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WALT WHITMAN
IN MICKLE STREET

BY ELIZABETH LEAVITT KELLER

"There s this little street and this little house"

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

WALT WHITMAN
IN MICKLE STREET

"There s this little street and this little house"

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

Digitized by the Internet Archive

in 2011 with funding from

The Institute of Museum and Library Services through an Indiana State Library LSTA Grant

http://www.archive.org/details/waltwhitmaninmicOOinkell

328 MICKXE STREET
FROM A PAINTING Cl9o8] BY MARSDEN HARTLEY

WALT WHITMAN
IN MICKLE STREET

ELIZABETH LEAVITT KELLER

NEW YORK

MITCHELL KENNERLEY

MCMXXI

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
J. J. LITTLE AND IVES COMPANY, NEW "SORK

EDITOR'S NOTE

ELIZABETH LEAVITT KELLER
was born at Buffalo, N. Y., on No-
vember 3, 1839. Both her parents were
descended from the first settlers of this
country, and each in turn came to Buffalo
in its early days, her mother, Sarah Ellis,
by private conveyance in 1825, and her
father, James S. Leavitt, by way of the
newly opened Erie Canal in 1834.

Elizabeth was the second daughter. In
the spring of 1841 she was taken to Niagara
Falls, and all her childhood recollections are
clustered around that place. Returning to
Buffalo in 1846, her father opened a book-
bindery, and later added a printing office
and stationery store.

At nineteen years of age Elizabeth
Leavitt was married to William Wallace
Keller, of Little Falls, N. Y. Seven years
later she became a widow.

Her natural instinct for nursing was de-
veloped during the Civil War and the years
that followed, but the time and opportunity

vi EDITOR'S NOTE

for professional training did not come until
1876, when, her two children being provided
for, she was free to apply for admission to
the school for nurses connected with the
Women's Hospital in Philadelphia — one of
the three small training schools then existing
in the United States.

Before her course was finished her younger
sister died. Mrs. Keller left the hospital to
take care of the five( motherless children,
and it was not until ten years later that she
was free to resume her training. When she
graduated she was a grandmother — the
only one, it need scarcely be said, in the
class.

While nursing her patient, Walt Whitman,
during his last illness, she learnt much about
his personality and home life, and much
also about his unselfish friend and house-
keeper, Mrs. Davis. The desire to tell the
truth about the whole case — so often mis-
understood or distorted — grew stronger
with the passing years, and finally Mrs. Kel-
ler entered an old ladies' home in her own
city, where she would have leisure to carry
out her design. Here the book was com-
menced and completed. "After numerous
struggles and disappointments," she writes,
"my second great desire — to set Mrs.

EDITOR'S NOTE vii

Davis in her true light — has been fulfilled
— this time by a great-grandmother !"

It is not often that a great-grandmother,
after a long life of service to others, sees her
first book published on her eighty-second
birthday.

Mrs. Keller uses her pen as if she were
twenty or thirty years younger. Her letters
are simple but cheery, 'her outlook on life
contented but in no way obscured. Not
deliberately, but through a natural gift, she
conveys vivid impressions of the world as
it now appears to her, just as she conveys
so unpretentiously but unforgettably in her
book the whole atmosphere of Walt Whit-
man's world, when it had been narrowed to
the little frame house in Mickle Street, and
finally to a bed of suffering in one room of
that little house.

Whatever else her book may be, it is an
extraordinary instance of revelation through
simplicity; the picture stands out with all
its details, not as a work of conscious art,
but assuredly as a work that the artist, the
student of life and of human nature, will
be glad to have.

Charles Vale

PREFACE

HAD it ever occurred to me that the
time might come when I should feel
impelled to write something in regard to my
late patient, Walt Whitman, I should have
taken care to be better prepared in anticipa-
tion; would have kept a personal account,
jotted down notes for my own use, observed
his visitors more closely, preserved all my
correspondence with Dr. Bucke, and record-
ed items of more or less interest that fade
from memory as the years go by. Still, I
have my diary, fortunately, and can be
true to dates.

After I had been interviewed a number of
times, and had answered various questions
to the best of my knowledge and belief, I
was surprised to see several high-flown ar»
tides published, all based on the meagre
information I had furnished, and all imper-
fect and unsatisfactory.

Interviewers seemed to look for some-
thing beyond me; to wait expectantly in the
hope that I could recall some unusual thing

x PREFACE

in Mr. Whitman's eccentricities that I alone
had observed; words that I alone had heard
him speak; opinions and beliefs I alone had
heard him express ; anything remarkable, not
before given to the public. They wanted the
sensational and exclusive, if possible. I sup-
pose that was natural.

But it set me thinking that if my knowl-
edge was of any value or interest to others,
why not write a truthful story myself, in-
stead of having my words enlarged upon,
changed and perverted? Simple facts are
surely better than hasty exaggerations.

I have done what I could. One gentle-
man (Mr. James M. Johnston, of Buffalo),
who has read the manuscript, and for whose
opinion I have the greatest regard, remarked
as he returned it: "It appears to me that
your main view in writing this was to exon-
erate Mrs. Davis."

He had discovered a fact I then recog-
nized to be the truth.

My greatest fear is that I may have
handled the whole truth too freely — without
gloves.

E. L. K.

CONTENTS

MARY OAKES DAVIS

WALT WHITMAN'S HOME

III

THE MICKLE STREET HOUSE

THE NEW REGIME

CURIOUS NEIGHBORS

MR. WHITMAN DRIVES

VII

BROOMS, BILLS AND MENTAL

CHLOROFORM

VIII

VISITING AND VISITORS

A BUST AND A PAINTING

REST AND ROUTINE

A SHOCK, AND SOME CHANGES

100

XII

ANCHORED

113

XIII

WARREN FRITZINGER

119

XIV

FRIENDS, MONEY, AND A MAUSO-

LEUM

133

THE LAST BIRTHDAY PARTY

142

XVI

THE NEW NURSE

150

XVII

"shift, warry"

167

XVIII

WINDING UP

176

Xll

eUJN 1 HJN I b

XIX

THE TRIAL

182

CONCLUSION

WALT WHITMAN'S MONUMENTS, BY

187

GUIDO BRUNO

195

WALT WHITMAN SPEAKS

207

INDEX

225

WALT WHITMAN
IN MICKLE STREET

/ write this book

in loving memory of

three of the most kind-hearted,

unselfish and capable people I ever knew

I Dedicate It

ALEX. Mc A LISTER. M.D.

HALCYON DAYS

Not from successful love alone,

Nor wealth, nor honored middle-age,

Nor victories of politics or war;

But as life wanes, and all the turbulent pas-
sions calm,

As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the
evening sky,

As softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame
like fresher, balmier air,

As the days take on a mellower light,

And the apple at last hangs really finish'd
and indolent-ripe on the tree,

Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days
of all,

The brooding and blissful halcyon days !

Walt Whitman

WALT WHITMAN IN
MICKLE STREET

MARY OAKES DAVIS

"She hath wrought a good work on me . . . This also
that she hath done shall be spoken of for a memorial
of her."— St. Mark XIV: 6, 9.

"Whitman with the pen was one man — Whitman in
private life was another man." — Thomas Donaldson.

SOMEONE has said: "A veil of silence,
even mystery, seems to have shut out
from view the later home life of Walt Whit-
man."

There is no reason for this, but if it be
really so, the veil cannot be lifted without
revealing in a true light the good woman
— Mary Oakes Davis — so closely con-
nected with the poet's later years, and of
whom he often spoke as "my housekeeper,
nurse and friend."

Mrs. Davis's life from the cradle to the
grave was one of self-sacrifice and devotion

2 WALT WHITMAN

to others. Her first clear recollection was of
a blind old woman to whom her parents had
given a home. In speaking of this she said :
"I never had a childhood, nor did I realize
that I had the right to play like other chil-
dren, for at six years of age 'Blind Auntie'
was my especial charge. On waking in the
morning my first thought was of her, and
then I felt I must not lie in bed another
minute. I arose quickly, made my own toilet
and hastened to her." She continued with a
detailed account of the attention daily given
to "Auntie," how she put on her stockings
and shoes, and handed her each article of
clothing as it was needed; how she brought
fresh water for her ablutions, combed her
hair and made her presentable for the table;
how at all meals she sat by her side to wait
upon her, and how, after helping her mother
with the dishes, she walked up and down the
sidewalk until schooltime to give "Auntie"
her exercise, the walks being repeated when
school was over.

It seems strange that parents could per-
mit such sacrifice for an outsider, however
helpless, unmindful of their injustice toward
the little daughter who so willingly and un-
consciously yielded up her young life. No
wonder this lesson of utter devotion to an-

IN MICKLE STREET 3

other, so early implanted in the tender heart
of the child, should in after years become
part and parcel of the woman.

When Mary was twelve years of age
"Blind Auntie" died. Then came two more
years of schooling, after which the girl vol-
untarily assumed another burden — the care
of a melancholy, selfish invalid, a distant rel-
ative living in the country, of whom she had
heard much from time to time. With her
she stayed for six years, being in turn nurse,
companion, housekeeper or general servant,
as need required.

Poor child, she failed in brightening the
invalid's life — which was her only hope in
going there. All her efforts were unappre-
ciated and misunderstood, and it was a hard
task to follow out what she conceived to be
her duty. During the first four years her
sole remuneration was a small sum of money
on rare occasions, or a few articles of cloth-
ing; during the last two, a modest monthly
salary. The entire period was one of unre-
mitting care and self-abnegation, and at the
age of twenty, utterly disheartened, she sum-
moned up resolution to leave.

She had long contemplated paying a visit
to an old schoolmate and dear friend, Mrs.
Fritzinger, the wife of a sea-captain, whose

4 WALT WHITMAN

home was in Camden, New Jersey, and to
this city she now went. Arriving, to her great
sorrow she found her friend in a serious
physical condition, and remained to nurse her
through a protracted illness, which ended
fatally. On her deathbed Mrs. Fritzinger
confided her two young sons to Mary's care,
and from this time on they called her mother.

Captain Fritzinger soon became blind and
had to give up the sea. He still however
retained marine interests in Philadelphia, to
and from which city Mary led him daily.
Then came a long illness. The Captain ap-
pointed Mary co-guardian to his two sons,
and at his death divided his property equally
between the three.

Captain Davis, a friend of the Fritzingers,
had met Mary during Mrs. Fritzinger's
lifetime. He was much attracted to her,
proposed marriage and was accepted on con-
dition that the wedding should not take place
as long as her friends had need of her. But
time slipped by; it may be Captain Davis
thought their need of her would never end;
so, meeting her in Philadelphia one morning,
he insisted upon their going to a minister's
and becoming man and wife. Mary, thus
forcefully pressed, consented, but exacted the
promise that he would not tell the Frit-

IN MICKLE STREET 5

zingers until his return from the trip he was
on the eve of taking.

In a few days he left Camden. His vessel
was wrecked off the coast of Maine, and he
was buried where he washed ashore.

His hasty marriage and unlooked-for
death prevented him from making the in-
tended provision for his wife, and as she
shrank from any contest with his family,
all that was left to her was his name and
the cherished memory of her one brief love.

During Captain Fritzinger's nine years of
blindness, and through all his long sickness,
Mary's ingrained habit of devotion to one
person made her somewhat forgetful of
others; and dearly as she loved the boys who
called her mother, their happiness was too
often sacrificed to their father's infirmities.
Strange — and yet not strange, perhaps — that
one whose childhood had been an unbroken
martyrdom, should now be not always con-
scious of the needs of a new generation.

The house in which they lived, in a little
street running at right angles to Stevens
Street, was closed at dusk. Then, when she
had read the daily papers, Mary would ex-
tinguish the lights, feeling that to read to
herself, or for the boys to play games, would
be selfish, as the sick man was deprived of

6 WALT WHITMAN

such enjoyments. It didn't occur to her that
these wide-awake youngsters had nothing of
her own childhood spirit of resignation, or
that the noise and laughter of other boys
frolicking in the streets could have any at-
traction for them. They were sent early to
bed, but time and again made their escape
through the window, creeping along the shed,
and so to the fence and the street.

Both boys had an innate love for the sea,
and at the age of fourteen and sixteen re-
spectively had become so restless and urgent
for a change, that their father yielded to their
wishes and procured berths for them aboard
the same ship. In two years they returned
to find him dead, and in a short time they
embarked again in separate vessels and for
longer voyages.

During their first absence, Captain Frit-
zinger had invited another ex-captain — an old
shipmate and intimate friend — to come to
his house to board, and for mutual com-
panionship. The new guest was in poor health
and extremely crotchety, and immediately
upon his host's demise he took possession
of the bed left empty. Then ensued for
Mrs. Davis two more years of fidelity and
constant care, until the one old shipmate
went the way of the other.

IN MICKLE STREET 7

But even now the long-tried woman was
not left without someone to minister to, for
shortly before a young orphan girl had been
entrusted to her. It was certainly her destiny
to find full scope for the spirit of self-sacrifice
so early implanted, and so persistently called
upon. But it was almost inevitable for such
a nature to be unconscious of the vein of
irony in human affairs, of the element of the
grotesque in the sublime. She went quietly
on her accustomed way. It was her vocation
to be victimized, and her daily business to
be a blessing to others.

Such was the woman who entered so close-
ly into Walt Whitman's life during the seven
years spent in Mickle Street. She meant
more to him than he was perhaps aware of;
more, certainly, than he ever cared to admit.
If she was incapable of realizing the fulness
of his genius, he seemed unable to measure
the fulness of hers. But he was glad to profit
by it.

WALT WHITMAN'S HOME

"And whether I come into my own to-day or in ten

thousand or in ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now or with equal cheerfulness

I can wait." — Walt Whitman.

"I only thought if I didn't go, who would?"

— Mary O. Davis.

AFTER physical disability had incapaci-
tated him for duty, Walt Whitman
went to Camden, the New Jersey suburb
of Philadelphia, and there the remaining
years of his life were spent, at first in his
brother's house in Stevens Street and later
in a little frame cottage, No. 328 Mickle
Street, "where he lived alone with a single
attendant," as a magazine writer phrased it.
This attendant was Mary Oakes Davis.

With but one exception ( Thomas Donald-
son, in "W 'alt Whitman the Man"), all writ-
ers who have touched upon Whitman's do-
mestic life seem to have failed to mention
the interval between his two Camden homes.
Fortunately it was of short duration, but in
it came the great turning point in his career.

WALT WHITMAN 9

Of his early habits something may be
learned from his brother George, who says :
"Walt was always a trying person to live
with." ("In Re Walt Whitman.") Then
he goes on to relate some of the poet's pe-
culiarities, irregularities and eccentricities.
"He had an idea that money was of no con-
sequence . . . He would lie abed late, would
write a few hours if he took the notion, per-
haps would go off for the rest of the day.
If we had dinner at one, like as not he would
come at three; always late. Just as we were
fixing things on the table he would get up and
go around the block. He was always so.

"He would come to breakfast when he
got ready. If he wished to go out, he would
go, go where he was a mind to, and come back
in his own time."

It cannot be denied that a person with
these traits of character would be an uncom-
fortable inmate to have in any home, and
with Mr. Whitman this disregard for the
convenience of others grew more marked
as he advanced in years and deteriorated in
body. Notwithstanding this, when his good
brother and his most excellent sister-in-law
retired to their farm in Burlington, New
Jersey, they urged him to accompany them.

Their kind offer of a home Mr. Whitman

io WALT WHITMAN

thought best to decline, for although at this
time he had but a restricted popularity as an
author, he had some staunch friends in his
own city, in New York, Philadelphia and
abroad, and after twelve years' residence in
one locality he thought it unwise to change.

No doubt he did not take into considera-
tion the difficulties he would have to en-
counter alone, nor realize how unfitted he
was to cope with them ; but as usual he over-
ruled all opposition and followed his own
inclination.

Or he may have had a premonition of the
popularity just at hand.

First he rented a room, taking his meals
at odd times and in odd places. This he
soon found to be a miserable mode of exist-
ence, for he was crippled financially as well
as physically, and even to this late day, "his
medium of circulating his views to the world
was through very limited editions, which he
himself usually paid for, or which failed to
circulate at all." (Thomas Donaldson.)

The old man with his basket of literature
upon his arm, plodding his way through the
streets of Camden and Philadelphia, had long
been a familiar sight, and now with slow sales
and lack of former comforts it was doubly
hard on him. But at this time his life had

IN MICKLE STREET n

settled down to one great desire, that of re-
writing his book, Leaves of Grass, and living
to see it put before the world in a full, im-
proved and complete form.

He believed it was to be, and this was his
principal object in remaining in a city where
he had already suffered the delays and dis-
appointments that make the heart sick and
wear out the body. Yet dark as was the out-
look, this hope buoyed him up, and after the
struggles of half a century his courage had
not forsaken him.

"In the period named, he was hungry, cold
and neglected," says Donaldson; and again:
"Whitman was extremely poor in Camden
after his brother moved away, and up to
about 1884. His change of luck began about
then. He had previously, to use a sailor's
phrase, 'been scudding under bare poles.' He
had several runs of luck after 1884."

Walt Whitman and Mrs. Davis were not
personally acquainted. To be sure, he had
seen her innumerable times leading Captain
Fritzinger past his brother's house, but he
had never spoken to her. As for her, the
poor old man had long been a secret pen-
sioner upon her tender heart, drawing a full
bounty of pity therefrom.

Their first interview took place on one

12 WALT WHITMAN

cold frosty morning, when in deepest dejec-
tion he came a suppliant to her door. Sur-
prised as she was to find him there, she
warmly invited him in, and a good break-
fast soon followed the kind reception.

With his writings she was totally unac-
quainted, and she naturally shared the uni-
versal opinion of her neighbors, that he was
"a little off." Nevertheless, when from the
grateful warmth and good cheer he grew
loquacious, and dilated upon his work and
aired his lofty hopes, she listened attentively,
that he might not suspect that to her all
this seemed but an empty dream and delusion.

She talked encouragingly, and on his ris-
ing to go cordially invited him to repeat his
visit. He did so, and thenceforward this
compassionate woman's homely kitchen be-
came his one haven of rest. He knew that
a hot meal and many thoughtful attentions
always awaited him there; attentions such as
lacing his shoes, washing and mending his
clothing, and not infrequently superintend-
ing a refreshing foot-bath. "Being an in-
valid he felt his helplessness, so attentions
were doubly dear to him." (Thomas Don-
aldson.)

As the fall advanced and the weather grew
severe, his bachelor quarters became more

IN MICKLE STREET 13

and more unsuitable, and he was indeed for-
tunate in the friendship he had so auspiciously
formed. He developed into a daily visitor,
and each morning might have been seen scuf-
fing along in his unclasped antiquated arctics,
cane in hand, and his long white hair and
beard blowing in the wind.

Mrs. Davis said that the very sight of
those ungainly old arctics always brought
tears to her eyes.

During this winter (1884-5), through the
generosity of a Philadelphian (Mr. George
W. Childs), and from the sale of his book,
Mr. Whitman was in a way to arrange for a
payment upon a small house. He was not the
man to ask advice, and the selection he made
was not a wise one. "It was a coop at best,"
as Thomas Donaldson says, and a much more
comfortable home in a far more suitable loca-
tion could have been secured for less than
the price he had agreed to pay. However,
it promised him a regular abiding place.

The house being occupied when he became
the owner, he made an arrangement with the
tenants : they were to remain, and he would
come there to live with them, his board to
offset the rent. But the scheme did not work,
and at the expiration of the first month he
was left solitary and alone with his personal

i4 WALT WHITMAN

household goods, consisting of a scantily fur-
nished bedstead, a home-made table, a rickety
chair and a large packing box. The table
served as writing desk and the packing box
as kitchen and dining table. "Upon it was a
small coal oil stove, where he would cook a
bite at the risk of his life." {Thomas Don-
aldson.)

His daily visits to Mrs. Davis were re-
sumed. Her back door would slowly open
and he would appear saying in a pathetic
voice: "Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
whose trembling limbs have brought him to
your door." He was always welcomed and
former relations were renewed.

This continued for awhile, but light house-
keeping being so great a tax upon him, and
his house being so "forlorn, dirty and un-
tenantable," {Thomas Donaldson) , Mrs.
Davis went there with him in his perplexity.

How could the place be anything but cold
when it was heated only by the occasional
flame of an oil lamp? Worse still, the back
door was held partly open by an accumula-
tion of ice resulting from a ruptured water
pipe.

Seeing how matters stood, Mrs. Davis, at
that time a "strong, rosy-cheeked Jersey
woman" {Thomas Donaldson) , went to

IN MICKLE STREET 15

work with a will, and the ice was rapidly
dispersed by her vigorously wielded axe.
With the door closed things soon assumed a
more cheerful aspect, and at her suggestion
Mr. Whitman purchased a small second-hand
cooking stove, which, unassisted, she set up
and got into running order. She carpeted
his sleeping room, gave him a mattress and
bedding, and in many other ways helped to
make "the coop," as Whitman himself called
it, more habitable and homelike. Then, un-
mindful of the distance — several blocks — she
came each evening to attend to the fire, cook
the food, run the invalid's errands and wait
upon him generally.

In speaking of this time she said: "When
the poor old man was not in sight, he was so
much upon my mind I could not pass one
peaceful hour." Suffice it to say, Walt Whit-
man had become the next object of her solici-
tude.

He has been called a prophet. Was it
prophetical when, some years before, he
wrote : "Though poor now even to penury, I
have not been deprived of any physical thing
I need or wish for whatever, and I feel con-
fident I shall not in the future" ?

Some have considered him a cunning man;
all agree that he was a remarkable judge of

1 6 WALT WHITMAN

character. Understanding this woman as he
did, — as he must have done, — had he re-
solved to have her devote herself to him?
This question can never be truthfully an-
swered, but whether with premeditation or
not, he certainly had gained a great influence
over her.

Although comparatively comfortable in his
new home now, he did not discontinue his ac-
customed morning visits, and as he persisted
in his old delinquencies he completely up-
set the routine of Mrs. Davis's daily life
and work.

Things ran on in this way until one morn-
ing late in February, while he was sipping
his coffee, he told her he had a proposition
to make. He said: "I have a house while
you pay rent; you have furniture while my
rooms are bare; I propose that you come
and live with me, bringing your furniture for
the use of both." A suggestion of this kind
was so unlooked for that she refused to give
it a moment's consideration. He said no
more at the time, but a few days later again
broached the subject. And this he continued
to do daily until Mrs. Davis, who remained
firm for awhile, at last began to waver.

The young orphan girl strongly opposed
such a step, but Mr. Whitman's persistence

IN MICKLE STREET 17

prevailed, for Mrs. Davis at last gave a re-
luctant consent. The advantage was all on
the poet's side, as he must have seen, but re-
cent events had raised his hopes and he made
promises of adequate and more than ade-
quate returns for all that had been done or
might be done for him.

As his money was "only in sight," to use
his own words, the expenses of moving were
paid by Mrs. Davis; as he was disabled, the
work and worry were hers as well ; but finally
all was accomplished, her good* were trans-
ferred to his house and put in their new
places, and the seven years of their domestic
life together commenced. In this way did
the "good gray poet" retire with his "single
attendant" to the little frame cottage, No.
328 Mickle Street, Camden, New Jersey.

Ill

THE MICKLE STREET HOUSE

"The tide turned when he entered the Mickle Street
house." — Thomas Donaldson.

"Whitman had great satisfaction in the managing skill
of his housekeeper." — Sidney Morse.

ADDED to "managing skill," Mrs.
Davis had patience, perseverance, de-
termination, courage and health; further-
more— having accompanied the Fritzinger
family upon a number of ocean trips, un-
dertaken in the hope of benefiting Mrs.
Fritzinger — she had shipboard experience
which enabled her to make available every
inch of space in a house smaller than the
one she had left. It was an unpretentious
brown frame structure, sadly out of repair,
and decidedly the poorest tenement in the
block. On the right was a brick house whose
strong walls seemed to be holding it up, while
on the left was an alley — scarcely more
than a gutter — closed from the street by a
wooden door.

This narrow passage, filled with ice and

WALT WHITMAN 19

snow in the winter, often damp and slippery
even in warm weather, was unfit for general
use; and as the house was not properly
drained, the cellar through its one little win-
dow was often flooded from dripping eaves.

Three wooden steps without a banister
led from the sidewalk to the front door,
which had to be closed to allow those who
entered to ascend the stairs. This narrow
staircase, an equally narrow hall and two
connecting rooms called "the parlors" com-
prised the first floor of the main building.
Between the parlors were folding doors, and
each room had an exit into the hall. There
were two windows in the front parlor and
a single one in the back. Between and un-
der the front windows was an entrance to
the cellar, with old-fashioned slanting doors.

The rear and smaller portion of the house
was divided into but two apartments, the
kitchen below and a sleeping room above.
At the back of the kitchen was a small shed,
and quite a large yard. Some people be-
lieved that this yard, with its pear tree and
grape vine, had been the main attraction of
the place for Mr. Whitman.

On ascending the staircase, a small land-
ing and the back sleeping room were
reached; then, turning about, came more

20 WALT WHITMAN

stairs, with a larger landing, part of which
had been made into a clothespress. Apart
from this landing and a little den, sometimes
known as "the anteroom," the upper portion
of the main building had only one room.
But the two doors in it, and a deep rugged
scar across the low ceiling, testified to its
having formerly been divided by a partition.
As one of the doors was permanently fast-
ened, the only access was through the den,
anteroom, or "adjoining apartment," as it
was also occasionally called. .

In the larger room was a fireplace with a
mantel shelf above. There were two win-
dows corresponding with the windows below,
while the smaller room or den, reduced to
one-half its proper width by some pine
shelves and an outjutting chimney, had like
the room below but one. The outlook from
this window, into which the sun made but a
few annual peeps, was the brick wall on one
side, the back roof on the other, and a
glimpse of the sky.

The situation of the house was anything
but inviting, and the locality was one that
few would choose to live in. It was near
both depot and ferry, and as the tracks were
but a block away, or scarcely that, being
laid in what would have been the centre of

IN MICKLE STREET 21

the next street, there was an uninterrupted
racket day and night. The noise of the pas-
senger and excursion trains — for the excur-
sions to the coast went by way of Camden
— was only a minor circumstance compared
with that of the freight trains as they thun-
dered by, or passed and re-passed in making
up.

Close at hand was a church with a sharp-
toned bell, and a "choir of most nerve-un-
settling singers" (Thomas Donaldson) ; and
as if this were not enough, there was at
times a most disagreeable odor from a guano
factory on the Philadelphia side of the Dela-
ware.

Such was the house to which Mary Davis
had now come, and where through the
strange, busy days of the next seven years
she was destined to be Walt Whitman's in-
dispensable "housekeeper, nurse and friend"
— or, from the outsider's point of view, his
"single attendant."

The spring of 1885 was far advanced be-
fore things were fairly in running order, for
from the first there had been no intermission
in the poet's erratic mode of living, and
Mrs. Davis had been obliged to devote much
time to his personal wants. Somehow he

22 WALT WHITMAN

had a way of demanding attention which she
found it impossible to resist.

