cosmic humanity,
well illustrated in "Salut au Monde:"--

"My spirit has pass'd in compassion and determination around the
whole earth;
I have look'd for equals and lovers, and found them ready for me
in all lands;
I think some divine rapport has equalized me with them.

"O vapors! I think I have risen with you and moved away to distant
continents, and fallen down there for reasons;
I think I have blown with you, O winds;
O waters, I have finger'd every shore with you."

Indeed, the whole book is leavened with vehement Comradeship. Not only
in the relations of individuals to each other shall loving good-will
exist and be cultivated,--not only between the different towns and
cities, and all the States of this indissoluble, compacted Union,--but
it shall make a tie of fraternity and fusion holding all the races and
peoples and countries of the whole earth.

Then the National question. As Whitman's completed works now stand, in
their two volumes, it is certain they could only have grown out of the
Secession War; and they will probably go to future ages as in literature
the most characteristic identification of that war,--risen from
and portraying it, representing its sea of passions and progresses,
partaking of all its fierce movements and perturbed emotions, and yet
sinking the mere military parts of that war, great as those were, below
and with matters far greater, deeper, more human, more expanding, and
more enduring.

I must not close this paper without some reference to Walt Whitman's
prose writings, which are scarcely less important than his poems. Never
has Patriotism, never has the antique Love of Country, with even
doubled passion and strength, been more fully expressed than in these
contributions. They comprise two thin volumes,--now included in "Two
Rivulets,"--called "Democratic Vistas" and "Memoranda during the War;"
the former exhibiting the personality of the poet in more vehement
and sweeping action even than do the poems, and affording specimens of
soaring vaticination and impassioned appeal impossible to match in the
literature of our time. The only living author suggested is Carlyle; but
so much is added, the _presence_ is so much more vascular and human, and
the whole page so saturated with faith and love and democracy, that even
the great Scotchman is overborne. Whitman, too, radiates belief, while
at the core of Carlyle's utterances is despair. The style here is
erupti