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Title: Complete Prose Works

Author: Walt Whitman

Release date: September 1, 2005 [eBook #8813]
Most recently updated: June 2, 2013

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMPLETE
PROSE WORKS ***

COMPLETE PROSE WORKS
Specimen Days and Collect, November Boughs and Good Bye
My Fancy

By Walt Whitman

CONTENTS
DETAILED CONTENTS
SPECIMEN DAYS
A HAPPY HOUR'S COMMAND
COLLECT
ONE OR TWO INDEX ITEMS
DEMOCRATIC VISTAS
ORIGINS OF ATTEMPTED SECESSION
PREFACES TO "LEAVES OF GRASS"
PREFACE, 1855 To first issue of Leaves of Grass. Brooklyn, N.Y.
PREFACE, 1872 To As a Strong Bird on Pinions Free Now Thou
Mother with
PREFACE, 1876 To the two-volume Centennial Edition of Leaves
of Grass
A MEMORANDUM AT A VENTURE
DEATH OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN LECTURE
TWO LETTERS
NOTES LEFT OVER

APPENDIX
PIECES IN EARLY YOUTH
NOVEMBER BOUGHS
OUR EMINENT VISITORS
THE BIBLE AS POETRY
FATHER TAYLOR (AND ORATORY)
THE SPANISH ELEMENT IN OUR NATIONALITY
WHAT LURKS BEHIND SHAKSPERE'S HISTORICAL
PLAYS
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
SOME WAR MEMORANDA
FIVE THOUSAND POEMS
THE OLD BOWERY
NOTES TO LATE ENGLISH BOOKS
PREFACE TO THE READER IN THE BRITISH ISLANDS
—"Specimen Days in
PREFACE TO "DEMOCRATIC VISTAS" WITH OTHER
PAPERS—English Edition
ABRAHAM LINCOLN

NEW ORLEANS IN 1848
SMALL MEMORANDA
LAST OF THE WAR CASES
Endnotes (such as they are) founded on
GOOD-BYE MY FANCY
AMERICAN NATIONAL LITERATURE
A DEATH-BOUQUET
SOME LAGGARDS YET
MEMORANDA
PREFACE
WALT WHITMAN'S LAST {49}

DETAILED CONTENTS
SPECIMEN DAYS
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 Jubilation—its Sudden Stoppage
No Good Portrait of Lincoln
Releas'd Union Prisoners from South
Death of a Pennsylvania Soldier
The Armies Returning
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 Enter'd 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 Indolences
Sundown Perfume—Quail-Notes—the Hermit Thrush
A July Afternoon 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 Night
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

The Prairies—(and an Undeliver'd Speech)
On to Denver—A Frontier Incident
An Hour on Kenosha Summit
An Egotistical "Find"
New Scenes—New Joys
Steam-Power, Telegraphs, Etc.
America's Back-Bone
The Parks
Art Features
Denver Impressions
I Turn South and then East Again
Unfulfill'd 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
Cedar-Plums Like—Names
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
"Ouster'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
COLLECT
ONE OR TWO INDEX ITEMS

ONE OR TWO INDEX ITEMS
DEMOCRATIC VISTAS
DEMOCRATIC VISTAS
ORIGINS OF ATTEMPTED SECESSION
ORIGINS OF ATTEMPTED SECESSION
PREFACES TO "LEAVES OF GRASS"
PREFACES TO "LEAVES OF GRASS"
Preface, 1855, to first issue of "Leaves of Grass"
Preface, 1872, to "As a Strong Bird on Pinions Free"
Preface, 1876, to L. of G. and "Two Rivulets"
POETRY TO-DAY IN AMERICA—SHAKESPEARE—THE FUTURE
A MEMORANDUM AT A VENTURE
A MEMORANDUM AT A VENTURE
DEATH OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN
TWO LETTERS
TWO LETTERS
NOTES LEFT OVER
NOTES LEFT OVER
Nationality (and Yet)
Emerson's Books (the Shadows of Them)
Ventures, on an Old Theme
British Literature
Darwinism (then Furthermore)
"Society"
The Tramp and Strike Questions
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
PIECES IN EARLY YOUTH
PIECES IN EARLY YOUTH
Dough Face Song
Death in the School-Room
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
Wounded in the House of Friends
Sailing the Mississippi at Midnight
NOVEMBER BOUGHS
NOVEMBER BOUGHS
OUR EMINENT VISITORS, Past, Present and Future
THE BIBLE AS POETRY
THE BIBLE AS POETRY
FATHER TAYLOR (AND ORATORY)
FATHER TAYLOR (AND ORATORY)
THE SPANISH ELEMENT IN OUR NATIONALITY

THE SPANISH ELEMENT IN OUR NATIONALITY
WHAT LURKS BEHIND SHAKSPERE'S HISTORICAL PLAYS?
A THOUGHT ON SHAKSPERE
A THOUGHT ON SHAKSPERE
ROBERT BURNS AS POET AND PERSON
ROBERT BURNS AS POET AND PERSON
A WORD ABOUT TENNYSON
A WORD ABOUT TENNYSON
SLANG IN AMERICA
SLANG IN AMERICA
AN INDIAN BUREAU REMINISCENCE
AN INDIAN BUREAU REMINISCENCE
SOME DIARY NOTES AT RANDOM
SOME DIARY NOTES AT RANDOM
Negro Slaves in New York
Canada Nights
Country Days and Nights
Central Park Notes
Plate Glass Notes
SOME WAR MEMORANDA
SOME WAR MEMORANDA
Washington Street Scenes
The 195th Pennsylvania
Left-hand Writing by Soldiers
Central Virginia in '64
Paying the First Color'd Troops
FIVE THOUSAND POEMS
FIVE THOUSAND POEMS
THE OLD BOWERY

THE OLD BOWERY
NOTES TO LATE ENGLISH BOOKS
NOTES TO LATE ENGLISH BOOKS
Preface to Reader in British Islands
Additional Note, 1887
Preface to English Edition "Democratic Vistas"
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
NEW ORLEANS IN 1848
NEW ORLEANS IN 1848
SMALL MEMORANDA
SMALL MEMORANDA
Attorney General's Office, 1865
A Glint Inside of Abraham Lincoln's Cabinet Appointments
Note to a Friend
Written Impromptu in an Album
The Place Gratitude fills in a Fine Character
LAST OF THE WAR CASES
LAST OF THE WAR CASES
ELIAS HICKS, Notes (such as they are)
George Fox and Shakspere
GOOD-BYE MY FANCY
GOOD-BYE MY FANCY
AN OLD MAN'S REJOINDER
OLD POETS
Ship Ahoy
For Queen Victoria's Birthday
AMERICAN NATIONAL LITERATURE
AMERICAN NATIONAL LITERATURE
GATHERING THE CORN
A DEATH BOUQUET

SOME LAGGARDS YET
SOME LAGGARDS YET
The Perfect Human Voice
Shakspere for America
"Unassailed 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
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 to a Volume
An Engineer's Obituary
Old Actors, Singers, Shows, Etc., in New York
Some Personal and Old Age Jottings
Out in the Open Again
America's Bulk Average
Last Saved Items
WALT WHITMAN'S LAST

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.

OMNIBUS JAUNTS AND DRIVERS

One phase of those days must by no means go unrecorded—namely, the
Broadway omnibuses, with their drivers.
The vehicles still (I write this paragraph in 1881) give a portion of the
character of Broadway—the Fifth avenue, Madison avenue, and Twenty-
third street lines yet running. But the flush days of the old Broadway stages,
characteristic and copious, are over. The Yellow-birds, the Red-birds, the
original Broadway, the Fourth avenue, the Knickerbocker, and a dozen
others of twenty or thirty years ago, are all gone. And the men specially
identified with them, and giving vitality and meaning to them—the drivers
—a strange, natural, quick-eyed and wondrous race—(not only Rabelais
and Cervantes would have gloated upon them, but Homer and Shakspere
would)—how well I remember them, and must here give a word about
them. How many hours, forenoons and afternoons—how many exhilarating
night-times I have had—perhaps June or July, in cooler air-riding the whole
length of Broadway, listening to some yarn, (and the most vivid yarns ever

spun, and the rarest mimicry)—or perhaps I declaiming some stormy
passage from Julius Caesar or Richard, (you could roar as loudly as you
chose in that heavy, dense, uninterrupted street-bass.) Yes, I knew all the
drivers then, Broadway Jack, Dressmaker, Balky Bill, George Storms, Old
Elephant, his brother Young Elephant (who came afterward,) Tippy, Pop
Rice, Big Frank, Yellow Joe, Pete Callahan, Patsey Dee, and dozens more;
for there were hundreds. They had immense qualities, largely animal—
eating, drinking; women—great personal pride, in their way—perhaps a
few slouches here and there, but I should have trusted the general run of
them, in their simple good-will and honor, under all circumstances. Not
only for comradeship, and sometimes affection—great studies I found them
also. (I suppose the critics will laugh heartily, but the influence of those
Broadway omnibus jaunts and drivers and declamations and escapades
undoubtedly enter'd into the gestation of "Leaves of Grass.")

PLAYS AND OPERAS TOO

And certain actors and singers, had a good deal to do with the business.
All through these years, off and on, I frequented the old Park, the Bowery,
Broadway and Chatham-square theatres, and the Italian operas at
Chambers-street, Astor-place or the Battery—many seasons was on the free
list, writing for papers even as quite a youth. The old Park theatre—what
names, reminiscences, the words bring back! Placide, Clarke, Mrs. Vernon,
Fisher, Clara F., Mrs. Wood, Mrs. Seguin, Ellen Tree, Hackett, the younger
Kean, Macready, Mrs. Richardson, Rice—singers, tragedians, comedians.
What perfect acting! Henry Placide in "Napoleon's Old Guard" or
"Grandfather Whitehead,"—or "the Provoked Husband" of Gibber, with
Fanny Kemble as Lady Townley—or Sheridan Knowles in his own
"Virginius"—or inimitable Power in "Born to Good Luck." These, and
many more, the years of youth and onward. Fanny Kemble—name to
conjure up great mimic scenes withal—perhaps the greatest. I remember
well her rendering of Bianca in "Fazio," and Marianna in "the Wife."
Nothing finer did ever stage exhibit—the veterans of all nations said so, and
my boyish heart and head felt it in every minute cell. The lady was just
matured, strong, better than merely beautiful, born from the footlights, had
had three years' practice in London and through the British towns, and then
she came to give America that young maturity and roseate power in all their

noon, or rather forenoon, flush. It was my good luck to see her nearly every
night she play'd at the old Park—certainly in all her principal characters. I
heard, these years, well render'd, all the Italian and other operas in vogue,
"Sonnambula," "the Puritans," "Der Freischutz," "Huguenots," "Fille
d'Regiment," "Faust," "Etoile du Nord," "Poliuto," and others. Verdi's
"Ernani," "Rigoletto," and "Trovatore," with Donnizetti's "Lucia" or
"Favorita" or "Lucrezia," and Auber's "Massaniello," or Rossini's "William
Tell" and "Gazza Ladra," were among my special enjoyments. I heard
Alboni every time she sang in New York and vicinity—also Grisi, the tenor
Mario, and the baritone Badiali, the finest in the world.
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, windy, bragging,
vain centres of street-crowds. Resolution, manliness, seem to have
abandon'd Washington. The principal hotel, Willard's, is full of shoulder-
straps—thick, crush'd, creeping with shoulder-straps. (I see them, and must
have a word with them. There you are, shoulder-straps!—but where are
your companies? where are your men? Incompetents! never tell me of
chances of battle, of getting stray'd, and the like. I think this is your work,
this retreat, after all. Sneak, blow, put on airs there in Willard's sumptuous
parlors and bar-rooms, or anywhere—no explanation shall save you. Bull
Run is your work; had you been half or one-tenth worthy your men, this
would never have happen'd.)
Meantime, in Washington, among the great persons and their entourage, a
mixture of awful consternation, uncertainty, rage, shame, helplessness, and
stupefying disappointment. The worst is not only imminent, but already
here. In a few hours—perhaps before the next meal—the secesh generals,
with their victorious hordes, will be upon us. The dream of humanity, the
vaunted Union we thought so strong, so impregnable—lo! it seems already
smash'd like a china plate. One bitter, bitter hour—perhaps proud America
will never again know such an hour. She must pack and fly—no time to
spare. Those white palaces—the dome-crown'd capitol there on the hill, so
stately over the trees—shall they be left—or destroy'd first? For it is certain
that the talk among certain of the magnates and officers and clerks and
officials everywhere, for twenty-four hours in and around Washington after
Bull Run, was loud and undisguised for yielding out and out, and
substituting the southern rule, and Lincoln promptly abdicating and
departing. If the secesh officers and forces had immediately follow'd, and
by a bold Napoleonic movement had enter'd Washington the first day, (or
even the second,) they could have had things their own way, and a powerful
faction north to back them. One of our returning colonels express'd in
public that night, amid a swarm of officers and gentlemen in a crowded
room, the opinion that it was useless to fight, that the southerners had made
their title clear, and that the best course for the national government to
pursue was to desist from any further attempt at stopping them, and admit

them again to the lead, on the best terms they were willing to grant. Not a
voice was rais'd against this judgment, amid that large crowd of officers and
gentlemen. (The fact is, the hour was one of the three or four of those crises
we had then and afterward, during the fluctuations of four years, when
human eyes appear'd at least just as likely to see the last breath of the Union
as to see it continue.)

THE STUPOR PASSES—SOMETHING ELSE BEGINS

But the hour, the day, the night pass'd, and whatever returns, an hour, a
day, a night like that can never again return. The President, recovering
himself, begins that very night—sternly, rapidly sets about the task of
reorganizing his forces, and placing himself in positions for future and surer
work. If there were nothing else of Abraham Lincoln for history to stamp
him with, it is enough to send him with his wreath to the memory of all
future time, that he endured that hour, that day, bitterer than gall—indeed a
crucifixion day—that it did not conquer him—that he unflinchingly
stemm'd it, and resolv'd to lift himself and the Union out of it.
Then the great New York papers at once appear'd, (commencing that
evening, and following it up the next morning, and incessantly through
many days afterwards,) with leaders that rang out over the land with the
loudest, most reverberating ring of clearest bugles, full of encouragement,
hope, inspiration, unfaltering defiance; Those magnificent editorials! they
never flagg'd for a fortnight. The "Herald" commenced them—I remember
the articles well. The "Tribune" was equally cogent and inspiriting—and the
"Times," "Evening Post," and other principal papers, were not a whit
behind. They came in good time, for they were needed. For in the
humiliation of Bull Run, the popular feeling north, from its extreme of
superciliousness, recoil'd to the depth of gloom and apprehension.
(Of all the days of the war, there are two especially I can never forget.
Those were the day following the news, in New York and Brooklyn, of that
first Bull Run defeat, and the day of Abraham Lincoln's death. I was home
in Brooklyn on both occasions. The day of the murder we heard the news
very early in the morning. Mother prepared breakfast—and other meals
afterward—as usual; but not a mouthful was eaten all day by either of us.
We each drank half a cup of coffee; that was all. Little was said. We got

every newspaper morning and evening, and the frequent extras of that
period, and pass'd them silently to each other.)

DOWN AT THE FRONT

FALMOUTH, VA., opposite Fredericksburgh, December 21, 1862.—
Begin my visits among the camp hospitals in the army of the Potomac.
Spend a good part of the day in a large brick mansion on the banks of the
Rappahannock, used as a hospital since the battle—seems to have receiv'd
only the worst cases. Out doors, at the foot of a tree, within ten yards of the
front of the house, I notice a heap of amputated feet, legs, arms, hands, &c.,
a full load for a one-horse cart. Several dead bodies lie near, each cover'd
with its brown woolen blanket. In the door-yard, towards the river, are fresh
graves, mostly of officers, their names on pieces of arrel-staves or broken
boards, stuck in the dirt. (Most of these bodies were subsequently taken up
and transported north to their friends.) The large mansion is quite crowded
upstairs and down, everything impromptu, no system, all bad enough, but I
have no doubt the best that can be done; all the wounds pretty bad, some
frightful, the men in their old clothes, unclean and bloody. Some of the
wounded are rebel soldiers and officers, prisoners. One, a Mississippian, a
captain, hit badly in leg, I talk'd with some time; he ask'd me for papers,
which I gave him. (I saw him three months afterward in Washington, with
his leg amputated, doing well.) I went through the rooms, downstairs and
up. Some of the men were dying. I had nothing to give at that visit, but
wrote a few letters to folks home, mothers, &c. Also talk'd to three or four,
who seem'd most susceptible to it, and needing it.

AFTER FIRST FREDERICKSBURG

December 23 to 31.—The results of the late battle are exhibited
everywhere about here in thousands of cases, (hundreds die every day,) in
the camp, brigade, and division hospitals. These are merely tents, and
sometimes very poor ones, the wounded lying on the ground, lucky if their
blankets are spread on layers of pine or hemlock twigs, or small leaves. No
cots; seldom even a mattress. It is pretty cold. The ground is frozen hard,
and there is occasional snow. I go around from one case to another. I do not
see that I do much good to these wounded and dying; but I cannot leave

them. Once in a while some youngster holds on to me convulsively, and I
do what I can for him; at any rate, stop with him and sit near him for hours,
if he wishes it.
Besides the hospitals, I also go occasionally on long tours through the
camps, talking with the men, &c. Sometimes at night among the groups
around the fires, in their shebang enclosures of bushes. These are curious
shows, full of characters and groups. I soon get acquainted anywhere in
camp, with officers or men, and am always well used. Sometimes I go down
on picket with the regiments I know best. As to rations, the army here at
present seems to be tolerably well supplied, and the men have enough, such
as it is, mainly salt pork and hard tack. Most of the regiments lodge in the
flimsy little shelter-tents. A few have built themselves huts of logs and mud,
with fire-places.

BACK TO WASHINGTON

January, '63.—Left camp at Falmouth, with some wounded, a few days
since, and came here by Aquia creek railroad, and so on government
steamer up the Potomac. Many wounded were with us on the cars and boat.
The cars were just common platform ones. The railroad journey of ten or
twelve miles was made mostly before sunrise. The soldiers guarding the
road came out from their tents or shebangs of bushes with rumpled hair and
half-awake look. Those on duty were walking their posts, some on banks
over us, others down far below the level of the track. I saw large cavalry
camps off the road. At Aquia creek landing were numbers of wounded
going north. While I waited some three hours, I went around among them.
Several wanted word sent home to parents, brothers, wives, &c., which I
did for them, (by mail the next day from Washington.) On the boat I had my
hands full. One poor fellow died going up.
I am now remaining in and around Washington, daily visiting the
hospitals. Am much in Patent-office, Eighth street, H street, Armory-square,
and others. Am now able to do a little good, having money, (as almoner of
others home,) and getting experience. To-day, Sunday afternoon and till
nine in the evening, visited Campbell hospital; attended specially to one
case in ward I, very sick with pleurisy and typhoid fever, young man,
farmer's son, D. F. Russell, company E, 60th New York, downhearted and
feeble; a long time before he would take any interest; wrote a letter home to

his mother, in Malone, Franklin county, N. Y., at his request; gave him some
fruit and one or two other gifts; envelop'd and directed his letter, &c. Then
went thoroughly through ward 6, observ'd every case in the ward, without, I
think, missing one; gave perhaps from twenty to thirty persons, each one
some little gift, such as oranges, apples, sweet crackers, figs, &c.
Thursday, Jan. 21.—Devoted the main part of the day to Armory-square
hospital; went pretty thoroughly through wards F, G, H, and I; some fifty
cases in each ward. In ward F supplied the men throughout with writing
paper and stamp'd envelope each; distributed in small portions, to proper
subjects, a large jar of first-rate preserv'd berries, which had been donated
to me by a lady—her own cooking. Found several cases I thought good
subjects for small sums of money, which I furnish'd. (The wounded men
often come up broke, and it helps their spirits to have even the small sum I
give them.) My paper and envelopes all gone, but distributed a good lot of
amusing reading matter; also, as I thought judicious, tobacco, oranges,
apples, &c. Interesting cases in ward I; Charles Miller, bed 19, company D,
53d Pennsylvania, is only 16 years of age, very bright, courageous boy, left
leg amputated below the knee; next bed to him, another young lad very
sick; gave each appropriate gifts. In the bed above, also, amputation of the
left leg; gave him a little jar of raspberries; bed J, this ward, gave a small
sum; also to a soldier on crutches, sitting on his bed near.... (I am more and
more surprised at the very great proportion of youngsters from fifteen to
twenty-one in the army. I afterwards found a still greater proportion among
the southerners.)
Evening, same day, went to see D. F. R., before alluded to; found him
remarkably changed for the better; up and dress'd—quite a triumph; he
afterwards got well, and went back to his regiment.
Distributed in the wards a quantity of note-paper, and forty or fifty
stamp'd envelopes, of which I had recruited my stock, and the men were
much in need.

FIFTY HOURS LEFT WOUNDED ON THE FIELD

Here is a case of a soldier I found among the crowded cots in the Patent-
office. He likes to have some one to talk to, and we will listen to him. He
got badly hit in his leg and side at Fredericksburgh that eventful Saturday,

13th of December. He lay the succeeding two days and nights helpless on
the field, between the city and those grim terraces of batteries; his company
and regiment had been compell'd to leave him to his fate. To make matters
worse, it happen'd he lay with his head slightly down hill, and could not
help himself. At the end of some fifty hours he was brought off, with other
wounded, under a flag of truce. I ask him how the rebels treated him as he
lay during those two days and nights within reach of them—whether they
came to him—whether they abused him? He answers that several of the
rebels, soldiers and others, came to him at one time and another. A couple of
them, who were together, spoke roughly and sarcastically, but nothing
worse. One middle-aged man, however, who seem'd to be moving around
the field, among the dead and wounded, for benevolent purposes, came to
him in a way he will never forget; treated our soldier kindly, bound up his
wounds, cheer'd him, gave him a couple of biscuits and a drink of whiskey
and water; asked him if he could eat some beef. This good secesh, however,
did not change our soldier's position, for it might have caused the blood to
burst from the wounds, clotted and stagnated. Our soldier is from
Pennsylvania; has had a pretty severe time; the wounds proved to be bad
ones. But he retains a good heart, and is at present on the gain. (It is not
uncommon for the men to remain on the field this way, one, two, or even
four or five days.)

HOSPITAL SCENES AND PERSONS

Letter Writing.—When eligible, I encourage the men to write, and
myself, when called upon, write all sorts of letters for them (including love
letters, very tender ones.) Almost as I reel off these memoranda, I write for
a new patient to his wife. M. de F., of the 17th Connecticut, company H, has
just come up (February 17th) from Windmill point, and is received in ward
H, Armory-square. He is an intelligent looking man, has a foreign accent,
black-eyed and hair'd, a Hebraic appearance. Wants a telegraphic message
sent to his wife, New Canaan, Conn. I agree to send the message—but to
make things sure I also sit down and write the wife a letter, and despatch it
to the post-office immediately, as he fears she will come on, and he does not
wish her to, as he will surely get well.
Saturday, January 30th.—Afternoon, visited Campbell hospital. Scene of
cleaning up the ward, and giving the men all clean clothes—through the

ward (6) the patients dressing or being dress'd—the naked upper half of the
bodies—the good-humor and fun—the shirts, drawers, sheets of beds, &c.,
and the general fixing up for Sunday. Gave J. L. 50 cents.
Wednesday, February 4th.—Visited Armory-square hospital, went pretty
thoroughly through wards E and D. Supplied paper and envelopes to all
who wish'd—as usual, found plenty of men who needed those articles.
Wrote letters. Saw and talk'd with two or three members of the Brooklyn
14th regt. A poor fellow in ward D, with a fearful wound in a fearful
condition, was having some loose splinters of bone taken from the
neighborhood of the wound. The operation was long, and one of great pain
—yet, after it was well commenced, the soldier bore it in silence. He sat up,
propp'd—was much wasted—had lain a long time quiet in one position (not
for days only but weeks,) a bloodless, brown-skinn'd face, with eyes full of
determination—belong'd to a New York regiment. There was an unusual
cluster of surgeons, medical cadets, nurses, &c., around his bed—I thought
the whole thing was done with tenderness, and done well. In one case, the
wife sat by the side of her husband, his sickness typhoid fever, pretty bad.
In another, by the side of her son, a mother—she told me she had seven
children, and this was the youngest. (A fine, kind, healthy, gentle mother,
good-looking, not very old, with a cap on her head, and dress'd like home—
what a charm it gave to the whole ward.) I liked the woman nurse in ward E
—I noticed how she sat a long time by a poor fellow who just had, that
morning, in addition to his other sickness, bad hemorrhage—she gently
assisted him, reliev'd him of the blood, holding a cloth to his mouth, as he
coughed it up—he was so weak he could only just turn his head over on the
pillow.
One young New York man, with a bright, handsome face, had been lying
several months from a most disagreeable wound, receiv'd at Bull Run. A
bullet had shot him right through the bladder, hitting him front, low in the
belly, and coming out back. He had suffer'd much—the water came out of
the wound, by slow but steady quantities, for many weeks—so that he lay
almost constantly in a sort of puddle—and there were other disagreeable
circumstances. He was of good heart, however. At present comparatively
comfortable, had a bad throat, was delighted with a stick of horehound
candy I gave him, with one or two other trifles.

PATENT-OFFICE HOSPITAL

February 23.—I must not let the great hospital at the Patent-office pass
away without some mention. A few weeks ago the vast area of the second
story of that noblest of Washington buildings was crowded close with rows
of sick, badly wounded and dying soldiers. They were placed in three very
large apartments. I went there many times. It was a strange, solemn, and,
with all its features of suffering and death, a sort of fascinating sight. I go
sometimes at night to soothe and relieve particular cases. Two of the
immense apartments are fill'd with high and ponderous glass cases, crowded
with models in miniature of every kind of utensil, machine or invention, it
ever enter'd into the mind of man to conceive; and with curiosities and
foreign presents. Between these cases are lateral openings, perhaps eight
feet wide and quite deep, and in these were placed the sick, besides a great
long double row of them up and down through the middle of the hall. Many
of them were very bad cases, wounds and amputations. Then there was a
gallery running above the hall in which there were beds also. It was, indeed,
a curious scene, especially at night when lit up. The glass cases, the beds,
the forms lying there, the gallery above, and the marble pavement under
foot—the suffering, and the fortitude to bear it in various degrees—
occasionally, from some, the groan that could not be repress'd—sometimes
a poor fellow dying, with emaciated face and glassy eye, the nurse by his
side, the doctor also there, but no friend, no relative—such were the sights
but lately in the Patent-office. (The wounded have since been removed from
there, and it is now vacant again.)

THE WHITE HOUSE BY MOONLIGHT

February 24th.—A spell of fine soft weather. I wander about a good deal,
sometimes at night under the moon. Tonight took a long look at the
President's house. The white portico—the palace-like, tall, round columns,
spotless as snow—the walls also—the tender and soft moonlight, flooding
the pale marble, and making peculiar faint languishing shades, not shadows
—everywhere a soft transparent hazy, thin, blue moon-lace, hanging in the
air—the brilliant and extra-plentiful clusters of gas, on and around the
façade, columns, portico, &c.—everything so white, so marbly pure and
dazzling, yet soft—the White House of future poems, and of dreams and

dramas, there in the soft and copious moon—the gorgeous front, in the
trees, under the lustrous flooding moon, full of realty, full of illusion—the
forms of the trees, leafless, silent, in trunk and myriad—angles of branches,
under the stars and sky—the White House of the land, and of beauty and
night—sentries at the gates, and by the portico, silent, pacing there in blue
overcoats—stopping you not at all, but eyeing you with sharp eyes,
whichever way you move.

AN ARMY HOSPITAL WARD

Let me specialize a visit I made to the collection of barrack-like one-
story edifices, Campbell hospital, out on the flats, at the end of the then
horse railway route, on Seventh street. There is a long building appropriated
to each ward. Let us go into ward 6. It contains, to-day, I should judge,
eighty or a hundred patients, half sick, half wounded. The edifice is nothing
but boards, well whitewash'd inside, and the usual slender-framed iron
bedsteads, narrow and plain. You walk down the central passage, with a row
on either side, their feet towards you, and their heads to the wall. There are
fires in large stoves, and the prevailing white of the walls is reliev'd by
some ornaments, stars, circles, &c., made of evergreens. The view of the
whole edifice and occupants can be taken at once, for there is no partition.
You may hear groans or other sounds of unendurable suffering from two or
three of the cots, but in the main there is quiet—almost a painful absence of
demonstration; but the pallid face, the dull'd eye, and the moisture of the
lip, are demonstration enough. Most of these sick or hurt are evidently
young fellows from the country, farmers' sons, and such like. Look at the
fine large frames, the bright and broad countenances, and the many yet
lingering proofs of strong constitution and physique. Look at the patient and
mute manner of our American wounded as they lie in such a sad collection;
representatives from all New England, and from New York, and New
Jersey, and Pennsylvania—indeed from all the States and all the cities—
largely from the west. Most of them are entirely without friends or
acquaintances here—no familiar face, and hardly a word of judicious
sympathy or cheer, through their sometimes long and tedious sickness, or
the pangs of aggravated wounds.

A CONNECTICUT CASE

This young man in bed 25 is H. D. B. of the 27th Connecticut, company
B. His folks live at Northford, near New Haven. Though not more than
twenty-one, or thereabouts, he has knock'd much around the world, on sea
and land, and has seen some fighting on both. When I first saw him he was
very sick, with no appetite. He declined offers of money—said he did not
need anything. As I was quite anxious to do something, he confess'd that he
had a hankering for a good home-made rice pudding—thought he could
relish it better than anything. At this time his stomach was very weak. (The
doctor, whom I consulted, said nourishment would do him more good than
anything; but things in the hospital, though better than usual, revolted him.)
I soon procured B. his rice pudding. A Washington lady, (Mrs. O'C.),
hearing his wish, made the pudding herself, and I took it up to him the next
day. He subsequently told me he lived upon it for three or four days. This B.
is a good sample of the American eastern young man—the typical Yankee. I
took a fancy to him, and gave him a nice pipe for a keepsake. He receiv'd
afterwards a box of things from home, and nothing would do but I must
take dinner with him, which I did, and a very good one it was.

TWO BROOKLYN BOYS

Here in this same ward are two young men from Brooklyn, members of
the 51st New York. I had known both the two as young lads at home, so
they seem near to me. One of them, J. L., lies there with an amputated arm,
the stump healing pretty well. (I saw him lying on the ground at
Fredericksburgh last December, all bloody, just after the arm was taken off.
He was very phlegmatic about it, munching away at a cracker in the
remaining hand—made no fuss.) He will recover, and thinks and talks yet
of meeting Johnny Rebs.

A SECESH BRAVE

The grand soldiers are not comprised in those of one side, any more than
the other. Here is a sample of an unknown southerner, a lad of seventeen. At
the War department, a few days ago, I witness'd a presentation of captured
flags to the Secretary. Among others a soldier named Gant, of the 104th
Ohio volunteers, presented a rebel battle-flag, which one of the officers
stated to me was borne to the mouth of our cannon and planted there by a

boy but seventeen years of age, who actually endeavor'd to stop the muzzle
of the gun with fence-rails. He was kill'd in the effort, and the flag-staff was
sever'd by a shot from one of our men.

THE WOUNDED FROM CHANCELLORSVILLE

May '63.—As I write this, the wounded have begun to arrive from
Hooker's command from bloody Chancellorsville. I was down among the
first arrivals. The men in charge told me the bad cases were yet to come. If
that is so I pity them, for these are bad enough. You ought to see the scene
of the wounded arriving at the landing here at the foot of Sixth street, at
night. Two boat loads came about half-past seven last night. A little after
eight it rain'd a long and violent shower. The pale, helpless soldiers had
been debark'd, and lay around on the wharf and neighborhood anywhere.
The rain was, probably, grateful to them; at any rate they were exposed to it.
The few torches light up the spectacle. All around—on the wharf, on the
ground, out on side places—the men are lying on blankets, old quilts, &c.,
with bloody rags bound round heads, arms, and legs. The attendants are
few, and at night few outsiders also—only a few hard-work'd transportation
men and drivers. (The wounded are getting to be common, and people grow
callous.) The men, whatever their condition, lie there, and patiently wait till
their turn comes to be taken up. Near by, the ambulances are now arriving
in clusters, and one after another is call'd to back up and take its load.
Extreme cases are sent off on stretchers. The men generally make little or
no ado, whatever their sufferings. A few groans that cannot be suppress'd,
and occasionally a scream of pain as they lift a man into the ambulance. To-
day, as I write, hundreds more are expected, and to-morrow and the next
day more, and so on for many days. Quite often they arrive at the rate of
1000 a day.

A NIGHT BATTLE OVER A WEEK SINCE

May 12.—There was part of the late battle at Chancellorsville, (second
Fredericksburgh,) a little over a week ago, Saturday, Saturday night and
Sunday, under Gen. Joe Hooker, I would like to give just a glimpse of—(a
moment's look in a terrible storm at sea—of which a few suggestions are
enough, and full details impossible.) The fighting had been very hot during

the day, and after an intermission the latter part, was resumed at night, and
kept up with furious energy till 3 o'clock in the morning. That afternoon
(Saturday) an attack sudden and strong by Stonewall Jackson had gain'd a
great advantage to the southern army, and broken our lines, entering us like
a wedge, and leaving things in that position at dark. But Hooker at 11 at
night made a desperate push, drove the secesh forces back, restored his
original lines, and resumed his plans. This night scrimmage was very
exciting, and afforded countless strange and fearful pictures. The fighting
had been general both at Chancellorsville and northeast at Fredericksburgh.
(We hear of some poor fighting, episodes, skedaddling on our part. I think
not of it. I think of the fierce bravery, the general rule.) One corps, the 6th,
Sedgewick's, fights four dashing and bloody battles in thirty-six hours,
retreating in great jeopardy, losing largely but maintaining itself, fighting
with the sternest desperation under all circumstances, getting over the
Rappahannock only by the skin of its teeth, yet getting over. It lost many,
many brave men, yet it took vengeance, ample vengeance.
But it was the tug of Saturday evening, and through the night and Sunday
morning, I wanted to make a special note of. It was largely in the woods,
and quite a general engagement. The night was very pleasant, at times the
moon shining out full and clear, all Nature so calm in itself, the early
summer grass so rich, and foliage of the trees—yet there the battle raging,
and many good fellows lying helpless, with new accessions to them, and
every minute amid the rattle of muskets and crash of cannon, (for there was
an artillery contest too,) the red life-blood oozing out from heads or trunks
or limbs upon that green and dew-cool grass. Patches of the woods take fire,
and several of the wounded, unable to move, are consumed—quite large
spaces are swept over, burning the dead also—some of the men have their
hair and beards singed—some, burns on their faces and hands—others holes
burnt in their clothing. The flashes of fire from the cannon, the quick flaring
flames and smoke, and the immense roar—the musketry so general, the
light nearly bright enough for each side to see the other—the crashing,
tramping of men—the yelling—close quarters—we hear the secesh yells—
our men cheer loudly back, especially if Hooker is in sight—hand to hand
conflicts, each side stands up to it, brave, determin'd as demons, they often
charge upon us—a thousand deeds are done worth to write newer greater
poems on—and still the woods on fire—still many are not only scorch'd—
too many, unable to move, are burned to death.

Then the camps of the wounded—O heavens, what scene is this?—is this
indeed humanity—these butchers' shambles? There are several of them.
There they lie, in the largest, in an open space in the woods, from 200 to
300 poor fellows—the groans and screams—the odor of blood, mixed with
the fresh scent of the night, the grass, the trees—that slaughter-house! O
well is it their mothers, their sisters cannot see them—cannot conceive, and
never conceiv'd, these things. One man is shot by a shell, both in the arm
and leg—both are amputated—there lie the rejected members. Some have
their legs blown off—some bullets through the breast—some indescribably
horrid wounds in the face or head, all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out
—some in the abdomen—some mere boys—many rebels, badly hurt—they
take their regular turns with the rest, just the same as any—the surgeons use
them just the same. Such is the camp of the wounded—such a fragment, a
reflection afar off of the bloody scene—while all over the clear, large moon
comes out at times softly, quietly shining. Amid the woods, that scene of
flitting souls—amid the crack and crash and yelling sounds—the
impalpable perfume of the woods—and yet the pungent, stifling smoke—
the radiance of the moon, looking from heaven at intervals so placid—the
sky so heavenly the clear-obscure up there, those buoyant upper oceans—a
few large placid stars beyond, coming silently and languidly out, and then
disappearing—the melancholy, draperied night above, around. And there,
upon the roads, the fields, and in those woods, that contest, never one more
desperate in any age or land—both parties now in force—masses—no fancy
battle, no semi-play, but fierce and savage demons fighting there—courage
and scorn of death the rule, exceptions almost none.
What history, I say, can ever give—for who can know—the mad,
determin'd tussle of the armies, in all their separate large and little squads—
as this—each steep'd from crown to toe in desperate, mortal purports? Who
know the conflict, hand-to-hand—the many conflicts in the dark, those
shadowy-tangled, flashing moonbeam'd woods—the writhing groups and
squads—the cries, the din, the cracking guns and pistols—the distant
cannon—the cheers and calls and threats and awful music of the oaths—the
indescribable mix—the officers' orders, persuasions, encouragements—the
devils fully rous'd in human hearts—the strong shout, Charge, men, charge
—the flash of the naked sword, and rolling flame and smoke? And still the
broken, clear and clouded heaven—and still again the moonlight pouring
silvery soft its radiant patches over all. Who paint the scene, the sudden

partial panic of the afternoon, at dusk? Who paint the irrepressible advance
of the second division of the Third corps, under Hooker himself, suddenly
order'd up—those rapid-filing phantoms through the woods? Who show
what moves there in the shadows, fluid and firm—to save, (and it did save,)
the army's name, perhaps the nation? as there the veterans hold the field.
(Brave Berry falls not yet—but death has mark'd him—soon he falls.)

UNNAMED REMAINS THE BRAVEST SOLDIER

Of scenes like these, I say, who writes—whoe'er can write the story? Of
many a score—aye, thousands, north and south, of unwrit heroes, unknown
heroisms, incredible, impromptu, first-class desperations—who tells? No
history ever—no poem sings, no music sounds, those bravest men of all—
those deeds. No formal general's report, nor book in the library, norcolumn
in the paper, embalms the bravest, north or south, east or west. Unnamed,
unknown, remain, and still remain, the bravest soldiers. Our manliest—our
boys—our hardy darlings; no picture gives them. Likely, the typic one of
them (standing, no doubt, for hundreds, thousands,) crawls aside to some
bush-clump, or ferny tuft, on receiving his death-shot—there sheltering a
little while, soaking roots, grass and soil, with red blood—the battle
advances, retreats, flits from the scene, sweeps by—and there, haply with
pain and suffering (yet less, far less, than is supposed,) the last lethargy
winds like a serpent round him—the eyes glaze in death——none recks—
perhaps the burial-squads, in truce, a week afterwards, search not the
secluded spot—and there, at last, the Bravest Soldier crumbles in mother
earth, unburied and unknown.

SOME SPECIMEN CASES

June 18th.—In one of the hospitals I find Thomas Haley, company M,
4th New York cavalry—a regular Irish boy, a fine specimen of youthful
physical manliness—shot through the lungs—inevitably dying—came over
to this country from Ireland to enlist—has not a single friend or
acquaintance here—is sleeping soundly at this moment, (but it is the sleep
of death)—has a bullet-hole straight through the lung. I saw Tom when first
brought here, three days since, and didn't suppose he could live twelve
hours—(yet he looks well enough in the face to a casual observer.) He lies

there with his frame exposed above the waist, all naked, for coolness, a fine
built man, the tan not yet bleach'd from his cheeks and neck. It is useless to
talk to him, as with his sad hurt, and the stimulants they give him, and the
utter strangeness of every object, face, furniture, &c., the poor fellow, even
when awake, is like some frighten'd, shy animal. Much of the time he
sleeps, or half sleeps. (Sometimes I thought he knew more than he show'd.)
I often come and sit by him in perfect silence; he will breathe for ten
minutes as softly and evenly as a young babe asleep. Poor youth, so
handsome, athletic, with profuse beautiful shining hair. One time as I sat
looking at him while he lay asleep, he suddenly, without the least start,
awaken'd, open'd his eyes, gave me a long steady look, turning his face very
slightly to gaze easier—one long, clear, silent look—a slight sigh—then
turn'd back and went into his doze again. Little he knew, poor death-
stricken boy, the heart of the stranger that hover'd near.
W.H.E., Co. F, 2nd N.Y.—His disease is pneumonia. He lay sick at the
wretched hospital below Aquia creek, for seven or eight days before
brought here. He was detail'd from his regiment to go there and help as
nurse, but was soon taken down himself. Is an elderly, sallow-faced, rather
gaunt, gray-hair'd man, a widower, with children. He express'd a great
desire for good, strong green tea. An excellent lady, Mrs. W., of
Washington, soon sent him a package; also a small sum of money. The
doctor said give him the tea at pleasure; it lay on the table by his side, and
he used it every day. He slept a great deal; could not talk much, as he grew
deaf. Occupied bed 15, ward I, Armory. (The same lady above, Mrs. W.,
sent the men a large package of tobacco.)
J. G. lies in bed 52, ward I; is of company B, 7th Pennsylvania. I gave
him a small sum of money, some tobacco, and envelopes. To a man
adjoining also gave twenty-five cents; he flush'd in the face when I offer'd it
—refused at first, but as I found he had not a cent, and was very fond of
having the daily papers to read, I prest it on him. He was evidently very
grateful, but said little.
J.T.L., of company F, 9th New Hampshire, lies in bed 37, ward I. Is very
fond of tobacco. I furnish him some; also with a little money. Has gangrene
of the feet; a pretty bad case; will surely have to lose three toes. Is a regular
specimen of an old-fashion'd, rude, hearty, New England countryman,

impressing me with his likeness to that celebrated singed cat, who was
better than she look'd.
Bed 3, ward E, Armory, has a great hankering for pickles, something
pungent. After consulting the doctor, I gave him a small bottle of horse-
radish; also some apples; also a book. Some of the nurses are excellent. The
woman-nurse in this ward I like very much. (Mrs. Wright—a year
afterwards I found her in Mansion house hospital, Alexandria—she is a
perfect nurse.)
In one bed a young man, Marcus Small, company K, 7th Maine—sick
with dysentery and typhoid fever—pretty critical case—I talk with him
often—he thinks he will die—looks like it indeed. I write a letter for him
home to East Livermore, Maine—I let him talk to me a little, but not much,
advise him to keep very quiet—do most of the talking myself—stay quite a
while with him, as he holds on to my hand—talk to him in a cheering, but
slow, low and measured manner—talk about his furlough, and going home
as soon as he is able to travel.
Thomas Lindly, 1st Pennsylvania cavalry, shot very badly through the
foot—poor young man, he suffers horridly, has to be constantly dosed with
morphine, his face ashy and glazed, bright young eyes—I give him a large
handsome apple, lay it in sight, tell him to have it roasted in the morning, as
he generally feels easier then, and can eat a little breakfast. I write two
letters for him.
Opposite, an old Quaker lady sits by the side of her son, Amer Moore, 2d
U. S. artillery—shot in the head two weeks since, very low, quite rational—
from hips down paralyzed—he will surely die. I speak a very few words to
him every day and evening—he answers pleasantly—wants nothing—(he
told me soon after he came about his home affairs, his mother had been an
invalid, and he fear'd to let her know his condition.) He died soon after she
came.

MY PREPARATIONS FOR VISITS

In my visits to the hospitals I found it was in the simple matter of
personal presence, and emanating ordinary cheer and magnetism, that I
succeeded and help'd more than by medical nursing, or delicacies, or gifts
of money, or anything else. During the war I possess'd the perfection of

physical health. My habit, when practicable, was to prepare for starting out
on one of those daily or nightly tours of from a couple to four or five hours,
by fortifying myself with previous rest, the bath, clean clothes, a good meal,
and as cheerful an appearance as possible.

