Alluding to the subject of their discussion after the recent dinner at Reisser's, he declared it impossible for him to make any assertion of immortality; but admitted that Hope, replying to the question of Love over the grave, might proclaim that "before all life is death, and after death is life". After the fine, but, in cold type at least, the over-florid peroration descriptive of the atmosphere of Whitman's work, the applause was dying away, and the people rising to go, when the old poet signalled for them to be detained, and saying that he was there himself to offer the final testimony to and explanation of his writings, if they would look at him and understand, he gave thanks to them and to the orator, and bade them all farewell. [Illustration: ROBERT G. INGERSOLL, FROM A PRINT] The whole scene presents a curiously suggestive picture. And Whitman's situation was a most singular one. His friends had arranged a benefit lecture on the _Leaves_ by the most eloquent eulogist in America. It is true the book is not identical with Whitman, but it would be difficult to separate the _Leaves_ from the man. And here was the man, apparently of his own free will, receiving the eulogy and applause in person and the gate-money by deputy. The pious Philadelphians had expressed their disapproval of the lecturer,[737] his iconoclastic fervour and agnosticism, by refusing him the use of the most commodious hall, and their opposition had encouraged Walt to stand at his friend's side. But apart from this, his presence illustrates some of the characteristics of his nature, his child-like and sometimes terrible love of directness in the relations of life, and his frank eagerness for appreciation. We have seen already that he could learn from criticism, and there is a story of Dr. Bucke's which is too good to omit, though it entails a slight digression. It was against the awkwardness, not the severity, of his literary surgeons that he would protest with a quiet humour. After one of their operations, more painful than usual, in his slow, slightly nasal drawl, he related how a Quaker was once set on by a robber in a wood. The fellow knocked his passive victim to the ground, rifled him thoroughly, and "pulling out a long knife proceeded to cut his throat. The knife was dull, the patience of the poor Quaker almost exhausted. 'Friend,' said he to the robber, 'I do not object to thee cutting my throat, but thee haggles.'"[738] But while accepting blame with serenity, he yet preferred praise; understanding praise above all, though even ignorant praise was hardly unwelcome. Praise not directly of himself, be it understood--that often made him uncomfortable;[739] but of the book, his _alter ego_, his child. For the book was, besides, a Cause, and that the noblest; and even vain applauding of it sounded, in the old man's ears, like the tramp of the hosts of progress; in whose ranks there must needs follow, let us admit, a number of enthusiastic fools.