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Even Rudyard Kipling, who does not in any sense fall under the above description, has enough Anglo-Saxon blood in him to see in this country only the fulfilment of the fantastic notions of his childhood. But imagine an Oxford man who had eyes in his head, and who should come to this country, never having heard of Whitman.
His arrest was not legal anyway, and soon the matter was settled. He continued to teach, and finally, in the early years of the war, drifted to Washington. A friend of his wanted him to come, saying there were many opportunities and also holding out the inducement that he could meet Walt Whitman.
Her state of mind had formerly been the female complement of his, but the sense of possession swerved her more easily. "What on earth ails you, Henry Whitman?" she said. "You look awful down-in-the-mouth. Only to think of our having enough to be comfortable for life. I should think you'd be real thankful and pleased."
He carries the principle of republicanism through the whole world of created objects. No man has ever asserted the surpassing dignity and importance of the American citizen so boldly and freely as Mr. Whitman. He calls himself "teacher of the unquenchable creed, namely, egotism." He begins one of his chants, "I celebrate myself," but he takes us all in as partners in his self-glorification.
No one ever called Walt Whitman a financier. Some have said that Stephen Girard was nothing else. In any event, Girard and Whitman, between them, hold averages true. And they both believed in and loved humanity.
Whitman divests himself of a part of his baptismal name, the distinguished New Englander thus announces his proud position: "Ime the first Lord in the younited States of A mercary Now of Newburyport. it is the voice of the peopel and I cant Help it." This extract is from his famous little book called "A Pickle for the Knowing Ones." As an inventor of a new American style he goes far beyond Mr.
It being a very humid day, we stopped to compliment the curly-headed sandwich man at Ninth and Market on his décolleté corsage, which he wears in the Walt Whitman manner. "Wish we could get away with it the way you do," we said, admiringly. He looked at us with the patience of one inured to bourgeois comment. "It's got to be tried," said he, "like everything else."
Here we sit with our hands on it, George. Entrusted. "It seems quiet to night. But if we could see and hear." He waved his cigar towards Leatherhead and London. "There they are, millions, George. Jes' think of what they've been up to to-day those ten millions each one doing his own particular job. You can't grasp it. It's like old Whitman says what is it he says?
They've taken Webster on the Varsity, and" he lowered his voice to a confidential roar "we want to make a good showing to-day." "Of course," answered Joel, "I'll come at once. Can I get some togs from some fellow?" "Yes. I'll ask Whitman to find some. I'm sorry to take you away from your folks, but it's only fifteen minutes, you know."
What remains steadily present to the eye of the retired veteran in his hermitage, what still ministers to his content, what still quickens his old honest heart these are "the real long-lived things" that Whitman tells us to prefer.
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