Truly she had been hampered on all sides,
this faithful Martha-Mary; so many things
to be seen to, so many things to handle and
rehandle and change about before an estab-
lished place for them could be found; the
strenuous cleaning, for the former tenants
had left the place extremely dirty; and the
pondering over repairs, and deciding which
were absolutely essential and unpostponable,
and which could be put off for a little while
longer.

She first carpeted, furnished and settled
the parlors, intending the back one as the
sleeping room for her young charge, until
her marriage in the fall, when it could be
used as a spare room. But Mr. Whitman
had different intentions, for he at once ap-
propriated both rooms, and would not allow
the doors separating them to be closed.

One of the front windows became his fa-
vorite sitting place, and here he wrote, read
his papers and sat while entertaining his
friends. He was delighted with these rooms,
and in them he enjoyed himself to his heart's
content: first in getting things into disorder
at once, and then in keeping them so.

The back room, which became kitchen,

IN MICKLE STREET 23

dining room and sitting room combined, was
so compactly filled that many people re-
marked its close resemblance to the cabin
of a ship, in the way of convenience as com-
pared with space. It was lighted by one win-
dow, and over the ingrain carpet a strip of
stair carpeting made a pathway from the
hall to the outer door.

On the sitting room side were a lounge,
sewing machine, two rocking chairs, a stand
and some small pieces of furniture ; on the
other was a dining table against the wall,
one leaf extended and always set, with the
dining chairs pushed under it when not in
use ; the range — a veritable giant — standing
in place of the dwarf it had ousted; a sink
with cubby-hole below, crowded to overflow-
ing with pots and kettles, and shelves above
loaded with dishes while their enclosing
doors were closely hung with kitchen uten-
sils. As the lower shelf only could be
reached by hand, a stool (a chair that had
lost its back) was kept under a projection of
the range.

The shed, where Mr. Whitman's stove
was set up, was packed with household goods
and chattels, classified and stored ready for
momentary use, and around the walls were
suspended the extra chairs.

24 WALT WHITMAN

A shelf in the inside cellarway off the hall
was the only pantry, and the sides of the
cellarway the only tin-cupboard; then for
want of a place for the flour barrel, it was
left standing opposite the cellar door in the
hall. In this part of the house people went
by feeling, not by sight, and strangers as a
rule always collided with the barrel before
entering the kitchen.

The little passage between the back part
of the house and the wall of the one ad-
joining it — simply a pathway to the back
entrance of the cellar — Mrs. Davis canopied
with old sails and utilized as a laundry. Here
she kept her washing bench, tubs and pails,
and here she washed and ironed when the
weather permitted. This furnished the view
from the back parlor window.

The cellar and its hanging shelf had their
share of plunder, and here the firewood was
sawed and split.

As for pictures, there were more than
enough for all the rooms, and between them
wall pockets, paper racks and brackets
abounded.

Her family of birds — a robin she had
rescued from a cat, a pair of turtle doves
and a canary — she attached to the kitchen
ceiling. She made a little place in the shed

IN MICKLE STREET 25

for her cat's bed, and found a shelter for a
few hens in the small outhouse. Her dog,
more aristocratic, slept on the lounge.

On a shelf over the dining table were a
clock, some china vases, and a stuffed par-
rakeet. No wonder that upon entering the
house the first thing observed was the over-
filled appearance of each small room.

Upon a bracket in the front parlor she
placed a model of a ship that had been given
to Captain Fritzinger by the maker. This
pleased Mr. Whitman exceedingly, for he
had often noticed and admired it. He said
that the first time he had desired to write
anything was when he saw a ship in full sail.
He tried to describe it exactly and failed;
had often since studied ships in the vain hope
of getting the whole beautiful story into
words, but had never been able to do so.

The mantels of both parlors Mrs. Davis
heaped with shells and curiosities from dis-
tant parts of the world. Some of them
were rare and valuable.

Such was the inside of the house after it
had passed through Mary's transforming
hands. There were many things in it that
might have been better elsewhere, perhaps.
But where? It was only a little house, and
Mary had come to it from a larger one, with

26 WALT WHITMAN

all her possessions. She had nowhere else
to put them now, without losing them. If
Mr. Whitman had any sense of being over-
crowded, it was his own fault. She had come
at his urging — and he had taken the two
large parlors on the first floor, and the large
front chamber with the anteroom above, en-
tirely for his own use, thus leaving for the
two women the kitchen (which he shared
with them in its aspect of dining room) and
the only remaining room in the house — the
little back chamber on the second floor. In-
to this, they condensed and squeezed their
more personal belongings.

IV
THE NEW REGIME

"/ know an old story. It goes back to 1826, when a
monument to Bellman, the Swedish poet, was unveiled in
Stockholm. The King and Queen were there, and Bell-
man's old wife. And the King spoke of the dead poet,
and praised him in a flight of purple phrases; but the
old wife said, 'Oh yes, but if your Majesty only knew
what a nuisance he was about the house . . .' But
frankly, wouldn't you like to know what kind of a
nuisance the poet was at home?" — Vance Thompson.

DISCOVERING so quickly that her new
charge was decidedly a self-centered
person, and seeing that waiting upon him
promised to be her chief occupation, Mrs.
Davis planned her work accordingly, and be-
ing an early riser was able to devote the un-
trammelled morning hours to preparations
for the day.

Mr. Whitman usually arose at nine o'clock,
but in this, as in all things, he consulted his
own wishes alone. His breakfast hour was
any time during the forenoon; and no doubt
he did not understand how or why this
could discommode his new housekeeper.

When the signal came — one that Mrs.
27

28 WALT WHITMAN

Davis soon learned, three or four loud per-
emptory raps upon the floor above — she
dropped whatever she might be doing and
hastened upstairs.

Since Mr. Whitman's first stroke of
paralysis, nearly twenty years before, he had
become so disabled that he required much
assistance while dressing, and for this he
was not at all diffident in asking. Besides,
he was "very curiously deliberate."

There being no water on the second floor,
Mrs. Davis carried up and down all that he
needed for his baths, — and he used water
freely. Then when fully dressed he con-
sulted his own feelings in regard to coming
downstairs.

In his mother's house in Long Island, and
in his brother's in Camden, Walt had seldom
taken his meals with the family. While liv-
ing in Brooklyn, New Orleans and Wash-
ington, his meal times were of no importance
to anyone except himself, and he could not
see why this rule should not apply to his own
house, or any house where he might be stay-
ing. To him regular meals were a bondage
he could not endure.

Going up and down stairs was a difficult
task, and after coming to the Mickle Street
house he seldom did so unaided, so the old

IN MICKLE STREET 29

signal was repeated when he was ready to
descend, and again Mrs. Davis hastened to
him.

As he never would tell what he wanted
until he was seated at the table, she always
kept a supply of special things on hand;
nothing elaborate, — maybe steak, chops, oys-
ters or eggs. He never found fault with
his food, and although he did not often com-
mend it he must have been fully appreciative,
for all through his letters and conversations,
as given in the various books about him, are
allusions to Mary's good cooking.

Occasionally, to suit her own convenience,
she would have his breakfast prepared; but
if she mentioned this fact while helping him
to dress he would invariably say, "Ah! I
will not eat anything for awhile." When the
dishes had been set aside to be kept warm,
and Mary was again busily engaged, — the
wash perhaps partly hung on the line, or
her deft hands in the dough, — the peremp-
tory signal would come, and on being helped
down and seated at the table he would coolly
demand something entirely different from
what she had provided.

He commenced housekeeping by inviting
company — lord or beggar — to dine with him,
and would keep these guests at the table for

30 WALT WHITMAN

hours; even "when he was eating off a dry
goods box for a table, and drinking milk
warmed over a coal oil lamp, and a few
crackers with it, he would ask you to dine,
with the dignity of a prince, and never apolo-
gize or mention the food." {Thomas Don-
aldson.)

A biographer {Horace Traubel) says,
"He was very simple in his tastes, taking
only two meals in a day." True ; but the
day was nearly consumed in getting and
serving these two meals, with the after work
that followed. To Mrs. Davis's surprise
he did not hesitate to entertain visitors in
his sleeping room if they arrived while he
was there, and many of them would remain
until "the wee sma' hours." There was a
charm in fellowship with him, and ill and
lethargic as he had grown, it was said:
"Walt Whitman's friends rarely visited him
without having a good laugh over some-
thing or other" ; and "gifted with a clear
resonant voice, the poet often gratifies his
friends as he sits by a blazing wood fire —
which is his delight — singing old-fashioned
songs."

It was this irregularity that had worn
upon his sister-in-law, for during the years
in which she had endured Walt's thought-

IN MICKLE STREET 31

lessness, she had had the care of Edward,
the irresponsible, feeble-minded brother; and
when, by the doctor's advice, she left Cam-
den for the country, the home was tendered
to Walt with this option : he was to conform
to their way of living and cease turning night
into day.

He did indeed have "runs of luck" after
1884, and who can deny that the greatest of
these was in securing the undivided attention
of a warm-hearted, unselfish woman, and in
her making it possible for him to live un-
trammelled, in his own home? Surely the
tide turned when this good woman ceased
to be an independent being and became the
strong prop on which he leaned; a shield
between him and all annoyances.

While perplexed with settling the house,
and having no time to go over the same
ground twice, although the condition of the
parlors troubled her Mrs. Davis had let
them go, awaiting a favorable time to clean
and regulate them thoroughly. This oppor-
tunity came in the summer, during the first
of Mr. Whitman's temporary absences.

Since he had been in his own house, old
friends had occasionally called to take him
to spend the day with them. This time he
was asked to remain a week. He gladly

32 WALT WHITMAN

availed himself of the change, and his house-
keeper was no less pleased to have a week
to herself. In it she did her best to restore
order, and when she had finished was really
proud of the improvement she had effected.

Mr. Whitman returned. He at once dis-
covered what had taken place during his
absence, and his consternation knew no
bounds ! He said that he had left every-
thing exactly as he wished it to remain;
where he could find it; now the very things
he needed most were gone; in fact he could
find nothing he wanted, and in the future he
forbade anyone to meddle with his private
property; he desired and expected to find —
at all times and upon all occasions — his per-
sonal matters unmolested, undisturbed, left
entirely alone.

Mrs. Davis mildly replied that she had
only taken from the room some useless pa-
pers, scraps of letters, old envelopes, bits
of twine and wrapping paper.

He declared that these were the very
things he needed most; the ones he specially
missed.

She remonstrated, but to no purpose; he
silenced her; just how, she could not com-
prehend.

To Walt Whitman's credit be it said, he

IN MICKLE STREET 33

never spoke an unkind word to Mrs. Davis;
never was arrogant or overbearing to her;
never belittled her or put her down before
others; always treated her as an equal; re-
lied upon her judgment and often sought
her advice; — but he would have his own
way, and she with her yielding nature soon
gave in; the struggle was only a short one;
before winter commenced, confusion once
more reigned.

In due time piles of periodicals were
stacked on the table and on chairs ; news-
papers, letters, envelopes and bundles of
manuscript were in the corners; and as he
had immediately set about the work he had
so greatly at heart, cuttings, rejected scraps
of paper and general litter soon covered
the floor, the confusion gradually making its
way into the next room and threatening to
invade the hall.

The front parlor became a veritable edi-
tor's sanctum; nothing but the smell of print-
er's ink and the sound of the press were
wanting.

Some of his poems he altered and revised
again and again, and in a short time the
large waste basket Mary had placed in the
room was filled to overflowing. As he would
not allow her to remove or empty the basket,

34 WALT WHITMAN

it became the foundation of a hillock of
debris. Sometimes when he seemed off-
guard she would surreptitiously remove a
few dust pans full, but he was not deceived,
and even this she had to discontinue.

The first summer and fall in his own house
were decidedly pleasant and beneficial to Mr.
Whitman. He worked as he felt able or
inclined; was encouraged with the progress
he was making, and gratified with the pros-
pect before him. He believed, and must
have seen, that situated so advantageously
the one desire of his life was to be consum-
mated, and that even though it were to be
accomplished in a slow way, he would live
to see his book completed and in a form
to meet his most sanguine wishes.

Visitors retarded his work, but this was
no real detriment, nor did he feel the time
lost that he spent in returning visits. Mak-
ing over the old material and adding to it
the poems he had composed since the issue
of the last edition, was something he could
lay down and take up at any time. And he
certainly did enjoy agreeable company, de-
lighting whole-heartedly in their companion-
ship as he dispensed the hospitality of his
own board.

By degrees Mrs. Davis accustomed her-

IN MICKLE STREET 35

self to her new surroundings and was no
longer astonished at any of Walt's remark-
able ways or unreasonable requests; besides,
she remembered that the step she had taken
was after all self-imposed, that all her
friends had protested, and that it was now
irrevocable; so with good sense and in good
time she became, if not fully reconciled, at
least resigned. She didn't exactly regret
coming to Mickle Street, but she could judge
from the few months she had passed there
what the years to come might bring; yet
even with this outlook she resolved not to
shrink from but bravely to face the future,
whatever might betide ; and so unconsciously
she transferred to Walt Whitman the devo-
tion she had given to others.

She seldom left the house when he was
there alone, for with that enigmatical in-
stinct chronic patients develop he knew, and
always wanted something, whenever she was
busiest or on a momentary absence. There-
fore after awhile she put all other considera-
tions aside, and gave her full energies to the
work she had undertaken; individual wishes
were surrendered as she strove to adjust her
ways to the erratic ones of the old man;
familiar customs were discarded and former
friends neglected. She seemed almost to

36 WALT WHITMAN

lose her personality and to become a part of
the house and the peculiar life lived there.

She was never obtrusive, and did all
things in a quiet manner. If company lin-
gered until midnight she remained up to as-
sist her charge to bed; she humored his vag-
aries, and always had a smile and a pleasant
word for him. When he was inclined to be
despondent, she cheered him; when he was
in pain, she had some simple remedy at
hand; when he was in danger of overtaxing
his strength, she gently cautioned him; and
if the disorder of his rooms troubled her,
she did not let him guess how much.

At first she supposed he was not in a
position to purchase new clothing, and did
her best to make him presentable in what
he had, while she patiently awaited the time
when the expected money should come in;
and through her efficiency in washing, darn-
ing, patching and mending he soon presented
a much improved appearance, often com-
mented on.

His brother, his good sister-in-law, his
other relatives and all his friends rested in
peace. They knew the hands he was in, the
shoulders upon which the burden had fallen.

CURIOUS NEIGHBORS

"Mr. Whitman and his housekeeper were closely
watched by some curious people who had never lived near
a poet before. In addition they minded their own busi-
ness. That Camden should contain two such people in
one street was enough to create wonder."

— Thomas Donaldson.

THE inhabitants not only of Mickle
Street, but of contiguous ones, were
deeply interested in the strange couple who
had come to live among them, and kept a
close watch upon every movement. Their
vigilance troubled Mrs. Davis, for she could
see no reason why anyone should be curious
about them. It was different with Mr. Whit-
man, who never saw anything he did not
choose to. "I don't think a man ever existed
so entirely indifferent to criticism and
slander." (Sidney Morse.)

If Mrs. Davis chanced to go to her front
door, half a dozen women would appear at
theirs; if she swept her sidewalk, her broom
seemed to set in motion half a dozen others.
If she left her house for five minutes or re-
37

38 WALT WHITMAN

mained away for hours, she would find sen-
tinels awaiting her return. Sometimes as
she was approaching home she would hear a
shrill childish voice call out: "Mama! Ma-
ma ! here she comes I" Or she would see a
young urchin — presumably on guard —
scamper into the house to give the alarm.

"They seemed always upon the alert, and
saw to it that whatever went into Mr. Whit-
man's house should have an eye escort in and
an eye escort out." (Thomas Donaldson.)

From behind curtains, shutters and blinds
Mrs. Davis could see and instinctively feel
eyes fastened upon her, and what appeared
especially remarkable was that this intrusive
neighborly interest failed to die out or les-
sen with time. It was a matter of genuine
personal curiosity, keen and continuing, and
not of the transient attention any newcomer
might awaken.

Unquestionably there was an atmosphere
of perplexity and perhaps suspicion in the
locality. For one thing, extravagant and im-
possible as it may seem, it had been rumored
about that some people who entered "The
Poet's" house never came out again. A fre-
quent caller during Mr. Whitman's first
years of housekeeping says :

"Opposite, as I slid into the house one

IN MICKLE STREET 39

day, sat a bundle of dirt with bread and
sugar upon it, on watch. As I hurried in
I heard it yell, 'Hurry, Mama ! A fat man
at Whitman's door!' and presently a female
watcher of two hundred and fifty pounds pat-
tered to the door, wiping her fat arms on
a checked apron. I heard her say as she
retreated, 'Jimmie, watch if he comes out!'
This confirmed the suspicion I had long had,
that someone in the vicinity held that persons
entered but didn't leave the Whitman house,
and that they mysteriously disappeared."
(Thomas Donaldson.)

This is no doubt curiously exaggerated;
the woman probably only wished to get an-
other glimpse of the "fat man" as he came
out; but it is interesting as showing the feel-
ing of a visitor. The effect of such condi-
tions upon a woman like Mrs. Davis, living
in the house itself and constantly exposed
to the oppressive surveillance, might well
have been serious. But she had a placid dis-
position and took things quietly. She was
not at all disturbed because none of the
older watchers made overtures towards an
acquaintance.

It was different with the young people,
however, for after their awe had somewhat
subsided they began to be venturesome — to

4o WALT WHITMAN

show their hardihood perhaps — and soon be-
came quite familiar, making the cellar doors
(old-fashioned slanting ones) their regular
rendezvous. Here they would come to "mind
babies," to hold mimic school and singing
classes, to play games, keep house, take
lunch and eat taffy purchased at a little
corner store. Undoubtedly one inducement
for their constant visits was the chance
of getting one of the pennies that rolled oc-
casionally out of the window above. Before
summer had ended they had grown decid-
edly sociable, and in one of their favorite
pastimes — running up and sliding down the
cellar doors — each would pause for a mo-
ment at the top and peek in at the "good
gray poet" as he sat anchored in his great
chair, and ask, "How do you do to-day,
Mr. Whitman?"

The poet's original style of dressing was
probably one reason why he attracted so
much notice. He wore gray clothes, large
of make and uncertain of fit, with an open
vest, over which was turned the broad col-
lar of his shirt. The latter, during his entire
sojourn in Camden, was invariably made of
a good quality of unbleached cotton. He
preferred this to any other material, and he
could not tolerate a separate collar, starched

IN MICKLE STREET 41

bosom or necktie. He despised an ordinary
pocket-handkerchief, and carried instead a
generous piece of soft cotton or cheesecloth.
His wide-brimmed hat, always looking the*
worse for wear, was usually turned up in
front.

All this, with his size and long white hair
and beard, made him a picturesque individ-
ual, and it was only natural that he should be
recognized at once as a decidedly uncommon
person.

Walt was an invalid and infirm, never-
theless when he was equipped and started
he could go unaccompanied to Philadelphia
and other nearby places. This enabled him
to call upon friends, transact matters of busi-
ness and keep in touch with the world gen-
erally. Sometimes he would take an extend-
ed ride on a street car, but the greatest
source of enjoyment to him was a trip back
and forth on the Delaware River. From the
ferry boat he could feast his eyes upon ships
— "those floating poems" (his own words)
— either in the distance or passing close at
hand. And here he was sure to meet some
old acquaintance or to make a new one, and
so feel himself still a factor in the busy bus-
tling life around him.

Pleasant as were these rides to him, each

42 WALT WHITMAN

one brought more or less tribulation to Mrs.
Davis, for governed as he apparently was by
the impulse of the moment, she was never
given warning of his intentions or allowed
time for preparations. His excursions there-
fore were a trial she had not counted upon.
He would not mention the ferry, or hint of
going there, until he was seated at the table,
or more likely had finished his breakfast.
This made much extra running up and down
for Mary, who could have simplified mat-
ters by having him dressed to begin with
for the weather and the occasion.

This did not seem to occur to him. Crip-
pled, slow, and requiring so much assistance,
and feeling that neither his own time nor
that of anyone else was of much account,
it was often past noon before he was ready
for the start. Then Mrs. Davis, who always
saw him safely on the street car, would hur-
riedly don her outer garments, for Mr.
Whitman had little patience with delay in
other people. The housekeeper helping the
poet down the front steps was a sight none
of the neighbors would willingly lose, there-
fore the couple always sallied forth under
the musketry of glances shot out at them
from every direction.

When walking in the street Mr. Whit-

IN MICKLE STREET 43

man carried his cane in one hand, and with
the other he clung tightly to the arm of his
companion. His size and weight (even
now, in spite of his invalidism, he weighed
two hundred pounds) would have made a
fall a serious matter.

The street cars — horse cars, running at
fifteen minute intervals — on their way to
the ferry crossed Mickle Street at the first
corner above. If unfortunately one was
missed, it seemed a long and tedious wait
for the next. To Mrs. Davis this was both
tiresome and embarrassing; embarrassing
because of the lookers-on, and tiresome be-
cause during the delay Mr. Whitman de-
pended mainly upon her arm for support.

All the conductors knew the picturesque
old man, and were obliging and attentive to
him. When he was entrusted to their care
Mrs. Davis had nothing to fear; she was
also confident that he would find a helping
hand wherever he might go, so quickly doing
her buying and errands she would hasten
home, where a myriad of duties awaited
her.

Mr. Whitman never gave a clue to his
calculations — if he happened to have any —
and consequently there could be no certainty
as to the length of time he might be away.

44 WALT WHITMAN

However, in the case of a ferry ride a few
hours might be counted upon. Of these
Mary would make full use; then as the after-
noon lengthened and dinner time ap-
proached, she would grow restless and com-
mence going to meet the cars. The return
route was two blocks away, but the distance
could be shortened by way of the back gate.

If Mr. Whitman was not in the first car
met, she would hurry back, accomplish what
she could in the next quarter of an hour,
and then go again. Frequently when the car
was not on time, some domestic calamity
would occur; the fire would go out, or some-
thing burn, or a pot boil or stew over. In
this case she would make what reparation
she could in the limited time allotted her,
then go again. This order of things would
be kept up until Mr. Whitman's arrival;
then would come the slow walk home, and
the equally slow removing of wrappings,
over-shoes and so on.

He always returned hilarious, braced up
by the good time he had enjoyed, and totally
unconscious that his housekeeper had had
any extra work whatever, or a minute of
anxiety on his account. The rides were in-
deed trying to her, and in pleasant weather

IN MICKLE STREET 45

he would go no less than three or four times
a week.

Following the ferry ordeals, there came
another unlooked-for tax, that of getting
him ready for winter engagements and tak-
ing him wherever he had to go. There
would have been less trouble in this if he
had possessed a suitable outfit, but as he
had made but few additions to his scanty
wardrobe, the threadbare garments needed
constant renovation. He had sufficient shirts,
however, now; for soon after getting into
his own house he had given her money for
material, and she had made him six new
ones. He himself superintended the cutting
out and putting together, as they were to be
fashioned with exactitude after the old pat-
tern. With one of them he was particularly
pleased, for around the collar and cuffs Mrs.
Davis had sewed some lace edging of her
own. This shirt he kept for special occa-
sions, and never put it on without making
some pleasant remark in regard to the trim-
ming.

But of the two, Mrs. Davis had much the
more pride in his appearance, for she had
learned that he was often invited to meet
distinguished people. She accompanied him
on his way to all social gatherings, and un-

46 WALT WHITMAN

less other escort was assured, called for him.
This, however, was of rare occurrence, as
guests began to vie with each other in see-
ing him home. She also went with him to
places of business in Camden and Philadel-
phia, at which times he depended upon her
alone, both going and coming back. The
task of walking with him was doubly burden-
some when the roads were rough and un-
even, or slippery with snow and ice, which
caused him to cling to her arm with a grip
of iron. He had lost strength in his lower
limbs, but gained it in the upper, as Mary
often realized, though Mr. Whitman was un-
aware of the severity of the pressure.

As he could not carry his cane in his left
hand, the entire strain came upon her right
arm, and as he became more and more de-
pendent upon her, these walks grew almost
unendurable ; especially so when, for some
purpose or other, or upon meeting a friend,
he would thoughtlessly stand to talk, never
releasing his grip.

MR. WHITMAN DRIVES

"/ swear I will never again mention love or death in-
side a house, and I swear I will never translate myself
at all, only to him or her who privately stays with me in
the open air." — Walt Whitman.

"For such a lover of nature not to be able to get out of
doors, was a calamity than which no greater was known."

— Thomas Donaldson.

THE first winter over, spring came and
was passed in about the same daily
routine; but before the summer was far ad-
vanced Mrs. Davis was convinced that the
old man's walking days were rapidly draw-
ing to a complete close. This troubled her
greatly, and during one of Mr. Thomas
Donaldson's frequent evening visits she
talked earnestly with him about it.

Mr. Donaldson, the poet's intimate and
constant friend, was a practical man; one
ready to listen to the suggestions of others,
and to assist in forwarding their plans.
Between him and Mrs. Davis there was a
mutual understanding; each knew the other's
worth. He had always shown consideration
47

48 WALT WHITMAN

for her; had sought her out in her own
house, and stood manfully by her side in
her ministrations to the invalid.

She told him she was certain, from the
number of letters Mr. Whitman received,
his many visitors from other cities and
abroad, his increasing list of invitations and
requests for personal interviews, that he
must be a man in whom others were deeply
interested.

She said that for some time she had had a
plan in her mind. It was this : that he
should write to Mr. Whitman's friends — as
he knew just who they were — and solicit a
subscription of ten dollars from each of
them, the fund to be appropriated to the
purchase of a horse and carriage for the
poet's use.

Mr. Donaldson fell in with the scheme,
and thirty-one of the thirty-five letters writ-
ten by him received prompt replies, and in
each was the sum asked for. As the gift
was to be a surprise, only a few friends were
let into the secret. A comfortable buggy
was ordered and a gentle pony selected, as
it was supposed the drives would be quiet
ones, in suburban places.

On the fifteenth of September all was
completed, and Mr. Donaldson came over

IN MICKLE STREET 49

in the afternoon, ostensibly to make a call.
He found his friend on a lounge in the front
room, and seating himself commenced to
chat with him upon the topics of the times.
This he continued to do until he heard the
gift carriage drive up to the door. His
young son Blaine sat by the driver's side.

Mr. Donaldson went to the window, and
Mr. Whitman hobbled after him to see who
had arrived. "Bless me," he said, "what
a fine turnout ! And there is Blaine !
Well, well, how the lad does seem to fit it;
how comfortable it does look! What does
it all mean?"

"It certainly does look comfortable," Mr.
Donaldson replied, "and Walt, it's yours."
This statement he repeated twice before his
astonished friend could believe he had heard
aright, and even then he did not appear to
take in or comprehend the full meaning of
such an announcement. While still dazed
and hardly himself — impassive as was his
natural demeanor — his friend handed him a
letter containing the names of the contribu-
tors, in an envelope with $135.40 enclosed.
Mr. Whitman read the letter and was com-
pletely overcome ; tears trickled down his
cheeks, and he was unable to articulate a
word.

50 WALT WHITMAN

When he was somewhat composed, Mrs.
Davis, who had been slyly watching the
scene, came in with his coat and hat, and
proposed that he should at once — and for
the first time — take a drive in a turnout of
his own. It proved to be a long drive, as
it was late in the afternoon when he re-
turned.

