During the summer of 1867 I had the opportunity (which I had often wished
for) of expressing in print my estimate and admiration of the works of the
American poet Walt Whitman.[1] Like a stone dropped into a pond, an article
of that sort may spread out its concentric circles of consequences. One of
these is the invitation which I have received to edit a selection from
Whitman's writings; virtually the first sample of his work ever published
in England, and offering the first tolerably fair chance he has had of
making his way with English readers on his own showing. Hitherto, such
readers--except the small percentage of them to whom it has happened to
come across the poems in some one of their American editions--have picked
acquaintance with them only through the medium of newspaper extracts and
criticisms, mostly short-sighted, sneering, and depreciatory, and rather
intercepting than forwarding the candid construction which people might be
willing to put upon the poems, alike in their beauties and their
aberrations. Some English critics, no doubt, have been more discerning--as
W. J. Fox, of old, in the _Dispatch_, the writer of the notice in the
_Leader_, and of late two in the _Pall Mall Gazette_ and the _London
Review_;[2] but these have been the exceptions among us, the great majority
of the reviewers presenting that happy and familiar critical combination--
scurrility and superciliousness.
[Footnote 1: See _The Chronicle_ for 6th July 1867, article _Walt Whitman's
Poems_.]
[Footnote 2: Since this Prefatory Notice was written [in 1868], another
eulogistic review of Whitman has appeared--that by Mr. Robert Buchanan, in
the _Broadway_.]
As it was my lot to set down so recently several of the considerations
which seem to me most essential and most obvious in regard to Whitman's
writings, I can scarcely now recur to the subject without either repeating
something of what I then said, or else leaving unstated some points of
principal importance. I shall therefore adopt the simplest course--that of
summarising the critical remarks in my former article; after which, I shall
leave without further development (ample as is the amount of development
most of them would claim) the particular topics there glanced at, and shall
proceed to some other phases of the subject.
Whitman republished in 1867 his complete poetical works in one moderate-
sized volume, consisting of the whole _Leaves of Grass_, with a sort of
supplement thereto named _Songs before Parting_,[3] and of the _Drum Taps_,
with its _Sequel_. It has been intimated that he does not expect to write
any more poems, unless it might be in expression of the religious side of
man's nature. However, one poem on the last American harvest sown and
reaped by those who had been soldiers in the great war, has already
appeared since the volume in question, and has been republished in England.
[Footnote 3: In a copy of the book revised by Whitman himself, which we
have seen, this title is modified into _Songs of Parting_.]
Whitman's poems present no trace of rhyme, save in a couple or so of chance
instances. Parts of them, indeed, may be regarded as a warp of prose amid
the weft of poetry, such as Shakespeare furnishes the precedent for in
drama. Still there is a very powerful and majestic rhythmical sense
throughout.
Lavish and persistent has been the abuse poured forth upon Whitman by his
own countrymen; the tricklings of the British press give but a moderate
idea of it. The poet is known to repay scorn with scorn. Emerson can,
however, from the first be claimed as on Whitman's side; nor, it is
understood after some inquiry, has that great thinker since then retreated
from this position in fundamentals, although his admiration may have
entailed some worry upon him, and reports of his recantation have been
rife. Of other writers on Whitman's side, expressing themselves with no
measured enthusiasm, one may cite Mr. M. D. Conway; Mr. W. D. O'Connor, who
wrote a pamphlet named _The Good Grey Poet_; and Mr. John Burroughs, author
of _Walt Whitman as Poet and Person_, published quite recently in New York.
His thorough-paced admirers declare Whitman to be beyond rivalry _the_ poet
of the epoch; an estimate which, startling as it will sound at the first,
may nevertheless be upheld, on the grounds that Whitman is beyond all his
competitors a man of the period, one of audacious personal ascendant,
incapable of all compromise, and an initiator in the scheme and form of his
works.
Certain faults are charged against him, and, as far as they are true, shall
frankly stand confessed--some of them as very serious faults. Firstly, he
speaks on occasion of gross things in gross, crude, and plain terms.
