All right, this post might be a bit of a stretch, but bear with me on some ideas I had/have about a difference between the 1855 Leaves of Grass and the 1892 Leaves of Grass, particularly in nuances between the two versions of “Song of Myself.” In the 1855 version of this poem, Whitman names the months and days just as we would name them today: January and February and March, Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday, etc. However, in the 1892 version, Whitman rejects the use of these common names and instead replaces them with First-month, Second-month, First-day, Second-day, and so on. In no place in the 1892 version of “Song of Myself” can be located the actual name of a month or day.
After noticing this, I started to poke around about the etymology and history of the months and days. Although it seems that much is unknown about the history of these names, the most well-accepted origin and explanation is that the calendar as well as these divisions was established by the late Roman Empire, furthered by the Christian church, and widely assimilated into standardized use by the British Empire. The days were originally named after Greek (and later substituted for Roman) gods. Later, Germanic groups substituted similar gods for the Roman gods until the list became something like, Sun’s day, Moon’s day, Tiu’s day, Woden’s day, Thor’s day, Freya’s day, and Saturn’s day. The Christian church maintained and encouraged the division of the seven day week as biblically, God created the world in six days and rested on the seventh, the Jewish holy day the Sabbath, which is observed on Saturday.
As for the months of the year, the calendar used today is often referred to as the “Christian calendar” although it was developed in pre-Christian Rome. There are two main versions of the Christian calendar: the Julian and the Gregorian calendars. Before this, the original Roman calendar had ten months: Martius, Aprilis, Maius, Junius, Quintilis, Sextilis, September, October, November, and December. The second king of Rome, Numa Pompilius, added January, or Januarius, and February or Februarius around 700 BCE. The names January, March, April, May, and June were, like the days of the week, developed from the names of gods. The names of the other months developed as follows: February stems from Februa, the Roman festival of purification, July, which Julius Caesar named after himself, August, which Augustus Caesar named after himself, and September, October, and December which (less creatively) simply mean seventh month, eighth month, ninth month, and tenth month, after their original placements on the Roman calendar.
Head spinning yet? Good, mine too. Now, for where I’m going with all of this; I find it fascinating that Whitman would reject the use of these common names in his final version of “Song of Myself.” Perhaps I’m overanalyzing the heck out of this, but I feel that if I am right about this conscious effort to change the names, a probable motive could be Whitman’s attempt to wipe the slate clean of all history that America took from Europe, even something as seemingly mundane as day and month names. It could also be a try at truly encouraging religious freedom. By rejecting the use of one historical religion (whether the polytheistic Roman faith or the monotheistic Christian one) as a governance over society in any way, even in a mere commonly assimilated set of names, Whitman opens the door wide to a nation of true religious tolerance. In naming the days and months by numbers instead of by gods or by Christian systems, Whitman is sets at accomplishing this little by little.
Furthermore, God seems to play a very different role for Whitman in the 1892 version and thereby furthers my argument that Whitman is truly attempting widespread religious freedom. In many of the places where God was aiding Whitman in the 1855 version, He is either completely removed or replaced by something or someone else. For instance, in the 1855 “Song of Myself,” Whitman writes, “As God comes a loving bedfellow and sleeps at my side all night and close on the peep of the day,” (29) but in 1892 the passage is altered to, “As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread” (191). Similarly in 1855 he writes, “I visit the orchards of God and look at the spheric product” (63) and in 1892, “I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product.” Removing God in these ways, as well as reshaping Him throughout the text allows Whitman to, again, open up LoG to become something relatable to all individuals, no matter what faith or cultural background. It is not so much that I think Whitman has altered his beliefs about religion as it is that I believe he is attempting to do a better job of disallowing the way he was religiously educated to interfere with the true religious freedom America was supposed to be founded on.
