No More Learning

On one side it was insisted
that as Holy Scripture declares that Lot's wife was changed into
a pillar of salt, and as she was necessarily made up of a soul
and a body, the soul must have become part of the statue. This
argument was clinched by citing that passage in the Book of
Wisdom in which the salt pillar is declared to be still standing
as “the monument of an unbelieving soul. ” On the other hand,
it was insisted that the soul of the woman must have been incor-
poreal and immortal, and hence could not have been changed into
a substance corporeal and mortal. Naturally, to this it would
be answered that the salt pillar was no more corporeal than the
ordinary materials of the human body, and that it had been made
miraculously immortal, and with God all things are possible. ”
Thus were opened long vistas of theological discussion.
As we enter the sixteenth century, the Dead Sea myths, and
especially the legends of Lot's wife, are still growing.
Father Anselm of the Minorites declares that the sea sometimes
covers the feet of the statue, sometimes the legs, sometimes the
whole body.
In 1555, Gabriel Giraudet, priest at Puy, journeyed through
Palestine. His faith was robust, and his attitude toward the
myths of the Dead Sea is seen by his declaration that its waters
are so foul that one can smell them at a distance of three leagues;
that straw, hay, or feathers thrown into them will sink, but that
iron and other metals will float; that criminals have been kept in
them three or four days and could not drown. As to Lot's wife,
he says that he found her “ lying there, her back toward heaven,
converted into salt stone; for I touched her, and put a piece of
her into my mouth, and she tasted salt. ”
At the centre of these legends we see, then, the idea that
though there were no living beasts in the Dead Sea, the people
of the overwhelmed cities were still living beneath its waters,
probably in hell; that there was life in the salt statue, and that
it was still curious regarding its old neighbors.
In 1507


## p. 15867 (#199) ##########################################

15867
GILBERT WHITE
(1720-1793)
T
CHE Natural History of Selborne,' written by Gilbert White,
an English clergyman of the eighteenth century, belongs
to literature rather than to science, because of its poetical
spirit of intimacy with the living world, making knowledge as much
the fruit of intuition as of intellectual research. Like Thoreau's
works, it springs from the heart of its author; lacking all the sever-
ity of a scientific treatise, warm instead with the humanity that feels
itself close to all happy living things.
White of Selborne was, however, a naturalist of no mean rank;
although his field of research was limited, including only the parishes
in the South of England to which he ministered, and of which Sel-
borne furnished him the greater part of the material for his famous
book. In a letter to Thomas Pennant, he thus describes the geogra-
phy of this parish, every inch of whose ground he knew and loved :-
The parish of Selborne lies in the extreme eastern corner of the county
of Hampshire, bordering on the county of Sussex, and not far from the county
of Surrey; it is about fifty miles southwest of London, in latitude 51°, and
near midway between the towns of Alton and Petersfield. Being very large
and extensive, it abuts on twelve parishes, two of which are in Sussex,- viz. ,
Trotton and Rogate. If you begin from the south, and proceed westward, the
adjacent parishes are Emshot, Newton Valence, Faringdon, Harteley-Mandent,
Great Wardlebam, Kingsley, Hedleigh, Bramshot, Trotton, Rogate, Lysse, and
Greatham. The soils of this district are almost as various and diversified as
the views and aspects. The high part to the southwest consists of a vast bill
of chalk, rising three hundred feet above the village; and is divided into a
sheep-down, the high wood, and a long hanging wood called the Hanger. The
covert of this eminence is altogether beech; the most lovely of all forest trees,
whether we consider its smooth rind or bark, its glossy foliage, or graceful
pendulous boughs. The down or sheep-walk is a pleasant park-like spot of
about one mile by half that space, jutting out on the verge of the hill country,
where it begins to break down into the plains, and commanding a very enga-
ging view; being an assemblage of hill, dale, woodlands, heath, and water. )
In this parish of Selborne, Gilbert White was born in 1720; was
educated at Basingstoke, under Warton the father of the poet, and at
Oriel College, Oxford, where he obtained a fellowship in 1744. He
removed to a country curacy in 1753, but returned to Selborne again
In 1758 he obtained a sinecure living from his college;
in 1755.


## p. 15868 (#200) ##########################################

15868
GILBERT WHITE
1
----
became curate of Faringdon, remaining there until 1784; when he
again assumed the charge of Selborne Church, and ministered there
until his death in 1793.
From his youth he had shown the strongest love for natural his-
tory,- a passion shared by his brothers: one of whom, Benjamin,
retired from trade to devote himself to natural and physical science,
and besides contributing papers to the Royal Society, became a pub-
lisher of works of natural history; another brother, John, vicar of
Gibraltar, wrote a natural history of the rock and its neighborhood.
Their fame, however, is overshadowed by that of the author of the
Natural History of Selborne. The scientific value of this book is
not inconsiderable. It is a storehouse of the knowledge patiently
acquired by a man who was watchful of each phenomenon of nature;
whose methods of gaining information were essentially modern, be-
cause they aimed at complete accuracy attained by personal research.
But the charm of this record, not only of days but of hours in Sel-
borne, lies not in its merits as a circumstantial history of the natural
phenomena of an English parish, but in its spirit of loving intimacy
with the out-of-door world. The book is fragrant with the wandering
airs of the fields and woods. Each chapter is a ramble in rural Eng-
land. It is a home-like work, because it tells of things that keen
eyes might see from the cottage window, or perhaps no farther than
the garden dial, or the graves in the ancient church-yard. White
noted many curious things of birds and field-mice, of bats and frogs
and insects, on his strolls through the village lanes. His humble
neighbors must have caught some of his enthusiasm for natural
knowledge; for mention is often made of their bringing to him curi-
ous scraps of information, the results of their observations in his
behalf.
“A shepherd saw, as he thought, some white larks on a down
above my house this winter: were not these the Emberiza nivalis, the
snowflake of the Brit. Zool. ? No doubt they were. ”
“As a neighbor was lately plowing in a dry chalky field, far re-
moved from any water, he turned out a water-rat, that was curiously
laid up in an hybernaculum artificially formed of grass and leaves.
At one end of the burrow lay about a gallon of potatoes, regularly
stowed, on which it was to have supported itself for the winter. ”
It was upon the birds of his district that the attention of White
seems to have been chiefly centred. He knew the times of their
appearance in spring and summer so accurately, that he is able to
make out chronological lists which tell the day and almost the hour
of their coming. He heads the list of the summer birds of pass-
age with the wryneck, which comes in the middle of March, and
has a harsh note; with the smallest willow wren, which appears on
the 23d of the same month, and “chirps till September”; some have
1
1


