Complete Prose Works

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In the present memorandum I only venture to indicate that plan and
view--decided upon more than twenty years ago, for my own literary
action, and formulated tangibly in my printed poems--(as Bacon says an
abstract thought or theory is of no moment unless it leads to a deed
or work done, exemplifying it in the concrete)--that the sexual
passion in itself, while normal and unperverted, is inherently
legitimate, creditable, not necessarily an improper theme for poet,
as confessedly not for scientist--that, with reference to the whole
construction, organism, and intentions of "Leaves of Grass," anything
short of confronting that theme, and making myself clear upon it as
the enclosing basis of everything, (as the sanity of everything was to
be the atmosphere of the poems,) I should beg the question in its most
momentous aspect, and the superstructure that follow'd, pretensive
as it might assume to be, would all rest on a poor foundation, or no
foundation at all. In short, as the assumption of the sanity of birth,
Nature and humanity, is the key to any true theory of life and the
universe--at any rate, the only theory out of which I wrote--it is,
and must inevitably be, the only key to "Leaves of Grass," and every
part of it. _That_, (and not a vain consistency or weak pride, as a
late "Springfield Republican" charges,) is the reason that I have
stood out for these particular verses uncompromisingly for over twenty
years, and maintain them to this day. _That_ is what I felt in my
inmost brain and heart, when I only answer'd Emerson's vehement
arguments with silence, under the old elms of Boston Common.

Indeed, might not every physiologist and every good physician pray
for the redeeming of this subject from its hitherto relegation to the
tongues and pens of blackguards, and boldly putting it for once at
least, if no more, in the demesne of poetry and sanity--as something
not in itself gross or impure, but entirely consistent with highest
manhood and womanhood, and indispensable to both? Might not only every
wife and every mother--not only every babe that comes into the world,
if that were possible--not only all marriage, the foundation and _sine
qua non_ of the civilized state--bless and thank the showing, or
taking for granted, that motherhood, fatherhood, sexuality, and all
that belongs to them, can be asserted, where it comes to question,
openly, joyously, proudly, "without shame or the need of shame," from
the highest artistic and human considerations--but, with reverence be
it written, on such attempt to justify the base and start of the whole
divine scheme in humanity, might not the Creative Power itself deign a
smile of approval?

To the movement for the eligibility and entrance of women amid new
spheres of business, politics, and the suffrage, the current prurient,
conventional treatment of sex is the main formidable obstacle. The
rising tide of "woman's rights," swelling and every year advancing
farther and farther, recoils from it with dismay. There will in my
opinion be no general progress in such eligibility till a sensible,
philosophic, democratic method is substituted.

The whole question--which strikes far, very far deeper than most
people have supposed, (and doubtless, too, something is to be said on
all sides,) is peculiarly an important one in art--is first an ethic,
and then still more an esthetic one. I condense from a paper read
not long since at Cheltenham, England, before the "Social Science
Congress," to the Art Department, by P. H. Rathbone of Liverpool, on
the "Undraped Figure in Art," and the discussion that follow'd:

"When coward Europe suffer'd the unclean Turk to soil the sacred
shores of Greece by his polluting presence, civilization and morality
receiv'd a blow from which they have never entirely recover' d, and
the trail of the serpent has been over European art and European
society ever since. The Turk regarded and regards women as animals
without soul, toys to be play'd with or broken at pleasure, and to be
hidden, partly from shame, but chiefly for the purpose of stimulating
exhausted passion. Such is the unholy origin of the objection to the
nude as a fit subject for art; it is purely Asiatic, and though not
introduced for the first time in the fifteenth century, is yet to be
traced to the source of all impurity--the East. Although the source of
the prejudice is thoroughly unhealthy and impure, yet it is now shared
by many pure-minded and honest, if somewhat uneducated, people. But I
am prepared to maintain that it is necessary for the future of English
art and of English morality that the right of the nude to a place in
our galleries should be boldly asserted; it must, however, be the nude
as represented by thoroughly trained artists, and with a pure and
noble ethic purpose. The human form, male and female, is the type and
standard of all beauty of form and proportion, and it is necessary to
be thoroughly familiar with it in order safely to judge of all beauty
which consists of form and proportion. To women it is most necessary
that they should become thoroughly imbued with the knowledge of the
ideal female form, in order that they should recognize the perfection
of it at once, and without effort, and so far as possible avoid
deviations from the ideal. Had this been the case in times past,
we should not have had to deplore the distortions effected by
tight-lacing, which destroy'd the figure and ruin'd the health of so
many of the last generation. Nor should we have had the scandalous
dresses alike of society and the stage. The extreme development of the
low dresses which obtain'd some years ago, when the stays crush'd
up the breasts into suggestive prominence, would surely have been
check'd, had the eye of the public been properly educated by
familiarity with the exquisite beauty of line of a well-shaped bust.
I might show how thorough acquaintance with the ideal nude foot would
probably have much modified the foot-torturing boots and high heels,
which wring the foot out of all beauty of line, and throw the body
forward into an awkward and ungainly attitude.

