The experiment was made by Walt Whitman, and in a few of his finest
lyrics, such as _Out of the Cradle endlessly rocking_, one gets the
perfection of structure and form. But he spoilt his vehicle by a
careless diffuseness, by a violent categorical tendency, and by other
faults which may be called faults of breeding rather than faults of
art--a ghastly volubility, an indiscretion, a lust for description
rather than suggestion; and thus he has numbered no followers, and only
a few inconsiderable imitators.
I think, too, that Whitman was, in position, just a little ahead, as I
have indicated, of the taste of his time; and he was not a good enough
artist to enforce the beauty and the possibilities of his experiment
upon the world.
There is, moreover, this further difficulty in the way of the literary
experimentalist. Whitman, in virtue of his strength, his vitality, his
perception, his individuality, rather blocks the way; it is difficult
to avoid imitating him, though it is easy to avoid his errors. It is
difficult in such poetry not to apostrophise one's subject as Whitman
did.
It may be asked, in what is this poetical prose to differ from the
prose of great artists who have written melodious, reflective,
essentially poetical prose--the prose of Lamb, of Ruskin, of Pater? The
answer must be that it must differ from Lamb in sustained intention,
from Ruskin in firmness of structure, from Pater in variety of mood.
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