A Hid Event, Twice Lived

Nay, but revere the hid event ... ... And live, twice live in life and story Herman Melville, "The Conflict of Convictions"and "In the Turret" On-beat, then syncopated, Frederick Douglass and Herman Melville wrote in rhythm with one another as they explored the gaps in America's rhythms of representation. Douglass in The Heroic Slave (1853) and Melville in Israel Potter (1855) confronted these gaps and offered counter-narratives, or sub-versions. Challenging the dominant narrative of irreversible progress, they invoked the Founding Fathers: Melville to emphasize the chasm between commemorated icons and forgotten patriots, Douglass as a protest of the American Revolution's unfulfilled promises and of the narrative that celebrated 1776 as the birth of freedom.11 For one discussion of Douglass's engagement with national memory, see David W. Blight, "'For Something beyond the Battlefield': Frederick Douglass and the Struggle for the Memory of the Civil War,"Journal of American History 75.4: 1156-78. But after the Civil War "introduced into the national consciousness a certain sense ... of the world being a more complicated place ... the future more treacherous," as Henry James claimed in 1879, the two writers' approaches to narrativizing diverged. Melville continued to challenge America's New World narrative in Battle-Pieces (1866), which depicts a storied land of half-hidden traces and anticipated James's next claim: "The good American, in days to come, will be a more critical person than his complacent and confident grandfather," added James. "He has eaten of the tree of knowledge."22 Henry James, Hawthorne (New York: Harpers, 1879), 114. Douglass, however, produced The Life and Times (1881), which erases traces of sub-version and embraces official version instead. Closing down the possibility for counter-narrative, Douglass in The Life and Times seemed the complacent grandfather of both his earlier self and Melville. Beyond the revisionism of Israel Potter, Melville offered other glimpses of a counter-narrative, in particular through a growing skepticism of the timeless, traceless utopia at the heart of New World mythology.33 For Edenic history, see R. W. B. Lewis, The American Adam (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1955). "The penalty of the Fall" might seem to press "lightly upon the valley" in Typee (1846), but in fact the "natural amphitheatre" is already "in decay," with "fissures caused by the ravages of time," and the "Timeworn Savages" come to "resemble dusty specimens of verde-antique."44 Herman Melville, Typee, ed. John Bryant (New York: Penguin, 1996), 195, 24, 88, 92. The narrator tries to "bury all ... remembrances of [a] previous existence" (144), but eventually abandons his search for a timeless paradise regained.55 For Melville and the national "sin," see Carolyn Karcher, Shadow Over the Promised Land: Slavery, Race, and Violence in Melville's America (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1980) and Sidney Kaplan, "Herman Melville and the American National Sin,"Journal of Negro History 41: 311-38. In "Hawthorne and His Mosses" (1850), Melville imagines a world "as young today as when it was created ... [with] morning dew ... as wet to my feet, as Eden's dew to Adam's," but in Moby-Dick (1851), with its search for an "unsourced existence ... before time," Ishmael learns that one should "[n]ever dream with thy hand on the helm"-never try to achieve utopia.66 Herman Melville, "Hawthorne and His Mosses," in Moby-Dick, ed. Harrison Hayford and Hershel Parker (New York: Norton, 2002), 525; Melville, Moby-Dick, 350. By 1852, in Pierre, the "trance-like ... green and golden world" of the book's opening, an "everlasting ... Present," immediately reveals the snake always already there; "Time ... spoiled" and engaged in a "quenchless feud ... with the sons of Men."77 Herman Melville, Pierre; or, the Ambiguities (Evanston and Chicago: Northwestern University Press and The Newberry Library, 1971), 3, 8. Like Melville, Douglass challenged the narrative of Edenic innocence in his pre-Civil War works. If Eden exists in America, it is barred to slaves. One slaveholder's garden in the Narrative (1845) has such tempting apples that the slaveholder must try "all kinds of stratagems to keep his slaves out of the garden," and a great house in My Bondage and My Freedom (1855) offers "a scene of almost Eden-like beauty" that the slaves "never visited."88 Frederick Douglass, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave. Written by Himself (Boston: Anti-Slavery Office, 1845), 16; hereafter cited as Narrative. Frederick Douglass, My Bondage and My Freedom. Part I.-Life as a Slave. Part II.