WALT WHITMAN is not only the poet of childhood, of youth, of manhood,
but, above all, of old age. He has not been soured by slander or
petrified by prejudice; neither calumny nor flattery has made him
revengeful or arrogant. Now sitting by the fireside, in the winter of
life,
"His jocund heart still beating in his breast," he is just as brave and
calm and kind as in his manhood's proudest days, when roses blossomed in
his cheeks.
He has taken life's seven steps. Now, as the gamester might say, "on
velvet," he is enjoying "old age, expanded, broad, with the haughty
breadth of the universe; old age, flowing free, with the delicious
near-by freedom of death; old age, superbly rising, welcoming the
ineffable aggregation of dying days."
He is taking the "loftiest look at last," and before he goes he utters
thanks:
"For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air--for life, mere life,
For precious ever-lingering memories,
(of you my mother dear--you, father--you, brothers, sisters, friends,)
For all my days--not those of peace alone--the days of war the same,
For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands,
For shelter, wine and meat--for sweet appreciation,
(You distant, dim unknown--or young or old--countless, unspecified,
readers belov'd,
We never met, and ne'er shall meet--and yet our souls embrace,
long, close and long;)
For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books--for colors, forms,
For all the brave strong men--devoted, hardy men--who've forward
sprung in freedom's help, all years, all lands,
For braver, stronger, more devoted men--(a special laurel ere I go,
to life's war's chosen ones,
The cannoneers of song and thought--the great artillerists--
the foremost leaders, captains of the soul:"
It is a great thing to preach philosophy--far greater to live it. The
highest philosophy accepts the inevitable with a smile, and greets it as
though it were desired.
To be satisfied: This is wealth--success.
The real philosopher knows that everything has happened that could have
happened--consequently he accepts. He is glad that he has lived--glad
that he has had his moment on the stage. In this spirit Whitman has
accepted life.
"I shall go forth,
I shall traverse the States awhile, but I cannot tell whither or how long,
Perhaps soon some day or night while I am singing my v
voice will suddenly cease.
O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this?
Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?--and yet it is enough, O soul;
O soul, we have positively appear'd--that is enough."
Yes, Walt Whitman has appeared. He has his place upon the stage.
The drama is not ended. His voice is still heard. He is the Poet of
Democracy--of all people. He is the poet of the body and soul. He has
sounded the note of Individuality. He has given the pass-word primeval.
He is the Poet of Humanity--of Intellectual Hospitality. He has voiced
the aspirations of America--and, above all, he is the poet of Love and
Death.
How grandly, how bravely he has given his thought, and how superb is his
farewell--his leave-taking:
"After the supper and talk--after the day is done,
As a friend from friends his final withdrawal prolonging,
Good-bye and Good-bye with emotional lips repeating,
(So hard for his hand to release those hands--no more will they meet,
No more for communion of sorrow and joy, of old and young,
A far-stretching journey awaits him, to return no more,)
Shunning, postponing severance--seeking to ward off the last word ever so little,
E'en at the exit-door turning--charges superfluous calling back--
e'en as he descends the steps,
Something to eke out a minute additional--shadows of nightfall deepening,
Farewells, messages lessening--dimmer the forthgoer's visage and form,
Soon to be lost for aye in the darkness--loth, O so loth to depart!"
And is this all? Will the forthgoer be lost, and forever? Is death the
end? Over the grave bends Love sobbing, and by her side stands Hope and
whispers:
We shall meet again. Before all life is death, and after all death is
life. The falling leaf, touched with the hectic flush, that testifies of
autumn's death, is, in a subtler sense, a prophecy of spring.
Walt Whitman has dreamed great dreams, told great truths and uttered
sublime thoughts. He has held aloft the torch and bravely led the way.
As you read the marvelous book, or the person, called "Leaves of Grass,"
you feel the freedom of the antique world; you hear the voices of the
morning, of the first great singers--voices elemental as those of sea
and storm. The horizon enlarges, the heavens grow ample, limitations are
forgotten--the realization of the will, the accomplishment of the ideal,
seem to be within your power. Obstructions become petty and disappear.
The chains and bars are broken, and the distinctions of caste are lost.
The soul is in the open air, under the blue and stars--the flag
of Nature. Creeds, theories and philosophies ask to be examined,
contradicted, reconstructed. Prejudices disappear, superstitions vanish
and custom abdicates. The sacred places become highways, duties and
desires clasp hands and become comrades and friends. Authority drops
the scepter, the priest the mitre, and the purple falls from kings.
The inanimate becomes articulate, the meanest and humblest things
utter speech, and the dumb and voiceless burst into song. A feeling of
independence takes possession of the soul, the body expands, the blood
flows full and free, superiors vanish, flattery is a lost art, and
life becomes rich, royal, and superb. The world becomes a personal
possession, and the oceans, the continents, and constellations belong
to you. You are in the center, everything radiates from you, and in
your veins beats and throbs the pulse of all life. You become a rover,
careless and free. You wander by the shores of all seas and hear the
eternal psalm. You feel the silence of the wide forest, and stand
beneath the intertwined and over-arching boughs, entranced with
symphonies of winds and woods. You are borne on the tides of eager and
swift rivers, hear the rush and roar of cataracts as they fall beneath
the seven-hued arch, and watch the eagles as they circling soar. You
traverse gorges dark and dim, and climb the scarred and threatening
cliffs. You stand in orchards where the blossoms fall like snow, where
the birds nest and sing, and painted moths make aimless journeys through
the happy air. You live the lives of those who till the earth, and walk
amid the perfumed fields, hear the reapers' song, and feel the breadth
and scope of earth and sky. You are in the great cities, in the midst of
multitudes, of the endless processions. You are on the wide plains--the
prairies--with hunter and trapper, with savage and pioneer, and you feel
the soft grass yielding under your feet. You sail in many ships, and
breathe the free air of the sea. You travel many roads, and countless
paths. You visit palaces and prisons, hospitals and courts; you pity
kings and convicts, and your sympathy goes out to all the suffering and
insane, the oppressed and enslaved, and even to the infamous. You hear
the din of labor, all sounds of factory, field, and forest, of all
tools, instruments and machines. You become familiar with men and women
of all employments, trades and professions--with birth and burial, with
wedding feast and funeral chant. You see the cloud and flame of war, and
you enjoy the ineffable perfect days of peace.
In this one book, in these wondrous "Leaves of Grass," you find hints
and suggestions, touches and fragments, of all there is of life that
lies between the babe, whose rounded cheeks dimple beneath his mother's
laughing, loving eyes, and the old man, snow-crowned, who, with a smile,
extends his hand to death.
We have met to-night to honor ourselves by honoring the author of
"Leaves of Grass."