Complete Prose Works
great yet unreap'd maize-field near by--the white butterflies in every
direction by day--the golden-rod, the wild asters, and sunflowers--the
song of the katydid all night.
Every day in Cooper's Woods, enjoying simple existence and the passing
hours--taking short walks--exercising arms and chest with the saplings,
or my voice with army songs or recitations. A perfect week for weather;
seven continuous days bright and dry and cool and sunny. The nights
splendid, with full moon--about 10 the grandest of star-shows up in the
east and south, Jupiter, Saturn, Capella, Aldebaran, and great Orion.
Am feeling pretty well--am outdoors most of the time, absorbing the days
and nights all I can.
CENTRAL PARK NOTES
_American Society from a Park Policeman's Point of View_
Am in New York city, upper part--visit Central Park almost every day
(and have for the last three weeks) off and on, taking observations or
short rambles, and sometimes riding around. I talk quite a good deal
with one of the Park policemen, C.C., up toward the Ninetieth street
entrance. One day in particular I got him a-going, and it proved deeply
interesting to me. Our talk floated into sociology and politics. I
was curious to find how these things appear'd on their surfaces to my
friend, for he plainly possess'd sharp wits and good nature, and had
been seeing, for years, broad streaks of humanity somewhat out of
my latitude. I found that as he took such appearances the inward
caste-spirit of European "aristocracy" pervaded rich America, with
cynicism and artificiality at the fore. Of the bulk of official persons,
Executives, Congressmen, Legislators, Aldermen, Department heads, &c.,
&c., or the candidates for those positions, nineteen in twenty, in the
policeman's judgment, were just players in a game. Liberty, Equality,
Union, and all the grand words of the Republic, were, in their mouths,
but lures, decoys, chisel'd likenesses of dead wood, to catch the
masses. Of fine afternoons, along the broad tracks of the Park, for many
years, had swept by my friend, as he stood on guard, the carriages, &c.,
of American Gentility, not by dozens and scores, but by hundreds
and thousands. Lucky brokers, capitalists, contractors, grocery-men,
successful political strikers, rich butchers, dry goods' folk, &c. And
on a large proportion of these vehicles, on panels or horse-trappings,
were conspicuously borne _heraldic family crests_. (Can this really be
true?) In wish and willingness (and if that were so, what matter about
the reality?) titles of nobility, with a court and spheres fit for the
capitalists, the highly educated, and the carriage-riding classes--to
fence them off from "the common people"--were the heart's desire of the
"good society" of our great cities--aye, of North and South.
So much for my police friend's speculations--which rather took me
aback--and which I have thought I would just print as he gave them (as a
doctor records symptoms.)
PLATE GLASS NOTES
_St. Louis, Missouri, November, '79_.--What do you think I find
manufactur'd out here--and of a kind the clearest and largest, best, and
the most finish'd and luxurious in the world--and with ample demand
for it too? _Plate glass_! One would suppose that was the last dainty
outcome of an old, almost effete-growing civilization; and yet here it
is, a few miles from St. Louis, on a charming little river, in the wilds
of the West, near the Mississippi. I went down that way to-day by the
Iron Mountain Railroad--was switch'd off on a side-track four miles
through woods and ravines, to Swash Creek, so-call'd, and there found
Crystal city, and immense Glass Works, built (and evidently built to
stay) right in the pleasant rolling forest. Spent most of the day, and
examin'd the inexhaustible and peculiar sand the glass is made of--the
original whity-gray stuff in the banks--saw the melting in the pots (a
wondrous process, a real poem)--saw the delicate preparation the clay
material undergoes for these great pots (it has to be kneaded finally
by human feet, no machinery answering, and I watch'd the picturesque
bare-legged Africans treading it)--saw the molten stuff (a great mass
of a glowing pale yellow color) taken out of the furnaces (I shall never
forget that Pot, shape, color, concomitants, more beautiful than any
antique statue,) pass'd into the adjoining casting-room, lifted by
powerful machinery, pour'd out on its bed (all glowing, a newer, vaster
study for colorists, indescribable, a pale red-tinged yellow, of tarry
consistence, all lambent,) roll'd by a heavy roller into rough plate
glass, I should say ten feet by fourteen, then rapidly shov'd into the
annealing oven, which stood ready for it. The polishing and grinding
rooms afterward--the great glass slabs, hundreds of them, on their flat
beds, and the see-saw music of the steam machinery constantly at work
polishing them--the myriads of human figures (the works employ'd
400 men) moving about, with swart arms and necks, and no superfluous
clothing--the vast, rude halls, with immense play of shifting shade, and
slow-moving currents of smoke and steam, and shafts of light, sometimes
sun, striking in from above with effects that would have fill'd Michel
Angelo with rapture.
Coming back to St. Louis this evening, at sundown, and for over an
hour afterward, we follow'd the Mississippi, close by its western
bank, giving me an ampler view of the river, and with effects a little
different from any yet. In the eastern sky hung the planet Mars, just
up, and of a very clear and vivid yellow. It was a soothing and pensive
hour--the spread of the river off there in the half-light--the glints
of the down-bound steamboats plodding along--and that yellow orb
(apparently twice as large and significant as usual) above the Illinois
shore. (All along, these nights, nothing can exceed the calm, fierce,
golden, glistening domination of Mars over all the stars in the sky.)
