The Princeton union. [volume] (Princeton, Minn.) 1876-1976, 1892-04-07
NUMBER Is.
ELOQUENT BOB.
Col. Ingersolls Tribute to the Memory of
Walt. Whitman.

ELOQUENT BOB.
Coi. Ingersolls Tribute to the Memory of
Walt. Whitman.
Again we in the mystery of life are
brought face to face with the mystery
OF death. A great man, great Amer
lcan-the most eminent citizen of this
republics dead before us. And We
have met to pay a tribute to his great
ness and to his worth. [ know that he
needs no words Of mine. His fame is
secure. He laid the foundations of it
deep IN the human heart. He was
above all that [ have known the poet of
humanity, OF sympathy. Great he was
so great that he rose above the great
ness that he met without arrogance:
and SO great that he stopped to the
lowest without conscious condescension.
He never claimed to be lower OF
greater than any other of the sons of
men. He came into our generation a
free, untrammelled spirit, with SYM
pathy for all. His arm was beneath
the form of the sick. He sympathized
with the imprisoned and the despised:
and even on the brow Of crime he was
great enough to place the kiss of hui
man sympathy. One Of the greatest
lines in our literature is his. Speaking
OF an QUEENSLAND the line is great
enough to do honor to the greatest
genius that had ever ived-he said:
MOT until the sun excludes you will
| exclude you" A charity as wide as
the sky. And wherever there was hui
man suffering, human misfortune, the
sympathy of Whitman bent above it as
the armament bends above this earth.
He was built on q broad and splendid
plan-ample, without appearing to
have limitations-passing easily for
brother of mountains and seas and CON
misunderstanding nothing for the lit
tie maps and charts that timid pilots
hug the shore with and giving himself
freely with the recklessnes of genius to
winds and waves and tides-caring for
nothing as long as the stars we're above
him. And he walked among men,
among writer's, among verbal varnish-
ers and veneerers, among literary mil
liners and tailors with the unconscious
dignity of an antique God. He was the
poet also of that divine democracy that
+ gives equal rights to all the sons and
daughters of men. He uttered the
great American voice, uttered a song
worthy OF the great republic. He has
uttered more supreme words than any
writer of our century, and possibly of
almost any other. He was above all
things man. And above genius,
above all the snow-capped peaks OF in
telligence, above all of art, rises the
true man-greater than all. He was a
true man; and he walked amongst his
fellow men as such He accepted and
absorbed all theories, all creeds, all re-
lglons, and believed in none. He had
q nj wy % /;
broader, as he believed-and as I be-
lieved-than others. He was willing
that all the sons of men should be alb
solutely acquainted with his heart and
brain. He was not afraid to leave: not
afraid to speak her thought. Neither
was he afraid to die. For many years
he and death lived near neighbors.
He was always willing and ready to
meet and greet this thing called death.
And for many months he sat in the
deepening twilight waiting for night
waiting for the light.
In his brain were the blessed memo
ries of the day, and in his heart were
mingled the dawn and the dusk of life.
He was not afraid-cheerful every
moment; the laughing nymphs of day
did not desert him. They remained
that they might clasp the hand Of the
yelled and silent sisters Of the night
when they should come. And when
they did come Walt Whitman
stretched his hands to both-one on
one side, the nymphs of day; and the
other, the silent sisters of the night
And so, hand in hand, between smiles
and tears he reached his journeys end.
From the frontier of life, from the
Western wave-kissed shore he sent us
messages of content and hope. And
those messages seem now like strains
of music blown by the mystic trump
eter from Deaths pale realm.
To-day we gave back to mother ma
ture, to her clasp and kiss, one of the
bravest, sweetest souls that ever lived
in human clay. And [ thank him for
the brave words he had said on the
subject of death. Since he has lived
death is less fearful than he was be-
fore, and thousands and millions will
walk down into the dark valley of the
shadow holding Walt Whitman by the
hand long after we are dead. The
brave words he has spoken will sound
like trumpets to the dying. And so I /
lay this poor wreath upon this great
mans tomb. I loved him living and /
H. ,+s1