Complete Prose Works E-Book

Walt Whitman

• Herausgeber: Walt Whitman
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

As I sit here by the creek, resting after my walk, a warm languor bathes me from the sun. No sound but a cawing of crows, and no motion but their black flying figures from over-head, reflected in the mirror of the pond below. Indeed a principal feature of the scene today is these crows, their incessant cawing, far or near, and their countless flocks and processions moving from place to place, and at times almost darkening the air with their myriads. As I sit a moment writing this by the bank, I see the black, clear-cut reflection of them far below, flying through the watery looking-glass, by ones, twos, or long strings. All last night I heard the noises from their great roost in a neighboring wood.

Leseprobe

Walt Whitman

Complete Prose Works

UUID: d7317682-94e6-11e5-a821-119a1b5d0361

This ebook was created with StreetLib Write (http://write.streetlib.com)by Simplicissimus Book Farm

Table of contents

SPECIMEN DAYS

A HAPPY HOUR'S COMMAND

ANSWER TO AN INSISTING FRIEND

GENEALOGY—VAN VELSOR AND WHITMAN

THE OLD WHITMAN AND VAN VELSOR CEMETERIES

THE MATERNAL HOMESTEAD

TWO OLD FAMILY INTERIORS

PAUMANOK, AND MY LIFE ON IT AS CHILD AND YOUNG MAN

MY FIRST READING—LAFAYETTE

PRINTING OFFICE—OLD BROOKLYN

GROWTH—HEALTH—WORK

MY PASSION FOR FERRIES

BROADWAY SIGHTS

OMNIBUS JAUNTS AND DRIVERS

PLAYS AND OPERAS TOO

THROUGH EIGHT YEARS.

SOURCES OF CHARACTER—RESULTS—1860

OPENING OF THE SECESSION WAR

NATIONAL UPRISING AND VOLUNTEERING

CONTEMPTUOUS FEELING

BATTLE OF BULL RUN, JULY, 1861

THE STUPOR PASSES—SOMETHING ELSE BEGINS

DOWN AT THE FRONT

AFTER FIRST FREDERICKSBURG

BACK TO WASHINGTON

FIFTY HOURS LEFT WOUNDED ON THE FIELD

HOSPITAL SCENES AND PERSONS

PATENT-OFFICE HOSPITAL

THE WHITE HOUSE BY MOONLIGHT

AN ARMY HOSPITAL WARD

A CONNECTICUT CASE

TWO BROOKLYN BOYS

A SECESH BRAVE

THE WOUNDED FROM CHANCELLORSVILLE

A NIGHT BATTLE OVER A WEEK SINCE

UNNAMED REMAINS THE BRAVEST SOLDIER

SOME SPECIMEN CASES

MY PREPARATIONS FOR VISITS

AMBULANCE PROCESSIONS

BAD WOUNDS—THE YOUNG

THE MOST INSPIRITING OF ALL WAR'S SHOWS

BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG

A CAVALRY CAMP

A NEW YORK SOLDIER

HOME-MADE MUSIC

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

HEATED TERM

SOLDIERS AND TALKS

DEATH OF A WISCONSIN OFFICER

HOSPITALS ENSEMBLE

A SILENT NIGHT RAMBLE

SPIRITUAL CHARACTERS AMONG THE SOLDIERS

CATTLE DROVES ABOUT WASHINGTON

HOSPITAL PERPLEXITY

DOWN AT THE FRONT

PAYING THE BOUNTIES

RUMORS, CHANGES, ETC.

VIRGINIA

SUMMER OF 1864

A NEW ARMY ORGANIZATION FIT FOR AMERICA

DEATH OF A HERO

HOSPITAL SCENES—INCIDENTS

A YANKEE SOLDIER

UNION PRISONERS SOUTH

DESERTERS

A GLIMPSE OF WAR'S HELL-SCENES

GIFTS—MONEY—DISCRIMINATION

ITEMS FROM MY NOTE BOOKS

A CASE FROM SECOND BULL RUN

ARMY SURGEONS—AID DEFICIENCIES

THE BLUE EVERYWHERE

A MODEL HOSPITAL

BOYS IN THE ARMY

BURIAL OF A LADY NURSE

FEMALE NURSES FOR SOLDIERS

SOUTHERN ESCAPEES

THE CAPITOL BY GAS-LIGHT

THE INAUGURATION

ATTITUDE OF FOREIGN GOVERNMENTS DURING THE WAR

THE WEATHER—DOES IT SYMPATHIZE WITH THESE TIMES?

INAUGURATION BALL

SCENE AT THE CAPITOL

A YANKEE ANTIQUE

WOUNDS AND DISEASES

DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN

SHERMAN'S ARMY'S JUBILATION—ITS SUDDEN STOPPAGE

NO GOOD PORTRAIT OF LINCOLN

RELEAS'D UNION PRISONERS FROM SOUTH

DEATH OF A PENNSYLVANIA SOLDIER

W. W.

THE GRAND REVIEW

WESTERN SOLDIERS

A SOLDIER ON LINCOLN

TWO BROTHERS, ONE SOUTH, ONE NORTH

SOME SAD CASES YET

CALHOUN'S REAL MONUMENT

HOSPITALS CLOSING

TYPICAL SOLDIERS

"CONVULSIVENESS"

THREE YEARS SUMM'D UP

THE MILLION DEAD, TOO, SUMM'D UP

THE REAL WAR WILL NEVER GET IN THE BOOKS

AN INTERREGNUM PARAGRAPH

NEW THEMES ENTERED UPON

ENTERING A LONG FARM-LANE

TO THE SPRING AND BROOK

AN EARLY SUMMER REVEILLE

BIRDS MIGRATING AT MIDNIGHT

BUMBLE-BEES

CEDAR-APPLES

SUMMER SIGHTS AND INDOLENCIES

SUNDOWN PERFUME—QUAILNOTES—THE HERMIT-THRUSH

A JULY AFTER-NOON BY THE POND

LOCUSTS AND KATY-DIDS

THE LESSON OF A TREE

AUTUMN SIDE-BITS

THE SKY—DAYS AND NIGHTS—HAPPINESS

COLORS—A CONTRAST

NOVEMBER 8, '76

CROWS AND CROWS

A WINTER DAY ON THE SEA-BEACH

SEA-SHORE FANCIES

IN MEMORY OF THOMAS PAINE.

