It was not till the following summer that Whitman’s old spirits began to return. Since his mother died he had passed three years in the valley of the shadow, and he was still lonely, sick and poor when his English friends came to his rescue.
He and his writings had been pulverised between the heavy millstones of Mr. Peter Bayne’s adjectives in the Contemporary Review for the month of December. In England, as well as in America, he had literary enemies in high places. But on the 13th of March the Daily News[559] published a long and characteristically fervid2 letter, full of generous feeling, from Mr. Robert Buchanan, who dilated3 upon the old poet’s isolation4, neglect and poverty. It aroused wide comment, and some indignation on both sides of the Atlantic, among Whitman’s friends as well as among his enemies.
[Pg 259]
That he was never deserted5 by his faithful American friends a series of articles upon his condition, published in the Springfield (Mass.) Republican, bears witness.[560] But Buchanan’s letter evoked6 new and widespread sympathy, which was the means of saving Whitman from his melancholy7 plight8. A fortnight later the Athen?um printed his short sonnet-like poem, “The Man-o’-War Bird”.
In the meantime, Mr. Rossetti, always faithful to his friend, had learned of his condition, and had written asking how best his English admirers might offer him assistance. Walt wrote in reply, stating that his savings9 were exhausted10, that he had been cheated by his New York agents, and that in consequence he was now, for the new Centennial edition, which had just appeared, his own sole publisher.[561] If any of his English friends desired to help him, they could best do so by the purchase of the book. He wrote with affectionate gratitude11, and quiet dignity. He was poor, but he was not in want.
There came, through Mr. Rossetti, an immediate12, generous and most cordial response, and in the list of English and Irish subscribers appear many illustrious names. The invalid13 revived; “both the cash and the emotional cheer,” he wrote at a later time, “were deep medicine”.[562] He could now afford to overlook the bitter and contemptuous attacks which were being made upon him by an old acquaintance in the editorials of the New York Tribune.[563] And, which was at least equally important, he could contrive14 to take a country holiday.
Picture of the Timber Creek15 pool in 1904.
TIMBER CREEK: THE POOL, 1904
About the end of April, or early in May, he drove out through the gently undulating dairy lands and the fields of young corn to the New Jersey16 hamlet of Whitehorse, some ten miles down the turnpike which leads to Atlantic City and Cape17 May.[564] A little beyond the[Pg 260] village, and close to the Reading Railroad, there still stands an old farmhouse18, then tenanted by Mr. George Stafford, and to-day the centre of a group of pleasant villas19 known as Laurel Springs.
It was here that Whitman lodged20, establishing cordial relations with the whole Stafford family, relations which added greatly to the happiness of his remaining years. He became especially attached to Mrs. Stafford, who intuitively read his moods,[565] and to her son Harry21.
A short stroll down the green lane, which is now being rapidly civilised out of that delightful22 category, brings one to a wide woody hollow, where amid the trees a long creek or stream winds down to a large mill-pool with boats and lily leaves floating upon it. Save for the boats and the people from the villas, the place has been but little changed by the quarter of a century which has elapsed since Whitman first visited it.[566] The walnut24 and the oak under which he used to sit among the meadow-grass are older trees, of course, and the former is now circled with a wooden seat; but the kecks and crickets, the shady nooks by the pool, the jewel-weed and the great-winged tawny25 butterflies are there as of old. And with them much of the old, sweet, communicative quiet.
At the creek-head, among the willows26, is a swampy27 tangle28 of mint and calamus, reeds and cresses, white boneset and orange fragile jewel-weed, and above, from its mouth in the steep bank, gushes29 the “crystal spring” whose soft, clinking murmur30 soothed31 the old man many a summer’s day.
Here, early and late, he would sit or saunter through the glinting glimmering32 lights, and here Mother-Nature took him, an orphan33, to her breast. The baby and boyhood days in the lanes and fields at West Hills, and among the woods and orchards34 came back to him and blessed him with significant memories. To outward[Pg 261] seeming an old man, and near sixty as years go, in heart he was still and always a child. And for the last three years a broken-hearted, motherless child. He had been starving to death for lack of the daily ministry35 of Love.
