HE grossest abuse on the part of the majority, and the wildest panegyric on the part of a minority, have for

many years been heaped on the shoulders of the man who rests his claim for judgment on the book of miscellanies noted below. Luckily, the man is strong enough, sane enough, to take both abuse and panegyric with calmness. He believes hugely in himself, and in the part he is destined to take in American affairs. He is neither to be put down by prudes, nor tempted aside by the serenade of pipes and timbrels. A large, dispassionate, daring, and

* Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass," "Drum-Taps," etc. New York, 1867.

splendidly-proportioned animal, h moved, explanatory up to a certa sphinx-like when he is questioned morality or religion. Yet when th and credulous, the half-formed, t youth of a nation begin to be carri man's teachings, it is time to inqui teachings are; for assuredly they exercise extraordinary influence opinion. Now, it is clear, on the be that the writer in question is alread on the youth of America an influenc that exercised by Socrates over th Greece, or by Raleigh over the young England. In a word, he has become a

-his ministry is admitted by palpab ciples. What the man is, and what t implies, it will not take long to explai be admitted at the outset, however, in concert with those who believe h genuine ministry, large in its spiritual tions, and abundant in capability for go Sprung from the masses, as he himse Walt Whitman has for many years lived

bond life, labouring as the humour seized him, and invariably winning his bread by actual and persistent industry. He has been alternately a farmer, a carpenter, a printer. He has been a constant contributor of prose to the republican journals. He appears, moreover, at intervals, to have wandered over the North American continent, to have worked his way from city to city, and to have consorted liberally with the draff of men on bold and equal conditions. Before the outbreak of the war, he was to be found dwelling in New York, on "fish-shape Paumanok," basking there in the rays of the almost tropical sun, or sallying forth into the streets to mingle with strange companions, from the lodging-house luminary and the omnibus-driver, down to the scowling rowdy of the wharf bars. Having written his first book, "Leaves of Grass," he set

it

up with his own hands, in a printing-office in Brooklyn. Some of my readers may dimly remember how the work was briefly noticed by contemporary English reviews, in a way to leave the impression that the writer was a mild maniac, with morbid developments in the region of the os