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Whitman Diversity Essay

About Walt Whitman

[Note: This biographical essay is excerpted from a longer essay included in The Walt Whitman Hypertext Archive at

It is copyright � 1995, 1996, 1997, 1998 by Kenneth M. Price and Ed Folsom.

Family Origins

Walt Whitman, arguably America’s most influential and innovative poet, was born into a working class family in West Hills, New York, a village near Hempstead, Long Island, on May 31, 1819, just thirty years after George Washington was inaugurated as the first president of the newly formed United States. Walt Whitman was named after his father, a carpenter and farmer who was 34 years old when Whitman was born. Walter Whitman, Sr., had been born just after the end of the American Revolution; always a liberal thinker, he knew and admired Thomas Paine. Trained as a carpenter but struggling to find work, he had taken up farming by the time Walt was born, but when Walt was just about to turn four, Walter Sr. moved the family to the growing city of Brooklyn, across from New York City, or "Mannahatta" as Whitman would come to call it in his celebratory writings about the city that was just emerging as the nation’s major urban center. One of Walt’s favorite stories about his childhood concerned the time General Lafayette visited New York and, selecting the six-year-old Walt from the crowd, lifted him up and carried him. Whitman later came to view this event as a kind of laying on of hands, the French hero of the American Revolution anointing the future poet of democracy in the energetic city of immigrants, where the new nation was being invented day by day. 

Walt Whitman is thus of the first generation of Americans who were born in the newly formed United States and grew up assuming the stable existence of the new country. Pride in the emergent nation was rampant, and Walter Sr.—after giving his first son Jesse (1818-1870) his own father’s name, his second son his own name, his daughter Mary (1822-1899) the name of Walt’s maternal great grandmothers, and his daughter Hannah (1823-1908) the name of his own mother—turned to the heroes of the Revolution and the War of 1812 for the names of his other three sons: Andrew Jackson Whitman (1827-1863), George Washington Whitman (1829-1901), and Thomas Jefferson Whitman (1833-1890). Only the youngest son, Edward (1835-1902), who was mentally and physically handicapped, carried a name that tied him to neither the family’s nor the country’s history. 

Walter Whitman Sr. was of English stock, and his marriage in 1816 to Louisa Van Velsor, of Dutch and Welsh stock, led to what Walt always considered a fertile tension in the Whitman children between a more smoldering, brooding Puritanical temperament and a sunnier, more outgoing Dutch disposition. Whitman’s father was a stern and sometimes hot-tempered man, maybe an alcoholic, whom Whitman respected but for whom he never felt a great deal of affection. His mother, on the other hand, served throughout his life as his emotional touchstone. There was a special affectional bond between Whitman and his mother, and the long correspondence between them records a kind of partnership in attempting to deal with the family crises that mounted over the years, as Jesse became mentally unstable and violent and eventually had to be institutionalized, as Hannah entered a disastrous marriage with an abusive husband, as Andrew became an alcoholic and married a prostitute before dying of ill health in his 30s, and as Edward required increasingly dedicated care. 

A Brooklyn Childhood and LongIsland Interludes

During Walt’s childhood, the Whitman family moved around Brooklyn a great deal as Walter Sr. tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to cash in on the city’s quick growth by speculating in real estate—buying an empty lot, building a house, moving his family in, then trying to sell it at a profit to start the whole process over again. Walt loved living close to the East River, where as a child he rode the ferries back and forth to New York City, imbibing an experience that would remain significant for him his whole life: he loved ferries and the people who worked on them, and his 1856 poem eventually entitled "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" explored the full resonance of the experience. The act of crossing became, for Whitman, one of the most evocative events in his life—at once practical, enjoyable, and mystical. The daily commute suggested the passage from life to death to life again and suggested too the passage from poet to reader to poet via the vehicle of the poem. By crossing Brooklyn ferry, Whitman first discovered the magical commutations that he would eventually accomplish in his poetry.

While in Brooklyn, Whitman attended the newly founded Brooklyn public schools for six years, sharing his classes with students of a variety of ages and backgrounds, though most were poor, since children from wealthy families attended private schools. In Whitman’s school, all the students were in the same room, except African Americans, who had to attend a separate class on the top floor. Whitman had little to say about his rudimentary formal schooling, except that he hated corporal punishment, a common practice in schools and one that he would attack in later years in both his journalism and his fiction. But most of Whitman’s meaningful education came outside of school, when he visited museums, went to libraries, and attended lectures. He always recalled the first great lecture he heard, when he was ten years old, given by the radical Quaker leader Elias Hicks, an acquaintance of Whitman’s father and a close friend of Whitman’s grandfather Jesse. While Whitman’s parents were not members of any religious denomination, Quaker thought always played a major role in Whitman’s life, in part because of the early influence of Hicks, and in part because his mother Louisa’s family had a Quaker background, especially Whitman’s grandmother Amy Williams Van Velsor, whose death—the same year Whitman first heard Hicks—hit young Walt hard, since he had spent many happy days at the farm of his grandmother and colorful grandfather, Major Cornelius Van Velsor.

Visiting his grandparents on Long Island was one of Whitman’s favorite boyhood activities, and during those visits he developed his lifelong love of the Long Island shore, sensing the mystery of that territory where water meets land, fluid melds with solid. One of Whitman’s greatest poems, "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking," is on one level a reminiscence of his boyhood on the Long Island shore and of how his desire to be a poet arose in that landscape. The idyllic Long Island countryside formed a sharp contrast to the crowded energy of the quickly growing Brooklyn-New York City urban center. Whitman’s experiences as a young man alternated between the city and the Long Island countryside, and he was attracted to both ways of life. This dual allegiance can be traced in his poetry, which is often marked by shifts between rural and urban settings.

Self-Education and First Career

By the age of eleven, Whitman was done with his formal education (by this time he had far more schooling than either of his parents had received), and he began his life as a laborer, working first as an office boy for some prominent Brooklyn lawyers, who gave him a subscription to a circulating library, where his self-education began. Always an autodidact, Whitman absorbed an eclectic but wide-ranging education through his visits to museums, his nonstop reading, and his penchant for engaging everyone he met in conversation and debate. While most other major writers of his time enjoyed highly structured, classical educations at private institutions, Whitman forged his own rough and informal curriculum of literature, theater, history, geography, music, and archeology out of the developing public resources of America’s fastest growing city. 

In 1831, Whitman became an apprentice on the Long Island Patriot, a liberal, working-class newspaper, where he learned the printing trade and was first exposed to the excitement of putting words into print, observing how thought and event could be quickly transformed into language and immediately communicated to thousands of readers. At the age of twelve, young Walt was already contributing to the newspaper and experiencing the exhilaration of getting his own words published. Whitman’s first signed article, in the upscale New York Mirror in 1834, expressed his amazement at how there were still people alive who could remember "the present great metropolitan city as a little dorp or village; all fresh and green as it was, from its beginning," and he wrote of a slave, "Negro Harry," who had died in1758 at age 120 and who could remember New York "when there were but three houses in it." Even late in his life, he could still recall the excitement of seeing this first article in print: "How it made my heart double-beat to see my piece on the pretty white paper, in nice type." For his entire life, he would maintain this fascination with the materiality of printed objects, with the way his voice and identity could be embodied in type and paper. 

Living away from home—the rest of his family moved back to the West Hills area in 1833, leaving fourteen-year-old Walt alone in the city—and learning how to set type under the Patriot’s foreman printer William Hartshorne, Whitman was gaining skills and experiencing an independence that would mark his whole career: he would always retain a typesetter’s concern for how his words looked on a page, what typeface they were dressed in, what effects various spatial arrangements had, and he would always retain his stubborn independence, never marrying and living alone for most of his life. These early years on his own in Brooklyn and New York remained a formative influence on his writing, for it was during this time that he developed the habit of close observation of the ever-shifting panorama of the city, and a great deal of his journalism, poetry, and prose came to focus on catalogs of urban life and the history of New York City, Brooklyn, and Long Island.  Walt’s brother Thomas Jefferson, known to everyone in the family as "Jeff," was born during the summer of 1833, soon after his family had resettled on a farm and only weeks after Walt had joined the crowds in Brooklyn that warmly welcomed the newly re-elected president, Andrew Jackson. Brother Jeff, fourteen years younger than Walt, would become the sibling he felt closest to, their bond formed when they traveled together to New Orleans in 1848, when Jeff was about the same age as Walt was when Jeff was born. But while Jeff was a young child, Whitman spent little time with him. Walt remained separated from his family and furthered his education by absorbing the power of language from a variety of sources: various circulating libraries (where he read Sir Walter Scott, James Fenimore Cooper, and other romance novelists), theaters (where he fell in love with Shakespeare’s plays and saw Junius Booth, John Wilkes Booth’s father, play the title role in Richard III, always Whitman’s favorite play), and lectures (where he heard, among others, Frances Wright, the Scottish radical emancipationist and women’s rights advocate). By the time he was sixteen, Walt was a journeyman printer and compositor in New York City. His future career seemed set in the newspaper and printing trades, but then two of New York’s worst fires wiped out the major printing and business centers of the city, and, in the midst of a dismal financial climate, Whitman retreated to rural Long Island, joining his family at Hempstead in 1836. As he turned 17, the five-year veteran of the printing trade was already on the verge of a career change. 

Schoolteaching Years

His unlikely next career was that of a teacher. Although his own formal education was, by today’s standards, minimal, he had developed as a newspaper apprentice the skills of reading and writing, more than enough for the kind of teaching he would find himself doing over the next few years. He knew he did not want to become a farmer, and he rebelled at his father’s attempts to get him to work on the new family farm. Teaching was therefore an escape but was also clearly a job he was forced to take in bad economic times, and some of the unhappiest times of his life were these five years when he taught school in at least ten different Long Island towns, rooming in the homes of his students, teaching three-month terms to large and heterogeneous classes (some with over eighty students, ranging in age from five to fifteen, for up to nine hours a day), getting very little pay, and having to put up with some very unenlightened people. After the excitement of Brooklyn and New York, these often isolated Long Island towns depressed Whitman, and he recorded his disdain for country people in a series of letters (not discovered until the 1980s) that he wrote to a friend named Abraham Leech: "Never before have I entertained so low an idea of the beauty and perfection of man’s nature, never have I seen humanity in so degraded a shape, as here," he wrote from Woodbury in 1840: "Ignorance, vulgarity, rudeness, conceit, and dulness are the reigning gods of this deuced sink of despair."

The little evidence we have of his teaching (mostly from short recollections by a few former students) suggests that Whitman employed what were then progressive techniques—encouraging students to think aloud rather than simply recite, refusing to punish by paddling, involving his students in educational games, and joining his students in baseball and card games. 

[. . . .]

By 1841, Whitman’s second career was at an end. He had interrupted his teaching in 1838 to try his luck at starting his own newspaper, The Long Islander, devoted to covering the towns around Huntington. He bought a press and type and hired his younger brother George as an assistant, but, despite his energetic efforts to edit, publish, write for, and deliver the new paper, it folded within a year, and he reluctantly returned to the classroom. Newspaper work made him happy, but teaching did not, and two years later, he abruptly quit his job as an itinerant schoolteacher. The reasons for his decision continue to interest biographers. One persistent but unsubstantiated rumor has it that Whitman committed sodomy with one of his students while teaching in Southold, though it is not possible to prove that Whitman actually even taught there. The rumor suggests he was run out of town in disgrace, never to return and soon to abandon teaching altogether. But in fact Whitman did travel again to Southold, writing some remarkably unperturbed journalistic pieces about the place in the late 1840s and early 1860s. It seems far more likely that Whitman gave up schoolteaching because he found himself temperamentally unsuited for it. And, besides, he had a new career opening up: he decided now to become a fiction writer. Best of all, to nurture that career, he would need to return to New York City and re-establish himself in the world of journalism. 

[. . . .]

Mature Journalist

By the mid-1840s, Whitman had a keen awareness of the cultural resources of New York City and probably had more inside knowledge of New York journalism than anyone else in Brooklyn. The Long Island Star recognized his value as a journalist and, once he resettled in Brooklyn, quickly arranged to have him compose a series of editorials, two or three a week, from September 1845 to March 1846. With the death of William Marsh, the editor of the Brooklyn Eagle, Whitman became chief editor of that paper (he served from March 5, 1846 to January 18, 1848). He dedicated himself to journalism in these years and published little of his own poetry and fiction. However, he introduced literary reviewing to the Eagle, and he commented, if often superficially, on writers such as Carlyle and Emerson, who in the next decade would have a significant impact on Leaves of Grass. The editor’s role gave Whitman a platform from which to comment on various issues from street lighting to politics, from banking to poetry. But Whitman claimed that what he most valued was not the ability to promote his opinions, but rather something more intimate, the "curious kind of sympathy . . . that arises in the mind of a newspaper conductor with the public he serves. He gets to love them."

