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Randall Fuller is associate professor of English at Drury University. He is the author of From Battlefields Rising: How the Civil War Transformed American Literature (Oxford University Press, 2010) and Emerson's Ghosts: Literature, Politics, and the Making of Americanists (Oxford University Press, 2007). His articles on nineteenth- and twentieth-century American literature have appeared in American Literature, American Literary History, Early American Literature, New England Quarterly, and ESQ: A Journal of the American Renaissance. He is the recipient of a National Endowment for the Humanities fellowship, and the director of Drury University's Honor Program. He received his PhD from Washington University.

Dr. Fuller gave this lecture during our "American Writing on the Civil War" teacher workshop on February 3, 2012. A video of Dr. Fuller’s lecture is available in our digital repository.



I’m going to talk in somewhat general terms about the overarching idea of American literature in the Civil War, but I think we need to acknowledge up front that there are always two difficulties for us as teachers—whether junior high, high school, or college—to begin with. The first difficulty, it seems to me, is how to get students interested in the past, in history. As we all know, in our culture now, especially through the internet, it seems like everything is in the compelling, urgent, hyper-important present. So, for my students, if you want to talk about history, you talk about a movie made in 2003. If you’re interested in ancient history, you talk about the 1990s. You know what I’m talking about. So one of the things that’s really difficult but incredibly important whenever we discuss literature or history in the past is to somehow convey to students that these folks that we’re looking at were not some exotic species from another world or planet; they’re people like us, and they in many ways had the same kinds of concerns and troubles and issues that we have.

If you can get them to think a little bit like that, then you can begin to imagine just how traumatic, how devastating, how monumental the Civil War would have been in their lives. A wonderful scholar, who’s now the president of Harvard University, Drew Gilpin Faust, wrote a book about death and the Civil War. One of the things she points out that I think is really worth considering and bringing up for your students is that over six hundred thousand Americans died in the Civil War, which is more than any war in the United States, and which is more than all of the wars combined. But if you were to extrapolate that into today’s numbers, if you were to say the United States would have a Civil War right now based upon the population, the equivalent of six million people would die given how much the population has grown. You could almost have your students look around the classroom and say, if you guys were fighting for the Union at least one out of ten of you would die. If you were fighting for the Confederacy, somewhere between one out of three or four would die. So there is a way in which the Civil War—and it’s hard for us to get our minds around—affected everybody in the nation at the time. It was impossible not to know somebody, at least in the more populated areas from probably Kansas to the East, who was not wounded, maimed, or killed in the war. In many cases that person was also a member of the family. So the first difficulty is just getting students’ heads around the fact that this war happened on a devastating scale amongst people just like them.

The second thing, which is a little more difficult, it seems to me, is to try to convey why literature might have seemed so important to these people. The thing I want to talk about today is a) how literature helped spark the Civil War and then b) how the Civil War changed that very literature. But it’s important to realize how significant American literature was in the first place to the majority of Americans in the antebellum period, in the nineteenth century. Ask your students sometime: if they traveled to another country, how would they feel if that country did not have its own television stations, didn’t have an internet presence, didn’t have its own movies, that everything it got culturally came from another country. I’m guessing that they would in some ways subtly consider that country to be a little inferior, at least culturally. That was the case of America in the nineteenth century. There’s a great essay that was published thirty-three years before the Civil War by a guy named Sir Sydney Smith . . . called “Who Reads an American Book?” What Smith wanted to say—he was writing this in an English literary journal at the time, with a lot of cultural snobbism and chauvinism—he said, America’s kind of interesting. It’s doing something kind of worth remarking in its political system. They’re experimenting with this thing called democracy. It may or may not work out, but they have no culture whatsoever. Whenever a writer in America tries to write a novel, he’s essentially copying Sir Walter Scott. Whenever a poet in the United States tries to publish a poem, he or she is essentially copying—name your favorite British poet. The idea was, Americans don’t have their own culture. They are a people devoid of literary culture. Therefore, they’re really not quite up to the standards of civilization as understood by English and European folks.

