Walt Whitman is not only the poet of childhood, of youth, of manhood, but, above all, of old age. He has not been soured by slander or petrified by prejudice; neither calumny nor flattery has made him revengeful or arrogant. Now sitting by the fireside, in the winter of life, His jocund heart still beating in his breast, he is just as brave and calm and kind as in his manhood's proudest days, when roses blossomed in his cheeks. He has taken life's seven steps. Now, as the gamester might say, "on velvet." He is enjoying "old age expanded, broad, with the haughty breadth of the universe; old age, flowing free, with the delicious near-by freedom of death; old age, superbly rising, welcoming the ineffable aggregation of dying days." He is taking the "loftiest look at last," and before he goes he utters thanks: For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air--for life, mere life, For precious ever-lingering memories, (of you my mother dear you, father--you, brothers, sisters, friends.) For all my days--not those of peace alone the days of war the same, For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands, For shelter, wine and meat--for sweet appreciation, (You distant, dim unknown--or young or old--countless, unspecified, readers belov'd, We never met, and ne'er shall meet--and yet our souls embrace, long, close and long.) For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books--for colors, forms, For all the brave strong men--devoted, hardy men--who've forward sprung in freedom's help, all years, all lands, For braver, stronger, more devoted men (a special laurel ere I go, to life's war's chosen ones, The cannoneers of song and thought--the great artillerists--the foremost leaders, captains of the soul). It is a great thing to preach philosophy--far greater to live it. The highest philosophy accepts the inevitable with a smile, and greets it as though it were desired. To be satisfied: This is wealth--success. The real philosopher knows that everything has happened that could have happened--consequently he accepts. He is glad that he has lived--glad that he has had his moment on the stage. In this spirit Whitman has accepted life. I shall go forth, I shall traverse the States awhile, but I cannot tell whither or how long, Perhaps soon some day or night while I am singing my voice will suddenly cease. O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this? Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?--and yet it is enough, O soul; O soul, we have positively appear'd--that is enough.