Complete Prose Works
This musical passion follow'd my theatrical one. As a boy or young man
I had seen, (reading them carefully the day beforehand,) quite all
Shakspere's acting dramas, play'd wonderfully well. Even yet I cannot
conceive anything finer than old Booth in "Richard Third," or "Lear,"
(I don't know which was best,) or Iago, (or Pescara, or Sir Giles
Overreach, to go outside of Shakspere)--or Tom Hamblin in "Macbeth"--or
old Clarke, either as the ghost in "Hamlet," or as Prospero in "the
Tempest," with Mrs. Austin as Ariel, and Peter Richings as Caliban. Then
other dramas, and fine players in them, Forrest as Metamora or Damon or
Brutus--John R. Scott as Tom Cringle or Rolla--or Charlotte Cushman's
Lady Gay Spanker in "London Assurance." Then of some years later, at
Castle Garden, Battery, I yet recall the splendid seasons of the Havana
musical troupe under Maretzek--the fine band, the cool sea-breezes,
the unsurpass'd vocalism--Steffan'one, Bosio, Truffi, Marini in "Marino
Faliero," "Don Pasquale," or "Favorita." No better playing or singing
ever in New York. It was here too I afterward heard Jenny Lind. (The
Battery--its past associations--what tales those old trees and walks and
sea-walls could tell!)
THROUGH EIGHT YEARS.
In 1848, '49, I was occupied as editor of the "daily Eagle" newspaper,
in Brooklyn. The latter year went off on a leisurely journey and working
expedition (my brother Jeff with me) through all the middle States, and
down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. Lived awhile in New Orleans, and
work'd there on the editorial staff of "daily Crescent" newspaper. After
a time plodded back northward, up the Mississippi, and around to, and by
way of the great lakes, Michigan, Huron, and Erie, to Niagara falls and
lower Canada, finally returning through central New York and down the
Hudson; traveling altogether probably 8,000 miles this trip, to and fro.
'51, '53, occupied in house-building in Brooklyn. (For a little of
the first part of that time in printing a daily and weekly paper,
"the Freeman.") '55, lost my dear father this year by death. Commenced
putting "Leaves of Grass" to press for good, at the job printing office
of my friends, the brothers Rome, in Brooklyn, after many MS. doings
and undoings--(I had great trouble in leaving out the stock "poetical"
touches, but succeeded at last.) I am now (1856-'7) passing through my
37th year.
SOURCES OF CHARACTER--RESULTS--1860
To sum up the foregoing from the outset (and, of course, far, far more
unrecorded,) I estimate three leading sources and formative stamps to
my own character, now solidified for good or bad, and its subsequent
literary and other outgrowth--the maternal nativity-stock brought
hither from far-away Netherlands, for one, (doubtless the best)--the
subterranean tenacity and central bony structure (obstinacy, wilfulness)
which I get from my paternal English elements, for another--and the
combination of my Long Island birth-spot, sea-shores, childhood's
scenes, absorptions, with teeming Brooklyn and New York--with, I
suppose, my experiences afterward in the secession outbreak, for the
third.
For, in 1862, startled by news that my brother George, an officer in
the 51st New York volunteers, had been seriously wounded (first
Fredericksburg battle, December 13th,) I hurriedly went down to the
field of war in Virginia. But I must go back a little.
OPENING OF THE SECESSION WAR
News of the attack on fort Sumter and _the flag_ at Charleston harbor,
S. C., was receiv'd in New York city late at night (13th April, 1861,)
and was immediately sent out in extras of the newspapers. I had been to
the opera in Fourteenth street that night, and after the performance was
walking down Broadway toward twelve o'clock, on my way to Brooklyn,
when I heard in the distance the loud cries of the newsboys, who came
presently tearing and yelling up the street, rushing from side to side
even more furiously than usual. I bought an extra and cross'd to the
Metropolitan hotel (Niblo's) where the great lamps were still brightly
blazing, and, with a crowd of others, who gather'd impromptu, read the
news, which was evidently authentic. For the benefit of some who had no
papers, one of us read the telegram aloud, while all listen'd silently
and attentively. No remark was made by any of the crowd, which had
increas'd to thirty or forty, but all stood a minute or two, I remember,
before they dispers'd. I can almost see them there now, under the lamps
at midnight again.
NATIONAL UPRISING AND VOLUNTEERING
I have said somewhere that the three Presidentiads preceding 1861 show'd
how the weakness and wickedness of rulers are just as eligible here in
America under republican, as in Europe under dynastic influences. But
what can I say of that prompt and splendid wrestling with secession
slavery, the arch-enemy personified, the instant he unmistakably show'd
his face? The volcanic upheaval of the nation, after that firing on
the flag at Charleston, proved for certain something which had been
previously in great doubt, and at once substantially settled the
question of disunion. In my judgment it will remain as the grandest and
most encouraging spectacle yet vouchsafed in any age, old or new,
to political progress and democracy. It was not for what came to the
surface merely--though that was important--but what it indicated
below, which was of eternal importance. Down in the abysms of New World
humanity there had form'd and harden'd a primal hardpan of national
Union will, determin'd and in the majority, refusing to be tamper'd with
or argued against, confronting all emergencies, and capable at any time
of bursting all surface bonds, and breaking out like an earthquake. It
is, indeed, the best lesson of the century, or of America, and it is
a mighty privilege to have been part of it. (Two great spectacles,
immortal proofs of democracy, unequall'd in all the history of the past,
are furnish'd by the secession war--one at the beginning, the other at
its close. Those are, the general, voluntary, arm'd upheaval, and the
peaceful and harmonious disbanding of the armies in the summer of 1865.)
