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October 13th, 2009:

Elizabeth for 10.15: The Unknown Soldier

Everyone has heard of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in the Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia.  Just as the monument honors the nameless and unrecovered soldiers of our country’s wars, Whitman also sets his pen to do justice to the unburied and forgotten brave heroes of the civil war:

No formal general’s report, nor book in the library, nor column in the paper, embalms the bravest, north or south, east or west.  Unnamed, unknown, remain, and still remain, the bravest soldiers. (Whitman, p. 748.)

Unnamed Remains the Bravest Soldier is one passage of many that celebrate the strength of America’s fighting youth, both on the field and in the hospitals.  Whitman gives name to these men, abbreviating some to protect their privacy, but details their bravery in the face of pain and death, their strong silence and humbleness and their struggle and will to survive.  Each case or “specimen” in Whitman’s work gives a unique and individual clause to the greater work, bringing the account of the war down to a personal, humanitarian level.

Whitman spoke in the preface to Leaves of Grass that America was itself one great poem, and that a poet of the people must write from the level of the common man.  Therefore, Whitman does not wax patriotic with stories of the heroism of the generals of the war, but details the ins and outs of the cavalry and infantry.  Even his passages about Lincoln describe the president as humble, courteous and yet deep and distinguished in the sadness in his face.  Lincoln and his wife go about attired in black in a simple carriage, and while the president is alone he goes with a small ensemble of cavalry at the insistence of this men.

The hot-blooded patriotism of Whitman’s early poems is absent here, replaced with gruesome scenes of the hospital and the field.  Whitman describes a battlefield in a fiery wood in A Night Battle, Over a Week Since. Both the wounded and the dead are consumed in the fire, flames that echo the burns that soldiers sustain if they survive the enemy cannon fire.  Other scenes describing amputation, gangrene and violent hemorrhages range from stirring to deeply disturbing.  Most of the soldiers are young, often between ages sixteen and twenty-one, and often described as farm boys–those who have little stake in the struggle between plantation owners and northern factory workers.

In Europe’s many military conflicts it came as no surprise that wars were waged by the rich with the ranks of the poor.  America may claim to be different, but the reality of the Civil War proves that even democracy does not prevent this bitter, cruel reality from occurring.

Adam L for October 15

            Whitman’s prose is very similar to his poetry, composed of long sentences and an unrestrained style. The style benefits the telling of Whitman’s fascinating personal history—the “convulsiveness” of the telling of his account of “the real war” reveals an impulse of rushing to record every detail. This style reaches its greatest effectiveness in the many scenes describing cases of wounded soldiers; its ability to condense a wide amount of sensory details makes the scenes incredibly vivid and compelling. An example of a single sentence, from page 749,

“In one of the hospitals I find Thomas Haley, company M, 4th New York cavalry—a regular Irish boy, a fine specimen of youthful physical manliness—shot through the lungs—inevitably dying…”

 exemplifies the text’s power in humanizing and inspiring empathy for each soldier despite the numerous amount of cases described (and that’s not even half the full sentence). This manner of writing could be called long-winded, certainly “convulsive” as Whitman describes it himself, but in dealing with the insanity of his surroundings while writing these “reminiscences,” it works perfectly. Without the style, unraveling detail all over each page, we may have missed Whitman playing 20-questions with wounded soldiers amidst the many piles of amputated limbs.

             The lack of action in these accounts of the war is revealing of Whitman’s understanding of what was “The Real War.” To him, it was clearly the behind-the-scenes agony, the unglamorous death and suffering that took place off the battlefield, mainly to the very young. His ability to render each of these young injured soldiers as disturbingly childlike, paired with exceptionally graphic accounts of violence, offers an extremely subversive picture of war.

             The concluding passages in this section are especially compelling. In The Real War Will Never Get In The Books, Whitman returns to the core ideas expressed in his poetry, proclaiming his valuing of people over politics, the soldiers of both sides over the interests of either the North or South. The passage concludes the section artfully, as the bulk of it is about exactly what he proclaims to find the most value in—people and his relationships with them. This, and his discussion of the importance of recording written history, clearly contributes to Whitman’s lasting democratic legacy      

One anomaly I find worth pointing out is The White House by Moonlight. Compared to the surrounding sections, this one is a calming, peaceful escape from the blood and gore of war. The hazy, moonlit setting is a moment of silence, that mitigates the tension of the narrative, until the last sentence about the sentries’ sharp eyes. It is positioned rather abruptly in the larger narrative, but the abruptness signifies how crucial this moment and this symbol is for Whitman. It is interesting to wonder how this experience must have changed him from that moment in which he dreamily described The White House, standing in awe at the majestic power it represented, and for which he would see hundreds of soldiers die.