If you are interested in information about the days and calendar, I got a lot of my information from these sites:
Though in Erkkila’s essay, “Burying President Lincoln,” she asserts that, “Although Lincoln was shot on Good Friday and died the following day, Whitman avoids the obvious Lincoln—Christ symbolism [in “Where Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,”] preferring instead the local symbolism of lilac and star, which were associated in his imagination with the time of Lincoln’s death,” (229) I find it almost impossible to extract the Christ imagery and symbolism from the way Whitman wrote about Lincoln. Erikkila continues by claiming instead a “religious suggestiveness” (229) in the poem, which is very apparent, though merits a bit more attention in considering Whitman’s overall perception of Lincoln, the man. Throughout the greater portion of Whitman’s poetry (excepting “Drum-Taps”), he seated himself as the omnipotent savior of America though throughout his writings and reminiscences of Lincoln he is dissolved and the president is elevated. His revere of Lincoln, though not conveyed through a string of cliché metaphor, attributes to his (and our) inability to see him as anything other than a christ in Whitman’s work.
In “Where Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” Whitman uses both a “powerful western star” (459) (ironic that a star “in the east” was used to signify Chist’s birth in Bethlehem, suggesting Lincoln as an equal to the Christian Savior) and “Lilac blooming perennial” (459) (a flower that resurrects itself, if you will), he seats Lincoln in a place that would render him a Christ-figure. Throughout the desperate elegiac tone of the poem, Whitman produces bits of imagery that lend themselves to this comparison, such as “with every leaf a miracle” (459) in reference to the lilac. He also suggests the mourning of the churches themselves when he discusses the journey of Lincoln’s burial processional in, “The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs” (460). By the last section of the poem, though the speaker departs from the lilac, he knows that it will return with spring (466), much like Christ is resurrected on the third day after his crucifixion.
This famous elegy to Lincoln is not however the only place in which Whitman near-literally seems to worship him. In “Death of Abraham Lincoln,” Whitman refers to Lincoln as the nation’s “first great Martyr Chief” (1071). The capitalization of this title suggests the importance of Lincoln’s martyrdom as if no other person who ever died for a cause could ever near the sacrifice that Lincoln made for the American people. He also describes Lincoln as having “the greatest, best, most characteristic, artistic, moral personality” as well as the “foundation and tie of all, as the future would grandly develop” (787). Whitman even refers to the Battle of Bull Run as a “crucifixion day” (735) for Lincoln. How’s that for obvious Christ-symbolism, Erkkila?
Whitman seems, if I may use another heavy-handed religious term, to have desired to become Lincoln’s disciple. Despite his limited interaction with Lincoln, a lot of what Whitman attempted to do hinged on, or at least mirrored, Lincoln’s own political and social moves. For Whitman, Lincoln embodied the essence of democracy, the very thing that Whitman attempted throughout his life to encourage and sustain. His love for Lincoln equated his love for the Union as he seemed often to fuse the two together. Whitman’s elevation of both above himself easily cast Lincoln in the role of savior as it was the Union that needed the saving.
Ford’s Theatre sits at 511 10th Street NW, the site originally occupied by the First Baptist Church of Washington which was built in 1833. In 1859, the congregation abandoned the building when they merged with the Fourth Baptist Congregation formed on 13th Street. After a few years of occasional use for music performances, the building gained the interest of John T. Ford, a theatre entrepreneur from Baltimore who arrived in Washington D.C. in 1861. On December 10 of that year, despite controversy from some members of the congregation who predicted “a dire fate for anyone who turned the former house of worship into a theatre,” (Olszewski 7) the church leased the space to Ford. His contract allowed him to rent the building for five years with the promise of an opportunity to buy after that time.
After a brief sublease to George Christy, who ran the building as “The George Christy Opera House,” Ford closed the building and began renovation on February 28, 1862. He invested 10,000 dollars in new construction and remodeling and opened the building three weeks later on March 19 under the name “Ford’s Atheneum” where ticket prices ranged from a quarter to a dollar per seat. The athenaeum was quite successful and won the patronage of many wealthy and famous individuals including Abraham Lincoln whose first visit to the theatre was May 28, 1862 and who said of his experience, “Some people find me wrong to attend the theatre, but it serves me well to have a good laugh with a crowd of people” (Good 3).
