Complete Prose Works

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First, a father, having fallen in battle, his child (the singer)

Was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward.

Of course love ensues. The woman in the chant or monologue proves a
false one; and as far as appears the ideal of woman, in the poet's
reflections, is a false one--at any rate for America. Woman is _not_
"the lesser man." (The heart is not the brain.) The best of the piece
of fifty years since is its concluding line:

For the mighty wind arises roaring seaward and I go.

Then for this current 1886-7, a just-out sequel, which (as an
apparently authentic summary says) "reviews the life of mankind during
the past sixty years, and comes to the conclusion that its boasted
progress is of doubtful credit to the world in general and to England
in particular. A cynical vein of denunciation of democratic opinions
and aspirations runs throughout the poem in mark'd contrast with the
spirit of the poet's youth." Among the most striking lines of this
sequel are the following:

Envy wears the mask of love, and, laughing sober fact to scorn,
Cries to weakest as to strongest, 'Ye are equals, equal born,'
Equal-born! Oh yes, if yonder hill be level with the flat.
Charm us, orator, till the lion look no larger than the cat:
Till the cat, through that mirage of overheated language, loom
Larger than the lion Demo--end in working its own doom.
Tumble Nature heel o'er head, and, yelling with the yelling street,
Set the feet above the brain, and swear the brain is in the feet,
Bring the old dark ages back, without the faith, without the hope.
Beneath the State, the Church, the Throne, and roll their ruins down
the slope.

I should say that all this is a legitimate consequence of the tone and
convictions of the earlier standards and points of view. Then some
reflections, down to the hard-pan of this sort of thing.

The course of progressive politics (democracy) is so certain and
resistless, not only in America but in Europe, that we can well afford
the warning calls, threats, checks, neutralizings, in imaginative
literature, or any department, of such deep-sounding, and high-soaring
voices as Carlyle's and Tennyson's. Nay, the blindness, excesses,
of the prevalent tendency--the dangers of the urgent trends of our
times--in my opinion, need such voices almost more than any. I should,
too, call it a signal instance of democratic humanity's luck that it
has such enemies to contend with--so candid, so fervid, so heroic.
But why do I say enemies? Upon the whole is not Tennyson--and was not
Carlyle (like an honest and stern physician)--the true friend of our
age?

Let me assume to pass verdict, or perhaps momentary judgment, for the
United States on this poet--a remov'd and distant position giving some
advantages over a nigh one. What is Tennyson's service to his race,
times, and especially to America? First, I should say--or at least not
forget--his personal character. He is not to be mention'das a rugged,
evolutionary, aboriginal force--but (and a great lesson is in it) he
has been consistent throughout with the native, healthy, patriotic
spinal element and promptings of himself. His moral line is local and
conventional, but it is vital and genuine. He reflects the uppercrust
of his time, its pale cast of thought--even its _ennui_. Then the
simile of my friend John Burroughs is entirely true, "his glove is a
glove of silk, but the hand is a hand of iron." He shows how one can
be a royal laureate, quite elegant and "aristocratic," and a little
queer and affected, and at the same time perfectly manly and natural.
As to his non-democracy, it fits him well, and I like him the better
for it. I guess we all like to have (I am sure I do) some one who
presents those sides of a thought, or possibility, different from our
own--different and yet with a sort of home-likeness--a tartness and
contradiction offsetting the theory as we view it, and construed from
tastes and proclivities not at all his own.

To me, Tennyson shows more than any poet I know (perhaps has been a
warning to me) how much there is in finest verbalism. There is such
a latent charm in mere words, cunning collocutions, and in the
voice ringing them, which he has caught and brought out, beyond all
others--as in the line,

And hollow, hollow, hollow, all delight,

in "The Passing of Arthur," and evidenced in "The Lady of Shalott,"
"The Deserted House," and many other pieces. Among the best (I often
linger over them again and again) are "Lucretius," "The Lotos Eaters,"
and "The Northern Farmer." His mannerism is great, but it is a noble
and welcome mannerism. His very best work, to me, is contain'd in the
books of "The Idylls of the King," and all that has grown out of them.
Though indeed we could spare nothing of Tennyson, however small or
however peculiar--not "Break, Break," nor "Flower in the Crannied
Wall," nor the old, eternally-told passion of "Edward Gray:"

Love may come and love may go,
And fly like a bird from tree to tree.
But I will love no more, no more
Till Ellen Adair come back to me.

