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Whitman's Manuscripts for the
Original
"Calamus"
Poems
by
Fredson Bowers
In the Library of Clifton Waller Barrett is preserved a wealth of holograph Walt Whitman manuscripts, much of it poetical. The heart of this group of manuscripts is the so-called Valentine Collection, which contains the manuscripts for the majority of the new poems added to the third or 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass, the first of the greatly expanded editions and the text which among present-day critics is often more highly esteemed than diplomatically altered later versions. From these manuscripts, various of which are heavily revised, much can be told of Whitman as a literary artist. On another plane, a study of the papers and the inks used for these manuscripts goes a surprising distance towards establishing a conjectural order of composition; and some collateral evidence can be utilized to assign a few dates with a fair degree of confidence.
Of especial interest in these manuscripts is the light which they shed upon the growth of the biographically significant grouping of poems printed in the 1860 edition for the first time under the heading "Calamus." With Mr. Barrett's generous permission I am in process of preparing for publication an edition of all these manuscripts which lie behind the 1860 Leaves of Grass; but since the appearance of this volume may be held back for some time yet, it has seemed best not to delay further making available to students of Whitman some information which may be of immediate interest, specifically the story of the inception of the "Calamus" cluster and the original poems which comprised it. In this narrative, various flat statements will need to be made without corroborative evidence, for to document every statement with the available facts from manuscripts would involve me in evidence and considerations extending far beyond the mere twelve poems which I propose to reprint and to discuss. The bare bones of this present story will be fleshed with the proper evidence when the full texts and their appropriate introductions are published. The present paper is merely a preview and a synopsis.
Briefly, the Valentine-Barrett manuscripts establish with some certainty the following outline. Between January and May, 1856, even before the publication of the second edition of Leaves of Grass, Whitman seems to have started to plan a greatly expanded third edition. From this date to June-July of 1857 ensued a period of furious poetic activity in which Whitman composed at least sixty-eight new poems. Although in June (?) 1857 he writes that his 'New Bible'
Thereafter, it is the evidence of the manuscripts that Whitman (doubtless completely occupied with his duties as editor of the Brooklyn Daily Times) wrote little poetry, although he may have done some revision on the present manuscripts as represented in the list, until towards the end of his editorship and extending into his period of freedom thereafter, about June, 1859, another spurt of poetic activity produced additional poems, many of these of a calamus nature, as well as considerable expansion and revision of the poems already written, especially of that long poem called "Proto-Leaf" in 1860 and "Starting from Paumanok" thereafter, and also of the poem "So Long!" There is good evidence to date this second period of composition in the spring and summer of 1859; and it seems to have been in the summer or early autumn of 1859 that as a unit he turned over all these manuscripts to his friends, the Brooklyn printers Rome Brothers, to be typeset and proofs pulled. The typesetting seems not to have been designed to print an edition, but instead merely for the purpose of providing Whitman with printed proofs from which he could continue with the final revision. When, later, he went to Boston to oversee the printing of the third edition by Thayer and Eldridge, this in March of 1860, he provided Thayer and Eldridge with much of their printer's copy in the form of these Rome Brothers' proofs, considerably revised, as well as with some new manuscript material. The Valentine-Barrett manuscripts represent the actual manuscripts which Whitman turned over in 1859 to Rome Brothers to be set up for proofs. They were not themselves the printer's copy for the 1860 text, since the lost revised proofs were that copy, but by comparing the final state of the manuscripts with the 1860 printed versions we can reconstruct the revisions which Whitman made in the Rome Brothers' proofs.
In those manuscripts which can be dated 1857 and earlier, there is a small amount of homosexual references but no serious emphasis on it. Moreover, the
The cluster that is exemplified seems to be unique, although there is some slight evidence that another, to be called "Droppings," was forming in his mind, this perhaps to be associated with a group on the love for women. At any rate the cluster we have consists of a dozen poems which form the nucleus from which the "Calamus" group was to develop. They are written on small pieces of white wove paper and though now separated can be demonstrated to have formed originally part of a little notebook. Each poem is assigned a roman number I to XII. They are clearly fair copies, and indeed a draft for no. III is preserved elsewhere in the Valentine-Barrett Collection. What is of interest is not alone their text, not alone the revelation they provide of a group of poems whose original close association has been lost, but also the highly interesting fact that this sequence was originally entitled "Live Oak, with Moss" and that in its genesis the live oak, not the calamus plant, was Whitman's earliest symbol for 'manly love.' This has been previously suspected from two jottings reprinted by Bucke in which a proposed sequence on "the amative love of women" is first compared with "as Live Oak Leaves do the passion of friendship for man" (Bucke, p. 169), and, later, "as the Calamus-Leaves are to adhesiveness, manly love" (Bucke, p. 150). But here in these manuscripts is the proof, and the Live Oak sequence as originally planned.
