THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY. by Walt Whitman: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
A young Civil War volunteer assists a blind, hundred-year-old veteran up a hill in Brooklyn.
The poem
_Volunteer of 1861-2, (at Washington Park, Brooklyn, assisting the Centenarian.)_ Give me your hand old Revolutionary, The hill-top is nigh, but a few steps, (make room gentlemen,) Up the path you have follow'd me well, spite of your hundred and extra years, You can walk old man, though your eyes are almost done, Your faculties serve you, and presently I must have them serve me. Rest, while I tell what the crowd around us means, On the plain below recruits are drilling and exercising, There is the camp, one regiment departs to-morrow, Do you hear the officers giving their orders? Do you hear the clank of the muskets? Why what comes over you now old man? Why do you tremble and clutch my hand so convulsively? The troops are but drilling, they are yet surrounded with smiles. Around them at hand the well-drest friends and the women, While splendid and warm the afternoon sun shines down, Green the midsummer verdure and fresh blows the dallying breeze, O'er proud and peaceful cities and arm of the sea between. But drill and parade are over, they march back to quarters, Only hear that approval of hands! hear what a clapping! As wending the crowds now part and disperse--but we old man, Not for nothing have I brought you hither--we must remain, You to speak in your turn, and I to listen and tell. _The Centenarian._ When I clutch'd your hand it was not with terror, But suddenly pouring about me here on every side, And below there where the boys were drilling, and up the slopes they ran, And where tents are pitch'd, and wherever you see south and south-east and south-west, Over hills, across lowlands, and in the skirts of woods, And along the shores, in mire (now fill'd over) came again and suddenly raged, As eighty-five years a-gone no mere parade receiv'd with applause of friends, But a battle which I took part in myself--aye, long ago as it is I took part in it, Walking then this hill-top, this same ground. Aye, this is the ground, My blind eyes even as I speak behold it re-peopled from graves, The years recede, pavements and stately houses disappear, Rude forts appear again, the old hoop'd guns are mounted, I see the lines of rais'd earth stretching from river to bay, I mark the vista of waters, I mark the uplands and slopes; Here we lay encamp'd, it was this time in summer also. As I talk I remember all, I remember the Declaration, It was read here, the whole army paraded, it was read to us here, By his staff surrounded the General stood in the middle, he held up his unsheath'd sword, It glitter'd in the sun in full sight of the army. 'Twas a bold act then--the English war-ships had just arrived, We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor, And the transports swarming with soldiers. A few days more and they landed, and then the battle. Twenty thousand were brought against us, A veteran force furnish'd with good artillery. I tell not now the whole of the battle, But one brigade early in the forenoon order'd forward to engage the red-coats, Of that brigade I tell, and how steadily it march'd, And how long and well it stood confronting death. Who do you think that was marching steadily sternly confronting death? It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong, Raised in Virginia and Maryland, and most of them known personally to the General. Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward Gowanus' waters, Till of a sudden unlook'd for by defiles through the woods, gain'd at night, The British advancing, rounding in from the east, fiercely playing their guns, That brigade of the youngest was cut off and at the enemy's mercy. The General watch'd them from this hill, They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment, They drew close together, very compact, their flag flying in the middle, But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning them! It sickens me yet, that slaughter! I saw the moisture gather in drops on the face of the General. I saw how he wrung his hands in anguish. Meanwhile the British manoeuvr'd to draw us out for a pitch'd battle, But we dared not trust the chances of a pitch'd battle. We fought the fight in detachments. Sallying forth we fought at several points, but in each the luck was against us, Our foe advancing, steadily getting the best of it, push'd us back to the works on this hill, Till we turn'd menacing here, and then he left us. That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong, Few return'd, nearly all remain in Brooklyn. That and here my General's first battle, No women looking on nor sunshine to bask in, it did not conclude with applause, Nobody clapp'd hands here then. But in darkness in mist on the ground under a chill rain, Wearied that night we lay foil'd and sullen, While scornfully laugh'd many an arrogant lord oft' against us encamp'd, Quite within hearing, feasting, clinking wineglasses together over their victory. So dull and damp and another day, But the night of that, mist lifting, rain ceasing, Silent as a ghost while