Picture of the Timber Creek 'Crystal Spring' and the old marl-pit, 1904.
TIMBER CREEK: “CRYSTAL SPRING” AND THE OLD MARL-PIT, 1904
At Timber Creek, by the pool and in the lanes, the touch of that all-embracing Love which pervades36 the universe was upon him. Without any effort on his part the caressing37 air and sunshine re-established the ancient relationship of love, in which of old he had been united to Nature. He would sit silent for hours, wrapt in a sort of trance, realising the mystery of the Whole, through which, as through a body, the currents of life flow and pulse. Woe38 to any one, however dear, who broke suddenly in upon his solitude39![567]
His heart went out to the tall poplars and the upright cedars40 with their tasselled fruit, and he felt virtue41 flow from them to him in return. He believed the old dryad stories, and became himself truly nympholeptic, and aware of presences in the woods. In August, 1877, he writes: “I have been almost two years, off and on, without drugs and medicines, and daily in the open air. Last summer I found a particularly secluded42 little dell off one side by my creek, originally a large dug-out marl-pit, now abandoned, filled with bushes, trees, grass, a group of willows, a straggling bank and a spring of delicious water running right through the middle of it, with two or three little cascades43. Here I retreated every hot day, and follow it up this summer. Here I realise the meaning of that old fellow who said he was seldom less alone than when alone. Never before did I come so close to Nature, never before did she come so close to me. By old habit I pencilled down from time to time almost automatically, moods, sights, hours, tints44 and outlines on the spot.”[568]
Unlike the ordinary naturalist45 he regarded the birds and trees, the dragon-flies and grey squirrels, the oak-trees and the breeze that sang among their leaves, as[Pg 262] spirits; strange, but kindred with his own, members together with his of a transcendental life; and he communed with them. Something, he felt sure, they interchanged; something passed between them.
Their mystical fellowship had its ritual, as have all religions. The place was sacred, and he did off, not only his shoes, but all his raiment, giving back himself to naked Mother-Nature, naked as he was born of her. In the solitude, among the bare-limbed gracious trees and the clear-flowing water, he enjoyed many a sun-bath, and on hot summer days, in his bird-haunted nook, many a bathing in the spring; many a wrestle46, too, with strong young hickory sapling or beech47 bough48, conscious, as they wrestled49 together, of new life flowing into his veins50.[569]
Whatever ignorance of names his Washington acquaintance may have discovered,[570] his diary at this time is full of nature-lore. It enumerates51 some forty kinds of birds, and he was evidently familiar with nearly as many sorts of trees and shrubs52; while differentiating53 accurately54 enough between the sundry55 trilling insects, locusts56, grasshoppers57, crickets and katydids which populate the district, vibrant58 by day and night. Doubtless he had learnt much from the companionship of John Burroughs, but he was himself an accurate observer.
The story of his visits to Timber Creek and its vicinity from 1876 to 1882 is told in Specimen59 Days, with much else beside—a book to carry with one on any holiday, or to make a holiday in the midst of city work. It is, for the rest, an admirable illustration of the saying of the philosopher-emperor, that virtue is a living and enthusiastic sympathy with Nature.[571]
Three years of gradual convalescence60 were divided not only between the Stafford’s farm and the house on Stevens Street, but also with the homes of other friends whose love now began to enrich his life.[572] Of three of the most notable among his new comrades we must speak[Pg 263] in passing. In the autumn of 1876 Anne Gilchrist took a house in Philadelphia, while in the following summer Dr. Bucke and Mr. Edward Carpenter came to Camden on pilgrimage.
Whitman often said in his later years that his best friends had been women, and that of his women friends Mrs. Gilchrist was the nearest. She was an Essex girl of good family, nine years younger than Whitman.[573] At school she had loved Emerson, Rousseau, Comte and Ruskin, and a little later she added to them the writings of Carlyle, Guyot and Herbert Spencer. Music and science, with the philosophical61 suggestions which spring from the discoveries of science, were her chief interests.