For Whitman, to serve the public was to frame issues in accordance with working class interests—and for Whitman this usually meant white working class interests. He sometimes dreaded slave labor as a "black tide" that could overwhelm white workingmen. He was adamant that slavery should not be allowed into the new western territories because he feared whites would not migrate to an area where their own labor was devalued unfairly by the institution of black slavery. Periodically, Whitman expressed outrage at practices that furthered slavery itself: for example, he was incensed at laws that made possible the importation of slaves by way of Brazil. Like Lincoln, he consistently opposed slavery and its further extension, even while he knew (again like Lincoln) that the more extreme abolitionists threatened the Union itself. In a famous incident, Whitman lost his position as editor of the Eagle because the publisher, Isaac Van Anden, as an "Old Hunker," sided with conservative pro-slavery Democrats and could no longer abide Whitman’s support of free soil and the Wilmot Proviso (a legislative proposal designed to stop the expansion of slavery into the western territories).

New Orleans Sojourn

Fortunately, on February 9, 1846, Whitman met, between acts of a performance at the Broadway Theatre in New York, J. E. McClure, who intended to launch a New Orleans paper, the Crescent, with an associate, A. H. Hayes. In a stunningly short time—reportedly in fifteen minutes—McClure struck a deal with Whitman and provided him with an advance to cover his travel expenses to New Orleans. Whitman’s younger brother Jeff , then only fifteen years old, decided to travel with Walt and work as an office boy on the paper. The journey—by train, steamboat, and stagecoach—widened Walt’s sense of the country’s scope and diversity, as he left the New York City and Long Island area for the first time. Once in New Orleans, Walt did not have the famous New Orleans romance with a beautiful Creole woman, a relationship first imagined by the biographer Henry Bryan Binns and further elaborated by others who were charmed by the city’s exoticism and who were eager to identify heterosexual desires in the poet. The published versions of his New Orleans poem called "Once I Pass’d Through a Populous City" seem to recount a romance with a woman, though the original manuscript reveals that he initially wrote with a male lover in mind. 

Whatever the nature of his personal attachments in New Orleans, he certainly encountered a city full of color and excitement. He wandered the French quarter and the old French market, attracted by "the Indian and negro hucksters with their wares" and the "great Creole mulatto woman" who sold him the best coffee he ever tasted. He enjoyed the "splendid and roomy bars" (with "exquisite wines, and the perfect and mild French brandy") that were packed with soldiers who had recently returned from the war with Mexico, and his first encounters with young men who had seen battle, many of them recovering from war wounds, occurred in New Orleans, a precursor of his Civil War experiences. He was entranced by the intoxicating mix of languages—French and Spanish and English—in that cosmopolitan city and began to see the possibilities of a distinctive American culture emerging from the melding of races and backgrounds (his own fondness for using French terms may well have derived from his New Orleans stay). But the exotic nature of the Southern city was not without its horrors: slaves were auctioned within an easy walk of where the Whitman brothers were lodging at the Tremont House, around the corner from Lafayette Square. Whitman never forgot the experience of seeing humans on the selling block, and he kept a poster of a slave auction hanging in his room for many years as a reminder that such dehumanizing events occurred regularly in the United States. The slave auction was an experience that he would later incorporate in his poem "I Sing the Body Electric."  

Walt felt wonderfully healthy in New Orleans, concluding that it agreed with him better than New York, but Jeff was often sick with dysentery, and his illness and homesickness contributed to  their growing desire to return home. The final decision, though, was taken out of the hands of the brothers, as the Crescent owners exhibited what Whitman called a "singular sort of coldness" toward their new editor. They probably feared that this northern editor would embarrass them because of his unorthodox ideas, especially about slavery. Whitman’s sojourn in New Orleans lasted only three months. 

Budding Poet

His trip South produced a few lively sketches of New Orleans life and at least one poem, "Sailing the Mississippi at Midnight," in which the steamboat journey becomes a symbolic journey of life: 

Vast and starless, the pall of heaven 
Laps on the trailing pall below; 
And forward, forward, in solemn darkness,
As if to the sea of the lost we go.

Throughout much of the 1840s Whitman wrote conventional poems like this one, often echoing Bryant, and, at times, Shelley and Keats. Bryant—and the graveyard school of English poetry—probably had the most important impact on his sensibility, as can be seen in his pre-Leaves of Grass poems "Our Future Lot," "Ambition," "The Winding-Up," "The Love that is Hereafter," and "Death of the Nature-Lover." The poetry of these years is artificial in diction and didactic in purpose; Whitman rarely seems inspired or innovative. Instead, tired language usually renders the poems inert. By the end of the decade, however, Whitman had undertaken serious self-education in the art of poetry, conducted in a typically unorthodox way—he clipped essays and reviews about leading British and American writers, and as he studied them he began to be a more aggressive reader and a more resistant respondent. His marginalia on these articles demonstrate that he was learning to write not in the manner of his predecessors but against them. 

The mystery about Whitman in the late 1840s is the speed of his transformation from an unoriginal and conventional poet into one who abruptly abandoned conventional rhyme and meter and, in jottings begun at this time, exploited the odd loveliness of homely imagery, finding beauty in the commonplace but expressing it in an uncommon way. What is known as Whitman’s earliest notebook (called "albot Wilson" in the Notebooks and Unpublished Prose Manuscripts) may have been written as early as 1847, though much of the writing probably derives from the early 1850s. This extraordinary document contains early articulations of some of Whitman’s most compelling ideas. Famous passages on "Dilation," on "True noble expanding American character," and on the "soul enfolding orbs" are memorable prose statements that express the newly expansive sense of self that Whitman was discovering, and we find him here creating the conditions—setting the tone and articulating the ideas—that would allow for the writing of Leaves of Grass.

[. . . .]

Racial Politics and the Origins of Leaves of Grass

A pivotal and empowering change came over Whitman at this time of poetic transformation. His politics—and especially his racial attitudes—underwent a profound alteration. As we have noted, Whitman the journalist spoke to the interests of the day and from a particular class perspective when he advanced the interests of white workingmen while seeming, at times, unconcerned about the plight of blacks. Perhaps the New Orleans experience had prompted a change in attitude, a change that was intensified by an increasing number of friendships with radical thinkers and writers who led Whitman to rethink his attitudes toward the issue of race. Whatever the cause, in Whitman’s future-oriented poetry blacks become central to his new literary project and central to his understanding of democracy. Notebook passages assert that the poet has the "divine grammar of all tongues, and says indifferently and alike How are you friend? to the President in the midst of his cabinet, and Good day my brother, to Sambo among the hoes of the sugar field."

It appears that Whitman’s increasing frustration with the Democratic party’s compromising approaches to the slavery crisis led him to continue his political efforts through the more subtle and indirect means of experimental poetry, a poetry that he hoped would be read by masses of average Americans and would transform their way of thinking. In any event, his first notebook lines in the manner of Leaves of Grass focus directly on the fundamental issue dividing the United States. His notebook breaks into free verse for the first time in lines that seek to bind opposed categories, to link black and white, to join master and slave:

I am the poet of the body
And I am the poet of the soul
And I am
I go with the slaves of the earth equally with he masters
And I will stand between the masters and the slaves,
Entering into both so that both will understand me alike.

The audacity of that final line remains striking. While most people were lining up on one side or another, Whitman placed himself in that space—sometimes violent, sometimes erotic, always volatile—between master and slave. His extreme political despair led him to replace what he now named the "scum" of corrupt American politics in the 1850s with his own persona—a shaman, a culture-healer, an all-encompassing "I."

The American "I"

That "I" became the main character of Leaves of Grass, the explosive book of twelve untitled poems that he wrote in the early years of the 1850s, and for which he set some of the type, designed the cover, and carefully oversaw all the details. When Whitman wrote "I, now thirty-six years old, in perfect health, begin," he announced a new identity for himself, and his novitiate came at an age quite advanced for a poet. Keats by that age had been dead for ten years; Byron had died at exactly that age; Wordsworth and Coleridge produced Lyrical Ballads while both were in their twenties; Bryant had written "Thanatopsis," his best-known poem, at age sixteen; and most other great Romantic poets Whitman admired had done their most memorable work early in their adult lives. Whitman, in contrast, by the time he had reached his mid-thirties, seemed destined, if he were to achieve fame in any field, to do so as a journalist or perhaps as a writer of fiction, but no one could have guessed that this middle-aged writer of sensationalistic fiction and sentimental verse would suddenly begin to produce work that would eventually lead many to view him as America’s greatest and most revolutionary poet.

The mystery that has intrigued biographers and critics over the years has been about what prompted the transformation: did Whitman undergo some sort of spiritual illumination that opened the floodgates of a radical new kind of poetry, or was this poetry the result of an original and carefully calculated strategy to blend journalism, oratory, popular music, and other cultural forces into an innovative American voice like the one Ralph Waldo Emerson had called for in his essay "The Poet"? "Our log-rolling, our stumps and their politics, our fisheries, our Negroes, and Indians, our boasts, and our repudiations, the wrath of rogues, and the pusillanimity of honest men, the Northern trade, the Southern planting, the Western clearing, Oregon and Texas, are yet unsung," wrote Emerson; "Yet America is a poem in our eyes; its ample geography dazzles the imagination, and it will not wait long for metres." Whitman began writing poetry that seemed, wildly yet systematically, to record every single thing that Emerson called for, and he began his preface to the 1855 Leaves by paraphrasing Emerson: "The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem." The romantic view of Whitman is that he was suddenly inspired to impulsively write the poems that transformed American poetry; the more pragmatic view holds that Whitman devoted himself in the five years before the first publication of Leaves to a disciplined series of experiments that led to the gradual and intricate structuring of his singular style. Was he truly the intoxicated poet Emerson imagined or was he the architect of a poetic persona that cleverly mimicked Emerson’s description?

There is evidence to support both theories. We know very little about the details of Whitman’s life in the early 1850s; it is as if he retreated from the public world to receive inspiration, and there are relatively few remaining manuscripts of the poems in the first edition of Leaves, leading many to believe that they emerged in a fury of inspiration. On the other hand, the manuscripts that do remain indicate that Whitman meticulously worked and reworked passages of his poems, heavily revising entire drafts of the poems, and that he issued detailed instructions to the Rome brothers, the printers who were setting his book in type, carefully overseeing every aspect of the production of his book.  

Whitman seems, then, to have been both inspired poet and skilled craftsman, at once under the spell of his newly discovered and intoxicating free verse style while also remaining very much in control of it, adjusting and altering and rearranging. For the rest of his life, he would add, delete, fuse, separate, and rearrange poems as he issued six very distinct editions of Leaves of Grass. Emerson once described Whitman’s poetry as "a remarkable mixture of the Bhagvat Ghita and the New York Herald," and that odd joining of the scriptural and the vernacular, the transcendent and the mundane, effectively captures the quality of Whitman’s work, work that most readers experience as simultaneously magical and commonplace, sublime and prosaic. It was work produced by a poet who was both sage and huckster, who touched the gods with ink-smudged fingers, and who was concerned as much with the sales and reviews of his book as with the state of the human soul.

The First Edition of Leaves of Grass

Whitman paid out of his own pocket for the production of the first edition of his book and had only 795 copies printed, which he bound at various times as his finances permitted. He always recalled the book as appearing, fittingly, on the Fourth of July, as a kind of literary Independence Day. His joy at getting the book published was quickly diminished by the death of his father within a week of the appearance of Leaves. Walter Sr. had been ill for several years, and though he and Walt had never been particularly close, they had only recently traveled together to West Hills, Long Island, to the old Whitman homestead where Walt was born. Now his father’s death along with his older brother Jesse’s absence as a merchant marine (and later Jesse’s growing violence and mental instability) meant that Walt would become the father-substitute for the family, the person his mother and siblings would turn to for help and guidance. He had already had some experience enacting that role even while Walter Sr. was alive; perhaps because of Walter Sr.’s drinking habits and growing general depression, young Walt had taken on a number of adult responsibilities—buying boots for his brothers, for instance, and holding the title to the family house as early as 1847. Now, however, he became the only person his mother and siblings could turn to.

But even given these growing family burdens, he managed to concentrate on his new book, and, just as he oversaw all the details of its composition and printing, so now did he supervise its distribution and try to control its reception. Even though Whitman claimed that the first edition sold out, the book in fact had very poor sales. He sent copies to a number of well-known writers (including John Greenleaf Whittier, who, legend has it, threw his copy in the fire), but only one responded, and that, fittingly, was Emerson, who recognized in Whitman’s work the very spirit and tone and style he had called for. "I greet you at the beginning of a great career," Emerson wrote in his private letter to Whitman, noting that Leaves of Grass "meets the demand I am always making of what seemed the sterile and stingy nature, as if too much handiwork, or too much lymph in the temperament, were making our western wits fat and mean." Whitman’s was poetry that would literally get the country in shape, Emerson believed, give it shape, and help work off its excess of aristocratic fat. 

Whitman’s book was an extraordinary accomplishment: after trying for over a decade to address in journalism and fiction the social issues (such as education, temperance, slavery, prostitution, immigration, democratic representation) that challenged thenew nation, Whitman now turned to an unprecedented form, a kind of experimental verse cast in unrhymed long lines with no identifiable meter, the voice an uncanny combination of oratory, journalism, and the Bible—haranguing, mundane, and prophetic—all in the service of identifying a new American democratic attitude, an absorptive and accepting voice that would catalog the diversity of the country and manage to hold it all in a vast, single, unified identity. "Do I contradict myself?" Whitman asked confidently toward the end of the long poem he would come to call "Song of Myself": "Very well then . . . . I contradict myself; / I am large . . . . I contain multitudes." This new voice spoke confidently of union at a time of incredible division and tension in the culture, and it spoke with the assurance of one for whom everything, no matter how degraded, could be celebrated as part of itself: " What is commonest and cheapest and nearest and easiest is Me." His work echoed with the lingo of the American urban working class and reached deep into the various corners of the roiling nineteenth-century culture, reverberating with the nation’s stormy politics, its motley music, its new technologies, its fascination with science, and its evolving pride in an American language that was forming as a tongue distinct from British English.

Though it was no secret who the author of Leaves of Grass was, the fact that Whitman did not put his name on the title page was an unconventional and suggestive act (his name would in fact not appear on a title page of Leaves until the 1876 "Author’s Edition" of the book, and then only when Whitman signed his name on the title page as each book was sold). The absence of a name indicated, perhaps, that the author of this book believed he spoke not for himself so much as for merica. But opposite the title page was a portrait of Whitman, an engraving made from a daguerreotype that the photographer Gabriel Harrison had made during the summer of 1854. It has become the most famous frontispiece in literary history, showing Walt in workman’s clothes, shirt open, hat on and cocked to the side, standing insouciantly and fixing the reader with a challenging stare. It is a full-body pose that indicates Whitman’s re-calibration of the role of poet as the democratic spokesperson who no longer speaks only from the intellect and with the formality of tradition and education: the new poet pictured in Whitman’s book is a poet who speaks from and with the whole body and who writes outside, in Nature, not in the library. It was what Whitman called "al fresco" poetry, poetry written outside the walls, the bounds, of convention and tradition. 

The 1856 Leaves

Within a few months of producing his first edition of Leaves, Whitman was already hard at work on the second edition. While in the first, he had given his long lines room to stretch across the page by printing the book on large paper, in the second edition he sacrificed the spacious pages and produced what he later called his "chunky fat book," his earliest attempt to create a pocket-size edition that would offer the reader what Whitman thought of as the "ideal pleasure"—"to put a book in your pocket and [go] off to the seashore or the forest." On the cover of this edition, published and distributed by Fowler and Wells (though the firm carefully distanced themselves from the book by proclaiming that "the author is still his own publisher"), Whitman emblazoned one of the first "blurbs" in American publishing history: without asking Emerson’s permission, he printed in gold on the spine of the book the opening words of Emerson’s letter to him: "I greet you at the beginning of a great career," followed by Emerson’s name. And, to generate publicity for the volume, he appended to the volume a group of reviews of the first edition—including three he wrote himself along with a few negative reviews—and called the gathering Leaves-Droppings. Whitman was a pioneer of the "any publicity is better than no publicity" strategy. At the back of the book, he printed Emerson’s entire letter (again, without permission) and wrote a long public letter back—a kind of apologia for his poetry—addressing it to "Master." Although he would later downplay the influence of Emerson on his work, at this time, he later recalled, he had "Emerson-on-the-brain."

With four times as many pages as the first edition, the 1856 Leaves added twenty new poems (including the powerful "Sun-Down Poem," later called "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry") to the original twelve in the 1855 edition. Those original twelve had been untitled in 1855, but Whitman was doing all he could to make the new edition look and feel different: small pages instead of large, a fat book instead of a thin one, and long titles for his poems instead of none at all. So the untitled introductory poem from the first edition that would eventually be named "Song of Myself" was in 1856 called "Poem of Walt Whitman, an American," and the poem that would become "This Compost" appeared here as "Poem of Wonder at the Resurrection of The Wheat." Some titles seemed to challenge the very bounds of titling by incorporating rolling catalogs like the poems themselves: "To a Foil’d European Revolutionaire" appeared as "Liberty Poem for Asia, Africa, Europe, America, Australia, Cuba, and The Archipelagoes of the Sea." As if to counter some of the early criticism that he was not really writing poetry at all—the review in Life Illustrated, for example, called Whitman’s work "lines of rhythmical prose, or a series of utterances (we know not what else to call them)"—Whitman put the word "Poem" in the title of all thirty-two works in the 1856 Leaves. Like them or not, Whitman seemed to be saying, they are poems, and more and more of them were on the way. But, despite his efforts to re-make his book, the results were depressingly the same: sales of the thousand copies that were printed were even poorer than for the first edition.

The Bohemian Years

In these years, Whitman was in fact working hard at becoming a poet by forging literary connections: he entered the literary world in a way he never had as a fiction writer or journalist, meeting some of the nation’s best-known writers, beginning to socialize with a literary and artistic crowd, and cultivating an image as an artist. Emerson had come to visit Whitman at the end of 1855 (they went back to Emerson’s room at the elegant Astor Hotel, where Whitman—dressed as informally as he was in his frontispiece portrait—was denied admission); this was the first of many meetings the two would have over the next twenty-five years, as their relationship turned into one of grudging respect for each other mixed with mutual suspicion. The next year, Henry David Thoreau and Bronson Alcott visited Whitman’s home (Alcott described Thoreau and Whitman as each "surveying the other curiously, like two beasts, each wondering what the other would do"). Whitman also came to befriend a number of visual artists, like the sculptor Henry Kirke Brown, the painter Elihu Vedder, and the photographer Gabriel Harrison. And he came to know a number of women’s rights activists and writers, some of whom became ardent readers and supporters of Leaves of Grass. He became particularly close to Abby Price, Paulina Wright Davis, Sarah Tyndale, and Sara Payson Willis (who, under the pseudonym Fanny Fern wrote a popular newspaper column and many popular books, including Fern Leaves from Fanny’ s Portfolio [1853], the cover of which Whitman imitated for his first edition of Leaves). These women’s radical ideas about sexual equality had a growing impact on Whitman’s poetry. He knew a number of abolitionist writers at this time, including Moncure Conway, and Whitman wrote some vitriolic attacks on the fugitive slave law and the moral bankruptcy of American politics, but these pieces (notably "The Eighteenth Presidency!") were never published and remain vestiges of yet another career—stump speaker, political pundit—that Whitman flirted with but never pursued. 

Whitman also began in the late 1850s to become a regular at Pfaff’s saloon, a favorite hangout for bohemian artists in New York. 

[. . . .]

It was at Pfaff’s, too, that Whitman joined the "Fred Gray Association," a loose confederation of young men who seemed anxious to explore new possibilities of male-male affection. It may have been at Pfaff’s that Whitman met Fred Vaughan, an intriguing mystery-figure in Whitman biography. Whitman and Vaughan, a young Irish stage driver, clearly had an intense relationship at this time, perhaps inspiring the sequence of homoerotic love poems Whitman called "Live Oak, with Moss,   poems that would become the heart of his Calamus cluster, which appeared in the 1860 edition of Leaves. These poems recor  a despair about the failure of the relationship, and the loss of Whitman’s bond with Vaughan—who soon married, had four children, and would only sporadically keep in touch with Whitman—was clearly the source of some deep unhappiness for th  poet. 

1860 Edition of Leaves 

Whitman’s re-made self-image is evident on the frontispiece of the new edition of Leaves that appeared in 1860. It would be the only time Whitman used this portrait, an engraving based on a painting done by Whitman’s artist friend Charles Hine. Whitman’s friends called it the "Byronic portrait," and Whitman does look more like the conventional image of a poet—with coiffure and cravat—than he ever did before or after. This is the portrait of an artist who has devoted significant time to his image and one who has also clearly enjoyed his growing notoriety among the arty crowd at Pfaff’s. 

Ever since the 1856 edition appeared, Whitman had been writing poems at a furious pace; within a year of the 1856 edition’s appearance, he wrote nearly seventy new poems. He continued to have them set in type by the Rome brothers and other printer friends, as if he assumed that he would inevitably be publishing them himself, since no commercial publisher had indicated an interest in his book. But there was another reason Whitman set his poems in type: he always preferred to deal with his poems in printed form instead of in manuscript. He often would revise directly on printed versions of his poetry; for him, poetry was very much a public act, and until the poem was in print he did not truly consider it a poem. Poetic manuscripts were never sacred objects for Whitman, who often simply discarded them; getting the poem set in type was the most important step in allowing it to begin to do its cultural work.

In 1860, while the nation seemed to be moving inexorably toward a major crisis between the slaveholding and free states, Whitman’s poetic fortunes took a positive turn. In February, he received a letter from the Boston publishers William Thayer and Charles Eldridge, whose aggressive new publishing house specialized in abolitionist literature; they wanted to become the publishers of the new edition of Leaves of Grass. Whitman, feeling confirmed as an authentic poet now that he had been offered actual royalties, readily agreed, and Thayer and Eldridge invested heavily in the stereotype plates for Whitman’s idiosyncratic book—over 450 pages of varied typeface and odd decorative motifs, a visually chaotic volume all carefully tended to by Whitman, who traveled to Boston to oversee the printing.

This was Whitman’s first trip to Boston, then considered the literary capital of the nation. Whitman is a major part of the reason that America’s literary center moved from Boston to New York in the second half of the nineteenth century, but in 1860 the superior power of Boston was still evident in its influential publishing houses, its important journals (including the new AtlanticMonthly), and its venerable authors (including Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, whom Whitman met briefly while in town). And, of course, Boston was the city of Emerson, who came to see Whitman shortly after his arrival in the city in March. In one of the most celebrated meetings of major American writers, the Boston Brahmin and the Yankee rowdy strolled together on the Boston Common, while Emerson tried to convince Whitman to remove from his Boston edition the new Enfans d’Adam cluster of poems (after 1860, Whitman dropped the French version of the name and called the cluster Children of Adam), works that portrayed the human body more explicitly and in more direct sexual terms than any previous American poems. Whitman argued, as he later recalled, "that the sexual passion in itself, while normal and unperverted, is inherently legitimate, creditable, not necessarily an improper theme for poet." "That," insisted Whitman, "is what I felt in my inmost brain and heart, when I only answer’d Emerson’s vehement arguments with silence, under the old elms of Boston Common." Emerson’s caution notwithstanding, the body—the entire body—would be Whitman’s theme, and he would not shy away from any part of it, not discriminate or marginalize or form hierarchies of bodily parts any more than he would of the diverse people making up the American nation. His democratic belief in the importance of all the parts of any whole, was central to his vision: the genitals and the arm-pits were as essential to the fullness of identity as the brain and the soul, just as, in a democracy, the poorest and most despised citizens were as important as the rich and famous. This, at any rate, was the theory of radical union and equality that generated Whitman’ s work.

So he ignored Emerson’s advice and published the Children of Adam poems in the 1860 edition along with his Calamus cluster; the first cluster celebrated male-female sexual relations, and the second celebrated the love of men for men. The body remained very much Whitman’s subject, but it was never separate from the body of the text, and he always set out not just to write about sensual embrace but also to enact the physical embrace of poet and reader. Whitman became a master of sexual politics, but his sexual politics were always intertwined with his textual politics. Leaves of Grass was not a book that set out to shock the reader so much as to merge with the reader and make him or her more aware of the body each reader inhabited, to convince us that the body and soul were conjoined and inseparable, just as Whitman’s ideas were embodied in words that ha  physical body in the ink and paper that readers held physically in their hands. Ideas, Whitman’s poems insist, pass from one person to another not in some ethereal process, but through the bodies of texts, through the muscular operations of tongues and hands and eyes, through the material objects of books.

Whitman was already well along on his radical program of delineating just what democratic affection would entail. He called his Calamus poems his most political work—"The special meaning of the Calamus cluster," Whitman wrote, "mainly resides in its Political significance"—since in those poems he was articulating a new kind of intense affection between males who, in the developing democratic society and emerging capitalistic system, were being encouraged to become fiercely competitive. Whitman countered this movement with a call for manly love, embrace, and affection. In giving voice to this new camaraderie, Whitman was also inventing a language of homosexuality, and the Calamus poems became very influential poems in the development of gay literature. In the nineteenth century, however, the Calamus poems did not cause as much sensation as Children of Adam because, even though they portrayed same-sex affection, they were only mildly sensual, evoking handholding, hugging, and kissing, while the Children of Adam poems evoked a more explicit genital sexuality. Emerson and others were apparently unfazed by Calamus and focused their disapprobation on Children of Adam. Only later in the century,when homosexuality began to be formulated in medical and psychological circles as an aberrant personality type, did the Calamus poems begin to be read by some as dangerous and "abnormal" and by others as brave early expressions of gay identity.

With the 1860 edition of Leaves, Whitman began the incessant rearrangement of his poems in various clusters and groupings. Whitman settled on cluster arrangements as the most effective way to organize his work, but his notion of particular clusters changed from edition to edition as he added, deleted, and rearranged his poems in patterns that often alter their meaning and recontextualize their significance. In addition to Calamus and Children of Adam, this edition contained clusters called Chants Democratic and Native American,Messenger Leaves, and another named the same as the book, Leaves of Grass. This edition also contained the first book printings of "Starting from Paumanok" (here called "Proto-Leaf") and "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking" (here called "A Word Out of the Sea"), along with over 120 other new poems. He also revised many of his other poems, including "Song of Myself" (here called simply "Walt Whitman"), and throughout the book he numbered his poetic verses, creating a Biblical effect. This was no accident, since Whitman now conceived of his project as involving the construction of what he called a "New Bible," a new covenant that would convert America into a true democracy. 

[. . . .]

Whitman’s time in Boston—the first extended period he had been away from New York since his trip to New Orleans twelve years earlier—was a transforming experience. He was surprised by the way African Americans were treated much more fairly and more as equals than was the case in New York, sharing tables with whites at eating houses, working next to whites in printing offices, and serving on juries. He also met a number of abolitionist writers who would soon become close friends and supporters, including William Douglas O’Connor and John Townsend Trowbridge, both of whom would later write at length about Whitman. When he returned to New York at the end of May, his mood was ebullient. He was now a recognized author; the Boston papers had run feature stories about his visit to the city, and photographers had asked to photograph him (not only did he have a growing notoriety, he was a striking physical specimen at over six feet in height—especially tall for the time—with long, already graying hair and beard). All summer long he read reviews of his work in prominent newspapers and journals. And in November, Whitman’s young publishers announced that Whitman’s new project, a book of poems he called Banner at Day-Break, would be forthcoming.

The Beginning of the Civil War

But just as suddenly as Whitman’s fortunes had turned so unexpectedly good early in 1860, they now turned unexpectedly bad. The deteriorating national situation made any business investment risky, and Thayer and Eldridge compounded the problem by making a number of bad business decisions. At the beginning of 1861, they declared bankruptcy and sold the plates of Leaves to Boston publisher Richard Worthington, who would continue to publish pirated copies of this edition for decades, creating real problems for Whitman every time he tried to market a new edition. Because of the large number of copies that Thayer and Eldridge initially printed, combined with Worthington’s ongoing piracy, the 1860 edition became the most commonly available version of Leaves for the next twenty years and diluted the impact (as well as depressing the sales) of Whitman’s new editions.

Whitman had dated the title page of his 1860 Leaves "1860-61," as if he anticipated the liminal nature of that moment in American history—the fragile moment, between a year of peace and a year of war. In February 1861 he saw Abraham Lincoln pass through New York on the way to his inauguration, and in April he was walking home from an opera performance when he bought a newspaper and read the headlines about Southern forces firing on Fort Sumter. He remembers a group gathering in the New York streets that night as those with newspapers read the story aloud to the others in the crowd. Even though no one was aware of the full extent of what was to come—Whitman, like many others, thought the struggle would be over in sixty days or so—the nation was in fact slipping into four years of the bloodiest fighting it would ever know. A few days after the firing on Fort Sumter, Whitman recorded in his journal his resolution "to inaugurate for myself a pure perfect sweet, cleanblooded robust body by ignoring all drinks but water and pure milk—and all fat meats late suppers—a great body—a purged, cleansed, spiritualised invigorated body." It was as if he sensed at some level the need to break out of his newfound complacency, to cease his Pfaff’s beerhall habits and bohemian ways, and to prepare himself for the challenges that now faced the divided nation. But it would take Whitman some time before he was able to discern the form his war sacrifice would take.

Whitman’s brother George immediately enlisted in the Union Army and would serve for the duration of the war, fighting in many of the major battles; he eventually was incarcerated as a prisoner-of-war in Danville, Virginia. George had a distinguished career as a soldier and left the service as a lieutenant colonel; his descriptions of his war experiences provided Walt with many of his insights into the nature of the war and of soldiers’ feelings. Whitman’s chronically ill brother Andrew would also enlist but would serve only three months in 1862 before dying, probably of tuberculosis, in 1863. Walt’s other brothers—the hot-tempered Jesse (whom Whitman had to have committed to an insane asylum in 1864 after he physically attacked his mother), the recently-married Jeff (on whom fell the burden of caring for the extended family, including his own infant daughter), and the mentally-enfeebled Eddy—did not enlist, and neither did Walt, who was already in his early forties when the war began.  

One of the haziest periods of Whitman’s life, in fact, is the first year and a half of the war. He stayed in New York and Brooklyn, writing some extended newspaper pieces about the history of Brooklyn for the Brooklyn Daily Standard; these pieces, called "Brooklyniana" and consisting of twenty-five lengthy installments, form a book-length anecdotal history of the city Whitman knew so well but was now about to leave—he would return only occasionally for brief visits. It was during this period that Whitman first encountered casualties of the war that was already lasting far longer than anyone had anticipated. He began visiting wounded soldiers who were moved to New York hospitals, and he wrote about them in a series called "City Photographs" that he published in the New York Leader in 1862.

Whitman had in fact been visiting Broadway Hospital for several years, comforting injured stage drivers and ferryboat workers (serious injuries in the chaotic transportation industry in New York at the time were common). While he was enamoured with the idea of having literary figures as friends, Whitman’s true preference for companions had always been and would continue to be working class men, especially those who worked on the omnibuses and the ferries ("all my ferry friends," as he called them), where he enjoyed the endless rhythms of movement, the open road, the back-and-forth journeys, with good companions. He reveled in the energy and pleasure of travel instead of worrying about destinations: "I cross’d and recross’d, merely for pleasure," he wrote of his trips on the ferry. He remembered fondly the "immense qualities, largely animal" of the colorful omnibus drivers, whom he said he enjoyed "for comradeship, and sometimes affection" as he would ride "the whole length of Broadway," listening to the stories of the driver and conductor, or "declaiming some stormy passage" from one of his favorite Shakespeare plays.

So his hospital visits began with a kind of obligation of friendship to the injured transportation workers, and, as the Civil War began taking its toll, wounded soldiers joined the transportation workers on Whitman’s frequent rounds. These soldiers came from all over the country, and their reminiscences of home taught Whitman about the breadth and diversity of the growing nation. He developed an idiosyncratic style of informal personal nursing, writing down stories the patients told him, giving them small gifts, writing letters for them, holding them, comforting them, and kissing them. His purpose, he wrote, was "just to help cheer and change a little the monotony of their sickness and confinement," though he found that their effect on him was every bit as rewarding as his on them, for the wounded and maimed young men aroused in him "friendly interest and sympathy," and he said some of "the most agreeable evenings of my life" were spent in hospitals. By 1861, his New York hospital visits had prepared him for the draining ordeal he was about to face when he went to Washington, D.C., where he would nurse thousands of injured soldiers in the makeshift hospitals there. Whitman once said that, had he not become a writer, he would have become a doctor, and at Broadway Hospital he developed close friendships with many of the physicians, even occasionally assisting them in surgery. His fascination with the body, so evident in his poetry, was intricately bound to his attraction to medicine and to the hospitals, where he learned to face bodily disfigurations and gained the ability to see beyond wounds and illness to the human personalities that persisted through the pain and humiliation. It was a skill he would need in abundance over the next three years as he began yet another career. 

To the Battlefield

With the nation now locked in an extended war, all of Whitman’s deepest concerns and beliefs were under attack. Leaves of Grass had been built on a faith in union, wholeness, the ability of a self and a nation to contain contradictions and absorb diversity; now the United States had come apart, and Whitman’s very project was now in danger of becoming an anachronism as the Southern states sought to divide the country in two. Leaves had been built, too, on a belief in the power of affection to overcome division and competition; his Calamus vision was of a "continent indissoluble" with "inseparable cities" all joined by "the life-long love of comrades." But now the young men of America were killing each other in bloody battles; fathers were killing sons, sons fathers, brothers brothers. Whitman’s prospects for his "new Bible" that would bind a nation, build an affectionate democracy, and guide a citizenry to celebrate its unified diversity, were shattered in the fratricidal conflict that engulfed America.

Like many Americans, Whitman and his family daily checked the lists of wounded in the newspapers, and one day in December 1862 the family was jolted by the appearance of the name of " G. W. Whitmore" on the casualty roster from Fredericksburg. Fearful that the name was a garbled version of George Washington Whitman’s, Walt immediately headed to Virginia to seek out his brother. Changing trains in Philadelphia, Whitman’s pocket was picked on the crowded platform, and, penniless, he continued his journey to Washington, where, fortunately, he ran into William Douglas O’Connor, the writer and abolitionist he had met in Boston, who loaned him money. Futilely searching for George in the nearly forty Washington hospitals, he finally decided to take a government boat and army-controlled train to the battlefield at Fredericksburg to see if George was still there. After finding George’s unit and discovering that his brother had received only a superficial facial wound, Whitman’s relief turned to horror as he encountered a sight he would never forget: outside of a mansion converted into a field hospital, he came upon "a heap of amputated feet, legs, arms, hands, &c., a full load for a one-horse cart." They were, he wrote in his journal, "human fragments, cut, bloody, black and blue, swelled and sickening." Nearby were "several dead bodies . . . each cover’d with its brown woolen blanket." The sight would continue to haunt this poet who had so confidently celebrated the physical body, who had claimed that the soul existed only in the body, that the arms and legs were extensions of the soul, the legs moving the soul through the world and the hands allowing the soul to express itself. Now a generation of young American males, the very males on which he had staked the future of democracy, were literally being disarmed, amputated, killed. It was this amputation, this fragmenting of the Union—in both a literal and figurative sense—that Whitman would address for the next few years, as he devoted himself to becoming the arms and legs of the wounded and maimed soldiers in the Civil War hospitals. By running errands for them, writing letters for them, encircling them in his arms, Whitman tried, the best he could, to make them whole again.

This extraordinary hospital service, which took a tremendous toll on Whitman’s own health as he spent countless long nights in the poorly ventilated wards, began spontaneously during his mission to George. He had fully anticipated that he would return to New York after determining that George was safe, but, after telegraphing his mother and the rest of the family that he had found George, he decided to stay with his brother for a few days. During this time he got to know the young soldiers, both Union and Confederate (he talked to a number of Southern prisoners of war). He assisted in the burial of the dead still lying on the bloody battlefield, where on December 13 there had been 18,000 Northern and Southern troops killed or wounded (and where, the next day, Robert E. Lee, sickened by the carnage, declined to attack General Ambrose Burnside’s Union troops, even though they were in a vulnerable position).  

Although Whitman had already written some of the poems that he would eventually publish in his Civil War book Drum-Taps (notably the "recruitment" poems like "Beat! Beat! Drums!" or "First O Songs for Prelude" that evoked the frightening yet exhilarating energy of cities arming for battle), it was only now, encountering the horrifying aftereffects of a real battle, that the powerful Civil War poems began to emerge. In the journal he kept while at George’s camp, Whitman noted a "sight at daybreak—in a camp in front of the hospital tent on a stretcher, (three dead men lying,) each with a blanket spread over him—I lift up one and look at the young man’s face, calm and yellow,—’tis strange! (Young man: I think this face of yours the face of my dead Christ!)" As would be the case with many of the poems in Drum-Taps, this journal sketch gradually was transformed into a poem:

A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim, 
As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless.
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near
            by the hospital tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out
            there untended lying,
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen
Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.
. . .

