Walt Whitman’s Ghost

I glance across to see our destination, The Harry Ransom Center. I know my classmates must feel the same hostility towards our professor as we scamper over the asphalt, dodging cement benches and frequent, surprisingly deep puddles. As I’m busy concentrating on staying semi-dry and not losing a flip flop, I almost completely miss a huge tree branch that’s been knocked down onto the courtyard from the storm. I try to jump over it, but when my foot reaches the other side I feel it slip in a puddle and I think, “Just my luck,” before my head hits the pebbly concrete floor of the court yard.

A friendly, warm hand shakes my shoulder and a worried deep voice calls my name, “Jessica? Jessica? Wake up Jessica you had a nasty fall.”

Slowly I come to and have to blink a few times before the face in front of me will come into focus. The man has a thick, long white beard that makes him look like a hermit or mountain dweller, and covers his mouth except for a slight peak of a full bottom lip. His eyes have a pleasant shape and are bright with intelligence and love for life. I sense that he is a very powerful man with a well organized mind, but something’s not quite right about his form. His edges seem to waver--I can see the outline of trees and rain straight through him.

(1871. Henry Ulke and Brothers, Washington, D.C. Courtesy Ohio Wesleyan University, Bayley Collection.)

“Who are you? Where’d my class go?” I ask.

“You’re laying right there on the ground with your class all around you. You must’ve been knocked out when you slipped and that explains why only I can see you at this moment. I’m Walt Whitman--this courtyard is where I live now,” he replies. I look and see he’s telling the truth, and then realize he must be a ghost.

“I remember reading about you in my senior English class--you were a pretty famous American poet--why are you living in the Ransom courtyard? Couldn’t you find a more interesting place to live than a library?” I say to the ghost.

“I was only in school till I was eleven so most of my knowledge came from libraries and museums instead of the classroom. I love education and this library has so many of my original works, manuscripts, and personal letters that I’ve decided this is a good place for me to be. There’s even an exhibit of me behind the main lobby right now. However, I spend most of my time out here in the courtyard -- I’ve always felt a connection to nature. I enjoy sitting here when the weather is a little nicer outside to watch the squirrels scamper around or observe the sunlight that filters through the trees playing on the bushes and walkways. I think the courtyard outside the Ransom center is a beautiful example of the integration of nature on UT’s campus. There are many trees growing here that have witnessed the birth and life of this university, and a nice earthy feel is given off by them. I think most of Austin has this same naturalistic tone to it, because there are so many plants and natural landforms that have been left alone by man. Texas’ campus has numerous examples of this, such as Waller Creek and the ponds by the biology building. These natural settings on campus make it feel like it is a part of the Austin community. I’ve been fascinated by the outdoors for a long time--when I was still alive I wrote what I called ‘al fresco’ poetry. That meant it was written while ‘lounging in wharves, crossing on ferry-boats, or loitering in fields.’1 Being in the presence of god’s art made me feel inspired to create my own and helped me to write outside the bounds of convention and tradition.”

(Photo by Frank Yezer & Terri St. Arnauld, 2003)

This triggers my memory and I stupidly say, “Didn’t you write ‘Leaves of Grass’? I think that was about nature or something. I remember my senior English teacher saying you were controversial because you didn’t censor a nature-based view of sex, and the church didn’t like it.”

“Yes, that series of poems was the work of my life, but not everyone agreed with my views. I wrote eleven different editions of it before it was complete. The Ransom center is home to one of my first copies of the sixth edition version that I personally sent to my friend Michael William Rossetti, a fellow writer who encouraged me early on in my career. Would you care to see it? Then we can discuss those critics,” Whitman said.

“Sure, it doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere,” I say, as I glance at my still body on the concrete. I follow him through the large glass doors and up the stairwell. The stairs are against a beautiful display of glass panes, each depicting a scene from some piece of history the Ransom Center is home to.