At twenty-three she married Alexander Gilchrist, an art-critic and interpreter. It was a wholly happy marriage; Anne became the mother of four children, and, beside being deeply interested in her husband’s work, contrived62 to contribute scientific articles to the magazines.
While compiling his well-known Life of Blake, Mr. Gilchrist fell a victim to scarlet63 fever. His widow, with her four young children and the uncompleted book, removed to a cottage in the country, and there, with the encouragement and help of the Rossetti brothers, she finished her husband’s task. Her life was now, as she said, “up hill all the way,” but the book helped her. And her close study of Blake, added to her scientific interests and her love of music, formed the finest possible introduction to her subsequent reading of Whitman.
Her task was concluded in 1863; it had tided her over the first two years of her bereavement64; but her letters of sympathy to Dante Rossetti, heart-broken at the loss of his young wife, discover her gnawing65 sorrow yet undulled by time. Like Whitman, she had the capacity for great suffering. And like Whitman, too, she was helped in her sorrow by the companionship of Nature. And, again, she was a good comrade.
[Pg 264]
Unlike her grandmother, who was one of Romney’s beauties, Anne Gilchrist was not a handsome woman; but her personality was both vivid and profound, and increasingly attractive as the years passed. She was so serious and eager in temperament66 that, even in London, she lived in comparative retirement67.
The letters which she exchanged with the Rossettis during a long period are evidence both of her common-sense and her capacity for passionate68 sympathy. They are often as frank as they are noble; revealing a nature too profound to be continually considerate of criticism. This gives to some of her utterances69 a half na?ve and wholly charming quality, which cannot have been absent from her personality, and must have endeared her to the comrades whom she honoured with her confidence.
This high seriousness of hers made her the readier to appreciate a poet who, almost alone among Americans, has bared his man’s heart to his readers, careless of the cheap ridicule70 of those smart-witted cynics whom modern education and modern morality have multiplied till they are almost as numerous as the sands of the sea. She was a little more than forty when she first read Leaves of Grass and wrote those letters to W. M. Rossetti in which she attested71 her appreciation72 of their purpose and power.[574]
It was no light thing for a woman to publish such a declaration of faith; and in her own phrase,[575] she felt herself a second Lady Godiva, going in the daylight down the public way, naked, not in body but in soul, for the good cause. She was convinced that her ride was necessary; for men would remain blind to the glory of Whitman’s message until a woman dared the shame and held its glory up to them. And what she did, she did less for men than for their wives and mothers, upon whom the shadow of their shame-in-themselves had fallen.
Mr. Rossetti has described[576] her as a woman of good port, in fullest possession of herself, never fidgetty, and[Pg 265] never taken unawares; warm-hearted and courageous73, with full, dark, liquid eyes, which were at the same time alive with humour and vivacity74, quick to detect every kind of humbug75, but wholly free from cynicism. Her face was not only expressive76 of her character, but “full charged with some message” which her lips seemed ever about to utter. Her considerable intellectual force was in happy harmony with her domestic qualities, and filled her home-life with interest.
Such was the woman who, in November, 1876, at the age of forty-eight, brought her family to Philadelphia, in order that one of the daughters might study medicine at Girard College; and in whose home, near the college grounds, Whitman henceforward, for two or three years,[577] spent a considerable part of his time. The relationship of these two noble souls seems to have been comparable with that which united Michael Angelo and Vittoria Colonna, and they were at a similar time of life.
This, the Centennial year, was filled with thoughts and celebrations of American independence; among which we may recall the Exposition in Philadelphia—where throughout the summer, Whitman had been a frequent visitor—and the Centennial edition of his works. He had also celebrated77 the occasion by sitting for his bust78 to a young sculptor79, in an improvised80 studio on Chestnut81 Street. The weather was too hot for a coat; and in his white shirt sleeves he would, at the artist’s request, read his poems aloud with na?ve delight, which rose to a climax82 when the sound of applause from a group of young fellows on the stairs without, crowned his efforts. “So you like it, do you?” he cried to them; “well, I rather enjoyed that myself.”[578]
The old sad and solitary83 inertia84 was broken. Ill though he often was, the lonely little upper room held him no longer; nor was he any more shut up within the sense of bereavement. Jeff had come over from St. Louis, and his two daughters spent the autumn with[Pg 266] their aunt and uncles in Stevens Street. All through the winter Walt was moving back and forward between George’s house, the Staffords farm, and Mrs. Gilchrist’s. He was cheerfully busy with the orders for his pair of handsome books, which were selling briskly at a guinea a volume.
