Walking in the lobby of the old Broadway Theatre, between the acts, one February night,[96] Whitman was introduced to a Southern gentleman. A quarter of an hour later he had engaged to go South, to assist in starting the Crescent, a daily paper in New Orleans. On the eleventh of the month he set out.[97] The South was as unknown to him as it still remains6 to the majority of Northerners; and the South must have been as strange and fascinating to the son of Mannahatta as are the shores of the Mediterranean7 to a Londoner. An[Pg 47] air of romance seems to breathe from his every reference to this period, and it may well be that the passionate9 attraction which afterwards drew his memory to the “magnet-south” had some personal incarnation.
Bidding a hasty good-bye to his family and friends, he left New York and made his way[98] through populous10 Pennsylvania, and over the Alleghanies to Wheeling on the Ohio river, where he found a small steamer, and in it descended11 leisurely12, with many stops by the way, through the recently settled lands of Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky, and Illinois, into the Mississippi, the Father of Waters, thenceforward pursuing his voyage for more than a thousand miles along that greatest of American highways, to the borders of the Mexican Gulf13.
For the first time his eyes saw how vast was his country: he realised the South, and he understood the significance of the political struggle for the control of the new West. He was almost afraid as he journeyed, not so much at the immensity of the prospect14, as because he felt himself upon the verge15 of the Unknown and its mysteries: and his feelings found utterance16 in some verses written on the voyage and subsequently published—surely, with a smile at the critics—in his Collected Prose. As they illustrate17 his mood at the time, and afford the best example of his skill as a maker18 of conventional verses, I may quote from them here.
After describing the fantastic forms which line the margins19 of the forest-bordered river, he proceeds:—
Tide of youth, thus thickly planted,
While in the eddies20 onward21 you swim,
Thus on the shore stands a phantom22 army,
Lining23 for ever the channel’s rim24.
Steady, helmsman! you guide the immortal25;
Many a wreck26 is beneath you piled,
Many a brave yet unwary sailor
Over these waters has been beguiled27.
Nor is it the storm or the scowling28 midnight,
Gold, or sickness, or fire’s dismay—
Nor is it the reef or treacherous29 quicksand
Will peril30 you most on your twisted way.
[Pg 48]
But when there comes a voluptuous31 languor32,
Soft the sunshine, silent the air,
Bewitching your craft with safety and sweetness,
Then, young pilot of life, beware.[99]
The lines are not of the best, but they are suggestive. They seem to express the lurking33 fear of one hardily34 bred in the North, when first he feels upon his face the breath of the seductive South. His strenuous35 self-sufficiency is imperilled. A strange world of sensations surrounds him, awakening36 in himself a world of emotions as strange. It is suggested to him that he is not quite the man that he supposed, that there is another side to his character, and he resents the suggestion. For who will willingly begin over again the task of self-discovery? The conservative organising active Ego37 fears the awakening of the adventurous38, receptive Ego. I think Whitman was startled as he realised how little as yet he understood himself, or was willing to accept his whole soul if it should rise up and face him.
Picture of New Orleans about the time of Walt's visit.
NEW ORLEANS ABOUT THE TIME OF WHITMAN’S VISIT, FROM A PRINT
The New Orleans of ’48 must have been the most romantic and perhaps the most prosperous city in the union. It was the centre of Western commerce, as well as of Mexican filibustering39: its great hotels, the St. Charles and the St. Louis, were the rendezvous40 of planters and merchants, politicians and adventurers, and of the proudest aristocracy in the States.[100] It was a gay city, with its Creole women and Spanish men, its dancing and its play, its masks and dominoes, its duels41 and carnivals42; gay as only an old city can be gay, with the contrast between age and youth.
