 Down the long path of history, crapping across centuries and continents, and the graves of kings and the necks of dictators, seeking always a way of life where the people have their freedom, believing, praying, fighting, dying. We came this way. The NBC University of the Air, a public service feature of the national broadcasting company and its independent affiliated stations, presents another chapter in the historical series, We Came This Way, a dramatic account of man's struggle down through the ages for a democratic way of life. For our listeners at home and overseas, we present chapter four, Walt Whitman, Poet of Democracy, on We Came This Way. I, Walt Whitman, poet of democracy, the tendency of whose pages is to destroy those old landmarks, which pride and fashion have set up, making impassable distinctions between the brethren of the great family. To make us love our fellow creatures, and own that all those social distinctions place others far higher or far lower than we, yet our human beings alike as links of the same chain. Starting from fish-shaped pomonok where I was born, well begotten and raised by a perfect mother, after roaming many lands, lover of populist pavement, dweller in Manahatta, my city, or on southern savannas, or withdrawn to muse and meditate in some deep recess, and happy, having studied the marking bird's tone for the flight of the mountain hawk, solitary singing in the west, I strike up for a new world. The boy said you want to see me, Mr. Van Anden. Come in, Walt, and shut the door. Pull up a chair. Mr. Van Anden, this is another warning about what you're going to let me put in the paper and what you're not. Be here, Walt Whitman. You'll grant that I am the proprietor of the Brooklyn Eagle. You're the proprietor, but I'm the editor. And I put whatever I please in the eagle so long as I am editor. Yes, but you listen to me for a minute. I've given you a pretty free hand. Not on the question of free soil. I've let you be any kind of a crank you wanted to be in the column of the eagle for two years now. You're getting out of hand, Walt. Mr. Van Anden, you make it sound as though I was some bird in a cage. I've never been in hand. Now, about that editorial concerning General Cass has led it to Nicholson. It's a fair proposition, Walt. I don't think so. Well, I agree with General Cass. As the new territories open up, let them decide for themselves whether they want slavery or not. And I say, well, you've got the editorial there on your desk. Yes. I was looking it over at the tenth time when you came in. And we don't have to go all over that again. It's a dangerous issue. And so we'll just devoid it. Mr. Van Anden, the new territories have got to be free by law. And I'm going to keep on saying that in the eagle just as long as I'm editor. Walt? You are not editor of the eagle anymore. Well, sorry, Walt. No regrets, Mr. Van Anden. And no hard feelings. I'll just move on. A foot in light hearted I take to the open road. Healthy, free, the world before me. The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good fortune, for I myself am good fortune. Henceforth I quiver no more, postpone no more, need nothing. Strong and content, I travel the open road. It was 1848 and 49 that I was occupied as editor of the Daily Eagle Newspaper in Brooklyn. The latter year I went off on a leisurely journey and working expedition through all the middle states and down the Ohio and Mississippi River. What widens were then you, Walt Whitman? What climes? What persons and cities are here? What do you hear, Walt Whitman? I've got a whole new learner in this town. Fifteen years on the Erick and Hal. She's got a worker and a good old pal. Fifteen years on the Erick and Hal. I hear the workmen singing and the farmers wife singing. I hear in the distance a sound of children and of animals early in the day. Yes, and I hear also the breeze of the slave couple as the slaves march on. Fastened together with wrist chains and ankle chains. Yes, I hear America singing. The varied carols I hear. Those are mechanics. Each one singing his as it should be. Live and strong. The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank of beans. The mason singing his as he makes ready for work or leaves off work. Singing with open mouths their strong melodious song. What do you see, Walt Whitman? I see diminuets, farms, hamlets, ruins, graveyards, jails, factories, palaces, hovels, huts of barbarians, tents of nomads. I see the constructiveness of my race. I see the results of the perseverance and industry of my race. I see the ranks, colors, barbarism, civilization. I go among them. I mix indiscriminate values and I salute all the inhabitants of the earth. I lived a while in Gay New Orleans. I worked there on the stamp of the Daily Crescent newspaper. It is time now to be set. I must go back to the Crescent office. No, you stay with Gretel. I want to macherise. But I must put down my impressions of the carnival for the newspaper. Let's skip down this side, and let's get out of the crowd. I must get to work. Already the gentleman owned the Crescent grumble because... Did you not like the piece you write about Gretel? No. It's not bad. I know. You go back to your Brooklyn. You leave Gretel, no? Now, my pretty, now, now. But you will? Suppose we go now to the place where the old woman sells her coffee. I have a poem. I'll read it to you there. Is it about Gretel? You wait and see. No. You read it to me now. Go. Well, all right. What is it about? It's about a city and a woman. Once I passed through a popular city and printing my brain for future use, but it shows architecture, customs, tradition. Yet now of all that city, I remember only a woman I casually met there who detained me for love of me. Day by day and night by night we were together. All else has long been forgotten by me. I remember I say only that woman who passionately clung to me. Again we wander. We love. We separate again. Again she holds me by the hand. I must not go. I see her close