-Life as a Freeman (New York: Miller, Orton & Mulligan, 1855), 67, 78; hereafter cited as Bondage and Freedom. For Douglass, this critique of the New World narrative was specifically aimed at the presence of slavery in a self-proclaimed land of equality. Though Thomas Jefferson had originally drafted a denunciation of the slave trade, the eventual failure to condemn slavery in the Declaration of Independence left America's "original sin" (as James Madison once put it) lurking between the document's lines.99 James Madison, as qtd. by Ralph Ketcham, James Madison: A Biography (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1990), 627. The American Revolution had not made a new world. The Revolution loomed large in the public imagination of antebellum America, and in his speech of 1852, "The Meaning of July Fourth for the Negro," Douglass protested the long delay in realizing the ideal of equality expressed in the Declaration. Choosing to give the speech on July 5, he reminded his white audience that slavery was an anachronism, a rupture in America's narrative of endless progress, and went still further, offering a counter-narrative to the celebrations of Independence Day. "The Meaning of July Fourth" includes a speech within the speech that draws upon Douglass's previous work. In his Narrative, Douglass had described himself standing on the banks of the Chesapeake Bay, watching "the countless number of sails moving off to the mighty ocean" (Narrative 64). He had given a speech at this point invoking the free-sailing ships: "You are loosed from your moorings ... I am fast in my chains." Now, in his Fourth of July oration, he used a description of "slave ships ... with their cargoes of human flesh" that echoes his Narrative and retrospectively darkens his earlier image of the Chesapeake "sails."1010 Frederick Douglass, "The Meaning of July Fourth for the Negro," in American Protest Literature, ed. Zoe Trodd (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006), 94-5. The 600-strong antislavery audience, who undoubtedly had read the Narrative, might have heard the Chesapeake echo, and remembered the younger Frederick's impassioned speech. In fact, they were encountering a layered representation three levels deep (bank-side speech, quotation of his speech in the Narrative, invocation of the quoted speech in "The Meaning of July Fourth"). Using his previous work as an unacknowledged source in this way, and weaving together three different voices, Douglass offered a glimpse of a narrative "sub-version." The following year, in The Heroic Slave, he took up the theme of America's public narrative again, showed the erasures within that narrative, and created another narrative sub-version. The novella opens by pointing out the absence of Madison Washington from the "American annals."1111 Frederick Douglass, The Heroic Slave, in Autographs for Freedom (Boston: John P. Jewett and Company, 1853), 174-239 (174); hereafter cited as Heroic Slave. Focusing again on the particular codings of 1776, Douglass explains that "a man who loved liberty as well as did Patrick Henry-who deserved it as much as Thomas Jefferson-and who fought for it with a valor as high, and arm as strong, and against odds as great, as he who led all the armies for freedom and independence, lives now only in the chattel records of his native State" (Heroic Slave 175). Here he creates a counter-memory, making abolitionism (in the form of Madison Washington) part of the Revolution's legacy. Sure enough, Washington himself eventually reinterprets the meaning of July Fourth, justifying his violence and claiming his freedom with the words: "We have done that which you applaud your fathers for doing, and if we are murderers, so were they" (235). But Douglass also critiques the erasures within those "American annals," noting that only "[g]limpses of [Washington] are all that can now be presented ... [,] a few transient incidents" (175). Washington is visible only by a "quivering flash of angry lightning," before disappearing, "covered with mystery ... enveloped in darkness." In contrast to this exclusive narrative, Douglass offers up the tavern, a counter-narrative in which gossips are as "good as the newspaper for the events of the day." The tavern's "history ... is folded in their lips," and as folk historians, they are "equal to the guides at Dryburgh Abbey" (Heroic Slave 206, 208). Douglass also embraces what he terms "marks, traces, possibles, and probabilities" (176) as an alternate, if fragmentary, narrative. From the sorrow that lingers on a brow in the novella's first epigraph to the "ineffaceable marks on the tavern" (206) and the image of Washington "daguerreotyped" on Listwell's "memory" (188), Douglass gathers the traces of a partially-erased story. Other traces of undocumented voices, the lower frequencies of folk history, emerge as rumors, overheard