I
The stupendous disclosures of modern science, and what they mean when
translated into the language of man's ethical and æsthetic nature, have
not yet furnished to any considerable extent the inspiration of poems.
That all things are alike divine, that this earth is a star in the
heavens, that the celestial laws and processes are here underfoot, that
size is only relative, that good and bad are only relative, that forces
are convertible and interchangeable, that matter is indestructible, that
death is the law of life, that man is of animal origin, that the sum of
forces is constant, that the universe is a complexus of powers
inconceivably subtle and vital, that motion is the law of all things,--in
fact, that we have got rid of the notions of the absolute, the fixed, the
arbitrary, and the notion of origins and of the dualism of the world,--to
what extent will these and kindred ideas modify art and all æsthetic
production? The idea of the divine right of kings and the divine authority
of priests is gone; that, in some other time or some other place God was
nearer man than now and here,--this idea is gone. Indeed, the whole of
man's spiritual and religious belief which forms the background of
literature has changed,--a change as great as if the sky were to change
from blue to red or to orange. The light of day is different. But
literature deals with life, and the essential conditions of life, you say,
always remain the same. Yes, but the expression of their artistic values
is forever changing. If we ask where is the modern imaginative work that
is based upon these revelations of science, the work in which they are the
blood and vital juices, I answer, "Leaves of Grass," and no other. The
work is the outgrowth of science and modern ideas, just as truly as Dante
is the outgrowth of mediæval ideas and superstitions; and the imagination,
the creative spirit, is just as unhampered in Whitman as in Dante or in
Shakespeare. The poet finds the universe just as plastic and ductile, just
as obedient to his will, and just as ready to take the impress of his
spirit, as did these supreme artists. Science has not hardened it at all.
The poet opposes himself to it, and masters it and rises superior. He is
not balked or oppressed for a moment. He knows from the start what science
can bring him, what it can give, and what it can take away; he knows the
universe is not orphaned; he finds more grounds than ever for a pæan of
thanksgiving and praise. His conviction of the identity of soul and body,
matter and spirit, does not shake his faith in immortality in the least.
His faith arises, not from half views, but from whole views. In him the
idea of the soul, of humanity, of identity, easily balanced the idea of
the material universe. Man was more than a match for nature. It was all
for him, and not for itself. His enormous egotism, or hold upon the
central thought or instinct of human worth and import, was an anchor that
never gave way. Science sees man as the ephemeron of an hour, an
iridescent bubble on a seething, whirling torrent, an accident in a world
of incalculable and clashing forces. Whitman sees him as inevitable and as
immortal as God himself. Indeed, he is quite as egotistical and
anthropomorphic, though in an entirely different way, as were the old
bards and prophets before the advent of science. The whole import of the
universe is directed to one man,--to you. His anthropomorphism is not a
projection of himself into nature, but an absorption of nature in himself.
The tables are turned. It is not alien or superhuman beings that he sees
and hears in nature, but his own that he finds everywhere. All gods are
merged in himself.
Not the least fear, not the least doubt or dismay, in this book. Not one
moment's hesitation or losing of the way. And it is not merely an
intellectual triumph, but the triumph of soul and personality. The iron
knots are not untied, they are melted. Indeed, the poet's contentment and
triumph in view of the fullest recognition of all the sin and sorrow of
the world, and of all that baffles and dwarfs, is not the least of the
remarkable features of the book.