AMBULANCE PROCESSIONS

June 23, Sundown.—As I sit writing this paragraph I see a train of about
thirty huge four-horse wagons, used as ambulances, fill'd with wounded,
passing up Fourteenth street, on their way, probably, to Columbian, Carver,
and Mount Pleasant hospitals. This is the way the men come in now, seldom
in small numbers, but almost always in these long, sad processions.
Through the past winter, while our army lay opposite Fredericksburg, the
like strings of ambulances were of frequent occurrence along Seventh
street, passing slowly up from the steamboat wharf, with loads from Aquia
creek.

BAD WOUNDS—THE YOUNG

The soldiers are nearly all young men, and far more American than is
generally supposed—I should say nine-tenths are native-born. Among the
arrivals from Chancellorsville I find a large proportion of Ohio, Indiana,
and Illinois men. As usual, there are all sorts of wounds. Some of the men
fearfully burnt from the explosions of artillery caissons. One ward has a
long row of officers, some with ugly hurts. Yesterday was perhaps worse
than usual. Amputations are going on—the attendants are dressing wounds.
As you pass by, you must be on your guard where you look. I saw the other
day a gentlemen, a visitor apparently from curiosity, in one of the wards,
stop and turn a moment to look at an awful wound they were probing. He
turn'd pale, and in a moment more he had fainted away and fallen to the
floor.

THE MOST INSPIRITING OF ALL WAR'S SHOWS

June 29.—Just before sundown this evening a very large cavalry force
went by—a fine sight. The men evidently had seen service. First came a
mounted band of sixteen bugles, drums and cymbals, playing wild martial

tunes—made my heart jump. Then the principal officers, then company
after company, with their officers at their heads, making of course the main
part of the cavalcade; then a long train of men with led horses, lots of
mounted negroes with special horses—and a long string of baggage-
wagons, each drawn by four horses—and then a motley rear guard.
It was a pronouncedly warlike and gay show; the sabres clank'd, the men
look'd young and healthy and strong; the electric tramping of so many
horses on the hard road, and the gallant bearing, fine seat, and bright faced
appearance of a thousand and more handsome young American men, were
so good to see. An hour later another troop went by, smaller in numbers,
perhaps three hundred men. They too look'd like serviceable men,
campaigners used to field and fight.
July 3.—This forenoon, for more than an hour, again long strings of
cavalry, several regiments, very fine men and horses, four or five abreast. I
saw them in Fourteenth street, coming in town from north. Several hundred
extra horses, some of the mares with colts, trotting along. (Appear'd to be a
number of prisoners too.) How inspiriting always the cavalry regiments.
Our men are generally well mounted, feel good, are young, gay on the
saddle, their blankets in a roll behind them, their sabres clanking at their
sides. This noise and movement and the tramp of many horses' hoofs has a
curious effect upon one. The bugles play—presently you hear them afar off,
deaden'd, mix'd with other noises. Then just as they had all pass'd, a string
of ambulances commenc'd from the other way, moving up Fourteenth street
north, slowly wending along, bearing a large lot of wounded to the
hospitals.

BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG

July 4th.—The weather to-day, upon the whole, is very fine, warm, but
from a smart rain last night, fresh enough, and no dust, which is a great
relief for this city. I saw the parade about noon, Pennsylvania avenue, from
Fifteenth street down toward the capitol. There were three regiments of
infantry, (I suppose the ones doing patrol duty here,) two or three societies
of Odd Fellows, a lot of children in barouches, and a squad of policemen.
(A useless imposition upon the soldiers—they have work enough on their
backs without piling the like of this.)

As I went down the Avenue, saw a big flaring placard on the bulletin
board of a newspaper office, announcing "Glorious Victory for the Union
Army!" Meade had fought Lee at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, yesterday and
day before, and repuls'd him most signally, taken 3,000 prisoners, &c. (I
afterwards saw Meade's despatch, very modest, and a sort of order of the
day from the President himself, quite religious, giving thanks to the
Supreme, and calling on the people to do the same.)
I walk'd on to Armory hospital—took along with me several bottles of
blackberry and cherry syrup, good and strong, but innocent. Went through
several of the wards, announc'd to the soldiers the news from Meade, and
gave them all a good drink of the syrups with ice water, quite refreshing—
prepar'd it all myself, and serv'd it around. Meanwhile the Washington bells
are ringing their sun-down peals for Fourth of July, and the usual fusilades
of boys' pistols, crackers, and guns.

A CAVALRY CAMP

I am writing this, nearly sundown, watching a cavalry company (acting
Signal service,) just come in through a shower, making their night's camp
ready on some broad, vacant ground, a sort of hill, in full view opposite my
window. There are the men in their yellow-striped jackets. All are
dismounted; the freed horses stand with drooping heads and wet sides; they
are to be led off presently in groups, to water. The little wall-tents and
shelter tents spring up quickly. I see the fires already blazing, and pots and
kettles over them. Some among the men are driving in tent-poles, wielding
their axes with strong, slow blows. I see great huddles of horses, bundles of
hay, groups of men (some with unbuckled sabres yet on their sides,) a few
officers, piles of wood, the flames of the fires, saddles, harness, &c. The
smoke streams upward, additional men arrive and dismount—some drive in
stakes, and tie their horses to them; some go with buckets for water, some
are chopping wood, and so on.
July 6th.—A steady rain, dark and thick and warm. A train of six-mule
wagons has just pass'd bearing pontoons, great square-end flatboats, and the
heavy planking for overlaying them. We hear that the Potomac above here
is flooded, and are wondering whether Lee will be able to get back across
again, or whether Meade will indeed break him to pieces. The cavalry camp
on the hill is a ceaseless field of observation for me. This forenoon there

stand the horses, tether'd together, dripping, steaming, chewing their hay.
The men emerge from their tents, dripping also. The fires are half quench'd.
July 10th.—Still the camp opposite—perhaps fifty or sixty tents. Some of
the men are cleaning their sabres (pleasant to-day,) some brushing boots,
some laying off, reading, writing—some cooking, some sleeping. On long
temporary cross-sticks back of the tents are cavalry accoutrements—
blankets and overcoats are hung out to air—there are the squads of horses
tether'd, feeding, continually stamping and whisking their tails to keep off
flies. I sit long in my third story window and look at the scene—a hundred
little things going on—peculiar objects connected with the camp that could
not be described, any one of them justly, without much minute drawing and
coloring in words.

A NEW YORK SOLDIER

This afternoon, July 22d, I have spent a long time with Oscar F. Wilber,
company G, 154th New York, low with chronic diarrhoea, and a bad wound
also. He asked me to read him a chapter in the New Testament. I complied,
and ask'd him what I should read. He said, "Make your own choice." I
open'd at the close of one of the first books of the evangelists, and read the
chapters describing the latter hours of Christ, and the scenes at the
crucifixion. The poor, wasted young man ask'd me to read the following
chapter also, how Christ rose again. I read very slowly, for Oscar was
feeble. It pleased him very much, yet the tears were in his eyes. He ask'd me
if I enjoy'd religion. I said, "Perhaps not, my dear, in the way you mean, and
yet, may-be, it is the same thing." He said, "It is my chief reliance." He
talk'd of death, and said he did not fear it. I said, "Why, Oscar, don't you
think you will get well?" He said, "I may, but it is not probable." He spoke
calmly of his condition. The wound was very bad, it discharg'd much. Then
the diarrhoea had prostrated him, and I felt that he was even then the same
as dying. He behaved very manly and affectionate. The kiss I gave him as I
was about leaving he return'd fourfold. He gave me his mother's address,
Mrs. Sally D. Wilber, Alleghany pest-office, Cattaraugus county, N. Y. I had
several such interviews with him. He died a few days after the one just
described.

HOME-MADE MUSIC

August 8th.—To-night, as I was trying to keep cool, sitting by a wounded
soldier in Armory-square, I was attracted by some pleasant singing in an
adjoining ward. As my soldier was asleep, I left him, and entering the ward
where the music was, I walk'd halfway down and took a seat by the cot of a
young Brooklyn friend, S. R., badly wounded in the hand at
Chancellorsville, and who has suffer'd much, but at that moment in the
evening was wide awake and comparatively easy. He had turn'd over on his
left side to get a better view of the singers, but the mosquito-curtains of the
adjoining cots obstructed the sight. I stept round and loop'd them all up, so
that he had a clear show, and then sat down again by him, and look'd and
listen'd. The principal singer was a young lady-nurse of one of the wards,
accompanying on a melodeon, and join'd by the lady-nurses of other wards.
They sat there, making a charming group, with their handsome, healthy
faces, and standing up a little behind them were some ten or fifteen of the
convalescent soldiers, young men, nurses, &c., with books in their hands,
singing. Of course it was not such a performance as the great soloists at the
New York opera house take a hand in, yet I am not sure but I receiv'd as
much pleasure under the circumstances, sitting there, as I have had from the
best Italian compositions, express'd by world-famous performers. The men
lying up and down the hospital, in their cots, (some badly wounded—some
never to rise thence,) the cots themselves, with their drapery of white
curtains, and the shadows down the lower and upper parts of the ward; then
the silence of the men, and the attitudes they took—the whole was a sight to
look around upon again and again. And there sweetly rose those voices up
to the high, whitewash'd wooden roof, and pleasantly the roof sent it all
back again. They sang very well, mostly quaint old songs and declamatory
hymns, to fitting tunes. Here, for instance:

My days are swiftly gliding by, and I a pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly, those hours of toil and danger;
For O we stand on Jordan's strand, our friends are passing over,
And just before, the shining shore we may almost discover.
We'll gird our loins my brethren dear, our distant home discerning,
Our absent Lord has left us word, let every lamp be burning,
For O we stand on Jordan's strand, our friends are passing over,
And just before, the shining shore we may almost discover.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

August 12th.—I see the President almost every day, as I happen to live
where he passes to or from his lodgings out of town. He never sleeps at the
White House during the hot season, but has quarters at a healthy location
some three miles north of the city, the Soldiers' home, a United States
military establishment. I saw him this morning about 8 1/2 coming in to
business, riding on Vermont avenue, near L street. He always has a
company of twenty-five or thirty cavalry, with sabres drawn and held
upright over their shoulders. They say this guard was against his personal
wish, but he let his counselors have their way. The party makes no great
show in uniform or horses. Mr. Lincoln on the saddle generally rides a
good-sized, easy-going gray horse, is dress'd in plain black, somewhat rusty
and dusty, wears a black stiff hat, and looks about as ordinary in attire, &c.,
as the commonest man. A lieutenant, with yellow straps, rides at his left,
and following behind, two by two, come the cavalry men, in their yellow-
striped jackets. They are generally going at a slow trot, as that is the pace
set them by the one they wait upon. The sabres and accoutrements clank,
and the entirely unornamental cortège as it trots towards Lafayette square
arouses no sensation, only some curious stranger stops and gazes. I see very
plainly ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S dark brown face, with the deep-cut lines,
the eyes, always to me with a deep latent sadness in the expression. We
have got so that we exchange bows, and very cordial ones. Sometimes the
President goes and comes in an open barouche. The cavalry always
accompany him, with drawn sabres. Often I notice as he goes out evenings
—and sometimes in the morning, when he returns early—he turns off and
halts at the large and handsome residence of the Secretary of War, on K
street, and holds conference there. If in his barouche, I can see from my
window he does not alight, but sits in his vehicle, and Mr. Stanton comes
out to attend him. Sometimes one of his sons, a boy of ten or twelve,
accompanies him, riding at his right on a pony. Earlier in the summer I
occasionally saw the President and his wife, toward the latter part of the
afternoon, out in a barouche, on a pleasure ride through the city. Mrs.
Lincoln was dress'd in complete black, with a long crape veil. The equipage
is of the plainest kind, only two horses, and they nothing extra. They pass'd
me once very close, and I saw the President in the face fully, as they were
moving slowly, and his look, though abstracted, happen'd to be directed
steadily in my eye. He bow'd and smiled, but far beneath his smile I noticed
well the expression I have alluded to. None of the artists or pictures has

caught the deep, though subtle and indirect expression of this man's face.
There is something else there. One of the great portrait painters of two or
three centuries ago is needed.

HEATED TERM

There has lately been much suffering here from heat; we have had it upon
us now eleven days. I go around with an umbrella and a fan. I saw two
cases of sun-stroke yesterday, one in Pennsylvania avenue, and another in
Seventh street. The City railroad company loses some horses every day. Yet
Washington is having a livelier August, and is probably putting in a more
energetic and satisfactory summer, than ever before during its existence.
There is probably more human electricity, more population to make it, more
business, more light-heartedness, than ever before. The armies that swiftly
circumambiated from Fredericksburgh—march'd, struggled, fought, had out
their mighty clinch and hurl at Gettysburg—wheel'd, circumambiated again,
return'd to their ways, touching us not, either at their going or coming. And
Washington feels that she has pass'd the worst; perhaps feels that she is
henceforth mistress. So here she sits with her surrounding hills spotted with
guns, and is conscious of a character and identity different from what it was
five or six short weeks ago, and very considerably pleasanter and prouder.

SOLDIERS AND TALKS

Soldiers, soldiers, soldiers, you meet everywhere about the city, often
superb-looking men, though invalids dress'd in worn uniforms, and carrying
canes or crutches. I often have talks with them, occasionally quite long and
interesting. One, for instance, will have been all through the peninsula
under McClellan—narrates to me the fights, the marches, the strange, quick
changes of that eventful campaign, and gives glimpses of many things
untold in any official reports or books or journals. These, indeed, are the
things that are genuine and precious. The man was there, has been out two
years, has been through a dozen fights, the superfluous flesh of talking is
long work'd off him, and he gives me little but the hard meat and sinew. I
find it refreshing, these hardy, bright, intuitive, American young men,
(experienc'd soldiers with all their youth.) The vocal play and significance
moves one more than books. Then there hangs something majestic about a

man who has borne his part in battles, especially if he is very quiet
regarding it when you desire him to unbosom. I am continually lost at the
absence of blowing and blowers among these old-young American
militaires. I have found some man or other who has been in every battle
since the war began, and have talk'd with them about each one in every part
of the United States, and many of the engagements on the rivers and
harbors too. I find men here from every State in the Union, without
exception. (There are more Southerners, especially border State men, in the
Union army than is generally supposed. {A}) I now doubt whether one can
get a fair idea of what this war practically is, or what genuine America is,
and her character, without some such experience as this I am having.

DEATH OF A WISCONSIN OFFICER

Another characteristic scene of that dark and bloody 1863, from notes of
my visit to Armory-square hospital, one hot but pleasant summer day. In
ward H we approach the cot of a young lieutenant of one of the Wisconsin
regiments. Tread the bare board floor lightly here, for the pain and panting
of death are in this cot. I saw the lieutenant when he was first brought here
from Chancellorsville, and have been with him occasionally from day to
day and night to night. He had been getting along pretty well till night
before last, when a sudden hemorrhage that could not be stopt came upon
him, and to-day it still continues at intervals. Notice that water-pail by the
side of the bed, with a quantity of blood and bloody pieces of muslin, nearly
full; that tells the story. The poor young man is struggling painfully for
breath, his great dark eyes with a glaze already upon them, and the choking
faint but audible in his throat. An attendant sits by him, and will not leave
him till the last; yet little or nothing can be done. He will die here in an hour
or two, without the presence of kith or kin. Meantime the ordinary chat and
business of{6} the ward a little way off goes on indifferently. Some of the
inmates are laughing and joking, others are playing checkers or cards,
others are reading, &c.
I have noticed through most of the hospitals that as long as there is any
chance for a man, no matter how bad he may be, the surgeon and nurses
work hard, sometimes with curious tenacity, for his life, doing everything,
and keeping somebody by him to execute the doctor's orders, and minister
to him every minute night and day. See that screen there. As you advance

through the dusk of early candle-light, a nurse will step forth on tip-toe, and
silently but imperiously forbid you to make any noise, or perhaps to come
near at all. Some soldier's life is flickering there, suspended between
recovery and death. Perhaps at this moment the exhausted frame has just
fallen into a light sleep that a step might shake. You must retire. The
neighboring patients must move in their stocking feet. I have been several
times struck with such mark'd efforts—everything bent to save a life from
the very grip of the destroyer. But when that grip is once firmly fix'd,
leaving no hope or chance at all, the surgeon abandons the patient. If it is a
case where stimulus is any relief, the nurse gives milk-punch or brandy, or
whatever is wanted, ad libitum. There is no fuss made. Not a bit of
sentimentalism or whining have I seen about a single death-bed in hospital
or on the field, but generally impassive indifference. All is over, as far as
any efforts can avail; it is useless to expend emotions or labors. While there
is a prospect they strive hard—at least most surgeons do; but death certain
and evident, they yield the field.
Endnotes:
{6}MR. GARFIELD (In the House of Representatives, April 15,'79.) "Do
gentlemen know that (leaving out all the border States) there were fifty
regiments and seven companies of white men in our army fighting for the
Union from the States that went into rebellion? Do they know that from the
single State of Kentucky more Union soldiers fought under our flag than
Napoleon took into the battle of Waterloo? more than Wellington took with
all the allied armies against Napoleon? Do they remember that 186,000
color'd men fought under our flag against the rebellion and for the Union,
and that of that number 90,000 were from the States which went into
rebellion?"

HOSPITALS ENSEMBLE

Aug., Sept., and Oct., '63.—I am in the habit of going to all, and to
Fairfax seminary, Alexandria, and over Long bridge to the great
Convalescent camp. The journals publish a regular directory of them—a
long list. As a specimen of almost any one of the larger of these hospitals,
fancy to yourself a space of three to twenty acres of ground, on which are
group'd ten or twelve very large wooden barracks, with, perhaps, a dozen or
twenty, and sometimes more than that number, small buildings, capable

altogether of accommodating from five hundred to a thousand or fifteen
hundred persons. Sometimes these wooden barracks or wards, each of them
perhaps from a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet long, are rang'd in a
straight row, evenly fronting the street; others are plann'd so as to form an
immense V; and others again are ranged around a hollow square. They
make altogether a huge cluster, with the additional tents, extra wards for
contagious diseases, guard-houses, sutler's stores, chaplain's house; in the
middle will probably be an edifice devoted to the offices of the surgeon in
charge and the ward surgeons, principal attaches, clerks, &c. The wards are
either letter'd alphabetically, ward G, ward K, or else numerically, 1, 2, 3,
&c. Each has its ward surgeon and corps of nurses. Of course, there is, in
the aggregate, quite a muster of employes, and over all the surgeon in
charge. Here in Washington, when these army hospitals are all fill'd, (as
they have been already several times,) they contain a population more
numerous in itself than the whole of the Washington of ten or fifteen years
ago. Within sight of the capitol, as I write, are some thirty or forty such
collections, at times holding from fifty to seventy thousand men. Looking
from any eminence and studying the topography in my rambles, I use them
as landmarks. Through the rich August verdure of the trees, see that white
group of buildings off yonder in the outskirts; then another cluster half a
mile to the left of the first; then another a mile to the right, and another a
mile beyond, and still another between us and the first. Indeed, we can
hardly look in any direction but these clusters are dotting the landscape and
environs. That little town, as you might suppose it, off there on the brow of
a hill, is indeed a town, but of wounds, sickness, and death. It is Finley
hospital, northeast of the city, on Kendall green, as it used to be call'd. That
other is Campbell hospital. Both are large establishments. I have known
these two alone to have from two thousand to twenty-five hundred inmates.
Then there is Carver hospital, larger still, a wall'd and military city regularly
laid out, and guarded by squads of sentries. Again, off east, Lincoln
hospital, a still larger one; and half a mile further Emory hospital. Still
sweeping the eye around down the river toward Alexandria, we see, to the
right, the locality where the Convalescent camp stands, with its five, eight,
or sometimes ten thousand inmates. Even all these are but a portion. The
Harewood, Mount Pleasant, Armory-square, Judiciary hospitals, are some
of the rest, and all large collections.

A SILENT NIGHT RAMBLE

October 20th.—To-night, after leaving the hospital at 10 o'clock, (I had
been on self-imposed duty some five hours, pretty closely confined,) I
wander'd a long time around Washington. The night was sweet, very clear,
sufficiently cool, a voluptuous halfmoon, slightly golden, the space near it
of a transparent blue-gray tinge. I walk'd up Pennsylvania avenue, and then
to Seventh street, and a long while around the Patent-office. Somehow it
look'd rebukefully strong, majestic, there in the delicate moonlight. The sky,
the planets, the constellations all so bright, so calm, so expressively silent,
so soothing, after those hospital scenes. I wander'd to and fro till the moist
moon set, long after midnight.

SPIRITUAL CHARACTERS AMONG THE SOLDIERS

Every now and then, in hospital or camp, there are beings I meet—
specimens of unworldliness, disinterestedness, and animal purity and
heroism—perhaps some unconscious Indianian, or from Ohio or Tennessee
—on whose birth the calmness of heaven seems to have descended, and
whose gradual growing up, whatever the circumstances of work-life or
change, or hardship, or small or no education that attended it, the power of a
strange spiritual sweetness, fibre and inward health, have also attended.
Something veil'd and abstracted is often a part of the manners of these
beings. I have met them, I say, not seldom in the army, in camp, and in the
hospitals. The Western regiments contain many of them. They are often
young men, obeying the events and occasions about them, marching,
soldiering, righting, foraging, cooking, working on farms or at some trade
before the war—unaware of their own nature, (as to that, who is aware of
his own nature?) their companions only understanding that they are
different from the rest, more silent, "something odd about them," and apt to
go off and meditate and muse in solitude.

CATTLE DROVES ABOUT WASHINGTON

Among other sights are immense droves of cattle with their drivers,
passing through the streets of the city. Some of the men have a way of
leading the cattle by a peculiar call, a wild, pensive hoot, quite musical,

prolong'd, indescribable, sounding something between the cooing of a
pigeon and the hoot of an owl. I like to stand and look at the sight of one of
these immense droves—a little way off—(as the dust is great.) There are
always men on horseback, cracking their whips and shouting—the cattle
low—some obstinate ox or steer attempts to escape—then a lively scene—
the mounted men, always excellent riders and on good horses, dash after the
recusant, and wheel and turn—a dozen mounted drovers, their great
slouch'd, broad-brim'd hats, very picturesque—another dozen on foot—
everybody cover'd with dust—long goads in their hands—an immense
drove of perhaps 1000 cattle—the shouting, hooting, movement, &c.

HOSPITAL PERPLEXITY

To add to other troubles, amid the confusion of this great army of sick, it
is almost impossible for a stranger to find any friend or relative, unless he
has the patient's specific address to start upon. Besides the directory printed
in the newspapers here, there are one or two general directories of the
hospitals kept at provost's head-quarters, but they are nothing like complete;
they are never up to date, and, as things are, with the daily streams of
coming and going and changing, cannot be. I have known cases, for
instance such as a farmer coming here from northern New York to find a
wounded brother, faithfully hunting round for a week, and then compell'd to
leave and go home without getting any trace of him. When he got home he
found a letter from the brother giving the right address.

DOWN AT THE FRONT

CULPEPPER, VA., Feb. '64.—Here I am FRONT pretty well down
toward the extreme front. Three or four days ago General S., who is now in
chief command, (I believe Meade is absent, sick,) moved a strong force
southward from camp as if intending business. They went to the Rapidan;
there has since been some manoeuvering and a little fighting, but nothing of
consequence. The telegraphic accounts given Monday morning last, make
entirely too much of it, I should say. What General S. intended we here
know not, but we trust in that competent commander. We were somewhat
excited, (but not so very much either,) on Sunday, during the day and night,
as orders were sent out to pack up and harness, and be ready to evacuate, to

fall back towards Washington. But I was very sleepy and went to bed. Some
tremendous shouts arousing me during the night, I went forth and found it
was from the men above mention'd, who were returning. I talk'd with some
of the men; as usual I found them full of gayety, endurance, and many fine
little outshows, the signs of the most excellent good manliness of the world.
It was a curious sight to see those shadowy columns moving through the
night. I stood unobserv'd in the darkness and watch'd them long. The mud
was very deep. The men had their usual burdens, overcoats, knapsacks,
guns and blankets. Along and along they filed by me, with often a laugh, a
song, a cheerful word, but never once a murmur. It may have been odd, but
I never before so realized the majesty and reality of the American people en
masse. It fell upon me like a great awe. The strong ranks moved neither fast
nor slow. They had march'd seven or eight miles already through the
slipping unctuous mud. The brave First corps stopt here. The equally brave
Third corps moved on to Brandy station. The famous Brooklyn 14th are
here, guarding the town. You see their red legs actively moving everywhere.
Then they have a theatre of their own here. They give musical
performances, nearly everything done capitally. Of course the audience is a
jam. It is good sport to attend one of these entertainments of the 14th. I like
to look around at the soldiers, and the general collection in front of the
curtain, more than the scene on the stage.

PAYING THE BOUNTIES

One of the things to note here now is the arrival of the paymaster with his
strong box, and the payment of bounties to veterans re-enlisting. Major H.
is here to-day, with a small mountain of greenbacks, rejoicing the hearts of
the 2d division of the First corps. In the midst of a rickety shanty, behind a
little table, sit the major and clerk Eldridge, with the rolls before them, and
much moneys. A re-enlisted man gets in cash about $200 down, (and heavy
instalments following, as the pay-days arrive, one after another.) The show
of the men crowding around is quite exhilarating; I like to stand and look.
They feel elated, their pockets full, and the ensuing furlough, the visit
home. It is a scene of sparkling eyes and flush'd cheeks. The soldier has
many gloomy and harsh experiences, and this makes up for some of them.
Major H. is order'd to pay first all the re-enlisted men of the First corps their
bounties and back pay, and then the rest. You hear the peculiar sound of the

rustling of the new and crisp greenbacks by the hour, through the nimble
fingers of the major and my friend clerk E.

RUMORS, CHANGES, ETC.

About the excitement of Sunday, and the orders to be ready to start, I
have heard since that the said orders came from some cautious minor
commander, and that the high principalities knew not and thought not of
any such move; which is likely. The rumor and fear here intimated a long
circuit by Lee, and flank attack on our right. But I cast my eyes at the mud,
which was then at its deepest and palmiest condition, and retired
composedly to rest. Still it is about time for Culpepper to have a change.
Authorities have chased each other here like clouds in a stormy sky. Before
the first Bull Run this was the rendezvous and camp of instruction of the
secession troops. I am stopping at the house of a lady who has witness'd all
the eventful changes of the war, along this route of contending armies. She
is a widow, with a family of young children, and lives here with her sister in
a large handsome house. A number of army officers board with them.

VIRGINIA

Dilapidated, fenceless, and trodden with war as Virginia is, wherever I
move across her surface, I find myself rous'd to surprise and admiration.
What capacity for products, improvements, human life, nourishment and
expansion. Everywhere that I have been in the Old Dominion, (the subtle
mockery of that title now!) such thoughts have fill'd me. The soil is yet far
above the average of any of the northern States. And how full of breadth the
scenery, everywhere distant mountains, everywhere convenient rivers. Even
yet prodigal in forest woods, and surely eligible for all the fruits, orchards,
and flowers. The skies and atmosphere most luscious, as I feel certain, from
more than a year's residence in the State, and movements hither and yon. I
should say very healthy, as a general thing. Then a rich and elastic quality,
by night and by day. The sun rejoices in his strength, dazzling and burning,
and yet, to me, never unpleasantly weakening. It is not the panting tropical
heat, but invigorates. The north tempers it. The nights are often
unsurpassable. Last evening (Feb. 8,) I saw the first of the new moon, the
outlined old moon clear along with it; the sky and air so clear, such

transparent hues of color, it seem'd to me I had never really seen the new
moon before. It was the thinnest cut crescent possible. It hung delicate just
above the sulky shadow of the Blue mountains. Ah, if it might prove an
omen and good prophecy for this unhappy State.

SUMMER OF 1864

I am back again in Washington, on my regular daily and nightly rounds.
Of course there are many specialties. Dotting a ward here and there are
always cases of poor fellows, long-suffering under obstinate wounds, or
weak and dishearten'd from typhoid fever, or the like; mark'd cases, needing
special and sympathetic nourishment. These I sit down and either talk to, or
silently cheer them up. They always like it hugely, (and so do I.) Each case
has its peculiarities, and needs some new adaptation. I have learnt to thus
conform—learnt a good deal of hospital wisdom. Some of the poor young
chaps, away from home for the first time in their lives, hunger and thirst for
affection; this is sometimes the only thing that will reach their condition.
The men like to have a pencil, and something to write in. I have given them
cheap pocket-diaries, and almanacs for 1864, interleav'd with blank paper.
For reading I generally have some old pictorial magazines or story papers—
they are always acceptable. Also the morning or evening papers of the day.
The best books I do not give, but lend to read through the wards, and then
take them to others, and so on; they are very punctual about returning the
books. In these wards, or on the field, as I thus continue to go round, I have
come to adapt myself to each emergency, after its kind or call, however
trivial, however solemn, every one justified and made real under its
circumstances—not only visits and cheering talk and little gifts—not only
washing and dressing wounds, (I have some cases where the patient is
unwilling any one should do this but me)—but passages from the Bible,
expounding them, prayer at the bedside, explanations of doctrine, &c. (I
think I see my friends smiling at this confession, but I was never more in
earnest in my life.) In camp and everywhere, I was in the habit of reading or
giving recitations to the men. They were very fond of it, and liked
declamatory poetical pieces. We would gather in a large group by ourselves,
after supper, and spend the time in such readings, or in talking, and
occasionally by an amusing game called the game of twenty questions.

A NEW ARMY ORGANIZATION FIT FOR AMERICA

It is plain to me out of the events of the war, north and south, and out of
all considerations, that the current military theory, practice, rules and
organization, (adopted from Europe from the feudal institutes, with, of
course, the "modern improvements," largely from the French,) though
tacitly follow'd, and believ'd in by the officers generally, are not at all
consonant with the United States, nor our people, nor our days. What it will
be I know not—but I know that as entire an abnegation of the present
military system, and the naval too, and a building up from radically
different root-bases and centres appropriate to us, must eventually result, as
that our political system has resulted and become establish'd, different from
feudal Europe, and built up on itself from original, perennial, democratic
premises. We have undoubtedly in the United States the greatest military
power—an exhaustless, intelligent, brave and reliable rank and file—in the
world, any land, perhaps all lands. The problem is to organize this in the
manner fully appropriate to it, to the principles of the republic, and to get
the best service out of it. In the present struggle, as already seen and
review'd, probably three-fourths of the losses, men, lives, &c., have been
sheer superfluity, extravagance, waste.

DEATH OF A HERO

I wonder if I could ever convey to another—to you, for instance, reader
dear—the tender and terrible realities of such cases, (many, many
happen'd,) as the one I am now going to mention. Stewart C. Glover,
company E, 5th Wisconsin—was wounded May 5, in one of those fierce
tussles of the Wilderness-died May 21—aged about 20. He was a small and
beardless young man—a splendid soldier—in fact almost an ideal
American, of his age. He had serv'd nearly three years, and would have
been entitled to his discharge in a few days. He was in Hancock's corps. The
fighting had about ceas'd for the day, and the general commanding the
brigade rode by and call'd for volunteers to bring in the wounded. Glover
responded among the first—went out gayly—but while in the act of bearing
in a wounded sergeant to our lines, was shot in the knee by a rebel
sharpshooter; consequence, amputation and death. He had resided with his
father, John Glover, an aged and feeble man, in Batavia, Genesee county, N.

Y., but was at school in Wisconsin, after the war broke out, and there
enlisted—soon took to soldier-life, liked it, was very manly, was belov'd by
officers and comrades. He kept a little diary, like so many of the soldiers.
On the day of his death he wrote the following in it, to-day the doctor says I
must die—all is over with me—ah, so young to die. On another blank leaf he
pencill'd to his brother, dear brother Thomas, I have been brave but wicked
—pray for me.

HOSPITAL SCENES—INCIDENTS

It is Sunday afternoon, middle of summer, hot and oppressive, and very
silent through the ward. I am taking care of a critical case, now lying in a
half lethargy. Near where I sit is a suffering rebel, from the 8th Louisiana;
his name is Irving. He has been here a long time, badly wounded, and lately
had his leg amputated; it is not doing very well. Right opposite me is a sick
soldier-boy, laid down with his clothes on, sleeping, looking much wasted,
his pallid face on his arm. I see by the yellow trimming on his jacket that he
is a cavalry boy. I step softly over and find by his card that he is named
William Cone, of the 1st Maine cavalry, and his folks live in Skowhegan.
Ice Cream Treat.—One hot day toward the middle of June, I gave the
inmates of Carver hospital a general ice cream treat, purchasing a large
quantity, and, under convoy of the doctor or head nurse, going around
personally through the wards to see to its distribution. An Incident.—In one
of the rights before Atlanta, a rebel soldier, of large size, evidently a young
man, was mortally wounded top of the head, so that the brains partially
exuded. He lived three days, lying on his back on the spot where he first
dropt. He dug with his heel in the ground during that time a hole big enough
to put in a couple of ordinary knapsacks. He just lay there in the open air,
and with little intermission kept his heel going night and day. Some of our
soldiers then moved him to a house, but he died in a few minutes.
Another.—After the battles at Columbia, Tennessee, where we repuls'd
about a score of vehement rebel charges, they left a great many wounded on
the ground, mostly within our range. Whenever any of these wounded
attempted to move away by any means, generally by crawling off, our men
without exception brought them down by a bullet. They let none crawl
away, no matter what his condition.

A YANKEE SOLDIER

As I turn'd off the Avenue one cool October evening into Thirteenth
street, a soldier with knapsack and overcoat stood at the corner inquiring his
way. I found he wanted to go part of the road in my direction, so we walk'd
on together. We soon fell into conversation. He was small and not very
young, and a tough little fellow, as I judged in the evening light, catching
glimpses by the lamps we pass'd. His answers were short, but clear. His
name was Charles Carroll; he belong'd to one of the Massachusetts
regiments, and was born in or near Lynn. His parents were living, but were
very old. There were four sons, and all had enlisted. Two had died of
starvation and misery in the prison at Andersonville, and one had been kill'd
in the west. He only was left. He was now going home, and by the way he
talk'd I inferr'd that his time was nearly out. He made great calculations on
being with his parents to comfort them the rest of their days.

UNION PRISONERS SOUTH

Michael Stansbury, 48 years of age, a seafaring man, a southerner by
birth and raising, formerly captain of U. S. light ship Long Shoal, station'd
at Long Shoal point, Pamlico sound—though a southerner, a firm Union
man—was captur'd Feb. 17, 1863, and has been nearly two years in the
Confederate prisons; was at one time order'd releas'd by Governor Vance,
but a rebel officer re-arrested him; then sent on to Richmond for exchange
—but instead of being exchanged was sent down (as a southern citizen, not
a soldier,) to Salisbury, N. C., where he remain'd until lately, when he
escap'd among the exchang'd by assuming the name of a dead soldier, and
coming up via Wilmington with the rest. Was about sixteen months in
Salisbury.
Subsequent to October, '64, there were about 11,000 Union prisoners in
the stockade; about 100 of them southern unionists, 200 U. S. deserters.
During the past winter 1500 of the prisoners, to save their lives, join'd the
confederacy, on condition of being assign'd merely to guard duty. Out of the
11,000 not more than 2500 came out; 500 of these were pitiable, helpless
wretches—the rest were in a condition to travel. There were often 60 dead
bodies to be buried in the morning; the daily average would be about 40.
The regular food was a meal of corn, the cob and husk ground together, and

sometimes once a week a ration of sorghum molasses. A diminutive ration
of meat might possibly come once a month, not oftener. In the stockade,
containing the 11,000 men, there was a partial show of tents, not enough for
2000. A large proportion of the men lived in holes in the ground, in the
utmost wretchedness. Some froze to death, others had their hands and feet
frozen. The rebel guards would occasionally, and on the least pretence, fire
into the prison from mere demonism and wantonness. All the horrors that
can be named, starvation, lassitude, filth, vermin, despair, swift loss of self-
respect, idiocy, insanity, and frequent murder, were there. Stansbury has a
wife and child living in Newbern—has written to them from here—is in the
U. S. light-house employ still—(had been home to Newbern to see his
family, and on his return to the ship was captured in his boat.) Has seen men
brought there to Salisbury as hearty as you ever see in your life—in a few
weeks completely dead gone, much of it from thinking on their condition—
hope all gone. Has himself a hard, sad, strangely deaden'd kind of look, as
of one chill' d for years in the cold and dark, where his good manly nature
had no room to exercise itself.

DESERTERS

Oct. 24.—Saw a large squad of our own deserters (over 300) surrounded
with a cordon of arm'd guards, marching along Pennsylvania avenue. The
most motley collection I ever saw, all sorts of rig, all sorts of hats and caps,
many fine-looking young fellows, some of them shame-faced, some sickly,
most of them dirty, shirts very dirty and long worn, &c. They tramp'd along
without order, a huge huddling mass, not in ranks. I saw some of the
spectators laughing, but I felt like anything else but laughing. These
deserters are far more numerous than would be thought. Almost every day I
see squads of them, sometimes two or three at a time, with a small guard;
sometimes ten or twelve, under a larger one. (I hear that desertions from the
army now in the field have often averaged 10,000 a month. One of the
commonest sights in Washington is a squad of deserters.)

A GLIMPSE OF WAR'S HELL-SCENES

In one of the late movements of our troops in the valley, (near Upperville,
I think,) a strong force of Moseby's mounted guerillas attack'd a train of

wounded, and the guard of cavalry convoying them. The ambulances
contain'd about 60 wounded, quite a number of them officers of rank. The
rebels were in strength, and the capture of the train and its partial guard
after a short snap was effectually accomplish'd. No sooner had our men
surrender'd, the rebels instantly commenced robbing the train and
murdering their prisoners, even the wounded. Here is the scene, or a sample
of it, ten minutes after. Among the wounded officers in the ambulances
were one, a lieutenant of regulars, and another of higher rank. These two
were dragg'd out on the ground on their backs, and were now surrounded by
the guerillas, a demoniac crowd, each member of which was stabbing them
in different parts of their bodies. One of the officers had his feet pinn'd
firmly to the ground by bayonets stuck through them and thrust into the
ground. These two officers, as afterwards found on examination, had
receiv'd about twenty such thrusts, some of them through the mouth, face,
&c. The wounded had all been dragg'd (to give a better chance also for
plunder,) out of their wagons; some had been effectually dispatch'd, and
their bodies were lying there lifeless and bloody. Others, not yet dead, but
horribly mutilated, were moaning or groaning. Of our men who surrender'd,
most had been thus maim'd or slaughter'd.
At this instant a force of our cavalry, who had been following the train at
some interval, charged suddenly upon the secesh captors, who proceeded at
once to make the best escape they could. Most of them got away, but we
gobbled two officers and seventeen men, in the very acts just described. The
sight was one which admitted of little discussion, as may be imagined. The
seventeen captur'd men and two officers were put under guard for the night,
but it was decided there and then that they should die. The next morning the
two officers were taken in the town, separate places, put in the centre of the
street, and shot. The seventeen men were taken to an open ground, a little
one side. They were placed in a hollow square, half-encompass'd by two of
our cavalry regiments, one of which regiments had three days before found
the bloody corpses of three of their men hamstrung and hung up by the
heels to limbs of trees by Moseby's guerillas, and the other had not long
before had twelve men, after surrendering, shot and then hung by the neck
to limbs of trees, and jeering inscriptions pinn'd to the breast of one of the
corpses, who had been a sergeant. Those three, and those twelve, had been
found, I say, by these environing regiments. Now, with revolvers, they
form'd the grim cordon of the seventeen prisoners. The latter were placed in

the midst of the hollow square, unfasten'd, and the ironical remark made to
them that they were now to be given "a chance for themselves." A few ran
for it. But what use? From every side the deadly pills came. In a few
minutes the seventeen corpses strew'd the hollow square. I was curious to
know whether some of the Union soldiers, some few, (some one or two at
least of the youngsters,) did not abstain from shooting on the helpless men.
Not one. There was no exultation, very little said, almost nothing, yet every
man there contributed his shot.
Multiply the above by scores, aye hundreds—verify it in all the forms
that different circumstances, individuals, places, could afford—light it with
every lurid passion, the wolf's, the lion's lapping thirst for blood—the
passionate, boiling volcanoes of human revenge for comrades, brothers
slain—with the light of burning farms, and heaps of smutting, smouldering
black embers—and in the human heart everywhere black, worse embers—
and you have an inkling of this war.

GIFTS—MONEY—DISCRIMINATION

As a very large proportion of the wounded came up from the front
without a cent of money in their pockets, I soon discover'd that it was about
the best thing I could do to raise their spirits, and show them that somebody
cared for them, and practically felt a fatherly or brotherly interest in them,
to give them small sums in such cases, using tact and discretion about it. I
am regularly supplied with funds for this purpose by good women and men
in Boston, Salem, Providence, Brooklyn, and New York. I provide myself
with a quantity of bright new ten-cent and five-cent bills, and, when I think
it incumbent, I give 25 or 30 cents, or perhaps 50 cents, and occasionally a
still larger sum to some particular case. As I have started this subject, I take
opportunity to ventilate the financial question. My supplies, altogether
voluntary, mostly confidential, often seeming quite Providential, were
numerous and varied. For instance, there were two distant and wealthy
ladies, sisters, who sent regularly, for two years, quite heavy sums,
enjoining that their names should be kept secret. The same delicacy was
indeed a frequent condition. From several I had carte blanche. Many were
entire strangers. From these sources, during from two to three years, in the
manner described, in the hospitals, I bestowed, as almoner for others, many,
many thousands of dollars. I learn'd one thing conclusively—that beneath

all the ostensible greed and heartlessness of our times there is no end to the
generous benevolence of men and women in the United States, when once
sure of their object. Another thing became clear to me—while cash is not
amiss to bring up the rear, tact and magnetic sympathy and unction are, and
ever will be, sovereign still.

ITEMS FROM MY NOTE BOOKS

Some of the half-eras'd, and not over-legible when made, memoranda of
things wanted by one patient or another, will convey quite a fair idea. D. S.
G., bed 52, wants a good book; has a sore, weak throat; would like some
horehound candy; is from New Jersey, 28th regiment. C. H. L., 145th
Pennsylvania, lies in bed 6, with jaundice and erysipelas; also wounded;
stomach easily nauseated; bring him some oranges, also a little tart jelly;
hearty, full-blooded young fellow—(he got better in a few days, and is now
home on a furlough.) J. H. G., bed 24, wants an undershirt, drawers, and
socks; has not had a change for quite a while; is evidently a neat, clean boy
from New England—(I supplied him; also with a comb, tooth-brush, and
some soap and towels; I noticed afterward he was the cleanest of the whole
ward.) Mrs. G., lady-nurse, ward F, wants a bottle of brandy—has two
patients imperatively requiring stimulus—low with wounds and exhaustion.
(I supplied her with a bottle of first-rate brandy from the Christian
commission rooms.)

A CASE FROM SECOND BULL RUN

Well, Poor John Mahay is dead. He died yesterday. His was a painful and
long-lingering case (see p. 24 ante.) I have been with him at times for the
past fifteen months. He belonged to company A, 101st New York, and was
shot through the lower region of the abdomen at second Bull Run, August,
'62. One scene at his bedside will suffice for the agonies of nearly two
years. The bladder had been perforated by a bullet going entirely through
him. Not long since I sat a good part of the morning by his bedside, ward E,
Armory square. The water ran out of his eyes from the intense pain, and the
muscles of his face were distorted, but he utter'd nothing except a low groan
now and then. Hot moist cloths were applied, and reliev'd him somewhat.
Poor Mahay, a mere boy in age, but old in misfortune. He never knew the

love of parents, was placed in infancy in one of the New York charitable
institutions, and subsequently bound out to a tyrannical master in Sullivan
county, (the scars of whose cowhide and club remain'd yet on his back.) His
wound here was a most disagreeable one, for he was a gentle, cleanly, and
affectionate boy. He found friends in his hospital life, and, indeed, was a
universal favorite. He had quite a funeral ceremony.