A TWO HOURS ICE-SAIL

SPRING OVERTURES—RECREATIONS

ONE OF THE HUMAN KINKS

AN AFTERNOON SCENE

THE GATES OPENING

THE COMMON EARTH, THE SOIL

BIRDS AND BIRDS AND BIRDS

FULL-STARR'D NIGHTS

MULLEINS AND MULLEINS

DISTANT SOUNDS

A SUN-BATH-NAKEDNESS

THE OAKS AND I

A QUINTETTE

THE FIRST FROST—MEMS

THREE YOUNG MEN'S DEATHS

FEBRUARY DAYS

A MEADOW LARK

SUNDOWN LIGHTS

THOUGHTS UNDER AN OAK—A DREAM

CLOVER AND HAY PERFUME

AN UNKNOWN

BIRD-WHISTLING

HORSE-MINT

THREE OF US

DEATH OF WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

JAUNT UP THE HUDSON

HAPPINESS AND RASPBERRIES

A SPECIMEN TRAMP FAMILY

MANHATTAN FROM THE BAY

HUMAN AND HEROIC NEW YORK

HOURS FOR THE SOUL

STRAW-COLOR'D AND OTHER PSYCHES

A NIGHT REMEMBRANCE

WILD FLOWERS

A CIVILITY TOO LONG NEGLECTED

DELAWARE RIVER—DAYS AND NIGHTS

SCENES ON FERRY AND RIVER—LAST WINTER'S NIGHTS

THE FIRST SPRING DAY ON CHESTNUT STREET

UP THE HUDSON TO ULSTER COUNTY

DAYS AT J. B.'S TURF-FIRES—SPRING SONGS

MEETING A HERMIT

AN ULSTER COUNTY WATERFALL

WALTER DUMONT AND HIS MEDAL

HUDSON RIVER SIGHTS

TWO CITY AREAS, CERTAIN HOURS

CENTRAL PARK WALKS AND TALKS

A FINE AFTERNOON, 4 TO 6

DEPARTING OF THE BIG STEAMERS

TWO HOURS ON THE MINNESOTA

MATURE SUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS

EXPOSITION BUILDING—NEW CITY HALL—RIVER TRIP

SWALLOWS ON THE RIVER

BEGIN A LONG JAUNT WEST

IN THE SLEEPER

MISSOURI STATE

LAWRENCE AND TOPEKA, KANSAS

ON TO DENVER—A FRONTIER INCIDENT

AN HOUR ON KENOSHA SUMMIT

AN EGOTISTICAL "FIND"

