American Feuillage.

AMERICA always!

Always our own feuillage!

Always Florida’s green peninsula! Always the priceless delta of Louisiana! Always the

cotton-fields of Alabama and Texas!

Always California’s golden hills and hollows—and the silver mountains of New

Mexico!

Always soft-breath’d Cuba!

Always the vast slope drain’d by the Southern Sea—inseparable with the slopes

drain’d

by the Eastern and Western Seas;

The area the eighty-third year of These States—the three and a half millions of

square

miles;

The eighteen thousand miles of sea-coast and bay-coast on the main—the thirty

thousand

miles of

river navigation,

The seven millions of distinct families, and the same number of dwellings—Always

these,

and

more, branching forth into numberless branches;

Always the free range and diversity! always the continent of Democracy!

Always the prairies, pastures, forests, vast cities, travelers, Kanada, the snows;

Always these compact lands—lands tied at the hips with the belt stringing the huge

oval

lakes;

Always the West, with strong native persons—the increasing density there—the

habitans,

friendly, threatening, ironical, scorning invaders;

All sights, South, North, East—all deeds, promiscuously done at all times,

All characters, movements, growths—a few noticed, myriads unnoticed,

Through Mannahatta’s streets I walking, these things gathering;

On interior rivers, by night, in the glare of pine knots, steamboats wooding up;

Sunlight by day on the valley of the Susquehanna, and on the valleys of the Potomac and

Rappahannock, and the valleys of the Roanoke and Delaware;

In their northerly wilds, beasts of prey haunting the Adirondacks, the hills—or

lapping

the

Saginaw waters to drink;

In a lonesome inlet, a sheldrake, lost from the flock, sitting on the water, rocking

silently;

In farmers’ barns, oxen in the stable, their harvest labor done—they rest

standing—they are too tired;

Afar on arctic ice, the she-walrus lying drowsily, while her cubs play around;

The hawk sailing where men have not yet sail’d—the farthest polar sea, ripply,

crystalline, open, beyond the floes;

White drift spooning ahead, where the ship in the tempest dashes;

On solid land, what is done in cities, as the bells all strike midnight together;

In primitive woods, the sounds there also sounding—the howl of the wolf, the scream

of the

panther, and the hoarse bellow of the elk;

In winter beneath the hard blue ice of Moosehead Lake—in summer visible through the

clear

waters, the great trout swimming;

In lower latitudes, in warmer air, in the Carolinas, the large black buzzard floating

slowly,

high

beyond the tree tops,

Below, the red cedar, festoon’d with tylandria—the pines and cypresses, growing

out

of the

white sand that spreads far and flat;

Rude boats descending the big Pedee—climbing plants, parasites, with color’d

flowers

and

berries, enveloping huge trees,

The waving drapery on the live oak, trailing long and low, noiselessly waved by the wind;

The camp of Georgia wagoners, just after dark—the supper-fires, and the cooking and

eating

by

whites and negroes,

Thirty or forty great wagons—the mules, cattle, horses, feeding from troughs,

The shadows, gleams, up under the leaves of the old sycamore-trees—the

flames—with

the

black smoke from the pitch-pine, curling and rising;

Southern fishermen fishing—the sounds and inlets of North Carolina’s

coast—the

shad-fishery and the herring-fishery—the large sweep-seines—the windlasses on

shore

work’d by horses—the clearing, curing, and packing-houses;

Deep in the forest, in piney woods, turpentine dropping from the incisions in the

trees—There

are the turpentine works,

There are the negroes at work, in good health—the ground in all directions is

cover’d

with

pine straw:

—In Tennessee and Kentucky, slaves busy in the coalings, at the forge, by the

furnace-blaze, or

at the corn-shucking;

In Virginia, the planter’s son returning after a long absence, joyfully welcom’d

and

kiss’d by the aged mulatto nurse;

On rivers, boatmen safely moor’d at night-fall, in their boats, under shelter of high

banks,

Some of the younger men dance to the sound of the banjo or fiddle—others sit on the

gunwale,

smoking and talking;

Late in the afternoon, the mocking-bird, the American mimic, singing in the Great Dismal

Swamp—there are the greenish waters, the resinous odor, the plenteous moss, the

cypress

tree,

and the juniper tree;

—Northward, young men of Mannahatta—the target company from an excursion

returning

home at

evening—the musket-muzzles all bear bunches of flowers presented by women;

Children at play—or on his father’s lap a young boy fallen asleep, (how his lips

move! how

he smiles in his sleep!)