Leaves of Grass had been reprinted from the plates of the fifth edition. Its companion, Two Rivulets85, was a “mélange” compounded of additional poems, including “Passage to India,” and the prose writings of which we have already spoken, printed at various times during the last five years. “Specimen Days” was not among them, and did not appear till 1882. The title Two Rivulets suggests the double thread of its theme, the destiny of the nation and of the individual, American politics and that mystery of immortal86 life which we call death. They were not far asunder87 in Whitman’s thought.[579]
At the end of February, Mr. Burroughs met Walt at Mrs. Gilchrist’s, and thence they set out together for New York. Here, Whitman stayed with his new and dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. J. H. Johnston;[580] and presented himself in his own becoming garb88 at the grand full-dress receptions which were held in his honour; the applause which greeted him, and the atmosphere of real affection by which he was surrounded, compensating89 him for the always distasteful attentions of a lionising public, eager for any sensation.
He renewed also, and with perhaps more unmitigated satisfaction, his acquaintance with the men on the East River ferries, and the Broadway stages; and, finally, he ascended90 the Hudson to stay awhile with John Burroughs. This pleasant holiday jaunt91 was not without its tragic92 element; his friend, Mrs. Johnston, dying suddenly on his last evening in New York.
It was in May that Mr. Edward Carpenter visited him in Camden. After a brilliant Cambridge career, he was now a pioneer University Extension lecturer in[Pg 267] natural sciences. But besides, or rather beyond this, a poet, in whom the sense of fellowship and unity94 was already becoming dominant95.
Picture of Edward Carpenter at forty-three.
EDWARD CARPENTER AT FORTY-THREE
In a note to his just-published preface, Whitman had spoken of the “terrible, irrepressible yearning”[581] for sympathy which underlay96 his work, and by which he claimed the personal affection of such readers as he could truly call his own. This also was the aim which underlay Mr. Carpenter’s first book of verses, Narcissus and Other Poems, published in 1873.[582]
Their author was already familiar with Leaves of Grass, which he had first read at about the age of twenty-five, and which he had since been absorbing, much as he absorbed the sonatas97 of Beethoven. They fed within him the life of something which was still but dimly conscious; something dumb, blind and irrational98, but of titanic99 power to disturb the even tenor100 of an academic life. One remarks that both Mrs. Gilchrist and he shared to the full the modern feeling for science and its philosophy, and for music.
When he visited Whitman, Edward Carpenter was thirty-three; it was not till four years after this that he gave himself up to the writing of his own “Leaves,” coming into his spiritual kingdom a little later in life than did Walt. In many respects his nature, and consequently his work which is the outcome and true expression of his personality, was in striking contrast with that of his great old friend. Lithe101 and slender in figure, he was subtle also and fine in the whole temper of his mind; sharing with Addington Symonds that tendency to over-fineness, that touch of morbid102 subtilty which demands for its balance a very sweet and strenuous103 soul, such indeed, as is revealed in the pages of Towards Democracy.
He found Whitman’s mind clear and unclouded after the suffering of the last four years, his perception keen[Pg 268] as ever.[583] Courteous105, and possessed106 of great personal charm, he was yet elemental and “Adamic” in character. He impressed his visitor with a threefold personality: first, the magnetic, effluent, radiant spirit of the man going out to greet and embrace all; then, the spacious107 breadth of his soul, and the remoteness of those further portions in which his consciousness seemed often to be dwelling108; and afterwards, the terrible majesty109, as of judgment110 unveiled in him, a Jove-like presence full of thunder.