NEW SENSES: NEW JOYS

STEAM-POWER, TELEGRAPHS, ETC

AMERICA'S BACK-BONE

THE PARKS

ART FEATURES

DENVER IMPRESSIONS

I TURN SOUTH AND THEN EAST AGAIN

UNFULFILLED WANTS—THE ARKANSAS RIVER

A SILENT LITTLE FOLLOWER-THE COREOPSIS

THE PRAIRIES AND GREAT PLAINS IN POETRY

THE SPANISH PEAKS—EVENING ON THE PLAINS

AMERICA'S CHARACTERISTIC LANDSCAPE

EARTH'S MOST IMPORTANT STREAM

PRAIRIE ANALOGIES—THE TREE QUESTION

MISSISSIPPI VALLEY LITERATURE

AN INTERVIEWER'S ITEM

THE WOMEN OF THE WEST

THE SILENT GENERAL

PRESIDENT HAYES'S SPEECHES

ST. LOUIS MEMORANDA

NIGHTS ON THE MISSISSIPPI

UPON OUR OWN LAND

EDGAR POE'S SIGNIFICANCE

BEETHOVEN'S SEPTETTE

A HINT OF WILD NATURE

LOAFING IN THE WOODS

A CONTRALTO VOICE

SEEING NIAGARA TO ADVANTAGE

JAUNTING TO CANADA

SUNDAY WITH THE INSANE

REMINISCENCE OF ELIAS HICKS

GRAND NATIVE GROWTH

A ZOLLVEREIN BETWEEN THE U.S. AND CANADA

THE ST. LAWRENCE LINE

THE SAVAGE SAGUENAY

CAPES ETERNITY AND TRINITY

CHICOUTIMI AND HA-HA BAY

THE INHABITANTS—GOOD LIVING

DEATH OF THOMAS CARLYLE

CARLYLE FROM AMERICAN POINTS OF VIEW

A COUPLE OF OLD FRIENDS—A COLERIDGE BIT

A WEEK'S VISIT TO BOSTON

THE BOSTON OF TO-DAY

MY TRIBUTE TO FOUR POETS

MILLET'S PICTURES LAST ITEMS

BIRDS—AND A CAUTION

SAMPLES OF MY COMMON-PLACE BOOK

MY NATIVE SAND AND SALT ONCE MORE

HOT WEATHER NEW YORK

CUSTER'S LAST RALLY

SOME OLD ACQUAINTANCES—MEMORIES

A DISCOVERY OF OLD AGE

A VISIT, AT THE LAST, TO R. W. EMERSON

OTHER CONCORD NOTATIONS

BOSTON COMMON—MORE OF EMERSON

AN OSSIANIC NIGHT—DEAREST FRIENDS

ONLY A NEW FERRY-BOAT

DEATH OF LONGFELLOW

STARTING NEWSPAPERS

THE GREAT UNREST OF WHICH WE ARE PART

BY EMERSON'S GRAVE

AT PRESENT WRITING—PERSONAL

AFTER TRYING A CERTAIN BOOK

FINAL CONFESSIONS—LITERARY TESTS

NATURE AND DEMOCRACY—MORALITY

COLLECT

DEMOCRATIC VISTAS

ORIGINS OF ATTEMPTED SECESSION

PREFACES TO "LEAVES OF GRASS"

PREFACE, 1872 To As a Strong Bird on Pinions Free Now Thou Mother with

W. W.

POETRY TO-DAY IN AMERICA

A MEMORANDUM AT A VENTURE

DEATH OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN LECTURE

TWO LETTERS

TO — — — LONDON, ENGLAND

W. W.

II

W. W.

EMERSON'S BOOKS, (THE SHADOWS OF THEM)

VENTURES, ON AN OLD THEME

BRITISH LITERATURE

DARWINISM—(THEN FURTHERMORE)

"SOCIETY"

DEMOCRACY IN THE NEW WORLD

FOUNDATION STAGES—THEN OTHERS

GENERAL SUFFRAGE, ELECTIONS, ETC.

WHO GETS THE PLUNDER?

FRIENDSHIP, (THE REAL ARTICLE)

LACKS AND WANTS YET

RULERS STRICTLY OUT OF THE MASSES

MONUMENTS—THE PAST AND PRESENT

LITTLE OR NOTHING NEW, AFTER ALL

A LINCOLN REMINISCENCE

FREEDOM

BOOK-CLASSES—AMERICA'S LITERATURE

OUR REAL CULMINATION

AN AMERICAN PROBLEM

THE LAST COLLECTIVE COMPACTION

APPENDIX

1834-'42

PAUMANOK.

ONE WICKED IMPULSE

THE LAST LOYALIST

WILD FRANK'S RETURN

THE BOY LOVER

THE CHILD AND THE PROFLIGATE

LINGAVE'S TEMPTATION

LITTLE JANE

DUMB KATE

TALK TO AN ART-UNION

BLOOD-MONEY

I.

II

WOUNDED IN THE HOUSE OF FRIENDS

SAILING THE MISSISSIPPI AT MIDNIGHT

NOVEMBER BOUGHS

Past, Present and Future

THE BIBLE AS POETRY

FATHER TAYLOR (AND ORATORY)

THE SPANISH ELEMENT IN OUR NATIONALITY

WALT WHITMAN.

A THOUGHT ON SHAKSPERE

ROBERT BURNS AS POET AND PERSON

A WORD ABOUT TENNYSON

SLANG IN AMERICA

AN INDIAN BUREAU REMINISCENCE

SOME DIARY NOTES AT RANDOM

COUNTRY DAYS AND NIGHTS—

CENTRAL PARK NOTES

PLATE GLASS NOTES

SOME WAR MEMORANDA

WASHINGTON STREET SCENES

THE 195TH PENNSYLVANIA

LEFT-HAND WRITING BY SOLDIERS

CENTRAL VIRGINIA IN '64

PAYING THE 1ST U. S. C. T.

FIVE THOUSAND POEMS

THE OLD BOWERY

NOTES TO LATE ENGLISH BOOKS

ADDITIONAL NOTE, 1887

WALT WHITMAN,

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

NEW ORLEANS IN 1848

SMALL MEMORANDA

NOTE TO A FRIEND

W.W.

W.W.

LAST OF THE WAR CASES

ELIAS HICKS

GEORGE FOX (AND SHAKSPERE)

GOOD-BYE MY FANCY

OLD POETS

SHIP AHOY

FOR QUEEN VICTORIA'S BIRTHDAY

AMERICAN NATIONAL LITERATURE

GATHERING THE CORN

A DEATH-BOUQUET

SOME LAGGARDS YET

SHAKSPERE FOR AMERICA

"UNASSAIL'D RENOWN"

INSCRIPTION FOR A LITTLE BOOK ON GIORDANO BRUNO

SPLINTERS

HEALTH, (OLD STYLE)

GAY-HEARTEDNESS

AS IN A SWOON.

L. OF G.

AFTER THE ARGUMENT.

FOR US TWO, READER DEAR.

