Complete Prose Works
inhaling the bracing and welcome breezes. First, a rapid five-mile drive
over the hard sand--our carriage wheels hardly made dents in it. Then
after dinner (as there were nearly two hours to spare) I walk'd off in
another direction, (hardly met or saw a person,) and taking possession
of what appear'd to have been the reception-room of an old bath-house
range, had a broad expanse of view all to myself--quaint, refreshing,
unimpeded--a dry area of sedge and Indian grass immediately before and
around me--space, simple, unornamented space. Distant vessels, and the
far-off, just visible trailing smoke of an inward bound steamer; more
plainly, ships, brigs, schooners, in sight, most of them with every sail
set to the firm and steady wind.
The attractions, fascinations there are in sea and shore! How one dwells
on their simplicity, even vacuity! What is it in us, arous'd by those
indirections and directions? That spread of waves and gray-white beach,
salt, monotonous, senseless--such an entire absence of art, books, talk,
elegance--so indescribably comforting, even this winter day--grim,
yet so delicate-looking, so spiritual--striking emotional, impalpable
depths, subtler than all the poems, paintings, music, I have ever read,
seen, heard. (Yet let me be fair, perhaps it is because I have read
those poems and heard that music.)
SEA-SHORE FANCIES
Even as a boy, I had the fancy, the wish, to write a piece, perhaps
a poem, about the sea-shore--that suggesting, dividing line, contact,
junction, the solid marrying the liquid--that curious, lurking
something, (as doubtless every objective form finally becomes to the
subjective spirit,) which means far more than its mere first sight,
grand as that is--blending the real and ideal, and each made portion
of the other. Hours, days, in my Long Island youth and early manhood,
I haunted the shores of Rockaway or Coney island, or away east to the
Hamptons or Montauk. Once, at the latter place, (by the old lighthouse,
nothing but sea-tossings in sight in every direction as far as the eye
could reach,) I remember well, I felt that I must one day write a book
expressing this liquid, mystic theme. Afterward, I recollect, how it
came to me that instead of any special lyrical or epical or literary
attempt, the sea-shore should be an invisible _influence_, a pervading
gauge and tally for me, in my composition. (Let me give a hint here to
young writers. I am not sure but I have unwittingly follow'd out the
same rule with other powers besides sea and shores--avoiding them,
in the way of any dead set at poetizing them, as too big for formal
handling--quite satisfied if I could indirectly show that we have met
and fused, even if only once, but enough--that we have really absorb'd
each other and understand each other.)
There is a dream, a picture, that for years at intervals, (sometimes
quite long ones, but surely again, in time,) has come noiselessly up
before me, and I really believe, fiction as it is, has enter'd largely
into my practical life--certainly into my writings, and shaped and
color'd them. It is nothing more or less than a stretch of interminable
white-brown sand, hard and smooth and broad, with the ocean perpetually,
grandly, rolling in upon it, with slow-measured sweep, with rustle and
hiss and foam, and many a thump as of low bass drums. This scene, this
picture, I say, has risen before me at times for years. Sometimes I wake
at night and can hear and see it plainly.
IN MEMORY OF THOMAS PAINE.
_Spoken at Lincoln Hall, Philadelphia, Sunday, Jan. 28, '77, for 140th
anniversary of T. P.'s birthday._
Some thirty-five years ago, in New York city, at Tammany hall, of
which place I was then a frequenter, I happen'd to become quite well
acquainted with Thomas Paine's perhaps most intimate chum, and certainly
his later years' very frequent companion, a remarkably fine old man,
Col. Fellows, who may yet be remember'd by some stray relics of that
period and spot. If you will allow me, I will first give a description
of the Colonel himself. He was tall, of military bearing, aged about 78,
I should think, hair white as snow, clean-shaved on the face, dress'd
very neatly, a tail-coat of blue cloth with metal buttons, buff vest,
pantaloons of drab color, and his neck, breast and wrists showing the
whitest of linen. Under all circumstances, fine manners; a good but not
profuse talker, his wits still fully about him, balanced and live
and undimm'd as ever. He kept pretty fair health, though so old. For
employment--for he was poor--he had a post as constable of some of the
upper courts. I used to think him very picturesque on the fringe of a
crowd holding a tall staff, with his erect form, and his superb, bare,
thick-hair'd, closely-cropt white head. The judges and young lawyers,
with whom he was ever a favorite, and the subject of respect, used to
call him Aristides. It was the general opinion among them that if manly
rectitude and the instincts of absolute justice remain'd vital anywhere
about New York City Hall, or Tammany, they were to be found in Col.
Fellows. He liked young men, and enjoy'd to leisurely talk with them
over a social glass of toddy, after his day's work, (he on these
occasions never drank but one glass,) and it was at reiterated meetings
of this kind in old Tammany's back parlor of those days, that he told
me much about Thomas Paine. At one of our interviews he gave me a minute
account of Paine's sickness and death. In short, from those talks, I
was and am satisfied that my old friend, with his mark'd advantages, had
mentally, morally and emotionally gauged the author of "Common Sense,"
and besides giving me a good portrait of his appearance and manners, had
taken the true measure of his interior character.