## p. 15869 (#201) ##########################################

GILBERT WHITE
15869
names.
(C
a sweet wild note,” some «a sweet plaintive note); last of all is
the fly-catcher, who arrives on May 12th, and is a very mute bird. ”
He also makes a list of those birds who continue in full song until
after midsummer, and of those who have ceased to sing before mid-
summer. To these he gives their Latin as well as their English
His quaint scholarship shows itself in scattered Latin quota-
tions bearing upon his subject; sometimes in happy lines from the
old English poets; sometimes in a verse from the Bible, as when he
uses the words of Job, in speaking of the cuckoo's cruelty to its
young: -
“She is hardened against her young ones, as though they were
not hers:
« Because God hath deprived her of wisdom, neither hath he im-
parted to her understanding. "
The Natural History of Selborne) is chiefly embodied in White's
letters to Thomas Pennant. He corresponded also with Barrington,
with Lightfoot, with Sir Joseph Banks, and other noted naturalists.
The style of the book is simple, scholarly, and not without a homely
beauty of its own. One of the most restful figures in the restless
and artificial eighteenth century is this of Gilbert White: living his
serene life near to the heart of nature, writing of what he saw to
sympathetic friends, accumulating for himself a long and quiet fame.
His grave is in Selborne church-yard, amid the scenes with which he
was associated in so loving an intimacy.
HABITS OF THE TORTOISE
Letter to Hon. Daines Barrington: from "The Natural History of Selborne)
T"
he old Sussex tortoise that I have mentioned to you so often
is become my property. I dug it out of its winter dor-
mitory in March last, when it was enough awakened to
express its resentments by hissing; and packing it in a box with
earth, carried it eighty miles in post-chaises. The rattle and
hurry of the journey so perfectly roused it, that when I turned
it out on a border, it walked twice down to the bottom of my
garden; however, in the evening, the weather being cold, it bur-
ied itself in the loose mold, and continues still concealed.
As it will be under my eye, I shall now have an opportunity
of enlarging my observations on its mode of life and propensi-
ties: and perceive already that towards the time of coming forth,
it opens a breathing-place in the ground near its head; requiring,


## p. 15870 (#202) ##########################################

15870
GILBERT WHITE
I conclude, a freer respiration as it becomes more alive. This
creature not only goes under the earth from the middle of No-
vember to the middle of April, but sleeps great part of summer;
for it goes to bed in the longest days at four in the afternoon,
and often does not stir in the morning till late. Besides, it re-
tires to rest for every shower, and does not move at all on wet
days. When one reflects on the state of this strange being, it is
a matter of wonder to find that Providence should bestow such a
profusion of days, such a seeming waste of longevity, on a reptile
that appears to relish it so little as to squander more than two-
thirds of its existence in a joyless stupor, and to be lost to all
sensation for months together in the profoundest of slumbers.
When I was writing this letter, a moist and warm afternoon,
with the thermometer at fifty, brought forth troops of shell-snails,
and at the same juncture the tortoise heaved up the mold and
put out his head: and the next morning came forth, as if raised
from the dead; and walked about until four in the afternoon.
This was a curious coincidence a very amusing occurrence! — to
see such a similarity of feelings between the two qe peoíxot: for so
the Greeks call both the shell-snail and the tortoise.
Because we call “the old family tortoise” an abject reptile, we
are too apt to undervalue his abilities, and depreciate his powers
of instinct. Yet he is, as Mr. Pope says of his lord, -
1
«
much too wise to walk into a well ;)
(
»
and has so much discernment as not to fall down a ha-ha: but
to stop and withdraw from the brink with the readiest precau-
tion.
Though he loves warm weather, he avoids the hot sun; be-
cause his thick shell when once heated would, as the poet says
of solid armor, "scald with safety. ” He therefore spends the
more sultry hours under the umbrella of a large cabbage-leaf, or
amidst the waving forests of an asparagus-bed.
But as he avoids heat in the summer, so in the decline of the
year he improves the faint autumnal beams by getting within
the reflection of a fruit-wall; and though he never has read that
planes inclining to the horizon receive a greater share of warmth,
he inclines his shell, by tilting it against the wall, to collect and
admit every feeble ray.
Pitiable seems the condition of this poor embarrassed reptile:
to be cased in a suit of ponderous armor which he cannot lay


## p. 15871 (#203) ##########################################

GILBERT WHITE
15871
aside,-to be imprisoned, as it were, within his own shell,-
must preclude, we should suppose, all activity and disposition for
enterprise. Yet there is a season of the year (usually the begin-
ning of June) when his exertions are remarkable. He then walks
on tiptoe, and is stirring by five in the morning, and traversing
the garden, examines every wicket and interstice in the fences,
through which he will escape if possible; and often has eluded
the care of the gardener, and wandered to some distant field.
THE HOUSE-SWALLOW
Letter to the Hon. Daines Barrington: from «The Natural History of Selborne)
T"
as
HE house-swallow, or chimney-swallow, is undoubtedly the first
comer of all the British hirundines, and appears in gen-
eral on or about the 13th of April, as I have remarked from
many years' observation. Not but now and then a straggler
is seen much earlier: and in particular, when I was a boy I
observed a swallow for a whole day together on a sunny warm
Shrove Tuesday; which day could not fall out later than the
middle of March, and often happened early in February.
It is worth remarking that these birds are seen first about
lakes and mill-ponds; and it is also very particular, that if these
early visitors happen to find frost and snow, was the case
in the two dreadful springs of 1770 and 1771, they immediately
withdraw for a time. A circumstance this, much more in favor
of hiding than migration; since it is much more probable that a
bird should retire to its hybernaculum just at hand, than return
for a week or two to warmer latitudes.
The swallow, though called the chimney-swallow, by no means
builds altogether in chimneys, but often within barns and out-
houses against the rafters; and so she did in Virgil's time:-
"Garrula quam tignis nidos suspendat hirundo” (The twittering
swallow hangs its nest from the beams).
In Sweden she builds in barns, and is called Ladu swala, the
barn-swallow. Besides, in the warmer parts of Europe, there are
no chimneys to houses, except they are English built: in these
countries she constructs her nest in porches, and gateways, and
galleries, and open halls.
Here and there a bird may affect some odd peculiar place;
as we have known a swallow build down a shaft of an old well


## p. 15872 (#204) ##########################################

15872
GILBERT WHITE
through which chalk had been formerly drawn up for the pur-
pose of manure: but in general with us this hirundo breeds in
chimneys, and loves to haunt those stacks where there is a con-
stant fire,— no doubt for the sake of warmth. Not that it can
subsist in the immediate shaft where there is a fire; but prefers
one adjoining to that of the kitchen, and disregards the perpetual
smoke of the funnel, as I have often observed with some degree
of wonder.
Five or six feet more down the chimney does this little bird
begin to form her nest, about the middle of May: which consists,
like that of the house-martin, of a crust or shell composed of
dirt or mud, mixed with short pieces of straw to render it tough
and permanent; with this difference, that whereas the shell of the
martin is nearly hemispheric, that of the swallow is open at the
top, and like half a deep ditch; this nest is lined with fine
grasses, and feathers which are often collected as they float in
the air.
Wonderful is the address which this adroit bird shows all day
long, in ascending and descending with security through so nar-
row a pass.
When hovering over the mouth of the funnel, the
vibration of her wings, acting on the confined air, occasions a
rumbling like thunder. It is not improbable that the dam sub-
mits to this inconvenient situation so low in the shaft, in order
to secure her broods from rapacious birds; and particularly from
owls, which frequently fall down chimneys, perhaps in attempting
to get at these nestlings.
The swallow lays from four to six white eggs, dotted with red
specks; and brings out her first brood about the last week in
June, or the first week in July. The progressive method by
which the young are introduced into life is very amusing: first
they emerge from the shaft with difficulty enough, and often fall
down into the rooms below; for a day or so they are fed on the
chimney-top, and then are conducted to the dead leafless bough
of some tree, where, sitting in a row, they are attended with
great assiduity, and may then be called perchers. In a day or
two more they become flyers, but are still unable to take their
own food; therefore they play about near the place where the
dams are hawking for flies: and when a mouthful is collected,
at a certain signal given, the dam and the nestling advance, ris-
ing towards each other, and meeting at an angle; the young one
all the while uttering such a little quick note of gratitude and