ARMY SURGEONS—AID DEFICIENCIES

I must bear my most emphatic testimony to the zeal, manliness, and
professional spirit and capacity, generally prevailing among the surgeons,
many of them young men, in the hospitals and the army. I will not say much
about the exceptions, for they are few; (but I have met some of those few,
and very incompetent and airish they were.) I never ceas'd to find the best
men, and the hardest and most disinterested workers, among the surgeons in
the hospitals. They are full of genius, too. I have seen many hundreds of
them and this is my testimony. There are, however, serious deficiencies,
wastes, sad want of system, in the commissions, contributions, and in all the
voluntary, and a great part of the governmental nursing, edibles, medicines,
stores, &c. (I do not say surgical attendance, because the surgeons cannot
do more than human endurance permits.) Whatever puffing accounts there
may be in the papers of the North, this is the actual fact. No thorough
previous preparation, no system, no foresight, no genius. Always plenty of
stores, no doubt, but never where they are needed, and never the proper
application. Of all harrowing experiences, none is greater than that of the
days following a heavy battle. Scores, hundreds of the noblest men on earth,
uncomplaining, lie helpless, mangled, faint, alone, and so bleed to death, or
die from exhaustion, either actually untouch'd at all, or merely the laying of
them down and leaving them, when there ought to be means provided to
save them.

THE BLUE EVERYWHERE

This city, its suburbs, the capitol, the front of the White House, the places
of amusement, the Avenue, and all the main streets, swarm with soldiers
this winter, more than ever before. Some are out from the hospitals, some
from the neighboring camps, &c. One source or another, they pour

plenteously, and make, I should say, the mark'd feature in the human
movement and costume-appearance of our national city. Their blue pants
and overcoats are everywhere. The clump of crutches is heard up the stairs
of the paymasters' offices, and there are characteristic groups around the
doors of the same, often waiting long and wearily in the cold. Toward the
latter part of the afternoon, you see the furlough'd men, sometimes singly,
sometimes in small squads, making their way to the Baltimore depot. At all
times, except early in the morning, the patrol detachments are moving
around, especially during the earlier hours of evening, examining passes,
and arresting all soldiers without them. They do not question the one-
legged, or men badly disabled or main'd, but all others are stopt. They also
go around evenings through the auditoriums of the theatres, and make
officers and all show their passes, or other authority, for being there.

A MODEL HOSPITAL

Sunday, January 29th, 1865.—Have been in Armory-square this
afternoon. The wards are very comfortable, new floors and plaster walls,
and models of neatness. I am not sure but this is a model hospital after all,
in important respects. I found several sad cases of old lingering wounds.
One Delaware soldier, William H. Millis, from Bridgeville, whom I had
been with after the battles of the Wilderness, last May, where he receiv'd a
very bad wound in the chest, with another in the left arm, and whose case
was serious (pneumonia had set in) all last June and July, I now find well
enough to do light duty. For three weeks at the time mention'd he just
hovered between life and death.

BOYS IN THE ARMY

As I walk'd home about sunset, I saw in Fourteenth street a very young
soldier, thinly clad, standing near the house I was about to enter. I stopt a
moment in front of the door and call'd him to me. I knew that an old
Tennessee regiment, and also an Indiana regiment, were temporarily
stopping in new barracks, near Fourteenth street. This boy I found belonged
to the Tennessee regiment. But I could hardly believe he carried a musket.
He was but 15 years old, yet had been twelve months a soldier, and had
borne his part in several battles, even historic ones. I ask'd him if he did not

suffer from the cold, and if he had no overcoat. No, he did not suffer from
cold, and had no overcoat, but could draw one whenever he wish'd. His
father was dead, and his mother living in some part of East Tennessee; all
the men were from that part of the country. The next forenoon I saw the
Tennessee and Indiana regiments marching down the Avenue. My boy was
with the former, stepping along with the rest. There were many other boys
no older. I stood and watch'd them as they tramp'd along with slow, strong,
heavy, regular steps. There did not appear to be a man over 30 years of age,
and a large proportion were from 15 to perhaps 22 or 23. They had all the
look of veterans, worn, stain'd, impassive, and a certain unbent, lounging
gait, carrying in addition to their regular arms and knapsacks, frequently a
frying-pan, broom, &c. They were all of pleasant physiognomy; no
refinement, nor blanch'd with intellect, but as my eye pick'd them, moving
along, rank by rank, there did not seem to be a single repulsive, brutal or
markedly stupid face among them.

BURIAL OF A LADY NURSE

Here is an incident just occurr'd in one of the hospitals. A lady named
Miss or Mrs. Billings, who has long been a practical friend of soldiers, and
nurse in the army, and had become attached to it in a way that no one can
realize but him or her who has had experience, was taken sick, early this
winter, linger'd some time, and finally died in the hospital. It was her
request that she should be buried among the soldiers, and after the military
method. This request was fully carried out. Her coffin was carried to the
grave by soldiers, with the usual escort, buried, and a salute fired over the
grave. This was at Annapolis a few days since.

FEMALE NURSES FOR SOLDIERS

There are many women in one position or another, among the hospitals,
mostly as nurses here in Washington, and among the military stations; quite
a number of them young ladies acting as volunteers. They are a help in
certain ways, and deserve to be mention'd with respect. Then it remains to
be distinctly said that few or no young ladies, under the irresistible
conventions of society, answer the practical requirements of nurses for
soldiers. Middle-aged or healthy and good condition'd elderly women,

mothers of children, are always best. Many of the wounded must be
handled. A hundred things which cannot be gainsay'd, must occur and must
be done. The presence of a good middle-aged or elderly woman, the
magnetic touch of hands, the expressive features of the mother, the silent
soothing of her presence, her words, her knowledge and privileges arrived
at only through having had children, are precious and final qualifications. It
is a natural faculty that is required; it is not merely having a genteel young
woman at a table in a ward. One of the finest nurses I met was a red-faced
illiterate old Irish woman; I have seen her take the poor wasted naked boys
so tenderly up in her arms. There are plenty of excellent clean old black
women that would make tip-top nurses.

SOUTHERN ESCAPEES

Feb. 23, '65.—I saw a large procession of young men from the rebel
army, (deserters they are call'd, but the usual meaning of the word does not
apply to them,) passing the Avenue to-day. There were nearly 200, come up
yesterday by boat from James river. I stood and watch'd them as they
shuffled along, in a slow, tired, worn sort of way; a large proportion of
light-hair'd, blonde, light gray-eyed young men among them. Their
costumes had a dirt-stain'd uniformity; most had been originally gray; some
had articles of our uniform, pants on one, vest or coat on another; I think
they were mostly Georgia and North Carolina boys. They excited little or
no attention. As I stood quite close to them, several good looking enough
youths, (but O what a tale of misery their appearance told,) nodded or just
spoke to me, without doubt divining pity and fatherliness out of my face,
for my heart was full enough of it. Several of the couples trudg'd along with
their arms about each other, some probably brothers, as if they were afraid
they might somehow get separated. They nearly all look'd what one might
call simple, yet intelligent, too. Some had pieces of old carpet, some
blankets, and others old bags around their shoulders. Some of them here
and there had fine faces, still it was a procession of misery. The two
hundred had with them about half a dozen arm'd guards. Along this week I
saw some such procession, more or less in numbers, every day, as they were
brought up by the boat. The government does what it can for them, and
sends them north and west.

Feb. 27.—Some three or four hundred more escapees from the
confederate army came up on the boat. As the day has been very pleasant
indeed, (after a long spell of bad weather,) I have been wandering around a
good deal, without any other object than to be out-doors and enjoy it; have
met these escaped men in all directions. Their apparel is the same ragged,
long-worn motley as before described. I talk'd with a number of the men.
Some are quite bright and stylish, for all their poor clothes—walking with
an air, wearing their old head-coverings on one side, quite saucily. I find the
old, unquestionable proofs, as all along the past four years, of the
unscrupulous tyranny exercised by the secession government in
conscripting the common people by absolute force everywhere, and paying
no attention whatever to the men's time being up—keeping them in military
service just the same. One gigantic young fellow, a Georgian, at least six
feet three inches high, broad-sized in proportion, attired in the dirtiest, drab,
well smear'd rags, tied with strings, his trousers at the knees all strips and
streamers, was complacently standing eating some bread and meat. He
appear'd contented enough. Then a few minutes after I saw him slowly
walking along. It was plain he did not take anything to heart.
Feb. 28.—As I pass'd the military headquarters of the city, not far from
the President's house, I stopt to interview some of the crowd of escapees
who were lounging there. In appearance they were the same as previously
mention'd. Two of them, one about 17, and the other perhaps 25 or '6, I
talk'd with some time. They were from North Carolina, born and rais'd
there, and had folks there. The elder had been in the rebel service four
years. He was first conscripted for two years. He was then kept arbitrarily in
the ranks. This is the case with a large proportion of the secession army.
There was nothing downcast in these young men's manners; the younger
had been soldiering about a year; he was conscripted; there were six
brothers (all the boys of the family) in the army, part of them as conscripts,
part as volunteers; three had been kill'd; one had escaped about four months
ago, and now this one had got away; he was a pleasant and well-talking lad,
with the peculiar North Carolina idiom (not at all disagreeable to my ears.)
He and the elder one were of the same company, and escaped together—and
wish'd to remain together. They thought of getting transportation away to
Missouri, and working there; but were not sure it was judicious. I advised
them rather to go to some of the directly northern States, and get farm work
for the present. The younger had made six dollars on the boat, with some

tobacco he brought; he had three and a half left. The elder had nothing; I
gave him a trifle. Soon after, met John Wormley, 9th Alabama, a West
Tennessee rais' d boy, parents both dead—had the look of one for a long
time on short allowance—said very little—chew'd tobacco at a fearful rate,
spitting in proportion—large clear dark-brown eyes, very fine—didn't know
what to make of me—told me at last he wanted much to get some clean
underclothes, and a pair of decent pants. Didn't care about coat or hat
fixings. Wanted a chance to wash himself well, and put on the underclothes.
I had the very great pleasure of helping him to accomplish all those
wholesome designs.
March 1st.—Plenty more butternut or clay-color'd escapees every day.
About 160 came in to-day, a large portion South Carolinians. They
generally take the oath of allegiance, and are sent north, west, or extreme
south-west if they wish. Several of them told me that the desertions in their
army, of men going home, leave or no leave, are far more numerous than
their desertions to our side. I saw a very forlorn looking squad of about a
hundred, late this afternoon, on their way to the Baltimore depot.

THE CAPITOL BY GAS-LIGHT

To-night I have been wandering awhile in the capitol, which is all lit up.
The illuminated rotunda looks fine. I like to stand aside and look a long,
long while, up at the dome; it comforts me somehow. The House and Senate
were both in session till very late. I look'd in upon them, but only a few
moments; they were hard at work on tax and appropriation bills. I wander'd
through the long and rich corridors and apartments under the Senate; an old
habit of mine, former winters, and now more satisfaction than ever. Not
many persons down there, occasionally a flitting figure in the distance.

THE INAUGURATION

March 4th.—The President very quietly rode down to the capitol in his
own carriage, by himself, on a sharp trot, about noon, either because he
wish'd to be on hand to sign bills, or to get rid of marching in line with the
absurd procession, the muslin temple of liberty and pasteboard monitor. I
saw him on his return, at three o'clock, after the performance was over. He
was in his plain two-horse barouche, and look'd very much worn and tired;

the lines, indeed, of vast responsibilities, intricate questions, and demands
of life and death, cut deeper than ever upon his dark brown face; yet all the
old goodness, tenderness, sadness, and canny shrewdness, underneath the
furrows. (I never see that man without feeling that he is one to become
personally attach'd to, for his combination of purest, heartiest tenderness,
and native western form of manliness.) By his side sat his little boy, of ten
years. There were no soldiers, only a lot of civilians on horseback, with
huge yellow scarfs over their shoulders, riding around the carriage. (At the
inauguration four years ago, he rode down and back again surrounded by a
dense mass of arm'd cavalrymen eight deep, with drawn sabres; and there
were sharpshooters station'd at every corner on the route.) I ought to make
mention of the closing levee of Saturday night last. Never before was such a
compact jam in front of the White House—all the grounds fill'd, and away
out to the spacious sidewalks. I was there, as I took a notion to go—was in
the rush inside with the crowd—surged along the passage-ways, the blue
and other rooms, and through the great east room. Crowds of country
people, some very funny. Fine music from the Marine band, off in a side
place. I saw Mr. Lincoln, drest all in black, with white kid gloves and a
claw-hammer coat, receiving, as in duty bound, shaking hands, looking
very disconsolate, and as if he would give anything to be somewhere else.

ATTITUDE OF FOREIGN GOVERNMENTS DURING THE
WAR

Looking over my scraps, I find I wrote the following during 1864. The
happening to our America, abroad as well as at home, these years, is indeed
most strange. The democratic republic has paid her today the terrible and
resplendent compliment of the united wish of all the nations of the world
that her union should be broken, her future cut off, and that she should be
compell'd to descend to the level of kingdoms and empires ordinarily great.
There is certainly not one government in Europe but is now watching the
war in this country, with the ardent prayer that the United States may be
effectually split, crippled, and dismember'd by it. There is not one but
would help toward that dismemberment, if it dared. I say such is the ardent
wish to-day of England and of France, as governments, and of all the
nations of Europe, as governments. I think indeed it is to-day the real,
heartfelt wish of all the nations of the world, with the single exception of

Mexico—Mexico, the only one to whom we have ever really done wrong,
and now the only one who prays for us and for our triumph, with genuine
prayer. Is it not indeed strange? America, made up of all, cheerfully from
the beginning opening her arms to all, the result and justifier of all, of
Britain, Germany, France and Spain—all here—the accepter, the friend,
hope, last resource and general house of all—she who has harm'd none, but
been bounteous to so many, to millions, the mother of strangers and exiles,
all nations—should now, I say, be paid this dread compliment of general
governmental fear and hatred. Are we indignant? alarm'd? Do we feel
jeopardized? No; help'd, braced, concentrated, rather. We are all too prone
to wander from ourselves, to affect Europe, and watch her frowns and
smiles. We need this hot lesson of general hatred, and henceforth must
never forget it. Never again will we trust the moral sense nor abstract
friendliness of a single government of the old world.

THE WEATHER—DOES IT SYMPATHIZE WITH THESE
TIMES?

Whether the rains, the heat and cold, and what underlies them all, are
affected with what affects man in masses, and follow his play of passionate
action, strain'd stronger than usual, and on a larger scale than usual—
whether this, or no, it is certain that there is now, and has been for twenty
months or more, on this American continent north, many a remarkable,
many an unprecedented expression of the subtile world of air above us and
around us. There, since this war, and the wide and deep national agitation,
strange analogies, different combinations, a different sunlight, or absence of
it; different products even out of the ground. After every great battle, a great
storm. Even civic events the same. On Saturday last, a forenoon like
whirling demons, dark, with slanting rain, full of rage; and then the
afternoon, so calm, so bathed with flooding splendor from heaven's most
excellent sun, with atmosphere of sweetness; so clear, it show'd the stars,
long long before they were due. As the President came out on the capitol
portico, a curious little white cloud, the only one in that part of the sky,
appear'd like a hovering bird, right over him.
Indeed, the heavens, the elements, all the meteorological influences, have
run riot for weeks past. Such caprices, abruptest alternation of frowns and
beauty, I never knew. It is a common remark that (as last summer was

different in its spells of intense heat from any preceding it,) the winter just
completed has been without parallel. It has remain'd so down to the hour I
am writing. Much of the daytime of the past month was sulky, with leaden
heaviness, fog, interstices of bitter cold, and some insane storms. But there
have been samples of another description. Nor earth nor sky ever knew
spectacles of superber beauty than some of the nights lately here. The
western star, Venus, in the earlier hours of evening, has never been so large,
so clear; it seems as if it told something, as if it held rapport indulgent with
humanity, with us Americans. Five or six nights since, it hung close by the
moon, then a little past its first quarter. The star was wonderful, the moon
like a young mother. The sky, dark blue, the transparent night, the planets,
the moderate west wind, the elastic temperature, the miracle of that great
star, and the young and swelling moon swimming in the west, suffused the
soul. Then I heard, slow and clear, the deliberate notes of a bugle come up
out of the silence, sounding so good through the night's mystery, no hurry,
but firm and faithful, floating along, rising, falling leisurely, with here and
there a long-drawn note; the bugle, well play'd, sounding tattoo, in one of
the army hospitals near here, where the wounded (some of them personally
so dear to me,) are lying in their cots, and many a sick boy come down to
the war from Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, Iowa, and the rest.

INAUGURATION BALL

March 6.—I have been up to look at the dance and supper-rooms, for the
inauguration ball at the Patent office; and I could not help thinking, what a
different scene they presented to my view a while since, fill'd with a
crowded mass of the worst wounded of the war, brought in from second
Bull Run, Antietam, and Fredericksburgh. To-night, beautiful women,
perfumes, the violin's sweetness, the polka and the waltz; then the
amputation, the blue face, the groan, the glassy eye of the dying, the clotted
rag, the odor of wounds and blood, and many a mother's son amid strangers,
passing away untended there, (for the crowd of the badly hurt was great,
and much for nurse to do, and much for surgeon.)

SCENE AT THE CAPITOL

I must mention a strange scene at the capitol, the hall of Representatives,
the morning of Saturday last, (March 4th.) The day just dawn'd, but in half-
darkness, everything dim, leaden, and soaking. In that dim light, the
members nervous from long drawn duty, exhausted, some asleep, and many
half asleep. The gas-light, mix'd with the dingy day-break, produced an
unearthly effect. The poor little sleepy, stumbling pages, the smell of the
hall, the members with heads leaning on their desks, the sounds of the
voices speaking, with unusual intonations—the general moral atmosphere
also of the close of this important session—the strong hope that the war is
approaching its close—the tantalizing dread lest the hope may be a false
one—the grandeur of the hall itself, with its effect of vast shadows up
toward the panels and spaces over the galleries—all made a mark'd
combination.
In the midst of this, with the suddenness of a thunderbolt, burst one of the
most angry and crashing storms of rain and hail ever heard. It beat like a
deluge on the heavy glass roof of the hall, and the wind literally howl'd and
roar'd. For a moment, (and no wonder,) the nervous and sleeping
Representatives were thrown into confusion. The slumberers awaked with
fear, some started for the doors, some look'd up with blanch'd cheeks and
lips to the roof, and the little pages began to cry; it was a scene. But it was
over almost as soon as the drowsied men were actually awake. They
recover'd themselves; the storm raged on, beating, dashing, and with loud
noises at times. But the House went ahead with its business then, I think, as
calmly and with as much deliberation as at any time in its career. Perhaps
the shock did it good. (One is not without impression, after all, amid these
members of Congress, of both the Houses, that if the flat routine of their
duties should ever be broken in upon by some great emergency involving
real danger, and calling for first-class personal qualities, those qualities
would be found generally forthcoming, and from men not now credited
with them.)

A YANKEE ANTIQUE

March 27, 1865.—Sergeant Calvin F. Harlowe, company C, 29th
Massachusetts, 3d brigade, 1st division, Ninth corps—a mark'd sample of
heroism and death, (some may say bravado, but I say heroism, of grandest,
oldest order)—in the late attack by the rebel troops, and temporary capture

by them, of fort Steadman, at night. The fort was surprised at dead of night.
Suddenly awaken'd from their sleep, and rushing from their tents, Harlowe,
with others, found himself in the hands of the secesh—they demanded his
surrender—he answer'd, Never while I live. (Of course it was useless. The
others surrender'd; the odds were too great.) Again he was ask'd to yield,
this time by a rebel captain. Though surrounded, and quite calm, he again
refused, call'd sternly to his comrades to fight on, and himself attempted to
do so. The rebel captain then shot him—but at the same instant he shot the
captain. Both fell together mortally wounded. Harlowe died almost
instantly. The rebels were driven out in a very short time. The body was
buried next day, but soon taken up and sent home, (Plymouth county,
Mass.) Harlowe was only 22 years of age—was a tall, slim, dark-hair'd,
blue-eyed young man—had come out originally with the 29th; and that is
the way he met his death, after four years' campaign. He was in the Seven
Days fight before Richmond, in second Bull Run, Antietam, first
Fredericksburgh, Vicksburgh, Jackson, Wilderness, and the campaigns
following—was as good a soldier as ever wore the blue, and every old
officer in the regiment will bear that testimony. Though so young, and in a
common rank, he had a spirit as resolute and brave as any hero in the books,
ancient or modern—It was too great to say the words "I surrender"—and so
he died. (When I think of such things, knowing them well, all the vast and
complicated events of the war, on which history dwells and makes its
volumes, fall aside, and for the moment at any rate I see nothing but young
Calvin Harlowe's figure in the night, disdaining to surrender.)

WOUNDS AND DISEASES

The war is over, but the hospitals are fuller than ever, from former and
current cases. A large' majority of the wounds are in the arms and legs. But
there is every kind of wound, in every part of the body. I should say of the
sick, from my observation, that the prevailing maladies are typhoid fever
and the camp fevers generally, diarrhoea, catarrhal affections and
bronchitis, rheumatism and pneumonia. These forms of sickness lead; all
the rest follow. There are twice as many sick as there are wounded. The
deaths range from seven to ten per cent, of those under treatment.{7}
Endnotes:

{7} In the U. S. Surgeon-General's office since, there is a formal record
and treatment of 153, 142 cases of wounds by government surgeons. What
must have been the number unofficial, indirect—to say nothing of the
Southern armies?

DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN

April 16, '65.—I find in my notes of the time, this passage on the death of
Abraham Lincoln: He leaves for America's history and biography, so far,
not only its most dramatic reminiscence—he leaves, in my opinion, the
greatest, best, most characteristic, artistic, moral personality. Not but that he
had faults, and show'd them in the Presidency; but honesty, goodness,
shrewdness, conscience, and (a new virtue, unknown to other lands, and
hardly yet really known here, but the foundation and tie of all, as the future
will grandly develop,) UNIONISM, in its truest and amplest sense, form'd
the hard-pan of his character. These he seal'd with his life. The tragic
splendor of his death, purging, illuminating all, throws round his form, his
head, an aureole that will remain and will grow brighter through time, while
history lives, and love of country lasts. By many has this Union been help'd;
but if one name, one man, must be pick'd out, he, most of all, is the
conservator of it, to the future. He was assassinated—but the Union is not
assassinated—ça ira! One falls and another falls. The soldier drops, sinks
like a wave—but the ranks of the ocean eternally press on. Death does its
work, obliterates a hundred, a thousand—President, general, captain,
private,—but the Nation is immortal.

SHERMAN'S ARMY'S JUBILATION—ITS SUDDEN
STOPPAGE

When Sherman's armies, (long after they left Atlanta,) were marching
through Southand North Carolina—after leaving Savannah, the news of
Lee's capitulation having been receiv'd—the men never mov'd a mile
without from some part of the line sending up continued, inspiriting shouts.
At intervals all day long sounded out the wild music of those peculiar army
cries. They would be commenc'd by one regiment or brigade, immediately
taken up by others, and at length whole corps and armies would join in
these wild triumphant choruses. It was one of the characteristic expressions

of the western troops, and became a habit, serving as a relief and outlet to
the men—a vent for their feelings of victory, returning peace, &c. Morning,
noon, and afternoon, spontaneous, for occasion or without occasion, these
huge, strange cries, differing from any other, echoing through the open air
for many a mile, expressing youth, joy, wildness, irrepressible strength, and
the ideas of advance and conquest, sounded along the swamps and uplands
of the South, floating to the skies. ("There never were men that kept in
better spirits in danger or defeat—what then could they do in victory?"—
said one of the 15th corps to me, afterwards.) This exuberance continued till
the armies arrived at Raleigh. There the news of the President's murder was
receiv'd. Then no more shouts or yells, for a week. All the marching was
comparatively muffled. It was very significant—hardly a loud word or
laugh in many of the regiments. A hush and silence pervaded all.

NO GOOD PORTRAIT OF LINCOLN

Probably the reader has seen physiognomies (often old farmers, sea-
captains, and such) that, behind their homeliness, or even ugliness, held
superior points so subtle, yet so palpable, making the real life of their faces
almost as impossible to depict as a wild perfume or fruit-taste, or a
passionate tone of the living voice—and such was Lincoln's face, the
peculiar color, the lines of it, the eyes, mouth, expression. Of technical
beauty it had nothing—but to the eye of a great artist it furnished a rare
study, a feast and fascination. The current portraits are all failures—most of
them caricatures.

RELEAS'D UNION PRISONERS FROM SOUTH

The releas'd prisoners of war are now coming up from the southern
prisons. I have seen a number of them. The sight is worse than any sight of
battle-fields, or any collection of wounded, even the bloodiest. There was,
(as a sample,) one large boat load, of several hundreds, brought about the
25th, to Annapolis; and out of the whole number only three individuals
were able to walk from the boat. The rest were carried ashore and laid down
in one place or another. Can those be men—those little livid brown, ash-
streak'd, monkey-looking dwarfs?—are they really not mummied, dwindled
corpses? They lay there, most of them, quite still, but with a horrible look in
their eyes and skinny lips (often with not enough flesh on the lips to cover
their teeth.) Probably no more appalling sight was ever seen on this earth.
(There are deeds, crimes, that may be forgiven; but this is not among them.
It steeps its perpetrators in blackest, escapeless, endless damnation. Over
50,000 have been compell' d to die the death of starvation—reader, did you
ever try to realize what starvation actually is?—in those prisons—and in a
land of plenty.) An indescribable meanness, tyranny, aggravating course of
insults, almost incredible—was evidently the rule of treatment through all
the southern military prisons. The dead there are not to be pitied as much as
some of the living that come from there—if they can be call' d living—
many of them are mentally imbecile, and will never recuperate.{8}
Endnotes:

{8} From a review of "ANDERSONVILLE, A STORY OF SOUTHERN
MILTTARY PRISONS," published serially in the Toledo "Blade" in 1879,
and afterwards in book form.
"There is a deep fascination in the subject of Andersonville—for that
Golgotha, in which lie the whitening bones of 13,000 gallant young men,
represents the dearest and costliest sacrifice of the war for the preservation
of our national unity. It is a type, too, of its class. Its more than hundred
hecatombs of dead represent several times that number of their brethren, for
whom the prison gates of Belle Isle, Danville, Salisbury, Florence,
Columbia, and Cahaba open'd only in eternity. There are few families in the
North who have not at least one dear relative or friend among these 60,000
whose sad fortune it was to end their service for the Union by lying down
and dying for it in a southern prison pen. The manner of their death, the
horrors that cluster'd thickly around every moment of their existence, the
loyal, unfaltering steadfastness with which they endured all that fate had
brought them, has never been adequately told. It was not with them as with
their comrades in the field, whose every act was perform'd in the presence
of those whose duty it was to observe such matters and report them to the
world. Hidden from the view of their friends in the north by the
impenetrable veil which the military operations of the rebels drew around
the so-called confederacy, the people knew next to nothing of their career or
their sufferings. Thousands died there less heeded even than the hundreds
who perish'd on the battlefield. Grant did not lose as many men kill'd
outright, in the terrible campaign from the Wilderness to the James river—
43 days of desperate fighting—as died in July and August at Andersonville.
Nearly twice as many died in that prison as fell from the day that Grant
cross'd the Rapidan, till he settled down in the trenches before Petersburg.
More than four times as many Union dead lie under the solemn soughing
pines about that forlorn little village in southern Georgia, than mark the
course of Sherman from Chattanooga to Atlanta. The nation stands aghast at
the expenditure of life which attended the two bloody campaigns of 1864,
which virtually crush'd the confederacy, but no one remembers that more
Union soldiers died in the rear of the rebel lines than were kill'd in the front
of them. The great military events which stamp'd out the rebellion drew
attention away from the sad drama which starvation and disease play'd in
those gloomy pens in the far recesses of sombre southern forests."
From a letter of "Johnny Bouquet," in N. Y. "Tribune," March 27, '81.

"I visited at Salisbury, N. C., the prison pen or the site of it, from which
nearly 11,000 victims of southern politicians were buried, being confined in
a pen without shelter, exposed to all the elements could do, to all the disease
herding animals together could create, and to all the starvation and cruelty
an incompetent and intense caitiff government could accomplish. From the
conversation and almost from the recollection of the northern people this
place has dropp' d, but not so in the gossip of the Salisbury people, nearly
all of whom say that the half was never told; that such was the nature of
habitual outrage here that when Federal prisoners escaped the townspeople
harbor'd them in their barns, afraid the vengeance of God would fall on
them, to deliver even their enemies back to such cruelty. Said one old man
at the Boyden House, who join'd in the conversation one evening: 'There
were often men buried out of that prison pen still alive. I have the testimony
of a surgeon that he had seen them pull'd out of the dead cart with their eyes
open and taking notice, but too weak to lift a finger. There was not the least
excuse for such treatment, as the confederate government had seized every
sawmill in the region, and could just as well have put up shelter for these
prisoners as not, wood being plentiful here. It will be hard to make any
honest man in Salisbury say that there was the slightest necessity for those
prisoners having to live in old tents, caves and holes half-full of water.
Representations were made to the Davis government against the officers in
charge of it, but no attention was paid to them. Promotion was the
punishment for cruelty there. The inmates were skeletons. Hell could have
no terrors for any man who died there, except the inhuman keepers.'"

DEATH OF A PENNSYLVANIA SOLDIER

Frank H. Irwin, company E, 93rd Pennsylvania—died May 1, '65—My
letter to his mother—Dear madam: No doubt you and Frank's friends have
heard the sad fact of his death in hospital here, through his uncle, or the
lady from Baltimore, who took his things. (I have not seen them, only heard
of them visiting Frank.) I will write you a few lines—as a casual friend that
sat by his death-bed. Your son, corporal Frank H. Irwin, was wounded near
fort Fisher, Virginia, March 25th, 1865—the wound was in the left knee,
pretty bad. He was sent up to Washington, was receiv'd in ward C, Armory-
square hospital, March 28th—the wound became worse, and on the 4th of
April the leg was amputated a little above the knee—the operation was

perform' d by Dr. Bliss, one of the best surgeons in the army—he did the
whole operation himself—there was a good deal of bad matter gather'd—
the bullet was found in the knee. For a couple of weeks afterwards he was
doing pretty well. I visited and sat by him frequently, as he was fond of
having me. The last ten or twelve days of April I saw that his case was
critical. He previously had some fever, with cold spells. The last week in
April he was much of the time flighty—but always mild and gentle. He died
first of May. The actual cause of death was pyaemia, (the absorption of the
matter in the system instead of its discharge.) Frank, as far as I saw, had
everything requisite in surgical treatment, nursing, &c. He had watches
much of the time. He was so good and well-behaved and affectionate, I
myself liked him very much. I was in the habit of coming in afternoons and
sitting by him, and soothing him, and he liked to have me—liked to put his
arm out and lay his hand on my knee—would keep it so a long while.
Toward the last he was more restless and flighty at night—often fancied
himself with his regiment—by his talk sometimes seem'd as if his feelings
were hurt by being blamed by his officers for something he was entirely
innocent of—said, "I never in my life was thought capable of such a thing,
and never was." At other times he would fancy himself talking as it seem'd
to children or such like, his relatives I suppose, and giving them good
advice; would talk to them a long while. All the time he was out of his head
not one single bad word or idea escaped him. It was remark'd that many a
man's conversation in his senses was not half as good as Frank's delirium.
He seem'd quite willing to die—he had become very weak and had suffer'd
a good deal, and was perfectly resign'd, poor boy. I do not know his past
life, but I feel as if it must have been good. At any rate what I saw of him
here, under the most trying circumstances, with a painful wound, and
among strangers, I can say that he behaved so brave, so composed, and so
sweet and affectionate, it could not be surpass'd. And now like many other
noble and good men, after serving his country as a soldier, he has yielded
up his young life at the very outset in her service. Such things are gloomy—
yet there is a text, "God doeth all things well"—the meaning of which, after
due time, appears to the soul.
I thought perhaps a few words, though from a stranger, about your son,
from one who was with him at the last, might be worth while—for I loved
the young man, though I but saw him immediately to lose him. I am merely
a friend visiting the hospitals occasionally to cheer the wounded and sick.

W. W.

THE ARMIES RETURNING

May 7.—Sunday.—To-day as I was walking a mile or two south of
Alexandria, I fell in with several large squads of the returning Western
army, (Sherman's men as they call'd themselves) about a thousand in all, the
largest portion of them half sick, some convalescents, on their way to a
hospital camp. These fragmentary excerpts, with the unmistakable Western
physiognomy and idioms, crawling along slowly—after a great campaign,
blown this way, as it were, out of their latitude—I mark'd with curiosity,
and talk'd with off and on for over an hour. Here and there was one very
sick; but all were able to walk, except some of the last, who had given out,
and were seated on the ground, faint and despondent. These I tried to cheer,
told them the camp they were to reach was only a little way further over the
hill, and so got them up and started, accompanying some of the worst a
little way, and helping them, or putting them under the support of stronger
comrades.
May 21.—Saw General Sheridan and his cavalry to-day; a strong,
attractive sight; the men were mostly young, (a few middle-aged,) superb-
looking fellows, brown, spare, keen, with well-worn clothing, many with
pieces of water-proof cloth around their shoulders, hanging down. They
dash'd along pretty fast, in wide close ranks, all spatter'd with mud; no
holiday soldiers; brigade after brigade. I could have watch'd for a week.
Sheridan stood on a balcony, under a big tree, coolly smoking a cigar. His
looks and manner impress'd me favorably.
May 22.—Have been taking a walk along Pennsylvania avenue and
Seventh street north. The city is full of soldiers, running around loose.
Officers everywhere, of all grades. All have the weatherbeaten look of
practical service. It is a sight I never tire of. All the armies are now here (or
portions of them,) for to-morrow's review. You see them swarming like bees
everywhere.

THE GRAND REVIEW

For two days now the broad spaces of Pennsylvania avenue along to
Treasury hill, and so by detour around to the President's house, and so up to
Georgetown, and across the aqueduct bridge, have been alive with a
magnificent sight, the returning armies. In their wide ranks stretching clear
across the Avenue, I watch them march or ride along, at a brisk pace,
through two whole days—infantry, cavalry, artillery—some 200,000 men.
Some days afterwards one or two other corps; and then, still afterwards, a
good part of Sherman's immense army, brought up from Charleston,
Savannah, &c.

WESTERN SOLDIERS

May 26-7.—The streets, the public buildings and grounds of Washington,
still swarm with soldiers from Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Missouri, Iowa, and
all the Western States. I am continually meeting and talking with them.
They often speak to me first, and always show great sociability, and glad to
have a good interchange of chat. These Western soldiers are more slow in
their movements, and in their intellectual quality also; have no extreme
alertness. They are larger in size, have a more serious physiognomy, are
continually looking at you as they pass in the street. They are largely
animal, and handsomely so. During the war I have been at times with the
Fourteenth, Fifteenth, Seventeenth, and Twentieth Corps. I always feel
drawn toward the men, and like their personal contact when we are crowded
close together, as frequently these days in the street-cars. They all think the
world of General Sherman; call him "old Bill," or sometimes "uncle Billy."

A SOLDIER ON LINCOLN

May 28.—As I sat by the bedside of a sick Michigan soldier in hospital
to-day, a convalescent from the adjoining bed rose and came to me, and
presently we began talking. He was a middleaged man, belonged to the 2d
Virginia regiment, but lived in Racine, Ohio, and had a family there. He
spoke of President Lincoln, and said: "The war is over, and many are lost.
And now we have lost the best, the fairest, the truest man in America. Take
him altogether, he was the best man this country ever produced. It was quite
a while I thought very different; but some time before the murder, that's the
way I have seen it." There was deep earnestness in the soldier. (I found

upon further talk he had known Mr. Lincoln personally, and quite closely,
years before.) He was a veteran; was now in the fifth year of his service;
was a cavalry man, and had been in a good deal of hard fighting.

TWO BROTHERS, ONE SOUTH, ONE NORTH

May 28-9.—I staid to-night a long time by the bedside of a new patient, a
young Baltimorean, aged about 19 years, W. S. P., (2d Maryland, southern,)
very feeble, right leg amputated, can't sleep hardly at all—has taken a great
deal of morphine, which, as usual, is costing more than it comes to.
Evidently very intelligent and well bred—very affectionate—held on to my
hand, and put it by his face, not willing to let me leave. As I was lingering,
soothing him in his pain, he says to me suddenly, "I hardly think you know
who I am—I don't wish to impose upon you—I am a rebel soldier." I said I
did not know that, but it made no difference. Visiting him daily for about
two weeks after that, while he lived, (death had mark'd him, and he was
quite alone,) I loved him much, always kiss'd him, and he did me. In an
adjoining ward I found his brother, an officer of rank, a Union soldier, a
brave and religious man, (Col. Clifton K. Prentiss, sixth Maryland infantry,
Sixth corps, wounded in one of the engagements at Petersburgh, April 2—
linger'd, suffer'd much, died in Brooklyn, Aug. 20, '65). It was in the same
battle both were hit. One was a strong Unionist, the other Secesh; both
fought on their respective sides, both badly wounded, and both brought
together here after a separation of four years. Each died for his cause.

SOME SAD CASES YET

May 31.—James H. Williams, aged 21, 3d Virginia cavalry.-About as
mark'd a case of a strong man brought low by a complication of diseases,
(laryngitis, fever, debility and diarrhoea,) as I have ever seen—has superb
physique, remains swarthy yet, and flushed and red with fever-is altogether
flighty—flesh of his great breast and arms tremulous, and pulse pounding
away with treble quickness—lies a good deal of the time in a partial sleep,
but with low muttering and groans—a sleep in which there is no rest.
Powerful as he is, and so young, he will not be able to stand many more
days of the strain and sapping heat of yesterday and to-day. His throat is in
a bad way, tongue and lips parch'd. When I ask him how he feels, he is able

just to articulate, "I feel pretty bad yet, old man," and looks at me with his
great bright eyes. Father, John Williams, Millensport, Ohio.
June 9-10.—I have been sitting late to-night by the bedside of a wounded
captain, a special friend of mine, lying with a painful fracture of left leg in
one of the hospitals, in a large ward partially vacant. The lights were put
out, all but a little candle, far from where I sat. The full moon shone in
through the windows, making long, slanting silvery patches on the floor. All
was still, my friend too was silent, but could not sleep; so I sat there by him,
slowly wafting the fan, and occupied with the musings that arose out of the
scene, the long shadowy ward, the beautiful ghostly moonlight on the floor,
the white beds, here and there an occupant with huddled form, the bed-
clothes thrown off. The hospitals have a number of cases of sun-stroke and
exhaustion by heat, from the late reviews. There are many such from the
Sixth corps, from the hot parade of day before yesterday. (Some of these
shows cost the lives of scores of men.)
Sunday, Sep. 10.—Visited Douglas and Stanton hospitals. They are quite
full. Many of the cases are bad ones, lingering wounds, and old sickness.
There is a more than usual look of despair on the countenances of many of
the men; hope has left them. I went through the wards, talking as usual.
There are several here from the confederate army whom I had seen in other
hospitals, and they recognized me. Two were in a dying condition.

CALHOUN'S REAL MONUMENT

In one of the hospital tents for special cases, as I sat to-day tending a new
amputation, I heard a couple of neighboring soldiers talking to each other
from their cots. One down with fever, but improving, had come up belated
from Charleston not long before. The other was what we now call an "old
veteran," (i.e., he was a Connecticut youth, probably of less than the age of
twenty-five years, the four last of which he had spent in active service in the
war in all parts of the country.) The two were chatting of one thing and
another. The fever soldier spoke of John C. Calhoun's monument, which he
had seen, and was describing it. The veteran said: "I have seen Calhoun's
monument. That you saw is not the real monument. But I have seen it. It is
the desolated, ruined south; nearly the whole generation of young men
between seventeen and thirty destroyed or maim'd; all the old families used
up—the rich impoverish'd, the plantations cover'd with weeds, the slaves

unloos'd and become the masters, and the name of southerner blacken'd
with every shame—all that is Calhoun's real monument."

HOSPITALS CLOSING

October 3.—There are two army hospitals now remaining. I went to the
largest of these (Douglas) and spent the afternoon and evening. There are
many sad cases, old wounds, incurable sickness, and some of the wounded
from the March and April battles before Richmond. Few realize how sharp
and bloody those closing battles were. Our men exposed themselves more
than usual; press'd ahead without urging. Then the southerners fought with
extra desperation. Both sides knew that with the successful chasing of the
rebel cabal from Richmond, and the occupation of that city by the national
troops, the game was up. The dead and wounded were unusually many. Of
the wounded the last lingering driblets have been brought to hospital here. I
find many rebel wounded here, and have been extra busy to-day 'tending to
the worst cases of them with the rest.
Oct., Nov. and Dec., '65—Sundays—Every Sunday of these months
visited Harewood hospital out in the woods, pleasant and recluse, some two
and a half or three miles north of the capitol. The situation is healthy, with
broken ground, grassy slopes and patches of oak woods, the trees large and
fine. It was one of the most extensive of the hospitals, now reduced to four
or five partially occupied wards, the numerous others being vacant. In
November, this became the last military hospital kept up by the
government, all the others being closed. Cases of the worst and most
incurable wounds, obstinate illness, and of poor fellows who have no homes
to go to, are found here.
Dec. 10—Sunday—Again spending a good part of the day at Harewood. I
write this about an hour before sundown. I have walk'd out for a few
minutes to the edge of the woods to soothe myself with the hour and scene.
It is a glorious, warm, golden-sunny, still afternoon. The only noise is from
a crowd of cawing crows, on some trees three hundred yards distant.
Clusters of gnats swimming and dancing in the air in all directions. The oak
leaves are thick under the bare trees, and give a strong and delicious
perfume. Inside the wards everything is gloomy. Death is there. As I enter'd,
I was confronted by it the first thing; a corpse of a poor soldier, just dead, of

typhoid fever. The attendants had just straighten'd the limbs, put coppers on
the eyes, and were laying it out.
The roads—A great recreation, the past three years, has been in taking
long walks out from Washington, five, seven, perhaps ten miles and back;
generally with my friend Peter Doyle, who is as fond of it as I am. Fine
moonlight nights, over the perfect military roads, hard and smooth—or
Sundays—we had these delightful walks, never to be forgotten. The roads
connecting Washington and the numerous forts around the city, made one
useful result, at any rate, out of the war.

TYPICAL SOLDIERS

Even the typical soldiers I have been personally intimate with,—it seems
to me if I were to make a list of them it would be like a city directory. Some
few only have I mention'd in the foregoing pages—most are dead—a few
yet living. There is Reuben Farwell, of Michigan, (little "Mitch;") Benton
H. Wilson, color-bearer, 185th New York; Wm. Stansberry; Manvill
Winterstein, Ohio; Bethuel Smith; Capt. Simms, of 51st New York, (kill'd at
Petersburgh mine explosion,) Capt. Sam. Pooley and Lieut. Fred. McReady,
same reg't. Also, same reg't., my brother, George W. Whitman—in active
service all through, four years, re-enlisting twice—was promoted, step by
step, (several times immediately after battles,) lieutenant, captain, major
and lieut. colonel—was in the actions at Roanoke, Newbern, 2d Bull Run,
Chantilly, South Mountain, Antietam, Fredericksburgh, Vicksburgh,
Jackson, the bloody conflicts of the Wilderness, and at Spottsylvania, Cold
Harbor, and afterwards around Petersburgh; at one of these latter was taken
prisoner, and pass'd four or five months in secesh military prisons, narrowly
escaping with life, from a severe fever, from starvation and half-nakedness
in the winter. (What a history that 51st New York had! Went out early—
march'd, fought everywhere—was in storms at sea, nearly wreck'd—storm'd
forts—tramp'd hither and yon in Virginia, night and day, summer of '62—
afterwards Kentucky and Mississippi—re-enlisted—was in all the
engagements and campaigns, as above.) I strengthen and comfort myself
much with the certainty that the capacity for just such regiments, (hundreds,
thousands of them) is inexhaustible in the United States, and that there isn't
a county nor a township in the republic—nor a street in any city—but could

turn out, and, on occasion, would turn out, lots of just such typical soldiers,
whenever wanted.

