Literary Shrines Part 9

[Sidenote: His Literary Work--Its Aims]

His purpose, the moral elevation of humanity, he trusts is apparent in every page of his book. By his book he means "Leaves of Gra.s.s," the real work of his life, representing the truest thoughts and the highest imaginings of forty years, to which his other work has been incidental and tributary. After its eight periods of growth, "hitches," he calls them, he completes them with the annex, "Good-bye my Fancy," and thinks his record for the future is made up; "hit or miss, he will bother himself no more about it."

When questioned concerning the lines whose "naked naturalness" has been an offence to many, he impressively avers that he has pondered them earnestly in these latest days, and is sure he would not alter or recall them if he could.

[Sidenote: His Religious Trust]

While not professing a moral regeneration or confessing the need of it, he yet a.s.sures us, "No array of words can describe how much I am at peace about G.o.d and about death." The author of "Whispers of Heavenly Death" cannot be an irreverent person; the impa.s.sioned "prayer"--

"That Thou, O G.o.d, my life hast lighted With ray of light, ineffable, vouchsafed of Thee.

For that, O G.o.d, be it my latest word, here on my knees, Old, poor, and paralyzed, I thank Thee....

I will cling to Thee, O G.o.d, though the waves buffet me.

Thee, Thee, at least, I know"--

is not the utterance of an irreligious heart. One who has known Whitman long and well testifies that he was always a religious _exalte_, and his stanzas show that his musings on death and immortality are inspired by fullest faith. As we listen to him, calmly discoursing upon the great mysteries,--which to him are now mysteries no longer,--we wonder how many of those who call him "beast" or "atheist" can confront the vast unknown with his lofty trust, to say nothing of actual thanksgiving for death itself!

"Praised be the fathomless universe For life and joy, for objects and knowledge curious, And for love, sweet love,--but praise! praise! praise!

For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death."

We who survive him will not forget his peaceful yielding of himself to "the sure-enwinding arms," nor the abounding trust breathed in his last message, sent back from the mystic frontier of the shadowy realm: "Tell them it makes no difference whether I live or die."

[Sidenote: Readings]

In our chat he discloses a surprising knowledge of men and things, and a more surprising lack of knowledge of his own poetry. More than once it strangely appears that the visitor is more familiar with the lines under discussion than is their author. When this is commented upon he laughingly says, "Oh, yes, my friends often tell me there is a book called 'Leaves of Gra.s.s' which I ought to read." So when we, about to take leave, ask him to recite one of his shorter poems, he a.s.sures us he does not remember one of them, but will read anything we wish. We ask for the wonderful elegy, "Out of the Cradle endlessly Rocking," and afterward for the night hymn, "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed," and his compliance confers a never-to-be-forgotten pleasure.

He reads slowly and without effort, his voice often tremulous with emotion, the lines gaining new grandeur and pathos as they come from his lips.

And this--alas that it must be!--is our final recollection of one of the world's immortals: a h.o.a.r and reverend bard,--"old, poor, and paralyzed," yet clinging to the optimistic creeds of his youth,--throned in his great chair among his books, with the waning light falling like a benediction upon his uplifted head, his face and eyes suffused with the exquisite tenderness of his theme, and all the air about him vibrating with the tones of his immortal chant to Death,--the "dark mother always gliding near with soft feet."

Another hand-clasp, a prayerful "G.o.d keep you," and we have left him alone in the gathering twilight.

[Sidenote: His Future Fame]

We will not here discuss his literary merits. The encomiums of Emerson, Th.o.r.eau, Burroughs, Sanborn, Stedman, Ruskin, Tennyson, Rossetti, Buchanan, Sarrazin, etc., show what he is to men of their intellectual stature; but will he ever reach the great, struggling ma.s.s for whose uplifting he wrought? His own brave faith is contagious, and we may discern in the wide-spread sorrow over his death, in the changed att.i.tude of critics and reviewers, as well as in the largely increased demand for his books, evidences of his general acceptance.

His day is coming,--is come. He died with its dawn shining full upon him.