“The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside;
  I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the wood-pile;
  Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak,
  And went where he sat on a log, and led him in, and assured him,
  And brought water and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and
     bruis’d feet,
  And gave him a room that entered from my own, and gave him some
     coarse clean clothes;
  And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
  And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles: 
  He stayed with me a week before he was recuperated and pass’d North;
  (I had him sit next me at table—­my firelock lean’d in the corner.)”

But of the book as a whole I could form no adequate conception, and it was not for many years, and after I had known the poet himself, as already stated, that I saw in it a teeming, rushing globe well worthy my best days and strength to surround and comprehend.

One thing that early took me in the poems was (as before alluded to) the tremendous personal force back of them, and felt through them as the sun through vapor; not merely intellectual grasp or push, but a warm, breathing, towering, magnetic Presence that there was no escape from.

Another fact I was quick to perceive, namely, that this man had almost in excess a quality in which every current poet was lacking,—­I mean the faculty of being in entire sympathy with actual nature, and the objects; and shows of nature, and of rude, abysmal man; and appalling directness of utterance therefrom, at first hand, without any intermediate agency or modification.

The influence of books and works of art upon an author may be seen in all respectable writers.  If knowledge alone made literature, or culture genius, there would be no dearth of these things among the moderns.  But I feel bound to say that there is something higher and deeper than the influence or perusal of any or all books, or all other productions of genius,—­a quality of information which the masters can never impart, and which all the libraries do not hold.  This is the absorption by an author, previous to becoming so, of the spirit of nature, through the visible objects of the universe, and his affiliation with them subjectively and objectively.  Not more surely is the blood quickened and purified by contact with the unbreathed air than is the spirit of man vitalized and made strong by intercourse with the real things of the earth.  The calm, all-permitting, wordless spirit of nature,—­yet so eloquent to him who hath ears to hear!  The sunrise, the heaving sea, the woods and mountains, the storm and the whistling winds, the gentle summer day, the winter sights and sounds, the night and the high dome of stars,—­to have really perused these, especially from childhood onward, till what there is in them, so impossible to define, finds its full mate and echo in the mind,—­this only is the lore which breathes the breath of life into all the rest.  Without it, literary productions may have the superb beauty of statues, but with it only can they have the beauty of life.