Then to the third—a face nor child nor old, very calm,
            beautiful yellow-white ivory;

Young man I think I know you—I think this face is the
            face of the Christ himself,
Dead and divine and brother of all, and here he lies again.

The journal entry and poem offer a glimpse into how Whitman began restructuring his poetic project after the Civil War began. He was still writing a "new Bible" here, re-experiencing the Crucifixion in Fredericksburg. But this crucifixion does not redeem sinners and create an atonement with God so much as it posits divinity in everyone and mourns senseless loss: this one young man’s death amidst the thousands is as significant as any in history. And, for Whitman, the massive slaughter of young soldier-Christs would create for all those who survived the war an obligation to construct a nation worthy of their great sacrifice. The America that Whitman would write of after the Civil War would be a more chastened, less innocent nation, a nation that had gone through its baptism in blood and one that would from now on be tested against the stern measure of this bloodshed.

During the days he spent with George’s unit, Whitman often went into the makeshift hospital outside of which he had seen the pile of amputated limbs. "I do not see that I do much good to these wounded and dying," he wrote; "but I cannot leave them." As if to underscore his own attempts to hold the Union together, to reconcile rather than punish, to help love triumph over revenge, Whitman found himself particularly attracted to a nineteen-year-old Confederate soldier from Mississippi, who had had a leg amputated. Whitman visited him regularly in the battlefield hospital and then continued to visit him when the soldier was transferred to a Washington hospital. "Our affection is an affair quite romantic," he wrote. It wouldn’t be the last intimacy he would experience with a Confederate soldier; at the end of the war, Whitman would enter the longest affectional relationship of his life with a former Confederate soldier named Peter Doyle. Something surprising—and perhaps unexpected even to Whitman—was happening to the Calamus emotions that he had described in 1860; the intimate expressions of manly friendship now became generalized, perhaps sublimated, in the poet’s many close relationships with injured soldiers over the next three years. Extant letters from these soldiers clearly indicate the intensity of the love that these young men felt for Whitman, and Whitman’s letters to them demonstrate that the affection was reciprocated. The language of this correspondence is difficult to categorize—it is partly that of lovers, partly that of friends, partly that of son to father and father to son (many of the letters to Whitman are addressed to "Dear Father"), and partly that of calm, wise, old counselor to confused, scared, and half-literate young men.

To Washington, D.C.

We cannot be certain when Whitman made his decision to stay in Washington, D.C. Like virtually all of the abrupt changes in his life, this one came with no planning, no advance notice, no preparation. He had gone to New Orleans on a similar spur-of-the-moment decision, just as he had suddenly quit teaching, just as he had packed up and gone to Boston, and just as he would years later decide overnight to settle in Camden, New Jersey. He was a profoundly unsettled person, who seemed able to shuck expected obligations and even relationships without much regret: he existed, as he said, on a kind of "Open Road": "The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. . . . I will scatter myself among men and women as I go":

Allons! We must not stop here,
However sweet these laid-up stores, however
        convenient this dwelling we cannot remain here,
However shelter’d this port and however calm
        these waters we must not anchor here,
However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us
        we are permitted to receive it but a little
        while. ("Song of the Open Road")

One day Whitman simply left Brooklyn and New York and his family home to find his brother,and he never really came back. 

Perhaps the decision was made while he was in the field hospital, nursing the wounded and developing his relationship with the young Mississippi soldier; it was then that he wrote to his mother and told her he might seek employment for awhile in Washington, and it was then that he wrote to Emerson to ask for letters of recommendation to the Secretary of State and the Secretary of the Treasury, who were both acquaintances of Emerson. But perhaps his decision was conclusively made on his trip back from Fredericksburg to Washington, right after a somber New Year’s Day 1863, when Whitman—quickly earning the trust and respect of the doctors at the battlefield—was put in charge of a trainload of casualties who had to be transferred to hospitals in the capital. While the wounded were being moved from a train to a steamboat for the trip up the Potomac, Whitman wandered among them, writing down their messages to their families, promising to send them, comforting the soldiers with his calm and concern. Perhaps by the time he got to Washington, determined to stay a few days in order to visit wounded soldiers from Brooklyn, he already knew at some level that he would have to remain there for the duration of the war.

His Boston connections were serving him well now; not only did he get letters of introduction from Emerson, but he got a room in the boarding house of William Douglas O’Connor and, through the efforts of Charles Eldridge—the publisher of the 1860 Leaves who was now assistant to the Army Paymaster—he got a part-time job as a copyist in the Paymaster’s office. O’Connor and his wife Nellie provided Whitman his meals, and the poet began receiving contributions from his brother Jeff and others in Brooklyn who heard of his work in the hospitals. Whitman used what funds he had to buy small gifts for the wounded soldiers—candy and tobacco and flavored syrup and books—and he soon became a familiar figure in the hospitals. Prematurely gray and looking a decade or two older than his forty-three years, Whitman must have seemed to the soldiers—many of whom were still in their teens—some sort of tattered Saint Nick, handing out treats and bringing good cheer. Many referred to Whitman as "Old Man," and his presence was for some of the young men avuncular, for some paternal, and, for almost all, magical. Though he admired the Christian Commission, an agency organized by several churches that recruited volunteers to help in the hospitals, Whitman acted independently. He had nothing but contempt for the United States Sanitary commission, the governmental body charged with nursing the soldiers and repairing them so they could return to battle: to Whitman, these agents kept their distance from the soldiers and worked primarily for pay. Whitman’s mission was different, as eccentric as his poetry: he was, in the act of nursing the wounded, trying to define and demonstrate a new kind of affection, a democratic camaraderie. He always insisted that he gained more from the soldiers than they received from him; he considered those years of hospital service "the greatest privilege and satisfaction . . . and, of course, the most profound lesson of my life." 

Washington Years

To better support his hospital work, Whitman began seeking more remunerative employment and pounded the pavement in Washington, trying to exploit every connection he had in order to find a good job. The nation’s capital was in a chaotic—even surreal—state in 1863, with unpaved, muddy streets and many half-built governmental edifices, including the Capitol building itself, with its vast new dome rising above the city, but still in only skeletal form. President Lincoln insisted that construction of the capital’s buildings proceed at full pace, so, while the nation was tearing itself apart in civil war, the nation’s capital was continuing to erect a unified and elegant governmental center, designed by the French architect Pierre L’Enfant. It was as if the capital had become a metaphor of the nation itself, half-built and in a struggle to determine whether it would end in fulfillment or destruction. Some of the newly constructed buildings almost immediately became hospitals, and when Whitman described the Civil War as turning the nation into a ward of casualties—America, "though only in her early youth," Whitman wrote, was "already to hospital brought"—he no doubt had in mind the way the emerging governmental center of the country was being transformed into a vast hospital. The U. S. Patent Office became a hospital in 1863, and Whitman noted the irony of the "rows of sick, badly wounded and dying soldiers" surrounding the "glass cases" displaying American inventions—guns and machines and other signs of progress. The wrecked bodies dispersed among the displays were what "progress" had brought, the result of new inventions that had created modern warfare. Washington was a noisy city during these years: the noise in the city was of construction; the noise just outside the city was of destruction, and the two activities conjoined in the dozens of makeshift Washington hospitals that held the shattered bodies of America’s young men. 

[. . . .]

It is not possible to know how many soldiers Whitman actually nursed during his years in Washington, but the number was certainly in the tens of thousands (Whitman estimated he visited "from eighty thousand to a hundred thousand of the wounded and sick"). Walking the wards was for him like walking America: every bed contained a representative of a different region, a different city or town, a different way of life. He loved the varied accents and the diverse physiognomies. "While I was with wounded and sick in thousands of cases from the New England States, and from New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania, and from Michigan, Wisconsin, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and all the Western States, I was with more or less from all the States, North and South, without exception." His trip to New Orleans had taken him across a good part of the nation, but it was in the hospital wards that he really traveled the United States and crossed boundaries otherwise not easily crossed: "I was with many rebel officers and men among our wounded, and gave them always what I had, and tried to cheer them the same as any. . .   Among the black soldiers, wounded or sick, and in the contraband camps, I also took my way whenever in their neighborhood, and did what I could for them." And with all those he met, he both sought and offered love: "What an attachment grows up between us, started from hospital cots, where pale young faces lie & wounded or sick bodies," he wrote; "The doctors tell me I supply the patients with a medicine which all their drugs & bottles & powders are helpless to yield." He had become a physician after all, dispensing the medicine of hope and affection, the same medicine he hoped would heal a country, suture its wounds, repair its fracture. And he sought to dispense this medicine not only to soldiers on his hospital visits but to all Americans through his books.

Drum-Taps and the End of the War

During all the time of his hospital service, Whitman was writing poems, a new kind of poem for him, poems about the war experience, but almost never about battles—rather about the aftereffects of warfare: the moonlight illuminating the dead on the battlefields, the churches turned into hospitals, the experience of dressing wounds, the encounter with a dead enemy in a coffin, the trauma of battle nightmares for soldiers who had returned home. He gathered these poems along with the few he had written just before the war (the ones that Thayer and Eldridge has originally planned to publish as Banner at Day-Break) and worked on combining them in a book called Drum-Taps, the title evoking both the beating of the drums that accompanied soldiers into battle as well as the beating out of "Taps," the death march sounded at the burial of soldiers (originally played on the drums instead of the trumpet). After the burst of creativity in the mid- and late-1850s that resulted in the vastly expanded 1860 Leaves, Whitman had not written many poems until he got to Washington, where the daily encounters with soldiers opened a fresh vein of creativity, resulting in a poetry more modest in ambition and more muted in its claims, a poetry in whic  death was no longer something indistinguishable from life ("Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?," Whitman had written in "Song of Myself"; "I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it") but rather now revealed itself as something horrifying, grotesque, and omnipresent. The poems were so different from any that had appeared in Leaves, in fact, that Whitman originally assumed they could not be joined in the same book with those earlier poems. It would be a long, slow process that would eventually allow the absorption of Drum-Taps into Leaves of Grass.

As the war entered its final year, Whitman was facing physical and emotional exhaustion. 1864 began with one of his closest soldier-friends, Lewis Brown (with whom he had imagined living after the war was over), having his leg amputated; Whitman watched the operation through a window at Armory Square Hospital. In February and March, he traveled to the Virginia battlefront to nurse soldiers in field hospitals, then in April he stood for three hours watching General Burnside’s troops march through Washington until he could pick out his brother George. He marched with him and gave him news from home. It would be the last time Whitman would see his brother before George was captured by Confederate troops after a battle in the fall. During the early summer, Whitman began to complain of a sore throat, dizziness, and a "bad feeling" in his head. Physician friends urged him to check into one of the hospitals he had been visiting, and they finally convinced him to go back to New York for a rest. Whitman took his manuscript of Drum-Taps with him to Brooklyn, hoping to publish it himself while he was there. Soon after he left Washington, the capital was attacked by the Confederates and many thought it was about to be captured; Whitman missed the most terrifying months of the war in the District of Columbia. 

In Brooklyn, Whitman could not stop doing what had now become both a routine and a reason for his existence: he visited wounded soldiers in New York-area hospitals. But he also re-established contacts with old friends from the Pfaff’s beerhall days, and he explored some new beer saloons with them. He wrote some more articles for the New York Times and other papers, and he took care of pressing family matters, including the commitment of his increasingly unstable brother Jesse to the Kings County Lunatic Asylum (where he would die six years later). The year ended with the arrival at the Whitman family home of George’s personal items, including his war diary, which Whitman presumably read at this time. Though Whitman did not then know it, George had been sent to the Libby Prison in Richmond, Virginia, and would also serve time in military prisons in Salisbury, North Carolina, and finally in Danville, Virginia. In the hope of effecting George’s release, Whitman began a campaign, in both newspaper articles and in letters to government officials, to support a general exchange of prisoners between the Confederacy and the Union, something Union generals were generally against because they believed such an exchange would benefit the South by returning troops to an army in desperate need of more men.