Paine's practical demeanor, and much of his theoretical belief, was a
mixture of the French and English schools of a century ago, and the best
of both. Like most old-fashion'd people, he drank a glass or two every
day, but was no tippler, nor intemperate, let alone being a drunkard.
He lived simply and economically, but quite well--was always cheery and
courteous, perhaps occasionally a little blunt, having very positive
opinions upon politics, religion, and so forth. That he labor'd well and
wisely for the States in the trying period of their parturition, and in
the seeds of their character, there seems to me no question. I dare
not say how much of what our Union is owning and enjoying to-day--its
independence--its ardent belief in, and substantial practice of
radical human rights--and the severance of its government from all
ecclesiastical and superstitious dominion--I dare not say how much of
all this is owing to Thomas Paine, but I am inclined to think a good
portion of it decidedly is.
But I was not going either into an analysis or eulogium of the man.
I wanted to carry you back a generation or two, and give you by
indirection a moment's glance--and also to ventilate a very earnest and
I believe authentic opinion, nay conviction, of that time, the fruit
of the interviews I have mention'd, and of questioning and
cross-questioning, clench'd by my best information since, that Thomas
Paine had a noble personality, as exhibited in presence, face, voice,
dress, manner, and what may be call'd his atmosphere and magnetism,
especially the later years of his life. I am sure of it. Of the foul and
foolish fictions yet told about the circumstances of his decease, the
absolute fact is that as he lived a good life, after its kind, he died
calmly and philosophically, as became him. He served the embryo Union
with most precious service--a service that every man, woman and child
in our thirty-eight States is to some extent receiving the benefit of
to-day--and I for one here cheerfully, reverently throw my pebble on the
cairn of his memory. As we all know, the season demands--or rather, will
it ever be out of season?--that America learn to better dwell on her
choicest possession, the legacy of her good and faithful men--that she
well preserve their fame, if unquestion'd--or, if need be, that she fail
not to dissipate what clouds have intruded on that fame, and burnish it
newer, truer and brighter, continually.
A TWO HOURS ICE-SAIL
_Feb. 3, '77_--From 4 to 6 P. M. crossing the Delaware, (back again at
my Camden home,) unable to make our landing, through the ice; our boat
stanch and strong and skilfully piloted, but old and sulky, and poorly
minding her helm. (_Power_, so important in poetry and war, is also
first point of all in a winter steamboat, with long stretches of
ice-packs to tackle.) For over two hours we bump'd and beat about,
the invisible ebb, sluggish but irresistible, often carrying us long
distances against our will. In the first tinge of dusk, as I look'd
around, I thought there could not be presented a more chilling, arctic,
grim-extended, depressing scene. Everything was yet plainly visible; for
miles north and south, ice, ice, ice, mostly broken, but some big
cakes, and no clear water in sight. The shores, piers, surfaces,
roofs, shipping, mantled with snow. A faint winter vapor hung a fitting
accompaniment around and over the endless whitish spread, and gave it
just a tinge of steel and brown.
_Feb. 6_.--As I cross home in the 6 P. M. boat again, the transparent
shadows are filled everywhere with leisurely falling, slightly slanting,
curiously sparse but very large, flakes of snow. On the shores, near and
far, the glow of just-lit gas-clusters at intervals. The ice, sometimes
in hummocks, sometimes floating fields, through which our boat goes
crunching. The light permeated by that peculiar evening haze, right
after sunset, which sometimes renders quite distant objects so
distinctly.
SPRING OVERTURES--RECREATIONS
_Feb. 10_.--The first chirping, almost singing, of a bird to-day. Then
I noticed a couple of honey-bees spirting and humming about the open
window in the sun.
_Feb. 11_.--In the soft rose and pale gold of the declining light, this
beautiful evening, I heard the first hum and preparation of awakening
spring--very faint--whether in the earth or roots, or starting of
insects, I know not--but it was audible, as I lean'd on a rail (I am
down in my country quarters awhile,) and look'd long at the western
horizon. Turning to the east, Sirius, as the shadows deepen'd, came
forth in dazzling splendor. And great Orion; and a little to the
north-east the big Dipper, standing on end.
_Feb. 20_.--A solitary and pleasant sundown hour at the pond, exercising
arms, chest, my whole body, by a tough oak sapling thick as my wrist,
twelve feet high--pulling and pushing, inspiring the good air. After
I wrestle with the tree awhile, I can feel its young sap and virtue
welling up out of the ground and tingling through me from crown to toe,
like health's wine. Then for addition and variety I launch forth in my
vocalism; shout declamatory pieces, sentiments, sorrow, anger, &c., from
the stock poets or plays--or inflate my lungs and sing the wild tunes
and refrains I heard of the blacks down south, or patriotic songs I
learn'd in the army. I make the echoes ring, I tell you! As the twilight
fell, in a pause of these ebullitions, an owl somewhere the other side
of the creek sounded _too-oo-oo-oo-oo_, soft and pensive (and I fancied
a little sarcastic) repeated four or five times. Either to applaud the
negro songs--or perhaps an ironical comment on the sorrow, anger, or
style of the stock poets.
ONE OF THE HUMAN KINKS
How is it that in all the serenity and lonesomeness of solitude, away
off here amid the hush of the forest, alone, or as I have found in
prairie wilds, or mountain stillness, one is never entirely without the
instinct of looking around, (I never am, and others tell me the same of