It is argued that the effect of nude representation of women upon
young men is unwholesome, but it would not be so if such works were
admitted without question into our galleries, and became thoroughly
familiar to them. On the contrary, it would do much to clear away
from healthy-hearted lads one of their sorest trials--that prurient
curiosity which is bred of prudish concealment. Where there is mystery
there is the suggestion of evil, and to go to a theatre, where you
have only to look at the stalls to see one-half of the female form,
and to the stage to see the other half undraped, is far more pregnant
with evil imaginings than the most objectionable of totally undraped
figures. In French art there have been questionable nude figures
exhibited; but the fault was not that they were nude, but that they
were the portraits of ugly immodest women. Some discussion follow'd.
There was a general concurrence in the principle contended for by the
reader of the paper. Sir Walter Stirling maintain'd that the perfect
male figure, rather than the female, was the model of beauty. After a
few remarks from Rev. Mr. Roberts and Colonel Oldfield, the Chairman
regretted that no opponent of nude figures had taken part in the
discussion. He agreed with Sir Walter Stirling as to the male figure
being the most perfect model of proportion. He join'd in defending
the exhibition of nude figures, but thought considerable supervision
should be exercis'd over such exhibitions.

No, it is not the picture or nude statue or text, with clear aim, that
is indecent; it is the beholder's own thought, inference, distorted
construction. True modesty is one of the most precious of attributes,
even virtues, but in nothing is there more pretense, more falsity,
than the needless assumption of it. Through precept and consciousness,
man has long enough realized how bad he is. I would not so much
disturb or demolish that conviction, only to resume and keep
unerringly with it the spinal meaning of the Scriptural text,
_God overlook'd all that He had made_, (including the apex of the
whole--humanity--with its elements, passions, appetites,) _and behold,
it was very good_."

Does not anything short of that third point of view, when you come to
think of it profoundly and with amplitude, impugn Creation from the
outset? In fact, however overlaid, or unaware of itself, does not
the conviction involv'd in it perennially exist at the centre of
all society, and of the sexes, and of marriage? Is it not really an
intuition of the human race? For, old as the world is, and beyond
statement as are the countless and splendid results of its culture and
evolution, perhaps the best and earliest and purest intuitions of the
human race have yet to be develop'd.

DEATH OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN LECTURE

_deliver'd in New York, April 14, 1879--in Philadelphia, '80--in
Boston, '81_

How often since that dark and dripping Saturday--that chilly April
day, now fifteen years bygone--my heart has entertain'd the dream, the
wish, to give of Abraham Lincoln's death, its own special thought and
memorial. Yet now the sought-for opportunity offers, I find my notes
incompetent, (why, for truly profound themes, is statement so idle?
why does the right phrase never offer?) and the fit tribute I dream'd
of, waits unprepared as ever. My talk here indeed is less because
of itself or anything in it, and nearly altogether because I feel a
desire, apart from any talk, to specify the day, the martyrdom. It is
for this, my friends, I have call'd you together. Oft as the rolling
years bring back this hour, let it again, however briefly, be dwelt
upon. For my own part, I hope and desire, till my own dying day,
whenever the 14th or 15th of April comes, to annually gather a few
friends, and hold its tragic reminiscence. No narrow or sectional
reminiscence. It belongs to these States in their entirety--not the
North only, but the South--perhaps belongs most tenderly and devoutly
to the South, of all; for there, really, this man's birth-stock. There
and thence his antecedent stamp. Why should I not say that thence his
manliest traits--his universality--his canny, easy ways and words upon
the surface--his inflexible determination and courage at heart? Have
you never realized it, my friends, that Lincoln, though grafted on
the West, is essentially, in personnel and character, a Southern
contribution?

