Chapter XX: Conclusion 187 (4)

Letters came with kind wishes and friendly 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 accumulating 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 usually 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 generous intentions when he treated his company so lavishly to stews and half-shells, also when he ordered supplies for his young men friends in return for services they rendered 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 accurate 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 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 involved, 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 inquired 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 greatest, perhaps--was to build a family vault. It has been said that it was for this very 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--magnificently, but also irrevocably--in Pfoff's restaurant on Broadway.

After he had accepted and secured the site, he spoke freely of his wishes and intentions 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 commodious; and on a projection above the door was to be a granite statue of himself, standing. His ideas were excessive, and the expense far beyond his means; still, he may have thought that the proceeds accruing from his book would warrant an extravagance 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 mausoleum, it dawned upon some of his friends that he had a way of keeping things to himself. 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--unknown 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 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 playful sallies always provoked a quiet smile, and his mother's "inventive thoughtfulness" was rewarded with an appreciative, approving 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.

XV

THE LAST BIRTHDAY PARTY

"_There was one more birthday dinner celebrated with his friends in
the Mickle Street house on May 31, 1891. Whitman was seventy-two. That
privacy, which is the normal privilege of old age, was 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 picturesque._"--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 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; however, 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, enthusiastic and hopeful young people, for the difficulties to be overcome would have discouraged 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, together with the hall and kitchen doors, secured 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 parlors 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 windows, put up fresh curtains and made the place so presentable that the young men of the committee, who took kindly to her encouraging words and wise suggestions, acknowledged that they did not see how they could have managed without her ready and efficient coöperation. 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 purposes. 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 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 assigned 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 present, 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 occupants; 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 remarked 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 considerate 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 doorway, "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 recorded. 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 bread_." It was brought to him. Mr. Whitman, 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 regardless 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 resistant power, and truly needed the attention and care that it was his good fortune to receive. 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 mysteriously increasing in the same slow, sure, steady ratio. As this did not bother him, and he was inclined to be tranquil and satisfied, no one disturbed him, or interfered in any way with his idiosyncrasies.

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 until 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 relatives 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 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 patient's symptoms were tending toward a protracted illness rather than a speedy death, his friends saw that this was imperative, and Dr. Bucke, who had recently arrived in Camden, went to Philadelphia to engage a professional 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 word ... 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 maturity, experience in the care of sick men, and the ability to take notes and keep a careful record. Dr. Bucke engaged a suitable person, and talked freely and unreservedly 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 at the mercy of a designing and unprincipled woman,--the unrefined and ignorant widow of a sailor,--who as a housekeeper was unreliable 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 housekeeper, _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 executors 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 faithfully. 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 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 together for the dying poet's home, the Doctor, 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 remained to take leave of Dr. Bucke. An artist who had just completed some etchings of the poet had sent him six complimentary copies, one of which he presented 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 relatives 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 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 minute; nor could she desert the two weary people who were looking to her for relaxation and relief. No; she would sooner fast for the night. But fasting was not necessary; 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 unrefined widow. Besides, Warren called her mother.

The sick man required but few attentions during the night, and was so painfully still the nurse went to his bedside a number of times to assure herself that he was breathing. 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_ housekeeper, was no other than this pleasant, tired-out woman, whose kindness she appreciated because 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 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 inquired as to the straits to which she was put. This single exception was Mr. Whitman'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 discovered more than an abundance of work. An enormous wash had accumulated, her boiler had given out, and damp and cloudy weather necessitated drying everything within 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 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, always touched upon the most simple, commonplace 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 appeal 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 replaced with a smooth rubber sheet, and a rubber ring purchased, which gave the patient great relief, and a few trifling articles secured, the money was exhausted. Mrs. 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 devotion to Mr. Whitman and his fondness for her, and expressed her great astonishment that a man of his experience could be so mistaken in anyone. In reply he wrote that he was pleased to know that he had been misled.

Mrs. Davis was much distressed in regard to the cleaning of the sick room. She feared it would make Mr. Whitman unhappy, 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 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 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"

"_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 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.