This last element in his nature was naked, ominous111, immovable as a granite112 rock. When once you perceived it, there was, as Miss Gilchrist has remarked,[584] no shelter from the terrible blaze of his personality. But this rocky masculine Ego23 was wedded113 in him with a gentle almost motherly affection, which found expression in certain caressing tones of his widely modulated114 voice. While, to complete alike the masculine and feminine, was the child—the attitude of reverent115 wonder toward the world.
By turns then, a wistful child, a charming loving woman, an untamed terrible truth-compelling man, Whitman seems to have both bewitched and baffled his young English visitor.
Mr. Carpenter saw him at Stevens Street and Timber Creek, and again under Mrs. Gilchrist’s hospitable116 roof. They sat out together in the pleasant Philadelphia fashion through the warm June evenings upon the porch steps; and Walt would talk in his deliberate way of Japan and China, or of the Eastern literatures. He liked to join hands while he talked, communicating more, perhaps, of himself, and understanding his companion better, by touch than by words. His mere117 presence was sufficient to redeem118 the commonplace.
His visitor had also an opportunity of noting the efficiency of Whitman’s defences against the globe-trotting interview-hunting type of American woman. His silence became aggressive, and her words rebounded[Pg 269] from it; he had disappeared into his rock-faced solitude where nothing could reach him. And a very few moments of this treatment sufficed, even for the brazen-armoured amazon.
During Mr. Carpenter’s visit, Mrs. George Whitman, whom Dr. Bucke has described as an attractive, sweet woman, was out of health, and her brother-in-law made a daily excursion down town and across the ferry to see her, and to transact119 his own affairs. In the heat of the following July she first opened the door to Dr. Bucke.[585]
He, too, had long been a student of Leaves of Grass, a student at first against his own judgment, and with little result beyond an annoying bewilderment to his sense of fitness, and of exasperation120 to his intelligence. But from the first, he felt a singular interior compulsion to read the book, which he could not at all understand. Its lack of all definite statement was the head and front of its offending to a keen scientific mind. But now after many years, he had come to recognise the extraordinary power of suggestion which was embodied121 in every page.
Dr. R. Maurice Bucke’s personality was strongly marked and striking; he had as much determination as had Whitman himself, and his whole face is full of resolute122 purpose.
Born in Norfolk, in 1837, but immediately transplanted to Canada, he was thoroughly123 educated by his father, who was a man of considerable scholarship and a minister in the Church of England.
In 1857, he crowned an adventurous124 youth passed in the mining regions of the Western States, by a daring winter expedition over the Sierras, in which he was so badly frozen that he afterwards lost both feet, but his tall and vigorous figure showed hardly a trace of this misfortune.
Returning to Canada, he studied medicine; and[Pg 270] eventually, in 1877, became the head of a large insane asylum125 at London, Ontario. Here he introduced several notable reforms in the treatment of the patients, which were widely imitated throughout America.
He was a keen student of mental pathology, and for some time before his death was reckoned among the leading alienists of the continent. Certain interesting and suggestive studies of the relation which appears to exist between the so-called sympathetic nervous system and the moral and emotional nature, but especially his magnum opus, Cosmic Consciousness, published the year before his death (1901), reveal the direction of his dominant interest. From 1877, he was one of Whitman’s closest friends, and became subsequently his principal biographer.[586]
In the printed recollections of his first interview with Whitman,[587] Dr. Bucke recalls the exaltation of his mind produced by it; describing it as a “sort of spiritual intoxication,” which remained with him for months, transfiguring his new friend into more than mortal stature126. It is another instance of the almost incredible power of the invalid’s personality.
Picture of Richard Maurice Bucke.
RICHARD MAURICE BUCKE
Whitman’s own jottings and records of the period testify to his increasing physical vigour127. He goes, for instance, to the Walnut Street Theatre, to a performance of Joaquin Miller’s The Danites, accompanied by his friend the author.[588] In the summer of 1878, and in the succeeding year, he is again a guest both of John Burroughs and of J. H. Johnston.[589] On the second occasion, he had delivered his lecture on the “Death of Lincoln” in the Steck Hall, New York; promising128 himself anew, that if health permitted, he would even now set forth129 on the lecture tour which he had so long contemplated130.[590] But though, in the autumn, he made, with several friends, an extended tour of some sixteen weeks[Pg 271] beyond the Mississippi, he did not accomplish this cherished scheme.