beside me with silent lips, bathed in tenderness. After a time I fluttered back northward up to Mississippi in the round two and by way of the Great Lakes, to Niagara Falls and Lower Canada, finally returning through Central New York and down the hut. In 1855 I commenced putting leaves of grass to press for good at the printing office of my friends, the brothers Rome in Brooklyn. I had great trouble in leaving out the stock poetical touches, but succeeded at last. Well Walt, there's your book, the first copy of Leaves of Grass fresh from the printing press and it better be the way you wanted this time Walt. Andrew and I have made up our minds there'll be no more changes. It looks good to me James, very good. My brother and I think so too, but the real question is how many copies are going to be sold? How will folks take it? That depends upon the kind of folks they are. Professor, have you read the new book by this fellow Whitman? I regret to say I have and to think he calls himself a poet while the dreadful stuff doesn't rhyme. Besides, it's like sin just dribbles. Now my dear, I don't mean to gossip, but are you referring to that nasty book that Lucy Morris bought? Yes, I understand she keeps the hidden away in her bureau drawer for fear it will fall into the hands of her doctor. Or her husband. What does this letter say? If it's like all the others? It's not like all the others, James. No. Well who's it from? Ralph Waldo Emerson. No. You mean the Concord sage himself? Why, I always thought of him as sitting up there in that rarefied atmosphere and... Well, what do you say? Well, now let me see. Oh yes, this much will do. I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gifts of leaves of grass. I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed. Why, that's a mighty big thing to say. It's a mighty big book he's talking about, James. Oh, go ahead. What else does he say? Oh, Justin. I am very happy in reading it as great power makes us happy. I greet you at the beginning of a great career. Mmm, fine words, all right. But what I want to know is, will it sell the book? Sell the book or not, James, I'm going on in my own way as well as I can. I haven't waived it so far and I'm not going to. I shall speak my mind as God meant me to. What is the 13th of April, 1861? I have been to the opera on 14th Street and after the performance was walking down Broadway on my way to Brooklyn. Exchange, exchange! When I heard in the distruth the loud cries of the news boy. Exchange! Boy! Boy! Exchange! Special exchange! Boy, give me a paper. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. It's happened. They fired on Fort Sumter. The volcanic upheaval of the nation after the firing of the flag at Charleston proved a certain something which had been previously in great doubt and it once substantially settled the question of this union. Even after the bombardment of Sumter, however, the gravity of the revolt and the power and will of the slave states were not realized in the north except by a few. Walter, I know you say I shouldn't but I can't help worrying about your brother, George. I know you can't help it, mother but it does no good. This dreadful war. All this fighting is so wrong. Better to fight than to be slaves. You may be right, Walter but I'm an old woman. Just an old weary woman. You speak of age in a reproachful way. Can there ever be good in it? Of course. Listen to this, mother. Women sit or move to and fro. Some old, some young. The young are beautiful but the old are far more beautiful than the young. Oh, stop. I knew it. Don't you like it? Well, of course. It says that every woman is beautiful and I am a woman and an old one too which according to your point is something extra desirable. Every woman is beautiful and all women are men's equal. Perhaps, Walter. I know you've told me that before. I'll go, mother. Yes? Is this the home of Mrs. Louisa Whitman? Yes, I'm her son. Get the message for her. Oh, I'll take it. Thank you. Walter, what is it? It's a message, mother. I don't know what it is but... Maybe, maybe it's about George. Walter, maybe George is... Mother, it is about George and he's all right. Oh, thank God. He's been wounded but he's all right. He's in a hospital in Washington. I'm going there to take care of him. Washington, December 29th, 1862. Dear, dear mother, I succeeded in reaching the camp of the 51st New York. I've stayed in camp with George ever since. Till yesterday when I came back to Washington. And now that I've lived eight or nine days amid such scenes as the camp's furnish and had a practical part in it all, I realize nothing we call trouble seems worth talking about. How your heart would ache to go through the rows of wounded young men as I did and stop to speak accompanying words from the region. One young man was very prostrated and groaning with pain. What's the matter, soldier? I feel like I'm about to faint. Well, maybe if I... You're not a nurse. No, but I can try to help you, soldier. They had enough to be dying in a Yankee hospital with Yankee nurses and doctors. Easy there, easy. Don't wear yourself out being bitter. Maybe you'd like some of this fruit I brought along for my brother. There's some candy, too. No, no, I don't want anything. I just want somebody to write a letter for me. That's all. I feel like I'm dying. Don't think about dying, soldier. You'll pull through. I'm so sure. Of course. I can write that letter, just to say. You know, but I'm not a Yankee. I don't care who you are. You're a man that suits me. What's your mother's name? Mrs. Eliza Robin. Mrs. Eliza Robin. Dear mother, I... I want you to know that... that I'm here in Northern Hospital in Washington. I... I don't like being with Yankees, but I get stronger every day. I keep on thinking of you. Of you. Of the old place. Of the old place. Don't talk, boy. Try to read. Just lie back and... he's gone. Sharing the bandages, water and spine. Straight and swift to my wounded, I go. To the rows of cuts up and down each side, I