Secondly, he uses some words absurd or ill-constructed, others which
produce a jarring effect in poetry, or indeed in any lofty literature.
Thirdly, he sins from time to time by being obscure, fragmentary, and
agglomerative--giving long strings of successive and detached items, not,
however, devoid of a certain primitive effectiveness. Fourthly, his self-
assertion is boundless; yet not always to be understood as strictly or
merely personal to himself, but sometimes as vicarious, the poet speaking
on behalf of all men, and every man and woman. These and any other faults
appear most harshly on a cursory reading; Whitman is a poet who bears and
needs to be read as a whole, and then the volume and torrent of his power
carry the disfigurements along with it, and away.
The subject-matter of Whitman's poems, taken individually, is absolutely
miscellaneous: he touches upon any and every subject. But he has prefixed
to his last edition an "Inscription" in the following terms, showing that
the key-words of the whole book are two--"One's-self" and "En Masse:"--
Small is the theme of the following chant, yet the greatest.--namely,
ONE'S-SELF; that wondrous thing, a simple separate person. That, for the
use of the New World, I sing. Man's physiology complete, from top to toe, I
sing. Not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone, is worthy for the Muse: I say
the form complete is worthier far. The female equally with the male I sing.
Nor cease at the theme of One's-self. I speak the word of the modern, the
word EN MASSE. My days I sing, and the lands--with interstice I knew of
hapless war. O friend, whoe'er you are, at last arriving hither to
commence, I feel through every leaf the pressure of your hand, which I
return. And thus upon our journey linked together let us go.
The book, then, taken as a whole, is the poem both of Personality and of
Democracy; and, it may be added, of American nationalism. It is _par
excellence_ the modern poem. It is distinguished also by this peculiarity--
that in it the most literal view of things is continually merging into the
most rhapsodic or passionately abstract. Picturesqueness it has, but mostly
of a somewhat patriarchal kind, not deriving from the "word-painting" of
the _littérateur_; a certain echo of the old Hebrew poetry may even be
caught in it, extra-modern though it is. Another most prominent and
pervading quality of the book is the exuberant physique of the author. The
conceptions are throughout those of a man in robust health, and might alter
much under different conditions.
Further, there is a strong tone of paradox in Whitman's writings. He is
both a realist and an optimist in extreme measure: he contemplates evil as
in some sense not existing, or, if existing, then as being of as much
importance as anything else. Not that he is a materialist; on the contrary,
he is a most strenuous assertor of the soul, and, with the soul, of the
body as its infallible associate and vehicle in the present frame of
things. Neither does he drift into fatalism or indifferentism; the energy
of his temperament, and ever-fresh sympathy with national and other
developments, being an effectual bar to this. The paradoxical element of
the poems is such that one may sometimes find them in conflict with what
has preceded, and would not be much surprised if they said at any moment
the reverse of whatever they do say. This is mainly due to the multiplicity
of the aspects of things, and to the immense width of relation in which
Whitman stands to all sorts and all aspects of them.
But the greatest of this poet's distinctions is his absolute and entire
originality. He may be termed formless by those who, not without much
reason to show for themselves, are wedded to the established forms and
ratified refinements of poetic art; but it seems reasonable to enlarge the
canon till it includes so great and startling a genius, rather than to draw
it close and exclude him. His work is practically certain to stand as
archetypal for many future poetic efforts--so great is his power as an
originator, so fervid his initiative. It forms incomparably the _largest_
performance of our period in poetry. Victor Hugo's _Légende des Siècles_
alone might be named with it for largeness, and even that with much less of
a new starting-point in conception and treatment. Whitman breaks with all
precedent. To what he himself perceives and knows he has a personal
relation of the intensest kind: to anything in the way of prescription, no
relation at all. But he is saved from isolation by the depth of his
Americanism; with the movement of his predominant nation he is moved. His
comprehension, energy, and tenderness are all extreme, and all inspired by
actualities. And, as for poetic genius, those who, without being ready to
concede that faculty to Whitman, confess his iconoclastic boldness and his
Titanic power of temperament, working in the sphere of poetry, do in effect
confess his genius as well.