snippets, and circulating stories in Douglass's historical romance. Washington eavesdrops on one man, and finds this private prayer to be "the most fervent, earnest, and solemn" he has ever heard (197). Listwell eavesdrops on Washington, and then on the men in the tavern: from a "private room" he hears "important hints" (211). For both Washington and Listwell, the best stories exist beyond the space of public declaration. The Heroic Slave itself became another counter-narrative, resonances of which appeared in William Wells Brown's The Black Man, Child's The Freedman's Book (1865) and Pauline Hopkins's "A Dash for Liberty" (1901). Douglass had adapted what was known about the Creole Affair of 1841 and endowed Madison Washington with a past.1212 In 1841, Madison Washington led a slave revolt on board the US brig Creole, which left the port of Richmond, Virginia on October 25, 1841, with 135 slaves. It was bound for New Orleans where the slaves were to be sold at auction. As the ship neared Abaco Island in the Bahamas, Washington and 18 other slaves seized pistols and knives, subdued the crew, and sailed for British-controlled Nassau. The British Emancipation Act of 1833 had ended slavery in the Empire, and the slaves knew they would be freed upon entering the port. The US Secretary of State demanded that the British return the slaves and the ship, but British officials ruled that local laws applied to the Creole. The slaves were taken ashore and set free, and the Creole eventually reached New Orleans on December 2, 1841, without its human cargo. He had confronted the possibility that black people might be expunged from the "American annals" altogether, and challenged the denial of narrativizing to the American slave. And then, within the black canon, his sub-version became a primary source. In response to the erasure of black history, Douglass had written in "the spaces left," as he once put it (Narrative 44). Part of Douglass's agenda in creating a narrative sub-version within The Heroic Slave, in embedding a narrative sub-version in "The Meaning of July Fourth," and in using the novella and the speech to denounce both America's past and the dominant discourse around that past, was to shift the country in a different direction as it moved forward. He saw the abolitionist campaign, and eventually the Civil War, in apocalyptic terms: as a struggle that would start the world anew and replace one history with another. The second covenant of the Fall allows redemption grace alongside creation grace, and Emancipation and the war were supposed to be the redemption of America's history. The creation of the republic had been flawed-with slavery its original sin-and the war might be the Fall that levelled all things, making all men equal. Yet the apocalypse birthed no new age.1313 John Stauffer explains that, for Douglass, the war was "as though the apocalypse had come, but the new age was nowhere in sight. As a result, a heaven on earth increasingly seemed to him a dangerous illusion" (136). See John Stauffer, "Frederick Douglass and the Aesthetics of Freedom,"Raritan 25.1 (Summer 2005): 114-36. Shocked by the violence of John Brown, the bloodshed of war, and the failures of Reconstruction, Douglass abandoned his pre-war millennialist ideals. His changes to My Bondage and My Freedom in The Life and Times suggest a deferred ideal now seemingly lost altogether. No longer rewriting America's exclusive national narrative and challenging its denial of his place, Douglass embraced official version over sub-version. Melville, however, believed that the Civil War had finally forced Americans to eat from the tree of knowledge. Across his developing canon, he had subverted the triumphalist narrative of the New World tradition. The war then confirmed his skepticism of timeless utopia, and in his collection of war poems, Battle-Pieces, he announces the definitive end of American innocence.1414 Herman Melville, "The Portent," in Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War, ed. Richard H. Cox and Paul M. Dowling (New York: Prometheus, 2001), 51; hereafter cited as BP. For example, in the volume's opening poem, the figure of "Weird John Brown" is a new prophecy for America, a shadow on its belief in Manifest Destiny. Following all the details of Brown's last weeks and hours, Melville would have read of the condemned man's comment as he traveled to the gallows: "This is a beautiful country. I have not cast my eyes over it before."1515 As qtd. by James Redpath, The Public Life of Capt. John Brown (1860), in Meteor of War: The John Brown Story, ed. Zoe Trodd and John Stauffer (New York: Blackwell, 2004), 165-8 (167). Melville's "green" in "The Portent" (BP 51), referring to America's Eden, is suddenly more poignant in the context of Brown's "beautiful