The scout riding on horseback over the plains west of the Mississippi—he ascends a

knoll

and

sweeps his eye around;

California life—the miner, bearded, dress’d in his rude costume—the stanch

California

friendship—the sweet air—the graves one, in passing, meets, solitary, just

aside the

horsepath;

Down in Texas, the cotton-field, the negro-cabins—drivers driving mules or oxen

before

rude

carts—cotton bales piled on banks and wharves;

Encircling all, vast-darting, up and wide, the American Soul, with equal

hemispheres—one

Love,

one Dilation or Pride;

—In arriere, the peace-talk with the Iroquois, the aborigines—the calumet, the

pipe

of

good-will, arbitration, and indorsement,

The sachem blowing the smoke first toward the sun and then toward the earth,

The drama of the scalp-dance enacted with painted faces and guttural exclamations,

The setting out of the war-party—the long and stealthy march,

The single-file—the swinging hatchets—the surprise and slaughter of enemies;

—All the acts, scenes, ways, persons, attitudes of These States—reminiscences,

all

institutions,

All These States, compact—Every square mile of These States, without excepting a

particle—you also—me also,

Me pleas’d, rambling in lanes and country fields, Paumanok’s fields,

Me, observing the spiral flight of two little yellow butterflies, shuffling between each

other,

ascending high in the air;

The darting swallow, the destroyer of insects—the fall traveler southward, but

returning

northward early in the spring;

The country boy at the close of the day, driving the herd of cows, and shouting to them as

they

loiter to browse by the road-side;

The city wharf—Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston, New Orleans, San

Francisco,

The departing ships, when the sailors heave at the capstan;

—Evening—me in my room—the setting sun,

The setting summer sun shining in my open window, showing the swarm of flies, suspended,

balancing

in the air in the centre of the room, darting athwart, up and down, casting swift shadows

in

specks

on the opposite wall, where the shine is;

The athletic American matron speaking in public to crowds of listeners;

Males, females, immigrants, combinations—the copiousness—the individuality of

The

States,

each for itself—the money-makers;

Factories, machinery, the mechanical forces—the windlass, lever, pulley—All

certainties,

The certainty of space, increase, freedom, futurity,

In space, the sporades, the scatter’d islands, the stars—on the firm earth, the

lands, my

lands;

O lands! all so dear to me—what you are, (whatever it is,) I become a part of that,

whatever it

is;

Southward there, I screaming, with wings slowly flapping, with the myriads of gulls

wintering

along

the coasts of Florida—or in Louisiana, with pelicans breeding;

Otherways, there, atwixt the banks of the Arkansaw, the Rio Grande, the Nueces, the

Brazos, the

Tombigbee, the Red River, the Saskatchawan, or the Osage, I with the spring waters

laughing

and

skipping and running;

Northward, on the sands, on some shallow bay of Paumanok, I, with parties of snowy herons

wading in

the wet to seek worms and aquatic plants;

Retreating, triumphantly twittering, the king-bird, from piercing the crow with its bill,

for

amusement—And I triumphantly twittering;

The migrating flock of wild geese alighting in autumn to refresh themselves—the body

of

the

flock feed—the sentinels outside move around with erect heads watching, and are from

time

to

time reliev’d by other sentinels—And I feeding and taking turns with the rest;

In Kanadian forests, the moose, large as an ox, corner’d by hunters, rising

desperately on

his

hind-feet, and plunging with his fore-feet, the hoofs as sharp as knives—And I,

plunging

at the

hunters, corner’d and desperate;

In the Mannahatta, streets, piers, shipping, store-houses, and the countless workmen

working in

the

shops,

And I too of the Mannahatta, singing thereof—and no less in myself than the whole of

the

Mannahatta in itself,

Singing the song of These, my ever united lands—my body no more inevitably united,

part to

part, and made one identity, any more than my lands are inevitably united, and made ONE

IDENTITY;

Nativities, climates, the grass of the great Pastoral Plains;

Cities, labors, death, animals, products, war, good and evil—these me,

These affording, in all their particulars, endless feuillage to me and to America, how can

I do

less

than pass the clew of the union of them, to afford the like to you?

Whoever you are! how can I but offer you divine leaves, that you also be eligible as I am?



How can I but, as here, chanting, invite you for yourself to collect bouquets of the

incomparable

feuillage of These States?