of those great inland states, and for Texas, and California,
and Oregon;" - a statement which is among the happiest
achievements of American humour. He calls his verses
"recitatives," in easily followed allusion to a musical form.
"Easily-written, loose-fingered chords," he cries, "I feel
the thrum of your climax and close." Too often, I fear, he
is the only one who can perceive the rhythm; and in spite of
Mr. Swinburne, a great part of his work considered as verses
is poor bald stuff. Considered, not as verse, but as speech,
a great part of it is full of strange and admirable merits.
The right detail is seized; the right word, bold and
trenchant, is thrust into its place. Whitman has small
regard to literary decencies, and is totally free from
literary timidities. He is neither afraid of being slangy
nor of being dull; nor, let me add, of being ridiculous. The
result is a most surprising compound of plain grandeur,
sentimental affectation, and downright nonsense. It would be
useless to follow his detractors and give instances of how
bad he can be at his worst; and perhaps it would be not much
wiser to give extracted specimens of how happily he can write
when he is at his best. These come in to most advantage in
their own place; owing something, it may be, to the offset of
their curious surroundings. And one thing is certain, that
no one can appreciate Whitman's excellences until he has
grown accustomed to his faults. Until you are content to
pick poetry out of his pages almost as you must pick it out
of a Greek play in Bohn's translation, your gravity will be
continually upset, your ears perpetually disappointed, and
the whole book will be no more to you than a particularly
flagrant production by the Poet Close.