Adam L for October 15

            Whitman’s prose is very similar to his poetry, composed of long sentences and an unrestrained style. The style benefits the telling of Whitman’s fascinating personal history—the “convulsiveness” of the telling of his account of “the real war” reveals an impulse of rushing to record every detail. This style reaches its greatest effectiveness in the many scenes describing cases of wounded soldiers; its ability to condense a wide amount of sensory details makes the scenes incredibly vivid and compelling. An example of a single sentence, from page 749,

“In one of the hospitals I find Thomas Haley, company M, 4th New York cavalry—a regular Irish boy, a fine specimen of youthful physical manliness—shot through the lungs—inevitably dying…”

 exemplifies the text’s power in humanizing and inspiring empathy for each soldier despite the numerous amount of cases described (and that’s not even half the full sentence). This manner of writing could be called long-winded, certainly “convulsive” as Whitman describes it himself, but in dealing with the insanity of his surroundings while writing these “reminiscences,” it works perfectly. Without the style, unraveling detail all over each page, we may have missed Whitman playing 20-questions with wounded soldiers amidst the many piles of amputated limbs.

             The lack of action in these accounts of the war is revealing of Whitman’s understanding of what was “The Real War.” To him, it was clearly the behind-the-scenes agony, the unglamorous death and suffering that took place off the battlefield, mainly to the very young. His ability to render each of these young injured soldiers as disturbingly childlike, paired with exceptionally graphic accounts of violence, offers an extremely subversive picture of war.

             The concluding passages in this section are especially compelling. In The Real War Will Never Get In The Books, Whitman returns to the core ideas expressed in his poetry, proclaiming his valuing of people over politics, the soldiers of both sides over the interests of either the North or South. The passage concludes the section artfully, as the bulk of it is about exactly what he proclaims to find the most value in—people and his relationships with them. This, and his discussion of the importance of recording written history, clearly contributes to Whitman’s lasting democratic legacy      

One anomaly I find worth pointing out is The White House by Moonlight. Compared to the surrounding sections, this one is a calming, peaceful escape from the blood and gore of war. The hazy, moonlit setting is a moment of silence, that mitigates the tension of the narrative, until the last sentence about the sentries’ sharp eyes. It is positioned rather abruptly in the larger narrative, but the abruptness signifies how crucial this moment and this symbol is for Whitman. It is interesting to wonder how this experience must have changed him from that moment in which he dreamily described The White House, standing in awe at the majestic power it represented, and for which he would see hundreds of soldiers die.

Adam L for October 15

            Whitman’s prose is very similar to his poetry, composed of long sentences and an unrestrained style. The style benefits the telling of Whitman’s fascinating personal history—the “convulsiveness” of the telling of his account of “the real war” reveals an impulse of rushing to record every detail. This style reaches its greatest effectiveness in the many scenes describing cases of wounded soldiers; its ability to condense a wide amount of sensory details makes the scenes incredibly vivid and compelling. An example of a single sentence, from page 749,

“In one of the hospitals I find Thomas Haley, company M, 4th New York cavalry—a regular Irish boy, a fine specimen of youthful physical manliness—shot through the lungs—inevitably dying…”

 exemplifies the text’s power in humanizing and inspiring empathy for each soldier despite the numerous amount of cases described (and that’s not even half the full sentence). This manner of writing could be called long-winded, certainly “convulsive” as Whitman describes it himself, but in dealing with the insanity of his surroundings while writing these “reminiscences,” it works perfectly. Without the style, unraveling detail all over each page, we may have missed Whitman playing 20-questions with wounded soldiers amidst the many piles of amputated limbs.

             The lack of action in these accounts of the war is revealing of Whitman’s understanding of what was “The Real War.” To him, it was clearly the behind-the-scenes agony, the unglamorous death and suffering that took place off the battlefield, mainly to the very young. His ability to render each of these young injured soldiers as disturbingly childlike, paired with exceptionally graphic accounts of violence, offers an extremely subversive picture of war.