Mrs. Davis was delighted; the gift sur-
passed her highest expectations, was much
nicer and more expensive than she had
thought it was to be ; and she rejoiced to see
the poor old man, who not two years before
had shuffled to her door, now riding in a
carriage of his own! — and one provided,
too, by those friends he had told her of,
friends she had believed to be but myths
conjured up in his own lonesome mind.

Mr. Whitman deeply appreciated the
compliment paid him. He said: "I have
before now been made to feel in many
touching ways how kind and thoughtful my
loving friends are, but this present is so
handsome and valuable, and comes so op-
portunely, and is so thoroughly a surprise,
that I can hardly realize it. My paralysis
has made me so lame lately that I have had
to give up my walks. Oh ! I shall have a
famous time this fall!"

IN MICKLE STREET 51

Previous to the presentation an arrange-
ment had been made at a nearby stable for
the care of the horse, the running expense
of which was to be met by a number of
friends; a young man was also engaged to
harness the horse and drive the rig to the
door. But who was to summon it? That
part being unprovided for, it fell to Mrs.
Davis, and Mr. Whitman became as erratic
with his horse as he was with all other
things. Some mornings it would be: "I
must give up my ride to-day, the weather is
so uncertain"; soon after: "It looks like
clearing up, I will go"; then on Mrs. Davis's
return from the stable : "I have made up
my mind to defer my ride." Again would
come the determination to go, followed
with the afterthought of remaining at home,
until ordering the carriage and counter-
manding the order would keep the obliging
messenger running to and from the stable
until dark.

Riding was so great an enjoyment to Mr.
Whitman that when once in his carriage he
was loth to leave it. "Only one thing
seemed to have the power of forcing from
him an occasional lament, and that was pro-
longed stormy weather when bad health kept
him indoors for days and weeks."

52 WALT WHITMAN

Poor Frank, the pony, had not been se-
lected for speed or endurance, and in an
amazingly short time he succumbed to over-
driving. At the expiration of only two
months, Mr. Donaldson says, "the pony
showed the effects of Mr. Whitman's fast
driving, and had a shake in the forelegs —
or rather tremble — that gave the impression
that he was getting ready to lie down . . .
Some weeks after this I was again in Cam-
den, and while on the main street I saw a
cloud of dust rising from a fast-approaching
vehicle. In a moment a splendid bay horse
attached to a buggy came into view. He
was coming in a mile in three minutes' gait,
and to my amazement, in the buggy was
Walt Whitman holding on to the lines with
one hand for dear life. When he observed
me, he drew up with great difficulty and
called out, 'Hello, Tom, ain't he splendid?'
My breath was about gone. I managed to
speak. 'Mr. Whitman, in the name of
common sense what has come over you?
Where is Frank?' 'Sold; I sold him. He
was groggy in the knees and too slow. This
horse is a goer, and delights me with his
motion.' "

The ready sale of Frank was a great
mortification to Mrs. Davis, and she felt it

IN MICKLE STREET 53

keenly; the more so as the pony had been,
in a measure, the outcome of her suggestion.

Although the horse and carriage were "a
source of infinite joy and satisfaction to Mr.
Whitman, and aided him to pass three years
of his invalid life in comparative ease, giving
him touches of life and air and scenery
otherwise impossible," they were a constant
expense and vexation to others.

He seldom went for a drive alone, and
as a rule chose as his companion one of the
many young men of his acquaintance. He
always wished to hold the lines himself.
Although Mrs. Davis was the usual mes-
senger to and from the stable, although she
got her charge ready for his drives, assisted
him to the carriage and almost lifted him
in and out of it, neither he nor anyone else
ever proposed that she should have the
pleasure of a drive, or suggested that an oc-
casional airing might do her good.

While owning the horse Mr. Whitman
did not wholly discontinue his ferry rides,
but he no longer "haunted the Delaware
River front" as formerly.

What a change two years had made in
his surroundings ! — and what a change in
those of Mary Davis ! He had come more
prominently before the great world; she had

54 WALT WHITMAN

nearly passed out of her own limited sphere.
The tide which turned when they entered the
Mickle Street house was now in full flood
for him. But what for her?

His book had had a good sale; private
contributions were sent to him, amounting
to many hundreds of dollars; and from this
time on he did little with his pen, though
he got occasional lifts from periodicals for
both old and new work, and the New York
Herald paid him a regular salary as one of
its editorial staff. But he resigned this
position the following year.

VII

BROOMS, BILLS AND MENTAL
CHLOROFORM

"He detested a broom. He considered it almost a sin to
sweep, and always made a great fuss when it was done."

— Eddie Wilkins.

"The tremendous firmness of Walt Whitman's nature
grew more inflexible with advancing years."

— Horace Traubel.

THE second winter in Mickle Street
passed much like the previous one.
To Mr. Whitman it brought heavier mail,
an increase of complimentary notes and in-
vitations, more numerous requests for auto-
graphs, steady progress with revision-work,
a little new and profitable composition, the
delightful companionship of old friends, the
pleasure of making new ones, and the com-
fortable assurance that come what might,
there was a capable captain at the helm,
who would on all occasions guide the ship of
affairs smoothly along. To Mrs. Davis it
brought the same old round of work.

The next spring and part of the summer
were charming seasons to the poet. In

56 WALT WHITMAN

them he revelled in his turnout; was sought
after, eulogized and lauded. His day-star
was truly in the ascendant.

This acknowledged popularity was a rev-
elation to Mrs. Davis, who often asked
herself, "Where were these friends — the
ones in particular who have always lived in
Camden — when a short time ago poor old
Mr. Whitman, homeless and uncared for,
so much needed their help?"

But as his popularity increased and grew
more marked, as letters and invitations came
pouring in, and as at certain gatherings she
knew him to be the honored guest, it began
to dawn upon her that his poetry — the
poetry she had so often heard derided —
might mean something after all, and she set
herself assiduously to studying it. Finding
so much that was beyond her comprehension,
she sometimes sought elucidation from the
author. This he never vouchsafed, and
gave but one reply to all her questions:
"Come, you tell me what it means." Un-
able to comply, she soon laid the book aside
and gave her time and attention to other
matters. Thus, failing to understand any-
thing of his "soul flights," she no doubt was
the better prepared to minister to his mun-
dane needs. A domestic angel in the house

IN MICKLE STREET 57

she certainly could be. An intellectual angel
might have worried Mr. Whitman.

Yes, his day-star was truly shining. It
was no will-o'-the-wisp he was chasing the
day he came hungry and cold, weary and
desolate to a good woman's door. Evi-
dently he might have done better with his
"little money" at that time, even if it was
"only in sight," as "driblets were occasion-
ally coming in." With these driblets he
might have kept himself more presentable,
seemed less of a derelict. But he had one
preeminent need: he needed Mary Davis,
and he got her.

She had not peered into the future with
his prophetic insight, and in helping to open
the way for the good times to come — times
he had told her so much about — she had
been governed by her kind heart alone.
Her associates had never spoken of her
protege in any too flattering terms, and
weighing all poets by his local standard, had
congratulated themselves that not one of
them was in danger of ever degenerating
into such genius.

By midsummer Mr. Whitman had visited
in and near Camden, and had made two or
three trips to Atlantic City and New York.
Everyone was kind and considerate to him,

58 WALT WHITMAN

wherever he might be, and as a reliable
person always accompanied him on these ex-
peditions, Mrs. Davis was never uneasy on
his account, and his absences were her op-
portunities for resting up and putting the
house to rights. Nor did she altogether
skip the parlors, for she had somewhat lost
her confidence in Mr. Whitman's gift of
missing the very thing that was gone.
Another Mary — an unfortunate woman;
but who ever attached themselves to Mrs.
Davis who were not in some trouble or
other? — used to come in to assist when
extra help was required. Her field of
action ended at the kitchen door when the
master was at home, for she stood in great
awe of him and knew better than to appear
in his presence with any order-restoring im-
plement in her hands, especially a broom.
But how she exulted when he was at a
distance ; when she could pass the old bound-
ary unchallenged, and could rub and polish
to her heart's desire, and according to her
own ideas of cleanliness. She was often
heard to remark that Mr. Whitman was the
most "unthrifty" man she had ever met.

Mr. Whitman might be able to control
the use of brooms about his own premises,
but his authority did not extend beyond.

IN MICKLE STREET 59

How the women of the locality learned of
his antipathy to sweeping, either in or out
of doors, is not known. Probably in some
unguarded moment he had condemned it in
their hearing. "He was extremely annoyed
by the habit the women of his neighborhood
had of coming out two or three times a day
with their brooms, and stirring up the water
in the gutter. He thought it caused ma-
laria. If they would only let it alone !"
(Thomas Donaldson.)

It may be that the women made their
brooms an excuse for tantalizing "The
Poet." He was no less opposed to their
sweeping in dry weather, and one morning
when six or seven appeared simultaneously
and set to sweeping with a will, he knew
that it was nothing less than a concerted
plan, and this he would not endure. Irri-
tated beyond self-control, he let his indigna-
tion fly out of the window in passionate and
pointed sentences, which the sweepers totally
ignored.

In 1867, about four years after his
general breakdown, he had commenced to
give occasional lectures. This spring (1886)
he delivered two, the first on March 1,
in Morton Hall, Camden, the second on
the afternoon of April 15, in the Chestnut

60 WALT WHITMAN

Street Opera House, Philadelphia. Both
lectures were upon the same subject, his
favorite theme : Abraham Lincoln.

He was not an orator, and his audiences
were at all times made up of people more
curious perhaps to see than to hear him.
This second lecture — his last appearance but
one as a speaker in the "Quaker City" —
was a greater strain than he had calculated
upon, although the arrangements had been
made for him by his friends, and he was
conveyed from his own house direct to the
back door of the theatre.

He always remained in his carriage while
crossing the river.

Few people attended this lecture, and out
of the $692 it netted him, only $78.25 was
received at the door. The rest was made
up by appreciative admirers. Two gentlemen
gave each $100, four gave $50 each, eight
gave $10, two $5, and a society — The
Acharon — gave $45- The money was
handed to Mr. Whitman in a large white
envelope as he left the stage. It was not
removed from the envelope until the next
forenoon, when it was deposited unbroken
in the bank.

During the summer Mr. Whitman sus-
tained a sunstroke, fortunately not a serious

IN MICKLE STREET 61

one, but while suffering from the effects of
it he was obliged to give up his jaunts and
remain indoors. However, on pleasant
evenings he could sit in a chair on the side-
walk, under his one cherished shade tree,
into the bark of which he soon wore a hole
with the restless movement of his right foot.
Of the passers-by there were few who did
not know him; many would pause for a
moment's speech, others would occasionally
get a chair and remain for an hour's chat.
He soon recovered, but if the similar stroke
he had suffered a few years before had
served "to lower his fund of strength,
weaken the springs of his constitution and
almost wholly destroy his walking powers,"
(Thomas Donaldson), there was certainly
little encouragement in store for him.

His housekeeper, too, had her physical
troubles. She had visibly changed; how
could it be otherwise? The back part of
the house was gloomy, at times damp and
unwholesome, and she had grappled with so
many difficulties that she had lost strength
and flesh, felt run down and nervous, while
the "rosy cheeks" had faded forever.

This sickness not only made Mr. Whitman
even more dependent upon her than usual,
but it caused her great anxiety in another

62 WALT WHITMAN

way. She realized the great risk she had
taken and was taking, for on coming into
the house she had relied upon verbal
promises alone; no written contract or
agreement had been entered into.

Now month had followed month and she
had waited in vain for the old man to
allude to living expenses or inquire as to her
ability to meet them longer. Strange as it
may seem, since being settled in his own
house Walt had never mentioned money, or
in any way broached the subject of his finan-
cial standing.

During the first year she had not been at
all disturbed in mind; she had confidence in
his integrity, and believed he had no means
of meeting present embarrassments. The
next summer she saw that money was com-
ing in from a number of sources, but had
no way of learning the amounts received or
in what way they were disbursed. This
sunstroke and the consequences that might
have resulted from it were enough to arouse
her thoroughly. Not that she had lost con-
fidence in Mr. Whitman, but it came home
to her that should he die she would be in
no way secured. Before long the bequest
left her by Captain Fritzinger would be fol-

IN MICKLE STREET 63

lowing her own savings, which were rapidly
dwindling away.

After thinking the matter over seriously,
she resolved that as soon as the sick man
had somewhat recuperated she would make
an effort to have things put on a new and
safer basis. She knew that from private
donations, sale of books, government pen-
sion, receipts from lectures and so on, he
had opened a bank account. She also knew
he was paying one-half the expenses of
Edward at a sanitarium and was sending a
weekly remittance to his sister in Vermont,
— and knowing all this, she felt that she was
being treated with injustice. She had al-
ready spoken to Mrs. Whitman and to one
or two others, and they had assured her that
Walt was abundantly able to meet all house-
hold expenses, and would without doubt do
so in his own good time.

She had never solicited his confidence, and
yet while they were strangers, or compara-
tive strangers, — long before she had enter-
tained the slightest thought that she should
one day exchange her home for his, — he
had talked freely, even confidentially, to her;
had voluntarily spoken of his money mat-
ters, his past disappointments and future ex-
pectations. But since she had come into the

64 WALT WHITMAN

Mickle Street house he had never renewed
these subjects, and his way of passing them
over was inexplicable to her.

When the first repairs had been made in
the house, she had taken the bill to him for
approval and payment. He had simply
glanced at it, and returned it with the words :
"I think it must be all right." She had re-
mained standing in the doorway until, silent,
seemingly absorbed in his reading and ob-
livious of her presence, he had made her feel
so uncomfortable that she had quietly glided
away to pay the carpenter out of her own
purse. This happened so early in their
housekeeping together that she, so charitable
by nature, had excused him on the ground
that, having no money, he had disliked to
talk further about the bill. But a year had
passed, she understood his position better,
and she could not excuse him again on this
plea. She had mentioned the urgent need
of further repairs (and when were they not
needed in this little rookery?) and he had
promptly replied: "Have it done; certainly,
certainly; have everything done that is re-
quired." The result was still the same; al-
though ordering the work, he was just as in-
different as before in regard to settling for
it.

IN MICKLE STREET 65

And so it had gone on in all cases where
money had been needed, until Mrs. Davis,
who was neither dull nor obtuse, saw that it
was merely a matter of choice with him
whether he paid for things promptly or not.
The receipted bills she had carefully filed
away, but what proof had she that they
had been met with her own money?

At the expiration of the second year, Mr.
Whitman at his own expense had the water
carried upstairs and a bathtub put in. This
was a blessing to both of them, and Mrs
Davis ungrudgingly saw a portion of hei
own room — the one little back chamber —
sacrificed that it might be made possible.

Up to the time of the sunstroke she had
made a number of futile attempts to intro-
duce the subject of finances, but he had
simply uttered "Ah!" (what a world of
meaning he could put into that mono-
syllable!) and had silenced her with a look.

An observer says: "I found Whitman
sitting on the front stoop talking with a
negative pugnacious reformer. The poet
entertained his ideas without a trace of im-
patience or severity of judgment, and yet he
was capable of quietly chloroforming him if
he became too disagreeable." Another
writes: "This leading trait of his character

66 WALT WHITMAN

lasted until life glimmered faintly." It was
this "leading trait" that prevented Mrs.
Davis from introducing any subject not
pleasing to him. Again: "He has his stern
as well as sad moods; in the former there is
a look of power in his face that almost
makes one tremble." Mrs. Davis had no
fear of Mr. Whitman; he never gave her
cause to tremble, but he quietly chloro-
formed her times without number.

The expenses of the house were not light;
amongst other things, two coal fires in
winter, and a wood fire much of the time.
Wood was a luxury to him, but it was an
expensive item to his housekeeper, and the
little stove in his sleeping room devoured it
like an insatiate monster. "He enjoyed a
wood fire." Then she supplied his table
and entertained his guests — his many guests.
She never bothered him; was always on
hand and ready to help him to mature his
plans, however inexpedient or impracticable
they might appear to her.

VIII

VISITING AND VISITORS

"His haunt on 'Timber Creek' is one of the loveliest
spots imaginable ; no element lacking to make it an ideal
ground for a poet, or study place for a lover of nature."
— William Sloane Kennedy.

"April ii, 1887. / expect to go to New York to speak
my 'Death of Lincoln' piece Thursday afternoon next.
Probably the shake up will do me good. . . .

"Stood it well in New York. It was a good break from
my monotonous days here, but if I had stayed longer, I
should have been killed with kindness and attentions."

— Walt Whitman.

IT was decided that Mr. Whitman should
make one of his delightful visits to his
friends, the Staffords, in their beautiful
country home, "Timber Creek," just as soon
as he was sufficiently recovered to take the
trip, and Mrs. Davis thought best to defer
talking with him or considering any definite
step regarding home matters until he re-
turned. She took pains to get him ready,
and, as she had done before, persuaded
him to purchase some new clothing and look
his best. This visit, like previous ones, was
charming to the poet, and he came home
much benefited. While he was away Mrs.
67

68 WALT WHITMAN

Davis rested and paid a short visit to the
aged parents of Mrs. Fritzinger in Doyls-
town, Pennsylvania. In this breathing
spell she had thought home matters over and
had planned her mode of procedure; but
alas ! when the poet appeared upon the spot
and she had welcomed him, the courage she
had summoned up when he was out of sight
deserted her. She threw out hints, then
made attempts to speak, but to no avail;
an understanding was not brought about
and things went on in the old fashion.

Much as Mr. Whitman enjoyed his visits
and jaunts, coming back to his own home
was the one great joy of his life, and meet-
ing his housekeeper after even a brief ab-
sence was always a pleasure to him.

It was quite late in the fall when he re-
turned. He resumed his work at once,
and the winter was not an unpleasant one
to him; only somewhat tedious, because he
was so closely confined to the house. In
other ways it was made cheerful with social
events and agreeable company, and it was
brightened with anticipations of the delight-
ful drives to be enjoyed in the spring. (It
was about this time that Horace Traubel
commenced to come to the house.)

Each season had added to his popularity,

IN MICKLE STREET 69

until he had attained the zenith of his most
sanguine imaginations ; his most potent day-
dreams had truly materialized; he was fully
on the crest of the wave ! His housekeep-
ing had surpassed his fondest expectations,
for to him his home was ideal. Depriva-
tion was a thing of the past; there was no
lack of means, as private contributions were
sent to him amounting to many hundreds of
dollars. That he was poor and needy, and
"was supported in his final infirmities by
the kind interest of his friends, who sub-
scribed each his mite that the little old frame
house in Camden might shelter the snowy
head of the bard to the end," was the uni-
versal belief, and a kindly feeling was mani-
fested towards him in his own home and in
England. It is to be regretted that he was
not better fitted physically to enjoy all his
later blessings.

Out-of-doors life seemed essential to him,
and after a number of outings he was able,
as early as April 6, 1887, to read his Lin-
coln lecture — the last he gave in his own
city. It was well attended, and listened to
with deep attention. On the 12th of the
same month he went to New York for the
purpose of reading his lecture there. He
was accompanied by William Duckett, a

70 WALT WHITMAN

young friend who acted as valet and nurse,
and it was on his arm the old man leaned
as he came forward on the stage and stood
a few minutes to acknowledge the applause
of the audience. When the tumult had sub-
sided, the poet sat down beside a stand, laid
his cane on the floor, put on his glasses and
proceeded to read from a little book, upon
whose pages the manuscript and printed
fragments were pasted.

"The lecturer was dressed in a dark sack
coat, with dark gray waistcoat and trousers,
low shoes, and gray woollen socks. The
spotless linen of his ample cuffs and rolling
collar was trimmed with a narrow band of
edging, and the cuffs were turned up over
the ends of his sleeves." Thus says the
New York Tribune of the next day, and it
cannot be denied that his appearance did
credit to his housekeeper's attention at this
time, as it did on all other public occasions.
The "spotless linen," however, was un-
bleached cotton, one of the six new shirts
Mrs. Davis had made for him.

The lecture was very successful. At the
close, a little girl, Laura Stedman, the five
year old granddaughter of the "banker
poet," walked out upon the stage and pre-
sented Mr. Whitman with a basket of lilac

IN MICKLE STREET 71

blossoms. The New York Times had this
account of the event the next morning:

"Forth on the stage came a beautiful
basket of lilac blossoms, and behind it was
a little bit of a maiden in a white Normandy
cap and a little suit of Quaker gray, her eyes
beaming, and her face deeply impressed with
the gravity of the occasion. She walked to
where he sat and held out her gift without
a word. He started, took it and then took
her.

"It was December frost and May-time
blossom at their prettiest contrast, as the
little pink cheek shone against the snow-
white beard, for the old man told his ap-
preciation mutely by kissing her and kissing
her again, the audience meanwhile applaud-
ing sympathetically."

Mr. Whitman then recited his poem "O
Captain!" and the curtain fell — fell to shut
him from the sight of a New York audience
forever.

Mrs. Davis always dreaded Mr. Whit-
man's New York visits, and this episode
caused her extra anxiety. She knew that
his many and influential friends would give
him a warm welcome and a great reception,

72 WALT WHITMAN

and she also knew how prone the poet was
to go beyond the bounds of prudence. He
could stand only a little fatigue and excite-
ment now. He returned in good condition,
however, and she flattered herself that a
quiet summer was before them. He had
told her that this lecture (which increased
his bank account by six hundred dollars)
was to be his last public function, but she
had no knowledge of something else he had
in near view; something he had already ar-
ranged for.

IX
A BUST AND A PAINTING

"Sidney Morse has made a second big head {bust), an
improvement, if I dare to say so, on the first. The second
is the Modern Spirit Awake and Alert as well as Calm —
contrasted with the antique and Egyptian calmness of the
first." — Walt Whitman.

"Oh, that awful summer of 1887!" — Mary Davis.

EARLY in the summer, when he had
fully recovered from his exertions in
New York, Mr. Whitman received a letter
from a sculptor, Mr. Sidney Morse, request-
ing the privilege of coming to Camden at
once, to make a plaster bust of him. The
promise had been given to Mr. Morse for
the summer, but the actual date had not been
fixed upon.

Eleven years before this artist had made
a very unsatisfactory bust of Walt, one he
had always wished to improve upon. On
the first occasion Walt had not entertained
the thought of such an undertaking in his
brother's house, but had gone to Phila-
delphia for the sittings. This time, as be-
fore, the choice of location had been left tq
73

74 WALT WHITMAN

him; and it seemed almost incredible that
he, who had been initiated in this line of art,
should have imposed upon his housekeeper
to the extent of giving his own stuffy little
house the preference over a more suitable
place.

He had answered Mr. Morse's letter,
telling him he would cheerfully put himself
at his disposal; the summer was before
them, and nothing else impending. In
short, he would engage himself to him for
the summer, and he was confident the result
would be better this time.

About two weeks elapsed, and nothing
had been said to Mrs. Davis on the subject
when one morning to her surprise the artist
arrived, prepared to go to work without de-
lay. Had she been consulted, she could
have made preliminary preparations; had
she been better informed she would have
persuaded Mr. Whitman to select a different
place, and had she been fully enlightened
she would have insisted upon it.

Mr. Morse writes: "I found Mr. Whit-
man more crippled and quieter in manner
than when we met before. Eleven years
had wrought their changes. He was how-
ever in a less perturbed frame of mind."

Naturally so; in his own home, contra-

IN MICKLE STREET 75

dieted in nothing, with his own carriage, and
a devoted woman to wait upon him, — one
who never intimated that there existed such
exigencies as living expenses or household
entanglements. It was left to the artist to
tell Mrs. Davis the purpose for which he
had come. He said that he was desirous of
beginning his work as soon as was com-
patible with Mr. Whitman's convenience,
and the poet seeing no obstacle in the way
of an immediate commencement, it was de-
cided that the first sitting should take place
the following afternoon. Mrs. Davis was
somewhat enlightened as to what the making
of a bust implied when a load of mysterious
and cumbersome articles drove up to the
door in the morning. Puzzled both as to
their use and where they could be housed,
she had them delivered at the back gate and
piled up in the yard.

Mr. Morse kept his appointment with
promptitude, and after a few minutes' con-
versation with his subject, he summoned the
housekeeper, and then, "the litter of every-
thing under heaven was poked aside" to
make a clearing by the window. Mrs.
Davis assisted him in bringing some of the
articles from the yard, such as boards and
boxes upon which to fashion the clay; then

76 WALT WHITMAN

when the necessity came for something in
which to mix it, her wash tubs were at once
appropriated, and as smaller vessels were
from time to time required, many of her
dishes and kitchen utensils were one by one
pressed into service.

During the first afternoon the work was
put well in progress, and what a time was
thus inaugurated ! Before the week ended
there was clay and plaster on all sides. The
two men, interested in the bust alone, were
oblivious to everything else, and passed the
time chatting in a lively strain. The artist
was satisfied with his work and delighted
with the prospect of being undisturbed until
its completion. He writes: "My deep
satisfaction overflowed to the housekeeper,
who admonished me that there was an ele-
ment of uncertainty in Mr. Whitman's pro-
gramme nowadays" — and sooner than he
had counted upon, her words were verified,
for on the morning following her mild warn-
ing a telegram came and "the damper fell,"
as Mr. Morse says. This was the tele-
gram: "Am in New York and may arrive
in Camden at any moment. Herbert Gil-
christ."

"He's coming to paint me," said Mr.
Whitman on reading the message; "I had

IN MICKLE STREET 77

forgotten about him. We will put him
over there somewhere; I don't see what I
can do to stop it; he has come all the way
from England — from England, Sidney, to
paint me. Make the best of it, share the
crust with him." "The damper fell" for
Mrs. Davis as well, when Mr. Whitman in
his usual off-hand manner announced the
news to her. Another artist coming! a
portrait painter ! And Mr. Whitman who
had known of this for an indefinite time had
given her no warning, had taken her un-
aware. She was completely overcome, and
not a little indignant. Had he really for-
gotten it, or had he thought it a matter of
too little importance to mention? It was
not often that Mrs. Davis shed tears in self-
pity, but now they were her only relief. It
was not the extra work and expense that
troubled her most; it was Mr. Whitman's
indifference towards her.

Mr. Morse was also touched, and con-
fesses that in his disappointment he was
half inclined to pack his traps and go. For
a moment the housekeeper's mind tended in
the same direction. "But," continues Mr.
Morse, "when the young man appeared on
the scene in person, I was calm once more
and ready to be pacified." Mrs. Davis also

78 WALT WHITMAN

calmed herself and, as was her disposition,
concealed her feelings and roused herself to
meet the emergency. "The litter of every-
thing under heaven" was poked still further
aside, the stove was taken down and put
into the cellar, things heaped and packed
higher in the corners or carried out of the
room, and a place made for the newcomer.

Mr. Gilchrist proved to be an agreeable,
enthusiastic young man, and one never to
get into another's way. Mr. Morse could
keep his place at the window, and Mr. Gil-
christ could place his easel a little way back,
so that the sitter didn't need to change his
position to be in a good light for both. But
what of Mrs. Davis when paint and oil
were added to plaster and the other refuse
pervading the parlors? Had the confusion
been confined to these rooms alone it could
have been held in check, but for lack of
room the kitchen soon became an auxiliary
to the improvised studio. Again quoting
Mr. Morse : "For a week we kept it up,
working some, talking more, Mr. Whit-
man's wistful eye on us both."