Tragedy first struck the theatre on December 30, 1862 when a fire caused by a defective gas meter broke out in the cellar beneath the stage. The fire blazed through everything, leaving only the blackened walls standing. Fortunately no one was killed during the incident, but as Ford was only partially covered by fire insurance, the event left him with an estimated loss of 20,000 dollars.
With a refusal to lose heart, Ford began right away with plans to build a bigger and better theatre at the same site. He wanted to expand the theatre to the north and add an additional wing to the south. He hired James J. Gifford to design and supervise the reconstruction which began in February of 1863. Though Ford had refused help from theatrical colleagues who offered to sponsor benefits to raise the money he lost in the fire, he welcomed the financial backing the project received from wealthy and influential Washington D.C. businessmen. Though the reconstruction met a series of delays due to cave-ins from quicksand beneath the foundation and war-time supply delay problems, the building known as “Ford’s New Theatre” opened on August 27, 1863.
Between 1863 and 1865, the theatre thrived. Many praised the theatre for its magnificent elegance and comfortable ventilation due to the three large hooded ventilators and ten hatches which provided the perfect amount of outside air. Few theatres rivaled Ford’s for these few years. Unfortunately, on April 14, 1865, the theatre became infamous as the location of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln during a performance of Our American Cousin. One spectator recalled the event, “It is impossible to describe the intense excitement that prevailed in the theatre. The audience arose as one person and horror was stamped on every face” (Good 45). In the two seasons before the assassination, the theatre produced 495 evening performances, eight of which were attended by the president including “The Marble Heart” on November 9, 1863 starring none other than John Wilkes Booth, his future assassin.
After the assassination, Ford’s Theatre was guarded by federal troops until July 7, 1865, the day the conspirators were hanged. On July 8, the theatre was returned to Ford only to be seized on July 10 by order of Secretary of War, Edwin M. Stanton. Some time after this, the theatre was leased to the government and then purchased by an act of Congress in 1866.
In 1867, Ford’s Theatre was taken over by the US Army in order to house post-Civil War medical activities of the Army Surgeon General’s Office. The building held an archive of Civil War medical records which were essential for verification of veteran’s pension claims, the Army Medical Museum, editorial offices for preparation of the multi-volume Medical and Surgical History of the War of the Rebellion, and the Library of the Surgeon General’s Office. When Army needs outgrew the capacity of the theatre, several units were moved in 1887 to a new building known as the Army Medical Museum and Library, located on the Mall.
In June of 1893, a third tragedy occurred at the former theatre; part of the overloaded interior collapsed, killing 22 and injuring 65 federal troops working in the office of the Adjutant General for compiling official service records of Civil War veterans. Ford’s Theatre was then closed by an order of Congress and was used as public document storage until 1932 when the Lincoln Museum opened inside which currently contains historical artifacts including the derringer John Wilkes Booth used as a murder weapon as well as a replica of the coat Lincoln wore when he was shot.
After public interest in restoring the building to its original condition grew following World War II, preliminary investigation began in 1955 when the National Capital Region prepared an engineering study under Public Law 372, 83d Congress. Additional funds were given under Public Law 86-455, 86th Congress, which authorized the National Park Service to begin with the research and prepare for construction, which was eventually completed in 1967.
Ford’s Theatre reopened in 1968 and according to its current website’s record of past seasons, ran a complete season of shows including a Gala Opening which was featured as a CBS TV special, John Brown’s Body, Comedy of Errors, and She Stoops to Conquer (Ford’s Theatre). Since that time, the theatre produced full seasons of performances until August 2007 when it closed for its most extensive renovation since the 1960s. The theatre reopened in February 2009 fully equipped with new seats, upgraded sound and lighting equipment, improved heating and AC, renovated restrooms, elevators, a new lobby with concessions, a new parlor for special events, and a series of updated stage capabilities. As this year marked the bicentennial of Lincoln’s birth, Ford’s Theatre is working toward becoming a major center for learning where people can examine the events leading up to the death of the 16th president of the United States; the theatre’s mission is “to celebrate the legacy of Abraham Lincoln and to explore the American experience through theatre and education” (Ford’s Theatre) and is now back to running full seasons of performances.