MEMORANDA

A WORLD'S SHOW

NEW YORK—THE BAY—THE OLD NAME

A SICK SPELL

TO BE PRESENT ONLY

"INTESTINAL AGITATION"

"WALT WHITMAN'S LAST 'PUBLIC'"

INGERSOLL'S SPEECH

FEELING FAIRLY

OLD BROOKLYN DAYS

TWO QUESTIONS

PREFACE

AN ENGINEER'S OBITUARY

W. W.

SOME PERSONAL AND OLD-AGE JOTTINGS

OUT IN THE OPEN AGAIN

AMERICA'S BULK AVERAGE

LAST SAVED ITEMS

WALT WHITMAN'S LAST {49}

SPECIMEN DAYS

A HAPPY HOUR'S COMMAND

Down in the Woods, July 2d, 1882.-If I do it at all I must delay no longer. Incongruous and full of skips and jumps as is that huddle of diary-jottings, war-memoranda of 1862-'65, Nature-notes of 1877-'81, with Western and Canadian observations afterwards, all bundled up and tied by a big string, the resolution and indeed mandate comes to me this day, this hour,—(and what a day! What an hour just passing! the luxury of riant grass and blowing breeze, with all the shows of sun and sky and perfect temperature, never before so filling me, body and soul),—to go home, untie the bundle, reel out diary-scraps and memoranda, just as they are, large or small, one after another, into print-pages,{1} and let the melange's lackings and wants of connection take care of themselves. It will illustrate one phase of humanity anyhow; how few of life's days and hours (and they not by relative value or proportion, but by chance) are ever noted. Probably another point, too, how we give long preparations for some object, planning and delving and fashioning, and then, when the actual hour for doing arrives, find ourselves still quite unprepared, and tumble the thing together, letting hurry and crudeness tell the story better than fine work. At any rate I obey my happy hour's command, which seems curiously imperative. May be, if I don't do anything else, I shall send out the most wayward, spontaneous, fragmentary book ever printed.Endnotes:{1} The pages from 1 to 15 are nearly verbatim an off-hand letter of mine in January, 1882, to an insisting friend. Following, I give some gloomy experiences. The war of attempted secession has, of course, been the distinguishing event of my time. I commenced at the close of 1862, and continued steadily through '63, '64 and '65, to visit the sick and wounded of the army, both on the field and in the hospitals in and around Washington city. From the first I kept little note-books for impromptu jottings in pencil to refresh my memory of names and circumstances, and what was specially wanted, &c. In these, I brief'd cases, persons, sights, occurrences in camp, by the bed-side, and not seldom by the corpses of the dead. Some were scratch'd down from narratives I heard and itemized while watching, or waiting, or tending somebody amid those scenes. I have dozens of such little note-books left, forming a special history of those years, for myself alone, full of associations never to be possibly said or sung. I wish I could convey to the reader the associations that attach to these soil'd and creas'd livraisons, each composed of a sheet or two of paper, folded small to carry in the pocket, and fasten'd with a pin. I leave them just as I threw them by after the war, blotch'd here and there with more than one blood-stain, hurriedly written, sometimes at the clinique, not seldom amid the excitement of uncertainty, or defeat, or of action, or getting ready for it, or a march. Most of the pages from 20 to 75 are verbatim copies of those lurid and blood-smuch'd little notebooks.Very different are most of the memoranda that follow. Some time after the war ended I had a paralytic stroke, which prostrated me for several years. In 1876 I began to get over the worst of it. From this date, portions of several seasons, especially summers, I spent at a secluded haunt down in Camden county, New Jersey—Timber creek, quite a little river (it enters from the great Delaware, twelve miles away)—with primitive solitudes, winding stream, recluse and woody banks, sweet-feeding springs, and all the charms that birds, grass, wild-flowers, rabbits and squirrels, old oaks, walnut trees, &c., can bring. Through these times, and on these spots, the diary from page 76 onward was mostly written.The COLLECT afterwards gathers up the odds and ends of whatever pieces I can now lay hands on, written at various times past, and swoops all together like fish in a net.I suppose I publish and leave the whole gathering, first, from that eternal tendency to perpetuate and preserve which is behind all Nature, authors included; second, to symbolize two or three specimen interiors, personal and other, out of the myriads of my time, the middle range of the Nineteenth century in the New World; a strange, unloosen'd, wondrous time. But the book is probably without any definite purpose that can be told in a statement.

ANSWER TO AN INSISTING FRIEND

You ask for items, details of my early life—of genealogy and parentage, particularly of the women of my ancestry, and of its far-back Netherlands stock on the maternal side—of the region where I was born and raised, and my mother and father before me, and theirs before them—with a word about Brooklyn and New York cities, the times I lived there as lad and young man. You say you want to get at these details mainly as the go-befores and embryons of "Leaves of Grass." Very good; you shall have at least some specimens of them all. I have often thought of the meaning of such things—that one can only encompass and complete matters of that kind by 'exploring behind, perhaps very far behind, themselves directly, and so into their genesis, antecedents, and cumulative stages. Then as luck would have it, I lately whiled away the tedium of a week's half-sickness and confinement, by collating these very items for another (yet unfulfilled, probably abandon'd,) purpose; and if you will be satisfied with them, authentic in date-occurrence and fact simply, and told my own way, garrulous-like, here they are. I shall not hesitate to make extracts, for I catch at anything to save labor; but those will be the best versions of what I want to convey.

GENEALOGY—VAN VELSOR AND WHITMAN

The later years of the last century found the Van Velsor family, my mother's side, living on their own farm at Cold Spring, Long Island, New York State, near the eastern edge of Queen's county, about a mile from the harbor.{2} My father's side—probably the fifth generation from the first English arrivals in New England—were at the same time farmers on their own land—(and a fine domain it was, 500 acres, all good soil, gently sloping east and south, about one-tenth woods, plenty of grand old trees,) two or three miles off, at West Hills, Suffolk county. The Whitman name in the Eastern States, and so branch and South, starts undoubtedly from one John Whitman, born 1602, in Old England, where he grew up, married, and his eldest son was born in 1629. He came over in the "True Love" in 1640 to America, and lived in Weymouth, Mass., which place became the mother-hive of the New-Englanders of the name; he died in 1692. His brother, Rev. Zechariah Whitman, also came over in the "True Love," either at that time or soon after, and lived at Milford, Conn. A son of this Zechariah, named Joseph, migrated to Huntington, Long Island, and permanently settled there. Savage's "Genealogical Dictionary" (vol. iv, p. 524) gets the Whitman family establish'd at Huntington, per this Joseph, before 1664. It is quite certain that from that beginning, and from Joseph, the West Hill Whitmans, and all others in Suffolk county, have since radiated, myself among the number. John and Zechariah both went to England and back again divers times; they had large families, and several of their children were born in the old country. We hear of the father of John and Zechariah, Abijah Whitman, who goes over into the 1500's, but we know little about him, except that he also was for some time in America.