## p. 15873 (#205) ##########################################

GILBERT WHITE
15873
complacency, that a person must have paid very little regard for
the wonders of nature that has not often remarked this feat.
The dam betakes herself immediately to the business of a
second brood as soon as she is disengaged from her first, which
at once associates with the first broods of house-martins, and
with them congregates, clustering on sunny roofs, towers, and
trees. This hirundo brings out her second brood towards the
middle and end of August.
All summer long, the swallow is a most instructive pattern of
unwearied industry and affection: for from morning to night,
while there is a family to be supported, she spends the whole
day in skimming close to the ground, and exerting the most sud-
den turns and quick evolutions. Avenues, and long walks under
the hedges, and pasture-fields, and mown meadows where cattle
graze, are her delight, especially if there are trees interspersed;
because in such spots insects most abound. When a fly is taken,
a smart snap from her bill is heard, resembling the noise at the
shutting of a watch-case; but the motion of the mandibles is too
quick for the eye.
The swallow, probably the male bird, is the excubitor to house-
martins and other little birds; announcing the approach of birds
For as
as a hawk appears, with a shrill alarm-
ing note he calls all the swallows and martins about him; who
pursue in a body, and buffet and strike their enemy till they
have driven him from the village; darting down from above on
his back, and rising in a perpendicular line in perfect security.
This bird will also sound the alarm, and strike at cats when
they climb on the roofs of houses, or otherwise approach the
nest. Each species of hirundo drinks as it flies along, sipping
the surface of the water; but the swallow alone in general
washes on the wing, by dropping into a pool for many times
together: in very hot weather house-martins and bank-martins
also dip and wash a little.
The swallow is a delicate songster, and in soft sunny weather
sings both perching and flying; on trees in a kind of concert,
and on chimney-tops: it is also a bold flyer, ranging to distant
downs and commons even in windy weather, which the other
species seems much to dislike; nay, even frequenting exposed
seaport towns, and making little excursions over the salt water.
Horsemen on the wide downs are often closely attended by a
little party of swallows for miles together, which plays before
XXVII—993
of prey.
soon


## p. 15874 (#206) ##########################################

15874
GILBERT WHITE
and behind them, sweeping around and collecting all the skulk-
ing insects that are roused by the trampling of the horses' feet:
when the wind blows hard, without this expedient, they are often
forced to settle to pick up their lurking prey.
A certain swallow built for two years together on the handles
of a pair of garden shears that were stuck up against the boards
in an out-house, and therefore must have her nest spoiled when-
ever that implement was wanted; and what is stranger still,
another bird of the same species built its nest on the wings and
body of an owl that happened by accident to hang dead and dry
from the rafter of a barn. This owl, with the nest on its wings,
and with eggs in the nest, was brought as a curiosity worthy of
the most elegant private museum in Great Britain. The owner,
struck with the oddity of the sight, furnished the bringer with a
large shell or conch, desiring him to fix it just where the owl
hung: the person did as he was ordered, and the following year,
a pair, probably the same pair, built their nest in the conch and
laid their eggs.
THE HOUSE-CRICKET
Letter to the Hon. Daines Barrington: from "The Natural History of
Selborne)
W*
itself upon
room
HILE many other insects must be sought, after in fields,
and woods, and waters, the Gryllus domesticus, or house-
cricket, resides altogether within our dwellings; intruding
our notice whether we will or no. This species
delights in new-built houses: being, like the spider, pleased with
the moisture of the walls; and besides, the softness of the mortar
enables them to burrow and mine between the joints of the
bricks or stones, and to open communications from one
to another. They are particularly fond of kitchens and bakers'
ovens, on account of their perpetual warmth.
Tender insects that live abroad either enjoy only the short
period of one summer, or else doze away the cold, uncomfortable
months in profound slumbers; but these, residing as it were in a
torrid zone, are always alert and merry: a good Christmas fire is
to them like the heats of the dog-days. Though they are fre-
quently heard by day, yet is their natural time of motion only
in the night. As soon as it grows dusk, the chirping increases,


## p. 15875 (#207) ##########################################

GILBERT WHITE
15875
-
over
and they come running forth, ranging from the size of a flea
to that of their full stature. As one should suppose from the
burning atmosphere which they inhabit, they are a thirsty race,
and show a great propensity for liquids; being found frequently
drowned in pans of water, milk, broth, or the like. Whatever is
moist they affect; and therefore often gnaw holes in wet woolen
stockings and aprons that are hung to the fire. They are the
housewife's barometer, foretelling her when it will rain; and
they prognosticate sometimes, she thinks, good or ill luck, — the
death of near relatives or the approach of an absent lover. By
being the constant companions of her solitary hours, they natur-
ally become the objects of her superstition. These crickets are
not only very thirsty but very voracious, for they will eat the
scummings of pots, and yeast, salt and crumbs of bread, and any
kitchen offalor sweepings. In the summer we have observed
them to fly out of the windows when it became dusk, and
the neighboring roofs. This feat of activity accounts for the sud-
den manner in which they often leave their haunts, as it does for
the method by which they come to houses where they were not
known before. It is remarkable that many sorts of insects seem
never to use their wings but when they have a mind to shift
their quarters and settle new colonies. When in the air they
move volatu undoso, in waves and curves, like woodpeckers;
opening and shutting their wings at every stroke: and so are
always rising or sinking.
When they increase to a great degree, as they did once in
the house where I am now writing, they become noisome pests,
flying into the candles and dashing into people's faces; but may
be blasted and destroyed by gunpowder discharged into their
crevices and crannies.
In families at such times, they are like Pharaoh's plague of
frogs, – in their bedchambers, and upon their beds, and in their
ovens, and in their kneading-troughs. Their shrilling noise is
occasioned by a brisk attrition of their wings. Cats catch hearth
crickets, and play with them as they do with mice, and then
devour them. Crickets may be destroyed, like wasps, by phials
half filled with beer, or any other liquid, and set in their haunts;
for being always eager to drink, they will crowd in till the bot-
tles are full.