This favorable state of affairs was, how-
ever, of short duration, for after the first
week the progress of the artists was un-
satisfactory; they were hindered by constant

IN MICKLE STREET 79

interruptions, and as company began to pour
in upon them, some days would pass and
find little accomplished by either. It
seemed a fatality that so many people
should have chosen this very time to make
their visits, especially people from abroad.
Before long the strain of it told visibly on
Mr. Whitman. Mr. Morse observed not
only this, but the anxious look on Mrs.
Davis's face as well, and on consulting her
found she was much alarmed, and feared
that their subject would give out unless some
change could be made. The change was
made when early the next morning the
sculptor betook himself with his effects to
the yard. This arrangement not merely
gave additional space in the parlors where
two or three spectators could sit or stand,
but it also removed from them their chief
attraction.

Some of Mr. Whitman's friends called
daily, several twice or even three times in a
single day.

Mr. Morse was satisfied with the new
order of things and says: "In the cool
shadow of the house, under a propitious
sky (when it was propitious), with high
boarded fence, and a grape vine wreathing
itself into a pear tree for a background, my

80 WALT WHITMAN

work proceeded. Occasional excursions to
the studio in front for memory sketches
seemed to be serving me all right."

Up to this time Mrs. Davis had had un-
disputed possession of the yard, and this
constant running back and forth was almost
unendurable to her. For the excursions
were not confined to the sculptor ; all comers,
casual or constant visitors, old friends and
strangers, even ordinary passers-by — follow-
ing the lead of others — deliberately took
the right of way through the hall and
kitchen, until it might as well have been a
public passage from street to yard. Then
in unfavorable weather, when the work
could not go on, came another complication,
as the unwieldy appurtenances had to be
brought into the little canvas-covered alcove,
shed and kitchen, obstructing everything.
It was worse still in case of a sudden shower,
when the things had to be hustled in any-
where and anyhow. But the front of the
house ! It was vacation time, and the
"plaster man" and "painter man" at Whit-
man's were the great source of entertain-
ment in the neighborhood. Children
thronged the cellar doors from early morn-
ing until late at night; babies were held up
to look in, and there was a general scramble

IN MICKLE STREET 81

for the best point of view. Pedestrians,
market people and others passing the house
were attracted by this manifest excitement,
and there was scarcely one of them who did
not pause to satisfy his or her inquisitiveness
with a peep. From a distance it was diffi-
cult to discern what could be taking place
at the poet's, and everybody, old and young,
even the halt and the lame, seemed to have
time to walk an extra block or two to as-
certain. However, as there was no alter-
native, Mrs. Davis was willing to bear it all
patiently for a few weeks at most, as she
supposed.

Mr. Morse, pressed by his host, fell into
the habit of remaining to lunch; Mr. Gil-
christ often joined them; and as in the
course of conversation interesting subjects
would come up, the day's work for both
frequently ended at noon. Should inci-
dental visitors arrive during meal time, they
were invited without ceremony or apology
to the kitchen, and Mr. Whitman always
pressed them to eat something, regardless
of the time of day or what might be upon
the table. His talk was animated and ar-
resting. He would usually begin with cur-
rent events, then run into discussions on
various themes, often intricate, and the two

82 WALT WHITMAN

artists felt themselves extremely fortunate
to be the privileged recipients of some of his
most striking thoughts and phrases.

It was at this juncture that one day an
English gentleman accompanied by two
ladies rang at the open door. Mr. Whit-
man had never met them, but seeing them
from his seat at the table he welcomed them
with these words : "Oh, darlings, come right
this way, come right this way." On their
complying he continued: "Herbert, Sidney,
move a little. Mary, lay the plates and
bring the chairs." (The extra ones hang-
ing in the shed.) Then came a hitching
and shuffling of chairs, and a crowding to-
gether. At first the party looked a little
annoyed, but when they were fairly seated
they soon became so absorbed in the poet's
talk and in his associates that, unconsciously
to everyone except the housekeeper, lunch
merged into dinner. But this was no un-
usual occurrence. Indeed there were days
when Mr. Whitman would remain at the
table from lunch until a very late hour, com-
pany coming and leaving in relays. This
summer, and for some time previous, he had
dispensed with the regular breakfast, taking
an early cup of coffee and a piece of toast
in his own room. But the other meals cer-

IN MICKLE STREET 83

tainly involved plenty of work and patience.
Well might he say: "Mrs. Davis has a
knack of anticipating what I want, and in
case of emergency at the dinner table knows
right well how to make the best of it. She
has rare intelligence and her tact is great."
She indeed had tact. "Jolly dinners you
have here," quoth one distinguished visitor,
notwithstanding they were served in the
little heated kitchen.

Mrs. Davis always waited upon the guests
in a pleasant genial manner, and few knew
to whom it was due that the "jolly dinners"
ran so agreeably along. Her watchful eye
detected when any article of food was get-
ting low, either for present company or
when their places were about to be taken by
newcomers. A thousand times she slipped
out quietly to the little side gutter and ran
(she always ran) to procure a loaf of bread,
an extra supply of butter, crackers or cheese.
The home-made supplies rarely gave out, as
she provided bountifully for all. Mr.
Whitman had good reason for going on to
say, as he did: "I am well pleased with my
housekeeper. She does better for me than
a whole retinue of pompous bothering
waiters. I detest the critters; bowing and
watching" — and probably expecting their

84 WALT WHITMAN

just remuneration — for to complete his ap-
preciation of her virtues he could have
added: "And she furnishes the means."

Yes; the lingering lunches and "jolly
dinners" were paid for out of her fast de-
creasing bank account, as was everything
else. It was doubtful if Mr. Whitman
realized in how many ways he was indebted
to her, or if the idea ever occurred to him
that he could ask too much of her. So con-
fident was he of her always making "the
best of it" that nothing agitated or worried
him. Yet this entertaining anyone and
everyone in the kitchen often placed her in
unpleasant and embarrassing predicaments.
Of these he seemed to have no knowledge,
as he never made an attempt to extricate
her from one. Visitors were often more
observing, and no doubt most of them saw
under what disadvantages she was placed.
Some of them kindly helped her over diffi-
culties, and others just as kindly passed awk-
ward little occurrences by apparently un-
noticed.

Although Mr. Whitman did not mind
what people said or thought about him, Mrs.
Davis was sensitive and criticism hurt her
feelings. She knew full well that she was
sometimes blamed, by visitors who did not

IN MICKLE STREET 85

understand the conditions, for things for
which she was not at all responsible. She
knew that to her charge was laid the air of
negligence that pervaded the house, and even
Mr. Whitman's bluntness towards certain
people.

"There were grim and repellent traits in
Walt Whitman. He was naked of manners
and suave apologies as the scarred crag of
the Matterhorn of verdure."

That physical suffering was many times
the key to the old man's roughness Mrs.
Davis understood, and she had a mild way
of smoothing it over and putting other
people at ease. She always spoke highly of
both the artists, and in many ways they
were more considerate of her than was their
host. With things going on as they did,
both were retarded in their work, and each
in turn became discouraged. Mr. Whitman
would sometimes be out of humor for sit-
ting, or so worn out and ill that he could not
come downstairs until late in the day; or
again, when all looked promising he would
order his carriage, drive off and leave them
in the lurch.

Consequently each work of art required
more time for its completion than had been
calculated. Mrs. Davis did her best to en-

86 WALT WHITMAN

courage both the sculptor and the painter,
and in every way she could devise, en-
deavored to forward their work. She re-
moved obstacles; she influenced their sitter,
and persuaded him to be quieter, to avoid
over-exertion and excitement, to see less
company and to lie down during the heat of
the day.

At length both bust and picture were
finished. Each proved to be highly satis-
factory, and by many they are thought to
be the most lifelike representations of the
original. Of the bust Mr. Whitman him-
self said: "I am quite clear this is the
typical one ; modern, reaching out, looking
ahead, democratic, more touch of animation,
unsettledness, etc., etc. Not intended to be
polished off, left purposely a little in the
rough."

REST— AND ROUTINE

"Heat, heat, heat, day and night! . . . I am still
getting along through the hot season — have things pretty
favorable here in my shanty, ivith ventilation {night and
day), frequent bathing, light meals, all of which makes
it better for me in my shattered helpless condition to tug
it out here in Mickle Street, than to transfer myself
somewhere, to seashore or mountains. It is not for a long
time, anyway." — Walt Whitman.

MR. Whitman had reached the limit of
endurance when the artists bid him
and Camden adieu, while Mrs. Davis, with
the constant demands upon her time and
strength, the condition of the house, un-
limited entertaining and lengthened working
hours, had completely succumbed. Another
thing that had been to their disadvantage
was the extreme heat, for it had been and
still was an extremely hot summer — a Jersey
summer. Each was prostrated, and for
awhile rest and relaxation alone could be
thought of. A short lull that followed the
recent turmoil, however, and succeeding cool
weather, did much towards their recupera-
tion ; but unfortunately sick-headaches, which
87

88 WALT WHITMAN

had been occasional with Mrs. Davis, now

became persistent; her vitality was gone,
and her courage was on the wane. In fact
she never fully recovered, nor did she ever
forget "that awful summer of 1887."

But while she was so miserable and ill
she was not forgotten by her old friends,
who rallied at once to her assistance, and
it was through their thoughtfulness and
kind attentions that a general and final col-
lapse was avoided. None of them had been
willing to give her up altogether when she
moved into the Mickle Street house. She
for her part had never willingly neglected
them; one or another, understanding this,
had run in the back way at odd times, and
if by chance they had found the kitchen in
her undisputed possession, had gladly re-
mained to lend her a helping hand.

Nor with her multiplicity of new duties
and in her new surroundings had she been
unmindful of her habit of protectiveness,
and this house became, as her own had been,
the temporary shelter for some orphan girl
or boy, some friendless woman or stranded
young man. Crowded as it was, the little
Whitman home could make room for an
emergency case.

As the owner was just now confined for

IN MICKLE STREET 89

some weeks to his sleeping apartment, Mrs.
Davis could lie upon the kitchen lounge
when the kind ministrations of her friends
relieved her of immediate household duties;
then in turn rouse herself, drag herself up-
stairs and attend to the wants of the sick
man there. Her helpers were glad to prove
their friendship for her, but it didn't reach
the extent of waiting upon the disabled poet;
this rested with her alone. Not that they
were afraid of him, or that he had ever
been rude or impolite to them, but not one
of them was exactly at ease in his presence.
By good fortune, at this opportune time
a gentleman and his wife invited Mrs.
Davis to accompany them upon an excursion
to Southern California. At first she de-
clined the invitation; the distance seemed so
great, and Mr. Whitman was so poorly,
there was no telling what might happen dur-
ing her absence. But she was still pressed
to go, and unknown to her the project was
broached to Mr. Whitman, who highly ap-
proved of it. Finally she accepted the prof-
fered kindness; her friends assisted her in
her preparations, and she set off with
pleasurable anticipations. This journey was
the one great delight of her life, and she re-
turned much benefited. But how about the

90 WALT WHITMAN

good little woman who had strongly urged
her going, who had added her earnest per-
suasions to those of the others, and who had
offered her own and her daughter's services
in place of hers? Poor little woman, she
did her best willingly and uncomplainingly;
but she did openly avow at the expiration
of the three weeks that had Mary stayed
another day, she would have gone insane.

During his housekeeper's brief absence,
Mr. Whitman had found how truly his home
was not home without her. He frankly told
her this, and acknowledged to her that no
one living could fill her place to him; that
others around him irritated him — uncon-
sciously, he knew — while she instinctively
soothed and quieted him, overwrought and
impatient as he might sometimes feel.
Furthermore, he presented her with a nice
gold ring.

Soon after her return, Walt, who was
quite himself once more, paid another visit
to the Staffords, and getting him ready for
this trip was her first work on reaching
home. "Timber Creek" was his favorite
resort, a haunt he so thoroughly enjoyed that
it flashed across the mind of a friend while
sauntering about with him there, that it
would be a capital idea to raise a "Walt

IN MICKLE STREET 91

Whitman Cottage Fund," and build him a
little summer home there. On cautiously
sounding Walt upon the subject, he eagerly
responded: "Oh, how often I have thought
of it!"

So it was decided to build a cottage here,
or by the seaside somewhere, where he could
spend part of the year with nature and
away from the noise and turmoil of the
city. Eight hundred dollars were quickly
raised towards the fund; the site for build-
ing, tiles for the chimney and plan by the
architect were donated; but alas, it was seen
that it was too late in his life for the scheme
to be feasible, and the money was cheerfully
given to him by the contributors to be used
as he thought best.

On this particular occasion Mrs. Davis
was more than glad to be alone. The par-
lors were much as the artists had left them,
and a general housecleaning was instituted.
And such a cleaning! Everything had to be
handled and looked over, discarded or
packed away. It was a disheartening task.
Dried paint and plaster were on every side
and resisted all attempts at removal, as
though they had learned the lesson of per-
sistency from the late sitter; besides, some
repairs had to be made against the coming

92 WALT WHITMAN

winter, and the stove had rusted in the
cellar.

In good time all was accomplished and
order again restored. Mr. Whitman re-
turned refreshed, and oh, so glad to get back
to his own home once more. But as a mat-
ter of course he acted as though beside
himself for awhile, and the old act of hunt-
ing for lost or missing articles was repeated.
Mrs. Davis, however, who had taken more
than one lesson from him, passed his per-
turbation by without apparent notice. She
knew the time was not far in the future
when rapidly failing health would altogether
prevent his leaving home ; he would probably
be confined to the upper part of the house,
perhaps to his bed; and she thought it wise
to be in readiness for whatever was in store.

Although he had been situated so auspi-
ciously for his comfort, and in a way to at-
tain the great object he desired, Mr. Whit-
man's past four years had not been all sun-
shine. He had had spells of deep depres-
sion, days when he felt no inclination to
come downstairs, or even to speak; and
during the winter of this year the dark cloud
hovered more persistently above him than
ever before. For one thing, there were
weeks when extremely cold or stormy

IN MTCKLE STREET 93

weather prevented his going out of doors.
Mrs. Davis had much sympathy for him
while the dreary mood lasted, and in many
ways endeavored to dispel it. During the
inclement weather she found in her cheery
canary bird a valued assistant, and knowing
the old man's fondness for the little fellow,
she would at times stealthily place the cage
in his room, "and let the sun shine out for
a moment, this bird would flood the room
with trills of melody." (The canary out-
lived Mr. Whitman, and through his long
sickness, lasting from the summer of 1888
to the spring of 1892, it was always a wel-
come visitor in his room.) This would
act as an inspiration, and Mr. Whitman
would often take this time to write to some
friend, always mentioning the singing of
the bird and the shining of the sun.

"Pleasant weather as I write seated here
by the window, my little canary singing like
mad."

"Sunny and summery weather here, and
my canary is singing like a house on fire."

"Dull weather, the ground covered with
snow, but my little bird is singing as I
write."

Good cheer may have been another com-
forting agent, for he writes: "We have

94 WALT WHITMAN

(Mrs. Davis has) just had a baking. Oh!
how I do wish I could send the dear frau
one of our nice pumpkin pies, a very little
ginger, no other spice."

"A cold freezing day. Have had my
dinner of rare stewed oysters, some toasted
Graham bread, and a cup of tea."

"Have had a bad spell of illness again,
but am better to-day. Have just eaten a
bit of dinner for the first time in over a
week — stewed rabbit with a piece of
splendid home-made bread, covered with
stew-gravy."

"Have just had my dinner — a great piece
of toasted Graham bread, salted and well
buttered with fresh country butter, and then
a lot of panned oysters dumped over it, with
hot broth ; then a nice cup custard, and a cup
of coffee. So if you see in the paper that
I am starving (as I saw the other day),
understand how."

In speaking of Mrs. Davis in a letter of
the previous summer, he writes: "Very hot
weather here continued. I am feeling
badly, yet not so badly as you might fancy.
I am careful and Mrs. Davis is very good
and cute."

"Am idle and monotonous enough in my
weeks and life here; but on the whole am

IN MICKLE STREET 95

thankful it is no worse. My buying this
shanty and settling down here on half, or
one-fourth pay, and getting Mrs. Davis to
cook for me, might have been bettered by
my disposing some other way, but I am
satisfied it is all as well as it is."

Through the winter Mr. Whitman plod-
ded on with his literary work, and by spring
the parlors were once more transformed
into a regular printing and mailing estab-
lishment. To these over-filled rooms he
had added an oil portrait of an ancestor, a
life-size bust of Elias Hicks, and a seated
statuette of himself. He was very careful
of the two latter works of art, and to pro-
tect them from dust kept them partially en-
cased in newspapers. When a caller once
slyly lifted the paper from the statuette, he
found a colony of ants had made the lap of
it their home. The bust of Hicks was very
conspicuous, and looked spectral in its paper
headgear. Mrs. Davis would occasionally
remove the yellow and time-worn papers,
and replace them with clean ones. The
owner no doubt noticed this, but he had
ceased to be too observant of some things,
and had become more lenient where "Mary"
was the offender. And Mary had learned

96 WALT WHITMAN

just how far she could go with impunity.
In a way their lives had merged together.

It was a custom with Mr. Whitman to
have his manuscripts set up in type before
sending them away — even his "little bits"
of newspaper contributions. This was done
in a "quaint little printing office" in town,
the proprietor of which was "an old fellow
acquaintance" of Walt's. In this matter,
as in all others, he was very impatient, for
the moment anything was ready for the
press he would summon Mrs. Davis, regard-
less of time, weather or her own occupa-
tions, saying: "Take this to the printer's,
Mary, and tell him I want it immediately" ;
and although most of this work was done
gratuitously, the "old fellow acquaintance"
was decidedly accommodating to his hon-
ored patron, and often laid other jobs aside
for his "odd bits." He was as well always
courteous to Mrs. Davis. It may be that
he could not withstand her appeals for
haste, and was willing to incommode him-
self to save her from fruitless trips to the
office; for he knew that in an unreasonably
short time the poet would demand his
printed bit. In fact, so impatient would
the writer often become, that to pacify him
his good housekeeper would make half a

IN MICKLE STREET 97

dozen trips to the office. Frequently he
would correct the proof and return it for a
second, perhaps a third or fourth printing,
and frequently he would say: "Don't come
back without it, Mary; wait for it."

It would have been inconsistent with Mrs.
Davis's .natural activity for her to remain
sitting in a printing office for an unlimited
time, therefore she usually took advantage
of these opportunities to do a little shopping,
make a friendly call, or even a hasty run to
Philadelphia. The corrected copies were
never destroyed, but, like everything else,
were dropped on the floor. It was no
wonder that "to some Walt Whitman's
house was a sort of conglomerated dime
museum." Strangers who called drew their
own inferences and reported accordingly,
and in this way contradictory stories were
told and sent out into the world. Much
that was false was believed, until the pre-
vailing impression was that "he was living
in poverty and neglect."

He was extremely non-committal, and his
housekeeper never intruded her knowledge
upon anyone, so it was natural that errors
as to his home life should creep in. It was
certainly difficult to credit that from sheer
preference any human being could live in

98 WALT WHITMAN

and enjoy the state of disorder that was
found in the Whitman house, thanks to the
poet's peculiarities. But this manner of
living suited him, and in it he found true
comfort. It must be confessed that things
were outwardly so indicative of neglect that
mistakes were bound to be made, while little
of the actual life was known or understood,
except by intimate friends. "The junk
shop jumble of those lonesome rooms,"
writes one; and again: "I found the vener-
able poet in his garret, living in neglect and
want, cooking soup in a yellow bowl on a
sheet-iron stove nearby." (S. T. Packard
in a magazine article.) (The bowl merely
contained clean water for the purpose of
moistening the overheated atmosphere of
the room.) Still further he writes: "When-
ever his strength permitted he rose from his
armchair with the rough bear-robe thrown
over the back." It was really a white wolf-
skin robe, a present to Mr. Whitman and of
great service to him.

In truth the elucidation, explanation and
straightening out of the various stories con-
cerning the life of Walt Whitman in Mickle
Street would require a volume in itself.
No fancifulness, however, on the part of
more or less observant visitors could rival

IN MICKLE STREET 99

that of their subject, for "His imagination
could and did convert the narrow walls of
the house in Camden into boundaries of
nations, seas, oceans, mountain-chains, vistas
of Eden, forests, cities, palaces, landscapes,
hovels, homes of the rich, and art galleries,
so that Whitman was thus of the great
world while out of it."

"A peculiar feature of Walt Whitman's
rooms, those I mean which his housekeeper
is not allowed to put into order, is the chaos
and confusion in which his papers are
coiled. The bump of order does not exist
in his cranium." {William Sloane Kennedy.)

But visitors were left to their own im-
pressions, and these were too often unjust
to the woman who always did her best to
prevent the confusion from growing still
worse confounded.

XI
A SHOCK, AND SOME CHANGES

"You have a good housekeeper." — E. L. Keller.

"Yes, good, square — tip-top — devoted to me. Behind
all she has spunk, very sensitive, the least ivord sets her
off. A good woman." — Walt Whitman.

"Sunsets and sunrises to his soul were almost equal to
food for his body." — Thomas Donaldson.

AT last the long tedious winter ended,
and never was a spring more welcome
to Mr. Whitman, for his acme of enjoy-
ment was still to be out of doors. During
the months when he was so closely confined
to the house he had become even more de-
pendent upon his housekeeper, had more
often sought her companionship, had been
more confidential towards her, and had re-
peatedly expressed his thankfulness that he
was in his own domicile, and was so for-
tunate as to have her efficient services. He
would saunter more frequently into the
kitchen for a social chat, and preferred to
take his meals there whenever he felt equal
to it. Altogether, he was much more

WALT WHITMAN 101

domesticated. Still, he had been able to go
out sometimes, had taken part in a number
of social gatherings, where he had enjoyed
the pleasure of congenial company, had even
had "some jolly dinners" in his own house;
but nothing could compete with the delight
he experienced when he was under the blue
sky. His drives were absolutely joyful to
him, and the first one set all his recuperative
forces in action. His rapid gain was
distinctly perceptible, and everything looked
hopeful and promising.

On May 31, 1888 — his sixty-ninth birth-
day— a lawyer, one of his later friends
(Mr. Thomas B. Harned, Horace Traubel's
brother-in-law) , and one at whose hospitable
board he was often found, gave a reception
and supper in his honor. It was a most en-
joyable affair.

But four days later, after a lengthened
drive Mr. Whitman was tempted to visit the
river bank to contemplate the setting sun.
He imprudently prolonged his stay until the
evening dampness caused him to feel a sen-
sation of chilliness, which increased mo-
mentarily until upon his reaching home it
terminated in a real chill, followed by still
more serious consequences, for from it re-
sulted a paralytic shock. It was not a heavy

102 WALT WHITMAN

shock, but was quite violent enough to cause
alarm. At the first symptom Mrs. Davis sum-
moned a physician, and did everything in her
own power to alleviate his sufferings. He
was seriously ill throughout the night, and
next day had two recurrences of the shock,
one in the morning and the other at noon.
After the third it was believed, even by his
physicians, that the termination of all was
near at hand. For hours he was speechless,
and to every appearance in a comatose con-
dition.

His friend Dr. R. M. Bucke of Canada
— who had come to Camden to attend the
birthday celebration — had not yet returned
home, and hurried at once to the bedside,
where he was unremitting in his care and
attention. Dr. Bucke was a skilful physi-
cian and a man of great executive ability,
and his timely presence was a great blessing
to all. His appreciation of Mr. Whitman
as a writer, and his personal friendship for
him, were of long standing.

To the surprise and relief of everybody,
an unlooked-for reaction took place, and
the sick man's first words on recovering his
speech were : "It will soon pass over, and
if it does not it will be all right." He was
carried to his sleeping apartment, and from

IN MICKLE STREET 103

this time to his death he used the front
parlor only as a sitting room.

Dr. Bucke and Mr. Donaldson had talked
much while their old friend was lying in the
comatose state, and both were troubled that
things were so complicated, and that no one
in particular seemed to have the least super-
vision over him or his personal belongings.
Both were surprised when they learned that
he had never made a will, and had never
offered a suggestion or given any directions
in regard to his literary affairs. They were
anxious as well, because they knew that in
case of death, which seemed so close at
hand, his papers and manuscripts would be
scattered and lost. As to home matters,
Dr. Bucke said that Mrs. Davis was worn
out and a permanent nurse must be pro-
vided. This point Mr. Donaldson cor-
dially endorsed. Of Mr. Whitman's pe-
cuniary standing the Doctor had no knowl-
edge, but Mr. Donaldson was better in-
formed in regard to the sums he had re-
ceived, and after consultation both fully
agreed that the time had come when some-
one must take charge of affairs and no
longer allow them to run on in the old hap-
hazard way.

They decided to talk with Mrs. Davis,

io4 WALT WHITMAN

and upon their doing this she gave them a
correct, full and truthful statement of the
facts of the case. She could well enlighten
them on the subject of outgoings, and both
men were genuinely astonished to learn that
Walt Whitman had never contributed one
farthing towards the maintenance of the
house, — for repairs, supplies, furniture or
fuel. She told them that while so many
had been solicitous of Mr. Whitman's com-
fort and interests, she felt aggrieved that no
one had ever exhibited the least considera-
tion for her; that she had spoken to Mr. and
Mrs. George Whitman a number of times,
and they had assured her that Walt was in
a position to meet all expenses of the house,
and to the best of her belief they both sup-
posed that he was doing this, though neither
had made any inquiries of her. She said
that in addition to her giving her time as
general servant to all, her funds were
rapidly diminishing, her goods going to rack
and ruin, her health failing; and she felt
that she could bear the burden no longer.
She mentioned the promises Walt had made,
and added that she did not doubt that in his
way of thinking, and of doing things, he
still intended to deal honestly and honor-
ably by her; that she had endeavored to talk

IN MICKLE STREET 105

with him and come to a satisfactory under-
standing, until she was convinced that he
avoided the subject purposely. She felt
that in no way was she secured, and it was
a positive fact that two years more would
bankrupt her. What she asked was a
settlement on the spot, and that someone
might be found to take her place.

Take her place! Was there a woman
upon earth who could or would do this? It
was a proposition that neither of her audi-
tors would consider; up to this time the
thought of her leaving had never entered
their minds; indeed, no one had ever stopped
to think that she might in time wear out
and be obliged to give up, or perhaps get
discouraged and go of her own free will.
They urged her to abandon such an idea.
What would the Mickle Street house be
without her? The mere suggestion was the
extreme of cruelty, for the sick man, al-
though a little better at present, was too low
for any change, especially one that would
touch him so closely. Dr. Bucke gave her
his word that he would be personally re-
sponsible for all she had spent, and for
proper payment for her services as house-
keeper both in the past and the future; he
told her that her work would be lightened

106 WALT WHITMAN

immeasurably, as a regular nurse was to be
engaged; and that in case Mr. Whitman
should die before matters were settled, her
interests should be carefully looked after.
Relying on this promise, she remained.