About the Catholic cathedral was a mass of irregular red-tiled roofs and a net-work of shady alleys43, on to which opened great galleries and courtyards full of vines. Scent5 of roses and the caressing44 sound of Creole singing stole upon the languorous45 breaths of the warm humid air, breaths which lazily stirred the golden-rod that overgrew the dormer windows, the old venetian[Pg 49] blinds, the geraniums and the clothes hanging in the sun. Along the alleys went the priests in their black skirts. Through the doorways46 one saw red floors sanded and clean, and quaint47 carved furniture, heirlooms of generations; or caught a glimpse of some old garden with its fountains and lilies, its violets and jonquils, myrtle and jessamine. Everywhere flowers and singing birds, and the soft quaint Creole phrases falling with the charm that only Southern lips confer.
Such was the old French quarter. Along the river-side was another; the lawless world of Mississippi flat-boatmen, a vagrant48 population drawn from many States, who with the soldiers discharged after the Mexican war frequented the low saloons and gaming-houses; passionate men, capable of any crime or adventure.
Again, there were the Bohemians of the city, the artists, journalists and actors of a centre of fashion. Opera had found its first American home at New Orleans, and was presented at the famous Orleans Theatre four times a week. Whitman, the opera-goer, must often have been there. Perhaps he met among the Bohemians a juvenile49 member of their group, Dolores Adios Fuertes, a young dancer, to be known hereafter in London and in Paris as Adah Isaacs Menken, actress, and authoress of a pathetic volume of irregular metres, who now lies buried at Mont Parnasse.
During the three months of his stay, Whitman saw New Orleans thoroughly50.[101] Often on Sunday mornings he would go to the cathedral; he idled much in the old French quarters, and sauntered and loafed along the levees, making acquaintances and friends among the boatmen and stevedores51. He frequented the huge bar-rooms of the two hotels, where most of the business of the city seems at that time to have been transacted52; but temperate53 and simple himself, he preferred to their liqueurs and dainties his morning coffee and biscuit at the stall of a stout54 mulatto woman, who stood with her[Pg 50] shining copper55 kettle in the French market. There all the races of the world seemed to be gathered to idle or to bargain. He went also to the theatres, where he talked with the soldiers back from the Mexican war; among the rest, with General Taylor, soon to be President, a jovial56, genial57, laughter-loving old man, one of the plainest who ever went to the White House, where he died soon after his inauguration58 in 1849.
Whitman appears to have been thoroughly enjoying himself, when suddenly about the end of May, he made up his mind to return to the North. His brother Jeff, a lad of fifteen, who had accompanied him and was working in the printing office, was homesick and out of health; the climate with its malarial59 tendencies did not suit him. Walt was always devoted60 to this young brother, who had been his companion on many a Long Island holiday, tramping or sailing,[102] and becoming alarmed at his condition, hurried him away. There were other reasons which, he says, made him wish to leave the city, but as he does not specify[103] them himself, we can only follow the indications in guessing at their nature. We know they were not connected with his work: it is probable that they were private and personal.[104]
When asked in later years why he had never married, he would say either that it was impossible to give a satisfactory explanation,[105] although such an explanation might perhaps exist, or he would declare that, with an instinct for self-preservation, he had always avoided or escaped from entanglements61 which threatened his freedom.[106] These replies he made with an obvious reticence62 and reservation. He who professed63 to make so clean a breast of his own shortcomings, and who in his last years required that records of himself should err8 in being somewhat over personal, deliberately64 concealed65 certain important incidents in his life. There can, I[Pg 51] think, be only one interpretation66 of this singular state of affairs: that these incidents concerned others equally with himself, and that those others were unwilling67 to have them published. If they had been his, and his alone, he would have communicated them, but they were not.
Whatever Whitman’s duty in this matter, it behoves his biographer to present as full a picture as possible of his life, and to let no fact go by without notice; while the knowledge that Whitman himself could not disclose the whole truth, should only make us the more careful in our reading of the scanty68 facts which are known.
It seems that about this time Walt formed an intimate relationship with some woman of higher social rank than his own—a lady of the South where social rank is of the first consideration—that she became the mother of his child, perhaps, in after years, of his children; and that he was prevented by some obstacle, presumably of family prejudice, from marriage or the acknowledgment of his paternity.
The main facts can now hardly be disputed. Whitman put some of them on record in a letter to Addington Symonds during the last year of his life, designing to leave a fuller statement in the care of his executors. But this, through access of weakness, was never accomplished69. Remarks which he let fall from time to time in private conversation seem to admit of no other interpretation than that I have put upon them.