These old pedigree-reminiscences come up to me vividly from a visit I made not long since (in my 63d year) to West Hills, and to the burial grounds of my ancestry, both sides. I extract from notes of that visit, written there and then:

Note:

{2} Long Island was settled first on the west end by the Dutch from Holland, then on the east end by the English—the dividing line of the two nationalities being a little west of Huntington where my father's folks lived, and where I was born.

THE OLD WHITMAN AND VAN VELSOR CEMETERIES

July 29, 1881.—After more than forty years' absence, (except a brief visit, to take my father there once more, two years before he died,) went down Long Island on a week' s jaunt to the place where I was born, thirty miles from New York city. Rode around the old familiar spots, viewing and pondering and dwelling long upon them, every-thing coming back to me. Went to the old Whitman homestead on the upland and took a view eastward, inclining south, over the broad and beautiful farm lands of my grandfather (1780,) and my father. There was the new house (1810,) the big oak a hundred and fifty or two hundred years old; there the well, the sloping kitchen-garden, and a little way off even the well-kept remains of the dwelling of my great-grandfather (1750-'60) still standing, with its mighty timbers and low ceilings. Near by, a stately grove of tall, vigorous black-walnuts, beautiful, Apollo-like, the sons or grandsons, no doubt, of black-walnuts during or before 1776. On the other side of the road spread the famous apple orchard, over twenty acres, the trees planted by hands long mouldering in the grave (my uncle Jesse's,) but quite many of them evidently capable of throwing out their annual blossoms and fruit yet.

I now write these lines seated on an old grave (doubtless of a century since at least) on the burial hill of the Whitmans of many generations. Fifty or more graves are quite plainly traceable, and as many more decay'd out of all form—depress'd mounds, crumbled and broken stones, cover'd with moss—the gray and sterile hill, the clumps of chestnuts outside, the silence, just varied by the soughing wind. There is always the deepest eloquence of sermon or poem in any of these ancient graveyards of which Long Island has so many; so what must this one have been to me? My whole family history, with its succession of links, from the first settlement down to date, told here—three centuries concentrate on this sterile acre.

The next day, July 30, I devoted to the maternal locality, and if possible was still more penetrated and impress'd. I write this paragraph on the burial hul of the Van Velsors, near Cold Spring, the most significant depository of the dead that could be imagin'd, without the slightest help from art, but far ahead of it, soil sterile, a mostly bare plateau-flat of half an acre, the top of a hill, brush and well grown trees and dense woods bordering all around, very primi-tive, secluded, no visitors, no road (you cannot drive here, you have to bring the dead on foot, and follow on foot.) Two or three-score graves quite plain; as many more almost rubb'd out. My grandfather Cornelius and my grandmother Amy (Naomi) and numerous relatives nearer or remoter, on my mother's side, lie buried here. The scene as I stood or sat, the delicate and wild odor of the woods, a slightly drizzling rain, the emotional atmosphere of the place, and the inferr'd reminiscences, were fitting accompaniments.

THE MATERNAL HOMESTEAD

I went down from this ancient grave place eighty or ninety rods to the site of the Van Velsor homestead, where my mother was born (1795,) and where every spot had been familiar to me as a child and youth (1825-'40.) Then stood there a long rambling, dark-gray, shingle-sided house, with sheds, pens, a great barn, and much open road-space. Now of all those not a vestige left; all had been pull'd down, erased, and the plough and harrow pass'd over foundations, road-spaces and everything, for many summers; fenced in at present, and grain and clover growing like any other fine fields. Only a big hole from the cellar, with some little heaps of broken stone, green with grass and weeds, identified the place. Even the copious old brook and spring seem'd to have mostly dwindled away. The whole scene, with what it arous'd, memories of my young days there half a century ago, the vast kitchen and ample fireplace and the sitting-room adjoining, the plain furniture, the meals, the house full of merry people, my grandmother Amy's sweet old face in its Quaker cap, my grandfather "the Major," jovial, red, stout, with sonorous voice and characteristic physiognomy, with the actual sights themselves, made the most pronounc'd half-day's experience of my whole jaunt.

For there with all those wooded, hilly, healthy surroundings, my dearest mother, Louisa Van Velsor, grew up—(her mother, Amy Williams, of the Friends' or Quakers' denomination—the Williams family, seven sisters and one brother—the father and brother sailors, both of whom met their deaths at sea.) The Van Velsor people were noted for fine horses, which the men bred and train'd from blooded stock. My mother, as a young woman, was a daily and daring rider. As to the head of the family himself, the old race of the Netherlands, so deeply grafted on Manhattan island and in Kings and Queens counties, never yielded a more mark'd and full Americanized specimen than Major Cornelius Van Velsor.