             The concluding passages in this section are especially compelling. In The Real War Will Never Get In The Books, Whitman returns to the core ideas expressed in his poetry, proclaiming his valuing of people over politics, the soldiers of both sides over the interests of either the North or South. The passage concludes the section artfully, as the bulk of it is about exactly what he proclaims to find the most value in—people and his relationships with them. This, and his discussion of the importance of recording written history, clearly contributes to Whitman’s lasting democratic legacy      

One anomaly I find worth pointing out is The White House by Moonlight. Compared to the surrounding sections, this one is a calming, peaceful escape from the blood and gore of war. The hazy, moonlit setting is a moment of silence, that mitigates the tension of the narrative, until the last sentence about the sentries’ sharp eyes. It is positioned rather abruptly in the larger narrative, but the abruptness signifies how crucial this moment and this symbol is for Whitman. It is interesting to wonder how this experience must have changed him from that moment in which he dreamily described The White House, standing in awe at the majestic power it represented, and for which he would see hundreds of soldiers die.

Christine for 10/15

Walt Whitman is so genuinely interested in the well being of all of the men to whom he refers – the wounded, the frail, the dying…it is never out of the question for Whitman to be so deeply invested in caring about the humanity that he has come to know and love. In Whitman’s descriptions of the men and “the drapery of white curtains” (756) that surrounded them, I, as the reader, felt as if I was seeing the death in front of my eyes, just as Whitman had experienced.

Whitman seemed to be so affectionate for the men whom he described, like Oscar F. Wilbur, featured in “A New York Soldier” on Page 154. What struck me the most about this particular soldier was his request of Whitman, and then Whitman actually complying to the request that was made – reading from the New Testament!?! Wasn’t Whitman totally against religion? Or organized religion? Or God? I can’t remember off the top of my head where it was that Whitman drew the line in what he believed but I’m sure that reading any part of a highly religious text of a highly popular religion at the time had to be somewhat painful…that is figuratively, not literally, of course. Honestly though, he could have been completely against it and maybe suggested something else to pass the time  to get Oscar’s mind off of the fact that he was dying, but he didn’t do that. Whitman decided that this man’s life (or I guess what was left of it) was far too important to think of his own selfish desires or his pride. Oscar struck me in particular for the fact that he not only wanted to hear about Christ’s crucifixion but also of his resurrection. I suppose he needed something to look forward to, or at least suggest to himself that he was dying for a noble cause, just as Jesus did and perhaps his own resurrection would be in heaven or even further, just in a state of peace after death, which would be better than suffering with the wound and diarrhea.

Another point that I noticed in Whitman’s descriptions of the men and Abraham Lincoln as well was their faces – the color, the description of their faces, and the depth of their eyes, almost as if he could see into their souls and was sharing with the readers the importance of being able to see such a vision. Whitman says of the young man in “Death of a Wisconsin Officer,” “The poor young man is stuffling painfully for breath, his great dark eyes with a glaze already upon them, and the choking faint but audible in his throat.” This description as well as so many others is at points unbearable for me to read. I can just feel the pain and the sorrow jump out of the page. Whitman’s way of writing is so intense in Specimen Days because he is relentless in his descriptions. However, this unbreaking nature is exactly the engagement in Whitman’s writing that I love – being able to see through his eyes and also into his kind heart that otherwise we may have never known.

Christine for 10/15

Walt Whitman is so genuinely interested in the well being of all of the men to whom he refers – the wounded, the frail, the dying…it is never out of the question for Whitman to be so deeply invested in caring about the humanity that he has come to know and love. In Whitman’s descriptions of the men and “the drapery of white curtains” (756) that surrounded them, I, as the reader, felt as if I was seeing the death in front of my eyes, just as Whitman had experienced.

Whitman seemed to be so affectionate for the men whom he described, like Oscar F. Wilbur, featured in “A New York Soldier” on Page 154. What struck me the most about this particular soldier was his request of Whitman, and then Whitman actually complying to the request that was made – reading from the New Testament!?! Wasn’t Whitman totally against religion? Or organized religion? Or God? I can’t remember off the top of my head where it was that Whitman drew the line in what he believed but I’m sure that reading any part of a highly religious text of a highly popular religion at the time had to be somewhat painful…that is figuratively, not literally, of course. Honestly though, he could have been completely against it and maybe suggested something else to pass the time  to get Oscar’s mind off of the fact that he was dying, but he didn’t do that. Whitman decided that this man’s life (or I guess what was left of it) was far too important to think of his own selfish desires or his pride. Oscar struck me in particular for the fact that he not only wanted to hear about Christ’s crucifixion but also of his resurrection. I suppose he needed something to look forward to, or at least suggest to himself that he was dying for a noble cause, just as Jesus did and perhaps his own resurrection would be in heaven or even further, just in a state of peace after death, which would be better than suffering with the wound and diarrhea.

