WALT WHITMAN

Born at West Hills, Long Island, N. Y., May 31, 1819; died at Camden, N. J., March 26, 1892. America's most virile and original poet.

M

WHITMAN'S MESSAGE

OST writers bear no message: they carry no torch. Sometimes they excite wonder, or they amuse and divert - divert us from our work. To be diverted to a certain degree may be well, but there is a point where earth ends and cloudland begins, and even great poets occasionally befog the things which they would reveal.

Milton knew all about Heaven, and Dante conducts us through Hell, but it was left for Whitman to show us Earth. He was so great that he had no enemy, and his insight was so sure that he had no prejudice. He never boasted that he was higher, nor claimed to be less than any of the other sons He met all on terms of absolute equality, mixing with the poor, the lowly, the fallen, the oppressed, the cultured, the rich—simply as brother with brother. And when he said to the outcast, "Not till the sun excludes you will I exclude you," he voiced a sentiment worthy of a god.

of men.

He was brother to the elements, the mountains, the seas, the clouds, the sky. He loved them all and partook of them all in his large, free, unselfish, untrammeled nature. his heart knew no limits.

Whitman sings the beauty and glory of the present. He rebukes our groans and sighs - bids us look about on every side at the wonders of creation, and at the miracles within our grasp. He lifts us up, restores us to our own, introduces us to man and Nature and thus infuses into us courage, manly pride, self-reliance, and the strong faith that comes when we feel our kinship with God.

Whitman brings the warmth of the sun to the buds of the heart so that they open and bring forth form, color, perfume. He becomes for them aliment and dew; so that buds became blossoms, fruits, tall branches, and stately trees that cast refreshing shadows.

There are men who are to other men as the shadow of a mighty rock in a weary land—such is Walt Whitman. ELBERT HUBBARD.

From "Little Journeys."

EULOGY OF WALT WHITMAN

Walt Whitman is no more. While yet in love with life and raptured with the world, he passed to silence and pathetic dust. Yet, after all, it may be best, just in the happiest, sunniest hour of all the voyage, while eager winds are kissing every sail, to dash against the unseen rock and in an instant hear the billows roar a sunken ship. For, whether in mid-sea or among the breakers of the further shore, a wreck must mark at last the end of each and all. And every life, no matter if its every hour is rich with love and every moment jeweled with a joy, will, at its close, become a tragedy as sad and deep, and dark as can be woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death. Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the highest. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word.

Walt Whitman's fame is secure. He laid the foundation of it deep in the human heart. Great he was—so great that he rose above the greatest that he met, with arrogance, and so great that he stooped to the lowest without condescension. He never claimed to be lower or greater than any other of the sons of man. He came into our generation a free, untrammeled spirit, with sympathy for

all. His arm was beneath the form of the sick. He sympathized with the imprisoned and despised, and even on the brow of crime he was great enough to place the kiss of human sympathy. One of the greatest lines in our literature is this. Speaking of an outcast and the line is great enough to do honor to the greatest genius that has ever lived he said, "Not until the sun excludes you will

I exclude you."

He was the poet of life. It was a joy to him simply to breathe. He loved the clouds. He enjoyed the breath of morning, the twilight, the wind, the winding streams. He loved to look at the sea when the wind and the waves burst into white caps of joy. He loved the fields, the hills. He was acquainted with trees, with birds, with all the beautiful objects on the earth. And he saw not only those objects, but understood their meaning. And he used them that he might exhibit his heart to his fellowmen.

He was not only the poet of love, not only the poet of democracy, not only the poet of the Great Republic - he was the poet of the human race everywhere. He has uttered more supreme words than any writer of our country, and possibly of almost any other. He was, above all things, a man. And above genius, above all the snow-capped peaks of intelligence, above all of art, rises the true man- greater than all. He was a true man. And he walked among his fellowmen as such.

ROBERT G. INGERSOLL.

JOHN GREENLEAF Whittier

Born at Haverhill, Mass., December 17, 1827; died at Hampton Falls, N. H., September 7, 1892. An Ameri an poet of charm and distinction.

W

THE PROPHET BARD OF AMERICA

HITTIER'S audience has been won by unaffected pictures of the scenes to which he was bred, by the purity of his nature, and even more by the earnestness audible in his songs. Like the English sibyl he has obeyed the heavenly vision. Those who gained strength from his music to endure defeat and obloquy cherish him with a devotion beyond measure. For his righteous and tender heart they would draw him with their own hands, over paths strewed with lilies, to a shrine of peace and remembrance. They comprehend his purpose - that he has "tried to make the world a little better, to awaken a love of freedom, justice, and good will," and to have his name, like Ben Adhem's, enrolled as of "one that loved his fellowmen."

He is canonized by the people as one who entered thoroughly into their joy and sorrow; who has been, like a celebate priest, the consoler of the hearts of others and the keeper of his own. The primitive life, the old struggle for liberty, are idealized in his strains.

Oliver Johnson paid honor to "the Prophet Bard of America, poet of freedom, humanity, and religion; whose words of holy fire aroused the conscience of a guilty nation, and melted the fetters of the slaves." This eulogy from a comrade is the sentiment of a multitude in whose eyes their bard seems almost transfigured by the very words that might be soonest forgotten if precious for their poetry alone. And surely no aged servant, his eyes having seen in good

time the Lord's salvation, ever was more endowed with the love and reverence of a chosen people.

From "Poets of America."

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

"THE INNER HEART”

It is from the "inner heart" that the poems of Whittier have come; never "from the throat outwards." This is attested by the answering hearts of vast multitudes of readers. The strains he has sung have always found their echoes; merely as music they have been sure of responsive chords; and then it is a great matter that there is a man behind them.

The verse of Whittier's satisfies all reasonable demands as to measure and melody. His nature is buoyant, and the exuberant feeling and natural energy give his lines an elastic movement that carries the reader on, as upon waves that swell and never submerge. He was an artist in landscape. There could be selected a gallery of his pictures, of mountains, lakes, rivers, and sea, that would be remarkable among the best ever drawn.

Few poets have had the opportunity to do such work for their fellow-men as Whittier has done; and few have exerted such an elevating influence, even upon readers for pleasure. From small beginnings his fame has risen until it has become the pride of all loyal Americans, and is cherished by English-speaking people around the world. FRANCIS H. UNDERWOOD.

WHITTIER'S APPEAL

Of American poets, Whittier appeals, with Longfellow, to the plain people, to the major part of the inhabitants of the land. Both were, in spite of great differences in education and experience, singularly simple-minded men.