Yes, Alfred Tennyson's is a superb character, and will help give
illustriousness, through the long roll of time, to our Nineteenth
Century. In its bunch of orbic names, shining like a constellation
of stars, his will be one of the brightest. His very faults, doubts,
swervings, doublings upon himself, have been typical of our age. We
are like the voyagers of a ship, casting off for new seas, distant
shores. We would still dwell in the old suffocating and dead haunts,
remembering and magnifying their pleasant experiences only, and more
than once impell'd to jump ashore before it is too late, and stay
where our fathers stay'd, and live as they lived.

May-be I am non-literary and non-decorous (let me at least be human,
and pay part of my debt) in this word about Tennyson. I want him to
realize that here is a great and ardent Nation that absorbs his songs,
and has a respect and affection for him personally, as almost for no
other foreigner. I want this word to go to the old man at Farringford
as conveying no more than the simple truth; and that truth (a little
Christmas gift) no slight one either. I have written impromptu, and
shall let it all go at that. The readers of more than fifty millions
of people in the New World not only owe to him some of their most
agreeable and harmless and healthy hours, but he has enter'd into
the formative influences of character here, not only in the Atlantic
cities, but inland and far West, out in Missouri, in Kansas, and away
in Oregon, in farmer's house and miner's cabin.

Best thanks, anyhow, to Alfred Tennyson--thanks and appreciation in
America's name.

SLANG IN AMERICA

View'd freely, the English language is the accretion and growth of
every dialect, race, and range of time, and is both the free and
compacted composition of all. From this point of view, it stands for
Language in the largest sense, and is really the greatest of studies.
It involves so much; is indeed a sort of universal absorber, combiner,
and conqueror. The scope of its etymologies is the scope not only of
man and civilization, but the history of Nature in all departments,
and of the organic Universe, brought up to date; for all are
comprehended in words, and their backgrounds. This is when words
become vitaliz'd, and stand for things, as they unerringly and soon
come to do, in the mind that enters on their study with fitting
spirit, grasp, and appreciation.

Slang, profoundly consider'd, is the lawless germinal element, below
all words and sentences, and behind all poetry, and proves a certain
perennial rankness and protestantism in speech. As the United States
inherit by far their most precious possession--the language they talk
and write--from the Old World, under and out of its feudal institutes,
I will allow myself to borrow a simile even of those forms farthest
removed from American Democracy. Considering Language then as some
mighty potentate, into the majestic audience-hall of the monarch ever
enters a personage like one of Shakspere's clowns, and takes position
there, and plays a part even in the stateliest ceremonies. Such is
Slang, or indirection, an attempt of common humanity to escape from
bald literalism, and express itself illimitably, which in highest
walks produces poets and poems, and doubtless in pre-historic times
gave the start to, and perfected, the whole immense tangle of the old
mythologies. For, curious as it may appear, it is strictly the
same impulse-source, the same thing. Slang, too, is the wholesome
fermentation or eructation of those processes eternally active in
language, by which froth and specks are thrown up, mostly to pass
away; though occasionally to settle and permanently crystallize.

To make it plainer, it is certain that many of the oldest and solidest
words we use, were originally generated from the daring and license of
slang. In the processes of word-formation, myriads die, but here and
there the attempt attracts superior meanings, becomes valuable
and indispensable, and lives forever. Thus the term _right_ means
literally only straight. _Wrong_ primarily meant twisted, distorted.
_Integrity_ meant oneness. _Spirit_ meant breath, or flame. A
_supercilious_ person was one who rais'd his eyebrows. To _insult_ was
to leap against. If you _influenced_ a man, you but flow'd into him.
The Hebrew word which is translated _prophesy_ meant to bubble up and
pour forth as a fountain. The enthusiast bubbles up with the Spirit of
God within him, and it pours forth from him like a fountain. The word
prophecy is misunderstood. Many suppose that it is limited to mere
prediction; that is but the lesser portion of prophecy. The greater
work is to reveal God. Every true religious enthusiast is a prophet.

Language, be it remember'd, is not an abstract construction of the
learn'd, or of dictionary-makers, but is something arising out of the
work, needs, ties, joys, affections, tastes, of long generations of
humanity, and has its bases broad and low, close to the ground. Its
final decisions are made by the masses, people nearest the concrete,
having most to do with actual land and sea. It impermeates all, the
Past as well as the Present, and is the grandest triumph of the human
intellect. "Those mighty works of art," says Addington Symonds, "which
we call languages, in the construction of which whole peoples
unconsciously co-operated, the forms of which were determin'd not by
individual genius, but by the instincts of successive generations,
acting to one end, inherent in the nature of the race--Those poems of
pure thought and fancy, cadenced not in words, but in living imagery,
fountain-heads of inspiration, mirrors of the mind of nascent nations,
which we call Mythologies--these surely are more marvellous in their
infantine spontaneity than any more mature production of the races
which evolv'd them. Yet we are utterly ignorant of their embryology;
the true science of Origins is yet in its cradle."