Such, still further condensed, was the critical summary which I gave of
Whitman's position among poets. It remains to say something a little more
precise of the particular qualities of his works. And first, not to slur
over defects, I shall extract some sentences from a letter which a friend,
most highly entitled to form and express an opinion on any poetic
question--one, too, who abundantly upholds the greatness of Whitman as a
poet--has addressed to me with regard to the criticism above condensed. His
observations, though severe on this individual point, appear to me not
other than correct. "I don't think that you quite put strength enough into
your blame on one side, while you make at least enough of minor faults or
eccentricities. To me it seems always that Whitman's great flaw is a fault
of debility, not an excess of strength--I mean his bluster. His own
personal and national self-reliance and arrogance, I need not tell you, I
applaud, and sympathise and rejoice in; but the blatant ebullience of
feeling and speech, at times, is feeble for so great a poet of so great a
people. He is in part certainly the poet of democracy; but not wholly,
_because_ he tries so openly to be, and asserts so violently that he is--
always as if he was fighting the case out on a platform. This is the only
thing I really or greatly dislike or revolt from. On the whole" (adds my
correspondent), "my admiration and enjoyment of his greatness grow keener
and warmer every time I think of him"--a feeling, I may be permitted to
observe, which is fully shared by myself, and, I suppose, by all who
consent in any adequate measure to recognise Whitman, and to yield
themselves to his influence.
To continue. Besides originality and daring, which have been already
insisted upon, width and intensity are leading characteristics of his
writings--width both of subject-matter and of comprehension, intensity of
self-absorption into what the poet contemplates and expresses. He scans and
presents an enormous panorama, unrolled before him as from a mountain-top;
and yet, whatever most large or most minute or casual thing his eye glances
upon, that he enters into with a depth of affection which identifies him
with it for a time, be the object what it may. There is a singular
interchange also of actuality and of ideal substratum and suggestion. While
he sees men, with even abnormal exactness and sympathy, as men, he sees
them also "as trees walking," and admits us to perceive that the whole show
is in a measure spectral and unsubstantial, and the mask of a larger and
profounder reality beneath it, of which it is giving perpetual intimations
and auguries. He is the poet indeed of literality, but of passionate and
significant literality, full of indirections as well as directness, and of
readings between the lines. If he is the 'cutest of Yankees, he is also as
truly an enthusiast as any the most typical poet. All his faculties and
performance glow into a white heat of brotherliness; and there is a
_poignancy_ both of tenderness and of beauty about his finer works which
discriminates them quite as much as their modernness, audacity, or any
other exceptional point. If the reader wishes to see the great and more
intimate powers of Whitman in their fullest expression, he may consult the
_Nocturn for the Death of Lincoln_; than which it would be difficult to
find anywhere a purer, more elevated, more poetic, more ideally abstract,
or at the same time more pathetically personal, threnody--uniting the
thrilling chords of grief, of beauty, of triumph, and of final unfathomed
satisfaction. With all his singularities, Whitman is a master of words and
of sounds: he has them at his command--made for, and instinct with, his
purpose--messengers of unsurpassable sympathy and intelligence between
himself and his readers. The entire book may be called the paean of the
natural man--not of the merely physical, still less of the disjunctively
intellectual or spiritual man, but of him who, being a man first and
foremost, is therein also a spirit and an intellect.
There is a singular and impressive intuition or revelation of Swedenborg's:
that the whole of heaven is in the form of one man, and the separate
societies of heaven in the forms of the several parts of man. In a large
sense, the general drift of Whitman's writings, even down to the passages
which read as most bluntly physical, bear a striking correspondence or
analogy to this dogma. He takes man, and every organism and faculty of man,
as the unit--the datum--from which all that we know, discern, and
speculate, of abstract and supersensual, as well as of concrete and
sensual, has to be computed. He knows of nothing nobler than that unit man;
but, knowing that, he can use it for any multiple, and for any dynamical
extension or recast.
Let us next obtain some idea of what this most remarkable poet--the founder
of _American_ poetry rightly to be so called, and the most sonorous poetic
voice of the tangibilities of actual and prospective democracy--is in his
proper life and person.