return. To each and all, one after another, I draw near. Not one do I miss. I am faithful. I do not give up. I see President Lincoln almost every day now, as I happen to live very passersby. He always has a company of 25 or 30 cavalry, with swords drawn and held upright over their shoulders. Mr. Lincoln in the saddle generally rides a good-sized, easy-going grey horse, dressed in plain black, somewhat rusty and dusty, wears a black stiff hat and looks about as ordinary and attire as... a commonest man. I see very plainly Abraham Lincoln's dark, brown face with a deep cut line. The eyes, always to me, with a deep latent sadness in the expression. They pass me once very close, and I saw the President in the face fully, and his look so abstracted happened to be directed steadily in my eyes. He bowed and smiled. I bowed and whispered. Mr. President. Far beneath his smile I noticed well the expression I've alluded to. None of the honest of pictures has caught the deep, so subtle and indirect expression of this man's face. The college rose prophetic a voice. Be not detartant. A section shall solve the problems of freedom yet. Those who love each other shall become invincible. Sons of the mother of all, you shall yet be victorious. You shall yet laugh to score the tax of all the remainder of the earth. Once from Massachusetts shall be a Missourian's comrade. From Maine and from hot Carolina shall be friend, triune. So goodbye to the war. Future years will never know the seething hell and the black infernal background. It was not a quadrill in a ballroom. The real war will never get in the book. Its interior history will not only never be written, its practicality, its deeds and passion will never even be suggested. But all of the war was over in the nation of peace. In the midst of happiness and joy came... tragedy! I can't believe it's happening! It's super chaotic! That blanket that way, come inside the trampiece. The horse car business isn't very good tonight. And I... I want to talk to you. You're the only passenger, Walt. I guess the conductor can lay off work a few minutes. Sit down. Pete, I... I understand you were at the theatre when... it happened. Yes. I was there. Tell me about it. Well... everything happened so fast. I had a seat in the second gallery. The police had packed. But could you see the president? I could look right at him. Matter of fact, I was more interested in watching his face than I was in the play. I know. And then... well, all of a sudden I heard the pistol shot. Did you know what had happened? I didn't have any idea what it was, Walt. Or what it meant. The shot was sort of muffled. Then when did you know? I knew when... Mrs. Lincoln leaned out of the box and... shouted, Well... I'll ride to the end of the line... and then... back. I want a thing. By many has this union been helped. But if one name, one man must be picked out, Abraham Lincoln, most of all, is a conservator of it to the future. He was assassinated. The union is not assassinated. One fall, and another fall. The soldier drops, sinks like a wave, but the ranks of the ocean eternally press on. Death does its work to obliterate a hundred, a thousand, presidents, general, captains, privates. But the nation is immortal. Listen, Pete, there's only a little more. I'm listening, Walt. You're the only passenger left now. And you can give all your attention to my poem. Go on. Yet each to keep and all, reprievements out of the night, the song, the wondrous chant of the grey-brown bird, comrades' mind and eye in the midst, and their memory ever to keep for the dead I love so well, for the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and land, and this for his dear sins. Lila can star and bird, twine with a chant of my soul, there in a fragrant pine, and a seed of dust. What do you think, Pete? Well, it's hard to put it into words, but, well, it's big. It has to be for him. Yeah, and a common man, even a man like me, can understand it. I don't know, but I guess it was great. Sort of a masterpiece, maybe. What do you say you call it, Walt? It's called, when lilac slaps in the door-yard bloom. The times are full of great portents in these states and in the whole world. The horizon rises. It divides I perceive for a more august drama than any of the past. All men have played their part. The act suitable to them is closed. Frontiers and boundaries are less and less able to divide men. The modern inventions are interlinking the inhabitants of the earth together as groups of one family. Never did the idea of equality erect itself so hotly and uncompromising amid inequality as today. Never was there more eagerness to know. Never was the representative man more energetic, more like a god than today. What historically knew more are these we are approaching. No man knows what will happen next. Who shall play the hand for America in these tremendous games? Would you like to know more of the life and times of Walt Whitman portrayed in the program you just heard? A handbook containing life stories of 13 great leaders in the struggle for human liberty has been prepared as an interesting supplement to the broadcast series. To obtain your copy, write for We Came This Way. Address your requests to Columbia University Press, Station J, New York 27, and enclose 25 cents in coin to cover costs of printing and mailing. Tonight's script was written by Myron Golden and was directed by Norman Felton. Original music was composed by Emil Sodastrom and conducted by Joseph Galicchio. The role of Walt Whitman was played by Mckay Morris. Others in the cast were Phillip Lord, Rita Ascot, Claire Baum, Art Seltzer, Bertha Creighton, Sidney Brees, and Art McConnell. This series is presented each week as a public service of the National Broadcasting Company and its affiliated independent stations. Next week, We Came This Way will be heard at a new time over some of these stations. Consult your newspaper for complete details. Your announcer is Dave Rogers. This is the National Broadcasting Company.