In a few days Mr. Whitman's friends
spoke to him and proposed that out of his
bank account, which had grown to some
thousands of dollars, he should hereafter
purchase his own wood, pay for one-half the
other fuel, keep the house in repair, and
settle his private expenditures, to all of
which he gave a ready and willing assent.
Next day they advised his making a will,
which he did, and it is known that in this
he made some provision for Mrs. Davis,
but its full contents were never disclosed, as
he wrote it himself. On learning that ac-
cording to Jersey law a woman could be the
executor of an estate, he said it was his
wish and desire that his esteemed sister-in-
law, Louise Whitman, should close his.
(This will was replaced by one made in
December, 1891, during his last sickness.)

In regard to his literary matters, it was
thought best that they should be placed in
the hands of three executors, Dr. Bucke
being one.

When it was made known that in future

IN MICKLE STREET 107

Mr. Whitman was to have a regular nurse,
some of his young admirers volunteered to
solicit a monthly contribution from his
numerous friends to meet this expense. The
patient made some inquiries regarding the
nurse fund, and on being told that it was all
right and attended to, never alluded to the
subject again. The task of keeping the
fund up fell to Horace Traubel; for when
it was first started people subscribed under
the impression that it was a temporary mat-
ter, that Mr. Whitman's life hung on a
thread, and that they would only be called
upon once or twice ; so all ran smoothly for
a while. But as months merged into years
some donors became tired of giving, while
others found themselves unable to continue.
Mr. Traubel was indefatigable in his en-
deavors to serve his friend. As one sub-
scriber after another fell out, he called upon
people or wrote to them in order to fill the
vacant places. Besides this matter, in the
four years in which he was connected with
the poet he did much writing and correspond-
ing for him, and was of great service to
him.

The sick man improved slowly, and when
there were no longer any indications of a
relapse and everything had been satis-

io8 WALT WHITMAN

factorily arranged, Dr. Bucke returned to
his home ; not however until he had again
talked with Mrs. Davis and had once more
assured her that full justice should be done,
and that she need no longer feel uncertain as
to her own well-being.

While Mr. Whitman was so very ill,
there was no difficulty in securing a profes-
sional nurse. The first, a gentlemanly
middle-aged man named Musgrove, left
when the patient had in a measure regained
his normal condition. Other nurses were
in turn engaged, but the place was so un-
desirable, the duties so varied and uncon-
genial, accommodations so lacking and the
remuneration so small, that after a short
trial each one left, all of them testifying to
the housekeeper's goodness to them, and to
her unselfish surrender of herself to their
patient.

After Mr. Musgrove's first few weeks
there was not much regular nursing, and at
Mr. Whitman's request Mrs. Davis did
most of this; but there remained the heavy
lifting and hard work. The wood was
bought in cord lengths and thrown through
the slanting door into the cellar, where it
was sawed and split. The cellar was not
only cold and damp, but the wood was often

IN MICKLE STREET 109

wet and clumsy to handle. Besides sawing,
splitting and carrying the wood up two
flights of stairs, the nurse was expected to
do sufficient carpentering to keep the house
in repair, shovel snow in winter, run er-
rands for his patient, and later wheel him
about the streets in an invalid chair. This
chair was purchased from the proceeds of a
birthday dinner given for the poet in his
own city, May 31, 1889. One hundred and
twenty-five dollars were donated on the oc-
casion, and as Mr. Whitman had now be-
come too decrepit to use his carriage, that
and the horse were disposed of, and the
wheel-chair substituted.

There was so much trouble in getting a
nurse who cared to remain, that late in the
fall following the shock Dr. Bucke sent a
young Canadian to fill the place. This
young man, who desired to study medicine,
had accepted the position with that object in
view, and coming through personal interests
alone he was naturally much engrossed in
his own affairs, and never lost sight of his
own advantages. He saw that by embrac-
ing this opportunity he could attain the nec-
essary knowledge, keep a roof over his
head (one that generally leaked, but this
did not dampen his ardor), earn his board

no WALT WHITMAN

and clothing, and have besides the great
benefit of attending lectures in Philadelphia.

During the five months between the shock
and the advent of the student nurse, Mr.
Whitman had resumed his writing, and his
bedchamber became his sanctum. Before
his illness Mrs. Davis had managed to keep
the upper portion of the house in passable
order. Now it was gradually assuming the
late appearance of the parlors, for here at
least Mr. Whitman had full control, and
would brook no interference whatever.
When the nurse found that his best en-
deavors to bring about a change in this
merely meant wasted time, he quietly went
his own way and left his patient to do the
same. He confessed that he thought him
"the most singular mortal" he had ever
met, and said: "When I was first employed
he would chat ten minutes at a time with
me ; now we pass about twenty words a
day. Keeps his own business to himself, and
talks but little even with his intimates."

The young man's application to his
studies appeared so commendable to Mrs.
Davis that she at once set about trying to
forward his efforts. The only method she
saw was to do his washing, ironing and
mending, that the small weekly sum thus

IN MICKLE STREET in

saved might go towards purchasing books
he needed and could not afford to buy. He
was delighted to own the volumes so ob-
tained, and would pore over them for hours
at a time, totally unmindful of the fact that
the real donor was performing many duties
that should justly have fallen to him. Hav-
ing no room of his own, the kitchen was
necessarily his study, and in a letter he
writes : "Mr. Whitman calls me by knock-
ing on the floor, I usually being in the room
below."

Mrs. Davis always prepared the invalid's
meals, carried them to him, and if possible
sat with him when he partook of them.
These were their times for exchanging con-
fidences and chatting on home topics.
"More than anyone else was she his confi-
dant, and deserved to be." (Thomas Don-
aldson.)

He was interested in simple things, and
little home talks never wearied him. He
used few, plain and ordinary words in con-
versation, and his manner was simplicity it-
self. Mrs. Davis never spoke of anything
unpleasant to him, and was always on guard
lest others might do so; she was a good
listener, not a loquacious talker, and her
voice, naturally soft, had a soothing effect.

ii2 WALT WHITMAN

His literary matters were well looked
after, and he seldom called his nurse except
for some actual need. Such comments, how-
ever, as the following are misleading: "He
treats his household as by a holy law,
Mrs. Davis his housekeeper never finds
him indifferent, condescending or morose.
His spirit ignores all petty household wor-
ries . . ." ("In Re Walt Whitman.")

Mrs. Davis also sat with the sick man, or
within call, whether his nurse had gone on
an errand for him, or to Philadelphia on his
own account. And yet the student-nurse
made no sign of reciprocating her many
kindnesses to him; took everything she did
for him as his just due ; accepted any and
every service she might render him, but
most emphatically refused to give one in
return. He left Camden the last of
October, 1889, and returned to Canada. He
parted both with Mr. Whitman and Mrs.
Davis on the most friendly terms, saying
that much as he disliked to leave them, his
own worldly future depended upon other
work than nursing.

"A time-worn loo\ and scent of oa\ attach both to

the chair and the person occupying it"

(Letter from Walt Whitman)

XII
ANCHORED

"Am anchored helpless here all day, but get along

fairly. Fortunately have a placid, quiet, even, solitary

thread quite strong in tveft of my disposition."

— Walt Whitman (Aug. 22, 1890).

"Whitman's stalwart form itself luxuriates in a curious
great cane-seat chair, with posts and rungs like a ship's
spars; altogether the most imposing heavy-timbered,
broad-armed and broad-bottomed edifice of the kind pos-
sible. It ivas the gift of the young son and daughter of
Thomas Donaldson of Philadelphia, and ivas made espe-
cially for the poet." — William Sloane Kennedy.

THE long confinement to his room
covering more than half of '88, and
extending into the next year, had forced
Mr. Whitman to relinquish his summer and
autumn drives. This was the one thing to
which he could not be reconciled; the one
thing to which he had looked forward so
wistfully all the previous winter and spring.
Alas ! the fatal river drive was his last. As
already explained the horse and carriage,
now useless to him, were disposed of, and
the wheel-chair took their place. This
chair was indeed a boon to him, and he ap-
113

ii4 WALT WHITMAN

predated the thoughtful kindness of his
friends in the appropriate gift.

As soon as his strength would permit,
which was some months after his attack,
he had resumed his writing. He had also
read his papers and periodicals, and thus
managed to wear the long days through.
The cheery canary had done his part in
helping to beguile the irksome hours, and
Watch, the coach dog, sure of a friendly
greeting had made a daily call. Towards
spring the time had been less tedious, and
in March the invalid had become sufficiently
strong to be assisted downstairs. At this
he was highly encouraged, for he realized
the advancement he had made.

While he had been so low in the past
summer, Mrs. Davis had once more insti-
tuted a regular cleaning and renovating of'
the parlors. This he must have noticed, but
he made no remarks in regard to it. He
was led now to his favorite window, where
stood his armchair with the white wolf-skin
thrown over the back; in this he was placed,
and day after day sat contentedly anchored.
It was a sad disappointment to him when
ailments occasionally prevented his coming
downstairs; here he preferred taking his
evening meal and meeting his friends.

IN MICKLE STREET 115

Writing materials were always at hand on
a small shelf under the window sill, but these
he used only to jot down passing thoughts
or to indite a friendly line.

Soon he could come into the kitchen,
where he often chose to dine. Sometimes
his friends would join him in a "jolly din-
ner" in the dear old place; but things had
changed — were but a semblance of what
had been — and his desire to remain un-
disturbed and with his housekeeper alone
during meal times grew upon him.

During the summer and fall he had in-
cidental outings with his nurse (Eddie
Wilkins, the student). The first few were
necessarily of short duration and slow of
motion, then as his strength returned they
were lengthened, and he realized the pleas-
ure in store for him should his life be pro-
longed another year.

After each ride Mrs. Davis met him with
some light refreshment, after which all he
desired was rest — a long rest, sometimes of
several days.

It was impossible to receive one-half of
the people who called upon him — indeed,
this would have been a tax upon a strong
man. Mrs. Davis always answered the
door bell; and it was no uncommon thing

n6 WALT WHITMAN

for him to tell her that as he wanted to have
a day of unbroken tranquillity, no one was
to be admitted to his room — excepting al-
ways a number of dear old friends, and his
ever-welcome brother and good sister-in-
law.

Strange that these were often the days
when visitors would flock there, the great
majority of whom would leave deeply dis-
appointed, and for this cause the inoffensive
housekeeper — she who had to bear the
brunt of everything — incurred the dis-
pleasure, even the enmity, of some people.
So little was known to the world at large
of the poet's private life and of his state of
health, that strangers would sometimes go
to certain persons in Philadelphia to inquire
how they might have an audience with him.
This condition of things did not develop
until after the illness of the previous year,
and much trouble resulted from it, as
visitors would show their cards or letters of
introduction and insist upon going to his
room. Friends living either in Philadel-
phia or in Camden, especially those who
saw much of the poet, should have been
mindful that so sick a man might not at all
times feel inclined to talk with strange
people, or might not be equal to it if he

IN MICKLE STREET 117

were so inclined. But his wishes or needs
were not conformed with, and in some cases
the protestations of Mrs. Davis were wholly
disregarded.

She invariably met each individual
pleasantly and never spoke hastily or
abruptly to anyone ; she always gave civil
answers to their questions; often went to
Mr. Whitman to intercede for them; and
it was through her influence alone that
many were admitted to his presence. But
if he was not disposed to yield, her best ef-
forts would be in vain, and the only alterna-
tive left her was to offend others instead of
him.

During the seven years she was with
him she had numberless strange or even
unique experiences, but having quick per-
ception she was seldom deceived. Some peo-
ple would haughtily demand an audience with
the poet; others would compromise by in-
terviewing her, while the more determined
would force their way in uninvited and posi-
tively refuse to leave the house until they
had spoken with the owner. Many brought
gifts which they wished to present in person;
and veterans came asking that they might
only clasp the hand that had ministered to
them so tenderly at some time during the

n8 WALT WHITMAN

civil war. Nor were souvenir fiends want-
ing, and many trinkets, ornaments and keep-
sakes belonging to Mrs. Davis were sur-
reptitiously carried off.

A few people spoke slightingly of the
housekeeper, but never in Mr. Whitman's
presence, for "Mary" was "Mary" to him
at all times and in all places.

A number who had rendered him services
— those in particular who within the last
year or two had given money towards his
support (as was supposed) — were indignant
that Mrs. Davis should presume to speak
so decidedly to them, believing that were
their names only taken to Walt he would be
delighted to see them. And yet a visit to
the poet in his own house was to some people
a decided disappointment, even when they
were able to see and talk with him. They
did not find what they had been looking for,
something based on idle rumor and curious
expectation, something extraordinary or even
outlandish.

One of the most noticeable things about
him, says one, was "an absence of all effort
to make a good impression, or of posing."
Instead of finding a gruff old fossil, or
bearding a lion in his den, they found an
everyday, quiet, dignified man.

XIII
WARREN FRITZINGER

"He {Mr. Wilkins) left Mr. Whitman in October, 1889,
and was succeeded as nurse by Warren Fritzinger, a
young man of twenty-five, and a son of Mary O. Davis,
his housekeeper and friend. Mr. Fritzinger (Warry)
remained with Mr. Whitman until his death, a faithful,
earnest man." — Thomas Donaldson.

"I get along well, am comfortable, have a fair appetite,
and keep a good oak fire." — Walt Whitman.

WHILE the question of getting another
nurse was pending, Harry and War-
ren Fritzinger returned to Camden. It was
a mutual surprise, for the brothers had lost
trace of each other and came from different
parts of the world. It was indeed a joyful
reunion, and though seven years had elapsed
since they had seen their foster-mother, their
love had not abated and each brought her
a substantial gift in money. Coming from
California, Warren's gift was in gold —
double eagles.

They remembered Walt Whitman as a
man, but neither of them had read his poetry,
and although their mother had mentioned
119

120 WALT WHITMAN

the change at the time it was made, they
knew nothing of the way in which she was
living, and both were much alarmed at her
altered appearance. Not at all satisfied, they
urged her to resign her position; to move
into a more fitting place, and let them take
care of her.

But believing, as did others, that Mr.
Whitman's life was drawing to a close, she
pleaded that she could not reconcile her
mind to deserting him in his helplessness.
She enlightened them in regard to financial
matters, saying that she thought it wiser to
wait quietly where she was until things were
adjusted. Again, the house practically con-
tained her possessions only, and these she
could not think of moving at a time like the
present; the sick man could not abide the
confusion. She furthermore said that the
house had become homelike to her, that all
of Mr. Whitman's friends were kind to her,
especially his sister-in-law, who made weekly
visits, always bringing something with her;
that she had implicit confidence in Mrs.
Whitman, and knew that should any contro-
versy arise in the settling of affairs, this up-
right and capable woman would be on her
side. Again, she had pledged her word to
stay; it was expected of her; and yet the

IN MICKLE STREET 121

strongest argument came from her own kind
heart — the old man needed her.

In her many talks with Warren she told
him how she dreaded the coming of another
strange nurse, even though his term of serv-
ice was likely to be so short; and as she
could not see how a few months, at most,
could make any material difference to him,
she did wish that he would make up his
mind to apply for the position. Mr. Whit-
man's friends and literary executors at once
caught at this, and all brought their influ-
ence to bear, pressing the place upon him
and promising that, should he remain until
Mr. Whitman's demise, they would stand
by him and see him placed in some good
way of earning a livelihood.

The situation had no inducements for him;
it was in fact decidedly distasteful; but feel-
ing assured that it couldn't really affect his
worldly career, he consented. He was not
one to do things by halves, and from the day
he undertook this work until the last hour of
his patient's life, he performed his manifold
duties in a cheerful, willing and most capa-
ble manner.

He loved the sea, with its broad spaces,
and soon the narrow limits of the little
house became intolerable to him. This he

122 WALT WHITMAN

did not betray, and being naturally light-
hearted and always appearing happy, few
who met him realized the trial he was un-
dergoing. He was honest and straightfor-
ward, and believed everyone to be the same.

Mr. Whitman, who had taken to him at
once, was delighted when he was told that
this bright "sailor boy" was to be his next
attendant. Warren was indeed a blessing,
not only to the patient, but to his mother,
for he was always ready to assist her and to
help out in times of need. But, better than
all, he soon acquired a way of quietly man-
aging the "good gray poet" that no other
living mortal ever attained. When it was
decided that massage would benefit Mr.
Whitman, he took a course in a Philadelphia
hospital and became a professional masseur,
as well as wood-sawyer and amateur car-
penter.

Good places were offered him, but he was
bound, and could accept none of them. One
excellent position was kept open for months
and he was advised by his friends not to let
so good an opportunity go by, but Mr. Whit-
man lingered on, and the place was filled. In
going to sea as a boy, Warren was at a dis-
advantage on land. This he realized, and in
the situation thus surrendered he had seen

IN MICKLE STREET 123

a way in which he could retrieve his lost
time.

Walt's literary attainments and associa-
tions were pleasant enough to encounter, but
they were of no material benefit to him, and
the remuneration was much smaller than he
had ever before received. This was a great
drawback, for having met a young lady
whom he hoped to marry, he felt inclined
and perfectly able to better himself.

As his predecessor's prediction, that Mr.
Whitman would not outlive the year, was not
verified, and New Year's Day, 1890, not
only found him alive but in a much im-
proved condition, with no indications of
immediate danger, it came home to Warren
that he had unfortunately tied himself to an
uncertainty, and that his term of service
might be years instead of weeks. There
seemed no present help, however, so he
philosophically accepted the conditions and
stuck to his work with manly courage.

Warren's engagement commenced so late
in the season that Mr. Whitman had but a
few outings before another winter shut him
in. He had however two or three trips to
the river bank, which he enjoyed greatly;
all the more because they led to conversa-
tions on ships and ocean life. Warren was

i24 WALT WHITMAN

a fluent and interesting talker, which made
him an enviable companion for anyone who,
like the poet, was an ardent lover of free-
dom and the boundless deep. He often re-
ferred to Warren as his "sailor boy," and
said that he was of much service to him
when he was at a loss about the names of
different parts of a ship. The young "sailor
boy" had a vein of poetry in his own com-
position, and although he might not be quali-
fied to weigh the bard's words and their
import in the same scale with some others,
he got a clear insight into their meaning.

The sick man had his ups and downs dur-
ing this winter, but was seldom confined to
his bed more than a week at a time. When
he was at all able, he was helped downstairs
to sit by the window. He spent more time
in the kitchen with Mrs. Davis, and took a
lively interest in anything she might be do-
ing; he talked to the birds, made a playmate
of the cat, had fellowship with the dog — in
short his home life resembled that of any
old man in his own home and with his own
kin. He would read and write a little at a
time, or glance over his papers, but there
was a perceptible falling off in all ways, and
his domestic life became more and more dear

IN MICKLE STREET 125

to him; it had no jars, ran smoothly along,
and was to him his world.

He was still just as inflexible about having
his own way. However, it had so long been
a part of his housekeeper's life to yield to
this, that he seldom had to insist upon any-
thing. He would usually retire early now,
though this was not a stated rule. He might
be in bed by eight o'clock, or up until mid-
night, and he was as ingenious as ever in
making work for other people. As his mas-
sage was to be the last thing before sleep,
Warren could not calculate upon his own do-
ings for a single evening. He might go out
before dark, make a call or do an errand,
then hasten home to wait up two or three
hours or even longer; or on going out and
remaining but a little beyond eight, would
on his return find his patient in bed groaning,
and saying that he had been suffering severe-
ly for his rubbing, or "pummelling," as he
called it. Suffice it to say he was as exacting
with his willing nurse as he had always been
with his faithful housekeeper. During the
two and a half years that Warren was with
him, he had but a single untrammelled eve-
ning, for Mr. Whitman wanted him always
near, even when no service was required.
And so things jogged on satisfactorily to

126 WALT WHITMAN

friends and admirers, but tediously indeed
to the young marine.

Horace Traubel writes: "Warren Frit-
zinger, who attends upon Mr. Whitman and
is provided for through a fund steadily re-
plenished by a group of Walt's lovers — and
who finds his services a delight — attests that
whatsoever the hour or necessity, Whitman's
most intimate humor is to the last degree
composed and hopeful." {"In Re Walt
Whitman/') Others have written of this
period as one of grave neglect; a time when
the aged man was deprived of the care and
comfort so essential to one in his condition.
They underrated both his means and the at-
tention lavished upon him.

"He is old and poor," says one, "and
were it not for small contributions from time
to time from friends who sympathize with
him in his poverty, age and helplessness,
would actually suffer for the bare necessaries
of life. For many years his income from all
sources has not exceeded an average of two
hundred dollars, which to a person in his
helpless condition goes but a little way even
in supplying the roughest and commonest of
food and care." And again: "His wants are
not many, for he lives simply from necessity
and choice ; but in his old age and constantly

IN MICKLE STREET 127

failing health, he needs that comfort and at-
tendance which he has not the means to
procure."

The poet himself was neither discontented
nor dull. As his infirmities brought new
privations, he bowed to the inevitable. He
missed the outdoor life keenly, but was grate-
ful for such trips as he could get under War-
ren's care. As for indoors, conversations
if protracted wore upon him, and he could
no longer take part in them with anything of
his old enthusiasm and vim. But there was
no fundamental infirmity of mind, no child-
ishness of senility; he was essentially young
in his habits, thought and manner, and re-
mained so until his death. Sometimes, in-
deed, the flame of mental energy rose high
again; and it was never extinguished.

"The body was fading; the vital parts
seemed reluctant to die even in their own ex-
haustion. The soul, the mind, the man were
there, and at times in full vigor, while the
case was wrecked. Grandly and clearly his
mentality stood above the slowly straining
and wasting body." (Thomas Donaldson.)

But others suffered with and through him.
Warren had relinquished hope after hope,
had on several occasions abandoned his re-
solve to better himself and get married; his

128 WALT WHITMAN

mother's entreaties and the reiterated prom-
ises and solicitations of Mr. Whitman's
friends, especially his literary executors, were
more than he could combat. But with all
outward signs of contentment, the confine-
ment soon left visible marks upon him; a
second pair of rosy cheeks faded, and from
handling the icy wood in the cellar a lasting
cold was contracted.

He purchased a writing desk — one that
fitted the niche between the chimney and
the window in the anteroom — and here he
wrote, studied and read when not actively
employed; always busy, always within call.
When the monotony and confinement became
too pressing, he purchased a violin and took
music lessons. He declared that this saved
him from fits of desperation.

Mr. Whitman himself was not the only
old person dependent for comfort upon Mrs.
Davis and her sons, for the maternal grand-
parents of the latter, living in Beardstown,
Pennsylvania, octogenarians and both amaz-
ingly jealous of the poet, had to be visited,
looked after and consoled.

One great annoyance to Warren was Mr.
Whitman's aversion to prompt payment.
The old man had signified his willingness to
purchase his own wood, but he was so de-

IN MICKLE STREET 129

linquent about settling for it that the pro-
prietor of the woodyard, a man whose heart
had never been warmed by the poet's effu-
sions, saw no reason why he should warm
his body gratis, and so sent him bill after
bill, until at length he refused to deliver a
load until the previous one was paid for. Be
it understood, Mr. Whitman intended to pay
for his wood, but he intended to pay in his
own time, and not be dictated to; conse-
quently there was a controversy when each
load was delivered. "His pride was adamant
to anything that seemed concession." (John
T. Trowbridge.)

Warren knew that the old man had money,
that right was on the wood-dealer's side,
and he would not follow his mother's way
of putting people off — telling them that Mr.
Whitman was too miserable to be troubled,
asking for an extension of time, etc., then
paying the bill herself and lacking the cour-
age to present the receipt. No, "Warry"
would approach the subject in such an orig-
inal fashion and hand the bill to his patient
in such an offhand way that it would appeal
to him directly, and as a rule the money was
counted out with a quiet chuckle. Eddie
Wilkins wrote : "Mr. Whitman is stubborn
and self-willed. You can only get along

130 WALT WHITMAN

with him by letting him have his own way."
Warren would meet the stubbornness and
self-will with just as persistent good-nature,
and would usually gain his point. He was
the only person Walt Whitman never chloro-
formed with one of his "Ahs!"

Early in April, 1890, the poet was asked
to read his Lincoln lecture at the Art Club
rooms in Philadelphia, and he agreed. He
was just recovering from a bad spell, and
Mrs. Davis did her best to dissuade him
from such an undertaking, but without avail ;
he summoned up his resolution once more
and had his own way. With the assistance
of Warren and others, he dressed and pain-
fully dragged himself to the place of destina-
tion, and there, before a gay and crowded
assembly, he appeared for the last time in
public as a speaker. But the effort was too
great, and when the reading was ended
and the congratulations over, he was taken
home in a suffering and nearly unconscious
condition and carried to his bed, where, ex-
hausted and worn out, he was for some days
obliged to remain. However, on May 31
he was sufficiently recovered to attend a
birthday dinner at Reiser's in Philadelphia.
When the guests were assembled — some
fifty or sixty in number — Warren wheeled

IN MICKLE STREET 131

him into the room, where without leaving
his chair he joined in the convivialities of the
occasion. He did not fear to dissipate a
little at events like this, nor did he always
pause at the point of prudence, for he knew
that in whatsoever state he might reach
home the best of after-care awaited him
there.

During the spring and summer the chair
rides were resumed whenever he was at his
best, and he entered into the enjoyment
with zest and appreciation. When feeling
particularly well he would make up for lost
time, until the rolling chair with its dis-
tinguished occupant and handsome boyish-
looking propeller was often seen by the
hour as it passed through the streets of Cam-
den and adjacent suburbs. This chair stimu-
lated the interest of the neighbors and when-
ever it was carried to the sidewalk the news
spread quickly, so that by the time Mrs.
Davis appeared with Warren, helping the
old man down the stoop, they had a good-
sized and extremely attentive audience. No
doubt they had long since ceased to look
upon Mr. Whitman as a mysterious person-
age, but they comprehended that he was not
one of them, and everything new connected
with him still excited their curiosity.

132 WALT WHITMAN

Warren's advent at a season when he was
so needed was indeed a blessing to his
mother. Now she could count upon her time
and arrange for her work, could go out with
no anxiety as to home matters, and could
have the kitchen to herself when she wished.

The heat of this summer debilitated the
invalid more than that of the previous one,
or even of the famous (or dreadful) one
of 1887, devoted so exhaustingly to art.
For days the old man would now be too
overcome for any outing, and would be glad
instead to sit on the sidewalk, as of old, in
the shade of his cherished tree. He spent
some evenings with friends, and occasion-
ally went out to a Sunday dinner or to meet
certain people; but this became too strenu-
ous, and the after-effects too serious.

The chair rides, though so often inter-
rupted, were continued until late in the fall.

"Was out in wheel-chair yesterday, No-
vember 8, from twelve to two-thirty."

He made a few visits to the river, and
seated in his chair took his last boat rides
across it. In October he visited Philadel-
phia for the last time.

XIV

FRIENDS, MONEY, AND A MAU-
SOLEUM

"Christmas Day, 1890, ivas spent by Walt Whitman in
giving himself and all his family a Christmas present
for all eternity. He went out to Harleigh Cemetery, a
suburb of Camden, to select a site for a tomb."

— William Sloane Kennedy.