## p. 15876 (#208) ##########################################

15876
RICHARD GRANT WHITE
(1821–1885)
ICHARD GRANT White was an essayist who combined scholar-
ship with a strong individuality and popular qualities of
style, — the latter due in part to a varied activity as jour-
nalist and magazine writer. A keen-eyed observer of affairs, some-
thing of a satirist, and cultured especially in music, philology, and
literature, his most lasting work is that which he did for Shake-
speare study, as expositor and editor. He was a healthful influence
in the United States in fostering Shakespeare study, and his authority
was considerable. In his criticism, common-
sense is a marked characteristic: he is most
vigorous and enjoyable when letting in the
daylight upon pedantry, or ridiculing the
thin-spun theories of extremists. His gift of
expression was decided; and his command
of the critical apparatus ample.
Richard Grant White was born in New
York city, May 22d, 1821; and was grad-
uated at the University of New York in
1839. He studied both medicine and law,
chose the latter profession, and was admitted
to the bar in 1845. But he soon turned to
R. G. WHITE journalism and literature. From 1851 to 1858
he was associate editor of the New York
Courier and Enquirer, and during the years 1860-61 had an editorial
connection with the New York World. He wrote for the papers on
many topics; and much of his work partook of the fleeting character
of journalism. For several years (1863–67) his Yankee Letters) in
the London Spectator were enjoyed as a lively chronicle of contem-
porary events. The book entitled England Without and Within
(1881) was regarded in that country as an estimate of unusual judg-
ment and insight. His literary excursions also included a novel, The
Fate of Mansfield Humphreys? (1884), an amusing but overdrawn
study of Yankee character in a European environment. Mr. White's
philological studies are best exemplified by the volume Words and
Their Uses, one of the most readable discussions of the subject
given forth by an American: it is at times dangerously dogmatic and

(


## p. 15877 (#209) ##########################################

RICHARD GRANT WHITE
15877
hasty in generalization, but as a whole both sound and stimulating.
'Studies in Shakespeare,' made up of papers collected by his wife
after his death (1885), gives in an attractive way his views on the
English master-poet. For twenty-five years Mr. White worked at
Shakespearean criticism; and his final Riverside Edition of Shake-
speare, which appeared in 1884, proved one of the most popular pre-
pared by an American.
Mr. White was for many years the chief clerk of the United States
Revenue Marine Bureau for the District of New York,- a post he
resigned in 1878. His life was a busy one, calling on his time and
strength in many ways. Looking at his work as a whole, and dis-
regarding what was necessarily temporary in it, a residue of valuable
and enjoyable literary work remains to give him his place among
American essayists and scholars. He died on April 8th, 1885, at his
birthplace, New York city.
THE BACON-SHAKESPEARE CRAZE
Re-
From (Studies in Shakespeare. Copyright 1885, by Alexina B. White.
printed by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers
ND now we to
A inherent absurdity (as distinguished from evidence and ex-
ternal conditions) of this fantastical notion,- the unlikeness
of Bacon's mind and of his style to those of the writer of the
plays. Among all the men of that brilliant period who stand
forth in all the blaze of its light with sufficient distinction for us
at this time to know anything of them, no two were so element-
ally unlike in their mental and moral traits and in their literary
habits as Francis Bacon and William Shakespeare; and each of
them stamped his individuality unmistakably upon his work.
Both were thinkers of the highest order; both, what we some-
what loosely call philosophers: but how different their philosophy,
how divergent their ways of thought, and how notably unlike
their modes of expression! Bacon, a cautious observer and inves-
tigator, ever looking at men and things through the dry light of
cool reason; Shakespeare, glowing with instant inspiration, seeing
by intuition the thing before him, outside and inside, body and
spirit, as it was, yet molding it as it was to his immediate need,
– finding in it merely an occasion of present thought, and re-
gardless of it except as a stimulus to his fancy and his imagina-
tion: Bacon, a logician; Shakespeare, one who set logic at naught,


## p. 15878 (#210) ##########################################

15878
RICHARD GRANT WHITE
and soared upon wings compared with which syllogisms are
crutches: Bacon, who sought, in the phrase of Saul of Tarsus, –
that Shakespeare of Christianity,- to prove all things, and to hold
fast that which is good; Shakespeare, one who, like Saul, loosed
upon the world winged phrases, but who recked not his own
rede, proved nothing, and held fast both to good and evil, de-
lighting in his Falstaff as much as he delighted in his Imogen:
Bacon, in his writing the most self-asserting of men; Shake-
speare, one who when he wrote his plays did not seem to have a
self: Bacon, the most cautious and painstaking, the most consist-
ent and exact, of writers; Shakespeare, the most heedless, the
most inconsistent, the most inexact, of all writers who have risen
to fame: Bacon, sweet sometimes, sound always, but dry, stiff,
and formal; Shakespeare, unsavory sometimes, but oftenest breath-
ing perfume from Paradise, -grand, large, free, flowing, flexi- .
ble, unconscious, and incapable of formality: Bacon, precise and
reserved in expression; Shakespeare, a player and quibbler with
words, often swept away by his own verbal conceits into intel-
lectual paradox, and almost into moral obliquity: Bacon, without
humor; Shakespeare's smiling lips the mouthpiece of humor for
all human kind: Bacon, looking at the world before him, and at
the teaching of past ages, with a single eye to his theories and
his individual purposes; Shakespeare, finding in the wisdom and
the folly, the woes and the pleasures of the past and the present,
merely the means of giving pleasure to others and getting money
for himself, and rising to his height as a poet and a moral
teacher only by his sensitive intellectual sympathy with all the
needs and joys and sorrows of humanity: Bacon, shrinking from
a generalization even in morals; Shakespeare, ever moralizing,
and dealing even with individual men and particular things in
their general relations: both worldly-wise, both men of the world,
— for both these master intellects of the Christian era
worldly-minded men in the thorough Bunyan sense of the term,
but the one using his knowledge of men and things critically
in philosophy and in affairs; the other, his synthetically, as a cre-
ative artist: Bacon, a highly trained mind, and showing his train-
ing at every step of his cautious, steady march; Shakespeare,
wholly untrained, and showing his want of training even in the
highest reach of his soaring flight: Bacon, utterly without the
poetic even in a secondary degree, as is most apparent when he
desires to show the contrary; Shakespeare, rising with unconscious
were


## p. 15879 (#211) ##########################################

RICHARD GRANT WHITE
15879
-
effort to the highest heaven of poetry ever reached by the human
mind. To suppose that one of these men did his own work and
also the work of the other, is to assume two miracles for the
sake of proving one absurdity, and to shrink from accepting in
the untaught son of the Stratford yeoman a miraculous miracle,
one that does not defy or suspend the laws of nature.
Many readers of these pages probably know that this notion
that our Shakespeare - the Shakespeare of As You Like It' and
'
' Hamlet' and 'King Lear' – was Francis Bacon masking in the
guise of a player at the Globe Theatre, is not of very recent
origin. It was first brought before the public by Miss Delia
Bacon (who afterwards deployed her theory in a ponderous vol-
ume, with an introduction by Nathaniel Hawthorne — who did
not advocate it) in an article in Putnam's Magazine for January
1856. Some time before that article was published, and shortly
after the publication of (Shakespeare's Scholar,' it was sent to
me in proof by the late Mr. George P. Putnam, with a letter
calling my attention to its importance, and a request that I
would write an introduction to it. After reading it carefully
and without prejudice (for I knew nothing of the theory or of
its author, and as I have already said, I am perfectly indifferent
as to the name and the personality of the writer of the plays,
and had as lief it should have been Francis Bacon as William
Shakespeare), I returned the article to Mr. Putnam, declining the
proposed honor of introducing it to the public, and adding that
as the writer was plainly neither a fool nor an ignoramus, she
must be insane; not a maniac, but what boys call “loony. ” So
it proved: she died a lunatic, and I believe in a lunatic asylum.
I record this incident for the first time on this occasion, not
at all in the spirit of l-told-you-so, but merely as a fitting pre-
liminary to the declaration that this Bacon-Shakespeare notion is
an infatuation,-a literary bee in the bonnets of certain ladies of
both sexes, which should make them the objects of tender care
and sympathy. It will not be extinguished at once; on the con-
trary, it may become a mental epidemic. For there is no notion,
no fancy or folly, which may not be developed into a move-
ment,” or even into a “school,” by iteration and agitation. I do
I
not despair of seeing a Bacon-Shakespeare Society, with an array
of vice-presidents of both sexes, that may make the New Shake-
speare Society look to its laurels. None the less, however, is it a
lunacy, which should be treated with all the skill and tenderness
((
>