country": Brown sees with the new eyes of a dead man walking, as though he has just partaken of Henry James's tree of knowledge. Brown's "shadow on the green" prophesies a more widespread end to what Melville calls the "optimist-cheer" in "Misgivings" (BP 53) and is echoed by the disruption of the "pastoral green" in "The Apparition" (BP 158). After this opening, Melville dwells throughout Battle-Pieces on what two poems term "man's latter fall" and the "congregated Fall" (BP 54, 144). The apple does not dangle unplucked, and even the "berrying party" of boys heading off to war in "The March into Virginia" (59), another early poem in the collection, is, through a pun, a burying party. In plucking, the boys are themselves plucked. Then, in a companion poem on the departure for war, Melville chases immortality with a reminder of time's passage: "Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime. / Weeks passed" ("Ball's Bluff,"BP 64). There is no fancied return to grace: "What like a bullet can undeceive!" exclaims the narrator of one poem ("Shiloh,"BP 90). Eventually, in the supplement to Battle-Pieces, he returns to the impossibility of returning to a pre-lapsarian state, explaining that there is an "uncertainty which forever impends over men and nations" (BP 243). While acknowledging that "he might be contributing to a bitterness which every sensible American must wish at an end" (241), Melville believes he must speak the truth of America's fallen state. The principal gathering of poems in Battle-Pieces, preceding "Verses Inscriptive and Memorial," therefore ends with no purifying catharsis, rather a post-lapsarian "triumph repressed by knowledge meet" (163), as the concluding poem, "America," puts it. The war itself might prophesy further unrest: "Wherefore in a clear sky do we still turn our eyes toward the South ... ? Do we dread lest the repose may be deceptive? In the recent convulsions has the crater but shifted?" Beneath the deceptive repose of a burgeoning reconciliation narrative are the rumblings of a sub-version. In Battle-Pieces, Melville brings down the curtain on such an impossible figure as "all-healing ... Time, great philanthropist," characterized in Mardi (1849). He crowds out a timeless present with past and future, making the meeting-point between past and future a no-man's land of ever-decreasing space.1616 Herman Melville, Mardi (Evanston and Chicago: Northwestern University Press and The Newberry Library, 1970), 535. There is no dilation of an eternal moment, rather a shrinking breadth of time between "expectations" and "fulfillment" ("Supplement,"BP 246), or "what past years have been" and what "years ... shall come" (242). The vanishing present is anticipated, then leaves a trace of itself behind as Melville relentlessly "heaps Time's strand with wrecks" ("The Conflict of Convictions,"BP 55). This makes the volume's principal narrative mode a "hid event ... twice lived": hidden in the present, but twice lived in anticipation and story.1717 See "revere the hid event" in "The Conflict of Convictions" (BP 55) and "live, twice live in life and story" in "In the Turret" (85). The eternal present-"time becharmed" ("Lyon,"BP 62)-is instead the deathly "pause" of the "marching feet" in "Ball's Bluff" (64), or the "pause of night" in "Shiloh," where Melville emphasizes the deathly hush of the present tense: "But now they lie low ... And all is hushed at Shiloh" (90). Sometimes a lull in time's passage is unwelcome, with ominous overtones ("creeping,""lingering"), or with the tendency to "drag along-drag along" ("Donelson,"BP 69, 72). Here the dilated present is represented by a long dash. And if not unwelcome, a lull is impossible, as in "Battle of Stone River," where the "stillness that shall dwell" is "[b]efore ... Forefelt" and then remembered in the "haziness of years" (98), but never entered in the now. Anticipating legend and remembering anticipation, Melville's war is set "[i]n days to come [when] in legend all shall end" (98): in a future history, or a legendary future. The volume of poems emerges as a site of past and future, without present, and time itself as a series of foreclosures, warnings, aftershocks, anticipations, echoes, and resoundings. And in creating this time-stained world, Melville paints America as a land of irreversibly "storied days" ("Commemorative of a Naval Victory,"BP 80). The country has not arrived "unscarred / At peace" ("On the Slain at Chickamauga,"BP 174), and even "war-paint shows the streaks of weather" ("A Utilitarian View of the Monitor's Fight,"BP 89). War has written a story across the landscape, and remnants remain-so that men find "skull after skull ... Green shoes full of bones" ("The Armies of the Wilderness,"BP 115, 118). In "The Scout toward Aldie," traces of death and old stories build layers, like the "hoof-prints ... Thick as the words in notes thrice crossed" (BP 198). In "worn-out fields," men literally see stories of death in the land: "there's the place ... 