TWO OLD FAMILY INTERIORS

Of the domestic and inside life of the middle of Long Island, at and just before that time, here are two samples:

"The Whitmans, at the beginning of the present century, lived in a long story-and-a-half farm-house, hugely timber'd, which is still standing. A great smoke-canopied kitchen, with vast hearth and chimney, form'd one end of the house. The existence of slavery in New York at that time, and the possession by the family of some twelve or fifteen slaves, house and field servants, gave things quite a patriarchial look. The very young darkies could be seen, a swarm of them, toward sundown, in this kitchen, squatted in a circle on the floor, eating their supper of Indian pudding and milk. In the house, and in food and furniture, all was rude, but substantial. No carpets or stoves were known, and no coffee, and tea or sugar only for the women. Rousing wood fires gave both warmth and light on winter nights. Pork, poultry, beef, and all the ordinary vegetables and grains were plentiful. Cider was the men's common drink, and used at meals. The clothes were mainly homespun. Journeys were made by both men and women on horseback. Both sexes labor'd with their own hands-the men on the farm—the women in the house and around it. Books were scarce. The annual copy of the almanac was a treat, and was pored over through the long winter evenings. I must not forget to mention that both these families were near enough to the sea to behold it from the high places, and to hear in still hours the roar of the surf; the latter, after a storm, giving a peculiar sound at night. Then all hands, male and female, went down frequently on beach and bathing parties, and the men on practical expeditions for cutting salt hay, and for clamming and fishing."—John Burroughs's NOTES.

"The ancestors of Walt Whitman, on both the paternal and maternal sides, kept a good table, sustained the hospitalities, decorums, and an excellent social reputation in the county, and they were often of mark'd individuality. If space permitted, I should consider some of the men worthy special description; and still more some of the women. His great-grandmother on the paternal side, for instance, was a large swarthy woman, who lived to a very old age. She smoked tobacco, rode on horseback like a man, managed the most vicious horse, and, becoming a widow in later life, went forth every day over her farm-lands, frequently in the saddle, directing the labor of her slaves, in language in which, on exciting occasions, oaths were not spared. The two immediate grandmothers were, in the best sense, superior women. The maternal one (Amy Williams before marriage) was a Friend, or Quakeress, of sweet, sensible character, house-wifely proclivities, and deeply intuitive and spiritual. The other (Hannah Brush,) was an equally noble, perhaps stronger character, lived to be very old, had quite a family of sons, was a natural lady, was in early life a school-mistress, and had great solidity of mind. W. W. himself makes much of the women of his ancestry."—The Same.

Out from these arrieres of persons and scenes, I was born May 31, 1819. And now to dwell awhile on the locality itself—as the successive growth-stages of my infancy, childhood, youth and manhood were all pass'd on Long Island, which I sometimes feel as if I had incorporated. I roam'd, as boy and man, and have lived in nearly all parts, from Brooklyn to Montauk point.

PAUMANOK, AND MY LIFE ON IT AS CHILD AND YOUNG MAN

Worth fully and particularly investigating indeed this Paumanok, (to give the spot its aboriginal name{3},) stretching east through Kings, Queens and Suffolk counties, 120 miles altogether—on the north Long Island sound, a beautiful, varied and picturesque series of inlets, "necks" and sea-like expansions, for a hundred miles to Orient point. On the ocean side the great south bay dotted with countless hummocks, mostly small, some quite large, occasionally long bars of sand out two hundred rods to a mile-and-a-half from the shore. While now and then, as at Rockaway and far east along the Hamptons, the beach makes right on the island, the sea dashing up without intervention. Several light-houses on the shores east; a long history of wrecks tragedies, some even of late years. As a youngster, I was in the atmosphere and traditions of many of these wrecks—of one or two almost an observer. Off Hempstead beach for example, was the loss of the ship "Mexico" in 1840, (alluded to in "the Sleepers" in L. of G.) And at Hampton, some years later, the destruction of the brig "Elizabeth," a fearful affair, in one of the worst winter gales, where Margaret Fuller went down, with her husband and child.

Inside the outer bars or beach this south bay is everywhere comparatively shallow; of cold winters all thick ice on the surface. As a boy I often went forth with a chum or two, on those frozen fields, with hand-sled, axe and eel-spear, after messes of eels. We would cut holes in the ice, sometimes striking quite an eel-bonanza, and filling our baskets with great, fat, sweet, white-meated fellows. The scenes, the ice, drawing the hand-sled, cutting holes, spearing the eels, &c., were of course just such fun as is dearest to boyhood. The shores of this bay, winter and summer, and my doings there in early life, are woven all through L. of G. One sport I was very fond of was to go on a bay-party in summer to gather sea-gull's eggs. (The gulls lay two or three eggs, more than half the size of hen's eggs, right on the sand, and leave the sun's heat to hatch them.)

The eastern end of Long Island, the Peconic bay region, I knew quite well too—sail'd more than once around Shelter island, and down to Montauk—spent many an hour on Turtle hill by the old light-house, on the extreme point, looking out over the ceaseless roll of the Atlantic. I used to like to go down there and fraternize with the blue-fishers, or the annual squads of sea-bass takers. Sometimes, along Montauk peninsula, (it is some 15 miles long, and good grazing,) met the strange, unkempt, half-barbarous herdsmen, at that time living there entirely aloof from society or civilization, in charge, on those rich pasturages, of vast droves of horses, kine or sheep, own'd by farmers of the eastern towns. Sometimes, too, the few remaining Indians, or half-breeds, at that period left on Montauk peninsula, but now I believe altogether extinct.

