Walt Whitman and his admirers have good reason to be grateful to Mr. Ernest Rhys. A year ago he edited for the well-known series of "Canterbury Poets" a selection from Leaves of Grass for English readers; and now, in the companion "Camelot" series of which he has charge, he is reproducing Whitman's prose writings. In this way he has done more than has been attempted before to popularise these works. It is curious that the writings of the "Poet of Democracy" have had to wait so long before they were fairly laid before the democracy. Whitman's books have been expensive and scarce. Now, at length, the verdict of the people is asked, whose life and occupations he has studied and celebrated in poetry, and to whose ranks he does himself belong.
The present volume contains about one half of the work issued a few years ago with the title Specimen Days and Collect. The "Collect," with some additions, will form a companion volume. In a brief preface Whitman invites "the reader in the British Isles" to "take the following pages, as you do some long and gossipy letter written for you by a relative or friend travelling through distant scenes and incidents and jotting them down lazily and informally, but ever veraciously (with occasional diversions of critical thought about somebody or something)."
They certainly contain a curious mixture: something about his family and ancestors; notes of his experiences during the Civil War, contributed at the time they were written to the New York Times or some other newspaper; his opinion of sundry great men whom he has known personally or through their books; a little philosophy, a little science, a little criticism, and numerous occasional notes on all sorts of themes. He has immense self-assurance. His ideas and impressions, like the ideas and impressions of other people, may be very well worth noting; but other people think their readers are entitled to some consideration in the manner the writings are set before them, whereas Whitman presents his promiscuously, as who should say, "If you don't like it, you must lump it;" or rather as though he did not dream for one moment that any intelligent person could fail to like it. There are, doubtless, ardent disciples of Whitman to whom his slightest word is laden with wisdom, and who could find infinite depth of meaning in his commonest utterance. They will be delighted to learn that he thought once of calling his book "Cedar Plums like," and will admire the reasons in favour of so singular a title which weighed with him before it "got its nose put out of joint." The ordinary reader, however, finds such information insignificant.
If, however, this ordinary reader does not take offence at Whitman's unceremonious treatment of him--and there really is no good reason why he should--he will find much to instruct and much to charm him in this singular miscellany. The "familiar letter" method has advantages of its own, "portraying American eyesights and incidents as they actually occurred" with a freedom and realism which would be wanting in a more carefully prepared work.
Even persons who dislike Whitman as a writer cannot fail to honour him
for his admirable services to humanity in the hospitals during the Civil
War. The notes written at the time contain many touching records
of suffering and heroism. After the war Whitman remained in government
employ for some years until, in February 1873, he was stricken with paralysis,
and had to relinquish active life. He retired into the country, where
he wrote his nature-notes. These naturally recall the similar records
of Thoreau. Thoreau, however, was a disinterested student of nature,
whereas Whitman is always more or less concerned with the relation of nature
to himself. He breaks off his description of some fine trees stepped
from their places and promenaded up and down "very curiously, with a whisper
from one, leaning down as he passed me, ‘We do all this on the present
occasion exceptionally, just for you.'" In like manner he finishes a pretty
passage about the birds by announcing his "positive conviction that some
of these birds sing and others fly and flirt about here for my especial
benefit." There is, however, no lack of sympathetic understanding
in his intercourse with nature. He seems to include the very plants,
and animals, and sea, and sky in his "comradeship." Some of his descriptions
of natural scenery are exceedingly fine. Night and the stars have
a peculiar attraction for him:
The stimulating quality of Whitman's work is great. As Prof. Dowden
says, he may attract or repel or do "anything except leave us indifferent."
When we go to him we know at any rate that we shall hear his thought, not
an echo, and so shall receive moral inspiration and mental stimulus.
He shames us out of too ready acquiescence in usage and custom. He
seems to say Be yourself. I remarked at the beginning of this
article that Whitman and his admirers have good reason to be grateful for
these cheap editions of the poet's works. Still more should the people
of this country be grateful that such works are brought within their easy
reach.