He was so mixed with the universe that his voice took on the sway of elemental integrity and candor.  Absolutely honest, this man was unafraid and unashamed, for Nature has neither apprehension, shame nor vainglory.  In “Leaves of Grass” Whitman speaks as all men have ever spoken who believe in God and in themselves—­oracular, without apology or abasement—­fearlessly.  He tells of the powers and mysteries that pervade and guide all life, all death, all purpose.  His work is masculine, as the sun is masculine; for the Prophetic Voice is as surely masculine as the lullaby and lyric cry are feminine.

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 these buds become 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.

VICTOR HUGO

Man is neither master of his life nor of his fate.  He can but offer to his fellowmen his efforts to diminish human suffering; he can but offer to God his indomitable faith in the growth of liberty.

    —­Victor Hugo

[Illustration:  Victor Hugo]

The father of Victor Hugo was a general in the army of Napoleon, his mother a woman of rare grace and brave good sense.  Victor was the third of three sons.  Six weeks before the birth of her youngest boy, the mother wrote to a very dear friend of her husband, this letter: 

    “To General Victor Lahorie,
        “Citizen-General: 

“Soon to become the mother of a third child, it would be very agreeable to me if you would act as its godfather.  Its name shall be yours—­one which you have not belied and one which you have so well honored:  Victor or Victorine.  Your consent will be a testimonial of your friendship for us.

    “Please accept, Citizen-General, the assurance of our sincere
    attachment.

    “Femme Hugo.”

Victorine was expected, Victor came.  General Lahorie acted as sponsor for the infant.

A soldier’s family lives here or there, everywhere or anywhere.  In Eighteen Hundred Eight, General Hugo was with Joseph Bonaparte in Spain.  Victor was then six years old.  His mother had taken as a residence a quaint house in the Impasse of the Feullantines, Paris.

It was one of those peculiar old places occasionally seen in France.  The environs of London have a few; America none of which I know.  This house, roomy, comfortable and antiquated, was surrounded with trees and a tangle of shrubbery, vines and flowers; above it all was a high stone wall, and in front a picket iron gate.  It was a mosaic—­a sample of the Sixteenth Century inlaid in this; solitary as the woods; quiet as a convent; sacred as a forest; a place for dreams, and reverie, and rest.  At the back of the house was a dilapidated little chapel.  Here an aged priest counted his beads, said daily mass, and endeavored to keep moth, rust and ruin from the house of prayer.  This priest was a scholar, a man of learning:  he taught the children of Madame Hugo.