The first leaf of no. II was printed by Bucke (p. 51) from a manuscript found among Whitman's papers and in a text which has only one slight variant from that in the Valentine-Barrett manuscript. What seems to be a somewhat earlier version of the same poem is preserved in the Berg Collection of the New York Public Library, cancelled by Whitman's characteristic diagonal stroke. That this little notebook in the Valentine-Barrett Collection may have been copied out and kept by Whitman as a kind of memento mori of the occasion the poems commemorate may be indicated by the inscription on the verso of the Berg copy: "Poems / A Cluster of Poems, Sonnets expressing the thoughts, pictures, aspirations &c / Fit to the perused during the days of the approach of Death. / (that I have prepared myself for that purpose.—/ (Remember now—/ Remember then". However, this may be a jotting for other poems.
Without further ado, however, I subtend the twelve poems reprinted from the manuscripts in the final versions of their texts without notes as to the originals
Live Oak, with Moss
I.
Not the heat flames up and consumes,Not the sea-waves hurry in and out,
Not the air, delicious and dry, the air of the ripe summer, bears lightly along
white down-balls of myriads of seeds, wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop
where they may,
Not these—O none of these, more than the flames of me, consuming, burning
for his love whom I love—O none, more than I, hurrying in and out;
Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never give up?—O I, the same,
to seek my life-long lover;
O nor down-balls, nor perfumes, nor the high rain-emitting clouds, are borne
through the open air, more than my copious soul is borne through the open
air, wafted in all directions, for friendship, for love.—
II.
I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,All alone stood it, and the moss hung down from the branches,
Without any companion it grew there, glistening out joyous leaves of dark
green,
And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself;
But I wondered how it could utter joyous leaves, standing alone there without
its friend, its lover—For I knew I could not;
And I plucked a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it, and twined
around it a little moss, and brought it away—And I have placed it in sight in
my room,
It is not needed to remind me as of my friends, (for I believe lately I think of
little else than of them,)
Yet it remains to me a curious token—it makes me think of manly love,
For all that, and though the live oak glistens there in Louisiana, solitary in a
wide flat space, uttering joyous leaves all its life, without a friend, a lover,
near—I know very well I could not.
III[3]
When I heard at the close of the day how I had been praised in the Capitol,still it was not a happy night for me that followed;
I really happy,
But that day I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, electric, inhaling
sweet breath,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morn-
ing light,
When I wandered alone over the beach, and undressing, bathed, laughing with
the waters, and saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my friend, my lover, was coming, then O then I
was happy;
Each breath tasted sweeter—and all that day my food nourished me more—And
the beautiful day passed well,
And the next came with equal joy—And with the next, at evening, came my
friend,
And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll slowly continually up
the shores
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as directed to me, whispering
to congratulate me,—For my friend I love lay sleeping by my side,
In the stillness his face was inclined towards me, while the moon's clear beams
shone,
And his arm lay lightly over my breast—And that night I was happy.
IV.
This moment as I sit alone, yearning and pensive, it seems to me there areother men, in other lands, yearning and pensive.
It seems to me I can look over and behold them, in Germany, France, Spain—
Or far away in China, India, or Russia—talking other dialects,
And it seems to me if I could know those men I should love them as I love men
in my own lands,
It seems to me they are as wise, beautiful, benevolent, as any in my own lands;
O I think we should be brethren—I think I should be happy with them.
V.
Long I thought that knowledge alone would suffice me—O if I could but ob-tain knowledge!
Then the Land of the Prairies engrossed me—the south savannas engrossed me—
For them I would live—I would be their orator;
Then I met the examples of old and new heroes—I heard of warriors, sailors,
and all dauntless persons—And it seemed to me I too had it in me to be
as dauntless as any, and would be so;
And then to finish all, it came to me to strike up the songs of the New World—
And then I believed my life must be spent in singing;
But now take notice, Land of the prairies, Land of the south savannas, Ohio's
land,
roll toward Niagara—and you Niagara also,
And you, California mountains—that you all find some one else that he be your
singer of songs,
For I can be your singer of songs no longer—I have ceased to enjoy them.
I have found him who loves me, as I him, in perfect love,
With the rest I dispense—I sever from all that I thought would suffice me, for
it does not,—it is now empty and tasteless to me,
I heed knowledge, and the grandeur of The States, and the examples of heroes,
no more,
I am indifferent to my own songs—I am to go with him I love, and he is to go
with me,
It is to be enough for each of us that we are together—We never separate again.—
VI.
What think you I have taken my pen to record?Not the battle-ship, perfect-model'd, majestic, that I saw to day arrive in the
offing, under full sail,
Nor the splendors of the past day—nor the splendors of the night that envelopes
me—Nor the glory and growth of the great city spread around me,
But the two men I saw to-day on the pier, parting the parting of dear friends.
The one to remain hung on the other's neck and passionately kissed him—
while the one to depart tightly prest the one to remain in his arms.
VII.
You bards of ages hence! when you refer to me, mind not so much my poems,Nor speak of me that I prophesied of The States and led them the way of their
glories,
But come, I will inform you who I was underneath that impassive exterior—I
will tell you what to say of me,
Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest lover,
The friend, the lover's portrait, of whom his friend, his lover, was fondest,
Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love within
him—and freely poured it forth,
Who often walked lonesome walks thinking of his dearest friends, his lovers,
Who pensive, away from one he loved, often lay sleepless and dissatisfied at
night,
Who, dreading lest the one he loved might after all be indifferent to him, felt
the sick feeling—O sick! sick!
