"He has uttered more supreme words than any writer of our century, possibly of almost any other"
No. It was the author of that sentence!
Ingersoll was one of the greatest minds who ever lived. He had to come down to all poets and thinkers--except perhaps Shakespeare. there we perhaps find a certain equality--adjusting for time and language.
"Some important affairs of Ingersoll's ever-crowded life required his presence, near the end of March, far away in Toronto, Canada; and it was there that the electric current, which has done so much to consummate the living death of modern poets, brought to him the news of the actual death of Walt Whitman.
So when the former reached the little cottage in Mickle Street, Camden, on March 30th, he found that the hour was growing late; that the "common folk" whom Whitman had loved, and who loved in turn, -- now even more than in life, -- the soldier-nurse and singer of "Chants Democratic," had already been and departed: there were cheap flowers, moist with dearer tears, and tears alone that were dearer still, on the plain oak casket. But thousands of the more cultured had gathered out in Harleigh Cemetery, where Whitman, in life, had wished to rest in death; and there, in the presence of those who would perhaps more clearly understand, if they did not more keenly mourn and sympathize, the great orator might fulfil the last sad office, -- the last sad promise, -- of a deep and sacred friendship. For it was the expressed wish of Whitman, that Ingersoll, who, as we have seen, had already placed a wreath' on the brow of the living,' should place the wreath on the brow of the dead.
How gracefully did the orator's first words blend the candor of his lifelong philosophy with his admiration for the silent poet!
"My Friends: Again we, in the mystery of life, are brought face to face with the mystery of Death. A great man, a great American, the most eminent citizen of this Republic, lies dead before us, and we have met to pay a tribute to his greatness and his worth."
It would be obviously inexpedient to present here the whole of this memorable tribute. We can only examine particular passages as we proceed. In so doing, let us see if any reader will fail to pause in silent awe and admiration, as before a painting by Angelo, at this portrait of the author of Leaves of Grass: --
"He was built on a broad and splendid plan -- ample, without appearing to have limitations -- passing easily for a brother of mountains and seas and constellations; caring nothing for the little maps and charts with which timid pilots hug the shore, but giving himself freely with recklessness of genius to winds and waves and tides; caring for nothing as long as the stars were above him. He walked among men, among writers, among verbal varnished and veneerers, among literary milliners and tailors, with the unconscious majesty of an antique god."
He was the poet of life and love, -- the poet of the natural. "He was not only the poet of democracy, not only the poet of the Great Republic, but he was the poet of the human race." And, finally, "he was the poet of Death." But "he was, above all things, a man; and above genius, above all the snow-capped peaks of intelligence, above all art, rises the true man."
Conscious of Whitman's imperfections and limitations, acknowledging the artistic and intellectual defects and deficiencies of the "Good Grey Poet," Ingersoll yet had the poetic instinct, insight, and understanding, -- the mental amplitude, -- to declare of him: --
"He has uttered more supreme words than any writer of our century, possibly of almost any other"
And: --
"He wrote a liturgy for mankind; he wrote a great and splendid psalm of life, and he gave to us the gospel of humanity -- the greatest gospel that can be preached."
Of the poet's serenity at the approach of death, he said: --
"He never lost his hope. When the mists filled the valleys, he looked upon the mountain tops, and when the mountains in darkness disappeared, he fixed his gaze upon the stars.
"In his brain were the blessed memories of the day, and in his heart were mingled the dawn and dusk of life.
"He was not afraid; he was cheerful every moment. The laughing nymphs of day did not desert him. They remained that they might clasp the hands and greet with smiles the veiled and silent sisters of the night. And when they did come. Walt Whitman stretched his hand to them. On one side were the nymphs of the day, and on the other the silent sisters of the night, and so, hand in hand, between smiles and tears, he reached his journey's end.
"From the frontier of life, from the western wave-kissed shore, he sent us messages of content and hope, and these messages seem now like strains of music blown by the 'Mystic Trumpter' from Death's pale realm."
After listening to this deep and soulful melody, this almost lyrical sweetness, how can we but declare, as did Keats in the summer moonlight, -- the fragrant air tremulous with the song of the nightingale: "Now more than ever seems it rich to die"?
And yet Ingersoll, adding still further from the depths of affection, of pathos, -- of beauty, -- terms his tribute a "little wreath": --
"And so I lay this little wreath upon this great man's tomb. I loved him living, and I love him still."
It may be a little wreath. Surely Ingersoll must have known. But who, I ask, shall garland the tomb of him who wove it?"
I wish I had known such a mind... |