Why is that important? Well, it was enormously important to Americans who read and felt a sense of cultural inferiority, who themselves felt, you know, it is true, we’re not really producing a culture in the same way of say England that has Shakespeare or in the way of Italy that has Dante. We don’t have that yet. People like Ralph Waldo Emerson, whom you may know, but whom I’m guessing you don’t teach very much in high school because he’s extraordinarily hard to teach. There are great examples of people who read Emerson at the time who said things like, you know, I read the essay. I was engaged by the essay. I flipped through, but as soon as I closed it I had no idea what he was saying. That’s a really typical response that Emerson provoked not only in my students, but from the very beginning. He always provoked that. But he’s important to us in American literary history for a couple of reasons. The most important of which is, he articulated what an American literature might look like. He said in a series of essays and in his first book, Nature, published in 1836: American literature does not need to even look across the Atlantic, at Sir Walter Scott. We have a completely different experience. We have a different political environment. We are much more self-determined. Obviously these things may be debatable, but this is Emerson’s take on things. As a result, we are going to create something unlike Europe, that is distinctly our own. In his essay called “The Poet,” he said the poet in America is not going to be a European poet who’s bound by metrical regularity. The poet in the U.S. doesn’t have to write in iambic pentameter. The poet in America doesn’t have to rhyme. Why should we be hung up with those European conventions that are really kind of imprisoning and constricting? The American poet will, Emerson says, not worry about making meters, but will create “metre-making arguments.” What he means by that is, the American poet will simply describe the world as he sees it or she sees it, and that will become a new kind of poetry.

The reason Emerson’s theorizing about American literature is important is because it sparked, especially in New England and New York, a wave of disciples and imitators and people who tried to live up to Emerson’s ideals. I’m not going to talk about people like Harriet Beecher Stowe or Emily Dickinson or Nathaniel Hawthorne . . . but all of them were influenced by Emerson to varying degrees. The most interesting fellow, I think, who is inspired by Emerson and whose career takes a radical turn in the Civil War is Walt Whitman. . . . [Whitman’s poetry] doesn’t look like any other poetry I’m aware of. It’s conversational. There’s not a kind of rhythmic meter going on. In fact, Whitman writes these extraordinarily long poetic lines. They seem to go off the page. They just go on and on and on. They catalog endless activities and objects in the American world. Where that’s coming from is Emerson. Whitman said famously, “I was simmering, simmering, simmering; Emerson brought me to a boil.” What he meant is: he knew he wanted to do something with poetry; he considered himself a kind of artistic figure, but it was when he read Emerson’s “The Poet” and other essays that he began to see what he might be able to do. What he wants to do, following Emerson’s advice in “The Poet,” he wants to become the poet of America. Now, I know I looked pretty carefully at your teaching standards, and I know that alas, poetry is ranked below fiction, and I’m aware of that, and when I meet with you in our smaller groups we’ll focus on fiction. The reason I’m looking at poetry now isn’t so much for you to take that into the classroom as to give you an example in a very compact way of how the Civil War changed the language. I think we can do that really nicely with Whitman’s language. So that’s why I’m going to look at poetry.

Before I do, I would like to suggest that another difference between United States literature and a lot of literature that was in Europe (and another person who was behind this difference was Emerson) was that American writers felt like they wanted to change their readers. They wanted a moral revolution to happen inside the readers. They didn’t just want you to read one of their books and to be entertained by it—although every author wants to entertain a reader to some extent—they wanted you to read their work—whether it was Emerson, whether it was Thoreau’s Walden, whether it was Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin—they wanted you to read those things and have a conversion inside yourself that would make you behave in a different way when you had finished. At the end of “The American Scholar,” Emerson in fact says that the role of the American scholar, and by that he just meant anyone who thinks or writes, the role of that person is to convert the world. That desire to convert the world fit very nicely into a pressing ethical, moral dilemma that the United States was confronted with: the problem of slavery.

Harriet Beecher Stowe says, I didn’t really write Uncle Tom’s Cabin. God wrote through me. God wrote it, and what God wants to do is to get everybody stirred up about the problem of slavery and to want to abolish slavery. I believe very strongly that in many ways, the Civil War would not have happened in quite the way it did if there had not been this group of New England authors who were writing very passionately about the problem of slavery and the need for abolition, and who expressed a willingness, if the South wouldn’t change their ways, for New England to just secede. We always think about the South seceding, but Emerson, Oliver Wendell Holmes, sometimes Nathaniel Hawthorne, and a variety of other folks said, you know what would be best is if New England seceded, because then we wouldn’t have to deal with this problem of slavery, of this moral taint that is ruining the country.

