ogy 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 conven