At night on the 10th of September, Whitman and his party left Philadelphia, westward131 bound. Walt delighted in the magic speed and comfort of the Pullman;[591] in which, lying awake among the sleepers132, he was whirled all through the first night up the broad pastoral valley of the Susquehanna, curving with its thousand reedy aits about thick-wooded steeps; and on, over ridge93 and ridge of the Alleghanies, till morning found them at smoking Pittsburg.
Crossing the Ohio, almost at the point whence he had descended133 it thirty years before on that fateful southern journey, the good engine, the Baldwin, hurried them all that day through rich and populous134 Ohio and Indiana. Whitman was not disinclined to acknowledge a personality in the fierce and beautiful locomotive which he had already celebrated in a poem full of fire and of the modern spirit.[592]
They were due next morning at St. Louis, but about nightfall their headlong flight through the broad lands was arrested. The Baldwin ran foul135 of some obstacle, and suffered serious damage and consequent delay. Spending the third night in the city, they continued through a beautiful autumn day, across the rolling prairies of Missouri, feasting their eyes upon the wide farmlands full of the promise of bread for millions of men.
Nor material bread only. There is something in the vast aerial spaces of these prairie states, their great skies and lonely stretches, which exalts136 and feeds the soul; something oceanic, Whitman thought, “and beautiful as dreams”.[593] Central in the continent, this country had always seemed to him to correspond with certain central qualities in his ideal America, and to supply the background for the two men whose figures stood out supremely137 above the struggle for the union, Lincoln[Pg 272] and Grant—men of unplumbed and inarticulate depths of character, and of native freedom of spirit and elemental originality138 of thought.
Whitman stayed for a while with friends upon the road, at Lawrence and Topeka. Many of the boys he had tended in the wards104 were now hale men out West, and they were always eager for sight of him; so that there were few places in America where he would not have found a hearty139 welcome.
He proceeded along the yellow Kansas River, through the Golden Belt, and over the Colorado table-lands, bare and vast as some immense Salisbury Plain, to Denver. In that young city he spent several days, dreaming his great dreams of a Western town that should be full of friends and strong for and against the whole world, breathing her fine air, sparkling as champagne140 and clear as cold spring water; falling in love with her people and her horses, and the little mountain streams which ran along the channel ways of her broad streets.
Thence, he made short trips into the Rockies; where the railroad winds among fantastic yellow buttes with steep sloping screes, and towering battlements; and the trains swing eagerly round a thousand curves to follow the bronze and amber141 path-finder, brawling142 in its sinuous143 ravine between the pinnacled144, red, cloud-topped crags which it has carved and sundered145.
Every break in the walls disclosed Olympian companies of august peaks against the high blue. Gradually the way would climb to the summit, its straightness widening, here and there, into sedgy mountain meadows closed about by keen-cut granite heights, the perfect record of laborious146 ages; and as the day advanced, the broad and restful light broadened and grew more serene147 as it shone afar on chains of snowy peaks.
Here in this tremendous mountain fellowship, with its shapes at once fantastic and sublime148, its solemn joy and wild imagination, its infinite complex of form and colour suggesting vast emotions to the soul, Walt breathed his proper air and recognised the landscape of his deepest life. “I have found the law of my own[Pg 273] poems,” he kept saying to himself with increasing conviction, hour after hour.[594] Like the lonely mountain eagle which he watched wheeling leisurely149 among the peaks, he was at home in this sternly beautiful, untamed, unmeasured land.
Towards the end of September, he turned East again from the mining town of Pueblo150; leaving the Far West unseen[595]—Utah with its Canaanitish glories of intense lake and naked, ruddy, wrinkled mountains; the great grey desert of Nevada; and the forest-clad Sierras looking out across their Californian garden towards the Pacific. Stopping here and there with his former friends, he found his way to Jefferson Whitman’s home in St. Louis, and there remained over the year’s end.