they thought they were sure of him, my General retreated. I saw him at the river-side, Down by the ferry lit by torches, hastening the embarcation; My General waited till the soldiers and wounded were all pass'd over, And then, (it was just ere sunrise,) these eyes rested on him for the last time. Every one else seem'd fill'd with gloom, Many no doubt thought of capitulation. But when my General pass'd me, As he stood in his boat and look'd toward the coming sun, I saw something different from capitulation. _Terminus._ Enough, the Centenarian's story ends, The two, the past and present, have interchanged, I myself as connecter, as chansonnier of a great future, am now speaking. And is this the ground Washington trod? And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are these the waters he cross'd, As resolute in defeat as other generals in their proudest triumphs? I must copy the story, and send it eastward and westward, I must preserve that look as it beam'd on you rivers of Brooklyn. See--as the annual round returns the phantoms return, It is the 27th of August and the British have landed, The battle begins and goes against us, behold through the smoke Washington's face, The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march'd forth to intercept the enemy, They are cut off, murderous artillery from the hills plays upon them, Rank after rank falls, while over them silently droops the flag, Baptized that day in many a young man's bloody wounds, In death, defeat, and sisters', mothers' tears. Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn! I perceive you are more valuable than your owners supposed; In the midst of you stands an encampment very old, Stands forever the camp of that dead brigade.
A young Civil War volunteer assists a blind, hundred-year-old veteran up a hill in Brooklyn. Suddenly, the old man recognizes the terrain — it’s the very spot where he witnessed Washington's army defeated by the British during the Battle of Long Island in 1776. He recounts the tale of a young brigade that faced certain doom, and the volunteer concludes the poem by emphasizing the importance of remembering and sharing that story. The hill transforms into a sacred space where the past and present intertwine.
Line-by-line
Give me your hand old Revolutionary, / The hill-top is nigh, but a few steps,
Why what comes over you now old man? / Why do you tremble and clutch my hand so convulsively?
As wending the crowds now part and disperse--but we old man, / Not for nothing have I brought you hither
When I clutch'd your hand it was not with terror, / But suddenly pouring about me here on every side,
Aye, this is the ground, / My blind eyes even as I speak behold it re-peopled from graves,
As I talk I remember all, I remember the Declaration, / It was read here, the whole army paraded,
'Twas a bold act then--the English war-ships had just arrived, / We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor,
Twenty thousand were brought against us, / A veteran force furnish'd with good artillery.
Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward Gowanus' waters, / Till of a sudden unlook'd for by defiles through the woods,
The General watch'd them from this hill, / They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment,
That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong, / Few return'd, nearly all remain in Brooklyn.
But in darkness in mist on the ground under a chill rain, / Wearied that night we lay foil'd and sullen,
I saw him at the river-side, / Down by the ferry lit by torches, hastening the embarcation;
Enough, the Centenarian's story ends, / The two, the past and present, have interchanged,
See--as the annual round returns the phantoms return, / It is the 27th of August and the British have landed,
Tone & mood
Solemn and respectful, yet approachable. Whitman maintains a warm and personal tone—this is a dialogue between two individuals, not an inscription on a monument. The centenarian's recollections have an ebb and flow reminiscent of real memories: details surge forth, then fade away. The volunteer's framing sections are more composed, almost journalistic, until the final vision draws him into a sense of awe. Beneath it all, there's an underlying current of grief for the young men lost in wars that needed to be fought.
Symbols & metaphors
- The hill-top — Washington Park hill symbolizes the poem's theme of historical continuity. The same ground has witnessed both battles, both armies, and both generations. Standing on it merges time — the centenarian's blind eyes perceive 1776 more vividly than 1861 from this very spot.
- Washington's unsheathed sword — The sword, raised in the sunlight while the Declaration is read, embodies the founding promise in a tangible and public way. It sparkles — designed to catch the eye of every soldier. It's a physical representation of the nation's ideals.
- The flag over the dying brigade — The flag that flies at the center of the encircled, dwindling brigade, and later hangs low over the fallen soldiers, symbolizes the nation’s survival through sacrifice. It’s ‘baptized’ in blood—a choice of words that carries weight. The flag gains its significance from the lives lost beneath it.
