Part 1

WALT WHITMAN IN MICKLE STREET

"_There's this little street and this little house_" EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

WALT WHITMAN IN MICKLE STREET

ELIZABETH LEAVITT KELLER

NEW YORK MITCHELL KENNERLEY MCMXXI

COPYRIGHT 1921 BY MITCHELL KENNERLEY

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

EDITOR'S NOTE

Elizabeth Leavitt Keller was born at Buffalo, N. Y., on November 3, 1839. Both her parents were descended from the first settlers of this country, and each in turn came to Buffalo in its early days, her mother, Sarah Ellis, by private conveyance in 1825, and her father, James S. Leavitt, by way of the newly opened Erie Canal in 1834.

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

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

Her natural instinct for nursing was developed during the Civil War and the years that followed, but the time and opportunity for professional training did not come until 1876, when, her two children being provided for, she was free to apply for admission to the school for nurses connected with the Women's Hospital in Philadelphia--one of the three small training schools then existing in the United States.

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

While nursing her patient, Walt Whitman, during his last illness, she learnt much about his personality and home life, and much also about his unselfish friend and housekeeper, Mrs. Davis. The desire to tell the truth about the whole case--so often misunderstood or distorted--grew stronger with the passing years, and finally Mrs. Keller entered an old ladies' home in her own city, where she would have leisure to carry out her design. Here the book was commenced and completed. "After numerous struggles and disappointments," she writes, "my second great desire--to set Mrs. Davis in her true light--has been fulfilled--this time by a great-grandmother!"

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

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

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

CHARLES VALE

PREFACE

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

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

Interviewers seemed to look for something beyond me; to wait expectantly in the hope that I could recall some unusual thing in Mr. Whitman's eccentricities that I alone had observed; words that I alone had heard him speak; opinions and beliefs I alone had heard him express; anything remarkable, not before given to the public. They wanted the sensational and exclusive, if possible. I suppose that was natural.

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

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

He had discovered a fact I then recognized to be the truth.

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

E. L. K.

CONTENTS

I MARY OAKES DAVIS 1

II WALT WHITMAN'S HOME 8

III THE MICKLE STREET HOUSE 18

IV THE NEW RÉGIME 27

V CURIOUS NEIGHBORS 37

VI MR. WHITMAN DRIVES 47

VII BROOMS, BILLS AND MENTAL CHLOROFORM 55

VIII VISITING AND VISITORS 67

IX A BUST AND A PAINTING 73

X REST--AND ROUTINE 87

XI A SHOCK, AND SOME CHANGES 100

XII ANCHORED 113

XIII WARREN FRITZINGER 119

XIV FRIENDS, MONEY, AND A MAUSOLEUM 133

XV THE LAST BIRTHDAY PARTY 142

XVI THE NEW NURSE 150

XVII "SHIFT, WARRY" 167

XVIII WINDING UP 176

XIX THE TRIAL 182

XX CONCLUSION 187

WALT WHITMAN'S MONUMENTS, BY GUIDO BRUNO 195

WALT WHITMAN SPEAKS 207

INDEX 225

WALT WHITMAN

IN MICKLE STREET

_I write this book in loving memory of three of the most kind-hearted, unselfish and capable people I ever knew I Dedicate It to ALEX. McALISTER, M.D._

HALCYON DAYS

Not from successful love alone, Nor wealth, nor honored middle-age, Nor victories of politics or war; But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm, As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky, As softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame like fresher, balmier air, As the days take on a mellower light, And the apple at last hangs really finish'd and indolent-ripe on the tree, Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all, The brooding and blissful halcyon days!

WALT WHITMAN

WALT WHITMAN IN MICKLE STREET

I

MARY OAKES DAVIS

"_She hath wrought a good work on me.... This also that she hath done shall be spoken of for a memorial of her._"--ST. MARK XIV: 6, 9.

"_Whitman with the pen was one man--Whitman in private life was another man._"--THOMAS DONALDSON.