Another point that I noticed in Whitman’s descriptions of the men and Abraham Lincoln as well was their faces – the color, the description of their faces, and the depth of their eyes, almost as if he could see into their souls and was sharing with the readers the importance of being able to see such a vision. Whitman says of the young man in “Death of a Wisconsin Officer,” “The poor young man is stuffling painfully for breath, his great dark eyes with a glaze already upon them, and the choking faint but audible in his throat.” This description as well as so many others is at points unbearable for me to read. I can just feel the pain and the sorrow jump out of the page. Whitman’s way of writing is so intense in Specimen Days because he is relentless in his descriptions. However, this unbreaking nature is exactly the engagement in Whitman’s writing that I love – being able to see through his eyes and also into his kind heart that otherwise we may have never known.

Christine for 10/15

Walt Whitman is so genuinely interested in the well being of all of the men to whom he refers – the wounded, the frail, the dying…it is never out of the question for Whitman to be so deeply invested in caring about the humanity that he has come to know and love. In Whitman’s descriptions of the men and “the drapery of white curtains” (756) that surrounded them, I, as the reader, felt as if I was seeing the death in front of my eyes, just as Whitman had experienced.

Whitman seemed to be so affectionate for the men whom he described, like Oscar F. Wilbur, featured in “A New York Soldier” on Page 154. What struck me the most about this particular soldier was his request of Whitman, and then Whitman actually complying to the request that was made – reading from the New Testament!?! Wasn’t Whitman totally against religion? Or organized religion? Or God? I can’t remember off the top of my head where it was that Whitman drew the line in what he believed but I’m sure that reading any part of a highly religious text of a highly popular religion at the time had to be somewhat painful…that is figuratively, not literally, of course. Honestly though, he could have been completely against it and maybe suggested something else to pass the time  to get Oscar’s mind off of the fact that he was dying, but he didn’t do that. Whitman decided that this man’s life (or I guess what was left of it) was far too important to think of his own selfish desires or his pride. Oscar struck me in particular for the fact that he not only wanted to hear about Christ’s crucifixion but also of his resurrection. I suppose he needed something to look forward to, or at least suggest to himself that he was dying for a noble cause, just as Jesus did and perhaps his own resurrection would be in heaven or even further, just in a state of peace after death, which would be better than suffering with the wound and diarrhea.

Another point that I noticed in Whitman’s descriptions of the men and Abraham Lincoln as well was their faces – the color, the description of their faces, and the depth of their eyes, almost as if he could see into their souls and was sharing with the readers the importance of being able to see such a vision. Whitman says of the young man in “Death of a Wisconsin Officer,” “The poor young man is stuffling painfully for breath, his great dark eyes with a glaze already upon them, and the choking faint but audible in his throat.” This description as well as so many others is at points unbearable for me to read. I can just feel the pain and the sorrow jump out of the page. Whitman’s way of writing is so intense in Specimen Days because he is relentless in his descriptions. However, this unbreaking nature is exactly the engagement in Whitman’s writing that I love – being able to see through his eyes and also into his kind heart that otherwise we may have never known.

Elizabeth for 10.15: The Unknown Soldier

Everyone has heard of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in the Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia.  Just as the monument honors the nameless and unrecovered soldiers of our country’s wars, Whitman also sets his pen to do justice to the unburied and forgotten brave heroes of the civil war:

No formal general’s report, nor book in the library, nor column in the paper, embalms the bravest, north or south, east or west.  Unnamed, unknown, remain, and still remain, the bravest soldiers. (Whitman, p. 748.)

Unnamed Remains the Bravest Soldier is one passage of many that celebrate the strength of America’s fighting youth, both on the field and in the hospitals.  Whitman gives name to these men, abbreviating some to protect their privacy, but details their bravery in the face of pain and death, their strong silence and humbleness and their struggle and will to survive.  Each case or “specimen” in Whitman’s work gives a unique and individual clause to the greater work, bringing the account of the war down to a personal, humanitarian level.

Whitman spoke in the preface to Leaves of Grass that America was itself one great poem, and that a poet of the people must write from the level of the common man.  Therefore, Whitman does not wax patriotic with stories of the heroism of the generals of the war, but details the ins and outs of the cavalry and infantry.  Even his passages about Lincoln describe the president as humble, courteous and yet deep and distinguished in the sadness in his face.  Lincoln and his wife go about attired in black in a simple carriage, and while the president is alone he goes with a small ensemble of cavalry at the insistence of this men.

The hot-blooded patriotism of Whitman’s early poems is absent here, replaced with gruesome scenes of the hospital and the field.  Whitman describes a battlefield in a fiery wood in A Night Battle, Over a Week Since. Both the wounded and the dead are consumed in the fire, flames that echo the burns that soldiers sustain if they survive the enemy cannon fire.  Other scenes describing amputation, gangrene and violent hemorrhages range from stirring to deeply disturbing.  Most of the soldiers are young, often between ages sixteen and twenty-one, and often described as farm boys–those who have little stake in the struggle between plantation owners and northern factory workers.

In Europe’s many military conflicts it came as no surprise that wars were waged by the rich with the ranks of the poor.  America may claim to be different, but the reality of the Civil War proves that even democracy does not prevent this bitter, cruel reality from occurring.

Yugo, I follow.

Introducing Aleksandra Izgarjan:

prolific scholar, skilled Yugo driver, Serbian gourmand, and my dear friend.

IMG_0019

You are meeting her as I did, when I first arrived from Belgrade weighed down by book-filled boxes and overstuffed suitcases.  With her cheery pink t-shirt and instant smile, Aleksandra presented me with a warm and gracious welcome to Novi Sad.  Somehow, through the muddle of newness and jetlag, I was gently guided into my new home, my office at the university, and a fabulous outdoor café in the heart of the city (Mediteraneo, on Isa Bajica).  And I listened with wonder and interest as my new colleague discussed her challenging teaching experiences and a startling number of recent publications.

I am pleased to say that my rather small library of Necessary Reading Material now includes Aleksandra’s Maksin Hong Kingston I Ejmi Ten: Ratnica I Samanka.  And I’d happily dig into the over-400 pages of analysis on Kingston and Amy Tam, if only my Serbian were, o, 10,000 times better.  Tiny Walt seems to have gotten much further. (more on Tiny Walt later.  As several of you predicted, he has really taken to Balkan folk dancing– and thanks to Aleksandra actually knows more about two of his most illustrious fans.  Whitman Ah Singh, indeed!).

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As intellectual, industrious, and professional as she is, Aleksandra is also adventurous, funny, and—well, cute.  She shares these excellent qualities with her beloved 19-year old Yugo.  It may rattle your teeth, smell like petrol and allow any passerby access to whatever’s on the front seat, but the Yugo has character.  Like its owner, it’s got pluck, volition, get-up-and-go.  That is, when it’s not in the shop.

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(more…)

AdamL’s Material Culture Museum Exhibit

Whitman and the Construction of Philadelphia City Hall

philadelphia-city-hall

            By 1873, when Walt Whitman came to Camden, Philadelphia City Hall was already two years into its long, expensive, and controversial construction. The project was approved in 1870, and Penn Square was designated as the building site, to accommodate the westward movement of the Philadelphia population from the Delaware River at the time (City Hall of Philadelphia).

Much of the structure, including the tower, was finished in 1881, but Whitman would die nearly a decade before City Hall was finally completed in 1901, becoming the nation’s largest and most expensive municipal building (Philadelphia City Hall). Its construction cost $24 million and it spans even larger than the U.S. Capitol, featuring enough marble, granite and limestone to cover 18 football fields. It has been called “the greatest single effort of late 19th-century American architecture,” and considered “the best—and most mammoth—example of French Second Empire architecture in America” (City Hall of Philadelphia).

 Although he was unable to see the finished structure, Whitman wrote about his first encounter with City Hall—dated August 26, 1879—in the prose works.

 Returning home, riding down Market street in an open summer car, something detain’d us between Fifteenth and Broad, and I got out to view better the new, three-fifths-built marble edifice, the City Hall, of magnificent proportions—a majestic and lovely show there in the moonlight—flooded all over, facades, myriad silver-white lines and carv’d heads and mouldings, with the soft dazzle—silent, weird, beautiful—well, I know that never when finish’d will that magnificent pile impress one as it impress’d me those fifteen minutes (Whitman 873).

