Article: Editor's Introduction

That avatar of nineteenth-century American optimism, Walt Whitman (1819-1892), opened his Leaves of Grass with the lines:

I CELEBRATE myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease . . . observing a spear of summer grass.1

Having lived for a season (January to May) in New Orleans in 1848, before decamping back to Brooklyn, and then later "staying" - as Southerners used to say, and in fact still do say here in the Deep South - in Washington D.C. long enough to "loafe" in those sweltering months of an Upper South summer, Whitman unwittingly evokes for us the old antebellum ideal of ...

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