By the beginning of 1865, Whitman was very anxious to return to Washington, which he now considered to be his home. Friends there had been working on getting him a better government position, and O’Connor helped arrange a clerkship in the Indian Bureau of the Department of the Interior. Whitman carried his Drum-Taps manuscript back to Washington, hoping that his increased income might allow him to publish the book. He moved to a new apartment, run by what he called a "secesh" landlady, and he began work in the Indian Bureau; his desk was in the U.S. Patent Office Building, which he had been visiting when it was used as a temporary hospital. As a clerk there, he met delegations of various Indian tribes from the West, and, just as he had come to know the geographical range of America through his hospital visits, so now he came to experience Native Americans. He had included Indians in his poems of America, cataloguing "the red aborigines" in "Starting from Paumanok," for example, celebrating the way they "charg[ed] the water and the land with names" (thus Whitman always preferred the name "Paumanok" to "Long Island" and often argued that aboriginal names for American places were always superior to names imported from Europe). The impact of Whitman’s experiences at the Indian Bureau is apparent in such later poems as "Osceola" and "Yonnondio," memorializing what had come to seem to him the inevitable loss of native cultures.

George Whitman was released from Danville prison in February and returned to the Whitman home in Brooklyn in March. Whitman got a furlough from the Indian Bureau so that he could go see George, and, while in Brooklyn, he arranged with a New York printer for the publication of Drum-Taps. He signed a contract on April 1, and then, eight days later, while he was still in Brooklyn, the Civil War ended, with General Lee surrendering at Appomattox; five days after that, President Lincoln was assassinated at Ford’s Theatre in Washington. It is ironic that Whitman, who spent most of the final two years of the war in the capital, was not there for its most traumatic and memorable events: he was back in New York during the main Confederate assault on Washington, and he was in New York again when the capital celebrated the end of the war and then mourned the loss of the president. 

But the fact that Whitman was at his mother’s home in Brooklyn led to one of his greatest poems,  because he heard the news about Lincoln that April morning when the lilac bushes were blooming in his mother’s dooryard, where he went to console himself and where he inhaled the scent of the lilacs, which became for him viscerally bound to the memory of Lincoln’s death. He began writing his powerful elegy to Lincoln, "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d," after Drum-Taps had already been delivered to the printer. He was able quickly to add to Drum-Taps, before the  book was set in type, a brief poem about Lincoln’s death, "Hush’d Be the Camps To-day," but his "Lilacs" elegy and his uncharacteristically rhymed and metered elegy for Lincoln, "O Captain! My Captain!," were written after the book was in press. Whitman therefore compiled a Sequel to Drum-Taps and had it printed up when he went back to Washington. In October he returned to Brooklyn to oversee the collating and binding of Sequel with Drum-Taps. He subtitled Sequel "‘When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d and Other Pieces," and the very title registered the fragmentation that now characterized his poetry and his nation, very much shattered and in pieces (in "Lilacs," he described the "debris and debris" of the war’s casualties and of the nation’s current condition). He dated the Sequel 1865-66, offering another significantly hyphenated moment. Just as his 1860-61 Leaves marked the division between a nation at peace and a nation rent by war, so now did the sequel mark the reunification, a country moving from a year of war to the difficult first year of its reunified peace, from the horror of disintegration to the challenge of reconstruction.

In joining Drum-Taps and Sequel, Whitman created a book whose physical form echoed the challenges the postwar nation was facing as it entered the stormy period of Reconstruction. Whitman, too, was entering a period of poetic reconstruction, searching for ways to absorb the personal and national trauma of the Civil War into Leaves of Grass. As soon as the war ended, Whitman began to realize that the nation’s hopes and history had to be reunified and that his original goals for Leaves of Grass—to project an optimistic democratic future for America—should not be abandoned but rather had to be integrated with the trauma of the Civil War. He faced the difficult task now of re-opening Leaves of Grass to find a way to absorb into his growing book the horror of the nation’s fratricidal war. 

Peter Doyle

Whitman’s life was undergoing many changes in the weeks and months following the end of the war. One major event happened unexpectedly: on a stormy night, while riding the streetcar home after dinner at John and Ursula Burroughs’ apartment, Whitman began talking with the conductor, a twenty-one-year-old Irish immigrant and former Confederate soldier named Peter Doyle. Doyle later recalled that Whitman was the only passenger, and "we were familiar at once—I put my hand on his knee—we understood." "From that time on," Doyle recalled, "we were the biggest sort of friends." It would be a friendship that would last for the rest of Whitman’s life, and it was the most intense and romantic friendship the poet would have. Like Whitman, Doyle came from a large family, and Walt got to know Doyle’s widowed mother and his siblings well; they came to be a second family for him. Whitman continued visiting soldiers in Washington hospitals during the first years following the war, as the number of hospitals gradually decreased and only the most difficult cases remained, but he now focused his attention increasingly on this single young former artilleryman from the South. Like so many of Whitman’s closest friends, Doyle had only a rudimentary education and was from the working class. These young men were reflections of Whitman’s own youthful self, and he saw his poetry as speaking for them, putting into words what they could not, becoming the vocalization of the common man, without aristocratic airs, without elite schooling, without the weary formalities of tradition. For Whitman, then, Doyle represented America’s future: healthy, witty, handsome, good-humored, hard-working, enamored of ood times, he gave Whitman’s life some energy and hope during an otherwise bleak time. They rode the streetcars together, drank at the Union Hotel bar, took long walks outside the city, and quoted poetry to each other (Whitman recited Shakespeare, Doyle limericks). As Whitman’s health continued to deteriorate in the late 1860s and early 1870s, the young former soldier nursed the aging former nurse and offered comfort to the poet just as Walt had to so many sick soldiers. And just as Whitman had picked up the germs of many of his poems from the stories soldiers had told him, so now he picked up from Doyle—who had been at Ford’s Theatre the night John Wilkes Booth shot the president—the narrative of the assassination of Lincoln that he would use for his Lincoln lectures that he would deliver regularly in his later years.

Only in 1870 did the Doyle-Whitman relationship encounter severe problems. In some of the most intriguing and often-discussed entries in all of Whitman’s notebooks, the poet records a cryptic resolution: "TO GIVE UP ABSOLUTELY & for good, from the present hour, this FEVERISH, FLUCTUATING, useless UNDIGNIFIED PURSUIT of 16.4—too long, (much too long) persevered in,--so humiliating." Critics eventually broke Whitman’s numeric/alphabetic code (16 = P; 4 =D) and realized that Whitman was writing about his relationship with Doyle. Whitman goes on to urge himself to "Depress the adhesive nature/ It is in excess—making life a torment/ Ah this diseased, feverish disproportionate adhesiveness/ Remember Fred Vaughan." Vaughan, the close friend who probably inspired Whitman’s Calamus poems, shared many traits with Doyle, and Whitman came to be jealous of both men when they did not return his love with the fervor he demanded. Soon after Whitman had met Doyle, he revised his Calamus sequence and removed the darker poems that expressed despair at being abandoned. But in 1870, those same dark emotions reappeared, though somehow this time Whitman and his partner managed to work their way through the trouble. They never lived together, though Walt dreamed of doing so, and, while their relationship would never regain the intensity it had in the mid-1860s, Doyle and Whitman continued to correspond and Doyle visited Whitman regularly for the next two decades after the poet moved to Camden, New Jersey.   

The Good Gray Poet

Just when Whitman was feeling secure in his government employment, all hell broke loose. In May, 1865, a new Secretary of the Interior, James Harlan of Iowa, was sworn in and immediately set out to clean up his department, issuing a directive to abolish non-essential positions and to dismiss any employee whose "moral character" was questionable. Harlan was a formidable figure—a former U. S. Senator, Methodist minister, and president of Iowa Wesleyan College—and, when he saw Whitman’s working copy of the 1860 Leaves of Grass (which the poet kept in his desk so that he could revise his poems during slow times at the office)—he was appalled. On June 20, Whitman (along with a number of other Interior Department employees) received a dismissal notice. Whitman quickly turned to his fiery friend O’Connor, who at that time worked in the Treasury Department. O’Connor, at some risk to his own career, took immediate action: he contacted the Assistant Attorney General, J. Hubley Ashton, who in turn talked with Harlan, only to find that not only was Harlan dead set against rescinding the dismissal order, he was ready to prevent Whitman from getting work in any other governmental agency. Ashton talked Harlan out of interfering with Whitman’s appointment outside of Interior, and then he convinced Attorney General James Speed to hire Whitman in his office. Whitman became a clerk in the Attorney General’s Office the next day, liked the work better (he aided in the preparation of requests for pardons from Confederates and later copied documents for delivery to the President and Cabinet members), and held the job until 1874, when he forfeited it because of ill health.

The whole flap over Whitman’s firing seemed to be over in a day, but O’Connor, a highly regarded editor, novelist, and journalist in addition to a governmental servant, could not control his rage at Harlan and began to write a diatribe against the moralistic Secretary of the Interior and his "commission of an outrage"—the unceremonious dumping of Walt Whitman, "the Kosmical man—. . . the ADAMUS of the nineteenth century—not an individual, but MANKIND." O’Connor went on for nearly fifty pages, excoriating Harlan and sanctifying Whitman, offering a ringing endorsement of the poet’s work and his life, emphasizing his hospital work and his love of country, and locating any indecency in Harlan’s "horrible inanity of prudery," not in the poetry itself. Whitman offered O’Connor advice and suggestions on the piece, which O’Connor titled "The Good Gray Poet," creating an epithet that would attach itself to Whitman from then on. The pamphlet was published at the beginning of 1866 and had a major impact on the changing public perception of Whitman: though O’Connor did not downplay Whitman’   frankness about the body, in his hands the transformation had begun from outrageous, immoral, indiscriminate, and radical poet of sex to saint-like, impoverished, aging poet of strong American values.

[. . . .]

Reconstructing Leaves of Grass

In August and September of 1866, he took a leave from his job to go to New York and arrange for the printing of a new edition of Leaves . While there, he experienced the quickly changing and vastly expanding New York City—he wandered Central Park, took boat rides, and rekindled friendships with his stage-driver and ferry-boat-worker friends, and he oversaw the typesetting of Leaves, which finally appeared near the end of the year, even though the title page dated the book 1867.  

The 1867 Leaves of Grass is the most carelessly printed and the most chaotic of all the editions. Whitman had problems with the typesetters, whose work was filled with errors. He bound the book in five distinct formats, some with only the new edition of Leaves of Grass, some with

Walt Whitman is America’s most renowned, most influential, and many say its greatest, poet ever. He spent his life writing endless prose essays and one book of poetry, his masterpiece, Leaves of Grass. But Whitman wanted to be more than just a great poet. He wanted to be the nation’s first great myth-maker. “There could hardly happen anything that would more serve the States,” he wrote, “than possessing an aggregate of heroes, characters, exploits, sufferings, prosperity or misfortune, glory or disgrace, common to all, typical of all — no less, but even greater would it be to possess the aggregation of a cluster of mighty poets, artists, teachers, fit for us, national expressers, comprehending and effusing for the men and women of the States, what is universal, native, common to all.”[1] [Please scroll to the bottom of the page for all footnotes.]

Whitman made it clear that he aimed to be the first “national expresser,” the first poet to put in words what was “common to all” Americans: “I heard that you ask’d for something … to define America … Therefore I send you my poems that you behold in them what you wanted.”[2] But he often said that he thought of his work as merely a beginning, inspiring even greater poets and myth-makers in the future. So far, though, no poet has arisen to challenge his preeminent status.

The poems in Leaves of Grass were written over some 30 years. They reflect his vast variety of experiences, moods, and inspirations over all those years. So they hold an equally vast variety of thoughts and ideas. This never bothered Whitman. “Do I contradict myself?,” he wrote. “Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)”[3]

However there are some basic themes that run consistently through all the poems. One of these is an enormous, enthusiastic love of America, reflected equally in his most famous prose essay about America, “Democratic Vistas.” Whitman’s thousands of lines devoted to America also hold great variety and even contradiction. So interpreters have been able to frame his views on America in many different ways. Sometimes he is seen as an advocate for a traditional American mythology of hope and change — a nation of “rugged individuals” all competing to get ahead, but all joining together to move west and fulfill the nation’s “manifest destiny” in typical mid-19th century fashion.

As I read Whitman, setting his words on America in the context of his whole poetic work, I find something quite different — an alternative mythology of hope and change that still sounds radically new and challenging today, well over a century after his death. What follows is that alternative mythology as I have assembled it from Whitman’s words and my understanding of those words in their full context.

America is a marvelous geographical land, full of fascinating, often stunningly beautiful, places, “from forests of pine in Maine” to “Florida’s glades” to “California’s golden hills and hollows.”[4]

But America is more than a place. It is a project — a process with a purpose. Though Whitman describes that purpose in many ways, he comes closest to the heart of his vision of America when he describes the mission of a true American poet: to proclaim “the great Idea, the idea of perfect and free individuals.”[5] Since he maintains that the true American poet embodies the entire nation, he clearly implies that the mission of the entire nation is to promote “the great Idea,” to create and nurture perfect free individuals — an idea that turns out to be the central thread of his mythology of America.