"CONVULSIVENESS"

As I have look'd over the proof-sheets of the preceding pages, I have
once or twice fear'd that my diary would prove, at best, but a batch of
convulsively written reminiscences. Well, be it so.
They are but parts of the actual distraction, heat, smoke and excitement
of those times. The war itself, with the temper of society preceding it, can
indeed be best described by that very word convulsiveness.

THREE YEARS SUMM'D UP

During those three years in hospital, camp or field, I made over six
hundred visits or tours, and went, as I estimate, counting all, among from
eighty thousand to a hundred thousand of the wounded and sick, as
sustainer of spirit and body in some degree, in time of need. These visits
varied from an hour or two, to all day or night; for with dear or critical
cases I generally watch'd all night. Sometimes I took up my quarters in the
hospital, and slept or watch'd there several nights in succession. Those three
years I consider the greatest privilege and satisfaction, (with all their
feverish excitements and physical deprivations and lamentable sights,) and,
of course, the most profound lesson of my life. I can say that in my
ministerings I comprehended all, whoever came in my way, northern or
southern, and slighted none. It arous'd and brought out and decided
undream'd-of depths of emotion. It has given me my most fervent views of
the true ensemble and extent of the States. While I was with wounded and
sick in thousands of cases from the New England States, and from New
York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania, and from Michigan, Wisconsin, Ohio,
Indiana, Illinois, and all the Western States, I was with more or less from all
the States, North and South, without exception. I was with many from the
border States, especially from Maryland and Virginia, and found, during
those lurid years 1862-63, far more Union southerners, especially
Tennesseans, than is supposed. I was with many rebel officers and men
among our wounded, and gave them always what I had, and tried to cheer
them the same as any. I was among the army teamsters considerably, and,

indeed, always found myself drawn to them. Among the black soldiers,
wounded or sick, and in the contraband camps, I also took my way
whenever in their neighborhood, and did what I could for them.

THE MILLION DEAD, TOO, SUMM'D UP

The dead in this war—there they lie, strewing the fields and woods and
valleys and battle-fields of the south—Virginia, the Peninsula—Malvern
hill and Fair Oaks—the banks of the Chickahominy—the terraces of
Fredericksburgh—Antietam bridge—the grisly ravines of Manassas—the
bloody promenade of the Wilderness—the varieties of the strayed dead, (the
estimate of the War department is 25,000 national soldiers kill'd in battle
and never buried at all, 5,000 drown'd—15,000 inhumed by strangers, or on
the march in haste, in hitherto unfound localities—2,000 graves cover'd by
sand and mud by Mississippi freshets, 3,000 carried away by caving-in of
banks, &c.,)—Gettysburgh, the West, Southwest—Vicksburgh—
Chattanooga—the trenches of Petersburgh—the numberless battles, camps,
hospitals everywhere—the crop reap'd by the mighty reapers, typhoid,
dysentery, inflammations—and blackest and loathesomest of all, the dead
and living burial-pits, the prison-pens of Andersonville, Salisbury, Belle-
Isle, &c., (not Dante's pictured hell and all its woes, its degradations, filthy
torments, excell'd those prisons)—the dead, the dead, the dead—our dead—
or South or North, ours all, (all, all, all, finally dear to me)—or East or West
—Atlantic coast or Mississippi valley—somewhere they crawl'd to die,
alone, in bushes, low gullies, or on the sides of hills—(there, in secluded
spots, their skeletons, bleach'd bones, tufts of hair, buttons, fragments of
clothing, are occasionally found yet)—our young men once so handsome
and so joyous, taken from us—the son from the mother, the husband from
the wife, the dear friend from the dear friend—the clusters of camp graves,
in Georgia, the Carolinas, and in Tennessee—the single graves left in the
woods or by the roadside, (hundreds, thousands, obliterated)—the corpses
floated down the rivers, and caught and lodged, (dozens, scores, floated
down the upper Potomac, after the cavalry engagements, the pursuit of Lee,
following Gettysburgh)—some lie at the bottom of the sea—the general
million, and the special cemeteries in almost all the States—the infinite
dead—(the land entire saturated, perfumed with their impalpable ashes'
exhalation in Nature's chemistry distill'd, and shall be so forever, in every

future grain of wheat and ear of corn, and every flower that grows, and
every breath we draw)—not only Northern dead leavening Southern soil—
thousands, aye tens of thousands, of Southerners, crumble to-day in
Northern earth.
And everywhere among these countless graves—everywhere in the many
soldier Cemeteries of the Nation, (there are now, I believe, over seventy of
them)—as at the time in the vast trenches, the depositories of slain,
Northern and Southern, after the great battles—not only where the scathing
trail passed those years, but radiating since in all the peaceful quarters of
the land—we see, and ages yet may see, on monuments and gravestones,
singly or in masses, to thousands or tens of thousands, the significant word
UNKNOWN.
(In some of the cemeteries nearly all the dead are unknown. At Salisbury,
N. C., for instance, the known are only 85, while the unknown are 12,027,
and 11,700 of these are buried in trenches. A national monument has been
put up here, by order of Congress, to mark the spot—but what visible,
material monument can ever fittingly commemorate that spot?)

THE REAL WAR WILL NEVER GET IN THE BOOKS

And so good-bye to the war. I know not how it may have been, or may
be, to others—to me the main interest I found, (and still, on recollection,
find,) in the rank and file of the armies, both sides, and in those specimens
amid the hospitals, and even the dead on the field. To me the points
illustrating the latent personal character and eligibilities of these States, in
the two or three millions of American young and middle-aged men, North
and South, embodied in those armies—and especially the one-third or one-
fourth of their number, stricken by wounds or disease at some time in the
course of the contest—were of more significance even than the political
interests involved. (As so much of a race depends on how it faces death,
and how it stands personal anguish and sickness. As, in the glints of
emotions under emergencies, and the indirect traits and asides in Plutarch,
we get far profounder clues to the antique world than all its more formal
history.)
Future years will never know the seething hell and the black infernal
background of countless minor scenes and interiors, (not the official

surface-courteousness of the Generals, not the few great battles) of the
Secession war; and it is best they should not—the real war will never get in
the books. In the mushy influences of current times, too, the fervid
atmosphere and typical events of those years are in danger of being totally
forgotten. I have at night watch'd by the side of a sick man in the hospital,
one who could not live many hours. I have seen his eyes flash and burn as
he raised himself and recurr'd to the cruelties on his surrender'd brother, and
mutilations of the corpse afterward. (See in the preceding pages, the
incident at Upperville—the seventeen kill'd as in the description, were left
there on the ground. After they dropt dead, no one touch'd them—all were
made sure of, however. The carcasses were left for the citizens to bury or
not, as they chose.)
Such was the war. It was not a quadrille in a ball-room. Its interior
history will not only never be written—its practicality, minutia; of deeds
and passions, will never be even suggested. The actual soldier of 1862-'65,
North and South, with all his ways, his incredible dauntlessness, habits,
practices, tastes, language, his fierce friendship, his appetite, rankness, his
superb strength and animality, lawless gait, and a hundred unnamed lights
and shades of camp, I say, will never be written—perhaps must not and
should not be.
The preceding notes may furnish a few stray glimpses into that life, and
into those lurid interiors, never to be fully convey'd to the future. The
hospital part of the drama from '61 to '65, deserves indeed to be recorded.
Of that many-threaded drama, with its sudden and strange surprises, its
confounding of prophecies, its moments of despair, the dread of foreign
interference, the interminable campaigns, the bloody battles, the mighty and
cumbrous and green armies, the drafts and bounties—the immense money
expenditure, like a heavy-pouring constant rain—with, over the whole land,
the last three years of the struggle, an unending, universal mourning-wail of
women, parents, orphans—the marrow of the tragedy concentrated in those
Army Hospitals—(it seem'd sometimes as if the whole interest of the land,
North and South, was one vast central hospital, and all the rest of the affair
but flanges)—those forming the untold and unwritten history of the war—
infinitely greater (like life's) than the few scraps and distortions that are
ever told or written. Think how much, and of importance, will be—how
much, civic and military, has already been—buried in the grave, in eternal
darkness.

AN INTERREGNUM PARAGRAPH

Several years now elapse before I resume my diary. I continued at
Washington working in the Attorney-General's department through '66 and
'67, and some time afterward. In February '73 I was stricken down by
paralysis, gave up my desk, and migrated to Camden, New Jersey, where I
lived during '74 and '75, quite unwell—but after that began to grow better;
commenc'd going for weeks at a time, even for months, down in the
country, to a charmingly recluse and rural spot along Timber creek, twelve
or thirteen miles from where it enters the Delaware river. Domicil'd at the
farm-house of my friends, the Staffords, near by, I lived half the time along
this creek and its adjacent fields and lanes. And it is to my life here that I,
perhaps, owe partial recovery (a sort of second wind, or semi-renewal of the
lease of life) from the prostration of 1874-'75. If the notes of that outdoor
life could only prove as glowing to you, reader dear, as the experience itself
was to me. Doubtless in the course of the following, the fact of invalidism
will crop out, (I call myself a half-Paralytic these days, and reverently bless
the Lord it is no worse,) between some of the lines—but I get my share of
fun and healthy hours, and shall try to indicate them. (The trick is, I find, to
tone your wants and tastes low down enough, and make much of negatives,
and of mere daylight and the skies.)

NEW THEMES ENTERED UPON

1876, '77.—I find the woods in mid-May and early June my best places
for composition.{9} Seated on logs or stumps there, or resting on rails,
nearly all the following memoranda have been jotted down. Wherever I go,
indeed, winter or summer, city or country, alone at home or traveling, I
must take notes—(the ruling passion strong in age and disablement, and
even the approach of—but I must not say it yet.) Then underneath the
following excerpta—crossing the t's and dotting the i's of certain moderate
movements of late years—I am fain to fancy the foundations of quite a
lesson learn'd. After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics,
conviviality, love, and so on—have found that none of these finally satisfy,
or permanently wear—what remains? Nature remains; to bring out from
their torpid recesses, the affinities of a man or woman with the open air, the
trees, fields, the changes of seasons—the sun by day and the stars of heaven

by night. We will begin from these convictions. Literature flies so high and
is so hotly spiced, that our notes may seem hardly more than breaths of
common air, or draughts of water to drink. But that is part of our lesson.
Dear, soothing, healthy, restoration-hours—after three confining years of
paralysis—after the long strain of the war, and its wounds and death.
Endnotes:
{9} Without apology for the abrupt change of field and atmosphere—
after what I have put in the preceding fifty or sixty pages—temporary
episodes, thank heaven!—I restore my book to the bracing and buoyant
equilibrium of concrete outdoor Nature, the only permanent reliance for
sanity of book or human life.
Who knows, (I have it in my fancy, my ambition,) but the pages now
ensuing may carry ray of sun, or smell of grass or corn, or call of bird, or
gleam of stars by night, or snow-flakes falling fresh and mystic, to denizen
of heated city house, or tired workman or workwoman?—or may-be in
sick-room or prison—to serve as cooling breeze, or Nature's aroma, to some
fever'd mouth or latent pulse.

ENTERING A LONG FARM-LANE

As every man has his hobby-liking, mine is for a real farm-lane fenced
by old chestnut-rails gray-green with dabs of moss and lichen, copious
weeds and briers growing in spots athwart the heaps of stray-pick' d stones
at the fence bases—irregular paths worn between, and horse and cow tracks
—all characteristic accompaniments marking and scenting the
neighborhood in their seasons—apple-tree blossoms in forward April—
pigs, poultry, a field of August buckwheat, and in another the long flapping
tassels of maize—and so to the pond, the expansion of the creek, the
secluded-beautiful, with young and old trees, and such recesses and vistas.

TO THE SPRING AND BROOK

So, still sauntering on, to the spring under the willows—musical as soft
clinking glasses-pouring a sizeable stream, thick as my neck, pure and clear,
out from its vent where the bank arches over like a great brown shaggy
eyebrow or mouth-roof—gurgling, gurgling ceaselessly—meaning, saying

something, of course (if one could only translate it)—always gurgling there,
the whole year through—never giving out—oceans of mint, blackberries in
summer—choice of light and shade—just the place for my July sun-baths
and water-baths too—but mainly the inimitable soft sound-gurgles of it, as I
sit there hot afternoons. How they and all grow into me, day after day—
everything in keeping—the wild, just-palpable perfume, and the dappled
leaf-shadows, and all the natural-medicinal, elemental-moral influences of
the spot.
Babble on, O brook, with that utterance of thine! I too will express what I
have gather'd in my days and progress, native, subterranean, past—and now
thee. Spin and wind thy way—I with thee, a little while, at any rate. As I
haunt thee so often, season by season, thou knowest, reckest not me, (yet
why be so certain? who can tell?)—but I will learn from thee, and dwell on
thee—receive, copy, print from thee.

AN EARLY SUMMER REVEILLE

Away then to loosen, to unstring the divine bow, so tense, so long. Away,
from curtain, carpet, sofa, book—from "society"—from city house, street,
and modern improvements and luxuries—away to the primitive winding,
aforementioned wooded creek, with its untrimm'd bushes and turfy banks—
away from ligatures, tight boots, buttons, and the whole cast-iron civilized
life—from entourage of artificial store, machine, studio, office, parlor—
from tailordom and fashion's clothes—from any clothes, perhaps, for the
nonce, the summer heats advancing, there in those watery, shaded solitudes.
Away, thou soul, (let me pick thee out singly, reader dear, and talk in perfect
freedom, negligently, confidentially,) for one day and night at least,
returning to the naked source-life of us all—to the breast of the great silent
savage all-acceptive Mother. Alas! how many of us are so sodden—how
many have wander'd so far away, that return is almost impossible.
But to my jottings, taking them as they come, from the heap, without
particular selection. There is little consecutiveness in dates. They run any
time within nearly five or six years. Each was carelessly pencilled in the
open air, at the time and place. The printers will learn this to some vexation
perhaps, as much of their copy is from those hastily-written first notes.

BIRDS MIGRATING AT MIDNIGHT

Did you ever chance to hear the midnight flight of birds passing through
the air and darkness overhead, in countless armies, changing their early or
late summer habitat? It is something not to be forgotten. A friend called me
up just after 12 last night to mark the peculiar noise of unusually immense
flocks migrating north (rather late this year.) In the silence, shadow and
delicious odor of the hour, (the natural perfume belonging to the night
alone,) I thought it rare music. You could hear the characteristic motion—
once or twice "the rush of mighty wings," but often a velvety rustle, long
drawn out—sometimes quite near—with continual calls and chirps, and
some song-notes. It all lasted from 12 till after 3. Once in a while the
species was plainly distinguishable; I could make out the bobolink, tanager,
Wilson's thrush, white-crown'd sparrow, and occasionally from high in the
air came the notes of the plover.

BUMBLE-BEES

May-month—month of swarming, singing, mating birds—the bumble-
bee month—month of the flowering lilac-(and then my own birth-month.)
As I jot this paragraph, I am out just after sunrise, and down towards the
creek. The lights, perfumes, melodies—the blue birds, grass birds and
robins, in every direction—the noisy, vocal, natural concert. For
undertones, a neighboring wood-pecker tapping his tree, and the distant
clarion of chanticleer. Then the fresh-earth smells—the colors, the delicate
drabs and thin blues of the perspective. The bright green of the grass has
receiv'd an added tinge from the last two days' mildness and moisture. How
the sun silently mounts in the broad clear sky, on his day's journey! How the
warm beams bathe all, and come streaming kissingly and almost hot on my
face.
A while since the croaking of the pond-frogs and the first white of the
dog-wood blossoms. Now the golden dandelions in endless profusion,
spotting the ground everywhere. The white cherry and pear-blows—the
wild violets, with their blue eyes looking up and saluting my feet, as I
saunter the wood-edge—the rosy blush of budding apple-trees—the light-
clear emerald hue of the wheat-fields—the darker green of the rye—a warm
elasticity pervading the air—the cedar-bushes profusely deck'd with their

little brown apples—the summer fully awakening—the convocation of
black birds, garrulous flocks of them, gathering on some tree, and making
the hour and place noisy as I sit near.
Later.—Nature marches in procession, in sections, like the corps of an
army. All have done much for me, and still do. But for the last two days it
has been the great wild bee, the humble-bee, or "bumble," as the children
call him. As I walk, or hobble, from the farm-house down to the creek, I
traverse the before-mention'd lane, fenced by old rails, with many splits,
splinters, breaks, holes, &c., the choice habitat of those crooning, hairy
insects. Up and down and by and between these rails, they swarm and dart
and fly in countless myriads. As I wend slowly along, I am often
accompanied with a moving cloud of them. They play a leading part in my
morning, midday or sunset rambles, and often dominate the landscape in a
way I never before thought of—fill the long lane, not by scores or hundreds
only, but by thousands. Large and vivacious and swift, with wonderful
momentum and a loud swelling, perpetual hum, varied now and then by
something almost like a shriek, they dart to and fro, in rapid flashes,
chasing each other, and (little things as they are,) conveying to me a new
and pronounc'd sense of strength, beauty, vitality and movement. Are they
in their mating season? or what is the meaning of this plenitude, swiftness,
eagerness, display? As I walk'd, I thought I was follow'd by a particular
swarm, but upon observation I saw that it was a rapid succession of
changing swarms, one after another.
As I write, I am seated under a big wild-cherry tree—the warm day
temper'd by partial clouds and a fresh breeze, neither too heavy nor light—
and here I sit long and long, envelop'd in the deep musical drone of these
bees, flitting, balancing, darting to and fro about me by hundreds—big
fellows with light yellow jackets, great glistening swelling bodies, stumpy
heads and gauzy wings—humming their perpetual rich mellow boom. (Is
there not a hint in it for a musical composition, of which it should be the
back-ground? some bumble-bee symphony?) How it all nourishes, lulls me,
in the way most needed; the open air, the rye-fields, the apple orchards. The
last two days have been faultless in sun, breeze, temperature and
everything; never two more perfect days, and I have enjoy'd them
wonderfully. My health is somewhat better, and my spirit at peace. (Yet the
anniversary of the saddest loss and sorrow of my life is close at hand.)

Another jotting, another perfect day: forenoon, from 7 to 9, two hours
envelop'd in sound of bumble-bees and bird-music. Down in the apple-trees
and in a neighboring cedar were three or four russet-back'd thrushes, each
singing his best, and roulading in ways I never heard surpass'd. Two hours I
abandon myself to hearing them, and indolently absorbing the scene.
Almost every bird I notice has a special time in the year—sometimes
limited to a few days—when it sings its best; and now is the period of these
russet-backs. Meanwhile, up and down the lane, the darting, droning,
musical bumble-bees. A great swarm again for my entourage as I return
home, moving along with me as before.
As I write this, two or three weeks later, I am sitting near the brook under
a tulip tree, 70 feet high, thick with the fresh verdure of its young maturity
—a beautiful object—every branch, every leaf perfect. From top to bottom,
seeking the sweet juice in the blossoms, it swarms with myriads of these
wild bees, whose loud and steady humming makes an undertone to the
whole, and to my mood and the hour. All of which I will bring to a close by
extracting the following verses from Henry A. Beers's little volume:

As I lay yonder in tall grass
A drunken bumble-bee went past

Delirious with honey toddy.
The golden sash about his body
Scarce kept it in his swollen belly
Distent with honeysuckle jelly.
Rose liquor and the sweet-pea wine
Had fill' d his soul with song divine;
Deep had he drunk the warm night through,
His hairy thighs were wet with dew.
Full many an antic he had play'd
While the world went round through sleep and shade.
Oft had he lit with thirsty lip
Some flower-cup's nectar'd sweets to sip,
When on smooth petals he would slip,
Or over tangled stamens trip,
And headlong in the pollen roll'd,
Crawl out quite dusted o'er with gold;
Or else his heavy feet would stumble
Against some bud, and down he'd tumble
Amongst the grass; there lie and grumble
In low, soft bass—poor maudlin bumble!

CEDAR-APPLES

As I journey'd to-day in a light wagon ten or twelve miles through the
country, nothing pleas'd me more, in their homely beauty and novelty (I had

either never seen the little things to such advantage, or had never noticed
them before) than that peculiar fruit, with its profuse clear-yellow dangles
of inch-long silk or yarn, in boundless profusion spotting the dark green
cedar bushes—contrasting well with their bronze tufts—the flossy shreds
covering the knobs all over, like a shock of wild hair on elfin pates. On my
ramble afterward down by the creek I pluck'd one from its bush, and shall
keep it. These cedar-apples last only a little while however, and soon
crumble and fade.

SUMMER SIGHTS AND INDOLENCIES

June 10th.—As I write, 5-1/2 P.M., here by the creek, nothing can exceed
the quiet splendor and freshness around me. We had a heavy shower, with
brief thunder and lightning, in the middle of the day; and since, overhead,
one of those not uncommon yet indescribable skies (in quality, not details or
forms) of limpid blue, with rolling silver-fringed clouds, and a pure-
dazzling sun. For underlay, trees in fulness of tender foliage—liquid, reedy,
long-drawn notes of birds—based by the fretful mewing of a querulous cat-
bird, and the pleasant chippering-shriek of two kingfishers. I have been
watching the latter the last half hour, on their regular evening frolic over
and in the stream; evidently a spree of the liveliest kind. They pursue each
other, whirling and wheeling around, with many a jocund downward dip,
splashing the spray in jets of diamonds—and then off they swoop, with
slanting wings and graceful flight, sometimes so near me I can plainly see
their dark-gray feather-bodies and milk-white necks.

SUNDOWN PERFUME—QUAILNOTES—THE HERMIT-
THRUSH

June 19th, 4 to 6-1/2, P.M.—Sitting alone by the creek—solitude here,
but the scene bright and vivid enough—the sun shining, and quite a fresh
wind blowing (some heavy showers last night,) the grass and trees looking
their best—the clare-obscure of different greens, shadows, half-shadows,
and the dappling glimpses of the water, through recesses—the wild
flageolet-note of a quail near by—the just-heard fretting of some hylas
down there in the pond—crows cawing in the distance—a drove of young
hogs rooting in soft ground near the oak under which I sit—some come

sniffing near me, and then scamper away, with grunts. And still the clear
notes of the quail—the quiver of leaf-shadows over the paper as I write—
the sky aloft, with white clouds, and the sun well declining to the west—the
swift darting of many sand-swallows coming and going, their holes in a
neighboring marl-bank—the odor of the cedar and oak, so palpable, as
evening approaches—perfume, color, the bronze-and-gold of nearly ripen'd
wheat—clover-fields, with honey-scent—the well-up maize, with long and
rustling leaves—the great patches of thriving potatoes, dusky green, fleck'd
all over with white blossoms—the old, warty, venerable oak above me—
and ever, mix'd with the dual notes of the quail, the soughing of the wind
through some near-by pines.
As I rise for return, I linger long to a delicious song-epilogue (is it the
hermit-thrush?) from some bushy recess off there in the swamp, repeated
leisurely and pensively over and over again. This, to the circle-gambols of
the swallows flying by dozens in concentric rings in the last rays of sunset,
like flashes of some airy wheel.

A JULY AFTER-NOON BY THE POND

The fervent heat, but so much more endurable in this pure air—the white
and pink pond-blossoms, with great heart-shaped leaves; the glassy waters
of the creek, the banks, with dense bushery, and the picturesque beeches
and shade and turf; the tremulous, reedy call of some bird from recesses,
breaking the warm, indolent, half-voluptuous silence; an occasional wasp,
hornet, honey-bee or bumble (they hover near my hands or face, yet annoy
me not, nor I them, as they appear to examine, find nothing, and away they
go)—the vast space of the sky overhead so clear, and the buzzard up there
sailing his slow whirl in majestic spirals and discs; just over the surface of
the pond, two large slate-color'd dragon-flies, with wings of lace, circling
and darting and occasionally balancing themselves quite still, their wings
quivering all the time, (are they not showing off for my amusement?)—the
pond itself, with the sword-shaped calamus; the water snakes—occasionally
a flitting blackbird, with red dabs on his shoulders, as he darts slantingly by
—the sounds that bring out the solitude, warmth, light and shade—the
quawk of some pond duck—(the crickets and grasshoppers are mute in the
noon heat, but I hear the song of the first cicadas;)—then at some distance
the rattle and whirr of a reaping machine as the horses draw it on a rapid

walk through a rye field on the opposite side of the creek—(what was the
yellow or light-brown bird, large as a young hen, with short neck and long-
stretch'd legs I just saw, in flapping and awkward flight over there through
the trees?)—the prevailing delicate, yet palpable, spicy, grassy, clovery
perfume to my nostrils; and over all, encircling all, to my sight and soul, the
free space of the sky, transparent and blue—and hovering there in the west,
a mass of white-gray fleecy clouds the sailors call "shoals of mackerel"—
the sky, with silver swirls like locks of toss'd hair, spreading, expanding—a
vast voiceless, formless simulacrum—yet may-be the most real reality and
formulator of everything—who knows?

LOCUSTS AND KATY-DIDS

Aug. 22.—Reedy monotones of locust, or sounds of katydid—I hear the
latter at night, and the other both day and night. I thought the morning and
evening warble of birds delightful; but I find I can listen to these strange
insects with just as much pleasure. A single locust is now heard near noon
from a tree two hundred feet off, as I write—a long whirring, continued,
quite loud noise graded in distinct whirls, or swinging circles, increasing in
strength and rapidity up to a certain point, and then a fluttering, quietly
tapering fall. Each strain is continued from one to two minutes. The locust-
song is very appropriate to the scene—gushes, has meaning, is masculine, is
like some fine old wine, not sweet, but far better than sweet.
But the katydid—how shall I describe its piquant utterances? One sings
from a willow-tree just outside my open bedroom window, twenty yards
distant; every clear night for a fortnight past has sooth'd me to sleep. I rode
through a piece of woods for a hundred rods the other evening, and heard
the katydids by myriads—very curious for once; but I like better my single
neighbor on the tree. Let me say more about the song of the locust, even to
repetition; a long, chromatic, tremulous crescendo, like a brass disk
whirling round and round, emitting wave after wave of notes, beginning
with a certain moderate beat or measure, rapidly increasing in speed and
emphasis, reaching a point of great energy and significance, and then
quickly and gracefully dropping down and out. Not the melody of the
singing-bird—far from it; the common musician might think without
melody, but surely having to the finer ear a harmony of its own;

monotonous—but what a swing there is in that brassy drone, round and
round, cymballine—or like the whirling of brass quoits.

THE LESSON OF A TREE

Sept. 1.—I should not take either the biggest or the most picturesque tree
to illustrate it. Here is one of my favorites now before me, a fine yellow
poplar, quite straight, perhaps 90 feet high, and four thick at the butt. How
strong, vital, enduring! how dumbly eloquent! What suggestions of
imperturbability and being, as against the human trait of mere seeming.
Then the qualities, almost emotional, palpably artistic, heroic, of a tree; so
innocent and harmless, yet so savage. It is, yet says nothing. How it rebukes
by its tough and equable serenity all weathers, this gusty-temper'd little
whiffet, man, that runs indoors at a mite of rain or snow. Science (or rather
half-way science) scoffs at reminiscence of dryad and hamadryad, and of
trees speaking. But, if they don't, they do as well as most speaking, writing,
poetry, sermons—or rather they do a great deal better. I should say indeed
that those old dryad-reminiscences are quite as true as any, and profounder
than most reminiscences we get. ("Cut this out," as the quack mediciners
say, and keep by you.) Go and sit in a grove or woods, with one or more of
those voiceless companions, and read the foregoing, and think.
One lesson from affiliating a tree—perhaps the greatest moral lesson
anyhow from earth, rocks, animals, is that same lesson of inherency, of
what is, without the least regard to what the looker-on (the critic) supposes
or says, or whether he likes or dislikes. What worse—what more general
malady pervades each and all of us, our literature, education, attitude
toward each other, (even toward ourselves,) than a morbid trouble about
seems, (generally temporarily seems too,) and no trouble at all, or hardly
any, about the sane, slow-growing, perennial, real parts of character, books,
friendship, marriage—humanity's invisible foundations and hold-together?
(As the all-basis, the nerve, the great-sympathetic, the plenum within
humanity, giving stamp to everything, is necessarily invisible.)
Aug. 4, 6 P.M.—Lights and shades and rare effects on tree-foliage and
grass—transparent greens, grays, &c., all in sunset pomp and dazzle. The
clear beams are now thrown in many new places, on the quilted, seam'd,
bronze-drab, lower tree-trunks, shadow'd except at this hour—now flooding
their young and old columnar ruggedness with strong light, unfolding to my

sense new amazing features of silent, shaggy charm, the solid bark, the
expression of harmless impassiveness, with many a bulge and gnarl
unreck'd before. In the revealings of such light, such exceptional hour, such
mood, one does not wonder at the old story fables, (indeed, why fables?) of
people falling into love-sickness with trees, seiz'd extatic with the mystic
realism of the resistless silent strength in them—strength, which after all is
perhaps the last, completest, highest beauty.
Trees I am familiar with here.

Oaks, (many kinds—one sturdy Willows.
old fellow, vital, green, bushy, Catalpas.
five feet thick at the butt, I sit Persimmons.
under every day,) Mountain-ash.
Cedars plenty. Hickories.
Tulip trees, (Liriodendron,) is of Maples, many kinds.
the magnolia family—I have Locusts.
seen it in Michigan and southern Birches.
Illinois, 140 feet high and Dogwood.
8 feet thick at the butt {A}; does Pine.
not transplant well; best rais'd the Elm.
from seeds—(the lumbermen Chesnut.
call it yellow poplar.) Linden.
Sycamores. Aspen.
Gum trees, both sweet and sour. Spruce.
Beeches. Hornbeam.
Black-walnuts. Laurel.
Sassafras. Holly.

AUTUMN SIDE-BITS

Sept. 20.—Under an old black oak, glossy and green, exhaling aroma—
amid a grove the Albic druids might have chosen—envelop'd in the warmth
and light of the noonday sun, and swarms{10} of flitting insects—with the
harsh cawing of many crows a hundred rods away—here I sit in solitude,
absorbing, enjoying all. The corn, stack'd in its cone-shaped stacks, russet-
color'd and sere—a large field spotted thick with scarlet-gold pumpkins—
an adjoining one of cabbages, showing well in their green and pearl,
mottled by much light and shade—melon patches, with their bulging ovals,
and great silver-streak'd, ruffled, broad-edged leaves—and many an autumn
sight and sound beside—the distant scream of a flock of guinea-hens—and
pour'd over all the September breeze, with pensive cadence through the tree
tops.

Another Day.—The ground in all directions strew'd with débris from a
storm. Timber creek, as I slowly pace its banks, has ebb'd low, and shows
reaction from the turbulent swell of the late equinoctial. As I look around, I
take account of stock—weeds and shrubs, knolls, paths, occasional stumps,
some with smooth'd tops, (several I use as seats of rest, from place to place,
and from one I am now jotting these lines,)—frequent wild-flowers, little
white, star-shaped things, or the cardinal red of the lobelia, or the cherry-
ball seeds of the perennial rose, or the many-threaded vines winding up and
around trunks of trees.
Oct. 1, 2 and 3.—Down every day in the solitude of the creek. A serene
autumn sun and westerly breeze to-day (3d) as I sit here, the water surface
prettily moving in wind-ripples before me. On a stout old beech at the edge,
decayed and slanting, almost fallen to the stream, yet with life and leaves in
its mossy limbs, a gray squirrel, exploring, runs up and down, flirts his tail,
leaps to the ground, sits on his haunches upright as he sees me, (a
Darwinian hint?) and then races up the tree again.
Oct. 4.—Cloudy and coolish; signs of incipient winter. Yet pleasant here,
the leaves thick-falling, the ground brown with them already; rich coloring,
yellows of all hues, pale and dark-green, shades from lightest to richest red
—all set in and toned down by the prevailing brown of the earth and gray of
the sky. So, winter is coming; and I yet in my sickness. I sit here amid all
these fair sights and vital influences, and abandon myself to that thought,
with its wandering trains of speculation.
Endnotes:
{10} There is a tulip poplar within sight of Woodstown, which is twenty
feet around, three feet from the ground, four feet across about eighteen feet
up the trunk, which is broken off about three or four feet higher up. On the
south side an arm has shot out from which rise two stems, each to about
ninety-one or ninety-two feet from the ground. Twenty-five (or more) years
since the cavity in the butt was large enough for, and nine men at one time,
ate dinner therein. It is supposed twelve to fifteen men could now, at one
time, stand within its trunk. The severe winds of 1877 and 1878 did not
seem to damage it, and the two stems send out yearly many blossoms,
scenting the air immediately about it with their sweet perfume. It is entirely
unprotected by other trees, on a hill.—Woodstown, N. J., "Register," April
15, '79.

THE SKY—DAYS AND NIGHTS—HAPPINESS

Oct. 20.—A clear, crispy day—dry and breezy air, full of oxygen. Out of
the sane, silent, beauteous miracles that envelope and fuse me—trees,
water, grass, sunlight, and early frost—the one I am looking at most to-day
is the sky. It has that delicate, transparent blue, peculiar to autumn, and the
only clouds are little or larger white ones, giving their still and spiritual
motion to the great concave. All through the earlier day (say from 7 to 11) it
keeps a pure, yet vivid blue. But as noon approaches the color gets lighter,
quite gray for two or three hours—then still paler for a spell, till sun-down
—which last I watch dazzling through the interstices of a knoll of big trees
—darts of fire and a gorgeous show of light-yellow, liver-color and red,
with a vast silver glaze askant on the water—the transparent shadows,
shafts, sparkle, and vivid colors beyond all the paintings ever made.
I don't know what or how, but it seems to me mostly owing to these skies,
(every now and then I think, while I have of course seen them every day of
my life, I never really saw the skies before,) have had this autumn some
wondrously contented hours—may I not say perfectly happy ones? As I
have read, Byron just before his death told a friend that he had known but
three happy hours during his whole existence. Then there is the old German
legend of the king's bell, to the same point. While I was out there by the
wood, that beautiful sunset through the trees, I thought of Byron's and the
bell story, and the notion started in me that I was having a happy hour.
(Though perhaps my best moments I never jot down; when they come I
cannot afford to break the charm by inditing memoranda. I just abandon
myself to the mood, and let it float on, carrying me in its placid extasy.)
What is happiness, anyhow? Is this one of its hours, or the like of it?—so
impalpable—a mere breath, an evanescent tinge? I am not sure—so let me
give myself the benefit of the doubt. Hast Thou, pellucid, in Thy azure
depths, medicine for case like mine? (Ah, the physical shatter and troubled
spirit of me the last three years.) And dost Thou subtly mystically now drip
it through the air invisibly upon me?
Night of Oct. 28.—The heavens unusually transparent—the stars out by
myriads—the great path of the Milky Way, with its branch, only seen of
very clear nights—Jupiter, setting in the west, looks like a huge hap-hazard
splash, and has a little star for companion.

Clothed in his white garments,
Into the round and clear arena slowly entered the brahmin,
Holding a little child by the hand,
Like the moon with the planet Jupiter in a cloudless night-sky.

Old Hindu Poem.

Early in November.—At its farther end the lane already described opens
into a broad grassy upland field of over twenty acres, slightly sloping to the
south. Here I am accustom'd to walk for sky views and effects, either
morning or sundown. To-day from this field my soul is calm'd and
expanded beyond description, the whole forenoon by the clear blue arching
over all, cloudless, nothing particular, only sky and daylight. Their soothing
accompaniments, autumn leaves, the cool dry air, the faint aroma—crows
cawing in the distance—two great buzzards wheeling gracefully and slowly
far up there—the occasional murmur of the wind, sometimes quite gently,
then threatening through the trees—a gang of farm-laborers loading
cornstalks in a field in sight, and the patient horses waiting.

COLORS—A CONTRAST

Such a play of colors and lights, different seasons, different hours of the
day—the lines of the far horizon where the faint-tinged edge of the
landscape loses itself in the sky. As I slowly hobble up the lane toward day-
close, an incomparable sunset shooting in molten sapphire and gold, shaft
after shaft, through the ranks of the long-leaved corn, between me and the
west. Another day—The rich dark green of the tulip-trees and the oaks, the
gray of the swamp-willows, the dull hues of the sycamores and black-
walnuts, the emerald of the cedars (after rain,) and the light yellow of the
beeches.

NOVEMBER 8, '76

The forenoon leaden and cloudy, not cold or wet, but indicating both. As
I hobble down here and sit by the silent pond, how different from the
excitement amid which, in the cities, millions of people are now waiting
news of yesterday's Presidential election, or receiving and discussing the
result—in this secluded place uncared-for, unknown.

CROWS AND CROWS

Nov. 14.—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 to-day 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.

A WINTER DAY ON THE SEA-BEACH

One bright December mid-day lately I spent down on the New Jersey
sea-shore, reaching it by a little more than an hour's railroad trip over the
old Camden and Atlantic. I had started betimes, fortified by nice strong
coffee and a good breakfast (cook'd by the hands I love, my dear sister
Lou's—how much better it makes the victuals taste, and then assimilate,
strengthen you, perhaps make the whole day comfortable afterwards.) Five
or six miles at the last, our track enter'd a broad region of salt grass
meadows, intersected by lagoons, and cut up everywhere by watery runs.
The sedgy perfume, delightful to my nostrils, reminded me of "the mash"
and south bay of my native island. I could have journey'd contentedly till
night through these flat and odorous sea-prairies. From half-past 11 till 2 I
was nearly all the time along the beach, or in sight of the ocean, listening to
its hoarse murmur, and 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 themselves,
confidentially,) for somebody to appear, or start up out of the earth, or from
behind some tree or rock? Is it a lingering, inherited remains of man's
primitive wariness, from the wild animals? or from his savage ancestry far
back? It is not at all nervousness or fear. Seems as if something unknown
were possibly lurking in those bushes, or solitary places. Nay, it is quite
certain there is—some vital unseen presence.

AN AFTERNOON SCENE

Feb. 22.—Last night and to-day rainy and thick, till mid-afternoon, when
the wind chopp'd round, the clouds swiftly drew off like curtains, the clear
appear'd, and with it the fairest, grandest, most wondrous rainbow I ever

saw, all complete, very vivid at its earth-ends, spreading vast effusions of
illuminated haze, violet, yellow, drab-green, in all directions overhead,
through which the sun beam'd—an indescribable utterance of color and
light, so gorgeous yet so soft, such as I had never witness'd before. Then its
continuance: a full hour pass'd before the last of those earth-ends
disappear'd. The sky behind was all spread in translucent blue, with many
little white clouds and edges. To these a sunset, filling, dominating the
esthetic and soul senses, sumptuously, tenderly, full. I end this note by the
pond, just light enough to see, through the evening shadows, the western
reflections in its water-mirror surface, with inverted figures of trees. I hear
now and then the flup of a pike leaping out, and rippling the water.

THE GATES OPENING

April 6.—Palpable spring indeed, or the indications of it. I am sitting in
bright sunshine, at the edge of the creek, the surface just rippled by the
wind. All is solitude, morning freshness, negligence. For companions my
two kingfishers sailing, winding, darting, dipping, sometimes capriciously
separate, then flying together. I hear their guttural twittering again and
again; for awhile nothing but that peculiar sound. As noon approaches other
birds warm up. The reedy notes of the robin, and a musical passage of two
parts, one a clear delicious gurgle, with several other birds I cannot place.
To which is join'd, (yes, I just hear it,) one low purr at intervals from some
impatient hylas at the pond-edge. The sibilant murmur of a pretty stiff
breeze now and then through the trees. Then a poor little dead leaf, long
frost-bound, whirls from somewhere up aloft in one wild escaped freedom-
spree in space and sunlight, and then dashes down to the waters, which hold
it closely and soon drown it out of sight. The bushes and trees are yet bare,
but the beeches have their wrinkled yellow leaves of last season's foliage
largely left, frequent cedars and pines yet green, and the grass not without
proofs of coming fullness. And over all a wonderfully fine dome of clear
blue, the play of light coming and going, and great fleeces of white clouds
swimming so silently.

THE COMMON EARTH, THE SOIL

The soil, too—let others pen-and-ink the sea, the air, (as I sometimes try)
—but now I feel to choose the common soil for theme—naught else. The
brown soil here, (just between winter-close and opening spring and
vegetation)—the rain-shower at night, and the fresh smell next morning—
the red worms wriggling out of the ground—the dead leaves, the incipient
grass, and the latent life underneath—the effort to start something—already
in shelter'd spots some little flowers—the distant emerald show of winter
wheat and the rye-fields—the yet naked trees, with clear insterstices, giving
prospects hidden in summer—the tough fallow and the plow-team, and the
stout boy whistling to his horses for encouragement—and there the dark fat
earth in long slanting stripes upturn'd.

BIRDS AND BIRDS AND BIRDS

A little later—bright weather.—An unusual melodiousness, these days,
(last of April and first of May) from the blackbirds; indeed all sorts of birds,
darting, whistling, hopping or perch'd on trees. Never before have I seen,
heard, or been in the midst of, and got so flooded and saturated with them
and their performances, as this current month. Such oceans, such
successions of them. Let me make a list of those I find here:
Black birds (plenty,) Meadow-larks (plenty,) Ring doves, Cat-birds
(plenty,) Owls, Cuckoos, Woodpeckers, Pond snipes (plenty,) King-birds,
Cheewinks, Crows (plenty,) Quawks, Wrens, Ground robins, Kingfishers,
Ravens, Quails, Gray snipes, Turkey-buzzards, Eagles, Hen-hawks, High-
holes, Yellow birds, Herons, Thrushes, Tits, Reed birds, Woodpigeons.
Early came the
Blue birds, Meadow-lark, Killdeer, White-bellied swallow, Plover,
Sandpiper, Robin, Wilson's thrush, Woodcock, Flicker.

FULL-STARR'D NIGHTS

May 2l.—Back in Camden. Again commencing one of those unusually
transparent, full-starr'd, blue-black nights, as if to show that however lush
and pompous the day may be, there is something left in the not-day that can
outvie it. The rarest, finest sample of long-drawn-out clear-obscure, from
sundown to 9 o'clock. I went down to the Delaware, and cross'd and cross'd.