Daring as it is to say so, in the growth of Language it is certain
that the retrospect of slang from the start would be the recalling
from their nebulous conditions of all that is poetical in the stores
of human utterance. Moreover, the honest delving, as of late years, by
the German and British workers in comparative philology, has pierc'd
and dispers'd many of the falsest bubbles of centuries; and will
disperse many more. It was long recorded that in Scandinavian
mythology the heroes in the Norse Paradise drank out of the skulls of
their slain enemies. Later investigation proves the word taken for
skulls to mean _horns_ of beasts slain in the hunt. And what reader
had not been exercis'd over the traces of that feudal custom, by which
_seigneurs_ warm'd their feet in the bowels of serfs, the abdomen
being open'd for the purpose? It now is made to appear that the serf
was only required to submit his unharm'd abdomen as a foot cushion
while his lord supp' d, and was required to chafe the legs of the
seigneur with his hands.

It is curiously in embryons and childhood, and among the illiterate,
we always find the groundwork and start, of this great science, and
its noblest products. What a relief most people have in speaking of
a man not by his true and formal name, with a "Mister" to it, but by
some odd or homely appellative. The propensity to approach a meaning
not directly and squarely, but by circuitous styles of expression,
seems indeed a born quality of the common people everywhere, evidenced
by nick-names, and the inveterate determination of the masses to
bestow sub-titles, sometimes ridiculous, sometimes very apt. Always
among the soldiers during the secession war, one heard of "Little Mac"
(Gen. McClellan), or of "Uncle Billy" (Gen. Sherman.) "The old man"
was, of course, very common. Among the rank and file, both armies, it
was very general to speak of the different States they came from by
their slang names. Those from Maine were call'd Foxes; New Hampshire,
Granite Boys; Massachusetts, Bay Staters; Vermont, Green Mountain
Boys; Rhode Island, Gun Flints; Connecticut, Wooden Nutmegs; New York,
Knickerbockers; New Jersey, Clam Catchers; Pennsylvania, Logher Heads;
Delaware, Muskrats; Maryland, Claw Thumpers; Virginia, Beagles; North
Carolina, Tar Boilers; South Carolina, Weasels; Georgia, Buzzards;
Louisiana, Creoles; Alabama, Lizards; Kentucky, Corn Crackers; Ohio,
Buckeyes; Michigan, Wolverines; Indiana, Hoosiers; Illinois, Suckers;
Missouri, Pukes; Mississippi, Tadpoles; Florida, Fly up the Creeks;
Wisconsin, Badgers; Iowa, Hawkeyes; Oregon, Hard Cases. Indeed I am
not sure but slang names have more than once made Presidents. "Old
Hickory," (Gen. Jackson) is one case in point. "Tippecanoe, and Tyler
too," another.

I find the same rule in the people's conversations everywhere. I heard
this among the men of the city horse-cars, where the conductor is
often call'd a "snatcher" (i. e. because his characteristic duty is to
constantly pull or snatch the bell-strap, to stop or go on.) Two young
fellows are having a friendly talk, amid which, says 1st conductor,
"What did you do before you was a snatcher?" Answer of 2d conductor,
"Nail'd." (Translation of answer: "I work'd as carpenter.") What is a
"boom"? says one editor to another. "Esteem'd contemporary," says the
other, "a boom is a bulge." "Barefoot whiskey" is the Tennessee name
for the undiluted stimulant. In the slang of the New York common
restaurant waiters a plate of ham and beans is known as "stars and
stripes," codfish balls as "sleeve-buttons," and hash as "mystery."

The Western States of the Union are, however, as may be supposed, the
special areas of slang, not only in conversation, but in names of
localities, towns, rivers, etc. A late Oregon traveller says:

"On your way to Olympia by rail, you cross a river called the
Shookum-Chuck; your train stops at places named Newaukum, Tumwater,
and Toutle; and if you seek further you will hear of whole counties
labell' d Wahkiakum, or Snohomish, or Kitsar, or Klikatat; and
Cowlitz, Hookium, and Nenolelops greet and offend you. They complain
in Olympia that Washington Territory gets but little immigration; but
what wonder? What man, having the whole American continent to choose
from, would willingly date his letters from the county of Snohomish
or bring up his children in the city of Nenolelops? The village of
Tumwater is, as I am ready to bear witness, very pretty indeed; but
surely an emigrant would think twice before he establish' d himself
either there or at Toutle. Seattle is sufficiently barbarous;
Stelicoom is no better; and I suspect that the Northern Pacific
Railroad terminus has been fixed at Tacoma because it is one of the
few places on Puget Sound whose name does not inspire horror."

