knocked sometimes out of all shape in order to wrest from it some creed or ethical teaching. And as the particular message usually happens to be something that especially appeals to the seeker, the number of conflicting messages wrung from the unfortunate literary artist are somewhat disconcerting.
But in Whitman’s case the task of the message hunter is quite simple. Whitman never leaves us in doubt what he believes in, and what ideas he wishes to propagate. It is of course easy—perhaps inevitable—that with a writer whose method it is to hint, suggest, indicate, rather than formulate, elaborate, codify, the student should read in more than was intended. And, after all, as George Eliot said, “The words of Genius bear a wider meaning than the thought which prompted them.” But at any rate there is no mistaking the general outline of his thought, for his outlook upon life is as distinctive as Browning’s, and indeed possesses many points of similarity. But in speaking of Whitman’s message one thing must be borne in mind. Whitman’s work must not be adjudged merely as a special blend of Altruism and Individualism. No man ever works, it has been well said [199]—not even if philanthropy be his trade—from the primary impulse to help or console other people, any more than his body performs its functions for the sake of other people. And what Professor Nettleship says of Browning might be applied with equal truth to Whitman. His work consists “not in his being a teacher, or even wanting to be one, but in his doing exactly the work he liked best and could
not help doing.” And Whitman’s stimulating thought is not the less true for that, for it is the spontaneous expression of his personality, just as fully as a melody or picture is an expression of an artist’s personality. He could no more help being a teacher than he could help breathing. And his teaching must be valued not in accordance with the philosophy of the schools, not by comparison with the ethics of the professional moralist, but as the natural and inevitable outcome of his personality and temperament.
As a panacea for social evils Whitman believes in the remedial power of comradeship in a large-hearted charity.
“You felons on trial in courts,
You convicts in prison cells, you sentenced assassins chained and handcuffed with iron,
Who am I, too, that I am not on trial or in prison?
Me ruthless and devilish as any, that my wrists are not chained
With iron, or my ankles with iron?”
Mark the watchful impassiveness with which he gazes at the ugly side of life.
“I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all oppression and shame;
I hear convulsive sobs from young men at anguish with themselves, remorseful after deeds done;* * * * *
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny;
I see martyrs and prisoners—
I observe a famine at sea—I observe the sailors casting lots who shall be killed, to preserve the lives of the rest;
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon labourers, the poor, and upon negroes and the like;
All these—all the meanness and agony without end, I sit and look out upon,
See, hear, and am silent.”
No one is too base, too degraded for Whitman’s affection. This is no mere book sentiment with him; and many stories are told of his tenderness and charity towards the “dregs of humanity.” That a man is a human being is enough for Whitman. However he may have fallen there is something in him to appeal to. He would have agreed with Browning that—
“Beneath the veriest ash there hides a spark of soul,
Which, quickened by Love’s breath, may yet pervade the whole
O’ the grey, and free again be fire; of worth the same
Howe’er produced, for great or little flame is flame.”
Like Browning, also, Whitman fears lassitude and indifference more than the turmoil of passion. He glories in the elemental. At present he thinks we are too fearful of coarseness and rankness, lay too much stress on refinement. And so he delights in “unrefinement,” glories in the woods, air-sweetness, sun-tan, brawn.