## p. 15880 (#212) ##########################################

15880
RICHARD GRANT WHITE
which modern medical science and humanity have developed.
Proper retreats should be provided, and ambulances kept ready,
with horses harnessed; and when symptoms of the Bacon-Shake-
speare craze manifest themselves, the patient should be imme.
diately carried off to the asylum, furnished with pens, ink, and
paper, a copy of Bacon's works, one of the Shakespeare plays,
and one of Mrs. Cowden-Clarke's Concordance and that good
lady is largely responsible for the development of this harmless
mental disease, and other fads” called Shakespearean); and the
literary results, which would be copious, should be received for
publication with deferential respect, and then — committed to the
flames. In this way the innocent victims of the malady might
be soothed and tranquillized, and the world protected against the
debilitating influence of tomes of tedious twaddle.
As to treating the question seriously, that is not to be done
by men of common-sense and moderate knowledge of the sub-
ject. Even the present not very serious, or I fear, sufficiently
considerate, examination of it (to which I was not very ready,
but much the contrary) provokes me to say almost with Henry
Percy's words, that I could divide myself and go to buffets for
being moved by such a dish of skimmed milk to so honorable an
action. It is as certain that William Shakespeare wrote (after
the theatrical fashion and under the theatrical conditions of his
day) the plays which bear his name, as it is that Francis Bacon
wrote the Novum Organum,' the Advancement of Learning,'
and the “Essays. ' We know this as well as we know any fact
in history. The notion that Bacon also wrote (Titus Androni-
cus,' The Comedy of Errors,' 'Hamlet,' 'King Lear,' and
Othello,' is not worth five minutes' serious consideration by any
reasonable creature.
BIG WORDS FOR SMALL THOUGHTS
S
From Words and Their Uses. Copyright 1870, by Richard Grant White
IMPLE and unpretending ignorance is always respectable, and
sometimes charming; but there is little that more deserves
contempt than the pretense of ignorance to knowledge. The
curse and the peril of language in this day, and particularly in
this country, is, that it is at the mercy of men who, instead of
being content to use it well according to their honest ignorance,


## p. 15881 (#213) ##########################################

RICHARD GRANT WHITE
15881
use it ill according to their affected knowledge; who being
vulgar, would seem elegant; who being empty, would seem
full; who make up in pretense what they lack in reality; and
whose little thoughts, let off in enormous phrases, sound like fire-
crackers in an empty barrel.
How I detest the vain parade
Of big-mouthed words of large pretense!
And shall they thus thy soul degrade,
. O tongue so dear to common-sense?
Shouldst thou accept the pompous laws
By which our blustering tyros prate,
Soon Shakespeare's songs and Bunyan's saws
Some tumid trickster must translate.
Our language, like our daily life,
Accords the homely and sublime,
And jars with phrases that are rife
With pedantry of every clime.
For eloquence it clangs like arms,
For love it touches tender chords;
But he to whom the world's heart warms
Must speak in wholesome, home-bred words.
To the reader who is familiar with Béranger's ‘Derniers Chan-
sons, these lines will bring to mind two stanzas in the poet's
"Tambour Major,' in which he compares pretentious phrases to
a big, bedizened drum-major, and simple language to the little
gray-coated Napoleon at Austerlitz,-a comparison which has
been brought to my mind very frequently during the writing of
this book.
It will be well for us to examine some examples of this vice
of language in its various kinds; and for them we must go to
the newspaper press, which reflects so truly the surface of modern
life, although its surface only.
There is, first, the style which has rightly come to be called
" newspaper English ”; and in which we are told, for instance,
of an attack upon a fortified position on the Potomac, that the
thousand-toned artillery duel progresses magnificently at this
hour, the howling shell bursting in wild profusion in camp and
battery, and among the trembling pines. I quote this from
the columns of a first-rate New York newspaper, because the real
thing is so much more characteristic than any imitation could be,
»


## p. 15882 (#214) ##########################################

15882
RICHARD GRANT WHITE
it was.
and is quite as ridiculous. This style has been in use so long,
.
and has, day after day, been impressed upon the minds of so
many persons to whom newspapers are authority, as to language
no less than as to facts, that it is actually coming into vogue in
daily life with some of our people. Not long ago my attention
was attracted by a building which I had not noticed before; and
stepping up to a policeman who stood hard by, I asked him what
He promptly replied (I wrote down his answer within
the minute), “That is an institootion inaugurated under the
auspices of the Sisters of Mercy, for the reformation of them
young females what has deviated from the paths of rectitood. ”
It was in fact an asylum for women of the town; but my in-
formant would surely have regarded such a description of it as
inelegant, and perhaps as indelicate. True, there was a glaring
incongruity between the pompousness of his phraseology and his
use of those simple and common parts of speech, the pronouns;
but I confess that in his dispensation of language, “them” and
what were the only crumbs from which I received any com-
fort. But could I find fault with my civil and obliging inform-
ant, when I knew that every day he might read in the leading
articles of our best newspapers such sentences, for instance, as the
following ? -
(
« There is, without doubt, some subtle essence permeating the ele-
mentary constitution of crime which so operates that men and women
become its involuntary followers by sheer force of attraction, as it
were. »
I am sure, at least, that the policeman knew better what he
meant when he spoke than the journalist did what he meant
when he wrote. Policeman and journalist both wished not merely
to tell what they knew and thought in the simplest, clearest way;
they wished to say something elegant, and to use fine language:
and both made themselves ridiculous. Neither this fault nor this
complaint is new; but the censure seems not to have diminished
the fault, either in frequency or in degree. Our every day writ-
ing is infested with this silly bombast, this stilted nonsense. One
journalist reflecting upon the increase of violence, and wishing to
say that ruffians should not be allowed to go armed, writes, “We
cannot, however, allow the opportunity to pass without expressing
our surprise that the law should allow such abandoned and desper-
ate characters to remain in possession of lethal weapons. ” Lethal
»


