FEINBERG/WHITMAN                        LITERARY FILE                           POETRY FILE  "Old Salt Kossabone" (1880).     A.MS. S. Draft.
Box 28  Folder 14[*personal*]                                           [*follow copy strictly*]

Old Salt Kossabone.
Far back, related on my mother's side,
Old Salt Kossabone, I'll tell you how he died;
(Had been a sailor all his life--was nearly 90--
     lived with his married grandchild Jenny,
House on a hill with view of bay at hand, and
     distant cape, and stretch to open sea;)
The last of afternoons, the evening hours, for many
      a year his regular custom,
In his great arm chair by the [front] window seated,
     (sometimes indeed through half the day,)'
Watching the coming, going of the vessels, he
      mutters to himself--And now the close of all:
One struggling out-bound brig one day baffled for long--
      cross-tides and much wrong = going,
At last at night-fall strikes the breese aright,
     her whole luck veering,
And swiftly [out around] [on] bending round the cape, the Darkness
      proudly entering cleaving, as he watches,
"She's free--she's on her destination [course]"--these [his] the last
    words--when Jenny came, he sat there dead;
Dutch Kossabone, Old Salt, related on my
      mother's side, far back.
                           Walt WhitmanWalt Whitman's Autograph
& written lines by him: given me - Ellen Terry = by W.W.-  in America in 18[88]326

1880 Old Salt Kossabone: poem. A. MS. s. (1p. 28 x 21 1/2 cm.)

Written in purple pencil on a white sheet of bond paper, with a 
notation in ink on the bottom of the verso in another hand ('Walt
Whitman's Autograph & written lines by him: given me--Ellen Terry-
by W-W--in America in 18__', another hnad '88' in pencil),
the full poem, with corrections:

personal                                     follow copy strictly

Old Salt Kossabone.
Far back, related on my mother's side,
Old Salt Kossabone, I'll tell you how he died;
(Had been a sailor all his life--was nearly 90--lived with his
        married grandchild Jenny,
House on a hill with view of bay at hand, and distant cape, and
         stretch to open sea;)
The last of afternoons, the evening hours, for many a year his
         regular custom,
In his great armchair by the front window seated, (sometimes
         [over]
327

             indeed  through half the day,)
Watching the coming, going of the vessels, he mutters to himself--
            And now the close of all:
One struggling out=bound brig one day baffled for long--cross-tide
            and much wrong=going,
At last at night-fall strikes the breeze aright, her whole luck
            veering,
And swiftly [out around on] bending round the cape, the darkness
            proudly entering, cleaving, as he watches, 
“She’s free--she’s on her [course] “destination”--these [his] the last 
            words--when Jenny came; he sat there dead;
Dutch Kossabone, Old Salt,  related on my mother’s side, far back.
                                                              Walt Whitman 

  [*(22  Dec 1887)*]
  [*(Ths Donaldson & Bram Stoker)*]