And though by no means proposing to resume the secession war to-night,
I would briefly remind you of the public conditions preceding that
contest. For twenty years, and especially during the four or five
before the war actually began, the aspect of affairs in the United
States, though without the flash of military excitement, presents more
than the survey of a battle, or any extended campaign, or series, even
of Nature's convulsions. The hot passions of the South--the strange
mixture at the North of inertia, incredulity, and conscious power--the
incendiarism of the abolitionists--the rascality and grip of the
politicians, unparallel'd in any land, any age. To these I must
not omit adding the honesty of the essential bulk of the people
everywhere--yet with all the seething fury and contradiction of their
natures more arous'd than the Atlantic's waves in wildest equinox. In
politics, what can be more ominous, (though generally unappreciated
then)--what more significant than the Presidentiads of Fillmore and
Buchanan? proving conclusively that the weakness and wickedness of
elected rulers are just as likely to afflict us here, as in the
countries of the Old World, under their monarchies, emperors, and
aristocracies. In that Old World were everywhere heard underground
rumblings, that died out, only to again surely return. While in
America the volcano, though civic yet, continued to grow more and more
convulsive--more and more stormy and threatening.

In the height of all this excitement and chaos, hovering on the edge
at first, and then merged in its very midst, and destined to play a
leading part, appears a strange and awkward figure. I shall not easily
forget the first time I ever saw Abraham Lincoln. It must have been
about the 18th or 19th of February, 1861. It was rather a pleasant
afternoon, in New York city, as he arrived there from the West, to
remain a few hours, and then pass on to Washington, to prepare for
his inauguration. I saw him in Broadway, near the site of the present
Post-office. He came down, I think from Canal street, to stop at
the Astor House. The broad spaces, sidewalks, and street in the
neighborhood, and for some distance, were crowded with solid masses of
people, many thousands. The omnibuses and other vehicles had all been
turn'd off, leaving an unusual hush in that busy part of the city.
Presently two or three shabby hack barouches made their way with some
difficulty through the crowd, and drew up at the Astor House entrance.
A tall figure stepp'd out of the centre of these barouches, paus'd
leisurely on the sidewalk, look'd up at the granite walls and looming
architecture of the grand old hotel--then, after a relieving stretch
of arms and legs, turn'd round for over a minute to slowly and
good-humoredly scan the appearance of the vast and silent crowds.
There were no speeches--no compliments--no welcome--as far as I could
hear, not a word said. Still much anxiety was conceal'd in that quiet.
Cautious persons had fear'd some mark'd insult or indignity to the
President-elect--for he possess'd no personal popularity at all in New
York city, and very little political. But it was evidently tacitly
agreed that if the few political supporters of Mr. Lincoln present
would entirely abstain from any demonstration on their side, the
immense majority, who were anything but supporters, would abstain on
their side also. The result was a sulky, unbroken silence, such as
certainly never before characterized so great a New York crowd.

Almost in the same neighborhood I distinctly remember'd seeing
Lafayette on his visit to America in 1825. I had also personally seen
and heard, various years afterward, how Andrew Jackson, Clay, Webster,
Hungarian Kossuth, Filibuster Walker, the Prince of Wales on his
visit, and other celebres, native and foreign, had been welcom'd
there--all that indescribable human roar and magnetism, unlike any
other sound in the universe--the glad exulting thunder-shouts of
countless unloos'd throats of men! But on this occasion, not a
voice--not a sound. From the top of an omnibus, (driven up one side,
close by, and block'd by the curbstone and the crowds,) I had, I say,
a capital view of it all, and especially of Mr. Lincoln, his look and
gait--his perfect composure and coolness--his unusual and uncouth
height, his dress of complete black, stovepipe hat push'd back on the
head, dark-brown complexion, seam'd and wrinkled yet canny-looking
face, black, bushy head of hair, disproportionately long neck, and his
hands held behind as he stood observing the people. He look'd with
curiosity upon that immense sea of faces, and the sea of faces
return'd the look with similar curiosity. In both there was a dash
of comedy, almost farce, such as Shakspere puts in his blackest
tragedies. The crowd that hemm'd around consisted I should think
of thirty to forty thousand men, not a single one his personal
friend--while I have no doubt, (so frenzied were the ferments of
the time,) many an assassin's knife and pistol lurk'd in hip or
breast-pocket there, ready, soon as break and riot came.