## p. 15883 (#215) ##########################################

RICHARD GRANT WHITE
15883
(
means deadly, neither more nor less; but it would be very tame
and unsatisfying to use an expression so common and so easily
understood. Another journalist, in the course of an article upon
a murder, says of the murderer that “a policeman went to his
residence, and there secured the clothes that he wore when he
committed the murderous deed”; and that being found in a tub
of water, “they were so smeared by blood as to incarnadine the
water of the tub in which they were deposited. ” To say that “the
policeman went to the house or room of the murderer, and there
found the clothes he wore when he did the murder, which were
so bloody that they reddened the water into which they had been
thrown,” would have been far too homely.
But not only are our journals and our speeches to Buncombe
infested with this big-worded style, — the very preambles to our
acts of legislature, and the official reports upon the dryest and
most matter-of-fact subjects, are bloated with it. It appears in
the full flower of absurdity in the following sentence, which I
find in the report of a committee of the Legislature of New York
on street railways. The committee wished to say that the public
looked upon all plans for the running of fast trains at a height
of fifteen or twenty feet as fraught with needless danger; and
the committeeman who wrote for them made them say it in this
amazing fashion:-
“It is not to be denied that any system which demands the pro-
pulsion of cars at a rapid rate, at an elevation of fifteen or twenty
feet, is not entirely consistent, in public estimation, with the greatest
attainable immunity from the dangers of transportation. ”
Such a use of words as this, only indicates the lack as well
of mental vigor as of good taste and education on the part of the
user. “Oh,” said a charming, highly cultivated, and thorough-bred
woman, speaking in my hearing of one of her own sex of infe-
rior breeding and position, but who was making literary preten-
sions, and with some success as far as notoriety and money were
concerned, - “Oh, save me from talking with that woman! If you
ask her to come and see you, she never says she's sorry she
can't come, but that she regrets that the multiplicity of her en-
gagements precludes her from accepting your polite invitation. ”
The foregoing instances are examples merely of a pretentious
and ridiculous use of words which is now very common. They are
not remarkable for incorrectness. But the freedom with which


## p. 15884 (#216) ##########################################

15884
RICHARD GRANT WHITE
((
persons who have neither the knowledge of language which
comes of culture, nor that which springs spontaneously from an
inborn perception and mastery, are allowed to address the public
and to speak for it, produces a class of writers who fill, as it is
unavoidable that they should fill, our newspapers and public
documents with words which are ridiculous, not only from their
pretentiousness, but from their preposterous unfitness for the uses
to which they are put. These persons not only write abominably
in point of style, but they do not say what they mean. When,
for instance, a member of Congress is spoken of in a lead-
ing journal as "a sturdy republican of progressive integrity," no
very great acquaintance with language is necessary to the discov-
ery that the writer is ignorant of the meaning either of progress
or of integrity. When in the same columns another man is
described as being "endowed with an impassionable nature," peo-
ple of common sense and education see that here is a man not
only writing for the public, but actually attempting to coin words,
who, as far as his knowledge of language goes, needs the instruc-
tion to be had in a good common school. So again, when another
journal of position, discoursing upon convent discipline, tells us
that a young woman is not fitted for “the stern amenities of
religious life," and we see it laid down in a report to an import-
ant public body that under certain circumstances, “the criminality
of an act is heightened, and reflects a very turgid morality indeed,”
it is according to our knowledge whether we find in the phrases
stern amenities” and “turgid morality” occasion for study or
food for laughter.
Writing like this is a fruit of a pitiful desire to seem ele-
gant when one is not so, which troubles many people, and which
manifests itself in the use of words as well as in the wearing of
clothes, the buying of furniture, and the giving of entertainments;
and which in language takes form in words which sound large,
and seem to the person who uses them to give him the air of
a cultivated man, because he does not know exactly what they
mean. Such words sometimes become a fashion among
such
people, who are numerous enough to set and keep up a fashion;
and they go on using them to each other, each afraid to admit to
the other that he does not know what the new word means, and
equally afraid to avoid its use, as a British snob is said never to
admit that he is entirely unacquainted with a duke.
(
1
1
!
1


## p. 15884 (#217) ##########################################



## p. 15884 (#218) ##########################################


WALT. WHITMAN


## p. 15884 (#219) ##########################################

יזו
.
. . !
;
*


## p. 15884 (#220) ##########################################



## p. 15885 (#221) ##########################################

15885
WALT WHITMAN
(1819–1892)
BY JOHN BURROUGHS
-
Ho goes there ? hankering, gross, mystical, nude; » –
hankering like the great elk in the forest in springtime;
gross as unhoused Nature is gross; mystical as Boehme or
Swedenborg; and so far as the concealments and disguises of the
conventional man, and the usual adornments of polite verse, are con-
cerned, as nude as Adam in Paradise. Indeed, it was the nudity of
Walt Whitman's verse, both in respect to its subject-matter and his
mode of treatment of it, that so astonished, when it did not repel,
his readers. He boldly stripped away everything conventional and
artificial from man,- clothes, customs, institutions, etc. ,—and treated
him as he is, primarily, in and of himself and in his relation to the
universe; and with equal boldness he stripped away what were to
him the artificial adjuncts of poetry,— rhyme, measure, and all the
stock language and forms of the schools,- and planted himself upon
a spontaneous rhythm of language and the inherently poetic in the
common and universal.
The result is the most audacious and debatable contribution yet
made to American literature, and one the merits of which will doubt-
less long divide the reading public. It gave a rude shock to most
readers of current poetry; but it was probably a wholesome shock,
like the rude douse of the sea to the victim of the warmed and per-
fumed bath. The suggestion of the sea is not inapt; because there
is, so to speak, a briny, chafing, elemental, or cosmic quality about
Whitman's work that brings up the comparison,-a something in
it bitter and forbidding, that the reader must conquer and become
familiar with before he can appreciate the tonic and stimulating
quality which it really holds. To Whitman may be applied, more
truly than to any other modern poet, Wordsworth's lines -
« You must love him ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love. "
As the new generations are less timid and conforming than their
fathers, and take more and more to the open air and its exhilara-
tions, so they are coming more and more into relation with the spirit