ON the evening of October 21, Colonel
Robert Ingersoll gave a lecture in
Horticulture Hall, Philadelphia, for the
benefit of Mr. Whitman. The subject was
"Liberty in Literature."

This form of assistance to the poet was
suggested to Colonel Ingersoll by Mr. John-
ston of New York, one of Walt's oldest and
most valued friends, who came to Camden
to talk the matter over and make the neces-
sary arrangements. Mr. Whitman took
unusual interest in the project and was de-
sirous of being present. Mr. Johnston, who
had great confidence in Mrs. Davis and
much regard for her opinion, consulted her
upon the subject. She said that recent cool
weather had done much for the old man,
133

134 WALT WHITMAN

and barring unlooked-for accidents, she be-
lieved that he could be counted upon. Mr.
Whitman himself, who was well aware that
his later appearances in public had proved a
great tax upon his strength, declared his in-
tention of husbanding the little that re-
mained for the event. This he did; the
evening arrived, the weather was favorable,
and all was well.

Every possible exertion had been spared
him, and he started off in high spirits. An
easy carriage had been secured, and he
reached the hall without fatigue ; even in
better condition than had been anticipated.
He was accompanied by a friend, and by
Warren and Mrs. Davis, for both Mr. John-
ston and Colonel Ingersoll had insisted upon
her being one of the party. On alighting
from the carriage and entering the hall,
Mrs. Davis was given a seat in the audience
not far from the stage, and Mr. Whitman
and Warren were taken behind the scenes,
where the lecturer and some gentlemen
awaited them. An armchair had been placed
for the poet by the speaker's stand. A few
moments before the lecture began, he came
upon the stage and seated himself. He was
greeted with enthusiasm by the overflowing
house, and when the eloquent speaker had

IN MICKLE STREET 135

closed his fine address, he arose, came for-
ward and spoke a few words. This was his
last appearance in public.

Colonel Ingersoll had engaged a room in
a nearby hotel, where at the close of the
lecture a small company were invited to
partake of a collation and pass an informal,
social hour. When all were seated at the
table, the Colonel handed Mr. Whitman
$870 as his share of the proceeds, and upon
doing so remarked to Mrs. Davis: "That
sum will keep you all in comfort this winter."
But like all other sums received by Mr.
Whitman, it was deposited unbroken in the
bank.

Mr. Whitman stood this exertion well,
but the reaction came later; the borrowed
strength gave out, and the winter found him
much the worse for wear. He came down-
stairs a number of times in October and
November, and had occasional outings, but
he passed the time chiefly in his own room,
and the big chair which Warren and his
mother had carried up and down stairs, to
the place where it was needed for the time
being, was never again taken below. He
sat up much less, however, and would lie
upon his back for hours, with his eyes par-

136 WALT WHITMAN

tially closed and his hands crossed upon his
breast.

Letters came with kind wishes and friend-
ly words; these he appreciated, though he
could seldom answer them. Yet he still
read and wrote a little, still looked over his
newspapers and periodicals, and the accumu-
lating litter therefore received its weekly
contributions; but at his mother's earnest
request Warren did not interfere. When
little things were carried upstairs, the old
man would often ask that they might be left.
If any article were taken up he would usu-
ally say, "Leave it a while longer; I may
want it by and by." This accounts for the
soiled dishes frequently seen in his room.

Old friends and new ones were constant,
and seemed to devise ways in which they
could shower attentions upon the sick man.
The oysterman in the next street sent word
that he was at all times welcome to a free
share of his stock in trade, and there was no
time when oysters were not kept unopened in
the cellar; but Mr. Whitman beyond doubt
overstepped the bounds of the donor's gen-
erous intentions when he treated his com-
pany so lavishly to stews and half-shells,
also when he ordered supplies for his young
men friends in return for services they ren-

IN MICKLE STREET 137

dered him. Mrs. Davis and Warren did not
approve of this, and each was ashamed to
visit the little place so many times; they
without money, and the oysters without
price.

Did Mr. Whitman, in truth, have an ac-
curate or an undeveloped knowledge of the
cost of living?

Eddie Wilkins writes: "Oh, he knows the
value of money, and is very careful with his
own."

His benevolence to the sick and wounded
soldiers during a great part of the civil
war is an old and often repeated story, but
in this he was to a great extent the almoner
of others. His self-sacrificing labors as a
volunteer visiting nurse were his own free-
will offering, and from them came his long
years of suffering, for his early paralysis was
the result of these exhaustive and unremitted
efforts.

"His devotion surpassed the devotion of
woman." {John Swinton, in a letter to the
New York Herald, April 1, 1876.)

Most of the time while he was living in
Washington he occupied a small room up
three flights of stairs. He had but little
furniture and no dishes ; he ate out of paper
bags and subsisted upon a very meagre sum

i3 8 WALT WHITMAN

of money. This sufficed for that period of
his life, when he was in "his splendid prime."
{John Swinton.) He had health, strength
and only himself to think of; and taking a
house of his own in after years — humble as
was the one in Mickle Street — did not seem
to mature in him any realizing sense of the
intrinsic value of money, or reveal to him
his own pecuniary obligations. He never
seemed to question what housekeeping in-
volved, never seemed to pause and think that
certain responsibilities rested upon him alone,
or feel that he might be wronging others,
especially those whose services he accepted
and whose embarrassments he never in-
quired into, never offered to relieve. But
Mrs. Davis, conservative, conscientious, and
true to him, did not disclose his domestic
failures or discuss them with others. His
financial standing was not revealed to his
English friends, and remained quite a secret
until the Christmas season of this year, when
he was given a site for a grave in Harleigh
Cemetery.

It is not unreasonable to believe that he
had special designs in putting money so
quietly aside, one of which — and the great-
est, perhaps — was to build a family vault.
It has been said that it was for this very

IN MICKLE STREET 139

purpose he accumulated money; hoarded,
accepted and saved in the most minute of
things. Thomas Bailey Aldrich often told
the delightful story of a certain $9.00 which
Whitman borrowed from him — magnifi-
cently, but also irrevocably — in Pfoff's res-
taurant on Broadway.

After he had accepted and secured the
site, he spoke freely of his wishes and in-
tentions regarding the tomb. He specified
that certain members of his family should be
placed in it, and requested in particular that
his parents should be brought from Long
Island to sleep with them there.

It was to be of granite, massive and com-
modious; and on a projection above the door
was to be a granite statue of himself, stand-
ing. His ideas were excessive, and the ex-
pense far beyond his means; still, he may
have thought that the proceeds accruing
from his book would warrant an extrava-
gance for death that he never vouchsafed to
life. The tomb was begun according to his
orders, but was finished on a much smaller
scale — as it now stands — and just in time
to lay him therein.

When it became known that preparations
had been made to erect this costly mau-
soleum, it dawned upon some of his friends

i4o WALT WHITMAN

that he had a way of keeping things to him-
self. It certainly did seem strange that some
of them should pay a monthly tax for his
support when he had means of his own, and
could contemplate such an expenditure as
this. In truth people were getting tired of
the constant drain upon their purses, and
many had long questioned why they should
so frequently be called upon, and wondered
what could become of the money that flowed
in large and small streams into the Whitman
exchequer. A few even suspected Mrs.
Davis of appropriating it, and of this — un-
known to her — she was accused. She was
also charged with wastefulness, neglect of
the invalid, and gross incompetence.

The poet still kept his affairs to himself,
and "it may be he thought that what he
received from his admirers was but a portion
of the debt they owed him." {William
Sloane Kennedy.)

January and February of this winter were
hard months to the sick man. He suffered
with severe headaches, lassitude and inertia,
added to which he had long and obstinate
spells of indigestion. He remarked to some
old friends that he suffered somewhat from
want of persons to cheer him up; most
visitors came to him to confess their own

IN MICKLE STREET 141

weakness and failures, and to disburden
themselves of their sorrows. It was just
the opposite disposition in his two constant
attendants that made their companionship so
agreeable to him. Warren's witty and play-
ful sallies always provoked a quiet smile,
and his mother's "inventive thoughtfulness"
was rewarded with an appreciative, approv-
ing look.

During March he made some gain, but it
was not until April 15 that he got out of
doors to enjoy the sunshine and invigorating
air. With his rides new courage came to
him, and in May he was able to be taken
to the cemetery to witness the progress
made on the tomb. But in the last ten
months of his life he was so worn by pain,
and had so aged, that his restful, reliable
home comforts were the dearest of all
earthly things to him.

THE LAST BIRTHDAY PARTY

"There was one more birthday dinner celebrated with
his friends in the Mickle Street house on May 31, 1891.
Whitman ivas seventy -two. That privacy, which is the
normal privilege of old age, ivas one of the kinds of
happiness which he didn't experience." — Bliss Perry.

"Munching a little bread dipped in champagne and
talking about Death. He had never been more pic-
turesque."— Bliss Perry.

ON May 31, when Mr. Whitman had
reached the age of seventy-two, his
last birthday (as it proved) was celebrated
by a dinner given in his own home. This
arrangement was adopted as the only means
of ensuring his presence, and the gathering
was the final social event in that little house.
The managing committee was composed
of young men, most of whom knew nothing
of the limited dimensions of the place, and
had not reflected upon the incongruity of
their undertaking; nor, until the plans were
all made, arrangements nearly completed
and the invitations issued, was Mrs. Davis
told what was to take place. When the
142

WALT WHITMAN 143

youngest of the three literary executors, who
had devised and was at the head of the
scheme, finally informed her, she said she
feared that such a thing as seating thirty-six
people in the parlors was impracticable; how-
ever, she would do her best in helping them
to carry out their wishes.

It was by good luck that the arrangements
were in the hands of inexperienced, enthusi-
astic and hopeful young people, for the diffi-
culties to be overcome would have discour-
aged older and more experienced folk at the
outset. It was better still for them that they
found a well-balanced mind, willing hands
and managing skill in their home agent, as
this alone saved them from ignoble failure.
First the parlor doors, double and single, to-
gether with the hall and kitchen doors, se-
cured with old-fashioned six-screw hinges,
were removed and carried into the yard; the
spare bed put up since Mr. Whitman's last
stroke was taken down, together with the
stove, and with the entire furniture likewise
removed. This was literally turning the par-
lors inside out.

Mrs. Davis, as usual, succeeded in making
a place for everything. Warren did most
of the hard work and lifting, while his
mother swept the rooms, cleaned the win-

i44 WALT WHITMAN

dows, put up fresh curtains and made the
place so presentable that the young men of
the committee, who took kindly to her en-
couraging words and wise suggestions, ac-
knowledged that they did not see how they
could have managed without her ready and
efficient cooperation. On the morning of
the birthday she was of equal service to the
waiters who, when the tables, chairs and
dishes arrived, discovered many drawbacks
in such an unlooked-for banquet hall.

The head table was placed across the
front parlor, in a line with the windows, the
other, the length of the back parlor, forming
a T with it; and these, with the small chairs,
so completely filled the rooms that only just
sufficient space was left for the waiters to
serve the guests through the two doorways.
Most of the viands came ready cooked, and
the caterer had done full justice to them;
the coffee was made on the kitchen stove,
which, with the little one in the shed, was
brought into requisition for heating pur-
poses. Mrs. Davis was usefulness itself in
getting things in readiness, advising with the
caterer and helping him out of quandaries.
When the dinner had been decided upon
she had been told that it should put her to no
extra work; and when she made the matter

IN MICKLE STREET 145

really possible she was told that she had
done her part, which should end there, as the
committee would attend to putting things
to rights afterwards.

Getting Mr. Whitman ready, and seeing
that he was in no way overtaxed, was of
much importance, and it was carefully looked
after. At the appointed hour, seven P. M.,
the guests assembled, and there being no
reception room, each took his or her as-
signed place at the table; then, when all
were seated, the venerable host was brought
down. He was met with congratulations,
and led to the head of the table. There
were twenty-seven men and five women pres-
ent, and not until the greetings were over did
he and his old friends observe that Mrs.
Davis had been left out. Room at the table
was not wanting, as three chairs were vacant
through the non-arrival of the expected oc-
cupants; besides, two of the ladies were
strangers to the poet. Mrs. Davis felt the
slight, although she could not very well have
formed one of the company in any event,
her presence being indispensable elsewhere.

It was a good dinner and well served, all
things considered. The day was insufferably
hot, and the windows and the front door
were left wide open. Many noticed and re-

146 WALT WHITMAN

marked that during the dinner no loungers
were about the front of the house, "no boys
looking in, yelling or throwing stones or
mud — no curiosity gazers. Respect for Mr.
Whitman possibly prevented this." (Thomas
Donaldson.) Respect for Mr. Whitman in
part, no doubt, but a greater respect for a
contract made beforehand; Mrs. Davis had
bought them off; something good for each
one of them for good conduct. She was
not so successful in securing the same consid-
erate behavior from Watch, her coach dog,
for to her great mortification, just as one
gentleman commenced to read "O Captain!
my Captain!" he came into the parlor door-
way, "put his nose up in the air and uttered
a series of the most ungodly howls ever
listened to." (Thomas Donaldson.) He
continued to howl until the reading ceased,
then abruptly left the room.

The dinner lasted until ten o'clock — three
hours. A stenographer took down the
toasts, responses, scraps of conversation, etc.
But while these were at their height, one
compliment, one little speech, was not re-
corded. Mr. Whitman looked around the
table as if seeking something, and on being
asked, "Is there anything you want, Walt?"
replied, "Yes, I want a piece of Mary's

IN MICKLE STREET 147

bread." It was brought to him. Mr. Whit-
man, no doubt, feeling that Mary had been
slighted, took this peculiar way of his own to
show his regard for her.

The next day the tables and chairs were
taken away, but the committee's promises of
assistance were probably forgotten, for re-
gardless of the poor days Mr. Whitman
passed in consequence of the dinner, and his
need of extra care, no help whatever was
proffered and Mrs. Davis and Warren were
left to right the house by degrees, working
as they could.

The summer following the invalid was
glad to pass quietly in his room. The heat
overcame him, for he had lost all his re-
sistant power, and truly needed the attention
and care that it was his good fortune to re-
ceive. Part of the time he was up and
dressed, but he seldom felt equal to more
than this. His outings were few in number,
the reading fell off, and the writing was
nearly discontinued. However, this did not
prevent the litter in his room from mysteri-
ously increasing in the same slow, sure,
steady ratio. As this did not bother him,
and he was inclined to be tranquil and sat-
isfied, no one disturbed him, or interfered
in any way with his idiosyncrasies.

148 WALT WHITMAN

His world had become contracted to still
smaller dimensions; the four walls of his
own room enclosed it. He had relinquished
his hold upon outside life with its bustle and
excitement, and more than ever wished to
be left alone, left to himself. He was his
own best company, apparently, for he often
evinced disapprobation on being roused from
one of his long reveries. At intervals he
would seem to be the old-time man, would
rouse up and talk, even jest, after which
would follow spells of depression or dreaded
indigestion. In the latter case, day would
succeed day when his only nourishment would
be a light cup-custard or a small glass of
iced buttermilk.

The fall did little for him, and there
was an unmistakable and steady decline un-
til December 17, when after a number of
miserable days he was seized with a chill, the
precursor of pneumonia. For a week his
life hung in the balance; friends and rela-
tives were summoned, and the best medical
advice was procured. Each hour the final
call seemed at hand; then came a pause,
and the issue was uncertain; next there was
a slight improvement.

The burden of all this fell mainly upon
Warren, who was only relieved temporarily

IN MICKLE STREET 149

day or night by his no less worn-out mother.
Believing that each day would be the last,
each had held up and gone on, until on the
28th the limit of endurance was reached,
and they asked for assistance. As the pa-
tient's symptoms were tending toward a pro-
tracted illness rather than a speedy death,
his friends saw that this was imperative, and
Dr. Bucke, who had recently arrived in Cam-
den, went to Philadelphia to engage a profes-
sional nurse.

XVI
THE NEW NURSE

"Well, I told you doctors 'when I was so very bad,
'let me go; let me die.' I felt you would not listen to a
ivord . . . you would not think of it for a moment, and
here I am.

"I chose to go. I may pull through it and have it all
to go through again; it looks more so to-day than for a
fortnight. You are all making a strong pull for me, I
can see that." — Walt Whitman.

THE requirements in the nurse were ma-
turity, experience in the care of sick
men, and the ability to take notes and keep a
careful record. Dr. Bucke engaged a suit-
able person, and talked freely and unre-
servedly to her about the patient, his physical
condition and his eccentric habits. He said
it was his firm belief that his life could not
last more than a few days longer, and that he
was confident that another such room as the
one he was in, littered and uncared for, did
not exist upon the face of the earth. He
further said that his poor old friend had
been in wretched health for some years past,
that he was in no way able to look out for
himself, and that he was in the hands and
150

WALT WHITMAN 151

at the mercy of a designing and unprincipled
woman, — the unrefined and ignorant widow
of a sailor, — who as a housekeeper was un-
reliable and dishonest, and who alone was
responsible for the condition in which the
sick room was to be found. He added that
it had been arranged that the nurse should
go out to all her meals at the expense of
the patient's friends; that she was to have
nothing whatever to do with the house-
keeper, and above all things she was not to
allow her to enter the sick man's room. To
put the matter to her concisely, she was,
during the entire engagement, long or short
as it might prove, to speak to but three
persons, these being the two literary execu-
tors living in Camden, Mr. Harned and Mr.
Traubel, and her own colleague, Warren
Fritzinger. He told her that the first things
he desired her to do were to get the sick
room into order, and to begin recording
the daily transactions; she must be careful
to note all Mr. Whitman's words as they
were uttered, and to write them down faith-
fully. Dr. Bucke spoke as one having full
authority, and the nurse had no reason for
disbelieving anything he had said. (And
ever after believed that Mrs. Davis had
been cruelly maligned (but by whom?) and

152 WALT WHITMAN

that Dr. Bucke, who lived at a distance and
saw little of his friend's home life, had
been deceived and misled.) He assured her
that money in abundance would be supplied
for all the sick man's needs, and that it was
the wish of his friends that he should have
every comfort possible until the end.

By a second appointment Dr. Bucke met
the nurse at the ferry, and they set out to-
gether for the dying poet's home, the Doc-
tor, while crossing the Delaware, repeating
and dwelling upon what he had previously
said.

The ring at the door was answered by a
pleasant, ladylike woman, between whom
and the Doctor there was a show of mutual
good feeling. The back parlor was given
to the nurse as her room, and when she had
laid her wraps aside Dr. Bucke led the way
upstairs. To the relief of all Mr. Whitman
had made no objections to a lady as nurse,
and when she entered his room he extended
his hand. A number of gentlemen were
present, among them his brother George and
the two literary executors, who had re-
mained to take leave of Dr. Bucke. An
artist who had just completed some etch-
ings of the poet had sent him six compli-
mentary copies, one of which he presented

IN MICKLE STREET 153

to his departing friend, at whose request
he was raised up to autograph it. This, it
was supposed, would be his last signature.

The prospect being that he would not
only survive the night, but would pass it in
comparative comfort, his friends and rela-
tives left, excepting only his niece, Miss
Jessie Whitman, the daughter of his brother
Jefferson.

Poor Warren was overjoyed at the idea
of going to bed, for in the last four days
and nights he had had no rest, and since
the chill, ten days before, had not found time
to change or remove his clothing. While
giving the nurse her instructions he confessed
that he was completely done up, that such
a siege as he had just passed through was
worse than a storm at sea ; nevertheless
he wished and expected to be called at any
moment if his services were required.

Mrs. Davis, totally unconscious of any
ill feeling toward her and disposed to show
every courtesy to the nurse, prepared a nice
supper to which she invited her to come.
What could the nurse do? No way had
been opened for her to go outside to her
meals — at least for the present — and no
one except Dr. Bucke had mentioned such a
thing; it was dark, she was in a strange

154 WALT WHITMAN

city and ravenously hungry. She could not
make up her mind to refuse and run off
at once to seek a restaurant, especially at
a time like this; could not risk leaving a
patient so dangerously ill, even for a min-
ute; nor could she desert the two weary
people who were looking to her for relaxa-
tion and relief. No; she would sooner fast
for the night. But fasting was not neces-
sary; so descending the stairs, passing
through the hall and running headlong into
the flour barrel, she entered the little cabin-
like kitchen.

Mrs. Davis was so worn out for sleep that
even while standing her eyelids would close.
She apologized, saying that she had been
awake so many hours she was not at all,
herself. The nurse begged her to lie down
at once, believing this weary, sad-looking
woman must be a relative of her patient's,
or a dear friend who had come there to
bridge over the present crisis. Dr. Bucke
had not mentioned the housekeeper's name,
and the kindly, hospitable person who had
been introduced as Mrs. Davis belied in
every way the description of the sailor's un-
refined widow. Besides, Warren called her
mother.

The sick man required but few attentions

IN MICKLE STREET 155

during the night, and was so painfully still
the nurse went to his bedside a number of
times to assure herself that he was breath-
ing. Warren came in twice to reconnoitre
and turn him over, and when morning peeped
into the window of the dull little anteroom
and he found that no new complications had
developed and that Mr. Whitman had not
suffered from the change, he was jubilant
over it.

After preparing breakfast, Mrs. Davis, as
was her custom, went upstairs to sit with
the patient while the others were below.
She entered his room, and he — who up to
this time had lain with downcast eyes,
speechless, almost immovable — looked up,
smiled, and exclaimed in a pleased voice,
"Ah, Mary!" There was no mistaking the
friendly relation between these two people,
and before noon the nurse learned that the
coarse housekeeper, the dreaded housekeep-
er, was no other than this pleasant, tired-out
woman, whose kindness she appreciated be-
cause she had at once made her feel so
much at home. What did the nurse think !

When Mr. Whitman was supposed to be
dying, Mrs. Davis had in a way managed to
meet the emergencies of the occasion; when
a rubber sheet was called for, and no one

156 WALT WHITMAN

offered to procure or order one, she gave her
own oilcloth table cover to supply the need.
When extra sheets were in demand and were
not forthcoming from any quarter, she
bought a piece of cloth, tore off the lengths,
and was obliged to use them unlaundered
and unhemmed, for even in this trying time
only one person, besides her personal friends,
had offered her the least assistance or in-
quired as to the straits to which she was
put. This single exception was Mr. Whit-
man's sister-in-law, who had left a sick bed
to come to Camden and do what she could.

When with the coming of the nurse, and
cessation from immediate anxiety, Mrs.
Davis found time to look around, she dis-
covered more than an abundance of work.
An enormous wash had accumulated, her
boiler had given out, and damp and cloudy
weather necessitated drying everything with-
in doors. Then as the eaves trough had
fallen down, and the kitchen ceiling leaked,
Warren's skill in carpentering was in instant
demand.

They found the nurse willing to assist in
any way, and the housekeeper was delighted
that she was plain spoken and matter-of-fact,
and knew almost nothing of her patient as
a writer; that she regarded him only as a

IN MICKLE STREET 157

sick and helpless old man, needing personal
care, and not the adulation with which he
was surfeited. Mr. Whitman himself took
kindly to her, for like Mrs. Davis she never
questioned him, and if she spoke at all, al-
ways touched upon the most simple, common-
place subjects.

On one occasion she ventured to say to
him : "I suppose you would be disgusted
with me if I told you that I had never
heard of Leaves of Grass until I came
here?" He laughed a little and replied: "I
guess there are plenty of people in the
world who can say the same. Leaves of
Grass was the aim of my life. In these days
and nights it is different: my mutton broth
— my brandy — to be turned promptly and
kept clean — are much more to me and ap-
peal to me more deeply."

Little by little, much was accomplished;
the sheets were hemmed, and the nurse with
part of the small and only sum of money
given to her soon had a new boiler on the
stove; then when the table cover, which had
become stiff, wrinkled and ruined, was re-
placed with a smooth rubber sheet, and a
rubber ring purchased, which gave the pa-
tient great relief, and a few trifling articles
secured, the money was exhausted. Mrs.

158 WALT WHITMAN

George Whitman added some things to the
supply, after which it fell to Mrs. Davis to
resort to her own means as of old, and one
by one the gold pieces — Warren's gift —
melted away.

In the course of a couple of weeks the
nurse learned that she was boarding at the
expense of the housekeeper, and finding that
no arrangements had been made to this effect
she wrote to Dr. Bucke, laying the matter
before him, as it had been agreed that she
should write to him semi-weekly and in full
confidence. In her next letter she told him
of her own belief in Mrs. Davis as a most
excellent woman; she enlarged upon her de-
votion to Mr. Whitman and his fondness for
her, and expressed her great astonishment
that a man of his experience could be so mis-
taken in anyone. In reply he wrote that he
was pleased to know that he had been misled.

Mrs. Davis was much distressed in re-
gard to the cleaning of the sick room. She
feared it would make Mr. Whitman un-
happy, and she felt that as his life was to
end in so short a time, further indulgence
might be granted him. But he was found
to be not at all disposed to make objections;
indeed, he was passive in the extreme, and
when the nurse in any doubt or difficulty

IN MICKLE STREET 159

would occasionally appeal to him, he had but
one reply: "Ask Mary."

To the surprise of everyone he lingered
on, improving instead of growing worse, and
by the end of the month had regained some-
thing of his former condition. He even
wrote a few short letters, autographed the
five remaining etchings, and a photograph
for the nurse.

When the ominous symptoms had disap-
peared and he was not only out of danger,
but quite comfortable, and Mrs. Davis had
got the most pressing work well in hand,
things assumed an almost unbroken routine.
Warren took the night work, as reporters
often came to the house at late hours and
he was accustomed to meeting them; even
friends would come thus unseasonably to
inquire for the poet and perhaps beg for ad-
mittance to his room.

Yet there were many nights during the
long sickness — lasting to March 26 — when
following a number of good days he would
sink into a state of collapse, and then both
nurses would remain up together.

As Warren did his home work in the fore-
noon, which was also his mother's busiest
time, the nurse prepared the patient's break-
fast and gave it to him; but seeing that he

160 WALT WHITMAN

really preferred Mary's presence to her
own, she often exchanged work with her, and
the only actual difference was that Walt had
three nurses instead of two.

Getting the sick room into order was a
tedious task. The nurse was directed to
leave every scrap of paper with writing
upon it in the room, to remove only the
newspapers, magazines, circulars, bound
books, wrapping papers and so on. Then
there were days when it was evident that
Mr. Whitman wished to be alone, other
days when he was very low and could not be
disturbed, still other days when he had long
visits from friends; and the work would
have to be postponed for the time being.

All the newspapers and magazines were
stacked upon the landing outside the ante-
room door; the books — usually dropped
anywhere, open — were placed upon the pine
shelves; the manuscripts were piled upon
one side of the sick room, and the old en-
velopes, wrapping paper and odds and ends
of string alone were thrown away.

Warren's desk came in nicely, and seated
at this the nurse wrote her record, going into
the details and minutiae of the case, as she
had been instructed. In this Warren took
his part, and as he knew most of the people

IN MICKLE STREET 161

who called, his information and night notes
were a valuable addition. A cot under the
shelves in the anteroom, which had served
as a bed for the nurses at night and a settee
by day, was taken out and a comfortable
lounge substituted, which had been hidden
from view under the debris in the other
room. This gave both rooms a better ap-
pearance, besides providing a more com-
fortable seat and sleeping place.

