elaborate works, and puts in practical form that
unprecedented and fervid comradeship which is his leading element. It is
printed almost verbatim, just as the notes were jotted down at the time
and on the spot. It is impossible to read it without the feeling of
tears, while there is elsewhere no such portrayal of the common soldier,
and such appreciation of him, as is contained in its pages. It is
heart's blood, every word of it, and along with "Drum-Taps" is the only
literature of the war thus far entirely characteristic and worthy of
serious mention. There are in particular two passages in the "Memoranda"
that have amazing dramatic power, vividness, and rapid action, like some
quick painter covering a large canvas. I refer to the account of
the assassination of President Lincoln, and to that of the scenes in
Washington after the first battle of Bull Run. What may be called
the mass-movement of Whitman's prose style--the rapid marshaling
and grouping together of many facts and details, gathering up, and
recruiting, and expanding as the sentences move along, till the force
and momentum become like a rolling flood, or an army in echelon on the
charge--is here displayed with wonderful effect.

Noting and studying what forces move the world, the only sane
explanation that comes to me of the fact that such writing as these
little volumes contain has not, in this country especially, met with its
due recognition and approval, is that, like all Whitman's works, they
have really never yet been published at all in the true sense,--have
never entered the arena where the great laurels are won. They have been
printed by the author, and a few readers have found them out, but to all
intents and purposes they are unknown.

I have not dwelt on Whitman's personal circumstances, his age (he is
now, 1877, entering his fifty-ninth year), paralysis, seclusion, and the
treatment of him by certain portions of the literary classes, although
these have all been made the subjects of wide discussion of late, both
in America and Great Britain, and have, I think, a bearing under the
circumstances on his character and genius. It is an unwritten tragedy
that will doubtless always remain unwritten. I will but mention an
eloquent appeal of the Scotch poet, Robert Buchanan, published in London
in March, 1876, eulogizing and defending the American bard, in his
old age, illness, and poverty, from the swarms of maligners who still
continue to assail him.