Walt Whitman was born at the farm-village of West Hills, Long Island, in
the State of New York, and about thirty miles distant from the capital, on
the 31st of May 1819. His father's family, English by origin, had already
been settled in this locality for five generations. His mother, named
Louisa van Velsor, was of Dutch extraction, and came from Cold Spring,
Queen's County, about three miles from West Hills. "A fine-looking old
lady" she has been termed in her advanced age. A large family ensued from
the marriage. The father was a farmer, and afterwards a carpenter and
builder; both parents adhered in religion to "the great Quaker iconoclast,
Elias Hicks." Walt was schooled at Brooklyn, a suburb of New York, and
began life at the age of thirteen, working as a printer, later on as a
country teacher, and then as a miscellaneous press-writer in New York. From
1837 to 1848 he had, as Mr. Burroughs too promiscuously expresses it,
"sounded all experiences of life, with all their passions, pleasures, and
abandonments." In 1849 he began travelling, and became at New Orleans a
newspaper editor, and at Brooklyn, two years afterwards, a printer. He next
followed his father's business of carpenter and builder. In 1862, after the
breaking-out of the great Civil War, in which his enthusiastic unionism and
also his anti-slavery feelings attached him inseparably though not
rancorously to the good cause of the North, he undertook the nursing of the
sick and wounded in the field, writing also a correspondence in the _New
York Times_. I am informed that it was through Emerson's intervention that
he obtained the sanction of President Lincoln for this purpose of charity,
with authority to draw the ordinary army rations; Whitman stipulating at
the same time that he would not receive any remuneration for his services.
The first immediate occasion of his going down to camp was on behalf of his
brother, Lieutenant-Colonel George W. Whitman, of the 51st New York
Veterans, who had been struck in the face by a piece of shell at
Fredericksburg. From the spring of 1863 this nursing, both in the field and
more especially in hospital at Washington, became his "one daily and
nightly occupation;" and the strongest testimony is borne to his
measureless self-devotion and kindliness in the work, and to the unbounded
fascination, a kind of magnetic attraction and ascendency, which he
exercised over the patients, often with the happiest sanitary results.
Northerner or Southerner, the belligerents received the same tending from
him. It is said that by the end of the war he had personally ministered to
upwards of 100,000 sick and wounded. In a Washington hospital he caught, in
the summer of 1864, the first illness he had ever known, caused by poison
absorbed into the system in attending some of the worst cases of gangrene.
It disabled him for six months. He returned to the hospitals towards the
beginning of 1865, and obtained also a clerkship in the Department of the
Interior. It should be added that, though he never actually joined the army
as a combatant, he made a point of putting down his name on the enrolment-
lists for the draft, to take his chance as it might happen for serving the
country in arms. The reward of his devotedness came at the end of June
1865, in the form of dismissal from his clerkship by the minister, Mr.
Harlan, who learned that Whitman was the author of the _Leaves of Grass_; a
book whose outspokenness, or (as the official chief considered it)
immorality, raised a holy horror in the ministerial breast. The poet,
however, soon obtained another modest but creditable post in the office of
the Attorney-General. He still visits the hospitals on Sundays, and often
on other days as well.
The portrait of Mr. Whitman reproduced in the present volume is taken from
an engraving after a daguerreotype given in the original _Leaves of Grass_.
