suspicion in the locality. For one thing, extravagant and impossible as
it may seem, it had been rumored about that some people who entered "The
Poet's" house never came out again. A frequent caller during Mr.
Whitman's first years of housekeeping says:
"Opposite, as I slid into the house one 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 pattered 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 another glimpse of the "fat man" as he came out; but it is
interesting as showing the feeling of a visitor. The effect of such
conditions 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 disposition 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 show their hardihood
perhaps--and soon became 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 occasionally out of the
window above. Before summer had ended they had grown decidedly sociable,
and in one of their favorite pastimes--running up and sliding down the
cellar doors--each would pause for a moment 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
collar 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 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 individual, and it was only natural that he should be
recognized at once as a decidedly uncommon person.
Walt was an invalid and infirm, nevertheless 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
business and keep in touch with the world generally. Sometimes he would
take an extended 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 bustling life
around him.
Pleasant as were these rides to him, each 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 therefore 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 matters by having him dressed to begin with for the
weather and the occasion.
This did not seem to occur to him. Crippled, 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 hurriedly 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, therefore the couple always sallied forth under the musketry of
glances shot out at them from every direction.
When walking in the street Mr. Whitman 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 because during the
delay Mr. Whitman depended 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. 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 afternoon lengthened and dinner time approached, she would grow
restless and commence 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 something 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 indeed
trying to her, and in pleasant weather 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 taking 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 pattern. 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 occasions, and never put it on without making some pleasant
remark in regard to the trimming.
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
unless other escort was assured, called for him. This, however, was of
rare occurrence, as guests began to vie with each other in seeing him
home. She also went with him to places of business in Camden and
Philadelphia, at which times he depended upon her alone, both going and
coming back. The task of walking with him was doubly burdensome when the
roads were rough and uneven, 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 unaware 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 dependent 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.
VI
MR. WHITMAN DRIVES
"_I swear I will never again mention love or death inside 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 advanced Mrs. Davis was
convinced that the old man's walking days were rapidly drawing 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 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 written 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 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 contributors, in an envelope with $135.40 enclosed. Mr. Whitman read
the letter and was completely overcome; tears trickled down his cheeks,
and he was unable to articulate a word.
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
returned.
Mrs. Davis was delighted; the gift surpassed 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 opportunely, 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!"
Previous to the presentation an arrangement 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 countermanding 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 prolonged
stormy weather when bad health kept him indoors for days and weeks."
Poor Frank, the pony, had not been selected 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
Camden, 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 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 messenger 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 occasional 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 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 invitations, more numerous requests for autographs, 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 comfortable 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 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 revelation 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." Unable to comply, she soon
laid the book aside and gave her time and attention to other matters.
Thus, failing to understand anything of his "soul flights," she no doubt
was the better prepared to minister to his mundane needs. A domestic
angel in the house 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. Evidently he might have done better with his "little
money" at that time, even if it was "only in sight," as "driblets were
occasionally coming in." With these driblets he might have kept himself
more presentable, seemed less of a derelict. But he had one preëminent
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 protégé 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, wherever he might be, and as a reliable person
always accompanied him on these expeditions, Mrs. Davis was never uneasy
on his account, and his absences were her opportunities 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 implement in her hands,
especially a broom. But how she exulted when he was at a distance; when
she could pass the old boundary 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. 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
malaria. 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. Irritated beyond self-control, he
let his indignation 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 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.