Whitman was of large mould in every way, and of bold, far-reaching
schemes, and is very sure to fare better at the hands of large men than of
small. The first and last impression which his personal presence always
made upon one was of a nature wonderfully gentle, tender, and benignant.
His culture, his intellect, was completely suffused and dominated by his
humanity, so that the impression you got from him was not that of a
learned or a literary person, but of fresh, strong, sympathetic human
nature,--such an impression, I fancy, only fuller, as one might have got
from Walter Scott. This was perhaps the secret of the attraction he had,
for the common, unlettered people and for children. I think that even his
literary friends often sought his presence less for conversation than to
bask in his physical or psychical sunshine, and to rest upon his boundless
charity. The great service he rendered to the wounded and homesick
soldiers in the hospitals during the war came from his copious endowment
of this broad, sweet, tender democratic nature. He brought father and
mother to them, and the tonic and cheering atmosphere of simple,
affectionate home life.
In person Whitman was large and tall, above six feet, with a breezy,
open-air look. His temperament was sanguine; his voice was a tender
baritone. The dominant impression he made was that of something fresh and
clean. I remember the first time I met him, which was in Washington, in
the fall of 1863. I was impressed by the fine grain and clean, fresh
quality of the man. Some passages in his poems had led me to expect
something different. He always had the look of a man who had just taken a
bath. The skin was light and clear, and the blood well to the surface. His
body, as I once noticed when we were bathing in the surf, had a peculiar
fresh bloom and fineness and delicacy of texture. His physiology was
undoubtedly remarkable, unique. The full beauty of his face and head did
not appear till he was past sixty. After that, I have little doubt, it was
the finest head this age or country has seen. Every artist who saw him
was instantly filled with a keen desire to sketch him. The lines were so
simple, so free, and so strong. High, arching brows; straight, clear-cut
nose; heavy-lidded blue-gray eyes; forehead not thrust out and emphasized,
but a vital part of a symmetrical, dome-shaped head; ear large, and the
most delicately carved I have ever seen; the mouth and chin hidden by a
soft, long, white beard. It seems to me his face steadily refined and
strengthened with age. Time depleted him in just the right way,--softened
his beard and took away the too florid look; subdued the carnal man, and
brought out more fully the spiritual man. When I last saw him (December
26, 1891), though he had been very near death for many days, I am sure I
had never seen his face so beautiful. There was no breaking-down of the
features, or the least sign of decrepitude, such as we usually note in old
men. The expression was full of pathos, but it was as grand as that of a
god. I could not think of him as near death, he looked so unconquered.
In Washington I knew Whitman intimately from the fall of 1863 to the time
he left in 1873. In Camden I visited him yearly after that date, usually
in the late summer or fall. I will give one glimpse of him from my diary,
under date of August 18, 1887. I reached his house in the morning, before
he was up. Presently he came slowly down stairs and greeted me. "Find him
pretty well,--looking better than last year. With his light-gray suit,
and white hair, and fresh pink face, he made a fine picture. Among other
things, we talked of the Swinburne attack (then recently published). W.
did not show the least feeling on the subject, and, I clearly saw, was
absolutely undisturbed by the article. I told him I had always been more
disturbed by S.'s admiration for him than I was now by his condemnation.
By and by W. had his horse hitched up, and we started for Glendale, ten
miles distant, to see young Gilchrist, the artist. A fine drive through a
level farming and truck-gardening country; warm, but breezy. W. drives
briskly, and salutes every person we meet, little and big, black and
white, male and female. Nearly all return his salute cordially. He said he
knew but few of those he spoke to, but that, as he grew older, the old
Long Island custom of his people, to speak to every one on the road, was
strong upon him. One tipsy man in a buggy responded, 'Why, pap, how d' ye
do, pap?' etc. We talked of many things. I recall this remark of W., as
something I had not before thought of, that it was difficult to see what
the old feudal world would have come to without Christianity: it would
have been like a body acted upon by the centrifugal force without the
centripetal. Those haughty lords and chieftains needed the force of
Christianity to check and curb them, etc. W. knew the history of many
prominent houses on the road: here a crazy man lived, with two colored men
to look after him; there, in that fine house among the trees, an old
maid, who had spent a large fortune on her house and lands, and was now
destitute, yet she was a woman of remarkable good sense, etc. We returned
to Camden before dark, W. apparently not fatigued by the drive of twenty
miles."
In death what struck me most about the face was its perfect symmetry. It
was such a face, said Mr. Conway, as Rembrandt would have selected from a
million. "It is the face of an aged loving child. As I looked, it was with
the reflection that, during an acquaintance of thirty-six years, I never
heard from those lips a word of irritation, or depreciation of any being.
I do not believe that Buddha, of whom he appeared an avatar, was more
gentle to all men, women, children, and living things."