But there they all slumber and take their rest in
the middle of God's beautiful and wonderful universe; the drowsy heads
have nodded together in the same position since first their fathers fell
asleep; and not even the sound of the last trumpet can wake them to a
single active thought. The poet has a hard task before him to stir up
such fellows to a sense of their own and other people's principles in
life. And it happens that literature is, in some ways, but an indifferent
means to such an end. Language is but a poor bull's-eye lantern
wherewith to show off the vast cathedral of the world; and yet a
particular thing once said in words is so definite and memorable, that
it makes us forget the absence of the many which remain unexpressed;
like a bright window in a distant view, which dazzles and confuses our
sight of its surroundings. There are not words enough in all Shakespeare
to express the merest fraction of a man's experience in an hour. The
speed of the eyesight and the hearing, and the continual industry of the
mind, produce, in ten minutes, what it would require a laborious volume
to shadow forth by comparisons and roundabout approaches. If verbal
logic were sufficient, life would be as plain sailing as a piece of
Euclid. But, as a matter of fact, we make a travesty of the simplest
process of thought when we put it into words; for the words are all
coloured and forsworn, apply inaccurately, and bring with them, from
former uses, ideas of praise and blame that have nothing to do with the
question in hand. So we must always see to it nearly, that we judge by
the realities of life and not by the partial terms that represent them
in man's speech; and at times of choice, we must leave words upon one
side, and act upon those brute convictions, unexpressed and perhaps
inexpressible, which cannot be flourished in an argument, but which are
truly the sum and fruit of our experience. Words are for communication,
not for judgment. This is what every thoughtful man knows for himself,
for only fools and silly schoolmasters push definitions over far into
the domain of conduct; and the majority of women, not learned in these
scholastic refinements, live all-of-a-piece and unconsciously, as a tree
grows, without caring to put a name upon their acts or motives. Hence, a
new difficulty for Whitman's scrupulous and argumentative poet: he must
do more than waken up the sleepers to his words; he must persuade them
to look over the book and at life with their own eyes. This side of truth is very present to Whitman; it is this that he means
when he tells us that "To glance with an eye confounds the learning of
all times." But he is not unready. He is never weary of descanting on
the undebatable conviction that is forced upon our minds by the presence
of other men, of animals, or of inanimate things. To glance with an eye,
were it only at a chair or a park railing, is by far a more persuasive
process, and brings us to a far more exact conclusion than to read the
works of all the logicians extant. If both, by a large allowance, may be
said to end in certainty, the certainty in the one case transcends the
other to an incalculable degree. If people see a lion, they run away; if
they only apprehend a deduction, they keep wandering around in an
experimental humour. Now, how is the poet to convince like nature, and
not like books? Is there no actual piece of nature that he can show the
man to his face, as he might show him a tree if they were walking
together? Yes, there is one: the man's own thoughts. In fact, if the
poet is to speak efficaciously, he must say what is already in his
hearer's mind. That, alone, the hearer will believe; that, alone, he
will be able to apply intelligently to the facts of life. Any
conviction, even if it be a whole system or a whole religion, must pass
into the condition of commonplace, or postulate, before it becomes fully
operative. Strange excursions and high-flying theories may interest, but
they cannot rule behaviour. Our faith is not the highest truth that we
perceive, but the highest that we have been able to assimilate into the
very texture and method of our thinking. It is not, therefore, by
flashing before a man's eyes the weapons of dialectic; it is not by
induction, deduction, or construction; it is not by forcing him on from
one stage of reasoning to another, that the man will be effectually
renewed. He cannot be made to believe anything; but he can be made to
see that he has always believed it. And this is the practical canon. It
is when the reader cries, "Oh, I know!" and is, perhaps, half irritated
to see how nearly the author has forestalled his own thoughts, that he
is on the way to what is called in theology a Saving Faith. Here we have the key to Whitman's attitude. To give a certain unity of
ideal to the average population of America--to gather their activities
about some conception of humanity that shall be central and normal, if
only for the moment--the poet must portray that population as it is. Like human law, human poetry is simply declaratory. If any ideal is
possible, it must be already in the thoughts of the people; and, by the
same reason, in the thoughts of the poet, who is one of them. And hence
Whitman's own formula: "The poet is individual--he is complete in
himself: the others are as good as he; only he sees it, and they do
not." To show them how good they are, the poet must study his
fellow-countrymen and himself somewhat like a traveller on the hunt for
his book of travels. There is a sense, of course, in which all true
books are books of travel; and all genuine poets must run the risk of
being charged with the traveller's exaggeration; for to whom are such
books more surprising than to those whose own life is faithfully and
smartly pictured? But this danger is all upon one side; and you may
judiciously flatter the portrait without any likelihood of the sitter's
disowning it for a faithful likeness. And so Whitman has reasoned: that
by drawing at first-hand from himself and his neighbours, accepting
without shame the inconsistencies and brutalities that go to make up
man, and yet treating the whole in a high, magnanimous spirit, he would
make sure of belief, and at the same time encourage people forward by
the means of praise. II

We are accustomed nowadays to a great deal of puling over the
circumstances in which we are placed. The great refinement of many
poetical gentlemen has rendered them practically unfit for the jostling
and ugliness of life, and they record their unfitness at considerable
length. The bold and awful poetry of Job's complaint produces too many
flimsy imitators; for there is always something consolatory in grandeur,
but the symphony transposed for the piano becomes hysterically sad. This
literature of woe, as Whitman calls it, this _Maladie de René_, as we
like to call it in Europe, is in many ways a most humiliating and sickly
phenomenon.