grained humanity,
with all sorts and conditions of men, to be fastidious in his tastes. A
certain bluntness, a certain rude hardiness, a certain evenness of
disposition is absolutely necessary. We are told of Whitman by one of
his most ardent admirers that his life was "a pleased, uninterested
saunter through the world--no hurry, no fever, no strife, hence no
bitterness, no depression, no wasted energies . . . in all his tastes and
attractions always aiming to live thoroughly in the free nonchalant
spirit of the day."

Yes; this is the type of man wanted as a social pioneer, as a poet of the
people. A man who felt more acutely, for whom the world was far too
terrible a place for sauntering, would be quite unfitted for Whitman's
task. It was essential that he should have lacked deep individual
affection. Something had to be sacrificed for the work he had before
him, and we need not lament that he had no predilection for those
intimate personal ties that mean so much to some.

A man who has to speak a word of cheer to so many can ill afford to
linger with the few. He is not even concerned to convert you to his way
of thinking. He throws out a hint, a suggestion, the rest you must do
for yourself.

"I am a man who, sauntering along without fully stopping, turns a casual
look upon you, and then averts his face. Leaving you to prove and define
it. Expecting the main things from you."

Nowhere are Whitman's qualities more admirably shown than in his attitude
towards the average human being. As a rule the ordinary man is not a
person whom the Poet delights to honour. He is concerned with the
exceptional, the extraordinary type. Whitman's attitude then is of
special interest.

"I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you;
None has understood you, but I understand you;
None has done justice to you--you have not done justice to yourself.
None but has found you imperfect; I only find no imperfection in you.
None but would subordinate you; I only am he who will never consent
to subordinate you."

* * * * *

"Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure
of all;
From the head of the centre figure, spreading a nimbus of
gold-coloured light.
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of
gold-coloured light.
From My hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams
e