In one of his poems[107] he vividly70 describes how once in a populous city he chanced to meet with a woman who cast her love upon him, and how they remained together till at last he tore himself away, to remember nothing of that city save her and her love. In spite of Whitman’s express desire that the poem should be regarded merely in its universal application—a desire which in itself seems to betoken71 a consciousness of self-betrayal—we cannot but recognise its autobiographical suggestion. And in the stress laid upon the part of the woman, we[Pg 52] may see a cause for Whitman’s reticence. If it was she who had pressed the relationship, it behoved him the more, for her sake, to keep silence, and to leave the determination of the relationship to her.
But perhaps the most important evidence upon this obscure passage of his story is to be found in the psychological development which we can, as I believe, trace in his character. It was but a short time after his Southern visit,[108] perhaps in the same year, that he began to sketch72 out some of the poems which afterwards took the form familiar to us in Leaves of Grass. Now these differ from his earlier writings in many ways, but fundamentally in their subjectivity73. In them he sets out to put himself on record in a way he heretofore had not attempted, and this enterprise must, I take it, have had its cause in some quickening of emotional self-consciousness. That process may well have culminated74 a few years later in what has been described as “cosmic consciousness”; but before that culmination75, Whitman’s experience must have contained elements which do not seem to have been present in the Whitman of Franklin Evans, or of the verses written upon the Mississippi. These elements, I believe, he acquired or began to acquire in the South.
Hitherto we have seen him as a young man of vigorous independence, eagerly observant of life, and delighting in his contact with it. Henceforward he enters into it in a new sense; some barrier has been broken down; he begins to identify himself with it. Strong before in his self-control, he is stronger still now that he has won the power of self-abandonment. Unconsciously he had always been holding himself back; at last he has let himself go. And to let oneself go is to discover oneself. Some men can never face that discovery; they are not ready for emancipation76. Whitman was.
But who emancipated77 him? May we not suppose it was a passionate and noble woman who opened the[Pg 53] gates for him and showed him himself in the divine mirror of her love? Had Whitman been an egoist such a vision would have enslaved and not liberated78 his soul.
But if this woman loved him to the uttermost, why did he leave her? Why did he allow the foulest79 of reproaches to blacken that whitest of all reputations, a Southern lady’s virtue80? Nowhere in the world could such a reproach have seemed more vile81, more cruel. The only answer we can make is that it was, in some almost inexplicable82 way, her choice. And that somehow, perhaps by a fictitious83 marriage, this reproach was doubtless avoided; the woman’s family being readier to invent some subterfuge84 than to take a Northern journalist and artisan into their sacred circle. There is a poem which remained till recently in manuscript—a poem[109] of bitter sarcasm85 and marked power of expression—in which Whitman holds an aristocrat86 up to scorn. He never printed it himself, and this fact adds to the possibility that it may gain some of its force from personal suffering.
Whether Whitman met his lady again we do not know. There is no record of a second visit to the South, though there is no evidence to disprove such a visit; rather indeed, to the contrary, for Whitman speaks in one of his letters[110] of “times South” as periods in which his life lay open to criticism; and refers, elsewhere,[111] to his having lived a good deal in the Southern States. As he was in no position to reply to criticism upon this matter, he was careful not to arouse it.
Whatever lay behind his departure, Whitman left New Orleans on the 25th of May, 1848,[112] ascending87 the Mississippi in a river steamer between the monotonous88 flat banks. Jeff picked up at once.[113] They spent a few hours in St. Louis where the westward89 flowing streams of northern and of southern pioneers met and mingled90.[114] Changing boats, and passing the mouth of the great yellow[Pg 54] Missouri, they made their way up the Illinois river for some two hundred miles, arriving after forty-eight hours at La Salle, whence a canal boat carried them to Chicago. Through the rich agricultural lands of Illinois they passed at a speed not exceeding three miles an hour.