Venus like blazing silver well up in the west. The large pale thin crescent of
the new moon, half an hour high, sinking languidly under a bar-sinister of
cloud, and then emerging. Arcturus right overhead. A faint fragrant sea-odor
wafted up from the south. The gloaming, the temper'd coolness, with every
feature of the scene, indescribably soothing and tonic—one of those hours
that give hints to the soul, impossible to put in a statement. (Ah, where
would be any food for spirituality without night and the stars?) The vacant
spaciousness of the air, and the veil'd blue of the heavens, seem'd miracles
enough.
As the night advanc'd it changed its spirit and garments to ampler
stateliness. I was almost conscious of a definite presence, Nature silently
near. The great constellation of the Water-Serpent stretch'd its coils over
more than half the heavens. The Swan with outspread wings was flying
down the Milky Way. The northern Crown, the Eagle, Lyra, all up there in
their places. From the whole dome shot down points of light, rapport with
me, through the clear blue-black. All the usual sense of motion, all animal
life, seem'd discarded, seem'd a fiction; a curious power, like the placid rest
of Egyptian gods, took possession, none the less potent for being
impalpable. Earlier I had seen many bats, balancing in the luminous
twilight, darting their black forms hither and yon over the river; but now
they altogether disappear'd. The evening star and the moon had gone.
Alertness and peace lay camly couching together through the fluid universal
shadows.
Aug. 26.—Bright has the day been, and my spirits an equal forzando.
Then comes the night, different, inexpressibly pensive, with its own tender
and temper'd splendor. Venus lingers in the west with a voluptuous dazzle
unshown hitherto this summer. Mars rises early, and the red sulky moon,
two days past her full; Jupiter at night's meridian, and the long curling-
slanted Scorpion stretching full view in the south, Aretus-neck'd. Mars
walks the heavens lord-paramount now; all through this month I go out
after supper and watch for him; sometimes getting up at midnight to take
another look at his unparallel'd lustre. (I see lately an astronomer has made
out through the new Washington telescope that Mars has certainly one
moon, perhaps two.) Pale and distant, but near in the heavens, Saturn
precedes him.

MULLEINS AND MULLEINS

Large, placid mulleins, as summer advances, velvety in texture, of a light
greenish-drab color, growing everywhere in the fields—at first earth's big
rosettes in their broad-leav'd low cluster-plants, eight, ten, twenty leaves to
a plant—plentiful on the fallow twenty-acre lot, at the end of the lane, and
especially by the ridge-sides of the fences—then close to the ground, but
soon springing up—leaves as broad as my hand, and the lower ones twice
as long—so fresh and dewy in the morning—stalks now four or five, even
seven or eight feet high. The farmers, I find, think the mullein a mean
unworthy weed, but I have grown to a fondness for it. Every object has its
lesson, enclosing the suggestion of everything else—and lately I sometimes
think all is concentrated for me in these hardy, yellow-flower'd weeds. As I
come down the lane early in the morning, I pause before their soft wool-like
fleece and stem and broad leaves, glittering with countless diamonds.
Annually for three summers now, they and I have silently return'd together;
at such long intervals I stand or sit among them, musing—and woven with
the rest, of so many hours and moods of partial rehabilitation—of my sane
or sick spirit, here as near at peace as it can be.

DISTANT SOUNDS

The axe of the wood-cutter, the measured thud of a single threshing-flail,
the crowing of chanticleer in the barn-yard, (with invariable responses from
other barn-yards,) and the lowing of cattle—but most of all, or far or near,
the wind—through the high tree-tops, or through low bushes, laving one's
face and hands so gently, this balmy-bright noon, the coolest for a long
time, (Sept. 2)—I will not call it sighing, for to me it is always a firm, sane,
cheery expression, through a monotone, giving many varieties, or swift or
slow, or dense or delicate. The wind in the patch of pine woods off there—
how sibilant. Or at sea, I can imagine it this moment, tossing the waves,
with spirits of foam flying far, and the free whistle, and the scent of the salt
—and that vast paradox somehow with all its action and restlessness
conveying a sense of eternal rest.
Other adjuncts.—But the sun and the moon here and these times. As
never more wonderful by day, the gorgeous orb imperial, so vast, so
ardently, lovingly hot—so never a more glorious moon of nights, especially

the last three or four. The great planets too—Mars never before so flaming
bright, so flashing-large, with slight yellow tinge, (the astronomers say—is
it true?—nearer to us than any time the past century)—and well up, lord
Jupiter, (a little while since close by the moon)—and in the west, after the
sun sinks, voluptuous Venus, now languid and shorn of her beams, as if
from some divine excess.

A SUN-BATH-NAKEDNESS

Sunday, Aug. 27.—Another day quite free from mark'd prostration and
pain. It seems indeed as if peace and nutriment from heaven subtly filter
into me as I slowly hobble down these country lanes and across fields, in
the good air—as I sit here in solitude with Nature—open, voiceless, mystic,
far removed, yet palpable, eloquent Nature. I merge myself in the scene, in
the perfect day. Hovering over the clear brook-water, I am sooth'd by its
soft gurgle in one place, and the hoarser murmurs of its three-foot fall in
another. Come, ye disconsolate, in whom any latent eligibility is left—come
get the sure virtues of creek-shore, and wood and field. Two months (July
and August, '77,) have I absorb'd them, and they begin to make a new man
of me. Every day, seclusion—every day at least two or three hours of
freedom, bathing, no talk, no bonds, no dress, no books, no manners.
Shall I tell you, reader, to what I attribute my already much-restored
health? That I have been almost two years, off and on, without drugs and
medicines, and daily in the open air. Last summer I found a particularly
secluded little dell off one side by my creek, originally a large dug-out
marl-pit, now abandon'd, fill'd, with bushes, trees, grass, a group of
willows, a straggling bank, and a spring of delicious water running right
through the middle of it, with two or three little cascades. Here I retreated
every hot day, and follow it up this summer. Here I realize the meaning of
that old fellow who said he was seldom less alone than when alone. Never
before did I get so close to Nature; never before did she come so close to
me. By old habit, I pencill'd down from time to time, almost automatically,
moods, sights, hours, tints and outlines, on the spot. Let me specially record
the satisfaction of this current forenoon, so serene and primitive, so
conventionally exceptional, natural.
An hour or so after breakfast I wended my way down to the recesses of
the aforesaid dell, which I and certain thrushes, cat-birds, &c., had all to

ourselves. A light south-west wind was blowing through the tree-tops. It
was just the place and time for my Adamic air-bath and flesh-brushing from
head to foot. So hanging clothes on a rail near by, keeping old broadbrim
straw on head and easy shoes on feet, havn't I had a good time the last two
hours! First with the stiff-elastic bristles rasping arms, breast, sides, till they
turn'd scarlet—then partially bathing in the clear waters of the running
brook—taking everything very leisurely, with many rests and pauses—
stepping about barefooted every few minutes now and then in some
neighboring black ooze, for unctuous mud-bath to my feet—a brief second
and third rinsing in the crystal running waters—rubbing with the fragrant
towel—slow negligent promenades on the turf up and down in the sun,
varied with occasional rests, and further frictions of the bristle-brush—
sometimes carrying my portable chair with me from place to place, as my
range is quite extensive here, nearly a hundred rods, feeling quite secure
from intrusion, (and that indeed I am not at all nervous about, if it
accidentally happens.)
As I walk'd slowly over the grass, the sun shone out enough to show the
shadow moving with me. Somehow I seem'd to get identity with each and
every thing around me, in its condition. Nature was naked, and I was also. It
was too lazy, soothing, and joyous-equable to speculate about. Yet I might
have thought somehow in this vein: Perhaps the inner never-lost rapport we
hold with earth, light, air, trees, &c., is not to be realized through eyes and
mind only, but through the whole corporeal body, which I will not have
blinded or bandaged any more than the eyes. Sweet, sane, still Nakedness in
Nature!—ah if poor, sick, prurient humanity in cities might really know you
once more! Is not nakedness then indecent? No, not inherently. It is your
thought, your sophistication, your tear, your respectability, that is indecent.
There come moods when these clothes of ours are not only too irksome to
wear, but are themselves indecent. Perhaps indeed he or she to whom the
free exhilarating extasy of nakedness in Nature has never been eligible (and
how many thousands there are!) has not really known what purity is—nor
what faith or art or health really is. (Probably the whole curriculum of first-
class philosophy, beauty, heroism, form, illustrated by the old Hellenic race
—the highest height and deepest depth known to civilization in those
departments—came from their natural and religious idea of Nakedness.)
Many such hours, from time to time, the last two summers—I attribute
my partial rehabilitation largely to them. Some good people may think it a

feeble or half-crack'd way of spending one's time and thinking. May-be it is.

THE OAKS AND I

Sept. 5, '77.—I write this, 11 A.M., shelter'd under a dense oak by the
bank, where I have taken refuge from a sudden rain. I came down here, (we
had sulky drizzles all the morning, but an hour ago a lull,) for the before-
mention'd daily and simple exercise I am fond of—to pull on that young
hickory sapling out there—to sway and yield to its tough-limber upright
stem—haply to get into my old sinews some of its elastic fibre and clear
sap. I stand on the turf and take these health-pulls moderately and at
intervals for nearly an hour, inhaling great draughts of fresh air. Wandering
by the creek, I have three or four naturally favorable spots where I rest—
besides a chair I lug with me and use for more deliberate occasions. At
other spots convenient I have selected, besides the hickory just named,
strong and limber boughs of beech or holly, in easy-reaching distance, for
my natural gymnasia, for arms, chest, trunk-muscles. I can soon feel the sap
and sinew rising through me, like mercury to heat. I hold on boughs or
slender trees caressingly there in the sun and shade, wrestle with their
innocent stalwartness—and know the virtue thereof passes from them into
me. (Or may-be we interchange—may-be the trees are more aware of it all
than I ever thought.)
But now pleasantly imprison'd here under the big oak—the rain dripping,
and the sky cover'd with leaden clouds—nothing but the pond on one side,
and the other a spread of grass, spotted with the milky blossoms of the wild
carrot—the sound of an axe wielded at some distant wood-pile—yet in this
dull scene, (as most folks would call it,) why am I so (almost) happy here
and alone? Why would any intrusion, even from people I like, spoil the
charm? But am I alone? Doubtless there comes a time—perhaps it has come
to me—when one feels through his whole being, and pronouncedly the
emotional part, that identity between himself subjectively and Nature
objectively which Schelling and Fichte are so fond of pressing. How it is I
know not, but I often realize a presence here—in clear moods I am certain
of it, and neither chemistry nor reasoning nor esthetics will give the least
explanation. All the past two summers it has been strengthening and
nourishing my sick body and soul, as never before. Thanks, invisible

physician, for thy silent delicious medicine, thy day and night, thy waters
and thy airs, the banks, the grass, the trees, and e'en the weeds!

A QUINTETTE

While I have been kept by the rain under the shelter of my great oak,
(perfectly dry and comfortable, to the rattle of the drops all around,) I have
pencill'd off the mood of the hour in a little quintette, which I will give you:

At vacancy with Nature,
Acceptive and at ease,
Distilling the present hour,
Whatever, wherever it is,
And over the past, oblivion.

Can you get hold of it, reader dear? and how do you like it anyhow?

THE FIRST FROST—MEMS

Where I was stopping I saw the first palpable frost, on my sunrise walk,
October 6; all over the yet-green spread a light blue-gray veil, giving a new
show to the entire landscape. I had but little time to notice it, for the sun
rose cloudless and mellow-warm, and as I returned along the lane it had
turn'd to glittering patches of wet. As I walk I notice the bursting pods of
wild-cotton, (Indian hemp they call it here,) with flossy-silky contents, and
dark red-brown seeds—a startled rabbit—I pull a handful of the balsamic
life-ever-lasting and stuff it down in my trowsers-pocket for scent.

THREE YOUNG MEN'S DEATHS

December 20.—Somehow I got thinking to-day of young men's deaths—
not at all sadly or sentimentally, but gravely, realistically, perhaps a little
artistically. Let me give the following three cases from budgets of personal
memoranda, which I have been turning over, alone in my room, and
resuming and dwelling on, this rainy afternoon. Who is there to whom the
theme does not come home? Then I don't know how it may be to others, but
to me not only is there nothing gloomy or depressing in such cases—on the
contrary, as reminiscences, I find them soothing, bracing, tonic.

ERASTUS HASKELL.—{I just transcribe verbatim from a letter written
by myself in one of the army hospitals, 16 years ago, during the secession
war.} Washington, July 28, 1863.—Dear M.,—I am writing this in the
hospital, sitting by the side of a soldier, I do not expect to last many hours.
His fate has been a hard one—he seems to be only about 19 or 20—Erastus
Haskell, company K, 141st N. Y.—has been out about a year, and sick or
half-sick more than half that time—has been down on the peninsula—was
detail'd to go in the band as fifer-boy. While sick, the surgeon told him to
keep up with the rest—(probably work'd and march'd too long.) He is a shy,
and seems to me a very sensible boy—has fine manners—never complains
—was sick down on the peninsula in an old storehouse—typhoid fever. The
first week this July was brought up here—journey very bad, no
accommodations, no nourishment, nothing but hard jolting, and exposure
enough to make a well man sick; (these fearful journeys do the job for
many)—arrived here July 11th—a silent dark-skinn'd Spanish-looking
youth, with large very dark blue eyes, peculiar looking. Doctor F. here made
light of his sickness—said he would recover soon, etc.; but I thought very
different, and told F. so repeatedly; (I came near quarreling with him about
it from the first)—but he laugh'd, and would not listen to me. About four
days ago, I told Doctor he would in my opinion lose the boy without doubt
—but F. again laugh'd at me. The next day he changed his opinion—
brought the head surgeon of the post—he said the boy would probably die,
but they would make a hard fight for him.
The last two days he has been lying panting for breath—a pitiful sight. I
have been with him some every day or night since he arrived. He suffers a
great deal with the heat—says little or nothing—is flighty the last three
days, at times—knows me always, however—calls me "Walter"—
(sometimes calls the name over and over and over again, musingly,
abstractedly, to himself.) His father lives at Breesport, Chemung county, N.
Y., is a mechanic with large family—is a steady, religious man; his mother
too is living. I have written to them, and shall write again to-day—Erastus
has not receiv'd a word from home for months.
As I sit here writing to you, M., I wish you could see the whole scene.
This young man lies within reach of me, flat on his back, his hands clasp'd
across his breast, his thick black hair cut close; he is dozing, breathing hard,
every breath a spasm—it looks so cruel. He is a noble youngster,—I

consider him past all hope. Often there is no one with him for a long while.
I am here as much as possible.
WILLIAM ALCOTT, fireman. Camden, Nov., 1874.—Last Monday
afternoon his widow, mother, relatives, mates of the fire department, and his
other friends, (I was one, only lately it is true, but our love grew fast and
close, the days and nights of those eight weeks by the chair of rapid decline,
and the bed of death,) gather'd to the funeral of this young man, who had
grown up, and was well-known here. With nothing special, perhaps, to
record, I would give a word or two to his memory. He seem'd to me not an
inappropriate specimen in character and elements, of that bulk of the
average good American race that ebbs and flows perennially beneath this
scum of eructations on the surface. Always very quiet in manner, neat in
person and dress, good temper'd—punctual and industrious at his work, till
he could work no longer—he just lived his steady, square, unobtrusive life,
in its own humble sphere, doubtless unconscious of itself. (Though I think
there were currents of emotion and intellect undevelop'd beneath, far deeper
than his acquaintances ever suspected—or than he himself ever did.) He
was no talker. His troubles, when he had any, he kept to himself. As there
was nothing querulous about him in life, he made no complaints during his
last sickness. He was one of those persons that while his associates never
thought of attributing any particular talent or grace to him, yet all
insensibly, really, liked Billy Alcott.
I, too, loved him. At last, after being with him quite a good deal—after
hours and days of panting for breath, much of the time unconscious, (for
though the consumption that had been lurking in his system, once
thoroughly started, made rapid progress, there was still great vitality in him,
and indeed for four or five days he lay dying, before the close,) late on
Wednesday night, Nov. 4th, where we surrounded his bed in silence, there
came a lull—a longer drawn breath, a pause, a faint sigh—another—a
weaker breath, another sigh—a pause again and just a tremble—and the
face of the poor wasted young man (he was just 26,) fell gently over, in
death, on my hand, on the pillow.
CHARLES CASWELL.—{I extract the following, verbatim, from a
letter to me dated September 29, from my friend John Burroughs, at
Esopus-on-Hudson, New York State.} S. was away when your picture
came, attending his sick brother, Charles—who has since died—an event

that has sadden'd me much. Charlie was younger than S., and a most
attractive young fellow. He work'd at my father's and had done so for two
years. He was about the best specimen of a young country farm-hand I ever
knew. You would have loved him. He was like one of your poems. With his
great strength, his blond hair, his cheerfulness and contentment, his
universal good will, and his silent manly ways, he was a youth hard to
match. He was murder'd by an old doctor. He had typhoid fever, and the old
fool bled him twice. He lived to wear out the fever, but had not strength to
rally. He was out of his head nearly all the time. In the morning, as he died
in the afternoon, S. was standing over him, when Charlie put up his arms
around S.'s neck, and pull'd his face down and kiss'd him. S. said he knew
then the end was near. (S. stuck to him day and night to the last.) When I
was home in August, Charlie was cradling on the hill, and it was a picture to
see him walk through the grain. All work seem'd play to him. He had no
vices, any more than Nature has, and was belov'd by all who knew him.
I have written thus to you about him, for such young men belong to you;
he was of your kind. I wish you could have known him. He had the
sweetness of a child, and the strength and courage and readiness of a young
Viking. His mother and father are poor; they have a rough, hard farm. His
mother works in the field with her husband when the work presses. She has
had twelve children.

FEBRUARY DAYS

February 7, 1878.—Glistening sun today, with slight haze, warm
enough, and yet tart, as I sit here in the open air, down in my country
retreat, under an old cedar. For two hours I have been idly wandering
around the woods and pond, lugging my chair, picking out choice spots to
sit awhile—then up and slowly on again. All is peace here. Of course, none
of the summer noises or vitality; to-day hardly even the winter ones. I
amuse myself by exercising my voice in recitations, and in ringing the
changes on all the vocal and alphabetical sounds. Not even an echo; only
the cawing of a solitary crow, flying at some distance. The pond is one
bright, flat spread, without a ripple—a vast Claude Lorraine glass, in which
I study the sky, the light, the leafless trees, and an occasional crow, with
flapping wings, flying overhead. The brown fields have a few white patches
of snow left.

Feb. 9.—After an hour's ramble, now retreating, resting, sitting close by
the pond, in a warm nook, writing this, shelter'd from the breeze, just before
noon. The emotional aspects and influences of Nature! I, too, like the rest,
feel these modern tendencies (from all the prevailing intellections, literature
and poems,) to turn everything to pathos, ennui, morbidity, dissatisfaction,
death. Yet how clear it is to me that those are not the born results, influences
of Nature at all, but of one's own distorted, sick or silly soul. Here, amid
this wild, free scene, how healthy, how joyous, how clean and vigorous and
sweet!
Mid-afternoon.—One of my nooks is south of the barn, and here I am
sitting now, on a log, still basking in the sun, shielded from the wind. Near
me are the cattle, feeding on corn-stalks. Occasionally a cow or the young
bull (how handsome and bold he is!) scratches and munches the far end of
the log on which I sit. The fresh milky odor is quite perceptible, also the
perfume of hay from the barn. The perpetual rustle of dry corn-stalks, the
low sough of the wind round the barn gables, the grunting of pigs, the
distant whistle of a locomotive, and occasional crowing of chanticleers, are
the sounds.
Feb. 19.—Cold and sharp last night—clear and not much wind—the full
moon shining, and a fine spread of constellations and little and big stars—
Sirius very bright, rising early, preceded by many-orb'd Orion, glittering,
vast, sworded, and chasing with his dog. The earth hard frozen, and a stiff
glare of ice over the pond. Attracted by the calm splendor of the night, I
attempted a short walk, but was driven back by the cold. Too severe for me
also at 9 o'clock, when I came out this morning, so I turn'd back again. But
now, near noon, I have walk'd down the lane, basking all the way in the sun
(this farm has a pleasant southerly exposure,) and here I am, seated under
the lee of a bank, close by the water. There are bluebirds already flying
about, and I hear much chirping and twittering and two or three real songs,
sustain'd quite awhile, in the mid-day brilliance and warmth. (There! that is
a true carol, coming out boldly and repeatedly, as if the singer meant it.)
Then as the noon strengthens, the reedy trill of the robin—to my ear the
most cheering of bird-notes. At intervals, like bars and breaks (out of the
low murmur that in any scene, however quiet, is never entirely absent to a
delicate ear,) the occasional crunch and cracking of the ice-glare congeal'd
over the creek, as it gives way to the sunbeams—sometimes with low sigh
—sometimes with indignant, obstinate tug and snort.

(Robert Burns says in one of his letters: "There is scarcely any earthly
object gives me more—I do not know if I should call it pleasure—but
something which exalts me—something which enraptures me—than to
walk in the shelter' d side of a wood in a cloudy winter day, and hear the
stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my
best season of devotion." Some of his most characteristic poems were
composed in such scenes and seasons.)

A MEADOW LARK

March 16.—Fine, clear, dazzling morning, the sun an hour high, the air
just tart enough. What a stamp in advance my whole day receives from the
song of that meadow lark perch'd on a fence-stake twenty rods distant! Two
or three liquid-simple notes, repeated at intervals, full of careless happiness
and hope. With its peculiar shimmering slow progress and rapid-noiseless
action of the wings, it flies on a way, lights on another stake, and so on to
another, shimmering and singing many minutes.

SUNDOWN LIGHTS

May 6, 5 P. M.—This is the hour for strange effects in light and shade-
enough to make a colorist go delirious—long spokes of molten silver sent
horizontally through the trees (now in their brightest tenderest green,) each
leaf and branch of endless foliage a lit-up miracle, then lying all prone on
the youthful-ripe, interminable grass, and giving the blades not only
aggregate but individual splendor, in ways unknown to any other hour. I
have particular spots where I get these effects in their perfection. One broad
splash lies on the water, with many a rippling twinkle, offset by the rapidly
deepening black-green murky-transparent shadows behind, and at intervals
all along the banks. These, with great shafts of horizontal fire thrown
among the trees and along the grass as the sun lowers, give effects more and
more peculiar, more and more superb, unearthly, rich and dazzling.

THOUGHTS UNDER AN OAK—A DREAM

June 2.—This is the fourth day of a dark northeast storm, wind and rain.
Day before yesterday was my birthday. I have now enter'd on my 60th year.

Every day of the storm, protected by overshoes and a waterproof blanket, I
regularly come down to the pond, and ensconce myself under the lee of the
great oak; I am here now writing these lines. The dark smoke-color'd clouds
roll in furious silence athwart the sky; the soft green leaves dangle all
around me; the wind steadily keeps up its hoarse, soothing music over my
head—Nature's mighty whisper. Seated here in solitude I have been musing
over my life—connecting events, dates, as links of a chain, neither sadly
nor cheerily, but somehow, to-day here under the oak, in the rain, in an
unusually matter-of-fact spirit.
But my great oak—sturdy, vital, green-five feet thick at the butt. I sit a
great deal near or under him. Then the tulip tree near by—the Apollo of the
woods—tall and graceful, yet robust and sinewy, inimitable in hang of
foliage and throwing-out of limb; as if the beauteous, vital, leafy creature
could walk, if it only would. (I had a sort of dream-trance the other day, in
which I saw my favorite trees step out and promenade up, down and
around, very curiously—with a whisper from one, leaning down as he
pass'd me, We do all this on the present occasion, exceptionally, just for
you.)

CLOVER AND HAY PERFUME

July 3d, 4th, 5th.—Clear, hot, favorable weather—has been a good
summer—the growth of clover and grass now generally mow'd. The
familiar delicious perfume fills the barns and lanes. As you go along you
see the fields of grayish white slightly tinged with yellow, the loosely
stack'd grain, the slow-moving wagons passing, and farmers in the fields
with stout boys pitching and loading the sheaves. The corn is about
beginning to tassel. All over the middle and southern states the spear-shaped
battalia, multitudinous, curving, flaunting—long, glossy, dark-green plumes
for the great horseman, earth. I hear the cheery notes of my old
acquaintance Tommy quail; but too late for the whip-poor-will, (though I
heard one solitary lingerer night before last.) I watch the broad majestic
flight of a turkey-buzzard, sometimes high up, sometimes low enough to
see the lines of his form, even his spread quills, in relief against the sky.
Once or twice lately I have seen an eagle here at early candle-light flying
low.

AN UNKNOWN

June 15.—To-day I noticed a new large bird, size of a nearly grown hen
—a haughty, white-bodied dark-wing'd hawk—I suppose a hawk from his
bill and general look—only he had a clear, loud, quite musical, sort of bell-
like call, which he repeated again and again, at intervals, from a lofty dead
tree-top, overhanging the water. Sat there a long time, and I on the opposite
bank watching him. Then he darted down, skimming pretty close to the
stream—rose slowly, a magnificent sight, and sail'd with steady wide-
spread wings, no flapping at all, up and down the pond two or three times,
near me, in circles in clear sight, as if for my delectation. Once he came
quite close over my head; I saw plainly his hook'd bill and hard restless
eyes.

BIRD-WHISTLING

How much music (wild, simple, savage, doubtless, but so tart-sweet,)
there is in mere whistling. It is four-fifths of the utterance of birds. There
are all sorts and styles. For the last half-hour, now, while I have been sitting
here, some feather'd fellow away off in the bushes has been repeating over
and over again what I may call a kind of throbbing whistle. And now a bird
about the robin size has just appear'd, all mulberry red, flitting among the
bushes—head, wings, body, deep red, not very bright—no song, as I have
heard. 4. o'clock: There is a real concert going on around me—a dozen
different birds pitching in with a will. There have been occasional rains, and
the growths all show its vivifying influences. As I finish this, seated on a
log close by the pond-edge, much chirping and trilling in the distance, and a
feather'd recluse in the woods near by is singing deliciously—not many
notes, but full of music of almost human sympathy—continuing for a long,
long while.

HORSE-MINT

Aug. 22.—Not a human being, and hardly the evidence of one, in sight.
After my brief semi-daily bath, I sit here for a bit, the brook musically
brawling, to the chromatic tones of a fretful cat-bird somewhere off in the
bushes. On my walk hither two hours since, through fields and the old lane,

I stopt to view, now the sky, now the mile-off woods on the hill, and now
the apple orchards. What a contrast from New York's or Philadelphia's
streets! Everywhere great patches of dingy-blossom'd horse-mint wafting a
spicy odor through the air, (especially evenings.) Everywhere the flowering
boneset, and the rose-bloom of the wild bean.

THREE OF US

July 14.—My two kingfishers still haunt the pond. In the bright sun and
breeze and perfect temperature of to-day, noon, I am sitting here by one of
the gurgling brooks, dipping a French water-pen in the limpid crystal, and
using it to write these lines, again watching the feather'd twain, as they fly
and sport athwart the water, so close, almost touching into its surface.
Indeed there seem to be three of us. For nearly an hour I indolently look and
join them while they dart and turn and take their airy gambols, sometimes
far up the creek disappearing for a few moments, and then surely returning
again, and performing most of their flight within sight of me, as if they
knew I appreciated and absorb'd their vitality, spirituality, faithfulness, and
the rapid, vanishing, delicate lines of moving yet quiet electricity they draw
for me across the spread of the grass, the trees, and the blue sky. While the
brook babbles, babbles, and the shadows of the boughs dapple in the
sunshine around me, and the cool west-by-nor'-west wind faintly soughs in
the thick bushes and tree tops.
Among the objects of beauty and interest now beginning to appear quite
plentifully in this secluded spot, I notice the humming-bird, the dragon-fly
with its wings of slate-color'd guaze, and many varieties of beautiful and
plain butterflies, idly flapping among the plants and wild posies. The
mullein has shot up out of its nest of broad leaves, to a tall stalk towering
sometimes five or six feet high, now studded with knobs of golden
blossoms. The milk-weed, (I see a great gorgeous creature of gamboge and
black lighting on one as I write,) is in flower, with its delicate red fringe;
and there are profuse clusters of a feathery blossom waving in the wind on
taper stems. I see lots of these and much else in every direction, as I saunter
or sit. For the last half hour a bird has persistently kept up a simple, sweet,
melodious song, from the bushes. (I have a positive conviction that some of
these birds sing, and others fly and flirt about here for my special benefit.)

DEATH OF WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

New York City.—Came on from West Philadelphia, June 13, in the 2 P.
M. train to Jersey City, and so across and to my friends, Mr. and Mrs. J. H.
J., and their large house, large family (and large hearts,) amid which I feel
at home, at peace—away up on Fifth avenue, near Eighty-sixth street, quiet,
breezy, overlooking the dense woody fringe of the park—plenty of space
and sky, birds chirping, and air comparatively fresh and odorless. Two
hours before starting, saw the announcement of William Cullen Bryant's
funeral, and felt a strong desire to attend. I had known Mr. Bryant over
thirty years ago, and he had been markedly kind to me. Off and on, along
that time for years as they pass'd, we met and chatted together. I thought
him very sociable in his way, and a man to become attach'd to. We were
both walkers, and when I work'd in Brooklyn he several times came over,
middle of afternoons, and we took rambles miles long, till dark, out towards
Bedford or Flatbush, in company. On these occasions he gave me clear
accounts of scenes in Europe—the cities, looks, architecture, art, especially
Italy—where he had travel'd a good deal.
June 14.—The Funeral.—And so the good, stainless, noble old citizen
and poet lies in the closed coffin there—and this is his funeral. A solemn,
impressive, simple scene, to spirit and senses. The remarkable gathering of
gray heads, celebrities—the finely render'd anthem, and other music—the
church, dim even now at approaching noon, in its light from the mellow-
stain'd windows-the pronounc'd eulogy on the bard who loved Nature so
fondly, and sung so well her shows and seasons—ending with these
appropriate well-known lines:

I gazed upon the glorious sky,
And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came to lie
At rest within the ground,
'Twere pleasant that in flowery June,
When brooks send up a joyous tune,
And groves a cheerful sound,
The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich green mountain turf should break.

JAUNT UP THE HUDSON

June 20th.—On the "Mary Powell," enjoy'd everything beyond
precedent. The delicious tender summer day, just warm enough—the
constantly changing but ever beautiful panorama on both sides of the river
—(went up near a hundred miles)—the high straight walls of the stony
Palisades—beautiful Yonkers, and beautiful Irvington—the never-ending
hills, mostly in rounded lines, swathed with verdure,—the distant turns, like
great shoulders in blue veils—the frequent gray and brown of the tall-rising
rocks—the river itself, now narrowing, now expanding—the white sails of
the many sloops, yachts, &c., some near, some in the distance—the rapid
succession of handsome villages and cities, (our boat is a swift traveler, and
makes few stops)—the Race—picturesque West Point, and indeed all along
—the costly and often turreted mansions forever showing in some cheery
light color, through the woods—make up the scene.

HAPPINESS AND RASPBERRIES

June 21.—Here I am, on the west bank of the Hudson, 80 miles north of
New York, near Esopus, at the handsome, roomy, honeysuckle-and-rose-
enbower'd cottage of John Burroughs. The place, the perfect June days and
nights, (leaning toward crisp and cool,) the hospitality of J. and Mrs. B., the
air, the fruit, (especially my favorite dish, currants and raspberries, mixed,
sugar'd, fresh and ripe from the bushes—I pick 'em myself)—the room I
occupy at night, the perfect bed, the window giving an ample view of the
Hudson and the opposite shores, so wonderful toward sunset, and the
rolling music of the RR. trains, far over there—the peaceful rest—the early
Venus-heralded dawn—the noiseless splash of sunrise, the light and warmth
indescribably glorious, in which, (soon as the sun is well up,) I have a
capital rubbing and rasping with the flesh-brush—with an extra scour on the
back by Al. J., who is here with us—all inspiriting my invalid frame with
new life, for the day. Then, after some whiffs of morning air, the delicious
coffee of Mrs. B., with the cream, strawberries, and many substantials, for
breakfast.

A SPECIMEN TRAMP FAMILY

June 22.—This afternoon we went out (J. B., Al. and I) on quite a drive
around the country. The scenery, the perpetual stone fences, (some

venerable old fellows, dark-spotted with lichens)—the many fine locust-
trees—the runs of brawling water, often over descents of rock—these, and
lots else. It is lucky the roads are first-rate here, (as they are,) for it is up or
down hill everywhere, and sometimes steep enough. B. has a tip-top horse,
strong, young, and both gentle and fast. There is a great deal of waste land
and hills on the river edge of Ulster county, with a wonderful luxuriance of
wild flowers and bushes—and it seems to me I never saw more vitality of
trees—eloquent hemlocks, plenty of locusts and fine maples, and the balm
of Gilead, giving out aroma. In the fields and along the road-sides unusual
crops of the tall-stemm'd wild daisy, white as milk and yellow as gold.
We pass'd quite a number of tramps, singly or in couples—one squad, a
family in a rickety one-horse wagon, with some baskets evidently their
work and trade—the man seated on a low board, in front, driving—the
gauntish woman by his side, with a baby well bundled in her arms, its little
red feet and lower legs sticking out right towards us as we pass'd—and in
the wagon behind, we saw two (or three) crouching little children. It was a
queer, taking, rather sad picture. If I had been alone and on foot, I should
have stopp'd and held confab. But on our return nearly two hours afterward,
we found them a ways further along the same road, in a lonesome open
spot, haul'd aside, unhitch'd, and evidently going to camp for the night. The
freed horse was not far off, quietly cropping the grass. The man was busy at
the wagon, the boy had gather'd some dry wood, and was making a fire—
and as we went a little further we met the woman afoot. I could not see her
face, in its great sun-bonnet, but somehow her figure and gait told misery,
terror, destitution. She had the rag-bundled, half-starv'd infant still in her
arms, and in her hands held two or three baskets, which she had evidently
taken to the next house for sale. A little barefoot five-year old girl-child,
with fine eyes, trotted behind her, clutching her gown. We stopp'd, asking
about the baskets, which we bought. As we paid the money, she kept her
face hidden in the recesses of her bonnet. Then as we started, and stopp'd
again, Al., (whose sympathies were evidently arous'd,) went back to the
camping group to get another basket. He caught a look of her face, and
talk'd with her a little. Eyes, voice and manner were those of a corpse,
animated by electricity. She was quite young—the man she was traveling
with, middle-aged. Poor woman—what story was it, out of her fortunes, to
account for that inexpressibly scared way, those glassy eyes, and that
hollow voice?

MANHATTAN FROM THE BAY

June 25.—Returned to New York last night. Out to-day on the waters for
a sail in the wide bay, southeast of Staten island—a rough, tossing ride, and
a free sight—the long stretch of Sandy Hook, the highlands of Navesink,
and the many vessels outward and inward bound. We came up through the
midst of all, in the full sun. I especially enjoy'd the last hour or two. A
moderate sea-breeze had set in; yet over the city, and the waters adjacent,
was a thin haze, concealing nothing, only adding to the beauty. From my
point of view, as I write amid the soft breeze, with a sea-temperature, surely
nothing on earth of its kind can go beyond this show. To the left the North
river with its far vista—nearer, three or four war-ships, anchor'd peacefully
—the Jersey side, the banks of Weehawken, the Palisades, and the gradually
receding blue, lost in the distance—to the right the East river—the mast-
hemm'd shores—the grand obelisk-like towers of the bridge, one on either
side, in haze, yet plainly defin'd, giant brothers twain, throwing free
graceful interlinking loops high across the tumbled tumultuous current
below—(the tide is just changing to its ebb)—the broad water-spread
everywhere crowded—no, not crowded, but thick as stars in the sky—with
all sorts and sizes of sail and steam vessels, plying ferry-boats, arriving and
departing coasters, great ocean Dons, iron-black, modern, magnificent in
size and power, fill'd with their incalculable value of human life and
precious merchandise—with here and there, above all, those daring,
careening things of grace and wonder, those white and shaded swift-darting
fish-birds, (I wonder if shore or sea elsewhere can outvie them,) ever with
their slanting spars, and fierce, pure, hawk-like beauty and motion—first-
class New York sloop or schooner yachts, sailing, this fine day, the free sea
in a good wind. And rising out of the midst, tall-topt, ship-hemm'd, modern,
American, yet strangely oriental, V-shaped Manhattan, with its compact
mass, its spires, its cloud-touching edifices group'd at the centre—the green
of the trees, and all the white, brown and gray of the architecture well
blended, as I see it, under a miracle of limpid sky, delicious light of heaven
above, and June haze on the surface below.

HUMAN AND HEROIC NEW YORK

The general subjective view of New York and Brooklyn—(will not the
time hasten when the two shall be municipally united in one, and named
Manhattan?)—what I may call the human interior and exterior of these
great seething oceanic populations, as I get it in this visit, is to me best of
all. After an absence of many years, (I went away at the outbreak of the
secession war, and have never been back to stay since,) again I resume with
curiosity the crowds, the streets, I knew so well, Broadway, the ferries, the
west side of the city, democratic Bowery—human appearances and manners
as seen in all these, and along the wharves, and in the perpetual travel of the
horse-cars, or the crowded excursion steamers, or in Wall and Nassau
streets by day—in the places of amusement at night—bubbling and
whirling and moving like its own environment of waters—endless humanity
in all phases—Brooklyn also—taken in for the last three weeks. No need to
specify minutely—enough to say that (making all allowances for the
shadows and side-streaks of a million-headed-city) the brief total of the
impressions, the human qualities, of these vast cities, is to me comforting,
even heroic, beyond statement. Alertness, generally fine physique, clear
eyes that look straight at you, a singular combination of reticence and self-
possession, with good nature and friendliness—a prevailing range of
according manners, taste and intellect, surely beyond any elsewhere upon
earth—and a palpable outcropping of that personal comradeship I look
forward to as the subtlest, strongest future hold of this many-item'd Union
—are not only constantly visible here in these mighty channels of men, but
they form the rule and average. To-day, I should say—defiant of cynics and
pessimists, and with a full knowledge of all their exceptions—an
appreciative and perceptive study of the current humanity of New York
gives the directest proof yet of successful Democracy, and of the solution of
that paradox, the eligibility of the free and fully developed individual with
the paramount aggregate. In old age, lame and sick, pondering for years on
many a doubt and danger for this republic of ours—fully aware of all that
can be said on the other side—I find in this visit to New York, and the daily
contact and rapport with its myriad people, on the scale of the oceans and
tides, the best, most effective medicine my soul has yet partaken—the
grandest physical habitat and surroundings of land and water the globe
affords—namely, Manhattan island and Brooklyn, which the future shall
join in one city—city of superb democracy, amid superb surroundings.

HOURS FOR THE SOUL

July 22d, 1878.—Living down in the country again. A wonderful
conjunction of all that goes to make those sometime miracle-hours after
sunset—so near and yet so far. Perfect, or nearly perfect days, I notice, are
not so very uncommon; but the combinations that make perfect nights are
few, even in a life time. We have one of those perfections to-night. Sunset
left things pretty clear; the larger stars were visible soon as the shades
allow'd. A while after 8, three or four great black clouds suddenly rose,
seemingly from different points, and sweeping with broad swirls of wind
but no thunder, underspread the orbs from view everywhere, and indicated a
violent heatstorm. But without storm, clouds, blackness and all, sped and
vanish'd as suddenly as they had risen; and from a little after 9 till 11 the
atmosphere and the whole show above were in that state of exceptional
clearness and glory just alluded to. In the northwest turned the Great Dipper
with its pointers round the Cynosure. A little south of east the constellation
of the Scorpion was fully up, with red Antares glowing in its neck; while
dominating, majestic Jupiter swam, an hour and a half risen, in the east—
(no moon till after 11.) A large part of the sky seem'd just laid in great
splashes of phosphorus. You could look deeper in, farther through, than
usual; the orbs thick as heads of wheat in a field. Not that there was any
special brilliancy either—nothing near as sharp as I have seen of keen
winter nights, but a curious general luminousness throughout to sight,
sense, and soul. The latter had much to do with it. (I am convinced there are
hours of Nature, especially of the atmosphere, mornings and evenings,
address'd to the soul. Night transcends, for that purpose, what the proudest
day can do.) Now, indeed, if never before, the heavens declared the glory of
God. It was to the full sky of the Bible, of Arabia, of the prophets, and of
the oldest poems. There, in abstraction and stillness, (I had gone off by
myself to absorb the scene, to have the spell unbroken,) the copiousness, the
removedness, vitality, loose-clear-crowdedness, of that stellar concave
spreading overhead, softly absorb'd into me, rising so free, interminably
high, stretching east, west, north, south—and I, though but a point in the
centre below, embodying all.
As if for the first time, indeed, creation noiselessly sank into and through
me its placid and untellable lesson, beyond—O, so infinitely beyond!—
anything from art, books, sermons, or from science, old or new. The spirit's

hour—religion's hour—the visible suggestion of God in space and time—
now once definitely indicated, if never again. The untold pointed at—the
heavens all paved with it. The Milky Way, as if some superhuman
symphony, some ode of universal vagueness, disdaining syllable and sound
—a flashing glance of Deity, address'd to the soul. All silently—the
indescribable night and stars—far off and silently.
THE DAWN.—July 23.—This morning, between one and two hours
before sunrise, a spectacle wrought on the same background, yet of quite
different beauty and meaning. The moon well up in the heavens, and past
her half, is shining brightly—the air and sky of that cynical-clear, Minerva-
like quality, virgin cool—not the weight of sentiment or mystery, or
passion's ecstasy indefinable—not the religious sense, the varied All,
distill'd and sublimated into one, of the night just described. Every star now
clear-cut, showing for just what it is, there in the colorless ether. The
character of the heralded morning, ineffably sweet and fresh and limpid, but
for the esthetic sense alone, and for purity without sentiment. I have
itemized the night—but dare I attempt the cloudless dawn? (What subtle tie
is this between one's soul and the break of day? Alike, and yet no two nights
or morning shows ever exactly alike.) Preceded by an immense star, almost
unearthly in its effusion of white splendor, with two or three long unequal
spoke-rays of diamond radiance, shedding down through the fresh morning
air below—an hour of this, and then the sunrise.
THE EAST.—What a subject for a poem! Indeed, where else a more
pregnant, more splendid one? Where one more idealistic-real, more subtle,
more sensuous-delicate? The East, answering all lands, all ages, peoples;
touching all senses, here, immediate, now—and yet so indescribably far off
—such retrospect! The East—long-stretching—so losing itself—the orient,
the gardens of Asia, the womb of history and song—forth-issuing all those
strange, dim cavalcades—Florid with blood, pensive, rapt with musings, hot
with passion. Sultry with perfume, with ample and flowing garment. With
sunburnt visage, intense soul and glittering eyes. Always the East—old,
how incalculably old! And yet here the same—ours yet, fresh as a rose, to
every morning, every life, to-day—and always will be.
Sept. 17. Another presentation—same theme—just before sunrise again,
(a favorite hour with me.) The clear gray sky, a faint glow in the dull liver-
color of the east, the cool fresh odor and the moisture—the cattle and horses

off there grazing in the fields—the star Venus again, two hours high. For
sounds, the chirping of crickets in the grass, the clarion of chanticleer, and
the distant cawing of an early crow. Quietly over the dense fringe of cedars
and pines rises that dazzling, red, transparent disk of flame, and the low
sheets of white vapor roll and roll into dissolution.
THE MOON.—May 18.—I went to bed early last night, but found
myself waked shortly after 12, and, turning awhile, sleepless and mentally
feverish, I rose, dress'd myself, sallied forth and walk'd down the lane. The
full moon, some three or four hours up—a sprinkle of light and less-light
clouds just lazily moving—Jupiter an hour high in the east, and here and
there throughout the heavens a random star appearing and disappearing. So
beautifully veiled and varied—the air, with that early-summer perfume, not
at all damp or raw—at times Luna languidly emerging in richest brightness
for minutes, and then partially envelop'd again. Far off a poor whip-poor-
will plied his notes incessantly. It was that silent time between 1 and 3.
The rare nocturnal scene, how soon it sooth'd and pacified me! Is there
not something about the moon, some relation or reminder, which no poem
or literature has yet caught? (In very old and primitive ballads I have come
across lines or asides that suggest it.) After a while the clouds mostly
clear'd, and as the moon swam on, she carried, shimmering and shifting,
delicate color-effects of pellucid green and tawny vapor. Let me conclude
this part with an extract, (some writer in the "Tribune," May 16, 1878):

No one ever gets tired of the moon. Goddess that she is by dower of
her eternal beauty, she is a true woman by her tact—knows the charm
of being seldom seen, of coming by surprise and staying but a little
while; never wears the same dress two nights running, nor all night
the same way; commends herself to the matter-of-fact people by her
usefulness, and makes her uselessness adored by poets, artists, and
all lovers in all lands; lends herself to every symbolism and to
every emblem; is Diana's bow and Venus's mirror and Mary's throne;
is a sickle, a scarf, an eyebrow, his face or her face, and look'd
at by her or by him; is the madman's hell, the poet's heaven, the
baby's toy, the philosopher's study; and while her admirers follow
her footsteps, and hang on her lovely looks, she knows how to keep
her woman's secret—her other side—unguess'd and unguessable.

