A Day with Walt Whitman

Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm,Waking renew'd on thy prodigious pinions,(Burst the wild storm? above it thou ascended'st,And rested on the sky, thy slave that cradled thee,)…Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane,Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails,Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating,At dusk that look'st on Senegal, at morn America,That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud,In them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my soul,What joys! what joys were thine!

and out of the smoke and din of conflict, he believed, should spring "the most splendid race the sun ever shone upon," knit in sublime unity of brotherhood.

Dinner over, Whitman retired awhile to his own apartment: that fearful chaos of pell-mell untidiness which was the delight of its occupant and the despair of Mrs. Stafford. An indescribable confusion it was of letters, newspapers and books, – an inkbottle on one chair, a glass of lemonade on another, a pile of MSS. on a third, a hat on the floor… Imperturbably composed, the poet surveyed his best-loved books, – Scott, Carlyle, Tennyson, Emerson, – translations of Homer, Dante, Hafiz, Saadi: renderings of Virgil, Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, – versions of Spanish and German poets: most well-worn of all, Shakespeare and the Bible. Finally, out of the heterogeneous collection he selected George Sand's Consuelo and seated himself at the window with it. On another afternoon he would have returned to the creek, but to-day he was expecting a friend.

And friends, with him, did not mean mere acquaintances: still less those visitors who were brought by vulgar curiosity. Although the best of comrades and one who found companionship most exhilarating, he had a bed-rock of deep reserve, and "to such as he did not like, he became as a precipice." But to those with whom he was truly en rapport, – whether by letter or in the flesh, – he was spendthrift of his personality. His English literary friends, – Tennyson, Rossetti, Buchanan, Browning and others, had supplied the financial aid which enabled him to recuperate at Timber Creek: compatriots such as Emerson, John Burroughs, and a host of old-time friends were welcome visitors. But nothing in his life or in his literary fortunes, he declared, had brought him more comfort and support – nothing had more spiritually soothed him – than the "warm appreciation and friendship of that true full-grown woman," Anne Gilchrist, the sweet English widow who was now staying with her children in Philadelphia, to be within easy reach of Whitman. "Among the perfect women I have known (and it has been very unspeakable good fortune to have had the very best for mother, sisters and friends), I have known none more perfect," wrote the poet, "than my dear, dear friend, Anne Gilchrist." It was this warm-hearted, courageous Englishwoman, "alive with humour and vivacity," whose musical voice was shortly heard outside, enquiring for Walt. He hastened down to receive her.

THE MAN-OF-WAR BIRDThou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane,Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails,Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating,At dusk that look'st on Senegal, at morn America,That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud,In them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my soul,What joys! what joys were thine!(To the Man-of-War Bird.)

Anne Gilchrist's opinion of Whitman was even more enthusiastic than his appreciation of her. She admired and revered the courage with which he expounded his theories of life, no less than the expression of them in words which, as she put it, ceased to be words and became electric streams. "What more can you ask of the words of a man's mouth," she exclaimed, "than that they should absorb into you as food and air, to reappear again in your strength, gait, face – that they should be fibre and filter to your blood, joy and gladness to your whole nature?" She alone, of all women, and almost alone among men, had stood forth to defend him for the "fearless and comprehensive dealing with reality" which had alienated the conventional and offended the prudish – and she alone was the recipient, now, of his most intimate thoughts and aspirations.

They sat together on the shady piazza, and he unfolded to her, while her children played around, the hopes and wishes of his heart not only for America but for all humanity. He said, "My original idea was that if I could bring men together by putting before them the heart of man with all its joys and sorrows and experiences and surroundings, it would be a great thing… I have endeavoured from the first to get free as much as possible from all literary attitudinism – to strip off integuments, coverings, bridges – and to speak straight from and to the heart; … to discard all conventional poetic phrases, and every touch of or reference to ancient or mediæval images, metaphors, subjects, styles, etc., and to write de novo with words and phrases appropriate to our own days." He took her hand as he spoke, as was his wont with a sympathetic listener, and gazed with eagerness into her serious yet easily-lighted face. His "terrible blaze of personality" was subdued for the nonce into that child-like simplicity, that woman-like tenderness, which constituted some of his chief charms.

They discussed the work of contemporary poets, English and American. Whitman, however much he differed from these in theory and method, gave generous homage to their varied genius. He loved to declaim the Ulysses and kindred majestically-rolling passages of Tennyson, in a clear, strong, rugged tone, devoid of all elocutionary tricks or affectation. He never spoke a line of his own verse, but to recite from Shakespeare was a great pleasure to him: and he compared the Shakespearean plays to large, rich, splendid tapestry, like Raffaelle's historical cartoons, where everything is broad and colossal. For Scott, whose work, he said, breathed more of the open air than the workshop, he had unfeigned admiration. Dramatic work and music in all its forms he discussed with knowledge and fervour. As for the poets of America, he poured encomium upon them ungrudgingly. "I can't imagine any better luck befalling these States for a poetical beginning and initiation than has come from Emerson, Longfellow, Bryant and Whittier." (Specimen Days.)

The afternoon shadows stretched themselves out, and at sunset Mrs. Gilchrist and her children departed. It had been for her a memorable afternoon: and Whitman had been thoroughly in his element as comrade of so congenial a soul. Now, as the twilight deepened, he devoted himself to the consideration of the deepest notes in the whole diapason of human existence. Never was a man of more exuberant a joy in life: never one who gazed more courageously into the dim-veiled face of Death, – the sower of all enigmas, the comforter of all pain.

Whispers of heavenly death, murmur'd I hear;Labial gossip of night – sibilant chorals;Footsteps gently ascending – mystical breezes, wafted soft and low…(Did you think Life was so well provided for – and Death, the purport of all Life, is not well provided for?)…I do not doubt that whatever can possibly happen, any where, at any time, is provided for, in the inherences of things;I do not think Life provides for all, and for Time and Space – but I believe Heavenly Death provides for all.(Whispers of Heavenly Death.)

And his heart once more, as in the matchless threnody for Lincoln, When Lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed, uttered its song of summons and of welcome.

Come, lovely and soothing Death,Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,In the day, in the night, to all, to each,Sooner or later, delicate Death…Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?Then I chant it for thee – I glorify thee above all.

The skies deepened into purple, and the march of the stars began: it was the sacredest hour of the day to Whitman, a period consecrated and set apart above all. "I am convinced," thought he, "that there are hours of Nature, especially of the atmosphere, mornings and evenings, addressed to the soul. Night transcends, for that purpose, what the proudest day can do." (Specimen Days.)

And a new buoyancy quickened in his soul; the indomitable spirit of enterprise revived within him. Now, at eleven at night, he was more exhilarated in mind than his body had been in the blue July morning: and, casting one comprehensive glance upon the burning arcana of the heavens, that he might carry into his sleep a memory of that glory, he "desired a better country," with longing and deep solicitude.

Bathe me, O God, in Thee, mounting to Thee,I and my soul to range in range of Thee!Passage to more than India!O secret of the earth and sky!Of you, O waters of the sea! O winding creeks and rivers!Of you, O woods and fields! Of you, strong mountains of my land!Of you, O prairies! Of you, gray rocks!O morning red! O clouds! O rain and snows!O day and night, passage to you!O sun and moon, and all you stars! Sirius and Jupiter!Passage to you!..O my brave soul!O farther, farther sail!O daring joy, but safe! Are they not all the seas of God?O farther, farther, farther sail!(Passage to India.)