James Russell Lowell, a poet of the time and the editor of the Atlantic Monthly . . . said, as an editor, I am going to do everything I can to try to abolish slavery, to try to influence public opinion through my magazine in such a way that people will say: slavery is wrong, let’s end it. In the very second issue of the Atlantic Monthly he published an article called “Where Will it End?” and that article simply said, the United States has lost its ideals and can only be saved by the abolition of slavery. Now, again, your students may say: So what? What’s the big deal? It’s just an article. Articles can’t do anything. Lowell said that the war before the firing on Fort Sumter was a war of words and the pen. What he meant was, what had to happen before the North and the South clashed together in that epic battle that lasted four years was that public opinion had to be mobilized and energized in such a way that one group of people—and it was a minority; a very small percentage of people said, slavery is wrong; let’s fight over it. Another group of people, the South, disagreed.

So, based upon Emerson’s writings and then a whole cohort of other American literary figures, you have got a very heightened rhetorical situation in the United States, where both sides are fired up and are basically writing articles in support of or against each other and fairly large audiences are reading those. That’s the backdrop for Walt Whitman, who has this incredibly ambitious idea that he wants to be the national poet. Let’s just say for instance that this side of the room is the South and leans towards Southern sympathies . . . and let’s say this side of the room is the North. The North is incredibly complex with some folks wanting a secession from the Union but also some folks wanting all kinds of different accommodations with the South. What Whitman wanted to do as a poet in the 1850s was to throw his arms rhetorically around all of you. He wanted to say, you guys are the nation. I am the national poet. I’m going to try to describe all of us. I’m going to say what it’s like to be a Southerner, what it’s like to be a Northerner, what it’s like to be an escaped slave, what it’s like to be a Native American who’s married to a trapper. I’m going to try to encompass everything that is going on in this incredibly dynamic and chaotic place called the United States. I’m going to do that because I want to be the poet of America. I want to be our nation’s Dante, or I want to be our nation’s preeminent poet and the way I know I have succeeded is if all of you read my book and agree more or less that I have captured what it is like to live in this place, and what it is like to be an American. It’s a very ambitious goal. I love the ambition of Whitman, to say: I’m going to be the poet of America. I’m going to embrace you, and you’re going to embrace me. Well, it didn’t work out quite that way for a while. Not everyone embraced Whitman as much as he had hoped, but that is the project that he had.

The reason I mention it is because, imagine if you are the person who wants to be the poet of America and who wants to create a poem about America and imagine if America no longer exists. What I’m talking about, of course, is the firing of Fort Sumter on April 12, 1861, which officially begins the Civil War. The United States is no longer the United States. They’re the divided states. You guys are way over here now, and you guys are way over here, and in fact we’re about ready to embark on an incredibly bloody four-year war that nobody could anticipate the cost of. What do you do if you’re the self-proclaimed poet of America? Your whole project seems to have fallen apart because now your audience is divided and fractious.

What did Whitman do? I think one of the things Whitman did at first—and this is conjectural—I think he actually considered enlisting in the Union Army. He’s got this really interesting journal entry about a week after the fighting begins where he says, “I hereby swear off meat, alcohol, and will only eat vegetable foods, and will take better care of my body.” It doesn’t say, “I’m going to enlist in the army,” and maybe he didn’t mean that, but I’ve always had this suspicion that one of the things he’s thinking about is, maybe I’m going to get geared up and I’m going to enlist. But he doesn’t. The person that he knows who does is his younger brother, George Washington Whitman, who is a carpenter in Brooklyn and within a week of the firing on Fort Sumter, Walt Whitman’s younger brother George Whitman signs up and begins a four-year career in the Union Army that will take him from one major battle to the other, and that will have him wounded multiple times and will have him finishing up the war in a Confederate prison. In fact, when he gets home, he suffers from what we would now call post-traumatic stress disorder and what at the time was known as soldier’s heart. He sleeps with a gun down in the parlor. He can’t sleep at night very comfortably. He’s agitated a lot of the time. He is a part of a unit that began with 160 men. By the end of the war, there are only twenty-some left, and he’s one of them. One of his friends said, “George, you’re the luckiest man I ever knew,” because he gets shot, he gets captured, but he just keeps going.