'twas there / We found the body" (189). Here, the soldiers find the place where they had found the place where something happened. It is the memory of finding the trace of action on a previous occasion, the story of a story. Later, the scouting soldiers see something "dangling ... from the tree" ("The Scout toward Aldie,"BP 192). It is another trace of death upon the land, and recalls Brown's hanging body in "The Portent"; Battle-Pieces itself has now storied the landscape so that readers encounter traces of their own previous paths. Melville created a storied land, "steeped in fable" ("The Coming Storm,"BP 148), and a volume of poems that is itself "thrice crossed" ("The Scout toward Aldie,"BP 198). Explaining this vanished present, Melville writes in an important italicized passage of "The Conflict of Convictions": (The poor old Past,The Future's slave,She drudged through pain and crimeTo bring about the blissful Prime,Then-perished. There's a grave!) The passage in fact stands for Melville's whole aesthetic of submerged temporal traces. "Then-perished," he writes, embodying the vanishing present, or the "hid event" (55), as the same poem also puts it. The present event is expected after "Then" but is vanquished by the dash, which is the trace of the event's anticipation and memory within the line.1818 Melville uses the dash to similar effect in "The Stone Fleet": "And all for naught. The waters pass-/ Currents will have their way" (BP 67). Again the dash indicates time's passage ("pass-"), as though depositing a tide-mark when the "currents" have moved on. A dash also marks traces of time in place of present experience in "In the Turret." The narrator promises "what the battle-hour / To me shall bring-heed well-thou'lt share" (85), replacing any description of the elusive "battle-hour" with the dash's blankness. Equally important is the use of parenthesis. If evident at all in Battle-Pieces, Melville's moment of here and now is enclosed, like a stage whisper that breaks the narrative in order to evoke its own presence, the now-here. In "The Victor of Antietam," for example, the acts of foretelling and recalling, the sensations of shame and fame, give way to a glimpse of real-time action only once-a glimpse shrouded in parenthesis: "(an evil day)" (97). This device appears in "The Portent" as well, where the poem's subject is hidden within parenthesis, hooded like Brown's face: "(Lo John Brown),""(Weird John Brown)" (51). At the same time, throughout Battle-Pieces, Melville emphasizes that "perished prime" of the italicized stanza in "The Conflict of Convictions," an erasure of the now-here, a poetic nowhere. The lines look ahead to "On the Slain Collegians," in which "[a]ll who felt life's spring in prime ... were swept by the wind" (BP 160); and to "The Scout toward Aldie," where America is "long past the prime" (192), and "time-stained" (191). Those seeking the "blissful Prime," a plateau of present time, perish upon achieving it. Then men in "The Armies of the Wilderness" dig trenches like "diggers of graves" (113), thus making the action of the present simultaneously that of the future, and the boys in "The March into Virginia" perish upon achieving enlightenment. America's now-here is nowhere. Melville repeatedly conveys this sense of the present moment slipping out of reach. In "Apathy and Enthusiasm," for example, the first of the two stanzas anticipates a "fissure," with a "patience ... that waits" (BP 57). Then the second verse looks back on "the age that went before" and "the days forever o'er" (58). Never does the event itself appear. In "The Apparition," the moment passes "ere the eye could take it in" (158), and can only be relived afterwards. Or, in "Donelson," the fact of the "hid event" is even more obvious than usual. A failure in the wire service flings the now-here of war even further away. "What! nothing more?" cry the internal audience at one point (BP 73). Other poems follow promises of vision with blanknesses (line breaks, dashes, changes of subject), so that the narrators can only witness the aftermath of events, or anticipate future ones. Similar overtones of past and future invade the present moment of "The March into Virginia," one of four poems of overt foreboding that open Battle-Pieces. The "leafy neighborhood" (BP 59) is a forest in which enemies are hiding, anticipating the future death of the living men. Even when the word "present" appears in a later line, "some who this blithe mood present," it is not a temporal noun but part of the verb "to present"; thus the noun is camouflaged like the enemy in