Sometimes Whitman describes this mission as a goal to be achieved only in a distant future era of perfection, in what is traditionally called the millennium. More often he writes as if he were describing America’s reality in the present.

Of course he knew that reality does not always live up to the ideal; the nation’s actuality from day to day deviates from, and often works against, fulfilling its mission. He knew that America “illustrates evil as well as good,” that “the wrestle of evil with good, the sounding and resounding, keep on and on.”[6] But it is this dynamism, this unending process, that is the essential reality of the present. Precisely because the nation is always moving toward its goal, no matter how distant, the millennial ideal is always part of its life in the here and now.

That ideal is the “unseen moral essence of all the vast materials of America,” Whitman says, the “hidden national will.” America’s “past and present purposes” are “tenaciously pursued,” even if only unconsciously. Those purposes are fixed truths, “unswerv’d by all the passing errors,” which are merely “perturbations of the surface.”[7] Like any myth-maker, Whitman is telling a story compounded of fact and fiction — a subtle blend of how America is now and how it ought to be.

The crucial point of his story is that the process of moving toward the ideal continues, and must continue. Wherever we are, “we must not stop here, However shelter’d this port and however calm these waters we must not anchor here.”[8] “It is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.”[9]

Whitman’s most original contribution to the tradition of millennialism is to proclaim that the process has no end. America is constantly fulfilling its mission, constantly moving toward a fuller realization of its purpose: “Others take finish, but the Republic is ever constructive.”[10] The nation’s highest goal is to keep its millennial project alive forever. The road to paradise is itself the American paradise.


But why should America’s project, its “great Idea,” be summed up in those three words: perfect, free, individual? Why should every true American follow the road of becoming an ever more perfect and free individual? Let us follow Whitman’s story by looking in turn at each of those key words.

It is not the earth, it is not America who is so great,
It is I who am great or to be great, it is You up there, or any one …
Underneath all, individuals,
I swear nothing is good to me now that ignores individuals,
The American compact is altogether with individuals.[11]

Why privilege, even glorify, the individual? Because all the ways we usually mark our sense of identity and the meaning of our lives — our families, social groups and institutions, communities and nations — are ultimately nothing but collections of individuals. The individual is the most basic truth:

One’s-self must never give way — that is the final substance —
that out of all is sure,
Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life, what at last finally remains?
When shows break up what but One’s-Self is sure?[12]

Of course our individual identity is shaped, to some degree, by all those collective groupings that existed before us and gave rise to us. They endow us with a basic foundation of personality:

Something long preparing and formless is arrived and form’d in you,
You are henceforth secure, whatever comes or goes.
The threads that were spun are gather’d, the weft crosses the warp,
the pattern is systematic.[13]

Those we encounter throughout life enrich our experience and expand our personal identity. So identity is never static; we are always on a journey. And everyone who has ever influenced us (which means everyone we’ve ever known, and many we haven’t known directly) comes with us:

Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,
I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them, I am fill’d with them.[14]

This is obviously not the familiar “rugged individualism” that sets each American against all others in a race for wealth, power, and success. Here, each individual emerges from, and remains enmeshed in and “fill’d with”, a vast network of others. To understand this new kind of individualism better, we have to understand those crucial adjectives, perfect and free.

To be perfect does not mean we have no faults or never do anything wrong. Like our nation, we are each always caught in the interplay of right and wrong: “How the whirl, the contest, the wrestle of evil with good, the sounding and resounding, keep on.”[15] So perfection is not a moral category in the traditional sense.

Nor is perfection some far distant goal. Perfection is a kind of experience anyone can have at any moment, by being open to the promptings of “the soul.” Again we come across a familiar word that is used in an unfamiliar way.

The soul is not something inside us that is separate from and opposed to the material body. Indeed there is no difference between body and soul; in “I Sing the Body Electric,” after cataloguing all the body parts of man and woman in loving detail, Whitman concludes: “These are not the parts and poems of the body only, but of the soul, O I say now these are the soul!”[16]

Soul is, rather, the entire person in those moments when he or she recognizes their connectedness with every other person and everything. (Some may call this inner spirit, heightened consciousness, fully awakened awareness, or use other words to name it.)

Each individual is the center of an endless web of interconnections, which the awakened soul can feel. This web extends beyond the realm of human relations: “Whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud, And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel’d universe.”[17] To put it somewhat differently, everyone and everything is a link on the same universal chain, “each hook’d to the next, Each answering all, each sharing the earth with all.”[18]

This awareness of universal interconnectedness is the essence of human perfection. The boundaries that seem to separate one person from another and from all the other realities of the world are seen for what they really are: bridges that connect the individual to everyone and everything else. When the soul evokes even a glimpse of perfection, the individual realizes “the plenteousness of all, that there are no bounds.”[19]

In interpersonal relations it goes a step further, to a realization that we each contain in ourselves everything that is contained in anyone else: “In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.”[20] “I swear I will have each quality of my race in myself.”[21]


If we are all parts of the same single pool of humanity — if there are no boundaries that actually separate one from another — then there are no limits to define and confine the individual. Moved by a powerful awareness of his soul, Whitman exclaims:

From this hour, freedom!
From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master total and absolute.[22]

Given the awareness of infinite connection — that each of us contains all others — each individual must extend the freedom they feel to all others:

I am for those that have never been master’d,
For men and women whose tempers have never been master’d,
For those whom laws, theories, conventions, can never master.[23]

Each individual is the “purpose of all, pois’d on yourself, giving not taking law.”[24]

All is eligible to all,
All is for individuals, all is for you,
No condition is prohibited, not God’s or any.[25]

The result of all this freedom is not universal conflict and anarchy, though. A man or woman growing to full perfection will be guided by an inner moral compass because he or she will be religious. For Whitman religion does not mean following the creed of any organized religion but “possessing the idea of the infinite,” which is the “rudder and compass sure amid this troublous voyage, o’er darkest, wildest wave, through stormiest wind, of man’s or nation’s progress.”[26]

Why “rudder and compass”? Because the idea of the infinite stems from the awareness that everyone and everything is part of a web of universal relationship. That experience, in turn, evokes a universal sense of concern for others, of “love, that is pulse of all”[27]

This is less a logical deduction than an immediate intuition:

Swiftly arose and spread around me peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that …
all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love.[28]

“Underneath all is the Expression of love for men and women.”[29] Universal love insures that, in any conflict, we will transcend selfish impulses and seek an orderly resolution that is best for everyone.

In sum, the perfect person extends perfect love, and accords perfect freedom, to everyone. Perfection and freedom are thus two expressions of the same reality: the individual soul.

The soul, like America, is a project — a process with a purpose: to enhance and deepen the individual’s unique way of experiencing limitless perfection and freedom. The soul is the goal of human life, but it is not a distant end point; it is a process constantly available; the process is the goal of life.

The process of each individual soul began long before birth; it is a product of all that has come before it:

For it has history gather’d like husks around the globe…
For it the real to the ideal tends …
Health to emerge and joy, joy universal.[30]

But the perfect freedom of the soul allows each person to explore limitless new roads and discover their own unique identity, their own optimal health and joy, their own way of experiencing and encompassing the totality of humanity and the entire cosmos.

America’s mission is to create perfect and free individuals by awakening and nurturing the soul of every person. Whitman sometimes addresses the “hidden national will” as its soul, saying that his chant to America is for “the soul in thee, electric, spiritual.”[31] Ultimately, though, there can be no national soul apart from the souls of all the individuals who make up the nation:

O I see flashing that this America is only you and me,
Its power, weapons, testimony, are you and me,
Its crimes, lies, thefts, defections, are you and me,
Its Congress is you and me, the officers, capitols, armies, ships,
are you and me.[32]


The souls who have gathered to make up America have created a nation well suited to its mission. There are a number of distinctive features of American life that make it a land where each individual soul can grow and flourish.

There is no doubt that individualism has been, and remains, a dominant feature of the American culture landscape. Though it is rarely the kind of individualism Whitman calls for, the seed of that ideal — the valuing of individual freedom — is certainly already here.

The political expression of individualism is democracy. American democracy, at its best, recognizes the unique value of each person — that each is an equally important link in the universal chain binding all together. “The ever-overarching American ideas” are “the idea of ensemble and of equal brotherhood.”[33] So it is only natural that America is founded on the ideal of every individual having equal worth and dignity, and respecting the worth and dignity of all others.

Whitman knew as well as anyone, and could say more eloquently than most, that American democracy has always been, and still remains, tragically limited and stunted, a faint foreshadowing of what a true democracy would be:

Society, in these States, is canker’d, crude, superstitious, and rotten … [with] the depraving influences of riches just as much as poverty … We live in an atmosphere of hypocrisy throughout. … Using the moral microscope upon humanity, a sort of dry and flat Sahara appears.[34]

But his is a mythic tale. It is not meant to be a snapshot of reality as it exists now. Rather it is a story of the nation’s project, the road that it follows to bring the real ever closer to the ideal, with many “passing errors” and “perturbations” along the way. And there are, in the nation’s past and present, realities that are a partial (sometimes very partial) fulfillment of the ideal. The foundations of the ideal are already set in place, here and now, to point the way.

America has taken some important first steps on the road leading to real democracy. The Declaration of Independence enshrined the “rights of immense masses of people … the American programme, not for classes, but for universal man.” The Constitution, as amended, promised “general suffrage.”[35]

But democracy means much more than just the right to vote:

To be a voter with the rest is not so much; and this, like every institute, will have its imperfections. But to become an enfranchised man, and now, impediments removed, to stand and start without humiliation, and equal with the rest; to commence, or have the road clear’d to commence, the grand experiment of development, whose end … may be the forming of a full-grown man or woman — that is something.[36]

“The main thing,” Whitman writes in the culminating words of “Democratic Vistas,” is “the average, the bodily, the concrete, the democratic, the popular, on which all the superstructures of the future are to permanently rest.”[37] Earlier in the same essay he warns: “Of all dangers to a nation … there can be no greater one than having certain portions of the people set off from the rest by a line drawn — they not privileged as others, but degraded, humiliated, made of no account.”[38]

(As part of America’s process of ever-expanding equality, he calls for “a more universal ownership of property, general homesteads, general comfort — a vast, intertwining reticulation [network] of wealth” and a recognition that woman is “as great, at any rate, as man, in all departments.”[39])

Whitman claims, quite rightly, that American society has already gone far toward prizing the “divine average” person. Often enough, in our literature, film, television, news reports, and the like, the heroes are not from a small group of elite people. The heroes are some average Joe and Jane or Juan and Maria. Any one of us can be a hero.

On this foundation, America is building a future where “the average man of a land at last only is important. He, in these States, remains immortal owner and boss.”[40] An important part of America’s mission is “to teach the average man the glory of his daily walk and trade”[41] and to appreciate the same glory in others:

the noble character of mechanics and farmers …
their manners, speech, dress, friendships, the gait they
have of persons who never knew how it felt to stand in the
presence of superiors.[42]

A true American will stand in awe of the “interminable swarms of alert, turbulent, good-natured, independent citizens … so fresh and free, so loving and so proud,”[43] “the crowds, equality, diversity, the soul loves.”[44]

This is the test of a true, patriotic American:

Are you really of the
whole People? …
Have you too the old ever-fresh forbearance and impartiality?
Do you hold the like love for those hardening to maturity? for the
last-born? little and big? and for the errant?[45]


Human love is central to Whitman’s vision of America. His poem, “For You, O Democracy,” is devoted entirely to this theme:

I will make the continent indissoluble …
With the life-long love of comrades.
I will plant companionship thick as trees along all the rivers of America,
and along the shores of the great lakes, and all over the prairies,
I will make inseparable cities with their arms about each other’s necks,
By the love of comrades.[46]

Though he clearly means to include same-sex erotic love, his praise of love extends to all kinds of interpersonal affection as the key to effective democracy. America’s democratic mission has two complementary sides: “Not that half only, individualism, which isolates. There is another half, which is adhesiveness or love, that fuses, ties and aggregates, making the races comrades, and fraternizing all.”[47]

“Many will say it is a dream,” Whitman confesses.

