that money-getting is the whole
business of man. Rather am I convinced that the world is approaching a
poetical revolution. The subtle evolution of thought must yet be
expressed in song. Poetry is the language of universal sentiment.
Torch of the unresting mind, she kindles in advance of all progress.
Her waitings are on the threshold of the infinite, where, beckoning
man to listen, she interprets the leaves of immortality. Her voice is
the voice of Eternity dwelling in all great souls. Her aims are the
inducements of heaven, and her triumphs the survival of the Beautiful,
the True, and the Good. In her language there is no mistaking of that
liberal thought which is the health of mind. A secret interpreter, she
waits not for data, phenomena, and manifestations, but anticipates and
spells the wishes of Heaven."

The work of Whitman himself is exceedingly baffling. It is to his
credit that something about his work at once commands judgment by the
highest standards. If we consider it on this basis, we find that it is
diffuse, exhibits many lapses in taste, is faulty metrically, as if
done in haste, and shows imitation on every hand. It imitates
Whittier, Longfellow and Tennyson; Scott, Byron and Moore. _The Old
Sac Village_ and _Nanawawa's Suitors_ are very evidently _Hiawatha_
over again, and _Custer's Last Ride_ is simply another version of _The
Charge of the Light Brigade_. And yet, whenever one has about decided
that Whitman is not worthy of consideration, the poet insists on a
revision of judgment; and he certainly could not have imitated so many
writers so readily, if he had not had some solid basis in
appreciation. The fact is that he shows a decided faculty for brisk,
though not sustained, narration. This may be seen in _The House of the
Aylors_. He has, moreover, a romantic lavishness of description that
in spite of all technical faults still has some degree of merit. The
following quotations, taken respectively from _The Mowers_ and _The
Flight of Leeona_, with all their extravagance, will exemplify both
his weakness and his strength in description:

The tall forests swim in a crimson sea,
Out of whose bright depths rising silently,
Great golden spires shoot into the skies,
Among the isles of cloudland high, that rise,
Float, scatter, burst, drift off, and slowly fade,
Deep in the twilight, shade succeeding shade.

* * * * *

And now she turns