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Updated: May 2, 2025
Everywhere in nature Whitman finds human relations, human responsions. In entire consistence with botany, geology, science, or what not, he endues his very seas and woods with passion, more than the old hamadryads or tritons. His fields, his rocks, his trees, are not dead material, but living companions.
There was a soft sublimity in the sound of the bells that came echoing over the waters. My heart was very full, for I had felt the thrill of being in the presence of a great and loving soul. It was the first time and the last that I ever saw Walt Whitman. A good many writers bear no message: they carry no torch. Sometimes they excite wonder, or they amuse and divert divert us from our work.
<b>WHITMAN, SARAH DE ST. PRIX.</b> Bronze medal at Columbian Exposition, Chicago, 1893; gold and bronze medals at Atlanta Exposition; diploma at Pan-American, Buffalo, 1901. Member of the Society of American Artists, New York; Copley Society, Boston; Water-Color Club, Boston. Born in Baltimore, Maryland. Pupil of William M. Hunt and Thomas Couture. Mrs.
And Nordau shouts in a voice more heady than that of Pilate, more throaty than that of Festus, "Mad Whitman was mad beyond the cavil of a doubt!" Turning to a friend, the President said, "There goes a MAN!" The exclamation sounds singularly like that of Napoleon on meeting Goethe.
McKinley," he said to a friend, "a Cayuse chief has told me that the Indians are about to kill all the medicine-men, and myself among them. I think he was jesting." "Dr. Whitman," said McKinley, "a Cayuse chief never jests." He was right. The fateful days wore on. The splendid nights glimmered over Mount Hood, and glistened on the serrated mountain tents of eternal snow.
My study of Spencer, Whitman and other of the great leaders of the world, my years of absorbed reading in the library, my days of loneliness and hunger in the city had swept me into a far bleak land of philosophic doubt where even the most daring of my classmates would hesitate to follow me.
Though they have travelled far in space and thought, they have anchored their craft securely in the past. No writer that has handled prose or verse with a high seriousness has offended against the practice of the masters save only Walt Whitman. The written word and the spoken word differ even more widely in America than elsewhere.
It takes both faith and strength to obey oneself. "When shows break up, what but one's Self remains?" asks Whitman. The shows are but shows for Barbara. Will I look into your eyes on the morrow and find them, like hers, clear? Grant that it be! THE RIDGE, BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA. July 1, 19 .
Jim Jones, and her small face looked fairly evil. Then Sylvia was aroused. "Now, Mrs. Jones, you know better," said she. "You know as well as you want to that Lucinda Hart was no more guilty than you and I were. We both went to school with her." Mrs. Jim Jones backed down a little. There was something about Sylvia Whitman when she was aroused that a woman of Mrs.
But there is no real self-sufficiency, and Emerson and Whitman themselves, in other moods, have written most suggestive passages upon our European inheritances and affiliations. The fortunes of the early New England colonies, in fact, were followed by Protestant Europe with the keen solicitude and affection of kinsmen.
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