(Frank Yezer & Terri St. Arnauld, 2003)

“So, about those critics…?” I ask

“Well, I ‘never let the critics’ negative reviews discourage (me), nor the positive reviews encourage me’2 but I did find it amusing how they changed their minds about me during my life. At first, none of them liked ‘the free verse form of (my) poetry,’3 but now this is how most poetry is written. You can see a few famous examples downstairs at the exhibit. Some people in the church and critics disliked my depiction of all sides of human nature, but ‘the sexual passion in itself, while normal and unperverted, is inherently legitimate, creditable, not necessarily an improper theme for poet,’4 so I included poetry of a sexual nature. Those few poems are called the Children of Adam. I couldn’t allow myself to censor any part of the human being because then the true identity of the subject would be lost.”
“What exactly was the whole book ‘Leaves of Grass’ about, anyways? I remember a few of your famous poems like Song of Myself, but I forget what the literary significance of your book is.” I ask Whitman.

“I meant for the book to be a ‘New Bible’ that would lead America to be a true democracy. As I added to it through the eleven editions it also became somewhat of an autobiography, growing as my knowledge of life grew. In the fourth edition printed in 1867 I included a series called Drum-Taps describing the things I had learned watching the Civil War. I became a volunteer nurse when I found that my brother, George, was wounded in Virginia. I was only going to make sure he lived, but once I got there I became attached to the young men who were giving their lives. I became their friends and helped them to do things their mangled bodies could no longer do, such as ‘write letters home.’5 These experiences deeply touched me and I wrote poems such as this one in response:

A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near

by the hospital tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out

there untended lying,
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen

blanket,
Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.

. . .

Then to the third—a face nor child nor old, very calm,

beautiful yellow-white ivory;
Young man I think I know you—I think this face is the

face of the Christ himself,
Dead and divine and brother of all, and here he lies again.

I was still writing a ‘New Bible’ for America, but this one doesn’t show these men dying like Christ to save mankind--it just shows how important and tragic each of their deaths was. The Civil War saddened me because it divided people from their fellow man, and I always felt that all men were connected and basically the same.” Whitman said.

“Here at U.T. we believe everyone is equal and all students should feel friendship and a bond with one another, like you believed Americans should. We have a lot of students from diverse backgrounds and we’ve been taught tolerance and love for these differences,” I respond.

“That’s one of the reasons I reside on this campus, I feel the community of the school bringing everyone together as I wished my country could do during the Civil war. I never understood racism because I thought all men displayed the attributes of mankind, which I explained in one of my poems called ‘Leaves of Grass’:

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,
Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,
Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,

Stuff’d with the stuff that is coarse, and stuff’d with the stuff that is fine.

I still don’t understand how you could hate another man if we’re all the same because it’s like hating yourself. I saw so much pain and suffering during the war because of man’s hatred for one another and for people of a different color. I wrote these poems to show people how pointless and tragic these young men’s deaths were.”

At this point we apparently reach our destination and I think to myself, “Those steps certainly took longer than I thought they would.” We enter another lobby, but this one has large glass windows looking into a room full of desks, computers, and students, and along the walls there were many thick books.

“This is the reading room, you can come here any time the library is open and view all sorts of rare documents and books about people like me. It’s a bit intimidating to undergraduate students like yourself at first because you have to fill out a request for any book or document you wish to view and ask the librarian to find it for you. They don’t let you actually get it yourself because some of the materials are delicate and priceless, but they will let you sit here and view just about anything in the collection. Don’t be intimidated by the librarians like most beginning students are, use this valuable resource to your advantage. I believe that your professor was going to tell you today just how useful the center can be and how to access it,” Whitman informed me as we passed through several doors and another desk with several librarians at it. He took me back into a large room filled with thousands of boxes on shelves. “Here’s where my letters and some of my manuscripts are kept. You can look at them some other time, what I really want you to see is my actual work. When you come back you won’t have the convenience of being able to walk through the walls to view them, so the librarians will show you an introductory video on how to use the library and help you with anything you need.”