He is much above the average size, and noticeably well-proportioned--a
model of physique and of health, and, by natural consequence, as fully and
finely related to all physical facts by his bodily constitution as to all
mental and spiritual facts by his mind and his consciousness. He is now,
however, old-looking for his years, and might even (according to the
statement of one of his enthusiasts, Mr. O'Connor) have passed for being
beyond the age for the draft when the war was going on. The same gentleman,
in confutation of any inferences which might be drawn from the _Leaves of
Grass_ by a Harlan or other Holy Willie, affirms that "one more
irreproachable in his relations to the other sex lives not upon this
earth"--an assertion which one must take as one finds it, having neither
confirmatory nor traversing evidence at hand. Whitman has light blue eyes,
a florid complexion, a fleecy beard now grey, and a quite peculiar sort of
magnetism about him in relation to those with whom he comes in contact. His
ordinary appearance is masculine and cheerful: he never shows depression of
spirits, and is sufficiently undemonstrative, and even somewhat silent in
company. He has always been carried by predilection towards the society of
the common people; but is not the less for that open to refined and
artistic impressions--fond of operatic and other good music, and discerning
in works of art. As to either praise or blame of what he writes, he is
totally indifferent, not to say scornful--having in fact a very decisive
opinion of his own concerning its calibre and destinies. Thoreau, a very
congenial spirit, said of Whitman, "He is Democracy;" and again, "After
all, he suggests something a little more than human." Lincoln broke out
into the exclamation, "Well, _he_ looks like a man!" Whitman responded to
the instinctive appreciation of the President, considering him (it is said
by Mr. Burroughs) "by far the noblest and purest of the political
characters of the time;" and, if anything can cast, in the eyes of
posterity, an added halo of brightness round the unsullied personal
qualities and the great doings of Lincoln, it will assuredly be the written
monument reared to him by Whitman.
The best sketch that I know of Whitman as an accessible human individual is
that given by Mr. Conway.[4] I borrow from it the following few details.
"Having occasion to visit New York soon after the appearance of Walt
Whitman's book, I was urged by some friends to search him out.... The day
was excessively hot, the thermometer at nearly 100°, and the sun blazed
down as only on sandy Long Island can the sun blaze.... I saw stretched
upon his back, and gazing up straight at the terrible sun, the man I was
seeking. With his grey clothing, his blue-grey shirt, his iron-grey hair,
his swart sunburnt face and bare neck, he lay upon the brown-and-white
grass--for the sun had burnt away its greenness--and was so like the earth
upon which he rested that he seemed almost enough a part of it for one to
pass by without recognition. I approached him, gave my name and reason for
searching him out, and asked him if he did not find the sun rather hot.
'Not at all too hot,' was his reply; and he confided to me that this was
one of his favourite places and attitudes for composing 'poems.' He then
walked with me to his home, and took me along its narrow ways to his room.
A small room of about fifteen feet square, with a single window looking out
on the barren solitudes of the island; a small cot; a wash-stand with a
little looking-glass hung over it from a tack in the wall; a pine table
with pen, ink, and paper on it; an old line-engraving representing Bacchus,
hung on the wall, and opposite a similar one of Silenus: these constituted
the visible environments of Walt Whitman. There was not, apparently, a
single book in the room.... The books he seemed to know and love best were
the Bible, Homer, and Shakespeare: these he owned, and probably had in his
pockets while we were talking. He had two studies where he read; one was
the top of an omnibus, and the other a small mass of sand, then entirely
uninhabited, far out in the ocean, called Coney Island.... The only
distinguished contemporary he had ever met was the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher,
of Brooklyn, who had visited him.... He confessed to having no talent for
industry, and that his forte was 'loafing and writing poems:' he was poor,
but had discovered that he could, on the whole, live magnificently on bread
and water.... On no occasion did he laugh, nor indeed did I ever see him
smile."
[Footnote 4: In the _Fortnightly Review_, 15th October 1866.]
The first trace of Whitman as a writer is in the pages of the _Democratic
Review_ in or about 1841. Here he wrote some prose tales and sketches--poor
stuff mostly, so far as I have seen of them, yet not to be wholly
confounded with the commonplace. One of them is a tragic school-incident,
which may be surmised to have fallen under his personal observation in his
early experience as a teacher. His first poem of any sort was named _Blood
Money_, in denunciation of the Fugitive Slave Law, which severed him from
the Democratic party. His first considerable work was the _Leaves of
Grass_. He began it in 1853, and it underwent two or three complete
rewritings prior to its publication at Brooklyn in 1855, in a quarto
volume--peculiar-looking, but with something perceptibly artistic about it.