More in the middle of the island were the spreading Hempstead plains, then (1830-'40) quite prairie-like, open, uninhabited, rather sterile, cover'd with kill-calf and huckleberry bushes, yet plenty of fair pasture for the cattle, mostly milch-cows, who fed there by hundreds, even thousands, and at evening, (the plains too were own'd by the towns, and this was the use of them in common,) might be seen taking their way home, branching off regularly in the right places. I have often been out on the edges of these plains toward sundown, and can yet recall in fancy the interminable cow-processions, and hear the music of the tin or copper bells clanking far or near, and breathe the cool of the sweet and slightly aromatic evening air, and note the sunset.

Through the same region of the island, but further east, extended wide central tracts of pine and scrub-oak, (charcoal was largely made here,) monotonous and sterile. But many a good day or half-day did I have, wandering through those solitary crossroads, inhaling the peculiar and wild aroma. Here, and all along the island and its shores, I spent intervals many years, all seasons, sometimes riding, sometimes boating, but generally afoot, (I was always then a good walker,) absorbing fields, shores, marine incidents, characters, the bay-men, farmers, pilots-always had a plentiful acquaintance with the latter, and with fishermen—went every summer on sailing trips—always liked the bare sea-beach, south side, and have some of my happiest hours on it to this day.

As I write, the whole experience comes back to me after the lapse of forty and more years—the soothing rustle of the waves, and the saline smell—boyhood's times, the clam-digging, bare-foot, and with trowsers roll'd up—hauling down the creek—the perfume of the sedge-meadows—the hay-boat, and the chowder and fishing excursions;—or, of later years, little voyages down and out New York bay, in the pilot boats. Those same later years, also, while living in Brooklyn, (1836-'50) I went regularly every week in the mild seasons down to Coney Island, at that time a long, bare unfrequented shore, which I had all to myself, and where I loved, after bathing, to race up and down the hard sand, and declaim Homer or Shakspere to the surf and sea gulls by the hour. But I am getting ahead too rapidly, and must keep more in my traces.

Endnotes:

{3} "Paumanok, (or Paumanake, or Paumanack, the Indian name of Long Island,) over a hundred miles long; shaped like a fish—plenty of sea shore, sandy, stormy, uninviting, the horizon boundless, the air too strong for invalids, the bays a wonderful resort for aquatic birds, the south-side meadows cover'd with salt hay, the soil of the island generally tough, but good for the locust-tree, the apple orchard, and the blackberry, and with numberless springs of the sweetest water in the world. Years ago, among the bay-men—a strong, wild race, now extinct, or rather entirely changed—a native of Long Island was called a Paumanacker, or Creole-'Paumanacker."—John Burroughs.

MY FIRST READING—LAFAYETTE

From 1824 to '28 our family lived in Brooklyn in Front, Cranberry and Johnson streets. In the latter my father built a nice house for a home, and afterwards another in Tillary street. We occupied them, one after the other, but they were mortgaged, and we lost them. I yet remember Lafayette's visit.{4} Most of these years I went to the public schools. It must have been about 1829 or '30 that I went with my father and mother to hear Elias Hicks preach in a ball-room on Brooklyn heights. At about the same time employ'd as a boy in an office, lawyers', father and two sons, Clarke's, Fulton street, near Orange. I had a nice desk and window-nook to myself; Edward C. kindly help'd me at my handwriting and composition, and, (the signal event of my life up to that time,) subscribed for me to a big circulating library. For a time I now revel'd in romance-reading of all kinds; first, the "Arabian Nights," all the volumes, an amazing treat. Then, with sorties in very many other directions, took in Walter Scott's novels, one after another, and his poetry, (and continue to enjoy novels and poetry to this day.)

Endnotes:

{4} "On the visit of General Lafayette to this country, in 1824, he came over to Brooklyn in state, and rode through the city. The children of the schools turn'd out to join in the welcome. An edifice for a free public library for youths was just then commencing, and Lafayette consented to stop on his way and lay the corner-stone. Numerous children arriving on the ground, where a huge irregular excavation for the building was already dug, surrounded with heaps of rough stone, several gentlemen assisted in lifting the children to safe or convenient spots to see the ceremony. Among the rest, Lafayette, also helping the children, took up the five-year-old Walt Whitman, and pressing the child a moment to his breast, and giving him a kiss, handed him down to a safe spot in the excavation."—John Burroughs.

PRINTING OFFICE—OLD BROOKLYN

After about two years went to work in a weekly newspaper and printing office, to learn the trade. The paper was the "Long Island Patriot," owned by S. E. Clements, who was also postmaster. An old printer in the office, William Hartshorne, a revolutionary character, who had seen Washington, was a special friend of mine, and I had many a talk with him about long past times. The apprentices, including myself, boarded with his grand-daughter. I used occasionally to go out riding with the boss, who was very kind to us boys; Sundays he took us all to a great old rough, fortress-looking stone church, on Joralemon street, near where the Brooklyn city hall now is—(at that time broad fields and country roads everywhere around.{5}) Afterward I work'd on the "Long Island Star," Alden Spooner's paper. My father all these years pursuing his trade as carpenter and builder, with varying fortune. There was a growing family of children—eight of us—my brother Jesse the oldest, myself the second, my dear sisters Mary and Hannah Louisa, my brothers Andrew, George, Thomas Jefferson, and then my youngest brother, Edward, born 1835, and always badly crippled, as I am myself of late years.

