Walt Whitman
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.