A History of American Literature

by Percy Holmes Boynton

In “Myself and Mine” Whitman delivered an admonition in spite of which he has been discussed in a whole alcoveful of books and in innumerable lectures:

I call to the world to distrust the accounts of my friends, but listen to my enemies—as I myself do;

I charge you, too, forever reject those who would expound me—for I cannot expound myself;

I charge that there be no theory nor school founded out of me;

I charge you to leave all free, as I have left all free.

The comment and the controversy which have accumulated around his poems and himself center about two nodal points: one is the relatively obvious consideration of the objections to his poetic form, his subject matter, and his conduct, and the other—far more complex and subtle—is the statement and appraisal of his philosophy of life.

Prejudice and ignorance have had altogether too much to say about Whitman’s versification,—as they still have in connection with the freer verse forms of the present day. Two or three simple facts should be stated at the outset, by way of clearing the ground. His earliest poetry was written in conventional form; the form of “Leaves of Grass” was the result neither of laziness nor of inability to deal with the established measures. Throughout his work there are recurrent passages in regular rimed meter. “O Captain! My Captain!” (1865), “Ethiopia Saluting the Colors” (1870), and the song of “The Singer in the Prison” (1870) are deliberate resorts to the old ways. More likely to escape the attention are unlabeled bits scattered through poems in Whitman’s usual manner. The opening of the “Song of the Broad-Axe” is in eight measures of trochaic tetrameter with a single rime—it sounds like Emerson’s; and the first four lines of section 14 in “Walt Whitman,” or the “Song of Myself,” are iambic heptameters, a perfect stanza. Furthermore, he was not utterly alone in his generation. Similar experiments by some of his contemporaries are almost forgotten, because there was no vital relation between form and content; because there was nothing vital in them; but Whitman’s rhythms survive because they are as alive as the wind in the tree tops.

He theorized out his art in detail and referred to his lines as apparently “lawless at first perusal, although on closer examination a certain regularity appears, like the recurrence of lesser and larger waves on the sea-shore, rolling in without intermission, and fitfully rising and falling.” His feeling,—and this is the right word for a question of artistic form, which should not be determined primarily by the intellect,—his feeling was that the idea which is being expressed should govern from moment to moment the form into which it is cast, since any pattern imposed on a long poem must handicap freedom. In many a descriptive passage there is a succession of nice adjustments of word and rhythm to the thing being described. The flight of birds, the play of waves, the swaying of branches, the thousandfold variations of motion, are easy to reproduce and easy to perceive, but Whitman went far beyond these to the innate suggestions of things and of ideas. At the same time—not to be occupied in a search for variety which becomes merely chaos—he adopted a succession of pattern rhythms, taking a simple, free measure and modifying it in the reiterative form frequently used by Emerson and common to “Hiawatha.” There was some acumen in Mrs. Whitman’s comparison, for Longfellow’s assumption of “frequent repetitions” was a reverting to the parallelism that prevails in most folk poetry, the same parallelism which is the warp of Whitman’s patterns. Whitman was just as conscious in his choice of diction as in his selection of measures. Poetry, he agreed with Wordsworth, was choked with outworn phrases; the language of the people should be the source of a poetic tongue. From this he could evolve a “perfectly clear, plate-glassy style.”

In execution he was, of course, uneven. He wrote scores upon scores of passages that were full of splendor, of majesty, of rugged strength, of tender loveliness. In general it is true that the lines which deal with definite aspects of natural and physical beauty are most effective—lines of which “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking” are the purest type; but many of the poems and sections in which concrete imagery is summoned to the explication of a general idea are often finely successful—as in his stanzas on the poet, or on himself, “the divine average,” for example:

My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite;