under this foolish law and others like it, would attack and attempt to suppress all books and newspapers which did not agree with them. Step by step they are advancing in their iniquitous work. they are attempting it anyhow and the people must defeat them. Does not his Ignorance, the Rev. Mr. Ringgold, know that if Walt Whitman can be suppressed, then Shakespeare Burns, Byron, Pope and the greatest works of human genius can be suppressed, and must be if the iniquitous law is enforced? Does not his Ignorance see that the very Bible he preaches from would have to be excluded from the mails if this spawn, this Caliban offspring of Anthony Comstock, this unconstitutional and mediæval law were enforced? Is the church in free America in such a strait that it must attempt to do by law what was done by priests and soldiers under the bloody regime of Popes and Kings in Europe? And are our law-makers such fools, have they so little foresight and so little appreciation of the motives of fanatics, that they must pass unconstitutional laws and throw them as a sop to the Cerberus of priestcraft? [*2083*] AUTUMN --------- Now along the walkin's gloom Autumn's mournful dirge is sounding, Like a warning from the tomb On the ear of mirth resounding: And the fading fields assume Sickly hues of white and sallow, And the trees, bereft of bloom, Wave their weeds of red and yellow. All is cheerless—all is drear; Scarce a month since, all was blooming, Now the leaf is brown and sear That the worm is fast consurving; Where gay notes were wont to cheer, Like tuned harps on pinions flying, Now no measure greets the ear Save the voice of Nature sighing. But let Autumn's breezes blow, And the clouds of Winter gather, Deluging with ice and snow Smiling hill and blooming heather; Still within our hearts shall glow Ties that Time shall fail to sever; Still the amaranth shall grow, Blooming in our souls forever. [James Judson Lord. ---------------------------------- [*2084*] WALT WHITMAN How One of the Roughs is Regarded in England. In a recent number of The Academy George Sansbury had a very interesting and appreciative article on the "good grey poet" from which we excerpt the following: It is impossible not to notice his exquisite descriptive faculty, and his singular felicity in its use. Forced as he is, both by natural inclination and in the carrying out of his main idea, to take not of "the actual earth's equalities," he has literally filled his pages with the song of birds, the hushed murmur of waves, the quiet and multiform life of the forest and the meadow. And in these descriptions he succeeds in doing what is most difficult, in giving us the actual scene or circumstance as it impressed him, and not merely the impression itself. This is what none but the greatest poets have ever save by accident done, and what Whitman does constantly and with a sure hand. "You shall," he says at the beginning of his book: "You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, no 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." But affluent as his descriptions are, there are two subjects on which he is especially eloquentm which seem indeed to intoxicate and inspire him the moment he approaches them. These are death and the sea. In the latter respect he is not indeed, peculiar, but accords with all poets of all times, and particularly of this time. But in his connection o[?] the two ideas (for the one [?] the other to him); and in his special devotion to death, he is more singular. The combined influence of the two has produced what is certainly the most perfect specimen of his work, the World out of the Sea. Unfortunately it is indivisible, and its length precludes the possibility of quotation. But there is another poem almost equally beautiful, which forms part of President Lincoln's Burial Hymn, and for this space may perhaps be found. DEATH-CAROL. Come, lovely and soothing Death, Undulate around 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 object 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 has taken them, I joyously sing the dead Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of they bliss, O Death. From me to the glee glad serenades. Dances for thee I propose saluting thee- adornments and feasting for thee; And the sights of the open landscapes 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- veiled 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 field 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! [*2084A*] It is easy enough to connect this cultus of death, and the patriotism which necessarily accompanies it, with the main articles of Whitman's creed. Death is viewed as the one-event of great solemnity and importance which is common to all- the one inevitable, yet not commonplace incident in every life, however commonplace; and, further, it must not be overlooked that death is pre-eminently valuable in [?] ciler, ready to [?] have all [?], to sweep away all rubbish. The cheeriest of optimists with the lowest of standards cannot pretend to assert or expect that everyone will live the ideal life- but death pays all scores and obliterates all mistakes. There remains, however, still to be considered a point not least in importance- the vehicle which Whitman has chosen for the conveyance of these thoughts. He employs, as most people know how know anything at all about him, neither rhyme nor even regular metre; the exceptions to this rule occurring among hiss more recent poems are few and insignifigant. A page of his work has little or no look of poetry about it; it is not, indeed, printed continuously, but it consists of versicles, often less in extent than a line, sometimes extending to many lines. Only after reading these for some time does it become apparent that, though rhyme, and metre have been abandoned, rhythm has not; and moreover, that certain figures and tricks of language occur which are generally considered more appropriate to poetry than to prose. The total affect produced is dissimilar to that of any of the various attempts which have been made to evade the shackles of metre and rhyme, while retaining the other advantages of poetical form and diction. Whitman's style differs very much from that of such efforts as Baudelaire's Petite Poemes en Prose, for from these all rhythm, diction, and so forth not strictly appropriate to prose is conscientionaly excluded. It is more like the polymetres of the poet's namesake Walt in Richter's Flegeljahre, except that these latter being limited to the expression of a single thought are not divided into separate lines or verses. Perhaps the likeness which is presented to the mind most strongly, is that which exists between our author and the verse divisions of the English Bible, especially in the poetical books, and it is not unlikely that the latter did actually exercise some influence in moulding the poet's work. It is hard to give a fair specimen of it in the way of quotation- that already given is not representative, being too avowedly lyrical- and the rhythm is as a rule too varying, complex, and subtle to be readily seized except from a comparison of many instances. Perhaps, however, the following stanza from Children of Adam may convey some idea of it: I have perceived that to be with those I like is enough; To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough; To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough; To pass among them, or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly around his or her neck for a moment- what is this then? Go not ask any more delight- I swim in it as in a sea. [*2084B*] 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. It will be observed that the rhythm is many- centred, that it takes fresh departures as it goes on. The poet uses freely alliteration, chiasmus, antithesis, and especially the retention of the same word or words to begin and end successive lines, but none of these so freely as to render it characteristic. The result, though perhaps uncouth at first sight and hearing, is a medium of expression by no means wanting in excellence, and certainly well adapted for Whitman's purposes. Strange as it appears to a reader familarised with the exquisite versification of modern England or France, it is by no means in disagreeable contrast therewith, being at least in its earlier forms (for in some of the later poems reminiscences of the English heroic, of Longfellow's hexameters, and even of Poe's stanzas occur) singularly fresh, light, and vigorous. Nor should the language pass unmentioned- for though of course somewhat Transatlantic in construction and vocabulary, it is not offensively American. The chief blemish in the eyes of a sensitive critic is an ugly trick of using foreign words, such as Libertaa for liberty, "habitan of the Alleghanies," "to become elve of mine," "with reference to ensemble," and so forth; but even this does not occur very frequently. Few books abound more in "jewels five words long;" it is hardly possible to open a page without lighting upon some happy and memorable conceit, expression, though, such as this of the grass: It is the handkerchief of the Lord; A scented gift and remembrance designedly dropt; Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners. That we may see and remark, and say Whose? [?] or childrens love to a father. They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal love. Or again of the grass; And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Such in matter and in manner are Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, and there only remains to be added one recommendation to their study. The book, aggressive and vainglorious as it seems, is in reality remarkably free from vituperativeness of tone. Hardly to some "eunuchs, consumptive and genteel persons" is strong language used, and after all it rests with every reader whether he chooses to class himself with these. Amid all the ecstatic praise of America there is no abuse of England; amid all the excitement of the poems on the war there is little personal abuse of the secessionists. No Englishman, no one indeed, whether American or Englishman, need be deterred from reading this book, a book the most unquestionable in originality, if not the most unquestioned in excellence, that the United States have yet sent us. [*2084C*] [*By W. S. Kennedy*] Walt Whitman, the Carlyle of America. ----------- Memoirs of General John A. Dix, but His Son, Morgan Dix. ---------- For the Major, the Ladies' Lindores, Tiger Lily, Etc. ---------- [*2085*] From advance sheets of Dr. Richard Maurice Bucke's work on Walt Whitman we gather many new views, incidents and significant suggestions, serving to throw into yet more distinct relief the rude and rugged personality of one who shares with Abraham Lincoln the right to be called the typical American, as Carlyle was the typical Scotchman. There is (with many differentces) a curious parallelism between the parentage and general character of Carlyle and Whitman. Carlyle's father was a housebuilder, and so was Whitman's. Readers of the "Reminiscences" of the Scotchman know with what beautiful reverence and pride he speaks of the staunchly-built stone houses yet standing in various parts of Dumfries which were built by his father. In like manner, in Dr. Bucke's book, we read that Walter Whitman, the poet's fatehr, was noted as a superior house framer. "not a few of his barn and house frames, with their seasoned timbers and careful braces and joists, are still standing in Suffolk and Queens counties and in Brooklyn, strong and plumb as ever." The spiritual affinity of Carlyle and Whitman, as well as the resemblance of their styles of speech, is very close. Both have that rich native idiom which no culture can give, and both are intensely religious. One lived in the roaring Babel of London; the other is the strange and enigmatical product of the seething, brilliant and multiform life of New York City. Dr. Bucke's book forms a valuable melange of notes, estimates and criticism; and, read along with Whitman's own autobiograpic jottings in "Specimen Days and Collect" and "Leaves of Grass," furnishes (with its portraits and those of the other books), a complete picture of the "Old Gray," for the men of today as well as for posterity. The first seventy pages of the work include a series of Boswellian observations and jottings, which, at least, form very pleasant reading. Then follows in part second a valuable and full history of the various editions and their "varying fortune, with flight, advance and retreat, victory deferred and wavering," up to the last Philadelphia victories of author and publisher. Then comes Dr. Bucke's estimate of the poet's writings, followed by an exceedingly curious collection of favorable and adverse criticisms pronounced by various poets, journalists and admirers. Perhaps the most valuable feature of the book is that marvelous, that immortal piece of eloquence and scathing sarcasm--William Douglas O'Connor's "The Good, Gray Poet," reproduced by Dr. Bucke with happy foresight, and prefixed by a long and interesting letter written for the present work by Mr. O'Connor himself. There are in the volume six illustrations--two remarkable fine portraits of Whitman, views of his birthplace, the old cemeteries of his ancestors, an autograph page, and portraits of his father and mother. Dr. Bucke has performed his work with firmness, dignity and care. If his Boswellian notes seem a trifle too trivial, the naiveness with which they were made disarms criticism. We learn from them of the poet's large heroic mould, of his calm manner, his freedom from fear, his love of children, his habit of singing to himself, his exquisite personal neatness, his magnetic, powerful voice, the curious enchantment of friendship which his presence sets to blazing in those who even casually meet him, his indifference to the conventional in manners and dress, and the occasional repellant qualities that emerge to view. The object of the author in the critical portion of his work is to interpret the writings of the poet as they bear on the moral elevation of men. He tells us that in his work on "Man's Moral Nature" he has discussed the moral nature in the abstract, while "the sole object of the present work is to depict an individual moral nature, perhaps the highest that has yet appeared." He believes, with many of us, that "Leaves of Grass" belongs to "a religious era not yet reached, of which it is the revealer and herald," to a moral state not yet attained, and he develops this idea in plain and temperate language, which occasionally rises into eloquence. But the spiciest in the volume are contributed by Mr. O'Connor--they glow in the setting given them with the restless lustre of orient gems. Here is his account of the infamous Harian affairs--James Harlan, Secretary of the Interior, expelling Whitman from his office: "It was not enough that he chose to do a mean and monstrous action; the manner of doing it was still meaner and more monstrous. the book "Leaves of Grass" [?????] or print. It was not in circulation, but in a drawer in the author's desk, which stood in a room in the lower story of the department building, there was a private copy filled with penciled interlineations, erasures, annotations--the revisions which prepare a text for future publication. This copy was the one over which Mr. Harlan pored in the still hours which followed the closing of the official day in the department. But it was in his own office, in an upper story, that he pursued these secret studies. The book was always in its place in the author's desk when he went home in the afternoon, and it was always there when he returned the next morning. It was in the interim that it was up-stairs. Who was it that edged along the shadowy passages of the huge building from the secretary's apartment-- that quietly slipped down the dim stairway, that crept, crawled, stole, sneaked into the deserted room of his illustrious fellow-officer, that tip-toed up to the vacant desk, that put a furtive hand into the private drawer and drew out the private volume, that glided back with it to the office of the secretary? . . . . Was it Tartuffe disguised as Ammidab Sleek, or was it the rampant god Priapus masquerading as Paul Pry?" O'Connor next gives gives to T. W. Higginson a tremendous drubbing for some statements made in the "Woman's Journal." "What, think you, is this weighty finding? Actually, now--really, now--Mr. Higginson avers that Walt Whitman ought to become the focal point of million-fingered scorn for having served in the hospitals! Shame on such unmanly manhood! yells Rev. Mr. Higginson. He should have personally 'followed the drum,' declares this soldier of the army of the Lord, himself a volunteer colonel. In bold words, instead of volunteering for the ghastly, the mournful, the perilous labors of those swarming internos, the hospitals, Walt Whitman should have enlisted in the rank and file. From all which I gather that Mr. Higginson would have cast a stone at Jean Valjean for going down without a musket into the barricades. I beg leave to tell this reverend militaire that, if Longfellow had gone from Cambridge to serve in the hospitals as Walt Whitman served, the land would have rung from end to end, and there would have been no objurgations on his not enlisting in the army, from the pen of Rev. Thomas Wentworth Higginson." O'Connor closes with reference to the "military bungiling and blundering which evoked such agonized curses" from Higginson's commanding officer at Port Royal. Dr. Bucke throws some light on the publication of the famous Emerson letter to Whitman. It appears that this letter was requested for publication by Charles A. Dana, then managing editor of the New York Tribune. Whitman at first refused, but on second and pressing application consented, since Mr. Dana was a personal friend both of himself and Emerson, and thought the use of the letter legitimate and proper. As to the contemporaneous criticisms added in the appendix, one may safely say that the world has never seen such a collection of violent antitheses and flat contradictions of judgment on any other poet living or dead. the impression of discrepancy has been artfully heightened by the editor in placing the dissident voices side by side. Here on one page we have one who laughs to scorn the idea that "Leaves of Grass" is musical; but immediately we are confronted with Rossetti, with Mrs. Professor Ritter of Vassar, and with others who find almost everywhere an interior music-pulse distinctly analogous to the work of the symphonic musicians, such as Beethoven. Boston newspapers were especially ferocious against Whitman when he first appeared; he is a hog, a brute, a Caliban, a corrupter of morals, a madman and a fool. But, side by side with these literary curiosities rise high and noble strains from Arran Leigh, Mrs. Gilchrist, Joaquin Miller, and many more, all willing to lay down their lives in defence of their conviction that so profoundly moral, elevated and religious writings were never written in the world before. We need not go so far as to assert that those who find "Leaves of Grass filthy and foolish thereby advertise their own prudish pruriency: but it is certain that such do advertise their narrow mental limitations and lack of broad humanitarian philosophy, and their want of shrewdness in understanding that a single personality may (as in Whitman's case) include two diverse and warring natures, one dark and rebellious and the other Christ-like and superb. We would call Dr. Bucke's attention to a slip on page 41--"monogram" for monograph--and suggest that the O'Connor be, appendix in a future edition, removed to the end of the book. In its present position it spoils the symmetry of the make-up of the volume. [*2085A*] "Walt Whitman." By Richard Maurice Bucke, M. D., author of "Man's Moral Nature." Philadelphia: David McKay, 23 South Ninth street. ----------- ARRAN LEIGH TO WALT WHITMAN. "I, thirty-six years old, in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death." --CHANTS DEMOCRATIC. 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, held-vigil, the bequeathed 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 gals from God;--O sing it thou! --------- JOAQUIN MILLER TO WALT WHITMAN. O Titan soul, ascend your starry steep, On golden stair to gods and storied men! Ascend! nor care where they 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 beak 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 that 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. [*2086*] ------------------------------------- THE CONCORD PHILOSOPHERS. ----------- Last Week of the Present Session [*1883*] of the School. ----------- The Norman Influences in English Language and Literature. ----------- Yesterday Morning's Lecture by Mr. John Albee. ----------- The last week of the School of Philosophy for this year opened yesterday morning with a lecture by Mr. John Albee upon "The Norman Influences in English Language and Literatures." Last evening Prof. Harris continued his course. The programme for the rest of the week is as follows: For Tuesday, Mrs. Cheney upon "A Study of "Nirvana" and Mr. Albee upon "Norman Influences;" Wednesday, Prof. Harris in the morning and Mr. Snider in the evening: Thursday morning, Mrs. Howe gives a conversation, and in the evening Mr. Block lectures upon "Platonism and its Relation to Modern Thought;" Friday morning, Miss Peabody lectures upon Milton's "Paradise Lost," and in the evening Mr. Sanborn closes the school with a lecture upon Emerson. The lecture yesterday morning was a pleasant exposition of the influences brought to bear upon English literature in the time preceding the Norman conquest. As there was not much of a real literature at that period the lecturer dealt chiefly with the formation of the English language and gave an historical account of the settlement of England and the process of amalgamation of the different races which made at last an English people. Having remarked that the English language began its modern career with a stock of roots superior to other language, Mr. Albee said that he would attempt to show how words and forms of language are especially connected with civil institutions by being the instruments of the mind and soul of man. Language is synonymous with the growth and process of development of man, and no matter whether Mr. Adams affirms that it has to use and cannot build a railway or make the kettle boil, it has its value in its unconscious character of the expression of thought. One cannot make fixed laws of language, because they soon become obsolete owing to the genius of man at work in language. The ordinary man uses a few hundred words; Shakespeare a few thousand. Every one, more or less, expresses his personal character in the choice of words. The illiterate class makes its own language; this is less true of the middle or fashionable class, whoso members lose their originality, have the same ideas, use the same words, all share in the property of language, but no single person effects a lasting change for it becomes too vast and too fixed to be controlled by a single mind. the addition of the second person makes language possible while it is the third person that creates diffusion and diversities of tongue. Mr. Albee then spoke of great advantages which would ensue if all the world spoke one tongue. If we could all read one language and speak it aright we should know this world of ours. As it is, what silence reigns beyond this little round. To some the language of poetry and philosophy is like a foreign tongue. Hence the need of the most careful, early training in general and continued study. Language is formed by the physical and mental characteristics of a people, thought and feeling working together to form a common property. There are cases of changes which come about connected with the movement of races both externally and internally. the Norman period is the one of the greatest change and upheaval. It is the true transition period, when England. France and Italy began to cultivate a new garden whose first flowers were Dante and Chaucer, when the so-called Anglo-Saxon, taken from an almost barbarous race, has become fitted by marvelous changes to express reason. The lecturer then gave the processes by which the Norman period was created, beginning first with the Anglo-Saxon. In the eleventh century it had showed to symptoms of progress, and though provincial dialects gave a local variation. It was more fixed and unvarying than at any portion of its history. The Roman Catholic church had considerable influence, but it was intermittent. Still, the new tendency, which is dated from the Norman Conquest in 1066, must have begun long before. If we look back we find the origin of a wide separation of feelings and tendencies which have come down to our own day. The people began to look higher and use the language of the court and nobility.. There was before the Conquest a conservative party, an antique, know-nothing party, despising new customs. King Edward the Confessor was the representative of the Norman, Earl Godwin and family of the English, yet there was evidently an attempt at compromise. Such was the situation in the old days, when the English race was nearing its doom. The new era which opens contains a certain amount of French influence. For a long period England ruled one-half of France, and this gave precedence to the French. In the time of Henry VI. the associations between the two countries abruptly closed, so that in less than fifty years England of to-day came into being. Now the Anglo-Saxon could go alone and the foreign element began to assimilate with the native. From the Norman conquest to Chaucer the growth was not slow; rather so fast that it seems difficult how one generation could have understood the nearest. Spelling was not uniform and the writer's personality entered strongly into his page. Some writers of the time used the common language, some the French, other experimented. Books were seldom written, and not till the time of the translation of the Scriptures was there a power to direct the genius of language. but in the translation of the Bible, where the purpose was to appeal in the clearest terms to the nation's heart, the Anglo-Saxon over-matched the Norman. Our language has never remained unchanged. Hampered with little grammatical apparatus, able to borrow words from foreign tongues, it has retained the great freedom, and allowed full play to the imaginations of poets and other writers. It allows great novelty of words and phrases, such as are used by Swinburne, Whitman and Browning, three writers who have added greatly to the music and flexibility of the language. Rhyme is almost the only conventionalism in the language, and now that is losing power. The process of the amalgamation between the Anglo-Saxons and Normans was then considered. Who were the Normans and what was the influence of the conquest? In the eleventh century the Anglo-Saxons could not be called a civilized people, having no central government until 800, when, for the first time, a King appeared in Alfred, who laid down his arms for pursuits of peace. From King Alfred to the Norman Invasion, twenty different Kings kept England in constant dissensions. A short summary of events was given, since the firs settling of England. The Romans left law and about a dozen words such as Chester, port, Lincoln, etc. The vivid imagination and ardent nature of the Celts could make nothing out of the ponderous Latin and we have no literary remains of the period. The next foreign influence is also Latin in the guise of missionaries. Then all learning was confined to monasteries and had, on the whole, a civilizing effect on the people, for the Latin tongue began to blend with the English. From this period we have many words of church service. The next period was the Danish, being the most remarkable in history from the sudden change in the character of a whole people, for the Danes became from plunderers knights and gentlemen partly under the influence of the Catholic church. The lecturer briefly treated of the church in that period and closed by characterizing the result as improved paganism and debased Christianity. Beginning the discussion, Mr. Sanborn asked whether "Little Britain" was the whole of Normandy or the coast? Undoubtedly the Normans inhabited the coast, though it was not called Normandy till the time of Rollo. Mr. Snider considered it was an interesting fact that the tendency of cultivated people is to assume a conventional language. Yet in a third stage culture may be made creative, which is reached by the genius who uses language as an instrument. It is often wearisome to hear the ideas of the middle class, and becomes more interesting to go below where individuals have their own language, or of course much better to go above. The speaker doubted whether the difference in tongues was a curse, whether the Tower of Babel occurrence was, after all, an undiluted evil. The discussion continued upon the subject of the single language. the least conventionalism is found in the dispersion of languages and the least conventionalism is the best for thought. [*2087*] Miss Peabody said that the best linguists considered the English the richest language of the world and the most likely to become universal. Mr. Albee said that English was exceedingly prolific in vituperations, because our ancestors were blackguards, though it was not so rich in expressions of the finer sentiments. For instance, we have no word to denote the coming into sympathy with people. The conversation then regarded Shakespeare and Swinburn, opinion being much divided on the merits of the latter author. Of Walt Whitman the lecturer said he regarded this writer as one who had broken fetters of rhyme and used freedom with great effect.THE SPRINGFIELD DAILY REPUBLICAN: FRIDAY, JULY 23, 1875 The Republican. ------------------------------------------------------------------- WALT WHITMAN. ------------------------------------------------------------------- HIS LIFE, HIS POETRY, HIMSELF. ------------------------------------------------------------------- "THE GOOD GRAY POET" SELF-ESTIMATED. ------------ Poet of the Personal and the Present, Prophet of the Future—His New Volume of Prose and Verse—His Home and Health. Correspondence of the Republic. CAMDEN, N. J., Wednesday, July 21. "Walt Whitman! Walt Whitman! Who is Walt Whitman?" Thus wrote, eight years ago and six thousand miles from here, old Ferdinand Freiligrath, as opening sentence to a series of articles,—translations and criticisms,—in the Augsburger Allgeimeinen Zeitung. I am going to suppose that such a question is not necessary, to-day, for your readers, though an answer to it may be interesting to them for all that. So having met often and seen and learned much of this same Walt Whitman here in Camden now for two years, I want to write you a letter all and several about him. But first let me explain part of my head-line. During the winter, the old man always dresses in gray, besides having a bushy beard and long hair of the same color; and thus it was that when James Harlan turned him out of the Interior Department, years ago, young William O'Connor of Washington wrote and printed the tract entitled, "The Good Gray Poet." THE POET OF HEALTH AND STRENGTH. Then, before describing his present condition, —and, in fact, to understand it properly,— it is necessary to say that Whitman, considered from the point of view of his friends, is not only the especial "Poet of health and strength," but for quite a long life has himself been a signal exemplification of those blessings. John Burroughs, the ornithologist and litterateur, in his personal and literary "Notes," thus draws his portrait, transcribing verbatim a letter from an officer at Washington, under date of November 28, 1870:— "You ask for some particulars of my friend Whitman. You know I first feel in with him years ago in the army; we then lived awhile in the same tent, and now I occupy the adjoining room to his. I can, therefore, gratify your curiosity. He is a large-looking man. While in the market, the other day, with a party of us, we were all weighed; his weight was 200 pounds. But I will just start with him, like with the day. He is fond of the sun, and, at this season, soon as it is well up, shining in his room, he is out in its beams for a cold-water bath, with hand and sponge, after a brisk use of the flesh-brush. Then, blithely singing,--his singing often pleasantly wakes me,--he proceeds to finish his toilet, about which he is quite particular. Then forth for a walk in the open air, or, perhaps, some short exercise in the gymnasium. Then to breakfast--no sipping and nibbling --he demolishes meat, eggs, rolls, toast, roast potatoes, coffee, buckwheat cakes, at a terrible rate. Then walking moderately to his desk in the Attorney General's office--a pleasant desk, with large, south window at his left, looking away down the Potomac, and across to Virginia on now side. He is at present in first-rate bodily health. Of his mind you must judge from his writings, as I have sent them to you. He is not what is called ceremonious or polite, but I have noticed invariably kind and tolerant with children, servants, laborers, and the illiterate. He gives freely to the poor, according to his means. He can be freezing in manner, and knows how to fend off bores, though really the most affectionate of men. For instance, I saw him,--was with him, the other day, meeting, at the railroad depot, after a long separation, a family group, to all the members of whom he was attached through the tenderest former associations, and some he had known from childhood, interchanging great hearty kisses with each, the boys and men as well as the girls and women. Sometime he and I only--sometimes a large party of us--go off on ramble of several miles out in the country, or over the hills; sometimes we go nights, when the moon is fine. On such occasions he contributes his par to the general fun. You might hear his voice, half in sport, declaiming some passage from a poem or play; and his song or laugh about as often as any, sounding in the open air." This, remember was some five years since. HIS INVALIDISM AND ITS CAUSE. In January, 1878, Mr Whitman had an attack of the nature of a paralytic stroke. He was in Washington at the time, in the occupation above alluded to. The attack does not seem to have been very severe at first. He was apparently recovering in May, and had resumed work at his desk in the Treasury building, when his mother died, somewhat suddenly. She was a remarkably noble character, and the attachment between mother and son was greater even than usual. He also lost a favourite sister about the same time by death. He was now prostrated, and had a relapse. He gave up his clerkship in the Attorney General's office, left Washington and came on here. The physicians pronounce his disease--a tediously baffling trouble of the brain and nervous power, with lately grave affections of the stomach and liver superinduced--to have had its foundation in a series of too long continued, overstrained labors and excitements, physical and emotional, in the army hospitals and on the field, among the wounded and sick during the last three years of the war. For over two years now he has been living here very plainly and simply, in seclusion. He is poor, but now in want. He is now in his 57th year, having been born May 31, 1819. He is a Long Islander (New Yorker) by birth, of English stick on the father's side and Holland Dutch on the mother's through for at least five generations on both sides he comes of American nativity. That these represent farmers, sailors, soldiers ("rebels" of '76) Quakers, drivers, mechanics (his father was a carpenter by trade), may interest this who are curious in the study of heredity. "LEAVES OF GRASS." "Leaves of Grass,"--this yet furiously fought about book, (it seems not settled yet whether it is a craze or a creation,)--has passed through five or six stages of growth, otherwise editions. It first appeared just 20 years ago, as a sprawling, thin quarto, consisting of 12 "poems," in pica type. In a year and a half the 12 had increased to 30, and came out in a fat little 16mo. Next the very finely gotten up Boston edition of 1860, in ordinary 12mo., which size has been adhered to since. There have been two issues since, one in Washington and one in New York, and the pieces have grown to over 200, upon every conceivable topic. As to their form and style, let me quote old Freiligrath again:-- "Are these verses? The lines are arranged like verses, to be sure, but verses they are not. No meter, no rhyme, no stanzas. Rhythmical prose, ductile verses. At first sight rugged, inflexible, formless; but yet, for a more delicate ear, not devoid of euphony. the language homely, hearty, straightforward, naming everything by its true name, shrinking for nothing, sometimes obscure. The tone rhapsodical, like that of a seer, often unequal, the sublime mingled with the trivial even to the point of insipidity. He reminds us sometimes, with all the differences that exist besides, of our own Hamann, or of Carlyle's oracular wisdom, or the 'Paroles d'un Croyant.' Through all there sounds out the Bible-- its language, not its creed." HIS NEW BOOK. Under the title of "Two Rivulets," Whitman is preparing at the present date, or has prepared, a new volume of prose and verse, which will be out, probably, this fall. It takes its name, "Two Rivulets," from a small collection of alternated poems with prose essays, leading the volume. I believe, too, it is intended to be emblematical of the double influences of life and death, and of the real and ideal. It will be thorough melange, comprehending political and patriotic writing, not only peace papers but war papers; also the prose "Democratic Vistas" and the poems of "Passage to India," already published, with "As a Strong Bird on Pinions Free," and a number of altogether new poetical pieces. I have heard the poet say, half in fun, half in earnest, that, while "Leaves of Grass" is the physiology of his utterance, these "Rivulets" will be the pathology of it. The "Leaves" will remain intact as in the edition of 1872, comprising 380 pages. The forthcoming volume will be about as large, and mote than one-third of it will be entirely new matter. This arrangement of two volumes is made, as I understand, principally to round and fill out the author's plan of expression, but partly for typographic and bibliophic reasons-- as the first volume was getting too bulky. THE POET FROM HIS OWN VIEW-POINT. Let me give an idea of Whitman from his own living talk. Some time since, I heard him, answering an inquiry, make the following remarks in conversation--remarks I took the liberty of writing down immediately afterward: "Well, I'll suggest to you what my poems have grown out of. I know as well as any one they are ambitious and egotistical. But I hope the foundations are far deeper. We have, to-day, no songs, no expression, from the highest poet's and artist's point, or from the eternal imagination point, of science and democracy, and of the modern. The war-like spirit of the antique world and its typical heroes and personages have been fully depicted and preserved in Homer. Rapt ecstasy and oriental veneration are in the Bible; the literature of those qualities will never, can never, ascend any higher. The ages of feudalism and European chivalry, through their results in personnel, are in Shakespeare. But where is the work, where the poem, in which the entirely different but fully equal glories and practice of our own democratic age, the modern, are held in solution--are fused in the human personality and emotions--and are fully expressed? If, for instance, by some vast convulsion, the great scientific, materialistic and political embodiments of to-day in America, and the animating spirit of them, were totally overwhelmed and lost, where is the poem, or first-class aesthetic work in any department, which, if saved from the wreck, would preserve those advanced characteristic memories of to-day to succeeding worlds of men?" At another time I heard him say: "You speak of Shakespeare, and the relative poetical and historical demands and opportunities then and now --my own included. Shakespeare had his boundless, rich material, all his characters wiating to be woven in. The feudal world had been, had grown, had richly flourished for centuries-- gave him the perfect king, the lord, the finished gentleman, all that is heroic and gallant, and graceful and proud, and beautiful and refined-- gave him the exquisite and seductive transfiguration of caste--sifted and selected out of the huge masses, as if for him, choice specimens of noble gentlemen, and gave them to him--gave him all the varied and romantic incidents of the military, civil, political, and ecclesiastical history of a thousand years. All stood up, ready, as it were, to fall into the ranks for him. Then the time comes for the sunset of feudalism. A new power has appeared; and the flush, the pomp, the accumulated materials of those ages, have all the gorgeousness of sunset. At this time Shakespeare appears. By amazing opportuneness, his faculty, his power, his personal circumstances come--and he is their poet. "But, I, for my poems--What have I? I have all to make. The feudal poet, as I say, was the finder and user of materials, characters, all ready for him--but I have really to make all, except my own inspiration and intentions--have to map out, fashion, form and knit and sing the ideal American. Shakespeare, and all, sang the past. I project the future--depend on the future for my audience." At another time: "I know perfectly well my road is different. Most of the great poets are impersonal; I am personal. They portray characters, events, passions, but never mention themselves. In my poems, all revolves around, concentrates in, radiates from myself. I have but one central figure, the general human personality typified in myself. But my book compels, absolutely necessitates every reader to transpose him or herself into that central position, and become the living fountain, actor, experiencer himself or herself, of every page, every aspiration, every line." TENNYSON AND WHITMAN. For some four or five years past there has been a very friendly personal correspondence between Tennyson and Whitman. It first commenced with a letter from the English laureate, full of courtesy to his American brother, and warmly inviting him to come to England and accept the hospitality of his roof. An English gentleman, a neighbor and friend of Tennyson's, traveling in the United States, had called on Whitman in Washington, and the latter took occasion to send Tennyson, by him, an autograph copy of "Leaves of Grass." The laureate's letter followed, as above. Other letters have since been sent from each. In fact, the two old fellows have become quite affectionate toward each other, not as poets, but as men and brethren, and have interchanged photographs as special mementoes. In a late letter, Tennyson cheers his American friend with good words, and mentions a case of cerebral disease within his own knowledge in England, similar to Whitman's, where the patient got over it, and has been restored to sound health. It is probable that the English poet, with all his admirers, (it is indeed, singular, as one is Democracy and one is Aristocracy), has none who so thoroughly appreciates him, has as warm a personal attachment to him, and so discriminatingly, yet constantly, champions him, as Whitman. I met the latter, lately, all aglow from a perusal of "Queen Mary," which he pronounced one of the world's greatest dramas of emotion, character, and poetic beauty. EMERSON'S GREETING AND ATTITUDE. Quite a good deal of contradictory gossip has been going around the land, of late years, on Emerson's attitude toward these poems, and opinion of the author. The first and partial appearance of Whitman brought out the following letter to him, dated Concord, July 21, 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 seemed the sterile and stingy nature, as if too much handiwork, or too much lymph in 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 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. 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. It is quite certain that, for some reason or other, Mr Emerson afterward cooled toward or took offense at him of "the barbaric yawp." But now again it is said that , for the last two years, Mr Emerson has not only resumed his original ground, but commends the poems more than ever. I leave this puzzle of compass-boxing to be explained by those who can solute better than myself. My own private opinion, however, is that Whitman is a hard nut to crack, is easily liable to be misunderstood, especially at first, has many points of offense against literary law and Boston decorum, and sometimes really passeth all understanding. It is well known among his friends that he does not at all pretend to be "good," at least in the usual sense, nor to aim after making his book so. A FRIEND'S OPINION. John Burroughs, before alluded to, says in the second edition of his "Notes": "Walt Whitman himself has warned me that my essay was seriously deficient in not containing this distinct admission [namely, of faults,] applied to him. 'My friends,' he said, 'are blind to the real devils that are in me. My enemies discover fancy ones. I perceive in clear moments that my work isnot the accomplishment of perfections, but destined, I hope, always to arouse an unquenchable feeling and ardor for them. It is out of struggle and turmoil I have written.'" Burroughs further goes on to say: "It is mostly as a physical being, a practical citizen, and his combination of qualities as such in the nineteenth century and in the United States, that I find him to use Carlyle's phrase, 'A man furnished for the highest of all enterprises--that of being the poet of his age.' And if that age, or if future ages, will [*2088*]not understand 'Leaves of Grass,' or will un- derstand them with difficulty, my conviction is that it is mainly because there exists no true and complete, but either an entirely defective or incredibly false and vicious conception, or want of conception, in society, or the author personally. Indeed, I doubt whether Walt Whitman's writings can be realized, except through first knowing or getting a true notion of the corporeal man and his manners, and coming in rapport with them. His form, physiognomy, gait, vocalization--the very touch of him, and the glance of his eyes upon you--all have closely to do with the subtlest meaning of his verse. His manners exemplify his book. Even a know- ledge of his ancestry, with the theory he enter- tains, and which is justified by his own case, of what he calls 'the best motherhood,' would light up many portions of his poems." WHITMAN AS A READER OF HIS OWN POEMS. The Camden mechanics and young men have a flourishing literary society here, called the "Walt Whitman Club;" and, some weeks, since, they gave a musical and other entertainment for the benefit of the poor fund, at which Whitman readily appeared as reader of one of his own poems. There was a crowded house, the report in the local paper saying: "Probably the best part of the audience drawn to the entertainment by a mixture of wonder and uncertainty what sort of a being Walt Whitman really was, and what sort of a thing one of his poems might prove to be." The report goes on to give the following account of his appearance and read- ing:-- "A large, lame old man, six feet tall, dressed in a complete suit of English gray, hobbled slowly out to view, with the assistance of a stout buck- thorn staff. Though ill from paralysis, the clear blue eyes, complexion of transparent red, and fullness of figure so well known to the New Yorkers and Washingtonians of the past 15 years, and in Camden and Philadelphia of late, all remain about the same. With his snowy hair and fleecy beard, and in a manner which singu- larly combined strong emphasis with the very realization of self-composure, simplicity and ease, Mr Whitman, for it was he, (though he might be taken at first sight for 75 or 80, he is in fact not yet 57) proceeded to read, sitting, his poem of the 'Mystic Trumpeter.' His voice is firm, magnetic, and with a certain peculiar quality we heard an admiring auditor call unaffectedness. Its range is baritone, merging into bass. He reads very leisurely, makes frequent pauses or gaps, enunciates with distinctness, and uses few gestures, but those very significant. Is he eloquent and dramatic? No, not in the conventional sense, as illustrated by the best known stars of the pulpit, court-room, or the stage--for the bent of his reading, in fact, the whole idea of it, is evidently to first form an enormous mental fund, as it were, within the regions of the chest, and heart, and lungs--a sort of interior battery--out of which, charged to the full with such emotional impetus only, and with- out ranting or any of the usual accessories or clap-trap of the actor or singer, he launches what he has to say free of noise or strain, yet with a power that makes one almost tremble." HIS FORMS IN THE OLD WORLD. Besides very copious translations of Whitman in the German language, he has been translated and printed in Danish by Rudolf Schmidt, in Hungarian at Buda-Pesth, and in French in Paris, in a long article giving the highest praise to his war poetry, in the "Revue des Deuz Mondes," by M Benzon. All are said to be spirited and faithful renderings. An English edition of his poems, or selections from them has been published in London. The prose "Democractic Vistas" has been translated and printed in fall in Denmark (Karl Schonberg's Forleg, Copenhagen, 1874.) The "Westminster Review" devoted much space, some time since to a searching analysis of his book, its modern- ness and democracy. A leading Cambridge man, Prot Clifford, in a London lecture on "the Relation between Science and Modern Poetry," assigned a main part to Whitman, and pro- nounced him the only poet whose verse, based on modern scientific spirit, is vivified throughout with what he terms the "cosmic emotion." Sinwburne and Robert Buchanan have apos- trophized him in their published poems; and a late "Academy" concludes a long article on "Leaves of Grass" by pronouncing it "a book the most unquestionable in originality, if not the most unquestioned in excellence, that the United States have yet sent us." Bur for the best foreign view of Whitman I am compelled again to return to Freiligrath, who is eminent as poet, linguist and critic. In the preface to the translations in the "Zeitung," he says of Whitman's advent: "A wonderful ap- pearance. We confess that it moves us, dis- turbs us, will not loose its hold upon us. At the same time, however, we would remark that we are not yet ready with our judgment of it, that we are still biased by our first impression. Mean- while we, probably the first in Germany to do so, will take at least a provisional view of the scope and tendency of this new energy. It is fitting that our poets and thinkers should have a closer look at this strange new comrade, who threatens to overturn our entire Ars Poetica and all our theories and canons on the subject of aesthet- ics. Indeed, when we have listened to all that is within these earnest pages, when we have grown familiar with the deep, resounding roar of those, as it were, surges of the sea in their unbroken sequence of rhapsodical verses breaking upon us, then will our ordinary verse- making, our system of forcing thought into all sorts of received forms, our playing with ring and sound, our syllable-counting and measure of quantity, our sonnet-writing and construction of strophes and stanzas, seem to us almost child- ish. Are we really come to the point, when life, even in poetry, calls imperatively for new forms of expression? Has the age so much and such serious matter to say, that the old vessels no longer suffice for the new contents? Are we standing before a poetry of the ages to come, just as some years ago a music of the ages to come was announced to us? And is Walt Whit- man a greater than Richard Wagner?" NOT A PROPHET IN HIS OWN COUNTRY. The candid truth needs it to go on record that the subject of these fine foreign praises and prophecies--still surrounded in his own country with coldness, neglect and frequent mockery--is eking out his last years in indigence and illness here in Camden, and has not, even to this day, found a publisher for his works, which (though the demand is steady and not inconsiderable), cannot be procured at all at the stores, and the small editions of which, so far, Whitman has printed himself. J. M. S. 20888 ========================= A RUSSIAN VILLAGE DANCE.--They have a singular kind of a dance conducted on the greens of country villages in Russia. The dancers stand apart, a know of young men here, a know of maid- ens there, each sex by itself, and silent as a crowd of mutes. A piper breaks into a tune, a youth pulls of his cap and challenges his girl with a wave and a bow. If the girl is willing, she waves her handkerchief in token of assent, the youth advances, takes a corner of the hand- kerchief in his hand, and leads his lassie round and round. No word is spoken and no laugh is heard. Stiff with cords and rich with braids, the girl moves heavily by herself, going round and round, and never allowing her partner to touch her hand. The pipe goes droning on for hours in the same sad key and measure; and the prize of merit in this "circling," as the dance is called, is given by the spectators to the lassie who, in all that summer revelry, has never spok- en and never smiled. ============== LONDON, MONDAY, MARCH 13. From The London Daily News. March 13. 1876 THE POSITION OF WALT WHITMAN. ----------- 2089 TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY NEWS. SIR,--Simultaneously with your American Cor- respondent's article on the new poem by Walt Whitman there appears in the Athenaeum [of yesterday] a startling series of extracts from the West Jersey Press relative to the poet's own temporal and worldly condition. For full particulars of the truth I must refer the public to the pages of your contemporary. It is enough to explain here that Whitman, "old, poor, and paralysed," is in absolute and miserable poverty; that his "repeated attempts to secure a small income by writing for the magazines during his illness have been utter failures"; that the publishers will not publish, the book- storekeepers will not keep for sale, his great experi- ments in poetry; and lastly--"O rem ridiculam, Cato, et jocosam:" -- all the established American poets studiously ignore" him, while he lies at Camden preparing, largely with his own handiwork, a small edition of his works in two volumes, which he now himself sells to keep the wolf from the door." This is neither the time nor the place to discuss in detail so solemn a matter as the claims of this discarded and insulted post to literary immortality. If those claims are as true as I and many others in England deem them to be, God will justify his works to an early posterity; but this is certainly the time, and your columns are possible the place, for an expression of English indig- nation against the "orthodox American authors, publishers, and editors" who greet such a man as the author of "Leaves of Grass" with "determined denial, disgust, and scorn." One can understand the publishers, for American publishers have been justly described by Whitman himself as "mostly sharks;" one can forgive the editors, for all men know of what pudding a typical Yankee editor's brains are made; but as for the "orthodox American authors" and the "established American poets"--orthodox perhaps in the sense of their affiliation to the Church of English litera- ture, and "established" truly in their custom of picking the brains of British bards--there is but one word for them, and that may be lengthened into a parable. Perhaps, after all, the so-called "established poets" of America, despite their resemblance to the birds that black fallows and stubbles of English literature, may claim to be at least as indigenous as the loon, the snow-hunting, and the whip-poor-will, birds well "re- cognised" even here in England and duly "established" in popular liking. For such denizens of the Bostonian pond or farm-rail to crouch down in disgust and scorn when the King of Birds passes overhead is no more than natural. It is less conceivable that that other eagle of American literature, aquiline of breed but born and degenerated in captivity, should see in silence the sufferings of his freer and sublimer brother, should utter no note of warning or of sympathy, should seem to approve by tacit and implicit silence the neglect and scorn of the little New England songsters who peck about his cage. It was the voice of Emerson--a noble and a reverberatory voice then and now--which first proclaimed the name of Whitman to America, in words of homage such as not twice in one century is paid by one poet authenticated to another obscure. It is the voice of Emerson which should be heard again for the "vindication of the honour of America, now likely to be tarnished eternally by the murder of its only remaining Prophet. It cannot be that a long captivity in the cage of respectability, and daily association with the choir of hedgerow warblers, has so weakened the heart of Emerson that he falters from his first faith, that he no longer recognizes the wild eagle his kinsman, because that kinsman's flight is afar off, and his wings, though old and feeble, are still free! There is in England no sincerer admirer of Emerson than the present writer, who awaits with anxiety the moment of explana- tion and justification. 2089A Meantime is Walt Whitman to die because America is too blind to understand him? or rather shall not we in England, who love and revere the Prophet of Democracy, pay our mite of interest on the debt which we accept, and which America is backward to disown? Speaking in the name of many admirers of Whitman, I unhesitatingly suggest such a course as will be at once a help and an honour to the "good gray Poet"--a help temporary and feeble it is true, but given for love's sake, reverently, to one far nobler than ourselves. We never bowed but to superior worth, Nor ever failed in our allegiance there I Strong as is the prejudice in some circles even here against Whitman--for alas! even England does not lack its "orthodox authors, publishers, and editors"--I believe there is scarcely one living English poet who will not re- joice to lend his aid in a cause so righteous, yet so for- lorn. But for the general public--for that public which runs as it roads, and judges as it runs--it is necessary to explain that Whitman is not merely an author whose literary claims set authors by the ears; that he is some- thing far nobler even than a great poet--a martyred man, perhaps the best and noblest now breathing on our planet, one to whom good men would almost kneel, if they knew his beneficence; one whose hand I, at least, would kiss reverently, in full token of my own un- worthiness and infinite inferiority. He has acted as well as preached his gospel of universal love and charity; he has given away his substance to his poor brethren; and he has contracted his hopeless disease solely through his personal devotion to the sick and wounded in the late American war. "The pity of it, the pity of it, Iago!" Even those Americans who deny his poetic claims admit (with a smile) his ineffable goodness; but, alas! goodness is not a com- modity in demand among "orthodox authors, publishers, and editors," not is it strictly desiderated among "esta- blished" and money-making poets. Nevertheless, only this last consecration of Martyrdom was wanting to com- plete our poet's apotheosis. As Christ has His crown of thorns (I make the comparison in all reverence), and as Socrates has his hemlock cup, so Walt Whitman has his final glory and doom even though it come miserably in the shape of literary outlawry and official persecution, Meantime, while the birds of the fallow are chirping and cramming, he leaves, as certainly at least as the second of these Divine sufferers, a living scripture to the world: which the world will read presently; which for, every ten that know it now will count hereafter its tens of thousands; which will not be lost to humanity as long as poetry lives and the thoughts of men are free. What I have to suggest is simply this. I have already said that Whitman is preparing an edition of his works in two volumes. Now, let a committee be formed here in England, and a subscription instituted to collect subscrip- tions for the purchase, to begin with, or (say) some five hun- dred copies of the poet's complete works. This, calculating the price at 10s. per copy, would require only some 250l. ; and such a sum, which a prosperous writer may make with a few strokes of the pen, would be more than sufficient for the poet's temporary needs, while furnishing at the same time a substantial proof of the honour in which he is held here in the heart of England. If the five hundred copies could be extended to a thousand, or more, so much the better for the poet, so much the mor honour to England, so much the more shame to the literary coteries which emasculate America. With regard to the copies of the works so purchased, I should suggest their gratuitous, or partly gratuitous, distribution on some such plan as that adopted and admirably carried out by the Swedenborgian Society. To many a poor and struggling thinker such as gift would be as manna, such teaching as that of Whitman would be as Heavenly seed. I throw out the hunt for what it is worth; but to save misconception, let me disclaim entire sympathy with Whitman's materialistic idealism, which seems to go too far in the direction of illuminating the execrable. One scripture, however, supplements another, and he is per- haps the wisest who harmonizes them all. That the teach- ing of Whitman is destined to exercise and extaordinary influence on the future of religion as well as poetry, no one who has read his works will deny. Unfortunately the process of perusal, which is usually supposed to be pre- liminary to literary judgement, is just the process which general readers and particular critics refuse to apply in tis instance; and still more unfortunately, Whitman is the worst poet in the world to be judged by mere "dip- ping," or by any amount of extracts, however admirably chosen.--I am, &c., ROBERT BUCHANAN. March 12. P.S.--Any communications on the subject of this letter may be addressed under care of Messrs. Strahan and Co., 35, Paternoster-row, who will, I am sure, as enlightened English publishers, further the object in view by all means in their power. R.B. =========================The Long-Islander Huntington, L. I. EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR: Charles E. Shepard Friday, Aug 5, 1881. WALT WHITMAN Mrs. Mary E. Wager-Fisher. During the summer heats of the Centennial year, a little child less than a year old fell ill and died in his house, in Camden, New Jersey. The funeral was different from most occasions: no mourners, no singing, no ceremony. In the middle of the room the dead lay in a white coffin made fragrant with a profusion of fresh geranium leaves and tuberoses. For over an hour the little children from the neighborhood kept coming in silently, until the room was nearly filled. Some were not tall enough to see the face of the dead baby, and had to be lifted up to look. Near the head of the coffin, in a large chair, sat an old man, with snow-white hair and beard. The children pressed about in, one at each side of him encircled in his arms, while a beautiful little girl was seated in his lap. After gazing wonderingly and intently at the scene about her, she looked up into the paternal face bending over her, as if to ask the meaning of Death. The old man understood the child's thought, and said: "You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?" then added, "neither do we." The dead baby was the nephew and namesake of the poet, Walt Whitman, the old man who sat in the great chair with the children gathered about him. So his being a special lover of children, understanding and sympathizing with them, perhaps, as only a poet may, and nursing, cheering and helping them when sick, as perhaps poets rarely do, or can, must add a particular fitness and charm to a sketch of him for the young readers of the Wide Awake. To go back to the beginning of his life, will take us into a farm house at West Hills, Long Island, about thirty miles from New York City, where the poet was born, May 31. 1819. His father was of English descent, his ancestors being among the first English emigrants that settled on Long Island four or five generations ago. The Whitmans were farmers, both the men and women laboring with their own hands. A famous friend of the poet thus describes his paternal house: "The Whitmans lived in a long story-and-a-half house, huge timbered, which is still standing. A great smoke-canopied kitchen, with a bast hearth and chimney, formed one end of the house. The existence of slavery in New York at that time, and the possession by the family of some twelve or fifteen slaves, house and field servants, gave things quite a patriarchal look. The very young darkies could be seen, a swarm of them, toward sundown in this kitchen, squatted in a circle on the floor, eating their supper of pudding and milk. In the house, and in food and furniture, all was rude but substantial. No carpets or stoves were known, and no coffee, and tea and sugar only for the women. Rousing wood fires gave both warmth and light on winter nights. Pork, poultry, beef, and all the ordinary grains and vegetables were plentiful. Cider was the men's common drink and used at meals. The clothes were mainly homespun. Journeys were made by both men and women on horseback. Books were scarce. The annual copy of the almanac was a treat, and was pored over through the long winter evenings." It was in this home the poet's father, Walter Whitman, was born. He was a large, quiet, serious man, very kind [to] children and animals. He [was a good citizen?] and neighbor. [?] Velsor was of Dutch [?], a race of sea folks and [?] being genuine Hollanders. The Van Velsors were also passionately fond of books, and Louisa, when a girl, was a daring and spirited rider. As a woman, she was healthy and strong, possessed of a kind and generous heart, and good sense ; she was cheerful and equable in temper, qualities which the rearing of her large family of boys and girls tested and developed to an unusual degree. Her son, the subject of this sketch, who was her second child, always speaks of her as "dear, dear mother." At the time of her death in 1873, and that of his sister Martha, which occurred at about the same time, he says: "They were the two best and sweetest women I have ever seen or known, or ever expect to see." It was fortunate that in his earlier life he was under the influence of such women, for they became to him the type and model of all womenhood. "It is the character of the mother" I have heard him say, "that stamps that of the child." But the boy's life on the farm, from the high places of which he could see the ocean and hear the roar of the surf in storms, was of short duration. While he was still in frocks, his parents moved to Brooklyn, which was then far from being the great city it now is. Here his father engaged in house building, while the young Walt went to public school, going every summer to visit his old home in West Hills. Of the events of his childhood, the poet recalls one of pleasant interest. General Lafayette was then on a visit to this country in 1825, ans went to Brooklyn, riding through the town in state, with the people lining the street, cheering, and waving hats and handkerchiefs. Even the children of the public schools were given a holiday in which to add his welcome. As the General rode along, he was induced to stop on his way and lay the corner stone of a building that was to contain a free public library for young people. There the children came thronging, while some of the gentlemen present were kind enough to lift some of the smaller ones to safe and convenient places for seeing the ceremony. Among these helpers of the little ones, was Lafayette, who took up the five-year-old Walt Whitman, kissed and embraced the child and then set him down in a good safe place. When the boy had reached the age of thirteen, he went to work in a printing office, learning to set type. For three years following, he continued to set type, to read and study, and then, when scarcely seventeen years old, he began to teach school on the Island, in the counties of Queens and Suffolk and "boarded round." During this time he made his first essay as a writer, sending a story to the then famous monthly, the Democratic Review. His article was commended, printed, copied and [?] -- a success brilliant enough to quite turn the head of a youthful aspirant. Other contributions followed, with the occasional "[shot?]" at poetry. In 1836 he published the LONG ISLANDER, a weekly newspaper, at Huntington, L. I., but this not proving a pecuniary success he finally went to New York, beginning work there as a printer and writer. His talent for writing was clever, and for a time he wrote reports, editorials, paragraphs, and the like. Occasionally he attended political meetings and made speeches. How good an orator he was I am unable to say. To be brief, during the period from 1837 to 1848, he seemed to have had a happy, careless, Bohemianish sort sort of life, making the acquaintance of hu- existence under a multitude of phases, and becoming especially familiar with the life of the lower classes of people, whose society pleased him better than did that of the rich and the learned. All this broadened and deepened his sympathies, and was a part of that "long foreground" in his career which preceded his fame as a poet. When about thirty yearrs of age, to us his own words, he "went off on a leisurely journey and working expedition (my brother Jeff with me), through all the Middle States and down the Ohio and Mississippi river. Lived a while in New Orleans and worked there. After a time plodded back northward, up the Mississippi, the Missouri, etc., and around to and by way of, the great lakes, Michigan, Huron and Erie, to Niagara Falls and lower Canada--finally returning through Central New York and down the Hudson." In 1851 he began the publication of a daily and weekly newspaper in Brooklyn ; then sold that out and occupied himself in house-building, which it will be remembered was his father's vocation. He continued in this business until 1855, when his father died, a loss he keenly felt, for his love of kindred is strong and deeply rooted. About this time he began, after a great deal of writing and re-writing, to put his poems, which then consisted of one foundation piece, so to speak, and which he oddly enough named for himself, and ten or a dozen shorter pieces, to press. He says of this work, that he had great trouble in leaving out the stock "poetical" touches, but finally did. He was at this time at the meridian of life, thirty-five years old. These poems, when printed and bound, formed a thin quarto volume which was labeled "Leaves of Grass." In the frontispiece was a neatly engraved half-length portrait of a youngish man, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, rather jauntily adjusted, a plain shirt with wide collar left open at the throat, one arm a-kimbo, and the hand of the other stuffed in his pantaloon pocket. The face under the broad-brimmed hat was, however, a study, and difficult to describe. The mouth seemed to say one thing and the eyes another. This was a portrait of the author at thirty-five years of age, and it may interest possessors of copies to know that this "shirt-sleeve picture" was daguerrerotyped from life one hot day in August, by Gabriel Harrison, of Brooklyn, afterwards drawn on steel by McRae, and was a very faithful and characteristic likeness at he time. "Leaves of Grass" was issued without the author's name, the printing was poorly done, the publisher was unknown to fame, the style of the poems was different from anything hitherto known under the sun, and altogether the prospect of the "Leaves" was a withering one. A few copies were deposited in New York and Brooklyn for sale, but weeks elapsed and none were sold. But very little notice was taken of the book by reviewers, who either thought it beneath their notice or found it too far beyond their comprehension to attempt a criticism of it, or felt unwilling to hazard a critic's reputation by actually classifying it as literary "fish, flesh or fowl." Suddenly, however, from an unexpected quarter came a powerful voice to its rescue. Ralph Waldo Emerson spoke, and his words were a "magnificent eulogium" of "Leaves of Grass." At this people began to ask for the book, and after a little while the first edition was exhausted. Two years later a second edition appeared, with some notable additions, and third edition, handsomely published in Boston, appeared when the war cloud was rising. In the financial crash that preceded and followed the outbreak of the war the publishers failed--a few thousand copies of the book had been sold--everything then was forgotten but the weal and woe of the country, and the poet went off to the war. was ordered north and lies ill for six months. Upon his partial recovery (for he has never recovered) he returned to Washington, and was given a position in the Department of the Interior. A goodly portion of his salary and his leisure hours were devoted to hospital word, and as "prophet, poet or priest," the tenderest, heartfeltest tribute that can be paid to Walt Whitman must come from the suffering soldier boys he nursed back to life, boys who are men to-day: and whose eyes brighten and moisten at his name, and from the silence of those who fell asleep in his arms, and whose requiem he has so touchingly chanted. As a clerk, Walt Whitman did his work well, poet though he was, mechanical as his work was, and modest as was his pay. We never hear him complaining of the "thankless Government." A prejudiced official removes him at one time, because he is the author or that "strange book"--"Leaves of Grass." Another official, of broader mental calibre, reinstates him in the Attorney General's office, because perhaps, that he is author of "Leaves of Grass," and a faithful, trustworthy clerk. This position he holds until 1873 when the remnant of strength and health that escaped destruction during the war, yields to nervous paralysis, and helpless and gray, hair and beard by many years prematurely whitened, he quits work and goes to Camden, N. J., to live.These later years of illness have undoubtedly been the hardest years in the life of the poet. Helpless and half sick, his ills have been aggravated by peculiarly trying circumstances. Repeated attempts to secure a small income by writing for the magazines have met with no success. Magazines as well as publishing houses, great and small, have been as so many closed avenues to him, and several of his agents, one after another, taking advantage of his helplessness, have put the proceeds of the sale of his books into their own pockets. But under all this, no word of complaint, no tone or look of discouragement, for our poet is a written philosopher. Always cheerful and serene he stands fast and strong like a great rock lashed about by ocean billows; or like some prophet with gifted sight who sees adown the vistas of time a shining verdict--one which all men read and see to be true. Latterly, however, Mr. Whitman has been getting better, and is more resolute and persevering than ever. Many a gleam of sunshine comes to him from friends at home and abroad, especially from England where he is greatly appreciated, and if appreciation be measured by its quality rather than by its quantity, no poet of the country is more read than he. During the past twelve months he has prepared with his own hands an edition of his works, in two volumes, which he himself sells. One is entitled "Leaves of Grass," and the other "Two Rivulets." Both volumes contain his photograph, put in with his own hands, his signature, and are in a way charged with his own personal magnetism--"authors' editions" indeed. The price for these volumes is necessarily high, as the edition is very small, not over one hundred and fifty copies. I think he must make a very poor agent for himself, for once when a party proposed to purchase he quite earnestly advised them not to buy! As to Walt Whitman's "home" it must be confessed that he has none, and for many years has had none in the special sense of "home;" neither has he the usual library or "den" for composition and work. He composes everywhere--much in the open air; formerly, while writing "Leaves of Grass," sometimes in the New York and Brooklyn ferries sometimes on the top of omnibuses in the roar of Broadway, or amid the most crowded haunts of the city, or the shipping by day-- and then at night, often in the Democratic amphitheater of the Fourteenth street Opera House. The pieces in his "Drum Taps" were all prepared in camp, in the midst of war scenes, on picket or the march in the army. He now spends the summer mostly at a solitary farm "down in Jersey," where he likes best to be, by a secluded, picturesque pond on Timber Creek. It is in such places, and in the country at large, in the West, on the prairies, by the Pacific, in cities, too-- New York, Washington, new Orleans, along Long Island shore where he well loves to linger, that Walt Whitman has really had his home and place of composition. He is now 62 years old, and has his "headquarters," as he calls it, at Camden, where a brother resides. In person Mr. Whitman is tall, erect and stout, and moves about with the aid of a large cane. His white hair, thrown straight back from his brow, and full white beard, give him a striking and patriarchal appearance. His cheeks are fresh and ruddy, his forehead is deeply furrowed with horizontal lines; in conversation his blue gray eyes seem prone to hide themselves under the falling eyelids, which are presently suddenly lifted as if by a thought. His voice is clear and firm, his manner free from all affectation or eccentricity, and is eminently natural and social. He is not specially gifted, or fluent in coversation- is fond of society, and confesses that as he grows old, his love for humanity has come to be almost a hunger for the presence of human beings. He is a great favorite with children, and bachelor as he has been all his life, his nature is as sweet and gentle, his heart as sympathetic and young, as tender and true, as if he were the happiest grandsire around whose knee sunny-haired children ever clung. [*2090C*] In his dress he is very simple, but scrupulously neat and clean. His most intimate friends are plenty of cold water and pure air. He always wears his shirts open at the throat-- a healthful but uncommon habit. Among his "household gods" are two prized portraits: one is of himself, painted some years ago by Charles Hine, of New York, who on his death-bed gave it to the poet. The other is a photographic portrait of Alfred Tennyson sent by the "laurate" to Whitman. In a letter accompanying the picture Mr. Tennyson says that his wife pronounces it the best likeness every made of him- certainly it is a very handsome one, and few copies were made from the plate, as it was, unfortunately, soon after broken. Of the other Whitman children, none have developed a poetic talent. According to a good humored remark of himself, "They think writing poetry is the sheerest nonsense." Two of his brothers are engineers. On of them, Col. George Whitman, was a gallant army officer during the whole war. As to his poetry, there are almost as many opinions as there are readers of it. The best judgement one can have of it, is to read it for himself, study it, for there is far more in it, at all times, than may at first appear. --------------------------------- Northport. [*2090D*] [BY OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.] The activity in the ship-yards still continues. Schooner Sarah Purvis, Capt. John Lysle, Cold Spring, and a sloop, are being put in order at Jesse Carll's yard, while sloop James Kirby, Capt. Lowndes, Norwalk, Conn., is being handled by Geo. Lefferts. On Sunday night last Mrs. Wm. Conklin is reported to have stepped off a bridge while on her way home from the M. E. Church, and broke out several front teeth and sprained her wrist. We are not going to mention the festival to be given by the ladies of Adah Chapter and Aleyone Lodge August 24th, for the fair ones are so busy getting up novelties that they can't tell us about them. Was it a "yaller dorg?" John Murray, a seaman on boarch schooner Sarah Elizabeth, Capt. Geo. Brown, made a complaint to Justice M. R. Conklin last week that a dog on board the vessel had bitten him in the face, while the craft was lying at Hoboken, New Jersey. Murray's nose and face showed the attack of the dog had been a fierce one. On hearing testimony in the case, as to whether the attack was unprovoked on the part of the dog, Justice Conklin ordered the dog to be killed. This order Capt. Geo. Brown has chosen to disobey, having sailed away with the dog on board. The case will now go to the Board of Supervisors who are authorized by law to prosecute and recover penalty for every day the dog is left alive by its owner after the order to kill it has been issued by proper authority. [*¶ extracted for Dr Buckes W W 2091*] NEW-YORK SAILY TRIBUNE, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1884. AMERICAN AUTHORS AND ENGLISH CRITICISM. A LETTER FROM ROBERT BUCHANAN. To the Editor of The Tribune. SIR: My attention has just been called to the special New-York correspondence of The Pittsburg (Penn.) Chronicle-Telegraph, in which the writer, while saying some unpleasant and a few flattering things about myself, accuses me of having "imbecilely" attacked on some remote occasion the poets of America. Now this accusation, though made ad captandum and with no little recklessness, discomforts me to some extent, seeing that it might, if re-echoed, prejudice me with that great American public to which I owe so many favors, which has always been generous to me and mine, and to which I, as novelist, dramatist, and writer of verse, have reason to feel profoundly grateful. My chief offence appears to be, that I praised, perhaps over-zealously, an American, who still remains, in my opinion, one of the greatest and strongest men of the century, Mr. Walt Whitman, and that, in so doing, I underestimated the more popular singers of this much-singing country. It is quite necessary to explain, therefore, that my glowing admiration of Whitman has never in any way qualified my respectful appreciation of those writers who, while lacking his originality, have won sympathetic readers wherever the English tongue is spoken. Again and again I have written in the warmest terms of Emerson, and compared him favorably with our own Carlyle. I have edited an edition of Longfellow, and sounded his praises roundly. Whittier and Bryant have always had my homage, and I was among the first to welcome the fresh and sunny genius of Bret Harte. It is true, nevertheless, that I seek in American literature, wherever I find it, a larger outlook than has been seen as yet from the salons of Boston or the farm-yards of Concord; that I have little or no sympathy with the native talent which affects the manners of the London man-about-town and the airs of the Parisian petit miditre; that, in short, I love the "woodnotes wild" of this continent better than its mocking-bird imitations of European tunes, now long out of fashion even there. This alone to some of your critics, seems an offence. My friend Mr. Stedman, whose own work, by the way, refutes some of his own theories, in so far as it is charmingly native and American, has lectured me very seriously on my perversity. It is such a mistaken idea, I am told, to imagine that American literature ought to be monstrous, formless, cosmic, and all that sort of thing! With all humility I hold that it ought at least to escape our English limitations. The best American work does so. Whitman's work does so invariably, Emerson's frequently, Whittier's very often, Longfellow's occasionally. But it seems to me (if so insignificant a person as myself may express an opinion) that the young literary men of America are beset by what I have remarked as a failing of some American gentlemen, socially; and that is, a morbid diffidence as to their own native resources, resulting in a frequent effort to assume "superior" manners, too commonly European. With materials all round them which we poor Londoners gape at in hopeless envy, with rich and abundant forms of life and a marvellous scenic panorama close to their hand, they set out for Italy or Paris, and literally go wool-gathering. No one admires more than I do the charming filagree-work of Mr. Howells; but I don't want filagree-work from the mind which could conceive that marvellous picture of the Spiritualist in the "Undiscovered Country." I take this novel, by the way, as a sad example of a work of genius gone wrong through a refinement of European (or Bostonian) ethics. The art is admirable; the moral is, that young ladies should beware of Spiritualism, not merely because it is false and silly and productive of hyperaes theria, but because it is the sole mission of young ladies to meet young men, and spoon, and marry and inherit the domestic virtues of their fathers and mothers. For the rest, I should rejoice to see the rising novelists of America invoke a deus ex machina of a more robust virility than is fashionable with super-sensitive and super-amatory misses. "Who goes there, hankering, gross, mystical, nude?" Not, certainly, our friend with the superhuman insight into the feelings and impulses of young ladyism, the American dilletante. He, good soul, still remains, characteristically diffident of his own powers, and morbidly afraid of committing a literary solecism, under the inspiring a mantle of the arch-enchanter, Trollope. This, then, is my offence, that, loving and admiring America and Americans so much, I love and admire their robust natural ways both in life and literature, and have no sympathy with their affectations in the direction of genteel European ethics and a blameless European culture. I see not reason why they should be ashamed of being original, whether in the cut of their coats or the style of their books. I think it would be as rational for them to talk eternal Chinese, as eternal Bostonese; neither lingo is the true speech of this princely race, so truly imperial and cosmopolitan. But whatever style they use, and whatever tongue they speak, I, for one, shall hold them in life-long gratitude for a thousand kindnesses done to me while I was still a stranger, and repeated daily now I am a visitor to their hospitable land. In the correspondence alluded to above, and which in more than one respect resembles the pictures children draw "out of their own heads," it is stated that I once inscribed a book to Mr. Swinburne. This is news to me, and will be news to the author of "Songs Before Sunrise." Very respectfully, ROBERT BUCHANAN. New-York, Sept. 9, 1884. [*2091*]PLATFORM AND PULPIT. ------ Mr. Chainey's High Estimate of Walt Whitman's Poems. ------ LESSONS FOR TODAY. Lecture by Mr. George Chainey on Leaves of Grass. 2692 Paine Hall was filled yesterday afternoon to listen to a lecture by Mr. George Chainey on "Lessons for Today," founded on Walt Whit- man's "Leaves of Grass." After reading a portion of the poem, the lecturer said Whit- man was eminently the poet of today, and, while not poet has been so coldly received, the writings of none beat warmer to life. Whit- man dared to write in his own way, finding what nature had to say, and following her rather than in the path beaten by others. There is no enthusiasm for ancient customs today, and this is seen in the attendance at the churches, on the way to which the hearts did not outstrip the feet, nearly all the church- goers being bound to a creed they didn't be- lieve in, for, while the ministers and people bowed their heads, their hearts were craving liberty, and they were in hell. The lecturer said heaven was de- rived from the words "heaved up," and hell from "held down," the latter being the condition of the Christians of today. He and other free thinkers believed in dealing honestly and openly with the world, but the church, as well as rulers and politicians, do not, and, at the present time, the church is fitly matched in this present by the President and Congress in Washington; but neither the church nor politicians can go on much longer, for the mass of the people is awakening to their rascalities. Walt Whitman is the poet of today, because he sings of the vast, varied and changeful life of the present, and the lecturer said that, while Shakespeare might be compared to the Pacific, Whitman must be compared to the Atlantic ocean, and he be- lieved the time would come when America would weave for herself a garland on the poems of Whitman such as England had done on those of Shakespeare; but it needed time to fully exemplify the work of Whitman, as they were not now understood in their strangeness of expression. Mr. Chainey read several quo- tations to show this, and, while admitting his inability to comprehend much the poet had written, yet considered his devotion to nature one of his strongest claims to be a leader and teacher. He specially referred to Whitman's desire that all should devote themselves to the unspeakable work of today in cultivating friendship, brotherhood and humanity, the lesson being set in a thousand different ways; also, to our true relation to nature, and, lastly, he spoke of Whitman's writing on the glory of love, saying that no man had been more misunderstood in his purpose than had Walt Whitman on this subject. ----- ----- 2092 --------------------------- BOSTON HERALD. =============== 20921A MONDAY, MAY 10, 1881. =============== The Republican. ------------------ Entered at the Post-Office at Springfield, Mass., as Second-Class Matter. ============== SPRINGFIELD, SUNDAY, DECEMBER 4. ============== ============== 2093 MEN OF LETTERS. '81 ----------- Walt Whitman's "cluster" of notes in the current Critic is peculiarly interesting because devoted to Emerson, of whom, "in the calm, 'peaceful but most radiant twilight of his old 'age," he gives a far better portrait than Frank Fowler does in the sketch from a photograph on the title-page. That sketch entirely misses the Emerson look. Whitman greatly enjoyed his Concord days at Mr Sanborn's, "under the 'sahe of old hickories and elms, on the porch, 'within stone's throw of the Concord river;" or in such a company as that town can gather, "a long and blessed evening with Emerson, in a 'way I wouldn't have wished better or differ- ent." Mr Emerson said nothing, however, ex- cept to greet people on entering, but he sat where Whitman could look at him--"a good 'color in his face, eyes clear, with the well- 'known expression of sweetness, and the old 'clear-peering aspect quite the same." He dined with Emerson the next day; there was talk about Thoreau, as there had been the even- ing before; Emerson speaking but little, but "an alert listener." Whitman vis- ited the Old Manse, where Emerson wrote his principal poems. "The spot serves the 'understanding of them like a frame does a 'picture. The same of Hawthorne's 'Mosses.' 'One notes the quaintness, the unkempt grass 'and bushes, the little panes in the windows, the 'low ceilings, the spicy smell, the creepers em- 'bowering the light, a certain severity, pre- 'cision and melancholy, even a twist to all, not- 'withstanding the pervading calmness and nor- 'mality of the scene. The house, too, gives out 'the aroma of generations of New England 'Puritanism and its ministers." The poet went to the cemetery where Hawthorne and Thoreau were buried, and to Walden pond, where he added a stone to the cairn that marks the spot where Thoreau's house stood. Dwelling so much in thought of Emerson, it is natural that on Boston Common, about a month later, Whitman should recall his earlier acquaintance with the sage, and write of it now,--with an eye all the while, no doubt, to the critics of the "Leaves of Grass" in the new edition. It is an important contribution to his own biography he makes in his anecdote:-- "Up and down this breadth by Beacon street, between these same old elms, I walked for two hours, of a bright sharp February midday 21 years ago, with Emerson, then in his prime, keen, physically and morally magnetic, armed at every point, and when he chose, wielding the emotional as well as the intellectual. During those two hours he was the talker and I the listener. It was an argument-statement, re- connoitering, review, attack, and pressing home (like an army corps, in order, artillery, cavalry, 2093 infantry), of all that could be said against that part (and a main part) in the construction of my poems, 'Children of Adam.' Mere precious than gold to me that dissertation--(I only wish I had it now, verbatim). It afforded me, every after, this strange and paradoxical les- son; each point of E.'s statement was unan swerable, no judge's charge ever compli or convincing. I could never h the conclusion. 'Only that them at all, I feel more settle here to my own theory and my candid response. Whereup had a good dinner at the American thenceforward I never wavered or was touched with qualms (as I confess I had been two or three times before)." It is interesting to learn that Whitman had "qualms," as all but a very few of his toughest readers will certainly have, so long as he is read. As that seems tolerably sure to be as long as any author of to-day is read, we must anticipate the time when he will appear in expurgated editions that can be laid on the family table, to be taken up by who- ever will, without offending decency. Mr Whitman makes us admire his spunk and his colossal self-centering in standing up against the clear light of Emerson's argument and saying, "Nevertheless, it is I, that am 'speaking and must speak, and not you, seer 'though you are." Some of Whitman's readers have fancied that of late he would have been glad to omit some of the Adamic verse but for pride; and have in fact felt as if his theory of poetry might be in some measure in- vented to fit the facts and justify them, rather than have been the source and mold of them. As good a thing as has ever been said of Whitman's work in this direction is contained in a review in a previous number of the Critic. Speaking of the old "dilettante atmosphere" of our literature, with vital connection with the life of the country, the reviewer says:-- "Into this hot-house air of literature Walt Whitman bounded, with the vigor and supple- ness of a clown at a funeral. Dire were the grimaces of the mourners in high places, and dire are their grimaces still. There were plenty of criticisms to make, even after one had finished crying Oh! at the frank sensuality, the unbelievable nakedness of Walt. Everything that decent folk covered up, Walt exhibited, and boasted of exhibiting! He was proud of his nakedness and sensuality. He cried, Look here, you pampered rogues of liter- ature, what are you squirming about, when you know, and everybody knows, that things are just like this, always have been, always will be? But it must be remembered that this is what he wrote, and that he did it a plan, and by order from his genius. It has never been heard of him that he was disgusting in talk or vile in private life, while it has been known that poets celebrated for the lofty tone of their morality, for the strictness of their Christianity, the purity of their cabinet hymns, can condescend in private life to wallow in all that is base." Well worth quoting, before we leave the two great Americans, is what Walt says of Emerson: "Amid the utter delirium-disease called book- 'making, its feverish cohorts filling our world 'with every form of dislocation, morbidity, and 'special type of anemia or exceptionalism (with 'the propelling idea of getting the most possible 'money, first of all), how comforting to know of 'an author who has, through a long life, and in 'spirit, written as honestly, spontaneously and 'innocently as the sun shines or the wheat grows '--the truest, sanest, most moral, sweetest 'literary man on record--unsoiled by pecuniary 'or any other warp--ever teaching the law with- 'in--ever loyally outcropping his own self only-- 'his own poetic and devout soul!" 2093A Touching the uncertainty of fate which The Times ========= PHILADELPHIA, DECEMBER 3, 1881. ========= ========= NOTES OF NEW BOOKS. ------ WALT WHITMAN, complete at last, thanks to the patience and pluck of James. R. Osgood & Co., the Boston publishers, speaks to the world by his new book, just issued, in such shape and under such auspices as will win the world's wider attention. The book is running over with the writer's own per- sonality and the two must be treated as one. Walt and his work are older, whiter, more mature; not wiser, but quieter; the mad turbulences hushed a little and some pruning done; yet the same sight, undimmed, immortal; Leaves of Grass, still green and vital as ever, but now growing close about many a solid rock of fame; the man and his work, among the oddest, if not the most beautiful, things of the present century. I, the Titan, the hard-mouthed mechanic,spending my life in the hurling of words. In an age of short hair, and cropped beards, and close-fitting coats and "pants," and neck wear, a man that persists in letting his hair and beard grow long, wears loose clothes, low-necked shirts and no collar or halter at all, out-Byrons Byrons, and if he can do all this, as Whitman does, and still maintain his self-re- spect, and not get hooted at on every street corner, that is, keep on his own way without fastening upon himself of the obloquy of a quack and charlatan, it ar- gues pretty strongly that there is unusual stuff in the animal somewhere. And the man who can name three hundred little songs and songlets, and some- how permeate each name with instinctive life that laughs at commonplace and each name an original fixed streak of genius in its way, not only not dull, but vividly descriptive, suggestive, is something out of the ordinary ranks of hacks in all lines. As to the poems, Emerson long ago said they were poetry; Tennyson, Swinburne, not to speak of vapid critics at home or abroad, affirm that Walt has written poetry. What is there left to be said? Much every way were there room to say it. Short and clear let the words be. It would be easy to pick a thousand lines from Whitman's three hundred and eighty-two pages that fairly breathe and bristle with power, that sparkle and flash with beauty, that are as unique in modern poetry as the brightest aurora that has filled the north skies for a generation and as rare as the few gem-like days of June. Now and then there are eclipses; sunlight and stars all gone out of the man and his word; but nature swings back to him, he to it, and there is light again when the orbit is found an nature attuned. It is life, seen and recorded. never mind to egotism. That must come in somehow in all work. To jot it down more definitely, Whitman has eyes, looks into things, not at them. No long or steady gaze, no masterful com- prehension of the great laws of the facts, but the facts he sees; furthermore, has the ability to report the fact as he sees it, as it is; yet further, to saturate all facts so seen and recorded with the momentary, intense splendor of his own being. Name the being? The grade of it? Well, not Homeric; that was warlike, heroic, grand. Read the lines of Whitman's face and of his poetry: nothing of the Homeric or heroic is there. Not Shakespearean; that is art incarnate. Whitman is not an artist; not Virgilic or Dantic--that is culture and morality and sentiment and piety of a kind. Whitman has non of these. Not Emersonian or Tennysonian--that is scholarly--Whitman is the farthest removed from all that. What then? We answer, that what these all were to the distinctive spirit of their generations, though in utter contrast with them, Whitman is to the characteristic spirit of this generation--gigantic, rude, loud, prosy, me- chanic, conceited. Whirling, unsettled, abounding in vitality, extent and power. In this light read Whit- man's book, and lines fine, in their way, as any in Homer or Shakespeare shall flash on your soul, if you have a soul, and pleasure rich and rare as the lover finds in love, the poet in nature, and the banker in his margins shall press and pierce you almost to pain. 2094 --------------------------- TO WALT WHITMAN. FRIEND Whitman! wert though less serene and kind, Surely thou mightest (light our Bard sublime Scorn'd 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 are seen,-- Blessing, with something Christ-like in thy mien, A sea of turbulent lives that break and die!--Robert Buchanan. 2095 Progress April 3 '80 Camden paper takes the press of the country to task for speaking lightly, after the manner of men, of Mr. Walt Whitman's poetry, and then proceeds to enumerate the old poet's claims upon our respect and regard. We think this is quite unnecessary. There may be two opinions about "Leaves of Grass," but there is only one about Mr. Whitman's patriotic and charitable character, and it seems to us that the two ideas need not come into conflict or influence each other. It is true that there was no one in Washington during the war who spent more of his life for the benefit of the soldiers than Mr. Whit- man. His open collar and snowy head were as well known to the boys in camp and hospital as the bright uniform of the young Napoleon himself. He is now expiating in sickness and listlessness the generous sins of that time of reckless expenditure of force and vitality. The good wishes and sym- pathies of all who ever knew him follow him into his tedious retirement, and we need not share or contest the opinion of his poetry held by Mr. Tenny- son and Mr. Emerson, to hope that he may soon recover and that he may enjoy the peaceful age he has earned. 2096 ================== The fight still rages over Whitman's 'Leaves of Grass.' The Times can see nothing in one of the poems contained therein (the 'children of Adam') but 'a coarse, vulgar, disgusting expression of facts which should not be expressed in a book'; but it argues that the attempted suppression of the work is a 'bigoted task.' The Christian Intelli- gencer regards Mr. Whitman as 'the greatest literary humbug of the age.' 'We can hardly express how startled we were,' writes the editor, 'on the occasion of our first meeting with the book'; and he declares that it is 'a point gained to have exposed this gray and broad-brimmed old fraud.' A correspondent of the Springfield Re- publican, on the other hand, maintains that there is a difference between Shakspeare and Burns, and the Police Gazette, that seems to have escaped the notice of our lawyers but which will not be over- looked by the world at large, still less by posterity.' 2097 NY Critic ------ June 17 1882 ------------------------- DECEMBER 3, 1881. ============== THE TIMES-PHILADELPHIA, SA') ============== NOTES OF NEW BOOKS. 2098 ---------- WALT WHITMAN, complete at last, thanks to the patience and pluck of James R. Osgood & Co., the Boston publishers, speaks to the world by his new book, just issued, in such shape and under such auspices as will win the world' wider attention. The book is running over with the writer's own per- sonality and two must be treated as one. Walt and his work are older, whiter, more mature; not wiser, but quieter; the mad turbulences hushed a little and some pruning done; yet the same sight, undimmed, immortal; Leaves of Grass, still green and vital as ever, but now growing close about many a solid rock of fame; the man and his work, among the oddest, if not the most beautiful, things of the present century. I, the Titan, the hard-mouthed mechanic, spending my life in the hurling of words. In an age of short hair, and cropped beards, and close-fitting coats and "pants," and neck wear, a man that persists in letting his hair and beard grow long, wears loose clothes, low-necked shirts and no collar or halter at all, out-Byrons Byron, and if he can do all this, as Whitman does, and still maintain his self-re- spect, and not get hooted at on every street corner, that is keep on his own way without fastening upon himself the obloquy of a quack and charlatan, it ar- gues pretty strongly that there is unusual stuff in the animal somewhere. And the man who can name three hundred little songs and songlets, and some- how permeate each name with instinctive life that laughs at commonplace and each name an original fixed streak of genius in its way, not only not dull, but vividly descriptive, suggestive, is something out of the ordinary ranks of hacks in all lines. As to the poems, Emerson long ago said they were poetry; Tennyson, Swinburne, not to speak of vapid critics at home or abroad, affirm that Walt has written poetry. What is there left to be said? Much every way were there room to say it. Short and clear let the words be. It would be easy to pick a thousand lines from Whitman's three hundred and eighty-two pages that fairly breathe and bristle with power, that sparkle and flash with beauty, what are as unique in modern poetry as the brightest aurora that has filled the north skies for a generation and as rare as the few gem-like days of June. Now and then there are eclipses; sunlight and stars all gone out of the man and his word; but nature swings back to him, he to it, and there is light again when the orbit is found and nature attuned. It is life seen and recorded. Never mind the egotism. That must come in somehow in all work. To jot it down more definitely, Whitman has eyes, looks into things, not at them. No long or steady gaze, no masterful com- prehension of the great laws of the facts, but the facts he sees; furthermore, the as he sees it, as it is; yet further, to saturate all facts so seen and recorded with the momentary, intense splendor of his own being. Name the being? The grade of it? Well, not Homeric; that we warlike, heroic, grand. Read the lines of Whitman's face and of his poetry: nothing of the Homeric or heroic is there. Not Shakespearean; that is art incarnate. Whitman is not an artist; not Virgilic or Dantic--that is culture and morality and sentiment and piety of a kind. Whitman has none of these. Not Emersonian or Tennysonian--that is scholarly--Whitman is the farthest removed from all that. What then? We answer, that what these all were to the distinctive spirit of their generations, though in utter contrast with them, Whitman is to the characteristic spirit of this generation--gigantic, rude, loud, prosy, me- chanic, conceited. Whirling, unsettled, abounding in vitality, extent and power. In this light read Whit- man's book, and lines fine, in their way, as any in Homer of Shakespeare shall flash on your soul, if you have a soul, and pleasure rich and rare as the lover finds love, the poet in nature, and the banker in his margins shall press and pierce you almost to pain. 2098A -- THE PHILADELPHIA PRESS.- SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 1881 ======================== WALT WHITMAN'S WORK --------- THE GOOD GRAY POET TALKS OF HIS TARDY RECOGNITION. 2099 -------------- The Distinguished Subject of Much Obloquy Returns from Boston, Where for Three Months He has been Supervising the Publication of Leaves of Grass. ------------------- The name and occupation of the best known literary man in the State of New Jersey are given in the Camden Directory thus: "Walt Whitman, poet, Stephen and West Streets." There is only one other Whitman in the Directory and he is a bricklayer. Probably there are not a dozen people in the poet's neighborhood who have read more than the merest fragments of his work, but everybody knows him, and the deck hands on the ferry-boats between Camden and Philadelphia are his companions every pleasant night, no matter how cold it is, for the poet likes the night air and rides back and forth on the ferry for an hour at a time always keening in the teeth of the wind. He stands head and shoul- ders above the crowd of men and women who jostle one another in hurried journeys to and from the ferries. He wears a great cape over- coat of soft gray cloth, which falls below the knees, and a broad-brimmed white felt hat almost as wide as the strong shoulders, over hich a wild growth of white hair and beard blown by the wind. Speaking of the s of this poet's work, his labor jected man never got int ort poems from tim hem, but there have which he did not publish, as, for ance, one of his latest poems written this summer which is rejected by Harper's Maga- zine would not be able to understand it." But a Boston publisher has just collected together and printed the first complete edition of Leaves of Grass, fragments of which have excited in past years the bitterest criti- cisms, and after three months' work in Boston, working with the printer at his case, the author of these poems returned to his home at Camden on Thursday. The deck-hands and gate-keepers on the ferries, who have known the stalwart figure in past years, noticed its absence during the summer months, and marked its reappear- ance in the midst of the wind and storm of Thursday night. True to his old habit, the poet spent an hour or more on the ferry, swinging pendulum-like between this city and Camden. THE POET'S IMPRESSIONS OF BOSTON PEOPLE. A PRESS reporter who conversed with him at that time stood close to the poet, on his wind- ward side, to hear all that he said. Among the chief characteristics of the vulnerable man is the perfect frankness with which he speaks of his critics and commends them, the unaf- fected way in which he recalls his own errors and failures in the past, and his unconcern for what the world shall say of him in the future, and these characteristics were manifest in the interview which followed on the deck of the ferry-boat and afterward in the poet's "deu" on the top floor of the little brick house in which he lives. James R. Osgood, the Boston publisher, was the only man, Walt Whitman said, who had offered to publish his book without excluding any of the lines which many critics had long ago condemned. This was the reason why Leaves of Grass was published in Boston in- stead of nearer home. "Did you find the literary society of Boston more sympathetic than any other, as Bostonians say it is?' "In one respect I did. The people there are undemonstrative, exclusive, and their blood chills me, for I call myself a Southerner. But I think they have greater perception and are more intuitive in their judgment. Speaking solely of myself, every one there treated me kindly, and the young people made a great deal of me, but, perhaps, that was on account of my gray hair. The publishers were capital fellows. I had a desk at the printing-house, and superintended everything, even the type in which the book was printed, and they made my task very enjoyable. In fact, I think I should like to bring out a book every year if it could be done in that way. I spent considerable time in New York and a number of weeks on Long Island, my native place. what is the literary society of New York? I can't answer that. I like the city itself exceedingly, and I think it will in a short time become a cosmopolitan city such as there is not at present in the world. Don't ask me to class Philadelphia with Boston, New York, or the wide-awake Western cities. I never heard that Philadelphia had any literary perception, fine taste, or judgment. It is a place for material things and conservative peo- ple, for fat conventionalities and well-estab- lished customs. I cannot class it with other cities, and you must not compel me to talk about it. So many of my good friends are here that I must call it my home. there are men and women--not here though--who hear by in- tuition and understand by their hearts. But it is not always agreeable to be too well under- stood or to have others know more than you would have told them. In Boston I found some of these people." 2099A WALT WHITMAN'S CRITICS. "Orthodox poetry has turned up its nose, Mr. Whitman, at many of your works, and I have seen it stated somewhere that the earliest edition, printed in 1856, fell, as it were, still-born from the press, not twenty copies, not ten, being sold. Is that true?" "Yes, and I remember that presentation vol- umes were mostly returned to their author, some with insulting notes. The London Critic called for 'the executioner's whip.' 'Beastly' was the reiterated epithet of the Saturday Re- view, and I believe it still sticks to it. Another paper called the book a 'gathering of muck,' and still another, the Christian Examiner, de- scribed it as 'a crazy outbreak of conceit and vulgarity.'" It is a matter of record that the second edi tion of the work which Mr. Whitman refers was undertaken by a Broadway publishin house, but was hardly out when it was thro up in terror and disgust and the author not by tile firm that they would have nothing with such a book, and the contract was celed. the third and fourth and fifth e --Whitman growing wors every time- no better. No copies m were sold of any issue. Criticism through out was little less than a howl, an was occasionally tempered by the fierc charge of obsceneness. In the face of th convictions of the world, of relative, of th publishing and critical powers the poet worked against a unanimous remonstrance. he has steadily adhered to his style, his purpose, and to what he calls his ideal. to one who knew him well Walt Whitman once confessed that he was "the most phlegmatic, self-set, and egotistical of beings, and secretly one of the haughtiest, or he would have gone under long ago." The truth of this was plainly written on his face when he said yesterday, while he sat in his "den" surrounded by a litter of books and papers: "When Osgood wrote me, offering to publish my book, I replied: 'Not unless you publish all of it. I must overlook the work myself and you must humor me in letting me have things my way.' The publishers yielded and I am much indebted to them for the way in which they did it." "You have eliminated, then, non of the lines which were deemed objectionable?" "Not a word has been changed. I have taken out several passages, which were dupli- cates of others written at long intervals of time, but the work is complete as a human body." EJECTED FROM THE TREASURY. Twenty-five years of fighting public opinion have made the poet callous as to what the pub- lic think. The obloquy and disappointments which his works have all along brought upon him are a part of the pleasant remembrances of his youth. One of these reminiscences re- lates to his clerkship in the Treasury Depart- ment at Washington shortly after the war. The first edition of Leaves of Grass fairly launched, the book and the author, as far as noticed at all, were derided, lampooned, and yelped at. When the few readers the book ever had at that time had finished talking about it the Hon. James Harian, high Cabinet officer, began by summarilyejecting the author from Government service. A Massachusetts man, James T. Trowbridge, made an appeal in his behalf, but the Hon. Salmon P. Chase, the next Secretary of the Treasury, peremptorily refused, saying that he "would not and could not place gentlemen, the clerks in the Treasury Department, in the position of being forced to associate with such as person as the writer of Leaves of Grass." The book at that time was less than a quarter as large as the complete edition, and fair criticism of it was as impossible, Walt Whitman says, as it would be to tear an arm or leg from the human body and try to give its full value. the poet often dwells upon the fact that his work has been twenty-five years in building, and he adds that the whole affair is like an old architectural structure, the parts of which look rather odd to the casual observer until all are put together, and the poet shows that he has had a definite idea all along. In this way Walt Whitman says that he has now added to the "complete structure" several poems never before published and he will say nothing more for the entire work. The Osgood edition of Leaves of Grass was issued on Friday and the first copies of the book reached the author yesterday. He turned one of them over seriously and said that his life work was there represented in four hundred pages, and he added, "I have nothing to take back!" "As I grow older," said he, breaking off, "I am more and more ready to take the good there is in men and authors, without concerning myself about the bad. Of the American poets I like Bryant better than Longfellow or Whittier, and Emerson better than either. I could not tolerate Poe a few years ago, but not I am getting to like him." [*2099B*] THE SUN, SATURDAY. -------------------------------- NOVEMBER 19, 1881. -------------------------------- SOME NEW BOOKS. [*2101*] --------- Walt Whitman and the Poetry of the Future. The publication of the Leaves of Grass by a reputable bookmaking house (James R. Osgood & Co.), as a business enterprise, and without expurgation, marks very distinctly an epoch in WALT WHITMAN'S career. It was inevitable that the force of his genius should carry, sooner or later, the inner citadel of respectable literature; but the event has been delayed for a quarter of a century. During that time he has been his own printer and bookseller. Containing passages which under a strict construction of certain statutes of the United States could not be permitted to pass through the mails, the privately printed volumes have found a constantly increasing number of purchasers and readers. The accessions have not been from the ranks of the depraved and prurient. Walt Whitman's audience has grown, not by reason of, but in spite of, his frank disregard of some of the proprieties of utterance. Of this side of the matter it is enough to say that if the new edition is a triumph for the poet, it has been achieved without any concession on his part. He has modified nothing. He has cancelled no objectionable line or offensive phrase. He has confessed no sin against good taste or decency. In pushing his way into his present company he has not for an instant hauled in his elbows. In another respect the appearance of the new edition of "Leaves of Grass" is an interesting event. For the first time, the poet can be judged by his poetic scheme in its entirety. The additional verses are not so important in themselves as in the relation of parts to a completed whole. Walt Whitman's admirers have always insisted that criticism before the final development of the plan was premature. The poet has compared his work to one of those ambitious old architectural edifices, built part by part at long intervals, and showing the designer's idea only when the last stone was in place. The gaps have now all been filled. The revision of the several poems, and their rearrangement with reference to the sub-titles and to each other, leave them, we are told, as they were designed to be. While Walt Whitman has kept steadily on his way, unshaken in belief in his mission and uncompromising as to his methods, he has provoked a difference of public opinion more marked, perhaps, than in the case of any author now alive. His aggressiveness seems to leave no middle ground. He is either a genius of colossal proportions or an immense windbag; either to be hailed and worshipped or to be punctured. A considerable part of his contemporaries hold him to be beneath criticism; a small circle of ardent admirers exalt him above it. The poet himself, it is to be feared, is prone to encourage the latter view. Every page that he has written discloses an egotism that reaches the verge of sublimity. He is impatient even of discriminating eulogy. He is said to hold as no better than a vender of scurrilities a friend of his, himself a poet, who not long ago published a magazine article in which the laudation of "Leaves of Grass" was measured instead of being unreserved. With Walt it is: Take me or leave me; but if you take me, take me as the Consummate Man. In estimating a singer and seer this indomitable self-confidence is a quality that ought not to be overlooked. To refuse to admit it as corroborative proof of genius would be to reject one of the lessons of biography. Walt's vigorous personality and the purity and naive simplicity of his private life have drawn about him a circle of devoted friends. They cannot understand why his genius should be denied or overlooked when it is shining in a clear sky at noonday. They are exasperated because the great public is so slow to accept the poet at heir valuation and his own. On the other hand, those to whom Whitman is a noisy madman, or a disturber of the poetic peace, or a bawler of platitudes, are reluctant to give the poet's adherents credit for a any better motive than the affectation of eccentricity. The "good gray poet" business disgusts them. They are puzzled by the admiration with which Whitman's achievements are regarded by Emerson and Tennyson and other bards who are as unlike the Bard of Paumanok as so many gentlemen in evening dress are unlike a gentleman in a diving suit. And all the while the belief is growing in cultivated minds that in Walt Whitman we have one of the most remarkable and original individualities in literature. [*2101A*] Let us look first at his method. It is from the superficial and non-essential characteristics of "Leaves of Grass" that the popular conception of the poet is derived. The oddities, the whim-whams, the grotesque contrasts lie on the surface, lending themselves readily to burlesque, and affording plenty of material for ridicule. Whitman's versification proceeds in the loosest possible fashion, discarding rhyme altogether, except in rare instances. A vague effect of rhythm is preserved, the cæsura recurring at irregular and often unequal intervals. It is an informal but roughly harmonious flow of words, sustaining the same relation to finished verse as the recitative to the aria. It is regarded by many as a startling innovation, but is really nothing more than a return to the earliest and most nearly spontaneous form of poetic expression. For purpose of comparison, as regards external form only, we place a passage from "The Return of the Heroes" side by side with passages from the Sixty-fifth and One Hundred and Fourth Psalms in the English version: Loud O my throat, and clear O soul! The season of thanks and the voice of full yielding, The chant of joy and power for boundless fertility. All tilled and untilled lands expand before me, I see the true arenas of my race, or first or last. Man's innocent and strong arenas. I see the heroes of other toils, I see well wielded in their hands the better weapons. I see where the Mother of All, With full-spanning eye gazes forth, dwells long, And counts the varied gathering of the products. Busy the far, the sunlit panorama. Prairie, orchard, and yellow grain of the North, Cotton and rice of the South, and Louisiana cane, Open unseeded fallows rich fields of clover and timothy, Kine and horses feeding, and droves of sheep and swine, And many a stately river flowing an many a jocund brook. And healthy uplands with herby-perfumed breezes. And the good, green grass, that delicate miracle the ever- recurring grass. -------- Praise waiteth for thee, O God, in Zion; O though that hearest prayer, unto thee shall all flesh come. Thou crownest the year with thy goodness. Thy paths drop fatness, they drop upon the pastures of the wilderness; And the little hills rejoice on every side. The pastures are clothed with flocks, The valleys are also covered over with corn. Bless the Lord, O my soul. O Lord, my God, thou are very great; Thou art clothed with honor and majesty. He watereth the hills from his chambers; The earth is satisfied with the fruit of thy works. He sendeth the springs into the valleys; By then shall the fowls of the heavens have their habitation. They give drink to every beast of the field; the wild asses quench their thirst. He causeth. the grass to grow for the cattle, and the herb for the service of man. Again, we present the "Address to the Sun," of Ossian-Macpherson, in passages alternate with those of Walt Whitman's invocation of the verses. The interest of the comparison will be found to extend beyond the matter of form: [*March 1883 Mathild Blind George Eliot*] George Eliot read but little contemporary fiction, being usually absorbed in the study of some particular subject. 'For my own spiritual good, I need all other sort of reading,' she says, 'more than I need fiction. I know nothing of contemporary English novelists with the exception of -----, and a few of -----' s works. My constant groan is that I must leave so much of the greatest writing which the centuries have sifted for me unread for want of time For the same reason, on being recommended by a literary friend to read Walt Whitman, she hesitated on the ground of his not containing anything spiritually needful for her, but, having been induced to take him up, she changed her opinion and admitted that he did contain what was 'good for her soul.' As to lighter reading, she was fond of books of travel, pronouncing 'The Voyage of the Challenger' a 'splendid book.' Among foreign novelists she was very partial to Henry Greville, and speaks of 'Les Koumiassine' as 'a pleasant story.' [*2100*] OSSIAN. O though that rollest above, rounds as the shield of my fathers. Whence are they beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western way; but thou thyself movest alone. WALT WHITMAN. thou orb aloft full-dazzling, thou hot October noon! Flooding with sheeny light the gray beach sand, the sibilant near sea with vistas far, and foam, and tawny streaks and shades and spreading blue; O sun of noon refulgent! my special word to thee. OSSIAN. Who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon itself is lost in heaven; but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of they course. WALT WHITMAN. Hear me illustrious! thy lover me, for always have I loved thee, even as basking babe, then happy boy alone by some wood-edge, thy touching-distant beams enough, or man matured, or young or old, as now to thee I launch my invocation. OSSIAN. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. [*2101*] WALT WHITMAN. Thou that with fructifying heat and light o'er myriad farms, o'er land and waters North and South, o'er Mississipp's endless course, o'er Texas' grassy plains, Kanada's woods, o'er all the glove that turns its face to thee shining in space; thou that impartial infoldest all, not only [co???cepts], seas; thou that to [gra?es] and weeds and little wild flowers givest so liberally, shed shed thyself on mine and me, with but a fleeting ray out of the million millions. Strike through these chants. OSSIAN. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years wilt have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exuit, then, O Sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon when it shiens through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills; the blast of the North is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. WALT WHITMAN. Nor only launch thy subtle dazzle and thy strength for these; prepare the later afternoon of me myself--prepare my lengthening shadows, prepare my starry nights. This reversion to a primitive mode of poetic expression is particularly interesting, occurring as it does at a time when a certain school of English-speaking poets are paying so much heed to the merely mechanical and musical qualities of verse. Whitman wastes no strength in the elaboration of metres, of rhyme, of assonance, of refrain. He does not stop to think of melody. There is no doubt that his method is that of the least friction--the least amount of idea rubbed off in the process of conformation. Nor is there any doubt that it is the method best suited to his genius; it seems to be the natural language of his genius. His sturdy egotism, his sympathy with living Nature and with Man in action, are poured forth in a torrent of words unhampered by the laws of prosody. Fancy the untamable, untranslatable Walt pottering over rondeaux, or elaborating canzonets, or measuring off fourteen lines to the idea! In the three or four poems which have rhyme and the stanza, the rhymes are of the crudest and the stanzas are fetters: O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship was weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow ey s the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O, the bleeding drops [?] red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. A strange thing about Whitman's rugged recitative is that it never becomes monotonous. Within apparently narrow limits of possible variation, he manages to secure a wonderful variety. His longest cumulative passages, his catalogues of natural objects, catalogues of occupations, geographical and physiological lists, are something more than catalogues and lists. The art may be unconscious, but the result shows him a perfect master of the poetic accent. Walt Whitman would have made the catalogue of ships in the "Iliad" a poem in itself. Where his voice sounds in the minor key the music is often so dainty that we fail to notice the absence of the conventional lyric forms. Some lines in "Sea Drift" sound like a snatch of one of Shakespeare's songs: Two together! Winds blow south, or winds blow north, They come white, or white come black, Home, or rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, [mi???ing] no time, While we two keep together. Low hangs the moon, it rose late. It is lagging--O I think it is heavy with love, with love--- We have been speaking of some of the surface characteristics of Walt Whitman's poetry. If all poets were in the habit of using this recitative rhythm as a vehicle for their thoughts, what qualities would still distinguish him from the rest? It seems to us that Walt Whitman is the truest representative of the reactionary movement against romanticism--the movement in which Emile Zola is a noisy and mercenary incidental. What he has undertaken to do is to exhibit with absolute unreserve the mind of a modern man in its relations to nature and to modern society. See me, says Walt, the average man of the nine- teenth century, just as I am, with all the con- ventions and lies and shame stripped off, leav- ing my intellectual and emotional processes absolutely naked to view. See me as I am. bodily, too, if you care for the spectacle--every rag stripped off. And thus unclad, morally and physically, he proceeds to execute all the gym- nastic antics that suggest themselves to the im- agination of the child of nature when he is freed from the restraint of clothing and set out in the sunlight. It is not from any lack of conscientious inten- tion that the poet fails in part of his purpose, and instead of achieving a portrait of the real Walt gives us an approximate Walt, a partly real, partly ideal Walt. No man that ever lived has succeeded in making a complete exposure of himself. In the most intimate confidences there are still nooks and corners over which vanity does and always will insist on drawing the veil. Still, Whitman goes at his work lustily, and with many advantages .The individu- ality which he exhibits is interesting. His courage is dauntless. His sympathy with the external world is genuine; his heart beats in true accord with the heart of nature. He is a born poet, with imagination of a high order --the imagination which creates new mate- rial instead of moulding old stuff into new forms. As compared with Tennyson, for instance, who justly admires him, he is an architect who has conceived a plan and built an edifice, not merely an artist en- gaged in beautifying with exquisite skill the walls of a structure centuries old. Walt Whit- man has found poetry in the so-called com- monplace objects of Nineteenth century life. He views at night the "far-sprinkled systems." but he views them through a Nineteenth cen- tury scuttle, constructed by a carpenter of to- day. the scuttle is as poetic and orifice as the oriel or the mullioned window of the bartizan tower; but, being an essentially modern con- ception, it does not enjoy the prestige which thay have in conventional verse. Whitman ex- ults in showing side by side the sublime or the beautiful that has always been acknowledged as such, and the sublime or the beautiful unac- knowledged and unrecognized by everybody but himself. He goes forth at night and sings: I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, I call to the earth and sea half-held by night. Press close, bare-bosomed night; press close magnetic, nourishing night! Night of south winds--night of the large few stars! Still nodding night--mad naked summer night! Smile O voluptuous cool breath'd earth! Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of departed sunset--earth of the mountains misty- topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far swooped elbow'd earth--rich apple blossom'd earth! Smile, for your lover comes. Prodigal, you have given me love--therefore I to you give love! O unspeakable passionate love. And with equal joy je contemplates the gigan- tic black driver of a dray: The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags underneath it on its tied-over chain, The negro that drives the long dray of the stone yard, steady and tall he stands pois'd on one leg on the string- piece. His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over his hip band. His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat away from his forehead. The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of his polished and perfect limbs. His idea of supreme beauty is man, at his best, in contact with nature--the naked body of the swimmer battling with the waves, the loco- motive driving through the snowdrift, the woodsman swinging his broadaxe, the lusty farmed swinging his scythe, outdoor life, the ship at sea, muscle and pluck forever! No poet has ever echoed more accurately the whirr and roar of the restless, every-day life of the world, the infinitely complex movement of human activity, the rash of the planet through space, the resultant sound of all mingled sounds. This booms like the distant voice of the ocean in some of Goethe's lines, but Goethe never came nearer the laboratory of the universe than Whitman in "Eidolons": Ever the dim beginning, Ever the growth, the rounding of the circle, Ever the summit and the merge at last (to surely start again), Eidolons! Eidolons! Ever the mutable, Ever materials changing, crumbling, re-cohering, Ever the ateliers, the tacto les divine, Issuing Eidolons! The misfortune is that Walt Whitman, not content with his discovery of the value of the spirit of the Nineteenth century and the Mod- ern Man as poetic material, seeks to elevate it into a democratic philosophy, or new religion of humanity. That he regards himself as the prophet of new ideas which loom awfully, but somewhat vaguely, behind the framework of his verses, is shown by abundant evidence. it would perhaps puzzle him to write out in cold prose the cardinal points of his social and relig- ious philosophy, or, having done so, to dem- onstrate that they contain anything more than the ancient commonplaces. the abstract idea of universal brotherhood, of which the kiss between man and man is his not agreeable poetic type, the equality of man with man and of man with god, some taking truisms afforded by an imperfect acquaintance with the litera- ture of metaphysical thought, a constant insist- ance of the doctrines of stirpiculture, a firm conviction in the majesty of the People--is not this the sum of the new creed of which he declares himself over and over again the em- bodiment, and which leads him to the final audacity of a comparison of his own missions with that of Christ? 2101A E. P. M. -------------------------- Boston Herald Sunday SUNDAY, OCTOBER 30, 1881. ------------------------------------------ "LEAVES OF GRASS." ----- The Complete Poems of Walt Whitman ----- As Published by a Famous Boston House. ----- A Friendly Characteriza- tion of the Poet's Work. ----- When a great man gets ahead of the world he has but to wait quietly and the world will come around to where he is. When Walt Whitman has welcomed to Olympus a quarter of a century ago, his greatness was as secure as it is today, when he is acknowledged by the people whose greatness inspires his verse. In all quarters of the Union, North, South, East, and West, Walt Whitman has the warm- est personal friends who, if they have not met him face to face, have felt the grasp of his hand in his words. No other man has ex- pressed his personality so strongly in his poems. One of the best characterization of "Leaves of Grass" is that of a lady, who said: "It does not read like a book; it seems like a man." The publication of the com- plete poems of Walt Whitman by one of the leading publishers of the United States is a literary event, for through it the greatest American poet has come to the birthright de- nied him so long. It has, indeed, mattered little to him, for he has bided his time pa- tiently and serenely, and when such captains of the mind as Emerson and Tennyson reached out their hands in friendly recogni- tion, he could rest satisfied that the multitude would some day acknowledge the prophet hailed by those leaders. The date of the fol- lowing lines seem remote enough: CONCORD, MASS., July, 1855. Dear Sir: I am not blind to the word of the won- derful gift of the "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 a ways making of what seemed the sterile and stingy nature, as if too much handiwork or too much lymph in the temperament were making out western wits fat and mean. I give you joy of your free and brave thought. I have great joy in it. It 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, viz, 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 the postoffice. 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. Though these words were afterward some- what taken back--a little Galileo-like, though fear of the New England pope called prudery-- it was the true Emerson who spoke his heart then. "Leaves of Grass" have been harvested several times and bound in sheaves of various form, from the quaint first edition, which was both body and soul, the work of Walt Whit- man, to that of the New York publisher who was so frightened at what he had done that he BACKED OUT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE; that of the Boston publisher, which has been the standard for many years because of the limited demand; the personal edition pub- lished by the poet himself; one or more Eng- lish editions, and now at last the edition just published by James R. Osgood & Co., a com- pact volume of 382 pages, with all the ele- ments of attractive typography, binding form and price needed for the great popular success which the work is sure to achieve. That be- side its assured hearty reception the book with be much maligned and ridiculed is a matter of course, for as it is read more so will there be more opposition to its lessons. But it is a test of greatness that ridicule it as much as you will, the ridicule will not stick. Walt Whitman has survived in the great storms that have assailed him, and his fame is secure from the pattering of little showers. The new edition contains all his poems; the only changes that have been made are in the way of condensation of utterance. There are, also, something like 20 new poems printed direct from the manuscript. There is more of a rounding and completeness of the work; the all-embracing patriotism which forms one of the poet's grandest characteristics is more comprehensive than ever before manifested. Walt Whitman did yeoman service for the Union in the hospitals of the field during the war, and he loves the whole Union. He has a warm place in his heart for the South, and it is manifested on many pages of this new edition. He writes: "I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise, Regardless of others, ever regardless 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 stuff that is fine, One of the nations of many nations, the smallest the same and the largest the same, A southerner soon as a northerner." The titles of a number of the poems have been changes ne ly that of the great poem of the work, that which strikes the key-note of the volume, "Walt Whitman," being now known as "Song of Myself." At the begin- ning of this song is a portrait of the poet as he was when "Leaves of Grass" was ges- tating, a steel engraving from an old daguer- reotype taken in 1856 when Walt Whitman was 37 years old. He was then a carpenter, building and selling cottage houses in Brook- lyn, and the picture was taken impromptu one warm June afternoon by Gabriel Harri- son. The picture is well described by the lines: "Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arms on an impalpa- ble certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game, and watching and won- dering at it." THE OLD OBJECTIONS will, of course, be brought up. many will say they agree with the ideas, but what is the use of printing them in the shape of poetry? Be- cause it reads better that way, and it is poetry of the noblest kind, may be answered. Why is it that so many still insist that conventional form is necessary to poetry? Do they admire the flowers most, or the vase? In Milton's day many maintained that "Paradise Lost" was not a poem because it was not in rhyme. In the "Leaves of Grass" the blades are of un- equal length, but they are ever fresh and beautiful, and full of sweet nutriment. Thought, and truth, and strength, and nobility, and grand proportions, whose symmetry be- littles inequalities of metre, are all there, end rymthmic swing is there. Is anything more needed for poetry? one of the great features of Walt Whitman is that he does not seek his ideals in far-away times, which, stripped of their glamor of re- moteness, are but as the times of today; or, in supreme moments, he idealizes the common- place, and has the clearness of vision that dis- cerns the gleam of gold through all the ac- cumulated dross. The large and magnificent tolerance that includes all and allows for all, and finds a place for all, is a sublime characteristic of the man. There is so much in these lines that they cannot be packed into layers of equal length. The book teems with the ecstasy of being. The statement of details into which the poet now and then drops has been criticised as "cataloguing." But viewed with the poet's intention, what a mosaic picture of the people, of the nation and its races, is thus constituted! One sees the stie and hears the hum of the en- tie land; feels the pulse of the multitude. What is the use of attempting to depict such a thing--it can't all be shown. But the effect is like a gleam of sunshine in the depths of a forest; it reveals many things with vivid dis- tinctness; there is a vast reserve of hidden things which might be seen, but enough is shown to tell what is there--to give the char- acter of the place. Do not these fragments, picked from different parts of the country, at random, give an idea of what the life of that country is: "The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee, As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar field, the over- seer views them from his sadule. The bugle calls in the ballroom, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other. The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the musical rain. The wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron. The squaw, wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth, is offer- ing moccasins and bead bags for sale, The connoisseur peers along the exhibition gallery, with half-shut eyes bent sideways." THE WANT OF ARTISTIC GRACE in form is compensated for by the artistic picturesqueness of form. In a measure, the poet makes pictures of his poems, and thus strengthens their individuality. For instance, the frequent use of italics and parentheses and the choice of odd words now and then--a bit of Spanish or French. Camerado and Libertad are favorites. These foreign words and phrases seem to depict unassimilated frag- ments floating on the life-current of the nation. Many intelligent people fail to comprehend; they can't see what the poet is driving at--it is all so strange and unwonted or unlike previous models. They get too close to the canvass; they see nothing but paint and brush marks; they do not take it all in--they do not see the picture. What a daring use of color! Only a strong man could wield such a brush. Should a weaker man attempt such bold figures, he would make himself ridiculous; it would seem like affectation, as it would should he wear unconventional dress. But Walt Whitman can carry it off. He looks exceed- ingly well in his broad hat, wide collar and suit of modest gray. We all want more free- dom of movement, but he can afford to take it, and is not afraid. Read this vivid description of a sunrise: "To behold the day-break! The little light fades the immense and disphanous shadows, The air tastes good to my palate. Hefts of moving world at innocent gambols silently rising, freshly exuding, Scooting obliquely high and low. Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs. Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven." And this from one of the many pictures of death:- "And as to you, corpse. I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me, I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing, I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons." There is much that will not be understood by many, much to which many will object, but as willing guests who approach abountifully spread table, upon which are dishes which some like and some dislike, and others again can learn to like--there is enough of gandeur and beauty and truth, so that everybody can TAKE AWAY SOMETHING TO HIS TASTE. The poems are not to be accepted too liter- ally, and the poet understood to be doing or wishing to do everything which is spoken of under the cover of the first person--he simply expresses his capacity to feel universally; he impersonates all humanity in himself, puts himself in its place, and surveys the universe from his standpoint--as everyone is to himself the central point of the world. "I do not say these things for a dollar, or to fill up the time while I wait for a bost, (It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of you. Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen'd)." 2102Walt Whitman is the poet of evolution-- modern science finds its prophet in him. he conjoins materialism with ideality. he is religious in the largest sense. "Each is not for its own sake. I say the whole earth and all the stars in the sky are for religion's sake. I say no man has ever yet been half devout enough. None has ever yet adored or worhip'd half enough, None has begun to think how divine he himself is, and how certain the future is." The course of the "Song of Myself" is like that of a noble drama, and it has the sublimest moments in its culmination. How sound phy- sical health asserts itself here: "I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd. I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins. They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God. Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things. Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth." What an omnisciently inspired and sustained note in the passages beginning with the fol- lowing: "I heard what was said of the universe. 1 I heard it and heard it of several thousand years; It is middling well as far as it goes--but is that all? 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 nota cent more." "I do not despise you priest, all time, the world over, My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths, Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern." "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 the nebule cohered to an orb. The long, slow strats 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 on this spot I stand with my robust soul." WAS EVER THE COURSE OF CREATION more concisely and grandly stated? Does it not make old fables turn pale? It is a lofty height from which all this is said down to the world. Taking the national side of the poet, were the local names ever more truthfully or poetically expressed than in the following: "The red aborigines, Leaving natural breaths, sounds of rain and winds, calls as of birds and animals in the woods, syl- -labled to us for names, Okonee, Koosa, Ottawa, Monongahelo, Sauk, Natchez, Chattahoochee, Kaqueta, Oronoco. Wabash, Miami, Saganaw, Chippewa, Oshkosk, Walla- Walla, Leaving such to the States they melt, they depart, charging the water and the land with names." It is interesting to note some of the favorite passages of the poet's most eminent admirers. The lines previously quoted, "I heard what was said of the universe," are specially ad- mired by J. T. Trowbridge, who knows them by heart. The favorite passage of the late Prof. Clifford, the Englishman, who was one of the first to introduce the poet to transatlan- tic audiences were the glowing lines to night: "I am he that walks with the tender and growing night. I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night. Press close bare-bosom'd night--press close magnetic nourishing night! Night of south winds--night of the large few stars! Still nodding night--mad naked summer night. Smily, O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth! Earth of the simmering and liquid trees! Earth of departed sunset--earth of the mountains misty-topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and vlearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbow'd earth--rich apple-blossom'd earth! Smile, for your lover comes. Prodigal, you have given me love--therefore, I to you give love! O unspeakable passionate love." The favorite poem of Charles Sumner's was the first one under the head of "Sea-Drift," the idyl of sunny lovliness, called "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking." The poem is too long to quote here, but here is one of its lyrics, the song of two mated birds, "Two Feathered Guests from Alabama": 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 the time, minding no time, While we two keep together. Of the poems here collected for the first time that written in Platte canon, Colorado, amid its awful ruggedness and grandeur, is a mag- nificent justification of the poet's methods: 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 to- gether, Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own; Wasn't charged against my chants they had forgotten art? To fuse within themselves its rules precise and delica- tesse? The lyrist's measur'd beat, the wrought-out temple's grace--column and polish'd arch forgot! But thou that revelest here--spirit that form'd this scene. They have remember'd thee. IN "ITALIAN MUSIC IN DAKOTA" a charming picture is given of the effect of music on a quiet evening at a solitary frontier post. All familiar with the plains will re- spond to the chord here struck: Through the soft evening air enwinding all, Rocks, woods, fort, cannon, pacing sentries, endless wilds, In dulcet streams, in flutes' and cornets' notes, Electric, pensive, turbulent, artificial. (Yet strangely fitting even here, meanings unknown before, Subtler than ever, more harmony, as if born here, re- lated here, Not to the city's fresco'd rooms not to the audience of the opera house. Sounds echoes, wandering strains, as really here at home, Sonnambula's innocent love, trios with Norma's an- guish, And thy ecstatic chorus, Polluto); Ray'd in the limpid yellow slanting sundown, Music, Italian music in Dakota. While Nature, sovereign of this gnarl'd realm. Lurking in hidden barbaric grim recesses, Acknowledging rapport, however far remov'd, (As some old root or soil of earth its last-born flower or fruit). Listens well pleas'd. In the lines to Gen. Grant, returned from his world's tour, he says that what best he sees in him is not the tributes paid to him, but that in his walks with kings the prairie sover- eigns of the West, "Invisibly with thee walk- ing with kings with even pace the round world's promenade, were all so justified." Others of these new poems, full of beauty, are "Though orb aloft full dazzling" (which was re- jected by a leading editor last summer, on the ground that his readers would not understand it), "To the Man-of-War Bird," "Patrolling Barnegat," "My Picture Gallery," "The Prairie States," a tribute to Custer's memory called "From far Dakota's canons," "A Riddle Song," inspired by the mystery of life, and the following tender, reverential lines to his mother's memory: AS AT THY PORTALS ALSO, DEATH. 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, hone not from me, (I see again the calm benignant face, fresh and beauti- ful 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. Face to face with lines which approach the grave with such classic nobility of step, who can say that Walt Whitman is not a poet? A thoughtful writer of German birth and educa- tion, but living today in America, has said that some of the main features and themes of "Leaves of Grass" may be designated at indi- viduality, inevitable law, physical health, modernness, open-air nature, democracy, comradeship, the indissoluble union, good will to other lands, respect to the past, gran- deur of labor, perfect state equality, with modernness like a canopy over all, and a re- sumption of the old Greek ideas of undity and the divinity of the body, with the Hebrew sacredness of paternity, while the war, the sea, the night, the south and poems of death are also frequently recurring themes. His treatment of the last-mentioned theme is specially notable in the "Memories of Presi- dent Lincoln." In the stately elegy which begins these memories, "When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed," the threading of the theme shows a high dramatic instinct. As the singer walks the night with the knowl- edge of death and the thought of death as companions, the warble of the gray-brown brid singing in the swamp the song of death pervades it all. the notes recur like the motive of a symphony, and at last THE SONG BREAKS FORTH: Come, lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriv- ing, 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 curi- ous, And for love, sweet love--but praise praise! praise! For the sure-enwinding arms for cool-enfolding death. 2102A Academy [DEC. 29, 1883.--No. 608. ====================== WILSON & M'CORMICK'S NEW BOOKS. ----------------- Ready shortly, crown 8vo, cloth, with Portraits and Illustrations, price 9s. WALT WHITMAN. By Richard Maurice BUCKE. With an Appendix by Prof. EDWARD DOWDEN, LL.D. "We know Whitman better after having read Dr. Bucke's book; we feel, through his words, the powerful fascination of the man." --Academy. Post 8vo, cloth, uncut edges, with Portrait, price 10s. 6d. LEAVES of GRASS. By Walt Whitman. "Ruskin has recently eulogised it, declaring that 'it carries straight and keen as rifle balls against our deadliest social sings.'" -- New York Tribune. Post 8vo, cloth, uncut edges, with Portrait, price 10s. 6d. SPECIMEN DAYS and COLLECT. By WALT WHITMAN 2103 "Amid the notes, on external nature, on the songs and habits of birds on the trees, the skies, the stars, of which a great part of the volume it composed, so rare and slight is the mention of his infirmities that we mighs forget that the idyll was composed by a half-paralysed man." Westminster Review on the envelope "News Letter." ============================= Baltimore American. ------------------ 2104 SUNDAY, APRIL 20, 1879. ============ JENNIE JUNE. -------- METROPOLITAN GOSSIP APPROPRIATE TO THE SEASON. -------- Plenty of Strawberries and Spring Vegeta- bles--Walt Whitman's "Lincoln from a Social Point of View"--The Museum of Art--Mayo W. Hazeltine--Theatrical. 2104A -------- [Special Correspondence of The American.] NEW YORK, April 19.-- March has "hung about" in the shape of cold winds through a part of April, and just now is giving us a colder twinge that ill accords with the sudden bright greenness of the A NEW DEPARTURE. One of the events of the week has been the new departure made by "Walt Whitman" in coming before the public as a lecturer and reader of his own poems. There was interest in the man, and in his work, whatever it might be, but no very lively anticipations of his success, for the reading and lecture fields, like every other, is so crowded with pretentious aspirants, who have only their own in- effable conceit to recommend them, who are desti- tute of ideas, and adopt a form of robbery which is no more honest, but only less dangerous than that of the highway, that the experienced and intelli- gent public are sickened, and can hardly be made to believe in a good thing when it comes. It was not strange, therefore, that the audience was small which assembled to hear what it was supposed would be a mere deferred eulogy on Abraham Lin- coln. It was an audience, however, of which any man might be proud, for it included the ripest thought and best literary culture to be found in the city, and Walt Whitman himself is a subject well worth studying apart from any word he had to bring--the grand man that he looks, and is, the rugged cultus of the first century of all Amer- ican life and work, the aggregation of the humanity at which we have arrived, and which, if not pol- ished with the friction of ages, is far-seeing and comprehensive; a T in mental grasp, as the heroes of old were physical strength. 2104B It was not Abraham Lincoln as an incident or all accident that Mr. Whitman discussed, but Abraham Lincoln in hic relation to the historical conditions which preceded him, which surrounded him, and of which he became the central figure. it was a clear, wise, and instructive summing up of all the facts which paved the way for the memorable trag- edy which furnished the blood in which nationality was again cemented. he drew the picture of the central figure of that terrible time with something of that breadth, something of the force, of Michael Angelo, presenting him both in life and in death, in that larger aspect of his relation to historical events, and to the country at large, in its past, present and future, and little upon his individuality, except as it illustrated the great points by which the drama of emancipation was begun an ht to a I have dwelt upon this feature in the lecture be- cause it marks the difference so strongly between Walt Whitman's method of looking at his subject and that of the ordinary lecturer, who goes to work to make an hour's talk out of a great man. It is the philosophy of history instead of a crude and proba- bly biased opinion of a person and his work. It is a study from a social instead of a personal point of view, the latter of which is always unreliable, be- cause tinged with the author's prejudices or partial- ities. No better illustration of this could be found than the overwhelming mass of rubbish which is served up and rechauffeed ad nauseam in lectures, read- ings, magazine articles, and every other possible form, in regard to Shelley and Lamb and the rest of the worthies, poets and writers of the past genera- tions, until one cannot read a line that they have left, or form a single conception of character un- tinged by something gratuitous, uncalled for and wholly imaginary, furnished by that large class who seem to exist by feeding on dead men's brains, and serving them up in a diluted if not masked condition. 2104C Walt Whitman is nothing if not honest and true and large and human. An English author has said of him that he is the first poet that has "tinged the cosmos with emotion"--a beautiful thought beauti- fully expressed. Rossetti and Buskin, and other foremost Englishmen, consider him a colossal man, and one of them replied to an American who wrote asking, as usual, how he could be put in the way of obtaining some "Shelliana," that he dd not need Shelliana while Walt Whitman existed, and untrod- den, almost an unbroken field. But Walt Whitman will be capital for a coming generation. How the magazinists of a hundred years from not will dig and delve for letters and sayings and scraps of poems, while the great-souled man is limning the close of the first century of the American Republic, and reading, with wonderful pathos and picturesque power, his own dramatic poem of the captain who died as his ship entered port, to an audience of a hundred persons. Every young man and boy ought to hear this lecture and see the man, for he is one who will occupy a larg vas in the future.[*From the Detroit Post & Tribune*] BUILD WELL. High on the granite wall the builder, toiling. Heaved up the massive blocks and slabs to place, With [swar?] and streaming brows and straining sinews. Under the Summer's blaze. And higher yet, amid the chills of Autumn, Tier upon tier and arch on arch arose; And still crept upward, coldly, wearily, 'Mid Winter's sifting snows. From stage to stage upsprings the master builder, Instructing, cheering, chiding here and there; Scanning, with scrutiny severe and rigid, Each lusty laborer's share. Anon his voice to those more distant shouting Through the hoarse trumpet makes his orders swell; Or utters words like these to rouse and hearten-- 'Build well, my men, build well! "The ropes are strong, and new and sound the pulleys; The derrick's beams are equal to the strain; Unerring are the level, line and plummet; Let nought be done in vain! "Build that these walls to coming generations Your skill, your strength, your faithfulness shall tell; That all may say, as storms and centuries test them, The men of old built well!" --[Our continent. -------------------------------------------- LEAVES OF GRASS. ------------ Walt Whitman's Poems of Nature. "A child said, What is the grass, fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he --I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt Bearing the owner's name some way in the corners that we may remark and say Whose? --And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves." There never was a happier title than the one which is the caption of this paper, nor one that has attracted more attention in the American world of literature. It is the title of a book that has been challenged by the conservers of public morals as unfit to be read, and legislation has been appealed to unsuccessfully to prohibit its publication. As usual in such cases, the reaction increased the demand for the book to such an extent that several new editions have been called for and it is found on the shelves of book stores side by side with Longfellow and Tennyson, in the home and in public libraries, where the critical reader or student of verse can have access to it, and the human nature that can suffer from any undue license of the poetic imagination which Walt Whitman has transcribed on these pages must be very weak indeed and easily harmed. There is not a line of prefatory writing in Leaves of Grass, not a foot note to clear up the passages in nature which god has left obscure; the writer does not explain that the poems were the result of a few idle hours or the reveries of an invalid convalescing from an attack of mania a potu or typhoid fever; he pours out his thoughts about everything in a flood of incoherent and incohesive language, and borne on its resistless flow we find all that floods bear with them, debris, flotsam jewels -- tarns of still deep beauty jewels--precious, perishing lovely things that we haste to snatch from the rubbish and make our own. His interest in humanity and his claim that all the world is kin, he expresses with natural humility: These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me; If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing or next to nothing; If they are the riddle and the untying of the riddle, they are nothing or next to nothing; This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is; This is the common air that bathes the globe. Can any pen-picture of nature be finer than his apostrophe to the earth on page 76? "Smile, O voluptuous, cool-breathed earth! Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of departed sunsets--earth of the mountain's misty top! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of shine and dark mottling the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping, elbowed earth--rich apple-blossomed earth! Smile, for your lover comes. Prodigal, you have given me love, therefore I to you give love. O unspeakable, passionate love! There seems to be no earthly property however small, insignificant and remote, that this grand poet of nature does not invest with the beauty and glory of poesy as he does when he calls the common field grass "the beautiful uncut hair of graves," a line that in itself should immortalize him; he walks among the herds of cattle and gives us this lesson: "I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained, I stand and look at them long and long; They do not sweat and whine about their condition; [*2107*] They do not lie awake in the dark and whine about their sins; They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God. Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things. Not one kneels to another nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago: Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth." The self-selected critic who said that Shakespeare was not a poet--his verses didn't rhyme--would make a similar objection to Walt Whitman. To the dull, untuned ear of the prosaic soul they would convey neither rhythm nor rhyme, but Poetry herself might sit entranced at his feet as the mellow numbers flow in tranquil rhythmic measure from his lips. Here are snatches selected at random, any one of which would be sufficient to redeem a volume from wastage: The old face of the mother of many children. Whist! I am fully content. Behold a woman! She looks out from her Quaker cape, her face is clearer and more beautiful than the sky. She sits in an arm-chair under the shaded porch of the farm-house. The sun just shines on her old white head. Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen. Her grandsons raised the flax and her granddaughters] 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. MOTHER AND BABE. I see the sleeping babe nestling the breast of its mother, The sleeping mother and babe--hush'd I study them long. A CHILD'S AMAZE. Silent and amazed, even when a little boy, I remember I heard the preacher every Sunday put god in his statements As contending against some being or influence BEAUTIFUL WOMEN. 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 poet's allusions to death are among the finest passages in his works, and his songs of parting are something more than tricks of pathos; they are the outcome of sorrow's cleansing fires in his own heart. The Camps of Green is a poem engendered by war scenes. "To the camps of the tents of green Which the days of peace kept filling, And the days of war kept filling, With a mystic army; is it too ordered Forward? Is it too only halting awhile Till night and sleep pass over? JOY, SHIPMATE, JOY. Joy, shipmate, joy, Pleased to my soul at death I cry Our life is closed, our life begins The long, long anchorage we leave; The ship is clear at last she leaps, She swiftly courses from the shore Joy, shipmate, joy. The exquisitely mournful tribute to the memory of President Lincoln is familiar the reader but it will bear producing here. O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN! O Captain, my Captain! our fearful trip is done The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring. But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies Fallen cold and dead, O Captain, my Captain, rise up and hear the bells. Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shore a crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning. Here Captain, dear father This arm beneath your head Is it some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead? My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won. To analyze a flower is to kill it; the same might be said of the majority of even fine poems, but there are some that dissected fall into pictures and the above is one of these; the two lines "Here, captain, dear father, This arm beneath your head" have the heroism of a soldier and the tenderness of a woman in them, while they instantly convey to the mind a picture, alas! too common to excite alarm or wonder, but inexpressively touching. It has been Walt Whitman's destiny to commemorate in verse the deaths of two captains of the ship of state, but to him the first was a personal loss. Of the last, midnight, September 19, he writes of The sobbing of the bells-- --Those heart-beats of a nation in the night Emerson appears to have accepted the poet, if we may believe the assertion of an unknown writer that he approved of leaves of Grass. It would need one of Emersonian breadth to appreciate the vigor, the intensity, the strong balancing of all mental and physical forces in this redundancy of verse. The book is full of such salt-sea breezes of expression as these: O the joy of a manly selfhood! 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 a full and sonorous voice out of a broad chest; To confront with your personality all the other personalities of the earth." That verse or sentence alone could be profitably engraved upon the pages of every school reader in the land, yet doubtless there are hypercritical readers who would cavil at the second line and find in it a furtive attack on all the known systems of theology. And is there nothing in the book to condemn? Yes, there are whole pages of "magnificent uncleanness: which have no excuse for being. They are gross with the grossness of the 18th century, when people do not call a spade a spade, and are shocked by ungloved hands. In reference to the position which a part of the public has taken towards the book we are reminded of the answer Henry Ward Beecher gave to a gentleman who at an exhibition of statuaray asked, "Are those statues indecent, mr. Beecher?" "No, sir," was the severe answer, "but your question is." The poet is an old man now, the fires of youth have burned themselves to ashes, yet when he was called upon to revised the present edition of his work he would not alter or omit a line of his earlier writings. The calm pulse of age approved the turbulent blood of his youth when he wrote of himself: [*2107A*] Walt Whitman, a Kosmos, of Manhattan the son turbulent, fleshly, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women, or apart from them, No more modest or immodest. A morning glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books." And this man in his old age is beloved of women and children, and the childlike tenderness and simplicity of his nature are revealed in the following incident: "In the middle of the room in its white coffin, lay the dead child, the nephew of the poet. Near it in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. She looked wonderingly at the spectacle of death and then inquiringly into the old man's face. "You don't know what it is, do you, my dear," said he, and added, "we don't either." conferred the Grand Lodge [degr???] abut twenty-five Past Grands, mostly of this city. [*Camden Post--1883*] Comstock Staffers Another Defeat. BOSTON, April 11.--Ezra H. Heywood was on trial yesterday is the District Court before judge Nelson for circulating through the mails a pamphlet called "Cupid's Yokes" and a slip containing two passages from Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass," which District-Attorney Stevens specified as objectsonable at the time of his attempt to stop the sale of the book in this city. Haywood is also charged with having circulated an advertisement of an immoral nature. Anthony Comstock, the instigator of the prosecution, testified that he received the articles mentioned in response to decoy letter. The Judge ruled out the "Leaves of Grass" and "Cupid's Yokes" on the ground that they were not properly specified in the indictments, which stated that they were not of a nature to properly go on the record of a court. This decision narrowed the issue down to the advertisement charge, which will be taken up today. The case is watched with considerable interest, and Comstock's defeat with regard to Whitman's book was loudly applauded in the court-room. [*2108*] ------------------------------------- The Yachting Season.106 THE REPUBLIC. ========================================================= certain that the passage as it stands in the Shakespeare's play was drawn from Holinshed's quotation. And it will, I think, be admitted that, while in both these the language is fraught with poetic feeling, it is, in the letter to King James, but very prosy prose, mangled of sense and enlivened only by a touch of Verulam's characteristic egotism. Your readers may, perhaps, care to see Bacon's words, and Mr. Morgan's quotation of them, side by side: BACON. "Cardinal Wolsey said that if he had pleased God as he had pleased the king, he had not been ruined. My conscience saith no such thing: for I know not but in serving you, I served God in one. But it may be if I had pleased God, as I had pleased you, it would have been better for me." MORGAN. "If I had but served my God as I have served your majesty, it would been better for me." 3. As for the assumed identity between the "shadows" of Bacon's speech on the trial of Essex and the "shadows" of the passage quoted from the Midsummer Night's Dream, I frankly confess that I do not see it. Bacon, as the context shows, very probably used the word as a metaphor for "specious" arguments. Consulting the Shakespearean context, we find that, in answer to Hippolyta's sneer at the "tedious brief scene of young Pyramus and his love Thisbe" as "the silliest stuff" that she has ever heard, Theseus says: "The best in this kind" [that is, the best of these romantic stage-interludes]" are but shadows." Fanciful and transient things have been called shadows from an early period in Elizabethan literature. The parallel here sought to be proven is an inconclusive and shadowy as many in Mrs. Pott's book. I think the case is made out that the first and second of Mr. Morgan's identities were respectively used by at least three and four writers, and not by "only two individuals"; that, being on the popular stage and one of them in a popular history, they were open to anybody to appropriate for years before Bacon used them; and that the third "identity," when examined with the context, is scarcely even a plausible parallelism. Concerning the Promus, I can only say that if the Harleian MS. were known to be in Shakespeare's own hand-writing, and Mrs. Pott had evolved her book to show that the Plays sprang from it, I candidly think her work would have raised doubts where none before existed as to their common authorship. If I have been unfortunate enough to "dispose of the results of Mrs. Pott's twenty years of labor" and also to "explode the entire Baconian and anti-Shakespearean cases in twenty minutes," whose fault is that, mine or the theorists' ? Possibly some of the theories of the Laputan philosophers were twice twenty years in travail, but I doubt if many thinkers would need even twenty seconds to "explode" them. A. A. A. Washington, March 24, 1883. -------------------------------------------- THE SIGH. ------------ Sweet is the smile that parts those lips And pearly teeth discloses, That peep like anthers into view Between red leaves of roses, But sweeter far the balmy sigh, That lovely smile excelling, That oft reveals the tender heart Within her bosom dwelling. When e'er the minstrel sings of love, A joy akin to heaven, The smile will play upon those lips Like dying lights of even : But when his fingers snap the chords, A tale of woe revealing, Then quickly from its rosy cell The balmy sigh is stealing. Somerville, N. J. J. H. WILSON. YOUR SERVANT SAYS: "A man told me so;" the most learned and elegant of your acquaintance would be more likely to say, on the same occasion, "A certain person informed me." Here the person is not a certain but an uncertain one, and the thing told may have nothing in it of information. Year by year our languages loses something of its propriety and force. It is doubtful whether, in the no longer unlettered, but still ignorant, ranks of the English people, a sound and honest vulgarity exists as it did when Landor wrote. A footman nowadays would be more likely to say he had been “informed” than that he had been “told.” The plain yeoman who, at that period, might have said it cost him a deal of money to build a house, would now tell us that he had expended a considerable sum in erecting a residence. We no longer eat and drink—we “partake of refreshments,” and we contrive by some miracle to “partake” even when we dine alone. Affected rusticity of speech is as much to be shunned as affected anything else. The true vulgar were never guilty of it. Those whose vulgarity has been named “Philistinism"—and the term is terribly significant—are guilty of all affectations that a plain man’s mind can conceive and detest. But if we need not be rustic we need not be roundabout. The simplest words are always best; and so unerringly does their habitual use indicate a clear mind, an earnest meaning and a sincere intent, that he will always be better worth listening to who never says “arrive” when he should say “come,” nor “proceed” when he might say “go."—Macmilan's Magazine. THE CZAR'S CORONATION. MOSCOW, March 7, 1883. The solid, sluggish Muscovites, the knights of kattan and long beard, of autocracy and orthodoxy, re now in an unusual state of excitement. And this quaint, ancient, ultra-Russian city, the city of churches, and of narrow, dirty and crooked streets, is as busy as an ant hill on a sunny day. The numberless restaurants where the Muscovites usually drink their tea and vodka are crowded more than ever before. The Muscovites never make the smallest bargain without drinking a dozen cups of hot tea and a few glasses of fiery vodka, but now, besides their routine business, they have to discuss and settle a thousand and one points concerning the coming coronation. The last coronation performed here, twenty-seven years ago, was quite a different affair. Then the down-hearted country, downtrodden by the Czar-soldier Nicholas, gave sudden vent to most exultant hope. Then, in the person of Alexander II, the Russians welcomed an angel of peace who had put a speedy end to the disastrous and unnecessary Crimean war, and a future liberator who had had a holy dream which foreshadowed the breaking of the chains of twenty-four million serfs. Then the Russians knew no Nihilists, never smelled the smoke of exploding mines and dynamite bombs, witnessed no series of attempts on the czar's life, heard of no Terrorist "judgments" attempted and carried out, and did not see scores of Russian republicans and revolutionists gibbeted, and thousands of them exiled and transported. Then the coronation was a true national holiday, at which every Russian, without any distinction of class, rank, creed, race or nationality was sincerely welcomed. But now? What a startling difference! Alexander III comes here not as the beloved and trusted father of his country, but as a petty despised tyrant, trembling for his life, mistrusting his own guardians and fearing the jewelled crown as if it were filled with dynamite. Now the various monarchs of Europe would not for the world come to see the czar's coronation, and they even pity their proxies. Now, even of the loyal Muscovites, only a few selected ones will be allowed to see the face of their white czar—pale, perhaps, fro fear. The gorgeous gilt court carriages, are they not stained with the blood of the late autocrat? The last quarter of a century has had a disastrous effect on the autocratic régime in Russia. No wonder, then, that the old Muscovites, when comparing the last coronation with the coming one, piously cross themselves and solemnly and sadly shake their hoary heads. have the Nihilists so badly plucked the imperial eagle? Some say "yes," and others remark contemptuously: "Oh, no, Nihilism is too small a bird for that." Why, Nihilism, perhaps, was a small but far-seeing bird, which, by sitting on the top of the Russian avalanche, whirled it down and smashed the proud and resplendent imperial structure, of which there is now left only a miserable wreck. However this may be, the good Muscovites mean to do their duty. The majority of the members of the coronation committee are already here. They are preparing the Kremlin and Peter's palace and the Palace Neskutchny (Not-tedious) for the czar's family and his suite. All the official buildings are to be occupied by the czar's guests, and in addition many hotels will be engaged by the government for the coronation holidays at a rent of a thousand roubles per day. The servants in the government employ who know no foreign language will be paid five roubles per day, and those who are able to speak some foreign language will receive ten roubles per day—that is, the usual monthly wages. of course every such servant will have a dozen of responsible backers of good standing. Many of the czar's thrones are now being repaired and renovated. For the Andrew throne a large eagle of black velvet, embroidered with gold, has been prepared. On the blue velvet backs of the throne chairs of the czar and czaritza there are sewn in gold the initials of their majesties. In the Catherine room of the great Kremlin Palace stands the czaritza's own throne, of bright crimson velvet, richly embroidered with silver and gold. On its back are embroidered the letter "M" (Mary), a double-headed eagle and the decorations of St. Catherine. In the Granovity Palace many artists are at work on the imperial baldachin, carved of madder oak in the old Russian style. But the special efforts of the committee and of the artists are concentrated on the canopy under which their majesties will walk on the coronation day. The canopy will be supported by twelve gilt posts. On the top, lined with ermine, will be embroidered the imperial initials, the state coat of arms and the eagles. Golden galoons, tassels and ostrich feathers will be used in profusion. The firm of Grunvald has received orders to prepare two imperial purple cloaks, lined with imperial erimine and decorated with the imperial coat of arms. Each cloak is to be fifteen feet long. The gold embroidery firm of Loman is now working on the dress for the czaritza. It will be of silver brocade with silver embroidery about two feet wide. The train of the dress alone will weight about twenty pounds. Forty gilt court carriages will be brought here for the coronation procession. The most gorgeous of these carriages is the one presented in 1746 by Frederick the Great to the Czaritza Elizabeth. About two hundred horses are prepared for the imperial procession alone, not counting the horses of the officers and nobles who will take part in the procession. Fifty-nine bay horses have just been brought here from Hanover. This city has voted 200,000 roubles for the coronation ceremonies. On AN INSTANTANEOUS LIGHT.—Such in a word is the unique aparatus on exhibition at the rooms of the Portable Electric Light Co., 22 Water street, Boston. It occupies the space of only five square inches and weights but five pounds, and can be carried with ease. The light, or more properly lighter, requires no extra power, wires or connections, and is so constructed that any part can be replaced at small cost. The chemicals are placed in a glass retort; a carbon and zinc apparatus, with a spiral platinum attachment, is then adjusted so as to form a battery, and the light is ready. The pressure on a little knob produces an electric current by which the spiral of platinum is heated to incandescence. The Portable Electric Light Company was recently incorporated with a capital of $100,000, under the laws of Massachusetts. The usefulness of the apparatus and the low price ($5) will no doubt result in its general adoption. Some of the prominent business men of the State are identified with his enterprise. In addition to its use as a lighter, the apparatus can also be used in connection with a burglar-alarm and galvanic battery.—Boston Transcript, Dec. 30.THE REPUBLIC. 105 ------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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 traveled— and still I mount and mount. * * * * * * * 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. * * * * * * * All forces have been steadily employed to complete and delight me, Now I stand on this spot with my soul. We have yet to apply to his writing the crucial test—"Have they helped any human soul?" His work is that of the great poets ever, to deliver a message; and it is that message which is of the greatest moment to this American land and to this age when the whole world is undergoing a silent revolution in matters of faith. It is the message of renewed hope, of inspiriting manly courage and noble reliance on the universal laws that shall surely lead to good. Of all the poets of this latter day, he alone has touched the bed-rock and is able to make his foundation sure and speak from the heart with full, inspiriting tones. He recognizes religion as the central crystallizing force of poetry: "The altitude of literature and poetry has always been Religion—and always will be. . . . Standing on this ground—the last, the highest only permanent ground—and sternly criticising from it all works, either of the literary or any Art, we have to peremptorily dismiss every pretensive production, however fine its æsthetic or intellectual points, which violates, or ignores, or even does not celebrate the central Divine Idea of All, suffusing universe; [the idea] of eternal trains of purpose in the development, by however slow degrees, of the physical, moral and spiritual Kosmos." In this light it is instructive to compare his utterances with these words of the poet who has attuned his harp in sympathy with the almost universal voice: "I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar stairs That slope through darkness up to God, "I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope." In what a different spirit does Mr. Whitman speak: "Do you suspect death? If I were to suspect death I should die now, Do you think I could walk pleasantly and well suited toward annihilation? "Pleasantly and well-suited I walk, Whither I walk I cannot define, but I know it is good, The whole universe indicates that it is good, The past and the present indicate that it is good." A comparison still more striking is found in the following: "But where the path we walked began To slant the fifth autumnal slope, As we descended, following Hope, There sat the Shadow fear'd of man; "Who broke our fair companionship, And spread his mantel dark and cold, And wrapt thee formless in the fold, And dull'd the murmur on thy lip, "And bore thee where I could not see Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste, And think that somewhere in the waste The Shadow sits and waits for me." "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 has taken them— I joyously sing the dead. Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death." Have we not a new leader? This, then, I have written for the true reader. May it be a court never so humble through which he may enter the halls of our poet. Into such Ruskin has said "No vile or vulgar person ever enters. At the portière of that silent faubourg Saint Germain there is but brief question—'Do you deserve to enter?' 'Pass.' 'Do you ask to be the companion of nobles?' 'Make yourself noble and you shall be.' 'Do you long for the conversation of the wise?' 'Learn to understand it and you shall hear it.' 'But on other terms?' 'No.' " Thus is the portal guarded. Of the fruits of their own imaginations, the detractors of Mr. Whitman have shown us more than enough; but near the thought and heart of our poet they and theirs --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE Avenue is the promenade of well-dressed men as well as well-dressed ladies. Naturally so, for Barr, at No. 1111, is the artistic tailor who leads the fashion in men's clothes in Washington. His assortment of imported goods was never so full and varied as it is this spring. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- can never come. But there are those who having eyes see not and having ears hear not; who pass by on the other side and lift no hand nor voice when private calumny invokes the aid of public law to drag in the dust this man's name. He needs no words of mine; he has delivered his message; hopeful, confident, triumphant; to his lovers it is a very trumpet tone, a tonic that never fails to invigorate and strengthen, and the age that hesitates to receive it has nothing that can take its place. His work can bide its time and it cannot be lost. MAY COLE BAKER. (Conclusion.) ---------------------------------------- BACON'S PROMUS AGAIN. ------------------- To the Editor of The Republic: SIR: Mr. Appleton Morgan's letter of the 10th instant, published in your last number, wherein he adverts to my previous reviews of Mrs. Pott's Promus, deserves a reply in a spirit no less courteous than that which prompted it. I do not imagine that it is his desire to lead me into a polemical discussion of the whole Bacon-Shakespeare controversy, a task for which a busy man has little time and less inclination. Limiting myself, then, to the three points on which he invites me to inform your readers, I may be pardoned for remarking at the outset that I do not see their application to my effort to show the futility of backing up any theory of identical authorship by vague resemblances founded on commonplace thoughts. I have said that between the extremes of demonstrable identity of plagiarism or quotation, on the one hand, and flat commonplace on the other, the demarkation is slight, but that similarities resting on trite and commonplace ideas, which are the inherent property of mankind, preponderate; and Mr. Morgan, after citing certain war-time sayings, which were not commonplace ideas, but widely-echoed forms of expression, presents three phrases, two of which are professedly quotations, while the third rests on the assumed identity of meaning in the metaphorical use of a common word. Neither do I see what direct relation they bear to my attempts to point out that the Promus, in its present form, is hardly a trustworthy guide for the inquiring student. Had I found these three examples of Baconian parellalism in that book, I might have cited them, as I did several out of many, in my impartial desire to do justice to Mrs. Pott's industry. But they are not in the Promus; they belong to a field of the general discussion which I have not entered, and to which I have no present intention of shifting my ground. 1. Troilus and Cressida, in which occurs the erroneous quotation of Aristotle's saying that young men were unfit to hear moral (instead of political) philosophy, was entered, as already acted by the Lord Chamberlain's men, in 1603, although the earliest copy that survives is a pirated reprint of 1609. The Advancement of Learning was first published in 1605. It is at least a plausible conjecture that Bacon may have heard the misquotation on the stage, and stored it in his retentive brain for later use, without due verification when the Aristotelian context was added; for had he taken the whole directly from Aristotle, it might have been given accurately. But to assume that this must certainly be the case is as much a begging of the question as to assume on this premiss that Bacon wrote both the play and the essay—less so, perhaps, for this last conjecture might logically claim Bacon's authorship also of the Italian writing of Virgilio Malvezzi, which, published in 1622, contain the same blunder. 2. Wolsey's words (which Mr. Morgan inadvertently misquotes), "Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies," (Henry VIII, III, ii, 456.) are as historical a fact as any in Hall or Holinshed, from which whole sentences are transferred to verse otherwhere in the Plays. They are first found in George Cavendish's Life of Cardinal Wolsey, as the Cardinal's dying words to Sir William Kingston, Constable of the Tower; and, as quoted by Hume, they stand thus: "Had I but served God as diligently as I have served the king, he would not have given me over in my gray hairs." Cavendish's book, although not printed until 1641, was extant in MS. as early as 1557. The passage is quoted, nearly as above (one word only being changed), in Holinshed's Chronicles, and I think it is found in Hall's Union also. Wolsey's career was a favorite theme for the stage, two plays on the subject, prior to Shakespeare's, being mentioned. Henry the Eighth was on the stage as early as 1613. Bacon's letter to King James was written in 1621. It would be presumptuous to decide on this evidence whether Bacon derived the phrase from Cavendish's MS., or from Hall or Holinshed, or from his memory of some one of the acted plays. It is, however, reasonably [*2106 A*]THE REPUBLIC. 103 ---------------------------------------------------------- the deadly blow delivered by the "Prussian Butcher" along that awful race-course of flight, and death, and disappearance. Marshal Blucher marched to Paris with the allies, warmly assisting in the restoration of the Bourbons to their domination over an unwilling people. He stayed in the gay capital for a number of months, dissipating with unusual vigor for his declining years, drinking rich wines and playing freely at the various rouge-et-noir tables everywhere established for the inveiglement of the foreigners. When the triumphant allies returned home, the old marshal went too and paid a visit at Rostock, on the anniversary of the battle of Katzbach, where the grateful people had built the veteran a monument in commemoration of his former victory there. It is stated that when Blucher the second time entered the French capital, he again strongly urged its summary destruction in order to retaliate for the previous spoliation which other cities of Europe had suffered at the hands of Napoleon; but that he was held in check by the wise and temperate counsels of Lord Wellington. Again were honors showered upon the old soldier by rescued kings. Frederic William III gave him a diamond cross surrounded by golden rays. In August, 1819, a grand colossal bronze statue was erected to him in his native town, soon doomed to lose him. His health began to break as early as the year 1817. He retired, consequently, to his chateau of Krieblowitz in Silesia, where the King of Prussia at length made him a friendly visit and kindly took leave of him. "I know I shall die," said the old general, "but I am not sorry for it, because I can be no longer of any use to Prussia." After a short, sharp stroke of final illness, he died, September 12, 1819, at the "sear and yellow" age of seventy-nine. His last request was that he should be buried without any parade under three linden trees, in a neighboring field by the roadside. The Prussian army wore mourning, however, by royal command, for eight days; and the nation at large deeply lamented his demise. Blucher served in the armies of Prussia for nearly fifty years, and at the moment of Waterloo was seventy-three, but still hale of health as heroic of heart. In the commencement of the campaign of 1813 his characteristic vim and the violence of his assaults gained him the nickname of "Marshal Forwards" from the Russians, a title by which he grew to be familiarly known and designated throughout Germany. His tactics were original and always the same. He would attack the enemy with impetuosity; then fall back as if in retreat when the foe was too strong to be overcome; then form again at a short distance, and hurl himself at the first chance with lightning speed upon him, cut him to pieces and capture prisoners; and ride away before he could recover from the consternation occasioned by the celerity of these movements. The plan was unique, but most effective in the field. Blucher's wonderful achievement in gathering together the debris of his army after the repulse at Ligny and marshaling it in the inadequate space of twenty-four hours into a new and undiscouraged command which advanced straight forward to victory over, and pursuit of, its former conquerors is altogether unprecedented in the annals of modern warfare. The jus postliminii is a rare law of procedure upon the land. Marshal Blucher was a rude, uneducated man, until circumstances aroused in him an absorbing ambition to excel in his profession, when he acquired by practice a perfection in that art which the study of its theory alone seldom gives. In person he was above the middle size, full of figure, powerful of make, weather-worn of countenance, indeed as grizzly, gross and grim a warrior in his prime as Europe ever saw. His manners were of the camp, and he preferred the country to cities. In the former his life was more regular and temperate; while in the latter he was easily drawn into excesses which harmed his health and prejudiced his prospects. Blucher's highest aim was to liberate Germany and Prussia from the French yoke, an ambition which has placed him on the pedestal of a hero forever in the eyes of his countrymen. The old red uniform of Blucher's Huzzars, of which regiment the Prince of Wales has just been chosen colonel, is dear, indeed, to this day to the hearts of the German people. He was a type of his nation and the times, now not more friendly to France than then. (Finis.) DAVID GRAHAM ADEE. ------------------------------------------------------------- IN ORDER to succeed in business a merchant must keep ahead of the fashion; just as soon as he falls behind his stock is passé and nobody wants it. To be able to show just the right thing at just the right time is the secret of many a merchant's success. Messrs. Taylor & Hufty fulfil these requirements perfectly. Is it cool to-day, they have just the wrap that will suit you. Is it too warm for wraps, they show you handsome suits. No house in town is so well prepared to fill every need of ladies' and children's toilets as this one, and no one wishing an outfit for spring and summer should fail to call while they have a full stock from which to select. --------------------------------------------------------------- SEE BUSINESS DIRECTORY on last page of cover. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- BEFORE BREAKFAST. ----------------------------------- ARE candied dates maple sugar days? GOOD FRIDAY was a damp bad good Friday. WHEN a pretty Irish girl is stolen it is suspected some Boycotter. THE REASON why graveyards yawn is because they are sleepy places. "EASTER" was a forward maid this year and came out early in the season. THE Potomac has become a favorite stream for rowing. Even shad roe in it. LADY FLORENCE DIXIE is believed to be the Cadet Whittaker of the Land League. ARAMANTHA, in the fond embrace of Claud, cried out, "Give me liberty, or give me breath." THE IDEA of a "babel of a melodious sounds" is among the last flashes of wit in a contemporary. IT IS SAID that Io was changed into a helfer. Druggist Milburn suggests Io-dide of potassium. "OH, I DO LOVE a fool," said Maria, glancing at Ophelia. "Oh, you conceited egotist," said Ophelia. "THE BLACK HAND" in Spain and the "full hand" at Monte Carlo are both dangerous in their ways. SHORT SKIRTS are de regueur for dancing. Now a Washington girl will know how to riguer self for a ball. SAID Aramantha to Claud, "I can read your mind like an open book," and then she said softly, "Blank book." IT IS TRUE that Columbus, a distinguished Italian, made the egg stand, but divers sons of Italy make the peanut stand. GENEROSITY is a virtue, and virtue is its own reward. That is the reason so many men are generous to themselves. THE USUAL PUNS on the subject of eggs have all been put in use again. If the eggs were as old as the puns, they would not be merchantable. A PAPER, in describing a wreck, says: "A horse on board swam about the wreck until he was drowned by being dashed against the ship." A YOUNG MAN riding on horseback on G street a few days ago realized Charles Lamb's experience. "All at once the horse stopped, but he kept right on." TO-MORROW look out for bricks in somebody else's hat. The genius of the day will be abroad in force, but as it comes on Sunday, most of his fun will be spoiled. DAVID DAVIS, who has for so long a time past been prominent object in American politics as the party of one, appears to be still more prominent as the larger half of the party of two. THE OLD SAYING has it, "A new broom sweeps clean," so we may look out for radical reforms in police matters. The Dye is cast, the detectives are passed, and may Washington be free once more. THE PEOPLE of Uniontown, Pennsylvania, are very selfish. They have ordered Dukes to leave that place, regardless of the inconvenience some other place will be put to in tolerating his presence. POOR WOMAN: "Please sir, give me a penny to buy some bread for myself and children." Philanthropic Gentleman: "Excuse me, come and hear me lecture on the duty of people to contribute to the Associated Charities." IT IS SAID that America is now exporting large quantities of whisky to England. We must get even with England somehow for sending her cranks and prize-fighters to this country; but isn't the whisky retaliation a little too severe?—Norristown Herald. THE REV. HICKS has instituted a suit for libel against the Baltimore American. This is the third suit he has commenced against newspapers, and as he says his "attorneys have carte blanche," it is altogether probable that he will become better known as a great litigant than he now is as a preacher. LONG NAMES are legitimate food for the paragraphers, though they often spoil a paragraph by making it unduly long. Speaking of them calls to mind a very good story of a Spanish señor, who being benighted rode up to the roadside albérgo in the Sierra Morena and demanded admitance. "Who's there? shouted the landlord. "It's me," replied the lost one, "Don Amadis Gonzalo Giquenza Babiscia del Castellana Domenico Vincenro de la Rosa." "That'll do," replied the publican, "I haven't got room for half of you." THE TIMES are sarcastic. Eighteen hundred and eighty-three years ago, in a place called Bethlehem, in the land of Judea. "Peace on earth good will to men" was the refrain of a hymn sweetly warbled, and year by year ever since the Christian church has kept the utterance fresh in the ears of men. And yet look at the world now. Russia stands on the brink of a big volcano. Turkey has an unpleasant idea of stuffing the sultan with dynamite balls for going back on the creed of Moslem. "Mozzlem" is the cry of Austria, as it looks with longing eyes towards the Mosque of St. Sophia. Mosque of us, however, think she had better look to herself. The motto of the German states appears to be "E Pluribust Unum." Italy thinks France's tune is too sharp respecting Tunis. The Frenchmen say "he must have Alsatia or die." Pat keeps tugging at the tail of the British lion as fiercely as "Richelieu" Robinson. The Tycoon or Emperor of China says he won't take "jaw-back from a livin' sowl." Spain is savage because the heir to the throne is a girl and because the "black hand" doubles up into an ugly fist. What a glorious thing that we have nothing worse than monopolies, Congress and land-grants in the United States!104 THE REPUBLIC. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- WALT WHIMAN. ----------- A WOMAN'S CRITICISM. ----------- II. It is evident that Mr. Whitman's war-pieces had to be written. The subject possesses the writer and he cannot rest till he has done his work. His intense love for liberty—liberty in every form, for every man—is roused and warms him to his task. Nowhere is he finer than when, inspired by his passion, he chants the praises, the certain coming of his mistress: "When Liberty goes it is not the first to go, Nor the second or third to go, It waits for all the rest to go, It is the last." Note the following, well bearing comparison with Byron's celebrated sonnet, "Eternal Spirit of the Chainless Mind:" "I see the clear sunsets of the martyrs, I see from the scaffolds the descending ghosts, I see those who in any land have died for the good cause. The seed in spare, nevertheless the crop shall never run out, (Mind you, O foreign kings! O priests! the crop shall never run out.) "Not a grave of the murdered for freedom but grows seed for freedom, in its turn to bear seed, Which the winds carry afar and re-sow, and the rains and the snows nourish. "Not a disembodied spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose But it stalks invisibly over the earth, whispering, counselling, cautioning. "Liberty! let others despair of you! I never despair of you." Not infrequently is the charge of egotism made against him by superficial readers. It is, indeed, this superficial reader who has done the most harm. It is astonishing that his opening statement, "I celebrate myself," should be cited without the complementary and following stanzas: "And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you." And he repeatedly disproves the charge: "These are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands.— They are not original with me." "Do you guess I have some intricate purpose? Well, I have, for the Fourth month showers have. And the mica on the side of a rock has. "Do you take it I would astonish? Does the daylight astonish? Does the early redstart twittering through the woods?" His sympathy with the race is boundless. It underlies and makes of effect every statement: "I understand the large hearts of heroes, The courage of present times and all times, * * * * * I am the man—I suffered—I was there. The disdain and calmness of martyrs, * * * * * All these I feel or am. * * * * * 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 heart turns livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe." The women of the day own to Mr. Whitman a debt of gratitude they are tardy to acknowledge. Others have sung of their love, their beauty, their innocence, their deceit, he sings their perfect equality with man, and the nobility of the mothers of the nations. It is one of the aims of his work; his prose and his poetry assume and assert it. "The day is coming when the deep questions of woman's entrance amid the arenas of practical life, politics, trades, &c., will not only be argued all around us, but may be put to decision and real experiment." "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?" He declares his work to be "for a woman as much as a man, and for a man as much as a woman." "The wife—and she is not one jot less than the husband— The daughter—and she is just as good as the son— The mother—and she is every bit as much as the father." He has not fears of the result. The terror of the time, "the unsexed woman," does not exist for him. "She, less guarded than ever, yet more guarded than ever, The gross and soiled she moves among do not make her gross and soiled. * * * * * * * She is silent—she is possessed of herself— they do not offend her, She receives them as the laws of nature receive them— she is strong, She too is a law of nature— there is not law stronger than she is." What nobler words than his for motherhood? "The divine mystery—the same old beautiful mystery." "Be not ashamed women—your privilege encloses the rest. . . . it is the exit of the rest, You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul." "I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men." "The justified mother of men." Is there an imagination so low as to dare deem this treatment of woman unchaste, impure? His words should shame it: "Your mother . . . is she living? Have you been much with her? and she has been much with you? Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all in all nations and times all over the earth?" That Emerson should have given glad greeting to "Leaves of Grass" can surprise no one who, with this object in view, will read his essay on "The Poet" and compare by it this work. That, wise in his own generation, he should have seen the faults, and, anxious for the welfare of both work and author, earnestly tried to induce Mr. Whitman to alter such of his lines as seemed most open to objection, is not strange. But if he did not give the work unqualified praise, he never characterized it as obscene. Any one knowing the man, instinct with "the old red blood and stainless gentility of the great poets," must realize the shocking absurdity of such a charge. Mr. Whitman has, in his treatment of sex, removed the drapery which habit and the instinctive reticence of all mankind have thrown around it. In this he supposes himself to be following the methods of great artists of all ages. The reader will remember Mr. Emerson's words: "Thought makes everything fit for use. The vocabulary of an omniscient man would embrace words and images excluded from polite conversation. What would be base, even obscene to the obscene, becomes illustrious spoken in a new connection of thought." And Mr. Whitman declares: "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." But while gladly exonerating Mr. Whitman from any vile intent, I think that most of those who love his work will agree that he has made a most grievous and deplorable error in this matter. His desire to avoid all falsehood and weakness had blinded his judgment. It is a proverb, born as proverbs are, of the distilled experience of the race, that familiarity breeds contempt. The better civilized we are the more we conform to its teachings. The relations of the sexes have been too firmly woven into the fabric of society by the whirring loom of time to be altered in a day. The bounds are set—on the one side mankind, on the other the unconscious brutes, innocent of the fruit of the tree of knowledge. However deeply we may feel the nobility and purity of fatherhood and motherhood, it can never be allowed even to the consecrated priest of poetry to bring into this holy of holies the common speech of mankind. The objectionable passages in Mr. Whitman's work were penned years ago. If we might but hope that he would see his mistake! Perhaps not—"error is ever the dearest of our children." When we think how the noble beauty of his work is kept, by this flaw, from those whom he most desires to benefit, we cannot but wish that some good angel would remove the bandage from his eyes. While I thus array myself on the popular side as regards this part of Mr. Whitman's work, I am aware that a different opinion may be well maintained. Some years ago a woman wrote, together with other noble words, brave with the innocence of pure intent, these: "He who can thus look with fearlessness at the beauty of Death, may well dare to teach us to look with fearless and untroubled eyes at the perfect beauty of Love in all its realizations." It may seem strange to associate science with our bard, "lawless as snowflakes;" but he deliberately includes in his estimate of a great poet that "scientific use of the imagination" of which we have heard so much. He says: "The prescient poet projects himself centuries ahead and judges performer or performance after the changes of time. . . . He forms the consistence of what is to be from what has been or is. . . . Exact science and its practical movements are no check on him, but always his greatest encouragement and support." It is curious to note how nearly he arrived at the fundamental principles of evolution, anticipating by several years the scientific generalizations that have hardly yet ceased to astonish the world. In the first edition of "Leaves of Grass," published five years before the "Origin of Species," he says of animals: "They bring me tokens of myself— they evince them plainly in their possession, I do not know where they get those tokens, I must have passed that way untold times ago and negligently dropt them, Myself moving forward then and now and forever. Again: "I am an acme of things accomplished and I an encloser of things to be, [*2106*]90 THE REPUBLIC. disparagement of the American races, North or South, to one who has been through the war in the great army hospitals." If any one in our country forgets '61 and the uprising of the North let them read the arming of Manhattan: "Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading; Forty years as a pageant—till unawares, the Lady of this teeming and turbulent city, Sleepless, amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth, With her million children round her—suddenly, At dead of night, at news from the South, Incens'd, struck with clench'd hand the pavement. "A shock electric—the night sustain'd it; Till with ominous hum, our hive at daybreak poured out its myriads. From the houses then, and the workshops, and through all the doorways, Leapt they tumultuous and lo! Manhattan arming." His songs for the dead are exquisitely tender and solemn, and his "Dirge for Two Veterans" has the muffled roll of a dead march. "O my soldiers twain. O my veterans passing to burial, What I have I also give you. "The moon gives you light, And the bugles and the drums give you music, And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, My heart gives you love." MAY COLE BAKER. (Concluded next week.) BACON'S "PROMUS." To the Editor of The Republic: SIR: You in Washington remember when such phrases as "military necessity," "irrepressible conflict," "all quiet along the Potomac" and the like were commonplaces of the time and on everybody's lips. But supposing that, in those times, only two individuals ever used them, would you then have styled them mere commonplaces of the times? In the "Advancement of Learning" Lord Bacon quoted Aristotle as saying that young men were not fit auditors of moral philosophy." In "Troillus and Cressida," act ii, sc. 2, line 166, Shakespeare makes Hector speak of "young men, whom Aristotle thought unfit to hear moral philosophy." Was that quotation (or rather misquotation, for it was political, not moral, philosophy that Aristotle mentioned) on everybody's lips, "a mere commonplace of the time," in England between the years 1609 and 1625? Again. Lord Bacon writes to King James: "If I had but served my God as I have served your majesty, it would have better for me." And Shakespeare makes Woolsey say (Henry VIII., act iv, sc. 2, line 454): "Had I but served my God as I have served my king, He would not, in mine age, have left me naked to mine enemies." Was this a bon mot—one on everybody's lips—a mere commonplace of the times, in England, between the years 1609 and 1623? In his speech on Essex's trial Bacon says: "All that you have said, or can say, in answer to these things, are but shadows. Shakespeare makes Theseus say (Midsummer Night's Dream, act v, sc. 2, line 212): "The best in this kind are but shadows." Were specious things called "shadows" in the "commonplace" of those years? As your sprightly correspondent has disposed of the results of Mrs. Potts's twenty years of labor (to say nothing of his having at the same time exploded the entire Baconian and anti-Shakespearean cases) in twenty minutes, of course he can inform your readers as to these. Very respectfully, your obedient servant, 21 Park Row, New York, March 10. APPLETON MORGAN. THE POPE. The Pope he leads a happy life, He has no care, nor wedded strife, He drinks the best of Rhenish wine, I wish the Pope's gay lot were mine. And yet all happy's not his life, He has no maid, nor wedded wife; He has no child to cheer his hope, I think I would not be the Pope. The Sultan better pleaseth me, He leads a life of jollity; Has wives as many as he will, The Sultan's lot I then would fill. And yet he's not a happy man, He must obey his Alkoran; He dare not drink one drop of wine, I would not that his lot were mine. Here then I take my humble stand, And live in German Fatherland; I'll kiss my maiden fair, and fine, And drink the best of Rhenish wine. Whene'er my maiden kisses me, I'll think that I the Sultan be; And when my cheery glass I tope, I'll fancy that I am the Pope. —Arthur Locker. BEFORE BREAKFAST. THE bob-tails are serene. "FLY TIME"—but you can't. GAS continues no light matter. EASTER and fresh shad make a good combination. "LENT" can no longer be an excuse for no money. GOOD FRIDAY and fried fish for dinner are synonymous. NO PERSON can address the new United States Treasurer without asking for a reason—can he, Mr. Wyman? A PAPER and pulp company has failed in Massachusetts. Paper is the cause of more failures than is anything else. DION BOUCICAULT is credited with having written the "Declaration of Independence" and several other original documents. CAPTAIN HOXIE'S WELL appears to have increased the pressure on the mains. Will it hold out after all the water-rates are paid? IT IS THE apple crop that has been killed this time. When will the crop of weather-prophets and fruit-prognosticators be killed? WHEN the Postmaster General is absent from the Cabinet meetings no questions of importance are considered. Howe can they be? WIRE PULLING is likely to assume a new form when the telegraph, telephone, electric light and other wires come down from their high perches. WAS the Departmental stamp continued in use because there is no penalty attached to using it for private correspondence as is the case with the penalty envelope? WON'T THE democratic party, when it gets in power, assume the true meaning of "civil service reform" to be to "re-form or form anew the personnel of the service?" "YES, SIR," said a wood-dealer, "I prefer to sell wood to men who do their own sawing. You can't convince a man who has worked all day at a wood-pile that there isn't a full cord of it." EASTER MONDAY is children's day in Washington, and when the weather is pleasant the little ones dressed in bright colors add a moving bouquet of beauty to every gentle slope and hillside. THE ARBUTUS blushes in seclusion beneath last autumn's leaves in the romantic valley of Rock Creek, and the small boy searches for it and finds it and sells it in bunches in the market place. A NEBRASKA MAN committed suicide because he owed seventy-five cents. A man who hasn't the business capacity to owe more money than that ought to commit suicide.—Rochester Express. THE CONSTANT changes that are made in our coins encourage others beside the Government to go into the business. It is true that coin was made for change, but it is not equally true that it was made to be changed at will. "PUCK" cartoons the tariff bill as an immense sausage. That is about the size of it—it is a mysterious bill and no one knows exactly what is in it. By the way, a great deal of the matter contained in our legislation is of the sausage order and some of it is very badly seasoned. "I DON'T WANT NO RUBBISH, no fine sentiment, if you please," said the widow who was asked what kind of an epitaph she desired for her late husband's tombstone. "Let it be short and simple, something like this: 'William Johnson, aged seventy-five years. The good die young.'" IS INNOCENCE a synonymous word for ignorance? The sentimental trash we read about the "innocence of childhood" would lead to that construction. As a rule, the average small boy is innocent of mischief only so far as he is ignorant of what will be disagreeable to his elders. SOME ONE has discovered that the three-cent pieces are as imperfect as the new nickels in not having the word "cents" on them, and the matter has been submitted to the Secretary of the Treasury. What momentous question a Cabinet officer has to pass judgment on at times! THERE is no sense in the question raised about the three-cent piece. Everybody thought it was a three-cent piece until the omission of the pious legend on the nickel made some people supercritical and encouraged others to gild the vicious coin and pass it off for a three-dollar piece. IT IS SAID the English cabinet is divided on the question of tunneling the British Channel. This is a division on a question of union and looks much as if the English feared the French might absorb them, via. the Channel, if it is ever completed. Just why France should not have the same fear of England is one of those things no one knows. THE NEW "Imperial Dictionary" is hardly out of the printer's hands, and, notwithstanding its four closely-printed volumes, the word fiend keeps at work. The latest accessions to the well of English are "colouration," "tonality" and "æstheticians," used respectfully by the Academy, the Athenæum and the St. James's Gazette, and the first will have to be Americanized into "coloration." THE VERDICT of an average English or American petit jury is often one of the most surprising things conceivable, as witness the verdict in the Dukes case. Similar verdicts, based on heaven only knows what, have led the London World to exclaim: "Had the juryman existed in the days of Solomon, that wise man would assuredly have added him to the four things whose ways were too wonderful for him. STEAM PIPES explode in New York and gas pipes in Boston and Philadelphia. In London Fenian dynamite appears to be the explosive mixture, in St. Petersburg Nihilists' bombs, and in Madrid the "black hand" is threatening to project some explosive that will stir up Spain. Paris is just now quiet, but it is the lull before the storm. Socialism is making Francis Joseph tremble in Vienna, and all along the line there are mutterings of scorn, wreck and ruin.THE REPUBLIC 89 a child. I will not quote from passages like these, as it is to them, unfortunately, that the general public owes any idea of Mr. Whitman’s work. They are like the tall, dead pines that stand out against the sky--bare and unsightly; but at their feet lie the vast and teeming forests. From this peculiarity are derived many faults which have been charged against him. I can, perhaps, best show an essential fault in manner by contrasting with George Herbert's oft-quoted lines, "Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws Makes that and th' action fine." the close of the following stanza, otherwise of more sustained power than anything of Herbert: "I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren; And the tree toad is a chef d'oeuvre for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, And the cow crunching with depressed head surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels, And I could come every afternoon of my life to look at the farmer's girl boiling her iron teakettle and baking shortcake." I have already referred to the prose introduction to Mr. Whitman's first book. Little known as is his poetry, this prose is still less known, yet I do not know that an adequate judgment of his work can be reached without a knowledge of this part of it. It is a summary of his poems, whether written before them as a guide to his task or after them as their raison d'etre matters not. Had he written no other words than these we must still have called him poet. For the many who deny this claim I must cull a handfull of the flowers of poesy that bestrew even his prose. Read what is done for his poet. "The marches of tens and hundreds and thousands of years made willing detours to the right hand and the left hand for his sake." Of the present moment he says, "This wave of an hour and this one of the sixty beautiful children of the wave;" of the soul, "Master of the spasm of the sky and the shatter of the sea, master of nature and passion and death, and of all terror and all pain." [*2105D*] To return to his poetical works. Emerson calls the poet "the Namer, the language-maker;" and by this test alone Mr. Whitman's claim si well established. No more beautiful "jewels five words long" can be found than are supplied by his epithets, "the sane impalpable air," "the polished breasts of melons," "the husky-noised sea" (reminding us of Homer's celebrated epithet), "sea of unshovelled and always ready graves," the large unconscious scenery of my land." Even these are injured by removal from their setting. More perfect still are these longer passages: "Eternity lies in bottomless reservoirs. . . . Its buckets are rising for ever and ever, They pour and they pour and they exhale away. "Where the populace rise at once against the never-ending audacity of elected persons, "Where fierce men and women pour forth as the sea to the whistle of death pours its sweeping and unript waves. "The hands of the sisters Death and Night, incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world." See what is their symphonic power when combined into a long swell of melody like the following: "I am he that walks with the tender and growing night; I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night. "Press close barebosomed night! Press close magnetic nourishing night! Night of south winds! Night of the large few stars! Still nodding night! Mad naked summer night! "Smile, O voluptuous cool-breathed earth! Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of departed sunset! Earth of the mountains, misty-topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon, just tinged with blue! Earth of shine and dark, mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds, brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbowed Earth! Rich, apple-blossomed Earth! Smile, for YOUR LOVER comes!" The true reader must have the power of viewing from the writer's standpoint. To such Mr. Whitman will teach many a secret of the universe that has escaped the notice of others. If you will let him, he will lay the mysteries so bare to your understanding that you will forget that they were mysteries once. He defines the poet's province to do this: "His brain is the ultimate brain. He is no arguer . . . he is judgment. He judges not as the judge judges, but as the sun falling around a helpless thing. . . . His thoughts are the hymns of the praise of things." Mr. Whitman's love of nature is real and inherent. He knows her every mood, her every aspect. He never gives us a false note; he is as simply true as nature herself. He takes a lesson from Job: [2105A*] "Ask now the beasts and they shall teach thee, And the fowls of the air and they shall tell thee, Or speak to the earth and it shall teach thee, And the fishes of the sea shall declare unto thee." I might offer many proofs of this; his pages teem with them. Consider the following: "Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes, With the Fourth month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright, With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous indolent sinking sun, burning, expanding the air; With the fresh, sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific; In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the rive, with a wind-dapple here and there; And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stack of chimneys, And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning. * * * * * * * "Lo! 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- the welcoming night and the stars, Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land." The commonest things are dear to him. So simple a thing as the grass; how he caresses it, wraps it about with his thought and shows us the beauty of it! "A child said, 'What is the grass?' fetching it to me with full hands. How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. "I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, Out of hopeful green stuff woven. "Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark and say "Whose?" "Or I guess that the grass is itself a child- the produced babe of the vegetation. * * * * * * * * "And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves." Will the reader ever again forget "the handkerchief of the Lord, a scented gift and remembrancer?" He paints his pictures for our eye with a lavish waste of words. Will he reach our hearts? His lead sinks deep; he buoys it not with wordy explanations fine and large, and sometimes almost equals the reticence of Dante. "I tell not the fall of the Alamo,... Not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo,... The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo. "Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general- He furiously waves with his hand, He grasps through the clot, "Mind not me- mind- the entrenchments." I do not know a more masterly description of a naval engagement than his "frigate Fight." It is too long to quote, but I commend its perusal to those who with to "learn who won by the light of the moon and the stars." No other nation than our own has ever passed through the throes of a great civil war and received into its literature so little upon it worth preserving; but when future generations hall gather whatever survives by virtue of merit, the value Mr. Whitman's work in this direction will be recognized. It is a theme wherein he has been absolutely true to his audience and to his subject. He has not staid at home and written noble songs of glory, or rhapsodic praises of valor, or funeral dirges for the fallen; he has been at the front. Not, indeed, with the victorious army, but with the ghastly terrible wounded, the unassuaged horrors of hospitals, tempered only by the fearful monotony of death; and, with a heart o'er-weighted by his experience, he has reached nearer the vital force of the American people than any other writer. He says: "Probably no future age can know, but I well know, how the gist of this fiercest and most resolute of the world's warlike contentions resided exclusively in the unnamed, unknown rank and file; and how the brunt of its labor of death was, to all essential purposes, volunteered. ... We have seen the alacrity with which the American born populace, the peaceablest and most good-natured race in the world and the most personally independent and intelligent and the least fitted to submit to regimental discipline, sprang, at the first tap of the drum, to arms- not for gain, nor even glory, nor to repel invasion, but for an emblem, a mere abstraction, for the life, the safety of the flag. We have seem them tried long and long by hopelessness, mismanagement and by defeat; have seen the incredible slaughter toward or through which the armies still unhesitatingly obeyed orders to advance; the great bulk bearing steadily on, cheery enough, hollow-bellied from hunger, but sinewy with unconquerable resolution. ... what have we here, if not, towering above all talk and argument, the plentifully-supplied last needed proof of democracy, in its personalities? Curiously enough too, the proof on this point comes, I should say, every bit as much from the South as from the North. Although I have spoken only of the latter, yet I deliberately include all... Let no tongue ever speak in THE embroidered robes opened up by Woodward & Linthrop, at the Boston Dry Goods House, this week are very beautiful. They include Scotch zephyr and sateen robes in all the fashionable new colors and the always fashionable standard colors.THE REPUBLIC 87 French campaigns antecedent to that date and in which he took a notable and noticeable part, leading in the former a corps of light-horse and in the latter his own black-hussars, a journal of events and operations published, and perhaps freely edited, by Count Götz, his adjutant, is generally deemed, despite its illiterate style if composition and illiberal views of political situation, and authoritative work on vanguard duty in active war. His lan-guage is lucid if inelegant, the volume exhaustive on the special subject reviewed, and the final impression left in the mind that of ability and practical knowledge in the author. After the peace of Basil and the recall of the Prussian forces in the field, the new kind, Frederic William III, son of the preced-ing monarch, and who succeeded his father in 1797, evinced to-ward Major-General Blucher, for such was now his rank, strong evidences of favor and friendship, His promotion to his present high grade had occurred hast after the victory at Kirschweiller, in which her had borne himself so signally. At this time he con-tracted a second happy marriage. In 1801, the king, with expres-sions of thanks for his past services, made him a lieutenant-gen-eral, in which distinguished quality a year later he fulfilled the functions of military Governor of Erfurt, Muhlhausen and Mun-ster, arbitrarily assuming possession of those strongholds in the name of Prussian sovereignty. Hostilities with France, the fierce renewal of recent feud, threw the lieutenant-general again in the field. In 1806, accordingly, was fought the battle of Auerstadt, after which Blucher with the main body of the Prussian cavalry covered the left flank of the Prince of Hohenlohe in the retreat to Pomerania. During the action (October 14th), Blucher led the Prussian vanguard, making a daring charge on the enemy’s cen-tre, which, however, was broken by the terrific fire of Davoust’s division of artillery. After the double defeat at Auerstadt and Jena, Blucher in falling back succeeded in picking up along the bank of the Elbe some thousands of stragglers, a profitable practice enough as afterwards seen in the recovery of his ranks between the day of Light and Waterloo (June 16th and 18th, 1815). But these runaways soon again melted away as snow, Blucher’s retreat to Lübeck forms one of the few highly honorable episodes in that disastrous epoch of german warfare. With an insignificant troop of ten or twelves thousand men, mostly raw recruits, he pushed his way to the city of Lubeck, closely chased by the French under the lead of Soult, Murat and Bernadotte, near which point at the town of Ratkow, Blucher was forced to surrender. But ere this Lubeck had been fortified by him, a desperate fight had there taken place, the French had stormed the town, and it was given over to a three days’ sack by soldiery, the streets and squares having been the tragic theatre of all these horrors, Blucher had received much critical censure for his defense of Lubeck and thus laying the place open to such fearful slaughter, outrage and destruction, but under the circumstances his most important object was to af-ford the German people at least one example of staunch and faith-ful loyalty and resistance. Driven out of Lubeck and falling back on Ratkow , he was here helplessly hemmed in and compelled to capitulation (November 7th) ; but he gave up the struggle only on the express and exacted stipulation that the cause of surrender should be stated in writing to have been “ entire want of ammu-nition and provisions.” This clause took the special sting out of his discomfiture. In a fortnight he was exchanged for General Victor, and immediately on his arrival at Konigsburg was dis-patched by Frederic William by sea, at the head of an army corps, to Swedish Pomerania to aid in the defense of Stralsund by the Swedes. After the peace of Tilsit he was employed in the war-de-partment at Konigsburg and Berlin, but was afterwards appointed commander-in-chief of the Prussian forces in Pomerania and governor-general of that province. Here he rested on his laurels for a brief spell, in the enjoyment of a well-earned sinecure and all the honors incident to this position. Then, awarded a leave of absence the which to spend in rest and recreation, he went to Hamburg with his sons to kill time in the pursuit of pleasure. Among the various beer-gardens and gambling-halls he passed his days and too often nights also, playing cards, smoking, and eating and drinking until he had the name of being an intemperate bon-vivant. Secret negotiations, however, for articles of alliance between France and Prussia were on foot, which were signed Feb-ruary 24, 1812, and in which Napoleon had exacted in express terms the retirement of his inveterate foe from the military service of his native land, together with the patriotic Scharnhorst and a few other devoted Prussians. Federic William obediently and obse-quiously dismissed Blucher from the army at the mere beck and nod COCHRANE & CO., at their store opposite Riggs’ Bank, are making a drive in the unicorn shirt, which is asserted to be the best shirt to fit and the best shirt to wear. It comes in all sizes and is warranted to give equal satisfactions to both fat and lean men. Of the Corsican conqueror, but ashamed of himself and in order to smooth the wounds created by this official disgrace, he privately presented him with the handsome estate of Kunzendorf, in Silesia. Blucher now cultivated to the core of all his cherished antipathy and antagonism to Napoleon. He swore to combat eternally the gen-eral belief in the invincibility of the emperor, which had, indeed, grown to somewhat the proportions of fatalism over Europe. He kept his oath, and in the forests of Kunzendorf originated the stubborn continental opposition which resulted in the final deposi-tion and downfall of the French despot; a sequence which the Germans and Prussians in open field, under the leadership of a Blucher, signally helped the tenacious British to bring about. (Finished in next number.) DAVID GRAHAM ADEE. ONCE UPON A TIME. Once upon a time— Ah, once upon a time ! Not “Once upon a midnight dreary, Whilst I pondered, weak and weary, Over many quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore.” Ah no ! Once upon a time— Ah, once upon a time ! Not “ When we watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing, soft and low, As in her breast the wane of life Kept heaving to and fro.” Ah no ! Once upon a time— Ah, once upon a time ! Not when “ With fingers weary and worn With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.” Ah no ! But once upon a time— Ah, once upon a time ! A woman sat in her lonely room, And all around was darkness and gloom, And she gazed from her window across the way And her guardian angels hear her say, “Oh God, what is there in life for me ! I fain would yield my soul to thee.” “To thee.” Once upon a time— Ah, once upon a time ! This woman was young, and happy, and fair— With sparkling eyes, and sunlit hair— A faultless form, and wealth, and all That in this life we happiness call, And she raised her voice, on blended knee, And said. “Oh God, I am thankful to thee.” “Thankful to thee.” Once upon a time— Ah, once upon a time, This woman at God’s own altar stood, With a man, that all men said was good ; And he swore that always during his life He would love and cherish this woman, his wife. And she raised her voice, on blended knee, And said, “Oh God, I am thankful to thee.” “Thankful to thee.” Once upon a time— Ah, once upon a time, This man who this woman had swore to love and pledge his faith, to the God above, To love and cherish, this woman, is wife— Went far astray—and wrecked her life ;— And she raised her voice, on blended knee, “Oh God, what is there in life for me !” “In life for me.” Once upon a time— Ah, once upon a time !— This woman lay at last at rest ; Her pale white hands we’re across her breast ; Her spirit had died to God, who had given ; And she rested at last, in the glorious Heaven ; And her soul to her God, the giver, said, “Forgive him, Father, for what he did.” And the angels took up that woman’s prayer, And wafted it through the Heavenly air. Washington, March 16, 1883. M. J. W. A PRUDENT HOUSEWIFE informed her husband one night that she wanted a small rig, and that her must buy it because she didn’t look fit to go out. “But n no account,” said she, “must you pay more than $2 for a rig worth $3; and if you don’t find it in once place go to another.” “All right,” said the good man, “I’ll take half a day off to-morrow.” The following morning he notified his employer tat he wanted half a day off, because there was sickness in the family, hoping by means of the falsehood that his ages would not be docked. He ex-cused himself to himself for the lie, saying, “If I don’t get that rug there will be serious sickness in the family.” He succeeded in obtain-ing the desired article for $1.90, and on the following Saturday his em player deducted $2 from his earnings. Moral.—A penny spaced is a penny earned. Note.—But the $3 ruf cost him $3.99 all the same.—Life. THE suiting, trouserings and vestings now shown by H. D. Barr, the importing tailor, included the latest and most approved styles. Now is the time to go and get measured for a spring suite, that will be required fully as soon as it can be made.May 24 & 31 ‘83 88 THE REPUBLIC WALT WHITMAN. A WOMAN’S CRITICISM. Great is the art. Great be the manner of the bard. He shall not his brain encumber With the coil of rhythm and number; But, leaving rule and pale forethought, He shall aye climb For his rhyme.* -Emerson. This is no book. Who touches this touches a man. -Leaves of grass. 2105 The true poet has never been the theme of writers; but who has told us of the true reader? Is it he to whose imaginative and excited mind, as Emerson says, bare lists of words are suggestive? Must he be himself a poet to understand the words and read between the lines of the poets work? Ruskin has described him for us. He comes to his authors with a true desire to be taught by them and to enter into their thoughts; and having faithfully listened that he may enter into his thoughts, he is to enter into their hearts. “As you go to them first for clear light, so you must stay with them that you may share at last their mighty passion.” Who comes to his book to find the things that please him, to be soothed by dainty rhymes and lulled by Lydian measures is not Mr. Whitman’s true reader. He has warned as well: “A great poem is no finish to a man or woman, but rather a beginning. Has any one fancied he could sit at last under some due authority and rest satisfied with explanations and realize and be content and full? To no such terminus does the greatest port bring … he brings neither cessation nor sheltered fatness and ease. The touch of him tells in action. Whom he takes he takes with firm, sure grasp into live regions previously unattained … thence forward is no rest … they see the space and ineffable sheen that turn the old spots and lights into dead vacuums.” Perhaps around no figure of modern literature has so bitter a conflict raged, comparable only to that roused by the romancists of France, led by Victor Hugo. Almost unknown to the general reading public, ranked among the first of American poets by his personal friends no less than by the literati of Great Britain, denounced for obscenity by men whose names but for these acts[,] would have remained in the obscurity they deserve, Mr. Whitman has had the rare good fortune to create a work that will not be forgotten. It is a singular fact that so few people know this writer well, [when he has been advertised to an unparalleled extent by his enemies] and by his friends. Occasionally curiosity is aroused by some new act of persecution, and for a while a new impetus is given to the sale of his books and converts to the faith are made; but in the intervals the work lies uncalled for in the booksellers’ stalls or gathers undisturbed the dust of public libraries. I have found when quoting him, whether at length or otherwise, almost no one who could recognize the author. From persons who have nothing but scorn for his name, knowing little of his poetry and nothing of the man, I have won great praise for passages from “Leaves of Grass. “ Others who have never read him have been moved to an admiration that demanded a deeper knowledge, but woe is me if I am so unwise as to deliver the book into their hands that they may find new beauties for themselves! The well-known aphorism that the eye sees what the mind brings means of seeing is again exemplified. The work resembles a landscape by [Corot] which appears at first an unintelligible confusion of splotches and daubs, but after the eye has obtained power to assemble and correlate the forms, yields to the inner sense a scene of surprising freshness and natural charm, attainable by no other method. This peculiarity results from certain faults of treatment which, though not difficult to find, have been usually disregarded or denied by his admirers. They relate to style, form and matter and should be separately considered. No better criterion of style can be found than that set by himself when he speaks of the work of the greatest poet: “The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine if the light of letters is simplicity. Nothing is better than simplicity. Nothing can make up for excess, or for the lack of definiteness. … To speak in literature 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. 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. … He swears to his art, 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.” Notwithstanding these first words of his, for they are found in *Note: By a singular coincidence there appears in the article upon Emerson[,] by Mr. Stedman, in The Century for April, the quotation with which this article, the manuscript of which was placed in my hands nearly a year ago, begins, followed by an allusion to Mr. Whitman and to the fact that he was stimulated by such teaching as this to follow out his own peculiar style. -ED. the introduction to the first edition of “Leave of Grass,” Mr Whitman has never ceased to encumber his poetry with the greatest singularity of style. In his efforts to attain simplicity and force he has fallen into the capital of errors of supposing that manifold allusion and reference which marshal all related objects and ideas make his meaning clearer to the audience he addresses; and of thinking this style adapted to the common people because he tells of the life of the common people; because he calls things by their common names and signs paeans of the common world. No one can doubt this who will read his “Democratic Vistas.” He says: “I feel with dejection and amazement that among our geniuses and talented writers, or speakers, few or none have yet really spoken to this people, or created a single image-making work that could be called for them, or absorbed the central spirit and the idiosyncrasies which are theirs, and which thus, in highest ranges, so far remain entirely uncelebrated, unexpressed.” With a mind universal, the prescient mind of the poet, he created for them his work, but by a singular fatality uttered it in a language intelligible only to his peers. The faults of rhythm, which have been greatly exaggerated, come from a cumbrous overloading of the verse rather than form any want of musical perception; but to the uneducated of the Lain and Anglo-Saxon races two things are essential to poetry-rhyme and rhythm. No work lacking these is recognized by them as poetical. they preserve their traditions and sing their loves, and their griefs, their wars, their religions, in ballads and hymns of iambic and trochaic meters. An involved and singular versification containing neither marked accent of motion nor the melody of rhyme, is unattractive to their ears. They are pleased with nursery jingle, while the beauties of Hebraic poetry do not exist for them. Small wonder then that Mr. Whitman has overreached his mark and his work must be treated from a higher ground of culture. Through most of his lines there runs a suggestion of hexameter and pentameter measures, accent taking the place of quantity, and there is a subtle rhythm and melody in all of his best work. It would be a dull ear indeed that could not find them in passages like the following: “I visit the orchards of God, and look at the spheric product, And look at quintillions ripened, and look at quintillions green. “I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems: Wilder and wider they spread, expanding and always expanding. “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. “The universe is a procession with measured and beautiful motion.” He also has a tendency to the poetic methods of the Semitic languages, as found in the book of Job, the Psalms and the Koran, using, instead of rhyme and meter, a parallelism or a contrast of expression as the basis of poetic form. For example, he says of the Night: “I will duly pass the day, O my mother, And duly return to you, Not you will yield forth the dawn again, More surely than you will yield forth me again, Not the womb yields the babe in its time More surely than I shall be yielded from you in my time.” I have discovered that to the casual reader the rhythm of this method is not obvious. Many are unaware that a considerable portion of the Old Testament is written in poetry, which should be versified to bring out its proper beauty. Compare the method of the passage just quoted with the following: “If I take the wings of the morning And dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, Even there shall Thy hand lead me And Thy right hand shall follow me. “If I say ‘surely the darkness shall cover me, Even the night shall be light about me.’ “ -Ps. Exxxix, 9, 10, 11. Or this, from the Koran: “It needs not that I swear by the sunset redness, And by the night and its gatherings, And by the moon when at her full, That from state to state shall ye be surely carried onward.” To no author is familiarity so essential to appreciation. His full meaning comes only to those who knowing him well also learn to read him well. The long lines flow with singular melody from the lips of the appreciative reader. His faults of matter lie mainly in this, that he has thought he could make great comical ideas, only to be grasped by the widest and freest intelligence, plain to the common people. He perceives meanings in the most commonplace realities and acts, and, holding the golden thread which only he perceives unites them, he must needs string them all together, and thus produce an effect which, to the untrained reader, is that of a chance medley of unintelligible ideas, no more to be called art than the button-string of [*Scribner's Mag*] [*Oct '78*] The Two Mysteries. In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, a nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. The child looked curiously at the spectacle of death and then inquiringly into the old man's face. "You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?" said he, adding, "We don't either." We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still; The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill; The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call; The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all. We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart pain; This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again; We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go, Not why we're left to wonder still; nor why we do not know. But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day- Should come and ask us, "What is life?" not one of us could say. Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be. Yet, oh, how sweet it is to us, this life we live and see! Then might they say- these vanished ones- and blessed is the thought! "So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may tell ye naught; We may not tell it to the quick- this mystery of death- Ye may not tell us, if ye would the mystery of breath." The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent. So those who enter death must go as little children sent. Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead; And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. [*2109*] --Mary Mapes Dodge. ------------------------------------ [?] its commonplace synonym. Nor does Mr. John Morley bow to the vulgar and inane tradition of the "pure Saxon" in style. Like all powerful and original writers, he uses what words best enforce his meaning, not caring a pin whether he sends the bulk of Mr. Mudd's readers to the dictionary or no. [*Boston Herald*] [*May 26*] [*'84*] -------------------------------------- [*2110*] JUNE MAGAZINES! The North American Review very largely inclines to extreme views, in order that one exaggeration my be offset by another, and the June number gives a notable instance of this kind of discussion in Mr. Walter Kennedy's article on "Walt Whitman." This author is the last person in the world to yield his secret to special pleading. Probably even his best friends would be reluctant to indorse all he has written; certainly they would choose often a different medium of expression; and in Mr. Kennedy's attack there is much justification; but the trouble with the article is that Walt Whitman is too big for his critic, who is unable to reduce him to the strict confines of the conventional, and whose ideas of criticism do not include such a literary phenomenon as "Leaves of Grass." The simple truth is that, with all that is absurd and repulsive in Walt Whitman's writing, there are also a reach and strength that are greater than have been disclosed by any other American poet. He has looked beyond the pretty little gardens of contemporary poets and seen nature face to face. His strength is not in lines or rhymes, but in his collective views of things, in a certain large grasp of elemental facts in life and nature. Mr. Kennedy applies a foot rule to his poems, and measures just so much of him as he can understand- nothing more. Here, as very lamentably in the last number in Mr. Whipple's onslaught on Mr. Arnold, the personal view of the critic- not his sense of relations, not his perception of positive qualities, not his way of touching eternal facts- is made the measure of his criticism [?] critic has only [?] ----------------------------------- WALT WHITMAN'S BIRTHDAY. --------------- The Good Gray Poet of Camden Completes His [*2111*] Sixty-Fifth Year. To-day is Walt Whitman's sixty-fifth birfthday, as he was born at Huntington, Long Island, May 31, 1819. He grew up in Brooklyn and New York cities and by the seashore, received merely a child's common school education and worked in a printing office as a boy and yung man. He commenced his famous "Leaves of Grass," in 1855, and thenceforward adding new instalments every few years, completed it in 1882. He engaged in the secession war as a volunteer nurse of the army wounded, working practically and ardently (but "on his own hook") on the battle-fields and in the hospitals for over three years. It was from that overstrained labor and the excitement of those times he derived the paralysis that now and since afflicts him. Besides the poems of "Leaves of Grass," he has written and published a book of prose, "Specimen Days and Collect," whose nature and contents are indicated by the name. A detailed biography of Whitman and analysis of his poems by Dr. Bucke, a Canadian, was issued simultaneously here and in England about a year ago. At the end of the volume Dr. Bucke collects a curious and ample budget of the diverse views and arguments for and against Whitman, covering twenty-five years, from all parts of the world. The poet now lives in a little old house he has lately bought near the Delaware river in Camden. Though crippled permanently from his war paralysis, appearing at first sight much older than he really is, and averaging two or three pretty bad spells of sickness every year, he writes a little all the time, retains his buoyancy and cheeriness without the least diminution, is thankful for every word and deed of kindness from his friends, loves the open air and the sights of active life and manages to get out in them almost every day. He sells his book himself ("to keep a certain animal from the door," as he expresses it), sending them by mail on application, with his autograph. [*Phil Times*] [*May 31 '81*] ------------------------------------------ Will Lock the Door When the Horse is Gone. [*'84*] The Critic and Good Literature May 31 1884 ---------- A Fabulous "Episode." JAMES BERRY BENSEL winds up a very kindly and eulogistic notice of 'Leaves of Grass' and their author, in the Lynn Saturday Union of May 24, by what he calls a 'certain episode, ' namely: Mr. Longfellow once asked me what I thought of the Camden poet, in the presence of several literary men, and I--at that time a bashful young fellow, seventeen or eighteen years of age--was inclined to evade expressing my real and crude opinion before so many. 'Do not fear,' said the gentle old man, touching my hand lightly, 'we will not repeat your words.' And then as he saw my flushed and frightened boyish face, he smiled and said: 'When Whitman was about to publish the "Leaves of Grass," he sent me the advance-sheets for perusal, and asked if he might dedicate the book to me. I marked several passages, and replied that, if he would consent to omit the lines indicated, I should feel honored by such a dedication as he proposed; but he answered that the lines I had marked were the strongest in the book, and he could not, under any circumstances, consent to their removal.' 'What were the passages?' asked Professor ------. 'One was "The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer."' 'Then I have no doubt of their strength,' said some one else; and a roar of laughter filled the celebrated old room, where Martha Washington once held her receptions. Walt Whitman requests us to say that no such 'advance-sheets' were ever sent to Mr. Longfellow,--no such request was made by W. W., and of course no such answer returned, --that, in short, neither the 'episode' itself, nor anything which in any way could give it a shred of truth, ever happened; --the 'old gray' adding his very clear conviction that Mr. Longfellow, the soul of goodness and honor, never told anything of the kind. [*2112*] ------------ [*Lynn Saturday Union*] [*May 24 '84*] 6 -------------------------------------------------------- THE BOOK-WORM. -------------------------------------------------------- WALT WHITMAN. ------- "An American, one of the roughs, a kosmos." ------- A correspondent--a stranger to me-- asks what I "think of Walt Whitman." I will try and tell him. It is customary for every one who speaks of Walt Whitman to do so with a smile or a covert sneer that implies the poet's name to mean something quite outside the pale of decency and refinement, wholly unfit, in fact, to be mentioned before a woman whom we respect. Why is this? Because this one man sees purity in everything, finds every member of the body good, clean and wholesome; overturns the false modesty that has been instilled into us and shows what vice and nastiness lies beneath the affectation which we call good breeding. What is Whitman as a man? Gentle, refined, cultured: full of tenderness and sympathy, shrinking from praise, yet grateful for it--if given heartily and in the right way--as any boy might be who had published his first set of verses. A man whose life has been virtuous and heathful; one beloved by children and by every man and woman who knows him. Many intimate friends have spoken of him to me, and I never heard a person who knew him speak of the man but with exceeding kindliness and unqualified respect. It is true that we find many lines in Leaves of Grass that shock us by their unhesitating directness and forcefulness, because we have been taught that decency forbids the mention of certain God-given attributes. Is it a shameful thing to say that we can look upon the naked figure of a perfectly-formed man or woman with admiration unpolluted by the coarseness of vulgar feelings? You will stand for hours before The Venus of Milo, The Venus de Medici, the Borghese Venus, The Birth of Venus, painted by Cabanel, or the wonderful Andromeda that Erpikum put upon canvas. Yes, or any one of those superb statues: The Dying Gladiator, The Wounded Gaul, The Gladiator in the Arena. You will marvel at and admire these, though you know that nude men and women posed for the sculptor or painter. What then? A poet strips off the clothes and displays the human being as he is, body as well as soul, and, behold, you cry "Shame!" and turn away. Is Walt Whitman really a poet? Look and see. He has thrown aside the conventional forms of verse and puts his thoughts into the shape he deems most fitting. Listen! "A child said, 'What is the grass?' fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven; Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer, designedly dropped, Bearing the owner's name some way in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say 'Whose?'" Decide for yourself whether the man who wrote those lines is a poet or not. "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." "If anything is 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-fibered body, is beautiful as the most beautiful face." [*2113*]But it is not for me to take up this, or any other man, and show you what he is; to know, you must of yourself and for yourself study his work: not reading to find the coarseness or the fineness, but going carefully through it all without starting back from a line which is, at its worst, a thought you might have had but would not dare put into words. After you have studied the man’s work-not simply glanced over it quickly and carelessly, uttering meaningless little “Ohs” and “Ahs” now and then, but after reading thoughtfully and carefully the book and thinking it over --then you may say what you please about Walt Whitman, or any other man, and his work. And now that you have set me down for an admirer of Whitman let me say that, while I recognize the vigor and truth of much of his writings, while I am grateful for the impetus he gives my thoughts when I read him,--for it is the man that we read--I still prefer to have the poet offer me his work in graceful and regular form; just as I like to drink my coffee from delicate china, my liqueurs or champagne from fragile and exquisitely shaped glasses. It may be the effeminacy of over-civilization, the weakness engendered by cultivating the sensuous daintiness of taste and sight and touch, but still it is the truth I can derive much more pleasure from a piece of plain cookery daintily served than from a marvelous dish concocted by the most notched French cook and put upon the table in a hap-hazard way. Then why should I not acknowledge to my correspondent that a dainty quatrain by Aldrich, a villanelle by Dobson or Lang, a ballade by Locker, a song by Jean Ingelow pleases me better, gives more satisfaction to the poetical sentimentality of my nature than all the rough, forceful, naked vitality of Whitman ever can? It will not be a betrayal of confidence if I relate a certain episode connected with Whitman’s Leaves of Grass and its publication, while it may serve to show something of the sturdiness of the man. [*2113 A*] [*Lynn Saturday Union*] [*Dec 1 ‘83*] ---------------------------------------------------------- 6 ----------------------------------------------------------- THE BOOK-WORM. ----------------------------------------------------------- Written for the Saturday Union. “THE GOOD, GRAY POET.” ----- A Critical Estimate of Walt Whitman. Some of His Faults and Merits--A Just but Appreciative Tribute. A reader opening Whitman for the first time would be apt to exclaim “What uncouth savage have we here?” If prompted by the estimate of the man made by such great literary judges as Emerson, Ruskin, Thoreau, Tennyson, Burroughs, Stedman and many others, he continued to read farther, the loose structure of the poet’s sentences, the barbaric carelessness of his style, and, above all, his palpable and gross indecencies would in nine cases out of ten cause the reader to throw the book down in anger and disgust. Added to all these faults his colossal egotism, his unpardonable catalogue style, his tendency to go into rhapsody over the most trite and common place thoughts, his total and boasted lack of all artistic conception and his frequent obscurities and provoking mannerism could not help giving the casual reader a feeling of contempt for the man capable of writing such productions. This has been the experience of thousands who have attempted Whitman, and his circle of readers is as yet very limited. Yet, perhaps, it is safe to say, as Tennyson is reported to have said, that “considering the quality of his readers. He is the most admired of all poets.” Despite his great faults--and it is not our purpose to extenuate or deny them--Walt Whitman is a great poet. He marks and epoch in American literature, and though others, it is hoped, will not imitate him, yet hun untamed and fearless spirit is sure to inspire our future poets as he is more and more read and admired. What are the elements of Whitman’s greatness, and what is it that makes hum as his English and German admirers term him, the distinctive product of American civilization. The quality that strikes one most, is his lofty and hopeful optimism. It would not be just to say, as one of his critics has said, “that one thing to Whitman is just as good as another, and everything is all right.” Yet his unbounded faith in the ultimate destiny of man, reminds one of the old prophets where they wrote “in the spirit,” of the Millenium and the Reign of Righteousness. The destiny of the American Republic is a theme of which he never tires. This continent as a field for the “divine average man” --whose poet Whitman distinctively is, and whose aspirations and tendencies he voices--has been sung and announced by him as by no other poet. The American personality, its homo genius, catholic and tolerant spirit, has been personified in Whitman’s life and eulogized in all his poems. His too-apparent egotism loses much of its offensiveness when it is remembered that it is not himself he is describing, as much as the genius of America as embodied in the “coming man.” Well might Thoreau say of him, “He is Democracy.” Whitman’s love of man is something phenomenal. Surely, a man who has suffered that unmeasured abuse and vilification that Whitman has borne, has the provocation, if ever a man had, to become cynical and sour and a man hater. Instead we never find anything of personal bitterness in his writings, but a sweet and all pervading sympathy characterizes all his works. “Publish my name, and hang up my portrait,” says he, “as the tenderest lover.” If any one can read his tender poems embraced under the title, “Calamus” and not arise from the perusal with a tenderer sympathy and love for his kind, then he is not susceptible to the finer feelings of human nature. It is a great mistake to regard Whitman’s as a rude and untrained intellect, to look upon him as a rough, unkempt giant who has come down like a Norseman pirate on our literature, breathing vengeance against the humanities and tenderer impulses of man. Whitman is bold, and his “arrogant poems” might seem to a superficial reader to be the productions of a rough and beastly nature, but Whitman is another exemplification of the old law that “the bravest are the tenderest” and under his shaggy, Titan-like personality the most delicate and loving sympathies are concealed. Of course, in a brief article like this, no exhaustive treatment of his genius or his poetry can be attempted. Let it be said, however, in the face of the uproar against his books, that has been raised by a few timid men who have never read them, that he is a safe poet to read, even in his most objectionable poems - which poems we deplore as deeply as any - there is nothing prurient, nothing suggestive of a double meaning. they were written in a conscientious adherence to a principle, and the chaste and spotless life of the poet himself, is the strongest proof of the purity of his design. [*2114*] Perhaps the greatest praise that can be paid to Whitman is this: he continually “grows” upon his readers. The greatest poets are never appreciated at first. How large an edition would the Book of Job have were it printed to-day for the first time? Would any publisher put it before the market as a popular holiday venture? It is doubtful if five hundred copies could be sold in the United States - and yet it is one of the grandest poems that was ever written. The ultimate appreciation, however of all real works of a genius is sure, and Whitman says “I am willing to wait to be understood by the growth of the taste for myself.” He is not known now because he is great, but his fame is sure. “When the true poet comes, How shall we know him-- By what clear token -- manners -- language-- dress? Or shall a voice from Heaven Speak and show him: -- Him the swift healer of the world’s distress. Tell us that when the long-expected comes, At last with mirth and melody and singing We him may greet with banners, beat of drums, Welcome of men and maids, and joy-bells ringing. And, for this poet of ours, Laurels and flowers. “Thus shall ye know him -- this shall be his token: Manners like other men, an Un strange gear; His speech not musical, but harsh and broken, Shall sound at first, each line a driven spear; For he shall sing as in the centuries olden, Before mankind its earliest fire forgot, Yet who so listens long hears music golden. “How shall ye know him? Ye shall know him not. Till ended hate and scorn To the grave he’s gone.” [*2114A*] [???],of New York, has written [???]containing a journal of his travels [???]northward, entitled as Midnight [????]through Persia. In spite of the warlike suggestion there were peaceful marches, and were undertaken at night only to avoid the heat of the day. Mr. Ballantine is an observant and experi- enced travelier and has given us a fresh, entertain- ing and valuable book. It contains a number of engravings from photographs. There is a thin volume, recently published here, entitled "Nadeschda" a Russian story, written by Runeberg, the great poet of Finland, and trans- lated by Miss Marie A. Brown. I wish It were pos- sible to give an idea of the poetic beauty and the natural pathos of this story. I scarcely know any- thing like it. Yet the lines, as they stand in Eng- lish, are without melody, and often are rude and harsh. Perhaps if it had been moulded into artistic form by the translator, the charming effect of the original would have been lost. As it is, it is almost as formless as some of those "Drum Taps" by Whitman, but like them it compels admiration, and at the end brings tears to the eyes of the most stoical. Surely the genius of the poet must have been vivid and intense to shine so through the me- dium of translation. Miss Brown, so the title- page declares, is her own publisher. There are some few annoying little faults in the work, but the book does her great credit. PROSPERO. [*2115*] [NEW-YORK] DAILY TRIBUNE. --------- FUNDED BY HORAGE GREELEY. ------------------------------------------------- NEW-YORK, SUNDAY, JUNE 22. '84 EMMERSON AND WALT WHITMAN --------- Frank B?llow in lipp incott's Magazine. [???] day, when I was calling upon Emerson, [???] my attention to an nobound volume of poems he [???] received from New-York, over which he was in [???] it was caLletd "Leaves of Grass." by Walt [?????an. "I have just written off post-haste to thank [???] he said. "It is really a most wonderful produc- [???] gives promise of the greatest things, and if as [???] it is his first writing, seems almost incredible. Must have taken a long run to make such a jump as [??oad me some [???ges,] raising his eyebrows here [??????arking] that it was hardly a book for the [?????arlor] table. Shortly after this I went off [??????sett] Mountain, where I renamed two [????] my return to Concord I again met Emerson, [????] enthusiastic over "Leaves of Grass." "I [????e."] he said, "a letter to the author, congratu- [???] replied, "I read it." [*2116*] [????] when? Have you been to New-York?" [???ad] it in THE NEW-YORK TRIBUNE." NEW-YORK TRIBUNE? No, no! Impossible! [?] have published it!" he exclaimed, with much [?] I assured him that I had read it a few weeks [?hat] paper. [?] dear!" he muttered, "that was very wrong [?] indeed. That was merely a private letter of [???.] Had I intended it for publication I [??????iged] the but very much.--enlarged th [???????larged] the bid" twice and [???????][*From Sidney (New South Wales, Australia) Evening News- May 1876 by Robert D [Ada] Adams (see below)*] THE EVENING NEWS. Walt Whitman, the American Poet. Poetes nascitur non fit, if true as applied to the individual, ought on the same principle to be true as applied to peoples, and yet, as a matter of fact, there have been but two really great leading nations in poetry- Greece and Great Britain -and this is perhaps the more remarkable, because, beyond the likeness of both being islanders and born with freedom in their souls as an instinct, their general toue of thought and feeling, and modes of expressing them, were, and are, as dissimilar as could well be between two branches of the same distinctive race of men. But what is perhaps more remarkable, considering that [?] Anglo-Saxon, when turning colonist, not only [?ta]kes all his household gods with him into his "fresh fields and pastures new," but also his old stereotyped habits and manners, and, as one would naturally imagine, likewise his habit of thought and mode of expressing it, and that therefore, proportionally to the numbers comprised in his "exodus" to a strange land, would also spring forth in due season poet or poets, as freely in quantity and as great in quality as in the "old land," is the fact that the great Anglo-Saxon "Em- pire"- in all but name- of the United States has never yet produced one really great poet, although, living as its more energetic sons did, and still do, amidst a newer and far grander variety of wilderness of lake, plain, river, and forest scenery, than their forefathers of the old world did- the natural idea would be that the vastness and freshness of such "untamed nature" would have even educed a yet loftier strain of song, if possible, than their ancient sires of the past, and their old world brethren of the present sang or sing, and yet, instead of this, their highest and their best are barely above mediocrity, or certainly not more than equal to our second-rate English bards! We suppose, by their own valuation at least, that "Longfellow" is their best, and yet, when he is at his best, he is not purely American, either in scenery or thoughts, so that their "national poet" not only lacks the power of expression of his mightier European brethren, but his best writings are also deficient in mere "local colouring," and so much so that he might almost as well have written most of his works in New South Wales as in New York, as far as mere "tone" goes, only that in that case our Yankee cousins would not have been able to exclaim, like the great sartorial house of Moses and Sons "we keep our own poet on the premises!" Poietikos, the maker! What a distinctive and expressive name, and yet how few real "makers" are there in the world--plenty of copyists--plenty of mere rhymsters--plenty of authors (?) with a "fatal facility" for that "easy writing" which as the wit said, "was such curst hard reading"-- but of the real great ones who can boldly and truthfully say, "Alone I did it!" How few, how, for the sake of the whole world. lamentably few there be of them, whose heaven-born gift of seeing farther and clearer into the higher spiritual life, around and about us enables them to pierce the mystery and to seize the esoteric meaning of some great truth, and with utterances of genius. translate it into the everyday language of everyday life, and crystalize it as it were, imperishably for all time, to help light up through all the future the lives of the children of men, and show them, as it were, though even as "in a glass darkly" some faint unearthly radiance reflected from the far off, dim seen, lustrous splendours of eternity--some shadowy gleam of "The light that never was on land or sea, The poet's inspiration and his dream." Truth said the ancient is but of one face, yet hath many features; and so real poetry differs much in its utterance, flowing "sweet as the living waters of Pharpar and Abana," from the one source--mighty and fierce as the thunder falls of Niagara from the other or salt and bitter as the lonely lifeless wave of the Dead Sea of Sodom from a third--and yet all equally "true," and doing the work of truth sooner or later, for truth, like wisdom, is "justified of her children." 'Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?" Can a real poet come out of "dollar land?" Can Brother Jonathan prove that he has really "raised" a genuine live poet of his own breed and feed, "clear grit?" and in whose speech speaks unmistakeably the "voice of many waters," and in whose breath whispers clearly what the wild winds of the lonely desert, heard in the savage wilds of pathless mountains, and bore secretly and safely through boundless forests, and gave unchanged unto him, to be translated truly from its great mother (nature) tongue, by the mouth of her anointed priest for the teaching of all her children, and for the awakening of new thoughts in the dwellers of older continents and newer colonies. Whether America herself believes, or does not believe, that she has such a son in Walt Whitman, his English confreres, or at any rate very many of them, do believe that in him she does own one of the truest poets, no matter whether of large or small calibre, that has yet grown up within her borders, and that however she may elect to "leave him to his fate" with cold indifference as to his present fortunes, and doubt as to his future fame, yet they cordially recognize him as one of the "deathless band," and as having not only the right to food here but also to fame hereafter, and as there has been some little controversy about him lately on both sides the Atlantic, and as it is possible that none of his works may have fallen into the hands of some of our readers for them to judge either of his merits or demerits, we subjoin a few extracts as well from his own writings as also from what is said and written about him, both by the American and English Press--by statements in which latter it will be seen that whether he ever gains the distinction in the first line or not, he seems to stand a "bad" chance of realising the force and suffering from the ill effects of being driven to practise the second in the well-known couplet-- "Seven Grecian cities claimed great Homer dead, Through which, in vain, he living begged his bread." Let us, however, hope that the moderns will be both more quickly appreciative and actively charitable than the ancients were, and that bread will at least be found him during the remainder of his mortal life, even though fame may not be given to immortalize him after death. The apophthegm in physic, "when doctors differ who shall decide?" is also partly applicable to art and taste, and as everything new must have a beginning, the "new beginners" in new faith, or a new interpretation of art, generally meet with rather a "bad time" of it from the majority whose "faith" or "fancy" they seek to change or supplant, and as Walt Whitman is as "advanced" in some of his ideas about poetry, as Herr Wagner is in his about music, there has been nearly as great a controversy between his few admirers and his many detractors, as to whether his poetry is in any sense poetry at all, and whether it will "live" or not, as there was, and is, about the Herr's "music of the future" as being the possible supplanter, in time, of the melody of the present. Whether his own countrymen have less "taste" or more judgment, or whether it is on the principle "that a prophet is never honoured in his own country," one thing is certain, that he meets with much more admiration, and we suppose also, genuine appreciation from the British public and republic of letters, than he does from his own republic, and the citizens thereof, dwellers though they be in the same tents with him, and considering how anxious the Americans are to be thought the equals (at least) of the old world in all matters of asthetics, as well as superiors in enterprise and general intelligence, it is rather surprising that they do not at once accept the dictum of the literary few in England (whose opinion gives a sort of "mint stamp") that they really have a swan where they have hitherto seen only a goose, and (like a shrewd trader when he finds a customer sees a value in his goods more than he dreamt of) at once declare that not only is it a veritable swan, but moreover "a swan amongst swans," and proclaim at once, loud-tongued to the old world, that what the "unregenerate" in taste call "roughness" in him is really unhewn rugged strength, the marble block with the Apollo Belvidere strongly fashioned forth in it, but the smoother chiselling left contemptuously untouched, and the "obscurity of thought and expression" merely the mannerism of one "whose faith is large in time," and who, knowing his work will live, leaves the fuller interpretation of it, to the stronger and more advanced minds of the future. One of his own countrymen (a press correspondent) thus writes of him - The only American prophet to my knowledge who enjoys a fame in England not accorded him in his own country is the prophet of the new Democratic school of poetry, Walt Whitman. Although his earlier publications attracted here a certain degree of attention in literary circles, and aroused a great deal of enthusiasm among some of the "plain people." whose singer he especially desired to be called, it can hardly be said that his claims to the rank of poet were seriously considered in America until they had been discussed by Mr. W. M. Rosetti, Mr. Robert Buchanan, and other authorities in London. The dubious position which he won here by their help he has not been able to hold. To-day he probably has ten admirers and readers abroad for every one that he has at home. There is a rough honesty, a wild sort of sweetness in the strange man's character, an evident genuineness in his eccentricities, both personal and literary, which have won for him general respect and even a great deal of popular affection, while the estimate of his poetical powers, accepted a few years ago has been steadily declining. He is no longer one of the curiosities of the Republic; and while the stories of his extreme poverty and suffering which recently obtained circulation are, I am glad to say, untrue; he has fallen into obscurity, if not into positive neglect, and apparently into a mood of sorrow. The impression which one gathers from a few sheets of forthcoming volume is at any rate rather a melancholy one. He calls the new book "Two Rivulets," for it contains a stream of prose and a stream of verse: Two rivulets, side by side, Two blended, parallel strolling tides, Companions, travellers, gossiping as they journey; and he sends it out "partly as my contribution and outpouring to celebrate, in some sort, the feature of the time, the first Centennial of our New World Nationality, and then as chyle and nutriment to that moral indissoluble union, equally representing all, and the mother of many coming centennials." Nor is it only in the form of the pieces composing the book that he follows a double line. There are two distinct veins of thought - politics and immortality. The rivulets are rude, brawling streams no doubt, but they keep within much narrower bounds than the turbulent streams of his earlier poems. He has no respect for artificial barriers to poetic inspiration- "In my opinion the time has arrived to essentially break down the barriers of form between prose and poetry. I say the latter is henceforth to win and maintain its character regardless of rhyme, and the measurement-rules of iambic, spondee, dactyl, &c., and that even if rhyme and those measurements continue to furnish the medium for inferior rhymes and themes (especially for persiflage and the comic, as there seems henceforward, to the perfect taste, something inevitably comic in rhyme, merely in itself, and anyhow), the truest and greatest poetry (while subtly and necessarily always rhythmic, and distinguishable easily enough), can never again, in the English language, be expressed in arbitrary and rhyming meter, any more than the greatest eloquence, or the truest power and passion. . . . In my opinion, I say, while admitting that the venerable and the heavenly forms of chiming versification have in their time played great and fitting parts, that the pensive complaint, the ballads, wars, amours, legends of Europe, &c., have, many of them, been inimitably rendered in rhyming verse - that there have been very illustrious poets, whose shapes the mantle of such verse has beautifully and appropriately enveloped - and though the mangle has fallen, with perhaps added beauty, on some of our own age - it is notwithstanding, certain to me that the day of such conventional rhyme is ended. In America, at any rate, and as a medium of highest esthetic practical or spiritual expression, present or future, it palpably fails, and must fail to serve. The muse of the prairies, and the peaks of Colorado, dismissing the literary as well as the social etiquette of over-sea feudalism and castle, joyfully enlarging, adapting itself to comprehend the size of the whole people, with the free play, emotions, pride, passions, experiences, that belong to them, body and soul - to the general globe, and all its relations in astronomy, as the savans portray them to us - to the modern, the busy, nineteenth century (as grandly poetic as any, only different), with steamships, railroads, factories, electric telegraphs, cylinde presses - to the thought of the solidarity of nations, the brotherhood and sisterhood of the entire earth - to the dignity and heroism of the practical labour of farms, factories, foundries, workshops, mines, or on shipboard, or on lakes and rivers - resumes that other medium of expression, more flexible, more eligible - soars to the freer, vast, diviner heaven of prose." There is both force and truth in a good deal of what he then says - for even the poets of all schools admit that rhyme is merely the "colour to the drawing," and the blank verse is the experimentum crucis by which to try all real poetry - in fact, as our readers are aware, rhyme only came into use with the early troubadours, who doubtless found that in an age when "books were not," and their songs were "as household words," that the "jingle" at the end acted as a sort of mental fishhook, and so enabled them to be more easily remembered. The two oldest and grandest poems in the world, perhaps - the sacred one of "Job," and the secular one of the "Iliad," are in blank verse, or, to speak more correctly, in rhythmical prose, and to rhyme them is not only to ruin them, but is also, more or less, a desecration, even despite Pope's splendid attempt of the one, and because of the miserable "metrical failures" with the other. Also, Whitman is undoubtedly right in this, that inasmuch as "the proper study of mankind is man," so the present should interpret the present, and that there is scope in each age for a great poet to interpret the voice of that special age, and that the "wonders of steam and telegraphy" have as much claim on us, who have helped their Herculean birth, and are profiting by the labours of their giant man-hood, and have as much right to [*2118*] [*Review of "Walt Whitman" (by Robert Dudly Adams Sydney NSW) written for "Town & Country Journal" (& copied into Evening News)*] [*for / William Michael Russell Esq with writers compliments*]be "sung greatly of" by a great singer, as even the mighty men and things of the mighty past, which yet, after all (however “distance may lend enchantment to the view,” and however grandly they may loom out of the depths of the ancient ages, and seem magnified in the dim mists of antiquity,) were not mightier to the men of their day—nor cannot be really mightier to the men of this—than their own mighty present is, with its boundless material power in its thunder throbs of chained and harnessed lightning, and it’s spiritual strength in the awakening and widening thrills of higher thought and larger life which pulse profoundly through the great living heart of humanity, with holier purpose, a stronger will, and a more universal charity than the past year ever knew or dreamt of, which even the present yet scarcely foresees the outcome of, and which, perchance, the future will fully realise, into the brotherhood of all mankind, and the loving practice of “peace and goodwill on Earth unto all men!” “ Yes, my brethren, oh! be hopeful, for the storm precedes the shine, Thro’ the clouds of ignorance roll we—on to day-dawns more divine.” Whitman practices what he preaches by “ singing of steam “ in his “To a Locomotive in Winter,” thus— Thee for my recitative! The in the driving storm—even as now—the Winter-day declining: Thee in thy panoply, thy measured dual throbbing, and thy beat convulsive ; Thy black cylindric body, golden brass, and silvery steel ; Thy ponderous side-bars, parallel and connecting rods, gyrating, shutting at thy sides; Thy metrical, now swelling pant and roar—now tapering in the distance ; Thy great protruding head-light, fox’s in front ; Thy long, pale, floating vapor-pennants, tinged with delicate purple ; The dense and murky clouds out-belching from thy smoke- stack ; Thy knitted frame—thy springs and valves—the tremulous twinkle of thy wheels ; Thy train of cars behind, obedient, merrily-following. Through gale or calm, now swift now slack, yet steadily careering : Type of the modern ! Emblem of motion and power ! Piles of the continent ! For once, come serve the Muse, and merge in verse, even as here I see thee, With storm, and buffeting gusts of wind, and falling snow ! Law of thyself complete, thine own track firmly holding ; (Now sweetness debonair of tearful harp or glib piano thine) Thy trills of shrieks by rocks and hills return’d, Launch’d o’er the prairies wide—across the lakes, To the free skies, unpent, and glad, and strong. A very characteristic poem of his, though much es s “ extravagant,” is EIDOLONS. I met a Seer, Passing the hues and objects of the world. The fields of art and learning, pleasure, sense To glean Eidolons. Put in thy chants, said he, No more the puzzling hour, nor day—nor segments, parts, put in, But first before the rest, as light for all, and entrance-song of all, That of Eidloons. Ever the dim beginning ; Ever the growth, the rounding of the circle ; Ever the summit, and the merge at last (to surely start again), Eidolons ! Eidolons. Ever the mutable ! Ever materials, changing, crumbling , re-cohering, Ever the ateliers, the factories divine, Issuing Eidolons ! Lo ! I or you! Or woman, man, or State, known or unknown ; We seeming solid wealth, strength, beauty bnild, But really build Eido:ons. The ostent evanescence ; The substance of an artist’s mood, or savant’s studies long, Or warriors, martyr’s, hero’s toils, To fashion his Eidolon. Of every human life, The unite gather’s, posted—not a thought, emotion, deed, left out ;) The whole, or large or small, summ’d, added up, In its Eidolon. The old, old urge ; Based on the ancient pinnacles, lo ! newer, higher pinnacles ; From Science and the Modern. still impell’d, The old, old urge, Eidolons. The present, now and here, America’s busy, terming, intricate whirl. Of aggregate and segregate, for only thence releasing, To-day’s Eidolon. These, with the past, Of vanish’d lauds—of all the reigns of kings across the sea, Old conquerors, ok’d campaigns, old sailors’ voyages, Joining Eidolons. Densities, growth, facades, Strata of mountains, soils, rocks, giant trees, Far-born, far-dying, living long, to leave, Eidolons everlasting. Exaite, rapt, extatic, The visible but their womb of birth, Of orbic tendencies to shape, and shape, and shape, The mighty Earth-Eidolon. All space, all time (The stars, the terrible perturbations of the suns Swelling, collapsing, ending—serving their longer, shorter use), Fill’s with Eidolons only. The noiseless myriads ! The infinite oceans wLere the rivers empty ! The separate, countless free identities, like eyesight ; The true realities, Eidolons. Not this the World, Nor these the Universes—they the Universes, Purport and end—ever the permanent life of life, Eidolons, Eidolons. Beyond thy lectures, learn’d professor, Beyond thy telescope or spectroscope, observer keen— beyond all mathematics, Beyond the doctor’s surgery, anatomy—beyond the chemist with his chemistry, The entities of entities, Eidolons. Unfix’d, yet fix’s ; Ever shall be—ever have been, and are, Sweeping the present to the infinite future, Eldolons, Eidolons, Eidolons. The prophet and the bard, Shall yet maintain themselves—in higher stages yet, Shall mediate to the Modern, to Democracy—interpret yet to them, God, and Eidolons. And thee, My Soul ! Joys, ceaseless exercises, exhalations ! Thy yearning amply fed at last, prepared to meet Thy mates, Eidolons. The Body permanent, The Body lurking there within thy Body, The only purport of the Form thou art—the real I myself, An image, an Eidolon. Thy very songs, not the songs ; No speeial strains to sing - none for itself ; But from the whole resulting, rising at last and floating, A round, full orb’s Eidolon. In his habit a life he is represented to be ”a very Diogenes,” to whom a shady hedge is summer, and a sheltering but in winter is “room and “roof-tree,” of which, in the old songster’s words— “ Minds innocent and gentle make Of such an hermitage !” A man to whom “ bread and herbs, and contentment therewith,” is literally, as well as figuratively, a feast; but to whom unfortunately, it seems even such simple necessaries have become all but luxuries, and not always even within his reach, humble through they be ! -and therefore to Walt Whitman, the man who “ lives the life is in him” freely and fearlessly, even though its mean be poverty, and its end be want, the hear of each real man goes forth with instinctive fellowship, and more reality of sympathy than if he were crowned with laureate bays, and had sold his “tenth edition,” gilt-edged, and illustrated by Dore, by its hundreds of thousands! The correspondent from whom we quote, says of him:— Whitman gives his own portrait from life in the book —a large, bending gray-haired man, “looking at you”—and the picture is illustrated by the following verse— Out from behind this bending, rough-cut Mask, (All straighter, lighter Masks rejected—this preferr’d) This common curtain of the face, contained in me for me, in you for you, in each for each, (Tragedies, sorrows, laughter, tears—O heaven ! The passionate, teaming plays this curtain hid !) This glaze of God’s serenest, purest sky, This fim of Satan’s seething pit, This heart’s geography map—this limitless small continent— this soundless sea ; Out from the convolutions of this globe, This subtler astronomic orb than sun or moon—then Jupiter, Venus, Mars ; This condensation of the Universe—(nay, here the only Universe, Here the Idea—all in this mystic handful wrapt. ;) These bu[?]ln’d eyes, flashing to you, yo pass to future time, To launch and spin through space, revolving, sideling—from these to emanate, To You, who’re you are—a Look. And doubtless this is intended as a portrait also : WHEN THE FULL-GROWN POET CAME. When the full-grown Poet came, Out spake pleas'd Nature (the round, impassive Globe, with all its shows of day and night), saying. He is mine; But out spake, too, the Soul of Man, proud, jealous, and unreconciled, nay, he is mine alone;– Then the full-grown Poet stood between the two, and took each by the hand; And to-day and ever so stands, as blender, uniter, tightly holding hands, Which he will never release until he reconciles the two, And wholly and joyously blends them. I close my extracts from advance sheets of the book with two little pieces of a political character: THE BEAUTY OF THE SHIP. When, staunchly entering port, After long ventures, hauling up, worn and old, Batter'd by sea and wind, torn by many a fight, With the original sails all gone, replaced, or mended, I only saw at last, the beauty of the ship. SHIP OF DEMOCRACY. Sail—sail thy best, ship of Democracy ! Of value is thy frieght—‚tis not the present o[?]y, The Past is also stored in thee ! Thou holdest not the venture of thyself alone—not of the western continent alone ; Earth‘s resume entire float on thy keel, O ship—is steadied by thy spars : With all their anaient struggles, martyrs, heroes, epics, wars, thou haar‘st the other continentents ; Theirs, theirs, as much as thine, the destination-port triumphant : Steer, steer with good string hand and wary eye, O helms- man—thou carryest great companions, Venerable, priestly Asia sails this day with thee, And royal, feudal Europe sails with thee. We have not his “Leaves of Grass“ at hand from which to give extracts of his earlier style, but trust our readers will be able to form a tolerably fair judgment, both of himself and of his works, from the above fragments, in which there is most undoubtedly—despite roughness of style and involved phrases and misty meanings—both power and real originality of thought, in fact, some at least of both the gifts and attributes of the real “Maker.“ Whether he will “ live,“ time, which tries all things, must be the one proof of— but in any case he is neither a mere ready-rhymester nor a pleasing plagiarist, and in this age of shams ad shoddy, it is refreshing to come across a bit of real nature, even though rough and rugged, and to feel and believe that instead of the ordinary modern “ polished Pontius Pilate “ of literature asking “ what is truth ?“ with more scorn eve than pity in the sad enquiry, you are reading the beliefs of a man who believes he sees truth, and manfully believes in uttering it as he sees and hears it, and also believes he is an appointed uttered ! In conclusion, and as showing the sentiment of some of his admirers in England, we subjoin his brother poet, Robert Buchanan‘s, letter, with the sentiment and suggestion of which we heartily sympathies, and trust that it will not appeal in vain to all the liberal-handed and large-hearted of both Walt Whitman‘s countrymen and our own. :— THE POSITION OF WALT WHITMAN. TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY NEWS. SIR,—Simultaneously with your American Correspondent‘s article on the new poem by Walt Whitman there appears in the Athenaeum ( of yesterday ) a startling series of extracts from the West Jersey Press relative to the poet‘s own temporal and worldly condition. For full particulars of the truth I must refer the public to the pages of your contemporary. It is enough to explain here that Whitman, “ old, poor, and paralysed,“ is in absolute and miserable poverty ; that his “ repeated attempts to secure a small income by writing for the magazines during his illness have been utter failures “ ; that the publishers will not publish, the book-storekeepers will not keep for sale, his great experiments in poetry ; and, lastly—“ O rem ridiculam, Cato, et jocosam :“—all “the established American poets studiously ignore“ him, while he lies at Camden preparing, largely with his own handiwork, a small edition of his works in two volumes, which he now himself sells to keep the wolf from the door. This is neither the time nor the place to discuss in detail so solemn a matter as the claims of this discarded and insulted poet to literary immortality. If those claims are as true as I and many others in England deem them to be, God will justify his works to an early posterity ; but this is certainly the time, and your columns are possibly the place, for an expression of English indignation against the “orthodox American authors, publishers, and editors“ who greet such a man as the author of “ Leaves of Grass “ with “ determined denial, disgust, and scorn.“ One can understand the publishers, for American publishers have been justly described by Whitman himself as “ mostly sharks ;“ one can forgive the editors, for all men know of what pudding a typical Yankee editor‘s brains are made ; but as for the “ orthodox American authors “ and the “ established American poets “—orthodox perhaps in the sense of their affiliation to the Church of English literature, and “ established “ truly in their custom of picking the brains of British bards—there is but one word for them, and that may be lengthened into a parable. He who wander through the solitudes of far-off Uist or lonely Donegal may often behold the Golden Eagle sick to death, worn with age or famine, or with both, passing with weary waft of wing from promontory to promontory, from peak to peak, pursued by a crowd of prosperous rooks and crows, which fall screaming back whenever the noble bird turns his indignant head, and which follow frantically once more, hooting behind him, whenever he wends again upon his way. The rook is a “recognised“ bird ; the crow is perfectly “established.“ But for the Eagle, when he sails aloft in the splendour of his strength, who shall perfectly discern and measure his flight ? Perhaps, after all, the so-called "established poets" of America, despite their resemblance to the birds that blacken the fallows and stubbles of English literature, may claim to be at least as indigenous as the loon, the snow-bunting, and the whip-poor-will, birds well "recognized" even here in England and duly "established" in popular liking. For such denizens of the Bostonian pond or farm-rail to crouch down in disgust and scorn when the King of Birds passes overhead is no more than natural. It is less conceivable that that other eagle of American literature, aquiline of breed but born and degenerated in captivity, should see in silence the sufferings of his freer and sublimer brother, should utter no note of warning or sympathy, should seem to approve by tacit and implicit silence the neglect and scorn of the little New England songsters who peck about his cage. It was the voice of Emerson—a noble and a reverberatory voice then and now—which first proclaimed the name of Whitman to America, in words of homage such as not twice in one century is paid by one poet authenticated to another obscure. It is the voice of Emerson which should be heard again for the vindication of the honour of America, now likely to be tarnished eternally by the murder of its only remaining Prophet. It cannot be that a long captivity in the cage of respectability, and daily association with the choir of hedgerow warblers, has so weakened the heart of Emerson that he falters from his first faith, that he no longer recognizes the wild eagle his kinsman, because that kinsman's flight is afar off, and his wings, though old and feeble, are still free! There is in England no sincerer admirer of Emerson than the present writer, who awaits with anxiety the moment of explanation and justification. Meantime is Walt Whitman to die because America is too blind to understand him? or rather shall not we in England, who love and revere the Prophet of Democracy, pay our mite of interest on the debt which we accept, and which America is backward to disown? Speaking in the name of many admirers of Whitman, I unhesitatingly suggest such a course as will be at once a help and an honour to the "good gray Poet" --a help temporary and feeble it is true, but given for love's sake, reverently, to one far nobler than ourselves. We never bowed but to superior worth, Nor over failed in our allegiance ther: Strong as is the prejudice in some circles [eve?here] against Whitman--for alas! even England does not lack its "orthodox authors, publishers, and editors"--I believe there is scarcely one living English poet who will not rejoice to lend his aid in a cause so righteous, yet so forlorn. But for the general public--for that public which runs as it reads, and judges as it runs--it is necessary to explain that Whitman is not merely an author whose literary claims set authors by the ears; that he is something far nobler even than a great poet --a martyred man, perhaps the best and noblest now breathing on our planet, one to whom good men would almost kneel, if they knew his beneficence; one whose hand I, at least, would kiss reverently, in full token of my own unworthiness and infinite inferiority. He has acted as well as preached his gospel of universal love and charity; he has given away his substance to his poor brethren; and he has contracted his hopeless disease solely through his personal devotion to the sick and wounded in the late American war. "The pity of it, the pity of it, Iago!" Even those Americans who deny his poetic claims admit (with a smile) his ineffable goodness; but, alas! goodness is not a cemmodity in demand among "orthodox authors, publishers, and editors," nor is it strictly desiderated among "established" and money-making poets. Nevertheless, only his last consecration of Martyrdom was wanting to complete our poet's apotheosis. As Christ had His crown of thorns (I make the comparison in all reverence), and as Socrates had his hemlock cup, so Walt Whitman has his final glory and doom, even though it come miserably in the shape of literary outlawry and official persecution. Meantime, while the birds of the fallow are chirping and cramming, he leaves, as certainly at least as the second of these Divine sufferers, a living scripture to the world, which the world will read presently; which for every ten that know it now will count hereafter its tens of thousands: which will not be lost to humanity as long as poetry lives and the thoughts of men are free. What I have to suggest is simply this. I have already said that Whitman is preparing an edition of his works in two volumes. Now, let a committee be formed here in England, and a subscription instituted to collect subscriptions for the purchase, to begin with, of (say) some five hundred copies of the poet's complete works. This, calculating the price at 10s per copy, would require only some £250: and such a sum, which a prosperous writer may make with a few strokes of the pen, would be more than sufficient for the poet's temporary needs, while furnishing at the same time a substantial proof of the honour in which he is held here in the heart of England. If the five hundred copies could be extended to a thousand, or more, so much the better for the poet, so much the more honour to England, so much the more shame to the literary coteries which emasculate America. with regard to the copies of the works so published, I should suggest their grataitous, or partly gratuiteus, distribution on some such plan as that adopted and admirable carried out by the Sweden-borgian Society. To many a poor and struggling thinker such a gift would be as manna, such teaching as that of Whitman would be as Heavenly seed. I throw out the hing for what it is worth; but to save misconception, let me disclaim entire sympathy with Whitman's materialistic idealism, which seems to go too far in the direction of the execrable. One scripture, however, supplements another, and he is perhaps the wisest who harmonises them all. That the teaching of Whitman is destined to exercise an extraordinary influence on the future of religion as well as poetry, no one who has read his works will deny. Unfortunately the process [*2118A*]cess of perusal, which is usually supposed to be preliminary to literary judgment, is just the process which general readers and particular critics refuse to apply in this instance; and still more unfortunately, Whitman is the worst poet in the world to be judged by mere "dipping," or by any amount of extracts, however admirably chosen. I am, &c., ROBERT BUCHANAN. March 12. P. S.—Any communications on the subject of this letter may be addressed under care of Messrs. Strahan and Co., 33, Paternoster-row, who will, I am sure, as enlightened English publishers, further the object in view by all means in their power. R. B. [*2118e*] The Song of the Moon. CALM, cold, and white, in the still midnight, I shine down the ether deeps— "Whilst the silent skies, with their starry eyes," Watch man's world as it wandering sleeps. And I gently gaze, with my silvery rays, Till its misty and massive face Glows dimly bright, in the solemn night, Like a silvery cloud in space. And the dew's slow shower, on forest and flower, Sleeps silent beneath my beam, Till it tremulous wakes, as the night wind shakes The leaflets with diamond gleam. And the children of men rest peacefully then, For a space in their weary life— And tenderly smile, as they slumber awhile, Midst night's truce with their daily strife. The Pleiadic Seven—from Central Heaven, Rule the uttermost stars in their flight! But I rolled from my birth, round my Sovereign Earth, And watch whilst he slumbers thro' night. And follow the course of his gentler force, As he basks in the Sun's fierce rays, In his wandering sweep—through the ether deep, Like a pilgrim of endless days! And his wide sleepless sea, for wild love of me, And the smile of my wooing face— Heaves his measureless tides, round his vast orbed sides, With the rush of an Ocean's race. My vaporless orb can never absorb The warmth of the amorous sun, But pulseless and dead, rolls chill overhead, As a planet whose life is done! And my cold chaste fire wakes never desire, Like the languishing splendor of day— But all virginal white, I smile through the night With a pure and a passionless ray. Nought living may seek the precipice peak Of my solitude's mountain range— Nor the caverns vast, where my ancient past Sleeps, hidden from time and change! Nor the pitiless blaze of my semi-lune days, Nor the glimmerless gloom of my night, Nor my waterless track, where wide ruin and wrack Rule with drear desolation's might! Like a funeral pyre's fierce flickering fire, Dies down 'midst its grey ash cold— So the lightning blaze of my nebulous haze Died down, when my knell was toll'd, Midst the orbs of time, by the awful chime Of Eternity's solemn toll— Which knells the doom, from its unpierced gloom Of each planet star's worn-out soul! But changeless I keep my rhythmical sweep Round my bridegroom, and own his sway, And lovingly light his solemn midnight, When he flees from the god of day! And we watch together, the lightning weather, On the fathomless fires of the sun! And quivering quake, as his hurricanes shake His satellites, one by one! And thus for ever we roll, and never The link of our blended race— May sunder with doom—till through sundering gloom We gaze on Eternity's face! Glowing calm and clear, in the new born year, When the ages of time shall cease, And each wandering star, through all Heavens afar, Shine endless, in splendour and peace. Sydney, May 17. [*2118D.*] R. A. [*a (R D Adams Sydney NSW)*] WALT WHITMAN'S "Leaves of Grass" was relieved, by the acquittal of A. G. Heywood, in Boston last week, from a very serious danger to which it is disgraceful that a work of acknowledged eminence should be exposed in any country, least of all the author's. The prosecution against Heywood, who was foolish enough to go out of his way to put "Leaves of Grass" in danger, was seized upon to secure, if possible, some judicial deliverance which could be made the excuse for post office ruling excluding Walt Whitman's poems from the mails. The department peremptorily declined to exclude "Leaves of Grass" on its merits, for grounds which must commend themselves to every one not ready for police censorship of literature. The one hope of hampering its sale and troubling the declining years of an old man whose work has brought him all the fruits of literary success save money lay in getting some judicial decision against excerpts of his work. This has failed. [*April 15 – Phil Press '83 2117 *] SOME of the foreign art dealers and artists are disturbed by the tariff on works of art. There [*X*] The Republican. AUTHORS AND BOOKS. It was not reserved for Bret Harte to first sing the duel of the Bon Homme Richard and the Serápis, off Scarborough cliff. A stronger hand had seized the theme, as the reader will find by opening the "Leaves of Grass," and turning to the poem "Walt Whitman", from 35: 223 to 37. Whitman was probably about thirty when he wrote this marvelous identification of himself with man everywhere, in all conditions; his absolute assumption of the representative quality is as confident as if he were Prometheus, starting anew without any vultures in prospect. The sea-fight at Scarborough is an episode of the human epic which he shared, like the massacre of the 412 Texans at Goliad, or like a crowd on Broadway, or anything else human. Whitman makes a tremendous impression by the sheer impact of hurtling events, crowding the deadly fight without time for a mere lyric note. But he does not treat the "Have you struck"? of the Englishman, and the cool answer of Paul Jones, "No, we haven't begun to fight yet!" any better than Harte, who says,— "And as dumb we lay, till through Smoke and flame and bitter cry Hailed the Serápis: 'Have you Struck your colors?' Our reply 'We have not yet begun to fight!' went shouting to the sky." Certainly this is a dull setting for that gem of heroic nonchalance, but thus Whitman overlays it:— [*2119*] Our frigate takes fire; The other asks if we demand quarter? If our colors are struck, and the fighting is over? 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.'" This explanatory extension is worse than Harte's splitting the question in two, and letting the crew "shout the answer to the sky", when Paul Jones meant it for the British captain. The picture of the two hulks in the midnight after the fight is effective, and a singular realizing emotion is awakened by one simpleple touch,—the notice, amid the horrid sights fied sounds, of the [?]ells of sedge [?] sands by the sho[?] [?] Leo To[?] [*Sunderland (Eng) Weekly Times Nov. 17 '76 art by W Brockie? 2120*] TWO RIVULETS; including Democratic Vistas, Centennial Songs, and Passage to India. Author's Edition, Camden, New Jersey, 1876. This is a book which thousands will read with intense interest, and tens of thousands throw down in sheer disgust. The former will be such persons as can look beneath the surface, and discern true worth under the most uncouth garb; the latter those who are content to follow the fashion, and take their opinions of poets and philosophers, as they do of bodily costume, from others. Walt Whitman's poetry is like no other that ever was written—boldly conceived, bluntly expressed, purely American yet cosmopolitan— not in the least conventional—uncramped by regular metre—disdaining to be scanned by conceited pedagogues—semi-savage yet most humane—Cyclopean in form and effect. In the book before us, his peculiar powers are exhibited in all their innate force, and the prose part is quite as original and interesting as the poetical part. There is a strange fascination about the whole, to such as are susceptible of feelings unstamped with the seal and signature of admitted authority. All others will, as we have said, declare the writer a bore, but for that there is no help. The deficiency is in them, not in him.WILSON & McCORMICK'S NEW BOOKS. WALT WHITMAN'S NEW PROSE WORKS. Just Published, Post 8vo, Cloth. With Portrait. Price 10s. 6d. SPECIMEN DAYS AND COLLECT. By WALT WHITMAN Author of "Leaves of Grass." A full compendium of the Author's prose writings, old and new. Gives Whitman's early days on Long Island, and young manhood in New York City—Copious War and Army-Hospital Memoranda (I862-65), Convalescent out-door Notes in the Country (I876-8I)—Visits in Boston—Some Literary Criticisms—Carlyle from American points of view—Poetry To-Day in America—Prefaces to "Leaves of Grass," I855, I872, I876— Death of Abraham lincoln—Loafing in the Woods—The Women of the West—Jaunts over the great Plains, and along the St. Lawrence and Saguenay, etc. The "Collect" includes Democratic Vistas and all his political and critical writings. The volume contains a fine heliotype portrait of the "good gray poet." Just Published. New Edition. Foolscap 8vo, 2s. 6d. THOUGHTS IN THE CLOISTER AND THE CROWD. By Sir ARTHUR HELPS, K.C.B. Author of "Friends in Council." "For many years the book has been very scarce, and lovers of Sir Arthur Helps who wished to perfect their sets of his writings have in many instances been obliged to dispense with this one. They will be glad to learn that a new edition of it has this week been published by Messrs. Wilson & McCormick, of Saint Vincent Street, who have brought it out in a very attractive form."—North British Daily Mail. "In supplying the public with a new edition of 'Thoughts in the Cloister and the Crowd,' Messrs. Wilson & McCormick have done a distinct service to literature, and they have done it in a manner which leaves nothing to be desired."—Glasgow News. In March. Post 8vo, Cloth. Printed on Hand-made Paper. Price 7s. 6d. WAYSIDE SONGS WITH OTHER VERSE. By the Author of "Song Drifts." "Whoever the author of 'Song Drifts' may be, he has mastered some of the most vital secrets of poetic art. He possesses a rare command of rhythm and of musical expression, which would go a long way to commend his verse, even if it possessed no higher qualities. But in most of the tiny lyrics which make up this volume, there is also discernible a rich imaginative power, while, just as the theme is grave or gay, the lines are alive with cheerfulness or full of true and tender pathos. Where all is so good, quotation would be an invidious task; but we can cordially recommend 'Song Drifts' to all lovers of really good poetry."—Scotsman. GLASGOW: WILSON & McCORMICK, SAINT VINCENT STREET. [*2121*]Scrap BookThis Scrap Book is Important It is mostly made up of cuttings from the Newspapers [at] published at the time of Walt Whitman's death + funeral prepared by Thomas B. Harned one of his Literary Executors [2122]the fire, [wh] and the second issue very, became the [m] the two. How dishonorable [e] been a peace founded upon a [romise] of that issue. No we [mus] learn "God made us free, Between us and our Maker No cloud should gather [an] shade should fall; For He has [lled] us each [e] partaker Of the free table spread [f] [*c*] And when that [ques] was settled --when [ce] was [de] [en] victory came, [a] that did [th] [ory] decide? It [decid] that this [nment] was not a "rope of sand" [ation] with sovereign powers. [a] a citizen owes allegiance to [t] [ional] Government as he owes [ance] to his state. It decided that all men should be equal before the law, and that free government could successfully exist under no other circumstance. It bursts the bonds of the Carolinan slave and he became a freeman, entitled to full protection and the rights belonging to manhood. It regenerated our country and elevated the civilization of the age. [*2123*] And so men are universally recognizing the idea that the only stable government is that which absolutely secures perfect equality to its citizens. This, though emphatically true in this country, is also true in all countries. Inspired by the lessons and remembrances which this day calls to our minds, how firm and unalterable must our faith be in the future. No one who takes a broad and enlightened view of the situation can doubt the final consummation of this work of freedom. [N] can this great triumph in [govern] system be restricted to this [heresoever] men are [tions,] wheresoever [s] her beneficient manifest. Though problems to solve, a firmer founda- and going ons [f] its destiny. [get] that "peace renowned than [barism,] except [sity,] as a high the trial of when waged [?] [bly] terrible when it is [w] men of a common kindred now over a quarter of a cent [s] our fratricidal strife [wa] nd while we should never [ice] over the triumph of the at stake, yet let us [imbue] spirit of him who declared [lice] toward none and charity our common duty. We [ar] [n] kindred- a common [interest] a common destiny. Our flag is [fl] flag. The old line of [ba] leads led them into [misguid] [nct;] they accept the [is] [ure.] Is it not the [o] [s] arrive to unite our [e] homogeneous [nati] of secured [politic] inhabitant [thereo] [ate] any forgiven [ardice)] which [com] [ason;] yet, should we, honest, forgiving [ha] [ho] meet us upon the [rsal] freedom? It is [magnanimity,] wh [ntaneously] from the [s] hope to see the [obnsum] country's unification. I [e] that there lingers in the [ny] veteran, who buffeted [th] [d] struggles of our civil [stri] [ngs] of personal animosity [heir] former antagonists. [N] broad and forgiving [lig] of heaven let us rather be willing to shed a [r] over their graves, as well as [th] [aves] of our own dead, than to [r] a single thought of malace to [s] those it became our [rrib] [o] oppose. The blue and [r] asleep on the [sam] [e] same sky, the [p] [eath.] They are eath peace [a] [rn,] ["imag] [o-] found [s] a [symb] [hey] are [pas] [ls] it [expecti] [ury] forever our [?] [ards] those who have [nuch] heart aching? [eetest] words in our [age] is "charity," and [ppeals] to our common [ma] [e] mercy it "is twice [blesse] [h] him that gives and him that [rece] It is one of the noblest elements of our nature. It is a step toward Heaven. [*2123A*] Lifting the soul from the common sod To purer air and a broader view. And we should hail with especial delight this growing spirit of reconciliation. Nor is this incompatable with the duties of any American. "To err is human; to forgive divine." The past is safe--the present and the future are ours. The past--consecrated by the blood of these fallen braves leaves behind it lessons of experience and hope. We, [d] profit by those [less] [ill] they have [?] [gh] their earth sleeping in the [g] yet shall their [actio] [hearts] and lead us [onw] tending. The "All is near at hand. Let it because it promises [rength] and justice. [T] keeping the unity of the bond of peace. [F] of Civil War we have [?] and united, and now [?] forward perplexed [an] any problems with [whi] have been beset, but [g] foward to the [cons] [t] Republic in which ]a] [ng] for liberty shall [hav] [*B*] "As [so] lifts its awful [for] Swe'ls [tr] midway leaves the Though [e] rolling clouds are [s] Eternal [s] [ts] head." [*2123*] And [?] ing word to you, [m] nd Army of the [Re] to-day [performes] in its simplicit [ggestiveness.] [Ma] stone when you [ing] year to spread [ur] comrades with flowers, [mmortality.] Your minds, no [?] even now recurring to the [tim] [n] you and they ma[?]ched and [t] and bivouacked [ogether.] And dear, though sad, [t] are the memories which [mu] [rning] in your breasts when side [e] with you they met their [patriot] deaths. You shared with them the danger, and though the Angel of Death took them instead of you, it was perhaps because some should be left to keep green the memory of those who showed that they had not feared to die. But the dark thunderstorm is over; the heavens are blue. No more thundering cannon roars; and praying in ages past, and the American Republic was the culmination of those [?]. And was it to be [das] pieces? And were these [?] to be blasted? [Uncount] [et] sleeping in [uncrea] an interest in that [iss] [ections] of the past, [t] present and the [sol] [e,] we united to the one and in [divisib] [and] issue ['Free] the condition and with this [tw] we sent forth [c] and its [branc] [ght] of a [righte] [Wit] [ion] did the [m] [ded] for the [la] gentle [boson] [ood] of [mater] [p] from her to the field [scedert] loyal [o] willingly [d,] that he [?] [truggle] for [p] were the [etween] [frien] he last time [*2123 C*] "O [?] camping ground [T] they spread, While [?] with soemn round The [biv] of the dead." Where are they sleeping? Some few in [ou] [al] [cemeter] [re] you have been [day] to [spr] graves with [flow] but [th] but a handful [he] [numb] [se] last resting [pl] are [unkn] [alk] the long aisles Arlington [am] and Gettysburg and [behol] lowly couc [ot] lowly. [agnificent] [us] [ied] for hum battlefields [t] Bull Run. Pines, Chan [,] Richmond , Manasses [shes] of [th] [y] [Wilde] - it was their their [coun] No [tion] an easy [y] which contr though its [wo] we have all [re] [ot] burns the [cr] [ard] no more. [tent] is past. [d,] the breast [er] Earth has sapped up the red blood of the slain. Grim visaged war has smoothed her wrink front, and you heirs and survivors the unfinished work of the [futu] should consecrate yourselves to services of our country, for it [nee] you in times of peace [a] well as in times of war. And not only you, but all of us, should be filled with the inspiration of the day. "For borne on the wings of the past," to the end of the history, should the record of their deaths be inscribed on the tablet of a nation's grateful memory. [*2120C*] Take them, O Fartherland, Who dying conquered in thy name; And, with a grateful hand, Inscribe their deeds who took away thy blame-- Give, for their grandest all, thine insufficient fame. Take them, O God, our Brave. The glad fulfillers of thy dread decree; Who grasped the sword for Peace, and smote to save. And, dying here for Freedom, died for thee. [*2124*] WHTIMAN. [*Camden Post*] Viewed by Many Friends and Admirers in His Humble Camden Home. [*Unk 30/92*] HONORS TO THE DEAD. His Bier Rests on a Bed of Flowers. Among Them the Lilacs He So Dearly Loved. THE FUNERAL TRAIN. Reaching His Chosen Resting Place at Harleigh, Service is Held. Tributes from Wilson, Harned, Drs. Bucke and Brinton, and Col. Robert G. Ingersoll. To-day the mortal casket of an immortal [d] is invaulted in a quiet Camden cemetery. Although a simple singer of the songs of the people, to the self-dedicated Bard of Democracy regal honors were paid by those with rich mental endowments, and, more than this, while strong men were bowed with grief, gentle women and children wept. Said Mrs. Davis, his faithful housekeeper, "I cannot speak of him," sobs choking her utterance and preventing response. This of a great-souled but tender-hearted man who was spoken of in coarse ribaldry by a metropolitan sheet. Yet with all the show of genuine grief the sentiment of the more self-contained was that of relief, almost gratification that years of suffering never imagined or described so patient was the sufferer that sang his sweetest and strongest note while the death-wound rankled. Walt Whitman lay in state to-day in the little parlor of his humble cottage on Mickle street. All that was mortal of the "good, gray bard" rested peacefully in a handsome and massive casket of English quartered oak with oxydized trimmings. A silver plate on the lid bore the simple inscription, in old English text: "Walt Whitman," and the throngs gazed at the man and emaciated features of the sleeping sage through a covering of French plate glass.The interior lining was of corded silk and very fine. The cedar case which enclosed the casket at the vault in Harleigh bore a copper plate containing the following: "Walt Whitman. Born May 31, 1819. Died March 26, 1892." [*2124*] Undertaker Fithian Simmons prepared the dead poet's body for burial last night. No shroud nor sable suit of black enclosed the remains, but there he lay in the gray woolen garments which made him such a picturesque figure in his life time. The gloomy emblems of death were missing--only the streamer of crepe fluttering from the bell pull suggested a home of great mourning. The birds sang merrily in the trees and the bright morning sunshine lit up the little frame house with its mellow golden glow. THE TRIBUTES. Edmund Clarence Steadman's tribute was a large wreath of ivy with the following touching farewell. GOOD-BYE WALT! Good-bye you loved from all you loved of earth-- Rock, tree, dumb creature, man and woman,-- To you their comradeship 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 hilltop where your dust shall be, Even as we say good-bye. Good-bye, old Walt! Letters and telegrams of condolence have been pouring in from all parts of the world ever since the announcement of the poet's death. Mark Twain telegraphed from Europe to the head of his New York publishing house directing him to represent him at the obsequies. Word is expected from Tennyson to-day. Hamlin Garland, in a talk on American literature in the parlors of Mrs. Alberti, in New York yesterday, paid a tribute to the memory of Walt Whitman. "Crape on the door of the Camden residence, he declared, was sadly out of place because it was well known that to the unconventional singer death had no horror. Mr. Garland admired Whitman for being brave enough to break away from conventional rules of set verse. The lecturer said that the poet told him once that this was due to the fact that he wrote things on the spot where and whence he got the inspiration. He actually wrote in the midst of the scenes he sang of." Mickle street had not yet felt the warmth of the morning sun at nine o'clock, and the street was deserted save at the corner of Fourth, where a group of early arrivals discussed "Leaves of Grass." The shutters were bowed, the curtains drawn. Not a sound came from within the little frame house. A puff of wind blew up the street and stirred the streamer on the door. A silence like that of the grave pervaded the neighborhood. Around the corner and further up the street, other doors were blackened with crape, and it seemed as if death was holding high carnival in the immediate vicinity of the dead poet's home. The general public were admitted at quarter to eleven, and as an outside looker on remarked, they came flocking from everywhere. The casket lay in the back parlor literally covered with floral offerings, beneath the soft light of the chandelier. [2124A*] At the foot of the casket stood the poet's faithful attendant, Warry Fritzinger, while Dr. Bucke, Thomas B. Harned and William Ingram spoke in subdued whispers in the front parlor. Out in the dining room were Colonel George Whitman, the dead bard's brother, his wife, Mrs. Davis and Harry Fritzinger, whose infant boy is the poet's namesake. The baby was there too, sleeping sweetly in his mother's arms. Up to quarter past eleven it was estimated that over three hundred people of all classes and conditions passed around the oaken casket. "Oh, my! it just looks like him," remarked a richly dressed lady to her companion. The floral offerings were as follows: Wreath of blue and white roses from the Bolton, England, circle, (ordered by cable); wreath of ivy from Mrs. Fairchild, of Boston; wreath of white and pink roses from the letters V. N. P. E. I. O. R. E. from San Francisco, ordered by telegraph) Wreath of ivy and violets from Poet T. B. Aldrich, designed by James Delay, of 220 Roylston street, Boston. With a bunch of lillies of the valley was the following unsigned note: To Mrs. Mary Davis:--Will you please place somewhere on my dear friend's coffin these flowers? I believe he would like to have with him this tribute from a heart that loved him so dearly, and it would make me glad if you could do so. I thank you, and may God bless you for all your goodness and kindness to Mr. Whitman. It can never be forgotten by those who loved him. Even if they are faded please try to have them put somewhere, if possible at his feet, hidden under other flowers. Anywhere, I do not care that they should be seen." Mr. and Mrs. Watson Gilder sent two palm leaves and a bunch of laurel. John Watson Gilder, one star of violets. Miss Richard Watson Gilder, wild flowers and violets. With a bouquet of natural flowers, Folger McKinsey, of Frederick, Md., sent the following: DR. HORACE TRAUBEL: DEAR SIR--I have taken the liberty to address to you this little box of flowers for Walt Whitman's coffin. The fern sprigs of myrtle are from the grave of Franklin Scott in Mt. Olivet cemetery, in this city--the poet of American patriotism for the grave of the poet of American Democracy. The tribute is a modest one, but it comes from one of Mr. Whitman's "boys"--one who was a few years ago as close to him as anybody, and who holds very dear the memory of his friendship with the great hearted man. Please be kind enough to give the little bunch of flowers an humble place among the many richer and more elaborate tributes that will no doubt be seen. Professor Geoffrey Buckwalter sent a bunch of Easter lillies and this touching tribute: [*2124B*] "My deaer Trauble and Harned:--I was on the point of dropping Mr. W. a note last week partly in reply to his poem in April "Harper's Magazine.'" For a long time with all enfolding draft he has drawn breath for breath and I hoped with length of days he would gain in strength "and give Drs. the lie" and live another year. From my sick-bed I feel like stretching out my hand to him and telling him that while he had glimpses of the dark valley in the deliverance of sleepnessness, saw or dreamt I saw broad fields and meadows, and cattle blanketed with sunshine, standing body deep in the lush grass, while overhead floated the bobolink in a gush of song. I was asking about him on Saturday eve, and was startled to read on Sunday morn that he was dead. I had hoped to look upon his face today, to see many of his warm friends come as Mr. Burroughs, whom I have never met and some whom I know. I hoped to follow too, not mournfully, but triumphantly his body to the grave and to listen to the words that I believe will be wisely and fitly spoken, but I am forbidden to leave the house or leave my room. He goes to his long home, crowned with an invisible but with an immortal crown. His friends may rejoice he has lived so long and has been gathered home at last as a full stack of refined corn in the Fall. I am glad that amid acute bodily suffering, he died as he lived, peacefully, manfully and willingly. Death should claim his own as passionately as a bridegroom claims his bride, and we should follow death's call as joyously as a bride follows her bridegroom. "Alike are life and death-- When life in death survives, And the uninterrupted breath Inspires a thousand lives; Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace, Sleep, gentle spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward roll." At the foot of the casket rested a sheaf of wheat with a streamer bearing the words: "Our Friend," from I. D. Hylton. There was also two palm leaves tied by a purple ribbon, the gift of Undertaker Simmons. Nearly a thousand people gazed on the remains up to noon with the crowd growing larger and larger. Sloan Kennedy, the Boston journalist, and John Burroughs, of West Park, N. Y., arrived shortly after twelve and were cared for by Mr. Traubel. Curious crowds lined the sidewalks, and a photographer opposite took snap shots of the shifting scenes. Policman R. Miller, Cable and Whitesides, were on duty in front of the house, and their admirable management of the moving line, made everything pass off smoothly. Up to one o'clock 3,160 persons by actual count had passed through the house and looked upon the face of the dead poet. The funeral procession started from the house at 2.20. Colonel Ingersoll and wife arrived at the house shortly before the start. The road to the cemetery was packed with people wending their way toward Harleigh. The funeral procession reached there at 3.10. The services then commenced. They were held in a large tent at the foot of the Whitman tomb and it was packed to suffocation. Lieu't Foster and a squad of police were on duty at the entrance of the tent, at the opposite end of which was a platform surrounded by palms and ferns. [*2124C*] There was a scene of confusion when the cortege arrived and mourners, spectators and reporters were packed in a compact mass. The pole supporting the tent were draped with American flags and the casket rested on a catafalque at the foot of the platform Francis Howard Wilson opened the exercises with Scriptural readings. He was followed by Thomas B. Harned, who made the following address: ADDRESS OF THOMAS B. HARNED. We have come here to-day to entomb the body of Walt Whitman. We do not come in sadness. The great singer of death and immortality would have us utter only words of joy. We who have been the personal witnesses of his daily life have no right to be silent. In the presence of death it becomes our duty to give testimony to the consistency of his life. I am charged with the special duty to speak for this city in which he has lived for many years. He came to Camden in 1873, poor, paralyzed and sick. He had no thought then that his life would be prolonged. He had given his best years to the nursing of soldiers. No tongue can tell the extent of that ministry. With untiring fidelity he served his country. The history of the War presents no instance of nobler fulfilment of duty or sublimer sacrifice. The stalwart physique broke under the terrible strain, and this man came among us to spend his last days. For more than seventeen years he has been a familiar figure. During these long years of suffering, no one has ever heard him utter a word of complaint We know of his gentleness, his charity, his wisdom, his simplicity, his inspiring and cheery voice, his majestic and venerable figure, his strong and classic face, cast in an antique mould. We have seen him on our streets, or frequenting the ferry boats, or driving over the neighboring roads. His companions have been from every walk of life, more especially among the poor and humble. He has taken a personal interest in the welfare of mechanics, deck-hands, car-drivers and other sons of toil. He was the friend of children and they all loved him. Although persons of eminence in literary and public life paid him homage, he cared more for the companionship of the common people. How fitting it is at this supreme moment, to proclaim his magnificent courage. Every moment of his life tallied with the teachings of his books. He never bent the knee to wealth and power. His love of humanity was so broad that to him the ragged urchin was as dear as the learned scholar. He had a mission for mankind, and what he had to say he said with fearlessness and without apology. He never flinched under the most adverse censure; and when in his declining years he realized that he had been accepted and honored by the greatest men of his own time, his modesty was child-like and serene. Let the day bring health or sickness, pleasure or pain, gain or loss, praise or censure he ever journed "the even tenor of his way." A predominant trait of his character was gratitude, and it is because of his personal request to me, that I speak to-day to return his thanks to the people, especially of Camden, fortheir many acts of kindness, while he has been one of its humble citizen. "Don't forget," he said, to say, "Thanks, thanks, thanks." [*21240*] Year by year he grew feebler and his ability to walk lessened until at last he could not leave the house; but his ability to work, his serene faith, his joyous courage never faltered or lessened. His tenacity of purpose never weakened. No one could detect any intellectual sluggishness or the timidity of age. His keen insight and clear vision never failed him. I deem it my duty to mention two important facts: one, his POSTIVE BELIEF IN IMMORTALITY, and the other his FEARLESSNESS OF DEATH. With him immortality was not a hope, or a beautiful dream. He believed that he lived in an eternal universe, and that man was as indestructable as his Creator. His views of religion have been misunderstood. He was tolerant of the opinions of others, and recognized the good in all religious system. His philosophy was without the limitation of a creed, and included the best thought of every age and clime. This faith in the immortality of identity remained to the last, and he gladly welcomed death at the "Usherer, Guide at last to all." We who have visited him in his sicknness know of his utter fearlessness of death. He who sang the immortal death carol waited for "lovely and soothing death" with the serenity of a child. His life work is finished. The consecration is complete. We say we have known ; have any of us known him? Does not such a life baffle our understanding? Camden will be best known and honored because it has known and honored Walt Whitman. In this beautiful and fitting burial ground we place all of him that is mortal. Future generations will visit this shrine in their adoration of one of the world's immortals. After Mr. Harned had concluded, there were scriptural readings. Dr. Brinton then took the platform and paid a feeling tribute to the deceased. Then followed scriptural readings. Dr. Bucke, of Canada, the biographer of Whitman, then took the platform and delivered the following address. DR. BUCKE'S ADDRESS. MY FRIENDS:--This hour and place will be memorable forever, for here now we consign to its rest all that was mortal of a great man--a man who has graved a deep mark on his age and who will cut a yet deeper furrow across the face of the future. There is this difficulty in speaking about Walt Whitman. He was so great, he stood so apart from, so far above other men that when one who knew him attempts to depict him to those who did not, the reporter inevitably makes such claims as to cause him to be charged with extravagant exaggeration. Not only so, but on account of the greatness and especially of the universality of our friend, even those who lived close about him though conscious of remarkable qualities in the man, were almost never able to realize in any adequate degree the man himself. Over and above all ordinary greatness-- greatness of perception, of intellect, of will, of moral qualities, of spiritual exaltation and illumination, and of the power of keen and accurate expression, and all these greatnesses and many more he had--over and above all these he had in an eminent degree that crowning endowment-- faculty, quality, or whatever it may be called--the possession of which causes a man to be picked out from the rest and set apart as an object of affection. In his own vivid language: "He has the pass key of hearts, to him the response of the prying of hands on our knobs." [*2124E*] Our very presence here to day, many of us from distant states and provinces, testifies to the truth of what I say, but had our hearts and lives adequate voices many of them would tell far more emphatically of the place in them that has been taken by our dead friend. For he, though a stranger, has been to many of us closer than the closest--more than all the rest. You know all this as well as I. All that I have said or can say is an old story. You as well as I know the place he occupies in the eye of the world today and the place he is to occupy in the future. You as well as I feel the place he has occupied in our hearts and lives. The deep sense of loss is present with you as it is with me. And our grief to day is scarcely lessened by the knowledge that the work of our friend is done and well done, his rest well earned, and that though to our senses dead, yet in reality he more than ever before lives--and will live as long as the heart of humanity beats at the memory of the great deeds and heroic lives and deaths. That I am not overwhelmed and crushed either by our loss, or by the gravity and greatness of the occasion, that I can stand here and speak calmly of our great friend who is gone. "I so fallible So infinitely low before (his) mighty Majestic spirit. I so simple (He) so august," is cause of astonishment as it well may be to you. I am sustained by his strength far more than by my own. I have not known him, loved him and studied him a quarter of a century for nothing. His trust in the essential friendliness to man of the infinite universe; his calm and contented acceptance of all that is or that happens; his absolute assurance that he and all of us came well and shall go well; his conviction that death ("God's eternal, beautiful right hand,' as he named it) is not an evil but a good; in fine, his faith, intense, glowing, vital beyond the limits of any I have elsewhere known or read of have been to me the great solace of my life and are to-day my power and sufficient support. The old days in which his presence was so large a part of my life come back to me and live constantly before me enveloped in a haze of sadness (how could it be otherwise?) but I do not lament or repine--I am tranquil and resigned. Whatever others may think or say I (inspired and informed by the great soul which has just left us) have made up my mind that I shall not give in to this arrogant and masterful Time Spirit who desires to deceive and enslave us. I am not going for one instant to admit that Time, Death or any other power or influence can take from us what we have once had. The good days of the past live yet and will always live in the equally good days of the present and future. They do not die, they have not died, they are absorbed, transmuted, grow, are never lost. This universe is not the hollow nut shell containing the rotten kernel that so many would make it. It is vital and infinite. ("In vain I try to think how infinite.") Infinite not in one way, or two ways but in an infinite number of ways. What! the universe not capable of satisfying our needs? On the contrary, we are capable of feeling but a fraction of the wants that it is able to satisfy. In this faith, learned from the friend whom we now mourn, I rest satisfied and at ease. [*2124F*] And if, dear friend, we now place in the tomb your body that is after all a small matter, we do not entomb you nor bid you farewell. You will be with us as much as ever and more than ever. You will be to us as much as ever you were and we can love you and serve you as well now as if you were still what is called living. You are in fact, and more than ever living; as you have said: "The best of me then when no longer visible, for towards that I have been incessantly preparing" "That God shall take thee to his breast dear spirit Unto his breast be sure; and here on earth Shall splendor sit upon they name for ever." You were no common man when you lived with us here on earth and to-day you are no common spirit as you stand amid the innumerable host before the throne of God. In your own right you took rank here below as a supreme creative workman, in your own right to-day you take tank among the supreme creative gods. There in the highest regions of the ideal for the countless ages, your work will go on moulding into higher and yet more noble forms the spirit of man. Your life for me lit up the past with an auroral splendor, and upon the world's future you will shine a glorious sun, but the present is darkened by the sombre shades of your setting. But our last word to you must not be a mournful one whatever pain we may feel. Let it rather be a cry of exultation that you were given to the world and that we have known you and know you. That it has been my good fortune to know both yourself and your teaching fills me even this day with an unbounded sense of triumph; and I rejoice to think and believe that there are others who know you and whose record shall help to carry on that knowledge to future generations. All that is best in me I owe to you, and as long as I live I shall honor, thank and serve you. "And though no glance reveal thou doest accept "My homage--thus no less, I proffer it "And then enter gloriously thy rest." Then there was more Scriptural reading and Colonel Robert J. Ingersoll, in an impressive and eloquent manner, delivered the following address: ROBERT J. INGERSOLL'S SPEECH 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--is dead before us. And we have met to pay a tribute to his greatness and to his worth. I know that he needs no words of mine. His face is secure. He laid the foundations of it deep in the human heart. He was, above all that I have known, the Poet of Humanity, of Sympathy. Great he was--so great that he rose above the greatest that he met without arroagance; and so great that he stooped to the lowest without conscious condescension. He never claimed to be lower or greater than any other of the sons of men. He came into our generation a free, untrammelled 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. Speaking of an outcast--and the line is great enough to do honor to the greatest genius that has ever lived--he said; "Not until the sun excludes you will I exclude you." [*2124G*] A charity 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 this 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 that timid pilots hug the shore with, and giving himself freely, with the recklessness of genius, to winds and waves and tides--caring for nothing as long as the stars were above him. And he walked among men, among writers, among verbal varnishers and veneerers, among literary milliners and tailors with the unconscious dignity of an antique god. He was the poet, also, of that divine democracy that 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 the real demeocracy or real justice. He neither scorned nor cringed--was neither tyrant nor slave. He asked only to stand beneath the great flag of nature, the blue and the stars. He was the Poet of life. It was a joy to him 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 wind and waves burst into the white caps of joy. He loved the fields, the hills. He was acquainted with trees, with birds, with all the beautiful objects on the earth. And he saw not only those objects but understood their meaning. And he used them that he might exhibit his heart to his fellow men. He was also the Poet of Love. He was not ashamed of that divine passion that has built every home in the world--that divine passion that has painted every picture and given us every real great work of art, that divine passion that has made the world worth living in and gives 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 Love--not only the poet of democracy--not only the poet of the great republic--he was the poet of the human race everywhere. 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 his hand and he 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, and 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 of Art, rises the true man--greater than all. He was a true man. And he walked amongst his fellow men as such. He was also, as has been said, the poet of death. He accepted all--Lif and Death. And he justified all. H had the courage to meet all, and was great enough and splendid enough to harmonize all and to accept all there is of life as a divine melody. *2124 H* You know better than I what his life has been. But let me say one thing. Knowing, as he did, what others can know and what they cannot, he accepted and absorbed all theories, all creeds, all religions, and believe in none. His philosophy was a sky that emcraced 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 absorbed all. And he was above all. He was true absolutely to himself. He had frankness, 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 for years and years he was maligned and slandered simply because he had the candor of nature. He will be undrstood yet, and that for which he was condemned--that is, his frankness, his candor--will add to the glory and the greatness of his fame. He wrote a liturgy for humanity. 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--the gospel of humanity-- He was not afraid to live; not afraid to speak his thought. Neither was he afraid to die. For many years he and Death lived near neighbors. He was always willing and ready to meet and greet this thing called Death. And for many months he sat in the deepening twilight waiting for the night--waiting for the light. 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--cheerful every moment, the laughing nymphs of day did not desert him. They remained that they might clasp the hand of the veiled and silent sisters of the night when they should come. And when they did come Walt Whitman stretched his hands to both--one on one side the nymphs of day, 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 those 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--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 to-day 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 he has said on the subject of Death. Since he has lived Death is less fearful than He was before, and 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 wreath upon this great man's tomb. I loved him living and I love him still. The special train which left Federal street depot at 2.20 p.m. went out packed. *2124 I* Among those noticed in the tent besides the speakers were: Thomas Donaldson, Lincoln L. Eyre, ex-Senator Cattell, Moncure D. Conway, Dr. McAllister, Revs. Hahn and Stanger, Harrison Morris, John Burroughs, Tax Receiver Husted, Henry Walsh, editor of "Lippincott's Magazine;" Sloan Kennedy, of Boston; J. H. Johnson, of New York; William Ingram and Benjamin Shreve. Mayor Westcott gazed at the dead poet shortly before the cortege started for the cemetery. *2124 J* [?]M.4. ESSAYS ON WHITMAN. [*Dec 31/93*] A VOLUME BY HIS LITERARY EXECUTORS. IN RE WALT WHITMAN. Edited by his Literary Executors, Horace L. Traubel, Richard Maurice Bucke, Thomas B. Harned. Pp. x, 452. Published by the Editors through David McKay. Philadelphia. Walt Whitman was the self-chosen representative of what may be called the era of the Slouch Hat in American life and literature. The time was one when the citizens of the greatest Republic that the sun ever shone on were more thoroughly assured of their mission in the world than they have ever been since. Take them altogether--that is, without counting a few earnest and noteworthy exceptions--they were rashly sanguine as to the social and political future of the country which they had inherited. Their feeling was that of buoyant youth. They had nothing to learn and almost everything to teach. Yet that ancient civilization across the Atlantic Ocean had forgotten more than its vigorous and rebellious offspring ever knew. In the matter of youthful, unsophisticated arrogance, however, Americans before the Rebellion merely shared the spirit of the early nineteenth century. Intoxicated by the novelty and immensity of the changes in natural and mechanical sciences, the whole world seemed to be convinced for a time that progress had been a word unknown to past ages. It has recovered its equilibrium since those days, and, retracing its own history, has observed that every century has its own purpose in the forward movement of the race. The people of the nineteenth century were simply exulting over other people who were dead and unable to reply, but who will be avenged by future generations. As for America, it received, before its first century of Independence was completed, a lesson more severe, let us hope, than it will ever need again. The era of the Slouch Hat ended in the Civil War. The Nation discovered in its turn what older nations knew by experience--that it must prove its right to exist. The world was extremely dubious about the Federal bond. No such union, even when it embraced only a small territory, had held in the past. The effort to show that these doubts were needless brought American civilization out of its period of boastful adolescence with startling suddenness. "Spread-eagleism" became an almost obsolete dialect. In maturity of thought, which grief and conflict and anxiety produced, men no longer cherished boundless hopes. It was going to take longer to reconstruct the world on the basis of democracy than had been supposed. Worse than all, the very perfection of mechanism, which was the pride of the century and of the Nation, helped to crowd the domain once looked upon as practically infinite. Like a certain famous old cobbler, people in the United States began to think that their elbow-room was restricted, and Walt Whitman himself lived long enough to see that the question of immigration had become important. *2125* The value of what American liberty has done and can do for the world is not minimized by looking the facts of history in the face. Nor is the genius of Walt Whitman discredited when he is pointed out as a symbol of a state of things which can never again exist. A very large claim is made in the work cited at the head of this article and elsewhere for Whitman as a philosopher. But his untempered optimism has been antedated by the very science of which Dr. R. M. Bucke declares him to have been a precursor. The author of "Leaves of Grass" saw only the pleasant side of evolution. His cheerfulness is not shared by men like Professor Huxley, who know that it has an unpleasant side. In fact, such optimism as Whitman's is a definite proof of immaturity of thought and experience. It is consistent only with the youth of an individual or of a nation. As the perfect health of childhood is succeeded by a gradually decreasing vitality, so the sanguine philosophy which admits no defects in felicity is replaced by a scheme of thought that at its worst comprehends nothing but defects, and at its worst comprehends nothing but defects, and at its best rarely flatters the universe. As the experience of humanity in America becomes more and more practical and severe, Walt Whitman's writings, instead of gaining influence as inspired and prophetic, may be studied only for the sake of reminiscence. People will perhaps say to themselves as they con his disjointed utterances, "What an unreal world he must have inhabited!" Yet his world was very real while it lasted. It has vanished, leaving hardly a wrack behind. But the fact that he thus represented one epoch of National life in the midst of another is significant. It would be useless to compare Whitman here with the great poets of the world. Those who do not admire him would be shocked, as they have been before by what they would deem little less than insanity. While those who do admire him exalt him beyond comparison. But he is like many of the great poets in this, that he stood on the boundary between two diverging forms of civilization. His whole claim to perpetuity of renown will depend on the truthfulness of the picture which he set forth of that vanished age for which he spoke. As to his prophetic insight, let the next century decide. There are three articles of Whitman's own composition included in this volume, which may be cited with absolute certainty a thousand years hence as fixing his date within the period of American National Immaturity and boastfulness. They are pieces written by him anonymously in defence of his acknowledged works. In accordance with a characteristic American proverb, to the effect that whoso bloweth not his own shall never hear the sound thereof, he undertook to push "Leaves of Grass" into notice with language like this: Self-reliant, with haughty eyes, assuming to himself all the attributes of his country, steps Walt Whitman into literature, talking like a man unaware that there was ever hitherto such a production as a book, or such a being as a writer. Every move of him has the free play of the muscle of one who never knew what it was to feel that he stood in the presence of a superior. Every word that falls from his mouth shows silent disdain and defiance of old theories and forms. Every phrase announces new laws; not once do his lips unclose except in conformity with them. . . . Very devilish to some and very divine to some, will appear the poet of these new poems, an attempt as they are of a naive masculine, affectionate, contemplative, sensual, imperious person, to cast into literature not only his own grit and arrogance, but his own flesh and form, undraped, regardless of models, regardless of modesty or law, and ignorant or silently scornful, as at first appears, of all except his own presence and experience, and all outside the fiercely loved land of his birth. . . . Critics and lovers and readers of poetry as hitherto written may well be excused the chilly and unpleasant shudders which will assuredly run through them to their very blood and bones when they first read Walt Whitman's poems. As anonymously published and credited to a hand not the author's own, these words sound otherwise than they do when known to be his own self laudation. In acknowledging the authorship of these essays the editors of this volume have perhaps defined more clearly than they meant to do the limitations of their hero. But such devices were quite possible in the days of American brag. That they will be adopted in future to begin a truly great career is doubtful. Aside from the effrontery of this self-praise, it is worthy of note that Whitman said at the outset in substance all that is contained in the critical writing of his admirers and defenders. This volume is an adequate witness on this point. The essays of Gabriel Sarrazin, of Anne Gilchrist, of Karl Knortz, of Rudolf Schmidt, of T. W. Rolleston and of John Burroughs