Masters of Poetry - Walt Whitman. August Nemo

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      Sometimes I define Whitman to myself as the poet of the open air,—not because he sings the praises of these things after the manner of the so-called nature-poets, but because he has the quality of things in the open air, the quality of the unhoused, the untamed, the elemental and aboriginal. He pleases and he offends, the same way things at large do. He has the brawn, the indifference, the rudeness, the virility, the coarseness,—something gray, unpronounced, elemental, about him, the effect of mass, size, distance, flowing, vanishing lines, neutral spaces,—something informal, multitudinous, and processional,—something regardless of criticism, that makes no bid for our applause, not calculated instantly to please, unmindful of details, prosaic if we make it so, common, near at hand, and yet that provokes thought and stirs our emotions in an unusual degree. The long lists and catalogues of objects and scenes in Whitman, that have so excited the mirth of the critics, are one phase of his out-of-doors character,—a multitude of concrete objects, a grove, a thicket, a field, a stretch of beach,—every object sharply defined, but no attempt at logical or artistic sequence, the effect of the whole informal, multitudinous. It may be objected to these pages that they consist of a mass of details that do not make a picture. But every line is a picture of a scene or an object. Whitman always keeps up the movement, he never pauses to describe; it is all action.

      Passing from such a poet as Tennyson to Whitman is like going from a warm, perfumed interior, with rich hangings, pictures, books, statuary, fine men and women, out into the street, or upon the beach, or upon the hill, or under the midnight stars. We lose something certainly, but do we not gain something also? Do we not gain just what Whitman had in view, namely, direct contact with the elements in which are the sources of our life and health? Do we not gain in scope and power what we lose in art and refinement?

      The title, "Leaves of Grass," is full of meaning. What self-knowledge and self-scrutiny it implies! The grass, perennial sprouting, universal, formless, common, the always spread feast of the herds, dotted with flowers, the herbage of the earth, so suggestive of the multitudinous, loosely aggregated, unelaborated character of the book; the lines springing directly out of the personality of the poet, the soil of his life.

      "What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest is me,"

      says the poet, and this turns out to be the case. We only look to see if in the common and the cheap he discloses new values and new meanings,—if his leaves of grass have the old freshness and nutriment, and be not a mere painted greenness.

      "The pure contralto sings in the organ loft,

      The carpenter dresses his plank—the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp,

      The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner,

      The pilot seizes the king-pin—he heaves down with a strong arm,

      The mate stands braced in the whale-boat—lance and harpoon are ready,

      The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,

      The deacons are ordained with crossed hands at the altar,

      The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel,

      The farmer stops by the bars, as he walks on a First Day loafe, and looks at the oats and rye,

      The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum, a confirmed case,

      He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bedroom;

      The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,

      He turns his quid of tobacco, while his eyes blurr with the manuscript;

      The malformed limbs are tied to the anatomist's table,

      What is removed drops horribly in a pail;

      The quadroon girl is sold at the stand—the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove,

      The machinist rolls up his sleeves—the policeman travels his beat—the gate-keeper marks who pass,

      The young fellow drives the express-wagon—I love him, though I do not know him,

      The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,

      The western turkey-shooting draws old and young—some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs,

      Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece;

      The groups of newly-come emigrants cover the wharf or levee,

      As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle,

      The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other,

      The youth lies awake in the cedar-roofed garret, and harks to the musical rain,

      The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,

      The reformer ascends the platform, he spouts with his mouth and nose,

      ········

      Seasons pursuing each other, the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, and the winter-grain falls in the ground,

      Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in the frozen surface,

      The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe,

      Flatboatmen make fast, towards dusk, near the cotton-wood or pekan-trees,

      Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red River, or through those drained by the Tennessee, or through

      those of the Arkansas,

      Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or Altamahaw,

      Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons around them,

      In walls of adobe, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day's sport,

      The city sleeps and the country sleeps,

      The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time,

      The old husband sleeps by his wife, and the young husband sleeps by his wife;

      And these one and all tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,

      And such as it is to be of these, more or less, I am."

      What is this but tufts and tussocks of grass; not branching trees, nor yet something framed and deftly put together, but a succession of simple things, objects, actions, persons; handfuls of native growths, a stretch of prairie or savanna; no composition, no artistic wholes, no logical sequence, yet all vital and real; jets of warm life that shoot and play over the surface of contemporary America, and that the poet uses as the stuff out of which to weave the song of himself.

      This simple aggregating or cataloguing style as it has been called, and which often occurs in the "Leaves," has been much criticised, but it seems to me in perfect keeping in a work that does not aim at total artistic effects, at finished structural perfection like architecture, but to picture the elements of a man's life and character in outward scenes and objects СКАЧАТЬ