Complete Prose Works
on the death of Abraham Lincoln, on the twenty-fifth anniversary of that
tragedy. He led off with the following new paragraph:
"Of Abraham Lincoln, bearing testimony twenty-five years after his
death--and of that death--I am now my friends before you. Few realize
the days, the great historic and esthetic personalities, with him in
the centre, we pass'd through. Abraham Lincoln, familiar, our own, an
Illinoisian, modern, yet tallying ancient Moses, Joshua, Ulysses, or
later Cromwell, and grander in some respects than any of them; Abraham
Lincoln, that makes the like of Homer, Plutarch, Shakspere, eligible our
day or any day. My subject this evening for forty or fifty minutes' talk
is the death of this man, and how that death will really filter into
America. I am not going to tell you anything new; and it is doubtless
nearly altogether because I ardently wish to commemorate the hour and
martyrdom and name I am here. Oft as the rolling years bring back this
hour, let it again, however briefly, be dwelt upon. For my own part I
hope and intend till my own dying day, whenever the 14th and 15th
of April comes, to annually gather a few friends and hold its tragic
reminiscence. No narrow or sectional reminiscence. It belongs to these
States in their entirety--not the North only, but the South--perhaps
belongs most tenderly and devoutly to the South, of all; for there
really this man's birthstock; there and then his antecedent stamp. Why
should I not say that thence his manliest traits, his universality,
his canny, easy ways and words upon the surface--his inflexible
determination at heart? Have you ever realized it, my friends, that
Lincoln, though grafted on the West, is essentially in personnel and
character a Southern contribution?"
The most of the poet's address was devoted to the actual occurrences and
details of the murder. We believe the delivery on Tuesday was Whitman's
thirteenth of it. The old poet is now physically wreck'd. But his voice
and magnetism are the same. For the last month he has been under
a severe attack of the lately prevailing influenza, the grip, in
accumulation upon his previous ailments, and, above all, that terrible
paralysis, the bequest of secession war times. He was dress'd last
Tuesday night in an entire suit of French Canadian grey wool cloth, with
broad shirt collar, with no necktie; long white hair, red face, full
beard and moustache, and look'd as though he might weigh two hundred
pounds. He had to be help'd and led every step. In five weeks more he
will begin his seventy-second year. He is still writing a little.
INGERSOLL'S SPEECH
_From the Camden Post, N.J., June 2, 1890_ _He attends and makes a
speech at the celebration of Walt Whitman's birthday_.--Walt Whitman
is now in his seventy-second year. His younger friends, literary and
personal, men and women, gave him a complimentary supper last Saturday
night, to note the close of his seventy-first year, and the late curious
and unquestionable "boom" of the old man's wide-spreading popularity,
and that of his "Leaves of Grass." There were thirty-five in the room,
mostly young, but some old, or beginning to be. The great feature was
Ingersoll's utterance. It was probably, in its way, the most admirable
specimen of modern oratory hitherto delivered in the English language,
immense as such praise may sound. It was 40 to 50 minutes long,
altogether without notes, in a good voice, low enough and not too low,
style easy, rather colloquial (over and over again saying "you" to
Whitman who sat opposite,) sometimes markedly impassion'd, once or
twice humorous--amid his whole speech, from interior fires and volition,
pulsating and swaying like a first-class Andalusian dancer.
And such a critical dissection, and flattering summary! The Whitmanites
for the first time in their lives were fully satisfied; and that is
saying a good deal, for they have not put their claims low, by a long
shot. Indeed it was a tremendous talk! Physically and mentally Ingersoll
(he had been working all day in New York, talking in court and in his
office,) is now at his best, like mellow'd wine, or a just ripe
apple; to the artist-sense, too, looks at his best--not merely like a
bequeath'd Roman bust or fine smooth marble Cicero-head, or even Greek
Plato; for he is modern and vital and vein'd and American, and (far more
than the age knows,) justifies us all.
We cannot give a full report of this most remarkable talk and supper
(which was curiously conversational and Greek-like) but must add the
following significant bit of it.
After the speaking, and just before the close, Mr. Whitman reverted to
Colonel Ingersoll's tribute to his poems, pronouncing it the capsheaf
of all commendation that he had ever receiv'd. Then, his mind still
dwelling upon the Colonel's religious doubts, he went on to say that
what he himself had in his mind when he wrote "Leaves of Grass" was not
only to depict American life, as it existed, and to show the triumphs of
science, and the poetry in common things, and the full of an individual
democratic humanity, for the aggregate, but also to show that there
was behind all something which rounded and completed it. "For what,"
he ask'd, "would this life be without immortality? It would be as a
locomotive, the greatest triumph of modern science, with no train to
draw after it. If the spiritual is not behind the material, to what
purpose is the material? What is this world without a further Divine
purpose in it all?"
Colonel Ingersoll repeated his former argument in reply.
FEELING FAIRLY
_Friday, July 27, 1890_.--Feeling fairly these days, and even
jovial--sleep and appetite good enough to be thankful for--had a dish
of Maryland blackberries, some good rye bread and a cup of tea, for
my breakfast--relish' d all--fine weather--bright sun to-day--pleasant
northwest breeze blowing in the open window as I sit here in my big
rattan chair--two great fine roses (white and red, blooming, fragrant,
sent by mail by W. S. K. and wife, Mass.) are in a glass of water on the
table before me.