Works Cited
Good, Timothy S., ed. We Saw Lincoln Shot: One Hundred Eyewitness Accounts. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1995. Print.
Ford’s Theatre. History of Medicinie. United States National Library of Medicine National Institutes of Health, 13 Sep. 2006. Web. 16 Oct. 2009. <http://www.nlm.nih.gov/hmd/medtour/ford.html>
In going through this week’s reading, it occurred to me that there is another “multitude” of Whitman’s that we have only briefly touched on that is quite worth discussing – Whitman as a father figure. Particularly throughout the Calder essay, where the tender Whitman we’ve spoken of seems at his best, Whitman’s envy and revere of mothers and shame of the lack of responsibility in fathers show a side of Whitman that seems under-addressed, particularly with his interactions with soldiers during the war. These thoughts and position carry over into Whitman’s relationships with the boys he writes of in Drum-Taps and his ability to look at them as a father might, makes him an ideal candidate to care for them.
In Calder’s essay, she explains that though Whitman did not think marriage was in the cards for his life and though he did not envy husbands their wives, he did envy their ability to have children. She even quotes Whitman as saying to a little girl that he wished he knew her when she chirps, “I know you.” This image of Whitman as an affectionate father is much more appealing to me than Whitman “the stalker” or Whitman “the creeper” as our class has so affectionately named him. His desire (though he is seemingly unable) to have children, mobilizes him into “adopting” the soldiers as his own sons. His conversation with the little girl is reminiscent of “The Wound-Dresser” when he writes, “One turns to me his appealing eyes—poor boy! I never knew you, / Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you” (444).
Throughout Drum-Taps, Whitman also refers to the soldiers as “sons” or “boys” as a father might to his child; he also does this in his letters to Peter Doyle, despite the two’s obvious intimate relationship. Though this may be viewed as merely an age difference marker, the tenderness in which he refers to the soldiers suggests more of a relationship between him and them. It is almost as if Whitman, having no children of his own, asserts himself as the father of the American people, thus adding to his lengthy list of titles. As Calder points out, Whitman often called “the institution of father a failure” (198) and posited this as the reason many boys were driven to enlist. This is yet another area in which Whitman’s desire to mend America’s mistakes manifests itself though Whitman offering himself as a means by which to fix the problem – an honorable pursuit, I think.
Drum-Taps has ironically given me a better picture of Whitman, the man. When he stops talking about being the savior of the nation, it seems he is better at actually being it. Despite his more romantic relationships, it is more rewarding to view Whitman as a father rather than a lusty old man taking advantage of invalid soldiers. Viewing him this way allows Whitman to be seen as a man who truly wanted to rekindle and reunite the nation through tender affection and love, the kind of unconditional love a parent would give a child.
An interesting nuance between Drum-Taps and the rest of Walt Whitman’s work is his veer from the more personal address poem to a broader and more all-encompassing form of address. In these poems it seems he becomes less the prophet and removes himself almost as if he is letting the war speak for itself. This is especially noticeable in places where the speaker is not necessarily and specifically Whitman.
One of the ways he gives voice to the war is through dividing poems into roles where a certain labeled speaker narrates that part of the poem. This is not something we have seen before from Whitman and yet it occurs in several places in Drum-Taps. For instance, “Song of the Banner at Daybreak” is divided into several speakers: Poet, Pennant, Child, Father, and Banner. Though the poet can arguably represent Whitman himself (“O bard out of Manhattan”(423) etc.), by labeling the poet as Poet instead of “Walt Whitman, an American, one of the roughs” (50), as in “Song of Myself,” Whitman takes a step back.
After reading “Specimen Days” last week and Drum-Taps this week, it is becoming more apparent that Whitman approached his work very differently during the Civil War. For him, the war was more than just unnecessary violence; it was a blatant attack at the heart of the entire premise of America. By removing himself from “Song of the Banner at Daybreak,” Whitman shows just how difficult it was for him to assess and come to terms with his crumbling country. The poet here still speaks out as omniscient, though the other speakers (particularly the banner and pennant) and even at times the poet himself seem to suggest that the poet is not completely sufficient in getting at the heart of how the war was affecting people. The poet even explains that he learned from the child in, “My hearing and tongue are come to me, (a little child taught me,)” (425).
