Walt Whitman's Diary in Canada - With Extracts from Other of His Diaries and Literary Note-Books

Walt Whitman, William Sloane Kennedy

• Publisher: Masterson Press
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN: 9781408651247
• eBook ISBN: 9781528761642
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

Contained within the pages of this rare book is a collection of writings taken from Walt Whitman's diaries and note-books written during his time in Canada. A keen woodsman with a passion for the outdoors, the literature contained herein was diligently transcribed for its original publication from 'out-door notes' composed on worn and time-stained fragments of paper by its editor, William Sloane Kennedy. A fascinating read, this book offers a unique insight into the mind of this great man and is an absolute must-read for lovers of Whitman. Walter "Walt" Whitman (1819 - 1892) was a celebrated American poet, essayist and journalist. He is one of the most influential poets in American literature and is often referred to as the father of free verse. He is most famous for his seminal poetical work 'Leaves of Grass' and he was hailed by D. H Lawrence as "the greatest modern poet" and "the greatest American". This rare book is proudly republished now with an introductory biography of the author.

WALT WHITMAN’S DIARY IN CANADA

London, Ontario, June 18, 1880.¹ Calm and glorious roll the hours here — the whole twenty-four. A perfect day (the third in succession); the sun clear; a faint, fresh, just palpable air setting in from the southwest; temperature pretty warm at midday, but moderate enough mornings and evenings. Everything growing well, especially the perennials. Never have I seen verdure — grass and trees and bushery — to greater advantage. All the accompaniments joyous. Cat-birds, thrushes, robins, etc., singing. The profuse blossoms of the tigerlily (is it the tiger-lily?)² mottling the lawns and gardens everywhere with their glowing orange-red. Roses everywhere, too.

A stately show of stars last night : the Scorpion erecting his head of five stars, with glittering Antares in the neck, soon stretched his whole length in the south; Arcturus hung overhead; Vega a little to the east; Aquila lower down; the constellation of the Sickle well toward setting; and the halfmoon, pensive and silvery, in the southwest.

June and July, Canada. Such a procession of long-drawn-out, delicious half-lights nearly every evening, continuing on till ’most 9 o’clock all through the last two weeks of June and the first two of July ! It was worth coming to Canada to get these long-stretch’d sunsets in their temper’d shade and lingering, lingering twilights, if nothing more.

[No date.] It is only here in large portions of Canada that wondrous second windy the Indian summer, attains its amplitude and heavenly perfection, — the temperature; the sunny haze; the mellow, rich, delicate, almost flavored air:

“Enough to live — enough to merely be.”

June 19. On the train from London to Sarnia — 60 miles.¹ A fine country, many good farms, plenty of open land, the finest strips of woods clean of underbrush — some beautiful clusters of great trees; plenty of fields with the stumps standing; some bustling towns.

[Same date, Sarnia.] Sunset on the St. Clair. I am writing this on Front Street, close by the river, — the St. Clair, — on a bank. The setting sun, a great blood-red ball, is just descending on the Michigan shore, throwing a bright crimson track across the water to where I stand. The river is full of row-boats and shells, with their crews of young fellows, or single ones, out practising,—a handsome, inspiriting sight. Up north I see at Point Edward, on Canada side, the tall elevator in shadow, with tallsquare turret, like some old castle.

As I write, a long shell, with its crew of four stript to their rowing shirts, sweeps swiftly past, the oars rattling in their rowlocks.

Opposite, a little south, on the Michigan shore, stretches Port Huron. It is a still, moist, voluptuous evening, the twilight deepening apace. In the vapors fly bats and myriads of big insects. A solitary robin is whistling his call, followed by mellow clucks, in some trees near. The panting of the locomotive and measured roll of cars comes from over shore, and occasionally an abrupt snort or screech, diffused in space. With all these utilitarian episodes, it is a lovely, soft, voluptuous scene, a wondrous half-hour for sunset, and then the long rose-tinged halflight with a touch of gray we sometimes have stretched out in June at day-close. How musical the cries and voices floating in from the river ! Mostly while I have been here I have noticed those handsome shells and oar-boats, some of them rowing superbly.

