by Walt Whitman
QM
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WALT WHITMAN
Walt Whitman was born on May 31, 1819, on a farm near West Hills, New York, on Long Island. In 1823, Walter Senior moved his growing family to Brooklyn, where he worked as a carpenter and introduced Walt to freethinkers and reformers like the Quaker preacher Elias Hicks and women’s rights activist Frances Wright. One of Whitman’s most vivid childhood memories was of being hoisted onto the shoulders of General Lafayette during a visit the Revolutionary War hero made to New York.
While many notable American figures of the mid-nineteenth century, such as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Nathaniel Hawthorne, were the privileged sons of well-established families, Whitman was, at least on the basis of his humble origins, indeed a man of the people. His mother, Louisa Van Velsor, an unfailing supporter of her literary-minded son, was barely literate; of the seven Whitman offspring who survived infancy, Eddy was mentally disabled, Jesse spent much of his life in an insane asylum, Andrew died young of alcoholism and tuberculosis, and Hannah married an abusive man who repeatedly beat her. Whitman was confronted with these often sordid family matters through much of his adult life.
Walt dropped out of school when he was eleven, though he continued to read widely and soon entered the newspaper business as a printer’s apprentice. Before long he was editing and writing for some of the most popular newspapers of the day. He reported on the crimes, fires, civic achievements, and other events that shaped rapidly growing New York in the 1830s and 1840s; he reviewed concerts, attended operas, and socialized with other writers and artists; and, always observing, notebook in hand, he walked the streets of the city that had fueled his imagination since his youth and inspired such poems as “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.”
Whitman came onto the literary scene quietly. The First Edition of Leaves of Grass received little notice when it appeared in 1855, though such distinguished American men of letters as Ralph Waldo Emerson recognized the twelve poems included in the slim volume, with Whitman’s photo on the frontispiece, as a major literary achievement. Whitman spent the rest of his life revising and editing Leaves of Grass, incorporating new collections of poems into subsequent editions of his masterpiece. Though he more or less gave up journalism by the early 1860s, he continued to observe with a reporter’s eye, working his experiences into his poetry. The often disturbing wartime poems he included in such collections as Drum-Taps and Sequel to Drum-Taps took root in the visits he made to soldiers in Washington, D.C., hospitals during the Civil War. His romantic relationships also worked their way into his poetry, especially those in his “Calamus” collection, making Whitman one of the first American poets to openly address homosexuality.
Many of Whitman’s contemporaries were shocked by Leaves of Grass, and in 1882 a Boston printing was banned when the work was declared immoral. Even so, the poet continued to gain a reputation in America and, even more so, in Britain. After suffering a stroke in 1873, Whitman moved from Washington to Camden, New Jersey, where he spent the greater part of his remaining days writing, overseeing new editions of Leaves of Grass, and receiving visitors. Just ten days after writing his last poem, “A Thought of Columbus,” Walt Whitman died on March 26, 1892.
THE WORLD OF WALT WHITMAN AND LEAVES OF GRASS
1819 Walter Whitman is born on May 31 in West Hills, Long Is land, the second of nine children of Louisa Van Velsor and Walter Whitman, a carpenter. Herman Melville is also born this year. “Ode to a Nightingale,” by John Keats, appears.
1823 The senior Whitman moves his family to Brooklyn, anticipat ing that a building boom will create a demand for carpenters.
1830 Young Walt leaves school, works as an office boy, and con tinues his education through reading.
1831 Whitman takes an apprenticeship at the printing office of the Long Island Patriot.
1832 Whitman moves to the printing office of the Long Island Star, Brooklyn’s leading newspaper.
1836 He begins teaching school in East Norwich, Long Island, the first of many such positions he will take over the next several years.
1838 Whitman founds a weekly newspaper, the Long Islander.
1840 He campaigns for presidential candidate Martin Van Buren.
1841 The Democratic Review publishes some of Whitman’s prose and verse.
1842 The New World, a Manhattan newspaper, publishes Whit man’s sentimental temperance novel, Franklin Evans; or The Inebriate.
1846 After several years spent writing for several Manhattan and Brooklyn newspapers, Whitman begins a two-year stint as editor of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. He begins attending opera, a passion that will continue for decades. Whitman sits for the first of what will be more than 130 photographs over the course of his lifetime (he was the most pho tographed nineteenth-century writer after Mark Twain).
1848 Whitman becomes editor of the New Orleans Daily Crescent but soon returns north to found the Brooklyn Freeman.
1850- 1855 These are crucial yet mysterious years in the development of Whitman’s poetics. He works intermittently as a freelance journalist, builds and sells houses in Brooklyn, and lives with his family. The details of how he prepares for and writes his great work Leaves of Grass remain unknown.
1855 Whitman publishes Leaves of Grass on July 4 to little notice. His father dies seven days later. Whitman sends a copy of Leaves to Ralph Waldo Emerson, who replies with a con gratulatory letter.
1856 In September, Whitman publishes the second edition of Leaves of Grass , with added poems and Emerson’s letter. Henry David Thoreau visits Whitman at his home.
1857 Whitman returns to journalism as the editor of the Brooklyn Daily Times.
1859 Dismissed from the Times, Whitman prepares another edition of Leaves of Grass. He begins to frequent Pfaff‘s, a restaurant that is the epicenter of New York bohemian cul ture. There he meets Fred Vaughan, a stage driver; the rela tionship with Vaughan probably inspires some of Whitman’s homoerotic poetry.
1861 The American Civil War begins.
1862 Whitman travels to Fredericksburg, Virginia, to search for his brother George, who is reported missing in battle and turns up wounded.
1863 Whitman settles in Washington, D.C., where he works as a clerk for the Army Paymaster’s Office and makes lifelong friends of John Burroughs and William D. O’Connor, both writers. In his spare time, he visits wounded soldiers in the capital’s overflowing hospitals.
1864 Family matters, including the recent death of his brother Andrew and the mental deterioration of his brother Jesse, force Whitman to return to Brooklyn temporarily.
1865 The year the Civil War ends is a significant one for Whit man. Returning to Washington, he becomes a clerk in the Indian Bureau of the Department of the Interior but is dis missed within six months on grounds of alleged obscenity in Leaves of Grass. He meets Peter Doyle, an eighteen-year-old former Confederate soldier, and the men begin a long-term romantic relationship. Whitman publishes Drum-Taps, his book of Civil War poetry, and Sequel to Drum-Taps, which contains “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom‘d,” an elegy to Abraham Lincoln, slain in April of this year.
1866 William O’Connor publishes The Good Gray Poet, a pamphlet that defends the poet against his firing and charges of obscenity.
1867 Another edition of Leaves of Grass, including Drum-Taps and other Civil War poems, is published. John Burroughs publishes Notes on Walt Whitman as Poet and Person, the first biography of the poet.
1868 The first foreign edition of Whitman’s poems is published in England, where Whitman attracts a sizable following.
1871 Democratic Vistas, Passage to India, and the Fifth Edition of Leaves of Grass are published.
1873 On January 23 a paralytic stroke leaves Whitman partially disabled, and his mother dies on May 23. Whitman moves to the home of his brother George in Camden, New Jersey.
1876 Whitman publishes Two Rivulets and a “Centennial” Edi tion of Leaves of Grass . He develops a close relationship with Harry Stafford, an
eighteen-year-old errand boy.
1879 After traveling as far west as Denver, Whitman falls ill and stops in St. Louis to stay with his brother Jeff.
1880 Whitman returns to Camden, then travels to Ontario to spend the summer with Richard Maurice Bucke, a physi cian who becomes a lifelong friend and will be Whitman’s biographer.
1882 Facing criminal obscenity charges, Boston publisher James Osgood ceases distribution of a new edition of Leaves of Grass. The edition is published in Philadelphia, as is the autobiographical Specimen Days and Collect. Oscar Wilde pays two visits to Whitman and sends him an enlarged pho tographic portrait. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Ralph Waldo Emerson die.
1883 Richard Maurice Bucke publishes his biography, Walt Whitman.
1884 Whitman purchases a house at 328 Mickle Street in Cam den, New Jersey, where he receives his many friends. A daily visitor is Horace Traubel, Whitman’s so-called “Spirit Child,” who will recount his conversations with the poet in his multi-volume With Walt Whitman in Camden and who will be one of the executors of the poet’s estate.
1887 Whitman draws large crowds to a lecture in New York City and is the subject of a portrait by Thomas Eakins.
1888 In June, Whitman suffers another stroke. November Boughs, a collection of new poems and previously published prose pieces, appears.
1889 Whitman is enthralled by the glow of the electric street lamp installed on Mickle Street.
1890 Weary of English poet and essayist John Addington Symonds’s incessant inquiries about the homosexual content of the “Calamus” poems, Whitman fabricates the story that he is the father of six illegitimate children.
1891 Whitman publishes Good-Bye My Fancy, a collection of prose and verse, and prepares the final, “Death-bed” Edition of Leaves of Grass. Herman Melville dies.
1892 Whitman dies on March 26 and is buried in Camden’s Harleigh Cemetery. His last, spoken words are to his nurse, Warry Fritzinger: “Warry, shift.”
INTRODUCTION
Walt Whitman and the Promise of America
“America,” the voice says, decidedly.
“Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,
All, all alike endear‘d, grown, ungrown, young or old.”
There is a pause. Then, with renewed vigor and a deliberate beat:
“Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,
Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love”
(from “America,” pp. 638-639).
“Listener up there!” the poet calls from the pages of Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman listens—really listens—and responds—actually responds—to America through his poetry. The page functions as a “necessary film” between the reader and the elusive, contradictory “I” of the text, but Whitman himself often longed to dispose of this medium and confront his audience face to face. He was compelled by the powers of the human voice; Whitman might have realized early dreams of becoming an orator had he possessed a stronger tonal quality or more dramatic flair and talent. But even as a writer, he never stopped measuring the worth of words by their sound and aural appeal. “I like to read them in a palpable voice: I try my poems that way—always have: read them aloud to myself,” the aging poet told his friend Horace Traubel (With Walt Whitman in Camden, vol. 3, p. 375; see “For Further Reading”). Getting his listeners to listen to him, as he absorbed and translated them; sensing and deriving energy from the presence and participation of an audience, as his own physical self and voice inspired them: These were foremost concerns for the poet now known as America’s greatest spokesperson, a man who still speaks to and for the American people.
Thomas Edison’s recording of Whitman reading his poem “America” is the closest Walt came, in a literal sense, to addressing his audience (that is, if it is indeed authentic; see Ed Folsom’s article “The Whitman Recording”). Edison patented the phonograph in 1878, and the public flocked to see and hear demonstrations of the new device that “spoke” in a faint metallic tone. Whitman himself visited New York’s Exhibition Building to see displays of Edison’s phonograph and telephone in 1879. A great admirer of technological progress and inventive spirits, Whitman and Edison struck up a friendship and apparently decided to make a recording in 1889. The poet spoke into a small megaphone, attached to the recording apparatus with a flexible tube; the inventor turned the crank. The winding sound of the spinning wax cylinder is clearly heard for the first few seconds of the recording.
And then the voice starts. Students of Whitman are often surprised by how “old” he sounds, forgetting his many paralytic strokes in the 1870s and the ill health that plagued him in his final years. His choice of poem for this apparently onetime opportunity also seems unusual, since “America” is not a popular favorite with Whitman or his readers. But given the strong beat of the poem’s many monosyllabic words, Whitman may have chosen the reading for its sound as well as its meaning. The urgency of his voice increases as he moves from the musical cadence of the first two lines to the solemn grandeur of the next. His pronunciation of “ample” as “eam ple” sounds explosive, and the accent perhaps betrays the Dutch heritage of his family and his beloved city. And the luxurious curl in the word “love” is intimate and inviting. The sensual Whitman can still be heard—even felt—well over a hundred years after his physical death.
The sudden cut after the last word suggests that Whitman and Edison had run out of cylinder space before recording the last two lines: “A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother, / Chair’d in the adamant of Time.” The omission does not damage the poetic quality of the first four lines; in fact, fans of Whitman’s earlier, energetic descriptions may consider the final image too static, too conservative or classical. But this late poem was written by a poet reacting as much to intimations of his own mortality as to America’s growing obsession with capitalism and divisions of labor. By the time Whitman wrote “America” in 1888, he no longer believed he would see the promise of America fulfilled in his day; if true democracy were to be achieved, Americans would have to will it into existence. Whitman forcefully projects this solid, secure image of America—an America where the values of community, equality, and creation are at the center rather than the margins—in defiance of the divisive, material culture he first recognized after the Civil War. In both the recorded four and the original six lines of the poem, Whitman’s last word on America is love.