Am now in my 72d year.
OLD BROOKLYN DAYS
It must have been in 1822 or '3 that I first came to live in Brooklyn.
Lived first in Front street, not far from what was then call'd "the New
Ferry," wending the river from the foot of Catharine (or Main) street to
New York city.
I was a little child (was born in 1819,) but tramp'd freely about the
neighborhood and town, even then; was often on the aforesaid New
Ferry; remember how I was petted and deadheaded by the gatekeepers and
deckhands (all such fellows are kind to little children,) and remember
the horses that seem'd to me so queer as they trudg'd around in the
central houses of the boats, making the water-power. (For it was just
on the eve of the steam-engine, which was soon after introduced on the
ferries.) Edward Copeland (afterward Mayor) had a grocery store then at
the corner of Front and Catharine streets.
Presently we Whitmans all moved up to Tillary street, near Adams, where
my father, who was a carpenter, built a house for himself and us all. It
was from here I "assisted" the personal coming of Lafayette in 1824-'5
to Brooklyn. He came over the Old Ferry, as the now Fulton Ferry (partly
navigated quite up to that day by "horse boats," though the first
steamer had begun to be used hereabouts) was then call'd, and was
receiv'd at the foot of Fulton street. It was on that occasion that the
corner-stone of the Apprentices' Library, at the corner of Cranberry
and Henry streets--since pull'd down--was laid by Lafayette's own hands.
Numerous children arrived on the grounds, of whom I was one, and were
assisted by several gentlemen to safe spots to view the ceremony. Among
others, Lafayette, also helping the children, took me up--I was five
years old, press'd me a moment to his breast--gave me a kiss and set me
down in a safe spot. Lafayette was at that time between sixty-five and
seventy years of age, with a manly figure and a kind face.
TWO QUESTIONS
An editor of (or in) a leading monthly magazine ("Harper's Monthly,"
July, 1890,) asks: "A hundred years from now will W.W. be popularly
rated a great poet--or will he be forgotten?" ... A mighty ticklish
question--which can only be left for a hundred years hence--perhaps more
than that. But whether W.W. has been mainly rejected by his own times is
an easier question to answer.
All along from 1860 to '91, many of the pieces in L. of G., and its
annexes, were first sent to publishers or magazine editors before being
printed in the L., and were peremptorily rejected by them, and sent back
to their author. The "Eidólons" was sent back by Dr. H., of "Scribner's
Monthly" with a lengthy, very insulting and contemptuous letter. "To
the Sun-Set Breeze," was rejected by the editor of "Harper's Monthly" as
being "an improvisation" only. "On, on ye jocund twain" was rejected
by the "Century" editor as being personal merely. Several of the pieces
went the rounds of all the monthlies, to be thus summarily rejected.
_June, '90_.--The----rejects and sends back my little poem, so I am now
set out in the cold by every big magazine and publisher, and may as well
understand and admit it--which is just as well, for I find I am palpably
losing my sight and ratiocination.
PREFACE
_To a volume of essays and tales by Wm. D. O'Connor, pub'd posthumously
in 1891_
A hasty memorandum, not particularly for Preface to the following tales,
but to put on record my respect and affection for as sane, beautiful,
cute, tolerant, loving, candid and free and fair-intention'd a nature as
ever vivified our race.
In Boston, 1860, I first met William Douglas O'Connor.[48] As I saw
and knew him then, in his 29th year, and for twenty-five further
years along, he was a gallant, handsome, gay-hearted, fine-voiced,
glowing-eyed man; lithe-moving on his feet, of healthy and magnetic
atmosphere and presence, and the most welcome company in the world.
He was a thorough-going anti-slavery believer, speaker and writer,
(doctrinaire,) and though I took a fancy to him from the first. I
remember I fear'd his ardent abolitionism--was afraid it would probably
keep us apart. (I was a decided and out-spoken anti-slavery believer
myself, then and always; but shy'd from the extremists, the red-hot
fellows of those times.) O'C. was then correcting the proofs of
_Harrington_, an eloquent and fiery novel he had written, and which
was printed just before the commencement of the secession war. He
was already married, the father of two fine little children, and was
personally and intellectually the most attractive man I had ever met.
Last of '62 I found myself led towards the war-field--went to Washington
city--(to become absorb'd in the armies, and in the big hospitals, and
to get work in one of the Departments,)--and there I met and resumed
friendship, and found warm hospitality from O'C. and his noble New
England wife. They had just lost by death their little child-boy,
Phillip; and O'C. was yet feeling serious about it. The youngster had
been vaccinated against the threatening of small-pox which alarm'd the
city; but somehow it led to worse results than it was intended to ward
off--or at any rate O'C. thought that proved the cause of the boy's
death. He had one child left, a fine bright little daughter, and a great
comfort to her parents. (Dear Jeannie! She grew up a most accomplish'd
and superior young woman--declined in health, and died about 1881.)
On through for months and years to '73 I saw and talk'd with O'C. almost
daily. I had soon got employment, first for a short time in the Indian
Bureau (in the Interior Department,) and then for a long while in the
Attorney General's Office. The secession war, with its tide of varying