Anything like unmitigated acceptance of my "Leaves of Grass" book, and
heart-felt response to it, in a popular however faint degree, bubbled
forth as a fresh spring from the ground in England in 1876. The time was
a critical and turning point in my personal and literary life. Let me
revert to my memorandum book, Camden, New Jersey, that year, fill'd with
addresses, receipts, purchases, &c., of the two volumes pub'd then by
myself--the "Leaves," and the "Two Rivulets"--some home customers, for
them, but mostly from the British Islands. I was seriously paralyzed
from the Secession war, poor, in debt, was expecting death, (the doctors
put four chances out of five against me,)--and I had the books printed
during the lingering interim to occupy the tediousness of glum days and
nights. Curiously, the sale abroad proved prompt, and what one might
call copious: the names came in lists and the money with them, by
foreign mail. The price was $10 a set. Both the cash and the emotional
cheer were deep medicines; many paid double or treble price, (Tennyson
and Ruskin did,) and many sent kind and eulogistic letters; ladies,
clergymen, social leaders, persons of rank, and high officials. Those
blessed gales from the British Islands probably (certainly) saved me.
Here are some of the names, for I w'd like to preserve them: Wm. M.
and D.G. Rossetti, Lord Houghton, Edwd. Dowden, Mrs. Anne Gilchrist,
Keningale Cook, Edwd. Carpenter, Therese Simpson, Rob't Buchanan, Alfred
Tennyson, John Ruskin, C.G. Gates, E.T. Wilkinson, T.L. Warren, C.W.
Reynell, W.B. Scott, A.G. Dew Smith, E.W. Gosse, T.W. Rolleston, Geo.
Wallis, Rafe Leicester, Thos. Dixon, N. MacColl, Mrs. Matthews, R.
Hannah, Geo. Saintsbury, R.S. Watson, Godfrey and Vernon Lushington,
G.H. Lewes, G.H. Boughton, Geo. Fraser, W.T. Arnold, A. Ireland, Mrs. M.
Taylor, M.D. Conway, Benj. Eyre, E. Dannreather, Rev. T.E. Brown, C.W.
Sheppard, E.J.A. Balfour, P.B. Marston, A.C. De Burgh, J.H. McCarthy,
J.H. Ingram, Rev. R.P. Graves, Lady Mount-temple, F.S. Ellis, W.
Brockie, Rev. A.B. Grosart, Lady Hardy, Hubert Herkomer, Francis
Hueffer, H.G. Dakyns, R.L. Nettleship, W.J. Stillman, Miss Blind, Madox
Brown, H.R. Ricardo, Messrs. O'Grady and Tyrrel; and many, many more.
Severely scann'd, it was perhaps no very great or vehement success; but
the tide had palpably shifted at any rate, and the sluices were turn'd
into my own veins and pockets. That emotional, audacious, open-handed,
friendly-mouth'd just-opportune English action, I say, pluck'd me like a
brand from the burning, and gave me life again, to finish my book, since
ab't completed. I do not forget it, and shall not; and if I ever have
a biographer I charge him to put it in the narrative. I have had the
noblest friends and backers in America; Wm. O'Connor, Dr. R.M. Bucke,
John Burroughs, Geo.W. Childs, good ones in Boston, and Carnegie
and R.G. Ingersoll in New York; and yet perhaps the tenderest and
gratefulest breath of my heart has gone, and ever goes, over the
sea-gales across the big pond.
About myself at present. I will soon enter upon my 73d year, if I
live--have pass'd an active life, as country school-teacher, gardener,
printer, carpenter, author and journalist, domicil'd in nearly all the
United States and principal cities, North and South--went to the front
(moving about and occupied as army nurse and missionary) during the
secession war, 1861 to '65, and in the Virginia hospitals and after
the battles of that time, tending the Northern and Southern wounded
alike--work'd down South and in Washington city arduously three
years--contracted the paralysis which I have suffer'd ever since--and
now live in a little cottage of my own, near the Delaware in New Jersey.
My chief book, unrhym'd and unmetrical (it has taken thirty years, peace
and war, "a borning") has its aim, as once said, "to utter the same old
human _critter_--but now in Democratic American modern and scientific
conditions." Then I have publish'd two prose works, "Specimen Days," and
a late one, "November Boughs." (A little volume, "Good-Bye my Fancy,"
is soon to be out, wh' will finish the matter.) I do not propose here
to enter the much-fought field of the literary criticism of any of those
works.
But for a few portraiture or descriptive bits. To-day in the upper story
of a little wooden house of two stories near the Delaware river, east
shore, sixty miles up from the sea, is a rather large 20-by-20 low
ceiling'd room something like a big old ship's cabin. The floor, three
quarters of it with an ingrain carpet, is half cover'd by a deep litter
of books, papers, magazines, thrown-down letters and circulars, rejected
manuscripts, memoranda, bits of light or strong twine, a bundle to be
"express'd," and two or three venerable scrap books. In the room stand
two large tables (one of ancient St. Domingo mahogany with immense
leaves) cover'd by a jumble of more papers, a varied and copious array
of writing materials, several glass and china vessels or jars, some with
cologne-water, others with real honey, granulated sugar, a large bunch
of beautiful fresh yellow chrysanthemums, some letters and envelopt
papers ready for the post office, many photographs, and a hundred
indescribable things besides. There are all around many books, some
quite handsome editions, some half cover'd by dust, some within reach,
evidently used, (good-sized print, no type less than long primer,) some
maps, the Bible, (the strong cheap edition of the English crown,) Homer,
Shakspere, Walter Scott, Emerson, Ticknor's "Spanish Literature," John
Carlyle's Dante, Felton's "Greece," George Sand's "Consuelo," avery
choice little Epictetus, some novels, the latest foreign and American
monthlies, quarterlies, and so on. There being quite a strew of
printer's proofs and slips, and the daily papers, the place with its
quaint old fashion'd calmness has also a smack of something alert and
of current work. There are several trunks and depositaries back' d up
at the walls; (one well-bound and big box came by express lately from
Washington city, after storage there for nearly twenty years.) Indeed
the whole room is a sort of result and storage collection of my own past
life. I have here various editions of my own writings, and sell them
upon request; one is a big volume of complete poems and prose, 1000
pages, autograph, essays, speeches, portraits from life, &c. Another is
a little "Leaves of Grass," latest date, six portraits, morocco bound,
in pocket-book form.