The type of that edition was set up entirely by himself. He was moved to
undertake this formidable poetic work (as indicated in a private letter of
Whitman's, from which Mr. Conway has given a sentence or two) by his sense
of the great materials which America could offer for a really American
poetry, and by his contempt for the current work of his
compatriots--"either the poetry of an elegantly weak sentimentalism, at
bottom nothing but maudlin puerilities or more or less musical verbiage,
arising out of a life of depression and enervation as their result; or else
that class of poetry, plays, &c., of which the foundation is feudalism,
with its ideas of lords and ladies, its imported standard of gentility, and
the manners of European high-life-below-stairs in every line and verse."
Thus incited to poetic self-expression, Whitman (adds Mr. Conway) "wrote on
a sheet of paper, in large letters, these words, 'Make the Work,' and fixed
it above his table, where he could always see it whilst writing.
Thenceforth every cloud that flitted over him, every distant sail, every
face and form encountered, wrote a line in his book."
The _Leaves of Grass_ excited no sort of notice until a letter from
Emerson[5] appeared, expressing a deep sense of its power and magnitude. He
termed it "the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has
yet contributed."
[Footnote 5: Mr. Burroughs (to whom I have recourse for most biographical
facts concerning Whitman) is careful to note, in order that no
misapprehension may arise on the subject, that, up to the time of his
publishing the _Leaves of Grass_, the author had not read either the essays
or the poems of Emerson.]
The edition of about a thousand copies sold off in less than a year.
Towards the end of 1856 a second edition in 16mo appeared, printed in New
York, also of about a thousand copies. Its chief feature was an additional
poem beginning "A Woman waits for me." It excited a considerable storm.
Another edition, of about four to five thousand copies, duodecimo, came out
at Boston in 1860-61, including a number of new pieces. The _Drum Taps_,
consequent upon the war, with their _Sequel_, which comprises the poem on
Lincoln, followed in 1865; and in 1867, as I have already noted, a complete
edition of all the poems, including a supplement named _Songs before
Parting_. The first of all the _Leaves of Grass_, in point of date, was the
long and powerful composition entitled _Walt Whitman_--perhaps the most
typical and memorable of all of his productions, but shut out from the
present selection for reasons given further on. The final edition shows
numerous and considerable variations from all its precursors; evidencing
once again that Whitman is by no means the rough-and-ready writer,
panoplied in rude art and egotistic self-sufficiency, that many people
suppose him to be. Even since this issue, the book has been slightly
revised by its author's own hand, with a special view to possible English
circulation. The copy so revised has reached me (through the liberal and
friendly hands of Mr. Conway) after my selection had already been decided
on; and the few departures from the last printed text which might on
comparison be found in the present volume are due to my having had the
advantage of following this revised copy. In all other respects I have felt
bound to reproduce the last edition, without so much as considering whether
here and there I might personally prefer the readings of the earlier
issues.
The selection here offered to the English reader contains a little less
than half the entire bulk of Whitman's poetry. My choice has proceeded upon
two simple rules: first, to omit entirely every poem which could with any
tolerable fairness be deemed offensive to the feelings of morals or
propriety in this peculiarly nervous age; and, second, to include every
remaining poem which appeared to me of conspicuous beauty or interest. I
have also inserted the very remarkable prose preface which Whitman printed
in the original edition of _Leaves of Grass_, an edition that has become a
literary rarity. This preface has not been reproduced in any later
publication, although its materials have to some extent been worked up into
poems of a subsequent date.[6] From this prose composition, contrary to
what has been my rule with any of the poems, it has appeared to me
permissible to omit two or three short phrases which would have shocked
ordinary readers, and the retention of which, had I held it obligatory,
would have entailed the exclusion of the preface itself as a whole.
[Footnote 6: Compare, for instance, the Preface, pp. 38, 39, with the poem
_To a Foiled Revolter or Revoltress_, p. 133.]