Furthermore. February 19, 1880.—Just before 10 P.M. cold and entirely
clear again, the show overhead, bearing southwest, of wonderful and
crowded magnificence. The moon in her third quarter—the clusters of the
Hyades and Pleiades, with the planet Mars between—in full crossing sprawl
in the sky the great Egyptian X, (Sirius, Procyon, and the main stars in the

constellations of the Ship, the Dove, and of Orion;) just north of east
Bootes, and in his knee Arcturus, an hour high, mounting the heaven,
ambitiously large and sparkling, as if he meant to challenge with Sirius the
stellar supremacy.
With the sentiment of the stars and moon such nights I get all the free
margins and indefiniteness of music or poetry, fused in geometry's utmost
exactness.

STRAW-COLOR'D AND OTHER PSYCHES

Aug. 4.—A pretty sight! Where I sit in the shade—a warm day, the sun
shining from cloudless skies, the forenoon well advanc'd—I look over a
ten-acre field of luxuriant clover-hay, (the second crop)—the livid-ripe red
blossoms and dabs of August brown thickly spotting the prevailing dark-
green. Over all flutter myriads of light-yellow butterflies, mostly skimming
along the surface, dipping and oscillating, giving a curious animation to the
scene. The beautiful, spiritual insects! straw-color'd Psyches! Occasionally
one of them leaves his mates, and mounts, perhaps spirally, perhaps in a
straight line in the air, fluttering up, up, till literally out of sight. In the lane
as I came along just now I noticed one spot, ten feet square or so, where
more than a hundred had collected, holding a revel, a gyration-dance, or
butterfly good-time, winding and circling, down and across, but always
keeping within the limits. The little creatures have come out all of a sudden
the last few days, and are now very plentiful. As I sit outdoors, or walk, I
hardly look around without somewhere seeing two (always two) fluttering
through the air in amorous dalliance. Then their inimitable color, their
fragility, peculiar motion—and that strange, frequent way of one leaving the
crowd and mounting up, up in the free ether, and apparently never
returning. As I look over the field, these yellow-wings everywhere mildly
sparkling, many snowy blossoms of the wild carrot gracefully bending on
their tall and taper stems—while for sounds, the distant guttural screech of a
flock of guinea-hens comes shrilly yet somehow musically to my ears. And
now a faint growl of heat-thunder in the north—and ever the low rising and
falling wind-purr from the tops of the maples and willows.
Aug. 20.—Butterflies and butterflies, (taking the place of the bumble-
bees of three months since, who have quite disappear'd,) continue to flit to
and fro, all sorts, white, yellow, brown, purple—now and then some

gorgeous fellow flashing lazily by on wings like artists' palettes dabb'd with
every color. Over the breast of the pond I notice many white ones, crossing,
pursuing their idle capricious flight. Near where I sit grows a tall-stemm'd
weed topt with a profusion of rich scarlet blossoms, on which the snowy
insects alight and dally, sometimes four or five of them at a time. By-and-by
a humming-bird visits the same, and I watch him coming and going,
daintily balancing and shimmering about. These white butterflies give new
beautiful contrasts to the pure greens of the August foliage, (we have had
some copious rains lately,) and over the glistening bronze of the pond-
surface. You can tame even such insects; I have one big and handsome moth
down here, knows and comes to me, likes me to hold him up on my
extended hand.
Another Day, later.—A grand twelve-acre field of ripe cabbages with
their prevailing hue of malachite green, and floating-flying over and among
them in all directions myriads of these same white butterflies. As I came up
the lane to-day I saw a living globe of the same, two or three feet in
diameter, many scores cluster'd together and rolling along in the air,
adhering to their ball-shape, six or eight feet above the ground.

A NIGHT REMEMBRANCE

Aug. 23, 9-10 A.M.—I sit by the pond, everything quiet, the broad
polish'd surface spread before me—the blue of the heavens and the white
clouds reflected from it—and flitting across, now and then, the reflection of
some flying bird. Last night I was down here with a friend till after
midnight; everything a miracle of splendor—the glory of the stars, and the
completely rounded moon—the passing clouds, silver and luminous-tawny
—now and then masses of vapory illuminated scud—and silently by my
side my dear friend. The shades of the trees, and patches of moonlight on
the grass—the softly blowing breeze, and just-palpable odor of the
neighboring ripening corn—the indolent and spiritual night, inexpressibly
rich, tender, suggestive—something altogether to filter through one's soul,
and nourish and feed and soothe the memory long afterwards.

WILD FLOWERS

This has been and is yet a great season for wild flowers; oceans of them
line the roads through the woods, border the edges of the water-runlets,
grow all along the old fences, and are scatter'd in profusion over the fields.
An eight-petal'd blossom of gold-yellow, clear and bright, with a brown tuft
in the middle, nearly as large as a silver half-dollar, is very common;
yesterday on a long drive I noticed it thickly lining the borders of the
brooks everywhere. Then there is a beautiful weed cover'd with blue
flowers, (the blue of the old Chinese teacups treasur'd by our grand-aunts,) I
am continually stopping to admire—a little larger than a dime, and very
plentiful. White, however, is the prevailing color. The wild carrot I have
spoken of; also the fragrant life-everlasting. But there are all hues and
beauties, especially on the frequent tracts of half-opened scrub-oak and
dwarf cedar hereabout—wild asters of all colors. Notwithstanding the frost-
touch the hardy little chaps maintain themselves in all their bloom. The
tree-leaves, too, some of them are beginning to turn yellow or drab or dull
green. The deep wine-color of the sumachs and gum-treesis already visible,
and the straw-color of the dog-wood and beech. Let me give the names of
some of these perennial blossoms and friendly weeds I have made
acquaintance with hereabout one season or another in my walks:
Wild azalea, dandelions wild honeysuckle, yarrow, wild roses, coreopsis,
golden rod, wild pea, larkspur, woodbine, early crocus, elderberry, sweet
flag, (great patches of it,) poke-weed, creeper, trumpet-flower, sun-flower,
scented marjoram, chamomile, snakeroot, violets, Solomon's seal, clematis,
sweet balm, bloodroot mint, (great plenty,) swamp magnolia, wild
geranium, milk-weed, wild heliotrope, wild daisy, (plenty,) burdock, wild
chrysanthemum.

A CIVILITY TOO LONG NEGLECTED

The foregoing reminds me of something.
As the individualities I would mainly portray have certainly been slighted
by folks who make pictures, volumes, poems, out of them—as a faint
testimonial of my own gratitude for many hours of peace and comfort in
half-sickness, (and not by any means sure but they will somehow get wind
of the compliment,) I hereby dedicate the last half of these Specimen Days
to the

bees, glow-worms, (swarming millions
black-birds, of them indescribably
dragon-flies, strange and beautiful at night
pond-turtles, over the pond and creek,)
mulleins, tansy, peppermint, water-snakes,
moths, (great and little, some crows,
splendid fellows,) millers,
mosquitoes, cedars,
butterflies, tulip-trees, (and all other trees,)
wasps and hornets, and to the spots and memories
cat-birds, (and all other birds,) of those days, and the creek.

DELAWARE RIVER—DAYS AND NIGHTS

April 5, 1879.-With the return of spring to the skies, airs, waters of the
Delaware, return the sea-gulls. I never tire of watching their broad and easy
flight, in spirals, or as they oscillate with slow unflapping wings, or look
down with curved beak, or dipping to the water after food. The crows,
plenty enough all through the winter, have vanish'd with the ice. Not one of
them now to be seen. The steamboats have again come forth—bustling up,
handsome, freshly painted, for summer work—the Columbia, the Edwin
Forrest, (the Republic not yet out,) the Reybold, Nelly White, the Twilight,
the Ariel, the Warner, the Perry, the Taggart, the Jersey Blue—even the
hulky old Trenton—not forgetting those saucy little bull-pups of the current,
the steamtugs.
But let me bunch and catalogue the affair—the river itself, all the way
from the sea—Cape island on one side and Henlopen light on the other—up
the broad bay north, and so to Philadelphia, and on further to Trenton;—the
sights I am most familiar with, (as I live a good part of the time in Camden,
I view matters from that outlook)—the great arrogant, black, full-freighted
ocean steamers, inward or outward bound—the ample width here between
the two cities, intersected by Windmill island—an occasional man-of-war,
sometimes a foreigner, at anchor, with her guns and port-holes, and the
boats, and the brown-faced sailors, and the regular oar-strokes, and the gay
crowds of "visiting day"—the frequent large and handsome three-masted
schooners, (a favorite style of marine build, hereabout of late years,) some
of them new and very jaunty, with their white-gray sails and yellow pine
spars—the sloops dashing along in a fair wind—(I see one now, coming up,
under broad canvas, her gaff-topsail shining in the sun, high and
picturesque—what a thing of beauty amid the sky and waters!)—the

crowded wharf-slips along the city—the flags of different nationalities, the
sturdy English cross on its ground of blood, the French tricolor, the banner
of the great North German empire, and the Italian and the Spanish colors—
sometimes, of an afternoon, the whole scene enliven'd by a fleet of yachts,
in a half calm, lazily returning from a race down at Gloucester;—the neat,
rakish, revenue steamer "Hamilton" in mid-stream, with her perpendicular
stripes flaunting aft—and, turning the eyes north, the long ribands of fleecy-
white steam, or dingy-black smoke, stretching far, fan-shaped, slanting
diagonally across from the Kensington or Richmond shores, in the west-by-
south-west wind.

SCENES ON FERRY AND RIVER—LAST WINTER'S
NIGHTS

Then the Camden ferry. What exhilaration, change, people, business, by
day. What soothing, silent, wondrous hours, at night, crossing on the boat,
most all to myself—pacing the deck, alone, forward or aft. What
communion with the waters, the air, the exquisite chiaroscuro—the sky and
stars, that speak no word, nothing to the intellect, yet so eloquent, so
communicative to the soul. And the ferry men—little they know how much
they have been to me, day and night—how many spells of listlessness,
ennui, debility, they and their hardy ways have dispell'd. And the pilots—
captains Hand, Walton, and Giberson by day, and captain Olive at night;
Eugene Crosby, with his strong young arm so often supporting, circling,
convoying me over the gaps of the bridge, through impediments, safely
aboard. Indeed all my ferry friends—captain Frazee the superintendent,
Lindell, Hiskey, Fred Rauch, Price, Watson, and a dozen more. And the
ferry itself, with its queer scenes—sometimes children suddenly born in the
waiting-houses (an actual fact—and more than once)—sometimes a
masquerade party, going over at night, with a band of music, dancing and
whirling like mad on the broad deck, in their fantastic dresses; sometimes
the astronomer, Mr. Whitall, (who posts me up in points about the stars by a
living lesson there and then, and answering every question)—sometimes a
prolific family group, eight, nine, ten, even twelve! (Yesterday, as I cross'd,
a mother, father, and eight children, waiting in the ferry-house, bound
westward somewhere.)

I have mention'd the crows. I always watch them from the boats. They
play quite a part in the winter scenes on the river, by day. Their black
splatches are seen in relief against the snow and ice everywhere at that
season—sometimes flying and flapping—sometimes on little or larger
cakes, sailing up or down the stream. One day the river was mostly clear—
only a single long ridge of broken ice making a narrow stripe by itself,
running along down the current for over a mile, quite rapidly. On this white
stripe the crows were congregated, hundreds of them—a funny procession
—("half mourning" was the comment of some one.)
Then the reception room, for passengers waiting—life illustrated
thoroughly. Take a March picture I jotted there two or three weeks since.
Afternoon, about 3-1/2 o'clock, it begins to snow. There has been a matinee
performance at the theater—from 4-1/2 to 5 comes a stream of homeward
bound ladies. I never knew the spacious room to present a gayer, more
lively scene—handsome, well-drest Jersey women and girls, scores of
them, streaming in for nearly an hour—the bright eyes and glowing faces,
coming in from the air—a sprinkling of snow on bonnets or dresses as they
enter—the five or ten minutes' waiting—the chatting and laughing—
(women can have capital times among themselves, with plenty of wit,
lunches, jovial abandon)—Lizzie, the pleasant-manner'd waiting-room
woman—for sound, the bell-taps and steam-signals of the departing boats
with their rhythmic break and undertone—the domestic pictures, mothers
with bevies of daughters, (a charming sight)—children, countrymen—the
railroad men in their blue clothes and caps—all the various characters of
city and country represented or suggested. Then outside some belated
passenger frantically running, jumping after the boat. Towards six o' clock
the human stream gradually thickening—now a pressure of vehicles, drays,
piled railroad crates—now a drove of cattle, making quite an excitement,
the drovers with heavy sticks, belaboring the steaming sides of the
frighten'd brutes. Inside the reception room, business bargains, flirting,
love-making, eclaircissements, proposals—pleasant, sober-faced Phil
coming in with his burden of afternoon papers—or Jo, or Charley (who
jump'd in the dock last week, and saved a stout lady from drowning,) to
replenish the stove, and clearing it with long crow-bar poker.
Besides all this "comedy human," the river affords nutriment of a higher
order. Here are some of my memoranda of the past winter, just as pencill'd
down on the spot.

A January Night.—Fine trips across the wide Delaware to-night. Tide
pretty high, and a strong ebb. River, a little after 8, full of ice, mostly
broken, but some large cakes making our strong-timber'd steamboat hum
and quiver as she strikes them. In the clear moonlight they spread, strange,
unearthly, silvery, faintly glistening, as far as I can see. Bumping,
trembling, sometimes hissing like a thousand snakes, the tide-procession, as
we wend with or through it, affording a grand undertone, in keeping with
the scene. Overhead, the splendor indescribable; yet something haughty,
almost supercilious, in the night. Never did I realize more latent sentiment,
almost passion, in those silent interminable stars up there. One can
understand, such a night, why, from the days of the Pharaohs or Job, the
dome of heaven, sprinkled with planets, has supplied the subtlest, deepest
criticism on human pride, glory, ambition.
Another Winter Night.—I don't know anything more filling than to be on
the wide firm deck of a powerful boat, a clear, cool, extra-moonlight night,
crushing proudly and resistlessly through this thick, marbly, glistening ice.
The whole river is now spread with it—some immense cakes. There is such
weirdness about the scene—partly the quality of the light, with its tinge of
blue, the lunar twilight—only the large stars holding their own in the
radiance of the moon. Temperature sharp, comfortable for motion, dry, full
of oxygen. But the sense of power—the steady, scornful, imperious urge of
our strong new engine, as she ploughs her way through the big and little
cakes.
Another.—For two hours I cross'd and recross'd, merely for pleasure—
for a still excitement. Both sky and river went through several changes. The
first for awhile held two vast fan-shaped echelons of light clouds, through
which the moon waded, now radiating, carrying with her an aureole of
tawny transparent brown, and now flooding the whole vast with clear
vapory light-green, through which, as through an illuminated veil, she
moved with measur'd womanly motion. Then, another trip, the heavens
would be absolutely clear, and Luna in all her effulgence. The big Dipper in
the north, with the double star in the handle much plainer than common.
Then the sheeny track of light in the water, dancing and rippling. Such
transformations; such pictures and poems, inimitable.
Another.—I am studying the stars, under advantages, as I cross tonight.
(It is late in February, and again extra clear.) High toward the west, the

Pleiades, tremulous with delicate sparkle, in the soft heavens,—Aldebaran,
leading the V-shaped Hyades—and overhead Capella and her kids. Most
majestic of all, in full display in the high south, Orion, vast-spread, roomy,
chief historian of the stage, with his shiny yellow rosette on his shoulder,
and his three kings—and a little to the east, Sirius, calmly arrogant, most
wondrous single star. Going late ashore, (I couldn't give up the beauty, and
soothingness of the night,) as I staid around, or slowly wander'd I heard the
echoing calls of the railroad men in the West Jersey depot yard, shifting and
switching trains, engines, etc.; amid the general silence otherways, and
something in the acoustic quality of the air, musical, emotional effects,
never thought of before. I linger'd long and long, listening to them.
Night of March 18, '79.—One of the calm, pleasantly cool, exquisitely
clear and cloudless, early spring nights—the atmosphere again that rare
vitreous blue-black, welcom'd by astronomers. Just at 8, evening, the scene
overhead of certainly solemnest beauty, never surpass'd. Venus nearly down
in the west, of a size and lustre as if trying to outshow herself, before
departing. Teeming, maternal orb—I take you again to myself. I am
reminded of that spring preceding Abraham Lincoln's murder, when I,
restlessly haunting the Potomac banks, around Washington city, watch'd
you, off there, aloof, moody as myself:

As we walk'd up and down in the dark blue so mystic,
As we walk'd in silence the transparent shadowy night,
As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after
night,
As you droop from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the
other stars all look'd on,)
As we wander'd together the solemn night.

With departing Venus, large to the last, and shining even to the edge of
the horizon, the vast dome presents at this moment, such a spectacle!
Mercury was visible just after sunset—a rare sight. Arcturus is now risen,
just north of east. In calm glory all the stars of Orion hold the place of
honor, in meridian, to the south,—with the Dog-star a little to the left. And
now, just rising, Spica, late, low, and slightly veil'd. Castor, Regulus and the
rest, all shining unusually clear, (no Mars or Jupiter or moon till morning.)
On the edge of the river, many lamps twinkling—with two or three huge
chimneys, a couple of miles up, belching forth molten, steady flames,
volcano-like, illuminating all around—and sometimes an electric or
calcium, its Dante-Inferno gleams, in far shafts, terrible, ghastly-powerful.

Of later May nights, crossing, I like to watch the fishermen's little buoy-
lights—so pretty, so dreamy—like corpse candles—undulating delicate and
lonesome on the surface of the shadowy waters, floating with the current.

THE FIRST SPRING DAY ON CHESTNUT STREET

Winter relaxing its hold, has already allow'd us a foretaste of spring. As I
write, yesterday afternoon's softness and brightness, (after the morning fog,
which gave it a better setting, by contrast,) show'd Chestnut street—say
between Broad and Fourth—to more advantage in its various asides, and all
its stores, and gay-dress'd crowds generally, than for three months past. I
took a walk there between one and two. Doubtless, there were plenty of
hard-up folks along the pavements, but nine-tenths of the myriad-moving
human panorama to all appearance seem'd flush, well-fed, and fully-
provided. At all events it was good to be on Chestnut street yesterday. The
peddlers on the sidewalk—("sleeve-buttons, three for five cents")—the
handsome little fellow with canary-bird whistles—the cane men, toy men,
toothpick men—the old woman squatted in a heap on the cold stone flags,
with her basket of matches, pins and tape—the young negro mother, sitting,
begging, with her two little coffee-color'd twins on her lap—the beauty of
the cramm'd conservatory of rare flowers, flaunting reds, yellows, snowy
lilies, incredible orchids, at the Baldwin mansion near Twelfth street—the
show of fine poultry, beef, fish, at the restaurants—the china stores, with
glass and statuettes—the luscious tropical fruits—the street cars plodding
along, with their tintinnabulating bells—the fat, cab-looking, rapidly driven
one-horse vehicles of the post-office, squeez'd full of coming or going
letter-carriers, so healthy and handsome and manly-looking, in their gray
uniforms—the costly books, pictures, curiosities, in the windows—the
gigantic policemen at most of the corners will all be readily remember'd and
recognized as features of this principal avenue of Philadelphia. Chestnut
street, I have discover'd, is not without individuality, and its own points,
even when compared with the great promenade-streets of other cities. I
have never been in Europe, but acquired years' familiar experience with
New York's, (perhaps the world's) great thoroughfare, Broadway, and
possess to some extent a personal and saunterer's knowledge of St. Charles
street in New Orleans, Tremont street in Boston, and the broad trottoirs of
Pennsylvania avenue in Washington. Of course it is a pity that Chestnut

were not two or three times wider; but the street, any fine day, shows
vividness, motion, variety, not easily to be surpass'd. (Sparkling eyes,
human faces, magnetism, well-dress'd women, ambulating to and fro—with
lots o fine things in the windows—are they not about the same, the civilized
world over?)

How fast the flitting figures come!
The mild, the fierce, the stony face;
Some bright with thoughtless smiles—and some
Where secret tears have left their trace.

A few days ago one of the six-story clothing stores along here had the
space inside its plate-glass show-window partition'd into a little corral, and
litter'd deeply with rich clover and hay, (I could smell the odor outside,) on
which reposed two magnificent fat sheep, full-sized but young—the
handsomest creatures of the kind I ever saw. I stop's long and long, with the
crowd, to view them—one lying down chewing the cud, and one standing
up, looking out, with dense-fringed patient eyes. Their wool, of a clear
tawny color, with streaks of glistening black—altogether a queer sight
amidst that crowded promenade of dandies, dollars and dry-goods.

UP THE HUDSON TO ULSTER COUNTY

April 23.—Off to New York on a little tour and visit. Leaving the
hospitable, home-like quarters of my valued friends, Mr. and Mrs. J. H.
Johnston—took the 4 P. M. boat, bound up the Hudson, 100 miles or so.
Sunset and evening fine. Especially enjoy'd the hour after we passed
Cozzens's landing—the night lit by the crescent moon and Venus, now
swimming in tender glory, and now hid by the high rocks and hills of the
western shore, which we hugg'd close. (Where I spend the next ten days is
in Ulster county and its neighborhood, with frequent morning and evening
drives, observations of the river, and short rambles.)
April 24—Noon.—A little more and the sun would be oppressive. The
bees are out gathering their bread from willows and other trees. I watch
them returning, darting through the air or lighting on the hives, their thighs
covered with the yellow forage. A solitary robin sings near. I sit in my shirt
sleeves and gaze from an open bay-window on the indolent scene—the thin
haze, the Fishkill hills in the distance—off on the river, a sloop with
slanting mainsail, and two or three little shad-boats. Over on the railroad

opposite, long freight trains, sometimes weighted by cylinder-tanks of
petroleum, thirty, forty, fifty cars in a string, panting and rumbling along in
full view, but the sound soften'd by distance.

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

April 26.—At sunrise, the pure clear sound of the meadow lark. An hour
later, some notes, few and simple, yet delicious and perfect, from the bush-
sparrow-towards noon the reedy trill of the robin. To-day is the fairest,
sweetest yet—penetrating warmth—a lovely veil in the air, partly heat-
vapor and partly from the turf-fires everywhere in patches on the farms. A
group of soft maples near by silently bursts out in crimson tips, buzzing all
day with busy bees. The white sails of sloops and schooners glide up and
down the river; and long trains of cars, with ponderous roll, or faint bell
notes, almost constantly on the opposite shore. The earliest wild flowers in
the woods and fields, spicy arbutus, blue liverwort, frail anemone, and the
pretty white blossoms of the bloodroot. I launch out in slow rambles,
discovering them. As I go along the roads I like to see the farmers' fires in
patches, burning the dry brush, turf, debris. How the smoke crawls along,
flat to the ground, slanting, slowly rising, reaching away, and at last
dissipating. I like its acrid smell—whiffs just reaching me—welcomer than
French perfume.
The birds are plenty; of any sort, or of two or three sorts, curiously, not a
sign, till suddenly some warm, gushing, sunny April (or even March) day—
lo! there they are, from twig to twig, or fence to fence, flirting, singing,
some mating, preparing to build. But most of them en passant—a fortnight,
a month in these parts, and then away. As in all phases, Nature keeps up her
vital, copious, eternal procession. Still, plenty of the birds hang around all
or most of the season—now their love-time, and era of nest-building. I find
flying over the river, crows, gulls and hawks. I hear the afternoon shriek of
the latter, darting about, preparing to nest. The oriole will soon be heard
here, and the twanging meoeow of the cat-bird; also the king-bird, cuckoo
and the warblers. All along, there are three peculiarly characteristic spring
songs—the meadow-lark's, so sweet, so alert and remonstrating (as if he
said, "don't you see?" or, "can't you understand?")—the cheery, mellow,
human tones of the robin—(I have been trying for years to get a brief term,

or phrase, that would identify and describe that robin call)—and the
amorous whistle of the high-hole. Insects are out plentifully at midday.
April 29.—As we drove lingering along the road we heard, just after
sundown, the song of the wood-thrush. We stopp'd without a word, and
listen'd long. The delicious notes—a sweet, artless, voluntary, simple
anthem, as from the flute-stops of some organ, wafted through the twilight
—echoing well to us from the perpendicular high rock, where, in some
thick young trees' recesses at the base, sat the bird—fill'd our senses, our
souls.

MEETING A HERMIT

I found in one of my rambles up the hills a real hermit, living in a
lonesome spot, hard to get at, rocky, the view fine, with a little patch of land
two rods square. A man of youngish middle age, city born and raised, had
been to school, had travel'd in Europe and California. I first met him once
or twice on the road, and pass'd the time of day, with some small talk; then,
the third time, he ask'd me to go along a bit and rest in his hut (an almost
unprecedented compliment, as I heard from others afterwards.) He was of
Quaker stock, I think; talk'd with ease and moderate freedom, but did not
unbosom his life, or story, or tragedy, or whatever it was.

AN ULSTER COUNTY WATERFALL

I jot this mem, in a wild scene of woods and hills, where we have come
to visit a waterfall. I never saw finer or more copious hemlocks, many of
them large, some old and hoary. Such a sentiment to them, secretive, shaggy
—what I call weather-beaten and let-alone—a rich underlay of ferns, yew
sprouts and mosses, beginning to be spotted with the early summer wild-
flowers. Enveloping all, the monotone and liquid gurgle from the hoarse
impetuous copious fall—the greenish-tawny, darkly transparent waters,
plunging with velocity down the rocks, with patches of milk-white foam—a
stream of hurrying amber, thirty feet wide, risen far back in the hills and
woods, now rushing with volume—every hundred rods a fall, and
sometimes three or four in that distance. A primitive forest, druidical,
solitary and savage—not ten visitors a year—broken rocks everywhere—

shade overhead, thick underfoot with leaves—a just palpable wild and
delicate aroma.

WALTER DUMONT AND HIS MEDAL

As I saunter'd along the high road yesterday, I stopp'd to watch a man
near by, ploughing a rough stony field with a yoke of oxen. Usually there is
much geeing and hawing, excitement, and continual noise and expletives,
about a job of this kind. But I noticed how different, how easy and
wordless, yet firm and sufficient, the work of this young ploughman. His
name was Walter Dumont, a farmer, and son of a farmer, working for their
living. Three years ago, when the steamer "Sunnyside" was wreck'd of a
bitter icy night on the west bank here, Walter went out in his boat—was the
first man on hand with assistance—made a way through the ice to shore,
connected a line, perform'd work of first-class readiness, daring, danger,
and saved numerous lives. Some weeks after, one evening when he was up
at Esopus, among the usual loafing crowd at the country store and post-
office, there arrived the gift of an unexpected official gold medal for the
quiet hero. The impromptu presentation was made to him on the spot, but
he blush'd, hesitated as he took it, and had nothing to say.

HUDSON RIVER SIGHTS

It was a happy thought to build the Hudson river railroad right along the
shore. The grade is already made by nature; you are sure of ventilation one
side—and you are in nobody's way. I see, hear, the locomotives and cars,
rumbling, roaring, flaming, smoking, constantly, away off there, night and
day—less than a mile distant, and in full view by day. I like both sight and
sound. Express trains thunder and lighten along; of freight trains, most of
them very long, there cannot be less than a hundred a day. At night far down
you see the headlight approaching, coming steadily on like a meteor. The
river at night has its special character-beauties. The shad fishermen go forth
in their boats and pay out their nets—one sitting forward, rowing, and one
standing up aft dropping it properly-marking the line with little floats
bearing candles, conveying, as they glide over the water, an indescribable
sentiment and doubled brightness. I like to watch the tows at night, too,
with their twinkling lamps, and hear the husky panting of the steamers; or

catch the sloops' and schooners' shadowy forms, like phantoms, white,
silent, indefinite, out there. Then the Hudson of a clear moonlight night.
But there is one sight the very grandest. Sometimes in the fiercest driving
storm of wind, rain, hail or snow, a great eagle will appear over the river,
now soaring with steady and now overbended wings—always confronting
the gale, or perhaps cleaving into, or at times literally sitting upon it. It is
like reading some first-class natural tragedy or epic, or hearing martial
trumpets. The splendid bird enjoys the hubbub—is adjusted and equal to it
—finishes it so artistically. His pinions just oscillating—the position of his
head and neck—his resistless, occasionally varied flight—now a swirl, now
an upward movement—the black clouds driving—the angry wash below—
the hiss of rain, the wind's piping (perhaps the ice colliding, grunting)—he
tacking or jibing—now, as it were, for a change, abandoning himself to the
gale, moving with it with such velocity—and now, resuming control, he
comes up against it, lord of the situation and the storm—lord, amid it, of
power and savage joy.
Sometimes (as at present writing,) middle of sunny afternoon, the old
"Vanderbilt" steamer stalking ahead—I plainly hear her rhythmic, slushing
paddles—drawing by long hawsers an immense and varied following string,
("an old sow and pigs," the river folks call it.) First comes a big barge, with
a house built on it, and spars towering over the roof; then canal boats, a
lengthen'd, clustering train, fasten'd and link'd together—the one in the
middle, with high staff, flaunting a broad and gaudy flag—others with the
almost invariable lines of new-wash'd clothes, drying; two sloops and a
schooner aside the tow—little wind, and that adverse—with three long,
dark, empty barges bringing up the rear. People are on the boats: men
lounging, women in sun-bonnets, children, stovepipes with streaming
smoke.

TWO CITY AREAS, CERTAIN HOURS

NEW YORK, May 24, '79.—Perhaps no quarters of this city (I have
return'd again for awhile,) make more brilliant, animated, crowded,
spectacular human presentations these fine May afternoons than the two I
am now going to describe from personal observation. First: that area
comprising Fourteenth street (especially the short range between Broadway
and Fifth avenue) with Union square, its adjacencies, and so retrostretching

down Broadway for half a mile. All the walks here are wide, and the spaces
ample and free—now flooded with liquid gold from the last two hours of
powerful sunshine. The whole area at 5 o'clock, the days of my
observations, must have contain'd from thirty to forty thousand finely-
dress'd people, all in motion, plenty of them good-looking, many beautiful
women, often youths and children, the latter in groups with their nurses—
the trottoirs everywhere close-spread, thick-tangled, (yet no collision, no
trouble,) with masses of bright color, action, and tasty toilets; (surely the
women dress better than ever before, and the men do too.) As if New York
would show these afternoons what it can do in its humanity, its choicest
physique and physiognomy, and its countless prodigality of locomotion, dry
goods, glitter, magnetism, and happiness.
Second: also from 5 to 7 P.M. the stretch of Fifth avenue, all the way
from the Central Park exits at Fifty-ninth street, down to Fourteenth,
especially along the high grade by Fortieth street, and down the hill. A
Mississippi of horses and rich vehicles, not by dozens and scores, but
hundreds and thousands—the broad avenue filled and cramm'd with them—
a moving, sparkling, hurrying crush, for more than two miles. (I wonder
they don't get block'd, but I believe they never do.) Altogether it is to me the
marvel sight of New York. I like to get in one of the Fifth avenue stages and
ride up, stemming the swift-moving procession. I doubt if London or Paris
or any city in the world can show such a carriage carnival as I have seen
here five or six times these beautiful May afternoons.

CENTRAL PARK WALKS AND TALKS

May 16 to 22.—I visit Central Park now almost every day, sitting, or
slowly rambling, or riding around. The whole place presents its very best
appearance this current month—the full flush of the trees, the plentiful
white and pink of the flowering shrubs, the emerald green of the grass
spreading everywhere, yellow dotted still with dandelions—the specialty of
the plentiful gray rocks, peculiar to these grounds, cropping out, miles and
miles—and over all the beauty and purity, three days out of four, of our
summer skies. As I sit, placidly, early afternoon, off against Ninetieth street,
the policeman, C. C., a well-form'd sandy-complexion'd young fellow,
comes over and stands near me. We grow quite friendly and chatty forth-
with. He is a New Yorker born and raised, and in answer to my questions

tells me about the life of a New York Park policeman, (while he talks
keeping his eyes and ears vigilantly open, occasionally pausing and moving
where he can get full views of the vistas of the road, up and down, and the
spaces around.) The pay is $2.40 a day (seven days to a week)—the men
come on and work eight hours straight ahead, which is all that is required of
them out of the twenty-four. The position has more risks than one might
suppose—for instance if a team or horse runs away (which happens daily)
each man is expected not only to be prompt, but to waive safety and stop
wildest nag or nags—(do it, and don't be thinking of your bones or face)—
give the alarm-whistle too, so that other guards may repeat, and the vehicles
up and down the tracks be warn'd. Injuries to the men are continually
happening. There is much alertness and quiet strength. (Few appreciate, I
have often thought, the Ulyssean capacity, derring do, quick readiness in
emergencies, practicality, unwitting devotion and heroism, among our
American young men and working-people—the firemen, the railroad
employes, the steamer and ferry men, the police, the conductors and drivers
—the whole splendid average of native stock, city and country.) It is good
work, though; and upon the whole, the Park force members like it. They see
life, and the excitement keeps them up. There is not so much difficulty as
might be supposed from tramps, roughs, or in keeping people "off the
grass." The worst trouble of the regular Park employé is from malarial
fever, chills, and the like.

A FINE AFTERNOON, 4 TO 6

Ten thousand vehicles careering through the Park this perfect afternoon.
Such a show! and I have seen all—watch'd it narrowly, and at my leisure.
Private barouches, cabs and coupés, some fine horseflesh—lapdogs,
footmen, fashions, foreigners, cockades on hats, crests on panels—the full
oceanic tide of New York's wealth and "gentility." It was an impressive,
rich, interminable circus on a grand scale, full of action and color in the
beauty of the day, under the clear sun and moderate breeze. Family groups,
couples, single drivers—of course dresses generally elegant—much "style,"
(yet perhaps little or nothing, even in that direction, that fully justified
itself.) Through the windows of two or three of the richest carriages I saw
faces almost corpse-like, so ashy and listless. Indeed the whole affair
exhibited less of sterling America, either in spirit or countenance, than I had

counted on from such a select mass-spectacle. I suppose, as a proof of
limitless wealth, leisure, and the aforesaid "gentility," it was tremendous.
Yet what I saw those hours (I took two other occasions, two other
afternoons to watch the same scene,) confirms a thought that haunts me
every additional glimpse I get of our top-loftical general or rather
exceptional phases of wealth and fashion in this country—namely, that they
are ill at ease, much too conscious, cased in too many cerements, and far
from happy—that there is nothing in them which we who are poor and plain
need at all envy, and that instead of the perennial smell of the grass and
woods and shores, their typical redolence is of soaps and essences, very rare
may be, but suggesting the barber shop—something that turns stale and
musty in a few hours anyhow.
Perhaps the show on the horseback road was prettiest. Many groups
(threes a favorite number,) some couples, some singly—many ladies—
frequently horses or parties dashing along on a full run—fine riding the rule
—a few really first-class animals. As the afternoon waned, the wheel'd
carriages grew less, but the saddle-riders seemed to increase. They linger'd
long—and I saw some charming forms and faces.

DEPARTING OF THE BIG STEAMERS

May 25.—A three hours' bay-trip from 12 to 3 this afternoon,
accompanying "the City of Brussels" down as far as the Narrows, in behoof
of some Europe-bound friends, to give them a good send off. Our spirited
little tug, the "Seth Low," kept close to the great black "Brussels,"
sometimes one side, sometimes the other, always up to her, or even pressing
ahead, (like the blooded pony accompanying the royal elephant.) The whole
affair, from the first, was an animated, quick-passing, characteristic New
York scene; the large, good-looking, well-dress'd crowd on the wharf-end—
men and women come to see their friends depart, and bid them God-speed
—the ship's sides swarming with passengers—groups of bronze-faced
sailors, with uniform' d officers at their posts—the quiet directions, as she
quickly unfastens and moves out, prompt to a minute—the emotional faces,
adieus and fluttering handkerchiefs, and many smiles and some tears on the
wharf—the answering faces, smiles, tears and fluttering handkerchiefs,
from the ship—(what can be subtler and finer than this play of faces on
such occasions in these responding crowds?—what go more to one's heart?)

—the proud, steady, noiseless cleaving of the grand oceaner down the bay
—we speeding by her side a few miles, and then turning, wheeling,—amid
a babel of wild hurrahs, shouted partings, ear-splitting steam whistles,
kissing of hands and waving of handkerchiefs.
This departing of the big steamers, noons or afternoons—there is no
better medicine when one is listless or vapory. I am fond of going down
Wednesdays and Saturdays—their more special days—to watch them and
the crowds on the wharves, the arriving passengers, the general bustle and
activity, the eager looks from the faces, the clear-toned voices, (a travel'd
foreigner, a musician, told me the other day she thinks an American crowd
has the finest voices in the world,) the whole look of the great, shapely
black ships themselves, and their groups and lined sides—in the setting of
our bay with the blue sky overhead. Two days after the above I saw the
"Britannic," the "Donau," the "Helvetia" and the "Schiedam" steam out, all
off for Europe—a magnificent sight.

TWO HOURS ON THE MINNESOTA

From 7 to 9, aboard the United States school-ship Minnesota, lying up
the North river. Captain Luce sent his gig for us about sundown, to the foot
of Twenty-third street, and receiv'd us aboard with officer-like hospitality
and sailor heartiness. There are several hundred youths on the Minnesota to
be train'd for efficiently manning the government navy. I like the idea
much; and, so far as I have seen to-night, I like the way it is carried out on
this huge vessel. Below, on the gun-deck, were gather'd nearly a hundred of
the boys, to give us some of their singing exercises, with a melodeon
accompaniment, play'd by one of their number. They sang with a will. The
best part, however, was the sight of the young fellows themselves. I went
over among them before the singing began, and talk'd a few minutes
informally. They are from all the States; I asked for the Southerners, but
could only find one, a lad from Baltimore. In age, apparently, they range
from about fourteen years to nineteen or twenty. They are all of American
birth, and have to pass a rigid medical examination; well-grown youths,
good flesh, bright eyes, looking straight at you, healthy, intelligent, not a
slouch among them, nor a menial—in every one the promise of a man. I
have been to many public aggregations of young and old, and of schools
and colleges, in my day, but I confess I have never been so near satisfied, so

comforted, (both from the fact of the school itself, and the splendid proof of
our country, our composite race, and the sample-promises of its good
average capacities, its future,) as in the collection from all parts of the
United States on this navy training ship. ("Are there going to be any men
there?" was the dry and pregnant reply of Emerson to one who had been
crowding him with the rich material statistics and possibilities of some
western or Pacific region.)
May 26.—Aboard the Minnesota again. Lieut. Murphy kindly came for
me in his boat. Enjoy'd specially those brief trips to and fro—the sailors,
tann'd, strong, so bright and able-looking, pulling their oars in long side-
swing, man-of-war style, as they row'd me across. I saw the boys in
companies drilling with small arms; had a talk with Chaplain Rawson. At
11 o'clock all of us gathered to breakfast around a long table in the great
ward room—I among the rest—a genial, plentiful, hospitable affair every
way—plenty to eat, and of the best; became acquainted with several new
officers. This second visit, with its observations, talks, (two or three at
random with the boys,) confirm'd my first impressions.

MATURE SUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS

Aug. 4.—Forenoon—as I sit under the willow shade, (have retreated
down in the country again,) a little bird is leisurely dousing and flirting
himself amid the brook almost within reach of me. He evidently fears me
not—takes me for some concomitant of the neighboring earthy banks, free
bushery and wild weeds. 6 p.m.—The last three days have been perfect ones
for the season, (four nights ago copious rains, with vehement thunder and
lightning.) I write this sitting by the creek watching my two kingfishers at
their sundown sport. The strong, beautiful, joyous creatures! Their wings
glisten in the slanted sunbeams as they circle and circle around,
occasionally dipping and dashing the water, and making long stretches up
and down the creek. Wherever I go over fields, through lanes, in by-places,
blooms the white-flowering wild-carrot, its delicate pat of snow-flakes
crowning its slender stem, gracefully oscillating in the breeze,

EXPOSITION BUILDING—NEW CITY HALL—RIVER
TRIP

PHILADELPHIA, Aug. 26.—Last night and to-night of unsurpass'd
clearness, after two days' rain; moon splendor and star splendor. Being out
toward the great Exposition building, West Philadelphia, I saw it lit up, and
thought I would go in. There was a ball, democratic but nice; plenty of
young couples waltzing and quadrilling—music by a good string-band. To
the sight and hearing of these—to moderate strolls up and down the roomy
spaces—to getting off aside, resting in an arm-chair and looking up a long
while at the grand high roof with its graceful and multitudinous work of
iron rods, angles, gray colors, plays of light and shade, receding into dim
outlines—to absorbing (in the intervals of the string band,) some capital
voluntaries and rolling caprices from the big organ at the other end of the
building—to sighting a shadow'd figure or group or couple of lovers every
now and then passing some near or farther aisle—I abandon'd myself for
over an hour.
Returning home, riding down Market street in an open summer car,
something detain'd us between Fifteenth and Broad, and I got out to view
better the new, three-fifths-built marble edifice, the City Hall, of
magnificent proportions—a majestic and lovely show there in the
moonlight—flooded all over, facades, myriad silver-white lines and carv'd
heads and mouldings, with the soft dazzle—silent, weird, beautiful—well, I
know that never when finish'd will that magnificent pile impress one as it
impress'd me those fifteen minutes.
To-night, since, I have been long on the river. I watch the C-shaped
Northern Crown, (with the star Alshacca that blazed out so suddenly,
alarmingly, one night a few years ago.) The moon in her third quarter, and
up nearly all night. And there, as I look eastward, my long-absent Pleiades,
welcome again to sight. For an hour I enjoy the soothing and vital scene to
the low splash of waves—new stars steadily, noiselessly rising in the east.
As I cross the Delaware, one of the deck-hands, F. R., tells me how a
woman jump'd overboard and was drown'd a couple of hours since. It
happen'd in mid-channel—she leap'd from the forward part of the boat,
which went over her. He saw her rise on the other side in the swift running
water, throw her arms and closed hands high up, (white hands and bare
forearms in the moonlight like a flash,) and then she sank. (I found out
afterwards that this young fellow had promptly jump'd in, swam after the

poor creature, and made, though unsuccessfully, the bravest efforts to
rescue her; but he didn't mention that part at all in telling me the story.)

SWALLOWS ON THE RIVER

Sept. 3—Cloudy and wet, and wind due east; air without palpable fog,
but very heavy with moisture—welcome for a change. Forenoon, crossing
the Delaware, I noticed unusual numbers of swallows in flight, circling,
darting, graceful beyond description, close to the water. Thick, around the
bows of the ferry-boat as she lay tied in her slip, they flew; and as we went
out I watch'd beyond the pier-heads, and across the broad stream, their
swift-winding loop-ribands of motion, down close to it, cutting and
intersecting. Though I had seen swallows all my life, seem'd as though I
never before realized their peculiar beauty and character in the landscape.
(Some time ago, for an hour, in a huge old country barn, watching these
birds flying, recall'd the 22d book of the Odyssey, where Ulysses slays the
suitors, bringing things to eclaircissement, and Minerva, swallow-bodied,
darts up through the spaces of the hall, sits high on a beam, looks
complacently on the show of slaughter, and feels in her element, exulting,
joyous.)

