The Autobiography of an Idea

precious infant that he was born in sin and ask for sponsors? Never! That settled it and they named him Louis Henri Sullivan. It has been declared and denied that the name was given in order to heap honors upon Napoleon III. Be that as it may. The name Henri, obviously, was to deify Grandpa. The Sullivan could not be helped. It was scorned by all but its owner. They detested the Irish, whose peaceful penetration of Boston had made certain sections thereof turn green. Even his wife could not stand for it, much less for Patrick. So sometimes she gallicized the name; which wasn’t so bad, when she used it in the third person, nominative, singular. Then she had an inspiration, an illumination one might say, and invented the word Tulive, whatever that may have meant, as a general cover-name, and thus secured a happy, lifelong escape. But later on, say about the age of twelve, the scion asked his father about this name Sullivan, which seemed to coincide with shanty-Irish. So his father told him this tale: Long ago in Ireland, in the good fighting days, there were four tribes or clans of the O’Sullivans: The O’Sullivan-Moors, the O’Sullivan Macs, and two others. That We were descended from the O’Sullivan-Moors, and that all four tribes were descended from a Spanish marauder, who ravished the west Irish coast and settled there. His name it appears was O’Soulyevoyne or something like that, which, translated, meant, “The Prince with One Eye.” Now, however great was the glory of this pirate chief, his descendant, Louis Henri Sullivan O’Sullivan-Moore-O’Soulyevoyne, had this specific advantage over him of the high-seas. The prince had but one eye that must have seen much; the youngster of six had two eyes that saw everything, without desire to plunder.

These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth every day.
And these become part of him or her that peruses them here.

Whitman

III

And Then Came Spring!

The beauty of winter was fading as the thaws began their work, patches of bare ground appearing, patches of deep snow remaining in the gullies, remnants of drifts. Each day the scene became more desolate; mud and slush everywhere. But the child was not downhearted. Any kind of weather suited him, or rather he suited himself to any kind of weather, for he was adaptable by nature⁠—which meant in this case abundant glowing health.

The hounds of spring may have been on winter’s traces; he knew nothing about that. His immediate interests lay in the rivulets which emerged at the lower end of the gully drifts. He wished to know just where these rivulets started. So he shoveled off the snow and broke off the underlying decaying ice until the desired point of information was reached. Then he would go immediately to another drift, and operate on that to see if the result tallied with the first. This work completely absorbed him. It gave him new and exciting sensations. Then, too, he would tramp over the sodden stubble of the fields, and plow along the muddy roads. He would hunt about eagerly to find by actual test which places were the soggiest, and just where the mud was deepest and stickiest. Then came rains upon rains. The snow vanished. Earth, fields, trees: All was bare. The child took this for granted.

He did not know, he did not suspect, because of the city life he had led, that out of this commonplace bare earth⁠—indeed now hidden within it⁠—was to arise a spectacle of entrancing beauty. The rains became showers, occasionally sparkling in the sunshine. The winds became mild breezes. There settled over all a calm, a peace, an atmospheric sense that caressed and encouraged. And thus came spring. The grass appeared as a delicate deepening influence of green. Did not the child soon find the earliest pussy-willows, the first crocuses in the garden? Did he not note the delicate filigree appearing as a mist on tree and shrub, and the tiny wild plants peeping through the damp leaves of autumn in his favorite woods? Did he not really see things moving? Was not the filigree becoming denser and more colorful? Was not the grass actually growing, and the tiny plants rising higher? Was not the garden becoming a stirring thing like the rest? The outburst of bloom upon peach tree, cherry and plum, evoked an equal outburst of ecstasy and acclaim, an equal joy of living. Was not something moving, were not all things moving as in a parade, a pageant? Was not the sunshine warm and glowing? Had not the splendor come upon him as upon one unprepared? He heard the murmur of honeybees, saw them burrowing into flowers, fussily seeking something and then away; and the deep droning of the bumblebee, the chirping of many insects, the croaking of crows, as in a flock so black, they flew heavily by, and the varied songs of many birds; riotously shaping, all, on one great tune with bees, insects, flowers and trees. Were not things moving? Was not something moving with great power? Was there to be no end to the sweet, clamorous joy of all living things, himself the center of all? Could he stand it any longer? Then of a sudden the apple orchards sang aloud! What made them thus burst forth? Was it that same power, silent amidst the clamor? Was it a something serene, sweet, loving, caressing, that seemed to awaken, to persuade, to urge; yea, to lure on to frenzy, to utmost exaltation, himself and the world about him, the new, the marvelous world of springtime in the open⁠—a world that became a part of this child that went forth every day, a world befitting him and destined to abide with him through all his days? Oh, how glorious were the orchards in full bloom! What mountains of blossoms! What wide-flung spread of enravishing