## p. 15886 (#222) ##########################################

15886
WALT WHITMAN
1
!
1
of this poet of democracy. If Whitman means anything, he means
the open air, and a life fuller and fuller of the sanity, the poise, and
the health of nature; freer and freer of everything that hampers,
enervates, enslaves, and makes morbid and sickly the body and the
soul of man.
Whitman was the first American poet of any considerable renown
born outside of New England, and the first to show a larger, freer,
bolder spirit than that of the New England poets. He was a native
of Long Island, where at West Hills he was born on the 31st of May,
1819, and where his youth was passed. On his mother's side he was
Holland Dutch, on his father's English. There was a large family of
boys and girls who grew to be men and women of a marked type,
- large in stature, rather silent and slow in movement, and of great
tenacity of purpose. All the children showed Dutch traits, which were
especially marked in Walt, the eldest. Mr. William Sloan Kennedy,
who has given a good deal of attention to the subject, attributes
Whitman's stubbornness, his endurance, his practicality, his sanity, his
excessive neatness and purity of person, and the preponderance in
him of the simple and serious over the humorous and refined, largely
to his Dutch ancestry. His phlegm, his absorption, his repose, and
especially his peculiar pink-tinged skin, also suggested the country-
men of Rubens. The Quaker element also entered into his composi-
tion, through his maternal grandmother. Mr. Kennedy recognizes this
in his silence, his sincerity and plainness, his self-respect and respect
for every other human being, his free speech, his unconventionality,
his placidity, his benevolence and friendship, and his deep religious-
Whitman faithfully followed the inward light, the inward voice,
and gave little or no heed to the dissenting or remonstrating voices
of the world about him. The more determined the opposition, the
more intently he seems to have listened to the inward promptings.
The events of his life were few and ordinary. While yet a child
the family moved to Brooklyn, where the father worked at his trade
of carpentering, and where young Whitman attended the common
school till his thirteenth year. About this time he found employment
in a printing-office and learned to set type, and formed there tastes
and associations with printers and newspaper work that were strong
with him ever after. At the age of seventeen he became a country
school-teacher on Long Island, and began writing for newspapers and
magazines. We next hear of him about 1838-40 as editor and pub-
lisher of a weekly newspaper at Huntington, Long Island. After this
enterprise was abandoned, he found employment for five or six years
mainly in printing-offices as compositor, with occasional contributions
to the periodical literature of the day. He also wrote novels; only
.
the title of one of them — Frank Evans, a temperance tale — being
1
ness,
1


## p. 15887 (#223) ##########################################

WALT WHITMAN
15887
preserved. In 1846–7 he was editor of the Brooklyn Eagle newspaper.
It was during this decade, or from his twentieth to his thirtieth
year, that he seems to have entered so heartily and lovingly into
the larger, open-air life of New York: familiarizing himself with all
classes of workingmen and all trades and occupations; fraternizing
with drivers, pilots, mechanics; going, as he says in his poems, with
“powerful uneducated persons,” — letting his democratic proclivities
have full swing, and absorbing much that came to the surface later
in his 'Leaves of Grass. He was especially fond of omnibus drivers,
a unique class of men who have now disappeared. It is reported
of him that he once took the place of a disabled driver and drove
for him all winter, that the man's family might not suffer while he'
was recovering in the hospital. During this period he occasionally
appeared as a stump speaker at political mass-meetings in New York
and on Long Island, and was much liked.
When about thirty years of age, he set out on an extended and
very leisurely tour through the Middle, Western, and Southern States,
again absorbing material for his future work, and fetching up finally
in New Orleans, where he tarried a year or more, and where he
found employment on the editorial staff of the Crescent newspaper.
In 1850 we find him again in Brooklyn, where he started the Free-
man, an organ of the Free-Soilers. But the paper was short-lived.
Whitman had little business capacity, and was ill suited to any task
that required punctuality, promptness, or strict business methods.
He was a man, as he says in his “Leaves,' “preoccupied of his own
soul”; and money-getting and ordinary worldly success attracted him
but little. From 1851 to 1854 he turned his hand to his father's trade
of carpentering, building, and selling small houses to workingmen.
It is said that he might have prospered in this business had he con-
tinued in it. But other schemes filled his head.
He was already big with the conception of Leaves of Grass,' for
which consciously and unconsciously he had been many years get-
ting ready. He often dropped his carpentering to write away at his
Leaves. Finally, after many rewritings, in the spring of 1855 he
went to press with his book, setting up most of the type himself.
It came out as a thin quarto of ninety-four pages, presenting a
curious appearance to the eye and making a still more curious im-
pression upon the reader's mind. It attracted little attention save
ridicule, till Emerson wrote the author a letter containing a magnifi-
cent eulogium of the book, which Dana of the Tribune persuaded
Whitman to publish,- to Emerson's subsequent annoyance, since the
letter was made to cover a later edition of the Leaves) in which
was much more objectionable matter than in the first. This letter
brought the volume into notice, and helped to launch it and subsequent


## p. 15888 (#224) ##########################################

15888
WALT WHITMAN
enlarged editions of it upon its famous career, in both hemispheres.
So utterly out of keeping with the current taste in poetry was Whit-
man's work, that the first impression of it was, and in many minds
still is, to excite mirth and ridicule. This was partly because it took
no heed of the conventionalities of poetry or of human life, and partly
because of the naive simplicity of the author's mind.
In his poetry
he seems as untouched by our modern sophistications, and the over-
refinements of modern culture, as any of the Biblical writers.
In the second year of the Civil War, Whitman left Brooklyn and
became a volunteer nurse in the army hospitals in Washington. To
this occupation he gave much of his time and most of his substance
till after the close of the war. It is claimed for him that he person-
ally visited and ministered to over one hundred thousand sick and
wounded Union and Confederate soldiers. Out of this experience
grew his Drum Taps,' a thin volume of poems published in 1866.
It was subsequently incorporated with his 'Leaves. These were not
battle-pieces, or songs of triumph over a fallen foe,
“But a little book containing night's darkness, and blood-dripping wounds,
And psalms of the dead. ”
During these hospital years Whitman supported himself mainly by
writing letters to the New York Times. His Hospital Memoranda'
include most of this material. He wrote copious letters to his mother
at the same time, which were issued in book form during the fall of
1897 by his new Boston publishers, and named “The Wound-Dresser. ?
From 1865 to 1873 Whitman occupied the desk of a government clerk
in the Treasury Department. Previous to that time he had been dis-
missed from a position in the Interior Department, by its head, James
Harlan, because he was the author of Leaves of Grass. '
His services in the army hospitals impaired his health, and early
in 1873 he had a light stroke of paralysis. In the spring of that
year he moved to Camden, New Jersey, where his brother, Colonel
George Whitman, was living. Camden now became his permanent
home. His health was much impaired, his means very limited, but his
serenity and cheerfulness never deserted him. Many foreign trav-
elers made pilgrimages to Camden to visit him. He was generally
regarded by Europeans as the one distinctive American poet, the true
outcome in literature of modern democracy. He died March 26th,
1892, and his body is buried in a Camden cemetery, in an imposing
granite tomb of his own designing. Whitman never married. He was
always poor, but he was a man much beloved by young and old of
both sexes, while in a small band of men and women he inspired
an enthusiasm and a depth of personal attachment rare in any age.
In person he was a man of large and fine physical proportions, and