Fortunately the apartment is quite roomy. There are three windows in
front. At one side is the stove, with a cheerful fire of oak wood, near
by a good supply of fresh sticks, whose faint aroma is plain. On another
side is the bed with white coverlid and woollen blankets. Toward
the windows is a huge arm-chair, (a Christmas present from Thomas
Donaldson's young daughter and son, Philadelphia) timber'd as by some
stout ship's spars, yellow polish'd, ample, with rattan-woven seat and
back, and over the latter a great wide wolf-skin of hairy black and
silver, spread to guard against cold and draught. A time-worn look and
scent of old oak attach both to the chair and the person occupying it.
But probably (even at the charge of parrot talk) I can give no more
authentic brief sketch than "from an old remembrance copy," where I have
lately put myself on record as follows: Was born May 31, 1819, in my
father's farm-house, at West Hills, L.I., New York State. My parents'
folks mostly farmers and sailors--on my father's side, of English--on
my mother's (Van Velsor's), from Hollandic immigration. There was, first
and last, a large family of children; (I was the second.) We moved to
Brooklyn while I was still a little one in frocks--and there in B.
I grew up out of frocks--then as child and boy went to the public
schools--then to work in a printing office. When only sixteen or
seventeen years old, and for three years afterward, I went to teaching
country schools down in Queens and Suffolk counties, Long Island, and
"boarded round." Then, returning to New York, work'd as printer and
writer, (with an occasional shy at "poetry.")
1848-'9.--About this time--after ten or twelve years of experiences and
work and lots of fun in New York and Brooklyn--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 a while
in New Orleans, and work'd there. (Have lived quite a good deal in
the Southern States.) After a time, plodded back northward, up the
Mississippi, the Missouri, &c., 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.
1852-'54--Occupied in house-building in Brooklyn. (For a little while of
the first part of that time in printing a daily and weekly paper.)
1855.--Lost my dear father this year by death.... Commenced putting
"Leaves of Grass" to press, for good--after many MSS. doings and
undoings--(I had great trouble in leaving out the stock "poetical"
touches--but succeeded at last.) The book has since had some eight
hitches or stages of growth, with one annex, (and another to come out in
1891, which will complete it.)
1862.--In December of this year went down to the field of war in
Virginia. My brother George reported badly wounded in the Fredericksburg
fight. (For 1863 and '64, see "Specimen Days.") 1865 to '71--Had a place
as clerk (till well on in '73) in the Attorney.
General's Office, Washington. (New York and Brooklyn seem more like
_home_, as I was born near, and brought up in them, and lived, man
and boy, for 30 years. But I lived some years in Washington, and
have visited, and partially lived, in most of the Western and Eastern
cities.)
1873.--This year lost, by death, my dear dear mother--and, just before,
my sister Martha--the two best and sweetest women I have ever seen or
known, or ever expect to see. Same year, February, a sudden climax and
prostration from paralysis. Had been simmering inside for several years;
broke out during those times temporarily, and then went over. But now a
serious attack, beyond cure. Dr. Drinkard, my Washington physician,
(and a first-rate one,) said it was the result of too extreme bodily and
emotional strain continued at Washington and "down in front," in 1863,
'4 and '5. I doubt if a heartier, stronger, healthier physique, more
balanced upon itself, or more unconscious, more sound, ever lived, from
1835 to '72. My greatest call (Quaker) to go around and do what I
could there in those war-scenes where I had fallen, among the sick and
wounded, was, that I seem'd to be _so strong and well_. (I consider'd
myself invulnerable.) But this last attack shatter'd me completely. Quit
work at Washington, and moved to Camden, New Jersey--where I have lived
since, receiving many buffets and some precious caresses--and now
write these lines. Since then, (1874-'91) a long stretch of illness, or
half-illness, with occasional lulls. During these latter, have revised
and printed over all my books--bro't out "November Boughs"--and at
intervals leisurely and exploringly travel'd to the Prairie States, the
Rocky Mountains, Canada, to New York, to my birthplace in Long Island,
and to Boston. But physical disability and the war-paralysis above
alluded to to have settled upon me more and more the last year or so. Am
now (1891) domicil'd, and have been for some years, in this little old
cottage and lot in Mickle street, Camden, with a house-keeper and man
nurse. Bodily I am completely disabled, but still write for publication.
I keep generally buoyant spirits, write often as there comes any lull
in physical sufferings, get in the sun and down to the river whenever
I can, retain fair appetite, assimilation and digestion, sensibilities
acute as ever, the strength and volition of my right arm good, eyesight
dimming, but brain normal, and retain my heart's and soul's unmitigated
faith not only in their own original literary plans, but in the
essential bulk of American humanity east and west, north and south, city
and country, through thick and thin, to the last. Nor must I forget,
in conclusion, a special, prayerful, thankful God's blessing to my dear
firm friends and personal helpers, men and women, home and foreign, old
and young.