First edition of Leaves of Grass, 1855 met with catcalls. Retreat to Peconic Bav, Long Island for summer and fall. Remainder of life revising, adding to the poems, expanding each new edition. Praise from Emerson, Alcott and Thoreau alone. Longfellow, Lowell, Holmes and most newspaper reviewers shudder and squint haughtily at the wild, uncouth buffon. Public generally ignores him, except as a "character." Imposing stature, beard and striking dress a common sight along Broadway, Fifth Avenue, Fulton Street and the Brooklyn Ferry. Often at Pfaff's restaurant with "the Bohemians" (SATURDAY PRESS editor, Henry Clapp, Ada Clare, Fitz-James O'Brien, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, FitzGreene Halleck and later young Wm. Dean Howells.) Whitman often in another corner with "the boys", a less sophisticated circle of "comradeship-pledging" tram conductors. seamen, dockworkers, "rough, bearded youths," those for whom Walt primarily wrote his poems, but who seldom read them.

Travelling to the Rappahannock in 1862 to nurse his war-wounded brother stayed through the war, nursing the wounded writing their letters, buying ice cream, distributing stationery, holding their hands, watching many of them die. "Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips," he later wrote. The war evoked his warmest, most sincere qualities, but wrecked his once splendid health, leaving him a serious invalid for the long declining years. At first horrified by the sight of the thousands of lonesome, often terrified youths, filthy, sometimes gangrenous, with faces shattered or limbs ripped away, he stayed to help them, and for many his frank love became the only substitute for the lack of proper or sufficient medical care. With not a few, the friendship continued long after the war. him as a national hero.

"SOME SPECIMEN CASES: June 18th.-In one of the hospitals I find Thomas Haley, company M, 4th New York cavalry-a regular Irish boy, a fine specimen of youthful physical manliness-shot through the lungs-inevitably dying-came over to this country from Ireland to enlist-has not a single friend or acquaintance here is sleeping soundly at this moment, (but it is the sleep of death)-has a bullet-hole straight through the lung. I saw Tom when first brought here, three days since, and didn't suppose he could live twelve hours-(yet he looks well enough in the face to a casual observer.) He lies there with his frame exposed above the waist, all naked, for coolness, a fine built man, the tan not yet bleach'd from his cheeks and neck. It is useless to talk to him, as with his sad hurt, and the stimulants they give him, and the utter strangeness of every object, face, furniture, &c., the poor fellow, even when awake, is like some frighten'd, shy animal. Much of the time he sleeps, or half sleeps. (Sometimes I thought he knew more than he show'd.) I come often and sit by him in perfect silence; he will breathe for ten minutes as softly and evenly as a young babe asleep. Poor youth, so handsome, athletic, with profuse, beautiful shining hair. One time as I sat looking at him while he lay asleep, he suddenly, without the least start,

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