A few words must be added as to the indecencies scattered through Whitman's
writings. Indecencies or improprieties--or, still better, deforming
crudities--they may rightly be termed; to call them immoralities would be
going too far. Whitman finds himself, and other men and women, to be a
compound of soul and body; he finds that body plays an extremely prominent
and determining part in whatever he and other mundane dwellers have
cognisance of; he perceives this to be the necessary condition of things,
and therefore, as he fully and openly accepts it, the right condition; and
he knows of no reason why what is universally seen and known, necessary and
right, should not also be allowed and proclaimed in speech. That such a
view of the matter is entitled to a great deal of weight, and at any rate
to candid consideration and construction, appears to me not to admit of a
doubt: neither is it dubious that the contrary view, the only view which a
mealy-mouthed British nineteenth century admits as endurable, amounts to
the condemnation of nearly every great or eminent literary work of past
time, whatever the century it belongs to, the country it comes from, the
department of writing it illustrates, or the degree or sort of merit it
possesses. Tenth, second, or first century before Christ--first, eighth,
fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth, or even eighteenth century
A.D.--it is still the same: no book whose subject-matter admits as possible
of an impropriety according to current notions can be depended upon to fail
of containing such impropriety,--can, if those notions are accepted as the
canon, be placed with a sense of security in the hands of girls and youths,
or read aloud to women; and this holds good just as much of severely moral
or plainly descriptive as of avowedly playful, knowing, or licentious
books. For my part, I am far from thinking that earlier state of
literature, and the public feeling from which it sprang, the wrong ones--
and our present condition the only right one. Equally far, therefore, am I
from indignantly condemning Whitman for every startling allusion or
expression which he has admitted into his book, and which I, from motives
of policy, have excluded from this selection; except, indeed, that I think
many of his tabooed passages are extremely raw and ugly on the ground of
poetic or literary art, whatever aspect they may bear in morals. I have
been rigid in exclusion, because it appears to me highly desirable that a
fair verdict on Whitman should now be pronounced in England on poetic
grounds alone; and because it was clearly impossible that the book, with
its audacities of topic and of expression included, should run the same
chance of justice, and of circulation through refined minds and hands,
which may possibly be accorded to it after the rejection of all such
peccant poems. As already intimated, I have not in a single instance
excised any _parts_ of poems: to do so would have been, I conceive, no less
wrongful towards the illustrious American than repugnant, and indeed
unendurable, to myself, who aspire to no Bowdlerian honours. The
consequence is, that the reader loses _in toto_ several important poems,
and some extremely fine ones--notably the one previously alluded to, of
quite exceptional value and excellence, entitled _Walt Whitman_. I
sacrifice them grudgingly; and yet willingly, because I believe this to be
the only thing to do with due regard to the one reasonable object which a
selection can subserve--that of paving the way towards the issue and
unprejudiced reception of a complete edition of the poems in England. For
the benefit of misconstructionists, let me add in distinct terms that, in
respect of morals and propriety, I neither admire nor approve the
incriminated passages in Whitman's poems, but, on the contrary, consider
that most of them would be much better away; and, in respect of art, I
doubt whether even one of them deserves to be retained in the exact
phraseology it at present exhibits. This, however, does not amount to
saying that Whitman is a vile man, or a corrupt or corrupting writer; he is
none of these.
The only division of his poems into sections, made by Whitman himself, has
been noted above: _Leaves of Grass_, _Songs before Parting_, supplementary
to the preceding, and _Drum Taps_, with their _Sequel_. The peculiar title,
_Leaves of Grass_, has become almost inseparable from the name of Whitman;