BEGIN A LONG JAUNT WEST

The following three or four months (Sept. to Dec. '79) I made quite a
western journey, fetching up at Denver, Colorado, and penetrating the
Rocky Mountain region enough to get a good notion of it all. Left West
Philadelphia after 9 o'clock one night, middle of September, in a
comfortable sleeper. Oblivious of the two or three hundred miles across
Pennsylvania; at Pittsburgh in the morning to breakfast. Pretty good view of
the city and Birmingham—fog and damp, smoke, coke-furnaces, flames,
discolor'd wooden houses, and vast collections of coal-barges. Presently a
bit of fine region, West Virginia, the Panhandle, and crossing the river, the
Ohio. By day through the latter State—then Indiana—and so rock'd to
slumber for a second night, flying like lightning through Illinois.

IN THE SLEEPER

What a fierce weird pleasure to lie in my berth at night in the luxurious
palace-car, drawn by the mighty Baldwin—embodying, and filling me, too,
full of the swiftest motion, and most resistless strength! It is late, perhaps
midnight or after—distances join'd like magic—as we speed through
Harrisburg, Columbus, Indianapolis. The element of danger adds zest to it
all. On we go, rumbling and flashing, with our loud whinnies thrown out
from time to time, or trumpet-blasts, into the darkness. Passing the homes
of men, the farms, barns, cattle—the silent villages. And the car itself, the
sleeper, with curtains drawn and lights turn'd down—in the berths the
slumberers, many of them women and children—as on, on, on, we fly like
lightning through the night—how strangely sound and sweet they sleep!
(They say the French Voltaire in his time designated the grand opera and a
ship of war the most signal illustrations of the growth of humanity's and
art's advance beyond primitive barbarism. Perhaps if the witty philosopher
were here these days, and went in the same car with perfect bedding and
feed from New York to San Francisco, he would shift his type and sample
to one of our American sleepers.)

MISSOURI STATE

We should have made the run of 960 miles from Philadelphia to St. Louis
in thirty-six hours, but we had a collision and bad locomotive smash about
two-thirds of the way, which set us back. So merely stopping over night that
time in St. Louis, I sped on westward. As I cross'd Missouri State the whole
distance by the St. Louis and Kansas City Northern Railroad, a fine early
autumn day, I thought my eyes had never looked on scenes of greater
pastoral beauty. For over two hundred miles successive rolling prairies,
agriculturally perfect view'd by Pennsylvania and New Jersey eyes, and
dotted here and there with fine timber. Yet fine as the land is, it isn't the
finest portion; (there is a bed of impervious clay and hard-pan beneath this
section that holds water too firmly, "drowns the land in wet weather, and
bakes it in dry," as a cynical farmer told me.) South are some richer tracts,
though perhaps the beauty-spots of the State are the northwestern counties.
Altogether, I am clear, (now, and from what I have seen and learn'd since,)
that Missouri, in climate, soil, relative situation, wheat, grass, mines,
railroads, and every important materialistic respect, stands in the front rank
of the Union. Of Missouri averaged politically and socially I have heard all

sorts of talk, some pretty severe—but I should have no fear myself of
getting along safely and comfortably anywhere among the Missourians.
They raise a good deal of tobacco. You see at this time quantities of the
light greenish-gray leaves pulled and hanging out to dry on temporary
frameworks or rows of sticks. Looks much like the mullein familiar to
eastern eyes.

LAWRENCE AND TOPEKA, KANSAS

We thought of stopping in Kansas City, but when we got there we found
a train ready and a crowd of hospitable Kansians to take us on to Lawrence,
to which I proceeded. I shall not soon forget my good days in L., in
company with Judge Usher and his sons, (especially John and Linton,) true
westerners of the noblest type. Nor the similar days in Topeka. Nor the
brotherly kindness of my RR. friends there, and the city and State officials.
Lawrence and Topeka are large, bustling, half-rural, handsome cities. I took
two or three long drives about the latter, drawn by a spirited team over
smooth roads.
THE PRAIRIES (and an Undeliver'd Speech)
At a large popular meeting at Topeka—the Kansas State Silver Wedding,
fifteen or twenty thousand people—I had been erroneously bill'd to deliver
a poem. As I seem'd to be made much of, and wanted to be good-natured, I
hastily pencill'd out the following little speech. Unfortunately, (or
fortunately,) I had such a good time and rest, and talk and dinner, with the
U. boys, that I let the hours slip away and didn't drive over to the meeting
and speak my piece. But here it is just the same:
"My friends, your bills announce me as giving a poem; but I have no
poem—have composed none for this occasion. And I can honestly say I am
now glad of it. Under these skies resplendent in September beauty—amid
the peculiar landscape you are used to, but which is new to me—these
interminable and stately prairies—in the freedom and vigor and sane
enthusiasm of this perfect western air and autumn sunshine—it seems to me
a poem would be almost an impertinence. But if you care to have a word
from me, I should speak it about these very prairies; they impress me most,
of all the objective shows I see or have seen on this, my first real visit to the
West. As I have roll'd rapidly hither for more than a thousand miles, through

fair Ohio, through bread-raising Indiana and Illinois—through ample
Missouri, that contains and raises everything; as I have partially explor'd
your charming city during the last two days, and, standing on Oread hill, by
the university, have launch'd my view across broad expanses of living
green, in every direction—I have again been most impress'd, I say, and shall
remain for the rest of my life most impress'd, with that feature of the
topography of your western central world—that vast Something, stretching
out on its own unbounded scale, unconfined, which there is in these
prairies, combining the real and ideal, and beautiful as dreams.
"I wonder indeed if the people of this continental inland West know how
much of first-class art they have in these prairies—how original and all
your own—how much of the influences of a character for your future
humanity, broad, patriotic, heroic and new? how entirely they tally on land
the grandeur and superb monotony of the skies of heaven, and the ocean
with its waters? how freeing, soothing, nourishing they are to the soul?
"Then is it not subtly they who have given us our leading modern
Americans, Lincoln and Grant?—vast-spread, average men—their
foregrounds of character altogether practical and real, yet (to those who
have eyes to see) with finest backgrounds of the ideal, towering high as any.
And do we not see, in them, foreshadowings of the future races that shall
fill these prairies?
"Not but what the Yankee and Atlantic States, and every other part—
Texas, and the States flanking the south-east and the Gulf of Mexico—the
Pacific shore empire—the Territories and Lakes, and the Canada line (the
day is not yet, but it will come, including Canada entire)—are equally and
integrally and indissolubly this Nation, the sine qua non of the human,
political and commercial New World. But this favor'd central area of (in
round numbers) two thousand miles square seems fated to be the home both
of what I would call America's distinctive ideas and distinctive realities."

ON TO DENVER—A FRONTIER INCIDENT

The jaunt of five or six hundred miles from Topeka to Denver took me
through a variety of country, but all unmistakably prolific, western,
American, and on the largest scale. For a long distance we follow the line of
the Kansas river, (I like better the old name, Kaw,) a stretch of very rich,
dark soil, famed for its wheat, and call'd the Golden Belt—then plains and
plains, hour after hour—Ellsworth county, the centre of the State—where I
must stop a moment to tell a characteristic story of early days—scene the
very spot where I am passing—time 1868. In a scrimmage at some public
gathering in the town, A. had shot B. quite badly, but had not kill'd him. The
sober men of Ellsworth conferr'd with one another and decided that A.
deserv'd punishment. As they wished to set a good example and establish
their reputation the reverse of a Lynching town, they open an informal court
and bring both men before them for deliberate trial. Soon as this trial begins
the wounded man is led forward to give his testimony. Seeing his enemy in
durance and unarm'd, B. walks suddenly up in a fury and shoots A. through
the head—shoots him dead. The court is instantly adjourn'd, and its
unanimous members, without a word of debate, walk the murderer B. out,
wounded as he is, and hang him.
In due time we reach Denver, which city I fall in love with from the first,
and have that feeling confirm'd, the longer I stay there. One of my
pleasantest days was a jaunt, via Platte cañon, to Leadville.

AN HOUR ON KENOSHA SUMMIT

Jottings from the Rocky Mountains, mostly pencill'd during a day's trip
over the South Park RR., returning from Leadville, and especially the hour
we were detain'd, (much to my satisfaction,) at Kenosha summit. As
afternoon advances, novelties, far-reaching splendors, accumulate under the
bright sun in this pure air. But I had better commence with the day.
The confronting of Platte cañon just at dawn, after a ten miles' ride in
early darkness on the rail from Denver—the seasonable stoppage at the
entrance of the cañon, and good breakfast of eggs, trout, and nice griddle-
cakes—then as we travel on, and get well in the gorge, all the wonders,

beauty, savage power of the scene—the wild stream of water, from sources
of snows, brawling continually in sight one side—the dazzling sun, and the
morning lights on the rocks—such turns and grades in the track, squirming
around corners, or up and down hills—far glimpses of a hundred peaks,
titanic necklaces, stretching north and south—the huge rightly-named
Dome-rock—and as we dash along, others similar, simple, monolithic,
elephantine.

AN EGOTISTICAL "FIND"

"I have found the law of my own poems," was the unspoken but more-
and-more decided feeling that came to me as I pass'd, hour after hour, amid
all this grim yet joyous elemental abandon—this plenitude of material,
entire absence of art, untrammel'd play of primitive Nature—the chasm, the
gorge, the crystal mountain stream, repeated scores, hundreds of miles—the
broad handling and absolute uncrampedness—the fantastic forms, bathed in
transparent browns, faint reds and grays, towering sometimes a thousand,
sometimes two or three thousand feet high—at their tops now and then
huge masses pois'd, and mixing with the clouds, with only their outlines,
hazed in misty lilac, visible. ("In Nature's grandest shows," says an old
Dutch writer, an ecclesiastic, "amid the ocean's depth, if so might be, or
countless worlds rolling above at night, a man thinks of them, weighs all,
not for themselves or the abstract, but with reference to his own personality,
and how they may affect him or color his destinies.")

NEW SENSES: NEW JOYS

We follow the stream of amber and bronze brawling along its bed, with
its frequent cascades and snow-white foam. Through the cañon we fly—
mountains not only each side, but seemingly, till we get near, right in front
of us—every rood a new view flashing, and each flash defying description
—on the almost perpendicular sides, clinging pines, cedars, spruces,
crimson sumach bushes, spots of wild grass—but dominating all, those
towering rocks, rocks, rocks, bathed in delicate vari-colors, with the clear
sky of autumn overhead. New senses, new joys, seem develop'd. Talk as
you like, a typical Rocky Mountain cañon, or a limitless sea-like stretch of
the great Kansas or Colorado plains, under favoring circumstances, tallies,

perhaps expresses, certainly awakes, those grandest and subtlest element-
emotions in the human soul, that all the marble temples and sculptures from
Phidias to Thorwaldsen—all paintings, poems, reminiscences, or even
music, probably never can.

STEAM-POWER, TELEGRAPHS, ETC

I get out on a ten minutes' stoppage at Deer creek, to enjoy the unequal'd
combination of hill, stone and wood. As we speed again, the yellow granite
in the sunshine, with natural spires, minarets, castellated perches far aloft—
then long stretches of straight-upright palisades, rhinoceros color—then
gamboge and tinted chromos. Ever the best of my pleasures the cool-fresh
Colorado atmosphere, yet sufficiently warm. Signs of man's restless advent
and pioneerage, hard as Nature's face is—deserted dug-outs by dozens in
the side-hills—the scantling-hut, the telegraph-pole, the smoke of some
impromptu chimney or outdoor fire—at intervals little settlements of log-
houses, or parties of surveyors or telegraph builders, with their comfortable
tents. Once, a canvas office where you could send a message by electricity
anywhere around the world! Yes, pronounc'd signs of the man of latest
dates, dauntlessly grappling with these grisliest shows of the old kosmos. At
several places steam saw-mills, with their piles of logs and boards, and the
pipes puffing. Occasionally Platte cañon expanding into a grassy flat of a
few acres. At one such place, toward the end, where we stop, and I get out
to stretch my legs, as I look skyward, or rather mountain-topward, a huge
hawk or eagle (a rare sight here) is idly soaring, balancing along the ether,
now sinking low and coming quite near, and then up again in stately-
languid circles—then higher, higher, slanting to the north, and gradually out
of sight.

AMERICA'S BACK-BONE

I jot these lines literally at Kenosha summit, where we return, afternoon,
and take a long rest, 10,000 feet above sea-level. At this immense height the
South Park stretches fifty miles before me. Mountainous chains and peaks
in every variety of perspective, every hue of vista, fringe the view, in nearer,
or middle, or far-dim distance, or fade on the horizon. We have now reach'd,
penetrated the Rockies, (Hayden calls it the Front Range,) for a hundred

miles or so; and though these chains spread away in every direction,
specially north and south, thousands and thousands farther, I have seen
specimens of the utmost of them, and know henceforth at least what they
are, and what they look like. Not themselves alone, for they typify stretches
and areas of half the globe—are, in fact, the vertebrae or back-bone of our
hemisphere. As the anatomists say a man is only a spine, topp'd, footed,
breasted and radiated, so the whole Western world is, in a sense, but an
expansion of these mountains. In South America they are the Andes, in
Central America and Mexico the Cordilleras, and in our States they go
under different names—in California the Coast and Cascade ranges—
thence more eastwardly the Sierra Nevadas—but mainly and more centrally
here the Rocky Mountains proper, with many an elevation such as
Lincoln's, Grey's, Harvard's, Yale's, Long's and Pike's peaks, all over 14,000
feet high. (East, the highest peaks of the Alleghanies, the Adirondacks, the
Catskills, and the White Mountains, range from 2000 to 5500 feet-only
Mount Washington, in the latter, 6300 feet.)

THE PARKS

In the midst of all here, lie such beautiful contrasts as the sunken basins
of the North, Middle, and South Parks, (the latter I am now on one side of,
and overlooking,) each the size of a large, level, almost quandrangular,
grassy, western county, wall'd in by walls of hills, and each park the source
of a river. The ones I specify are the largest in Colorado, but the whole of
that State, and of Wyoming, Utah, Nevada and western California, through
their sierras and ravines, are copiously mark'd by similar spreads and
openings, many of the small ones of paradisiac loveliness and perfection,
with their offsets of mountains, streams, atmosphere and hues beyond
compare.

ART FEATURES

Talk, I say again, of going to Europe, of visiting the ruins of feudal
castles, or Coliseum remains, or kings' palaces—when you can come here.
The alternations one gets, too; after the Illinois and Kansas prairies of a
thousand miles—smooth and easy areas of the corn and wheat of ten
million democratic farms in the future——here start up in every

conceivable presentation of shape, these non-utilitarian piles, coping the
skies, emanating a beauty, terror, power, more than Dante or Angelo ever
knew. Yes, I think the chyle of not only poetry and painting, but oratory, and
even the metaphysics and music fit for the New World, before being finally
assimilated, need first and feeding visits here.
Mountain streams.—The spiritual contrast and etheriality of the whole
region consist largely to me in its never-absent peculiar streams—the snows
of inaccessible upper areas melting and running down through the gorges
continually. Nothing like the water of pastoral plains, or creeks with
wooded banks and turf, or anything of the kind elsewhere. The shapes that
element takes in the shows of the globe cannot be fully understood by an
artist until he has studied these unique rivulets.
Aerial effects.—But perhaps as I gaze around me the rarest sight of all is
in atmospheric hues. The prairies—as I cross'd them in my journey hither—
and these mountains and parks, seem to me to afford new lights and shades.
Everywhere the aerial gradations and sky-effects inimitable; nowhere else
such perspectives, such transparent lilacs and grays. I can conceive of some
superior landscape painter, some fine colorist, after sketching awhile out
here, discarding all his previous work, delightful to stock exhibition
amateurs, as muddy, raw and artificial. Near one's eye ranges an infinite
variety; high up, the bare whitey-brown, above timber line; in certain spots
afar patches of snow any time of year; (no trees, no flowers, no birds, at
those chilling altitudes.) As I write I see the Snowy Range through the blue
mist, beautiful and far off, I plainly see the patches of snow.

DENVER IMPRESSIONS

Through the long-lingering half-light of the most superb of evenings we
return'd to Denver, where I staid several days leisurely exploring, receiving
impressions, with which I may as well taper off this memorandum,
itemizing what I saw there. The best was the men, three-fourths of them
large, able, calm, alert, American. And cash! why they create it here. Out in
the smelting works, (the biggest and most improv'd ones, for the precious
metals, in the world,) I saw long rows of vats, pans, cover'd by bubbling-
boiling water, and fill'd with pure silver, four or five inches thick, many
thousand dollars' worth in a pan. The foreman who was showing me
shovel'd it carelessly up with a little wooden shovel, as one might toss

beans. Then large silver bricks, worth $2000 a brick, dozens of piles, twenty
in a pile. In one place in the mountains, at a mining camp, I had a few days
before seen rough bullion on the ground in the open air, like the
confectioner's pyramids at some swell dinner in New York. (Such a sweet
morsel to roll over with a poor author's pen and ink—and appropriate to slip
in here—that the silver product of Colorado and Utah, with the gold product
of California, New Mexico, Nevada and Dakota, foots up an addition to the
world's coin of considerably over a hundred millions every year.)
A city, this Denver, well-laid out—Laramie street, and 15th and 16th and
Champa streets, with others, particularly fine—some with tall storehouses
of stone or iron, and windows of plate-glass—all the streets with little
canals of mountain water running along the sides—plenty of people,
"business," modernness—yet not without a certain racy wild smack, all its
own. A place of fast horses, (many mares with their colts,) and I saw lots of
big greyhounds for antelope hunting. Now and then groups of miners, some
just come in, some starting out, very picturesque.
One of the papers here interview'd me, and reported me as saying off-
hand: "I have lived in or visited all the great cities on the Atlantic third of
the republic—Boston, Brooklyn with its hills, New Orleans, Baltimore,
stately Washington, broad Philadelphia, teeming Cincinnati and Chicago,
and for thirty years in that wonder, wash'd by hurried and glittering tides,
my own New York, not only the New World's but the world's city—but,
newcomer to Denver as I am, and threading its streets, breathing its air,
warm'd by its sunshine, and having what there is of its human as well as
aerial ozone flash'd upon me now for only three or four days, I am very
much like a man feels sometimes toward certain people he meets with, and
warms to, and hardly knows why. I, too, can hardly tell why, but as I enter'd
the city in the slight haze of a late September afternoon, and have breath'd
its air, and slept well o' nights, and have roam'd or rode leisurely, and
watch'd the comers and goers at the hotels, and absorb'd the climatic
magnetism of this curiously attractive region, there has steadily grown upon
me a feeling of affection for the spot, which, sudden as it is, has become so
definite and strong that I must put it on record."
So much for my feeling toward the Queen city of the plains and peaks,
where she sits in her delicious rare atmosphere, over 5000 feet above sea-
level, irrigated by mountain streams, one way looking east over the prairies

for a thousand miles, and having the other, westward, in constant view by
day, draped in their violet haze, mountain tops innumerable. Yes, I fell in
love with Denver, and even felt a wish to spend my declining and dying
days there.

I TURN SOUTH AND THEN EAST AGAIN

Leave Denver at 8 A.M. by the Rio Grande RR. going south. Mountains
constantly in sight in the apparently near distance, veil'd slightly, but still
clear and very grand—their cones, colors, sides, distinct against the sky—
hundreds, it seem'd thousands, interminable necklaces of them, their tops
and slopes hazed more or less slightly in that blue-gray, under the autumn
sun, for over a hundred miles—the most spiritual show of objective Nature
I ever beheld, or ever thought possible. Occasionally the light strengthens,
making a contrast of yellow-tinged silver on one side, with dark and shaded
gray on the other. I took a long look at Pike's peak, and was a little
disappointed. (I suppose I had expected something stunning.) Our view
over plains to the left stretches amply, with corrals here and there, the
frequent cactus and wild sage, and herds of cattle feeding. Thus about 120
miles to Pueblo. At that town we board the comfortable and well-equipt
Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe RR., now striking east.

UNFULFILLED WANTS—THE ARKANSAS RIVER

I had wanted to go to the Yellowstone river region—wanted specially to
see the National Park, and the geysers and the "hoodoo" or goblin land of
that country; indeed, hesitated a little at Pueblo, the turning point—wanted
to thread the Veta pass—wanted to go over the Santa Fe trail away
southwestward to New Mexico—but turn'd and set my face eastward—
leaving behind me whetting glimpse-tastes of southeastern Colorado,
Pueblo, Bald mountain, the Spanish peaks, Sangre de Christos, Mile-Shoe-
curve (which my veteran friend on the locomotive told me was "the boss
railroad curve of the universe,") fort Garland on the plains, Veta, and the
three great peaks of the Sierra Blancas. The Arkansas river plays quite a
part in the whole of this region—I see it, or its high-cut rocky northern
shore, for miles, and cross and recross it frequently, as it winds and squirms
like a snake. The plains vary here even more than usual—sometimes a long

sterile stretch of scores of miles—then green, fertile and grassy, an equal
length. Some very large herds of sheep. (One wants new words in writing
about these plains, and all the inland American West—the terms, far, large,
vast, &c., are insufficient.)

A SILENT LITTLE FOLLOWER-THE COREOPSIS

Here I must say a word about a little follower, present even now before
my eyes. I have been accompanied on my whole journey from Barnegat to
Pike's peak by a pleasant floricultural friend, or rather millions of friends—
nothing more or less than a hardy little yellow five-petal'd September and
October wild-flower, growing I think everywhere in the middle and
northern United States. I had seen it on the Hudson and over Long Island,
and along the banks of the Delaware and through New Jersey, (as years ago
up the Connecticut, and one fall by Lake Champlain.) This trip it follow'd
me regularly, with its slender stem and eyes of gold, from Cape May to the
Kaw valley, and so through the cañons and to these plains. In Missouri I
saw immense fields all bright with it. Toward western Illinois I woke up one
morning in the sleeper and the first thing when I drew the curtain of my
berth and look'd out was its pretty countenance and bending neck.
Sept. 25th.—Early morning—still going east after we leave Sterling,
Kansas, where I stopp'd a day and night. The sun up about half an hour;
nothing can be fresher or more beautiful than this time, this region. I see
quite a field of my yellow flower in full bloom. At intervals dots of nice
two-story houses, as we ride swiftly by. Over the immense area, flat as a
floor, visible for twenty miles in every direction in the clear air, a
prevalence of autumn-drab and reddish-tawny herbage—sparse stacks of
hay and enclosures, breaking the landscape—as we rumble by, flocks of
prairie-hens starting up. Between Sterling and Florence a fine country.
(Remembrances to E. L., my old-young soldier friend of war times, and his
wife and boy at S.)

THE PRAIRIES AND GREAT PLAINS IN POETRY

(After traveling Illinois, Missouri, Kansas and Colorado) Grand as is the
thought that doubtless the child is already born who will see a hundred
millions of people, the most prosperous and advanc'd of the world,

inhabiting these Prairies, the great Plains, and the valley of the Mississippi,
I could not help thinking it would be grander still to see all those inimitable
American areas fused in the alembic of a perfect poem, or other esthetic
work, entirely western, fresh and limitless—altogether our own, without a
trace or taste of Europe's soil, reminiscence, technical letter or spirit. My
days and nights, as I travel here—what an exhilaration!—not the air alone,
and the sense of vastness, but every local sight and feature. Everywhere
something characteristic—the cactuses, pinks, buffalo grass, wild sage—the
receding perspective, and the far circle-line of the horizon all times of day,
especially forenoon—the clear, pure, cool, rarefied nutriment for the lungs,
previously quite unknown—the black patches and streaks left by surface-
conflagrations—the deep-plough'd furrow of the "fire-guard"—the slanting
snow-racks built all along to shield the railroad from winter drifts—the
prairie-dogs and the herds of antelope—the curious "dry rivers"—
occasionally a "dug-out" or corral—Fort Riley and Fort Wallace—those
towns of the northern plains, (like ships on the sea,) Eagle-Tail, Coyoté,
Cheyenne, Agate, Monotony, Kit Carson—with ever the ant-hill and the
buffalo-wallow—ever the herds of cattle and the cow-boys ("cow-
punchers") to me a strangely interesting class, bright-eyed as hawks, with
their swarthy complexions and their broad-brimm'd hats—apparently
always on horseback, with loose arms slightly raised and swinging as they
ride.

THE SPANISH PEAKS—EVENING ON THE PLAINS

Between Pueblo and Bent's fort, southward, in a clear afternoon sun-spell
I catch exceptionally good glimpses of the Spanish peaks. We are in
southeastern Colorado—pass immense herds of cattle as our first-class
locomotive rushes us along—two or three times crossing the Arkansas,
which we follow many miles, and of which river I get fine views,
sometimes for quite a distance, its stony, upright, not very high, palisade
banks, and then its muddy flats. We pass Fort Lyon—lots of adobie houses
—limitless pasturage, appropriately fleck'd with those herds of cattle—in
due time the declining sun in the west—a sky of limpid pearl over all—and
so evening on the great plains. A calm, pensive, boundless landscape—the
perpendicular rocks of the north Arkansas, hued in twilight—a thin line of
violet on the southwestern horizon—the palpable coolness and slight aroma

—a belated cow-boy with some unruly member of his herd—an emigrant
wagon toiling yet a little further, the horses slow and tired—two men,
apparently father and son, jogging along on foot—and around all the
indescribable chiaroscuro and sentiment, (profounder than anything at sea,)
athwart these endless wilds.

AMERICA'S CHARACTERISTIC LANDSCAPE

Speaking generally as to the capacity and sure future destiny of that plain
and prairie area (larger than any European kingdom) it is the inexhaustible
land of wheat, maize, wool, flax, coal, iron, beef and pork, butter and
cheese, apples and grapes—land of ten million virgin farms—to the eye at
present wild and unproductive—yet experts say that upon it when irrigated
may easily be grown enough wheat to feed the world. Then as to scenery
(giving my own thought and feeling,) while I know the standard claim is
that Yosemite, Niagara falls, the upper Yellowstone and the like, afford the
greatest natural shows, I am not so sure but the Prairies and the Plains,
while less stunning at first sight, last longer, fill the esthetic sense fuller,
precede all the rest, and make North America's characteristic landscape.
Indeed through the whole of this journey, with all its shows and varieties,
what most impress'd me, and will longest remain with me, are these same
prairies. Day after day, and night after night, to my eyes, to all my senses—
the esthetic one most of all—they silently and broadly unfolded. Even their
simplest statistics are sublime.

EARTH'S MOST IMPORTANT STREAM

The valley of the Mississippi river and its tributaries, (this stream and its
adjuncts involve a big part of the question,) comprehends more than twelve
hundred thousand square miles, the greater part prairies. It is by far the most
important stream on the globe, and would seem to have been marked out by
design, slow-flowing from north to south, through a dozen climates, all
fitted for man's healthy occupancy, its outlet unfrozen all the year, and its
line forming a safe, cheap continental avenue for commerce and passage
from the north temperate to the torrid zone. Not even the mighty Amazon
(though larger in volume) on its line of east and west—not the Nile in
Africa, nor the Danube in Europe, nor the three great rivers of China,

compare with it. Only the Mediterranean sea has play'd some such part in
history, and all through the past, as the Mississippi is destined to play in the
future. By its demesnes, water'd and welded by its branches, the Missouri,
the Ohio, the Arkansas, the Red, the Yazoo, the St. Francis and others, it
already compacts twenty-five millions of people, not merely the most
peaceful and money-making, but the most restless and warlike on earth. Its
valley, or reach, is rapidly concentrating the political power of the American
Union. One almost thinks it is the Union—or soon will be. Take it out, with
its radiations, and what would be left? From the car windows through
Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, or stopping some days along the Topeka and
Santa Fe road, in southern Kansas, and indeed wherever I went, hundreds
and thousands of miles through this region, my eyes feasted on primitive
and rich meadows, some of them partially inhabited, but far, immensely far
more untouch'd, unbroken—and much of it more lovely and fertile in its
unplough'd innocence than the fair and valuable fields of New York's,
Pennsylvania's, Maryland's or Virginia's richest farms.

PRAIRIE ANALOGIES—THE TREE QUESTION

The word Prairie is French, and means literally meadow. The cosmical
analogies of our North American plains are the Steppes of Asia, the Pampas
and Llanos of South America, and perhaps the Saharas of Africa. Some
think the plains have been originally lake-beds; others attribute the absence
of forests to the fires that almost annually sweep over them—(the cause, in
vulgar estimation, of Indian summer.) The tree question will soon become a
grave one. Although the Atlantic slope, the Rocky mountain region, and the
southern portion of the Mississippi valley, are well wooded, there are here
stretches of hundreds and thousands of miles where either not a tree grows,
or often useless destruction has prevail'd; and the matter of the cultivation
and spread of forests may well be press'd upon thinkers who look to the
coming generations of the prairie States.

MISSISSIPPI VALLEY LITERATURE

Lying by one rainy day in Missouri to rest after quite a long exploration
—first trying a big volume I found there of "Milton, Young, Gray, Beattie
and Collins," but giving it up for a bad job—enjoying however for awhile,

as often before, the reading of Walter Scott's poems, "Lay of the Last
Minstrel," "Marmion," and so on—I stopp'd and laid down the book, and
ponder'd the thought of a poetry that should in due time express and supply
the teeming region I was in the midst of, and have briefly touch'd upon.
One's mind needs but a moment's deliberation anywhere in the United
States to see clearly enough that all the prevalent book and library poets,
either as imported from Great Britain, or follow'd and doppel-gang'd here,
are foreign to our States, copiously as they are read by us all. But to fully
understand not only how absolutely in opposition to our times and lands,
and how little and cramp'd, and what anachronisms and absurdities many of
their pages are, for American purposes, one must dwell or travel awhile in
Missouri, Kansas and Colorado, and get rapport with their people and
country.
Will the day ever come—no matter how long deferr'd—when those
models and lay-figures from the British islands—and even the precious
traditions of the classics—will be reminiscences, studies only? The pure
breath, primitiveness, boundless prodigality and amplitude, strange mixture
of delicacy and power, of continence, of real and ideal, and of all original
and first-class elements, of these prairies, the Rocky mountains, and of the
Mississippi and Missouri rivers—will they ever appear in, and in some sort
form a standard for our poetry and art? (I sometimes think that even the
ambition of my friend Joaquin Miller to put them in, and illustrate them,
places him ahead of the whole crowd.)
Not long ago I was down New York bay, on a steamer, watching the
sunset over the dark green heights of Navesink, and viewing all that
inimitable spread of shore, shipping and sea, around Sandy Hook. But an
intervening week or two, and my eyes catch the shadowy outlines of the
Spanish peaks. In the more than two thousand miles between, though of
infinite and paradoxical variety, a curious and absolute fusion is doubtless
steadily annealing, compacting, identifying all. But subtler and wider and
more solid, (to produce such compaction,) than the laws of the States, or the
common ground of Congress, or the Supreme Court, or the grim welding of
our national wars, or the steel ties of railroads, or all the kneading and
fusing processes of our material and business history, past or present, would
in my opinion be a great throbbing, vital, imaginative work, or series of
works, or literature, in constructing which the Plains, the Prairies, and the
Mississippi river, with the demesnes of its varied and ample valley, should

be the concrete background, and America's humanity, passions, struggles,
hopes, there and now—an eclaircissement as it is and is to be, on the stage
of the New World, of all Time's hitherto drama of war, romance and
evolution—should furnish the lambent fire, the ideal.

AN INTERVIEWER'S ITEM

Oct. 17, '79.—To-day one of the newspapers of St. Louis prints the
following informal remarks of mine on American, especially Western
literature: "We called on Mr. Whitman yesterday and after a somewhat
desultory conversation abruptly asked him: 'Do you think we are to have a
distinctively American literature?' 'It seems to me,' said he,'that our work at
present is to lay the foundations of a great nation in products, in agriculture,
in commerce, in networks of intercommunication, and in all that relates to
the comforts of vast masses of men and families, with freedom of speech,
ecclesiasticism, &c. These we have founded and are carrying out on a
grander scale than ever hitherto, and Ohio, Illinois, Indiana, Missouri,
Kansas and Colorado, seem to me to be the seat and field of these very facts
and ideas. Materialistic prosperity in all its varied forms, with those other
points that I mentioned, intercommunication and freedom, are first to be
attended to. When those have their results and get settled, then a literature
worthy of us will begin to be defined. Our American superiority and vitality
are in the bulk of our people, not in a gentry like the old world. The
greatness of our army during the secession war, was in the rank and file,
and so with the nation. Other lands have their vitality in a few, a class, but
we have it in the bulk of the people. Our leading men are not of much
account and never have been, but the average of the people is immense,
beyond all history. Sometimes I think in all departments, literature and art
included, that will be the way our superiority will exhibit itself. We will not
have great individuals or great leaders, but a great average bulk,
unprecedentedly great.'"

THE WOMEN OF THE WEST

Kansas City.—I am not so well satisfied with what I see of the women of
the prairie cities. I am writing this where I sit leisurely in a store in Main
street, Kansas City, a streaming crowd on the sidewalks flowing by. The

ladies (and the same in Denver) are all fashionably drest, and have the look
of "gentility" in face, manner and action, but they do not have, either in
physique or the mentality appropriate to them, any high native originality of
spirit or body, (as the men certainly have, appropriate to them.) They are
"intellectual" and fashionable, but dyspeptic-looking and generally doll-
like; their ambition evidently is to copy their eastern sisters. Something far
different and in advance must appear, to tally and complete the superb
masculinity of the west, and maintain and continue it.

THE SILENT GENERAL

Sept. 28, '79.—So General Grant, after circumambiating the world, has
arrived home again, landed in San Francisco yesterday, from the ship City
of Tokio from Japan. What a man he is! what a history! what an illustration
—his life—of the capacities of that American individuality common to us
all. Cynical critics are wondering "what the people can see in Grant" to
make such a hubbub about. They aver (and it is no doubt true) that he has
hardly the average of our day's literary and scholastic culture, and
absolutely no pronounc'd genius or conventional eminence of any sort.
Correct: but he proves how an average western farmer, mechanic, boatman,
carried by tides of circumstances, perhaps caprices, into a position of
incredible military or civic responsibilities, (history has presented none
more trying, no born monarch's, no mark more shining for attack or envy,)
may steer his way fitly and steadily through them all, carrying the country
and himself with credit year after year—command over a million armed
men—fight more than fifty pitch'd battles—rule for eight years a land larger
than all the kingdoms of Europe combined—and then, retiring, quietly
(with a cigar in his mouth) make the promenade of the whole world,
through its courts and coteries, and kings and czars and mikados, and
splendidest glitters and etiquettes, as phlegmatically as he ever walk'd the
portico of a Missouri hotel after dinner. I say all this is what people like—
and I am sure I like it. Seems to me it transcends Plutarch. How those old
Greeks, indeed, would have seized on him! A mere plain man—no art, no
poetry—only practical sense, ability to do, or try his best to do, what
devolv'd upon him. A common trader, money-maker, tanner, farmer of
Illinois—general for the republic, in its terrific struggle with itself, in the
war of attempted secession—President following, (a task of peace, more

difficult than the war itself)—nothing heroic, as the authorities put it—and
yet the greatest hero. The gods, the destinies, seem to have concentrated
upon him.

PRESIDENT HAYES'S SPEECHES

Sept. 30.—I see President Hayes has come out West, passing quite
informally from point to point, with his wife and a small cortege of big
officers, receiving ovations, and making daily and sometimes double-daily
addresses to the people. To these addresses—all impromptu, and some
would call them ephemeral—I feel to devote a memorandum. They are
shrewd, good-natur'd, face-to-face speeches, on easy topics not too deep;
but they give me some revised ideas of oratory—of a new, opportune theory
and practice of that art, quite changed from the classic rules, and adapted to
our days, our occasions, to American democracy, and to the swarming
populations of the West. I hear them criticised as wanting in dignity, but to
me they are just what they should be, considering all the circumstances,
who they come from, and who they are address'd to. Underneath, his objects
are to compact and fraternize the States, encourage their materialistic and
industrial development, soothe and expand their self-poise, and tie all and
each with resistless double ties not only of inter-trade barter, but human
comradeship.
From Kansas City I went on to St. Louis, where I remain'd nearly three
months, with my brother T.J.W., and my dear nieces.

ST. LOUIS MEMORANDA

Oct., Nov., and Dec., '79.—The points of St. Louis are its position, its
absolute wealth, (the long accumulations of time and trade, solid riches,
probably a higher average thereof than any city,) the unrivall'd amplitude of
its well-laid-out environage of broad plateaus, for future expansion—and
the great State of which it is the head. It fuses northern and southern
qualities, perhaps native and foreign ones, to perfection, rendezvous the
whole stretch of the Mississippi and Missouri rivers, and its American
electricity goes well with its German phlegm. Fourth, Fifth and Third
streets are store-streets, showy, modern, metropolitan, with hurrying
crowds, vehicles, horse-cars, hubbub, plenty of people, rich goods, plate-

glass windows, iron fronts often five or six stories high. You can purchase
anything in St. Louis (in most of the big western cities for the matter of
that) just as readily and cheaply as in the Atlantic marts. Often in going
about the town you see reminders of old, even decay'd civilization. The
water of the west, in some places, is not good, but they make it up here by
plenty of very fair wine, and inexhaustible quantities of the best beer in the
world. There are immense establishments for slaughtering beef and pork—
and I saw flocks of sheep, 5000 in a flock. (In Kansas City I had visited a
packing establishment that kills and packs an average of 2500 hogs a day
the whole year round, for export. Another in Atchison, Kansas, same extent;
others nearly equal elsewhere. And just as big ones here.)

NIGHTS ON THE MISSISSIPPI

Oct. 29th, 30th, and 31st.—Wonderfully fine, with the full harvest moon,
dazzling and silvery. I have haunted the river every night lately, where I
could get a look at the bridge by moonlight. It is indeed a structure of
perfection and beauty unsurpassable, and I never tire of it. The river at
present is very low; I noticed to-day it had much more of a blue-clear look
than usual. I hear the slight ripples, the air is fresh and cool, and the view,
up or down, wonderfully clear, in the moonlight. I am out pretty late: it is so
fascinating, dreamy. The cool night-air, all the influences, the silence, with
those far-off eternal stars, do me good. I have been quite ill of late. And so,
well-near the centre of our national demesne, these night views of the
Mississippi.

UPON OUR OWN LAND

"Always, after supper, take a walk half a mile long," says an old proverb,
dryly adding, "and if convenient let it be upon your own land." I wonder
does any other nation but ours afford opportunity for such a jaunt as this?
Indeed has any previous period afforded it? No one, I discover, begins to
know the real geographic, democratic, indissoluble American Union in the
present, or suspect it in the future, until he explores these Central States,
and dwells awhile observantly on their prairies, or amid their busy towns,
and the mighty father of waters. A ride of two or three thousand miles, "on
one's own land," with hardly a disconnection, could certainly be had in no

other place than the United States, and at no period before this. If you want
to see what the railroad is, and how civilization and progress date from it—
how it is the conqueror of crude nature, which it turns to man's use, both on
small scales and on the largest—come hither to inland America.
I return'd home, east, Jan. 5, 1880, having travers'd, to and fro and across,
10,000 miles and more. I soon resumed my seclusions down in the woods,
or by the creek, or gaddings about cities, and an occasional disquisition, as
will be seen following.

EDGAR POE'S SIGNIFICANCE

Jan. 1, '80.—In diagnosing this disease called humanity—to assume for
the nonce what seems a chief mood of the personality and writings of my
subject—I have thought that poets, somewhere or other on the list, present
the most mark'd indications. Comprehending artists in a mass, musicians,
painters, actors, and so on, and considering each and all of them as
radiations or flanges of that furious whirling wheel, poetry, the centre and
axis of the whole, where else indeed may we so well investigate the causes,
growths, tally-marks of the time—the age's matter and malady?
By common consent there is nothing better for man or woman than a
perfect and noble life, morally without flaw, happily balanced in activity,
physically sound and pure, giving its due proportion, and no more, to the
sympathetic, the human emotional element—a life, in all these, unhasting,
unresting, untiring to the end. And yet there is another shape of personality
dearer far to the artist-sense, (which likes the play of strongest lights and
shades,) where the perfect character, the good, the heroic, although never
attain'd, is never lost sight of, but through failures, sorrows, temporary
downfalls, is return'd to again and again, and while often violated, is
passionately adhered to as long as mind, muscles, voice, obey the power we
call volition. This sort of personality we see more or less in Burns, Byron,
Schiller, and George Sand. But we do not see it in Edgar Poe. (All this is the
result of reading at intervals the last three days a new volume of his poems
—I took it on my rambles down by the pond, and by degrees read it all
through there.) While to the character first outlined the service Poe renders
is certainly that entire contrast and contradiction which is next best to fully
exemplifying it.

Almost without the first sign of moral principle, or of the concrete or its
heroisms, or the simpler affections of the heart, Poe's verses illustrate an
intense faculty for technical and abstract beauty, with the rhyming art to
excess, an incorrigible propensity toward nocturnal themes, a demoniac
undertone behind every page—and, by final judgment, probably belong
among the electric lights of imaginative literature, brilliant and dazzling,
but with no heat. There is an indescribable magnetism about the poet's life
and reminiscences, as well as the poems. To one who could work out their
subtle retracing and retrospect, the latter would make a close tally no doubt
between the author's birth and antecedents, his childhood and youth, his
physique, his so-call'd education, his studies and associates, the literary and
social Baltimore, Richmond, Philadelphia and New York, of those times—
not only the places and circumstances in themselves, but often, very often,
in a strange spurning of, and reaction from them all.
The following from a report in the Washington "Star" of November 16,
1875, may afford those who care for it something further of my point of
view toward this interesting figure and influence of our era. There occurr'd
about that date in Baltimore a public reburial of Poe's remains, and
dedication of a monument over the grave:
"Being in Washington on a visit at the time, 'the old gray' went over to
Baltimore, and though ill from paralysis, consented to hobble up and
silently take a seat on the platform, but refused to make any speech, saying,
'I have felt a strong impulse to come over and be here to-day myself in
memory of Poe, which I have obey'd, but not the slightest impulse to make
a speech, which, my dear friends, must also be obeyed.' In an informal
circle, however, in conversation after the ceremonies, Whitman said: 'For a
long while, and until lately, I had a distaste for Poe's writings. I wanted, and
still want for poetry, the clear sun shining, and fresh air blowing—the
strength and power of health, not of delirium, even amid the stormiest
passions—with always the background of the eternal moralities. Non-
complying with these requirements, Poe's genius has yet conquer'd a special
recognition for itself, and I too have come to fully admit it, and appreciate it
and him.
"'In a dream I once had, I saw a vessel on the sea, at midnight, in a storm.
It was no great full-rigg'd ship, nor majestic steamer, steering firmly
through the gale, but seem'd one of those superb little schooner yachts I had

often seen lying anchor'd, rocking so jauntily, in the waters around New
York, or up Long Island sound—now flying uncontroll'd with torn sails and
broken spars through the wild sleet and winds and waves of the night. On
the deck was a slender, slight, beautiful figure, a dim man, apparently
enjoying all the terror, the murk, and the dislocation of which he was the
centre and the victim. That figure of my lurid dream might stand for Edgar
Poe, his spirit, his fortunes, and his poems—themselves all lurid dreams.'"
Much more may be said, but I most desired to exploit the idea put at the
beginning. By its popular poets the calibres of an age, the weak spots of its
embankments, its sub-currents, (often more significant than the biggest
surface ones,) are unerringly indicated. The lush and the weird that have
taken such extraordinary possession of Nineteenth century verse-lovers—
what mean they? The inevitable tendency of poetic culture to morbidity,
abnormal beauty—the sickliness of all technical thought or refinement in
itself—the abnegation of the perennial and democratic concretes at first
hand, the body, the earth and sea, sex and the like—and the substitution of
something for them at second or third hand—what bearings have they on
current pathological study?

