s substance. There is something
deeper than language. It is manhood. And on the common ground of the
deeper things of life, the American and English poets--otherwise so
diverse--clasped hands, as it were, across the sundering ocean.

Whitman's claim to be considered a great poet, or even a poet at all,
has been the subject of hot dispute. But such questions are not
so settled. Only give time enough, and every writer falls by mere
gravitation into his proper place, from which all the controversies in
the world can never shift him. Where the evidence is largely subjective,
as it must be in appraising genius, there is sure to be much in our
judgment that is incommunicable. The logic of events, as we say in
politics; or the proof of the pudding, as we say in the vernacular; is
not so brilliant as logical sword-play, but it has the merit of being
decisive.

Whitman's poetry looks strange to a reader accustomed to conventional
models. It positively offends his eyesight. The ear may detect a certain
rhythm, but where are the set lengths of orthodox versification? Here,
however, there lurks a fallacy. Poetry is not the antithesis of prose.
The antithesis of prose is verse. Some of the finest and noblest poetry
in the world's literature is not cast in rhyme, though rhythm--often
subtler than all possible rules--is indispensable. Yet there is
something precious in poetical form; ay, and something durable. Many an
exquisite lyric, with no great depth of feeling or reach of thought, has
come down the stream of time, and will float upon it for ever. No
doubt Dr. Johnson was right in calling it a waste of time to carve
cherrystones, but precious stones are the more valued and admired for
the art of the lapidary. Whitman did not cultivate versification. He
almost despised it. He sneered at "dulcet rhymes." Yet this may hinder
his access to posterity. Mr. Meredith hints as much in his sonnet
entitled "An Orson of the Muse," which surely refers to Whitman. He
allows him to be the Muse's son, though he will not wear her livery.

Him, whom he blows of Earth, and Man, and Fate,
The Muse will hearken to with graver ear
Than many of her train can waken: him
Would fain have taught what fruitful things and dear
Must sink beneath the tidewaves, of their weight,
If in no vessel built for sea they swim.

That Whitman, however, could do great things with rhythm, and without
rhyme, is proved by his "Funeral Hymn