Complete Prose Works of Walt Whitman | Page 9

as compositor in printing offices in New York city. Then, when little
more than 18, and for a while afterwards, went to teaching country schools down in
Queens and Suffolk counties, Long Island, and "boarded round." (This latter I consider
one of my best experiences and deepest lessons in human nature behind the scenes and in
the masses.) In '39, '40, I started and publish'd a weekly paper in my native town,
Huntington. Then returning to New York city and Brooklyn, work'd on as printer and
writer, mostly prose, but an occasional shy at "poetry".
MY PASSION FOR FERRIES
Living in Brooklyn or New York city from this time forward, my life, then, and still more

the following years, was curiously identified with Fulton ferry, already becoming the
greatest of its sort in the world for general importance, volume, variety, rapidity, and
picturesqueness. Almost daily, later, ('50 to '60,) I cross'd on the boats, often up in the
pilot-houses where I could get a full sweep, absorbing shows, accompaniments,
surroundings. What oceanic currents, eddies, underneath--the great tides of humanity also,
with ever-shifting movements. Indeed, I have always had a passion for ferries; to me they
afford inimitable, streaming, never-failing, living poems. The river and bay scenery, all
about New York island, any time of a fine day--the hurrying, splashing sea-tides--the
changing panorama of steamers, all sizes, often a string of big ones outward bound to
distant ports--the myriads of white-sail'd schooners, sloops, skiffs, and the marvellously
beautiful yachts--the majestic sound boats as they rounded the Battery and came along
towards 5, afternoon, eastward bound--the prospect off towards Staten Island, or down
the Narrows, or the other way up the Hudson--what refreshment of spirit such sights and
experiences gave me years ago (and many a time since.) My old pilot friends, the Balsirs,
Johnny Cole, Ira Smith, William White, and my young ferry friend, Tom Gere--how well
I remember them all.
BROADWAY SIGHTS
Besides Fulton ferry, off and on for years, I knew and frequented Broadway--that noted
avenue of New York's crowded and mixed humanity, and of so many notables. Here I
saw, during those times, Andrew Jackson, Webster, Clay, Seward, Martin Van Buren,
filibuster Walker, Kossuth, Fitz Greene Halleck, Bryant, the Prince of Wales, Charles
Dickens, the first Japanese ambassadors, and lots of other celebrities of the time. Always
something novel or inspiriting; yet mostly to me the hurrying and vast amplitude of those
never-ending human currents. I remember seeing James Fenimore Cooper in a
court-room in Chambers street, back of the city hall, where he was carrying on a law
case--(I think it was a charge of libel he had brought against some one.) I also remember
seeing Edgar A. Poe, and having a short interview with him, (it must have been in 1845
or '6,) in his office, second story of a corner building, (Duane or Pearl street.) He was
editor and owner or part owner of "the Broadway Journal." The visit was about a piece of
mine he had publish'd. Poe was very cordial, in a quiet way, appear'd well in person,
dress, &c. I have a distinct and pleasing remembrance of his looks, voice, manner and
matter; very kindly and human, but subdued, perhaps a little jaded. For another of my
reminiscences, here on the west side, just below Houston street, I once saw (it must have
been about 1832, of a sharp, bright January day) a bent, feeble but stout-built very old
man, bearded, swathed in rich furs, with a great ermine cap on his head, led and assisted,
almost carried, down the steps of his high front stoop (a dozen friends and servants,
emulous, carefully holding, guiding him) and then lifted and tuck'd in a gorgeous sleigh,
envelop'd in other furs, for a ride. The sleigh was drawn by as fine a team of horses as I
ever saw. (You needn't think all the best animals are brought up nowadays; never was
such horseflesh as fifty years ago on Long Island, or south, or in New York city; folks
look'd for spirit and mettle in a nag, not tame speed merely.) Well, I, a boy of perhaps 13
or 14, stopp'd and gazed long at the spectacle of that fur-swathed old man, surrounded by
friends and servants, and the careful seating of him in the sleigh. I remember the spirited,
champing horses, the driver with his whip, and a fellow-driver by his side, for extra
prudence. The old man, the subject of so much attention, I can almost see now. It was

John Jacob Astor.
The years 1846, '47, and there along, see me still in New York City, working as writer
and printer, having my usual good health, and a good time generally.
OMNIBUS JAUNTS AND DRIVERS
One phase of those days must by no