The child in this poem also seems to be the most distinct voice of reason, which is perhaps Whitman’s way of suggesting that America return to a place nearer its birth, when the country was filled with a greater innocence, courage, and child-like wonderment of the American flag which, according to the child, is “so broad it covers the whole sky.” The father provides a weathered contrast to this example, as he calls the child “foolish babe” and claims that he fills him “with anguish.” The father attempts to get the child to focus on other things like money and property (sound familiar?), while the child prefers to focus on the banner and pennant, which represent America.
The poem closes with the poet’s longest monologue of the section; he claims within the last two lines, “I see but you, O warlike pennant! O banner so broad, with stripes, I sing you only, / Flapping up there in the wind” (426). Here, Whitman is not singing of himself as before, here he sings only of America and those things that represent it. This shift for Whitman ironically may help his readers to connect with him as they focus on the tenderness and real desperation with which he confronts America.
Whitman’s “batch of convulsively written reminiscences” (799) about the Civil War in “Specimen Days,” particularly his record of encounters with soldiers he cared for as a nurse, really started me thinking about what the war represented to Whitman. Obviously the day to day violence and massacre would take its toll on anyone, both physically and mentally. But for Whitman, the war seemed to be a catalyst for the complete dissolution of the soul or spirit, and therefore came to tear the United States further away from the ideal democracy that Whitman stressed as necessity.
I say that the war may be viewed as a recipe for the breakdown of the soul by looking at the connections Whitman often made between the soul and body. As frequently discussed in class, Whitman viewed the human body as ultimate perfection, writing often of its splendors and praising its uses and beauty. He also declared that the soul and body are in a completely mutually beneficial relationship and that they rely on each other through this; this is shown when he writes, “The spirit receives from the body just as much as it gives to the body” (21) in the preface to the 1855 Leaves of Grass. As Whitman viewed, recorded, and even engaged in attempting to mend the devastation brought about by the war, he focused particularly on the hundreds of amputations various soldiers (from both the North and the South) were forced to endure. He writes in “Specimen Days,” “I notice a heap of amputated feet, legs, arms, hands, &c., a full load for a one-horse cart” (736) and mentions these severed and disposed appendages many times throughout the remainder of the text, as well as within several of his more graphic war poems. The physical dismemberment of the limbs of soldiers, the removal of pieces of their bodies, can equally be said to allow for the chipping away of their spirits as well. In losing one part of the aforementioned relationship, the whole deteriorates.
This is even more difficult for Whitman to grapple with as it is the result of America against America – a kind of national suicide. The spiritual dismemberment that follows physical dismemberment hits him in a way that leaves him reaching for ways to bring the country back to some level of commonality. He attempts to accomplish this by focusing on the natural world, the land that remains beautiful despite all of the violence and tragedy. He writes:
The night was very pleasant, at times, the moon shining out full and clear, all Nature so calm in itself, the early summer grass so rich, and foliage of the trees—yet there the battle raging, and many good fellows lying helpless, with new accessions to them, and every minute amid the rattle of muskets and crash of cannon, (for there was an artillery contest too,) the red life-blood oozing out from heads or trunks or limbs upon that green and dew-cool grass (746).
In illuminating a battle scene by jumping back and forth between the harsh brutality of war and the peaceful serenity provided in and by nature, Whitman seems to hope to force his readers and the American people back into a place where their spirits and bodies may be uncompromised and where they may remain united. In his writing, he seeks to piece together a people that continually divide themselves and hopes to stop them from doing so before there is nothing left to reunite.