Mr. Whitman did not take medicine with
regularity; only when some acute pain or
persistent discomfort rendered it essential.
His temperature was never taken, his pulse
and respiration but seldom; and in no way
was he roused up, except for an unavoidable
cause, or perhaps to meet company. He
fully understood his own condition, and
pleaded for but one thing: rest.

When he had his poor days — when it
seemed that he could not again rally — he
saw no one, and in the last two months
he wished to see few beside his nurses, his
two doctors (Dr. Alex. McAlister of Cam-
den, and Dr. Longaker of Philadelphia),
and his faithful Mary. He said that others
tired him, and yet many saw him and held
conversations with him, even at this late
stage in his life. Colonel Ingersoll came

1 62 WALT WHITMAN

twice, and sent him a basket of champagne,
of which he took sparingly from time to
time.

It was not so lonesome for Warren when
there was someone associated with him in
his work, and the nurse listened with interest
to the stories he told of his early escapades,
and of his subsequent adventures in strange
countries and at sea. He could boast of
having saved two fellow creatures from
drowning, that is, if he were at all inclined
to boast, which he was not. After awhile
he confided the disappointments of his love
affair, saying he thought it hard that after
being engaged for over two and a half years,
he had not, since he had assumed the care
of Mr. Whitman, had the opportunity and
pleasure of inviting and escorting his fiancee
to an evening entertainment. The nurse
thought so too ; she sympathized with him ;
and his one untrammelled evening was when,
unknown to his mother, she slipped over to
Philadelphia, bought tickets and secured
seats that he might have the gratification of
taking "Coddie" to the theatre. This plot
was several days in maturing, and when the
secret was disclosed Mrs. Davis was terribly
exercised, fearing that something dreadful
might come up just at that particular time.

IN MICKLE STREET 163

She tried to dissuade Warren from going,
but it was two against one, and he went.
Nothing eventful occurred; Mr. Whitman
was at his best, and when he asked for
"Warry," and was told where he had gone,
he was perfectly satisfied.

But day by day the patient steadily de-
clined, and as one of his lungs was nearly
useless, it affected his breathing to such an
extent that his only relief was in change of
position — "shifting," as he called it when
he was being turned from one side to the
other. He could eat while lying down, but
could drink only when his head was raised
with the pillow to support it. Often when
Mrs. Davis went into the room to turn him,
or to take him some little home-made deli-
cacy, she came out in tears. What was said
when the two were alone — if they spoke at
all — was never repeated, never reported.

Mr. Whitman did not know that the
nurse kept an account of his words, or wrote
anything whatever regarding him; for of all
things he disliked, the worst was to feel that
there was someone at hand or just out of
sight with pencil and paper in readiness for
instant use.

One day Warren told him that his brother
Harry's Christmas present was a little boy

1 64 WALT WHITMAN

that he had named for him : Walt Whitman
Fritzinger. This pleased the sick man, and
he expressed a wish to see his little name-
sake. The child was kept in readiness for a
week; then early one evening, when Mr.
Whitman was feeling better than usual, he
was sent for. His nurse brought him over,
carried him into the sick room and laid him
in the arms of the old man, who kissed the
little fellow, held him a few minutes and re-
peated a number of times: "Well, well,
Little Walt Whitman, Little Walt Whit-
man." There were present the child's
mother and nurse, Mrs. Davis, Warren,
and Mrs. Keller, Mr. Whitman's nurse. He
never saw the child again, but often inquired
after him, and added a codicil to his will
bequeathing him two hundred dollars. (My
name is on the codicil as witness to the
signature. — E. L. K.)

The invalid had never bought himself a
new mattress, and the one given him by
Mrs. Davis seven years before — too wide
for the bedstead and extending several inches
beyond it at the back — had from long
and constant usage become hollow in the
centre, making it difficult to turn him from
one side to the other, for he would often
slip back into the hollow place. Warren

IN MICKLE STREET 165

once said: "When I come on this side of
the bed you slip away from me." "Ah,
Warry," he replied, "one of these fine morn-
ings I shall slip. away from you forever."

One evening a member of the editorial
staff of the New York Evening Telegram
visited him. Mr. Whitman knew that he
was coming, and had made up a little roll of
his writings to give him. (Mr. Traubel
always made these engagements, met the
parties and accompanied them to the house.)
Upon leaving, the gentleman said that the
paper had raised a fund wherewith to pur-
chase flowers for the poet's room. After-
wards learning that the defective lung made
the fragrance of flowers stifling to him, the
paper requested that the money be applied in
some other way. Mrs. Davis suggested a
longer bed and a firm, level mattress. This
was agreed to, the money came duly to
hand, and the two nurses went together to
select the bed. The one decided upon was
a single one, made of oak and standing at
least three inches higher than the old one ;
the mattress was of sea-grass. When the
useful gift, which was a surprise to Mr.
Whitman, arrived and was being set up —
February 22, 1892 — Walt was seated for
the last time in his big chair.

1 66 WALT WHITMAN

Warren said it would be a pity to have
this bedstead battered up as the old one had
been — for the old man still kept his cane
within reach and often pounded upon the
footboard; so he rigged up a bell in the
anteroom, and carried the wire over the
door and into the sick room, where a drop
string came down to the bed. Mr. Whitman
found this an easier way of summoning
aid; it was the "quaint bell" mentioned by
two or three writers.

When the patient was settled on the new
bed, he looked at Mrs. Davis and said:
"You can have the old one, Mary."

The Evening Telegram gift was a great
acquisition, and it is to be regretted, for
the sake both of the invalid and those who
waited upon him, that it did not come in
some way years before.

XVII
"SHIFT, WARRY"

"Come, lovely and soothing death,
Undulate round the ■world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later, delicate death."

— Walt Whitman.

"She was his loyal friend and nurse. She stood by him
in life, and closed his eyes in death."

— Thomas Donaldson.

IN January, when Mr. Whitman first ral-
lied, wrote the few short letters and
autographed the pictures, his friends were
much encouraged; but subsequent sinking
spells destroyed their hopes, and his extreme-
ly low condition led them to believe that he
would wield his pen no more. In his poor
days scarcely a word was spoken in the
house, and his three nurses worked silently,
almost mechanically, about him. Then with
another temporary reaction, hopes were
again renewed and a change in everything
was manifest; even the dull little anteroom
seemed brighter.

On February 5, he had so far regained his
strength as to request writing materials.
167

1 68 WALT WHITMAN

His old way of writing in bed was to be
firmly propped up, with a pillow before him
on which to rest a light smooth-covered
book. Now he was too weak to hold the
book, and although well supported at the
back he found it an almost insurmountable
task to indite even a few words. Mrs.
Davis believed he could do much better were
something devised on which the paper before
him could rest firmly. She was equal to the
occasion, for going to a young artist and
teacher of painting (a young lady named
Miss Button) next door she procured a
drawing board, to which she had legs at-
tached,— two short stationary ones in front,
and two longer at the back, fastened with
hinges — thus making it adjustable to almost
any angle. The invention worked well, and
the next day, when he again requested pen
and ink, it was placed before him. He was
surprised and pleased, and all he could say
was, "Just the thing; just the thing"; then
looking at the nurse he added: "That's
Mary; that's Mary; just the right thing at
the right time." Not Mary the efficient
housekeeper or capable manager, but just
the right woman in the right place.

It was on this board that Walt Whit-
man's last words were inscribed.

IN MICKLE STREET 169

His book, which had been completed, was
out of the press, and a few copies had been
hurried through that he might see the work
as it would go out into the world. Mr. D.
McKay, his publisher, brought them over
one evening, and the dying poet expressed to
him the great satisfaction he felt at the
manner in which the edition had been pro-
duced. He asked to have fifty copies bound
at once in Manila paper covers, that he
might give or send them to certain friends.
This was done; he designated the people who
were to receive them, and Mr. Traubel at-
tended to the inscriptions. The last thing
Walt wrote for printing was a notice in re-
gard to this edition. His writing board was
of the greatest service to him in accomplish-
ing this task; without it, not only this notice,
but his last written words to his friends at
large, his farewell Greeting or Salutation,
would never have been written.

When he had completed the notice, mak-
ing numerous alterations until he seemed sat-
isfied, he called for Mrs. Davis, who on com-
ing Into the room held a secret "confab"
with him, after which she got ready and left
the house. The following afternoon she
again left the house and on her return
handed Walt a printed proof. In this, a§ of

170 WALT WHITMAN

old, he made some corrections, and it was
again taken out and again called for. These
were Mary's last visits to the "quaint little
printing office," and the "old fellow acquaint-
ance's" last acts of kindness to his dying
patron.

In the two days intervening between the
writing of this notice and its ultimate ap-
proval, Walt wrote his last words to all — the
final Greeting just mentioned to his friends at
large. He wrote it himself on post office
paper, and when he had covered one piece,
he called for mucilage with which to add a
second. He had measured the little printed
slip, and had left a space for it. He worked
intently until the task was completed. His
tendency to recline backward made it diffi-
cult for him to use the pen properly, there-
fore Mrs. Davis or the nurse usually sat
behind him, and by leaning forward and
holding him in her arms supported him in a
more comfortable and convenient position.
While one assisted him in this way, the other
held the inkstand near him, as he could no
longer reach it from its accustomed place,
the chair beside his bed.

When the Greeting was finished, the
printed notice was pasted in its place. The
original writing was sent to Mr. Bolton of

IN MICKLE STREET 171

England, with the request that he would
have it facsimiled and distributed amongst
all Walt's friends. Here is the letter Horace
Traubel wrote conveying the poet's wishes.

Camden, N. J., February 8th, 1892

"W. asked me this ev'g to give you this
counsel. — 'If entirely convenient, facsimile
the letter of February 6th, and send it copi-
ously to European and American friends
and friends anywhere,' — letting us have
copies here as well. It was a great struggle
to get this letter written and he wishes it to
go out as his general salutation of friends to
whom his strength will not permit him spe-
cially to write. It was framed with that end
in view."

The request was promptly complied with
and an exact reproduction was made, even
to the use of two pieces of paper pasted to-
gether, as in the original. The desired cop-
ies arrived before Walt's death, and he gave
or sent them to his friends, as he had done
with the author's copies of his book. He
evinced much interest in doing this, and
kindly presented his nurses with both a fac-
simile and a book.

172 WALT WHITMAN

As may be supposed, everyone was on the
alert to secure his last signature, and the
nurse, who had the advantage of being on
the spot when he was able to write, had this
honor. Selecting one of the numerous pho-
tographs with which his room abounded—
she subsequently learned that this was his
own favorite {"Mr. Whitman was not vain
as to pictures of himself. He seemed to
like best the photograph showing him sitting
in a chair with a butterfly in his hand." —
Thomas Donaldson) — she kept it near his
bed, and when the watched-for opportunity
came, one morning after he had signed some
papers and had written a kindly word to his
sister (Mrs. Heyde of Burlington, Vt. ),
while she sat behind him as a support, she
reached for it, telling him that she would
like to own it, and hoped if he were not too
fatigued he would autograph it for her. He
willingly complied, saying: "Yes, for you;
but I would do it for no one else." (I gave
this picture, with feelings of gratitude for
kindness shown me, to Dr. Lucien Howe,
of Buffalo, New York.— E. L. K.) The
signature was written with a blue pencil, as
he had now discarded ink. Only once again
did he sign his name in full, and this was in
a business document. He used simply his

IN MICKLE STREET 173

initials in his last effort to write to his
sister.

Unhappily, a change of care was in pros-
pect, for Mrs. Keller was to leave him the
second week in March, in consequence of an
engagement previously made. She had men-
tioned this to Dr. Bucke, who had assured
her that it could not possibly conflict with
his friend's case. But when the sick man
lingered until late in February, it was seen
that some steps must be taken. And yet his
span of life was so uncertain, that even at
this late day it was deemed wiser not to
mention the subject to him until it could no
longer be postponed. The matter was talked
over between his executors, his sister-in-law
and the doctors, and all agreed that under
the circumstances a stranger in the house
would not be desirable. Mrs. Davis in par-
ticular dreaded it, and had made provision
against it. The friend who had before kept
house for her, while she made her trip to
Southern California, was to come again to
do the housework, so that her own undivided
time and attention might be given to the
dying man.

The nurse left on March 8. From this
time on Mr. Whitman grew more and more
uneasy in bed, and as he could now lie upon

174 WALT WHITMAN

his left side but a few moments at a time,
he required almost constant turning; and for
eighteen days and nights his two faithful
attendants did this. A water bed was bought
for him; he only had the comfort of it for
a single night.

"March 25, 1.15 a. m.; 1892. — We put
him on the water bed at twelve o'clock. I
have turned him twice since, and I can as-
sure you from present indications if it does
the old man no good, it will us. He turns
just as easy again; can turn him with one
hand, and then it does away with the ring.
He was turned sixty-three times in the last
twenty- four hours; how is that for business?
Kind of beats when you were here. . . .
Mama has one of her old headaches, has
had it since yesterday, but hopes to be clear
of it by morning. . . . We had a run of
visitors to-day, and the old gent had four
letters in the morning mail, of which three
were applications for autographs." (Ex-
tracts from JVarren's letter to Mrs. Keller.)

His last days were a repetition of the
preceding ones; a flaring up of the torch, and
a dying down; a fainter flare, and a gentle
going out.

On the evening of March 26 a little card
was printed and widely circulated.

IN MICKLE STREET 175

tfamden, Jf.y., jUaick 2b, '(J 2.

fW hitman began, 'kinking, at J(..SO & JH.
Jftfe. cantinued ta giaui uiatke, and died at b.Jf.3
<P. Jit. JDhe end came fieaceflu.il u.. Jife uia&
cankcious until the lakt.

JDheie uieie frtekent at the kedkide uihen
he died — . Jlltk. (Hatiis, fWaiien ^dtginQei,
3hau. =§L JCatned, J&iace J£. 3iauhle and
mifkelf.

JLlevc. JUjLUtiel, JL. <3).

This young physician saw much of Mr.
Whitman during the last three months of
his life, and his faithful services were given
without price.

The evening previous to his death Mr.
Whitman requested to see Mr. Donaldson,
the trusted friend who had done so much
to make his home life a success. He came
at once, and they had a long last interview.
Mrs. Davis promised to notify him if the
patient grew worse, and the next day at three
p. M. she wrote for him to come, saying
that Mr. Whitman was surely "slipping
away" from them. He died before his
friend reached the house. His last words
were addressed to his faithful "sailor boy" :
"Shift, Warry." It was the time for the
final turn, from life into death. Mrs. Davis
closed his eyes.

XVIII
WINDING UP

". . . the grand old man whose kindly face ive never
shall forget." — Dr. Alex. McAlister {In a letter to Mrs.
Keller) .

"These promises are fair, the parties sure."

— Shakespeare (/ King Henry IV).

ON the morrow the little parlors were
again cleared — this time to make room
for a coffin — and Walt Whitman, at last
free from pain, was brought downstairs. An
artist was in waiting to take a cast of his
face, and later a post-mortem was held.
Mrs. Davis thought the latter something
dreadful, believing as she did that it was
either prompted by curiosity or was done
simply for the sake of a newspaper article.
When all preliminaries were over, the poet,
clothed in his accustomed style, was laid in
his coffin. This, of heavy oak, was placed in
the centre of one room, and all through
the afternoon friends and acquaintances
came to see him. The following day the
public was admitted, and thousands thronged
176

WALT WHITMAN 177

in to look at the familiar form and face :
that placid face, telling that the long sought-
for rest was at last attained. People en-
tered through one parlor door, then passing
around the coffin left by the other.

During the morning Mrs. Davis made a
hurried run to Philadelphia to procure some
needful things for the funeral, and on her
return was surprised and horrified to find
that during her absence a load of empty-
barrels had arrived, and that into these the
literary executors — Dr. Bucke having arrived
the night before — were hastily packing
all the movable contents of the two upper
rooms. This, to her, heartless expediency
was more than she could bear, and going
upstairs she asked why Mr. Whitman's
things might not remain undisturbed until
after he was buried. Dr. Bucke told her
curtly that his own time was limited, and
it was not convenient for him. Overcome
with grief, she sought her own room. She
knew that Mr. Whitman's literary effects
belonged legally to his executors, but she
felt that his home was sacred to him while
he remained in it. The barrels containing
his writings and some articles coming under
the head of personal property, such as books,
pictures, his knapsack, the inkstand Mrs.

178 WALT WHITMAN

Davis had bought for him while on her
journey, and by him returned to her, etc.,
were taken from the house while he, the
owner, lay there sleeping in his coffin.

Of Walt Whitman's funeral much has
been said and written. It was arranged
and conducted by friends, and was attended
by many celebrated people. Warren was sick
and worn out, but kept up bravely and was
at everybody's bid and "on deck" through-
out all; then he was obliged to yield to a
heavy cold and utter exhaustion. Mrs. Davis
was little better off, but was able to be
around.

It has been said that in Mr. Whitman's
will he provided generously for his house-
keeper. He left her one thousand dollars;
not one-fourth of the sum she had expended
for him, without taking into consideration
her seven years of unpaid service — and such
service ! The only additional bequest to her
was the free rentage of the house for the
term of one year.

In a few months Mrs. Louise Whitman
followed her brother-in-law, and the will
went into other hands. Still a few months
later Edward Whitman died in the asylum
and was buried from the undertaker's, with
no services whatever. But three people fol-

IN MICKLE STREET 179

lowed him to the grave : his brother George,
Mrs. Davis, and Warren Fritzinger.

When the professional nurse left Camden,
Mrs. Whitman, to simplify matters, settled
with her from her own private bank account.
This she did in anticipation of the winding-
up of the estate at the expiration of one year
after the death of her brother-in-law. She
had talked with Mrs. Davis on this subject
and had instructed her to put in her claim
at the proper time. The year expired, but
Mrs. Davis on presenting the claim was told
that it was thought that in all ways full jus-
tice had been done her, and that no demands
whatever of hers would be recognized;
furthermore, that it was the wish of the
executors that she should vacate the premises
at once.

This was an unexpected blow, and al-
though her regard for Dr. Bucke personally
was lessened, her confidence in his integrity
remained unshaken, and she immediately
wrote to him. Unmindful of his promises
that all should be well for her, and that
he would be personally responsible, he coolly
refused to take any part in the matter, say-
ing that it was something which did not in
the least concern him; she must settle it
with those at hand. She saw no way of re-

180 WALT WHITMAN

dress, and was given barely time in which
to find another house. What an exit !

Watch, the dog, showed more resistance,
and was determined to remain in his old
quarters. He absolutely refused to leave,
and as a last resort was carried away in a
securely locked cab.

Warren was no better dealt with than his
mother. Sadly changed from the once ro-
bust sailor boy, he tramped the streets of
Camden and Philadelphia in search of work.
Any work this time; any work but nursing!
He applied to those who had been Mr.
Whitman's most active friends when any-
thing of note was going on, but no encour-
agement was given him; some went so far
as to tell him that his services to his late
patient had about incapacitated him for
many kinds of employment. He solicited
and applied, but no helping hand was held
out to him. He took soap orders, then ac-
cepted the only thing that presented itself,
the position of night watchman in a Camden
bank. After awhile a tea merchant — one of
the most kind-hearted of men and a friend
of both his mother and Mr. Whitman —
offered him a clerkship in his store. He
would have preferred outside work, but had
no choice and gladly accepted. In a year he

IN MICKLE STREET 181

married, and notwithstanding disappoint-
ments and discouragements, was the same
bright cheerful Warry to the end of his
short life. He died after a few days' sick-
ness in October, 1899, aged thirty-three
years.

XIX

THE TRIAL

" 'Tis called ungrateful
With dull unwillingness to repay a debt."

— Shakespeare {Richard III).

"Proceed in justice, which shall have due course."

— {The Winter's Tale).

BUT to go back. Mrs. Davis's friends,
many of Mr. Whitman's, and a
number of outsiders were disgusted and in-
dignant at the treatment she had received and
united in urging her to sue the estate and take
her case into court. She was loath to do this,
and hesitated for a long while; but in 1894
the unsolicited offer of an eminent judge to
represent her without a fee (he said she was
the worst used woman he had ever met)
and the continued persuasions of her friends
roused her at last to stand up for herself,
and for once to take her own part. The
loss of her money did not trouble her so
much as the thought of what might be (and
had been) said against her. She was con-
fident that had Mrs. Whitman lived all
182

WALT WHITMAN 183

would have been different. But Mrs. Whit-
man had not lived, and she had to face a
problem that perplexed and saddened her,
darkening her view of human nature, and
throwing a shadow over the past and the
future. The whole thing seemed so impos-
sible, so hopelessly unfair.

The trial came off in the county court
house, Camden, in April, 1894. Mrs. Davis's
witnesses came voluntarily to her aid — the
tea merchant only, and at his own request,
being subpoenaed. There was the former
orphan girl, now a wife and mother, who
told the story of the poet's coming to the
widow's door; of her many kind offices to
him, and his appreciation; of his repeated
promises to repay her if she would come to
live with him, and his urgent appeals to her
to do so. She gave the particulars of the
transfer into the Mickle Street house, and
much that followed after; the purchases
Mrs. Davis had made, and the expense she
had been put to. The first professional
nurse, Mr. Musgrove, came forward that
he might speak his good word for the late
housekeeper, and the second and last trained
nurse (Mrs. Keller) was glad to testify in
public to the plaintiff's devotion to her dis-
tinguished patient, and his great regard

1 84 WALT WHITMAN

for her. Warren told the plain and con-
vincing story of Mr. Whitman's intentions,
as expressed to himself, of repaying his
mother for the money she had spent. When
asked how he knew that she had spent her
own money, he answered that he had recog-
nized at least the new gold pieces he had
given her — the double eagles — which had
gone one by one during the last two years.
Then when the defendant's lawyer asked,
in a very insinuating manner, what had be-
come of the champagne left in the cellar at
the time of Mr. Whitman's death, the young
artist who lived next door told how some
boys had made their way into the cellar one
day, had drunk the wine and become hope-
lessly intoxicated.

The friend who had kept house on the
two special occasions, and who had been a
constant visitor there for seven years ; neigh-
bors who had seen Mrs. Davis helping the
old man in and out of his carriage and roll-
ing chair, and carefully covering and pro-
tecting him while he was sitting out of doors;
and others who knew of her unremitting at-
tentions, all spoke for her, while quite a
number of citizens told her that her case
was so strong they would not volunteer as

IN MICKLE STREET 185

witnesses, but were with her heart and soul.
Among these was the young doctor.

On the opposite side were the two literary
executors, George Whitman, and a few
others. The oyster man was there to tell of
the quantity of oysters he had taken or
sent to the house — more than one man, a
sick man at that, could possibly consume;
the object was to accuse Mrs. Davis by
suggestion of getting them for herself in a
dishonorable manner; but when on the stand
the man could not speak, and after the trial
went to her and begged her pardon.

Much interest was manifested in the case,
which lasted two days; the court room was
crowded at each session, and it was not
difficult to tell on which side lay the sym-
pathy. Her opponents could bring no charge
against her; they could only try to slur her
and belittle what she had done.

The testimony taken, Mrs. Davis's coun-
sel called his client forward, placed a chair
for her in the sight of all, and then in touch-
ing, eloquent words summed up the case,
saying that many among those present had
seen Walt Whitman going about the streets
of Camden, alone, cold and neglected, that
it was a well-remembered sight, just as it
was a well-known fact that this good

1 86 WALT WHITMAN

woman's heart and home alone had been
opened to him.

As was expected, Mrs. Davis won her
case ; she received a fair sum of money, and
the congratulations, spoken or written, of all
who knew her sterling worth and the true
story of her years of service.

CONCLUSION

"Which makes her story true, even to the point of her
death."— Shakespeare {All's Well That Ends Well).

"A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion."

— {Richard III).

IF, profiting from past experience, Mrs.
Davis had learned to realize that into
all lives there comes a time when self has
the right of consideration, she could have
avoided further complications. But the
early precepts were too deeply implanted,
and before she had left the Mickle Street
house a selfish uninteresting woman had in
some insidious way fastened upon her. This
burden she carried to the end.

Nor were money troubles wanting, grave
and crippling, and due of course to the same
fatal habit of helping others at her own ex-
pense. One day there came to her in great
agitation an admirer of her late friend and
patient, saying that he was threatened with
187

1 88 WALT WHITMAN

financial ruin, even defamation of character,
unless a certain sum of money was at once
forthcoming; simply a loan for a few
months; it would be faithfully repaid. Mrs.
Davis had long contemplated purchasing a
small home; she had the means of doing so,
and this money was at once offered and
accepted, but never returned. Warren's
death followed, and her one strong prop was
gone.

Mrs. Davis was not much of a corre-
spondent; but notwithstanding this, she and
the nurse, Mrs. Keller, occasionally ex-
changed letters, and the most friendly rela-
tions existed between them. After there had
been a longer silence than usual, Mrs. Keller
wrote to Dr. McAlister, asking him if their
friend still lived in Berkley Street (the house
she went to from Mickle Street, and the
only one she lived in after that), and if so,
requesting him to call and learn why she did
not write. He did so, and replied that he
had found Mrs. Davis about as usual, that
she had sent much love and the promise of
writing soon. Another long interval of
silence followed, and finally came this letter
— the last communication that passed be-
tween them.

IN MICKLE STREET 189

"434 Berkley Street, Camden, N. J.
October 16, 1908.
"Dear Mrs. Keller,

I am just in receipt of your letter. Yes,
Dr. McAlister did call last spring and I told
him I would write you in a few days, which
I fully intended to do, but it so turned out
that I went to France with a friend, where
I spent the summer; I have been home about
three weeks. My going away was entirely
unexpected, and I had but a few hours to
get in readiness; left everything at loose
ends, and one vexatious oversight was I
forgot my address book. I thought about
you many times, and would have written to
you from over there had I had your ad-
dress. I was delighted to hear from you —
will write to you in a few days. I am
wrestling with a bad cold. Hope you are
well.

"Lovingly,

"M. O. Davis."

Mrs. Davis had always wished to see
Niagara Falls, and Mrs. Keller, whose home
was near that city, hoped that the long
looked-for and talked-of visit was at last
near at hand; would take place in the fol-

ipo WALT WHITMAN

lowing summer. Instead, at the expiration
of a month she received a black-edged en-
velope, the contents reading:

"Yourself and family are respectfully in-
vited to attend the funeral of Mary O.
Davis on Monday, November 23, at 3 P. M.;
from the son's residence — H. M. Fritzinger,
810 State Street, Camden, N. J. Interment
at Evergreen Cemetery."

On November 20, 1908, the following
notice appeared in several papers.

WHITMAN'S LAST NUFtSE DEAD',

Woman Who Cared for Poet Sue

cumbs Too.