it seems to express with some aptness the simplicity, universality, and
spontaneity of the poems to which it is applied. _Songs before Parting_ may
indicate that these compositions close Whitman's poetic roll. _Drum Taps_
are, of course, songs of the Civil War, and their _Sequel_ is mainly on the
same theme: the chief poem in this last section being the one on the death
of Lincoln. These titles all apply to fully arranged series of
compositions. The present volume is not in the same sense a fully arranged
series, but a selection: and the relation of the poems _inter se_ appears
to me to depend on altered conditions, which, however narrowed they are, it
may be as well frankly to recognise in practice. I have therefore
redistributed the poems (a latitude of action which I trust the author may
not object to), bringing together those whose subject-matter seems to
warrant it, however far separated they may possibly be in the original
volume. At the same time, I have retained some characteristic terms used by
Whitman himself, and have named my sections respectively--
1. Chants Democratic (poems of democracy).
2. Drum Taps (war songs).
3. Walt Whitman (personal poems).
4. Leaves of Grass (unclassified poems).
5. Songs of Parting (missives).
The first three designations explain themselves. The fourth, _Leaves of
Grass_, is not so specially applicable to the particular poems of that
section here as I should have liked it to be; but I could not consent to
drop this typical name. The _Songs of Parting_, my fifth section, are
compositions in which the poet expresses his own sentiment regarding his
works, in which he forecasts their future, or consigns them to the reader's
consideration. It deserves mention that, in the copy of Whitman's last
American edition revised by his own hand, as previously noticed, the series
termed _Songs of Parting_ has been recast, and made to consist of poems of
the same character as those included in my section No. 5.
Comparatively few of Whitman's poems have been endowed by himself with
titles properly so called. Most of them are merely headed with the opening
words of the poems themselves--as "I was looking a long while;" "To get
betimes in Boston Town;" "When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed;" and
so on. It seems to me that in a selection such a lengthy and circuitous
method of identifying the poems is not desirable: I should wish them to be
remembered by brief, repeatable, and significant titles. I have therefore
supplied titles of my own to such pieces as bear none in the original
edition: wherever a real title appears in that edition, I have retained it.
With these remarks I commend to the English reader the ensuing selection
from a writer whom I sincerely believe to be, whatever his faults, of the
order of _great_ poets, and by no means of pretty good ones. I would urge
the reader not to ask himself, and not to return any answer to the
questions, whether or not this poet is like other poets--whether or not the
particular application of rules of art which is found to hold good in the
works of those others, and to constitute a part of their excellence, can be
traced also in Whitman. Let the questions rather be--Is he powerful? Is he
American? Is he new? Is he rousing? Does he feel and make me feel? I
entertain no doubt as to the response which in due course of time will be
returned to these questions and such as these, in America, in England, and
elsewhere--or to the further question, "Is Whitman then indeed a true and a
great poet?" Lincoln's verdict bespeaks the ultimate decision upon him, in
his books as in his habit as he lives--"Well, _he_ looks like a man."
Walt Whitman occupies at the present moment a unique position on the globe,
and one which, even in past time, can have been occupied by only an
infinitesimally small number of men. He is the one man who entertains and
professes respecting himself the grave conviction that he is the actual and
prospective founder of a new poetic literature, and a great one--a
literature proportional to the material vastness and the unmeasured
destinies of America: he believes that the Columbus of the continent or the
Washington of the States was not more truly than himself in the future a
founder and upbuilder of this America. Surely a sublime conviction, and
expressed more than once in magnificent words--none more so than the lines
beginning
"Come, I will make this continent indissoluble."[7]
[Footnote 7: See the poem headed _Love of Comrades_, p. 308.]
Were the idea untrue, it would still be a glorious dream, which a man of
genius might be content to live in and die for: but is it untrue? Is it
not, on the contrary, true, if not absolutely, yet with a most genuine and
substantial approximation? I believe it _is_ thus true. I believe that
Whitman is one of the huge, as yet mainly unrecognised, forces of our time;
privileged to evoke, in a country hitherto still asking for its poet, a
fresh, athletic, and American poetry, and predestined to be traced up to by
generation after generation of believing and ardent--let us hope not
servile--disciples.
"Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world." Shelley, who knew
what he was talking about when poetry was the subject, has said it, and
with a profundity of truth Whitman seems in a peculiar degree marked out
for "legislation" of the kind referred to. His voice will one day be
potential or magisterial wherever the English language is spoken--that is
to say, in the four corners of the earth; and in his own American
hemisphere, the uttermost avatars of democracy will confess him not more
their announcer than their inspirer.
1868.
W. M. ROSSETTI.
_N.B._--The above prefatory notice was written in 1868, and is reproduced
practically unaltered. Were it to be brought up to the present date, 1886,
I should have to mention Whitman's books _Two Rivulets_ and _Specimen-days
and Collect_, and the fact that for several years past he has been
partially disabled by a paralytic attack. He now lives at Camden, New
Jersey.
1886.
W. M. R.