present. Pangloss, smarting under one of the worst things
that ever was supposed to come from America, consoled himself

with the reflection that it was the price we have to pay for
cochineal. And with that murderous parody, logical optimism

and the praises of the best of possible words went
irrevocably out of season, and have been no more heard of in

the mouths of reasonable men. Whitman spares us all
allusions to the cochineal; he treats evil and sorrow in a

spirit almost as of welcome; as an old sea-dog might have
welcomed the sight of the enemy's topsails off the Spanish

Main. There, at least, he seems to say, is something obvious
to be done. I do not know many better things in literature

than the brief pictures, - brief and vivid like things seen
by lightning, - with which he tries to stir up the world's

heart upon the side of mercy. He braces us, on the one hand,
with examples of heroic duty and helpfulness; on the other,

he touches us with pitiful instances of people needing help.
He knows how to make the heart beat at a brave story; to

inflame us with just resentment over the hunted slave; to
stop our mouths for shame when he tells of the drunken

prostitute. For all the afflicted, all the weak, all the
wicked, a good word is said in a spirit which I can only call

one of ultra-Christianity; and however wild, however
contradictory, it may be in parts, this at least may be said

for his book, as it may be said of the Christian Gospels,
that no one will read it, however respectable, but he gets a

knock upon his conscience; no one however fallen, but he
finds a kindly and supporting welcome.

IV.
Nor has he been content with merely blowing the trumpet for

the battle of well-doing; he has given to his precepts the
authority of his own brave example. Naturally a grave,

believing man, with little or no sense of humour, he has
succeeded as well in life as in his printed performances.

The spirit that was in him has come forth most eloquently in
his actions. Many who have only read his poetry have been

tempted to set him down as an ass, or even as a charlatan;
but I never met any one who had known him personally who did

not profess a solid affection and respect for the man's
character. He practises as he professes; he feels deeply

that Christian love for all men, that toleration, that
cheerful delight in serving others, which he often celebrates

in literature with a doubtfulmeasure of success. And
perhaps, out of all his writings, the best and the most human

and convincing passages are to be found in "these soil'd and
creas'd little livraisons, each composed of a sheet or two of

paper, folded small to carry in the pocket, and fastened with
a pin," which he scribbled during the war by the bedsides of

the wounded or in the excitement of great events. They are
hardly literature in the formal meaning of the word; he has

left his jottings for the most part as he made them; a homely
detail, a word from the lips of a dying soldier, a business

memorandum, the copy of a letter-short, straightforward to
the point, with none of the trappings of composition; but

they breathe a profoundsentiment, they give us a vivid look
at one of the sides of life, and they make us acquainted with

a man whom it is an honour to love.
Whitman's intense Americanism, his unlimitedbelief in the

future of These States (as, with reverential capitals, he
loves to call them), made the war a period of great trial to

his soul. The new virtue, Unionism, of which he is the sole
inventor, seemed to have fallen into premature unpopularity.

All that he loved, hoped, or hated, hung in the balance. And
the game of war was not only momentous to him in its issues;

it sublimated his spirit by its heroic displays, and tortured
him intimately by the spectacle of its horrors. It was a

theatre, it was a place of education, it was like a season of
religious revival. He watched Lincoln going daily to his

work; he studied and fraternised with young soldiery passing
to the front; above all, he walked the hospitals, reading the

Bible, distributing clean clothes, or apples, or tobacco; a
patient, helpful, reverend man, full of kind speeches.

His memoranda of this period are almost bewildering to read.
From one point of view they seem those of a district visitor;

from another, they look like the formless jottings of an
artist in the picturesque. More than one woman, on whom I

tried the experiment, immediately claimed the writer for a
fellow-woman. More than one literary purist might identify

him as a shoddy newspaper correspondent without the necessary
faculty of style. And yet the story touches home; and if you

are of the weeping order of mankind, you will certainly find
your eyes fill with tears, of which you have no reason to be

ashamed. There is only one way to characterise a work of
this order, and that is to quote. Here is a passage from a

letter to a mother, unknown to Whitman, whose son died in
hospital:-

"Frank, as far as I saw, had everything requisite in surgical
treatment, nursing, etc. He had watches much of the time.

He was so good and well-behaved, and affectionate, I myself
liked him very much. I was in the habit of coming in

afternoons and sitting by him, and he liked to have me -
liked to put out his arm and lay his hand on my knee - would

keep it so a long while. Toward the last he was more
restless and flighty at night - often fancied himself with

his regiment - by his talk sometimes seem'd as if his
feelings were hurt by being blamed by his officers for

something he was entirely innocent of - said `I never in my
life was thought capable of such a thing, and never was.' At

other times he would fancy himself talking as it seem'd to
children or such like, his relatives, I suppose, and giving

them good advice; would talk to them a long while. All the
time he was out of his head not one single bad word, or

thought, or idea escaped him. It was remark'd that many a
man's conversation in his senses was not half so good as

Frank's delirium.
"He was perfectlywilling to die - he had become very weak,

and had suffer'd a good deal, and was perfectly resign'd,
poor boy. I do not know his past life, but I feel as if it

must have been good. At any rate what I saw of him here,
under the most trying circumstances, with a painful wound,

and among strangers, I can say that he behaved so brave, so
composed, and so sweet and affectionate, it could not be

surpassed. And now, like many other noble and good men,
after serving his country as a soldier, he has yielded up his

young life at the very outset in her service. Such things
are gloomy - yet there is a text, `God doeth all things

well,' the meaning of which, after due time, appears to the
soul.

"I thought perhaps a few words, though from a stranger, about
your son, from one who was with him at the last, might be

worth while, for I loved the young man, though I but saw him
immediately to lose him."

It is easy enough to pick holes in the grammar of this
letter, but what are we to say of its profoundgoodness and

tenderness? It is written as though he had the mother's face
before his eyes, and saw her wincing in the flesh at every

word. And what, again, are we to say of its sober
truthfulness, not exaggerating, not running to phrases, not

seeking to make a hero out of what was only an ordinary but
good and brave young man? Literary reticence is not

Whitman's stronghold; and this reticence is not literary, but
humane; it is not that of a good artist but that of a good

man. He knew that what the mother wished to hear about was
Frank; and he told her about her Frank as he was.