trees. Present only in its absence, the present is removed from experience in the poem: action is always about to become legend, until eventually the boys die at the moment of knowledge. Within Melville's mode of constricting the present between past and future, memory and foreboding, "The March into Virginia" sways under both sources of pressure. The future, one of the two places where the "hid event" is "lived," finds expression in the word "forecasteth," which comes back as "foreclosures" (BP 59), thus foretelling itself. Alliteration performs another form of foreboding in "warnings of the wise." The narrator has joined the boys in this second stanza, and its a-a-b-b couplets move two by two like men in column, or subject with observer: the pace picks up. Soon though, as "on in lightsome files they fare" (60), the poem returns to its alternating rhyme and the slower pace. The boys march on without a witness, so that the poem fails to stage the result of this stanza's "Expectancy." The missing experience, over-shadowed by anticipation, is instead found in the dash: "be spent-" (BP 60). Full of such foreclosures, "The March into Virginia" is also engaged with aftershocks; the second life, through memory, of the "hid event." The boys, seeking a place in "belaureled story" (59), achieve a legendary life when a three-line rhyme prolongs the sound ory sound in "glory ... transitory ... story" (60). The word "aftershock" appears in the last line: "Thy after shock, Manassas, share.""[S]hare," separated from "aftershock," feels like an afterthought itself.1919 Melville added this line, "Thy after shock, Manassas, share," to his own copy of Battle-Pieces, along with two other options. While reprinted in some editions, it was not the wording of the first edition, which is "The throe of Second Manassas share." After opening Battle-Pieces with poems of foreboding that also engage aftermath, Melville shifts to poems of aftermath that reintroduce foreboding. This process begins with "A Canticle," subtitled "Significant of the national exaltation at the end of war," which shatters the public narrative of unfettered American renewal. The "contest finds an ending" and there is "renewal" and "repose is in the air" (BP 144). It seems the country's resurrection is at hand. Tide-marks of time, traces of death, and shadows of history have vanished: the "Iris half in tracelessness / Hovers faintly fair," and the wind pales it "to blankness of snows" (145). But this half tracelessness and blankness is unsustainable. Melville suggests its precariousness in the following stanza with a description of the "dim and dizzy ledge" and "gull that skimmed the edge." Similarly, while narrating the collapse of a mine in "The Apparition," Melville simultaneously describes an earthquake that will return periodically to shatter civilization's calm veneer; for "[s]olidity's a crust" (158). Though "many a year" may pass before the next eruption, the future is nonetheless present through expectation. The fulfillment of the event is its prophecy. In the final poems of Battle-Pieces, Melville offers another confirmation that the country is a "time-stained" land ("The Scout toward Aldie,"BP 191) by pairing them with the volume's opening poems. The beginning is in the end, and the end in the beginning: past and future, tightly linked, crowd out the present. "The Portent" pairs with "The Apparition,""Misgivings" with "The Muster," and "The March into Virginia" with "On the Slain Collegians." The very last poem, "America," is essentially a rewriting of "The Conflict of Convictions," the volume's second poem. These two poems have 18 line-by-line echoes that draw Battle-Pieces tight across its middle: "The Conflict of Convictions" "America"iron Dome sunny Domeheaven with age is cold fair cold formspread the sky wings ... expandstarry heights starry shroudominous silence silent visionfoundations bare foundation barehid event hidden placeDreamers quail So foul a dreamPain and Crime spake of painPower unanointed Power dedicateThe Ancient of Days forever is young youth matured for age's seatyouthful brow Law on her browfinal empire empire in her eyesa grave graver airhuge shadow shadow chasedstarry heights far drawn heightdream shall flee Fledheaps ... with wrecks. left her on the crag With this narrative sub-version of enduring traces, Melville counters any narrative of rebirth for the post-war period. "The Founder's Dream shall flee," he had prophesied in "The Conflict of Convictions," and had accompanied the prophecy with a shadow: "the Iron Dome" flinging a "huge shadow athwart the main" (BP 56). Now, in "America," the dream is over and "the dreamer" who lay in "starry shroud" suddenly breaks "from the trance" (163). Melville fulfil

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