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.  The appeal has this fine passage:—­

“He who wanders through the solitudes of far-off Uist or lonely Donegal may often behold the Golden Eagle sick to death, worn with age or famine, or with both, passing with weary waft of wing from promontory to promontory, from peak to peak, pursued by a crowd of rooks and crows, which fall back screaming whenever the noble bird turns his indignant head, and which follow frantically once more, hooting behind him, whenever he wends again upon his way.”

Skipping many things I should yet like to touch upon,—­for this paper is already too long,—­I will say in conclusion that, if any reader of mine is moved by what I have here written to undertake the perusal of “Leaves of Grass,” or the later volume, “Two Rivulets,” let me yet warn him that he little suspects what is before him.  Poetry in the Virgilian, Tennysonian, or Lowellian sense it certainly is not.  Just as the living form of man in its ordinary garb is less beautiful (yet more beautiful) than the marble statue; just as the living woman and child that may have sat for the model is less beautiful (yet more so) than one of Raphael’s finest Madonnas, or just as a forest of trees addresses itself less directly to the feeling of what is called art and form than the house or other edifice built from them; just as you, and the whole spirit of our current times, have been trained to feed on and enjoy, not Nature or Man, or the aboriginal forces, or the actual, but pictures, books, art, and the selected and refined,—­just so these poems will doubtless first shock and disappoint you.  Your admiration for the beautiful is never the feeling directly and chiefly addressed in them, but your love for the breathing flesh, the concrete reality, the moving forms and shows of the universe.  A man reaches and moves you, not an artist.  Doubtless, too, a certain withholding and repugnance has first to be overcome, analogous to a cold sea plunge; and it is not till you experience the reaction, the after-glow, and feel the swing and surge of the strong waves, that you know what Walt Whitman’s pages really are.  They don’t give themselves at first,—­like the real landscape and the sea, they are all indirections.  You may have to try them many times; there is something of Nature’s rudeness and forbiddingness, not only at the first, but probably always.  But after you have mastered them by resigning yourself to them, there is nothing like them anywhere in literature for vital help and meaning.  The poet says:—­