This cosmopolitan151 Western city,[596] planted in the centre of that vast valley which the Mississippi drains and waters, and at the heart of the American continent, was intensely interesting to Whitman. He had an almost superstitious152 love for “the Father of Waters”; and many a moonlit autumn night he haunted its banks, its wharves153 and bridges, fascinated by the sound of the moving water as the river flowed through the luminous154 silence under the eternal stars.
Physically155, St. Louis did not suit him: he was ill there for weeks together; but even so, he was happy in his own simple, human way. He went twice a week to the kindergartens, and there, for an hour together, he entertained the younger pupils with his funny children’s tales.[597] After the first moments of strangeness, and alarm at his size and the whiteness of his hair, nearly all the children quickly came to love old “Kris Kringle” or “Father Christmas” as they would call him;[598] and for his part, he was as happy among little children as a young mother.
Early in January, 1880, he returned home. All his delight in the West, gathered on his first journey up the Mississippi thirty years before, and since accumulating[Pg 274] from many sources, notably156 from the young Western soldiers he had nursed, had been confirmed by this visit.
In only one thing was he disappointed. The men had seemed, to his searching gaze, fit sons of that new land of possibility; but in the women he had failed to find the qualifications he was seeking.[599] Physically and mentally, he saw them still in bondage157 to old-world traditions; instead of originating nobler and more generous manners, they were imitating the foolish gentility of the East. Whitman was very exacting158 in his ideal of womanhood; and perhaps it was mainly upon the ladies of the shops and streets that his strictures were passed; for there are others in that Western world, who are not far from her whom he has described in the “Song of the Broad-axe”—the best-beloved, possessed of herself, who is strong in her beauty as are the laws of nature.[600]
After six months at home among his books and his friends—to whom at this time he added, at least by correspondence, Colonel Robert Ingersoll, afterwards a member of the inner circle—Whitman set out upon another journey, in length almost equal to that of the preceding autumn. Early in June,[601] he crossed the bridge over Niagara on his way to London, Ontario; and now at his second sight, the significance of that majestic159 scene, which thirty years before he would seem to have missed, was discovered to him.
Staying with Dr. Bucke, he made frequent visits to the great asylum, with its thousand patients, under the wise doctor’s care. Walt’s own family life, with the tragedy of his youngest brother’s incapacity, had made the melancholy brotherhood160 of those whom he has beautifully described as the “sacred idiots”[602] especially interesting to him. He attended the religious services[Pg 275] held in the asylum; joining with those wrecked161 minds in a common worship, and seeing the storms of their lives strangely quieted, as though a Divine love, brooding over all, had hushed them.[603] With many of the patients he became personally acquainted, and years afterwards recalled them by name, inquiring affectionately after their welfare.
Whitman was in better health than usual, and in excellent spirits. He loved the doctor, was happy and at home in his household, and on the best of terms with its younger members. Among the latter, his presence never checked the natural flow of high spirits, as does the presence of most grown-up persons: he was always one of themselves.
This, indeed, was a characteristic of Whitman in whatever company he was found, from a kindergarten to a company of “publicans and sinners”. The spirit of comradeship identified him with the others, and he was so profoundly himself that such identification took nothing away from his own identity. Among the young people of Dr. Bucke’s household his fun and humour had free and natural expression; as when, for example, one moonlit evening, he undertook the burial of an empty wine-bottle, addressing a magniloquent oration162 over its last resting-place to the goddess Semele.
He loved to linger at the table, telling stories after tea; and to recite or read aloud, when the family sat together in the dusk on the verandah; and sometimes, too, he would take his turn in singing some well-known song. For reading aloud, he would often choose some poem of Tennyson’s—“Ulysses” seems to have been his favourite.