In Luke Mancuso’s assessment of the 1867 Leaves of Grass, he writes on “The City Dead-House” of Whitman’s use of the figure of a dead prostitute to present and argue against flawed democracy. As Whitman develops the scene of the prostitute dead and lying within sight of the Capitol, Mancuso posits:
Socially outcast, the body of the prostitute requires the intervention of the poet’s speaker in order that she may be represented visibly, in a democracy in which many are invisible. If persons were rotting on the pavement within sight of the Capitol, this compelling poem enacts a recovery of the rightful place of human solidarity among strangers.
Whitman’s using a prostitute’s death to expose the problems of a “democracy” that chooses to ignore the needs of its members is interesting because prostitution is also an issue he again addresses in “To a Common Prostitute.” This poem struck me particularly due to its closeness with scripture in Jesus’ encounter with the adulteress in John 8:1-11, which says (if you’ll allow my lengthy quotation for those that aren’t familiar with the story):
1But Jesus went to the Mount of Olives. 2At dawn he appeared again in the temple courts, where all the people gathered around him, and he sat down to teach them. 3The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group 4and said to Jesus, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. 5In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” 6They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him.
But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. 7When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.” 8Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground. 9At this, those who heard began to go away one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there. 10Jesus straightened up and asked her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?”
11“No one, sir,” she said.
“Then neither do I condemn you,” Jesus declared. “Go now and leave your life of sin.” (New International Version)
This passage struck me as similar to Whitman’s poems in its direct address to a woman who has otherwise been scorned and put out by society (not to mention that this passage is often falsely thought on as being about a prostitute…AND Jesus often hung out among and talked with prostitutes similarly). In “To a Common Prostitute,” Whitman addresses the prostitute in much the same way that Jesus addresses this adulteress, allowing him to again transfer himself (not just the speaker but “Walt Whitman, liberal and lusty as Nature” (512) ) into the position of savior. It also allows Whitman to argue for a world in which even those considered different or even immoral would be given an equal opportunity to exist by using subtle biblical allusion as is so often his conduit in driving home many of his points.
Now, in coming back to “The City Dead-House,” Whitman (as Mancuso points out) uses the death of a prostitute to represent the difficulties of the current application and assessment of democracy in the budding and troubled United States. Whitman speaks out for a woman who has both literally and figuratively been silenced by the government. My point here is that it seems to me that Whitman would have (as has been often suggested in class) himself viewed as a Christ-figure, a savior, and further that he would have himself seated as the savior of democracy. In linking these poems through the prostitute, an outcast, he speaks up for his idea of what democracy should (or rather what it should not) be, bringing to mind the prejudices between North and South, blacks and whites, as well as other issues of disagreement and confrontation throughout Whitman’s lifetime.
I as thinking about Whitman’s long lines and the fact that he breaks the boundaries of the page, and I wanted to share some thoughts with you all. Whitman really seems to be pushing the reader to explore beyond the beliefs that he/she carries. He proves that he cannot be contained, even with in the page. However, I think that is goes even deeper than this. He proves that he is into breaking boundaries in all he does, whether it be sexuality, thoughts on women, ect, but also, he is breaking the boundaries of the page. This breaking of the page’s boundaries cause the reader to see a need to break the boundaries he/she puts up in life and explore past the outer layer into what lies beneath, and thus seeing the layer underneath the surface. Looking at the underlayer of his work, as well as the issues that surround us, allows us to see what truly matters.
I am interested in the ways in which Walt Whitman’s experiences (particularly during the war) manipulate the way he organizes Leaves of Grass. Gailey discusses it briefly in her “Publishing History of Leaves,” but I am interested to discuss this more, especially as we get into Whitman’s writing throughout the Civil War.
So, I was kind of randomly in Washington D.C. the other night and had my digital camera with me (and my Whitman book as fate would have it)…I started thinking about Whitman’s obsession with Abraham Lincoln and the many poems he has written for him. I read “O! Captain! My Captain!” on the steps of the memorial with the beautiful statue of Lincoln glowing ominously behind me. Having had somewhat of a crush on Lincoln myself growing up (yes, I realize how that makes me look), reading that poem on the memorial steps was actually a really moving experience for me. I wanted to post this now, even though the quality of the video isn’t the best, to try and share my experience with you guys. Hope you enjoy it.
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