Simply enter the word you wish to find and the search engine will search for every instance of the word in the journals. For example: Fight. All instances of the use of the word fight will show up on the results page.
Using an asterisk (*) will increase the odds of finding the results you are seeking. For example: Fight*. The search results will display every instance of fight, fights, fighting, etc. More than one wildcard may be used. For example: *ricar*. This search will return most references to the Aricara tribe, including Ricara, Ricares, Aricaris, Ricaries, Ricaree, Ricareis, and Ricarra. Using a question mark (?) instead of an asterisk (*) will allow you to search for a single character. For example, r?n will find all instances of ran and run, but will not find rain or ruin.
Searches are not case sensitive. For example: george will come up with the same results as George.
Searching for a specific phrase may help narrow down the results. Rather long phrases are no problem. For example: "This white pudding we all esteem".
Because of the creative spellings used by the journalists, it may be necessary to try your search multiple times. For example: P?ro*. This search brings up numerous variant spellings of the French word pirogue, "a large dugout canoe or open boat." Searching for P?*r*og?* will bring up other variant spellings. Searching for canoe or boat also may be helpful.
| Entering in only one field | Searches |
|---|---|
| Year, Month, & Day | Single day |
| Year & Month | Whole month |
| Year | Whole year |
| Month & Day | 1600-#-# to 2100-#-# |
| Month | 1600-#-1 to 2100-#-31 |
| Day | 1600-01-# to 2100-12-# |
This is no book, Who touches this, touches a man, (Is it night? Are we here alone?)
shall meet—and yet our souls embrace, long, close and long;) For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books—for
with sweat; Thou, nestling, folding close and firm yet soft, companion bet- ter better than talk, book
Egyptian priests, and those of Ethiopia, The Hindu epics, the Grecian, Chinese, Persian, The Biblic books
gluttony, lust; The open air I sing, freedom, toleration, (Take here the mainest lesson—less from books—less
dying and diseas'd, The countless (nineteen-twentieths) low and evil, crude and savage, The crazed, prisoners
Did we count great, O soul, to penetrate the themes of mighty books, Absorbing deep and full from thoughts
undoubtedly authentic remains of the stanchest and earliest revolutionary patriots from the British prison
ships and prisons of the times of 1776–83, in and around New York, and from all over Long Island; originally
with all its heroes, histories, arts, experiments, Its store of songs, inventions, voyages, teachers, books
Perfume this book of mine O blood-red roses! Lave subtly with your waters every line Potomac!
THIS is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased
O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this? Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?
these sights on the earth, I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny, I see martyrs and prisoners
These eager business aims—books, politics, art, amours, To utter nothingness?
labor, suffering, I, tallying it, absorb in myself, Many times have I been rejected, taunted, put in prison
Camerado, this is no book, Who touches this touches a man, (Is it night?
WHEN I READ THE BOOK.
I have made, The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing, A book separate, not link'd
All the hapless silent lovers, All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked, All
book-words! what are you?
The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison, the runaway son
Let the prison-keepers be put in prison! Let those that were prisoners take the keys! (Say!
Let books take the place of trees, animals, rivers, clouds!
or man that has been in prison, or is likely to be in prison? 4.
book, It is a man, flushed and full-blooded—it is I—So long!
The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison—the run- away runaway
Which is the theory or book that, for our purposes, is not diseased?
Who are you, that wanted only a book to join you in your nonsense?
What are your theology, tuition, society, traditions, statute-books now?
Let the prison-keepers be put in prison! Let those that were prisoners take the keys! (Say!
Let books take the place of trees, animals, rivers, clouds!
fleet, His voyage behold, his return, his great fame, His misfortunes, calumniators, behold him a prisoner
Have we not darken'd and dazed ourselves with books long enough?
The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison, the runaway son
slave is one with the master's call, and the master salutes the slave, The felon steps forth from the prison
idiot or insane person appear on each of the stands; Let judges and criminals be transposed—let the prison-keepers
be put in prison—let those that were prisoners take the keys; Let them that distrust birth and death
labor, suffering, I, tallying it, absorb in myself, Many times have I been rejected, taunted, put in prison
Perfume this book of mine O blood-red roses! Lave subtly with your waters every line Potomac!
THIS is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased
O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this? Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?