- Washington looking toward the rising sun — The final image of Washington in his boat, facing the dawn after defeat, symbolizes hope and resilience in the poem. The centenarian can’t quite articulate what he sees in the General’s expression, but the reader gets it: it’s the determination not to see a lost battle as a lost cause.
- The blind eyes of the centenarian — His physical blindness contrasts sharply with his vivid memory. Though he can't see today's recruits, he can bring the landscape to life by recalling those who are buried there. In this sense, his blindness isn't a limitation but a unique gift—he experiences the past more vividly than anything in front of him.
- The camp of the dead brigade — The poem concludes with the haunting image of the dead brigade’s camp enduring eternally on the Brooklyn hills. It serves as an unseen monument, more lasting than any physical structure. The land itself becomes the memorial.
Historical context
Whitman published this poem in *Drum-Taps* (1865), a collection he wrote while serving as a volunteer nurse in Washington hospitals during and after the Civil War. The poem takes place in Washington Park (now Fort Greene Park) in Brooklyn, which is located on the very ground where the Battle of Long Island occurred on August 27, 1776. This was the first major battle following the Declaration of Independence and one of the most significant defeats for the Americans in the Revolutionary War. Washington lost about a thousand men and came close to being trapped, but he managed a legendary overnight retreat across the East River that saved the Continental Army. Having grown up in Brooklyn, Whitman was intimately familiar with this area. Writing amid another major conflict for the nation, he looked back to the Revolution to suggest that defeat and sacrifice are woven into the very fabric of America, rather than being mere exceptions. The poem's unique three-voice structure — featuring a volunteer, a centenarian, and then a volunteer again — was quite innovative for its time, giving it an oral history feel.
FAQ
The centenarian is a fictional character — a man over a hundred years old who claims to have witnessed the Battle of Long Island in 1776. Whitman created him as a way to link the Civil War era to the earlier Revolutionary War period. The volunteer assisting him is also made up, but he embodies Whitman's role as a witness and recorder of the Civil War.
The Battle of Long Island, fought on August 27, 1776, marked the first major clash following the Declaration of Independence and resulted in a notable American defeat. The British forces, numbering about 20,000 troops, outflanked Washington's army, encircling and decimating a brigade of young soldiers from Virginia and Maryland near Gowanus Creek. To preserve his forces, Washington retreated across the East River overnight. Whitman highlights this battle not only because it took place on the very ground where the poem is set, but also to illustrate that the nation was forged through defeat and sacrifice, rather than solely through victory.
The sight of young men drilling on the same ground where he witnessed a brigade get slaughtered 85 years earlier overwhelms him with involuntary memories. His body reacts before his mind can process it. Whitman illustrates how trauma and place are connected—the landscape itself evokes the memory, not just the image of soldiers.
It suggests that they are buried there — they died in battle and never returned. Whitman intentionally chooses a simple, understated phrase rather than something more dramatic. This plainness makes the impact stronger: two thousand young men went out, and the earth held them.
He sees something other than surrender. Washington had just suffered a crushing defeat, his youngest soldiers lay dead, and the British were celebrating nearby — yet when the centenarian gazes at him in the boat facing the sunrise, he perceives resolve, not despair. Whitman never names it outright, which adds to its impact: the centenarian simply states, "I saw something different from capitulation."
The Civil War faced significant challenges for the Union at different times, and Whitman aimed to remind Americans that the nation had endured devastating military losses in the past. By linking the Civil War volunteers to the fallen soldiers of the Revolutionary War, he conveys that sacrifice and loss are foundational to the country — rather than indications of a flawed cause. Essentially, the poem asserts: Washington faced defeat here as well, but continued to push forward.
The Terminus section features the volunteer narrator taking back the poem after the centenarian completes his story. While 'terminus' suggests an ending point, Whitman employs it ironically—it's really a new beginning, a promise to continue sharing the story. The volunteer expresses a need to copy and disseminate the tale, then revisits the battle one last time in a visionary way, as if it happens again every year on the same date.
He's suggesting that the flag — and, by extension, the nation — was sanctified through the deaths of young soldiers. The choice of the word 'baptized' is intentional: just as baptism signifies a new beginning through water, the flag gained its significance through blood. This reflects Whitman's view that the nation's identity was shaped by sacrifice, not solely by the words of the Declaration.