Endnotes:

{5} Of the Brooklyn of that time (1830-40) hardly anything remains, except the lines of the old streets. The population was then between ten and twelve thousand. For a mile Fulton street was lined with magnificent elm trees. The character of the place was thoroughly rural. As a sample of comparative values, it may be mention'd that twenty-five acres in what is now the most costly part of the city, bounded by Flatbush and Fulton avenues, were then bought by Mr Parmentier, a French emigré, for $4000. Who remembers the old places as they were? Who remembers the old citizens of that time? Among the former were Smith & Wood's, Coe Downing's, and other public houses at the ferry, the old Ferry itself, Love lane, the Heights as then, the Wallabout with the wooden bridge, and the road out beyond Fulton street to the old toll-gate. Among the latter were the majestic and genial General Jeremiah Johnson, with others, Gabriel Furman, Rev. E. M. Johnson, Alden Spooner, Mr. Pierrepont, Mr. Joralemon, Samuel Willoughby, Jonathan Trotter, George Hall, Cyrus P. Smith, N. B. Morse, John Dikeman, Adrian Hegeman, William Udall, and old Mr. Duflon, with his military garden.

GROWTH—HEALTH—WORK

I develop'd (1833-4-5) into a healthy, strong youth (grew too fast, though, was nearly as big as a man at 15 or 16.) Our family at this period moved back to the country, my dear mother very ill for a long time, but recover'd. All these years I was down Long Island more or less every summer, now east, now west, sometimes months at a stretch. At 16, 17, and so on, was fond of debating societies, and had an active membership with them, off and on, in Brooklyn and one or two country towns on the island. A most omnivorous novel-reader, these and later years, devour'd everything I could get. Fond of the theatre, also, in New York, went whenever I could—sometimes witnessing fine performances.

1836-7, work'd as compositor in printing offices in New York city. Then, when little more than 18, and for a while afterwards, went to teaching country schools down in Queens and Suffolk counties, Long Island, and "boarded round." (This latter I consider one of my best experiences and deepest lessons in human nature behind the scenes and in the masses.) In '39, '40, I started and publish'd a weekly paper in my native town, Huntington. Then returning to New York city and Brooklyn, work'd on as printer and writer, mostly prose, but an occasional shy at "poetry".

MY PASSION FOR FERRIES

Living in Brooklyn or New York city from this time forward, my life, then, and still more the following years, was curiously identified with Fulton ferry, already becoming the greatest of its sort in the world for general importance, volume, variety, rapidity, and picturesqueness. Almost daily, later, ('50 to '60,) I cross'd on the boats, often up in the pilot-houses where I could get a full sweep, absorbing shows, accompaniments, surroundings. What oceanic currents, eddies, underneath—the great tides of humanity also, with ever-shifting movements. Indeed, I have always had a passion for ferries; to me they afford inimitable, streaming, never-failing, living poems. The river and bay scenery, all about New York island, any time of a fine day—the hurrying, splashing sea-tides—the changing panorama of steamers, all sizes, often a string of big ones outward bound to distant ports—the myriads of white-sail'd schooners, sloops, skiffs, and the marvellously beautiful yachts—the majestic sound boats as they rounded the Battery and came along towards 5, afternoon, eastward bound—the prospect off towards Staten Island, or down the Narrows, or the other way up the Hudson—what refreshment of spirit such sights and experiences gave me years ago (and many a time since.) My old pilot friends, the Balsirs, Johnny Cole, Ira Smith, William White, and my young ferry friend, Tom Gere—how well I remember them all.

BROADWAY SIGHTS

Besides Fulton ferry, off and on for years, I knew and frequented Broadway—that noted avenue of New York's crowded and mixed humanity, and of so many notables. Here I saw, during those times, Andrew Jackson, Webster, Clay, Seward, Martin Van Buren, filibuster Walker, Kossuth, Fitz Greene Halleck, Bryant, the Prince of Wales, Charles Dickens, the first Japanese ambassadors, and lots of other celebrities of the time. Always something novel or inspiriting; yet mostly to me the hurrying and vast amplitude of those never-ending human currents. I remember seeing James Fenimore Cooper in a court-room in Chambers street, back of the city hall, where he was carrying on a law case—(I think it was a charge of libel he had brought against some one.) I also remember seeing Edgar A. Poe, and having a short interview with him, (it must have been in 1845 or '6,) in his office, second story of a corner building, (Duane or Pearl street.) He was editor and owner or part owner of "the Broadway Journal." The visit was about a piece of mine he had publish'd. Poe was very cordial, in a quiet way, appear'd well in person, dress, &c. I have a distinct and pleasing remembrance of his looks, voice, manner and matter; very kindly and human, but subdued, perhaps a little jaded. For another of my reminiscences, here on the west side, just below Houston street, I once saw (it must have been about 1832, of a sharp, bright January day) a bent, feeble but stout-built very old man, bearded, swathed in rich furs, with a great ermine cap on his head, led and assisted, almost carried, down the steps of his high front stoop (a dozen friends and servants, emulous, carefully holding, guiding him) and then lifted and tuck'd in a gorgeous sleigh, envelop'd in other furs, for a ride. The sleigh was drawn by as fine a team of horses as I ever saw. (You needn't think all the best animals are brought up nowadays; never was such horseflesh as fifty years ago on Long Island, or south, or in New York city; folks look'd for spirit and mettle in a nag, not tame speed merely.) Well, I, a boy of perhaps 13 or 14, stopp'd and gazed long at the spectacle of that fur-swathed old man, surrounded by friends and servants, and the careful seating of him in the sleigh. I remember the spirited, champing horses, the driver with his whip, and a fellow-driver by his side, for extra prudence. The old man, the subject of so much attention, I can almost see now. It was John Jacob Astor.

The years 1846, '47, and there along, see me still in New York City, working as writer and printer, having my usual good health, and a good time generally.