Then a Nevada paper chronicles the departure of a mining party from
Reno: "The toughest set of roosters that ever shook the dust off any
town left Reno yesterday for the new mining district of Cornucopia.
They came here from Virginia. Among the crowd were four New York
cock-fighters, two Chicago murderers, three Baltimore bruisers,
one Philadelphia prize-fighter, four San Francisco hoodlums, three
Virginia beats, two Union Pacific roughs, and two check guerrillas."
Among the far-west newspapers, have been, or are, _The Fairplay_
(Colorado) _Flume, The Solid Muldoon_, of Ouray, _The Tombstone
Epitaph_, of Nevada, _The Jimplecute_, of Texas, and _The Bazoo_, of
Missouri. Shirttail Bend, Whiskey Flat, Puppytown, Wild Yankee Ranch,
Squaw Flat, Rawhide Ranch, Loafer's Ravine, Squitch Gulch, Toenail
Lake, are a few of the names of places in Butte county, Cal.

Perhaps indeed no place or term gives more luxuriant illustrations
of the fermentation processes I have mention'd, and their froth and
specks, than those Mississippi and Pacific coast regions, at the
present day. Hasty and grotesque as are some of the names, others are
of an appropriateness and originality unsurpassable. This applies to
the Indian words, which are often perfect. Oklahoma is proposed
in Congress for the name of one of our new Territories. Hog-eye,
Lick-skillet, Rake-pocket and Steal-easy are the names of some Texan
towns. Miss Bremer found among the aborigines the following
names: _Men's_, Horn-point; Round-Wind; Stand-and-look-out;
The-Cloud-that-goes-aside; Iron-toe; Seek-the-sun; Iron-flash;
Red-bottle; White-spindle; Black-dog; Two-feathers-of-honor;
Gray-grass; Bushy-tail; Thunder-face; Go-on-the-burning-sod;
Spirits-of-the-dead. _Women's_, Keep-the-fire; Spiritual-woman;
Second-daughter-of-the-house; Blue-bird.

Certainly philologists have not given enough attention to this element
and its results, which, I repeat, can probably be found working every
where to-day, amid modern conditions, with as much life and activity
as in far-back Greece or India, under prehistoric ones. Then the
wit--the rich flashes of humor and genius and poetry--darting out
often from a gang of laborers, railroad-men, miners, drivers or
boatmen! How often have I hover'd at the edge of a crowd of them, to
hear their repartees and impromptus! You get more real fun from half
an hour with them than from the books of all "the American humorists."

The science of language has large and close analogies in geological
science, with its ceaseless evolution, its fossils, and its numberless
submerged layers and hidden strata, the infinite go-before of the
present. Or, perhaps Language is more like some vast living body, or
perennial body of bodies. And slang not only brings the first feeders
of it, but is afterward the start of fancy, imagination and humor,
breathing into its nostrils the breath of life.

AN INDIAN BUREAU REMINISCENCE

After the close of the secession war in 1865, I work'd several months
(until Mr. Harlan turn'd me out for having written "Leaves of Grass")
in the Interior Department at Washington, in the Indian Bureau. Along
this time there came to see their Great Father an unusual number of
aboriginal visitors, delegations for treaties, settlement of lands,
&c.--some young or middle-aged, but mainly old men, from the West,
North, and occasionally from the South--parties of from five to twenty
each--the most wonderful proofs of what Nature can produce, (the
survival of the fittest, no doubt--all the frailer samples dropt,
sorted out by death)--as if to show how the earth and woods, the
attrition of storms and elements, and the exigencies of life at
first hand, can train and fashion men, indeed _chiefs_, in heroic
massiveness, imperturbability, muscle, and that last and highest
beauty consisting of strength--the full exploitation and fruitage of
a human identity, not from the culmination-points of "culture" and
artificial civilization, but tallying our race, as it were, with
giant, vital, gnarl'd, enduring trees, or monoliths of separate
hardiest rocks, and humanity holding its own with the best of the said
trees or rocks, and outdoing them.

There were Omahas, Poncas, Winnebagoes, Cheyennes, Navahos, Apaches,
and many others. Let me give a running account of what I see and hear
through one of these conference collections at the Indian Bureau,
going back to the present tense. Every head and face is impressive,
even artistic; Nature redeems herself out of her crudest recesses.
Most have red paint on their cheeks, however, or some other paint.
("Little Hill" makes the opening speech, which the interpreter
translates by scraps.) Many wear head tires of gaudy-color'd braid,
wound around thickly--some with circlets of eagles' feathers.
Necklaces of bears' claws are plenty around their necks. Most of the
chiefs are wrapt in large blankets of the brightest scarlet.