As we came nearer St. Louis, the night having well set in, I saw some
(to me) novel effects in the zinc smelting establishments, the tall
chimneys belching flames at the top, while inside through the openings
at the façades of the great tanks burst forth (in regular position)
hundreds of fierce tufts of a peculiar blue (or green) flame, of a
purity and intensity, like electric lights--illuminating not only the
great buildings themselves, but far and near outside, like hues of the
aurora borealis, only more vivid. (So that--remembering the Pot from the
crystal furnace--my jaunt seem'd to give me new revelations in the color
line.)
SOME WAR MEMORANDA
_Jotted Down at the Time_
I find this incident in my notes (I suppose from "chinning" in hospital
with some sick or wounded soldier who knew of it):
When Kilpatrick and his forces were cut off at Brandy station (last
of September, '63, or thereabouts,) and the bands struck up "Yankee
Doodle," there were not cannon enough in the Southern Confederacy to
keep him and them "in." It was when Meade fell back. K. had his large
cavalry division (perhaps 5,000 men,) but the rebs, in superior force,
had surrounded them. Things look'd exceedingly desperate. K. had two
fine bands, and order'd them up immediately; they join'd and play'd
"Yankee Doodle" with a will! It went through the men like lightning--but
to inspire, not to unnerve. Every man seem'd a giant. They charged like
a cyclone, and cut their way out. Their loss was but 20. It was about
two in the afternoon.
WASHINGTON STREET SCENES
_Walking Down Pennsylvania Avenue_
_April 7, 1864_.--Warmish forenoon, after the storm of the past few
days. I see, passing up, in the broad space between the curbs, a big
squad of a couple of hundred conscripts, surrounded by a strong
cordon of arm'd guards, and others interspers'd between the ranks. The
government has learn'd caution from its experiences; there are many
hundreds of "bounty jumpers," and already, as I am told, eighty thousand
deserters! Next (also passing up the Avenue,) a cavalry company, young,
but evidently well drill'd and service-harden'd men. Mark the upright
posture in their saddles, the bronz'd and bearded young faces, the easy
swaying to the motions of the horses, and the carbines by their right
knees; handsome and reckless, some eighty of them, riding with rapid
gait, clattering along. Then the tinkling bells of passing cars, the
many shops (some with large show-windows, some with swords, straps
for the shoulders of different ranks, hat-cords with acorns, or other
insignia,) the military patrol marching along, with the orderly or
second-lieutenant stopping different ones to examine passes--the forms,
the faces, all sorts crowded together, the worn and pale, the pleas'd,
some on their way to the railroad depot going home, the cripples, the
darkeys, the long trains of government wagons, or the sad strings of
ambulances conveying wounded--the many officers' horses tied in front
of the drinking or oyster saloons, or held by black men or boys, or
orderlies.
THE 195TH PENNSYLVANIA
_Tuesday, Aug. 1, 1865_.--About 3 o'clock this afternoon (sun broiling
hot) in Fifteenth street, by the Treasury building, a large and handsome
regiment, 195th Pennsylvania, were marching by--as it happen'd, receiv'd
orders just here to halt and break ranks, so that they might rest
themselves awhile. I thought I never saw a finer set of men--so hardy,
candid, bright American looks, all weather-beaten, and with warm
clothes. Every man was home-born. My heart was much drawn toward them.
They seem'd very tired, red, and streaming with sweat. It is a one-year
regiment, mostly from Lancaster county, Pa.; have been in Shenandoah
valley. On halting, the men unhitch'd their knapsacks, and sat down to
rest themselves. Some lay flat on the pavement or under trees. The fine
physical appearance of the whole body was remarkable. Great, very
great, must be the State where such young farmers and mechanics are
the practical average. I went around for half an hour and talk'd with
several of them, sometimes squatting down with the groups.
LEFT-HAND WRITING BY SOLDIERS
_April 30, 1866_.--Here is a single significant fact, from which one may
judge of the character of the American soldiers in this just concluded
war: A gentleman in New York city, a while since, took it into his head
to collect specimens of writing from soldiers who had lost their right
hands in battle, and afterwards learn'd to use the left. He gave
public notice of his desire, and offer'd prizes for the best of these
specimens. Pretty soon they began to come in, and by the time specified
for awarding the prizes three hundred samples of such left-hand writing
by maim'd soldiers had arrived.
I have just been looking over some of this writing. A great many of the
specimens are written in a beautiful manner. All are good. The writing
in nearly all cases slants backward instead of forward. One piece of
writing, from a soldier who had lost both arms, was made by holding the
pen in his mouth.
CENTRAL VIRGINIA IN '64
Culpepper, where I am stopping, looks like a place of two or three
thousand inhabitants. Must be one of the pleasantest towns in Virginia.
Even now, dilapidated fences, all broken down, windows out, it has the
remains of much beauty. I am standing on an eminence overlooking the
town, though within its limits. To the west the long Blue Mountain range
is very plain, looks quite near, though from 30 to 50 miles distant,
with some gray splashes of snow yet visible. The show is varied and
fascinating. I see a great eagle up there in the air sailing with pois'd
wings, quite low. Squads of red-legged soldiers are drilling; I suppose
some of the new men of the Brooklyn 14th; they march off presently with