But no break or riot came. The tall figure gave another relieving
stretch or two of arms and legs; then with moderate pace, and
accompanied by a few unknown-looking persons, ascended the
portico-steps of the Astor House, disappear'd through its broad
entrance--and the dumb-show ended.

I saw Abraham Lincoln often the four years following that date. He
changed rapidly and much during his Presidency--but this scene, and
him in it, are indelibly stamp'd upon my recollection. As I sat on the
top of my omnibus, and had a good view of him, the thought, dim and
inchoate then, has since come out clear enough, that four sorts of
genius, four mighty and primal hands, will be needed to the complete
limning of this man's future portrait--the eyes and brains and
finger-touch of Plutarch and Eschylus and Michel Angelo, assisted by
Rabelais.

And now--(Mr. Lincoln passing on from this scene to Washington, where
he was inaugurated, amid armed cavalry, and sharpshooters at every
point--the first instance of the kind in our history--and I hope it
will be the last)--now the rapid succession of well-known events,
(too well known--I believe, these days, we almost hate to hear them
mention'd)--the national flag fired on at Sumter--the uprising of the
North, in paroxysms of astonishment and rage--the chaos of divided
councils--the call for troops--the first Bull Run--the stunning
cast-down, shock, and dismay of the North--and so in full flood the
secession war. Four years of lurid, bleeding, murky, murderous war.
Who paint those years, with all their scenes?--the hard-fought
engagements--the defeats, plans, failures--the gloomy hours, days,
when our Nationality seem'd hung in pall of doubt, perhaps death--the
Mephistophelean sneers of foreign lands and attaches--the dreaded
Scylla of European interference, and the Charybdis of the tremendously
dangerous latent strata of secession sympathizers throughout the free
States, (far more numerous than is supposed)--the long marches in
summer--the hot sweat, and many a sunstroke, as on the rush to
Gettysburg in '63--the night battles in the woods, as under Hooker
at Chancellorsville--the camps in winter--the military prisons--the
hospitals--(alas! alas! the hospitals.)

The secession war? Nay, let me call it the Union war. Though whatever
call'd, it is even yet too near us--too vast and too closely
overshadowing--its branches unform'd yet, (but certain,) shooting too
far into the future--and the most indicative and mightiest of them yet
ungrown. A great literature will yet arise out of the era of those
four years, those scenes--era compressing centuries of native passion,
first-class pictures, tempests of life and death--an inexhaustible
mine for the histories, drama, romance, and even philosophy, of
peoples to come--indeed the verteber of poetry and art, (of personal
character too,) for all future America--far more grand, in my opinion,
to the hands capable of it, than Homer's siege of Troy, or the French
wars to Shakspere.

But I must leave these speculations, and come to the theme I have
assign'd and limited myself to. Of the actual murder of President
Lincoln, though so much has been written, probably the facts are yet
very indefinite in most persons' minds. I read from my memoranda,
written at the time, and revised frequently and finally since.

The day, April 14, 1865, seems to have been a pleasant one throughout
the whole land--the moral atmosphere pleasant too--the long storm,
so dark, so fratricidal, full of blood and doubt and gloom, over and
ended at last by the sun-rise of such an absolute National victory,
and utter break-down of Secessionism--we almost doubted our own
senses! Lee had capitulated beneath the apple-tree of Appomattox. The
other armies, the flanges of the revolt, swiftly follow'd. And could
it really be, then? Out of all the affairs of this world of woe and
failure and disorder, was there really come the confirm'd, unerring
sign of plan, like a shaft of pure light--of rightful rule--of God? So
the day, as I say, was propitious. Early herbage, early flowers, were
out. (I remember where I was stopping at the time, the season being
advanced, there were many lilacs in full bloom. By one of those
caprices that enter and give tinge to events without being at all a
part of them, I find myself always reminded of the great tragedy of
that day by the sight and odor of these blossoms. It never fails.)

But I must not dwell on accessories. The deed hastens. The popular
afternoon paper of Washington, the little "Evening Star," had
spatter'd all over its third page, divided among the advertisements in
a sensational manner, in a hundred different places, _The President
and his Lady will be at the Theatre this evening_.... (Lincoln was
fond of the theatre. I have myself seen him there several times. I
remember thinking how funny it was that he, in some respects the
leading actor in the stormiest drama known to real history's stage
through centuries, should sit there and be so completely interested
and absorb'd in those human jack-straws, moving about with their silly
little gestures, foreign spirit, and flatulent text.)