In December of 1863, right in the middle of the war, Whitman, who had written some really propagandistic poems about the war to date, is sitting at breakfast with his mother. He opens up a New York newspaper, and at the time newspapers would have a black border around them to list those who were wounded and killed in battle. He’s reading that and he sees the name George Whitman, Fredericksburg. He gets up from the table and immediately catches a train down to Washington, DC, where there are numerous hospitals that have been set up in tents and bars and the U.S. Patent Office. There are so many wounded from the war at that point that they’re just converting every building that it makes sense to into a hospital. He goes from hospital to hospital to hospital saying, have you seen my brother George Whitman? Nobody has. Being flighty like a poet, he is almost immediately pick-pocketed, and he has no money and he’s in Washington. He borrows money from somebody, and he takes the train from Washington, DC, over to Fredericksburg—not a very far journey. He shows up at the aftermath of a battle where George was wounded, and he begins taking notes in a little notebook that he had made for himself. He describes the trees that have just been mown down like with chainsaws, except instead of chainsaws it’s with artillery and bullets. There are dead horses lying all over the place, mules and horses, pack animals, the ground has been churned up by artillery, and in clusters all over the place are little groups of men who have been wounded but not wounded so badly they need to go to the hospital immediately. Whitman almost immediately discovers his younger brother, who has been wounded in a minor way with a shot in his cheek. . . . They have a reunion, and they hug. Whitman’s very glad that his brother has survived, but his brother then takes him around and introduces him to all of his friends, the people that he’s gotten to know in the Union Army. Again, in his notebook Whitman writes down the stories of these men. That night, he goes to sleep, and in the morning he wakes up and takes a walk outside of his tent, and he sees three bodies that are lying on the ground and that have been covered with a blanket. At that moment, he once again writes in his notebook what will be his first Civil War poem that is based on the experience of the Civil War. . . . It’s called “A Sight in Camp in the Daybreak Grey and Dim,” and this is a poem that you could teach to your students and they would be able to get it quite easily. . . .

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.

Curious I halt and silent stand,
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just lift the blanket;
Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray’d hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes?
Who are you my dear comrade?

Then to the second I step—and who are you my child and darling?
Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming?

Then to the third—a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of 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 again he lies.

I read that poem to you because that kind of poetry was impossible for Whitman before he actually had the experience of going to Fredericksburg, just as the kind of literature that would emerge out of the Civil War was impossible before the experience of the Civil War. From a biographical point of view, what happens with Whitman is he is so moved by this experience and event that he will go and spend most of the rest of his time during the war tending to young men in the hospital. That’s the Whitman we know, the guy who would go around and write letters, bring candy, and would try to cheer up young men who had been wounded.

I would just end by saying what happened to the Civil War, what happened to American literature, is a kind of chastening, a sense that maybe we should focus less on our ideals and more upon the day-to-day lives of actual living human beings. If the American literature that Emerson had summoned into being in the 1830s and ‘40s helped galvanize opinion that led to the Civil War, the Civil War in turn changed what that literature would be, and this poem by Whitman is just an example of that.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, ca. 1872. Image courtesy of the New York Public Library.
Walt Whitman, ca. 1860–1865. Photo by Matthew Brady. Image courtesy of the National Archives and Records Administration.
Letter from Ralph Waldo Emerson to Walt Whitman dated July 21, 1855. First page: "I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of 'Leaves of Grass.' I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed." Image courtesy of the Library of Congress.
Walt Whitman in 1864. Photo by Alexander Gardner. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.
Bombardment of Fort Sumter, Charleston Harbor: 12th & 13th of April, 1861, by Currier & Ives. Image courtesy of the Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.
Wounded soldiers in hospital. Photo by Matthew Brady. Image courtesy of the National Archives.
Harriet Beecher Stowe. Photo courtesy of the National Archives.
Title-page illustration by Hammatt Billings for Uncle Tom's Cabin (first edition: Boston: John P. Jewett and Company, 1852). Public domain image.
First title page of The Atlantic Monthly magazine, November 1857. Public domain image courtesy of The Atlantic Monthly.
Ruins in Richmond (1865), by A. J. Russell. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.
George Washington Whitman in uniform. Image courtesy of the Library of Congress.
Wounded soldiers under trees, Marye's Heights, Fredericksburg, after the battle of Spotsylvania, 1864. Photo by Matthew Brady. Image courtesy of the National Archives.
A company of the 6th Maine Infantry on parade after the battle of Fredericksburg. Photo by Matthew Brady. Image courtesy of the National Archives.