## p. 15889 (#225) ##########################################

WALT WHITMAN
15889
striking appearance. His tastes were simple, his wants few. He was
a man singularly clean in both speech and person. He loved primi-
tive things; and his strongest attachments were probably for simple,
natural, uneducated, but powerful persons. The common, the univer-
sal, that which all may have on equal terms, was as the breath of
his nostrils. In his "Leaves) he identifies himself fully with these
elements, declaring that -
«What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me. "
He aimed to put himself into a book, not after the manner of the
gossiping essayist like Montaigne, but after the manner of poetic
revelation; and sought to make his pages give an impression analo-
gous to that made by the living, breathing man. The Leaves' are
not beautiful like a statue, or any delicate and elaborate piece of carv-
ing; but beautiful, and ugly too if you like, as the living man or wo-
man is beautiful or ugly. The appeal is less to our abstract æsthetic
sense, and more to our concrete every-day sense of real things. This
is not to say that our æsthetic perceptions are not stimulated; but
only that they are appealed to in a different way, a less direct and
premeditated way, than they are in the popular poetry. Without the
emotion of the beautiful there can be no poetry; but beauty may
be the chief aim and gathered like flowers into nosegays, as in most
of the current poetry, or it may be subordinated, and left as it were
abroad in the air and landscape, as was Whitman's aim.
His con-
viction was that beauty should follow the poet — never lead him.
Whitman aimed at a complete human synthesis, and left the
reader to make of it what he could; and he is not at all disturbed if
he finds the bad there as well as the good, as in life itself. A good
deal of mental pressure must be brought to bear upon him before
his full meaning and significance comes out.
Readers who idly dip into him for poetic tidbits or literary mor-
ceaux, or who open his 'Leaves) expecting to be regaled with flowers
and perfumes, will surely be disappointed, if not shocked. His work
does not belong to the class of literary luxuries or delicacies. It
is primary and fundamental, and is only indirectly poetic; that is, it
does not seek beauty so much as it seeks that which makes beauty.
Its method is not exclusive, but inclusive. It is the work of a power-
ful spirit that seeks to grasp life and the universe as a whole, and
to charge the conception with religious and poetic emotion; perhaps
I should say religious emotion alone, as Whitman clearly identifies
the two. Light readers only find now and then a trace of the poetic
in his work: they fail to see the essentially poetic character of the
whole; and they fail to see that there is a larger poetry than that
of gems and flowers. The poetry of pretty words and fancies is one
XXVII-994
-


## p. 15890 (#226) ##########################################

15890
WALT WHITMAN
thing; the poetry of vast conceptions and enthusiasm, and of religious
and humanitarian emotion, is quite another.
Our pleasure in the rhymed, measured, highly wrought verse of
the popular poets is doubtless more acute and instant than it is in
the irregular dithyrambic periods of Whitman: the current poetry
is more in keeping with the thousand and one artificial things with
which the civilized man surrounds himself, — perfumes, colors, music;
the distilled, the highly seasoned, the elaborately carved, — wine,
sweetmeats, cosmetics, etc. , etc. Whitman, in respect to his art and
poetic quality, is more like simple natural products, or the every-day
family staples meat, bread, milk, or the free unhoused elements frost,
| rain, spray. There is little in him that suggests the artificial in life,
or that takes note of or is the outcome of the refinements of our
civilization. Though a man of deep culture, yet culture cannot claim
him as her own, and in many of her devotees repudiates him en-
tirely. He let nature speak, but in a way that the uncultured man
never could. In its tone and spirit his 'Leaves of Grass' is as primi-
tive as the antique bards, while it yet implies and necessitates mod-
ern civilization.
It is urged that his work is formless, chaotic. On the other hand,
it may be claimed that a work that makes a distinct and continuous
impression, that gives a sense of unity, that holds steadily to an
,
ideal, that is never in doubt about its own method and aims, and
that really grips the reader's mind or thought, is not in any deep
sense formless. Leaves of Grass' is obviously destitute of the arbi-
trary and artificial form of regular verse; it makes no account of the
prosodical system: but its admirers claim for it the essential, innate
form of all vital organic things. There are imitations of Whitman
that are formless: one feels no will or purpose in them; they make
no more impact upon the reader's mind than vapor upon his hand.
A work is formless that has no motives, no ideas, no vertebra, no
central purpose controlling and subordinating all the parts. In his
plan, as I have said, Whitman aimed to outline a human life, his
own life, here in democratic America in the middle of the nineteenth
century; giving not merely its æsthetic and spiritual side, but its car-
nal and materialistic side as well, and imbuing the whole with poetic
passion. In working out this purpose we are not to hold him to a
mechanical definiteness and accuracy: he may build freely and range
far and wide; a man is made up of many and contradictory ele-
ments, and his life is a compound of evil and of good. The forces
that shape him are dynamic and not mechanic. If Whitman has
confused his purpose, if all the parts of his work are not related
more or less directly to this central plan, then is he in the true
sense formless. The trouble with Whitman is, his method is that of


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15891
the poet and not that of the essayist or philosopher. He is not the
least bit didactic; he never explains or apologizes. The reader must
take him on the wing, or not at all. He does not state his argu-
ment so much as he speaks out of it and effuses its atmosphere.
Then he is avowedly the poet of vista: to open doors and win-
dows, to let down bars rather than to put them up, to dissolve forms,
to escape boundaries, to plant the reader on a hill rather than in a
corner, — this fact is the explanation of the general character of his
work in respect to form.
Readers who have a keen sense of what is called artistic form in
poetry, meaning the sense of the deftly carved or shaped, are apt to
be repelled by the absence of all verse architecture in the poems.
A hostile critic might say they are not builded up, but heaped up.
But this would give a wrong impression, inasmuch as a piece of true
literature bears no necessary analogy to a house or the work of the
cabinet-maker. It may find its type or suggestion in a tree, a river,
or in any growing or expanding thing. Verse perfectly fluid, and
without any palpable, resisting extrinsic form whatever, or anything to
take his readers' attention away from himself and the content of his
page, was Whitman's aim.
Opinion will doubtless long be divided about the value of his
work. He said he was willing to wait to be understood by the
growth of the taste of himself. That this taste is growing, that the
new generations are coming more and more into his spirit and atmo-
sphere, that the mountain is less and less forbidding, and looms up
more and more as we get farther from it, is obvious enough. That
he will ever be in any sense a popular poet is in the highest degree
improbable: but that he will kindle enthusiasm in successive minds;
that he will be an enormous feeder to the coming poetic genius of
his country; that he will enlarge criticism, and make it easy for every
succeeding poet to be himself and to be American; and finally that
he will take his place among the few major poets of the race, I have
not the least doubt.
Josu
Aurroughs


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15892
WALT WHITMAN
[The following selections are used by permission of the legal representatives
of the estate of Walt Whitman. ]
I HEARD YOU SOLEMN-SWEET PIPES OF THE ORGAN
I
HEARD you solemn-sweet pipes of the organ as last Sunday morn
I passed the church,
Winds of autumn, as I walked the woods at dusk I heard your
long-stretched sighs up above so mournful,
I heard the perfect Italian tenor singing at the opera, I heard the
soprano in the midst of the quartet singing;
Heart of my love! you too I heard murmuring low through one of
the wrists around my head,
Heard the pulse of you when all was still ringing little bells last
night under my ear.
SONG OF THE OPEN ROAD
I
Foot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
AF
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.
The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.
(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,
I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,
I am filled with them, and I will fill them in return. )
2
You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all
that is here,
I believe that much unseen is also here.


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15893
Here the profound lesson of reception, nor preference nor denial,
The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseased, the illiterate
person, are not denied;
The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar's tramp, the
drunkard's stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,
The escaped youth, the rich person's carriage, the fop, the eloping
couple,
The early marketman, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the
town, the return back from the town,
They pass, I also pass, anything passes, none can be interdicted,
None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me.
3
You air that serves me with breath to speak!
You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them
shape!
You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!