They spent a day in the still very young metropolis91 of the North-west, travelling thence by way of the Great Lakes to Buffalo92. The voyage occupied five glorious summer days. Whitman went on shore at every stopping place intensely interested in everything. He was so delighted with the State of Wisconsin, which was about this time admitted to the union, that he dreamed of settling in one of its new clean townships; and he carried away with him definite impressions of the towns of Milwaukee, Mackinaw, Detroit, Windsor, Cleveland, and Buffalo.
A week from La Salle he passed under the Falls of Niagara and saw the whirlpool; but coming at the end of so much wonder, the stupendous spectacle does not seem to have greatly impressed him. Twenty-four hours of continuous travel through the thickly settled country districts of New York State brought him to the old Dutch capital of Albany, whence descending93 the beautiful Hudson with its wooded high-walled mountain banks, he reached New York on the evening of 15th June.
He had been away from home four months, had travelled as many thousand miles, and had made acquaintance with seventeen of the States of the union. In New Orleans he had learnt the meaning of the South, from St. Louis he had looked into the new West, while in Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin, Michigan, and the coasts of Ontario, he had seen the rich corn-lands of the North-west under their first tillage. And he had felt the meaning of the Mississippi, that great river whose tributaries94, from the Alleghanies to the Rockies, drain and fertilise half the arable95 land of America.
Besides the discovery in himself of a new world, a new hemisphere, Whitman came home filled with the sense of his American citizenship96. A patriot97 from his childhood, from henceforward “these States,” as he[Pg 55] loved to call them, became the object of his passionate devotion. Not in their individuality alone—though this he recognised more than ever, regarding each in some degree as a nation—but above all in their union. Thus he came back to Brooklyn to take up his old vocation98 and his old acquaintances with a sense of enlargement: latent powers had been awakened99 within him and a new ideal which may once have been a childish dream, began to dominate his manhood, hitherto lacking in a clear purpose.
In the old days,[115] when his mother read the Bible to him and taught him something of its meaning, it had seemed to the child that the highest of all the achievements of manhood must be to make such another book as that. It had been written thousands of years ago by inspired men, to be completed some day by others as truly inspired as they. For he believed in the Quaker doctrine100 of the continuity of revelation, which is not strange to a child.
Such fancies in a child’s mind are apt to grow into a purpose: to dream, is to dream of something one will presently do. If the dream is wholly beyond the range of possible accomplishment101, a cloud of disillusionment descending on the face of youth will blot102 it out; but if it is not, it may become an ideal which will shape the whole of manhood as sternly as any fate.
To be an American prophet-poet, to make the American people a book which should be like the Bible in spiritual appeal and moral fervour, but a book of the New World and of the new spirit—such seems to have been the first and the last of Whitman’s day-dreams. It must have come to him as a vague longing103 when he was still very young, and he was never so old as to lose it. Now on his return from this long journey, his mind full of America and full of profound and mystical thoughts concerning love and the soul and the soul’s relation to the world, the dream began to struggle in him for utterance. It was seven years before it found itself a body of words, but henceforward it took possession of his life.
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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3
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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7
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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8
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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10
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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11
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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12
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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28
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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hardily
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| 耐劳地，大胆地，蛮勇地 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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filibustering
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| v.阻碍或延宕国会或其他立法机构通过提案( filibuster的现在分词 )；掠夺 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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carnivals
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| 狂欢节( carnival的名词复数 )； 嘉年华会； 激动人心的事物的组合； 五彩缤纷的颜色组合 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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45
languorous
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| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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46
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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51
stevedores
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| n.码头装卸工人，搬运工( stevedore的名词复数 ) | |
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transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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58
inauguration
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| n.开幕、就职典礼 | |
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malarial
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| 患疟疾的，毒气的 | |
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60
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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entanglements
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| n.瓜葛( entanglement的名词复数 )；牵连；纠缠；缠住 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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betoken
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| v.预示 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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subjectivity
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| n.主观性（主观主义） | |
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culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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tributaries
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| n. 支流 | |
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arable
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| adj.可耕的，适合种植的 | |
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citizenship
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| n.市民权，公民权，国民的义务(身份) | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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