 The meaning of this excerpt is elusive when placed in the context of Whitman’s extensive writings on architecture. Charles Metzger explores Whitman’s passion for architecture in his book Thoreau and Whitman, with the thesis that “what Whitman said about architecture supports…the purport he announced in his poetics” (Metzger 82). Whitman objected to the “showy” and “monumental,” and to architecture as a means of displaying wealth, and did so with authority; he was not interested in architecture as a hobbyist, but as a knowledgeable critic who was well-versed and opinioned in the styles of the day (84). His sensitivity to changing styles becomes clear in a critique of the architecture of Broadway, in which he writes,

               …grand edifices have become so much a matter of course that what would ten years ago have caused the greatest admiration and comment, is now altogether passe. (84)

 And in a newspaper article, his objection to extravagant buildings is expressed when he writes that “wicked architecture” is,

                not wicked in carelessness of material construction…nor in purpose…but in the uprighteous spirit of ostentation that unconsciously directs it, and in the manifold and frightful social evils following from it. (85)

 When faced with Whitman’s strong opinions on modern architecture (and their alignment to the democratic ideology expressed in his writing), what could explain the poet’s apparent fandom of City Hall’s architecture in 1879? He had to have been highly critical that it was originally designed to be the world’s tallest building (eclipsed by the Washington Monument and the Eiffel Tower before its completion), and one of the world’s largest municipal buildings (with close to 700 rooms). The 37-foot, 27-ton bronze statue of William Penn would be the tallest statue on top of any building in the world—though this addition wasn’t made until 1894 (Philadelphia City Hall). Even before its completion, Whitman aptly describes Philadelphia City Hall as a pinnacle of ostentation and monumental showiness; yet he seems to appreciate what he sees, despite having strongly and publically disapproved of such architectural qualities.

 His knowledgeable writing about architectural design indicates that he was certainly aware of City Hall’s French Second-Empire style, which was popular during the Victorian era and until the 1880s. Fundamental to this style was ornamentation to make the structure appear “imposing, grand and expensive” (Wikipedia). More than being aware of the characteristics of French Second-Empire style, Whitman certainly knew he was not a fan of it.

 Metzger illuminates the connections between Whitman’s aesthetic ideas for poetry and architecture; his valuing of simplicity and essentialism is consistent in both mediums (Metzger 85). His writing on the subject of architecture reveals a concern “with the nature of building materials as the raw stuff of architectural expression, representing likewise the facts of American experience” (85). He fixated with enthusiasm on the “increasing use of iron and glass” in modern architecture, for example (85).

In this context, the excerpt describing Whitman’s encounter with City Hall becomes disorienting; Whitman’s words don’t seem to align with what we know he believed. Perhaps the orienting factor here is that the construction of City Hall was in progress when Whitman encountered it, its beams and raw building materials no doubt still visible—the nature of the structure not yet hidden by ostentation. It makes sense that Whitman would find beauty in the architecture of City Hall in its revealing incompleteness, with its essential structure on display.

The last sentence of the excerpt may indirectly express Whitman’s opinion that a building like City Hall, to him, could only be appreciated with its guts showing. The same sentence may also be an ironic expression of stylistic foresight—an educated knowing that the French Second-Empire style would plummet out of fashion before the original design would reach completion: “well, I know that never when finish’d will that magnificent pile impress one as it impress’d me those fifteen minutes.”

Whatever the meaning of that prose, how Whitman must have responded to the extravagant, race-to-the-sky construction of Philadelphia City Hall is not difficult to conjecture. Considering its record-breaking and bank-busting history, and Whitman’s democratic ideals about all art forms, one could guess that he would have disapproved of the project as a whole, despite being compelled to describe its strange beauty on that moonlit evening.

Works Cited

City Hall of PhiladelphiaEssortment.com. <http://www.essortment.com/all/cityhallphilad_rnpn.htm>

Metzger, Charles R. Thoreau and Whitman: A Study of Their Esthetics. Seattle 1961. Accessed 8-10-09 <Full Text>

Philadelphia City Hall. Accessed 8-10-09. <http://philadelphiacityhallwillpennshomepage.org/>

 Second Empire Architectural Style. Accessed 8-10-09. <Second Empire>

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