Mrs. Mary L. Davis,' who nursed i
Walt Whitman, .the ".Good Gray Poet," 1
during his last illness, and was with 1
him at his death,, at No. 328 Miclde
street, Camden, died' Jaat night in Coop-
er Hospital of intestinal troubles. She
wa« the widow of Levin J, Davis..
. After fhe- death of Whitman Mrs*.
Da vis resided for a short time at No;
432 Clinton street, Camden, and then
Hhc- went tin Jits' with a wealthy; family,
in. New "STork city.- . About a year, ago
*'h& developed, -intestinal .troubles.;.', tF.be,'
family she was living with took her.*
"tO;Pari|g for ..treatment by eminent spvv'
eihlists. . She returned a month. Jigo
and wept to Camden, to visit Heni'y M*.
Frftainger, of No. 810 States street.
There -"'Mis. Davis was taken ftt with
the affliction from which she. snffered
so much, and wad removed to.X'ooper
Hospital.

The nurse who had cared for him in his
last illness ! — not his "faithful housekeeper,

IN MICKLE STREET 191

nurse and friend." But the brief report, it
will be seen, had more than one error.

Perhaps the best way of giving a clear
picture of the concluding stages will be to
quote a letter from her son — as he was al-
ways called; Warren's brother Harry. It
is a very human document.

"Dear Friend,

I am convinced that you think this letter
should have been written long before, but
on account of how things have gone I can
assure you that I was taxed to the utmost.
Mother died on the 18th of November;
buried on the 23rd. You would be sur-
prised how people who were her friends
through money have changed. . . .

"When Mother moved from Mickle
Street to 434 Berkley Street she lived there
until she died, although I tried for years to
get her to come and live with me, as she
would have been company for my wife when
I was away. She had a party living with

her by the name of Mrs. H , a big lazy

impostor. She waited on her, carried coal
and water upstairs, ashes and slops down-
stairs, until she worked herself into the con-
dition which she died from.

"About eighteen months or two years

192 WALT WHITMAN

ago, there was a family by the name of Mr.
and Mrs. Mailloux, and Dr. Bell of New
York, admirers of Walt Whitman, who came
on and got acquainted with Mother. They
took a great liking to her and offered her a
home with them, but she still stayed on in
Berkley Street. Mother paid them several
visits, and at last was persuaded to accom-
pany Mrs. Mailloux to Paris on their regu-
lar trip, as a companion. She left America
feeling as well as ever. My wife and I saw
her aboard the train at Broad Street, and she
was met in Jersey City by her friends.

"While she was in Paris, this woman who
was living with her started the devil going,
when I was compelled to go down and take
charge of the house. It warmed up until
I was compelled to write to Mother and ask
her to send me authority to protect her in-
terests. This spoiled her visit; she returned
to America before the rest of the party.
When she arrived she came directly to my
house; was suffering with a severe cold. She
was with us about six weeks. In the mean-
time my wife had her fixed up in fairly good
shape. She told me that she was going to
break up and come to live with us, but could
not do it in a day or two.

"After she was home about a week she

IN MICKLE STREET 193

was sick. She fooled along until I became
dissatisfied and sent my doctor down to her.
He attended her two days, and ordered her
to the hospital, as an operation was the only
thing to save her. After she was opened
they found the bowels separated, also a
cancerous tumor. She lived five days after
the operation.

"All this trouble was not felt until two
weeks before she died. Where the report
came from about her ill health and going to
Paris for aid I do not know, but you always
find newspaper reports wrong.

"Well, there is one thing that I feel
thankful for: that she died before I did. If
such had not been the case, she would have
been buried in a pauper's grave, or gone to
the dissecting table.

"Mother has been a friend to many; they
have handled what money she had, amount-
ing to hundreds of dollars. When she died
all debts were cancelled as far as they were
concerned, and not one would say: 'Here is
five cents towards putting a good and faith-
ful servant away.' But Mother was laid
away as fine as anybody. ..."

Little more need be said. Mrs. Davis
was comparatively a young woman at the

194 WALT WHITMAN

time of Walt Whitman's death, — being then
in her fifty-fifth year, — and in the sixteen
years that followed, his friends passed away
one by one, and she almost passed out of the
memory of his life, as though she had never
taken part in it. But the part she did take
deserves remembrance.

Harry Fritzinger's letter speaks for it-
self, and I have tried, poorly as I may have
done so, to speak for one whom I valued
and value as a good woman and a loving
friend.

WALT WHITMAN'S MONUMENTS

A LETTER WRITTEN IN CAMDEN ON THE

TWENTY-SEVENTH ANNIVERSARY

OF HIS DEATH

By GUIDO BRUNO

Dear Walt Whitman:

To-day is the 27th anniversary of your
death. I came here to worship at your
shrine. I am a European, you must know,
and reverence of our great writers and ar-
tists is bred in us, is part of our early train-
ing. We love to visit the houses where
genius lived, to see with our own eyes the
places our great men loved. Camden hasn't
changed much since you left. The people
among whom you lived are to-day the same
as they were then: petty, mean, vain, unfor-
giving. Your friends are few just as in the
olden days. Let me tell you about it.

It never entered my mind to make sure
of the street number of your old residence.
"Any child on the street will direct me,"
I thought, "to Whitman's house." Getting
off the ferry, the same ferry on which you
195

196 WALT WHITMAN

loved to ride back and forth, in spring and
autumn, I asked a policeman how to get to
your house. "The Whitman House?" he re-
peated; "it's somewhere out of the way, I'm
sure. You had better stop in the Ridgely
House. That's the best place in town." He
knew nothing of you and thought I was
looking for a hotel. A druggist at the near-
by corner knew about you. "William Kettler
used to be a great friend of his," he told me.
"He'll tell you all about him." And he gave
me Mr. Kettler's address. Mr. Kettler still
lives on North Street, and has become chief
city librarian lately. He's very deaf, but
extremely kind and friendly. He was in the
midst of moving. Mrs. Kettler is ill, you
must know, and they will live on the shore
for the rest of the season.

"This Whitman cult makes me sick," he
commenced. "Who was Whitman anyway?
A poet? I dare say that there are hundreds
of magazine writers to-day as there were
during his lifetime, who write just as good
verse as he did. And his prose is abomin-
able. His writings are not fit to be read in
a respectable home. They corrupt the mind
and are dangerous to the morals. We knew
him well, we saw him daily and his dis-
graceful way of living was open town talk.

IN MICKLE STREET 197

"I was a newspaper man and associated
with the old Camden Post at the time of
Bonsall, when Whitman used to come to see
us almost daily. Bonsall used to be a friend
of his and did him a great many good turns.
But Whitman was an ingrate.

"Shall I tell you what we respectable citi-
zens of Camden think of him? I don't mean
the young generation, but the people who
actually knew him. It doesn't sound nice to
speak badly about dead people. But we
knew him as an incorrigible beggar who
lived very immorally ... an old loafer.

"Why, only a few months ago, one of the
most prominent citizens of our town, John
J. Russ, the great real estate dealer, objected
to Whitman's name on the Honor Tablet of
our new library. Judge Howard Carrot of
Merchantville could tell you how that old
scoundrel got people into trouble, and if
the case had come into court, the scandal
would have been so great, that the Judge
decided to dispose of it privately.

"I remember, several years after the Civil
War, Whitman's last visit to the Camden
Post. Mr. Bonsall, the chief editor, myself
and Whitman were chatting in the office.
There was a very young reporter in the
room. Mr. Whitman insisted on telling us

198 WALT WHITMAN

one of his filthy stories. He knew many of
them and would tell them without discrimi-
nating who was present. Filth seemed to be
always on his mind. Mr. Bonsall was
shocked. And I remember distinctly what
he told him, before turning him out of the
office. 'Look here, Whitman,' he said, 'why
don't you become a useful citizen, like every
one of us? You never did anything decent
and worthy of an American citizen. While
we took up our guns and went out to fight
the enemy, you stalked about hospitals, pos-
ing as a philanthropist. Later on, we re-
turned to civilian life, hunting jobs and pen-
sions, trying to earn a livelihood, while you
were preaching Humanitarian principles and
talking against the cruelties of warfare on
Union Square. Now, while we are chained
to our jobs, you are writing pornographic
pieces that no self-respecting publisher would
print, and loaf about most of the time, cor-
rupting our young folk. I will not tolerate
loose talk in these offices, therefore, get out
and never let me see you again.' "

"But haven't you said," I interjected,
"that Mr. Bonsall was a friend of Whit-
man?"

"They used to be friends," cried Mr.
Kettler, "until that treacherous business of

IN MICKLE STREET 199

the poem came up. Whitman was getting up
a little book of poems. Mr. Bonsall, who,
in my estimation, was not only an excellent
man and writer, but also a poet of no mean
ability, sent in a contribution. This par-
ticular poem was very beautiful. It was the
only one that Whitman did not print. Ever
since Mr. Bonsall and myself had not much
use for Whitman, who stabbed his friends
in the back at the first opportunity."

"Hurt vanity," I thought. How small
this man Kettler seemed to me with his
petty grievances. Forty years have passed
and he couldn't forget your refusal of a
poem.

"But what is the worst," Mr. Kettler con-
tinued, "Whitman has spoiled the life of
Horace Traubel. What an excellent young
man he used to be, the son of an honored,
upright citizen. Traubel got obsessed with
Whitman's greatness. He devoted his whole
life to Whitman. He took Whitman's
morals for his own standard." And Mr.
Kettler proceeded to tell about Traubel's
private life. Some stories a policeman's
wife, Traubel's next door neighbor, had told
him.

Does all this amuse you, Walt Whitman?

The frame-house where you lived is in a

200 WALT WHITMAN

dreadful condition. An Italian family is
living there. A taxi driver, Thomas Skymer.
He has three children and four boarders.
The boarders have children, too. A litter
of young ones are playing in your back yard,
around the broken well. Your front room,
where you used to sit near the window and
entertain your visitors, is a living and din-
ing room combined. Not even a picture of
yours is in this room. Over the mantel
hangs a cheap chromo of the Italian King.
One of the little boys knew your name. uDo
you want to see where the old guy died?"
he asked, and led me into the back room on
the same floor. There was a big bed there.
I never saw a bigger one in my life. "We
all sleep in it," said the boy.

I know, Walt Whitman, you are shrugging
your shoulders, smiling indifferently. What
does it matter to you who is sleeping now in
the room where you died, who is living now
in the house where you lived, loved and sang?
But my heart cramped and ached. The
poverty, the bad odor, the utter irreverence !
This Italian pays $10 a month rent. The
neighborhood is run down, and the property
could be easily bought for a few thousand
dollars. Is this how the greatest nation
honors its greatest literary genius?

IN MICKLE STREET 201

Your enthusiastic young physician, Dr.
Alexander McAlister, has grown a bit old,
but not in spirit. He took me up to his
library and here, as well as in his heart, you
have found your sanctuary.

"I loved Walt Whitman," Dr. McAlister
said, "ever since I was a student in the med-
ical school, and met the old gentleman regu-
larly on the street. We talked occasionally;
once he asked me to his house, later on,
after my graduation, I had occasion to ren-
der him professional services, and for all the
years, until Whitman's death, I called on
him at least once a day. He was the most
clean-minded and kind man I have ever met.
I never heard him utter an obscene word.
The magnificent personality of Walt Whit-
man and his general comradeship, inspired
by his ingrained feelings and intuitive beliefs
concerning the destiny of America, must cer-
tainly have impressed all who met him long
before he was known as a poet. He lived
a life so broad and noble that it will be more
studied and emulated, and will sink deeper
and deeper into the heart. The social, hu-
man world, through his aid, will reach a
level hitherto unattained. The new life
which he preached has not been even
dreamed of yet, has not become yet an object

202 WALT WHITMAN

of aspiration to us Americans. He has set
the spark to the prepared fuel, the living
glow has crept deeply into the dormant
mass; even now tongues of flame begin to
shoot forth. The longer Whitman is dead
the better he will be known. He seems to
me the typical American, the typical modern,
the source and centre of a new, spiritual
aspiration, saner and manlier than any here-
tofore. Whitman thought that man has
within him the element of the Divine, and
that this element was capable of indefinite
growth and expansion.

"He was the most democratic man that
ever lived. Everybody was welcome to his
house, everybody his equal, he was every-
body's friend. He had many enemies, but
also many friends. He thought Ingersoll his
best friend. Dr. Longaker and Horace
Traubel were almost always present, espe-
cially during the last years of his life. Once
in a while they got on his nerves because they
continually carried paper and pencil, writing
down every word he said. Let me tell you
a few incidents of his last illness. They all
expected him to die. Traubel and Dr. Long-
aker were constantly in the hall outside of
the sick room, eager to catch every one of

IN MICKLE STREET 203

Whitman's words. Warren Fritzinger, his
nurse, was with him.

" 'Are those damn fools out there this
afternoon?' he remarked when his condition
became very weak and the rustling of papers
in the hall seemed to annoy him.

"The day before he died I came in the
morning and asked him, 'How do you feel?'

" 'Well, Doctor,' he answered, 'I am tired
of this dreadful monotony of waiting. I am
tired of the sword of Damocles suspended
over my head.' "

Would it interest you, Walt Whitman, to
know about your last minutes on earth, when
you lay unconscious in a coma? Dr. Mc-
Alister described them to me. "His end
was peaceful. He died at 6 143 p. M. At
4 130 he called Mrs. Davis and requested
to be shifted from the position he was lying
in. The nurse was sent for, and later on
they sent me a message. When I reached
his bedside, he was lying on his right side, his
pulse was very weak and his respiration cor-
respondingly so. I asked him if he suffered
pain and if I could do anything for him. He
smiled kindly and murmured low. He lay
quietly for some time with closed eyes. A
little after 5 his eyes opened for a moment,
his lips moved slightly, and he succeeded in

204 WALT WHITMAN

whispering: 'Warry, Shift.' Warry was his
nurse, and these were the last words of Whit-
man. Then the end came. I bent over him
to detect the last sign of the fleeting life.
His heart continued to pulsate for fully fifty
minutes after he ceased breathing."

Dr. McAlister was a great friend of
yours, Walt Whitman, and I feel that you
are with him every minute of his life. He
showed me letters from your old nurse, Mrs.
Keller, who wrote a few articles about you.
He treasures the books you inscribed for
him, your pictures hang on his walls and he
especially loves the little plaster cast you
gave him.

Of course, you know that an autopsy was
performed shortly after your death. May I
tell you about your brain, which is at present
in the possession of the Anthropometric So-
ciety? I believe it is an honor to have one's
brains placed in this society's museum, be-
cause this society has been organized for the
express purpose of studying high-type brains.
The cause of your death was pleurisy of
your left side and consumption of the right
lung. You had a fatty liver, and a large gall
stone in the gall bladder. The good doctors
marvelled that you could have carried on
respiration for so long a time with the

IN MICKLE STREET 205

limited amount of useful lung tissue. They
ascribed it largely to that indomitable energy
"which was so characteristic of everything
pertaining to the life of Walt Whitman."
They said in their official report that any
other man would have died much earlier with
one-half of the pathological changes which
existed in your body.

In the late afternoon while the sun was
setting over an ideal spring day, I walked
out to the Harleigh Cemetery, where you
built for yourself that magnificent tomb.
How wise you were, Walt Whitman, to su-
pervise the cutting of the stones, to watch
the workmen while they were preparing your
grave. What a beautiful spot you chose for
your last resting place. The lake lay still
in the warm evening air, the willows swayed
gently as if patted by unseen hands. An old
working-man, about to leave the cemetery,
showed me the spot where you used to sit
and watch them work. He told me how you
wrote "pieces" on scraps of paper that you
borrowed here and there, and how you read
them to the stonecutters, who were building
your tomb. I asked for the key. They
keep it locked lately. I opened the heavy
granite door, and stood for quite a while
in the semi-darkness of your little house. I

206 WALT WHITMAN

thought of you lying there on your bier,
peaceful, indifferent, kind. Then I thought
of the other monument you had built
in words, a temple not made with hands,
builded for eternity.

Always self-sufficing, walking your own
path towards your own goal. No legend
tells of you, of your life or achievement.
You live in the hearts of thousands of
Americans. Soon, very soon, perhaps, your
name and America will be synonymous.
Walt Whitman, we here on earth are awak-
ening to your ideals of America.

Affectionately yours,

Guido Bruno

WALT WHITMAN SPEAKS

Ever upon this stage

Is acted God's calm annual drama,

Gorgeous processions, songs of birds,

Sunrise that fullest feeds and freshens most
the soul,

The heaving sea, the waves upon the shore,
the musical, strong waves,

The woods, the stalwart trees, the slender,
tapering trees,

The liliput countless armies of the grass,

The heat, the showers, the measureless pas-
turages,

The scenery of the snows, the winds' free
orchestra,

The stretching light-hung roof of clouds, the
clear cerulean and the silvery fringes,

The high dilating stars, the placid beckon-
ing stars,

The moving flocks and herds, the plains and
emerald meadows,

The shows of all the varied lands and all the
growths and products.

[The Return of the Heroes]

209

2io WALT WHITMAN

Shot gold, maroon and violet, dazzling sil-
ver, emerald, fawn,

The earth's whole amplitude and Nature's
multiform power consign'd for once to
colors;

The light, the general air possess'd by them
— colors till now unknown,

No limit, confine — not the Western sky
alone — the high meridian — North,
South, all,

Pure luminous color fighting the silent shad-
ows to the last.

\_A Prairie Sunset~\

IN MICKLE STREET 211

Ever the undiscouraged, resolute, struggling
soul of man;

(Have former armies fail'd? then we send
fresh armies — and fresh again) ;

Ever the grappled mysteries of all earth's
ages old or new;

Ever the eager eyes, hurrahs, the welcome-
clapping hands, the loud applause;

Ever the soul dissatisfied, curious, uncon-
vinced at last,

Struggling to-day the same — battling the
same.

[Life]

212 WALT WHITMAN

Spirit that form'd this scene,
These tumbled rock-piles grim and red,
These reckless heaven-ambitious peaks,
These gorges, turbulent-clear streams, this

naked freshness,
These formless wild arrays, for reasons of

their own,
I know thee, savage spirit — we have com-
muned together,
Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of

their own;
Was't charged against my chants they had

forgotten art?
To fuse within themselves its rules precise

and delicatesse?
The lyrist's measur'd beat, the wrought-out

temple's grace — column and polish'd

arch forgot?
But thou that revellest here — spirit that

form'd this scene,
They have remember'd thee.

[Spirit That Formed This Scene~\

IN MICKLE STREET 213

Quicksand years that whirl me I know not

whither,
Your schemes, politics, fail, lines give way,

substances mock and elude me,
Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-

possess'd soul, eludes not,
One's-Self must never give way — that is

the final substance — that out of all is

sure,
Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life, what

at last finally remains?
When shows break up what but One's-Self

is sure?

[Quicksand Years]

2i4 WALT WHITMAN

O living always, always dying!

O the burials of me past and present,

O me while I stride ahead, material, visible,

imperious as ever;
O me, what I was for years, now dead, (I

lament not, I am content) ;
O to disengage myself from those corpses of

me, which I turn and look at where I

cast them,
To pass on (O living! always living!) and

leave the corpses behind.
[0 Living Always, Always Dying~\

IN MICKLE STREET 215

This is thy hour, O Soul, thy tree flight into

the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day

erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing,

pondering the themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

\_A Clear Midnight]

216 WALT WHITMAN

I WAS thinking the day most splendid till I
saw what the not-day exhibited,

I was thinking this globe enough till there
sprang out so noiseless around me
myriads of other globes.

Now while the great thoughts of space and

eternity fill me I will measure myself by

them,
And now touch'd with the lives of other

globes arrived as far along as those of

the earth,
Or waiting to arrive, or pass'd on farther

than those of the earth,
I henceforth no more ignore them than I

ignore my own life,
Or the lives of the earth arrived as far as

mine, or waiting to arrive.

0 I see now that life cannot exhibit all to

me, as the day cannot,

1 see that I am to wait for what will be ex-

hibited by death.

[Night on the Prairies]

IN MICKLE STREET 217

Now the great organ sounds,

Tremulous, while underneath (as the hid
footholds of the earth,

On which arising rest, and leaping forth
depend,

All shapes of beauty, grace and strength, all
hues we know,

Green blades of grass and warbling birds,
children that gambol and play, the
clouds of heaven above)

The strong base stands, and its pulsations
intermits not,

Bathing, supporting, merging all the rest,
maternity of all the rest,

And with it every instrument in multitudes,

The players playing, all the world's mu-
sicians,

The solemn hymns and masses rousing
adoration,

All passionate heart-chants, sorrowful ap-
peals,

The measureless sweet vocalists of ages,

And for their solvent setting earth's own
diapason,

Of winds and woods and mighty ocean
waves,

218 WALT WHITMAN

A new composite orchestra, binder of years

and climes, ten-fold renewer,
As of the far-back days the poets tell, the

Paradiso,
The straying thence, the separation long, but

now the wandering done,
The journey done, the journeyman come

home,
And man and art with Nature fused again.
[Proud Music of the Storm~\

IN MICKLE STREET 219

Now trumpeter for thy close,
Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet,
Sing to my soul, renew its languishing faith

and hope,
Rouse up my slow belief, give me some

vision of the future,
Give me for once its prophecy and joy.

O glad, exulting, culminating song!

A vigor more than earth's is in thy notes,

Marches of victory — man disenthrall —

the conqueror at last,
Hymns to the universal God from universal

man — all joy!
A reborn race appears — a perfect world,

all joy!
Women and men in wisdom, innocence and

health — all joy!
Riotous laughing bacchanals fill'd with joy!
War, sorrow, suffering gone — the rank

earth purged — nothing but joy left !
The ocean fill'd with joy — the atmosphere

all joy!
Joy! joy! in freedom, worship, love! joy in

the ecstasy of life !
Enough to merely be ! enough to breathe !
Joy! joy! all over joy!

[The Mystic Trumpeter]

220 WALT WHITMAN

The touch of flame — the illuminating fire
— the loftiest look at last,

O'er city, passion, sea — o'er prairie, moun-
tain, wood — the earth itself;

The airy, different, changing hues of all, in
falling twilight,

Objects and groups, bearings, faces, reminis-
cences ;

The calmer sight — the golden setting, clear
and broad:

So much i' the atmosphere, the points of
view, the situation whence we scan,

Brought out by them alone — so much (per-
haps the best) unreck'd before;

The lights indeed from them — old age's
lambent peaks.

[Old Age's Lambent Peaks']

IN MICKLE STREET 221

Thanks in old age — thanks ere I go,

For health, the midday sun, the impalpable
air — for life, mere life,

For precious ever-lingering memories, (of
you, my mother dear — you, father —
you, brothers, sisters, friends),

For all my days — not those of peace alone
— the days of war the same,

For gentle words, caresses, gifts from for-
eign lands,

For shelter, wine and meat — for sweet ap-
preciation,

(You distant, dim unknown — or young or
old — countless, unspecified, readers
belov'd,

We never met, and ne'er shall meet — and
yet our souls embrace, long, close and
long) ;

For beings, groups, love, deeds, words,
books — for colors, forms,

For all the brave strong men — devoted,
hardy men — who've forward sprung
in freedom's help, all years, all lands,

For braver, stronger, more devoted men —
(a special laurel ere I go, to life's war's
chosen ones,

222 WALT WHITMAN

The cannoneers of song and thought — the
great artillerists — the foremost lead-
ers, captains of the soul) :

As soldier from an ended war return'd — as
traveller out of myriads, to the long
procession retrospective,

Thanks — joyful thanks ! — a soldier's,
traveller's thanks.

[Thanks in Old Age\

IN MICKLE STREET 223

Prais'd be the fathomless universe.

For life and joy, and for objects and knowl-
edge curious,

And for love, sweet love — but praise!
praise! praise!

For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfold-
ing death.

\_When Lilacs hast in the Dooryard

Bloom'd]

INDEX

ACHARON SOCIETY, 60
Aldrich, T. B., 139
Anthropometric Society, 204
"Auntie, Blind," 1, 2, 3

BELL, Dr., 192

"Blind Auntie," 1, 2, 3

Bolton, Mr., 171

Bonsall, Mr., 197

Bruno, Guido, 195, 206

Bucke, Dr. R. M., ix, 102, 103, 105, 106, 108, 109, 149,

150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 158, 173, 177
Button, Miss, 168

CAMDEN Post, 197
Carrot, Judge Howard, 197
Childs, George W., 13
"Coddie," 162
Cooper Hospital, 190

DAVIS, Capt. L. J., 4, 190

Davis, Mary O., passim

Donaldson, Blaine, 49

Donaldson, Thomas, 1, 8, 10, n, 12, 13, 14, 18, 21, 30,

37, 38, 39. 47, 48, 49, 52, 61, 100, 103, in, 113, 119,

127, 146, 172, 175
Duckett, Wm., 69

ELLIS, Sarah, v

FRITZINGER, Capt., 4, 5, 11, 25, 62

Fritzinger, Henry M., 119, 163, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194

Fritzinger, Mrs., 3, 18, 68

Fritzinger, Walt Whitman, 164

Fritzinger, Warren, 119 sqq., 203, 204

GILCHRIST, Herbert, 76 sqq.
225

226 INDEX

HARLEIGH Cemetery, 133, 138, 205
Harned, Thomas B., 101, 151
Heyde, Mrs., 172
Hicks, Elias, 95
Howe, Dr. Lucien, 172

INGERSOLL, Col. Robt, 133, 134, 135, 161, 202
In Re Walt Whitman, 9, 112, 126

JOHNSTON, Jas., x

Johnston, Mr. (N. Y.), 133, 134

KELLER, Mrs. E. L., v, VI, vn, 164, 172, 173, 174, 176,

183, 188, 204
Keller, Wm. Wallace, v

Kennedy, Wm. Sloane, 67, 99, 113, 133, 140, 189
Kettler, Wm., 196, 198, 199
Kettler, Mrs. W., 196

Leaves of Grass, 157
Leavitt, Jas. S., v
Lincoln lecture, 60, 69, 130
Longaker, Dr., 161, 202

McALISTER, Dr. Alex., 161, 175, 176, 188, 189, 201,

203, 204
McKay, D., 169
Mailloux, Mr., 192
Mailloux, Mrs., 192
Mary, 58^

Morse, Sidney, 18, 37, 73 sgg.
Musgrove, Mr., 108, 183

N. Y. Evening Telegram, 165, 166
N. Y. Herald, 54, 137
N. Y. Times, 71
N. Y. Tribune, 70

PACKARD, S. T., 98
Perry, Bliss, 142

RUSS, J. J., 167

ST. MARK (quoted), 1
Shakespeare (quoted), 176, 182, 187
Skymer, Thomas, 200

INDEX 227

Stafford family, 67
Stedman, Laura, 70
Swinton, John, 137, 138

THOMPSON, Vance, 27

"Timber Creek," 67, 90

Traubel, Horace, 30, 55, 68, 101, 107, 126, 151, 165, 171,

199, 202
Trowbridge, John T, 129

Walt Whitman the Man, 8

Whitman, Edward, 31, 63, 178

Whitman, George, 9, 104, 153, 179, 185

Whitman, Jefferson, 153

Whitman, Miss Jessie, 153

Whitman, Mrs. G., 63, 104, 106, 156, 158, 178, 182

Wilkins, E., 55, 115, 119, 129, 137

Women's Hospital, Phila., vi

No./3£ Sect, f Shelf /'
CONTENTS

Lincoln National Life Foundation
Collateral Lincoln Library

1i. aooj. os^ 06 6 an

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