WALT WHITMAN is a philosopher. The more a man has thought, the more he
has studied, the more he has traveled intellectually, the less certain
he is. Only the very ignorant are perfectly satisfied that they know.
To the common man the great problems are easy. He has no trouble in
accounting for the universe. He can tell you the origin and destiny of
man and the why and the wherefore of things. As a rule, he is a
believer in special providence, and is egotistic enough to suppose that
everything that happens in the universe happens in reference to him.
A colony of red ants lived at the foot of the Alps. It happened one day
that an avalanche destroyed the hill; and one of the ants was heard to
remark: "Who could have taken so much trouble to destroy our home?"
Walt Whitman walked by the side of the sea "where the fierce old mother
endlessly cries for her castaways," and endeavored to think out, to
fathom the mystery of being; and he said:
"I too but signify at the utmost a little wash'd-up drift,
A few sands and dead leaves to gather,
Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.
Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me
I have not once had the least idea who or what I am,
But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet untouch'd,
untold, altogether unreach'd,
Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows,
With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,
Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath....
I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single object,
and that no man ever can."
There is in our language no profounder poem than the one entitled
"Elemental Drifts."
The effort to find the origin has ever been, and will forever be,
fruitless. Those who endeavor to find the secret of life resemble a man
looking in the mirror, who thinks that if he only could be quick enough
he could grasp the image that he sees behind the glass.
The latest word of this poet upon this subject is as follows:
"To me this life with all its realities and functions is finally a
mystery, the real something yet to be evolved, and the stamp and shape
and life here somehow giving an important, perhaps the main outline to
something further. Somehow this hangs over everything else, and stands
behind it, is inside of all facts, and the concrete and material, and
the worldly affairs of life and sense. That is the purport and meaning
behind all the other meanings of Leaves of Grass."
As a matter of fact, the questions of origin and destiny are beyond the
grasp of the human mind. We can see a certain distance; beyond that,
everything is indistinct; and beyond the indistinct is the unseen. In
the presence of these mysteries--and everything is a mystery so far as
origin, destiny, and nature are concerned--the intelligent, honest man
is compelled to say, "I do not know."
In the great midnight a few truths like stars shine on forever, and from
the brain of man come a few struggling gleams of light, a few momentary
sparks.
Some have contended that everything is spirit; others that everything
is matter; and again, others have maintained that a part is matter and a
part is spirit; some that spirit was first and matter after; others that
matter was first and spirit after; and others that matter and spirit
have existed together.
But none of these people can by any possibility tell what matter is, or
what spirit is, or what the difference is between spirit and matter.
The materialists look upon the spiritualists as substantially crazy; and
the spiritualists regard the materialists as low and groveling. These
spiritualistic people hold matter in contempt; but, after all, matter is
quite a mystery. Y ou take in your hand a little earth--a little dust.
Do you know what it is? In this dust you put a seed; the rain falls upon
it; the light strikes it; the seed grows; it bursts into blossom; it
produces fruit.
What is this dust--this womb? Do you understand it? Is there anything in
the wide universe more wonderful than this?
Take a grain of sand, reduce it to powder, take the smallest possible
particle, look at it with a microscope, contemplate its every part for
days, and it remains the citadel of a secret--an impregnable fortress.
Bring all the theologians, philosophers, and scientists in serried ranks
against it; let them attack on every side with all the arts and arms
of thought and force. The citadel does not fall. Over the battlements
floats the flag, and the victorious secret smiles at the baffled hosts.
Walt Whitman did not and does not imagine that he has reached the
limit--the end of the road traveled by the human race. He knows that
every victory over nature is but the preparation for another battle.
This truth was in his mind when he said: "Understand me well; it is
provided in the essence of things, that from any fruition of success,
no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle
necessary."
This is the generalization of all history.