We pass through several rooms, all full of old-looking papers, books, drawings, paintings, and a few with tapes and videos. Finally we reach what he was looking for and he gives me a book carefully wrapped in cardboard. I open the package and find a plain sheet of paper around an old gray book that reads ‘1876 London Edition, Sent by Whitman to Rossetti.’ As I open the volume I can smell old paper and moth balls, but this actual piece of history is intriguing. The book has little pieces of paper pasted to certain parts and plenty of scratch outs where he did last minute editing before sending it to his friend Rossetti. I see the introduction is:

Come said my soul,
Such verses for my Body let us write, (for we are one,)
That should I after death invisibly return,

Or, long, long hence, in other spheres,
There to some group of mates the chants resuming,

(Tallying Earth’s soil, trees, winds, tumultuous waves,)
Ever with pleased smile I may keep on,

Ever and ever yet the verses owning- as first, I here and now,
Signing for Soul and Body, set to them my name,

Here it’s signed by Whitman himself. He explains to me, “I never put my name as the author until I made a special set that I autographed because I wanted this to be a work of art about mankind, not an individual man.”

I see opposite this passage a picture of what must be the young Walt Whitman looking very homely and defiant.

(July, 1854. Steel engraving by Samuel Hollyer of daguerreotype by Gabriel Harrison. Courtesy of the Bayley Collection, Ohio Wesleyan University.)

He notices me eyeing the picture and says, “I wanted to portray myself as the average American of that time in the picture. It didn’t come out quite like I wanted but I still like it ‘because it is natural, honest, easy: as spontaneous as you are, as I am, this instant, as we talk together.’6 You can come look at this some other time--I just wanted you to see the kinds of resources available to you at the Ransom Library.” With this he takes the book back, artfully wraps it and leads me back through the rooms to the Reading room and down the stairs.

I rush to keep up with Whitman while we walk down, but I notice the pictures on the windows have come to life and are clamoring for my attention. I stop to respond to a depressed looking lady who has said “Good day,” but this apparently isn’t on Whitman’s schedule.

“You may return later to speak with Katherine Mansfield’s ghost some other time, you must return to your class. I hope you now realize what a valuable place this is on campus and I’m glad you’re interested in some of the other history here, but I’m afraid there’s only time to get my story this evening,” Whitman hurriedly explains. So I make my apologies to the woman and promise to come back later. As we walk outside into the rain, I turn to look at the building we’ve just come from and once again don’t see the puddle I’m about to slip in.

As I come to I hear another deep, worried voice calling my name, “Jessica? Jessica? Crap--I know I’m going to get sued somehow for this!” I open my eyes and see the voice is coming from a man with a beard not quite as long as Whitman’s but just as white and bushy. He has the same dark, intelligent eyes—not quite as piercing as Whitman’s, but still full of intelligence. “Thank God you’re alright! Let’s get you up and out of this rain,” Professor Bump exclaims as he helps me stand and this time we carefully walk to the Ransom Center.

They tell me that I was only passed out for a few seconds before regaining consciousness so I haven’t disrupted Professor Bump’s teaching plans for the day. We explored part of the exhibits downstairs Whitman had told me about, and got to see some more original documents the library posses. I never realized such an invaluable collection of history housed so many ghosts right across the street from my dorm, Dobie Center, and also represented the importance of nature in the structure of the University of Texas, and the city it’s built in, Austin.

Word Count: Original: 2,543 Revised: 2875 (+359, -27)

Sources:

1. The Latest Word on Whitman, in Current Literature July 1909, Edited by Edward J. Wheeler. The Current Literature Publishing Company, New York.

2. Walt Whitman: Yesterday and Today, Henry Eduard Legler. Brothers of the Book, Chicago, 1916.

3. Walt Whitman, Ed Folsom and Kenneth M. Price. http://www.whitmanarchive.org/biography/biographymainindex.html

4. Ransom Center, University of Texas at Austin. Last modified: September 17, 2004. http://www.hrc.utexas.edu/

1 From page 21 of Walt Whitman: Yesterday and Today by Henry Eduard Legler.

2 From page 46 in The Latest Word on Whitman, in Current Literature

3 From page 46 in The Latest Word on Whitman, in Current Literature

5 from pg.32 Walt Whitman: Yesterday and Today, Henry Eduard Legler