But I confidently expect a time when there will be seen, running like a half-hid warp through all the myriad audible and visible worldly interests of America, threads of friendship, fond and loving, pure and sweet, strong and life-long … having the deepest relations to general politics. I say democracy infers such loving comradeship, as its most inevitable twin or counterpart, without which it will be incomplete, in vain, and incapable of perpetuating itself.[48]

Genuine democracy  means that every American affirms their indissoluble link with, and concern for, every other American:

Whoever degrades another degrades me,
and whatever is done or said returns at last to me. …
I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy,
By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their
counterpart of on the same terms.[49]

True Americans will say:

I have loved the earth, sun, animals, I have despised riches,
I have given alms to every one that ask’d, stood up for the stupid
and crazy, devoted my income and labor to others,
Hated tyrants, argued not concerning God, had patience and indulgence
toward the people, taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown,
Gone freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young,
and with the mothers of families, …
Claim’d nothing to myself which I have not carefully claim’d for
others on the same terms …
Rejecting none, permitting all.[50]

True Americans will also extend this sense of connection, acceptance, and equality beyond the nation itself. They recognize that America’s borders, like all other borders, are not dividers but connectors, that there is no break in the chain that links each one of us to all of humanity. So the genuine American project can never be one of imposition: “In vain do we march with unprecedented strides to empire so colossal.”[51]

Ultimately, America’s mission is to promote the perfection of limitless freedom and love for all humanity, “Libertad and the divine average, freedom to every slave on the face of the earth.”[52] “O America because you build for mankind I build for you.”[53]


A link with the rest of humanity is inherent in America’s existence and has been from the very beginning. Like the soul, America is the product of all that came before. Its culture has incorporated and shown great respect for the past achievements of foreign lands. All of Old World culture is gathered up in America, “to accept, fuse, rehabilitate”[54] and become part of America’s soul.

Yet America adds new, unique characteristics of its own. One of these is the American people’s undeniable talent for technological innovation and mass production: “We plan even now to raise … thy great cathedral sacred industry.”[55] The “undying soul” of the Old World  is all “here, install’d amid the kitchen ware!”[56]

But this praise of technology does not contradict the qualities of soul; the material is always imbued with the spiritual: “As fuel to flame, and flame to the heavens, so must wealth, science, materialism — even this democracy of which we make so much — unerringly feed the highest mind, the soul. Infinitude the flight: fathomless the mystery.”[57] So within the walls of America’s vast industrial-technological cathedral “shall all that forwards perfect human life be started, Tried, taught, advanced.”[58] And no material thing can ever be permitted to take more importance than human life: “How dare you place any thing before a man?”[59]

Leadership in industry and technology make America the crucial transportation hub linking Europe and Asia, “the inter-transportation of the world … This earth all spann’d with iron rails, with lines of steamships threading every sea.”[60] (Had Whitman lived a few decades longer, he surely would have added airplane routes too.) This also has a spiritual meaning: America can join together all of the world’s population and embrace every cultural heritage because, like the soul, it evokes such a powerful sense of the interconnection of all people. In America, “the orb is enclosed, The ring is circled, the journey is done.”[61]

It’s the culmination of a process of transcending borders that began in the Old World millennia ago:

Lo, soul, seest thou not God’s purpose from the first?
The earth to be spann’d, connected by network,
The races, neighbors, to marry and be given in marriage,
oceans to be cross’d, the distant brought near,
The lands to be welded together.[62]

The same process of bringing distant people together is even more obvious in the American populace itself, which does indeed include a vast number of different ethnicities from all over the world: “Here is not merely a nation but a teeming Nation of nations.”[63]

Thou Union holding all, fusing, absorbing, tolerating all …
Thou, also thou, a World,
With all thy wide geographies, manifold, different, distant,
Rounded by thee in one.[64]

Thou America … surroundest all,
Embracing carrying welcoming all, thou too by pathways broad and new,
To the ideal tendest …
absorbing, comprehending all,
All eligible to all.
All, all for immortality,
Love like the light silently wrapping all.”[65]

America gathers in all of the heritage and peoples of Old World “from afar … To give it our own identity, average, limitless, free.”[66] In this little line the pieces of the mythic picture fall together to create a single narrative: People who are truly free realize that they are limitless. And with all limits transcended — with all boundaries dissolved, with all linked to all on the same universal chain — they realize that everyone else is equally limitless and free, regardless of their station in society. The commitment to equality is precisely why Americans place such high value on their average, ordinary fellow Americans.


Although America absorbs all it is not a “melting pot,” because its ultimate value is the identity of each individual. So there is “always a knit of identity, [but] always distinction”[67] as well. “The diverse shall be no less diverse, but they shall flow and unite — they unite now.”[68] To be sure, America is far from ideal in allowing for diversity amidst its unity. But it has taken important steps on the road toward valuing the distinct identities of the many groups that compose it.

Whitman begins “Democratic Vistas” with this observation: “As the greatest lessons of Nature through the universe are perhaps the lessons of variety and freedom, the same present the greatest lessons also in New World politics and progress.”

He then cites

John Stuart Mill’s profound essay on Liberty in the future, where he demands two main constituents, or sub-strata, for a truly grand nationality — 1st, a large variety of character — and 2d, full play for human nature to expand itself in numberless and even conflicting directions,

and he comments:

seems to be for general humanity much like the influences that make up … the weather — an infinite number of currents and forces, and contributions, and temperatures, and cross purposes, whose ceaseless play of counterpart upon counterpart brings constant restoration and vitality.[69]

The vitality that comes from “an infinite number of currents and forces” is crucial to Whitman’s vision of American life. Much of his poetry is devoted to long, detailed descriptions of an endless variety of American people, places, and things, using vivid language that evokes the sense of energy he sees and feels.

The intimate link between America and nature, which sparked Whitman’s reflection on variety and freedom, is a recurring theme throughout his work, just as it is a recurring theme in American history. Despite obvious trends to the contrary, there has always been an important strain in American life of prizing nature and the natural, from the earliest colonists’ enchantment with the vast “new Eden” to the latest designation of a new national park or wilderness area.

Love of nature leads quite readily to another kind of love that has been a central preoccupation of many Americans, quite publicly in recent decades: love expressed through the body. Whitman was the first major American writer to praise the pleasures of the flesh: “I believe in the flesh and the appetites.”[70] He shocked many by making the point even more explicitly: “And sexual organs and acts! do you concentrate in me, for I am determin’d to tell you with courageous clear voice to prove you illustrious”[71]; “All were lacking if sex were lacking.”[72]

Nature and physical love have always been closely connected with ideas of limitlessness and personal freedom. Whitman writes:

The quality of BEING, in the object’s self, according to its own central idea and purpose … the precious idiosyncrasy and special nativity and intention … and of growing therefrom and thereto — not criticism by other standards, and adjustments thereto — is the lesson of Nature.[73]

The project of America is to emulate nature in this respect, to nurture the same quality of unique growth innate in each individual. In this land people can “hardy, sweet, gigantic grow, here tower,” here create “the new society at last, proportionate to Nature.”[74]

Whitman expands on the lessons America learns from nature as he vividly describes hundreds of places throughout the country, reminding us of the amazing variety of the physical landscape and the importance of treasuring each place in its uniqueness. He sees America’s expansive fields, forests, and mountains fostering a sense of the self as always growing and enlarging. The seemingly limitless American landscape creates an insatiable desire, a powerful sense that the possibilities here are, for everyone, limitless: “It is not enough to have this globe or a certain time, I will have thousands of globes and all time.”[75]


The most authentic way to be an American is to be, like nature, always in process, always restless, always on the move and wanting more:

To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it,
To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it,
To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you,
however long but it stretches and waits for you,
To see no being, not God’s or any, but you also go thither.[76]

All patriotic Americans will always be pioneers, “conquering, holding, daring, venturing as we go the unknown ways.”[77] They “know the universe itself as a road, as many roads,”[78] and they are always on the road. Even in the worst of times, they will be buoyed by a vision of an infinitely better life beckoning farther on up the road: “From imperfection’s murkiest cloud, Darts always forth one ray of perfect light.”[79]

And in a nation whose collective process is a millennial project, any pursuit can be the road to paradise, offering anyone a new way to experience moments of perfection here and now. In a nation dedicated to the freedom to discover and affirm one’s own unique identity, each must find their own road: “Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself.”[80]

Whitman delivers this call for constant change — a call that runs like a unifying thread through all his words, giving them all an aura of hope — with his typical tone of absolute certainty. In the mythology of hope and change that he creates there is no room for doubt or hesitation because the soul does not invent its ideals and values; it discovers them as objective, eternal realities in the cosmos. Thus Whitman’s work passes the first test for a successful new American mythology: an assurance that there are eternal, universal truths and values, which are not merely human creations and thus provide an objective, unshakeable foundation for human life

His work passes all the other tests, too. He affirms individual freedom as the highest value of all. He makes a strong appeal to patriotism, claiming that the values he praises are uniquely American yet reflect the universal truths the awakened soul discovers. He offers continuity with the mythic past by building on a long list of distinctively American traits and traditions: individualism, democracy, prizing the average person, a rich mix of ethnicities, technology, nature and the great outdoors, pleasures of the flesh, the pioneering spirit, adventure and unlimited horizons, constant movement, constant hope for a better future, endless desire, millennial expectation, and more. And he offers it all with the authority of a truly great figure from the nation’s past.

The American tale Whitman tells also pits the nation’s values against their opposites, creating a moral drama of good versus evil on a global scale. Yet he avoids the pitfalls of the myths of hope and change that have dominated in the past. His insistence that each individual contains all the qualities of humanity — that each is link in a universal chain encompassing both good and evil — makes it impossible to divide the world into the “virtuous” people and the “evildoers.” This vision of unity extends to nations as well as individuals, with all borders becoming connecting bridges. So his America cannot be pitted against perceived enemies.

Whitman’s words, so infused with exuberant hope, banish any fear of fundamental change. He praises change as not merely inevitable, but something to be welcomed, an endlessly exciting opportunity. Finally, his distinctive vision of perfection — traveling the constantly changing road to an ideal future as itself the highest ideal — averts any frustrating clash between future hope and present reality.

In all these ways, Whitman’s work offers the basis for a new mythology of hope and change that can avoid the anxiety and insecurity that has so often marked the dominant myths of hope and change.

Whitman’s praises of America are often dismissed as the fantasies of an unrealistic optimist. It is easy enough to list all the ways in which America has failed, and still fails, to live up to the ideal nation he describes — and a very long list it would be. It is even easier to simply read the passages in which Whitman has already done that job of indictment for us, in words more eloquent and sharply stinging than any we are likely to come up with.

But the point he is making, implicitly, throughout his work is that such litanies of complaint will not make anything better for anyone. Genuine change can come only from the kind of hope that inspired him, that kept him pointing out the road toward the fulfillment of the nation’s highest aspirations:

Then noiseless, with flowing steps, the lord, the sun, the last ideal comes. By the names right, justice, truth, we suggest, but do not describe it. To the world of men it remains a dream, an idea as they call it. But no dream is it to the wise — but the proudest, almost only solid lasting thing of all.[81]

In Whitman’s mythology, it makes no sense to condemn ourselves for failing to reach the end of the road and achieve the last, the highest ideal. Because the road to a better future has no end. The true fulfillment comes simply (though it’s actually no simple matter at all) from traveling the road continually, resisting the temptation to abandon it.

If we give in to that temptation, then America, its true meaning, and all that it can contribute to the world are lost. But “if we are lost, no victor else has destroy’d us, It is by ourselves we go down to eternal night.”[82]

We are all responsible not only for ourselves but for the whole nation, the whole web of which we are each a part: “America is only you and me.” “I dare not shirk any part of myself, Not any part of America good or bad.”[83] The fate of the nation remains up to us.

[4] Thou Mother With Thy Equal Brood; Our Old Feuillage

[5] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 10

[7] Song of the Redwood Tree

[8] Song of the Open Road 9

[10] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 8

[11] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 15

[14] Song of the Open Road 1

[16] I Sing the Body Electric 5

[21] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 16

[23] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 17

[24] Song of the Redwood Tree

[25] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 3

[27] The Mystic Trumpeter

[29] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 16

[30] Song of the Universal 2

[31] Song of the Exposition

[32] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 17

[41] Song of the Exposition 9

[42] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 6

[44] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 5

[45] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 12

[46] For You, O Democracy

[50] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 14

[52] As I Walk These Broad Majestic Days

[53] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 8

[54] Song of the Exposition 1

[55] Song of the Exposition 5

[56] Song of the Exposition 3

[58] Song of the Exposition 5

[59] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 13

[60] Song of the Exposition 7

[63] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 5

[64] Song of the Exposition 8

[65] Song of the Universal 4

[66] Song of the Exposition 1

[72] A Woman Waits for Me

[74] Song of the Redwood Tree

[76] Song of the Open Road 13

[77] Pioneers! O, Pioneers!

[78] Song of the Open Road 13

[79] Song of the Universal 3

[82] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 2

[83] By Blue Ontario’s Shore 17

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