At this time also, in a secluded nook in the grounds, he read leisurely over to himself, with the satisfaction which Tennyson’s work nearly always gave him, the newly published De Profundis.[604] His diary of these pleasant, refreshing163 weeks contains many notes of the thick-starred heavens and the merry birds, and the[Pg 276] multitudinous swallows, which would recall to his well-stored mind the story of Athene and Ulysses’ return.[605]
His vital force seemed to be almost unimpaired. The noble calm of his presence, indeed, made him appear even older than he was; his fine hair was snowy white, and the high-domed crown which rose through it and grew higher and nobler with every year, gave him all claims to reverence164.[606]
But, though at first sight he seemed to be nearer eighty than sixty years old, and though he was lame165 from paralysis166, a second glance showed him erect167 and without a line of care or of senility upon his face. His complexion168 was rosy169 as a winter pippin, and his cheeks were full and smooth, for his heart was always young.
His host wished to show him Canada; in which country he was the more deeply interested through his settled conviction that it would presently become a part of the United States. The St. Lawrence and the Lakes, he always said, cannot remain a frontier-line; they are and should be recognised as a magnificent inland water-way, comparable with the Mississippi.
Towards the end of July[607] he set out upon this great road with his friend. Taking boat at Toronto, they descended by easy stages, stopping a night or two at Kingston, Montreal and Quebec, Whitman thoroughly enjoying all the new scenes and making friends everywhere on the way. He sat on the fore-deck in the August sunshine, wrapped in his grey overcoat, wondering at the grim pagan wildness of the lower St. Lawrence, nightly watching the Northern Lights, and appearing on deck before sunrise.
Picture of Walt Whitman at sixty-one, July 1880.
WHITMAN AT SIXTY-ONE, JULY, 1880
As they turned up the deep dark Saguenay and reached the mountain pillars of Eternity171 and Trinity, the mystery of northern river and height, with all they hold of stillness and of storm, communed with him. He saw infinite power wedded with an ageless peace; and all, however awful in its sublimity172, yet far from[Pg 277] inhospitable to an heroic race of men; nay170, by its very awfulness, inviting173 and proclaiming the men who shall dare to dwell therein.
With the people of Canada, as a whole, he was well pleased. He liked their benevolent174 care for the weak and infirm in body and mind; and thought them in every respect worthy175 of the destiny which he believed that he foresaw—the destiny of citizenship176 in the Republic.
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1
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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2
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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3
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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5
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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6
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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7
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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8
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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9
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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10
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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11
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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12
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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13
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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14
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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15
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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16
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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17
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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18
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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19
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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20
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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21
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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22
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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23
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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24
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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25
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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26
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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27
swampy
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| adj.沼泽的，湿地的 | |
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28
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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29
gushes
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| n.涌出，迸发( gush的名词复数 )v.喷，涌( gush的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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30
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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31
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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32
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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33
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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34
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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35
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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36
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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37
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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38
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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39
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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40
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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41
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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42
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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43
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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44
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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45
naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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46
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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47
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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48
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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49
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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50
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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51
enumerates
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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52
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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53
differentiating
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| [计] 微分的 | |
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54
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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55
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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56
locusts
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| n.蝗虫( locust的名词复数 )；贪吃的人；破坏者；槐树 | |
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57
grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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58
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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59
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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60
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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61
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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62
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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63
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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64
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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65
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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66
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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67
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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68
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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69
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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70
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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71
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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72
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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73
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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74
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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75
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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76
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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77
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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78
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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80
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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81
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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82
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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83
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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86
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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87
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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89
compensating
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| 补偿，补助，修正 | |
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90
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jaunt
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| v.短程旅游；n.游览 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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93
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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96
underlay
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的过去式 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起n.衬垫物 | |
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sonatas
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| n.奏鸣曲( sonata的名词复数 ) | |
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98
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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101
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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103
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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104
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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105
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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106
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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107
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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108
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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109
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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110
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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111
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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112
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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113
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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115
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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116
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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117
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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118
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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119
transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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120
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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121
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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122
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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123
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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124
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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exalts
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| 赞扬( exalt的第三人称单数 )； 歌颂； 提升； 提拔 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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pinnacled
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| 小尖塔般耸立的，顶处的 | |
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sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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pueblo
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| n.（美国西南部或墨西哥等）印第安人的村庄 | |
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cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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citizenship
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| n.市民权，公民权，国民的义务(身份) | |
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