The Singer in the Prison. THE SINGER IN THE PRISON. 1 O sight of pity, shame and dole!
RANG the refrain along the hall, the prison, Rose to the roof, the vaults of heaven above, Pouring in
seated, sear-faced murderers, wily counter- feiters counterfeiters , Gather'd to Sunday church in prison
While upon all, convicts and armed keepers ere they stirr'd, (Convict forgetting prison, keeper his loaded
Resumed, the large calm lady walks the narrow aisle, The wailing melody again, the singer in the prison
In one, along a suite of noble rooms, 'Mid plenteous books and journals, paintings on the walls, fine
YOU felons on trial in courts, You convicts in prison-cells, you sentenced assassins chain'd and handcuff'd
with iron, Who am I too that I am not on trial or in prison?
how uneasy they are when he moves away from them; Now I marvel what it can be he appears to them, (books
Camerado, this is no book, Who touches this touches a man, (Is it night?
or man that has been in prison, or is likely to be in prison? 4.
and handcuffed with iron, Who am I, that I am not on trial, or in prison?
SO far, and so far, and on toward the end, Singing what is sung in this book, from the irresisti- ble
LIFT me close to your face till I whisper, What you are holding is in reality no book, nor part of a
book, It is a man, flushed and full-blooded—it is I—So long!
drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor—all falls aside but myself and it, Books
For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book, Nor is it by reading it you
drops, Candid, from me falling—drip, bleeding drops, From wounds made to free you whence you were prisoned
how unfaltering, how affectionate and faithful they were, Then I am pensive—I hastily put down the book
library, Nor reminiscence of any deed of courage, for America, Nor literary success, nor intellect—nor book
for the book-shelf; Only these carols, vibrating through the air, I leave, For comrades and lovers.
alarm and fre- quent frequent advance and retreat, The infidel triumphs—or supposes he triumphs, The prison
In it physique, intellect, faith—in it just as much as to manage an army or a city, or to write a book
things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books
Europe, Asia—a wandering savage, A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, lover, quaker, A prisoner
great authors and schools, A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books
Did you read in the sea-books of the old-fashioned frigate-fight?
I become any presence or truth of humanity here, See myself in prison shaped like another man, And feel
Which is the theory or book that, for our purposes, is not diseased?
Who are you, that wanted only a book to join you in your nonsense?
What are your theology, tuition, society, traditions, statute-books now?
The shape of the prisoner's place in the court-room, and of him or her seated in the place, The shape
not what is printed, preached, discussed—it eludes discussion and print, It is not to be put in a book—it
is not in this book, It is for you, whoever you are—it is no farther from you than your hearing and
curious way we write what we think, yet very faintly, The directory, the detector, the ledger, the books
in ranks on the book-shelves, the clock attached to the wall, The ring on your finger, the lady's wristlet
descends and goes instead of the carver that carved the supporting-desk, When I can touch the body of books
Let the prison-keepers be put in prison! Let those that were prisoners take the keys! (Say!
Let books take the place of trees, animals, rivers, clouds!
All the hapless silent lovers, All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked, All
these sights on the earth, I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny, I see martyrs and prisoners
These eager business aims—books, politics, art, amours, To utter nothingness? THOUGHT.
, throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs, The salesman leaving the store, the boss, book-keeper
book-words! what are you?
In you whoe'er you are my book perusing, In I myself, in all the world, these currents flowing, All,
THE SINGER IN THE PRISON. 1 O sight of pity, shame and dole! O fearful thought—a convict soul.
RANG the refrain along the hall, the prison, Rose to the roof, the vaults of heaven above, Pouring in
In one, along a suite of noble rooms, 'Mid plenteous books and journals, paintings on the walls, fine
with iron, Who am I too that I am not on trial or in prison?
labor, suffering, I, tallying it, absorb in myself, Many times have I been rejected, taunted, put in prison
Perfume this book of mine O blood-red roses! Lave subtly with your waters every line Potomac!
THIS is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased
O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this? Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?
Camerado, this is no book, Who touches this touches a man, (Is it night?
I answered, I too haughty Shade also sing war, and a longer and greater one than any, Waged in my book
Then falter not O book, fulfil fulfill your destiny, You not a reminiscence of the land alone, You too
Bear forth to them folded my love, (dear mariners, for you I fold it here in every leaf;) Speed on my book