Whose happiest days were those, far away through fields, in woods, on hills, he
and another, wandering hand in hand, they twain, apart from other men.
Who ever, as he sauntered the streets, curved with his arm the manly shoulder
of his friend—while the curving arm of his friend rested upon him also.
VIII.[4]
Hours continuing long, sore and heavy-hearted,Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a lonesome and unfrequented spot,
seating myself, leaning my face in my hands,
Hours sleepless, deep in the night, when I go forth, speeding swiftly the country
roads, or through the city streets, or pacing miles and miles, stifling plaintive
cries,
Hours discouraged, distracted,—For he, the one I cannot content myself without
—soon I saw him content himself without me,
Hours when I am forgotten—(O weeks and months are passing, but I believe
I am never to forget!)
Sullen and suffering hours—(I am ashamed—but it is useless—I am what I am;)
Hours of torment—I wonder if other men ever have the like, out of the like
feelings?
Is there even one other like me—distracted—his friend, his lover, lost to him?
Is he too as I am now? Does he still rise in the morning, dejected, thinking
who is lost to him?
And at night, awaking, think who is lost?
Does he too harbor his friendship silent and endless? Harbor his anguish and
passion?
Does some stray reminder, or the casual mention of a name, bring the fit back
upon him, taciturn and deprest?
Does he see himself reflected in me? In these hours does he see the face of
his hours reflected?
IX.
I dreamed in a dream of a city where all the men were like brothers,O I saw them tenderly love each other—I often saw them, in numbers, walking
hand in hand;
I dreamed that was the city of robust friends—Nothing was greater there than
manly love—it led the rest,
It was seen every hour in the actions of the men of that city, and in all their looks
and words.—
X.
O you whom I often and silently come where you are, that I may be with you, As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you, Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.—
XI.
Earth! Though you look so impassive, ample and spheric there—I now suspect that is not all,I now suspect there is something terrible in you, ready to break forth,
For an athlete loves me,—and I him—But toward him there is something fierce and terrible in me,
I dare not tell it in words—not even in these songs.
XII.
To the young man, many things to absorb, to engraft, to develop, I teach, that he be my eleve,But if through him speed not the blood of friendship, hot and red—If he be not silently selected by lovers, and do not silently select lovers—of what use were it for him to seek to become eleve of mine?
It seems clear that in these twelve poems, with somewhat franker text than Whitman allowed to be printed, we have the start of the later greatly expanded "Calamus" cluster. In connection with this little series three points may be mentioned. (1) The poems appear to be unified and to make up an artistically complete story of attachment, crisis, and reconstitution. (2) They are manifestly fair copies and may not represent the earliest form of such a notebook, if the inscription on the Berg manuscript is to be credited as referring to a previous copying-out of the cluster. The present texts were copied in a made-up notebook and written fair at the same or very nearly the same time.(3) The calamus symbol is nowhere mentioned in these poems, which instead, in no. I but especially in no. II, refer to the live oak. It is significant that the earliest sequence title was "Live Oak, with Moss" and that "Calamus-Leaves" was substituted shortly before the manuscripts were sent to the printer.
The notebook of which these now separate leaves originally formed a part was made up of twenty leaves: by the contours of the paper it can be established that these poems were copied in the present order and that the present poems represent original leaves 1-17, leaving three blank leaves. That these leaves were originally blank and therefore that the sequence ended with no. XII can be demonstrated by the fact that later, in a different ink, what in 1860 were numbered "Calamus" 44 and 38 but which are unnumbered in manuscript were copied on paper that by its contours shows it was leaf 18 of the notebook, and no. 39 on what was leaf 19. Leaf 20 seems to have been used as part of a revision of the poem "So Long!" in the collection.
The pen and ink used for the added poems on leaves 18 and 19 also appear to have written various other manuscripts on the same kind of white wove paper, including what was to become "Enfans d'Adam" no. 1 and "Calamus" nos. 1, part of 2, and 4. The writing of the section of no. 2 consisted of prefixed leaves to what was to become "Scented herbage of my breast", a poem the earliest part of which is chiefly written on the back of material that can be dated
The original continuity, if not consanguinity, of the twelve Live Oak poems thus destroyed, Whitman's original 'sonnet' sequence to manly love went unrecognized until the Valentine-Barrett manuscripts became available for study.
Notes
An earlier version of this poem is preserved on the verso of a leaf of one of the late additions to "Premonition" i.e. "Proto-Leaf." The final three verses in the present manuscript were revised on a paste-over slip. These and similar details will be presented complete in the edited text of these manuscripts.
This number VIII is a revision, written above an original IX. Whether this was an inadvertent mistake, or a reflection of an earlier numbering system, is not certain. However, from the tip of the IX of the next poem found on the bottom cut-off of the last leaf here, it is clear that there has been no misplacement and that the intention was to copy this in the notebook as VIII. In the right-hand portion of the text of the second verse is the erased pencil note "(finished, in / the other city)" in Whitman's hand. Owing to the position, however, this reference could possibly apply to the end of poem VII.
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