Stating it briefly and pointedly I should suggest that the human voice is a cultivation or form'd growth on a fair native foundation. This foundation probably exists in nine cases out of ten. Sometimes nature affords the vocal organ in perfection, or rather I would say near enough to whet one's appreciation and appetite for a voice that might be truly call'd perfection. To me the grand voice is mainly physiological -- (by which I by no means ignore the mental help, but wish to keep the emphasis where it belongs.) Emerson says manners form the representative apex and final charm and captivation of humanity: but he might as well have changed the typicality to voice.

   Of course there is much taught and written about elocution, the best reading, speaking, etc., but it finally settles down to best human vocalization. Beyond all other power and beauty, there is something in the quality and power of the right voice (timbre the schools call it) that touches the soul, the abysms. It was not for nothing that the Greeks depended, at their highest, on poetry's and wisdom's vocal utterance by tete-a-tete lectures -- (indeed all the ancients did.)

   Of celebrated people possessing this wonderful vocal power, patent to me, in former days, I should specify the contralto Alboni, Elias Hicks, Father Taylor, the tenor Bettini, Fanny Kemble, and the old actor Booth, and in private life many cases, often women. I sometimes wonder whether the best philosophy and poetry, or something like the best, after all these centuries, perhaps waits to be rous'd out yet, or suggested, by the perfect physiological human voice.

   Let me send you a supplementary word to that "view" of Shakspere attributed to me, publish'd in your July number,*

   so courteously worded by the reviewer (thanks! dear friend.) But you have left out what, perhaps, is the main point, as follows:

   "Even the one who at present reigns unquestion'd -- of Shakspere -- for all he stands for so much in modern literature, he stands entirely for the mighty aesthetic sceptres of the past, not for the spiritual and democratic, the sceptres of the future." (See p. 1151 in "November Boughs," and also some of my further notions on Shakspere.)

   The Old World (Europe and Asia) is the region of the poetry of concrete and real things, -- the past, the aesthetic, palaces, etiquette, the literature of war and love, the mythological gods, and the myths anyhow. But the New World (America) is the region of the future, and its poetry must be spiritual and democratic. Evolution is not the rule in Nature, in Politics, and Inventions only, but in Verse. I know our age is greatly materialistic, but it is greatly spiritual, too, and the future will be, too. Even what we moderns have come to mean by spirituality (while including what the Hebraic utterers, and mainly perhaps all the Greek and other old typical poets, and also the later ones, meant) has so expanded and color'd and vivified the comprehension of the term, that it is quite a different one from the past. Then science, the final critic of all, has the casting vote for future poetry.

   The N. Y. Critic, Nov. 24, 1889, propounded a circular to several persons, and giving the responses, says, "Walt Whitman's views [as follow] are, naturally, more radical than those of any other contributor to the discussion":

   Briefly to answer impromptu your request of Oct. 19 -- the question whether I think any American poet not now living deserves a place among the thirteen "English inheritors of unassail'd renown" (Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspere, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Gray, Burns, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley and Keats,) -- and which American poets would be truly worthy, &c. Though to me the deep of the matter goes down, down beneath. I remember the London Times at the time, in opportune, profound and friendly articles on Bryant's

   As America's mental courage (the thought comes to me to-day) is so indebted, above all current lands and peoples, to the noble army of Old-World martyrs past, how incumbent on us that we clear those martyrs' lives and names, and hold them up for reverent admiration, as well as beacons. And typical of this, and standing for it and all perhaps, Giordano Bruno may well be put, to-day and to come, in our New World's thankfulest heart and memory. W. W. February 24th, 1890. Camden, N. J.

   While I stand in reverence before the fact of Humanity, the People, I will confess, in writing my L of G, the least consideration out of all that has had to do with it has been the consideration of "the public" -- at any rate as it now exists. Strange as it may sound for a democrat to say so, I am clear that no free and original and lofty-soaring poem, or one ambitious of those achievements, can possibly be fulfill'd by any writer who has largely in his thought the public -- or the

   As far as I have sought any, not the best laid out garden or parterre has been my model -- but Nature has been. I know that in a sense the garden is nature too, but I had to choose -- I could not give both. Besides the gardens are well represented in poetry; while Nature (in letter and in spirit, in the divine essence,) little if at all.

   Certainly, (while I have not hit it by a long shot,) I have aim'd at the most ambitious, the best -- and sometimes feel to advance that aim (even with all its arrogance) as the most redeeming part of my books. I have never so much cared to feed the esthetic or intellectual palates -- but if I could arouse from its slumbers that eligibility in every soul for its own true exercise! if I could only wield that lever!

   Out from the well-tended concrete and the physical -- and in them and from them only -- radiate the spiritual and heroic.

   Undoubtedly many points belonging to this essay -- perhaps of the greatest necessity, fitness and importance to it -- have been left out or forgotten. But the amount of the whole matter -- poems, preface and everything -- is merely to make one of those little punctures or eye-lets the actors possess in the theatre-curtains to look out upon "the house" -- one brief, honest, living glance.

   In that condition the whole body is elevated to a state by others unknown -- inwardly and outwardly illuminated, purified, made solid, strong, yet buoyant. A singular charm, more than beauty, flickers out of, and over, the face -- a curious transparency beams in the eyes, both in the iris and the white -- the temper partakes also. Nothing that happens -- no event, rencontre, weather, etc. -- but it is confronted -- nothing but is subdued into sustenance -- such is the marvellous transformation from the old timorousness and the old process of causes and effects. Sorrows and disappointments cease -- there is no more borrowing trouble in advance. A man realizes

   What I append -- Health, old style -- I have long treasur'd -- found originally in some scrap-book fifty years ago -- a favorite of mine (but quite a glaring contrast to my present bodily state:)

   Walking on the old Navy Yard bridge, Washington, D. C., once with a companion, Mr. Marshall, from England, a great traveler and observer, as a squad of laughing young black girls pass'd us -- then two copper-color'd boys, one good-looking lad 15 or 16, barefoot, running after -- "What gay creatures

   It was a terrible criticism -- cut into me like a surgeon's lance. Made me silent the whole walk home.