Whitman might be disappointed by how removed America still is from his idealized vision, but he would have been pleasantly surprised by the relevance and impact of his message today—especially to his fellow New Yorkers. Though the printshop where Leaves of Grass was first struck off was unceremoniously demolished in the 1960s to make way for a housing project, the city has since confirmed and created symbols of the enduring presence of the poems: “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” hammered into the Fulton Ferry landing balustrade in Brooklyn, underscores one of the most dramatic Manhattan views; an inspiring section of “City of Ships!” faces the World Financial Center from the marina’s iron enclosure; other verse cruises the length of the city below ground, as part of the “Poetry in Motion” series exhibited on the subway.
The events of September 11, 2001, affected every American’s sense of security and allegiance but brought New Yorkers together in a particularly powerful way. With a renewed sense of connection among this diverse group of people, and support for its heroes and survivors, came a turn to their first spokesperson. Even a century and a half later, Whitman’s images of American courage are strikingly modern. As more firehouse walls and church walls became temporary memorial sites, more of Leaves of Grass became part daily life in New York City. This passage, inspired by Whitman’s own eyewitness accounts of the great fires of 1845, became a popular posting:
I am the mashed fireman with breastbone broken ....
tumbling walls buried me in their debris,
Heat and smoke I inspired .... I heard the yelling
shouts of my comrades,
I heard the
distant click of their picks and shovels;
They have cleared the beams away .... they tenderly
lift me forth.
I lie in the night air in my red shirt .... the pervading
hush is for my sake,
Painless after all I lie, exhausted but not so unhappy,
White and beautiful are the faces around me .... the
heads are bared of their fire-caps,
The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches
(“[Song of Myself],”a 1855, p. 68).
“The proof of a poet,” wrote Whitman in his 1855 preface to Leaves of Grass, “is that his country absorbs him as affectionately as he has absorbed it” (p. 27). For decades now, American popular culture has participated in a conversation with Whitman that continues to grow more lively and intimate. The absorption of Whitman by the mainstream is clearly demonstrated in film—an appropriate medium, considering the poet’s interest in appealing to the ears and eyes of readers. When Ryan O‘Neal quotes the last lines of “Song of the Open Road” as part of his wedding vows in Love Story (1970), he pronounces Whitman as the spokesman for love that knows no boundaries of class, creed, or time; “Song of Myself “ is used similarly in With Honors (1994) when read over the deathbed of Simon Wilder, a beloved eccentric (played by Joe Pesci) found living in the basement of Harvard’s Huntington Library. Whitman stars with Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society (1989), and represents proud individuality and independence of spirit—socially and sexually. ”I Sing the Body Electric“ inspires dancers to celebrate physicality in Fame (1980); as Annie Savoy, Susan Sarandon also uses the poem to celebrate her body in the sexiest scene of Bull Durham (1988).
The musicality of Whitman’s long lines have inspired American composers from Charles Ives to Madonna, who quotes from “Vocalism” in her song “Sanctuary”: “Surely whoever speaks to me in the right voice, / Him or her I shall follow.” Well over 500 recordings have been made of Whitman-inspired songs, with such artists as Kurt Weill and Leonard Bernstein lending Whitman’s words a classic pop sensibility. Bryan K. Garman’s A Race of Singers: Whitman’s Working-class Hero from Guthrie to Springsteen, introduces Whit man’s influence on rock and folk musicians, far too vast for adequate treatment here. As a single example of the continuing presence of Whitman through generations of singers, consider this: The popular alt-country group Wilco (along with British singer-activist Billy Bragg) recorded a 1946 Woody Guthrie song entitled “Walt Whitman’s Niece” and included it on the 1998 release Mermaid Avenue. Guthrie himself never recorded the song; one wonders how far the joke of the title would go with his own audiences.