Walt Whitman was the great poet of catalogs--long lists of detailed observations and experiences. On occasion he also employed this paratactic method in his prose writings. "Street Yarn," originally published in the weekly magazine Life Illustrated in 1856, consists of a series of brief character sketches: physical descriptions of certain professional types (ministers, Wall Street brokers, prostitutes) and of individuals well known to Whitman and many of his readers.
Notice that the "sturdy, self-conscious microcosmic prose-poetical author" doesn't miss the opportunity to promote both himself and his recently published book of poetry, Leaves of Grass. In addition, he heaps praise on writers and editors who have supported his work, while teasing a competitor (fellow poet William C. Bryant) and ridiculing others (including the quack doctor Baron Spolasco and the unsuccessful presidential candidate George Law).
You'll also notice that most of the people Whitman observes on the streets of New York are men, with the exception of the "Harlot" and Miss Ada Clare. Clare was a bohemian writer and actress who had enthusiastically promoted Whitman's poetry in her column in the Saturday Press.
In short, though his choice of subjects may appear to be random, Whitman is actually repaying a few debts and settling some old scores.
Street Yarn
by Walt Whitman
Soldiers and militiamen are not the only people who wear uniforms. A uniform serves two purposes; first, to distinguish the wearers from others, and secondly, to assimilate them to each other. The universal uniform is more for the former of these than the latter; and is not only the style and substance of garments, but appearance and carriage. Come and walk in New York streets, or sit in a restaurant; we will detect some people for you by their uniforms.
Mild, foolish, dough-colored, simpering face; black cloth suit-shad-bellied, single-breasted coat, with low standing collar all round, vest buttoned close to throat, knees a little bent, toes turned out, and chin down. Episcopalian deacon.
Wild cataract of hair; absurd, bunged-up felt hat, with peaked crown; velvet coat, all friggled over with a gimp, but worn; eyes rather staring, looking upward. Third-rate artist.
Dress strictly respectable; hat well down on forehead; face thin, dry, close-shaven; mouth with a gripe like a vice; eyes sharp and quick; brows bent; forehead scowling; step jerky and bustling. Wall Street banker.
Hands crossed behind him; step slow; dress well enough, but careless all over; face bent downward, and full of thought. Leading lawyer.
Rusty black costume; white choker; look oddly compounded of severity, superiority, curiosity, apprehension, and suspicion; shoulders stooping, chest flat. Country clergyman.
Half-dozen ill-dressed fellows together (this is in the evening); dirty, unshorn faces; debauched expression; the half-shut eyes, and loose, hanging lips of the tribe; hoarse voices, incredibly tuneless; oaths and curses; laughs made up of a yell and a cackle; a peculiar quick, eager step, as they flock along close together. Short boys; damnable dangerous villains.
Dirty finery, excessively plentiful; paint, both red and white; draggle-tailed dress, ill-fitting; coarse features, unintelligent; bold glance; questioning, shameless, perceptibly anxious; hideous croak or dry brazen ring in voice; affected, but awkward, mincing, waggling gait. Harlot.
Heavy moustache; obtrusively expensive dress; big breast pin; heavy gold chain; rings; hat down over brows; loafing attitude on corner; eye furtive, glassy, expressionless; oaths; tobacco-spit. Gambler.
There, somewhat in that manner, you may learn even to distinguish the trades from each other. But now let us sketch individuals. We are sitting, we will suppose, in the St. Nicholas front windows, or standing in front of Delmonico's, or anywhere in a thoroughfare. The crowd flows; among it goes, now and then, one of the following:
A tall, slender man, round-shouldered, chin stuck out, deep-set eyes, sack-coat. His step is quick, and his arms swing awkwardly, as if he were trying to knock his elbows together behind him. Albert Brisbane the Socialist; the capitalist, too--an odd circumstance for a radical in New York! Somehow or other, he always looks as if he were attempting to think out some problem a little too hard for him.
Old gentleman in carriage. A well-built, portly old man, full, ruddy face, abundant wavy--almost frizzly--white hair, good forehead, kindly, intelligent look. Dr. Francis, the encyclopaedia of historical information, especially in local history and genealogy.
Tall, large, rough-looking man, in a journeyman carpenter's uniform. Coarse, sanguine complexion; strong, bristly, grizzled beard; singular eyes, of a semi-transparent, indistinct light blue, and with that sleepy look that comes when the lid rests half way down over the pupil; careless, lounging gait. Walt Whitman, the sturdy, self-conscious microcosmic prose-poetical author of that incongruous hash of mud and gold--"Leaves of Grass."
Middle-sized person, upright and alert; dark, sallow, Spanish-looking phiz; jet black hair and beard, a wild and glittering eye, and a certain air of satisfaction, as if well content to be of importance. That is Stephen H. Branch, the Alligator; the burr in the skirts of Mr. Matsell; the "indefigitable" searcher after Brandon records; the great worm-doctor, and the only writer of the Branch school known to exist.
Concluded on page two