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

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

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

It seems strange that parents could permit such sacrifice for an outsider, however helpless, unmindful of their injustice toward the little daughter who so willingly and unconsciously yielded up her young life. No wonder this lesson of utter devotion to another, so early implanted in the tender heart of the child, should in after years become part and parcel of the woman.

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

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

She had long contemplated paying a visit to an old schoolmate and dear friend, Mrs. Fritzinger, the wife of a sea-captain, whose home was in Camden, New Jersey, and to this city she now went. Arriving, to her great sorrow she found her friend in a serious physical condition, and remained to nurse her through a protracted illness, which ended fatally. On her deathbed Mrs. Fritzinger confided her two young sons to Mary's care, and from this time on they called her mother.

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

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

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

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

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

The house in which they lived, in a little street running at right angles to Stevens Street, was closed at dusk. Then, when she had read the daily papers, Mary would extinguish the lights, feeling that to read to herself, or for the boys to play games, would be selfish, as the sick man was deprived of such enjoyments. It didn't occur to her that these wide-awake youngsters had nothing of her own childhood spirit of resignation, or that the noise and laughter of other boys frolicking in the streets could have any attraction for them. They were sent early to bed, but time and again made their escape through the window, creeping along the shed, and so to the fence and the street.

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

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

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

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

II

WALT WHITMAN'S HOME

"_And whether I come into my own to-day or in ten thousand or in ten million years, I can cheerfully take it now or with equal cheerfulness I can wait._"--WALT WHITMAN.

"_I only thought if I didn't go, who would?_"--MARY O. DAVIS.

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

With but one exception (_Thomas Donaldson, in "Walt Whitman the Man"_), all writers who have touched upon Whitman's domestic life seem to have failed to mention the interval between his two Camden homes. Fortunately it was of short duration, but in it came the great turning point in his career.

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

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

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

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

No doubt he did not take into consideration the difficulties he would have to encounter alone, nor realize how unfitted he was to cope with them; but as usual he overruled all opposition and followed his own inclination.

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

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

The old man with his basket of literature upon his arm, plodding his way through the streets of Camden and Philadelphia, had long been a familiar sight, and now with slow sales and lack of former comforts it was doubly hard on him. But at this time his life had settled down to one great desire, that of rewriting his book, _Leaves of Grass_, and living to see it put before the world in a full, improved and complete form.

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

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

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

Their first interview took place on one cold frosty morning, when in deepest dejection he came a suppliant to her door. Surprised as she was to find him there, she warmly invited him in, and a good breakfast soon followed the kind reception.

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

She talked encouragingly, and on his rising to go cordially invited him to repeat his visit. He did so, and thenceforward this compassionate woman's homely kitchen became his one haven of rest. He knew that a hot meal and many thoughtful attentions always awaited him there; attentions such as lacing his shoes, washing and mending his clothing, and not infrequently superintending a refreshing foot-bath. "Being an invalid he felt his helplessness, so attentions were doubly dear to him." (_Thomas Donaldson._)

As the fall advanced and the weather grew severe, his bachelor quarters became more and more unsuitable, and he was indeed fortunate in the friendship he had so auspiciously formed. He developed into a daily visitor, and each morning might have been seen scuffing along in his unclasped antiquated arctics, cane in hand, and his long white hair and beard blowing in the wind.

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

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

The house being occupied when he became the owner, he made an arrangement with the tenants: they were to remain, and he would come there to live with them, his board to offset the rent. But the scheme did not work, and at the expiration of the first month he was left solitary and alone with his personal household goods, consisting of a scantily furnished bedstead, a home-made table, a rickety chair and a large packing box. The table served as writing desk and the packing box as kitchen and dining table. "Upon it was a small coal oil stove, where he would cook a bite at the risk of his life." (_Thomas Donaldson._)

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

This continued for awhile, but light housekeeping being so great a tax upon him, and his house being so "forlorn, dirty and untenantable," (_Thomas Donaldson_), Mrs. Davis went there with him in his perplexity.

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

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