CONTEMPTUOUS FEELING
Even after the bombardment of Sumter, however, the gravity of the
revolt, and the power and will of the slave States for a strong and
continued military resistance to national authority, were not at all
realized at the North, except by a few. Nine-tenths of the people of
the free States look'd upon the rebellion, as started in South Carolina,
from a feeling one-half of contempt, and the other half composed of
anger and incredulity. It was not thought it would be join'd in by
Virginia, North Carolina, or Georgia. A great and cautious national
official predicted that it would blow over "in sixty days," and folks
generally believ'd the prediction. I remember talking about it on a
Fulton ferry-boat with the Brooklyn mayor, who said he only "hoped the
Southern fire-eaters would commit some overt act of resistance, as they
would then be at once so effectually squelch'd, we would never hear of
secession again--but he was afraid they never would have the pluck to
really do anything."
I remember, too, that a couple of companies of the Thirteenth Brooklyn,
who rendezvou'd at the city armory, and started thence as thirty days'
men, were all provided with pieces of rope, conspicuously tied to their
musket-barrels, with which to bring back each man a prisoner from the
audacious South, to be led in a noose, on our men's early and triumphant
return!
BATTLE OF BULL RUN, JULY, 1861
All this sort of feeling was destin'd to be arrested and revers'd by a
terrible shock--the battle of first Bull Run--certainly, as we now know
it, one of the most singular fights on record. (All battles, and their
results, are far more matters of accident than is generally thought; but
this was throughout a casualty, a chance. Each side supposed it had won,
till the last moment. One had, in point of fact, just the same right
to be routed as the other. By a fiction, or series of fictions, the
national forces at the last moment exploded in a panic and fled from the
field.) The defeated troops commenced pouring into Washington over the
Long Bridge at daylight on Monday, 22d--day drizzling all through with
rain. The Saturday and Sunday of the battle (20th, 21st,) had been
parch'd and hot to an extreme--the dust, the grime and smoke, in layers,
sweated in, follow'd by other layers again sweated in, absorb'd by those
excited souls--their clothes all saturated with the clay-powder filling
the air--stirr'd up everywhere on the dry roads and trodden fields by
the regiments, swarming wagons, artillery, &c.--all the men with this
coating of murk and sweat and rain, now recoiling back, pouring over the
Long Bridge--a horrible march of twenty miles, returning to Washington
baffed, humiliated, panic-struck. Where are the vaunts, and the proud
boasts with which you went forth? Where are your banners, and your bands
of music, and your ropes to bring back your prisoners? Well, there isn't
a band playing--and there isn't a flag but clings ashamed and lank to
its staff.
The sun rises, but shines not. The men appear, at first sparsely and
shame-faced enough, then thicker, in the streets of Washington--appear
in Pennsylvania avenue, and on the steps and basement entrances. They
come along in disorderly mobs, some in squads, stragglers, companies.
Occasionally, a rare regiment, in perfect order, with its officers (some
gaps, dead, the true braves,) marching in silence, with lowering faces,
stern, weary to sinking, all black and dirty, but every man with his
musket, and stepping alive; but these are the exceptions. Sidewalks
of Pennsylvania avenue, Fourteenth street, &c., crowded, jamm'd with
citizens, darkies, clerks, everybody, lookers-on; women in the windows,
curious expressions from faces, as those swarms of dirt-cover'd return'd
soldiers there (will they never end?) move by; but nothing said, no
comments; (half our lookers-on secesh of the most venomous kind--they
say nothing; but the devil snickers in their faces.) During the
forenoon Washington gets all over motley with these defeated
soldiers--queer-looking objects, strange eyes and faces, drench'd (the
steady rain drizzles on all day) and fearfully worn, hungry, haggard,
blister'd in the feet. Good people (but not over-many of them either,)
hurry up something for their grub. They put wash-kettles on the fire,
for soup, for coffee. They set tables on the side-walks--wagon-loads
of bread are purchas'd, swiftly cut in stout chunks. Here are two aged
ladies, beautiful, the first in the city for culture and charm, they
stand with store of eating and drink at an improvis'd table of rough
plank, and give food, and have the store replenished from their house
every half-hour all that day; and there in the rain they stand, active,
silent, white-hair'd, and give food, though the tears stream down their
cheeks, almost without intermission, the whole time. Amid the deep
excitement, crowds and motion, and desperate eagerness, it seems strange
to see many, very many, of the soldiers sleeping--in the midst of all,
sleeping sound. They drop down anywhere, on the steps of houses, up
close by the basements or fences, on the sidewalk, aside on some vacant
lot, and deeply sleep. A poor 17 or 18 year old boy lies there, on the
stoop of a grand house; he sleeps so calmly, so profoundly. Some clutch
their muskets firmly even in sleep. Some in squads; comrades, brothers,
close together--and on them, as they lay, sulkily drips the rain.
As afternoon pass'd, and evening came, the streets, the bar-rooms, knots
everywhere, listeners, questioners, terrible yarns, bugaboo, mask'd
batteries, our regiment all cut up, &c.--stories and story-tellers,