Complete Prose Works

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"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.

Note:

[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.)

Note:

[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.

Note:

[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 _emigre_, 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.