Two or three have blue, and I see one black. (A wise man call'd "the
Flesh" now makes a short speech, apparently asking something. Indian
Commissioner Dole answers him, and the interpreter translates in
scraps again.) All the principal chiefs have tomahawks or hatchets,
some of them very richly ornamented and costly. Plaid shirts are to
be observ'd--none too clean. Now a tall fellow, "Hole-in-the-Day," is
speaking. He has a copious head-dress composed of feathers and narrow
ribbon, under which appears a countenance painted all over a
bilious yellow. Let us note this young chief. For all his paint,
"Hole-in-the-Day" is a handsome Indian, mild and calm, dress'd in
drab buckskin leggings, dark gray surtout, and a soft black hat. His
costume will bear full observation, and even fashion would accept
him. His apparel is worn loose and scant enough to show his superb
physique, especially in neck, chest, and legs. ("The Apollo
Belvidere!" was the involuntary exclamation of a famous European
artist when he first saw a full-grown young Choctaw.)

One of the red visitors--a wild, lean-looking Indian, the one in the
black woolen wrapper--has an empty buffalo head, with the horns on,
for his personal surmounting. I see a markedly Bourbonish countenance
among the chiefs--(it is not very uncommon among them, I am told.)
Most of them avoided resting on chairs during the hour of their "talk"
in the Commissioner's office; they would sit around on the floor,
leaning against something, or stand up by the walls, partially wrapt
in their blankets. Though some of the young fellows were, as I have
said, magnificent and beautiful animals, I think the palm of unique
picturesqueness, in body, limb, physiognomy, &c., was borne by the old
or elderly chiefs, and the wise men.

My here-alluded-to experience in the Indian Bureau produced one very
definite conviction, as follows: There is something about these
aboriginal Americans, in their highest characteristic representations,
essential traits, and the ensemble of their physique and
physiognomy--something very remote, very lofty, arousing comparisons
with our own civilized ideals--something that our literature, portrait
painting, &c., have never caught, and that will almost certainly never
be transmitted to the future, even as a reminiscence. No biographer,
no historian, no artist, has grasp'd it--perhaps could not grasp it.
It is so different, so far outside our standards of eminent humanity.
Their feathers, paint--even the empty buffalo skull--did not, to say
the least, seem any more ludicrous to me than many of the fashions I
have seen in civilized society. I should not apply the word savage (at
any rate, in the usual sense) as a leading word in the description of
those great aboriginal specimens, of whom I certainly saw many of the
best. There were moments, as I look'd at them or studied them, when
our own exemplification of personality, dignity, heroic presentation
anyhow (as in the conventions of society, or even in the accepted
poems and plays,) seem'd sickly, puny, inferior.

The interpreters, agents of the Indian Department, or other whites
accompanying the bands, in positions of responsibility, were always
interesting to me; I had many talks with them. Occasionally I would go
to the hotels where the bands were quarter'd, and spend an hour or
two informally. Of course we could not have much conversation--though
(through the interpreters) more of this than might be supposed
--sometimes quite animated and significant. I had the good luck to be
invariably receiv'd and treated by all of them in their most cordial
manner.

[Letter to W. W. from an artist, B. H., who has been much among the
American Indians:]

"I have just receiv'd your little paper on the Indian delegations.
In the fourth paragraph you say that there is something about the
essential traits of our aborigines which 'will almost certainly never
be transmitted to the future.' If I am so fortunate as to regain my
health I hope to weaken the force of that statement, at least in so
far as my talent and training will permit. I intend to spend some
years among them, and shall endeavor to perpetuate on canvas some of
the finer types, both men and women, and some of the characteristic
features of their life. It will certainly be well worth the while.
My artistic enthusiasm was never so thoroughly stirr'd up as by the
Indians. They certainly have more of beauty, dignity and nobility
mingled with their own wild individuality, than any of the other
indigenous types of man. Neither black nor Afghan, Arab nor Malay (and
I know them all pretty well) can hold a candle to the Indian. All of
the other aboriginal types seem to be more or less distorted from the
model of perfect human form--as we know it--the blacks, thin-hipped,
with bulbous limbs, not well mark'd; the Arabs large-jointed, &c. But
I have seen many a young Indian as perfect in form and feature as a
Greek statue--very different from a Greek statue, of course, but as
satisfying to the artistic perceptions and demand.