BEETHOVEN'S SEPTETTE

Feb. 11, '80.—At a good concert to-night in the foyer of the opera house,
Philadelphia—the band a small but first-rate one. Never did music more
sink into and soothe and fill me—never so prove its soul-rousing power, its
impossibility of statement. Especially in the rendering of one of
Beethoven's master septettes by the well-chosen and perfectly-combined
instruments (violins, viola, clarionet, horn, 'cello and contrabass,) was I
carried away, seeing, absorbing many wonders. Dainty abandon, sometimes
as if Nature laughing on a hillside in the sunshine; serious and firm
monotonies, as of winds; a horn sounding through the tangle of the forest,
and the dying echoes; soothing floating of waves, but presently rising in
surges, angrily lashing, muttering, heavy; piercing peals of laughter, for
interstices; now and then weird, as Nature herself is in certain moods—but
mainly spontaneous, easy, careless—often the sentiment of the postures of
naked children playing or sleeping. It did me good even to watch the
violinists drawing their bows so masterly—every motion a study. I allow'd
myself, as I sometimes do, to wander out of myself. The conceit came to me

of a copious grove of singing birds, and in their midst a simple harmonic
duo, two human souls, steadily asserting their own pensiveness, joyousness.

A HINT OF WILD NATURE

Feb. 13.—As I was crossing the Delaware to-day, saw a large flock of
wild geese, right overhead, not very high up, ranged in V-shape, in relief
against the noon clouds of light smoke-color. Had a capital though
momentary view of them, and then of their course on and on southeast, till
gradually fading—(my eyesight yet first rate for the open air and its
distances, but I use glasses for reading.) Queer thoughts melted into me the
two or three minutes, or less, seeing these creatures cleaving the sky—the
spacious, airy realm—even the prevailing smoke-gray color everywhere,
(no sun shining)—the waters below—the rapid flight of the birds, appearing
just for a minute—flashing to me such a hint of the whole spread of Nature,
with her eternal unsophisticated freshness, her never-visited recesses of sea,
sky, shore—and then disappearing in the distance.

LOAFING IN THE WOODS

March 8.—I write this down in the country again, but in a new spot,
seated on a log in the woods, warm, sunny, midday. Have been loafing here
deep among the trees, shafts of tall pines, oak, hickory, with a thick
undergrowth of laurels and grapevines—the ground cover'd everywhere by
debris, dead leaves, breakage, moss—everything solitary, ancient, grim.
Paths (such as they are) leading hither and yon—(how made I know not, for
nobody seems to come here, nor man nor cattle-kind.) Temperature to-day
about 60, the wind through the pine-tops; I sit and listen to its hoarse
sighing above (and to the stillness) long and long, varied by aimless
rambles in the old roads and paths, and by exercise-pulls at the young
saplings, to keep my joints from getting stiff. Blue-birds, robins, meadow-
larks begin to appear.
Next day, 9th.—A snowstorm in the morning, and continuing most of the
day. But I took a walk over two hours, the same woods and paths, amid the
falling flakes. No wind, yet the musical low murmur through the pines,
quite pronounced, curious, like waterfalls, now still'd, now pouring again.
All the senses, sight, sound, smell, delicately gratified. Every snowflake lay

where it fell on the evergreens, holly-trees, laurels, &c., the multitudinous
leaves and branches piled, bulging-white, defined by edge-lines of emerald
—the tall straight columns of the plentiful bronze-topt pines—a slight
resinous odor blending with that of the snow. (For there is a scent to
everything, even the snow, if you can only detect it—no two places, hardly
any two hours, anywhere, exactly alike. How different the odor of noon
from midnight, or winter from summer, or a windy spell from a still one.)

A CONTRALTO VOICE

May 9, Sunday.—Visit this evening to my friends the J.'s—good supper,
to which I did justice—lively chat with Mrs. J. and I. and J. As I sat out
front on the walk afterward, in the evening air, the church-choir and organ
on the corner opposite gave Luther's hymn, Ein feste berg, very finely. The
air was borne by a rich contralto. For nearly half an hour there in the dark
(there was a good string of English stanzas,) came the music, firm and
unhurried, with long pauses. The full silver star-beams of Lyra rose silently
over the church's dim roof-ridge. Vari-color'd lights from the stain'd glass
windows broke through the tree-shadows. And under all—under the
Northern Crown up there, and in the fresh breeze below, and the
chiaroscuro of the night, that liquid-full contralto.

SEEING NIAGARA TO ADVANTAGE

June 4, '80.—For really seizing a great picture or book, or piece of
music, or architecture, or grand scenery—or perhaps for the first time even
the common sunshine, or landscape, or may-be even the mystery of identity,
most curious mystery of all—there comes some lucky five minutes of a
man's life, set amid a fortuitous concurrence of circumstances, and bringing
in a brief flash the culmination of years of reading and travel and thought.
The present case about two o'clock this afternoon, gave me Niagara, its
superb severity of action and color and majestic grouping, in one short,
indescribable show. We were very slowly crossing the Suspension bridge-
not a full stop anywhere, but next to it—the day clear, sunny, still—and I
out on the platform. The falls were in plain view about a mile off, but very
distinct, and no roar—hardly a murmur. The river tumbling green and
white, far below me; the dark high banks, the plentiful umbrage, many

bronze cedars, in shadow; and tempering and arching all the immense
materiality, a clear sky overhead, with a few white clouds, limpid, spiritual,
silent. Brief, and as quiet as brief, that picture—a remembrance always
afterwards. Such are the things, indeed, I lay away with my life's rare and
blessed bits of hours, reminiscent, past—the wild sea-storm I once saw one
winter day, off Fire island—the elder Booth in Richard, that famous night
forty years ago in the old Bowery—or Alboni in the children's scene in
Norma—or night-views, I remember, on the field, after battles in Virginia—
or the peculiar sentiment of moonlight and stars over the great Plains,
western Kansas—or scooting up New York bay, with a stiff breeze and a
good yacht, off Navesink. With these, I say, I henceforth place that view,
that afternoon, that combination complete, that five minutes' perfect
absorption of Niagara—not the great majestic gem alone by itself, but set
complete in all its varied, full, indispensable surroundings.

JAUNTING TO CANADA

To go back a little, I left Philadelphia, 9th and Green streets, at 8 o'clock
P.M., June 3, on a first-class sleeper, by the Lehigh Valley (North
Pennsylvania) route, through Bethlehem, Wilkesbarre, Waverly, and so (by
Erie) on through Corning to Hornellsville, where we arrived at 8, morning,
and had a bounteous breakfast. I must say I never put in such a good night
on any railroad track—smooth, firm, the minimum of jolting, and all the
swiftness compatible with safety. So without change to Buffalo, and thence
to Clifton, where we arrived early afternoon; then on to London, Ontario,
Canada, in four more—less than twenty-two hours altogether. I am
domiciled at the hospitable house of my friends Dr. and Mrs. Bucke, in the
ample and charming garden and lawns of the asylum.

SUNDAY WITH THE INSANE

June 6.—Went over to the religious services (Episcopal) main Insane
asylum, held in a lofty, good-sized hall, third story. Plain boards,
whitewash, plenty of cheap chairs, no ornament or color, yet all
scrupulously clean and sweet. Some three hundred persons present, mostly
patients. Everything, the prayers, a short sermon, the firm, orotund voice of
the minister, and most of all, beyond any portraying, or suggesting, that

audience, deeply impress'd me. I was furnish'd with an arm-chair near the
pulpit, and sat facing the motley, yet perfectly well-behaved and orderly
congregation. The quaint dresses and bonnets of some of the women,
several very old and gray, here and there like the heads in old pictures. O
the looks that came from those faces! There were two or three I shall
probably never forget. Nothing at all markedly repulsive or hideous—
strange enough I did not see one such. Our common humanity, mine and
yours, everywhere:

"The same old blood—the same red, running blood;"

yet behind most, an inferr'd arriere of such storms, such wrecks, such
mysteries, fires, love, wrong, greed for wealth, religious problems, crosses
—mirror'd from those crazed faces (yet now temporarily so calm, like still
waters,) all the woes and sad happenings of life and death—now from every
one the devotional element radiating—was it not, indeed, the peace of God
that passeth all understanding, strange as it may sound? I can only say that
I took long and searching eyesweeps as I sat there, and it seem'd so, rousing
unprecedented thoughts, problems unanswerable. A very fair choir, and
melodeon accompaniment. They sang "Lead, kindly light," after the
sermon. Many join'd in the beautiful hymn, to which the minister read the
introductory text, In the daytime also He led them with a cloud, and all the
night with a light of fire. Then the words:

Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead thou me on.
The night is dark, and I am far from home;
Lead thou me on.
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that thou
Should'st lead me on;
I lov'd to choose and see my path; but now
Lead thou me on.
I loved the garish day, and spite of fears
Pride ruled my will; remember not past years.

A couple of days after, I went to the "Refractory building," under special
charge of Dr. Beemer, and through the wards pretty thoroughly, both the
men's and women's. I have since made many other visits of the kind through
the asylum, and around among the detach'd cottages. As far as I could see,
this is among the most advanced, perfected, and kindly and rationally

carried on, of all its kind in America. It is a town in itself, with many
buildings and a thousand inhabitants.
I learn that Canada, and especially this ample and populous province,
Ontario, has the very best and plentiest benevolent institutions in all
departments.

REMINISCENCE OF ELIAS HICKS

June 8.—To-day a letter from Mrs. E. S. L., Detroit, accompanied in a
little post-office roll by a rare old engraved head of Elias Hicks, (from a
portrait in oil by Henry Inman, painted for J. V. S., must have been 60 years
or more ago, in New York)—among the rest the following excerpt about E.
H. in the letter:

"I have listen'd to his preaching so often when a child, and sat with
my mother at social gatherings where he was the centre, and every one
so pleas'd and stirr'd by his conversation. I hear that you contemplate
writing or speaking about him, and I wonder'd whether you had a picture
of him. As I am the owner of two, I send you one."

GRAND NATIVE GROWTH

In a few days I go to lake Huron, and may have something to say of that
region and people. From what I already see, I should say the young native
population of Canada was growing up, forming a hardy, democratic,
intelligent, radically sound, and just as American, good-natured and
individualistic race, as the average range of best specimens among us. As
among us, too, I please myself by considering that this element, though it
may not be the majority, promises to be the leaven which must eventually
leaven the whole lump.

A ZOLLVEREIN BETWEEN THE U.S. AND CANADA

Some of the more liberal of the presses here are discussing the question
of a zollverein between the United States and Canada. It is proposed to
form a union for commercial purposes—to altogether abolish the frontier
tariff line, with its double sets of custom house officials now existing
between the two countries, and to agree upon one tariff for both, the

proceeds of this tariff to be divided between the two governments on the
basis of population. It is said that a large proportion of the merchants of
Canada are in favor of this step, as they believe it would materially add to
the business of the country, by removing the restrictions that now exist on
trade between Canada and the States. Those persons who are opposed to the
measure believe that it would increase the material welfare or the country,
but it would loosen the bonds between Canada and England; and this
sentiment overrides the desire for commercial prosperity. Whether the
sentiment can continue to bear the strain put upon it is a question. It is
thought by many that commercial considerations must in the end prevail. It
seems also to be generally agreed that such a zollverein, or common
customs union, would bring practically more benefits to the Canadian
provinces than to the United States. (It seems to me a certainty of time,
sooner or later, that Canada shall form two or three grand States, equal and
independent, with the rest of the American Union. The St. Lawrence and
lakes are not for a frontier line, but a grand interior or mid-channel.)

THE ST. LAWRENCE LINE

August 20.—Premising that my three or four months in Canada were
intended, among the rest, as an exploration of the line of the St. Lawrence,
from lake Superior to the sea, (the engineers here insist upon considering it
as one stream, over 2000 miles long, including lakes and Niagara and all)—
that I have only partially carried out my programme; but for the seven or
eight hundred miles so far fulfill'd, I find that the Canada question is
absolutely control'd by this vast water line, with its first-class features and
points of trade, humanity, and many more—here I am writing this nearly a
thousand miles north of my Philadelphia starting-point (by way of Montreal
and Quebec) in the midst of regions that go to a further extreme of
grimness, wildness of beauty, and a sort of still and pagan scaredness, while
yet Christian, inhabitable, and partially fertile, than perhaps any other on
earth. The weather remains perfect; some might call it a little cool, but I
wear my old gray overcoat and find it just right. The days are full of
sunbeams and oxygen. Most of the forenoons and afternoons I am on the
forward deck of the steamer.

THE SAVAGE SAGUENAY

Up these black waters, over a hundred miles—always strong, deep,
(hundreds of feet, sometimes thousands,) ever with high, rocky hills for
banks, green and gray—at times a little like some parts of the Hudson, but
much more pronounc'd and defiant. The hills rise higher—keep their ranks
more unbroken. The river is straighter and of more resolute flow, and its
hue, though dark as ink, exquisitely polish'd and sheeny under the August
sun. Different, indeed, this Saguenay from all other rivers—different effects
—a bolder, more vehement play of lights and shades. Of a rare charm of
singleness and simplicity. (Like the organ-chant at midnight from the old
Spanish convent, in "Favorita"—one strain only, simple and monotonous
and unornamented—but indescribably penetrating and grand and
masterful.) Great place for echoes: while our steamer was tied at the wharf
at Tadousac (taj-oo-sac) waiting, the escape-pipe letting off steam, I was
sure I heard a band at the hotel up in the rocks—could even make out some
of the tunes. Only when our pipe stopp'd, I knew what caused it. Then at
cape Eternity and Trinity rock, the pilot with his whistle producing similar
marvellous results, echoes indescribably weird, as we lay off in the still bay
under their shadows.

CAPES ETERNITY AND TRINITY

But the great, haughty, silent capes themselves; I doubt if any crack
points, or hills, or historic places of note, or anything of the kind elsewhere
in the world, outvies these objects—(I write while I am before them face to
face.) They are very simple, they do not startle—at least they did not me—
but they linger in one's memory forever. They are placed very near each
other, side by side, each a mountain rising flush out of the Saguenay. A
good thrower could throw a stone on each in passing—at least it seems so.
Then they are as distinct in form as a perfect physical man or a perfect
physical woman. Cape Eternity is bare, rising, as just said, sheer out of the
water, rugged and grim (yet with an indescribable beauty) nearly two
thousand feet high. Trinity rock, even a little higher, also rising flush, top-
rounded like a great head with close-cut verdure of hair. I consider myself
well repaid for coming my thousand miles to get the sight and memory of
the unrivall'd duo. They have stirr'd me more profoundly than anything of
the kind I have yet seen. If Europe or Asia had them, we should certainly

hear of them in all sorts of sent-back poems, rhapsodies, &c., a dozen times
a year through our papers and magazines.

CHICOUTIMI AND HA-HA BAY

No indeed—life and travel and memory have offer'd and will preserve to
me no deeper-cut incidents, panorama, or sights to cheer my soul, than
these at Chicoutimi and Ha-ha bay, and my days and nights up and down
this fascinating savage river—the rounded mountains, some bare and gray,
some dull red, some draped close all over with matted green verdure or
vines—the ample, calm, eternal rocks everywhere—the long streaks of
motley foam, a milk-white curd on the glistening breast of the stream—the
little two-masted schooner, dingy yellow, with patch'd sails, set wing-and-
wing, nearing us, coming saucily up the water with a couple of swarthy,
black-hair'd men aboard—the strong shades falling on the light gray or
yellow outlines of the hills all through the forenoon, as we steam within
gunshot of them—while ever the pure and delicate sky spreads over all.
And the splendid sunsets, and the sights of evening—the same old stars,
(relatively a little different, I see, so far north) Arcturus and Lyra, and the
Eagle, and great Jupiter like a silver globe, and the constellation of the
Scorpion. Then northern lights nearly every night.

THE INHABITANTS—GOOD LIVING

Grim and rocky and black-water'd as the demesne hereabout is, however,
you must not think genial humanity, and comfort, and good-living are not to
be met. Before I began this memorandum I made a first-rate breakfast of
sea-trout, finishing off with wild raspberries. I find smiles and courtesy
everywhere—physiognomies in general curiously like those in the United
States—(I was astonish'd to find the same resemblance all through the
province of Quebec.) In general the inhabitants of this rugged country
(Charlevoix, Chicoutimi and Tadousac counties, and lake St. John region) a
simple, hardy population, lumbering, trapping furs, boating, fishing, berry-
picking and a little farming. I was watching a group of young boatmen
eating their early dinner—nothing but an immense loaf of bread, had
apparently been the size of a bushel measure, from which they cut chunks

with a jack-knife. Must be a tremendous winter country this, when the solid
frost and ice fully set in.
CEDAR-PLUMS LIKE-NAMES (Back again in Camden and down in
Jersey)
One time I thought of naming this collection "Cedar-Plums Like" (which
I still fancy wouldn't have been a bad name nor inappropriate.) A melange
of loafing, looking, hobbling, sitting, traveling—a little thinking thrown in
for salt, but very little—not only summer but all seasons—not only days but
nights—some literary meditations—books, authors examined, Carlyle, Poe,
Emerson tried, (always under my cedar-tree, in the open air, and never in
the library)—mostly the scenes everybody sees, but some of my own
caprices, meditations, egotism—truly an open air and mainly summer
formation—singly, or in clusters—wild and free and somewhat acrid—
indeed more like cedar-plums than you might guess at first glance.
But do you know what they are? (To city man, or some sweet parlor lady,
I now talk.) As you go along roads, or barrens, or across country, anywhere
through these States, middle, eastern, western, or southern, you will see,
certain seasons of the year, the thick woolly tufts of the cedar mottled with
bunches of china-blue berries, about as big as fox-grapes. But first a special
word for the tree itself: everybody knows that the cedar is a healthy, cheap,
democratic wood, streak'd red and white—an evergreen—that it is not a
cultivated tree—that it keeps away moths—that it grows inland or seaboard,
all climates, hot or cold, any soil—in fact rather prefers sand and bleak side
spots—content if the plough, the fertilizer and the trimming-axe, will but
keep away and let it alone. After a long rain, when everything looks bright,
often have I stopt in my wood-saunters, south or north, or far west, to take
in its dusky green, wash'd clean and sweet, and speck'd copiously with its
fruit of clear, hardy blue. The wood of the cedar is of use—but what profit
on earth are those sprigs of acrid plums? A question impossible to answer
satisfactorily. True, some of the herb doctors give them for stomachic
affections, but the remedy is as bad as the disease. Then in my rambles
down in Camden county I once found an old crazy woman gathering the
clusters with zeal and joy. She show'd, as I was told afterward, a sort of
infatuation for them, and every year placed and kept profuse bunches high
and low about her room. They had a strange charm on her uneasy head, and
effected docility and peace. (She was harmless, and lived near by with her

well-off married daughter.) Whether there is any connection between those
bunches, and being out of one's wits, I cannot say, but I myself entertain a
weakness for them. Indeed, I love the cedar, anyhow—its naked
ruggedness, its just palpable odor, (so different from the perfumer's best,) its
silence, its equable acceptance of winter's cold and summer's heat, of rain or
drouth—its shelter to me from those, at times—its associations—(well, I
never could explain why I love anybody, or anything.) The service I now
specially owe to the cedar is, while I cast around for a name for my
proposed collection, hesitating, puzzled—after rejecting a long, long string,
I lift my eyes, and lo! the very term I want. At any rate, I go no further—I
tire in the search. I take what some invisible kind spirit has put before me.
Besides, who shall say there is not affinity enough between (at least the
bundle of sticks that produced) many of these pieces, or granulations, and
those blue berries? their uselessness growing wild—a certain aroma of
Nature I would so like to have in my pages—the thin soil whence they
come—their content in being let alone—their stolid and deaf repugnance to
answering questions, (this latter the nearest, dearest trait affinity of all.)
Then reader dear, in conclusion, as to the point of the name for the
present collection, let us be satisfied to have a name—something to identify
and bind it together, to concrete all its vegetable, mineral, personal
memoranda, abrupt raids of criticism, crude gossip of philosophy, varied
sands and clumps—without bothering ourselves because certain pages do
not present themselves to you or me as coming under their own name with
entire fitness or amiability. (It is a profound, vexatious never-explicable
matter—this of names. I have been exercised deeply about it my whole life.
{11})
After all of which the name "Cedar-Plums Like" got its nose put out of
joint; but I cannot afford to throw away what I pencill'd down the lane
there, under the shelter of my old friend, one warm October noon. Besides,
it wouldn't be civil to the cedar tree.
Endnotes:
{11} In the pocket of my receptacle-book I find a list of suggested and
rejected names for this volume, or parts of it—such as the following:

As the wild bee hums in May,
& August mulleins grow,
& Winter snow-flakes fall,
& stars in the sky roll round.

Away from Books—away from Art,
Now for the Day and Night—the lessons done,
Now for the Sun and Stars.

Notes of a Half-Paralytic, As Voices in the Dusk, from
Week in and Week out, Speakers far or hid,
Embers of Ending Days, Autochthons....Embryons,
Ducks and Drakes, Wing-and-Wing,
Flood Tide and Ebb, Notes and Recalles.
Gossip at Early Candle-light, Only Mulleins and Bumble-Bees,
Echoes and Escapades, Pond-Babble....Tête-a-Têtes,
Such as I....Evening Dews, Echoes of a Life in the 19th
Notes and Writing a Book, Century in the New World,
Far and Near at 63, Flanges of Fifty Years,
Drifts and Cumulus, Abandons....Hurry Notes,
Maize-Tassels....Kindlings, A Life-Mosaic....Native Moments,
Fore and Aft....Vestibules, Types and Semi-Tones,
Scintilla at 60 and after, Oddments....Sand-Drifts,
Sands on the Shores of 64, Again and Again.

DEATH OF THOMAS CARLYLE

Feb. 10, '81.—And so the flame of the lamp, after long wasting and
flickering, has gone out entirely.
As a representative author, a literary figure, no man else will bequeath to
the future more significant hints of our stormy era, its fierce paradoxes, its
din, and its struggling parturition periods, than Carlyle. He belongs to our
own branch of the stock too; neither Latin nor Greek, but altogether Gothic.
Rugged, mountainous, volcanic, he was himself more a French revolution
than any of his volumes. In some respects, so far in the Nineteenth century,
the best equipt, keenest mind, even from the college point of view, of all
Britain; only he had an ailing body. Dyspepsia is to be traced in every page,
and now and then fills the page. One may include among the lessons of his
life—even though that life stretch'd to amazing length—how behind the
tally of genius and morals stands the stomach, and gives a sort of casting
vote.
Two conflicting agonistic elements seem to have contended in the man,
sometimes pulling him different ways like wild horses. He was a cautious,
conservative Scotchman, fully aware what a foetid gas-bag much of modern
radicalism is; but then his great heart demanded reform, demanded change
—often terribly at odds with his scornful brain. No author ever put so much
wailing and despair into his books, sometimes palpable, oftener latent. He
reminds me of that passage in Young's poems where as death presses closer

and closer for his prey, the soul rushes hither and thither, appealing,
shrieking, berating, to escape the general doom.
Of short-comings, even positive blur-spots, from an American point of
view, he had serious share.
Not for his merely literary merit, (though that was great)—not as "maker
of books," but as launching into the self-complacent atmosphere of our days
a rasping, questioning, dislocating agitation and shock, is Carlyle's final
value. It is time the English-speaking peoples had some true idea about the
verteber of genius, namely power. As if they must always have it cut and
bias'd to the fashion, like a lady's cloak! What a needed service he
performs! How he shakes our comfortable reading circles with a touch of
the old Hebraic anger and prophecy—and indeed it is just the same. Not
Isaiah himself more scornful, more threatening: "The crown of pride, the
drunkards of Ephraim, shall be trodden under feet: And the glorious beauty
which is on the head of the fat valley shall be a fading flower." (The word
prophecy is much misused; it seems narrow'd to prediction merely. That is
not the main sense of the Hebrew word translated "prophet;" it means one
whose mind bubbles up and pours forth as a fountain, from inner, divine
spontaneities revealing God. Prediction is a very minor part of prophecy.
The great matter is to reveal and outpour the God-like suggestions pressing
for birth in the soul. This is briefly the doctrine of the Friends or Quakers.)
Then the simplicity and amid ostensible frailty the towering strength of
this man—a hardy oak knot, you could never wear out—an old farmer
dress'd in brown clothes, and not handsome—his very foibles fascinating.
Who cares that he wrote about Dr. Francia, and "Shooting Niagara"—and
"the Nigger Question,"—and didn't at all admire our United States? (I doubt
if he ever thought or said half as bad words about us as we deserve.) How
he splashes like leviathan in the seas of modern literature and politics!
Doubtless, respecting the latter, one needs first to realize, from actual
observation, the squalor, vice and doggedness ingrain'd in the bulk-
population of the British islands, with the red tape, the fatuity, the
flunkeyism everywhere, to understand the last meaning in his pages.
Accordingly, though he was no chartist or radical, I consider Carlyle's by
far the most indignant comment or protest anent the fruits of feudalism to-
day in Great Britain—the increasing poverty and degradation of the
homeless, landless twenty millions, while a few thousands, or rather a few

hundreds, possess the entire soil, the money, and the fat berths. Trade and
shipping, and clubs and culture, and prestige, and guns, and a fine select
class of gentry and aristocracy, with every modern improvement, cannot
begin to salve or defend such stupendous hoggishness.
The way to test how much he has left his country were to consider, or try
to consider, for a moment, the array of British thought, the resultant
ensemble of the last fifty years, as existing to-day, but with Carlyle left out.
It would be like an army with no artillery. The show were still a gay and
rich one—Byron, Scott, Tennyson, and many more—horsemen and rapid
infantry, and banners flying—but the last heavy roar so dear to the ear of
the train'd soldier, and that settles fate and victory, would be lacking.
For the last three years we in America have had transmitted glimpses of a
thin-bodied, lonesome, wifeless, childless, very old man, lying on a sofa,
kept out of bed by indomitable will, but, of late, never well enough to take
the open air. I have noted this news from time to time in brief descriptions
in the papers. A week ago I read such an item just before I started out for
my customary evening stroll between eight and nine. In the fine cold night,
unusually clear, (Feb. 5, '81,) as I walk'd some open grounds adjacent, the
condition of Carlyle, and his approaching—perhaps even then actual—
death, filled me with thoughts eluding statement, and curiously blending
with the scene. The planet Venus, an hour high in the west, with all her
volume and lustre recover'd, (she has been shorn and languid for nearly a
year,) including an additional sentiment I never noticed before—not merely
voluptuous, Paphian, steeping, fascinating—now with calm commanding
seriousness and hauteur—the Milo Venus now. Upward to the zenith,
Jupiter, Saturn, and the moon past her quarter, trailing in procession, with
the Pleiades following, and the constellation Taurus, and red Aldebaran. Not
a cloud in heaven. Orion strode through the southeast, with his glittering
belt—and a trifle below hung the sun of the night, Sirius. Every star dilated,
more vitreous, nearer than usual. Not as in some clear nights when the
larger stars entirely outshine the rest. Every little star or cluster just as
distinctly visible, and just as nigh. Berenice's hair showing every gem, and
new ones. To the northeast and north the Sickle, the Goat and kids,
Cassiopeia, Castor and Pollux, and the two Dippers. While through the
whole of this silent indescribable show, inclosing and bathing my whole
receptivity, ran the thought of Carlyle dying. (To soothe and spiritualize,

and, as far as may be, solve the mysteries of death and genius, consider
them under the stars at midnight.)
And now that he has gone hence, can it be that Thomas Carlyle, soon to
chemically dissolve in ashes and by winds, remains an identity still? In
ways perhaps eluding all the statements, lore and speculations of ten
thousand years—eluding all possible statements to mortal sense—does he
yet exist, a definite, vital being, a spirit, an individual—perhaps now wafted
in space among those stellar systems, which, suggestive and limitless as
they are, merely edge more limitless, far more suggestive systems? I have
no doubt of it. In silence, of a fine night, such questions are answer'd to the
soul, the best answers that can be given. With me, too, when depress'd by
some specially sad event, or tearing problem, I wait till I go out under the
stars for the last voiceless satisfaction.

CARLYLE FROM AMERICAN POINTS OF VIEW

Later Thoughts and Jottings
There is surely at present an inexplicable rapport (all the more piquant
from its contradictoriness) between that deceas'd author and our United
States of America—no matter whether it lasts or not{13} As we Westerners
assume definite shape, and result in formations and fruitage unknown
before, it is curious with what a new sense our eyes turn to representative
outgrowths of crises and personages in the Old World. Beyond question,
since Carlyle's death, and the publication of Froude's memoirs, not only the
interest in his books, but every personal bit regarding the famous
Scotchman—his dyspepsia, his buffetings, his parentage, his paragon of a
wife, his career in Edinburgh, in the lonesome nest on Craigenputtock
moor, and then so many years in London—is probably wider and livelier to-
day in this country than in his own land. Whether I succeed or no, I, too,
reaching across the Atlantic and taking the man's dark fortune-telling of
humanity and politics, would offset it all, (such is the fancy that comes to
me,) by a far more profound horoscope-casting of those themes—G. F.
Hegel's.{14}
First, about a chance, a never-fulfill'd vacuity of this pale cast of thought
—this British Hamlet from Cheyne row, more puzzling than the Danish
one, with his contrivances for settling the broken and spavin'd joints of the

world's government, especially its democratic dislocation. Carlyle's grim
fate was cast to live and dwell in, and largely embody, the parturition agony
and qualms of the old order, amid crowded accumulations of ghastly
morbidity, giving birth to the new.
But conceive of him (or his parents before him) coming to America,
recuperated by the cheering realities and activity of our people and country
—growing up and delving face-to-face resolutely among us here, especially
at the West—inhaling and exhaling our limitless air and eligibilities—
devoting his mind to the theories and developments of this Republic amid
its practical facts as exemplified in Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Tennessee, or
Louisiana. I say facts, and face-to-face confrontings—so different from
books, and all those quiddities and mere reports in the libraries, upon which
the man (it was wittily said of him at the age of thirty, that there was no one
in Scotland who had glean'd so much and seen so little,) almost wholly fed,
and which even his sturdy and vital mind but reflected at best.
Something of the sort narrowly escaped happening. In 1835, after more
than a dozen years of trial and non-success, the author of "Sartor Resartus"
removing to London, very poor, a confirmed hypochondriac, "Sartor"
universally scoffed at, no literary prospects ahead, deliberately settled on
one last casting throw of the literary dice—resolv'd to compose and launch
forth a book on the subject of the French Revolution—and if that won no
higher guerdon or prize than hitherto, to sternly abandon the trade of author
forever, and emigrate for good to America. But the venture turn'd out a
lucky one, and there was no emigration.
Carlyle's work in the sphere of literature as he commenced and carried it
out, is the same in one or two leading respects that Immanuel Kant's was in
speculative philosophy. But the Scotchman had none of the stomachic
phlegm and never-perturb'd placidity of the Konigsberg sage, and did not,
like the latter, understand his own limits, and stop when he got to the end of
them. He clears away jungle and poisonvines and underbrush—at any rate
hacks valiantly at them, smiting hip and thigh. Kant did the like in his
sphere, and it was all he profess'd to do; his labors have left the ground fully
prepared ever since—and greater service was probably never perform'd by
mortal man. But the pang and hiatus of Carlyle seem to me to consist in the
evidence everywhere that amid a whirl of fog and fury and cross-purposes,

he firmly believ'd he had a clue to the medication of the world's ills, and
that his bounden mission was to exploit it.{15}
There were two anchors, or sheet-anchors, for steadying, as a last resort,
the Carlylean ship. One will be specified presently. The other, perhaps the
main, was only to be found in some mark'd form of personal force, an
extreme degree of competent urge and will, a man or men "born to
command." Probably there ran through every vein and current of the
Scotchman's blood something that warm'd up to this kind of trait and
character above aught else in the world, and which makes him in my
opinion the chief celebrater and promulger of it in literature—more than
Plutarch, more than Shakspere. The great masses of humanity stand for
nothing—at least nothing but nebulous raw material; only the big planets
and shining suns for him. To ideas almost invariably languid or cold, a
number-one forceful personality was sure to rouse his eulogistic passion
and savage joy. In such case, even the standard of duty hereinafter rais'd,
was to be instantly lower'd and vail'd. All that is comprehended under the
terms republicanism and democracy were distasteful to him from the first,
and as he grew older they became hateful and contemptible. For an
undoubtedly candid and penetrating faculty such as his, the bearings he
persistently ignored were marvellous. For instance, the promise, nay
certainty of the democratic principle, to each and every State of the current
world, not so much of helping it to perfect legislators and executives, but as
the only effectual method for surely, however slowly, training people on a
large scale toward voluntarily ruling and managing themselves (the ultimate
aim of political and all other development)—to gradually reduce the fact of
governing to its minimum, and to subject all its staffs and their doings to the
telescopes and microscopes of committees and parties—and greatest of all,
to afford (not stagnation and obedient content, which went well enough
with the feudalism and ecclesiasticism of the antique and medieval world,
but) a vast and sane and recurrent ebb and tide action for those floods of the
great deep that have henceforth palpably burst forever their old bounds—
seem never to have enter'd Carlyle's thought. It was splendid how he refus'd
any compromise to the last. He was curiously antique. In that harsh,
picturesque, most potent voice and figure, one seems to be carried back
from the present of the British islands more than two thousand years, to the
range between Jerusalem and Tarsus. His fullest best biographer justly says
of him:

He was a teacher and a prophet, in the Jewish sense of the word. The
prophecies of Isaiah and Jeremiah have become a part of the permanent
spiritual inheritance of mankind, because events proved that they had
interpreted correctly the sign of their own times, and their prophecies were
fulfill'd. Carlyle, like them, believ'd that he had a special message to deliver
to the present age. Whether he was correct in that belief, and whether his
message was a true message, remains to be seen. He has told us that our
most cherish'd ideas of political liberty, with their kindred corollaries, are
mere illusions, and that the progress which has seem'd to go along with
them is a progress towards anarchy and social dissolution. If he was wrong,
he has misused his powers. The principles of his teachings are false. He has
offer'd himself as a guide upon a road of which he had no knowledge; and
his own desire for himself would be the speediest oblivion both of his
person and his works. If, on the other hand, he has been right; if, like his
great predecessors, he has read truly the tendencies of this modern age of
ours, and his teaching is authenticated by facts, then Carlyle, too, will take
his place among the inspired seers.
To which I add an amendment that under no circumstances, and no
matter how completely time and events disprove his lurid vaticinations,
should the English-speaking world forget this man, nor fail to hold in honor
his unsurpass'd conscience, his unique method, and his honest fame. Never
were convictions more earnest and genuine. Never was there less of a
flunkey or temporizer. Never had political progressivism a foe it could more
heartily respect.
The second main point of Carlyle's utterance was the idea of duty being
done. (It is simply a new codicil—if it be particularly new, which is by no
means certain—on the time-honor'd bequest of dynasticism, the mould-
eaten rules of legitimacy and kings.) He seems to have been impatient
sometimes to madness when reminded by persons who thought at least as
deeply as himself, that this formula, though precious, is rather a vague one,
and that there are many other considerations to a philosophical estimate of
each and every department either.
Altogether, I don't know anything more amazing than these persistent
strides and throbbings so far through our Nineteenth century of perhaps its
biggest, sharpest, and most erudite brain, in defiance and discontent with
everything; contemptuously ignoring, (either from constitutional inaptitude,

ignorance itself, or more likely because he demanded a definite cure-all
here and now,) the only solace and solvent to be had.
There is, apart from mere intellect, in the make-up of every superior
human identity, (in its moral completeness, considered as ensemble, not for
that moral alone, but for the whole being, including physique,) a wondrous
something that realizes without argument, frequently without what is called
education, (though I think it the goal and apex of all education deserving
the name)—an intuition of the absolute balance, in time and space, of the
whole of this multifarious, mad chaos of fraud, frivolity, hoggishness—this
revel of fools, and incredible make-believe and general unsettledness, we
call the world; a soul-sight of that divine clue and unseen thread which
holds the whole congeries of things, all history and time, and all events,
however trivial, however momentous, like a leash'd dog in the hand of the
hunter. Such soul-sight and root-centre for the mind—mere optimism
explains only the surface or fringe of it—Carlyle was mostly, perhaps
entirely without. He seems instead to have been haunted in the play of his
mental action by a spectre, never entirely laid from first to last, (Greek
scholars, I believe, find the same mocking and fantastic apparition attending
Aristophanes, his comedies,)—the spectre of world-destruction.
How largest triumph or failure in human life, in war or peace, may
depend on some little hidden centrality, hardly more than a drop of blood, a
pulse-beat, or a breath of air! It is certain that all these weighty matters,
democracy in America, Carlyleism, and the temperament for deepest
political or literary exploration, turn on a simple point in speculative
philosophy.
The most profound theme that can occupy the mind of man—the problem
on whose solution science, art, the bases and pursuits of nations, and
everything else, including intelligent human happiness, (here to-day, 1882,
New York, Texas, California, the same as all times, all lands,) subtly and
finally resting, depends for competent outset and argument, is doubtless
involved in the query: What is the fusing explanation and tie—what the
relation between the (radical, democratic) Me, the human identity of
understanding, emotions, spirit, &c., on the one side, of and with the
(conservative) Not Me, the whole of the material objective universe and
laws, with what is behind them in time and space, on the other side?
Immanuel Kant, though he explain'd or partially explain'd, as may be said,

the laws of the human understanding, left this question an open one.
Schelling's answer, or suggestion of answer, is (and very valuable and
important, as far as it goes,) that the same general and particular
intelligence, passion, even the standards of right and wrong, which exist in
a conscious and formulated state in man, exist in an unconscious state, or in
perceptible analogies, throughout the entire universe of external Nature, in
all its objects large or small, and all its movements and processes—thus
making the impalpable human mind, and concrete nature, notwithstanding
their duality and separation, convertible, and in centrality and essence one.
But G. F. Hegel's fuller statement of the matter probably remains the last
best word that has been said upon it, up to date. Substantially adopting the
scheme just epitomized, he so carries it out and fortifies it and merges
everything in it, with certain serious gaps now for the first time fill'd, that it
becomes a coherent metaphysical system, and substantial answer (as far as
there can be any answer) to the foregoing question—a system which, while
I distinctly admit that the brain of the future may add to, revise, and even
entirely reconstruct, at any rate beams forth to-day, in its entirety,
illuminating the thought of the universe, and satisfying the mystery thereof
to the human mind, with a more consoling scientific assurance than any yet.
According to Hegel the whole earth, (an old nucleus-thought, as in the
Vedas, and no doubt before, but never hitherto brought so absolutely to the
front, fully surcharged with modern scientism and facts, and made the sole
entrance to each and all,) with its infinite variety, the past, the surroundings
of to-day, or what may happen in the future, the contrarieties of material
with spiritual, and of natural with artificial, are all, to the eye of the
ensemblist, but necessary sides and unfoldings, different steps or links, in
the endless process of Creative thought, which, amid numberless apparent
failures and contradictions, is held together by central and never-broken
unity—not contradictions or failures at all, but radiations of one consistent
and eternal purpose; the whole mass of everything steadily, unerringly
tending and flowing toward the permanent utile and morale, as rivers to
oceans. As life is the whole law and incessant effort of the visible universe,
and death only the other or invisible side of the same, so the utile, so truth,
so health are the continuous-immutable laws of the moral universe, and vice
and disease, with all their perturbations, are but transient, even if ever so
prevalent expressions.

To politics throughout, Hegel applies the like catholic standard and faith.
Not any one party, or any one form of government, is absolutely and
exclusively true. Truth consists in the just relations of objects to each other.
A majority or democracy may rule as outrageously and do as great harm as
an oligarchy or despotism—though far less likely to do so. But the great
evil is either a violation of the relations just referr'd to, or of the moral law.
The specious, the unjust, the cruel, and what is called the unnatural, though
not only permitted but in a certain sense, (like shade to light,) inevitable in
the divine scheme, are by the whole constitution of that scheme, partial,
inconsistent, temporary, and though having ever so great an ostensible
majority, are certainly destin'd to failures, after causing great suffering.
Theology, Hegel translates into science.{16} All apparent contradictions
in the statement of the Deific nature by different ages, nations, churches,
points of view, are but fractional and imperfect expressions of one essential
unity, from which they all proceed—crude endeavors or distorted parts, to
be regarded both as distinct and united. In short (to put it in our own form,
or summing up,) that thinker or analyzer or overlooker who by an
inscrutable combination of train'd wisdom and natural intuition most fully
accepts in perfect faith the moral unity and sanity of the creative scheme, in
history, science, and all life and time, present and future, is both the truest
cosmical devotee or religioso, and the profoundest philosopher. While he
who, by the spell of himself and his circumstance, sees darkness and
despair in the sum of the workings of God's providence, and who, in that,
denies or prevaricates, is, no matter how much piety plays on his lips, the
most radical sinner and infidel.
I am the more assured in recounting Hegel a little freely here,{17} not
only for offsetting the Carlylean letter and spirit-cutting it out all and
several from the very roots, and below the roots—but to counterpoise, since
the late death and deserv'd apotheosis of Darwin, the tenets of the
evolutionists. Unspeakably precious as those are to biology, and henceforth
indispensable to a right aim and estimate in study, they neither comprise or
explain everything—and the last word or whisper still remains to be
breathed, after the utmost of those claims, floating high and forever above
them all, and above technical metaphysics. While the contributions which
German Kant and Fichte and Schelling and Hegel have bequeath'd to
humanity—and which English Darwin has also in his field—are
indispensable to the erudition of America's future, I should say that in all of

them, and the best of them, when compared with the lightning flashes and
flights of the old prophets and exaltés, the spiritual poets and poetry of all
lands, (as in the Hebrew Bible,) there seems to be, nay certainly is,
something lacking—something cold, a failure to satisfy the deepest
emotions of the soul—a want of living glow, fondness, warmth, which the
old exaltés and poets supply, and which the keenest modern philosophers so
far do not.
Upon the whole, and for our purposes, this man's name certainly belongs
on the list with the just-specified, first-class moral physicians of our current
era—and with Emerson and two or three others—though his prescription is
drastic, and perhaps destructive, while theirs is assimilating, normal and
tonic. Feudal at the core, and mental offspring and radiation of feudalism as
are his books, they afford ever-valuable lessons and affinities to democratic
America. Nations or individuals, we surely learn deepest from unlikeness,
from a sincere opponent, from the light thrown even scornfully on
dangerous spots and liabilities. (Michel Angelo invoked heaven's special
protection against his friends and affectionate flatterers; palpable foes he
could manage for himself.) In many particulars Carlyle was indeed, as
Froude terms him, one of those far-off Hebraic utterers, a new Micah or
Habbakuk. His words at times bubble forth with abysmic inspiration.
Always precious, such men; as precious now as any time. His rude, rasping,
taunting, contradictory tones—what ones are more wanted amid the supple,
polish'd, money—worshipping, Jesus-and-Judas-equalizing, suffrage-
sovereignty echoes of current America? He has lit up our Nineteenth
century with the light of a powerful, penetrating, and perfectly honest
intellect of the first class, turn'd on British and European politics, social life,
literature, and representative personages—thoroughly dissatisfied with all,
and mercilessly exposing the illness of all. But while he announces the
malady, and scolds and raves about it, he himself, born and bred in the same
atmosphere, is a mark'd illustration of it.
Endnotes:
{13} It will be difficult for the future—judging by his books, personal
dissympathies, &c.,—to account for the deep hold this author has taken on
the present age, and the way he has color'd its method and thought. I am
certainly at a loss to account for it all as affecting myself. But there could be
no view, or even partial picture, of the middle and latter part of our