Walt Whitman in Mickle Street

To the surprise of everyone he lingered on, improving instead of growing worse, and by the end of the month had regained something 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 disappeared 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 admittance 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 forenoon, which was also his mother's busiest time, the nurse prepared the patient's breakfast and gave it to him; but seeing that he 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 anteroom 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 envelopes, 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 minutiæ of the case, as she had been instructed. In this Warren took his part, and as he knew most of the people 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 débris in the other room. This gave both rooms a better appearance, besides providing a more comfortable 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 Camden, 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 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 fiancée 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. 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 declined, 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 delicacy, 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 that he had named for him: Walt Whitman Fritzinger. This pleased the sick man, and he expressed a wish to see his little namesake. 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 repeated a number of times: "Well, well, Little Walt Whitman, Little Walt Whitman." 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 once said: "When I come on this side of the bed you slip away from me." "Ah, Warry," he replied, "one of these fine mornings 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 purchase flowers for the poet's room. Afterwards 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.

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"

"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 rallied, wrote the few short letters and autographed the pictures, his friends were much encouraged; but subsequent sinking spells destroyed their hopes, and his extremely 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. 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 attached,—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 Whitman's last words were inscribed.

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 produced. 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 attended to the inscriptions. The last thing Walt wrote for printing was a notice in regard to this edition. His writing board was of the greatest service to him in accomplishing 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, making numerous alterations until he seemed satisfied, he called for Mrs. Davis, who on coming 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, as of 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 acquaintance's" last acts of kindness to his dying patron.

In the two days intervening between the writing of this notice and its ultimate approval, 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 difficult for him to use the pen properly, therefore 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 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 copiously 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 specially 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 together, as in the original. The desired copies 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 facsimile and a book.

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 photographs 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 initials in his last effort to write to his sister.

Unhappily, a change of care was in prospect, for Mrs. Keller was to leave him the second week in March, in consequence of an engagement previously made. She had mentioned 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 particular 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 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 assure 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." (Extracts from Warren'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.

Camden, N. J., March 26, '92.

Whitman began sinking at 4.30 P. M. He continued to grow worse and died at 6.43 P. M. The end came peacefully. He was conscious until the last.

There were present at the bedside when he died—Mrs. Davis, Warren Fritzinger, Thos. B. Harned, Horace L. Trauble and myself.

Alex. McAlister, M. D.

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 we never shall forget."—Dr. Alex. McAlister (In a letter to Mrs. Keller).

"These promises are fair, the parties sure."—Shakespeare (I 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 in to look at the familiar form and face: that placid face, telling that the long sought-for rest was at last attained. People entered 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. 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" throughout 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 housekeeper. 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 followed 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 justice 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 although 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, saying 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 redress, 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 robust 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 anything of note was going on, but no encouragement 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 accepted 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 married, and notwithstanding disappointments and discouragements, was the same bright cheerful Warry to the end of his short life. He died after a few days' sickness in October, 1899, aged thirty-three years.

XIX

THE TRIAL

"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 indignant 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 confident that had Mrs. Whitman lived all would have been different. But Mrs. Whitman 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 impossible, 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 subpœnaed. 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 distinguished patient, and his great regard for her. Warren told the plain and convincing 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 recognized 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 become 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 hopelessly intoxicated.

The friend who had kept house on the two special occasions, and who had been a constant visitor there for seven years; neighbors who had seen Mrs. Davis helping the old man in and out of his carriage and rolling chair, and carefully covering and protecting him while he was sitting out of doors; and others who knew of her unremitting attentions, all spoke for her, while quite a number of citizens told her that her case was so strong they would not volunteer as 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 sympathy. 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 counsel called his client forward, placed a chair for her in the sight of all, and then in touching, 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 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.

XX

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 expense. One day there came to her in great agitation an admirer of her late friend and patient, saying that he was threatened with 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 correspondent; but notwithstanding this, she and the nurse, Mrs. Keller, occasionally exchanged letters, and the most friendly relations 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 between them.

"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 address. 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 following summer. Instead, at the expiration of a month she received a black-edged envelope, the contents reading:

"Yourself and family are respectfully invited 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 NURSE DEAD

Woman Who Cared for Poet Succumbs Too.

Mrs. Mary L. Davis, who nursed Walt Whitman, the "Good Gray Poet," during his last illness, and was with him at his death, at No. 328 Mickle street, Camden, died last night in Cooper Hospital of intestinal troubles. She was the widow of Levin J. Davis.

After the death of Whitman Mrs. Davis resided for a short time at No. 432 Clinton street, Camden, and then she went to live with a wealthy family in New York City. About a year ago she developed intestinal troubles. The family she was living with took her to Paris for treatment by eminent specialists. She returned a month ago and went to Camden to visit Henry M. Fritzinger, of No. 810 State street. There Mrs. Davis was taken ill with the affliction from which she suffered so much, and was removed to Cooper Hospital.

The nurse who had cared for him in his last illness!—not his "faithful housekeeper, 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 always 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 surprised 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 downstairs, until she worked herself into the condition which she died from.

"About eighteen months or two years 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 accompany Mrs. Mailloux to Paris on their regular 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 interests. 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 meantime 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 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, amounting 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 faithful 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 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 itself, 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 artists is bred in us, is part of our early training. 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, unforgiving. 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 loved to ride back and forth, in spring and autumn, I asked a policeman how to get to your house. "The Whitman House?" he repeated; "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 nearby 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 abominable. 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 disgraceful way of living was open town talk.

"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 citizens 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 one of his filthy stories. He knew many of them and would tell them without discriminating 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, posing as a philanthropist. Later on, we returned to civilian life, hunting jobs and pensions, 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, corrupting 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 Whitman?"

"They used to be friends," cried Mr. Kettler, "until that treacherous business of 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 particular 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 continued, "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 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 dining 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. "Do 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?

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 medical school, and met the old gentleman regularly on the street. We talked occasionally; once he asked me to his house, later on, after my graduation, I had occasion to render 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 Whitman and his general comradeship, inspired by his ingrained feelings and intuitive beliefs concerning the destiny of America, must certainly 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, human 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 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 heretofore. 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 everybody'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, especially 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. Longaker were constantly in the hall outside of the sick room, eager to catch every one of 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. McAlister described them to me. "His end was peaceful. He died at 6:43 P. M. At 4:30 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 correspondingly 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 whispering: 'Warry, Shift.' Warry was his nurse, and these were the last words of Whitman. 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 Society? I believe it is an honor to have one's brains placed in this society's museum, because 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 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 supervise 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 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 awakening to your ideals of America.

Affectionately yours,          
Guido Bruno

WALT WHITMAN SPEAKS