On this occasion the theatre was crowded, many ladies in rich and gay
costumes, officers in their uniforms, many well-known citizens, young
folks, the usual clusters of gas-lights, the usual magnetism of
so many people, cheerful, with perfumes, music of violins and
flutes--(and over all, and saturating all, that vast, vague wonder,
_Victory_, the nation's victory, the triumph of the Union, filling the
air, the thought, the sense, with exhilaration more than all music and
perfumes.)

The President came betimes, and, with his wife, witness'd the play
from the large stage-boxes of the second tier, two thrown into one,
and profusely drap'd with the national flag. The acts and scenes of
the piece--one of those singularly written compositions which have
at least the merit of giving entire relief to an audience engaged in
mental action or business excitements and cares during the day, as it
makes not the slightest call on either the moral, emotional, esthetic,
or spiritual nature--a piece, ("Our American Cousin,") in which, among
other characters, so call'd, a Yankee, certainly such a one as was
never seen, or the least like it ever seen, in North America, is
introduced in England, with a varied fol-de-rol of talk, plot,
scenery, and such phantasmagoria as goes to make up a modern popular
drama--had progress'd through perhaps a couple of its acts, when in
the midst of this comedy, or non-such, or whatever it is to be call'd,
and to offset it, or finish it out, as if in Nature's and the great
Muse's mockery of those poor mimes, came interpolated that scene, not
really or exactly to be described at all, (for on the many hundreds
who were there it seems to this hour to have left a passing blur, a
dream, a blotch)--and yet partially to be described as I now proceed
to give it. There is a scene in the play representing a modern
parlor in which two unprecedented English ladies are inform'd by the
impossible Yankee that he is not a man of fortune, and therefore
undesirable for marriage-catching purposes; after which, the comments
being finish'd, the dramatic trio make exit, leaving the stage clear
for a moment. At this period came the murder of Abraham Lincoln.

Great as all its manifold train, circling round it, and stretching
into the future for many a century, in the politics, history, art,
&c., of the New World, in point of fact the main thing, the actual
murder, transpired with the quiet and simplicity of any commonest
occurrence--the bursting of a bud or pod in the growth of vegetation,
for instance. Through the general hum following the stage pause, with
the change of positions, came the muffled sound of a pistol-shot,
which not one-hundredth part of the audience heard at the time--and
yet a moment's hush--somehow, surely, a vague startled thrill--and
then, through the ornamented, draperied, starr'd and striped space-way
of the President's box, a sudden figure, a man, raises himself with
hands and feet, stands a moment on the railing, leaps below to the
stage, (a distance of perhaps fourteen or fifteen feet,) falls out of
position, catching his boot-heel in the copious drapery, (the American
flag,) falls on one knee, quickly recovers himself, rises as if
nothing had happen'd, (he really sprains his ankle, but unfelt
then)--and so the figure, Booth, the murderer, dress'd in plain black
broadcloth, bare-headed, with full, glossy, raven hair, and his eyes
like some mad animal's flashing with light and resolution, yet with a
certain strange calmness, holds aloft in one hand a large knife--walks
along not much back from the footlights--turns fully toward the
audience his face of statuesque beauty, lit by those basilisk eyes,
flashing with desperation, perhaps insanity--launches out in a firm
and steady voice the words _Sic semper tyrannis_--and then walks with
neither slow nor very rapid pace diagonally across to the back of the
stage, and disappears. (Had not all this terrible scene--making the
mimic ones preposterous--had it not all been rehears'd, in blank, by
Booth, beforehand?)

A moment's hush--a scream--the cry of _murder_--Mrs. Lincoln leaning
out of the box, with ashy cheeks and lips, with involuntary cry,
pointing to the retreating figure, _He has kill'd the President._
And still a moment's strange, incredulous suspense--and then the
deluge!--then that mixture of horror, noises, uncertainty--(the sound,
somewhere back, of a horse's hoofs clattering with speed)--the people
burst through chairs and railings, and break them up--there is
inextricable confusion and terror--women faint--quite feeble persons
fall, and are trampl'd on--many cries of agony are heard--the broad
stage suddenly fills to suffocation with a dense and motley crowd,
like some horrible carnival--the audience rush generally upon it, at
least the strong men do--the actors and actresses are all there in
their play-costumes and painted faces, with mortal fright showing
through the rouge--the screams and calls, confused talk--redoubled,
trebled--two or three manage to pass up water from the stage to the
President's box--others try to clamber up--&c., &c.