At nearly nine it is still quite light, [the atmosphere] tempered with blue film, but the boats, the river, and the Michigan shores quite palpable. The rose color still falls upon everything. A big river steamer is crawling athwart the stream, hoarsely hissing. The moon in its third quarter is just up behind me. From over in Port Huron come the just-heard sounds of a brass band, practising. Many objects — half-burnt hulls, partially sunk wrecks, slanting or upright poles — throw their black shadows in strong relief on the clear glistering water.

[Sarnia], June 20. A FAR-OFF REMINISCENCE. I see to-day in a New York paper an account of the tearing down of old St. Ann’s Church, Sands and Washington streets, Brooklyn, to make room for the East River Bridge landing and roadway. Away off, nearly 1000 miles distant, it roused the queerest reminiscences, which I feel to put down here. St. Ann’s was twined with many memories of youth to me. I think the church was built about 1824, the time when I (a little child of six years) was first taken to live in Brooklyn, and I remember it so well then and for long years afterwards. It was a stately building with its broad grounds and grass, and the aristocratic congregation, and the good clergyman, Mr. McIlvaine (afterwards bishop of Ohio),¹ and the long edifice for Sunday-school (I had a pupil’s desk there), and the fine gardens and many big willow and elm trees in the neighborhood. From St. Ann’s started, over 50 years ago, a strange and solemn military funeral, — of the officers and sailors killed by the explosion of the steamer Fulton at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. I remember well the impressive services and the dead-march of the band (moving me even then to tears), and the led horses and officers’ trappings in the procession, and the blackdraped flags, and the old sailors, and the salutes over the grave in the ancient cemetery in Fulton Street just below Tillary (now all built over by solid blocks of houses and busy stores).¹ I was at school at the time of the explosion and heard the rumble which jarred half the city.

Nor was St. Ann’s (Episcopal) the only church bequeathing Old Brooklyn reminiscences. Just opposite, within a stone’s throw, on Sands Street, with a high range of steps, stood the main Methodist church, always drawing full congregations (always active, singing and praying in earnest), and the scene of the powerful revivals of those days (often continued for a week night and day without intermission). This latter was the favorite scene of the labors of John N. Maffit, the famous preacher of his denomination. It was a famous church for pretty girls.

The history of those two churches would be a history of Brooklyn and of a main part of its families for the earlier half of the nineteenth century.

Sarnia, June 21. A MOONLIGHT EXCURSION UP LAKE HURON. We were to start at 8 P. M., but after waiting forty minutes later for a music band, which to my secret satisfaction didn’t come, we and the Hiawatha went off without it.

Point Edward on the Canada side and Fort Gratiot on the Michigan — the crossingline for the Grand Trunk Railway, and looking well alive with lights and the sight of shadowy-moving cars — were quickly passed between by our steamer, after pressing through currents of rapids for a mile along here, very dashy and inspiriting, and we were soon out on the wide sea-room of the Lake. The far and faint-dim shores, the cool night-breeze, the plashing of the waters, and most of all the well-up moon, full and round and refulgent, were the features of this pleasant water-ride, which lasted till midnight.

During the day I had seen the magnificent steamboat, City of Cleveland, come from above, and, after making a short stop at Port Huron opposite, sped on her swift and stately way down the St. Clair. She plies between Cleveland and Duluth, and was on her return from the latter place — makes the voyage in three (?) days. At a Sarnia wharf I saw the Asia, a large steamboat for Lake Superior trade and passengers; understood there were three other boats on the line. Between Sarnia and Port Huron some nice small-sized ferry-boats are constantly plying. I went aboard the Dormer and made an agreeable hour’s jaunt to and fro, one afternoon.

A SARNIA PUBLIC SCHOOL. Stopt impromptu at the school in George (?) where I saw crowds of boys out at recess, and went in without ceremony among them, and so inside for twenty minutes to the school, at its studies, — music, grammar, etc. Never saw a healthier, handsomer, more intelligent or decorous collection of boys and girls, some 500 altogether. This twenty minutes’ sight, and what it inferred, are among my best impressions and recollections of Sarnia.

[Sarnia]. Went down to an Indian settlement at Ah-me-je-wah-noong (i. e., the Rapids) to visit the Indians, the Chippewas. Not much to see of novelty — in fact nothing at all of aboriginal life or personality; but I had a fine drive with the gentleman that took me...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Walt Whitman
• Editors Preface
• Walt Whitman’s Diary in Canada